“Katharine! This is too much!” cried Alexander Junior, his anger rising in his eyes.

The man’s heavy hand fell emphatically upon the mantelpiece, making the old-fashioned gilt clock and the Chinese vases tremble and rattle. Mrs. Lauderdale was not a nervous woman, but she rose from her seat and stood beside her husband, not exactly as though she meant to take his side, and yet not exactly as a peace-maker. She felt herself accused as much as he did by the pale, strong girl who stood before them, one hand hanging by her side, the other pulling nervously at the little silver pin at her collar as though she felt that it was choking her. Of the three, at that moment, Mrs. Lauderdale was by far the most self-possessed.

“It’s true,” answered Katharine. “Every word of it’s true!”

As she spoke she caught her breath, and was obliged to stop, white with anger.

“Katharine—my child! Don’t!” cried Mrs. Lauderdale, fearing she was going to faint.

“I think you’d better go, my dear,” said Alexander to his wife. “She’s beside herself. I’ll bring her to her senses.”

The passionate blood rose in the girl’s face and the words came again.

“No, mother—stay here!” she said. “You have no right to go away. Yes—I say that for months you’ve been doing your best, both of you, to destroy my happiness—and you’ll destroy my life with it, if I stay with you longer. You’ve tried to separate me from the man I love, and you’ve been trying every day and every hour to make me marry another man—pushing him on, encouraging him, telling him that I would accept him—for all I know, telling him that I loved him. I’ve not forgotten the things you’ve done—I’ve not forgotten the day when you, mother, you who had stood by us so long, suddenly turned without reason and told Jack to go away. Here, in this very room, last winter—and you, papa—I’ve only to make you remember how you took that letter when it was brought, and kept it all day, and repeated all the lies that people told about Jack—and mother read me the things in the papers—and you made me believe that he had written to me when he was drunk. It was all a lie, a miserable, infamous lie! And you liked it, and repeated it, and turned it over and embroidered it and beautified it—to make it hurt me more. It did hurt me—it almost killed me—but for Jack’s sake, I wish to God it had!”

“Katharine, this is blasphemy!” exclaimed her father, his cold eyes glittering with rage—but he was not fluent, he could find no words to dam the stream of hers.

“Blasphemy!” she cried, indignantly. “Is it blasphemy to pray—unless your God is my Devil?”

Beside himself with passion, her father made a step forward, and with a quick movement covered her mouth with one hand and grasped her arm with the other. But he miscalculated her quickness as against his strength. With a turn of the hand and wrist she was free and sprang backwards a step.

“It’s like you to lay your hands on a woman, after trying to sell her!” she cried, her lips turning a dull grey, her eyes colder and brighter than his own.

Being roused, they were terribly well matched. Mrs. Lauderdale threw herself between them. To do her justice, she faced her husband, with one hand stretched out to warn him back.

“No, no, mother! don’t come between us. I’m not afraid—I only got my mouth free to tell him that he’s a coward to lay his hands on me. But that was his only answer, because the things I say are true—every one of them, and more, too. That’s your one idea—both of you—to marry me off and get me out of the house, because you can’t look me in the face after the things you’ve done—after coming between me and Jack, as you’ve tried to do, and would have done, if we’d loved each other less—after trying to force me upon the first man who took a fancy to my face—after tormenting me to betray uncle Robert’s confidence—and it’s all been for money, and for nothing else. Money, money, money!”

“My child, you’re mad!” cried Mrs. Lauderdale. “What has money to do with it? What are you talking about? Do you know that you’re making the most insane accusations?”

“Let her talk,” said Alexander, in a low, sullen voice. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

Ashamed of his outbreak, perhaps, or in sheer helplessness against Katharine’s desperate speech, he had fallen back again and stood leaning against the mantelpiece, his arms folded over his broad chest, his hands twitching at his sleeve, his pale mouth set like a steel trap, a dull, dangerous light in his eyes.

