The afternoon which followed the first sitting in Crowdie’s studio seemed very long to Katharine. She did all sorts of things to make the time pass, but it would not. She even set in order a whole drawer full of ribbons and gloves and veils and other trifles, which is generally the very last thing a woman does to get rid of the hours.

And all the time she was thinking, and not sure whether it would not be better to fight against her thoughts. For though she was not afraid of changing her mind she had a vague consciousness that the whole question might raise its head again and face her like a thing in a dream, and insist that she should argue with it. And then, there was the plain and unmistakable fact that she was on the eve of doing something which was hardly ever done by the people amongst whom she lived.

It was not that she was timid, or dreaded the remarks which might be made. Any timidity of that sort would have checked her at the very outset. If the man she loved had been any one but Jack Ralston, whom she had known all her life, she could never have thought of proposing such a thing. Oddly enough, she felt that she should blush, as she had blushed that morning at the studio, at the mere idea of a secret marriage, if Ralston were any one else. But not from any fear of what other people might say. Not only had the two been intimate from childhood—they had discussed during the last year their marriage, and all the possibilities of it, from every point of view. It was a subject familiar to them, the difficulties to be overcome were clear to them both, they had proposed all manner of schemes for overcoming them, they had talked for hours about running away together and had been sensible enough to see the folly of such a thing. The mere matter of saying certain words and of giving and receiving a ring had gradually sunk into insignificance as an event. It was an inevitable formality in Ralston’s eyes, to be gone through with scrupulous exactness indeed, and to be carefully recorded and witnessed, but there was not a particle of romance connected with it, any more than with the signing and witnessing of a title-deed or any other legal document.

Katharine had a somewhat different opinion of it, for it had a real religious value in her eyes. That was one reason why she preferred a secret wedding. Of course, the moment would come, sooner or later, for they were sure to be married in the end, publicly or privately. But in any case it would be a solemn moment. The obligations, as she viewed them, were for life. The very words of the promise had an imposing simplicity. In the church to which she strongly inclined, marriage was called a sacrament, and believed to be one, in which the presence of the Divine personally sanctified the bond of the human. Katharine was quite willing to believe that, too. And the more she believed it, the more she hated the idea of a great fashionable wedding, such as Charlotte Slayback had endured with much equanimity. She could imagine nothing more disagreeable, even painful, than to be the central figure of such an exhibition.

That holy hour, when it came at last, should be holy indeed. There should be nothing, ever thereafter, to disturb the pure memory of its sanctity. A quiet church, the man she loved, herself and the interpreter of God. That was all she wanted—not to be disturbed in the greatest event of her life by all the rustling, glittering, flower-scented, grinning, gossiping crowd of critics, whose ridiculous presence is considered to lend marriage a dignity beyond what God or nature could bestow upon it.

This was Katharine’s view, and as she had no intention of keeping her marriage to Ralston a secret during even so much as twenty-four hours, it was neither unnatural nor unjustifiable. But in spite of all the real importance which she gave to the ceremony as a fact, it seemed so much a matter of course, and she had thought of it so long and under so many aspects, that in the chain of future events it was merely a link to be reached and passed as soon as possible. It was not the ring, nor the promise nor the blessing, by which her life was to be changed. She knew that she loved John Ralston, and she could not love him better still from the instant in which he became her lawful husband. The difficulties began beyond that, with her intended attack upon uncle Robert. She told herself that she was sure of success, but she was not, since she could not see into the future one hour beyond the moment of her meeting with the old gentleman. That seeing into the future is the test of confidence, and the only one.

It struck her suddenly that everything which was to happen after the all-important interview was a blank to her. She paused in what she was doing—she was winding a yellow ribbon round her finger—and she looked out of the window. It was raining, for the weather had changed quickly during the afternoon. Rain in Clinton Place is particularly dreary. Katharine sat down upon the chair that stood before her little writing table in the corner by the window, and watched the grey lace veil which the falling raindrops wove between her and the red brick houses opposite.

