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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e648558 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #53486 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/53486) diff --git a/old/53486-0.txt b/old/53486-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 4c811d6..0000000 --- a/old/53486-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,15756 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Three Fates, by F. Marion Crawford - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Three Fates - -Author: F. Marion Crawford - -Release Date: November 9, 2016 [EBook #53486] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THREE FATES *** - - - - -Produced by Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - THE THREE FATES - - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - THE THREE FATES - - - BY - - F. MARION CRAWFORD - - AUTHOR OF “MR. ISAACS,” “DR. CLAUDIUS,” “SARACINESCA,” ETC. - - - London - - MACMILLAN AND CO. - - AND NEW YORK - - 1893 - - _All rights reserved_ - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1891, - - BY MACMILLAN AND CO. - - _Set up and electrotyped January, 1892._ - _Reprinted April, May, October, 1892._ - - - TYPOGRAPHY BY J. S. CUSHING & CO., BOSTON, U.S.A. - - PRESSWORK BY BERWICK & SMITH, BOSTON, U.S.A. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - To - - FREDERICK MACMILLAN - - AN EXPRESSION OF GRATITUDE - - FROM AN AUTHOR TO HIS PUBLISHER - - AND OF HIGH ESTEEM ENTERTAINED - - BY ONE MAN FOR ANOTHER - - ROME, _February 21, 1892_ - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - THE THREE FATES. - - - - - CHAPTER I. - - -Jonah Wood was bitterly disappointed in his son. During five and twenty -years he had looked in vain for the development of those qualities in -George, which alone, in his opinion, could insure success. But though -George could talk intelligently about the great movements of business in -New York, it was clear by this time that he did not possess what his -father called business instincts. The old man could have forgiven him -his defective appreciation in the matter of dollars and cents, however, -if he had shown the slightest inclination to adopt one of the regular -professions; in other words, if George had ceased to waste his time in -the attempt to earn money with his pen, and had submitted to becoming a -scribe in a lawyer’s office, old Wood would have been satisfied. The -boy’s progress might have been slow, but it would have been sure. - -It was strange to see how this elderly man, who had been ruined by the -exercise of his own business faculties, still pinned his faith upon his -own views and theories of finance, and regarded it as a real misfortune -to be the father of a son who thought differently from himself. It would -have satisfied the height of his ambition to see George installed as a -clerk on a nominal salary in one of the great banking houses. Possibly, -at an earlier period, and before George had finally refused to enter a -career of business, there may have been in the bottom of the old man’s -heart a hope that his son might some day become a financial power, and -wreak vengeance for his own and his father’s losses upon Thomas Craik or -his heirs after him; but if this wish existed Jonah Wood had honestly -tried to put it out of the way. He was of a religious disposition, and -his moral rectitude was above all doubt. He did not forgive his enemies, -but he sincerely meant to do so, and did his best not to entertain any -hope of revenge. - -The story of his wrongs was a simple one. He had formerly been a very -successful man. Of a good New England family, he had come to New York -when very young, possessed of a small capital, full of integrity, -industry, and determination. At the age of forty he was at the head of a -banking firm which had for a time enjoyed a reputation of some -importance. Then he had married a young lady of good birth and -possessing a little fortune, to whom he had been attached for years and -who had waited for him with touching fidelity. Twelve months later, she -had died in giving birth to George. Possibly the terrible shock weakened -Jonah Wood’s nerves and disturbed the balance of his faculties. At all -events it was at this time that he began to enter into speculation. At -first he was very successful, and his success threw him into closer -intimacy with Thomas Craik, a cousin of his dead wife’s. For a time -everything prospered with the bank, while Wood acquired the habit of -following Craik’s advice. On an ill-fated day, however, the latter -persuaded him to invest largely in a certain railway not yet begun, but -which was completed in a marvellously short space of time. In the course -of a year or two it was evident that the road, which Craik insisted on -running upon the most ruinous principles, must soon become bankrupt. It -had of course been built to compete with an old established line; the -usual war of rates set in, the old road suffered severely, and the young -one was ruined. This was precisely what Craik had anticipated. So soon -as the bankruptcy was declared and the liquidation terminated, he bought -up every bond and share upon which he could lay his hands. Wood was -ruined, together with a number of other heavy investors. The road, -however, having ceased to pay interest on its debts continued to run at -rates disastrous to its more honest competitor, and before long the -latter was obliged in self-defence to buy up its rival. When that -extremity was reached Thomas Craik was in possession of enough bonds and -stock to give him a controlling interest, and he sold the ruined railway -at his own price, realising a large fortune by the transaction. Wood was -not only financially broken; his reputation, too, had suffered in the -catastrophe. At first, people looked askance at him, believing that he -had got a share of the profits, and that he was only pretending poverty -until the scandal should blow over, though he had in reality sacrificed -almost everything he possessed in the honourable liquidation of the -bank’s affairs, and found himself, at the age of fifty-seven, in -possession only of the small fortune that had been his wife’s, and of -the small house which had escaped the general ruin, and in which he now -lived. Thomas Craik had robbed him, as he had robbed many others, and -Jonah Wood knew it, though there was no possibility of ever recovering a -penny of his losses. His nerve was gone, and by the time people had -discovered that he was the most honest of men, he was more than half -forgotten by those he had known best. He had neither the energy nor the -courage to begin life again, and although he had cleared his reputation -of all blame, he knew that he had made the great mistake, and that no -one would ever again trust to his judgment. It seemed easiest to live in -the little house, to get what could be got out of life for himself and -his son on an income of scarcely two thousand dollars, and to shut -himself out from his former acquaintance. - -And yet, though his own career had ended in such lamentable failure, he -would gladly have seen George begin where he had begun. George would -have succeeded in doing all those things which he himself had left -undone, and he might have lived to see established on a firm basis the -great fortune which for a few brief years had been his in a floating -state. But George could not be brought to understand this point of view. -His youthful recollections were connected with monetary disaster, and -his first boyish antipathies had been conceived against everything that -bore the name of business. What he felt for the career of the -money-maker was more than antipathy; it amounted to a positive horror -which he could not overcome. From time to time his father returned to -the old story of his wrongs and misfortunes, going over the tale as he -sat with George through the long winter evenings, and entering into -every detail of the transaction which had ruined him. In justice to the -young man it must be admitted that he was patient on those occasions, -and listened with outward calm to the long technical explanations, the -interminable concatenation of figures and the jarring cadence of phrases -that all ended with the word dollars. But the talk was as painful to him -as a violin played out of tune is to a musician, and it reacted upon his -nerves and produced physical pain of an acute kind. He could set his -features in an expression of respectful attention, but he could not help -twisting his long smooth fingers together under the edge of the table, -where his father could not see them. The very name of money disgusted -him, and when the great failure had been talked of in the evening it -haunted his dreams throughout the night and destroyed his rest, so that -he awoke with a sense of nervousness and distress from which he could -not escape until late in the following day. - -Jonah Wood saw more of this peculiarity than his son suspected, though -he failed to understand it. With him, nervousness took a different form, -manifesting itself in an abnormal anxiety concerning George’s welfare, -combined with an unfortunate disposition to find fault. Of late, indeed, -he had not been able to accuse the young man of idleness, since he was -evidently working to the utmost of his strength, though his occupations -brought him but little return. It seemed a pity to Jonah Wood that so -much good time and so much young energy should be wasted over pen, ink, -paper, and books which left no record of a daily substantial gain. He, -too, slept little, though his iron-grey face betrayed nothing of what -passed in his mind. - -He loved his son in his own untrusting way. It was his affection, -combined with his inability to believe much good of what he loved, that -undermined and embittered the few pleasures still left to him. He had -never seen any hope except in money, and since George hated the very -mention of lucre there could be no hope for him either. A good man, a -scrupulously honest man according to his lights, he could only see -goodness from one point of view and virtue represented in one dress. -Goodness was obedience to parental authority, and virtue the imitation -of parental ideas. George believed that obedience should play no part in -determining what he should do with his talent, and that imitation, -though it be the sincerest flattery, may lay the foundation for the most -hopeless of all failures, the failure to do that for which a man is best -adapted. George had not deliberately chosen a literary career because he -felt himself fitted for it. He was in reality far too modest to look -forward from the first to the ultimate satisfaction of his ambitions. -His lonely life had driven him to writing as a means of expressing -himself without incurring his father’s criticism and contradiction. Not -understanding in the least the nature of imagination, he believed -himself lacking in this respect, but he had at once found an immense -satisfaction in writing down his opinions concerning certain new books -that had fallen into his hands. Then, being emboldened by that belief in -his own judgment which young men acquire very easily when they are not -brought into daily contact with their intellectual equals, he had -ventured to offer the latest of his attempts to one editor and then to -another and another. At last he had found one who chanced to be in a -human humour and who glanced at one of the papers. - -“It is not worthless,” said the autocrat, “but it is quite useless. -Everybody has done with the book months ago. Do you want to earn a -little money by reviewing?” - -George expressed his readiness to do so with alacrity. The editor -scribbled half a dozen words on a slip of paper from a block and handed -it to George, telling him where to take it. As a first result the young -man carried away a couple of volumes of new-born trash upon which to try -his hand. A quarter of what he wrote was published in the literary -column of the newspaper. He had yet to learn the cynical practice of -counting words, upon which so much depends in dealing with the daily -press, but the idea of actually earning something, no matter how little, -overcame his first feeling of disgust at the nature of the work. In time -he acquired the necessary tricks and did very well. By sheer -determination he devoted all his best hours of the day to the drudgery -of second class criticism, and only allowed himself to write what was -agreeable to his own brain when the day’s work was done. - -The idea of producing a book did not suggest itself to him. In his own -opinion he had none of the necessary gifts for original writing, while -he fancied that he possessed those of the critic in a rather unusual -degree. His highest ambition was to turn out a volume of essays on other -people’s doings and writings, and he was constantly labouring in his -leisure moments at long papers treating of celebrated works, in what he -believed to be a spirit of profound analysis. As yet no one had bestowed -the slightest attention upon his efforts; no serious article of his had -found its way into the press, though a goodly number of his carefully -copied manuscripts had issued from the offices of various periodicals in -the form of waste paper. Strange to say, he was not discouraged by these -failures. The satisfaction, so far as he had known any, had consisted in -the writing down of his views; and though he wished it were possible to -turn his ink-stained pages into money, his natural detestation of all -business transactions whatsoever made him extremely philosophical in -repeated failure. Even in regard to his daily drudgery, which was -regularly paid, the least pleasant moment was the one when he had to -begin his round from one newspaper cashier to another to receive the -little cheques which made him independent of his father so far as his -only luxuries of new books and tobacco were concerned. Pride, indeed, -was now at the bottom of his resolution to continue in the uninteresting -course that had been opened before him. Having once succeeded in buying -for himself what he wanted or needed beyond his daily bread he would -have been ashamed to ever go again for pocket-money to his father. - -The nature of this occupation, which he would not relinquish, was -beginning to produce its natural effect upon his character. He felt that -he was better than his work, and the inevitable result ensued. He felt -that he was hampered and tied, and that every hour spent in such labour -was a page stolen from the book of his reputation; that he was giving -for a pitiful wage the precious time in which something important might -have been accomplished, and that his life would turn out a failure if it -continued to run on much longer in the same groove. And yet he assumed -that it would be absolutely impossible for him to abandon his drudgery -in order to devote himself solely to the series of essays on which he -had pinned his hopes of success. His serious work, as he called it, made -little progress when interrupted at every step by the necessity for -writing twaddle about trash. - -It may be objected that George Wood should not have written twaddle, but -should have employed his best energies in the improvement of second -class literature by systematically telling the truth about it. -Unfortunately the answer to such a stricture is not far to seek. If he -had written what he thought, the newspapers would have ceased to employ -him; not that it is altogether impossible to write honestly about the -great rivers of minor books which flow east and west and north and south -from the publishers’ gardens, but because the critic who has the age, -experience, and talent to bestow faint praise without inflicting -damnation commands a high price and cannot be wasted on little authors -and their little publications. The beginner often knows that he is -writing twaddle and regrets it, and he very likely knows how to write in -strains of enthusiastic eulogium or of viciously cruel abuse; but though -he have all these things, he has not yet acquired the unaffected charity -which covers a multitude of sins, and which is the result of an ancient -and wise good feeling entertained between editors, publishers and -critics. He cannot really feel mildly well disposed towards a book he -despises, and his only chance of expressing gentle sentiments not his -own, lies in the plentiful use of unmitigated twaddle. If he remains a -critic, he is either lifted out of the sphere of the daily saleable -trash to that of serious first class literature, or else he imbibes -through the pores of his soul such proportional parts of the editor’s -and the publisher’s wishes as shall combine in his own character and -produce the qualities which they both desire to find there and to see -expressed in his paragraphs. - -It could not be said that George Wood was discontented with what he -found to do, so much as with being constantly hindered from doing -something better. And that better thing which he would have done, and -believed that he could have done, was in reality far from having reached -the stage of being clearly defined. He had never felt any strong liking -for fiction, and his mind had been nourished upon unusually solid -intellectual food, while the outward circumstances of his life had -necessarily left much to his imagination, which to most young men of -five and twenty is already matter of experience. As a boy he had been -too much with older people, and had therefore thought too much to be -boyish. Possibly, too, he had seen more than was good for him, for his -father had left him but a short time at school in the days of their -prosperity, and, being unable to leave New York for any length of time, -had more than once sent him abroad with an elderly tutor from whom the -lad had acquired all sorts of ideas that were too big for him. He had -been wrongly supposed to be of a delicate constitution, too, and had -been indulged in all manner of intellectual whims and fancies, whereby -he had gained a smattering of many sciences and literatures at an age -when he ought to have been following a regular course of instruction. -Then, before he was thought old enough to enter a university, the crash -had come. - -Jonah Wood was far too conscientious a man not to sacrifice whatever he -could for the completion of his son’s education. For several years he -deprived himself of every luxury, in order that George might have the -assistance he so greatly needed while making his studies at Columbia -College in his native city. Then only did the father realise how he had -erred in allowing the boy to receive the desultory and aimless teaching -that had seemed so generous in the days of wealth. He knew more or less -well a variety of subjects of which his companions were wholly ignorant, -but he was utterly unversed in much of their knowledge. And this was not -all, for George had acquired from his former tutor a misguided contempt -for the accepted manner of dealing with certain branches of learning, -without possessing that grasp of the matters in hand which alone -justifies a man in thinking differently from the great mass of his -fellows. It is not well to ridicule the American method of doing things -until one is master of some other. - -It was from the time when George entered college that he began to be a -constant source of disappointment to his father. The elderly man had -received a good, old-fashioned, thoroughly prejudiced education, and -though he remembered little Latin and less Greek, he had not forgotten -the way in which he had been made to learn both. George’s way of talking -about his studies disturbed his father’s sense of intellectual -propriety, which was great, without exciting his curiosity, which was -infinitesimally small. With him also prevailed the paternal view which -holds that young men must necessarily distinguish themselves above their -companions if they really possess any exceptional talent, and his peace -of mind was further endangered by his sense of responsibility for -George’s beginnings. If he had believed that George was stupid, he would -have resigned himself to that dispensation of Providence. But he thought -otherwise. The boy was not an ordinary boy, and if he failed to prove it -by taking prizes in competition, he must be lazy or his preparation must -have been defective. No other alternative was to be found, and the fault -therefore lay either with himself or with his father. - -George never obtained a prize, and barely passed his examinations at -all. Jonah Wood made a point of seeing all his examiners as well as the -instructors who had known him during his college life. Three-quarters of -the number asserted that the young fellow was undeniably clever, and -added, expressing themselves with professorial politeness, that his -previous studies seemed to have taken a direction other than that of the -college “curriculum,” as they called it. The professor of Greek presumed -that George might have distinguished himself in Latin, the professor of -Latin surmised that Greek might have been his strong point; both -believed that he had talent for mathematics, while the mathematician -remarked that he seemed to have a very good understanding, but that it -would be turned to better account in the pursuit of classical studies. -Jonah Wood returned to his home very much disturbed in mind, and from -that day his anxiety steadily increased. As it became more clear that -his son would never accept a business career, but would probably waste -his opportunities in literary dabbling, the good man’s alarm became -extreme. He did not see that George’s one true talent lay in his ready -power of assimilating unfamiliar knowledge by a process of intuition -that escapes methodical learners, any more than he understood that the -boy’s one solid acquirement was the power of using his own language. He -was not to be too much blamed, perhaps, for the young man himself was -only dimly conscious of his yet undeveloped power. What made him write -was neither the pride of syntax nor the certainty of being right in his -observations; he was driven to paper to escape from the torment of the -desire to express something, he knew not what, which he could express in -no other way. He found no congenial conversation at home and little -abroad, and yet he felt that he had something to say and must say it. - -It should not be supposed that either Jonah Wood’s misfortunes or his -poverty, which was after all comparative, though hard to bear, prevented -George from mixing in the world with which he was connected by his -mother’s birth, and to some extent by his father’s former position. The -old gentleman, indeed, was too proud to renew his acquaintance with -people who had thought him dishonourable until he had proved himself -spotless; but the very demonstration of his uprightness had been so -convincing and clear that it constituted a patent of honour for his son. -Many persons who had blamed themselves for their hasty judgment would -have been glad to make amends by their cordial reception of the man they -had so cruelly mistaken. George, however, was quite as proud as his -father, and much more sensitive. He remembered well enough the -hard-hearted, boyish stare he had seen in the eyes of some of his -companions when he was but just seventeen years old, and later, at -college, when his father’s self-sacrifice was fully known, and his old -associates had held out their hands to his in the hope of making -everything right again, George had met them with stony eyes and scornful -civility. It was not easy to forgive, and with all his excellent -qualities and noble honesty of purpose, Jonah Wood was not altogether -displeased to know that his son held his head high and drew back from -the renewal of fair weather friendships. Almost against his will he -encouraged him in his conduct, while doing his best to appear at least -indifferent. - -George needed but little encouragement to remain in social obscurity, -though he was conscious of a rather contemptible hope that he might one -day play a part in society, surrounded by all the advantages of wealth -and general respect which belong especially to those few who possess -both, by inheritance rather than as a result of their own labours. He -was not quite free from that subtle aristocratic taint which has touched -so many members of American society. Like the wind, no man can tell -whence it comes nor whither it goes; but unlike the ill wind in the -proverb it blows no good to any one. It is not the breath of that -republican inequality which is caused by two men extracting a different -degree of advantage from the same circumstances; it is not the -inevitable inequality produced by the inevitable struggle for existence, -wealth and power; but it is the fictitious inequality caused by the -pretence that the accident of a man’s birth should of itself constitute -for him a claim to have special opportunities made for him, adapted to -his use and protected by law for his particular benefit. It is a fallacy -which is in the air, and which threatens to produce evil consequences -wherever it becomes localised. - -Perhaps, at some future time yet far distant, a man will arise who shall -fathom and explain the great problems presented by human vanity. No more -interesting study could be found wherewith to occupy the greatest mind, -and assuredly none in the pursuit of which a man would be so constantly -confronted by new and varied matter for research. One main fact at least -we know. Vanity is the boundless, circumambient and all-penetrating -ether in which all man’s thoughts and actions have being and receive -manifestation. All moral and intellectual life is either full of it and -in sympathy with it, breathing it as our bodies breathe the air, or is -out of balance with it in the matter of quantity and is continually -struggling to restore its own lost equilibrium. It is as impossible to -conceive of anything being done in the world without also conceiving the -element of vanity as the medium for the action, as it is to imagine -motion without space, or time without motion. To say that any man who -succeeds in the race for superiority of any sort is without vanity, is -downright nonsense; to assert that any man can reach success without it, -would be to state more than any one has yet been able to prove. Let us -accept the fact that we are all vain, whether we be saints or sinners, -men of action or men of thought, men who leave our sign manual upon the -page of our little day or men who trudge through the furrows of a -nameless life ploughing and sowing that others may reap and eat and be -merry. After all, does not our conception of heaven suggest to us a life -from which all vanity is absent, and does not our idea of hell show us -an existence in which vanity reigns supreme and hopeless, without -prospect of satisfaction? Let us at least strive that our vanity may -neither do injury to our fellow-men, nor recoil and become ridiculous in -ourselves. - -Enough has been said to define and explain the character and life of the -young man whose history this book is to relate. He himself was far from -being conscious of all his virtues, faults, and capabilities. He neither -knew his own energy nor was aware of the hidden enthusiasm which was -only just beginning to make itself felt as a vague, uneasy longing for -something that should surpass ordinary things. He did not know that he -possessed singular talents as well as unusual defects. He had not even -begun to look upon life as a problem offered him for solution, and upon -his own heart as an object for his own study. He scarcely felt that he -had a heart at all, nor knew where to look for it in others. His life -was not happy, and yet he had not tasted the bitter sources of real -unhappiness. He was oppressed by his surroundings, but he could not have -told what he would have done with the most untrammelled liberty. He -despised money, he worked for a pittance, and yet he secretly longed for -all that money could buy. He was profoundly attached to his father, and -yet he found the good man’s company intolerable. He shrank from a -society in which he might have been a welcome guest, and yet he dreamed -of playing a great part in it some day. He believed himself cynical when -he was in reality quixotic, his idols of gold were hidden behind images -of clay, and he really cared little for those things which he had -schooled himself to admire the most. He fancied himself a critic when he -was foredestined by his nature and his circumstances to become an object -of criticism to others. He forced his mind to do what it found least -congenial, not acting in obedience to any principle or idea of duty, but -because he was sure that he knew his own abilities, and that no other -path lay open to success. He was in the darkest part of the transition -which precedes development, for he was in that period during which a man -makes himself imagine that he has laid hold on the thread of the future, -while something he will not heed warns him that the chaos is wilder than -ever before. In the dark hour before manhood’s morning he was journeying -resolutely away from the coming dawn. - - - - - CHAPTER II. - - -“It is very sad,” observed Mrs. Sherrington Trimm, thoughtfully. “Their -mother died in London last autumn, and now they are quite alone—nobody -with them but an aunt, or something like that—poor girls! I am so glad -they are rich, at least. You ought to know them.” - -“Ought I?” asked the visitor who was drinking his tea on the other side -of the fireplace. “You know I do not go into society.” - -“The girls go nowhere, either. They are still in mourning. You ought to -know them. Who knows, you might marry one or the other.” - -“I will never marry a fortune.” - -“Do not be silly, George!” - -The relationship between the two speakers was not very close. George -Winton Wood’s mother had been a second cousin of Mrs. Sherrington -Trimm’s, and the two ladies had not been on very friendly terms with -each other. Moreover, Mrs. Trimm had nothing to do with old Jonah Wood, -the father of the young man with whom she was now speaking, and Jonah -Wood refused to have anything to do with her. Nevertheless she called -his son by his first name, and the latter usually addressed her as -“Cousin Totty.” An examination of Mrs. Sherrington Trimm’s baptismal -certificate would have revealed the fact that she had been christened -Charlotte, but parental fondness had made itself felt with its usual -severity in such cases, and before she was a year old she had been -labelled with the comic diminutive which had stuck to her ever since, -through five and twenty years of maidenhood, and twenty years more of -married life. On her visiting cards, and in her formal invitations she -appeared as Mrs. Sherrington Trimm; but the numerous members of New York -society who were related to her by blood or marriage, called her “Totty” -to her face, while those who claimed no connection called her “Totty” -behind her back; and though she may live beyond three score years and -ten, and though her strength come to sorrow and weakness, she will be -“Totty” still, to the verge of the grave, and beyond, even after she is -comfortably laid away in the family vault at Greenwood. - -After all, the name was not inappropriate, so far at least, as Mrs. -Trimm’s personal appearance was concerned; for she was very smooth, and -round, and judiciously plump, short, fair, and neatly made, with pretty -little hands and feet; active and not ungraceful, sleek but not sleepy; -having small, sharp blue eyes, a very obliging and permanent smile, a -diminutive pointed nose, salmon-coloured lips, and perfect teeth. Her -good points did not, indeed, conceal her age altogether, but they -obviated all necessity for an apology to the world for the crime of -growing old; and those features which were less satisfactory to herself -were far from being offensive to others. - -She bore in her whole being and presence the stamp of a comfortable -life. There is nothing more disturbing to society than the forced -companionship of a person who either is, or looks, uncomfortable, in -body, mind, or fortune, and many people owe their popularity almost -solely to a happy faculty of seeming always at their ease. It is certain -that neither birth, wealth, nor talent will of themselves make man or -woman popular, not even when all three are united in the possession of -one individual. But on the other hand they are not drawbacks to social -success, provided they are merely means to the attainment of that -unobtrusively careless good humour which the world loves. Mrs. -Sherrington Trimm knew this. If not talented, she possessed at all -events a pedigree and a fortune; and as for talent, she looked upon -culture as an hereditary disease peculiar to Bostonians, and though not -contagious, yet full of danger, inasmuch as its presence in a -well-organised society must necessarily be productive of discomfort. All -the charm of general conversation must be gone, she thought, when a -person appeared who was both able and anxious to set everybody right. -She even went so far as to say that if everybody were poor, it would be -very disagreeable to be rich. She never wished to do what others could -not do; she only aimed at being among the first to do what everybody -would do by and by, as a matter of course. - -Mrs. Trimm’s cousin George did not understand this point of view as yet, -though he was beginning to suspect that “Totty and her friends”—as he -generally designated society—must act upon some such principle. He was -only five and twenty years of age, and could hardly be expected to be in -the secrets of a life he had hitherto seen as an outsider; but he -differed from Totty and her friends in being exceedingly clever, -exceedingly unhappy, and exceedingly full of aspirations, ambitions, -fancies, ideas, and thoughts; in being poor instead of rich, and, -lastly, in being the son of a man who had failed in the pursuit of -wealth, and who could not prove even the most distant relationship to -any one of the gentlemen who had signed the Declaration of Independence, -fought in the Revolution, or helped to frame the Constitution of the -United States. George, indeed, possessed these ancestral advantages -through his mother, and in a more serviceable form through his -relationship to Totty; but she, on her part, felt that the burden of his -cleverness might be too heavy for her to bear, should she attempt to -launch him upon her world. Her sight was keen enough, and she saw at a -glance the fatal difference between George and other people. He had a -habit of asking serious questions, and of saying serious things, which -would be intolerable at a dinner-party. He was already too strong to be -put down, he was not yet important enough to be shown off. Totty’s -husband, who was an eminent lawyer, occasionally asked George to dine -with him at his club, and usually said when he came home that he could -not understand the boy; but, being of an inquiring disposition, Mr. -Trimm was impelled to repeat the hospitality at intervals that gradually -became more regular. At first he had feared that the dark, earnest face -of the young man, and his grave demeanour, concealed the soul of a -promising prig, a social article which Sherrington Trimm despised and -loathed. He soon discovered, however, that these apprehensions were -groundless. From time to time his companion gave utterance to some -startling opinion or freezing bit of cynicism which he had evidently -been revolving in his thoughts for a long time, and which forced Mr. -Trimm’s gymnastic intelligence into thinking more seriously than usual. -Doubtless George’s remarks were often paradoxical and youthfully wild, -but his hearer liked them none the less for that. Keen and successful in -his own profession he scented afar the capacity for success in other -callings. Accustomed by the habits and pursuits of his own exciting life -to judge men and things quickly, he recognised in George another mode of -the force to which he himself owed his reputation. To lay down the law -and determine the precise manner in which that force should be used, was -another matter, and one in which Sherrington Trimm did not propose to -meddle. More than once, indeed, he asked George what he meant to do in -the world, and George answered, with a rather inappropriate look of -determination that he believed himself good for nothing, and that when -there was no more bread and butter at home he should doubtless find his -own level by going up long ladders with a hod of bricks on his shoulder. -Mr. Trimm’s jovial face usually expressed his disbelief in such theories -by a bland smile as he poured out another glass of wine for his young -guest. He felt sure that George would do something, and George, who got -little sympathy in his life, understood his encouraging certainty, and -was grateful. - -Mrs. Trimm, however, shared her cousin’s asserted convictions about -himself so far as to believe that unless something was done for him, he -might actually be driven to manual labour for support. She assuredly had -no faith in general cleverness as a means of subsistence for young men -without fortune, and yet she felt that she ought to do something for -George Wood. There was a good reason for this beneficent instinct. Her -only brother was chiefly responsible for the ruin that had overtaken -Jonah Wood, when George was still a boy, and she herself had been one of -the winners in the game, or at least had been a sharer with her brother -in the winnings. It is true that the facts of the case had never been -generally known, and that George’s father had been made to suffer -unjustly in his reputation after being plundered of his wealth; but Mrs. -Trimm was not without a conscience, any more than the majority of her -friends. If she loved money and wanted more of it, this was because she -wished to be like other people, and not because she was vulgarly -avaricious. She was willing to keep what she had, though a part of it -should have been George’s and was ill-gotten. She wished her brother, -Thomas Craik, to keep all he possessed until he should die, and then she -wished him to leave it to her, Charlotte Sherrington Trimm. But she also -desired that George should have compensation for what his father had -lost, and the easiest and least expensive way of providing him with the -money he had not, was to help him to a rich marriage. It was not, -indeed, fitting that he should marry her only daughter, Mamie, though -the girl was nineteen years old and showed a disquieting tendency to -like George. Such a marriage would result only in a transfer of wealth -without addition or multiplication, which was not the form of -magnanimity most agreeable to cousin Totty’s principles. There were -other rich girls in the market; one of them might be interested in the -tall young man with the dark face and the quiet manner, and might bestow -herself upon him, and endow him with all her worldly goods. Totty had -now been lucky enough to find two such young ladies together, orphans -both, and both of age, having full control of the large and equally -divided patrimony they had lately inherited. Better still, they were -reported to be highly gifted and fond of clever people, and she herself -knew that they were both pretty. She had resolved that George should -know them without delay, and had sent for him as a preliminary step -towards bringing about the acquaintance. George met her at once with the -plain statement that he would never marry money, as the phrase goes, but -she treated his declaration of independence with appropriate levity. - -“Do not be silly, George!” she exclaimed with a little laugh. - -“I am not,” George answered, in a tone of conviction. - -“Oh, I know you are clever enough,” retorted his cousin. “But that is -quite a different thing. Besides, I was not thinking seriously of your -marrying.” - -“I guessed as much, from the fact of your mentioning it,” observed the -young man quietly. - -Mrs. Trimm stared at him for a moment, and then laughed again. - -“Am I never thinking seriously of what I am saying?” - -“Tell me about these girls,” said George, avoiding an answer. “If they -are rich and unmarried, they must be old and hideous——” - -“They are neither.” - -“Mere children then——” - -“Yes—they are younger than you.” - -“Poor little things! I see—you want me to play with them, and teach them -games and things of that sort. What is the salary? I am open to an -engagement in any respectable calling. Or perhaps you would prefer Mrs. -Macwhirter, my old nurse. It is true that she is blind of one eye and -limps a little, but she would make a reduction in consideration of her -infirmities, if money is an object.” - -“Try and be serious; I want you to know them.” - -“Do I look like a man who wastes time in laughing?” inquired George, -whose imperturbable gravity was one of his chief characteristics. - -“No—you have other resources at your command for getting at the same -result.” - -“Thanks. You are always flattering. When am I to begin amusing your -little friends?” - -“To-day, if you like. We can go to them at once.” - -George Wood glanced down almost unconsciously at the clothes he wore, -with the habit of a man who is very poor and is not always sure of being -presentable at a moment’s notice. His preoccupation did not escape -cousin Totty, whose keen instinct penetrated his thoughts and found -there an additional incentive to the execution of her beneficent -intentions. It was a shame, she thought, that any relation of hers -should need to think of such miserable details as the possession of a -decent coat and whole shoes. At the present moment, indeed, George was -arrayed with all appropriate correctness, but Totty remembered to have -caught sight of him sometimes when he was evidently not expecting to -meet any acquaintance, and she had noticed on those occasions that his -dress was very shabby indeed. It was many years since she had seen his -father, and she wondered whether he, too, went about in old clothes, -sure of not meeting anybody he knew. The thought was not altogether -pleasant, and she put it from her. It was a part of her method of life -not to think disagreeable thoughts, and though her plan to bring about a -rich marriage for her cousin was but a scheme for quieting her -conscience, she determined to believe that she was putting herself to -great inconvenience out of spontaneous generosity, for which George -would owe her a debt of lifelong gratitude. - -George, having satisfied himself that his appearance would pass muster, -and realising that Totty must have noticed his self-inspection, -immediately asked her opinion. - -“Will I do?” he asked with an odd shade of shyness, and glancing again -at the sleeve of his coat, as though to explain what he meant, well -knowing that all explanation was unnecessary. - -Totty, who had thoroughly inspected him before proposing that they -should go out together, now pretended to look him over with a critical -eye. - -“Of course—perfectly,” she said, after three or four seconds. “Wait for -me a moment, and I will get ready,” she added, as she rose and left the -room. - -When George was alone, he leaned back in his comfortable chair and -looked at the familiar objects about him with a weary expression which -he had not worn while his cousin had been present. He could not tell -exactly why he came to see cousin Totty, and he generally went home -after his visits to her with a vague sense of disappointment. In the -first place, he always felt that there was a sort of disloyalty in -coming at all. He knew the details of his father’s past life, and was -aware that old Tom Craik had been the cause of his ruin, and he guessed -that Totty had profited by the same catastrophe, since he had always -heard that her brother managed her property. He even fancied that Totty -was not so harmless as she looked, and that she was very fond of money, -though he was astonished at his own boldness in suspecting the facts to -be so much at variance with the outward appearance. He was very young, -and he feared to trust his own judgment, though he had an intimate -conviction that his instincts were right. On the whole he was forced to -admit to himself that there were many reasons against his periodical -visits to the Trimms, and he was quite ready to allow that it was not -Totty’s personality or conversation that attracted him to the house. -Yet, as he rested in the cushioned chair he had selected and felt the -thick carpet under his feet, and breathed that indefinable atmosphere -which impregnates every corner of a really luxurious house, he knew that -it would be very hard to give up the habit of enjoying all these things -at regular intervals. He imagined that his thoughts liquefied and became -more mobile under the genial influence, forgetting the grooves and -moulds so unpleasantly familiar to them. Hosts of ideas and fancies -presented themselves to him, which he recognised as belonging to a self -that only came to life from time to time; a self full of delicate -sensations and endowed with brilliant powers of expression; a self of -which he did not know whether to be ashamed or proud; a self as -overflowing with ready appreciation, as his other common, daily self was -inclined to depreciate all that the world admired, and to find fault -with everything that was presented to its view. Though conscious of all -this, however, George did not care to analyse his own motives too -closely. It was disagreeable to his pride to find that he attached so -much importance to what he described collectively as furniture and tea. -He was disappointed with himself, and he did all in his power not to -increase his disappointment. Then an extreme depression came upon him, -and showed itself in his face. He felt impelled to escape from the -house, to renounce the visit Totty had proposed, to go home, get into -his oldest clothes and work desperately at something, no matter what. -But for his cousin’s opportune return, he might have yielded to the -impulse. She re-entered the room briskly, dressed for walking and -smiling as usual. George’s expression changed as he heard the latch move -in the door, and Mrs. Sherrington Trimm must have been even keener than -she was, to guess what had been passing in his mind. She was not, -however, in the observant mood, but in the subjective, for she felt that -she was now about to appear as her cousin’s benefactress, and, having -got rid of her qualms of conscience, she experienced a certain elation -at her own skill in the management of her soul. - -George took his hat and rose with alacrity. There was nothing -essentially distasteful to him in the prospect of being presented to a -pair of pretty sisters, who had doubtless been warned of his coming, and -his foolish longing for his old clothes and his work disappeared as -suddenly as it had come. - -It was still winter, and the low afternoon sun fell across the avenue -from the westward streets in broad golden patches. It was still winter, -but the promise of spring was already in the air, and a faint mist hung -about the vanishing point of the seemingly endless rows of buildings. -The trees were yet far from budding, but the leafless branches no longer -looked dead, and the small twigs were growing smooth and glossy with the -returning circulation of the sap. There were many people on foot in the -avenue, and Totty constantly nodded and smiled to her passing -acquaintances, who generally looked with some interest at George as they -acknowledged or forestalled his companion’s salutation. He knew a few of -them by sight, but not one passed with whom he had ever spoken, and he -felt somewhat foolishly ashamed of not knowing every one. When he was -alone the thought did not occur to him, but his cousin’s incessant -smiles and nods made him realise vividly the difference between her -social position and his own. He wondered whether the gulf would ever be -bridged over, and whether at any future time those very correct people -who now looked at him with inquiring eyes would be as anxious to know -him and be recognised by him as they now seemed desirous of knowing -Totty and being saluted by her. - -“Do you mean to say that you really remember the names of all these -friends of yours?” he asked, presently. - -“Why not? I have known most of them since I was a baby, and they have -known me. You could learn their names fast enough if you would take the -trouble.” - -“Why should I? They do not want me. I should never be a part of their -lives.” - -“Why not? You could if you liked, and I am always telling you so. -Society never wants anybody who does not want it. It is founded on the -principle of giving and receiving in return. If you show that you like -people, they will show that they like you.” - -“That would depend upon my motives.” - -Mrs. Sherrington Trimm laughed, lowered her parasol, and turned her head -so that she could see George’s face. - -“Motives!” she exclaimed. “Nobody cares about your motives, provided you -have good manners. It is only in business that people talk about -motives.” - -“Then any adventurer who chose might take his place in society,” -objected George. - -“Of course he might—and does. It occurs constantly, and nothing -unpleasant happens to him, unless he makes love in the wrong direction -or borrows money without returning it. Unfortunately those are just the -two things most generally done by adventurers, and then they come to -grief. A man is taken at his own valuation in society, until he commits -a social crime and is found out.” - -“You think there would be nothing to prevent my going into society, if I -chose to try it?” - -“Nothing in the world, if you will follow one or two simple rules.” - -“And what may they be?” inquired George, becoming interested. - -“Let me see—in the first place—dear me! how hard it is to explain such -things! I should say that one ought never to ask a question about -anybody, unless one knows the answer, and knows that the person to whom -one is speaking will be glad to talk about the matter. One may avoid a -deal of awkwardness by not asking a man about his wife, for instance, if -she has just applied for a divorce. But if his sister is positively -engaged to marry an English duke, you should always ask about her. That -kind of conversation makes things pleasant.” - -“I like that view,” said George. “Give me some more advice.” - -“Never say anything disagreeable about any one you know.” - -“That is charitable, at all events.” - -“Of course it is; and, now I think of it, charity is really the -foundation of good society,” continued Mrs. Trimm very sweetly. - -“You mean a charitable silence, I suppose.” - -“Not always silence. Saying kind words about people you hate is -charitable, too.” - -“I should call it lying,” George observed. - -Totty was shocked at such bluntness. - -“That is far too strong language,” she answered, beginning to look as -she did in church. - -“Gratuitous mendacity,” suggested her companion. “Is the word ‘lie’ in -the swearing dictionary?” - -“Perhaps not—but after all, George,” continued Mrs. Trimm with sudden -fervour, “there are often very nice things to be said quite truly about -people we do not like, and it is certainly charitable and magnanimous to -say them in spite of our personal feelings. One may just as well leave -out the disagreeable things.” - -“Satan is a fallen angel. You hate him of course. If he chanced to be in -society you would leave out the detail of the fall and say that Satan is -an angel. Is that it?” - -“Approximately,” laughed Totty, who was less shocked at the mention of -the devil than at hearing tact called lying. “I think you would succeed -in society. By-the-bye, there is another thing. You must never talk -about culture and books and such things, unless some celebrity begins -it. That is most important, you know. Of course you would not like to -feel that you were talking of things which other people could not -understand, would you?” - -“What should I talk about, then?” - -“Oh—people, of course, and—and horses and things—yachting and fashions -and what people generally do.” - -“But I know so few people,” objected George, “and as for horses, I have -not ridden since I was a boy, and I never was on board of a yacht, and I -do not care a straw for the fashions.” - -“Well, really, then I hardly know. Perhaps you had better not talk much -until you have learned about things.” - -“Perhaps not. Perhaps I had better not try society after all.” - -“Oh, that is ridiculous!” exclaimed Mrs. Trimm, who did not want to -discourage her pupil. “Now, George, be a good boy, and do not get such -absurd notions into your head. You are going to begin this very day.” - -“Am I?” inquired the young man in a tone that promised very little. - -“Of course you are. And it will be easy, too, for the Fearing girls are -clever——” - -“Does that mean that I may talk about something besides horses, -fashions, and yachting?” - -“How dreadfully literal you are, George! I did not mean precisely those -things, only I could think of nothing else just at that moment. I know, -yes—you are going to ask if I ever think of anything else. Well, I do -sometimes—there, now do be good and behave like a sensible being. Here -we are.” - -They had reached a large, old-fashioned house in Washington Square, -which George had often noticed without knowing who lived in it, and -which had always attracted him. He liked the quiet neighbourhood, so -near the busiest part of the city and yet so completely separated from -it, and he often went there alone to sit upon one of the benches under -the trees and think of all that might have been even then happening to -him if things had not been precisely what they were. He stood upon the -door-step and rang the bell, wondering at the unexpected turn his day -had taken, and wondering what manner of young women these orphan sisters -might be, with whom cousin Totty was so anxious to make him acquainted. -His curiosity on this head was soon satisfied. In a few seconds he found -himself in a sombrely-furnished drawing-room, bowing before two young -girls, while Mrs. Trimm introduced him. - -“Mr. Winton Wood—my cousin George, you know. You got my note? Yes—so -sweet of you to be at home. This is Miss Constance Fearing, and this is -Miss Grace, George. Thanks, no—we have just been having tea. Yes—we -walked. The weather is perfectly lovely, and now tell me all about -yourself, Conny dear!” - -Thereupon Mrs. Sherrington Trimm took Miss Constance Fearing beside her, -held her hand affectionately, and engaged in an animated conversation of -smiles and questions, leaving George to amuse the younger sister as best -he could. - -At first sight there appeared to be a strong resemblance between the two -girls, which was much increased by their both being dressed in black and -in precisely the same manner. They were very nearly of the same age, -Constance being barely twenty-two years old and her sister just twenty, -though Mrs. Trimm had said that both had reached their majority. Both -were tall, graceful girls, well-proportioned in every way, easy in their -bearing, their heads well set upon their shoulders, altogether well -grown and well bred. But there was in reality a marked difference -between them. Constance was fairer and more delicate than her younger -sister, evidently less self-reliant and probably less strong. Her eyes -were blue and quiet, and her hair had golden tinges not to be found in -Grace’s dark-brown locks. Her complexion was more transparent, her even -eyebrows less strongly marked, her sensitive lips less firm. Of the two -she was evidently the more gentle and feminine. Grace’s voice was deep -and smooth, whereas Constance spoke in a higher though a softer key. It -was easy to see that Constance would be the one more quickly moved by -womanly sympathies and passions, and that Grace, on the contrary, would -be at once more obstinate and more sure of herself. - -George was pleasantly impressed by both from the first, and especially -by the odd contrast between them and their surroundings. The house was -old-fashioned within as well as without. It was clear that the girls’ -father and mother had been conservatives of the most severe type. The -furniture was dark, massive, and imposing; the velvet carpet displayed -in deeper shades of claret, upon a claret-coloured ground, that old -familiar pattern formed by four curved scrolls which enclose as in a -lozenge an imposing nosegay of almost black roses. Full-length portraits -of the family adorned the walls, and the fireplace was innocent of high -art tiles, being composed of three slabs of carved white marble, two -upright and one horizontal, in the midst of which a black grate -supported a coal fire. Moreover, as in all old houses in New York, the -front drawing-room communicated with a second at the back of the first -by great polished mahogany folding-doors, which, being closed, produce -the impression that one-half of the room is a huge press. There were -stiff sofas set against the wall, stiff corner bookcases filled with -histories expensively bound in dark tree calf, a stiff mahogany table -under an even stiffer chandelier of gilded metal; there were two or -three heavy easy-chairs, square, dark and polished like everything else, -and covered with red velvet of the same colour as the carpet, each -having before it a footstool of the old style, curved and made of the -same materials as the chairs themselves. A few modern books in their -fresh, perishable bindings showed the beginning of a new influence, -together with half a dozen magazines and papers, and a work-basket -containing a quantity of coloured embroidering silks. - -George looked about him as he took his place beside Grace Fearing, and -noticed the greater part of the details just described. - -“Are you fond of horses, yachting, fashions, and things people generally -do, Miss Fearing?” he inquired. - -“Not in the least,” answered Grace, fixing her dark eyes upon him with a -look of cold surprise. - - - - - CHAPTER III. - - -The stare of astonishment with which Grace Fearing met George’s singular -method of beginning a conversation rather disconcerted him, although he -had half expected it. He had asked the question while still under the -impression of Totty’s absurd advice, unable any longer to refrain from -communicating his feelings to some one. - -“You seem surprised,” he said. “I will explain. I do not care a straw -for any of those things myself, but as we walked here my cousin was -giving me a lecture about conversation in society.” - -“And she advised you to talk to us about horses?” inquired Miss Grace, -beginning to smile. - -“No. Not to you. She gave me to understand that you were both very -clever, but she gave me a list of things about which a man should talk -in general society, and I flatter myself that I have remembered the -catalogue pretty accurately.” - -“Indeed you have!” This time Grace laughed. - -“Yes. And now that we have eliminated horses, yachts, and fashions, by -mutual consent, shall we talk about less important things?” - -“Certainly. Where shall we begin?” - -“With whatever you prefer. What do you like best in the world?” - -“My sister,” answered Grace promptly. - -“That answers the question, ‘Whom do you like best—?’” - -“Very well, Mr. Wood, and whom do you like best?” - -“Myself, of course. Everybody does, except people who have sisters like -yours.” - -“Are you an egotist, then?” - -“Not by intention, but by original sin, and by the fault of fate which -has omitted to give me a sister.” - -“Have you no near relations?” Grace asked. - -“I have my father.” - -“And you are not more fond of him than of yourself?” - -“Is one not bound to believe one’s father, when he speaks on mature -reflection, and is a very good man besides?” - -“Yes—I suppose so.” - -“Very well. My father says that I love myself better than any one else. -That is good evidence, for, as you say, he must be right. How do you -know that you love your sister more than yourself?” - -“I think I would sacrifice more for her than I would for myself.” - -“Then you must be subject to a natural indolence which only affection -for another can overcome.” - -“I am not lazy,” objected Grace. - -“Pardon me. What is a sacrifice, in the common meaning of the word? -Giving up something one likes. To make a sacrifice for oneself means to -give up something one likes for the sake of one’s own advantage—for -instance, to give up sleeping too much, in order to work more. Not to do -so, is to be lazy. Laziness is a vice. Therefore it is a vice not to -sacrifice as much as possible to one’s own advantage. Virtue is the -opposite of vice. Therefore selfishness is a virtue.” - -“What dreadful sophistry!” - -“You cannot escape the conclusion that one ought to love oneself at -least quite as much as any one else, since to be unwilling to take as -much trouble for one’s own advantage as one takes for that of other -people is manifestly an acute form of indolence, and is therefore -vicious and a cardinal sin.” - -“Selfishness is certainly a deadly virtue,” retorted Grace. - -“Can that be called deadly which provides a man with a living?” asked -George. - -“That is all sophistry—sophistical chaff, and nothing else.” - -“The original sophists made a very good living,” objected George. “Is it -not better to get a living as a sophist than to starve?” - -“Do you make a living by it, Mr. Wood?” - -“No. I am not a lawyer, and times have changed since Gorgias.” - -“I may as well tell you,” said Grace, “that Mrs. Trimm has calumniated -me. I am not clever, and I do not know who Gorgias was.” - -“I beg your pardon for mentioning him. I only wanted to show off my -culture. He is of no importance——” - -“Yes he is. Since you have spoken of him, tell me who he was.” - -“A sophist, and one of the first of them. He published a book to prove -that Helen of Troy was an angel of virtue, he fattened on the proceeds -of his talking and writing, till he was a hundred years old, and then he -died. The thing will not do now. Several people have lately defended -Lucretia Borgia, without fattening to any great extent. That is the -reason I would like to be a lawyer. Lawyers defend living clients and -are well paid for it. Look at Sherry Trimm, my cousin’s husband. Do you -know him?” - -“Yes.” - -“He is fat and well-liking. And Johnny Bond—do you know him too?” - -“Of course,” answered Grace, with an almost imperceptible frown. “He is -to be Mr. Trimm’s partner soon.” - -“Well, when he is forty, he will be as sleek and round as Sherry Trimm -himself.” - -“Will he?” asked the young girl with some coldness. - -“Probably, since he will be rich and happy. Moral and physical rotundity -is the natural attribute of all rich and happy persons. It would be a -pity if Johnny grew very fat, he is such a handsome fellow.” - -“I suppose it could not be helped,” said Grace, indifferently. “What do -you mean by moral rotundity, Mr. Wood?” - -“Inward and spiritual grace to be always right.” - -At this point Totty, who had said all she had to say to Constance, and -was now only anxious to say it all over again to Grace, made a movement -and nodded to her cousin. - -“Come, George,” she said, “take my place, and I will take yours.” - -George rose with considerable reluctance and crossed the room. There was -something in Grace Fearing’s manner which gave him courage in -conversation, and he had felt at his ease with her. Now, however, the -ice must be broken afresh with the other sister. Unlike Mrs. Trimm, he -did not want to repeat himself, and he was somewhat embarrassed as to -how he should begin in a new strain. To his surprise, however, his new -companion relieved him of any responsibility in this direction. While -listening as much as was necessary to Totty’s rambling talk, she had -been watching the young man’s face from a distance. Her sympathetic -nature made her more observant than her sister, and she spent much time -in speculating upon other people’s thoughts. George interested her from -the first. There was something about him, of which he himself was wholly -unconscious, which distinguished him from ordinary men, and which it was -hard to define. Few people would have called him handsome, though no one -could have said that he was ugly. His head was strongly modelled, with -prominent brows, and great hollows in the temples. The nose was -straight, but rather too long, as is generally the case with melancholy -people; and the thin, dark moustache did not conceal the scornful -expression of the mouth. The chin would have been the better for a -little more weight and prominence, and the whole face might have been -more attractive had it been less dark and thin. As for the rest, the man -was tall and well built, though somewhat too lean and angular, and he -carried himself well, whether in motion or repose. He was evidently -melancholic, nervous, and impressionable, as might be seen from his -brown and sinewy hands, of which the smooth and pointed fingers -contrasted oddly with the strength of the lower part. But the most -minute description of George Wood’s physical characteristics would -convey no such impression as he produced upon those who first saw him. -He was discontented with himself as well as with his surroundings, and -his temper was clouded by perpetual disappointment. Sometimes dull and -apathetic, there were moments when a vicious energy gleamed in his dark -eyes, and when he looked like what fighting men call an ugly customer. -Mirth was never natural to him, and when he laughed aloud there was -scarcely the semblance of a smile upon his features. Yet he had a keen -sense of humour, and a facility for exhibiting the ridiculous side of -things to others. - -“What do you do, Mr. Wood?” asked Constance Fearing, when he was seated -beside her. - -“Nothing—and not even that gracefully.” - -Constance did not laugh as she looked at him, for there was something at -once earnest and bitter in the way he spoke. - -“Why do you do nothing?” she asked. “Everybody works nowadays. You do -not look like a professed idler. I suppose you mean that you are -studying for a profession.” - -“Not exactly. I believe my studies are said to be finished. I sometimes -write a little.” - -“Is that all? Do you never publish anything?” - -“Oh yes; countless things.” - -“Really? I am afraid I cannot remember seeing——” - -“My name in print? No. There is but one copy of my published works, and -that is in my possession. The pages present an irregular appearance and -smell of paste. You do not understand? My valuable performances are -occasionally printed in one of the daily papers. I cut them out, when I -am not too lazy, and keep them in a scrap-book.” - -“Then you are a journalist?” - -“Not from the journalist’s point of view. He calls me a paid -contributor; and when I am worse paid than usual, I call him by worse -names.” - -“I do not understand—if you can be what you call a paid contributor, why -not be a journalist? What is the difference?” - -“The one is a professional, the other is an amateur. I am the other.” - -“Why not be a professional, then?” - -“Because I do not like the profession.” - -“What would you like to be? Surely you must have some ambition.” - -“None whatever, I assure you.” There was an odd look in George’s eyes, -not altogether in accordance with his answer. “I should prefer to live a -student’s life, since I must live a life of some kind. I should like to -be always my own master—if you would give me my choice, there are plenty -of things I should like. But I cannot have them.” - -“Most of us are in that condition,” said Constance, rather thoughtfully. - -“Are we? Is there anything in the world that you want and cannot have?” - -“Yes. Many things.” - -“No, I mean concrete things,” George insisted. “Of course I know that -you have the correct number of moral and intellectual aspirations. You -would like to be a heroine, a saint, and the managing partner of a great -charity; you would like to be a scholar, historian, a novelist, and you -would certainly like to be a great poetess. You would probably like to -lead the fashion in some particular way, for I must allow you a little -vanity with so much virtue, but on Sundays, in church, you would like to -forget that there are such things as fashions. Of course you would. But -all that is not what I mean. When I speak of wants, I mean wants -connected with real life. Have you not everything you desire, or could -you not have everything? If you do not like New York, can you not go and -live in Siberia? If you do not like your house, can you not turn it -inside out and upside down and trim it with green parakeet’s wings, if -you please? If you have wants, they are moral and intellectual.” - -“But all the things you speak of merely depend upon money,” said -Constance a little shyly. “They are merely material wants—or rather, -according to your description, caprices.” - -“I do not call my desire to lead the unmolested life of a student either -a caprice or a material want, but the accomplishment of my wish depends -largely upon money and very little upon anything else.” - -Constance looked furtively at her companion, who sat beside her with -folded hands, apparently contemplating his shoes. He had spoken very -quietly, but his tone was that of the most profound contempt, whether -for himself, or for the wealth he was weak enough to desire, it was -impossible to say. Constance felt that she was in the presence of a -nature she did not understand, though she was to some extent interested -and attracted by it. It is very hard for people who possess everything -that money can give, and have always possessed it, to comprehend the -effect of poverty upon a sensitive person. Constance, indeed, had no -exact idea of George Wood’s financial position. He might be really poor, -for all she knew, or he might be only relatively impecunious. She -inclined to the latter theory, partly because he had not the -indescribable look which is supposed to belong to a poor man, and partly -on account of his readiness to speak of what he wanted. A person of less -keen intuitions would probably have been repelled by what might have -been taken for vulgar discontent and covetousness. But Constance -Fearing’s inceptions were more delicate. She felt instinctively that -George was not what he represented himself to be, that he was neither -weak, selfish, nor idle, and that those who believed him to be so would -before long find themselves mistaken. She made no answer to his last -words, however, and there was silence for a few moments. - -Then George began to speak of her return to New York, and fell into a -very commonplace kind of conversation, which he sustained with an -effort, and with a certain sensation of awkwardness. Presently Totty, -who had finished the second edition of her small talk, rose from her -seat and began the long operation of leave-taking, which was performed -with all the usual repetitions, effusive phrases, and affectionalities, -if such a word may be coined, which are considered appropriate and -indispensable. As a canary bird pecks at a cherry, chirps, skips away, -hops back, pecks, chirps, and skips again and again many times, so do -certain women say good-bye to the dear friends they visit. Meanwhile -George stood at hand, holding his hat and ready to go. - -“I hope we shall see you again,” said Constance as she gave him her -hand. - -“May I come?” he asked. - -“Of course. We are generally at home about this time.” - -At last Totty tore herself away, and the ponderous front door closed -behind her and her cousin as they came out into the purple light that -flooded Washington Square. - -“Well, George, I hope you were properly impressed,” said Mrs. -Sherrington Trimm, when they had walked a few steps and were near the -corner of the avenue. - -“Profoundly.” - -“In what way? Come, be confidential.” - -“In what way? Why, I think that the father and mother of those girls -must have been very rich, very dull, and very respectable. I never saw -anything like the solidity of the furniture.” - -Totty was never quite sure whether George was in earnest or was laughing -at her. - -“Did you spend your time in looking at the chairs?” she asked rather -petulantly. - -“Partly. I could not help seeing them. I believe I talked a little.” - -“I hope you were sensible. What did you talk about? I do not think the -Fearing girls would thoroughly appreciate the style of wit with which -you generally favour me.” - -“You need not be cross, cousin Totty. I believe I was decently -agreeable.” - -“Oh!” ejaculated Mrs. Trimm. - -“You think I flatter myself, do you? I daresay. The opinion of the young -ladies would be more valuable than my own. At all events my conscience -does not reproach me with having been more dull than usual, and as for -the furniture, you will admit that it was very impressive.” - -“Well,” sighed Totty, “I suppose that is your way of looking at things.” -She did not know exactly what she wanted him to say, but she was sure -that he had not said it, and that his manner was most unsatisfactory. -They walked on in silence. - -“I am tired,” she said, at last, as they reached the corner of the -Brevoort House. “I will go home in a cab. Good-bye.” - -George opened the door of one of the numerous broughams stationed before -the hotel, and helped his cousin to get in. She nodded rather -indifferently to him, as she was driven away, and left him somewhat at a -loss to account for her sudden ill temper. Under any ordinary -circumstances she would assuredly have bid him enter the carriage with -her and drive as far as her house, in order to save him a part of the -long distance to his own home. The young man stood still for a moment -and then turned into Clinton Place, walking rapidly in the direction of -the elevated road. - -He had spoken quite truly when he had said that the visit he had just -made had produced a profound impression on him, and it was in accordance -with his character to keep that impression to himself. It was not that -he felt himself attracted by either one of the sisters more than by the -other. He had not fallen in love at first sight, nor lost his heart to a -vision of beatitude that had only just received a name. But as he walked -he saw constantly before him the two graceful young girls in their -simple black dresses, full of the freshness and beauty of early youth -and contrasting so strongly with their old-fashioned surroundings. That -was all, but the picture stirred in him that restless, disquieting -longing for something undefined, for a logical continuation of the two -lives he had thus glanced upon, which belongs to persons of unusual -imagination, and which, sooner or later, drives them to the writing of -books as to the only possible satisfaction of an intimate and essential -want. - -There are people who, when they hear any unusual story of real life, -exclaim, “What a novel that would make!” They are not the people who -write good fiction. Most of them have never tried it, for, if they had, -they would know that novels are not made by expanding into a volume or -volumes the account of circumstances which have actually occurred. True -stories very rarely have a conclusion at all, and the necessity for a -conclusion is the first thing felt by the born novelist. He dwells upon -the memory of people he has seen, only for the sake of imagining a -sequel and end to their lives. Before he has discovered that he must -write books to satisfy himself, he does not understand the meaning of -the moods to which he is subject. He is in a room full of people, -perhaps, and listening to a conversation. Suddenly a word or a passing -face arrests his attention. He loses the thread of the talk, and his -thoughts fly off at a tangent with intense activity. As before the sight -of a drowning man, the panorama of a life is unfolded to him in an -instant, full of minute details, all distinct and clear. His lips move, -repeating fragments of imaginary conversations. His eyes fix themselves, -while he sees in his brain sights other than those around him. His heart -beats fast, then slowly, in a strange variety of emotions. Then comes -the awakening voice of the persecutor. “A penny for your thoughts, Mr. -Tompkins,” or, “My dear Tompkins, if you do not care to listen to me,” -etc. The young man is covered with confusion and apologises for his -absence of mind, while still inwardly attempting to fix in his memory -the fleeting visions of which he has just enjoyed such a delicious -glimpse. - -Fortunately for George Wood, there was no one to disturb his meditations -as he strode along the quiet street, ascended the iron steps and -mechanically paid his fare before passing through the wicket gate. Nor -did the vivid recollection of Constance and Grace Fearing abandon him as -the snake-like train came puffing up and stopped before his eyes; still -less, when he had taken his seat, and was being carried away up-town in -the direction of his home. - -He lived with his father in the small house which the latter still -owned, and in which, by dint of rigid economy the two succeeded in -leading a decently comfortable existence, so far as their material lives -were concerned. A more complete contrast to the residence in Washington -Square, where George had just been spending half an hour, could hardly -be imagined. The dwelling of the Woods was one of those conventional -little buildings which abound in the great American cities, having a -front of about sixteen feet, being three stories high, and having two -rooms on each floor, one looking upon the street and one upon a small -yard at the back. Within, everything was of the simplest description. -There was no attempt at anything in the nature of luxury or -embellishment. The well-swept carpets were threadbare, the -carefully-dusted furniture was of the plainest kind, the smooth, tinted -walls were innocent of decoration and unadorned with pictures. There -were few books to be seen, except in George’s own room, which presented -a contrast to the rest of the house, inasmuch as there reigned in it -that sort of disorder which seemed the most real order in the opinion of -its occupant. A huge deal table took up fully a quarter of the available -space, and deal shelves full of books both old and new lined the walls, -indeed almost everything was of deal, from the uncarpeted floor to the -chairs. A pile of new volumes in bright bindings stood on a corner of -the table, which was littered with printed papers, sheets of manuscript, -galley proofs, and cuttings from newspapers. A well-worn penholder lay -across a half-written page, and the red cork of a bottle of -stylo-graphic ink projected out of the confusion. - -George entered this sanctum, and before doing anything else proceeded to -divest himself of the clothes he wore, putting on rusty garments that -seemed to belong to different epochs. Then he went to the window with -something like a sigh of relief. The view was not inspiring, but the -familiarity of it doubtless evoked in his mind trains of thought that -were pleasant. There was the narrow brickyard with its Chinese puzzle of -crossing and recrossing clothes’ lines. Then a brick wall beyond which -he could see at a considerable distance the second and third rows of -windows of a large house. Above, a row of French roofs and then the -winter sky, red with the last rays of the sun. George did not remain -long in contemplation of this prospect; a glance was apparently enough -to restore the disturbed balance of his mind. As he turned away and -busied himself with lighting a green glass kerosene lamp, the vision of -Constance and Grace Fearing dissolved, and gave place to more practical -considerations. He sat down and laid hold of the uppermost volume from -the pile of new books, instinctively feeling for his paper-cutter with -the other hand, among the disorderly litter beside him. - -After cutting a score of pages, he began to look for the editor’s -letter. The volumes had been sent him for review, and were accompanied -by the usual note, stating with appalling cynicism the number of words -he was expected to write as criticism of each production. - -“About a hundred words a-piece,” wrote the literary editor, “and please -return the books with the notices on Monday at twelve o’clock, at the -latest.” - -It was Thursday to-day, and there were six volumes to be read, digested, -and written about. George made a short calculation. He must do two each -day, on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, in order to leave himself Monday -morning as a margin in case of accidents. Six books, six hundred words, -or rather more than half a column of the paper for which he wrote. That -meant five dollars, for the work was well paid, as being supposed to -require some judgment and taste on the part of the writer. There was of -course nothing of much importance in the heap of gaily-bound printed -matter, nothing to justify a serious article, and nothing which George -would care to read twice. Nevertheless the exigencies of the book trade -must be satisfied, and notices must appear, and editors must find -persons willing and able to write such notices at prices varying from -fifty cents to a dollar a-piece. Nor was there any difficulty about -this. George knew that the pay was very good as times went, and that -there were dozens of starving old maids and hungry boys who would do the -work for less, and would perhaps do it as well as he could. Nor was he -inclined to quarrel with the conditions which allowed him so short a -time for the accomplishment of such a task. He had worked at second -class reviewing for some time, and was long past the period of -surprises. On the contrary, he looked upon the batch of publications -with considerable satisfaction. The regularity with which such parcels -had arrived during the last few months was a proof that he was doing -well, and it seemed probable that in the course of the coming year he -might be entrusted with more important work. Once or twice already, he -had been instructed to write a column, and those were white days in his -recollections. He felt that with a permanent engagement to produce a -column a week he should be doing very well, but he knew how hard that -was to obtain. No one who has not earned his bread by this kind of -labour can have any idea of the crowd that hangs upon the outskirts of -professional journalism, a crowd not seeking to enter the ranks of the -regular newspaper men, but hoping to pick up the crumbs that fall from -the table which appears to them so abundantly loaded. To be a -professional journalist in America a man must in nine cases out of ten -begin as a reporter. He must possess other qualifications besides those -of the literary man. He must have a good knowledge of shorthand writing -and a knack for the popular style. He must have an iron constitution and -untiring nerves. He must be able to sit in a crowded room under the -glaring gaslight and write out his impressions at an hour when ordinary -people are in bed and asleep. He must possess that brazen assurance -which sensitive men of taste rarely have, for he will be called upon to -interview all sorts and conditions of men when they least expect it and -generally when they least like it. He must have a keen instinct for -business in order to outwit and outrun his competitors in the pursuit of -news. Ever on the alert, he must not dwell upon the recollections of -yesterday lest they twine themselves into the reports of to-day. -Altogether, the commencing journalist must be a remarkable being, and -most remarkable for a set of qualities which are not only useless to the -writer of books, but which, if the latter possessed them, would notably -hinder his success. There is no such thing as amateur journalism -possible within the precincts of a great newspaper’s offices, whereas -the outer doors are besieged by amateurs of every known and unknown -description. - -In the critical and literary departments, the dilettante is the cruel -enemy of those who are driven to write for bread, but who lack either -the taste, the qualifications, or the opportunities which might give -them a seat within, among the reporters’ desks! Cruellest of all in the -eyes of the poor scribbler is the well-to-do man of leisure and culture -who is personally acquainted with the chief editor, and writes -occasional criticisms, often the most important, for nothing. Then there -is the young woman who has been to college, who lacks nothing, but is -ever ready to write for money, which she devotes to charitable purposes, -thereby depriving some unfortunate youth of the dollar a day which means -food to him, for whose support the public is not already taxed. But she -knows nothing about him, and it amuses her to be connected with the -press, and to have the importance of exchanging a word with the editor -if she meets him in the society she frequents. The young man goes on the -accustomed day for the new books. “I have nothing for you this week, Mr. -Tompkins,” says the manager of the literary department as politely as -possible. The books are gone to the Vassar girl or to the rich idler, -and poor Tompkins must not hope to earn his daily dollar again till -seven or eight days have passed. His only consolation is that the -dawdling dilettante can never get all the work, because he or she cannot -write fast enough to supply the demand. Without the spur of necessity it -is impossible to read and review two volumes a day for any length of -time. It is hard to combine justice to an author with the necessity for -rushing through his book at a hundred pages an hour. It is indeed -important to cut every leaf, lest the aforesaid literary manager should -accuse poor little Mr. Tompkins of carelessness and superficiality in -his judgment; but it is quite impossible that Tompkins should read every -word of the children’s story-book, of the volume of second class -sermons, of the collection of fifth rate poetry, and of the harrowing -tale of city life, entitled _The Bucket of Blood_, or _The Washerwoman’s -Revenge_, all of which have come at once and are simultaneously -submitted to his authoritative criticism. - -George Wood cut through thirty pages of the volume he held in his hand, -then went to the end and cut backwards, then returned to the place he -had reached the first time, and cut through the middle of the book. It -was his invariable system, and he found that it succeeded very well. - -“It is not well done,” he said to himself, quoting Johnson, “but one is -surprised to see it done at all. What can you expect for fifty cents?” - - - - - CHAPTER IV. - - -Many days passed before George thought of renewing his visit to -Washington Square, and during that time he was not even tempted to go -and see Mrs. Trimm. If the truth were to be told it might appear that -the vision of the two young girls, which had kept George in company as -he returned to his home, did not present itself again for a long time -with any especial vividness. Possibly the surroundings and occupations -in the midst of which he lived were not of a nature to stir his memories -easily; possibly, too, and more probably, the first impression had -lacked strength to fascinate his imagination for more than half an hour. -The habit of reading a book, writing twenty lines of print about it and -throwing it aside, never to be taken up again, may have its consequences -in daily life. Though quite unconscious of taking such a superficial -view of so serious a matter, George’s mind treated the Misses Fearing -very much as it would have treated a book that had been sent in for -notice, dealt with and seen no more. Now and then, when he was not at -work, and was even less interested than usual in his father’s snatches -of conversation, he was conscious of remembering his introduction to the -two young ladies, and strange to say there was something humorous in the -recollection. Totty’s business-like mode of procedure amused him, and -what seemed to him her absurd assumption of a wild improbability. The -ludicrous idea of the whole affair entertained his fancy for a few -seconds before it slipped away again. He could not tell exactly where -the source of his mirth was situated in the chain of ideas, but he -almost smiled at the thought of the enormous, stiff easy-chairs, and of -the bookcase in the corner, loaded to the highest shelf with histories -bound in tree calf and gold. He remembered, too, the look of -disappointment in Totty’s eyes when he had alluded to the respectability -of the furniture, as they walked up Fifth Avenue. - -Those thoughts did not altogether vanish without suggesting to George’s -inner sight the outlines of the girls’ faces, and at the same time he -had a faint memory of the sounds of their voices. It would not displease -him to see and hear both again, but, on the other hand, a visit in the -afternoon was an undertaking of some importance, a fact which cannot be -realised by people who have spent their lives in society, and who go to -see each other as a natural pastime, just as the solitary man takes up a -book, or as the sailor who has nothing to do knots and splices odds and -ends of rope. It is not only that the material preparations are irksome, -and that it is a distinctly troublesome affair for the young literary -drudge to make himself outwardly presentable; there is also the tiresome -necessity of smoothing out the weary brain so that it may be capable of -appreciating a set of unfamiliar impressions in which it anticipates no -relaxation. Add to all this the leaven of shyness which so often belongs -to young and sensitive natures, and the slight exertion necessary in -such a case swells and rises till it seems to be an insurmountable -barrier. - -A day came, however, when George had nothing to do. It would be more -accurate to say that on a particular afternoon, having finished one -piece of work to his satisfaction, he did not feel inclined to begin -another; for, among the many consequences of entering upon a literary -life is the losing for ever of the feeling that at any moment there is -nothing to be done. Let a writer work until his brain reels and his -fingers can no longer hold the pen, he will nevertheless find it -impossible to rest without imagining that he is being idle. He cannot -escape from the devil that drives him, because he is himself the driver -and the driven, the fiend and his victim, the torturer and the tortured. -Let physicians rail at the horrible consequences of drink, of excessive -smoking, of opium, of chloral, and of morphine—the most terrible of all -stimulants is ink, the hardest of taskmasters, the most fascinating of -enchanters, the breeder of the sweetest dreams and of the most appalling -nightmares, the most insinuating of poisons, the surest of destroyers. -One may truly venture to say that of an equal number of opium-eaters and -professional writers, the opium-eaters have the best of it in the matter -of long life, health, and peace of mind. We all hear of the miserable -end of the poor wretch who has subsisted for years upon stimulants or -narcotics, and whose death, often at an advanced age, is held up as a -warning to youth; but who ever knows or speaks of the countless deaths -due solely to the overuse of pen, ink, and paper? Who catalogues the -names of those many whose brains give way before their bodies are worn -out? Who counts the suicides brought about by failure, the cases of men -starving because they would rather write bad English than do good work -of any other sort? In proportion to the whole literary profession of the -modern world the deaths alone, without counting other accidents, are -more numerous than those caused by alcohol among drinkers, by nicotine -among smokers, and by morphine and like drugs among those who use them. -For one man who succeeds in literature, a thousand fail, and a hundred, -who have looked upon the ink when it was black and cannot be warned from -it, and whose nostrils have smelled the printer’s sacrifice, are ruined -for all usefulness and go drifting and struggling down the stream of -failure till death or madness puts an end to their sufferings. And yet -no one ventures to call writing a destroying vice, nor to condemn poor -scribblers as “ink-drunkards”. - -George walked the whole distance from his house to Washington Square. He -had not been in that part of the city since he had come with his cousin -to make his first visit, but as he drew near to his destination he began -to regret that he had allowed more than a fortnight to pass without -making any attempt to see his new acquaintances. On reaching the house -he found that Constance Fearing was at home. He was sorry not to see the -younger sister, with whom he had found conversation more easy and -sympathetic. On the other hand, the atmosphere of the house seemed less -stiff and formal than on the first occasion; the disposition of the -heavy furniture had been changed, there were flowers in the -old-fashioned vases, and there were more books and small objects -scattered upon the tables. - -“I was afraid you were never coming again!” exclaimed the young girl, -holding out her hand. - -There was something simple and frank about her manner which put George -at his ease. - -“You are very kind,” he answered, “I was afraid that even to-day might -be too soon. But Sherry Trimm says that when he is in doubt he plays -trumps—and so I came.” - -“Not at all too soon,” suggested Constance. - -“The calculation is very simple. A visit once a fortnight would make -twenty-six visits a year with a fraction more in leap year, would it -not? Does not that appal you?” - -“I have not a mathematical mind, and I do not look so far ahead. -Besides, if we are away for six months in the summer, you would not make -so many.” - -“I forgot that everybody does not stay in town the whole year. I suppose -you will go abroad again?” - -“Not this year,” answered Miss Fearing rather sadly. - -George glanced at her face and then looked quickly away. He understood -her tone, and it seemed natural enough that the fresh recollection of -her mother’s death should for some time prevent both the sisters from -returning to Europe. He could not help wondering how much real sorrow -lay behind the young girl’s sadness, though he was somewhat astonished -to find himself engaged in such an odd psychological calculation. He did -not readily believe evil of any one, and yet he found it hard to believe -much absolute good. Possibly he may have inherited something of this -un-trustfulness from his father, and there was a side in his own -character which abhorred it. For a few moments there was silence between -the two. George sitting in his upright chair and bending forward, gazing -stupidly at his own hands clasped upon his knee, while Constance Fearing -leaned far back in her deep easy-chair watching his dark profile against -the bright light of the window. - -“Do you like people, Miss Fearing?” George asked rather suddenly. - -“How do you mean?” - -“I mean, is your first impulse, about people you meet for the first -time, to trust them, or not?” - -“That is not an easy question to answer. I do not think I have thought -much about it. What is your own impulse?” - -“You are distrustful,” said George in a tone of conviction. - -“Why?” - -“Because you answer a question by a question.” - -“Is that a sign? How careful one should be! No—I will try to answer -fairly. I think I am unprejudiced, but I like to look at people’s faces -before I make up my mind about them.” - -“And when you have decided, do you change easily? Have you not a decided -first impression to which you come back in spite of your judgment, and -in spite of yourself?” - -“I do not know. I fancy not. I think I would rather not have anything of -the kind. Why do you ask?” - -“Out of curiosity. I am not ashamed of being curious. Have you ever -tried to think what the world would be like if nobody asked questions?” - -“It would be a very quiet place.” - -“We should all be asleep. Curiosity is only the waking state of the -mind. We are all asking questions, all the time, either of ourselves, of -our friends, or of our books. Nine-tenths of them are never answered, -but that does not prevent us from asking more.” - -“Or from repeating the same ones—to ourselves,” said Constance. - -“Yes; the most interesting ones,” - -“What is most interesting?” - -“Always that which we hope the most and the least expect to have,” -George answered. “We are talking psychology or something very like it,” -he added with a dry laugh. - -“Is there any reason why we should not?” asked his companion. “Why do -you laugh, Mr. Wood? Your laugh does not sound very heartfelt either.” -She fixed her clear blue eyes on him for a moment. - -“One rarely does well what one has not practised before an audience,” he -answered. “As you suggest, there is no reason why we should not talk -psychology—if we know enough about it—that is to say, if you do, for I -am sure I do not. There is no subject on which it is so easy to make -smart remarks.” - -“Excepting our neighbour,” observed Constance. - -“I have no neighbours. Who is my neighbour?” asked George rather -viciously. - -“I think there is a biblical answer to that question.” - -“But I do not live in biblical times; and I suppose my scratches are too -insignificant to attract the attention of any passing Samaritan.” - -“Perhaps you have none at all.” - -“Perhaps not. I suppose our neighbours are ‘them that we love that love -us,’ so the old toast says. Are they not?” - -“And those whom we ought to love, I fancy,” suggested Constance. - -“But we ought to love our enemies. What a neighbourly world it is, and -how full of love it should be!” - -“Fortunately, love is a vague word.” - -“Have you never tried to define it?” asked the young man. - -“I am not clever enough for that. Perhaps you could.” - -George looked quickly at the young girl. He was not prepared to believe -that she made the suggestion out of coquetry, but he was not old enough -to understand that such a remark might have escaped from her lips -without the slightest intention. - -“I rather think that definition ends when love begins,” he said, after a -moment’s pause. “All love is experimental, and definition is generally -the result of many experiments.” - -“Experimental?” - -“Yes. Do you not know many cases in which people have tried the -experiment and have failed? It is no less an experiment if it happens to -succeed. Affection is a matter of fact, but love is a matter of -speculation.” - -“I should not think that experimental love would be worth much,” said -Constance, with a shade of embarrassment. A very faint colour rose in -her cheeks as she spoke. - -“One should have tried it before one should judge. Or else, one should -begin at the other extremity and work backwards from hate to love, -through the circle of one’s acquaintances.” - -“Why are you always alluding to hating people?” asked the young girl, -turning her eyes upon him with a look of gentle, surprised protest. “Is -it for the sake of seeming cynical, or for the sake of making paradoxes? -It is not really possible that you should hate every one, you know.” - -“With a few brilliant exceptions, you are quite right,” George answered. -“But I was hoping to discover that you hated some one, for the sake of -observing your symptoms. You look so very good.” - -It would have been hard to say that the expression of his face had -changed, but as he made the last remark the lines that naturally gave -his mouth a scornful look were unusually apparent. The colour appeared -again in Constance’s cheeks, a little brighter than before, and her eyes -glistened as she looked away from her visitor. - -“I think you might find that appearances are deceptive, if you go on,” -she said. - -“Should I?” asked George quietly, his features relaxing in a singularly -attractive smile which was rarely seen upon his face. He was conscious -of a thrill of intense satisfaction at the manifestation of the young -girl’s sensitiveness, a satisfaction which he could not then explain, -but which was in reality highly artistic. The sensation could only be -compared to that produced in an appreciative ear by a new and perfectly -harmonious modulation sounded upon a very beautiful instrument. - -“I wonder,” he resumed presently, “what form the opposite of goodness -would take in you. Are you ever very angry? Perhaps it is rude to ask -such questions. Is it?” - -“I do not know. No one was ever rude to me,” Constance answered calmly. -“But I have been angry—since you ask—I often am, about little things.” - -“And are you very fierce and terrible on those occasions?” - -“Very terrible indeed,” laughed the young girl. “I should frighten you -if you were to see me.” - -“I can well believe that. I am of a timid disposition.” - -“Are you? You do not look like it. I shall ask Mrs. Trimm if it is true. -By-the-bye, have you seen her to-day?” - -“Not since we were here together.” - -“I thought you saw her very often. I had a note from her yesterday. I -suppose you know?” - -“I know nothing. What is it?” - -“Old Mr. Craik is very ill—dying, they say. She wrote to tell me so, -explaining why she had not been here.” - -George’s eyes suddenly gleamed with a disagreeable light. The news was -as unexpected as it was agreeable. Not, indeed, that George could ever -hope to profit in any way by the old man’s death; for he was naturally -so generous that, if such a prospect had existed, he would have been the -last to rejoice in its realisation. He hated Thomas Craik with an honest -and disinterested hatred, and the idea the world was to be rid of him at -last was inexpressibly delightful. - -“He is dying, is he?” he asked in a constrained voice. - -“You seem glad to hear it,” said Constance, looking at him with some -curiosity. - -“I? Yes—well, I am not exactly sorry!” His laugh was harsh and unreal. -“You could hardly expect me to shed tears—that is, if you know anything -of my father’s misfortunes.” - -“Yes, I have heard something. But I am sorry that I was the person to -give you the news.” - -“Why? I am grateful to you.” - -“I know you are, and that is precisely what I do not like. I do not -expect you to be grieved, but I do not like to see one man so elated -over the news of another man’s danger.” - -“Why not say, his death!” exclaimed George. - -Constance was silent for a moment, and then looked at him as she spoke. - -“I hardly know you, Mr. Wood. This is only the second time I have seen -you, and I have no right to make remarks about your character. But I -cannot help thinking—that——” - -She hesitated, not as though from any embarrassment, but as if she could -not find the words she wanted. George made no attempt to help her, -though he knew perfectly well what she wanted to say. He waited coldly -to see whether she could complete her sentence. - -“You ought not to think such things,” she said suddenly, “and if you do, -you ought not to show it.” - -“In other words, you wish me to reform either my character or my -manners, or both? Do you know that old Tom Craik ruined my father? Do -you know that after he had done that, he let my father’s reputation -suffer, though my father was as honest as the daylight, and he himself -was the thief? That sounds very dramatic and theatrical, does it not? It -is all very true nevertheless. And yet, you expect me to be such a -clever actor as not to show my satisfaction at your news. All I can say, -Miss Fearing, is that you expect a great deal of human nature, and that -I am very sorry to be the particular individual who is fated to -disappoint your expectations.” - -“Of course you feel strongly about it—I did not know all you have just -told me, or I would not have spoken. I wish every one could forgive—it -is so right to forgive.” - -“Yes—undoubtedly,” assented George. “Begin by forgiving me, please, and -then tell me what is the matter with the worthy Mr. Craik.” - -“Mrs. Trimm seems to think it is nervous prostration—what everybody has -nowadays.” - -“Is she very much cut up?” George asked with an air of concern. - -“She writes that she does not leave him.” - -“Nor will—until——” George stopped short. - -“What were you going to say?” - -“I was going to make a remark about the human will in general and about -the wills of dying men in particular. It was very ill-natured, and in -direct contradiction to your orders.” - -“I suppose she will have all his fortune in any case,” observed -Constance, repressing a smile, as though she felt that it would not suit -the tone she had taken before. - -“Since you make so worldly an inquiry, I presume we may take it for -granted that the mantle of Mr. Craik’s filthy lucre will descend upon -the unwilling shoulders of Mrs. Sherrington Trimm. To be plain, Totty -will get the dollars. Well—I wish her joy. She is not acquainted with -poverty, as it is, nor was destitution ever her familiar friend.” - -“Why do you affect that biblical sort of language?” - -“It seems to me more forcible than swearing. Besides, you would not let -me swear, I am sure, even if I wanted to.” - -“Certainly not——” - -“Very well, then you must forgive the imperfections of my style in -consideration of my not doing very much worse. I think I will go and ask -how Mr. Craik is doing to-day. Would not that show a proper spirit of -charity and forgiveness?” - -“I hope you will do nothing of the sort!” exclaimed Constance hastily. - -“Would it not be a proof that I had profited by your instruction?” - -“I think it would be very hypocritical, and not at all nice.” - -“Do you? It seems to me that it would only look civil——” - -“From what you told me, civility can hardly be expected from you in this -case.” - -“I am not obliged to tell the servant at the door the motive of my -curiosity when I inquire after the health of a dying relation. That -would be asking too much.” - -“You can inquire just as well at Mrs. Trimm’s——” - -“Mr. Craik’s house is on my way home from here—Totty’s is not on the -direct line.” - -“I hope you—how absurd of me, though! It is no business of mine.” - -George could not say anything in reply to this statement, but an -expression of amusement came over his face, which did not escape his -companion. Constance laughed a little nervously. - -“You are obliged to admit that it is none of my business, you see,” she -said. - -“I am in the position of a man who cannot assent without being rude, nor -differ without impugning the known truth.” - -“That was very well done, Mr. Wood,” said Constance. “I have nothing -more to say.” - -“To me? Then I herewith most humbly take my leave.” George rose from his -seat. - -“I did not mean that!” exclaimed the young girl with a smile. “Do not -go——” - -“It is growing late, and Mr. Craik may be gathered to his fathers before -I can ring at his door and ask how he is.” - -“Oh, please do not talk any more about that poor man!” - -“If I stay here I shall. May I come again some day, Miss Fearing? You -bear me no malice for being afflicted with so much original sin?” - -“Its originality almost makes it pardonable. Come whenever you please. -We shall always be glad to see you, and I hope that my sister will be -here the next time.” - -George vaguely hoped that she would not as he bowed and left the room. -He had enjoyed the visit far more than Constance had, for whereas his -conversation had somewhat disquieted her sensitive feeling of fitness, -hers had afforded him a series of novel and delightful sensations. He -was conscious of a new interest, of a new train of thought, and -especially of an odd and inexplicable sense of physical comfort that -seemed to proceed from the region of the heart, as though his body had -been cheered, his blood warmed, and his circulation stimulated by the -assimilation of many good things. As he walked up the Avenue, he did not -ask himself whether he had produced a good or a bad impression upon Miss -Fearing, nor whether he had talked well or ill, still less whether the -young girl had liked him, though it is probable that if he had put any -of these questions to his inner consciousness that complacent witness -would, in his present mood, have answered all his inquiries in the way -most satisfactory to his vanity. For some reason or other he was not -curious to know what his inner consciousness thought of the matter. For -the moment, sensation was enough, and he was surprised to discover that -sensation could be so agreeable. He knew that he was holding his head -higher than usual, that his glance was more confident than it was wont -to be, and his step more elastic, but he did not connect any of these -phenomena in a direct way with his visit in Washington Square. Perhaps -there was a vague notion afloat in his brain to the effect that if he -once allowed the connection he should be forced into calling himself a -fool, and that it was consequently far wiser to enjoy the state in which -he found himself than to inquire too closely into its immediate or -remote causes. - -It is also probable that if George Wood’s condition of general -satisfaction on that evening had been more clearly dependent upon his -recollection of the young lady he had just left, he would have felt an -impulse to please her by doing as she wished; in other words, he would -have gone home or would have passed by Totty’s house to make inquiries, -instead of executing his purpose of ringing at Mr. Craik’s door. But -there was something contradictory in his nature, which drove him to do -the very things which most men would have left undone; and moreover -there was a grain of grim humour in the idea of asking in person after -Tom Craik’s health, which made the plan irresistibly attractive. He -imagined his own expression when he should tell his father what he had -done, and he knew the old gentleman well enough to guess that the satire -of the proceeding would inwardly please him in spite of himself, though -he would certainly look grave and shake his head when he heard the -story. - -Constance Fearing’s meditations, when she was left alone, were of a very -different character. She stood for a long time at the window looking out -into the purple haze that hung about the square, and then she turned and -went and sat before the fire, and gazed at the glowing coals. George -Wood could not but have felt flattered had he known that was the subject -of her thoughts during the greater part of an hour after his departure, -and he would have been very much surprised at his own ignorance of human -nature had he guessed that her mind was disturbed by the remembrance of -her own conduct. He would assuredly have called her morbid and have -doubted the sincerity of her most sacred convictions, and if he could -have looked into her mind, that part of his history which was destined -to be connected with hers would in all likelihood have remained -unenacted. He could certainly not have understood her mood at that time, -and the attempt to do so would have filled him with most unreasonable -prejudices against her. - -To the young girl it seemed indeed a very serious matter to have -criticised George’s conduct and to have thrust her advice upon him. It -was the first time she had ever done such a thing and she wondered at -her own boldness. She repeated to herself that it was none of her -business to consider what George Wood did, and still less to sit in -judgment upon his thoughts, and yet she was glad that she had spoken as -she had. She knew very little about men, and she was willing to believe -they might all think alike. At all events this particular man had very -good cause for resentment against Thomas Craik. Nevertheless there was -something in his evident delight at the prospect of the old man’s death -that was revolting to her finest feelings. Absolutely ignorant of the -world’s real evil, she saw her own path beset with imaginary sins of the -most varied description, to avoid committing which needed the constant -wakefulness of a delicate sensibility; and as she knew of no greater or -more real evils, she fancied that the lives of others must be like her -own—a labyrinth of transparent cobwebs, to brush against one of which, -even inadvertently, was but a little removed from crime itself. Her -education had been so strongly influenced by religion and her natural -sensitiveness was so great, that the main object of life presented -itself to her as the necessity for discovering an absolute right or -wrong in the most minute action, and the least relaxation of this -constant watch appeared to her to be indicative of moral sloth. The fact -that, with such a disposition she was not an intolerable nuisance to all -who knew her, was due to her innate tact and good taste, and in some -measure to her youth, which lent its freshness and innocence to all she -did and thought and said. At the present time her conscience seemed to -be more than usually active and dissatisfied. She assuredly did not -believe that it was her mission to reform George Wood, or to decorate -his somewhat peculiar character with religious arabesques of faith, -hope, and charity; but it is equally certain that she felt an -unaccountable interest in his conduct, and a degree of curiosity in his -actions which, considering how slightly she knew him, was little short -of amazing. Had she been an older woman, less religious and more aware -of her own instincts, she would have asked herself whether she was not -already beginning to care for George Wood himself rather than for the -blameless rectitude of her own moral feelings. But with her the -refinements of a girlish religiousness had so far got the upper hand of -everything else that she attributed her uneasiness to the doubt about -her own conduct rather than to a secret attraction which was even then -beginning to exercise its influence over her. - -It was to be foreseen that Constance Fearing would not fall in love -easily, even under the most favourable circumstances. The most innocent -love in the world often finds a barrier in the species of religious -sentimentality by which she was at that time dominated, for morbid -scruples have power to kill spontaneity and all that is spontaneous, -among which things love is first, or should be. Constance was not like -her sister Grace, who had loved John Bond ever since they had been -children, and who meant to marry him as soon as possible. Her colder -temperament would lose time in calculating for the future instead of -allowing her to be happy in the present. Deep in her heart, too, there -lay a seed of unhappiness, in the habit of doubting which had grown out -of her mistrust of her own motives. She was very rich. Should a poor -suitor present himself, could she help fearing lest he loved her money, -when she could hardly find faith in herself for the integrity of her own -most trivial intentions? She never thought of Grace without admiring her -absolute trust in the man she loved. - - - - - CHAPTER V. - - -Thomas Craik lay ill in his great house, listening for the failing -beatings of his heart as the last glow of the February afternoon faded -out of the curtains and withdrew its rich colour from the carved panels -on the walls. He lay upon his pillows, an emaciated old man with a waxen -face and head, sunken eyes that seemed to have no sight in them. Short -locks of yellowish grey hair strayed about his forehead and temples, -like dry grasses scattered over a skull. There was no beard upon his -face, and the hard old lips were tightly drawn in a set expression, a -little apart, so that the black shadow of the open mouth was visible -between them. The long, nervous hands lay upon the counterpane together, -the fingers of the one upon the wrist of the other feeling the sinking -pulse, searching with their numbed extremities for a little flutter of -motion in the dry veins. Thomas Craik lay motionless in his bed, not one -outward sign betraying the tremendous conflict that was taking place in -his still active brain. He was himself to the last, such as he had -always been in the great moments of his life, apparently cool and -collected, in reality filled with the struggle of strong, opposing -passions. - -He was not alone. Two great physicians were standing in silence, side by -side, before the magnificent chimney-piece, beneath which a soft fire of -dry wood was burning steadily with a low and unvarying musical roar. An -attendant sat upright upon a carved chair at the foot of the bed, not -taking his eyes from the sick man’s face. - -The room was large and magnificent in its furniture and appointments. -The high wainscot had been carved in rare woods after the designs of a -great French artist. The walls above were covered with matchless Cordova -leather from an Italian palace. The ceiling was composed of rich panels -that surrounded a broad canvas from the hand of a famous Spanish master, -dead long ago. The chimney-piece was enriched with old brass work from -Cairo, and with exquisite tiles from Turkish mosques. Priceless eastern -carpets of which not one was younger than the century, covered the -inlaid wooden floor. Diana of Poitiers had slept beneath the canopy of -the princely bedstead; it was said that Louis the Fourteenth had eaten -off the table that was placed beside it, and Benvenuto Cellini had -carved the silver bell which stood within reach of the patient’s hand. -There was incongruity in the assemblage of different objects, but the -great value of each and all saved the effect from vulgarity, and lent to -the whole something of the odd harmony peculiar to certain collections. - -It was the opinion of the two doctors that Tom Craik was dying. They had -done what they could for him and were waiting for the end. As to his -malady it was sufficiently clear to both of them that his vitality was -exhausted and that even if he survived this crisis he could not have -long to live. They agreed that the action of the heart had been much -impaired by a life of constant excitement and that the nerves had lost -their elasticity. They had taken pains to explain to his sister, Mrs. -Sherrington Trimm, that there was very little to be done and that the -patient should be advised to make his last dispositions, since a little -fatigue more or less could make no material difference in his state, -whereas he would probably die more easily if his mind were free from -anxiety. Totty had spent the day in the house and intended to return in -the evening. She bore up very well under the trial, and the physicians -felt obliged to restrain her constant activity in tending her brother -while she was in the room, as it seemed to make him nervous and -irritable. She had their fullest sympathy, of course, as persons who are -supposed to be sole legatees of the dying very generally have, but so -far as their professional capacity was concerned, the two felt that it -went better with the patient when his faithful sister was out of the -house. - -From time to time inquiries were made on the part of acquaintances, -generally through their servants, but they were not many. Though the -other persons in the room scarcely heard the distant ringing of the -muffled bell, and the careful opening and shutting of the street door, -the feeble old man never failed to catch the sound of both and either -with his eyes or half-uttered words asked who had called. On receiving -the answer he generally moved his head a little wearily and his lids -drooped again. - -“Is there anybody you expect? Anybody you wish to see?” one of the -physicians once asked, bending low and speaking softly. He suspected -that something was disquieting the dying man’s mind. - -But there was no answer, and the lids drooped again. It was now dusk and -it would soon be night. Many hours might pass before the end came, and -the doctors consulted in low tones as to which of them should remain. -Just then the faint and distant rattle of the bell was heard. -Immediately Tom Craik stirred, and seemed to be listening attentively. -The two men ceased speaking and they could hear the front door softly -open in the street below, and close again a few seconds later. One of -the physicians glanced at the patient, saw the usual look of inquiry in -his face and quickly left the room. When he returned he held a card in -his hand, which he took to the bedside after looking at it by the -fireside. Bending down, he spoke in a low tone. - -“Mr. George Winton Wood has called,” he said. - -Tom Craik’s sunken eyes opened suddenly and fixed themselves on the -speaker’s face. - -“Any message?” he asked very feebly. - -“He said he had only just heard of your illness, and was very -sorry—would call again.” - -A strange look of satisfaction came into the old man’s colourless face, -and a low sigh escaped his lips as he closed his eyes again. - -“Would you like to see him?” inquired the doctor. - -The patient shook his head without raising his lids, and the room was -still once more. Presently the other physician departed and the one who -was left installed himself in a comfortable chair from which he could -see the bed and the door. During half an hour no sound was heard save -the muffled roar of the wood fire. At last the sick man stirred again. - -“Doctor—come here,” he said in a harsh whisper. - -“What is it, Mr. Craik?” - -“Send for Trimm at once.” - -“Mrs. Trimm, did you say?” - -“No—Sherry Trimm himself—make my will—see? Quick.” - -The physician stared at his patient for a moment in very considerable -surprise, for he thought he had reason to suppose that Thomas Craik’s -will had been made already, and now he half suspected that the old man’s -mind was wandering. He hesitated. - -“You think I’m not able, do you?” asked Craik, his rough whisper rising -to a growl. “Well, I am. I’m not dead yet, so get him quickly.” - -The doctor left the room without further delay, to give the necessary -orders. When he returned, Mr. Craik was lying with his eyes wide open, -staring at the fire. - -“Give me something, can’t you?” he said with more energy than he had -shown that day. - -The doctor began to think that it was not yet all up with his patient, -as he mixed something in a glass and gave it to him. Craik drank eagerly -and moved his stiffened lips afterwards as though he had enjoyed the -taste of the drink. - -“I may not jockey the undertaker,” he grumbled, “but I shall last till -morning, anyhow.” - -Nearly half an hour elapsed before Sherrington Trimm reached the house, -but during all that time Thomas Craik did not close his eyes again. His -face looked less waxen, too, and his sight seemed to have recovered some -of the light that had been fading out of it by degrees all day. The -doctor watched him with interest, wondering, as doctors must often -wonder, what was passing in his brain, what last, unspent remnant of -life’s passions had caused so sudden a revival of his energy, and -whether this manifestation of strength were the last flare of the dying -lamp, or whether Tom Craik, to use his own words, would jockey the -undertaker, as he had jockeyed many another adversary in his stirring -existence. - -The door opened, and Sherrington Trimm entered the room. He was a short, -active man, slightly inclined to be stout, bald and very full about the -chin and neck, with sharp, movable blue eyes, and a closely-cut, -grizzled moustache. His hands were plump, white and pointed, his feet -were diminutive and his dress was irreproachable. He had a habit of -turning his head quickly to the right and left when he spoke, as though -challenging contradiction. He came briskly to the bedside and took one -of Craik’s wasted hands in his, with a look of honest sympathy. - -“How are you, Tom?” he inquired, suppressing his cheerful voice to a -sort of subdued chirp. - -“According to him,” growled Craik, glancing at the doctor, “I believe I -died this afternoon. However, I want to make my will, so get out your -tools, Sherry, and set to. Please leave us alone,” he added, looking up -at the physician. - -The latter went out, taking the attendant with him. - -“Your will!” exclaimed Sherry Trimm, when the door had closed behind the -two. “I thought——” - -“Bad habit, thinking things. Don’t. Put that drink where I can reach -it—so. There’s paper on the table. Sit down.” - -Trimm saw that he had better not argue the matter, and he did as he was -bidden. He was indeed very much surprised at the sudden turn of affairs, -for he was perfectly well aware that Tom Craik had made a will some -years previously in which he left his whole fortune to his only sister, -Trimm’s wife. The lawyer wondered what his brother-in-law intended to do -now, and as the only means of ascertaining the truth seemed to be to -obey his orders, he lost no time in preparing to receive the dictation. - -“This the last will and testament of me, Thomas Craik,” said the sick -man, sharply. “Got that? Go on. I do hereby revoke and annul all former -wills made by me. That’s correct isn’t it? No, I’m not wandering—not a -bit. Very important that clause—very. Go ahead about the just debts and -funeral expenses. I needn’t dictate that.” - -Trimm wrote rapidly on, nervously anxious to get to the point. - -“Got that? Well. I bequeath all my worldly possessions, real and -personal estate of all kinds—go on with the stock phrases—include house -and furniture, trinkets and everything.” - -Trimm’s hand moved quickly along the ruled lines of the foolscap. - -“To whom?” he asked almost breathlessly, as he reached the end of the -formal phrase. - -“To George Winton Wood,” said Craik with an odd snap of the lips. “His -name’s on that card, Sherry, beside you, if you don’t know how to spell -it. Go on. Son of Jonah Wood of New York, and of Fanny Winton deceased, -also of New York. No mistake about the identity, eh? Got it down? To -have and to hold—and all the rest of it. Let’s get to the signature—look -sharp! Get in the witness clause right—that’s the most important—don’t -forget to say, in our presence and in the presence of each other—there’s -where the hitch comes in about proving wills. All right. Ring for the -doctor and we’ll have the witnesses right away. Make the date clear.” - -Sherrington Trimm had not recovered from his surprise, as he pressed the -silver button of the bell. The physician entered immediately. - -“Can you be the other witness yourself, Sherry? Rather not? Doctor, just -send for Stubbs, will you please? He’ll do, won’t he?” - -Trimm nodded, while he and the physician set a small invalid’s table -upon the sick man’s knees, and spread upon it the will, of which the ink -was not yet dry. Trimm dipped the pen in the ink and handed it to Mr. -Craik. - -“Let me drink first,” said the latter. He swallowed the small draught -eagerly, and then looked about him. - -“Will you sign?” asked Trimm nervously. - -“Is Stubbs here? Wait for him. Here, Stubbs—you see—this is my will. I’m -going to sign it, and you’re a witness.” - -“Yes, sir,” said the butler, gravely. He moved forward cautiously so -that he could see the document and recognise it if he should ever be -called upon to do so. - -The sick man steadied himself while the doctor thrust his arm behind the -pillows to give him more support. Then he set the pen to the paper and -traced his name in large, clear characters. He did not take his eyes -from the paper until the doctor and the servant had signed as witnesses. -Then his head fell back on the pillows. - -“Take that thing away, Sherry, and keep it,” he said, feebly, for the -strength had gone out of him all at once. “You may want it to-morrow—or -you may not.” - -Mechanically he laid his fingers on his own pulse, and then lay quite -still. Sherrington Trimm looked at the doctor with an expression of -inquiry, but the latter only shrugged his shoulders and turned away. -After such a manifestation of energy as he had just seen, he felt that -it was impossible to foresee what would happen. Tom Craik’s nerves might -weather the strain after all, and he might recover. Mr. Trimm folded the -document neatly, wrapped it in a second sheet of paper and put it into -his pocket. Then he prepared to take his leave. He touched the sick -man’s hand gently. - -“Good-night, Tom,” he said, bending over his brother-in-law. “I will -call in the morning and ask how you are.” - -Craik opened his eyes. - -“Tell nobody what I have done, till I’m dead,” he answered in a whisper. -“Good-night.” - -Mr. Trimm felt no inclination to divulge the contents of the will. He -was a very shrewd and keen man, who could certainly not be accused of -having ever neglected his own interest, but he was also scrupulously -honest, not only with that professional honesty which is both politic -and lucrative, but in all his thoughts and reasonings with himself. At -the present moment, his position was not an agreeable one. It is true -that neither he nor his wife were in need of Craik’s money, for they had -plenty of their own; but it is equally certain that during several years -past they had confidently expected to inherit the old man’s fortune, if -he died before them. Trimm had himself drawn up the will by which his -wife was made the heir to almost everything Craik possessed. There had -been a handsome legacy provided for this same George Winton Wood, but -all the rest was to have been Totty’s. And now Trimm had seen the whole -aspect of the future changed by a stroke of the pen, apparently during -the last minutes of the old man’s life. He knew that the testator was in -full possession of his senses, and that the document was as valid as any -will could be. Conscientious as he was, if he had believed that Craik -was no longer sane, he would have been quite ready to take advantage of -the circumstance, and would have lost no time in consulting the -physician with a view to obtaining evidence in the case that would -arise. But it was evident that Craik’s mind was in no way affected by -his illness. The thing was done, and if Craik died it was irrevocable. -Sherry and Totty Trimm would never live in the magnificent house of -which they had so often talked. - -“Not even the house!” he whispered to himself as he went down stairs. -“Not even the house!” - -For a legacy he would not have cared. A few thousands were no object to -him, and he was unlike his wife in that he did not care for money -itself. The whole fortune, or half of it, added to what the couple -already had, would have made in their lives the difference between -luxury and splendour; the possession of the house alone, with what it -contained, would have given them the keenest pleasure, but in Trimm’s -opinion a paltry legacy of ten thousand dollars, or so, would not have -been worth the trouble of taking. Of course it was possible that Tom -Craik might recover, and make a third will. Trimm knew by experience -that a man who will once change his mind completely, may change it a -dozen times if he have time. But Craik was very ill and there seemed -little likelihood of his ever getting upon his legs again. - -Trimm had known much of his brother-in-law’s affairs during the last -twenty years, and he was far less surprised at the way in which he had -now finally wound them up, before taking his departure from life, than -most people would have been. He knew better than any one that Craik was -not so utterly bad-hearted as he was generally believed to be, and he -knew that as the man grew older he felt twinges of remorse when he -thought of Jonah Wood. That he cordially detested the latter was not -altogether astonishing, since he had so greatly injured him, but the -natural contrariety of his nature forced him into an illogical -situation. He hated Wood and yet he desired to make him some sort of -restitution, not indeed out of principle or respect for any law, human -or divine, but as a means of pacifying his half-nervous, -half-superstitious conscience. He could not have done anything openly in -the matter, for that would have been equivalent to acknowledging the -unwritten debt, so that the only way out of his difficulty lay in the -disposal of his fortune after his death. But although he suffered -something very like remorse, he hated Jonah Wood too thoroughly to -insert his name in his will. There was nothing to be done but to leave -money to George. It had seemed to him that a legacy of a hundred -thousand dollars would be enough to procure his own peace of mind, and -having once made that arrangement he had dismissed the subject. - -But as he lay in this illness, which he believed was to be his last, -further change had taken place in his view of the matter. He was -naturally suspicious, as well as shrewd, and the extreme anxiety -displayed by his sister had attracted his attention. They had always -lived on excellent terms, and Totty was distinctly a woman of -demonstrative temperament. It was assuredly not surprising that she -should show much feeling for her brother and spend much time in taking -care of him. It was quite right that she should be at his bedside in -moments of danger, and that she should besiege the doctors with -questions about Tom’s chances of recovery. But in Tom’s opinion there -was a false note in her good behaviour and a false ring in her voice. -There was something strained, something not quite natural, something he -could hardly define, but which roused all the powers of opposition for -which he had been famous throughout his life. It was a peculiarity of -his malady that his mental faculties were wholly unimpaired, and were, -if anything, sharpened by his bodily sufferings and by his anxiety about -his own state. The consequence was that as soon as the doubt about -Totty’s sincerity had entered his mind, he had concentrated his -attention upon it, had studied it and had applied himself to accounting -for her minutest actions and most careless words upon the theory that -she was playing a part. In less than twenty-four hours the suspicion had -become a conviction, and Craik felt sure that Totty was overdoing her -show of sisterly affection in order to hide her delight at the prospect -of her brother’s death. It is not too unjust to say that there was a -proportion of truth in Mr. Craik’s suppositions, and that Mrs. -Sherrington Trimm’s perturbation of spirits did not result so much from -the dread of a great sorrow as from the prospect of a very great -satisfaction when that sorrow should have spent itself. She was not in -the least ashamed of her heartlessness, either. Was she not doing -everything in her power to soothe her brother’s last days, sacrificing -to his comfort the last taste of gaiety she could enjoy until the -mourning for him should be over, submitting to a derangement of her -comfortable existence which was nothing short of distracting? It was not -her fault if Tom had not one of those lovable natures whose departure -from this life leaves a great void in the place where they have dwelt. - -But from being convinced that Totty cared only for the money to the act -of depriving her of it was a long distance for the old man’s mind to -pass over. He was just enough to admit that in a similar position he -would have felt very much as she did, though he would certainly have -acted his part more skilfully and with less theatrical exaggeration. -After all, money was a very good thing, and a very desirable thing, as -Thomas Craik knew, better than most people. After all, too, Totty was -his sister, his nearest relation, the only one of his connections with -whom he had not quarrelled at one time or another. The world would think -it very natural that she should have everything, and there was no reason -why she should not, unless her anxiety to get it could be called one. He -considered the case in all its bearings. If, for instance, that young -fellow, George Wood, whom he had not seen since he had been a boy, were -to be put in Totty’s place, what would he feel, and what would he do? He -would undoubtedly wish that Tom Craik might die speedily, and his eyes -would assuredly gleam when he thought of moving into the gorgeous house, -a month after the funeral. That was only human nature, simple, -unadorned, everyday human nature. But the boy supposed that he had no -chance of getting anything, and did not even think it worth while to -ring at the door and ask the news of his dying relation. Of course not; -why should he? And yet, thought the sour old man, if George Wood could -guess how near he was to being made a millionaire, how nimbly his feet -would move in the appropriate direction, with what alacrity he would -ring the bell, with what an accent of subdued sympathy he would question -the servant! Truly, if by any chance he should take it into his head to -make inquiries, there would be an instance of disinterested good -feeling, indeed. He would never do that. Why then should the money be -given to him rather than to Totty? - -But the idea had taken possession of the old man’s active brain, and -would not be chased away. As he thought about it, too, it seemed as -though he might die more easily if such full restitution were made. No -one could tell anything about the future state of existence. Thomas -Craik was no atheist, though he had never found time or inclination to -look into the question of religion, and certain peculiarities in his -past conduct had made any such meditations particularly distasteful to -him. When once the end had come the money could be of no use to him, and -if George Wood had it, Thomas Craik might stand a better chance in the -next world. Totty had received her share of the gain, too, and had no -claim to any more of it. He had managed her business with his own and -had enriched her while enriching himself, with what had belonged to -Jonah Wood, and to a great number of other people. At all events, if he -left everything to George no one could accuse him hereafter—whatever -that might mean—with not having done all he could to repair the wrong. -He said to himself philosophically that one of two things must happen; -either he was to die, and in that case he would do well to die with as -clear a conscience as he could buy, or he was to recover, and would then -have plenty of time to reflect upon his course without having deprived -himself of what he liked. - -At last, between the two paths that were open to him, he became -confused, and with characteristic coolness he determined to leave the -matter to chance. If George Wood showed enough interest in him to come -to the door and make inquiries, he would change his will. If the young -fellow did not show himself, Totty should have the fortune. - -“That’s what I call giving Providence a perfectly fair chance,” he said -to himself. A few hours after he had reached this conclusion George -actually came to the house. - -Then Tom Craik hesitated no longer. The whole thing was done and -conclusively settled without loss of time, as Craik had always loved to -do business. - -It is probable that if George had guessed the importance of the simple -act of asking after his relation’s condition, he would have gone home -without passing the door, and would have spent so much time in -reflecting upon his course, that it would have been too late to do -anything in the matter. The problem would not have been an easy one to -solve, involving, as it did, a question of honesty in motive on the one -hand, and a consideration of true justice on the other. If any one had -asked him for his advice in a similar case he would have answered with a -dry laugh that a man should never neglect his opportunities, that no one -would be injured by the transaction, and that the money belonged by -right to the family of the man from whom it had been unjustly taken. But -though George could affect a cynically practical business tone in -talking of other people’s affairs he was not capable of acting upon such -principles in his own case. To extract profit of any sort from what was -nothing short of hypocrisy would have been impossible to him. - -He had been unable to resist the temptation of asking the news, because -he sincerely hoped that the old man was about to draw his last breath, -and because there seemed to him to be something attractively ironical in -the action. He even expected that Mr. Craik would understand that the -inquiry was made from motives of hatred rather than of sympathy, and -imagined with pleasure that the thought might inflict a sting and -embitter his last moments. There was nothing contrary to George’s -feelings in that, though he would have flushed with shame at the idea -that he was to be misunderstood and that what was intended for an insult -was to be rewarded with a splendid fortune. - -Very possibly, too, there was a feeling of opposition concerned in his -act, for which he himself could not have accounted. He was not fond of -advice, and Constance Fearing had seemed very anxious that he should not -do what he had done. Being still very young, it seemed absurd to him -that a young girl whom he scarcely knew and had only seen twice should -interfere with his free will. - -This contrariety was wholly unreasoning, and if he had tried to -understand it, he would have failed in the attempt. He would certainly -not have attributed it to the beginning of a serious affection, for he -was not old enough to know how often love’s early growth is hidden by -what we take wrongly for an antagonism of feeling. - -However all these things may be explained, George Wood felt that he was -in a humour quite new to him, when he rang at Tom Craik’s door. He was -elated without knowing why, and yet he was full of viciously combative -instincts. His heart beat with a pleasant alacrity, and his mind was -unusually clear. He would have said that he was happy, and yet his -happiness was by no means of the kind which makes men at peace with -their surroundings or gentle toward those with whom they have to do. -There was something overbearing in it, that agreed with his natural -temper and that found satisfaction in what was meant for an act of -unkindness. - -He found his father reading before the fire. The old gentleman read, as -he did everything else, with the air of a man who is performing a -serious duty. He sat in a high-backed chair with wooden arms, his -glasses carefully adjusted upon his nose, his head held high, his lips -set in a look of determination, his long hands holding the heavy volume -in the air before his sight and expressive in their solid grasp of a -fixed and unalterable purpose. George paused on the threshold, wondering -for the thousandth time that so much resolution of character as was -visible in the least of his father’s actions, should have produced so -little practical result in the struggles of a long life. - -“Won’t you shut that door, George?” said Jonah Wood, not looking away -from his book nor moving a muscle. - -George did as he was requested and came slowly forward. He stood still -for a moment before the fireplace, spreading his hands to the blaze. - -“Tom Craik is dying,” he said at last, looking at his father’s face. - -There was an almost imperceptible quiver in the strong hands that held -the book. A very slight colour rose in the massive grey face. But that -was all. The eyes remained fixed on the page, and the angle at which the -volume was supported did not change. - -“Well,” said the mechanical voice, “we must all die some day.” - - - - - CHAPTER VI. - - -The world was very much surprised when it was informed that Thomas Craik -was not dead after all. During several weeks he lay in the utmost -danger, and it was little short of a miracle that he was kept alive—one -of those miracles which are sometimes performed upon the rich by -physicians in luck. While he was ill George, who was disappointed to -find that there was so much life in his enemy, made frequent inquiries -at the house, a fact of which Mr. Craik took note, setting it down to -the young man’s credit. Nor did it escape the keen old man that his -sister Totty’s expression grew less hopeful, as he himself grew better, -and that her fits of spasmodic and effusive rejoicing over his recovery -were succeeded by periods of abstraction during which she seemed to be -gazing regretfully upon some slowly receding vision of happiness. - -Mrs. Sherrington Trimm was indeed not to be envied. In the first place -all immediate prospect of inheriting her brother’s fortune was removed -by his unexpected convalescence; and, secondly, she had a suspicion that -in the midst of his illness he had made some change in the disposition -of his wealth. It would be hard to say how this belief had formed itself -in her mind, for her husband was a man of honour and had scrupulously -obeyed Craik’s injunction to be silent in regard to the will. He found -this the more easy, because what he liked least in his wife’s character -was her love of money. Having only one child, he deemed his own and -Totty’s fortunes more than sufficient, and he feared lest if she were -suddenly enriched beyond her neighbours, she might launch into the -career of a leader of society and take up a position very far from -agreeable to his own more modest tastes. Sherry Trimm was an eminently -sensible as well as an eminently honourable man. He possessed a very -keen sense of the ridiculous, and he knew how easily a woman like Totty -could be made the subject of ridicule, if she had her own way, and if -she suddenly were placed in circumstances where the question of -expenditure need never be taken into consideration. She had rarely lost -an opportunity of telling him what she should do if she were enormously -rich, and it was not hard to see that she confidently expected to -possess such riches as would enable her to carry out what Sherry called -her threats. - -On the other hand Mr. Trimm’s sense of honour was satisfied by his -brother-in-law’s new will. There is a great deal more of that sort of -manly, honourable feeling among Americans than is dreamed of in European -philosophy. Europe calls us a nation of business men, but it generally -forgets that we are not a nation of shopkeepers, and that if we esteem a -merchant as highly as a soldier or a lawyer it is because we know by -experience that the hands which handle money can be kept as clean as -those that draw the sword or hold the pen. In strong races the man -ennobles the occupation, the occupation does not degrade the man. If -Thomas Craik was dishonest, Jonah Wood and Sherrington Trimm were both -as upright gentlemen as any in the whole world. It was not in Jonah -Wood’s power to recover what had been taken from him by operations that -were only just within the pale of the law, because laws have not yet -been made for such cases; nor was it Sherrington Trimm’s vocation to -play upon Tom Craik’s conscience in the interests of semi-poetic -justice. But Trimm was honourable enough and disinterested enough to -rejoice at the prospect of seeing stolen money restored to its possessor -instead of being emptied into his wife’s purse, and he was manly enough -to have felt the same satisfaction in the act, if his own circumstances -had been far less flourishing. - -But Totty thought very differently of all these things. She had in her -much of her brother’s nature, and the love of money, which being -interpreted into American means essentially the love of what money can -give, dominated her character, and poisoned the pleasant qualities with -which she was undoubtedly endowed. She had, as a natural concomitant, -the keenest instinct about money and the quarter from which it was to be -expected. Something was wrong in her financial atmosphere, and she felt -the diminution of pressure as quickly and as certainly as a good -barometer indicates the approaching south wind when the weather is still -clear and bright. It was of no use to question her husband, and she knew -her brother well enough to be aware that he would conceal his purpose to -the last. But there was an element of anxiety and doubt in her life -which she had not known before. Tom Craik saw that much in her face and -suspected that it was the result of his recovery. He did not regret what -he had done and he made up his mind to abide by it. - -Meanwhile George Wood varied the dreariness of his hardworking life by -seeing as much as possible of the Fearings. He went to the house in -Washington Square as often as he dared, and before long his visits had -assumed a regularity which was noticeable, to say the least of it. If he -had still felt any doubt as to what was passing in his own heart at the -end of the first month, he felt none whatever as the spring advanced. He -was in love with Constance, and he knew it. The young girl was aware of -the fact also, as was her sister, who looked on with evident -disapproval. - -“Why do you not send the man away?” Grace asked, one evening when they -were alone. - -“Why should I?” inquired Constance, changing colour a little though her -voice was quiet. - -“Because you are flirting with him, and no good can come of it,” Grace -answered bluntly. - -“Flirting? I?” The elder girl raised her eyebrows in innocent surprise. -The idea was evidently new to her, and by no means agreeable. - -“Yes, flirting. What else can you call it, I would like to know? He -comes to see you—oh yes, you cannot deny it. It is certainly not for me. -He knows I am engaged, and besides, I think he knows that I do not like -him. Very well—he comes to see you, then. You receive him, you smile, -you talk, you take an interest in everything he does—I heard you giving -him advice the other day. Is not that flirting? He is in love with you, -or pretends to be, which is the same thing, and you encourage him.” - -“Pretends to be? Why should he pretend?” Constance asked the questions -rather dreamily, as though she had put them to herself before and more -than half knew the answer. Grace laughed a little. - -“Because you are eminently worth while,” she replied. “Do you suppose -that if you were as poor as he is, he would come so often?” - -“That is not very good-natured,” observed Constance, taking up her book -again. There was very little surprise in her tone, however, and Grace -was glad to note the fact. Her sister was less simple than she had -supposed. - -“Good nature!” she exclaimed. “What has good nature to do with it? Do -you think Mr. Wood comes here out of good nature? He wants to marry you, -my dear. He cannot, and therefore you ought to send him away.” - -“If I loved him, I would marry him.” - -“But you do not. And, besides, the thing is absurd! A man with no -position of any sort—none of any sort, I assure you—without fortune, and -what is much worse, without any profession.” - -“Literature is a profession.” - -“Oh, literature—yes. Of course it is. But those miserable little -criticisms he writes are not literature. Why does he not write a book, -or even join a newspaper and be a journalist?” - -“Perhaps he will. I am always telling him that he should. And as for -position, he is a gentleman, whether he chooses to go into society or -not. His father was a New Englander, I believe—but I have heard poor -papa say very nice things about him—and his mother was a Winton and a -cousin of Mrs. Trimm’s. There is nothing better than that, I suppose.” - -“Yes—that odious Totty!” exclaimed Grace in a tone of unmeasured -contempt. “She brought him here in the hope that one of us would take a -fancy to him and help her poor relation out of his difficulties. -Besides, she is the silliest, shallowest little woman I ever knew!” - -“I daresay. I am not fond of her. But you are unjust to Mr. Wood. He is -very talented, and he works very hard——” - -“At what? At those wretched little paragraphs? I could write a dozen of -them in an hour!” - -“I could not. One has to read the books first, you know.” - -“Well—say two hours, then. I am sure I could write a dozen in two hours. -Such stuff, my dear! You are dazzled by his conversation. He does talk -fairly well, when he pleases. I admit that.” - -“I am glad you leave him something,” said Constance. “As for my marrying -him, that is a very different matter. I have not the slightest idea of -doing that. To be quite honest, the idea has crossed my mind that he -might wish it——” - -“And yet you let him come?” - -“Yes. I cannot tell him not to come here, and I like him too much to be -unkind to him—to be cold and rude for the sake of sending him away. If -he ever speaks of it, it will be time to tell him what I think. If he -does not, it does him no harm—nor me either, as far as I can see.” - -“I do not know. It seems to me that to encourage a man and then drop him -when he can hold his tongue no longer is the reverse of human kindness.” - -“And it seems to me, my dear, that you are beginning to argue from -another side of the question. I did not understand that it was out of -consideration for Mr. Wood——” - -“No, it was not,” Grace admitted with a laugh. “I am cruel enough to -wish that you would be unkind to him without waiting for him to offer -himself. You are a very inscrutable person, Conny! I wish I could find -out what you really think.” - -Constance made no answer, but smiled gently at her sister as she took up -her book for the second time. She began to read as though she did not -care to continue the conversation, and Grace made no effort to renew it. -She understood enough of Constance’s character to be sure that she could -never understand it thoroughly, and she relinquished the attempt to -ascertain the real state of things. If Constance had vouchsafed any -reply, she would have said that she was in considerable perplexity -concerning her own thoughts. For the present, however, her doubts gave -her very little trouble. She possessed one of those calm characters -which never force their owners to be in a hurry about a decision, and -she was now, as always, quite willing to wait and see what course her -inclinations would take. - -Calmness of this sort is often the result of an inborn distrust of -motives in oneself and in others, combined with an almost total absence -of impatience. The idea that it is in general better to wait than to -act, gets the upper hand of the whole nature and keeps it, perhaps -throughout life, perhaps only until some strong and disturbing passion -breaks down the fabric of indolent prejudice which surrounds such minds. -Constance had thought of most of the points which her sister had brought -up against George Wood, and was not at all surprised to hear Grace speak -as she had spoken. On the contrary she felt a sort of mental pride in -having herself discerned all the objections which stood in the way of -her loving George. None of them had appeared to be insurmountable, -because none of them were in reality quite just. She was willing to -admit that her fortune might be what most attracted him, but she had no -proof of the fact, and having doubted him, she was quite as much -inclined to doubt her own judgment of him. His social position was not -satisfactory, as Grace had said, but she had come to the conclusion that -this was due to his distaste for society, especially since she had heard -many persons of her acquaintance express their regret that the two Woods -could not forget old scores. His literary performances were assuredly -not of the first order, and she felt an odd sort of shame for him, when -she thought of the poor little paragraphs he turned out in the papers, -and compared the work with his conversation. But George had often -explained to her that he was obliged to write his notices in a certain -way, and that he occupied his spare time in producing matter of a very -different description. In fact there were answers to every one of -Grace’s objections and Constance had already framed for herself the -replies she was prepared to give her sister. - -Her principal difficulty lay in another direction. Was the very decided -liking she felt for George Wood the beginning of love, or was it not? -That it was not love at the present time she was convinced, for her -instinct told her truly that if she had loved him, she could not have -discussed him so calmly. What she defined as her liking was, however, -already so pronounced that she could see no objection to allowing it to -turn into something warmer and stronger if it would, provided she were -able to convince herself of George’s sincerity. Her fortune was -certainly in the way. What man in such circumstances, she asked herself, -could be indifferent to the prospect of such a luxurious independence as -was hers to confer upon him she married? She wished that some -concatenation of events might deprive her of her wealth for a time long -enough to admit of her trying the great experiment, on condition that it -might be restored to her so soon as the question was decided in one way -or the other. Nevertheless she believed that if she really loved him, -she could forget to doubt the simplicity of his affection. - -George, on his part, was not less sensitive upon the same point. His -hatred of all sordid considerations was such that he feared lest his -intentions might be misinterpreted wherever there was a question of -money. On the other hand, he was becoming aware that his intercourse -with Constance Fearing could not continue much longer upon its present -footing. There existed no pretext of relationship to justify the -intimacy that had sprung out of his visits, and even in a society in -which the greatest latitude is often allowed to young and marriageable -women, his assiduity could not fail to attract attention. The fact that -the two young girls had a companion in the person of an elderly lady -distantly connected with them did not materially help matters. She was a -faded, timid, retiring woman who was rarely seen, and who, indeed, took -pains to keep herself out of the way when there were any visitors, -fearing always to intrude where she might not be wanted. George had seen -her once or twice but was convinced that she did not know him by sight. -He knew, however, that his frequent visits had been the subject of -remark among the young girls’ numerous acquaintance, for his cousin -Totty had told him so with evident satisfaction, and he guessed from -Grace’s behaviour, that she at least would be glad to see no more of -him. What Grace had told her sister, however, was strictly true. -Constance encouraged him. George was neither tactless nor fatuous, and -if Constance had shown that his presence was distasteful to her, he -would have kept away, and cured himself of his half-developed attachment -as best he could. - -About this time an incident occurred which was destined to produce a -very decided effect upon his life. One afternoon in May he was walking -slowly down Fifth Avenue on his way to Washington Square when he -suddenly found himself face to face with old Tom Craik, who was at that -moment coming out of one of the clubs. The old man was not as erect as -he had been before his illness, but he was much less broken down than -George had supposed. His keen eyes still peered curiously into the face -of every passer, and he still set down his stick with a sharp, -determined rap at every step. Before George could avoid the meeting, as -he would instinctively have done had there been time, he was conscious -of being under his relation’s inquiring glance. He was not sure that the -latter recognised him, but he knew that a recognition was possible. -Under the circumstances he could not do less than greet his father’s -enemy, who was doubtless aware of his many inquiries during the period -of danger. George lifted his hat civilly and would have passed on, but -the old gentleman stopped him, to his great surprise, and held out a -thin hand, tightly encased in a straw-coloured glove—he permitted -himself certain exaggerations of dress which somehow were not altogether -incongruous in his case. - -“You are George Wood?” he asked. George was struck by the disagreeable -nature of his voice and at the same time by the speaker’s evident -intention to make it sound pleasantly. - -“Yes, Mr. Craik,” the young man answered, still somewhat confused by the -suddenness of the meeting. - -“I am glad I have met you. It was kind of you to ask after me when I was -down. I thank you. It showed a good heart.” - -Tom Craik was sincere, and George looked in vain for the trace of a -sneer on the parchment that covered the worn features, and listened -without detecting the least modulation of irony in the tones of the -cracked voice. He felt a sharp sting of remorse in his heart. What he -had meant for something very like an insult had been misunderstood, had -been kindly received, and now he was to be thanked for it. - -“I hate you, and I asked because I wanted to be told that you were -dead”—he could not say that, though the words were in his mind, and he -could almost hear himself speaking them. A flush of shame rose to his -face. - -“It seemed natural to inquire,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. It -had seemed very natural to him, as he remembered. - -“Did it? Well, I am glad it did, then. It would not have seemed so to -every young man in your position. Good day—good day to you. Come and see -me if you care to.” - -Again the thin gloved hand grasped his, and George was left alone on the -pavement, listening to the sharp rap of the stick on the stones as the -old man walked rapidly away. He stood still for a moment, and then went -on down the Avenue. The dry regular rapping of that stick was peculiarly -disagreeable and he seemed to hear it long after he was out of earshot. - -He was very much annoyed. More than that, he was sincerely distressed. -Could he have guessed what had been the practical result of his -inquiries during the illness, he would assuredly have even then turned -and overtaken Tom Craik, and would have explained with savage frankness -that he was no friend, but a bitter enemy who would have rejoiced to -hear that death had followed and overtaken its victim. But since he -could not dream of what had happened, it appeared to him that any -explanation would be an act of perfectly gratuitous brutality. It was -not likely that he should meet the old man often, and there would -certainly be no necessity for any further exchange of civilities. He -suffered all the more in his pride because he must henceforth accept the -credit of having seemed kindly disposed. - -Then he remembered how, at his second meeting with Constance Fearing, -she had earnestly advised him not to do what had led to the present -situation. It would have been different had he known her as he knew her -now, had he loved her as he undoubtedly loved her to-day. But as things -had been then, he hardly blamed himself for having been roused to -opposition by his strong dislike of advice. - -“I have received the reward of my iniquities,” he said, as he sat down -in his accustomed seat and looked at her delicate face. - -“What has happened to you?” she asked, raising her eyes with evident -interest. - -“Something very disagreeable. Do you like to hear confessions? And when -you do, are you inclined to give absolution to your penitents?” - -“What is it! What do you want to tell me?” Her face expressed some -uneasiness. - -“Do you remember, when I first came here—the second time, I should -say—when Tom Craik was in such a bad way, and I hoped he would die? You -know, I told you I would go and leave a card with inquiries, and you -advised me not to. I went—in fact, I called several times.” - -“You never told me. Why should you? It was foolish of me, too. It was -none of my business.” - -“I wish I had taken your advice. The old man got well again, but I have -not seen him till to-day. Just now, as I walked here, he was coming out -of his club, and I ran against him before I knew where I was. Do you -know? He had taken my inquiries seriously. Thought I asked out of pure -milk and water of human kindness, so to say—thanked me so nicely and -asked me to go and see him! I felt like such a beast.” - -Constance laughed and for some reason or other the high, musical ring of -her laughter did not give George as much satisfaction as usual. - -“What did you do?” she asked, a moment later. - -“I hardly know. I could not tell him to his face that he had not -appreciated my peculiar style of humour, that I loathed him as I loathe -the plague, and that I had called to know whether the undertaker was in -the house. I believe I said something civil—contemptibly civil, -considering the circumstances—and he left me in front of the club -feeling as if I had eaten something I did not like. I wish you had been -there to get me out of the scrape with some more good advice!” - -“I? Why should I——” - -“Because, after all, you got me into it, Miss Fearing,” George answered -rather sadly. “So, perhaps, you would have known what to do this time.” - -“I got you into the scrape?” Constance looked as much distressed as -though it were really all her fault. - -“Oh, no—I am not in earnest, exactly. Only, I have such an abominably -contrary nature that I went to Tom Craik’s door just because you advised -me not to—that is all. I had only seen you twice then—and——” he stopped -and looked fixedly at the young girl’s face. - -“I knew I was wrong, even then,” Constance answered, with a faint blush. -The colour was not the result of any present thought, nor of any -suspicion of what George was about to say; it was due to her -recollection of her conduct on that long remembered afternoon nearly -four months earlier. - -“No. I ought to have known that you were right. If you were to give me -advice now——” - -“I would rather not,” interrupted the young girl. - -“I would follow it, if you did,” said George, earnestly. “There is a -great difference between that time and this.” - -“Is there?” - -“Yes. Do you not feel it?” - -“I know you better than I did.” - -“And I know you better—very much better.” - -“I am glad that makes you more ready to follow sensible advice——” - -“Your advice, Miss Fearing. I did not mean——” - -“Mine, then, if you like it better. But I shall never offer you any -more. I have offered you too much already, and I am sorry for it.” - -“I would rather you gave me advice—than nothing,” said George in a lower -voice. - -“What else should I give you?” Her voice had a ring of surprise in it. -She seemed startled. - -“What you will never give, I am afraid—what I have little enough the -right to ask.” - -Constance laid down the work she held, and looked out of the window. -There was a strange expression in her face, as though she were wavering -between fear and satisfaction. - -“Mr. Wood,” she said suddenly, “you are making love to me.” - -“I know I am. I mean to,” he answered, with an odd roughness, as the -light flashed into his eyes. Then, all at once, his voice softened -wonderfully. “I do it badly—forgive me—I never did it before. I should -not be doing it now, if I could help myself—but I cannot. This once—this -once only—Constance, I love you with all my heart.” - -He was timid, and women, whether old or young, do not like timidity. It -was not that he lacked either force or courage by nature, nor any of -those qualities whereby women are won. But the life he had led had kept -him younger than he believed himself to be, and his solitary existence -had given his ideal of Constance the opportunity of developing more -quickly than the reality. He loved her, it is true, but as yet in a -peaceful, unruffled way, which partook more of boundless admiration than -of passion. An older man would have recognised the difference in -himself. The girl’s finer perceptions were aware of it without -comprehending it in the least. Nevertheless it was an immense -satisfaction to George to speak out the words which in his heart had so -long been written as a motto about the shrine of his imagination. - -Constance said nothing in answer, but rose, after a moment’s pause, and -went and stood before the fireplace, now filled with ferns and plants, -for the weather was already warm. She turned her back upon George and -seemed to be looking at the things that stood on the chimney-piece. -George rose, too, and came and stood beside her, trying to see her face. - -“Are you angry?” he asked softly. “Have I offended you?” - -“No, I am not angry,” she answered. “But—but—was there any use in saying -it?” - -“You do not love me at all? You do not care whether I come or go?” - -She pitied him, for his disappointment was genuine, and she knew that he -suffered something, though it might not be very much. - -“I do not know what love is,” she said thoughtfully. “Yes—I care. I like -to see you—I am interested in what you do—I should be sorry never to see -you again—but I do not feel—what is it one should feel, when one loves?” - -“Is there any one—any man—whom you like better than you like me?” - -“No,” she answered with some hesitation, “I do not think there is.” - -“And there is a chance that you may like me better still—that you may -some day even love me?” - -“Perhaps. I cannot tell. I have not known you very long.” - -“It seems long to me—but you give me all I ask, more than I had a right -to hope for. I thank you, with all my heart.” - -“There is little to thank me for. Do you think I mean more than I say?” -She turned her head and looked calmly into his eyes. “Do you think I am -promising anything?” - -“I would like to think so. But what could you promise me? You would not -marry me, even if you loved me as I love you.” - -“You are wrong. If I loved you, I would marry you—if I were sure that -your love was real, too. But it is not. I am sure it is not. You make -yourself think you love me——” - -The young man’s dark face seemed to grow darker still as she watched it. -There was passion in it now, but of a kind other than loving. His over -sensitive nature had already taken offence. - -“Please do not go on, Miss Fearing,” he said, in a low voice that -trembled angrily. “You have said enough already.” - -Constance drew back in extreme surprise, and looked as though she had -misunderstood him. - -“Why—what have I said?” she asked. - -“You know what you meant. You are cruel and unjust.” - -There was a short pause, during which Constance seemed to be trying to -grasp the situation, while George stood at the other end of the -chimney-piece, staring at the pattern in the carpet. The girl’s first -impulse was to leave the room, for his anger frightened and repelled -her. But she was too sensible for that, and she thought she knew him too -well to let such a scene pass without an explanation. She gathered all -her courage and faced him again. - -“Mr. Wood,” she said with a firmness he had never seen in her, “I give -you my word that I meant nothing in the least unkind. It is you who are -doing me an injustice. I have a right to know what you understood from -my words.” - -“What could you have meant?” he asked coldly. “You are, I believe, very -rich. Every one knows that I am very poor. You say that I make myself -think I love you——” - -“Good heavens!” cried Constance. “You do not mean to say that you -thought that! But I never said it, I never meant it—I would not think -it——” - -There was a little exaggeration in the last words. She had thought of -it, and that recently, though not when she had spoken. It was enough, -however. George believed her, and the cloud disappeared from his face. -It was she who took his hand first, and the grasp was almost -affectionate in its warmth. - -“You will never think that of me?” he asked earnestly. - -“Never—forgive me if any word of mine could have seemed to mean that I -did.” - -“Thank you,” he answered. “It is only my own folly, of course, and I am -the one to be forgiven. Things may be different some day.” - -“Yes,” assented Constance with a little hesitation, “some day.” - -A moment later George left the house, feeling as a soldier does who has -been under fire for the first time. - - - - - CHAPTER VII. - - -Not long after the events last chronicled, the Fearings left New York -for the summer, and George was left to his own meditations, to the -society of his father and to the stifling heat of the great city. He had -seen Constance again more than once before she and her sister had left -town, and he had parted from her on the best of terms. To tell the -truth, since his sudden exhibition of violent temper, she had liked him -even better than before. His genuine anger had to some extent dissipated -the cloud of doubt which always seemed to her to hang about his motives. -The doubt itself was not gone, for as it had a permanent cause in her -own fortune it was of the sort not easily driven away. - -As for George himself, he considered himself engaged, of course in a -highly conditional way, to marry Miss Constance Fearing. She had -repeated, at his urgent solicitation, what she had said when he had -first declared himself, to wit, that if she ever loved him she would -marry him, and that there was no one whom she at present preferred to -him. More than this, he could not obtain from her, and in his calm -moments, which were still numerous, he admitted that she was perfectly -fair and just in her answer. He, on his part, had declared with great -emphasis that, however she might love him, he would not marry her until -he was independent of all financial difficulties, and had made himself a -name. On the whole, nothing could have seemed more improbable than that -the marriage could ever take place. The distance between writing -second-rate reviews at ten dollars a column, and being one of the few -successful writers of the day is really almost as great as it looks to -the merest outsider. Moreover, a friendship of several months’ standing -is generally speaking a bad foundation on which to build hopes of love. -The very intimacy of intercourse forbids those surprises in which love -chiefly delights. Friendly hands have taken the bandage from his eyes, -and he has learned to see his way about with remarkable acuteness of -perception. - -Perhaps the most immediate and perceptible effect of the last few -interviews with Constance was to be found in the work he turned out, and -in the dissatisfaction it caused in quarters where it had formerly been -considered excellent. It was beginning to be too good to serve its end, -for the writer was beginning to feel that he could no longer efface his -individuality and repress his own opinions as he had formerly done. He -exceeded in his articles the prescribed length, he made vicious Latin -quotations, and concocted savagely epigrammatic sentences, he inserted -sharp remarks about prominent writers, where they were manifestly beside -the purpose, besides being palpably unjust, there was a sting in almost -every paragraph which did not contain a paradox, and, altogether, he -made the literary editors who employed him very nervous. - -“It won’t do, Mr. Wood,” one of them said. “The publishers don’t like -it. Several have written to me. The paper can’t stand this kind of -thing. I suppose the fact is that you are getting too good for this -work. Take my advice. Either go back to your old style, or write -articles over your own name for the magazines. They like quotations and -snap and fine writing—authors and publishers don’t, not a bit.” - -“I have tried articles again and again,” George answered. “I cannot get -them printed anywhere.” - -“Well—you just go ahead and try again. You’ll get on if you stick to it. -If you think you can write some of your old kind of notices, here’s a -lot of books ready. But seriously, Mr. Wood, if you write any more like -the last dozen or so, I can’t take them. I’m sorry, but I really can’t.” - -“I’ll have one more shot,” said George, desperately, as he took up the -books. He could not afford to lose the wretched pay he got for the work. - -He soon saw that other managers of literary departments thought very -much as this first specimen did. - -“A little more moderation, Mr. Wood,” said a second, who was an elderly -æsthetic personage. “I hate violence in all its forms. It is so -fatiguing.” - -“Very well,” said George submissively. - -He went to another, the only one whom he knew rather intimately, a pale, -hardworking, energetic young fellow, who had got all manner of -distinctions at English and German universities, who had a real critical -talent, and who had risen quickly to his present position by his innate -superiority over all competitors in his own line. George liked him and -admired him. His pay was not brilliant, for he was not on one of the -largest papers, but he managed to support his mother and two young -sisters on his earnings. - -“Look here, Wood,” he said one morning, “this is not the way criticism -is done. You are not a critic by nature. Some people are. I believe I -am, and I always meant to be one. You do this sort of thing just as you -would do any writing that did not interest you, and you do it fairly -well, because you have had a good education, and you know a lot of -things that ordinary people do not know. But it is not your strong -point, and I do not believe it ever will be. Try something else. Write -an article.” - -“That is what everybody tells me to do,” George answered. He was -disappointed, for he believed that what he did was really good, and he -had expected that the man with whom he was now speaking would have been -the one of all others to appreciate his work. “That is what they all -tell me,” he continued, “but they do not tell me how to get my articles -accepted. Have you a recipe for that, Johnson?” - -The pale young man did not answer at once. He was extremely -conscientious, which was one reason why he was a good critic. - -“I cannot promise much,” he said at last. “But I will tell you what I -will do for you. If you will write an article, or a short story—say five -to eight thousand words—I will read it and give you my honest opinion. -If I like it, I’ll push it, and it may get into print. If I don’t, I’ll -tell you so, and I’ll do nothing. You will have to try again. But I am -convinced that you are naturally an author and not a critic.” - -“Thank you,” said George gratefully. He knew what the promise meant, -from such a man as Johnson, who would have to sacrifice his time to the -reading of the manuscript, and whose opinion was worth having. - -“Can you give me any work this week?” he asked, before he took his -leave. - -Johnson looked at him quietly, as though making up his mind what to say. - -“I would rather not. You do not do it as well as you did, and I am -responsible. If there is anything else I could do for you——” He stopped. - -“If you will be so kind as to read my article——” - -“Yes, of course. I said I would. I mean——” Johnson looked away, and his -pale face blushed to the roots of his hair. “I mean—if you should need -twenty dollars while the article is being written, I can——” - -George felt a very peculiar emotion, and his voice was a little thick, -as he took the other’s hand. - -“Thank you, Johnson, but I don’t need it. You are awfully kind, though. -Nobody ever did as much for me before.” - -When he left the room, the nervous flush had not yet disappeared from -the literary editor’s forehead, nor had the odd sensation quite subsided -from George’s own throat. If Tom Craik had offered him the loan of -twenty dollars, he would have turned his back on him with a bitter -answer. It was a very different matter when poor, overworked Johnson put -his hand in his pocket and proffered all he could spare. For a minute -George forgot all his disappointments and troubles in the gratitude he -felt to the pale young man. Nor did he ever lose remembrance of the -kindly generosity that had prompted the offer. - -But as he walked slowly homewards the bitterness of his heart began to -show itself in another direction. He thought of the repeated admonitions -and parcels of advice which had been thrust upon him during the last few -days, he thought of his poverty, of his failures, and he compared all -these facts with his aspirations. He, a poor devil who seemed to be -losing the power to earn a miserable ten dollars with his pen, he, whose -carefully prepared articles had been rejected again and again, often -without a word of explanation, he, the unsuccessful scribbler of -second-rate notices, had aspired, and did still aspire, not only to -marry Constance Fearing, but to earn for himself such a position as -should make him independent of her fortune, so far as money was -concerned, and which, in the direction of personal reputation, should -place him in the first rank in his own country. Wonderful things -happened, sometimes, in the world of letters; but, so far as he knew, -they needed a considerable time for their accomplishment. He was well -advanced in his twenty-sixth year already, and it was madness to hope to -achieve fame in less than ten years at the least. In ten years, -Constance would be two and thirty. He had not thought of that before, -and the idea filled him with dismay. It seemed a great age, an absurd -age for marriage. And, after all, there was not the slightest -probability of her waiting for him. In the first place, she did not love -him, or, at least, she said that she did not, and if her affection was -not strong enough to declare itself, it could hardly be taken into -consideration as an element in the great problem. The whole thing was -ridiculous, and he would give up the idea—if he could. - -But he could not. He recognised that the thought of Constance was the -bright spot in his life, and that without her image he should lose half -his energy. In the beginning, there had been a sort of complacent -acquiescence in the growth of his love, which made it seem as though he -had voluntarily set up an idol of his own choosing, which he could -change at will. But the idol had begun to feed on his heart, and was -already exerting its mysterious, dominating influence over his actions -and beliefs. He began to concoct a philosophy of self-deception, in the -hope of obtaining a good result. It seemed certain that he could never -marry Constance—certain, at all events, while this mood lasted—but he -could still dream of her and look forward to his union with her. The -great day would come, of course, when she would marry some one else, and -when he should doubtless be buried in the ruin of his dreams, but until -then he would sustain the illusion. - -And what an illusion it was! The magnitude of it appalled him. -Penniless, almost; dependent for his bread upon his ruined father; -baffled at every turn; taught by experience that he had none of the -power he seemed to feel—that was the list of his advantages, to be set -in the balance against those possessed by Constance Fearing. George -laughed bitterly to himself as he pursued his way through the crowded -streets. It struck him that he must be a singularly unlucky man, and he -wondered how men felt upon whom fortune smiled perpetually, who had -never known what it meant to work hard to earn a dollar, to whom money -seemed as common and necessary an element as air. He remembered indeed -the time when, as a boy, he had known luxury, and existed in unbroken -comfort, and the memory added a bitterness to his present case. -Nevertheless he was not downhearted. Black as the world looked, he could -look blacker, he fancied, and make the cheeks of fortune smart with the -empty purse she had tossed in his face. His walk quickened, and his -fingers itched for the pen. He was one of those men who harden and grow -savage under defeat, reserving such luxuries as despondency for the -hours of success. - -Without the slightest hesitation, he set to work. He scarcely knew how -it was that he determined to write an article upon critics and -criticism; but when he sat down to his table the idea was already -present, and phrases of direful import were seething in the fire of his -brain. All at once he realised how he hated the work he had been doing, -how he loathed himself for doing it, how he detested those who had doled -out to him his daily portion. What a royal satisfaction it was to “sling -ink,” as the reporters called it! To heap his full-stocked thesaurus of -abuse upon somebody and something, and most especially upon himself, in -his capacity as one of the critics! To devote the whole profession to -the perdition of an everlasting contempt, to hold it up as a target for -the public wrath, to spit upon it, to stamp upon it, to tear it to rags, -and to scatter the tatters abroad upon the tempest of his reprobation! -The phrases ran like wildfire along the paper, as he warmed to his work, -and dragged old-fashioned anathemas from the closets of his memory to -swell the hailstorm of epithets that had fallen first. Anathema -Maranatha! Damn criticism! Damn the critics! Damn everything! - -It was a very remarkable piece of work when it was finished, more -remarkable in some ways than anything he ever produced afterwards, and -if he had taken it to Johnson in its original form, the pale young man’s -future career might have been endangered by a fit of sudden and -immoderate mirth. Fortunately, George already knew the adage—is it not -Hood’s?—which says “it is the print that tells the tale.” He was well -aware that writing ink is to printers’ ink as a pencil drawing to a -painted canvas, and that what looks mild and almost gentle when it -appears in an irregular handwriting upon a sheet of foolscap can seem -startlingly forcible when impressed upon perfectly new and very -expensive paper, in perfectly new and very expensive type. He read the -article over. - -“Perhaps it is a little strong,” he said to himself, with a grim smile, -as he reviewed what he had written. “I feel a little like Wellington -revisiting Waterloo!” - -Indeed, from the style of the discourse, one might have supposed that -George had published a dozen volumes simultaneously, and that every -critic in the civilised world had sprung up and rent him with one -accord. “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers” was but milk and water, -with very little milk, compared with his onslaught. The dead lay in -heaps, as it were, in the track of his destroying charge, and he had -hanged, drawn and quartered himself several times for his own -satisfaction, gibbeting the quarters on every page. In his fury and -unquenchable thirst for vengeance, he had quoted whole passages from -notices he had written, only to tear them to pieces and make bonfires of -their remains. - -“I think I had better wait a day or two,” he remarked, as he folded up -the manuscript and put it into a drawer of his table. - -It is characteristic of the profession and its necessities, that, after -having crushed and dismembered all critics, past, present and to come, -in the most complete and satisfactory manner, George Wood laid his hand -upon the new volumes which he had last brought home and proceeded during -several days with the task of reviewing them. Moreover, he did the work -much better than usual, taking an odd delight in affecting the attitude -of a gentle taster, and in using the very language he most despised, -just for the sake of persuading himself that he was right in despising -it. The two editors who had given him work to do that week were -surprised to find that he had returned with such success to his former -style of writing. They were still further surprised when an article -entitled “Cheap Criticism” appeared, about six weeks later, in a well -known magazine, signed with his name in full. They did not like it all. - -George had recast the paper more than once, and at last, when he had -regretfully “rinsed all the starch out of it,” as he said to himself, he -had taken it to Johnson. - -“I did not know that any modern human being could use such violent -language without swearing,” said the pale young man, catching a phrase -here and there as he ran his eye over the manuscript. - -“Do you call that violent?” asked George, delighted to find that he had -left his work more forcible than he had supposed. “I wish you could have -seen the first copy! This looked like prayer and meditation compared -with it.” - -“If you pray in that style,” remarked Johnson, “your prayers will be at -least heard, if they are not answered. They will attract attention in -some quarter, though perhaps not in the right one.” - -George’s face fell. - -“Do you think it is too red-hot?” he asked. “I have been spreading -butter on the public nose so long,” he added, almost apologetically. - -“Oleomargarine,” suggested Johnson. “It is rather warm. That -phrase—‘revelling in the contempt of appearing contemptible’—I say, -Wood, that is not English, you know, and it’s a scorcher, too.” - -“Not English!” exclaimed George, whose blood was up at once. “Why not?” - -“Because it is Volapück, or Malay—or something else, I don’t know what -it is, though I admit its force.” - -“I do not see how I can put it, then. It is just what we all feel.” - -“Look here. You do not mean that your victim despises himself for -appearing to be despicable, do you? He does, I dare say, but you wanted -to hit him, not to show that he is still capable of human feeling. I -think you meant to say that he rejoiced in his own indifference to -contempt.” - -“I believe I did,” said George, relinquishing the contest as soon as he -saw he was wrong. “But ‘revel’ is not bad. Let that stand, at least.” - -“You cannot revel in indifference, can you?” asked Johnson pitilessly. - -“No. That is true. But it was English, all the same, though it did not -mean what I intended.” - -“I think not. You would not say an author appears green, would you? You -would say he appears to be green. Then why say that a critic appears -contemptible?” - -“You are always right, Johnson,” George answered with a good-natured -laugh. “I should have seen the mistake in the proof.” - -“But that is the most expensive way of seeing mistakes. I will read this -carefully, and I will send you word to-morrow what I think of it.” - -“What makes you so quick at these things?” asked George, as he rose to -go. - -“Habit. I read manuscript novels for a publishing house here. I do it in -the evening, when I can find time. Yes—it is hard work, but it is -interesting. I am both prophet and historian. The book is the reality -which I see alternately from the point of view of the future and the -past.” - -The result was that Johnson, who possessed much more real power than -George had imagined, wrote a note, with which the manuscript was sent, -and to George’s amazement the paper was at once accepted and put into -type, and the proofs were sent to him. Moreover the number of the -magazine in which his composition appeared was no sooner published than -he received a cheque, of which the amount at once demonstrated the -practical advantages of original writing as compared with those of -second-rate criticism. - -With regard to the attention attracted by his article, however, George -was bitterly disappointed. He was on the alert for the daily papers in -which an account of the contents of the periodicals is generally given, -and he expected at least a paragraph from each. - -In the first one he took up, after an elaborate notice of articles by -known persons, he found the following line:— - -“Mr. George Winton Wood airs his views upon criticism in the present -number.” - -That was all. There was not a remark, nor a hint at the contents of his -paper, nothing to break the icy irony of the statement. He pondered long -over the words, and then crammed the open sheet into the waste-paper -basket. This was the first. There might be better in store for him. On -the evening of the same day he found another. - -“An unknown writer has an article upon criticism,” said the oracle, -without further comment. - -This was, if possible, worse. George felt inclined to write to the -editor and request that his name might be mentioned. It was a peculiarly -hard case, as he had reviewed books for this very paper during the last -two years, and was well known in the office. The third remark was in one -of those ghastly-spritely medleys written under the heading of -“Chit-Chat.” - -“By the way,” inquired the reviewer, “who is Mr. George Winton Wood? And -why is he so angry with the critics? And does anybody mind? And who is -he, any way?” - -Half a dozen similar observations had the effect of cooling George’s -hopes of fame very considerably. They probably did him good by -eradicating a great deal of nonsense from his dreams. He had before -imagined that in labouring at his book notices he had seen and known the -dreariest apartment in the literary workhouse, forgetting that all he -wrote appeared anonymously and that he himself was shielded behind the -ægis of a prosperous newspaper’s name. He had not known that a beginner -is generally received, to use a French simile, like a dog in a game of -ninepins, with kicks and execrations, unless he is treated with the cold -indifference which is harder to bear than any attack could be. And yet, -cruel as the method seems, it is the best one in most cases, and saves -the sufferer from far greater torments in the future. What would happen -if every beginner in literature were received at the threshold with -cakes and ale, and were welcomed by a chorus of approving and -encouraging critics? The nine hundred out of every thousand who try the -profession and fail, would fail almost as certainly a little later in -their lives, and with infinitely greater damage to their sensibilities. -Moreover the cakes and ale would have been unworthily wasted, and the -chorus of critics would have been necessarily largely leavened with -skilful liars, which, it is to be hoped and believed, is not the case in -the present condition of criticism, in spite of George Wood and his -opinions. Is it better that boys should be allowed to remain in school -two or three years without being examined, and that the ignorant ones -should then be put to shame before their comrades? Or is it better that -the half-witted should be excluded from the first, and separately -taught? The question answers itself. We who, rightly or wrongly, have -fought our way into public notice, have all, at one time or another, -been made to run the gauntlet of abuse, or to swim the dead sea of -indifference. The public knows little of our lives. It remembers the -first book of which everybody talked and which, it foolishly supposed, -represented our first experiment in print. It knows nothing of the many -years of thankless labour in the columns of the daily press, it has -never heard of our first paper in a magazine, nor of our pride at seeing -our signature in a periodical of some repute, nor of the sovereign -contempt with which the article and the name were received. The -comfortable public has never dreamed of the wretched prices most of us -received when we entered the ranks, and, to be honest, there is no -reason why it should. It would be quite as sensible to found a society -for the purpose of condoling with school-boys during their examinations, -as to excite the public sympathy on behalf of what one may call -undergraduate authors. The weeding at the beginning keeps the garden -clean and gay—and amputations must be performed in good time, if the -gangrene is to be arrested effectually. - -George Wood, as has been said before, was not of the kind to be -despondent, though he was easily roused to anger. The porcupine is an -animal known to literature, as well as a beast of the field, and the -quills of the literary porcupine can be very easily made to stand on -end. George was one of the species and, on the whole, a very favourable -specimen. Fortunately for those who had accorded so little appreciation -to his early efforts, he was at that time imprisoned in the enclosure -appropriated to unknown persons. He bristled unseen and wasted his wrath -on the desert air. He had looked forward to the publication of his first -article, as to an emancipation from slavery, whereas he soon discovered -that he had only been advanced to a higher rank in servitude. That is -what most men find out when they have looked forward to emancipation of -any kind, and wake up to find that instead of being chained to one side -of the wall, they are chained to the other. - -George supposed that it would now be an easier matter to get some of his -former work into print. He had four or five things in very tolerable -shape, resting in a drawer where he had put them when last rejected. He -got them out again, and again began to send them to periodicals, without -consulting his friend Johnson. To his surprise, they were all returned -without comment. - -“Go and ask for a job,” said Johnson, the omniscient, when he heard of -the failure. “Suggestion on the part of the editor is the better part of -valour in the writer.” - -“What do you mean?” asked George. He had supposed that there was nothing -he did not know in this connection. - -“They won’t take articles on general subjects without a deal of interest -and urging,” answered the other. “Get introduced to them in person. I -will do it with most of them. Then go to them and say, ‘I am a very -remarkable young man, though you do not seem to know it. I will write -anything about anything in the earth or under the earth. Sanskrit, -botany and the differential calculus are my especially strong points, -but the North Pole has great attractions for me, I am strong in theology -and political economy, and, if anything, I would rather spend a year in -writing up the Fiji Islands than not. If you have nothing in this line, -there is music and high art, in which I am sound, I have a taste for -architecture and I understand practical lobster-fishing. Have you -anything for me to do?’ That is the way to talk to these men,” Johnson -added with a smile. “Try it.” - -George laughed. - -“But that is not literature,” he objected. - -“Not literature? Everything that can be written about is literature, -just as everything that can be eaten is man—in another form. You can -learn as much English in writing up lobster-fishing, as in trying to -compose a five-act tragedy, and you will be paid for it into the -bargain. Besides, if you are ever going to write anything worth reading, -you must see more and think less. Don’t read books for a while; read -things and people. Thinking too much, without seeing, is like eating too -much—it makes your writing bilious.” - -“This is the critic’s recipe for acquiring fame in letters!” exclaimed -George. - -“Fame in letters is a sort of stuffed bugbear. You can frighten children -with it, but it belongs to the days of witches and hobgoblins. The -object of literature nowadays is to amuse without doing harm. If you do -that well you will be famous and rich.” - -“You are utterly cynical to-day, Johnson. Are you in earnest in what you -advise me to do?” - -“Perfectly. Try everything. Offer your services to write anything. Among -all the magazines and weeklies there is sure to be one that is in -difficulties because it cannot get some particular article written. -Don’t be too quick to say you understand the subject, if you don’t. Say -you will try it. A man may get up almost any subject in six weeks, and -it is a good thing for the mind, once in a long time. Try everything, I -say. Make a stir. Let these people see you—make them see you, if they -don’t want to. It is not time lost. You can use them all in your books -some day. There is an age when it is better to wear out shoe-leather -than pens—when the sweat of the brow is worth a dozen bottles of ink. -Don’t sit over your desk yelping your discontent, while your real brain -is rusting. Confound it all! It is the will that does it, the stir, the -energy, the beating at other people’s doors, grinding up their stairs, -making them feel that they must not lose the chance of using a man who -can do so much, making them ashamed to send you away. Do you think I got -to be where I am without a rough and tumble fight at the first? Take -everything that comes into your way, do it as well as you know how, with -all your might, and keep up a constant howl for more. They will respect -you in spite of themselves.” - -The pale young man’s steel-blue eyes flashed, the purple veins stood out -on his white clenched hands and there was a smile of triumph in his face -and a ring of victory in his voice. He had fought them all and had got -what he wanted, by talent, by industry, but above all by his restless -and untiring energy, and he was proud of it. - -To George Wood, in his poverty, it seemed very little, after all, to be -the literary editor of a daily paper. That was not the position he must -win, if he would marry Constance Fearing. