Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Very well,” she said, quietly. “I’ll do my best.”

  She turned and left the room, leaving Katharine still leaning back against the chest of drawers in the position she had not abandoned throughout the conversation.

  When Katharine was alone, she stood up, turned round and pulled out the upper drawer. Amongst her gloves and handkerchiefs lay a photograph of John Ralston. She took it out and looked at the keen, dark face, with its set lips, its prominent bony temples, and its nervous lines that would be furrows too soon.

  “You’re worth all the Lauderdales and the Wingfields put together!” she said, in a low voice.

  She kissed the photograph, pressing it hard to her lips and closing her eyes.

  “I wish you were here!” she said.

  She looked at it again, and again kissed it. Then she put it back with an energetic movement that was almost rough, and shut the drawer. She sat down in the chair her mother had occupied, and gave herself up to thinking over all that had taken place.

  Her instinct was to let John Ralston know as soon as possible what had happened, but she knew how foolish that would be. He would insist that the moment had come for declaring their marriage, and that she must go and live under his mother’s roof. But she felt that something must be done soon. If she was willing to submit to her father’s sentence, absurd as it was, she found a reason for doing so in her own disinclination to meet him. But the situation could not last. And yet, he was obstinate beyond ordinarily obstinate people, and it would be like him to insist upon banishing her for a week. In such things he had no sense of the ridiculous. Apart from the inconvenience and constant annoyance of being expected to keep out of his way, she was young enough to feel humiliated. It was very like a punishment — this order not to be seen when her father was in the house. She had no intention of disregarding it, however. To do so would have been to produce an open war of which the rumour would fill society. It was clear that her best course was to be patient as long as possible, and then quietly to go to uncle Robert’s house. The world would think it natural that she should pay him a visit. She had done so before.

  Alexander Junior seemed to be satisfied with the answer his wife brought him. He felt that if he could make Katharine stay in her own room at his discretion, he was still master in his own house, and his injured dignity began to hold up its head again. The old philanthropist did not even ask after Katharine at dinner, though he was fond of her. She so often went out to dine alone with intimate friends, that it did not occur to him to remark upon her absence. But, as usual, when she was not there, the family meal was dull and silent. Alexander ate without speaking, and with the methodical, grimly appreciative appetite of very strong men. Mrs. Lauderdale was not hungry, and stared at the silver things on the table most of the time. The old gentleman bolted his food in the anticipation of tobacco, which tasted best after eating. He was a cheerful old soul when he was not dreaming, an optimist and a professed maker of happiness by the ton, so to say, for those who had been forgotten in the distribution. He had big hands, shiny at the knuckles and pink where a young man’s would be white, with horny, yellowish nails, and he was not very neat in his dress, though he had survived from the day when men used to wear dress coats and white ties in their offices all day. The Lauderdale tribe regarded him as a harmless member who had something wrong in his head, while his heart was almost too much in the right place. A certain amount of respect was shown him on account of his age, but though he was the oldest of them all, Robert the Rich was undisputedly the head of the family. It was generally believed, and, as has been seen, the belief was well founded, that he was not to have any large share of the money in case he survived his brother.

  Early on the following morning Alexander Junior emerged from his dressing-room, equipped for the day. He wore the garments of civilization, but a very little power of imagination might have converted his dark grey trousers into greaves, his morning coat into a shirt of mail, and his stiff collar into a steel throat-piece. He had slept on his wrath, and had grown more obstinate with the grey of the morning. His voice was metallic and aggressive when he spoke to the serving-girl, demanding why his steak was overdone. When his wife appeared, he rose formally, as usual, and kissed her cheek with a little click, like the lock of a safe. He said little or nothing as he finished his breakfast, and then, without telling her what he meant to do, he went upstairs again and knocked at Katharine’s door.

  “Katharine!” he called to her. “I wish to speak to you.”

  “Well—” answered the young girl’s voice— “I’m not dressed yet. What is it?”

  “How long shall you be?” enquired Alexander, bending his brows as he leaned against the panel to catch her answer.

  “About three quarters of an hour — I should think — at least — judging from the state of my hair. It’s all tangled.”

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  “No — I’ve not looked. Oh — my little clock has stopped. It’s a quarter past four by my little clock.”

  “It’s nine o’clock,” said Alexander Junior, severely. “Three minutes to,” he added, looking at his watch.

  “Well — I can’t help it now. It’s only — no — it’s sixteen minutes past four by my little clock.”

  “Never mind your little clock. I must be going down town at once, and I wish to speak to you. I can’t wait three quarters of an hour.”

  “No — of course not.”

  “Well — can’t I come in? Aren’t you visible?”

  “No. Certainly not. You can’t come in. I’m brushing — my hair. I always brush it — ten minutes.”

  “Katharine — this is absurd!” cried Alexander, becoming exasperated. “Put on something and open the door.”

  “No. I can’t just — now.” Her phrases were interrupted by the process of vigorous brushing. “Besides — you can talk through the door. I can hear — every word — you say. Can’t you hear me?”

  “Yes, I can hear you. But I don’t wish to say what I have to say in the hearing of the whole house.”

