Katharine Winthrop’s face was flushed; the dark color extended over her forehead and dyed even her throat, and there was an expression as though only by a strong effort was a tremor of the lips controlled. This gave to her mouth a fixed look. She was so unlike herself, veiled in that deep, steady, painful blush, that, involuntarily and earnestly, Ford said, “I beg you not to mind it so much.”
“I mind only that you should dare to say such things to me,” she answered, slowly, as though utterance was an effort.
“Remember that you forced me to speak.”
“I did not expect—this.”
“How could I know what you expected? But in one way I am glad you made me go on; it is well that you should have for once a man’s true opinion.”
“All men do not think as you think.”
“Yes, they do; the honest ones.”
“Mr. Percival does not.”
“Oh, Percival! He’s effeminate.”
“So you judge him,” said Mrs. Winthrop, to whose utterance anger had now restored the distinctness.
“We will not quarrel about Lorimer Percival,” said Ford; “he is not worth it—at least, he is not worth it to me.” Then, as they entered the last room, “Take it as I meant it, Katharine,” he said, the tone of his voice changing—“take it as a true woman should. Show me the sweet side of your nature, the gentle, womanly side, and I will then be your suitor indeed, and a far more real and earnest one than though I had become the victim you intended me to be. You may not care for me; you may never care. But only let me see you accept for your own sake what I have said, in the right spirit, and I will at least ask you to care, as humbly and devotedly as man ever asked woman. For when she is her true self she is so far above us that we can only be humble.”
The flush still covered her forehead; her eyes looked at him, strangely and darkly blue in all this red.
“Curious, isn’t it, how things come about?” she said. “You have made me a declaration, after all.”
“A conditional one.”
“No, not conditional in reality, although you might have pleased yourself with the fancy. For I need not have been in earnest. I had only to pretend a little, to pretend to be the acquiescent creature you admire, and I could have turned you round my little finger. It is rather a pity I did not do it. It might have been entertaining.”
He had watched her as she spoke. “I do not in the least believe you,” he said, gravely.
“It is not of much consequence whether you believe me or not. I think, on the whole, however, that I may as well take this occasion to tell you what you seem not to have suspected: I am engaged to Mr. Percival.”
“Of course, then, you were angry when I spoke of him as I did. But I beg you will do me the justice to believe that I never for a moment dreamed that he was anything to Mrs. Winthrop.”
“Your dreams must be unobservant.”
“I knew that he was with you, of course, and that you received his letters—there is one in your pocket now. But it made no impression upon me—that is, as far as you were concerned.”
“And why not? Even in the guise of an apology, Mr. Ford, you succeed in insinuating your rudeness. What you have said, when translated, simply means that you never dreamed that Mrs. Winthrop could be interested in Mr. Percival. And why should she not be interested? But the truth is, there is such an infinite space between you that you cannot in the least comprehend him.” She turned towards the door which led to the stairway.
“That is very possible,” said Ford. “But I have not now the honor to be a rival of Mr. Percival’s, even as an unfavored suitor; you did not comply with my condition.”
They went down the stairs, past the shining statue of Necker, and out into the sunshine. Benjamin Franklin brought forward the horses, and Ford assisted her to mount. “You prefer that I should not go with you,” he said; “but of course I must. We cannot always have things just as we wish them in this vexatious world, you know.”
The flush on her face was still deep; but she had recovered herself sufficiently to smile. “We will select subjects that will act as safe conductors down to commonplace,” she said. They did. Only at the gate of Miolans was any allusion made to the preceding conversation.
He had said good-bye; the two riding-gloves had formally touched each other. “It may be for a long time,” he remarked. “I start towards Italy this evening; I shall go to Chambéry and Turin.”
She passed him; her horse turned into the plane-tree avenue. “Do not suppose that I could not have been, that I could not be—if I chose—all you described,” she said, looking back.
“I know you could. It was the possibilities in you which attracted me, and made me say what I did.”
“That for your possibilities!” she answered, making the gesture of throwing something lightly away.
He lifted his hat; she smiled, bowed slightly, and rode onward out of sight. He took his horse to the stables, went down to the water-steps, and unmoored his skiff. The next day Sylvia received a note from him; it contained his good-bye, but he himself was already on the way to Italy.
The following summer found Miss Pitcher again at Miolans. But although her little figure was still seen going down to the outlook at sunset, although she still made wax flowers and read (with a mark) “Childe Harold,” it was evident that she was not as she had been. She was languid, mournful, and by August these adjectives were no longer sufficient to describe her condition, for she was now seriously ill. Her nephew, who was spending the summer in Scotland, was notified by a letter from Cousin Walpole. In answer he travelled southward to Lake Leman without an hour’s delay; for Sylvia and himself were the only ones of their blood on the old side of the Atlantic, and if the gentle little aunt was to pass from earth in a strange land, he wished to be beside her.
