Ralston said nothing in answer, for he was already repenting of his weakness, and the vision of his friend’s face rose before him, with all its habitual calm cheerfulness suddenly twisted out of it.
“Thank you, dear,” said Katharine, softly laying her sound hand upon his. “That was sweet of you. You don’t know how I feel about it. And you’ll come in this evening, won’t you? Then perhaps Ham will go out. And Mrs. Bright always goes to bed early, so we can have an hour or two all to ourselves.”
“Certainly,” answered Ralston, a little absently, for he was thinking more of Bright than of himself just then.
Katharine withdrew her hand from his, not quickly, nor so that he should think she was hurt again by his tone. And she really suppressed the little sigh of disappointment which rose to her lips.
They had been already in Fourth Avenue when Ralston had given the new direction to the coachman, and he had turned his horses and was driving back. The Brights lived in a small but pretty house in Park Avenue, on Murray Hill. It was some distance to go back.
“Jack,” said Katharine, quietly, “Hamilton Bright’s your friend. Don’t you think you’d better tell him that we’re married, and put him out of his misery? Don’t you think it would be much more kind? You can trust him, can’t you?”
“Just as I’d trust myself,” answered Ralston, without hesitation. “It’s for your sake, dear — otherwise, I should have told him long ago. But you know what most people think of secret marriages, and Ham’s full of queer prejudices. Even the West couldn’t knock them out of him. He’s the most terrific conservative about some things. That’s the reason why I never thought of suggesting that I might tell him. Of course — if you’d rather. It would be a blow to him, I think, but at the same time it’s much better that he should know, for his own sake. Only — I’d rather not tell him while you’re in the house.”
“Oh — if it’s going to make any difference about my staying there, we’d better wait,” answered Katharine. “Of course — I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose it would make it all the worse, just at first. He wouldn’t like to see me. But he must have known, long ago, that we were engaged, and that he had no chance.”
“The one doesn’t follow the other,” answered Ralston. “A man like Ham doesn’t give up hope until the girl he loves is married and done for.”
“Married and done for! Jack! How you talk!”
“Oh — it’s a way of saying that she’s out of reach, that’s all. I’ve heard you say it lots of times. No,” he continued, after a moment’s pause, “I think it would be kinder to wait till you come away. But of course I could tell him any day, down town.”
“Do as you think best, dear. Whatever you do will be right. Only—” She stopped, and looked out of the window on her right, away from Ralston.
“Only what?” he asked.
“Only love me!” she cried, almost fiercely, and turning upon him so quickly that she pressed her injured right arm against the side of the carriage. “Only love me as I want to be loved — as I must be loved—”
The passion in her outran the pain of the physical hurt, that crept after it and reached her a moment later, so that she turned a little pale. Jack did not know of that, and in his eyes the pallor was of the heart, as the voice was, and the words. It made her more beautiful, and made love seem more true. Then his own heart beat hard, answering the call of hers, as wave answers wave, and his arms were around her again in an instant.
But at that moment the carriage stopped before the Brights’ house. A smile came into the face of both of them as they drew back from one another. Then Ralston opened the door and got out.
It might not have been easy to explain to Mrs. Bright exactly why Katharine had arrived unexpectedly with a box and a valise to stay three or four days with her, instead of going to her own house at such a time. She knew, of course, that the young girl had been at Robert Lauderdale’s during the last twenty-four hours. But Mrs. Bright wanted no explanations, and was overjoyed to have Katharine for any reason, or without any. She received her with open arms, ordered her things to be taken upstairs, asked Ralston to stay and have some tea, and at once began making many enquiries about Katharine’s arm. Ralston went away immediately, however. After being alone with Katharine in the carriage, as he had been, he did not care to sit still and listen to the excellent Mrs. Bright’s questions.
“Thank you, dear,” said Katharine again, in an undertone, as he bade her good-bye. “Come this evening. May Jack come this evening, aunt Maggie?” she asked, turning to Mrs. Bright.