A feeling of despair came over her. Uncle Robert would refuse to do anything. What would happen then? What could she do? She was brave enough to face her father’s anger and her mother’s distress, for she loved Ralston with all her heart. But what would happen? If uncle Robert failed her, the future was no longer blank but black. No one else could do anything. Of what use would the family battle be? Her father could not, and would not, do anything for her or her husband. He was the sort of man who would take a stern delight in seeing her bear the consequences of her mistake—it could not be called a fault, even by him. To impose herself on Mrs. Ralston was more than Katharine’s pride could endure to contemplate. Of course, it would be possible to live—barely to live—on the charity of her husband’s mother. Mrs. Ralston would do anything for her son, and would sacrifice herself cheerfully. But to accept any such sacrifice was out of the question. And then, too, Katharine knew what extreme economy meant, for she had suffered from it long under her father’s roof, and it was not pleasant. Yet they would be poorer still at the Ralstons, and she would be the cause of it.

If uncle Robert refused to help them, the position would be desperate. She watched the rain and tried to think it all over. She supposed that her father would insist upon—what? Not upon keeping the secret, for that would not be like him. He was a horribly virtuous man, Charlotte used to say. Oh, no! he would not act a lie on any account, not he! Katharine wondered why she hated this scrupulous truthfulness in her father and admired it above all things in Ralston. Jack would not act a lie either. But then, if there were to be no secret, and if the marriage were to be announced, what would happen? Would her father insist upon her living at home until her husband should be able to support her? What a situation! She cared less than most girls about social opinion, but she really wondered what society would say. Her father would say nothing. He would smile that electric smile of his, and hold his head higher than ever. ‘This is what happens to daughters who disobey their parents,’ he would seem to tell the world. She had always thought that he might be like the first Brutus, and she felt sure of it now.

It seemed like weakness to think of going to uncle Robert that very afternoon, before the inevitable moment was past. Yet it would be such an immense satisfaction to have had the interview and to have his promise to do something for Ralston. The thought seemed cowardly and yet she dwelt on it. Of course, her chief weapon with the old gentleman was to be the fact that the thing was done and could not be undone, so that he could have no good advice to give. And, yet, perhaps she might move him by saying that she had made up her mind and was to be married to-morrow. He might not believe her, and might laugh and send her away—with one of his hearty avuncular kisses—she could see his dear old face in her imagination. But if he did that, she could still return to-morrow, and show him the certificate of her marriage. He would not then be able to say that she had not given him fair warning. She wished it would not rain. She would have walked in the direction of his house, and when she was near it she knew in her heart that she would yield—since it seemed like a temptation—and perhaps it would be better.

But it was raining, and uncle Robert lived far away from Clinton Place in a house he had built for himself at the corner of a new block facing the Central Park. He had built the whole block and had kept possession of it afterwards. It was almost three miles from Alexander Lauderdale’s house in unfashionable Clinton Place—three miles of elevated road, or of horse-car or of walking—and in any case it meant getting wet in such a rain storm. Moreover, Katharine rarely went alone by the elevated road. She wished it would stop raining. If it would only stop for half an hour she would go. Perhaps it was as well to let fate decide the matter in that way.

Just then a carriage drove up to the door. She flattened her face against the window, but could not see who got out of it. It was a cab, however, and the driver had a waterproof hat and coat. In all probability it came from one of the hotels. Any one might have taken it. Katharine drew back a little and looked idly at the little mottled mist her breath had made upon the window pane. The door of her room opened suddenly.

“Kitty, are you there?” asked a woman’s voice.

Katharine knew as the handle of the latch was turned that her sister Charlotte had come. No one else ever entered her room without knocking, and no one else ever called her ‘Kitty.’ She hated the abbreviation of her name and she resented the familiarity of the unbidden entrance. She turned rather sharply.

“Oh—is that you? I thought you were in Washington.” She came forward, and the two exchanged kisses mechanically.

