Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “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 i
t 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.

  CHAPTER VII.

  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—”