Katharine went back to the library mechanically, because Mrs. Lauderdale called her and because she heard the latter’s step upon the floor, but not exactly in mere blind submission and obedience. She was, indeed, so much surprised by what had taken place that she was not altogether her usual self, and she was conscious that events moved more quickly just then than her own power of decision. She was observant and perceptive, but her reason had always worked slowly. Ralston, at least, was out of the way, and she was glad that she had made him go. It had been unbearable to hear her mother attacking him as she had done.

She believed that Mrs. Lauderdale was about to be seriously ill. No other theory could account for her extraordinary behaviour. It was therefore wisest to take away what irritated her and to be as patient as possible. There was no excuse for her sudden change of opinion, and as soon as she was quite well she would be sorry for what she had said. Katharine was not more patient than most people, but she did her best.

“Is anything the matter, mother? You called so loud.” She spoke almost before she had shut the door behind her.

“No. Did I? I wanted him to go away, that was all. Why should he stand there talking to you in whispers?”

Katharine did not answer at once, but her broad eyebrows drew slowly together and her eyelids contracted. She sat down and clasped her hands together upon her knee.

“Because he had something to say to me which he did not wish you to hear, mother,” she answered at last.

“Ah—I thought so.” Mrs. Lauderdale relapsed into silence, and from time to time her mouth twitched nervously.

She glanced at her daughter once or twice. The young girl’s straight features could look almost stolid at times. Her patience had given way once, but she got hold of it again and tried to set it on her face like a mask. She was thinking now and wondering whether this strange mood were a mere caprice of her mother’s, though Mrs. Lauderdale had never been capricious before, or whether something had happened to change her opinion of Ralston suddenly but permanently. In the one case it would be best to bear it as quietly as possible, in the other to declare war at once. But that seemed impossible, when she tried to realize it. She was deeply, sincerely devoted to her mother. Hitherto they had each understood the other’s thoughts and feelings almost without words, and in all the many little domestic difficulties they had been firm allies. It was not possible that they were to quarrel now. The gap in life would be too deep and broad. Katharine suddenly rose and came and sat beside her mother and drew the fair, tired face to her own, very tenderly.

“Mother dear,” she said, “look at me! What is the matter? Have I done anything to hurt you—to displease you? We’ve always loved each other, you and I—and we can’t really quarrel, can we? What is it, dearest? Tell me everything—I can’t understand it at all—I know—you’re tired and ill, and Jack irritated you. Men will, sometimes, even the very nicest men, you know. It was only that, wasn’t it? Yes—I knew it was—poor, dear, darling, sweet, tired little mother, just let your dear head rest—so, against me—yes, dear, I know—it was nothing—”

It was as though they had changed places, the mother and the daughter. The older woman’s lip quivered, as her cheek rested on Katharine’s breast. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, two tears gathered just within the shadowed lids, and grew and overflowed and trembled and fell—two crystal drops. She saw them fall upon the rough grey stuff of her daughter’s frock, and as she lay there upon the girl’s bosom with downcast eyes, she watched her own tears, in momentary apathy, and noticed how they ran, then crawled along, then stopped, caught as it seemed in the stiff little hairs of the coarse material—and she noticed that there were a few black hairs mixed with the grey, which she had not known before.

Then quite suddenly, just as they were shrinking and darkening the wool with two small spots, a great irresistible sob seemed to come from outside and run through her from head to foot, and shook her and hurt her and gripped her throat. A moment more and the flood of tears broke. Those storms of life’s autumn are chill and sharp. They are not like the showers of spring, quick, light and soft, that make blossoms fragrant and woods sweet-scented.

Katharine did not understand, and her face was gentle and full of pain as she pressed her mother to her bosom.

“Don’t cry, mother—don’t cry!” she repeated again and again.

“Ah, Katharine—child—if you knew!” The few words came with difficulty, as each sob rose and would not be forced back.

“No, darling—don’t! There, there!” And the young girl tried to soothe her.

