Katharine turned her eyes from him and looked thoughtfully at the
hearth-rug. A little silence followed Wingfield’s last speech, as he sat
gazing at her and hoping for a word of encouragement. But none came, and
by slow degrees the eager expression faded from his face and left it
anxious and pained.
“Miss Lauderdale--” he began, in an altered tone, and then stopped
suddenly. “Miss--Katharine--” he began again, more softly, and still
hesitated.
She looked up, and though her eyes were turned towards him, he fancied
they did not see him. She was pale, and her lips were a little drawn
together, and there was an incongruity between her attempt to smile and
the weary tension of the brows. Everything in her face told that she
pitied him with all her heart.
“I’m very sorry,” she said, with real sympathy. “It’s been a mistake
from the beginning--a great mistake.”
“Please don’t say that!” he answered, impulsively--for he was impulsive,
in spite of his solid, well-balanced strength. “Please don’t answer me
yet--”
“But I must!” she protested, and the look of pity became more set.
“No, no! Please don’t! Wait a little--and--and let me tell you--”
“It can do no good,” she answered, with a sudden rough effort. “You’ve
been misled--I didn’t know--”
“What?” he asked, softly. “That--that I cared so much--and meant
always--all along--from the very first--it’s always been so, ever since
I saw you that first night at the Bretts’, after I came back from
Europe--only it’s more so, every time, till I can’t keep it back any
more, and I’ve got to speak, and tell you--”
“Mr. Wingfield--” began Katharine, thinking, womanlike, to chill him by
the formal enunciation of his name with a protest in the tone, kindly
though it was.
“Yes--you think so now,” he answered, irrelevantly. “But I don’t ask you
to answer, I only ask you to listen to me--and, indeed, I don’t want you
to think that it’s any one’s fault, nor that there’s any fault at all,
because I know it will all come right, and you’ll care for me a little,
even if you don’t now. I’ve spoken too soon, perhaps, and perhaps I’ve
been rough or rude--or something--and I don’t know how to tell you as I
should--because I’ve never told anybody such things--don’t you believe
me, Miss Katharine? But you wouldn’t think any the better of me if I
knew how to make beautiful speeches and phrases, and that sort of thing,
would you?”
“Oh, no--no--and you’ve not been anything but nice--only--”
“I can’t help it--you’re my whole life, and I must tell you so now. Of
course, lots of men worship you, and I daresay they know how to say it
ever so much better--and that they’re very much nicer men than I am.
But--but there isn’t one of them, I don’t care who he is, who cares--who
loves you as I do, or would do what I’d do for your sake, if I could, or
if I had a chance. And even if you don’t care for me at all yet, I’ll
love you so that you will--some day--and it’s not the sort of love
that’s just flowers and attention and that, you know, like everybody’s.
It’s got hold of me--hard, and it won’t let go--ever! It’s changed my
whole life. I’m not at all as I used to be. You’re in everything I do,
and see, and think, and hear, as life is--and without you there wouldn’t
be any life in anything. Don’t think I don’t feel things because I’m so
big, and I don’t look sensitive, and all that--or because I can’t put it
into words that touch you. It’s true, for all that, and all I ask is
that you should believe me. Won’t you believe me a little, Katharine?”
The great limbs of the young Achilles quivered, and his strong hands
strained upon one another, and there was the clear ring of whole-hearted
truth in the deep voice, in spite of the incoherence and poverty of the
words.
“I believe you,” answered Katharine, looking at the rug again. “It isn’t
that. But I won’t let you think for one instant that there’s the least
possibility of my ever caring for you, or marrying you. It’s absolutely
impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible!” he answered, impetuously. “Nothing except that
you should never care at all when I’d give my life for your little
finger, and my soul for your life--with all my heart, and be glad to
give either--”
“It hurts me very much to hear you talk like this--because you’ve been
misled and deceived--my father and mother--”
“How can they know what you think and feel?” asked Wingfield. “I only
spoke to them because it seemed right and fair, being so much in
earnest, and I couldn’t tell but what there might be some one else--I
had no right to pry into your secrets and watch you and try and find
out--it wouldn’t have seemed nice. So I asked your father, and then Mrs.
