“Why not? Just where it is, if you like it there. I’ll get you an easel and a bit of stuff to drape it with in an hour.”
“An easel? H’m — that’s not very neat, is it? An easel out in the middle of the room — I don’t know how that would look.”
“What difference does it make — if you’d like it here?” asked Katharine.
“That’s true, child — why shouldn’t I have what I like?” asked the old millionaire.
Crowdie laughed.
“If anybody has the right and the power to please himself, you have,” he said. “Miss Lauderdale, would you mind sitting down beside the picture for a moment? I want to have a good look at it once more — I should just like to see if I can find that resemblance to Hester.”
“Certainly.”
Katharine sat down, assuming easily enough the attitude she had been accustomed to during a number of sittings. Crowdie drew back and looked at her. Then he came to her again and put out his hand towards her hair, but instantly withdrew it.
“I remember,” he said, quickly, but in a low voice. “You don’t like me to touch it. Would you raise your hair a little — on the sides? You know how it was.”
She looked up into his face and saw the expression she detested — a sort of disagreeable smile on the heavy red lips. The feeling of repulsion was so strong that she almost shivered. Crowdie drew back and looked again.
“I can’t see it — for the life of me!” said Crowdie, with a little laugh. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Lauderdale, I’ll go and get the easel at once.”
“Yes — do!” said Katharine.
“Well — but — won’t you stay to luncheon, Mr. Crowdie?” asked the old man.
“Thanks — I should like to — but I’ve got a sitter coming. You’re very kind. I’ll bring the easel myself.”
“Thank you very much. See you by and by, then,” answered Mr. Lauderdale.
When Crowdie was gone, the old man looked long and earnestly at the picture. Gradually what Katharine meant by the resemblance to Hester dawned upon him, and he knit his bushy white eyebrows.
“I’m sorry you told me,” he said, at last. “I see it now — what you mean — and I don’t like it.”
“Somehow — I don’t know — it looks like a woman who’s been through something — I don’t know exactly what. Perhaps it is like an older woman — a married woman.”
“H’m — perhaps so. I think it is. Anyhow, I don’t like it.”
CHAPTER XI.
IT WAS THE habit of Robert Lauderdale, since he had been ill, to rest two hours before dinner, a fact of which Katharine was well aware, and she had sent a message to John Ralston begging him to come and see her when he came up town after business hours. But she did not mean to let him come without informing the old gentleman. Before he retired to his room late in the afternoon, she spoke to him about it.
“Of course, of course, my dear,” he answered quickly, in his hollow voice. “He may spend the day here, if he likes — and if you like.”
“Well, you see,” said Katharine, “I’ve not seen him since yesterday morning. You know, since he’s been going regularly to business, he’s not free in the daytime as he used to be. And as for letting him come to Clinton Place when papa’s at home, it’s simply out of the question.”
“Is it? Do you mean to say it’s as bad as that?”
“Yes — it’s pretty bad,” Katharine answered, thoughtfully. “We’ve not been getting on very well, papa and I. That’s why I came to you so suddenly to-day, without warning. My mother thought it would be better.”
“Oh — she did, did she?” The old man closed his eyes, as though thinking it over. “And she’s generally a peacemaker,” he continued, after a moment. “That’s a sign that she thinks the situation strained, as the politicians say. What’s happened, little girl?”
“I don’t want to tell you all the details. It’s a long story, and wouldn’t interest you. But they got it into their heads that I ought to marry Mr. Wingfield — you know — Archie Wingfield — the beauty — and of course I refused him. That was yesterday afternoon. And then — oh, I don’t know — there was a scene, and papa got angry, and so this morning after he’d gone down town I consulted with my mother and came here. I only wanted you to know — that’s all.”
The old gentleman was silent for some time after she had finished speaking.
“I wish you’d induce Jack to stay here, and announce your marriage under my roof,” he said at last, in a low voice. “I’d like to see it all settled before — Katharine, child, feel my pulse, will you?”
