“Never but once—at the same time, you know, when they were all against me. It didn’t last long.”
“Exactly. You’ve had your fights with men, I suppose, and all that. It’s quite different. But I’ve lived all my life in the most especial garden of our family tempers. Four of us—grandpapa, papa, Charlotte, and I—and my mother as the only peacemaker, with her Kentucky blood! But she’s always done her best, and we love each other dearly, she and I, though we’ve been tearing each other’s hair out for the last four months—until the other day. Now we’re friends again, Jack; she’s been splendid, you know, or rather, you don’t half know!”
“And what happened the other day, to save your remaining locks?” enquired Ralston, with a smile.
“Oh, I can’t tell you. Perhaps she will, some day. But as I was saying, you can’t imagine what my life at home has been all these years. I’m not sure whether it hasn’t been worse since Charlotte was married. You know what we are—we’re so awfully polite when we fight. Ham Bright’s the only one who gets rough when he’s excited. That’s California and Nevada, I suppose. But we! we quarrel with all solemnity. A family of undertakers couldn’t do it more gravely. It always seems to me that papa ought to have a band on his hat and black gloves when he begins. Yes, it’s funny to talk about. But it’s not pleasant to live in the middle of it. We’re all used to being on the defensive. Charlotte didn’t mind what she said to papa, but she used to pick her words and arrange her phrases—like knives all stuck up in a neat row for him to fall upon. And he generally fell, and hurt himself badly—poor papa! He’s not very clever, though he’s so precise about what he knows. And every now and then mother would strike out with one of her dashing southern sentiments, and then I’d say something, and when nobody thought that grandpapa had heard a word of the conversation, he’d suddenly make a remark—a regular Lauderdale remark that set everybody by the ears again. But it’s only since you and papa had that awful scene—you know, when you first wanted to marry me—it’s only since then that he’s got into the habit of raising his voice and being angry, and—” She stopped short.
“And generally behaving like a fiend incarnate,” suggested Ralston, by way of ending the sentence.
“Oh, well—let’s leave them alone, dear,” answered Katharine. “It’s all going to be so different now. I only wanted to explain to you what I meant by quarrelling, that’s all. I want to forget all about it, and live with you forever and ever, and ever, and be perfectly peaceful and happy—as we shall be. Look at the sunset. That’s much better than talking about those horrid old times, isn’t it?”
They stood by the edge of the river, on the road that runs along from pier to pier. Katharine laid her hand upon Ralston’s arm, and felt how it drew her gently close to him, and glancing at his face she loved it better than ever in the red evening light.
The sun was going down between two clouds, the one above him, the other below, grey and golden, behind Brooklyn bridge, and behind the close-crossing pencil masts and needle yards of many vessels. From the river rose the white plumes of twenty little puffing tugs and ferry-boats far down in the distance. Between the sun’s great flattened disk and the lovers’ eyes passed a great three-masted schooner, her vast main and mizzen set, her foresail and jib hauled down, being towed outward. It was very still, for the dock hands had gone home.
“I love you, dear,” said Katharine, softly.
But Ralston answered nothing. Only his right hand drew her left more closely to his side.