poem, which you now tell me is yours, had, as its distinguishing
feature, a certain daring. Regarding its other points: its rhythm was
crude and unmelodious; its coloring was exaggerated--reading it, one was
cloyed with color; its logic--for there was an attempt at logic--was
utterly weak." He paused. Mrs. Winthrop was looking straight before her
at the wall across the end of the last room in the vista. Her critic did
not lift his eyes, but transferred his gaze from one section of the
dark old floor to the next as they walked onward.
"All this, however," he resumed, "could be forgiven. We do not expect
great poems from women any more than we expect great pictures; we do not
expect strong logic any more than we expect brawny muscle. A woman's
poetry is subjective. But what cannot be forgiven--at least in my
opinion--is that which I have called the distinguishing feature of the
volume, a certain sort of daring. This is its essential, unpardonable
sin. Not because it is in itself dangerous; it has not force enough for
that; but because it comes, and can be recognized at once as coming,
from the lips of a woman. For a woman should not dare in that way.
Thinking to soar, she invariably descends. Her mental realm is not the
same as that of man; lower, on the same level, or far above, it is at
least different. And to see her leave it, and come in all her white
purity, which must inevitably be soiled, to the garish arena where men
are contending, where the dust is rising, and the air is tainted and
heavy--this is indeed a painful sight. Every honest man feels like going
to her, poor mistaken sibyl that she is, closing her lips with gentle
hand, and leading her away to some far spot among the quiet fields,
where she can learn her error, and begin her life anew. To the pity of
it is added the certain truth that if the words she sang could be
carried out to their logical end, if they were to be clothed in the hard
realities of life and set up before her, they would strike first the
poor creature who was chanting them, and crush her to the dust.
Fortunately there is no danger of this; it is among the impossibilities.
And sometimes the poor sibyls learn, and through the teachings of their
own hearts, their great mistake." As he ended, for the first time he
lifted his eyes from the floor and looked at her.
Katharine Winthrop's face was flushed; the dark color extended over her
forehead and dyed even her throat, and there was an expression as though
only by a strong effort was a tremor of the lips controlled. This gave
to her mouth a fixed look. She was so unlike herself, veiled in that
deep, steady, painful blush, that, involuntarily and earnestly, Ford
said, "I beg you not to mind it so much."
"I mind only that you should dare to say such things to me," she
answered, slowly, as though utterance was an effort.
"Remember that you forced me to speak."
"I did not expect--this."
"How could I know what you expected? But in one way I am glad you made
me go on; it is well that you should have for once a man's true
opinion."
"All men do not think as you think."
"Yes, they do; the honest ones."
"Mr. Percival does not."
"Oh, Percival! He's effeminate."
"So you judge him," said Mrs. Winthrop, to whose utterance anger had now
restored the distinctness.
"We will not quarrel about Lorimer Percival," said Ford; "he is not
worth it--at least, he is not worth it to me." Then, as they entered the
last room, "Take it as I meant it, Katharine," he said, the tone of his
voice changing--"take it as a true woman should. Show me the sweet side
of your nature, the gentle, womanly side, and I will then be your suitor
indeed, and a far more real and earnest one than though I had become
the victim you intended me to be. You may not care for me; you may never
care. But only let me see you accept for your own sake what I have said,
in the right spirit, and I will at least ask you to care, as humbly and
devotedly as man ever asked woman. For when she is her true self she is
so far above us that we can only be humble."
The flush still covered her forehead; her eyes looked at him, strangely
and darkly blue in all this red.
"Curious, isn't it, how things come about?" she said. "You have made me
a declaration, after all."
"A conditional one."
"No, not conditional in reality, although you might have pleased
yourself with the fancy. For I need not have been in earnest. I had only
to pretend a little, to pretend to be the acquiescent creature you
admire, and I could have turned you round my little finger. It is rather
a pity I did not do it. It might have been entertaining."
He had watched her as she spoke. "I do not in the least believe you," he
said, gravely.
"It is not of much consequence whether you believe me or not. I think,
on the whole, however, that I may as well take this occasion to tell you
what you seem not to have suspected: I am engaged to Mr. Percival."
"Of course, then, you were angry when I spoke of him as I did. But I beg
you will do me the justice to believe that I never for a moment dreamed
that he was anything to Mrs. Winthrop."
