She dropped her mother’s hands, turned contemptuously away, and left the room. Neither her father nor her mother moved as she went, though they followed her with their eyes until the door closed behind her with a soft click.
Alexander Lauderdale was torn by the strongest emotions of which he was capable — anger and avarice. But avarice was the stronger. So long as Katharine had accused him of unkindness, of dishonesty in his treatment of Wingfield, of meanness in his household, his wrath, though powerless, had kept the upper hand. But at the sudden and unexpected accusation of possessing a fortune in secret, he had been cowed. It was characteristic of him that even in that moment he would not swear falsely, and he saw the folly of denying the statement if he could not support his denial with something like an oath. When passions have reached such a crisis, they are not satisfied with less than they demand. On the whole, it had been wiser to say nothing. He could admit afterwards that he had saved something — he would assure his wife that Katharine’s statement had been exaggerated — little by little, calm would be restored. And there would not necessarily be any increase of expenditure. At that crucial moment two thoughts had been uppermost in his mind. The miser’s dismay at the discovery of his wealth, and the miser’s visions of ruinous expense in the immediate future. In a flash, he had seen himself forced to spend fifty or sixty thousand a year, instead of ten or twelve, and all possible forms of reckless extravagance had appeared to him in a horror of kaleidoscopic confusion. It was torture to think of it — to realize that his secret was out.
The strong man stood, half-stunned, leaning against the mantelpiece, pulling nervously at the bit of embroidered velvet which covered it, his face drawn in an expression of suffering and fear. He dreaded the question which he knew that his wife would ask him, but he had not even the power to speak at that moment, in order to ward it off.
Mrs. Lauderdale hesitated a moment, wondering whether it might not be better to follow Katharine to her room and try to calm her and make her more reasonable. Never, in all the girl’s life, had her mother seen her so passionately angry nor heard her use the tone of defying strength which had rung in her voice as she accused her father. Mrs. Lauderdale herself was frightened, and almost feared for Katharine’s reason. But there had, nevertheless, been so much assurance of truth in what she had said, that her mother was half convinced. Before she left the room to follow her daughter, she turned to her husband, and the inevitable question came. It could not be otherwise. The girl’s accusation had vividly brought before Mrs. Lauderdale the labour she had expended in all the past years, and of which the result had been to give her children what it was their father’s duty to give them if he had anything to give. Many a time, too, she herself had chafed under the necessity of lending him small sums for an emergency, accepting a promise of payment which was never fulfilled, and forced to be satisfied with the assurance that he kept an account of what he owed her. He seemed never to have money about him. He always said that he was afraid of losing it — he, the most careful of men! The cumulative force of those many small meannesses extending over a quarter of a century of married life was tremendous when they were brought up in a body and made to face the positive statement that he was in reality a rich man. A good wife she had been to Alexander Junior in every sense of the word, but of that early trusting love which hides more sins than the multitude of them which charity can cover, there was not left even the warmth where the spark had glowed. There was no ‘a priori’ judgment of one heart against all possible offence and sordid meanness in the other. Katharine’s blow had been heavy and direct, and had gone straight to its mark. Her mother loved her — in spite of her terrible envy of her. It would need the man’s solemn oath to outweigh the girl’s plain statement. The inevitable question came, as Alexander knew that it must. He moved nervously as she began to speak.
“Alexander, dear,” she said, speaking gently from force of habit, “it would be very easy for you to deny this.”
He had thought of what he should say.
“My dear, I think that after spending half a lifetime together, during which you’ve had occasion to find out that I’m truthful, it’s scarcely necessary to pay any attention to an angry child’s ravings.”
But Mrs. Lauderdale was not satisfied with this poor excuse. Katharine had roused her own resentment, and she remembered many things now, which Katharine herself did not know — little things — the dry sticks that will make a smouldering fire blaze.
“It’s precisely because you’re so truthful that it seems strange when you refuse to answer a simple question, Alexander,” observed Mrs. Lauderdale, quietly enough.
She did not wish to take up Katharine’s quarrel, nor to give the present conversation the air of an argument. She therefore did not stay beside him, as though they were discussing any point, but moved about the room, pretending to arrange small objects and books and generally to set the room in order, which was a work of supererogation, to keep herself in countenance while she renewed the attack.
“You admit that I’m truthful,” said Alexander, coldly. “I’m glad you do. That settles the question at once. If I’ve been a rich man all these years, then I’ve not been telling the truth, nor acting it, either. It’s all too absurd for discussion. I confess that at first I was angry. The girl spoke to me in the most outrageous manner. I don’t remember that any one has ever said anything of the kind to me in my life. It’s wrong to be angry, and I repent of it, but I think I may be pardoned — considering what she said. It’s been a disgraceful scene. I’m sincerely thankful that none of the servants were present.”
“Oh — it was natural that you should lose your temper, of course!”
“Human, at all events,” said Alexander, with dignity; “I don’t think I’ve ever made any pretence of possessing superior virtues. A man may justifiably lose his temper sometimes. ‘Be angry and sin not.’ I did not intend to be violent.”