Katharine started a little, and leaned forward quickly, and laid her firm white fingers on the bony wrist.
“Can you find it?” he asked, rather anxiously.
“No — yes — wait a moment — don’t speak!” She held her breath, her eyes fixed upon his grey face as she pressed the point where she thought the pulse should be. “Yes — there it is!” she exclaimed suddenly, in a tone of relief. “It’s all right, uncle Robert, only I couldn’t find it at first. I can feel it quite distinctly now. Does it always go so fast as that?”
“It’s going very fast, isn’t it? I have a little fluttering — at my heart.”
“Shan’t I send for Doctor Routh?” asked Katharine, with renewed anxiety.
“Oh, no — it’s no use.” His voice was growing perceptibly more feeble. “I shall be better presently,” he whispered, and closed his eyes again. Then, as though fearing lest his whisper should frighten her, he made an effort and spoke aloud again. “It often happens,” he said. “Don’t be afraid, little girl.”
Katharine had no experience of sickness, and did not know the danger of that fluttering at the heart in such a case. She thought he knew better than she whether he needed anything or not, and that it would be wiser not to annoy him with questions. She was used to manly men who said what they wished and nothing more. He lay back in his big chair, breathing with some difficulty. A deep furrow appeared between his eyebrows, which gave his face an expression of pain, and his jaw dropped a little, making his cheeks look more hollow. Katharine sat quite still for several minutes.
“Are you suffering, uncle dear?” she asked at last, bending to his ear.
He shook his head slowly, opened his eyes a little and closed them again.
“I shall be better in a minute,” he said, a moment later.
He revived very slowly, as she sat there watching him, and as the furrow disappeared from his brow and his mouth closed, the look of life came back to his face. He was a strong old man, and, though little attached to life, was to die hard. He opened his eyes at last and looked at Katharine, smiling a little.
“I think I’ll go to my room,” he said. “It’s my time for resting, you know. Perhaps I’ve been up a little too long.”
To Katharine’s surprise, he was able to stand when Leek and the footman came to help him, and to walk without much difficulty. She followed the little procession to the door of his bedroom and saw Mrs. Deems come and take charge of him. He turned his head slowly towards Katharine and smiled before the door closed.
“It’s all right, little girl,” he said.
She went downstairs again and returned to the library. It faced the south and was still warm with the sunshine. She sat down again in the chair she had occupied before. Presently her eyes turned instinctively to her portrait. Crowdie had brought the easel while she and her uncle had been at luncheon, and had arranged it himself. He had come into the dining-room, and after exchanging a few more words, had gone away again.
She gazed at the beautiful features, now that she was alone with it, and the feeling of dislike and repulsion grew stronger, till she felt something like what she experienced when she looked at Crowdie’s pale face and red mouth. She felt that he had put something into the painting which had no right there, which he had no right to imagine — yet she could not tell what it was. Presently she rose and glanced round the room in search of a looking-glass
. But old Lauderdale did not like mirrors, and there was none in the library. On the table, however, stood a photograph of herself in a silver frame. She seized it as soon as she saw it and held it up in her hand, comparing it with the portrait. She found it hard to tell where the difference lay, unless it was in the eyelids and the slight parting of the lips, but she felt it and disliked it more and more.
At that moment the door was opened by one of the footmen.
“Mr. Ralston,” said the man, announcing John, who entered immediately afterwards.
The door closed behind him as he came forward. Katharine’s heart jumped, as she became conscious of his presence. It was as though a strong current of life had been turned upon her after having been long alone with death. Ralston moved easily, with the freedom that comes naturally of good proportions. His bright brown eyes gleamed with pleasure, and the hard, defiant lines of the lean face relaxed in a rare smile.
He kissed her tenderly, with a nervous, passionate lightness that belongs only to finely organized beings, twice or three times. And then she kissed him once with all her heart, and looked into the eyes she loved.
“How good it is to have this chance!” he exclaimed, happily. “This is better than South Fifth Avenue at nine o’clock in the morning — isn’t it? Why didn’t we think of it before?”