Lauderdale--but I didn’t suppose they knew absolutely--of course they
couldn’t answer for you--in that way. And I say it again--don’t make up
your mind--don’t send me off--wait--only wait! You don’t know how love
grows out of what seems to be nothing till it’s bigger and stronger than
the biggest and strongest of us--you can’t feel it growing any more than
you could feel that you were growing yourself when you were small; and
you can’t remember when it began, any more than you can remember what
you thought of when you were a year old. That doesn’t make it less real
afterwards--love’s such a little thing at the beginning, and by and by
it takes in everything, so that the whole world is nothing beside it.
And if you’ll only not make up your mind--”
“It’s made up for me, long ago--in a way you don’t dream of. It’s
absolutely, and wholly, and altogether impossible, and it always will
be, no matter what happens. Oh, I can’t say more than that, Mr.
Wingfield--and it wouldn’t be true if I said less!”
“But it can’t be really true!” he protested, bending forward in his low
chair. “Of course you think so--but how can you possibly tell? I don’t
mean to say that you’re changeable, or capricious, or anything of that
kind--but people do change, you know. Why--I hate to say it--but you
couldn’t say more than that if you were married and I didn’t know it!”
Katharine started, though she was strong and her nerves were good. He
had made the reflection very naturally, in answer to the very positive
words she had spoken. But to her it seemed as though he must know, or at
least guess, the truth. She lost her balance for a moment, as she gazed
earnestly into his honest black eyes.
“Mr. Wingfield--do you know what you’re saying?” she asked, in a low
voice.
He was afraid he had said something monstrous, and his face fell.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he stammered, awkwardly. “I’m awfully
sorry if I said anything I shouldn’t--”
Katharine forgot his contrition, and forgot to reassure him in the
anxiety caused her by the mere suspicion that he might know the truth.
She sat staring at him in silence for several seconds, wondering what he
knew. It was more than he could bear. He bent still nearer to her, from
the edge of his chair, and his hands moved a little towards her,
beseechingly, in as near an approach to an eloquent gesture as such a
man could have used.
“Please don’t be angry with me!” he said.
“Oh, no!” she answered, in an odd voice, with a little start. “I was
only thinking--”
He did not understand, and he moved backward into his chair suddenly,
crossed one knee over the other with an impatient jerk, and looked away
from her.
“What a brute I am!” he exclaimed, in a barely audible tone.
Katharine paid no attention to this self-condemnation. Her eyes rested
thoughtfully on his face, and she seemed to be reflecting. She was
examining her own conscience, trying to find out how far her actions
could have brought about the state of things she saw. A woman who loves
one man with all her heart has small pity for any other, though she may
know that she ought to feel pity and to show it. But she does not
therefore lose her sense of justice.
“Will you tell me one thing, Mr. Wingfield? Will you answer me one
question?” she asked, at last.
He turned to her quickly again, with a look of surprise. She was out of
tune with him, so to say, and her words and tone jarred strongly upon
his own mood.
“Certainly,” he answered, much more coldly than he had spoken yet. “I’ll
try and answer any question you ask me.”
“Do you really and truly feel that I’ve encouraged you, as though I
meant anything?” she asked, slowly.
It would not have been easy to put a question harder to answer honestly.
Wingfield did not like it. A man hates to be put in the position of
either telling a falsehood or giving offence, with no alternative but an
unmannerly refusal to speak at all. Wingfield felt that, in the first
place, he had been badly used in spite of his protestations to the
effect that no one was to blame. It had been unpardonable of Mr. and
Mrs. Lauderdale to be so mistaken in their own daughter--he put it
charitably--as to expose him to such an uncompromising and final refusal
as he had received. He went no further in that direction. He did not
think of himself as a very desirable son-in-law, and a very good match
in fortune, because, like most people, he supposed that when the
Lauderdale estate was divided, Katharine would ultimately have her share
of it, a fact to which he was indifferent. He did not, therefore, accuse
the Lauderdales of having intentionally led him on. But they had acted
irresponsibly. And now he fancied that Katharine was very angry with him
for what he had said a few moments earlier, and he thought she was
unjust, since he had really said nothing very terrible. So he resented
her last question as soon as she had asked it, and he hesitated before
replying. Katharine waited patiently a few moments.