“You’re mistaken,” continued Katharine. “It’s all for money. Money’s at the root of every action of your life. You didn’t want me to marry Jack because he’s poor, and because uncle Robert might not leave him anything. Money! You thought at first you could make me take Hamilton Bright, because he’s cared for me so long—and because he’s beginning to be rich and is a partner in Bemans’—money, again! Archie Wingfield—how many millions will he have? Money—of course. Uncle Robert’s will—what shall you get by it? Money—and you’d tear the figures out of my head with red hot pincers if you could—just to know how much you’ll have when the poor man’s dead. Ever since we were children, Charlotte and I, you’ve preached economy and saving and poverty—you’ve let my mother—your wife—and you’re the nephew of the great Robert Lauderdale—you’ve let her work her hands and her eyes till they ached to make a little money herself—not for herself only, but for us. No—don’t smile contemptuously like that. She’s done it all my life, and she’s doing it still. Your children could scarcely have been decently dressed, if she hadn’t earned a few hundred dollars for them. There’s hardly a thing I have on that she’s not paid for out of her earnings. We couldn’t have gone to our first ball, Charlotte or I, but for her. And still, day after day, you say you’re poor. Do you think I don’t see all the little meannesses? Do you think I can’t smell the vile cigars you make grandpapa smoke, to save those few cents? Is there a house among all our friends, poor as some of them are, where there isn’t a fire in the library, at least in the evening, even when there’s nobody asked to dinner? Economy, saving, meanness of all sorts—even the poor housemaid who broke her arm on the kitchen stairs! You sent to the hospital the day before she was to leave, half-cured and helpless, and made her sign the declaration that she made no further claim upon you. She came here when you were down town. Mother gave her five dollars—out of her earnings—but I heard her story. Oh, they’re endless, your ways of saving that filthy, miserable money of yours!”

“Are you really mad, Katharine?” asked her father, in a dull, monotonous voice.

“Child! You know we’re comparatively poor,” said Mrs. Lauderdale. “Come—dear child—”

She laid her hand on the girl’s arm as though she would lead her away and end the violent scene, but Katharine stood firm.

“Poor!” she cried, indignantly. “Comparatively poor! Yes—compared with uncle Robert or Mr. Beman, perhaps. But papa is not poor, though he has told you so for years, though he lets you work for money—you! Though he borrows five dollars of you—I’ve seen it again and again—and never returns it—borrows the poor little sums you earn by hard work! Oh, it’s not to be believed! Borrows without ever meaning to give it back—like an honest man—oh, he wouldn’t dare to do that with his dearest friend. But you! You can’t help yourself—”

“My dear, he keeps an account—”

“I know, I know! He pretends that he keeps the money for you and allows you interest! I’ve heard him say so. Interest on five dollars. And have you ever had it? Sordid—mean—there’s no word! And he keeps telling you that he’s poor, and that we must pinch and scrape or we shall go beyond our income—when he has over a million of dollars put away—”

“Be silent!” cried Alexander Junior, with sudden vehemence, his cheeks as grey as ashes.

“I won’t be silent! I’ll say every word I have to say. Look me in the face. Deny, if you dare, before God, that what I say is true—that you have that money put away somewhere. Is it true, or not, as you hope to be saved?”

Mrs. Lauderdale came between them again, laying her hands on Katharine’s arm and trying to make her leave the room.

“Take care, take care!” she cried, anxiously, and hardly knowing what she said. “Alexander—Katharine! Don’t—oh, please don’t quarrel like this—my child, my child! You’re beside yourself!”

“I’m not—it’s true as life and death!” answered the girl, resisting the pressure. “Ask him if it’s not! Make him swear that it’s not true—make him say, before heaven, that he has less than a million, while he’s selling his daughters and forcing his wife to work. Wait—don’t speak—listen to what he says! If he can’t say it, his whole life has been a lie, and he knows it—wait—hush!”