“I can’t be always stopping with uncle Robert, you know,” answered Katharine. “I wish I could.”
Something in the tone of the last words attracted his attention. With a gentle touch he made her turn her face to the light, and looked at her.
“What’s happened?” he asked, suddenly. “There’s been some trouble, I know. Tell me — you’ve had more worry at home, haven’t you?”
“Oh — it’s nothing!” Katharine answered, lightly. “You see how easy it is for me to get away. What does it matter?”
“Yes — but there has been something,” insisted John, shaking his head. “I don’t like this, Katharine.”
He turned away from her, and his eyes fell upon the portrait. It instantly fixed his attention.
“Holloa!” he exclaimed. “Why is it here? I thought it was for Hester.”
Katharine laughed.
“He brought it this morning,” she answered. “He’s changed his mind, and has given it to uncle Robert. How do you like it?”
John looked at it long, his eyelids drooping a little. When he turned his head, he looked directly at Katharine’s mouth critically.
“You haven’t got a mouth like that,” he said, suddenly. “And I never saw that expression in your eyes, either,” he added, a moment later. “What’s the fellow been doing?”
“I don’t know, Jack. But I don’t like it. I’m sure of that, at all events.”
“Does uncle Robert like it?”
“No. He’s anything but pleased, though he thought it splendid at first. Then he saw what you and I see. It wasn’t so in the studio, it seems to me. He’s done something to it since. Never mind the picture, Jack. Sit down, and let’s talk, since we’ve got a chance at last.”
John’s eyes lingered on the portrait a moment longer, then he turned away with an impatient movement, and sat down beside Katharine. He stroked her hand gently two or three times, and neither said anything. Then he leaned back in his straight chair and crossed one knee over the other.
“Somebody’s trying to get me out of Beman’s,” he said, and his face darkened. “I wish I knew who it was.”
“Trying to get you out of the bank?” repeated Katharine, in surprise. “Oh, Jack, you must be mistaken.”
Jack laughed a little without smiling.
“There’s no mistake,” he said. “Mr. Beman as good as told me so this morning. We came near having a row.”
“Tell me all about it,” said Katharine, anxiously, and leaning forward in sympathy. “It’s outrageous — whoever has done it.”
“Yes, I’ll tell you,” said John. “It was this way. In the first place, I went to the Vanbrughs’ last night, after all.”
“But you said you weren’t asked! I’d have gone, too — why didn’t you send me word? At least — I’d have tried to go,” she added, recollecting that she had spent the evening in her room.
“I found a note when I came up town. It was very informal, you know.”
“Yes — they only asked me the day before,” said Katharine. “It must have been very amusing. They were going to do all sorts of things.”
“If you’d been there, I should have enjoyed it,” answered John. “Yes, they did all sorts of things — improvised charades and tableaux — Crowdie was there, and Griggs, and the set. The best thing was a tableau of Francesca da Rimini. Hester was Francesca — you know her eyes. There they are!” he exclaimed, looking at the portrait. “And they made me do Paolo, and Griggs murdered me—”
“Fancy your acting in a tableau!” exclaimed Katharine.
“I never did before — but it was all improvised. Griggs looked awfully dangerous with a black beard and a dagger. Of course I couldn’t see myself, but they said I was dark and thin and would do; so I did it, just to make the thing go. It was rather fun — but I kept watching the door to see if you weren’t coming. Well — the end of it was that we stayed very late. You know what a fellow Vanbrugh is — he’s a criminal lawyer, of all things — and he knows all kinds of people. There was an actor and any number of musical people, and that Russian pianist — what’s his name? — Bezpodobny, or something like that. And we had supper, and then we got to smoking — two or three of the women stayed. You know Dolly Vanbrugh likes smoke, and so does Hester. I smoked some horrible Caporal cigarettes, and they gave me a headache. But I didn’t drink anything—”
“I know, dear,” said Katharine, softly.