“Do you really think I’ve been flirting?” she asked at last, seeing that
he did not answer.
“No!” he cried, at once. “Oh, no--not that! Never. If you ask me whether
you’ve ever looked at me, or spoken to me as though you really
cared--no, you never have. Not once. But then--there are other things.”
“What other things? What have I done?” Feeling that he had admitted the
main point in her favour, she grew a little hard.
“Well--you’ve let me come a great deal to see you, and you’ve let me
send you--oh, well! No--I’m not going to say that sort of thing. I got
the impression, somehow--that’s all.”
“You got the impression, from what I did, that I liked you--that I
encouraged you?” she asked, anxiously.
“Yes. I got that impression. Besides, you’ve often shown plainly enough
that you liked to dance with me--”
“That’s true--I do. You dance very well. And I do like you--as I like
several other people. It isn’t wrong to like in that way, is it? It
isn’t flirting? It isn’t as though I said things I didn’t mean, is it?”
“No,” answered Wingfield, in an injured tone. “It’s not. Still--”
“Still, you think there’s been something in my behaviour to make you
think I might care? I’m very sorry--I’m very, very sorry,” she repeated,
her voice changing suddenly with an expression of profound regret. “Will
you believe me when I tell you that it’s been altogether unconscious?
You can’t think--if you care for me--that I’d be so heartless and cruel.
You won’t, will you?”
“No--I don’t want to think it. I misunderstood--that’s all. Put it all
on me.”
He was very young, and he was cruelly hurt. He spoke coldly, lest his
words should choke him.
“No,” answered Katharine, speaking almost to herself, “there are other
people to blame, whose fault it is.”
“Perhaps.”
A silence followed. It was warm in the room. One of the windows was a
little raised, and the bells of the horse-cars jingled cheerfully in the
spring air. At last Katharine spoke again.
“I suppose it doesn’t mean much to you when I say I’m sorry,” she said.
“If you knew, it would mean much more. I’m very much in earnest, and I
shall never forget this afternoon, for I know I’ve hurt you. I think
you’re a little angry just now. It’s natural. You have a right to be.
Since you think that I’ve made you understand things I didn’t mean, I
wonder you’re not much more angry--that you don’t say much harder things
to me. It wouldn’t really be just, because I’m very unhappy, whether I’m
to blame or not. But you’re generous. I shall always be grateful to you.
You won’t bear me any more ill-will than you can help, will you?”
“Ill-will? I? No! I’m too fond of you--and besides, I’ve not done hoping
yet. I shall always hope, as long as I live.”
“No--you mustn’t hope anything,” answered Katharine, determined not to
allow him the shadow of any consolation. “It wouldn’t be just to me. It
would be like thinking that I were capricious. I’m not going to talk to
you about friendship, and all that, as people do in books. I want you to
try and forget me altogether--for I believe you--you really care for me.
So there’s no other way--when one really cares. Don’t come here any more
for the present--don’t try to meet me at parties--don’t ask me to dance
with you. The world’s very big, and you needn’t see me unless you wish
to. By and by it will be different. Perhaps you could go abroad for a
little while again. I don’t know what your plans are, but it would be
better if you could. The season will be over--it’s almost over now, and
then you’ll go one way and I shall go another, and there’s no reason why
we should meet. We mustn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to me, and it wouldn’t
be fair to you, either. You see--it’s not as though you were
disagreeable. If we meet at all, I couldn’t help being very much the
same as ever, and you know what I’ve made you think of that. You’ll
promise, won’t you?”
“Not to try and see you sometimes? No, I won’t promise that. I shall
always hope--”
“But there is no hope. There’s not the slightest possibility of any
hope. If you knew about me, you’d understand it.”
“Miss Lauderdale--will you think it very rude if I ask one question?
I’ve--I’ve put my whole life into this--and you’re sending me away
without a word. So perhaps--I think you might--”
“What is it?” asked Katharine, kindly.
