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Ralstons

<h2>CHAPTER VI.</h2> Katharine was in her room that afternoon towards five o’clock, when a servant knocked at her door, disturbing her as she was composing a letter to her best friend, Hester Crowdie. She looked up with an expression of annoyance as the door opened and the maid entered. “Oh—what’s the matter?” she asked, impatiently striking the point of her pen upon the edge of the glass inkstand. “Mr. Wingfield’s downstairs, Miss Katharine,” answered the girl. “Oh—is he? Well—” Katharine tapped her pen thoughtfully upon the glass again, and a quick contraction of the brow betrayed her displeasure. “Shall I tell the gentleman that you’ll be down, Miss Katharine?” enquired the other. “No, Annie. Tell him I’m out. That is—I’m not out, am I?” “No, Miss Katharine.” Katharine let her pen fall, rose and went to the window in hesitation. The bit of red ribbon which had served as a signal to John was pinned to the small curtain stretched over the lower sash. She looked at it thoughtfully, and forgot Mr. Wingfield for a moment. “Shall I show the gentleman into the library, Miss Katharine?” asked Annie, in an insinuating tone. “Oh, well! Yes,” said Katharine, turning suddenly. “Tell Mr. Wingfield that I’ll be down in a few minutes, if he doesn’t mind waiting. I suppose I’ve got to,” she added, audibly, before Annie was well out of the room. She glanced at herself in the looking-glass, but without interest. Then she slipped her unfinished letter into the drawer of the little writing-table by the window, at which she had been sitting, and turned towards the door. But before she left the room she paused, hesitated, and then went back to the table, locking the drawer and withdrawing the key, which she slipped behind the frame of an engraving. She had become unreasonably distrustful of late. Instead of going down to the library, she knocked at the door of her mother’s morning room. It chanced that Mrs. Lauderdale was at home that afternoon, which was unusual in fine weather. Mrs. Lauderdale was sitting by the window at the table she used for her miniature painting. She had talent, and had been well taught in her girlhood, and her work was distinctly good. Amateurs more often succeed with miniature than in any other branches of art. It is harder to detect faults when the scale of the whole is very minute. Mrs. Lauderdale was bending over a piece of work she had lately begun. All the little things she used were lying about her on the wooden table, the tiny brushes, the saucers for colours, the needle-pointed pencils. She looked up as Katharine entered, and the latter saw all the lines in the still beautiful face accentuated by the earnest attention given to the work. The eyelids were contracted and tired, the lips drawn in, one eyebrow was raised a little higher than the other, so that there were fine, arched wrinkles in the forehead immediately over it. The faces of American women of a certain age, when the complexion is fair, favour the formation of a multitude of very delicate crossing and recrossing lines, not often seen in the features of other nationalities. “What is it, child?” asked Mrs. Lauderdale, quietly, with her soft southern intonation. “Mr. Wingfield’s there again,” answered Katharine, with unmistakable disgust. “Well, my dear, go down and see him,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, blandly. “Did you send word that you’d receive?” “Yes. I’m going to tell him not to come any more.” Katharine went behind the table, so that she faced her mother and looked directly into her eyes. For several seconds neither spoke. “I hope you won’t do anything so rude,” said Mrs. Lauderdale at last, without avoiding the gaze that met hers. “We all like Mr. Wingfield very much.” “I daresay. I’m not finding fault with him, nor his looks, nor his manners, nor anything.” “Well, then—I don’t see—” “Oh, yes, you do, mother,—forgive my contradicting you,—you know very well that he wants to marry me, and that you want me to marry him. But I don’t mean to. So I shall tell him, as nicely as I can, to give up the idea, and to make his visits to you, and not to me.” “But, Katharine, dear—nobody wishes to force you to marry him. We don’t live in the Middle Ages, you know.” “There’s a resemblance,” answered Katharine, bitterly. “Katharine! How can you say anything so unjust!” “Because it’s true, mother. I’m not blind, you know, and I’m not perfectly insensible. I see, and I can feel. You don’t seem to think it’s possible to hurt me—and I don’t think you mean to hurt me, as papa does.” “You’re quite out of your mind, my child! Your father