But Sylvia did not pass. Her nephew read her case so skilfully, and with the others tended her so carefully, that in three weeks’ time she was lying on a couch by the window, with “Childe Harold” again by her side. But if she was now well enough for a little literature, she was also well enough for a little conversation.
“I suppose you were much surprised, John, to find Katharine still Mrs. Winthrop?”
“No, not much.”
“But she told me that she had mentioned to you her engagement.”
“Yes, she mentioned it.”
“You speak as though she was one of the women who make and break engagements lightly. But she is not, I assure you: far from it.”
“She broke this one, it seems.”
“One breaking does not make a—breaker,” said Sylvia, thinking vaguely of “swallows,” and nearly saying “summer.” She paused, then shook her head sadly. “I have never understood it,” she said, with a deep sigh. “It lasted, I know, until the very end of June. I think I may say, without exaggeration, that I spent the entire month of July, day and night, picturing to myself his sufferings.”
“You took more time than he did. He was married before July was ended.”
“Simply despair.”
“Despair took on a cheerful guise. Some of the rest of us might not object to it in such a shape.”
But Miss Pitcher continued her dirge. “So terrible for such a man! A mere child—only seventeen!”
“And he is—”
“Thirty-seven years, eight months, and nine days,” answered the lady, in the tone of an obituary. “Twenty years younger than he is! Of course, she cannot in the least appreciate the true depth of his poetry.”
“He may not care for that, you know, if she appreciates him,” said Ford—Miss Pitcher thought, heartlessly.
During these three weeks of attendance upon his aunt he had, of course, seen Mrs. Winthrop daily. Generally he met her in the sick-room, where she gave to the patient a tender and devoted care. If she was in the drawing-room when he came down, Cousin Walp
ole was there also; he had not once seen her alone. He was not staying at Miolans, although he spent most of his time there; his abode nominally was a farm-house near by. Sylvia improved daily, and early in September her nephew prepared for departure. He was going to Heidelberg. One beautiful morning he felt in the mood for a long farewell ride. He sent word to Sylvia that he should not be at Miolans before evening, mounted, and rode off at a brisk pace. He was out all day under the blue sky, and enjoyed it. He had some wonderful new views of Mont Blanc, some exhilarating speed over tempting stretches of road, a lunch at a rustic inn among the vineyards, and the uninterrupted companionship of his own thoughts. Towards five o’clock, on his way home, he came by Coppet. Here the idle ease of the long day was broken by the small accident of his horse losing a shoe. He took him to the little blacksmith’s shop in the village; then, while the work was in slow Swiss progress, he strolled back up the ascent towards the old château.
A shaggy white dog came to meet him; it was his friend Gibbon, and a moment later he recognized Mrs. Winthrop’s groom, holding his own and his mistress’s horse. Mrs. Winthrop was in the garden, so Benjamin Franklin said. He opened the high gate set in the stone wall and went down the long walk.
She was at the far end; her back was towards him, and she did not hear his step; she started when he spoke her name. But she recovered herself immediately, smiled, and began talking with much the same easy, graceful manner she had shown upon his first arrival at Miolans, when they met at the gate the year before. This meant that she had put him back as an acquaintance where he was then.
He did not seem unwilling to go. They strolled onward for ten minutes; then Mrs. Winthrop said that she must start homeward; they turned towards the gate. They had been speaking of Sylvia’s illness and recovery. “I often think, when I look at my little aunt,” said Ford, “how pretty she must have been in her youth. And, by-the-way, just before leaving Scotland I met a lady who reminded me of her, or rather of my idea of what she must have been. It was Mrs. Lorimer Percival.”
“She is charming, I am told,” said the lady beside him.
“I don’t know about the charming; I dislike the word. But she is very lovely and very lovable.”
“Did you see much of her?”
“I saw her several times; but only saw her. We did not speak.”
“You judge, then, by appearance merely.”
“In this case—yes. Her nature is written on her face.”
“All are at liberty to study it, then. Pray describe her.”
He was silent. Then, “If I comply,” he said, “will you bear in mind that I am quite well aware that that which makes this little lady’s happiness is something that Mrs. Winthrop, of her own accord, has cast aside as nothing worth?” As he rounded off this phrase he turned and looked at her.
But she did not meet his eyes. “I will remember,” she answered.
He waited. But she said nothing more.
“Mrs. Percival,” he resumed, “is a beautiful young girl, with a face like a wild flower in the woods. She has an expression which is to me enchanting—an expression of sweet and simple goodness, and gentle, confiding trust. One is thankful to have even seen such a face.”