Suddenly it all ceased. With an impatient movement, as though she despised herself, Mrs. Lauderdale drew back, steadied herself with one hand upon the end of the sofa, turned her head away and rose to her feet.

“Go out, child—leave me to myself!” she said indistinctly, and going quickly towards the door. “Don’t come after me—don’t—no, don’t,” she repeated, not looking back, as she went out.

Left to herself, and understanding that it was better not to follow, Katharine stood still a moment in the middle of the room, then went to the window and looked out, seeing nothing. She did not know what it all meant, but she felt that some great change which she could not comprehend had come over her mother, and that they could never be again as they had been. A mere headache, the mere fatigue from overwork, could not have produced such results. Nor was Mrs. Lauderdale really ill, as the girl’s womanly instinct had told her within the last five minutes. The trouble, whatever it might be, was mental, and the tears had given it a momentary relief. But it was not over.

Katharine went out, at last, and was glad to breathe the keen air of the wintry afternoon; glad, too, to be alone with herself. She even wished that she were not obliged to go into Fifth Avenue, where she might meet an acquaintance, or at all events to cross it, as she decided to do when she reached the first corner. Going straight on, the next street was University Place, and the lower part of that was quiet, and Waverley Place and the neighbourhood of the old University building itself. She could wander about there for half an hour without going so far as Broadway, nor southwards to the precincts of the French and Italian business colonies. So she walked slowly on, and then turned, and turned again, round and round, backwards and forwards, meeting no one she knew, thinking all the time and idly noticing things that had never struck her before, as, for instance, that there is a row of stables leading westward out of University Place which is called Washington Mews, and that at almost every corner where there is a liquor-shop there seems to be an Italian fruit-stand—the function of the ‘dago’ being to give warning of the approach of the police, in certain cases, a fact which Katharine could not be expected to know.

Just beyond the aforesaid Mews, at the corner of Washington Square, she came suddenly upon little Frank Miner, his overcoat buttoned up to his chin and a roll of papers sticking out of his pocket. His fresh face was pink with the cold, his small dark mustache glistened, and his restless eyes were bright. The two almost ran against one another and both stopped. He raised his hat with a quick smile and put out his hand.

“How d’ye do, Miss Lauderdale?” he asked.

In spite of the family connection he had never got so far as to call her Katharine, or even cousin Katharine. The young girl shook hands with him and smiled.

“Are you out for a walk?” he asked, before she had been able to speak. “And if so, may I come too?”

“Oh, yes—do.”

She had been alone long enough to find it impossible to reach any conclusion, and of all people except Ralston, Miner was the one she felt most able to tolerate just then. His perfectly simple belief in himself and his healthy good humour made him good company for a depressed person.

“You seemed to be in such a hurry,” said Katharine, as he began to walk slowly by her side.

“Of course, as I was coming to meet you,” he answered promptly.

“But you didn’t know—”

“Providence knew,” he said, interrupting her. “It was foreordained when the world was chaos and New York was inhabited by protoplasm—and all that—that you and I should meet just here, at this very minute. Aren’t you a fatalist? I am. It’s far the best belief.”

“Is it? Why? I should think it rather depressing.”

“Why—no. You believe that you’re the sport of destiny. Now a sport implies amusement of some kind. See?”

“Is the football amused when it’s kicked?” asked Katharine, with a short laugh.

“Now please don’t introduce football, Miss Lauderdale,” said Miner, without hesitation. “I don’t understand anything about it, and I know that I should, because it’s a mania just now. All the men get it when the winter comes on, and they sit up half the night at the club, drawing diagrams and talking Hebrew, and getting excited—I’ve seen them positively sitting up on their hind-legs in rows, and waving their paws and tearing their hair—just arguing about the points of a game half of them never played at all.”

“What a picture!” laughed Katharine.