loves you dearly. He wouldn’t hurt you for the world. Don’t talk such nonsense, Katharine. Go and see Mr. Wingfield, and be decently civil for half an hour—he won’t stay even as long as that. Besides, you can’t tell him not to come any more. He hasn’t asked you to marry him. You may think he means to, but you can hardly take it for granted like that.” “No, but he means to ask me to-day,” answered Katharine. “And I haven’t encouraged him in the least.” “Then how do you know?” “Oh—one can always tell.” “It’s not exactly true to say that you’ve not encouraged him,” said Mrs. Lauderdale, thoughtfully. “He’s been here very often of late, and you’ve danced the cotillion with him twice, at least. Then there was his coaching party—only the other day—and you sat beside him. He’s always sending you flowers, and books, and things, too. It isn’t fair to say that he’s had no encouragement. You’ll get the reputation of being a flirt if you go on in this way.” “I’d rather be called a flirt than marry Archibald Wingfield,” replied Katharine. “At all events you might have some consideration for him, if you’ve none for yourself. Don’t be foolish, Katharine dear. Take my advice. Of course, if you could take a fancy to him, quite naturally, we should all be very glad. I like him—I can’t help it. He’s so handsome, and has such good manners, and speaks French like a Parisian. I know—you may laugh—but in these days, when people are abroad half the time—and then, after all, my dear, you certainly can’t be really sure that he means to ask you to-day. Very likely he won’t, just because you think he’s going to.” “Of course, mother, you know that’s absurd! As though it wasn’t evident—besides, those flowers this morning. Didn’t you see them?” “What about them? He often sends you flowers.” “Why, the box was all full of primroses, and just two roses—extraordinary ones—lying in the middle and tied together with a bit of grass. Imagine doing such a thing! And I know he tied them himself, on account of the knot. He’s a yachting man, and doesn’t tie knots like the men at the flower shops.” “Oh, well, my dear—if you are going to judge a man by the way he ties knots—” Mrs. Lauderdale laughed as she broke off in her incomplete sentence. Then her face grew grave all at once. “Take my advice, my child—marry him,” she said, bending over her table once more and taking up a little brush, as though she wished to end the interview. “Certainly not!” answered Katharine, in a tone which discouraged further persuasion. Mrs. Lauderdale sighed. “Well—I don’t know what you young girls expect,” she said, in a tone of depression. “Mr. Wingfield’s young, good-looking, well-educated, rich, and he adores you. Perhaps you don’t love him precisely, but you can’t help liking him. You act as though you were always expecting a fine, irresistible, mediæval passion to come and carry you off. It won’t, you know. That sort of thing doesn’t happen any more. When you want to get married at last, you’ll be too old. You have your choice of almost any of them. For a girl who has no money and isn’t likely to have much for a long time, I don’t know any one who’s more surrounded than you are. Of course I want you to marry. I don’t believe in waiting till you’re twenty-five or thirty.” “I don’t intend to.” “Well, you will, my dear, unless you make up your mind soon. It’s all—” “Mother,” interrupted Katharine, “you know very well that I’ve made my choice, and that I mean to stand by it.” “Oh—Jack Ralston, you mean?” Mrs. Lauderdale affected a rather contemptuous indifference. “That was a foolish affair. Girls always fall in love with their cousins. You’ll forget all about him, and I’m sure he’s forgotten all about you. He hardly ever comes to the house now. Besides, you never could have married poor Jack, with his dissipated habits, and no money. Uncle Robert doesn’t mean to leave him anything. He’d gamble it all away.” “You called me unjust a moment ago,” said Katharine, in an altered voice, and growing pale. “Of course—you take his part. It’s no use to discuss it—” “It’s not discussion to abuse a man who’s bravely doing his best. Jack doesn’t need any one to take his part. Do you know that he’s altogether given up his old life at the club—and all that? He’s at Beman Brothers’ all day long, and when you don’t see him in society, he’s quietly at home with cousin Katharine.” “Yes—I heard he was doing a little better. But he’ll never get rid of the reputation he’s given himself. My dear, you don’t seem to remember that poor Mr. Wingfield is waiting for you all this time downstairs.” “It will be the last time, at all events,” answered Katharine, in a low voice. “I’ll