VI
ON a Monday morning—Frothingham’s eighth day at Lake-in-the-wood—only Wallingford and the tireless Catherine appeared for the early ride. “It’s cold,” said Wallingford. “Shall we canter?” And they swept through the gates and on over the frost-spangled meadows for several miles before they drew their horses in to a walk. Catherine’s cheeks were glowing, and her eyes were not dreamy and soulful, but bright with vigorous, wide-awake life.
“I haven’t seen you looking so well in years, Kitty.”
Wallingford was examining her with the slightly mocking, indifferent eyes that had piqued not a few women into trying to make him like them. “You look positively human. And it’s becoming—most becoming.”
Catherine began to scramble into her pose. She did not like to be caught lapsing from her ideals.
“Whydoyou do it?” Wallingford dropped hismockery for an instant. “Your own individuality, no matter how poor you may think it, is far better than any you could possibly invent—or borrow.”
Catherine looked hurt. “Why do you charge deception against everyone who lives above your level?” she asked. “I hope you’re not going to be nasty this morning, Joe. I’m blue.”
“What’s the matter? Something real, or——”
“Don’t tease. This is real.”
“What is it? I see you wish to be encouraged to tell me.”
“No—I couldn’t tell anyone.” Catherine’s eyes were tragic. “It’s one of those things that can’t be told, but must be——”
“Go on. What is it?” Wallingford refused to be impressed by tragedy. “I see you’re dying to tell me. Why not get it over with?”
“You are so sympathetic, Joe. You pretend not to understand me, but I feel that you always do.”
“You mean that I refuse to be misled by your charming little pretences. But how could I? Why, don’t I remember the day, the very hour, you went in for the ‘soulful’? I must say, I never could see whyyou took that up as your fad. Being natural is much harder to win out at—few people are interesting, or even endurable, when they’re natural.”
“Joe,” she said absently, as if she had not heard him, “I’m afraid I’m making a—a dreadful—mistake.”
“Well?” he asked almost gruffly, after a short pause.
“About—about—Lord Frothingham,” she confessed, lowering her eyelids until her long lashes shadowed her cheeks.
“Oh, I think you’ll land him all right,” said Wallingford encouragingly. “He’s a bit gone on you; and then, too, he needs the cash.”
“Please don’t speak of him in that way, Joe. He’s not a vulgar fortune-hunter, but a high, sensitive, noble man.”
“Who said he was a vulgar fortune-hunter? On the contrary, he’s an honest British merchant, taking his title to market. And he’s been lucky enough to find a good customer.”
Catherine ignored this description of her knight and her romance. “You know I’m engaged to him?” she asked.
“Ever since the first time I saw your mother look at him.”
“Yes—she approves it.”
“I should say she would,” said Wallingford judicially. “She’s got the best part of it. She’ll have all the glory of having an earl in the family, and she won’t have to live with him.”
“I’m—afraid—I don’t love him as I ought,” said Catherine, with a sigh.
Wallingford laughed. “Now, of what use is it to talk this over, Kitty, if you won’t be frank? It can’t be a question of loving him that’s troubling you. Of course you don’t love him. You love his title, and that would prevent you from loving him for himself, no matter how attractive he was. But why bother about love? He’s giving you what you really want.”
“WhatdoI want?” She looked at Wallingford with sincere appeal, slightly humourous, but earnest.
“I once thought that you wanted to be a real woman. But ever since your mother took you abroad to fill her own and your head with foreign notions I’ve been losing faith. What do you want now? Why, the trash you’re buying.”
“Joe, how can you think I’d sell myself?”
“Why not? It’s generally regarded as a reputable transaction—unless one is vulgar enough to sell out for the mere necessaries of life. Oh, I’m not criticising you, Kitty. Perhaps I’d sell myself if I could get any sort of price. Never having been tempted, I can’t say what I’d do.”
“Please don’t talk in that way, even in jest. It isn’t true. I know it isn’t true. And it’s knowing that that makes me——” She hesitated, then went on—“despise myself! It’s of no use to lie toyou, Joe. I’m glad there’s somebody I can’t lie to, somebody that sees into me and forces me to look at myself as I am. And sometimes Ihateyou for it. Yes, I hate you for itnow!” She was sitting very erect upon her horse, her head thrown back, tears of anger in her eyes.
“Hate?” He shook his head teasingly at her. “I envy you. I’ve tried every other emotion, and I’d like to try that. But I can’t. I can’t hate even Frothingham. On the contrary, I like him. If you must have a title, you’ve got to take a husband with it. And I must say, I think you’ll be able to harness Frothingham down to a fairly reliable family horse.”
“How can you jest so coarsely about such a serious matter?” she exclaimed indignantly.
