Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  But now, matters began to look differently to her calmer judgment. It was absurd to think that Ralston should make a mountain of a mole-hill, and speak as he had spoken of himself, if he only meant that he now and then took a glass of champagne more than was good for him. Besides, if he did it habitually, she must have seen him now and then behaving like her typical young gentleman, and making a fool of himself. But she had never noticed anything of the kind. On the other hand, she could not believe that he could ever, under any circumstances, turn into the kind of creature who had been held up to her as an example of the habitual drunkard. There must be something between the two, she felt sure, something which she could not understand. She would find out. And she must see John again, before she left the dance. Her eyes began to look for him in the crowd.

  There are times when the processes of a girl’s mind are primitive in their simplicity. Katharine suddenly remembered hearing that men drank out of despair. She had seen Ralston’s face when she had risen and left him, and it had certainly expressed despair very strongly. Perhaps he had gone at once to drown his cares — that was the expression she had heard — and it would be her fault.

  Such a sequence of ideas looks childish in this age of profound psychological analysis, but it is just such reasoning which sometimes affects people most when their hearts are touched. We have all thought and done very childish things at times.

  Katharine forgot all about Crowdie and what he was saying. She had given a sort of social, mechanical attention to his talk, nodding intelligently from time to time, and answering by vague monosyllables, or with even more vague questions. Crowdie had the sense to understand that she did not mean to be rude, and that her mind was wholly absorbed — most probably with what had taken place between her and Ralston a quarter of an hour earlier. He talked on patiently, since he could do nothing else, but he was not at all surprised when she at last interrupted him.

  “Would you mind looking to see if my cousin — Jack Ralston, you know, — is still in the hall?” she asked, without ceremony.

  “Certainly,” said Crowdie, rising. “Shall I tell him you want him, if he’s there?”

  “Do, please. It’s awfully good of you, Mr. Crowdie,” she added, with a preoccupied smile.

  Crowdie dived into the crowd, looking about him in every direction, and then making his way straight to Ralston, who had not left his corner.

  “Miss Lauderdale wants to speak to you, Ralston,” said the painter, as he reached him. “Hallo! What’s the matter? You look ill.”

  “I? Not a bit!” answered Ralston. “It’s the heat, I suppose. Where is Miss Lauderdale?” He spoke in a curiously constrained tone.

  “I’ll take you to her — come along!”

  The two moved away together, Ralston following Crowdie through the press. Through the open door of the boudoir Ralston saw Katharine’s eyes looking for him.

  “All right,” he said to Crowdie, “I see her. Don’t bother.”

  “Over there in the low chair by the plants,” answered the painter, in unnecessary explanation.

  “All right,” said Ralston again, and he pushed past Crowdie, who turned away to seek amusement in another direction. Katharine looked up gravely at him as he came to her side, and then pointed to the chair Crowdie had left vacant.

  “Sit down. I want to talk to you,” she said quickly, and he obeyed, drawing the chair a little nearer.

  “I thought you never meant to speak to me again,” he said bitterly.

  “Did you? You thought that? Seriously?”

  “I suppose most men would have thought very much the same.”

  “You thought that I could change completely, like that — in a single moment?”

  “You seemed to change.”

  “And that I did not love you any more?”

  “That was what you made me think — what else? You’re perfectly justified, of course. I ought to have told you long ago.”

  “Please don’t speak to me so — Jack.”

  “What do you expect me to say?” he asked, and with a weary look in his eyes he leaned back in his low chair and watched her.

  “Jack — dear — you didn’t understand when I told Mr. Crowdie to call you — you don’t understand now. I was angry then — by the staircase. I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?”

  Ralston’s face changed instantly, and he leaned forward again, so as to be able to speak in a lower tone.

  “Darling — don’t say such things! I’ve nothing to forgive—”

  “You have, Jack! Indeed, you have — oh! why can’t we be alone for ten minutes — I’d explain it all — what I thought—”

  “But there’s nothing to explain, if you love me still — at least, not for you.”

  “Yes, there is. There’s ever so much. Jack, why did you tell me? You frightened me so — you don’t know! And it seemed as though it were the end of everything, and of me, myself, when you said you couldn’t be sure of keeping a promise for my sake. You didn’t mean what you said — at least, not as I thought you meant it — you didn’t mean that you wouldn’t try — and of course you would succeed in the end.”

  “I think I should succeed very soon, with you to help me, Katharine. But that’s not what a man — who is a man — accepts from a woman.”

  “Her help — not her help, Jack? How can you say so!”

  “Yes, I mean it. Suppose that I should fail, what sort of life should you lead — tied to a man who drinks? Don’t start, dear — it’s the truth. We shall never talk about it again, after this, perhaps, and I may just as well say what I think. I must say it, if I’m ever to respect myself again.”

  Katharine looked at him, realized again what his courage had been in making the confession, and she loved him more than ever.

  “Jack—” she began, and hesitated. “Since we are talking of it, and must talk of it — can’t you tell me what makes you do it — I mean — you know! What is it that attracts you? It must be something very strong — isn’t it? What is it?”