never see him alone again.” She turned from her mother towards the door. Mrs. Lauderdale followed her with her eyes for a moment, then rose swiftly and overtook her before she could let herself out. “Katharine—I won’t let you send Mr. Wingfield away like that!” said Mrs. Lauderdale, in a quick, decided tone. “Won’t let me?” repeated Katharine, slowly. “No—certainly not. It’s quite out of the question—you really mustn’t do it!” Mrs. Lauderdale was becoming agitated. “Do you mean that it’s out of the question for me to refuse to marry Mr. Wingfield?” Katharine had her back against the door and her right hand upon the knob of the lock. “Oh—well—no. Of course you have the right to refuse him, if he asks you in so many words—” “Of course I have! What are you thinking of?” There was a look of something between indignation and amusement in her face. “Yes—but there are so many ways, child. Katharine,” she continued, almost appealingly, “you can’t just say ‘no’ and tell him to stop coming—you’ll change your mind—you don’t know what a nice young fellow he is—” Katharine’s hand dropped from the door-handle, and she folded her arms as she faced her mother. “What is all this?” she asked, deliberately and with emphasis. “You seem to me to be very excited. I should almost fancy that you had something else in your mind, though I can’t understand what it is.” “No—no; certainly not. It’s only for your sake and his,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale, hurriedly. “I’ve known it happen so often that a girl refuses a man just because she’s in a temper about something, and then—afterwards, you know—she regrets it, when it’s too late, and the man has married some one else out of spite.” “How strangely you talk!” exclaimed Katharine, gazing at her mother in genuine surprise. “My dear, I only don’t want you to do anything rash and unkind. You spoke as though you meant to be as hard and cold as a mill-stone—as though he’d done something outrageous in wanting to marry you.” “Not at all. I said that I should refuse him and beg him to stop coming to see me. There’s nothing particularly like a mill-stone in that. It’s the honest truth in the first place—for I won’t marry him, and you can’t force me to—” “But nobody thinks of forcing you—” “I don’t know. Perhaps not,” answered the young girl, doubtfully. “But it’s of no use, for I won’t. And as for telling him not to come—why, it’s rather natural, I think. It just makes the refusal a little more definite. I don’t like that way girls have of refusing a man once a month, and letting him come to see them for a whole season, and then marrying him after all. There’s something mean about it—and I don’t think much of the man who lets himself be treated in that way, either. If Mr. Wingfield is really all you say he is, he may not be just that kind, and he’ll understand and take his refusal like a gentleman, and not torment me any more. But it’s just as well to make sure.” “Promise me that you’ll be kind to him, Katharine—” “Kind? Oh, yes—I’ll be kind enough. I’ll be perfectly civil—” “Well—what shall you say to him? That you like him, and hope to be good friends, but that you don’t feel—” “Dear mother!” exclaimed Katharine, with perfect simplicity, “I’ve refused men before. I know how to do it.” “Yes—of course—but Mr. Wingfield—” “You’ve got Mr. Wingfield on the brain, mother!” She laughed a little scornfully. “One would think that you were his mother, and were begging me to be kind and nice and marry your son. I don’t understand you to-day. Meanwhile, he’s waiting.” “One moment, child!” exclaimed Mrs. Lauderdale, laying her hand on Katharine’s as it went out towards the knob of the door. “You don’t know—there are particular—well, there are so many reasons why you shouldn’t be rough with him. Can’t you just say that you’re touched by his proposal and will think it over?” “Certainly not!” cried Katharine, indignantly. “Why should I keep the poor man hanging on when I don’t mean to marry him—when I won’t—I’ve said it often enough, I’m sure. Why should I?” “It would be so much easier for him, if you would—to please me, darling child,” continued Mrs. Lauderdale, in an almost imploring way, “just to please me! I don’t often ask you to do anything for me, do I, dear? And you’re not like Charlotte—we’ve always been such good friends, love. And now I ask you this one thing for myself. It isn’t much, I’m sure—just to say that you’ll think it over. Won’t you? I know you will—there’s a dear girl!” Mrs. Lauderdale bent her head affectionately and kissed Katharine on the cheek. The young girl tried to draw back, but finding herself against the door, could only