THE RALSTONS
CHAPTER XVI.
Ralston was mistaken in supposing that Katharine had abandoned all idea of leaving the house on the Park because it was so late. Depressed as she was, and in almost constant pain from her arm, the atmosphere was altogether too melancholy for her to bear. Moreover, she saw how utterly unnatural her staying must seem in the eyes of the world, should her acquaintances ever find out that she had remained all alone in the great house after her uncle’s death. After Mrs. Ralston had left her, she had made up her mind to leave in any case, had caused her belongings to be got ready, and had ordered a carriage. But she had not quite decided whither she would go, and Ralston found her in the library still turning the matter over.
“Oh, Jack!” she cried, “I’m so glad you’ve come, dear!”
“I came this morning,” he answered. “But you weren’t awake yet. You’re dressed to go out—surely you’re not going to move at this hour? Tell me—how’s the arm? Does it hurt you much?”
“Oh—it hurts, of course,” said Katharine, almost indifferently. “That is—it’s numb, don’t you know? But Doctor Routh says there’s nothing to be done for a day or two, and he hasn’t moved the bandages. Now don’t talk about it any more—there are other things much more important. Sit down, Jack—there, in uncle Robert’s chair. Poor uncle Robert!” she exclaimed, in a different tone, realizing that the old man would never sit beside her again.
“Poor man!” echoed Ralston, with real sorrow in his voice.
There was silence for a moment while they both thought of him. The stillness of the whole house was oppressive. There was an odour of many fresh flowers, and the peculiar smell of new black stuffs which the disposers of the dead bring with them. With a sort of instinct of sympathy, John bent down and kissed the gloved wrist of Katharine’s left hand as it lay on the arm of the easychair. She looked at him quickly, moved her hand a little towards him in thanks, and smiled sadly before she spoke.
“Jack—I can’t stay here,” she said. “I’m not nervous, you know, but I’m not quite myself after all this. It’s too awfully melancholy. Every time I go to my room I have to pass the door of the room where he’s lying—and then I go in and look at him. It’s got to be a fixed idea—if I go near the door I have to go in. And it brings it all back. Then all the people—they come in shoals. There have been ever so many who’ve wanted to look. It’s that horrible curiosity about death. All the relations. Even the three Miss Miners came. I thought they’d never go. Of course I don’t see them, so I have to be always dodging in here or into the drawing-room, or the gallery, or else I have to stay in my room. It will be worse to-morrow.”
“Yes,” answered Ralston. “You ought not to stay.” He paused a moment. “Dear,” he added, “I want you to know it at once—I’ve told my mother that we’re married—”