Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Above all, she was her son’s friend. She had lived a woman’s life, and in him she was living a man’s life, too. She had felt a mother’s fears for him, a mother’s sympathy in his failures, in his downheartedness, in the love for Katharine which had met with such bitter opposition. She had almost known a mother’s despair in believing him lost and truly worthless, and when she had found out her mistake, a mother’s triumph had made her heart beat fast. And little by little through the last months she had seen the man’s real character coming to the surface in its strength and boldness, outgrowing the boyish weakness, the youthful faults that were not vices yet and never would be now, and it was as though the growth had been in her own heart, giving to herself new interest, new life, and new vitality.

  And John Ralston had forgotten that one hour in which she had doubted him, though at the time he had found it hard to say that he ever should. She was his best friend and was becoming his closest companion. Even Katharine could not understand him so well, for she knew too little of the world yet. She had given him her heart, and her sympathy was all his, but neither the one nor the other was yet quite grown.

  John and his mother dined alone together that evening, and afterwards went upstairs and sat in a room which was called John’s study, by courtesy, as it had been called the Admiral’s study when his father was alive. It was a quiet, manlike room, with a small bookcase and a large gun-rack, huge chairs covered with brown leather, an unnecessarily large writing-table, a certain number of trophies of the chase, a well-worn carpet and curtains that smelled of cigars. Mrs. Ralston had been accustomed all her life to the smell of tobacco, and rather liked it than otherwise. She settled her graceful figure comfortably in one of the chairs, and Ralston sat down opposite to her in another and began to smoke.

  “There’s been a row, mother,” he began. “I couldn’t tell you before the servants, but I’m going to tell you all about it now. I want your advice and your help — all sorts of things of you. I’m rather worried.”

  “Do you think I couldn’t see that in your face, Jack?” asked Mrs. Ralston, smiling as she met his eyes. “There’s a certain line in your forehead that always comes when there’s trouble. What is it, boy?”

  John told his story briefly and accurately, without superfluous comment, and as much of what had happened in Katharine’s life as she had confided to him. He made it clear enough that she was being tormented to give up Robert Lauderdale’s secret, and if he dwelt unduly upon any point, it was upon this. Mrs. Ralston listened attentively. When he came to the scene which had taken place on that afternoon, she leaned forward in her chair, breathless with interest.

  “Oh, Jack!” she cried. “You always seem to be fighting somebody!”

  “Yes — but wasn’t I right, mother?” he asked, quickly. “What could I do? He acted like a madman, and he dragged Katharine from me and whirled her off upon the floor as though he’d been handling a man in a free fight. I couldn’t stand that.”

  “No — of course you couldn’t,” answered Mrs. Ralston. “I don’t see what you could have done but hit him, I’m sure. And yet it’s a shocking affair — it is, really. I’m afraid it’s cost uncle Robert his life, poor, dear old man!”

  “Poor man!” echoed Ralston, thoughtfully. “Routh didn’t seem to think he could live through the night. We may get word at any moment.”

  “The wonder is that he didn’t die then and there. And there’s no one with him, either — Katharine laid up in her room — why didn’t you stay in the house, Jack?”

  “Routh wouldn’t let me. He’s there. He told me I should only be in the way and that he’d send for me, if anything happened. It’s an odd thing, mother — but there’s no one to go to uncle Robert but you and I and cousin Emma. He’d have a fit if he saw cousin Alexander. And of course the old gentleman can’t go.” He meant Robert’s brother.

  “No — of course not.”

  A short silence followed, and Mrs. Ralston seemed to be thinking over the situation.

  “Well, Jack,” she said, at last, “what are we going to do? This state of things can’t go on.”

  “No. It can’t. It shan’t. And I won’t let it. Mother — you know we talked last winter — you said that if ever I wanted to marry Katharine — wanted to! Well — that we could manage to live here—”

  It would be hard to give any adequate idea of the reluctance with which John approached the subject. Short of the consideration of Katharine’s personal safety, which he believed to be endangered by the life she was made to lead, nothing could have induced him to think of laying the burden of his married life upon his mother’s comparatively slender fortune. Although half of it was his, for she had made it over to him by a deed during the previous winter, out of a conviction that he should feel himself to be independent, yet he had never quite accepted the position, and still regarded all there was as being, morally speaking, her property. But now she met him more than half way.

  “Jack,” she said, almost authoritatively, “if Katharine will marry you, marry her to-morrow and bring her here.”

  “Thank you, mother,” he answered, and was silent for a moment.

  “We can live perfectly well — just as well as we do now. One person more — what difference does it make?”

  “It would make a difference — more than you think,” answered John. “But there’s another thing about it, mother — there’s a secret I’ve kept from you for a long time. I must tell you now. You must be the first to know it. But I want to ask you first not to judge what I’ve done until I’ve told you all about it.”