“But is it? What does it matter whom you marry, so long as you have no purpose in life other than to make a show and to induce shallow people to admire you and envy you for the things you’ve got that can be bought and sold? It’s better, on the whole, isn’t it, my friend, that you should carry out these purposes through a foreigner, and in a foreign country, than that you should spoil some promising American and be a bad influence here?”
“You are cruel, Joe. And I thought you’d sympathise with me, and help me!”
There was a pause, then he demanded abruptly: “What does your father say?”
She flushed—partly at the memory of the interview with her father, partly through shame in recollecting that she had led Frothingham to believe she had not told him. “He said—but why should I tell you?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure, unless because you wish to.”
“Well—Iwilltell you. He said” (she imitated his nasal drawl): “‘If your ma and you want to make the deal I’ll sign the papers. I reckon you know what you’re about. And all our money’s for is to make us happy. Buy what you please—I’ll settle for it.’”
“Was that all?”
Catherine lowered her eyes. “Yes, that was all hesaid. But he looked—Joe, it was his look that upset me.”
“I understand.” Wallingford’s voice was gentle and sympathetic now. “And what answer are you going to make to that look?”
“I’d rather not say,” she replied, giving him a brilliant smile. “Let’s canter again. We must get home.”
As soon as she reached the house she went to her mother’s rooms. Mrs. Hollister was finishing her morning’s work with her secretary. Catherine waited, impatiently playing with her riding whip. When the secretary left she said: “Mother, I’m going to throw him over.”
Mrs. Hollister paused for an instant in putting away some of her especially private papers, then went on. Presently she said tranquilly: “You will do nothing of the sort.”
Catherine quailed before that tone—she had been ruled by her mother all her life, had never been interfered with in any matter which her mother regarded as unimportant, had never been permitted to decide anymatter which her mother regarded as important. And her mother’s rule was the most formidable of all tyrannies—the tyranny of kindness.
“But, mother, I should be wretched with him.”
“Why?”
On the basis of their method of thought and speech each with the other, it was impossible for her to erect “Because I don’t love him” into a plausible objection. So she said: “We have nothing in common. His laziness and cynicism irritate me. He makes me nervous. He bores me.”
“All men are objectionable in one way or another,” replied her mother. “If you married the ordinary man you would have nothing after you had grown tired. But marrying him, you’ll have, first, last, and all the time, the solid advantages of your position and your title. And you’ll like him better when you’re used to him—he has admirable qualities for a husband.”
“I can’t marry him,” said Catherine doggedly. She knew it was useless to argue with her mother.
“You can’t refuse to marry him. It would be dishonourable. Your word is pledged. It would be impossiblefor a child of mine to be guilty of a dishonourable action.”
“When I tell him how I feel he will release me.”
“You mean he would refuse to marry a woman who, after treating a man as you have treated him, would show herself so light and so lacking in honour. No, my daughter will not disgrace herself and her family.” Mrs. Hollister seated herself beside Catherine and put an arm round her. “She has had her every whim gratified, and that has made her careless of responsibilities. But she will not show herself in serious matters light and untrustworthy.”
Catherine stiffened herself against the gentle yet masterful force that seemed to be stealing in upon her from her mother’s embrace and tone.
“You’ve come to one of those rough places in life,” Mrs. Hollister went on, “where young people need the help of some older, more experienced person. And some day soon you’ll be glad I was here to see you safely over it.”
“I can’t marry him, mother.”
Mrs. Hollister frowned for a second, then her face cleared, and she said quietly: “Your father and I have put you in a position to establish yourself well in life.You have engaged yourself to an honourable man, who has something to offer you, who can assure you a position that will be a satisfaction to you all your life and to your children after you. I know I have not brought you up so badly that you would throw away your career, would disregard the interests of those you may bring into the world, all for a mere whim.”
Catherine was silent.
“Even if you cared for someone else——”
“But I do,” interrupted Catherine impetuously.
Mrs. Hollister winced and reflected before she went on: “It cannot be a serious attachment, Catherine, or I should have noticed it. Is it Joseph Wallingford?”
Catherine did not answer.
“Even if you had been attracted for a moment by a man who had something to offer besides a little sentiment, that would be gone a few brief months after marriage, still it would be your duty to yourself and to your family to make the sensible marriage. You are not a foolish girl. You are not a child. You know what the substantial things in life are.”
“I can’t marry him,” repeated Catherine stubbornly.
“Has Wallingford been making love to you?”The anger was close to the surface in Mrs. Hollister’s voice.
Catherine smiled bitterly. “No,” she answered, “he has not. He cares nothing for me. But I can’t marry Lord Frothingham—and I won’t.”
“You must not say that, Catherine,” said her mother sternly. “It is a great shock to me to find that you cannot be trusted. If you refused to marry the man you have voluntarily engaged yourself to, I should never forgive you.”
Catherine’s eyes sank before her mother’s. “The engagement must be announced at once,” her mother went on. “You will change your mind when you have thought it over, and when you realise what my feelings are.”
