Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “I’m afraid you’re an incorrigible heathen, Walter,” said Mrs. Bright. “I wonder you haven’t set up gods and goddesses all over your house — you and Hester — with little tripods before them, and garlands and perfumes — like Tadema’s pictures, you know.”

  “You can’t symbolize matter, aunt Maggie,” laughed Crowdie. “If you do, you get entangled with the ideal again, and your symbol turns into an idol. The Greek statues were meant for portraits of gods and goddesses, not for symbols. So were the pictures and the images of the early church — portraits of divine and holy personages. The moment such things become symbols, there’s a revulsion, and they turn into idols.”

  “That’s a profound thought, Crowdie,” said Griggs. “I don’t believe you ever hit on it by yourself.”

  “Well — it’s in my consciousness, anyhow, and I don’t know where it comes from,” answered the painter. “I suppose it’s part of my set of ideas about matter.”

  “It all seems to me very abstruse,” said Wingfield, who was considerably bored by the discussion, to Katharine, who was listening.

  “No,” she answered, quickly. “I like it. It interests me.”

  She had only glanced at him, but she had realized at once that he was still wholly occupied with herself. There was a wistful, longing regret in his black eyes just then which she understood well enough. She was sincerely sorry for him, and would have done anything reasonable in her power to comfort him. As he turned from her she looked at him again with an expression which might have been interpreted to mean an affectionate pity, though she had certainly never got so far as to feel anything approaching to affection for the magnificent youth. Almost immediately she was conscious that both Ralston and Bright were watching her during the momentary pause in the conversation.

  “Why are you both looking at me like that?” she asked, innocently glancing from one to the other.

  “Oh — nothing!” answered Bright, colouring suddenly and turning his eyes away. “I didn’t know I was staring.”

  Ralston said nothing in reply to her question, but transferred his gaze from her to Wingfield, with something not unlike envy in his look. Few men could look at Wingfield without feeling a little envious of his outward being, and Ralston was a man singularly devoid of personal vanity, like his mother.

  “I wish I could paint you all!” exclaimed Crowdie, suddenly.

  “That’s a large order,” observed Bright, with a smile.

  “You’ve all got such lots in your faces to-night,” continued the artist, with an odd enthusiasm. “There must be something in the air — well, that doesn’t mean anything, of course — but it’s very strange.”

  “What’s strange?” asked Katharine.

  “Oh — I can’t exactly explain. There’s an unusual air about us all, as though we were under pressure and rather inclined to do eccentric things. I could paint it, but I can’t possibly put it in words.”

  “I suppose I’m not sensitive,” said Wingfield to Katharine. “I don’t notice anything particular, do you? At least — not outside, you know,” he added, quickly, being all at once conscious of something he had not been aware of a moment earlier.

  “I know what he means,” answered Katharine. “I feel it myself. But then — I’m tired and I suppose I’m nervous.”

  “There’s a queer, mythological atmosphere about,” Crowdie was saying.

  “It’s what we’ve been talking about,” said Mrs. Bright. “We’re all so completely mixed on the subject of time and space and things like that, that we’re just ready to believe in ghosts, and turn tables, and make idiots of ourselves.”

  “What a barbarian you are, aunt Maggie!” cried Crowdie, looking round at his mother-in-law. “You’d take the poetry out of the Nine Muses. Not that I meant anything poetical. It’s much more a sort of creepy, dreamy, undefinable sensation. Yes — perhaps you’re right after all. I shouldn’t be surprised if one of us saw a ghost to-night.”

  “What will you bet?” enquired Ham, with the slow, western emphasis he could assume when he chose.

  “You’re insufferable!” exclaimed Crowdie. “Fancy betting on seeing ghosts! You’re worse than aunt Maggie. The only man who understands me is Griggs. Griggs, you do understand, don’t you?”

  There was something petulant and almost womanish in his tone, which struck all four men disagreeably, though perhaps none of them could or would have told why.