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII. - - -The summer passed quickly away without bringing any new element into -George’s life. He did not reject Johnson’s advice, but he did not follow -it to the letter. His instinct was against the method suggested by his -friend, and he felt that he had not the assurance to follow it out. He -was too sensitive and proud to employ his courage in besieging persons -who did not want him. Nevertheless he found work to do, and his position -was improved, though his writings still failed to attract any attention. -He had imagined that there was but a step from the composition of -magazine articles to the making of a book, but he soon discovered the -fallacy of the idea, and almost regretted the old days of -“book-tasting.” - -Meanwhile, his thoughts dwelt much on Constance, and he adorned the -temple of his idol with everything upon which, figuratively speaking, he -could lay his hands. Strange to say, her absence during the summer was a -relief to him. It made the weakness of his position and the futility of -his hopes seem less apparent, and it gave him time to make at least a -step in the direction of success. He wrote to her, as often as he dared, -and twice in the course of the summer she answered with short letters -that had in his eyes a suspicious savour of kindness rather than of -anything even distantly approaching to affection. Nevertheless those -were great days in his calendar on which these missives came. The notes -were read over every morning and evening until Constance returned, and -were put in a place of safety during the day and night. - -George looked forward with the greatest anxiety to Miss Fearing’s -return. He had long felt that her sister’s antagonism was one of the -numerous and apparently insurmountable obstacles that barred his path, -and he dreaded lest Grace’s influence should, in the course of the long -summer, so work upon Constance’s mind as to break the slender thread -that bound her to him. As regards Grace’s intention he was by no means -wrong. She lost no opportunity of explaining to Constance that her -friendship for George Wood was little short of ridiculous, that the man -knew he had no future and was in pursuit of nothing but money, that his -writings showed that he belonged to the poorest class of amateurs, that -men who were to succeed were always heard of from boyhood, at school, at -college and in their first efforts and that Constance was allowing her -good nature to get the better of her common-sense in encouraging such a -fellow. In short there was very little that Grace left unsaid. But -though George had foreseen all this, as Grace, on her part, had -determined beforehand upon her course of action during the summer, -neither Grace nor George had understood the effect that such talk would -produce upon her whom it was meant to influence. There was in -Constance’s apparently gentle nature an element of quiet resistance -which, in reality, it was not hard to rouse. Like many very good and -very conscientious people, she detested advice and abominated -interference, even on the part of those she loved best. Her attachment -for her sister was sincere in its way, though not very strong, and it -did not extend to a blind respect for Grace’s opinions. Grace could be -wrong, like other people, and Grace was hasty and hot-tempered, -prejudiced and not free from a certain sort of false pride. These were -assuredly not the defects of Constance’s character, at least in her own -opinion. - -Her opposition was aroused and she began to show it. Indeed, her two -letters to George were both written immediately after conversations had -taken place in which Grace had spoken of him with more than usual -bitterness. She felt as though she owed him some reparation for the -ill-treatment he got at her sister’s hands, and this accounted in part -for the flavour of kindness which George detected in her words. The -situation was further strained by the arrival of one of the periodicals -which contained an article by him. The sisters both read it, and -Constance was pleased with it. In an indirect way, too, she felt -flattered, for it looked as though George were beginning to follow her -advice. - -“It is trash,” said Grace authoritatively, as she threw the magazine -aside. - -Constance allowed a full minute to elapse before she answered, during -which she seemed to be intently watching the sail of a boat that was -slowly working its way up the river. The two girls had paused between -one visit and another to rest themselves in a place they owned upon the -Hudson. The weather was intensely hot, and it was towards evening. - -“It is not trash,” said Constance quietly. “You are quite mistaken. You -are completely blinded by your prejudice.” - -Grace was very much surprised, for it was unlike Constance to turn upon -her in such a way. - -“I think it is trash for two reasons,” she said, with a short laugh. -“First, because my judgment tells me it is, and secondly because I know -that George Wood could not possibly write anything else.” - -“You can hardly deny that you are prejudiced after that speech. Do you -know what you will do, if you go on in this way? You will make me fall -in love with Mr. Wood and marry him, out of sheer contrariety.” - -“Oh no!” laughed Grace. “You would not marry him. At the last minute you -would throw him over, and then he would bring an action against you for -breach of promise with a view to the damages.” - -Constance suddenly grew very pale. She turned from the window where she -was standing, crossed the small room and stood still before her sister. - -“Do you mean that?” she asked very coldly. - -Grace was frightened, for the first time in her life, but she did her -best to hide it. - -“What difference does it make to you, whether I mean it or not?” she -inquired with a rather scornful smile. - -“This difference—that if you think such things, you and I may as well -part company before we quarrel any further.” - -“Ah—you love him, then? I did not know.” Grace laughed nervously. - -“I do not love him, but if I did I should not be ashamed to say so to -you or to the whole world. But I like him very, very much, and I will -not hear him talked of as you talk of him. Do you understand?” - -“Perfectly. Nothing could be clearer,” said Grace with a contemptuous -curl of the lip. - -“Then I hope you will remember,” Constance answered. - -Grace did remember. Indeed, for some time she could think of nothing -else. It seemed clear enough to her that something more than friendship -was needed to account for the emotion she had seen in her sister’s face. -It was the first time in her recollection, too, that Constance had ever -been really angry, and Grace was not inclined to rouse her anger a -second time. She changed her tactics and ignored George Wood altogether, -never mentioning him nor reading anything that he sent to Constance. But -this mode of treating the question proved unsatisfactory, for it was -clear that Wood wrote often, and there was nothing to prove that -Constance did not answer all his letters. Fortunately the two sisters -were rarely alone together during the rest of the summer, and their -opportunities of disagreeing were not numerous. They were not in reality -as fond of each other as the world thought, or as they appeared to be. -Their natures were too different, and at the same time the difference -was not of that kind in which each character seems to fill a want in the -other. On the contrary the points in which they were unlike were -precisely those which most irritated the other’s sensibilities. They had -never before quarrelled nor been so near to a quarrel as they were in -the course of the conversation just recorded, but they were in reality -very far from being harmonious. - -The devoted affection of their mother had kept them together while she -had lived, and, to some extent, had survived her, the memory of her -still exercising a strong influence over both. Constance, too, was -naturally very pacific, and rarely resented anything Grace said, in jest -or in earnest. Grace was often annoyed by what she called her sister’s -sweetness, and it was that very quality which prevented the other from -retaliating. She had now shown that she could turn, and fiercely, if -once aroused, and Grace respected her the more for having shown that she -had a temper. - -Enough has been said to show that George’s fear that Constance would -think less well of him through Grace’s influence, was without -foundation. She even went so far as to send for him as soon as she -returned to New York in the autumn. It was a strange meeting, for there -was constraint on both sides, and at the same time each felt the -necessity of showing the other that no change had taken place for the -worse in their mutual relations. - -Constance was surprised to find how very favourably George Wood compared -with the men she had seen during the summer—men all more or less alike -in her eyes, but nevertheless representing in her imagination the -general type of what the gentleman is supposed to be, the type of the -man of her own class, the mate of her own species. Grace had talked so -much, in the early part of the season, of George’s inferior social -position, of his awkward manner, and, generally, of his defects, that -Constance had almost feared to find that she had been deceived at first -and that there was a little truth in her sister’s words. One glance, one -phrase of his, sufficed to set her mind at rest. He might have -peculiarities, but they were not apparent in his way of dressing, of -entering a room or of pronouncing the English language. He was -emphatically what he ought to be, and she felt a keen pleasure in taking -up her intercourse with him at the point where it had been interrupted -more than four months earlier. - -And now the exigencies of this history require that we should pass -rapidly over the period that followed. It was an uneventful time for all -concerned. George Wood worked with all his might and produced some very -creditable papers on a variety of subjects, gradually attracting a -certain amount of notice to himself, and advancing, as he supposed, as -fast as was possible in his career. Success, of the kind he craved, -still seemed very far away in the dim future, though there were not -wanting those who believed that he might not wait long for it. Foremost -among those was Constance Fearing. To her there was a vast difference -between the anonymous scribbler of small notices whom she had known a -year ago, and the promising young writer who appeared to her to have a -reputation already, because most of her friends now knew who he was, had -read one or more of his articles and were glad to meet him when occasion -offered. She felt indeed that he had not yet found out his best talent, -but her instinct told her that the time could not be very distant when -it would break out of its own impulse and surprise the world by its -brilliancy. That he actually possessed great and rare gifts she no -longer doubted. - -Next to Constance, the Sherrington Trimms were the loudest in their -praise of George’s doings. Totty could talk of nothing else when she -came to the house in Washington Square, and her husband never failed to -read everything George wrote, and to pat him on the back after each -fresh effort. Even George’s father began to relent and to believe that -there might be something in literature after all. But he showed very -little enthusiasm until, one day, an old acquaintance with whom he had -not spoken for years, crossed the street and shook hands with him, -congratulated him upon his boy’s “doing so well.” Then Jonah Wood felt -that the load of anxiety he had borne for so many years was suddenly -lifted from his shoulders. People thought his boy was “doing well”! He -had not hoped to be told that spontaneously by any one for years to -come. The dreary look began to fade out of his grey face, giving way to -something that looked very like happiness. - -George himself was the least appreciative of his own success. Even -Johnson, who was sparing of praise in general, wrote occasional notes in -his paper expressive of his satisfaction at his friend’s work and -generally containing some bit of delicate criticism or learned reference -that lent them weight and caused them to be reprinted into other -newspapers. - -So the winter came and went again and the month of May came round once -more. George was with Constance one afternoon almost exactly a year from -the day on which he had first told her of his love. Their relations had -been very peaceful and pleasant of late, though George was not so often -alone with her as in former times. The period of mourning for the girls’ -mother was past and many people came to the house. George himself had -gradually made numerous acquaintances and led a more social life than -formerly, finding interest, as Johnson had predicted, in watching people -instead of poring over books. He was asked to dinner by many persons who -had known his father and were anxious to make amends for having judged -him unjustly, and when they had once received him into their houses, -they liked him and did what they could to show it. Moreover he was -modest and reticent in regard to himself and talked well of current -topics. Insensibly he had begun to acquire social popularity and to -forget much of his boyish cynicism. He fancied that he went into society -merely because it sometimes gave him an opportunity of meeting -Constance, but he was too natural and young not to like it for itself. - -“Shall we not go out?” he asked, when he found her alone in the -drawing-room. - -Constance looked up and smiled, as though she understood his thought. He -was afraid that Grace would enter the room and spoil his visit, as had -happened more than once, and Constance feared the same thing. Neither -had ever said as much to the other, but there was a tacit understanding -between them, and their intimacy had developed so far that Constance -made no secret of wishing to be alone with him when he came to the -house. She smiled in spite of herself and George smiled in return. - -“Yes. We can take a turn in the Square,” she said. “It will be—cooler, -you know.” A soft laugh seemed to explain the hesitation, and George -felt very happy. - -A few minutes later they were walking side by side under the great -trees. Instinctively they kept away from the Fearings’ house—Grace might -chance to be at the window. - -“It was almost a year ago,” said George, suddenly. - -“What?” - -“That I told you I loved you. You think differently of me now, do you -not?” - -“A little differently, perhaps,” Constance answered. Then, feeling that -she was blushing, she turned her face away and spoke rapidly. “Yes and -no. I think more of you—that is to say, I think better of you. You have -done so much in this year. I begin to see that you are more energetic -than I fancied you were.” - -“Does it seem to you as though what I have done has brought us any -nearer together, you and me?” - -“Nearer? Perhaps. I do not quite see how you mean.” The blush had -disappeared, and she looked puzzled. - -“I mean because I have begun—only begun—to make something like a -position for myself. If I succeed I hope we shall seem nearer yet—nearer -and nearer, till there shall be no parting at all.” - -“I think you mistake a letter in the word—you talk as though you meant -dearer, more than nearer—do you not?” Constance laughed, and blushed -again. - -“If I said that you were making love to me—to-day, as you said a year -ago—would you answer that you meant it—as I did?” - -“What impertinence!” exclaimed Constance still laughing lightly. - -“No—but would you?” - -“I cannot tell what I should do, if you said anything so outrageous!” - -“I love you. Is that outrageous and impertinent?” - -“N—o. You say it very nicely—almost too nicely. I am afraid you have -said it before.” - -“Often, though I cannot expect you to remember the exact number of -repetitions. How would you say it—if you were obliged to say it? I have -a good ear for a tune. I could learn your music.” - -“Could you?” Constance hesitated while they paused in their walk and -George looked into her eyes. - -She saw something there that had not been present when he had first -spoken, a year ago. He had seemed cold then, even to her inexperience. -Now there was both passion and tenderness in his look, and there was -sadness in his face. - -“You do love me now,” she said softly. “I can see it.” - -“And you, dear—will you not say the little words?” - -Again she hesitated. Then she put out her hand and touched his very -gently. “I hate you, sir,” she said. But she pronounced the syllables -with infinite softness and delicacy, and the music of her voice could -not have been more sweet if she had said “I love you, dear.” Then she -laughed again. - -“I could hear you say that very often, without being hurt,” said George -tenderly. - -“I only wanted to show you how I should say those other words—if I -would,” she answered. - -“Is that all? Well—if there is a just proportion between your hatred and -your love and your way of expressing them, your love must be——” he -stopped. - -“Must be what?” - -“As great as mine. I cannot find anything stronger than that to say—nor -could you, if you knew.” - -“So you love me, then. I wonder how long it will last? When did it -begin?” - -“The second time I saw you.” - -“Love at second sight! How romantic—so much more original than at first -sight, and so much more natural. No—you must not take my hand—there are -people over there—and besides, there is no reason why you should. I told -you I hated you. There—walk like a sensible being and talk about your -work!” - -“You are a strange creature, Constance.” - -“Am I? Why do you call me Constance? I do not call you George—indeed I -do not like the name at all.” - -“Nor I, if you do not—you can call me Constantine if you like. That name -would be more like yours.” - -“I do not like my own. It makes me think of the odiously good little -girls in story books. Besides, what is it? Why am I called Constance? Is -it for the town in Switzerland? I was never there. Is it for the virtue -I least possess?” - -“As your sister is called Grace,” suggested George. - -“Hush! Grace is a very graceful girl. Take it in that way, and leave her -alone. Am I the English for Constantia? Come, give me an explanation! -Talk! Say something! You are leaving the burden of the conversation to -me, and then you are not even listening!” - -“I was thinking of you—I always am. What shall I talk about? You are the -only subject on which I could be at all eloquent.” - -“You might talk about yourself, for a change,” suggested Constance. - -“But you say you hate me, so that you would not find an account of me -agreeable, would you?” - -“I think my hatred could be made very accommodating, if you would talk -pleasantly—even about yourself.” - -“I would rather make love to you than talk.” - -“I have no doubt you would, but that is just what I do not want you to -do. Besides, you have done it before—without any result.” - -“That is no reason for not trying again, is it?” - -“Why try it at all?” - -“Love is its own reason,” said George, “and it is the reason for most -other things as well. I love you and I am not in search of reasons. I -love you very, very much, with all my heart—so much that I do not know -how to say it. My life is full of you. You are everywhere. You are -always with me. In everything I have done since I have known you I have -thought of you. I have asked myself whether this would please you, -whether that would bring a smile to your dear face, whether these words -or those would speak to your heart and be sweet to you. You are -everything the world holds for me, the sun that shines, the air I -breathe. Without the thought of you I could neither think nor work. If a -man can grow great by the thought of woman’s love, you can make me one -of the greatest—if men die of broken hearts you can kill me—you are -everything to me—life, breath and happiness.” - -Constance was silent. He spoke passionately, and there was an accent of -truth in his low, vibrating voice, that went to her heart. For one -moment she almost felt that she loved him in return, as she had often -dreamed of loving. That he was even now more to her than any living -being, she knew already. - -“You like me,” he said presently. “You like me, you are fond of me, you -have often told me that I am your best friend, the one of whom you think -most. You let me come when I will, you let me say all that is in my -heart to say, you let me tell you that I love you——” - -“It is very sweet to hear,” said Constance softly. - -“And it is sweet to say as well—dearest. Ah, Constance, say it once, say -that it is more than friendship, more than liking, more than fondness -that you feel. What can it cost you to say it?” - -“Would it make you very happy?” - -“It would make this world heaven.” - -Constance stopped in her walk, drew back a little from his side, and -looked at him. - -“I will say it,” she said quietly. “I love you—yes, I do. No—do not -start—it is not much to hear, you must not be too hopeful. I will tell -you the truth—so, as we stand—no nearer. It is not friendship nor -fondness, nor mere liking. It is love, but it is not what it should be. -Do you know why I tell you? Because I care too much for your respect to -let you think I am a miserable flirt, to let you think that I am -encouraging you and drawing you on, without having the least heart in -the matter. You must think me very conscientious. Perhaps I am. Yes, I -have encouraged you, I have drawn you on, because I like to hear you say -what you so often say of late, that you love me. It is very sweet to -hear, as I told you just now. And, do you know? I wish I could say the -same things to you, and feel them. But I do not love you enough, I am -not sure of my love, it is greater to-day and less to-morrow, and I will -not give you little where you give me so much. You know my secret now. -You may hope, if you will. I am not deceiving you. I may love you more -and more, and the day when I feel that it is all strong and true and -whole and sound and unchangeable I will marry you. But I will not -promise. I will not run the risk so long as I feel that my love may turn -again into friendship next week—or next year. Do you see? Have you -understood me? Is it all clear now?” - -“I understand your words, dear, but not your heart. I thank you——” - -“No. Do not thank me. Come, let us walk on, slowly. Do you know that it -has been the same with you, though you will not admit it? You did not -love me a year ago, as you do now, did you?” - -“No. That was impossible. I love you more and more every day, every -week, every month.” - -“A year ago it would have been quite possible for you to have forgotten -me and loved some other woman. You did not look at me as you do now. -Your voice had not the same ring in it.” - -“I daresay not—I have changed. I can feel it.” - -“Yes, and it is because I have watched you changing in one way, that I -am afraid I may change in the other.” - -George was very much surprised and at the same time was made very happy -by what she had told him. He had indeed suspected the truth, and it was -not enough to have heard her say the words “I love you” in the calm and -reasoning tone she had used. But on the other hand, there was something -brilliantly honest about her confession, that filled him with hope and -delight. If a woman so true once loved with all her heart, she would -love longer and better and more truly than other women can. So at least -thought George Wood, as he walked by her side beneath the trees in -Washington Square, and glanced from time to time at her lovely blushing -face. - -“I thank you, dear, with all my heart,” he said after a long pause. - -“There is little enough to thank me for. It seems to me that I could not -have done less. Would it have been honest and right to let things go on -as they were going without an explanation?” - -“Perhaps not. But most women would have done nothing. I understand you -better now, I think—if a man can ever understand a woman at all.” - -“I do not understand myself,” Constance answered thoughtfully. “Promise -me one thing,” she added, looking up quickly into his face. - -“Anything in the world,” he said. - -“Anything? Then promise me that what I have said to-day shall make no -difference in the way we meet, and that you will behave just as you did -before.” - -“Indeed I will. What difference could it make? I do not see.” - -“Well, it might. Remember that we are not engaged to be married——” - -“Oh, that? Of course not. I am engaged to you, but you are not engaged -to me. Is that it?” - -“Better not think of any engagement at all. It can do no good. Love me -if you will, but do not consider yourself bound.” - -“If you will tell me how I can love you without feeling bound to you, -perhaps I will try and obey your commands. It must be a very complicated -thing.” George laughed happily. - -“Well, do as you will,” said Constance. “Only be honest with me, as I -have been with you. If a time comes when you feel that you love me less, -tell me so frankly, and let there be an end. Will you?” - -“Yes. I am not afraid. The day will never come.” - -“Never is thought to be an old-fashioned word, I believe—like always. -Will you do something else to please me—something to pay me for my -honesty?” - -“Anything—everything.” - -“Write a book, then. It is time you did it.” - -George did not answer at once. There was nothing which he really wished -more to accomplish than what Constance asked of him, and yet, in spite -of years of literary work and endless preparation, there was nothing for -which he really felt himself less fitted. He was conscious that -fragments of novels were constantly floating through his brain and that -scenes formed themselves and conversations arranged themselves -spontaneously in his mind when he least expected it; but everything was -vague and unsettled, he had neither plot nor plan, neither the persons -of the drama nor the scene of their action, neither beginning nor -continuation, nor end. To promise to write a book now, this very year, -seemed like madness. And yet he was beginning to fear lest he should put -off the task until it should be too late. He was in his twenty-seventh -year, and in his own estimation was approaching perilously near to -thirty. - -“Why do you ask me to do it now?” he inquired. - -“Because it is time, and because if you go on much longer with these -short things you will never do anything else.” - -“I only do it as a preparation, as a step. Honestly, I do not feel that -I know enough to write a good book, and I should be sorry to write a bad -one.” - -“Never mind. Make a beginning. It can do no harm to try. You have -written a great deal lately and you can leave the magazines alone for a -while. Shall I tell you what I would like?” - -“Yes—what?” - -“I would like you to write your book and bring the chapters as you write -them, and read them to me one by one.” - -“Would you really like that?” - -“Indeed I would.” - -“Then I will do it. I mean that I will try, for I am sure I cannot -succeed. But—you did not think of that—where can we read without being -interrupted? I do not propose to give your sister the benefit——” - -“In Central Park—on fine days. There are quiet places there.” - -“Will you go there with me alone?” George asked in some surprise. - -“Yes. Why not? Have I not told you that I love you—a little?” - -“I bless you for it, dear,” said George. - -And so they parted. - - - - - CHAPTER IX. - - -George felt like a man who has committed himself to take part in some -public competition although not properly prepared for the contest, and -during the night that succeeded his last meeting with Constance he slept -little. He had promised to write a book. That was bad enough, -considering that he felt so little fitted for the task. But, at least, -if he had undertaken to finish the work, revise it and polish it and -eliminate all the errors he could discover before bringing it to Miss -Fearing in its final shape, he could have comforted himself with the -thought that the first follies he committed would be known only to -himself. He had promised, however, to read the chapters to Constance as -he wrote them, one by one, and the thought filled him with dismay. The -charming prospect of numberless meetings with her was marred by the fear -of being ridiculous in her eyes. It was for her alone that the book was -to be written. It would be a failure and he would not even attempt to -publish it, but the certainty that the public would not witness his -discomfiture brought no consolation with it. Better a thousand times to -be laughed at by the critics than to see a pained look of disappointment -in Constance’s eyes. Nevertheless he considered his promise sacred, and, -after all, it was Constance who had driven him to make it. He had -protested his incapacity as well as he could. She would see that he had -been right and would acknowledge the wisdom of waiting a little longer -before making the great attempt. - -At first, he felt as though he were in a nightmare, in a dim labyrinth -from which he had pledged himself to find an escape in a given time. His -nerves, for the first time in his life, played him false. He grew -suddenly hot, and then as suddenly cold again. Attempting to fix his -imagination, monstrous faces presented themselves before his eyes in the -dark, and he heard fragments of conversation in which there were long -sentences that meant nothing. He lit a candle and sat up in bed, -clasping his forehead with his long, smooth fingers, and beginning to -feel that he knew what despair really meant. - -This then was the result of years of preparation, of patient practice -with the pen, of thoughtful reading and careful study. He had always -felt that he lacked the imagination necessary for producing a novel, and -now he felt sure of it. Johnson had told him that he was no critic, and -he had believed Johnson, because Johnson was himself the best critic he -knew. What then was he? A writer of short papers and articles. Yes, he -could do that. How easily now, at this very moment, could he think of -half a dozen subjects for such work, and how neatly he could put them -into shape, develop them in a certain number of pages and polish them to -the proper degree of brilliancy! - -The morning dawned and found him still searching and beating his brain -for a subject. As the light increased he felt more and more nervous. It -was not in his nature to put off the beginning upon which he had -determined, and he knew that on that day he must write the first words -of his first book, or forfeit his self-respect for ever. There was an -eminently comic side to the situation, but he could not see it. His -dread of being ridiculous in the eyes of the woman he loved was great -enough to keep him from contemplating the absurdity of his case. His -sensations became intolerable; he felt like a doomed man awaiting his -execution, whose only chance of a reprieve lay in inventing a plot for a -novel. He could bear it no longer, and he got out of bed and opened his -window. The fresh air of the May morning rushed in and suddenly filled -the room with sweetness and his excited brain with a new sense of -possibilities. He sat down at his table without thinking of dressing -himself, and took up his pen. A sheet of paper lay ready before him, and -the habit of writing was strong in itself—too strong to be resisted. In -a few minutes that white sheet would be covered with words that would -mean something, and those words would be the beginning of his book, of -the novel he was about to write but of the contents of which he had not -the remotest conception. This was not the way he had anticipated the -commencement of the work that was to lay the first stone of his -reputation. He had fancied himself sitting down to that first page, calm -and collected, armed with a plot already thoroughly elaborated, charmed -beforehand with the characters of his own invention, carried away from -the first by the spirit of the action, cheered at every page by the -certainty of success, because failure was to have been excluded by the -multiplicity of his precautions. And here he was, without an idea in his -brain or the least subject for an excuse, beginning a romance which was -to be judged step by step by the person of all others most dear to him. - -George dipped his pen into the ink a second time and then glanced at the -calendar. It was the fifth of May. - -“Well,” he said aloud, “there is luck in odd numbers. Here goes my first -novel!” - -And thereupon, to his own great surprise, he began writing rapidly. He -did not know what was coming, he hardly knew whether his hero had black -hair or brown, and as for the heroine, he had not thought of her at all. -But the hero was himself and was passing a night of great anxiety and -distress in a small room, in a small house, in the city of New York. The -reason of his anxiety and distress was a profound secret as yet, because -George had not invented it, but there was no difficulty in depicting his -state of mind. The writer had just spent that very night himself, and -was describing it while the sun was yet scarcely risen. He chuckled -viciously as he drove his pen along the lines and wrote out the ready -phrases that rushed into his brain. It was inexpressibly comic to be -giving all the details of his hero’s suffering without having the -smallest idea of what caused it; but, as he went on, he found that his -silence upon this important point was lending an uncanny air of mystery -to his first chapter, and his own interest was unexpectedly aroused. - -It seemed strange, too, to find himself at liberty to devote as much -space as he pleased to the elaboration of details that attracted his -attention, and to feel that he was not limited in space as he had -hitherto been in all he wrote. Of course, when he stopped to think of -what he was to do next, he was as much convinced as ever that nothing -could come of his attempt beyond this first chapter. The whole affair -was like a sort of trial gallop over the paper, and doubtless when he -read over what he had written he would be convinced of its -worthlessness. He remembered his first fiery article upon the critics, -and the wholesale cutting and pruning it had required before he could -even submit it to Johnson. Then, however, he had written under the -influence of anger; now, he was conscious of a new pleasure in every -sentence, his ideas came smoothly to the surface and his own language -had a freshness which he did not recognise. In old times he had studied -the manner of great writers in the attempt to improve his own, and his -style had been subject to violent attacks of Carlyle and to lucid -intervals of Macaulay, he had worshipped at Ruskin’s exquisite shrine -and had offered incense in Landor’s classic temple, he had eaten of -Thackeray’s salt and had drunk long draughts from Dickens’s loving-cup. -Perhaps each had produced its effect, but now he was no longer conscious -of receiving influence from any of them. For the first time in his life -he was himself, for better, for worse, to fail or to succeed. His soul -and his consciousness expanded together in a new and intoxicating life, -as he struck those first reckless strokes in the delicious waters of the -unknown. - -He forgot everything, dress, breakfast, his father, the time of day and -the time of year, and when he rose from his seat he had written the -first chapter of his novel. For some occult reason he had stopped -suddenly and dropped his pen. He knew instinctively that he had reached -his first halting-place, and he paused for breath, left the table and -went to the window. To his astonishment the sun was already casting -shadows in the little brick yard, and he knew that it must be past noon. -He looked at himself and saw that he was not dressed, then he looked at -his watch and found that it was one o’clock. He rubbed his eyes, for it -had all been like a dream, like a vision of fairyland, like a night -spent at the play. On the table lay many pages of closely-written -matter, numbered and neatly put together by sheer force of habit. He -hardly knew what they contained, and he was quite unable to recall the -words that opened the first paragraph. But he knew the last sentence by -heart, for it was still ringing in his brain, and strange to say, he -knew what was to come next, though he seemed not to have known it so -long as he held his pen. While he dressed himself the whole book, -confused in its details but clear in its general outline, presented -itself to his contemplation, and he knew that he should write it as he -saw it. It would assuredly not be a good novel, it would never be -published, and he was wasting his time, but it would be a book, and he -should keep his promise to Constance. He went downstairs and found his -father at luncheon, with a newspaper beside him. - -“Well, George,” said the old gentleman, “I thought you were never going -to get up.” - -“I am not quite sure that I have been to bed,” answered the young man. -“But I know that I have been writing since it was daylight and have had -no breakfast.” - -“That is a bad way of beginning the day,” said Jonah Wood, shaking his -head. “You will derange your digestion by these habits. It is idle to -try such experiments on the human frame.” - -“It was quite an unwilling experiment. I forgot all about eating. I had -some work that had to be done and so I put it through.” - -“More articles?” inquired his father with kindly interest. - -“I believe I am writing a book,” said George. “It is a new sensation and -very exhilarating, but I cannot tell you anything about it till I have -got on with it further.” - -“A book, eh? Well, I wish you success, George. I hope you are well -prepared and that you will do nothing hasty or ill considered.” - -“No, indeed!” exclaimed George with a laugh. - -Hasty and ill considered! Could any two epithets better describe the way -in which he had gone to work? What rubbish it would be when it was -finished, he thought, as he attacked the cold meat and pickles. He -realised that he was desperately hungry, and unaccountably gay -considering that he anticipated a total failure, and it was surprising -that while he believed that he had been producing trash he should be in -such a hurry to finish his meal in order to produce more. Nothing, -however, seemed to be of the slightest importance, except to write as -fast as he could in order to have plenty of manuscript to read to -Constance at the first opportunity. - -That night before going to bed he sat down in a comfortable chair, lit a -pipe and read over what he had written. It must be very poor stuff, of -course, he considered, because he had turned it out so quickly; but he -experienced one of the great pleasures of his life in reading it over. -The phrases sent thrills of satisfaction through him and his hand -trembled as he took up one sheet after another. It was strange that he -should be able to take such delight in what must manifestly be so bad. -But, bad or not, the thing was alive, and the characters were his -companions, whispering in his ear the words that they were to speak, and -bringing with them their individual atmospheres, while a sort of -secondary and almost unconscious imagination performed the -scene-shifting in a smooth and masterly fashion. - -Three days later, he sat beside Constance Fearing upon a wooden bench in -a retired nook in Central Park. The weather was gloriously beautiful, -and the whole world smelt of violets and sunshine. Everything was fresh -and peaceful, and the stillness was broken only by the voices of -laughing children who played together a hundred yards away from where -the pair were sitting. - -“And now, begin,” said Constance eagerly, as George produced his folded -manuscript. - -“It is horrible stuff,” he said. “I had really much rather not read it.” - -“Shall I go away?” - -“No.” - -“Then read!” - -A great wave of timidity came over the young man in that moment. He -could not account for it, for he had often read to Constance the -manuscript of his short articles. But this seemed very different. He let -the folded sheets rest on his knee, and gazed into the distance, seeing -nothing and wishing that he might sink through the earth into his own -room. To judge from the sensation in his throat, he would not be able to -read at all. Then all at once, he grew cold. He had undertaken to do -this thing and he must carry it through, come what might. Constance -would not laugh at him, and she would be just. He wished that she were -Johnson, for it would be easier. - -“I am waiting,” she said with a gentle smile. George laughed. - -“I never was so frightened in my life,” he said. “I know what stage -fright is, now.” - -Constance looked at him, and she liked his timidity more than she had -often liked his boldness. She felt that she loved him a little more than -before. Her voice was very soft when she spoke. - -“Are you afraid of me, dear?” she asked. - -The blood came to George’s face. It was the first time she had ever used -an endearing expression in speaking to him. - -“Not since you have said that,” he answered, opening the sheets. - -He read the first chapter, and she did not interrupt him. Occasionally -he glanced at her face. It was very grave and thoughtful, and he could -not guess what was passing in her mind. - -“That is the end of the first chapter,” he said at last. “Do you like -it?” - -“Go on!” she exclaimed quickly without heeding his question. - -George did as he was bidden and read on to the end of what he had -brought. Whatever Constance might think of the work, she was evidently -anxious to hear it, and this fact at least gave him a little courage. -When he had finished, he folded up the sheets quickly and returned them -to his pocket, without looking at his companion’s face. He did not dare -ask her again for her opinion and he waited for her to speak. But she -said nothing and leaned back in her seat, apparently contemplating the -trees. - -“Would you like to walk a little?” George asked in an unsteady voice. He -now took it for granted that she was not pleased. - -“Do you want to know what I think of your three chapters?” - -“Yes, please,” he answered nervously. - -“They are very, very good. They are as much better than anything you -have ever done before, as champagne is better than soda-water.” - -“Not really!” George exclaimed in genuine and overwhelming surprise. -“You are not in earnest?” - -“Indeed I am,” Constance answered, with some impatience. “Do you think I -would say such a thing if I were not sure of it? Do you not feel it -yourself? Did you not know it when you were writing?” - -“No—I thought, because it was written so fast it could not be worth -much. Indeed, I think so still—I am afraid that you are——” - -“Mistaken?” - -“Perhaps—carried away because you like me, or because you think I ought -to write well.” - -“Nonsense. Promise me that you will not show this book to any one until -it is quite finished. I want you to take my word for it, to believe in -my judgment, because I know I am right. Will you?” - -“Of course I will. To whom should I show it? I think I should be -ashamed.” - -“You need not be ashamed if you go on in that way. When will you have -written more?” - -“Give me three days—that will give you three chapters at least and take -you well into the story. You are not going out of town yet.” - -“I shall not go until it is finished,” said Constance with great -determination. She had made up her mind that George would write better -if he wrote very fast, and she meant to urge him to do his utmost. - -“But that may take a long time,” he objected. - -“No it will not,” she answered. “You would not keep me in New York when -it is too hot, would you?” - -“I will do my best,” said George. - -He kept his word and three weeks later he sat in his room, in the small -hours of the morning, writing the last page of his first novel. He was -in a state of indescribable excitement, though he seemed to be no longer -thinking at all. The pen seemed to do the work of itself and he followed -the words that appeared so quickly with a feverish interest. He had not -the least idea how it would all look when it was done, but something -told him that it was being done in the right way. His hand flew from -side to side of the paper, and then stopped suddenly, why, he could not -tell. It was not possible that there should be nothing more to say, no -more to add, not one word to make the completion more complete. He -collected his thoughts and read the page over carefully to the end. -No—there was nothing wanting, and one word more would spoil the -conclusion. - -“I do not understand why, I am sure,” he said to himself. “But that is -the end, and there is no doubt about it. So here it goes! -George—Winton—Wood—May 29th.” - -He pushed the sheet away from him. Rather theatrical, he thought, to -sign his name to it, as though it were a real book, and as though the -manuscript were worth keeping. He had done it all to please Constance, -and Constance was pleased. In twenty-four days he had concocted a -novel—and he had never in his life enjoyed twenty-four days so much. -That was because he had seen Constance so often and because this -wretched scroll had amused her. Would she like the last three chapters? -Of course she would. He would take her the whole manuscript and make her -a present of it. That was all it could be good for. To publish such -stuff would be folly, even if any publisher could be found to abet such -madness. On the whole, he would prefer to throw the whole into the fire. -Nobody could tell. He might be famous some day in the far future, and -then when he was dead and gone and could not interfere any longer, some -abominable literary executor would get hold of this thing and print it, -and show the world what an egregious ass the celebrated George Winton -Wood had been when he was a very young man. But Constance could have it -if she liked, on condition that it was never shown to anybody. - -Thereupon George tumbled into bed and slept soundly until ten o’clock on -the following morning, when he gathered up his manuscript, tied it up -into a neat bundle and went to meet Constance at their accustomed -trysting-place in the Park. - -There were some very striking passages towards the conclusion of the -book, and George read them as well as he could. Indeed as many of the -best speeches were put into the mouth of the hero and were supposed to -be addressed to the lady of his affections, George found it very natural -to speak them to Constance and to give them a very tender emphasis. It -was clear, too, that Constance understood the real intention of the -love-making and, to all appearance, appreciated it, for the colour came -and went softly in her face, and there was sometimes a little moisture -in her eyes and sometimes a light that is not caused by mere interest in -an everyday novel. George wrote better than he talked, as many men do -who are born writers. There was music in his phrases, but it was the -music of pure nature and not the rhythm of a studied prose. That was -what most struck the attention of the young girl who sat beside him, -drinking in the words which she knew were meant for her, and which she -felt were more beautiful than anything she had heard before. - -To tell the truth, though she had spoken her admiration very frankly and -forcibly, she was beginning to doubt her own ability to judge of the -work. If George’s talent were really as great as it now seemed to her, -how had it remained concealed so long? There had been nothing to compare -with this in his numerous short writings. Was this because they had not -been addressed to herself, or was it for this very reason that his novel -was so much more fascinating? Or was it really because he had at last -found out his strength and was beginning to use it like a giant? She -could not tell. She confessed to herself that she had assumed much in -setting up her judgment as a standard for him in the matter. The more he -had read, the more she had been amazed at his knowledge of things and -men, at his easy versatility and at the power he displayed in the more -dramatic parts of the book. Of one thing she felt sure. The book would -be read and would be liked by the class of people with whom she -associated. What the critics might think or say about it was another -matter. - -She had been prepared for something well done at the last, but she had -not anticipated the ending—that ending which had so much surprised the -writer himself in his inexperience of his own powers. His voice trembled -as he read the last page, and he was not even conscious of being ashamed -of showing so much feeling about the creatures of his imagination. He -was aware, as in a dream that Constance’s small hand was tightly clasped -in his while he was reading, and then, as his voice ceased, he felt her -head resting against his shoulder. - -She was looking down and he could only see that there was colour in her -face, but as he gazed at the tiny fair curls that were just visible to -him, he saw a crystal tear fall upon his rough sleeve and glisten in the -May sunlight. - -“You have dropped one of your diamonds,” he said, softly. “Is it for -me—or for the man in the book?” - -She looked up into his face with a happy smile. - -“You should know best,” she answered. - -Her face was very near to his, and though his came nearer, she did not -draw hers away. George forgot the nurses and the children in the -distance. If all his assembled acquaintances had been drawn up in ranks -before him, he would have forgotten their presence too. His lips touched -her cheek, not timidly, nor roughly either, though he felt for one -moment that his blood was on fire. Then she drew back quickly and took -her hand from his. - -“It is very wrong of me,” she said. “Perhaps I shall never love you -enough for that.” - -“How can you say so? Was it for the man in the book, then, after all?” - -“I do not know—forget it. It may come some day——” - -“Is it nearer than it was? Is it any nearer?” George asked, very -tenderly. - -“I do not know. I am very foolish. Your book moved me I suppose—it is so -grand, that last part, where he tells her the truth, and she sees how -noble he has been all through.” - -“I am glad you have liked it so much. It was written to amuse you, and -it has done that, at all events. So here it is. Do you care to keep it?” - -Constance looked at him in surprise, not understanding what he meant. - -“Of course I want it,” she answered. “After it is printed give it back -to me.” - -“Printed!” exclaimed George, contemptuously. “Do you think anybody would -publish it? Do you really think I would offer it to anybody?” - -“You are not serious,” said the young girl, staring at him. - -“Indeed I am in earnest. Do you believe a novel can be dashed off in -that way, in three or four weeks and be good for anything? Why, it needs -six months at least to write a book!” - -“What do you call this?” Constance asked, growing suddenly cold and -taking the manuscript from his hands. - -“Not a book, certainly. It is a scrawl of some sort, a little better -than a dime novel, a little poorer than the last thrilling tale in a -cheap weekly. Whatever it is, it is not a publishable story.” - -Constance could not believe her ears. She did not know whether to be -angry at his persistent contempt of her opinion, or to be frightened at -the possibility of his being right. - -“We cannot both be right,” she said at last, with sudden energy. “One of -us two must be an idiot—an absolute idiot—and—well, I would rather not -think that I am the one, you know.” - -George laughed and tried to take the manuscript back, but she held it -behind her and faced him. - -“What are you going to do with it?” he asked, when he saw that she was -determined to keep it. - -“I will not tell you. Did you not say you had written it for me?” - -“Yes, but for you alone.” - -“Not at all. It is my property, and I will make any use of it I like.” - -“Please do not show it to any one,” he said very earnestly. - -“I promise nothing. It is mine to dispose of as I see fit.” - -“Let me look over it at least—I am sure it is full of bad English, and -there are lots of words left out, and the punctuation is erratic. Give -me that chance.” - -“No. I will not. You can do it on the proof. You are always telling me -of what you do on the proofs of things.” - -“Constance! For Heaven’s sake give it back to me and think no more about -it.” - -“Do you love me?” - -“You know I do——” - -“And do you want me to love you?—I may, you know.” - -“I want nothing else—but, Constance, I beg of you——” - -“Then apply your gigantic intellect to the contemplation of what -concerns you. To be short, mind your own business, and go home.” - -“Please——” - -“If you are not gone before I count five, I shall hate you. I am -beginning—one—two——” - -“Well, there is one satisfaction,” said George, abandoning the contest, -“if you send it to a publisher to read, you will never see it again, nor -hear of it.” - -“I will stand over him while he reads it,” said Constance, laughing. “If -you are good you can take me to the carriage—if not, go away.” - -George walked by her side and helped her into the brougham that waited -for her a short distance from the place where they had sat. He was -utterly overcome by the novelty of the situation and did not even -attempt to speak. - -“It is a great book,” said Constance, speaking through the open window -after he had shut the door. “Tell him to go home.” - -“I do not care a straw what it is, so long as it has pleased you. Home, -John!” - -“Yes sir.” - -And away the carriage rolled. Constance had not determined what she -should do with her prize, but she was not long in making up her mind. -George had often spoken of his friend Johnson, and had shown her -articles written by him. It struck her that he would be the very person -to whom she might apply for help. George would never suspect her of -having gone to him and, from all accounts, he was an extremely reticent -and judicious personage. She told the coachman to drive her to the -office of the newspaper to which Johnson belonged and to beguile the -time she began to read the manuscript over again from the beginning. -When the carriage stopped she did not know that she had been driving for -more than an hour since she had left George standing in the road in the -Park. - - - - - CHAPTER X. - - -Constance did not find Johnson without asking her way many times, and -losing it nearly as often, in the huge new building which was the -residence and habitation of the newspaper. Nor did her appearance fail -to excite surprise and admiration in the numerous reporters, messengers -and other members of the establishment who had glimpses of her as she -passed rapidly on, from corridor to corridor. It happened that Johnson -was in the room allotted to his department, which was not always the -case at that hour, for he did much of his work at his home. - -“Come in!” he said sharply, without looking up from his writing. -“Well—what is it? Oh!” as he saw Miss Fearing standing before him. “I -beg your pardon, madam!” - -“Are you Mr. Johnson? Am I disturbing you?” Constance asked. She was -beginning to be surprised at her own audacity, and almost wished she had -not come. - -“Yes madam. My name is Johnson, and my time is at your service,” said -the pale young man, moving forward his best chair and offering it to -her. - -“Thank you. I will not trouble you long. I have here a novel in -manuscript——” - -Johnson interrupted her promptly. - -“Excuse me, madam, but to avoid all misunderstanding, I should tell you -frankly from the first that we never publish fiction——” - -“No, of course not,” Constance broke in. “Let me tell my story.” - -Johnson bowed his head and assumed an attitude of attention. - -“A friend of yours,” the young girl continued, “has written this book. -His name is Mr. George Winton Wood——” - -“I know him very well.” Johnson wondered why George had not come -himself, and wondered especially how he happened to dispose of so young -and beautiful an ambassadress. - -“Yes—he has often told me about you,” said Constance. “Very well. He has -written this novel, and I have read it. He thinks it is not worth -publishing, and I think it is. I want to ask a great favour of you. Will -you read it yourself?” - -The pale young man hesitated. He was intensely conscientious, and he -feared there was something queer about the business. - -“Pardon me,” he said, “does Mr. Wood know that you have brought it to -me?” - -“No indeed! I would not have him know it for the world!” - -“Then I would rather not——” - -“But you must!” Constance exclaimed energetically. “It is splendid, and -he wants to burn it. It will make his reputation in a day—I assure you -it will! And besides, I would not promise him not to show it. Please, -please, Mr. Johnson——” - -“Well, if you are quite sure there is no promise——” - -“Oh, quite, quite sure. And will you give me your opinion very soon? If -you begin to read it you will not be able to lay it down.” - -Johnson smiled as he thought of the hundreds of manuscripts he had read -for publishers. He had never found much difficulty in laying aside any -of them. - -“It is true,” Constance insisted. “It is a great book. There has been -nothing like it for ever so many years.” - -“Very well, madam. Give me the screed and I will read it. When shall I -send—or would you rather——” - -He stopped, not knowing whether she wished to give her name. Constance -hesitated, too, and blushed faintly. - -“I am Miss Fearing,” she said. “I live in Washington Square. Will you -write down the address? Come and see me—or are you too busy?” - -“I will bring you the manuscript the day after to-morrow, Miss Fearing.” - -“Oh please, yes. Not later, because I cannot go out of town until I -know—I mean, I want to go to Newport as soon as possible. Come after -five. Will you? I mean if it is not giving you really too much -trouble——” - -“Not in the least, Miss Fearing,” said the pale young man with alacrity. -He was thinking that for the sake of conversing a quarter of an hour -with such an exceedingly amiable young lady, he would put himself to -vastly more trouble than was involved in stopping at Washington Square -on his way up town in the afternoon. - -“Thank you. You are so kind. Good-bye, Mr. Johnson.” She held out her -hand, but Johnson seized his hat and prepared to accompany her. - -“Let me take you to the Elevated, Miss Fearing,” he said. - -“Thank you very much, but I have a carriage downstairs,” said Constance. -“If you would show me the way—it is so very complicated.” - -“Certainly, Miss Fearing.” - -Constance wondered why he repeated her name so often, whether it was a -habit he had, or whether he was nervous, or whether he thought it good -manners. She was not so much impressed with him at first sight as she -had expected to be. He had not said anything at all clever, though it -was true that there had not been many opportunities for wit in the -conversation that had taken place. He belonged to a type with which she -was not familiar, and she could not help asking herself whether George -had other friends like him, who, if she knew them, would call her by her -name half a dozen times in three minutes, and if he had many of them -whether, in the event of her marrying him, she would be expected to know -them all and to like them for his sake. Not that there was anything -common or vulgar about this Johnson whom George praised so much. He -spoke quietly, without any especial accent, and quite without -affectation. He was dressed with perfect simplicity and good taste, -there was nothing awkward in his manner—indeed Constance vaguely wished -that he might have shown some little awkwardness or shyness. He was -evidently a man of the highest education, and George said he was a man -of the highest intelligence, but as Constance gave him her hand and he -closed the door of the brougham, the impression came over her with -startling vividness, that Mr. Johnson was emphatically not a man she -would ask to dinner. She felt sure that if she met him in society she -should feel a vague surprise at his being there, though she might find -it impossible to say why he should not. On the other hand, though she -was aware that she put herself in his power to some extent, since it was -impossible that he should not guess that her interest in George Wood was -the result of something at least a little stronger than ordinary -friendship, yet she very much preferred to trust this stranger rather -than to confide in any of the men she knew in society, not excepting -John Bond himself. - -At five o’clock on the day agreed upon, Constance was informed that “a -gentleman, a Mr. Johnson,” had called, saying that he came by -appointment. - -“You are so kind,” said Constance, as he sat down opposite to her. He -held the manuscript in his hand. “And what do you think of it? Am I not -right?” - -“I am very much surprised,” said the pale young man. “It is a remarkable -book, Miss Fearing, and it ought to be published at once.” - -Constance had felt sure of the answer, but she blushed with pleasure, a -fact which did not escape Johnson’s quiet scrutiny. - -“You really think Mr. Wood has talent?” she asked, for the sake of -hearing another word of praise. - -“There is more talent in one of his pages than in the whole aggregate -works of half a dozen ordinarily successful writers,” Johnson answered -with emphasis. - -“I am so glad you think so—so glad. And what is the first thing to be -done in order to get this published? You see, I must ask your help, now -that you have given your opinion.” - -“Will you leave the matter in my hands, Miss Fearing?” - -Constance hesitated. There was assuredly no one who would be more likely -to do the proper thing in the matter, and yet she reflected that she -knew nothing or next to nothing of the man before her, except from -George’s praise of his intelligence. - -“Suppose that a publisher accepts the book,” she said warily, “what will -he give Mr. Wood for it?” - -“Ten per cent on the advertised retail price,” Johnson answered -promptly. - -“Of every copy sold, I suppose,” said Constance, who had a remarkably -good head for business. “That is not much, is it? And besides, how is -one to know that the publisher is honest? One hears such dreadful -stories about those people.” - -Johnson laughed a little. - -“Faith is the evidence of things unseen, supported by reasonable and -punctual payments,” he said. “Publishers are not all Cretans, Miss -Fearing. There be certain just men among them who have reputations to -lose.” - -“And none of them would do better than that by the book? But of course -you know. Have you ever published anything yourself? Forgive my -ignorance——” - -“I once published a volume of critical essays,” Johnson answered. - -“What was the title? I must read it—please tell me.” - -“It is not worth the trouble, I assure you. The title was that—_Critical -Essays_ by William Johnson.” - -“Thank you, I will remember. And will you really do your very best for -Mr. Wood’s book? Do you think it could be published in a fortnight?” - -“A fortnight!” exclaimed Johnson, aghast at Constance’s ignorance. -“Three months would be the shortest time possible.” - -“Three months! Dear me, what a length of time!” - -Johnson rapidly explained as well as he could the principal reasons why -it takes longer to publish a book than to write one. He exchanged a few -more words with Constance, promising to make every effort to push on the -appearance of the novel, but advising her to expect no news whatever for -several months. Then he took his leave. - -Half an hour later Constance was at her bookseller’s. - -“I want a book called _Critical Essays_, by William Johnson,” she said. -“Have you got it, Mr. Popples?” - -She waited some time before it was brought to her. Then she pretended to -look through it carefully, examining the headings of the papers that -were collected in it. - -“Is it worth reading?” she asked carelessly. - -“Excellent, Miss Fearing,” answered the grey-haired professional -bookseller. He had known Constance since she had been a mere child with -a passion for Mr. Walter Crane’s picture-books. “Excellent,” he -repeated, emphatically. “A little dry perhaps, but truly excellent.” - -“Has it been a success, do you know?” - -“Yes, I know, Miss Fearing,” answered Mr. Popples, with a meaning smile. -“I know very well. I happen to know that it did not pay for the -printing.” - -“Did the author not even get ten per cent on the advertised retail -price?” Constance inquired. - -Mr. Popples stared at her for a moment, evidently wondering where she -had picked up the phrase. He immediately suspected her of having -perpetrated a literary misdeed in one volume. - -“No, Miss Fearing. I happen to know that Mr. Johnson did not get ten per -cent on the advertised retail price of his book; in point of fact, he -got nothing at all for it, excepting a number of very flattering -notices. But excuse me, Miss Fearing, if you were thinking of venturing -upon publishing anything——” His voice dropped to a confidential pitch. - -“I?” exclaimed Constance. - -“Well, Miss Fearing, it could be done very discreetly, you know. Just a -little volume of sweet verse? Is that it, Miss Fearing? Now, you know, -that kind of thing would have a run in society, and if you would like to -put it into my hands, I know a publisher——” - -“But, Mr. Popples,” interrupted Constance, recovering from her amusement -so far as to be able to interrupt the current of the bookseller’s -engaging offers, “I never wrote anything in my life. I asked out of -sheer curiosity.” - -Mr. Popples smiled blandly, without the least appearance of -disappointment. - -“Well, well, Miss Fearing, you are quite right,” he said. “In point of -fact those little literary ventures of young ladies very rarely do come -to much, do they? To misquote the Laureate, Miss Fearing, we might say -that ‘Men must write and women must read’! Eh, Miss Fearing?” - -The old fellow chuckled at his bad joke, as he wrapped up the volume of -_Critical Essays_ by William Johnson, and handed it across the table. -There were only tables in Mr. Popples’s establishment; he despised -counters. - -“Anything else to serve you, Miss Fearing? A novel or two, for the May -weather? No? Let me take it to your carriage.” - -“Thanks. I am walking, but I will carry it. Good evening.” - -“Good evening, Miss Fearing. Your parasol is here. Walking this evening! -In the May weather! Good evening, Miss Fearing.” - -And Mr. Popples bowed his favourite customer out of his establishment, -with a very kindly look in his tired old spectacled eyes. - -Constance had got what she had come for. If William Johnson, author of -_Critical Essays_, a journalist and a man presumably acquainted with all -the ins and outs of publishing, had made nothing by his successful book, -George would be doing very well in obtaining ten per cent on the -advertised retail price of every copy of his novel which was sold. -Constance had been mistaken when she had doubted Johnson, but she did -not regret her doubt in the least. After all, she had undertaken the -responsibility of George’s book, and she could not conscientiously -believe everything she was told by strangers concerning its chances. Mr. -Popples, however, was above suspicion, and had, moreover, no reason for -telling that the _Critical Essays_ had brought their author no -remuneration. Johnson’s face, too, inspired confidence, as well as -George’s own trust in him. Constance felt that she had done all she -could, and she accordingly made her preparations for going out of town. - -She was glad to get away, in order to study herself. The habit of -introspection had grown upon her, for she had encouraged herself in it, -ever since she had begun to feel that George was something more to her -than a friend. Her over-conscientious nature feared to make some mistake -which might embitter his life as well as her own. She was in constant -dread of letting herself be carried away by the impulse of a moment to -say something that might bind her to marry him, before she could feel -that she loved him wholly as she wished to love him. On looking back, -she bitterly regretted having allowed him to kiss her cheek on that -morning in the Park. She had been under the influence of a strong -emotion, produced by the conclusion of his book, and she seemed in her -own eyes to have acted in a way quite unworthy of herself. Had she been -able to carry her analysis further, she would have discovered that -behind her distrust of herself she felt a lingering distrust of George. -A year earlier she had thought it possible that he was strongly -attracted by her fortune. Now, however, she would have scouted the idea, -if it had presented itself in that shape. But it was present, -nevertheless, in a more subtle form. - -“He loves me sincerely,” she said to herself. “He would marry me now, if -I were a pauper. But would he have loved me from the first if I had been -poor?” - -It was not often that she put the question, even in this way, but as it -belonged to that class of vicious inquiries which it is impossible to -answer, it tormented her perpetually by suggesting a whole series of -doubts, useless in themselves and mischievous in their consequences. She -was convinced of two things. First, that she was unaccountably -influenced by George’s presence to say and do things which she was -determined at other times that she would never say or do; and, secondly, -that whether she loved him truly or not she could not imagine herself as -loving any one else nearly so much. Under these circumstances, it was -clearly better that she should not see him for a considerable time. She -would thus withdraw herself from the sphere of his direct influence, and -she would have leisure to study and weigh her own feelings, with a view -to reaching a final decision. Nevertheless she looked forward to the -moment of parting from him with something that was very like pain. -Contrary to her expectations, the interview passed off with little show -of emotion on either side. - -They talked for some time about the book, Constance assuming an air of -mystery as regards its future and George speaking of it with the utmost -indifference. At the last minute, when he had risen to go and was -standing beside her, she laid her hand upon his arm. - -“You do not think I am heartless, do you?” she asked, looking at a -particular button on his coat. - -“No,” George answered. “I think you are very sincere. I sometimes wish -you would forget to be so sincere with yourself. I wish you would let -yourself run away with yourself now and then.” - -“That would be very wrong. It would be very unfair and unjust to you. -Suppose—only suppose, you know—that I made up my mind to marry you, and -then discovered when it was too late that I did not love you. Would not -that be dreadful? Is it not better to wait a little longer?” - -“You shall never say that I have pressed you into a decision against -your will,” said George, betraying in one speech his youth, his -ignorance of woman in general and his almost quixotic readiness to obey -Constance in anything and everything. - -“You are very generous,” she answered, still looking at the button. “But -I will not feel that I am spoiling your life—no, let me speak—to keep -you in this position much longer would be doing that, indeed it would. -In six months from now you will be famous. I know it, though you laugh -at me. Then you will be able to marry whom you please. I cannot marry -you now, for I do not love you enough. You are free, you must not feel -that I want to bind you, do you understand. You will travel this summer, -for you have told me that you are going to make several visits in -country-houses. If you see any one you like better than me, do not feel -that you are tied by any promises. It would not break my heart, if you -married some one else.” - -In spite of her calmness there was a slight tremor in her voice which -did not escape George’s ear. - -“I shall never love any one else,” he said simply. - -“You may. I may. But waiting must have a limit——” - -“Say this, Constance,” said George. “Say that if, by next May, you do -not love me less than you do now, you will be my wife.” - -“No. I must love you more. If I love you better than now, it will show -that my love is always to increase, and I will marry you.” - -“In May?” - -“In May, next year. But this is no engagement. I make no promise, and I -will take none from you. You are free, and so am I, until the first of -May——” - -“I shall never be free again, dear,” said George, happily, for he -anticipated great things of the strange agreement she proposed. He put -his arm about her and drew her to him very tenderly. Another second and -his lips would have touched her cheek, just where they had touched it -once before. But Constance drew back quickly and slipped from his arm. - -“No, no,” she laughed, “that is not a part of the agreement. It is far -too binding.” - -George’s face was grave and sad. Her action had given him a sharp thrust -of painful disappointment, and he did his best not to hide it. Constance -looked at him a moment. - -“Am I not right?” she asked. - -“You are always right—even when you give me pain,” he answered with a -shade of bitterness. - -“Have I given you pain now?” - -“Yes.” - -“Did you think, from the way I behaved, that I would let you kiss me for -good-bye?” - -“Yes.” - -“You shall not say that I hurt you, and you shall not go away believing -that I deceived you,” said Constance, coming back to him. - -She put her two hands round his neck and drew down his willing face. -Then she kissed him softly on both cheeks. - -“Forgive me,” she said. “I did not mean to hurt you. Good-bye—dear.” - -George left the house feeling very happy, but persuaded that neither he -nor any other man could ever understand the heart of woman, which, after -all, seemed to be the only thing in the world worth understanding. He -had ample time for reflection in the course of the summer, but without -the reality before him the study of the problem grew more and more -perplexing. - -The weather grew very warm in the end of June, and George left New York. -He had written much in the course of the year and had earned enough -money to give himself a rest during the hot months. He tried to persuade -his father to accompany him and to spend the time by the seaside while -George himself made his promised visits. But Jonah Wood declared that he -preferred New York in the summer and that nothing would induce him to -waste money on such folly as travelling. To tell the truth, the old -gentleman had grown accustomed to rigid economy in his little house in -town, but he could not look forward with any pleasure to the discomforts -of second-rate hotels in second-rate places. So George went away alone. - -He had already begun another book. He did not look upon his first effort -in the light of a book at all, but he had tasted blood, and the thirst -was upon him, and he must needs quench it. This time, however, he set -himself steadily to work to do the very best he could, labouring to -repress his own vivacity and trying to keep out of the fever that was -threatening to carry him away outside of himself. He limited his work -strictly to a small amount every day, polishing every sentence and -thinking out every phrase before it was set down. Working in this way he -had written about half a volume by the end of August, when he found -himself in a pleasant country-house by the sea in the midst of a large -party of people. He had all but forgotten his first book, and had -certainly but a very dim recollection of what it contained. He looked -back upon its feverish production as upon a sort of delirious dream -during which he had raved in a language now strange to his memory. - -One afternoon, in the midst of a game of lawn-tennis, a telegram was -brought to him. - -“Rob Roy and Co. publish book immediately England and America. Have -undertaken that you accept royalty ten per cent retail advertised price. -Wire reply. C. F.” - -George possessed a very considerable power of concealing his emotions, -but this news was almost too much for his equanimity. He thrust the -despatch into his pocket and went on playing, but he lost the game in a -shameful fashion and was roundly abused by his cousin Mamie Trimm, who -chanced to be his partner. Mamie and her mother were stopping in the -same house, by what Mrs. Sherrington Trimm considered a rather -unfortunate accident, since Mamie was far too fond of George already. In -reality, the excellent hostess had an idea that George loved the girl, -and as the match seemed most appropriate in her eyes, she had brought -them together on purpose. - -As soon as possible he slipped away, put on his flannel jacket and went -to the telegraph office, reading the despatch he had received over and -over again as he hurried along the path, and trying to compose his -answer at the same time. Constance’s message seemed amazingly neat, -business-like and concise, and he wondered whether some one else had not -been concerned in the affair. The phrase about the royalty did not sound -like a woman’s expression, though she might have copied it from the -publisher’s letter. - -George had formerly imagined that if his first performance were really -in danger of being published, he should do everything in his power to -prevent such a catastrophe. He felt no such impulse now, however. -Messrs. Rob Roy and Company were very serious people, great publishers, -whose name alone gave a book a chance of success. They bore an -exceptional reputation in the world of books, and George knew very well -that they would not publish trash. But he was not elated by the news, -however much surprised he might be. It was strange, indeed, that a firm -of such good judgment should have accepted his novel, but it could not -but be a failure, all the same. He would get the proofs as soon as -possible, and he would do what he could to make the work decently -presentable by inserting plentiful improvements. - -His answer to Constance’s telegram was short. - -“Deplore catastrophe. Pity public. Thank publisher. Agree terms. Where -are proofs? G. W.” - -By the time the proofs were ready, George was once more in New York, -though Constance had not yet returned. He was hard at work upon his -second book and looked with some disgust at the package of printed -matter that lay folded as it had come, upon his table. Nevertheless he -opened the bundle and looked at them. - -“Confound them!” he exclaimed. “They have sent me a paged proof instead -of galleys!” - -It was evident that he could not insert many changes, where the matter -was already arranged in book form, and he anticipated endless annoyance -in pasting in extensive “riders” of writing-paper in order to get room -for the vast changes he considered necessary. - -An hour later he was lying back in his easy-chair reading his own novel -with breathless interest. He had not yet made a correction of any kind -in the text. It was not until the following day that he was able to go -over it all more calmly, but even then, he found that little could be -done to improve it. When he had finished, he sent the proofs back and -wrote a letter to Constance. - -“I have read the book over,” he wrote, among other things, “and it is -not so bad as I supposed. I know that it cannot be good, but I am -convinced that worse novels have found their way into print, if not into -notice. I take back at least one-tenth of all I said about it formerly, -and I will not abuse it in the future, leaving that office to those who -will doubtless command much forcible language in support of their just -opinion. Am I to thank you, too? I hardly know. There are other things -for which I would rather be in a position to owe you thanks. However, -the die is cast, you have made a skipping-rope of the Rubicon and have -whisked it under my feet without my consent. Let the poor book take its -chance. Its birth was happy, may its death at least be peaceful.” - -To this Constance replied three weeks later. - -“I am glad to see that a disposition to repentance has set in. You are -wise in not abusing my book any more. You ought to be doing penance in -sackcloth and ashes before that bench in Central Park on which I sat -when I told you it was good. The children would all laugh at you, and -throw stones at you, and I should be delighted. I am not coming to town -until it is published and is a success. Grace thinks I have gone into -speculations, because I get so many letters and telegrams about it. I -shall not tell you what the people who read the manuscript said about -it. You can find that out for yourself.” - -George awoke one morning to find himself, if not famous, at least the -topic of the day in more countries than one. A week had not elapsed -before the papers were full of notices of his book and speculations as -to his personality. No one seemed to consider that George Winton Wood, -the novelist, could be the same man as G. W. Wood, the signer of modest -articles in the magazines. The first review called him an unknown person -of surprising talent, the second did not hesitate to describe him as a -man of genius, and the third—branded him as a plagiarist who had stolen -his plot from a forgotten novel of the beginning of the century and had -somehow—this was not clear in the article—made capital out of the -writings of Macrobius, he was a villain, a poacher, a pickpocket -novelist, a literary body-snatcher, in fact in the eyes of all but the -over-lax law, little short of a thief. George knew that sort of style, -and he read the abuse over again and again with unmitigated delight. He -had done as much himself in the good old days when the editors would let -him. He did not show this particular notice to his father, however, and -only handed him those that were favourable—and they were many. Jonah -Wood sat reading them all day long, over and over again. - -“I am very glad, George,” he said, repeatedly. “I am very proud of you. -It is splendid. But do you think all this will bring you much pecuniary -remuneration?” - -“Ten per cent on the advertised retail price of each copy,” was George’s -answer. - -He entered the railway station one day and was amazed to see the walls -of the place covered with huge placards, three feet square, bearing the -name of his book and his own, alternately, in huge black letters on a -white ground. The young man at the bookstall was doing a thriving -business. George went up to him. - -“That book seems to sell,” he said quietly. - -“Like hot cakes,” answered the vendor, offering him his own production. -“One dollar twenty-five cents.” - -“Thank you,” said George. “I would not give so much for a novel.” - -“Well, there are others will, I guess,” answered the young man. “Step -aside if you please and give these ladies a chance.” - -George smiled and turned away. - - - - - CHAPTER XI. - - -Sherrington Trimm had kept Mr. Craik’s secret as well as he could, but -although he had not told his wife anything positive concerning the will -that had been so hastily drawn up, he had found it impossible not to -convey to Totty such information about the matter as was manifestly -negative. She had seen very soon that he considered the inheritance of -her brother’s money as an illusion, upon which he placed no faith -whatever, and she had understood that in advising her not to think too -much about it, he meant to do more than administer one of his customary -rebukes to her covetousness. At last, she determined to know the truth -and pressed him with the direct question. - -“So far as I know, my dear,” he answered, gravely, “you will never get -that money, so you may just as well put the subject out of your mind, -and be satisfied with what you have.” - -Neither diplomacy nor cajolery nor reproaches could force anything more -definite than this from Sherrington Trimm’s discreet lips, though Totty -used all her weapons, and used them very cleverly, in her untiring -efforts to find out the truth. Was Tom going to leave his gold to a -gigantic charity? Sherry’s round, pink face grew suddenly stony. Was it -a hospital or an asylum for idiots?—he really might tell her! His -expression never changed. Totty was in despair, and her curiosity -tormented her in a way that would have done credit to the gad-fly which -tortured Io of old. Neither by word, nor look, nor deed could Sherry be -made to betray his brother-in-law’s secret. He was utterly impenetrable, -as soon as the subject was brought up, and Totty even fancied that he -knew beforehand when she was about to set some carefully-devised trap -for him, so ready was he to oppose her wiles. - -On the other hand since old Mr. Craik had recovered, his sister had -shown herself more than usually anxious to please him. In this she -argued as her husband had done, saying that a man who had changed his -will once might very possibly change it again. She therefore spared no -pains in consulting Tom’s pleasure whenever occasion offered, and she -employed her best tact in making his life agreeable to him. He, on his -part, was even more diverted than she intended that he should be, and he -watched all her moves with inward amusement. There had never been any -real sympathy between them. He had been the first child, and several -others had died in infancy during a long series of years, Totty, the -youngest of all, alone surviving, separated from her brother in age by -nearly twenty years. From her childhood, she had always been trying to -get something from him, and whenever the matters in hand did not chance -to clash with his own interests, he had granted her request. Indeed, on -the whole, and considering the man’s grasping character, he had treated -her with great generosity. Totty’s gratitude, however, though always -sincere, was systematically prophetic in regard to favours to come, and -Tom had often wondered whether anything in the world would satisfy her. - -Of late she seemed to have developed an intense interest in the means of -prolonging life, and she did not fail to give him the benefit of all the -newest theories on the subject. Tom, however, did not feel that he was -going to die, and was more and more irritated by her officious -suggestions. One day she took upon herself to be more than usually -pressing. He had been suffering from a slight cold, and she had passed -an anxious week. - -“There is nothing for you, Tom,” she said, “but a milk cure and massage. -They say there is nothing like it. It is perfectly wonderful——” - -Her brother raised his bent head and looked keenly at her, while a sour -smile passed over his face. - -“Look here, Totty,” he answered, “don’t you think I should keep better -in camphor?” - -“How can you be so unkind!” exclaimed Totty, blushing scarlet. She -rarely blushed at all, and her brother’s amusement increased, until it -reached its climax and broke out in a hard, rattling laugh. - -After this, Mrs. Trimm grew more cautious. She talked less of remedies -and cures and practised with great care a mournfully sympathetic -expression. In the course of a week or two this plan also began to wear -upon Craik’s nerves, for she made a point of seeing him almost every -day. - -“I say, Totty,” he said suddenly. “If anybody is dead, tell me. If you -think anybody is going to die, send for the doctor. But if they are all -alive and well, don’t go round looking like an undertaker’s wife when -the season has been too healthy.” - -“How can you expect me to look gay?” Totty asked with a sad smile. “Do -you think it makes me happy to see you going on in this way?” - -“Which way?” inquired Mr. Craik with a pleased grin. - -“Why, you won’t have massage, and you won’t take the milk cure, and you -won’t go to Aix, and you won’t let me do anything for you, and—and I’m -so unhappy! Oh Tom, how unkind you are!” - -Thereupon Mrs. Trimm burst into tears with much feeling. Tom Craik -looked at her for some seconds and then, being in his own house, rang -the bell, sent for the housekeeper and a bottle of salts, and left Totty -to recover as best she might. He knew very well that those same tears -were genuine and that they had their source in anger and disappointment -rather than in any sympathy for himself, and he congratulated himself -upon having changed his will in time. - -The old man watched George Wood’s increasing success with an interest -that would have surprised the latter, if he had known anything of it. It -seemed as if, by assuring him the reversion of the fortune, Tom Craik -had given him a push in the right direction. Since that time, indeed, -George’s luck had begun to turn, and now, though still unconscious of -the wealth that awaited him, he was already far on the road to celebrity -and independence. The lonely old man of business found a new and keen -excitement in following the doings of the young fellow for whom he had -secretly prepared such an overwhelming surprise. He was curious to see -whether George would lose his head, whether he would turn into the -fatuous idol of afternoon tea-parties, or whether he would fall into -vulgar dissipation, whether he would quarrel with his father as soon as -he was independent, or whether he would spend his earnings in making the -old gentleman more comfortable. - -Tom Craik cared very little what George did, provided he did something. -What he most regretted was that he could not possibly be present to -enjoy the surprise he had planned. It amused him to think out the -details of his future. If, for instance, George took to drinking and -gambling, losing and wasting at night what he had laboured hard to earn -during the day, what a moment that would be in his life when he should -be told that Tom Craik was dead, and that he was master of a great -fortune. The old man chuckled over the idea, and fancied he could see -George’s face when, having lost more than he could possibly pay, his -young eyes heavy with wine, his hand trembling with excitement, he would -be making his last desperate stand at poker in the quiet upper room of a -gambling club. He would lose his nerve, show his cards, lose and sink -back in his chair with a stare of horror. At that moment the door would -open and Sherry Trimm would come in and whisper a few words in his ear. -Tom Craik liked to imagine the young fellow’s bound of surprise, the -stifled cry of amazement that would escape from his lips, the doubts, -the fears that would beset him until the money was his, and then the -sudden cure that would follow. Yes, thought Tom, there was no such cure -for a spendthrift as a fortune, a real fortune. To make a man love -money, give it to him all at once in vast quantities—provided he is not -a fool. And George was no fool. He had already proved that. - -There was something satanic in Mr. Craik’s speculations. He knew the -world well. It amused him to fancy George, admired and courted as a -literary lion, but feared by all judicious mammas, as only young, poor -and famous literary lions are feared. How the sentimental young ladies -would crowd about him and offer him tea, cake and plots for his novels! -And how the ring of mothers would draw their daughters away from him and -freeze him with airs politely cold! How two or three would be gathered -together in one corner of the room to say to each other that two or -three others in the opposite corner were foolishly exposing their -daughters to the charms of an adventurer, for his books bring him in -nothing, my dear, not a cent—Mr. Popples told me so! And how the -compliment would be returned upon the two or three, by the other two or -three, with usurious compound interest. Enter to them, thought Craik, -another of their tribe—what do you think, my dears? Tom Craik left all -that money to George Wood, house, furniture, pictures, horses and -carriages—everything! Just think! I really must go and speak to the dear -fellow! And how they would all be impelled, at the same moment, by the -same charitable thought! How they would all glide forward, during the -next quarter of an hour, impatient to thaw with intimacy what they had -lately wished to freeze with politeness, and how, a little later, each -would say to her lovely daughter as they went home—you know Georgey -Wood—for it would be Georgey at once—is such a good fellow, so famous -and yet so modest, so unassuming when you think how enormously rich he -is. Is he rich, mamma? Why, yes, Kitty—or Totty, or Dottie, or Hattie, -or Nelly—he has all Tom Craik’s money, and that gem of a house to live -in, and the pictures and everything, and your cousin—or your aunt—Totty -is furious about it—but he is such a nice fellow. There would not be -much difficulty about getting a wife for the “nice fellow” then, thought -Thomas Craik. - -And one or other of these things might have actually happened, precisely -as Thomas Craik foresaw if that excellent and worthy man, Sherrington -Trimm had not unexpectedly fallen ill during the spring that followed -George Wood’s first success. His illness was severe and was undoubtedly -caused by too much hard work, and was superinduced by a moderate but -unchanging taste for canvas-backs, truffles boiled in madeira and an -especial brand of brut champagne. Sherry recovered, indeed, but was -ordered to Carlsbad in Bohemia without delay. Totty found that it was -quite impossible for her to accompany him, considering the precarious -state of her brother’s health. To leave Tom at such a time would be -absolutely heartless. Sherrington Trimm expressed a belief that Tom -would last through the summer and perhaps through several summers, as he -never did a stroke of work and was as wiry as hairpins. He might have -added that his brother-in-law did not subsist upon cryptograms and brut -wines, but Sherry resolutely avoided suggesting to himself that the -daily consumption of those delicacies was in any way connected with his -late illness. His wife, however, shook her head, and quoting glibly -three or four medical authorities, assured him that Tom’s state was very -far from satisfactory. Mamie might go with her father, if she pleased, -but Totty would not leave the sinking ship. - -“Till the rats leave it,” added Mr. Trimm viciously. His wife gave him a -mournfully severe glance and left him to make his preparations. - -So he went abroad, and was busy for some time with the improvement of -his liver and the reduction of his superfluous fat, and John Bond -managed the business in his stead. John Bond was a very fine fellow and -did well whatever he undertook, so that Mr. Trimm felt no anxiety about -their joint affairs. John himself was delighted to have an opportunity -of showing what he could do and he looked forward to marrying Grace -Fearing in the summer, considering that his position was now -sufficiently assured. He was far too sensible a man to have any scruples -about taking a rich wife while he himself was poor, but he was too -independent to live upon Grace’s fortune, and as she was so young he had -put off the wedding until he felt that he was making enough money to -have all that he wanted for himself without her aid. When they were -married she could do what she pleased without consulting him, and he -would do as he liked without asking her advice or assistance. He -considered that marriage could not be happy where either of the couple -was dependent upon the other for necessities or luxuries, and that -domestic peace depended largely on the exclusion of all monetary -transactions between man and wife. John Bond was a typical man of his -class, tall, fair, good-looking, healthy, active, energetic and keen. He -had never had a day’s illness nor an hour’s serious annoyance. He had -begun life in the right way, at the right end and in a cheerful spirit. -There was no morbid sentimentality about him, no unnecessary development -of the imagination, no nervousness, no shyness, no underrating of other -people and no overrating of himself. He knew he could never be great or -famous, and that he could only be John Bond as long as he lived. John -Bond he would be, then, and nothing else, but John Bond should come to -mean a great deal before he had done with the name. It should mean the -keenest, most hardworking, most honest, most reliable, most clean-handed -lawyer in the city of New York. There was a breezy atmosphere of truth, -soap and enterprise about John Bond. - -Before going abroad Sherrington Trimm asked Tom Craik whether he should -tell his junior partner of the existence of a will in favour of George -Wood. Mr. Craik hesitated before he answered. - -“Well, Sherry,” he said at last, “considering the uncertainty of human -life, as Totty says, and considering that you are more used to Extra Dry -than to Carlsbad waters, you had better tell him. There is no knowing -what tricks that stuff may play with you. Let it be in confidence.” - -“Of course,” said Mr. Trimm. “I would rather trust John Bond than trust -myself.” - -The same day he imparted the secret to his partner. The latter nodded -gravely and then fell into a fit of abstraction which was very rare with -him. He knew a great deal of the relations existing between Constance -and George Wood, and in his frank, lawyer-like distrust of people’s -motives, he had shared Grace’s convictions about the man, though he had -always treated him with indifference and always avoided speaking of him. - -There are some people whose curiosity finds relief in asking questions, -even though they obtain no answers to their inquiries. Totty was one of -these, and she missed her husband more than she had thought possible. -There had been a sort of satisfaction in tormenting him about the will, -accompanied by a constant hope that he might one day forget his -discretion in a fit of anger and let out the secret she so much desired -to learn. Now, however, there was no one to cross-examine except Tom -himself, and she would as soon have thought of asking him a direct -question in the matter as of trying to make holes in a mill-stone with a -darning-needle. Her curiosity had therefore no outlet and as her -interest was so directly concerned at the same time, it is no wonder -that she fell into a deplorably unsettled state of mind. For a long time -not a ray of light illuminated the situation, and Totty actually began -to grow thin under the pressure of her constant anxiety. At last she hit -upon a plan for discovering the truth, so simple that she wondered how -she had failed to think of it before. - -Nothing indeed could be more easy of execution than what she -contemplated. Her husband kept in a desk in his room a set of duplicate -keys to the deed boxes in his office. Among these there must be also the -one that opened her brother’s box. These iron cases were kept in a -strong room that opened into a small corridor between Sherrington -Trimm’s private study and the outer rooms where the clerks worked. Totty -had her own box there, separate from her husband’s and she remembered -that there was one not far from hers on which was painted her brother’s -name. She would have no difficulty in entering the strong room alone, on -pretence of depositing a deed. Was she not the wife of the senior -partner, and had she not often done the same thing before? If her -brother had made a new will, it must be in that box, where he kept such -papers as possessed only a legal value. One glance would show her all -she wanted to know, and her mind would be at rest from the wearing -anxiety that now made her life almost unbearable. - -She opened the desk and had no difficulty in finding the key to her -brother’s box. It was necessary to take something in the nature of a -deed, to hold in her hand as an excuse for entering the strong room, for -she did not want to take anything out of it, lest John Bond, who would -see her, should chance to notice the fact and should mention it to her -husband when he came back. On the other hand, it would not do to deposit -an empty envelope, sealed and marked as though it contained something -valuable. Mrs. Trimm never did things by halves nor was she ever so -unwise as to leave traces of her tactics behind her. A palpable fraud -like an empty envelope might at some future time be used against her. To -take any document away from the office, even if she returned the next -day, would be to expose herself to a cross-examination from Sherrington -when he came home, for he knew the state of her affairs and would know -also that she never needed to consult the papers she kept at the office. -There was nothing for it but to have a real document of some sort. Totty -sat down and thought the matter over for a quarter of an hour. Then she -ordered her carriage and drove down town to the office of a broker who -sometimes did business for her and her husband. - -“I have made a bet,” she said, with a little laugh, “and I want you to -help me to win it.” - -The broker expressed his readiness to put the whole New York Stock -Exchange at her disposal in five minutes, if that were of any use to -her. - -“Yes,” said Totty. “I have bet that I will buy a share in something—say -for a hundred dollars—that I will keep it a year and that at the end of -that time it will be worth more than I gave for it.” - -“One way of winning the bet would be to buy several shares in different -things and declare the winner afterwards. One of the lot will go up.” - -“That would not be fair,” said Totty with a laugh. “I must say what it -is I have bought. Can you give me something of the kind—now? I want to -take it away with me, to show it.” - -The broker went out and returned a few minutes later with what she -wanted, a certificate of stock to the amount of one hundred dollars, in -a well-known undertaking. - -“If anything has a chance, this has,” said the broker, putting it into -an envelope and handing it to her. “Oh no, Mrs. Trimm—never mind paying -for it!” he added with a careless laugh. “Give it back to me when you -have done with it.” - -But Totty preferred to pay her money, and did so before she departed. -Ten minutes later she was at her husband’s office. Her heart beat a -little faster as she asked John Bond to open the strong room for her. -She hoped that something would happen to occupy him while she was -within. - -“Let me help you,” he said, entering the place with her. The strong room -was lighted from above by a small skylight over a heavy grating, the -boxes being arranged on shelves around the walls. John Bond went -straight to the one that belonged to Totty and moved it forward a little -so that she could open it. She held her envelope ostentatiously in one -hand and felt for her key in her pocket with the other. She knew which -was hers and which was her brother’s, because Tom’s had a label fastened -to it, with his name, whereas her own had none. - -“Thanks,” she said, as she turned the key in the lock and raised the -lid. “Please do not stay here, Mr. Bond, I want to look over a lot of -things so as to put this I have brought into the right place.” - -“Well—if I cannot be of any use,” said John. “I have rather a busy day. -Please call me to shut the room when you have finished.” - -Totty breathed more freely when she was alone. She could hear John cross -the corridor and enter the private office. A moment later everything was -quiet. With a quick, stealthy movement, she slipped the other key into -the box labelled “T. Craik,” turned it and lifted the cover. Her heart -was beating violently. - -Fortunately for her the will was the last paper that had been put with -the others and lay on the top of them all. The heavy blue envelope was -sealed and marked “Will,” with the date. Totty turned pale as she held -it in her hands. She had not the slightest intention of destroying it, -whatever it might contain, but even to break the seal and read it looked -very like a criminal act. On the other hand, when she realised that she -held in her hand the answer to all her questions, and that by a turn of -the fingers she could satisfy all her boundless curiosity, she knew that -it was of no use to attempt resistance in the face of such a temptation. -She realised, indeed, that she would not be able to restore the seal, -and that she must not hope to hide the fact that somebody had tampered -with the will, but the thought could not deter her from carrying out her -intention. As she turned, her sleeve caught on the corner of the box -which she had inadvertently left open and the lid fell with a sharp -snap. Instantly John Bond’s footstep was heard in the corridor. - -Totty had barely time to withdraw the key from her brother’s box and to -bury the will under her own papers when John entered the room. - -“Oh!” he exclaimed in evident surprise, “I thought I heard you shut your -box, and that you had finished.” - -“No,” said Totty in an unsteady voice, bending her pale face over her -documents. “The lid fell, but I opened it again. I will call you when I -come out.” - -John returned to his work without any suspicion of what had happened. -Then Totty extracted a hairpin from the coils of her brown hair and -tried to lift the seal of the will from the paper to which it was so -firmly attached. But she only succeeded in damaging it. There was -nothing to be done but to tear the envelope. Still using her hairpin she -slit open one end of the cover and drew out the document. - -When she knew the contents, her face expressed unbounded surprise. It -had never entered her head that Tom could leave his money to George Wood -of all people in the world. - -“What a fool I have been!” she exclaimed under her breath. - -Then she began to reflect upon the consequences of what she had done, -and her curiosity being satisfied, her fears began to assume serious -proportions. Was it a criminal act that she had committed? She gazed -rather helplessly at the torn envelope. It would be impossible to -restore it. It would be equally impossible to put the will back into the -box, loose and unsealed, without her husband’s noticing the fact the -next time he had occasion to look into Tom Craik’s papers. He would -remember very well that he had sealed it and marked it on the outside. -The envelope, at least, must disappear at once. She crumpled it into as -small a compass as possible and put it into her jacket. It would be very -simple to burn it as soon as she was at home. But how to dispose of the -will itself was a much harder matter. She dared not destroy that also, -for that might turn out to be a deliberate theft, or fraud, or whatever -the law called such deeds. On the other hand, her brother might ask for -it at any time and if it were not in the box it could not be -forthcoming, and her husband would get into trouble. It would be easy -for Tom to suspect that Sherrington Trimm had destroyed the will, in -order that his wife, as next of kin and only heir-at-law should get the -fortune. She thought that, as it was, Tom had shown an extraordinary -belief in human nature, though when she thought of her husband’s known -honesty she understood that nobody could mistrust him. He himself would -doubtless be the first to discover the loss. What would he do? He would -go to Tom and make him execute a duplicate of the will that was lost. -Meanwhile, and in case Tom died before Sherrington came back, Totty -could put the original in some safe place, where she could cause it to -be found if necessary—behind one of those boxes, for instance, or in -some corner of the strong room. Nothing that was locked up between those -four walls could ever be lost. If Tom died, she would of course be told -that a will had been made and was missing. John Bond would come to her -in great distress, and she would come down to the office and help in the -search. The scheme did not look very diplomatic, but she was sure that -there was nothing else to be done. It was the only way in which she -could avoid committing a crime while avoiding also the necessity of -confessing to her husband that she had committed an act of supreme -folly. - -She folded the paper together and looked about the small room for a -place in which to hide it. As she was looking she thought she heard John -Bond’s step again. She had no time to lose for she would not be able to -get rid of him if he entered the strong room a third time. To leave it -on one of the shelves would be foolish, for it might be found at any -time. She could see no chink or crack into which to drop it, and John -was certainly coming. Totty in her desperation thrust the paper into the -bosom of her dress, shut up her own box noisily and went out. - -She thought that John Bond looked at her very curiously when she went -away, though the impression might well be the result of her own guilty -fears. As a matter of fact he was surprised by her extreme pallor and -was on the point of asking if she were ill. But he reflected that the -strong room was a chilly place and that she might be only feeling cold, -and he held his tongue. - -The paper seemed to burn her, and she longed to be in her own house -where she could at least lock it up until she could come to some wise -decision in regard to it. She leaned back in her carriage in an agony of -nervous fear. What if John Bond should chance to be the one who made the -discovery? He probably knew of the existence of the will, and he very -probably had seen it and knew where it was. It was strange that she had -not thought of that. If, for instance, it happened that he needed to -look at some of her brother’s papers that very day, would he not notice -the loss and suspect her? After all, he knew as well as any one what she -had to gain by destroying the will, if he knew what it contained. How -much better it would have been to put it back in its place even without -the envelope! How much better anything would be than to feel that she -might be found out by John Bond! - -She was already far up town, but in her distress she did not recognise -her whereabouts, and leaning forward slightly looked through the window. -As fate would have it, the only person near the carriage in the street -was George Wood, who had recognised it and was trying to get a glimpse -of herself. When he saw her, he bowed and smiled, just as he always did. -Totty nodded hastily and fell back into her seat. A feeling of sickening -despair came over her, and she closed her eyes. - - - - - CHAPTER XII. - - -George Wood’s reputation spread rapidly. He had arrested the attention -of the public, and the public was both ready and willing to be amused by -him. He had finished the second of his books soon after the appearance -of the first, and he had found no difficulty in selling the manuscript -outright upon his own terms. It was published about the time when the -events took place which have been described in the last chapter, and it -obtained a wide success. It was, indeed, wholly different from its -predecessor in character and presented a strong contrast to it. The -first had been full of action, passionate, strange, unlike the books of -the day. The second was the result of much thought and lacked almost -altogether the qualities that had given such phenomenal popularity to -the first. It was a calm book, almost destitute of plot and of dramatic -incidents. It had been polished and adorned to the best of the young -writer’s ability, he had put into it the most refined of his thoughts, -he had filled it with the sayings of characters more than half ideal. He -had believed in it while he was writing it, but he was disappointed with -it when it was finished. He had intended to bind together a nosegay of -sweet-scented flowers about a central rose, and when he had finished, -his nosegay seemed to him artificial, the blossoms looked to him as -though they were without stems, tied to dry sticks, and the scent of -them had no freshness for his nostrils. Nevertheless he knew that he had -given to his work all that he possessed of beauty and refinement in the -storehouse of his mind, and he looked upon the venture as final in -deciding his future career. It is worse to meet with failure on the -publication of a second book, when the first has taken the world by -surprise, than it is to fail altogether at the very beginning. Many a -polished scholar has produced one good volume; many a refined and -spiritual intelligence has painted one lovely scene and dropped the -brushes for ever, or taken them up only to blotch and blur incongruous -colours upon a spiritless outline, searching with blind eyes for the -light that shone but once and can never shine again. Many have shot one -arrow in the air and have hit the central mark, whose fingers scarce -knew how to hold the bow. The first trial is one of half-reasoned, -half-inspired talent; the second shows the artist’s hand; the third and -all that follow are works done in the competition between master and -master, to which neither apprentice nor idle lover of the art can be -admitted. He whose first great effort has been successful, and whose -second disappoints no one but himself, may safely feel that he has found -out his element and known his own strength. He will perhaps turn out -only a dull master at his craft as years go on, or he may be but a -second-rate artist, but his apprenticeship has been completed and he -will henceforth be judged by the same standard as other artists and -masters. - -George Wood had followed his own instinct in lavishing so much care and -thought and pains upon the book that was now to appear, and his instinct -had not deceived him, though when he saw the result he feared that he -had made the great false step that is irretrievable. Though many were -ready to accept his work on any terms he was pleased to name, yet he -held back his manuscript for many weeks, hesitating to give it to the -world. The memory of his first enthusiasms blended in his mind with the -beauties of tales yet untold and darkened in his eyes the polish of the -present work. Constance admired it exceedingly, saying that, although -nothing could ever be to her like the first, this was so different in -every way, and yet so good, that no unpleasant comparisons could be made -between the two. Then George took it to Johnson who kept it a long time -and would give no opinion about it until he had read every word it -contained. - -“This settles it,” he said at last. - -“For better or for worse?” George asked, looking at the pale young man’s -earnest face. - -“For better,” Johnson answered without hesitation. “You are a novelist. -It is not so broad as a church-door, nor so deep as a well—but it will -serve. You will never regret having published it.” - -So the book went to the press and in due time appeared, was tasted, -criticised and declared to be good by a majority of judges, was taken up -by the public, was discussed, liked and obtained a large sale. George -was congratulated by all his friends in terms of the greatest enthusiasm -and he received so many invitations to dinner as made him feel that -either his digestion or his career, or both, must perish in the attempt -to cope with them. The dinner-party of to-day, considered as the reward -of merit and the expression of good feeling, is no novelty in the -history of the world’s society. Little Benjamin was expected to eat -twelve times as much as any of his big brothers because Joseph liked -him, and the successful man of to-day is often treated with the same -kindly, though destructive liberality. No one would think it enough to -ask him to tea and overwhelm him with the praises of a select circle of -fashionable people. He must be made to eat in order that he may -understand from the fulness of his own stomach the fulness of his -admirer’s heart. To heap good things upon the plate of genius has been -in all times considered the most practical way of expressing the public -admiration—and in times not long past there was indeed a practical -reason for such expression of goodwill, in that genius was liable to be -very hungry even after it had been universally acknowledged. The world -has more than once bowed down from a respectful distance, to the -possessor of a glorious intelligence, who in his heart would have -preferred a solid portion of bread and cheese to the perishable garlands -of flowers scattered at his feet, or to the less corruptible monuments -of bronze and stone upon which his countrymen were ready to lavish their -gold after he was dead of starvation. - -A change has come over the world of late, and it may be that writers -themselves have been the cause of it. It is certain that since those who -live by the pen have made it their business to amuse rather than to -admonish and instruct their substance has been singularly increased and -their path has been made enviably smooth. Their shadows not only wax and -follow the outlines of a pleasant rotundity, but they are cast upon -marble pavements, inlaid floors and Eastern carpets, instead of upon the -dingy walls and greasy mud of Grub Street. The star of the public amuser -is in the ascendant, and his “Part of Fortune” is high in the -mid-heaven. - -It has been said that nothing succeeds like success, and George very -soon began to find out the truth of the saying. He was ignorant of the -strange possibilities of wealth that were in store for him, and the -present was sufficient for all his desires, and far exceeded his former -hopes. The days were gone by when he had looked upon his marriage with -Constance Fearing as a delicious vision that could never be realised, -and to contemplate which, even without hope, seemed to be a dangerous -piece of presumption. He had now a future before him, brilliant, -perhaps, but assuredly honourable and successful. At his age and with -his health and strength the possibility of his being broken down by -overwork or illness did not present itself to him, and, if it had, he -could very well have afforded to disregard it in making his -calculations. The world’s face showed him one glorious catalogue of -hopes and he felt that he was the man to realise them all. - -And now, too, the first of May was approaching again and he looked -forward to receiving a final answer from Constance. Her manner had -changed little towards him during the winter, but he thought that little -had been for the better. He never doubted, now, that she was most -sincerely attached to him nor that it depended on anything but her own -fancy, to give a name to that attachment and call it love. Surely the -trial had lasted long enough, surely she must know her own mind now, -after so many months of waiting. It was two years since he had first -told her that he loved her, a year had passed away since she had -admitted that she loved him a little, and now the second year, the one -she had asked for as a period of probation had spent itself likewise, -bringing with it for George the first great success of his life and -doubling, trebling his chances of happiness. His growing reputation was -a bond between them, of which they had forged every link together. Her -praise had stimulated his strength, her delicate and refined taste had -often guided the choice of his thoughts, his power of language had found -words for what was in the hearts of both. George could no more fancy -himself as working without consulting Constance than he could imagine -what life would be without sight or hearing. Her charm was upon him and -penetrated all he did, her beauty was the light by which he saw other -women, her voice the music that made harmony of all other sounds. He -loved her now, as women have rarely been loved, for love had taken root -in his noble and generous nature, as a rare seed in a virgin soil, -beautiful from the first and gaining beauty as it grew in strength and -fulness of proportion. His heart had never been disturbed before, by -anything resembling true passion, there were no reminiscences to choke -the new growth, no dry and withered stems about which the new love must -twine itself until its spreading leaves and clasping tendrils made a -rich foliage to cover the dead tree. He, she, the world, love, -reputation, were all young together, all young and fresh, and full of -the power to grow. To think that the prospect of such happiness should -be blighted, the hope of such perfect bliss disappointed was beyond the -power of George’s imagination. - -The time was drawing near when he was to have his answer. He had often -done violence to himself of late in abstaining from all question of her -love. Earlier in the year he had once or twice returned to his old way -of talking with her, but she had seemed displeased and had put him off, -answering that the first of May was time enough and that she would tell -him then. He had no means of knowing what was passing in her mind, for -she was almost always the same Constance he had known so long, gentle, -sympathising, ready with encouragement, enthusiastic concerning what he -did well, suggestive when he was in doubt, thoughtful when his taste did -not agree with hers. Looking back upon those long months of intimacy -George knew that she had never bound herself, never uttered a promise of -any sort, never directly given him to understand that she would consent -to be his wife. And yet her whole life seemed to him to have been one -promise since he had known her and it was treason, in his judgment, to -suspect her of insincerity. - -In the last days of April, he saw less of her than usual, though he -could scarcely tell why. More than once, when he had hoped to find her -alone, there had been visitors with her, or her sister had been present, -and he had not been able to exchange a word with her without being -overheard. Indeed, when Grace was established in the room he generally -made his visits as short as possible. There was something in the -atmosphere of the house, too, that filled him with evil forebodings. -Constance often seemed abstracted and preoccupied; there appeared to be -a better understanding between the sisters in regard to himself than -formerly, and Grace’s manner had changed. In the old days of their -acquaintance she had taken little pains to conceal her dislike after she -had once made up her mind that George loved her sister, her greeting had -been almost haughty, her words had been few and generally ironical, her -satisfaction at his departure needlessly apparent. During the last month -she had relaxed the severity of her behaviour, instead of treating him -more harshly as he had expected and secretly hoped. With the unerring -instinct of a man who loves deeply, concerning every one except the -object of his love, George had read the signs of the times in the face -of his old enemy, and distrusted her increasing benignity. She, at -least, had come to the conclusion that Constance would not marry him, -and seeing that the necessity for destruction was decreasing, she -allowed the sun of her smiles to penetrate the dark storm-clouds of her -sullen anger. George would have preferred any convulsion of the elements -to this threatened calm. - -Constance Fearing was in great distress of mind. She had not forgotten -the date, nor had she any intention of letting it pass without -fulfilling her engagement and giving George the definite answer he had -so patiently expected. The difficulty was, to know what that answer -should be. Her indecision could not be ascribed to her indolence in -studying the question. It had been constantly before her, demanding -immediate solution and tormenting her with its difficulties throughout -many long months. Her conscientious love of truth had forced her to -examine it much more closely than she would have chosen to do had she -yielded to her inclinations. Her own happiness was no doubt vitally -concerned, but the consideration of absolute loyalty and honesty must be -first and before all things. The tremendous importance of the conclusion -now daily more imminent appalled her and frightened her out of her -simplicity into the mazes of a vicious logic; and she found the -labyrinth of her difficulties further complicated in that its ways were -intersected by the by-paths of her religious meditations. When her -reason began to grow clear, she suddenly found it opposed to some one of -a set of infallible rules by which she had undertaken to guide her whole -existence. To-day she prayed to heaven, and grace was given her to marry -George. To-morrow she would examine her heart and ascertain that she -could never love him as he deserved. Could she marry him when he was to -give so much and she had so little to offer? That would be manifestly -wrong; but in that case why had her prayer seemed to be answered so -distinctly by an impulse from the heart? She was evidently not in a -state of grace, since she was inspired to do what was wrong. Selfishness -must be at the bottom of it, and selfishness, as it was the sin about -which she knew most, was the one within her comprehension which she the -most sincerely abhorred. But if her impulse to marry George was selfish, -was it not the direct utterance of her heart, and might this not be the -only case in life in which she might frankly follow her own wishes? -George loved her most truly. If she felt that she wished to marry him, -was it not because she loved him? There was the point, again, -confronting her just where she had begun the round of self-torture. Did -she love him? What was the test of true love? Would she die for him? -Dying for people was theatrical and out of fashion, as she had often -been told. It was much more noble to live for those one loved than to -die for them. Could she live for George? What did the words mean? Had -she not lived for him, said her heart, during the last year, if not -longer? What nonsense, exclaimed her reason—as if giving a little -encouragement and a great deal of advice could be called living for a -man! It meant more than that, it meant so much to her that she felt sure -she could never accomplish it. Therefore she did not love him, and it -must all come to an end at once. - -She reproached herself bitterly for her weakness that had lasted so -long. She was a mere flirt, a heartless girl who had ruined a man’s life -and happiness recklessly, because she did not know her own mind. She -would be brave now, at last, before it was quite too late. She would -confess her fault and tell him how despicable she thought herself, how -she repented of her evil ways, how she would be his best and firmest -friend, his sister, anything that she could be to him, except his wife. -He would be hurt, pained, heartbroken for a while, but he would see how -much better it had been to speak the truth. - -But in the midst of her passionate self-accusation, the thought of her -own state after she should have put him away for ever, presented itself -with painful distinctness. Whether she loved him or not, he was a part -of her life and she felt that she could not do without him. For one -moment she allowed herself to think of his face if she told him that she -consented to their union at last, she could see the happy smile she -loved so well and hear the vibrating tones of the voice that moved her -more than other voices. Then, to her inexpressible shame, there arose -before her visions of another kind, and notably the face of Johnson, the -hardworking critic. All at once George seemed to be surrounded by a host -of people whom she did not know and whom she did not want to know, men -whom, as she remembered to have thought before, she would not have -wished to see at her table, yet friends of his, faithful friends—Johnson -was one at least—to whom he owed much and whom he would not allow to -slip out of his existence because he had married Constance Fearing. She -blushed scarlet, though she was alone, and passionate tears of anger at -herself burst from her eyes. To think of that miserable consideration, -she must be the most contemptible of women. Truly, the baseness of the -human heart was unfathomable and shore-less as the ocean of space -itself! Truly, she did not love him, if she could think such thoughts, -and she must tell him so, cost what it might. - -The last night came, preceding the day on which she had promised to give -him her decisive answer. She had written him a word to say that he was -expected, and she sat down in her own room to fight the struggle over -again for the last time. The morrow was to decide, she thought, and yet -it was impossible to come to any conclusion. Why had she not set the -period at two years instead of one? Surely, in twelve months more she -would have known her own mind, or at least have seen what course to -pursue. Step by step she advanced once more into the sea of her -difficulties, striving to keep her intelligence free from prejudice, and -yet hoping that her heart would speak clearly. But it was of no use, the -labyrinth was more confused than ever, the light less, and her strength -more unsteady. If she thought, it seemed as though her thoughts would -drive her mad, if she prayed, her prayers were confused and senseless. - -“I cannot marry him, I cannot, I cannot!” she cried at last, utterly -worn out with fatigue and anxiety. - -She threw herself upon her pillows and tried to rest, while her own -words still rang in her ears. She slept a little and she uttered the -same cry in her sleep. By force of conscious and unconscious repetition -of the phrase, it became mechanised and imposed itself upon her will. -When the morning broke, she knew that she had resolved not to marry -George Wood, and that her resolution was irrevocable. - -To tell him so was a very different matter. She grew cold as she thought -of the scene that was before her, and became conscious that her nerves -were not equal to such a strain. She fancied that the decision she had -reached had been the result of her strength in her struggle with -herself. In reality she had succumbed to her own weakness and had -abandoned the contest, feeling that it was easier to do anything -negative rather than to commit herself to a bondage from which she might -some day wish to escape when it should be too late. With a little more -firmness of character she would have been able to shake off her doubts -and to see that she really loved George very sincerely, and that to -hesitate was to sacrifice everything to a morbid fear of offending her -now over-delicate conscience. Even now, if she could have known herself, -she would have realised that she had by no means given up all love for -the man who loved her, nor all expectation of ultimately becoming his -wife. She would have behaved very differently if she had been sure that -she was burning her ships and cutting off all possibility of a return, -or if she had known the character of the man with whom she had to deal. -She had passed through a sort of nervous crisis, and her resolution was -in the main, a concession to her desire to gain time. In making it she -had thrown down her arms and given up the fight. The reaction that -followed made it seem impossible for her to face such a scene as must -ensue. - -At first it struck her that the best way of getting out of the -difficulty would be to write to George and tell him her decision in as -few words as possible, begging him to come and see her a week later, -when she would do her best to explain to him the many and good reasons -which had contributed to the present result. This idea, however, she -soon abandoned. It would seem most unkind to deal such a blow so -suddenly and then expect him to wait so long before enlightening him -further upon the subject. Face him herself, she could not. She might be -weak, she thought, and she was willing to admit it; it was only to add -another unworthiness to the long list with which she was ready to accuse -herself. She could not, and she would not tell George herself. The only -person who could undertake to bear her message was Grace. - -She felt very kindly disposed to Grace, that morning. There was a -satisfaction in feeling that she could think of any one without the -necessity of considering the question of her marriage. Besides, Grace -had opposed her increasing liking for George from the beginning, and had -warned her that she would never marry him. Grace had been quite right, -and as Constance was feeling particularly humble just then, she thought -it would be agreeable to her pride, if she confessed the superiority of -Grace’s judgment. She could accuse herself before her sister of all her -misdeeds without the fear of witnessing George’s violent grief. Moreover -it would be better for George, too, since, he would be obliged to -contain himself when speaking to her sister as he would certainly not -control his feelings in an interview with herself. To be short, -Constance was willing in that moment to be called a coward, rather than -face the man she had wronged. Her courage had failed her altogether and -she was being carried rapidly down stream from one concession to -another, while still trying to give an air of rectitude and -self-sacrifice to all her actions. She was preparing an abyss of -well-merited self-contempt for herself in the future, though her present -satisfaction in her release from responsibility had dulled her real -sense of right and had left only the artificialities of her morbid -conscience still sensitive to the flattery of imaginary self-sacrifice. - -An hour later she was alone with her sister. She had greeted her in an -unusually affectionate way on entering the room, and the younger girl -immediately felt that something had taken place. She herself was -smiling, and cordial in her manner. - -“Grace, dearest,” Constance began, after some little hesitation, “I want -to tell you. You have talked so much about Mr. Wood—you know, you have -always been afraid that I would marry him, have you not?” - -“Not lately,” answered Grace with a pleasant smile. - -“Well—do you know? I have thought very seriously of it, and I had -decided to give him a definite answer to-day. Do you understand? I have -treated him abominably, Grace—oh, I am so sorry! I wish it could all be -undone—you were so right!” - -“It is not too late,” observed Grace. Then, seeing that there were tears -in her sister’s eyes, she drew nearer to her and put her arm round her -waist in a comforting way. “Do not be so unhappy, Conny,” she said in a -tone of deep sympathy. “Men do not break their hearts nowadays——” - -“Oh, but he will, Grace! I am sure he will—and the worst of it is that I -must—you know——” - -“Not at all, dear. If you like I will break it to him——” - -“Oh, Grace, what a darling you are!” cried Constance, throwing both her -arms round her sister’s neck and kissing her. “I did not dare to ask -you, and I could not, I could not have done it myself! But you will do -it very kindly, will you not? You know he has been so good and patient.” - -There was an odd smile on Grace’s strong face when she answered, but -Constance was not in a mood to notice anything disagreeable just then. - -“I will break it to him very gently,” said the young girl quietly. “Of -course you must tell me what I am to say, more or less—an idea, you -know. I cannot say bluntly that you have sent word that you have decided -not to marry him, can I?” - -“Oh no!” exclaimed Constance, suddenly growing very grave. “You must -tell him that I feel towards him just as I always did——” - -“Is that true?” - -“Of course. I always told him that I did not love him enough to marry -him. You may as well know it all. A year ago, he proposed again—well, -yes, it was not the first time. I told him that if on the first of -May—this first of May—I loved him better than I did then, I would marry -him. Well, I have thought about it, again and again, all the time, and I -am sure I do not love him as I ought, if I were to marry him.” - -“I should think not,” laughed Grace, “if it is so hard to find it out!” - -“Oh, you must not laugh at me,” said Constance earnestly. “It is very, -very serious. Have I done right, Grace? I wish I knew! I have treated -him so cruelly, so hatefully, and yet I did not mean to. I am so fond of -him, I admire him so much, I like his ways—and all—I do still, you know. -It is quite true. I suppose I ought to be ashamed of it—only, I am sure -I never did love him, really.” - -“I have no idea of laughing at the affair,” answered Grace. “It is -serious enough, I am sure, especially for him.” - -“Yes—I want to make a confession to you. I want to tell you that you -were quite right, that I have encouraged him and led him on and been -dreadfully unkind. I am sure you think I am a mere flirt, and perfectly -heartless! Is it not true? Well, I am, and it is of no use to deny it. I -will never, never, do such a thing again—never! But after all, I do like -him very much. I never could understand why you hated him so, from the -first.” - -“I did not hate him. I do not hate him now,” said Grace emphatically. “I -did hate the idea of his marrying you, and I do still. I thought it was -just as well that he should see that from the way one member of the -family behaved towards him.” - -“He did see it!” exclaimed Constance in a tone of regret. “It is another -of the things I inflicted on him.” - -“You? I should rather think it was I——” - -“No, it was all my fault, all, everything, from beginning to end—and you -are a darling, Gracey dear, and it is so sweet of you. You will be very -good to him? Yes—and if he should want to see me very much, after you -have told him everything, I might come down for a minute. I should so -much like to be sure that he has taken it kindly.” - -“If you wish it, you might see him—but I hardly think—well, do as you -think best, dear.” - -“Thank you, darling—you know you really are a darling, though I do not -always tell you so. And now, I think I will go and lie down. I never -slept last night.” - -“Silly child!” laughed Grace, kissing her on both cheeks. “As though it -mattered so much, after all.” - -“Oh, but it does matter,” Constance said regretfully as she left the -room. - -When Grace Fearing was alone she went to the window and looked out -thoughtfully into the fresh, morning air. - -“I am very glad,” she said aloud to herself. “I am very, very glad. But -I would not have done it. No, not for worlds! I would rather cut off my -right hand than treat a man like that!” - -In that moment she pitied George Wood with all her heart. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII. - - -When George entered the drawing-room he was surprised to find Grace -there instead of Constance, and it was with difficulty that he repressed -a nervous movement of annoyance. On that day of all others he had no -desire to meet Grace Fearing, and though he imagined that her presence -was accidental and that he had come before the appointed time he felt -something more of resentment against the young girl than usual. He made -the best of the situation, however, and put on a brave face, considering -that, after all, when the happiness of a lifetime is to be decided, a -delay of five minutes should not be thought too serious an affair. - -Grace rose to receive him and, coming forward, held his hand in hers a -second or two longer than would have been enough under ordinary -circumstances. Her face was very grave and her deep brown eyes looked -with an expression of profound sympathy into those of her visitor. -George felt his heart sink under the anticipation of bad news. - -“Is anything the matter, Miss Fearing?” he inquired anxiously. “Is your -sister ill?” - -“No. She is not ill. Sit down, Mr. Wood. I have something to say to -you.” - -George felt an acute presentiment of evil, and sat down in such a -position with regard to the light that he could see Grace’s face better -than she could see his. - -“What is it?” he asked in a tone of constraint. - -The young girl paused a moment, moved in her seat, which she had -selected in the corner of a sofa, rested one elbow on the mahogany -scroll that rose at the end of the old-fashioned piece of furniture, -supported her beautifully moulded chin upon the half-closed fingers of -her white hand and gazed upon George with a look of inquiring sympathy. -There was nothing of nervousness nor timidity in Grace Fearing’s nature. -She knew what she was going to do and she meant to do it thoroughly, -calmly, pitilessly if necessary. - -“My sister has asked me to talk with you,” she began, in her smooth, -deep voice. “She is very unhappy and she is not able to bear any more -than she has borne already.” - -George’s face darkened, for he knew what was coming now, as though it -were already said. He opened his lips to speak, but checked himself, -reflecting that he did not know the extent of Grace’s information. - -“I am very, very sorry,” she continued, earnestly. “I need not explain -matters. I know all that has happened. Constance was to have given you a -final answer to-day. She could not bear to do so herself.” - -Grace paused an instant, and if George had been less agitated than he -was, he would have seen that her full lips curled a little as she spoke -the last words. - -“She has thought it all over,” she concluded. “She does not love you, -and she can never be your wife.” - -There was a long pause. Grace changed her position, leaning far back -among the cushions and clasping her hands upon her knees. At the same -time she ceased to look at the young man’s face, and let her sight -wander to the various objects on the other side of the room. - -In the first moment, George’s heart stood still. Then it began to beat -furiously, though it seemed as though its pulsations had lost the power -of propelling the blood from its central seat. He kept his position, -motionless and outwardly calm, but his dark face grew slowly white, -leaving only black circles about his gleaming eyes, and his scornful -mouth gradually set itself like stone. He was silent, for no words -suggested themselves to his lips, now, though they had seemed too ready -a moment earlier. - -Grace felt that she must say something more. She was perfectly conscious -of his state, and if she had been capable of fear she would have been -frightened by the magnitude of his silent anger. - -“I have known that this would come,” she said, softly. “I know Constance -better than you can. A very long time ago, I told her that at the last -minute she would refuse you. She is very unhappy. She begged me to say -all this as gently as possible. She made me promise to tell you that she -felt towards you just as she had always felt, that she hoped to see you -very often, that she felt towards you as a sister——” - -“This is too much!” exclaimed George in low and angry tones. Then -forgetting himself altogether, he rose from his seat quickly and went -towards the door. - -Grace was on her feet as quickly as he. - -“Stop!” she cried in a voice not loud, but of which the tone somehow -imposed upon the angry man. - -He turned suddenly and faced her as though he were at bay, but she met -his look calmly and her eyes did not fall before his. - -“You shall not go away like this,” she said. - -“Pardon me,” he answered. “I think it is the best thing I can do.” There -was something almost like a laugh in the bitterness of his tone. - -“I think not,” replied Grace with much dignity. - -“Can you have anything more to say to me, Miss Fearing? You, of all -people? Are you not satisfied?” - -“I do not understand you, and from the tone in which you speak, I would -rather not. You are very angry, and you have reason to be—heaven knows! -But you are wrong in being angry with me.” - -“Am I?” George asked, recovering some control of his voice and manner. -“I am at least wrong in showing it,” he added, a moment later. “Do you -wish me to stay here?” - -“A few minutes longer, if you will be so kind,” Grace answered, sitting -down again, though George remained standing before her. “You are wrong -to be angry with me, Mr. Wood. I have only repeated to you my sister’s -words. I have done my best to tell you the truth as gently as possible.” - -“I do not doubt it. Your mission is not an easy one. Why did your sister -not tell me the truth herself? Is she afraid of me?” - -“Do you think it would have been any easier to bear, if she had told -you?” - -“Yes.” - -“Why?” Grace asked. - -“Because it is better to hear such things directly than at second hand. -Because it is easier to bear such words when they are spoken by those we -love, than by those who hate us. Because when hearts are to be broken it -is braver to do it oneself than to employ a third person.” - -“You do not know what you are saying. I never hated you.” - -“Miss Fearing,” said George, who was rapidly becoming exasperated beyond -endurance, “will you allow me to take my leave?” - -“I never hated you,” Grace repeated without heeding his question. “I -never liked you, and I never was afraid to show it. But I respect -you—no, do not interrupt—I respect you, more than I did, because I have -found out that you have more heart than I had believed. I admire you as -everybody admires you, for what you do so well. And I am sorry for you, -more sorry than I can tell. If you would have my friendship, I would -offer it to you—indeed you have it already, from to-day.” - -“I am deeply indebted to you,” George answered very coldly. - -“You need not even make a show of thanking me. I have done you no -service, and I should regret it very much if Constance married you. Do -not look surprised. My only virtue is honesty, and when I have such -things to say you think that is no virtue at all. I thought very badly -of you once. Forgive me, if you can. I have changed my mind. I have -neither said nor done anything for a long time to influence my sister, -not for nearly a year. Do you believe me?” - -George was beginning to be very much surprised at Grace’s tone. He was -too much under the influence of a great emotion to reason with himself, -but the truthfulness of her manner spoke to his heart. If she had -condoled with him, or tried to comfort him, he would have been -disgusted, but her straightforward confession of her own feelings -produced a different effect. - -“I believe you,” he said, wondering how he could sincerely answer such a -statement with such words. - -“Thank you, you are generous.” Grace rose again, and put out her hand. -“Do you care to see her, before you go?” she asked, looking into his -eyes. “I will send her to you, if you wish it.” - -“Yes,” George answered, after a moment’s hesitation. “I will see -her—please.” - -He was left alone for a few minutes. Though the sun was streaming in -through the window, he felt cold as he had never felt cold in his life. -His anger had, he believed, subsided, but the sensation it had left -behind was new and strange to him. He turned as he stood and his glance -fell upon Constance’s favourite chair, the seat in which she had sat so -often and so long while he had talked with her. Then he felt a sudden -pain, so sharp that it might have seemed the last in life, and he -steadied himself by leaning on the table. It was as though he had seen -the fair young girl lying dead in that place she loved. But she was not -dead. It was worse. Then his great wrath surged up again, sending the -blood tingling through his sinewy frame to the tips of his strong -fingers, and bringing a different mood with it, and a sterner humour. He -was a very masculine man, incapable of being long crushed by any blow. -He was sorry, now, that he had asked to see her. Had he felt thus five -minutes earlier, he would have declined Grace’s offer and would have -left the house, meaning never to re-enter it. But it was too late and he -could no longer avoid the meeting. - -At that moment the door opened, and Constance stood before him. Her face -was pale and there were traces of tears upon her cheeks. But he was not -moved to pity by any such outward signs of past emotion. She came and -stood before him, and laid one delicate hand upon his sleeve, looking up -timidly to his eyes. He did not move, and his expression did not change. - -“Can you forgive me?” she asked in a trembling voice. - -“No,” he answered, bitterly. “Why should I forgive you?” - -“I know I have not deserved your forgiveness,” she said, piteously. “I -have been very, very wrong—I have done the worst thing I ever did in my -life—I have been heartless, unkind, cruel, wicked—but—but I never meant -to be——” - -“It is small consolation to me to know that you did not mean it.” - -“Oh, do not be so hard!” she cried, the tears rising in her voice. “I -did not mean it so. I never promised you anything—indeed I never did!” - -“It must be a source of sincere satisfaction, to feel that your -conscience is clear.” - -“But it is not—I want to tell you all—Grace has not told you—I like you -as much as ever, there is no difference—I am still fond of you, still -very fond of you!” - -“Thanks.” - -“Oh, George, are you a stone? Will nothing move you? Cannot you see how -I am suffering?” - -“Yes. I see.” He neither moved, nor bent his head. His lips opened and -shut mechanically as though they were made of steel. She looked up again -into his face and his expression terrified her. - -She turned away, slowly at first, as though in despair. Then with a -sudden movement she threw herself upon the sofa and buried her face in -the cushions, while a violent fit of sobbing shook her light frame from -head to foot. George stood still, watching her with stony eyes. For a -full minute nothing was audible but the sound of her weeping. - -“You are so cold,” she sobbed. “Oh, George, you will break my heart!” - -“You seem to be chiefly overcome by pity for yourself,” he answered -cruelly. “If you have anything else to say, I will wait. If not——” - -She roused herself and sat up, the tears streaming down her cheeks, her -hands clasped passionately together. - -“Oh, do not go! Do not go—it kills me to let you go.” - -“Do you think it would? In that case I will stay a little longer.” He -turned away and went to the window. For some minutes there was silence -in the room. - -“George——” Constance began timidly. George turned sharply round. - -“I am here. Can I do anything for you, Miss Fearing?” - -“Cannot you say you forgive me? Can you not say one kind word?” - -“Indeed, I should find it very hard.” - -Constance had recovered herself to some extent, and sat staring vacantly -across the room, while the tears slowly dried upon her cheeks. Her -courage and her pride were alike gone, and she looked the very picture -of repentance and despair. But George’s heart had been singularly -hardened during the half-hour or more which he had spent in her house -that day. Presently she began speaking in a slow, almost monotonous -tone, as though she were talking with herself. - -“I have been very bad,” she said, “and I know it, but I have always told -the truth. I never loved you enough, I never cared for you as you -deserved. Did I not tell you so? Oh yes, very often—too often. I should -not have told you even that I cared a little. You are the best friend I -ever had—why have I lost you by loving you a little? It seems very hard. -It is not that you must forgive, it is that I should have told you so -that I should—you kissed me once—it was not your fault. I let you do it. -There seemed so little harm—and yet it was so wrong. And once, because -there was pain in your face, I kissed you, as I would have kissed my -sister. I was so fond of you—I am still, although you are so cruel and -cold. I did think—I really hoped that I should love you some day. You do -not believe me? What does it matter! You will, for I always told you -what was true—but that is it—I hoped, and I let you see that I hoped. It -was very wrong. Will you try—only try to forgive me?” - -“Do you not think it would be better if you would let me leave you, Miss -Fearing?” George asked, coming suddenly forward. “It can do very little -good to talk this matter over.” - -“Miss Fearing!” exclaimed the young girl with a sigh. “It is so long -since you called me that! Do you want to go? How should I keep you? Only -this, will you think kindly of me, sometimes? Will you sometimes think -that I helped you—only a little—to be what you are? Will you say -‘Good-bye, Constance,’ a little kindly?” - -George was moved in spite of himself, and his voice was softer when he -answered her. - -“Of what use is it, to speak of these things? You know all that you have -been to me in these years, better than I can tell you. It turns out that -I have been nothing to you—well, then——” - -“Nothing to me! Oh George, you have been everything—my best friend——” -She stopped short. - -His heart hardened again. It seemed to him that every word she spoke was -in direct contradiction to her action. - -“Will you tell me one thing?” he asked, after a pause during which she -seemed to be on the point of bursting into tears again. - -“Anything you ask me,” she answered. - -“Have you come to this decision yourself, or has your sister influenced -you?” His eyes sought hers and tried to read her inmost thoughts. - -“It is my own resolution,” she answered without wavering. “Grace has not -spoken of my marrying you for more than a year.” - -“I am glad that it is altogether from your own heart——” - -“Can you think that I would have taken the advice of some one else?” -Constance asked, reproachfully. - -“I do not know. It matters very little, after all. Pardon me if I have -been rude or hasty. My manners may have been a little ruffled by -this—this occurrence. Good-bye.” - -She took his hand and tried to press it, looking again for his eyes. But -he drew his fingers away quickly and was gone before she could detain -him. For one moment she sat staring at the closed door. Then she once -more hid her face in the deep soft cushions and sobbed aloud, more -passionately than the first time. - -“Oh, I know I ought to have married him, I know I really love him!” she -moaned. - -And so the first act of Constance Fearing’s life comedy was played out -and the curtain fell between her and the happiness to grasp which she -lacked either the will or the passion, or both. She had acted her part -with a sincerity so scrupulous that it was like a parody of truth. She -had thought of marrying George Wood with delight, she had broken with -him in the midst of what might be called a crisis of doubt, and she had -parted from him with sincere and bitter tears, feeling that she had -sacrificed all she held dear in the world to the ferocious Moloch of her -conscience. - -To follow the action of her intelligence any farther through the mazes -of the labyrinth into which she had led it would be a labour so -stupendous that no sensible person could for a moment contemplate the -possibility of performing the task, and for the present Constance -Fearing must be left to her tears, her meditations, and her complicated -state of mind with such pity as can be spared for her weaknesses and -such kind thoughts as may be bestowed by the charitable upon her gentle -character. It will be easier to understand the strong passion and the -bitter disappointment which agitated George Wood’s powerful nature -during the hours which followed the scenes just described. - -His day was indeed not over yet, though he felt as though the sun had -gone down upon his life before it was yet noon. He was neither morbid -nor self-conscious, nor did he follow after the chimera introspection. -He was simply and savagely angry with Constance, with himself, with the -whole known and unknown world. For the time, he forgot who he was, what -he was, and all that he had done or that he might be expected to do in -the future. He knew that Constance had spoken the truth in saying that -she had promised nothing. The greater madman he, to have expected -anything whatever! He knew that her whole life and conversation had been -one long promise during nearly two years—the more despicably heartless -and altogether contemptible she was, then, for since she had spoken what -was true she had acted what was a lie from beginning to end. Forgive -her? He had given her his only answer. Why should he forgive her? Were -there any extenuating circumstances in her favour? Not one—and if there -had been, he knew that he would have torn that one to tatters till it -was unrecognisable to his sense of justice. Her tears, her pathetic -voice, her timidity, even her pale face—they had all been parts of the -play, harmonic chords in the grand close of lies that had ended her -symphony of deception. She had even prepared his ears by sending Grace -to him with her warm, sympathetic eyes, her rich, deep voice and her -tale of spontaneous friendship. It was strange that he should have -believed the other girl, even for one moment, but he admitted that he -had put some faith in her words. How poor a thing was the strongest man -when desperately hurt, ready to believe in the first mockery of sympathy -that was offered him, ready to catch at the mere shadow of a straw blown -by the wind! Doubtless the two sisters had concocted their comedy -overnight and had planned their speeches to produce the proper effect -upon his victimised feelings. He had singularly disappointed them both, -in that case. They would have to think longer and think more wisely the -next time they meant to deceive a man of his character. He remembered -with delight every cold, hard word he had spoken, every cruelly brutal -answer he had given. He rejoiced in every syllable saving only that “I -believe you” he had bestowed on Grace’s asseverations of friendship and -esteem. And he had been weak enough to ask Constance whether Grace had -spoken the truth, as if they had not arranged between them beforehand -every sentence of each part! That had been weakness indeed! How they -would laugh over his question when they compared notes! By this time -they were closeted together, telling each other all he had said and -done. On the whole, there could not be much to please them, and he had -found strings for most of his short phrases after the first surprise was -over. He was glad that he disbelieved them both, and so thoroughly. If -there had been one grain of belief in Constance left to him, how much he -still might suffer. His illusion had fallen, but it had fallen -altogether with one shock, in one general and overwhelming crash. There -was not one stone of his temple whole that it might be set upon another, -there was not one limb, one fragment of his beautiful idol that might -recall its loveliness. All was gone, wholly, irrevocably, and he was -glad that it was all gone together. The ruin was so complete that he -could doubtless separate the memory of the past from the fact of the -present, and dwell upon it, live upon it, as he would. If he met -Constance now, he could behave towards her as he would to any other -woman. She was not Constance any more. Her name roused no emotion in his -heart, the thought of her face as he had last seen it was not connected -with anything like love. Her false face, that had been so true and -honest once! He could scorn the one and yet love the other. - -If George had been less absorbed in his angry thoughts, or had known -that there was anything unusual in his expression, he would not have -walked up Fifth Avenue on his way from Washington Square. The times were -changed since he had been able to traverse the thoroughfare of fashion -in the comparative certainty of not meeting an acquaintance. Before he -had gone far, he was conscious of having failed to return more than one -friendly nod, and he was disgusted with himself for allowing his -emotions to have got the better of his habitually quick perception. At -the busy corner of Fourteenth Street he stopped upon the edge of the -pavement, debating for a moment whether he should leave the Avenue and -go home by the elevated road, or strike across Union Square and take a -long walk in the less crowded parts of the city. Just then, a familiar -and pleasant voice spoke at his elbow. - -“Why, George!” exclaimed Totty Trimm. “How you look! What is the matter -with you?” - -“How do you do, cousin Totty? I do not understand. Is there anything the -matter with my face?” - -“I wish you could see yourself in the glass!” cried the little lady -evidently more and more surprised at his unusual expression. “I wish you -could. You are as white as a sheet, with great rings round your eyes. -Where in the world have you been?” - -“I? Oh, I have only been making a visit at the Fearings. I suppose I am -tired.” - -“The Fearings?” repeated Totty, with a sweet smile. “How odd! I was just -going there—walking, you see, because it is such a lovely afternoon. You -won’t come back with me? They won’t mind seeing you twice in the same -day, I daresay.” - -“Thanks,” answered George, speaking hurriedly, and growing, if possible, -paler than before. “I think it would be rather too much. Besides, I have -a lot of work to do.” - -“Well—go in and see Mamie on your way up. She is alone—got a horrid -cold, poor child! She will be so glad and she will give you a cup of -tea. You might put a little of that old whiskey of Sherry’s into it. I -am sure you are not well, George. You are looking wretchedly. Good-bye, -dear boy.” - -Totty squeezed his hand warmly, gave him an earnest and affectionate -look, and tripped away down the Avenue. George wondered whether she had -guessed that there was anything wrong. - -“I suppose I ought to have lied,” he said to himself, as he crossed the -thoroughfare. “They will—but I cannot do it so well. I ought to have -told her that I had been to the club.” - -Totty Trimm had not only guessed that something was very wrong indeed. -She had instinctively hit upon the truth. She, like many other people, -had seen long ago that George was in love with Constance Fearing, and -she had for a long time been glad of it. During the last three or four -days, however, she had changed her mind in a way very unusual with her, -and she had been hoping with all her heart that something would happen -to break off a match that seemed to be very imminent. The matter had -been so constantly in her thoughts that she referred to it everything -she heard about the Fearings and about George. She had not really had -the slightest intention of going to the house in Washington Square when -she had met her cousin, but the determination had formed itself so -quickly that she had spoken the truth in declaring it. She made up her -mind to see Constance the moment she had seen George’s face and had -learned that he had been with her. She pursued her way with a light -heart, and her nimble little feet carried her more lightly and smoothly -than ever. She rang the bell and asked if the young ladies were at home. - -“Yes ma’am,” answered the servant, “but Miss Constance is not very well, -and is gone to her room with a headache, and Miss Grace said she would -see no one, ma’am.” - -“I just met Mr. Wood,” objected Totty, “and he said he had been here -this afternoon.” - -“Yes ma’am, and so he was, and it’s since Mr. Wood left that the orders -was given. Shall I take your card, Mrs. Trimm, ma’am?” - -“No. It is of no use. You can tell the young ladies I called.” - -She descended the steps and went quickly back towards Fifth Avenue. -There was great joy and triumph in her breast and her smile shed its -radiance on the trees on the deserted pavement and on the stiff iron -railings as she went along. - -“That idiotic little fool!” said Mrs. Sherrington Trimm in her heart. -“She loves him, and she has refused one of the best matches in New York -because she fancies he wants her money!” - -She reflected that if Mamie had the same chance, she should certainly -not refuse George Winton Wood, and she determined that if diplomacy -could produce the necessary situation, she would not be long in bringing -matters to the proper point. There is no time when a man is so -susceptible, so ready to yield to the charms of one woman as when he has -just been jilted by another—so, at least, thought Totty, and her worldly -experience was by no means small. And if the marriage could be brought -about, why then——Totty’s radiant face expressed the rest of her thoughts -better than any words could have done. - -While she was making these reflections the chief figure in her panorama -was striding up the Avenue at a rapid pace. Strange to say his cousin’s -suggestion, that he should go and see Mamie had proved rather attractive -than otherwise. He did not care to walk the streets, since Totty had -been so much surprised by his appearance. He might meet other -acquaintances, and be obliged to speak with them. If he went home he -would have to face his father, who would not fail to notice his looks, -and who might guess the cause of his distress, for the old gentleman was -well aware that his son was in love with Constance and hoped with all -his heart that the marriage might not be far distant. Mamie would be -alone, Mamie knew nothing of his doings, she was a good girl, and he -liked her. To spend an hour with her would cost him nothing, as she -would talk the greater part of the time, and he would gain a breathing -space in which to recover from the shock he had received. She was indeed -the only person whom he could have gone to see at that moment without -positive suffering, except Johnson, and he was several miles from the -office of Johnson’s newspaper. - -As he approached the Trimms’ house his pace slackened, as though he were -finally debating within himself upon the wisdom of making the visit. -Then as he came within sight of the door he quickened his steps again -and did not pause until he had rung the bell. A moment later he entered -the drawing-room where Mamie Trimm was sitting in a deep easy-chair, -among flowers near a sunlit window. She held a book in her hand. - -“Oh George!” she cried, blushing with pleasure. “I am so glad—I am all -alone.” - -“And what are you reading, all alone among the roses?” asked George -kindly. - -“What do you think?” - -Then she held up the novel for him to see. It was the book he had just -published. - - - - - CHAPTER XIV. - - -Mamie Trimm was one of those young girls of whom it is most difficult to -give a true impression by describing them in the ordinary way. To say -that her height was so many feet and so many inches—fewer inches than -the average—that her hair was very fair, her eyes grey, her nose small, -her mouth large, her complexion clear, her figure well proportioned, to -say all this is to say nothing at all. A passport, in the days of -passports, would have said as much, and the description would have just -sufficed to point out Mamie Trimm if she had found herself in a company -of tall women with black hair, large features and imposing presence. It -would have been easier for a man to find her amongst a bevy of girls of -her age, if he had been told that she possessed a charm of her own, -which nobody could define. It would help him in his search, to be -informed that she looked very delicate, but was not so in reality, that -her figure was not only well proportioned, but was very exceptionally -perfect and graceful, and that, but for her well-set grey eyes and her -transparent complexion, her face could never have been called pretty. -All these points may have combined to produce the aforesaid -individuality that was especially hers. Little is known, I believe, of -that fair young girl of whom Charles Lamb wrote to Landor—“Rose Aylmer -has a charm that I cannot explain.” Mamie Trimm was George Wood’s Rose -Aylmer. - -He had known her all her life and there was between them that sort of -intimacy which cannot exist at all unless it has begun in childhood. The -patronising superiority of the schoolboy has found a foil in the -clinging admiration of the little girl who is only half his age. The -budding vanity of the young student has delighted in “explaining things” -to the slim maiden of fourteen who believes all his words and worships -all his ideas, the struggling, striving, hardworking beginner has found -comfort in the unfailing friendship and devotion of the accomplished -young woman whom he still thinks of as a child, and treats as a sister, -not realising that the difference between fourteen and seven is one -thing, while that between five or six and twenty, and eighteen or -nineteen is quite another. - -When a friendship of that kind has begun in childish years it is not -easily broken, even though the subsequent intercourse be occasionally -interrupted. Of late, indeed, Constance Fearing had taken, and more than -taken Mamie’s place in George’s life. He had seen his cousin constantly -of course, but she had felt that he was not to her what he had been, -that something she could not understand had come between them, and that -she had been deprived of something that had given her pleasure. On the -other hand, it was precisely at this time that she had made her first -appearance in society and her life had been all at once made very full -of new interests and new amusements. She had been received into the -bosom of social institutions with enthusiasm, she had held her own with -tact, she had danced at every ball, had received offers of marriage -about once in three months, had refused them all systematically and was, -on the whole, in the very prime of an American girl’s social career. If -her head had been turned by much admiration, she had concealed the fact -very well, and the expression of her attractive face had not changed for -the worse after two years of uninterrupted gaiety. She was still as -innocently fond of George as she had been when a little girl and if the -exigencies of continual amusement had deprived her of some of his -companionship, she looked upon the circumstance with all the fatalism of -the very young and the very happy, as a matter to be regretted when she -had time for regrets, but inevitable and predestined. Her regrets, -indeed, had not troubled her much until very lately, when George’s -growing reputation had begun to draw him into the current of society. -She had seen then for the first time that there was another person, -somewhat older than herself, in whose company he delighted as he had -never delighted in her own, and her dormant jealousy had been almost -awakened by the sight. It seemed to her that she had always had a prior -right and claim upon her cousin’s attention and conversation, and she -did not like to find her right contested, especially by one so well able -to maintain her conquests against all comers as was Constance Fearing. -In her innocence, she had more than once complained to her mother that -George neglected her, but hitherto her observations on the subject had -received no sympathy from Mrs. Sherrington Trimm. Totty had no idea of -allowing her only child to marry a penniless man of genius, and though, -as has been set forth in the early part of this history she felt it -incumbent upon her to do something for George, and encouraged his -visits, she took care that he should meet Mamie as rarely as possible in -her own house. As for Sherrington Trimm himself, he cared for none of -these things. If Mamie loved George, she was welcome to marry him, if -she did not there would be no hearts broken. George might come and go in -his house and be welcome. - -Mamie Trimm’s undefinable charm doubtless covered a multitude of -defects. She was of course very well educated, in the sense in which -that elastic term is generally applied to all young girls of her class. -It would be more true to say that she, like most of her associates, had -been expensively educated. Nothing had been omitted which, according to -popular social belief can contribute to the production of a refined and -accomplished feminine mind. She had been taught at great pains a number -of subjects of which she remembered little, but of which the transient -knowledge had contributed something to the formation of her taste. She -had been instructed in the French language with a care perhaps not -always bestowed upon the subject in France, and the result was that she -could read novels written in that tongue and, under great pressure of -necessity, could converse tolerably in it, though the composition of the -shortest note plunged her into a despair that would have been comic had -it been less real. She possessed a shadowy acquaintance with German and -knew a score of Italian words. In the department of music, seven years -of study had given her some facility in playing simple dance music, and -she was able to accompany a song tolerably, provided the movement were -not too fast. On the other hand she danced to perfection, rode well and -played a very fair game of lawn-tennis, and she got even more credit for -these accomplishments than she deserved because her naturally -transparent complexion and rather thin face had always made the world -believe that her health was not strong. - -In character she was neither very sincere, nor by any means -unscrupulous. Her conscience was in a very natural state, considering -her surroundings, and she represented very fairly the combination of her -mother’s worldly disposition with her father’s cheerful, generous and -loyal nature. She was far too much in love with life to be morbid, and -far too sensible to invent imaginary trials. She had never thought of -examining herself, any more than she would have thought of pulling off a -butterfly’s wings to see how they were fastened to its body. Her -simplicity of ideas was dashed with a sprinkling of sentimentality which -was natural enough at her age, but of which she felt so much ashamed -that she hid it jealously from her father and mother and only showed a -little of it to her most intimate friend when she had danced a little -too long or suspected herself of having nearly accepted an offer of -marriage. It was indeed with her, rather a quality than a weakness, for -it sometimes made her feel that life did not consist entirely in -waltzing a dozen miles every night and in talking over the race the next -morning. The only visible signs of this harmless sentimentality were to -be found in a secret drawer of her desk and took the shape of two or -three dried flowers, a scrap of ribband and a dance programme in which -the same initials were scrawled several times. She did not open the -drawer at dead of night and kiss the flowers, nor hold the faded ribband -to her hair, nor bedew the crumpled little bit of illuminated cardboard -with her warm tears. On the contrary she rarely unlocked the receptacle -unless it were to add some new memento to the collection, and on such -occasions the principal reason why she did not summarily eject the -representatives of older memories was that she felt a sort of -good-natured pity for them, as though they had been living things and -might be hurt by being thrown away. Her dainty room contained, indeed -more than one object given her by George Wood, from a collection of -picture-books that bore the marks of age and rough usage, to her first -tennis racquet, now battered and half unstrung, and from that to a -pretty toilet-clock set in chiselled silver which her cousin had given -her on her last birthday, as a sort of peace-offering for his neglect. -It never would have entered her head, however, to hide anything she had -received from him in the secret drawer. There was no sentimentality -about her feelings for him, and if there was a sentiment it was of the -better and stronger sort. She felt that she had a right to like George, -and that his gifts had a right to be seen. Once or twice, of late, when -she had been watching him through the greater part of an evening while -he talked earnestly with Constance Fearing, Mamie had felt an itching in -her fingers to take everything he had given her and to throw all into -the street together; but she had always been glad on the next day that -she had not yielded to the destructive impulse, and she had once dreamed -that, having carried out her dire intention George had picked up the -various articles in the street and had brought them back to her, neatly -packed in a basket, with a sardonic smile on his grave face. Since then, -she had thought more of Constance than of George’s old picture-books, -the worn-out racquet, or the clock. - -Mamie bore no malice against him, however, though she was beginning to -dislike the name of Fearing in a way that surprised herself. If George -talked to her at a party, she was always herself, graceful, winning and -happy; if he came to see her, the same words of welcome rose to her lips -and the same soft colour flashed through the alabaster of her cheek, a -colour which, as her mother thought, should not have come so easily for -one who was already so dear. The careful Totty heard love’s light tread -afar off and caught the gleam of his weapons before it was yet day, her -maternal anxiety had been stirred, and the devotion of the social -tigress to her marriageable young had been roused almost to the point of -self-sacrifice. Indeed, she had more than once interrupted some pleasant -conversation of her own, in order to draw Mamie away from George, and -more than once she had stayed at home when Mamie was tired with the -dancing of the previous night lest in her absence George’s evil genius -should lead him to the house. Fortunately for her, no one had given her -more constant and valuable assistance than George himself, which was the -reason why Totty had not ceased to like him. Had he, on his part seemed -as glad to be with Mamie, as Mamie to be with him, the claws of the -tigress would have fastened upon him with sudden and terrible ferocity -and would have accompanied him to the front door. There would now in all -likelihood be a change in the tigress’s view of the matter, and what had -until lately seemed one of George’s best recommendations, would soon be -regarded in the light of a serious defect. The position of the invader -had been very much changed since the day on which Totty Trimm had been -left alone in the strong room for a quarter of an hour, and had brought -away with her the last will and testament of Thomas Craik. - -If George had ever in his life felt anything approaching to love for -Mamie, he could not have failed to notice that Totty had done all in her -power to keep the two apart during the past three years, in other words -since Mamie had been of a marriageable age. But it had always been a -matter of supreme indifference to him whether he were left alone with -her or not, and to-day it had not struck him that Totty had never before -proposed that he should go and spend an hour with her daughter when -there was nobody about. Totty herself, if her heart had not been -bursting with an anticipated triumph, would have been more cautious, and -would have thought twice before making her suggestion with so much -frankness. In the moment of her meeting with him and guessing the truth -so many possibilities had suggested themselves to her that she had not -found time to reflect, and she had for an instant entertained the idea -of returning immediately from Washington Square to her own home, in -order to find George there and perform the part of the skilful and -interested consoler. A very little consideration showed her that this -would be an unwise course to pursue, and she had adopted a plan -infinitely more diplomatic, of which the results will be seen and -appreciated before long. In the meantime George Wood was seated beside -Mamie and her flowers, listening to her talk, answering her remarks -rather vaguely, and wondering why he was alive, and since he was alive, -why he was in that particular place. - -“You look tired, George,” said the young girl, studying his face. “You -look almost ill.” - -“Do I? I am all right. I have been doing a lot of work lately. And you, -Mamie—what is the matter? Your mother told me just now that you had a -bad cold. I hope it is nothing serious.” - -“Oh, it is nothing. I wanted to read your book, and I did not want to -make visits, and I had just enough of a cold to make a good excuse. A -cold is so useful sometimes—it is just the same thing that your writing -is to you. Everybody believes it is inevitable, and then one can do as -one pleases. But you really do look dreadfully. Have some tea—with a -stick in it as papa calls it.” - -Mamie laughed a little at her own use of the slang term, though her eyes -showed that she was really made anxious by George’s appearance. - -“Thank you,” he answered. “I do not want anything, but I am very tired, -and when your mother told me you were all alone at home I thought it -would do me good to come and stay with you a little while, if you would -talk to me.” - -“I am so glad you came. I have not seen much of you, lately.” There was -a ring of regret in her voice. - -“You have been so gay. How can I get at you when you are racing through -society all the year round from morning till night?” - -“Oh, it is not that, George, and you know it is not! We have often been -in the same gay places together, and you hardly ever come near me, -though I would much rather talk with you than with all the other men.” - -“No you would not—and if you would, you are such a raving success, as -they call it, this year, that you are always surrounded—unless you are -sitting in corners with the pinks of desirability whose very -shoe-strings are a cut above the ‘likes o’ me.’ When are you going to -marry, Mamie?” - -“When somebody asks me, sir—she said,” laughed the young girl. - -“Who is somebody?” - -“I do not know,” answered Mamie with an infinitesimal sigh. “People have -asked me, you know,” she added with another laugh, “any number of them.” - -“But not the particular somebody who haunts your dreams?” asked George. - -“He has not even begun to haunt me yet. You do, though. I dreamed of you -the other night.” - -“You? How odd! What did you dream about me?” - -“Such a funny dream!” said Mamie, leaning forward and smelling the roses -beside her. It struck George as strange that the colour from the dark -red petals should be thrown up into her face by the rays of the sun, -though he knew something of the laws of incidence and reflection. - -“I dreamed,” continued Mamie, still holding the roses, “that I was very -angry with you. Then I took all the things you ever gave me, the -picture-books, and the broken doll, and the old racquet and the clock—by -the by, it goes beautifully—and I threw them all out of my window into -the street. And, of course, you were passing just at that moment, and -you brought them all into the house in a basket, nicely done up in pink -paper, and handed them back to me with that horrid smile you have when -you are going to say something perfectly hateful.” - -“And then, what happened?” inquired George, who was amused in spite of -himself. - -“Oh, nothing. I suppose I woke just then. I laughed over it the next -morning.” - -“But what made you so angry with me?” - -“Nothing—that is—the usual thing. The way you always behave to me at -parties.” - -George looked at her in silence for a second, before he spoke again. - -“Do you mean to say that you really care,” he asked, “whether I talk to -you at parties, or not?” - -“Of course I care!” exclaimed the young girl. “What a question!” - -“I am sure I cannot see why. I am not a very amusing person. But since -you would like me to talk to you, I will, as much as you please.” - -“It is too late now,” answered Mamie, laying down the roses she had held -so long. “Everything is over, or will be in a day or two, and you will -not get a chance unless you come and stay with us this summer. Why do -you never come and stay with us? I have often wondered.” - -“I was never asked,” said George indifferently. “I could not well come -without an invitation. And besides, I have generally been very busy in -the summer.” - -“Did they never ask you?” inquired Mamie in evident surprise. “Mamma -must have forgotten it.” - -“I daresay,” George replied, rather dreamily. His thoughts were -wandering from the conversation. - -“She shall, this time,” said Mamie with considerable emphasis. Then -there was silence for some moments. - -George did not know what she was thinking and cared very little to -inquire. He was conscious that the surroundings in which he found -himself were soothing to his humour, that Mamie’s harmless talk was -pleasant to his ear, and that if he had gone anywhere else on that -afternoon, he might have committed some act of folly which would have -had serious consequences. He was neither able nor anxious to understand -his own state, since, whatever it might be, he desired to escape from -it, and he was grateful for all external circumstances which helped his -forgetfulness. He was no doubt conscious that it would be out of the -question to recover from such a shock as he had received without passing -through much suffering on his way to ultimate consolation. But he had -been stunned and overcome by what had happened. The first passion of -almost uncontrollable anger that swept over his nature had left him dull -and almost apathetic for the time, bruised and willing to accept -thankfully any peace that he could find. - -Presently, Mamie turned the conversation to his books and talked -enthusiastically of his success. She had read what he had written with -greater care and understanding than he had expected of her, and she -quoted whole passages from his novels, puzzling him sometimes with her -questions, but pleasing him in spite of himself by her sincere and -admiring appreciation. At last he rose to leave her. - -“I wish you would stay,” she said regretfully. But he shook his head. -“Why not stay the rest of the afternoon?” she suggested. “We are not -going out this evening and you could dine with us, just as you are.” - -This was altogether more than George wanted. He did not care to meet -Totty again on that day. - -“Then come again soon,” said Mamie. “I have enjoyed it so much—and we -are not going out of town for another fortnight.” - -“But you may not have another cold, Mamie,” George observed. - -“Oh, I will always have a cold, if you will come and sit with me,” -answered the young girl. - -When George was once more in the street, he stared about him as though -not knowing where he was. Then, when the full force of his -disappointment struck him for the second time, he found it hard to -believe that he had been spending an hour in careless conversation with -his cousin. He looked at his watch mechanically, and saw that it was -late in the afternoon. It was as though a dream had separated him from -his last interview with Constance Fearing. Of that, at least, he had -forgotten nothing; not a word of what she had said, or of what he had -answered, had escaped his memory, every syllable was burned into the -page of his day. Then came the great question, which had not suggested -itself at first. Why had all this happened? What hidden reason was there -in obedience to which Constance had so suddenly cast him off? Had she -weakly yielded to Grace’s influence? He had little faith in Grace’s -assurance that she had been silent, nor in Constance’s confirmation of -the statement. And Constance was weak. He had often suspected it, and -had even wondered whether she would withstand the pressure brought to -bear upon her and against himself. Yet her weakness alone did not -explain what she had done. It had needed strength of some sort to face -him, to tell him to his face what she had first told him through her -sister’s words. But her weakness had shown itself even then. She had -wept and hidden her face and cried out that he was breaking her heart, -when she was breaking his. George ground his heel upon the pavement. - -Her heart, indeed! She had none. She was but a compound of nerves, -prettiness and vanity, and he had believed her the noblest, bravest and -best of women. He had lavished upon her with his lips and in his books -such language as would have honoured a goddess, and she had turned out -to be only a weak shallow-hearted girl, ready to break an honest man’s -heart, because she did not know her own mind. He cursed his ignorance of -human nature and of woman’s love, as he strode along the street toward -his own home. Yet, rave as he would, he could not hate her, he could not -get rid of the sharp pain that told him he had lost what he held most -dear and was widowed of what he had loved best. - -When he was at home and in his own room he became apathetic again. He -had never known himself subject to such sudden changes of humour and at -first he vaguely imagined that he was going to be ill, and that his -nerves would break down. His father had not yet come home from the walk -which was a part of his regular mode of life. George sat in his deep old -easy-chair by the corner of his table and wondered whether all men who -were disappointed in love felt it as he did. He tried to smoke and then -gave it up in disgust. He rose from his seat and attempted to arrange -the papers that lay in heaps about the place where he wrote, but his -fingers trembled oddly and he felt alternately hot and cold. He opened a -book and tried to read, but the effort to concentrate his attention was -maddening. He felt as though he must be stifled in the little room that -had always seemed a haven of rest before, and yet he did not know where -to go. He threw open the window and stood looking at the rows of windows -just visible above the brick wall at the back of the road. The shadows -were deepening below and the sky above was already stained with the glow -of evening. The prospect was not beautiful, but the cool air that fanned -his face was pleasant to his senses, and he remained standing a long -time, so long indeed that the stars began to shine overhead before he -drew back and returned to his seat. Far down in his sensitive character -there was a passionate love of all that is beautiful in the outer world. -He hid it from every one, for some reason which he could not explain, -but he occasionally let it show itself in his writings and the passages -in which he had written of nature as it affected him, had not failed to -be noticed for their peculiar grace and tenderness of execution. Since -he had begun to write books all nature had become associated with -Constance. He had often wondered what the connecting link could be, but -had found no answer to the question. A star in the evening sky, a ray of -moonlight upon rippling water, the glow of the sunset over drifted snow, -the winnowed light of summer’s afternoon beneath old trees, the scent of -roses wet with dew, the sweet smell of country lanes when a shower had -passed by—all these things acted like a charm upon him to raise the -vision of Constance before his eyes. To-night he could not bear to look -at the bright planet that was shining in that strip of exquisitely soft -sky above the hard brick buildings. - -That evening he sat with his father, a rather rare occurrence since he -had gone so much into the world. The old gentleman had looked often at -him during their meal but had said nothing about the careworn look of -exhaustion that he saw in his son’s face. It was nearly ten o’clock when -Jonah Wood laid down his book by his side and raised his eyes. George -had been trying to read also, and during the last half-hour he had -almost succeeded. - -“What is the matter with you, George?” asked his father. - -George let his book fall upon his knee and stared at the lamp for a few -seconds. He did not want sympathy from his father nor from any one else, -but as he supposed that he would be unable to conceal his nervousness -and ill temper for a long time to come, and as his father was the person -who would suffer the consequences of both, he thought it better to speak -out. - -“I do not think there is anything the matter with my bodily condition,” -he answered at last. “I am afraid I am bad company, and shall be for a -few days. This afternoon, Miss Fearing refused to marry me. I loved her. -That is what is the matter, father.” - -Jonah Wood uncrossed his legs and crossed them again in the opposite way -rather suddenly, which was his especial manner when he was very much -surprised. Mechanically, he took up his book again, and held it before -his eyes. Then his answer came at last in a rather indistinct voice. - -“I am sorry to hear that, George. I had thought she was a nice girl. But -you are well out of it. I never did think much of women, anyhow, except -your dear mother.” - -So far as words went, that was all the consolation George got from his -father; but he knew better than to suppose that the old gentleman would -waste language in condolence, whatever he might feel. That he felt -something, and that strongly, was quite evident from the fact that -although he conscientiously held his book before his eyes during the -half-hour that followed, he never once turned over the page. - -George rested little that night, and when at last he was sound asleep in -the broad daylight, he was awakened by a knock at the door and a voice -calling him. On looking out a note was handed to him, addressed in Totty -Trimm’s brisk, slanting, ladylike writing. He was told that an answer -was expected and that the messenger was waiting. - -“Dear George,” Totty wrote, “I cannot tell you how amazed and distressed -I am. I do hope there is not a word of truth in it, and that you will -write me so at once. It is all over New York that Conny Fearing has -jilted you in the most abominable way! Of course we all knew that you -had been engaged ever so long. If it is true, she is a cruel, heartless, -horrid girl, and she never deserved you. Do write, and do come and see -me this afternoon. I shall not go out at all for fear of missing you. I -am so, so sorry! In haste.—Your affectionate - - TOTTY.” - -George swore a great oath, then and there. He had not mentioned the -subject to any one but his father, so that either Constance or Grace -must have told what had happened. - -That the story really was “all over New York,” as Totty expressed it, he -found out very soon. - - - - - CHAPTER XV. - - -Totty had lost no time in spreading the report that everything was -broken off between George Wood and Constance Fearing, and she had done -it so skilfully that no one would have thought of tracing the story to -her, even if it had proved to be false. She had cared very little what -George himself thought about it, though she had not failed to see that -he would lay the blame of the gossip on the Fearings. The two girls, -indeed, could have no object in circulating a piece of news which did -not reflect much credit upon themselves. What Totty wanted was in the -first place that George should know that she was acquainted with his -position, in order that she might play the part of the comforter and -earn his gratitude. She could not of course question him directly, and -she was therefore obliged to appear as having heard the tale from -others; to manage this with success, it was necessary that the -circumstances of the case should be made common property. Secondly, and -here Totty’s diplomatic instinct showed itself at its strongest, she was -determined to prevent all possibility of a renewal of relations between -Constance and George. In due time, probably in twenty-four hours at the -latest, both Constance and Grace would know that all society was in -possession of their secret. Having of course not mentioned it themselves -to any one, they would feel sure that George had betrayed them in his -anger, and would be proportionately incensed against him. If both -parties should be so angry as to come to an explanation, which was -improbable, neither would believe the other, the quarrel would grow and -the breach would be widened. Totty herself would of course take George’s -part, as would the majority of his acquaintance, and he would be -grateful for such friendly support at so trying a time. - -Matters turned out very nearly as Mrs. Sherrington Trimm had -anticipated. There was, indeed, a slight variation in the programme, but -she was not aware of it at the time, and if she had noticed it she would -not have attached to it the importance it deserved. It chanced that -Constance and Grace Fearing and George Wood had been asked with certain -other guests to dine with a certain young couple lately returned from -their wedding tour in Europe. The invitations had been sent and accepted -on the last day of April, that is to say on the day preceding the one on -which Constance gave George her definite refusal, and the dinner was to -take place three or four days later. Now the young couple, who had -bought a small place on the Hudson river, and were anxious to move into -it as soon as possible, took advantage of those three or four days to go -up to their country-house and to arrange it for themselves according to -their ideas of comfort. They returned to town on the morning of their -party and were of course ignorant of the gossip which had gone the -rounds in their absence. Late on the afternoon of the day the husband -came home from his club in great distress to tell his wife that -Constance Fearing had thrown over George Wood and that the two were not -on speaking terms. It was too late to make any excuse to their guests, -so as to divide the party and give two separate dinners on different -days. The worst of it was, that their table was small, the guests had -been carefully arranged, and George Wood must inevitably sit beside -either Constance or Grace. The young couple were in despair and spent -all the time that was left in trying vainly to redistribute the places. -There was nothing to be done but to put George next to Grace and to -effect a total ignorance of the difficulty. At the last moment, however, -the young hostess thought she could improve matters by speaking a word -to George when he arrived. Constance and her sister, however, came -before him. - -“I am so sorry!” said the lady of the house quickly in the ear of the -elder girl, as she drew her a little aside. “Mr. Wood is coming—we have -been out of town, and knew nothing about it—I do hope——” - -“I am very glad he is to be here,” answered Constance. She was very pale -and very calm. - -“Oh dear!” exclaimed the hostess, growing very red. “I hope I have said -nothing——” - -“Not at all,” said Constance reassuring her. “There is a foolish bit of -gossip in the air, I believe. The facts are very simple. Mr. Wood is a -very old and good friend of mine. He asked me to marry him, and I could -not. I like him very much and I hope we shall be as good friends as -before. If there is any blame in the matter I wish to bear it. There he -is.” - -The hostess felt better after this, but her curiosity was excited, and -as George entered the room she went forward to meet him. - -“I am so sorry,” she said. “The Fearings are here and you will have to -sit next to the younger one. You see we have only just heard—I am so -sorry.” - -George Wood inclined his head a little. He was very quiet and grave. - -“I may as well tell you at once,” he said, “that there is not a word of -truth in the story they are telling. I shall be very much obliged if you -will deny it when you hear it mentioned. There never was any engagement -between Miss Fearing and me.” - -“Well, I am very glad to hear it. Pray, forgive me,” said the lady of -the house. - -George met Constance with his most impenetrably civil manner and they -exchanged a few words which neither of them understood while they were -speaking them, nor remembered afterwards. They both spoke in a low voice -and the impression produced upon the many curious eyes that watched them -was that they were on very good terms, though slightly embarrassed by -the consciousness that they were being so much talked of. - -At the dinner-table George found himself next to Grace. For some time he -talked with his neighbour on his other side, then turned and inquired -when Grace and her sister were going out of town, and what they intended -to do during the summer. She, on her part, while answering his -questions, looked at him with an air of cold and scornful surprise. -Presently there was a brief burst of general conversation. Under cover -of the numerous voices Grace asked a direct question. - -“What do you mean by telling such a story as every one is repeating -about my sister?” she asked. - -George’s eyes gleamed angrily for a moment and his answer came sharply -and quickly. - -“You would do better to ask that of yourself—or of Miss Fearing. I have -said nothing.” - -“I do not intend to discuss the matter,” Grace answered icily. “If the -story were true it would hurt us and we should not tell it. But it is a -lie, and a malicious lie.” She turned her head away. - -“Miss Fearing,” George said, bending towards her a little, “I do not -intend to be accused of such doings by any one. Do you understand? If -you will take the trouble to ask the man on your left, he will tell you -that I have denied the story everywhere during the last four days.” - -Grace looked at him again, and there was a change in her face. She was -about to say something in reply, when the general talk, which had -allowed them to speak together unheard, was interrupted by an unexpected -pause. - -“Do you prefer Bar Harbour to Newport, Miss Fearing?” George inquired in -a tone which led every one to suppose that they had been discussing the -comparative merits of watering-places. - -The young girl smiled as she made an indifferent answer. She liked the -man’s coolness and tact in such small things. He was ready, -imperturbable and determined, possessing three of the qualities which -women like best in man. A little later another chance of exchanging a -few words presented itself. This time Grace spoke less abruptly and -coldly. - -“If you have said nothing, who has told the tale?” she asked. - -“I do not know,” George answered, keeping his clear eyes fixed on hers. -“If I knew, I would tell you. It is a malicious lie, as you say, and it -must have been set afloat by a malicious person—by some one who hates us -all.” - -“Some one who hates my sister and me. It cannot injure you in any way.” - -“That is true,” said George. “It had not struck me at first, because I -was so angry at hearing the story. Does your sister imagine that I have -had anything to do with it?” - -“Yes,” Grace answered, and her lip curled a little. George misunderstood -her expression and drew back rather proudly. The fact was that Grace was -thinking how Constance accused herself every day of having been -heartless and cruel, declaring in her self-abasement that even if George -had chosen to tell the story he would have had something very like a -right to do so. Grace had no patience with what she regarded as her -sister’s weakness. - -To the delight of the young couple who gave the dinner it passed off -very pleasantly. There had been no apparent coldness anywhere, and they -were persuaded that none existed. - -“Will you be kind enough to tell your sister what I have told you?” said -George to his neighbour as they rose from the table. - -“If you like,” she answered indifferently. “Unless you prefer to tell -her yourself.” The emphasis she put on the last part of the sentence -showed plainly enough what her opinion was. - -“I will,” he said. - -A little later in the evening he sat down by Constance in a -comparatively quiet corner of the small drawing-room. - -“Will you allow me to say a few words to you?” he asked. - -She looked at him in pathetic surprise, and if he had been a little more -vain than he was, he would have seen that she was grateful to him for -coming to her. - -“I am always glad when you talk to me,” she said, and her voice trembled -perceptibly. - -“You are very good,” he answered in a tone that meant nothing. “I would -not trouble you if it did not seem necessary. I have been talking about -the matter to your sister at dinner. I wish you to know that I have had -nothing to do with the invention of the story that is going the rounds -of the town. I have denied it to every one, and I shall continue to deny -it.” - -Constance glanced timidly at him, and then sighed as though she were -relieved of a burden. - -“I am very glad you have told me,” she said. - -“Do you believe me?” he asked. - -“I have always believed everything you have told me, and I always shall. -But if you had told some one what everybody is repeating, I should not -have blamed you. It would have been almost true.” - -“I do not say things which are only almost true,” said George very -coldly. - -Constance’s face, which had regained some of its natural colour while -she had been speaking with him, grew very white again, her lip trembled -and there were tears in her eyes. - -“Are you always going to treat me like this?” she asked, pronouncing the -words with difficulty, as though a sob were very near. - -If George had said one kind word at that moment, his history and hers -might have been very different from that day onwards. But the wound he -had received was yet too fresh, and moreover he was angry with her for -showing a tendency to cry, and he hardened his heart. - -“I trust,” he answered in a chilly tone, “that we shall always meet on -the best of terms.” - -A long silence followed, during which it was evident that Constance was -struggling to maintain some appearance of outward calm. When she felt -that she could command her strength, she rose and left him without -another word. It was the only thing left for her to do. She could not -allow herself to break down in a room full of people, before every one, -and she could not stay where she was without bursting into tears. She -had humbled herself to the utmost, she had been ready to offer every -atonement in her power, and he had met her with a face of stone and a -voice that cut her like steel. - -That was the last time he saw her before the summer season. She and her -sister left town suddenly the next day and George was left to his own -devices and to the tender consolation that was showered upon him by -Totty Trimm. But he was not easily consoled. As the days followed each -other his face grew darker and his humour more gloomy. He could neither -work nor read with any satisfaction and he found even less pleasure in -the society of men and women than in his own. He would not have married -Constance now, if she had offered herself to him, and implored him to -take her. If it had been possible, he would gladly have gone abroad for -a few months, in the hope of forgetting what had happened to him amidst -the varied discomforts, amusements and interests of travelling. But he -could not throw up certain engagements he had contracted, though at -first it seemed impossible to fulfil them. He promised himself that as -soon as he had accomplished his task he would start upon a journey -without giving himself the trouble of defining its ultimate direction. -For the present he remained sullenly in New York, sitting for hours at -his table, a pen held idly between his fingers, his uneasy glance -wandering from the paper before him to the wall opposite, from the wall -to the window, from the window to his paper again. He was neither -despondent nor hopeless. The more impossible he found it to begin his -work, the more unyieldingly he forced himself to sit in his chair, the -more doggedly he stuck to his determination. Writing had always seemed -easy to him before, and he admitted no reason for its being hard now. -With iron resolution he kept his place, revolving in his mind every -situation and story of which he had ever heard and of which he believed -he could make use. But though he turned, and twisted, and tormented -every idea that presented itself, he could find neither plot nor scene -nor characters in the aching void of his brain. Hour after hour, day -after day, he did his best, growing thinner and more tired every day, -feeling each afternoon more exhausted by the fruitless contest he was -sustaining against the apathy of his intelligence. But when the stated -time for work was past, and he pushed back the sheet of paper, sometimes -as white as when he had taken it in the morning, sometimes covered with -incoherent notes that were utterly worthless, when he felt that he had -done his duty and could not be held responsible for the miserable -result, when his head ached, his brow was furrowed, and his sight had -become uncertain, then at last he gave himself up to the contemplation -of his own wretchedness and to the pain of his utter desolation. - -Totty did her best to attract him to her house as often as possible. He -was vaguely surprised that she should stay so long in town, but he -troubled himself very little about her motives, and as he never made any -remark to her on the subject, she volunteered no explanation. She would -have found it hard to invent one if she had been pressed to do so. It -was hotter than usual at that season, and Mamie was greatly in need of a -change. Totty could not plead a desire to make economies as a plausible -excuse with any chance of being believed, and even Tom Craik, whose -health usually supplied her with reasons for doing anything she wanted -to do, had betaken himself to Newport. She seemed to have lost her -interest in his movements and doings of late and had begun to express a -pious belief that only heaven itself could interfere successfully when a -man took such rash liberties with his health. Mr. Craik, indeed, lived -by the book of arithmetic as Tybalt fought, his food was weighed, his -hours of sleep and half-hours of repose were counted and regulated by -untiring attendants, the thickness of his clothing at each season was -prescribed by a great authority and his goings out and comings in were -registered for the latter’s inspection, carriage-makers invented -vehicles for his use, upholsterers devised systems of springs and -cushions for his rest and when he travelled he performed his journeys in -his own car. It was hard to see where Totty could have been of use to -him, since he did not care for her conversation and could buy better -advice than she could give. - -If George had even suspected that Totty was responsible for the report -spread concerning him and Constance, he would have renounced his -cousin’s acquaintance and would never have entered her house again, not -even for the sake of his old friendship with Sherry Trimm. But Totty’s -skill and tact had not been at fault. In her own opinion she had made -one failure in her life and one mistake. She had failed to induce her -brother to change his will a second time, and she had committed a very -grave error in opening the will itself in the strong room instead of -bringing it home with her and lifting the seal with a hot knife, so as -to be able to restore it with all its original appearance of security. -The question of the will still disturbed her, but she was not a cowardly -woman, and, in particular, she was not afraid of her husband. If worst -came to worst, she would throw herself upon his mercy, confess her -curiosity, give him back the document, clear her conscience and let him -scold as he pleased. He would never tell any one, and Totty was not -afraid of making great personal sacrifices when she could escape from a -situation in no other way. At the present time the main thing of -importance was to please George, and to induce him to make her house his -own as much as possible. If Sherrington, knowing George’s financial -situation, came back and found him engaged to marry Mamie, it would not -be human in him to bear malice against his wife for the part she had -played. Remorse she had none. She only regretted that she should have so -far forgotten her caution as to do clumsily what she had done. She would -neither fail nor make mistakes again. - -She knew what she meant to do, and she knew how to do it. A man in -George’s situation is not easily affected by words no matter how -skilfully put together nor how kindly uttered. He either does not hear -them at all, or pays no attention to them, or puts no faith in them. It -is more easy to soothe his humour by giving him agreeable surroundings -than by talking to him. He has no appetite, but he may be tempted by new -and exquisite dishes. He wants stimulants, and an especial brand of very -dry champagne flatters his palate, exhilarates his nervous system and -produces no evil consequences. He smokes more than is good for him, and -in that case it is better that he should smoke the most delicate cigars -imported directly from Havana, than that he should saturate his brain -with nicotine from a vulgar pipe—Totty thought all pipes vulgar. The -love-lorn wretch is uneasy, but he is less restless when he is left to -himself for half an hour after dinner, in an absolutely perfect -easy-chair, with an absolutely perfect light, and with all the newest -and greatest reviews of the world at his elbow. He loathes the thought -of conversational effort, but he can listen with a lazy satisfaction to -the social chatter of a clever mother and her beautiful daughter, or his -sensitive ears may even bear the reading aloud of the last really good -novel. It is distressing to learn the next day that he does not remember -the name of the hero nor the colour of the heroine’s hair, and that he -does not care to hear any more of the book. But it is no matter. -Feminine invention is not at an end. It is late in May and there is a -full moon. Would he enjoy a drive in the Park? He may smoke in the open -carriage, if he pleases, for both the ladies like it. Or it will be -Sunday to-morrow, and he never works on Sunday. Would it be very wrong -to run out for the day on board of Mr. Craik’s yacht, instead of going -to church? Totty has the use of the yacht whenever she likes, and she -can take her prayer-book on board and read the service with Mamie while -George lies on deck and meditates. It is a steam-yacht, and it is no -matter whether the weather is calm or not. If he likes they can go up -the river with her instead. Or would he not care to have a horse waiting -for him at seven in the morning at the corner of the Park? There are all -those horses eating their heads off. It would be too early for Mamie to -ride with him, unless he positively insists upon it, but it could not -interfere with his day’s work. He has forgotten to write a letter? Poor -fellow, when he has been working all day long. It is a very important -letter, and must be posted to-night. There is the luxurious -writing-table with its perfect appliances, its shaded candles, the -beautiful “Charta Perfecta,” the smoothly-flowing ink that is changed -every morning, the very pens he always uses, the spotless -blotting-paper, wax and seals, if he needs them, and postage-stamps -ready and separated from each other in the silver box—there is even a -tiny sponge set in a little stand on which to moisten them, lest the -coarse taste of the Government gum should offend the flavour of the -Turkish coffee he has been drinking. He has an idea? He would like to -make notes? There is the library beyond that door. It is lighted. He has -only to shut himself in as long as he pleases. There is a box of those -cigars on the table. He has forgotten his handkerchief? A touch of the -bell, an order, and here are two of dear Sherrington’s, silk or linen, -whichever he prefers. The evening is hot? The windows are open and there -is a mint-julep with a straw in it by his side. Or is it a little -chilly? Everything is closed, the lamps are all lighted, and the subtle -perfume of Imperial tea floats on the softened air. All is noiseless, -perfect, soothing, beyond description, and yet so natural that he cannot -feel as though it gave the least thought or trouble, nor as if it were -all skilfully prepared for his especial benefit. He wonders why Sherry -Trimm ever goes to the club, when he could spend his evenings in such a -home, he closes his eyes, thinks of his unwritten book and asks himself -whether the wheel of fortune will ever in its revolutions give him a -right of his own to such supreme refinement of comfort. - -It would have been strange, indeed, if George’s humour had not been -somewhat softened by so much luxury. He had liked what he could taste of -it in his old days, when Totty had hardly ever asked him to dinner and -had never expected to see him in the evening, in the days when he was a -poor, unhappy nobody, and only a shabby relation of Mrs. Sherrington -Trimm’s. There had not been much done for his comfort then, when he came -to the house, but the softness of the carpets, the elasticity of the -easy-chairs and the harmony of all details had seemed delightful to him, -and Totty had always been kind and good-natured. But he had seen many -things in the last two years, and was by no means so ready to be pleased -as he had been when his only evening coat had been in a chronic state of -repair. He had eaten terrapin and canvas-back off old Saxon china, and -he had looked upon the champagne when it was of the most expensive -quality. He had dined in grandeur with men whose millions were legion, -and he had supped with epicures who knew what they got for their money. -He had seen all sorts of society in his native city, all sorts of vulgar -display, all sorts of unostentatious but enormously expensive luxury, -all sorts of gilded splendour, and all sorts of faultless refinements in -taste. But now, after he had dined and spent the evening with Totty half -a dozen times in the course of a fortnight, he was ready to admit that -he had never been in an establishment so perfect at all points, so -quietly managed, so absolutely comfortable and so unpretentiously -sybaritic in all its details. Totty and her husband were undoubtedly -rich, but they were no richer than hundreds of people he knew. It was -not money alone that produced the results he saw, and the certainty that -the household was managed upon a sort of artistic principle of enjoyment -gave him intense satisfaction. There was the same difference between -Totty’s way of living and that of most of her friends, that there is -between a piece of work done by hand and the stereotyped copy of it made -by machinery, the same difference there is between an illuminated -manuscript and its lithographed fac-simile. The one is full of the -individuality of the great artist, the other presents the perfection of -execution without inspiration. The one charms, the other only pleases. - -George appreciated most thoroughly at the end of the first week -everything he ate, drank, felt and saw at his cousin’s house, and what -he heard was by no means as wearisome to his intelligence as he had -supposed that it must be. Totty was far too clever a woman to flatter -him openly, for she was keen enough to perceive that he was one of those -men who feel a sort of repulsion for the work they have done and who put -little faith in the judgment of others concerning it. She soon found out -that he did not care to see his books lying upon the drawing-room table -and that he suspected her of leaving them there with the deliberate -intention of flattering him. They disappeared into the shelves of the -library and were seen no more. But when George was reading the papers or -a review—a form of rudeness in which she constantly encouraged him, she -occasionally took the opportunity of introducing into her quiet -conversation with Mamie some expression or some thought which he had -used or developed in his writings. She avoided quotation, which she had -always considered vulgar, and exercised her ingenuity in letting his -favourite ideas fall from her lips in a perfectly natural manner. Though -he was not supposed to be listening, he often heard her remarks, and was -unconsciously pleased. The subtlety of the flatterer could go no -further. Nor was that part of the talk which concerned himself neither -directly nor indirectly by any means tiresome. Totty possessed very good -powers of conversation, and could talk very much better than most women -when she pleased. If she pretended to abhor the name of culture and -generally affected an air of indifference to everything that did not -affect her neighbours or herself, she did so with a wise premeditation -and an excellent judgment of her hearers’ capacities. But her own -husband was fond of more intelligent subjects, and was a man of varied -experience and wide reading, who liked to talk of what he read and saw. -Totty’s memory was excellent, and as she gave herself almost as much -trouble to please Sherrington as she was now taking to please George, -she had acquired the art of amusing her husband without any apparent -exertion. What she said was never very profound, unless she had got it -by heart, but the matter of it was generally clear and very fairly well -expressed. - -As for Mamie, she was perfectly happy, for she was unconsciously very -much in love with George, and to see him so often and in such intimacy -was inexpressibly delightful. It was a pleasure even to see him sitting -silent in his chair, it was happiness to hear him speak and it was -positive joy to wait upon him. She had been more disturbed than she had -been aware by his evident devotion to Constance Fearing during the -winter. The gossip about the broken engagement had given her the keenest -pain, due to the fact, as she supposed, that Constance was totally -unworthy of the man she had jilted. But George’s own assurance that no -engagement had ever existed had driven the clouds from her sky, although -his own subsequent conduct might well have aroused her suspicions. -Totty, however, took good care to explain to her that the talk had been -entirely without foundation and that George’s silence and gloomy ways -were the result of overwork. She hoped, she said, to induce him to spend -the summer with them and to give himself a long rest. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI. - - -“Dear George,” said Totty, one evening near the end of May, “I hate the -idea of going away and leaving you here in the heat!” - -“So do I,” answered George, thoughtfully, as he turned in his chair and -looked at his cousin’s face. - -“I am sure you will fall ill. There will be nobody to take care of you, -no place where you can drop in to dinner when you feel inclined, and -where you can do just as you like. And yet—you see how Mamie is looking! -I cannot conscientiously keep her here any longer.” - -“Good heavens, Totty, you must not think of it! You do not mean to say -you have been waiting here only on my account?” - -Totty Trimm hesitated, withdrew one tiny foot, of which the point had -projected beyond the skirt of her tea-gown, and then put out the other -and looked at it curiously. They were both so small and pointed that -George could not have told which was the right and which the left. She -hesitated because she had not anticipated the question. George was not -like other men. He would not be flattered by merely being informed that -the whole Sherrington Trimm establishment had been kept up a month -beyond the usual time, on a war footing, as it were, for his sole and -express benefit. Most men would be pleased at being considered of enough -importance to be told such a thing, though they might not believe the -statement altogether. It was necessary that George should know that -Totty was speaking the truth, if she answered his question directly. She -hesitated and looked at the point of her little slipper. - -“What does it matter?” she asked, suddenly, looking up and smiling at -him affectionately. - -It was very well done. The strongest asseverations could not have -expressed more clearly her readiness to sacrifice everything she could -to his comfort. George was touched. - -“You have been very good to me, Totty. I cannot thank you enough.” He -took her hand and pressed it warmly. - -“What is the use of having friends unless they will stand by you?” she -asked, returning the pressure, while her face grew grave and sad. - -Since she had written her first note after his disappointment, she had -never referred to his troubles. He had answered her on that occasion as -he answered every one, by saying that there had never been any -engagement, and he had marvelled at her exceeding tact in avoiding the -subject ever since. Her reference to it now, however, seemed natural, -and did not hurt him. - -“You have been more than a friend to me,” he answered. “I feel as though -you were my sister—only, if you were, I suppose I should be less -grateful.” - -“No, you would not,” said Totty with a smile of genuine pleasure -produced of course by the success of her operations. “Do you want to do -something to please me? Something to show your gratitude?” - -“Whatever I can——” - -“Come and spend the summer with us—no, I do not mean you to make a visit -of a month or six weeks. Pack up all your belongings, come down with us -and be one of the family, till we are ready to come back to town. Make -your headquarters with us, write your book, go away and make visits for -a week when you like, but consider that our house is your home. Will -you?” - -“But, Totty, you would be sick of the sight of me——” Visions of an -enchanted existence by the river rose before George’s eyes. He was to -some extent intellectually demoralised, and every agreeable prospect in -the future resolved itself into the thought of mental rest superinduced -by boundless luxury and material comfort. - -“What an idea!” exclaimed Totty indignantly. “Besides, if you knew how -interested I am in making the proposal, you would see that you would be -conferring a favour instead of accepting one.” - -She laughed softly when she had finished the sentence, thinking how very -true her words were. - -“I cannot understand how,” George answered. “Please explain. I really -cannot see how I shall be conferring a favour by eating your wonderful -dinners and drinking that champagne of Sherry’s.” - -Totty laughed again. - -“I wish you would finish it! It would be ever so much better for his -liver, if you would.” - -She wondered what George would think if he knew that a fresh supply of -that particular brand of brut was already on its way from France, -ordered in the hope that he might accept the invitation she was now -pressing upon him. - -“And as for the cook,” she continued, “he will do nothing unless there -is a man in the party. That is it, George. I have told you now. Dear -Sherry is not coming back until the autumn, and Mamie and I feel -dreadfully unprotected down there all by ourselves. Please, please come -and take care of us. I knew you would come—oh, I am so glad! It is such -a relief to feel that you will be with us!” - -As indeed it was, since if George was under Totty’s personal supervision -there would be no chance of his returning to his former allegiance to -Constance. George himself saw that her reasons were not serious, and -considering the previous conversation and its earnest tone, he thought -that he saw through Totty’s playfulness and kindly wish to do a very -friendly action. - -“I will tell you what I will do,” he said. “I will come for a month——” - -“No—I will not have you for a month, nor for two months—the whole summer -or nothing.” - -So George at last consented, and left town two or three days later with -Mrs. Sherrington Trimm and her daughter. He had felt that in some way he -was acting weakly, and that he had yielded too easily to his cousin’s -invitation, but if he had been in any doubt about her sincere desire to -keep him during the whole season, his anxiety was removed when as soon -as he was established in his new quarters Totty immediately began to -talk of plans for the months before them, in all of which George played -a principal part, and Mamie took it for granted that there was to be no -separation until they should all go back to New York together. During -the first few days George allowed himself to be utterly idle and let the -hours pass with an indifference to all thought which he had never known -before. - -He had been transported into a sort of fairyland, of which he had -enjoyed occasional glimpses at other times, but which he had never had -an opportunity of knowing intimately. It was unlike anything in his -experience. Even the journey had not reminded him of other journeys, for -it had been performed in that luxurious privacy which is dear to the -refined American. Mr. Craik’s yacht was permanently at his sister’s -disposal, and on the morning appointed for the departure she and Mamie -and George had driven down to the pier at their leisure and had gone on -board. It had been but a step from the perfectly appointed house in the -city to the equally perfect dwelling on the water, and only one step -more from the snowy deck of the yacht to the flower garden before the -country mansion on the banks of the great river. Everything had been -ready for them, on board and on shore, and George could not realise when -the journey was over that he had been carried over a distance which he -formerly only traversed in the heat and dust of a noisy train, or on the -crowded deck of a river steamboat. He had passed the hot hours sitting -under the cool shade of a double awning, in the most comfortable of -chairs beside Mamie Trimm and opposite to her mother. There had been no -noise, no tramping of sailors, no blowing of whistles, no shouting of -orders. From time to time, indeed, he caught a glimpse of the captain’s -feet as he paced the bridge, but that was all. At mid-day a servant had -appeared and Totty had glanced at him, glanced at the table beside her -and nodded. Immediately luncheon had been served and George had -recognised the touch of the master in the two or three delicacies he had -tasted, and had found in his glass wine of the famous brand which was -said to have caused Sherry Trimm’s sufferings. He had divided with Mamie -a priceless peach, which had no natural right to be ripe on the last day -of May, and Totty had selected for him a little bunch of muscat grapes -such as he might not have eaten in the south before September. George -tasted the ambrosia and swallowed the nectar, and enjoyed the beautiful -scenery, the two pretty faces and the pleasant voices in his ear, -thinking, perhaps, of the old times when after a desperate morning’s -work at reviewing trash, he had sat down to a luncheon of cold meat, -pickles and tea. The thought of the contrast made the present more -delightful. - -The spell was not broken, and Totty’s country-house prolonged without -interruption the series of exquisite sensations which had been -intermittent during the last month in New York. If Totty had intended to -play the part of the tempter instead of being the chief comforter, she -could not have done it with a more diabolical skill. She believed that a -man could always be more easily attacked by the senses than by his -intelligence, and she put every principle of her belief into her acts. -She partly knew, and partly guessed, the manner of George’s former life, -the absence of luxury, the monotony of an existence in which common -necessities were always provided for in the same way, without stint but -without variety. Her art consisted in creating contrasts of unlike -perfections, so that the senses, unable to decide between the amount of -pleasure experienced yesterday, enjoyed to-day and anticipated -to-morrow, should be kept in a constant state of suspended judgment. She -had practised this system with her husband and it had often succeeded in -persuading him to let her have her own way, and she practised it -continually for her own personal satisfaction, as being the only means -of extracting all possible enjoyment from her existence. - -George fell under the charm without even making an effort to resist it. -Why, he asked himself dreamily, should he resist anything that was good -in itself and harmless in its consequences? His life had all at once -fallen in pleasant places. Should he disappoint Totty and give Mamie -pain by a sudden determination to break up all their plans and return to -the heat of the city? He could work here as well as anywhere else, -better if there was any truth in the theory that the mind should be more -active when the body is subject to no pain or inconvenience. A deal of -asceticism had been forced upon him since he had been seventeen years -old, and he believed that a surfeit of luxuries would do him no harm -now. He would get tired of it all, no doubt, and would be very glad to -go back to his more simple existence. - -Totty, however, was far too accomplished an Epicurean to allow her -patient a surfeit of anything. She watched him more narrowly than he -supposed and was ready with a change, not when she saw signs of fatigue -in his manner, his face or his appetite, but before that, as soon as she -had seen that he was pleased. She was playing a great game and her -attention never relaxed. There was a fortune at stake of which he -himself did not dream, and of which even she did not know the extent. -She had everything in her favour. The coast was clear, for Sherrington -was in Europe. The final scene was prepared, since Mamie was already in -love with George. She herself was a past master of scene-shifting and -her theatre was well provided with properties of every description. All -that was necessary was that the hero should take a fancy to the heroine. -But the very fact that it all looked so easy aroused Totty’s anxiety. -She said to herself that what appeared to be most simple was often, in -reality, most difficult, and she warned herself to be careful and -diffident of success. - -Fortunately Mamie was all she could desire her to be. She did not -believe in beauty as a means of attracting a disappointed man. Beauty -could only draw his mind into making comparisons, and comparisons must -revive recollection and reawaken regret. She had more faith in Mamie’s -subtle charm of manner, voice and motion than she would have had in all -the faultless perfections of classic features, queenly stature and royal -carriage. That charm of hers, gave her an individuality of her own, such -as Constance Fearing had never possessed, unlike anything that George -had ever noticed in other girls or women. Doubtless he might have too -much of that, too, as well as of other things, but Totty was even more -cautious of the effects she produced with Mamie than of those she -brought about by her minute attention to the management of her house. -And here her greatest skill appeared, for she had to play a game of -three-sided duplicity. She had to please George, without wearying him, -to regulate the intercourse between the two so as to suit her own ends, -and to invent reasons for making Mamie behave as she desired that she -should without communicating to the girl a word of her intentions. If -George appeared to have been enjoying especially a quiet conversation -with Mamie, he must be prevented from talking to her again alone for at -least twenty-four hours, and even then he must be allowed to please -himself in the matter. This was not easy, for Mamie was by this time -blindly in love with him, and if she were not watched would be foolish -enough to bore him by her frequent presence at his side. To keep her -away from him long enough to make him want her company needed much -diplomacy. If George went out for a turn in the garden, and if Mamie -joined him without an invitation, Totty could not pursue the pair in -order to protect George from being bored. Hitherto also, Mamie had made -no confidences to her mother and did not seem inclined to make any. -Manifestly, if an accident could happen by which Mamie could be brought -to betray herself to her careful parent, great advantages would ensue. -The careful parent would then appear as the firm and skilful ally of the -love-lorn daughter, the two would act in concert and great results might -be effected. Totty was not only really fond of George, in her own way, -but it would not have suited her that a hair of his head should be -injured. Nevertheless, she nourished all sorts of malicious hopes -against him at this stage. She wished that he might be thrown from his -horse and brought home unhurt but insensible, or that he might upset his -boat on the river under Mamie’s eyes—in short that something might -happen to him which should give Mamie a shock and throw her into her -mother’s arms. - -Providence, however, did not come to Totty’s assistance and she was -thrown upon her own resources, aided in some small degree by an -extraneous circumstance. The marriage of John Bond and Grace Fearing had -been talked of for a long time, and Totty one morning learned that it -was to take place immediately. She could not guess why they had chosen -to be married in the very middle of the summer, when all their friends -were out of town, and she had no inclination to go to the wedding, which -was to be conducted without any great gathering or display of festivity. -John Bond, as being Sherrington Trimm’s partner and an old friend of -Totty’s, urged her of course to come down to town for the occasion and -to bring Mamie, but the heat was intense, and as there would be nothing -to see and no one present with whom she would care to talk, and nothing -good to eat, and, on the whole, nothing whatever to do except to grin -and look pleased, Totty made up her mind that she would have nothing to -do with the affair, beyond sending Grace an expensive present. There -were no regular invitations sent out, and George received no notice of -what was happening. Totty, however, did not lose the opportunity of -talking to Mamie about it all, with a view to sounding her views upon -matrimony in general and upon her own future in particular. - -“Johnnie Bond is such a fine fellow!” said Totty to her daughter, when -they had been talking for some time. - -Mamie admitted that he was a very fine fellow, indeed. - -“Tell me, Mamie,” said her mother, assuming a tone at once cheerful and -confidential, “is not Johnnie Bond very nearly your ideal of what a -husband ought to be?” - -“Not in the least!” answered the young girl promptly. Totty looked very -much surprised. - -“No? Why, Mamie, I thought you always liked him so much!” - -“So I do, in a way. But he is not at all in my style, mamma.” - -“What is your style, as you call it?” Totty seemed intensely interested -as she paused for an answer. Mamie blushed, and looked down at a piece -of work she was holding. - -“Well—to begin with,” she said, speaking quickly, “Mr. Bond is -three-quarters lawyer and one-quarter idiot. At least I believe so. And -all the rest of him is boating and tennis and—everything one does, you -know—sport and all that. I never heard him make an intelligent remark in -his life, though papa says he is as clever as they make them, for a -lawyer of course. You know what I mean, mamma. He is one of those -dreadfully earnest young men, who do everything with a purpose, as if it -meant money, and they meant to get it. Oh, I could not bear to marry one -of them! They are all exactly alike—so many steam engines turned out by -the same maker!” - -“Dear me, Mamie!” laughed Mrs. Trimm. “What very decided opinions you -have!” - -“I suppose Grace Fearing has decided opinions, too, in the opposite -direction, or she would not have married him. I never can understand -her, either, with those great dark eyes and that determined -expression—she looks like a girl out of a novel, and I believe there is -no more romance about her than there is in a hat-stand! There cannot be, -if she likes Master Johnnie Bond—and there is no reason why she should -marry him unless she does like him, is there?” - -“None that I can see, but that is a very good one—good enough for any -one, I should think. You would not care for Johnnie Bond, but you may -care for some one else. You have not told me what your ideal would be -like.” - -“Where is the use? You ought to know, mamma, without being told.” - -“Of course I ought, child—only I am so stupid. Would he be dark or -fair?” - -“Dark,” answered the young girl, bending over her work. - -“And clever, I suppose? Of course. And slender, and romantic to look -at?” - -“Oh, don’t, mamma! Talk about something else.” - -“Why? I am not sure that we might not agree about the ideal.” - -“No!” exclaimed Mamie with a little half scornful laugh. “We should -never agree about him, because I would like him poor.” - -“You can afford to marry a poor man, if you please,” said Totty, -thoughtfully. “But would you not be afraid that he loved your money -better than yourself?” - -“No indeed! I should love him, and then—I should believe in him, of -course.” - -“Then I do not see why you should not marry your ideal after all, my -dear. Come, darling—we both know whom we are talking about. Why not say -it to each other? I would help you then. I am almost as fond of him as -you are.” - -Mamie blushed quickly and then turned pale. She looked suspiciously at -her mother. - -“You are not in earnest, mamma,” she said, after a short pause. - -“Indeed I am, child,” answered Mrs. Trimm, meeting her gaze fearlessly. -“Do you think that I have not known it for a long time? And do you think -I would have brought him here if I had not been perfectly willing that -you should marry him?” - -The young girl suddenly sprang up and threw her arms round her mother’s -neck. - -“Oh mamma, mamma! This is too good! Too good! Too good!” - -“Dear child!” exclaimed Totty, kissing her affectionately. “Is not your -happiness always the first thing in my mind? Would I not sacrifice -everything for that?” - -“Yes—you are so sweet and dear. I know you would,” said Mamie, sitting -down beside her and resting her head upon her mother’s plump little -shoulder. “But you see—I thought that nobody knew, because we have -always been together so much. And then I thought you would think what -you just said, about the money, you know. But it is not true—I mean it -would not be true. He would never care for that.” - -“No,” answered Totty, almost forgetting herself. “I should think not! I -mean—with his character—he is so honourable and fair—like your papa in -that. But Mamie, darling, do you think he——?” - -Totty stopped, conveying the rest of her question by means of an -inquiringly sympathetic smile. Mamie shook her head a little sadly, and -looked down. - -“I am afraid he never will,” she said, in a low voice. “And yet he -should, for I—oh mother! I love him so—you will never know!” - -She buried her face and her blushes in her hands upon her mother’s -shoulder. Totty patted her head affectionately and kissed her curls -several times in a very motherly way. Her own face was suffused with -smiles for she felt that she had done a very good day’s work, and was -surprised to think that it had been accomplished so easily. The fact was -that Mamie was only too ready to speak of what filled her whole life, -and had more than once been on the point of telling her mother all she -felt. She had supposed, however, that she knew the ways of her mother’s -wisdom, and that George’s poverty would always be an insuperable -obstacle. She did not now in the least understand why Totty made so -light of the question of money, and even in her great happiness at -finding such ready sympathy she thought it very strange that she should -have so completely mistaken her mother’s character. - -From that day, however, there was a tacit understanding between the two. -Mamie was in that singular and not altogether dignified position in -which a woman finds herself when she loves a man and has determined to -win him, though she is not loved in return. There are doubtless many -young women in the world who, whether for love or for interest, have -wooed and won their present husbands, though the latter have never found -it out, and would not believe it if it were told to them. Mamie differed -from most of these, however, in that she was as modest as she was -loving, and in her real distrust of her own advantages, which defect, or -quality, was perhaps at the root of her peculiar charm. She knew that -she was not beautiful, and she believed that beauty was a woman’s -strongest weapon. She had yet to learn that the way to men’s hearts is -not always through their eyes. - -After her confession to her mother she began to discover the value of -that ingenious lady’s experience and tact. At first, indeed, she felt a -modest hesitation in coolly doing what she was told, as a means of -winning George’s heart, but she soon found out that her mother was -always right and that she herself was generally wrong. - -“There is only one way of doing things,” said Totty, one day, “and that -is the right way. There is only one thing that a man really hates, and -that is, being bored. And men are very easily bored, my dear. A man -likes to have everything done for him in the most perfect way, but it -spoils his enjoyment to feel that it is done especially for him and for -nobody else. If you are afraid he will catch cold, do not run after him -with his hat, as though he were an invalid. That is only an example, -Mamie. Men have an immense body of tradition to sustain, and they do it -by keeping up appearances as well as they can. All men are supposed to -be brave, strong, honourable, enduring and generous. They are supposed -never to feel hot when we do, nor to catch cold when we should. It is a -part of their stage character never to be afraid of anything, and many -of them are far more timid than we are. I do not mean to say that dear -George has not all the qualities a man ought to have. Certainly not. He -is quite the finest fellow I ever knew. But he does not want you to -notice the fact. He wants you to take it for granted, just as much as -little Tippy Skiffington does, who is afraid of a mouse and would not -touch a dog that had no muzzle on for all he is worth, which is saying a -great deal. Dear George would not like it to be supposed that he cares -for terrapin and dry champagne any more than for pork and beans—and yet -the dear fellow is keenly alive to the difference. He does not want it -to be thought he could ever be bored by you or me, but he knows that we -know that he might be, and he expects us to use tact and to leave him -alone sometimes, even for a whole day. He will be much more glad to see -us the next time we meet him and will show it by giving himself much -more trouble to be agreeable. It is not true that if you run away men -will follow you. They are far too lazy for that. You must come to them, -but not too often. What they most want is amusement, and between their -amusements, to be allowed to do exactly what their high and mighty -intellects suggest to them, without comment. Never ask a man where he -has been, what he has seen, nor what he has heard. If he has anything to -tell, he will tell you, and if he has not you only humiliate him by -discovering the emptiness of his thoughts. Always ask his opinion. If he -has none himself, he knows somebody who has, no matter what the subject -may be. The difference between men and women is very simple, my dear. -Women look greater fools than they are, and men are greater fools than -they look—except in the things they know how to do and do well.” - -“George is not a fool about anything!” said Mamie indignantly. She had -been listening with considerable interest to her mother’s homily. - -“George, my dear,” answered Totty, “is very foolish not to be in love -with you at the present moment. Or, if he is, he is very foolish to hide -it.” - -“I wish you would not talk like that, mamma! I am not half good enough -for him.” - -Nevertheless Mamie consulted her mother and was guided by her. George -would ride—should she accept his proposal and go with him or not? A -word, a glance decided the matter for her, and George was none the -wiser. He could not help thinking, however, that Mamie was becoming an -extremely tactful young person, as well as a most agreeable companion. -One day he could not resist his inclination to tell her so. - -“How clever you are, Mamie!” he exclaimed after a pause in the -conversation. - -“I? Clever?” The girl’s face expressed her innocent astonishment at the -compliment. - -“Yes. You are a most charming person to live with. How in the world did -you know that I wanted to be alone yesterday, and that I wanted you to -come with me to-day?” George laughed. “Do I not always ask you to come -with me in precisely the same tone? Do I not always look as though I -wanted you to come? How do you always know?” - -Mamie was conscious that she blushed even more than she usually did when -she was momentarily embarrassed. Indeed, the blush had two distinct -causes on the present occasion. She had at first been delighted by the -compliment he had paid her, and then, immediately afterwards, when he -explained what he meant, she had felt her shame burning in her face. On -the previous day, as on the present afternoon, she had blindly followed -her mother’s advice, given by an almost imperceptible motion of the head -and eyes that had indicated a negation on the first occasion and assent -on the second. She was silent now, and could find no words with which to -answer his question. - -“How do you do it?” he asked again, wondering at her embarrassment, and -slackening the pace at which he rowed, for they were in a boat together -towards sunset. - -Mamie’s eyes suddenly filled with hot tears and she hid her face with -her small hands. - -“Why, Mamie dear, what is it?” George asked, resting on his oars and -leaning forward. - -“O George,” she sobbed, “if you only knew!” - - - - - CHAPTER XVII. - - -George did not forget Mamie’s strange behaviour in the boat, and he -devoted much time to the study of the problem it presented. To judge -from the girl’s conduct alone, she must be in love with him, and yet he -did not like the idea and took the greatest pains to keep it out of his -mind. He was not in the humour in which it is a pleasant surprise to a -man to discover unexpected affection for himself in a quarter where he -has not expected to find it. Moreover, if he had once made sure that -Mamie loved him, he would probably have thought it his duty to go away -as quickly as possible. Such a decision would have deprived him of much -that he enjoyed and it was desirable in the interests of his selfishness -that it should be put off as long as possible. - -At that time George began to feel the desire for work creeping upon him -once more. During a few weeks only had it been in his power to put away -the habit of writing, and to close his eyes to all responsibility. Those -had been days when the whole world had seemed to be upside down, as in a -dream, while he himself moved in the midst of a disordered creation, -uncertainty, like a soulless creature, without the capacity for -independent action nor the intelligence to form any distinct intention -from one moment to another. He took what he found in his way without -understanding, though not without an odd appreciation of what was good, -very much as Eastern princes receive European hospitality. He was -grateful at least that his life should be made so smooth for the time, -for he was dimly conscious that anything outwardly rough or coarse would -have exasperated him to madness. He believed that he thought a great -deal about the past, but when he attempted to give his meditations a -shape, they would accept none. In reality he was not thinking, though -the mirror of his memory was filled with fleeting reflections of his -former life, some clear and startlingly vivid, others distorted and -broken, but all more or less beautified by the shadowy presence of a -being he had loved better than himself, and from whom he was separated -for ever. - -With such a man, however, idleness was as impossible as the desire for -expression was irresistible. Since he had written his first book, and -had discovered what it was that he was born to do, he had taken up a -burden which he could not lay down and had sworn allegiance to a master -from whom he could not escape. Not even the bitter and overwhelming -disappointment that had come upon him could kill the desire to write. He -was almost ashamed of it at first, for he felt that though everything he -loved best in the world were dead before him, he should be driven within -a few weeks to take up his pen again and open his inner eyes and ears to -the play of his mind’s stage. - -The power to do certain things is rarely separated from the necessity -for doing them, and the fact that they are well done by no means proves -that the doer has forgotten the blow that recently overwhelmed his heart -in darkness and his daily life in an almost uncontrollable grief. There -are two lives for most men, whatever their careers may be, and the -absence of either of these lives makes a man produce an impression of -incompleteness upon those who know him. When any one lives only by the -existence of the heart, without active occupation, without manifesting -inclination, taste or talent for outward things, we say that he has no -interest in life, and is much to be pitied. But we say that a man is -heartless and selfish who appears to devote every thought to his -occupation and every moment to increasing the chances of his success. In -the lives of great men we search with an especial pleasure for all that -can show us the working of their hearts, and we remember with delight -whatever we find that indicates a separate and inner chain of events, of -which the links have been loves and friendships kept secret from the -world. The more nearly the two lives have coincided, the more happy we -judge the man to have been, the more out of tune and discordant with -each other, the more we feel that his existence must have seemed a -failure in his own eyes; and when we are told only of his doings before -the world, without one touch of softer feeling, we lay aside the book of -his biography and say that it is badly written and that we are surprised -to find that a man so uninteresting in himself should have exercised so -much influence over his times. - -George Wood had neither forgotten Constance, nor had he recovered from -the wound he had received, and yet within a day or two of his resuming -his work, he found that his love of it was not diminished nor his -strength to do it abated. It was not happiness to write, but it was -satisfaction. His hesitation was gone now, and his hand had recovered -its cunning. He no longer sat for hours before a blank sheet of paper, -staring at the wall and racking his brain in the hope that a character -of some sort would suddenly start into shape and life from the chaotic -darkness he was facing. Until the first difficulties that attend the -beginning of a book were overcome, he had still a lingering and -unacknowledged suspicion that he could do nothing good without the daily -criticism and unfailing applause he had been accustomed to receive from -Constance during his former efforts. When he was fairly launched, he -felt proud of being able to do without her. For the first time he was -depending solely upon his own judgment, as he had always relied upon his -own ideas, and his judgment decided that what he did was good. - -From that time the arrangement of his day took again the definite shape -in which he had always known it, and the mere distribution of his hours -between work and rest gave him back confidence in himself. He began to -see his surroundings from a more intelligent point of view, and to take -a keener interest in things and people. Though he had by no means -recovered from the first great shock of his life, and though in his -heart he was as bitter as ever against her who had inflicted it, yet his -mind was already convalescent and was being rapidly restored to its -former vigour. There was power in his imagination, strength in his -language and harmony in his style. What he thought took shape, and the -shape found expression. - -He soon found that under these circumstances life was bearable, and -often enjoyable. Very gradually, as his concentrated attention became -absorbed in his own creations, the face of Constance Fearing appeared -less often in his dreams, and the heartbroken tones of her voice rang -less continually in his ears. He was not forgetting, but the physical -impressions of sight and sound upon his senses were wearing off. -Occasionally indeed they would return with startling force and -vividness, awakening in him for one moment the reality of all he had -suffered. At such times he could see again, as though face to face, her -expression at the instant when she had seemed to relinquish the attempt -to soften him, and he could hear again the plaintive accents of her -words and the painful cadence of her sobbing voice. But such visitations -grew daily more rare and at last almost ceased altogether. - -For what he had done himself he felt no remorse. His mind was not made -like hers, and he would never be able to understand that she had done -violence to her own heart in casting him off. He would learn perhaps -some day to describe what she had done, to analyse her motives from his -own point of view, but he would never be able to think of her as she -thought of herself. In his eyes she would always be a little -contemptible, even when time’s charitable mists should have descended -upon the past and softened all its outlines. He was cut off from her by -one of the most impassable barriers which can be raised in the human -heart, by his resentment against himself for having been deceived. - -He did not ask himself whether he could ever love again. There was a -strength in his present position, which almost pleased him. He had done -with love and was free to speak of it as he chose, without regard for -any one’s feelings, without respect for the passion itself, if it suited -his humour. There had been nothing boyish in the pure and passionate -affection under which he had lived during two of the most important -years in his life. He had felt all that a man can feel in the deep -devotion to one spotless object. There would never again be anything so -high and noble and untainted in all the years that were to come for him, -and he knew it. The determination he had felt to be necessary in the -first moment of his anger had carried itself out almost without any -direction from his will. The Constance he had loved so dearly, was not -the Constance who had refused to marry him, and who had dealt him such a -cruel blow. The two were separated and he could still love the one, -while hating and despising the other. But although he might meet the -girl whose face and form and look and voice were those of her he had -lost, this second Constance could never take the other’s place. A word -from her could not put fire into his heart, nor raise in his brain the -vision of a magnificent inspiration. A touch from her hand could send no -thrill of pleasure through his frame, there would be no joy in looking -upon her fair face when next he saw it. She might say to him all that he -had once said to her, she might appeal passionately to the love that was -now dead, she might offer him her heart, her body and her soul. He -wanted none of the three now. The break had been final and definite, -love’s path had broken off upon the edge of the precipice, and though -she might stand on the old familiar way and beckon to him to come over -and meet her, there was that between them which no man could cross. - -Like all great passions the one through which George Wood had passed had -produced upon him a definite effect, which could be appreciated, if not -accurately measured. He was older in every way now than he had been two -years and a half earlier, but older chiefly in his understanding of -human nature. He knew, now, what men and women felt in certain -circumstances, his instinct told him truly what it had formerly only -vaguely suggested. The inevitable logic of life had taken him up as a -problem, had dealt with him as with a subject fitted to its hand, and -had forced upon him a solution of himself. Where he had entertained -doubts, he now felt certainty, where he had hesitated in expressing the -judgment of his tastes he now found his verdicts already considered and -only awaiting delivery. Many months later, when the book he was now -writing was published it was a new surprise to his readers. His first -attempts had been noticeable for their beauty, his last book was -remarkable for its truth. - -Meanwhile his intimacy with Mamie grew unheeded by himself. During the -many hours of each day in which he had no fixed occupation, he was -almost constantly with her, and their conversation was at last only -interrupted each evening to begin again the next afternoon, when he had -done his work and came out of his room in search of relaxation. He had -never found any explanation for her embarrassment on that day when he -had been rowing her about on the river, and after a time he had ceased -to seek for one. His brain was too busy with other things, and what he -wanted when he was with her was rest rather than exercise for his -curiosity in trying to solve the small enigmas of her girlish thoughts. -She was a very pleasant companion, and that was all he cared to know. -She brought about him an atmosphere of genuine and affectionate -admiration that gave him confidence in himself and smoothed the furrows -of his imagination when he had been giving that faculty more to do than -was good for it. - -Mamie, too, was happier than she had been a month earlier. She had no -longer to suffer the humiliation of taking her mother’s advice about -what she should do, and she could enjoy George’s company without feeling -that she had been told to enjoy it in her own interest. As she learned -to love him more and more, she was quick also to understand his ways. -Signs that had formerly escaped her altogether were now as clear to her -comprehension as words themselves. She knew, now, almost before he knew -it himself, whether he wanted her to join him, or not, whether he -preferred to talk or to be silent, whether he would like this question -or that which she thought of asking him, or whether he would resent it -and make her feel that she had made a mistake. One day, she ventured to -mention Constance’s name. - -George had never visited the Fearings in their country-place, and was -not aware until he came to stay with his cousin that they lived on the -opposite shore of the river. Their house was not visible from the -Trimms’ side, as it was surrounded by trees, and the stream was at that -point nearly two miles in width. Totty, however, who always had a view -to avoiding any possibility of anything disagreeable, had very soon -communicated the information to George in an unconcerned way, while -pointing out and naming to him the various country-seats that could be -seen from her part of the shore. George did not forget what he had been -told, and if he ever crossed the river and rowed along the other bank, -he was careful to keep away from the Fearings’ land, in order to guard -against any unpleasant meetings. - -Now it chanced that on a certain afternoon he was pulling leisurely up -stream towards a place where the current was slack, and where he -occasionally moored the wherry to an old landing in order to rest -himself and talk more at his ease. Mamie of course was seated in the -stern, leaning back comfortably amongst her cushions and holding the -tiller-ropes daintily between the thumb and finger of each hand. She -could steer very well when it was necessary, and she could even row well -enough to make some headway against the stream, but George had been -accustomed to being alone in a boat, and gave her very little to do when -he was rowing. - -Mamie watched him idly, as his hands shot out towards her, crossed as he -drew them steadily back and turned at the wrist to feather the oar as -they touched his chest. Then her gaze wandered down stream towards the -other shore, and she tried to make out the roof of the Fearings’ house -above the trees. - -“George,” she said suddenly, “will you be angry?” - -“I am never angry,” answered her cousin. “What are you going to do now? -If you mean to jump out of the boat I will have a line ready.” - -“No. I am not going to jump out of the boat. But I am so afraid you will -be angry, after all. It is something I want to ask you. I am sure you -will not like it!” - -“One way of not making me angry would be not to ask the question,” -observed George, with a quiet smile. - -“But I want to ask you so much!” exclaimed the young girl, with an -imploring look that made George’s smile turn into a laugh. He had -laughed more than once lately, in a very natural manner. - -“Out with it, Mamie!” he cried, pulling his sculls briskly through the -water. “I shall not be very angry, I daresay, and I have fallen out of -the habit of eating little girls. What is it?” - -“Why do you never go and see the Fearings, George? You used to be there -so much.” - -George’s expression changed, though he continued to row with the same -even stroke. His face grew very grave and he unconsciously glanced -across the river toward the place at which Mamie had looked. - -“I knew you would be angry!” she said in a repentant tone. - -“No,” George answered, “I am not angry. I am thinking.” - -He was, indeed, wondering how much of the truth the girl knew, and he -was distrustful enough to fancy that she might have some object in -putting the question. But Mamie was not diplomatic like her mother. She -was simple and natural in her thoughts, and unaffected in her manner. He -glanced at her again and saw that she was troubled by her indiscretion. - -“Did your mother never tell you anything about it all?” he asked after a -long pause. - -“No. I only heard what everybody heard—last May, when the thing was -talked about. I wondered—that is all—I wondered whether you had cared -very much—for her.” - -Again there was a long silence, broken only by the even dipping of the -oars and the soft swirl as they left the water. - -“I did care,” George answered at last. “I loved her very dearly.” - -He did not know why he made the confession. He had never said so much to -any one except his own father. If he had guessed what Mamie felt for -him, he would assuredly not have answered her question. - -“Are you very unhappy, still?” asked the young girl in a dreamy voice. - -“No. I do not think I am unhappy. I am different from what I was—that is -all. I was at first,” he continued, without looking at his companion, of -whose presence, indeed, he seemed scarcely conscious. “I was -unhappy—yes, of course I was. I had loved her long. I had thought she -would marry me. I found that she was indifferent. I shall never go and -see her again. She does not exist for me any more—she is another person, -whom I do not wish to know. I have loved and been disappointed, like -many a better man, I suppose.” - -“Loved and been disappointed!” repeated the young girl in a very low -voice, that hardly reached his ear. She was looking down, carelessly -tying and untying the ends of the tiller-ropes. - -“Yes. That is it,” he said as though musing on something very long past. -“You know now why I do not go there.” - -Then he quickened his stroke a little, and there was a sombre light in -his dark eyes that Mamie could not see, for she was still looking down. -She was glad that she had asked the question, seeing how he had answered -it. There was something in his tone which told her that he was not -mistaken about himself, and that the past was shut off from the present -in his heart by a barrier it would be hard to break down. - -“Do you think you can ever love again?” she asked, after a while, -looking suddenly into his face. - -“No,” he answered, avoiding her eyes. “I shall never love any woman -again—in the same way,” he added after a moment’s pause. - -When he looked at her, she was very pale. He remembered all at once how -she had changed colour and burst into tears some weeks earlier, sitting -in that same place before him. Something was passing in her mind which -he could not understand. He was very slow to imagine that she loved him. -He was so dull of comprehension that he all at once began to fancy she -might be more fond of Constance Fearing than he had guessed, that she -might be her friend, as Totty was, and that the two had brought him to -their country-house in the hope of soothing his anger, reviving his -hopes, and bringing him once more into close relations with the young -girl who had cast him off. The idea was ingenious in its folly, but his -ready wrath rose at it. - -“Are you very fond of her, Mamie?” he asked, bending his heavy brows and -speaking in a hard metallic voice. - -The blood rushed into the girl’s face as she answered, and her grey eyes -flashed. - -“I? I hate her! I would kill her if I could!” - -George was completely confused. His explanation of Mamie’s behaviour had -flashed upon him so suddenly that he had believed it the true one -without an attempt to reason upon the matter. Now, it was destroyed in -an instant by the girl’s angry reply. When one young woman says that she -hates another, it is tolerably easy to judge from her tone whether she -is in earnest or not. Though he was still sorely puzzled, the cloud -disappeared from George’s face as quickly as it had come. - -“This is a revelation!” he exclaimed. “I thought you and your mother -were devoted to them both.” - -“It would be like me, would it not?” Mamie emphasised her words with an -angry little laugh. - -“It is not like you to hate people so savagely,” George observed, -looking at her closely. - -“I should always hate anybody who hurt you—and I can hate, with all my -heart!” - -“Are you so fond of me as that?” - -George thought that the girl was becoming every moment harder to -understand. It had seemed a very natural question, since they had known -each other and loved each other like brother and sister for so long. But -he saw that there was something the matter. There was a frightened look -in Mamie’s grey eyes which he had never seen before, as though she had -come all at once upon a great and unexpected danger. Then all the -outline of her face softened wonderfully with a strange and gentle -expression under the young man’s gaze. She had never been pretty, save -for her eyes and her alabaster skin. For one moment, now, she was -beautiful. - -“Yes,” she said in an uncertain voice, “I am very fond of you—more fond -of you than you will ever know.” - -Her secret was out, though she did not realise it. Then for the first -time in George’s life, though he was nearly thirty years of age, he -looked on the face of a woman who loved him with all her heart, and he -knew what love meant in another, as he had known it in himself. - -The sun was going down behind the western hills and the dark water was -very smooth and placid as he dipped his sculls noiselessly into the -surface. He rowed evenly on for some minutes without speaking. Mamie was -looking into the stream and drawing her white, ungloved hand along the -glassy mirror. - -“Thank you, Mamie,” he said at last, very gently and kindly. - -Again there was silence as they shot along through the purple shadows. - -“And you, are you fond of me?” asked the young girl, looking furtively -towards him, then blushing and gazing once more into the depths of the -stream. George started slightly. He had not thought that the question -would come. - -“Indeed I am,” he answered. He thought he heard a sigh on the rising -evening breeze. “I grow more fond of you every day,” he added quietly, -though he felt that he was very far from calm. - -So far as he had spoken, his words had been truthful. He was becoming -more attached to Mamie every day, and she was beginning to take the -place that Constance had occupied in his doings if not in his thoughts. -But there was not a spark of love in his growing affection for her, and -the discovery he had just made disturbed him exceedingly. He had never -blamed himself for anything he had done in his intercourse with -Constance Fearing, but he accused himself now of having misled the -innocent girl who loved him and of having then, by a careless question, -drawn from her a confession of what she felt. It flashed upon him -suddenly that he had taken Constance’s place, and Mamie had taken his; -that he had been thoughtless and cruel in all he had said and done -during the last two months, and that she might well reproach him with -having been heartless. A thousand incidents flooded his memory and -crowded together upon his brain, and each brought with it a sting to his -sense of honour. He had inadvertently done a great harm, and it had been -done since his coming to the country. Before that, Mamie had felt for -him exactly what he still felt for her, a simple, open-hearted -affection. Remembering the brief struggle that had taken place in his -mind before he had accepted Totty’s invitation, he accused himself of -having known beforehand what would happen, and of having weakly yielded -because he had liked the prospect of leading so luxurious an existence. -What surprised him, however, and threw all his reflections out of -balance was that Totty herself should not have foreseen the disaster, -Totty the diplomatic, Totty the worldly, Totty the covetous, who would -as soon have given her daughter to one of her servants as to penniless -George Wood! It was past comprehension. Yet, in spite of his distress, -he could hardly repress a smile as he imagined what Totty’s rage would -be, should he marry Mamie and carry her off before the eyes of her -horrified parent. Sherrington Trimm, himself, would be as well satisfied -with him as with any other honest man, if he were sure of Mamie’s -inclinations. - -Now, however, something must be done at once. He was not a weak -creature, like Constance Fearing, to hesitate for months and years, -practising a deception upon himself which he had not the courage to -carry to the end. He even regretted the last words he had spoken, and -which had been prompted by a foolish wish not to hurt the girl’s -feelings. It would have been better if he had left them unsaid. The -situation must be defined, the harm arrested, if it could not be undone, -and should it seem necessary, as it probably would, he himself must -leave the place on the following morning. He opened his mouth to speak, -but the blood rushed to his face and he could not articulate the words. -He was overcome with shame and remorse and he would have chosen to do -anything, to undergo any humiliation rather than this. But in a moment -his strong nature gathered itself and grew strong, as it always did in -the face of great difficulties. He hated hesitation and he would not -hesitate, cost what it might. He was not cowardly, and he would not be -afraid. - -“Mamie,” he said, suddenly, and he wondered how his voice could be so -gentle, “Mamie, I do not love you.” - -He had expected everything, except what happened. Mamie looked into his -eyes, and once again in the evening light the expression of her love -transfigured her half pretty face and lent it a completeness of beauty -such as he had never seen. - -“Have you not told me that, dear?” she asked, half sadly, half lovingly. -“It is not new. I have known it long.” - -George stared at her for a moment. - -“I feared I had not said it clearly,” he answered in low tones. - -“Everything you have done and said has told me that, for two months -past. Do not say it again.” - -“I must go away from this place. I will go to-morrow.” - -She looked up with startled eyes. - -“Go away? Leave me? Ah, George, you will not be so unkind!” - -The situation was certainly as strange as it was new, and George was -very much confused by what was happening. His resolution to make -everything clear was, however, as unbending as before. - -“Mamie,” he said, “we must understand each other. Things must not go on -as they have gone so long. If I were to stay here, do you know what I -should be doing? I should be acting towards you as Constance Fearing -acted with me, only it would be much worse, because I am a man, and I -have no right to do such things, as women have.” - -“It is different,” said the young girl, once more looking down into the -water. - -“No, it is not different,” George insisted. “I have no right to act as -though I should ever love you, to make you think by anything I do or -say, that such a thing is possible. I am a brute, I know. Forgive me, -Mamie, dear. It is so much better that everything should be clearly -understood now. We have known each other so long, and so well——” - -“Nothing that you can say will make it seem right to me that you should -go away——” - -“It is right, nevertheless, and if I do not do it, as I should, I shall -never forgive myself——” - -“I will forgive you.” - -“I shall hate myself——” - -“I will love you.” - -“I shall feel that I am the most miserable wretch alive.” - -“I shall be happy.” - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII. - - -George had rowed to a point where a deep indentation in the shore of the -river offered a broad expanse of water in which there was but little -current. He rested on his oars, bending his head and leaning slightly -forward. It seemed very hard that he should suddenly be called upon to -decide so important a question as had just arisen, at the very moment -when he was writing the most difficult and interesting part of his book. -To go away was not only to deprive himself of many things which he -liked, and among those Mamie’s own society had taken the foremost place -of late; it meant also to break the current of his ideas and to arrest -his own progress at the most critical juncture. He remembered with -loathing the days he had spent in his little room in New York, -cudgelling his inert brain and racking his imagination for a plot, a -subject, for one single character, for anything of which he might make a -beginning. And he looked back to a nearer time, and saw how easily his -mind had worked amidst its new and pleasant surroundings. It is no -wonder that he hesitated. Only the artist can understand his own -interest in his art; only the writer, and the writer of real talent, can -tell what acute suffering it is to be interrupted in the midst of a -piece of good work, while its success is still uncertain in the balance -of his mind and while he still depends largely upon outward -circumstances for the peace and quiet which are necessary to serious -mental labour. - -George was not heroic, though there was a touch of quixotism in his -nature. The temptation to stay where he was, had a force he had not -expected. Moreover, whether he would or not, the expression he had twice -seen in Mamie’s face on that afternoon, haunted him and fascinated him. -He experienced the operation of a charm unknown before. He looked up and -gazed at the young girl as she sat far back in the stern of the boat. -She was not pretty, or at most, not more than half pretty. Her mouth was -decidedly far too large, and her nose lacked outline. She had a fairly -good forehead; he admitted that much, but her chin was too pointed and -had little modelling in it, while her cheeks would have been decidedly -uninteresting but for the extreme beauty of her complexion. She was -looking down, and he could not see the grey eyes which were her best -feature, but it could not be denied that the long dark drooping lashes -and the strongly marked brown eyebrows contrasted very well with the -transparent skin. Her hair was not bad, though it was impossible to say -whether those little tangled ringlets were natural or were produced -daily by the skilful appliance of artificial torsion. If her mouth was -an exaggerated feature, at least the long, even lips were fresh and -youthful, and, when parted, they disclosed a very perfect set of teeth. -All this was true, and as George looked, he summed up the various points -and decided that when Mamie wore her best expression, she might pass for -a pretty girl. - -But she possessed more than that. The catalogue did not explain her -wonderful charm. It was not, indeed, complete, and as he glanced from -her downcast face to the outlines of her shapely figure, he felt the -sensation a man experiences in turning quickly from the examination of a -common object, to the contemplation of one that is very beautiful. -Psyche herself could have boasted no greater perfection of form and -grace than belonged to this girl whose features were almost all -insignificant. The triumph of proportion began at her throat, under the -small ears that were set so close to the head, and the faultless lines -continued throughout all the curves of beauty to the point of her -exquisite foot, to the longest finger of her classic hand. Not a line -was too short, not a line too long, there was no straightness in any -one, and not one of them all followed too strong a curve. - -George thought of Constance and made comparisons with a coolness that -surprised himself. Constance was tall, straight, well grown, active; -slight, indeed, but graceful enough, and gifted with much natural ease -in motion. But that was all, so far as figure was concerned. George had -seen a hundred girls with just the same advantages as Constance, and all -far prettier than his cousin. Neither Constance nor any of them could -compare with Mamie except in face. His eye rested on her now, when she -was in repose, with untiring satisfaction, as his sight delighted in -each new surprise of motion when she moved, whether on horseback, or -walking, or at tennis. She represented to him the absolute ideal of -refined animal life, combined with something spiritual that escaped -definition, but which made itself felt in all she did and said. - -When he thought of depriving himself for a long time of her society, he -discovered that he admired her far more than he had suspected. It was -admiration, but it was nothing more. He felt no pain at the suggestion -of leaving her, but it seemed as though he were about to be robbed of -some object familiar to him, to keep which was a source of unfailing, -though indolent, satisfaction. He could not imagine himself angry, if -some man of his acquaintance had married Mamie the next day, provided -that he might talk to her as he pleased and watch her when he liked. -There was not warmth enough in what he felt for her to kindle one spark -of jealousy against any one whom she might choose for a husband. - -But there was something added to the odd sort of attraction which the -girl exercised over him, something which had only begun to influence him -during the last quarter of an hour or less. She loved him, and he had -just found it out. There is nothing more enviable than to love and be -loved in return, and nothing more painful than to be loved to -distraction by a person one dislikes. It may be said, perhaps, that -nothing can be so disturbing to the judgment as to be loved by an -individual to whom one feels oneself strongly attracted in a wholly -different way. George Wood did not know exactly what was happening to -him, and he did not feel himself able to judge his own case with any -sort of impartiality; but his instinct told him to go away as soon as -possible and to break off all intercourse with his cousin during some -time to come. She had argued the question with him in her own way and -had found answers to all he said, but he was not satisfied. It was his -duty to leave Mamie, no matter at what cost, and he meant to go at once. - -“My dear Mamie,” he said at last, still unconsciously admiring the grace -of her attitude, “I am very sorry for myself, but there is only one way. -I cannot stay here any longer.” - -She raised her eyes and looked steadily at him. - -“On my account?” she asked. - -“Yes, and you know I am right.” - -“Because I have been foolish and—and—unmaidenly, I suppose.” - -“Dear child—how you talk!” George exclaimed. “I never said anything of -the kind!” He was seriously embarrassed to find an answer to her -statement. - -“Of course you did not say it. But you probably thought it, which is the -same thing. After all, it is true, you know. But then, have I not a -right to be foolish, if I please? I have known you so long.” - -“Yes indeed!” George answered with alacrity, for he was glad to be able -to agree with her in something. “It is a long time, as you say—ever -since we were children together.” - -“Then you think there was nothing so very bad about what I said?” - -“It was thoughtless—I do not know what it was. There was certainly -nothing bad in it, and besides, you did not mean it, you know, did you?” - -“Then why do you want to go away?” inquired Mamie, with feminine logic, -and candour. - -“Why because——” George stopped as people often do, at that word, well -knowing what he had been about to say, but now suddenly unwilling to say -it. In fact, to say anything under the circumstances would have been a -flagrant breach of tact. Since Mamie almost admitted that she had meant -nothing, she had only been making fun of him and he could not well think -of going away without seeming ridiculous in his own eyes. - -“’Because,’ without anything after it, is only a woman’s reason,” said -the young girl with a laugh. - -“Women’s reasons are sometimes the best. At all events, I have often -heard you say so.” - -“I am often laughing at you, when I seem most in earnest, George. Have -you never noticed that I have a fine talent for irony? Do you think that -if I were very much in love with you, I would tell you so? How conceited -you must be!” - -“No indeed!” George asseverated. “I would not imagine that you could do -such a thing. When I told you I would go away, I was only entering into -the spirit of the thing and carrying on your idea.” - -“It was very well done. I cannot help laughing at the serious face you -made.” - -“Nor I, at yours,” said the young man beginning to pull the boat slowly -about. - -Matters had taken a very unexpected turn and he began to feel his -determination to depart oozing out of his fingers in a way he had not -expected. His position, indeed, was absurd. He could not argue with -Mamie the question of whether she had been in earnest or not. Therefore -he was obliged to accept her statement, that she had been jesting. And -if he did so, how could he humiliate her by showing that he still -believed she loved him? In other words, by packing up his traps and -taking a summary leave. He would only be making a laughing-stock of -himself in her eyes. Nor was he altogether free from an unforeseen -sensation of disappointment, very slight, very vague, and very -embarrassing to his self-esteem. Look at it as he would, his vanity had -been flattered by her confession, and it had also, in some way, appealed -to his heart. To be loved by some one, as she had seemed to love, when -that expression had passed over her face! The idea was pleasant, -attractive, one on which he would dwell hereafter and which would -stimulate his comprehension when he was describing scenes of love in his -books. - -“So of course you will stay and behave like a human being,” said Mamie, -after a short pause, as though she had summed up the evidence, -deliberated upon it and were giving the verdict. - -“I suppose I shall,” George answered in a regretful tone, though he -could not repress a smile. - -“You seem to be sorry,” observed the young girl with a quick, laughing -glance of her grey eyes. “If there are any other reasons for your sudden -departure, it is quite another matter. The one you gave has turned out -badly. You have not proved the necessity for ensuring my salvation by -taking the next train.” - -“I would have gone by the boat,” said George. - -“Why?” - -“Because the river would have reminded me to the last of this evening.” - -“Do you want to be reminded of it as much as that?” asked Mamie. - -“Since it turns out to have been such a very pleasant evening, after -all,” George answered, glad to escape on any terms from the position in -which his last thoughtless remark had placed him. - -Mamie had shown considerable tact in the way by which she had recovered -herself, and George was unconsciously grateful to her for having saved -him from the necessity of an abrupt leave-taking, although he could not -get rid of the idea that she had been more than half in earnest in the -beginning. - -“It was very well done,” he said after they had landed that evening and -were walking up to the house through the flower garden. - -“Yes,” Mamie answered. “I am a very good actress. They always say so in -the private theatricals.” - -The evening colour had gone from the sky and the moon was already in the -sky, not yet at the full. Mamie stood still in the path and plucked a -rose. - -“I can act beautifully,” she said with a low laugh. “Would you like me -to give you a little exhibition? Look at me—so—now the moonlight is on -my face and you can see me.” - -She, looked up into his eyes, and once more her features seemed to be -transfigured. She laid one hand upon his arm and with the other hand -raised the rose to her lips, kissed it, her eyes still fixed on his, -then smiled and spoke three words in a low voice that seemed to send a -thrill through the quiet air. - -“I love you.” - -Then she made as though she would have fastened the flower in his white -flannel jacket, and he, believing she would do it, and still looking at -her, bent a little forward and held the buttonhole ready. All at once, -she sprang back with a quick, graceful movement and laughed again. - -“Was it not well done?” she cried, tossing the rose far away into one of -the beds. - -“Admirably,” George answered. “I never saw anything equal to it. How you -must have studied!” - -“For years,” said the young girl, speaking in her usual tone and -beginning to walk by his side towards the house. - -It was certainly very strange, George thought, that she should be able -to assume such an expression and such a tone of voice at a moment’s -notice, if there were no real love in her heart. But it was impossible -to quarrel with the way she had done it. There had been something so -supremely graceful in her attitude, something so winning in her smile, -something in her accent which so touched the heart, that the incident -remained fixed in his memory as a wonderful picture, never to be -forgotten. It affected his artistic sense so strongly that before he -went to bed he took his pen and wrote it down, taking a keen pleasure in -putting into shape the details of the scene, and especially in -describing what escaped description, the mysterious fascination of the -girl herself. He read it over in bed, was satisfied with it, thrust it -under his pillow, and went to sleep to dream it over again just as it -had happened, with one important exception. In his dream, the figure, -the voice, the words, were all Mamie’s, but the face was that of -Constance Fearing, though it wore a look which he had never seen there. -In the morning he laughed over the whole affair, being only too ready to -believe that Mamie had really been laughing at him and that she had only -been acting the little scene with the rose in the garden. - -A few days later an event occurred which again made him doubtful in the -matter. Since that evening he had felt that he had grown more intimate -with his cousin than before. There had been no renewal of the dangerous -play on her part, though both had referred to it more than once. Oddly -enough it constituted a sort of harmless secret, which had to be kept -from Mamie’s mother and over which they could be merry only when they -were alone. Yet, as far as George was concerned, though the bond had -grown closer in those days, its nature had not changed, nor was he any -nearer to being persuaded that his cousin was actually in love with him. - -At that time, John Bond and his wife, having made a very short trip to -Canada, returned to New York and came thence to establish themselves in -the old Fearing house for the rest of the summer. John could not leave -the business for more than ten days in the absence of his partner, and -he did as so many other men do, who spend the hot months on the river, -going to town in the morning and coming back in the evening. On Sundays -only John Bond did not make his daily trip to New York. - -Since his marriage, he and Grace had not been over to see the Trimms, -though Mrs. Trimm had once been over to them on a week-day in obedience -to the custom which prescribes that every one must call on a bride. -There had been much suave coldness between Totty and the Fearings since -the report of the broken engagement had been circulated, but appearances -were nevertheless maintained, and Mr. and Mrs. Bond felt that it was -their duty to return the visit as soon as possible. Constance -accompanied them and the three sailed across the river late on one -Sunday afternoon. The river is a great barrier against news, and as -Totty had kept her house empty of guests, for some reason best known to -herself, and had written to none of her many intimate friends that -George Wood was spending the summer with her, the three visitors had no -expectation of finding him among the party. - -During the time which had followed her departure from town, Constance -Fearing had fallen into a listless habit of mind, from which she had -found it hard to rouse herself even so far as to help in the -preparations for her sister’s marriage. When the ceremony was over, she -had withdrawn again to her country-house in the sole company of the -elderly female relation who has been mentioned already once or twice in -the course of this history. - -She was extremely unhappy in her own way, and there were moments when -the pain she had suffered renewed itself suddenly, when she wept bitter -tears over the sacrifice she had been so determined to make. After one -of these crises she was usually more listless and indifferent than ever, -to all outward appearance, though in reality her mind was continually -preying upon itself, going over the past again and again, living through -the last moments of happiness she had known, and facing in imagination -the struggle she had imposed upon herself. She did not grow suddenly -thin, nor fall ill, nor go mad, as women do who have passed through some -desperate trial of the heart. She possessed, indeed, the sort of -constitution which sometimes breaks down under a violent strain from -without, but she had not been exposed to anything which could bring -about so fatal a result. It was rather the regret for a lost interest in -her life than the keen agony of separation from one she had loved, which -affected her spirits and reacted very slowly upon her health. At certain -moments the sense of loneliness made itself felt more strongly than at -others, and she gave way to tears and lamentation, in the privacy of her -own room, without knowing exactly what she wanted. She still believed -that she had done right in sending George away, but she missed what he -had taken with him, the daily incense offered at her shrine, the small -daily emotions she had felt when with him, and which her sensitive -temper had liked for their very smallness. There was no doubt that she -had loved him a little, as she had said, for she had always been ready -to acknowledge everything she felt. But it was questionable whether her -love had increased or decreased since she had parted from him, and her -fits of spasmodic grief were probably not to be attributed to genuine -love-sickness. - -On that particular Sunday afternoon chosen by the Bonds for their visit -to Mrs. Sherrington Trimm, Constance was as thoroughly indifferent as -usual to everything that went on. She was willing to join her sister and -brother-in-law in their expedition rather than stay at home and do -nothing, but her mind was disturbed by no presentiment of any meeting -with George Wood. - -It was towards evening, and the air was already cool by comparison with -the heat of the day. Mrs. Trimm, her daughter and George were all three -seated in a verandah from which they overlooked the river and could see -their own neat landing-pier beyond the flower-garden. The weather had -been hot and none of the three were much inclined for conversation. -Suddenly Totty uttered an exclamation of surprise. - -“Those people are coming here! Who are they, George? Can you see?” - -George fixed his eyes on the landing and saw that the sail-boat had -brought to. At the same moment the sails were quickly furled and a man -threw a rope over one of the wooden pillars. A few seconds elapsed and -three figures were seen upon the garden-walk. - -“I wish you could see who they are, George,” said Totty rather -impatiently. “It is so awkward—not knowing.” - -“I think it is Miss Fearing,” George answered slowly, “with her sister -and John Bond.” - -He was the only one of the three who did not change colour a little as -the party drew near. Mamie’s marble forehead grew a shade whiter, and -Totty’s pretty pink face a little more pink. She was annoyed at being -taken unawares, and was sorry that George was present. As for Mamie, her -grey eyes sparkled rather coldly, and her large, even lips were tightly -closed over her beautiful teeth. But George was imperturbable, and it -would have been impossible to guess from his face what he felt. He -observed the three curiously as they approached the verandah. He thought -that Constance looked pale and thin, and he recognised in Grace and her -husband that peculiar appearance of expensive and untarnished newness -which characterises newly-married Americans. - -“I am so glad you have come over!” Totty exclaimed with laudably -hospitable insincerity. “It is an age since we have seen any of you!” - -Mamie gave Constance her hand and said something civil, though she fixed -her grey eyes on the other’s blue ones with singular and rather -disagreeable intensity. - -“George has been talking to her about me, I suppose,” thought Miss -Fearing as she turned and shook hands with George himself. - -Grace looked at him quietly and pressed his hand with unmistakable -cordiality. Her husband shook hands energetically with every one, -inquired earnestly how each one was doing, and then looked at the river. -He felt rather uncomfortable, because he knew that every one else did, -but he made no attempt to help the difficulty by opening the -conversation. He was not a talkative man. Totty, however, lost no time -in asking a score of questions, to all of which she knew the answers. -George found himself seated between Constance and Grace. - -“Have you been here long, Mr. Wood?” Constance asked, turning her head -to George and paying no attention to Totty’s volley of inquiries. - -“Since the first of June,” George answered quietly, and then relapsed -into silence, not knowing what to say. He was not really so calm as he -appeared to be, and the suddenness of the visit had slightly confused -his thoughts. - -“I supposed that you were in New York,” said Constance, who seemed -determined to talk to him, and to no one else. “Will you not come over -and see us?” she asked. - -“I shall be very happy,” George replied, without undue coldness, but -without enthusiasm. “Shall you stay through the summer?” - -“Certainly—my sister and John—Mr. Bond—are there, too. You see, it is so -dreadfully hot in town, and he cannot leave the office, though there is -nothing in the world to do, I am sure. By the way, what are you doing, -if one may ask? I hope you are writing something. You know we are all -looking forward to your next book.” - -George could not help glancing sharply at her face, which changed colour -immediately. But he looked away again as he answered the question. - -“The old story,” he said. “A love story. What else should I write about? -There is only one thing that has a permanent interest for the public, -and that is love.” He ended the speech with a dry laugh, not good to -hear. - -“Is it?” asked Constance with remarkable self-possession. “I should -think there must be many other subjects more interesting and far easier -to write upon.” - -“Easier, no doubt. I will not question your judgment upon that point, at -least. More interesting to certain writers, too, perhaps. Love is so -much a matter of taste. But more to the liking of the public—no. There I -must differ from you. The great majority of mankind love, are fully -aware of it, and enjoy reading about the loves of others.” - -Constance was pale and evidently nervous. She had clearly determined to -talk to George, and he appeared to resent the advance rather than -otherwise. Yet she would not relinquish the attempt. Even in his worst -humour she would rather talk with him than with any one else. She tried -to meet him on his own ground. - -“How about friendship?” she asked. “Is not that a subject for a book, as -well as love?” - -“Possibly, with immense labour, one might make a book of some sort about -friendship. It would be a very dull book to read, and a man would need -to be very morbid to write it; as for the public it would have to -undergo a surgical operation to be made to accept it. No. I think that -friendship would make a very poor subject for a novelist.” - -“You do not think very highly of friendship itself, it seems,” said -Constance with an attempt to laugh. - -“I do not know of any reason why I should. I know very little in its -favour.” - -“Opinions differ so much!” exclaimed the young girl, gaining courage -gradually. “I suppose you and I have not at all the same ideas about -it.” - -“Evidently not.” - -“How would you define friendship?” - -“I never define things. It is my business to describe people, facts and -events. Bond is a lawyer and a man of concise definitions. Ask him.” - -“I prefer to talk to you,” said Constance, who had by this time overcome -her sensitive timidity and began to think that she could revive -something of the old confidence in conversation. Unfortunately for her -intentions, Mamie had either overheard the last words, or did not like -the way things were going. She rose and pushed her light straw chair -before her with her foot until it was opposite the two. - -“What do you do with yourself all day long?” she asked as she sat down. -“I am sure you are giving my cousin the most delightful accounts of your -existence!” - -“As a matter of fact, we were talking of friendship,” said George, -watching the outlines of Mamie’s exquisite figure and mentally comparing -them with Constance’s less striking advantages. - -“How charming!” Mamie exclaimed sweetly. “And you have always been such -good friends.” - -With a wicked intuition of the mischief she was making, Mamie paused and -looked from the one to the other. Constance very nearly lost her temper, -but George’s dark face betrayed no emotion. - -“The best of friends,” he said calmly. “What do you think of this -question, Mamie? Miss Fearing says she thinks that a good book might be -written about friendship. I answered that I thought it would be far from -popular with the public. What do you say?” - -Constance looked curiously at Mamie, as though she were interested in -her reply. It seemed as though she must agree with one or the other. But -Mamie was not easily caught. - -“Oh, I am sure you could, George!” she exclaimed. “You are so clever—you -could do anything. For instance, why do you not describe your -friendship? You two, you know you would be so nice in a book. And -besides, everybody would read it and it could not be a failure.” Mamie -smiled again, as she looked at her two hearers. - -“I should think Mr. Wood might do something in a novel with you as well -as with me,” said Constance. - -George was not sure whether Mamie turned a shade whiter or not. She was -naturally pale, but it seemed to him that her grey eyes grew suddenly -dark and angry. - -“You might put us both into the same book, George,” she suggested. - -“Both as friends?” asked Constance, raising her delicate eyebrows a -little, while her nostrils expanded. She was thoroughly angry by this -time. - -“Why, of course!” Mamie exclaimed with an air of perfect innocence. -“What could you suppose I meant? I do not suppose he would be rude -enough to fall in love with either of us in a book. Would you, George?” - -“In books,” said George quietly, “all sorts of strange things happen.” - -Thereupon he turned and addressed Grace, who was on the other side of -him, and kept up an animated conversation with her throughout the -remainder of the visit. It seemed to him to be the only way of breaking -up an extremely unpleasant situation. Constance was grateful to him for -what he did, for she felt that if he had chosen to forget his courtesy -even for an instant he would have found it easy to say many things which -would have wounded her cruelly and which would not have failed to please -his cousin. George, on his part, had acquired a clearer view of the real -state of things. - -“How I hate her!” Mamie said to herself, when Constance was gone. - -“What a hateful, spiteful little thing she is!” thought Constance as she -stepped into the boat. - - - - - CHAPTER XIX. - - -George was not altogether pleased by what had happened during the visit. -He had expected that Constance would be satisfied with exchanging a few -words of no import, and that she would make no attempt to lead him into -conversation. Instead of this, however, she had seemed to be doing her -best to make him talk, and had really been the one to begin the trouble -which had ensued. If she had not allowed herself to refer in the most -direct manner to the past, she would not have exposed herself to Mamie’s -subsequent attack. As for Mamie, though she had successfully affected a -look of perfect innocence, and had spoken in the gentlest and most -friendly tone of voice, there was no denying the fact that her speeches -had made a visible impression upon Constance Fearing. The latter had -done her best to control her anger, but she had not succeeded in hiding -it altogether. It was impossible not to make a comparison between the -two girls, and, on the whole, the comparison was in Mamie’s favour, so -far as self-possession and coolness were concerned. - -“You were rather hard on Miss Fearing yesterday,” George said on the -following morning, when they were alone during the quarter of an hour he -allowed to elapse between breakfast and going to work. - -“Hard on her? What do you mean?” asked Mamie with well-feigned surprise. - -“Why—I mean when you suggested that I should put you both into a book -together. Oh, I know what you are going to say. You meant nothing by it, -you had not thought of what you were going to say, you would not have -said anything disagreeable for the world. Nevertheless you said it, and -in the calmest way, and it did just what you expected of it—it hurt -her.” - -“Well—do you mind?” Mamie inquired, with amazing frankness. - -“Yes. You made her think that I had been talking to you about her.” - -“And what harm is there in that? You did talk about her a little a few -days ago—on a certain evening. And, moreover, Master George, though you -are a great man and a very good sort of man, and a dear, altogether, -besides possessing the supreme advantage of being my cousin, you cannot -prevent me from hating your beloved Constance Fearing nor from hurting -her as much as I possibly can whenever we meet—especially if she sits -down beside you and makes soft eyes at you, and tries to get you back!” - -“Do not talk like that, Mamie. I do not like it.” - -Mamie laughed, and showed her beautiful teeth. There was a vicious -sparkle in her eyes. - -“You want to be taken back, I suppose,” she said. “Tell me the truth—do -you love her still?” - -George suddenly caught her by the two wrists and held her before him. He -was annoyed and yet he could not help being amused. - -“Mamie, you shall not say such things! You are as spiteful as a little -wild-cat!” - -“Am I? I am glad of it—and I am not in the least afraid of you, or your -big hands or your black looks.” - -George laughed and dropped her hands with a little shake, half angry, -half playful. - -“I really believe you are not!” he exclaimed. - -“Of course not! Was she? Or were you afraid of her? Which was it? Oh, -how I would have liked to see you together when you were angry with each -other! She can be very angry, you know. She was yesterday. She would -have liked to tear me to pieces with those long nails of hers. I hate -people who have long nails!” - -“You seem to hate a great many people this morning. I wish you would -leave her alone.” - -“Oh, now you are going to be angry, too! But then, it would not matter.” - -“Why would it not matter?” - -“Because I am only Mamie,” answered the girl, looking up affectionately -into his face. “You never care what I say, do you?” - -“I do not know about that,” George said. “What do you mean by saying -that you are only Mamie?” - -“Mamie is nobody, you know. Mamie is only a cousin, a little girl who -wants nothing of George but toys and picture-books, a silly child, a -foolish, half-witted little thing that cannot understand a great -man—much less tease him. Can she?” - -“Mamie is a witch,” George answered with a laugh. There was indeed -something strangely bewitching about the girl. She could say things to -him which he would not have suffered his own sister to say if he had had -one. - -“I wish I were! I wish I could make wax dolls, like people I hate, as -the witches used to do, and stick pins into their hearts and melt them -before the fire, little by little.” - -“What has got into your head this morning, you murderous, revengeful -little thing?” - -“There are many things in my head,” she answered, suddenly changing her -manner, and speaking in an oddly demure tone, with downcast eyes and -folded hands. “There are more things in my head than are dreamt of in -yours—at least, I hope so.” - -“Tell me some of them.” - -“I dare do all that becomes—a proper little girl,” said Mamie, laughing, -“but not that.” - -“Dear me! I had no idea that you were such a desperate character.” - -“Tell me, George—if you did what I suggested yesterday and put us both -into a book, Conny Fearing and me, which would you like best?” - -“I would try and make you like each other, though I do not know exactly -how I should go about it.” - -“That is not an answer. It is of no use to be clever with me, as I have -often told you. Would you like me better than Conny Fearing? Yes—or no! -Come, I am waiting! How slow you are.” - -“Which do you want me to say? I could do either—in a book, so that it -can make no difference.” - -“Oh—if it would make no difference, I do not care to know. You need not -answer me.” - -“All the better for me,” said George with a laugh. “Good-bye—I am going -to work. Think of some easier question.” - -George went away, wondering how it was all going to end. Mamie was -certainly behaving in a very strange way. Her conduct during the visit -on the previous afternoon had been that of a woman at once angry and -jealous, and he himself had felt very uncomfortable. The extreme -gentleness of her manner and expression while speaking with Constance -had not concealed her real feelings from him, and he had felt something -like shame at being obliged to sit quietly in his place while she -wounded the woman he once loved so dearly, and of whom he still thought -so often. He had done everything in his power to smooth matters, but he -had not been able to do much, and his own humour had been already -ruffled by the conversation that had gone before. He was under the -impression that Constance had gone away feeling that he had been -gratuitously disagreeable, and he was sorry for it. - -Before very long, he had an opportunity of ascertaining what Constance -felt and thought about his doings. On the afternoon of the Sunday -following the one on which she had been to the Trimms’, George had -crossed to the opposite side of the river, alone, had landed near a -thick clump of trees and was comfortably established in a shady spot on -the shore with a book and a cigar. The day was hot and it was about the -middle of the afternoon. Mamie and her mother had driven to the -neighbouring church, for Totty was punctual in attending to her -devotions, whereas George, who had gone with them in the morning, -considered that he had done enough. - -He was not sure to whom the land on which he found himself belonged, and -he had some misgiving that it might be a part of the Fearing property. -But he had been too lazy to pull higher up the stream when he had once -crossed it, and had not cared to drop down the current as that would -have increased the distance he would have had to row when he went home. -He fancied that on such a warm day and at such a comparatively early -hour, none of the Fearings were likely to be abroad, even if he were -really in their grounds. - -Under ordinary circumstances he would have been safe enough. It chanced, -however, that Constance had been unusually restless all day, and it had -occurred to her that if she could walk for an hour or more in her own -company she would feel better. The place where George was sitting was -actually in her grounds, and she, knowing it to be a pretty spot, where -there was generally a breeze, had naturally turned towards it. He had -not been where he was more than a quarter of an hour when she came upon -him. He heard a light step upon the grass, and looking up, saw a figure -all in white within five paces of him. He recognised Constance, and -sprang to his feet, dropping his book and his cigar at the same moment. -Constance started perceptibly, but did not draw back. George was the -first to speak. - -“I am afraid I am trespassing here,” he said quickly. “If so, pray -forgive me.” - -“You are welcome,” Constance answered, recovering herself. “It is one of -the prettiest places on the river,” she added a moment later, resting -her hands upon the long handle of her parasol and looking out at the -sunny water. - -There was nothing to be done but to face an interview. She could hardly -turn her back on him and walk away without exchanging a few phrases, and -he, on his part, could not jump into his boat and row for his life as -though he were afraid of her. Of the two she was the one best pleased by -the accidental meeting. To George’s surprise she seated herself upon the -grass, against the root of one of the great old trees. - -“Will you not sit down again?” she asked. “I disturbed you. I am so -sorry.” - -“Not at all,” said George, resuming his former attitude. - -“Why do you say ‘not at all’ in that way? Of course I disturbed you, and -I am disturbing you now, out of false politeness, because I am on my own -ground and feel that you are a guest.” - -She was a little confused in trying to be too natural, and George felt -the false note, and was vaguely sorry for her. She was much less at her -ease than he, and she showed it. - -“I came here out of laziness,” he said. “It was a bore to pull that -heavy boat any farther up, and I did not care to lose way by going -farther down. I did not feel sure whether this spot was yours or not.” - -Constance said nothing for a moment, but she tapped the toe of her shoe -rather impatiently with her parasol. - -“You would not have landed here if you had thought that there was a -possibility of meeting me, would you?” - -The question was rather an embarrassing one and was put with great -directness. It seemed to George that the air was full of such questions -just now. He considered that his answer might entail serious -consequences and he hesitated several seconds before speaking. - -“It seems to me,” he answered at last, “that although I have but little -reason to seek a meeting with you, I have none whatever for avoiding -one.” - -“I hope not, indeed,” said Constance, in a low voice. “I hope you will -never try to avoid me.” - -“I have never done so.” - -“I think you have,” said the young girl, not looking at him. “I think -you have been unkind in never taking the trouble to come and see us -during all these months. Why have you never crossed the river?” - -“Did you expect that after what has passed between us I should continue -to make regular visits?” George spoke earnestly, without raising or -lowering his tone, and waited for an answer. It came with some -hesitation. - -“I thought that—after a time, perhaps, you would come now and then. I -hoped so. I cannot see why you should not, I am sure. Are we enemies, -you and I? Are we never to be friends again?” - -“Friendship is a relation I do not understand,” George answered. “I -think I said as much the other day when you mentioned the subject.” - -“Yes. Somebody interrupted the conversation. I think,” said Constance, -blushing a little, “that it was your cousin. I wanted to say several -things to you then, but it was impossible before all those people. Since -we have met by accident, will you listen to me? If you would rather not, -please say so and I will go away. But please do not say anything unkind. -I cannot bear it and I am very unhappy.” - -There was something simple and pathetic in her appeal to his -forbearance, which moved him a little. - -“I will do whatever you wish,” he said, in a tone that reminded her of -other days. He folded his hands upon one knee and prepared to listen, -looking out at the broad river. - -“Thank you. I have longed for a chance of saying it to you, ever since -we last met in New York. It has always seemed very easy to say until -now. Yes. It is about friendship. Last Sunday I was trying to speak of -it, and you were very unkind. You laughed at me.” - -“I am sincerely sorry, if I did. I did not know that you were in -earnest.” - -“I was, and I am, very much in earnest. It is the only thing that can -make my life worth living.” - -“Friendship?” asked George quietly. He meant to keep his word and say -nothing that could hurt her. - -“Your friendship,” she answered. “Because I once made a great mistake, -is there to be no forgiveness? Is it impossible that we should ever be -good friends, see each other often and talk together as we did in the -old days? Are you always to meet me with a stony face and hard, cruel -words? Was my sin so great as that?” - -“You have not committed any sin. You should not use such words.” - -“Oh, do not find fault with the way I say it—it is so hard to say it at -all! Try and understand me.” - -“I do understand you, I think, but what you propose does not look -possible to me. There has been that between us which makes it very hard -to try such experiments. Do you not think so?” - -“It may seem hard, but it is not impossible, if you will only try to -think more kindly of me. Do you know what my mistake was—where I was -most wrong? It was in not telling you—what I did—a year sooner. Let us -be honest. Break through this veil there is between us, if it is only -for to-day. What is formality to you or me? You loved me once—I could -not love you. Is that a reason why you should treat me like a stranger -when we meet, or why I should pick and choose my words with you, as -though I feared you instead of—of being very fond of you? Think it all -over, even if it pains you a little. You would have done anything for my -sake once. If I had told you a year earlier—as I ought to have told -you—that I could never love you enough to marry you, would you then have -been so angry and have gone away from me as you did?” - -“No. I would not,” said George. “But there was that difference——” - -“Wait. Let me finish what I was going to say. It was not what I did, it -was that I did it far too late. You would not have given up coming to -see me, if it had all happened a year earlier. My fault lay in putting -it off too long. It was very wrong. I have been very sorry for it. There -is nothing I would not do for you—I am just what I always was in my -feelings towards you—and more. Can I humiliate myself more than I have -done before you? I do not think there are many women who would have done -what I have done, what I am doing now. Can I be more humble still? Shall -I confess it all again?” - -“You have done all that a woman could or should,” George said, and there -was no bitterness in his voice. It seemed to him that the old Constance -he had loved was slowly entering into the person of the young girl -before him, whom he had of late treated as a stranger and who had been -so really and truly one in his sight. - -“And yet, will you not forgive?” she asked in a low and supplicating -tone. - -He gazed at the river and did not speak. He was not conscious that she -was watching his face intently. She saw no bitterness nor hardness -there, however, but only an expression of perplexity. The word -forgiveness did not convey to him half what it meant to her. She -attached a meaning to it, which escaped him. She was morbid and had -taken an unreal view of all that had happened between them. His mind was -strong, natural and healthy, and he could not easily understand why she -should lend such importance to what he now considered a mere phrase, no -matter how he had regarded it in the heat and anger of his memorable -interview with her. - -“Miss Fearing—” he began. He hardly knew why he called her by name, -unless it was that he was about to make a categorical statement. So soon -as the syllables had escaped his lips, however, he repented of having -pronounced them. He saw a shade of pain pass over her face, and at the -same time it seemed a childish way of indicating the distance by which -they were now separated. It reminded him of George the Third’s “Mr. -Washington.” - -“Constance,” he said after another moment’s hesitation, “we do not speak -in the same language. You ask me for my forgiveness. What am I to -forgive? If there is anything to be forgiven, I forgive most freely. I -was very angry, and therefore very foolish on that day when I said I -would not forgive you. I am not angry now. What I feel is very -different. I bear you no malice, I wish you no evil.” - -Constance was silent and looked away. She did not understand him, though -she felt that he was not speaking unkindly. What he offered her was not -what she wanted. - -“Since we have come to these explanations,” George continued after a -pause, “I will try and tell you what it is that I feel. I called you -Miss Fearing just now. Do you know why? Because it seems more natural. -You are not the same person you once were, and when I call you -Constance, I fancy I am calling some one else by the name of your old -self, of the Constance I loved, and who loved me—a little.” - -“It is not I who have changed,” said the young girl, looking down. “I am -Constance still, and you are my best and dearest friend, though you be -ever so unkind.” - -“A change there is, and a great one. I daresay it is in me. I was never -your friend, as you understand the word, and you were mistaken in -thinking that I was. I loved you. That is not friendship.” - -“And now, since I am another person—not the one you loved—can you not be -my friend as well as—as you are of others? Why does it seem so -impossible?” - -“It is too painful to be thought of,” said George in a low voice. “You -are too like the other, and yet too different.” - -Constance sighed and twisted a blade of grass round her slender white -finger. She wished she knew how to do away with the difference he felt -so keenly. - -“Do you never miss me?” she asked after a long silence. - -“I miss the woman I loved,” George answered. “Is it any satisfaction to -you to know it?” - -“Yes, for I am she.” - -There was another pause, during which George glanced at her face from -time to time. It had changed, he thought. It was thinner and whiter than -of old and there were shadows beneath the eyes and modellings—not yet -lines—of sadness about the sensitive mouth. He wondered whether she had -suffered, and why. She had never loved him. Could it be true that she -missed his companionship, his conversation, his friendship, as she -called it? If not, why should her face be altered? And yet it was -strange, too. He could not understand how separation could be painful -where there was no love. Nevertheless he was sorry that she should have -suffered, now that his anger was gone. - -“I am glad you loved me,” she said at last. - -“And I am very sorry.” - -“You should not say that. If you had not loved me—more than I knew—you -would not have written, you would not be what you are. Can you not think -of it in that way, sometimes?” - -“What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own -soul?” said George bitterly. - -“You have not lost your soul,” answered Constance, whose religious -sensibilities were a little shocked, at once by the strength of the -words as by the fact of their being quoted from the Bible. “You have no -right to say that. You will some day find a woman who will love you as -you deserve——” - -“And whom I shall not love.” - -“Whom you will love as well as you once loved me. You will be happy, -then. I hope it may happen soon.” - -“Do you?” asked George, turning upon her quickly. - -“For your sake I hope so, with all my heart.” - -“And for yours?” - -“I hope I should like her very much,” said Constance with a forced -laugh, and looking away from him. - -“I am afraid you will not,” George answered, almost unconsciously. The -words fell from his lips as a reply to her strained laughter which told -too plainly her real thoughts. - -“You should not ask such questions,” she said, a moment later. “Do you -find it hard to talk to me?” she asked, suddenly turning the -conversation. - -“I think it would be hard for you and me to talk about these things for -long.” - -“We need not—if we meet. It is better that we should have said what we -had to say, and we need never say it again. And we shall meet more -often, now, shall we not?” - -“Does it give you pleasure to see me?” There was a touch of hardness in -the tone. - -Constance looked down and the colour came into her thin face. Her voice -trembled a little when she spoke. - -“Are you going to be unkind to me again? Or do you really wish to know?” - -“I am in earnest. Does it give you pleasure to see me?” - -“After all I have said—oh, George, this has been the happiest hour I -have spent since the first of May.” - -“Are you heartless or are you not?” asked George almost fiercely. “Do -you love me that you should care to see me? Or does it amuse you to give -me pain? What are you, yourself, the real woman that I can never -understand?” - -Constance was frightened by the sudden outbreak of passion, and turned -pale. - -“What are you saying? What do you mean?” she asked in an uncertain -voice. - -“What I say? What I mean? Do you think it is pleasure to me to talk as -we have been talking? Do you suppose that my love for you was a mere -name, an idea, a thing without reality, to be discussed and dissected -and examined and turned inside out? Do you fancy that in three months I -have forgotten, or ceased to care, or learned to talk of you as though -you were a person in a book? What do you think I am made of?” - -Constance hid her face in her hands and a long silence followed. She was -not crying, but she looked as though she were trying to collect her -thoughts, and at the same time to shut out some disagreeable sight. At -last she looked up and saw that his lean, dark face was full of sadness. -She knew him well and knew how much he must feel before his features -betrayed what was passing in his mind. - -“Forgive me, George,” she said in a beseeching tone. “I did not know -that you loved—that you cared for me still.” - -“It is nothing,” he answered bitterly. “It will pass.” - -Poor Constance felt that she had lost in a moment what she had gained -with so much difficulty, the renewal of something like unconstrained -intercourse. She rose slowly from the place where she had been sitting, -two or three paces away from him. He did not rise, for he was still too -much under the influence of the emotion to heed what she did. She came -and stood before him and looked down into his face. - -“George,” she said slowly and earnestly, “I am a very unhappy woman—more -unhappy than you can guess. You are dearer to me than anything on earth, -and yet I am always hurting you and wounding you. This life is killing -me. Tell me what you would have me do and say, and I will do it and say -it—anything—do you understand—anything rather than be parted from you as -I have been during these last months.” - -She meant every word she said, and in that moment, if George had asked -her to be his wife she would have consented gladly. But he did not -understand that she meant as much as that. He seemed to hesitate a -moment and then rose quickly to his feet and stood beside her. - -“You must not talk like that,” he said. “I owe you much, Constance, very -much, though you have made me very unhappy. I do not understand you. I -do not know why you should care to see me. But I will come to you as -often as you please if only you will not talk to me about what is past. -Let us try and speak of ordinary things, of everyday matters. I am -ashamed to seem to be making conditions, and I do not know what it all -means, because, as I have said, I cannot understand you, and I never -shall. Will you have me on those terms?” - -He held out his hand as he spoke the last words, and there was a kindly -smile on his face. - -“Come when you will and as you will—only come!” said Constance, her face -lighting up with gladness. She, at least, was satisfied, and saw a -prospect of happiness in the future. “Come here sometimes, in the -afternoon, it will be like——” - -She was going to say that it would be like the old time when they used -to meet in the Park. - -“It will be like a sort of picnic, you know,” were the words that fell -from her lips. But the blush on her face told plainly enough that she -had meant to say something else. - -“Yes,” said George with a grim smile, “it will be like a sort of picnic. -Good-bye.” - -“Good-bye—when will you come?” Constance could not help letting her hand -linger in his as long as he would hold it. - -“Next Sunday,” George answered quickly. He reflected that it would not -be easy to escape Mamie on any other day. - -A moment later he was in his boat, pulling away into the midstream. -Constance stood on the shore watching him and wishing with all her heart -that she were sitting in the stern of the neat craft, wishing more than -all that he might desire her presence there. But he did not. He knew -very well that he could have stayed another hour or two in her company -if he had chosen to do so, but he had been glad to escape, and he knew -it. The meeting had been painful to him in many ways, and it had made -him dissatisfied and disappointed with himself. It had shown him what he -had not known, that he loved the old Constance as dearly as ever, though -he could not always recognise her in the strange girl who did not love -him but who assured him that her separation from him was killing her. He -had hoped and almost believed that he should never again feel an emotion -in her presence, and yet he had felt many during that afternoon. Nor did -he anticipate with any pleasure a renewal of the situation on the -following Sunday, though he was quite sure that he had no means of -avoiding it. If he had thought that Constance was merely making a -heartless attempt to renew the old relations, he would have given her a -sharp and decisive refusal. But she was undoubtedly in earnest and she -was evidently suffering. She had gone to the length of reminding him -that he owed the beginning of his literary career to her influence. It -was true, and he would not be ungrateful. Courtesy and honour alike -forbade ingratitude, and he only hoped that he might become accustomed -to the pain of such meetings. - - - - - CHAPTER XX. - - -When George met Mamie on that evening, he hoped that she would ask no -questions as to the way in which he had employed his afternoon, for he -knew that if she discovered that he had been with Constance Fearing she -would in all probability make some disagreeable observations about the -latter, of a kind which he did not wish to hear. Without having defined -the situation in his own mind, he felt that Mamie was jealous of -Constance and would show it on every occasion. As a general rule she -followed her mother’s advice and asked him no questions when he had been -out alone. But this evening her curiosity was aroused by an almost -imperceptible change in his manner. His face was a shade darker, his -voice a shade more grave than usual. After dinner, Totty stayed in the -drawing-room to write letters and left the two together upon the -verandah. It was very dark and they sat near each other in low straw -chairs. - -“What have you been doing with yourself?” Mamie asked, almost as soon as -they were alone. - -“Something that will surprise you,” George answered. “I have been with -Miss Fearing.” - -He had no intention of concealing the fact, for he saw that such a -course would be foolish in the extreme. He meant to go and see Constance -again, as he had promised her, and he saw that it would be folly to give -a clandestine appearance to their meetings. - -“Oh!” exclaimed Mamie, “that accounts for it all!” He could not see her -face distinctly, but her tone told him that she was smiling to herself. - -“Accounts for what?” he asked. - -“For a great many things. For your black looks and your gloomy view of -the dinner, and your general unsociability.” - -“I do not feel in the least gloomy or unsociable,” George said drily. -“You have too much imagination.” - -“Why did you go to see her?” - -“I did not. I landed on their place without knowing it, and when I had -been there a quarter of an hour, Miss Fearing suddenly appeared upon the -scene. Is there anything else you would like to know?” - -“Now you are angry!” Mamie exclaimed. “Of course. I knew you would be. -That shows that your conversation with Conny was either very pleasant or -very disagreeable. I am not naturally curious, but I would like to know -what you talked about!” - -“Would you?” George laughed a little roughly. “We did not talk of -you—why should you want to know?” - -“Oh, that mine enemy would write a book!” Mamie exclaimed, “and put into -it an accurate report of your conversations, and send it to me to be -criticised.” - -“Why are you so vicious? Let Miss Fearing alone, if you do not like her. -She has done you no harm, and there is no reason why you should call her -your enemy, and quote the Bible against her.” - -“I hate to hear you call her Miss Fearing. I know you call her Constance -when you are alone with her.” - -“Mamie, you are a privileged person, but you sometimes go too far. It is -of no consequence what I call her. Let us drop the subject and talk of -something else, unless you will speak of her reasonably and quietly.” - -“Do you expect me to go with you when you make your next visit?” - -“I shall be very glad if you will, provided that you will behave -yourself like a sensible creature.” - -“As I did the other day, when she was here? Is that the way?” Mamie -laughed. - -“No. You behaved abominably——” - -“And she has been complaining to you, and that is the reason why you are -lecturing me, and making the night hideous with your highly moral and -excellent advice. Give it up, George. It is of no use. I am bad by -nature.” - -George was silent for a few minutes. It was clear that if he meant to -see Constance from time to time in future matters must be established -upon a permanent basis of some sort. - -“Mamie,” he said at last, “let us be serious. Are you really as fond of -me as you seem to be? Will you do something, not to please me, but to -help me?” - -“Provided it is easy and I like to do it!” Mamie laughed. “Of course I -will, George,” she added a moment later in a serious tone. - -“Very well. It is this. Forget, or pretend to forget, that there is such -a person as Miss Fearing in the world. Or else go and see her and be as -good and charming as you know how to be.” - -“You give me my choice? I may do either?” - -“It will help me if you will do either. I cannot hear her spoken of -unkindly, and I cannot see her treated as you treated her the other day, -without the shadow of a cause.” - -“I think there is cause enough, considering how she treated you. Oh, -yes, I know what you will say—that there never was any engagement, and -all the rest of it. It is very honourable of you, and I admire you men -much for putting it in that way. But we all knew, and it is of no use to -deny it, you know.” - -“You do not believe me? I give you my word of honour that there was no -engagement. Do you understand? I made a fool of myself, and when I came -to put the question I was disappointed. She was as free to refuse me as -you are now, if I asked you to marry me. Is that clear?” - -“Perfectly,” said Mamie in a rather unnatural tone. “Since you give me -your word, it is a different thing. I have been mistaken. I am very -sorry.” - -“And will you do what I ask?” - -“If you give me my choice, I will go and see her to-morrow. I will do it -to please you—though I do not understand how it can help you.” - -“It will, nevertheless, and I shall be grateful to you.” - -The result of this conversation was that Mamie actually crossed the -river on the following day and spent an hour with Constance Fearing to -the great surprise of the latter, especially when she saw that her -visitor was determined to be agreeable, as though to efface the -impression she had made a few days earlier. Mamie was very careful to -say nothing in the least pointed, nor anything which could be construed -as an allusion to George. - -Totty saw and wondered, but said nothing. She supposed that Mamie had -made the visit because George had asked her to, and she was well -satisfied that George should take the position of asking Mamie to do -anything for him. That sort of thing, she said to herself, helps on a -flirtation wonderfully. - -As for George he did not look forward to his next meeting with Constance -with any kind of pleasure. It was distinctly disagreeable, and he wished -that something might happen to prevent it. He did not know whether -Constance would tell Grace of his coming, but it struck him that he -would not like to be surprised by Grace when he was sitting under the -trees with her sister. Grace would assuredly not understand why he was -there, and he would be placed in a very false position. - -So far, he was right. Constance had not mentioned her meeting with -George to any one, and had no intention of doing so. She, like George, -said to herself that Grace would not understand, and it seemed wisest -not to give her understanding a chance. Of late George had been rarely -mentioned, and there was a tendency to coldness between the sisters if -his name was spoken, even accidentally. Constance had at first been -grateful for the other’s readiness to help her on the memorable first of -May, but as time went on, she began to feel that Grace was in some way -responsible for her unhappiness and she resented any allusion to the -past. Fortunately, Grace was very much occupied with her own existence -at that time and was little inclined to find fault with other people’s -views of life. She had married the man she loved, and who loved her, for -whom she had waited long, and of whom she was immensely proud. He was -exactly suited to her taste and represented her ideal of man in every -way. She would rather talk of him than of George Wood, and she preferred -his company to her sister’s when he was at home. They were a couple -whose happiness would have become proverbial if it had been allowed to -continue; one of those couples who are not interesting but to watch whom -is a satisfaction, and whom it is always pleasant to meet. There was -just the right difference of age between them, there was just the right -difference in height, the proper contrast in complexion, both had much -the same tastes, both were very much in earnest, very sensible, and very -faithful. It was to be foreseen that in the course of years they would -grow more and more alike, and perhaps more and more prejudiced in favour -of their own way of looking at things, that they would have sensible, -good-looking children, who would do all those things which they ought to -do and rejoice their parents’ hearts, in short that they would lead a -peaceful and harmonious life and be in every way an honour to their -principles and a model to all young couples yet unmarried. They were -people to whom nothing unusual would ever happen, people who, if they -had had the opportunity to invent gunpowder, would have held a -matrimonial consultation upon the matter and would have decided that -explosives should be avoided with care, and had better not be invented -at all. Since their marriage they had both been less in sympathy with -Constance than before, and the latter was beginning to suspect that it -would not be wise for them to live together when they returned to town. -She was in some doubt, however, about making any definite arrangements. -The elderly female relation who had been a companion and a chaperon to -the two young girls, was on her hands, and had begun to show signs of -turning into an invalid. It was impossible to turn her adrift, though -she was manifestly in the way at present, and yet if Constance decided -to live by herself, the good lady was not the sort of person she needed. -She gave a good deal of thought to the matter, and turned it over in -every way, little suspecting that an event was about to occur which -would render all such arrangements futile. - -On the Sunday afternoon agreed upon, George got into the boat alone and -pulled away into the stream without offering any explanation of his -departure to Mrs. Trimm or to Mamie. He took it for granted that they -intended to go to church as usual and that he would not be missed. -Moreover, he owed no account of his doings to any one, as he said to -himself, and would assuredly give none. He started at an early hour, but -was surprised to see that Constance was at the place of meeting before -him. As he glanced over his shoulder to see that he was rowing for the -right point, he caught sight of her white serge dress beneath the trees. - -“I have been watching you ever since you started,” she said, holding out -her hand to him. “Why do you always row instead of sailing? There is a -good breeze, too.” - -“There are two reasons,” he answered. “In the first place, the Trimms -have no sail-boat, and secondly, if they had, I should not know how to -manage it.” - -“My brother-in-law and Grace are out. Do you see their boat off there? -Just under the bluff. They said they would probably go to your cousin’s -a little later. And now sit down. Do you know? I was afraid you would -not come, until I saw your boat.” - -“What made you think that? Did I not promise that I would come?” - -“Yes—I know. But I was afraid something would happen to prevent you—and -then, when one looks forward to something for a whole week, it so often -does not happen.” - -“That is true. But then, presentiments are always wrong. What have you -been doing with yourself all the week?” George asked, feeling that since -he had come so far, it was incumbent upon him to try and make -conversation. - -“Not much. I had one surprise—your cousin Mamie came over on Tuesday and -made a long visit. I had not expected her, I confess, but she was in -very good spirits and talked charmingly.” - -“She is a very nice girl,” said George indifferently. - -“Of course—I know. But when we were all over there the other day I -thought—” she stopped suddenly and looked at George. “Is it forbidden -ground?” she asked, with a slight change of colour. - -“What? Mamie? No. Why should we not talk about her?” - -“Well—I fancied she did not like me. She said one or two things that I -thought were meant to hurt me. They did, too. I suppose I am very -sensitive. After all, she looked perfectly innocent, and probably meant -nothing by it.” - -“She often says foolish things which she does not mean,” said George -reflectively. “But she is a very good girl, all the same. You say she -was agreeable the other day—what did you talk about?” - -“She raved about you,” said Constance. “She is a great admirer of yours. -Did you know it?” - -“I know she likes me,” George answered coolly. “Her mother is a very old -friend of mine and has been very kind to me. She saw that I was worn out -with work, and insisted upon my spending the summer with them, as Sherry -Trimm is abroad and they had no man in the house. So Mamie came over -here to sing my praises, did she?” - -“Yes, and she sang them very well. She is so enthusiastic—it is a -pleasure to listen to her.” - -“I should think you would find that sort of thing rather fatiguing,” -said George with a smile. - -“Strange to say I did not. I could bear a great deal of it without being -in the least tired. But, as I told you, I was surprised by her visit. Do -you know what I thought? I thought that you had made her come and be -nice, because you had seen that I had been annoyed when we were over -there. It would have been so like you.” - -“Would it? If I had done what you suppose, I would not tell you and I am -very glad she came. I wish you knew each other better, and liked each -other.” - -“We can, if you would be glad,” said Constance. “I could go over there -and ask her here, and see a great deal of her, and I could make her like -me. I will if you wish it.” - -“Why should I put you to so much trouble, for a matter of so little -importance?” - -“It would be a pleasure to do anything for you,” answered the young girl -simply. “I wish I might.” - -George looked at her gravely and saw that she was very much in earnest. -The readiness with which she offered to put herself to any amount of -inconvenience at the slightest hint from him, proved she was looking out -for some occasion of proving her friendship. - -“You are very kind, Constance,” he said gently. “I thank you very much.” - -A silence followed, broken only by the singing of the wind in the old -trees. The sky was overcast and there were light squalls on the water. -Presently George began to talk again and an hour passed quickly away, -far more quickly and pleasantly than he had believed possible. They had -many thoughts and ideas in common, and the first constraint being -removed it was impossible that they should be long together without -talking freely. - -“Why not kill him?” said Constance in a critical tone. “It would solve -many difficulties, and after all you do not want him any more.” - -They were talking of the book he was now writing. Insensibly they had -approached the subject, and being once near it, George had not resisted -the temptation to tell her the story. - -“It would be so easy,” she continued. “Take him out in a boat and upset -him, you know. They say drowning is a pleasant death. A boat like my -brother-in-law’s—there it is. Do you see?” - -Grace and her husband had been across to see Totty and were returning. -The breeze was uncertain, and from time to time the boat lay over in a -way that looked dangerous. - -“Murder and sudden death!” said George with a light laugh. “Do you not -think it would be more artistic to let him live? When I was a starving -critic, that was one of my favourite attacks. At this point the author, -for reasons doubtless known to himself, unexpectedly drowns his hero, -and what might have proved a very fair story is brought to an abrupt -close. You know the style. I used to do it very well. Do you not think -they will say that?” - -“What does it matter? Besides, it is only a suggestion, and this -particular man is not the hero. I never liked him from the beginning, -and I should be glad if he were brought to an awful end!” - -“How heartless! But he is not so bad as you think. I never could tell a -story well in this way, and you have not read the book. By Jove! I -believe they have brought over Mamie and her mother. There are a lot of -people in the boat.” - -He was watching the little craft rather anxiously. It struck him that he -would rather not be found sitting under the trees with Constance, by -that particular party of people. - -“You do not think they will come here, do you?” he asked, turning to his -companion. It seemed almost as natural as formerly that they should -agree in not wishing to be interrupted by Grace, nor by any one else. - -“Oh no!” Constance answered. “They will not come here. The buoy is -anchored opposite the landing, much farther down, and John could not -moor her to the shore. It is odd, though, that he should be running so -free. He is losing way by coming towards us.” - -“I am sure they have seen us and mean to land here,” said George in a -tone that betrayed his annoyance. - -Both watched the little boat in silence for some minutes. - -“You are right,” Constance said at last. “They are coming here. It is of -no use to run away,” she added, quite naturally. “They must have seen my -white frock long ago. Yes, here they are.” - -By this time the boat was less than twenty yards from the shore and -within speaking distance. She was a small, light craft, half-decked, and -rigged as a cutter. John Bond was steering and the three ladies were -seated in the middle. John let her head come to the wind and sang out— - -“Wood! I say!” - -“Hullo!” George answered, springing to his feet and advancing to the -edge of the land. - -“Can you take the ladies ashore in your boat?” - -“All right!” George sprang into the light wherry, taking the painter -with him, and pulled alongside of the party. In a moment the three -ladies were over the side and crowded together in the stern. - -“You will meet us at the house, dear, won’t you?” said Grace to her -husband just as George was turning his boat to row back. - -“Yes, as soon as I can take her to her moorings,” answered John, who was -holding the helm up with one hand and loosening the sheet with the -other. - -As George rowed towards the land he faced the river and saw what -happened. The three ladies were all looking in the opposite direction. -The little cutter’s head went round, slowly at first, and then more -quickly as the wind filled the sail. At that moment a sharp squall swept -over the water. George could see that John was trying to let the sheet -go, but the rope was jammed and the sail remained close hauled, as it -had been when he made the boat lie to. She had little ballast in her, -and the weight of the ladies being out of her, left her far too light. -George was not a practical sailor, and he turned pale as he saw the -cutter lie over upon her side, though he supposed it might not be as -dangerous as it looked. A moment later he stopped rowing. The little -vessel had capsized and was floating bottom upwards. John Bond was -nowhere to be seen. - -“Can your husband swim?” he asked quickly of Grace. She started -violently as she saw the look on his face, turned, caught sight of the -sail-boat’s keel and then screamed. - -“Save him! Save him!” she cried in agony. - -“Take the sculls, Mamie!” cried George as he sprang over the side into -the river. He had not even thrown off his shoes or his flannel jacket. - -George had calculated that he could reach the place where the accident -had occurred much sooner by swimming than in the boat, which was long -and narrow and needed some time to turn, and which moreover was moving -in the opposite direction. He was a first-rate swimmer and diver and -trusted to his strength to overcome the disadvantage he was under in -being dressed. In a few seconds he had reached the cutter. John Bond was -nowhere to be seen. Without hesitation he drew a long breath and dived -under the boat. The unfortunate man had become entangled in the ropes -and was under the vessel, struggling desperately to free himself. George -laid hold of him just as he was making his last convulsive effort. But -it was too late. The wet sail and the slack of the sheet had somehow -fastened themselves about him. He grasped the arm with which George -tried to help him, and his grip was like a steel vice, for John Bond was -a very strong man and he was in his death agony. George now struggled -for his own life, trying to free himself from the death clasp that held -him, making desperate efforts to get his head under the side of the boat -in order to breathe the air. But he could not loosen the dead man’s iron -hold. The effort to hold his breath could go no further, he opened his -mouth, and made as though he were breathing, taking the cool fresh water -into his lungs, while still exerting his utmost strength to get free. -Then a delicious dreamy sleep seemed to come over him and he lost -consciousness. - -Mamie Trimm showed admirable self-possession. She brought her mother and -Grace ashore in spite of their cries and entreaties, for she knew that -they could do nothing, and she herself did not believe at first that -anything serious had happened, and told them so as calmly as she could. -She knew that George was an admirable swimmer and she had no fear for -him, though as she reached the land she saw him dive under the capsized -boat. He would reappear in thirty seconds at the most, and would -probably bring John Bond up with him. She had great difficulty in making -Grace go ashore, however, and without her mother’s assistance she would -have found it altogether impossible. The four women stood near together -straining their sight, when nothing was to be seen. The struggles of the -two men moved the light hull of the cutter during several seconds and -then all was quiet. - -With parted lips and blanched cheeks Constance Fearing stared at the -water, leaning against the tree that was nearest to the edge. Grace -would have fallen to the ground if Mrs. Trimm had not held her arms -about her. Mamie stood motionless and white, expecting every moment to -see George’s dark head rise to the surface, believing that he could not -be drowned. - -At that moment a third boat, rowed by four strong pairs of arms shot -past the wooded point at a tremendous speed, the water flying to right -and left of the sharp prow, and churning in the wake, while the hard -breathing of the desperate rowers could be heard. - -“Jump on her keel, fellows!” roared a lusty voice. “There are four of us -and we can right her. They’re both under the stern!” - -In an instant, as it seemed, the little cutter was lying on her side, -and the four women could see the bodies of John Bond and George Wood -clasped together and entangled in the sail, but partly drawn out of -water by the lifting of the boat’s side. Quicker than thought Mamie was -in the wherry again and out on the water. The cutter had drifted in -shore with the current during the two or three minutes in which all had -happened. The girl saw that the rescuers needed help and was with them -in an instant. What she did she never remembered afterwards, but for -many days the strain upon her strength left her bruised and aching from -head to foot. In less than a minute the bodies of the two men were in -her boat and two of the newcomers were pulling her ashore. The others -caught their own craft again and swam to land, pushing it before them. - -With a cry that seemed to break her heart Grace fell upon her husband’s -corpse. He was dead, and she knew it, though two of the men did -everything in their power to restore him. They were all gentlemen who -lived by the river, and knew what to do in such cases. - -On the other side the two young girls knelt beside the body of George -Wood, both their faces as white as his, both silent, both helping to -their utmost in the attempt to bring him to life. The men were prompt -and determined in their action. One of them was a physician. For many -minutes they moved George’s arms up and down with a regular, cadenced -motion, so as to expand and contract the lungs and produce an artificial -breathing. - -“I am afraid it is all up,” said one in a low voice to his companion. - -“Not yet,” answered the other, who was the doctor. “I believe he is -alive.” - -He was right. A minute later George’s eyelids trembled. - -“He is alive,” said Constance in a strange, happy voice. - -Mamie said nothing, but her great grey eyes opened wide with joy. Then -all at once, with a smothered cry she threw herself upon him and kissed -his dark face passionately, heedless of the two strangers as she was of -the girl who was kneeling opposite to her. - -Constance seized her by the arm and pushed her away from George with a -strength no one would have suspected her of possessing. - -“What is he to you, that you should do that?” she asked in a tone -trembling with passion. - -Mamie’s eyes flashed angrily as she shook herself free and raised her -head. - -“I love him,” she said proudly. “What are you to him that you should -come between us?” - -George opened his eyes slowly. - -“Constance!” He could hardly articulate the name, and a violent fit of -coughing succeeded the effort. - -The two girls looked into each other’s eyes. Both had heard the -syllables, and both knew what they meant. In Constance’s face there was -pride, triumph, supreme happiness. In Mamie’s closely-set lips and -flashing eyes there was implacable hatred. She rose to her feet and drew -back, slowly, while Constance remained kneeling on the ground. One -moment more she remained where she was, gazing at her retreating rival. -Then, with one more glance at George’s reviving eyes, she sprang up and -went to her sister’s side. - -Grace’s grief was uncontrollable and terrible to see. During the night -that followed it was impossible to make her leave her husband’s body. -She was far too strong to break down or to go mad, and she suffered -everything that a human being can suffer without a moment’s respite. - -Constance never left her, though she could do nothing to soothe her -fearful sorrow. Words were of no use, for Grace could not hear them. -There was nothing to be done, but to wait and pray that she might become -exhausted by the protracted agony. - -It was late in the evening when the four gentlemen who had saved -George’s life brought him home with Mamie and her mother. There had been -much to be thought of before he could think of returning. They had -carried him to Constance’s house at first, for he had been unable to -walk, and they had given him some of the dead man’s clothes in place of -his own dripping garments, had chafed him and warmed him and poured -stimulants down his throat. The doctor in the party had strongly urged -him to spend the night where he was. But nothing could induce him to do -that. As soon as he was strong enough to walk he insisted on recrossing -the river. - -Even Totty was terribly shocked and depressed by what had happened. She -was not without heart and the tears came into her eyes when she thought -of Grace’s cruel bereavement. - -“Oh, George,” she said before they retired for the night, “you don’t -think anything more could have been done, do you? It was quite -impossible to save him, was it not?” - -A faint smile passed over the tired face of the man who had to all -intents and purposes sacrificed his own life in the attempt to save John -Bond, who had been as dead as he so far as his own sensations were -concerned. - -“I did what I could,” he answered simply. - -Mamie looked keenly into his eyes, as she bade him good-night. Her -mother was already at the door. - -“You love Constance Fearing still,” she said in a tone that could not -reach Totty’s ears. - -“I hope not,” George answered with sudden coldness. - -“When you opened your eyes, you said ‘Constance’ quite distinctly. We -both heard it.” - -“Did I? That was very foolish. The next time I am drowned in the -presence of ladies I will try and be more careful.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXI. - - -The sudden death of John Bond caused an interruption in the lives of -most of the people concerned in this history. George Wood had received -one of those violent mental impressions from which men do not recover -for many weeks. It was long before he could rid his dreams of the -ever-repeated scene. When he closed his eyes the white sail of the -little cutter rose before them, the sharp and sudden squall struck the -canvas, and almost at the same instant he felt himself once more in the -cool depths, struggling with a man already almost dead, striving with -agonised determination to hold his breath, then abandoning the effort -and losing consciousness, only to awake with a violent start and a -short, smothered cry. - -Even Totty, who was not naturally nervous, was haunted by terrible -visions in the night and was a little pale and subdued during a -fortnight after the accident. Mamie wore a strange expression, which -neither George nor her mother could understand. Her lips were often -tightly set together as though in some desperate effort, in which her -eyelids drooped and her fingers grasped convulsively whatever they held. -She was living over again that awful moment when she had clutched what -she had believed to be the dead body of the man she loved, and almost -unaided, she knew not how, had dragged it into the boat. There was -another instant, too, which recalled itself vividly to her memory, the -one in which the reviving man had pronounced Constance’s name, and -Constance had shown her triumph in her eyes. - -As often happens in such cases, both George and Mamie had been less -exhausted on the evening of the fatal day than they had been for several -days afterwards. It was long before Mamie made any reference again to -the first word he had spoken with returning consciousness. She often, -indeed, stood gazing across the river, towards the scene of the tragedy -and beyond the tall trees in the direction of the house that was hidden -behind them, and George knew what was in her thoughts better than he -could tell what was in his own. He had learned soon enough that he owed -a large share of gratitude for the preservation of his life to Mamie -herself. The young doctor who had done so much, had been to see him more -than once and had repeated to him that if he had been left, even with -his head above water, but without the immediate assistance necessary in -such cases, during two or three minutes more, he would in all likelihood -never have breathed again. The presence of a boat on the spot, and above -all Mamie’s exhibition of an almost supernatural strength in getting -George into the wherry, had really saved his life. Without her, the four -men who had acted so promptly would have been helpless. Their own craft -was adrift and empty, and they had been unable to right the cutter so as -to make use of her, light as she was. The doctor did not fail to say the -same thing to Mamie, complimenting her on her presence of mind and -extraordinary energy in a way that brought the colour to her pale -cheeks. George felt that a new tie bound him to his cousin. - -It was indeed impossible that where there was already so much genuine -affection on the one side and so much devoted love on the other, such an -accident should not increase both in a like proportion. Whether it were -really true that Mamie had been the immediate means of saving George or -not, the testimony was universally in favour of that opinion, and the -girl herself was persuaded that without her help he would have perished. -She had saved him at the moment of death, and she loved him ten times -more passionately than before. As for him, he doubted his own power to -reason in the matter. He had been fond of her before; he was devotedly -attached to her now. His whole nature was full of gratitude and trust -where she was concerned, and his relations with Constance Fearing began -to take the appearance of an infidelity to Mamie. If he asked himself -whether he felt or could ever feel for his cousin what he had felt so -strongly for Constance, the answer was plain enough. It was impossible. -But if he put the matter differently he found a different response in -his heart. If, thought he, the two young girls were drowning before his -eyes, as John Bond and he had been drowning before theirs, and if it -were only possible to save one, which should it be? In that imaginary -moment that was so real from his recent experience, when he was swimming -forward with all his might to reach the spot in time, would he have -struck out to the right and saved Mamie, or would he have turned to the -left and drawn Constance ashore? There was no hesitation. Mamie should -have lived and Constance might have died, though he would have risked -his own life a hundred times to help her after the first was safe, and -though the thought of her death sent a sharp pain through his heart. Was -he then in love with both? That was an impossibility, he thought, an -absurdity that could never be a reality, the creation perhaps of some -morbid story-maker, evolved without experience from the elaboration of -imaginary circumstances. - -Since he had entered upon this frame of mind he had grown very cautious -and reticent. He was playing with fire on both sides. That Mamie loved -him with all her heart he now no longer doubted, and as for Constance, -now that he had not seen her for some time and had found leisure to -reflect upon her conduct, it seemed clear that the latter could not be -explained upon any ordinary theory of friendship, and if so, she also -loved him in her own strange way. He wished it had been easier to decide -between the two, if he must decide at all. If there was to be no -decision, he should lose no time in leaving the neighbourhood. To stay -where he was would be to play a contemptibly irresponsible part. He was -disturbing Constance’s peace of mind, and he was not sure that at any -moment he might not do or say something that would make Mamie believe -that he loved her. He owed too much to these two beings, about whom his -strongest affections were centred, he could not and would not give -either the one or the other a moment’s pain. - -Totty was also not without her apprehensions in the matter. When she had -somewhat recovered from the impression of the accident, she began to -think it very odd that George should have been sitting alone with -Constance under the trees on that Sunday afternoon. She remembered that -he had disappeared mysteriously soon after luncheon, without saying -anything of his intentions. She argued that he had certainly not met -Constance by accident, and that if the meeting had been agreed upon the -two must have met before. She knew that George had once loved the girl, -and all she positively knew of the cause of the coldness between them -was what she had learned from himself. She had undoubtedly refused him -and he had been very angry, but that did not prevent his offering -himself again, and did not by any means exclude the possibility of his -being accepted. Totty was worldly-wise, and she understood young women -of Constance’s type better than most of them understand themselves. They -imagine that in refusing men they are temporarily, and by an act of -their own volition, putting them back from the state of love to the -state of devoted friendship, in order to discover whether they -themselves are in earnest. Many men bear the treatment kindly and -reappear at the expected time with their second declaration, are -accepted, happily married and forgotten promptly by designing mothers. -Occasionally a man appears who is like George Wood, who raves, storms, -grows thin and refuses to speak to the heartless little flirt who has -wrecked his existence, until, on a summer’s day he is unexpectedly -forced into her society again, when he finds that he loves her still, -tells her so and receives a kind answer, prompted by the fear of losing -him altogether. - -The prospect was not a pleasant one. If at the present juncture -Constance were to succeed in winning George back, Totty was capable of -being roused to great and revengeful wrath. Hitherto she had not even -thought of such a catastrophe as probable, but the discovery that the -two had been spending a quiet afternoon together under the trees -strangely altered the face of the situation. If, however, George still -felt anything for the girl, Totty had not failed to see that she also -had gained something by the accident. It was a great point that Mamie -should have saved George’s life, and the longer Mrs. Trimm thought of -it, the more sure she became that he had owed his salvation to the young -girl alone, and that the four gentlemen who had appeared so opportunely -had only been accessories to her action. George must be hard-hearted -indeed if he were not grateful, and the natural way of showing his -gratitude should be to fall in love without delay. But George was an -inscrutable being, as was sufficiently shown by his secretly meeting -Constance. Totty wondered whether she ought not to give him a hint, to -convey tactfully to him the information that Mamie was deeply in love, -to let him know that he was welcome to marry her. She hesitated to do -this, however, fearing lest George should take to flight. She knew -better than any one that he had been more attracted by the comfort, the -quiet and the luxury of her home than by Mamie, when he had consented to -spend the summer under the roof, and though Mamie herself had now grown -to be an attraction in his eyes, she did not believe that the girl had -inspired in him anything like the sincere passion he had felt for -Constance. - -Meanwhile those who had been most nearly affected by the calamity were -passing through one of those periods of life upon which men and women -afterwards look back with amazement, wondering how they could have borne -so much without breaking under the strain. Grace was beside herself with -grief. After the first few days of passionate weeping she regained some -command over her actions, but the deep-seated, unrelenting pain, which -no longer found vent in tears was harder to bear, inasmuch as it was -more conscious of itself and of its own fearful proportions. For many -days, the miserable woman never left her room, sitting from morning till -evening in the same attitude, dry-eyed and motionless, gazing at the -place where her dead husband had lain; and in that same place she lay -all night, sleepless, waiting for the dawn, looking for the first grey -light at the window, listening for his breathing, in the mad hope that -it had all been but a dream which would vanish before the morning sun. -Her heart would not break, her strong, well-balanced intelligence would -not give way, though she longed for death or madness to end her -sufferings. - -At first Constance was always with her, but before long she understood -that the strong woman preferred to be alone. All that could be done was -to insist upon her taking food at regular intervals and to pray that her -state might soon change. Once or twice Constance urged her to leave the -place and to allow herself to be taken to the city, to the seaside, -abroad, anywhere away from everything that reminded her of the past. But -Grace stared at her with coldly wondering eyes. - -“It is all I have left—the memory,” she said, and relapsed into silence. - -Constance consulted physicians without her sister’s knowledge, but they -said that there was nothing to be done, that such cases were rare but -not unknown, that Mrs. Bond’s great strength of constitution would -survive the strain since it had resisted the first shock. And so it -proved in the end. For on a certain morning in September, when Constance -was seated alone in a corner of the old-fashioned garden, she had been -startled by the sudden appearance of a tall figure in black, and of a -face which she hardly recognised as being her sister’s. She had been -accustomed to seeing her in the dimness of a darkened room, wrapped in -loose garments, her smooth brown hair hanging down in straight plaits. -She was dressed now with all the scrupulous care of appearance that was -natural to her, with perfect simplicity as became her deep mourning, but -also with perfect taste. But the correctness of her costume only served -to show the changes that had taken place during the past weeks. She was -thin almost to emaciation, her smooth young cheeks were hollow and -absolutely colourless, her brown eyes were sunken and their depth was -accentuated by the dark rings that surrounded them. But she was erect as -she walked, and she held her head as proudly as ever. Her strength was -not gone, for she moved easily and without effort. Any one would have -said, however, that, instead of being nearly two years younger than -Constance, as she actually was, she must be several years older. - -When Constance saw her, she rose quickly with the first expression of -joy that had escaped her lips for many a day. - -“Thank God!” she exclaimed. “At last!” - -“At last,” Grace answered quietly. “One thing only, Constance,” she -continued after a pause. “I will be myself again. But do not talk of -going away, and never speak of what has happened.” - -“I never will, dear,” answered the older girl. - -There had been many inquiries made at the house by messengers from Mrs. -Trimm, but neither she, nor Mamie nor George had ventured to approach -the place upon which such awful sorrow had descended. They had been -surprised at not learning that the two sisters had left their -country-seat, and had made all sorts of conjectures concerning their -delay in going away, but they gradually became accustomed to the idea -that Grace might prefer to stay where she was. - -“It would kill me!” Totty exclaimed with much emphasis. - -“I could not do it,” said Mamie, looking at George and feeling suddenly -how hateful the sight of the river would have been to her if she had not -seen his eyes open on that terrible day when he lay like dead before -her. - -“I would not, whether I could or not,” George said. And he on his part -wondered what he would have felt, had Constance or Mamie, or both, -perished instead of John Bond. A slight shiver ran through him, and told -him that he would have felt something he had never experienced before. - -One morning when they were all at breakfast a note was brought to George -in a handwriting he did not recognise, but which was oddly familiar from -its resemblance to Constance’s. - -“Do see what it is!” exclaimed Totty before he had time to ask -permission to read it. - -His face expressed nothing as he glanced over the few lines the note -contained, folded it again and put it into his pocket. - -“Mrs. Bond wants me to go and see her,” he said, in explanation. “I -wonder why!” - -“It is very natural,” Totty answered. “She wants to thank you for what -you did.” - -“Very unnecessary, considering the unfortunate result,” observed George -thoughtfully. - -“Will you go to-day?” Mamie asked in the hope that he would suggest -taking her with him. - -“Of course,” he answered shortly. As soon as breakfast was over he went -to his work, without spending what he called his quarter of an hour’s -grace in the garden with his cousin. - -George Wood was a nervous and sensitive man in spite of his strong -organisation, and he felt a strong repugnance to revisiting the scene of -the fatal accident. He had indeed been on the river several times since -Bond had been drowned, and had taken Mamie with him, telling her that -one ought to get over the first impression at once, lest one should lose -the power of getting over them at all. But to row into the very water in -which John had died and he himself had nearly lost his life, was as yet -more than he cared to do when there was no definite object to be gained. -Though the little wooded point of land was nearer to the house than the -landing, he went to the latter without hesitation. - -He was shocked at Grace’s appearance when he met her in the great old -drawing-room. Her face was very grave, almost solemn in its immobility, -and her eyes looked unnaturally large. - -“I fear I have given you a great deal of trouble, Mr. Wood,” she said as -she laid her thin cold fingers in his hand. He remembered that her grasp -had formerly been warm and full of life. - -“Nothing that you could ask of me would give me trouble,” George -answered earnestly. He had an idea that she wanted him to do her some -service, in some way connected with the accident, but he could not -imagine what it might be. - -“Thank you,” she said. He noticed that she continued to stand, and that -she was apparently dressed for going out. “That is one reason why I -asked you to come. I have not been myself and have seen no one until -now. Let me thank you—as only I can—for your noble and gallant attempt -to save my husband.” - -Her voice did not tremble nor did the glance of her deep eyes waver as -she spoke of the dead man, but George felt that he had never seen nor -dreamed of such grief as hers. - -“I could not do less,” he said hoarsely, for he found it hard to speak -at all. - -“No man ever did more. No man could do more,” Grace said gravely. “And -now, will you do me a great service? A great kindness?” - -“Anything,” George answered readily. - -“It will be hard for you. It will be harder for me. Will you come with -me to the place and tell me as well as you can, how it all happened?” - -George looked at her in astonishment. Her eyes were fixed on his face -and her expression had not changed. - -“It is the only kindness any one can do for me,” she said simply; and -then without waiting for any further answer she turned towards the door. - -George walked by her side in silence. They left the house and took the -direction of the wooded point, never exchanging a word as they went. -From time to time George glanced at his companion’s face, wondering -inwardly what manner of woman she might be who was able to suffer as she -evidently had suffered, and yet could of her own accord face such an -explanation of events as she had asked him to give her. In less than ten -minutes they had reached the spot. Grace stood a few seconds without -speaking, her thin face fixed in its unchangeable look of pain, her arms -hanging down, her hands clasped loosely together. - -“Now tell me. Tell me everything. Do not be afraid—I am very strong.” - -George collected his thoughts. He wished to make the story as short as -possible, while omitting nothing that was of vital importance. - -“I was rowing,” he said, “and I saw what happened. The boat was lying to -and drifting very slowly. Your husband put the helm up and she began to -turn. At that moment the squall came. He tried to let out the sail—that -would have taken off the pressure—but it seemed as though he could not. -The last I saw of him was just as the boat heeled over. He seemed to be -trying to get the sheet—the rope, you know—loose, so that it would run. -Then the boat went over and I thought he had merely fallen overboard -upon the other side. I asked you if he could swim. When you cried out, I -jumped over and swam as hard as I could. Not seeing him I dived under. -He seemed to be entangled in the ropes and the sail and was struggling -furiously. I tried to drag him back, but he could not get out and caught -me by the arm so that I could not move either. I did my best, but my -breath would not hold out, and I could not get my head from under. He -was not moving then, though he held me still. That is the last I -remember, his grip upon my arm. Then I took in the water and it was all -over.” - -He ceased speaking and looked at Grace. She was, if possible, paler than -before, but she had not changed her position and she was gazing at the -water. Many seconds elapsed, until George began to fear that she had -fallen into a sort of trance. He waited a little longer and then spoke -to her. - -“Mrs. Bond!” She made no reply. “Are you ill?” he asked. She turned her -head slowly towards him. - -“No. I am not ill. Let us go back,” she said. - -They returned to the house as silently as they had come. Her step did -not falter and her face did not change. When they reached the door, she -stood still and put out her hand, evidently wishing him to leave her. - -“You were very brave,” she said. “And you have been very kind to-day. I -hope you will come and see me sometimes.” - -George bowed his head silently and took leave of her. He had not the -heart to ask for Constance, and, indeed, he preferred to be alone for a -time. He had experienced a new and strange emotion, and his eyes had -been opened concerning the ways of human suffering. If he had not seen -and heard, he would never have believed that a woman capable of such -calmness was in reality heartbroken. But it was impossible to look at -Grace’s face and to hear the tones of her voice without understanding -instantly that the whole fabric of her life was wrecked. As she had told -her sister, she had nothing left but the memory, and she had been -determined that it should be complete, that no detail should be wanting -to the very end. It was a satisfaction to remember that his last -words—insignificant enough—had been addressed to her. She had wanted to -know what his last movement had been, his last struggle for life. She -knew it all now, and she was satisfied, for there was nothing more to be -known. - -As he rowed himself slowly across the river, George could not help -remembering the Grace Fearing he remembered in old times and comparing -her with the woman he had just left. The words she had spoken in praise -of his courage were still in his ear with their ring of heartfelt -gratitude and with the look that had accompanied them. There was -something grand about her which he admired. She had never been afraid to -show that she disliked him when she had feared that he might marry her -sister. When Constance had at last determined upon her answer, it had -been Grace who had conveyed it, with a frankness which he had once -distrusted, but which he remembered and knew now to have been real. She -had never done anything of which she was ashamed and she had been able -now to thank him from her heart, looking fearlessly into his eyes. She -would have behaved otherwise if she had ever deceived him. She would -have said too much or too little, or she might have felt bound to -confess at such a moment that she had formerly done him a wrong. A -strange woman she was, he thought, but a strong one and very honest. She -had never hesitated in her life, and had never regretted anything she -had done—it was written in her face even now. He did not understand why -she wished to see him often, for he could have supposed that his mere -presence must call up the most painful memories. But he determined that -if she remained some time longer he would once or twice cross the river -and spend an hour with her. The remembrance of to-day’s interview would -make all subsequent meetings seem pleasant by comparison. - -The circumstances of the afternoon had wearied him, and he was glad to -find himself again in the midst of more pleasant and familiar -associations. In answer to Totty’s inquiries as to how Grace looked and -behaved during his visit, he said very little. She looked very ill, she -behaved with great self-possession, and she had wished to know some -details about the accident. More than that George would not say, and his -imperturbable face did not betray that there was anything more to be -said. In the evening he found himself alone with Mamie on the verandah, -Totty having gone within as usual, on pretence of writing letters. The -weather was still pleasant, though it had grown much cooler, and Mamie -had thrown a soft white shawl over her shoulders, of which George could -see the outlines in the gloom. - -“Tell me, what did she really do?” Mamie asked, after a long silence. - -George hesitated a moment. He was willing to tell her many things which -he would not have told her mother, for he felt that she could understand -them and sympathise with them when Totty would only pretend to do so. - -“Why do you want to know?” he asked, by way of giving himself more time -to think. - -“Is it not natural? I would like to know how a woman acts when the man -she loves is dead.” - -“Poor thing!” said George. “There is not much to tell, but I would not -have it known—do you understand? She made me walk with her to the place -where it happened and go over the whole story. She never said a word, -though she looked like death. She suffers terribly—so terribly that -there is something grand in it.” - -“Poor Grace! I can understand. She wanted to know all there was to be -known. It is very natural.” - -“Is it? It seemed strange to me. Even I did not like to go near the -place, and it was very hard to tell her all about it—how poor Bond -gripped my arm, and then the grip after he was dead.” - -He shuddered and was silent for a moment. - -“I said it all as quickly and clearly as I could,” he added presently. -“She thanked me for telling her, and for what I had done to save her -husband. She said she hoped I would come again sometimes, and then I -left.” - -“You did not see Constance, I suppose?” - -“No. She did not appear. I fancy her sister told her not to interrupt us -and so she kept out of the way. It was horribly sad—the whole thing. I -could not help thinking that if it had not been for you, the poor -creature would never have known how it happened. I should not have been -alive to tell the tale.” - -“Are you glad that you were not drowned?” Mamie asked in a rather -constrained voice. - -“For myself? I hardly know. I cannot tell whether I set much value on -life or not. Sometimes it seems to be worth living, and sometimes I -hardly care.” - -“How can you say that, George!” exclaimed the young girl indignantly. -“You, so young and so successful.” - -“Whether life is worth living or not—who knows? It has been said to -depend on climate and the affections.” - -“The climate is not bad here—and as for the affections——” Mamie broke -off in a nervous laugh. - -“No,” George said as though answering an unspoken reproach. “I do not -mean that. I know that you are all very fond of me and very good to me. -But look at poor John Bond. He always seemed to you to be an -uninteresting fellow, and I used to wonder why he found life worth -living. I know now. He was loved—loved as I fancy very few men have ever -been. If you could have seen that poor woman’s face to-day, you would -understand what I mean.” - -“I can understand without having seen it,” said Mamie in a smothered -voice. - -“No,” said George, pursuing his train of thought, tactless and manlike. -“You cannot understand—nobody can, who has not seen her. There is -something grand, magnificent, queenly in a sorrow like that, and it -shows what she felt for the man and what he knew she felt. No wonder -that he looked happy! Now I, if I had been drowned the other day—if you -had not saved me—of course people would have been very sorry, but there -would have been no grief like that.” - -He was silent. Then a sharp short sob broke the stillness, and as he -turned his head he saw that Mamie had risen and was passing swiftly -through the door into the drawing-room. He rose to his feet and then -stood still, knowing that it was of no use to follow her. - -“What a brute I am!” he thought as he sat down again. - -Several minutes passed. He could hear the sound of subdued voices -within, and then a door was opened and closed. A moment later Totty came -out and looked about. She was dazzled by the light and could not see -him. He rose and went forward. - -“Here I am,” he said. - -She laid her hand upon his arm and looked at his face as she spoke, very -gently. - -“George, dear—things cannot go on like this,” she said. - -“You are quite right, Totty,” he answered. “I will go away to-morrow.” - -“Sit down,” said Totty. “Have you got one of those cigars? Light it. I -want to have a long talk with you.” - -Totty Trimm had determined to bring matters to a crisis. - - - - - CHAPTER XXII. - - -George felt that his heart was beating faster as he prepared to hear -what Totty had to say. He knew that the moment had come for making a -decision of some sort, and he was annoyed that it should be thrust upon -him, especially by Totty Trimm. He could not be sure of what she was -about to say, but he supposed that it was her intention to deliver him a -lecture upon his conduct towards Mamie, and to request him to make it -clear to the girl, either by words or by an immediate departure, that he -could never love her and much less marry her, considering his relatively -impecunious position. It struck him that many women would have spoken in -a more severe tone of voice than his cousin used, but this he attributed -to her native good humour as much as to her tact. He drew his chair -nearer to hers, nearer than it had been to Mamie’s, and prepared to -listen. - -“George, dear boy,” said Totty, “this is a very delicate matter. I -really hardly know how to begin, unless you will help me.” A little -laugh, half shy, half affectionate, rippled pleasantly in the dusky air. -Totty meant to show from the first that she was not angry. - -“About Mamie?” George suggested. - -“Yes,” Totty answered with a quick change to the intonation of sadness. -“About Mamie. I am very much troubled about her. Poor child! She is so -unhappy—you do not know.” - -“I am sincerely sorry,” said George gravely. “I am very fond of her.” - -“Yes, I know you are. If things had not been precisely as they are——” -She paused as though asking his help. - -“You would have been glad of it. I understand.” George thought that she -was referring to his want of fortune, as she meant that he should think. -She wanted to depress him a little, in order to surprise him the more -afterwards. - -“No, George dear. You do not understand. I mean that if you loved her, -instead of being merely fond of her, it would be easier to speak of it.” - -“To tell me to go away?” he asked, in some perplexity. - -“No indeed! Do you think I am such a bad friend as that? You must not be -so unkind. Do you think I would have begged you so hard to come and stay -all summer with us, that I would have left you so often together——” - -“You cannot mean that you wish me to marry her!” George exclaimed in -great astonishment. - -“It would make me very happy,” said Totty gently. - -“I am amazed!” exclaimed George. “I do not know what to say—it seems so -strange!” - -“Does it? It seems so natural to me. Mamie is always first in my -mind—whatever can contribute to her happiness in any way—and especially -in such a way as this——” - -“And she?” George asked. - -“She loves you, George—with all her heart.” Totty touched his hand -softly. “And she could not love a man whom we should be more glad to see -her marry,” she added, putting into her voice all the friendly -tenderness she could command. - -George let his head sink on his breast. Totty held his hand a moment -longer, gave it an infinitesimal squeeze and then withdrew her own, -sinking back into her chair with a little sigh as though she had -unburdened her heart. For some seconds neither spoke again. - -“Cousin Totty,” George said at last, “I believe you are the best friend -I have in the world. I can never thank you for all your disinterested -kindness.” - -Totty smiled sweetly in the dark, partly at the words he used and partly -at the hopes she founded upon them. - -“It would be strange if I were not,” she said. “I have many reasons for -not being your enemy, at all events. I have thought a great deal about -you during the last year. Will you let me speak quite frankly?” - -“You have every right to say what you think,” George answered -gratefully. “You have taken me in when I was in need of all the -friendship and kindness you have given me. You have made me a home, you -have given me back the power to work, which seemed gone, you have——” - -“No, no, George, do not talk of such wretched things. There are hundreds -of people who would be only too proud and delighted to have George -Winton Wood spend a summer with them—yes, or marry their daughters. You -do not seem to realise that—a man of your character, of your rising -reputation—not to say celebrity—a man of your qualities is a match for -any girl. But that is not what I meant to say. It is something much -harder to express, something about which I have never talked to you, and -never thought I should. Will you forgive me, if I speak now? It is about -Constance Fearing.” - -George looked up quickly. - -“Provided you say nothing unkind or unjust about her,” he answered -without hesitation. - -“I?” ejaculated Totty in surprise. “Am I not so fond of her, that I -wanted you to marry her? I cannot say more, I am sure. Constance is a -noble-hearted girl, a little too sensitive perhaps, but good beyond -expression. Yes, she is good. That is just the word. Scrupulous to a -degree! She has the most finely balanced conscience I have ever known. -Dr. Drinkwater—you know, our dear rector in New York—says that there is -no one who does more for the poor, or who takes a greater interest in -the church, and that she consults him upon everything, upon every point -of duty in her life—it is splendid, you know. I never knew such a -girl—and then, so clever! A Lady Bountiful and a Countess Matilda in -one! Only—no, I am not going to say anything against her, because there -is simply nothing to be said—only I really do not believe that she is -the wife for you, dear boy. I do not pretend to say why. There is some -reason, some subtle, undefinable reason why you would not suit each -other. I do not mean to say that she is vacillating or irresolute. On -the contrary, her sensitive conscience is one of the great beauties of -her character. But I have always noticed that people who are long in -deciding anything irritate you. Is it not true? Of course I cannot -understand you, George, but I sometimes feel what you think, almost as -soon as you. That is not exactly what I mean, but you understand. That -is one reason. There are others, no doubt. Do you know what I think? I -believe that Constance Fearing ought to marry one of those splendid -young clergymen one hears about, who devote their lives to doing good, -and to the poor—and that kind of thing.” - -“I daresay,” said George, as Totty paused. The idea was new to him, but -somehow it seemed very just. “At all events,” he added, “she ought to -marry a better man than I am.” - -“Not better—as good in a different way,” suggested Totty. “An especially -good man, rather than an especially clever one.” - -“I am not especially clever,” George answered. “I have worked harder -than most men and have succeeded sooner. That is all.” - -“Of course it is your duty to be modest about yourself. We all have our -opinions. Some people call that greatness—never mind. The principle is -the same. Tell me—you admire her, and all that, but you do not honestly -believe that you and she are suited to each other, do you?” - -Totty managed her voice so well that she made the question seem natural, -and not at all offensive. George considered his reply for a moment -before he spoke. - -“I think you are right,” he said. “We are not suited to each other.” - -Totty breathed more freely, for the moment had been a critical one. - -“I was sure of it, though I used to wish it had been otherwise. I used -to hope that you would marry her, until I knew you both better—until I -saw there was somebody else who was—well—in short, who loves you better. -You do not mind my saying it.” - -“I am sorry if it is true——” - -“Why should you be sorry? Could anything be more natural? I should think -that a man would be very glad and very happy to find that he is dearly -loved by a thoroughly nice girl——” - -“Yes, if——” - -“No! I know what you are going to say. If he loves her. My dear George, -it is of no use to deny it. You do love Mamie. Any one can see it, -though she would die rather than have me think that she believed it. I -do not say it is a romantic passion and all that. It is not. You have -outgrown that kind of thing, and you are far too sensible, besides. But -I do say that you are devotedly attached to her, that you seek her -society, that you show how much you like to be alone with her—a thousand -things, that we can all see.” - -“All” referred to Totty herself, of course, but George was too much -disturbed to notice the fact. He could find nothing to say and Totty -continued. - -“Not that I blame you in the least. I ought to blame myself for bringing -you together. I should if I were not so sure that it is the best thing -for your happiness as well as for Mamie’s. You two are made for each -other, positively made for each other. Mamie is not beautiful, of -course—if she were I would not give you a catalogue of her advantages. -She is not rich——” - -“You forget that I have only my profession,” said George, rather -sharply. - -“But what a profession—besides if it came to that, we should always wish -our daughter to live as she has been accustomed to live. That is not the -question. She is not beautiful and she is not rich, but you cannot deny -it, George, she has a charm of her own, a grace, a something that a man -will never be tired of because he can never find out just what it is, -nor just where it lies. That is quite true, is it not?” - -“Dear cousin Totty, I deny nothing——” - -“No, of course not! You cannot deny that, at least—and then, do you -know? You have the very same thing yourself, the something undefinable -that a woman likes. Has no one ever told you that?” - -“No indeed!” exclaimed George, laughing a little in spite of himself. - -“I am quite serious,” said Totty. “Mamie and you are made for each -other. There can be no doubt about it, any more than there can be about -your loving each other, each in your own way.” - -“If it were in the same way——” - -“It is not so different. I was thinking of it only the other day. -Suppose that several people were in danger at once—in that dreadful -river, for instance—you would save her first.” - -George glanced sharply at his cousin. The same idea had crossed his own -mind. - -“How do you know that?” he asked. - -“Is it not true?” - -“Yes—I suppose it is. But I cannot imagine how you guessed——” - -“Do you think I am blind?” asked Totty, almost indignantly. “Do you -think Mamie does not know it as well as I do? After all these months of -devotion! You must think me very dull—the only wonder is that you should -not yet have told her so.” - -George wondered why she took it for granted that he had not. - -“What I should have to tell her would be very hard to say, as it ought -to be said,” he answered thoughtfully. - -Totty’s manner changed again and she turned her head towards him, -lowering her voice and speaking in a tone of sincere sympathy. - -“Oh, I know how hard it must be!” she said. “Most of all for you. To -say, ‘I love you,’ and then to add, ‘I do not love you in the same way -as I once loved another.’ But then, must one add that? Is it not -self-evident? Ah no! There is no love like the first, indeed there is -not!” - -Totty sighed deeply, as though the recollection of some long buried -fondness were still dear, and sweet and painful. - -“And yet, one does love,” she continued a little more cheerfully. “One -loves again, often more truly, if one knew it, and more sincerely than -the first time. It is better so—the affection of later years is happier -and brighter and more lasting than that other. And it is love, in the -best sense of the word, believe me it is.” - -If there had been the least false note of insincerity in her voice, -George would have detected it. But what Totty attempted to do, she did -well, with a consummate appreciation of details and their value which -would have deceived a keener man than he. Moreover, he himself was in -great doubt. He was really so strongly attracted by Mamie as to know -that a feather’s weight would turn the scale. But for the recollection -of Constance he would have loved her long ago with a love in which there -might have been more of real passion and less of illusion. Mamie was in -many ways a more real personage in his appreciation than Constance. -Totty had defined the difference between the two very cleverly by what -she had said. The more he thought of it, the more ideal Constance seemed -to become. - -But there was another element at work in his judgment. He was obliged to -confess that Totty was right in another of her facts. During the long -months of the summer he had undoubtedly acted in a way to make ordinary -people believe that he loved Mamie. He had more than once shown that he -resented Totty’s presence, and Totty had taken the hint and had gone -away, with a readiness he only understood now. He had been very much -spoiled by her, but had never supposed that she desired the marriage. It -had been enough for him to show that he wished to talk to Mamie without -interruption and he had been immediately humoured as he was humoured in -everything in that charming establishment. Totty, however, and, of -course, poor Mamie herself, had put an especial construction upon all -his slightest words and gestures. To use the language of the world, he -had compromised the girl, and had made her believe that he was to some -extent in love with her, which was infinitely worse. It was very kind of -Totty to be so tactful and diplomatic. Honest Sherry Trimm would have -asked him his intentions in two words and would have required an answer -in one, a mode of procedure which would have been far less agreeable. - -“You owe her something, George,” Totty said after a long pause. “She -saved your life. You must not break her heart—it would be a poor -return.” - -“God forbid! Totty, do you think seriously that I have acted in a way to -make Mamie believe I love her?” - -“I am sure you have—she knew it long ago. You need hardly tell her, she -is so sure of it.” - -“I am very glad,” George answered. “What will cousin Sherry say to -this?” - -“Oh, George! How can you ask? You know how fond he is of you—he will be -as glad as I if——” - -“There shall be no ‘ifs,’” George interrupted. “I will ask Mamie -to-morrow.” - -He had made up his mind, for he detested uncertainties of all sorts. He -felt that however he might compare Mamie with Constance, he was on the -verge of some sort of passion for the former, whereas the latter -represented something never to be realised, something which, even if -offered him now, he could not accept without misgivings and doubts. -Since he had made Mamie believe that he loved her, no matter how -unintentionally the result had been produced, and since he felt that he -could love her in return, and be faithful to her, and, lastly, since her -father and mother believed that the happiness of her life depended upon -him, it seemed most honourable to disappoint no one, and if it turned -out that he was making a sacrifice he would keep it to himself -throughout his natural life. - -Totty held her breath for a moment after he had made his statement, -fearing lest she should utter some involuntary exclamation of delight, -too great even for the occasion. Then she rose and came to his side, -laid her hands upon his shoulders and touched his dark forehead with her -salmon-coloured lips. George remembered that a humming-bird had once -brushed his face with its wings, and the one sensation reminded him of -the other. - -“God bless you, my dear son!” said Totty in accents that would have -carried the conviction of sincerity to an angel’s heart. - -George pressed her hand warmly, but with an odd feeling that the action -was not spontaneous. He felt as though he were doing something that was -expected of him, and was doing it as well as he could, without -enthusiasm. He looked up in the gloom and felt that something warm fell -upon his face. - -“Why, cousin Totty, you are crying!” he exclaimed. - -“Happy tears,” answered Mrs. Sherrington Trimm in a voice trembling with -emotion. Then she turned and swiftly entered the drawing-room, leaving -him alone in the verandah in the darkness. - -“So the die is cast, and I am to marry Mamie,” he thought, as soon as -she was gone. - -In the first moments it was hard to realise that he had bound himself by -an engagement from which he could not draw back, and that so soon after -he had broken with Constance Fearing. Five months had not gone by since -the first of May, since he had believed that his life was ruined and his -heart broken. What had there been in his love for Constance which had -made it unreal from first to last, real only in the moment of -disappointment? He found no answer to the question, and he thought of -Mamie, his future wife. Yes, Totty was right. So far as it was possible -to judge they were suited to each other in all respects except in his -own lack of fortune. “Suited” was the very word. He would never feel -what he had felt for the other, the tenderness, the devotion, the -dependence on her words for his daily happiness—he might own it now, the -sweet fear of hurting her or offending her, which he had only half -understood. Constance had dominated him during their intercourse, and -until he had seen her real weakness. With Mamie it would be different. -She clung to him, not he to her. She looked up to him as a superior, he -could never worship her as an idol. He was to occupy the shrine -henceforth and he was to play the god and smile upon her when she -offered incense. There could not be two images in two shrines, smiling -and burning perfumes at each other. George smiled at the idea. But there -was to be something else, something he had only lately begun to know. He -was to be devotedly loved by some one, tenderly thought of, tenderly -treated by one who now, at least, held the first place in his heart. -That was very different from what he had hitherto received, the -perpetual denial of love, the repeated assurances of friendship. He -thought of that wonderful expression which he had seen two or three -times on Mamie’s face, and he was happy. There was nothing he would not -do, nothing he would not sacrifice for the sake of receiving such love -as that. - -He slept peacefully through the night, undisturbed by visions of future -trouble or dreams of coming disappointment. Nor had his mood changed -when he awoke in the morning and gazed through the open windows at the -trees beyond the river, where Constance’s house was hidden. Would -Constance be sorry to hear the news? Probably not. She would meet him -with renewed offers of eternal friendship, and would in all probability -come to the wedding. She had never felt anything for him. His lip curled -scornfully as he turned away. - -Early in the morning Totty entered her daughter’s room. There was -nothing extraordinary in the visit, and Mamie, who was doing her hair, -did not look round, though she greeted her mother with a word of -welcome. Totty kissed her with unwonted tenderness, even considering -that she was usually demonstrative in her affections. - -“Dear child,” she said, “I just came in to see how you had slept. You -need not go away,” she added, addressing the maid. “You are a little -pale, Mamie. But then you always are and it is becoming to you. What -shall you wear to-day? It is very warm again—you might put on white, -almost.” - -“Conny Fearing always wears white,” Mamie answered. - -“Why, she is in mourning of course,” said Mrs. Trimm with some -solemnity. - -“Is she? For her brother-in-law? Well, she always did, which is the same -thing, exactly. She had on a white frock on the day of the accident. I -can see her now!” - -“Oh then, by all means wear something else,” said Totty with alacrity. -“You might try that striped flannel costume—or the skirt with a blouse, -you know. That is new.” - -“No,” said Mamie with great decision. “I do not believe it is warm at -all and I mean to wear my blue serge.” - -“Well,” answered Mrs. Trimm, “perhaps it is the most becoming thing you -have.” - -“Positively, mamma, I have not a thing to wear!” exclaimed Mamie, by -sheer force of habit. - -“I am sure I have not,” answered her mother with a laugh. - -“Oh you, mamma! You have lots of things.” - -Totty did not go away until she had assured herself that Mamie was at -her best. She knew that it would have been folly to give the girl any -warning of what was about to take place, and she was aware that Mamie’s -taste in dress was even better than her own, but she had been unable to -resist the desire to see her and to go over in her own heart the -circumstances of her triumph. She knew also that Mamie would never -forgive her if she should discover that her mother had known of George’s -intention before George had communicated it to herself, but it seemed -very hard to be obliged to wait even a few hours before showing her -intense satisfaction at the result of her diplomacy. - -During breakfast she was unusually cheerful and talkative, whereas -George was exceptionally silent and spoke with an evident effort. Mamie -herself had to some extent recovered her spirits, though she was very -much ashamed of having made such an exhibition of her feelings on the -previous evening. She offered a lame explanation, saying that she had -felt suddenly cold and had run up to her room to get something warmer to -put on; seeing it was so late, she had not thought it worth while to -come down again. Then she changed the subject as quickly as she could -and was admirably seconded by her mother in her efforts to make -conversation. George’s face betrayed nothing. It was impossible to say -whether he believed her story or not. - -“I suppose you are going to work all the morning,” observed Mrs. Trimm -as they rose from the table. - -“I am not sure,” George answered, looking steadily at her for a second. -“At all events I will have a turn in the garden before I set to. Will -you come, Mamie?” he asked, turning to his cousin. - -For some minutes they walked away from the house in silence. George was -embarrassed and had not made up his mind what he should say. He did not -look at his cousin’s face, but as he glanced down before him he was -conscious of her graceful movement at his side. Perfect motion had -always had an especial charm for him, and at the present moment he was -glad to be charmed. Presently they found themselves in a shady place -beneath certain old trees, out of sight of the garden. George stopped -suddenly, and Mamie stopping also, looked at him in some little -surprise. - -“Mamie,” he said, in the best voice he could find, “do you love me?” - -“Better than anything in the world,” answered the young girl. Her lips -grew slowly white and there was a startled look in her fearless grey -eyes. - -“You saved my life. Will you take it—and keep it?” - -He looked to her for an answer. A supreme joy came into her face, then -shivered like a broken mirror under a blow, and gave way to an agonised -fear. - -“Oh, do not laugh at me!” she cried, in broken and beseeching tones. - -“Laugh at you, dear? God forbid! I am asking you to be my wife.” - -“Oh no! It is not true—you do not love me—it never can be true!” But as -she spoke, the day of happiness dawned again in her eyes—as a summer sun -rising through a sweet shower of raindrops—and broke and flooded all her -face with gladness. - -“I love you, and it is quite true,” he answered. - -The girl had for months concealed the great passion of her life as well -as she could; she had borne, with all the patience she could command, -the daily bitter disappointment of finding him always the same towards -her; she had suffered much and had hidden her sufferings bravely, but -the sudden happiness was more than she could control. As he held her in -his arms, he felt her weight suddenly as though she had fallen, and he -saw her eyelids droop and her long straight lips part slowly over her -gleaming teeth. She was not beautiful, and he knew it as he looked at -her white unconscious face. But she loved him as he had never been loved -before, and in that moment he loved her also. Supporting her with one -arm, he held up her head with his other hand and kissed her again and -again, with a passion he had never felt. Very slowly the colour returned -to her lips, and then her eyes opened. There was no surprise in them, -for she was hardly conscious that she had fainted. - -“Have I been long so?” she asked faintly as the look of life and joy -came back. - -“Only a moment, darling,” he answered. - -“And it is to be so for ever—oh, it is too much, too good, too great. -How can I believe so much in one day?” - -It was long before they turned back again towards the house. The sun -rose higher and higher, and the winnowed light fell upon them through -the leaves reddened by the autumn colours that were already spreading -over the woods, from tree to tree, from branch to branch, from leaf to -leaf, like one long sunset lasting many days. But they sat side by side -not heeding the climbing sun nor the march of the noiseless hours. Their -soft voices mingled lovingly with each other and with the murmur of the -scarcely stirring breeze. Very reluctantly they rose at last to return, -their arms twined about each other until they saw the gables of the -house rising above them out of the rich mass of red, and orange, and -yellow, and brown, and green that crowned the maples, the oaks and the -sycamores. One last long kiss under the shade, and they were out upon -the hard brown earth of the drive, in sight of the windows, walking -civilly side by side with the distance of half a pace between them. -Totty, the discreet, had watched for them until she had caught a glimpse -of their figures through the shrubbery and had then retired within to -await the joyful news. - -Mamie disappeared as soon as they entered the house, glad to be alone if -she could not be with the man she loved. But George went straight to her -mother in the little morning-room where she generally sat. She looked up -from her writing, as though she had been long absorbed in it, then -suddenly smiled and held out her hand. George pressed it with more -sincerity than he had been able to find for the same demonstration of -friendliness on the previous evening. - -“I am very glad I took your advice,” he said. “I am a very happy man. -Mamie has accepted me.” - -“Has she taken the whole morning to make up her mind about so simple a -matter?” asked Totty archly. - -“Well, not all the morning,” George answered. “We had one or two ideas -to exchange afterwards. Totty—no, I cannot call my mother-in-law Totty, -it is too absurd! Cousin Charlotte—will that do? Very well, cousin -Charlotte, you must telegraph for Sherry’s—I beg his pardon, for Mr. -Trimm’s consent. Where is he?” - -“Here—see for yourself,” said Totty holding up to his eyes a sheet of -paper on which was written a short cable. - -“Trimm. Carlsbad, Bohemia. Mamie engaged George Wood. Wire consent. -Totty.” - -“You see how sure I was of her. I wrote this while you were out there—it -is true, you gave me time.” - -“Sure of her, and of your husband,” said George, surprised by the form -of the message. - -“Oh, I have no doubts about him,” answered Mrs. Trimm with a light -laugh. “He thinks you are perfection, you know.” - -The reply came late that night, short, sharp and business-like. - -“Fix wedding-day. Returning. Sherry.” - -It was read by Totty with a sort of delirious scream of triumph, the -first genuine expression she had permitted herself since her efforts had -been crowned with success. - -“It is too good to be believed,” said Mamie aloud, as she laid her head -on the pillow. - -“I would never have believed it,” said George thoughtfully, as he turned -from his open window where he had been standing an hour. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIII. - - -“We had better say nothing about it for the present,” said Totty to -George on the following day. “It will only cause complications, and it -will be much easier when we are all in town.” - -The two were seated together in the little morning-room, discussing the -future and telling over what had happened. George was in a frame of mind -which he did not recognise, and he seemed laughable in his own eyes, -though he was far from being unhappy. His surprise at the turn events -had taken had not yet worn off and he could not help being amused at -himself for having known his own mind so little. At the same time he was -grateful to Totty for the part she had played and was ready to yield to -all her wishes in the matter. With regard to announcing the engagement, -she told him that it was quite unnecessary to do so yet, and that, among -other reasons, it would be better in the eyes of the world to publish -the social banns after Sherrington had returned from abroad. Moreover, -if the engagement were made known at once, it would be in accordance -with custom that George should leave the house and find a lodging in the -nearest town. - -“I cannot tell why, I am sure,” said Mrs. Trimm, “but it is always done, -and I should be so sorry if you had to leave us just now.” - -“It would not be pleasant,” George answered, thoughtfully. He had wished -to inform Constance as soon as possible. - -So the matter was decided, somewhat to his dissatisfaction in one -respect, but quite in accordance with his inclinations in all others. -And it was thereupon further agreed that as soon as the weather -permitted, they would all return to town, and make active preparations -for the wedding. Totty could see no reason whatever why the day should -not be fixed early in November. She declared emphatically that she hated -long engagements, and that in this case especially there could be no -object in putting off the marriage. She assured Mamie that by using a -little energy everything could be made ready in plenty of time, and she -promised that there should be no hitch in the proceedings. - -The week that followed the events last narrated slipped pleasantly and -quickly away. As George had said at once, he was a very happy man; that -is to say, he believed himself to be so, because the position in which -he found himself was new, agreeable and highly flattering to his vanity. -He could not but believe that he was taken into the family of his cousin -solely on his own merits. Being in total ignorance of the fortune -between which and himself the only barrier was the enfeebled health of -an invalid old man, he very naturally attributed Totty’s anxiety to see -him marry her daughter to the causes she enumerated. He was still modest -enough to feel that he was being very much overrated, and to fear lest -he might some day prove a disappointment to his future wife and her -family; for the part of the desirable young man was new to him, and he -did not know how he should acquit himself in the performance of it. But -the delicious belief that he was loved for himself, as he was, gave -energy to his good resolutions and maintained at a genial warmth the -feelings he entertained for her who loved him. - -He must not be judged too harshly. In offering to marry Mamie, he had -felt that he was doing his duty as an honourable man, and he assured -himself as well as he could that he was able to promise the most sincere -affection and unchanging fidelity in return for her passionate love. It -was in one respect a sacrifice, for it meant that he must act in -contradiction to the convictions of his whole life. He had always -believed in love, and he had frequently preached that true and mutual -passion was the only foundation for lasting happiness in marriage. At -the moment of acceding to Mrs. Trimm’s very clearly expressed proposal, -George had felt that Mamie would be to him hereafter what she had always -been hitherto, neither more nor less. He did not wish to marry her, and -if he agreed to do so, it was because he was assured that her happiness -depended upon it, and that he had made himself responsible for her -happiness by his conduct towards her. Being once persuaded of this, and -assured that he alone had done the mischief, he was chivalrous enough to -have married the girl, though she had been ugly, ill-educated and poor, -instead of being rich, refined and full of charm, and to all outward -appearances he would have married her with as good a grace and would -have behaved towards her afterwards with as much consideration as though -he had loved her. But the fact that Mamie possessed so many real and -undeniable graces and advantages had made the sacrifice seem singularly -easy, and the twenty-four hours that succeeded the moment of forming the -resolution, had sufficed to destroy the idea of sacrifice altogether. -Hitherto, George had fought against the belief that he was loved, and -had done his best to laugh at it. Now, he was at liberty to accept that -belief and to make it one of the chief pleasures of his thoughts. It -flattered his heart, as Totty’s professed appreciation of his fine -qualities flattered his intelligence. In noble natures flattery produces -a strong desire to acquit the debt which seems to be created by the -acceptance of undue praise. Men of such temper do not like to receive -and give nothing in return, nor can they bear to be thought braver, more -generous or more gifted than they are. Possessing that high form of -self-esteem which is honourable pride, they feel all the necessity of -being in their own eyes worthy of the estimation they enjoy in the -opinion of other men. The hatred of all false positions is strong in -them and they are not quick to believe that they are justly valued by -the world. - -George found it easy to imagine that he loved the young girl, when he -had once admitted the fact that she loved him. It was indeed the -pleasantest deception he had ever submitted to, or encouraged himself in -accepting. He hid from himself the fact that his heart had never been -satisfied, considering that it was better to take the realities of a -brilliant future than to waste time and sentiment in dreaming of -illusions. There was nothing to be gained by weighing the undeveloped -capabilities of his affections against the manifestations of them which -had hitherto been thrust upon his notice. He was doing what he believed -to be best for every one as well as for himself, and no good could come -of a hypercriticism of his sensibilities. Mamie was supremely happy, and -it was pleasant to feel that he was at once the cause and the central -figure in her happiness. The course of true love should run pleasantly -for her at least, and its course would not be hard for him to follow. - -A fortnight passed before he thought of fulfilling his promise and -visiting Grace. The attraction was not great, but he felt a certain -curiosity to know how she was recovering from the shock she had -sustained. Once more he crossed the river and walked up the long avenue -to the old house. As he was passing through the garden he unexpectedly -came upon Constance, who was wandering idly through the deserted walks. - -“It is so long since we have met!” she exclaimed, with an intonation of -gladness, as she put out her hand. - -“Yes,” George answered. “I came once to see your sister, but you were -not with her. How is she?” - -“She is well—as well as any one could expect. I have tried to persuade -her to go away, but she will not, though I am sure it is bad for her to -stay here.” - -“But you cannot stay for ever. It is already autumn—it will soon be -winter.” - -“I cannot tell,” Constance answered indifferently enough. “I confess -that I care very little whether we pass the winter here or in town, -provided Grace is contented.” - -“You ought to consider yourself to some extent. You look tired, and you -must weary of all this sadness and dismal solitude. It stands to reason -that you should need a change.” - -“No change would make any difference to me,” said Constance, walking -slowly along the path and swinging her parasol slowly from side to side. - -“Do you mean that you are ill?” George asked. - -“No indeed! I am never really ill. But it is a waste of breath to talk -of such things. Come into the house. Grace will be so glad to see you; -she has been anticipating your visit for a long time.” - -“Presently,” said George. “The afternoons are still long and it is -pleasant here in the garden.” - -“Do you want to talk to me?” asked the young girl, with the slightest -intonation of irony. - -“I wish to tell you something—something that will surprise you.” - -“I am not easily surprised. Is it about yourself?” - -“Yes—it is not announced yet, but I want you to know it. You will tell -no one, of course. I am going to be married.” - -“Indeed!” exclaimed Constance, with a slight start. - -“Yes. I am sure you will be glad to hear it. I am engaged to be married -to my cousin, Mamie Trimm.” - -Constance was looking so ill, already, that it could not be said that -she turned pale at the announcement. She walked quietly on, gazing -before her steadily at some distant object. - -“It is rather sudden, I suppose,” said George in a tone that sounded -unpleasantly apologetic in his own ears. - -“Rather,” Constance answered with an effort. “I confess that I am -astonished. You have my best congratulations.” - -She paused, and reflected that her words were very cold. She felt an odd -chill in herself as well as in her language, and tried to shake it off. - -“If you are happy, I am very glad,” she said. “It was not what I -expected, but I am very glad.” - -“Thanks. But, Constance, what did you expect—something very different? -Why?” - -“Nothing—nothing—it is very natural, of course. When are you to be -married?” All the coldness had returned to her voice as she put the -question. - -“I believe it is to be in November. It will certainly be before -Christmas. Mr. Trimm is expected to-morrow or the next day. He cabled -his consent.” - -“Yes? Well, I am glad it has all gone so smoothly. I feel cold—is it not -chilly here? Let us go in and find Grace.” - -She began to walk more quickly and in a few moments they reached the -house, not having exchanged any further words. As they entered the door -she stopped and turned to her companion. - -“Grace is in the drawing-room,” she said. “She wants to see you -alone—so, good-bye. I hope with all my heart that you will be happy—my -dear friend. Good-bye.” - -She turned and left him standing in the great hall. He watched her -retreating figure as she entered the staircase which led away to the -right. He had expected something different in her reception of the news, -and did not know whether to feel disappointed or not. She had received -the announcement with very great calmness, so far as he could judge. -That at least was a satisfaction. He did not wish to have his equanimity -disturbed at present by any great exhibition of feeling on the part of -any one but himself. As he opened the door before him he wondered -whether Constance were really glad or sorry to learn that he was to be -married. - -Grace rose and came towards him. He could not help thinking that she -looked like a beautiful figure of fate as she stood in the middle of the -room and held out her hand to take his. She seemed taller and more -imposing since her husband’s death and there was something interesting -in her face which had not been there in old times, a look of greater -strength, combined with a profound sadness, which would have attracted -the attention of any student of humanity. - -“I am very glad to see you—it is so good of you to come,” she said. - -“I could not do less, since I had promised—even apart from the pleasure -it gives me to see you. I met your sister in the garden. She told me she -hoped that you would be induced to go away for a time.” - -Grace shook her head. - -“Why should I go away?” she asked. “I am less unhappy here than I should -be anywhere else. There is nothing to take me to any other place. Why -not stay here?” - -“It would be better for you both. Your sister is not looking well. -Indeed I was shocked by the change in her.” - -“Really? Poor child! It is not gay for her. I am very poor company. You -thought she was changed, then?” - -“Very much,” George answered, thoughtfully. - -“And it is a long time since you have seen her. Poor Constance! It will -end in my going away for her sake rather than my own. I wonder what -would be best for her, after all.” - -“A journey—a change of some sort,” George suggested. He found it very -hard to talk with the heartbroken young widow, though he could not help -admiring her, and wondering how long it would be before she took another -husband. - -“No,” Grace answered. “That is not all. She is unsettled, uncertain in -all she does. If she goes on in this way she will turn into one of those -morbid, introspective women who do nothing but imagine that they have -committed great sins and are never satisfied with their own repentance.” - -“She is too sensible for that——” - -“No, she is not sensible, where her conscience is concerned. I wish some -one would come and take her out of herself—some one strong, -enthusiastic, who would shake her mind and heart free of all this -nonsense.” - -“In other words,” said George with a smile, “you wish that your sister -would marry.” - -“Yes, if she would marry the right man—a man like you.” - -“Like me!” George exclaimed in great surprise. - -“Yes—since I have said it. I did not mean to tell you so. I wish she -would marry you after all. You will say that I am capricious and you -will laugh at the way in which I have changed my mind. I admit it. I -made a mistake. I misjudged you. If it were all to be lived over again, -instead of paying no attention to what happened, as I did during the -last year, I would make her marry you. It would have been much better. I -made a great mistake in letting her alone.” - -“I had never expected to hear you say that,” said George, looking into -her brown eyes and trying to read her thoughts. - -“I am not given to talking about myself, as you may have noticed, but I -once told you that my only virtue was honesty. What I think, I say, if -there is any need of saying anything. I told you that I never hated you, -and it is quite true. I disliked you and I did not want you for a -brother-in-law. In the old days, more than a year ago, Constance and I -used to quarrel about you. She admired everything you did, and I saw no -reason to do so. That was before you published your first book, when you -used to write so many articles in the magazines. She thought them all -perfection, and I thought some of them were trash and I said so. I -daresay you think it is not very complimentary of me to tell you what I -think and thought. Perhaps it is not. There is no reason why I should -make compliments after what I have said. You have written much that I -have liked since, and you have made a name for yourself. My judgment may -be worthless, but those who can judge have told me that some things you -have done will live. But that is not the reason why I have changed my -mind about you. If you were still writing those absurd little notices in -the papers, I should think just as well of you, yourself, as I do now. -You are not what I thought you were—a clever, rather weak, vain creature -without the strength of being enthusiastic, nor the courage to be -cynical. That is exactly what I thought. You will forgive me if I tell -you so frankly, will you not? I found out that you are strong, brave and -honourable. I do not expect that you will ever think again of marrying -my sister, but if you do I shall be glad, and if you do not, I shall -always be sorry that I did not use all my influence in making Constance -accept you. That is a long speech, but every word of it is true, and I -am glad I have told you just what I think.” - -George was silent for some seconds. There were assuredly many people in -the world from whom he would have resented such an exposition of opinion -in regard to himself. But Grace was not one of these. He respected her -judgment in a way he could not explain, and he felt that all she had -said confirmed his own ideas about her character. - -“I am glad you have told me,” he answered at length. “I have changed my -mind about you, too. I used to feel that you were the opposing barrier -between your sister and me, and that but for you we should have been -happily married long ago. I hated you accordingly, with a fine -unreasoning hatred. You were very frank with me when you came to give me -her decision. I believed you at the moment, but when I was out of the -house I began to think that you had arranged the whole thing between -you, and that you were the moving power. It was natural enough, but my -common sense told me that I was wrong within a month of the time. I have -liked your frankness, in my heart, all along. It has been the best thing -in the whole business.” - -“You and I understand each other,” said Grace, leaning back in her seat -and watching his dark face from beneath her heavy, drooping lids. “It is -strange. I never thought we should, and until lately I never thought it -would be pleasant if we did.” - -George was struck by the familiarity of her tone. She had always been -the person of all others who had treated him with the most distant -civility, and whose phrases in speaking with him had been the coldest -and the most carefully chosen. He had formerly wondered how her voice -would sound if she were suddenly to say something friendly. - -“You are very good,” he answered presently. “With regard to the rest—to -what you have said about your sister. I have done my best to put the -past out of my mind, and I have succeeded. When I met her in the garden -just now, I told her what has happened in my life. I am to be married -very soon. I did not mean to tell any one but Miss Fearing until it was -announced publicly, but I cannot help telling you, after what you have -said. I am going to marry my cousin in two months.” - -Grace did not change her position nor open her eyes any wider. She had -expected to hear the news before long. - -“Yes,” she said, “I thought that would happen. I am very glad to hear -it. Mamie is thorough and will suit you much better than Constance ever -could. I wish that Constance were half as natural and enthusiastic and -sensible. She has so much, but she has not that.” - -“No enthusiasm?” asked George, remembering how he had lived upon her -appreciation of his work. - -“No. She has changed very much since you used to see her every day. You -had a good influence over her, you stirred her mind, though you did not -succeed in stirring her heart enough. She cares for nothing now, she -never talks, never reads, never does anything but write long letters to -Dr. Drinkwater about her poor people—or her soul, I do not quite know -which. No, you need not look grave, I am not abusing her. Poor child, I -wish I could do anything to make her forget that same soul of hers, and -those eternal hospitals and charities! Your energy did her good. It -roused her and made her think. She has a heart somewhere, I suppose, and -she has plenty of head, but she smothers them both with her soul.” - -“She will get over that,” said George. “She will outgrow it. It is only -a phase.” - -“She will never get over it, until she is married,” Grace answered in a -tone of conviction. - -“It is very strange. You talk now as if you were her mother instead of -being her younger sister.” - -“Her younger sister!” Grace exclaimed with a sigh. “I am a hundred years -older than Constance. Older in everything, in knowing the meanings of -the two great words—happiness and suffering.” - -“Indeed, you may say that,” George answered in a low voice. - -“I sometimes think that they are the only two words that have any -meaning left for me, or that should mean anything to the rest of the -world.” - -The settled look of pain deepened upon her face as she spoke, not -distorting nor changing the pure outlines, but lending them something -solemn and noble that was almost grand. George looked at her with a sort -of awe, and the great question of the meaning of all life and death rose -before him, as he remembered her husband’s death grip upon his arm, and -the moment when he himself had breathed in the cool water and given up -the struggle. He had opened his eyes again to this world to see all that -was to result of pain and suffering from the death of the other, whose -sight had gone out for ever. They had been together in the depths. The -one had been drowned and had taken with him the happiness of the woman -he had loved. The other, he himself, had been saved and another woman’s -life had been filled with sunshine. Why the one, rather than the other? -He, who had always faced life as he had found it, and fought with -whatever opposed him, asked himself whether there were any meaning in it -all. Why should those two great things, happiness and suffering, be so -unevenly distributed? Was poor John Bond a loss to humanity in the -aggregate? Not a serious one. Did he, George Wood, care whether John -Bond were alive or dead, beyond the decent regret he felt, or ought to -feel? No, assuredly not. Would Constance have cared, if he had not -chanced to be her sister’s husband, did Totty care, did Mamie care? No. -They were all shocked, which is to say that their nerves, including his -own, had been painfully agitated. And yet this man, John Bond, for whom -nobody cared, but whom every one respected, had left behind him in one -heart a grief that was almost awe-inspiring, a sorrow that sought no -expression, and despised words, that painted its own image on the -woman’s face and spread its own solemn atmosphere about her. A keen, -cool, sharp-witted young lawyer, by the simple act of departing this -world, had converted a pretty and very sensible young woman into a -tragic muse, had lent her grandeur of mien, had rendered her imposing, -had given her a dignity that momentarily placed her higher than other -women in the scale of womanhood. Which was the real self? The self that -was gone, or the one that remained? Had a great sorrow given the woman a -fictitious importance, or had it revealed something noble in her which -no one had known before? Whichever were true, Grace was no longer the -Grace Fearing of old, and George felt a strange admiration for her -growing up within him. - -“You are right, I think,” he said after a long pause. “Happiness and -suffering are the only words that have or ought to have any meaning. The -rest—it is all a matter of opinion, of taste, of fashion, of anything -you please excepting the heart.” - -“Constance will tell you that right and wrong are the two important -words,” said Grace. “And she will tell you that real happiness consists -in being able to distinguish between the two, and that the only -suffering lies in confounding the wrong with the right.” - -“Does religion mean that we are to feel nothing?” George asked. - -“That is what the religion of people who have never felt anything seems -to mean. Pay no attention to your sorrows and distrust all your joys, -because they are of no importance compared with the welfare of your -soul. It matters not who lives or who dies, who is married, or who is -betrayed, provided you take care of your soul, of your miserable, -worthless, selfish little soul and bring it safe to heaven!” - -“That must be an odd sort of religion,” said George. - -“It is the religion of those who cannot feel. It is good enough for -them. I do not know why I am talking in this way, except that it is a -relief to be able to talk to some one who understands. When are you to -be married?” - -“I hope it may be in November.” - -“By-the-bye, what will Mr. Craik think of the marriage? He ought to do -something for Mamie, I suppose.” - -“Mr. Craik is my own familiar enemy,” said George. “I never take into -consideration what he is likely to do or to leave undone. He will do -what seems right in his own eyes, and that will very probably seem wrong -in the eyes of others.” - -“Mrs. Trimm doubtless knows best what can be done with him. What did -Constance say, when you told her of your engagement?” - -“Very little. What she will say to you, I have no doubt. That she hopes -I shall be happy and is very glad to hear of the marriage.” - -“I wonder whether she cares,” said Grace thoughtfully. George thought it -would be more discreet to say nothing than to give his own opinion in -the matter. - -“No one can tell,” Grace continued. “Least of all, herself. I have once -or twice thought that she regretted you and wished you would propose -again. And then, at other times, I have felt sure that she was only -bored—bored to death with me, with her surroundings, with Dr. -Drinkwater, the poor and her soul. Poor child, I hope she will marry -soon!” - -“I hope so,” said George as he rose to leave. “Will you be kind enough -not to say anything about the engagement until it is announced? That -will be in a fortnight or so.” - -“Certainly. Come and see me when it is out, unless you will come sooner. -It is so good of you. Good-bye.” - -He left the house and walked down the garden in the direction of the -trees, thinking very much more of Grace and of her conversation than of -Constance. Apart from her appearance, which had a novel interest for -him, and which excited his sympathy, he hardly knew whether he had been -attracted or repelled by her uncommon frankness of speech. There was -something in it which he did not recognise as having belonged to her -before in the same degree, something more like masculine bluntness than -feminine honesty. It seemed as though she had caught and kept something -of her dead husband’s manner. He wondered whether she spoke as she did -in order to remind herself of him by using words that had been familiar -in his mouth. He was engaged in these reflections when he was surprised -to meet Constance face to face as he turned a corner in the path. - -“I thought you were indoors,” he said, glancing at her face as though -expecting to see some signs of recent distress there. - -But if Constance had shed tears she had successfully effaced all traces -of them, and her features were calm and composed. The truth of the -matter was that she feared lest she had betrayed too much feeling in the -interview in the garden, and now, to do away with any mistaken -impression in George’s mind, she had resolved to show herself to him -again. - -“Are you in your boat?” she asked. “I thought that as it was rather -chilly, and if you did not mind, I would ask you to row me out for ten -minutes in the sun. Do you mind very much?” - -“I shall be delighted,” said George, wondering what new development of -circumstances had announced itself in her sudden desire for boating. - -A few minutes later she was seated in the stern and he was rowing her -leisurely up stream. To his surprise, she talked easily, touching upon -all sorts of subjects and asking him questions about his book in her -old, familiar way, but never referring in any way to the past, nor to -his engagement, until at her own request he had brought her back to the -landing. She insisted upon his letting her walk to the house alone. - -“Good-bye,” she said, “and so many thanks. I am quite warm now—and I am -very, very glad about the engagement and grateful to you for telling me. -I hope you will ask me to the wedding!” - -“Of course,” George answered imperturbably and then, as he pulled out -into the stream he watched her slight figure as she followed the winding -path that led up from the landing to the level of the grounds above. -When she had reached the top, she waved her hand to him and smiled. - -“I would not have him think that I cared—not for the whole world!” she -was saying to herself as she made the friendly signal and turned away. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIV. - - -Sherrington Trimm arrived on the following afternoon, rosier and fresher -than ever, and considerably reduced in weight. After the first general -and affectionate greeting he proceeded to interview each member of the -family in private, as though he were getting up evidence for a case. It -was characteristic of him that he spoke to Mamie first. The most -important point in his estimation was to ascertain whether the girl were -really in love, or whether she had only contracted a passing attachment -for George Wood. Knowing all that he did, and all that he supposed was -unknown to his wife, he could not but regard the match with complacency, -so far as worldly advantages were concerned. But if he had been once -assured that his daughter’s happiness was really at stake, he would have -given her as readily to George, the comparatively impecunious author, as -to Mr. Winton Wood, the future millionaire. - -“Now, Mamie,” he said, linking his arm in hers and leading her into the -garden, “now, Mamie, tell us all about it.” - -Mamie blushed faintly and gave her father a shy glance, and then looked -down. - -“There is not much to tell,” she answered. “I love him, and I am very -happy. Is not that enough?” - -“You are quite sure of yourself, eh?” Mr. Trimm looked sharply at her -face. “And how long has this been going on?” - -“All my life—though—well, how can I explain, papa? You ought to -understand. One finds out such things all at once, and then one knows -that they have always been there.” - -“I suppose so,” said Sherry. “You did not know that ‘it,’ as you call -it, was there when I went away.” - -“Oh yes, I did.” - -“Well, did you know it a year ago?” - -“No, perhaps not. Oh, papa, this is like twenty questions.” Mamie -laughed happily. - -“Is it? Never played the game—cannot say. And you have no doubts about -him, have you?” - -“How can anybody doubt him!” Mamie exclaimed indignantly. - -“It is my business to doubt,” said Sherry Trimm with a twinkle in his -eye. “’I am the doubter and the doubt’—never knew what it meant till -to-day.” - -“Then go away, papa!” laughed the young girl. - -“And let George have a chance. I suppose that is what you mean. On the -whole, perhaps I could do nothing better. But I will just see whether he -has any doubts, and finish my cigar with him.” - -Thereupon Sherrington Trimm turned sharply on his heel and went in -search of George. He found him standing on the verandah pensively -examining a trail of ants that were busily establishing communication -between the garden walk and a tiny fragment of sponge cake which had -fallen upon the step during afternoon tea. - -“George,” said Sherry in business-like tones, through which, however, -the man’s kindly good nature was clearly appreciable, “do you mind -telling me in a few words why you want to marry my daughter?” - -George turned his head, and there was a pleasant smile upon his face. -Then he pointed to the trail of ants. - -“Mr. Sherrington Trimm,” he said, “do you mind explaining to me very -briefly why those ants are so particularly anxious to get at that piece -of cake?” - -“Like it, I suppose,” Sherry answered laconically. - -“That is exactly my case. I have gone to the length of falling very much -in love with Mamie, and I wish to marry her. I understand that her views -coincide with mine and that you make no objections. I think that the -explanation is complete.” - -“Very well stated. Now, look here. The only thing I care for on earth is -that child’s happiness. She is not like all girls. You may have found -that out, by this time. If you behave yourself as I think you will, she -will be the best wife to you that man ever had. If you do not—well, -there is no knowing what she will do, but whatever it is, it will -surprise you. I do not know whether hearts break nowadays as easily as -they used to, and I am not prepared to state positively that Mamie’s -heart would break under the circumstances. But if you do not treat her -properly, she will make it pretty deuced hot for you, and by the -Eternal, so will I, my boy. I like to put the thing in its proper -light.” - -“You do,” laughed George, “with uncommon clearness. I am prepared to run -all risks of that sort.” - -“Hope so,” returned Sherry Trimm, smoking thoughtfully. “Now then, -George,” he resumed in a more confidential tone, after a short pause, -“there is a little matter of business between you and me. We are old -friends, and I might be your father in point of age, and now about to -become your father-in-law in point of fact. How about the bread and -butter? I have no intention of giving Mamie a fortune. No, no, I know -you are aware of that, but there are material considerations, you know. -Now, just give me an idea of how you propose to live.” - -“If I do not lose my health, we can live very comfortably,” George -answered. “I think I can undertake to say that we should need no help. -It would not be like this—like your way of living, of course. But we can -have all we need and a certain amount of small luxury.” - -“Hum!” ejaculated Sherry Trimm in a doubting tone. “Not much luxury, I -am afraid.” - -“A certain amount,” George answered quietly. “I have earned over ten -thousand dollars during the last year and I have kept most of it.” - -“Really!” exclaimed the other. “I did not know that literature was such -a good thing. But you may not always earn as much, next year, or the -year after.” - -“That is unlikely, unless I break down. I do not know why that should -happen to me.” - -“You do not look like it,” said Sherry, eyeing George’s spare and -vigorous frame, and his clear, brown skin. - -“I do not feel like it,” said George. - -“Well, look here. I will tell you what I will do. I have my own reasons -for not giving you a house just now. But I will give Mamie just half as -much as you make, right along. I suppose that is fair. I need not tell -you that she will have everything some day.” - -“You may give Mamie anything you like,” George answered indifferently. -“I shall never ask questions. If I fall ill and cannot work for a long -time together, you will have to support her, and my father will support -me.” - -“I daresay we could spare you a crust, my boy,” said Sherrington Trimm, -laying his small hand upon George’s broad, bony shoulder and pushing him -along. “I do not want to keep you any longer, if you have anything to -do.” - -George sauntered away in the direction of the garden, and Sherry Trimm -went indoors to find his wife. Totty met him in the drawing-room, having -just returned from a secret interview with her cook, in the interests of -Sherry’s first dinner at home. - -“Totty, look here,” he said, selecting a comfortable chair and sitting -down. He leaned back, crossed his legs, raised his hands and set them -together, thumb to thumb and finger to finger, but said nothing more. - -“I am looking,” said Totty with a sweet smile. She seated herself beside -him. “I have already looked. You are wonderfully better—I am so glad.” - -“Yes. Those waters have screwed me up a peg. But that is not what I -mean. When I say, look here, I mean to suggest that you should -concentrate your gigantic intellect upon the consideration of the matter -in hand. You have made this match, and you are responsible for it. Will -you tell me why you have made it?” - -“How do you mean that I have made it?” asked Totty evasively. - -“Innocence, thy name is Charlotte!” exclaimed Sherry, looking at the -ceiling. “You brought George here, you knew that Mamie liked him and -that he would like her, not on the first day, nor on the second, but -inevitably on the third or fourth. You knew that on the fifth day they -would love each other, that they would tell each other so on the sixth, -and that the seventh day, being one of rest, would be devoted to -obtaining our consent. You knew also that George was, and is, a -penniless author—I admit that he earns a good deal—and yet you have done -all in your power to make Mamie marry him. The fact that I like him has -nothing to do with it.” - -“Nothing to do with it! Oh, Sherry, how can you say such things!” - -“Nothing whatever. I would have liked lots of other young fellows just -as well. What especial reason had you for selecting this particular -young fellow? That is what I want to get at.” - -“Oh, is that all? Mamie loved him, my dear. I knew it long ago, and as I -knew that you would not disapprove, I brought him here. It is not a -question of money. We have more than we can ever need. It is not as if -we had two or three sons to start in the world, Sherry.” - -She lent an intonation of sadness to the last words, which, as she was -aware, always produced the same effect upon her husband. He had bitterly -regretted having no son to bear his honourable name. - -“That is just it,” he answered sadly. “Mamie is everything, and -everything is for her. That is the reason why we should be careful. She -is not like a great many girls. She has a heart and she will break it, -if she is not happy.” - -“That is the very reason. You do not seem to realise that she is madly -in love.” - -“No doubt, but was she madly in love, as you call it, when you brought -them here?” - -“Long before that——” - -“Then why did you never tell me—we might have had him to the house all -the time——” - -“Because I supposed, as every one else did, that he meant to marry -Constance Fearing. I did not want to spoil his life, and I thought that -Mamie would get over it. But the thing came to nothing. In fact, I begin -to believe that there never was anything in it, and that the story was -all idle gossip from beginning to end. He is on as good terms as ever -with her and goes over there from time to time to console poor Grace.” - -“Oh!” ejaculated Sherry in a thoughtful tone. - -“You need not say ‘oh,’ like that. There is nothing to be afraid of. It -is perfectly natural that the poor woman should like to see him, when he -nearly died in trying to save her husband. They say she is in a dreadful -state, half mad, and ill, and so changed!” - -“Poor John!” exclaimed Sherry sadly. “I shall never see his like again.” -He sighed, for he had been very fond of the man, besides looking upon -him as a most promising partner in his law business. - -“It was dreadful!” Mrs. Trimm shuddered as she thought of the accident. -“I cannot bear to talk about it,” she added. - -A short pause followed, during which Totty wore a very sad expression, -and Sherry examined attentively a ring he wore upon his finger, in which -a dark sapphire was set between two very white diamonds. - -“There is one thing,” he said suddenly. “The sooner we pull up stakes -the better. I do not propose to spend the best part of my life in the -cars. The weather is cool and we will go back to town. So pack up your -traps, Totty, and let us be off. Have you written to Tom?” - -“No,” said Totty. “I would not announce the engagement till we were -settled in town.” - -Sherrington Trimm departed on the following morning, alleging with truth -that the business could not be allowed to go to pieces. Totty and the -two young people were to return two or three days later, and active -preparations were at once made for moving. Totty, indeed, could not bear -the idea of allowing her husband to remain alone in New York. It was -possible that at any moment he might discover that the will was missing -from her brother’s box. She might indeed have been spared much anxiety -in this matter had she known that although Sherry had sealed and marked -the document himself, it was not he who had placed it in the receptacle -where it had been found by his wife. Sherry had handed it across the -table to John Bond, telling him to put it in Craik’s deed-box, and had -seen John leave the room with it, but had never seen it since. It was -not, indeed, until much later that he had communicated to his partner -the contents of the paper. If it could not now be found, Sherry would -suppose that John had accidentally put it into the wrong box and a -general search would be made. Then it would be thought that John had -mislaid it. In any case poor John was dead and could not defend himself. -Sherry would go directly to Tom Craik and get him to sign a duplicate, -but he would never, under any conceivable combination of circumstances, -connect his wife with the disappearance of the will, nor mention the -fact in her presence. Totty, however, was ignorant of these facts, and -lived in the constant fear of being obliged to explain matters to her -husband. Though she had thought much of the matter she had not hit upon -any expedient for restoring the document to its place. She kept it in a -small Indian cabinet which her brother had once given her, in which -there was a hidden drawer of which no one knew the secret but herself. -This cabinet she had brought with her and had kept all through the -summer in a prominent place in the drawing-room, justly deeming that -things are generally most safely hidden when placed in the most exposed -position, where no one would ever think of looking for them. On -returning to New York the cabinet was again packed in one of Totty’s own -boxes, but the will was temporarily concealed about her person, to be -restored to its hiding-place as soon as she reached the town house. - -Before leaving the neighbourhood George felt that it was his duty to -apprise Constance and her sister of his departure, but he avoided the -necessity of making a visit by writing a letter to Grace. It seemed to -him more fitting that he should address his note to her rather than to -her sister, considering all that had happened. He urged that both should -return to New York before the winter began, and he inserted a civil -message for Constance before he concluded. - -Mamie took an affectionate leave of the place in which she had been so -happy. During the last hours of the day preceding their return to town, -George never left her side, while she wandered through the walks of the -garden and beneath the beautiful trees, back to the house, in and out of -the rooms, then lingered again upon the verandah and gazed at the -distant river. He watched the movements of her faultless figure as she -sat down for the last time in the places where they had so often sat -together, then rose quickly, and, linking her arm in his, led him away -to some other well-remembered spot. - -“I have been so happy here!” she said for the hundredth time. - -“You shall be as happy in other places, if I can make you so,” George -answered. - -“Shall we? Shall I?” she asked, looking up into his face. “Who can tell! -One is never so sure of the future as one is of the past—and the -present. Shall we take it all with us to our little house in New York? -How funny it will seem to be living all alone with you in a little -house! I shall not give you champagne every day, George. You need not -expect it! It will be a very little house, and I shall do all the work.” - -“If you will allow me to black the boots, I shall be most happy,” said -George. “I know how.” - -“Imagine! You, blacking boots!” exclaimed Mamie indignantly. - -“Why not? But seriously, we can do a great deal more than you -fancy—provided, as you say, that we do not go in for champagne every -day, and keep horses and all that.” - -“I think we shall have more champagne and horses than other things,” -Mamie answered with a laugh. “Mamma is going to keep a carriage for me, -as well as my dear old riding horse, and papa told me not to let you buy -any wine, because there was some of that particular kind you like on the -way out. Between you and me, I do not think they really expect us to be -in the least economical, though mamma is always talking about it.” - -She was very happy and it was impossible for her to cloud the future by -the idea of being deprived of any of the luxury to which she had always -been accustomed. She knew in her heart that she was both willing and -able to undergo any privation for George’s sake, but it would have been -unlike her to talk of what she would or could do when there was no -immediate prospect of doing it. Her chief thought was to make her -husband’s house comfortable, and if she knew something of the art from -having watched her mother, she knew also that comfort, as she understood -it, required a very free use of money. George knew it, too, since he had -been brought up in luxury and had been deprived of it at the age when -such things are most keenly felt. The terrible, noiseless, hourly -expenditure that he had seen in Totty’s house made the exiguity of his -own resources particularly apparent to his judgment. - -“Good-bye, dear old place!” cried the young girl, as they stood on the -verandah at dusk, before going in to dress for dinner. She threw kisses -with her fingers at the garden and at the trees. - -George stood by her side in silence, gazing out at the dim outline of -the distant hills beyond the river. - -“Are you not sorry to leave it all?” Mamie asked. - -“Very sorry,” he answered, as though not knowing what he said. Then he -stooped, and kissed her small white face, and they both went in. - -That night George sat up late in his room, looking over the manuscript -that had grown under his hand during the summer months. It was all but -finished and he intended to write the last chapter in New York, but it -interested him to look through it before leaving the surroundings in -which it had been written. What most struck him in the work was the care -with which it was done. It was not a very imaginative book, but it was -remarkable for its truth and clearness of style. He wondered at the -coldness of certain scenes, which in his first conception of the story -had promised to be the most dramatic. He wondered still more at the -success with which he had handled points which in themselves seemed to -be far from attractive to the novelist. His conversations were better -than they had formerly been, but the love scenes were unsatisfactory, -and he determined that he would re-write some of them. The whole book -looked too truthful and too little enthusiastic to him, now, though he -fancied that he had passed through moments of enthusiasm while he was -writing it. On the whole, it was a disappointment to himself, and he -believed that others would be disappointed likewise. He asked himself -what Johnson would think of it, and made up his mind to abide by his -opinion. Vaguely too, as one sometimes longs to see again a book once -read, he wished that he might have Constance’s criticism and advice, -though he was conscious at the same time that it was not the sort of -story she would have liked. - -Two days later, he found himself once more in his little room in his -father’s house. The old gentleman received the news of the engagement in -silence. He had guessed that matters would terminate as they had, and -the prospect had given him little satisfaction. He thought that the -alliance would probably cut him off from his son’s society, and he was -inwardly hurt that George should seem indifferent to the fact. But he -said nothing. From the worldly point of view the marriage was a -brilliant one, and it meant that George must ultimately be a rich man. -His future at least was provided for. - -George found Johnson hard at work, as usual, and if possible paler and -more in earnest than before. He had taken a week’s holiday during the -hottest part of the summer, but with that exception had never relaxed in -his astounding industry since they had last met. - -“How particularly sleek you look,” he said, scrutinising George’s face -as the latter sat down. - -“I feel sleek,” George answered with a slight laugh. “I believe that is -what is the matter with the book I have been writing since I saw you. I -am not satisfied with it, and I want your opinion. I sat up all last -night to write the last chapter in my old den. I think it is better than -the rest.” - -“That is a pity. It will look like a new silk hat on a beggar—or like a -wig on a soup-tureen, as the Frenchmen say. But I daresay you are quite -wrong about the rest of it. You generally are. For a man who can write a -good story in good English when he tries, you have as little confidence -as I ever saw in any one. The public does not write books and does not -know how they are written. It will never find out that you wrote the -beginning in clover and the end in nettles.” - -“Oh—the public!” exclaimed George. “One never knows what it will do.” - -“One may guess, sometimes. The public consists of a vast collection of -individuals collected in a crowd around the feet of four great beasts. -There is the ignorant beast and the learned beast, the virtuous beast -and the vicious beast. They are all four beasts in their way, because -they all represent an immense accumulation of prejudice, in four -different directions and having four different followings, all pulling -different ways. You cannot possibly please them all and it is quite -useless to try.” - -“I suppose you mean that the four beasts are the four kinds of critics. -Is that it?” - -“No,” Johnson answered. “That is not it at all. If we critics had more -real influence with the public, the public would be all the better for -it. As it is, the real critic is dying out, because the public will not -pay enough to keep him alive. It is sad, but I suppose it is natural. -This is the age of free thought, and the phrase, if you interpret it as -most people do, means that all men are to consider themselves critics, -whether they know anything or not. Have you brought your manuscript with -you?” - -“No. I wanted to ask first whether you would read it.” - -“You need not be so humble, now that you are a celebrity,” said Johnson -with a laugh. “You do not look the part, either. What has happened to -you?” - -“I am going to be married,” George answered. “I am to marry my cousin, -Miss Trimm.” - -“Not Sherrington Trimm’s daughter!” - -“The same, if it please you.” - -“I congratulate you on leaving the literary career,” said Johnson with a -sardonic smile. “I suppose you will never do another stroke of work. -Well—it is a pity.” - -“I have to work for my living as I have done for years,” George -answered. “Do you imagine that I would live upon other people’s money?” - -“Do you really mean to go on working?” - -“Of course I do, as long as I can hold a pen. I should if I were rich in -my own right, for love of the thing.” - -“Love of the thing is not enough. Are you ambitious?” - -“I do not know. I never thought about it. To me, the question is whether -a thing is well done or not, for its own sake. The success of it means -money, which I need, but apart from that I do not think I care very much -about it. I may be mistaken. I value your opinion, for instance, and if -I knew other men like you, I should value theirs.” - -“You will never succeed to any extent without ambition,” Johnson -answered with great energy. “It is everything in literature. You must -feel that you will go mad if you are not first, if you are not -acknowledged to be better than any one else during your lifetime. You -must make people understand that you are a dangerous rival, and you must -have the daily satisfaction of knowing that they feel it. Literature is -like the storming of a redoubt, you must climb upon the bodies of the -slain and be the first to plant your flag on the top. You must lie awake -all night, and torment yourself all day to find some means of doing a -thing better than other people. To be first, always, all your life, -without fear of competition, to be Cæsar or to be nothing! I wish I -could make you feel what I feel!” - -“I think I would rather not,” said George. “It must be very disturbing -to the judgment to be always comparing oneself with others instead of -trying to do the best one can in an independent way.” - -“You will never succeed without ambition,” Johnson repeated confidently. - -“Then I am afraid I shall never succeed at all, for I have not a spark -of that sort of ambition. I do not care a straw for being thought better -than any one else, nor for being a celebrity. I want to satisfy myself, -my own idea of what is a good book, and I am afraid I never shall. I -suppose that is a sort of ambition too.” - -“It is not the right sort.” - -George knew his friend very well and was familiar with most of his -ideas. He respected his character, and he valued his opinion more than -that of any man in his acquaintance, but he could never accept his -theories as infallible. He felt that if he ever succeeded in writing a -book that pleased him he would recognise its merits sooner than any one, -and but for the necessity of earning a livelihood he would have -systematically destroyed all his writings until he had attained a -satisfactory result. That a certain amount of reputation might be gained -by publishing what he regarded as incomplete or inartistic work was to -him a matter of indifference, except for the material advantages which -resulted from the transaction. Such, at least, was his belief about -himself. That he was able to appreciate flattery when it was of a good -and subtle quality, only showed him that he was human, but did not -improve his own estimation of his productions. - -A week later, Johnson returned the manuscript with a note in which he -gave his opinion of it. - -“It will sell,” he wrote. “You are quite mistaken about yourself, as -usual. You told me the other day that you had no ambition. Your book -proves that you have. You have taken the subject treated by Wiggins in -his last great novel. It made a sensation, but in my opinion you have -handled it better than he did, though he is called a great novelist. It -was a very ambitious thing to do, and it is wonderful that, while taking -a precisely similar situation, there should not be a word in your work -that recalls his. After this, do not tell me that you have no ambition, -for it is sheer nonsense. As for the last chapter, I should not have -known that it was not written under the same circumstances as all the -rest.” - -George laughed aloud to himself. He knew the name of Wiggins well -enough, but he had never read one of the celebrated author’s books, and -if he had he would assuredly not have taken his plot. - -“But Johnson could not know that,” he said to himself, “and I have -written just such stuff about other people.” - -The book went to the publisher and he thought no more of it. During the -time that followed, his days were very fully occupied. Between making -the necessary preparations for his approaching marriage, and the -pleasant duty of spending a certain number of hours with Mamie every -day, he had very little time to call his own, although nothing of any -importance happened to vary the course of his life. At the beginning of -November Constance Fearing and her sister returned to town, and at about -the same time he was informed by Sherrington Trimm that it would be -necessary for him to visit Mr. Thomas Craik, as he was about to become -that gentleman’s nephew by marriage. - -“Of course, I know all about the old story, George,” said Sherry. “But -if I were you I would at least try and be civil. The fact is, I have -reason to know that he is haunted by a sort of half-stagey, half-honest -remorse for what he did, and he is very much pleased with the marriage, -besides being a great admirer of your books.” - -“All right,” said George, “I will be civil enough.” - -Sherry Trimm had conveyed exactly the impression which he had desired to -convey. He had made George believe by his manner that he was himself -anxious to keep his relations with Mr. Craik on a pleasant footing, -doubtless on account of the money, and he had effectually deterred -George from quarrelling with his unknown benefactor, while he had kept -the question of the will as closely secret as ever. - - - - - CHAPTER XXV. - - -George had never been inside Mr. Craik’s house, and the first impression -made upon him by the sight of the old gentleman’s collected spoil was a -singular one. The sight of beautiful objects had always given him -pleasure, but, on the other hand, his mind resented and abhorred alike -disorder and senseless profusion. He had no touch in his composition of -that modern taste which delights in producing a certain tone of colour -in a room, by filling it with all sorts of heterogeneous and useless -articles, of all periods and collected out of all countries. It was not -sufficient in his eyes that an object should be of great value, or of -great beauty, or that it should possess both at once; it was necessary -also that it should be so placed as to acquire a right to its position -and to its surroundings. A Turkish tile, a Spanish-Moorish dish, an -Italian embroidery and an old picture might harmonise very well with -each other in colour and in general effect, but George Wood’s -uncultivated taste failed to see why they should all be placed together, -side by side upon the same wall, any more than why a periwig should be -set upon a soup-tureen, as Johnson had remarked. He felt from the moment -he entered the house as if he were in a bazaar of bric-à-brac, where -everything was put up for sale, and in which each object must have -somewhere a label tied or pasted to it, upon which letters and figures -mysteriously shadowed forth its variable price to the purchaser while -accurately defining its value to the vendor. - -It must not be supposed, however, that because George Wood did not like -the look of the room in which he found himself, it would not have been -admired and appreciated by many persons of unquestioned good taste. The -value there accumulated was very great, there was much that was -exceedingly rare and of exquisite design and workmanship, and the -vulgarity of the effect, if there were any, was of the more subtle and -tolerable kind. - -George stood in the midst of the chamber, hat in hand, waiting for the -owner of the collection to appear. A door made of panels of thin -alabaster set in rich old gilt carvings, was opposite to him, and he was -wondering whether the light actually penetrated the delicate marble as -it seemed to do, when the chiselled handle turned and the door itself -moved noiselessly on its hinges. Thomas Craik entered the room. - -The old gentleman’s head seemed to have fallen forward upon his -shoulders, so that he was obliged to look sideways and upwards in order -to see anything above the level of his eyes. Otherwise he did not -present so decrepit an appearance as George had expected. His step was -sufficiently brisk, and though his voice was little better than a growl, -it was not by any means weak. He was clothed in light-coloured tweed -garments of the newest cut, and he wore a red tie, and shoes of -varnished leather. The corner of a pink silk handkerchief was just -visible above the outer pocket of his coat, and he emanated a perfume -which seemed to be combined out of Cologne water and Russian leather. - -“Official visit, eh?” he said with an attempt at a pleasant smile. “Glad -to see you. Sorry you have waited so long before coming. Take a seat.” - -“Thanks,” answered George, sitting down. “I am glad to see that you are -quite yourself again, Mr. Craik.” - -“Quite myself, eh? Never was anybody else long enough to know what it -felt like. But I have not forgotten that you came to ask—no, no, I -remember that. Going to marry Mamie, eh? Glad to hear it. Well, well.” - -Thomas Craik rubbed his emaciated hands slowly together and looked -sideways at his visitor. - -“Yes,” said George, “I am going to marry Miss Trimm——” - -“Call her Mamie, call her Mamie—own niece of mine, you know. No use -standing on ceremony.” - -“I think it is as well to call her Miss Trimm until we are married,” -George observed, rather coldly. - -“Oh, you think so, do you? Well, well. Not to her face, I hope?” - -George thought that Mr. Craik was one of the most particularly odious -old gentlemen he had ever met. He changed the subject as quickly as he -could. - -“What a wonderful collection of beautiful things you have, Mr. Craik,” -he said, glancing at a set of Urbino dishes that were fastened against -the wall nearest to him. - -“Something, something,” replied Mr. Craik, modestly. “Fond of pretty -things? Understand majolica?” - -“I am very fond of pretty things, but I know nothing about majolica. I -believe the subject needs immense study. They say you are a great -authority on all these things.” - -“Oh, they say so, do they? Well, well. Books are more in your line, eh? -Some in the other room if you like to see them. Come?” - -“Yes indeed!” George answered with alacrity. He thought that if he must -sustain the conversation for five minutes longer, it would be a relief -to be among things he understood. Tom Craik rose and led the way through -the alabaster door by which he had entered. George found himself in a -spacious apartment, consisting of two rooms which had been thrown into -one by building an arch in the place of the former wall of division. -There were no windows, but each division was lighted by a large skylight -of stained glass, supported on old Bohemian iron-work. To the height of -six feet from the floor, the walls were lined with bookcases, the books -being protected by glass. Above these the walls were completely covered -with tapestries, stuffs, weapons, old plates and similar objects. - -“Favourite room of mine,” remarked Mr. Craik, backing up to the great -wood fire, and looking about him with side glances, first to the right -and then to the left. “Look about you, look about you. A lot of books in -those shelves, eh? Well, well. About three thousand. Not many but good -and good, as books should be, inside and out. Eh? Like that?” - -“Yes,” said George, moving slowly round the room, stooping and then -standing erect, as he glanced rapidly at the titles of the long rows of -volumes. The born man of letters warmed at the sight of the familiar -names and felt less inimically inclined towards the master of the house. - -“I envy you such books to read and such a place in which to read them,” -he said at last. - -“I believe you do,” answered Mr. Craik, looking pleased. “You look as if -you did. Well, well. May be all yours some day.” - -“How so?” George inquired, growing suddenly cold and looking sharply at -the old man. - -“May leave everything to Totty. Totty may leave everything to Mamie. -Fact is, any station may be the last. May have to hand in my checks at -any time. Funny world, isn’t it? Eh?” - -“A very humorous and comic world, as you say,” George answered, looking -at the old man with a rather scornful twist of his naturally scornful -mouth. - -“Humorous and comic? I say, funny. It’s shorter. What would you do if -you owned this house?” - -“I would sell it,” George answered with a dry laugh, “sell it, except -the books, and live on the interest of the proceeds.” - -“And you would do a very sensible thing, Mr. George Winton Wood,” -returned Tom Craik approvingly. All at once he dropped his detached -manner of speaking and grew eloquent. “You would be doing a very -sensible thing. A man of your age can have no manner of use for all this -rubbish. If you ever mean to be a collector, reserve that expensive -taste for the time when you have plenty of money, but can neither eat, -drink, sleep, make love nor be merry in any way—no, nor write novels -either. The pleasure does not consist in possessing things, it lies in -finding them, bargaining for them, fighting for them and ultimately -getting them. It is the same with money, but there is more variety in -collecting, to my mind, at least. It is the same with everything, money, -love, politics, collecting, it is only the fighting for what you want -that is agreeably exciting. It has kept me alive, with my wretched -constitution, when the doctors have been thinking of sending for the -person in black who carries a tape measure. I never had any ambition. I -never cared for anything but the fighting. I never cared to be first, -second or third. I do not believe that your ambitious man ever succeeds -in life. He thinks so much about himself that he forgets what he is -fighting for. You can easily make a fool of an ambitious man by offering -him a bait, and you may take the thing you want while he is chasing the -phantom of glory on the other side of the house. I hope you are not -ambitious. You have begun as if you were not, and you have knocked all -the stuffing out of the rag dolls the critics put up to frighten young -authors. I have read a good deal in my day, and I have seen a good deal, -and I have taken a great many things I have wanted. I know men, and I -know something about books. You ought to succeed, for you go about your -work as though you liked it for the sake of overcoming difficulties, for -the sake of fighting your subject and getting the better of it. Stick to -that principle. It prolongs life. Pick out the hardest thing there is to -be done, and go at it, hammer and tongs, by hook or by crook, by fair -means or foul. If you cannot do it, after all, nobody need be the wiser; -if you succeed every one will cry out in admiration of your industry and -genius, when you have really only been amusing yourself all the -time—because nothing can be more amusing than fighting. You are quite -right. Ambition is nonsense and the satisfaction of possession is bosh. -The only pleasure is in doing and getting. If, in the inscrutable ways -of destiny, you ever own this house, sell it, and when you are old, and -crooked, and cannot write any more, and people think you are a -drivelling idiot and are sitting in rows outside your door, waiting for -dead men’s shoes—why then, you can prolong your life by collecting -something, as I have done. The desire to get the better of a Jew dealer -in a bargain for a Maestro Georgio, or the determination to find the -edition which has been heard of but never seen, will make your blood -circulate and your heart beat, and your brain work. I have half a mind -to sell the whole thing myself for the sake of doing it all over again, -and keeping somebody waiting ten years longer for the money. I might -last ten years more if I could hit upon something new to collect.” - -The old man ceased speaking and looked up sideways at George, with a -keen smile, very unlike the expression he assumed when he meant to be -agreeable. Then he relapsed into his usual way of talking, jerking out -short sentences and generally omitting the subject or the verb, when he -did not omit both. It is possible that he had delivered his oration for -the sake of showing George that he could speak English as well as any -one when he chose to do so. - -“Like my little speech? Eh?” he inquired. - -“I shall not forget it,” George answered. “Your ideas cannot be accused -of being stale or old fashioned, whatever else may be said of them.” - -“Put them into a book, will you? Well, well. Daresay printer’s ink has -been wasted on worse—sometimes.” - -George did not care to prolong his visit beyond the bounds of strict -civility, though he had been somewhat diverted by his relation’s talk. -He asked a few questions about the books and discovered that Tom Craik -was by no means the unreading edition-hunter he had supposed him to be. -If he had not read all the three thousand choice volumes he possessed, -he had at least a very clear idea of the contents of most of them. - -“Buying an author and not reading him,” he said, “is like buying a pig -in a poke and then not even looking at the pig afterwards. Eh?” - -“Very like,” George answered with a short laugh. Then he took his leave. -The old man went with him as far as the door that led out of the room in -which they had first met. - -“Come again,” he said. “Rather afraid of draughts, so I leave you here. -Good day to you.” - -George took the thin hand that was thrust out at him and shook it with -somewhat less repulsion that he had felt a quarter of an hour earlier. -The sight of the books had softened his heart a little, as it often -softens the enmities of literary men when they least expect it. He -turned away and left the house, wondering whether, after all, old Tom -Craik had not been judged more harshly than he deserved. The man of -letters is slow to anger against those who show any genuine fondness for -his profession. - -He walked down the avenue, thinking over what he had seen and heard. It -chanced that after walking some time he stepped aside to allow certain -ladies to pass him and on looking round saw that he was in the door of -Mr. Popples’s establishment. A thought struck him and he went in. - -“Mr. Popples——” - -“Good morning, Mr. Winton Wood——” Mr. Popples thought that the two names -sounded better together. - -“Good morning, Mr. Popples. I want to ask you a confidential question.” -George laughed a little. - -“Anything, Mr. Winton Wood. Something in regard to the sales, no doubt. -Well, in point of fact, sir, it is just as well to ask now and then how -a book is going, just for the sake of checking the statement as we say, -though I will say that Rob Roy and Company——” - -“No, no,” George interrupted with a second laugh. “They treat me very -well. You know Mr. Craik, do you not?” - -“Mr. Craik!” exclaimed the bookseller, with a beaming smile. “Why, dear -me! Mr. Craik is your first cousin once removed, Mr. Winton Wood! Of -course I know him.” He prided himself on knowing the exact degree of -relationship existing between his different customers, which was -equivalent to knowing by heart the genealogy of all New York society. - -“You are a subtle flatterer,” George answered. “You pretend to know him -only because he is my cousin.” - -“A great collector,” returned the other, drawing down the corners of his -mouth and turning up his eyes as though he were contemplating an object -of solemn beauty. “A great collector! He knows what a book is, old or -new. He knows, he knows—oh yes, he knows very well.” - -“What I want to know is this,” said George. “Does Mr. Craik buy my books -or not? Do you happen to remember?” - -“Well, Mr. Winton Wood,” answered Mr. Popples, “the fact is, I do happen -to remember, by the merest chance. The fact is, to be honest, quite -honest, Mr. Craik does not buy your books. But he reads them.” - -“Borrows them, I suppose,” observed George. - -“Well, not that, exactly, either. The fact is,” said the bookseller, -lowering his voice to a confidential whisper, “Mrs. Sherrington Trimm -buys them and sends them to him. He buys mostly valuable books,” he -added, as though apologising for Mr. Craik’s stinginess. - -“Thank you, Mr. Popples,” said George, laughing for the third time, and -turning away. - -“Oh, not at all, Mr. Winton Wood. Anything, anything. Walking this -mor——” - -But George was already out of the shop and the bookseller did not take -the trouble to pronounce the last syllable, as he readjusted his large -spectacles and took up three or four volumes that lay on the edge of the -table. - -“It cannot be said,” George thought, as he walked on, “that I am very -much indebted to Mr. Thomas Craik—not even for ten per cent on one -dollar and twenty-five.” - -George would have been very much surprised to learn that the man who -would not spend a dollar and a quarter in purchasing one of his novels -had left him everything he possessed, and that the document which was to -prove his right was reposing in that Indian cabinet of Mrs. Trimm’s, -which he had so often admired. It seemed as though Totty had planned -everything to earn his gratitude, and he was especially pleased that she -should have made her miserly brother read his books. It showed at once -her own admiration for them and her desire that every one belonging to -her should share in it. - -Having nothing especial to do until a later hour, George thought of -going to see Constance and Grace. They had only been in town two days, -but he was curious to know whether Mrs. Bond had begun to look like -herself again, or was becoming more and more absorbed in her sorrow as -time went on. He had not been to the house in Washington Square since -the first of May, and so many events had occurred in his life since that -date that he felt as though he were separated from it by an interval of -years instead of months. The time had passed very quickly. It would soon -be three years since he had first gone up those steps with his cousin -one afternoon in the late winter. As he approached the familiar door, he -thought of all that had happened in the time, and he was amazed to find -how he had changed. Six months earlier he had descended those steps with -the certainty that the better and sweeter part of his life was behind -him, and that his happiness had been destroyed by a woman’s caprice. It -had been a rough lesson but he had survived the ordeal and was now a far -happier man than he had been then. In the flush of success, he was -engaged to marry a young girl who loved him with all her heart, and whom -he loved as well as he could. The world was before him now, as it had -not been then, when he had felt himself dependent for his inspiration -upon Constance’s attachment, and for the help he needed upon his daily -converse with her. If his heart was not satisfied as he had once dreamed -that it might be, his hopes were raised by the experience of -self-reliance. It had once seemed bitter to work alone; he had now -ceased to desire any companionship in his labours. Mamie was to be his -wife, not his adviser. She was to look up to him, and he must make -himself worthy of her trust as well as of her admiration. He would work -for her, labour to make her happy, to the extreme extent of his -strength, and he would be proud of the part he would play. She would be -the mother of children, graceful and charming as herself, or angular, -tough and hardworking as he was, and he and she would love them. But -there the relation was to cease, and he was glad of it. He owed much to -Constance, and was ready to acknowledge the whole debt, but neither -Constance herself, nor any other woman could take the same place in his -life again. Least of all, she herself, he thought, as he rang the bell -of her house and waited for admittance. In the old days his heart used -to beat faster than its wont before he was fairly within the precincts -of the Square. Now he was as unconscious of any emotion as though he -were standing before his own door. - -Grace received him alone in the old familiar drawing-room. She happened -to be sitting in the place Constance used to choose when George came to -see her, and he took his accustomed seat, almost unconscious of the -associations it had once had for him. - -“Constance is gone out,” Grace began. “I am sure she will be sorry. It -is kind of you to come so soon.” - -“You are no better,” George answered, looking at her, and not heeding -her remark. “I had hoped that you might be, but your expression is the -same. Why do you not go abroad, and make some great change in your -life?” - -“I am very well,” Grace replied with a faint smile which only increased -the sadness of her look. “I do not care to go away. Why should I? It -could make no difference.” - -“But it would. It would make all the difference in the world. Your -sorrow is in everything, in all you see, in all you hear, in every -familiar impression of your life—even in me and the sight of me.” - -“You are mistaken. It is here.” She pressed her hand to her breast with -a gesture almost fierce, and fixed her deep brown eyes on George’s face -for an instant. Then she let her arm fall beside her and looked away. -“The worst of it is that I am so strong,” she added presently. “I shall -never break down. I shall live to be an old woman.” - -“Yes,” George answered, thoughtfully, “I believe that you will. I can -understand that. I fancy that you and I are somewhat alike. There are -people who are unhappy, and who fade away and go out like a lamp without -oil. They are said to die of broken hearts though they have not felt -half as much happiness or sorrow as some tougher man and woman who live -through a lifetime of despair and disappointment.” - -“Are you very happy?” Grace asked rather suddenly. - -“Yes, I am very happy. I suppose I have reason to be. Everything has -gone well with me of late. I have had plenty of success with what I have -done, I am engaged to be married——” - -“That is what I mean,” said Grace, interrupting him. “Are you happy in -that? I suppose I have no right to ask such a question, but I cannot -help asking it. You ought to be, for you two are very well matched. Do -you know? It is a very fortunate thing that Constance refused you. You -did not really love her any more than she loved you.” - -“What makes you say that?” - -“If you were really in love, your love died a rather easy death. That is -all.” - -“That is true,” George answered, smiling in spite of himself. - -“Do you remember the first of May as well as you did three months ago? -Perhaps. I do not say that you have forgotten it altogether. When I told -you her decision, you did not act like a man who has received a terrible -blow. You were furiously, outrageously angry. You wished that I had been -a man, that you might have struck me.” - -“I believed that I had cause to be angry. Besides, I have extraordinary -natural gifts in that direction.” - -“Of course you had cause. But if you had loved her—as some people -love—you would have forgotten to be angry for once in your life and you -would have behaved very differently.” - -“I daresay you are right. As I came here to-day I was thinking over it -all. You know I have not been here since that day. In old times I could -feel my heart beating faster as I came near the house, and when I rang -the bell my hand used to tremble. To-day I walked here as coolly as -though I had been going home, and when I was at the door I was much more -concerned to know whether you were better than to know whether your -sister was in the house or not. Such is the unstability of the human -heart.” - -“Yes—when there is no real love in it,” Grace answered. “And the -strongest proof that there was none in yours is that you are willing to -own it. What made you think that you were so fond of her? How came you -to make such a mistake?” - -“I cannot tell. I would not talk to any one else as I am talking to you. -But we understand each other, she is your sister and you never believed -in our marriage. It began very gradually. Any man would fall in love -with her, if he had the chance. She was interested in me. She was kind -to me, when I got little kindness from any one——” - -“And none at all from me, poor man!” interrupted Grace. - -“Especially none from you. It was she who always urged me to write a -book, though I did not believe I could; it was to her that I read my -first novel from beginning to end. It was she who seized upon it and got -it published in spite of my protests—it was she who launched me and made -my first success what it was. I owe her very much more than I could ever -hope to repay, if I possessed any means of showing my gratitude. I loved -her for her kindness and she liked me for my devotion—perhaps for my -submission, for I was very submissive in those days. I had not learned -to run alone, and if she would have had me I would have walked in her -leading-strings to the end of my life.” - -“How touching!” exclaimed Grace, and the first genuine laughter of which -she had been capable for three months followed the words. - -“No, do not laugh,” said George gravely. “I owe her everything and I -know it. Most of all, I owe her the most loyal friendship and sincere -gratitude that a man can feel for any woman he does not love. It is all -over now. I never felt any emotion at meeting her since we parted after -that abominable dinner-party, and I shall never feel any again. I am -sure of that.” - -“I am sorry I laughed. I could not help it. But I am very glad that -things have ended in this way, though, as I told you when I last saw -you, I wish she would marry. She has grown to be the most listless, -unhappy creature in the world.” - -“What can be the matter?” George asked. “Is it not the life you are -leading together? You are so lonely.” - -“I came back on her account,” Grace answered wearily. “For my own sake I -would never have left that dear place again. I have told her that I will -do anything she pleases, go anywhere, live in any other way. It can make -no difference to me. But she will not hear of leaving New York. I cannot -mention it to her. She grows thinner every day.” - -“It is very strange. I am very sorry to hear it.” - -They talked together for some time longer and then George went away, -inwardly wondering at his own conduct in having spoken of Constance so -freely to her sister. It was not unnatural, however. Grace treated him -as an old friend, and circumstances had suddenly brought the two into -relations of close intimacy. As she had been chosen by Constance to -convey the latter’s refusal, it might well be supposed that she was in -her sister’s confidence, and George had said nothing which he was not -willing that Grace should repeat. He had not been gone more than half an -hour when Constance entered the room, looking pale and tired. - -“I have been everywhere to find a wedding present for the future Mrs. -Wood,” she said, as she let herself sink down upon the sofa. “I can find -nothing, positively nothing that will do.” - -“He has just been here,” said Grace indifferently. - -Constance changed colour and glanced quickly at her sister. She looked -as though she had checked herself in the act of saying something which -she might have regretted. - -“What did you talk about?” she asked quietly, after a moment’s pause. “I -wish I had been here. I have not seen him since he came to announce his -engagement.” - -“Yes. He was sorry to miss you, too. He was not particularly -agreeable—considering how well he can talk when he tries. I am very fond -of him now. I am sorry I misjudged him formerly, and I told him so -before he came to town.” - -“You have discovered that you misjudged him, then,” said Constance, as -calmly as she could. - -“Yes,” Grace answered with perfect unconcern. “I am always glad to see -him. By-the-bye, we talked about you.” - -“About me?” - -“Yes. What is the matter? Is there any reason why we should not talk -about you?” - -“Oh, none whatever—except that he loved me once.” - -“He said nothing but what was perfectly fair and friendly. I asked him -if he was happy in the prospect of being married so soon, and then very -naturally we spoke of you. He said that he owed you the most loyal -friendship and sincere gratitude, that you had launched him in his -career by sending his first novel to the publisher without his consent, -that without you, he would not have been what he is—he said it seemed -natural, on looking back, that he should have loved you, or thought that -he loved you——” - -“Thought that he loved me?” Constance repeated in a low voice. - -“Yes. Considering how quickly he has recovered, his love can hardly have -been much more sincere than yours. What is the matter, Conny dear? Are -you ill?” - -Constance had hidden her face in the cushions and was sobbing bitterly, -in the very place she had occupied when she had finally refused George -Wood, and almost in the same attitude. - -“Oh Grace!” she moaned. “You will break my heart!” - -“Do you love him, now?” Grace asked in a voice that was suddenly hard. -She had not had the least suspicion of the real state of the case. -Constance nodded in answer, still sobbing and covering her face. Grace -turned away in disgust. - -“What contemptible creatures we women can be!” she said in an undertone, -as she crossed the room. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVI. - - -George was in the habit of going to see Mamie every afternoon, and the -hours he spent with her were by far the most pleasant in his day. Mrs. -Trimm had thoroughly understood her daughter’s nature when she had told -George that the girl possessed that sort of charm which never wearies -men because they can never find out exactly where it lies. It was not -easy to imagine that any one should be bored in Mamie’s society. George -returned day after day, expecting always that he must ultimately find -the continual conversation a burden, but reassured each time by what he -felt after he had been twenty minutes in the house. As he was not -profoundly moved himself it seemed unnatural that these long meetings -should not at last become an irksome and uninteresting duty, the -conscientious performance of which would react to the disadvantage of -his subsequent happiness. The spontaneity which had given so much -freshness to their intercourse while they were living under the same -roof, was gone now that George found himself compelled to live by rules -of consideration for others, and he was aware of the fact each time he -entered Mamie’s presence. Nevertheless her manner and voice exercised -such a fascination over him as made him forget after a quarter of an -hour that he and she were no longer in the country, and that he was no -longer free to see her or not see her, as he pleased, independently of -all formality and custom. Nothing could have demonstrated Mamie’s -superiority over most young women of her age more clearly than this -fact. The situation of affianced couples after their engagement is -announced is very generally hard to sustain with dignity on either side, -but is more especially a difficult one for the man. It is undoubtedly -rendered more easy by the enjoyment of the liberty granted among -Anglo-Saxons in such cases. But that freedom is after all only a part of -our whole system of ideas, and as we all expect it from the first, we do -not realise that our position is any more fortunate than that of the -young French gentleman, who is frequently not allowed to exchange a -single word with his bride until he has been formally affianced to her, -and who may not talk to her without the presence of a third person until -she is actually his wife. Under our existing customs a young girl must -be charming indeed if her future husband can talk with her three hours -every day during six weeks or two months and go away each time feeling -that his visit has been too short. Neither animated conversation nor -frequent correspondence have any right to be considered as tests of -love. Love is not to be measured by the fluent use of words, nor by an -easy acquaintance with agreeable topics, nor yet by lavish expenditure -in postage-stamps. George knew all this, and was moreover aware in his -heart that there was nothing desperately passionate in his affection; he -was the more surprised, therefore, to find that the more he saw of Mamie -Trimm, the more he wished to see of her. - -“Do you think,” he said to her, on that same afternoon in November, -“that all engaged couples enjoy their engagement as much as we do?” - -“I am sure they do not,” Mamie answered. “Nobody is half as nice as we -are!” - -They were seated in a small boudoir that adjoined the drawing-room. The -wide door was open and they could hear the pleasant crackling of the -first wood fire that was burning in the larger room, though they could -not see it. The air without was gloomy and grey, for the late Indian -summer was over, and before long the first frosts would come and the -first flakes of snow would be driven along the dry and windy streets. It -was early in the afternoon, however, and though the light was cold and -colourless and hard, there was plenty of it. Mamie was established in a -short but very deep sofa, something resembling a divan, one small foot -just touching the carpet, the other hidden from view, her head thrown -back and resting against the tapestry upon the wall, one arm resting -upon the end of the lounge, the little classic hand hanging over the -edge, so near to George that he had but to put out his own in order to -touch it. He was seated with his back to the door of the drawing-room, -clasping his hands over one knee and leaning forward as he gazed at the -window opposite. He smiled at Mamie’s answer. - -“No, I am sure other people do not enjoy sitting together and talking -during half the day, as we do,” he said. “I have often thought so. It is -you who make our life what it is. It will always be you, with your dear -ways——” - -He stopped, seeking an expression which he could not find immediately. - -“Have I dear ways?” Mamie asked with a little laugh. “I never knew it -before—but since you say so——” - -“It is only those who love us that know the best of us. We never know it -ourselves.” - -“Do you love me, George?” The question was put to him for the thousandth -time. To her it seemed always new and the answer was always full of -interest, as though it had never been given before. - -“Very dearly.” George laid his hand upon her slender fingers and pressed -them softly. He had abandoned the attempt to give her an original reply -at each repetition of the inquiry. - -“Is that all?” she asked, pretending to be disappointed, but smiling -with her grey eyes. - -“Can a man say more and mean it?” George inquired gravely. Then he -laughed. “The other day,” he continued, “I was in a train on the -Elevated Road. There was a young couple opposite to me—the woman was a -little round fat creature with a perpetual smile, pretty teeth, and -dressed in grey. They were talking in low tones, but I heard what they -said. Baby language was evidently their strong point. He turned his head -towards her with the most languishing lover-like look I ever saw. -‘Plumpety itty partidge, who does ‘oo love?’ he asked. ‘Zoo!’ answered -the little woman with a smile that went all round her head like the -equator on a globe.” - -Mamie laughed as he finished the story. - -“That represented their idea of conversation, what you call ‘dear ways.’ -My dear ways are not much like that and yours are quite different. When -I ask you if you love me, you almost always give the same answer. But -then, I know you mean it dear, do you not?” - -“There it is again!” George laughed. “Of course I do—only, as you say, -my imagination is limited. I cannot find new ways of saying it. But -then, you do not vary the question either, so that it is no wonder if my -answers are a little monotonous, is it?” - -“Are my questions monotonous? Do I bore you with them, George?” - -“No, dear. I should be very hard to please if you bored me. It is your -charm that makes our life what it is.” - -“I wish I believed that. What is charm? What do you mean by it? It is -not an intellectual gift, it is not a quality, a talent, nor -accomplishment. I believe you tell me that I have it because you do not -know what else to say. It is so easy to say to a woman ‘You are full of -charm,’ when she is ugly and stupid and cannot play on the piano, and -you feel obliged to be civil. I am sure that there is no such thing as -charm. It is only an imaginary compliment. Why not tell me the truth?” - -“You are neither ugly nor stupid, and I am sincerely glad that you leave -the piano alone,” said George. “I could find any number of compliments -to make, if that were my way. But it is not, of course. You have lots of -good points, Mamie. Look at yourself in the glass if you do not believe -it. Look at your figure, look at your eyes, at your complexion, at your -hands—listen to your own voice——” - -“Do not talk nonsense, George. Besides, that is only a catalogue. If you -want to please me you must compare all those things to beautiful -objects. You must say that my eyes are like—gooseberries, for instance, -my figure like—what shall I say?” - -“Like Psyche’s,” suggested George. - -“Or like an hour-glass, and my hands like stuffed gloves, and my skin -like a corn starch pudding, and my voice like the voice of the charmer. -That is the way to be complimentary. Poetry must make use of similes and -call a spade an ace—as papa says. When you have done all that, and -turned your catalogue into blank verse, tell me if there is anything -left which you can call charm.” - -“Charm,” George answered, “is what every man who loves a woman thinks -she has—and if she has it all men love her. You have it.” - -“Dear me!” exclaimed the young girl. “Can you get no nearer to a -definition than that?” - -“Can you define anything which you only feel and cannot see—heat for -instance, or cold?” - -“Heat makes one hot, and cold makes one shiver,” answered Mamie -promptly. - -“And charm makes a woman loved. That is as good an answer as yours.” - -“I suppose I must be satisfied, especially as you say that it can only -be felt and not seen. Besides, if it makes you love me, why should I -care what it is called? Do you know what it really is? It is love -itself. It is because I love you so much, so intensely, that I make you -love me. There is no such thing as charm. Charm is either a woman’s -love, or her readiness to love—one or the other.” - -Mamie laughed softly and moved the hand that was hanging over the end of -the sofa, as though seeking the touch of George’s fingers. He obeyed the -little signal quite unconsciously. - -“Who can that be?” Mamie asked, after a moment’s pause. She thought that -she had heard a door open and that some one had entered the -drawing-room. George listened a few seconds. - -“Nobody,” he said. “It was only the fire.” - -While the two had been talking, some one had really entered the large -adjoining room as Mamie had suspected. Thomas Craik was not in the habit -of making visits in the afternoon, but on this particular day he had -found the process of being driven about in a closed brougham more -wearisome than usual, and it had struck him that he might find Totty at -home and amuse himself with teasing her in some way or other. Totty was -expected every moment, the servant had said, and the discreet attendant -had added that Mr. George and Miss Mamie were in the boudoir together. -Mr. Craik said that he would wait in the drawing-room, to which he was -accordingly admitted. He knew the arrangement of the apartment and took -care not to disturb the peace of the young couple by making any noise. -It would be extremely entertaining, he thought, to place himself so as -to hear something of what they said to each other; he therefore stepped -softly upon the thick carpet and took up what he believed to be a -favourable position. His hearing was still as sharp as ever, and he did -not go too near the door of the inner room lest Totty, entering -suddenly, should suppose that he had been listening. - -“So you think that I only love you because you love me,” said George. -“You are not very complimentary to yourself.” - -“I did not say that, though that was the beginning. You would never have -begun to love me—George, I am sure there is some one in the next room!” - -“It is impossible. Your mother would have come directly to us, and the -servants would not have let any caller go in while she was out. Shall I -look?” - -“No—you are quite right,” Mamie answered. “It is only the crackling of -the fire.” She was holding his hand and did not care to let it drop in -order that he might satisfy her curiosity. “What was I saying?” - -“Something very foolish—about my not loving you.” - -Thomas Craik listened for a while to their conversation, eagerly at -first and then with an expression of weariness on his parchment face. He -had been afraid to sit down, for fear of making a noise, and he found -himself standing before a table, on which, among many other objects was -placed the small Indian cabinet he had once given to his sister. Many -years had passed since he had sent it to her, but his keen memory for -details had not forgotten the secret drawer it contained, nor the way to -open it. He looked at it for some time curiously, wondering whether -Totty kept anything of value in it. Then it struck him that if she -really kept anything concealed there, it would be an excellent practical -joke to take out the object, whatever it might be, and carry it off. The -idea was in accordance with that part of his character which loved -secret and underhand dealings. The scene which would ensue when he -ultimately brought the thing back would answer the other half of his -nature which delighted in inflicting brutal and gratuitous surprises -upon people he did not like. He laid his thin hands gently on the -cabinet and proceeded to open it as noiselessly as he could. - -Mamie’s sharp ears were not deceived this time, however. She bent -forward and whispered to George. - -“There is somebody there. Go on tiptoe and look from behind the curtain. -Do not let them see you, or we shall have to go in, and that would be -such a bore.” - -George obeyed in silence, stood a moment peering into the next room, -concealed by the hangings and then returned to Mamie’s side. “It is your -Uncle Tom,” he whispered with a smile. “He is in some mischief, I am -sure, for he is opening that Indian cabinet as though he did not want to -be heard.” - -“I will tell mamma, when she comes in—what fun it will be!” Mamie -answered. “He must have heard us before, so that we must go on -talking—about the weather.” Then raising her voice she began to speak of -their future plans. - -Meanwhile Mr. Craik had slipped back the part of the cover which -concealed the secret drawer, and had opened the latter. There was -nothing in it but the document which Totty kept there. He quickly took -it out and closed the cabinet again. Something in the appearance of the -paper attracted his attention, and instead of putting it into his pocket -to read at home and at his leisure, as he had intended to do, he -unfolded it and glanced at the contents. - -He had always been a man able to control his anger, unless there was -something to be gained by manifesting it, but his rage was now far too -genuine to be concealed. The veins swelled and became visible beneath -the tightly drawn skin of his forehead, his mouth worked spasmodically -and his hands trembled with fury as he held the sheet before his eyes, -satisfying himself that it was the genuine document and not a forgery -containing provisions different from those he had made in his own will. -As soon as he felt no further doubt about the matter, he gave vent to -his wrath, in a storm of curses, stamping up and down the room, and -swinging his long arms as he moved, still holding the paper in one hand. - -Mamie turned pale and grasped George by the arm. He would have risen to -go into the next room, but she held him back with all her strength. - -“No—stay here!” she said in a low voice. “You can do no good. He knew we -were here—something must have happened! Oh, George, what is it?” - -“If you will let me go and see——” - -But at that moment, it became evident to both that Tom Craik was no -longer alone. Totty had entered the drawing-room. As the servant had -said, she had been expected every moment. Her brother turned upon her -furiously, brandishing the will and cursing louder than before. In his -extreme anger he was able to lift up his head and look her in the eyes. - -“You damned infernal witch!” he shouted. “You abominable woman! You -thief! You swindler! You——” - -“Help! help!” screamed Totty. “He is mad—he means to kill me!” - -“I am not mad, you wretch!” yelled Tom Craik, pursuing her and catching -her with one hand while he shook the will in her face with the other. -“Look at that—look at it! My will, here in your keeping, without so much -as a piece of paper or a seal to hold it—you thief! You have broken into -your husband’s office, you burglar! You have broken open my -deed-box—look at it! Do you recognise it? Stand still and answer me, or -I will hold you till the police can be got. Do you see? The last will -and testament of me Thomas Craik, and not a cent for Charlotte Trimm. -Not one cent, and not one shall you get either. He shall have it all, -George Winton Wood, shall have it all. Ah—I see the reason why you have -kept it now—If I had found it gone, you know I would have made it over -again! Cheaper, and wiser, and more like you to get him for your -daughter—of course it was, you lying, shameless beast!” - -“What is the meaning of this?” George asked in ringing tones. He had -broken away from Mamie with difficulty and she had followed him into the -room, and now stood clinging to her mother. George pushed Tom Craik back -a little and placed himself between him and Totty, who was livid with -terror and seemed unable to speak a word. The sudden appearance of -George’s tall, angular figure, and the look of resolution in his dark -face brought Tom Craik to his senses. - -“You want to know the meaning of it,” he said. “Quite right. You shall. -When I was dying—nearly three years ago, I made a will in your favour. I -left you everything I have in the world. Why? Because I pleased. This -woman thought she was to have my money. Oh, you might have had it, if -you had been less infernally greedy,” he cried, turning to Totty. “This -will was deposited in my deed-box at Sherry Trimm’s office. Saw it -there, on the top of the papers with my own eyes the last time I went; -and Sherry was in Europe then. So you took it, and no one else. Poor -Bond did not, though as he is dead, you will say he did. It will not -help you. So you laid your trap—oh yes! I know those tricks of yours. -You broke off George Wood’s marriage with the girl he loved, and you -laid your trap—very nicely done—very. You gave him Sherry’s wines, and -Sherry’s cigars to make him come. I know all about it. I was watching -you. And you made him come and spend the summer up the river—so nice, -and luxurious, and quiet for a poor young author. And you told nobody he -was there—not you! I can see it all now, the moonlight walks, and the -rides and the boating, and Totty indoors with a headache, or writing -letters. It was easy to get Sherry’s consent when it was all arranged, -was it not? Devilish easy. Sherry is an honest man—I know men—but he -knew on which side his daughter’s bread was buttered, for he had drawn -up the will himself. He did not mind if George Winton Wood, the poor -author, fell in love with his daughter, any more than his magnanimous -wife was disturbed by the prospect. Not a bit. The starving author was -to have millions—millions, woman! as soon as the old brother was nailed -up and trundled off to Greenwood! And he shall have them, too. It only -remains to be seen whether he will have your daughter.” - -Craik paused for breath, though his invalid form was as invigorated by -his extreme anger as to make it appear that he might go on indefinitely -in the same strain. As for George he was at first too much amazed by the -story to believe his ears. He thought Craik was mad, and yet the -presence of the will which the old man repeatedly thrust before his eyes -and in which he could not help seeing his own name written in the -lawyer’s large clear hand, told him that there was a broad foundation of -truth in the tale. - -“Defend yourself, Totty,” he said as quietly as he could. “Tell him that -this story is absurd. I think Mr. Craik is not well——” - -“Not well, young man?” Craik asked, looking up at him with a bitter -laugh. “I am as well as you. Here is my will. There is the cabinet. And -there is Charlotte Sherrington Trimm. Send for her husband. Ask him if -it is not a good case for a jury. You may be in love with the girl, and -she may be in love with you, for all I know. But you have been made to -fall in love with each other by that scheming old woman, there. The only -way she could get the money into the family was through you. She is -lawyer enough to know that there may be a duplicate somewhere, and that -I should make one fast enough if there were not. Besides, to burn a will -means the State’s Prison, and she wants to avoid that place, if she -can.” - -The possibility and the probability that the whole story might be true, -flashed suddenly upon George’s mind, and he turned very pale. The -recollection of Totty’s amazing desire to please him was still fresh in -his mind, and he remembered how very unexpected it had all seemed, the -standing invitation to the house, the extreme anxiety to draw him to the -country, the reckless way in which Totty had left him alone with her -daughter, Totty’s manner on that night when she had persuaded him to -offer himself to Mamie—the result, and the cable message she had shown -him, ready prepared, and taking for granted her husband’s consent. By -this time Totty had sunk into a chair and was sobbing helplessly, -covering her face with her hands and handkerchief. George walked up to -her, while old Tom Craik kept at his elbow, as though fearing that he -might prove too easily forgiving. - -“How long have you known the contents of that will?” George asked -steadily, and still trying to speak kindly. - -“Since—the end—of April,” Totty sobbed. She felt it impossible to lie, -for her brother’s eyes were fixed on her face and she was frightened. - -“You did, did you? Well, well, that ought to settle it,” said Craik, -breaking into a savage laugh. “I fancy it must have been about that time -that she began to like you so much,” he added looking at George. - -“About the first of May,” George answered coldly. “I remember that on -that day I met you in the street and you begged me to go and see Mamie, -who was alone.” - -“I like men who remember dates,” chuckled the old man at his elbow. - -“I have been very much deceived,” said George. “I believed it was for -myself. It was for money. I have nothing more to say.” - -“You have not asked me whether I knew anything,” said Mamie, coming -before him. Her alabaster skin was deadly white and her grey eyes were -on fire. - -“Your mother knows you too well to have told you,” George answered very -kindly. “I have promised to marry you. I do not suspect you, but I would -not break my word to you, even if I thought that you had known.” - -“It is for me to break my word,” answered the young girl proudly. “No -power on earth shall make me marry you, now.” - -Her lips were tightly pressed to her teeth as she spoke and she held her -head high, though her eyes rested lovingly on his face. - -“Why will you not marry me, Mamie?” George asked. He knew now that he -had never loved her. - -“I have had shame already,” she answered. “Shame in being thrust upon -you, shame in having thrust myself upon you—though not for your money. -You never knew. You asked me once how I knew your moods, and when you -wanted me and when you would choose to be alone. Ask her, ask my mother. -She is wiser than I. She could tell from your face, long before I could, -what you wished—and we had signals and signs and passwords, she and I, -so that she could help me with her advice, and teach me how to make -myself wanted by the man I loved. Am I not contemptible? And when I told -you that I loved you—and then made you believe that I was only acting, -because there was no response—shame? I have lived with it, fed on it, -dreamed of it, and to-day is the crown of all—my crown of shame. Marry -you? I would rather die!” - -“Whatever others may have done, you have always been brave and true, -Mamie,” said George. “It may be better that we should not marry, but -there has been no shame for you in this matter.” - -“I am not so sure,” said Tom Craik with a chuckle and an ugly smile. -“She is cleverer than she looks——” - -George turned upon the old man with the utmost violence. - -“Sir!” he cried savagely. “If you say that again I will break your -miserable old bones, if I hang for it!” - -“Like that fellow,” muttered Craik with a more pleasant expression than -he had yet worn. “Like him more and more.” - -“I do not want to be liked by you, and you know why,” George answered, -for he had caught the words. - -“Oh, you don’t, don’t you? Well, well. Never mind.” - -“No I do not. And what is more, I will tell you something, Mr. Craik. -When you were ill and I called to inquire, I came because I hoped to -learn that you were dead. That may explain what I feel for you. I have -not had a favourable opportunity of explaining the matter before, or I -would have done so.” - -“Good again!” replied the old gentleman. “Like frankness in young -people. Eh, Totty? Eh, Mamie? Very frank young man, this, eh?” - -“Furthermore, Mr. Craik,” continued George, not heeding him, “I will -tell you that I will not lift a finger to have your money. I do not want -it.” - -“Exactly. Never enjoyed such sport in my life as trying to force money -on a poor man who won’t take it. Good that, what? Eh, Totty? Don’t you -think this is fun? Poor old Totty—all broken up! Bear these little -things better myself.” - -Totty was in a fit of hysterics and neither heard nor heeded, as she lay -in the deep chair, sobbing, moaning and laughing all at once. George -eyed her contemptuously. - -“Either let us go,” he said to Craik, “and, if you have exhausted your -wit, that would be the best thing; or else let Mrs. Trimm be taken away. -I shall not leave you here to torment these ladies.” - -“Seat in my carriage? Come along!” answered Mr. Craik with alacrity. - -George led Mamie back into the little room beyond. As they went, he -could hear the old man beginning to rail at his sister again, but he -paid no attention. He felt that he could not leave Mamie without another -word. The young girl followed him in silence. They stood together near -the window, as far out of hearing as possible. George hesitated. - -“What is it, George?” asked Mamie. “Do you want to say good-bye to me?” -She spoke with evident effort. - -“I want to say this, dear. If you and I can help it, not a word of what -has happened to-day must ever be known. I have been deceived, most -shamefully, but not by you. You have been honest and true from first to -last. The best way to keep this secret, is for us two to marry as though -nothing had happened. Nobody would believe it then. I am afraid that Mr. -Craik will tell some one, because he is so angry.” - -“I have told you my decision,” Mamie answered firmly, though her lips -were white. “I have nothing more to say.” - -“Think well of what you are doing. One should not come to such decisions -when one is angry. Here I am, Mamie. Take me if you will, and forget -that all those things have been said and done.” - -For one moment, Mamie hesitated. - -“Do you love me?” she asked, trying to read his heart in his eyes. - -But the poor passion that had taken the place of love was gone. The -knowledge that he had been played with and gambled for, though not by -the girl herself, had given him a rude shock. - -“Yes,” he answered, bravely trying to feel that he was speaking the -truth. But there was no life in the word. - -“No, dear,” said Mamie simply. “You never loved me. I see it now.” - -He would have made some sort of protest. But she drew back from him, and -from his outstretched hand. - -“Will you let me be alone?” she asked. - -He bowed his head and left the room. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVII. - - -When George had seen old Tom Craik enter his carriage and drive away -from the house, he breathed more freely. He could not think very -connectedly of what had happened, but it seemed to him that the old man -had played a part quite as contemptible as that which Totty herself had -sustained so long. He would assuredly not have believed that the -terrific anger of which he had witnessed the explosion was chiefly due -to the discovery of what was intended to be a good action. Craik had -never liked to be found out, and it was especially galling to him to be -exposed in the act of endeavouring to make amends for the past. But for -this consideration, he would have been quite capable of returning the -will to its place in the cabinet, and of leaving the house quietly. He -would have merely sent for a lawyer and repeated the document with a new -date, to deposit it in some place to which his sister could not possibly -gain access. But his anger had been aroused in the first moment by the -certainty that Totty had understood his motives and must secretly -despise him for making such a restitution of ill-gotten gain. George -could not have comprehended this, and he feared that the old man should -do some irreparable harm if he were left any longer with the object of -his wrath. The look in Craik’s eyes had not been reassuring, and it was -by no means sure that the whole affair had not finally unsettled his -intellect. - -There was little ground for any such fear, however, as George would have -realised if he could have followed Mr. Craik to his home, and seen how -soon he repented of having endangered his health by giving way to his -wrath. An hour later he was in bed and his favourite doctor was at his -side, watching every pulsation of his heart and prepared to do battle at -the first attack of any malady which should present itself. - -George himself was far less moved by what had occurred than he would -have believed possible. His first and chief sensation was a sickening -disgust with Totty and with all that recent portion of his life in which -she had played so great a part. He had been deceived and played with on -all sides and his vanity revolted at the thought of what might have been -if Craik’s discovery had not broken through the veil of Totty’s -duplicity. It made him sick to feel that while he had fancied himself -courted and honoured and chosen as a son-in-law for his own sake and for -the sake of what he had done in the face of such odds, he had really -been looked upon as an object of speculation, as a thing worth buying at -a cheap price for the sake of its future value. Beyond this, he felt -nothing but a sense of relief at having been released from his -engagement. He had done his best to act honestly, but he had often -feared that he was deceiving himself and others in the effort to do what -seemed honourable. He did not deny, even now, that what he had felt for -Mamie might in good time have developed into a real love, but he saw -clearly at last that while his senses had been charmed and his -intelligence soothed, his heart had never been touched. Doubts about -Mamie herself would present themselves, though he drove them resolutely -away. It was natural that he should find it hard to realise in her that -which he had never felt during their long intercourse, and while his -instinct told him that the young girl had been innocent of all her -mother’s plotting and scheming, he said to himself that she would easily -recover from her disappointment. If he was troubled by any regret it was -rather that he should not have left her mother’s house as soon as he had -seen that she was interested, than that he should have failed to love -her as he had tried to do. On the other hand he admitted that his -conduct had been excusable, considering the pressure which Totty had -brought to bear upon him. - -The most unpleasant point in the future was the explanation which must -inevitably take place between himself and Sherrington Trimm. It would be -hard to imagine a meeting more disagreeable to both parties as this one -was sure to be. There could be no question about Trimm’s innocence in -the whole affair, for his character was too well known to the world to -admit the least suspicion. But it would be a painful matter to meet him -and talk over what had happened. If possible, the interview must be -avoided, and George determined to attempt this solution by writing a -letter setting forth his position with the utmost clearness. He turned -up the steps of a club to which he belonged and sat down to the task. - -What he said may be summed up in a few words. He took it for granted -that Trimm would be acquainted with what had occurred, by the time the -letter reached him. It only remained for him to repeat what he had said -to Mamie herself, to wit, that if she would marry him, he was ready to -fulfil his engagement. He concluded by saying that he would wait a month -for the definite answer, after which time he intended to go abroad. He -sealed the note and took it with him, intending to send it to Trimm’s -house in the evening. As luck would have it, however, he met Trimm -himself in the hall of the club. He had stopped on his way up town to -refresh himself with a certain mild drink of his own devising. - -“Hilloa, George!” he cried in his cheery voice. “What is the matter?” he -asked anxiously as he saw the expression on the other’s face. - -“Have you been at home yet?” George asked. - -“No.” - -“Something very disagreeable has happened. I have just written you a -note. Will you take it with you and read it after you have heard what -they have to say?” - -“Confound it all!” exclaimed Sherry Trimm. “I am not fond of mystery. -Come into a quiet room and tell me all about it.” - -“I would rather that you found it out for yourself,” said George, -drawing back. - -Sherry Trimm looked keenly at him, and then took him by the arm. - -“Look here, George,” he said, “no nonsense! I do not know what the -trouble is, but I see it is serious. Let us have it out, right here.” - -“Very well,” George answered. “Your wife has made trouble,” he said, as -soon as they were closeted in one of the small rooms. “You drew up Mr. -Craik’s will, and you kept his secret. When you had gone abroad, your -wife got the will out of the deed-box in your office and took it home -with her. She kept it in that Indian cabinet and Mr. Craik found it -there this afternoon, and made a fearful scene. Unfortunately your wife -could not find any answer to what he said, and thereupon Mamie declared -that she would not marry me.” - -Sherrington Trimm’s pink face had grown slowly livid while George was -speaking. - -“What did Tom say?” he asked quietly. - -“He hinted that his sister had not been wholly disinterested in her -kindness to me,” said George. “Unfortunately Mamie and I were present. I -did the best I could, but the mischief was done.” - -Sherrington said nothing more, but began to walk up and down the small -room nervously, pulling at his short grizzled moustache from time to -time. Like every one else who had been concerned in the affair, he -grasped the whole situation in a moment. - -“This is a miserable business,” he said at last in a tone that expressed -profound humiliation and utter disgust. - -George did not answer, for he was quite of the same opinion. He stood -leaning against a card-table, drumming with his fingers on the green -cloth behind him. Sherry Trimm paused in his walk, and struck his -clenched fist upon the palm of his other hand. Then he shook his head -and began to pace the floor again. - -“An abominable business,” he muttered. “I cannot see that there is -anything to be done, but to beg your pardon for it all,” he said, -suddenly turning to George. - -“You need not do that,” George answered readily. “It is not your fault, -Cousin Sherry. All I want to say, is what I had already written to you. -If Mamie will change her mind and marry me, I am ready.” - -Trimm looked at him sharply. - -“You are a good fellow, George,” he said. “But I don’t think I could -stand that. You never loved her as you ought to love to be happy. I saw -that long ago and I guessed that there had been something wrong. You -have been tricked into the whole thing—and—just go away and leave me -here, will you? I cannot stand this.” - -George took the outstretched hand and shook it warmly. Then he left the -room and closed the door behind him. In that moment he pitied -Sherrington Trimm far more than he pitied Mamie herself. He could -understand the man’s humiliation better than the girl’s broken heart. He -went out of the club and turned homewards. He had yet to communicate the -intelligence to his father, and he was oddly curious to see what the old -gentleman would say. An hour later he had told the whole story with -every detail he could remember, from the day when Totty had told him to -go and see Mamie to his recent interview with Sherry Trimm. - -“I am sorry for you, George,” said Jonah Wood. “I am very sorry for -you.” - -“I think, on the whole, that is more than I can say for myself,” George -answered. “I am far more sorry for Mamie and her father. It is a relief -to me. I would not have believed it, this morning.” - -“Do you mean that you were not in love?” - -“Yes. I am just as fond of her as ever. There is nothing I would not do -for her. But I do not want to marry her and I never did, till that old -cat made me think it was my duty.” - -“I should think you would have known what your duty was, without waiting -to be told. I would have told her mother that I did not love the girl, -and I would have gone the next morning.” - -“You are so sensible, father!” George exclaimed. “I looked at it -differently. It seemed to me that if I had gone so far as to make Mamie -believe that I loved her, I ought to be able to love her in earnest.” - -“When you are older, you will know better,” observed the old gentleman -severely. “You have too much imagination. As for Mr. Craik, he will not -leave you his money now. I doubt if he meant to.” - -George went and shut himself up in the little room which had witnessed -so many of his struggles and disappointments. He sat down in his shabby -old easy-chair and lit a short pipe and fell into a profound reverie. -The unexpected had played a great part in his life, and as he reviewed -the story of the past three years, he was surprised to find how very -different his own existence had been from that of the average man. With -the exception of his accident on the river and the scene he had -witnessed to-day, nothing really startling had happened to him in that -time, and yet his position at the present moment was as different from -his position three years earlier as it possibly could be. In that time -he had risen from total obscurity into the publicity of reputation, if -not of celebrity. He was not fond of disturbing the mass of papers that -encumbered his table, and there, deep down under the rest were still to -be found rough drafts of his last poor little reviews. Hanging from one -corner there was visible the corrected “revise” of one of his earliest -accepted articles. At the other end, beneath a piece of old iron which -he used as a paper-weight, lay the manuscript of his first novel, well -thumbed and soiled, and marked at intervals in pencil with the names of -the compositors who had set up the pages in type. There, upon the table, -lay the accumulated refuse of three years of hard work, of the three -years which had raised him into the public notice. Much of that work had -been done under the influence of one woman, of one fair young girl who -had bent over his shoulder as he read her page after page, and whose -keen, fresh sight had often detected flaws and errors where he himself -saw no imperfection. She had encouraged him, had pushed him, and urged -him on, in spite of himself, until he had succeeded, beyond his wildest -expectations. Then he had lost her, because he had thought that she was -bound to marry him. He did not think so now, for he felt that in that -case, too, he had been mistaken, as in the more recent one he had -deceived himself. He had never been in love. He had never felt what he -described in his own books. His blood had never raced through his veins -for love, as it had often done for anger and sometimes for mere passing -passion. Love had never taken him and mastered him and carried him away -in its arms beyond all consideration for consequences. It was not -because he was strong. He knew that whatever people might think of him, -he had often been weak, and had longed to be made strong by a love he -could not feel. He had been ready to yield himself to a belief in -affections which had proved unreal and which had disappointed himself by -their instability and by the ease with which he had recovered from them. -Even in the solitude of his own room he was ashamed to own to his inner -consciousness how little he had been moved by all that had happened to -him in those three years. - -He thought of Johnson, the pale-faced hardworking man, whose heart was -full of unsatisfied ambition and who had distanced his competitors by -sheer energy and enthusiasm. He envied the man his belief in himself and -his certainty of slow but sure success. Slow, indeed, it must be. -Johnson had toiled for many years at his writing to attain the position -he occupied, to be considered a good judge and a ready writer by the few -who knew him, to gain a small but solid reputation in a small circle. He -had worked much harder than George himself, and yet to-day, George Wood -was known and read where William Johnson had never been heard of. Of the -two Johnson was by far the better satisfied with his success, though of -the two he possessed by very much the more ambition, in the ordinary -acceptation of the word. - -Then George thought of Thomas Craik, and of his sneer at ambitious men. -He had said that there was no pleasure in possession, but only in -getting, getting, getting, as long as a man had breath; that the wish to -excel other men in anything was a drawback and a disadvantage, and that -nothing in the world was worth having for its own sake, from money to -fame, through all the catalogue of what is attainable by humanity. And -yet, Thomas Craik was an instance of a very successful man, who had some -right to speak on the subject. Whether he had got his money by fair -means or foul had nothing to do with the argument. He had it, and he -could speak from experience about the pleasures of possession. There -must be some truth in what he said. George himself had attained before -the age of thirty what many men labour in vain to reach throughout a -lifetime. The case was similar. Whether he had deserved the reputation -he had so suddenly acquired or not, mattered little. Many critics said -that he had no claim to it. Many others said that he deserved more than -he got. Whichever side was right, he had it, as Tom Craik had his money. -Did it give him any satisfaction? None whatever, beyond the material -advantages it brought him, and which only pleased him because they made -him independent of his father’s help. When he thought of what he had -done, he found no savour of pride in the reflection, nothing which -really flattered his vanity, nothing to send a thrill of happiness -through him. He was cold, indifferent to all he had done. It would not -have entered his mind to take up one of his own books and glance over -the pages. On the contrary, he felt a strong repulsion for what he had -written, the moment it was finished. He admitted that he was foolish in -this, as in many other things, and that he would in all likelihood -improve his work by going over it and polishing it, even by entirely -rewriting a great part of it. He was not deterred from doing so by -indolence, for his rarely energetic temperament loved hard work and -sought it. It was rather a profound dissatisfaction with all he did -which prevented him from expending any further time upon each -performance when he had once reached the last page. Nothing satisfied -him, neither what he did himself, nor what he saw done by others. - -Thinking the matter over in his solitude the inevitable conclusion -seemed to be that he was one of those discontented beings who can never -be pleased with anything, nor lose themselves in an enthusiasm without -picking to pieces the object that has made him enthusiastic. But this -was not true either. There were plenty of great works in the world for -which he had no criticism, and which never failed to excite his -boundless admiration. He smiled to himself as he thought that what would -really please him would be to be forced into the same attitude of -respect before one of his own books, into which he naturally fell before -the great masterpieces of literature. He would have been hard to -satisfy, he thought, if that would not have satisfied him. Was that, -then, the vision which he was really pursuing? It was folly to suppose -that he would be so mad, and yet, at that time, he felt that he desired -nothing else and nothing less than that, and since that was absolutely -unattainable, he was condemned to perpetual discontent, to be borne with -the best patience he could find. Beyond this, he could find no -explanation of his feelings about his own work. - -The only other source of happiness of which he could conceive was love, -and this brought him back to his kindly and grateful memories of -Constance Fearing, and to the more disturbing recollection of his -cousin. The latter, also, had played a part and had occupied a share in -his life. He had watched her more closely than he had ever watched any -one, and had studied her with an unconsciously unswerving attention -which proved how little he had loved her and how much she had interested -him. He was, indeed, never well aware that he was subjecting any one to -a microscopic intellectual scrutiny, for he possessed in a high degree -the faculty of unintentional memory. While it cost him a severe effort -to commit to memory a dozen verses of any poet, old or modern, he could -nevertheless recall with faultless accuracy both sights and -conversations which he had seen and heard, even after an interval of -many years, provided that his interest had been somewhat excited at the -time. The half-active, half-indolent, wholly luxurious life at his -cousin’s house had in the end produced a strong impression upon him. It -had been like an interval of lotus-eating upon an almost uninhabited -island, varied only by such work as he chose to do at his own leisure -and in his own way. During more than four months the struggles of the -world had been hidden from him, and had temporarily ceased to play any -part in his thoughts. The dreamy existence spent between flowers and -woods and water, where every want had been anticipated almost before it -was felt, served now as a background for the picture of the young girl -who had been so constantly with him, herself as natural as her -surroundings, the incarnation of life and of life’s charm, the negation -of intellectual activity and of the sufferings of thought, a lovely -creature who could only think, reason, enjoy and suffer with her heart, -and whose mind could acquire but little, and was incapable of giving -out. She had been the central figure and had contributed much to the -general effect, so much, indeed, that under pressure of circumstances he -had been willing to believe that he could love her enough to marry her. -The scene had changed, the hallucination had vanished and the delusion -was destroyed, but the memory of it all remained, and now disturbed his -recollection of more recent events. There was a sensuous attraction in -the pictures that presented themselves, from which he could not escape, -but which he for some reason despised and tried to put away from him, by -thinking again of Constance, of the cold purity of her face, of her -over-studied conscientiousness and of her complete subjection to her -sincere but mistaken self-criticism. - -He wondered whether he should ever marry, and what manner of woman his -wife would turn out to be. Of one thing he was sure. He would not now -marry any woman unless he loved her with all his heart, and he would not -ask her to marry him unless he were already sure of her love. The third -must be the decisive case, from which he should never desire to withdraw -and in which there should be no disappointment. He thought of Grace -Fearing, and of her marriage and short-lived happiness with its terribly -sudden ending and the immensity of sorrow that had followed its -extinction. It almost seemed to him as though it would be worth while to -suffer as she suffered if one could have what she had found; for the -love must have been great and deep and sincere indeed, which could leave -such scars where it had rested. To love a woman so well able to love -would be happiness. She never doubted herself nor what she felt; all her -thoughts were clear, simple and strong; she did not analyse herself to -know the measure of her own sincerity, nor was she a woman to be carried -away by a thoughtless passion. She loved and she hated frankly, -sincerely, without a side thought of doubt on the one hand nor of malice -on the other. She was morally strong without putting on any affectation -of strength, she was clear-sighted without making any pretence to -exceptional intelligence, she was passionate without folly, and wise -without annoyance, she was good, not sanctimonious, she was dignified -without vanity. In short, as George thought of her, he saw that the -woman who had openly disliked him and opposed him in former days, was of -all the three the one for whom he felt the most sincere admiration. He -remembered now that at his first meeting with the two sisters he had -liked Grace better than Constance, and would then have chosen her as the -object of his attentions had she been free and had he foreseen that -friendship was to follow upon intimacy and love on friendship. -Unfortunately for George Wood, and for all who find themselves in a like -situation, that concatenation of events is the one most rarely foreseen -by anybody, and George was fain to content himself with speculating upon -the nature of the happiness he would have enjoyed had he been loved by a -woman who seemed now to be dead to the whole world of the affections. It -was sufficient to compare her with her sister to understand that she -was, of the two, the nobler character; it was enough to think of Mamie -to see that in that direction no comparison was even possible. - -“It would be strange if it should be my fate to love her, after all,” -George thought. “She would never love me.” - -He roused himself from his reverie and sat down to his table, by sheer -force of habit. Paper and ink were before him, and his pen lay ready to -his hand, where he had last thrown it down. Almost unconsciously he -began to write, putting down notes of a situation that had suddenly -presented itself to his mind. The pen moved along, sometimes running -rapidly, sometimes stopping with an impatient hesitation during which it -continued to move uneasily in the air. Characters shaped themselves out -of the chaos and names sounded in the willing ear of the writer. The -situation which he had first thought of was all at once transformed into -a detail in a second and larger action, another possibility started up -out of darkness, in brilliant clearness, and absorbed the matters -already thought of into itself, broadening and strengthening every -moment. Whole chapters now stood out as if already written, and in their -places. A detail here, another there, to be changed or adapted, one -glance at the whole, one or two names spoken aloud to see how they -sounded in the stillness, a pause of a moment, a fresh sheet of paper, -and George Wood was launched upon the first chapter of a new novel, -forgetful of Grace, of Constance Fearing and even of poor Mamie herself -and of all that had happened only two or three hours earlier. - -He was writing, working with passionate and all-absorbing interest at -the expression of his fancies. What he did was good, well thought, -clearly expressed, harmoniously composed. When it was given to the -public it was spoken of as the work of a man of heart, full of human -sympathy and understanding. At the time when he was inventing the plot -and writing down the beginning of his story, a number of people -intimately connected with his life were all in one way or another -suffering acutely and he himself was the direct or indirect cause of all -their sufferings. He was neither a cruel man, nor thoughtless nor -unkind, but he was for the time utterly unconscious of the outer world, -and if not happy at least profoundly interested in what he was doing. - -During that hour, Sherrington Trimm, pale and nervous, was walking up -and down his endless beat in the little room at the club where George -had left him, trying to master his anger and disgust before going home -to meet his wife and the inevitable explanation which must ensue. The -servant came in and lit the gaslight and stirred the fire but Trimm -never saw him nor varied the monotony of his walk. - -At his own house, things were no better. Totty, completely broken down, -by the failure of all her plans and the disclosure of her discreditable -secret, had recovered enough from her hysterics to be put to bed by her -faithful maid, who was surprised to find that, as all signs fail in fair -weather, none of the usual remedies could extract a word of satisfaction -or an expression of relief from her mistress. Down stairs, in the little -boudoir where she had last seen the man she loved, Mamie was lying -stretched upon the divan, dry eyed, with strained lips and blanched -cheeks, knowing nothing save that her passion had dashed itself to -pieces against a rock in the midst of its fairest voyage. - -In another house, far distant, Grace Bond was leaning against a broad -chimney-piece, a half-sorrowful, half-contemptuous smile upon her strong -sad face, as she thought of all her sister’s changes and vacillations -and of the aimlessness of the fair young life. Above, in her own room, -Constance Fearing was kneeling and praying with all her might, though -she hardly knew for what, while the bright tears flowed down her thin -cheeks in an unceasing stream. - -“And yet, when he came to life, he called me first!” she cried, -stretching out her hands and looking upward as though protesting against -the injustice of Heaven. - -And in yet another place, in a magnificent chamber, where the softened -light played upon rich carvings and soft carpets, an old man lay dying -of his last fit of anger. - -All for the sake of George Wood who, conscious that many if not all were -in deep trouble, anxiety or suffering, was driving his pen unceasingly -from one side of a piece of paper to the other, with an expression of -keen interest on his dark face, and a look of eager delight in his eyes -such as a man may show who is hunting an animal of value and who is on -the point of overtaking his prey. - -But for the accident of thought which had thrown a new idea into the -circulation of his brain, he would still have been sitting in his shabby -easy-chair, thoughtfully pulling at his short pipe and thinking of all -those persons whom he had seen that day, kindly of some, unkindly of -others, but not deaf to all memories and shut off from all sympathy by -something which had suddenly arisen between himself and the waking, -suffering world. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVIII. - - -The sun shines alike upon the just and the unjust, and it would seem to -follow that all men should be judged by the same measure in the more -important actions and emotions of their lives. To apply the principle of -a double standard to mankind is to run the risk of producing some very -curious results in morality. And yet, there are undoubtedly cases in -which a man has a claim to special consideration and, as it were, to a -trial by a special jury. There have been many great statesmen whose -private practice in regard to financial transactions has been more than -shady, and there have been others whose private lives have been -spotless, but whose political doings have been unscrupulous in the -extreme. There are professions and careers in which it is sufficient to -act precisely as all others engaged in the same occupation would act, -and in which the most important element of success is a happy faculty of -keeping the brain power at the same unvarying pressure, neither high nor -low, but always ready to be used, and in such a state that it may always -be relied upon to perform the same amount of work in a given time. There -are other occupations in which there are necessarily moments of enormous -activity at uncertain intervals, followed by periods of total relaxation -and rest. One might divide all careers roughly into two classes, and -call the one the continuous class and the other the intermittent. The -profession of the novelist falls within the latter division. Very few -men or women who have written well have succeeded in reducing the -exercise of their art to a necessary daily function of the body. Very -few intellectual machines can be made to bear the strain of producing -works of imagination in regular quantities throughout many years at an -unvarying rate, day after day. Neither the brain nor the body will bear -it, and if the attempt be made either the one or the other, or both, -will ultimately suffer. Without being necessarily spasmodic, the -storyteller’s activity is almost unavoidably intermittent. There are men -who can take up the pen and drive it during seven, eight and even nine -hours a day for six weeks or two months and who, having finished their -story, either fall into a condition of indolent apathy until the next -book has to be written, or return at once to some favourite occupation -which produces no apparent result, and of which the public has never -heard. There are many varieties of the genus author. There is the sailor -author, who only comes ashore to write his book and puts to sea again as -soon as it is in the publisher’s hands. There is the hunting author, who -as in the case of Anthony Trollope, keeps his body in such condition -that he can do a little good work every day of the year, a great and -notable exception to the rule. There is the student author, whose -laborious work of exegesis will never be heard of, but who interrupts it -from time to time in order to produce a piece of brilliant fiction, -returning to his Sanscrit each time with renewed interest and industry. -There is the musical author, whose preference would have led him to be a -professional musician, but who had not quite enough talent for it, or -not quite enough technical facility or whose musical education began a -little too late. There is the adventurous author, who shoots in Africa -or has a habit of spending the winter in eastern Siberia. There is the -artistic author, who may be found in out-of-the-way towns in Italy, -patiently copying old pictures, as though his life depended upon his -accuracy, or sketching ragged boys and girls in very ragged -water-colour. There is the social author—and he is not always the least -successful in his profession—who is a favourite everywhere, who can -dance and sing and act, and who regards the occasional production of a -novel as an episode in his life. There is the author who prepares -himself many months beforehand for what he intends to do by frequenting -the society, whether high or low, which he wishes to depict, who writes -his book in one month of the year and spends the other eleven in -observing the manners and customs of men and women. There is the author -who lives in solitary places and evolves his characters out of his inner -consciousness and who occasionally descends, manuscript in hand, from -his inaccessible fastnesses and ravages all the coasts of Covent Garden, -Henrietta Street and the Strand, until he has got his price and -disappears as suddenly as he came, taking his gold with him, no man -knows whither. There is the author whom no man can boast of having ever -seen, who never answers a letter, nor gives an autograph, nor lets any -one but his publisher know where he lives, but whose three volumes -appear punctually twice a year and whose name is familiar in many -mouths. Unless he is to be found described in an encyclopædia you will -never know whether he is old or young, black or grey, good-looking or -ugly, straight or hunchbacked. He is to you a vague, imaginary -personage, surrounded by a pillar of cloud. In reality he is perhaps a -fat little man of fifty, who wears gold-rimmed spectacles and has -discovered that he can only write if he lives in one particular -Hungarian village with a name that baffles pronunciation, and whose -chief interest in life lies in the study of socialism or the cholera -microbe. Then again, there is the fighting author, grim, grey and tough -as a Toledo blade, who has ridden through many a hard-fought field in -many lands and has smelled more gunpowder in his time than most great -generals, out of sheer love for the stuff. There is also the pacific -author, who frequents peace congresses and makes speeches in favour of a -general disarming of all nations. There are countless species and -varieties of the genus. There is even the poet author, who writes -thousands of execrable verses in secret and produces exquisite romances -in prose only because he can do nothing else. - -If we admit that novels, on the whole, are a good to society at large, -as most people, excepting authors themselves, are generally ready to -admit, we grant at the same time that they must be produced by -individuals possessing the necessary talents and characteristics of -intelligence. And if it is shown that a majority of these individuals do -their work in a somewhat erratic fashion, and behave somewhat -erratically while they are doing it, such defects must be condoned, at -least, if not counted to them for positive righteousness. With many of -them the appearance of a new idea within the field of their mental -vision is equivalent to a command to write, which they are neither able -nor anxious to resist; and, if they are men of talent, it is very hard -for them to turn their attention to anything else until the idea is -expressed on paper. Let them not be thought heartless or selfish if they -sometimes seem to care nothing for what happens around them while they -are subject to the imperious domination of the new idea. They are -neither the one nor the other. They are simply unconscious, like a man -in a cataleptic trance. The plainest language conveys no meaning to -their abstracted comprehension, the most startling sights produce no -impression upon their sense; they are in another world, living and -talking with unseen creations of their own fancy and for the time being -they are not to be considered as ordinary human beings, nor judged by -the standard to which other men are subject. - -It would not therefore be just to say that during the days which -followed the breaking off of his engagement with Mamie Trimm, George -Wood was cruel or unfeeling because he was wholly unconscious of her -existence throughout the greater part of each twenty-four hours. By a -coincidence which he would certainly not have invoked, a train of -thought had begun its course in his brain within an hour or two of the -catastrophe, and he was powerless to stop himself in the pursuit of it -until he had reached the end. During nine whole days he never left the -house, and scarcely went out of his room except to eat his meals, which -he did in a summary fashion without wasting time in superfluous -conversation. On the morning of the tenth day he knew that he was at the -last chapter and he sat down at his table in that state of mind to which -a very young author is brought by a week and a half of unceasing fatigue -and excitement. The room swam with him, and he could see nothing -distinctly except his paper, the point of his pen, and the moving -panorama in his brain, of which it was essential to catch every detail -before it had passed into the outer darkness from which ideas cannot be -brought back. His hand was icy cold, moist and unsteady and his face was -pale, the eyelids dark and swollen, and the veins on the temples -distended. He moved his feet nervously as he wrote, shrugged his left -shoulder with impatience at the slightest hesitation about the use of a -word, and his usually imperturbable features translated into expression -every thought, as rapidly as he could put it into words with his pen. -The house might have burned over his head, and he would have gone on -writing until the paper under his hand was on fire. No ordinary noise -would have reached his ears, conscious only of the scratching of the -steel point upon the smooth sheet. He could have worked as well in the -din of a public room in a hotel, or in the crowded hall of a great -railway station, as in the silence and solitude of his own chamber. He -had reached the point of abstraction at which nothing is of the -slightest consequence to the writer provided that the ink will flow and -the paper will not blot. Like a skilled swordsman, he was conscious only -of his enemy’s eye and of the state of the weapons. The weapons were -pen, ink and paper, and the enemy was the idea to be pursued, overtaken, -pierced and pinned down before it could assume another shape, or escape -again into chaos. The sun rose above the little paved brick court below -his window, and began to shine into the window itself. Then a storm came -up and the sky turned suddenly black, while the wind whistled through -the yard with that peculiarly unnatural sound which it makes in great -cities, so different from its sighing and moaning and roaring amongst -trees and rocks. The first snowflakes were whirled against the panes of -glass and slid down to the frame in half-transparent patches. The wind -sank again, and the snow fluttered silently down like the unwinding of -an endless lace curtain from above. Then, the flakes were suddenly -illuminated by a burst of sunshine and melted as they fell and turned to -bright drops of water in the air, and then vanished again, and the small -piece of sky above the great house on the other side of the yard was -once more clear and blue, as a sapphire that has been dipped in pure -water. It was afternoon, and George was unconscious of the many changes -of the day, unconscious that he had not eaten nor drunk since morning, -and that he had even forgotten to smoke. One after another the pages -were numbered, filled and tossed aside, as he went on, never raising his -head nor looking away from his work lest he should lose something of the -play upon which all his faculties were inwardly concentrated, and of -which it was his business to transcribe every word, and to note every -passing attitude and gesture of the actors who were performing for his -benefit. - -Some one knocked at the door, gently at first and then more loudly. -Then, receiving no answer, the person’s footsteps could be heard -retreating towards the landing. The firing of a cannon in the room would -hardly have made George turn his head at that moment, much less the -rapping of a servant’s knuckles upon a wooden panel. Several minutes -elapsed, and then heavier footsteps were heard again, and the latch was -turned and the door moved noiselessly on its hinges. Jonah Wood’s -iron-grey head appeared in the opening. George had heard nothing and -during several seconds the old gentleman watched him curiously. He had -the greatest consideration for his son’s privacy when at work, though he -could not readily understand the terribly disturbing effect of an -interruption upon a brain so much more sensitively organised than his -own. Now, however, the case was serious, and George must be interrupted, -cost what it might. He was evidently unconscious that any one was in the -room, and his back was turned as he sat. Jonah Wood resolved to be -cautious. - -“George!” he whispered, rather hoarsely. But George did not hear. - -There was nothing to be done but to cross the room and rouse him. The -old man stepped as softly as he could upon the uncarpeted wooden floor, -and placed himself between the light and the writer. George looked up -and started violently, so that his pen flew into the air and fell upon -the boards. At the same time he uttered a short, sharp cry, neither an -oath nor exclamation, but a sound such as a man might make who is -unexpectedly and painfully wounded in battle. Then he saw his father and -laughed nervously. - -“You frightened me. I did not see you come in,” he said quickly. - -“I am sorry,” said his father, not understanding at all how a man -usually calm and courageous could be so easily startled. “It is rather -important, or I would not interrupt you. Mr. Sherrington Trimm is down -stairs.” - -“What does he want?” George asked vaguely and looking as though he had -forgotten who Sherrington Trimm was. - -“He wants you, my boy. You must go down at once. It is very important. -Tom Craik was buried yesterday.” - -“Buried!” exclaimed George. “I did not know he was dead.” - -“I understand that he died several days ago, in consequence of that fit -of anger he had. You remember? What is the matter with you, George?” - -“Cannot you see what is the matter?” George cried a little impatiently. -“I am just finishing my book. What if the old fellow is dead? He has had -plenty of leisure to change his will—in all this time. What does Sherry -want?” - -“He did not change his will, and Mr. Trimm wants to read it to you. -George, you do not seem to realise that you are a very rich man, a very, -very rich man,” repeated Jonah Wood with weighty emphasis. - -“It will do quite as well if he reads the confounded thing to you,” said -George, picking up his pen from the floor beside him, examining the -point and then dipping it into the ink. - -He was never quite sure how much of his indifference was assumed and how -much of it was real, resulting from his extreme impatience to finish his -work. But to Jonah Wood, it had all the appearance of being genuine. - -“I am surprised, George,” said the old gentleman, looking very grave. -“Are you in your right mind? Are you feeling quite well? I am afraid -this good news has upset you.” - -George rose from the table with a look of disgust, bent down and looked -over the last lines he had written, and then stood up. - -“If nothing else will satisfy anybody, I suppose I must go down,” he -said regretfully. “Why did not the old brute leave the money to you -instead of to me? You do not imagine I am going to keep it, do you? Most -of it is yours anyhow.” - -“I understand,” answered Jonah Wood, pushing him gently towards the -door, “that the estate is large enough to cover what I lost four or five -times over, if not more. It is very important——” - -“Do you mean to say it is as much as that?” George asked in some -surprise. - -“That seems to be the impression,” answered his father with an odd -laugh, which George had not heard for many years. Jonah Wood was ashamed -of showing too much satisfaction. It was his principle never to make any -exhibition of his feelings, but his voice could not be altogether -controlled, and there was an unusual light in his eyes. George, who by -this time had collected his senses, and was able to think of something -besides his story, saw the change in his father’s face and understood -it. - -“It will be jolly to be rich again, won’t it, father?” he said, -familiarly and with more affection than he generally showed by manner or -voice. - -“Very pleasant, very pleasant indeed,” answered Jonah Wood with the same -odd laugh. “Mr. Trimm tells me he has left you the house as it stands -with everything in it, and the horses—everything. I must say, George, -the old man has made amends for all he did. It looks very like an act of -conscience.” - -“Amends? Yes, with compound interest for a dozen years or more, if all -this is true. Well, here goes the millionaire,” he exclaimed as they -left the room together. - -It would be hard to imagine a position more completely disagreeable than -that in which Sherrington Trimm was placed on that particular afternoon. -It was bad enough to have to meet George at all after what had happened, -but it was most unpleasant to appear as the executor of the very will -which had caused so much trouble, to feel that he was bringing to the -heir the very document which his wife had stolen out of his own office, -and handing over to him the fortune which his wife had tried so hard to -bring into his own daughter’s hands. But Sherrington Trimm’s reputation -for honesty and his courageous self-possession had carried him through -many difficult moments in life, and he would never have thought of -deputing any one else to fulfil the repugnant task in his stead. - -Jonah Wood left his son at the door of the sitting-room and discreetly -disappeared. George went in and found the lawyer standing before the -fire with a roll of papers in his hands. He was a little pale and -careworn, but his appearance was as neat and dapper and brisk as ever. - -“George,” he said frankly as he took his hand, “poor Tom has left you -everything, as he said he would. Now, I can quite imagine that the sight -of me is not exactly pleasant to you. But business is business and this -has got to be put through, so just consider that I am the lawyer and -forget that I am Sherry Trimm.” - -“I shall never forget that you are Sherry Trimm,” George answered. “You -and I can avoid unpleasant subjects and be as good friends as ever.” - -“You are a good fellow, George. The best proof of it is that not a word -has been breathed about this affair. We have simply announced that the -engagement is broken off.” - -“Then Mamie has refused to change her mind,” observed George, wondering -how he could ever have been engaged to marry her, and how he could have -forgotten that at his last meeting with Sherry Trimm he had still left -the matter open, refusing to withdraw his promise. But between that day -and this he had lived through many emotions and changing scenes in the -playhouse of his brain, and his own immediate past seemed immensely -distant from his present. - -“Mamie would not change her mind, if I would let her,” Trimm answered -briefly. “Let us get to business. Here is the will. I opened it -yesterday after the funeral in the presence of the family and the -witnesses as usual in such cases.” - -“Excuse me,” George said. “I am very glad that I was not present, but -would it not have been proper to let me know?” - -“It would have been, of course. But as there was no obligation in the -matter, I did not. I supposed that you would hear of the death almost as -soon as it was known. You and your father were known to be on bad terms -with Tom and if you had been sent for it would have looked as though we -had all known what was in the will. People would have supposed in that -case that you must have known it also, and you would have been blamed -for not treating the old gentleman with more consideration than you did. -I have often heard you say sharp things about him at the club. This is a -surprise to you. There is no reason for letting anybody suppose that it -is not. A lot of small good reasons made one big good one between them.” - -“I see,” said George. “Thank you. You were very wise.” - -He took the document from Trimm’s hands and read it hastily. The touch -of it was disagreeable to him as he remembered where he had last seen -it. - -“I had supposed that he would make another after what I said to him,” -George remarked. “You are quite sure he did not?” - -“Positive. He never allowed it to be out of his sight after he found it. -It was under his pillow when he died. The last words that anybody could -understand were to the effect that you should have the money, whether -you wanted it or not. It was a fixed idea with him. I suppose you know -why. He felt that some of it belonged to your father by right. The -transaction by which he got it was legal—but peculiar. There are -peculiarities in my wife’s family.” - -Sherry Trimm looked away and pulled his grizzled moustache nervously. - -“There will be a good many formalities,” he continued. “Tom owned -property in several different States. I have brought you the schedule. -You can have possession in New York immediately, of course. It will take -some little time to manage the rest, proving the will half a dozen times -over. If you care to move into the house to-morrow, there is no -objection, because there is nobody to object.” - -“I have a proposition to make,” said George. “My father is a far better -man of business than I. Could you not tell me in round numbers about -what I have to expect, and then go over these papers with him?” - -“In round numbers,” repeated Trimm thoughtfully. “The fact is, he -managed a great deal of his property himself. I suppose I could tell you -within a million or two.” - -“A million or two!” exclaimed George. Sherry Trimm smiled at the -intonation. - -“You are an enormously rich man,” he said quietly. “The estate is worth -anywhere from twelve to fifteen millions of dollars.” - -“All mine?” - -“Look at the will. He never spent a third of his income, so far as I -could find out.” - -George said nothing more, but began to walk up and down the room -nervously. He detested everything connected with money, and had only a -relative idea of its value, but he was staggered by the magnitude of the -fortune thus suddenly thrown into his hands. He understood now the -expression he had seen on his father’s face. - -“I had no conception of the amount,” he said at last. “I thought it -might be a million.” - -“A million!” laughed Trimm scornfully. “A man does not live, as he -lived, on forty or fifty thousand a year. It needs more than that. A -million is nothing nowadays. Every man who wears a good coat has a -million. There is not a man living in Fifth Avenue who has less than a -million.” - -“I wonder how it looks on paper,” said George. “I will try and go -through the schedule with you myself.” - -An hour later George was once more in his room. For a few moments he -stood looking through the window at the old familiar brick wall and at -the windows of the house beyond, but his reflections were very vague and -shapeless. He could not realise his position nor his importance, as he -drummed a tattoo on the glass with his nails. He was trying to think of -the changes that were inevitable in the immediate future, of his life in -another house, of the faces of his old acquaintances and of the -expression some of them would wear. He wondered what Johnson would say. -The name, passing through his mind, recalled his career, his work and -the unfinished chapter that lay on the table behind him. In an instant -his brain returned to the point at which he had been interrupted. Tom -Craik, Sherry Trimm, the will and the millions vanished into darkness, -and before he was fairly aware of it he was writing again. - -The days were short and he was obliged to light the old kerosene lamp -with the green shade which had served him through so many hours of -labour and study. The action was purely mechanical and did not break his -train of thought, nor did it suggest that in a few months he would think -it strange that he should ever have been obliged to do such a thing for -himself. He wrote steadily on to the end, and signed his name and dated -the manuscript before he rose from his seat. Then he stretched himself, -yawned and looked at his watch, returned to the table and laid the -sheets neatly together in their order with the rest and put the whole -into a drawer. - -“That job is done,” he said aloud, in a tone of profound satisfaction. -“And now, I can think of something else.” - -Thereupon, without as much as thinking of resting himself after the -terrible strain he had sustained during ten days, he proceeded to dress -himself with a scrupulous care for the evening, and went down stairs to -dinner. He found his father in his accustomed place before the fire, -reading as usual, and holding his heavy book rigidly before his eyes in -a way that would have made an ordinary man’s hand ache. - -“I have finished my book!” cried George as he entered the room. - -“Ah, I am delighted to hear it. Do you mean to say that you have been -writing all the afternoon since Mr. Trimm went away?” - -“Until half an hour ago.” - -“Well, you have exceptionally strong nerves,” said the old gentleman, -mechanically raising his book again. Then as though he were willing to -make a concession to circumstances for once in his life, he closed it -with a solemn clapping sound and laid it down. - -“George, my boy,” he said impressively, “you are enormously wealthy. Do -you realise the fact?” - -“I am also enormously hungry,” said George with a laugh. “Is there any -cause or reason in the nature of the cook or of anything else why you -and I should not be fed?” - -“To tell the truth, I had a little surprise for you,” answered his -father. “I thought we ought to do something to commemorate the event, so -I went out and got a brace of canvas-backs from Delmonico’s and a bottle -of good wine. Kate is roasting the ducks and the champagne is on the -ice. It was a little late when I got back—sorry to keep you waiting, my -boy.” - -“Sorry!” cried George. “The idea of being sorry for anything when there -are canvas-backs and champagne in the house. You dear old man! I will -pay you for this, though. You shall live on the fat of the land for the -rest of your days!” - -“Enough is as good as a feast,” observed Jonah Wood with great gravity. - -“What roaring feasts we will have—or what stupendously plentiful -enoughs, if you like it better! Father, you are better already. I heard -you laugh to-day as you used to laugh when I was a boy.” - -“A little prosperity will do us both good,” said the old gentleman, who -was rapidly warming into geniality. - -“I say,” suggested George. “I have finished my book, and you have -nothing to do. Let us pack up our traps and go to Paris and paint the -town a vivid scarlet.” - -“What?” asked Jonah Wood, to whom slang had always been a mystery. - -“Paint the town red,” repeated George. “In short, have a spree, a lark, -a jollification, you and I.” - -“I would like to see Paris again, well enough, if that is what you mean. -By the way, George, your heart does not seem to trouble you much, just -at present.” - -“Why should it? I sometimes wish it would, in the right direction.” - -“You have your choice now, George, you have your choice, now, of the -whole female population of the globe——” - -“Of all the girls beside the water, From Janeiro to Gibraltar, as the -old song says,” laughed George. - -“Precisely so. You can have any of them for the asking. Money is a great -power, my boy, a great power. You must be careful how you use it.” - -“I shall not use it. I shall give it all to you to spend because it will -amuse you, and I will go on writing books because that is the only thing -I can do approximately well. Do you know? I believe I shall be -ridiculous in the character of the rich man.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXIX. - - -Three years later George Wood was sitting alone on a winter’s afternoon -in the library where Thomas Craik had once given him his views on life -in general and on ambition in particular. It was already almost dark, -for the days were very short, and two lamps shed a soft light from above -upon the broad polished table. - -The man’s face had changed during the years that had passed since he had -found himself free from his engagement to marry his cousin. The angular -head had grown more massive, the shadows about the eyes and temples had -deepened, the complexion was paler and less youthful, the expression -more determined than ever, and yet more kind and less scornful. In those -years he had seen much and had accomplished much, and he had learned to -know at last what it meant to feel with the heart, instead of with the -sensibilities, human or artistic. His money had not spoiled him. On the -contrary, the absence of all preoccupations in the matter of his -material welfare, had left the man himself free to think, to act and to -feel according to his natural instincts. - -At the present moment he was absorbed in thought. The familiar sheet of -paper lay before him, and he held his pen in his hand, but the point had -long been dry, and had long ceased to move over the smooth surface. -There was a number at the top of the page, and a dozen lines had been -written, continuing a conversation that had gone before. But the -imaginary person had broken off in the middle of his saying, and in the -theatre of the writer’s fancy the stage of his own life had suddenly -appeared, and his own self was among the players, acting the acts and -speaking the speeches of long ago, while the owner of the old self -watched and listened to the piece with fascinated interest, commenting -critically upon what passed before his eyes, and upon the words that -rang through the waking dream. The habit of expression was so strong -that his own thoughts took shape as though he were writing them down. - -“They have played the parts of the three fates in my life,” he said to -himself. “Constance was my Clotho, Mamie was my Lachesis—Grace is my -Atropos. I was not so heartless in those first days, as I have sometimes -fancied that I was. I loved my Clotho, after a young fashion. She took -me out of darkness and chaos and made me an active, real being. When I -see how wretchedly unhappy I used to be, and when I think how she first -showed me that I was able to do something in the world, it does not seem -strange that I should have worshipped her as a sort of goddess. If -things had gone otherwise, if she had taken me instead of refusing me on -that first of May, if I had married her, we might have been very happy -together, for a time, perhaps for always. But we were unlike in the -wrong way; our points of difference did not complement each other. She -has married Dr. Drinkwater, the Reverend Doctor Drinkwater, a good man -twenty years older than herself, and she seems perfectly contented. The -test of fitness lies in reversing the order of events. If to-day her -good husband were to die, could I take his place in her love or -estimation? Certainly not. If Grace had married the clergyman, could -Constance have been to me what Grace is, could I have loved her as I -love this woman who will never love me? Assuredly not; the thing is -impossible. I loved Constance with one half of myself, and as far as I -went I was in earnest. Perhaps it was the higher, more intellectual part -of me, for I did not love her because she was a woman, but because she -was unlike all other women—in other words, a sort of angel. Angels may -have loved women in the days of the giants, but no man can love an angel -as a woman ought to be loved. As for me, my ears are wearied by too much -angelic music, the harmonies are too thin and delicate, the notes lack -character, the melodies all end in one close. I used to think that there -was no such thing as friendship. I have changed my mind. Constance is a -very good friend to me, and I to her, though neither of us can -understand the other’s life any longer, as we understood each other when -she took up the distaff of my life and first set the spindle whirling. - -“Was I heartless with poor Mamie? I suppose I was, because I made her -believe for a while that I loved her. Let us be honest. I felt -something, I made myself believe that I felt something which was like -love. It was of the baser kind. It was the temptation of the eye, the -fascination of a magnetic vitality, the flattery of my vanity in seeing -myself so loved. I lived for months in an enchanted palace in an -enchanted garden, where she was the enchantress. Everything contributed -to awaken in me the joy of mere life, the belief that reality was better -than romance, and that, in love, it was better to receive than to give. -I was like a man in a badly conceived novel, with whom everything rests -on a false basis, in which the scenery is false, the passion is false, -and the belief in the future is most false of all. And how commonplace -it all seems, as I look back upon it. I do not remember to have once -felt a pain like a knife just under the heart, in all that time, though -my blood ran fast enough sometimes. And it all went on so smoothly as -Lachesis let the thread spin through her pretty fingers. Who would have -believed that a man could be at once so fooled and so loved? I was sorry -that I could not love her, even after we knew all that her mother had -done. I remember that I began a book on that very day. Heartless of me, -was it not? If she had been Grace I should never have written again. But -she was only Lachesis; the thread turned under her hand, and spun on in -spite of her, and in spite of itself—to its end. - -“Grace is the end. There can be no loving after this. My father tells me -that I am working too hard and that I am growing prematurely old. It is -not the work that does it. It is something that wears out the life from -the core. And yet I would not be without it. There is that thrust again, -that says I am not deceiving myself. Grace holds the thread and will -neither cut it, nor let it run on through her fingers. Heaven knows, I -am not a sentimental man! But for the physical pain I feel when I think -of losing her, I should laugh at myself and let her slip down to the -middle distance of other memories, not quite out of sight, nor yet quite -out of mind, but wholly out of my heart. I have tried it many a time, -but the trouble grows instead of wearing out. I have tried wandering -about the earth in most known and unknown directions. It never did me -any good. I wonder whether she knows! After all it will be four years -next summer since poor John Bond was drowned, and everybody says she has -forgotten him. But she is not a woman who forgets, any more than she is -one to waste her life in a perpetual mourning. To speak may be to cut -the thread. That would be the end, indeed! I should see her after that, -of course, but it would never be the same again. She would know my -secret then and all would be over, the hours together, the talks, the -touch of hands that means so much to me and so little to her. And yet, -to know—to know at last the end of it all—and the great ‘perhaps’ the -great ‘if’—if she should! But there is no ‘perhaps,’ and there can be no -‘if.’ She is my fate, and it is my fate that there should be no end to -this, but the end of life itself. Better so. Better to have loved ever -so unhappily, than to have been married to any of the Constances or the -Mamies of this world! Heigho—I suppose people think that there is -nothing I cannot have for my money! Nothing? There is all that could -make life worth living, and which millions cannot buy!” - -The curtain fell before the little stage, and the eyes of the lonely man -closed with an expression of intense pain, as he let his forehead rest -in the palm of his hand. - - Typography by J. S. Cushing & Co., Boston, U.S.A. - - Presswork by Berwick & Smith, Boston, U.S.A. - - - - - MACMILLAN’S DOLLAR SERIES - - - OF - - WORKS BY POPULAR AUTHORS. - - _Crown 8vo. Cloth extra. $1.00 each._ - - - BY F. MARION CRAWFORD. - -With the solitary exception of Mrs. Oliphant, we have no living novelist -more distinguished for variety of theme and range of imaginative outlook -than Mr. Marion Crawford.—_Spectator._ - - THE CHILDREN OF THE KING. (_Ready in January._) - MR. ISAACS: A Tale of Modern India. - DR. CLAUDIUS: A True Story. - ZOROASTER. - A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. - SARACINESCA. A New Novel. - MARZIO’S CRUCIFIX. - WITH THE IMMORTALS. - GREIFENSTEIN. - SANT’ ILARIO. - A CIGARETTE-MAKER’S ROMANCE. - KHALED: A Tale of Arabia. - THE WITCH OF PRAGUE. With numerous Illustrations by W. J. HENNESSY. - THE THREE FATES. - - - BY CHARLES DICKENS. - -It would be difficult to imagine a better edition of Dickens at the -price than that which is now appearing in Macmillan’s Series of Dollar -Novels.—_Boston Beacon._ - - THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 50 Illustrations. (_Ready._) - OLIVER TWIST. 27 Illustrations. (_Ready._) - NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 44 Illustrations. (_Ready._) - MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 41 Illustrations. (_Ready._) - THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 97 Illustrations. (_Ready._) - BARNABY RUDGE. 76 Illustrations. (_Ready._) - SKETCHES BY BOZ. 44 Illustrations. (_Ready._) - DOMBEY AND SON. 40 Illustrations. (_Ready._) - CHRISTMAS BOOKS. 65 Illustrations. (_December._) - DAVID COPPERFIELD. 41 Illustrations. (_January._) - AMERICAN NOTES, AND PICTURES FROM ITALY. 4 Illustrations (_Feb._) - - - BY CHARLES KINGSLEY. - - ALTON LOCKE. - HEREWARD. - HEROES. - WESTWARD HO! - HYPATIA. - TWO YEARS AGO. - WATER BABIES. Illustrated. - YEAST. - - - BY HENRY JAMES. - -He has the power of seeing with the artistic perception of the few, and -of writing about what he has seen, so that the many can understand and -feel with him.—_Saturday Review._ - - THE LESSON OF THE MASTER AND OTHER STORIES. - THE REVERBERATOR. - THE ASPEN PAPERS AND OTHER STORIES. - A LONDON LIFE. - - - BY ANNIE KEARY. - -In our opinion there have not been many novels published better worth -reading. The literary workmanship is excellent, and all the windings of -the stories are worked with patient fulness and a skill not often -found.—_Spectator._ - - JANET’S HOME. - CLEMENCY FRANKLYN. - A DOUBTING HEART. - THE HEROES OF ASGARD. - A YORK AND LANCASTER ROSE. - - - BY D. CHRISTIE MURRAY. - -Few modern novelists can tell a story of English country life better -than Mr. D. Christie Murray.—_Spectator._ - - AUNT RACHEL. - THE WEAKER VESSEL. - SCHWARZ. - - - BY MRS. OLIPHANT. - -Has the charm of style, the literary quality and flavour that never -fails to please.—_Saturday Review._ - -At her best she is, with one or two exceptions, the best of living -English novelists.—_Academy._ - - A SON OF THE SOIL. New Edition. - THE CURATE IN CHARGE. New Edition. - YOUNG MUSGRAVE. New Edition. - HE THAT WILL NOT WHEN HE MAY. New and Cheaper Edition. - SIR TOM. New Edition. - HESTER. A Story of Contemporary Life. - THE WIZARD’S SON. New Edition. - A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN AND HIS FAMILY. New Edition. - NEIGHBOURS ON THE GREEN. New Edition. - AGNES HOPETOUN’S SCHOOLS AND HOLIDAYS. With Illustrations. - - - BY J. H. 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Mr. -Kipling has changed all that. Here are forty of them, averaging less -than eight pages a-piece; there is not a dull one in the lot. Some are -tragedy, some broad comedy, some tolerably sharp satire. The time has -passed to ignore or undervalue Mr. Kipling. He has won his spurs and -taken his prominent place in the arena. This, as the legitimate edition, -should be preferred to the pirated ones by all such as care for honesty -in letters.—_Churchman_, New York. - - PLAIN TALES FROM THE HILLS. - LIFE’S HANDICAP - - - BY AMY LEVY. - - REUBEN SACHS. - - - BY M. McLENNAN. - - MUCKLE JOCK, AND OTHER STORIES. - - - BY THOMAS HUGHES. - - TOM BROWN’S SCHOOLDAYS. Illustrated. - RUGBY, TENNESSEE. - - - BY ROLF BOLDREWOOD. - -Mr. Boldrewood can tell what he knows with great point and vigour, and -there is no better reading than the adventurous parts of his -books.—_Saturday Review._ - - ROBBERY UNDER ARMS. - NEVERMORE. - SYDNEY-SIDE SAXON. - - - BY SIR HENRY CUNNINGHAM, K.C.I.E. - -Interesting as specimens of romance, the style of writing is so -excellent—scholarly and at the same time easy and natural—that the -volumes are worth reading on that account alone. But there is also -masterly description of persons, places, and things; skilful analysis of -character; a constant play of wit and humour; and a happy gift of -instantaneous portraiture.—_St. James’s Gazette._ - - THE CŒRULEANS: A VACATION IDYLL. - - - BY GEORGE GISSING. - -We earnestly commend the book for its high literary merit, its deep -bright interest, and for the important and healthful lessons that it -teaches.—_Boston Home Journal._ - - DENZIL QUARRIER. - - - BY W. CLARK RUSSELL. - -The descriptions are wonderfully realistic ... and the breath of the -ocean is over and through every page. The plot is very novel indeed, and -is developed with skill and tact. Altogether one of the cleverest and -most entertaining of Mr. Russell’s many works.—_Boston Times._ - - A STRANGE ELOPEMENT. - - - BY THE HON. EMILY LAWLESS. - -It is a charming story, full of natural life, fresh in style and -thought, pure in tone, and refined in feeling.—_Nineteenth Century._ - -A strong and original story. It is marked by originality, freshness, -insight, a rare graphic power, and as rare a psychological perception. -It is in fact a better story than “Hurrish,” and that is saying a good -deal.—_New York Tribune._ - - GRANIA: THE STORY OF AN ISLAND. - - - BY A NEW AUTHOR. - -We should not be surprised if this should prove to be the most popular -book of the present season; it cannot fail to be one of the most -remarkable.—_Literary World._ - - TIM: A STORY OF SCHOOL LIFE. - - - BY LANOE FALCONER. - - (Author of “Mademoiselle Ixe.”) - -It is written with cleverness and brightness, and there is so much human -nature in it that the attention of the reader is held to the end.... The -book shows far greater powers than were evident in “Mademoiselle Ixe,” -and if the writer who is hidden behind the _nom de guerre_ Lanoe -Falconer goes on, she is likely to make for herself no inconsiderable -name in fiction.—_Boston Courier._ - - CECILIA DE NOËL. - - - BY THE REV. PROF. ALFRED J. CHURCH. - -Rev. Alfred J. Church, M.A., has long been doing valiant service in -literature in presenting his stories of the early centuries, so clear is -his style and so remarkable his gift of enfolding historical events and -personages with the fabric of a romance, entertaining and oftentimes -fascinating.... One has the feeling that he is reading an accurate -description of real scenes, that the characters are living—so masterly -is Professor Church’s ability to reclothe history and make it as -interesting as a romance.—_Boston Times._ - - _Just ready._ - - STORIES FROM THE - - GREEK COMEDIANS. - - ARISTOPHANES. - PHILEMON. - DIPHILUS. - MENANDER. - APOLLODORUS. - - _With Sixteen Illustrations after the Antique._ - - THE STORY OF THE ILIAD. With Coloured Illustrations. - THE STORY OF THE ODYSSEY. With Coloured Illustrations. - THE BURNING OF ROME. - - - BY MISS CHARLOTTE M. YONGE. - - AN OLD WOMAN’S OUTLOOK. - - (_Just ready._) - - NOVELS AND TALES. - - THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE. Illustrated. - HEARTSEASE; OR, THE BROTHER’S WIFE. Illustrated. - HOPES AND FEARS. Illustrated. - DYNEVOR TERRACE. Illustrated. - THE DAISY CHAIN. Illustrated. - THE TRIAL: MORE LINKS OF THE DAISY CHAIN. Illustrated. - PILLARS OF THE HOUSE; OR, UNDER WODE UNDER RODE, 2 Vols. Illustrated. - THE YOUNG STEPMOTHER. Illustrated. - THE CLEVER WOMAN OF THE FAMILY. Illustrated. - THE THREE BRIDES. Illustrated. - MY YOUNG ALCIDES. Illustrated. - THE CAGED LION. Illustrated. - THE DOVE IN THE EAGLE’S NEST. Illustrated. - THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. Illustrated. - LADY HESTER, AND THE DANVERS PAPERS. Illustrated. - MAGNUM BONUM. Illustrated. - LOVE AND LIFE. Illustrated. - UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. A Story of the Captivity of Mary of Scotland. - STRAY PEARLS. Memoirs of Margaret de Ribaumont, Viscountess of Belaise. - THE ARMOURER’S ‘PRENTICES. - THE TWO SIDES OF THE SHIELD. - NUTTIE’S FATHER. - SCENES AND CHARACTERS; OR, EIGHTEEN MONTHS AT BEECHCROFT. - CHANTRY HOUSE. - A MODERN TELEMACHUS. - BEECHCROFT AT ROCKSTONE. - WOMANKIND. A Book for Mothers and Daughters. - A REPUTED CHANGELING; OR, THREE SEVENTH YEARS, TWO CENTURIES AGO. - THE TWO PENNILESS PRINCESSES. A Story of the Time of James I. of - Scotland. - THAT STICK. - - MACMILLAN & CO., - 112 FOURTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. - - - - - GOLDEN TREASURY SERIES. - - - UNIFORMLY PRINTED IN 18MO, WITH VIGNETTE TITLES ENGRAVED ON STEEL. - - _New and Cheaper Edition. $1.00 each volume._ - - THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF THE BEST SONGS AND LYRICAL POEMS. By F. T. - PALGRAVE. - - THE CHILDREN’S GARLAND. Selected by COVENTRY PATMORE. - - THE BOOK OF PRAISE. Selected by the EARL OF SELBORNE. - - THE FAIRY BOOK. By the Author of “John Halifax, Gentleman.” - - THE BALLAD BOOK. 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PALGRAVE. - - THE TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. Translated into English by E. J. - CHURCH, M.A. - - CHILDREN’S TREASURY OF ENGLISH SONG. Edited by F. T. PALGRAVE. - - IN MEMORIAM. - - TENNYSON’S LYRICAL POEMS. Edited by F. T. PALGRAVE. - - PLATO, PHÆDRUS, LYSIS, AND PROTAGORAS. Translated by Rev. J. WRIGHT. - - THEOCRITUS, BION, AND MOSCHUS. In English Prose. By ANDREW LANG, M.A. - - BALLADEN UND ROMANZEN. Edited by C. A. BUCHHEIM, Ph.D. - - LYRIC LOVE. Edited by WILLIAM WATSON. - - HYMNS AND OTHER POEMS. By F. T. PALGRAVE. - - THE ART OF WORLDLY WISDOM. BALTHASAS GRACIAN. - - MACMILLAN & CO., - 112 FOURTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Added “the” between “spend” and “best” on p. 342. - 2. Silently corrected typographical errors. - 3. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. - 4. 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Marion Crawford</title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css"> - body { margin-left: 8%; margin-right: 10%; } - h1 { text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-size: xx-large; } - h2 { text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-size: x-large; } - .pageno { right: 1%; font-size: x-small; background-color: inherit; color: silver; - text-indent: 0em; text-align: right; position: absolute; - border: thin solid silver; padding: .1em .2em; font-style: normal; - font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; } - p { text-indent: 0; margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; text-align: justify; } - .sc { font-variant: small-caps; } - .large { font-size: large; } - .xlarge { font-size: x-large; } - .small { font-size: small; } - .lg-container-l { text-align: left; } - @media handheld { .lg-container-l { clear: both; } } - .linegroup { display: inline-block; text-align: left; } - @media handheld { .linegroup { display: block; margin-left: 1.5em; } } - .linegroup .group { margin: 1em auto; } - .linegroup .line { text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em; } - div.linegroup > :first-child { margin-top: 0; } - .index li {text-indent: -1em; padding-left: 1em; } - .index ul {list-style-type: none; padding-left: 0; } - ul.index {list-style-type: none; padding-left: 0; } - .ol_1 li {padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em; } - ol.ol_1 {padding-left: 0; margin-left: 2.78%; margin-top: .5em; - margin-bottom: .5em; list-style-type: decimal; } - div.pbb { page-break-before: always; } - hr.pb { border: none; border-bottom: thin solid; margin-bottom: 1em; } - @media handheld { hr.pb { display: none; } } - .chapter { clear: both; page-break-before: always; } - .figcenter { clear: both; max-width: 100%; margin: 2em auto; text-align: center; } - .figcenter img { max-width: 100%; height: auto; } - .id001 { width:20%; } - @media handheld { .id001 { margin-left:40%; width:20%; } } - .ig001 { width:100%; } - .nf-center { text-align: center; } - .nf-center-c1 { text-align: left; margin: 1em 0; } - .c000 { margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } - .c001 { margin-top: 4em; } - .c002 { margin-top: 2em; } - .c003 { margin-top: 1em; } - .c004 { page-break-before: always; margin-top: 4em; } - .c005 { page-break-before:auto; margin-top: 4em; } - .c006 { margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } - .c007 { text-align: right; } - .c008 { margin-top: .5em; } - div.tnotes { padding-left:1em;padding-right:1em;background-color:#E3E4FA; - border:1px solid silver; margin:2em 10% 0 10%; } - .covernote { visibility: hidden; display: none; } - div.tnotes p { text-align:left; } - @media handheld { .covernote { visibility: visible; display: block;} } - img {max-width: 100%; height:auto; } - .ph1 { text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; font-size: xx-large; - margin: .67em auto; } - .ph2 { text-indent: 0em; font-weight: bold; font-size: x-large; margin: .75em auto; - } - </style> - </head> - <body> - - -<pre> - -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Three Fates, by F. Marion Crawford - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Three Fates - -Author: F. Marion Crawford - -Release Date: November 9, 2016 [EBook #53486] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THREE FATES *** - - - - -Produced by Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div class='tnotes covernote'> - -<p class='c000'><strong>Transcriber's Note:</strong></p> - -<p class='c000'>The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.</p> - -</div> - -<div class='ph1'> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c001'> - <div>THE THREE FATES</div> - </div> -</div> - -</div> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c002' /> -</div> - -<div class='figcenter id001'> -<img src='images/i_002.jpg' alt='' class='ig001' /> -</div> -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c003' /> -</div> - -<div> - <h1 class='c004'>THE THREE FATES</h1> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div>BY</div> - <div class='c003'><span class='xlarge'>F. MARION CRAWFORD</span></div> - <div class='c003'><span class='small'>AUTHOR OF “MR. ISAACS,” “DR. CLAUDIUS,” “SARACINESCA,” ETC.</span></div> - <div class='c002'><span class='xlarge'>London</span></div> - <div class='c003'><span class='xlarge'>MACMILLAN AND CO.</span></div> - <div class='c003'>AND NEW YORK</div> - <div class='c003'><span class='large'>1893</span></div> - <div class='c003'><em>All rights reserved</em></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c003' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c001'> - <div><span class='sc'>Copyright</span>, 1891,</div> - <div class='c003'><span class='sc'>By</span> MACMILLAN AND CO.</div> - <div class='c003'><em>Set up and electrotyped January, 1892.</em></div> - <div><em>Reprinted April, May, October, 1892.</em></div> - <div class='c002'><span class='sc'>Typography by J. S. Cushing & Co., Boston, U.S.A.</span></div> - <div class='c003'><span class='sc'>Presswork by Berwick & Smith, Boston, U.S.A.</span></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c003' /> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c001'> - <div>To</div> - <div class='c003'>FREDERICK MACMILLAN</div> - <div class='c003'>AN EXPRESSION OF GRATITUDE</div> - <div class='c003'>FROM AN AUTHOR TO HIS PUBLISHER</div> - <div class='c003'>AND OF HIGH ESTEEM ENTERTAINED</div> - <div class='c003'>BY ONE MAN FOR ANOTHER</div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='lg-container-l'> - <div class='linegroup'> - <div class='group'> - <div class='line'><span class='sc'>Rome</span>, <em>February 21, 1892</em></div> - </div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c003' /> -</div> - -<div class='ph1'> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c001'> - <div>THE THREE FATES.</div> - </div> -</div> - -</div> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_1'>1</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER I.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>Jonah Wood was bitterly disappointed in his son. -During five and twenty years he had looked in vain for -the development of those qualities in George, which -alone, in his opinion, could insure success. But though -George could talk intelligently about the great movements -of business in New York, it was clear by this time -that he did not possess what his father called business -instincts. The old man could have forgiven him his -defective appreciation in the matter of dollars and cents, -however, if he had shown the slightest inclination to -adopt one of the regular professions; in other words, if -George had ceased to waste his time in the attempt to -earn money with his pen, and had submitted to becoming -a scribe in a lawyer’s office, old Wood would have -been satisfied. The boy’s progress might have been -slow, but it would have been sure.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It was strange to see how this elderly man, who had -been ruined by the exercise of his own business faculties, -still pinned his faith upon his own views and theories -of finance, and regarded it as a real misfortune to -be the father of a son who thought differently from himself. -It would have satisfied the height of his ambition -<span class='pageno' id='Page_2'>2</span>to see George installed as a clerk on a nominal salary in -one of the great banking houses. Possibly, at an earlier -period, and before George had finally refused to enter a -career of business, there may have been in the bottom -of the old man’s heart a hope that his son might some -day become a financial power, and wreak vengeance for -his own and his father’s losses upon Thomas Craik or -his heirs after him; but if this wish existed Jonah Wood -had honestly tried to put it out of the way. He was of -a religious disposition, and his moral rectitude was above -all doubt. He did not forgive his enemies, but he sincerely -meant to do so, and did his best not to entertain -any hope of revenge.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The story of his wrongs was a simple one. He had -formerly been a very successful man. Of a good New -England family, he had come to New York when very -young, possessed of a small capital, full of integrity, industry, -and determination. At the age of forty he was -at the head of a banking firm which had for a time -enjoyed a reputation of some importance. Then he had -married a young lady of good birth and possessing a -little fortune, to whom he had been attached for years -and who had waited for him with touching fidelity. -Twelve months later, she had died in giving birth to -George. Possibly the terrible shock weakened Jonah -Wood’s nerves and disturbed the balance of his faculties. -At all events it was at this time that he began to enter -into speculation. At first he was very successful, and -his success threw him into closer intimacy with Thomas -Craik, a cousin of his dead wife’s. For a time everything -prospered with the bank, while Wood acquired the habit -of following Craik’s advice. On an ill-fated day, however, -the latter persuaded him to invest largely in a -certain railway not yet begun, but which was completed -in a marvellously short space of time. In the course of -a year or two it was evident that the road, which Craik -insisted on running upon the most ruinous principles, -must soon become bankrupt. It had of course been built -<span class='pageno' id='Page_3'>3</span>to compete with an old established line; the usual war -of rates set in, the old road suffered severely, and the -young one was ruined. This was precisely what Craik -had anticipated. So soon as the bankruptcy was declared -and the liquidation terminated, he bought up every bond -and share upon which he could lay his hands. Wood -was ruined, together with a number of other heavy -investors. The road, however, having ceased to pay -interest on its debts continued to run at rates disastrous -to its more honest competitor, and before long the -latter was obliged in self-defence to buy up its rival. -When that extremity was reached Thomas Craik was in -possession of enough bonds and stock to give him a controlling -interest, and he sold the ruined railway at his -own price, realising a large fortune by the transaction. -Wood was not only financially broken; his reputation, -too, had suffered in the catastrophe. At first, people -looked askance at him, believing that he had got a share -of the profits, and that he was only pretending poverty -until the scandal should blow over, though he had in -reality sacrificed almost everything he possessed in the -honourable liquidation of the bank’s affairs, and found -himself, at the age of fifty-seven, in possession only of -the small fortune that had been his wife’s, and of the -small house which had escaped the general ruin, and in -which he now lived. Thomas Craik had robbed him, as -he had robbed many others, and Jonah Wood knew it, -though there was no possibility of ever recovering a -penny of his losses. His nerve was gone, and by the -time people had discovered that he was the most honest -of men, he was more than half forgotten by those he had -known best. He had neither the energy nor the courage -to begin life again, and although he had cleared his reputation -of all blame, he knew that he had made the great -mistake, and that no one would ever again trust to his -judgment. It seemed easiest to live in the little house, -to get what could be got out of life for himself and his -son on an income of scarcely two thousand dollars, and -to shut himself out from his former acquaintance.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_4'>4</span>And yet, though his own career had ended in such -lamentable failure, he would gladly have seen George -begin where he had begun. George would have succeeded -in doing all those things which he himself had -left undone, and he might have lived to see established -on a firm basis the great fortune which for a few brief -years had been his in a floating state. But George could -not be brought to understand this point of view. His -youthful recollections were connected with monetary disaster, -and his first boyish antipathies had been conceived -against everything that bore the name of business. -What he felt for the career of the money-maker was -more than antipathy; it amounted to a positive horror -which he could not overcome. From time to time his -father returned to the old story of his wrongs and misfortunes, -going over the tale as he sat with George -through the long winter evenings, and entering into -every detail of the transaction which had ruined him. -In justice to the young man it must be admitted that he -was patient on those occasions, and listened with outward -calm to the long technical explanations, the interminable -concatenation of figures and the jarring cadence -of phrases that all ended with the word dollars. But the -talk was as painful to him as a violin played out of tune -is to a musician, and it reacted upon his nerves and produced -physical pain of an acute kind. He could set his -features in an expression of respectful attention, but he -could not help twisting his long smooth fingers together -under the edge of the table, where his father could not -see them. The very name of money disgusted him, and -when the great failure had been talked of in the evening -it haunted his dreams throughout the night and -destroyed his rest, so that he awoke with a sense of nervousness -and distress from which he could not escape -until late in the following day.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Jonah Wood saw more of this peculiarity than his son -suspected, though he failed to understand it. With -him, nervousness took a different form, manifesting -<span class='pageno' id='Page_5'>5</span>itself in an abnormal anxiety concerning George’s welfare, -combined with an unfortunate disposition to find -fault. Of late, indeed, he had not been able to accuse -the young man of idleness, since he was evidently working -to the utmost of his strength, though his occupations -brought him but little return. It seemed a pity to -Jonah Wood that so much good time and so much young -energy should be wasted over pen, ink, paper, and books -which left no record of a daily substantial gain. He, -too, slept little, though his iron-grey face betrayed nothing -of what passed in his mind.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He loved his son in his own untrusting way. It was -his affection, combined with his inability to believe -much good of what he loved, that undermined and embittered -the few pleasures still left to him. He had never -seen any hope except in money, and since George hated -the very mention of lucre there could be no hope for him -either. A good man, a scrupulously honest man according -to his lights, he could only see goodness from one -point of view and virtue represented in one dress. -Goodness was obedience to parental authority, and virtue -the imitation of parental ideas. George believed -that obedience should play no part in determining what -he should do with his talent, and that imitation, though -it be the sincerest flattery, may lay the foundation for -the most hopeless of all failures, the failure to do that -for which a man is best adapted. George had not deliberately -chosen a literary career because he felt himself -fitted for it. He was in reality far too modest to look -forward from the first to the ultimate satisfaction of his -ambitions. His lonely life had driven him to writing -as a means of expressing himself without incurring his -father’s criticism and contradiction. Not understanding -in the least the nature of imagination, he believed himself -lacking in this respect, but he had at once found an -immense satisfaction in writing down his opinions concerning -certain new books that had fallen into his hands. -Then, being emboldened by that belief in his own judgment -<span class='pageno' id='Page_6'>6</span>which young men acquire very easily when they -are not brought into daily contact with their intellectual -equals, he had ventured to offer the latest of his attempts -to one editor and then to another and another. At last -he had found one who chanced to be in a human humour -and who glanced at one of the papers.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is not worthless,” said the autocrat, “but it is -quite useless. Everybody has done with the book -months ago. Do you want to earn a little money by -reviewing?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George expressed his readiness to do so with alacrity. -The editor scribbled half a dozen words on a slip of -paper from a block and handed it to George, telling him -where to take it. As a first result the young man carried -away a couple of volumes of new-born trash upon -which to try his hand. A quarter of what he wrote was -published in the literary column of the newspaper. -He had yet to learn the cynical practice of counting -words, upon which so much depends in dealing with the -daily press, but the idea of actually earning something, -no matter how little, overcame his first feeling of disgust -at the nature of the work. In time he acquired the -necessary tricks and did very well. By sheer determination -he devoted all his best hours of the day to the -drudgery of second class criticism, and only allowed -himself to write what was agreeable to his own brain -when the day’s work was done.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The idea of producing a book did not suggest itself to -him. In his own opinion he had none of the necessary -gifts for original writing, while he fancied that he -possessed those of the critic in a rather unusual degree. -His highest ambition was to turn out a volume of essays -on other people’s doings and writings, and he was constantly -labouring in his leisure moments at long papers -treating of celebrated works, in what he believed to be a -spirit of profound analysis. As yet no one had bestowed -the slightest attention upon his efforts; no serious article -of his had found its way into the press, though a goodly -<span class='pageno' id='Page_7'>7</span>number of his carefully copied manuscripts had issued -from the offices of various periodicals in the form of -waste paper. Strange to say, he was not discouraged by -these failures. The satisfaction, so far as he had known -any, had consisted in the writing down of his views; -and though he wished it were possible to turn his ink-stained -pages into money, his natural detestation of all -business transactions whatsoever made him extremely -philosophical in repeated failure. Even in regard to -his daily drudgery, which was regularly paid, the least -pleasant moment was the one when he had to begin his -round from one newspaper cashier to another to receive -the little cheques which made him independent of his -father so far as his only luxuries of new books and -tobacco were concerned. Pride, indeed, was now at the -bottom of his resolution to continue in the uninteresting -course that had been opened before him. Having once -succeeded in buying for himself what he wanted or needed -beyond his daily bread he would have been ashamed to -ever go again for pocket-money to his father.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The nature of this occupation, which he would not -relinquish, was beginning to produce its natural effect -upon his character. He felt that he was better than his -work, and the inevitable result ensued. He felt that he -was hampered and tied, and that every hour spent in -such labour was a page stolen from the book of his reputation; -that he was giving for a pitiful wage the precious -time in which something important might have been -accomplished, and that his life would turn out a failure -if it continued to run on much longer in the same groove. -And yet he assumed that it would be absolutely impossible -for him to abandon his drudgery in order to devote -himself solely to the series of essays on which he had -pinned his hopes of success. His serious work, as he -called it, made little progress when interrupted at every -step by the necessity for writing twaddle about trash.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It may be objected that George Wood should not have -written twaddle, but should have employed his best -<span class='pageno' id='Page_8'>8</span>energies in the improvement of second class literature -by systematically telling the truth about it. Unfortunately -the answer to such a stricture is not far to seek. -If he had written what he thought, the newspapers -would have ceased to employ him; not that it is altogether -impossible to write honestly about the great rivers -of minor books which flow east and west and north and -south from the publishers’ gardens, but because the -critic who has the age, experience, and talent to bestow -faint praise without inflicting damnation commands a -high price and cannot be wasted on little authors and -their little publications. The beginner often knows that -he is writing twaddle and regrets it, and he very likely -knows how to write in strains of enthusiastic eulogium -or of viciously cruel abuse; but though he have all these -things, he has not yet acquired the unaffected charity -which covers a multitude of sins, and which is the result -of an ancient and wise good feeling entertained between -editors, publishers and critics. He cannot really feel -mildly well disposed towards a book he despises, and his -only chance of expressing gentle sentiments not his own, -lies in the plentiful use of unmitigated twaddle. If he -remains a critic, he is either lifted out of the sphere of -the daily saleable trash to that of serious first class literature, -or else he imbibes through the pores of his soul -such proportional parts of the editor’s and the publisher’s -wishes as shall combine in his own character and produce -the qualities which they both desire to find there and to -see expressed in his paragraphs.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It could not be said that George Wood was discontented -with what he found to do, so much as with being -constantly hindered from doing something better. And -that better thing which he would have done, and believed -that he could have done, was in reality far from having -reached the stage of being clearly defined. He had -never felt any strong liking for fiction, and his mind had -been nourished upon unusually solid intellectual food, -while the outward circumstances of his life had necessarily -<span class='pageno' id='Page_9'>9</span>left much to his imagination, which to most young -men of five and twenty is already matter of experience. -As a boy he had been too much with older people, and -had therefore thought too much to be boyish. Possibly, -too, he had seen more than was good for him, for his -father had left him but a short time at school in the days -of their prosperity, and, being unable to leave New -York for any length of time, had more than once sent -him abroad with an elderly tutor from whom the lad had -acquired all sorts of ideas that were too big for him. -He had been wrongly supposed to be of a delicate constitution, -too, and had been indulged in all manner of -intellectual whims and fancies, whereby he had gained -a smattering of many sciences and literatures at an age -when he ought to have been following a regular course -of instruction. Then, before he was thought old enough -to enter a university, the crash had come.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Jonah Wood was far too conscientious a man not to -sacrifice whatever he could for the completion of his -son’s education. For several years he deprived himself -of every luxury, in order that George might have the -assistance he so greatly needed while making his studies -at Columbia College in his native city. Then only did -the father realise how he had erred in allowing the boy -to receive the desultory and aimless teaching that had -seemed so generous in the days of wealth. He knew -more or less well a variety of subjects of which his companions -were wholly ignorant, but he was utterly unversed -in much of their knowledge. And this was not -all, for George had acquired from his former tutor a -misguided contempt for the accepted manner of dealing -with certain branches of learning, without possessing -that grasp of the matters in hand which alone justifies a -man in thinking differently from the great mass of his -fellows. It is not well to ridicule the American method -of doing things until one is master of some other.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It was from the time when George entered college that -he began to be a constant source of disappointment to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_10'>10</span>his father. The elderly man had received a good, old-fashioned, -thoroughly prejudiced education, and though -he remembered little Latin and less Greek, he had not -forgotten the way in which he had been made to learn -both. George’s way of talking about his studies disturbed -his father’s sense of intellectual propriety, which -was great, without exciting his curiosity, which was -infinitesimally small. With him also prevailed the -paternal view which holds that young men must necessarily -distinguish themselves above their companions if -they really possess any exceptional talent, and his peace -of mind was further endangered by his sense of responsibility -for George’s beginnings. If he had believed -that George was stupid, he would have resigned himself -to that dispensation of Providence. But he thought -otherwise. The boy was not an ordinary boy, and if he -failed to prove it by taking prizes in competition, he -must be lazy or his preparation must have been defective. -No other alternative was to be found, and the -fault therefore lay either with himself or with his -father.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George never obtained a prize, and barely passed his -examinations at all. Jonah Wood made a point of seeing -all his examiners as well as the instructors who had -known him during his college life. Three-quarters of -the number asserted that the young fellow was undeniably -clever, and added, expressing themselves with professorial -politeness, that his previous studies seemed to -have taken a direction other than that of the college -“curriculum,” as they called it. The professor of Greek -presumed that George might have distinguished himself -in Latin, the professor of Latin surmised that Greek -might have been his strong point; both believed that he -had talent for mathematics, while the mathematician -remarked that he seemed to have a very good understanding, -but that it would be turned to better account in the -pursuit of classical studies. Jonah Wood returned to -his home very much disturbed in mind, and from that -<span class='pageno' id='Page_11'>11</span>day his anxiety steadily increased. As it became more -clear that his son would never accept a business career, -but would probably waste his opportunities in literary -dabbling, the good man’s alarm became extreme. He -did not see that George’s one true talent lay in his ready -power of assimilating unfamiliar knowledge by a process -of intuition that escapes methodical learners, any more -than he understood that the boy’s one solid acquirement -was the power of using his own language. He was not -to be too much blamed, perhaps, for the young man -himself was only dimly conscious of his yet undeveloped -power. What made him write was neither the pride of -syntax nor the certainty of being right in his observations; -he was driven to paper to escape from the torment -of the desire to express something, he knew not what, -which he could express in no other way. He found no -congenial conversation at home and little abroad, and -yet he felt that he had something to say and must say it.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It should not be supposed that either Jonah Wood’s -misfortunes or his poverty, which was after all comparative, -though hard to bear, prevented George from mixing -in the world with which he was connected by his -mother’s birth, and to some extent by his father’s former -position. The old gentleman, indeed, was too proud to -renew his acquaintance with people who had thought -him dishonourable until he had proved himself spotless; -but the very demonstration of his uprightness had been -so convincing and clear that it constituted a patent of -honour for his son. Many persons who had blamed -themselves for their hasty judgment would have been -glad to make amends by their cordial reception of the -man they had so cruelly mistaken. George, however, -was quite as proud as his father, and much more sensitive. -He remembered well enough the hard-hearted, -boyish stare he had seen in the eyes of some of his companions -when he was but just seventeen years old, and -later, at college, when his father’s self-sacrifice was fully -known, and his old associates had held out their hands -<span class='pageno' id='Page_12'>12</span>to his in the hope of making everything right again, -George had met them with stony eyes and scornful -civility. It was not easy to forgive, and with all his -excellent qualities and noble honesty of purpose, Jonah -Wood was not altogether displeased to know that his son -held his head high and drew back from the renewal of -fair weather friendships. Almost against his will he -encouraged him in his conduct, while doing his best to -appear at least indifferent.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George needed but little encouragement to remain in -social obscurity, though he was conscious of a rather -contemptible hope that he might one day play a part in -society, surrounded by all the advantages of wealth and -general respect which belong especially to those few who -possess both, by inheritance rather than as a result of -their own labours. He was not quite free from that -subtle aristocratic taint which has touched so many -members of American society. Like the wind, no man -can tell whence it comes nor whither it goes; but unlike -the ill wind in the proverb it blows no good to any one. -It is not the breath of that republican inequality which -is caused by two men extracting a different degree of -advantage from the same circumstances; it is not the -inevitable inequality produced by the inevitable struggle -for existence, wealth and power; but it is the fictitious -inequality caused by the pretence that the accident of a -man’s birth should of itself constitute for him a claim -to have special opportunities made for him, adapted to -his use and protected by law for his particular benefit. -It is a fallacy which is in the air, and which threatens -to produce evil consequences wherever it becomes localised.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Perhaps, at some future time yet far distant, a man -will arise who shall fathom and explain the great problems -presented by human vanity. No more interesting -study could be found wherewith to occupy the greatest -mind, and assuredly none in the pursuit of which a man -would be so constantly confronted by new and varied -<span class='pageno' id='Page_13'>13</span>matter for research. One main fact at least we know. -Vanity is the boundless, circumambient and all-penetrating -ether in which all man’s thoughts and actions have -being and receive manifestation. All moral and intellectual -life is either full of it and in sympathy with it, -breathing it as our bodies breathe the air, or is out of -balance with it in the matter of quantity and is continually -struggling to restore its own lost equilibrium. It -is as impossible to conceive of anything being done in -the world without also conceiving the element of vanity -as the medium for the action, as it is to imagine motion -without space, or time without motion. To say that any -man who succeeds in the race for superiority of any sort -is without vanity, is downright nonsense; to assert that -any man can reach success without it, would be to state -more than any one has yet been able to prove. Let us -accept the fact that we are all vain, whether we be saints -or sinners, men of action or men of thought, men who -leave our sign manual upon the page of our little day -or men who trudge through the furrows of a nameless -life ploughing and sowing that others may reap and eat -and be merry. After all, does not our conception of -heaven suggest to us a life from which all vanity is -absent, and does not our idea of hell show us an existence -in which vanity reigns supreme and hopeless, without -prospect of satisfaction? Let us at least strive that -our vanity may neither do injury to our fellow-men, nor -recoil and become ridiculous in ourselves.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Enough has been said to define and explain the character -and life of the young man whose history this book -is to relate. He himself was far from being conscious -of all his virtues, faults, and capabilities. He neither -knew his own energy nor was aware of the hidden -enthusiasm which was only just beginning to make itself -felt as a vague, uneasy longing for something that -should surpass ordinary things. He did not know that -he possessed singular talents as well as unusual defects. -He had not even begun to look upon life as a problem -<span class='pageno' id='Page_14'>14</span>offered him for solution, and upon his own heart as an -object for his own study. He scarcely felt that he had -a heart at all, nor knew where to look for it in others. -His life was not happy, and yet he had not tasted the -bitter sources of real unhappiness. He was oppressed -by his surroundings, but he could not have told what he -would have done with the most untrammelled liberty. -He despised money, he worked for a pittance, and yet -he secretly longed for all that money could buy. He -was profoundly attached to his father, and yet he found -the good man’s company intolerable. He shrank from -a society in which he might have been a welcome guest, -and yet he dreamed of playing a great part in it some -day. He believed himself cynical when he was in -reality quixotic, his idols of gold were hidden behind -images of clay, and he really cared little for those things -which he had schooled himself to admire the most. He -fancied himself a critic when he was foredestined by his -nature and his circumstances to become an object of criticism -to others. He forced his mind to do what it found -least congenial, not acting in obedience to any principle -or idea of duty, but because he was sure that he knew -his own abilities, and that no other path lay open to -success. He was in the darkest part of the transition -which precedes development, for he was in that period -during which a man makes himself imagine that he has -laid hold on the thread of the future, while something -he will not heed warns him that the chaos is wilder -than ever before. In the dark hour before manhood’s -morning he was journeying resolutely away from the -coming dawn.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_15'>15</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER II.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>“It is very sad,” observed Mrs. Sherrington Trimm, -thoughtfully. “Their mother died in London last -autumn, and now they are quite alone—nobody with -them but an aunt, or something like that—poor girls! -I am so glad they are rich, at least. You ought to -know them.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Ought I?” asked the visitor who was drinking his -tea on the other side of the fireplace. “You know I do -not go into society.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“The girls go nowhere, either. They are still in -mourning. You ought to know them. Who knows, -you might marry one or the other.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I will never marry a fortune.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do not be silly, George!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The relationship between the two speakers was not -very close. George Winton Wood’s mother had been a -second cousin of Mrs. Sherrington Trimm’s, and the two -ladies had not been on very friendly terms with each -other. Moreover, Mrs. Trimm had nothing to do with -old Jonah Wood, the father of the young man with -whom she was now speaking, and Jonah Wood refused -to have anything to do with her. Nevertheless she -called his son by his first name, and the latter usually -addressed her as “Cousin Totty.” An examination of -Mrs. Sherrington Trimm’s baptismal certificate would -have revealed the fact that she had been christened -Charlotte, but parental fondness had made itself felt -with its usual severity in such cases, and before she was -a year old she had been labelled with the comic diminutive -which had stuck to her ever since, through five and -twenty years of maidenhood, and twenty years more of -married life. On her visiting cards, and in her formal -invitations she appeared as Mrs. Sherrington Trimm; -but the numerous members of New York society who -<span class='pageno' id='Page_16'>16</span>were related to her by blood or marriage, called her -“Totty” to her face, while those who claimed no connection -called her “Totty” behind her back; and though -she may live beyond three score years and ten, and -though her strength come to sorrow and weakness, she -will be “Totty” still, to the verge of the grave, and -beyond, even after she is comfortably laid away in the -family vault at Greenwood.</p> - -<p class='c000'>After all, the name was not inappropriate, so far at -least, as Mrs. Trimm’s personal appearance was concerned; -for she was very smooth, and round, and judiciously -plump, short, fair, and neatly made, with pretty -little hands and feet; active and not ungraceful, sleek -but not sleepy; having small, sharp blue eyes, a very -obliging and permanent smile, a diminutive pointed -nose, salmon-coloured lips, and perfect teeth. Her good -points did not, indeed, conceal her age altogether, but -they obviated all necessity for an apology to the world -for the crime of growing old; and those features which -were less satisfactory to herself were far from being -offensive to others.</p> - -<p class='c000'>She bore in her whole being and presence the stamp -of a comfortable life. There is nothing more disturbing -to society than the forced companionship of a person -who either is, or looks, uncomfortable, in body, mind, -or fortune, and many people owe their popularity almost -solely to a happy faculty of seeming always at their -ease. It is certain that neither birth, wealth, nor talent -will of themselves make man or woman popular, not -even when all three are united in the possession of one -individual. But on the other hand they are not drawbacks -to social success, provided they are merely means -to the attainment of that unobtrusively careless good -humour which the world loves. Mrs. Sherrington -Trimm knew this. If not talented, she possessed at all -events a pedigree and a fortune; and as for talent, she -looked upon culture as an hereditary disease peculiar to -Bostonians, and though not contagious, yet full of danger, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_17'>17</span>inasmuch as its presence in a well-organised society -must necessarily be productive of discomfort. All the -charm of general conversation must be gone, she -thought, when a person appeared who was both able and -anxious to set everybody right. She even went so far as -to say that if everybody were poor, it would be very -disagreeable to be rich. She never wished to do what -others could not do; she only aimed at being among the -first to do what everybody would do by and by, as a -matter of course.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mrs. Trimm’s cousin George did not understand this -point of view as yet, though he was beginning to suspect -that “Totty and her friends”—as he generally designated -society—must act upon some such principle. He -was only five and twenty years of age, and could hardly -be expected to be in the secrets of a life he had hitherto -seen as an outsider; but he differed from Totty and -her friends in being exceedingly clever, exceedingly -unhappy, and exceedingly full of aspirations, ambitions, -fancies, ideas, and thoughts; in being poor instead of -rich, and, lastly, in being the son of a man who had failed -in the pursuit of wealth, and who could not prove even -the most distant relationship to any one of the gentlemen -who had signed the Declaration of Independence, -fought in the Revolution, or helped to frame the Constitution -of the United States. George, indeed, possessed -these ancestral advantages through his mother, and in a -more serviceable form through his relationship to Totty; -but she, on her part, felt that the burden of his cleverness -might be too heavy for her to bear, should she -attempt to launch him upon her world. Her sight was -keen enough, and she saw at a glance the fatal difference -between George and other people. He had a habit -of asking serious questions, and of saying serious things, -which would be intolerable at a dinner-party. He was -already too strong to be put down, he was not yet important -enough to be shown off. Totty’s husband, who -was an eminent lawyer, occasionally asked George to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_18'>18</span>dine with him at his club, and usually said when he came -home that he could not understand the boy; but, being -of an inquiring disposition, Mr. Trimm was impelled to -repeat the hospitality at intervals that gradually became -more regular. At first he had feared that the dark, -earnest face of the young man, and his grave demeanour, -concealed the soul of a promising prig, a social article -which Sherrington Trimm despised and loathed. He -soon discovered, however, that these apprehensions -were groundless. From time to time his companion -gave utterance to some startling opinion or freezing bit -of cynicism which he had evidently been revolving in his -thoughts for a long time, and which forced Mr. Trimm’s -gymnastic intelligence into thinking more seriously than -usual. Doubtless George’s remarks were often paradoxical -and youthfully wild, but his hearer liked them none -the less for that. Keen and successful in his own profession -he scented afar the capacity for success in other -callings. Accustomed by the habits and pursuits of his -own exciting life to judge men and things quickly, he -recognised in George another mode of the force to which -he himself owed his reputation. To lay down the law -and determine the precise manner in which that force -should be used, was another matter, and one in which -Sherrington Trimm did not propose to meddle. More -than once, indeed, he asked George what he meant to do in -the world, and George answered, with a rather inappropriate -look of determination that he believed himself good -for nothing, and that when there was no more bread and -butter at home he should doubtless find his own level by -going up long ladders with a hod of bricks on his shoulder. -Mr. Trimm’s jovial face usually expressed his disbelief -in such theories by a bland smile as he poured out -another glass of wine for his young guest. He felt sure -that George would do something, and George, who got -little sympathy in his life, understood his encouraging -certainty, and was grateful.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mrs. Trimm, however, shared her cousin’s asserted -<span class='pageno' id='Page_19'>19</span>convictions about himself so far as to believe that unless -something was done for him, he might actually be driven -to manual labour for support. She assuredly had no -faith in general cleverness as a means of subsistence for -young men without fortune, and yet she felt that she -ought to do something for George Wood. There was a -good reason for this beneficent instinct. Her only -brother was chiefly responsible for the ruin that had -overtaken Jonah Wood, when George was still a boy, -and she herself had been one of the winners in the game, -or at least had been a sharer with her brother in the -winnings. It is true that the facts of the case had -never been generally known, and that George’s father -had been made to suffer unjustly in his reputation after -being plundered of his wealth; but Mrs. Trimm was not -without a conscience, any more than the majority of her -friends. If she loved money and wanted more of it, -this was because she wished to be like other people, and -not because she was vulgarly avaricious. She was willing -to keep what she had, though a part of it should -have been George’s and was ill-gotten. She wished -her brother, Thomas Craik, to keep all he possessed until -he should die, and then she wished him to leave it to -her, Charlotte Sherrington Trimm. But she also desired -that George should have compensation for what his -father had lost, and the easiest and least expensive way -of providing him with the money he had not, was to -help him to a rich marriage. It was not, indeed, fitting -that he should marry her only daughter, Mamie, though -the girl was nineteen years old and showed a disquieting -tendency to like George. Such a marriage would result -only in a transfer of wealth without addition or multiplication, -which was not the form of magnanimity most -agreeable to cousin Totty’s principles. There were other -rich girls in the market; one of them might be interested -in the tall young man with the dark face and the quiet -manner, and might bestow herself upon him, and endow -him with all her worldly goods. Totty had now been -<span class='pageno' id='Page_20'>20</span>lucky enough to find two such young ladies together, -orphans both, and both of age, having full control of the -large and equally divided patrimony they had lately -inherited. Better still, they were reported to be highly -gifted and fond of clever people, and she herself knew -that they were both pretty. She had resolved that -George should know them without delay, and had sent -for him as a preliminary step towards bringing about the -acquaintance. George met her at once with the plain -statement that he would never marry money, as the -phrase goes, but she treated his declaration of independence -with appropriate levity.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do not be silly, George!” she exclaimed with a little -laugh.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am not,” George answered, in a tone of conviction.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, I know you are clever enough,” retorted his -cousin. “But that is quite a different thing. Besides, -I was not thinking seriously of your marrying.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I guessed as much, from the fact of your mentioning -it,” observed the young man quietly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mrs. Trimm stared at him for a moment, and then -laughed again.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Am I never thinking seriously of what I am saying?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Tell me about these girls,” said George, avoiding an -answer. “If they are rich and unmarried, they must -be old and hideous——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“They are neither.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mere children then——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes—they are younger than you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Poor little things! I see—you want me to play -with them, and teach them games and things of that -sort. What is the salary? I am open to an engagement -in any respectable calling. Or perhaps you would prefer -Mrs. Macwhirter, my old nurse. It is true that she is -blind of one eye and limps a little, but she would make -a reduction in consideration of her infirmities, if money -is an object.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Try and be serious; I want you to know them.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_21'>21</span>“Do I look like a man who wastes time in laughing?” -inquired George, whose imperturbable gravity was one of -his chief characteristics.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No—you have other resources at your command for -getting at the same result.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thanks. You are always flattering. When am I to -begin amusing your little friends?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“To-day, if you like. We can go to them at once.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George Wood glanced down almost unconsciously at -the clothes he wore, with the habit of a man who is very -poor and is not always sure of being presentable at a -moment’s notice. His preoccupation did not escape -cousin Totty, whose keen instinct penetrated his thoughts -and found there an additional incentive to the execution -of her beneficent intentions. It was a shame, she -thought, that any relation of hers should need to think -of such miserable details as the possession of a decent -coat and whole shoes. At the present moment, indeed, -George was arrayed with all appropriate correctness, but -Totty remembered to have caught sight of him sometimes -when he was evidently not expecting to meet any acquaintance, -and she had noticed on those occasions that his dress -was very shabby indeed. It was many years since she -had seen his father, and she wondered whether he, too, -went about in old clothes, sure of not meeting anybody -he knew. The thought was not altogether pleasant, and -she put it from her. It was a part of her method of life -not to think disagreeable thoughts, and though her plan -to bring about a rich marriage for her cousin was but a -scheme for quieting her conscience, she determined to -believe that she was putting herself to great inconvenience -out of spontaneous generosity, for which George -would owe her a debt of lifelong gratitude.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George, having satisfied himself that his appearance -would pass muster, and realising that Totty must have noticed -his self-inspection, immediately asked her opinion.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Will I do?” he asked with an odd shade of shyness, -and glancing again at the sleeve of his coat, as though to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_22'>22</span>explain what he meant, well knowing that all explanation -was unnecessary.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Totty, who had thoroughly inspected him before proposing -that they should go out together, now pretended -to look him over with a critical eye.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course—perfectly,” she said, after three or four -seconds. “Wait for me a moment, and I will get ready,” -she added, as she rose and left the room.</p> - -<p class='c000'>When George was alone, he leaned back in his comfortable -chair and looked at the familiar objects about -him with a weary expression which he had not worn -while his cousin had been present. He could not tell -exactly why he came to see cousin Totty, and he generally -went home after his visits to her with a vague -sense of disappointment. In the first place, he always -felt that there was a sort of disloyalty in coming at all. -He knew the details of his father’s past life, and was -aware that old Tom Craik had been the cause of his ruin, -and he guessed that Totty had profited by the same -catastrophe, since he had always heard that her brother -managed her property. He even fancied that Totty was -not so harmless as she looked, and that she was very -fond of money, though he was astonished at his own -boldness in suspecting the facts to be so much at variance -with the outward appearance. He was very young, -and he feared to trust his own judgment, though he had -an intimate conviction that his instincts were right. -On the whole he was forced to admit to himself that -there were many reasons against his periodical visits to -the Trimms, and he was quite ready to allow that it was -not Totty’s personality or conversation that attracted -him to the house. Yet, as he rested in the cushioned -chair he had selected and felt the thick carpet under his -feet, and breathed that indefinable atmosphere which -impregnates every corner of a really luxurious house, -he knew that it would be very hard to give up the habit -of enjoying all these things at regular intervals. He -imagined that his thoughts liquefied and became more -<span class='pageno' id='Page_23'>23</span>mobile under the genial influence, forgetting the grooves -and moulds so unpleasantly familiar to them. Hosts -of ideas and fancies presented themselves to him, which -he recognised as belonging to a self that only came to -life from time to time; a self full of delicate sensations -and endowed with brilliant powers of expression; a self -of which he did not know whether to be ashamed or -proud; a self as overflowing with ready appreciation, as -his other common, daily self was inclined to depreciate -all that the world admired, and to find fault with everything -that was presented to its view. Though conscious -of all this, however, George did not care to analyse his -own motives too closely. It was disagreeable to his pride -to find that he attached so much importance to what he -described collectively as furniture and tea. He was -disappointed with himself, and he did all in his power -not to increase his disappointment. Then an extreme -depression came upon him, and showed itself in his face. -He felt impelled to escape from the house, to renounce -the visit Totty had proposed, to go home, get into his -oldest clothes and work desperately at something, no -matter what. But for his cousin’s opportune return, he -might have yielded to the impulse. She re-entered the -room briskly, dressed for walking and smiling as usual. -George’s expression changed as he heard the latch move -in the door, and Mrs. Sherrington Trimm must have -been even keener than she was, to guess what had been -passing in his mind. She was not, however, in the -observant mood, but in the subjective, for she felt that -she was now about to appear as her cousin’s benefactress, -and, having got rid of her qualms of conscience, she -experienced a certain elation at her own skill in the -management of her soul.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George took his hat and rose with alacrity. There -was nothing essentially distasteful to him in the prospect -of being presented to a pair of pretty sisters, who had -doubtless been warned of his coming, and his foolish -longing for his old clothes and his work disappeared as -suddenly as it had come.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_24'>24</span>It was still winter, and the low afternoon sun fell -across the avenue from the westward streets in broad -golden patches. It was still winter, but the promise of -spring was already in the air, and a faint mist hung -about the vanishing point of the seemingly endless rows -of buildings. The trees were yet far from budding, but -the leafless branches no longer looked dead, and the -small twigs were growing smooth and glossy with the -returning circulation of the sap. There were many -people on foot in the avenue, and Totty constantly nodded -and smiled to her passing acquaintances, who generally -looked with some interest at George as they acknowledged -or forestalled his companion’s salutation. He knew a -few of them by sight, but not one passed with whom he -had ever spoken, and he felt somewhat foolishly ashamed -of not knowing every one. When he was alone the -thought did not occur to him, but his cousin’s incessant -smiles and nods made him realise vividly the difference -between her social position and his own. He wondered -whether the gulf would ever be bridged over, and whether -at any future time those very correct people who now -looked at him with inquiring eyes would be as anxious -to know him and be recognised by him as they now -seemed desirous of knowing Totty and being saluted by -her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you mean to say that you really remember the -names of all these friends of yours?” he asked, presently.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why not? I have known most of them since I was -a baby, and they have known me. You could learn their -names fast enough if you would take the trouble.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why should I? They do not want me. I should -never be a part of their lives.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why not? You could if you liked, and I am always -telling you so. Society never wants anybody who does -not want it. It is founded on the principle of giving -and receiving in return. If you show that you like -people, they will show that they like you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_25'>25</span>“That would depend upon my motives.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mrs. Sherrington Trimm laughed, lowered her parasol, -and turned her head so that she could see George’s face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Motives!” she exclaimed. “Nobody cares about -your motives, provided you have good manners. It is -only in business that people talk about motives.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Then any adventurer who chose might take his place -in society,” objected George.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course he might—and does. It occurs constantly, -and nothing unpleasant happens to him, unless he makes -love in the wrong direction or borrows money without -returning it. Unfortunately those are just the two -things most generally done by adventurers, and then -they come to grief. A man is taken at his own valuation -in society, until he commits a social crime and is found -out.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You think there would be nothing to prevent my -going into society, if I chose to try it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Nothing in the world, if you will follow one or two -simple rules.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And what may they be?” inquired George, becoming -interested.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Let me see—in the first place—dear me! how hard -it is to explain such things! I should say that one ought -never to ask a question about anybody, unless one knows -the answer, and knows that the person to whom one is -speaking will be glad to talk about the matter. One -may avoid a deal of awkwardness by not asking a man -about his wife, for instance, if she has just applied for -a divorce. But if his sister is positively engaged to -marry an English duke, you should always ask about -her. That kind of conversation makes things pleasant.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I like that view,” said George. “Give me some -more advice.