“Are you engaged to Jack Ralston? I’ve heard people say that you were,
so often. Would you tell me?”
Katharine was silent for a moment. She did not know exactly how far it
would be true to say that she was engaged to John, seeing that she was
married to him. Her marriage, she thought, might be looked upon as a
formal betrothal, and there would have been little harm in taking that
view of it, under such circumstances. But she had inherited from her
father something of his formal respect for the mere letter of truth, and
she did not like to say anything which did not conform to it.
“We’re not exactly engaged,” she answered, after a short pause. “But we
care for each other very much.”
Wingfield’s brow cleared a little. He had one of those dispositions
which hope in spite of apparent certainty against them.
“Then I’ll go away for awhile,” he said, with sudden resolution and
considerable generosity, from his point of view. “If you don’t marry
him, I’ll come back, that’s all. I’m glad you told me. Thank you.”
It requires considerable self-control to act as Archibald Wingfield did
on that occasion. His voice did not tremble, and he did not turn pale,
because it was not in his nature to experience that sort of physical
weakness when he was making an effort. But what he did was not easy.
Even Katharine could see that. He sat still a few moments after he had
spoken, glanced at her once, as though to make sure that there was to be
no appeal, and then rose suddenly from his seat, and stood towering
above her.
“Good-bye,” he said, holding out his hand, and stooping to bring it
within her reach. Now that the effort had been made, his voice trembled
a little.
“Good-bye,” answered Katharine, taking his hand, and lifting her head
almost without raising her eyes.
There was something almost like timidity in her tone. She felt how he
had been wronged by her father and mother, and in her trouble she was
willing to believe that she was really a little to blame herself. She
realized, too, that he was acting very bravely and honestly, and that he
was really suffering. It was not a grand, dramatic agony, and eloquence
was the least of his gifts, but he was strong, young, and in earnest,
and had been made to undergo pain for her sake. She was ashamed of
having been the cause of it.
No other words suggested themselves to her, but he waited one moment, as
though expecting that she would speak again. Then he silently dropped
her hand, and bowing his head a little, went quietly to the door without
looking back. She did not follow him with her eyes, but she listened for
the sound of the latch, and it did not come quite so soon as she
expected. He had turned to look at her once more, his hand on the door.
“God bless you--Katharine,” he said, in a low voice.
She looked round at him quickly, and the faint, sorrowful smile came
back to her face. Her lips moved, but no words came. He gazed at her one
moment, and then took his young grief out into the spring air and the
evening sunshine.
When Katharine was alone, she sighed and gazed at the hearth-rug,
bending forward in a thoughtful attitude, her chin supported in her
hand.
“How hard it is!” she exclaimed to herself.
It seemed to her that the difficulties of her life grew with every
passing day. She had, indeed, cut the knot of one of them within the
last half hour, and so far as Archibald Wingfield was concerned, the
hard thing had been done, and he knew the worst. But she, on her part,
had much to bear yet. She had seen to-day, for the first time, how her
father and mother longed to have her married. Even now, she found it
difficult to suspect either of them of intentional cruelty, or of
attempting to use anything more than persuasion in pushing her into the
match. With her faculty for seeing both sides of a question at once, she
was just. It was natural, perhaps, that they should wish her to marry
such a man. She had never seen any one like him--such a magnificent
specimen of youthful manhood. Even her father could not compare with
him. And he had much besides his looks to recommend him, much besides
his fortune and his position and his popularity. He was brave and
honest, and able to love truly, as it seemed.
He would recover, of course, she said to herself. He was sought after,
flattered, and pursued for many reasons. He could find plenty of young
girls only too delighted to marry him, and he would certainly marry one
of them before long. His life was not blighted, and she had not broken
his heart, if hearts ever break at all. She remembered what she had once
borne, in the belief that John Ralston was disgraced for life on that
memorable occasion when all New York had learned that he had been
brought home, apparently drunk, after a midnight encounter with a
pugilist, who had found occasion to quarrel with him in a horse-car. The
belief had lasted a whole night and a whole day, and she did not think
that young Wingfield could be suffering anything like that. Moreover,
her love for Ralston made her ruthless and almost hard about every
other man. Nevertheless, she was sincerely sorry for the man who had
just left her--the more so, perhaps, because she had little or nothing
with which to reproach herself.
