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—”

“Mr. Wingfield—” began Katharine, thinking, womanlike, to chill him by the formal enunciation of his name with a protest in the tone, kindly though it was.

“Yes—you think so now,” he answered, irrelevantly. “But I don’t ask you to answer, I only ask you to listen to me—and, indeed, I don’t want you to think that it’s any one’s fault, nor that there’s any fault at all, because I know it will all come right, and you’ll care for me a little, even if you don’t now. I’ve spoken too soon, perhaps, and perhaps I’ve been rough or rude—or something—and I don’t know how to tell you as I should—because I’ve never told anybody such things—don’t you believe me, Miss Katharine? But you wouldn’t think any the better of me if I knew how to make beautiful speeches and phrases, and that sort of thing, would you?”

“Oh, no—no—and you’ve not been anything but nice—only—”

“I can’t help it—you’re my whole life, and I must tell you so now. Of course, lots of men worship you, and I daresay they know how to say it ever so much better—and that they’re very much nicer men than I am. But—but there isn’t one of them, I don’t care who he is, who cares—who loves you as I do, or would do what I’d do for your sake, if I could, or if I had a chance. And even if you don’t care for me at all yet, I’ll love you so that you will—some day—and it’s not the sort of love that’s just flowers and attention and that, you know, like everybody’s. It’s got hold of me—hard, and it won’t let go—ever! It’s changed my whole life. I’m not at all as I used to be. You’re in everything I do, and see, and think, and hear, as life is—and without you there wouldn’t be any life in anything. Don’t think I don’t feel things because I’m so big, and I don’t look sensitive, and all that—or because I can’t put it into words that touch you. It’s true, for all that, and all I ask is that you should believe me. Won’t you believe me a little, Katharine?”

The great limbs of the young Achilles quivered, and his strong hands strained upon one another, and there was the clear ring of whole-hearted truth in the deep voice, in spite of the incoherence and poverty of the words.

“I believe you,” answered Katharine, looking at the rug again. “It isn’t that. But I won’t let you think for one instant that there’s the least possibility of my ever caring for you, or marrying you. It’s absolutely impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible!” he answered, impetuously. “Nothing except that you should never care at all when I’d give my life for your little finger, and my soul for your life—with all my heart, and be glad to give either—”

“It hurts me very much to hear you talk like this—because you’ve been misled and deceived—my father and mother—”

“How can they know what you think and feel?” asked Wingfield. “I only spoke to them because it seemed right and fair, being so much in earnest, and I couldn’t tell but what there might be some one else—I had no right to pry into your secrets and watch you and try and find out—it wouldn’t have seemed nice. So I asked your father, and then Mrs. Lauderdale—but I didn’t suppose they knew absolutely—of course they couldn’t answer for you—in that way. And I say it again—don’t make up your mind—don’t send me off—wait—only wait! You don’t know how love grows out of what seems to be nothing till it’s bigger and stronger than the biggest and strongest of us—you can’t feel it growing any more than you could feel that you were growing yourself when you were small; and you can’t remember when it began, any more than you can remember what you thought of when you were a year old. That doesn’t make it less real afterwards—love’s such a little thing at the beginning, and by and by it takes in everything, so that the whole world is nothing beside it. And if you’ll only not make up your mind—”

“It’s made up for me, long ago—in a way you don’t dream of. It’s absolutely, and wholly, and altogether impossible, and it always will be, no matter what happens. Oh, I can’t say more than that, Mr. Wingfield—and it wouldn’t be true if I said less!”

“But it can’t be really true!” he protested, bending forward in his low chair. “Of course you think so—but how can you possibly tell? I don’t mean to say that you’re changeable, or capricious, or anything of that kind—but people do change, you know. Why—I hate to say it—but you couldn’t say more than that if you were married and I didn’t know it!”

Katharine started, though she was strong and her nerves were good. He had made the reflection very naturally, in answer to the very positive words she had spoken. But to her it seemed as though he must know, or at least guess, the truth. She lost her balance for a moment, as she gazed earnestly into his honest black eyes.

“Mr. Wingfield—do you know what you’re saying?” she asked, in a low voice.

He was afraid he had said something monstrous, and his face fell.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he stammered, awkwardly. “I’m awfully sorry if I said anything I shouldn’t—”

Katharine forgot his contrition, and forgot to reassure him in the anxiety caused her by the mere suspicion that he might know the truth. She sat staring at him in silence for several seconds, wondering what he knew. It was more than he could bear. He bent still nearer to her, from the edge of his chair, and his hands moved a little towards her, beseechingly, in as near an approach to an eloquent gesture as such a man could have used.