  “Is it anything bad, Jack?” asked Mrs. Ralston, with quick anxiety, bending far forward in her chair, while all her expression changed.

  “No, mother — don’t be frightened. It’s this. Katharine and I were married last winter.”

  “Married!” cried Mrs. Ralston, in amazement. “Married!” she repeated in a tone which showed that she was deeply hurt. “And you did not tell me!”

  She said nothing more for a few moments, and John was silent, too, giving her time to recover from her astonishment. She was the first to speak.

  “Either Katharine made you marry her, or you must have had some very good reason for doing such a thing, Jack,” she said. “It’s not like you to get married secretly. When was it?”

  “It was on that day when I was so unlucky. When I lost my way, and everybody thought I’d been drinking.”

  “Jack! Do you mean to say that you had that on your mind, too? Oh, Jack dear, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “In the first place, I’d said I wouldn’t. The reasons seemed good then. They haven’t seemed so good since. I’ll tell you the idea in two words. We were to be privately married. Then we were to confide in uncle Robert, expecting that he would find me something to do, that I could do whatever he proposed well enough to earn a living without accepting money as a gift. There was where the disappointment came. I found out afterwards how true what he said was. Everybody’s on the lookout for a congenial occupation that means living out of doors and enjoying oneself. He said there was nothing to be done but to go back to Beman’s and work at a desk for a year. Then he’d push me on. He tried to make me take a lot of money, but I wouldn’t. I’m glad of that, anyhow. So we’ve never said anything about it, except to him. But now something must be done.”

  “But you could have brought her here any time in these four months — at least, you might have told me and I would have helped you.”

  “I know — but then, it would have been a burden on you, as it’s going to be now.”

  “A burden! Don’t say such things.”

  “Only that now — well — I don’t like to say it, but dear old uncle Robert isn’t going to live long, and then you’ll be rich, compared to what you are now, even if he only leaves you what he’d think a small legacy.”

  “Yes — that’s true,” answered Mrs. Ralston, thoughtfully. “Isn’t life strange, Jack?” she continued, after a short pause. “We’re
both very fond of him. We shall miss him very much more than we realize. I think either you or I would do anything we could, and risk anything, to save his life — and yet we can’t help counting on the money he’s sure to leave us when he dies. I suppose most people would call it heartless to speak about it, though they’d think about it from morning till night. But I don’t think we’re heartless, do you?”

  “No,” answered John, “I don’t. Not that it would be a crime if we were. People are born so, or they aren’t. We can’t all be rough plastered with goodness and stuccoed with virtue on top of it. We’re natural, that’s all — and the majority of people aren’t. I don’t wish uncle Robert to die, any more than you do, or than any one does, except cousin Alexander. It’s only reasonable for us who are young to think of what we may do when he’s gone, since he’s so old.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” assented Mrs. Ralston. “So you’ve been married all these months! It hurts me a little to think that you shouldn’t have told me. I’d have helped you. I’m sure I could have made it easier. But I see — you were afraid that I should have to go without my toilet water and have to wear ready made gloves, or some such ridiculous thing as that! Married! Well — I’m not exactly sentimental, but I’d rather looked forward to your wedding with Katharine. I always knew you’d marry her in the end, and I liked to think of it. I’m glad, though — I’m glad it’s done and can’t be undone, in spite of her father. Tell me all about it, since you’ve told me everything else.”

  It was not a long story — how Katharine had persuaded him, much against his will, how he had found a clergyman willing to perform the ceremony, and how Katharine and he had gone to the church early in the morning.

  “And now she is Katharine Ralston, too, like me — and I’ve got a daughter-in-law!” Mrs. Ralston smiled dreamily.

  After the first moment of surprise and after the first sharp pain she had felt for her son’s want of confidence in her, as she regarded his secrecy, the news did not seem to disturb her much. For years she had been convinced that Katharine was destined to be her son’s wife, and for many months she had felt sure that, with his nature, his happiness and success in life depended entirely upon his marrying her. She was heartily glad that it had come, though, as she said, she had often looked forward to the wedding as to something very bright in her own existence.

  “Jack,” she said, “leave it to me to set matters straight with the rest of the family, will you?”

  “Why — mother — if you think you can — of course,” answered Ralston, with some hesitation. “The difficulty will be with cousin Alexander. We’re enemies for life, now.”

  “Yes. Until to-day you were only enemies by circumstance. You’ll never be reconciled, now — not completely. You could never spend a night under his roof after what has happened, could you? Of course you can say to him that you acted under the impression that he was — well — what shall I say? — that he was treating Katharine brutally, but that if he wasn’t, you apologize for striking him. But after all, that’s only quibbling with honour. It wouldn’t satisfy him and wouldn’t be very dignified for you, it seems to me. And he’s not the man who would ever put out his hand and forgive you frankly and say that by-gones should be by-gones.”