“I can’t——” began Catherine monotonously.
“I wish to hear no more about it, child,” interrupted her mother, her eyes glittering a forewarning of the hate she would have for a daughter who disobeyed her. “To-morrow we will talk of it again.”
Catherine and her mother arose, and each faced the other for a moment—two inflexible wills. For Mrs. Hollister had made one error, and that fatal, in trainingher daughter. She had not broken her will in childhood, when the stiffest inherited will can be made to yield; she had only subdued it, driven it to cover. She had left her her individuality. But she did not know this; so, she saw her daughter’s looks, saw her daughter leave the room with resolution in every curve of her figure, and was not in the least disturbed as to the event. The idea that she, Maria Hollister, could be defied by anyone in her family—or out of it—could not form in her mind. “It is fortunate,” she said to herself, “that Wallingford is leaving early in the morning. I’ll announce the engagement at dinner to-night.”
Catherine went to change her dress, and then searched for Frothingham. He was alone in the billiard room, half asleep, on one of the wall lounges. At sight of him—she saw him before he saw her—her courage wavered. Yes, he was a decent sort of chap; and she was treating him badly, despicably—had bargained fairly with him, had used the contract publicly to aggrandise herself at his expense, was about to break her contract and humiliate him, injure him, through no fault of his. He had been fair with her, she had been false with him, was about to be base.“I can’t,” she said to herself. “At least, not in cold blood.”
He saw her, and his face lighted up. She smiled, nodded, hurried through the billiard room, and disappeared into the hall beyond. As she turned its angle her knees became shaky and her face white. Then Wallingford suddenly appeared at the conservatory door. He came toward her as if he were going to pass without stopping. But he halted.
“Well?” he said.
She leaned against the wall. Her throat was dry and her eyelids were trembling.
“What is it?” he asked gently.
She hung her head.
“Don’t be afraid to say it tome,” he urged. “There isn’t anything you couldn’t say to me.”
“Do you—do you—do you care for me?” she said, in a queer little choked, squeaky voice.
He laughed slightly, and came close to her and looked down at her. “You’re the only thing in all this world I do care for,” he said. “Why?”
“Oh, nothing—don’t follow me,” and she darted back toward the billiard room.
“Just my rotten luck,” he muttered
Frothingham was still there, seated now at the openfire. “Ah—you! I’m glad you’ve come back,” he drawled.
“I want you to release me from my engagement,” she said.
His jaw dropped, and he stared stupidly at her. He could hardly believe that this impetuous, energetic creature was the languorous, affected, dreamy Catherine.
“I mean it,” she sped on. “I’ve no excuse to make for myself. But I can’t marry you. And you ought to be glad you’re rid of me.”
Her tone instantly convinced him that he was done for. He turned a sickly yellow, and put his head between his hands and stared into the fire. His brain was in a whirl. “Just my rotten luck,” he muttered.
“I don’t hope that you’ll forgive me,” she was saying. “You couldn’t have any respect for me. I’m only saving a few little shreds of self-respect. I’m——”
“You mustn’t do it, Catherine. You mustn’t, you——” he interrupted, rising and facing her.
“I must be free. I care for someone else. Don’t discuss it, please. Just say you let me go.”
“It ain’t right.” Cupidity and vanity were lashinghis anger into a storm. “You can’t go back—you’ve gone too far. Why, we’re as good as married.”
“Don’t make me any more ashamed than I am,” she pleaded humbly.
“No, I can’t release you,” he said with cold fury. “I can’t permit myself to be trifled with.” He knew that he was taking the wrong tack, that he ought to play the wounded lover. But his feeling for her was so small, and his anger so great, that he could not.
She was almost hysterical. She felt as though she were struggling desperately against some awful force that was imprisoning her. “Let me go. Please, let me go,” she gasped.
“No!” he said, arrogance in his voice—the arrogance of a man used to women who let men rule them.
Her eyes flashed. “Then I release myself!” she exclaimed haughtily, with a change of front so swift that it startled him. “And don’t you dare ever speak of it to me again!”
She slowly left the room, her head high. But her haughtiness subsided as rapidly as it had risen, and by the time she reached her own apartment she was ready to fling herself down for a miserable cry—and she did. “If I couldonlyget him out of the house,” she wailed.
Frothingham debated his situation. “The thing to do,” he concluded, “is to go straight off to her father.” He had not yet become convinced that in America man occupies a position in the family radically different from his position in England. He found Hollister writing in his study.
“Mr. Hollister,” he began.
Hollister raised his head until it was tilted so far back that he could see Frothingham through the glasses that were pinching in the extreme end of his long nose. “Oh—Lord Frothingham—yes!” He laid down his pen. “What can I do for you?”