“Benjamin Slayback of Nevada had business in New York, so I came up to get a breath of my native microbes,” said Charlotte, going to the mirror and beginning to take off her hat very carefully so as not to disturb her hair. “We are at a hotel, of course—but it’s nice, all the same. I suppose mamma’s at work and I know papa’s down town, and the ancestor is probably studying some new kind of fool—so I came to your room.”

“Will you have some tea?” asked Katharine.

“Tea? What wild extravagance! I suppose you offer it to me as ‘Mrs. Slayback.’ I wonder if papa would. I can see him smile—just like this—isn’t it just like him?”

She smiled before the mirror and then turned suddenly on Katharine. The mimicry was certainly good. Mrs. Slayback, however, was fair, like her mother, with a radiant complexion, golden hair and good features,—larger and bolder than Mrs. Lauderdale’s, but not nearly so classically perfect. There was something hard in her face, especially about the eyes.

“It’s just the same as ever,” she said, seating herself in the small arm-chair—the only one in the room. “The same dear, delightful, dreary, comfortless, furnace-heated, gas-lighted, ‘put-on-your-best-hat-to-go-to-church’ sort of existence that it always was! I wonder how you all stand it—how I stood it so long myself!”

Katharine laughed and turned her head. She had been looking out of the window again and wondering whether the rain would stop after all. She and her sister had never lived very harmoniously together. Their pitched battles had begun in the nursery with any weapons they could lay hands on, pillows, moribund dolls, soapy sponges, and the nurse’s shoes. Though Katharine was the younger, she had soon been the stronger at close quarters. But Charlotte had the sharper tongue and was by far the better shot with any projectile when safely entrenched behind the bed. At the first show of hostilities she made for both sponges—a rag-doll was not a bad thing, if she got a chance to dip it into the basin, but there was nothing like a sponge, when it was ‘just gooey with soap,’ as the youthful Charlotte expressed it. She carried the art of throwing to a high degree of perfection, and on very rare occasions, after she was grown up, she surprised her adorers by throwing pebbles at a mark with an unerring accuracy which would have done credit to a poacher’s apprentice.

Since the nursery days the warfare had been carried on by words and the encounters had been less frequent, but the contrast was always apparent between Katharine’s strength and Charlotte’s quickness. Katharine waited, collected her strength, chose her language and delivered a heavy blow, so to say. Charlotte, as Frank Miner put it, ‘slung English all over the lot.’ Both were effective in their way. But they had the good taste to quarrel in private and, moreover, in many things they were allies. With regard to their father, Katharine took an evil and silent delight in her sister’s sarcasms, and Charlotte could not help admiring Katharine’s solid, unyielding opposition on certain points.

“Oh, yes!” said Katharine, answering Charlotte’s last remark. “There’ll be less change than ever now that you’re married.”

“I suppose so. Poor Kitty! We used to fight now and then, but I know you enjoyed looking on when I made a row at dinner. Didn’t you?”

“Of course I did. I’m a human being.” Katharine laughed again. “Won’t you really have tea? I always have it when I want it.”

“You brave little thing! Do you? Well—if you like. You quiet people always have your own way in the end,” added Mrs. Slayback, rather thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s the steady push that does it.”

“Don’t you have your way, too?” asked Katharine, in some surprise at her sister’s tone of voice.

“No. I’m ashamed to say that I don’t. No—” She seemed to be recapitulating events. “No—I don’t have my way at all—not the least little bit. I have the way of Benjamin Slayback of Nevada.”

“Why do you talk of your husband in that way?” enquired Katharine.