"Your dreams must be unobservant."
"I knew that he was with you, of course, and that you received his
letters--there is one in your pocket now. But it made no impression
upon me--that is, as far as you were concerned."
"And why not? Even in the guise of an apology, Mr. Ford, you succeed in
insinuating your rudeness. What you have said, when translated, simply
means that you never dreamed that Mrs. Winthrop could be interested in
Mr. Percival. And why should she not be interested? But the truth is,
there is such an infinite space between you that you cannot in the least
comprehend him." She turned towards the door which led to the stairway.
"That is very possible," said Ford. "But I have not now the honor to be
a rival of Mr. Percival's, even as an unfavored suitor; you did not
comply with my condition."
They went down the stairs, past the shining statue of Necker, and out
into the sunshine. Benjamin Franklin brought forward the horses, and
Ford assisted her to mount. "You prefer that I should not go with you,"
he said; "but of course I must. We cannot always have things just as we
wish them in this vexatious world, you know."
The flush on her face was still deep; but she had recovered herself
sufficiently to smile. "We will select subjects that will act as safe
conductors down to commonplace," she said. They did. Only at the gate of
Miolans was any allusion made to the preceding conversation.
He had said good-bye; the two riding-gloves had formally touched each
other. "It may be for a long time," he remarked. "I start towards Italy
this evening; I shall go to Chambéry and Turin."
She passed him; her horse turned into the plane-tree avenue. "Do not
suppose that I could not have been, that I could not be--if I chose--all
you described," she said, looking back.
"I know you could. It was the possibilities in you which attracted me,
and made me say what I did."
"_That_ for your possibilities!" she answered, making the gesture of
throwing something lightly away.
He lifted his hat; she smiled, bowed slightly, and rode onward out of
sight. He took his horse to the stables, went down to the water-steps,
and unmoored his skiff. The next day Sylvia received a note from him; it
contained his good-bye, but he himself was already on the way to Italy.
* * * * *
The following summer found Miss Pitcher again at Miolans. But although
her little figure was still seen going down to the outlook at sunset,
although she still made wax flowers and read (with a mark) "Childe
Harold," it was evident that she was not as she had been. She was
languid, mournful, and by August these adjectives were no longer
sufficient to describe her condition, for she was now seriously ill. Her
nephew, who was spending the summer in Scotland, was notified by a
letter from Cousin Walpole. In answer he travelled southward to Lake
Leman without an hour's delay; for Sylvia and himself were the only ones
of their blood on the old side of the Atlantic, and if the gentle little
aunt was to pass from earth in a strange land, he wished to be beside
her.
But Sylvia did not pass. Her nephew read her case so skilfully, and with
the others tended her so carefully, that in three weeks' time she was
lying on a couch by the window, with "Childe Harold" again by her side.
But if she was now well enough for a little literature, she was also
well enough for a little conversation.
"I suppose you were much surprised, John, to find Katharine still Mrs.
Winthrop?"
"No, not much."
"But she told me that she had mentioned to you her engagement."
"Yes, she mentioned it."
"You speak as though she was one of the women who make and break
engagements lightly. But she is not, I assure you: far from it."
"She broke this one, it seems."
"One breaking does not make a--breaker," said Sylvia, thinking vaguely
of "swallows," and nearly saying "summer." She paused, then shook her
head sadly. "I have never understood it," she said, with a deep sigh.
"It lasted, I know, until the very end of June. I think I may say,
without exaggeration, that I spent the entire month of July, day and
night, picturing to myself his sufferings."
"You took more time than he did. He was married before July was ended."
"Simply despair."
"Despair took on a cheerful guise. Some of the rest of us might not
object to it in such a shape."
But Miss Pitcher continued her dirge. "So terrible for such a man! A
mere child--only seventeen!"
"And he is--"
"Thirty-seven years, eight months, and nine days," answered the lady, in
the tone of an obituary. "Twenty years younger than he is! Of course,
she cannot in the least appreciate the true depth of his poetry."
"He may not care for that, you know, if she appreciates him," said
Ford--Miss Pitcher thought, heartlessly.