“Of course, my dear — whenever he likes,” answered the cheerful lady.
Mrs. Bright was a great-granddaughter of the primeval Alexander. Her mother had been Margaret Lauderdale. By no possible interpretation of the relationship was she entitled to be considered the aunt of any member of the tribe. But they one and all called her aunt Maggie. Even the three Miss Miners, who were nieces of Mr. Bright’s father, called her so, and the custom had become fixed and unchangeable in the course of many years. Of late, even grandpapa Lauderdale, the philanthropist, had fallen into the habit, much to the amusement of everybody.
Mrs. Bright was a huge, fair, happy-faced woman with an amazingly kind heart and a fresh face, peculiar from the apparent absence of eyebrows — which existed, indeed, but were almost white by nature. She had the busy manner peculiar to a certain type of very stout people. When she was not asleep she was doing good to somebody — but she slept a great deal. Her tastes were marvellously good, highly refined, and very fastidious. Cleanliness is a virtue next to godliness, according to the proverb — and since a number of persons have relegated godliness to the catalogue of obsolete superstitions, cleanliness with them, at least, should stand first of all. But Mrs. Bright’s mania was specklessness surpassing all dreams of cleanliness, as pure spring water surpasses soap as a symbol of purity. She took care to see that her house was swept, and she garnished it herself. She exhaled a faint suggestion of sprigs of lavender.
Hamilton Bright inherited his fresh complexion, sturdy build, and solid good humour from her, but a certain shyness and reserve which were among his characteristics had come to him from his father.
To Katharine’s surprise, he was already at home, and came down to see her as soon as he heard that she was in the house. He sat down by the little tea-table which stood between her and his mother, and he wondered inwardly why she had come. He was pleased, however, and it seemed to him that her coming crowned the day which had brought him such vast and unexpected good fortune. There are men who love with all their hearts and who are not loved in return, nor have any hope of such love, whose greatest happiness is to see the vainly worshipped object of their misplaced affections under just such circumstances. Bright was delighted that Katharine should be his guest and his mother’s — she was his guest first, in his thoughts, and it gave him the keenest pleasure to see her drinking his and his mother’s tea out of his and his mother’s old Dresden teacups, just as though it were her own, and thinking it just as good.
He asked no questions, and he thought of no answers which she might give if he asked any. He was simply pleased, and wished nothing to interfere with his satisfaction as long as it might last.
“It’s awfully jolly to see you here,” he said, after he had looked at her for nearly a minute.
“Well, you can’t be half as pleased as I am,” she answered. “I was there all last night, you know, and all to-day. It’s grim. I couldn’t stand it any longer. And I knew they didn’t exactly expect me at home — and I didn’t want to go to Hester’s, so I thought I’d drop down upon you without warning, as I knew you had nobody staying with you. But it was rather a calm thing to do, now that I think of it — wasn’t it, aunt Maggie?”
Mrs. Bright beamed, smiled, kissed her fingers to the young girl, and then did perfectly useless things with the silver tea-strainer, rinsing it again with boiling water, and touching it fastidiously, as though it might possibly soil her immacu
late hands.
CHAPTER XVII.
KATHARINE HAD EXPECTED to spend a quiet evening with Ralston. She had counted upon Mrs. Bright’s sleepiness, which was overpowering when it suddenly came upon her, and upon Hamilton Bright’s tact. She thought that he would very probably go out soon after dinner and not appear again. But she was very much mistaken in her calculations.
When she came down to dinner she found Bright already in the library. He was bending over a low table and looking at a new book when she entered, and she saw a broad, flat expanse of black shoulders, just surmounted by a round, flaxen head. As he heard her step behind him he straightened himself and turned round to meet her. He put out his hand. She seemed a little surprised at this, since they had exchanged all the usual greetings when she had come, but she took it with her left, with an unconscious awkwardness which touched him. She laughed a little.
“It’s not easy with my left,” she said. “It doesn’t come right — besides, we’ve shaken hands before.”
