“I’ll promise to remember it, mother. But I’ll not promise to act on it.”
“Well — that’s a matter for your judgment. Go and get ready for luncheon. It must be time.”
Once more John put his arms round her neck, and drew her close to him.
“You’re very good to me, mother — thank you!”
CHAPTER XXIX.
KATHARINE SPENT MORE time than necessary over dressing for dinner on that evening, not because she bestowed more attention than usual upon her appearance, but because there were long pauses of which she was scarcely conscious, although the maid reminded her from time to time that it was growing late. The result, however, was satisfactory in the opinion of her assistant, a sober-minded Scotch person of severe tastes, who preferred black and white to any colours whatsoever, and thought that the trees showed decided frivolity in being green, and that the woods in autumn were positively improper.
It was undoubtedly true that the simple black gown, without ornament and with very little to break its sweeping line, was as becoming to Katharine’s strong beauty as it was appropriate to her frame of mind. It made her look older than she was, perhaps, but being so young, the loss was almost gain. It gave her dignity a background and a reason, as it were. Her face was pale still, but not noticeably so, and her eyes were quiet if not soft. Only a person who knew her very well would have observed the slight but steady contraction of the broad eyebrows, which was unusual. As a rule, if it came at all, it disappeared almost instantly again. She remembered afterwards — as one remembers the absurd details of one’s own thoughts — that when she had looked into the mirror for the last time, she had been glad that her front hair did not curl, and that she had never yielded to the temptation to make it curl, as most girls did. She had been pleased by the simplicity of the two thick, black waves which lay across the clear paleness of her forehead, like dark velvet on cream-white silk. She forgot the thought instantly, but, later, she remembered how severe and straight it had looked, and the consciousness was of some value to her — as the least vain man, taken unexpectedly to meet and address a great assembly, may be momentarily glad if he chances to be wearing a particularly good coat. The gravest of us have some consciousness of our own appearance, and be our strength what it may, when it is appropriate to appear in the wedding garment, it is good for us to be wearing one.
Katharine stopped at her mother’s door as she descended the stairs. Mrs. Lauderdale was dining at home, and the Lauderdales dined at eight o’clock, so that she was still in her room at ten minutes before the hour. Katharine knocked and entered. Her mother was standing before the mirror. The door which led to her father’s dressing-room, by a short passage between two wardrobes built into the house, was wide open. Katharine heard him moving some small objects on his dressing-table.
“You’re late, child,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, not turning, for as Katharine entered, she could see her reflection in the mirror. “Are you going to take Jane with you? If not, I wish you’d tell her to come here, as you go down — I let you have her because I knew you’d be late.”
“No,” answered Katharine, “I don’t want her — she’s only in the way. It’s the Van De Waters’, you know. Good night, mother.”
“Good night, darling — enjoy yourself — you’ll be late, of course — they’ll dance, or something.”
“Yes — but I shan’t stay. I’m tired. Good night again.”
Katharine was going to the door, when her father appeared from his dressing-room, serenely correct, as usual, but wearing his black tie because no one was coming to dinner.
“I want to speak to you, Katharine,” he said.
She turned and stood still in the middle of the room, facing him. He had a letter in his hand.
“Yes, papa,” she answered quietly, not anticipating trouble.
“I’m sorry I could not see you earlier,” said Alexander Junior, coming forward and fixing his steely eyes on his daughter’s face. “But I hadn’t an opportunity, because I was told that you were asleep when I came home. This morning, as I was leaving the house as usual, a messenger put this letter into my hands. It has a special delivery stamp on it, and you will see that the mark on the dial edge stands at eight forty-five A.M. Consequently, the boy who brought it was dilatory in doing his duty. It is addressed to you in John Ralston’s handwriting.”
“Why didn’t you send it up to me, instead of keeping it all day?” enquired Katharine, with cold surprise.
“Because I do not intend that you shall read it,” answered her father, his lips opening and shutting on the words like the shears of a cutting-machine.