During these three weeks of attendance upon his aunt he had, of course,
seen Mrs. Winthrop daily. Generally he met her in the sick-room, where
she gave to the patient a tender and devoted care. If she was in the
drawing-room when he came down, Cousin Walpole was there also; he had
not once seen her alone. He was not staying at Miolans, although he
spent most of his time there; his abode nominally was a farm-house near
by. Sylvia improved daily, and early in September her nephew prepared
for departure. He was going to Heidelberg. One beautiful morning he felt
in the mood for a long farewell ride. He sent word to Sylvia that he
should not be at Miolans before evening, mounted, and rode off at a
brisk pace. He was out all day under the blue sky, and enjoyed it. He
had some wonderful new views of Mont Blanc, some exhilarating speed over
tempting stretches of road, a lunch at a rustic inn among the vineyards,
and the uninterrupted companionship of his own thoughts. Towards five
o'clock, on his way home, he came by Coppet. Here the idle ease of the
long day was broken by the small accident of his horse losing a shoe. He
took him to the little blacksmith's shop in the village; then, while the
work was in slow Swiss progress, he strolled back up the ascent towards
the old château.
A shaggy white dog came to meet him; it was his friend Gibbon, and a
moment later he recognized Mrs. Winthrop's groom, holding his own and
his mistress's horse. Mrs. Winthrop was in the garden, so Benjamin
Franklin said. He opened the high gate set in the stone wall and went
down the long walk.
She was at the far end; her back was towards him, and she did not hear
his step; she started when he spoke her name. But she recovered herself
immediately, smiled, and began talking with much the same easy, graceful
manner she had shown upon his first arrival at Miolans, when they met at
the gate the year before. This meant that she had put him back as an
acquaintance where he was then.
He did not seem unwilling to go. They strolled onward for ten minutes;
then Mrs. Winthrop said that she must start homeward; they turned
towards the gate. They had been speaking of Sylvia's illness and
recovery. "I often think, when I look at my little aunt," said Ford,
"how pretty she must have been in her youth. And, by-the-way, just
before leaving Scotland I met a lady who reminded me of her, or rather
of my idea of what she must have been. It was Mrs. Lorimer Percival."
"She is charming, I am told," said the lady beside him.
"I don't know about the charming; I dislike the word. But she is very
lovely and very lovable."
"Did you see much of her?"
"I saw her several times; but only saw her. We did not speak."
"You judge, then, by appearance merely."
"In this case--yes. Her nature is written on her face."
"All are at liberty to study it, then. Pray describe her."
He was silent. Then, "If I comply," he said, "will you bear in mind that
I am quite well aware that that which makes this little lady's happiness
is something that Mrs. Winthrop, of her own accord, has cast aside as
nothing worth?" As he rounded off this phrase he turned and looked at
her.
But she did not meet his eyes. "I will remember," she answered.
He waited. But she said nothing more.
"Mrs. Percival," he resumed, "is a beautiful young girl, with a face
like a wild flower in the woods. She has an expression which is to me
enchanting--an expression of sweet and simple goodness, and gentle,
confiding trust. One is thankful to have even seen such a face."
"You speak warmly. I am afraid you are jealous of poor Mr. Percival."
"He did not strike me as poor. If I was jealous, it was not the first
time. He was always fortunate."
"Perhaps there are other wild flowers in the woods; you must search more
diligently." She opened the gate, passed through, and signalled to her
groom.
"That is what I am trying to do; but I do not succeed. It is terribly
lonely work sometimes."
"What a confession of weakness!"
He placed her in the saddle. "It may be. At any rate, it is the truth.
But women do not believe in truth for its own sake; it strikes them as
crude."
"You mean cruel," said Katharine Winthrop. She rode off, the groom and
Gibbon following. He went back to the blacksmith's shop. The next day he
went to Heidelberg.
But he had not seen the last of Corinne's old château. On the 25th of
October he was again riding up the plane-tree avenue of Miolans, this
time under bare boughs.
"Oh, John! dear John!" said Miss Pitcher, hurrying into the drawing-room
when she was told he was there. "How glad I am to see you! But how did
you know--I mean, how did you get here at this time of year?"
"By railway and on horseback," he answered. "I like autumn in the
country. And I am very glad to see you looking so well, Aunt Sylvia."