“I know,” he answered. “But it doesn’t do any harm to do it again, you know.”
It gave him pleasure to touch even the tips of her fingers.
“You have a sort of classic look,” he said, glancing at her dress. “Toga — you know — that sort of thing.”
“I don’t know how I’m dressed, I’m sure,” she answered. “It’s such a bore to have one’s arm in a sling.”
She wore black. Her left side was fitted closely by the soft material, and she had a certain little silver pin at her throat, which had associations for her. She had worn it on the morning of her marriage with John Ralston, and seldom appeared without it, though it was a most insignificant little ornament. Over her right shoulder and arm she had draped a piece of black silk and some lace. Mrs. Bright had come to her room and arranged it for her with unerring skill and taste. It fell gracefully almost to her feet, whence Bright’s remark about the toga.
“I should think it would be rather worse than a bore,” he said. “It must hurt all the time. I wonder you keep up at all. But I’m glad you’ve come down before my mother. I wanted to say something to you about all that’s happened. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Why should I mind?” asked Katharine, smiling at the little timidity which had checked him with its question.
“Well — you know — it’s about the will. There may be trouble about it. Your father may wish to break it if he can. It’s not unnatural. But of course, if he does, there’s going to be a most terrific row all round. We shall all be raging furiously together like the heathen in about a week, if he attacks the will. The Thirty Years’ War wouldn’t be in it, with the row there’s going to be.”
“You take a cheerful view, cousin Ham,” said Katharine, with a smile. “Who’s going to fight whom?”
“You and I are going to be on opposite sides,” answered Bright, gravely, and fixing his clear blue eyes on her face.
“Well — what difference does that make?” she asked. “I mean, what personal difference? We shall be just as good friends, shan’t we?”
“Ah — that’s it! Shall we?” He continued to watch her earnestly.
“Why not?” she asked, returning his gaze quietly. “What earthly difference can it make to me? Of course, I hope papa won’t do anything of the kind. We shall all have such heaps of money that I can’t see why we should fight about a little, more or less—”
“No — but if he breaks the will, my mother and Hester and I shall get nothing at all, and of course I shall fight it like anything. You understand that, don’t you? It’s rather a big thing, you know — it’s forty millions or nothing, because we’re not next of kin. You’ll understand why I shall fight it, won’t you?”
He asked the last question very anxiously, and in his broad face there was a curious struggle between the fighting instinct, expressed in the setting of the firm jaw, and the painful fear of being misunderstood, which showed itself in the entreating glance of the eyes.
“I understand perfectly,” answered Katharine. “It’s your duty to fight it — of course.”
“I’m so glad you look at it in that way,” he said. “Because if you didn’t—” He paused in the middle of the sentence.
“If I didn’t, I should be very stupid,” observed Katharine.
“No, no! I mean — if I thought you couldn’t understand it — well, I’ll be hanged if I wouldn’t pretty nearly let the millions go, rather than displease you!”
He blurted out the last words bluntly, as such men say wild but sincerely meant things. Katharine understood.
“Please don’t say such foolish things, cousin Ham. You know it’s perfectly absurd to talk of sacrificing a fortune in that way. Besides, you’d have no right not to fight your best. Two-thirds of what you’ll get will go to your mother and sister. You haven’t the slightest right even to think of the possibility of sacrificing aunt Maggie and Hester.”
“No. I suppose I’ve not. And I know that it isn’t as though you weren’t to have a big fortune anyway, however it turns out. Perhaps I’m a fool, but I simply can’t bear to think of being opposed to you in anything. That’s the plain fact, in two words.”
Katharine heard a sort of unsteadiness in the tone, and looked at him for a moment in silence.
“Thank you, cousin Ham,” she said. “You’re a good friend. Thank you.” She laid her hand upon his arm for an instant.
“That’s better than millions,” answered Bright, in an undertone, for his mother was just entering the room.
