Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Hate you! Ah, Katharine — I never hated you without loving you just as much. I never said those hateful things but what the loving ones fought them and came out when I was all alone. The moment you were gone, it was all different. The moment I didn’t have to look at you — and think of myself, and the little wrinkles. Oh, the vile, horrid little wrinkles — what they’ve cost me! And what they’ve made me do! And they’re growing deeper — to punish me — pity me, dear, if you can’t forgive me—”

  “Ah — don’t talk like that! I never guessed it, and now — why, I shall never think of it again. Unless I have a daughter some day — and then I daresay I shall feel just as you’ve felt. It seems so natural, somehow — now that you’ve explained it.”

  “Does it? Does it seem natural to you? Are you sure you understand?” Mrs. Lauderdale looked up anxiously.

  “Of course I understand!” answered Katharine, reassuring her. “You’ve always been the most beautiful woman everywhere, and just for a little while you thought you weren’t, because you were tired and not looking well. You remember how tired you used to be last winter, mother, when you were working so hard and then dancing every night, into the bargain. It was no wonder! But you are, you know — you’re quite the most beautiful creature I ever saw, and you always will be.”

  Yet Katharine in her heart, though she was comforting her mother and really helping her with every word she said, was by no means sure that she quite understood it all. At least, it was very strange to her, being altogether foreign to her own nature. With all his faults, her father had scarcely a trace of personal vanity, and she had inherited much of her character from him. The absence of avarice, as a mainspring which directed his life, and the presence of a certain delicacy of human feeling, together with a good share of her mother’s wit, were the chief causes of the wide difference between her and Alexander. It was hard for one so very proud and so little vain to understand how, in her mother, vanity could so easily have driven pride out. Yet she did her best to imagine herself in a like position, and was quite willing to believe that she might have acted in the same way.

  “Thank you, dear child,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, simply. “I don’t know why I’ve told you all this just this morning. I’ve been trying to for a long time. But I hadn’t the courage, I suppose. And now — somehow — we’re more alone in the world than we were, since the dear old uncle has gone — and we shall be more to each other. I feel it. I don’t know whether you do.”

  “Yes — I do.” And Katharine’s thoughts again went back to that strange death-scene in the night, in the white room with the soft, warm light. “We shall miss him more, by and by. He was a very live man. Do you know what I mean? Whatever one did, one always felt that he was there. It wasn’t because he was so rich — though, of course, we all have had the sensation of a great power behind us — a sort of overwhelming reserve against fate, don’t you know? But it really wasn’t that. He was such a man! Do you know? I can’t fancy that uncle Robert ever did a bad thing in his life. I don’t mean starchy, stodgy goodness. He swore at papa most tremendously yesterday — only yesterday — just think!” She paused a moment sadly. “No,” she continued, “I don’t mean that. He always seemed to go straight when every one else went crooked — straight to the end, as well as he could. Oh, mother — I saw him die, you know! I didn’t know death was like that!”

  “It must have been dreadful for you, poor child—”

  “Dreadful? No — it was strange — a sort of awe. He looked so grand, lying there amidst the white velvet! I see it now, but I didn’t think of it then — the picture comes back—”

  “Yes — I’ve seen him,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, softly. “His face is beautiful now.”

  “It wasn’t beautiful then — it was something else — I don’t know. I felt that the greatest thing in the world was happening — the great thing that happens to us all some day. I didn’t feel that he was dying exactly — nor that I should never hear him speak again after those last words.”

  “What did he say?” asked Mrs. Lauderdale. “No,” she added, contradicting herself quickly. “If it’s anything like a secret, I don’t want to know.”

  “It wasn’t. He looked at me very strangely, and then he said, quite loud, ‘Domine quo vadis?’”

  “Lord, whither goest Thou,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, translating the familiar words to herself. “Did you say anything?”

  “I answered, ‘Tendit ad astra.’ We had both said the same things once before, some time ago. He heard me, and then he died — that was all.”