No one knew better than she what he had done for her sake, and how faithfully he was keeping his word.
“Well — I got a headache, much worse than if I’d had a lot of champagne and things. I shall have to live on milk and water and barley sugar if I get much worse. I’m so nervous since — since I gave up all those things. But it will go off — I’ve asked Routh, and he says it’s natural—”
“You didn’t tell me,” said Katharine, anxiously. “Why didn’t you?”
“Oh — why should I? He came to the house — he adores my mother, you know, dear old man — so I just asked him. Well — this morning I felt rather fuzzy in the head — woolly, don’t you know. And of course I got up early, as usual, though it was awfully late when I got to bed. And then I saw no red ribbon in your window — and that put me into a bad temper, so that altogether I wasn’t in the humour to be bothered much when I got to the bank. It happened that there wasn’t much for me to do at first, and so I did it, and got it out of the way, and I sat doing nothing — just like this — look here!”
He rose, and went and sat down at the chair before the great writing-table, on the side away from Katharine. He planted his elbows on the big sheet of blotting paper, and bending down his head, clasped his hands over his forehead in the attitude of a man whose head hurts him.
“Do you see?” he asked, looking up at Katharine. “My head really ached, and I’d nothing to do for a quarter of an hour, so it was quite natural.”
“Of course! Why not? Do you have to sit up straight at the bank, like school-children?”
“Well — old Beman seemed to think so. He came loping along — he has a funny walk, you know — and I didn’t see him. He doesn’t often come out. So he’d stopped right in front of me before I knew he was there. I looked up suddenly when I heard him speak, and I jumped up. He asked what the matter was, and I told him I had a headache, which was rash, I suppose, considering my reputation. Then he asked me why I was doing nothing, and I told him I’d finished what had been given me and was waiting for more. He grunted in a displeased sort of way, and went off. Then my head hurt me worse than ever, and I put my hands up to my forehead again. In about five minutes, back comes old Beman, and wants to see me in his room. What do you think h
e said? ‘An old and valued friend had warned him that I had intemperate habits.’ That was a pleasant way of opening the interview. Then he went on to say that he had paid no attention to the old and valued friend’s warning, but that I was so evidently suffering from the effects of over-indulgence this morning that he felt it his duty to say that he could not tolerate dissipated idlers in his house — or words to that purpose — and that as he had already convinced himself by a previous trial — that was a year ago, you know — that I had no taste for work, he begged me to consider myself as free from any engagement on the first of next month — which struck me as unnecessary warning, considering that I get no salary. That’s what happened.”
“It’s abominable!” cried Katharine. “It’s outrageous! But you didn’t take it quietly, like that, Jack? You said something?”
“Oh, yes — I said something — several things. I told him quite frankly about myself — how I’d been rather lively, but had given it all up months ago. It’s awful, how a thing like that sticks to one, Katharine! He was virtuously civil — but I can’t help liking old Beman, all the same. He didn’t believe a word I said. So I told him to ask Ham Bright, who’s their junior partner and is privileged to be believed. Unfortunately, Ham didn’t go to the Vanbrughs’ last night and couldn’t have sworn to the facts. But that makes no difference. Of course, a year ago I’d have walked out of Beman’s then and there, if he’d said such things to me, though I suppose they were true then, more or less. It’s different now — a good deal depends on it, and I mean to convince the old gentleman and stay. I don’t want him to bring any tales — lies, especially — to uncle Robert, who got me in. But it’s a wonder we didn’t throttle each other in his office this morning. I take some credit to myself for having behaved so well. But I confess I should like to know who the ‘old and valued friend’ is. I’d like to be alone with him for a few moments.”
“Yes,” said Katharine, thoughtfully. “I wish I knew. Oh, Jack, what a shame!” she cried, with sudden vehemence. “When you’ve been trying so hard, and have succeeded so well! Oh — those are the sins people are burned everlastingly for — those mean, back-biting, busy-body sins, dressed up in virtue and friendship!”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 726