Mrs. Bright might well be pardoned if she did not assume a lugubrious and funereal expression that evening. To her, Robert Lauderdale had been a distant relation of enormous wealth, from whom she had little or nothing to expect, and whom she rarely saw. She had never needed his help, and though he had occasionally remembered her and sent her a jewel at Christmas, neither she nor her son had ever felt very much indebted to him. The surprise was therefore overwhelming, and the rejoicing inevitable and natural. Knowing, however, how dearly the old man had loved Katharine, and that she had been with him at the time of his death and had been really fond of him, Mrs. Bright avoided the subject altogether during dinner. It would not keep out of her face, however, nor out of her manner. Once or twice she and her son exchanged glances, and both suppressed a happy smile. Katharine saw, understood, and felt sad. The conversation turned upon generalities and was not very amusing.
Katharine could not help thinking of what Bright had said to her just before dinner. At the moment, he had undoubtedly meant that he would sacrifice the vast inheritance rather than incur her momentary displeasure. Of course, she said to herself, when the case arose he would not really have done so, but she could not but appreciate the reckless generosity of the thought, and wonder at the possible strength of the love that had prompted it. He had spoken so earnestly and there had been such a perceptible tremor in his voice, that she had been glad when Mrs. Bright’s appearance had cut short the interview. While she talked indifferently during dinner, her thoughts dwelt on what Ralston had said about Bright’s feelings and then went back to Ralston himself, who was almost always present in her reflections. She felt that she should not have felt any surprise if he had spoken as Bright had done. It would have been quite natural. She might even have thought of accepting the sacrifice.
Just then, after a little pause in the conversation, Mrs. Bright suddenly asked her son whether he meant to go out in the evening.
“No,” he answered, promptly. “Not to-night. I wouldn’t go anywhere except to the club, and even there — well, everybody would be talking and asking questions, and that sort of thing. Besides,” he added, “cousin Katharine’s here.”
The change of tone as he spoke of Katharine was so apparent that Mrs. Bright smiled a little sadly. Her woman’s instinct had told her long ago that her son had very little chance.
The three had not been long in the library when a servant brought a card to Mrs. Bright. She glanced at it, somewhat surprised by the comi
ng of an unexpected visitor, in these days when evening visits have disappeared from New York’s changeable civilization.
“It’s Archie Wingfield,” she said. “Funny!” she exclaimed. “Show Mr. Wingfield in,” she said to the servant.
A moment later Archibald Wingfield entered the room. In spite of himself, he paused a moment as he caught sight of Katharine.
“Oh!” he ejaculated, awkwardly, in a low voice.
Then he came forward, resolutely keeping his bold black eyes on Mrs. Bright’s face as he went up to her and shook hands. Katharine had understood the exclamation of astonishment, and felt the awkwardness of the situation. But as she had given up all hope of seeing Ralston alone that evening, she thought it was as well, on the whole, that some one else should have come to help the general conversation. Nevertheless, she would have chosen almost any one rather than her last rejected suitor.
Both she and Hamilton Bright watched the young fellow with involuntary admiration as he crossed the room and stood exchanging first words with Mrs. Bright. There is a fascination about physical superiority when it far outdoes all its surroundings and is altogether beyond competition which, perhaps, no other attraction exercises in the same degree at first sight.
Wingfield came to Katharine next. The rich blood rose in his brown cheeks.
“I didn’t know you were here,” he said, simply.
“Excuse my left hand,” she answered, quietly, as she extended it. “I’ve had a little accident.”
Wingfield started perceptibly. The expression in his black eyes changed to one of the deepest anxiety, and the blush slowly ebbed from his face.
“An accident?” he stammered.
“Oh — nothing serious,” she answered, touched by the evident strength of his feeling. “It’s only the small bone of my right arm. I fell down yesterday and broke it. It’s in splints, of course, so I have to use my left.”
“And you’re — you’re not taking care of yourself? With a broken arm?” He seemed amazed, not having had much experience of broken limbs — his own were solid. “But you ought to be at home—”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 735