“Lord Birmingham has just asked me to become his wife. Am I right in thinking that you—do not wish to be my husband?”
“Yes,” said John, again. “But oh, Miss Farnum—when we talked of this upon the coaching party, you did not——”
Miss Farnum shook her head slightly, as if to wave aside her own case from the question.
“That you do care for Miss Holyoke?”
“Yes,” said he, without hesitating; but more softly still.
“You have chosen nobly, Mr. Haviland.” She said it simply and a little sadly; and then turned to go.
John grasped her hand and detained it for but one second in his own. “I shall never win her,” said he. “And oh, Miss Farnum——”
“No word more,” said the other; and then, gayly, “I have better hopes. Look at me—and see—and see how easy it is to win a woman!” And with a ripple of light laughter, she was gone.
John sank back to his seat, his head, already a little gray, resting on his hand. Kitty Farnum’s was the nature he had admired most of almost any he had ever seen: her soul was individual, cast in that heroic mould that almost seems forgotten in these days of good-nature, of average adaptability. And yet not one single air of inspiration, nor one ray of sympathy nor sunlight that came from higher than the city’s dust had fallen on the lot of this rich flower. Of all humanity, from her vulgar mother to the silly partners of her dances, he alone had said one word of truth to her; and in reward she had given him her heart! She, capable of being any heroine of all the full world’s history; and not one red-cross knight was there to see and save her, nor any man with soul of strength enough to mate with hers; but only this titled barbarian, who saw the outside of her person and was pleased.
But the waltz-music still came through the fragrant fall of flowers that screened this eremite from the loud-laughing world; and the night was getting on. He felt now as if under pledge to lay his heart that night at Gracie’s feet; and went in search of her.