turn her face away as much as possible. She did not understand her mother’s manner, and she did not like it. “But it’s only a moment ago that you were talking about my acting like a flirt!” she objected, vehemently. “If it isn’t flirting to give a man hope when there is none, what is?” “No, dear; that’s not flirting; it’s only prudence. You may like him better by and by, and I should be so glad! Flirting is drawing a man on as you’ve done with him, and then throwing him over cruelly and all at once.” “I’ve not drawn him on, mother! You shan’t say that I ever encouraged him.” “I don’t know. You’ve accepted his flowers and his books—” “What was I to do? Send them back?” “You might have told him not to send so many, and so often; you needn’t have read the books. He’d have seen that you didn’t care.” “Oh, this is ridiculous, you know!” “No, it’s not, my darling! And as for the flowers, of course you couldn’t exactly send them back, but you weren’t obliged to wear them.” “Nobody wears flowers now, so it wasn’t probable that I should feel obliged to. Really, mother, you’re losing your head!” Mrs. Lauderdale shifted her position a little, moving towards the side of the door on which the lock was placed, and laying her hand affectionately on Katharine’s, as though still to detain her. “Yes,” she said, “I’d forgotten that we don’t wear flowers any longer. But that isn’t the question, dear. I only ask you not to send him away suddenly, with a ‘no’ that can’t possibly be taken back. I’m dreadfully afraid that you’ll hurt the poor fellow, and I can’t help feeling that he has reason—that you’ve given him reason to expect that you’ll at least consider the question. Dear child, I only ask you this once. Won’t you do it to please me? We’re all so fond of Wingfield—” “But why? why? If I don’t mean to have him, how can I? I really can’t understand. Is there any family reason for being so particular about Mr. Wingfield’s feelings? We’ve never been so very intimate with his people.” “Reasons,” repeated Mrs. Lauderdale, absently. “Reasons? Well, yes—but it isn’t that—” She stopped short. “Mother!” Katharine looked keenly into her face. “You’ve been talking to him yourself! I can see it in your eyes!” “Oh, no!” answered Mrs. Lauderdale. “Oh, no—what makes you think that?” But she looked away, and Katharine saw the blush of confusion rising under the transparent skin in her mother’s cheek. “Yes—you’ve given Mr. Wingfield to understand that I’m in love with him,” said Katharine, in a low voice. “Katharine, how can you!” Mrs. Lauderdale was making a desperate effort to recover herself, but she was a truthful woman, and found it hard to lie. “You’ve no right to say such things!” “Yes—I see,” answered Katharine, not heeding her. “It’s all quite clear to me now. You and papa have drawn him on and encouraged him, and now you’re afraid that I shall put you in an awkward position by sending him away. I see it all. That’s the reason why you’re so excited about it.” “Katharine, dear, don’t accuse me of such things! All I said was—” She stopped short. “Then you did say something? Of course. I knew that was the truth of it!” “I said nothing,” answered Mrs. Lauderdale, going back to a total denial. “Except, perhaps, we have given him to understand that we should be glad if you would marry him.” “We? Has papa been talking to him, too?” asked Katharine, indignantly. “Don’t be so angry, child. It’s quite natural. You don’t know how glad your father would be. It’s just the sort of match he’s always dreamed of for you. And then I think it was very honourable in young Wingfield, when he found that he was in love with you, to speak to your father first.” “Scrupulously! He might be French! He might have tried to find out first whether I cared for him at all. But I’ve no doubt you told him that he had only to ask and I should take him to my heart with pride and pleasure! Oh, mother, mother! You never used to act like this!” “But, my dear child—” “Oh no,—don’t call me your dear child like that—it doesn’t mean anything now. You’re completely changed—no, don’t keep me! That poor fellow’s waiting all this time. You can’t have anything more to say to me, for I know it all. A word more—which you may have said to him, or a word less—what does it matter? You’ve turned on me, and now you’re doing your best to marry me, just to get rid of me. As for papa, he leaves me no peace about poor uncle Robert’s will. And he calls himself an honest man, when he’s trying to force a confidence that doesn’t belong to him, out of—yes—out of sheer love of money. Oh, it’s not to be believed! Let me go, mother! I won’t keep that man waiting any longer. It