In her anxiety not to rouse her mother’s suspicions, she shut the door almost before he had nodded his assent. She scarcely saw the blank look that came into his face, and the utter disappointment in his eyes.
Seeing that the door was shut, Annie turned and went away. Katharine hesitated a moment, passed her hand over her brow, glanced mechanically once more at the cards in the china dish on the table and then went into the library. To her surprise her mother was not there, but the folding door which led to the dark drawing-room was half rolled back, and it was clear that Mrs. Lauderdale had gone through the dining-room, and had probably reached her own apartment by the back staircase of the house. Katharine was on the point of running into the street and calling Ralston back. She hesitated a moment, and then going hastily to the window threw up the sash and looked out, hoping that he might be still within hearing. But looking eastward, towards Fifth Avenue, he was not to be seen amongst the moving pedestrians, of whom there were many just then. She turned to see whether he had taken the other direction, and saw him at once, but already far down the street, walking fast, with his head bent low and his hands in the pockets of his overcoat. He was evidently going to take the elevated road up town.
“Oh, Jack — I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed softly to herself, still looking after him as he disappeared in the distance.
Then she drew down the window again, and went and sat in her accustomed place in the small armchair opposite to her mother’s sofa. She thought very uncharitably of Charlotte during the next quarter of an hour, but she promised herself to get into a corner with Ralston that evening, at the great ball, and to explain all the circumstances to him as minutely as they have been explained here. She was angry with her mother, too, for not having gone up the front staircase, as she might just as well have done, but she was very glad she had not condescended to the manœuvre of introducing John into the dining-room by the back way, as she would have probably just met Mrs. Lauderdale as the latter passed through. On the whole, it seemed to Katharine that she had done as wisely as the peculiarly difficult circumstances had allowed, and that although there was much to regret, she had done nothing of which she needed to repent.
It seemed to her, too, as she began to recover from the immediate annoyance of failure, that she had gained several hours more than she had expected, in which to think over what she should say to Ralston when they met. And she at once set herself the task of recalling everything that Robert Lauderdale had said to her, with the intention of repeating it as accurately as possible, since she could not expect to say it any better than he had said it himself. It was necessary that Ralston should understand it, as she had understood it, and should see that although uncle Robert was quite ready to be generous he could not undertake to perform miracles. Those had been the old gentleman’s own words.
Then she began to wonder whether, after all, it would not be better to accept what he offered — the small, settled income which was so good to think of — and to get rid of all this secrecy, which oppressed her much more since she had been told that it must last, than when she had expected that it would involve at most the delay of a week. The deep depression which she began to feel at her heart, now that she was alone again, made the simple means of escape from all her anxieties look very tempting to her, and she dwelt on it. If she begged Ralston to forget his pride for her sake, as she was willing to forget her own for his, and to let her take the money, he would surely yield. Once together, openly married before the world, things would be so much easier. He and she could talk all day, unhindered and unobserved, and plan the future at their leisure, and it was not possible that with all the joint intelligence they could bring to bear upon the problem, it should still remain unsolved.
Meanwhile, Ralston had gone up town, very much more disappointed than Katharine knew. Strange to say, their marriage seemed far more important in his eyes than in hers, and he had lived all day, since they had parted at ten o’clock in the morning, in nervous anticipation of seeing her again before night. He had gone home at once, and had spent the hours alone, for his mother had gone out to luncheon. Until the messenger with Katharine’s specially stamped letter rang at the door, he would not have gone out of the house for any consideration, and after he had read it he sat counting the minutes until he could reasonably expect to use up the remaining time in walking to Clinton Place. As it was, he had reached the corner a quarter of an hour before the time, and his extreme punctuality was to be accounted for by the fact that he had set his watch with the Lauderdales’ library clock, — as he always did nowadays, — and that he looked at it every thirty seconds, as he walked up and down the street, timing himself so exactly that the hands were precisely at the hour of three when he took hold of the bell.
There are few small disappointments in the world comparable with that of a man who has been told by the woman he loves to come at a certain hour, who appears at her door with military punctuality and who is told to go away again instantly, no adequate excuse being given for the summary dismissal. Men all know that, but few women realize it.
“Considering the rather unusual situation,” thought Ralston, angrily, “she might have managed to get her mother out of the way for half an hour. Besides, her mother wouldn’t have stoned me to death, if she had let me come in — and, after last night, I shouldn’t think she would care very much for the sort of privacy one has in a ball-room.”
He had waited all day to see her, and he had nothing to do until the evening, when he had to go to a dinner-party before the Assembly ball. He naturally thought of his club, as a quiet place where he could be alone with his annoyances and disappointments between three and four o’clock, and he took the elevated road as the shortest way of getting there.
CHAPTER XVIII.
RALSTON WAS IN a thoroughly bad humour when he reached his club. The absurdity of a marriage, which was practically no marriage at all, had been thrust upon him on the very first day, and he felt that he had been led into a romantic piece of folly, which could not possibly produce any good results, either at the present time or afterwards. He was as properly and legally the husband of Katharine as the law and the church could make him, and yet he could not even get an interview of a quarter of an hour with his wife. He could not count, with certainty, upon seeing her anywhere, except at such a public place as the ball they were both going to that night, under the eyes of all New York society, so far as it existed for them. The position was ludicrous, or would have been, had he not been the principal actor in the comedy.