Frothingham seated himself in a solemn dignity that hid his nervousness. “For several weeks your daughter and I have been engaged. We—we——”
Hollister smiled good-humouredly. “Before you go any further, my boy,” he interrupted kindly, “I warn you that you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Frothingham stiffly.
“The person you want to see is the girl’s mother. She attends to all that end of the business. I’ve got enough trouble to look after at my own end.”
“What I have to say can be said properly only to her father as the head of the family.”
“But I’mnotthe head of the family. I’m not sure that I know who is. Sometimes I think it’s my wife, again I suspect Catherine.”
“Your daughter now refuses to abide by her engagement,” said Frothingham, in desperation at this untimely levity.
Hollister took off his glasses and examined them on both sides with great care. “Well,” he said at last, “I suppose that settles it.”
Frothingham stared. “I beg pardon, but it does not settle it.”
Hollister gave him a look of fatherly sympathy. “I guess it does. You can’t marry her if she won’t have you. And if she won’t have you—why, she won’t.”
“You treat the matter lightly.” Frothingham had a bright red spot in either cheek. “You do not seem to be conscious of the painful position in which she places you.”
“Good Heavens, Frothingham! What have I got to do with it? You ain’t engaged tome. She’s got the right to say what she’ll do with herself.”
Frothingham rose. “I was under the impression,sir, that I was dealing with a gentleman who would appreciate the due of a gentleman.”
Hollister’s eyebrows came down, and a cruel line suddenly appeared at each corner of his mouth. Just then Mrs. Hollister entered. Intuitively she leaped to the right conclusion. “The idiot!” she said to herself. “Why didn’t he come to me?” Then she said smoothly, almost playfully, to “the idiot”: “Has Catherine been troubling you with her mood this morning?”
Frothingham’s face brightened—her mood! Then there was hope.
“You ought not to pay any attention to her moods,” Mrs. Hollister went on with a smile. “She’s very nervous at times. But it passes.”
“She told me flat that our engagement was off,” said Frothingham. “I came to her father, naturally. She seemed to be in earnest.”
Mrs. Hollister continued to smile. “Don’t concern yourself about the matter, Lord Frothingham,” she replied in her kindliest voice. “Catherine will be all right again to-morrow at the latest. She has been doing too much lately for a young girl under the excitement of an engagement.”
Hollister, who had been looking hesitatingly from his wife to Frothingham, went to the wall and pressed an electric button. When the servant appeared he said: “Please ask Miss Catherine to come here.”
Mrs. Hollister turned on him, her eyes flashing. “Catherine is in no state to bear——”
Hollister returned her look calmly, then repeated his order. The servant looked uneasily from the husband to the wife, saw that Mrs. Hollister was not going to speak, made a deprecating bow, and withdrew. In a few minutes—it seemed a long time to the three, waiting in silence—Catherine appeared. Her eyes were swollen slightly, but that was the only sign of perturbation. Mrs. Hollister said to Frothingham: “I think it would be best that her father and I talk with her alone first.”
Frothingham instantly rose. With eyes pleadingly upon Catherine he was nearing the door when Hollister spoke—it was in a voice neither Frothingham nor even Catherine had heard from him or suspected him of having at his command. “Please be seated, Lord Frothingham. The best way to settle this business is to settle it.”
Frothingham could not have disobeyed that voice, and he saw with a sinking heart that at the sound of it Mrs. Hollister looked helpless despair.
“Catherine,” said her father, “do you, or do you not, wish to marry Lord Frothingham?”
“I won’t marry him,” replied Catherine. She gave Frothingham a contemptuous look. “I told him so a while ago.”
Mrs. Hollister’s eyes blazed. “Have you forgotten what I said to you?” she demanded of her daughter, her voice shrill with fury.
“No, mother,” Catherine answered slowly; “but—I cannot change my mind. I cannot marry Lord Frothingham.”
An oppressive silence fell. After a moment Frothingham bowed coldly, and left the room. Mrs. Hollister started up to follow him. “One word, Maria,” said her husband. “I wish you to understand that this matter is settled. Nothing more is to be said about it either to Catherine or to that young man—not another word.”
Mrs. Hollister was white to the lips. “I understand,” she replied, with a blasting look at her daughter. And she followed Frothingham to try to pacifyhim—she knew her husband too well not to know that her dream of a titled son-in-law was over.
When she was gone Catherine sank limp into a chair. “She’ll never forgive me,” she exclaimed despondently.
Hollister nodded in silent assent. After a few minutes he said: “It’s been fifteen years since she made me cross her in a matter I sha’n’t speak of. And she remembers it against me to-day as if it had happened an hour ago. The sooner you find your man, Katie, and marry him, the better off you’ll be—that’smyadvice.” He smiled with grim humour as he added, “And I ought to know.” Then he patted her encouragingly on the shoulder with a hand that looked as if it could hold the helm steady through any tempest.