isn’t decent. There’ll be one lie less, at all events!” “Katharine, dear! Stay a minute! Don’t go when you’re angry—like this!” But Katharine’s firm hand was opening the door in spite of her mother’s gentle, almost timid, resistance. “No—I’m not angry now,” answered the young girl. “It’s something different—I won’t hurt him—never fear!” In a moment she had left the room, and her mother heard the quick footfall on the stairs, as she stood listening by the open door. Mrs. Lauderdale had got herself into terrible trouble, and she knew it. Katharine had, in part, guessed rightly, for if Mrs. Lauderdale had not told young Wingfield in so many words that her daughter loved him, she had yet allowed him to think so, and had been guilty of a sin of omission in not undeceiving him. There is a way of listening which means assent, as there is a way of assenting in words which mean a flat refusal. Alexander Lauderdale had gone farther. He had distinctly told Wingfield, in his wife’s presence, that he had no reason to believe that his daughter might not,—he saved his scrupulous conscience by the ‘might,’—might not ultimately accept a proposal which was so agreeable to his own wishes. Mrs. Lauderdale had been shocked, for, as it was spoken, the phrase sounded very untrue, though when precipitated upon paper and taken to pieces, it is found to be cautious enough. ‘Might,’ not ‘would’—and ‘ultimately,’ not by any means at the first attempt. Yet the impression had been conveyed to Wingfield’s mind that Katharine was predisposed in his favour, in spite of the reports which had so long been circulated about her engagement to Ralston. Mrs. Lauderdale had, for a moment, almost believed that her husband had told an untruth. But on talking the matter over with him, his dignity of manner, his clear recollection of his own words, and the moderate stress which he laid upon the ‘might’ and the ‘ultimately,’ not only reassured her, but persuaded her to say almost the same thing the next time she saw Wingfield. The young fellow always sought her out at a party, and confided to her all he felt for Katharine, and Mrs. Lauderdale sympathized with him, as she had once sympathized with Jack Ralston, unconscious that she was doing anything wrong. He was handsome, frank, and winning, and she longed to see Katharine married. The reasons were plenty. Many cold and good women enjoy being made the confidantes of young lovers. The atmosphere of the passion is agreeable to them, though they may know little of the passion itself. Mrs. Lauderdale had not fully realized the meaning of what she had been doing until Katharine made it plain to her that afternoon. And then, although her conscience told her that she was in the wrong, and though she had spoken to the girl entreatingly and gently, she became angry with her as soon as she was left to herself. The tortuousness of a good woman’s mind when she has hurt her own conscience surpasses by many degrees that of an ordinary criminal’s straightforwardly bad ingenuity. Meanwhile, Katharine descended to the library, paused a moment in the entry, and then opened the door. Archibald Wingfield’s black eyes met her as she entered the room. He was standing before the empty fireplace, with his hands behind him, warming them perhaps at an imaginary fire, for they were cold. He was very much in love with her, and Katharine’s girlish instinct was right, for he had come with the determined purpose of asking her to be his wife. She had kept him waiting fully twenty minutes, and during that time he had interpreted the delay in at least as many different ways. As she came in, the colour rose in his brown cheeks and his heart beat fast. Archibald Wingfield was said to be the handsomest young man in New York society, which is saying a good deal, notwithstanding those captious persons who write and speak sarcastically about the round-shouldered, in-kneed, flabby-cheeked youth of the present day. Of late years, during the growth of what is now the young generation in society, there has been a very sudden improvement in the race and type of boys and girls. Any one can see that who does not wilfully close his eyes. Wingfield stood fully six feet four inches without his shoes, was broad-shouldered, deep-chested, and thin-waisted as a young Achilles. His feet were narrow, strong, and straight, his legs those of a runner rather than a walker, his hands broad and brown, with great, determined-looking thumbs, marked sinews, and the high, blue veins of a thoroughbred animal. The splendid form was topped by a small, energetic head, with slightly aquiline features, the clean-shaven lips that made a