Katharine held her mother fast by the hands, and seemed to hold her own breath, her angry eyes fixed on her father’s face. Mrs. Lauderdale turned her head instinctively, and looked at him. He met their glances for a few seconds, and his dry, pale lips parted as though he were about to speak, but no sound came. In the waning light his eyes had a glassy look. It only lasted a moment, and then his mouth was twisted with an expression meant for a smile.

“Take her away—she’s mad,” he said, and his voice seemed to be suddenly weak.

Katharine laughed aloud, bitterly and cruelly, in her triumph.

“If I were mad, as you say I am,” she said, a moment later, “that would not make it impossible for you to tell the truth. Yes, mother—I’m going now. I’ve said it all—and you know it’s true.”

She dropped her mother’s hands, turned contemptuously away, and left the room. Neither her father nor her mother moved as she went, though they followed her with their eyes until the door closed behind her with a soft click.

Alexander Lauderdale was torn by the strongest emotions of which he was capable—anger and avarice. But avarice was the stronger. So long as Katharine had accused him of unkindness, of dishonesty in his treatment of Wingfield, of meanness in his household, his wrath, though powerless, had kept the upper hand. But at the sudden and unexpected accusation of possessing a fortune in secret, he had been cowed. It was characteristic of him that even in that moment he would not swear falsely, and he saw the folly of denying the statement if he could not support his denial with something like an oath. When passions have reached such a crisis, they are not satisfied with less than they demand. On the whole, it had been wiser to say nothing. He could admit afterwards that he had saved something—he would assure his wife that Katharine’s statement had been exaggerated—little by little, calm would be restored. And there would not necessarily be any increase of expenditure. At that crucial moment two thoughts had been uppermost in his mind. The miser’s dismay at the discovery of his wealth, and the miser’s visions of ruinous expense in the immediate future. In a flash, he had seen himself forced to spend fifty or sixty thousand a year, instead of ten or twelve, and all possible forms of reckless extravagance had appeared to him in a horror of kaleidoscopic confusion. It was torture to think of it—to realize that his secret was out.

The strong man stood, half-stunned, leaning against the mantelpiece, pulling nervously at the bit of embroidered velvet which covered it, his face drawn in an expression of suffering and fear. He dreaded the question which he knew that his wife would ask him, but he had not even the power to speak at that moment, in order to ward it off.

Mrs. Lauderdale hesitated a moment, wondering whether it might not be better to follow Katharine to her room and try to calm her and make her more reasonable. Never, in all the girl’s life, had her mother seen her so passionately angry nor heard her use the tone of defying strength which had rung in her voice as she accused her father. Mrs. Lauderdale herself was frightened, and almost feared for Katharine’s reason. But there had, nevertheless, been so much assurance of truth in what she had said, that her mother was half convinced. Before she left the room to follow her daughter, she turned to her husband, and the inevitable question came. It could not be otherwise. The girl’s accusation had vividly brought before Mrs. Lauderdale the labour she had expended in all the past years, and of which the result had been to give her children what it was their father’s duty to give them if he had anything to give. Many a time, too, she herself had chafed under the necessity of lending him small sums for an emergency, accepting a promise of payment which was never fulfilled, and forced to be satisfied with the assurance that he kept an account of what he owed her. He seemed never to have money about him. He always said that he was afraid of losing it—he, the most careful of men! The cumulative force of those many small meannesses extending over a quarter of a century of married life was tremendous when they were brought up in a body and made to face the positive statement that he was in reality a rich man. A good wife she had been to Alexander Junior in every sense of the word, but of that early trusting love which hides more sins than the multitude of them which charity can cover, there was not left even the warmth where the spark had glowed. There was no ‘a priori’ judgment of one heart against all possible offence and sordid meanness in the other. Katharine’s blow had been heavy and direct, and had gone straight to its mark. Her mother loved her—in spite of her terrible envy of her. It would need the man’s solemn oath to outweigh the girl’s plain statement. The inevitable question came, as Alexander knew that it must. He moved nervously as she began to speak.