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Never say anything disagreeable about any one you -know.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That is charitable, at all events.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course it is; and, now I think of it, charity is -<span class='pageno' id='Page_26'>26</span>really the foundation of good society,” continued Mrs. -Trimm very sweetly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You mean a charitable silence, I suppose.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not always silence. Saying kind words about people -you hate is charitable, too.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I should call it lying,” George observed.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Totty was shocked at such bluntness.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That is far too strong language,” she answered, beginning -to look as she did in church.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Gratuitous mendacity,” suggested her companion. -“Is the word ‘lie’ in the swearing dictionary?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Perhaps not—but after all, George,” continued -Mrs. Trimm with sudden fervour, “there are often very -nice things to be said quite truly about people we do not -like, and it is certainly charitable and magnanimous to -say them in spite of our personal feelings. One may -just as well leave out the disagreeable things.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Satan is a fallen angel. You hate him of course. -If he chanced to be in society you would leave out the -detail of the fall and say that Satan is an angel. Is that -it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Approximately,” laughed Totty, who was less shocked -at the mention of the devil than at hearing tact called -lying. “I think you would succeed in society. By-the-bye, -there is another thing. You must never talk about -culture and books and such things, unless some celebrity -begins it. That is most important, you know. Of -course you would not like to feel that you were talking -of things which other people could not understand, would -you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What should I talk about, then?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh—people, of course, and—and horses and things—yachting -and fashions and what people generally do.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“But I know so few people,” objected George, “and -as for horses, I have not ridden since I was a boy, and I -never was on board of a yacht, and I do not care a straw -for the fashions.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well, really, then I hardly know. Perhaps you had -<span class='pageno' id='Page_27'>27</span>better not talk much until you have learned about -things.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Perhaps not. Perhaps I had better not try society -after all.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, that is ridiculous!” exclaimed Mrs. Trimm, who -did not want to discourage her pupil. “Now, George, -be a good boy, and do not get such absurd notions into -your head. You are going to begin this very day.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Am I?” inquired the young man in a tone that -promised very little.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course you are. And it will be easy, too, for the -Fearing girls are clever——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Does that mean that I may talk about something -besides horses, fashions, and yachting?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How dreadfully literal you are, George! I did not -mean precisely those things, only I could think of nothing -else just at that moment. I know, yes—you are -going to ask if I ever think of anything else. Well, I do -sometimes—there, now do be good and behave like a -sensible being. Here we are.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>They had reached a large, old-fashioned house in -Washington Square, which George had often noticed -without knowing who lived in it, and which had always -attracted him. He liked the quiet neighbourhood, so -near the busiest part of the city and yet so completely -separated from it, and he often went there alone to sit -upon one of the benches under the trees and think of all -that might have been even then happening to him if -things had not been precisely what they were. He stood -upon the door-step and rang the bell, wondering at the -unexpected turn his day had taken, and wondering what -manner of young women these orphan sisters might be, -with whom cousin Totty was so anxious to make him -acquainted. His curiosity on this head was soon satisfied. -In a few seconds he found himself in a sombrely-furnished -drawing-room, bowing before two young girls, -while Mrs. Trimm introduced him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mr. Winton Wood—my cousin George, you know. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_28'>28</span>You got my note? Yes—so sweet of you to be at home. -This is Miss Constance Fearing, and this is Miss Grace, -George. Thanks, no—we have just been having tea. -Yes—we walked. The weather is perfectly lovely, and -now tell me all about yourself, Conny dear!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Thereupon Mrs. Sherrington Trimm took Miss Constance -Fearing beside her, held her hand affectionately, -and engaged in an animated conversation of smiles and -questions, leaving George to amuse the younger sister as -best he could.</p> - -<p class='c000'>At first sight there appeared to be a strong resemblance -between the two girls, which was much increased -by their both being dressed in black and in precisely the -same manner. They were very nearly of the same age, -Constance being barely twenty-two years old and her -sister just twenty, though Mrs. Trimm had said that both -had reached their majority. Both were tall, graceful -girls, well-proportioned in every way, easy in their bearing, -their heads well set upon their shoulders, altogether -well grown and well bred. But there was in reality a -marked difference between them. Constance was fairer -and more delicate than her younger sister, evidently less -self-reliant and probably less strong. Her eyes were -blue and quiet, and her hair had golden tinges not to be -found in Grace’s dark-brown locks. Her complexion -was more transparent, her even eyebrows less strongly -marked, her sensitive lips less firm. Of the two she was -evidently the more gentle and feminine. Grace’s voice -was deep and smooth, whereas Constance spoke in a -higher though a softer key. It was easy to see that -Constance would be the one more quickly moved by -womanly sympathies and passions, and that Grace, on -the contrary, would be at once more obstinate and more -sure of herself.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George was pleasantly impressed by both from the -first, and especially by the odd contrast between them -and their surroundings. The house was old-fashioned -within as well as without. It was clear that the girls’ -<span class='pageno' id='Page_29'>29</span>father and mother had been conservatives of the most -severe type. The furniture was dark, massive, and -imposing; the velvet carpet displayed in deeper shades -of claret, upon a claret-coloured ground, that old familiar -pattern formed by four curved scrolls which enclose as in -a lozenge an imposing nosegay of almost black roses. -Full-length portraits of the family adorned the walls, -and the fireplace was innocent of high art tiles, being -composed of three slabs of carved white marble, two -upright and one horizontal, in the midst of which a -black grate supported a coal fire. Moreover, as in all -old houses in New York, the front drawing-room communicated -with a second at the back of the first by great -polished mahogany folding-doors, which, being closed, -produce the impression that one-half of the room is a -huge press. There were stiff sofas set against the wall, -stiff corner bookcases filled with histories expensively -bound in dark tree calf, a stiff mahogany table under an -even stiffer chandelier of gilded metal; there were two -or three heavy easy-chairs, square, dark and polished -like everything else, and covered with red velvet of the -same colour as the carpet, each having before it a footstool -of the old style, curved and made of the same -materials as the chairs themselves. A few modern -books in their fresh, perishable bindings showed the -beginning of a new influence, together with half a dozen -magazines and papers, and a work-basket containing a -quantity of coloured embroidering silks.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George looked about him as he took his place beside -Grace Fearing, and noticed the greater part of the details -just described.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Are you fond of horses, yachting, fashions, and -things people generally do, Miss Fearing?” he inquired.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not in the least,” answered Grace, fixing her dark -eyes upon him with a look of cold surprise.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_30'>30</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER III.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>The stare of astonishment with which Grace Fearing -met George’s singular method of beginning a conversation -rather disconcerted him, although he had half expected -it. He had asked the question while still under -the impression of Totty’s absurd advice, unable any longer -to refrain from communicating his feelings to some one.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You seem surprised,” he said. “I will explain. I -do not care a straw for any of those things myself, but -as we walked here my cousin was giving me a lecture -about conversation in society.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And she advised you to talk to us about horses?” -inquired Miss Grace, beginning to smile.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No. Not to you. She gave me to understand that -you were both very clever, but she gave me a list of -things about which a man should talk in general society, -and I flatter myself that I have remembered the catalogue -pretty accurately.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Indeed you have!” This time Grace laughed.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes. And now that we have eliminated horses, -yachts, and fashions, by mutual consent, shall we talk -about less important things?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Certainly. Where shall we begin?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“With whatever you prefer. What do you like best -in the world?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“My sister,” answered Grace promptly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That answers the question, ‘Whom do you like -best—?’”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Very well, Mr. Wood, and whom do you like best?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Myself, of course. Everybody does, except people -who have sisters like yours.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Are you an egotist, then?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not by intention, but by original sin, and by the -fault of fate which has omitted to give me a sister.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Have you no near relations?” Grace asked.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_31'>31</span>“I have my father.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And you are not more fond of him than of yourself?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is one not bound to believe one’s father, when he -speaks on mature reflection, and is a very good man -besides?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes—I suppose so.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Very well. My father says that I love myself better -than any one else. That is good evidence, for, as you -say, he must be right. How do you know that you love -your sister more than yourself?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I think I would sacrifice more for her than I would -for myself.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Then you must be subject to a natural indolence -which only affection for another can overcome.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am not lazy,” objected Grace.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Pardon me. What is a sacrifice, in the common -meaning of the word? Giving up something one likes. -To make a sacrifice for oneself means to give up something -one likes for the sake of one’s own advantage—for -instance, to give up sleeping too much, in order to -work more. Not to do so, is to be lazy. Laziness is a -vice. Therefore it is a vice not to sacrifice as much as -possible to one’s own advantage. Virtue is the opposite -of vice. Therefore selfishness is a virtue.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What dreadful sophistry!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You cannot escape the conclusion that one ought to -love oneself at least quite as much as any one else, since -to be unwilling to take as much trouble for one’s own -advantage as one takes for that of other people is manifestly -an acute form of indolence, and is therefore vicious -and a cardinal sin.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Selfishness is certainly a deadly virtue,” retorted -Grace.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Can that be called deadly which provides a man with -a living?” asked George.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That is all sophistry—sophistical chaff, and nothing -else.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“The original sophists made a very good living,” -<span class='pageno' id='Page_32'>32</span>objected George. “Is it not better to get a living as a -sophist than to starve?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you make a living by it, Mr. Wood?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No. I am not a lawyer, and times have changed -since Gorgias.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I may as well tell you,” said Grace, “that Mrs. -Trimm has calumniated me. I am not clever, and I -do not know who Gorgias was.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I beg your pardon for mentioning him. I only -wanted to show off my culture. He is of no importance——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes he is. Since you have spoken of him, tell me -who he was.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“A sophist, and one of the first of them. He published -a book to prove that Helen of Troy was an angel -of virtue, he fattened on the proceeds of his talking and -writing, till he was a hundred years old, and then he -died. The thing will not do now. Several people have -lately defended Lucretia Borgia, without fattening to -any great extent. That is the reason I would like to be -a lawyer. Lawyers defend living clients and are well -paid for it. Look at Sherry Trimm, my cousin’s husband. -Do you know him?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“He is fat and well-liking. And Johnny Bond—do -you know him too?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course,” answered Grace, with an almost imperceptible -frown. “He is to be Mr. Trimm’s partner soon.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well, when he is forty, he will be as sleek and round -as Sherry Trimm himself.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Will he?” asked the young girl with some coldness.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Probably, since he will be rich and happy. Moral -and physical rotundity is the natural attribute of all rich -and happy persons. It would be a pity if Johnny grew -very fat, he is such a handsome fellow.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I suppose it could not be helped,” said Grace, indifferently. -“What do you mean by moral rotundity, Mr. -Wood?”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_33'>33</span>“Inward and spiritual grace to be always right.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>At this point Totty, who had said all she had to say -to Constance, and was now only anxious to say it all -over again to Grace, made a movement and nodded to -her cousin.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Come, George,” she said, “take my place, and I will -take yours.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George rose with considerable reluctance and crossed -the room. There was something in Grace Fearing’s -manner which gave him courage in conversation, and he -had felt at his ease with her. Now, however, the ice must -be broken afresh with the other sister. Unlike Mrs. -Trimm, he did not want to repeat himself, and he was -somewhat embarrassed as to how he should begin in a -new strain. To his surprise, however, his new companion -relieved him of any responsibility in this direction. -While listening as much as was necessary to Totty’s -rambling talk, she had been watching the young man’s -face from a distance. Her sympathetic nature made her -more observant than her sister, and she spent much time -in speculating upon other people’s thoughts. George -interested her from the first. There was something -about him, of which he himself was wholly unconscious, -which distinguished him from ordinary men, and which -it was hard to define. Few people would have called -him handsome, though no one could have said that he -was ugly. His head was strongly modelled, with prominent -brows, and great hollows in the temples. The -nose was straight, but rather too long, as is generally -the case with melancholy people; and the thin, dark -moustache did not conceal the scornful expression of the -mouth. The chin would have been the better for a little -more weight and prominence, and the whole face might -have been more attractive had it been less dark and thin. -As for the rest, the man was tall and well built, though -somewhat too lean and angular, and he carried himself -well, whether in motion or repose. He was evidently -melancholic, nervous, and impressionable, as might be -<span class='pageno' id='Page_34'>34</span>seen from his brown and sinewy hands, of which the -smooth and pointed fingers contrasted oddly with the -strength of the lower part. But the most minute -description of George Wood’s physical characteristics -would convey no such impression as he produced upon -those who first saw him. He was discontented with -himself as well as with his surroundings, and his temper -was clouded by perpetual disappointment. Sometimes -dull and apathetic, there were moments when a vicious -energy gleamed in his dark eyes, and when he looked -like what fighting men call an ugly customer. Mirth -was never natural to him, and when he laughed aloud -there was scarcely the semblance of a smile upon his -features. Yet he had a keen sense of humour, and a -facility for exhibiting the ridiculous side of things to -others.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What do you do, Mr. Wood?” asked Constance -Fearing, when he was seated beside her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Nothing—and not even that gracefully.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance did not laugh as she looked at him, for -there was something at once earnest and bitter in the -way he spoke.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why do you do nothing?” she asked. “Everybody -works nowadays. You do not look like a professed idler. -I suppose you mean that you are studying for a profession.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not exactly. I believe my studies are said to be -finished. I sometimes write a little.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is that all? Do you never publish anything?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh yes; countless things.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Really? I am afraid I cannot remember seeing——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“My name in print? No. There is but one copy of -my published works, and that is in my possession. The -pages present an irregular appearance and smell of paste. -You do not understand? My valuable performances are -occasionally printed in one of the daily papers. I cut -them out, when I am not too lazy, and keep them in a -scrap-book.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_35'>35</span>“Then you are a journalist?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not from the journalist’s point of view. He calls -me a paid contributor; and when I am worse paid than -usual, I call him by worse names.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not understand—if you can be what you call a -paid contributor, why not be a journalist? What is the -difference?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“The one is a professional, the other is an amateur. -I am the other.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why not be a professional, then?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Because I do not like the profession.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What would you like to be? Surely you must have -some ambition.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“None whatever, I assure you.” There was an odd -look in George’s eyes, not altogether in accordance with -his answer. “I should prefer to live a student’s life, -since I must live a life of some kind. I should like to -be always my own master—if you would give me my -choice, there are plenty of things I should like. But I -cannot have them.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Most of us are in that condition,” said Constance, -rather thoughtfully.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Are we? Is there anything in the world that you -want and cannot have?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes. Many things.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No, I mean concrete things,” George insisted. “Of -course I know that you have the correct number of moral -and intellectual aspirations. You would like to be a -heroine, a saint, and the managing partner of a great -charity; you would like to be a scholar, historian, a -novelist, and you would certainly like to be a great -poetess. You would probably like to lead the fashion -in some particular way, for I must allow you a little -vanity with so much virtue, but on Sundays, in church, -you would like to forget that there are such things as -fashions. Of course you would. But all that is not -what I mean. When I speak of wants, I mean wants -connected with real life. Have you not everything you -<span class='pageno' id='Page_36'>36</span>desire, or could you not have everything? If you do not -like New York, can you not go and live in Siberia? If -you do not like your house, can you not turn it inside -out and upside down and trim it with green parakeet’s -wings, if you please? If you have wants, they are -moral and intellectual.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“But all the things you speak of merely depend upon -money,” said Constance a little shyly. “They are -merely material wants—or rather, according to your -description, caprices.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not call my desire to lead the unmolested life of -a student either a caprice or a material want, but the -accomplishment of my wish depends largely upon money -and very little upon anything else.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance looked furtively at her companion, who sat -beside her with folded hands, apparently contemplating -his shoes. He had spoken very quietly, but his tone -was that of the most profound contempt, whether for -himself, or for the wealth he was weak enough to desire, -it was impossible to say. Constance felt that she was in -the presence of a nature she did not understand, though -she was to some extent interested and attracted by it. -It is very hard for people who possess everything that -money can give, and have always possessed it, to comprehend -the effect of poverty upon a sensitive person. -Constance, indeed, had no exact idea of George Wood’s -financial position. He might be really poor, for all she -knew, or he might be only relatively impecunious. She -inclined to the latter theory, partly because he had not -the indescribable look which is supposed to belong to a -poor man, and partly on account of his readiness to -speak of what he wanted. A person of less keen intuitions -would probably have been repelled by what might -have been taken for vulgar discontent and covetousness. -But Constance Fearing’s inceptions were more delicate. -She felt instinctively that George was not what he represented -himself to be, that he was neither weak, selfish, -nor idle, and that those who believed him to be so would -<span class='pageno' id='Page_37'>37</span>before long find themselves mistaken. She made no -answer to his last words, however, and there was silence -for a few moments.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Then George began to speak of her return to New -York, and fell into a very commonplace kind of conversation, -which he sustained with an effort, and with a -certain sensation of awkwardness. Presently Totty, who -had finished the second edition of her small talk, rose -from her seat and began the long operation of leave-taking, -which was performed with all the usual repetitions, -effusive phrases, and affectionalities, if such a -word may be coined, which are considered appropriate -and indispensable. As a canary bird pecks at a cherry, -chirps, skips away, hops back, pecks, chirps, and skips -again and again many times, so do certain women say -good-bye to the dear friends they visit. Meanwhile -George stood at hand, holding his hat and ready to go.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I hope we shall see you again,” said Constance as -she gave him her hand.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“May I come?” he asked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course. We are generally at home about this -time.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>At last Totty tore herself away, and the ponderous -front door closed behind her and her cousin as they came -out into the purple light that flooded Washington Square.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well, George, I hope you were properly impressed,” -said Mrs. Sherrington Trimm, when they had walked a -few steps and were near the corner of the avenue.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Profoundly.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“In what way? Come, be confidential.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“In what way? Why, I think that the father and -mother of those girls must have been very rich, very -dull, and very respectable. I never saw anything like -the solidity of the furniture.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Totty was never quite sure whether George was in -earnest or was laughing at her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Did you spend your time in looking at the chairs?” -she asked rather petulantly.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_38'>38</span>“Partly. I could not help seeing them. I believe I -talked a little.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I hope you were sensible. What did you talk about? -I do not think the Fearing girls would thoroughly appreciate -the style of wit with which you generally favour -me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You need not be cross, cousin Totty. I believe I was -decently agreeable.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh!” ejaculated Mrs. Trimm.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You think I flatter myself, do you? I daresay. The -opinion of the young ladies would be more valuable than -my own. At all events my conscience does not reproach -me with having been more dull than usual, and as for the -furniture, you will admit that it was very impressive.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well,” sighed Totty, “I suppose that is your way of -looking at things.” She did not know exactly what she -wanted him to say, but she was sure that he had not said -it, and that his manner was most unsatisfactory. They -walked on in silence.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am tired,” she said, at last, as they reached the -corner of the Brevoort House. “I will go home in a cab. -Good-bye.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George opened the door of one of the numerous -broughams stationed before the hotel, and helped his -cousin to get in. She nodded rather indifferently to him, -as she was driven away, and left him somewhat at a loss -to account for her sudden ill temper. Under any ordinary -circumstances she would assuredly have bid him -enter the carriage with her and drive as far as her house, -in order to save him a part of the long distance to his own -home. The young man stood still for a moment and then -turned into Clinton Place, walking rapidly in the direction -of the elevated road.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He had spoken quite truly when he had said that the -visit he had just made had produced a profound impression -on him, and it was in accordance with his character -to keep that impression to himself. It was not that he -felt himself attracted by either one of the sisters more -<span class='pageno' id='Page_39'>39</span>than by the other. He had not fallen in love at first sight, -nor lost his heart to a vision of beatitude that had only -just received a name. But as he walked he saw constantly -before him the two graceful young girls in their -simple black dresses, full of the freshness and beauty of -early youth and contrasting so strongly with their old-fashioned -surroundings. That was all, but the picture -stirred in him that restless, disquieting longing for something -undefined, for a logical continuation of the two lives -he had thus glanced upon, which belongs to persons of -unusual imagination, and which, sooner or later, drives -them to the writing of books as to the only possible satisfaction -of an intimate and essential want.</p> - -<p class='c000'>There are people who, when they hear any unusual -story of real life, exclaim, “What a novel that would -make!” They are not the people who write good fiction. -Most of them have never tried it, for, if they had, they -would know that novels are not made by expanding into -a volume or volumes the account of circumstances which -have actually occurred. True stories very rarely have a -conclusion at all, and the necessity for a conclusion is the -first thing felt by the born novelist. He dwells upon the -memory of people he has seen, only for the sake of imagining -a sequel and end to their lives. Before he has -discovered that he must write books to satisfy himself, -he does not understand the meaning of the moods to -which he is subject. He is in a room full of people, perhaps, -and listening to a conversation. Suddenly a word -or a passing face arrests his attention. He loses the -thread of the talk, and his thoughts fly off at a tangent -with intense activity. As before the sight of a drowning -man, the panorama of a life is unfolded to him in an instant, -full of minute details, all distinct and clear. His -lips move, repeating fragments of imaginary conversations. -His eyes fix themselves, while he sees in his brain -sights other than those around him. His heart beats fast, -then slowly, in a strange variety of emotions. Then -comes the awakening voice of the persecutor. “A penny -<span class='pageno' id='Page_40'>40</span>for your thoughts, Mr. Tompkins,” or, “My dear Tompkins, -if you do not care to listen to me,” <span lang="la" xml:lang="la">etc.</span> The young -man is covered with confusion and apologises for his -absence of mind, while still inwardly attempting to fix -in his memory the fleeting visions of which he has just -enjoyed such a delicious glimpse.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Fortunately for George Wood, there was no one to disturb -his meditations as he strode along the quiet street, -ascended the iron steps and mechanically paid his fare -before passing through the wicket gate. Nor did the -vivid recollection of Constance and Grace Fearing abandon -him as the snake-like train came puffing up and -stopped before his eyes; still less, when he had taken his -seat, and was being carried away up-town in the direction -of his home.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He lived with his father in the small house which the -latter still owned, and in which, by dint of rigid economy -the two succeeded in leading a decently comfortable existence, -so far as their material lives were concerned. A -more complete contrast to the residence in Washington -Square, where George had just been spending half an hour, -could hardly be imagined. The dwelling of the Woods -was one of those conventional little buildings which -abound in the great American cities, having a front of -about sixteen feet, being three stories high, and having -two rooms on each floor, one looking upon the street and -one upon a small yard at the back. Within, everything -was of the simplest description. There was no attempt -at anything in the nature of luxury or embellishment. -The well-swept carpets were threadbare, the carefully-dusted -furniture was of the plainest kind, the smooth, -tinted walls were innocent of decoration and unadorned -with pictures. There were few books to be seen, except -in George’s own room, which presented a contrast to the -rest of the house, inasmuch as there reigned in it that -sort of disorder which seemed the most real order in the -opinion of its occupant. A huge deal table took up fully -a quarter of the available space, and deal shelves full of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_41'>41</span>books both old and new lined the walls, indeed almost -everything was of deal, from the uncarpeted floor to the -chairs. A pile of new volumes in bright bindings stood -on a corner of the table, which was littered with printed -papers, sheets of manuscript, galley proofs, and cuttings -from newspapers. A well-worn penholder lay across a -half-written page, and the red cork of a bottle of stylo-graphic -ink projected out of the confusion.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George entered this sanctum, and before doing anything -else proceeded to divest himself of the clothes he wore, putting -on rusty garments that seemed to belong to different -epochs. Then he went to the window with something like -a sigh of relief. The view was not inspiring, but the -familiarity of it doubtless evoked in his mind trains of -thought that were pleasant. There was the narrow brickyard -with its Chinese puzzle of crossing and recrossing -clothes’ lines. Then a brick wall beyond which he could -see at a considerable distance the second and third rows -of windows of a large house. Above, a row of French -roofs and then the winter sky, red with the last rays of -the sun. George did not remain long in contemplation -of this prospect; a glance was apparently enough to restore -the disturbed balance of his mind. As he turned -away and busied himself with lighting a green glass kerosene -lamp, the vision of Constance and Grace Fearing -dissolved, and gave place to more practical considerations. -He sat down and laid hold of the uppermost volume from -the pile of new books, instinctively feeling for his paper-cutter -with the other hand, among the disorderly litter -beside him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>After cutting a score of pages, he began to look for the -editor’s letter. The volumes had been sent him for -review, and were accompanied by the usual note, stating -with appalling cynicism the number of words he was -expected to write as criticism of each production.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“About a hundred words a-piece,” wrote the literary -editor, “and please return the books with the notices on -Monday at twelve o’clock, at the latest.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_42'>42</span>It was Thursday to-day, and there were six volumes -to be read, digested, and written about. George made a -short calculation. He must do two each day, on Friday, -Saturday, and Sunday, in order to leave himself Monday -morning as a margin in case of accidents. Six -books, six hundred words, or rather more than half a -column of the paper for which he wrote. That meant -five dollars, for the work was well paid, as being supposed -to require some judgment and taste on the part of -the writer. There was of course nothing of much importance -in the heap of gaily-bound printed matter, nothing -to justify a serious article, and nothing which George -would care to read twice. Nevertheless the exigencies -of the book trade must be satisfied, and notices must -appear, and editors must find persons willing and able -to write such notices at prices varying from fifty cents -to a dollar a-piece. Nor was there any difficulty about -this. George knew that the pay was very good as times -went, and that there were dozens of starving old maids -and hungry boys who would do the work for less, and -would perhaps do it as well as he could. Nor was he -inclined to quarrel with the conditions which allowed -him so short a time for the accomplishment of such a -task. He had worked at second class reviewing for some -time, and was long past the period of surprises. On the -contrary, he looked upon the batch of publications with -considerable satisfaction. The regularity with which -such parcels had arrived during the last few months was -a proof that he was doing well, and it seemed probable -that in the course of the coming year he might be -entrusted with more important work. Once or twice -already, he had been instructed to write a column, and -those were white days in his recollections. He felt that -with a permanent engagement to produce a column a -week he should be doing very well, but he knew how -hard that was to obtain. No one who has not earned his -bread by this kind of labour can have any idea of the -crowd that hangs upon the outskirts of professional -journalism, a crowd not seeking to enter the ranks of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_43'>43</span>the regular newspaper men, but hoping to pick up the -crumbs that fall from the table which appears to them -so abundantly loaded. To be a professional journalist -in America a man must in nine cases out of ten begin as -a reporter. He must possess other qualifications besides -those of the literary man. He must have a good knowledge -of shorthand writing and a knack for the popular -style. He must have an iron constitution and untiring -nerves. He must be able to sit in a crowded room under -the glaring gaslight and write out his impressions at an -hour when ordinary people are in bed and asleep. He -must possess that brazen assurance which sensitive men -of taste rarely have, for he will be called upon to interview -all sorts and conditions of men when they least -expect it and generally when they least like it. He -must have a keen instinct for business in order to outwit -and outrun his competitors in the pursuit of news. Ever -on the alert, he must not dwell upon the recollections of -yesterday lest they twine themselves into the reports -of to-day. Altogether, the commencing journalist must -be a remarkable being, and most remarkable for a set -of qualities which are not only useless to the writer of -books, but which, if the latter possessed them, would -notably hinder his success. There is no such thing as -amateur journalism possible within the precincts of a -great newspaper’s offices, whereas the outer doors are -besieged by amateurs of every known and unknown -description.</p> - -<p class='c000'>In the critical and literary departments, the dilettante -is the cruel enemy of those who are driven to write for -bread, but who lack either the taste, the qualifications, -or the opportunities which might give them a seat -within, among the reporters’ desks! Cruellest of all in -the eyes of the poor scribbler is the well-to-do man of -leisure and culture who is personally acquainted with -the chief editor, and writes occasional criticisms, often -the most important, for nothing. Then there is the -young woman who has been to college, who lacks nothing, -but is ever ready to write for money, which she -<span class='pageno' id='Page_44'>44</span>devotes to charitable purposes, thereby depriving some -unfortunate youth of the dollar a day which means food -to him, for whose support the public is not already taxed. -But she knows nothing about him, and it amuses her to -be connected with the press, and to have the importance -of exchanging a word with the editor if she meets him -in the society she frequents. The young man goes on -the accustomed day for the new books. “I have nothing -for you this week, Mr. Tompkins,” says the manager of -the literary department as politely as possible. The -books are gone to the Vassar girl or to the rich idler, -and poor Tompkins must not hope to earn his daily dollar -again till seven or eight days have passed. His only -consolation is that the dawdling dilettante can never get -all the work, because he or she cannot write fast enough -to supply the demand. Without the spur of necessity -it is impossible to read and review two volumes a day -for any length of time. It is hard to combine justice to -an author with the necessity for rushing through his book -at a hundred pages an hour. It is indeed important to -cut every leaf, lest the aforesaid literary manager should -accuse poor little Mr. Tompkins of carelessness and -superficiality in his judgment; but it is quite impossible -that Tompkins should read every word of the children’s -story-book, of the volume of second class sermons, of the -collection of fifth rate poetry, and of the harrowing tale -of city life, entitled <cite>The Bucket of Blood</cite>, or <cite>The Washerwoman’s -Revenge</cite>, all of which have come at once and are -simultaneously submitted to his authoritative criticism.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George Wood cut through thirty pages of the volume -he held in his hand, then went to the end and cut backwards, -then returned to the place he had reached the -first time, and cut through the middle of the book. It -was his invariable system, and he found that it succeeded -very well.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is not well done,” he said to himself, quoting -Johnson, “but one is surprised to see it done at all. -What can you expect for fifty cents?”</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_45'>45</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER IV.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>Many days passed before George thought of renewing -his visit to Washington Square, and during that time he -was not even tempted to go and see Mrs. Trimm. If the -truth were to be told it might appear that the vision of -the two young girls, which had kept George in company -as he returned to his home, did not present itself again -for a long time with any especial vividness. Possibly -the surroundings and occupations in the midst of which -he lived were not of a nature to stir his memories easily; -possibly, too, and more probably, the first impression -had lacked strength to fascinate his imagination for more -than half an hour. The habit of reading a book, writing -twenty lines of print about it and throwing it aside, -never to be taken up again, may have its consequences -in daily life. Though quite unconscious of taking such -a superficial view of so serious a matter, George’s mind -treated the Misses Fearing very much as it would have -treated a book that had been sent in for notice, dealt -with and seen no more. Now and then, when he was -not at work, and was even less interested than usual in -his father’s snatches of conversation, he was conscious -of remembering his introduction to the two young ladies, -and strange to say there was something humorous in the -recollection. Totty’s business-like mode of procedure -amused him, and what seemed to him her absurd assumption -of a wild improbability. The ludicrous idea of the -whole affair entertained his fancy for a few seconds -before it slipped away again. He could not tell exactly -where the source of his mirth was situated in the chain -of ideas, but he almost smiled at the thought of the -enormous, stiff easy-chairs, and of the bookcase in the -corner, loaded to the highest shelf with histories bound -in tree calf and gold. He remembered, too, the look of -disappointment in Totty’s eyes when he had alluded to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_46'>46</span>the respectability of the furniture, as they walked up -Fifth Avenue.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Those thoughts did not altogether vanish without suggesting -to George’s inner sight the outlines of the girls’ -faces, and at the same time he had a faint memory of -the sounds of their voices. It would not displease him -to see and hear both again, but, on the other hand, a -visit in the afternoon was an undertaking of some importance, -a fact which cannot be realised by people who -have spent their lives in society, and who go to see each -other as a natural pastime, just as the solitary man takes -up a book, or as the sailor who has nothing to do knots -and splices odds and ends of rope. It is not only that -the material preparations are irksome, and that it is -a distinctly troublesome affair for the young literary -drudge to make himself outwardly presentable; there is -also the tiresome necessity of smoothing out the weary -brain so that it may be capable of appreciating a set of -unfamiliar impressions in which it anticipates no relaxation. -Add to all this the leaven of shyness which so -often belongs to young and sensitive natures, and the -slight exertion necessary in such a case swells and rises -till it seems to be an insurmountable barrier.</p> - -<p class='c000'>A day came, however, when George had nothing to do. -It would be more accurate to say that on a particular -afternoon, having finished one piece of work to his satisfaction, -he did not feel inclined to begin another; for, -among the many consequences of entering upon a literary -life is the losing for ever of the feeling that at any -moment there is nothing to be done. Let a writer work -until his brain reels and his fingers can no longer hold -the pen, he will nevertheless find it impossible to rest -without imagining that he is being idle. He cannot -escape from the devil that drives him, because he is -himself the driver and the driven, the fiend and his -victim, the torturer and the tortured. Let physicians -rail at the horrible consequences of drink, of excessive -smoking, of opium, of chloral, and of morphine—the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_47'>47</span>most terrible of all stimulants is ink, the hardest of -taskmasters, the most fascinating of enchanters, the -breeder of the sweetest dreams and of the most appalling -nightmares, the most insinuating of poisons, the surest -of destroyers. One may truly venture to say that of an -equal number of opium-eaters and professional writers, -the opium-eaters have the best of it in the matter of long -life, health, and peace of mind. We all hear of the -miserable end of the poor wretch who has subsisted for -years upon stimulants or narcotics, and whose death, -often at an advanced age, is held up as a warning to -youth; but who ever knows or speaks of the countless -deaths due solely to the overuse of pen, ink, and paper? -Who catalogues the names of those many whose brains -give way before their bodies are worn out? Who counts -the suicides brought about by failure, the cases of men -starving because they would rather write bad English -than do good work of any other sort? In proportion to -the whole literary profession of the modern world the -deaths alone, without counting other accidents, are more -numerous than those caused by alcohol among drinkers, -by nicotine among smokers, and by morphine and like -drugs among those who use them. For one man who -succeeds in literature, a thousand fail, and a hundred, -who have looked upon the ink when it was black and -cannot be warned from it, and whose nostrils have -smelled the printer’s sacrifice, are ruined for all usefulness -and go drifting and struggling down the stream of -failure till death or madness puts an end to their -sufferings. And yet no one ventures to call writing a -destroying vice, nor to condemn poor scribblers as “ink-drunkards”.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George walked the whole distance from his house to -Washington Square. He had not been in that part of -the city since he had come with his cousin to make his -first visit, but as he drew near to his destination he -began to regret that he had allowed more than a fortnight -to pass without making any attempt to see his new -<span class='pageno' id='Page_48'>48</span>acquaintances. On reaching the house he found that -Constance Fearing was at home. He was sorry not to -see the younger sister, with whom he had found conversation -more easy and sympathetic. On the other hand, -the atmosphere of the house seemed less stiff and formal -than on the first occasion; the disposition of the heavy -furniture had been changed, there were flowers in the -old-fashioned vases, and there were more books and small -objects scattered upon the tables.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I was afraid you were never coming again!” exclaimed -the young girl, holding out her hand.</p> - -<p class='c000'>There was something simple and frank about her -manner which put George at his ease.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are very kind,” he answered, “I was afraid that -even to-day might be too soon. But Sherry Trimm says -that when he is in doubt he plays trumps—and so I -came.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not at all too soon,” suggested Constance.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“The calculation is very simple. A visit once a fortnight -would make twenty-six visits a year with a fraction -more in leap year, would it not? Does not that appal you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I have not a mathematical mind, and I do not look -so far ahead. Besides, if we are away for six months in -the summer, you would not make so many.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I forgot that everybody does not stay in town the -whole year. I suppose you will go abroad again?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not this year,” answered Miss Fearing rather sadly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George glanced at her face and then looked quickly -away. He understood her tone, and it seemed natural -enough that the fresh recollection of her mother’s death -should for some time prevent both the sisters from -returning to Europe. He could not help wondering how -much real sorrow lay behind the young girl’s sadness, -though he was somewhat astonished to find himself -engaged in such an odd psychological calculation. He -did not readily believe evil of any one, and yet he found -it hard to believe much absolute good. Possibly he may -have inherited something of this un-trustfulness from his -<span class='pageno' id='Page_49'>49</span>father, and there was a side in his own character which -abhorred it. For a few moments there was silence -between the two. George sitting in his upright chair -and bending forward, gazing stupidly at his own hands -clasped upon his knee, while Constance Fearing leaned -far back in her deep easy-chair watching his dark profile -against the bright light of the window.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you like people, Miss Fearing?” George asked -rather suddenly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How do you mean?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I mean, is your first impulse, about people you meet -for the first time, to trust them, or not?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That is not an easy question to answer. I do not -think I have thought much about it. What is your own -impulse?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are distrustful,” said George in a tone of conviction.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Because you answer a question by a question.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is that a sign? How careful one should be! No—I -will try to answer fairly. I think I am unprejudiced, -but I like to look at people’s faces before I make up my -mind about them.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And when you have decided, do you change easily? -Have you not a decided first impression to which you -come back in spite of your judgment, and in spite of -yourself?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not know. I fancy not. I think I would rather -not have anything of the kind. Why do you ask?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Out of curiosity. I am not ashamed of being curious. -Have you ever tried to think what the world would be -like if nobody asked questions?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It would be a very quiet place.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“We should all be asleep. Curiosity is only the waking -state of the mind. We are all asking questions, all -the time, either of ourselves, of our friends, or of our -books. Nine-tenths of them are never answered, but -that does not prevent us from asking more.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_50'>50</span>“Or from repeating the same ones—to ourselves,” -said Constance.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes; the most interesting ones,”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What is most interesting?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Always that which we hope the most and the least -expect to have,” George answered. “We are talking -psychology or something very like it,” he added with a -dry laugh.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is there any reason why we should not?” asked his -companion. “Why do you laugh, Mr. Wood? Your -laugh does not sound very heartfelt either.” She fixed -her clear blue eyes on him for a moment.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“One rarely does well what one has not practised -before an audience,” he answered. “As you suggest, -there is no reason why we should not talk psychology—if -we know enough about it—that is to say, if you do, -for I am sure I do not. There is no subject on which it -is so easy to make smart remarks.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Excepting our neighbour,” observed Constance.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I have no neighbours. Who is my neighbour?” -asked George rather viciously.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I think there is a biblical answer to that question.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“But I do not live in biblical times; and I suppose -my scratches are too insignificant to attract the attention -of any passing Samaritan.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Perhaps you have none at all.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Perhaps not. I suppose our neighbours are ‘them -that we love that love us,’ so the old toast says. Are -they not?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And those whom we ought to love, I fancy,” suggested -Constance.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“But we ought to love our enemies. What a neighbourly -world it is, and how full of love it should be!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Fortunately, love is a vague word.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Have you never tried to define it?” asked the young -man.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am not clever enough for that. Perhaps you could.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George looked quickly at the young girl. He was not -<span class='pageno' id='Page_51'>51</span>prepared to believe that she made the suggestion out of -coquetry, but he was not old enough to understand that -such a remark might have escaped from her lips without -the slightest intention.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I rather think that definition ends when love begins,” -he said, after a moment’s pause. “All love is experimental, -and definition is generally the result of many -experiments.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Experimental?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes. Do you not know many cases in which people -have tried the experiment and have failed? It is no -less an experiment if it happens to succeed. Affection -is a matter of fact, but love is a matter of speculation.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I should not think that experimental love would be -worth much,” said Constance, with a shade of embarrassment. -A very faint colour rose in her cheeks as she -spoke.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“One should have tried it before one should judge. Or -else, one should begin at the other extremity and work -backwards from hate to love, through the circle of one’s -acquaintances.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why are you always alluding to hating people?” -asked the young girl, turning her eyes upon him with a -look of gentle, surprised protest. “Is it for the sake of -seeming cynical, or for the sake of making paradoxes? -It is not really possible that you should hate every one, -you know.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“With a few brilliant exceptions, you are quite right,” -George answered. “But I was hoping to discover that -you hated some one, for the sake of observing your -symptoms. You look so very good.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>It would have been hard to say that the expression of -his face had changed, but as he made the last remark -the lines that naturally gave his mouth a scornful look -were unusually apparent. The colour appeared again in -Constance’s cheeks, a little brighter than before, and -her eyes glistened as she looked away from her visitor.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I think you might find that appearances are deceptive, -if you go on,” she said.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_52'>52</span>“Should I?” asked George quietly, his features relaxing -in a singularly attractive smile which was rarely -seen upon his face. He was conscious of a thrill of -intense satisfaction at the manifestation of the young -girl’s sensitiveness, a satisfaction which he could not -then explain, but which was in reality highly artistic. -The sensation could only be compared to that produced -in an appreciative ear by a new and perfectly harmonious -modulation sounded upon a very beautiful instrument.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I wonder,” he resumed presently, “what form the -opposite of goodness would take in you. Are you ever -very angry? Perhaps it is rude to ask such questions. -Is it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not know. No one was ever rude to me,” Constance -answered calmly. “But I have been angry—since -you ask—I often am, about little things.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And are you very fierce and terrible on those occasions?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Very terrible indeed,” laughed the young girl. “I -should frighten you if you were to see me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I can well believe that. I am of a timid disposition.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Are you? You do not look like it. I shall ask Mrs. -Trimm if it is true. By-the-bye, have you seen her to-day?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not since we were here together.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I thought you saw her very often. I had a note from -her yesterday. I suppose you know?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I know nothing. What is it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Old Mr. Craik is very ill—dying, they say. She -wrote to tell me so, explaining why she had not been -here.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George’s eyes suddenly gleamed with a disagreeable -light. The news was as unexpected as it was agreeable. -Not, indeed, that George could ever hope to profit in any -way by the old man’s death; for he was naturally so -generous that, if such a prospect had existed, he would -have been the last to rejoice in its realisation. He hated -Thomas Craik with an honest and disinterested hatred, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_53'>53</span>and the idea the world was to be rid of him at last was -inexpressibly delightful.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“He is dying, is he?” he asked in a constrained voice.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You seem glad to hear it,” said Constance, looking at -him with some curiosity.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I? Yes—well, I am not exactly sorry!” His laugh -was harsh and unreal. “You could hardly expect me to -shed tears—that is, if you know anything of my father’s -misfortunes.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes, I have heard something. But I am sorry that I -was the person to give you the news.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why? I am grateful to you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I know you are, and that is precisely what I do not -like. I do not expect you to be grieved, but I do not like -to see one man so elated over the news of another man’s -danger.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why not say, his death!” exclaimed George.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance was silent for a moment, and then looked -at him as she spoke.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I hardly know you, Mr. Wood. This is only the -second time I have seen you, and I have no right to make -remarks about your character. But I cannot help thinking—that——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>She hesitated, not as though from any embarrassment, -but as if she could not find the words she wanted. George -made no attempt to help her, though he knew perfectly -well what she wanted to say. He waited coldly to see -whether she could complete her sentence.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You ought not to think such things,” she said suddenly, -“and if you do, you ought not to show it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“In other words, you wish me to reform either my -character or my manners, or both? Do you know that old -Tom Craik ruined my father? Do you know that after -he had done that, he let my father’s reputation suffer, -though my father was as honest as the daylight, and he -himself was the thief? That sounds very dramatic and -theatrical, does it not? It is all very true nevertheless. -And yet, you expect me to be such a clever actor as not -<span class='pageno' id='Page_54'>54</span>to show my satisfaction at your news. All I can say, -Miss Fearing, is that you expect a great deal of human -nature, and that I am very sorry to be the particular individual -who is fated to disappoint your expectations.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course you feel strongly about it—I did not -know all you have just told me, or I would not have -spoken. I wish every one could forgive—it is so right -to forgive.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes—undoubtedly,” assented George. “Begin by -forgiving me, please, and then tell me what is the matter -with the worthy Mr. Craik.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mrs. Trimm seems to think it is nervous prostration—what -everybody has nowadays.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is she very much cut up?” George asked with an air -of concern.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“She writes that she does not leave him.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Nor will—until——” George stopped short.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What were you going to say?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I was going to make a remark about the human will -in general and about the wills of dying men in particular. -It was very ill-natured, and in direct contradiction to your -orders.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I suppose she will have all his fortune in any case,” -observed Constance, repressing a smile, as though she felt -that it would not suit the tone she had taken before.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Since you make so worldly an inquiry, I presume we -may take it for granted that the mantle of Mr. Craik’s -filthy lucre will descend upon the unwilling shoulders -of Mrs. Sherrington Trimm. To be plain, Totty will get -the dollars. Well—I wish her joy. She is not acquainted -with poverty, as it is, nor was destitution ever -her familiar friend.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why do you affect that biblical sort of language?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It seems to me more forcible than swearing. Besides, -you would not let me swear, I am sure, even if I wanted -to.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Certainly not——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Very well, then you must forgive the imperfections -<span class='pageno' id='Page_55'>55</span>of my style in consideration of my not doing very much -worse. I think I will go and ask how Mr. Craik is doing -to-day. Would not that show a proper spirit of charity -and forgiveness?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I hope you will do nothing of the sort!” exclaimed -Constance hastily.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Would it not be a proof that I had profited by your -instruction?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I think it would be very hypocritical, and not at all -nice.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you? It seems to me that it would only look -civil——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“From what you told me, civility can hardly be expected -from you in this case.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am not obliged to tell the servant at the door the -motive of my curiosity when I inquire after the health -of a dying relation. That would be asking too much.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You can inquire just as well at Mrs. Trimm’s——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mr. Craik’s house is on my way home from here—Totty’s -is not on the direct line.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I hope you—how absurd of me, though! It is no -business of mine.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George could not say anything in reply to this statement, -but an expression of amusement came over his -face, which did not escape his companion. Constance -laughed a little nervously.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are obliged to admit that it is none of my business, -you see,” she said.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am in the position of a man who cannot assent -without being rude, nor differ without impugning the -known truth.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That was very well done, Mr. Wood,” said Constance. -“I have nothing more to say.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“To me? Then I herewith most humbly take my -leave.” George rose from his seat.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I did not mean that!” exclaimed the young girl with -a smile. “Do not go——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is growing late, and Mr. Craik may be gathered to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_56'>56</span>his fathers before I can ring at his door and ask how he -is.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, please do not talk any more about that poor -man!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“If I stay here I shall. May I come again some day, -Miss Fearing? You bear me no malice for being afflicted -with so much original sin?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Its originality almost makes it pardonable. Come -whenever you please. We shall always be glad to see -you, and I hope that my sister will be here the next -time.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George vaguely hoped that she would not as he bowed -and left the room. He had enjoyed the visit far more -than Constance had, for whereas his conversation had -somewhat disquieted her sensitive feeling of fitness, hers -had afforded him a series of novel and delightful sensations. -He was conscious of a new interest, of a new -train of thought, and especially of an odd and inexplicable -sense of physical comfort that seemed to proceed -from the region of the heart, as though his body had -been cheered, his blood warmed, and his circulation -stimulated by the assimilation of many good things. As -he walked up the Avenue, he did not ask himself -whether he had produced a good or a bad impression -upon Miss Fearing, nor whether he had talked well or -ill, still less whether the young girl had liked him, -though it is probable that if he had put any of these -questions to his inner consciousness that complacent -witness would, in his present mood, have answered all -his inquiries in the way most satisfactory to his vanity. -For some reason or other he was not curious to know -what his inner consciousness thought of the matter. For -the moment, sensation was enough, and he was surprised -to discover that sensation could be so agreeable. He -knew that he was holding his head higher than usual, -that his glance was more confident than it was wont to -be, and his step more elastic, but he did not connect any -of these phenomena in a direct way with his visit in -<span class='pageno' id='Page_57'>57</span>Washington Square. Perhaps there was a vague notion -afloat in his brain to the effect that if he once allowed -the connection he should be forced into calling himself -a fool, and that it was consequently far wiser to enjoy -the state in which he found himself than to inquire too -closely into its immediate or remote causes.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It is also probable that if George Wood’s condition of -general satisfaction on that evening had been more -clearly dependent upon his recollection of the young -lady he had just left, he would have felt an impulse to -please her by doing as she wished; in other words, he -would have gone home or would have passed by Totty’s -house to make inquiries, instead of executing his purpose -of ringing at Mr. Craik’s door. But there was something -contradictory in his nature, which drove him to do the -very things which most men would have left undone; -and moreover there was a grain of grim humour in the -idea of asking in person after Tom Craik’s health, which -made the plan irresistibly attractive. He imagined his -own expression when he should tell his father what he -had done, and he knew the old gentleman well enough to -guess that the satire of the proceeding would inwardly -please him in spite of himself, though he would certainly -look grave and shake his head when he heard the story.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance Fearing’s meditations, when she was left -alone, were of a very different character. She stood for -a long time at the window looking out into the purple -haze that hung about the square, and then she turned -and went and sat before the fire, and gazed at the glowing -coals. George Wood could not but have felt flattered -had he known that was the subject of her thoughts during -the greater part of an hour after his departure, and -he would have been very much surprised at his own -ignorance of human nature had he guessed that her mind -was disturbed by the remembrance of her own conduct. -He would assuredly have called her morbid and have -doubted the sincerity of her most sacred convictions, and -if he could have looked into her mind, that part of his -<span class='pageno' id='Page_58'>58</span>history which was destined to be connected with hers -would in all likelihood have remained unenacted. He -could certainly not have understood her mood at that -time, and the attempt to do so would have filled him -with most unreasonable prejudices against her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>To the young girl it seemed indeed a very serious -matter to have criticised George’s conduct and to have -thrust her advice upon him. It was the first time she -had ever done such a thing and she wondered at her own -boldness. She repeated to herself that it was none of -her business to consider what George Wood did, and -still less to sit in judgment upon his thoughts, and yet -she was glad that she had spoken as she had. She knew -very little about men, and she was willing to believe -they might all think alike. At all events this particular -man had very good cause for resentment against Thomas -Craik. Nevertheless there was something in his evident -delight at the prospect of the old man’s death that was -revolting to her finest feelings. Absolutely ignorant of -the world’s real evil, she saw her own path beset with -imaginary sins of the most varied description, to avoid -committing which needed the constant wakefulness of a -delicate sensibility; and as she knew of no greater or -more real evils, she fancied that the lives of others must -be like her own—a labyrinth of transparent cobwebs, to -brush against one of which, even inadvertently, was but -a little removed from crime itself. Her education had -been so strongly influenced by religion and her natural -sensitiveness was so great, that the main object of life -presented itself to her as the necessity for discovering -an absolute right or wrong in the most minute action, -and the least relaxation of this constant watch appeared -to her to be indicative of moral sloth. The fact that, -with such a disposition she was not an intolerable nuisance -to all who knew her, was due to her innate tact and -good taste, and in some measure to her youth, which -lent its freshness and innocence to all she did and -thought and said. At the present time her conscience -<span class='pageno' id='Page_59'>59</span>seemed to be more than usually active and dissatisfied. -She assuredly did not believe that it was her mission to -reform George Wood, or to decorate his somewhat peculiar -character with religious arabesques of faith, hope, -and charity; but it is equally certain that she felt an -unaccountable interest in his conduct, and a degree of -curiosity in his actions which, considering how slightly -she knew him, was little short of amazing. Had she -been an older woman, less religious and more aware of -her own instincts, she would have asked herself whether -she was not already beginning to care for George Wood -himself rather than for the blameless rectitude of her -own moral feelings. But with her the refinements of a -girlish religiousness had so far got the upper hand of -everything else that she attributed her uneasiness to the -doubt about her own conduct rather than to a secret attraction -which was even then beginning to exercise its influence -over her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It was to be foreseen that Constance Fearing would -not fall in love easily, even under the most favourable -circumstances. The most innocent love in the world -often finds a barrier in the species of religious sentimentality -by which she was at that time dominated, for -morbid scruples have power to kill spontaneity and all -that is spontaneous, among which things love is first, or -should be. Constance was not like her sister Grace, who -had loved John Bond ever since they had been children, -and who meant to marry him as soon as possible. Her -colder temperament would lose time in calculating for -the future instead of allowing her to be happy in the -present. Deep in her heart, too, there lay a seed of -unhappiness, in the habit of doubting which had grown -out of her mistrust of her own motives. She was very -rich. Should a poor suitor present himself, could she -help fearing lest he loved her money, when she could -hardly find faith in herself for the integrity of her own -most trivial intentions? She never thought of Grace -without admiring her absolute trust in the man she -loved.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_60'>60</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER V.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>Thomas Craik lay ill in his great house, listening for -the failing beatings of his heart as the last glow of the -February afternoon faded out of the curtains and withdrew -its rich colour from the carved panels on the walls. -He lay upon his pillows, an emaciated old man with a -waxen face and head, sunken eyes that seemed to have -no sight in them. Short locks of yellowish grey hair -strayed about his forehead and temples, like dry grasses -scattered over a skull. There was no beard upon his -face, and the hard old lips were tightly drawn in a set -expression, a little apart, so that the black shadow of -the open mouth was visible between them. The long, -nervous hands lay upon the counterpane together, the -fingers of the one upon the wrist of the other feeling the -sinking pulse, searching with their numbed extremities -for a little flutter of motion in the dry veins. Thomas -Craik lay motionless in his bed, not one outward sign -betraying the tremendous conflict that was taking place -in his still active brain. He was himself to the last, -such as he had always been in the great moments of his -life, apparently cool and collected, in reality filled with -the struggle of strong, opposing passions.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He was not alone. Two great physicians were standing -in silence, side by side, before the magnificent -chimney-piece, beneath which a soft fire of dry wood -was burning steadily with a low and unvarying musical -roar. An attendant sat upright upon a carved chair at -the foot of the bed, not taking his eyes from the sick -man’s face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The room was large and magnificent in its furniture -and appointments. The high wainscot had been carved -in rare woods after the designs of a great French artist. -The walls above were covered with matchless Cordova -leather from an Italian palace. The ceiling was composed -<span class='pageno' id='Page_61'>61</span>of rich panels that surrounded a broad canvas from the -hand of a famous Spanish master, dead long ago. The -chimney-piece was enriched with old brass work from -Cairo, and with exquisite tiles from Turkish mosques. -Priceless eastern carpets of which not one was younger -than the century, covered the inlaid wooden floor. Diana -of Poitiers had slept beneath the canopy of the princely -bedstead; it was said that Louis the Fourteenth had -eaten off the table that was placed beside it, and Benvenuto -Cellini had carved the silver bell which stood -within reach of the patient’s hand. There was incongruity -in the assemblage of different objects, but the -great value of each and all saved the effect from vulgarity, -and lent to the whole something of the odd -harmony peculiar to certain collections.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It was the opinion of the two doctors that Tom Craik -was dying. They had done what they could for him and -were waiting for the end. As to his malady it was -sufficiently clear to both of them that his vitality was -exhausted and that even if he survived this crisis he -could not have long to live. They agreed that the action -of the heart had been much impaired by a life of constant -excitement and that the nerves had lost their -elasticity. They had taken pains to explain to his -sister, Mrs. Sherrington Trimm, that there was very little -to be done and that the patient should be advised to -make his last dispositions, since a little fatigue more or -less could make no material difference in his state, -whereas he would probably die more easily if his mind -were free from anxiety. Totty had spent the day in the -house and intended to return in the evening. She bore -up very well under the trial, and the physicians felt -obliged to restrain her constant activity in tending her -brother while she was in the room, as it seemed to make -him nervous and irritable. She had their fullest sympathy, -of course, as persons who are supposed to be sole -legatees of the dying very generally have, but so far as -their professional capacity was concerned, the two felt -<span class='pageno' id='Page_62'>62</span>that it went better with the patient when his faithful -sister was out of the house.</p> - -<p class='c000'>From time to time inquiries were made on the part -of acquaintances, generally through their servants, but -they were not many. Though the other persons in the -room scarcely heard the distant ringing of the muffled bell, -and the careful opening and shutting of the street door, -the feeble old man never failed to catch the sound of both -and either with his eyes or half-uttered words asked who -had called. On receiving the answer he generally moved -his head a little wearily and his lids drooped again.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is there anybody you expect? Anybody you wish to -see?” one of the physicians once asked, bending low and -speaking softly. He suspected that something was disquieting -the dying man’s mind.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But there was no answer, and the lids drooped again. -It was now dusk and it would soon be night. Many -hours might pass before the end came, and the doctors -consulted in low tones as to which of them should remain. -Just then the faint and distant rattle of the bell was -heard. Immediately Tom Craik stirred, and seemed to -be listening attentively. The two men ceased speaking -and they could hear the front door softly open in the -street below, and close again a few seconds later. One -of the physicians glanced at the patient, saw the usual -look of inquiry in his face and quickly left the room. -When he returned he held a card in his hand, which he -took to the bedside after looking at it by the fireside. -Bending down, he spoke in a low tone.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mr. George Winton Wood has called,” he said.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Tom Craik’s sunken eyes opened suddenly and fixed -themselves on the speaker’s face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Any message?” he asked very feebly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“He said he had only just heard of your illness, and -was very sorry—would call again.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>A strange look of satisfaction came into the old man’s -colourless face, and a low sigh escaped his lips as he -closed his eyes again.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_63'>63</span>“Would you like to see him?” inquired the doctor.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The patient shook his head without raising his lids, -and the room was still once more. Presently the other -physician departed and the one who was left installed -himself in a comfortable chair from which he could see -the bed and the door. During half an hour no sound was -heard save the muffled roar of the wood fire. At last the -sick man stirred again.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Doctor—come here,” he said in a harsh whisper.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What is it, Mr. Craik?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Send for Trimm at once.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mrs. Trimm, did you say?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No—Sherry Trimm himself—make my will—see? -Quick.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The physician stared at his patient for a moment in -very considerable surprise, for he thought he had reason -to suppose that Thomas Craik’s will had been made -already, and now he half suspected that the old man’s -mind was wandering. He hesitated.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You think I’m not able, do you?” asked Craik, his -rough whisper rising to a growl. “Well, I am. I’m -not dead yet, so get him quickly.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The doctor left the room without further delay, to give -the necessary orders. When he returned, Mr. Craik was -lying with his eyes wide open, staring at the fire.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Give me something, can’t you?” he said with more -energy than he had shown that day.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The doctor began to think that it was not yet all up -with his patient, as he mixed something in a glass and -gave it to him. Craik drank eagerly and moved his -stiffened lips afterwards as though he had enjoyed the -taste of the drink.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I may not jockey the undertaker,” he grumbled, “but -I shall last till morning, anyhow.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Nearly half an hour elapsed before Sherrington Trimm -reached the house, but during all that time Thomas Craik -did not close his eyes again. His face looked less waxen, -too, and his sight seemed to have recovered some of the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_64'>64</span>light that had been fading out of it by degrees all day. -The doctor watched him with interest, wondering, as doctors -must often wonder, what was passing in his brain, -what last, unspent remnant of life’s passions had caused -so sudden a revival of his energy, and whether this manifestation -of strength were the last flare of the dying lamp, -or whether Tom Craik, to use his own words, would jockey -the undertaker, as he had jockeyed many another adversary -in his stirring existence.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The door opened, and Sherrington Trimm entered the -room. He was a short, active man, slightly inclined to -be stout, bald and very full about the chin and neck, -with sharp, movable blue eyes, and a closely-cut, grizzled -moustache. His hands were plump, white and pointed, -his feet were diminutive and his dress was irreproachable. -He had a habit of turning his head quickly to the right -and left when he spoke, as though challenging contradiction. -He came briskly to the bedside and took one of -Craik’s wasted hands in his, with a look of honest sympathy.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How are you, Tom?” he inquired, suppressing his -cheerful voice to a sort of subdued chirp.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“According to him,” growled Craik, glancing at the -doctor, “I believe I died this afternoon. However, I -want to make my will, so get out your tools, Sherry, and -set to. Please leave us alone,” he added, looking up at -the physician.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The latter went out, taking the attendant with him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Your will!” exclaimed Sherry Trimm, when the -door had closed behind the two. “I thought——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Bad habit, thinking things. Don’t. Put that drink -where I can reach it—so. There’s paper on the table. -Sit down.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Trimm saw that he had better not argue the matter, -and he did as he was bidden. He was indeed very much -surprised at the sudden turn of affairs, for he was perfectly -well aware that Tom Craik had made a will some -years previously in which he left his whole fortune to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_65'>65</span>his only sister, Trimm’s wife. The lawyer wondered -what his brother-in-law intended to do now, and as the -only means of ascertaining the truth seemed to be to -obey his orders, he lost no time in preparing to receive -the dictation.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“This the last will and testament of me, Thomas -Craik,” said the sick man, sharply. “Got that? Go -on. I do hereby revoke and annul all former wills made -by me. That’s correct isn’t it? No, I’m not wandering—not -a bit. Very important that clause—very. Go -ahead about the just debts and funeral expenses. I -needn’t dictate that.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Trimm wrote rapidly on, nervously anxious to get to -the point.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Got that? Well. I bequeath all my worldly possessions, -real and personal estate of all kinds—go on with -the stock phrases—include house and furniture, trinkets -and everything.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Trimm’s hand moved quickly along the ruled lines of -the foolscap.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“To whom?” he asked almost breathlessly, as he -reached the end of the formal phrase.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“To George Winton Wood,” said Craik with an odd -snap of the lips. “His name’s on that card, Sherry, -beside you, if you don’t know how to spell it. Go on. -Son of Jonah Wood of New York, and of Fanny Winton -deceased, also of New York. No mistake about the -identity, eh? Got it down? To have and to hold—and -all the rest of it. Let’s get to the signature—look -sharp! Get in the witness clause right—that’s the most -important—don’t forget to say, in our presence and in -the presence of each other—there’s where the hitch -comes in about proving wills. All right. Ring for the -doctor and we’ll have the witnesses right away. Make -the date clear.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Sherrington Trimm had not recovered from his surprise, -as he pressed the silver button of the bell. The -physician entered immediately.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_66'>66</span>“Can you be the other witness yourself, Sherry? -Rather not? Doctor, just send for Stubbs, will you -please? He’ll do, won’t he?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Trimm nodded, while he and the physician set a small -invalid’s table upon the sick man’s knees, and spread -upon it the will, of which the ink was not yet dry. -Trimm dipped the pen in the ink and handed it to Mr. -Craik.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Let me drink first,” said the latter. He swallowed -the small draught eagerly, and then looked about him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Will you sign?” asked Trimm nervously.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is Stubbs here? Wait for him. Here, Stubbs—you -see—this is my will. I’m going to sign it, and you’re -a witness.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes, sir,” said the butler, gravely. He moved forward -cautiously so that he could see the document and -recognise it if he should ever be called upon to do so.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The sick man steadied himself while the doctor thrust -his arm behind the pillows to give him more support. -Then he set the pen to the paper and traced his name in -large, clear characters. He did not take his eyes from -the paper until the doctor and the servant had signed as -witnesses. Then his head fell back on the pillows.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Take that thing away, Sherry, and keep it,” he said, -feebly, for the strength had gone out of him all at once. -“You may want it to-morrow—or you may not.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mechanically he laid his fingers on his own pulse, and -then lay quite still. Sherrington Trimm looked at the -doctor with an expression of inquiry, but the latter only -shrugged his shoulders and turned away. After such a -manifestation of energy as he had just seen, he felt that -it was impossible to foresee what would happen. Tom -Craik’s nerves might weather the strain after all, and -he might recover. Mr. Trimm folded the document -neatly, wrapped it in a second sheet of paper and put it -into his pocket. Then he prepared to take his leave. -He touched the sick man’s hand gently.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Good-night, Tom,” he said, bending over his brother-in-law. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_67'>67</span>“I will call in the morning and ask how you -are.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Craik opened his eyes.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Tell nobody what I have done, till I’m dead,” he -answered in a whisper. “Good-night.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mr. Trimm felt no inclination to divulge the contents -of the will. He was a very shrewd and keen man, who -could certainly not be accused of having ever neglected -his own interest, but he was also scrupulously honest, -not only with that professional honesty which is both -politic and lucrative, but in all his thoughts and reasonings -with himself. At the present moment, his position -was not an agreeable one. It is true that neither he nor -his wife were in need of Craik’s money, for they had -plenty of their own; but it is equally certain that during -several years past they had confidently expected to -inherit the old man’s fortune, if he died before them. -Trimm had himself drawn up the will by which his wife -was made the heir to almost everything Craik possessed. -There had been a handsome legacy provided for this same -George Winton Wood, but all the rest was to have been -Totty’s. And now Trimm had seen the whole aspect of -the future changed by a stroke of the pen, apparently -during the last minutes of the old man’s life. He knew -that the testator was in full possession of his senses, and -that the document was as valid as any will could be. -Conscientious as he was, if he had believed that Craik -was no longer sane, he would have been quite ready to -take advantage of the circumstance, and would have lost -no time in consulting the physician with a view to -obtaining evidence in the case that would arise. But it -was evident that Craik’s mind was in no way affected by -his illness. The thing was done, and if Craik died it was -irrevocable. Sherry and Totty Trimm would never live -in the magnificent house of which they had so often talked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not even the house!” he whispered to himself as he -went down stairs. “Not even the house!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>For a legacy he would not have cared. A few thousands -<span class='pageno' id='Page_68'>68</span>were no object to him, and he was unlike his wife -in that he did not care for money itself. The whole -fortune, or half of it, added to what the couple already -had, would have made in their lives the difference -between luxury and splendour; the possession of the -house alone, with what it contained, would have given -them the keenest pleasure, but in Trimm’s opinion a -paltry legacy of ten thousand dollars, or so, would not -have been worth the trouble of taking. Of course it was -possible that Tom Craik might recover, and make a third -will. Trimm knew by experience that a man who will -once change his mind completely, may change it a dozen -times if he have time. But Craik was very ill and there -seemed little likelihood of his ever getting upon his -legs again.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Trimm had known much of his brother-in-law’s affairs -during the last twenty years, and he was far less surprised -at the way in which he had now finally wound -them up, before taking his departure from life, than -most people would have been. He knew better than any -one that Craik was not so utterly bad-hearted as he was -generally believed to be, and he knew that as the man -grew older he felt twinges of remorse when he thought -of Jonah Wood. That he cordially detested the latter -was not altogether astonishing, since he had so greatly -injured him, but the natural contrariety of his nature -forced him into an illogical situation. He hated Wood -and yet he desired to make him some sort of restitution, -not indeed out of principle or respect for any law, human -or divine, but as a means of pacifying his half-nervous, -half-superstitious conscience. He could not have done -anything openly in the matter, for that would have been -equivalent to acknowledging the unwritten debt, so that -the only way out of his difficulty lay in the disposal of -his fortune after his death. But although he suffered -something very like remorse, he hated Jonah Wood too -thoroughly to insert his name in his will. There was -nothing to be done but to leave money to George. It -<span class='pageno' id='Page_69'>69</span>had seemed to him that a legacy of a hundred thousand -dollars would be enough to procure his own peace of -mind, and having once made that arrangement he had -dismissed the subject.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But as he lay in this illness, which he believed was to -be his last, further change had taken place in his view -of the matter. He was naturally suspicious, as well as -shrewd, and the extreme anxiety displayed by his sister -had attracted his attention. They had always lived on -excellent terms, and Totty was distinctly a woman of -demonstrative temperament. It was assuredly not surprising -that she should show much feeling for her brother -and spend much time in taking care of him. It was quite -right that she should be at his bedside in moments of -danger, and that she should besiege the doctors with -questions about Tom’s chances of recovery. But in -Tom’s opinion there was a false note in her good behaviour -and a false ring in her voice. There was something -strained, something not quite natural, something he -could hardly define, but which roused all the powers of -opposition for which he had been famous throughout his -life. It was a peculiarity of his malady that his mental -faculties were wholly unimpaired, and were, if anything, -sharpened by his bodily sufferings and by his anxiety -about his own state. The consequence was that as soon -as the doubt about Totty’s sincerity had entered his -mind, he had concentrated his attention upon it, had -studied it and had applied himself to accounting for her -minutest actions and most careless words upon the theory -that she was playing a part. In less than twenty-four -hours the suspicion had become a conviction, and Craik -felt sure that Totty was overdoing her show of sisterly -affection in order to hide her delight at the prospect of -her brother’s death. It is not too unjust to say that -there was a proportion of truth in Mr. Craik’s suppositions, -and that Mrs. Sherrington Trimm’s perturbation -of spirits did not result so much from the dread of a -great sorrow as from the prospect of a very great satisfaction -<span class='pageno' id='Page_70'>70</span>when that sorrow should have spent itself. She -was not in the least ashamed of her heartlessness, either. -Was she not doing everything in her power to soothe her -brother’s last days, sacrificing to his comfort the last -taste of gaiety she could enjoy until the mourning for -him should be over, submitting to a derangement of her -comfortable existence which was nothing short of distracting? -It was not her fault if Tom had not one of -those lovable natures whose departure from this life -leaves a great void in the place where they have dwelt.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But from being convinced that Totty cared only for -the money to the act of depriving her of it was a long -distance for the old man’s mind to pass over. He was -just enough to admit that in a similar position he would -have felt very much as she did, though he would certainly -have acted his part more skilfully and with less theatrical -exaggeration. After all, money was a very good thing, -and a very desirable thing, as Thomas Craik knew, better -than most people. After all, too, Totty was his sister, -his nearest relation, the only one of his connections with -whom he had not quarrelled at one time or another. -The world would think it very natural that she should -have everything, and there was no reason why she should -not, unless her anxiety to get it could be called one. He -considered the case in all its bearings. If, for instance, -that young fellow, George Wood, whom he had not seen -since he had been a boy, were to be put in Totty’s place, -what would he feel, and what would he do? He would -undoubtedly wish that Tom Craik might die speedily, -and his eyes would assuredly gleam when he thought of -moving into the gorgeous house, a month after the -funeral. That was only human nature, simple, unadorned, -everyday human nature. But the boy supposed -that he had no chance of getting anything, and did not -even think it worth while to ring at the door and ask the -news of his dying relation. Of course not; why should -he? And yet, thought the sour old man, if George Wood -could guess how near he was to being made a millionaire, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_71'>71</span>how nimbly his feet would move in the appropriate -direction, with what alacrity he would ring the bell, -with what an accent of subdued sympathy he would -question the servant! Truly, if by any chance he -should take it into his head to make inquiries, there -would be an instance of disinterested good feeling, -indeed. He would never do that. Why then should -the money be given to him rather than to Totty?</p> - -<p class='c000'>But the idea had taken possession of the old man’s active -brain, and would not be chased away. As he thought -about it, too, it seemed as though he might die more -easily if such full restitution were made. No one could -tell anything about the future state of existence. Thomas -Craik was no atheist, though he had never found time or -inclination to look into the question of religion, and certain -peculiarities in his past conduct had made any such -meditations particularly distasteful to him. When once -the end had come the money could be of no use to him, -and if George Wood had it, Thomas Craik might stand a -better chance in the next world. Totty had received her -share of the gain, too, and had no claim to any more of -it. He had managed her business with his own and had -enriched her while enriching himself, with what had belonged -to Jonah Wood, and to a great number of other -people. At all events, if he left everything to George no -one could accuse him hereafter—whatever that might -mean—with not having done all he could to repair the -wrong. He said to himself philosophically that one of -two things must happen; either he was to die, and in -that case he would do well to die with as clear a conscience -as he could buy, or he was to recover, and would -then have plenty of time to reflect upon his course without -having deprived himself of what he liked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>At last, between the two paths that were open to him, -he became confused, and with characteristic coolness he -determined to leave the matter to chance. If George Wood -showed enough interest in him to come to the door and -make inquiries, he would change his will. If the young -<span class='pageno' id='Page_72'>72</span>fellow did not show himself, Totty should have the fortune.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That’s what I call giving Providence a perfectly fair -chance,” he said to himself. A few hours after he had -reached this conclusion George actually came to the house.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Then Tom Craik hesitated no longer. The whole thing -was done and conclusively settled without loss of time, -as Craik had always loved to do business.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It is probable that if George had guessed the importance -of the simple act of asking after his relation’s -condition, he would have gone home without passing the -door, and would have spent so much time in reflecting -upon his course, that it would have been too late to do -anything in the matter. The problem would not have -been an easy one to solve, involving, as it did, a question -of honesty in motive on the one hand, and a consideration -of true justice on the other. If any one had asked him -for his advice in a similar case he would have answered -with a dry laugh that a man should never neglect his opportunities, -that no one would be injured by the transaction, -and that the money belonged by right to the family -of the man from whom it had been unjustly taken. But -though George could affect a cynically practical business -tone in talking of other people’s affairs he was not capable -of acting upon such principles in his own case. To -extract profit of any sort from what was nothing short of -hypocrisy would have been impossible to him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He had been unable to resist the temptation of asking -the news, because he sincerely hoped that the old man -was about to draw his last breath, and because there -seemed to him to be something attractively ironical in the -action. He even expected that Mr. Craik would understand -that the inquiry was made from motives of hatred -rather than of sympathy, and imagined with pleasure that -the thought might inflict a sting and embitter his last -moments. There was nothing contrary to George’s feelings -in that, though he would have flushed with shame -at the idea that he was to be misunderstood and that -<span class='pageno' id='Page_73'>73</span>what was intended for an insult was to be rewarded with -a splendid fortune.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Very possibly, too, there was a feeling of opposition -concerned in his act, for which he himself could not -have accounted. He was not fond of advice, and Constance -Fearing had seemed very anxious that he should -not do what he had done. Being still very young, it -seemed absurd to him that a young girl whom he scarcely -knew and had only seen twice should interfere with his -free will.</p> - -<p class='c000'>This contrariety was wholly unreasoning, and if he -had tried to understand it, he would have failed in the -attempt. He would certainly not have attributed it to -the beginning of a serious affection, for he was not old -enough to know how often love’s early growth is hidden -by what we take wrongly for an antagonism of feeling.</p> - -<p class='c000'>However all these things may be explained, George -Wood felt that he was in a humour quite new to him, -when he rang at Tom Craik’s door. He was elated without -knowing why, and yet he was full of viciously -combative instincts. His heart beat with a pleasant -alacrity, and his mind was unusually clear. He would -have said that he was happy, and yet his happiness was -by no means of the kind which makes men at peace with -their surroundings or gentle toward those with whom -they have to do. There was something overbearing in -it, that agreed with his natural temper and that found -satisfaction in what was meant for an act of unkindness.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He found his father reading before the fire. The old -gentleman read, as he did everything else, with the air -of a man who is performing a serious duty. He sat in -a high-backed chair with wooden arms, his glasses carefully -adjusted upon his nose, his head held high, his lips -set in a look of determination, his long hands holding -the heavy volume in the air before his sight and expressive -in their solid grasp of a fixed and unalterable purpose. -George paused on the threshold, wondering for -the thousandth time that so much resolution of character -<span class='pageno' id='Page_74'>74</span>as was visible in the least of his father’s actions, should -have produced so little practical result in the struggles -of a long life.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Won’t you shut that door, George?” said Jonah Wood, -not looking away from his book nor moving a muscle.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George did as he was requested and came slowly forward. -He stood still for a moment before the fireplace, -spreading his hands to the blaze.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Tom Craik is dying,” he said at last, looking at his -father’s face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>There was an almost imperceptible quiver in the strong -hands that held the book. A very slight colour rose in -the massive grey face. But that was all. The eyes remained -fixed on the page, and the angle at which the -volume was supported did not change.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well,” said the mechanical voice, “we must all die -some day.”</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER VI.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>The world was very much surprised when it was -informed that Thomas Craik was not dead after all. -During several weeks he lay in the utmost danger, and -it was little short of a miracle that he was kept alive—one -of those miracles which are sometimes performed -upon the rich by physicians in luck. While he was ill -George, who was disappointed to find that there was so -much life in his enemy, made frequent inquiries at the -house, a fact of which Mr. Craik took note, setting it -down to the young man’s credit. Nor did it escape the -keen old man that his sister Totty’s expression grew less -hopeful, as he himself grew better, and that her fits of -spasmodic and effusive rejoicing over his recovery were -succeeded by periods of abstraction during which she -seemed to be gazing regretfully upon some slowly receding -vision of happiness.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_75'>75</span>Mrs. Sherrington Trimm was indeed not to be envied. -In the first place all immediate prospect of inheriting -her brother’s fortune was removed by his unexpected -convalescence; and, secondly, she had a suspicion that -in the midst of his illness he had made some change in -the disposition of his wealth. It would be hard to say -how this belief had formed itself in her mind, for her -husband was a man of honour and had scrupulously obeyed -Craik’s injunction to be silent in regard to the will. He -found this the more easy, because what he liked least in -his wife’s character was her love of money. Having -only one child, he deemed his own and Totty’s fortunes -more than sufficient, and he feared lest if she were -suddenly enriched beyond her neighbours, she might -launch into the career of a leader of society and take up -a position very far from agreeable to his own more -modest tastes. Sherry Trimm was an eminently sensible -as well as an eminently honourable man. He possessed -a very keen sense of the ridiculous, and he knew how -easily a woman like Totty could be made the subject of -ridicule, if she had her own way, and if she suddenly -were placed in circumstances where the question of -expenditure need never be taken into consideration. -She had rarely lost an opportunity of telling him what -she should do if she were enormously rich, and it was -not hard to see that she confidently expected to possess -such riches as would enable her to carry out what Sherry -called her threats.</p> - -<p class='c000'>On the other hand Mr. Trimm’s sense of honour was -satisfied by his brother-in-law’s new will. There is a -great deal more of that sort of manly, honourable feeling -among Americans than is dreamed of in European philosophy. -Europe calls us a nation of business men, but -it generally forgets that we are not a nation of shopkeepers, -and that if we esteem a merchant as highly as -a soldier or a lawyer it is because we know by experience -that the hands which handle money can be kept as -clean as those that draw the sword or hold the pen. In -<span class='pageno' id='Page_76'>76</span>strong races the man ennobles the occupation, the occupation -does not degrade the man. If Thomas Craik was -dishonest, Jonah Wood and Sherrington Trimm were -both as upright gentlemen as any in the whole world. -It was not in Jonah Wood’s power to recover what had -been taken from him by operations that were only just -within the pale of the law, because laws have not yet -been made for such cases; nor was it Sherrington -Trimm’s vocation to play upon Tom Craik’s conscience -in the interests of semi-poetic justice. But Trimm was -honourable enough and disinterested enough to rejoice -at the prospect of seeing stolen money restored to its -possessor instead of being emptied into his wife’s purse, -and he was manly enough to have felt the same satisfaction -in the act, if his own circumstances had been far -less flourishing.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But Totty thought very differently of all these things. -She had in her much of her brother’s nature, and the -love of money, which being interpreted into American -means essentially the love of what money can give, -dominated her character, and poisoned the pleasant -qualities with which she was undoubtedly endowed. -She had, as a natural concomitant, the keenest instinct -about money and the quarter from which it was to be -expected. Something was wrong in her financial atmosphere, -and she felt the diminution of pressure as quickly -and as certainly as a good barometer indicates the -approaching south wind when the weather is still clear -and bright. It was of no use to question her husband, -and she knew her brother well enough to be aware that -he would conceal his purpose to the last. But there was -an element of anxiety and doubt in her life which she -had not known before. Tom Craik saw that much in -her face and suspected that it was the result of his -recovery. He did not regret what he had done and he -made up his mind to abide by it.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Meanwhile George Wood varied the dreariness of his -hardworking life by seeing as much as possible of the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_77'>77</span>Fearings. He went to the house in Washington Square -as often as he dared, and before long his visits had -assumed a regularity which was noticeable, to say the -least of it. If he had still felt any doubt as to what was -passing in his own heart at the end of the first month, -he felt none whatever as the spring advanced. He was -in love with Constance, and he knew it. The young -girl was aware of the fact also, as was her sister, who -looked on with evident disapproval.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why do you not send the man away?” Grace asked, -one evening when they were alone.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why should I?” inquired Constance, changing colour -a little though her voice was quiet.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Because you are flirting with him, and no good can -come of it,” Grace answered bluntly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Flirting? I?” The elder girl raised her eyebrows -in innocent surprise. The idea was evidently new to -her, and by no means agreeable.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes, flirting. What else can you call it, I would -like to know? He comes to see you—oh yes, you cannot -deny it. It is certainly not for me. He knows I -am engaged, and besides, I think he knows that I do -not like him. Very well—he comes to see you, then. -You receive him, you smile, you talk, you take an interest -in everything he does—I heard you giving him -advice the other day. Is not that flirting? He is in -love with you, or pretends to be, which is the same -thing, and you encourage him.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Pretends to be? Why should he pretend?” Constance -asked the questions rather dreamily, as though she -had put them to herself before and more than half knew -the answer. Grace laughed a little.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Because you are eminently worth while,” she replied. -“Do you suppose that if you were as poor as he is, he -would come so often?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That is not very good-natured,” observed Constance, -taking up her book again. There was very little surprise -in her tone, however, and Grace was glad to note -<span class='pageno' id='Page_78'>78</span>the fact. Her sister was less simple than she had supposed.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Good nature!” she exclaimed. “What has good -nature to do with it? Do you think Mr. Wood comes -here out of good nature? He wants to marry you, my -dear. He cannot, and therefore you ought to send him -away.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“If I loved him, I would marry him.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“But you do not. And, besides, the thing is absurd! -A man with no position of any sort—none of any sort, -I assure you—without fortune, and what is much worse, -without any profession.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Literature is a profession.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, literature—yes. Of course it is. But those -miserable little criticisms he writes are not literature. -Why does he not write a book, or even join a newspaper -and be a journalist?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Perhaps he will. I am always telling him that he -should. And as for position, he is a gentleman, whether -he chooses to go into society or not. His father was a -New Englander, I believe—but I have heard poor papa -say very nice things about him—and his mother was a -Winton and a cousin of Mrs. Trimm’s. There is nothing -better than that, I suppose.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes—that odious Totty!” exclaimed Grace in a -tone of unmeasured contempt. “She brought him here -in the hope that one of us would take a fancy to him and -help her poor relation out of his difficulties. Besides, -she is the silliest, shallowest little woman I ever knew!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I daresay. I am not fond of her. But you are -unjust to Mr. Wood. He is very talented, and he works -very hard——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“At what? At those wretched little paragraphs? I -could write a dozen of them in an hour!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I could not. One has to read the books first, you -know.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well—say two hours, then. I am sure I could -write a dozen in two hours. Such stuff, my dear! You -<span class='pageno' id='Page_79'>79</span>are dazzled by his conversation. He does talk fairly -well, when he pleases. I admit that.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am glad you leave him something,” said Constance. -“As for my marrying him, that is a very different -matter. I have not the slightest idea of doing that. -To be quite honest, the idea has crossed my mind that -he might wish it——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And yet you let him come?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes. I cannot tell him not to come here, and I like -him too much to be unkind to him—to be cold and rude -for the sake of sending him away. If he ever speaks of -it, it will be time to tell him what I think. If he does -not, it does him no harm—nor me either, as far as I -can see.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not know. It seems to me that to encourage a -man and then drop him when he can hold his tongue no -longer is the reverse of human kindness.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And it seems to me, my dear, that you are beginning -to argue from another side of the question. I did not -understand that it was out of consideration for Mr. -Wood——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No, it was not,” Grace admitted with a laugh. “I -am cruel enough to wish that you would be unkind to -him without waiting for him to offer himself. You are -a very inscrutable person, Conny! I wish I could find -out what you really think.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance made no answer, but smiled gently at her -sister as she took up her book for the second time. She -began to read as though she did not care to continue the -conversation, and Grace made no effort to renew it. She -understood enough of Constance’s character to be sure -that she could never understand it thoroughly, and she -relinquished the attempt to ascertain the real state of -things. If Constance had vouchsafed any reply, she -would have said that she was in considerable perplexity -concerning her own thoughts. For the present, however, -her doubts gave her very little trouble. She -possessed one of those calm characters which never force -<span class='pageno' id='Page_80'>80</span>their owners to be in a hurry about a decision, and she -was now, as always, quite willing to wait and see what -course her inclinations would take.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Calmness of this sort is often the result of an inborn -distrust of motives in oneself and in others, combined -with an almost total absence of impatience. The idea -that it is in general better to wait than to act, gets the -upper hand of the whole nature and keeps it, perhaps -throughout life, perhaps only until some strong and -disturbing passion breaks down the fabric of indolent -prejudice which surrounds such minds. Constance had -thought of most of the points which her sister had -brought up against George Wood, and was not at all -surprised to hear Grace speak as she had spoken. On -the contrary she felt a sort of mental pride in having -herself discerned all the objections which stood in the -way of her loving George. None of them had appeared -to be insurmountable, because none of them were in -reality quite just. She was willing to admit that her -fortune might be what most attracted him, but she had -no proof of the fact, and having doubted him, she was -quite as much inclined to doubt her own judgment of -him. His social position was not satisfactory, as Grace -had said, but she had come to the conclusion that this -was due to his distaste for society, especially since she -had heard many persons of her acquaintance express -their regret that the two Woods could not forget old -scores. His literary performances were assuredly not of -the first order, and she felt an odd sort of shame for -him, when she thought of the poor little paragraphs he -turned out in the papers, and compared the work with -his conversation. But George had often explained to -her that he was obliged to write his notices in a certain -way, and that he occupied his spare time in producing -matter of a very different description. In fact there -were answers to every one of Grace’s objections and -Constance had already framed for herself the replies -she was prepared to give her sister.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_81'>81</span>Her principal difficulty lay in another direction. Was -the very decided liking she felt for George Wood the -beginning of love, or was it not? That it was not love -at the present time she was convinced, for her instinct -told her truly that if she had loved him, she could not have -discussed him so calmly. What she defined as her liking -was, however, already so pronounced that she could -see no objection to allowing it to turn into something -warmer and stronger if it would, provided she were able -to convince herself of George’s sincerity. Her fortune -was certainly in the way. What man in such circumstances, -she asked herself, could be indifferent to the -prospect of such a luxurious independence as was hers -to confer upon him she married? She wished that some -concatenation of events might deprive her of her wealth -for a time long enough to admit of her trying the great -experiment, on condition that it might be restored to her -so soon as the question was decided in one way or the -other. Nevertheless she believed that if she really -loved him, she could forget to doubt the simplicity of -his affection.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George, on his part, was not less sensitive upon the -same point. His hatred of all sordid considerations was -such that he feared lest his intentions might be misinterpreted -wherever there was a question of money. On -the other hand, he was becoming aware that his intercourse -with Constance Fearing could not continue much -longer upon its present footing. There existed no pretext -of relationship to justify the intimacy that had -sprung out of his visits, and even in a society in which -the greatest latitude is often allowed to young and marriageable -women, his assiduity could not fail to attract -attention. The fact that the two young girls had a -companion in the person of an elderly lady distantly -connected with them did not materially help matters. -She was a faded, timid, retiring woman who was rarely -seen, and who, indeed, took pains to keep herself out of -the way when there were any visitors, fearing always to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_82'>82</span>intrude where she might not be wanted. George had -seen her once or twice but was convinced that she did -not know him by sight. He knew, however, that his -frequent visits had been the subject of remark among -the young girls’ numerous acquaintance, for his cousin -Totty had told him so with evident satisfaction, and he -guessed from Grace’s behaviour, that she at least would -be glad to see no more of him. What Grace had told -her sister, however, was strictly true. Constance encouraged -him. George was neither tactless nor fatuous, -and if Constance had shown that his presence was distasteful -to her, he would have kept away, and cured himself -of his half-developed attachment as best he could.</p> - -<p class='c000'>About this time an incident occurred which was destined -to produce a very decided effect upon his life. -One afternoon in May he was walking slowly down Fifth -Avenue on his way to Washington Square when he suddenly -found himself face to face with old Tom Craik, -who was at that moment coming out of one of the clubs. -The old man was not as erect as he had been before his -illness, but he was much less broken down than George -had supposed. His keen eyes still peered curiously into -the face of every passer, and he still set down his stick -with a sharp, determined rap at every step. Before -George could avoid the meeting, as he would instinctively -have done had there been time, he was conscious of -being under his relation’s inquiring glance. He was not -sure that the latter recognised him, but he knew that a -recognition was possible. Under the circumstances he -could not do less than greet his father’s enemy, who was -doubtless aware of his many inquiries during the period -of danger. George lifted his hat civilly and would have -passed on, but the old gentleman stopped him, to his -great surprise, and held out a thin hand, tightly encased -in a straw-coloured glove—he permitted himself certain -exaggerations of dress which somehow were not -altogether incongruous in his case.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are George Wood?” he asked. George was -<span class='pageno' id='Page_83'>83</span>struck by the disagreeable nature of his voice and at the -same time by the speaker’s evident intention to make it -sound pleasantly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes, Mr. Craik,” the young man answered, still somewhat -confused by the suddenness of the meeting.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am glad I have met you. It was kind of you to -ask after me when I was down. I thank you. It showed -a good heart.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Tom Craik was sincere, and George looked in vain for -the trace of a sneer on the parchment that covered the -worn features, and listened without detecting the least -modulation of irony in the tones of the cracked voice. -He felt a sharp sting of remorse in his heart. What he -had meant for something very like an insult had been -misunderstood, had been kindly received, and now he was -to be thanked for it.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I hate you, and I asked because I wanted to be told -that you were dead”—he could not say that, though -the words were in his mind, and he could almost hear -himself speaking them. A flush of shame rose to his face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It seemed natural to inquire,” he said, after a moment’s -hesitation. It had seemed very natural to him, -as he remembered.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Did it? Well, I am glad it did, then. It would not -have seemed so to every young man in your position. -Good day—good day to you. Come and see me if you -care to.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Again the thin gloved hand grasped his, and George -was left alone on the pavement, listening to the sharp -rap of the stick on the stones as the old man walked -rapidly away. He stood still for a moment, and then -went on down the Avenue. The dry regular rapping of -that stick was peculiarly disagreeable and he seemed to -hear it long after he was out of earshot.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He was very much annoyed. More than that, he was -sincerely distressed. Could he have guessed what had -been the practical result of his inquiries during the illness, -he would assuredly have even then turned and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_84'>84</span>overtaken Tom Craik, and would have explained with -savage frankness that he was no friend, but a bitter -enemy who would have rejoiced to hear that death had -followed and overtaken its victim. But since he could -not dream of what had happened, it appeared to him that -any explanation would be an act of perfectly gratuitous -brutality. It was not likely that he should meet the old -man often, and there would certainly be no necessity for -any further exchange of civilities. He suffered all the -more in his pride because he must henceforth accept the -credit of having seemed kindly disposed.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Then he remembered how, at his second meeting with -Constance Fearing, she had earnestly advised him not to -do what had led to the present situation. It would have -been different had he known her as he knew her now, had -he loved her as he undoubtedly loved her to-day. But -as things had been then, he hardly blamed himself for -having been roused to opposition by his strong dislike of -advice.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I have received the reward of my iniquities,” he said, -as he sat down in his accustomed seat and looked at her -delicate face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What has happened to you?” she asked, raising her -eyes with evident interest.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Something very disagreeable. Do you like to hear -confessions? And when you do, are you inclined to give -absolution to your penitents?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What is it! What do you want to tell me?” Her -face expressed some uneasiness.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you remember, when I first came here—the -second time, I should say—when Tom Craik was in -such a bad way, and I hoped he would die? You know, I -told you I would go and leave a card with inquiries, and -you advised me not to. I went—in fact, I called several -times.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You never told me. Why should you? It was -foolish of me, too. It was none of my business.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I wish I had taken your advice. The old man got -<span class='pageno' id='Page_85'>85</span>well again, but I have not seen him till to-day. Just -now, as I walked here, he was coming out of his club, -and I ran against him before I knew where I was. Do -you know? He had taken my inquiries seriously. -Thought I asked out of pure milk and water of human -kindness, so to say—thanked me so nicely and asked -me to go and see him! I felt like such a beast.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance laughed and for some reason or other the -high, musical ring of her laughter did not give George -as much satisfaction as usual.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What did you do?” she asked, a moment later.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I hardly know. I could not tell him to his face that -he had not appreciated my peculiar style of humour, -that I loathed him as I loathe the plague, and that I -had called to know whether the undertaker was in the -house. I believe I said something civil—contemptibly -civil, considering the circumstances—and he left me -in front of the club feeling as if I had eaten something -I did not like. I wish you had been there to get me out -of the scrape with some more good advice!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I? Why should I——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Because, after all, you got me into it, Miss Fearing,” -George answered rather sadly. “So, perhaps, you would -have known what to do this time.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I got you into the scrape?” Constance looked as -much distressed as though it were really all her fault.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, no—I am not in earnest, exactly. Only, I -have such an abominably contrary nature that I went to -Tom Craik’s door just because you advised me not to—that -is all. I had only seen you twice then—and——” -he stopped and looked fixedly at the young girl’s face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I knew I was wrong, even then,” Constance answered, -with a faint blush. The colour was not the result of -any present thought, nor of any suspicion of what -George was about to say; it was due to her recollection -of her conduct on that long remembered afternoon nearly -four months earlier.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No. I ought to have known that you were right. If -you were to give me advice now——”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_86'>86</span>“I would rather not,” interrupted the young girl.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I would follow it, if you did,” said George, earnestly. -“There is a great difference between that time and this.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is there?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes. Do you not feel it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I know you better than I did.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And I know you better—very much better.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am glad that makes you more ready to follow -sensible advice——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Your advice, Miss Fearing. I did not mean——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mine, then, if you like it better. But I shall never -offer you any more. I have offered you too much -already, and I am sorry for it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I would rather you gave me advice—than nothing,” -said George in a lower voice.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What else should I give you?” Her voice had a -ring of surprise in it. She seemed startled.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What you will never give, I am afraid—what I -have little enough the right to ask.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance laid down the work she held, and looked -out of the window. There was a strange expression in -her face, as though she were wavering between fear and -satisfaction.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mr. Wood,” she said suddenly, “you are making love -to me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I know I am. I mean to,” he answered, with an odd -roughness, as the light flashed into his eyes. Then, all -at once, his voice softened wonderfully. “I do it badly—forgive -me—I never did it before. I should not be -doing it now, if I could help myself—but I cannot. -This once—this once only—Constance, I love you with -all my heart.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He was timid, and women, whether old or young, do -not like timidity. It was not that he lacked either -force or courage by nature, nor any of those qualities -whereby women are won. But the life he had led had -kept him younger than he believed himself to be, and -his solitary existence had given his ideal of Constance -<span class='pageno' id='Page_87'>87</span>the opportunity of developing more quickly than the -reality. He loved her, it is true, but as yet in a peaceful, -unruffled way, which partook more of boundless -admiration than of passion. An older man would have -recognised the difference in himself. The girl’s finer -perceptions were aware of it without comprehending it -in the least. Nevertheless it was an immense satisfaction -to George to speak out the words which in his heart -had so long been written as a motto about the shrine of -his imagination.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance said nothing in answer, but rose, after a -moment’s pause, and went and stood before the fireplace, -now filled with ferns and plants, for the weather was -already warm. She turned her back upon George and -seemed to be looking at the things that stood on the -chimney-piece. George rose, too, and came and stood -beside her, trying to see her face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Are you angry?” he asked softly. “Have I offended -you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No, I am not angry,” she answered. “But—but—was -there any use in saying it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You do not love me at all? You do not care whether -I come or go?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>She pitied him, for his disappointment was genuine, -and she knew that he suffered something, though it -might not be very much.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not know what love is,” she said thoughtfully. -“Yes—I care. I like to see you—I am interested in -what you do—I should be sorry never to see you again—but -I do not feel—what is it one should feel, when -one loves?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is there any one—any man—whom you like better -than you like me?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No,” she answered with some hesitation, “I do not -think there is.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And there is a chance that you may like me better -still—that you may some day even love me?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Perhaps. I cannot tell. I have not known you very -long.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_88'>88</span>“It seems long to me—but you give me all I ask, -more than I had a right to hope for. I thank you, -with all my heart.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“There is little to thank me for. Do you think I -mean more than I say?” She turned her head and -looked calmly into his eyes. “Do you think I am -promising anything?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I would like to think so. But what could you promise -me? You would not marry me, even if you loved me -as I love you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are wrong. If I loved you, I would marry you—if -I were sure that your love was real, too. But it is -not. I am sure it is not. You make yourself think you -love me——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The young man’s dark face seemed to grow darker -still as she watched it. There was passion in it now, -but of a kind other than loving. His over sensitive -nature had already taken offence.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Please do not go on, Miss Fearing,” he said, in a low -voice that trembled angrily. “You have said enough -already.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance drew back in extreme surprise, and looked -as though she had misunderstood him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why—what have I said?” she asked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You know what you meant. You are cruel and -unjust.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>There was a short pause, during which Constance -seemed to be trying to grasp the situation, while George -stood at the other end of the chimney-piece, staring at -the pattern in the carpet. The girl’s first impulse was -to leave the room, for his anger frightened and repelled -her. But she was too sensible for that, and she thought -she knew him too well to let such a scene pass without -an explanation. She gathered all her courage and faced -him again.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mr. Wood,” she said with a firmness he had never -seen in her, “I give you my word that I meant nothing -in the least unkind. It is you who are doing me an -<span class='pageno' id='Page_89'>89</span>injustice. I have a right to know what you understood -from my words.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What could you have meant?” he asked coldly. -“You are, I believe, very rich. Every one knows that -I am very poor. You say that I make myself think I -love you——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Good heavens!” cried Constance. “You do not -mean to say that you thought that! But I never said -it, I never meant it—I would not think it——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>There was a little exaggeration in the last words. She -had thought of it, and that recently, though not when -she had spoken. It was enough, however. George -believed her, and the cloud disappeared from his face. -It was she who took his hand first, and the grasp was -almost affectionate in its warmth.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You will never think that of me?” he asked earnestly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Never—forgive me if any word of mine could have -seemed to mean that I did.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thank you,” he answered. “It is only my own -folly, of course, and I am the one to be forgiven. -Things may be different some day.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes,” assented Constance with a little hesitation, -“some day.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>A moment later George left the house, feeling as a -soldier does who has been under fire for the first time.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER VII.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>Not long after the events last chronicled, the Fearings -left New York for the summer, and George was left to -his own meditations, to the society of his father and to -the stifling heat of the great city. He had seen Constance -again more than once before she and her sister -had left town, and he had parted from her on the best -<span class='pageno' id='Page_90'>90</span>of terms. To tell the truth, since his sudden exhibition -of violent temper, she had liked him even better than -before. His genuine anger had to some extent dissipated -the cloud of doubt which always seemed to her to -hang about his motives. The doubt itself was not gone, -for as it had a permanent cause in her own fortune it was -of the sort not easily driven away.</p> - -<p class='c000'>As for George himself, he considered himself engaged, -of course in a highly conditional way, to marry Miss -Constance Fearing. She had repeated, at his urgent -solicitation, what she had said when he had first declared -himself, to wit, that if she ever loved him she would -marry him, and that there was no one whom she at -present preferred to him. More than this, he could not -obtain from her, and in his calm moments, which were -still numerous, he admitted that she was perfectly fair -and just in her answer. He, on his part, had declared -with great emphasis that, however she might love him, -he would not marry her until he was independent of all -financial difficulties, and had made himself a name. On -the whole, nothing could have seemed more improbable -than that the marriage could ever take place. The -distance between writing second-rate reviews at ten -dollars a column, and being one of the few successful -writers of the day is really almost as great as it looks to -the merest outsider. Moreover, a friendship of several -months’ standing is generally speaking a bad foundation -on which to build hopes of love. The very intimacy of -intercourse forbids those surprises in which love chiefly -delights. Friendly hands have taken the bandage from -his eyes, and he has learned to see his way about with -remarkable acuteness of perception.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Perhaps the most immediate and perceptible effect of -the last few interviews with Constance was to be found -in the work he turned out, and in the dissatisfaction it -caused in quarters where it had formerly been considered -excellent. It was beginning to be too good to serve its -end, for the writer was beginning to feel that he could -<span class='pageno' id='Page_91'>91</span>no longer efface his individuality and repress his own -opinions as he had formerly done. He exceeded in his -articles the prescribed length, he made vicious Latin quotations, -and concocted savagely epigrammatic sentences, -he inserted sharp remarks about prominent writers, -where they were manifestly beside the purpose, besides -being palpably unjust, there was a sting in almost every -paragraph which did not contain a paradox, and, altogether, -he made the literary editors who employed him -very nervous.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It won’t do, Mr. Wood,” one of them said. “The -publishers don’t like it. Several have written to me. -The paper can’t stand this kind of thing. I suppose the -fact is that you are getting too good for this work. Take -my advice. Either go back to your old style, or write -articles over your own name for the magazines. They -like quotations and snap and fine writing—authors and -publishers don’t, not a bit.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I have tried articles again and again,” George answered. -“I cannot get them printed anywhere.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well—you just go ahead and try again. You’ll get -on if you stick to it. If you think you can write some -of your old kind of notices, here’s a lot of books ready. -But seriously, Mr. Wood, if you write any more like the -last dozen or so, I can’t take them. I’m sorry, but I -really can’t.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I’ll have one more shot,” said George, desperately, as -he took up the books. He could not afford to lose the -wretched pay he got for the work.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He soon saw that other managers of literary departments -thought very much as this first specimen did.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“A little more moderation, Mr. Wood,” said a second, -who was an elderly æsthetic personage. “I hate violence -in all its forms. It is so fatiguing.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Very well,” said George submissively.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He went to another, the only one whom he knew rather -intimately, a pale, hardworking, energetic young fellow, -who had got all manner of distinctions at English and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_92'>92</span>German universities, who had a real critical talent, and -who had risen quickly to his present position by his -innate superiority over all competitors in his own line. -George liked him and admired him. His pay was not -brilliant, for he was not on one of the largest papers, but -he managed to support his mother and two young sisters -on his earnings.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Look here, Wood,” he said one morning, “this is not -the way criticism is done. You are not a critic by -nature. Some people are. I believe I am, and I always -meant to be one. You do this sort of thing just as you -would do any writing that did not interest you, and you -do it fairly well, because you have had a good education, -and you know a lot of things that ordinary people do not -know. But it is not your strong point, and I do not -believe it ever will be. Try something else. Write -an article.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That is what everybody tells me to do,” George answered. -He was disappointed, for he believed that what -he did was really good, and he had expected that the man -with whom he was now speaking would have been the -one of all others to appreciate his work. “That is what -they all tell me,” he continued, “but they do not tell me -how to get my articles accepted. Have you a recipe for -that, Johnson?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The pale young man did not answer at once. He was -extremely conscientious, which was one reason why he -was a good critic.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I cannot promise much,” he said at last. “But I -will tell you what I will do for you. If you will write -an article, or a short story—say five to eight thousand -words—I will read it and give you my honest opinion. -If I like it, I’ll push it, and it may get into print. If I -don’t, I’ll tell you so, and I’ll do nothing. You will -have to try again. But I am convinced that you are -naturally an author and not a critic.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thank you,” said George gratefully. He knew what -the promise meant, from such a man as Johnson, who -<span class='pageno' id='Page_93'>93</span>would have to sacrifice his time to the reading of the -manuscript, and whose opinion was worth having.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Can you give me any work this week?” he asked, -before he took his leave.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Johnson looked at him quietly, as though making up -his mind what to say.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I would rather not. You do not do it as well as you -did, and I am responsible. If there is anything else I -could do for you——” He stopped.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“If you will be so kind as to read my article——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes, of course. I said I would. I mean——” -Johnson looked away, and his pale face blushed to the -roots of his hair. “I mean—if you should need twenty -dollars while the article is being written, I can——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George felt a very peculiar emotion, and his voice was -a little thick, as he took the other’s hand.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thank you, Johnson, but I don’t need it. You are -awfully kind, though. Nobody ever did as much for me -before.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>When he left the room, the nervous flush had not yet -disappeared from the literary editor’s forehead, nor had -the odd sensation quite subsided from George’s own -throat. If Tom Craik had offered him the loan of twenty -dollars, he would have turned his back on him with a -bitter answer. It was a very different matter when poor, -overworked Johnson put his hand in his pocket and -proffered all he could spare. For a minute George forgot -all his disappointments and troubles in the gratitude -he felt to the pale young man. Nor did he ever lose -remembrance of the kindly generosity that had prompted -the offer.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But as he walked slowly homewards the bitterness of -his heart began to show itself in another direction. He -thought of the repeated admonitions and parcels of advice -which had been thrust upon him during the last few -days, he thought of his poverty, of his failures, and he -compared all these facts with his aspirations. He, a -poor devil who seemed to be losing the power to earn -<span class='pageno' id='Page_94'>94</span>a miserable ten dollars with his pen, he, whose carefully -prepared articles had been rejected again and again, often -without a word of explanation, he, the unsuccessful scribbler -of second-rate notices, had aspired, and did still -aspire, not only to marry Constance Fearing, but to earn -for himself such a position as should make him independent -of her fortune, so far as money was concerned, -and which, in the direction of personal reputation, should -place him in the first rank in his own country. Wonderful -things happened, sometimes, in the world of letters; -but, so far as he knew, they needed a considerable -time for their accomplishment. He was well advanced -in his twenty-sixth year already, and it was madness to -hope to achieve fame in less than ten years at the least. -In ten years, Constance would be two and thirty. He -had not thought of that before, and the idea filled him -with dismay. It seemed a great age, an absurd age for -marriage. And, after all, there was not the slightest -probability of her waiting for him. In the first place, -she did not love him, or, at least, she said that she did -not, and if her affection was not strong enough to declare -itself, it could hardly be taken into consideration as an -element in the great problem. The whole thing was -ridiculous, and he would give up the idea—if he could.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But he could not. He recognised that the thought of -Constance was the bright spot in his life, and that without -her image he should lose half his energy. In the -beginning, there had been a sort of complacent acquiescence -in the growth of his love, which made it seem as -though he had voluntarily set up an idol of his own -choosing, which he could change at will. But the idol -had begun to feed on his heart, and was already exerting -its mysterious, dominating influence over his actions and -beliefs. He began to concoct a philosophy of self-deception, -in the hope of obtaining a good result. It seemed -certain that he could never marry Constance—certain, -at all events, while this mood lasted—but he could still -dream of her and look forward to his union with her. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_95'>95</span>The great day would come, of course, when she would -marry some one else, and when he should doubtless be -buried in the ruin of his dreams, but until then he would -sustain the illusion.</p> - -<p class='c000'>And what an illusion it was! The magnitude of it -appalled him. Penniless, almost; dependent for his -bread upon his ruined father; baffled at every turn; -taught by experience that he had none of the power he -seemed to feel—that was the list of his advantages, to -be set in the balance against those possessed by Constance -Fearing. George laughed bitterly to himself as he pursued -his way through the crowded streets. It struck -him that he must be a singularly unlucky man, and he -wondered how men felt upon whom fortune smiled perpetually, -who had never known what it meant to work -hard to earn a dollar, to whom money seemed as common -and necessary an element as air. He remembered indeed -the time when, as a boy, he had known luxury, and existed -in unbroken comfort, and the memory added a bitterness -to his present case. Nevertheless he was not downhearted. -Black as the world looked, he could look -blacker, he fancied, and make the cheeks of fortune -smart with the empty purse she had tossed in his face. -His walk quickened, and his fingers itched for the pen. -He was one of those men who harden and grow savage -under defeat, reserving such luxuries as despondency for -the hours of success.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Without the slightest hesitation, he set to work. He -scarcely knew how it was that he determined to write an -article upon critics and criticism; but when he sat down -to his table the idea was already present, and phrases of -direful import were seething in the fire of his brain. -All at once he realised how he hated the work he had -been doing, how he loathed himself for doing it, how he -detested those who had doled out to him his daily portion. -What a royal satisfaction it was to “sling ink,” -as the reporters called it! To heap his full-stocked -thesaurus of abuse upon somebody and something, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_96'>96</span>most especially upon himself, in his capacity as one of -the critics! To devote the whole profession to the perdition -of an everlasting contempt, to hold it up as a -target for the public wrath, to spit upon it, to stamp -upon it, to tear it to rags, and to scatter the tatters -abroad upon the tempest of his reprobation! The phrases -ran like wildfire along the paper, as he warmed to his -work, and dragged old-fashioned anathemas from the -closets of his memory to swell the hailstorm of epithets -that had fallen first. Anathema Maranatha! Damn -criticism! Damn the critics! Damn everything!</p> - -<p class='c000'>It was a very remarkable piece of work when it was -finished, more remarkable in some ways than anything -he ever produced afterwards, and if he had taken it to -Johnson in its original form, the pale young man’s future -career might have been endangered by a fit of sudden -and immoderate mirth. Fortunately, George already -knew the adage—is it not Hood’s?—which says “it is -the print that tells the tale.” He was well aware that -writing ink is to printers’ ink as a pencil drawing to a -painted canvas, and that what looks mild and almost -gentle when it appears in an irregular handwriting upon -a sheet of foolscap can seem startlingly forcible when -impressed upon perfectly new and very expensive paper, -in perfectly new and very expensive type. He read the -article over.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Perhaps it is a little strong,” he said to himself, -with a grim smile, as he reviewed what he had written. -“I feel a little like Wellington revisiting Waterloo!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Indeed, from the style of the discourse, one might -have supposed that George had published a dozen volumes -simultaneously, and that every critic in the civilised -world had sprung up and rent him with one accord. -“English Bards and Scotch Reviewers” was but milk and -water, with very little milk, compared with his onslaught. -The dead lay in heaps, as it were, in the track of his -destroying charge, and he had hanged, drawn and quartered -himself several times for his own satisfaction, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_97'>97</span>gibbeting the quarters on every page. In his fury and -unquenchable thirst for vengeance, he had quoted whole -passages from notices he had written, only to tear them -to pieces and make bonfires of their remains.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I think I had better wait a day or two,” he remarked, -as he folded up the manuscript and put it into a drawer -of his table.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It is characteristic of the profession and its necessities, -that, after having crushed and dismembered all critics, -past, present and to come, in the most complete and -satisfactory manner, George Wood laid his hand upon -the new volumes which he had last brought home and -proceeded during several days with the task of reviewing -them. Moreover, he did the work much better than -usual, taking an odd delight in affecting the attitude of -a gentle taster, and in using the very language he most -despised, just for the sake of persuading himself that he -was right in despising it. The two editors who had -given him work to do that week were surprised to find -that he had returned with such success to his former -style of writing. They were still further surprised when -an article entitled “Cheap Criticism” appeared, about -six weeks later, in a well known magazine, signed with -his name in full. They did not like it all.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George had recast the paper more than once, and at -last, when he had regretfully “rinsed all the starch out -of it,” as he said to himself, he had taken it to Johnson.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I did not know that any modern human being could -use such violent language without swearing,” said the -pale young man, catching a phrase here and there as he -ran his eye over the manuscript.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you call that violent?” asked George, delighted -to find that he had left his work more forcible than he -had supposed. “I wish you could have seen the first -copy! This looked like prayer and meditation compared -with it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“If you pray in that style,” remarked Johnson, “your -prayers will be at least heard, if they are not answered. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_98'>98</span>They will attract attention in some quarter, though perhaps -not in the right one.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George’s face fell.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you think it is too red-hot?” he asked. “I have -been spreading butter on the public nose so long,” he -added, almost apologetically.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oleomargarine,” suggested Johnson. “It is rather -warm. That phrase—‘revelling in the contempt of -appearing contemptible’—I say, Wood, that is not -English, you know, and it’s a scorcher, too.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not English!” exclaimed George, whose blood was -up at once. “Why not?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Because it is Volapück, or Malay—or something -else, I don’t know what it is, though I admit its force.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not see how I can put it, then. It is just what -we all feel.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Look here. You do not mean that your victim -despises himself for appearing to be despicable, do you? -He does, I dare say, but you wanted to hit him, not to -show that he is still capable of human feeling. I think -you meant to say that he rejoiced in his own indifference -to contempt.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I believe I did,” said George, relinquishing the contest -as soon as he saw he was wrong. “But ‘revel’ is -not bad. Let that stand, at least.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You cannot revel in indifference, can you?” asked -Johnson pitilessly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No. That is true. But it was English, all the same, -though it did not mean what I intended.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I think not. You would not say an author appears -green, would you? You would say he appears to be -green. Then why say that a critic appears contemptible?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are always right, Johnson,” George answered -with a good-natured laugh. “I should have seen the -mistake in the proof.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“But that is the most expensive way of seeing mistakes. -I will read this carefully, and I will send you -word to-morrow what I think of it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_99'>99</span>“What makes you so quick at these things?” asked -George, as he rose to go.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Habit. I read manuscript novels for a publishing -house here. I do it in the evening, when I can find -time. Yes—it is hard work, but it is interesting. I -am both prophet and historian. The book is the reality -which I see alternately from the point of view of the -future and the past.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The result was that Johnson, who possessed much -more real power than George had imagined, wrote a -note, with which the manuscript was sent, and to -George’s amazement the paper was at once accepted and -put into type, and the proofs were sent to him. Moreover -the number of the magazine in which his composition -appeared was no sooner published than he received a -cheque, of which the amount at once demonstrated the -practical advantages of original writing as compared -with those of second-rate criticism.</p> - -<p class='c000'>With regard to the attention attracted by his article, -however, George was bitterly disappointed. He was on -the alert for the daily papers in which an account of -the contents of the periodicals is generally given, and -he expected at least a paragraph from each.</p> - -<p class='c000'>In the first one he took up, after an elaborate notice -of articles by known persons, he found the following -line:—</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mr. George Winton Wood airs his views upon criticism -in the present number.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>That was all. There was not a remark, nor a hint at -the contents of his paper, nothing to break the icy irony -of the statement. He pondered long over the words, and -then crammed the open sheet into the waste-paper basket. -This was the first. There might be better in store for -him. On the evening of the same day he found another.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“An unknown writer has an article upon criticism,” -said the oracle, without further comment.</p> - -<p class='c000'>This was, if possible, worse. George felt inclined to -write to the editor and request that his name might be -<span class='pageno' id='Page_100'>100</span>mentioned. It was a peculiarly hard case, as he had -reviewed books for this very paper during the last two -years, and was well known in the office. The third -remark was in one of those ghastly-spritely medleys -written under the heading of “Chit-Chat.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“By the way,” inquired the reviewer, “who is Mr. -George Winton Wood? And why is he so angry with -the critics? And does anybody mind? And who is he, -any way?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Half a dozen similar observations had the effect of -cooling George’s hopes of fame very considerably. They -probably did him good by eradicating a great deal of -nonsense from his dreams. He had before imagined -that in labouring at his book notices he had seen and -known the dreariest apartment in the literary workhouse, -forgetting that all he wrote appeared anonymously and -that he himself was shielded behind the ægis of a prosperous -newspaper’s name. He had not known that a -beginner is generally received, to use a French simile, -like a dog in a game of ninepins, with kicks and execrations, -unless he is treated with the cold indifference -which is harder to bear than any attack could be. And -yet, cruel as the method seems, it is the best one in most -cases, and saves the sufferer from far greater torments -in the future. What would happen if every beginner in -literature were received at the threshold with cakes and -ale, and were welcomed by a chorus of approving and -encouraging critics? The nine hundred out of every -thousand who try the profession and fail, would fail -almost as certainly a little later in their lives, and with -infinitely greater damage to their sensibilities. Moreover -the cakes and ale would have been unworthily -wasted, and the chorus of critics would have been necessarily -largely leavened with skilful liars, which, it is to -be hoped and believed, is not the case in the present -condition of criticism, in spite of George Wood and his -opinions. Is it better that boys should be allowed to -remain in school two or three years without being examined, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_101'>101</span>and that the ignorant ones should then be put to -shame before their comrades? Or is it better that the -half-witted should be excluded from the first, and separately -taught? The question answers itself. We who, -rightly or wrongly, have fought our way into public -notice, have all, at one time or another, been made to -run the gauntlet of abuse, or to swim the dead sea of -indifference. The public knows little of our lives. It -remembers the first book of which everybody talked and -which, it foolishly supposed, represented our first -experiment in print. It knows nothing of the many -years of thankless labour in the columns of the daily -press, it has never heard of our first paper in a magazine, -nor of our pride at seeing our signature in a periodical -of some repute, nor of the sovereign contempt -with which the article and the name were received. The -comfortable public has never dreamed of the wretched -prices most of us received when we entered the ranks, -and, to be honest, there is no reason why it should. It -would be quite as sensible to found a society for the -purpose of condoling with school-boys during their examinations, -as to excite the public sympathy on behalf of -what one may call undergraduate authors. The weeding -at the beginning keeps the garden clean and gay—and -amputations must be performed in good time, if the -gangrene is to be arrested effectually.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George Wood, as has been said before, was not of the -kind to be despondent, though he was easily roused to -anger. The porcupine is an animal known to literature, -as well as a beast of the field, and the quills of the -literary porcupine can be very easily made to stand on -end. George was one of the species and, on the whole, -a very favourable specimen. Fortunately for those who -had accorded so little appreciation to his early efforts, -he was at that time imprisoned in the enclosure appropriated -to unknown persons. He bristled unseen and -wasted his wrath on the desert air. He had looked -forward to the publication of his first article, as to an -<span class='pageno' id='Page_102'>102</span>emancipation from slavery, whereas he soon discovered -that he had only been advanced to a higher rank in -servitude. That is what most men find out when they -have looked forward to emancipation of any kind, and -wake up to find that instead of being chained to one side -of the wall, they are chained to the other.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George supposed that it would now be an easier matter -to get some of his former work into print. He had four -or five things in very tolerable shape, resting in a -drawer where he had put them when last rejected. He -got them out again, and again began to send them to -periodicals, without consulting his friend Johnson. To -his surprise, they were all returned without comment.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Go and ask for a job,” said Johnson, the omniscient, -when he heard of the failure. “Suggestion on the part -of the editor is the better part of valour in the writer.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What do you mean?” asked George. He had supposed -that there was nothing he did not know in this -connection.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“They won’t take articles on general subjects without -a deal of interest and urging,” answered the other. -“Get introduced to them in person. I will do it with -most of them. Then go to them and say, ‘I am a very -remarkable young man, though you do not seem to know -it. I will write anything about anything in the earth -or under the earth. Sanskrit, botany and the differential -calculus are my especially strong points, but the North -Pole has great attractions for me, I am strong in theology -and political economy, and, if anything, I would -rather spend a year in writing up the Fiji Islands than -not. If you have nothing in this line, there is music -and high art, in which I am sound, I have a taste for -architecture and I understand practical lobster-fishing. -Have you anything for me to do?’ That is the way -to talk to these men,” Johnson added with a smile. -“Try it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George laughed.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“But that is not literature,” he objected.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_103'>103</span>“Not literature? Everything that can be written -about is literature, just as everything that can be eaten -is man—in another form. You can learn as much English -in writing up lobster-fishing, as in trying to compose -a five-act tragedy, and you will be paid for it into the -bargain. Besides, if you are ever going to write anything -worth reading, you must see more and think less. -Don’t read books for a while; read things and people. -Thinking too much, without seeing, is like eating too -much—it makes your writing bilious.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“This is the critic’s recipe for acquiring fame in letters!” -exclaimed George.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Fame in letters is a sort of stuffed bugbear. You -can frighten children with it, but it belongs to the days -of witches and hobgoblins. The object of literature nowadays -is to amuse without doing harm. If you do that -well you will be famous and rich.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are utterly cynical to-day, Johnson. Are you -in earnest in what you advise me to do?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Perfectly. Try everything. Offer your services to -write anything. Among all the magazines and weeklies -there is sure to be one that is in difficulties because it -cannot get some particular article written. Don’t be too -quick to say you understand the subject, if you don’t. -Say you will try it. A man may get up almost any subject -in six weeks, and it is a good thing for the mind, -once in a long time. Try everything, I say. Make a -stir. Let these people see you—make them see you, if -they don’t want to. It is not time lost. You can use -them all in your books some day. There is an age when it -is better to wear out shoe-leather than pens—when the -sweat of the brow is worth a dozen bottles of ink. Don’t -sit over your desk yelping your discontent, while your -real brain is rusting. Confound it all! It is the will -that does it, the stir, the energy, the beating at other -people’s doors, grinding up their stairs, making them -feel that they must not lose the chance of using a man -who can do so much, making them ashamed to send you -<span class='pageno' id='Page_104'>104</span>away. Do you think I got to be where I am without a -rough and tumble fight at the first? Take everything -that comes into your way, do it as well as you know how, -with all your might, and keep up a constant howl for -more. They will respect you in spite of themselves.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The pale young man’s steel-blue eyes flashed, the -purple veins stood out on his white clenched hands and -there was a smile of triumph in his face and a ring of -victory in his voice. He had fought them all and had -got what he wanted, by talent, by industry, but above all -by his restless and untiring energy, and he was proud -of it.</p> - -<p class='c000'>To George Wood, in his poverty, it seemed very little, -after all, to be the literary editor of a daily paper. That -was not the position he must win, if he would marry -Constance Fearing.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER VIII.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>The summer passed quickly away without bringing -any new element into George’s life. He did not reject -Johnson’s advice, but he did not follow it to the letter. -His instinct was against the method suggested by his -friend, and he felt that he had not the assurance to follow -it out. He was too sensitive and proud to employ -his courage in besieging persons who did not want him. -Nevertheless he found work to do, and his position was -improved, though his writings still failed to attract any -attention. He had imagined that there was but a step -from the composition of magazine articles to the making -of a book, but he soon discovered the fallacy of the idea, -and almost regretted the old days of “book-tasting.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Meanwhile, his thoughts dwelt much on Constance, -and he adorned the temple of his idol with everything -upon which, figuratively speaking, he could lay his -hands. Strange to say, her absence during the summer -<span class='pageno' id='Page_105'>105</span>was a relief to him. It made the weakness of his position -and the futility of his hopes seem less apparent, and -it gave him time to make at least a step in the direction -of success. He wrote to her, as often as he dared, and -twice in the course of the summer she answered with -short letters that had in his eyes a suspicious savour of -kindness rather than of anything even distantly approaching -to affection. Nevertheless those were great -days in his calendar on which these missives came. The -notes were read over every morning and evening until -Constance returned, and were put in a place of safety -during the day and night.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George looked forward with the greatest anxiety to -Miss Fearing’s return. He had long felt that her sister’s -antagonism was one of the numerous and apparently insurmountable -obstacles that barred his path, and he -dreaded lest Grace’s influence should, in the course of -the long summer, so work upon Constance’s mind as to -break the slender thread that bound her to him. As -regards Grace’s intention he was by no means wrong. -She lost no opportunity of explaining to Constance that -her friendship for George Wood was little short of ridiculous, -that the man knew he had no future and was in -pursuit of nothing but money, that his writings showed -that he belonged to the poorest class of amateurs, that -men who were to succeed were always heard of from boyhood, -at school, at college and in their first efforts and -that Constance was allowing her good nature to get the -better of her common-sense in encouraging such a fellow. -In short there was very little that Grace left unsaid. But -though George had foreseen all this, as Grace, on her -part, had determined beforehand upon her course of -action during the summer, neither Grace nor George had -understood the effect that such talk would produce upon -her whom it was meant to influence. There was in Constance’s -apparently gentle nature an element of quiet -resistance which, in reality, it was not hard to rouse. -Like many very good and very conscientious people, she -<span class='pageno' id='Page_106'>106</span>detested advice and abominated interference, even on the -part of those she loved best. Her attachment for her -sister was sincere in its way, though not very strong, -and it did not extend to a blind respect for Grace’s opinions. -Grace could be wrong, like other people, and Grace -was hasty and hot-tempered, prejudiced and not free -from a certain sort of false pride. These were assuredly -not the defects of Constance’s character, at least in her -own opinion.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Her opposition was aroused and she began to show it. -Indeed, her two letters to George were both written immediately -after conversations had taken place in which -Grace had spoken of him with more than usual bitterness. -She felt as though she owed him some reparation -for the ill-treatment he got at her sister’s hands, and this -accounted in part for the flavour of kindness which -George detected in her words. The situation was further -strained by the arrival of one of the periodicals which -contained an article by him. The sisters both read it, -and Constance was pleased with it. In an indirect way, -too, she felt flattered, for it looked as though George -were beginning to follow her advice.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is trash,” said Grace authoritatively, as she threw -the magazine aside.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance allowed a full minute to elapse before she -answered, during which she seemed to be intently watching -the sail of a boat that was slowly working its way up -the river. The two girls had paused between one visit -and another to rest themselves in a place they owned -upon the Hudson. The weather was intensely hot, and -it was towards evening.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is not trash,” said Constance quietly. “You are -quite mistaken. You are completely blinded by your -prejudice.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Grace was very much surprised, for it was unlike Constance -to turn upon her in such a way.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I think it is trash for two reasons,” she said, with a -short laugh. “First, because my judgment tells me it -<span class='pageno' id='Page_107'>107</span>is, and secondly because I know that George Wood could -not possibly write anything else.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You can hardly deny that you are prejudiced after -that speech. Do you know what you will do, if you go -on in this way? You will make me fall in love with -Mr. Wood and marry him, out of sheer contrariety.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh no!” laughed Grace. “You would not marry -him. At the last minute you would throw him over, -and then he would bring an action against you for breach -of promise with a view to the damages.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance suddenly grew very pale. She turned from -the window where she was standing, crossed the small -room and stood still before her sister.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you mean that?” she asked very coldly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Grace was frightened, for the first time in her life, -but she did her best to hide it.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What difference does it make to you, whether I mean -it or not?” she inquired with a rather scornful smile.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“This difference—that if you think such things, you -and I may as well part company before we quarrel any -further.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Ah—you love him, then? I did not know.” Grace -laughed nervously.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not love him, but if I did I should not be -ashamed to say so to you or to the whole world. But I -like him very, very much, and I will not hear him talked -of as you talk of him. Do you understand?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Perfectly. Nothing could be clearer,” said Grace -with a contemptuous curl of the lip.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Then I hope you will remember,” Constance answered.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Grace did remember. Indeed, for some time she -could think of nothing else. It seemed clear enough to -her that something more than friendship was needed to -account for the emotion she had seen in her sister’s face. -It was the first time in her recollection, too, that Constance -had ever been really angry, and Grace was not -inclined to rouse her anger a second time. She changed -<span class='pageno' id='Page_108'>108</span>her tactics and ignored George Wood altogether, never -mentioning him nor reading anything that he sent to -Constance. But this mode of treating the question -proved unsatisfactory, for it was clear that Wood wrote -often, and there was nothing to prove that Constance -did not answer all his letters. Fortunately the two -sisters were rarely alone together during the rest of the -summer, and their opportunities of disagreeing were not -numerous. They were not in reality as fond of each other -as the world thought, or as they appeared to be. Their -natures were too different, and at the same time the -difference was not of that kind in which each character -seems to fill a want in the other. On the contrary the -points in which they were unlike were precisely those -which most irritated the other’s sensibilities. They had -never before quarrelled nor been so near to a quarrel as -they were in the course of the conversation just recorded, -but they were in reality very far from being harmonious.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The devoted affection of their mother had kept them -together while she had lived, and, to some extent, had -survived her, the memory of her still exercising a -strong influence over both. Constance, too, was naturally -very pacific, and rarely resented anything Grace -said, in jest or in earnest. Grace was often annoyed by -what she called her sister’s sweetness, and it was that -very quality which prevented the other from retaliating. -She had now shown that she could turn, and fiercely, if -once aroused, and Grace respected her the more for having -shown that she had a temper.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Enough has been said to show that George’s fear that -Constance would think less well of him through Grace’s -influence, was without foundation. She even went so -far as to send for him as soon as she returned to New -York in the autumn. It was a strange meeting, for -there was constraint on both sides, and at the same time -each felt the necessity of showing the other that no -change had taken place for the worse in their mutual -relations.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_109'>109</span>Constance was surprised to find how very favourably -George Wood compared with the men she had seen during -the summer—men all more or less alike in her eyes, -but nevertheless representing in her imagination the -general type of what the gentleman is supposed to be, -the type of the man of her own class, the mate of her -own species. Grace had talked so much, in the early -part of the season, of George’s inferior social position, -of his awkward manner, and, generally, of his defects, -that Constance had almost feared to find that she had -been deceived at first and that there was a little truth -in her sister’s words. One glance, one phrase of his, -sufficed to set her mind at rest. He might have peculiarities, -but they were not apparent in his way of dressing, -of entering a room or of pronouncing the English -language. He was emphatically what he ought to be, -and she felt a keen pleasure in taking up her intercourse -with him at the point where it had been interrupted -more than four months earlier.</p> - -<p class='c000'>And now the exigencies of this history require that -we should pass rapidly over the period that followed. -It was an uneventful time for all concerned. George -Wood worked with all his might and produced some -very creditable papers on a variety of subjects, gradually -attracting a certain amount of notice to himself, and -advancing, as he supposed, as fast as was possible in his -career. Success, of the kind he craved, still seemed -very far away in the dim future, though there were not -wanting those who believed that he might not wait long -for it. Foremost among those was Constance Fearing. -To her there was a vast difference between the anonymous -scribbler of small notices whom she had known a -year ago, and the promising young writer who appeared -to her to have a reputation already, because most of her -friends now knew who he was, had read one or more of -his articles and were glad to meet him when occasion -offered. She felt indeed that he had not yet found out -his best talent, but her instinct told her that the time -<span class='pageno' id='Page_110'>110</span>could not be very distant when it would break out of its -own impulse and surprise the world by its brilliancy. -That he actually possessed great and rare gifts she no -longer doubted.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Next to Constance, the Sherrington Trimms were the -loudest in their praise of George’s doings. Totty could -talk of nothing else when she came to the house in -Washington Square, and her husband never failed to -read everything George wrote, and to pat him on the -back after each fresh effort. Even George’s father began -to relent and to believe that there might be something -in literature after all. But he showed very little -enthusiasm until, one day, an old acquaintance with -whom he had not spoken for years, crossed the street -and shook hands with him, congratulated him upon his -boy’s “doing so well.” Then Jonah Wood felt that the -load of anxiety he had borne for so many years was suddenly -lifted from his shoulders. People thought his boy -was “doing well”! He had not hoped to be told that -spontaneously by any one for years to come. The -dreary look began to fade out of his grey face, giving -way to something that looked very like happiness.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George himself was the least appreciative of his own -success. Even Johnson, who was sparing of praise in -general, wrote occasional notes in his paper expressive -of his satisfaction at his friend’s work and generally -containing some bit of delicate criticism or learned -reference that lent them weight and caused them to be -reprinted into other newspapers.</p> - -<p class='c000'>So the winter came and went again and the month of -May came round once more. George was with Constance -one afternoon almost exactly a year from the day -on which he had first told her of his love. Their relations -had been very peaceful and pleasant of late, though -George was not so often alone with her as in former -times. The period of mourning for the girls’ mother -was past and many people came to the house. George -himself had gradually made numerous acquaintances and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_111'>111</span>led a more social life than formerly, finding interest, as -Johnson had predicted, in watching people instead of -poring over books. He was asked to dinner by many -persons who had known his father and were anxious to -make amends for having judged him unjustly, and when -they had once received him into their houses, they liked -him and did what they could to show it. Moreover he -was modest and reticent in regard to himself and talked -well of current topics. Insensibly he had begun to -acquire social popularity and to forget much of his -boyish cynicism. He fancied that he went into society -merely because it sometimes gave him an opportunity of -meeting Constance, but he was too natural and young -not to like it for itself.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Shall we not go out?” he asked, when he found her -alone in the drawing-room.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance looked up and smiled, as though she understood -his thought. He was afraid that Grace would -enter the room and spoil his visit, as had happened more -than once, and Constance feared the same thing. Neither -had ever said as much to the other, but there was a tacit -understanding between them, and their intimacy had -developed so far that Constance made no secret of wishing -to be alone with him when he came to the house. -She smiled in spite of herself and George smiled in -return.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes. We can take a turn in the Square,” she said. -“It will be—cooler, you know.” A soft laugh seemed -to explain the hesitation, and George felt very happy.</p> - -<p class='c000'>A few minutes later they were walking side by side -under the great trees. Instinctively they kept away -from the Fearings’ house—Grace might chance to be at -the window.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It was almost a year ago,” said George, suddenly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That I told you I loved you. You think differently -of me now, do you not?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“A little differently, perhaps,” Constance answered. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_112'>112</span>Then, feeling that she was blushing, she turned her face -away and spoke rapidly. “Yes and no. I think more -of you—that is to say, I think better of you. You -have done so much in this year. I begin to see that you -are more energetic than I fancied you were.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Does it seem to you as though what I have done has -brought us any nearer together, you and me?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Nearer? Perhaps. I do not quite see how you -mean.” The blush had disappeared, and she looked -puzzled.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I mean because I have begun—only begun—to make -something like a position for myself. If I succeed I -hope we shall seem nearer yet—nearer and nearer, till -there shall be no parting at all.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I think you mistake a letter in the word—you talk -as though you meant dearer, more than nearer—do you -not?” Constance laughed, and blushed again.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“If I said that you were making love to me—to-day, -as you said a year ago—would you answer that you -meant it—as I did?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What impertinence!” exclaimed Constance still -laughing lightly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No—but would you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I cannot tell what I should do, if you said anything -so outrageous!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I love you. Is that outrageous and impertinent?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“N—o. You say it very nicely—almost too nicely. -I am afraid you have said it before.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Often, though I cannot expect you to remember the -exact number of repetitions. How would you say it—if -you were obliged to say it? I have a good ear for a -tune. I could learn your music.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Could you?” Constance hesitated while they paused -in their walk and George looked into her eyes.</p> - -<p class='c000'>She saw something there that had not been present -when he had first spoken, a year ago. He had seemed -cold then, even to her inexperience. Now there was -both passion and tenderness in his look, and there was -sadness in his face.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_113'>113</span>“You do love me now,” she said softly. “I can see -it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And you, dear—will you not say the little words?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Again she hesitated. Then she put out her hand and -touched his very gently. “I hate you, sir,” she said. -But she pronounced the syllables with infinite softness -and delicacy, and the music of her voice could not have -been more sweet if she had said “I love you, dear.” -Then she laughed again.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I could hear you say that very often, without being -hurt,” said George tenderly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I only wanted to show you how I should say those -other words—if I would,” she answered.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is that all? Well—if there is a just proportion -between your hatred and your love and your way of -expressing them, your love must be——” he stopped.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Must be what?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“As great as mine. I cannot find anything stronger -than that to say—nor could you, if you knew.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“So you love me, then. I wonder how long it will -last? When did it begin?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“The second time I saw you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Love at second sight! How romantic—so much -more original than at first sight, and so much more -natural. No—you must not take my hand—there are -people over there—and besides, there is no reason why -you should. I told you I hated you. There—walk -like a sensible being and talk about your work!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are a strange creature, Constance.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Am I? Why do you call me Constance? I do not -call you George—indeed I do not like the name at all.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Nor I, if you do not—you can call me Constantine -if you like. That name would be more like yours.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not like my own. It makes me think of the -odiously good little girls in story books. Besides, what -is it? Why am I called Constance? Is it for the town -in Switzerland? I was never there. Is it for the virtue -I least possess?”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_114'>114</span>“As your sister is called Grace,” suggested George.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Hush! Grace is a very graceful girl. Take it in -that way, and leave her alone. Am I the English for -Constantia? Come, give me an explanation! Talk! -Say something! You are leaving the burden of the conversation -to me, and then you are not even listening!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I was thinking of you—I always am. What shall -I talk about? You are the only subject on which I -could be at all eloquent.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You might talk about yourself, for a change,” suggested -Constance.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“But you say you hate me, so that you would not find -an account of me agreeable, would you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I think my hatred could be made very accommodating, -if you would talk pleasantly—even about yourself.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I would rather make love to you than talk.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I have no doubt you would, but that is just what I do -not want you to do. Besides, you have done it before—without -any result.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That is no reason for not trying again, is it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why try it at all?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Love is its own reason,” said George, “and it is the -reason for most other things as well. I love you and I -am not in search of reasons. I love you very, very much, -with all my heart—so much that I do not know how to -say it. My life is full of you. You are everywhere. -You are always with me. In everything I have done -since I have known you I have thought of you. I have -asked myself whether this would please you, whether -that would bring a smile to your dear face, whether these -words or those would speak to your heart and be sweet -to you. You are everything the world holds for me, the -sun that shines, the air I breathe. Without the thought -of you I could neither think nor work. If a man can -grow great by the thought of woman’s love, you can -make me one of the greatest—if men die of broken hearts -you can kill me—you are everything to me—life, breath -and happiness.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_115'>115</span>Constance was silent. He spoke passionately, and -there was an accent of truth in his low, vibrating voice, -that went to her heart. For one moment she almost felt -that she loved him in return, as she had often dreamed -of loving. That he was even now more to her than any -living being, she knew already.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You like me,” he said presently. “You like me, you -are fond of me, you have often told me that I am your -best friend, the one of whom you think most. You let -me come when I will, you let me say all that is in my -heart to say, you let me tell you that I love you——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is very sweet to hear,” said Constance softly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And it is sweet to say as well—dearest. Ah, Constance, -say it once, say that it is more than friendship, -more than liking, more than fondness that you feel. -What can it cost you to say it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Would it make you very happy?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It would make this world heaven.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance stopped in her walk, drew back a little from -his side, and looked at him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I will say it,” she said quietly. “I love you—yes, I -do. No—do not start—it is not much to hear, you must -not be too hopeful. I will tell you the truth—so, as we -stand—no nearer. It is not friendship nor fondness, nor -mere liking. It is love, but it is not what it should be. -Do you know why I tell you? Because I care too much -for your respect to let you think I am a miserable flirt, -to let you think that I am encouraging you and drawing -you on, without having the least heart in the matter. -You must think me very conscientious. Perhaps I am. -Yes, I have encouraged you, I have drawn you on, -because I like to hear you say what you so often say of -late, that you love me. It is very sweet to hear, as I -told you just now. And, do you know? I wish I could -say the same things to you, and feel them. But I do not -love you enough, I am not sure of my love, it is greater -to-day and less to-morrow, and I will not give you little -where you give me so much. You know my secret now. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_116'>116</span>You may hope, if you will. I am not deceiving you. I -may love you more and more, and the day when I feel -that it is all strong and true and whole and sound and -unchangeable I will marry you. But I will not promise. -I will not run the risk so long as I feel that my love may -turn again into friendship next week—or next year. Do -you see? Have you understood me? Is it all clear now?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I understand your words, dear, but not your heart. -I thank you——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No. Do not thank me. Come, let us walk on, slowly. -Do you know that it has been the same with you, though -you will not admit it? You did not love me a year ago, -as you do now, did you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No. That was impossible. I love you more and more -every day, every week, every month.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“A year ago it would have been quite possible for you -to have forgotten me and loved some other woman. You -did not look at me as you do now. Your voice had not -the same ring in it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I daresay not—I have changed. I can feel it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes, and it is because I have watched you changing -in one way, that I am afraid I may change in the other.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George was very much surprised and at the same time -was made very happy by what she had told him. He -had indeed suspected the truth, and it was not enough to -have heard her say the words “I love you” in the calm -and reasoning tone she had used. But on the other -hand, there was something brilliantly honest about her -confession, that filled him with hope and delight. If a -woman so true once loved with all her heart, she would -love longer and better and more truly than other women -can. So at least thought George Wood, as he walked by -her side beneath the trees in Washington Square, and -glanced from time to time at her lovely blushing face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I thank you, dear, with all my heart,” he said after -a long pause.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“There is little enough to thank me for. It seems to -me that I could not have done less. Would it have been -<span class='pageno' id='Page_117'>117</span>honest and right to let things go on as they were going -without an explanation?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Perhaps not. But most women would have done -nothing. I understand you better now, I think—if a -man can ever understand a woman at all.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not understand myself,” Constance answered -thoughtfully. “Promise me one thing,” she added, -looking up quickly into his face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Anything in the world,” he said.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Anything? Then promise me that what I have said -to-day shall make no difference in the way we meet, and -that you will behave just as you did before.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Indeed I will. What difference could it make? I do -not see.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well, it might. Remember that we are not engaged -to be married——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, that? Of course not. I am engaged to you, but -you are not engaged to me. Is that it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Better not think of any engagement at all. It can -do no good. Love me if you will, but do not consider -yourself bound.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“If you will tell me how I can love you without feeling -bound to you, perhaps I will try and obey your commands. -It must be a very complicated thing.” George -laughed happily.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well, do as you will,” said Constance. “Only be -honest with me, as I have been with you. If a time -comes when you feel that you love me less, tell me so -frankly, and let there be an end. Will you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes. I am not afraid. The day will never come.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Never is thought to be an old-fashioned word, I believe—like -always. Will you do something else to please -me—something to pay me for my honesty?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Anything—everything.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Write a book, then. It is time you did it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George did not answer at once. There was nothing -which he really wished more to accomplish than what -Constance asked of him, and yet, in spite of years of literary -<span class='pageno' id='Page_118'>118</span>work and endless preparation, there was nothing -for which he really felt himself less fitted. He was -conscious that fragments of novels were constantly floating -through his brain and that scenes formed themselves -and conversations arranged themselves spontaneously in -his mind when he least expected it; but everything was -vague and unsettled, he had neither plot nor plan, -neither the persons of the drama nor the scene of their -action, neither beginning nor continuation, nor end. To -promise to write a book now, this very year, seemed -like madness. And yet he was beginning to fear lest -he should put off the task until it should be too late. -He was in his twenty-seventh year, and in his own -estimation was approaching perilously near to thirty.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why do you ask me to do it now?” he inquired.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Because it is time, and because if you go on much -longer with these short things you will never do anything -else.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I only do it as a preparation, as a step. Honestly, I -do not feel that I know enough to write a good book, and -I should be sorry to write a bad one.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Never mind. Make a beginning. It can do no harm -to try. You have written a great deal lately and you -can leave the magazines alone for a while. Shall I tell -you what I would like?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes—what?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I would like you to write your book and bring the -chapters as you write them, and read them to me one by -one.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Would you really like that?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Indeed I would.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Then I will do it. I mean that I will try, for I am -sure I cannot succeed. But—you did not think of that—where -can we read without being interrupted? I do -not propose to give your sister the benefit——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“In Central Park—on fine days. There are quiet -places there.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Will you go there with me alone?” George asked in -some surprise.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_119'>119</span>“Yes. Why not? Have I not told you that I love -you—a little?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I bless you for it, dear,” said George.</p> - -<p class='c000'>And so they parted.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER IX.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>George felt like a man who has committed himself to -take part in some public competition although not properly -prepared for the contest, and during the night that -succeeded his last meeting with Constance he slept -little. He had promised to write a book. That was -bad enough, considering that he felt so little fitted for -the task. But, at least, if he had undertaken to finish -the work, revise it and polish it and eliminate all the -errors he could discover before bringing it to Miss Fearing -in its final shape, he could have comforted himself -with the thought that the first follies he committed would -be known only to himself. He had promised, however, -to read the chapters to Constance as he wrote them, one -by one, and the thought filled him with dismay. The -charming prospect of numberless meetings with her was -marred by the fear of being ridiculous in her eyes. It -was for her alone that the book was to be written. It -would be a failure and he would not even attempt to -publish it, but the certainty that the public would not -witness his discomfiture brought no consolation with it. -Better a thousand times to be laughed at by the critics -than to see a pained look of disappointment in Constance’s -eyes. Nevertheless he considered his promise -sacred, and, after all, it was Constance who had driven -him to make it. He had protested his incapacity as -well as he could. She would see that he had been right -and would acknowledge the wisdom of waiting a little -longer before making the great attempt.</p> - -<p class='c000'>At first, he felt as though he were in a nightmare, in -<span class='pageno' id='Page_120'>120</span>a dim labyrinth from which he had pledged himself to -find an escape in a given time. His nerves, for the first -time in his life, played him false. He grew suddenly -hot, and then as suddenly cold again. Attempting to -fix his imagination, monstrous faces presented themselves -before his eyes in the dark, and he heard fragments -of conversation in which there were long sentences -that meant nothing. He lit a candle and sat up in bed, -clasping his forehead with his long, smooth fingers, and -beginning to feel that he knew what despair really -meant.</p> - -<p class='c000'>This then was the result of years of preparation, of -patient practice with the pen, of thoughtful reading and -careful study. He had always felt that he lacked the -imagination necessary for producing a novel, and now -he felt sure of it. Johnson had told him that he was no -critic, and he had believed Johnson, because Johnson -was himself the best critic he knew. What then was -he? A writer of short papers and articles. Yes, he -could do that. How easily now, at this very moment, -could he think of half a dozen subjects for such work, -and how neatly he could put them into shape, develop -them in a certain number of pages and polish them to -the proper degree of brilliancy!