“Isn’t it? But it’s just true. I’m going to write a book about it and call it ‘The Kicker Kicked’—you know, like Sartor Resartus—all full of philosophy and things. Can you say ‘Kicker Kicked’ twenty times very fast, Miss Lauderdale? I believe it’s impossible. I just left my three sisters—they’re slowly but firmly turning into aunts, you know—I left them all trying to say it as hard as they could, and the whole place clicked as though a thousand policemen’s rattles were all going at once—hard! And they were all showing their teeth and going mad over it.”

“I should think so—and that’s another picture.”

“By the bye, speaking of pictures, have you seen the Loan Collection? It’s full of portraits of children with such extraordinary expressions—they all look as though they had given up trying to educate their parents in despair. I wonder why everybody paints children? Nobody can. I believe it would take a child—who knew how to paint, of course,—to paint a child, and give just that something which real children have—just what makes them children.”

She was silent for a moment, following the unexpected train of thoughts. There were delicate sides to his nature that pleased Katharine as well as his nonsense.

“That’s a pretty idea,” she said, after thinking of it a few seconds.

“Everybody tries and fails,” answered Miner. “Why doesn’t somebody paint you?” he asked suddenly, looking at her.

“Somebody means to,” she replied. “I was to have gone to sit to Mr. Crowdie this morning, but he sent me word to come to-morrow instead. I suppose he had forgotten another engagement.”

“Crowdie is ill,” said Miner. “Bright told me so this morning—some queer attack that nobody could understand.”

“Something serious?” asked Katharine, quickly.

“Oh, no—I suppose not. Let’s go and see. He lives close by—at least, not far, you know, over in Lafayette Place. It won’t take five minutes to go across. Would you like to go?”

“Yes,” answered the young girl. “I could ask if he will be able to begin the picture to-morrow.”

They turned to the right at the next crossing and reached Broadway a few moments later. There was the usual crowd of traffic in the great thoroughfare, and they had to wait a moment at the crossing before attempting it. Miner thought of what he had seen on the previous afternoon.

“Did you hear of Jack Ralston’s accident yesterday?” he asked.

Katharine started violently and turned pale. She had not realized how the long hours and the final scene with her mother had unstrung her nerves. But Miner was watching the cars and carts for an opening, and did not see her.

“Yesterday?” she repeated, a moment later. “No—he came to see us and stayed almost till dinner time. What was it? When did it happen? Was he hurt?”

“Oh—you saw him afterwards, then?” Miner looked up into her face—she was taller than he—with a curious expression—recollecting Ralston’s condition when he had last seen him.

“It wasn’t serious, then? It had happened before he came to our house?”

“Why—yes,” answered the little man, with a puzzled expression. “Was he all right when you saw him?”

“Perfectly. He never said anything about any accident. He looked just as he always does.”

“That fellow has copper springs and patent joints inside him!” Miner laughed. “He was a good deal shaken, that’s all, and went home in a cab. I should have gone to bed, myself.”

“But what was it?”

“Oh—what he’d call nothing, I suppose! The cars at the corner of Thirty-second and Broadway—we were waiting, just as we are now—two cars were coming in opposite ways, and a boy with a bundle and a dog and a perambulator, and a few other things, got between the tracks—of course the cars would have taken off his head or his heels or his bundle, or something, and the dog would have been ready for his halo in three seconds. Jack jumped and picked up everything together and threw them before him and fell on his head. Wonder he wasn’t killed or crippled—or both—no, I mean—here’s a chance, Miss Lauderdale—come along before that van stops the way!”

There was not time to say anything as Katharine hastened across the broad street by his side, and by the time they had reached the pavement the blood had come back to her face. Her fears for Ralston’s safety had been short-lived, thanks to Miner’s quick way of telling the story, and in their place came the glow of pride a woman feels when the man she loves is praised by men for a brave action. Miner glanced at her as he landed her safely from the crossing and wondered whether Crowdie’s portrait would do her justice. He doubted it, just then.

“It was just like him,” she said quietly.

“And I suppose it was like him to say nothing about it, but just to go home and restore his shattered exterior and put on another pair of boots and go and see you. You said he looked as though nothing had happened to him?”

“Quite. We had a long talk together. I should certainly not have guessed that anything had gone wrong.”