“Alexander, dear,” she said, speaking gently from force of habit, “it would be very easy for you to deny this.”

He had thought of what he should say.

“My dear, I think that after spending half a lifetime together, during which you’ve had occasion to find out that I’m truthful, it’s scarcely necessary to pay any attention to an angry child’s ravings.”

But Mrs. Lauderdale was not satisfied with this poor excuse. Katharine had roused her own resentment, and she remembered many things now, which Katharine herself did not know—little things—the dry sticks that will make a smouldering fire blaze.

“It’s precisely because you’re so truthful that it seems strange when you refuse to answer a simple question, Alexander,” observed Mrs. Lauderdale, quietly enough.

She did not wish to take up Katharine’s quarrel, nor to give the present conversation the air of an argument. She therefore did not stay beside him, as though they were discussing any point, but moved about the room, pretending to arrange small objects and books and generally to set the room in order, which was a work of supererogation, to keep herself in countenance while she renewed the attack.

“You admit that I’m truthful,” said Alexander, coldly. “I’m glad you do. That settles the question at once. If I’ve been a rich man all these years, then I’ve not been telling the truth, nor acting it, either. It’s all too absurd for discussion. I confess that at first I was angry. The girl spoke to me in the most outrageous manner. I don’t remember that any one has ever said anything of the kind to me in my life. It’s wrong to be angry, and I repent of it, but I think I may be pardoned—considering what she said. It’s been a disgraceful scene. I’m sincerely thankful that none of the servants were present.”

“Oh—it was natural that you should lose your temper, of course!”

“Human, at all events,” said Alexander, with dignity; “I don’t think I’ve ever made any pretence of possessing superior virtues. A man may justifiably lose his temper sometimes. ‘Be angry and sin not.’ I did not intend to be violent.”

“No—of course not! Still—”

“Yes. I took her by the arm and deliberately laid my hand upon her mouth. That was not violence. Few men of sincere convictions would have done less, considering the blasphemous words she was uttering. It’s the duty of parents to hinder their children from committing such sins, when they can. In the case of a man, I should have used my strength to enforce silence. As it was, I merely covered her mouth with my hand. I recollect that you came between us, as though you thought I meant to be violent. Nothing could have been further from my thoughts, I assure you.”

“I trust so,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, taking a package of envelopes out of the little stationery rack on the writing-table, turning it round and putting it back again.

“With regard to Archibald Wingfield,” continued Alexander, getting further and further from the question of the money, “you know as well as I do, that we have treated him precisely as we treated Slayback, when he wished to marry Charlotte. As for me, I told him that I saw no reason why Katharine might not—‘might not ultimately,’ mind you—accept an offer which was so agreeable to me personally. I fail to see anything which can be criticised in that answer. I should by no means like to say positively, even now, that Katharine ‘might not ultimately’ accept him. That would amount to denying the existence of an evident possibility, which is absurd. She may, so far as that goes. I don’t say she will. I say, she may. Young women frequently change their minds, and sometimes for the better. Let us hope for the best. Of course I don’t know every word of what you said to him, though you did your best on each occasion to tell me all about it. I gathered that you gave him very much the same sort of negative encouragement that I did. Practically, we told him to try his luck.”

Mrs. Lauderdale had rarely heard her husband speak so long consecutively. He was not fluent, as a rule, and in the recent quarrel with Katharine he had been almost speechless. But now he was talking for his life, as it were. If he lost the position of domination which he had held so long with his wife, his existence must be shaken to its foundation. He barely gave her a chance to introduce a word.

“I’m not so positively sure, myself,” she said. “Of course I didn’t mean to convey any wrong impression to young Wingfield, but—”

“But you may perhaps have pardonably exceeded your powers,” interrupted Alexander, anxious that she should not commit herself. “Very pardonable, my dear, very pardonable. Such things happen constantly, even in business. Of course the party who goes beyond his instructions bears the responsibility in case anything goes wrong. Just so in the present case. If there is any responsibility, which may be doubted, it’s yours and not mine, for I’m positively certain of the words I spoke—of the very words. I said ‘might not ultimately accept’—I recollect very distinctly, and you know how accurate my memory is.”