Mrs. Lauderdale turned round from the mirror and looked at her husband and daughter. It would have been impossible to tell from her face whether she had been warned of what was to be done or not, but there was an odd little gleam in her eyes, of something which might have been annoyance or satisfaction.
“Why don’t you intend me to read my letters?” asked Katharine in a lower tone.
“I don’t wish you to correspond with John Ralston,” answered Alexander Junior. “You shall never marry him with my consent, especially since he has disgraced himself publicly as he did yesterday. There was an account of his doings in the morning papers. I daresay you’ve not seen it. He was taken home last night in a state of beastly intoxication by two policemen, having been picked up by them out of a drunken brawl with a prize-fighter. To judge from the handwriting of the address on this letter, it appears to have been written while he was still under the influence of liquor. I don’t mean that my daughter shall receive letters written by drunken men, if I can help it.”
“Show me the letter,” said Katharine, quietly.
“I’ll show it to you because, though you’ve never had any reason to doubt my statements, I wish you to have actually seen that it has not been opened by me, nor by any one. My judgment is formed from the handwriting solely, but I may add that it is impossible that a man who was admittedly in a state of unconsciousness from liquor at one o’clock in the morning, should be fit to write a letter to Katharine Lauderdale, or to any lady, within six hours. The postmark on the envelope is seven-thirty. Am I right?” He turned deliberately to Mrs. Lauderdale.
“Perfectly,” she answered, with sincere conviction.
And it must be allowed that, from his point of view, he was not wrong. He beckoned Katharine to the gas-light beside the mirror and held up the letter, holding it at the two sides of the square envelope in the firm grip of his big, thin fingers, as though he feared lest she should try to take it. But Katharine did not raise her hands, as she bent forward and inspected the address. It was assuredly not written in John’s ordinary hand, though the writing was recognizable as his, beyond doubt. There was an evident attempt at regularity, but a too evident failure. It looked a little as though he had attempted to write with his left hand. At one corner there was a very small stain of blood, which, as every one knows, retains its colour on writing paper, even under gas-light, for a considerable time. It will be remembered that John had hurt his right hand.
Katharine’s brows contracted more heavily. She was disgusted, but she was also pained. She looked long and steadily at the writing, and her lips curled slightly. Alexander Lauderdale turned the letter over to show her that it was sealed. Again, where the finger had hurriedly pressed the gummed edge of the envelope, there was a little mark of blood. Katharine drew back very proudly, as from something at once repulsive and beneath her woman’s dignity. Her father looked at her keenly and coldly.
“Have you satisfied yourself?” he enquired. “You see that it has not been opened, do you?”
“Yes.”
“I will burn it,” said Alexander Lauderdale, still watching her.
“Yes.”
He seemed surprised, for he had expected resistance, and perhaps some attempt on her part to get possession of the letter and read it. But she stood upright, silent, and evidently disgusted. He lifted his hand and held the letter over the flame of the g
as-light until it had caught fire thoroughly. Then he laid it in the fireless grate — the room, like all the rest of the house, was heated by the furnace, — and with his usual precise interpretation of his own conscience’s promptings, he turned his back on it, lest by any chance he should see and accidentally read any word of the contents as the paper curled and flared and blackened and fell to ashes. Katharine, however, was well aware that a folded letter within its envelope will rarely burn through and through if left to itself. She went to the hearth and watched it. It had fallen flat upon the tiles, and one thickness after another flamed, rose from one end and curled away as the one beneath it took fire. She would not attempt to read one of the indistinct words, but she could not help seeing that it had been a long letter, scrawled in a handwriting even more irregular than that on the envelope. The leaves turned black, one by one, rising and remaining upright like black funeral feathers, till at last there was only a little blue light far down in the heart of them. That, too, went out, and a small, final puff of smoke rose and vanished. Katharine turned the heap over with the tongs. Only one little yellow bit of paper remained unconsumed at the bottom. It was almost round, and as she turned it over, she read on it the number of the house. That was all that had not been burned.