</p> - -<p class='c000'>The morning dawned and found him still searching -and beating his brain for a subject. As the light -increased he felt more and more nervous. It was not -in his nature to put off the beginning upon which he -had determined, and he knew that on that day he must -write the first words of his first book, or forfeit his self-respect -for ever. There was an eminently comic side to -the situation, but he could not see it. His dread of -being ridiculous in the eyes of the woman he loved was -great enough to keep him from contemplating the -absurdity of his case. His sensations became intolerable; -he felt like a doomed man awaiting his execution, -whose only chance of a reprieve lay in inventing a plot -for a novel. He could bear it no longer, and he got out -<span class='pageno' id='Page_121'>121</span>of bed and opened his window. The fresh air of the -May morning rushed in and suddenly filled the room -with sweetness and his excited brain with a new sense -of possibilities. He sat down at his table without -thinking of dressing himself, and took up his pen. A -sheet of paper lay ready before him, and the habit of -writing was strong in itself—too strong to be resisted. -In a few minutes that white sheet would be covered with -words that would mean something, and those words -would be the beginning of his book, of the novel he was -about to write but of the contents of which he had not -the remotest conception. This was not the way he had -anticipated the commencement of the work that was to -lay the first stone of his reputation. He had fancied -himself sitting down to that first page, calm and collected, -armed with a plot already thoroughly elaborated, -charmed beforehand with the characters of his own -invention, carried away from the first by the spirit of -the action, cheered at every page by the certainty of -success, because failure was to have been excluded by -the multiplicity of his precautions. And here he was, -without an idea in his brain or the least subject for an -excuse, beginning a romance which was to be judged -step by step by the person of all others most dear to -him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George dipped his pen into the ink a second time and -then glanced at the calendar. It was the fifth of May.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well,” he said aloud, “there is luck in odd numbers. -Here goes my first novel!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>And thereupon, to his own great surprise, he began -writing rapidly. He did not know what was coming, he -hardly knew whether his hero had black hair or brown, -and as for the heroine, he had not thought of her at all. -But the hero was himself and was passing a night of great -anxiety and distress in a small room, in a small house, in -the city of New York. The reason of his anxiety and distress -was a profound secret as yet, because George had -not invented it, but there was no difficulty in depicting -<span class='pageno' id='Page_122'>122</span>his state of mind. The writer had just spent that very -night himself, and was describing it while the sun was -yet scarcely risen. He chuckled viciously as he drove -his pen along the lines and wrote out the ready phrases -that rushed into his brain. It was inexpressibly comic -to be giving all the details of his hero’s suffering without -having the smallest idea of what caused it; but, as -he went on, he found that his silence upon this important -point was lending an uncanny air of mystery to his -first chapter, and his own interest was unexpectedly -aroused.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It seemed strange, too, to find himself at liberty to -devote as much space as he pleased to the elaboration of -details that attracted his attention, and to feel that he -was not limited in space as he had hitherto been in all -he wrote. Of course, when he stopped to think of what -he was to do next, he was as much convinced as ever -that nothing could come of his attempt beyond this first -chapter. The whole affair was like a sort of trial gallop -over the paper, and doubtless when he read over what he -had written he would be convinced of its worthlessness. -He remembered his first fiery article upon the critics, -and the wholesale cutting and pruning it had required -before he could even submit it to Johnson. Then, however, -he had written under the influence of anger; now, -he was conscious of a new pleasure in every sentence, -his ideas came smoothly to the surface and his own -language had a freshness which he did not recognise. -In old times he had studied the manner of great writers -in the attempt to improve his own, and his style had -been subject to violent attacks of Carlyle and to lucid -intervals of Macaulay, he had worshipped at Ruskin’s -exquisite shrine and had offered incense in Landor’s -classic temple, he had eaten of Thackeray’s salt and had -drunk long draughts from Dickens’s loving-cup. Perhaps -each had produced its effect, but now he was no longer -conscious of receiving influence from any of them. For -the first time in his life he was himself, for better, for -<span class='pageno' id='Page_123'>123</span>worse, to fail or to succeed. His soul and his consciousness -expanded together in a new and intoxicating life, -as he struck those first reckless strokes in the delicious -waters of the unknown.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He forgot everything, dress, breakfast, his father, the -time of day and the time of year, and when he rose from -his seat he had written the first chapter of his novel. -For some occult reason he had stopped suddenly and -dropped his pen. He knew instinctively that he had -reached his first halting-place, and he paused for breath, -left the table and went to the window. To his astonishment -the sun was already casting shadows in the little -brick yard, and he knew that it must be past noon. He -looked at himself and saw that he was not dressed, then -he looked at his watch and found that it was one o’clock. -He rubbed his eyes, for it had all been like a dream, -like a vision of fairyland, like a night spent at the play. -On the table lay many pages of closely-written matter, -numbered and neatly put together by sheer force of -habit. He hardly knew what they contained, and he -was quite unable to recall the words that opened the -first paragraph. But he knew the last sentence by heart, -for it was still ringing in his brain, and strange to say, -he knew what was to come next, though he seemed not -to have known it so long as he held his pen. While he -dressed himself the whole book, confused in its details -but clear in its general outline, presented itself to his -contemplation, and he knew that he should write it as -he saw it. It would assuredly not be a good novel, it -would never be published, and he was wasting his time, -but it would be a book, and he should keep his promise -to Constance. He went downstairs and found his father -at luncheon, with a newspaper beside him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well, George,” said the old gentleman, “I thought -you were never going to get up.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am not quite sure that I have been to bed,” answered -the young man. “But I know that I have been writing -since it was daylight and have had no breakfast.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_124'>124</span>“That is a bad way of beginning the day,” said Jonah -Wood, shaking his head. “You will derange your -digestion by these habits. It is idle to try such experiments -on the human frame.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It was quite an unwilling experiment. I forgot all -about eating. I had some work that had to be done and -so I put it through.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“More articles?” inquired his father with kindly -interest.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I believe I am writing a book,” said George. “It -is a new sensation and very exhilarating, but I cannot -tell you anything about it till I have got on with it -further.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“A book, eh? Well, I wish you success, George. I -hope you are well prepared and that you will do nothing -hasty or ill considered.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No, indeed!” exclaimed George with a laugh.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Hasty and ill considered! Could any two epithets -better describe the way in which he had gone to work? -What rubbish it would be when it was finished, he -thought, as he attacked the cold meat and pickles. He -realised that he was desperately hungry, and unaccountably -gay considering that he anticipated a total failure, -and it was surprising that while he believed that he had -been producing trash he should be in such a hurry to -finish his meal in order to produce more. Nothing, -however, seemed to be of the slightest importance, except -to write as fast as he could in order to have plenty of -manuscript to read to Constance at the first opportunity.</p> - -<p class='c000'>That night before going to bed he sat down in a comfortable -chair, lit a pipe and read over what he had -written. It must be very poor stuff, of course, he considered, -because he had turned it out so quickly; but he -experienced one of the great pleasures of his life in -reading it over. The phrases sent thrills of satisfaction -through him and his hand trembled as he took up one -sheet after another. It was strange that he should be -able to take such delight in what must manifestly be so -<span class='pageno' id='Page_125'>125</span>bad. But, bad or not, the thing was alive, and the -characters were his companions, whispering in his ear -the words that they were to speak, and bringing with -them their individual atmospheres, while a sort of -secondary and almost unconscious imagination performed -the scene-shifting in a smooth and masterly fashion.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Three days later, he sat beside Constance Fearing upon -a wooden bench in a retired nook in Central Park. The -weather was gloriously beautiful, and the whole world -smelt of violets and sunshine. Everything was fresh -and peaceful, and the stillness was broken only by the -voices of laughing children who played together a hundred -yards away from where the pair were sitting.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And now, begin,” said Constance eagerly, as George -produced his folded manuscript.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is horrible stuff,” he said. “I had really much -rather not read it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Shall I go away?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Then read!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>A great wave of timidity came over the young man in -that moment. He could not account for it, for he had -often read to Constance the manuscript of his short -articles. But this seemed very different. He let the -folded sheets rest on his knee, and gazed into the distance, -seeing nothing and wishing that he might sink -through the earth into his own room. To judge from -the sensation in his throat, he would not be able to read -at all. Then all at once, he grew cold. He had undertaken -to do this thing and he must carry it through, come -what might. Constance would not laugh at him, and she -would be just. He wished that she were Johnson, for it -would be easier.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am waiting,” she said with a gentle smile. George -laughed.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I never was so frightened in my life,” he said. “I -know what stage fright is, now.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance looked at him, and she liked his timidity -<span class='pageno' id='Page_126'>126</span>more than she had often liked his boldness. She felt -that she loved him a little more than before. Her voice -was very soft when she spoke.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Are you afraid of me, dear?” she asked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The blood came to George’s face. It was the first -time she had ever used an endearing expression in -speaking to him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not since you have said that,” he answered, opening -the sheets.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He read the first chapter, and she did not interrupt -him. Occasionally he glanced at her face. It was very -grave and thoughtful, and he could not guess what was -passing in her mind.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That is the end of the first chapter,” he said at last. -“Do you like it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Go on!” she exclaimed quickly without heeding his -question.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George did as he was bidden and read on to the end of -what he had brought. Whatever Constance might think -of the work, she was evidently anxious to hear it, and -this fact at least gave him a little courage. When he -had finished, he folded up the sheets quickly and returned -them to his pocket, without looking at his companion’s -face. He did not dare ask her again for her opinion and -he waited for her to speak. But she said nothing and -leaned back in her seat, apparently contemplating the -trees.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Would you like to walk a little?” George asked in -an unsteady voice. He now took it for granted that she -was not pleased.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you want to know what I think of your three -chapters?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes, please,” he answered nervously.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“They are very, very good. They are as much better -than anything you have ever done before, as champagne -is better than soda-water.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not really!” George exclaimed in genuine and overwhelming -surprise. “You are not in earnest?”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_127'>127</span>“Indeed I am,” Constance answered, with some impatience. -“Do you think I would say such a thing if I were -not sure of it? Do you not feel it yourself? Did you -not know it when you were writing?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No—I thought, because it was written so fast it -could not be worth much. Indeed, I think so still—I -am afraid that you are——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mistaken?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Perhaps—carried away because you like me, or -because you think I ought to write well.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Nonsense. Promise me that you will not show this -book to any one until it is quite finished. I want you to -take my word for it, to believe in my judgment, because -I know I am right. Will you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course I will. To whom should I show it? I -think I should be ashamed.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You need not be ashamed if you go on in that way. -When will you have written more?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Give me three days—that will give you three chapters -at least and take you well into the story. You are -not going out of town yet.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I shall not go until it is finished,” said Constance -with great determination. She had made up her mind -that George would write better if he wrote very fast, -and she meant to urge him to do his utmost.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“But that may take a long time,” he objected.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No it will not,” she answered. “You would not -keep me in New York when it is too hot, would you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I will do my best,” said George.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He kept his word and three weeks later he sat in his -room, in the small hours of the morning, writing the last -page of his first novel. He was in a state of indescribable -excitement, though he seemed to be no longer thinking -at all. The pen seemed to do the work of itself and -he followed the words that appeared so quickly with a -feverish interest. He had not the least idea how it -would all look when it was done, but something told him -that it was being done in the right way. His hand flew -<span class='pageno' id='Page_128'>128</span>from side to side of the paper, and then stopped suddenly, -why, he could not tell. It was not possible that -there should be nothing more to say, no more to add, not -one word to make the completion more complete. He -collected his thoughts and read the page over carefully to -the end. No—there was nothing wanting, and one word -more would spoil the conclusion.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not understand why, I am sure,” he said to himself. -“But that is the end, and there is no doubt about -it. So here it goes! George—Winton—Wood—May -29th.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He pushed the sheet away from him. Rather theatrical, -he thought, to sign his name to it, as though it -were a real book, and as though the manuscript were -worth keeping. He had done it all to please Constance, -and Constance was pleased. In twenty-four days he -had concocted a novel—and he had never in his life -enjoyed twenty-four days so much. That was because -he had seen Constance so often and because this wretched -scroll had amused her. Would she like the last three -chapters? Of course she would. He would take her the -whole manuscript and make her a present of it. That -was all it could be good for. To publish such stuff would -be folly, even if any publisher could be found to abet -such madness. On the whole, he would prefer to throw -the whole into the fire. Nobody could tell. He might -be famous some day in the far future, and then when he -was dead and gone and could not interfere any longer, -some abominable literary executor would get hold of this -thing and print it, and show the world what an egregious -ass the celebrated George Winton Wood had been when he -was a very young man. But Constance could have it if she -liked, on condition that it was never shown to anybody.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Thereupon George tumbled into bed and slept soundly -until ten o’clock on the following morning, when he -gathered up his manuscript, tied it up into a neat bundle -and went to meet Constance at their accustomed trysting-place -in the Park.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_129'>129</span>There were some very striking passages towards the -conclusion of the book, and George read them as well as -he could. Indeed as many of the best speeches were put -into the mouth of the hero and were supposed to be addressed -to the lady of his affections, George found it -very natural to speak them to Constance and to give -them a very tender emphasis. It was clear, too, that -Constance understood the real intention of the love-making -and, to all appearance, appreciated it, for the colour -came and went softly in her face, and there was sometimes -a little moisture in her eyes and sometimes a light -that is not caused by mere interest in an everyday novel. -George wrote better than he talked, as many men do who -are born writers. There was music in his phrases, but -it was the music of pure nature and not the rhythm of a -studied prose. That was what most struck the attention -of the young girl who sat beside him, drinking in the -words which she knew were meant for her, and which -she felt were more beautiful than anything she had heard -before.</p> - -<p class='c000'>To tell the truth, though she had spoken her admiration -very frankly and forcibly, she was beginning to -doubt her own ability to judge of the work. If George’s -talent were really as great as it now seemed to her, how -had it remained concealed so long? There had been -nothing to compare with this in his numerous short writings. -Was this because they had not been addressed to -herself, or was it for this very reason that his novel was -so much more fascinating? Or was it really because he -had at last found out his strength and was beginning to -use it like a giant? She could not tell. She confessed to -herself that she had assumed much in setting up her -judgment as a standard for him in the matter. The more -he had read, the more she had been amazed at his knowledge -of things and men, at his easy versatility and at the -power he displayed in the more dramatic parts of the -book. Of one thing she felt sure. The book would be -read and would be liked by the class of people with whom -<span class='pageno' id='Page_130'>130</span>she associated. What the critics might think or say -about it was another matter.</p> - -<p class='c000'>She had been prepared for something well done at the -last, but she had not anticipated the ending—that ending -which had so much surprised the writer himself in -his inexperience of his own powers. His voice trembled -as he read the last page, and he was not even conscious -of being ashamed of showing so much feeling about the -creatures of his imagination. He was aware, as in a -dream that Constance’s small hand was tightly clasped -in his while he was reading, and then, as his voice -ceased, he felt her head resting against his shoulder.</p> - -<p class='c000'>She was looking down and he could only see that there -was colour in her face, but as he gazed at the tiny fair -curls that were just visible to him, he saw a crystal tear -fall upon his rough sleeve and glisten in the May sunlight.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You have dropped one of your diamonds,” he said, -softly. “Is it for me—or for the man in the book?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>She looked up into his face with a happy smile.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You should know best,” she answered.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Her face was very near to his, and though his came -nearer, she did not draw hers away. George forgot the -nurses and the children in the distance. If all his -assembled acquaintances had been drawn up in ranks -before him, he would have forgotten their presence too. -His lips touched her cheek, not timidly, nor roughly -either, though he felt for one moment that his blood was -on fire. Then she drew back quickly and took her hand -from his.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is very wrong of me,” she said. “Perhaps I shall -never love you enough for that.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How can you say so? Was it for the man in the -book, then, after all?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not know—forget it. It may come some -day——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is it nearer than it was? Is it any nearer?” George -asked, very tenderly.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_131'>131</span>“I do not know. I am very foolish. Your book -moved me I suppose—it is so grand, that last part, -where he tells her the truth, and she sees how noble he -has been all through.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am glad you have liked it so much. It was written -to amuse you, and it has done that, at all events. So -here it is. Do you care to keep it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance looked at him in surprise, not understanding -what he meant.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course I want it,” she answered. “After it is -printed give it back to me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Printed!” exclaimed George, contemptuously. “Do -you think anybody would publish it? Do you really -think I would offer it to anybody?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are not serious,” said the young girl, staring at -him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Indeed I am in earnest. Do you believe a novel can -be dashed off in that way, in three or four weeks and be -good for anything? Why, it needs six months at least -to write a book!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What do you call this?” Constance asked, growing -suddenly cold and taking the manuscript from his hands.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not a book, certainly. It is a scrawl of some sort, -a little better than a dime novel, a little poorer than -the last thrilling tale in a cheap weekly. Whatever it -is, it is not a publishable story.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance could not believe her ears. She did not -know whether to be angry at his persistent contempt of -her opinion, or to be frightened at the possibility of his -being right.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“We cannot both be right,” she said at last, with sudden -energy. “One of us two must be an idiot—an -absolute idiot—and—well, I would rather not think -that I am the one, you know.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George laughed and tried to take the manuscript back, -but she held it behind her and faced him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What are you going to do with it?” he asked, when -he saw that she was determined to keep it.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_132'>132</span>“I will not tell you. Did you not say you had written -it for me?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes, but for you alone.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not at all. It is my property, and I will make any -use of it I like.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Please do not show it to any one,” he said very earnestly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I promise nothing. It is mine to dispose of as I see -fit.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Let me look over it at least—I am sure it is full of -bad English, and there are lots of words left out, and -the punctuation is erratic. Give me that chance.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No. I will not. You can do it on the proof. You -are always telling me of what you do on the proofs of -things.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Constance! For Heaven’s sake give it back to me -and think no more about it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you love me?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You know I do——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And do you want me to love you?—I may, you -know.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I want nothing else—but, Constance, I beg of -you——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Then apply your gigantic intellect to the contemplation -of what concerns you. To be short, mind your own -business, and go home.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Please——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“If you are not gone before I count five, I shall hate -you. I am beginning—one—two——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well, there is one satisfaction,” said George, abandoning -the contest, “if you send it to a publisher to read, -you will never see it again, nor hear of it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I will stand over him while he reads it,” said Constance, -laughing. “If you are good you can take me to -the carriage—if not, go away.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George walked by her side and helped her into the -brougham that waited for her a short distance from the -place where they had sat. He was utterly overcome by -<span class='pageno' id='Page_133'>133</span>the novelty of the situation and did not even attempt to -speak.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is a great book,” said Constance, speaking through -the open window after he had shut the door. “Tell him -to go home.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not care a straw what it is, so long as it has -pleased you. Home, John!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes sir.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>And away the carriage rolled. Constance had not -determined what she should do with her prize, but she -was not long in making up her mind. George had often -spoken of his friend Johnson, and had shown her articles -written by him. It struck her that he would be the -very person to whom she might apply for help. George -would never suspect her of having gone to him and, from -all accounts, he was an extremely reticent and judicious -personage. She told the coachman to drive her to the -office of the newspaper to which Johnson belonged and -to beguile the time she began to read the manuscript -over again from the beginning. When the carriage -stopped she did not know that she had been driving for -more than an hour since she had left George standing in -the road in the Park.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER X.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>Constance did not find Johnson without asking her -way many times, and losing it nearly as often, in the -huge new building which was the residence and habitation -of the newspaper. Nor did her appearance fail to -excite surprise and admiration in the numerous reporters, -messengers and other members of the establishment who -had glimpses of her as she passed rapidly on, from corridor -to corridor. It happened that Johnson was in the -room allotted to his department, which was not always the -case at that hour, for he did much of his work at his home.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_134'>134</span>“Come in!” he said sharply, without looking up from -his writing. “Well—what is it? Oh!” as he saw Miss -Fearing standing before him. “I beg your pardon, -madam!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Are you Mr. Johnson? Am I disturbing you?” Constance -asked. She was beginning to be surprised at her -own audacity, and almost wished she had not come.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes madam. My name is Johnson, and my time is -at your service,” said the pale young man, moving forward -his best chair and offering it to her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thank you. I will not trouble you long. I have -here a novel in manuscript——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Johnson interrupted her promptly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Excuse me, madam, but to avoid all misunderstanding, -I should tell you frankly from the first that we -never publish fiction——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No, of course not,” Constance broke in. “Let me -tell my story.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Johnson bowed his head and assumed an attitude of -attention.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“A friend of yours,” the young girl continued, “has -written this book. His name is Mr. George Winton -Wood——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I know him very well.” Johnson wondered why -George had not come himself, and wondered especially -how he happened to dispose of so young and beautiful -an ambassadress.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes—he has often told me about you,” said Constance. -“Very well. He has written this novel, and I -have read it. He thinks it is not worth publishing, and -I think it is. I want to ask a great favour of you. Will -you read it yourself?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The pale young man hesitated. He was intensely -conscientious, and he feared there was something queer -about the business.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Pardon me,” he said, “does Mr. Wood know that -you have brought it to me?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No indeed! I would not have him know it for the -world!”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_135'>135</span>“Then I would rather not——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“But you must!” Constance exclaimed energetically. -“It is splendid, and he wants to burn it. It will make -his reputation in a day—I assure you it will! And -besides, I would not promise him not to show it. Please, -please, Mr. Johnson——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well, if you are quite sure there is no promise——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, quite, quite sure. And will you give me your -opinion very soon? If you begin to read it you will not -be able to lay it down.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Johnson smiled as he thought of the hundreds of -manuscripts he had read for publishers. He had never -found much difficulty in laying aside any of them.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is true,” Constance insisted. “It is a great book. -There has been nothing like it for ever so many years.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Very well, madam. Give me the screed and I will -read it. When shall I send—or would you rather——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He stopped, not knowing whether she wished to give -her name. Constance hesitated, too, and blushed faintly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am Miss Fearing,” she said. “I live in Washington -Square. Will you write down the address? Come -and see me—or are you too busy?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I will bring you the manuscript the day after to-morrow, -Miss Fearing.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh please, yes. Not later, because I cannot go out of -town until I know—I mean, I want to go to Newport -as soon as possible. Come after five. Will you? I -mean if it is not giving you really too much trouble——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not in the least, Miss Fearing,” said the pale young -man with alacrity. He was thinking that for the sake -of conversing a quarter of an hour with such an exceedingly -amiable young lady, he would put himself to vastly -more trouble than was involved in stopping at Washington -Square on his way up town in the afternoon.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thank you. You are so kind. Good-bye, Mr. -Johnson.” She held out her hand, but Johnson seized -his hat and prepared to accompany her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Let me take you to the Elevated, Miss Fearing,” he -said.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_136'>136</span>“Thank you very much, but I have a carriage downstairs,” -said Constance. “If you would show me the -way—it is so very complicated.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Certainly, Miss Fearing.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance wondered why he repeated her name so -often, whether it was a habit he had, or whether he was -nervous, or whether he thought it good manners. She -was not so much impressed with him at first sight as she -had expected to be. He had not said anything at all -clever, though it was true that there had not been many -opportunities for wit in the conversation that had taken -place. He belonged to a type with which she was not -familiar, and she could not help asking herself whether -George had other friends like him, who, if she knew -them, would call her by her name half a dozen times in -three minutes, and if he had many of them whether, in -the event of her marrying him, she would be expected -to know them all and to like them for his sake. Not -that there was anything common or vulgar about this -Johnson whom George praised so much. He spoke -quietly, without any especial accent, and quite without -affectation. He was dressed with perfect simplicity and -good taste, there was nothing awkward in his manner—indeed -Constance vaguely wished that he might have -shown some little awkwardness or shyness. He was -evidently a man of the highest education, and George -said he was a man of the highest intelligence, but as -Constance gave him her hand and he closed the door of -the brougham, the impression came over her with startling -vividness, that Mr. Johnson was emphatically not a -man she would ask to dinner. She felt sure that if she -met him in society she should feel a vague surprise at -his being there, though she might find it impossible to -say why he should not. On the other hand, though she -was aware that she put herself in his power to some -extent, since it was impossible that he should not guess -that her interest in George Wood was the result of something -at least a little stronger than ordinary friendship, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_137'>137</span>yet she very much preferred to trust this stranger rather -than to confide in any of the men she knew in society, -not excepting John Bond himself.</p> - -<p class='c000'>At five o’clock on the day agreed upon, Constance was -informed that “a gentleman, a Mr. Johnson,” had called, -saying that he came by appointment.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are so kind,” said Constance, as he sat down -opposite to her. He held the manuscript in his hand. -“And what do you think of it? Am I not right?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am very much surprised,” said the pale young man. -“It is a remarkable book, Miss Fearing, and it ought to -be published at once.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance had felt sure of the answer, but she blushed -with pleasure, a fact which did not escape Johnson’s -quiet scrutiny.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You really think Mr. Wood has talent?” she asked, -for the sake of hearing another word of praise.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“There is more talent in one of his pages than in the -whole aggregate works of half a dozen ordinarily successful -writers,” Johnson answered with emphasis.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am so glad you think so—so glad. And what is -the first thing to be done in order to get this published? -You see, I must ask your help, now that you have given -your opinion.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Will you leave the matter in my hands, Miss Fearing?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance hesitated. There was assuredly no one who -would be more likely to do the proper thing in the matter, -and yet she reflected that she knew nothing or next -to nothing of the man before her, except from George’s -praise of his intelligence.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Suppose that a publisher accepts the book,” she said -warily, “what will he give Mr. Wood for it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Ten per cent on the advertised retail price,” Johnson -answered promptly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of every copy sold, I suppose,” said Constance, who -had a remarkably good head for business. “That is not -much, is it? And besides, how is one to know that the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_138'>138</span>publisher is honest? One hears such dreadful stories -about those people.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Johnson laughed a little.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Faith is the evidence of things unseen, supported by -reasonable and punctual payments,” he said. “Publishers -are not all Cretans, Miss Fearing. There be certain -just men among them who have reputations to lose.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And none of them would do better than that by the -book? But of course you know. Have you ever published -anything yourself? Forgive my ignorance——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I once published a volume of critical essays,” Johnson -answered.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What was the title? I must read it—please tell me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is not worth the trouble, I assure you. The title -was that—<cite>Critical Essays</cite> by William Johnson.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thank you, I will remember. And will you really -do your very best for Mr. Wood’s book? Do you think -it could be published in a fortnight?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“A fortnight!” exclaimed Johnson, aghast at Constance’s -ignorance. “Three months would be the shortest -time possible.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Three months! Dear me, what a length of time!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Johnson rapidly explained as well as he could the -principal reasons why it takes longer to publish a book -than to write one. He exchanged a few more words -with Constance, promising to make every effort to push -on the appearance of the novel, but advising her to -expect no news whatever for several months. Then he -took his leave.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Half an hour later Constance was at her bookseller’s.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I want a book called <cite>Critical Essays</cite>, by William -Johnson,” she said. “Have you got it, Mr. Popples?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>She waited some time before it was brought to her. -Then she pretended to look through it carefully, examining -the headings of the papers that were collected -in it.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is it worth reading?” she asked carelessly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Excellent, Miss Fearing,” answered the grey-haired -<span class='pageno' id='Page_139'>139</span>professional bookseller. He had known Constance since -she had been a mere child with a passion for Mr. Walter -Crane’s picture-books. “Excellent,” he repeated, emphatically. -“A little dry perhaps, but truly excellent.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Has it been a success, do you know?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes, I know, Miss Fearing,” answered Mr. Popples, -with a meaning smile. “I know very well. I happen -to know that it did not pay for the printing.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Did the author not even get ten per cent on the -advertised retail price?” Constance inquired.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mr. Popples stared at her for a moment, evidently -wondering where she had picked up the phrase. He -immediately suspected her of having perpetrated a literary -misdeed in one volume.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No, Miss Fearing. I happen to know that Mr. Johnson -did not get ten per cent on the advertised retail -price of his book; in point of fact, he got nothing at all -for it, excepting a number of very flattering notices. -But excuse me, Miss Fearing, if you were thinking of -venturing upon publishing anything——” His voice -dropped to a confidential pitch.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I?” exclaimed Constance.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well, Miss Fearing, it could be done very discreetly, -you know. Just a little volume of sweet verse? Is that -it, Miss Fearing? Now, you know, that kind of thing -would have a run in society, and if you would like to put -it into my hands, I know a publisher——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“But, Mr. Popples,” interrupted Constance, recovering -from her amusement so far as to be able to interrupt -the current of the bookseller’s engaging offers, “I never -wrote anything in my life. I asked out of sheer curiosity.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mr. Popples smiled blandly, without the least appearance -of disappointment.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well, well, Miss Fearing, you are quite right,” he -said. “In point of fact those little literary ventures of -young ladies very rarely do come to much, do they? To -misquote the Laureate, Miss Fearing, we might say that -<span class='pageno' id='Page_140'>140</span>‘Men must write and women must read’! Eh, Miss -Fearing?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The old fellow chuckled at his bad joke, as he wrapped -up the volume of <cite>Critical Essays</cite> by William Johnson, -and handed it across the table. There were only tables -in Mr. Popples’s establishment; he despised counters.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Anything else to serve you, Miss Fearing? A novel -or two, for the May weather? No? Let me take it to -your carriage.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thanks. I am walking, but I will carry it. Good -evening.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Good evening, Miss Fearing. Your parasol is here. -Walking this evening! In the May weather! Good -evening, Miss Fearing.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>And Mr. Popples bowed his favourite customer out of -his establishment, with a very kindly look in his tired -old spectacled eyes.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance had got what she had come for. If William -Johnson, author of <cite>Critical Essays</cite>, a journalist and a -man presumably acquainted with all the ins and outs of -publishing, had made nothing by his successful book, -George would be doing very well in obtaining ten per -cent on the advertised retail price of every copy of his -novel which was sold. Constance had been mistaken -when she had doubted Johnson, but she did not regret -her doubt in the least. After all, she had undertaken the -responsibility of George’s book, and she could not conscientiously -believe everything she was told by strangers -concerning its chances. Mr. Popples, however, was above -suspicion, and had, moreover, no reason for telling that -the <cite>Critical Essays</cite> had brought their author no remuneration. -Johnson’s face, too, inspired confidence, as -well as George’s own trust in him. Constance felt that -she had done all she could, and she accordingly made her -preparations for going out of town.</p> - -<p class='c000'>She was glad to get away, in order to study herself. -The habit of introspection had grown upon her, for she -had encouraged herself in it, ever since she had begun to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_141'>141</span>feel that George was something more to her than a friend. -Her over-conscientious nature feared to make some mistake -which might embitter his life as well as her own. -She was in constant dread of letting herself be carried -away by the impulse of a moment to say something that -might bind her to marry him, before she could feel that -she loved him wholly as she wished to love him. On -looking back, she bitterly regretted having allowed him -to kiss her cheek on that morning in the Park. She had -been under the influence of a strong emotion, produced -by the conclusion of his book, and she seemed in her own -eyes to have acted in a way quite unworthy of herself. -Had she been able to carry her analysis further, she -would have discovered that behind her distrust of herself -she felt a lingering distrust of George. A year -earlier she had thought it possible that he was strongly -attracted by her fortune. Now, however, she would have -scouted the idea, if it had presented itself in that shape. -But it was present, nevertheless, in a more subtle form.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“He loves me sincerely,” she said to herself. “He -would marry me now, if I were a pauper. But would he -have loved me from the first if I had been poor?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>It was not often that she put the question, even in -this way, but as it belonged to that class of vicious inquiries -which it is impossible to answer, it tormented her -perpetually by suggesting a whole series of doubts, useless -in themselves and mischievous in their consequences. -She was convinced of two things. First, that she was -unaccountably influenced by George’s presence to say -and do things which she was determined at other times -that she would never say or do; and, secondly, that -whether she loved him truly or not she could not imagine -herself as loving any one else nearly so much. Under -these circumstances, it was clearly better that she should -not see him for a considerable time. She would thus -withdraw herself from the sphere of his direct influence, -and she would have leisure to study and weigh her own -feelings, with a view to reaching a final decision. Nevertheless -<span class='pageno' id='Page_142'>142</span>she looked forward to the moment of parting from -him with something that was very like pain. Contrary -to her expectations, the interview passed off with little -show of emotion on either side.</p> - -<p class='c000'>They talked for some time about the book, Constance -assuming an air of mystery as regards its future and -George speaking of it with the utmost indifference. At -the last minute, when he had risen to go and was standing -beside her, she laid her hand upon his arm.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You do not think I am heartless, do you?” she asked, -looking at a particular button on his coat.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No,” George answered. “I think you are very sincere. -I sometimes wish you would forget to be so sincere -with yourself. I wish you would let yourself run away -with yourself now and then.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That would be very wrong. It would be very unfair -and unjust to you. Suppose—only suppose, you know—that -I made up my mind to marry you, and then discovered -when it was too late that I did not love you. -Would not that be dreadful? Is it not better to wait a -little longer?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You shall never say that I have pressed you into a -decision against your will,” said George, betraying in -one speech his youth, his ignorance of woman in general -and his almost quixotic readiness to obey Constance in -anything and everything.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are very generous,” she answered, still looking -at the button. “But I will not feel that I am spoiling -your life—no, let me speak—to keep you in this position -much longer would be doing that, indeed it would. -In six months from now you will be famous. I know it, -though you laugh at me. Then you will be able to marry -whom you please. I cannot marry you now, for I do not -love you enough. You are free, you must not feel that -I want to bind you, do you understand. You will travel -this summer, for you have told me that you are going to -make several visits in country-houses. If you see any -one you like better than me, do not feel that you are -<span class='pageno' id='Page_143'>143</span>tied by any promises. It would not break my heart, if -you married some one else.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>In spite of her calmness there was a slight tremor in -her voice which did not escape George’s ear.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I shall never love any one else,” he said simply.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You may. I may. But waiting must have a -limit——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Say this, Constance,” said George. “Say that if, by -next May, you do not love me less than you do now, you -will be my wife.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No. I must love you more. If I love you better than -now, it will show that my love is always to increase, and -I will marry you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“In May?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“In May, next year. But this is no engagement. I -make no promise, and I will take none from you. You -are free, and so am I, until the first of May——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I shall never be free again, dear,” said George, happily, -for he anticipated great things of the strange agreement -she proposed. He put his arm about her and drew -her to him very tenderly. Another second and his lips -would have touched her cheek, just where they had -touched it once before. But Constance drew back -quickly and slipped from his arm.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No, no,” she laughed, “that is not a part of the -agreement. It is far too binding.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George’s face was grave and sad. Her action had -given him a sharp thrust of painful disappointment, and -he did his best not to hide it. Constance looked at him -a moment.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Am I not right?” she asked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are always right—even when you give me -pain,” he answered with a shade of bitterness.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Have I given you pain now?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Did you think, from the way I behaved, that I would -let you kiss me for good-bye?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_144'>144</span>“You shall not say that I hurt you, and you shall not -go away believing that I deceived you,” said Constance, -coming back to him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>She put her two hands round his neck and drew down -his willing face. Then she kissed him softly on both -cheeks.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Forgive me,” she said. “I did not mean to hurt you. -Good-bye—dear.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George left the house feeling very happy, but persuaded -that neither he nor any other man could ever -understand the heart of woman, which, after all, seemed -to be the only thing in the world worth understanding. -He had ample time for reflection in the course of the -summer, but without the reality before him the study of -the problem grew more and more perplexing.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The weather grew very warm in the end of June, and -George left New York. He had written much in the -course of the year and had earned enough money to give -himself a rest during the hot months. He tried to persuade -his father to accompany him and to spend the time -by the seaside while George himself made his promised -visits. But Jonah Wood declared that he preferred New -York in the summer and that nothing would induce him -to waste money on such folly as travelling. To tell the -truth, the old gentleman had grown accustomed to rigid -economy in his little house in town, but he could not look -forward with any pleasure to the discomforts of second-rate -hotels in second-rate places. So George went away -alone.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He had already begun another book. He did not look -upon his first effort in the light of a book at all, but he had -tasted blood, and the thirst was upon him, and he must -needs quench it. This time, however, he set himself -steadily to work to do the very best he could, labouring -to repress his own vivacity and trying to keep out of the -fever that was threatening to carry him away outside of -himself. He limited his work strictly to a small amount -every day, polishing every sentence and thinking out -<span class='pageno' id='Page_145'>145</span>every phrase before it was set down. Working in this -way he had written about half a volume by the end of -August, when he found himself in a pleasant country-house -by the sea in the midst of a large party of people. -He had all but forgotten his first book, and had certainly -but a very dim recollection of what it contained. He -looked back upon its feverish production as upon a sort -of delirious dream during which he had raved in a language -now strange to his memory.</p> - -<p class='c000'>One afternoon, in the midst of a game of lawn-tennis, -a telegram was brought to him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Rob Roy and Co. publish book immediately England -and America. Have undertaken that you accept royalty -ten per cent retail advertised price. Wire reply. C. F.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George possessed a very considerable power of concealing -his emotions, but this news was almost too much -for his equanimity. He thrust the despatch into his -pocket and went on playing, but he lost the game in a -shameful fashion and was roundly abused by his cousin -Mamie Trimm, who chanced to be his partner. Mamie -and her mother were stopping in the same house, by what -Mrs. Sherrington Trimm considered a rather unfortunate -accident, since Mamie was far too fond of George already. -In reality, the excellent hostess had an idea that George -loved the girl, and as the match seemed most appropriate -in her eyes, she had brought them together on purpose.</p> - -<p class='c000'>As soon as possible he slipped away, put on his flannel -jacket and went to the telegraph office, reading the despatch -he had received over and over again as he hurried -along the path, and trying to compose his answer at the -same time. Constance’s message seemed amazingly neat, -business-like and concise, and he wondered whether some -one else had not been concerned in the affair. The phrase -about the royalty did not sound like a woman’s expression, -though she might have copied it from the publisher’s -letter.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George had formerly imagined that if his first performance -were really in danger of being published, he -<span class='pageno' id='Page_146'>146</span>should do everything in his power to prevent such a -catastrophe. He felt no such impulse now, however. -Messrs. Rob Roy and Company were very serious people, -great publishers, whose name alone gave a book a chance -of success. They bore an exceptional reputation in the -world of books, and George knew very well that they -would not publish trash. But he was not elated by the -news, however much surprised he might be. It was -strange, indeed, that a firm of such good judgment should -have accepted his novel, but it could not but be a failure, -all the same. He would get the proofs as soon as possible, -and he would do what he could to make the work -decently presentable by inserting plentiful improvements.</p> - -<p class='c000'>His answer to Constance’s telegram was short.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Deplore catastrophe. Pity public. Thank publisher. -Agree terms. Where are proofs? G. W.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>By the time the proofs were ready, George was once -more in New York, though Constance had not yet -returned. He was hard at work upon his second book -and looked with some disgust at the package of printed -matter that lay folded as it had come, upon his table. -Nevertheless he opened the bundle and looked at them.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Confound them!” he exclaimed. “They have sent -me a paged proof instead of galleys!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>It was evident that he could not insert many changes, -where the matter was already arranged in book form, -and he anticipated endless annoyance in pasting in -extensive “riders” of writing-paper in order to get room -for the vast changes he considered necessary.</p> - -<p class='c000'>An hour later he was lying back in his easy-chair -reading his own novel with breathless interest. He had -not yet made a correction of any kind in the text. It -was not until the following day that he was able to go -over it all more calmly, but even then, he found that -little could be done to improve it. When he had finished, -he sent the proofs back and wrote a letter to Constance.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I have read the book over,” he wrote, among other -things, “and it is not so bad as I supposed. I know -<span class='pageno' id='Page_147'>147</span>that it cannot be good, but I am convinced that worse -novels have found their way into print, if not into -notice. I take back at least one-tenth of all I said about -it formerly, and I will not abuse it in the future, leaving -that office to those who will doubtless command -much forcible language in support of their just opinion. -Am I to thank you, too? I hardly know. There are -other things for which I would rather be in a position to -owe you thanks. However, the die is cast, you have -made a skipping-rope of the Rubicon and have whisked -it under my feet without my consent. Let the poor book -take its chance. Its birth was happy, may its death at -least be peaceful.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>To this Constance replied three weeks later.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am glad to see that a disposition to repentance has -set in. You are wise in not abusing my book any more. -You ought to be doing penance in sackcloth and ashes -before that bench in Central Park on which I sat when I -told you it was good. The children would all laugh at -you, and throw stones at you, and I should be delighted. -I am not coming to town until it is published and is a -success. Grace thinks I have gone into speculations, -because I get so many letters and telegrams about it. I -shall not tell you what the people who read the manuscript -said about it. You can find that out for yourself.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George awoke one morning to find himself, if not -famous, at least the topic of the day in more countries -than one. A week had not elapsed before the papers -were full of notices of his book and speculations as to -his personality. No one seemed to consider that George -Winton Wood, the novelist, could be the same man as -G. W. Wood, the signer of modest articles in the magazines. -The first review called him an unknown person -of surprising talent, the second did not hesitate to -describe him as a man of genius, and the third—branded -him as a plagiarist who had stolen his plot from -a forgotten novel of the beginning of the century and -had somehow—this was not clear in the article—made -<span class='pageno' id='Page_148'>148</span>capital out of the writings of Macrobius, he was a villain, -a poacher, a pickpocket novelist, a literary body-snatcher, -in fact in the eyes of all but the over-lax law, -little short of a thief. George knew that sort of style, -and he read the abuse over again and again with unmitigated -delight. He had done as much himself in the -good old days when the editors would let him. He did -not show this particular notice to his father, however, -and only handed him those that were favourable—and -they were many. Jonah Wood sat reading them all day -long, over and over again.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am very glad, George,” he said, repeatedly. “I -am very proud of you. It is splendid. But do you -think all this will bring you much pecuniary remuneration?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Ten per cent on the advertised retail price of each -copy,” was George’s answer.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He entered the railway station one day and was amazed -to see the walls of the place covered with huge placards, -three feet square, bearing the name of his book and his -own, alternately, in huge black letters on a white ground. -The young man at the bookstall was doing a thriving -business. George went up to him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That book seems to sell,” he said quietly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Like hot cakes,” answered the vendor, offering him -his own production. “One dollar twenty-five cents.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thank you,” said George. “I would not give so -much for a novel.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well, there are others will, I guess,” answered the -young man. “Step aside if you please and give these -ladies a chance.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George smiled and turned away.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_149'>149</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XI.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>Sherrington Trimm had kept Mr. Craik’s secret as -well as he could, but although he had not told his wife -anything positive concerning the will that had been so -hastily drawn up, he had found it impossible not to convey -to Totty such information about the matter as was -manifestly negative. She had seen very soon that he -considered the inheritance of her brother’s money as an -illusion, upon which he placed no faith whatever, and -she had understood that in advising her not to think too -much about it, he meant to do more than administer one -of his customary rebukes to her covetousness. At last, -she determined to know the truth and pressed him with -the direct question.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“So far as I know, my dear,” he answered, gravely, -“you will never get that money, so you may just as well -put the subject out of your mind, and be satisfied with -what you have.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Neither diplomacy nor cajolery nor reproaches could -force anything more definite than this from Sherrington -Trimm’s discreet lips, though Totty used all her weapons, -and used them very cleverly, in her untiring efforts -to find out the truth. Was Tom going to leave his gold -to a gigantic charity? Sherry’s round, pink face grew -suddenly stony. Was it a hospital or an asylum for -idiots?—he really might tell her! His expression never -changed. Totty was in despair, and her curiosity tormented -her in a way that would have done credit to the -gad-fly which tortured Io of old. Neither by word, nor -look, nor deed could Sherry be made to betray his -brother-in-law’s secret. He was utterly impenetrable, -as soon as the subject was brought up, and Totty even -fancied that he knew beforehand when she was about to -set some carefully-devised trap for him, so ready was he -to oppose her wiles.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_150'>150</span>On the other hand since old Mr. Craik had recovered, -his sister had shown herself more than usually anxious -to please him. In this she argued as her husband had -done, saying that a man who had changed his will once -might very possibly change it again. She therefore -spared no pains in consulting Tom’s pleasure whenever -occasion offered, and she employed her best tact in making -his life agreeable to him. He, on his part, was even -more diverted than she intended that he should be, and -he watched all her moves with inward amusement. -There had never been any real sympathy between them. -He had been the first child, and several others had died -in infancy during a long series of years, Totty, the -youngest of all, alone surviving, separated from her -brother in age by nearly twenty years. From her childhood, -she had always been trying to get something from -him, and whenever the matters in hand did not chance -to clash with his own interests, he had granted her -request. Indeed, on the whole, and considering the -man’s grasping character, he had treated her with great -generosity. Totty’s gratitude, however, though always -sincere, was systematically prophetic in regard to favours -to come, and Tom had often wondered whether anything -in the world would satisfy her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Of late she seemed to have developed an intense interest -in the means of prolonging life, and she did not fail -to give him the benefit of all the newest theories on the -subject. Tom, however, did not feel that he was going -to die, and was more and more irritated by her officious -suggestions. One day she took upon herself to be more -than usually pressing. He had been suffering from a -slight cold, and she had passed an anxious week.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“There is nothing for you, Tom,” she said, “but a -milk cure and massage. They say there is nothing like -it. It is perfectly wonderful——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Her brother raised his bent head and looked keenly at -her, while a sour smile passed over his face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Look here, Totty,” he answered, “don’t you think I -should keep better in camphor?”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_151'>151</span>“How can you be so unkind!” exclaimed Totty, blushing -scarlet. She rarely blushed at all, and her brother’s -amusement increased, until it reached its climax and -broke out in a hard, rattling laugh.</p> - -<p class='c000'>After this, Mrs. Trimm grew more cautious. She -talked less of remedies and cures and practised with -great care a mournfully sympathetic expression. In the -course of a week or two this plan also began to wear -upon Craik’s nerves, for she made a point of seeing him -almost every day.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I say, Totty,” he said suddenly. “If anybody is -dead, tell me. If you think anybody is going to die, -send for the doctor. But if they are all alive and well, -don’t go round looking like an undertaker’s wife when -the season has been too healthy.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How can you expect me to look gay?” Totty asked -with a sad smile. “Do you think it makes me happy to -see you going on in this way?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Which way?” inquired Mr. Craik with a pleased -grin.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why, you won’t have massage, and you won’t take -the milk cure, and you won’t go to Aix, and you won’t -let me do anything for you, and—and I’m so unhappy! -Oh Tom, how unkind you are!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Thereupon Mrs. Trimm burst into tears with much -feeling. Tom Craik looked at her for some seconds and -then, being in his own house, rang the bell, sent for the -housekeeper and a bottle of salts, and left Totty to -recover as best she might. He knew very well that -those same tears were genuine and that they had their -source in anger and disappointment rather than in any -sympathy for himself, and he congratulated himself upon -having changed his will in time.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The old man watched George Wood’s increasing success -with an interest that would have surprised the -latter, if he had known anything of it. It seemed as if, -by assuring him the reversion of the fortune, Tom Craik -had given him a push in the right direction. Since that -<span class='pageno' id='Page_152'>152</span>time, indeed, George’s luck had begun to turn, and now, -though still unconscious of the wealth that awaited him, -he was already far on the road to celebrity and independence. -The lonely old man of business found a new -and keen excitement in following the doings of the young -fellow for whom he had secretly prepared such an overwhelming -surprise. He was curious to see whether -George would lose his head, whether he would turn into -the fatuous idol of afternoon tea-parties, or whether he -would fall into vulgar dissipation, whether he would -quarrel with his father as soon as he was independent, -or whether he would spend his earnings in making the -old gentleman more comfortable.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Tom Craik cared very little what George did, provided -he did something. What he most regretted was that he -could not possibly be present to enjoy the surprise he -had planned. It amused him to think out the details of -his future. If, for instance, George took to drinking -and gambling, losing and wasting at night what he had -laboured hard to earn during the day, what a moment -that would be in his life when he should be told that -Tom Craik was dead, and that he was master of a great -fortune. The old man chuckled over the idea, and -fancied he could see George’s face when, having lost -more than he could possibly pay, his young eyes heavy -with wine, his hand trembling with excitement, he would -be making his last desperate stand at poker in the quiet -upper room of a gambling club. He would lose his -nerve, show his cards, lose and sink back in his chair -with a stare of horror. At that moment the door would -open and Sherry Trimm would come in and whisper a -few words in his ear. Tom Craik liked to imagine the -young fellow’s bound of surprise, the stifled cry of -amazement that would escape from his lips, the doubts, -the fears that would beset him until the money was -his, and then the sudden cure that would follow. Yes, -thought Tom, there was no such cure for a spendthrift -as a fortune, a real fortune. To make a man love money, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_153'>153</span>give it to him all at once in vast quantities—provided -he is not a fool. And George was no fool. He had -already proved that.</p> - -<p class='c000'>There was something satanic in Mr. Craik’s speculations. -He knew the world well. It amused him to -fancy George, admired and courted as a literary lion, -but feared by all judicious mammas, as only young, poor -and famous literary lions are feared. How the sentimental -young ladies would crowd about him and offer -him tea, cake and plots for his novels! And how the -ring of mothers would draw their daughters away from -him and freeze him with airs politely cold! How two -or three would be gathered together in one corner of the -room to say to each other that two or three others in the -opposite corner were foolishly exposing their daughters -to the charms of an adventurer, for his books bring him -in nothing, my dear, not a cent—Mr. Popples told me -so! And how the compliment would be returned upon -the two or three, by the other two or three, with usurious -compound interest. Enter to them, thought Craik, -another of their tribe—what do you think, my dears? -Tom Craik left all that money to George Wood, house, -furniture, pictures, horses and carriages—everything! -Just think! I really must go and speak to the dear -fellow! And how they would all be impelled, at the -same moment, by the same charitable thought! How -they would all glide forward, during the next quarter of -an hour, impatient to thaw with intimacy what they had -lately wished to freeze with politeness, and how, a little -later, each would say to her lovely daughter as they -went home—you know Georgey Wood—for it would be -Georgey at once—is such a good fellow, so famous and -yet so modest, so unassuming when you think how -enormously rich he is. Is he rich, mamma? Why, -yes, Kitty—or Totty, or Dottie, or Hattie, or Nelly—he -has all Tom Craik’s money, and that gem of a house -to live in, and the pictures and everything, and your -cousin—or your aunt—Totty is furious about it—but -<span class='pageno' id='Page_154'>154</span>he is such a nice fellow. There would not be much -difficulty about getting a wife for the “nice fellow” -then, thought Thomas Craik.</p> - -<p class='c000'>And one or other of these things might have actually -happened, precisely as Thomas Craik foresaw if that -excellent and worthy man, Sherrington Trimm had not -unexpectedly fallen ill during the spring that followed -George Wood’s first success. His illness was severe and -was undoubtedly caused by too much hard work, and was -superinduced by a moderate but unchanging taste for -canvas-backs, truffles boiled in madeira and an especial -brand of brut champagne. Sherry recovered, indeed, -but was ordered to Carlsbad in Bohemia without delay. -Totty found that it was quite impossible for her to -accompany him, considering the precarious state of her -brother’s health. To leave Tom at such a time would -be absolutely heartless. Sherrington Trimm expressed -a belief that Tom would last through the summer and -perhaps through several summers, as he never did a -stroke of work and was as wiry as hairpins. He might -have added that his brother-in-law did not subsist upon -cryptograms and brut wines, but Sherry resolutely avoided -suggesting to himself that the daily consumption of -those delicacies was in any way connected with his late -illness. His wife, however, shook her head, and quoting -glibly three or four medical authorities, assured him -that Tom’s state was very far from satisfactory. Mamie -might go with her father, if she pleased, but Totty -would not leave the sinking ship.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Till the rats leave it,” added Mr. Trimm viciously. -His wife gave him a mournfully severe glance and left -him to make his preparations.</p> - -<p class='c000'>So he went abroad, and was busy for some time with -the improvement of his liver and the reduction of his -superfluous fat, and John Bond managed the business in -his stead. John Bond was a very fine fellow and did -well whatever he undertook, so that Mr. Trimm felt no -anxiety about their joint affairs. John himself was delighted -<span class='pageno' id='Page_155'>155</span>to have an opportunity of showing what he could -do and he looked forward to marrying Grace Fearing in -the summer, considering that his position was now sufficiently -assured. He was far too sensible a man to have -any scruples about taking a rich wife while he himself -was poor, but he was too independent to live upon Grace’s -fortune, and as she was so young he had put off the wedding -until he felt that he was making enough money to -have all that he wanted for himself without her aid. -When they were married she could do what she pleased -without consulting him, and he would do as he liked -without asking her advice or assistance. He considered -that marriage could not be happy where either of the -couple was dependent upon the other for necessities or -luxuries, and that domestic peace depended largely on -the exclusion of all monetary transactions between man -and wife. John Bond was a typical man of his class, -tall, fair, good-looking, healthy, active, energetic and -keen. He had never had a day’s illness nor an hour’s -serious annoyance. He had begun life in the right way, -at the right end and in a cheerful spirit. There was no -morbid sentimentality about him, no unnecessary development -of the imagination, no nervousness, no shyness, -no underrating of other people and no overrating of himself. -He knew he could never be great or famous, and -that he could only be John Bond as long as he lived. -John Bond he would be, then, and nothing else, but John -Bond should come to mean a great deal before he had -done with the name. It should mean the keenest, most -hardworking, most honest, most reliable, most clean-handed -lawyer in the city of New York. There was a -breezy atmosphere of truth, soap and enterprise about -John Bond.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Before going abroad Sherrington Trimm asked Tom -Craik whether he should tell his junior partner of the -existence of a will in favour of George Wood. Mr. Craik -hesitated before he answered.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well, Sherry,” he said at last, “considering the uncertainty -<span class='pageno' id='Page_156'>156</span>of human life, as Totty says, and considering -that you are more used to Extra Dry than to Carlsbad -waters, you had better tell him. There is no knowing -what tricks that stuff may play with you. Let it be in -confidence.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course,” said Mr. Trimm. “I would rather trust -John Bond than trust myself.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The same day he imparted the secret to his partner. -The latter nodded gravely and then fell into a fit of -abstraction which was very rare with him. He knew a -great deal of the relations existing between Constance -and George Wood, and in his frank, lawyer-like distrust -of people’s motives, he had shared Grace’s convictions -about the man, though he had always treated him with -indifference and always avoided speaking of him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>There are some people whose curiosity finds relief in -asking questions, even though they obtain no answers to -their inquiries. Totty was one of these, and she missed -her husband more than she had thought possible. There -had been a sort of satisfaction in tormenting him about -the will, accompanied by a constant hope that he might -one day forget his discretion in a fit of anger and let out -the secret she so much desired to learn. Now, however, -there was no one to cross-examine except Tom himself, -and she would as soon have thought of asking him a -direct question in the matter as of trying to make holes -in a mill-stone with a darning-needle. Her curiosity -had therefore no outlet and as her interest was so directly -concerned at the same time, it is no wonder that she fell -into a deplorably unsettled state of mind. For a long -time not a ray of light illuminated the situation, and -Totty actually began to grow thin under the pressure of -her constant anxiety. At last she hit upon a plan for -discovering the truth, so simple that she wondered how -she had failed to think of it before.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Nothing indeed could be more easy of execution than -what she contemplated. Her husband kept in a desk in -his room a set of duplicate keys to the deed boxes in his -<span class='pageno' id='Page_157'>157</span>office. Among these there must be also the one that -opened her brother’s box. These iron cases were kept -in a strong room that opened into a small corridor between -Sherrington Trimm’s private study and the outer -rooms where the clerks worked. Totty had her own -box there, separate from her husband’s and she remembered -that there was one not far from hers on which was -painted her brother’s name. She would have no difficulty -in entering the strong room alone, on pretence of -depositing a deed. Was she not the wife of the senior -partner, and had she not often done the same thing -before? If her brother had made a new will, it must be -in that box, where he kept such papers as possessed only -a legal value. One glance would show her all she wanted -to know, and her mind would be at rest from the wearing -anxiety that now made her life almost unbearable.</p> - -<p class='c000'>She opened the desk and had no difficulty in finding -the key to her brother’s box. It was necessary to take -something in the nature of a deed, to hold in her hand as -an excuse for entering the strong room, for she did not -want to take anything out of it, lest John Bond, who -would see her, should chance to notice the fact and should -mention it to her husband when he came back. On the -other hand, it would not do to deposit an empty envelope, -sealed and marked as though it contained something -valuable. Mrs. Trimm never did things by halves nor -was she ever so unwise as to leave traces of her tactics -behind her. A palpable fraud like an empty envelope -might at some future time be used against her. To take -any document away from the office, even if she returned -the next day, would be to expose herself to a cross-examination -from Sherrington when he came home, for he -knew the state of her affairs and would know also that -she never needed to consult the papers she kept at the -office. There was nothing for it but to have a real document -of some sort. Totty sat down and thought the -matter over for a quarter of an hour. Then she ordered -her carriage and drove down town to the office of a broker -who sometimes did business for her and her husband.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_158'>158</span>“I have made a bet,” she said, with a little laugh, “and -I want you to help me to win it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The broker expressed his readiness to put the whole -New York Stock Exchange at her disposal in five minutes, -if that were of any use to her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes,” said Totty. “I have bet that I will buy a -share in something—say for a hundred dollars—that I -will keep it a year and that at the end of that time it -will be worth more than I gave for it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“One way of winning the bet would be to buy several -shares in different things and declare the winner afterwards. -One of the lot will go up.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That would not be fair,” said Totty with a laugh. “I -must say what it is I have bought. Can you give me -something of the kind—now? I want to take it away -with me, to show it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The broker went out and returned a few minutes later -with what she wanted, a certificate of stock to the -amount of one hundred dollars, in a well-known undertaking.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“If anything has a chance, this has,” said the broker, -putting it into an envelope and handing it to her. “Oh -no, Mrs. Trimm—never mind paying for it!” he added -with a careless laugh. “Give it back to me when you -have done with it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>But Totty preferred to pay her money, and did so -before she departed. Ten minutes later she was at her -husband’s office. Her heart beat a little faster as she -asked John Bond to open the strong room for her. She -hoped that something would happen to occupy him while -she was within.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Let me help you,” he said, entering the place with -her. The strong room was lighted from above by a small -skylight over a heavy grating, the boxes being arranged -on shelves around the walls. John Bond went straight -to the one that belonged to Totty and moved it forward a -little so that she could open it. She held her envelope -ostentatiously in one hand and felt for her key in her -<span class='pageno' id='Page_159'>159</span>pocket with the other. She knew which was hers and -which was her brother’s, because Tom’s had a label fastened -to it, with his name, whereas her own had none.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thanks,” she said, as she turned the key in the lock -and raised the lid. “Please do not stay here, Mr. Bond, -I want to look over a lot of things so as to put this I have -brought into the right place.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well—if I cannot be of any use,” said John. “I -have rather a busy day. Please call me to shut the room -when you have finished.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Totty breathed more freely when she was alone. She -could hear John cross the corridor and enter the private -office. A moment later everything was quiet. With a -quick, stealthy movement, she slipped the other key into -the box labelled “T. Craik,” turned it and lifted the -cover. Her heart was beating violently.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Fortunately for her the will was the last paper that -had been put with the others and lay on the top of them -all. The heavy blue envelope was sealed and marked -“Will,” with the date. Totty turned pale as she held it -in her hands. She had not the slightest intention of -destroying it, whatever it might contain, but even to -break the seal and read it looked very like a criminal act. -On the other hand, when she realised that she held in her -hand the answer to all her questions, and that by a turn -of the fingers she could satisfy all her boundless curiosity, -she knew that it was of no use to attempt resistance in -the face of such a temptation. She realised, indeed, that -she would not be able to restore the seal, and that she -must not hope to hide the fact that somebody had tampered -with the will, but the thought could not deter her -from carrying out her intention. As she turned, her -sleeve caught on the corner of the box which she had -inadvertently left open and the lid fell with a sharp snap. -Instantly John Bond’s footstep was heard in the corridor.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Totty had barely time to withdraw the key from her -brother’s box and to bury the will under her own papers -when John entered the room.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_160'>160</span>“Oh!” he exclaimed in evident surprise, “I thought -I heard you shut your box, and that you had finished.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No,” said Totty in an unsteady voice, bending her -pale face over her documents. “The lid fell, but I -opened it again. I will call you when I come out.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>John returned to his work without any suspicion of -what had happened. Then Totty extracted a hairpin -from the coils of her brown hair and tried to lift the seal -of the will from the paper to which it was so firmly attached. -But she only succeeded in damaging it. There -was nothing to be done but to tear the envelope. Still -using her hairpin she slit open one end of the cover and -drew out the document.</p> - -<p class='c000'>When she knew the contents, her face expressed unbounded -surprise. It had never entered her head that -Tom could leave his money to George Wood of all people -in the world.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What a fool I have been!” she exclaimed under her -breath.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Then she began to reflect upon the consequences of -what she had done, and her curiosity being satisfied, her -fears began to assume serious proportions. Was it a -criminal act that she had committed? She gazed rather -helplessly at the torn envelope. It would be impossible -to restore it. It would be equally impossible to put the -will back into the box, loose and unsealed, without her -husband’s noticing the fact the next time he had occasion -to look into Tom Craik’s papers. He would remember -very well that he had sealed it and marked it on the -outside. The envelope, at least, must disappear at once. -She crumpled it into as small a compass as possible and -put it into her jacket. It would be very simple to burn -it as soon as she was at home. But how to dispose of -the will itself was a much harder matter. She dared not -destroy that also, for that might turn out to be a deliberate -theft, or fraud, or whatever the law called such -deeds. On the other hand, her brother might ask for it -at any time and if it were not in the box it could not be -<span class='pageno' id='Page_161'>161</span>forthcoming, and her husband would get into trouble. It -would be easy for Tom to suspect that Sherrington Trimm -had destroyed the will, in order that his wife, as next of -kin and only heir-at-law should get the fortune. She -thought that, as it was, Tom had shown an extraordinary -belief in human nature, though when she thought of her -husband’s known honesty she understood that nobody -could mistrust him. He himself would doubtless be the -first to discover the loss. What would he do? He would -go to Tom and make him execute a duplicate of the -will that was lost. Meanwhile, and in case Tom died -before Sherrington came back, Totty could put the original -in some safe place, where she could cause it to be -found if necessary—behind one of those boxes, for instance, -or in some corner of the strong room. Nothing -that was locked up between those four walls could ever -be lost. If Tom died, she would of course be told that -a will had been made and was missing. John Bond would -come to her in great distress, and she would come down -to the office and help in the search. The scheme did not -look very diplomatic, but she was sure that there was -nothing else to be done. It was the only way in which -she could avoid committing a crime while avoiding also -the necessity of confessing to her husband that she had -committed an act of supreme folly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>She folded the paper together and looked about the -small room for a place in which to hide it. As she was -looking she thought she heard John Bond’s step again. -She had no time to lose for she would not be able to get -rid of him if he entered the strong room a third time. -To leave it on one of the shelves would be foolish, for it -might be found at any time. She could see no chink or -crack into which to drop it, and John was certainly coming. -Totty in her desperation thrust the paper into the -bosom of her dress, shut up her own box noisily and -went out.</p> - -<p class='c000'>She thought that John Bond looked at her very curiously -when she went away, though the impression might -<span class='pageno' id='Page_162'>162</span>well be the result of her own guilty fears. As a matter -of fact he was surprised by her extreme pallor and was -on the point of asking if she were ill. But he reflected -that the strong room was a chilly place and that she -might be only feeling cold, and he held his tongue.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The paper seemed to burn her, and she longed to be -in her own house where she could at least lock it up -until she could come to some wise decision in regard to -it. She leaned back in her carriage in an agony of nervous -fear. What if John Bond should chance to be the -one who made the discovery? He probably knew of the -existence of the will, and he very probably had seen it -and knew where it was. It was strange that she had -not thought of that. If, for instance, it happened that -he needed to look at some of her brother’s papers that -very day, would he not notice the loss and suspect her? -After all, he knew as well as any one what she had to -gain by destroying the will, if he knew what it contained. -How much better it would have been to put it -back in its place even without the envelope! How -much better anything would be than to feel that she -might be found out by John Bond!</p> - -<p class='c000'>She was already far up town, but in her distress she -did not recognise her whereabouts, and leaning forward -slightly looked through the window. As fate would -have it, the only person near the carriage in the street -was George Wood, who had recognised it and was trying -to get a glimpse of herself. When he saw her, he bowed -and smiled, just as he always did. Totty nodded hastily -and fell back into her seat. A feeling of sickening -despair came over her, and she closed her eyes.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_163'>163</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XII.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>George Wood’s reputation spread rapidly. He had -arrested the attention of the public, and the public was -both ready and willing to be amused by him. He had -finished the second of his books soon after the appearance -of the first, and he had found no difficulty in selling -the manuscript outright upon his own terms. It was -published about the time when the events took place -which have been described in the last chapter, and it -obtained a wide success. It was, indeed, wholly different -from its predecessor in character and presented a strong -contrast to it. The first had been full of action, passionate, -strange, unlike the books of the day. The -second was the result of much thought and lacked almost -altogether the qualities that had given such phenomenal -popularity to the first. It was a calm book, almost -destitute of plot and of dramatic incidents. It had been -polished and adorned to the best of the young writer’s -ability, he had put into it the most refined of his thoughts, -he had filled it with the sayings of characters more than -half ideal. He had believed in it while he was writing -it, but he was disappointed with it when it was finished. -He had intended to bind together a nosegay of sweet-scented -flowers about a central rose, and when he had -finished, his nosegay seemed to him artificial, the blossoms -looked to him as though they were without stems, -tied to dry sticks, and the scent of them had no freshness -for his nostrils. Nevertheless he knew that he had -given to his work all that he possessed of beauty and -refinement in the storehouse of his mind, and he looked -upon the venture as final in deciding his future career. -It is worse to meet with failure on the publication of a -second book, when the first has taken the world by surprise, -than it is to fail altogether at the very beginning. -Many a polished scholar has produced one good volume; -<span class='pageno' id='Page_164'>164</span>many a refined and spiritual intelligence has painted one -lovely scene and dropped the brushes for ever, or taken -them up only to blotch and blur incongruous colours -upon a spiritless outline, searching with blind eyes for -the light that shone but once and can never shine again. -Many have shot one arrow in the air and have hit the -central mark, whose fingers scarce knew how to hold the -bow. The first trial is one of half-reasoned, half-inspired -talent; the second shows the artist’s hand; the third -and all that follow are works done in the competition -between master and master, to which neither apprentice -nor idle lover of the art can be admitted. He whose -first great effort has been successful, and whose second -disappoints no one but himself, may safely feel that he -has found out his element and known his own strength. -He will perhaps turn out only a dull master at his craft -as years go on, or he may be but a second-rate artist, but -his apprenticeship has been completed and he will henceforth -be judged by the same standard as other artists and -masters.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George Wood had followed his own instinct in lavishing -so much care and thought and pains upon the book that -was now to appear, and his instinct had not deceived him, -though when he saw the result he feared that he had -made the great false step that is irretrievable. Though -many were ready to accept his work on any terms he -was pleased to name, yet he held back his manuscript for -many weeks, hesitating to give it to the world. The -memory of his first enthusiasms blended in his mind with -the beauties of tales yet untold and darkened in his eyes -the polish of the present work. Constance admired it -exceedingly, saying that, although nothing could ever be -to her like the first, this was so different in every way, -and yet so good, that no unpleasant comparisons could -be made between the two. Then George took it to Johnson -who kept it a long time and would give no opinion -about it until he had read every word it contained.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“This settles it,” he said at last.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_165'>165</span>“For better or for worse?” George asked, looking at -the pale young man’s earnest face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“For better,” Johnson answered without hesitation. -“You are a novelist. It is not so broad as a church-door, -nor so deep as a well—but it will serve. You -will never regret having published it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>So the book went to the press and in due time appeared, -was tasted, criticised and declared to be good by a majority -of judges, was taken up by the public, was discussed, -liked and obtained a large sale. George was congratulated -by all his friends in terms of the greatest enthusiasm -and he received so many invitations to dinner as -made him feel that either his digestion or his career, or -both, must perish in the attempt to cope with them. -The dinner-party of to-day, considered as the reward of -merit and the expression of good feeling, is no novelty -in the history of the world’s society. Little Benjamin -was expected to eat twelve times as much as any of his -big brothers because Joseph liked him, and the successful -man of to-day is often treated with the same kindly, -though destructive liberality. No one would think it -enough to ask him to tea and overwhelm him with the -praises of a select circle of fashionable people. He must -be made to eat in order that he may understand from the -fulness of his own stomach the fulness of his admirer’s -heart. To heap good things upon the plate of genius -has been in all times considered the most practical way -of expressing the public admiration—and in times not -long past there was indeed a practical reason for such -expression of goodwill, in that genius was liable to be -very hungry even after it had been universally acknowledged. -The world has more than once bowed down from -a respectful distance, to the possessor of a glorious intelligence, -who in his heart would have preferred a solid -portion of bread and cheese to the perishable garlands of -flowers scattered at his feet, or to the less corruptible -monuments of bronze and stone upon which his countrymen -were ready to lavish their gold after he was dead of -starvation.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_166'>166</span>A change has come over the world of late, and it may -be that writers themselves have been the cause of it. It -is certain that since those who live by the pen have made -it their business to amuse rather than to admonish and -instruct their substance has been singularly increased -and their path has been made enviably smooth. Their -shadows not only wax and follow the outlines of a pleasant -rotundity, but they are cast upon marble pavements, -inlaid floors and Eastern carpets, instead of upon the -dingy walls and greasy mud of Grub Street. The star -of the public amuser is in the ascendant, and his “Part -of Fortune” is high in the mid-heaven.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It has been said that nothing succeeds like success, -and George very soon began to find out the truth of the -saying. He was ignorant of the strange possibilities of -wealth that were in store for him, and the present was -sufficient for all his desires, and far exceeded his former -hopes. The days were gone by when he had looked -upon his marriage with Constance Fearing as a delicious -vision that could never be realised, and to contemplate -which, even without hope, seemed to be a dangerous -piece of presumption. He had now a future before him, -brilliant, perhaps, but assuredly honourable and successful. -At his age and with his health and strength the -possibility of his being broken down by overwork or -illness did not present itself to him, and, if it had, he -could very well have afforded to disregard it in making -his calculations. The world’s face showed him one -glorious catalogue of hopes and he felt that he was the -man to realise them all.</p> - -<p class='c000'>And now, too, the first of May was approaching again -and he looked forward to receiving a final answer from -Constance. Her manner had changed little towards him -during the winter, but he thought that little had been -for the better. He never doubted, now, that she was -most sincerely attached to him nor that it depended on -anything but her own fancy, to give a name to that -attachment and call it love. Surely the trial had lasted -<span class='pageno' id='Page_167'>167</span>long enough, surely she must know her own mind now, -after so many months of waiting. It was two years -since he had first told her that he loved her, a year had -passed away since she had admitted that she loved him -a little, and now the second year, the one she had asked -for as a period of probation had spent itself likewise, -bringing with it for George the first great success of his -life and doubling, trebling his chances of happiness. -His growing reputation was a bond between them, of -which they had forged every link together. Her praise -had stimulated his strength, her delicate and refined -taste had often guided the choice of his thoughts, his -power of language had found words for what was in the -hearts of both. George could no more fancy himself as -working without consulting Constance than he could -imagine what life would be without sight or hearing. -Her charm was upon him and penetrated all he did, her -beauty was the light by which he saw other women, her -voice the music that made harmony of all other sounds. -He loved her now, as women have rarely been loved, for -love had taken root in his noble and generous nature, as -a rare seed in a virgin soil, beautiful from the first and -gaining beauty as it grew in strength and fulness of -proportion. His heart had never been disturbed before, -by anything resembling true passion, there were no -reminiscences to choke the new growth, no dry and -withered stems about which the new love must twine -itself until its spreading leaves and clasping tendrils -made a rich foliage to cover the dead tree. He, she, -the world, love, reputation, were all young together, all -young and fresh, and full of the power to grow. To -think that the prospect of such happiness should be -blighted, the hope of such perfect bliss disappointed -was beyond the power of George’s imagination.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The time was drawing near when he was to have his -answer. He had often done violence to himself of late -in abstaining from all question of her love. Earlier in -the year he had once or twice returned to his old way of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_168'>168</span>talking with her, but she had seemed displeased and had -put him off, answering that the first of May was time -enough and that she would tell him then. He had no -means of knowing what was passing in her mind, for she -was almost always the same Constance he had known so -long, gentle, sympathising, ready with encouragement, -enthusiastic concerning what he did well, suggestive -when he was in doubt, thoughtful when his taste did not -agree with hers. Looking back upon those long months -of intimacy George knew that she had never bound herself, -never uttered a promise of any sort, never directly -given him to understand that she would consent to be -his wife. And yet her whole life seemed to him to -have been one promise since he had known her and it -was treason, in his judgment, to suspect her of insincerity.</p> - -<p class='c000'>In the last days of April, he saw less of her than -usual, though he could scarcely tell why. More than -once, when he had hoped to find her alone, there had -been visitors with her, or her sister had been present, -and he had not been able to exchange a word with her -without being overheard. Indeed, when Grace was -established in the room he generally made his visits as -short as possible. There was something in the atmosphere -of the house, too, that filled him with evil -forebodings. Constance often seemed abstracted and -preoccupied; there appeared to be a better understanding -between the sisters in regard to himself than formerly, -and Grace’s manner had changed. In the old days of -their acquaintance she had taken little pains to conceal -her dislike after she had once made up her mind that -George loved her sister, her greeting had been almost -haughty, her words had been few and generally ironical, -her satisfaction at his departure needlessly apparent. -During the last month she had relaxed the severity of -her behaviour, instead of treating him more harshly as -he had expected and secretly hoped. With the unerring -instinct of a man who loves deeply, concerning every -<span class='pageno' id='Page_169'>169</span>one except the object of his love, George had read the -signs of the times in the face of his old enemy, and -distrusted her increasing benignity. She, at least, had -come to the conclusion that Constance would not marry -him, and seeing that the necessity for destruction was -decreasing, she allowed the sun of her smiles to penetrate -the dark storm-clouds of her sullen anger. George -would have preferred any convulsion of the elements to -this threatened calm.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance Fearing was in great distress of mind. She -had not forgotten the date, nor had she any intention of -letting it pass without fulfilling her engagement and -giving George the definite answer he had so patiently -expected. The difficulty was, to know what that answer -should be. Her indecision could not be ascribed to her -indolence in studying the question. It had been constantly -before her, demanding immediate solution and -tormenting her with its difficulties throughout many -long months. Her conscientious love of truth had forced -her to examine it much more closely than she would -have chosen to do had she yielded to her inclinations. -Her own happiness was no doubt vitally concerned, but -the consideration of absolute loyalty and honesty must -be first and before all things. The tremendous importance -of the conclusion now daily more imminent appalled -her and frightened her out of her simplicity into the -mazes of a vicious logic; and she found the labyrinth of -her difficulties further complicated in that its ways were -intersected by the by-paths of her religious meditations. -When her reason began to grow clear, she suddenly -found it opposed to some one of a set of infallible rules -by which she had undertaken to guide her whole existence. -To-day she prayed to heaven, and grace was -given her to marry George. To-morrow she would examine -her heart and ascertain that she could never love -him as he deserved. Could she marry him when he was -to give so much and she had so little to offer? That -would be manifestly wrong; but in that case why had -<span class='pageno' id='Page_170'>170</span>her prayer seemed to be answered so distinctly by an -impulse from the heart? She was evidently not in a -state of grace, since she was inspired to do what was -wrong. Selfishness must be at the bottom of it, and -selfishness, as it was the sin about which she knew most, -was the one within her comprehension which she the -most sincerely abhorred. But if her impulse to marry -George was selfish, was it not the direct utterance of -her heart, and might this not be the only case in life in -which she might frankly follow her own wishes? George -loved her most truly. If she felt that she wished to -marry him, was it not because she loved him? There -was the point, again, confronting her just where she had -begun the round of self-torture. Did she love him? -What was the test of true love? Would she die for -him? Dying for people was theatrical and out of fashion, -as she had often been told. It was much more noble -to live for those one loved than to die for them. Could -she live for George? What did the words mean? Had -she not lived for him, said her heart, during the last -year, if not longer? What nonsense, exclaimed her -reason—as if giving a little encouragement and a great -deal of advice could be called living for a man! It meant -more than that, it meant so much to her that she felt sure -she could never accomplish it. Therefore she did not -love him, and it must all come to an end at once.</p> - -<p class='c000'>She reproached herself bitterly for her weakness that -had lasted so long. She was a mere flirt, a heartless girl -who had ruined a man’s life and happiness recklessly, -because she did not know her own mind. She would be -brave now, at last, before it was quite too late. She -would confess her fault and tell him how despicable she -thought herself, how she repented of her evil ways, -how she would be his best and firmest friend, his sister, -anything that she could be to him, except his wife. He -would be hurt, pained, heartbroken for a while, but he -would see how much better it had been to speak the truth.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But in the midst of her passionate self-accusation, the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_171'>171</span>thought of her own state after she should have put him -away for ever, presented itself with painful distinctness. -Whether she loved him or not, he was a part of her life -and she felt that she could not do without him. For one -moment she allowed herself to think of his face if she -told him that she consented to their union at last, she -could see the happy smile she loved so well and hear the -vibrating tones of the voice that moved her more than -other voices. Then, to her inexpressible shame, there -arose before her visions of another kind, and notably the -face of Johnson, the hardworking critic. All at once -George seemed to be surrounded by a host of people -whom she did not know and whom she did not want to -know, men whom, as she remembered to have thought -before, she would not have wished to see at her table, -yet friends of his, faithful friends—Johnson was one at -least—to whom he owed much and whom he would not -allow to slip out of his existence because he had married -Constance Fearing. She blushed scarlet, though she -was alone, and passionate tears of anger at herself burst -from her eyes. To think of that miserable consideration, -she must be the most contemptible of women. Truly, the -baseness of the human heart was unfathomable and shore-less -as the ocean of space itself! Truly, she did not love -him, if she could think such thoughts, and she must tell -him so, cost what it might.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The last night came, preceding the day on which she had -promised to give him her decisive answer. She had -written him a word to say that he was expected, and she -sat down in her own room to fight the struggle over again -for the last time. The morrow was to decide, she thought, -and yet it was impossible to come to any conclusion. Why -had she not set the period at two years instead of one? -Surely, in twelve months more she would have known -her own mind, or at least have seen what course to pursue. -Step by step she advanced once more into the sea -of her difficulties, striving to keep her intelligence free -from prejudice, and yet hoping that her heart would -<span class='pageno' id='Page_172'>172</span>speak clearly. But it was of no use, the labyrinth was -more confused than ever, the light less, and her strength -more unsteady. If she thought, it seemed as though her -thoughts would drive her mad, if she prayed, her prayers -were confused and senseless.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I cannot marry him, I cannot, I cannot!” she cried -at last, utterly worn out with fatigue and anxiety.</p> - -<p class='c000'>She threw herself upon her pillows and tried to rest, -while her own words still rang in her ears. She slept a -little and she uttered the same cry in her sleep. By force -of conscious and unconscious repetition of the phrase, it -became mechanised and imposed itself upon her will. -When the morning broke, she knew that she had resolved -not to marry George Wood, and that her resolution -was irrevocable.</p> - -<p class='c000'>To tell him so was a very different matter. She grew -cold as she thought of the scene that was before her, and -became conscious that her nerves were not equal to such -a strain. She fancied that the decision she had reached -had been the result of her strength in her struggle with -herself. In reality she had succumbed to her own weakness -and had abandoned the contest, feeling that it was -easier to do anything negative rather than to commit herself -to a bondage from which she might some day wish -to escape when it should be too late. With a little more -firmness of character she would have been able to shake -off her doubts and to see that she really loved George -very sincerely, and that to hesitate was to sacrifice everything -to a morbid fear of offending her now over-delicate -conscience. Even now, if she could have known herself, -she would have realised that she had by no means given -up all love for the man who loved her, nor all expectation -of ultimately becoming his wife. She would have -behaved very differently if she had been sure that she -was burning her ships and cutting off all possibility of a -return, or if she had known the character of the man -with whom she had to deal. She had passed through a -sort of nervous crisis, and her resolution was in the main, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_173'>173</span>a concession to her desire to gain time. In making it she -had thrown down her arms and given up the fight. The -reaction that followed made it seem impossible for her -to face such a scene as must ensue.</p> - -<p class='c000'>At first it struck her that the best way of getting out -of the difficulty would be to write to George and tell him -her decision in as few words as possible, begging him to -come and see her a week later, when she would do her -best to explain to him the many and good reasons which -had contributed to the present result. This idea, however, -she soon abandoned. It would seem most unkind -to deal such a blow so suddenly and then expect him to -wait so long before enlightening him further upon the -subject. Face him herself, she could not. She might be -weak, she thought, and she was willing to admit it; it -was only to add another unworthiness to the long list -with which she was ready to accuse herself. She could -not, and she would not tell George herself. The only -person who could undertake to bear her message was -Grace.</p> - -<p class='c000'>She felt very kindly disposed to Grace, that morning. -There was a satisfaction in feeling that she could think -of any one without the necessity of considering the question -of her marriage. Besides, Grace had opposed her -increasing liking for George from the beginning, and had -warned her that she would never marry him. Grace had -been quite right, and as Constance was feeling particularly -humble just then, she thought it would be agreeable -to her pride, if she confessed the superiority of Grace’s -judgment. She could accuse herself before her sister of -all her misdeeds without the fear of witnessing George’s -violent grief. Moreover it would be better for George, -too, since, he would be obliged to contain himself when -speaking to her sister as he would certainly not control -his feelings in an interview with herself. To be short, -Constance was willing in that moment to be called a -coward, rather than face the man she had wronged. Her -courage had failed her altogether and she was being carried -<span class='pageno' id='Page_174'>174</span>rapidly down stream from one concession to another, -while still trying to give an air of rectitude and self-sacrifice -to all her actions. She was preparing an abyss -of well-merited self-contempt for herself in the future, -though her present satisfaction in her release from responsibility -had dulled her real sense of right and -had left only the artificialities of her morbid conscience -still sensitive to the flattery of imaginary self-sacrifice.</p> - -<p class='c000'>An hour later she was alone with her sister. She had -greeted her in an unusually affectionate way on entering -the room, and the younger girl immediately felt that -something had taken place. She herself was smiling, -and cordial in her manner.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Grace, dearest,” Constance began, after some little -hesitation, “I want to tell you. You have talked so -much about Mr. Wood—you know, you have always -been afraid that I would marry him, have you not?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not lately,” answered Grace with a pleasant smile.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well—do you know? I have thought very seriously -of it, and I had decided to give him a definite answer to-day. -Do you understand? I have treated him abominably, -Grace—oh, I am so sorry! I wish it could all be -undone—you were so right!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is not too late,” observed Grace. Then, seeing -that there were tears in her sister’s eyes, she drew nearer -to her and put her arm round her waist in a comforting -way. “Do not be so unhappy, Conny,” she said in a tone -of deep sympathy. “Men do not break their hearts nowadays——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, but he will, Grace! I am sure he will—and the -worst of it is that I must—you know——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not at all, dear. If you like I will break it to -him——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, Grace, what a darling you are!” cried Constance, -throwing both her arms round her sister’s neck and kissing -her. “I did not dare to ask you, and I could not, I -could not have done it myself! But you will do it very -<span class='pageno' id='Page_175'>175</span>kindly, will you not? You know he has been so good -and patient.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>There was an odd smile on Grace’s strong face when -she answered, but Constance was not in a mood to notice -anything disagreeable just then.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I will break it to him very gently,” said the young -girl quietly. “Of course you must tell me what I am to -say, more or less—an idea, you know. I cannot say -bluntly that you have sent word that you have decided -not to marry him, can I?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh no!” exclaimed Constance, suddenly growing very -grave. “You must tell him that I feel towards him just -as I always did——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is that true?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course. I always told him that I did not love him -enough to marry him. You may as well know it all. A -year ago, he proposed again—well, yes, it was not the -first time. I told him that if on the first of May—this -first of May—I loved him better than I did then, I would -marry him. Well, I have thought about it, again and -again, all the time, and I am sure I do not love him as I -ought, if I were to marry him.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I should think not,” laughed Grace, “if it is so hard -to find it out!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, you must not laugh at me,” said Constance earnestly. -“It is very, very serious. Have I done right, -Grace? I wish I knew! I have treated him so cruelly, -so hatefully, and yet I did not mean to. I am so fond of -him, I admire him so much, I like his ways—and all—I -do still, you know. It is quite true. I suppose I ought -to be ashamed of it—only, I am sure I never did love -him, really.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I have no idea of laughing at the affair,” answered -Grace. “It is serious enough, I am sure, especially for -him.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes—I want to make a confession to you. I want to -tell you that you were quite right, that I have encouraged -him and led him on and been dreadfully unkind. I am -<span class='pageno' id='Page_176'>176</span>sure you think I am a mere flirt, and perfectly heartless! -Is it not true? Well, I am, and it is of no use to deny it. -I will never, never, do such a thing again—never! But -after all, I do like him very much. I never could understand -why you hated him so, from the first.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I did not hate him. I do not hate him now,” said -Grace emphatically. “I did hate the idea of his marrying -you, and I do still. I thought it was just as well that -he should see that from the way one member of the family -behaved towards him.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“He did see it!” exclaimed Constance in a tone of -regret. “It is another of the things I inflicted on him.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You? I should rather think it was I——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No, it was all my fault, all, everything, from beginning -to end—and you are a darling, Gracey dear, and it -is so sweet of you. You will be very good to him? Yes—and -if he should want to see me very much, after you -have told him everything, I might come down for a -minute. I should so much like to be sure that he has -taken it kindly.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“If you wish it, you might see him—but I hardly -think—well, do as you think best, dear.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thank you, darling—you know you really are a -darling, though I do not always tell you so. And now, -I think I will go and lie down. I never slept last night.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Silly child!” laughed Grace, kissing her on both -cheeks. “As though it mattered so much, after all.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, but it does matter,” Constance said regretfully -as she left the room.</p> - -<p class='c000'>When Grace Fearing was alone she went to the window -and looked out thoughtfully into the fresh, morning -air.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am very glad,” she said aloud to herself. “I am -very, very glad. But I would not have done it. No, -not for worlds! I would rather cut off my right hand -than treat a man like that!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>In that moment she pitied George Wood with all her -heart.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_177'>177</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XIII.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>When George entered the drawing-room he was surprised -to find Grace there instead of Constance, and it -was with difficulty that he repressed a nervous movement -of annoyance. On that day of all others he had no desire -to meet Grace Fearing, and though he imagined that her -presence was accidental and that he had come before the -appointed time he felt something more of resentment -against the young girl than usual. He made the best of -the situation, however, and put on a brave face, considering -that, after all, when the happiness of a lifetime is -to be decided, a delay of five minutes should not be -thought too serious an affair.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Grace rose to receive him and, coming forward, held -his hand in hers a second or two longer than would have -been enough under ordinary circumstances. Her face -was very grave and her deep brown eyes looked with -an expression of profound sympathy into those of her -visitor. George felt his heart sink under the anticipation -of bad news.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is anything the matter, Miss Fearing?” he inquired -anxiously. “Is your sister ill?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No. She is not ill. Sit down, Mr. Wood. I have -something to say to you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George felt an acute presentiment of evil, and sat -down in such a position with regard to the light that he -could see Grace’s face better than she could see his.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What is it?” he asked in a tone of constraint.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The young girl paused a moment, moved in her seat, -which she had selected in the corner of a sofa, rested one -elbow on the mahogany scroll that rose at the end of the -old-fashioned piece of furniture, supported her beautifully -moulded chin upon the half-closed fingers of her -white hand and gazed upon George with a look of inquiring -sympathy. There was nothing of nervousness nor -<span class='pageno' id='Page_178'>178</span>timidity in Grace Fearing’s nature. She knew what she -was going to do and she meant to do it thoroughly, -calmly, pitilessly if necessary.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“My sister has asked me to talk with you,” she began, -in her smooth, deep voice. “She is very unhappy and -she is not able to bear any more than she has borne -already.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George’s face darkened, for he knew what was coming -now, as though it were already said. He opened his -lips to speak, but checked himself, reflecting that he did -not know the extent of Grace’s information.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am very, very sorry,” she continued, earnestly. -“I need not explain matters. I know all that has happened. -Constance was to have given you a final answer -to-day. She could not bear to do so herself.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Grace paused an instant, and if George had been less -agitated than he was, he would have seen that her full -lips curled a little as she spoke the last words.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“She has thought it all over,” she concluded. “She -does not love you, and she can never be your wife.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>There was a long pause. Grace changed her position, -leaning far back among the cushions and clasping her -hands upon her knees. At the same time she ceased to -look at the young man’s face, and let her sight wander -to the various objects on the other side of the room.</p> - -<p class='c000'>In the first moment, George’s heart stood still. Then -it began to beat furiously, though it seemed as though -its pulsations had lost the power of propelling the blood -from its central seat. He kept his position, motionless -and outwardly calm, but his dark face grew slowly -white, leaving only black circles about his gleaming eyes, -and his scornful mouth gradually set itself like stone. -He was silent, for no words suggested themselves to his -lips, now, though they had seemed too ready a moment -earlier.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Grace felt that she must say something more. She -was perfectly conscious of his state, and if she had been -capable of fear she would have been frightened by the -magnitude of his silent anger.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_179'>179</span>“I have known that this would come,” she said, softly. -“I know Constance better than you can. A very long -time ago, I told her that at the last minute she would -refuse you. She is very unhappy. She begged me to -say all this as gently as possible. She made me promise -to tell you that she felt towards you just as she had -always felt, that she hoped to see you very often, that -she felt towards you as a sister——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“This is too much!” exclaimed George in low and -angry tones. Then forgetting himself altogether, he -rose from his seat quickly and went towards the door.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Grace was on her feet as quickly as he.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Stop!” she cried in a voice not loud, but of which -the tone somehow imposed upon the angry man.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He turned suddenly and faced her as though he were -at bay, but she met his look calmly and her eyes did -not fall before his.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You shall not go away like this,” she said.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Pardon me,” he answered. “I think it is the best -thing I can do.” There was something almost like a -laugh in the bitterness of his tone.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I think not,” replied Grace with much dignity.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Can you have anything more to say to me, Miss -Fearing? You, of all people? Are you not satisfied?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not understand you, and from the tone in which -you speak, I would rather not. You are very angry, -and you have reason to be—heaven knows! But you -are wrong in being angry with me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Am I?” George asked, recovering some control of -his voice and manner. “I am at least wrong in showing -it,” he added, a moment later. “Do you wish me to -stay here?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“A few minutes longer, if you will be so kind,” Grace -answered, sitting down again, though George remained -standing before her. “You are wrong to be angry with -me, Mr. Wood. I have only repeated to you my sister’s -words. I have done my best to tell you the truth as -gently as possible.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_180'>180</span>“I do not doubt it. Your mission is not an easy one. -Why did your sister not tell me the truth herself? Is -she afraid of me?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you think it would have been any easier to bear, -if she had told you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why?” Grace asked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Because it is better to hear such things directly than -at second hand. Because it is easier to bear such words -when they are spoken by those we love, than by those -who hate us. Because when hearts are to be broken it -is braver to do it oneself than to employ a third person.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You do not know what you are saying. I never hated -you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Miss Fearing,” said George, who was rapidly becoming -exasperated beyond endurance, “will you allow me -to take my leave?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I never hated you,” Grace repeated without heeding -his question. “I never liked you, and I never was -afraid to show it. But I respect you—no, do not interrupt—I -respect you, more than I did, because I have -found out that you have more heart than I had believed. -I admire you as everybody admires you, for what you do -so well. And I am sorry for you, more sorry than I -can tell. If you would have my friendship, I would -offer it to you—indeed you have it already, from to-day.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am deeply indebted to you,” George answered very -coldly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You need not even make a show of thanking me. I -have done you no service, and I should regret it very -much if Constance married you. Do not look surprised. -My only virtue is honesty, and when I have such -things to say you think that is no virtue at all. I -thought very badly of you once. Forgive me, if you -can. I have changed my mind. I have neither said -nor done anything for a long time to influence my sister, -not for nearly a year. Do you believe me?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George was beginning to be very much surprised at -<span class='pageno' id='Page_181'>181</span>Grace’s tone. He was too much under the influence of -a great emotion to reason with himself, but the truthfulness -of her manner spoke to his heart. If she had -condoled with him, or tried to comfort him, he would -have been disgusted, but her straightforward confession -of her own feelings produced a different effect.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I believe you,” he said, wondering how he could sincerely -answer such a statement with such words.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thank you, you are generous.” Grace rose again, -and put out her hand. “Do you care to see her, before -you go?” she asked, looking into his eyes. “I will -send her to you, if you wish it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes,” George answered, after a moment’s hesitation. -“I will see her—please.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He was left alone for a few minutes. Though the sun -was streaming in through the window, he felt cold as he -had never felt cold in his life. His anger had, he -believed, subsided, but the sensation it had left behind -was new and strange to him. He turned as he stood -and his glance fell upon Constance’s favourite chair, the -seat in which she had sat so often and so long while he -had talked with her. Then he felt a sudden pain, so -sharp that it might have seemed the last in life, and he -steadied himself by leaning on the table. It was as -though he had seen the fair young girl lying dead in -that place she loved. But she was not dead. It was -worse. Then his great wrath surged up again, sending -the blood tingling through his sinewy frame to the tips -of his strong fingers, and bringing a different mood with -it, and a sterner humour. He was a very masculine -man, incapable of being long crushed by any blow. He -was sorry, now, that he had asked to see her. Had he -felt thus five minutes earlier, he would have declined -Grace’s offer and would have left the house, meaning -never to re-enter it. But it was too late and he could -no longer avoid the meeting.</p> - -<p class='c000'>At that moment the door opened, and Constance stood -before him. Her face was pale and there were traces -<span class='pageno' id='Page_182'>182</span>of tears upon her cheeks. But he was not moved to pity -by any such outward signs of past emotion. She came -and stood before him, and laid one delicate hand upon -his sleeve, looking up timidly to his eyes. He did not -move, and his expression did not change.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Can you forgive me?” she asked in a trembling -voice.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No,” he answered, bitterly. “Why should I forgive -you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I know I have not deserved your forgiveness,” she -said, piteously. “I have been very, very wrong—I -have done the worst thing I ever did in my life—I -have been heartless, unkind, cruel, wicked—but—but -I never meant to be——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is small consolation to me to know that you did -not mean it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, do not be so hard!” she cried, the tears rising -in her voice. “I did not mean it so. I never promised -you anything—indeed I never did!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It must be a source of sincere satisfaction, to feel -that your conscience is clear.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“But it is not—I want to tell you all—Grace has not -told you—I like you as much as ever, there is no difference—I -am still fond of you, still very fond of you!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thanks.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, George, are you a stone? Will nothing move -you? Cannot you see how I am suffering?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes. I see.” He neither moved, nor bent his head. -His lips opened and shut mechanically as though they -were made of steel. She looked up again into his face -and his expression terrified her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>She turned away, slowly at first, as though in despair. -Then with a sudden movement she threw herself upon -the sofa and buried her face in the cushions, while a -violent fit of sobbing shook her light frame from head to -foot. George stood still, watching her with stony eyes. -For a full minute nothing was audible but the sound of -her weeping.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_183'>183</span>“You are so cold,” she sobbed. “Oh, George, you -will break my heart!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You seem to be chiefly overcome by pity for yourself,” -he answered cruelly. “If you have anything else -to say, I will wait. If not——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>She roused herself and sat up, the tears streaming down -her cheeks, her hands clasped passionately together.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, do not go! Do not go—it kills me to let you -go.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you think it would? In that case I will stay a -little longer.” He turned away and went to the window. -For some minutes there was silence in the room.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“George——” Constance began timidly. George -turned sharply round.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am here. Can I do anything for you, Miss Fearing?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Cannot you say you forgive me? Can you not say -one kind word?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Indeed, I should find it very hard.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance had recovered herself to some extent, and -sat staring vacantly across the room, while the tears -slowly dried upon her cheeks. Her courage and her -pride were alike gone, and she looked the very picture -of repentance and despair. But George’s heart had been -singularly hardened during the half-hour or more which -he had spent in her house that day. Presently she -began speaking in a slow, almost monotonous tone, as -though she were talking with herself.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I have been very bad,” she said, “and I know it, but -I have always told the truth. I never loved you enough, -I never cared for you as you deserved. Did I not tell -you so? Oh yes, very often—too often. I should not -have told you even that I cared a little. You are the -best friend I ever had—why have I lost you by loving -you a little? It seems very hard. It is not that you -must forgive, it is that I should have told you so that -I should—you kissed me once—it was not your fault. -I let you do it. There seemed so little harm—and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_184'>184</span>yet it was so wrong. And once, because there was pain -in your face, I kissed you, as I would have kissed my -sister. I was so fond of you—I am still, although you -are so cruel and cold. I did think—I really hoped that -I should love you some day. You do not believe me? -What does it matter! You will, for I always told you -what was true—but that is it—I hoped, and I let you -see that I hoped. It was very wrong. Will you try—only -try to forgive me?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you not think it would be better if you would let -me leave you, Miss Fearing?” George asked, coming -suddenly forward. “It can do very little good to talk -this matter over.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Miss Fearing!” exclaimed the young girl with a -sigh. “It is so long since you called me that! Do you -want to go? How should I keep you? Only this, will -you think kindly of me, sometimes? Will you sometimes -think that I helped you—only a little—to be what you -are? Will you say ‘Good-bye, Constance,’ a little -kindly?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George was moved in spite of himself, and his voice -was softer when he answered her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of what use is it, to speak of these things? You -know all that you have been to me in these years, better -than I can tell you. It turns out that I have been nothing -to you—well, then——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Nothing to me! Oh George, you have been everything—my -best friend——” She stopped short.</p> - -<p class='c000'>His heart hardened again. It seemed to him that -every word she spoke was in direct contradiction to her -action.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Will you tell me one thing?” he asked, after a -pause during which she seemed to be on the point of -bursting into tears again.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Anything you ask me,” she answered.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Have you come to this decision yourself, or has your -sister influenced you?” His eyes sought hers and tried -to read her inmost thoughts.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_185'>185</span>“It is my own resolution,” she answered without -wavering. “Grace has not spoken of my marrying you -for more than a year.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am glad that it is altogether from your own -heart——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Can you think that I would have taken the advice of -some one else?” Constance asked, reproachfully.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not know. It matters very little, after all. -Pardon me if I have been rude or hasty. My manners -may have been a little ruffled by this—this occurrence. -Good-bye.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>She took his hand and tried to press it, looking again -for his eyes. But he drew his fingers away quickly and -was gone before she could detain him. For one moment -she sat staring at the closed door. Then she once more -hid her face in the deep soft cushions and sobbed aloud, -more passionately than the first time.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, I know I ought to have married him, I know I -really love him!” she moaned.</p> - -<p class='c000'>And so the first act of Constance Fearing’s life comedy -was played out and the curtain fell between her and the -happiness to grasp which she lacked either the will or -the passion, or both. She had acted her part with a sincerity -so scrupulous that it was like a parody of truth. -She had thought of marrying George Wood with delight, -she had broken with him in the midst of what might be -called a crisis of doubt, and she had parted from him -with sincere and bitter tears, feeling that she had sacrificed -all she held dear in the world to the ferocious -Moloch of her conscience.</p> - -<p class='c000'>To follow the action of her intelligence any farther -through the mazes of the labyrinth into which she had -led it would be a labour so stupendous that no sensible -person could for a moment contemplate the possibility -of performing the task, and for the present Constance -Fearing must be left to her tears, her meditations, and -her complicated state of mind with such pity as can be -spared for her weaknesses and such kind thoughts as may -<span class='pageno' id='Page_186'>186</span>be bestowed by the charitable upon her gentle character. -It will be easier to understand the strong passion and the -bitter disappointment which agitated George Wood’s -powerful nature during the hours which followed the -scenes just described.</p> - -<p class='c000'>His day was indeed not over yet, though he felt as -though the sun had gone down upon his life before -it was yet noon. He was neither morbid nor self-conscious, -nor did he follow after the chimera introspection. -He was simply and savagely angry with -Constance, with himself, with the whole known and -unknown world. For the time, he forgot who he was, -what he was, and all that he had done or that he might -be expected to do in the future. He knew that Constance -had spoken the truth in saying that she had -promised nothing. The greater madman he, to have expected -anything whatever! He knew that her whole life -and conversation had been one long promise during nearly -two years—the more despicably heartless and altogether -contemptible she was, then, for since she had spoken -what was true she had acted what was a lie from beginning -to end. Forgive her? He had given her his only -answer. Why should he forgive her? Were there any -extenuating circumstances in her favour? Not one—and -if there had been, he knew that he would have torn -that one to tatters till it was unrecognisable to his sense -of justice. Her tears, her pathetic voice, her timidity, -even her pale face—they had all been parts of the play, -harmonic chords in the grand close of lies that had -ended her symphony of deception. She had even prepared -his ears by sending Grace to him with her warm, -sympathetic eyes, her rich, deep voice and her tale of -spontaneous friendship. It was strange that he should -have believed the other girl, even for one moment, but -he admitted that he had put some faith in her words. -How poor a thing was the strongest man when desperately -hurt, ready to believe in the first mockery of sympathy -that was offered him, ready to catch at the mere -<span class='pageno' id='Page_187'>187</span>shadow of a straw blown by the wind! Doubtless the -two sisters had concocted their comedy overnight and -had planned their speeches to produce the proper effect -upon his victimised feelings. He had singularly disappointed -them both, in that case. They would have to -think longer and think more wisely the next time they -meant to deceive a man of his character. He remembered -with delight every cold, hard word he had spoken, -every cruelly brutal answer he had given. He rejoiced -in every syllable saving only that “I believe you” he -had bestowed on Grace’s asseverations of friendship and -esteem. And he had been weak enough to ask Constance -whether Grace had spoken the truth, as if they had not -arranged between them beforehand every sentence of each -part! That had been weakness indeed! How they would -laugh over his question when they compared notes! By -this time they were closeted together, telling each other -all he had said and done. On the whole, there could not -be much to please them, and he had found strings for -most of his short phrases after the first surprise was over. -He was glad that he disbelieved them both, and so thoroughly. -If there had been one grain of belief in Constance -left to him, how much he still might suffer. His -illusion had fallen, but it had fallen altogether with one -shock, in one general and overwhelming crash. There -was not one stone of his temple whole that it might be -set upon another, there was not one limb, one fragment -of his beautiful idol that might recall its loveliness. All -was gone, wholly, irrevocably, and he was glad that it -was all gone together. The ruin was so complete that -he could doubtless separate the memory of the past from -the fact of the present, and dwell upon it, live upon it, -as he would. If he met Constance now, he could behave -towards her as he would to any other woman. She was -not Constance any more. Her name roused no emotion -in his heart, the thought of her face as he had last seen -it was not connected with anything like love. Her false -face, that had been so true and honest once! He could -scorn the one and yet love the other.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_188'>188</span>If George had been less absorbed in his angry thoughts, -or had known that there was anything unusual in his expression, -he would not have walked up Fifth Avenue on -his way from Washington Square. The times were -changed since he had been able to traverse the thoroughfare -of fashion in the comparative certainty of not meeting -an acquaintance. Before he had gone far, he was -conscious of having failed to return more than one -friendly nod, and he was disgusted with himself for -allowing his emotions to have got the better of his -habitually quick perception. At the busy corner of -Fourteenth Street he stopped upon the edge of the pavement, -debating for a moment whether he should leave the -Avenue and go home by the elevated road, or strike across -Union Square and take a long walk in the less crowded -parts of the city. Just then, a familiar and pleasant -voice spoke at his elbow.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why, George!” exclaimed Totty Trimm. “How -you look! What is the matter with you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How do you do, cousin Totty? I do not understand. -Is there anything the matter with my face?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I wish you could see yourself in the glass!” cried -the little lady evidently more and more surprised at his -unusual expression. “I wish you could. You are as -white as a sheet, with great rings round your eyes. -Where in the world have you been?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I? Oh, I have only been making a visit at the Fearings. -I suppose I am tired.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“The Fearings?” repeated Totty, with a sweet smile. -“How odd! I was just going there—walking, you see, -because it is such a lovely afternoon. You won’t come -back with me? They won’t mind seeing you twice in -the same day, I daresay.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thanks,” answered George, speaking hurriedly, and -growing, if possible, paler than before. “I think it -would be rather too much. Besides, I have a lot of -work to do.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well—go in and see Mamie on your way up. She -<span class='pageno' id='Page_189'>189</span>is alone—got a horrid cold, poor child! She will be so -glad and she will give you a cup of tea. You might put -a little of that old whiskey of Sherry’s into it. I am -sure you are not well, George. You are looking wretchedly. -Good-bye, dear boy.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Totty squeezed his hand warmly, gave him an earnest -and affectionate look, and tripped away down the -Avenue. George wondered whether she had guessed -that there was anything wrong.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I suppose I ought to have lied,” he said to himself, -as he crossed the thoroughfare. “They will—but I -cannot do it so well. I ought to have told her that I had -been to the club.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Totty Trimm had not only guessed that something was -very wrong indeed. She had instinctively hit upon the -truth. She, like many other people, had seen long ago -that George was in love with Constance Fearing, and she -had for a long time been glad of it. During the last -three or four days, however, she had changed her mind -in a way very unusual with her, and she had been hoping -with all her heart that something would happen to -break off a match that seemed to be very imminent. The -matter had been so constantly in her thoughts that she -referred to it everything she heard about the Fearings -and about George. She had not really had the slightest -intention of going to the house in Washington Square -when she had met her cousin, but the determination had -formed itself so quickly that she had spoken the truth in -declaring it. She made up her mind to see Constance -the moment she had seen George’s face and had learned -that he had been with her. She pursued her way with -a light heart, and her nimble little feet carried her more -lightly and smoothly than ever. She rang the bell and -asked if the young ladies were at home.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes ma’am,” answered the servant, “but Miss Constance -is not very well, and is gone to her room with a -headache, and Miss Grace said she would see no one, -ma’am.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_190'>190</span>“I just met Mr. Wood,” objected Totty, “and he said -he had been here this afternoon.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes ma’am, and so he was, and it’s since Mr. Wood -left that the orders was given. Shall I take your card, -Mrs. Trimm, ma’am?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No. It is of no use. You can tell the young ladies -I called.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>She descended the steps and went quickly back towards -Fifth Avenue. There was great joy and triumph in her -breast and her smile shed its radiance on the trees on -the deserted pavement and on the stiff iron railings as -she went along.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That idiotic little fool!” said Mrs. Sherrington Trimm -in her heart. “She loves him, and she has refused one -of the best matches in New York because she fancies he -wants her money!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>She reflected that if Mamie had the same chance, she -should certainly not refuse George Winton Wood, and -she determined that if diplomacy could produce the necessary -situation, she would not be long in bringing matters -to the proper point. There is no time when a man -is so susceptible, so ready to yield to the charms of one -woman as when he has just been jilted by another—so, -at least, thought Totty, and her worldly experience was -by no means small. And if the marriage could be brought -about, why then——Totty’s radiant face expressed the -rest of her thoughts better than any words could have -done.</p> - -<p class='c000'>While she was making these reflections the chief figure -in her panorama was striding up the Avenue at a rapid -pace. Strange to say his cousin’s suggestion, that he -should go and see Mamie had proved rather attractive -than otherwise. He did not care to walk the streets, -since Totty had been so much surprised by his appearance. -He might meet other acquaintances, and be -obliged to speak with them. If he went home he would -have to face his father, who would not fail to notice his -looks, and who might guess the cause of his distress, for -<span class='pageno' id='Page_191'>191</span>the old gentleman was well aware that his son was in -love with Constance and hoped with all his heart that -the marriage might not be far distant. Mamie would be -alone, Mamie knew nothing of his doings, she was a good -girl, and he liked her. To spend an hour with her -would cost him nothing, as she would talk the greater -part of the time, and he would gain a breathing space in -which to recover from the shock he had received. She -was indeed the only person whom he could have gone to -see at that moment without positive suffering, except -Johnson, and he was several miles from the office of -Johnson’s newspaper.</p> - -<p class='c000'>As he approached the Trimms’ house his pace slackened, -as though he were finally debating within himself -upon the wisdom of making the visit. Then as he came -within sight of the door he quickened his steps again -and did not pause until he had rung the bell. A moment -later he entered the drawing-room where Mamie Trimm -was sitting in a deep easy-chair, among flowers near a -sunlit window. She held a book in her hand.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh George!” she cried, blushing with pleasure. “I -am so glad—I am all alone.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And what are you reading, all alone among the -roses?” asked George kindly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What do you think?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Then she held up the novel for him to see. It was -the book he had just published.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XIV.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>Mamie Trimm was one of those young girls of whom -it is most difficult to give a true impression by describing -them in the ordinary way. To say that her height was -so many feet and so many inches—fewer inches than -the average—that her hair was very fair, her eyes grey, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_192'>192</span>her nose small, her mouth large, her complexion clear, -her figure well proportioned, to say all this is to say -nothing at all. A passport, in the days of passports, -would have said as much, and the description would have -just sufficed to point out Mamie Trimm if she had found -herself in a company of tall women with black hair, -large features and imposing presence. It would have -been easier for a man to find her amongst a bevy of girls -of her age, if he had been told that she possessed a -charm of her own, which nobody could define. It would -help him in his search, to be informed that she looked -very delicate, but was not so in reality, that her figure -was not only well proportioned, but was very exceptionally -perfect and graceful, and that, but for her well-set -grey eyes and her transparent complexion, her face -could never have been called pretty. All these points -may have combined to produce the aforesaid individuality -that was especially hers. Little is known, I believe, -of that fair young girl of whom Charles Lamb -wrote to Landor—“Rose Aylmer has a charm that I -cannot explain.” Mamie Trimm was George Wood’s -Rose Aylmer.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He had known her all her life and there was between -them that sort of intimacy which cannot exist at all -unless it has begun in childhood. The patronising -superiority of the schoolboy has found a foil in the -clinging admiration of the little girl who is only half -his age. The budding vanity of the young student has -delighted in “explaining things” to the slim maiden of -fourteen who believes all his words and worships all his -ideas, the struggling, striving, hardworking beginner -has found comfort in the unfailing friendship and devotion -of the accomplished young woman whom he still -thinks of as a child, and treats as a sister, not realising -that the difference between fourteen and seven is one -thing, while that between five or six and twenty, and -eighteen or nineteen is quite another.</p> - -<p class='c000'>When a friendship of that kind has begun in childish -<span class='pageno' id='Page_193'>193</span>years it is not easily broken, even though the subsequent -intercourse be occasionally interrupted. Of late, indeed, -Constance Fearing had taken, and more than taken -Mamie’s place in George’s life. He had seen his cousin -constantly of course, but she had felt that he was not to -her what he had been, that something she could not -understand had come between them, and that she had -been deprived of something that had given her pleasure. -On the other hand, it was precisely at this time that she -had made her first appearance in society and her life had -been all at once made very full of new interests and -new amusements. She had been received into the bosom -of social institutions with enthusiasm, she had held her -own with tact, she had danced at every ball, had received -offers of marriage about once in three months, had -refused them all systematically and was, on the whole, -in the very prime of an American girl’s social career. -If her head had been turned by much admiration, she -had concealed the fact very well, and the expression of -her attractive face had not changed for the worse after -two years of uninterrupted gaiety. She was still as -innocently fond of George as she had been when a little -girl and if the exigencies of continual amusement had -deprived her of some of his companionship, she looked -upon the circumstance with all the fatalism of the very -young and the very happy, as a matter to be regretted -when she had time for regrets, but inevitable and predestined. -Her regrets, indeed, had not troubled her -much until very lately, when George’s growing reputation -had begun to draw him into the current of society. -She had seen then for the first time that there was -another person, somewhat older than herself, in whose -company he delighted as he had never delighted in her -own, and her dormant jealousy had been almost awakened -by the sight. It seemed to her that she had always -had a prior right and claim upon her cousin’s attention -and conversation, and she did not like to find her right -contested, especially by one so well able to maintain her -<span class='pageno' id='Page_194'>194</span>conquests against all comers as was Constance Fearing. -In her innocence, she had more than once complained to -her mother that George neglected her, but hitherto her -observations on the subject had received no sympathy -from Mrs. Sherrington Trimm. Totty had no idea of -allowing her only child to marry a penniless man of -genius, and though, as has been set forth in the early -part of this history she felt it incumbent upon her to do -something for George, and encouraged his visits, she -took care that he should meet Mamie as rarely as possible -in her own house. As for Sherrington Trimm himself, -he cared for none of these things. If Mamie loved -George, she was welcome to marry him, if she did not -there would be no hearts broken. George might come -and go in his house and be welcome.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie Trimm’s undefinable charm doubtless covered -a multitude of defects. She was of course very well -educated, in the sense in which that elastic term is generally -applied to all young girls of her class. It would -be more true to say that she, like most of her associates, -had been expensively educated. Nothing had been -omitted which, according to popular social belief can -contribute to the production of a refined and accomplished -feminine mind. She had been taught at great -pains a number of subjects of which she remembered -little, but of which the transient knowledge had contributed -something to the formation of her taste. She -had been instructed in the French language with a care -perhaps not always bestowed upon the subject in France, -and the result was that she could read novels written in -that tongue and, under great pressure of necessity, could -converse tolerably in it, though the composition of the -shortest note plunged her into a despair that would have -been comic had it been less real. She possessed a shadowy -acquaintance with German and knew a score of -Italian words. In the department of music, seven years -of study had given her some facility in playing simple -dance music, and she was able to accompany a song -<span class='pageno' id='Page_195'>195</span>tolerably, provided the movement were not too fast. -On the other hand she danced to perfection, rode well -and played a very fair game of lawn-tennis, and she got -even more credit for these accomplishments than she -deserved because her naturally transparent complexion -and rather thin face had always made the world believe -that her health was not strong.</p> - -<p class='c000'>In character she was neither very sincere, nor by any -means unscrupulous. Her conscience was in a very -natural state, considering her surroundings, and she -represented very fairly the combination of her mother’s -worldly disposition with her father’s cheerful, generous -and loyal nature. She was far too much in love with -life to be morbid, and far too sensible to invent imaginary -trials. She had never thought of examining herself, -any more than she would have thought of pulling -off a butterfly’s wings to see how they were fastened to -its body. Her simplicity of ideas was dashed with a -sprinkling of sentimentality which was natural enough at -her age, but of which she felt so much ashamed that she -hid it jealously from her father and mother and only -showed a little of it to her most intimate friend when -she had danced a little too long or suspected herself of -having nearly accepted an offer of marriage. It was -indeed with her, rather a quality than a weakness, for it -sometimes made her feel that life did not consist entirely -in waltzing a dozen miles every night and in talking over -the race the next morning. The only visible signs of -this harmless sentimentality were to be found in a secret -drawer of her desk and took the shape of two or three -dried flowers, a scrap of ribband and a dance programme -in which the same initials were scrawled several times. -She did not open the drawer at dead of night and kiss -the flowers, nor hold the faded ribband to her hair, nor -bedew the crumpled little bit of illuminated cardboard -with her warm tears. On the contrary she rarely -unlocked the receptacle unless it were to add some new -memento to the collection, and on such occasions the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_196'>196</span>principal reason why she did not summarily eject the -representatives of older memories was that she felt a -sort of good-natured pity for them, as though they had -been living things and might be hurt by being thrown -away. Her dainty room contained, indeed more than -one object given her by George Wood, from a collection -of picture-books that bore the marks of age and rough -usage, to her first tennis racquet, now battered and half -unstrung, and from that to a pretty toilet-clock set in -chiselled silver which her cousin had given her on her -last birthday, as a sort of peace-offering for his neglect. -It never would have entered her head, however, to hide -anything she had received from him in the secret drawer. -There was no sentimentality about her feelings for him, -and if there was a sentiment it was of the better and -stronger sort. She felt that she had a right to like -George, and that his gifts had a right to be seen. Once -or twice, of late, when she had been watching him -through the greater part of an evening while he talked -earnestly with Constance Fearing, Mamie had felt an -itching in her fingers to take everything he had given -her and to throw all into the street together; but she -had always been glad on the next day that she had not -yielded to the destructive impulse, and she had once -dreamed that, having carried out her dire intention -George had picked up the various articles in the street -and had brought them back to her, neatly packed in a -basket, with a sardonic smile on his grave face. Since -then, she had thought more of Constance than of George’s -old picture-books, the worn-out racquet, or the clock.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie bore no malice against him, however, though -she was beginning to dislike the name of Fearing in a -way that surprised herself. If George talked to her at -a party, she was always herself, graceful, winning and -happy; if he came to see her, the same words of welcome -rose to her lips and the same soft colour flashed through -the alabaster of her cheek, a colour which, as her mother -thought, should not have come so easily for one who was -<span class='pageno' id='Page_197'>197</span>already so dear. The careful Totty heard love’s light -tread afar off and caught the gleam of his weapons -before it was yet day, her maternal anxiety had been -stirred, and the devotion of the social tigress to her -marriageable young had been roused almost to the point -of self-sacrifice. Indeed, she had more than once interrupted -some pleasant conversation of her own, in order -to draw Mamie away from George, and more than once -she had stayed at home when Mamie was tired with the -dancing of the previous night lest in her absence George’s -evil genius should lead him to the house. Fortunately -for her, no one had given her more constant and valuable -assistance than George himself, which was the -reason why Totty had not ceased to like him. Had he, -on his part seemed as glad to be with Mamie, as Mamie -to be with him, the claws of the tigress would have -fastened upon him with sudden and terrible ferocity and -would have accompanied him to the front door. There -would now in all likelihood be a change in the tigress’s -view of the matter, and what had until lately seemed -one of George’s best recommendations, would soon be -regarded in the light of a serious defect. The position -of the invader had been very much changed since the -day on which Totty Trimm had been left alone in the -strong room for a quarter of an hour, and had brought -away with her the last will and testament of Thomas -Craik.</p> - -<p class='c000'>If George had ever in his life felt anything approaching -to love for Mamie, he could not have failed to notice -that Totty had done all in her power to keep the two apart -during the past three years, in other words since Mamie -had been of a marriageable age. But it had always -been a matter of supreme indifference to him whether -he were left alone with her or not, and to-day it had not -struck him that Totty had never before proposed that -he should go and spend an hour with her daughter when -there was nobody about. Totty herself, if her heart had -not been bursting with an anticipated triumph, would -<span class='pageno' id='Page_198'>198</span>have been more cautious, and would have thought twice -before making her suggestion with so much frankness. -In the moment of her meeting with him and guessing the -truth so many possibilities had suggested themselves to -her that she had not found time to reflect, and she had -for an instant entertained the idea of returning immediately -from Washington Square to her own home, in -order to find George there and perform the part of the -skilful and interested consoler. A very little consideration -showed her that this would be an unwise course to -pursue, and she had adopted a plan infinitely more diplomatic, -of which the results will be seen and appreciated -before long. In the meantime George Wood was seated -beside Mamie and her flowers, listening to her talk, answering -her remarks rather vaguely, and wondering why -he was alive, and since he was alive, why he was in that -particular place.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You look tired, George,” said the young girl, studying -his face. “You look almost ill.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do I? I am all right. I have been doing a lot of -work lately. And you, Mamie—what is the matter? -Your mother told me just now that you had a bad cold. -I hope it is nothing serious.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, it is nothing. I wanted to read your book, and -I did not want to make visits, and I had just enough of -a cold to make a good excuse. A cold is so useful sometimes—it -is just the same thing that your writing is to -you. Everybody believes it is inevitable, and then one -can do as one pleases. But you really do look dreadfully. -Have some tea—with a stick in it as papa calls it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie laughed a little at her own use of the slang -term, though her eyes showed that she was really made -anxious by George’s appearance.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thank you,” he answered. “I do not want anything, -but I am very tired, and when your mother told me you -were all alone at home I thought it would do me good to -come and stay with you a little while, if you would talk -to me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_199'>199</span>“I am so glad you came. I have not seen much of you, -lately.” There was a ring of regret in her voice.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You have been so gay. How can I get at you when -you are racing through society all the year round from -morning till night?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, it is not that, George, and you know it is not! -We have often been in the same gay places together, and -you hardly ever come near me, though I would much -rather talk with you than with all the other men.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No you would not—and if you would, you are such -a raving success, as they call it, this year, that you are -always surrounded—unless you are sitting in corners -with the pinks of desirability whose very shoe-strings -are a cut above the ‘likes o’ me.’ When are you going -to marry, Mamie?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“When somebody asks me, sir—she said,” laughed -the young girl.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Who is somebody?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not know,” answered Mamie with an infinitesimal -sigh. “People have asked me, you know,” she -added with another laugh, “any number of them.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“But not the particular somebody who haunts your -dreams?” asked George.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“He has not even begun to haunt me yet. You do, -though. I dreamed of you the other night.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You? How odd! What did you dream about me?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Such a funny dream!” said Mamie, leaning forward -and smelling the roses beside her. It struck George as -strange that the colour from the dark red petals should -be thrown up into her face by the rays of the sun, though -he knew something of the laws of incidence and reflection.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I dreamed,” continued Mamie, still holding the roses, -“that I was very angry with you. Then I took all the -things you ever gave me, the picture-books, and the -broken doll, and the old racquet and the clock—by -the by, it goes beautifully—and I threw them all out of -my window into the street. And, of course, you were -<span class='pageno' id='Page_200'>200</span>passing just at that moment, and you brought them all -into the house in a basket, nicely done up in pink paper, -and handed them back to me with that horrid smile you -have when you are going to say something perfectly -hateful.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And then, what happened?” inquired George, who -was amused in spite of himself.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, nothing. I suppose I woke just then. I laughed -over it the next morning.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“But what made you so angry with me?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Nothing—that is—the usual thing. The way you -always behave to me at parties.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George looked at her in silence for a second, before he -spoke again.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you mean to say that you really care,” he asked, -“whether I talk to you at parties, or not?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course I care!” exclaimed the young girl. “What -a question!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am sure I cannot see why. I am not a very amusing -person. But since you would like me to talk to you, -I will, as much as you please.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is too late now,” answered Mamie, laying down -the roses she had held so long. “Everything is over, or -will be in a day or two, and you will not get a chance -unless you come and stay with us this summer. Why -do you never come and stay with us? I have often wondered.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I was never asked,” said George indifferently. “I -could not well come without an invitation. And besides, -I have generally been very busy in the summer.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Did they never ask you?” inquired Mamie in evident -surprise. “Mamma must have forgotten it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I daresay,” George replied, rather dreamily. His -thoughts were wandering from the conversation.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“She shall, this time,” said Mamie with considerable -emphasis. Then there was silence for some moments.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George did not know what she was thinking and cared -very little to inquire. He was conscious that the surroundings -<span class='pageno' id='Page_201'>201</span>in which he found himself were soothing to -his humour, that Mamie’s harmless talk was pleasant to -his ear, and that if he had gone anywhere else on that -afternoon, he might have committed some act of folly -which would have had serious consequences. He was -neither able nor anxious to understand his own state, -since, whatever it might be, he desired to escape from -it, and he was grateful for all external circumstances -which helped his forgetfulness. He was no doubt conscious -that it would be out of the question to recover -from such a shock as he had received without passing -through much suffering on his way to ultimate consolation. -But he had been stunned and overcome by what -had happened. The first passion of almost uncontrollable -anger that swept over his nature had left him dull -and almost apathetic for the time, bruised and willing -to accept thankfully any peace that he could find.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Presently, Mamie turned the conversation to his books -and talked enthusiastically of his success. She had read -what he had written with greater care and understanding -than he had expected of her, and she quoted whole passages -from his novels, puzzling him sometimes with her -questions, but pleasing him in spite of himself by her -sincere and admiring appreciation. At last he rose to -leave her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I wish you would stay,” she said regretfully. But -he shook his head. “Why not stay the rest of the afternoon?” -she suggested. “We are not going out this -evening and you could dine with us, just as you are.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>This was altogether more than George wanted. He -did not care to meet Totty again on that day.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Then come again soon,” said Mamie. “I have enjoyed -it so much—and we are not going out of town for -another fortnight.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“But you may not have another cold, Mamie,” George -observed.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, I will always have a cold, if you will come and -sit with me,” answered the young girl.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_202'>202</span>When George was once more in the street, he stared -about him as though not knowing where he was. Then, -when the full force of his disappointment struck him for -the second time, he found it hard to believe that he had -been spending an hour in careless conversation with his -cousin. He looked at his watch mechanically, and saw -that it was late in the afternoon. It was as though a -dream had separated him from his last interview with -Constance Fearing. Of that, at least, he had forgotten -nothing; not a word of what she had said, or of what he -had answered, had escaped his memory, every syllable -was burned into the page of his day. Then came the -great question, which had not suggested itself at first. -Why had all this happened? What hidden reason was -there in obedience to which Constance had so suddenly -cast him off? Had she weakly yielded to Grace’s influence? -He had little faith in Grace’s assurance that -she had been silent, nor in Constance’s confirmation of -the statement. And Constance was weak. He had often -suspected it, and had even wondered whether she would -withstand the pressure brought to bear upon her and -against himself. Yet her weakness alone did not explain -what she had done. It had needed strength of -some sort to face him, to tell him to his face what she -had first told him through her sister’s words. But her -weakness had shown itself even then. She had wept and -hidden her face and cried out that he was breaking her -heart, when she was breaking his. George ground his -heel upon the pavement.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Her heart, indeed! She had none. She was but a -compound of nerves, prettiness and vanity, and he had -believed her the noblest, bravest and best of women. He -had lavished upon her with his lips and in his books -such language as would have honoured a goddess, and -she had turned out to be only a weak shallow-hearted -girl, ready to break an honest man’s heart, because she -did not know her own mind. He cursed his ignorance -of human nature and of woman’s love, as he strode along -<span class='pageno' id='Page_203'>203</span>the street toward his own home. Yet, rave as he would, -he could not hate her, he could not get rid of the sharp -pain that told him he had lost what he held most dear -and was widowed of what he had loved best.</p> - -<p class='c000'>When he was at home and in his own room he became -apathetic again. He had never known himself subject -to such sudden changes of humour and at first he vaguely -imagined that he was going to be ill, and that his nerves -would break down. His father had not yet come home -from the walk which was a part of his regular mode of -life. George sat in his deep old easy-chair by the corner -of his table and wondered whether all men who were -disappointed in love felt it as he did. He tried to smoke -and then gave it up in disgust. He rose from his seat -and attempted to arrange the papers that lay in heaps -about the place where he wrote, but his fingers trembled -oddly and he felt alternately hot and cold. He -opened a book and tried to read, but the effort to concentrate -his attention was maddening. He felt as though -he must be stifled in the little room that had always -seemed a haven of rest before, and yet he did not know -where to go. He threw open the window and stood -looking at the rows of windows just visible above the -brick wall at the back of the road. The shadows were -deepening below and the sky above was already stained -with the glow of evening. The prospect was not beautiful, -but the cool air that fanned his face was pleasant to -his senses, and he remained standing a long time, so long -indeed that the stars began to shine overhead before he -drew back and returned to his seat. Far down in his -sensitive character there was a passionate love of all -that is beautiful in the outer world. He hid it from -every one, for some reason which he could not explain, -but he occasionally let it show itself in his writings and -the passages in which he had written of nature as it -affected him, had not failed to be noticed for their peculiar -grace and tenderness of execution. Since he had -begun to write books all nature had become associated -<span class='pageno' id='Page_204'>204</span>with Constance. He had often wondered what the connecting -link could be, but had found no answer to the -question. A star in the evening sky, a ray of moonlight -upon rippling water, the glow of the sunset over drifted -snow, the winnowed light of summer’s afternoon beneath -old trees, the scent of roses wet with dew, the sweet -smell of country lanes when a shower had passed by—all -these things acted like a charm upon him to raise the -vision of Constance before his eyes. To-night he could -not bear to look at the bright planet that was shining in -that strip of exquisitely soft sky above the hard brick -buildings.</p> - -<p class='c000'>That evening he sat with his father, a rather rare -occurrence since he had gone so much into the world. -The old gentleman had looked often at him during their -meal but had said nothing about the careworn look of -exhaustion that he saw in his son’s face. It was nearly -ten o’clock when Jonah Wood laid down his book by his -side and raised his eyes. George had been trying to -read also, and during the last half-hour he had almost -succeeded.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What is the matter with you, George?” asked his -father.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George let his book fall upon his knee and stared at -the lamp for a few seconds. He did not want sympathy -from his father nor from any one else, but as he supposed -that he would be unable to conceal his nervousness and -ill temper for a long time to come, and as his father was -the person who would suffer the consequences of both, -he thought it better to speak out.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not think there is anything the matter with my -bodily condition,” he answered at last. “I am afraid I -am bad company, and shall be for a few days. This -afternoon, Miss Fearing refused to marry me. I loved -her. That is what is the matter, father.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Jonah Wood uncrossed his legs and crossed them again -in the opposite way rather suddenly, which was his -especial manner when he was very much surprised. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_205'>205</span>Mechanically, he took up his book again, and held it -before his eyes. Then his answer came at last in a -rather indistinct voice.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am sorry to hear that, George. I had thought she -was a nice girl. But you are well out of it. I never did -think much of women, anyhow, except your dear mother.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>So far as words went, that was all the consolation -George got from his father; but he knew better than to -suppose that the old gentleman would waste language in -condolence, whatever he might feel. That he felt something, -and that strongly, was quite evident from the fact -that although he conscientiously held his book before -his eyes during the half-hour that followed, he never -once turned over the page.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George rested little that night, and when at last he was -sound asleep in the broad daylight, he was awakened by -a knock at the door and a voice calling him. On looking -out a note was handed to him, addressed in Totty Trimm’s -brisk, slanting, ladylike writing. He was told that an -answer was expected and that the messenger was waiting.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Dear George,” Totty wrote, “I cannot tell you how -amazed and distressed I am. I do hope there is not a -word of truth in it, and that you will write me so at -once. It is all over New York that Conny Fearing has -jilted you in the most abominable way! Of course we -all knew that you had been engaged ever so long. If -it is true, she is a cruel, heartless, horrid girl, and she -never deserved you. Do write, and do come and see me -this afternoon. I shall not go out at all for fear of -missing you. I am so, so sorry! In haste.—Your -affectionate</p> -<div class='c007'><span class='sc'>Totty</span>.”</div> - -<p class='c000'>George swore a great oath, then and there. He had -not mentioned the subject to any one but his father, so -that either Constance or Grace must have told what had -happened.</p> - -<p class='c000'>That the story really was “all over New York,” as -Totty expressed it, he found out very soon.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_206'>206</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XV.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>Totty had lost no time in spreading the report that -everything was broken off between George Wood and -Constance Fearing, and she had done it so skilfully that -no one would have thought of tracing the story to her, -even if it had proved to be false. She had cared very -little what George himself thought about it, though she -had not failed to see that he would lay the blame of the -gossip on the Fearings. The two girls, indeed, could -have no object in circulating a piece of news which did -not reflect much credit upon themselves. What Totty -wanted was in the first place that George should know -that she was acquainted with his position, in order that -she might play the part of the comforter and earn his -gratitude. She could not of course question him directly, -and she was therefore obliged to appear as having heard -the tale from others; to manage this with success, it was -necessary that the circumstances of the case should be -made common property. Secondly, and here Totty’s -diplomatic instinct showed itself at its strongest, she -was determined to prevent all possibility of a renewal -of relations between Constance and George. In due -time, probably in twenty-four hours at the latest, both -Constance and Grace would know that all society was in -possession of their secret. Having of course not mentioned -it themselves to any one, they would feel sure -that George had betrayed them in his anger, and would -be proportionately incensed against him. If both parties -should be so angry as to come to an explanation, which -was improbable, neither would believe the other, the -quarrel would grow and the breach would be widened. -Totty herself would of course take George’s part, as -would the majority of his acquaintance, and he would -be grateful for such friendly support at so trying a time.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Matters turned out very nearly as Mrs. Sherrington -<span class='pageno' id='Page_207'>207</span>Trimm had anticipated. There was, indeed, a slight -variation in the programme, but she was not aware of it -at the time, and if she had noticed it she would not have -attached to it the importance it deserved. It chanced -that Constance and Grace Fearing and George Wood had -been asked with certain other guests to dine with a certain -young couple lately returned from their wedding -tour in Europe. The invitations had been sent and -accepted on the last day of April, that is to say on the -day preceding the one on which Constance gave George -her definite refusal, and the dinner was to take place -three or four days later. Now the young couple, who -had bought a small place on the Hudson river, and were -anxious to move into it as soon as possible, took advantage -of those three or four days to go up to their country-house -and to arrange it for themselves according to their -ideas of comfort. They returned to town on the morning -of their party and were of course ignorant of the -gossip which had gone the rounds in their absence. -Late on the afternoon of the day the husband came home -from his club in great distress to tell his wife that Constance -Fearing had thrown over George Wood and that -the two were not on speaking terms. It was too late to -make any excuse to their guests, so as to divide the party -and give two separate dinners on different days. The -worst of it was, that their table was small, the guests -had been carefully arranged, and George Wood must -inevitably sit beside either Constance or Grace. The -young couple were in despair and spent all the time that -was left in trying vainly to redistribute the places. -There was nothing to be done but to put George next to -Grace and to effect a total ignorance of the difficulty. -At the last moment, however, the young hostess thought -she could improve matters by speaking a word to George -when he arrived. Constance and her sister, however, -came before him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am so sorry!” said the lady of the house quickly -in the ear of the elder girl, as she drew her a little aside. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_208'>208</span>“Mr. Wood is coming—we have been out of town, and -knew nothing about it—I do hope——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am very glad he is to be here,” answered Constance. -She was very pale and very calm.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh dear!” exclaimed the hostess, growing very red. -“I hope I have said nothing——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not at all,” said Constance reassuring her. “There -is a foolish bit of gossip in the air, I believe. The facts -are very simple. Mr. Wood is a very old and good friend -of mine. He asked me to marry him, and I could not. -I like him very much and I hope we shall be as good -friends as before. If there is any blame in the matter -I wish to bear it. There he is.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The hostess felt better after this, but her curiosity -was excited, and as George entered the room she went -forward to meet him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am so sorry,” she said. “The Fearings are here -and you will have to sit next to the younger one. You -see we have only just heard—I am so sorry.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George Wood inclined his head a little. He was very -quiet and grave.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I may as well tell you at once,” he said, “that there -is not a word of truth in the story they are telling. I -shall be very much obliged if you will deny it when you -hear it mentioned. There never was any engagement -between Miss Fearing and me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well, I am very glad to hear it. Pray, forgive me,” -said the lady of the house.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George met Constance with his most impenetrably civil -manner and they exchanged a few words which neither -of them understood while they were speaking them, nor -remembered afterwards. They both spoke in a low -voice and the impression produced upon the many curious -eyes that watched them was that they were on very -good terms, though slightly embarrassed by the consciousness -that they were being so much talked of.</p> - -<p class='c000'>At the dinner-table George found himself next to -Grace. For some time he talked with his neighbour on -<span class='pageno' id='Page_209'>209</span>his other side, then turned and inquired when Grace and -her sister were going out of town, and what they intended -to do during the summer. She, on her part, while -answering his questions, looked at him with an air of -cold and scornful surprise. Presently there was a brief -burst of general conversation. Under cover of the -numerous voices Grace asked a direct question.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What do you mean by telling such a story as every -one is repeating about my sister?” she asked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George’s eyes gleamed angrily for a moment and his -answer came sharply and quickly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You would do better to ask that of yourself—or of -Miss Fearing. I have said nothing.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not intend to discuss the matter,” Grace answered -icily. “If the story were true it would hurt us and we -should not tell it. But it is a lie, and a malicious lie.” -She turned her head away.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Miss Fearing,” George said, bending towards her a little, -“I do not intend to be accused of such doings by any -one. Do you understand? If you will take the trouble -to ask the man on your left, he will tell you that I have -denied the story everywhere during the last four days.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Grace looked at him again, and there was a change in -her face. She was about to say something in reply, -when the general talk, which had allowed them to speak -together unheard, was interrupted by an unexpected -pause.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you prefer Bar Harbour to Newport, Miss Fearing?” -George inquired in a tone which led every one to -suppose that they had been discussing the comparative -merits of watering-places.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The young girl smiled as she made an indifferent -answer. She liked the man’s coolness and tact in such -small things. He was ready, imperturbable and determined, -possessing three of the qualities which women -like best in man. A little later another chance of -exchanging a few words presented itself. This time -Grace spoke less abruptly and coldly.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_210'>210</span>“If you have said nothing, who has told the tale?” -she asked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not know,” George answered, keeping his clear -eyes fixed on hers. “If I knew, I would tell you. It -is a malicious lie, as you say, and it must have been set -afloat by a malicious person—by some one who hates -us all.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Some one who hates my sister and me. It cannot -injure you in any way.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That is true,” said George. “It had not struck me -at first, because I was so angry at hearing the story. -Does your sister imagine that I have had anything to do -with it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes,” Grace answered, and her lip curled a little. -George misunderstood her expression and drew back -rather proudly. The fact was that Grace was thinking -how Constance accused herself every day of having been -heartless and cruel, declaring in her self-abasement that -even if George had chosen to tell the story he would have -had something very like a right to do so. Grace had no -patience with what she regarded as her sister’s weakness.</p> - -<p class='c000'>To the delight of the young couple who gave the dinner -it passed off very pleasantly. There had been no -apparent coldness anywhere, and they were persuaded -that none existed.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Will you be kind enough to tell your sister what I -have told you?” said George to his neighbour as they -rose from the table.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“If you like,” she answered indifferently. “Unless -you prefer to tell her yourself.” The emphasis she put -on the last part of the sentence showed plainly enough -what her opinion was.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I will,” he said.</p> - -<p class='c000'>A little later in the evening he sat down by Constance -in a comparatively quiet corner of the small drawing-room.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Will you allow me to say a few words to you?” he -asked.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_211'>211</span>She looked at him in pathetic surprise, and if he had -been a little more vain than he was, he would have seen -that she was grateful to him for coming to her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am always glad when you talk to me,” she said, -and her voice trembled perceptibly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are very good,” he answered in a tone that meant -nothing. “I would not trouble you if it did not seem -necessary. I have been talking about the matter to your -sister at dinner. I wish you to know that I have had -nothing to do with the invention of the story that is -going the rounds of the town. I have denied it to every -one, and I shall continue to deny it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance glanced timidly at him, and then sighed as -though she were relieved of a burden.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am very glad you have told me,” she said.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you believe me?” he asked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I have always believed everything you have told me, -and I always shall. But if you had told some one what -everybody is repeating, I should not have blamed you. -It would have been almost true.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not say things which are only almost true,” -said George very coldly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance’s face, which had regained some of its natural -colour while she had been speaking with him, grew -very white again, her lip trembled and there were tears -in her eyes.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Are you always going to treat me like this?” she -asked, pronouncing the words with difficulty, as though -a sob were very near.</p> - -<p class='c000'>If George had said one kind word at that moment, his -history and hers might have been very different from -that day onwards. But the wound he had received was -yet too fresh, and moreover he was angry with her for -showing a tendency to cry, and he hardened his heart.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I trust,” he answered in a chilly tone, “that we shall -always meet on the best of terms.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>A long silence followed, during which it was evident -that Constance was struggling to maintain some appearance -<span class='pageno' id='Page_212'>212</span>of outward calm. When she felt that she could -command her strength, she rose and left him without -another word. It was the only thing left for her to do. -She could not allow herself to break down in a room full -of people, before every one, and she could not stay where -she was without bursting into tears. She had humbled -herself to the utmost, she had been ready to offer every -atonement in her power, and he had met her with a -face of stone and a voice that cut her like steel.</p> - -<p class='c000'>That was the last time he saw her before the summer -season. She and her sister left town suddenly the next -day and George was left to his own devices and to the -tender consolation that was showered upon him by Totty -Trimm. But he was not easily consoled. As the days -followed each other his face grew darker and his humour -more gloomy. He could neither work nor read with any -satisfaction and he found even less pleasure in the society -of men and women than in his own. He would not have -married Constance now, if she had offered herself to him, -and implored him to take her. If it had been possible, -he would gladly have gone abroad for a few months, in -the hope of forgetting what had happened to him amidst -the varied discomforts, amusements and interests of -travelling. But he could not throw up certain engagements -he had contracted, though at first it seemed impossible -to fulfil them. He promised himself that as soon -as he had accomplished his task he would start upon a -journey without giving himself the trouble of defining -its ultimate direction. For the present he remained -sullenly in New York, sitting for hours at his table, a -pen held idly between his fingers, his uneasy glance -wandering from the paper before him to the wall opposite, -from the wall to the window, from the window to -his paper again. He was neither despondent nor hopeless. -The more impossible he found it to begin his work, -the more unyieldingly he forced himself to sit in his -chair, the more doggedly he stuck to his determination. -Writing had always seemed easy to him before, and he -<span class='pageno' id='Page_213'>213</span>admitted no reason for its being hard now. With iron -resolution he kept his place, revolving in his mind every -situation and story of which he had ever heard and of -which he believed he could make use. But though he -turned, and twisted, and tormented every idea that presented -itself, he could find neither plot nor scene nor -characters in the aching void of his brain. Hour after -hour, day after day, he did his best, growing thinner -and more tired every day, feeling each afternoon more -exhausted by the fruitless contest he was sustaining -against the apathy of his intelligence. But when the -stated time for work was past, and he pushed back the -sheet of paper, sometimes as white as when he had taken -it in the morning, sometimes covered with incoherent -notes that were utterly worthless, when he felt that he -had done his duty and could not be held responsible for -the miserable result, when his head ached, his brow was -furrowed, and his sight had become uncertain, then at -last he gave himself up to the contemplation of his own -wretchedness and to the pain of his utter desolation.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Totty did her best to attract him to her house as often -as possible. He was vaguely surprised that she should -stay so long in town, but he troubled himself very little -about her motives, and as he never made any remark to -her on the subject, she volunteered no explanation. She -would have found it hard to invent one if she had been -pressed to do so. It was hotter than usual at that season, -and Mamie was greatly in need of a change. Totty -could not plead a desire to make economies as a plausible -excuse with any chance of being believed, and even -Tom Craik, whose health usually supplied her with -reasons for doing anything she wanted to do, had betaken -himself to Newport. She seemed to have lost her interest -in his movements and doings of late and had begun -to express a pious belief that only heaven itself could -interfere successfully when a man took such rash liberties -with his health. Mr. Craik, indeed, lived by the -book of arithmetic as Tybalt fought, his food was -<span class='pageno' id='Page_214'>214</span>weighed, his hours of sleep and half-hours of repose -were counted and regulated by untiring attendants, the -thickness of his clothing at each season was prescribed -by a great authority and his goings out and comings in -were registered for the latter’s inspection, carriage-makers -invented vehicles for his use, upholsterers devised -systems of springs and cushions for his rest and when he -travelled he performed his journeys in his own car. It -was hard to see where Totty could have been of use to -him, since he did not care for her conversation and -could buy better advice than she could give.</p> - -<p class='c000'>If George had even suspected that Totty was responsible -for the report spread concerning him and Constance, -he would have renounced his cousin’s acquaintance and -would never have entered her house again, not even for -the sake of his old friendship with Sherry Trimm. But -Totty’s skill and tact had not been at fault. In her own -opinion she had made one failure in her life and one -mistake. She had failed to induce her brother to change -his will a second time, and she had committed a very -grave error in opening the will itself in the strong room -instead of bringing it home with her and lifting the seal -with a hot knife, so as to be able to restore it with all -its original appearance of security. The question of the -will still disturbed her, but she was not a cowardly -woman, and, in particular, she was not afraid of her -husband. If worst came to worst, she would throw herself -upon his mercy, confess her curiosity, give him back -the document, clear her conscience and let him scold as -he pleased. He would never tell any one, and Totty -was not afraid of making great personal sacrifices when -she could escape from a situation in no other way. At -the present time the main thing of importance was to -please George, and to induce him to make her house his -own as much as possible. If Sherrington, knowing -George’s financial situation, came back and found him -engaged to marry Mamie, it would not be human in him -to bear malice against his wife for the part she had -<span class='pageno' id='Page_215'>215</span>played. Remorse she had none. She only regretted -that she should have so far forgotten her caution as to -do clumsily what she had done. She would neither fail -nor make mistakes again.</p> - -<p class='c000'>She knew what she meant to do, and she knew how to -do it. A man in George’s situation is not easily affected -by words no matter how skilfully put together nor how -kindly uttered. He either does not hear them at all, or -pays no attention to them, or puts no faith in them. It -is more easy to soothe his humour by giving him agreeable -surroundings than by talking to him. He has no -appetite, but he may be tempted by new and exquisite -dishes. He wants stimulants, and an especial brand of -very dry champagne flatters his palate, exhilarates his -nervous system and produces no evil consequences. He -smokes more than is good for him, and in that case it is -better that he should smoke the most delicate cigars -imported directly from Havana, than that he should -saturate his brain with nicotine from a vulgar pipe—Totty -thought all pipes vulgar. The love-lorn wretch is -uneasy, but he is less restless when he is left to himself -for half an hour after dinner, in an absolutely perfect -easy-chair, with an absolutely perfect light, and with all -the newest and greatest reviews of the world at his -elbow. He loathes the thought of conversational effort, -but he can listen with a lazy satisfaction to the social -chatter of a clever mother and her beautiful daughter, -or his sensitive ears may even bear the reading aloud of -the last really good novel. It is distressing to learn the -next day that he does not remember the name of the -hero nor the colour of the heroine’s hair, and that he -does not care to hear any more of the book. But it is no -matter. Feminine invention is not at an end. It is -late in May and there is a full moon. Would he enjoy -a drive in the Park? He may smoke in the open carriage, -if he pleases, for both the ladies like it. Or it -will be Sunday to-morrow, and he never works on Sunday. -Would it be very wrong to run out for the day on -<span class='pageno' id='Page_216'>216</span>board of Mr. Craik’s yacht, instead of going to church? -Totty has the use of the yacht whenever she likes, and -she can take her prayer-book on board and read the service -with Mamie while George lies on deck and meditates. -It is a steam-yacht, and it is no matter whether the -weather is calm or not. If he likes they can go up the -river with her instead. Or would he not care to have a -horse waiting for him at seven in the morning at the corner -of the Park? There are all those horses eating their -heads off. It would be too early for Mamie to ride with -him, unless he positively insists upon it, but it could -not interfere with his day’s work. He has forgotten to -write a letter? Poor fellow, when he has been working -all day long. It is a very important letter, and must be -posted to-night. There is the luxurious writing-table -with its perfect appliances, its shaded candles, the beautiful -“<span lang="la" xml:lang="la">Charta Perfecta</span>,” the smoothly-flowing ink that is -changed every morning, the very pens he always uses, -the spotless blotting-paper, wax and seals, if he needs -them, and postage-stamps ready and separated from each -other in the silver box—there is even a tiny sponge set -in a little stand on which to moisten them, lest the -coarse taste of the Government gum should offend the -flavour of the Turkish coffee he has been drinking. He -has an idea? He would like to make notes? There is -the library beyond that door. It is lighted. He has -only to shut himself in as long as he pleases. There is -a box of those cigars on the table. He has forgotten his -handkerchief? A touch of the bell, an order, and here -are two of dear Sherrington’s, silk or linen, whichever -he prefers. The evening is hot? The windows are open -and there is a mint-julep with a straw in it by his side. -Or is it a little chilly? Everything is closed, the lamps -are all lighted, and the subtle perfume of Imperial tea -floats on the softened air. All is noiseless, perfect, -soothing, beyond description, and yet so natural that he -cannot feel as though it gave the least thought or trouble, -nor as if it were all skilfully prepared for his especial -<span class='pageno' id='Page_217'>217</span>benefit. He wonders why Sherry Trimm ever goes to -the club, when he could spend his evenings in such a -home, he closes his eyes, thinks of his unwritten book -and asks himself whether the wheel of fortune will ever -in its revolutions give him a right of his own to such -supreme refinement of comfort.