“No — of course not! Still—”
“Yes. I took her by the arm and deliberately laid my hand upon her mouth. That was not violence. Few men of sincere convictions would have done less, considering the blasphemous words she was uttering. It’s the duty of parents to hinder their children from committing such sins, when they can. In the case of a man, I should have used my strength to enforce silence. As it was, I merely covered her mouth with my hand. I recollect that you came between us, as though you thought I meant to be violent. Nothing could have been further from my thoughts, I assure you.”
“I trust so,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, taking a package of envelopes out of the little stationery rack on the writing-table, turning it round and putting it back again.
“With regard to Archibald Wingfield,” continued Alexander, getting further and further from the question of the money, “you know as well as I do, that we have treated him precisely as we treated Slayback, when he wished to marry Charlotte. As for me, I told him that I saw no reason why Katharine might not— ‘might not ultimately,’ mind you — accept an offer which was so agreeable to me personally. I fail to see anything which can be criticised in that answer. I should by no means like to say positively, even now, that Katharine ‘might not ultimately’ accept him. That would amount to denying the existence of an evident possibility, which is absurd. She may, so far as that goes. I don’t say she will. I say, she may. Young women frequently change their minds, and sometimes for the better. Let us hope for the best. Of course I don’t know every word of what you said to him, though you did your best on each occasion to tell me all about it. I gathered that you gave him very much the same sort of negative encouragement that I did. Practically, we told him to try his luck.”
Mrs. Lauderdale had rarely heard her husband speak so long consecutively. He was not fluent, as a rule, and in the recent quarrel with Katharine he had been almost speechless. But now he was talking for his life, as it were. If he lost the position of domination which he had held so long with his wife, his existence must be shaken to its foundation. He b
arely gave her a chance to introduce a word.
“I’m not so positively sure, myself,” she said. “Of course I didn’t mean to convey any wrong impression to young Wingfield, but—”
“But you may perhaps have pardonably exceeded your powers,” interrupted Alexander, anxious that she should not commit herself. “Very pardonable, my dear, very pardonable. Such things happen constantly, even in business. Of course the party who goes beyond his instructions bears the responsibility in case anything goes wrong. Just so in the present case. If there is any responsibility, which may be doubted, it’s yours and not mine, for I’m positively certain of the words I spoke — of the very words. I said ‘might not ultimately accept’ — I recollect very distinctly, and you know how accurate my memory is.”
“Yes — I know,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale, in a tone which might have been thought to give the words a doubtful meaning.
“Of course you do, my dear. If Wingfield got a wrong impression,— ‘if he did,’ mind you, — he must have got it from you. I think you might perhaps explain that to Katharine — when she’s a little calmer. I can’t allow her to think that her father, whom she’s bound to respect, should have done such a thing. A man’s actions carry much more weight than a woman’s. I couldn’t allow her to think that I’d taken her feelings for granted. There’s no immediate hurry, Emma, but I should be glad if you would explain it to her. It will help to restore peace. As for her reasons for rejecting Wingfield,” he continued, without pausing for his wife’s answer, “I regret them very much. It’s a miserable thing to see such a girl wasting her chances of happiness on such a reprobate as Jack Ralston, and I do her the honour to say that such an affection can’t possibly be lasting. As for her marrying him, of course that’s altogether outside the question. I’m sure she clings to the attachment far more out of a desire to oppose my wishes in everything, than because she really cares for that vagabond. I’ve not the slightest fear that she’ll ever marry him. I’m sure you don’t think so, either.”
“Unless she runs away with him,” suggested Mrs. Lauderdale.
She was annoyed by the skill with which he, who was ordinarily less keen, had passed from the main subject in question to a side issue. She did not know how a great passion like avarice can sharpen wits under danger of discovery.
“Oh, well!” exclaimed Alexander, with much dignity. “If she runs away with the fellow, that puts her altogether beyond the pale of our love, and we shall have done with her. We won’t discuss that. The objection to this pretence of loving Ralston — for I’m convinced that it’s nothing else — is that it keeps her from marrying a man worthy of her, like Archibald Wingfield. Of course there are people far richer than the Wingfields — uncle Robert, for instance, besides the others who are so much richer even than he, and count their millions by the hundred; but taking him all in all, there’s not a better match in society — for looks, and education, and position, and health, too, which I regard as a very important consideration. You must agree with me, my dear — Wingfield would have made an excellent husband.”
“Of course I agree with you, Alexander. What an unnecessary question!”
“My dear, when the very foundations of one’s life are being torn up and thrown out of the window by a silly girl, it becomes necessary to ask all the simplest questions over again.”
This extraordinary simile produced no very convincing effect on Mrs. Lauderdale, who had listened to phrase after phrase of his long tirades with exemplary outward resignation, for the sake of allowing peace to be restored by the overflow of self-conscious virtue, but with little inward patience.
“I think the best thing to do is to let the whole matter drop, and hope that Katharine will change her mind,” she said, sensibly.
“Yes. Let’s hope that, at all events. Emma, we can’t have any more scenes like this. If Katharine breaks out in this way again, I shall refuse to see her. You may, if you please. But I will not. When I’m at home she shall stay in her room.”