“Ralston’s an unusual sort of fellow, anyhow,” said Miner, enigmatically. “But then—so am I, so is Crowdie—do you like Crowdie? Rude question, isn’t it? Well, I won’t ask it, then. Besides, if he’s to paint your picture you must have a pleasant expression—a smile that goes all round your head and is tied with a black ribbon behind—you know?”

“Oh, yes!” Katharine laughed again, as she generally did at the little man’s absurd sayings.

“But Crowdie knows,” he continued. “He’s clever—oh, to any extent—big things and little things. All his lions roar and all his mosquitoes buzz, just like real things. The only thing he can’t do is to paint children, and nobody can do that. By the bye, I’m repeating myself. It doesn’t take long to get all round a little man like me. There are lots of things about Crowdie, though. He sings like an angel. I never heard such a voice. It’s more like a contralto—like Scalchi’s as it was, though she’s good still,—than like a tenor. Oh, he’s full of talent. I wish he weren’t so queer!”

“Queer? How do you mean?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. There’s something different from other people. Is he a friend of yours? I mean, a great friend?”

“Oh, no—not at all. I’m very fond of Mrs. Crowdie. She’s a cousin, you know.”

“Yes. Well—I don’t know that I can make you understand what I mean, though. Besides, he’s a very good sort of fellow. Never heard of anything that wasn’t all right about him—at least—nothing particular. I don’t know. He’s like some kind of strange, pale, tropical fruit that’s gone bad at the core and might be poisonous. Horrid thing to say of a man, isn’t it?”

“Oh, I know just what you mean!” answered Katharine, with a little movement of disgust.

Miner suddenly became thoughtful again, and they reached the Crowdies’ house,—a pretty little one, with white stone steps, unlike the ordinary houses of New York. Lafayette Place is an unfashionable nook, rather quiet and apparently remote from civilization. It has, however, three dignities, as the astrologers used to say. The Bishop of New York has his official residence on one side of it, and on the other is the famous Astor Library. A little further down there was at that time a small club frequented by the great publishers and by some of their most expensive authors. No amateur ever twice crossed the threshold alive.

Miner rang the bell, and the door was opened by an extremely smart old man-servant in livery. The Crowdies were very prosperous people. Katharine asked if Hester were at home. The man answered that Mrs. Crowdie was not receiving, but that he believed she would wish to see Miss Katharine. He had been with the Ralstons in the Admiral’s lifetime and had known Katharine since she had been a baby. Crowdie was very proud of him on account of his thick white hair.

“I’ll go in,” said the young girl. “Good-bye, Mr. Miner—thank you so much for coming with me.”

Miner trotted down the white stone steps and Katharine went into the house, and waited some minutes in the pretty little sitting-room with the bow-window, on the right of the entrance. She was just thinking that possibly Hester did not wish to see her, after all, when the door opened and Mrs. Crowdie entered. She was a pale, rather delicate-looking woman, in whose transparent features it was hard to trace any resemblance to her athletic brother, Hamilton Bright. But she was not an insignificant person by any means. She had the Lauderdale grey eyes like so many of the family, but with more softness in them, and the eyebrows were finely pencilled. An extraordinary quantity of silky brown hair was coiled and knotted as closely as possible to her head, and parted low on the forehead in heavy waves, without any of the ringlets which have been fashionable for years. There were almost unnaturally deep shadows under the eyes, and the mouth was too small for the face and strongly curved, the angles of the lips being very cleanly cut all along their length, and very sharply distinct in colour from the ivory complexion. Altogether, it was a passionate face—or perhaps one should say impassioned. Imaginative people might have said that there was something fatal about it. Mrs. Crowdie was even paler than usual to-day, and it was evident that she had undergone some severe strain upon her strength.

“Oh, I’m so glad to see you, dear!” she said, kissing the young girl on both cheeks and leading her to a small sofa just big enough to accommodate two persons, side by side.

“You look tired and troubled, Hester darling,” said Katharine. “I met little Frank Miner and he told me that Mr. Crowdie had been taken ill. I hope it’s nothing serious?”