He was sure, too, that if Katharine had got any favourable answer from their uncle Robert, she would have said at least a word to this effect, even while she was in the act of thrusting him from the door. Two words, ‘all right,’ would have been enough. But she had only seemed anxious to get rid of him as quickly as possible, and he felt that he was not to be blamed for being angry. The details of the situation, as she had seen it, were quite unknown to him. He was not aware that Charlotte Slayback had been at luncheon, and had stayed until the last minute, nor that Katharine had really done everything in her power to make her mother go upstairs. The details, indeed, taken separately, were laughable in their insignificance, and it would hardly be possible for Katharine to explain them to him, so as to make him see their importance when taken all together. He was ignorant of them all, except of the fancied fact that Mrs. Lauderdale had been at the window of the library. Katharine had told him so, and had believed it herself, as was natural. She had not had time to explain why she believed it, and he would be more angry than ever if she ever told him that she had been mistaken, and that he might just as well have come and stayed as long as he pleased. He knew that a considerable time must have elapsed between the end of luncheon and his arrival at the door of the house; he supposed that Katharine had been alone with her mother and grandfather, as usual, and he blamed her for not exerting a little tact in getting her mother out of the way, when she must have had nearly an hour in which to do so. He went over and
over all that he knew of the facts, and reached always the same conclusion — Katharine had not taken the trouble, and had probably only remembered when it was too late that he was to come at three o’clock.
It must not be supposed that Ralston belonged to the class of hasty and capricious men, who hate the object of their affections as soon as they are in the least annoyed with anything she has done — or who, at all events, act as though they did. Ralston was merely in an excessively bad temper with himself, with everything he had done and with the world at large. Had he received a note from Katharine at any time later in the afternoon, telling him to come back, he would have gone instantly, with just as much impatience as he had shown at three o’clock, when he had reached Clinton Place a quarter of an hour before the appointed time. He would probably not have alluded, nor even have wished to allude, to his summary dismissal at his first attempt. But he would come. He satisfied himself of that, for he sent a message from his club to his home, directing the servant to send on any note which might come for him; and, on repeating the message an hour later, he was told that there was nothing to send.
So he sat in the general room at the club, downstairs, and turned over a newspaper half a dozen times without understanding a word of its contents, and smoked discontentedly, but without ceasing. At last, by a mere accident, his eye fell upon the column of situations offered and wanted, and, with a sour smile, he began to read the advertisements. That sort of thing suited his case, at all events, he thought. He was very soon struck by the balance of numbers in favour of the unemployed, and by the severe manner in which those who offered situations spoke of thorough knowledge and of certificates of service.
It did not take him long to convince himself that he was fit for nothing but a shoeblack or a messenger boy, and he fancied that his age would be a drawback in either profession. He dropped the paper in disgust at last, and was suddenly aware that Frank Miner was seated at a small table opposite to him, but on the other side of the room. Miner looked up at the same moment, from a letter he was writing, his attention being attracted by the rustling of the paper.
“Hallo, Jack!” he cried, cheerily. “I knew those were your legs all the time.”
“Why didn’t you speak, then?” asked Ralston, rather coldly, and looking up and down the columns of the paper he had dropped upon his knee.
“I don’t know. Why should I?” Miner went on with his letter, having evidently interrupted himself in the midst of a sentence.
Ralston wished something would happen. He felt suddenly inclined to throw something at Miner, who generally amused him when he talked, but was clearly very busy, and went on writing as though his cheerful little life depended on it. But it was not probable that anything should happen just at that hour. There were three or four other men in different parts of the big room, writing or reading letters. There were doubtless a few others somewhere in the house, playing cards or drinking a quiet afternoon cocktail. It was a big club, having many rooms. But Ralston did not feel inclined to play poker, and he wished not to drink, if he could help it, and Miner went on writing, so he stayed where he was, and brooded over his annoyances. Suddenly Miner’s pen ceased with a scratch and a dash, audible all over the room, and he began to fold his letter.
“Come and have a drink, Jack!” he called out to Ralston, as he took up an envelope. “I’ve earned it, if you haven’t.”
“I don’t want to drink,” answered Ralston, gloomily, and, out of pure contrariety, he took up his paper again.
Miner looked long and steadily at him, closed his letter, put it into his pocket and crossed the room.
“I say, Jack,” he said, in an absurdly solemn tone, “are you ill, old man?”
“Ill? No. Why? Never was better in my life. Don’t be an idiot, Frank.” And he kept his paper at the level of his eyes.
“There’s something wrong, anyhow,” said Miner, thoughtfully. “Never knew you to refuse to drink before. I’ll be damned, you know!”
“I haven’t a doubt of it, my dear fellow. I always told you so.”
