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?”