“Please don’t be angry with me!” he said.

“Oh, no!” she answered, in an odd voice, with a little start. “I was only thinking—”

He did not understand, and he moved backward into his chair suddenly, crossed one knee over the other with an impatient jerk, and looked away from her.

“What a brute I am!” he exclaimed, in a barely audible tone.

Katharine paid no attention to this self-condemnation. Her eyes rested thoughtfully on his face, and she seemed to be reflecting. She was examining her own conscience, trying to find out how far her actions could have brought about the state of things she saw. A woman who loves one man with all her heart has small pity for any other, though she may know that she ought to feel pity and to show it. But she does not therefore lose her sense of justice.

“Will you tell me one thing, Mr. Wingfield? Will you answer me one question?” she asked, at last.

He turned to her quickly again, with a look of surprise. She was out of tune with him, so to say, and her words and tone jarred strongly upon his own mood.

“Certainly,” he answered, much more coldly than he had spoken yet. “I’ll try and answer any question you ask me.”

“Do you really and truly feel that I’ve encouraged you, as though I meant anything?” she asked, slowly.

It would not have been easy to put a question harder to answer honestly. Wingfield did not like it. A man hates to be put in the position of either telling a falsehood or giving offence, with no alternative but an unmannerly refusal to speak at all. Wingfield felt that, in the first place, he had been badly used in spite of his protestations to the effect that no one was to blame. It had been unpardonable of Mr. and Mrs. Lauderdale to be so mistaken in their own daughter—he put it charitably—as to expose him to such an uncompromising and final refusal as he had received. He went no further in that direction. He did not think of himself as a very desirable son-in-law, and a very good match in fortune, because, like most people, he supposed that when the Lauderdale estate was divided, Katharine would ultimately have her share of it, a fact to which he was indifferent. He did not, therefore, accuse the Lauderdales of having intentionally led him on. But they had acted irresponsibly. And now he fancied that Katharine was very angry with him for what he had said a few moments earlier, and he thought she was unjust, since he had really said nothing very terrible. So he resented her last question as soon as she had asked it, and he hesitated before replying. Katharine waited patiently a few moments.

“Do you really think I’ve been flirting?” she asked at last, seeing that he did not answer.

“No!” he cried, at once. “Oh, no—not that! Never. If you ask me whether you’ve ever looked at me, or spoken to me as though you really cared—no, you never have. Not once. But then—there are other things.”

“What other things? What have I done?” Feeling that he had admitted the main point in her favour, she grew a little hard.

“Well—you’ve let me come a great deal to see you, and you’ve let me send you—oh, well! No—I’m not going to say that sort of thing. I got the impression, somehow—that’s all.”

“You got the impression, from what I did, that I liked you—that I encouraged you?” she asked, anxiously.

“Yes. I got that impression. Besides, you’ve often shown plainly enough that you liked to dance with me—”

“That’s true—I do. You dance very well. And I do like you—as I like several other people. It isn’t wrong to like in that way, is it? It isn’t flirting? It isn’t as though I said things I didn’t mean, is it?”

“No,” answered Wingfield, in an injured tone. “It’s not. Still—”

“Still, you think there’s been something in my behaviour to make you think I might care? I’m very sorry—I’m very, very sorry,” she repeated, her voice changing suddenly with an expression of profound regret. “Will you believe me when I tell you that it’s been altogether unconscious? You can’t think—if you care for me—that I’d be so heartless and cruel. You won’t, will you?”

“No—I don’t want to think it. I misunderstood—that’s all. Put it all on me.”

He was very young, and he was cruelly hurt. He spoke coldly, lest his words should choke him.

“No,” answered Katharine, speaking almost to herself, “there are other people to blame, whose fault it is.”

“Perhaps.”

A silence followed. It was warm in the room. One of the windows was a little raised, and the bells of the horse-cars jingled cheerfully in the spring air. At last Katharine spoke again.

“I suppose it doesn’t mean much to you when I say I’m sorry,” she said. “If you knew, it would mean much more. I’m very much in earnest, and I shall never forget this afternoon, for I know I’ve hurt you. I think you’re a little angry just now. It’s natural. You have a right to be. Since you think that I’ve made you understand things I didn’t mean, I wonder you’re not much more angry—that you don’t say much harder things to me. It wouldn’t really be just, because I’m very unhappy, whether I’m to blame or not. But you’re generous. I shall always be grateful to you. You won’t bear me any more ill-will than you can help, will you?”