  “Oh!” The soft sound of the brushing ceased. “In that case I’d rather not hear it at all.”

  “Katharine!” Alexander felt all his anger of the previous day rising again.

  “Yes — what is it?” She seemed to have come nearer to the door.

  “I told you. I wish to speak to you.”

  “Yes — I know. But you can’t unless you’ll say it through the door.”

  “Katharine! Don’t exasperate me!”

  “I’m not trying to. I understood that you didn’t wish to see me for some days. If you’d sent me word, I should have been ready to receive you. As it is, I can’t.”

  “You know perfectly well that you can, in ten minutes, if you please. I shall send your mother to you.”

  “Oh — very well. I’ve not seen her this morning. But you’d better not wait till I’m dressed. It will take a long time.”

  “Very well,” answered Alexander Junior, who had completely lost his temper by this time.

  A moment later Katharine heard the sharp click of the lock, and the rattle as the key was withdrawn. She never used it, having a bolt on the inside.

  “You are at liberty to take all day if you please,” said her father. “I have the key in my pocket. Good morning.”

  Katharine’s lips parted in astonishment, as she turned her eyes towards the door, and she stood staring at it for a moment in speechless indignation, realizing that she was locked in for the day. Then, suddenly, her expression changed, and she laughed aloud. Alexander was already far down the stairs.

  But presently she realized that the situation was serious, or, at all events, something more than annoying. She was to be shut up at least until after five o’clock in the afternoon, all alone, without food or drink, without the books she wanted, and without any one with whom to exchange a few words. Her face became grave as she finished dressing. She knew also that her father had lost his temper again, and
she did not care to have all the servants know it.

  She rang the bell, and waited by the door till she heard the maid’s footsteps outside.

  “Ask my mother to come here a moment, Jane,” she said. “Say that it’s important.”

  A few moments later Mrs. Lauderdale turned the handle of the lock.

  “Is that you, mother?” asked Katharine.

  “Yes. The door’s locked. I can’t open it.”

  “This is serious,” said Katharine, speaking in a low voice, close to the panel. “Papa’s locked it and taken the key down town with him. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “No — it’s impossible, child! You must have slipped the bolt inside.”

  “But, mother, he said he meant to, and I heard him do it. He got angry because I wouldn’t let him in. I couldn’t then, for I wasn’t dressed, and Jane’s putting a new ribbon on my dressing-gown, so I haven’t even got that. But I didn’t want to. Never mind that — I’ll tell you by and by. The question is how I’m to get out! Unless he didn’t quite mean it, and has left the key on the table in the entry, with the latch-key. You might look.”

  Mrs. Lauderdale went downstairs and searched for the key, but in vain. Katharine was locked in.

  CHAPTER X.

  MRS. LAUDERDALE WAS indignant. Katharine, at least, had been able to see the ludicrous side of the situation, and had laughed to herself on finding that she was locked in. Less conventional than either her father or mother, it had occurred to her for a moment that she was acting a part in an amusing comedy. The idea that by one or two absurd phrases she had so irritated Alexander as to make him forget his dignity and his common sense together, and do a thoroughly foolish thing such as a child in a passion might do, was funny in the extreme, she thought. But Mrs. Lauderdale, being called in, as it were, after the play, thought the result very poor fun indeed. In her opinion, her husband had done a senseless thing, in the worst possible taste.

  Fortunately the house was an old one, and the simple, old-fashioned lock was amenable to keys which did not belong to it. In due time, Mrs. Lauderdale found one which served the purpose, and Katharine was set at liberty.

  “This is just a little more than I can bear,” she said, as her mother entered the room. “I didn’t expect this sort of thing last night when I said I wouldn’t go to uncle Robert’s. Really — papa’s losing his head.”

  “I must say, it’s going rather far,” admitted Mrs. Lauderdale.

  “It’s gone a great deal too far,” Katharine answered. “I laughed when I found I was locked in. It seemed so funny. But I won’t let him do it again.”

  “You two have a faculty for irritating each other that’s beyond anything,” observed Mrs. Lauderdale. “It really would be much better if you could be separated for a little while. My dear, what do you suppose could happen, if you went to uncle Robert’s?”

  “Just what I told you yesterday. Papa would be quite bland when I came home again. By that time he could have got over his rage, and he’d want to know things — oh, well! I won’t talk about all that. It only hurts you, and it can’t do any good, can it? Hadn’t I better go up to uncle Robert’s and ask if he can have me? Meanwhile, Jane could pack a few things — just what I need to-day — I can always come down, or send down, and get anything I want at a moment’s notice. Shan’t I, mother? What do you think?”

  “Well — I don’t quite know, child. Of course I ought not to, but then if I don’t—” She paused, conscious of vagueness. “If I don’t let you go,” she continued, “there’ll be worse trouble before long. This is an impossible position, we know, and if you went to Washington, I’m sure he’d go down on Sunday and bring you back. It was very clever of you to think of going to uncle Robert’s.”

  “I could go to the Crowdies’,” said Katharine, meditatively. “Of course, Hester’s my best friend, but I do hate her husband so — I can’t help it.”