  “I wish I knew!” answered Ralston, half savagely. “It began — oh, at college, you know. I was vain of being able to stand more than the other fellows and of going home as steady as though I’d had nothing.”

  “But a man who can walk straight isn’t drunk, Jack—”

  “Oh, isn’t he!” exclaimed Ralston, with a sour smile. “They’re the worst kind, sometimes—”

  “But I thought that a man who was really drunk — was — was quite senseless, and tumbled down, you know — in a disgusting state.”

  “It’s not a pretty subject — especially when you talk about it, dear — but it’s not always of that description.”

  It shocked Ralston’s refined nature to hear her speak of such things. For he had all the refinement of nervous natures, like many a man who has been wrecked by drink — even to men of genius without number.

  “Isn’t it quite — no, of course it’s not. I know well enough.” Katharine paused an instant. “I don’t care if it’s not what they call refined, Jack. I’m not going to let that sort of squeamishness come between you and me. It’s not as though I’d come upon it as a subject of conversation — and — and I’m not afraid you’ll think any the worse of me because I talk about horrid things, when I must talk about them — when everything depends on them — you and I, and our lives. I must know what it is that you feel — that you can’t resist.”

  Ralston felt how strong she was, and was glad.

  “Go on,” she said. “Tell me all about it — how it began.”

  “That was it — at college, I suppose,” he answered. “Then it grew to be a habit — insensibly, of course. I thought it didn’t hurt me and I liked the excitement. Perhaps I’m naturally melancholic and depressed.”

  “I don’t wonder!”

  “No — it’s not the result of anything especial. I’ve not had at all an unhappy life. I was born gloomy, I suppose — and unlucky, too. You see the trouble is that those things get hold of one�
�s nerves, and then it becomes a physical affair and not a mere question of will. Men get so far that it would kill them to stop, because they’re used to it. But with me — no, I admit the fact — it is a question of will and nothing else. Just now — oh, well, I’ve talked enough about myself.”

  “What— ‘just now’? What were you going to say? You wanted to go and drink, just after I left you?”

  “How did you guess that?”

  “I don’t know. I was sure of it. And — and you didn’t, Jack?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Why not? What stopped you? It was so easy!”

  “I felt that I should be a brute if I did — so I didn’t. That’s all. It’s not worth mentioning — only it shows that it is a question of will. I’m all right now — I don’t want it any more. Perhaps I shan’t, for days. I don’t know. It’s a hopeless sort of thing, anyway. Sometimes I’m just on the point of taking an oath. But if I broke it, I should blow my brains out, and I shouldn’t be any better off. So I have the sense not to promise myself anything.”

  “Promise me one thing,” said Katharine, thoughtfully. “It’s a thing you can promise — trust me, won’t you?”

  “Yes — I promise,” answered Ralston, without hesitation.

  “That you will never bind yourself by any oath at all, will you?”

  Ralston paused a moment.

  “Yes — I promise you that,” he said. “I think it’s very sensible. Thank you, dear.”

  There was a short silence after he had spoken. Then Katharine laughed a little and looked at him affectionately.

  “How funny we are!” she exclaimed. “Half an hour ago I quarrelled with you because you wouldn’t promise, and now I’ve got you to swear that you never will promise, under any circumstances.”

  “Yes,” he answered. “It’s very odd. But other things are changed, too, since then, though it’s not long.”

  “You’re mistaken, Jack,” she said, misunderstanding him. “Haven’t I said enough? Don’t you know that I love you just as much as I ever did — and more? But nothing is changed — nothing — not the least little bit of anything.”

  “Dear — how good you are!” Ralston’s voice was very tender just then. “But I mean — about to-morrow.”

  “Nothing’s changed, Jack,” said Katharine, leaning forward and speaking very earnestly.

  But Ralston shook his head, sadly, as he met her eyes.

  “Yes, dear, it’s all changed. That can’t be as you wanted it — not now.”

  “But if I say that I will? Oh, don’t you understand me yet? It’s made no difference. I lost my head for a moment — but it has made no difference at all, except that I respect you ever so much more than I did, for being so honest!”

  “Respect me!” repeated Ralston, with grave incredulity. “Me! You can’t!”

  “I can and I do. And I mean to be married to you — to-morrow, just as we said. I wonder what you think I’m made of, to change and take back my word and promise! Don’t you see that I want to give you everything — my whole life — much more than I did this morning? Yes, ever so much more, for you need me more than I knew or guessed. You see, I didn’t quite understand at first, but it’s all clear now. You’re much more unhappy — and much more foolish about it — than I am. I don’t want to go back over it all again, but won’t it be much easier for you when you have me to help you? It seems to me that it must be, because I love you so! Won’t it be much easier? Tell me!”

  “Yes — of course it would. I don’t like to think of it, because I mustn’t do it. I should never have asked you to marry me at all, until I was sure of myself. But — well, I couldn’t help it. We loved each other.”

  “Jack — what do you mean?”

  “That I love you far too much to tie myself round your life, like a chain. I won’t do it. I’ll do the best I can to get over this thing and if I do — I shan’t be half good enough for you — but if you will still have me then, we’ll be married. If I can’t get over it — why then, that means that I shall go to the devil, I suppose. At all events, you’ll be free.”