“But that’s impossible!” exclaimed Mrs. Lauderdale, in astonishment. “You wouldn’t treat a child like that!”
“I would,” answered Alexander, and his lips snapped on the words. “And I will, if there’s any repetition of such conduct. That’s a matter for me to judge, Emma, and I don’t wish you to interfere. She has accused her own father of being a liar, of selling her, of being a miser, and of stealing his wife’s money. You can’t deny that, and I presume you’ve no intention of supporting the accusations. Yes, even as it is, I prefer that Katharine should not appear this evening. When she’s begged my pardon for what she’s done, I’ll consent to see her. Not before. Pray tell her that this is my decision, Emma.”
“But, Alexander, I never heard of such a thing! Of course she lost her temper and was awfully rude to you, and I’m very much displeased with her. But really — you can’t treat a grown woman like a baby. It’s too absurd.”
“It’s not absurd, my dear. You must excuse me if I adopt Katharine’s method of contradiction. The only way to treat her is to treat her as a child. If we consider her to be a grown woman, we must either resent what she’s done — as though she were any other woman — or else take it for granted that she is temporarily insane, and drive her out to Bloomingdale Asylum to-morrow morning to be cured. But so long as we regard the whole thing as childish, it’s sufficient to tell her that she’s not to come to table until she’s begged my pardon. Don’t you see?”
Mrs. Lauderdale was aware that he was talking nonsense, approximately speaking, and she saw that he meant to do a very unwise thing. But as he put it, the only good argument against his course would have been to prove that Katharine was right and that he was wrong, which, with some allowance for undue and angry exaggeration, would be equivalent to proving him a miser and anything but a straightforward person. Mrs. Lauderdale’s trouble was considerable at that moment.
“You may be right in theory,” she said, almost despairingly, “but in practice I think you’re quite wrong. One doesn’t do that sort of thing nowadays. If we’ve all got to fight like mad people, let’s keep it to ourselves—”
“That’s precisely what I’m thinking of,” interrupted Alexander, whose resolution was growing stronger every moment.
“Yes — but, my dear! The servants — and your father, too! I don’t think he’s very discreet—”
“Yes, exactly, my dear Emma. That’s just how I look at it. I think I know Katharine quite as well as you do, and I’m sure that if she has an opportunity of attacking me, she will, before the servants and before my father. I should much rather let people know that I had told Katharine to stay in her room until she could treat me with proper respect, than have such a conversation as has just taken place here repeated all over New York. I’m sure you see that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale, suddenly comprehending his point of view. “But it seems to me that if there’s to be such an open break, it would be better to let Katharine go down to Washington for a few days and stay with Charlotte.”
“Certainly not!” exclaimed Alexander. “You know what Charlotte is, and what trouble we have had with her. The two girls would make common cause. Not at all. Not at all, Emma. I shall be glad if you will go at once and tell Katharine what I’ve said — that I don’t wish to see her until she has made amends for her outrageous conduct.”
“But, Alexander,” protested Mrs. Lauderdale, “it will be so inconvenient — sending her dinner upstairs!”
“I daresay it won’t be for long. She’ll understand in a day or two, I’ve no doubt.”
“I can’t do it,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, trying to make a stand. “It’s too utterly — extraordinary—”
“My dear, I’m the master in this house,” answered Alexander, coldly. “I wish it to be so. But if you’d rather not speak to her, I’ll go myself. She irritates me, but I’m glad to say she doesn’t intimidate me. As for such domestic difficulties as serving Katharine in her own room, they can be
got over. Let your maid take the child her dinner.”
“Well — if you insist, I’ll go,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, weakly yielding. “I couldn’t let you go — you’d quarrel again.”
“I don’t insist upon your going, my dear — I have no right to. But I insist upon the thing being done.”
Mrs. Lauderdale went towards the door. She paused before she went out. “I think you’re going too far, Alexander,” she said. “I think you’re tyrannical.”
“I think not,” he answered, coolly. “I should refuse to sit down to table with a man who had used such language to me. I don’t see why I should submit to it from Katharine.”
“Well—”
Mrs. Lauderdale closed the door behind her, and slowly went upstairs, feeling as though she had been driven from the field after a crushing defeat. Yet she had made very little resistance. With her, the man’s cold, arrogant personality was dominant. She had always submitted to it because there seemed to be no other course. She was conscious of wishing that during the last five minutes she might have possessed her daughter’s character and fighting qualities, especially when her husband had quietly thrust all the blame about the treatment of Wingfield upon herself, without considering for a moment that his own words might have been misinterpreted.
She did not altogether sympathize with him against Katharine. For many years she had felt the galling of his miserable meanness, and had many times suspected that he was by no means as poor as he chose to declare himself to be.
CHAPTER IX.
MRS. LAUDERDALE WENT slowly upstairs, thinking over what she should say, as she climbed from one story to another. At the door she knocked softly, and Katharine’s voice bade her enter.
Katharine was standing at the window, looking out, and did not turn round as her mother entered. The evening light was on the houses opposite, and the glow was gently sinking into the darker street. Katharine watched the horse-cars go by, and listened mechanically to the jingle of the bells, hardly conscious of either.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 722