“I’m glad to see that you look at the matter in its true light,” said her father, as she stood up again.
“How should I look at it?” asked Katharine, coldly. “Good night, mother — good night,” she repeated, nodding to her father.
She turned and left the room. A moment later she was on her way to the Van De Waters’ house, leaning back in the dark, comfortable brougham, her feet toasting on the foot-warmer, and the furs drawn up closely round her. It was a bitterly cold night, for a sharp frost had succeeded the snow-storm after sunset. Even inside the carriage Katharine could feel that there was something hard and ringing in the quality of the air which was in harmony with her own temper. She had plenty of time to go over the scene which had taken place in her mother’s room, but she felt no inclination to analyze her feelings. She only knew that this letter of John’s, written when he was still half senseless with drink, was another insult, and one deeper than any she had felt before. It was a direct insult — a sin of commission, and not merely of omission, like his absence from the ball on the previous night.
She supposed, naturally enough, that he would not appear at the dinner-party, but at that moment she was almost indifferent as to whether he should come or not. She was certainly not afraid to meet him. It would be far more probable, she thought, that he should be afraid to meet her.
It was a quarter past eight when she reached the Van De Waters’, and she was the last to arrive. It was a party of sixteen, almost all very young, and most of them unmarried — a party very carefully selected with a view to enjoyment — an intimate party, because many out of the number were more or less closely connected and related, and it was indicative of the popularity of the Lauderdales, that amongst sixteen young persons there should be four who belonged more or less to the Lauderdale tribe. There was Katharine, there was Hamilton Bright, — the Crowdies had been omitted because so many disliked Crowdie himself, — there was little Frank Miner, who was a near relation of the Van De Waters, and there stood John Ralston, talking to Ruth Van De Water, before Crowdie’s new portrait of her, as though nothing had happened.
Katharine saw him the moment she entered the room, and he knew, as he heard the door opened, that she must be the last comer, since every one else had arrived. Without interrupting his conversation with Miss Van De Water, he turned his head a little and met Katharine’s eyes. He bowed just perceptibly, but she gave him no sign of recognition, which was pardonable, however, as he knew, since there were people between them, and she had not yet spoken to Ruth herself, who, with her brother, had invited the party. The elder Van De Waters had left the house to the young people, and had betaken themselves elsewhere for the evening.
John continued to talk quietly, as Katharine came forward. As he had expected, he had found her name on the card in the little envelope which had been handed to him when he arrived, and he was to take her in to dinner. Until late in the afternoon the brother and sister had hoped that John would not come, and had already decided to ask in his place that excellent man, Mr. Brown, who was always so kind about coming when asked at the last minute. Then Frank Miner had appeared, with an evening paper containing Doctor Routh’s letter, and had explained the whole matter, so that they felt sympathy for John rather than otherwise, though no one had as yet broached to him the subject of his adventures. Naturally enough, the Van De Waters both supposed that Katharine should have been among the first to hear the true version of the story, and they would not disarrange their table in order to separate two young people who were generally thought to be engaged to be married. There were, of course, a few present who had not heard of Doctor Routh’s justification of John.
Katharine came across directly, towards Ruth Van De Water, and greeted her affectionately. John came forward a little, waiting to be noticed and to shake hands in his turn. Katharine prolonged the first exchange of words with her young hostess rather unnecessarily, and then, since she could not avoid the meeting, held out her hand to John, looking straight and coldly into his eyes.
“You’re to take Miss Lauderdale in, you know, Mr. Ralston,” said Miss Van De Water, who knew that dinner would be announced almost immediately, and that Katharine would wish to speak to the other guests before sitting down.
“Yes — I found my card,” answered John, as Katharine withdrew her hand without having given his the slightest pressure.