bold, curved, bow-like mouth, flat, healthy, brown cheeks, a well-rounded chin, deepened in the middle with the depression which is nature’s hall-mark on superior physical beauty—a moderately full forehead, very small ears, jet black, short, smooth hair, and wide, honest black eyes with rough black eyebrows. Under the brown colour there was rich blood, that mantled like scarlet velvet in summer’s dusk. He spoke in a low, self-possessed, unaffected voice, with an English accent, common enough to-day among young men who have been much abroad during their education. Wingfield had been at Christ Church, had got his degree in the ordinary course, and was hesitating as to his future career between the law, for which he was now reading, and a country life of gentleman farming and horse-breeding in western New York, which attracted him. His people were all rich, all good-looking, and all happy. His ideals were chiefly in his own family. When he had returned from England, he had been something of a hero among the young, owing to his having pulled five in the Oxford boat when the latter had won the University race in the previous spring, a very unusual distinction for a foreign-born athlete in England. With his great height, he was still proud of having trained to twelve stone eleven for the race. In the matter of outward advantages John Ralston’s spare figure and lean, Indian face could not compare favourably with such a man as Archibald Wingfield. Nor had Wingfield’s reputation borne the strain and the shocks which John’s had barely survived. The man seemed born to success, happiness and popularity, as many of his family had been successful, popular and happy before him. He himself believed that all he needed in order to be happier than any of them was to get Katharine Lauderdale’s consent to be his wife. And he loved her so much, and was so nervous in the anticipation of what was to come, that his hands had turned cold, his healthy heart was bouncing like a football in his big chest, the blood rushed to his brown cheeks, and he almost dropped his silk hat as she entered the room. “How do you do, Miss Lauderdale?” He came forward with a gigantic stride, and then suddenly made a short little step, as he found himself already close to her. “How do you do?” she asked, quietly repeating the inane question we have adopted as a form of greeting and recognition. She looked up—far up, it seemed to her—into his brilliant black eyes, and understood how much in earnest he was, before he said anything more. Vaguely, as in a dream, she remembered how, several months earlier, in that very room and almost at that very hour, John Ralston had come to her and she had persuaded him to make her his wife. “Thank you so much for the flowers,” she said, sitting down in her favourite little arm-chair on one side of the empty fireplace. He murmured in a pleased but incoherent fashion as he pushed a chair into a convenient position and sat down—not too near her—setting his hat upon the floor beside him. He rested his two elbows on his knees, and his chin on his folded hands, and looked at her with unblushing, boyish admiration. “But please don’t send me any more flowers, Mr. Wingfield,” said Katharine, going straight to the point by an effort of will. A puzzled look came into his face instantly. His hands dropped upon his knees, and he sat upright in his chair. “Why not?” he asked, simply. “I mean,” he added, fancying he had put the question roughly, “is it rude to ask why not? It gives me so much pleasure—if you like them a little, you know.” It hurt Katharine to see the simplicity of the man, and it made her face burn to think that he had been played upon. “Because I’d rather not,” she answered, very gently. “I—I don’t think I quite understand,” said Wingfield, with some hesitation. “I know—you often say that I mustn’t send them so much—but then, you know, one always says that, doesn’t one? It doesn’t seem to mean anything except a sort of second ‘thank you’—” “I mean more than that,” said Katharine, smiling faintly, in spite of herself. “But so do I!” exclaimed the young man. “I mean so much more than that—I always have, from the very beginning—” “Please don’t!” cried Katharine, anxiously, for she saw that he meant to speak at once—but it was too late. “From the very beginning, since almost the first time I ever saw you—oh, my—my dear Miss Lauderdale—won’t you let me say it at last?” “No—no—please—” “If you only knew how hard I’ve tried—not to say it before,” he blurted out, as the blood rose warm in his brown cheeks. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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