  At this point some one knocked at the door. Mrs. Lauderdale rose and went to see who was there. Leek, the butler, clad in deep mourning already, stood outside. There was a puzzled look in his face.

  “If you please, Mrs. Lauderdale, I don’t know what to do, and I’d wish for your orders—”

  “Yes — what is it?”

  “There’s Mr. Crowdie downstairs, madam, wanting the picture of Miss Lauderdale that he brought yesterday for poor Mr. Lauderdale, and desirin’ to remove it. But the impression downstairs seems to be that Mr. Crowdie presented it to poor Mr. Lauderdale yesterday, in which case it appears to me, madam, to be part of poor Mr. Lauderdale’s belongings.”

  “Oh! Well — wait a minute, please. I’ll ask my daughter if she knows anything about it.”

  Mrs. Lauderdale re-entered the room.

  “I heard what he was saying,” said Katharine, before her mother could speak. “He distinctly said he gave the picture to uncle Robert. I was there when he brought it. Isn’t that just like them — coming to get what they can when he’s hardly dead!”

  “Yes — but what shall we do?”

  “I don’t care. He’ll give it to Hester, as he meant to do at first. Let him take it.”

  Mrs. Lauderdale went to the door again.

  “Let Mr. Crowdie have his picture, Leek. I’ll be responsible.”

  “Very good, madam.”

  CHAPTER XV.

  THE DEATH OF Robert Lauderdale was the news of the day, and produced a profound impression everywhere. Even the city put on, here and there, an outward token of mourning, for on every building of the many which had belonged to him, the flag, if it were flying, was half-masted. New York is a city of many flags, and the eye is accustomed to attach meaning to their position.

  And people spoke with respect of the dead man, which rarely happens when the very rich are suddenly gone. He had done well with his money, and every one said so. He had been more charitable than many had guessed until those who had been helped by him began to bemoan their loss. Stories went about of his having known, personally and by name, such men as the conductors on the Elevated Road, and of his having visited them in their homes — them and many others. His death made no difference to any one in Wall Street, and every one in Wall Street was therefore prepared to praise him.

  Forthwith began the speculation and gossip in regard to the will. John Ralston heard much of it, and he observed a curious tendency amongst the men at the bank to treat him with greater deference than usual.

  The Ralstons had been informed of the final catastrophe early in the morning. John had immediately gone to Robert Lauderdale’s house, rather to enquire about Katharine’s condition than for any other purpose, and had thence proceeded down town. There was no reason why he should not go to the bank as usual, he thought. The dead man had only been his great-uncle, and he had determined to make Mr. Beman change his mind, and to counteract the influence of Alexander Junior. The best way to do this was to go to work as though nothing had happened. Before he had been half an hour at his desk, his friend Hamilton Bright, the junior partner in the firm, came up to him.

  Hamilton Bright was a sturdy, heavily built man, five and thirty years of age, with a prosperous air — what bankers call ‘a lucky face.’ He was fair as a Saxon, pink and white of complexion, with clear, honest eyes, and quiet, resolute features. In his early youth he had gone to the West, and driven cattle in the Nacimien
to Valley, had made some fortunate investments with the small fortune he had inherited, had returned to New York, gone into Beman Brothers’ bank, and in the course of a few years had been taken into the partnership. He was an extremely normal man. His only peculiarity was a sort of almost fatherly attachment to John Ralston, about which he did not reason. The shadow in his life was his love for Katharine Lauderdale, of which, for John’s sake, he had never spoken, but which he was quite unable to conceal.

  He came to John’s desk and spoke to him in a low voice.

  “I say, Jack,” he began, “is it true that cousin Katharine has broken her arm?”

  “Yes,” answered Ralston, bending his black brows. “How did you hear it?”

  “It’s got about and into the papers. There’s a paragraph about it. They say she fell downstairs.”

  “Some servant told, I suppose, and got a dollar for the item. It’s the small bone of her right arm — she was staying with poor uncle Robert, and she had a fall — somehow,” added Ralston, vaguely. “She must have been there when he died. It was awfully sudden at the end. I saw him yesterday afternoon. He seemed pretty strong. I went this morning to enquire about cousin Katharine — they say he died very peacefully. Failure of the heart, you know.”