  “Don’t talk!” answered Griggs. “When you want people to understand you, paint or sing. You only make a mess of it when you try to explain what you feel in English. You’re a good painter and you sing like an angel, but you’re a bad talker.”

  “That’s said because I got the better of you in talking just now,” retorted Crowdie, who did not seem in the least annoyed.

  “Oh, don’t begin sparring again, for heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Bright. “Cousin Katharine’s tired to death of hearing you two fighting. Sing something, Walter. It’s much better.”

  “Oh, no!” answered Crowdie. “Oh, no! I can’t sing, thank you. I never sing at parties — as they call it.”

  “You don’t call this a party, do you?” enquired Bright. “Don’t be silly. We all want to hear you. You’re not the common amateur who has to be begged and flattered and cajoled, and praised afterwards. You can sing when you choose, and we all want you to.”

  “No. I’d rather not,” said the painter, with a change of tone, as though he were very much in earnest.

  “I wish you would!” Katharine, for the moment, really longed to hear the wonderful voice.

  “Do you?” asked Crowdie.

  There was a hesitation in his tone which suggested the idea that he had perhaps been waiting for Katharine to ask him, in order to yield to the request. Instantly the young girl was aware that the eyes of Ralston and Bright were upon her. Griggs had turned his head and was watching Crowdie curiously. Mrs. Bright looked at him, too, hesitated, and then spoke.

  “I really think that promise you made Hester was too absurd, Walter!” she said.

  “What promise?” asked Katharine, quickly.

  “Not to sing for any one but her,” said Mrs. Bright, before Crowdie could interrupt her. “Hester told me.”

  Everybody looked at Crowdie and smiled at the sentimentality. His soft eyes glanced disagreeably at his mother-in-law for a moment, and the smile on his red lips did not conceal his annoyance.

  “Besides,” continued Mrs. Bright, “if Katharine asks you, I think you might — really, it’s too silly of Hester.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Katharine, “I don’t want you to break any promise, Mr. Crowdie — especially one you’ve made to Hester. She’d never forgive me. Please don’t sing — some time when she’s here — perhaps—”

  But at once she again felt Ralston’s glance and Bright’s. She wondered why they looked at her so often.

  “Well then, it isn’t Katharine who asks you,” said Mrs. Bright. “I do. I’ll be responsible to Hester. I know she won’t mind, if it’s for me. Now, Walter, do! Just to please me!”

  Crowdie said nothing. He turned his eyes upon her and then to Katharine’s face. But, feeling uncomfortably as though she were being watched for some reason which she could not understand, Katharine was looking down, nervously pulling at a thread in the lace which covered her right arm.

  Wingfield was sitting on one side of her, in one of those naturally graceful attitudes which athletes assume without thought or care, one elbow on his knee as he bent forward, supporting his chin upon his in-turned hand, his resolute young face turned towards Crowdie, his black eyes somewhat sad and shadowy. On Katharine’s other side sat Ralston, nervous, moody, ready to spring, as it were, for he had not yet recovered from his anger at what had been said about secret marriages. Next to him was Bright, upright in his straight-backed chair, his heavy arms folded on his full chest, his round head thrown back, his clear blue eyes fixed on Katharine’s face.

  As she looked up again, she had a strong
impression of being surrounded by splendid wild animals. Wingfield was the tiger, colossally lithe, brown, black, and golden; Ralston the panther, less in strength, but lighter to spring, quicker to see, perhaps more cruel; Bright the lion, fair, massive, dominant, silent in his strength. Griggs was a wolf, grey, old, tough, destined to die hard some day without a cry. And Crowdie — with his woman’s eyes, his soft, clear voice, his delicate white hands, his repellent pallor, and wound-like lips — Katharine thought of neither man nor beast. Even in the midst of her dream of wild animals, he was Crowdie still, with a mysterious, indescribable, poisonous something in all his being which made it a suffering for her to touch his hand. To this something, whatever it might be, she preferred her father’s cruel avarice, her mother’s envy, heartless as it had been while it lasted. To it she would have preferred a drunkard’s trembling hand and lip. John Ralston’s ungovernable temper was immeasurably preferable to that, or her sister’s mean pride and petty vanity. There was no weakness or sin, scarcely any crime of which her maiden heart had dreamed with horror, which she would not have met and faced and seen in its bare ugliness, rather than that unknown something of which the existence was a certainty when Crowdie was near her.