But if Sylvia was well in body, she was ill at ease in mind. She began
sentences and did not finish them; she often held her little
handkerchief to her lips as if repressing herself. Cousin Walpole had
gone to Geneva, "on business for Katharine." No, Katharine was not with
him; she was out riding somewhere. She was not well, and needed the
exercise. Katharine, too, was fond of autumn in the country. But Sylvia
found it rainy. After a while Ford took leave, promising to return in
the evening. When he reached the country road he paused, looking up and
down it for a moment; then he turned his horse southward. It was a
dreary day for a ride; a long autumn rain had soaked the ground, clouds
covered the sky, and a raw wind was blowing. He rode at a rapid pace,
and when he came towards Coppet he again examined the wet track, then
turned towards the château. He was not mistaken; Mrs. Winthrop's horse
was there. There was no groom this time; the horse was tied in the
court-yard. Benjamin Franklin said that the lady was in the garden, and
he said it muffled in a worsted cap and a long wadded coat that came to
his heels. No doubt he permitted himself some wonder over the lady's
taste.
The lady was at the end of the long walk as before. But to-day the long
walk was a picture of desolation; all the bright leaves, faded and
brown, were lying on the ground in heaps so sodden that the wind could
not lift them, strongly as it blew. Across one end of this vista
stretched the blank stone wall, its grayness streaked with wet spots;
across the other rose the old château among the bare trees, cold, naked,
and yellow, seeming to have already begun its long winter shiver. But
men do not mind such things as women mind them. A dull sky and stretch
of blank stone wall do not seem to them the end of the world--as they
seemed at that moment to Katharine Winthrop. This time she heard his
step; perhaps he intended that she should hear it. She turned.
Her face was pale; her eyes, with the dark shadows under them, looked
larger than usual. She returned his greeting quietly; her trouble,
whatever it was, did not apparently connect itself with him.
"You should not be walking here, Mrs. Winthrop," he said as he came up;
"it is too wet."
"It is wet; but I am going now. You have been at Miolans?"
"Yes. I saw my aunt. She told me you were out riding somewhere. I
thought perhaps you might be here."
"Is that all she told you?"
"I think so. No; she did say that you were fond of autumn in the
country. So am I. Wouldn't it be wise to stop at the old man's cottage,
before remounting, and dry your shoes a little?"
"I never take cold."
"Perhaps we could find a pair in the village that you could wear."
"It is not necessary. I will ride rapidly; the exercise will be the best
safeguard."
"Do you know why I have come back?" he said, abandoning the subject of
the shoes.
"I do not," answered the lady. She looked very sad and weary.
"I have come back, Katharine, to tell you plainly and humbly that I love
you. This time I make no conditions; I have none to make. Do with me as
you please; I must bear it. But believe that I love you with all my
heart. It has been against my will; I have not been willing to admit it
to myself; but of late the certainty has forced itself upon me so
overwhelmingly that I had no resource left save to come to you. I am
full of faults; but--I love you. I have said many things that displeased
you deeply; but--I love you. Do not deliberate. Send me away--if go I
must--now. Keep me--if you will keep me--now. You can punish me
afterwards."
They had been walking onward, but now he stopped. She stopped also; but
she said nothing; her eyes were downcast.
"It is a real love I offer you," he said, in a low tone. Then, as still
she did not speak, "I will make you very happy, Katharine," he added.
Her face had remained pale, but at this assertion of his a slight color
rose, and a smile showed itself faintly. "You are always so sure!" she
murmured. And then she laughed, a little low, sweet, sudden laugh.
"Let him laugh who wins," said Ford, triumphantly. The old streaked
stone wall, if dreary, was at least high; no one saw him but one very
wet and bedraggled little bird, who was in the tree above. This bird was
so much cheered (it must have been that) that he immediately chirruped
one note quite briskly, and coming out on a drier twig, began to
arrange his soaked feathers.
"Now," said Ford, "we will have those shoes dried, whether you like it
or not. No more imprudence allowed. How angry you were when I said we
might find a pair in the village that you could wear! Of course I meant
children's size." He had drawn her hand through his arm, and was going
towards the gate.
But she freed herself and stopped. "It is all a mistake," she said,
hurriedly. "It means nothing. I am not myself to-day. Do not think of
it."
"Certainly I shall not trouble myself to think of it much when--what is
so much better--I have it."