“Shall I call him Mr. Slayback?” asked Charlotte, “or Benjamin—dear little Benjamin! or Ben—the ‘soldier bold’? How does ‘Ben’ strike you, Kitty? I know—I’ve thought of calling him Minnie—last syllable of Benjamin, you see. There was a moment when I hesitated at ‘Benjy’—‘Benjy, darling, another cup of coffee?’—it would sound so quiet and home-like at breakfast, wouldn’t it? It’s fortunate that papa made us get up early all our lives. My dream of married happiness—a nice little French maid smiling at me with a beautiful little tea-tray just as I was opening my eyes—I had thought about it for years! Well, it’s all over. Benjamin Slayback of Nevada takes his breakfast like a man—a regular Benjamin’s portion of breakfast, and wants to feast his eyes on my loveliness, and his understanding on my wit, and his inner man on the flesh of kine—and all that together at eight o’clock in the morning—Benjamin Slayback of Nevada—there’s no other name for him!”

“The name irritates me—you repeat it so often!”

“Does it, dear? The man irritates me, and that’s infinitely worse. I wish you knew!”

“But he’s awfully good to you, Charlie. You can’t deny that, at all events.”

“Yes—and he calls me Lottie,” answered Charlotte, with much disgust. “You know how I hate it. But if you are going to lecture me on my husband’s goodness—Kitty, I tell you frankly, I won’t stand it. I’ll say something to you that’ll make you—just frizzle up! Remember the soapy sponge of old, my child, and be nice to your sister. I came here hoping to see you. I want to talk seriously to you. At least—I’m not sure. I want to talk seriously to somebody, and you’re the most serious person I know.”

“More so than your husband?”

“He’s grave enough sometimes, but not generally. It’s almost always about his constituents. They are to him what the liver is to some people—only that they are beyond the reach of mineral waters. Besides—it’s about him that I want to talk. You look surprised, though I’m sure I don’t know why. I suppose—because I’ve never said anything before.”

“But I don’t even know what you’re going to say—”

Mrs. Slayback looked at her younger sister steadily for a moment, and then looked at the window. The rain was still falling fast and steadily; and the room had a dreary, dingy air about it as the afternoon advanced. It had been Charlotte’s before her marriage, and Katharine had moved into it since because it was better than her own. The elder girl had filled it with little worthless trifles which had brightened it to a certain extent; but Katharine cared little for that sort of thing, and was far more indifferent to the aspect of the place in which she lived. There were a couple of dark engravings of sacred subjects on the walls,—one over the narrow bed in the corner, and the other above the chest of drawers, and there was nothing more which could be said to be intended for ornament. Yet Charlotte Slayback’s hard face softened a little as her eyes wandered from the window to the familiar, faded wall paper and the old-fashioned furniture. The silence lasted some time. Then she turned to her sister again.

“Kitty—don’t do what I’ve done,” she said, earnestly.

She watched the girl’s face for a change of expression, but Katharine’s impassive features were not quick to express any small feeling beyond passing annoyance.

“Aren’t you happy, Charlie?” Katharine asked, gravely.

“Happy!”

The elder woman only repeated the single word, but it told her story plainly enough. She would have given much to have come back to the old room, dreary as it looked.

“I’m very sorry,” said Katharine, in a lower voice and beginning to understand. “Isn’t he kind to you?”

“Oh, it’s not that! He’s kind—in his way—it makes it worse—far worse,” she repeated, after a moment’s pause. “I hadn’t been much used to that sort of kindness before I was married, you know—except from mamma, and that was different—and to have it from—” She stopped.

Katharine had never seen her sister in this mood before. Charlotte was generally the last person to make confidences, or to complain softly of anything she did not like. Katharine thought she must be very much changed.

“You say you’re unhappy,” said the young girl. “But you don’t tell me why. Has there been any trouble—anything especial?”

“No. You don’t understand. How should you? We never did understand each other very well, you and I. I don’t know why I come to you with my troubles, either. You can’t help me. Nobody can—unless it were—a lawyer.”

“A lawyer?” Katharine was taken by surprise now, and her eyes showed it.

“Yes,” answered Charlotte, her voice growing cold and hard again. “People can be divorced for incompatibility of temper.”

“Charlotte!” The young girl started a little, and leaned forward, laying her hand upon her sister’s knee.

