“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.