"No; it is nothing. Forget it. I shall not see you again. I am going
back to America immediately--next week."
He looked at her as she uttered these short sentences. Then he took her
hands in his. "I know about the loss of your fortune, Katharine; you
need not tell me. No, Sylvia did not betray you. I heard it quite by
chance from another source while I was still in Heidelberg. That is the
reason I came."
"The reason you came!" she repeated, moving from him, with the old proud
light coming back into her eyes. "You thought I would be
overwhelmed--you thought that I would be so broken that I would be
glad--you pitied me--you came to help me? And you were _sure_--" She
stopped; her voice was shaking.
"Yes, Katharine, I did pity you. Yes, I came to help you if you would
let me. But I was not sure. I was sure of nothing but my own obstinate
love, which burst out uncontrollably when I thought of you in trouble. I
have never thought of you in that way before; you have always had
everything. The thought has brought me straight to your side."
But she was not softened. "I withdraw all I have said," she answered.
"You have taken advantage."
"As it happens, you have said nothing. As to taking advantage, of course
I took advantage: I was glad enough to see your pale face and sad eyes.
But that is because you have always carried things with such a high
hand. First and last, I have had a great deal of bad treatment."
"That is not true."
"Very well; then it is not. It shall be as you please. Do you want me to
go down on my knees to you on this wet gravel?"
But she still turned from him.
"Katharine," he said, in a graver tone, "I am sorry on your account that
your fortune is gone, or nearly gone; but on my own, how can I help
being glad? It was a barrier between us, which, as I am, and as you
are--but principally as you are--would have been, I fear, a hopeless
one. I doubt if I should ever have surmounted it. Your loss brings you
nearer to me--the woman I deeply love, love in spite of myself. Now if
you are my wife--and a tenderly loved wife you will be--you will in a
measure be dependent upon your husband, and that is very sweet to a
self-willed man like myself. Perhaps in time I can even make it sweet to
you."
A red spot burned in each of her cheeks. "It is very hard," she said,
almost in a whisper.
"Well, on the whole, life _is_ hard," answered John Ford. But the
expression in his eyes was more tender than his words. At any rate, it
seemed to satisfy her.
"Do you know what I am going to do?" he said, some minutes later. "I am
going to make Benjamin Franklin light a fire on one of those old
literary hearths at the château. Your shoes shall be dried in the
presence of Corinne herself (who must, however, have worn a much larger
pair). And while they are drying I will offer a formal apology for any
past want of respect, not only to Corinne, but to all the other
portraits, especially to that blue-eyed Madame Necker in her very tight
white satin gown. We will drink their healths in some of the native
wine. If you insist, I will even make an effort to admire the yellow
turban."
He carried out his plan. Benjamin Franklin, tempted by the fee offered,
and relying no doubt upon the gloomy weather as a barrier against
discovery, made a bright fire upon one of the astonished hearths, and
brought over a flask of native wine, a little loaf, and some fine
grapes. Ford arranged these on a spindle-legged table, and brought
forward an old tapestried arm-chair for Katharine. Then while she sat
sipping her wine and drying her shoes before the crackling flame, he
went gravely round the room, glass in hand, pausing before each portrait
to bow ceremoniously and drink to its health and long life--probably in
a pictorial sense. When he had finished the circuit, "Here's to you all,
charming vanished ladies of the past," he said; "may you each have every
honor in the picturesque, powdered, unorthographic age to which you
belong, and never by any possibility step over into ours!"
"That last touch has spoiled the whole," said the lady in the tapestried
chair.
But Ford declared that an expression in Madame Necker's blue eye
approved his words.
He now came back to the hearth. "This will never do," he said. "The
shoes are not drying; you must take them off." And with that he knelt
down and began to unbutton them. But Katharine, agreeing to obey orders,
finished the task herself. The old custodian, who had been standing in
the doorway laughing at Ford's portrait pantomime, now saw an
opportunity to make himself useful; he came forward, took one of the
shoes, put it upon his hand, and, kneeling down, held it close to the
flame. The shoes were little boots of dark cloth like the habit,
slender, dainty, and made with thin soles; they were for riding, not
walking. Ford brought forward a second arm-chair and sat down. "The old
room looks really cheerful," he said. "The portraits are beginning to
thaw, presently we shall see them smile."