“Ill-will? I? No! I’m too fond of you—and besides, I’ve not done hoping yet. I shall always hope, as long as I live.”

“No—you mustn’t hope anything,” answered Katharine, determined not to allow him the shadow of any consolation. “It wouldn’t be just to me. It would be like thinking that I were capricious. I’m not going to talk to you about friendship, and all that, as people do in books. I want you to try and forget me altogether—for I believe you—you really care for me. So there’s no other way—when one really cares. Don’t come here any more for the present—don’t try to meet me at parties—don’t ask me to dance with you. The world’s very big, and you needn’t see me unless you wish to. By and by it will be different. Perhaps you could go abroad for a little while again. I don’t know what your plans are, but it would be better if you could. The season will be over—it’s almost over now, and then you’ll go one way and I shall go another, and there’s no reason why we should meet. We mustn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to me, and it wouldn’t be fair to you, either. You see—it’s not as though you were disagreeable. If we meet at all, I couldn’t help being very much the same as ever, and you know what I’ve made you think of that. You’ll promise, won’t you?”

“Not to try and see you sometimes? No, I won’t promise that. I shall always hope—”

“But there is no hope. There’s not the slightest possibility of any hope. If you knew about me, you’d understand it.”

“Miss Lauderdale—will you think it very rude if I ask one question? I’ve—I’ve put my whole life into this—and you’re sending me away without a word. So perhaps—I think you might—”

“What is it?” asked Katharine, kindly.

“Are you engaged to Jack Ralston? I’ve heard people say that you were, so often. Would you tell me?”

Katharine was silent for a moment. She did not know exactly how far it would be true to say that she was engaged to John, seeing that she was married to him. Her marriage, she thought, might be looked upon as a formal betrothal, and there would have been little harm in taking that view of it, under such circumstances. But she had inherited from her father something of his formal respect for the mere letter of truth, and she did not like to say anything which did not conform to it.

“We’re not exactly engaged,” she answered, after a short pause. “But we care for each other very much.”

Wingfield’s brow cleared a little. He had one of those dispositions which hope in spite of apparent certainty against them.

“Then I’ll go away for awhile,” he said, with sudden resolution and considerable generosity, from his point of view. “If you don’t marry him, I’ll come back, that’s all. I’m glad you told me. Thank you.”

It requires considerable self-control to act as Archibald Wingfield did on that occasion. His voice did not tremble, and he did not turn pale, because it was not in his nature to experience that sort of physical weakness when he was making an effort. But what he did was not easy. Even Katharine could see that. He sat still a few moments after he had spoken, glanced at her once, as though to make sure that there was to be no appeal, and then rose suddenly from his seat, and stood towering above her.

“Good-bye,” he said, holding out his hand, and stooping to bring it within her reach. Now that the effort had been made, his voice trembled a little.

“Good-bye,” answered Katharine, taking his hand, and lifting her head almost without raising her eyes.

There was something almost like timidity in her tone. She felt how he had been wronged by her father and mother, and in her trouble she was willing to believe that she was really a little to blame herself. She realized, too, that he was acting very bravely and honestly, and that he was really suffering. It was not a grand, dramatic agony, and eloquence was the least of his gifts, but he was strong, young, and in earnest, and had been made to undergo pain for her sake. She was ashamed of having been the cause of it.

No other words suggested themselves to her, but he waited one moment, as though expecting that she would speak again. Then he silently dropped her hand, and bowing his head a little, went quietly to the door without looking back. She did not follow him with her eyes, but she listened for the sound of the latch, and it did not come quite so soon as she expected. He had turned to look at her once more, his hand on the door.

“God bless you—Katharine,” he said, in a low voice.

She looked round at him quickly, and the faint, sorrowful smile came back to her face. Her lips moved, but no words came. He gazed at her one moment, and then took his young grief out into the spring air and the evening sunshine.

When Katharine was alone, she sighed and gazed at the hearth-rug, bending forward in a thoughtful attitude, her chin supported in her hand.

“How hard it is!” she exclaimed to herself.