  In the dead silence of the moment the very faintest sound would have been loud. Whether they admitted it or not, they were none of them just then in a natural or normal state of nerves, except perhaps Mrs. Bright, whose supernal calm was not easily disturbed. Each one of the five men was thinking in his own way of Katharine, and of all she might be to him. The great passion was there, five-fold, and it made itself felt in the very air of the quiet room.

  Then a soft vibration, as of a soul far off, murmuring to itself, just trembled and felt its way amongst them, like the promise of a caress. And again it came, more strongly, more clear, floating in the soft air and taking life in it, and stealing to the heart with a tender, backward-reaching regret, with a low, passionate looking forward to things of love yet to come.

  Crowdie was singing. He had not changed his position as he sat in his chair, and he had scarcely raised his face. There was no effort, no outward striving for art, no searching for effect. The notes floated from his lips as though he thought them rather than as though they were produced by any human means, rising, sinking, with ever varying colour, tone, and meaning, ringing, as he sang, like an angel’s clarion tones, sighing, as he breathed them, like the whole world’s love-dream.

  Then time, too, sank away into dreamland. Before Katharine’s closed eyes rose Lohengrin, silver-armed — floated the mystic swan — clashed the clanging swords. And then, moonbeams, the passionate, great, spell-ruled love — the question and its horror of endless parting — the rush of the destroyers to the bridal chamber, the last, the very last farewell, and out through the misty portals of the dream floated again the fatal, lordly swan, with arching neck, bearing away, spirit-like, the last breath of love from Elsa’s life.

  None of them could have told how long he sang, for time was away in dreamland, and passion’s weary eyes drooped and saw not the pain.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  KATHARINE FELT CONSIDERABLE hesitation about going to see Mrs. Ralston after John had told her that he had confided the secret of their marriage to his mother. She knew very well that they must meet before long, as they often did, and she felt that, since Mrs. Ralston knew the truth, it would be very disagreeable if the meeting took place in the presence of other persons. So far as any formality was concerned, too, it would naturally have been her duty to go and see her mother-in-law, though, in consideration of the young girl’s broken arm, any such questions of courtesy could well be overlooked.

  Katharine’s sensations as she looked forward to the interview could not easily be described. She was, as usual, in a very exceptional position, for she was so placed that she should have to make something like an apology to Mrs. Ralston for having married John against his will. There was something absurd in the idea, and Katharine smiled, alone in her room, as she thought of it.

  She was tired with all she had been through, and she put off the difficult moment rather weakly, telling herself that she would surely write and make an appointment on the following day, when she had collected herself and thought it all over. She was fond of Mrs. Ralston, and knew that her liking was returned. Mrs. Ralston had made her understand that well enough, and John had taken pleasure in telling her that his mother never wished him to marry any one else. Nevertheless Katharine felt shy and awkward, and was afraid of saying too much or too little.

  Mrs. Ralston herself cut short all hesitation and came to see Katharine at the Brights’, and found her in her little sitting-room upstairs. The young girl was taken by surprise, as the elder woman had followed the servant and entered almost as soon as she had been announced.

  “Oh — Mrs. Ralston!” she cried, sitting up on the lounge on which she had been lying after luncheon.

  They exchanged greetings. Mrs. Ralston made her lie down again and sat beside her. There was a moment’s silence.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come,” said Katharine, breaking the ice.