  “Scarcely!” assented Ralston. “Not at all that kind of man. By the bye, mother, — forgive me for going off to something else, — what do you think is the reason why he seems so ready to offend uncle Robert, instead of bowing down to him, as they all do? He wants the money more than any one. He can’t suppose that if uncle Robert were to make a new will now, after what has happened, he’d leave him anything. You should have heard the old gentleman swear at him, and turn him out of the house!”

  “I don’t know,” answered Mrs. Ralston, thoughtfully, “unless he wants to irritate uncle Robert, and drive him into making some extraordinary will that wouldn’t hold. Then he’d get it broken. You see, Jack, my uncle Alexander, who’s uncle Robert’s own brother, and I, who am the only child of uncle Robert’s other brother, are the next of kin. If there were no will, or if the will were broken, we two should get the whole fortune, equally divided, half and half, and none of the rest would get anything. Mr. Brett told me that a long time ago. As it is, we don’t know how the money’s left, though uncle Robert has often told me that I should have a big share.”

  “Katharine knows,” said John. “That’s the reason her father leaves her no peace.”

  “And she’s not told you, Jack?”

  “Mother! Do you suppose Katharine would betray a confidence like that? You don’t know her!”

  “No, dear. I didn’t seriously think she would. But then — she’s your wife, Jack. She might tell you what she wouldn’t tell any one else, and yet not think that she were giving away a secret. Most women would, I think.”

  “Katharine’s not like most women,” said Ralston, gravely.

  A silence followed, during which his mother watched his face, and her own grew beautiful with mother’s pride in man, and woman’s gladness for woman’s dignity.

  When Ralston and his mother separated, they had come to a clear understanding about the future. They had decided to say nothing about the marriage until Katharine had recovered sufficiently to leave Robert Lauderdale’s home, and then to establish her in their house, and tell the world that there had been a private wedding. If the old gentleman died, — and they were obliged to take this probability into consideration, — Katharine would have to be brought at once. If anything, this would make matters simpler. The household would be in mourning, Katharine would be unable to go out or to appear at all for some time, and society would easily believe that during the two or three weeks which must pass in this way, the marriage might have taken place.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  NO ONE SLEPT much during the early part of the night in the millionaire’s home. Katharine lay long awake, prevented from sleeping partly by the painful numbness in her bandaged arm, and partly by the ever recurring picture of the day’s doings which came back to her unceasingly in the stillness. Just as the picture was growing shadowy and dreamlike, some slight sound would break it and recall her to herself, — a distant foot-fall on the stairs, the opening and shutting of a door near her own, or even the occasional roll of a belated carriage in the street.

  There was a soft light in the sick man’s room. The white walls and hangings took up and distributed the whiteness, so that even the remotest corners were not dark. Robert Lauderdale lay in his bed, breathing softly, his eyes not quite closed, and his bony hands lying like knotty twigs upon the white Shetland wool that covered his body. For they were like wood or stone, yellowish in colour, rough in shape, and yet oddly polished by time, as some old men’s hands are. His snowy beard and hair, too, were almost sandy again, as they had been in youth, by contrast with the delicate linen and the snow-white, sheeny material that was everywhere.

  He was not sleeping with his eyes open, as dying persons sometimes sleep a whole day. Nor was his mind wandering. Doctor Routh could see that well enough, as he sat there hour after hour, watching his old friend. The doctor wished that he might really fall asleep, and let his weary old heart gather strength to live a little longer. But even Routh was giving up hope. The machine was running down, and the game was played out. There was not one chance in a hundred that Robert Lauderdale could live another twelve hours. From time to time the doctor gave him a little stimulant, but the failing heart reacted less and less.

  Between three and four o’clock in the morning, the old man turned his head slowly on the pillow, and his sunken eyes met Routh’s in a long look — the look which those who have watched by the dying know very well.

  “Routh,” said the hoarse voice, with solemn slowness, “I’m going to give up the ghost.”

  Still for a few seconds the deep, mysterious, wondering look continued in the hollow eyes. Then he turned his head slowly back to the original position. The words struck the doctor as singular. He did not remember that he had ever he
ard a patient use just that phrase, though so many persons when near the point of death give warning of their end in some such expression.

  “You’re not going yet,” the doctor answered, mechanically, and he held a glass to the old man’s lips.

  “I don’t want any false hope. I know it’s coming,” answered the dying man, speaking against the rim of the little tumbler.

  Routh stood up to his vast height, and then his nervous, emaciated frame bent like a birch sapling in a gale as he leaned over the bed, and listened to the fluttering beats of the heart that had almost done its work.

  “Shall I call anybody?” he asked. “Is there anything you want done?”

  “How long do you think it will be?” asked Robert Lauderdale, trying to speak more rapidly.

  “Half an hour, perhaps,” answered Routh.

  In their voices there was that indescribable tone with which the words of brave men are uttered in the face of death. No one who has ever heard it can forget it.