  Bright nodded thoughtfully, as he leaned one elbow upon Ralston’s desk.

  “What sort of a will is it going to turn out?” he asked, after a moment’s pause.

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” answered John, with perfect truth.

  “It would be a good thing for you if he had died intestate. Your mother and old Alexander are the next of kin. They’d get something in the neighbourhood of thirty or forty millions apiece. You’d give up clerking, Jack.”

  “I don’t know, I’m sure. If I were ever to have much money, a year in a bank wouldn’t do me any harm. But I’m not likely to stay here. Cousin Alexander’s a good enemy to me. He’s been telling Mr. Beman that I drink, and that sort of thing, and Mr. Beman has requested me to leave on the first of the month.”

  “You don’t mean that?” Hamilton Bright’s fair Saxon face reddened in sudden anger for his friend.

  “Of course I do.”

  Ralston told him exactly what had happened, and by the time he had finished, Alexander Lauderdale Junior had another enemy, and a dangerous one. Had Bright known all, and especially that Katharine owed her broken arm to her father’s violence, something unexpected might have happened. Bright had for Katharine all the Quixotic devotion which a pure and totally unrequited love can inspire in a perfectly simple disposition, which has been brought into rather close contact with the uncompromising code of such a region as the Nacimiento Valley.

  “And you wish to stay in the bank?” asked Bright, quietly, at last.

  “Yes. And you know very well, Ham, that I’m not as bad as I used to be. I’m going to have a talk with Mr. Beman to-day.”

  “Don’t you bother,” answered Bright. “I’ll talk to him — now.”

  Hamilton Bright’s broad shoulders swung round, and he went straight to the senior partner’s room. Mr. Beman was in his usual seat at his huge desk.

  “I want to speak to you about Ralston, Mr. Beman,” he said, briefly, laying one of his broad hands upon the shelf of the desk. “You’ve told him to go on the first of the month, because Mr. Alexander Lauderdale informed you that he drank.”

  “Yes,” answered Mr. Beman, “I have, though I don’t know how you heard that it was through Mr. Lauderdale.”

  “Well — it’s a fact, or Ralston wouldn’t have said so, in the first place, and I see you admit it. But there isn’t a word of truth in the story. Ralston gave up wine altogether last winter.”

  “Do you mean to say that Mr. Lauderdale has told me — a deliberate falsehood, Mr. Bright?” asked the old banker.

  “Yes.”

  Now Mr. Beman had a very high opinion of Hamilton Bright, but he looked long and earnestly into the clear blue eyes before he made up his mind what to say.

  “I’d not considered the affair as of any importance,” he said, at last. “But you’ve made it very serious. Mr. Lauderdale is Ralston’s cousin, and might be supposed to know what he was talking about.”

  “Yes. That doesn’t make it any better for him,” observed Bright. “I know what I’m talking about, too. Mr. Lauderdale is a sort of cousin of mine, and I know them all pretty well. I haven’t much opinion of Mr. Lauderdale, myself.”

  Again Mr. Beman stared and met the calm blue eyes. He recalled Alexander Junior’s steely grey ones, and did not prefer them. But he said nothing. Bright continued.

  “If you can get him to come here, Mr. Beman, I’d like to repeat what I’ve said in his presence. He’s a liar, he’s a sneak, and I’m inclined to think he’s a scoundrel, though I wouldn’t say more.”

  But in this Bright did Alexander Junior an injustice. Mr. Beman, however, had not survived fifty years of banking in New York without knowing that just such men as Alexander are sometimes wrecked, morally and financially, after having inspired confidence for half a lifetime.