  “Of course I’ve come!” answered Mrs. Ralston. “If you’d not had this dreadful accident, you’d have come to me; but as it is, I’ve come to you, since we wanted to see each other.”

  There was not much in what she said, but it gave Katharine courage, which was precisely what the elder woman wished to do. That was one of her few secrets. She knew how to make what was the best thing to be done seem altogether natural, and even easy, for those who had to do it, while avoiding the appearance of ever giving advice unless it were asked of her. That is the rare gift of those who really influence others in the world. Their art lies in going so straight as to make any way but their own seem crooked by comparison.

  “Yes,” said Katharine, “I wanted to see you very much. The fact is—” she hesitated and she felt the colour rising in her cheeks, though Mrs. Ralston could not see it. “The truth is that I—” she broke off again. “Oh, what’s the use of making phrases, cousin Katharine?” she exclaimed. “Jack and I are married — and you know it — and you must forgive me — that’s what I want to say!”

  “And that’s the best and the simplest way of saying it, my dear,” answered Mrs. Ralston, smiling — for she was happy. “And now that it’s said, let’s talk about it.”

  “How good you are!” Katharine put out her left hand, and turned, bending a little, so that her face was near her companion’s shoulder.

  “I don’t know whether I’m good to be glad,” said Mrs. Ralston. “As for forgiving you — that’s for your father and mother, not for me. The only thing I didn’t like was that Jack shouldn’t have told me at once. I was hurt by that. We’ve been good friends, he and I, and he ought to have known that he could trust me.”

  “We were afraid to trust anybody — except uncle Robert,” answered Katharine, simply. “And we had to trust him. That was the object of our getting married as we did.”

  “Of course you could trust him perfectly, my dear. But it did no good. Jack told me all about that. If he had come to me and said it all beforehand, I could have helped a good deal. But that wasn’t your fault.”

  “Yes, it was,” protested the young girl, anxious lest Ralston should be blamed unjustly. “It was altogether my idea from beginning to end—”

  “Jack didn’t tell me that—”

  “No?” Katharine’s face lightened softly. “No,” she repeated, in another tone. “He wouldn’t have told you that. He would have thought that it would be like blaming me. He left that out of the truth. But it’s true, and you ought to know it. You don’t know how hard it was for me to persuade him to marry me secretly. I used every sort of argument before he would promise. It was I who thought that if we went straight to uncle Robert with our secret, he would find it so easy to give Jack just what he wanted. But Jack was right. He knew more about it than I did. However, he yielded at last. But I want you to know how hard it was. He said it was like a begging
speculation. He would rather have died than have accepted money from uncle Robert. I’d have taken it, and uncle Robert offered it to me, but Jack wouldn’t let me accept it.”

  “Of course not, my dear,” answered Mrs. Ralston. “That’s exactly what it would have been — a begging speculation. There’s only one thing that can excuse a secret marriage, and that’s love.”

  “Well — in that case—” Katharine did not finish her sentence, but smiled happily as she turned her face away.

  “Yes — exactly!” And Mrs. Ralston laughed softly. “That’s the reason why I say that I’ve nothing to forgive you,” she continued, after a little pause. “You see, you’ve loved each other a long time—”

  “Ages!” exclaimed Katharine, energetically.

  “And your father objected. Of course he had a right to object, if he saw fit. And you couldn’t have told him what you had done unless you were prepared to leave him and come to me — which you wouldn’t do — no! I know what you’re going to say — that it would have been putting a burden upon me — and all that. But it wouldn’t. That’s what hurt me, that taking it for granted that I should not be ready — much more than ready — to make a sacrifice for Jack’s sake. Do you know what he is to me — that boy — your husband?”

  Her face changed suddenly, and the even lips set themselves in a look that was almost fierce, as she asked the question.

  “I can imagine,” said Katharine, in a low voice. “I know what he is to me.”

  “Yes. I know you love him. But it’s not the same thing. You’ll know some day. I hope you may. There’s another kind of love besides that of men and women.”