She had detested him. She had no doubt of that. When she recalled a certain smile of his, and thought of the redness of his lips, she shivered and was disgusted. She did not like to remember his undulating, womanish gait, nor the pallor of his face. Everything about him had repelled her intensely. And yet, when she thought of him lying dead at that moment, she felt a sharp pang, which was very like what she might have felt if she had really missed him. She could not understand that. Then she remembered his voice, and the enchantment of his singing on that night at the Brights’ the song of Lohengrin—the song of the swan, she thought, as it had turned out to be in truth, so far as she was concerned. She wondered whether it were his voice that she was really thinking of with regret. For she certainly felt the little pang. It came again when she remembered that he was dead. She tried it two or three times. It came once more, then very faintly, then not at all, try as she might to think of him as he probably looked. She had never seen any one dead except old Robert Lauderdale, but that was a recent memory. All the details of death were fresh in her mind, and she could picture to herself the quiet household, the subdued voices, the darkened rooms, the flowers. The faint smell of them came back to her. She wondered whether the smell had been so peculiar, and faint, and sickening, because they had been almost all white. But there was no pang of ‘missing’ when she thought of the old man. Yet she had been fond of him, and she had detested Crowdie. She did not understand, as she sat all alone thinking about it. She came to the conclusion that when people die they are missed in proportion to their vitality by those who have not really loved them. Perhaps she was right. The nature and causes of those sudden thrusts which ordinarily sensitive people feel have been very little studied.
But Katharine was sincerely sorry for Hester. She did not know whether to go to her at once, or to wait until the next day. Her impulse was to go immediately, though she asked herself whether Hester could possibly wish to see her, and she tried to put herself in Hester’s place. But the thought that John Ralston might die brought such a burst of pain with it that she rose from her seat and walked about the room, breathing a little faster. Then, having risen, she went downstairs and consulted her mother.
“If I were you, I should go,” said Mrs. Lauderdale. “I’ll go with you, if you like. You’ve always been her best friend. I’m sure she’s been much nearer to you than your sister ever was, hasn’t she? Of course she has. It can’t do any harm to go and ask for aunt Maggie, and if Hester wants to see you, you can go up and I’ll come home alone, or stay downstairs with aunt Maggie until you’re ready.”
“That sounds very sensible,” said Katharine. “I’ll get ready.”
At the house in Lafayette Place everything seemed familiar to the young girl. It was just as she had anticipated. The blinds were drawn down. Old Fletcher, the butler, shuffled and looked red and lachrymose, as he opened the door. There was a strong smell of white flowers.
Presently Mrs. Bright appeared, pale and very grave, in a black frock which was too tight for her and rather old-fashioned—the last one she had worn in her long mourning for her husband. They went into the little room which had been the scene of the trouble on the previous evening. The drawing of old Robert Lauderdale still lay upon the table, where Crowdie had placed it; only the little tea-table was gone. Again Katharine felt that thrust at her heart which she could not explain. It all seemed so near, and yet what was upstairs made such a great difference.
They talked together in subdued tones for a few minutes. Aunt Maggie said that Hester was behaving very strangely, and that she was anxious about her. Walter had always seemed to possess a strange influence over her. Mrs. Bright could not understand it. She herself had never quite approved of the match, and Walter had never endeared himself to her, in spite of his talent and apparent devotion to his wife. Hester was acting very strangely. She was not wild now, She did not scream nor throw herself about. On the contrary, she was so calm that her quiet was positively terrifying. The people—by which term aunt Maggie meant the undertakers—could do nothing without her. She would hardly let them touch poor Walter—she wanted to do everything herself. She must certainly break down, and perhaps lose her reason. People sometimes went mad in that way, but it would be a pity—especially for such a man as Crowdie. No. Walter had never endeared himself to Mrs. Bright.
Katharine looked at the kind-hearted, stout, elderly woman, with her refined face and her air of superiority over the common herd, and wondered whether she had any real feelings. She hardly made a pretence of regret for the young life that had been cut short, though she seemed really anxious for her daughter. She was like the rest of them, thought Katharine, and she really had no heart. That was clear. She asked whether Hester would be willing to see her.
“Really,” answered Mrs. Bright, “she’s behaving so strangely, poor child, that there’s no knowing what she may do. She may be angry if I don’t tell that you’re here. She’s insisted on having him carried into the studio. Poor darling! I let her do as she pleases. But I’ll go and ask her if she’d like to see you. It can’t do any harm, at all events.”
Aunt Maggie left the room, walking on tiptoe and listening before she actually went out, after opening the door.