It seemed to her that the difficulties of her life grew with every passing day. She had, indeed, cut the knot of one of them within the last half hour, and so far as Archibald Wingfield was concerned, the hard thing had been done, and he knew the worst. But she, on her part, had much to bear yet. She had seen to-day, for the first time, how her father and mother longed to have her married. Even now, she found it difficult to suspect either of them of intentional cruelty, or of attempting to use anything more than persuasion in pushing her into the match. With her faculty for seeing both sides of a question at once, she was just. It was natural, perhaps, that they should wish her to marry such a man. She had never seen any one like him—such a magnificent specimen of youthful manhood. Even her father could not compare with him. And he had much besides his looks to recommend him, much besides his fortune and his position and his popularity. He was brave and honest, and able to love truly, as it seemed.

He would recover, of course, she said to herself. He was sought after, flattered, and pursued for many reasons. He could find plenty of young girls only too delighted to marry him, and he would certainly marry one of them before long. His life was not blighted, and she had not broken his heart, if hearts ever break at all. She remembered what she had once borne, in the belief that John Ralston was disgraced for life on that memorable occasion when all New York had learned that he had been brought home, apparently drunk, after a midnight encounter with a pugilist, who had found occasion to quarrel with him in a horse-car. The belief had lasted a whole night and a whole day, and she did not think that young Wingfield could be suffering anything like that. Moreover, her love for Ralston made her ruthless and almost hard about every other man. Nevertheless, she was sincerely sorry for the man who had just left her—the more so, perhaps, because she had little or nothing with which to reproach herself.

Katharine was not left to her own reflections very long. By a process akin to telepathy, Mrs. Lauderdale was soon aware that Archibald Wingfield had left the house. In the half hour during which his visit had lasted, she had not touched her miniature, though she had looked at it, and turned it to and from the light many times. She was very nervous, and she wished that when he went away he might forthwith take himself off to China, at the very least. She did not wish to meet him that evening, nor the next, to be called to account by him for having exceeded her powers in the impression she had conveyed of Katharine’s readiness to marry him. Yet she remembered that she had acted very much in the same way when Charlotte had married Benjamin Slayback. It was true that Slayback was a much older man, and well able to take care of himself, and that Charlotte had not at the time been showing any especial preference for any of her adorers. She had, in fact, just then dismissed one for the grievous offence of having turned out an unutterable bore after three weeks of almost unbroken conversation, during which she had exhausted his not fertile intellect, as furnace heat dries a sponge. Charlotte’s heart had been comparatively free, therefore, and she had been indulging in dreams of power and personal influence. But Mrs. Lauderdale and her husband had on that occasion used to Mr. Slayback almost the identical words which she had lately repeated to Wingfield; Slayback had come, had proposed,—in what manner Charlotte had never revealed,—and had been immediately accepted. Surely, there was nothing wrong in assuming that Katharine might possibly behave in the same way, seeing how very much more desirable a suitor Wingfield was than Slayback. Thus argued Mrs. Lauderdale, as she tried to trip up her conscience and step over it. But she was too good by nature to be successful in such a fraud upon goodness, and in the midst of her involuntary self-reproaches, her heart was beating with anxiety to know the result of the interview.

It meant a great deal to her, for she was sure that if Katharine could be removed from the household, peace must descend upon her own soul once more, and she longed for peace. Somehow, she felt that if she could only enjoy that supremacy of her wonderful beauty for one month more—for one last month, before she grew old—she could meet Katharine again, and forgive her all her youth and freshness, and forgive herself for having envied them. As her life was now, she could not, try how she would. The pain was upon her hourly, and she could not but resent it, and almost hate the cause of it.

Though she constantly looked at her miniature, and moved the brushes and little saucers on the table, her hearing was preternaturally sharpened, as it was in reality the barely audible sound of the distant front door which told her that Wingfield was gone. Instinctively she looked towards the door of her own room, hesitated, then rose suddenly, and went out with a quick, nervous step, and a determined look in her face. Without stopping to consider what she should say, she descended to the library.

Katharine looked up with an expression of annoyance as her mother entered.

“He’s gone, then?” said Mrs. Lauderdale, interrogatively.

“Yes. He’s just gone,” answered Katharine, in a voice that did not promise confidence.

“What did you tell him, dear?”

Mrs. Lauderdale sat down beside her daughter. The smile she put on was as unnatural as the endearing tone, and Katharine observed it. She suffered in the artificiality which had developed in her mother of late, so unlike the dignified personality which she had been used to love.

“Really, mother, I can’t repeat the conversation. I couldn’t if I wished to. What difference does it make what I said, since he’s gone? I told you what I should say. Well—I’ve said it.”

“You’ve sent him away for good—just like that?”