It was a strange meeting, considering that they had been man and wife since the previous morning, and could hardly be said to have met since they had parted after the wedding. Katharine, who was cold and angry, wondered what all those young people would say if she suddenly announced to them, at table, that John Ralston was her husband. But just then she had no definite intention of ever announcing the fact at all.
John only partly understood, for he was sure that she must have received his letter. But what he saw was enough to convince him that she had not in the least believed what he had written, and had not meant to answer him. He was pale and haggard already, but during the few minutes that followed, while Katharine moved about the room, greeting her friends, the strong lines deepened about his mouth and the shadows under his eyes grew perceptibly darker.
A few minutes later the wide doors were thrown back and dinner was announced. Without hesitation he went to Katharine’s side, and waited while she finished speaking with young Mrs. Vanbrugh, his right arm slightly raised as he silently offered it.
Katharine deliberately finished her sentence, nodded and smiled to Dolly Vanbrugh, who was a friend of hers, and had been in some way concerned in the famous Darche affair three or four years ago, as Mrs. Darche’s intimate and confidante. Then she allowed her expression to harden again, and she laid her hand on John’s arm and they all moved in to dinner.
“I’m sorry,” said John, in a low, cold voice. “I suppose they couldn’t upset their table.”
Katharine said nothing, but looked straight before her as they traversed one beautiful room after another, going through the great house to the dining-room at the back.
“You got my letter, I suppose,” said John, speaking again as they crossed the threshold of the last door but one, and came in sight of the table, gleaming in the distance under soft lights.
Katharine made a slight inclination of the head by way of answer, but still said nothing. John thought that she moved her hand, as though she would have liked to withdraw it from his arm, and he, for his part, would gladly have let it go at that moment.
It was a very brilliant party, of the sort which could hardly be gathered anywhere except in America, where young people are not unfrequently allowed to amuse themselves together in their own way without the interference or even the presence of elders — young people born to the possession, in ab
undance, of most things which the world thinks good, and as often as anywhere, too, to the inheritance of things good in themselves, besides great wealth — such as beauty, health, a fair share of wit, and the cheerful heart, without which all else is as ashes.
Near one end of the table sat Frank Miner, who had taken in Mrs. Vanbrugh, and who was amusing every one with absurd stories and jokes — the small change of wit, but small change that was bright and new, ringing from his busy little mint.
At the other end sat Teddy Van De Water, a good fellow at heart in spite of his eyeglass and his affectations, discussing yachts and centreboards and fin-keels with Fanny Trehearne, a girl who sailed her own boats at Newport and Bar Harbor, and who cared for little else except music, strange to say. Nearly opposite to Katharine and John was Hamilton Bright, between two young girls, talking steadily and quietly about society, but evidently much preoccupied, and far more inclined to look at Katharine than at his pretty neighbours. He had seen Routh’s letter, and had, moreover, exchanged a few words with Ralston in the hall, having arrived almost at the same instant, and he saw that Katharine did not understand the truth. Ralston had begun by apologizing to his friend for what had happened at the club, but Bright, who bore no malice, had stopped him with a hearty shake of the hand, and a challenge to wrestle with him any day, for the honour of the thing, in the hall of the club or anywhere else.
Frank Miner, too, from a distance, watched John and Katharine, and saw that the trouble was great, though he laughed and chatted and told stories, as though he were thoroughly enjoying himself. In reality he was debating whether he should not bring up the subject which must be near to every one’s thoughts, and give John a chance of telling his own story. Seeing how the rest of the people were taking the affair, he would not have done so, since all was pleasant and easy, but he saw also that John could not possibly have an explanation with Katharine at table, and that both were suffering. His kindly heart decided the question. It would be a very easy matter to accomplish, and he waited for a convenient opportunity of attracting attention to himself, so as to obtain the ear of the whole large table, before he began. He was perfectly conscious of his own extreme popularity, and knew that, for once, he could presume upon it, though he was quite unspoiled by a long career of little social successes.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 698