  Walter Crowdie was a distinguished young painter, whose pale face and heavy, red mouth were unaccountably repulsive to Katharine, and, in a less degree, to her mother also. Mrs. Crowdie was Hamilton Bright’s sister, and therefore a distant cousin.

  “And papa might insist on bringing me back from there, too. There are lots of reasons against it. Besides — Hamilton—”

  “What about Hamilton?” asked Mrs. Lauderdale.

  “Oh, nothing! Mother — I don’t want to do violent things and make a fuss, and all that, you know — but if you agree, and think it’s sensible, I will go up and ask uncle Robert if I may stay a few days. You can see, yourself, that all this can’t go on much longer.”

  In her resentment of her father’s behaviour, she felt quite reconciled with her mother, and Mrs. Lauderdale was glad as she realized the fact. There was an underthought in her mind, too, which was perhaps not altogether so creditable. Though it was only to be for a few days, Katharine was to be away from her. She, was to have a breathing space from the temptation which tormented her. For a little while she should be herself again, not contrasted, at every turn of her daily life, with that terrible bloom which ever outshone the fading flower of her own beauty. That was her dream. If she could but be supremely beautiful still for one short month — that was all she asked — after that, she would submit to time, and give up the pride of life, and never complain again. She would not have acknowledged to herself that this was a motive, for she honestly did her best to fight her sin; but it was there, nevertheless, and influenced her to agree the more readily to Katharine’s absence. It counteracted, indeed, the anxiety she felt about her husband’s view of the case when he should return from his office late in the afternoon; but her instinct told her, also, that he might very probably be a little ashamed of what he had done, and be secretly glad of the solution unexpectedly offered him.

  Katharine got ready to go in a few minutes. As she put on her hat and gloves, she glanced two or three times at the bit of red ribbon that lay on her toilet-table. She had taken down the signal from the window on the previous evening, in order to inform John Ralston that she could not come that morning. On the whole, she was glad that she could not see him, for it would be hard to conceal from him what had happened. She would send him a message down town, and he could see her, undisturbed, at their uncle’s house in the afternoon — more freely there than anywhere else, indeed, since Robert Lauderdale was in the secret of the clandestine marriage.

  Before she left the house, Mrs. Lauderdale laid her hands upon the girl’s shoulders and looked into her eyes with an anxious expression.

  “Katharine, dear,” she said, “don’t ever let yourself think such things as you said yesterday afternoon.”

  “What things, mother?”

  “About not believing — you know. You didn’t mean what you said, darling, of course — and I’m not preaching to you. You know I promised long ago that I would never talk about religion to you children, nor influence you. I’ve kept my word. But this is different. Religion — well, we don’t all agree in this world. But God — God’s for everybody, just the same, dear. But then,” she added, quickly, “I know you didn’t really mean what you said. Only keep the thought away, when it comes.”

  Katharine said nothing, but she nodded gravely and kissed her mother on both cheeks. At the last moment, as she was going to the door, she stopped and turned back.

  “I’m awfully sorry to bother you, mother dear,” she said, “but I’ve got no money — not even twenty-five cents. Could you give me something? I don’t like to be out with nothing at all in my pocket.”

  The deprecating tone, the real, earnest regret at being obliged to ask for even such a trifle, told the tale of what had gone on in the house, unknown to the world, for years, far better than any words could have done.

  “Of course, child — I always have something, you know,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale, promptly. “Here are ten dollars.”

  “Oh — I don’t want so much!” cried Katharine. “I’m not going to buy anything — it’s only for horse-cars, and things like
that. Give me a dollar and a little change, if you have it.”

  But Mrs. Lauderdale insisted that she should take the note.

  “I don’t want you to go to uncle Robert’s without a penny in your pocket. It looks like poor relations.”

  “Well — you’re always generous, mother,” answered the young girl, with a little laugh. “But it’s papa’s relation, and not yours.”

  “I know, dear — I know. But it makes no difference.”

  As Katharine had anticipated, Robert Lauderdale was very glad to see her. He was sitting in his library, into which the sun streamed through the high windows, one of which was partly opened to let in the spring freshness.

  She thought he looked ill. He had not recovered from the effects of his illness so quickly as Doctor Routh had expected, owing to a certain weakness of the heart, natural enough at his age and after enduring so severe a strain. His appetite had never returned, and he was thin in the body and almost wasted in the face. If anything, Katharine thought he looked worse than when she had last seen him a few days previously. But he welcomed her with a cheery smile, and she sat down beside him.

  “Come to pay me a little visit?” His voice was oddly hollow. “That’s right! I wish you’d stay with me a few days again. But then, you’re too gay, I suppose.”

  “Not at all too gay,” laughed Katharine. “That’s exactly what I want to do, and why I came at this hour. I wanted to ask if you’d have me for a week, and then, if you would, I was going to send for my things. And now you’ve spoken first, and I accept. My things are all ready,” she added, still smiling. “You see, I knew you’d let me come.”

  “Of course, little girl!” answered the old man, his sunken eyes fixing themselves wistfully on her young face. “Ring for Leek and tell him to send a man down at once.”