“Oh, yes! I mean it. I’m sorry to horrify you so, my dear, and I suppose papa would say that divorce was not a proper subject for conversation. Perhaps he’s right—but he’s not here to tell us so.”

“But, Charlie—” Katharine stopped short, unable to say the first word of the many that rushed to her lips.

“I know,” said Charlotte, paying no attention. “I know exactly what you’re going to say. You are going to argue the question, and tell me in the first place that I’m bad, and then that I’m mad, and then that I’m a mother,—and all sorts of things. I’ve thought of them all, my dear; and they’re very terrible, of course. But I’m quite willing to be them all at once, if I can only get my freedom again. I don’t expect much sympathy, and I don’t want any good advice—and I haven’t seen a lawyer yet. But I must talk—I must say it out—I must hear it! Kitty—I’m desperate! I never knew what it meant before.”

She rose suddenly from her seat, walked twice up and down the room, and then stood still before Katharine, and looked down into her face.

“Of course you can’t understand,” she said, as she had said before. “How should you?” She seemed to be waiting for an answer.

“I think I could, if you would tell me more about yourself,” Katharine replied. “I’m trying to understand. I’d help you if I knew how.”

“That’s impossible.” Mrs. Slayback seated herself again. “But it’s this. You must have wondered why I married him, didn’t you?”

“Well—not exactly. But it seemed to me—there were other men, if you meant to marry a man you didn’t love.”

“I don’t believe in love,” said Charlotte. “But I wanted to be married for many reasons—most of all, because I couldn’t bear the life here.”

“Yes—I know. You’re not like me. But why didn’t you choose somebody else? I can’t understand marrying without love; but it seems to me, as I said, that if one is going to do such a thing one had better make a careful choice.”

“I did. I chose my husband for many reasons. He is richer than any of the men who proposed to me, and that’s a great thing. And he’s very good-natured, and what they call ‘an able man.’ There were lots of good reasons. There were things I didn’t like, of course; but I thought I could make him change. I did—in little things. He never wears a green tie now, for instance—”

“As if such things could make a difference in life’s happiness!” cried Katharine, contemptuously.

“My dear—they do. But never mind that. I thought I could—what shall I say?—develop his latent social talent. And I have. In that way he’s changed a good deal. You’ve not seen him this year, have you? No, of course not. Well, he’s not the same man. But it’s in the big things. I thought I could manage him, by sheer force of superior will, and make him do just what I wanted—oh, I made such a mistake!”

“And because you’ve married a man whom you can’t order about like a servant, you want to be divorced,” said Katharine, coldly.

“I knew you couldn’t understand,” Charlotte answered, with unusual gentleness. “I suppose you won’t believe me if I tell you that I suffer all the time, and—very, very much.”

Katharine did not understand, but her sister’s tone told her plainly enough that there was real trouble of some sort.

“Charlie,” she said, “there’s something on your mind—something else. How can I know what it is, unless you tell me, dear?”

Mrs. Slayback turned her head away, and bit her lip, as though the kind words had touched her.

“It’s my pride,” she said suddenly and very quickly. “He hurts it so!”

“But how? Merely because he does things in his own way? He probably knows best—they all say he’s very clever in politics.”

“Clever! I should think so! He’s a great, rough, good-natured, ill-mannered—no, he’s not a brute. He’s painfully kind. But with that exterior—there’s no other word. He has the quickness of a woman in some ways. I believe he can be anything he chooses.”

“But all you say is rather in his favour.”

“I know it is. I wish it were not. If I loved him—the mere idea is ridiculous! But if I did, I would trot by his side and carry the basket through life, like his poodle. But I don’t love him—and he expects me to do it all the same. I’m curled, and scented, and fed delicately, and put to sleep on a silk cushion, and have a beautiful new ribbon tied round my neck every morning, just like a poodle-dog—and I must trot quietly and carry the basket. That’s all I am in his life—it wasn’t exactly my dream,” she added bitterly.