“No—yes—how can I tell you? He’s in his studio now, as though nothing had happened—not that he’s working, for of course he’s tired—oh, it has been so dreadful—I wish I could cry, but I can’t, you know. I never could. That’s why it hurts so. But I’m so glad you’ve come. I had just written a note to you and was going to send it, when Fletcher came up and said you were here. It was one of my intuitions—I’m always doing those things.”

It was so evidently a relief to her to talk that Katharine let her run on till she paused, before asking a question.

“What was the matter with him? Tell me, dear.”

Mrs. Crowdie did not answer at once, but sat holding the young girl’s hand and staring at the fire.

“Katharine,” she said at last, “I’m in great trouble. I want a friend—not to help me, for no one can—I must bear it alone—but I must speak, or it will drive me mad.”

“You can tell me everything if you will, Hester,” said Katharine, gravely. “It will be quite safe with me. But don’t tell me, if you are ever going to regret it.”

“No—I was thinking—”

Mrs. Crowdie hesitated and there was a short silence. She covered her eyes for an instant with one small hand—her hands were small and pointed, but not so thin as might have been expected from her face—and then she looked at her companion. The strong, well-balanced features apparently inspired her with confidence. She nodded slowly, as though reaching a conclusion within herself, and then spoke.

“I will tell you, Katharine. I’d much rather tell you than any one else, and I know myself—I should be sure to tell somebody in the end. You’re like a man in some things, though you are only a girl. If I had a man friend, I think I should go to him—but I haven’t. Walter has always been everything to me. Somehow I never get intimate with men, as some women do.”

“Surely—there’s your brother, Hester. Why don’t you go to him? I should, in your place.”

“No, dear. You don’t know—Hamilton never approved of my marriage. Didn’t you know? He’s such a good fellow that he wouldn’t tell any one else so. But he—well—he never liked Walter, from the first, though I must say Walter was very nice to him. And about the arrangements—you know I had a settlement—Ham insisted upon it—so that my little fortune is in the hands of trustees—your father is one of them. As though Walter would ever have touched it! He makes me spend it all on myself. No, dear—I couldn’t tell my brother—so I shall tell you.”

She stopped speaking and leaned forward, burying her face in her hands for a moment, as though to collect her thoughts. Then she sat up again, and looked at the fire while she spoke.

“It was last night,” she said. “He dined with you, and I stayed at home all by myself, not being asked, you see, because it was at a moment’s notice—it was quite natural, of course. Walter came home early, and we sat in the studio a long time, as we often do in the evening. There’s such a beautiful light, and the big fireplace, and cushions—and all. I thought he smoked a great deal, and you know he doesn’t usually smoke much, on account of his voice, and he really doesn’t care for it as some men do. I wish he did—I like the smell of it, and then a man ought to have some little harmless vice. Walter never drinks wine, nor coffee—nothing but Apollinaris. He’s not at all like most men. He never uses any scent, but he likes to burn all sorts of queer perfumes in the studio in a little Japanese censer. I like cigars much better, and I always tell him so,—and he laughs. How foolish I am!” she interrupted herself. “But it’s such a relief to talk—you don’t know!”

“Go on, dear—I’m listening,” said Katharine, humouring her, and speaking very gently.

“Yes—but I must tell you now.”

Katharine saw how she straightened herself to make the effort, and sitting close beside her, so that they touched one another, she felt that Hester was pressing back against the sofa, while she braced her feet against a footstool.

“It was very sudden,” she said in a low voice. “We were talking—I was saying something—all at once his face changed so—oh, it makes me shudder to think of it. It seemed—I don’t know—like—almost like a devil’s face! And his eyes seemed to turn in—he was all purple—and his lips were all wet—it was like foam—oh, it was dreadful—too awful!”

Katharine was startled and shocked. She could say nothing, but pressed the small hand in anxious sympathy. Hester smiled faintly, and then almost laughed, but instantly recovered herself again. She was not at all a hysterical woman, and, as she said, she could never cry.

