During forty-eight hours he had scarcely tasted anything stronger than a cup of coffee, for the occurrence of Monday had produced a deep impression on him — and this was Wednesday night. For several years he had been used to drinking whatever he pleased, during the day, merely exercising enough self-control to keep out of women’s society when he had taken more than was good for him, and enough discretion in the matter of hours to avoid meeting his mother when he was not quite himself. There are not so many men in polite society who regulate their lives on such principles as there used to be, but there are many still. Men know, and keep the matter to themselves. Insensibly, of course, John Ralston had grown more or less dependent on a certain amount of something to drink every day, and he had very rarely been really abstemious for so long a time as during the last two days. He had lived, too, in a state of considerable anxiety, and had scarcely noticed the absence of artificial excitement. But now, with the scene of the last quarter of an hour, the reaction had come. He had received a violent shock, and his head clamoured for its accustomed remedy against all nervous disturbances. Then, too, he was very thirsty. He honestly disliked the taste of water — as his father had hated it before him — and he had not really drunk enough of it. He was more thirsty than he had been when he had swallowed a pint of champagne at a draught on Monday afternoon. That, to tell the truth, was the precise form in which the temptation presented itself to him at the present moment. It was painfully distinct. He knew that the Thirlwalls, in whose house he was, always had Irroy Brut, which chanced to be the best dry wine that year, and he knew that he had only to follow the crowd to the supper room and swallow as much of it as he desired. Everybody was drinking it. He could hear the glasses faintly ringing in the distance, as he stood in his corner. He let the temptation come to see how strong it would be.
It was frightfully vivid, as he let the picture rise before his eyes. He was now actually in physical pain from thirst. He could see clearly the tall pint-glass, foaming and sparkling with the ice-cold, pale wine. He could hear the delicious little hiss of the tiny bubbles as thousands of them shot to the surface. He could smell the aromatic essence of the lemon peel as the brim seemed to come beneath his nostrils. He could feel the exquisite sharp tingle, the inexpressible stinging delight of the perfect liquid, all through his mouth, to his very throat — just as he had seen and smelt and tasted it all on Monday afternoon, and a thousand times before that — but not since then.
It became intolerable, or almost intolerable, but still he bore it, with that curious pleasure in the pain of it which some people are able to feel in self-imposed suffering. Then he opened his eyes wide, and tried to drive it away.
But that was not so easy. That diabolical clinking and ringing of distant glasses, away, far away, as it seemed, but high and distinct above the hum of voices, tortured him, and drew him towards it. His mouth and throat were actually parched now. It was no longer imagination. And now, too, the crowd had thinned, and as he looked he saw that it would be very easy for him to get to the supper room.
After all, he thought, it was a perfectly legitimate craving. He was excessively thirsty, and he wanted a glass of champagne. He knew very well that in such a place he should not take more than one glass, and that could not hurt him. Did he ever drink when there were women present, in the sense of drinking too much? On Monday the accident had made a difference. Surely, as he had often heard, the manly course was to limit himself to what he needed, and not go beyond it. All those other people did that — why should not he? What was the difference between them and him? How the thirst burned him, and the ring of the glasses tortured him!
He moved a step from the corner, in the direction of the door, fully intending to have his glass of wine. Then something seemed to snap suddenly over his heart, with a sharp little pain.
“I’ll be damned if I do,” said Ralston, almost audibly.
And he went back to his corner, and tried to think of something else.
CHAPTER XIV.
CROWDIE’S ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT was as quick as a child’s to understand the moods of others, and he saw at a glance that something serious had happened to Katharine. He had not the amateur’s persistent desire to feel himself an artist at every moment. On the contrary, he had far more of the genuine artist’s wish to feel himself a man of the world when he was not at his work. What he saw impressed itself upon his accurate and retentive memory for form and colour, but he was not always studying every face he met, and thinking of painting it. He was fond of trying to read character, and prided himself upon his penetration, which was by no means great. It is a common peculiarity of highly gifted persons to delight in exhibiting a small talent which seems to them to be their greatest, though unappreciated by the world. Goethe thought himself a painter. Michelangelo believed himself a poet. Crowdie, a modern artist of reputation, was undoubtedly a good musician as well, but in his own estimation his greatest gift was his knowledge of men. Yet in this he was profoundly mistaken. Though his reasoning was often as clear as his deductions were astute, he placed the centre of human impulses too low, for he judged others by himself, which is an unsafe standard for men who differ much from the average of their fellow-men. He mistook his quickness of perception for penetration, and the heart of men and things escaped him.
He looked at Katharine and saw that she was very angry. He had caught sight of Ralston’s face, and he supposed that the latter had been drinking. He concluded that Ralston had offended Katharine, and that there was to be a serious quarrel. Katharine, too, had evidently been in the greatest haste to get away, and had spoken to Crowdie and taken his arm merely because of the men she knew he had been nearest to her in the crowd. The painter congratulated himself upon his good fortune in appearing at that moment.
“Will you have some supper?” he asked, guiding his companion toward the door.
“It’s too early — thanks,” answered the young girl, almost absently. “I’d rather dance, if you don’t mind,” she added, after a moment.