“I see. And you thought that it was to be the other way, and that he was to trot beside you.”

“You put it honestly, at all events. Yes. I suppose I thought that. I did not expect this, anyhow—and I simply can’t bear it any longer! So long as there’s any question of social matters, of course, everything is left to me. He can’t leave a card himself, he won’t make visits—he won’t lift a finger, though he wants it all properly and perfectly done. Lottie must trot—with the card-basket. But if I venture to have an opinion about anything, I have no more influence over him than the furniture. I mustn’t say this, because it will be repeated that his wife said it; and I mustn’t say that, because those are not his political opinions; and I mustn’t say something else, because it might get back to Nevada and offend his constituents—and as for doing anything, it’s simply out of the question. When I’m bored to death with it all, he tells me that his constituents expect him to stay in Washington during the session, and he advises me to go away for a few days, and offers to draw me a cheque. He would probably give me a thousand dollars for my expenses if I wanted to stay a week with you. I don’t know whether he wants to seem magnificent, or whether he thinks I expect it, or if he really imagines that I should spend it. But it isn’t that I want, Kitty—it isn’t that! I didn’t marry for money, though it was very nice to have so much—it wasn’t for that, it really, really wasn’t! I suppose it’s absurd—perfectly wild—but I wanted to be somebody, to have some influence in the world, to have just a little of what people call real power. And I haven’t got it, and I can’t have it; and I’m nothing but his poodle-dog, and I’m perfectly miserable!”

Katharine could find nothing to say when her sister paused after her long speech. It was not easy for her to sympathize with any one so totally unlike herself, nor to understand the state of mind of a woman who wanted the sort of power which few women covet, who had practically given her life in exchange for the hope of it, and who had pitiably failed to obtain it. She stared out of the window at the falling rain, and it all seemed very dreary to her.

“It’s my pride!” exclaimed Charlotte, suddenly, after a pause. “I never knew what it meant before—and you never can. It’s intolerable to feel that I’m beaten at the very beginning of life. Can’t you understand that, at least?”

“Yes—but, Charlie dear,—it’s a long way from a bit of wounded pride to a divorce—isn’t it?”

“Yes,” answered Charlotte, disconsolately. “I suppose it is. But if you knew the horrible sensation! It grows worse and worse—and the less I can find fault with him for other things, the worse it seems to grow. And it’s quite useless to fight. You know I’m good at fighting, don’t you? I used to think I was, until I tried to fight my husband. My dear—I’m not in it with him!”

Katharine rose and turned her back, feeling that she could hardly control herself if she sat still. There was an incredible frivolity about her sister at certain moments which was almost revolting to the young girl.

“What is it?” asked Charlotte, observing her movement.

“Oh—nothing,” answered Katharine. “The shade isn’t quite up and it’s growing dark, that’s all.”

“I thought you were angry,” said Mrs. Slayback.

“I? Why should I be angry? What business is it of mine?” Katharine turned and faced her, having adjusted the shade to her liking. “Of course, if you must say that sort of thing, you had better say it to me than to any one else. It doesn’t sound well in the world—and it’s not pleasant to hear.”

“Why not?” asked Charlotte, her voice growing hard and cold again. “But that’s a foolish question. Well—I’ve had my talk out—and I feel better. One must sometimes, you know.” Her tone softened again, unexpectedly. “Don’t be too hard on me, Kitty dear—just because you’re a better woman than I am.” There was a tremor in her last words.

Katharine did not understand. She understood, however, and for the first time in her life, that a frivolous woman can suffer quite as much as a serious one—which is a truth not generally recognized. She put her arm round her sister’s neck very gently, and pressed the fair head to her bosom, as she stood beside her.

“I’m not better than you, Charlie—I’m different, that’s all. Poor dear! Of course you suffer!”

“Dear!” And Charlotte rubbed her smooth cheek affectionately against the rough grey woollen of her sister’s frock.