  He spoke very quietly, but the words hurt him as they came. He did not realize until he had finished speaking that the resolution had been formed within the last five minutes, though he felt that he was right.

  “If you knew how you hurt me, when you talk like that!” said Katharine, in a low voice.

  “It’s a question of absolute right and wrong — it’s a question of honour,” he continued, speaking quickly to persuade himself. “Just put yourself in the position of a third person, and think about it. What should you say of a man who did such a thing — who accepted such a sacrifice as you wish to make?”

  “It isn’t a sacrifice — it’s my life.”

  “Yes — that’s it! What would your life be, with a man on whom you couldn’t count — a man you might be ashamed of, at any moment — who can’t even count on himself — a fellow who’s good for nothing on earth, and certainly for nothing in heaven — a failure, like me, who—”

  “Stop! You shan’t say any more. I won’t listen! Jack, I shall go away, as I did before—”

  “Well — but isn’t it all true?”

  “No — not a word of it is true! And if it were true twenty times over, I’d marry you — now, in spite of everybody. I — I believe I’d commit a sin to marry you. Oh, it’s of no use! I can’t live without you — I can’t, indeed! I called you back to tell you so—”

  She stopped, and she was pale. He had never seen her as she was now, and she had never looked so beautiful to him.

  “For that matter, I couldn’t live without you,” he said, in a rather uncertain voice.

  “And you shall not!” she answered, with determination. “Don’t talk to me of sacrifice — what could anything be compared with that — with giving you up? You don’t know what you’re saying. I couldn’t — I couldn’t do it — not if it meant death!”

  “But, dear — Katharine dear — if I fail, as I shall, I’m sure — just think—”

  “If you do — but you won’t — well, if you should think you had — oh, Jack! If you were the worst man alive, I’d rather die with you than live for any one else! God knows I would—”

  “It’s very, very hard!” Ralston twisted his fingers together and bowed his head, still trying to resist her.

  She bent forward again.

  “Dear — tell me! A little while ago — out there — when you wanted it — wasn’t that hard?”

  Ralston nodded silently.

  “And didn’t you resist because it was a little — just a little for my sake? Just at that moment when you said to yourself that you wouldn’t, you know, or just before, or just afterwards — didn’t you think a little of me, dear?”

  “Of course I did. Oh, Katharine, Katharine—” His voice was shaking now.

  “Yes. I know now,” she answered. “I don’t want anything but that — all my life.”

  Still Ralston bent his head again, looking down at his hands and believing that he was still resisting. He could not have spoken, had he tried, and Katharine saw it. She leaned still nearer to him.

  “Dear — I’m going home now. I shall be walking in Clinton Place at half-past eight to-morrow morning, as we arranged. Good-night — dear.”

  Before he realized what she meant to do, she had risen and reached the door. He sprang to his feet and followed her, but the crowd had closed again and she was gone.

  CHAPTER XV.

  KATHARINE LAUDERDALE SLEPT sweetly that night. She had, as she thought, at last reached the crisis of her life, and the moment of action was at hand. She felt, too, that almost at the last moment she had avoided a great risk and made a good resolution — she felt as though she had saved John Ralston from destruction. Loving him as truly as she did, her satisfaction over what she had done was far greater than her pain at what he had told her of himself.

  But this was not insignificant, though she wilfully made it seem as small
as she could. It was quite clear that it was not a matter to be laughed at, and that Ralston did not deserve to be called quixotic because he had thought it his duty to tell her of his weakness. It was not a mountain, she was sure, but she admitted that it was not a mole-hill either. Men who exaggerated the golden letter of virtue at the expense of the gentle spirit of charity, as her father did, exaggerated also, as a rule, those forms of wickedness to which they were themselves least liable. She knew that. But she was also aware that drinking too much was not by any means an imaginary vice. It was a matter of fact, with which whole communities had to deal, and about which men very unlike her father in other ways spoke gravely. Nevertheless, though a fact, all details connected with it were vague. It seemed to her a matter of certainty that John Ralston would at once change his life and become in that respect, as in all others, exactly what her ideal of a man always had been since she had loved him.

  Her mistake, if it were one, was pardonable enough. Had she become aware of his fault by accident, and when, having succumbed to his weakness, she could have seen him not himself, the whole effect upon her mind would have been very different. But she had never seen him, as she believed, in any such condition. It was as though he had told it as of another man, and she found it impossible really to connect any such ideas of inebriety as she had with the man she loved. It was as vague as though he had told her that he had once had the scarlet fever. She would have known very well what the scarlet fever was like, but she could not have associated it with him in any really distinct way. It was because it had seemed such a small matter at first sight that she had been suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of bitter disappointment when he had refused to give his promise for her sake. As soon as she had begun to understand even a little of what he really felt, she had been as ready and as determined to stand by him through everything as though it had been a question of a bodily illness, for which he was not responsible, but in which she could really help him. When she had been angry, and afterwards, when, in spite of him, she had so strongly insisted upon the marriage, she had been alike under a false impression, though in different degrees. She had not now any idea of what she had really undertaken to do.