“Yes—I know,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale, in a tone which might have been thought to give the words a doubtful meaning.

“Of course you do, my dear. If Wingfield got a wrong impression,—‘if he did,’ mind you,—he must have got it from you. I think you might perhaps explain that to Katharine—when she’s a little calmer. I can’t allow her to think that her father, whom she’s bound to respect, should have done such a thing. A man’s actions carry much more weight than a woman’s. I couldn’t allow her to think that I’d taken her feelings for granted. There’s no immediate hurry, Emma, but I should be glad if you would explain it to her. It will help to restore peace. As for her reasons for rejecting Wingfield,” he continued, without pausing for his wife’s answer, “I regret them very much. It’s a miserable thing to see such a girl wasting her chances of happiness on such a reprobate as Jack Ralston, and I do her the honour to say that such an affection can’t possibly be lasting. As for her marrying him, of course that’s altogether outside the question. I’m sure she clings to the attachment far more out of a desire to oppose my wishes in everything, than because she really cares for that vagabond. I’ve not the slightest fear that she’ll ever marry him. I’m sure you don’t think so, either.”

“Unless she runs away with him,” suggested Mrs. Lauderdale.

She was annoyed by the skill with which he, who was ordinarily less keen, had passed from the main subject in question to a side issue. She did not know how a great passion like avarice can sharpen wits under danger of discovery.

“Oh, well!” exclaimed Alexander, with much dignity. “If she runs away with the fellow, that puts her altogether beyond the pale of our love, and we shall have done with her. We won’t discuss that. The objection to this pretence of loving Ralston—for I’m convinced that it’s nothing else—is that it keeps her from marrying a man worthy of her, like Archibald Wingfield. Of course there are people far richer than the Wingfields—uncle Robert, for instance, besides the others who are so much richer even than he, and count their millions by the hundred; but taking him all in all, there’s not a better match in society—for looks, and education, and position, and health, too, which I regard as a very important consideration. You must agree with me, my dear—Wingfield would have made an excellent husband.”

“Of course I agree with you, Alexander. What an unnecessary question!”

“My dear, when the very foundations of one’s life are being torn up and thrown out of the window by a silly girl, it becomes necessary to ask all the simplest questions over again.”

This extraordinary simile produced no very convincing effect on Mrs. Lauderdale, who had listened to phrase after phrase of his long tirades with exemplary outward resignation, for the sake of allowing peace to be restored by the overflow of self-conscious virtue, but with little inward patience.

“I think the best thing to do is to let the whole matter drop, and hope that Katharine will change her mind,” she said, sensibly.

“Yes. Let’s hope that, at all events. Emma, we can’t have any more scenes like this. If Katharine breaks out in this way again, I shall refuse to see her. You may, if you please. But I will not. When I’m at home she shall stay in her room.”

“But that’s impossible!” exclaimed Mrs. Lauderdale, in astonishment. “You wouldn’t treat a child like that!”

“I would,” answered Alexander, and his lips snapped on the words. “And I will, if there’s any repetition of such conduct. That’s a matter for me to judge, Emma, and I don’t wish you to interfere. She has accused her own father of being a liar, of selling her, of being a miser, and of stealing his wife’s money. You can’t deny that, and I presume you’ve no intention of supporting the accusations. Yes, even as it is, I prefer that Katharine should not appear this evening. When she’s begged my pardon for what she’s done, I’ll consent to see her. Not before. Pray tell her that this is my decision, Emma.”

“But, Alexander, I never heard of such a thing! Of course she lost her temper and was awfully rude to you, and I’m very much displeased with her. But really—you can’t treat a grown woman like a baby. It’s too absurd.”