Katharine was not left to her own reflections very long. By a process
akin to telepathy, Mrs. Lauderdale was soon aware that Archibald
Wingfield had left the house. In the half hour during which his visit
had lasted, she had not touched her miniature, though she had looked at
it, and turned it to and from the light many times. She was very
nervous, and she wished that when he went away he might forthwith take
himself off to China, at the very least. She did not wish to meet him
that evening, nor the next, to be called to account by him for having
exceeded her powers in the impression she had conveyed of Katharine’s
readiness to marry him. Yet she remembered that she had acted very much
in the same way when Charlotte had married Benjamin Slayback. It was
true that Slayback was a much older man, and well able to take care of
himself, and that Charlotte had not at the time been showing any
especial preference for any of her adorers. She had, in fact, just then
dismissed one for the grievous offence of having turned out an
unutterable bore after three weeks of almost unbroken conversation,
during which she had exhausted his not fertile intellect, as furnace
heat dries a sponge. Charlotte’s heart had been comparatively free,
therefore, and she had been indulging in dreams of power and personal
influence. But Mrs. Lauderdale and her husband had on that occasion used
to Mr. Slayback almost the identical words which she had lately repeated
to Wingfield; Slayback had come, had proposed,--in what manner Charlotte
had never revealed,--and had been immediately accepted. Surely, there
was nothing wrong in assuming that Katharine might possibly behave in
the same way, seeing how very much more desirable a suitor Wingfield was
than Slayback. Thus argued Mrs. Lauderdale, as she tried to trip up her
conscience and step over it. But she was too good by nature to be
successful in such a fraud upon goodness, and in the midst of her
involuntary self-reproaches, her heart was beating with anxiety to know
the result of the interview.
It meant a great deal to her, for she was sure that if Katharine could
be removed from the household, peace must descend upon her own soul once
more, and she longed for peace. Somehow, she felt that if she could only
enjoy that supremacy of her wonderful beauty for one month more--for one
last month, before she grew old--she could meet Katharine again, and
forgive her all her youth and freshness, and forgive herself for having
envied them. As her life was now, she could not, try how she would. The
pain was upon her hourly, and she could not but resent it, and almost
hate the cause of it.
Though she constantly looked at her miniature, and moved the brushes and
little saucers on the table, her hearing was preternaturally sharpened,
as it was in reality the barely audible sound of the distant front door
which told her that Wingfield was gone. Instinctively she looked towards
the door of her own room, hesitated, then rose suddenly, and went out
with a quick, nervous step, and a determined look in her face. Without
stopping to consider what she should say, she descended to the library.
Katharine looked up with an expression of annoyance as her mother
entered.
“He’s gone, then?” said Mrs. Lauderdale, interrogatively.
“Yes. He’s just gone,” answered Katharine, in a voice that did not
promise confidence.
“What did you tell him, dear?”
Mrs. Lauderdale sat down beside her daughter. The smile she put on was
as unnatural as the endearing tone, and Katharine observed it. She
suffered in the artificiality which had developed in her mother of late,
so unlike the dignified personality which she had been used to love.
“Really, mother, I can’t repeat the conversation. I couldn’t if I wished
to. What difference does it make what I said, since he’s gone? I told
you what I should say. Well--I’ve said it.”
“You’ve sent him away for good--just like that?”
“I’ve told him the plain truth, and he’s gone. He won’t come
back--unless he wants to see you,” she added, rather bitterly. “I don’t
think he will, though. You’ve not exactly helped him to be happy.”
“Katharine!” There was an injured protest in the tone.
“I don’t see why you should be surprised,” answered the young girl. “Of
course he might take it into his head to be angry with you for what
you’ve done. It wasn’t very nice. I’m not sure that, in his place, I
should ever wish to see you again.”
“My child, what an exaggeration! You talk as though I had deliberately
sought him out and asked him to the house--almost asked him to marry
you.”