“Of course!” And he directed his course towards the dancing room.
In spite of his bad figure, Crowdie danced very well. He was very light on his feet, very skilful and careful of his partner, and, strange to say, very enduring. Katharine let herself go on his arm, and they glided and swayed and backed and turned to the right and left to the soft music. For a time she had altogether forgotten her strong antipathy for him. Indeed, she had almost forgotten his existence. Momentarily, he was a nonentity, except as a means of motion.
As she moved the colour slowly came back to her pale face, the frown disappeared and the cold fire in her eyes died away. She also danced well and was proud of it, though she was far from being equal to her mother, even now. With Katharine it was an amusement; with Mrs. Lauderdale it was still a passion. But now she did not care to stop, and went on and on, till Crowdie began to wonder whether she were not falling into a dreamy and half-conscious state, like that of the Eastern dervishes.
“Aren’t you tired?” he asked.
“No — go on!” she answered, without hesitation.
He obeyed, and they continued to dance till many couples stopped to look at them, and see how long they would keep it up. Even the musicians became interested, and went on playing mechanically, their eyes upon the couple. At last they were dancing quite alone. As soon as the young girl saw that she was an object of curiosity, she stopped.
“Come away!” she said quickly. “I didn’t realize that they were all looking at us — it was so nice.”
It was not without a certain degree of vanity that Crowdie at last led her out of the room. He remembered her behaviour to him that morning and on former occasions, and he thought that he had gained a signal success. It was not possible, he thought, that if he were still as repulsive to her as he undoubtedly had been, she should be willing to let him dance with her so long. Dancing meant much to him.
“Shall we sit down somewhere?” he asked, as they got away from the crowd into a roo
m beyond.
“Oh, yes — if there’s a place anywhere. Anything!” She spoke carelessly and absently still.
They found two chairs a little removed from the rest, and sat down side by side.
“Miss Lauderdale,” said Crowdie, after a momentary pause, “I wish you’d let me ask you a question. Will you?”
“If it’s not a rude one,” answered Katharine, indifferently, and scarcely looking at him. “What is it?”
“Well — you know — we’re relations, or connections, at least. Hester is your cousin, and she’s your most intimate friend. Isn’t she?”
“Yes. Is it about her? There she is, just over there — talking to that ugly, thin man with the nice face. Do you see her?”
Crowdie looked in the direction indicated, though he did not in the least wish to talk about his wife to Katharine.
“Oh, yes; I see her,” he answered. “She’s talking to Paul Griggs, the writer. You know him, don’t you? I wonder how he comes here!”
“Is that Paul Griggs?” asked Katharine, with a show of interest. “I’ve always wished to see him.”
“Yes. But it has nothing to do with Hester—”
“What has nothing to do with Hester?” asked Katharine, with despairing absence of mind, as she watched the author’s face.
“The question I was going to ask you — if you would let me.”
Katharine turned towards him. He could produce extraordinarily soft effects with his beautiful voice when he chose, and he had determined to attract her attention just then, seeing that she was by no means inclined to give it.
“Oh, yes — the question,” she said. “Is it anything very painful? You spoke — how shall I say? — in such a pathetic tone of voice.”
“In a way — yes,” answered Crowdie, not at all disturbed by her manner. “Painful is too strong a word, perhaps — but it’s something that makes me very uncomfortable. It’s this — why do you dislike me so much? Or don’t you know why?”
Katharine paused a moment, being surprised by what he asked. She had no answer ready, for she could not tell him that she disliked his white face and scarlet lips and the soft sweep of his eyelashes. She took refuge in her woman’s right to parry one question with another.
“What makes you think I dislike you?” she enquired.
“Oh — a thousand things—”
“I’m very sorry there are so many!” She laughed good-humouredly, but with the intention of turning the conversation if possible.
“No,” said Crowdie, gravely. “You don’t like me, for some reason which seems a good one to you. I’m sure of that, because I know that you’re not capricious nor unreasonable by nature. I should care, in any case — even if we were casual acquaintances in society, and only met occasionally. Nobody could be quite indifferent to your dislike, Miss Lauderdale.”
“No? Why not? I’m sure a great many people are. And as for that, I’m not so reasonable as you think, I daresay. I’m sorry you think I don’t like you.”
“I don’t think — I know it. No — please! Let me tell you what I was going to say. We’re not mere ordinary acquaintances, though I don’t in the least hope ever to be a friend of yours, exactly. You see — owing to Hester — and on account of the portrait, just now — I’m thrown a good deal in your way. I can’t help it. I don’t want to give up painting you—”
“But I don’t wish you to! I’ll come every day, if you like — every day I can.”
“Yes; you’re very good about it. It’s just because you are, that I’m more sensitive about your dislike, I suppose.”