“It’s not absurd, my dear. You must excuse me if I adopt Katharine’s method of contradiction. The only way to treat her is to treat her as a child. If we consider her to be a grown woman, we must either resent what she’s done—as though she were any other woman—or else take it for granted that she is temporarily insane, and drive her out to Bloomingdale Asylum to-morrow morning to be cured. But so long as we regard the whole thing as childish, it’s sufficient to tell her that she’s not to come to table until she’s begged my pardon. Don’t you see?”

Mrs. Lauderdale was aware that he was talking nonsense, approximately speaking, and she saw that he meant to do a very unwise thing. But as he put it, the only good argument against his course would have been to prove that Katharine was right and that he was wrong, which, with some allowance for undue and angry exaggeration, would be equivalent to proving him a miser and anything but a straightforward person. Mrs. Lauderdale’s trouble was considerable at that moment.

“You may be right in theory,” she said, almost despairingly, “but in practice I think you’re quite wrong. One doesn’t do that sort of thing nowadays. If we’ve all got to fight like mad people, let’s keep it to ourselves—”

“That’s precisely what I’m thinking of,” interrupted Alexander, whose resolution was growing stronger every moment.

“Yes—but, my dear! The servants—and your father, too! I don’t think he’s very discreet—”

“Yes, exactly, my dear Emma. That’s just how I look at it. I think I know Katharine quite as well as you do, and I’m sure that if she has an opportunity of attacking me, she will, before the servants and before my father. I should much rather let people know that I had told Katharine to stay in her room until she could treat me with proper respect, than have such a conversation as has just taken place here repeated all over New York. I’m sure you see that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale, suddenly comprehending his point of view. “But it seems to me that if there’s to be such an open break, it would be better to let Katharine go down to Washington for a few days and stay with Charlotte.”

“Certainly not!” exclaimed Alexander. “You know what Charlotte is, and what trouble we have had with her. The two girls would make common cause. Not at all. Not at all, Emma. I shall be glad if you will go at once and tell Katharine what I’ve said—that I don’t wish to see her until she has made amends for her outrageous conduct.”

“But, Alexander,” protested Mrs. Lauderdale, “it will be so inconvenient—sending her dinner upstairs!”

“I daresay it won’t be for long. She’ll understand in a day or two, I’ve no doubt.”

“I can’t do it,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, trying to make a stand. “It’s too utterly—extraordinary—”

“My dear, I’m the master in this house,” answered Alexander, coldly. “I wish it to be so. But if you’d rather not speak to her, I’ll go myself. She irritates me, but I’m glad to say she doesn’t intimidate me. As for such domestic difficulties as serving Katharine in her own room, they can be got over. Let your maid take the child her dinner.”

“Well—if you insist, I’ll go,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, weakly yielding. “I couldn’t let you go—you’d quarrel again.”

“I don’t insist upon your going, my dear—I have no right to. But I insist upon the thing being done.”

Mrs. Lauderdale went towards the door. She paused before she went out. “I think you’re going too far, Alexander,” she said. “I think you’re tyrannical.”

“I think not,” he answered, coolly. “I should refuse to sit down to table with a man who had used such language to me. I don’t see why I should submit to it from Katharine.”

“Well—”

Mrs. Lauderdale closed the door behind her, and slowly went upstairs, feeling as though she had been driven from the field after a crushing defeat. Yet she had made very little resistance. With her, the man’s cold, arrogant personality was dominant. She had always submitted to it because there seemed to be no other course. She was conscious of wishing that during the last five minutes she might have possessed her daughter’s character and fighting qualities, especially when her husband had quietly thrust all the blame about the treatment of Wingfield upon herself, without considering for a moment that his own words might have been misinterpreted.

She did not altogether sympathize with him against Katharine. For many years she had felt the galling of his miserable meanness, and had many times suspected that he was by no means as poor as he chose to declare himself to be.