“You speak warmly. I am afraid you are jealous of poor Mr. Percival.”
“He did not strike me as poor. If I was jealous, it was not the first time. He was always fortunate.”
“Perhaps there are other wild flowers in the woods; you must search more diligently.” She opened the gate, passed through, and signalled to her groom.
“That is what I am trying to do; but I do not succeed. It is terribly lonely work sometimes.”
“What a confession of weakness!”
He placed her in the saddle. “It may be. At any rate, it is the truth. But women do not believe in truth for its own sake; it strikes them as crude.”
“You mean cruel,” said Katharine Winthrop. She rode off, the groom and Gibbon following. He went back to the blacksmith’s shop. The next day he went to Heidelberg.
But he had not seen the last of Corinne’s old château. On the 25th of October he was again riding up the plane-tree avenue of Miolans, this time under bare boughs.
“Oh, John! dear John!” said Miss Pitcher, hurrying into the drawing-room when she was told he was there. “How glad I am to see you! But how did you know—I mean, how did you get here at this time of year?”
“By railway and on horseback,” he answered. “I like autumn in the country. And I am very glad to see you looking so well, Aunt Sylvia.”
But if Sylvia was well in body, she was ill at ease in mind. She began sentences and did not finish them; she often held her little handkerchief to her lips as if repressing herself. Cousin Walpole had gone to Geneva, “on business for Katharine.” No, Katharine was not with him; she was out riding somewhere. She was not well, and needed the exercise. Katharine, too, was fond of autumn in the country. But Sylvia found it rainy. After a while Ford took leave, promising to return in the evening. When he reached the country road he paused, looking up and down it for a moment; then he turned his horse southward. It was a dreary day for a ride; a long autumn rain had soaked the ground, clouds covered the sky, and a raw wind was blowing. He rode at a rapid pace, and when he came towards Coppet he again examined the wet track, then turned towards the château. He was not mistaken; Mrs. Winthrop’s horse was there. There was no groom this time; the horse was tied in the court-yard. Benjamin Franklin said that the lady was in the garden, and he said it muffled in a worsted cap and a long wadded coat that came to his heels. No doubt he permitted himself some wonder over the lady’s taste.
The lady was at the end of the long walk as before. But to-day the long walk was a picture of desolation; all the bright leaves, faded and brown, were lying on the ground in heaps so sodden that the wind could not lift them, strongly as it blew. Across one end of this vista stretched the blank stone wall, its grayness streaked with wet spots; across the other rose the old château among the bare trees, cold, naked, and yellow, seeming to have already begun its long winter shiver. But men do not mind such things as women mind them. A dull sky and stretch of blank stone wall do not seem to them the end of the world—as they seemed at that moment to Katharine Winthrop. This time she heard his step; perhaps he intended that she should hear it. She turned.
Her face was pale; her eyes, with the dark shadows under them, looked larger than usual. She returned his greeting quietly; her trouble, whatever it was, did not apparently connect itself with him.
“You should not be walking here, Mrs. Winthrop,” he said as he came up; “it is too wet.”
“It is wet; but I am going now. You have been at Miolans?”
“Yes. I saw my aunt. She told me you were out riding somewhere. I thought perhaps you might be here.”
“Is that all she told you?”
“I think so. No; she did say that you were fond of autumn in the country. So am I. Wouldn’t it be wise to stop at the old man’s cottage, before remounting, and dry your shoes a little?”
“I never take cold.”
“Perhaps we could find a pair in the village that you could wear.”
“It is not necessary. I will ride rapidly; the exercise will be the best safeguard.”
“Do you know why I have come back?” he said, abandoning the subject of the shoes.
“I do not,” answered the lady. She looked very sad and weary.
“I have come back, Katharine, to tell you plainly and humbly that I love you. This time I make no conditions; I have none to make. Do with me as you please; I must bear it. But believe that I love you with all my heart. It has been against my will; I have not been willing to admit it to myself; but of late the certainty has forced itself upon me so overwhelmingly that I had no resource left save to come to you. I am full of faults; but—I love you. I have said many things that displeased you deeply; but�
��I love you. Do not deliberate. Send me away—if go I must—now. Keep me—if you will keep me—now. You can punish me afterwards.”
They had been walking onward, but now he stopped. She stopped also; but she said nothing; her eyes were downcast.
“It is a real love I offer you,” he said, in a low tone. Then, as still she did not speak, “I will make you very happy, Katharine,” he added.
Her face had remained pale, but at this assertion of his a slight color rose, and a smile showed itself faintly. “You are always so sure!” she murmured. And then she laughed, a little low, sweet, sudden laugh.
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