“That’s only the beginning,” she continued. “I won’t tell you how he looked. He fell over on the divan and rolled about and caught at the cushions and at me—at everything. He didn’t know me at all, and he never spoke an articulate word—not one. But he groaned, and seemed to gnash his teeth—I believe it went on for hours, while I tried to help him, to hold him, to keep him from hurting himself. And then—after a long, long time—all at once, his face changed again, little by little, and—will you believe it, dear? He was asleep!”

“How strange!” exclaimed Katharine.

“Yes—wasn’t it? But it seemed so merciful, and I was so glad. And I sat by him all night and watched him. Then early, early this morning—it was just grey through the big skylight of the studio—he waked and looked at me, and seemed so surprised to find himself there. I told him he had fallen asleep—which was true, you know—and he seemed a little dazed, and went to bed very quietly. But to-day, when he got up—it was I who sent you word not to come, because he had told me about the sitting—I told him everything, and insisted upon sending for Doctor Routh. He seemed terribly distressed, but wouldn’t let me send, and he walked up and down the room, looking at me as though his heart would break. But he said nothing, except that he begged and begged me not to send for the doctor.”

“And he’s quite himself now, you say?”

“Wait—the worst is coming. At last he sat down beside me, and said—oh, so tenderly—that he had something to say to which I must listen, though he was afraid that it would pain me very much—that he had thought it would never be necessary to tell me, because he had imagined that he was quite cured when he had married me. Of course, I told him that—well, never mind what I said. You know how I love him.”

Katharine knew, and it was incomprehensible to her, but she pressed the little hand once more.

“He told me that nearly ten years ago he had been ill with inflammatory rheumatism—that’s the name of it, and it seems that it’s excruciatingly painful. It was in Paris, and the doctors gave him morphia. He could not give it up afterwards.”

“And he takes morphia still?” asked Katharine, anxiously enough, for she knew what it meant.

“No—that’s it. He gave it up after five years—five whole years—to marry me. It was hard, he said, but he felt that it was possible, and he loved me, and he determined not to marry me while he was a slave to the poison. He gave it up for my sake. Wasn’t that heroic?”

“Yes,” said Katharine, gravely, and wondering whether she had misjudged Crowdie. “It was really heroic. They say it is the hardest thing any one can do.”

“He did it. I love him ten times more for it—but—this is the result of giving it up, dear. He will always be subject to these awful attacks. He says that a dose of morphia would stop one of them instantly, and perhaps prevent their coming back for a long time. But he won’t take it. He says he would rather cut off his hand than take it, and he made me promise not to give it to him when he is unconscious, if I ever see him in that state again. He’s so brave about it,” she said, with a little choking sigh. “I’ve told you my story, dear.”

Her face relaxed a little, and she opened and shut her hands slowly as though they had been stiffened.

Katharine sat with her half an hour longer that afternoon, sympathizing at first and then trying to divert her attention from the subject which filled all her heart and mind. Then she rose to go.

As they went out together from the little sitting-room, the sound of Crowdie’s voice came down to them from the studio in the upper story. The door must have been open. Katharine and Hester stood still and listened, for he was singing, alone and to himself, high up above them, a little song of Tosti’s with French words.

It was indeed a marvellous voice, and as Katharine listened to the soft, silver notes, and felt the infinite pathos of each phrase, she wondered whether, with all his success as a painter, Crowdie had not mistaken his career. She listened, spell-bound, to the end.

“It’s divine!” she exclaimed. “There’s no other word for it.”

Hester Crowdie was paler than ever, and her soft grey eyes were all on fire. And yet she had heard him hundreds of times. Almost before Katharine had shut the glass door behind her, she heard the sound of light, quick footsteps as Hester ran upstairs to her husband.

“It’s all very strange,” thought Katharine. “And I never heard of morphia having those effects afterwards. But then—how should I know?”

And meditating on the many emotions she had seen in others during the last twenty-four hours, she hurried homewards.