“I’ve told him the plain truth, and he’s gone. He won’t come back—unless he wants to see you,” she added, rather bitterly. “I don’t think he will, though. You’ve not exactly helped him to be happy.”

“Katharine!” There was an injured protest in the tone.

“I don’t see why you should be surprised,” answered the young girl. “Of course he might take it into his head to be angry with you for what you’ve done. It wasn’t very nice. I’m not sure that, in his place, I should ever wish to see you again.”

“My child, what an exaggeration! You talk as though I had deliberately sought him out and asked him to the house—almost asked him to marry you.”

“It comes to that,” observed Katharine, coldly.

“Really, Katharine, you’re—beyond words!” Mrs. Lauderdale drew back a little, in displeasure, and looked at her severely.

“I could forgive you,” continued the young girl, “if you hadn’t known that I love Jack and never shall marry any one else. You know it and you’ve always known it. That makes it much worse. You’ve made that poor man suffer without the slightest reason. You could just as well have told him that you knew I cared for some one else, and you could have been as nice to him as you pleased. You’ve hurt him, and you’ve driven me to hurt him, by no fault of mine, just to undo the mischief you’ve done. Of course, it’s papa who’s really done it all, but you needn’t have let him twist you round his little finger like a wisp of straw.”

“Oh, Katharine! Anything more unjust!”

“I’m not unjust, mother. But I’m too old to think everything you do is perfect, merely because it’s you. When I see a man like Archie Wingfield sitting there and straining his hands to keep himself quiet, and choking with the sound of his own words, I know he’s suffering—and when I know that he’s suffering uselessly, and that it’s all your fault and papa’s, I judge you—that’s all. I’m a grown woman. I have a right to judge.”

The door opened and Alexander Junior appeared upon the threshold, just returned from his office.

“I heard your voice, so I came in,” he said, with an electric smile which was meant to be conciliatory. “Oh!” he exclaimed, in altered tones, as he saw the faces of the two women, “has anything happened?”

For a moment there was silence. Mrs. Lauderdale looked at the empty fireplace, avoiding the eyes of both her husband and her daughter. But Katharine leaned back in her seat and faced her father. Her voice was almost as cold and steely as his could be when she answered him at last.

“Mr. Wingfield has just asked me to marry him,” she said. “And I have refused him—unconditionally.”

“You’ve done an exceedingly foolish thing, then,” answered Alexander Junior. “And you’ll be very sorry for it before long.”

He came nearer and stood by the fireplace, laying one authoritative hand upon the mantelpiece, and shaking the forefinger of the other in a warning manner.

“I’m the best judge of that,” answered Katharine, undaunted and unimpressed by his parental tone.

“You’re not,” answered Mr. Lauderdale. “You’ve acquired a habit of contradicting me lately. It seems to be a part of your plan for being as utterly undutiful and disobedient as you can. I warn you that I won’t submit to it any longer.”

“It’s of no use to threaten me, papa,” answered Katharine, controlling herself as well as she could. “And it doesn’t do any good to call me undutiful and disobedient so often. It doesn’t make it true.”

“Katharine!” cried her mother, in a tone of distress which was not artificial.

“I know what I’m saying, mother—”

“Then you should be sincerely ashamed of yourself, Katharine,” said Alexander Junior. “As sincerely as I’m ashamed that a daughter of mine should use such language.”

Katharine rose slowly from her chair and stood up before him, while her mother remained seated.

“Neither of you have any right to say that you’re ashamed of anything I’ve done,” she said. “As for my language, it’s mild enough—for what you’ve done. I’ve been ashamed of you both to-day—here, in this room, half an hour ago. You’ve told an honest man who’s foolishly in love with me that I cared for him, and would have him if he would ask me, when you know that I will never marry any one but Jack Ralston. It seems to me that I’ve had good reason to be ashamed of you. It was hard to look him in the face, and tell him that my father and mother had misled and deceived him—to make him own that he had it all from you, and that I’d not given him the shadow of a reason for thinking that I cared for him—that he had it all from you. Oh, it was so plain! Not that you can deny it—and you tell me that you’re ashamed of me! If I didn’t love Jack, do you know what I’d have done? I’d have married Archie Wingfield to save you your respect for yourself, and a little of his for you!”

“I refuse to listen any longer to such insane nonsense,” said Alexander Junior, whose slow wrath was rising by degrees.

“You shall listen to me,” answered Katharine. “I’m fighting with you for my life and happiness, and you’ve got to face me like an honest man—though you are my father!”