“For a gentle and unassuming manner, I think you take the cake, Jack,” answered Miner, without a smile. “What on earth is the matter with you? Let me see — you’ve either lost money, or you’re in love, or your liver’s out of order, or all three, and if that’s it, I pity you.”
“I tell you there’s nothing the matter with me!” cried Ralston, with some temper. “Why do you keep bothering me? I merely said I didn’t want to drink. Can’t a man not be thirsty? Confound it all, I’m not obliged to drink if I don’t want to!”
“Oh, well, don’t get into a fiery green rage about it, Jack. I’m thirsty myself, and I didn’t want to drink alone. Only, don’t go west of Maine so long as this lasts. They’re prohibition there, you know. Don’t try it, Jack; you’d come back on ice by the next train.”
“I’m going to stay here,” answered Ralston, without a smile. “Go ahead and get your drink.”
“All right! If you won’t, you won’t, I know. But when you’re scratching round and trying to get some sympathetic person, like Abraham and Lazarus, to give you a glass of water, think of what you’ve missed this afternoon!”
“Dives,” said Ralston, savagely, “is the only man ever mentioned in the Bible as having asked for a glass of water, and he’s — where he ought to be.”
“That’s an old, cold chestnut,” retorted Miner, turning to go, but not really in the least annoyed.
At that moment a servant crossed the room and stood before Ralston. Miner waited to see what would happen, half believing that Ralston was not in earnest, but had surreptitiously touched the electric bell on the table at his elbow, with the intention of ordering something.
“Mr. Lauderdale wishes to speak to you at the telephone, sir,” said the servant.
The man’s expression betrayed his respect for the name, and for a person who had a telephone in his house — an unusual thing in New York. It was the sort of expression which the waiters at restaurants put on when they present to the diner a dish of terrapin or a canvas-back duck, or open a very particularly old bottle of very particularly fine wine — quite different from the stolid look they wear for beef and table-claret.
“Which Mr. Lauderdale?” asked Ralston, with a sudden frown. “Mr. Alexander Lauderdale Junior?”
“I don’t know, sir. The gentleman’s at the telephone, sir.”
This seemed to be added as a gentle hint not to keep any one of the name of Lauderdale waiting too long.
Ralston rose quickly, and Miner watched him as he passed out with long strides and a rather anxious face, wondering what could be the matter with his friend, and somehow connecting his refusal to drink with the summons to the instrument. Then Miner followed slowly in the same direction, with his hands in his pockets and his lips pursed as though he were about to whistle. He knew the man well enough to be aware that his refusal to drink might proceed from his having taken all he could stand for the present, and Ralston’s ill temper inclined Miner to believe that this might be the case. Ralston rarely betrayed himself at all, until he suddenly became viciously unmanageable, a fact which made him always the function of a doubtful quantity, as Miner, who had once learned a little mathematics, was fond of expressing it.
The little man was essentially sociable, and though he might want the very small and mild drink he was fond of ever so much, he preferred, if possible, to swallow it in company. Instead of ringing, therefore, he strolled away in search of another friend. As luck would have it, he almost ran against Walter Crowdie, who was coming towards him, but looking after Ralston, as the latter disappeared at the other end of the hall. Crowdie seemed excessively irritated about something.
“Confound that fellow!” he exclaimed, giving vent to his feelings as he turned and saw Miner close upon him.
“Who? Me?” enquired the little man, with a laugh. “Everybody’s purple with rage in this club to-day — I’m going home.”
“You? No — is that you, F
rank? No — I mean that everlasting Ralston.”
“Oh! What’s he done to you? What’s the matter with Ralston?”
“Drunk again, I suppose,” answered Crowdie. “But I wish he’d keep out of my way when he is — runs into me, treads on both my feet — with his heels, I believe, though I don’t understand how that’s possible — pushes me out of the way and goes straight on without a word. Confound him, I say! You used to be able to swear beautifully, Frank — can’t you manage to say something?”
“At any other time — oh, yes! But you’d better get Ralston himself to do it for you. I’m not in it with him to-day. He’s been giving me the life to come — hot — and Abraham and Isaac and Lazarus and the rich man, and the glass of water, all in a breath. Go and ask him for what you want.”
“Oh — then he is drunk, is he?” asked Crowdie, with a disagreeable sneer on his red lips.
“I suppose so,” answered Miner, quite carelessly. “At all events, he refused to drink — that’s always a bad sign with him.”
“Of course — that makes it a certainty. Gad, though! It doesn’t make him light on his feet, if he happens to tread on yours. It serves me right for coming to the club at this time of day! Perdition on the fellow! I’ve got on new shoes, too!”
“What are you two squabbling about?” enquired Hamilton Bright, coming suddenly upon them out of the cloak-room.
“We’re not squabbling — we’re cursing Ralston,” answered Miner.
“I wish you’d go and look after him, Ham,” said Crowdie to his brother-in-law. “He’s just gone off there. He’s as drunk as the dickens, and swearing against everybody and treading on their toes in the most insolent way imaginable. Get him out of this, can’t you? Take him home — you’re his friend. If you don’t he’ll be smashing things before long.”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 681