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It would have been strange, indeed, if George’s humour -had not been somewhat softened by so much luxury. He -had liked what he could taste of it in his old days, when -Totty had hardly ever asked him to dinner and had never -expected to see him in the evening, in the days when he -was a poor, unhappy nobody, and only a shabby relation -of Mrs. Sherrington Trimm’s. There had not been much -done for his comfort then, when he came to the house, -but the softness of the carpets, the elasticity of the easy-chairs -and the harmony of all details had seemed delightful -to him, and Totty had always been kind and -good-natured. But he had seen many things in the last -two years, and was by no means so ready to be pleased -as he had been when his only evening coat had been in -a chronic state of repair. He had eaten terrapin and -canvas-back off old Saxon china, and he had looked upon -the champagne when it was of the most expensive -quality. He had dined in grandeur with men whose -millions were legion, and he had supped with epicures -who knew what they got for their money. He had seen -all sorts of society in his native city, all sorts of vulgar -display, all sorts of unostentatious but enormously expensive -luxury, all sorts of gilded splendour, and all -sorts of faultless refinements in taste. But now, after -he had dined and spent the evening with Totty half a -dozen times in the course of a fortnight, he was ready to -admit that he had never been in an establishment so perfect -at all points, so quietly managed, so absolutely -comfortable and so unpretentiously sybaritic in all its -details. Totty and her husband were undoubtedly rich, -but they were no richer than hundreds of people he -knew. It was not money alone that produced the results -<span class='pageno' id='Page_218'>218</span>he saw, and the certainty that the household was managed -upon a sort of artistic principle of enjoyment gave -him intense satisfaction. There was the same difference -between Totty’s way of living and that of most of her -friends, that there is between a piece of work done by -hand and the stereotyped copy of it made by machinery, -the same difference there is between an illuminated -manuscript and its lithographed fac-simile. The one is -full of the individuality of the great artist, the other -presents the perfection of execution without inspiration. -The one charms, the other only pleases.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George appreciated most thoroughly at the end of the -first week everything he ate, drank, felt and saw at his -cousin’s house, and what he heard was by no means as -wearisome to his intelligence as he had supposed that it -must be. Totty was far too clever a woman to flatter -him openly, for she was keen enough to perceive that he -was one of those men who feel a sort of repulsion for the -work they have done and who put little faith in the judgment -of others concerning it. She soon found out that -he did not care to see his books lying upon the drawing-room -table and that he suspected her of leaving them -there with the deliberate intention of flattering him. -They disappeared into the shelves of the library and were -seen no more. But when George was reading the papers -or a review—a form of rudeness in which she constantly -encouraged him, she occasionally took the opportunity of -introducing into her quiet conversation with Mamie some -expression or some thought which he had used or developed -in his writings. She avoided quotation, which she -had always considered vulgar, and exercised her ingenuity -in letting his favourite ideas fall from her lips in a perfectly -natural manner. Though he was not supposed to -be listening, he often heard her remarks, and was unconsciously -pleased. The subtlety of the flatterer could go -no further. Nor was that part of the talk which concerned -himself neither directly nor indirectly by any -means tiresome. Totty possessed very good powers of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_219'>219</span>conversation, and could talk very much better than most -women when she pleased. If she pretended to abhor the -name of culture and generally affected an air of indifference -to everything that did not affect her neighbours or -herself, she did so with a wise premeditation and an -excellent judgment of her hearers’ capacities. But her -own husband was fond of more intelligent subjects, and -was a man of varied experience and wide reading, who -liked to talk of what he read and saw. Totty’s memory -was excellent, and as she gave herself almost as much -trouble to please Sherrington as she was now taking to -please George, she had acquired the art of amusing her -husband without any apparent exertion. What she said -was never very profound, unless she had got it by heart, -but the matter of it was generally clear and very fairly -well expressed.</p> - -<p class='c000'>As for Mamie, she was perfectly happy, for she was -unconsciously very much in love with George, and to see -him so often and in such intimacy was inexpressibly delightful. -It was a pleasure even to see him sitting silent -in his chair, it was happiness to hear him speak and it -was positive joy to wait upon him. She had been more -disturbed than she had been aware by his evident devotion -to Constance Fearing during the winter. The -gossip about the broken engagement had given her the -keenest pain, due to the fact, as she supposed, that Constance -was totally unworthy of the man she had jilted. -But George’s own assurance that no engagement had ever -existed had driven the clouds from her sky, although his -own subsequent conduct might well have aroused her -suspicions. Totty, however, took good care to explain -to her that the talk had been entirely without foundation -and that George’s silence and gloomy ways were the result -of overwork. She hoped, she said, to induce him to -spend the summer with them and to give himself a long -rest.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_220'>220</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XVI.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>“Dear George,” said Totty, one evening near the end -of May, “I hate the idea of going away and leaving you -here in the heat!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“So do I,” answered George, thoughtfully, as he -turned in his chair and looked at his cousin’s face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am sure you will fall ill. There will be nobody to -take care of you, no place where you can drop in to dinner -when you feel inclined, and where you can do just -as you like. And yet—you see how Mamie is looking! -I cannot conscientiously keep her here any longer.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Good heavens, Totty, you must not think of it! You -do not mean to say you have been waiting here only on -my account?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Totty Trimm hesitated, withdrew one tiny foot, of -which the point had projected beyond the skirt of her -tea-gown, and then put out the other and looked at it -curiously. They were both so small and pointed that -George could not have told which was the right and -which the left. She hesitated because she had not anticipated -the question. George was not like other men. -He would not be flattered by merely being informed -that the whole Sherrington Trimm establishment had -been kept up a month beyond the usual time, on a war -footing, as it were, for his sole and express benefit. Most -men would be pleased at being considered of enough importance -to be told such a thing, though they might not -believe the statement altogether. It was necessary that -George should know that Totty was speaking the truth, -if she answered his question directly. She hesitated and -looked at the point of her little slipper.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What does it matter?” she asked, suddenly, looking -up and smiling at him affectionately.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It was very well done. The strongest asseverations -could not have expressed more clearly her readiness to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_221'>221</span>sacrifice everything she could to his comfort. George -was touched.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You have been very good to me, Totty. I cannot -thank you enough.” He took her hand and pressed it -warmly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What is the use of having friends unless they will -stand by you?” she asked, returning the pressure, while -her face grew grave and sad.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Since she had written her first note after his disappointment, -she had never referred to his troubles. He -had answered her on that occasion as he answered every -one, by saying that there had never been any engagement, -and he had marvelled at her exceeding tact in avoiding -the subject ever since. Her reference to it now, however, -seemed natural, and did not hurt him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You have been more than a friend to me,” he answered. -“I feel as though you were my sister—only, if -you were, I suppose I should be less grateful.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No, you would not,” said Totty with a smile of genuine -pleasure produced of course by the success of her -operations. “Do you want to do something to please -me? Something to show your gratitude?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Whatever I can——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Come and spend the summer with us—no, I do not -mean you to make a visit of a month or six weeks. Pack -up all your belongings, come down with us and be one of -the family, till we are ready to come back to town. Make -your headquarters with us, write your book, go away and -make visits for a week when you like, but consider that -our house is your home. Will you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“But, Totty, you would be sick of the sight of me——” -Visions of an enchanted existence by the river rose before -George’s eyes. He was to some extent intellectually -demoralised, and every agreeable prospect in the future -resolved itself into the thought of mental rest superinduced -by boundless luxury and material comfort.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What an idea!” exclaimed Totty indignantly. “Besides, -if you knew how interested I am in making the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_222'>222</span>proposal, you would see that you would be conferring a -favour instead of accepting one.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>She laughed softly when she had finished the sentence, -thinking how very true her words were.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I cannot understand how,” George answered. “Please -explain. I really cannot see how I shall be conferring -a favour by eating your wonderful dinners and drinking -that champagne of Sherry’s.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Totty laughed again.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I wish you would finish it! It would be ever so much -better for his liver, if you would.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>She wondered what George would think if he knew -that a fresh supply of that particular brand of brut was -already on its way from France, ordered in the hope that -he might accept the invitation she was now pressing -upon him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And as for the cook,” she continued, “he will do -nothing unless there is a man in the party. That is it, -George. I have told you now. Dear Sherry is not coming -back until the autumn, and Mamie and I feel dreadfully -unprotected down there all by ourselves. Please, -please come and take care of us. I knew you would -come—oh, I am so glad! It is such a relief to feel -that you will be with us!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>As indeed it was, since if George was under Totty’s -personal supervision there would be no chance of his returning -to his former allegiance to Constance. George -himself saw that her reasons were not serious, and considering -the previous conversation and its earnest tone, -he thought that he saw through Totty’s playfulness and -kindly wish to do a very friendly action.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I will tell you what I will do,” he said. “I will -come for a month——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No—I will not have you for a month, nor for two -months—the whole summer or nothing.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>So George at last consented, and left town two or three -days later with Mrs. Sherrington Trimm and her daughter. -He had felt that in some way he was acting weakly, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_223'>223</span>and that he had yielded too easily to his cousin’s invitation, -but if he had been in any doubt about her sincere -desire to keep him during the whole season, his anxiety -was removed when as soon as he was established in his -new quarters Totty immediately began to talk of plans -for the months before them, in all of which George -played a principal part, and Mamie took it for granted -that there was to be no separation until they should all -go back to New York together. During the first few -days George allowed himself to be utterly idle and let -the hours pass with an indifference to all thought which -he had never known before.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He had been transported into a sort of fairyland, of -which he had enjoyed occasional glimpses at other times, -but which he had never had an opportunity of knowing -intimately. It was unlike anything in his experience. -Even the journey had not reminded him of other journeys, -for it had been performed in that luxurious privacy -which is dear to the refined American. Mr. Craik’s yacht -was permanently at his sister’s disposal, and on the morning -appointed for the departure she and Mamie and -George had driven down to the pier at their leisure and -had gone on board. It had been but a step from the perfectly -appointed house in the city to the equally perfect -dwelling on the water, and only one step more from the -snowy deck of the yacht to the flower garden before the -country mansion on the banks of the great river. Everything -had been ready for them, on board and on shore, -and George could not realise when the journey was over -that he had been carried over a distance which he formerly -only traversed in the heat and dust of a noisy -train, or on the crowded deck of a river steamboat. He -had passed the hot hours sitting under the cool shade of -a double awning, in the most comfortable of chairs -beside Mamie Trimm and opposite to her mother. There -had been no noise, no tramping of sailors, no blowing of -whistles, no shouting of orders. From time to time, -indeed, he caught a glimpse of the captain’s feet as he -<span class='pageno' id='Page_224'>224</span>paced the bridge, but that was all. At mid-day a servant -had appeared and Totty had glanced at him, glanced at -the table beside her and nodded. Immediately luncheon -had been served and George had recognised the touch -of the master in the two or three delicacies he had tasted, -and had found in his glass wine of the famous brand -which was said to have caused Sherry Trimm’s sufferings. -He had divided with Mamie a priceless peach, -which had no natural right to be ripe on the last day of -May, and Totty had selected for him a little bunch of -muscat grapes such as he might not have eaten in the -south before September. George tasted the ambrosia -and swallowed the nectar, and enjoyed the beautiful -scenery, the two pretty faces and the pleasant voices in -his ear, thinking, perhaps, of the old times when after -a desperate morning’s work at reviewing trash, he had -sat down to a luncheon of cold meat, pickles and tea. -The thought of the contrast made the present more delightful.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The spell was not broken, and Totty’s country-house -prolonged without interruption the series of exquisite -sensations which had been intermittent during the last -month in New York. If Totty had intended to play the -part of the tempter instead of being the chief comforter, -she could not have done it with a more diabolical skill. -She believed that a man could always be more easily -attacked by the senses than by his intelligence, and she -put every principle of her belief into her acts. She -partly knew, and partly guessed, the manner of George’s -former life, the absence of luxury, the monotony of an -existence in which common necessities were always provided -for in the same way, without stint but without -variety. Her art consisted in creating contrasts of unlike -perfections, so that the senses, unable to decide -between the amount of pleasure experienced yesterday, -enjoyed to-day and anticipated to-morrow, should be kept -in a constant state of suspended judgment. She had -practised this system with her husband and it had often -<span class='pageno' id='Page_225'>225</span>succeeded in persuading him to let her have her own way, -and she practised it continually for her own personal -satisfaction, as being the only means of extracting all -possible enjoyment from her existence.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George fell under the charm without even making an -effort to resist it. Why, he asked himself dreamily, -should he resist anything that was good in itself and -harmless in its consequences? His life had all at once -fallen in pleasant places. Should he disappoint Totty -and give Mamie pain by a sudden determination to -break up all their plans and return to the heat of the -city? He could work here as well as anywhere else, -better if there was any truth in the theory that the mind -should be more active when the body is subject to no -pain or inconvenience. A deal of asceticism had been -forced upon him since he had been seventeen years old, -and he believed that a surfeit of luxuries would do him -no harm now. He would get tired of it all, no doubt, -and would be very glad to go back to his more simple -existence.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Totty, however, was far too accomplished an Epicurean -to allow her patient a surfeit of anything. She watched -him more narrowly than he supposed and was ready -with a change, not when she saw signs of fatigue in his -manner, his face or his appetite, but before that, as soon -as she had seen that he was pleased. She was playing a -great game and her attention never relaxed. There was -a fortune at stake of which he himself did not dream, -and of which even she did not know the extent. She -had everything in her favour. The coast was clear, for -Sherrington was in Europe. The final scene was prepared, -since Mamie was already in love with George. -She herself was a past master of scene-shifting and her -theatre was well provided with properties of every -description. All that was necessary was that the hero -should take a fancy to the heroine. But the very fact -that it all looked so easy aroused Totty’s anxiety. She -said to herself that what appeared to be most simple was -<span class='pageno' id='Page_226'>226</span>often, in reality, most difficult, and she warned herself -to be careful and diffident of success.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Fortunately Mamie was all she could desire her to be. -She did not believe in beauty as a means of attracting a -disappointed man. Beauty could only draw his mind -into making comparisons, and comparisons must revive -recollection and reawaken regret. She had more faith -in Mamie’s subtle charm of manner, voice and motion -than she would have had in all the faultless perfections -of classic features, queenly stature and royal carriage. -That charm of hers, gave her an individuality of her -own, such as Constance Fearing had never possessed, unlike -anything that George had ever noticed in other girls -or women. Doubtless he might have too much of that, -too, as well as of other things, but Totty was even more -cautious of the effects she produced with Mamie than of -those she brought about by her minute attention to the -management of her house. And here her greatest skill -appeared, for she had to play a game of three-sided -duplicity. She had to please George, without wearying -him, to regulate the intercourse between the two so as to -suit her own ends, and to invent reasons for making -Mamie behave as she desired that she should without -communicating to the girl a word of her intentions. If -George appeared to have been enjoying especially a quiet -conversation with Mamie, he must be prevented from -talking to her again alone for at least twenty-four hours, -and even then he must be allowed to please himself in -the matter. This was not easy, for Mamie was by this -time blindly in love with him, and if she were not -watched would be foolish enough to bore him by her -frequent presence at his side. To keep her away from -him long enough to make him want her company needed -much diplomacy. If George went out for a turn in the -garden, and if Mamie joined him without an invitation, -Totty could not pursue the pair in order to protect George -from being bored. Hitherto also, Mamie had made no -confidences to her mother and did not seem inclined to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_227'>227</span>make any. Manifestly, if an accident could happen by -which Mamie could be brought to betray herself to her -careful parent, great advantages would ensue. The -careful parent would then appear as the firm and skilful -ally of the love-lorn daughter, the two would act in concert -and great results might be effected. Totty was not -only really fond of George, in her own way, but it would -not have suited her that a hair of his head should be -injured. Nevertheless, she nourished all sorts of malicious -hopes against him at this stage. She wished that -he might be thrown from his horse and brought home -unhurt but insensible, or that he might upset his boat -on the river under Mamie’s eyes—in short that something -might happen to him which should give Mamie a -shock and throw her into her mother’s arms.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Providence, however, did not come to Totty’s assistance -and she was thrown upon her own resources, aided -in some small degree by an extraneous circumstance. -The marriage of John Bond and Grace Fearing had been -talked of for a long time, and Totty one morning learned -that it was to take place immediately. She could not -guess why they had chosen to be married in the very -middle of the summer, when all their friends were out -of town, and she had no inclination to go to the wedding, -which was to be conducted without any great gathering -or display of festivity. John Bond, as being Sherrington -Trimm’s partner and an old friend of Totty’s, urged -her of course to come down to town for the occasion and -to bring Mamie, but the heat was intense, and as there -would be nothing to see and no one present with whom -she would care to talk, and nothing good to eat, and, on -the whole, nothing whatever to do except to grin and -look pleased, Totty made up her mind that she would -have nothing to do with the affair, beyond sending Grace -an expensive present. There were no regular invitations -sent out, and George received no notice of what was -happening. Totty, however, did not lose the opportunity -of talking to Mamie about it all, with a view to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_228'>228</span>sounding her views upon matrimony in general and -upon her own future in particular.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Johnnie Bond is such a fine fellow!” said Totty to -her daughter, when they had been talking for some time.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie admitted that he was a very fine fellow, indeed.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Tell me, Mamie,” said her mother, assuming a tone -at once cheerful and confidential, “is not Johnnie Bond -very nearly your ideal of what a husband ought to be?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not in the least!” answered the young girl promptly. -Totty looked very much surprised.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No? Why, Mamie, I thought you always liked him -so much!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“So I do, in a way. But he is not at all in my style, -mamma.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What is your style, as you call it?” Totty seemed -intensely interested as she paused for an answer. Mamie -blushed, and looked down at a piece of work she was -holding.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well—to begin with,” she said, speaking quickly, -“Mr. Bond is three-quarters lawyer and one-quarter -idiot. At least I believe so. And all the rest of him -is boating and tennis and—everything one does, you -know—sport and all that. I never heard him make an -intelligent remark in his life, though papa says he is as -clever as they make them, for a lawyer of course. You -know what I mean, mamma. He is one of those dreadfully -earnest young men, who do everything with a purpose, -as if it meant money, and they meant to get it. -Oh, I could not bear to marry one of them! They are -all exactly alike—so many steam engines turned out by -the same maker!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Dear me, Mamie!” laughed Mrs. Trimm. “What -very decided opinions you have!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I suppose Grace Fearing has decided opinions, too, -in the opposite direction, or she would not have married -him. I never can understand her, either, with those -great dark eyes and that determined expression—she -looks like a girl out of a novel, and I believe there is no -<span class='pageno' id='Page_229'>229</span>more romance about her than there is in a hat-stand! -There cannot be, if she likes Master Johnnie Bond—and -there is no reason why she should marry him unless she -does like him, is there?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“None that I can see, but that is a very good one—good -enough for any one, I should think. You would -not care for Johnnie Bond, but you may care for some -one else. You have not told me what your ideal would -be like.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Where is the use? You ought to know, mamma, -without being told.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course I ought, child—only I am so stupid. -Would he be dark or fair?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Dark,” answered the young girl, bending over her -work.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And clever, I suppose? Of course. And slender, -and romantic to look at?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, don’t, mamma! Talk about something else.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why? I am not sure that we might not agree about -the ideal.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No!” exclaimed Mamie with a little half scornful -laugh. “We should never agree about him, because I -would like him poor.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You can afford to marry a poor man, if you please,” -said Totty, thoughtfully. “But would you not be afraid -that he loved your money better than yourself?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No indeed! I should love him, and then—I should -believe in him, of course.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Then I do not see why you should not marry your -ideal after all, my dear. Come, darling—we both know -whom we are talking about. Why not say it to each -other? I would help you then. I am almost as fond of -him as you are.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie blushed quickly and then turned pale. She -looked suspiciously at her mother.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are not in earnest, mamma,” she said, after a -short pause.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Indeed I am, child,” answered Mrs. Trimm, meeting -<span class='pageno' id='Page_230'>230</span>her gaze fearlessly. “Do you think that I have not -known it for a long time? And do you think I would -have brought him here if I had not been perfectly willing -that you should marry him?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The young girl suddenly sprang up and threw her -arms round her mother’s neck.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh mamma, mamma! This is too good! Too good! -Too good!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Dear child!” exclaimed Totty, kissing her affectionately. -“Is not your happiness always the first thing in -my mind? Would I not sacrifice everything for that?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes—you are so sweet and dear. I know you -would,” said Mamie, sitting down beside her and resting -her head upon her mother’s plump little shoulder. “But -you see—I thought that nobody knew, because we have -always been together so much. And then I thought you -would think what you just said, about the money, you -know. But it is not true—I mean it would not be true. -He would never care for that.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No,” answered Totty, almost forgetting herself. “I -should think not! I mean—with his character—he is -so honourable and fair—like your papa in that. But -Mamie, darling, do you think he——?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Totty stopped, conveying the rest of her question by -means of an inquiringly sympathetic smile. Mamie -shook her head a little sadly, and looked down.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am afraid he never will,” she said, in a low voice. -“And yet he should, for I—oh mother! I love him so—you -will never know!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>She buried her face and her blushes in her hands upon -her mother’s shoulder. Totty patted her head affectionately -and kissed her curls several times in a very -motherly way. Her own face was suffused with smiles -for she felt that she had done a very good day’s work, -and was surprised to think that it had been accomplished -so easily. The fact was that Mamie was only too ready -to speak of what filled her whole life, and had more -than once been on the point of telling her mother all she -<span class='pageno' id='Page_231'>231</span>felt. She had supposed, however, that she knew the -ways of her mother’s wisdom, and that George’s poverty -would always be an insuperable obstacle. She did not -now in the least understand why Totty made so light of -the question of money, and even in her great happiness -at finding such ready sympathy she thought it very -strange that she should have so completely mistaken her -mother’s character.</p> - -<p class='c000'>From that day, however, there was a tacit understanding -between the two. Mamie was in that singular and -not altogether dignified position in which a woman finds -herself when she loves a man and has determined to win -him, though she is not loved in return. There are -doubtless many young women in the world who, whether -for love or for interest, have wooed and won their present -husbands, though the latter have never found it out, -and would not believe it if it were told to them. Mamie -differed from most of these, however, in that she was as -modest as she was loving, and in her real distrust of her -own advantages, which defect, or quality, was perhaps -at the root of her peculiar charm. She knew that she -was not beautiful, and she believed that beauty was a -woman’s strongest weapon. She had yet to learn that -the way to men’s hearts is not always through their -eyes.</p> - -<p class='c000'>After her confession to her mother she began to discover -the value of that ingenious lady’s experience and -tact. At first, indeed, she felt a modest hesitation in -coolly doing what she was told, as a means of winning -George’s heart, but she soon found out that her mother -was always right and that she herself was generally -wrong.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“There is only one way of doing things,” said Totty, -one day, “and that is the right way. There is only one -thing that a man really hates, and that is, being bored. -And men are very easily bored, my dear. A man likes -to have everything done for him in the most perfect way, -but it spoils his enjoyment to feel that it is done especially -<span class='pageno' id='Page_232'>232</span>for him and for nobody else. If you are afraid he -will catch cold, do not run after him with his hat, as -though he were an invalid. That is only an example, -Mamie. Men have an immense body of tradition to -sustain, and they do it by keeping up appearances as -well as they can. All men are supposed to be brave, -strong, honourable, enduring and generous. They are -supposed never to feel hot when we do, nor to catch -cold when we should. It is a part of their stage character -never to be afraid of anything, and many of them -are far more timid than we are. I do not mean to say -that dear George has not all the qualities a man ought -to have. Certainly not. He is quite the finest fellow I -ever knew. But he does not want you to notice the fact. -He wants you to take it for granted, just as much as -little Tippy Skiffington does, who is afraid of a mouse -and would not touch a dog that had no muzzle on for all -he is worth, which is saying a great deal. Dear George -would not like it to be supposed that he cares for terrapin -and dry champagne any more than for pork and beans—and -yet the dear fellow is keenly alive to the difference. -He does not want it to be thought he could ever -be bored by you or me, but he knows that we know that -he might be, and he expects us to use tact and to leave -him alone sometimes, even for a whole day. He will be -much more glad to see us the next time we meet him -and will show it by giving himself much more trouble -to be agreeable. It is not true that if you run away -men will follow you. They are far too lazy for that. -You must come to them, but not too often. What they -most want is amusement, and between their amusements, -to be allowed to do exactly what their high and mighty -intellects suggest to them, without comment. Never ask -a man where he has been, what he has seen, nor what he -has heard. If he has anything to tell, he will tell you, -and if he has not you only humiliate him by discovering -the emptiness of his thoughts. Always ask his opinion. -If he has none himself, he knows somebody who has, no -<span class='pageno' id='Page_233'>233</span>matter what the subject may be. The difference between -men and women is very simple, my dear. Women look -greater fools than they are, and men are greater fools -than they look—except in the things they know how to -do and do well.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“George is not a fool about anything!” said Mamie -indignantly. She had been listening with considerable -interest to her mother’s homily.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“George, my dear,” answered Totty, “is very foolish -not to be in love with you at the present moment. Or, -if he is, he is very foolish to hide it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I wish you would not talk like that, mamma! I am -not half good enough for him.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Nevertheless Mamie consulted her mother and was -guided by her. George would ride—should she accept -his proposal and go with him or not? A word, a glance -decided the matter for her, and George was none the -wiser. He could not help thinking, however, that Mamie -was becoming an extremely tactful young person, as well -as a most agreeable companion. One day he could not -resist his inclination to tell her so.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How clever you are, Mamie!” he exclaimed after a -pause in the conversation.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I? Clever?” The girl’s face expressed her innocent -astonishment at the compliment.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes. You are a most charming person to live with. -How in the world did you know that I wanted to be -alone yesterday, and that I wanted you to come with me -to-day?” George laughed. “Do I not always ask you -to come with me in precisely the same tone? Do I not -always look as though I wanted you to come? How do -you always know?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie was conscious that she blushed even more than -she usually did when she was momentarily embarrassed. -Indeed, the blush had two distinct causes on the present -occasion. She had at first been delighted by the compliment -he had paid her, and then, immediately afterwards, -when he explained what he meant, she had felt her -<span class='pageno' id='Page_234'>234</span>shame burning in her face. On the previous day, as -on the present afternoon, she had blindly followed her -mother’s advice, given by an almost imperceptible motion -of the head and eyes that had indicated a negation -on the first occasion and assent on the second. She -was silent now, and could find no words with which to -answer his question.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How do you do it?” he asked again, wondering at -her embarrassment, and slackening the pace at which he -rowed, for they were in a boat together towards sunset.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie’s eyes suddenly filled with hot tears and she -hid her face with her small hands.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why, Mamie dear, what is it?” George asked, resting -on his oars and leaning forward.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“O George,” she sobbed, “if you only knew!”</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XVII.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>George did not forget Mamie’s strange behaviour in -the boat, and he devoted much time to the study of the -problem it presented. To judge from the girl’s conduct -alone, she must be in love with him, and yet he did not -like the idea and took the greatest pains to keep it out of -his mind. He was not in the humour in which it is a -pleasant surprise to a man to discover unexpected affection -for himself in a quarter where he has not expected -to find it. Moreover, if he had once made sure that -Mamie loved him, he would probably have thought it -his duty to go away as quickly as possible. Such a -decision would have deprived him of much that he -enjoyed and it was desirable in the interests of his selfishness -that it should be put off as long as possible.</p> - -<p class='c000'>At that time George began to feel the desire for work -creeping upon him once more. During a few weeks only -had it been in his power to put away the habit of writing, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_235'>235</span>and to close his eyes to all responsibility. Those -had been days when the whole world had seemed to be -upside down, as in a dream, while he himself moved in -the midst of a disordered creation, uncertainty, like a -soulless creature, without the capacity for independent -action nor the intelligence to form any distinct intention -from one moment to another. He took what he found -in his way without understanding, though not without -an odd appreciation of what was good, very much as -Eastern princes receive European hospitality. He was -grateful at least that his life should be made so smooth -for the time, for he was dimly conscious that anything -outwardly rough or coarse would have exasperated him to -madness. He believed that he thought a great deal about -the past, but when he attempted to give his meditations -a shape, they would accept none. In reality he was not -thinking, though the mirror of his memory was filled -with fleeting reflections of his former life, some clear -and startlingly vivid, others distorted and broken, but -all more or less beautified by the shadowy presence of a -being he had loved better than himself, and from whom -he was separated for ever.</p> - -<p class='c000'>With such a man, however, idleness was as impossible -as the desire for expression was irresistible. Since he -had written his first book, and had discovered what it was -that he was born to do, he had taken up a burden which -he could not lay down and had sworn allegiance to a -master from whom he could not escape. Not even the -bitter and overwhelming disappointment that had come -upon him could kill the desire to write. He was almost -ashamed of it at first, for he felt that though everything -he loved best in the world were dead before him, he -should be driven within a few weeks to take up his pen -again and open his inner eyes and ears to the play of his -mind’s stage.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The power to do certain things is rarely separated -from the necessity for doing them, and the fact that they -are well done by no means proves that the doer has forgotten -<span class='pageno' id='Page_236'>236</span>the blow that recently overwhelmed his heart in -darkness and his daily life in an almost uncontrollable -grief. There are two lives for most men, whatever their -careers may be, and the absence of either of these lives -makes a man produce an impression of incompleteness -upon those who know him. When any one lives only -by the existence of the heart, without active occupation, -without manifesting inclination, taste or talent for outward -things, we say that he has no interest in life, and -is much to be pitied. But we say that a man is heartless -and selfish who appears to devote every thought to -his occupation and every moment to increasing the -chances of his success. In the lives of great men we -search with an especial pleasure for all that can show us -the working of their hearts, and we remember with -delight whatever we find that indicates a separate and -inner chain of events, of which the links have been loves -and friendships kept secret from the world. The more -nearly the two lives have coincided, the more happy we -judge the man to have been, the more out of tune and -discordant with each other, the more we feel that his -existence must have seemed a failure in his own eyes; -and when we are told only of his doings before the world, -without one touch of softer feeling, we lay aside the -book of his biography and say that it is badly written -and that we are surprised to find that a man so uninteresting -in himself should have exercised so much influence -over his times.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George Wood had neither forgotten Constance, nor -had he recovered from the wound he had received, and -yet within a day or two of his resuming his work, he -found that his love of it was not diminished nor his -strength to do it abated. It was not happiness to write, -but it was satisfaction. His hesitation was gone now, -and his hand had recovered its cunning. He no longer -sat for hours before a blank sheet of paper, staring at -the wall and racking his brain in the hope that a character -of some sort would suddenly start into shape and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_237'>237</span>life from the chaotic darkness he was facing. Until the -first difficulties that attend the beginning of a book were -overcome, he had still a lingering and unacknowledged -suspicion that he could do nothing good without the daily -criticism and unfailing applause he had been accustomed -to receive from Constance during his former efforts. -When he was fairly launched, he felt proud of being -able to do without her. For the first time he was depending -solely upon his own judgment, as he had always -relied upon his own ideas, and his judgment decided -that what he did was good.</p> - -<p class='c000'>From that time the arrangement of his day took again -the definite shape in which he had always known it, and -the mere distribution of his hours between work and rest -gave him back confidence in himself. He began to see -his surroundings from a more intelligent point of view, -and to take a keener interest in things and people. -Though he had by no means recovered from the first -great shock of his life, and though in his heart he was -as bitter as ever against her who had inflicted it, yet his -mind was already convalescent and was being rapidly -restored to its former vigour. There was power in his -imagination, strength in his language and harmony in -his style. What he thought took shape, and the shape -found expression.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He soon found that under these circumstances life was -bearable, and often enjoyable. Very gradually, as his -concentrated attention became absorbed in his own creations, -the face of Constance Fearing appeared less often -in his dreams, and the heartbroken tones of her voice -rang less continually in his ears. He was not forgetting, -but the physical impressions of sight and sound -upon his senses were wearing off. Occasionally indeed -they would return with startling force and vividness, -awakening in him for one moment the reality of all he -had suffered. At such times he could see again, as -though face to face, her expression at the instant when -she had seemed to relinquish the attempt to soften him, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_238'>238</span>and he could hear again the plaintive accents of her -words and the painful cadence of her sobbing voice. -But such visitations grew daily more rare and at last -almost ceased altogether.</p> - -<p class='c000'>For what he had done himself he felt no remorse. -His mind was not made like hers, and he would never be -able to understand that she had done violence to her own -heart in casting him off. He would learn perhaps some -day to describe what she had done, to analyse her motives -from his own point of view, but he would never be able -to think of her as she thought of herself. In his eyes -she would always be a little contemptible, even when -time’s charitable mists should have descended upon the -past and softened all its outlines. He was cut off from -her by one of the most impassable barriers which can be -raised in the human heart, by his resentment against -himself for having been deceived.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He did not ask himself whether he could ever love -again. There was a strength in his present position, -which almost pleased him. He had done with love and -was free to speak of it as he chose, without regard for -any one’s feelings, without respect for the passion itself, -if it suited his humour. There had been nothing boyish -in the pure and passionate affection under which he had -lived during two of the most important years in his -life. He had felt all that a man can feel in the deep -devotion to one spotless object. There would never -again be anything so high and noble and untainted in -all the years that were to come for him, and he knew it. -The determination he had felt to be necessary in the first -moment of his anger had carried itself out almost without -any direction from his will. The Constance he had -loved so dearly, was not the Constance who had refused -to marry him, and who had dealt him such a cruel blow. -The two were separated and he could still love the one, -while hating and despising the other. But although he -might meet the girl whose face and form and look and -voice were those of her he had lost, this second Constance -<span class='pageno' id='Page_239'>239</span>could never take the other’s place. A word from -her could not put fire into his heart, nor raise in his -brain the vision of a magnificent inspiration. A touch -from her hand could send no thrill of pleasure through -his frame, there would be no joy in looking upon her -fair face when next he saw it. She might say to him all -that he had once said to her, she might appeal passionately -to the love that was now dead, she might offer him -her heart, her body and her soul. He wanted none of -the three now. The break had been final and definite, -love’s path had broken off upon the edge of the precipice, -and though she might stand on the old familiar way -and beckon to him to come over and meet her, there was -that between them which no man could cross.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Like all great passions the one through which George -Wood had passed had produced upon him a definite effect, -which could be appreciated, if not accurately measured. -He was older in every way now than he had been two -years and a half earlier, but older chiefly in his understanding -of human nature. He knew, now, what men -and women felt in certain circumstances, his instinct told -him truly what it had formerly only vaguely suggested. -The inevitable logic of life had taken him up as a problem, -had dealt with him as with a subject fitted to its -hand, and had forced upon him a solution of himself. -Where he had entertained doubts, he now felt certainty, -where he had hesitated in expressing the judgment of -his tastes he now found his verdicts already considered -and only awaiting delivery. Many months later, when -the book he was now writing was published it was a new -surprise to his readers. His first attempts had been -noticeable for their beauty, his last book was remarkable -for its truth.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Meanwhile his intimacy with Mamie grew unheeded -by himself. During the many hours of each day in -which he had no fixed occupation, he was almost constantly -with her, and their conversation was at last only -interrupted each evening to begin again the next afternoon, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_240'>240</span>when he had done his work and came out of his -room in search of relaxation. He had never found any -explanation for her embarrassment on that day when he -had been rowing her about on the river, and after a time he -had ceased to seek for one. His brain was too busy with -other things, and what he wanted when he was with -her was rest rather than exercise for his curiosity in trying -to solve the small enigmas of her girlish thoughts. -She was a very pleasant companion, and that was all he -cared to know. She brought about him an atmosphere of -genuine and affectionate admiration that gave him confidence -in himself and smoothed the furrows of his imagination -when he had been giving that faculty more to do -than was good for it.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie, too, was happier than she had been a month -earlier. She had no longer to suffer the humiliation of -taking her mother’s advice about what she should do, -and she could enjoy George’s company without feeling -that she had been told to enjoy it in her own interest. -As she learned to love him more and more, she was quick -also to understand his ways. Signs that had formerly -escaped her altogether were now as clear to her comprehension -as words themselves. She knew, now, almost -before he knew it himself, whether he wanted her to join -him, or not, whether he preferred to talk or to be silent, -whether he would like this question or that which she -thought of asking him, or whether he would resent it -and make her feel that she had made a mistake. One -day, she ventured to mention Constance’s name.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George had never visited the Fearings in their country-place, -and was not aware until he came to stay with his -cousin that they lived on the opposite shore of the river. -Their house was not visible from the Trimms’ side, as -it was surrounded by trees, and the stream was at that -point nearly two miles in width. Totty, however, who -always had a view to avoiding any possibility of anything -disagreeable, had very soon communicated the -information to George in an unconcerned way, while -<span class='pageno' id='Page_241'>241</span>pointing out and naming to him the various country-seats -that could be seen from her part of the shore. George -did not forget what he had been told, and if he ever -crossed the river and rowed along the other bank, he -was careful to keep away from the Fearings’ land, in -order to guard against any unpleasant meetings.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Now it chanced that on a certain afternoon he was -pulling leisurely up stream towards a place where the -current was slack, and where he occasionally moored the -wherry to an old landing in order to rest himself and -talk more at his ease. Mamie of course was seated in -the stern, leaning back comfortably amongst her cushions -and holding the tiller-ropes daintily between the -thumb and finger of each hand. She could steer very -well when it was necessary, and she could even row well -enough to make some headway against the stream, but -George had been accustomed to being alone in a boat, -and gave her very little to do when he was rowing.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie watched him idly, as his hands shot out -towards her, crossed as he drew them steadily back and -turned at the wrist to feather the oar as they touched -his chest. Then her gaze wandered down stream towards -the other shore, and she tried to make out the roof of -the Fearings’ house above the trees.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“George,” she said suddenly, “will you be angry?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am never angry,” answered her cousin. “What -are you going to do now? If you mean to jump out of -the boat I will have a line ready.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No. I am not going to jump out of the boat. But -I am so afraid you will be angry, after all. It is something -I want to ask you. I am sure you will not like it!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“One way of not making me angry would be not to -ask the question,” observed George, with a quiet smile.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“But I want to ask you so much!” exclaimed the -young girl, with an imploring look that made George’s -smile turn into a laugh. He had laughed more than once -lately, in a very natural manner.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Out with it, Mamie!” he cried, pulling his sculls -<span class='pageno' id='Page_242'>242</span>briskly through the water. “I shall not be very angry, -I daresay, and I have fallen out of the habit of eating -little girls. What is it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why do you never go and see the Fearings, George? -You used to be there so much.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George’s expression changed, though he continued to -row with the same even stroke. His face grew very grave -and he unconsciously glanced across the river toward the -place at which Mamie had looked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I knew you would be angry!” she said in a repentant -tone.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No,” George answered, “I am not angry. I am -thinking.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He was, indeed, wondering how much of the truth the -girl knew, and he was distrustful enough to fancy that -she might have some object in putting the question. But -Mamie was not diplomatic like her mother. She was -simple and natural in her thoughts, and unaffected in her -manner. He glanced at her again and saw that she was -troubled by her indiscretion.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Did your mother never tell you anything about it -all?” he asked after a long pause.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No. I only heard what everybody heard—last May, -when the thing was talked about. I wondered—that is -all—I wondered whether you had cared very much—for -her.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Again there was a long silence, broken only by the -even dipping of the oars and the soft swirl as they left -the water.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I did care,” George answered at last. “I loved her -very dearly.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He did not know why he made the confession. He -had never said so much to any one except his own father. -If he had guessed what Mamie felt for him, he would -assuredly not have answered her question.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Are you very unhappy, still?” asked the young girl -in a dreamy voice.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No. I do not think I am unhappy. I am different -<span class='pageno' id='Page_243'>243</span>from what I was—that is all. I was at first,” he continued, -without looking at his companion, of whose -presence, indeed, he seemed scarcely conscious. “I was -unhappy—yes, of course I was. I had loved her long. -I had thought she would marry me. I found that she -was indifferent. I shall never go and see her again. She -does not exist for me any more—she is another person, -whom I do not wish to know. I have loved and been -disappointed, like many a better man, I suppose.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Loved and been disappointed!” repeated the young -girl in a very low voice, that hardly reached his ear. -She was looking down, carelessly tying and untying the -ends of the tiller-ropes.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes. That is it,” he said as though musing on something -very long past. “You know now why I do not go -there.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Then he quickened his stroke a little, and there was a -sombre light in his dark eyes that Mamie could not see, -for she was still looking down. She was glad that she -had asked the question, seeing how he had answered it. -There was something in his tone which told her that he -was not mistaken about himself, and that the past was -shut off from the present in his heart by a barrier it -would be hard to break down.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you think you can ever love again?” she asked, -after a while, looking suddenly into his face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No,” he answered, avoiding her eyes. “I shall never -love any woman again—in the same way,” he added -after a moment’s pause.</p> - -<p class='c000'>When he looked at her, she was very pale. He remembered -all at once how she had changed colour and -burst into tears some weeks earlier, sitting in that same -place before him. Something was passing in her mind -which he could not understand. He was very slow to -imagine that she loved him. He was so dull of comprehension -that he all at once began to fancy she might be -more fond of Constance Fearing than he had guessed, -that she might be her friend, as Totty was, and that the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_244'>244</span>two had brought him to their country-house in the hope -of soothing his anger, reviving his hopes, and bringing -him once more into close relations with the young girl -who had cast him off. The idea was ingenious in its -folly, but his ready wrath rose at it.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Are you very fond of her, Mamie?” he asked, bending -his heavy brows and speaking in a hard metallic -voice.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The blood rushed into the girl’s face as she answered, -and her grey eyes flashed.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I? I hate her! I would kill her if I could!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George was completely confused. His explanation of -Mamie’s behaviour had flashed upon him so suddenly -that he had believed it the true one without an attempt -to reason upon the matter. Now, it was destroyed in an -instant by the girl’s angry reply. When one young -woman says that she hates another, it is tolerably easy -to judge from her tone whether she is in earnest or not. -Though he was still sorely puzzled, the cloud disappeared -from George’s face as quickly as it had come.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“This is a revelation!” he exclaimed. “I thought you -and your mother were devoted to them both.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It would be like me, would it not?” Mamie emphasised -her words with an angry little laugh.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is not like you to hate people so savagely,” George -observed, looking at her closely.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I should always hate anybody who hurt you—and -I can hate, with all my heart!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Are you so fond of me as that?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George thought that the girl was becoming every -moment harder to understand. It had seemed a very natural -question, since they had known each other and loved -each other like brother and sister for so long. But he -saw that there was something the matter. There was a -frightened look in Mamie’s grey eyes which he had -never seen before, as though she had come all at once -upon a great and unexpected danger. Then all the outline -of her face softened wonderfully with a strange and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_245'>245</span>gentle expression under the young man’s gaze. She had -never been pretty, save for her eyes and her alabaster -skin. For one moment, now, she was beautiful.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes,” she said in an uncertain voice, “I am very fond -of you—more fond of you than you will ever know.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Her secret was out, though she did not realise it. -Then for the first time in George’s life, though he was -nearly thirty years of age, he looked on the face of a -woman who loved him with all her heart, and he knew -what love meant in another, as he had known it in himself.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The sun was going down behind the western hills and -the dark water was very smooth and placid as he dipped -his sculls noiselessly into the surface. He rowed evenly -on for some minutes without speaking. Mamie was looking -into the stream and drawing her white, ungloved -hand along the glassy mirror.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thank you, Mamie,” he said at last, very gently and -kindly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Again there was silence as they shot along through the -purple shadows.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And you, are you fond of me?” asked the young girl, -looking furtively towards him, then blushing and gazing -once more into the depths of the stream. George started -slightly. He had not thought that the question would -come.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Indeed I am,” he answered. He thought he heard a -sigh on the rising evening breeze. “I grow more fond -of you every day,” he added quietly, though he felt that -he was very far from calm.</p> - -<p class='c000'>So far as he had spoken, his words had been truthful. -He was becoming more attached to Mamie every day, -and she was beginning to take the place that Constance -had occupied in his doings if not in his thoughts. But -there was not a spark of love in his growing affection -for her, and the discovery he had just made disturbed -him exceedingly. He had never blamed himself for -anything he had done in his intercourse with Constance -<span class='pageno' id='Page_246'>246</span>Fearing, but he accused himself now of having misled -the innocent girl who loved him and of having then, by -a careless question, drawn from her a confession of what -she felt. It flashed upon him suddenly that he had taken -Constance’s place, and Mamie had taken his; that he had -been thoughtless and cruel in all he had said and done -during the last two months, and that she might well reproach -him with having been heartless. A thousand -incidents flooded his memory and crowded together upon -his brain, and each brought with it a sting to his sense -of honour. He had inadvertently done a great harm, -and it had been done since his coming to the country. -Before that, Mamie had felt for him exactly what he still -felt for her, a simple, open-hearted affection. Remembering -the brief struggle that had taken place in his mind -before he had accepted Totty’s invitation, he accused -himself of having known beforehand what would happen, -and of having weakly yielded because he had liked the -prospect of leading so luxurious an existence. What -surprised him, however, and threw all his reflections out -of balance was that Totty herself should not have foreseen -the disaster, Totty the diplomatic, Totty the -worldly, Totty the covetous, who would as soon have -given her daughter to one of her servants as to penniless -George Wood! It was past comprehension. Yet, in -spite of his distress, he could hardly repress a smile as -he imagined what Totty’s rage would be, should he marry -Mamie and carry her off before the eyes of her horrified -parent. Sherrington Trimm, himself, would be as well -satisfied with him as with any other honest man, if he -were sure of Mamie’s inclinations.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Now, however, something must be done at once. He -was not a weak creature, like Constance Fearing, to hesitate -for months and years, practising a deception upon -himself which he had not the courage to carry to the end. -He even regretted the last words he had spoken, and -which had been prompted by a foolish wish not to hurt -the girl’s feelings. It would have been better if he had -<span class='pageno' id='Page_247'>247</span>left them unsaid. The situation must be defined, the -harm arrested, if it could not be undone, and should it -seem necessary, as it probably would, he himself must -leave the place on the following morning. He opened -his mouth to speak, but the blood rushed to his face and -he could not articulate the words. He was overcome -with shame and remorse and he would have chosen to do -anything, to undergo any humiliation rather than this. -But in a moment his strong nature gathered itself and -grew strong, as it always did in the face of great difficulties. -He hated hesitation and he would not hesitate, -cost what it might. He was not cowardly, and he would -not be afraid.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mamie,” he said, suddenly, and he wondered how his -voice could be so gentle, “Mamie, I do not love you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He had expected everything, except what happened. -Mamie looked into his eyes, and once again in the evening -light the expression of her love transfigured her half -pretty face and lent it a completeness of beauty such as -he had never seen.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Have you not told me that, dear?” she asked, half -sadly, half lovingly. “It is not new. I have known it -long.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George stared at her for a moment.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I feared I had not said it clearly,” he answered in -low tones.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Everything you have done and said has told me that, -for two months past. Do not say it again.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I must go away from this place. I will go to-morrow.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>She looked up with startled eyes.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Go away? Leave me? Ah, George, you will not be -so unkind!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The situation was certainly as strange as it was new, -and George was very much confused by what was happening. -His resolution to make everything clear was, however, -as unbending as before.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mamie,” he said, “we must understand each other. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_248'>248</span>Things must not go on as they have gone so long. If I -were to stay here, do you know what I should be doing? -I should be acting towards you as Constance Fearing -acted with me, only it would be much worse, because I -am a man, and I have no right to do such things, as -women have.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is different,” said the young girl, once more looking -down into the water.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No, it is not different,” George insisted. “I have no -right to act as though I should ever love you, to make -you think by anything I do or say, that such a thing is -possible. I am a brute, I know. Forgive me, Mamie, -dear. It is so much better that everything should be -clearly understood now. We have known each other so -long, and so well——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Nothing that you can say will make it seem right to -me that you should go away——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is right, nevertheless, and if I do not do it, as I -should, I shall never forgive myself——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I will forgive you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I shall hate myself——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I will love you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I shall feel that I am the most miserable wretch -alive.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I shall be happy.”</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XVIII.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>George had rowed to a point where a deep indentation -in the shore of the river offered a broad expanse of -water in which there was but little current. He rested -on his oars, bending his head and leaning slightly forward. -It seemed very hard that he should suddenly be -called upon to decide so important a question as had just -arisen, at the very moment when he was writing the most -difficult and interesting part of his book. To go away -<span class='pageno' id='Page_249'>249</span>was not only to deprive himself of many things which -he liked, and among those Mamie’s own society had -taken the foremost place of late; it meant also to break -the current of his ideas and to arrest his own progress at -the most critical juncture. He remembered with loathing -the days he had spent in his little room in New -York, cudgelling his inert brain and racking his imagination -for a plot, a subject, for one single character, for -anything of which he might make a beginning. And he -looked back to a nearer time, and saw how easily his mind -had worked amidst its new and pleasant surroundings. -It is no wonder that he hesitated. Only the artist can -understand his own interest in his art; only the writer, -and the writer of real talent, can tell what acute suffering -it is to be interrupted in the midst of a piece of -good work, while its success is still uncertain in the -balance of his mind and while he still depends largely -upon outward circumstances for the peace and quiet -which are necessary to serious mental labour.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George was not heroic, though there was a touch of -quixotism in his nature. The temptation to stay where -he was, had a force he had not expected. Moreover, -whether he would or not, the expression he had twice -seen in Mamie’s face on that afternoon, haunted him and -fascinated him. He experienced the operation of a charm -unknown before. He looked up and gazed at the young -girl as she sat far back in the stern of the boat. She -was not pretty, or at most, not more than half pretty. -Her mouth was decidedly far too large, and her nose -lacked outline. She had a fairly good forehead; he admitted -that much, but her chin was too pointed and had -little modelling in it, while her cheeks would have been -decidedly uninteresting but for the extreme beauty of -her complexion. She was looking down, and he could -not see the grey eyes which were her best feature, but it -could not be denied that the long dark drooping lashes -and the strongly marked brown eyebrows contrasted -very well with the transparent skin. Her hair was not -<span class='pageno' id='Page_250'>250</span>bad, though it was impossible to say whether those little -tangled ringlets were natural or were produced daily by -the skilful appliance of artificial torsion. If her mouth -was an exaggerated feature, at least the long, even lips -were fresh and youthful, and, when parted, they disclosed -a very perfect set of teeth. All this was true, and as -George looked, he summed up the various points and -decided that when Mamie wore her best expression, she -might pass for a pretty girl.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But she possessed more than that. The catalogue did -not explain her wonderful charm. It was not, indeed, -complete, and as he glanced from her downcast face to -the outlines of her shapely figure, he felt the sensation a -man experiences in turning quickly from the examination -of a common object, to the contemplation of one -that is very beautiful. Psyche herself could have boasted -no greater perfection of form and grace than belonged to -this girl whose features were almost all insignificant. -The triumph of proportion began at her throat, under -the small ears that were set so close to the head, and the -faultless lines continued throughout all the curves of -beauty to the point of her exquisite foot, to the longest -finger of her classic hand. Not a line was too short, not -a line too long, there was no straightness in any one, -and not one of them all followed too strong a curve.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George thought of Constance and made comparisons -with a coolness that surprised himself. Constance was -tall, straight, well grown, active; slight, indeed, but -graceful enough, and gifted with much natural ease in -motion. But that was all, so far as figure was concerned. -George had seen a hundred girls with just the same advantages -as Constance, and all far prettier than his -cousin. Neither Constance nor any of them could compare -with Mamie except in face. His eye rested on her -now, when she was in repose, with untiring satisfaction, -as his sight delighted in each new surprise of motion -when she moved, whether on horseback, or walking, or -at tennis. She represented to him the absolute ideal of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_251'>251</span>refined animal life, combined with something spiritual -that escaped definition, but which made itself felt in all -she did and said.</p> - -<p class='c000'>When he thought of depriving himself for a long time -of her society, he discovered that he admired her far -more than he had suspected. It was admiration, but it -was nothing more. He felt no pain at the suggestion of -leaving her, but it seemed as though he were about to -be robbed of some object familiar to him, to keep which -was a source of unfailing, though indolent, satisfaction. -He could not imagine himself angry, if some man of his -acquaintance had married Mamie the next day, provided -that he might talk to her as he pleased and watch her -when he liked. There was not warmth enough in what -he felt for her to kindle one spark of jealousy against -any one whom she might choose for a husband.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But there was something added to the odd sort of -attraction which the girl exercised over him, something -which had only begun to influence him during the last -quarter of an hour or less. She loved him, and he had -just found it out. There is nothing more enviable than -to love and be loved in return, and nothing more painful -than to be loved to distraction by a person one dislikes. -It may be said, perhaps, that nothing can be so disturbing -to the judgment as to be loved by an individual to -whom one feels oneself strongly attracted in a wholly different -way. George Wood did not know exactly what -was happening to him, and he did not feel himself able -to judge his own case with any sort of impartiality; but -his instinct told him to go away as soon as possible and -to break off all intercourse with his cousin during some -time to come. She had argued the question with him in -her own way and had found answers to all he said, but -he was not satisfied. It was his duty to leave Mamie, -no matter at what cost, and he meant to go at once.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“My dear Mamie,” he said at last, still unconsciously -admiring the grace of her attitude, “I am very sorry for -myself, but there is only one way. I cannot stay here -any longer.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_252'>252</span>She raised her eyes and looked steadily at him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“On my account?” she asked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes, and you know I am right.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Because I have been foolish and—and—unmaidenly, -I suppose.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Dear child—how you talk!” George exclaimed. “I -never said anything of the kind!” He was seriously -embarrassed to find an answer to her statement.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course you did not say it. But you probably -thought it, which is the same thing. After all, it is -true, you know. But then, have I not a right to be foolish, -if I please? I have known you so long.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes indeed!” George answered with alacrity, for he -was glad to be able to agree with her in something. “It -is a long time, as you say—ever since we were children -together.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Then you think there was nothing so very bad about -what I said?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It was thoughtless—I do not know what it was. -There was certainly nothing bad in it, and besides, you -did not mean it, you know, did you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Then why do you want to go away?” inquired Mamie, -with feminine logic, and candour.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why because——” George stopped as people often -do, at that word, well knowing what he had been about -to say, but now suddenly unwilling to say it. In fact, -to say anything under the circumstances would have been -a flagrant breach of tact. Since Mamie almost admitted -that she had meant nothing, she had only been making -fun of him and he could not well think of going away -without seeming ridiculous in his own eyes.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“’Because,’ without anything after it, is only a woman’s -reason,” said the young girl with a laugh.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Women’s reasons are sometimes the best. At all -events, I have often heard you say so.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am often laughing at you, when I seem most in -earnest, George. Have you never noticed that I have a -fine talent for irony? Do you think that if I were very -<span class='pageno' id='Page_253'>253</span>much in love with you, I would tell you so? How conceited -you must be!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No indeed!” George asseverated. “I would not -imagine that you could do such a thing. When I told -you I would go away, I was only entering into the spirit -of the thing and carrying on your idea.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It was very well done. I cannot help laughing at -the serious face you made.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Nor I, at yours,” said the young man beginning to -pull the boat slowly about.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Matters had taken a very unexpected turn and he began -to feel his determination to depart oozing out of his fingers -in a way he had not expected. His position, indeed, -was absurd. He could not argue with Mamie the question -of whether she had been in earnest or not. Therefore -he was obliged to accept her statement, that she had -been jesting. And if he did so, how could he humiliate -her by showing that he still believed she loved him? In -other words, by packing up his traps and taking a summary -leave. He would only be making a laughing-stock -of himself in her eyes. Nor was he altogether free from -an unforeseen sensation of disappointment, very slight, -very vague, and very embarrassing to his self-esteem. -Look at it as he would, his vanity had been flattered by -her confession, and it had also, in some way, appealed -to his heart. To be loved by some one, as she had -seemed to love, when that expression had passed over -her face! The idea was pleasant, attractive, one on -which he would dwell hereafter and which would stimulate -his comprehension when he was describing scenes of -love in his books.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“So of course you will stay and behave like a human -being,” said Mamie, after a short pause, as though she -had summed up the evidence, deliberated upon it and -were giving the verdict.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I suppose I shall,” George answered in a regretful -tone, though he could not repress a smile.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You seem to be sorry,” observed the young girl with -<span class='pageno' id='Page_254'>254</span>a quick, laughing glance of her grey eyes. “If there are -any other reasons for your sudden departure, it is quite -another matter. The one you gave has turned out badly. -You have not proved the necessity for ensuring my -salvation by taking the next train.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I would have gone by the boat,” said George.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Because the river would have reminded me to the -last of this evening.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you want to be reminded of it as much as that?” -asked Mamie.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Since it turns out to have been such a very pleasant -evening, after all,” George answered, glad to escape on -any terms from the position in which his last thoughtless -remark had placed him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie had shown considerable tact in the way by -which she had recovered herself, and George was unconsciously -grateful to her for having saved him from the -necessity of an abrupt leave-taking, although he could -not get rid of the idea that she had been more than half -in earnest in the beginning.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It was very well done,” he said after they had landed -that evening and were walking up to the house through -the flower garden.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes,” Mamie answered. “I am a very good actress. -They always say so in the private theatricals.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The evening colour had gone from the sky and the -moon was already in the sky, not yet at the full. Mamie -stood still in the path and plucked a rose.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I can act beautifully,” she said with a low laugh. -“Would you like me to give you a little exhibition? -Look at me—so—now the moonlight is on my face and -you can see me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>She, looked up into his eyes, and once more her features -seemed to be transfigured. She laid one hand upon -his arm and with the other hand raised the rose to her -lips, kissed it, her eyes still fixed on his, then smiled and -spoke three words in a low voice that seemed to send a -thrill through the quiet air.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_255'>255</span>“I love you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Then she made as though she would have fastened the -flower in his white flannel jacket, and he, believing she -would do it, and still looking at her, bent a little forward -and held the buttonhole ready. All at once, she sprang -back with a quick, graceful movement and laughed -again.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Was it not well done?” she cried, tossing the rose -far away into one of the beds.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Admirably,” George answered. “I never saw anything -equal to it. How you must have studied!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“For years,” said the young girl, speaking in her usual -tone and beginning to walk by his side towards the -house.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It was certainly very strange, George thought, that -she should be able to assume such an expression and such -a tone of voice at a moment’s notice, if there were no -real love in her heart. But it was impossible to quarrel -with the way she had done it. There had been something -so supremely graceful in her attitude, something -so winning in her smile, something in her accent which -so touched the heart, that the incident remained fixed in -his memory as a wonderful picture, never to be forgotten. -It affected his artistic sense so strongly that before he -went to bed he took his pen and wrote it down, taking a -keen pleasure in putting into shape the details of the -scene, and especially in describing what escaped description, -the mysterious fascination of the girl herself. He -read it over in bed, was satisfied with it, thrust it under -his pillow, and went to sleep to dream it over again just -as it had happened, with one important exception. In -his dream, the figure, the voice, the words, were all -Mamie’s, but the face was that of Constance Fearing, -though it wore a look which he had never seen there. In -the morning he laughed over the whole affair, being only -too ready to believe that Mamie had really been laughing -at him and that she had only been acting the little -scene with the rose in the garden.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_256'>256</span>A few days later an event occurred which again made -him doubtful in the matter. Since that evening he had -felt that he had grown more intimate with his cousin -than before. There had been no renewal of the dangerous -play on her part, though both had referred to it more -than once. Oddly enough it constituted a sort of harmless -secret, which had to be kept from Mamie’s mother -and over which they could be merry only when they were -alone. Yet, as far as George was concerned, though the -bond had grown closer in those days, its nature had not -changed, nor was he any nearer to being persuaded that -his cousin was actually in love with him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>At that time, John Bond and his wife, having made a -very short trip to Canada, returned to New York and -came thence to establish themselves in the old Fearing -house for the rest of the summer. John could not leave -the business for more than ten days in the absence of his -partner, and he did as so many other men do, who spend -the hot months on the river, going to town in the morning -and coming back in the evening. On Sundays only -John Bond did not make his daily trip to New York.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Since his marriage, he and Grace had not been over to -see the Trimms, though Mrs. Trimm had once been over -to them on a week-day in obedience to the custom which -prescribes that every one must call on a bride. There -had been much suave coldness between Totty and the -Fearings since the report of the broken engagement had -been circulated, but appearances were nevertheless maintained, -and Mr. and Mrs. Bond felt that it was their duty -to return the visit as soon as possible. Constance accompanied -them and the three sailed across the river -late on one Sunday afternoon. The river is a great barrier -against news, and as Totty had kept her house empty -of guests, for some reason best known to herself, and had -written to none of her many intimate friends that George -Wood was spending the summer with her, the three visitors -had no expectation of finding him among the party.</p> - -<p class='c000'>During the time which had followed her departure from -<span class='pageno' id='Page_257'>257</span>town, Constance Fearing had fallen into a listless habit of -mind, from which she had found it hard to rouse herself -even so far as to help in the preparations for her sister’s -marriage. When the ceremony was over, she had withdrawn -again to her country-house in the sole company of -the elderly female relation who has been mentioned already -once or twice in the course of this history.</p> - -<p class='c000'>She was extremely unhappy in her own way, and there -were moments when the pain she had suffered renewed -itself suddenly, when she wept bitter tears over the -sacrifice she had been so determined to make. After one -of these crises she was usually more listless and indifferent -than ever, to all outward appearance, though in -reality her mind was continually preying upon itself, -going over the past again and again, living through the -last moments of happiness she had known, and facing -in imagination the struggle she had imposed upon herself. -She did not grow suddenly thin, nor fall ill, nor -go mad, as women do who have passed through some -desperate trial of the heart. She possessed, indeed, the -sort of constitution which sometimes breaks down under -a violent strain from without, but she had not been exposed -to anything which could bring about so fatal a -result. It was rather the regret for a lost interest in her -life than the keen agony of separation from one she had -loved, which affected her spirits and reacted very slowly -upon her health. At certain moments the sense of loneliness -made itself felt more strongly than at others, and -she gave way to tears and lamentation, in the privacy of -her own room, without knowing exactly what she wanted. -She still believed that she had done right in sending -George away, but she missed what he had taken with -him, the daily incense offered at her shrine, the small -daily emotions she had felt when with him, and which -her sensitive temper had liked for their very smallness. -There was no doubt that she had loved him a little, as -she had said, for she had always been ready to acknowledge -everything she felt. But it was questionable -<span class='pageno' id='Page_258'>258</span>whether her love had increased or decreased since she -had parted from him, and her fits of spasmodic grief were -probably not to be attributed to genuine love-sickness.</p> - -<p class='c000'>On that particular Sunday afternoon chosen by the -Bonds for their visit to Mrs. Sherrington Trimm, Constance -was as thoroughly indifferent as usual to everything -that went on. She was willing to join her sister -and brother-in-law in their expedition rather than stay -at home and do nothing, but her mind was disturbed by -no presentiment of any meeting with George Wood.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It was towards evening, and the air was already cool -by comparison with the heat of the day. Mrs. Trimm, -her daughter and George were all three seated in a -verandah from which they overlooked the river and could -see their own neat landing-pier beyond the flower-garden. -The weather had been hot and none of the three -were much inclined for conversation. Suddenly Totty -uttered an exclamation of surprise.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Those people are coming here! Who are they, -George? Can you see?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George fixed his eyes on the landing and saw that the -sail-boat had brought to. At the same moment the sails -were quickly furled and a man threw a rope over one of -the wooden pillars. A few seconds elapsed and three -figures were seen upon the garden-walk.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I wish you could see who they are, George,” said -Totty rather impatiently. “It is so awkward—not -knowing.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I think it is Miss Fearing,” George answered slowly, -“with her sister and John Bond.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He was the only one of the three who did not change -colour a little as the party drew near. Mamie’s marble -forehead grew a shade whiter, and Totty’s pretty pink -face a little more pink. She was annoyed at being taken -unawares, and was sorry that George was present. As -for Mamie, her grey eyes sparkled rather coldly, and her -large, even lips were tightly closed over her beautiful -teeth. But George was imperturbable, and it would -<span class='pageno' id='Page_259'>259</span>have been impossible to guess from his face what he felt. -He observed the three curiously as they approached the -verandah. He thought that Constance looked pale and -thin, and he recognised in Grace and her husband that -peculiar appearance of expensive and untarnished newness -which characterises newly-married Americans.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am so glad you have come over!” Totty exclaimed -with laudably hospitable insincerity. “It is an age since -we have seen any of you!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie gave Constance her hand and said something -civil, though she fixed her grey eyes on the other’s blue -ones with singular and rather disagreeable intensity.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“George has been talking to her about me, I suppose,” -thought Miss Fearing as she turned and shook hands -with George himself.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Grace looked at him quietly and pressed his hand with -unmistakable cordiality. Her husband shook hands -energetically with every one, inquired earnestly how -each one was doing, and then looked at the river. He -felt rather uncomfortable, because he knew that every -one else did, but he made no attempt to help the difficulty -by opening the conversation. He was not a talkative -man. Totty, however, lost no time in asking a -score of questions, to all of which she knew the answers. -George found himself seated between Constance and -Grace.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Have you been here long, Mr. Wood?” Constance -asked, turning her head to George and paying no attention -to Totty’s volley of inquiries.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Since the first of June,” George answered quietly, -and then relapsed into silence, not knowing what to say. -He was not really so calm as he appeared to be, and -the suddenness of the visit had slightly confused his -thoughts.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I supposed that you were in New York,” said Constance, -who seemed determined to talk to him, and to -no one else. “Will you not come over and see us?” -she asked.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_260'>260</span>“I shall be very happy,” George replied, without -undue coldness, but without enthusiasm. “Shall you -stay through the summer?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Certainly—my sister and John—Mr. Bond—are -there, too. You see, it is so dreadfully hot in town, -and he cannot leave the office, though there is nothing -in the world to do, I am sure. By the way, what are -you doing, if one may ask? I hope you are writing -something. You know we are all looking forward to -your next book.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George could not help glancing sharply at her face, -which changed colour immediately. But he looked -away again as he answered the question.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“The old story,” he said. “A love story. What else -should I write about? There is only one thing that has -a permanent interest for the public, and that is love.” -He ended the speech with a dry laugh, not good to hear.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is it?” asked Constance with remarkable self-possession. -“I should think there must be many other -subjects more interesting and far easier to write upon.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Easier, no doubt. I will not question your judgment -upon that point, at least. More interesting to -certain writers, too, perhaps. Love is so much a matter -of taste. But more to the liking of the public—no. -There I must differ from you. The great majority of -mankind love, are fully aware of it, and enjoy reading -about the loves of others.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance was pale and evidently nervous. She had -clearly determined to talk to George, and he appeared -to resent the advance rather than otherwise. Yet she -would not relinquish the attempt. Even in his worst -humour she would rather talk with him than with any -one else. She tried to meet him on his own ground.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How about friendship?” she asked. “Is not that a -subject for a book, as well as love?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Possibly, with immense labour, one might make a -book of some sort about friendship. It would be a very -dull book to read, and a man would need to be very -<span class='pageno' id='Page_261'>261</span>morbid to write it; as for the public it would have to -undergo a surgical operation to be made to accept it. -No. I think that friendship would make a very poor -subject for a novelist.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You do not think very highly of friendship itself, it -seems,” said Constance with an attempt to laugh.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not know of any reason why I should. I know -very little in its favour.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Opinions differ so much!” exclaimed the young girl, -gaining courage gradually. “I suppose you and I have -not at all the same ideas about it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Evidently not.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How would you define friendship?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I never define things. It is my business to describe -people, facts and events. Bond is a lawyer and a man -of concise definitions. Ask him.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I prefer to talk to you,” said Constance, who had by -this time overcome her sensitive timidity and began to -think that she could revive something of the old confidence -in conversation. Unfortunately for her intentions, -Mamie had either overheard the last words, or did not -like the way things were going. She rose and pushed -her light straw chair before her with her foot until it -was opposite the two.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What do you do with yourself all day long?” she -asked as she sat down. “I am sure you are giving my -cousin the most delightful accounts of your existence!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“As a matter of fact, we were talking of friendship,” -said George, watching the outlines of Mamie’s exquisite -figure and mentally comparing them with Constance’s -less striking advantages.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How charming!” Mamie exclaimed sweetly. “And -you have always been such good friends.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>With a wicked intuition of the mischief she was making, -Mamie paused and looked from the one to the other. -Constance very nearly lost her temper, but George’s dark -face betrayed no emotion.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“The best of friends,” he said calmly. “What do you -<span class='pageno' id='Page_262'>262</span>think of this question, Mamie? Miss Fearing says she -thinks that a good book might be written about friendship. -I answered that I thought it would be far from -popular with the public. What do you say?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance looked curiously at Mamie, as though she -were interested in her reply. It seemed as though she -must agree with one or the other. But Mamie was not -easily caught.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, I am sure you could, George!” she exclaimed. -“You are so clever—you could do anything. For -instance, why do you not describe your friendship? -You two, you know you would be so nice in a book. -And besides, everybody would read it and it could not -be a failure.” Mamie smiled again, as she looked at -her two hearers.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I should think Mr. Wood might do something in a -novel with you as well as with me,” said Constance.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George was not sure whether Mamie turned a shade -whiter or not. She was naturally pale, but it seemed to -him that her grey eyes grew suddenly dark and angry.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You might put us both into the same book, George,” -she suggested.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Both as friends?” asked Constance, raising her delicate -eyebrows a little, while her nostrils expanded. She -was thoroughly angry by this time.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why, of course!” Mamie exclaimed with an air of -perfect innocence. “What could you suppose I meant? -I do not suppose he would be rude enough to fall in love -with either of us in a book. Would you, George?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“In books,” said George quietly, “all sorts of strange -things happen.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Thereupon he turned and addressed Grace, who was -on the other side of him, and kept up an animated conversation -with her throughout the remainder of the visit. -It seemed to him to be the only way of breaking up an -extremely unpleasant situation. Constance was grateful -to him for what he did, for she felt that if he had -chosen to forget his courtesy even for an instant he -<span class='pageno' id='Page_263'>263</span>would have found it easy to say many things which -would have wounded her cruelly and which would not -have failed to please his cousin. George, on his part, -had acquired a clearer view of the real state of things.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How I hate her!” Mamie said to herself, when Constance -was gone.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What a hateful, spiteful little thing she is!” thought -Constance as she stepped into the boat.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XIX.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>George was not altogether pleased by what had happened -during the visit. He had expected that Constance -would be satisfied with exchanging a few words of no -import, and that she would make no attempt to lead -him into conversation. Instead of this, however, she -had seemed to be doing her best to make him talk, and -had really been the one to begin the trouble which had -ensued. If she had not allowed herself to refer in the -most direct manner to the past, she would not have -exposed herself to Mamie’s subsequent attack. As for -Mamie, though she had successfully affected a look of -perfect innocence, and had spoken in the gentlest and -most friendly tone of voice, there was no denying the -fact that her speeches had made a visible impression -upon Constance Fearing. The latter had done her best -to control her anger, but she had not succeeded in hiding -it altogether. It was impossible not to make a comparison -between the two girls, and, on the whole, the -comparison was in Mamie’s favour, so far as self-possession -and coolness were concerned.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You were rather hard on Miss Fearing yesterday,” -George said on the following morning, when they were -alone during the quarter of an hour he allowed to elapse -between breakfast and going to work.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_264'>264</span>“Hard on her? What do you mean?” asked Mamie -with well-feigned surprise.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why—I mean when you suggested that I should put -you both into a book together. Oh, I know what you -are going to say. You meant nothing by it, you had not -thought of what you were going to say, you would -not have said anything disagreeable for the world. -Nevertheless you said it, and in the calmest way, and -it did just what you expected of it—it hurt her.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well—do you mind?” Mamie inquired, with amazing -frankness.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes. You made her think that I had been talking -to you about her.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And what harm is there in that? You did talk -about her a little a few days ago—on a certain evening. -And, moreover, Master George, though you are a great -man and a very good sort of man, and a dear, altogether, -besides possessing the supreme advantage of being my -cousin, you cannot prevent me from hating your beloved -Constance Fearing nor from hurting her as much as I -possibly can whenever we meet—especially if she sits -down beside you and makes soft eyes at you, and tries -to get you back!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do not talk like that, Mamie. I do not like it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie laughed, and showed her beautiful teeth. -There was a vicious sparkle in her eyes.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You want to be taken back, I suppose,” she said. -“Tell me the truth—do you love her still?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George suddenly caught her by the two wrists and -held her before him. He was annoyed and yet he could -not help being amused.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mamie, you shall not say such things! You are as -spiteful as a little wild-cat!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Am I? I am glad of it—and I am not in the least -afraid of you, or your big hands or your black looks.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George laughed and dropped her hands with a little -shake, half angry, half playful.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I really believe you are not!” he exclaimed.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_265'>265</span>“Of course not! Was she? Or were you afraid of -her? Which was it? Oh, how I would have liked to -see you together when you were angry with each other! -She can be very angry, you know. She was yesterday. -She would have liked to tear me to pieces with those -long nails of hers. I hate people who have long nails!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You seem to hate a great many people this morning. -I wish you would leave her alone.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, now you are going to be angry, too! But then, -it would not matter.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why would it not matter?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Because I am only Mamie,” answered the girl, looking -up affectionately into his face. “You never care -what I say, do you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not know about that,” George said. “What do -you mean by saying that you are only Mamie?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mamie is nobody, you know. Mamie is only a -cousin, a little girl who wants nothing of George but -toys and picture-books, a silly child, a foolish, half-witted -little thing that cannot understand a great man—much -less tease him. Can she?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mamie is a witch,” George answered with a laugh. -There was indeed something strangely bewitching about -the girl. She could say things to him which he would -not have suffered his own sister to say if he had had -one.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I wish I were! I wish I could make wax dolls, like -people I hate, as the witches used to do, and stick pins -into their hearts and melt them before the fire, little by -little.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What has got into your head this morning, you -murderous, revengeful little thing?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“There are many things in my head,” she answered, -suddenly changing her manner, and speaking in an oddly -demure tone, with downcast eyes and folded hands. -“There are more things in my head than are dreamt of -in yours—at least, I hope so.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Tell me some of them.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_266'>266</span>“I dare do all that becomes—a proper little girl,” -said Mamie, laughing, “but not that.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Dear me! I had no idea that you were such a desperate -character.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Tell me, George—if you did what I suggested -yesterday and put us both into a book, Conny Fearing -and me, which would you like best?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I would try and make you like each other, though I -do not know exactly how I should go about it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That is not an answer. It is of no use to be clever -with me, as I have often told you. Would you like me -better than Conny Fearing? Yes—or no! Come, I am -waiting! How slow you are.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Which do you want me to say? I could do either—in -a book, so that it can make no difference.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh—if it would make no difference, I do not care -to know. You need not answer me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“All the better for me,” said George with a laugh. -“Good-bye—I am going to work. Think of some easier -question.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George went away, wondering how it was all going to -end. Mamie was certainly behaving in a very strange -way. Her conduct during the visit on the previous -afternoon had been that of a woman at once angry and -jealous, and he himself had felt very uncomfortable. -The extreme gentleness of her manner and expression -while speaking with Constance had not concealed her -real feelings from him, and he had felt something like -shame at being obliged to sit quietly in his place while -she wounded the woman he once loved so dearly, and of -whom he still thought so often. He had done everything -in his power to smooth matters, but he had not been able -to do much, and his own humour had been already ruffled -by the conversation that had gone before. He was -under the impression that Constance had gone away feeling -that he had been gratuitously disagreeable, and he -was sorry for it.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Before very long, he had an opportunity of ascertaining -<span class='pageno' id='Page_267'>267</span>what Constance felt and thought about his doings. -On the afternoon of the Sunday following the one on -which she had been to the Trimms’, George had crossed -to the opposite side of the river, alone, had landed near -a thick clump of trees and was comfortably established -in a shady spot on the shore with a book and a cigar. -The day was hot and it was about the middle of the -afternoon. Mamie and her mother had driven to the -neighbouring church, for Totty was punctual in attending -to her devotions, whereas George, who had gone with -them in the morning, considered that he had done enough.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He was not sure to whom the land on which he found -himself belonged, and he had some misgiving that it -might be a part of the Fearing property. But he had -been too lazy to pull higher up the stream when he had -once crossed it, and had not cared to drop down the -current as that would have increased the distance he -would have had to row when he went home. He fancied -that on such a warm day and at such a comparatively -early hour, none of the Fearings were likely to be abroad, -even if he were really in their grounds.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Under ordinary circumstances he would have been safe -enough. It chanced, however, that Constance had been -unusually restless all day, and it had occurred to her -that if she could walk for an hour or more in her own -company she would feel better. The place where George -was sitting was actually in her grounds, and she, knowing -it to be a pretty spot, where there was generally a -breeze, had naturally turned towards it. He had not -been where he was more than a quarter of an hour when -she came upon him. He heard a light step upon the -grass, and looking up, saw a figure all in white within -five paces of him. He recognised Constance, and sprang -to his feet, dropping his book and his cigar at the same -moment. Constance started perceptibly, but did not -draw back. George was the first to speak.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am afraid I am trespassing here,” he said quickly. -“If so, pray forgive me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_268'>268</span>“You are welcome,” Constance answered, recovering -herself. “It is one of the prettiest places on the river,” -she added a moment later, resting her hands upon the -long handle of her parasol and looking out at the sunny -water.</p> - -<p class='c000'>There was nothing to be done but to face an interview. -She could hardly turn her back on him and walk away -without exchanging a few phrases, and he, on his part, -could not jump into his boat and row for his life as though -he were afraid of her. Of the two she was the one best -pleased by the accidental meeting. To George’s surprise -she seated herself upon the grass, against the root of one -of the great old trees.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Will you not sit down again?” she asked. “I disturbed -you. I am so sorry.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not at all,” said George, resuming his former attitude.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why do you say ‘not at all’ in that way? Of course -I disturbed you, and I am disturbing you now, out of -false politeness, because I am on my own ground and -feel that you are a guest.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>She was a little confused in trying to be too natural, -and George felt the false note, and was vaguely sorry -for her. She was much less at her ease than he, and she -showed it.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I came here out of laziness,” he said. “It was a bore -to pull that heavy boat any farther up, and I did not -care to lose way by going farther down. I did not feel -sure whether this spot was yours or not.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance said nothing for a moment, but she tapped -the toe of her shoe rather impatiently with her parasol.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You would not have landed here if you had thought -that there was a possibility of meeting me, would you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The question was rather an embarrassing one and was -put with great directness. It seemed to George that the -air was full of such questions just now. He considered -that his answer might entail serious consequences and -he hesitated several seconds before speaking.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It seems to me,” he answered at last, “that although -<span class='pageno' id='Page_269'>269</span>I have but little reason to seek a meeting with you, I -have none whatever for avoiding one.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I hope not, indeed,” said Constance, in a low voice. -“I hope you will never try to avoid me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I have never done so.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I think you have,” said the young girl, not looking -at him. “I think you have been unkind in never taking -the trouble to come and see us during all these months. -Why have you never crossed the river?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Did you expect that after what has passed between -us I should continue to make regular visits?” George -spoke earnestly, without raising or lowering his tone, -and waited for an answer. It came with some hesitation.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I thought that—after a time, perhaps, you would -come now and then. I hoped so. I cannot see why you -should not, I am sure. Are we enemies, you and I? -Are we never to be friends again?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Friendship is a relation I do not understand,” George -answered. “I think I said as much the other day when -you mentioned the subject.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes. Somebody interrupted the conversation. I -think,” said Constance, blushing a little, “that it was -your cousin. I wanted to say several things to you then, -but it was impossible before all those people. Since we -have met by accident, will you listen to me? If you -would rather not, please say so and I will go away. But -please do not say anything unkind. I cannot bear it and -I am very unhappy.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>There was something simple and pathetic in her appeal -to his forbearance, which moved him a little.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I will do whatever you wish,” he said, in a tone that -reminded her of other days. He folded his hands upon -one knee and prepared to listen, looking out at the broad -river.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thank you. I have longed for a chance of saying it -to you, ever since we last met in New York. It has -always seemed very easy to say until now. Yes. It is -<span class='pageno' id='Page_270'>270</span>about friendship. Last Sunday I was trying to speak -of it, and you were very unkind. You laughed at me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am sincerely sorry, if I did. I did not know that -you were in earnest.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I was, and I am, very much in earnest. It is the -only thing that can make my life worth living.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Friendship?” asked George quietly. He meant to -keep his word and say nothing that could hurt her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Your friendship,” she answered. “Because I once -made a great mistake, is there to be no forgiveness? Is -it impossible that we should ever be good friends, see -each other often and talk together as we did in the old -days? Are you always to meet me with a stony face and -hard, cruel words? Was my sin so great as that?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You have not committed any sin. You should not -use such words.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, do not find fault with the way I say it—it is so -hard to say it at all! Try and understand me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do understand you, I think, but what you propose -does not look possible to me. There has been that between -us which makes it very hard to try such experiments. -Do you not think so?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It may seem hard, but it is not impossible, if you -will only try to think more kindly of me. Do you know -what my mistake was—where I was most wrong? It -was in not telling you—what I did—a year sooner. Let -us be honest. Break through this veil there is between -us, if it is only for to-day. What is formality to you or -me? You loved me once—I could not love you. Is that -a reason why you should treat me like a stranger when -we meet, or why I should pick and choose my words with -you, as though I feared you instead of—of being very -fond of you? Think it all over, even if it pains you a -little. You would have done anything for my sake once. -If I had told you a year earlier—as I ought to have told -you—that I could never love you enough to marry you, -would you then have been so angry and have gone away -from me as you did?”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_271'>271</span>“No. I would not,” said George. “But there was that -difference——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Wait. Let me finish what I was going to say. It -was not what I did, it was that I did it far too late. You -would not have given up coming to see me, if it had all -happened a year earlier. My fault lay in putting it off -too long. It was very wrong. I have been very sorry -for it. There is nothing I would not do for you—I am -just what I always was in my feelings towards you—and -more. Can I humiliate myself more than I have done -before you? I do not think there are many women who -would have done what I have done, what I am doing now. -Can I be more humble still? Shall I confess it all -again?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You have done all that a woman could or should,” -George said, and there was no bitterness in his voice. It -seemed to him that the old Constance he had loved was -slowly entering into the person of the young girl before -him, whom he had of late treated as a stranger and who -had been so really and truly one in his sight.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And yet, will you not forgive?” she asked in a low -and supplicating tone.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He gazed at the river and did not speak. He was not -conscious that she was watching his face intently. She -saw no bitterness nor hardness there, however, but only -an expression of perplexity. The word forgiveness did -not convey to him half what it meant to her. She attached -a meaning to it, which escaped him. She was -morbid and had taken an unreal view of all that had -happened between them. His mind was strong, natural -and healthy, and he could not easily understand why she -should lend such importance to what he now considered -a mere phrase, no matter how he had regarded it in the -heat and anger of his memorable interview with her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Miss Fearing—” he began. He hardly knew why he -called her by name, unless it was that he was about to -make a categorical statement. So soon as the syllables -had escaped his lips, however, he repented of having -<span class='pageno' id='Page_272'>272</span>pronounced them. He saw a shade of pain pass over her -face, and at the same time it seemed a childish way of -indicating the distance by which they were now separated. -It reminded him of George the Third’s “Mr. -Washington.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Constance,” he said after another moment’s hesitation, -“we do not speak in the same language. You ask -me for my forgiveness. What am I to forgive? If there -is anything to be forgiven, I forgive most freely. I was -very angry, and therefore very foolish on that day when -I said I would not forgive you. I am not angry now. -What I feel is very different. I bear you no malice, I -wish you no evil.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance was silent and looked away. She did not -understand him, though she felt that he was not speaking -unkindly. What he offered her was not what she -wanted.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Since we have come to these explanations,” George -continued after a pause, “I will try and tell you what it -is that I feel. I called you Miss Fearing just now. Do -you know why? Because it seems more natural. You -are not the same person you once were, and when I call -you Constance, I fancy I am calling some one else by the -name of your old self, of the Constance I loved, and who -loved me—a little.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is not I who have changed,” said the young girl, -looking down. “I am Constance still, and you are my -best and dearest friend, though you be ever so unkind.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“A change there is, and a great one. I daresay it is -in me. I was never your friend, as you understand the -word, and you were mistaken in thinking that I was. I -loved you. That is not friendship.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And now, since I am another person—not the one -you loved—can you not be my friend as well as—as you -are of others? Why does it seem so impossible?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is too painful to be thought of,” said George in a -low voice. “You are too like the other, and yet too different.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_273'>273</span>Constance sighed and twisted a blade of grass round -her slender white finger. She wished she knew how to -do away with the difference he felt so keenly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you never miss me?” she asked after a long silence.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I miss the woman I loved,” George answered. “Is -it any satisfaction to you to know it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes, for I am she.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>There was another pause, during which George glanced -at her face from time to time. It had changed, he -thought. It was thinner and whiter than of old and -there were shadows beneath the eyes and modellings—not -yet lines—of sadness about the sensitive mouth. -He wondered whether she had suffered, and why. She -had never loved him. Could it be true that she missed -his companionship, his conversation, his friendship, as -she called it? If not, why should her face be altered? -And yet it was strange, too. He could not understand -how separation could be painful where there was no love. -Nevertheless he was sorry that she should have suffered, -now that his anger was gone.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am glad you loved me,” she said at last.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And I am very sorry.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You should not say that. If you had not loved me—more -than I knew—you would not have written, -you would not be what you are. Can you not think of -it in that way, sometimes?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What shall it profit a man if he gain the whole world -and lose his own soul?” said George bitterly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You have not lost your soul,” answered Constance, -whose religious sensibilities were a little shocked, at -once by the strength of the words as by the fact of their -being quoted from the Bible. “You have no right to say -that. You will some day find a woman who will love -you as you deserve——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And whom I shall not love.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Whom you will love as well as you once loved me. -You will be happy, then. I hope it may happen soon.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_274'>274</span>“Do you?” asked George, turning upon her quickly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“For your sake I hope so, with all my heart.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And for yours?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I hope I should like her very much,” said Constance -with a forced laugh, and looking away from him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am afraid you will not,” George answered, almost -unconsciously. The words fell from his lips as a reply -to her strained laughter which told too plainly her real -thoughts.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You should not ask such questions,” she said, a -moment later. “Do you find it hard to talk to me?” -she asked, suddenly turning the conversation.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I think it would be hard for you and me to talk about -these things for long.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“We need not—if we meet. It is better that we -should have said what we had to say, and we need never -say it again. And we shall meet more often, now, shall -we not?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Does it give you pleasure to see me?” There was a -touch of hardness in the tone.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance looked down and the colour came into her -thin face. Her voice trembled a little when she spoke.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Are you going to be unkind to me again? Or do you -really wish to know?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am in earnest. Does it give you pleasure to see -me?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“After all I have said—oh, George, this has been the -happiest hour I have spent since the first of May.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Are you heartless or are you not?” asked George -almost fiercely. “Do you love me that you should care -to see me? Or does it amuse you to give me pain? -What are you, yourself, the real woman that I can never -understand?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance was frightened by the sudden outbreak of -passion, and turned pale.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What are you saying? What do you mean?” she -asked in an uncertain voice.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What I say? What I mean? Do you think it is -<span class='pageno' id='Page_275'>275</span>pleasure to me to talk as we have been talking? Do you -suppose that my love for you was a mere name, an idea, -a thing without reality, to be discussed and dissected -and examined and turned inside out? Do you fancy that -in three months I have forgotten, or ceased to care, or -learned to talk of you as though you were a person in a -book? What do you think I am made of?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance hid her face in her hands and a long -silence followed. She was not crying, but she looked as -though she were trying to collect her thoughts, and at -the same time to shut out some disagreeable sight. At -last she looked up and saw that his lean, dark face was -full of sadness. She knew him well and knew how much -he must feel before his features betrayed what was passing -in his mind.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Forgive me, George,” she said in a beseeching tone. -“I did not know that you loved—that you cared for me -still.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is nothing,” he answered bitterly. “It will pass.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Poor Constance felt that she had lost in a moment -what she had gained with so much difficulty, the renewal -of something like unconstrained intercourse. She rose -slowly from the place where she had been sitting, two or -three paces away from him. He did not rise, for he was -still too much under the influence of the emotion to heed -what she did. She came and stood before him and looked -down into his face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“George,” she said slowly and earnestly, “I am a very -unhappy woman—more unhappy than you can guess. -You are dearer to me than anything on earth, and yet I -am always hurting you and wounding you. This life is -killing me. Tell me what you would have me do and -say, and I will do it and say it—anything—do you -understand—anything rather than be parted from you -as I have been during these last months.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>She meant every word she said, and in that moment, -if George had asked her to be his wife she would have -consented gladly. But he did not understand that she -<span class='pageno' id='Page_276'>276</span>meant as much as that. He seemed to hesitate a moment -and then rose quickly to his feet and stood beside her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You must not talk like that,” he said. “I owe you -much, Constance, very much, though you have made me -very unhappy. I do not understand you. I do not know -why you should care to see me. But I will come to you -as often as you please if only you will not talk to me -about what is past. Let us try and speak of ordinary -things, of everyday matters. I am ashamed to seem to -be making conditions, and I do not know what it all -means, because, as I have said, I cannot understand you, -and I never shall. Will you have me on those terms?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He held out his hand as he spoke the last words, and -there was a kindly smile on his face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Come when you will and as you will—only come!” -said Constance, her face lighting up with gladness. She, -at least, was satisfied, and saw a prospect of happiness -in the future. “Come here sometimes, in the afternoon, -it will be like——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>She was going to say that it would be like the old -time when they used to meet in the Park.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It will be like a sort of picnic, you know,” were the -words that fell from her lips. But the blush on her face -told plainly enough that she had meant to say something -else.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes,” said George with a grim smile, “it will be like -a sort of picnic. Good-bye.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Good-bye—when will you come?” Constance could -not help letting her hand linger in his as long as he -would hold it.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Next Sunday,” George answered quickly. He reflected -that it would not be easy to escape Mamie on any -other day.</p> - -<p class='c000'>A moment later he was in his boat, pulling away into -the midstream. Constance stood on the shore watching -him and wishing with all her heart that she were sitting -in the stern of the neat craft, wishing more than all that -he might desire her presence there. But he did not. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_277'>277</span>He knew very well that he could have stayed another -hour or two in her company if he had chosen to do so, -but he had been glad to escape, and he knew it. The -meeting had been painful to him in many ways, and it -had made him dissatisfied and disappointed with himself. -It had shown him what he had not known, that -he loved the old Constance as dearly as ever, though he -could not always recognise her in the strange girl who -did not love him but who assured him that her separation -from him was killing her. He had hoped and -almost believed that he should never again feel an emotion -in her presence, and yet he had felt many during -that afternoon. Nor did he anticipate with any pleasure -a renewal of the situation on the following Sunday, -though he was quite sure that he had no means of avoiding -it. If he had thought that Constance was merely -making a heartless attempt to renew the old relations, -he would have given her a sharp and decisive refusal. -But she was undoubtedly in earnest and she was evidently -suffering. She had gone to the length of reminding him -that he owed the beginning of his literary career to her -influence. It was true, and he would not be ungrateful. -Courtesy and honour alike forbade ingratitude, and he -only hoped that he might become accustomed to the pain -of such meetings.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XX.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>When George met Mamie on that evening, he hoped -that she would ask no questions as to the way in which -he had employed his afternoon, for he knew that if she -discovered that he had been with Constance Fearing she -would in all probability make some disagreeable observations -about the latter, of a kind which he did not wish -to hear. Without having defined the situation in his -own mind, he felt that Mamie was jealous of Constance -<span class='pageno' id='Page_278'>278</span>and would show it on every occasion. As a general rule -she followed her mother’s advice and asked him no -questions when he had been out alone. But this evening -her curiosity was aroused by an almost imperceptible -change in his manner. His face was a shade darker, -his voice a shade more grave than usual. After dinner, -Totty stayed in the drawing-room to write letters -and left the two together upon the verandah. It was -very dark and they sat near each other in low straw -chairs.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What have you been doing with yourself?” Mamie -asked, almost as soon as they were alone.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Something that will surprise you,” George answered. -“I have been with Miss Fearing.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He had no intention of concealing the fact, for he saw -that such a course would be foolish in the extreme. He -meant to go and see Constance again, as he had promised -her, and he saw that it would be folly to give a clandestine -appearance to their meetings.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh!” exclaimed Mamie, “that accounts for it all!” -He could not see her face distinctly, but her tone told -him that she was smiling to herself.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Accounts for what?” he asked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“For a great many things. For your black looks and -your gloomy view of the dinner, and your general unsociability.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not feel in the least gloomy or unsociable,” -George said drily. “You have too much imagination.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why did you go to see her?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I did not. I landed on their place without knowing -it, and when I had been there a quarter of an hour, Miss -Fearing suddenly appeared upon the scene. Is there -anything else you would like to know?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Now you are angry!” Mamie exclaimed. “Of -course. I knew you would be. That shows that your -conversation with Conny was either very pleasant or -very disagreeable. I am not naturally curious, but I -would like to know what you talked about!”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_279'>279</span>“Would you?” George laughed a little roughly. “We -did not talk of you—why should you want to know?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, that mine enemy would write a book!” Mamie -exclaimed, “and put into it an accurate report of your -conversations, and send it to me to be criticised.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why are you so vicious? Let Miss Fearing alone, -if you do not like her. She has done you no harm, and -there is no reason why you should call her your enemy, -and quote the Bible against her.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I hate to hear you call her Miss Fearing. I know -you call her Constance when you are alone with her.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mamie, you are a privileged person, but you sometimes -go too far. It is of no consequence what I call -her. Let us drop the subject and talk of something else, -unless you will speak of her reasonably and quietly.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you expect me to go with you when you make -your next visit?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I shall be very glad if you will, provided that you -will behave yourself like a sensible creature.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“As I did the other day, when she was here? Is that -the way?” Mamie laughed.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No. You behaved abominably——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And she has been complaining to you, and that is the -reason why you are lecturing me, and making the night -hideous with your highly moral and excellent advice. -Give it up, George. It is of no use. I am bad by nature.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George was silent for a few minutes. It was clear -that if he meant to see Constance from time to time in -future matters must be established upon a permanent -basis of some sort.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mamie,” he said at last, “let us be serious. Are you -really as fond of me as you seem to be? Will you do -something, not to please me, but to help me?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Provided it is easy and I like to do it!” Mamie -laughed. “Of course I will, George,” she added a -moment later in a serious tone.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Very well. It is this. Forget, or pretend to forget, -that there is such a person as Miss Fearing in the world. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_280'>280</span>Or else go and see her and be as good and charming as -you know how to be.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You give me my choice? I may do either?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It will help me if you will do either. I cannot hear -her spoken of unkindly, and I cannot see her treated as -you treated her the other day, without the shadow of a -cause.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I think there is cause enough, considering how she -treated you. Oh, yes, I know what you will say—that -there never was any engagement, and all the rest of it. -It is very honourable of you, and I admire you men -much for putting it in that way. But we all knew, and -it is of no use to deny it, you know.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You do not believe me? I give you my word of -honour that there was no engagement. Do you understand? -I made a fool of myself, and when I came to -put the question I was disappointed. She was as free -to refuse me as you are now, if I asked you to marry -me. Is that clear?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Perfectly,” said Mamie in a rather unnatural tone. -“Since you give me your word, it is a different thing. -I have been mistaken. I am very sorry.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And will you do what I ask?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“If you give me my choice, I will go and see her -to-morrow. I will do it to please you—though I do not -understand how it can help you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It will, nevertheless, and I shall be grateful to you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The result of this conversation was that Mamie actually -crossed the river on the following day and spent an -hour with Constance Fearing to the great surprise of the -latter, especially when she saw that her visitor was -determined to be agreeable, as though to efface the impression -she had made a few days earlier. Mamie was -very careful to say nothing in the least pointed, nor anything -which could be construed as an allusion to George.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Totty saw and wondered, but said nothing. She supposed -that Mamie had made the visit because George -had asked her to, and she was well satisfied that George -<span class='pageno' id='Page_281'>281</span>should take the position of asking Mamie to do anything -for him. That sort of thing, she said to herself, helps -on a flirtation wonderfully.</p> - -<p class='c000'>As for George he did not look forward to his next -meeting with Constance with any kind of pleasure. -It was distinctly disagreeable, and he wished that something -might happen to prevent it. He did not know -whether Constance would tell Grace of his coming, but -it struck him that he would not like to be surprised by -Grace when he was sitting under the trees with her -sister. Grace would assuredly not understand why he -was there, and he would be placed in a very false position.</p> - -<p class='c000'>So far, he was right. Constance had not mentioned -her meeting with George to any one, and had no intention -of doing so. She, like George, said to herself that -Grace would not understand, and it seemed wisest not to -give her understanding a chance. Of late George had -been rarely mentioned, and there was a tendency to -coldness between the sisters if his name was spoken, -even accidentally. Constance had at first been grateful -for the other’s readiness to help her on the memorable -first of May, but as time went on, she began to feel that -Grace was in some way responsible for her unhappiness -and she resented any allusion to the past. Fortunately, -Grace was very much occupied with her own existence -at that time and was little inclined to find fault with -other people’s views of life. She had married the man -she loved, and who loved her, for whom she had waited -long, and of whom she was immensely proud. He was -exactly suited to her taste and represented her ideal of -man in every way. She would rather talk of him than -of George Wood, and she preferred his company to her -sister’s when he was at home. They were a couple -whose happiness would have become proverbial if it had -been allowed to continue; one of those couples who are -not interesting but to watch whom is a satisfaction, and -whom it is always pleasant to meet. There was just the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_282'>282</span>right difference of age between them, there was just the -right difference in height, the proper contrast in complexion, -both had much the same tastes, both were very -much in earnest, very sensible, and very faithful. It -was to be foreseen that in the course of years they would -grow more and more alike, and perhaps more and more -prejudiced in favour of their own way of looking at -things, that they would have sensible, good-looking -children, who would do all those things which they ought -to do and rejoice their parents’ hearts, in short that they -would lead a peaceful and harmonious life and be in -every way an honour to their principles and a model to -all young couples yet unmarried. They were people to -whom nothing unusual would ever happen, people who, -if they had had the opportunity to invent gunpowder, -would have held a matrimonial consultation upon the -matter and would have decided that explosives should -be avoided with care, and had better not be invented at -all. Since their marriage they had both been less in -sympathy with Constance than before, and the latter was -beginning to suspect that it would not be wise for them -to live together when they returned to town. She was -in some doubt, however, about making any definite -arrangements. The elderly female relation who had -been a companion and a chaperon to the two young girls, -was on her hands, and had begun to show signs of turning -into an invalid. It was impossible to turn her adrift, -though she was manifestly in the way at present, and -yet if Constance decided to live by herself, the good -lady was not the sort of person she needed. She gave a -good deal of thought to the matter, and turned it over in -every way, little suspecting that an event was about to -occur which would render all such arrangements futile.</p> - -<p class='c000'>On the Sunday afternoon agreed upon, George got into -the boat alone and pulled away into the stream without -offering any explanation of his departure to Mrs. Trimm -or to Mamie. He took it for granted that they intended -to go to church as usual and that he would not be missed. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_283'>283</span>Moreover, he owed no account of his doings to any one, -as he said to himself, and would assuredly give none. -He started at an early hour, but was surprised to see -that Constance was at the place of meeting before him. -As he glanced over his shoulder to see that he was rowing -for the right point, he caught sight of her white -serge dress beneath the trees.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I have been watching you ever since you started,” she -said, holding out her hand to him. “Why do you always -row instead of sailing? There is a good breeze, too.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“There are two reasons,” he answered. “In the first -place, the Trimms have no sail-boat, and secondly, if -they had, I should not know how to manage it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“My brother-in-law and Grace are out. Do you see -their boat off there? Just under the bluff. They said -they would probably go to your cousin’s a little later. -And now sit down. Do you know? I was afraid you -would not come, until I saw your boat.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What made you think that? Did I not promise that -I would come?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes—I know. But I was afraid something would -happen to prevent you—and then, when one looks forward -to something for a whole week, it so often does not -happen.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That is true. But then, presentiments are always -wrong. What have you been doing with yourself all the -week?” George asked, feeling that since he had come so -far, it was incumbent upon him to try and make conversation.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not much. I had one surprise—your cousin Mamie -came over on Tuesday and made a long visit. I had -not expected her, I confess, but she was in very good -spirits and talked charmingly.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“She is a very nice girl,” said George indifferently.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course—I know. But when we were all over -there the other day I thought—” she stopped suddenly -and looked at George. “Is it forbidden ground?” she -asked, with a slight change of colour.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_284'>284</span>“What? Mamie? No. Why should we not talk -about her?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well—I fancied she did not like me. She said one -or two things that I thought were meant to hurt me. -They did, too. I suppose I am very sensitive. After -all, she looked perfectly innocent, and probably meant -nothing by it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“She often says foolish things which she does not -mean,” said George reflectively. “But she is a very -good girl, all the same. You say she was agreeable the -other day—what did you talk about?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“She raved about you,” said Constance. “She is a -great admirer of yours. Did you know it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I know she likes me,” George answered coolly. “Her -mother is a very old friend of mine and has been very -kind to me. She saw that I was worn out with work, -and insisted upon my spending the summer with them, -as Sherry Trimm is abroad and they had no man in the -house. So Mamie came over here to sing my praises, -did she?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes, and she sang them very well. She is so enthusiastic—it -is a pleasure to listen to her.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I should think you would find that sort of thing rather -fatiguing,” said George with a smile.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Strange to say I did not. I could bear a great deal -of it without being in the least tired. But, as I told you, -I was surprised by her visit. Do you know what I -thought? I thought that you had made her come and be -nice, because you had seen that I had been annoyed when -we were over there. It would have been so like you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Would it? If I had done what you suppose, I would -not tell you and I am very glad she came. I wish you -knew each other better, and liked each other.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“We can, if you would be glad,” said Constance. “I -could go over there and ask her here, and see a great -deal of her, and I could make her like me. I will if you -wish it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why should I put you to so much trouble, for a -matter of so little importance?”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_285'>285</span>“It would be a pleasure to do anything for you,” answered -the young girl simply. “I wish I might.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George looked at her gravely and saw that she was very -much in earnest. The readiness with which she offered -to put herself to any amount of inconvenience at the -slightest hint from him, proved she was looking out for -some occasion of proving her friendship.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are very kind, Constance,” he said gently. “I -thank you very much.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>A silence followed, broken only by the singing of the -wind in the old trees. The sky was overcast and there -were light squalls on the water. Presently George began -to talk again and an hour passed quickly away, far more -quickly and pleasantly than he had believed possible. -They had many thoughts and ideas in common, and the -first constraint being removed it was impossible that -they should be long together without talking freely.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why not kill him?” said Constance in a critical tone. -“It would solve many difficulties, and after all you do -not want him any more.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>They were talking of the book he was now writing. -Insensibly they had approached the subject, and being -once near it, George had not resisted the temptation to -tell her the story.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It would be so easy,” she continued. “Take him out -in a boat and upset him, you know. They say drowning -is a pleasant death. A boat like my brother-in-law’s—there -it is. Do you see?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Grace and her husband had been across to see Totty -and were returning. The breeze was uncertain, and -from time to time the boat lay over in a way that looked -dangerous.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Murder and sudden death!” said George with a light -laugh. “Do you not think it would be more artistic to -let him live? When I was a starving critic, that was one -of my favourite attacks. At this point the author, for -reasons doubtless known to himself, unexpectedly drowns -his hero, and what might have proved a very fair story -<span class='pageno' id='Page_286'>286</span>is brought to an abrupt close. You know the style. I -used to do it very well. Do you not think they will say -that?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What does it matter? Besides, it is only a suggestion, -and this particular man is not the hero. I never -liked him from the beginning, and I should be glad if -he were brought to an awful end!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How heartless! But he is not so bad as you think. -I never could tell a story well in this way, and you have -not read the book. By Jove! I believe they have -brought over Mamie and her mother. There are a lot -of people in the boat.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He was watching the little craft rather anxiously. It -struck him that he would rather not be found sitting -under the trees with Constance, by that particular party -of people.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You do not think they will come here, do you?” he -asked, turning to his companion. It seemed almost as -natural as formerly that they should agree in not wishing -to be interrupted by Grace, nor by any one else.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh no!” Constance answered. “They will not come -here. The buoy is anchored opposite the landing, much -farther down, and John could not moor her to the shore. -It is odd, though, that he should be running so free. He -is losing way by coming towards us.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am sure they have seen us and mean to land here,” -said George in a tone that betrayed his annoyance.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Both watched the little boat in silence for some minutes.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are right,” Constance said at last. “They are -coming here. It is of no use to run away,” she added, -quite naturally. “They must have seen my white frock -long ago. Yes, here they are.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>By this time the boat was less than twenty yards from -the shore and within speaking distance. She was a small, -light craft, half-decked, and rigged as a cutter. John -Bond was steering and the three ladies were seated in -the middle. John let her head come to the wind and -sang out—</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_287'>287</span>“Wood! I say!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Hullo!” George answered, springing to his feet and -advancing to the edge of the land.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Can you take the ladies ashore in your boat?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“All right!” George sprang into the light wherry, -taking the painter with him, and pulled alongside of the -party. In a moment the three ladies were over the side -and crowded together in the stern.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You will meet us at the house, dear, won’t you?” -said Grace to her husband just as George was turning his -boat to row back.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes, as soon as I can take her to her moorings,” -answered John, who was holding the helm up with one -hand and loosening the sheet with the other.</p> - -<p class='c000'>As George rowed towards the land he faced the river -and saw what happened. The three ladies were all -looking in the opposite direction. The little cutter’s -head went round, slowly at first, and then more quickly -as the wind filled the sail. At that moment a sharp -squall swept over the water. George could see that John -was trying to let the sheet go, but the rope was jammed -and the sail remained close hauled, as it had been when -he made the boat lie to. She had little ballast in her, -and the weight of the ladies being out of her, left her far -too light. George was not a practical sailor, and he -turned pale as he saw the cutter lie over upon her side, -though he supposed it might not be as dangerous as it -looked. A moment later he stopped rowing. The little -vessel had capsized and was floating bottom upwards. -John Bond was nowhere to be seen.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Can your husband swim?” he asked quickly of Grace. -She started violently as she saw the look on his face, -turned, caught sight of the sail-boat’s keel and then -screamed.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Save him! Save him!” she cried in agony.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Take the sculls, Mamie!” cried George as he sprang -over the side into the river. He had not even thrown -off his shoes or his flannel jacket.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_288'>288</span>George had calculated that he could reach the place -where the accident had occurred much sooner by swimming -than in the boat, which was long and narrow and -needed some time to turn, and which moreover was moving -in the opposite direction. He was a first-rate swimmer -and diver and trusted to his strength to overcome -the disadvantage he was under in being dressed. In a -few seconds he had reached the cutter. John Bond was -nowhere to be seen. Without hesitation he drew a long -breath and dived under the boat. The unfortunate man -had become entangled in the ropes and was under the -vessel, struggling desperately to free himself. George -laid hold of him just as he was making his last convulsive -effort. But it was too late. The wet sail and the -slack of the sheet had somehow fastened themselves -about him. He grasped the arm with which George tried -to help him, and his grip was like a steel vice, for John -Bond was a very strong man and he was in his death -agony. George now struggled for his own life, trying -to free himself from the death clasp that held him, making -desperate efforts to get his head under the side of the -boat in order to breathe the air. But he could not loosen -the dead man’s iron hold. The effort to hold his breath -could go no further, he opened his mouth, and made as -though he were breathing, taking the cool fresh water -into his lungs, while still exerting his utmost strength -to get free. Then a delicious dreamy sleep seemed to -come over him and he lost consciousness.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie Trimm showed admirable self-possession. She -brought her mother and Grace ashore in spite of their -cries and entreaties, for she knew that they could do -nothing, and she herself did not believe at first that anything -serious had happened, and told them so as calmly -as she could. She knew that George was an admirable -swimmer and she had no fear for him, though as she -reached the land she saw him dive under the capsized -boat. He would reappear in thirty seconds at the most, -and would probably bring John Bond up with him. She -<span class='pageno' id='Page_289'>289</span>had great difficulty in making Grace go ashore, however, -and without her mother’s assistance she would have -found it altogether impossible. The four women stood -near together straining their sight, when nothing was to -be seen. The struggles of the two men moved the light -hull of the cutter during several seconds and then all was -quiet.</p> - -<p class='c000'>With parted lips and blanched cheeks Constance Fearing -stared at the water, leaning against the tree that was -nearest to the edge. Grace would have fallen to the -ground if Mrs. Trimm had not held her arms about -her. Mamie stood motionless and white, expecting every -moment to see George’s dark head rise to the surface, -believing that he could not be drowned.</p> - -<p class='c000'>At that moment a third boat, rowed by four strong -pairs of arms shot past the wooded point at a tremendous -speed, the water flying to right and left of the sharp -prow, and churning in the wake, while the hard breathing -of the desperate rowers could be heard.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Jump on her keel, fellows!” roared a lusty voice. -“There are four of us and we can right her. They’re -both under the stern!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>In an instant, as it seemed, the little cutter was lying -on her side, and the four women could see the bodies of -John Bond and George Wood clasped together and entangled -in the sail, but partly drawn out of water by the -lifting of the boat’s side. Quicker than thought Mamie -was in the wherry again and out on the water. The -cutter had drifted in shore with the current during the -two or three minutes in which all had happened. The -girl saw that the rescuers needed help and was with them -in an instant. What she did she never remembered -afterwards, but for many days the strain upon her -strength left her bruised and aching from head to foot. -In less than a minute the bodies of the two men were in -her boat and two of the newcomers were pulling her -ashore. The others caught their own craft again and -swam to land, pushing it before them.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_290'>290</span>With a cry that seemed to break her heart Grace fell -upon her husband’s corpse. He was dead, and she knew -it, though two of the men did everything in their power -to restore him. They were all gentlemen who lived by -the river, and knew what to do in such cases.</p> - -<p class='c000'>On the other side the two young girls knelt beside the -body of George Wood, both their faces as white as his, -both silent, both helping to their utmost in the attempt to -bring him to life. The men were prompt and determined -in their action. One of them was a physician. For many -minutes they moved George’s arms up and down with a -regular, cadenced motion, so as to expand and contract -the lungs and produce an artificial breathing.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am afraid it is all up,” said one in a low voice to -his companion.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not yet,” answered the other, who was the doctor. -“I believe he is alive.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He was right. A minute later George’s eyelids trembled.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“He is alive,” said Constance in a strange, happy -voice.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie said nothing, but her great grey eyes opened -wide with joy. Then all at once, with a smothered cry -she threw herself upon him and kissed his dark face passionately, -heedless of the two strangers as she was of the -girl who was kneeling opposite to her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance seized her by the arm and pushed her away -from George with a strength no one would have suspected -her of possessing.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What is he to you, that you should do that?” she -asked in a tone trembling with passion.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie’s eyes flashed angrily as she shook herself free -and raised her head.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I love him,” she said proudly. “What are you to -him that you should come between us?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George opened his eyes slowly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Constance!” He could hardly articulate the name, -and a violent fit of coughing succeeded the effort.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_291'>291</span>The two girls looked into each other’s eyes. Both had -heard the syllables, and both knew what they meant. In -Constance’s face there was pride, triumph, supreme happiness. -In Mamie’s closely-set lips and flashing eyes -there was implacable hatred. She rose to her feet and -drew back, slowly, while Constance remained kneeling -on the ground. One moment more she remained where -she was, gazing at her retreating rival. Then, with one -more glance at George’s reviving eyes, she sprang up -and went to her sister’s side.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Grace’s grief was uncontrollable and terrible to see. -During the night that followed it was impossible to -make her leave her husband’s body. She was far too -strong to break down or to go mad, and she suffered -everything that a human being can suffer without a moment’s -respite.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance never left her, though she could do nothing -to soothe her fearful sorrow. Words were of no use, -for Grace could not hear them. There was nothing to be -done, but to wait and pray that she might become exhausted -by the protracted agony.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It was late in the evening when the four gentlemen -who had saved George’s life brought him home with -Mamie and her mother. There had been much to be -thought of before he could think of returning. They -had carried him to Constance’s house at first, for he had -been unable to walk, and they had given him some of -the dead man’s clothes in place of his own dripping garments, -had chafed him and warmed him and poured -stimulants down his throat. The doctor in the party -had strongly urged him to spend the night where he -was. But nothing could induce him to do that. As soon -as he was strong enough to walk he insisted on recrossing -the river.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Even Totty was terribly shocked and depressed by -what had happened. She was not without heart and the -tears came into her eyes when she thought of Grace’s -cruel bereavement.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_292'>292</span>“Oh, George,” she said before they retired for the -night, “you don’t think anything more could have been -done, do you? It was quite impossible to save him, was -it not?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>A faint smile passed over the tired face of the man -who had to all intents and purposes sacrificed his own -life in the attempt to save John Bond, who had been as -dead as he so far as his own sensations were concerned.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I did what I could,” he answered simply.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie looked keenly into his eyes, as she bade him -good-night. Her mother was already at the door.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You love Constance Fearing still,” she said in a tone -that could not reach Totty’s ears.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I hope not,” George answered with sudden coldness.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“When you opened your eyes, you said ‘Constance’ -quite distinctly. We both heard it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Did I? That was very foolish. The next time I -am drowned in the presence of ladies I will try and be -more careful.”</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XXI.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>The sudden death of John Bond caused an interruption -in the lives of most of the people concerned in this history. -George Wood had received one of those violent -mental impressions from which men do not recover for -many weeks. It was long before he could rid his dreams -of the ever-repeated scene. When he closed his eyes -the white sail of the little cutter rose before them, the -sharp and sudden squall struck the canvas, and almost -at the same instant he felt himself once more in the cool -depths, struggling with a man already almost dead, -striving with agonised determination to hold his breath, -then abandoning the effort and losing consciousness, -only to awake with a violent start and a short, smothered -cry.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_293'>293</span>Even Totty, who was not naturally nervous, was -haunted by terrible visions in the night and was a little -pale and subdued during a fortnight after the accident. -Mamie wore a strange expression, which neither George -nor her mother could understand. Her lips were often -tightly set together as though in some desperate effort, -in which her eyelids drooped and her fingers grasped -convulsively whatever they held. She was living over -again that awful moment when she had clutched what -she had believed to be the dead body of the man she -loved, and almost unaided, she knew not how, had -dragged it into the boat. There was another instant, -too, which recalled itself vividly to her memory, the one -in which the reviving man had pronounced Constance’s -name, and Constance had shown her triumph in her eyes.</p> - -<p class='c000'>As often happens in such cases, both George and -Mamie had been less exhausted on the evening of the -fatal day than they had been for several days afterwards. -It was long before Mamie made any reference again to -the first word he had spoken with returning consciousness. -She often, indeed, stood gazing across the river, -towards the scene of the tragedy and beyond the tall trees -in the direction of the house that was hidden behind -them, and George knew what was in her thoughts better -than he could tell what was in his own. He had learned -soon enough that he owed a large share of gratitude for -the preservation of his life to Mamie herself. The -young doctor who had done so much, had been to see him -more than once and had repeated to him that if he had -been left, even with his head above water, but without -the immediate assistance necessary in such cases, during -two or three minutes more, he would in all likelihood -never have breathed again. The presence of a boat on -the spot, and above all Mamie’s exhibition of an almost -supernatural strength in getting George into the wherry, -had really saved his life. Without her, the four men -who had acted so promptly would have been helpless. -Their own craft was adrift and empty, and they had been -<span class='pageno' id='Page_294'>294</span>unable to right the cutter so as to make use of her, light -as she was. The doctor did not fail to say the same -thing to Mamie, complimenting her on her presence of -mind and extraordinary energy in a way that brought -the colour to her pale cheeks. George felt that a new -tie bound him to his cousin.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It was indeed impossible that where there was already -so much genuine affection on the one side and so much -devoted love on the other, such an accident should not -increase both in a like proportion. Whether it were -really true that Mamie had been the immediate means of -saving George or not, the testimony was universally in -favour of that opinion, and the girl herself was persuaded -that without her help he would have perished. -She had saved him at the moment of death, and she -loved him ten times more passionately than before. As -for him, he doubted his own power to reason in the -matter. He had been fond of her before; he was devotedly -attached to her now. His whole nature was full of -gratitude and trust where she was concerned, and his -relations with Constance Fearing began to take the appearance -of an infidelity to Mamie. If he asked himself -whether he felt or could ever feel for his cousin what he -had felt so strongly for Constance, the answer was plain -enough. It was impossible. But if he put the matter -differently he found a different response in his heart. -If, thought he, the two young girls were drowning -before his eyes, as John Bond and he had been drowning -before theirs, and if it were only possible to save one, -which should it be? In that imaginary moment that -was so real from his recent experience, when he was -swimming forward with all his might to reach the spot -in time, would he have struck out to the right and saved -Mamie, or would he have turned to the left and drawn -Constance ashore? There was no hesitation. Mamie -should have lived and Constance might have died, though -he would have risked his own life a hundred times to -help her after the first was safe, and though the thought -<span class='pageno' id='Page_295'>295</span>of her death sent a sharp pain through his heart. Was he -then in love with both? That was an impossibility, he -thought, an absurdity that could never be a reality, the -creation perhaps of some morbid story-maker, evolved -without experience from the elaboration of imaginary -circumstances.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Since he had entered upon this frame of mind he had -grown very cautious and reticent. He was playing with -fire on both sides. That Mamie loved him with all her -heart he now no longer doubted, and as for Constance, -now that he had not seen her for some time and had -found leisure to reflect upon her conduct, it seemed clear -that the latter could not be explained upon any ordinary -theory of friendship, and if so, she also loved him in her -own strange way. He wished it had been easier to -decide between the two, if he must decide at all. If -there was to be no decision, he should lose no time in -leaving the neighbourhood. To stay where he was would -be to play a contemptibly irresponsible part. He was -disturbing Constance’s peace of mind, and he was not -sure that at any moment he might not do or say something -that would make Mamie believe that he loved her. -He owed too much to these two beings, about whom -his strongest affections were centred, he could not and -would not give either the one or the other a moment’s -pain.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Totty was also not without her apprehensions in the -matter. When she had somewhat recovered from the -impression of the accident, she began to think it very -odd that George should have been sitting alone with Constance -under the trees on that Sunday afternoon. She -remembered that he had disappeared mysteriously soon -after luncheon, without saying anything of his intentions. -She argued that he had certainly not met Constance -by accident, and that if the meeting had been -agreed upon the two must have met before. She knew -that George had once loved the girl, and all she positively -knew of the cause of the coldness between them -<span class='pageno' id='Page_296'>296</span>was what she had learned from himself. She had -undoubtedly refused him and he had been very angry, -but that did not prevent his offering himself again, and -did not by any means exclude the possibility of his being -accepted. Totty was worldly-wise, and she understood -young women of Constance’s type better than most of -them understand themselves. They imagine that in -refusing men they are temporarily, and by an act of -their own volition, putting them back from the state of -love to the state of devoted friendship, in order to discover -whether they themselves are in earnest. Many -men bear the treatment kindly and reappear at the -expected time with their second declaration, are accepted, -happily married and forgotten promptly by designing -mothers. Occasionally a man appears who is like George -Wood, who raves, storms, grows thin and refuses to -speak to the heartless little flirt who has wrecked his -existence, until, on a summer’s day he is unexpectedly -forced into her society again, when he finds that he loves -her still, tells her so and receives a kind answer, -prompted by the fear of losing him altogether.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The prospect was not a pleasant one. If at the present -juncture Constance were to succeed in winning George -back, Totty was capable of being roused to great and -revengeful wrath. Hitherto she had not even thought -of such a catastrophe as probable, but the discovery that -the two had been spending a quiet afternoon together -under the trees strangely altered the face of the situation. -If, however, George still felt anything for the girl, Totty -had not failed to see that she also had gained something -by the accident. It was a great point that Mamie should -have saved George’s life, and the longer Mrs. Trimm -thought of it, the more sure she became that he had -owed his salvation to the young girl alone, and that the -four gentlemen who had appeared so opportunely had -only been accessories to her action. George must be -hard-hearted indeed if he were not grateful, and the -natural way of showing his gratitude should be to fall in -<span class='pageno' id='Page_297'>297</span>love without delay. But George was an inscrutable -being, as was sufficiently shown by his secretly meeting -Constance. Totty wondered whether she ought not to -give him a hint, to convey tactfully to him the information -that Mamie was deeply in love, to let him know -that he was welcome to marry her. She hesitated to do -this, however, fearing lest George should take to flight. -She knew better than any one that he had been more -attracted by the comfort, the quiet and the luxury of her -home than by Mamie, when he had consented to spend -the summer under the roof, and though Mamie herself -had now grown to be an attraction in his eyes, she did -not believe that the girl had inspired in him anything -like the sincere passion he had felt for Constance.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Meanwhile those who had been most nearly affected by -the calamity were passing through one of those periods -of life upon which men and women afterwards look back -with amazement, wondering how they could have borne -so much without breaking under the strain. Grace was -beside herself with grief. After the first few days of -passionate weeping she regained some command over her -actions, but the deep-seated, unrelenting pain, which no -longer found vent in tears was harder to bear, inasmuch -as it was more conscious of itself and of its own fearful -proportions. For many days, the miserable woman -never left her room, sitting from morning till evening -in the same attitude, dry-eyed and motionless, gazing -at the place where her dead husband had lain; and in -that same place she lay all night, sleepless, waiting for -the dawn, looking for the first grey light at the window, -listening for his breathing, in the mad hope that it had -all been but a dream which would vanish before the -morning sun. Her heart would not break, her strong, -well-balanced intelligence would not give way, though -she longed for death or madness to end her sufferings.</p> - -<p class='c000'>At first Constance was always with her, but before -long she understood that the strong woman preferred to -be alone. All that could be done was to insist upon her -<span class='pageno' id='Page_298'>298</span>taking food at regular intervals and to pray that her -state might soon change. Once or twice Constance urged -her to leave the place and to allow herself to be taken to -the city, to the seaside, abroad, anywhere away from -everything that reminded her of the past. But Grace -stared at her with coldly wondering eyes.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is all I have left—the memory,” she said, and -relapsed into silence.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance consulted physicians without her sister’s -knowledge, but they said that there was nothing to be -done, that such cases were rare but not unknown, that -Mrs. Bond’s great strength of constitution would survive -the strain since it had resisted the first shock. And so -it proved in the end. For on a certain morning in September, -when Constance was seated alone in a corner of -the old-fashioned garden, she had been startled by the -sudden appearance of a tall figure in black, and of a face -which she hardly recognised as being her sister’s. She -had been accustomed to seeing her in the dimness of a -darkened room, wrapped in loose garments, her smooth -brown hair hanging down in straight plaits. She was -dressed now with all the scrupulous care of appearance -that was natural to her, with perfect simplicity as -became her deep mourning, but also with perfect taste. -But the correctness of her costume only served to show -the changes that had taken place during the past weeks. -She was thin almost to emaciation, her smooth young -cheeks were hollow and absolutely colourless, her brown -eyes were sunken and their depth was accentuated by the -dark rings that surrounded them. But she was erect as -she walked, and she held her head as proudly as ever. -Her strength was not gone, for she moved easily and without -effort. Any one would have said, however, that, instead -of being nearly two years younger than Constance, -as she actually was, she must be several years older.</p> - -<p class='c000'>When Constance saw her, she rose quickly with the -first expression of joy that had escaped her lips for many -a day.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_299'>299</span>“Thank God!” she exclaimed. “At last!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“At last,” Grace answered quietly. “One thing only, -Constance,” she continued after a pause. “I will be -myself again. But do not talk of going away, and never -speak of what has happened.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I never will, dear,” answered the older girl.</p> - -<p class='c000'>There had been many inquiries made at the house -by messengers from Mrs. Trimm, but neither she, nor -Mamie nor George had ventured to approach the place -upon which such awful sorrow had descended. They -had been surprised at not learning that the two sisters -had left their country-seat, and had made all sorts of -conjectures concerning their delay in going away, but -they gradually became accustomed to the idea that Grace -might prefer to stay where she was.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It would kill me!” Totty exclaimed with much -emphasis.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I could not do it,” said Mamie, looking at George -and feeling suddenly how hateful the sight of the river -would have been to her if she had not seen his eyes open -on that terrible day when he lay like dead before her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I would not, whether I could or not,” George said. -And he on his part wondered what he would have felt, -had Constance or Mamie, or both, perished instead of -John Bond. A slight shiver ran through him, and told -him that he would have felt something he had never -experienced before.</p> - -<p class='c000'>One morning when they were all at breakfast a note -was brought to George in a handwriting he did not -recognise, but which was oddly familiar from its resemblance -to Constance’s.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do see what it is!” exclaimed Totty before he had -time to ask permission to read it.</p> - -<p class='c000'>His face expressed nothing as he glanced over the few -lines the note contained, folded it again and put it into -his pocket.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mrs. Bond wants me to go and see her,” he said, in -explanation. “I wonder why!”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_300'>300</span>“It is very natural,” Totty answered. “She wants to -thank you for what you did.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Very unnecessary, considering the unfortunate result,” -observed George thoughtfully.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Will you go to-day?” Mamie asked in the hope that -he would suggest taking her with him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course,” he answered shortly. As soon as breakfast -was over he went to his work, without spending -what he called his quarter of an hour’s grace in the -garden with his cousin.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George Wood was a nervous and sensitive man in spite -of his strong organisation, and he felt a strong repugnance -to revisiting the scene of the fatal accident. He -had indeed been on the river several times since Bond -had been drowned, and had taken Mamie with him, telling -her that one ought to get over the first impression at -once, lest one should lose the power of getting over them -at all. But to row into the very water in which John -had died and he himself had nearly lost his life, was as -yet more than he cared to do when there was no definite -object to be gained. Though the little wooded point of -land was nearer to the house than the landing, he went -to the latter without hesitation.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He was shocked at Grace’s appearance when he met -her in the great old drawing-room. Her face was very -grave, almost solemn in its immobility, and her eyes -looked unnaturally large.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I fear I have given you a great deal of trouble, Mr. -Wood,” she said as she laid her thin cold fingers in his -hand. He remembered that her grasp had formerly -been warm and full of life.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Nothing that you could ask of me would give me -trouble,” George answered earnestly. He had an idea -that she wanted him to do her some service, in some way -connected with the accident, but he could not imagine -what it might be.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thank you,” she said. He noticed that she continued -to stand, and that she was apparently dressed for -<span class='pageno' id='Page_301'>301</span>going out. “That is one reason why I asked you to -come. I have not been myself and have seen no one -until now. Let me thank you—as only I can—for -your noble and gallant attempt to save my husband.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Her voice did not tremble nor did the glance of her -deep eyes waver as she spoke of the dead man, but George -felt that he had never seen nor dreamed of such grief as -hers.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I could not do less,” he said hoarsely, for he found it -hard to speak at all.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No man ever did more. No man could do more,” -Grace said gravely. “And now, will you do me a great -service? A great kindness?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Anything,” George answered readily.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It will be hard for you. It will be harder for me. -Will you come with me to the place and tell me as well -as you can, how it all happened?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George looked at her in astonishment. Her eyes were -fixed on his face and her expression had not changed.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is the only kindness any one can do for me,” she -said simply; and then without waiting for any further -answer she turned towards the door.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George walked by her side in silence. They left the -house and took the direction of the wooded point, never -exchanging a word as they went. From time to time -George glanced at his companion’s face, wondering -inwardly what manner of woman she might be who was -able to suffer as she evidently had suffered, and yet -could of her own accord face such an explanation of -events as she had asked him to give her. In less than -ten minutes they had reached the spot. Grace stood a -few seconds without speaking, her thin face fixed in its -unchangeable look of pain, her arms hanging down, her -hands clasped loosely together.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Now tell me. Tell me everything. Do not be -afraid—I am very strong.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George collected his thoughts. He wished to make -the story as short as possible, while omitting nothing -that was of vital importance.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_302'>302</span>“I was rowing,” he said, “and I saw what happened. -The boat was lying to and drifting very slowly. Your -husband put the helm up and she began to turn. At -that moment the squall came. He tried to let out the -sail—that would have taken off the pressure—but it -seemed as though he could not. The last I saw of him -was just as the boat heeled over. He seemed to be trying -to get the sheet—the rope, you know—loose, so -that it would run. Then the boat went over and I -thought he had merely fallen overboard upon the other -side. I asked you if he could swim. When you cried -out, I jumped over and swam as hard as I could. Not -seeing him I dived under. He seemed to be entangled -in the ropes and the sail and was struggling furiously. -I tried to drag him back, but he could not get out and -caught me by the arm so that I could not move either. -I did my best, but my breath would not hold out, and I -could not get my head from under. He was not moving -then, though he held me still. That is the last I -remember, his grip upon my arm. Then I took in the -water and it was all over.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He ceased speaking and looked at Grace. She was, if -possible, paler than before, but she had not changed her -position and she was gazing at the water. Many seconds -elapsed, until George began to fear that she had fallen -into a sort of trance. He waited a little longer and then -spoke to her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mrs. Bond!” She made no reply. “Are you ill?” -he asked. She turned her head slowly towards him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No. I am not ill. Let us go back,” she said.</p> - -<p class='c000'>They returned to the house as silently as they had -come. Her step did not falter and her face did not -change. When they reached the door, she stood still -and put out her hand, evidently wishing him to leave -her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You were very brave,” she said. “And you have -been very kind to-day. I hope you will come and see -me sometimes.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_303'>303</span>George bowed his head silently and took leave of her. -He had not the heart to ask for Constance, and, indeed, -he preferred to be alone for a time. He had experienced -a new and strange emotion, and his eyes had been -opened concerning the ways of human suffering. If he -had not seen and heard, he would never have believed -that a woman capable of such calmness was in reality -heartbroken. But it was impossible to look at Grace’s -face and to hear the tones of her voice without understanding -instantly that the whole fabric of her life was -wrecked. As she had told her sister, she had nothing -left but the memory, and she had been determined that -it should be complete, that no detail should be wanting -to the very end. It was a satisfaction to remember that -his last words—insignificant enough—had been addressed -to her. She had wanted to know what his last -movement had been, his last struggle for life. She -knew it all now, and she was satisfied, for there was -nothing more to be known.</p> - -<p class='c000'>As he rowed himself slowly across the river, George -could not help remembering the Grace Fearing he -remembered in old times and comparing her with the -woman he had just left. The words she had spoken in -praise of his courage were still in his ear with their -ring of heartfelt gratitude and with the look that had -accompanied them. There was something grand about -her which he admired. She had never been afraid to -show that she disliked him when she had feared that he -might marry her sister. When Constance had at last -determined upon her answer, it had been Grace who had -conveyed it, with a frankness which he had once distrusted, -but which he remembered and knew now to -have been real. She had never done anything of which -she was ashamed and she had been able now to thank -him from her heart, looking fearlessly into his eyes. -She would have behaved otherwise if she had ever -deceived him. She would have said too much or too -little, or she might have felt bound to confess at such a -<span class='pageno' id='Page_304'>304</span>moment that she had formerly done him a wrong. A -strange woman she was, he thought, but a strong one -and very honest. She had never hesitated in her life, -and had never regretted anything she had done—it was -written in her face even now. He did not understand -why she wished to see him often, for he could have supposed -that his mere presence must call up the most painful -memories. But he determined that if she remained -some time longer he would once or twice cross the river -and spend an hour with her. The remembrance of -to-day’s interview would make all subsequent meetings -seem pleasant by comparison.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The circumstances of the afternoon had wearied him, -and he was glad to find himself again in the midst of -more pleasant and familiar associations. In answer to -Totty’s inquiries as to how Grace looked and behaved -during his visit, he said very little. She looked very -ill, she behaved with great self-possession, and she had -wished to know some details about the accident. More -than that George would not say, and his imperturbable -face did not betray that there was anything more to be -said. In the evening he found himself alone with Mamie -on the verandah, Totty having gone within as usual, on -pretence of writing letters. The weather was still pleasant, -though it had grown much cooler, and Mamie had -thrown a soft white shawl over her shoulders, of which -George could see the outlines in the gloom.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Tell me, what did she really do?” Mamie asked, -after a long silence.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George hesitated a moment. He was willing to tell -her many things which he would not have told her -mother, for he felt that she could understand them and -sympathise with them when Totty would only pretend -to do so.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why do you want to know?” he asked, by way of -giving himself more time to think.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is it not natural? I would like to know how a -woman acts when the man she loves is dead.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_305'>305</span>“Poor thing!” said George. “There is not much to -tell, but I would not have it known—do you understand? -She made me walk with her to the place where -it happened and go over the whole story. She never -said a word, though she looked like death. She suffers -terribly—so terribly that there is something grand -in it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Poor Grace! I can understand. She wanted to -know all there was to be known. It is very natural.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is it? It seemed strange to me. Even I did not -like to go near the place, and it was very hard to tell -her all about it—how poor Bond gripped my arm, and -then the grip after he was dead.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He shuddered and was silent for a moment.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I said it all as quickly and clearly as I could,” he -added presently. “She thanked me for telling her, and -for what I had done to save her husband. She said she -hoped I would come again sometimes, and then I left.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You did not see Constance, I suppose?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No. She did not appear. I fancy her sister told -her not to interrupt us and so she kept out of the way. -It was horribly sad—the whole thing. I could not -help thinking that if it had not been for you, the poor -creature would never have known how it happened. I -should not have been alive to tell the tale.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Are you glad that you were not drowned?” Mamie -asked in a rather constrained voice.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“For myself? I hardly know. I cannot tell whether -I set much value on life or not. Sometimes it seems to -be worth living, and sometimes I hardly care.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How can you say that, George!” exclaimed the -young girl indignantly. “You, so young and so successful.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Whether life is worth living or not—who knows? -It has been said to depend on climate and the affections.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“The climate is not bad here—and as for the affections——” -Mamie broke off in a nervous laugh.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No,” George said as though answering an unspoken -<span class='pageno' id='Page_306'>306</span>reproach. “I do not mean that. I know that you are -all very fond of me and very good to me. But look at -poor John Bond. He always seemed to you to be an -uninteresting fellow, and I used to wonder why he found -life worth living. I know now. He was loved—loved -as I fancy very few men have ever been. If you could -have seen that poor woman’s face to-day, you would -understand what I mean.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I can understand without having seen it,” said Mamie -in a smothered voice.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No,” said George, pursuing his train of thought, -tactless and manlike. “You cannot understand—nobody -can, who has not seen her. There is something -grand, magnificent, queenly in a sorrow like that, and it -shows what she felt for the man and what he knew she -felt. No wonder that he looked happy! Now I, if I -had been drowned the other day—if you had not saved -me—of course people would have been very sorry, but -there would have been no grief like that.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He was silent. Then a sharp short sob broke the stillness, -and as he turned his head he saw that Mamie had -risen and was passing swiftly through the door into the -drawing-room. He rose to his feet and then stood still, -knowing that it was of no use to follow her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What a brute I am!” he thought as he sat down -again.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Several minutes passed. He could hear the sound of -subdued voices within, and then a door was opened and -closed. A moment later Totty came out and looked -about. She was dazzled by the light and could not see -him. He rose and went forward.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Here I am,” he said.</p> - -<p class='c000'>She laid her hand upon his arm and looked at his face -as she spoke, very gently.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“George, dear—things cannot go on like this,” she -said.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are quite right, Totty,” he answered. “I will -go away to-morrow.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_307'>307</span>“Sit down,” said Totty. “Have you got one of those -cigars? Light it. I want to have a long talk with you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Totty Trimm had determined to bring matters to a -crisis.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XXII.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>George felt that his heart was beating faster as he -prepared to hear what Totty had to say. He knew that -the moment had come for making a decision of some -sort, and he was annoyed that it should be thrust upon -him, especially by Totty Trimm. He could not be sure -of what she was about to say, but he supposed that it -was her intention to deliver him a lecture upon his conduct -towards Mamie, and to request him to make it clear -to the girl, either by words or by an immediate departure, -that he could never love her and much less marry her, -considering his relatively impecunious position. It -struck him that many women would have spoken in a -more severe tone of voice than his cousin used, but this -he attributed to her native good humour as much as to -her tact. He drew his chair nearer to hers, nearer than -it had been to Mamie’s, and prepared to listen.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“George, dear boy,” said Totty, “this is a very delicate -matter. I really hardly know how to begin, unless -you will help me.” A little laugh, half shy, half affectionate, -rippled pleasantly in the dusky air. Totty -meant to show from the first that she was not angry.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“About Mamie?” George suggested.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes,” Totty answered with a quick change to the -intonation of sadness. “About Mamie. I am very -much troubled about her. Poor child! She is so unhappy—you -do not know.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am sincerely sorry,” said George gravely. “I am -very fond of her.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes, I know you are. If things had not been precisely -<span class='pageno' id='Page_308'>308</span>as they are——” She paused as though asking -his help.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You would have been glad of it. I understand.” -George thought that she was referring to his want of -fortune, as she meant that he should think. She wanted -to depress him a little, in order to surprise him the more -afterwards.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No, George dear. You do not understand. I mean -that if you loved her, instead of being merely fond of -her, it would be easier to speak of it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“To tell me to go away?” he asked, in some perplexity.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No indeed! Do you think I am such a bad friend as -that? You must not be so unkind. Do you think I -would have begged you so hard to come and stay all -summer with us, that I would have left you so often -together——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You cannot mean that you wish me to marry her!” -George exclaimed in great astonishment.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It would make me very happy,” said Totty gently.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am amazed!” exclaimed George. “I do not know -what to say—it seems so strange!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Does it? It seems so natural to me. Mamie is -always first in my mind—whatever can contribute to -her happiness in any way—and especially in such a -way as this——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And she?” George asked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“She loves you, George—with all her heart.” Totty -touched his hand softly. “And she could not love a -man whom we should be more glad to see her marry,” -she added, putting into her voice all the friendly tenderness -she could command.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George let his head sink on his breast. Totty held -his hand a moment longer, gave it an infinitesimal -squeeze and then withdrew her own, sinking back into -her chair with a little sigh as though she had unburdened -her heart. For some seconds neither spoke again.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Cousin Totty,” George said at last, “I believe you -<span class='pageno' id='Page_309'>309</span>are the best friend I have in the world. I can never -thank you for all your disinterested kindness.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Totty smiled sweetly in the dark, partly at the words -he used and partly at the hopes she founded upon them.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It would be strange if I were not,” she said. “I -have many reasons for not being your enemy, at all -events. I have thought a great deal about you during -the last year. Will you let me speak quite frankly?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You have every right to say what you think,” -George answered gratefully. “You have taken me in -when I was in need of all the friendship and kindness -you have given me. You have made me a home, you -have given me back the power to work, which seemed -gone, you have——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No, no, George, do not talk of such wretched things. -There are hundreds of people who would be only too -proud and delighted to have George Winton Wood spend -a summer with them—yes, or marry their daughters. -You do not seem to realise that—a man of your character, -of your rising reputation—not to say celebrity—a -man of your qualities is a match for any girl. But -that is not what I meant to say. It is something much -harder to express, something about which I have never -talked to you, and never thought I should. Will you forgive -me, if I speak now? It is about Constance Fearing.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George looked up quickly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Provided you say nothing unkind or unjust about -her,” he answered without hesitation.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I?” ejaculated Totty in surprise. “Am I not so fond -of her, that I wanted you to marry her? I cannot say -more, I am sure. Constance is a noble-hearted girl, a -little too sensitive perhaps, but good beyond expression. -Yes, she is good. That is just the word. Scrupulous to -a degree! She has the most finely balanced conscience -I have ever known. Dr. Drinkwater—you know, our -dear rector in New York—says that there is no one who -does more for the poor, or who takes a greater interest -in the church, and that she consults him upon everything, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_310'>310</span>upon every point of duty in her life—it is splendid, -you know. I never knew such a girl—and then, so -clever! A Lady Bountiful and a Countess Matilda in -one! Only—no, I am not going to say anything against -her, because there is simply nothing to be said—only I -really do not believe that she is the wife for you, dear -boy. I do not pretend to say why. There is some reason, -some subtle, undefinable reason why you would not -suit each other. I do not mean to say that she is -vacillating or irresolute. On the contrary, her sensitive -conscience is one of the great beauties of her character. -But I have always noticed that people who are long in -deciding anything irritate you. Is it not true? Of course -I cannot understand you, George, but I sometimes feel -what you think, almost as soon as you. That is not -exactly what I mean, but you understand. That is one -reason. There are others, no doubt. Do you know what -I think? I believe that Constance Fearing ought to -marry one of those splendid young clergymen one hears -about, who devote their lives to doing good, and to the -poor—and that kind of thing.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I daresay,” said George, as Totty paused. The idea -was new to him, but somehow it seemed very just. “At -all events,” he added, “she ought to marry a better man -than I am.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not better—as good in a different way,” suggested -Totty. “An especially good man, rather than an especially -clever one.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am not especially clever,” George answered. “I -have worked harder than most men and have succeeded -sooner. That is all.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course it is your duty to be modest about yourself. -We all have our opinions. Some people call that greatness—never -mind. The principle is the same. Tell me—you -admire her, and all that, but you do not honestly -believe that you and she are suited to each other, do -you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Totty managed her voice so well that she made the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_311'>311</span>question seem natural, and not at all offensive. George -considered his reply for a moment before he spoke.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I think you are right,” he said. “We are not suited -to each other.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Totty breathed more freely, for the moment had been -a critical one.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I was sure of it, though I used to wish it had been -otherwise. I used to hope that you would marry her, -until I knew you both better—until I saw there was -somebody else who was—well—in short, who loves you -better. You do not mind my saying it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am sorry if it is true——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why should you be sorry? Could anything be more -natural? I should think that a man would be very glad -and very happy to find that he is dearly loved by a thoroughly -nice girl——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes, if——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No! I know what you are going to say. If he loves -her. My dear George, it is of no use to deny it. You -do love Mamie. Any one can see it, though she would -die rather than have me think that she believed it. I do -not say it is a romantic passion and all that. It is not. -You have outgrown that kind of thing, and you are far -too sensible, besides. But I do say that you are devotedly -attached to her, that you seek her society, that you show -how much you like to be alone with her—a thousand -things, that we can all see.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“All” referred to Totty herself, of course, but George -was too much disturbed to notice the fact. He could -find nothing to say and Totty continued.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not that I blame you in the least. I ought to blame -myself for bringing you together. I should if I were not -so sure that it is the best thing for your happiness as -well as for Mamie’s. You two are made for each other, -positively made for each other. Mamie is not beautiful, -of course—if she were I would not give you a catalogue -of her advantages. She is not rich——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You forget that I have only my profession,” said -George, rather sharply.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_312'>312</span>“But what a profession—besides if it came to that, we -should always wish our daughter to live as she has been -accustomed to live. That is not the question. She is not -beautiful and she is not rich, but you cannot deny it, -George, she has a charm of her own, a grace, a something -that a man will never be tired of because he can -never find out just what it is, nor just where it lies. -That is quite true, is it not?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Dear cousin Totty, I deny nothing——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No, of course not! You cannot deny that, at least—and -then, do you know? You have the very same thing -yourself, the something undefinable that a woman likes. -Has no one ever told you that?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No indeed!” exclaimed George, laughing a little in -spite of himself.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am quite serious,” said Totty. “Mamie and you -are made for each other. There can be no doubt about -it, any more than there can be about your loving each -other, each in your own way.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“If it were in the same way——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is not so different. I was thinking of it only the -other day. Suppose that several people were in danger -at once—in that dreadful river, for instance—you would -save her first.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George glanced sharply at his cousin. The same idea -had crossed his own mind.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How do you know that?” he asked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is it not true?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes—I suppose it is. But I cannot imagine how -you guessed——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you think I am blind?” asked Totty, almost indignantly. -“Do you think Mamie does not know it as -well as I do? After all these months of devotion! You -must think me very dull—the only wonder is that you -should not yet have told her so.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George wondered why she took it for granted that he -had not.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What I should have to tell her would be very hard to -say, as it ought to be said,” he answered thoughtfully.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_313'>313</span>Totty’s manner changed again and she turned her head -towards him, lowering her voice and speaking in a tone -of sincere sympathy.