“It comes to that,” observed Katharine, coldly.
“Really, Katharine, you’re--beyond words!” Mrs. Lauderdale drew back a
little, in displeasure, and looked at her severely.
“I could forgive you,” continued the young girl, “if you hadn’t known
that I love Jack and never shall marry any one else. You know it and
you’ve always known it. That makes it much worse. You’ve made that poor
man suffer without the slightest reason. You could just as well have
told him that you knew I cared for some one else, and you could have
been as nice to him as you pleased. You’ve hurt him, and you’ve driven
me to hurt him, by no fault of mine, just to undo the mischief you’ve
done. Of course, it’s papa who’s really done it all, but you needn’t
have let him twist you round his little finger like a wisp of straw.”
“Oh, Katharine! Anything more unjust!”
“I’m not unjust, mother. But I’m too old to think everything you do is
perfect, merely because it’s you. When I see a man like Archie Wingfield
sitting there and straining his hands to keep himself quiet, and choking
with the sound of his own words, I know he’s suffering--and when I know
that he’s suffering uselessly, and that it’s all your fault and papa’s,
I judge you--that’s all. I’m a grown woman. I have a right to judge.”
The door opened and Alexander Junior appeared upon the threshold, just
returned from his office.
“I heard your voice, so I came in,” he said, with an electric smile
which was meant to be conciliatory. “Oh!” he exclaimed, in altered
tones, as he saw the faces of the two women, “has anything happened?”
For a moment there was silence. Mrs. Lauderdale looked at the empty
fireplace, avoiding the eyes of both her husband and her daughter. But
Katharine leaned back in her seat and faced her father. Her voice was
almost as cold and steely as his could be when she answered him at last.
“Mr. Wingfield has just asked me to marry him,” she said. “And I have
refused him--unconditionally.”
“You’ve done an exceedingly foolish thing, then,” answered Alexander
Junior. “And you’ll be very sorry for it before long.”
He came nearer and stood by the fireplace, laying one authoritative hand
upon the mantelpiece, and shaking the forefinger of the other in a
warning manner.
“I’m the best judge of that,” answered Katharine, undaunted and
unimpressed by his parental tone.
“You’re not,” answered Mr. Lauderdale. “You’ve acquired a habit of
contradicting me lately. It seems to be a part of your plan for being as
utterly undutiful and disobedient as you can. I warn you that I won’t
submit to it any longer.”
“It’s of no use to threaten me, papa,” answered Katharine, controlling
herself as well as she could. “And it doesn’t do any good to call me
undutiful and disobedient so often. It doesn’t make it true.”
“Katharine!” cried her mother, in a tone of distress which was not
artificial.
“I know what I’m saying, mother--”
“Then you should be sincerely ashamed of yourself, Katharine,” said
Alexander Junior. “As sincerely as I’m ashamed that a daughter of mine
should use such language.”
Katharine rose slowly from her chair and stood up before him, while her
mother remained seated.
“Neither of you have any right to say that you’re ashamed of anything
I’ve done,” she said. “As for my language, it’s mild enough--for what
you’ve done. I’ve been ashamed of you both to-day--here, in this room,
half an hour ago. You’ve told an honest man who’s foolishly in love with
me that I cared for him, and would have him if he would ask me, when you
know that I will never marry any one but Jack Ralston. It seems to me
that I’ve had good reason to be ashamed of you. It was hard to look him
in the face, and tell him that my father and mother had misled and
deceived him--to make him own that he had it all from you, and that I’d
not given him the shadow of a reason for thinking that I cared for
him--that he had it all from you. Oh, it was so plain! Not that you can
deny it--and you tell me that you’re ashamed of me! If I didn’t love
Jack, do you know what I’d have done? I’d have married Archie Wingfield
to save you your respect for yourself, and a little of his for you!”
“I refuse to listen any longer to such insane nonsense,” said Alexander
Junior, whose slow wrath was rising by degrees.
“You shall listen to me,” answered Katharine. “I’m fighting with you for
my life and happiness, and you’ve got to face me like an honest
man--though you are my father!”