“But, my dear Mr. Crowdie, how—”
“My dear Miss Lauderdale, I’m positively repulsive to you. You can’t deny it really, though you’ll put it much more gently. To-day, when I wanted to help you to take off your hat, you started and changed colour — just as though you had touched a snake. I know that those things are instinctive, of course. I only want you to tell me if you have any reason — beyond a mere uncontrollable physical repulsion. There’s no other way of putting it, I’m afraid. I mean, whether I’ve ever done anything to make you hate the sight of me—”
“You? Never. On the contrary, you’re always very kind, and nice in every way. I wish you would put it out of your head — the whole idea — and talk about something else. No, honestly, I’ve nothing against you, and I never heard anything against you. And I’m really very much distressed that I should have given you any such impression. Isn’t that the answer to your question?”
“Yes — in a way. It reduces itself to this — if you never looked at me, and never heard my voice, you wouldn’t hate me.”
“Oh — your voice — no!” The words escaped her involuntarily, and conveyed a wrong impression; for though she meant that his voice was beautiful, she knew that its mere beauty sometimes repelled her as much as his appearance did.
“Then it’s only my looks,” he said with a laugh. “Thanks! I’m quite satisfied now, and I quite agree with you in that. You noticed to-day that there were no mirrors in the studio.” He laughed again quite naturally.
“Really!” exclaimed Katharine, as a sort of final protest, and taking the earliest opportunity of escaping from the difficult situation he had created. “I wish you would tell me something about Mr. Griggs, since you know him. I’ve been watching him — he has such a curious face!”
“Paul Griggs? Oh, yes — he’s a curious creature altogether.” And Crowdie began to talk about the man.
Katharine was in reality perfectly indifferent, and followed her own train of thought while Crowdie made himself as agreeable as he could, considering that he was conscious of her inattention. He would have been surprised had he known that she was thinking about him.
Since Hester had told her the story of his strange illness, Katharine could not be near him without remembering her cousin’s vivid description of his appearance and condition during the attack. It was but a step from such a picture to the question of the morphia and Crowdie’s story, and one step further brought the comparison between slavery to one form of excitement and slavery to another; in other words, between John Ralston and the painter, and then between Hester’s love for Crowdie and Katharine’s for her cousin. But at this point the divergence began. Crowdie, who looked weak, effeminate and anything but manly, had found courage and strength to overcome a habit which was said to be almost unconquerable. Katharine would certainly never have guessed that he had such a strong will, but Hester had told her all about it, and there seemed to be no other explanation of the facts. And Ralston, with his determined expression and all his apparently hardy manliness, had distinctly told her that he did not feel sure of keeping a promise, even for the sake of her love. It seemed incredible. She would have given anything to be able to ask Crowdie questions about his life, but that was impossible, under the circumstances. He might never forgive his wife for having told his secret.
Her sudden and violent anger had subsided, and she already regretted what she had said and done with Ralston. Indeed, she found it hard to understand how she could have been so cruelly unkind, all in a moment, when she had hardly found time to realize the meaning of what he had told her. Another consideration and another question presented themselves now, as she remembered and recapitulated the circumstances of the scene. For the first time she realized the man’s loyalty in thrusting his shortcomings under her eyes before the final step was taken. It must have been a terrible struggle for him, she thought. And if he was brave enough to do such a thing as that, — to tell the truth to her, and the story of his shameful weakness, — what must that temptation be which even he was not brave enough to resist? No doubt, he did resist it often, she thought, and could do so in the future, though he said that he could not be sure of himself. He was so brave and manly. Yet it was horrible to think of him in connection with something which appeared to be unspeakably disgusting in her eyes.
The vice was one which she could not understand. Few women can; and it would be strange, i
ndeed, if any young girl could. She had seen drunken men in the streets many times, but that was almost all she knew of it. Occasionally, but by no means often, she had seen a man in society who had too much colour, or was unnaturally pale, and talked rather wildly, and people said that he had taken too much wine — and generally laughed. Such a man was making himself ridiculous, she thought, but she established no connection between him and the poor wretch reeling blind drunk out of a liquor shop, who was pointed out to her by her father as an awful example. She had even seen a man once who was lying perfectly helpless in the gutter, while a policeman kicked him to make him get up — and it had made a strong impression upon her. She remembered distinctly his swollen face, his bloodshot blue eyes and his filthy clothes — all disgusting enough.
That was the picture which rose before her eyes when John Ralston, putting his case more strongly than was necessary in order to clear his conscience altogether, had told her that he could not promise to give up a bad habit for her sake. In the first moment she had thought merely of the man in society who behaved a little foolishly and talked too loud, but Ralston’s earnest manner had immediately evoked the recollection of her father’s occasional discourses upon what he called the besetting sin of the lower classes in America, and had vividly recalled therewith the face of the besotted wretch in the gutter. She knew of no intermediate stage. To be a slave to drink meant that and nothing else. The society man whom she took as an example was not a slave to drink; he was merely foolish and imprudent, and might get into trouble. To think of marrying a man who had lain in the gutter, half blind with liquor, to be kicked by a policeman, was more than she could bear. The inevitable comic side to things is rarely discernible to those brought most closely into connection with them. It was not only serious to Katharine; it was horrible, repulsive, sickening. It was no wonder that she had sprung from her seat and turned her back on Ralston, and that she had done the first thing which presented itself as a means of distracting her thoughts.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 675