  “You use pretty strong language, Mr. Bright. I’ve known Mr. Lauderdale a long time, but not intimately, though I’ve always considered him a valuable friend in business relations. I shall certainly not countenance any such proceedings as calling him to account for what he said. But if you are sure of Ralston, Mr. Bright, please ask him to step here for a moment. We’ll keep him. Not that he’s likely to stay long,” added Mr. Beman, with a smile. “His mother and Mr. Lauderdale’s father are next of kin to Mr. Robert Lauderdale, who died this morning, I’m told. I should certainly not wish to do an injustice to any near relation of my old acquaintance.”

  Hamilton Bright, who rarely wasted words, merely nodded and left the room. He went immediately to Ralston again.

  “It’s all right, Jack,” he said. “Mr. Beman wants you to stay, and wants to tell you so. Go right in.”

  “Thank you, Ham,” said Ralston, rising.

  A moment later he was standing before Mr. Beman. The old gentleman looked up over his glasses.

  “Mr. Ralston,” he said, “I’ve reason to believe that I was hasty yesterday. I understand that my friend was mistaken in what he said of you. I regret what I said myself. I shall be very glad if you’ll stay with us. I learn from other sources that you’re very attentive to your work, and I must say — Mr. Ralston—” he smiled pleasantly— “it will be just as well for you to know something about our business, considering the position — the enviable position — which you’ll probably some day occupy.”

  John Ralston, the son of one of the next of kin, was not quite the same person as Jack Ralston, the grand-nephew of a millionaire.

  “I don’t know what position I’m to occupy,” he answered. “But I’m very glad to stay with you, Mr. Beman — and I’m much obliged to you for doing me this justice.”

  “Not at all, not at all. I should be very sorry to do any one an injustice — especially a near relation of my old and valued acquaintance, Mr. Robert Lauderdale.”

  Thereupon John Ralston withdrew, very well satisfied. He had a sort of premonition to the effect that things were to go better with him. It was clear, at least, that Alexander Junior could not prevail against him, since John had vanquished him twice within twenty-four hours. He wondered whether Alexander were sitting all alone in his office at the Trust Company, nervously tapping the table with his long, smooth fingers, and wondering how soon he was to know the contents of the will.

  The morning wore on, and he could almost see in the faces of his fellow-clerks how the impression was growing that he would turn out to be one of the heirs. There was an indescribable something in their glances, a hardly perceptible change in their manner, of which he was aware in spite of himself. But no news came.

  At half past twelve he went out and got his luncheon at Sutherland’s, as usual. When he came back, he found a note on his desk from his mother. He opened it in considerable excitement, for he could not deny that
he hoped a very large share of the inheritance might come to Mrs. Ralston, if not to himself. But the note contained no final news. Mrs. Ralston said that, considering the enormous value of the estate, the lawyers desired to make the will public as soon as possible — a common measure in such cases, as the sudden demise of very rich men has a tendency to affect public confidence, until it is known who is to have the principal control of the fortune. Mrs. Ralston said that only she herself and old Mr. Alexander Lauderdale, as being the two next of kin, had been requested to hear the will read that afternoon. She advised him to come home and wait for her, as early as he could conveniently leave the bank.

  That was all, and he had to possess his soul in patience during several hours more. His mother had not yet seen Katharine, and did not mention her. It was impossible to foresee what she would do, but it was clear enough that she would not, and could not, return to her father’s house at once.

  Before the afternoon was far advanced, the wisdom of the lawyers’ advice about the reading of the will became apparent. Rumours were afloat that the whole fortune was to go to old Alexander, and rumour further stated that he was in his dotage, and would be capable of selling miles of real estate to found a refuge for escaped lunatics. Serious persons gave no credit to such talk, of course, but any one acquainted with New York knows how little, at a given moment, may upset the market and cause disaster. The reason of this appears to be that there are more undertakings unfinished yet, or just begun, in America, than there are elsewhere, which depend for their success altogether upon a period of comparative calm in financial affairs. To check them, though they might turn out well, is often to kill them, which means ruin to those who have backed them at the beginning.

  But matters proceeded rapidly. Before Ralston left the bank, the newsboys were crying the evening papers, containing, as they avowed, ‘the extraordinary will of Robert Lauderdale.’ In five minutes every one in the bank had read the statement.