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, I know how hard it must be!” she said. “Most -of all for you. To say, ‘I love you,’ and then to add, ‘I -do not love you in the same way as I once loved another.’ -But then, must one add that? Is it not self-evident? -Ah no! There is no love like the first, indeed -there is not!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Totty sighed deeply, as though the recollection of some -long buried fondness were still dear, and sweet and painful.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And yet, one does love,” she continued a little more -cheerfully. “One loves again, often more truly, if one -knew it, and more sincerely than the first time. It is -better so—the affection of later years is happier and -brighter and more lasting than that other. And it is love, -in the best sense of the word, believe me it is.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>If there had been the least false note of insincerity in -her voice, George would have detected it. But what -Totty attempted to do, she did well, with a consummate -appreciation of details and their value which would have -deceived a keener man than he. Moreover, he himself -was in great doubt. He was really so strongly attracted -by Mamie as to know that a feather’s weight would turn -the scale. But for the recollection of Constance he would -have loved her long ago with a love in which there might -have been more of real passion and less of illusion. -Mamie was in many ways a more real personage in his -appreciation than Constance. Totty had defined the difference -between the two very cleverly by what she had -said. The more he thought of it, the more ideal Constance -seemed to become.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But there was another element at work in his judgment. -He was obliged to confess that Totty was right -in another of her facts. During the long months of the -summer he had undoubtedly acted in a way to make ordinary -people believe that he loved Mamie. He had -<span class='pageno' id='Page_314'>314</span>more than once shown that he resented Totty’s presence, -and Totty had taken the hint and had gone away, with a -readiness he only understood now. He had been very -much spoiled by her, but had never supposed that she -desired the marriage. It had been enough for him to -show that he wished to talk to Mamie without interruption -and he had been immediately humoured as he was -humoured in everything in that charming establishment. -Totty, however, and, of course, poor Mamie herself, had -put an especial construction upon all his slightest words -and gestures. To use the language of the world, he had -compromised the girl, and had made her believe that he -was to some extent in love with her, which was infinitely -worse. It was very kind of Totty to be so tactful and -diplomatic. Honest Sherry Trimm would have asked -him his intentions in two words and would have required -an answer in one, a mode of procedure which would have -been far less agreeable.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You owe her something, George,” Totty said after a -long pause. “She saved your life. You must not break -her heart—it would be a poor return.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“God forbid! Totty, do you think seriously that I -have acted in a way to make Mamie believe I love -her?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am sure you have—she knew it long ago. You -need hardly tell her, she is so sure of it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am very glad,” George answered. “What will -cousin Sherry say to this?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, George! How can you ask? You know how -fond he is of you—he will be as glad as I if——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“There shall be no ‘ifs,’” George interrupted. “I -will ask Mamie to-morrow.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He had made up his mind, for he detested uncertainties -of all sorts. He felt that however he might compare -Mamie with Constance, he was on the verge of some sort -of passion for the former, whereas the latter represented -something never to be realised, something which, even -if offered him now, he could not accept without misgivings -<span class='pageno' id='Page_315'>315</span>and doubts. Since he had made Mamie believe that -he loved her, no matter how unintentionally the result -had been produced, and since he felt that he could love -her in return, and be faithful to her, and, lastly, since -her father and mother believed that the happiness of her -life depended upon him, it seemed most honourable to -disappoint no one, and if it turned out that he was -making a sacrifice he would keep it to himself throughout -his natural life.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Totty held her breath for a moment after he had made -his statement, fearing lest she should utter some involuntary -exclamation of delight, too great even for the -occasion. Then she rose and came to his side, laid her -hands upon his shoulders and touched his dark forehead -with her salmon-coloured lips. George remembered that -a humming-bird had once brushed his face with its wings, -and the one sensation reminded him of the other.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“God bless you, my dear son!” said Totty in accents -that would have carried the conviction of sincerity to an -angel’s heart.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George pressed her hand warmly, but with an odd -feeling that the action was not spontaneous. He felt as -though he were doing something that was expected of -him, and was doing it as well as he could, without enthusiasm. -He looked up in the gloom and felt that -something warm fell upon his face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why, cousin Totty, you are crying!” he exclaimed.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Happy tears,” answered Mrs. Sherrington Trimm in -a voice trembling with emotion. Then she turned and -swiftly entered the drawing-room, leaving him alone in -the verandah in the darkness.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“So the die is cast, and I am to marry Mamie,” he -thought, as soon as she was gone.</p> - -<p class='c000'>In the first moments it was hard to realise that he had -bound himself by an engagement from which he could -not draw back, and that so soon after he had broken with -Constance Fearing. Five months had not gone by since -the first of May, since he had believed that his life was -<span class='pageno' id='Page_316'>316</span>ruined and his heart broken. What had there been in -his love for Constance which had made it unreal from -first to last, real only in the moment of disappointment? -He found no answer to the question, and he thought of -Mamie, his future wife. Yes, Totty was right. So far -as it was possible to judge they were suited to each -other in all respects except in his own lack of fortune. -“Suited” was the very word. He would never feel what -he had felt for the other, the tenderness, the devotion, -the dependence on her words for his daily happiness—he -might own it now, the sweet fear of hurting her or offending -her, which he had only half understood. Constance -had dominated him during their intercourse, and until he -had seen her real weakness. With Mamie it would be -different. She clung to him, not he to her. She looked -up to him as a superior, he could never worship her as -an idol. He was to occupy the shrine henceforth and he -was to play the god and smile upon her when she offered -incense. There could not be two images in two shrines, -smiling and burning perfumes at each other. George -smiled at the idea. But there was to be something else, -something he had only lately begun to know. He was to -be devotedly loved by some one, tenderly thought of, -tenderly treated by one who now, at least, held the first -place in his heart. That was very different from what -he had hitherto received, the perpetual denial of love, -the repeated assurances of friendship. He thought of -that wonderful expression which he had seen two or -three times on Mamie’s face, and he was happy. There -was nothing he would not do, nothing he would not -sacrifice for the sake of receiving such love as that.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He slept peacefully through the night, undisturbed by -visions of future trouble or dreams of coming disappointment. -Nor had his mood changed when he awoke in the -morning and gazed through the open windows at the -trees beyond the river, where Constance’s house was -hidden. Would Constance be sorry to hear the news? -Probably not. She would meet him with renewed offers -<span class='pageno' id='Page_317'>317</span>of eternal friendship, and would in all probability come -to the wedding. She had never felt anything for him. -His lip curled scornfully as he turned away.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Early in the morning Totty entered her daughter’s -room. There was nothing extraordinary in the visit, and -Mamie, who was doing her hair, did not look round, -though she greeted her mother with a word of welcome. -Totty kissed her with unwonted tenderness, even considering -that she was usually demonstrative in her -affections.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Dear child,” she said, “I just came in to see how you -had slept. You need not go away,” she added, addressing -the maid. “You are a little pale, Mamie. But then -you always are and it is becoming to you. What shall -you wear to-day? It is very warm again—you might -put on white, almost.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Conny Fearing always wears white,” Mamie answered.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why, she is in mourning of course,” said Mrs. Trimm -with some solemnity.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is she? For her brother-in-law? Well, she always -did, which is the same thing, exactly. She had on a -white frock on the day of the accident. I can see her -now!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh then, by all means wear something else,” said -Totty with alacrity. “You might try that striped flannel -costume—or the skirt with a blouse, you know. -That is new.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No,” said Mamie with great decision. “I do not -believe it is warm at all and I mean to wear my blue -serge.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well,” answered Mrs. Trimm, “perhaps it is the -most becoming thing you have.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Positively, mamma, I have not a thing to wear!” -exclaimed Mamie, by sheer force of habit.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am sure I have not,” answered her mother with a -laugh.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh you, mamma! You have lots of things.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_318'>318</span>Totty did not go away until she had assured herself -that Mamie was at her best. She knew that it would -have been folly to give the girl any warning of what was -about to take place, and she was aware that Mamie’s -taste in dress was even better than her own, but she had -been unable to resist the desire to see her and to go over -in her own heart the circumstances of her triumph. She -knew also that Mamie would never forgive her if she -should discover that her mother had known of George’s -intention before George had communicated it to herself, -but it seemed very hard to be obliged to wait even a few -hours before showing her intense satisfaction at the -result of her diplomacy.</p> - -<p class='c000'>During breakfast she was unusually cheerful and talkative, -whereas George was exceptionally silent and spoke -with an evident effort. Mamie herself had to some -extent recovered her spirits, though she was very much -ashamed of having made such an exhibition of her -feelings on the previous evening. She offered a lame -explanation, saying that she had felt suddenly cold and -had run up to her room to get something warmer to put -on; seeing it was so late, she had not thought it worth -while to come down again. Then she changed the subject -as quickly as she could and was admirably seconded -by her mother in her efforts to make conversation. -George’s face betrayed nothing. It was impossible to -say whether he believed her story or not.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I suppose you are going to work all the morning,” -observed Mrs. Trimm as they rose from the table.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am not sure,” George answered, looking steadily at -her for a second. “At all events I will have a turn in -the garden before I set to. Will you come, Mamie?” -he asked, turning to his cousin.</p> - -<p class='c000'>For some minutes they walked away from the house in -silence. George was embarrassed and had not made up -his mind what he should say. He did not look at his -cousin’s face, but as he glanced down before him he was -conscious of her graceful movement at his side. Perfect -<span class='pageno' id='Page_319'>319</span>motion had always had an especial charm for him, and at -the present moment he was glad to be charmed. Presently -they found themselves in a shady place beneath -certain old trees, out of sight of the garden. George -stopped suddenly, and Mamie stopping also, looked at -him in some little surprise.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mamie,” he said, in the best voice he could find, “do -you love me?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Better than anything in the world,” answered the -young girl. Her lips grew slowly white and there was -a startled look in her fearless grey eyes.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You saved my life. Will you take it—and keep -it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He looked to her for an answer. A supreme joy came -into her face, then shivered like a broken mirror under -a blow, and gave way to an agonised fear.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, do not laugh at me!” she cried, in broken and -beseeching tones.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Laugh at you, dear? God forbid! I am asking you -to be my wife.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh no! It is not true—you do not love me—it -never can be true!” But as she spoke, the day of happiness -dawned again in her eyes—as a summer sun rising -through a sweet shower of raindrops—and broke -and flooded all her face with gladness.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I love you, and it is quite true,” he answered.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The girl had for months concealed the great passion of -her life as well as she could; she had borne, with all -the patience she could command, the daily bitter disappointment -of finding him always the same towards her; -she had suffered much and had hidden her sufferings -bravely, but the sudden happiness was more than she -could control. As he held her in his arms, he felt her -weight suddenly as though she had fallen, and he saw -her eyelids droop and her long straight lips part slowly -over her gleaming teeth. She was not beautiful, and he -knew it as he looked at her white unconscious face. -But she loved him as he had never been loved before, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_320'>320</span>in that moment he loved her also. Supporting her with -one arm, he held up her head with his other hand and -kissed her again and again, with a passion he had never -felt. Very slowly the colour returned to her lips, and -then her eyes opened. There was no surprise in them, -for she was hardly conscious that she had fainted.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Have I been long so?” she asked faintly as the look -of life and joy came back.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Only a moment, darling,” he answered.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And it is to be so for ever—oh, it is too much, too -good, too great. How can I believe so much in one -day?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>It was long before they turned back again towards the -house. The sun rose higher and higher, and the winnowed -light fell upon them through the leaves reddened -by the autumn colours that were already spreading over -the woods, from tree to tree, from branch to branch, from -leaf to leaf, like one long sunset lasting many days. -But they sat side by side not heeding the climbing sun -nor the march of the noiseless hours. Their soft voices -mingled lovingly with each other and with the murmur -of the scarcely stirring breeze. Very reluctantly they -rose at last to return, their arms twined about each other -until they saw the gables of the house rising above them -out of the rich mass of red, and orange, and yellow, and -brown, and green that crowned the maples, the oaks and -the sycamores. One last long kiss under the shade, -and they were out upon the hard brown earth of the -drive, in sight of the windows, walking civilly side by -side with the distance of half a pace between them. -Totty, the discreet, had watched for them until she had -caught a glimpse of their figures through the shrubbery -and had then retired within to await the joyful news.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie disappeared as soon as they entered the house, -glad to be alone if she could not be with the man she -loved. But George went straight to her mother in the -little morning-room where she generally sat. She looked -up from her writing, as though she had been long -<span class='pageno' id='Page_321'>321</span>absorbed in it, then suddenly smiled and held out her -hand. George pressed it with more sincerity than he -had been able to find for the same demonstration of -friendliness on the previous evening.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am very glad I took your advice,” he said. “I am -a very happy man. Mamie has accepted me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Has she taken the whole morning to make up her -mind about so simple a matter?” asked Totty archly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well, not all the morning,” George answered. “We -had one or two ideas to exchange afterwards. Totty—no, -I cannot call my mother-in-law Totty, it is too -absurd! Cousin Charlotte—will that do? Very well, -cousin Charlotte, you must telegraph for Sherry’s—I beg -his pardon, for Mr. Trimm’s consent. Where is he?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Here—see for yourself,” said Totty holding up to -his eyes a sheet of paper on which was written a short -cable.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Trimm. Carlsbad, Bohemia. Mamie engaged George -Wood. Wire consent. Totty.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You see how sure I was of her. I wrote this while -you were out there—it is true, you gave me time.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Sure of her, and of your husband,” said George, surprised -by the form of the message.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, I have no doubts about him,” answered Mrs. -Trimm with a light laugh. “He thinks you are perfection, -you know.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The reply came late that night, short, sharp and business-like.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Fix wedding-day. Returning. Sherry.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>It was read by Totty with a sort of delirious scream -of triumph, the first genuine expression she had permitted -herself since her efforts had been crowned with -success.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is too good to be believed,” said Mamie aloud, as -she laid her head on the pillow.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I would never have believed it,” said George thoughtfully, -as he turned from his open window where he had -been standing an hour.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_322'>322</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XXIII.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>“We had better say nothing about it for the present,” -said Totty to George on the following day. “It will -only cause complications, and it will be much easier -when we are all in town.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The two were seated together in the little morning-room, -discussing the future and telling over what had -happened. George was in a frame of mind which he -did not recognise, and he seemed laughable in his own -eyes, though he was far from being unhappy. His surprise -at the turn events had taken had not yet worn off -and he could not help being amused at himself for having -known his own mind so little. At the same time he -was grateful to Totty for the part she had played and -was ready to yield to all her wishes in the matter. With -regard to announcing the engagement, she told him that -it was quite unnecessary to do so yet, and that, among -other reasons, it would be better in the eyes of the world -to publish the social banns after Sherrington had returned -from abroad. Moreover, if the engagement were made -known at once, it would be in accordance with custom -that George should leave the house and find a lodging in -the nearest town.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I cannot tell why, I am sure,” said Mrs. Trimm, -“but it is always done, and I should be so sorry if you -had to leave us just now.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It would not be pleasant,” George answered, thoughtfully. -He had wished to inform Constance as soon as -possible.</p> - -<p class='c000'>So the matter was decided, somewhat to his dissatisfaction -in one respect, but quite in accordance with his -inclinations in all others. And it was thereupon further -agreed that as soon as the weather permitted, they would -all return to town, and make active preparations for the -wedding. Totty could see no reason whatever why the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_323'>323</span>day should not be fixed early in November. She declared -emphatically that she hated long engagements, -and that in this case especially there could be no object -in putting off the marriage. She assured Mamie that -by using a little energy everything could be made ready -in plenty of time, and she promised that there should be -no hitch in the proceedings.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The week that followed the events last narrated -slipped pleasantly and quickly away. As George had -said at once, he was a very happy man; that is to say, -he believed himself to be so, because the position in -which he found himself was new, agreeable and highly -flattering to his vanity. He could not but believe that he -was taken into the family of his cousin solely on his own -merits. Being in total ignorance of the fortune between -which and himself the only barrier was the enfeebled -health of an invalid old man, he very naturally attributed -Totty’s anxiety to see him marry her daughter to -the causes she enumerated. He was still modest enough -to feel that he was being very much overrated, and to -fear lest he might some day prove a disappointment to -his future wife and her family; for the part of the -desirable young man was new to him, and he did not -know how he should acquit himself in the performance -of it. But the delicious belief that he was loved for -himself, as he was, gave energy to his good resolutions -and maintained at a genial warmth the feelings he entertained -for her who loved him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He must not be judged too harshly. In offering to -marry Mamie, he had felt that he was doing his duty as -an honourable man, and he assured himself as well as he -could that he was able to promise the most sincere affection -and unchanging fidelity in return for her passionate -love. It was in one respect a sacrifice, for it meant that -he must act in contradiction to the convictions of his -whole life. He had always believed in love, and he had -frequently preached that true and mutual passion was -the only foundation for lasting happiness in marriage. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_324'>324</span>At the moment of acceding to Mrs. Trimm’s very -clearly expressed proposal, George had felt that Mamie -would be to him hereafter what she had always been -hitherto, neither more nor less. He did not wish to -marry her, and if he agreed to do so, it was because he -was assured that her happiness depended upon it, and -that he had made himself responsible for her happiness -by his conduct towards her. Being once persuaded of -this, and assured that he alone had done the mischief, -he was chivalrous enough to have married the girl, -though she had been ugly, ill-educated and poor, instead -of being rich, refined and full of charm, and to all outward -appearances he would have married her with as -good a grace and would have behaved towards her afterwards -with as much consideration as though he had -loved her. But the fact that Mamie possessed so many -real and undeniable graces and advantages had made the -sacrifice seem singularly easy, and the twenty-four hours -that succeeded the moment of forming the resolution, -had sufficed to destroy the idea of sacrifice altogether. -Hitherto, George had fought against the belief that he -was loved, and had done his best to laugh at it. Now, -he was at liberty to accept that belief and to make it one -of the chief pleasures of his thoughts. It flattered his -heart, as Totty’s professed appreciation of his fine qualities -flattered his intelligence. In noble natures flattery -produces a strong desire to acquit the debt which seems -to be created by the acceptance of undue praise. Men -of such temper do not like to receive and give nothing in -return, nor can they bear to be thought braver, more -generous or more gifted than they are. Possessing that -high form of self-esteem which is honourable pride, they -feel all the necessity of being in their own eyes worthy -of the estimation they enjoy in the opinion of other men. -The hatred of all false positions is strong in them and -they are not quick to believe that they are justly valued -by the world.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George found it easy to imagine that he loved the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_325'>325</span>young girl, when he had once admitted the fact that she -loved him. It was indeed the pleasantest deception he -had ever submitted to, or encouraged himself in accepting. -He hid from himself the fact that his heart had -never been satisfied, considering that it was better to -take the realities of a brilliant future than to waste time -and sentiment in dreaming of illusions. There was -nothing to be gained by weighing the undeveloped capabilities -of his affections against the manifestations of -them which had hitherto been thrust upon his notice. -He was doing what he believed to be best for every one -as well as for himself, and no good could come of a -hypercriticism of his sensibilities. Mamie was supremely -happy, and it was pleasant to feel that he was at once -the cause and the central figure in her happiness. The -course of true love should run pleasantly for her at least, -and its course would not be hard for him to follow.</p> - -<p class='c000'>A fortnight passed before he thought of fulfilling his -promise and visiting Grace. The attraction was not -great, but he felt a certain curiosity to know how she -was recovering from the shock she had sustained. Once -more he crossed the river and walked up the long avenue -to the old house. As he was passing through the garden -he unexpectedly came upon Constance, who was wandering -idly through the deserted walks.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is so long since we have met!” she exclaimed, -with an intonation of gladness, as she put out her hand.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes,” George answered. “I came once to see your -sister, but you were not with her. How is she?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“She is well—as well as any one could expect. I -have tried to persuade her to go away, but she will not, -though I am sure it is bad for her to stay here.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“But you cannot stay for ever. It is already autumn—it -will soon be winter.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I cannot tell,” Constance answered indifferently -enough. “I confess that I care very little whether we -pass the winter here or in town, provided Grace is contented.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_326'>326</span>“You ought to consider yourself to some extent. You -look tired, and you must weary of all this sadness and -dismal solitude. It stands to reason that you should -need a change.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No change would make any difference to me,” said -Constance, walking slowly along the path and swinging -her parasol slowly from side to side.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you mean that you are ill?” George asked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No indeed! I am never really ill. But it is a waste -of breath to talk of such things. Come into the house. -Grace will be so glad to see you; she has been anticipating -your visit for a long time.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Presently,” said George. “The afternoons are still -long and it is pleasant here in the garden.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you want to talk to me?” asked the young girl, -with the slightest intonation of irony.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I wish to tell you something—something that will -surprise you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am not easily surprised. Is it about yourself?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes—it is not announced yet, but I want you to -know it. You will tell no one, of course. I am going to -be married.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Indeed!” exclaimed Constance, with a slight start.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes. I am sure you will be glad to hear it. I am -engaged to be married to my cousin, Mamie Trimm.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance was looking so ill, already, that it could not -be said that she turned pale at the announcement. She -walked quietly on, gazing before her steadily at some distant -object.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is rather sudden, I suppose,” said George in a tone -that sounded unpleasantly apologetic in his own ears.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Rather,” Constance answered with an effort. “I -confess that I am astonished. You have my best congratulations.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>She paused, and reflected that her words were very -cold. She felt an odd chill in herself as well as in her -language, and tried to shake it off.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“If you are happy, I am very glad,” she said. “It -was not what I expected, but I am very glad.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_327'>327</span>“Thanks. But, Constance, what did you expect—something -very different? Why?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Nothing—nothing—it is very natural, of course. -When are you to be married?” All the coldness had -returned to her voice as she put the question.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I believe it is to be in November. It will certainly -be before Christmas. Mr. Trimm is expected to-morrow -or the next day. He cabled his consent.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes? Well, I am glad it has all gone so smoothly. I -feel cold—is it not chilly here? Let us go in and find -Grace.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>She began to walk more quickly and in a few moments -they reached the house, not having exchanged any further -words. As they entered the door she stopped and -turned to her companion.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Grace is in the drawing-room,” she said. “She wants -to see you alone—so, good-bye. I hope with all my -heart that you will be happy—my dear friend. Good-bye.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>She turned and left him standing in the great hall. -He watched her retreating figure as she entered the -staircase which led away to the right. He had expected -something different in her reception of the news, and did -not know whether to feel disappointed or not. She had -received the announcement with very great calmness, so -far as he could judge. That at least was a satisfaction. -He did not wish to have his equanimity disturbed at -present by any great exhibition of feeling on the part of -any one but himself. As he opened the door before him -he wondered whether Constance were really glad or sorry -to learn that he was to be married.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Grace rose and came towards him. He could not help -thinking that she looked like a beautiful figure of fate -as she stood in the middle of the room and held out her -hand to take his. She seemed taller and more imposing -since her husband’s death and there was something interesting -in her face which had not been there in old -times, a look of greater strength, combined with a profound -<span class='pageno' id='Page_328'>328</span>sadness, which would have attracted the attention -of any student of humanity.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am very glad to see you—it is so good of you to -come,” she said.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I could not do less, since I had promised—even -apart from the pleasure it gives me to see you. I met -your sister in the garden. She told me she hoped that -you would be induced to go away for a time.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Grace shook her head.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why should I go away?” she asked. “I am less -unhappy here than I should be anywhere else. There is -nothing to take me to any other place. Why not stay -here?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It would be better for you both. Your sister is not -looking well. Indeed I was shocked by the change in -her.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Really? Poor child! It is not gay for her. I am -very poor company. You thought she was changed, -then?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Very much,” George answered, thoughtfully.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And it is a long time since you have seen her. Poor -Constance! It will end in my going away for her sake -rather than my own. I wonder what would be best for -her, after all.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“A journey—a change of some sort,” George suggested. -He found it very hard to talk with the heartbroken -young widow, though he could not help admiring -her, and wondering how long it would be before she took -another husband.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No,” Grace answered. “That is not all. She is unsettled, -uncertain in all she does. If she goes on in this -way she will turn into one of those morbid, introspective -women who do nothing but imagine that they have committed -great sins and are never satisfied with their own -repentance.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“She is too sensible for that——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No, she is not sensible, where her conscience is concerned. -I wish some one would come and take her out -<span class='pageno' id='Page_329'>329</span>of herself—some one strong, enthusiastic, who would -shake her mind and heart free of all this nonsense.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“In other words,” said George with a smile, “you -wish that your sister would marry.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes, if she would marry the right man—a man like -you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Like me!” George exclaimed in great surprise.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes—since I have said it. I did not mean to tell -you so. I wish she would marry you after all. You will -say that I am capricious and you will laugh at the way -in which I have changed my mind. I admit it. I made -a mistake. I misjudged you. If it were all to be lived -over again, instead of paying no attention to what happened, -as I did during the last year, I would make her -marry you. It would have been much better. I made a -great mistake in letting her alone.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I had never expected to hear you say that,” said -George, looking into her brown eyes and trying to read -her thoughts.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am not given to talking about myself, as you may -have noticed, but I once told you that my only virtue was -honesty. What I think, I say, if there is any need of -saying anything. I told you that I never hated you, -and it is quite true. I disliked you and I did not want -you for a brother-in-law. In the old days, more than a -year ago, Constance and I used to quarrel about you. -She admired everything you did, and I saw no reason to -do so. That was before you published your first book, -when you used to write so many articles in the magazines. -She thought them all perfection, and I thought -some of them were trash and I said so. I daresay you -think it is not very complimentary of me to tell you -what I think and thought. Perhaps it is not. There is -no reason why I should make compliments after what I -have said. You have written much that I have liked -since, and you have made a name for yourself. My -judgment may be worthless, but those who can judge -have told me that some things you have done will live. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_330'>330</span>But that is not the reason why I have changed my mind -about you. If you were still writing those absurd little -notices in the papers, I should think just as well of you, -yourself, as I do now. You are not what I thought you -were—a clever, rather weak, vain creature without the -strength of being enthusiastic, nor the courage to be -cynical. That is exactly what I thought. You will forgive -me if I tell you so frankly, will you not? I found -out that you are strong, brave and honourable. I do not -expect that you will ever think again of marrying my -sister, but if you do I shall be glad, and if you do not, -I shall always be sorry that I did not use all my influence -in making Constance accept you. That is a long -speech, but every word of it is true, and I am glad I -have told you just what I think.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George was silent for some seconds. There were assuredly -many people in the world from whom he would -have resented such an exposition of opinion in regard to -himself. But Grace was not one of these. He respected -her judgment in a way he could not explain, and he felt -that all she had said confirmed his own ideas about her -character.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am glad you have told me,” he answered at length. -“I have changed my mind about you, too. I used to feel -that you were the opposing barrier between your sister -and me, and that but for you we should have been happily -married long ago. I hated you accordingly, with a -fine unreasoning hatred. You were very frank with me -when you came to give me her decision. I believed you -at the moment, but when I was out of the house I began -to think that you had arranged the whole thing between -you, and that you were the moving power. It was -natural enough, but my common sense told me that I -was wrong within a month of the time. I have liked -your frankness, in my heart, all along. It has been the -best thing in the whole business.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You and I understand each other,” said Grace, leaning -back in her seat and watching his dark face from -<span class='pageno' id='Page_331'>331</span>beneath her heavy, drooping lids. “It is strange. I -never thought we should, and until lately I never thought -it would be pleasant if we did.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George was struck by the familiarity of her tone. She -had always been the person of all others who had treated -him with the most distant civility, and whose phrases in -speaking with him had been the coldest and the most -carefully chosen. He had formerly wondered how her -voice would sound if she were suddenly to say something -friendly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are very good,” he answered presently. “With -regard to the rest—to what you have said about your -sister. I have done my best to put the past out of my -mind, and I have succeeded. When I met her in the -garden just now, I told her what has happened in my -life. I am to be married very soon. I did not mean to -tell any one but Miss Fearing until it was announced -publicly, but I cannot help telling you, after what you -have said. I am going to marry my cousin in two -months.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Grace did not change her position nor open her eyes -any wider. She had expected to hear the news before long.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes,” she said, “I thought that would happen. I -am very glad to hear it. Mamie is thorough and will -suit you much better than Constance ever could. I wish -that Constance were half as natural and enthusiastic and -sensible. She has so much, but she has not that.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No enthusiasm?” asked George, remembering how -he had lived upon her appreciation of his work.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No. She has changed very much since you used to -see her every day. You had a good influence over her, -you stirred her mind, though you did not succeed in stirring -her heart enough. She cares for nothing now, she -never talks, never reads, never does anything but write -long letters to Dr. Drinkwater about her poor people—or -her soul, I do not quite know which. No, you need not -look grave, I am not abusing her. Poor child, I wish I -could do anything to make her forget that same soul of -<span class='pageno' id='Page_332'>332</span>hers, and those eternal hospitals and charities! Your -energy did her good. It roused her and made her think. -She has a heart somewhere, I suppose, and she has plenty -of head, but she smothers them both with her soul.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“She will get over that,” said George. “She will outgrow -it. It is only a phase.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“She will never get over it, until she is married,” -Grace answered in a tone of conviction.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is very strange. You talk now as if you were her -mother instead of being her younger sister.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Her younger sister!” Grace exclaimed with a sigh. -“I am a hundred years older than Constance. Older in -everything, in knowing the meanings of the two great -words—happiness and suffering.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Indeed, you may say that,” George answered in a low -voice.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I sometimes think that they are the only two words -that have any meaning left for me, or that should mean -anything to the rest of the world.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The settled look of pain deepened upon her face as she -spoke, not distorting nor changing the pure outlines, but -lending them something solemn and noble that was almost -grand. George looked at her with a sort of awe, and the -great question of the meaning of all life and death rose -before him, as he remembered her husband’s death grip -upon his arm, and the moment when he himself had -breathed in the cool water and given up the struggle. -He had opened his eyes again to this world to see all -that was to result of pain and suffering from the death -of the other, whose sight had gone out for ever. They -had been together in the depths. The one had been -drowned and had taken with him the happiness of the -woman he had loved. The other, he himself, had been -saved and another woman’s life had been filled with sunshine. -Why the one, rather than the other? He, who -had always faced life as he had found it, and fought with -whatever opposed him, asked himself whether there were -any meaning in it all. Why should those two great -<span class='pageno' id='Page_333'>333</span>things, happiness and suffering, be so unevenly distributed? -Was poor John Bond a loss to humanity in -the aggregate? Not a serious one. Did he, George Wood, -care whether John Bond were alive or dead, beyond the -decent regret he felt, or ought to feel? No, assuredly -not. Would Constance have cared, if he had not chanced -to be her sister’s husband, did Totty care, did Mamie -care? No. They were all shocked, which is to say that -their nerves, including his own, had been painfully -agitated. And yet this man, John Bond, for whom nobody -cared, but whom every one respected, had left -behind him in one heart a grief that was almost awe-inspiring, -a sorrow that sought no expression, and -despised words, that painted its own image on the -woman’s face and spread its own solemn atmosphere -about her. A keen, cool, sharp-witted young lawyer, by -the simple act of departing this world, had converted a -pretty and very sensible young woman into a tragic muse, -had lent her grandeur of mien, had rendered her imposing, -had given her a dignity that momentarily placed her -higher than other women in the scale of womanhood. -Which was the real self? The self that was gone, or the -one that remained? Had a great sorrow given the -woman a fictitious importance, or had it revealed something -noble in her which no one had known before? -Whichever were true, Grace was no longer the Grace -Fearing of old, and George felt a strange admiration for -her growing up within him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are right, I think,” he said after a long pause. -“Happiness and suffering are the only words that have -or ought to have any meaning. The rest—it is all a -matter of opinion, of taste, of fashion, of anything you -please excepting the heart.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Constance will tell you that right and wrong are the -two important words,” said Grace. “And she will tell -you that real happiness consists in being able to distinguish -between the two, and that the only suffering lies -in confounding the wrong with the right.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_334'>334</span>“Does religion mean that we are to feel nothing?” -George asked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That is what the religion of people who have never -felt anything seems to mean. Pay no attention to your -sorrows and distrust all your joys, because they are of no -importance compared with the welfare of your soul. It -matters not who lives or who dies, who is married, or -who is betrayed, provided you take care of your soul, of -your miserable, worthless, selfish little soul and bring -it safe to heaven!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That must be an odd sort of religion,” said George.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is the religion of those who cannot feel. It is -good enough for them. I do not know why I am talking -in this way, except that it is a relief to be able to talk -to some one who understands. When are you to be -married?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I hope it may be in November.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“By-the-bye, what will Mr. Craik think of the marriage? -He ought to do something for Mamie, I suppose.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mr. Craik is my own familiar enemy,” said George. -“I never take into consideration what he is likely to do -or to leave undone. He will do what seems right in his -own eyes, and that will very probably seem wrong in the -eyes of others.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mrs. Trimm doubtless knows best what can be done -with him. What did Constance say, when you told her -of your engagement?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Very little. What she will say to you, I have no -doubt. That she hopes I shall be happy and is very glad -to hear of the marriage.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I wonder whether she cares,” said Grace thoughtfully. -George thought it would be more discreet to say -nothing than to give his own opinion in the matter.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No one can tell,” Grace continued. “Least of all, -herself. I have once or twice thought that she regretted -you and wished you would propose again. And then, at -other times, I have felt sure that she was only bored—bored -<span class='pageno' id='Page_335'>335</span>to death with me, with her surroundings, with -Dr. Drinkwater, the poor and her soul. Poor child, I -hope she will marry soon!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I hope so,” said George as he rose to leave. “Will -you be kind enough not to say anything about the -engagement until it is announced? That will be in a -fortnight or so.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Certainly. Come and see me when it is out, unless -you will come sooner. It is so good of you. Good-bye.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He left the house and walked down the garden in the -direction of the trees, thinking very much more of Grace -and of her conversation than of Constance. Apart from -her appearance, which had a novel interest for him, and -which excited his sympathy, he hardly knew whether he -had been attracted or repelled by her uncommon frankness -of speech. There was something in it which he -did not recognise as having belonged to her before in the -same degree, something more like masculine bluntness -than feminine honesty. It seemed as though she had -caught and kept something of her dead husband’s manner. -He wondered whether she spoke as she did in -order to remind herself of him by using words that had -been familiar in his mouth. He was engaged in these -reflections when he was surprised to meet Constance -face to face as he turned a corner in the path.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I thought you were indoors,” he said, glancing at her -face as though expecting to see some signs of recent -distress there.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But if Constance had shed tears she had successfully -effaced all traces of them, and her features were calm -and composed. The truth of the matter was that she -feared lest she had betrayed too much feeling in the -interview in the garden, and now, to do away with any -mistaken impression in George’s mind, she had resolved -to show herself to him again.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Are you in your boat?” she asked. “I thought that -as it was rather chilly, and if you did not mind, I would -ask you to row me out for ten minutes in the sun. Do -you mind very much?”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_336'>336</span>“I shall be delighted,” said George, wondering what -new development of circumstances had announced itself -in her sudden desire for boating.</p> - -<p class='c000'>A few minutes later she was seated in the stern and -he was rowing her leisurely up stream. To his surprise, -she talked easily, touching upon all sorts of subjects and -asking him questions about his book in her old, familiar -way, but never referring in any way to the past, nor to -his engagement, until at her own request he had brought -her back to the landing. She insisted upon his letting -her walk to the house alone.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Good-bye,” she said, “and so many thanks. I am -quite warm now—and I am very, very glad about the -engagement and grateful to you for telling me. I hope -you will ask me to the wedding!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course,” George answered imperturbably and then, -as he pulled out into the stream he watched her slight -figure as she followed the winding path that led up from -the landing to the level of the grounds above. When -she had reached the top, she waved her hand to him and -smiled.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I would not have him think that I cared—not for -the whole world!” she was saying to herself as she made -the friendly signal and turned away.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XXIV.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>Sherrington Trimm arrived on the following afternoon, -rosier and fresher than ever, and considerably -reduced in weight. After the first general and affectionate -greeting he proceeded to interview each member of -the family in private, as though he were getting up -evidence for a case. It was characteristic of him that -he spoke to Mamie first. The most important point in -his estimation was to ascertain whether the girl were -<span class='pageno' id='Page_337'>337</span>really in love, or whether she had only contracted a -passing attachment for George Wood. Knowing all that -he did, and all that he supposed was unknown to his -wife, he could not but regard the match with complacency, -so far as worldly advantages were concerned. -But if he had been once assured that his daughter’s -happiness was really at stake, he would have given her -as readily to George, the comparatively impecunious -author, as to Mr. Winton Wood, the future millionaire.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Now, Mamie,” he said, linking his arm in hers and -leading her into the garden, “now, Mamie, tell us all -about it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie blushed faintly and gave her father a shy -glance, and then looked down.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“There is not much to tell,” she answered. “I love -him, and I am very happy. Is not that enough?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are quite sure of yourself, eh?” Mr. Trimm -looked sharply at her face. “And how long has this -been going on?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“All my life—though—well, how can I explain, -papa? You ought to understand. One finds out such -things all at once, and then one knows that they have -always been there.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I suppose so,” said Sherry. “You did not know that -‘it,’ as you call it, was there when I went away.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh yes, I did.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well, did you know it a year ago?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No, perhaps not. Oh, papa, this is like twenty -questions.” Mamie laughed happily.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is it? Never played the game—cannot say. And -you have no doubts about him, have you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How can anybody doubt him!” Mamie exclaimed -indignantly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is my business to doubt,” said Sherry Trimm with -a twinkle in his eye. “’I am the doubter and the doubt’—never -knew what it meant till to-day.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Then go away, papa!” laughed the young girl.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And let George have a chance. I suppose that is -<span class='pageno' id='Page_338'>338</span>what you mean. On the whole, perhaps I could do -nothing better. But I will just see whether he has any -doubts, and finish my cigar with him.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Thereupon Sherrington Trimm turned sharply on his -heel and went in search of George. He found him standing -on the verandah pensively examining a trail of ants -that were busily establishing communication between -the garden walk and a tiny fragment of sponge cake -which had fallen upon the step during afternoon tea.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“George,” said Sherry in business-like tones, through -which, however, the man’s kindly good nature was -clearly appreciable, “do you mind telling me in a few -words why you want to marry my daughter?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George turned his head, and there was a pleasant smile -upon his face. Then he pointed to the trail of ants.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mr. Sherrington Trimm,” he said, “do you mind -explaining to me very briefly why those ants are so particularly -anxious to get at that piece of cake?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Like it, I suppose,” Sherry answered laconically.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That is exactly my case. I have gone to the length -of falling very much in love with Mamie, and I wish to -marry her. I understand that her views coincide with -mine and that you make no objections. I think that the -explanation is complete.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Very well stated. Now, look here. The only thing -I care for on earth is that child’s happiness. She is not -like all girls. You may have found that out, by this -time. If you behave yourself as I think you will, she -will be the best wife to you that man ever had. If you -do not—well, there is no knowing what she will do, but -whatever it is, it will surprise you. I do not know -whether hearts break nowadays as easily as they used -to, and I am not prepared to state positively that Mamie’s -heart would break under the circumstances. But if you -do not treat her properly, she will make it pretty deuced -hot for you, and by the Eternal, so will I, my boy. I -like to put the thing in its proper light.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You do,” laughed George, “with uncommon clearness. -I am prepared to run all risks of that sort.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_339'>339</span>“Hope so,” returned Sherry Trimm, smoking thoughtfully. -“Now then, George,” he resumed in a more confidential -tone, after a short pause, “there is a little -matter of business between you and me. We are old -friends, and I might be your father in point of age, and -now about to become your father-in-law in point of fact. -How about the bread and butter? I have no intention -of giving Mamie a fortune. No, no, I know you are -aware of that, but there are material considerations, you -know. Now, just give me an idea of how you propose -to live.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“If I do not lose my health, we can live very comfortably,” -George answered. “I think I can undertake to -say that we should need no help. It would not be like -this—like your way of living, of course. But we can -have all we need and a certain amount of small luxury.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Hum!” ejaculated Sherry Trimm in a doubting -tone. “Not much luxury, I am afraid.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“A certain amount,” George answered quietly. “I -have earned over ten thousand dollars during the last -year and I have kept most of it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Really!” exclaimed the other. “I did not know -that literature was such a good thing. But you may not -always earn as much, next year, or the year after.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That is unlikely, unless I break down. I do not -know why that should happen to me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You do not look like it,” said Sherry, eyeing George’s -spare and vigorous frame, and his clear, brown skin.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not feel like it,” said George.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well, look here. I will tell you what I will do. I -have my own reasons for not giving you a house just -now. But I will give Mamie just half as much as you -make, right along. I suppose that is fair. I need not -tell you that she will have everything some day.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You may give Mamie anything you like,” George -answered indifferently. “I shall never ask questions. If -I fall ill and cannot work for a long time together, you -will have to support her, and my father will support -me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_340'>340</span>“I daresay we could spare you a crust, my boy,” said -Sherrington Trimm, laying his small hand upon George’s -broad, bony shoulder and pushing him along. “I do not -want to keep you any longer, if you have anything -to do.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George sauntered away in the direction of the garden, -and Sherry Trimm went indoors to find his wife. Totty -met him in the drawing-room, having just returned from -a secret interview with her cook, in the interests of -Sherry’s first dinner at home.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Totty, look here,” he said, selecting a comfortable -chair and sitting down. He leaned back, crossed his -legs, raised his hands and set them together, thumb to -thumb and finger to finger, but said nothing more.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am looking,” said Totty with a sweet smile. She -seated herself beside him. “I have already looked. You -are wonderfully better—I am so glad.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes. Those waters have screwed me up a peg. But -that is not what I mean. When I say, look here, I mean -to suggest that you should concentrate your gigantic intellect -upon the consideration of the matter in hand. -You have made this match, and you are responsible for -it. Will you tell me why you have made it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How do you mean that I have made it?” asked Totty -evasively.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Innocence, thy name is Charlotte!” exclaimed -Sherry, looking at the ceiling. “You brought George -here, you knew that Mamie liked him and that he would -like her, not on the first day, nor on the second, but -inevitably on the third or fourth. You knew that on -the fifth day they would love each other, that they would -tell each other so on the sixth, and that the seventh day, -being one of rest, would be devoted to obtaining our -consent. You knew also that George was, and is, a -penniless author—I admit that he earns a good deal—and -yet you have done all in your power to make Mamie -marry him. The fact that I like him has nothing to do -with it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_341'>341</span>“Nothing to do with it! Oh, Sherry, how can you -say such things!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Nothing whatever. I would have liked lots of other -young fellows just as well. What especial reason had -you for selecting this particular young fellow? That is -what I want to get at.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, is that all? Mamie loved him, my dear. I -knew it long ago, and as I knew that you would not disapprove, -I brought him here. It is not a question of -money. We have more than we can ever need. It is -not as if we had two or three sons to start in the world, -Sherry.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>She lent an intonation of sadness to the last words, -which, as she was aware, always produced the same -effect upon her husband. He had bitterly regretted -having no son to bear his honourable name.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That is just it,” he answered sadly. “Mamie is -everything, and everything is for her. That is the -reason why we should be careful. She is not like a -great many girls. She has a heart and she will break -it, if she is not happy.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That is the very reason. You do not seem to realise -that she is madly in love.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No doubt, but was she madly in love, as you call it, -when you brought them here?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Long before that——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Then why did you never tell me—we might have -had him to the house all the time——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Because I supposed, as every one else did, that he -meant to marry Constance Fearing. I did not want to -spoil his life, and I thought that Mamie would get over -it. But the thing came to nothing. In fact, I begin to -believe that there never was anything in it, and that the -story was all idle gossip from beginning to end. He is -on as good terms as ever with her and goes over there -from time to time to console poor Grace.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh!” ejaculated Sherry in a thoughtful tone.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You need not say ‘oh,’ like that. There is nothing -<span class='pageno' id='Page_342'>342</span>to be afraid of. It is perfectly natural that the poor -woman should like to see him, when he nearly died in -trying to save her husband. They say she is in a dreadful -state, half mad, and ill, and so changed!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Poor John!” exclaimed Sherry sadly. “I shall -never see his like again.” He sighed, for he had been -very fond of the man, besides looking upon him as a -most promising partner in his law business.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It was dreadful!” Mrs. Trimm shuddered as she -thought of the accident. “I cannot bear to talk about -it,” she added.</p> - -<p class='c000'>A short pause followed, during which Totty wore a -very sad expression, and Sherry examined attentively a -ring he wore upon his finger, in which a dark sapphire -was set between two very white diamonds.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“There is one thing,” he said suddenly. “The sooner -we pull up stakes the better. I do not propose to spend the<a id='t342'></a> -best part of my life in the cars. The weather is cool -and we will go back to town. So pack up your traps, -Totty, and let us be off. Have you written to Tom?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No,” said Totty. “I would not announce the engagement -till we were settled in town.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Sherrington Trimm departed on the following morning, -alleging with truth that the business could not be allowed -to go to pieces. Totty and the two young people were -to return two or three days later, and active preparations -were at once made for moving. Totty, indeed, could -not bear the idea of allowing her husband to remain -alone in New York. It was possible that at any moment -he might discover that the will was missing from her -brother’s box. She might indeed have been spared -much anxiety in this matter had she known that although -Sherry had sealed and marked the document himself, -it was not he who had placed it in the receptacle where -it had been found by his wife. Sherry had handed it -across the table to John Bond, telling him to put it in -Craik’s deed-box, and had seen John leave the room -with it, but had never seen it since. It was not, indeed, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_343'>343</span>until much later that he had communicated to his partner -the contents of the paper. If it could not now be -found, Sherry would suppose that John had accidentally -put it into the wrong box and a general search would be -made. Then it would be thought that John had mislaid -it. In any case poor John was dead and could not -defend himself. Sherry would go directly to Tom Craik -and get him to sign a duplicate, but he would never, -under any conceivable combination of circumstances, -connect his wife with the disappearance of the will, nor -mention the fact in her presence. Totty, however, was -ignorant of these facts, and lived in the constant fear of -being obliged to explain matters to her husband. Though -she had thought much of the matter she had not hit -upon any expedient for restoring the document to its -place. She kept it in a small Indian cabinet which her -brother had once given her, in which there was a hidden -drawer of which no one knew the secret but herself. -This cabinet she had brought with her and had kept all -through the summer in a prominent place in the drawing-room, -justly deeming that things are generally most -safely hidden when placed in the most exposed position, -where no one would ever think of looking for them. On -returning to New York the cabinet was again packed in -one of Totty’s own boxes, but the will was temporarily -concealed about her person, to be restored to its hiding-place -as soon as she reached the town house.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Before leaving the neighbourhood George felt that it -was his duty to apprise Constance and her sister of his -departure, but he avoided the necessity of making a visit -by writing a letter to Grace. It seemed to him more -fitting that he should address his note to her rather than -to her sister, considering all that had happened. He -urged that both should return to New York before the -winter began, and he inserted a civil message for Constance -before he concluded.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie took an affectionate leave of the place in which -she had been so happy. During the last hours of the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_344'>344</span>day preceding their return to town, George never left -her side, while she wandered through the walks of the -garden and beneath the beautiful trees, back to the -house, in and out of the rooms, then lingered again upon -the verandah and gazed at the distant river. He watched -the movements of her faultless figure as she sat down -for the last time in the places where they had so often -sat together, then rose quickly, and, linking her arm in -his, led him away to some other well-remembered spot.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I have been so happy here!” she said for the hundredth -time.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You shall be as happy in other places, if I can make -you so,” George answered.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Shall we? Shall I?” she asked, looking up into his -face. “Who can tell! One is never so sure of the future -as one is of the past—and the present. Shall we take -it all with us to our little house in New York? How -funny it will seem to be living all alone with you in a -little house! I shall not give you champagne every day, -George. You need not expect it! It will be a very -little house, and I shall do all the work.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“If you will allow me to black the boots, I shall be -most happy,” said George. “I know how.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Imagine! You, blacking boots!” exclaimed Mamie -indignantly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why not? But seriously, we can do a great deal -more than you fancy—provided, as you say, that we do -not go in for champagne every day, and keep horses and -all that.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I think we shall have more champagne and horses -than other things,” Mamie answered with a laugh. -“Mamma is going to keep a carriage for me, as well as -my dear old riding horse, and papa told me not to let -you buy any wine, because there was some of that particular -kind you like on the way out. Between you -and me, I do not think they really expect us to be in -the least economical, though mamma is always talking -about it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_345'>345</span>She was very happy and it was impossible for her to -cloud the future by the idea of being deprived of any of -the luxury to which she had always been accustomed. -She knew in her heart that she was both willing and -able to undergo any privation for George’s sake, but it -would have been unlike her to talk of what she would -or could do when there was no immediate prospect of -doing it. Her chief thought was to make her husband’s -house comfortable, and if she knew something of the art -from having watched her mother, she knew also that -comfort, as she understood it, required a very free use -of money. George knew it, too, since he had been -brought up in luxury and had been deprived of it at the -age when such things are most keenly felt. The terrible, -noiseless, hourly expenditure that he had seen in -Totty’s house made the exiguity of his own resources -particularly apparent to his judgment.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Good-bye, dear old place!” cried the young girl, as -they stood on the verandah at dusk, before going in to -dress for dinner. She threw kisses with her fingers at -the garden and at the trees.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George stood by her side in silence, gazing out at the -dim outline of the distant hills beyond the river.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Are you not sorry to leave it all?” Mamie asked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Very sorry,” he answered, as though not knowing -what he said. Then he stooped, and kissed her small -white face, and they both went in.</p> - -<p class='c000'>That night George sat up late in his room, looking -over the manuscript that had grown under his hand during -the summer months. It was all but finished and he -intended to write the last chapter in New York, but it -interested him to look through it before leaving the surroundings -in which it had been written. What most -struck him in the work was the care with which it was -done. It was not a very imaginative book, but it was -remarkable for its truth and clearness of style. He -wondered at the coldness of certain scenes, which in his -first conception of the story had promised to be the most -<span class='pageno' id='Page_346'>346</span>dramatic. He wondered still more at the success with -which he had handled points which in themselves -seemed to be far from attractive to the novelist. His -conversations were better than they had formerly been, -but the love scenes were unsatisfactory, and he determined -that he would re-write some of them. The whole -book looked too truthful and too little enthusiastic to -him, now, though he fancied that he had passed through -moments of enthusiasm while he was writing it. On the -whole, it was a disappointment to himself, and he believed -that others would be disappointed likewise. He -asked himself what Johnson would think of it, and made -up his mind to abide by his opinion. Vaguely too, as -one sometimes longs to see again a book once read, he -wished that he might have Constance’s criticism and -advice, though he was conscious at the same time that it -was not the sort of story she would have liked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Two days later, he found himself once more in his -little room in his father’s house. The old gentleman -received the news of the engagement in silence. He -had guessed that matters would terminate as they had, -and the prospect had given him little satisfaction. He -thought that the alliance would probably cut him off -from his son’s society, and he was inwardly hurt that -George should seem indifferent to the fact. But he said -nothing. From the worldly point of view the marriage -was a brilliant one, and it meant that George must ultimately -be a rich man. His future at least was provided -for.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George found Johnson hard at work, as usual, and if -possible paler and more in earnest than before. He had -taken a week’s holiday during the hottest part of the -summer, but with that exception had never relaxed in -his astounding industry since they had last met.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How particularly sleek you look,” he said, scrutinising -George’s face as the latter sat down.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I feel sleek,” George answered with a slight laugh. -“I believe that is what is the matter with the book I -<span class='pageno' id='Page_347'>347</span>have been writing since I saw you. I am not satisfied -with it, and I want your opinion. I sat up all last night -to write the last chapter in my old den. I think it is -better than the rest.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That is a pity. It will look like a new silk hat on -a beggar—or like a wig on a soup-tureen, as the Frenchmen -say. But I daresay you are quite wrong about the -rest of it. You generally are. For a man who can -write a good story in good English when he tries, you -have as little confidence as I ever saw in any one. The -public does not write books and does not know how they -are written. It will never find out that you wrote the -beginning in clover and the end in nettles.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh—the public!” exclaimed George. “One never -knows what it will do.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“One may guess, sometimes. The public consists of -a vast collection of individuals collected in a crowd -around the feet of four great beasts. There is the ignorant -beast and the learned beast, the virtuous beast and -the vicious beast. They are all four beasts in their way, -because they all represent an immense accumulation of -prejudice, in four different directions and having four -different followings, all pulling different ways. You -cannot possibly please them all and it is quite useless -to try.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I suppose you mean that the four beasts are the four -kinds of critics. Is that it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No,” Johnson answered. “That is not it at all. If -we critics had more real influence with the public, the -public would be all the better for it. As it is, the real -critic is dying out, because the public will not pay -enough to keep him alive. It is sad, but I suppose it -is natural. This is the age of free thought, and the -phrase, if you interpret it as most people do, means that -all men are to consider themselves critics, whether they -know anything or not. Have you brought your manuscript -with you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No. I wanted to ask first whether you would read it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_348'>348</span>“You need not be so humble, now that you are a -celebrity,” said Johnson with a laugh. “You do not -look the part, either. What has happened to you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am going to be married,” George answered. “I -am to marry my cousin, Miss Trimm.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Not Sherrington Trimm’s daughter!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“The same, if it please you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I congratulate you on leaving the literary career,” -said Johnson with a sardonic smile. “I suppose you -will never do another stroke of work. Well—it is a -pity.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I have to work for my living as I have done for -years,” George answered. “Do you imagine that I -would live upon other people’s money?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you really mean to go on working?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course I do, as long as I can hold a pen. I -should if I were rich in my own right, for love of the -thing.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Love of the thing is not enough. Are you ambitious?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not know. I never thought about it. To me, -the question is whether a thing is well done or not, for -its own sake. The success of it means money, which I -need, but apart from that I do not think I care very -much about it. I may be mistaken. I value your opinion, -for instance, and if I knew other men like you, I -should value theirs.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You will never succeed to any extent without ambition,” -Johnson answered with great energy. “It is -everything in literature. You must feel that you will -go mad if you are not first, if you are not acknowledged -to be better than any one else during your lifetime. You -must make people understand that you are a dangerous -rival, and you must have the daily satisfaction of knowing -that they feel it. Literature is like the storming of -a redoubt, you must climb upon the bodies of the slain -and be the first to plant your flag on the top. You must -lie awake all night, and torment yourself all day to find -<span class='pageno' id='Page_349'>349</span>some means of doing a thing better than other people. -To be first, always, all your life, without fear of competition, -to be Cæsar or to be nothing! I wish I could -make you feel what I feel!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I think I would rather not,” said George. “It must -be very disturbing to the judgment to be always comparing -oneself with others instead of trying to do the best -one can in an independent way.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You will never succeed without ambition,” Johnson -repeated confidently.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Then I am afraid I shall never succeed at all, for I -have not a spark of that sort of ambition. I do not care -a straw for being thought better than any one else, nor -for being a celebrity. I want to satisfy myself, my own -idea of what is a good book, and I am afraid I never -shall. I suppose that is a sort of ambition too.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is not the right sort.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George knew his friend very well and was familiar -with most of his ideas. He respected his character, and -he valued his opinion more than that of any man in his -acquaintance, but he could never accept his theories as -infallible. He felt that if he ever succeeded in writing -a book that pleased him he would recognise its merits -sooner than any one, and but for the necessity of earning -a livelihood he would have systematically destroyed -all his writings until he had attained a satisfactory -result. That a certain amount of reputation might be -gained by publishing what he regarded as incomplete or -inartistic work was to him a matter of indifference, -except for the material advantages which resulted from -the transaction. Such, at least, was his belief about -himself. That he was able to appreciate flattery when -it was of a good and subtle quality, only showed him -that he was human, but did not improve his own estimation -of his productions.</p> - -<p class='c000'>A week later, Johnson returned the manuscript with a -note in which he gave his opinion of it.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It will sell,” he wrote. “You are quite mistaken -<span class='pageno' id='Page_350'>350</span>about yourself, as usual. You told me the other day -that you had no ambition. Your book proves that you -have. You have taken the subject treated by Wiggins -in his last great novel. It made a sensation, but in my -opinion you have handled it better than he did, though -he is called a great novelist. It was a very ambitious -thing to do, and it is wonderful that, while taking a -precisely similar situation, there should not be a word -in your work that recalls his. After this, do not tell -me that you have no ambition, for it is sheer nonsense. -As for the last chapter, I should not have known that it -was not written under the same circumstances as all the -rest.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George laughed aloud to himself. He knew the name -of Wiggins well enough, but he had never read one of -the celebrated author’s books, and if he had he would -assuredly not have taken his plot.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“But Johnson could not know that,” he said to himself, -“and I have written just such stuff about other -people.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The book went to the publisher and he thought no -more of it. During the time that followed, his days -were very fully occupied. Between making the necessary -preparations for his approaching marriage, and the -pleasant duty of spending a certain number of hours with -Mamie every day, he had very little time to call his own, -although nothing of any importance happened to vary -the course of his life. At the beginning of November -Constance Fearing and her sister returned to town, and -at about the same time he was informed by Sherrington -Trimm that it would be necessary for him to visit Mr. -Thomas Craik, as he was about to become that gentleman’s -nephew by marriage.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course, I know all about the old story, George,” -said Sherry. “But if I were you I would at least try -and be civil. The fact is, I have reason to know that he -is haunted by a sort of half-stagey, half-honest remorse -for what he did, and he is very much pleased with the -marriage, besides being a great admirer of your books.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_351'>351</span>“All right,” said George, “I will be civil enough.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Sherry Trimm had conveyed exactly the impression -which he had desired to convey. He had made George -believe by his manner that he was himself anxious to -keep his relations with Mr. Craik on a pleasant footing, -doubtless on account of the money, and he had effectually -deterred George from quarrelling with his unknown -benefactor, while he had kept the question of the will -as closely secret as ever.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XXV.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>George had never been inside Mr. Craik’s house, and -the first impression made upon him by the sight of the -old gentleman’s collected spoil was a singular one. The -sight of beautiful objects had always given him pleasure, -but, on the other hand, his mind resented and abhorred -alike disorder and senseless profusion. He had no touch -in his composition of that modern taste which delights -in producing a certain tone of colour in a room, by filling -it with all sorts of heterogeneous and useless articles, -of all periods and collected out of all countries. -It was not sufficient in his eyes that an object should be -of great value, or of great beauty, or that it should -possess both at once; it was necessary also that it should -be so placed as to acquire a right to its position and to -its surroundings. A Turkish tile, a Spanish-Moorish -dish, an Italian embroidery and an old picture might -harmonise very well with each other in colour and in -general effect, but George Wood’s uncultivated taste -failed to see why they should all be placed together, -side by side upon the same wall, any more than why -a periwig should be set upon a soup-tureen, as Johnson -had remarked. He felt from the moment he entered the -house as if he were in a bazaar of <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">bric-à-brac</span>, where -<span class='pageno' id='Page_352'>352</span>everything was put up for sale, and in which each object -must have somewhere a label tied or pasted to it, upon -which letters and figures mysteriously shadowed forth -its variable price to the purchaser while accurately defining -its value to the vendor.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It must not be supposed, however, that because George -Wood did not like the look of the room in which he found -himself, it would not have been admired and appreciated -by many persons of unquestioned good taste. The value -there accumulated was very great, there was much that -was exceedingly rare and of exquisite design and workmanship, -and the vulgarity of the effect, if there were -any, was of the more subtle and tolerable kind.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George stood in the midst of the chamber, hat in hand, -waiting for the owner of the collection to appear. A -door made of panels of thin alabaster set in rich old gilt -carvings, was opposite to him, and he was wondering -whether the light actually penetrated the delicate marble -as it seemed to do, when the chiselled handle turned and -the door itself moved noiselessly on its hinges. Thomas -Craik entered the room.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The old gentleman’s head seemed to have fallen forward -upon his shoulders, so that he was obliged to look -sideways and upwards in order to see anything above the -level of his eyes. Otherwise he did not present so decrepit -an appearance as George had expected. His step -was sufficiently brisk, and though his voice was little -better than a growl, it was not by any means weak. He -was clothed in light-coloured tweed garments of the -newest cut, and he wore a red tie, and shoes of varnished -leather. The corner of a pink silk handkerchief was -just visible above the outer pocket of his coat, and he -emanated a perfume which seemed to be combined out -of Cologne water and Russian leather.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Official visit, eh?” he said with an attempt at a -pleasant smile. “Glad to see you. Sorry you have -waited so long before coming. Take a seat.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thanks,” answered George, sitting down. “I am glad -to see that you are quite yourself again, Mr. Craik.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_353'>353</span>“Quite myself, eh? Never was anybody else long -enough to know what it felt like. But I have not forgotten -that you came to ask—no, no, I remember that. -Going to marry Mamie, eh? Glad to hear it. Well, -well.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Thomas Craik rubbed his emaciated hands slowly together -and looked sideways at his visitor.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes,” said George, “I am going to marry Miss -Trimm——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Call her Mamie, call her Mamie—own niece of mine, -you know. No use standing on ceremony.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I think it is as well to call her Miss Trimm until we -are married,” George observed, rather coldly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, you think so, do you? Well, well. Not to her -face, I hope?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George thought that Mr. Craik was one of the most -particularly odious old gentlemen he had ever met. He -changed the subject as quickly as he could.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What a wonderful collection of beautiful things you -have, Mr. Craik,” he said, glancing at a set of Urbino -dishes that were fastened against the wall nearest to -him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Something, something,” replied Mr. Craik, modestly. -“Fond of pretty things? Understand majolica?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am very fond of pretty things, but I know nothing -about majolica. I believe the subject needs immense -study. They say you are a great authority on all these -things.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, they say so, do they? Well, well. Books are -more in your line, eh? Some in the other room if you -like to see them. Come?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes indeed!” George answered with alacrity. He -thought that if he must sustain the conversation for five -minutes longer, it would be a relief to be among things -he understood. Tom Craik rose and led the way through -the alabaster door by which he had entered. George -found himself in a spacious apartment, consisting of two -rooms which had been thrown into one by building an -<span class='pageno' id='Page_354'>354</span>arch in the place of the former wall of division. There -were no windows, but each division was lighted by a -large skylight of stained glass, supported on old Bohemian -iron-work. To the height of six feet from the floor, -the walls were lined with bookcases, the books being -protected by glass. Above these the walls were completely -covered with tapestries, stuffs, weapons, old -plates and similar objects.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Favourite room of mine,” remarked Mr. Craik, -backing up to the great wood fire, and looking about -him with side glances, first to the right and then to the -left. “Look about you, look about you. A lot of books -in those shelves, eh? Well, well. About three thousand. -Not many but good and good, as books should be, -inside and out. Eh? Like that?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes,” said George, moving slowly round the room, -stooping and then standing erect, as he glanced rapidly -at the titles of the long rows of volumes. The born man -of letters warmed at the sight of the familiar names and -felt less inimically inclined towards the master of the -house.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I envy you such books to read and such a place in -which to read them,” he said at last.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I believe you do,” answered Mr. Craik, looking -pleased. “You look as if you did. Well, well. May -be all yours some day.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How so?” George inquired, growing suddenly cold -and looking sharply at the old man.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“May leave everything to Totty. Totty may leave -everything to Mamie. Fact is, any station may be the -last. May have to hand in my checks at any time. -Funny world, isn’t it? Eh?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“A very humorous and comic world, as you say,” -George answered, looking at the old man with a rather -scornful twist of his naturally scornful mouth.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Humorous and comic? I say, funny. It’s shorter. -What would you do if you owned this house?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I would sell it,” George answered with a dry laugh, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_355'>355</span>“sell it, except the books, and live on the interest of the -proceeds.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And you would do a very sensible thing, Mr. George -Winton Wood,” returned Tom Craik approvingly. All -at once he dropped his detached manner of speaking and -grew eloquent. “You would be doing a very sensible -thing. A man of your age can have no manner of use -for all this rubbish. If you ever mean to be a collector, -reserve that expensive taste for the time when you have -plenty of money, but can neither eat, drink, sleep, make -love nor be merry in any way—no, nor write novels -either. The pleasure does not consist in possessing -things, it lies in finding them, bargaining for them, -fighting for them and ultimately getting them. It is the -same with money, but there is more variety in collecting, -to my mind, at least. It is the same with everything, -money, love, politics, collecting, it is only the -fighting for what you want that is agreeably exciting. -It has kept me alive, with my wretched constitution, -when the doctors have been thinking of sending for the -person in black who carries a tape measure. I never had -any ambition. I never cared for anything but the fighting. -I never cared to be first, second or third. I do not -believe that your ambitious man ever succeeds in life. -He thinks so much about himself that he forgets what -he is fighting for. You can easily make a fool of an -ambitious man by offering him a bait, and you may take -the thing you want while he is chasing the phantom of -glory on the other side of the house. I hope you are not -ambitious. You have begun as if you were not, and you -have knocked all the stuffing out of the rag dolls the -critics put up to frighten young authors. I have read a -good deal in my day, and I have seen a good deal, and I -have taken a great many things I have wanted. I know -men, and I know something about books. You ought to -succeed, for you go about your work as though you liked -it for the sake of overcoming difficulties, for the sake of -fighting your subject and getting the better of it. Stick -<span class='pageno' id='Page_356'>356</span>to that principle. It prolongs life. Pick out the hardest -thing there is to be done, and go at it, hammer and tongs, -by hook or by crook, by fair means or foul. If you cannot -do it, after all, nobody need be the wiser; if you -succeed every one will cry out in admiration of your industry -and genius, when you have really only been -amusing yourself all the time—because nothing can be -more amusing than fighting. You are quite right. Ambition -is nonsense and the satisfaction of possession is -bosh. The only pleasure is in doing and getting. If, in -the inscrutable ways of destiny, you ever own this -house, sell it, and when you are old, and crooked, and -cannot write any more, and people think you are a drivelling -idiot and are sitting in rows outside your door, -waiting for dead men’s shoes—why then, you can prolong -your life by collecting something, as I have done. -The desire to get the better of a Jew dealer in a bargain -for a Maestro Georgio, or the determination to find the -edition which has been heard of but never seen, will -make your blood circulate and your heart beat, and your -brain work. I have half a mind to sell the whole thing -myself for the sake of doing it all over again, and keeping -somebody waiting ten years longer for the money. -I might last ten years more if I could hit upon something -new to collect.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The old man ceased speaking and looked up sideways -at George, with a keen smile, very unlike the expression -he assumed when he meant to be agreeable. Then he -relapsed into his usual way of talking, jerking out short -sentences and generally omitting the subject or the verb, -when he did not omit both. It is possible that he had -delivered his oration for the sake of showing George -that he could speak English as well as any one when he -chose to do so.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Like my little speech? Eh?” he inquired.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I shall not forget it,” George answered. “Your ideas -cannot be accused of being stale or old fashioned, whatever -else may be said of them.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_357'>357</span>“Put them into a book, will you? Well, well. Daresay -printer’s ink has been wasted on worse—sometimes.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George did not care to prolong his visit beyond the -bounds of strict civility, though he had been somewhat -diverted by his relation’s talk. He asked a few questions -about the books and discovered that Tom Craik -was by no means the unreading edition-hunter he had -supposed him to be. If he had not read all the three -thousand choice volumes he possessed, he had at least -a very clear idea of the contents of most of them.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Buying an author and not reading him,” he said, “is -like buying a pig in a poke and then not even looking at -the pig afterwards. Eh?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Very like,” George answered with a short laugh. -Then he took his leave. The old man went with him -as far as the door that led out of the room in which they -had first met.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Come again,” he said. “Rather afraid of draughts, -so I leave you here. Good day to you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George took the thin hand that was thrust out at him -and shook it with somewhat less repulsion that he had -felt a quarter of an hour earlier. The sight of the books -had softened his heart a little, as it often softens the -enmities of literary men when they least expect it. He -turned away and left the house, wondering whether, after -all, old Tom Craik had not been judged more harshly -than he deserved. The man of letters is slow to anger -against those who show any genuine fondness for his -profession.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He walked down the avenue, thinking over what he -had seen and heard. It chanced that after walking some -time he stepped aside to allow certain ladies to pass him -and on looking round saw that he was in the door of Mr. -Popples’s establishment. A thought struck him and he -went in.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mr. Popples——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Good morning, Mr. Winton Wood——” Mr. Popples -<span class='pageno' id='Page_358'>358</span>thought that the two names sounded better together.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Good morning, Mr. Popples. I want to ask you a -confidential question.” George laughed a little.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Anything, Mr. Winton Wood. Something in regard -to the sales, no doubt. Well, in point of fact, sir, it is -just as well to ask now and then how a book is going, -just for the sake of checking the statement as we say, -though I will say that Rob Roy and Company——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No, no,” George interrupted with a second laugh. -“They treat me very well. You know Mr. Craik, do -you not?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mr. Craik!” exclaimed the bookseller, with a beaming -smile. “Why, dear me! Mr. Craik is your first -cousin once removed, Mr. Winton Wood! Of course I -know him.” He prided himself on knowing the exact -degree of relationship existing between his different customers, -which was equivalent to knowing by heart the -genealogy of all New York society.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are a subtle flatterer,” George answered. “You -pretend to know him only because he is my cousin.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“A great collector,” returned the other, drawing down -the corners of his mouth and turning up his eyes as -though he were contemplating an object of solemn beauty. -“A great collector! He knows what a book is, old or -new. He knows, he knows—oh yes, he knows very -well.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What I want to know is this,” said George. “Does -Mr. Craik buy my books or not? Do you happen to remember?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well, Mr. Winton Wood,” answered Mr. Popples, -“the fact is, I do happen to remember, by the merest -chance. The fact is, to be honest, quite honest, Mr. -Craik does not buy your books. But he reads them.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Borrows them, I suppose,” observed George.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well, not that, exactly, either. The fact is,” said -the bookseller, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper, -“Mrs. Sherrington Trimm buys them and sends -<span class='pageno' id='Page_359'>359</span>them to him. He buys mostly valuable books,” he -added, as though apologising for Mr. Craik’s stinginess.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thank you, Mr. Popples,” said George, laughing -for the third time, and turning away.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, not at all, Mr. Winton Wood. Anything, anything. -Walking this mor——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>But George was already out of the shop and the bookseller -did not take the trouble to pronounce the last syllable, -as he readjusted his large spectacles and took up -three or four volumes that lay on the edge of the table.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It cannot be said,” George thought, as he walked on, -“that I am very much indebted to Mr. Thomas Craik—not -even for ten per cent on one dollar and twenty-five.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George would have been very much surprised to learn -that the man who would not spend a dollar and a quarter -in purchasing one of his novels had left him everything -he possessed, and that the document which was to prove -his right was reposing in that Indian cabinet of Mrs. -Trimm’s, which he had so often admired. It seemed as -though Totty had planned everything to earn his gratitude, -and he was especially pleased that she should have -made her miserly brother read his books. It showed at -once her own admiration for them and her desire that -every one belonging to her should share in it.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Having nothing especial to do until a later hour, -George thought of going to see Constance and Grace. -They had only been in town two days, but he was curious -to know whether Mrs. Bond had begun to look like herself -again, or was becoming more and more absorbed in -her sorrow as time went on. He had not been to the -house in Washington Square since the first of May, and -so many events had occurred in his life since that date -that he felt as though he were separated from it by an -interval of years instead of months. The time had -passed very quickly. It would soon be three years since -he had first gone up those steps with his cousin one afternoon -in the late winter. As he approached the familiar -door, he thought of all that had happened in the time, -<span class='pageno' id='Page_360'>360</span>and he was amazed to find how he had changed. Six -months earlier he had descended those steps with the -certainty that the better and sweeter part of his life was -behind him, and that his happiness had been destroyed -by a woman’s caprice. It had been a rough lesson but -he had survived the ordeal and was now a far happier -man than he had been then. In the flush of success, he -was engaged to marry a young girl who loved him with -all her heart, and whom he loved as well as he could. -The world was before him now, as it had not been then, -when he had felt himself dependent for his inspiration -upon Constance’s attachment, and for the help he needed -upon his daily converse with her. If his heart was not -satisfied as he had once dreamed that it might be, his -hopes were raised by the experience of self-reliance. It -had once seemed bitter to work alone; he had now ceased -to desire any companionship in his labours. Mamie was -to be his wife, not his adviser. She was to look up to -him, and he must make himself worthy of her trust as well -as of her admiration. He would work for her, labour to -make her happy, to the extreme extent of his strength, -and he would be proud of the part he would play. She -would be the mother of children, graceful and charming -as herself, or angular, tough and hardworking as he was, -and he and she would love them. But there the relation -was to cease, and he was glad of it. He owed much to -Constance, and was ready to acknowledge the whole debt, -but neither Constance herself, nor any other woman -could take the same place in his life again. Least of -all, she herself, he thought, as he rang the bell of her -house and waited for admittance. In the old days his -heart used to beat faster than its wont before he was -fairly within the precincts of the Square. Now he was -as unconscious of any emotion as though he were standing -before his own door.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Grace received him alone in the old familiar drawing-room. -She happened to be sitting in the place Constance -used to choose when George came to see her, and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_361'>361</span>he took his accustomed seat, almost unconscious of the -associations it had once had for him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Constance is gone out,” Grace began. “I am sure -she will be sorry. It is kind of you to come so soon.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are no better,” George answered, looking at her, -and not heeding her remark. “I had hoped that you -might be, but your expression is the same. Why do you -not go abroad, and make some great change in your life?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am very well,” Grace replied with a faint smile -which only increased the sadness of her look. “I do -not care to go away. Why should I? It could make no -difference.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“But it would. It would make all the difference in -the world. Your sorrow is in everything, in all you -see, in all you hear, in every familiar impression of -your life—even in me and the sight of me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are mistaken. It is here.” She pressed her -hand to her breast with a gesture almost fierce, and -fixed her deep brown eyes on George’s face for an -instant. Then she let her arm fall beside her and looked -away. “The worst of it is that I am so strong,” she -added presently. “I shall never break down. I shall -live to be an old woman.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes,” George answered, thoughtfully, “I believe -that you will. I can understand that. I fancy that -you and I are somewhat alike. There are people who -are unhappy, and who fade away and go out like a lamp -without oil. They are said to die of broken hearts -though they have not felt half as much happiness or -sorrow as some tougher man and woman who live through -a lifetime of despair and disappointment.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Are you very happy?” Grace asked rather suddenly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes, I am very happy. I suppose I have reason to -be. Everything has gone well with me of late. I have -had plenty of success with what I have done, I am -engaged to be married——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That is what I mean,” said Grace, interrupting him. -“Are you happy in that? I suppose I have no right to -<span class='pageno' id='Page_362'>362</span>ask such a question, but I cannot help asking it. You -ought to be, for you two are very well matched. Do -you know? It is a very fortunate thing that Constance -refused you. You did not really love her any more than -she loved you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What makes you say that?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“If you were really in love, your love died a rather -easy death. That is all.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That is true,” George answered, smiling in spite of -himself.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you remember the first of May as well as you -did three months ago? Perhaps. I do not say that you -have forgotten it altogether. When I told you her decision, -you did not act like a man who has received a -terrible blow. You were furiously, outrageously angry. -You wished that I had been a man, that you might have -struck me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I believed that I had cause to be angry. Besides, I -have extraordinary natural gifts in that direction.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of course you had cause. But if you had loved her—as -some people love—you would have forgotten to be -angry for once in your life and you would have behaved -very differently.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I daresay you are right. As I came here to-day I -was thinking over it all. You know I have not been -here since that day. In old times I could feel my heart -beating faster as I came near the house, and when I rang -the bell my hand used to tremble. To-day I walked -here as coolly as though I had been going home, and -when I was at the door I was much more concerned to -know whether you were better than to know whether -your sister was in the house or not. Such is the unstability -of the human heart.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes—when there is no real love in it,” Grace -answered. “And the strongest proof that there was -none in yours is that you are willing to own it. What -made you think that you were so fond of her? How -came you to make such a mistake?”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_363'>363</span>“I cannot tell. I would not talk to any one else as I -am talking to you. But we understand each other, she -is your sister and you never believed in our marriage. -It began very gradually. Any man would fall in love -with her, if he had the chance. She was interested in -me. She was kind to me, when I got little kindness -from any one——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And none at all from me, poor man!” interrupted -Grace.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Especially none from you. It was she who always -urged me to write a book, though I did not believe I -could; it was to her that I read my first novel from -beginning to end. It was she who seized upon it and -got it published in spite of my protests—it was she who -launched me and made my first success what it was. I -owe her very much more than I could ever hope to -repay, if I possessed any means of showing my gratitude. -I loved her for her kindness and she liked me for my -devotion—perhaps for my submission, for I was very -submissive in those days. I had not learned to run -alone, and if she would have had me I would have -walked in her leading-strings to the end of my life.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How touching!” exclaimed Grace, and the first genuine -laughter of which she had been capable for three -months followed the words.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No, do not laugh,” said George gravely. “I owe -her everything and I know it. Most of all, I owe her -the most loyal friendship and sincere gratitude that a -man can feel for any woman he does not love. It is all -over now. I never felt any emotion at meeting her -since we parted after that abominable dinner-party, and -I shall never feel any again. I am sure of that.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am sorry I laughed. I could not help it. But I -am very glad that things have ended in this way, though, -as I told you when I last saw you, I wish she would -marry. She has grown to be the most listless, unhappy -creature in the world.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What can be the matter?” George asked. “Is it -<span class='pageno' id='Page_364'>364</span>not the life you are leading together? You are so -lonely.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I came back on her account,” Grace answered wearily. -“For my own sake I would never have left that -dear place again. I have told her that I will do anything -she pleases, go anywhere, live in any other way. -It can make no difference to me. But she will not hear -of leaving New York. I cannot mention it to her. She -grows thinner every day.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is very strange. I am very sorry to hear it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>They talked together for some time longer and then -George went away, inwardly wondering at his own conduct -in having spoken of Constance so freely to her -sister. It was not unnatural, however. Grace treated -him as an old friend, and circumstances had suddenly -brought the two into relations of close intimacy. As she -had been chosen by Constance to convey the latter’s -refusal, it might well be supposed that she was in her -sister’s confidence, and George had said nothing which -he was not willing that Grace should repeat. He had -not been gone more than half an hour when Constance -entered the room, looking pale and tired.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I have been everywhere to find a wedding present -for the future Mrs. Wood,” she said, as she let herself -sink down upon the sofa. “I can find nothing, positively -nothing that will do.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“He has just been here,” said Grace indifferently.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance changed colour and glanced quickly at her -sister. She looked as though she had checked herself -in the act of saying something which she might have -regretted.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What did you talk about?” she asked quietly, after -a moment’s pause. “I wish I had been here. I have -not seen him since he came to announce his engagement.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes. He was sorry to miss you, too. He was not -particularly agreeable—considering how well he can -talk when he tries. I am very fond of him now. I am -<span class='pageno' id='Page_365'>365</span>sorry I misjudged him formerly, and I told him so -before he came to town.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You have discovered that you misjudged him, then,” -said Constance, as calmly as she could.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes,” Grace answered with perfect unconcern. “I -am always glad to see him. By-the-bye, we talked -about you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“About me?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes. What is the matter? Is there any reason why -we should not talk about you?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, none whatever—except that he loved me once.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“He said nothing but what was perfectly fair and -friendly. I asked him if he was happy in the prospect -of being married so soon, and then very naturally we -spoke of you. He said that he owed you the most loyal -friendship and sincere gratitude, that you had launched -him in his career by sending his first novel to the publisher -without his consent, that without you, he would -not have been what he is—he said it seemed natural, -on looking back, that he should have loved you, or -thought that he loved you——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Thought that he loved me?” Constance repeated in -a low voice.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes. Considering how quickly he has recovered, -his love can hardly have been much more sincere than -yours. What is the matter, Conny dear? Are you ill?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Constance had hidden her face in the cushions and -was sobbing bitterly, in the very place she had occupied -when she had finally refused George Wood, and almost -in the same attitude.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh Grace!” she moaned. “You will break my heart!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you love him, now?” Grace asked in a voice that -was suddenly hard. She had not had the least suspicion -of the real state of the case. Constance nodded -in answer, still sobbing and covering her face. Grace -turned away in disgust.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What contemptible creatures we women can be!” -she said in an undertone, as she crossed the room.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <span class='pageno' id='Page_366'>366</span> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XXVI.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>George was in the habit of going to see Mamie every -afternoon, and the hours he spent with her were by far -the most pleasant in his day. Mrs. Trimm had thoroughly -understood her daughter’s nature when she had -told George that the girl possessed that sort of charm -which never wearies men because they can never find -out exactly where it lies. It was not easy to imagine -that any one should be bored in Mamie’s society. George -returned day after day, expecting always that he must -ultimately find the continual conversation a burden, but -reassured each time by what he felt after he had been -twenty minutes in the house. As he was not profoundly -moved himself it seemed unnatural that these long meetings -should not at last become an irksome and uninteresting -duty, the conscientious performance of which -would react to the disadvantage of his subsequent happiness. -The spontaneity which had given so much -freshness to their intercourse while they were living -under the same roof, was gone now that George found -himself compelled to live by rules of consideration for -others, and he was aware of the fact each time he entered -Mamie’s presence. Nevertheless her manner and voice -exercised such a fascination over him as made him forget -after a quarter of an hour that he and she were no -longer in the country, and that he was no longer free to -see her or not see her, as he pleased, independently of all -formality and custom. Nothing could have demonstrated -Mamie’s superiority over most young women of -her age more clearly than this fact. The situation of -affianced couples after their engagement is announced is -very generally hard to sustain with dignity on either -side, but is more especially a difficult one for the man. -It is undoubtedly rendered more easy by the enjoyment -of the liberty granted among Anglo-Saxons in such -<span class='pageno' id='Page_367'>367</span>cases. But that freedom is after all only a part of our -whole system of ideas, and as we all expect it from the -first, we do not realise that our position is any more -fortunate than that of the young French gentleman, who -is frequently not allowed to exchange a single word with -his bride until he has been formally affianced to her, -and who may not talk to her without the presence of a -third person until she is actually his wife. Under our -existing customs a young girl must be charming indeed -if her future husband can talk with her three hours -every day during six weeks or two months and go away -each time feeling that his visit has been too short. -Neither animated conversation nor frequent correspondence -have any right to be considered as tests of love. -Love is not to be measured by the fluent use of words, -nor by an easy acquaintance with agreeable topics, nor -yet by lavish expenditure in postage-stamps. George -knew all this, and was moreover aware in his heart that -there was nothing desperately passionate in his affection; -he was the more surprised, therefore, to find that -the more he saw of Mamie Trimm, the more he wished -to see of her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you think,” he said to her, on that same afternoon -in November, “that all engaged couples enjoy their -engagement as much as we do?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am sure they do not,” Mamie answered. “Nobody -is half as nice as we are!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>They were seated in a small boudoir that adjoined the -drawing-room. The wide door was open and they could -hear the pleasant crackling of the first wood fire that -was burning in the larger room, though they could not -see it. The air without was gloomy and grey, for the -late Indian summer was over, and before long the first -frosts would come and the first flakes of snow would be -driven along the dry and windy streets. It was early -in the afternoon, however, and though the light was cold -and colourless and hard, there was plenty of it. Mamie -was established in a short but very deep sofa, something -<span class='pageno' id='Page_368'>368</span>resembling a divan, one small foot just touching the -carpet, the other hidden from view, her head thrown -back and resting against the tapestry upon the wall, one -arm resting upon the end of the lounge, the little classic -hand hanging over the edge, so near to George that he -had but to put out his own in order to touch it. He was -seated with his back to the door of the drawing-room, -clasping his hands over one knee and leaning forward as -he gazed at the window opposite. He smiled at Mamie’s -answer.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No, I am sure other people do not enjoy sitting -together and talking during half the day, as we do,” he -said. “I have often thought so. It is you who make -our life what it is. It will always be you, with your -dear ways——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He stopped, seeking an expression which he could not -find immediately.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Have I dear ways?” Mamie asked with a little -laugh. “I never knew it before—but since you say -so——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is only those who love us that know the best of -us. We never know it ourselves.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you love me, George?” The question was put -to him for the thousandth time. To her it seemed -always new and the answer was always full of interest, -as though it had never been given before.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Very dearly.” George laid his hand upon her slender -fingers and pressed them softly. He had abandoned -the attempt to give her an original reply at each repetition -of the inquiry.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Is that all?” she asked, pretending to be disappointed, -but smiling with her grey eyes.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Can a man say more and mean it?” George inquired -gravely. Then he laughed. “The other day,” he continued, -“I was in a train on the Elevated Road. There -was a young couple opposite to me—the woman was a -little round fat creature with a perpetual smile, pretty -teeth, and dressed in grey. They were talking in low -<span class='pageno' id='Page_369'>369</span>tones, but I heard what they said. Baby language was -evidently their strong point. He turned his head towards -her with the most languishing lover-like look I ever saw. -‘Plumpety itty partidge, who does ‘oo love?’ he asked. -‘Zoo!’ answered the little woman with a smile that went -all round her head like the equator on a globe.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie laughed as he finished the story.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That represented their idea of conversation, what you -call ‘dear ways.’ My dear ways are not much like that -and yours are quite different. When I ask you if you -love me, you almost always give the same answer. But -then, I know you mean it dear, do you not?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“There it is again!” George laughed. “Of course I -do—only, as you say, my imagination is limited. I -cannot find new ways of saying it. But then, you do -not vary the question either, so that it is no wonder if -my answers are a little monotonous, is it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Are my questions monotonous? Do I bore you with -them, George?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No, dear. I should be very hard to please if you bored -me. It is your charm that makes our life what it is.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I wish I believed that. What is charm? What do -you mean by it? It is not an intellectual gift, it is not -a quality, a talent, nor accomplishment. I believe you -tell me that I have it because you do not know what else -to say. It is so easy to say to a woman ‘You are full of -charm,’ when she is ugly and stupid and cannot play on -the piano, and you feel obliged to be civil. I am sure -that there is no such thing as charm. It is only an imaginary -compliment. Why not tell me the truth?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are neither ugly nor stupid, and I am sincerely -glad that you leave the piano alone,” said George. “I -could find any number of compliments to make, if that -were my way. But it is not, of course. You have lots -of good points, Mamie. Look at yourself in the glass if -you do not believe it. Look at your figure, look at your -eyes, at your complexion, at your hands—listen to your -own voice——”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_370'>370</span>“Do not talk nonsense, George. Besides, that is only -a catalogue. If you want to please me you must compare -all those things to beautiful objects. You must say -that my eyes are like—gooseberries, for instance, my -figure like—what shall I say?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Like Psyche’s,” suggested George.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Or like an hour-glass, and my hands like stuffed -gloves, and my skin like a corn starch pudding, and my -voice like the voice of the charmer. That is the way to -be complimentary. Poetry must make use of similes and -call a spade an ace—as papa says. When you have -done all that, and turned your catalogue into blank -verse, tell me if there is anything left which you can -call charm.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Charm,” George answered, “is what every man who -loves a woman thinks she has—and if she has it all men -love her. You have it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Dear me!” exclaimed the young girl. “Can you -get no nearer to a definition than that?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Can you define anything which you only feel and -cannot see—heat for instance, or cold?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Heat makes one hot, and cold makes one shiver,” -answered Mamie promptly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And charm makes a woman loved. That is as good -an answer as yours.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I suppose I must be satisfied, especially as you say -that it can only be felt and not seen. Besides, if it -makes you love me, why should I care what it is called? -Do you know what it really is? It is love itself. It is -because I love you so much, so intensely, that I make -you love me. There is no such thing as charm. Charm -is either a woman’s love, or her readiness to love—one -or the other.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie laughed softly and moved the hand that was -hanging over the end of the sofa, as though seeking the -touch of George’s fingers. He obeyed the little signal -quite unconsciously.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Who can that be?” Mamie asked, after a moment’s -<span class='pageno' id='Page_371'>371</span>pause. She thought that she had heard a door open and -that some one had entered the drawing-room. George -listened a few seconds.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Nobody,” he said. “It was only the fire.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>While the two had been talking, some one had really -entered the large adjoining room as Mamie had suspected. -Thomas Craik was not in the habit of making -visits in the afternoon, but on this particular day he had -found the process of being driven about in a closed -brougham more wearisome than usual, and it had struck -him that he might find Totty at home and amuse himself -with teasing her in some way or other. Totty was expected -every moment, the servant had said, and the discreet -attendant had added that Mr. George and Miss -Mamie were in the boudoir together. Mr. Craik said that -he would wait in the drawing-room, to which he was accordingly -admitted. He knew the arrangement of the -apartment and took care not to disturb the peace of the -young couple by making any noise. It would be extremely -entertaining, he thought, to place himself so as -to hear something of what they said to each other; he -therefore stepped softly upon the thick carpet and took -up what he believed to be a favourable position. His -hearing was still as sharp as ever, and he did not go too -near the door of the inner room lest Totty, entering suddenly, -should suppose that he had been listening.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“So you think that I only love you because you love -me,” said George. “You are not very complimentary -to yourself.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I did not say that, though that was the beginning. -You would never have begun to love me—George, I am -sure there is some one in the next room!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is impossible. Your mother would have come -directly to us, and the servants would not have let any -caller go in while she was out. Shall I look?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No—you are quite right,” Mamie answered. “It -is only the crackling of the fire.” She was holding his -hand and did not care to let it drop in order that he -might satisfy her curiosity. “What was I saying?”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_372'>372</span>“Something very foolish—about my not loving you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Thomas Craik listened for a while to their conversation, -eagerly at first and then with an expression of -weariness on his parchment face. He had been afraid -to sit down, for fear of making a noise, and he found -himself standing before a table, on which, among many -other objects was placed the small Indian cabinet he had -once given to his sister. Many years had passed since -he had sent it to her, but his keen memory for details -had not forgotten the secret drawer it contained, nor the -way to open it. He looked at it for some time curiously, -wondering whether Totty kept anything of value in it. -Then it struck him that if she really kept anything concealed -there, it would be an excellent practical joke to -take out the object, whatever it might be, and carry it -off. The idea was in accordance with that part of his -character which loved secret and underhand dealings. -The scene which would ensue when he ultimately brought -the thing back would answer the other half of his nature -which delighted in inflicting brutal and gratuitous surprises -upon people he did not like. He laid his thin -hands gently on the cabinet and proceeded to open it as -noiselessly as he could.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie’s sharp ears were not deceived this time, however. -She bent forward and whispered to George.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“There is somebody there. Go on tiptoe and look -from behind the curtain. Do not let them see you, or -we shall have to go in, and that would be such a bore.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George obeyed in silence, stood a moment peering into -the next room, concealed by the hangings and then -returned to Mamie’s side. “It is your Uncle Tom,” he -whispered with a smile. “He is in some mischief, I am -sure, for he is opening that Indian cabinet as though he -did not want to be heard.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I will tell mamma, when she comes in—what fun -it will be!” Mamie answered. “He must have heard -us before, so that we must go on talking—about the -weather.” Then raising her voice she began to speak -of their future plans.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_373'>373</span>Meanwhile Mr. Craik had slipped back the part of the -cover which concealed the secret drawer, and had opened -the latter. There was nothing in it but the document -which Totty kept there. He quickly took it out and -closed the cabinet again. Something in the appearance -of the paper attracted his attention, and instead of putting -it into his pocket to read at home and at his leisure, -as he had intended to do, he unfolded it and glanced at -the contents.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He had always been a man able to control his anger, -unless there was something to be gained by manifesting -it, but his rage was now far too genuine to be concealed. -The veins swelled and became visible beneath the tightly -drawn skin of his forehead, his mouth worked spasmodically -and his hands trembled with fury as he held the -sheet before his eyes, satisfying himself that it was the -genuine document and not a forgery containing provisions -different from those he had made in his own will. -As soon as he felt no further doubt about the matter, he -gave vent to his wrath, in a storm of curses, stamping -up and down the room, and swinging his long arms as -he moved, still holding the paper in one hand.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Mamie turned pale and grasped George by the arm. -He would have risen to go into the next room, but she -held him back with all her strength.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No—stay here!” she said in a low voice. “You -can do no good. He knew we were here—something -must have happened! Oh, George, what is it?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“If you will let me go and see——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>But at that moment, it became evident to both that -Tom Craik was no longer alone. Totty had entered the -drawing-room. As the servant had said, she had been -expected every moment. Her brother turned upon her -furiously, brandishing the will and cursing louder than -before. In his extreme anger he was able to lift up his -head and look her in the eyes.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You damned infernal witch!” he shouted. “You -abominable woman! You thief! You swindler! You——”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_374'>374</span>“Help! help!” screamed Totty. “He is mad—he -means to kill me!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am not mad, you wretch!” yelled Tom Craik, pursuing -her and catching her with one hand while he -shook the will in her face with the other. “Look at -that—look at it! My will, here in your keeping, without -so much as a piece of paper or a seal to hold it—you -thief! You have broken into your husband’s office, you -burglar! You have broken open my deed-box—look -at it! Do you recognise it? Stand still and answer me, -or I will hold you till the police can be got. Do you -see? The last will and testament of me Thomas Craik, -and not a cent for Charlotte Trimm. Not one cent, and -not one shall you get either. He shall have it all, -George Winton Wood, shall have it all. Ah—I see -the reason why you have kept it now—If I had found -it gone, you know I would have made it over again! -Cheaper, and wiser, and more like you to get him for your -daughter—of course it was, you lying, shameless beast!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What is the meaning of this?” George asked in -ringing tones. He had broken away from Mamie with -difficulty and she had followed him into the room, and -now stood clinging to her mother. George pushed Tom -Craik back a little and placed himself between him and -Totty, who was livid with terror and seemed unable to -speak a word. The sudden appearance of George’s tall, -angular figure, and the look of resolution in his dark -face brought Tom Craik to his senses.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You want to know the meaning of it,” he said. -“Quite right. You shall. When I was dying—nearly -three years ago, I made a will in your favour. I left -you everything I have in the world. Why? Because I -pleased. This woman thought she was to have my -money. Oh, you might have had it, if you had been -less infernally greedy,” he cried, turning to Totty. -“This will was deposited in my deed-box at Sherry -Trimm’s office. Saw it there, on the top of the papers -with my own eyes the last time I went; and Sherry was -<span class='pageno' id='Page_375'>375</span>in Europe then. So you took it, and no one else. Poor -Bond did not, though as he is dead, you will say he did. -It will not help you. So you laid your trap—oh yes! -I know those tricks of yours. You broke off George -Wood’s marriage with the girl he loved, and you laid -your trap—very nicely done—very. You gave him -Sherry’s wines, and Sherry’s cigars to make him come. -I know all about it. I was watching you. And you -made him come and spend the summer up the river—so -nice, and luxurious, and quiet for a poor young author. -And you told nobody he was there—not you! I can see -it all now, the moonlight walks, and the rides and the -boating, and Totty indoors with a headache, or writing -letters. It was easy to get Sherry’s consent when it was -all arranged, was it not? Devilish easy. Sherry is an -honest man—I know men—but he knew on which side -his daughter’s bread was buttered, for he had drawn up -the will himself. He did not mind if George Winton -Wood, the poor author, fell in love with his daughter, -any more than his magnanimous wife was disturbed by -the prospect. Not a bit. The starving author was to -have millions—millions, woman! as soon as the old -brother was nailed up and trundled off to Greenwood! -And he shall have them, too. It only remains to be -seen whether he will have your daughter.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Craik paused for breath, though his invalid form was -as invigorated by his extreme anger as to make it appear -that he might go on indefinitely in the same strain. As -for George he was at first too much amazed by the story -to believe his ears. He thought Craik was mad, and -yet the presence of the will which the old man repeatedly -thrust before his eyes and in which he could not help -seeing his own name written in the lawyer’s large clear -hand, told him that there was a broad foundation of -truth in the tale.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Defend yourself, Totty,” he said as quietly as he -could. “Tell him that this story is absurd. I think -Mr. Craik is not well——”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_376'>376</span>“Not well, young man?” Craik asked, looking up at -him with a bitter laugh. “I am as well as you. Here -is my will. There is the cabinet. And there is Charlotte -Sherrington Trimm. Send for her husband. Ask -him if it is not a good case for a jury. You may be in -love with the girl, and she may be in love with you, for -all I know. But you have been made to fall in love -with each other by that scheming old woman, there. -The only way she could get the money into the family -was through you. She is lawyer enough to know that -there may be a duplicate somewhere, and that I should -make one fast enough if there were not. Besides, to burn -a will means the State’s Prison, and she wants to avoid -that place, if she can.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The possibility and the probability that the whole -story might be true, flashed suddenly upon George’s -mind, and he turned very pale. The recollection of -Totty’s amazing desire to please him was still fresh in -his mind, and he remembered how very unexpected it -had all seemed, the standing invitation to the house, the -extreme anxiety to draw him to the country, the reckless -way in which Totty had left him alone with her daughter, -Totty’s manner on that night when she had persuaded -him to offer himself to Mamie—the result, and the -cable message she had shown him, ready prepared, and -taking for granted her husband’s consent. By this -time Totty had sunk into a chair and was sobbing helplessly, -covering her face with her hands and handkerchief. -George walked up to her, while old Tom Craik -kept at his elbow, as though fearing that he might -prove too easily forgiving.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“How long have you known the contents of that will?” -George asked steadily, and still trying to speak kindly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Since—the end—of April,” Totty sobbed. She -felt it impossible to lie, for her brother’s eyes were fixed -on her face and she was frightened.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You did, did you? Well, well, that ought to settle -it,” said Craik, breaking into a savage laugh. “I fancy -<span class='pageno' id='Page_377'>377</span>it must have been about that time that she began to like -you so much,” he added looking at George.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“About the first of May,” George answered coldly. -“I remember that on that day I met you in the street -and you begged me to go and see Mamie, who was alone.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I like men who remember dates,” chuckled the old -man at his elbow.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I have been very much deceived,” said George. “I -believed it was for myself. It was for money. I have -nothing more to say.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You have not asked me whether I knew anything,” -said Mamie, coming before him. Her alabaster skin -was deadly white and her grey eyes were on fire.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Your mother knows you too well to have told you,” -George answered very kindly. “I have promised to -marry you. I do not suspect you, but I would not -break my word to you, even if I thought that you had -known.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It is for me to break my word,” answered the young -girl proudly. “No power on earth shall make me marry -you, now.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Her lips were tightly pressed to her teeth as she -spoke and she held her head high, though her eyes rested -lovingly on his face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why will you not marry me, Mamie?” George -asked. He knew now that he had never loved her.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I have had shame already,” she answered. “Shame -in being thrust upon you, shame in having thrust myself -upon you—though not for your money. You never -knew. You asked me once how I knew your moods, -and when you wanted me and when you would choose to -be alone. Ask her, ask my mother. She is wiser than -I. She could tell from your face, long before I could, -what you wished—and we had signals and signs and -passwords, she and I, so that she could help me with -her advice, and teach me how to make myself wanted -by the man I loved. Am I not contemptible? And -when I told you that I loved you—and then made you -<span class='pageno' id='Page_378'>378</span>believe that I was only acting, because there was no -response—shame? I have lived with it, fed on it, -dreamed of it, and to-day is the crown of all—my -crown of shame. Marry you? I would rather die!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Whatever others may have done, you have always -been brave and true, Mamie,” said George. “It may -be better that we should not marry, but there has been -no shame for you in this matter.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am not so sure,” said Tom Craik with a chuckle -and an ugly smile. “She is cleverer than she looks——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George turned upon the old man with the utmost -violence.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Sir!” he cried savagely. “If you say that again I -will break your miserable old bones, if I hang for it!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Like that fellow,” muttered Craik with a more -pleasant expression than he had yet worn. “Like him -more and more.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I do not want to be liked by you, and you know -why,” George answered, for he had caught the words.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Oh, you don’t, don’t you? Well, well. Never -mind.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No I do not. And what is more, I will tell you -something, Mr. Craik. When you were ill and I called -to inquire, I came because I hoped to learn that you -were dead. That may explain what I feel for you. I -have not had a favourable opportunity of explaining the -matter before, or I would have done so.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Good again!” replied the old gentleman. “Like -frankness in young people. Eh, Totty? Eh, Mamie? -Very frank young man, this, eh?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Furthermore, Mr. Craik,” continued George, not -heeding him, “I will tell you that I will not lift a finger -to have your money. I do not want it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Exactly. Never enjoyed such sport in my life as -trying to force money on a poor man who won’t take it. -Good that, what? Eh, Totty? Don’t you think this is -fun? Poor old Totty—all broken up! Bear these little -things better myself.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_379'>379</span>Totty was in a fit of hysterics and neither heard nor -heeded, as she lay in the deep chair, sobbing, moaning -and laughing all at once. George eyed her contemptuously.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Either let us go,” he said to Craik, “and, if you -have exhausted your wit, that would be the best thing; -or else let Mrs. Trimm be taken away. I shall not -leave you here to torment these ladies.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Seat in my carriage? Come along!” answered Mr. -Craik with alacrity.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George led Mamie back into the little room beyond. -As they went, he could hear the old man beginning to -rail at his sister again, but he paid no attention. He -felt that he could not leave Mamie without another word. -The young girl followed him in silence. They stood -together near the window, as far out of hearing as possible. -George hesitated.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What is it, George?” asked Mamie. “Do you want -to say good-bye to me?” She spoke with evident effort.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I want to say this, dear. If you and I can help it, -not a word of what has happened to-day must ever be -known. I have been deceived, most shamefully, but -not by you. You have been honest and true from first -to last. The best way to keep this secret, is for us two -to marry as though nothing had happened. Nobody -would believe it then. I am afraid that Mr. Craik will -tell some one, because he is so angry.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I have told you my decision,” Mamie answered -firmly, though her lips were white. “I have nothing -more to say.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Think well of what you are doing. One should not -come to such decisions when one is angry. Here I am, -Mamie. Take me if you will, and forget that all those -things have been said and done.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>For one moment, Mamie hesitated.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you love me?” she asked, trying to read his -heart in his eyes.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But the poor passion that had taken the place of love -<span class='pageno' id='Page_380'>380</span>was gone. The knowledge that he had been played with -and gambled for, though not by the girl herself, had -given him a rude shock.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes,” he answered, bravely trying to feel that he -was speaking the truth. But there was no life in the -word.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No, dear,” said Mamie simply. “You never loved -me. I see it now.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He would have made some sort of protest. But she -drew back from him, and from his outstretched hand.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Will you let me be alone?” she asked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He bowed his head and left the room.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XXVII.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>When George had seen old Tom Craik enter his carriage -and drive away from the house, he breathed more -freely. He could not think very connectedly of what -had happened, but it seemed to him that the old man -had played a part quite as contemptible as that which -Totty herself had sustained so long. He would assuredly -not have believed that the terrific anger of which he had -witnessed the explosion was chiefly due to the discovery -of what was intended to be a good action. Craik had -never liked to be found out, and it was especially galling -to him to be exposed in the act of endeavouring to -make amends for the past. But for this consideration, -he would have been quite capable of returning the will -to its place in the cabinet, and of leaving the house -quietly. He would have merely sent for a lawyer and -repeated the document with a new date, to deposit it in -some place to which his sister could not possibly gain -access. But his anger had been aroused in the first -moment by the certainty that Totty had understood his -motives and must secretly despise him for making such -<span class='pageno' id='Page_381'>381</span>a restitution of ill-gotten gain. George could not have -comprehended this, and he feared that the old man -should do some irreparable harm if he were left any -longer with the object of his wrath. The look in Craik’s -eyes had not been reassuring, and it was by no means -sure that the whole affair had not finally unsettled his -intellect.</p> - -<p class='c000'>There was little ground for any such fear, however, -as George would have realised if he could have followed -Mr. Craik to his home, and seen how soon he repented -of having endangered his health by giving way to his -wrath. An hour later he was in bed and his favourite -doctor was at his side, watching every pulsation of his -heart and prepared to do battle at the first attack of any -malady which should present itself.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George himself was far less moved by what had -occurred than he would have believed possible. His -first and chief sensation was a sickening disgust with -Totty and with all that recent portion of his life in -which she had played so great a part. He had been -deceived and played with on all sides and his vanity -revolted at the thought of what might have been if -Craik’s discovery had not broken through the veil of -Totty’s duplicity. It made him sick to feel that while -he had fancied himself courted and honoured and chosen -as a son-in-law for his own sake and for the sake of what -he had done in the face of such odds, he had really been -looked upon as an object of speculation, as a thing worth -buying at a cheap price for the sake of its future value. -Beyond this, he felt nothing but a sense of relief at -having been released from his engagement. He had -done his best to act honestly, but he had often feared -that he was deceiving himself and others in the effort to -do what seemed honourable. He did not deny, even -now, that what he had felt for Mamie might in good -time have developed into a real love, but he saw clearly -at last that while his senses had been charmed and his -intelligence soothed, his heart had never been touched. -<span class='pageno' id='Page_382'>382</span>Doubts about Mamie herself would present themselves, -though he drove them resolutely away. It was natural -that he should find it hard to realise in her that which -he had never felt during their long intercourse, and -while his instinct told him that the young girl had been -innocent of all her mother’s plotting and scheming, he -said to himself that she would easily recover from her -disappointment. If he was troubled by any regret it -was rather that he should not have left her mother’s -house as soon as he had seen that she was interested, -than that he should have failed to love her as he had -tried to do. On the other hand he admitted that his -conduct had been excusable, considering the pressure -which Totty had brought to bear upon him.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The most unpleasant point in the future was the -explanation which must inevitably take place between -himself and Sherrington Trimm. It would be hard to -imagine a meeting more disagreeable to both parties as -this one was sure to be. There could be no question -about Trimm’s innocence in the whole affair, for his -character was too well known to the world to admit the -least suspicion. But it would be a painful matter to -meet him and talk over what had happened. If possible, -the interview must be avoided, and George determined -to attempt this solution by writing a letter setting -forth his position with the utmost clearness. He turned -up the steps of a club to which he belonged and sat -down to the task.</p> - -<p class='c000'>What he said may be summed up in a few words. He -took it for granted that Trimm would be acquainted with -what had occurred, by the time the letter reached him. -It only remained for him to repeat what he had said to -Mamie herself, to wit, that if she would marry him, he -was ready to fulfil his engagement. He concluded by -saying that he would wait a month for the definite -answer, after which time he intended to go abroad. He -sealed the note and took it with him, intending to send -it to Trimm’s house in the evening. As luck would -<span class='pageno' id='Page_383'>383</span>have it, however, he met Trimm himself in the hall of -the club. He had stopped on his way up town to refresh -himself with a certain mild drink of his own devising.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Hilloa, George!” he cried in his cheery voice. -“What is the matter?” he asked anxiously as he saw -the expression on the other’s face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Have you been at home yet?” George asked.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“No.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Something very disagreeable has happened. I have -just written you a note. Will you take it with you and -read it after you have heard what they have to say?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Confound it all!” exclaimed Sherry Trimm. “I am -not fond of mystery. Come into a quiet room and tell -me all about it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I would rather that you found it out for yourself,” -said George, drawing back.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Sherry Trimm looked keenly at him, and then took -him by the arm.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Look here, George,” he said, “no nonsense! I do not -know what the trouble is, but I see it is serious. Let -us have it out, right here.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Very well,” George answered. “Your wife has -made trouble,” he said, as soon as they were closeted in -one of the small rooms. “You drew up Mr. Craik’s -will, and you kept his secret. When you had gone -abroad, your wife got the will out of the deed-box in -your office and took it home with her. She kept it in -that Indian cabinet and Mr. Craik found it there this -afternoon, and made a fearful scene. Unfortunately -your wife could not find any answer to what he said, -and thereupon Mamie declared that she would not marry -me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Sherrington Trimm’s pink face had grown slowly livid -while George was speaking.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What did Tom say?” he asked quietly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“He hinted that his sister had not been wholly disinterested -in her kindness to me,” said George. “Unfortunately -Mamie and I were present. I did the best I -could, but the mischief was done.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_384'>384</span>Sherrington said nothing more, but began to walk up -and down the small room nervously, pulling at his short -grizzled moustache from time to time. Like every one -else who had been concerned in the affair, he grasped -the whole situation in a moment.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“This is a miserable business,” he said at last in a -tone that expressed profound humiliation and utter -disgust.</p> - -<p class='c000'>George did not answer, for he was quite of the same -opinion. He stood leaning against a card-table, drumming -with his fingers on the green cloth behind him. -Sherry Trimm paused in his walk, and struck his -clenched fist upon the palm of his other hand. Then he -shook his head and began to pace the floor again.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“An abominable business,” he muttered. “I cannot -see that there is anything to be done, but to beg your -pardon for it all,” he said, suddenly turning to George.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You need not do that,” George answered readily. -“It is not your fault, Cousin Sherry. All I want to -say, is what I had already written to you. If Mamie -will change her mind and marry me, I am ready.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Trimm looked at him sharply.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are a good fellow, George,” he said. “But I -don’t think I could stand that. You never loved her as -you ought to love to be happy. I saw that long ago and -I guessed that there had been something wrong. You -have been tricked into the whole thing—and—just go -away and leave me here, will you? I cannot stand this.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George took the outstretched hand and shook it warmly. -Then he left the room and closed the door behind him. -In that moment he pitied Sherrington Trimm far more -than he pitied Mamie herself. He could understand -the man’s humiliation better than the girl’s broken -heart. He went out of the club and turned homewards. -He had yet to communicate the intelligence to his -father, and he was oddly curious to see what the old -gentleman would say. An hour later he had told the -whole story with every detail he could remember, from -<span class='pageno' id='Page_385'>385</span>the day when Totty had told him to go and see Mamie -to his recent interview with Sherry Trimm.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am sorry for you, George,” said Jonah Wood. “I -am very sorry for you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I think, on the whole, that is more than I can say -for myself,” George answered. “I am far more sorry -for Mamie and her father. It is a relief to me. I would -not have believed it, this morning.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you mean that you were not in love?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Yes. I am just as fond of her as ever. There is -nothing I would not do for her. But I do not want to -marry her and I never did, till that old cat made me -think it was my duty.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I should think you would have known what your -duty was, without waiting to be told. I would have -told her mother that I did not love the girl, and I would -have gone the next morning.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are so sensible, father!” George exclaimed. “I -looked at it differently. It seemed to me that if I had -gone so far as to make Mamie believe that I loved her, -I ought to be able to love her in earnest.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“When you are older, you will know better,” observed -the old gentleman severely. “You have too much imagination. -As for Mr. Craik, he will not leave you his -money now. I doubt if he meant to.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George went and shut himself up in the little room -which had witnessed so many of his struggles and -disappointments. He sat down in his shabby old easy-chair -and lit a short pipe and fell into a profound -reverie. The unexpected had played a great part in his -life, and as he reviewed the story of the past three -years, he was surprised to find how very different his -own existence had been from that of the average man. -With the exception of his accident on the river and the -scene he had witnessed to-day, nothing really startling -had happened to him in that time, and yet his position -at the present moment was as different from his position -three years earlier as it possibly could be. In that time -<span class='pageno' id='Page_386'>386</span>he had risen from total obscurity into the publicity of -reputation, if not of celebrity. He was not fond of -disturbing the mass of papers that encumbered his table, -and there, deep down under the rest were still to be -found rough drafts of his last poor little reviews. Hanging -from one corner there was visible the corrected -“revise” of one of his earliest accepted articles. At -the other end, beneath a piece of old iron which he used -as a paper-weight, lay the manuscript of his first novel, -well thumbed and soiled, and marked at intervals in -pencil with the names of the compositors who had set up -the pages in type. There, upon the table, lay the -accumulated refuse of three years of hard work, of the -three years which had raised him into the public notice. -Much of that work had been done under the influence of -one woman, of one fair young girl who had bent over his -shoulder as he read her page after page, and whose keen, -fresh sight had often detected flaws and errors where he -himself saw no imperfection. She had encouraged him, -had pushed him, and urged him on, in spite of himself, -until he had succeeded, beyond his wildest expectations. -Then he had lost her, because he had thought that she -was bound to marry him. He did not think so now, for -he felt that in that case, too, he had been mistaken, as -in the more recent one he had deceived himself. He had -never been in love. He had never felt what he described -in his own books. His blood had never raced through -his veins for love, as it had often done for anger and -sometimes for mere passing passion. Love had never -taken him and mastered him and carried him away in its -arms beyond all consideration for consequences. It was -not because he was strong. He knew that whatever -people might think of him, he had often been weak, and -had longed to be made strong by a love he could not -feel. He had been ready to yield himself to a belief in -affections which had proved unreal and which had disappointed -himself by their instability and by the ease -with which he had recovered from them. Even in the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_387'>387</span>solitude of his own room he was ashamed to own to his -inner consciousness how little he had been moved by -all that had happened to him in those three years.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He thought of Johnson, the pale-faced hardworking -man, whose heart was full of unsatisfied ambition and -who had distanced his competitors by sheer energy and -enthusiasm. He envied the man his belief in himself -and his certainty of slow but sure success. Slow, indeed, -it must be. Johnson had toiled for many years at his -writing to attain the position he occupied, to be considered -a good judge and a ready writer by the few who -knew him, to gain a small but solid reputation in a small -circle. He had worked much harder than George himself, -and yet to-day, George Wood was known and read -where William Johnson had never been heard of. Of -the two Johnson was by far the better satisfied with his -success, though of the two he possessed by very much -the more ambition, in the ordinary acceptation of the -word.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Then George thought of Thomas Craik, and of his -sneer at ambitious men. He had said that there was no -pleasure in possession, but only in getting, getting, getting, -as long as a man had breath; that the wish to excel -other men in anything was a drawback and a disadvantage, -and that nothing in the world was worth having -for its own sake, from money to fame, through all the -catalogue of what is attainable by humanity. And yet, -Thomas Craik was an instance of a very successful man, -who had some right to speak on the subject. Whether -he had got his money by fair means or foul had nothing -to do with the argument. He had it, and he could speak -from experience about the pleasures of possession. -There must be some truth in what he said. George -himself had attained before the age of thirty what many -men labour in vain to reach throughout a lifetime. The -case was similar. Whether he had deserved the reputation -he had so suddenly acquired or not, mattered little. -Many critics said that he had no claim to it. Many -<span class='pageno' id='Page_388'>388</span>others said that he deserved more than he got. Whichever -side was right, he had it, as Tom Craik had his -money. Did it give him any satisfaction? None whatever, -beyond the material advantages it brought him, -and which only pleased him because they made him -independent of his father’s help. When he thought of -what he had done, he found no savour of pride in the -reflection, nothing which really flattered his vanity, -nothing to send a thrill of happiness through him. He -was cold, indifferent to all he had done. It would not -have entered his mind to take up one of his own books -and glance over the pages. On the contrary, he felt a -strong repulsion for what he had written, the moment it -was finished. He admitted that he was foolish in this, -as in many other things, and that he would in all likelihood -improve his work by going over it and polishing -it, even by entirely rewriting a great part of it. He -was not deterred from doing so by indolence, for his -rarely energetic temperament loved hard work and -sought it. It was rather a profound dissatisfaction with -all he did which prevented him from expending any -further time upon each performance when he had once -reached the last page. Nothing satisfied him, neither -what he did himself, nor what he saw done by others.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Thinking the matter over in his solitude the inevitable -conclusion seemed to be that he was one of those discontented -beings who can never be pleased with anything, -nor lose themselves in an enthusiasm without picking -to pieces the object that has made him enthusiastic. But -this was not true either. There were plenty of great -works in the world for which he had no criticism, and -which never failed to excite his boundless admiration. -He smiled to himself as he thought that what would -really please him would be to be forced into the same -attitude of respect before one of his own books, into -which he naturally fell before the great masterpieces of -literature. He would have been hard to satisfy, he -thought, if that would not have satisfied him. Was -<span class='pageno' id='Page_389'>389</span>that, then, the vision which he was really pursuing? It -was folly to suppose that he would be so mad, and yet, -at that time, he felt that he desired nothing else and -nothing less than that, and since that was absolutely -unattainable, he was condemned to perpetual discontent, -to be borne with the best patience he could find. Beyond -this, he could find no explanation of his feelings about -his own work.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The only other source of happiness of which he could -conceive was love, and this brought him back to his -kindly and grateful memories of Constance Fearing, and -to the more disturbing recollection of his cousin. The -latter, also, had played a part and had occupied a share -in his life. He had watched her more closely than he -had ever watched any one, and had studied her with an -unconsciously unswerving attention which proved how -little he had loved her and how much she had interested -him. He was, indeed, never well aware that he was -subjecting any one to a microscopic intellectual scrutiny, -for he possessed in a high degree the faculty of unintentional -memory. While it cost him a severe effort to -commit to memory a dozen verses of any poet, old or -modern, he could nevertheless recall with faultless accuracy -both sights and conversations which he had seen and -heard, even after an interval of many years, provided -that his interest had been somewhat excited at the time. -The half-active, half-indolent, wholly luxurious life at -his cousin’s house had in the end produced a strong -impression upon him. It had been like an interval of -lotus-eating upon an almost uninhabited island, varied -only by such work as he chose to do at his own leisure -and in his own way. During more than four months -the struggles of the world had been hidden from him, -and had temporarily ceased to play any part in his -thoughts. The dreamy existence spent between flowers -and woods and water, where every want had been anticipated -almost before it was felt, served now as a background -for the picture of the young girl who had been -<span class='pageno' id='Page_390'>390</span>so constantly with him, herself as natural as her surroundings, -the incarnation of life and of life’s charm, the -negation of intellectual activity and of the sufferings of -thought, a lovely creature who could only think, reason, -enjoy and suffer with her heart, and whose mind could -acquire but little, and was incapable of giving out. She -had been the central figure and had contributed much to -the general effect, so much, indeed, that under pressure -of circumstances he had been willing to believe that he -could love her enough to marry her. The scene had -changed, the hallucination had vanished and the delusion -was destroyed, but the memory of it all remained, -and now disturbed his recollection of more recent events. -There was a sensuous attraction in the pictures that -presented themselves, from which he could not escape, -but which he for some reason despised and tried to put -away from him, by thinking again of Constance, of the -cold purity of her face, of her over-studied conscientiousness -and of her complete subjection to her sincere -but mistaken self-criticism.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He wondered whether he should ever marry, and what -manner of woman his wife would turn out to be. Of -one thing he was sure. He would not now marry any -woman unless he loved her with all his heart, and he -would not ask her to marry him unless he were already -sure of her love. The third must be the decisive case, -from which he should never desire to withdraw and in -which there should be no disappointment. He thought -of Grace Fearing, and of her marriage and short-lived -happiness with its terribly sudden ending and the -immensity of sorrow that had followed its extinction. -It almost seemed to him as though it would be worth -while to suffer as she suffered if one could have what she -had found; for the love must have been great and deep -and sincere indeed, which could leave such scars where -it had rested. To love a woman so well able to love -would be happiness. She never doubted herself nor -what she felt; all her thoughts were clear, simple and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_391'>391</span>strong; she did not analyse herself to know the measure -of her own sincerity, nor was she a woman to be carried -away by a thoughtless passion. She loved and she hated -frankly, sincerely, without a side thought of doubt on -the one hand nor of malice on the other. She was -morally strong without putting on any affectation of -strength, she was clear-sighted without making any -pretence to exceptional intelligence, she was passionate -without folly, and wise without annoyance, she was good, -not sanctimonious, she was dignified without vanity. In -short, as George thought of her, he saw that the woman -who had openly disliked him and opposed him in former -days, was of all the three the one for whom he felt the -most sincere admiration. He remembered now that at -his first meeting with the two sisters he had liked Grace -better than Constance, and would then have chosen her -as the object of his attentions had she been free and -had he foreseen that friendship was to follow upon -intimacy and love on friendship. Unfortunately for -George Wood, and for all who find themselves in a like -situation, that concatenation of events is the one most -rarely foreseen by anybody, and George was fain to -content himself with speculating upon the nature of the -happiness he would have enjoyed had he been loved by -a woman who seemed now to be dead to the whole world -of the affections. It was sufficient to compare her with -her sister to understand that she was, of the two, the -nobler character; it was enough to think of Mamie to -see that in that direction no comparison was even possible.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It would be strange if it should be my fate to love -her, after all,” George thought. “She would never love -me.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He roused himself from his reverie and sat down to -his table, by sheer force of habit. Paper and ink were -before him, and his pen lay ready to his hand, where he -had last thrown it down. Almost unconsciously he -began to write, putting down notes of a situation that -<span class='pageno' id='Page_392'>392</span>had suddenly presented itself to his mind. The pen -moved along, sometimes running rapidly, sometimes -stopping with an impatient hesitation during which it -continued to move uneasily in the air. Characters -shaped themselves out of the chaos and names sounded -in the willing ear of the writer. The situation which -he had first thought of was all at once transformed into -a detail in a second and larger action, another possibility -started up out of darkness, in brilliant clearness, and -absorbed the matters already thought of into itself, -broadening and strengthening every moment. Whole -chapters now stood out as if already written, and in their -places. A detail here, another there, to be changed or -adapted, one glance at the whole, one or two names -spoken aloud to see how they sounded in the stillness, -a pause of a moment, a fresh sheet of paper, and George -Wood was launched upon the first chapter of a new -novel, forgetful of Grace, of Constance Fearing and even -of poor Mamie herself and of all that had happened only -two or three hours earlier.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He was writing, working with passionate and all-absorbing -interest at the expression of his fancies. -What he did was good, well thought, clearly expressed, -harmoniously composed. When it was given to the -public it was spoken of as the work of a man of heart, -full of human sympathy and understanding. At the -time when he was inventing the plot and writing down -the beginning of his story, a number of people intimately -connected with his life were all in one way or another -suffering acutely and he himself was the direct or indirect -cause of all their sufferings. He was neither a cruel -man, nor thoughtless nor unkind, but he was for the -time utterly unconscious of the outer world, and if not -happy at least profoundly interested in what he was -doing.</p> - -<p class='c000'>During that hour, Sherrington Trimm, pale and nervous, -was walking up and down his endless beat in the -little room at the club where George had left him, trying -<span class='pageno' id='Page_393'>393</span>to master his anger and disgust before going home -to meet his wife and the inevitable explanation which -must ensue. The servant came in and lit the gaslight -and stirred the fire but Trimm never saw him nor varied -the monotony of his walk.</p> - -<p class='c000'>At his own house, things were no better. Totty, completely -broken down, by the failure of all her plans and -the disclosure of her discreditable secret, had recovered -enough from her hysterics to be put to bed by her faithful -maid, who was surprised to find that, as all signs fail -in fair weather, none of the usual remedies could extract -a word of satisfaction or an expression of relief from -her mistress. Down stairs, in the little boudoir where -she had last seen the man she loved, Mamie was lying -stretched upon the divan, dry eyed, with strained lips -and blanched cheeks, knowing nothing save that her -passion had dashed itself to pieces against a rock in the -midst of its fairest voyage.</p> - -<p class='c000'>In another house, far distant, Grace Bond was leaning -against a broad chimney-piece, a half-sorrowful, half-contemptuous -smile upon her strong sad face, as she -thought of all her sister’s changes and vacillations and -of the aimlessness of the fair young life. Above, in her -own room, Constance Fearing was kneeling and praying -with all her might, though she hardly knew for what, -while the bright tears flowed down her thin cheeks in an -unceasing stream.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“And yet, when he came to life, he called me first!” -she cried, stretching out her hands and looking upward -as though protesting against the injustice of Heaven.</p> - -<p class='c000'>And in yet another place, in a magnificent chamber, -where the softened light played upon rich carvings and -soft carpets, an old man lay dying of his last fit of anger.</p> - -<p class='c000'>All for the sake of George Wood who, conscious that -many if not all were in deep trouble, anxiety or suffering, -was driving his pen unceasingly from one side of a -piece of paper to the other, with an expression of keen -interest on his dark face, and a look of eager delight in -<span class='pageno' id='Page_394'>394</span>his eyes such as a man may show who is hunting an -animal of value and who is on the point of overtaking -his prey.</p> - -<p class='c000'>But for the accident of thought which had thrown a -new idea into the circulation of his brain, he would still -have been sitting in his shabby easy-chair, thoughtfully -pulling at his short pipe and thinking of all those persons -whom he had seen that day, kindly of some, unkindly -of others, but not deaf to all memories and shut off from -all sympathy by something which had suddenly arisen -between himself and the waking, suffering world.</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XXVIII.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>The sun shines alike upon the just and the unjust, and -it would seem to follow that all men should be judged -by the same measure in the more important actions and -emotions of their lives. To apply the principle of a -double standard to mankind is to run the risk of producing -some very curious results in morality. And yet, -there are undoubtedly cases in which a man has a claim -to special consideration and, as it were, to a trial by a -special jury. There have been many great statesmen -whose private practice in regard to financial transactions -has been more than shady, and there have been others -whose private lives have been spotless, but whose political -doings have been unscrupulous in the extreme. There -are professions and careers in which it is sufficient to -act precisely as all others engaged in the same occupation -would act, and in which the most important element -of success is a happy faculty of keeping the brain power -at the same unvarying pressure, neither high nor low, -but always ready to be used, and in such a state that it -may always be relied upon to perform the same amount -of work in a given time. There are other occupations -<span class='pageno' id='Page_395'>395</span>in which there are necessarily moments of enormous -activity at uncertain intervals, followed by periods of -total relaxation and rest. One might divide all careers -roughly into two classes, and call the one the continuous -class and the other the intermittent. The profession of -the novelist falls within the latter division. Very few -men or women who have written well have succeeded in -reducing the exercise of their art to a necessary daily -function of the body. Very few intellectual machines -can be made to bear the strain of producing works of -imagination in regular quantities throughout many years -at an unvarying rate, day after day. Neither the brain -nor the body will bear it, and if the attempt be made -either the one or the other, or both, will ultimately -suffer. Without being necessarily spasmodic, the storyteller’s -activity is almost unavoidably intermittent. -There are men who can take up the pen and drive it -during seven, eight and even nine hours a day for six -weeks or two months and who, having finished their -story, either fall into a condition of indolent apathy -until the next book has to be written, or return at once -to some favourite occupation which produces no apparent -result, and of which the public has never heard. There -are many varieties of the genus author. There is the -sailor author, who only comes ashore to write his book -and puts to sea again as soon as it is in the publisher’s -hands. There is the hunting author, who as in the -case of Anthony Trollope, keeps his body in such condition -that he can do a little good work every day of the -year, a great and notable exception to the rule. There -is the student author, whose laborious work of exegesis -will never be heard of, but who interrupts it from time -to time in order to produce a piece of brilliant fiction, -returning to his Sanscrit each time with renewed interest -and industry. There is the musical author, whose -preference would have led him to be a professional -musician, but who had not quite enough talent for it, or -not quite enough technical facility or whose musical -<span class='pageno' id='Page_396'>396</span>education began a little too late. There is the adventurous -author, who shoots in Africa or has a habit of -spending the winter in eastern Siberia. There is the -artistic author, who may be found in out-of-the-way -towns in Italy, patiently copying old pictures, as though -his life depended upon his accuracy, or sketching ragged -boys and girls in very ragged water-colour. There is -the social author—and he is not always the least successful -in his profession—who is a favourite everywhere, -who can dance and sing and act, and who regards -the occasional production of a novel as an episode in his -life. There is the author who prepares himself many -months beforehand for what he intends to do by frequenting -the society, whether high or low, which he wishes to -depict, who writes his book in one month of the year -and spends the other eleven in observing the manners -and customs of men and women. There is the author -who lives in solitary places and evolves his characters -out of his inner consciousness and who occasionally -descends, manuscript in hand, from his inaccessible fastnesses -and ravages all the coasts of Covent Garden, -Henrietta Street and the Strand, until he has got his -price and disappears as suddenly as he came, taking his -gold with him, no man knows whither. There is the -author whom no man can boast of having ever seen, who -never answers a letter, nor gives an autograph, nor lets -any one but his publisher know where he lives, but -whose three volumes appear punctually twice a year and -whose name is familiar in many mouths. Unless he is -to be found described in an encyclopædia you will never -know whether he is old or young, black or grey, good-looking -or ugly, straight or hunchbacked. He is to you -a vague, imaginary personage, surrounded by a pillar of -cloud. In reality he is perhaps a fat little man of fifty, -who wears gold-rimmed spectacles and has discovered -that he can only write if he lives in one particular -Hungarian village with a name that baffles pronunciation, -and whose chief interest in life lies in the study -<span class='pageno' id='Page_397'>397</span>of socialism or the cholera microbe. Then again, there -is the fighting author, grim, grey and tough as a Toledo -blade, who has ridden through many a hard-fought field -in many lands and has smelled more gunpowder in his -time than most great generals, out of sheer love for the -stuff. There is also the pacific author, who frequents -peace congresses and makes speeches in favour of a -general disarming of all nations. There are countless -species and varieties of the genus. There is even the -poet author, who writes thousands of execrable verses in -secret and produces exquisite romances in prose only -because he can do nothing else.</p> - -<p class='c000'>If we admit that novels, on the whole, are a good to -society at large, as most people, excepting authors themselves, -are generally ready to admit, we grant at the -same time that they must be produced by individuals -possessing the necessary talents and characteristics of -intelligence. And if it is shown that a majority of -these individuals do their work in a somewhat erratic -fashion, and behave somewhat erratically while they are -doing it, such defects must be condoned, at least, if not -counted to them for positive righteousness. With many -of them the appearance of a new idea within the field of -their mental vision is equivalent to a command to write, -which they are neither able nor anxious to resist; and, -if they are men of talent, it is very hard for them to -turn their attention to anything else until the idea is -expressed on paper. Let them not be thought heartless -or selfish if they sometimes seem to care nothing for -what happens around them while they are subject to the -imperious domination of the new idea. They are neither -the one nor the other. They are simply unconscious, -like a man in a cataleptic trance. The plainest language -conveys no meaning to their abstracted comprehension, -the most startling sights produce no impression upon -their sense; they are in another world, living and talking -with unseen creations of their own fancy and for the -time being they are not to be considered as ordinary -<span class='pageno' id='Page_398'>398</span>human beings, nor judged by the standard to which other -men are subject.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It would not therefore be just to say that during the -days which followed the breaking off of his engagement -with Mamie Trimm, George Wood was cruel or unfeeling -because he was wholly unconscious of her existence -throughout the greater part of each twenty-four hours. -By a coincidence which he would certainly not have -invoked, a train of thought had begun its course in his -brain within an hour or two of the catastrophe, and he -was powerless to stop himself in the pursuit of it until -he had reached the end. During nine whole days he -never left the house, and scarcely went out of his room -except to eat his meals, which he did in a summary fashion -without wasting time in superfluous conversation. -On the morning of the tenth day he knew that he was at -the last chapter and he sat down at his table in that -state of mind to which a very young author is brought -by a week and a half of unceasing fatigue and excitement. -The room swam with him, and he could see -nothing distinctly except his paper, the point of his pen, -and the moving panorama in his brain, of which it was -essential to catch every detail before it had passed into -the outer darkness from which ideas cannot be brought -back. His hand was icy cold, moist and unsteady and -his face was pale, the eyelids dark and swollen, and -the veins on the temples distended. He moved his feet -nervously as he wrote, shrugged his left shoulder with -impatience at the slightest hesitation about the use of a -word, and his usually imperturbable features translated -into expression every thought, as rapidly as he could -put it into words with his pen. The house might have -burned over his head, and he would have gone on writing -until the paper under his hand was on fire. No -ordinary noise would have reached his ears, conscious -only of the scratching of the steel point upon the smooth -sheet. He could have worked as well in the din of a -public room in a hotel, or in the crowded hall of a great -<span class='pageno' id='Page_399'>399</span>railway station, as in the silence and solitude of his own -chamber. He had reached the point of abstraction at -which nothing is of the slightest consequence to the -writer provided that the ink will flow and the paper will -not blot. Like a skilled swordsman, he was conscious -only of his enemy’s eye and of the state of the weapons. -The weapons were pen, ink and paper, and the enemy -was the idea to be pursued, overtaken, pierced and -pinned down before it could assume another shape, or -escape again into chaos. The sun rose above the little -paved brick court below his window, and began to shine -into the window itself. Then a storm came up and the -sky turned suddenly black, while the wind whistled -through the yard with that peculiarly unnatural sound -which it makes in great cities, so different from its sighing -and moaning and roaring amongst trees and rocks. -The first snowflakes were whirled against the panes of -glass and slid down to the frame in half-transparent -patches. The wind sank again, and the snow fluttered -silently down like the unwinding of an endless lace -curtain from above. Then, the flakes were suddenly -illuminated by a burst of sunshine and melted as they -fell and turned to bright drops of water in the air, and -then vanished again, and the small piece of sky above -the great house on the other side of the yard was once -more clear and blue, as a sapphire that has been dipped -in pure water. It was afternoon, and George was -unconscious of the many changes of the day, unconscious -that he had not eaten nor drunk since morning, and that -he had even forgotten to smoke. One after another the -pages were numbered, filled and tossed aside, as he went -on, never raising his head nor looking away from his -work lest he should lose something of the play upon -which all his faculties were inwardly concentrated, and -of which it was his business to transcribe every word, -and to note every passing attitude and gesture of the -actors who were performing for his benefit.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Some one knocked at the door, gently at first and then -<span class='pageno' id='Page_400'>400</span>more loudly. Then, receiving no answer, the person’s -footsteps could be heard retreating towards the landing. -The firing of a cannon in the room would hardly have -made George turn his head at that moment, much less -the rapping of a servant’s knuckles upon a wooden panel. -Several minutes elapsed, and then heavier footsteps were -heard again, and the latch was turned and the door -moved noiselessly on its hinges. Jonah Wood’s iron-grey -head appeared in the opening. George had heard -nothing and during several seconds the old gentleman -watched him curiously. He had the greatest consideration -for his son’s privacy when at work, though he could -not readily understand the terribly disturbing effect of -an interruption upon a brain so much more sensitively -organised than his own. Now, however, the case was -serious, and George must be interrupted, cost what it -might. He was evidently unconscious that any one was -in the room, and his back was turned as he sat. Jonah -Wood resolved to be cautious.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“George!” he whispered, rather hoarsely. But George -did not hear.</p> - -<p class='c000'>There was nothing to be done but to cross the room -and rouse him. The old man stepped as softly as he -could upon the uncarpeted wooden floor, and placed -himself between the light and the writer. George -looked up and started violently, so that his pen flew -into the air and fell upon the boards. At the same -time he uttered a short, sharp cry, neither an oath nor -exclamation, but a sound such as a man might make who -is unexpectedly and painfully wounded in battle. Then -he saw his father and laughed nervously.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You frightened me. I did not see you come in,” he -said quickly.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am sorry,” said his father, not understanding at all -how a man usually calm and courageous could be so -easily startled. “It is rather important, or I would not -interrupt you. Mr. Sherrington Trimm is down stairs.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What does he want?” George asked vaguely and -<span class='pageno' id='Page_401'>401</span>looking as though he had forgotten who Sherrington -Trimm was.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“He wants you, my boy. You must go down at once. -It is very important. Tom Craik was buried yesterday.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Buried!” exclaimed George. “I did not know he -was dead.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I understand that he died several days ago, in consequence -of that fit of anger he had. You remember? -What is the matter with you, George?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Cannot you see what is the matter?” George cried -a little impatiently. “I am just finishing my book. -What if the old fellow is dead? He has had plenty of -leisure to change his will—in all this time. What does -Sherry want?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“He did not change his will, and Mr. Trimm wants -to read it to you. George, you do not seem to realise -that you are a very rich man, a very, very rich man,” -repeated Jonah Wood with weighty emphasis.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It will do quite as well if he reads the confounded -thing to you,” said George, picking up his pen from the -floor beside him, examining the point and then dipping -it into the ink.</p> - -<p class='c000'>He was never quite sure how much of his indifference -was assumed and how much of it was real, resulting -from his extreme impatience to finish his work. But to -Jonah Wood, it had all the appearance of being genuine.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am surprised, George,” said the old gentleman, -looking very grave. “Are you in your right mind? -Are you feeling quite well? I am afraid this good news -has upset you.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George rose from the table with a look of disgust, -bent down and looked over the last lines he had written, -and then stood up.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“If nothing else will satisfy anybody, I suppose I -must go down,” he said regretfully. “Why did not the -old brute leave the money to you instead of to me? You -do not imagine I am going to keep it, do you? Most of -it is yours anyhow.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_402'>402</span>“I understand,” answered Jonah Wood, pushing him -gently towards the door, “that the estate is large enough -to cover what I lost four or five times over, if not more. -It is very important——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Do you mean to say it is as much as that?” George -asked in some surprise.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That seems to be the impression,” answered his -father with an odd laugh, which George had not heard -for many years. Jonah Wood was ashamed of showing -too much satisfaction. It was his principle never to -make any exhibition of his feelings, but his voice could -not be altogether controlled, and there was an unusual -light in his eyes. George, who by this time had collected -his senses, and was able to think of something -besides his story, saw the change in his father’s face and -understood it.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It will be jolly to be rich again, won’t it, father?” he -said, familiarly and with more affection than he generally -showed by manner or voice.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Very pleasant, very pleasant indeed,” answered -Jonah Wood with the same odd laugh. “Mr. Trimm -tells me he has left you the house as it stands with -everything in it, and the horses—everything. I must -say, George, the old man has made amends for all he did. -It looks very like an act of conscience.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Amends? Yes, with compound interest for a dozen -years or more, if all this is true. Well, here goes the -millionaire,” he exclaimed as they left the room together.</p> - -<p class='c000'>It would be hard to imagine a position more completely -disagreeable than that in which Sherrington -Trimm was placed on that particular afternoon. It was -bad enough to have to meet George at all after what had -happened, but it was most unpleasant to appear as the -executor of the very will which had caused so much -trouble, to feel that he was bringing to the heir the very -document which his wife had stolen out of his own office, -and handing over to him the fortune which his wife had -<span class='pageno' id='Page_403'>403</span>tried so hard to bring into his own daughter’s hands. -But Sherrington Trimm’s reputation for honesty and his -courageous self-possession had carried him through many -difficult moments in life, and he would never have -thought of deputing any one else to fulfil the repugnant -task in his stead.</p> - -<p class='c000'>Jonah Wood left his son at the door of the sitting-room -and discreetly disappeared. George went in and -found the lawyer standing before the fire with a roll of -papers in his hands. He was a little pale and careworn, -but his appearance was as neat and dapper and brisk as -ever.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“George,” he said frankly as he took his hand, “poor -Tom has left you everything, as he said he would. Now, -I can quite imagine that the sight of me is not exactly -pleasant to you. But business is business and this has -got to be put through, so just consider that I am the -lawyer and forget that I am Sherry Trimm.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I shall never forget that you are Sherry Trimm,” -George answered. “You and I can avoid unpleasant -subjects and be as good friends as ever.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are a good fellow, George. The best proof of -it is that not a word has been breathed about this affair. -We have simply announced that the engagement is -broken off.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Then Mamie has refused to change her mind,” observed -George, wondering how he could ever have been -engaged to marry her, and how he could have forgotten -that at his last meeting with Sherry Trimm he had still -left the matter open, refusing to withdraw his promise. -But between that day and this he had lived through many -emotions and changing scenes in the playhouse of his -brain, and his own immediate past seemed immensely -distant from his present.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Mamie would not change her mind, if I would let -her,” Trimm answered briefly. “Let us get to business. -Here is the will. I opened it yesterday after the funeral -in the presence of the family and the witnesses as usual -in such cases.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_404'>404</span>“Excuse me,” George said. “I am very glad that I -was not present, but would it not have been proper to let -me know?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“It would have been, of course. But as there was no -obligation in the matter, I did not. I supposed that you -would hear of the death almost as soon as it was known. -You and your father were known to be on bad terms with -Tom and if you had been sent for it would have looked -as though we had all known what was in the will. People -would have supposed in that case that you must have -known it also, and you would have been blamed for not -treating the old gentleman with more consideration than -you did. I have often heard you say sharp things about -him at the club. This is a surprise to you. There is no -reason for letting anybody suppose that it is not. A lot of -small good reasons made one big good one between them.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I see,” said George. “Thank you. You were very -wise.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>He took the document from Trimm’s hands and read -it hastily. The touch of it was disagreeable to him as -he remembered where he had last seen it.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I had supposed that he would make another after -what I said to him,” George remarked. “You are quite -sure he did not?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Positive. He never allowed it to be out of his sight -after he found it. It was under his pillow when he died. -The last words that anybody could understand were to -the effect that you should have the money, whether you -wanted it or not. It was a fixed idea with him. I suppose -you know why. He felt that some of it belonged -to your father by right. The transaction by which he -got it was legal—but peculiar. There are peculiarities -in my wife’s family.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Sherry Trimm looked away and pulled his grizzled -moustache nervously.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“There will be a good many formalities,” he continued. -“Tom owned property in several different -States. I have brought you the schedule. You can have -<span class='pageno' id='Page_405'>405</span>possession in New York immediately, of course. It will -take some little time to manage the rest, proving the will -half a dozen times over. If you care to move into the -house to-morrow, there is no objection, because there is -nobody to object.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I have a proposition to make,” said George. “My -father is a far better man of business than I. Could you -not tell me in round numbers about what I have to expect, -and then go over these papers with him?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“In round numbers,” repeated Trimm thoughtfully. -“The fact is, he managed a great deal of his property -himself. I suppose I could tell you within a million or -two.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“A million or two!” exclaimed George. Sherry -Trimm smiled at the intonation.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You are an enormously rich man,” he said quietly. -“The estate is worth anywhere from twelve to fifteen -millions of dollars.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“All mine?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Look at the will. He never spent a third of his -income, so far as I could find out.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>George said nothing more, but began to walk up and -down the room nervously. He detested everything connected -with money, and had only a relative idea of its -value, but he was staggered by the magnitude of the fortune -thus suddenly thrown into his hands. He understood -now the expression he had seen on his father’s -face.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I had no conception of the amount,” he said at last. -“I thought it might be a million.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“A million!” laughed Trimm scornfully. “A man -does not live, as he lived, on forty or fifty thousand a -year. It needs more than that. A million is nothing -nowadays. Every man who wears a good coat has a -million. There is not a man living in Fifth Avenue -who has less than a million.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I wonder how it looks on paper,” said George. “I -will try and go through the schedule with you myself.”</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_406'>406</span>An hour later George was once more in his room. For -a few moments he stood looking through the window at -the old familiar brick wall and at the windows of the -house beyond, but his reflections were very vague and -shapeless. He could not realise his position nor his -importance, as he drummed a tattoo on the glass with -his nails. He was trying to think of the changes that -were inevitable in the immediate future, of his life in -another house, of the faces of his old acquaintances and -of the expression some of them would wear. He wondered -what Johnson would say. The name, passing -through his mind, recalled his career, his work and the -unfinished chapter that lay on the table behind him. In -an instant his brain returned to the point at which he -had been interrupted. Tom Craik, Sherry Trimm, the -will and the millions vanished into darkness, and before -he was fairly aware of it he was writing again.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The days were short and he was obliged to light the -old kerosene lamp with the green shade which had served -him through so many hours of labour and study. The -action was purely mechanical and did not break his -train of thought, nor did it suggest that in a few months -he would think it strange that he should ever have been -obliged to do such a thing for himself. He wrote steadily -on to the end, and signed his name and dated the manuscript -before he rose from his seat. Then he stretched -himself, yawned and looked at his watch, returned to -the table and laid the sheets neatly together in their -order with the rest and put the whole into a drawer.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“That job is done,” he said aloud, in a tone of profound -satisfaction. “And now, I can think of something -else.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>Thereupon, without as much as thinking of resting -himself after the terrible strain he had sustained during -ten days, he proceeded to dress himself with a scrupulous -care for the evening, and went down stairs to dinner. -He found his father in his accustomed place -before the fire, reading as usual, and holding his heavy -<span class='pageno' id='Page_407'>407</span>book rigidly before his eyes in a way that would have -made an ordinary man’s hand ache.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I have finished my book!” cried George as he entered -the room.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Ah, I am delighted to hear it. Do you mean to say -that you have been writing all the afternoon since Mr. -Trimm went away?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Until half an hour ago.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Well, you have exceptionally strong nerves,” said -the old gentleman, mechanically raising his book again. -Then as though he were willing to make a concession to -circumstances for once in his life, he closed it with a -solemn clapping sound and laid it down.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“George, my boy,” he said impressively, “you are -enormously wealthy. Do you realise the fact?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I am also enormously hungry,” said George with a -laugh. “Is there any cause or reason in the nature of -the cook or of anything else why you and I should not be -fed?”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“To tell the truth, I had a little surprise for you,” -answered his father. “I thought we ought to do something -to commemorate the event, so I went out and got a -brace of canvas-backs from Delmonico’s and a bottle of -good wine. Kate is roasting the ducks and the champagne -is on the ice. It was a little late when I got back—sorry -to keep you waiting, my boy.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Sorry!” cried George. “The idea of being sorry -for anything when there are canvas-backs and champagne -in the house. You dear old man! I will pay you -for this, though. You shall live on the fat of the land -for the rest of your days!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Enough is as good as a feast,” observed Jonah Wood -with great gravity.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What roaring feasts we will have—or what stupendously -plentiful enoughs, if you like it better! Father, -you are better already. I heard you laugh to-day as you -used to laugh when I was a boy.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“A little prosperity will do us both good,” said the old -gentleman, who was rapidly warming into geniality.</p> - -<p class='c000'><span class='pageno' id='Page_408'>408</span>“I say,” suggested George. “I have finished my book, -and you have nothing to do. Let us pack up our traps -and go to Paris and paint the town a vivid scarlet.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“What?” asked Jonah Wood, to whom slang had -always been a mystery.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Paint the town red,” repeated George. “In short, -have a spree, a lark, a jollification, you and I.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I would like to see Paris again, well enough, if that -is what you mean. By the way, George, your heart does -not seem to trouble you much, just at present.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Why should it? I sometimes wish it would, in the -right direction.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“You have your choice now, George, you have your -choice, now, of the whole female population of the -globe——”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Of all the girls beside the water, From Janeiro to -Gibraltar, as the old song says,” laughed George.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Precisely so. You can have any of them for the asking. -Money is a great power, my boy, a great power. -You must be careful how you use it.”</p> - -<p class='c000'>“I shall not use it. I shall give it all to you to spend -because it will amuse you, and I will go on writing -books because that is the only thing I can do approximately -well. Do you know? I believe I shall be ridiculous -in the character of the rich man.”</p> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c005'>CHAPTER XXIX.</h2> -</div> - -<p class='c006'>Three years later George Wood was sitting alone on a -winter’s afternoon in the library where Thomas Craik -had once given him his views on life in general and on -ambition in particular. It was already almost dark, for -the days were very short, and two lamps shed a soft light -from above upon the broad polished table.</p> - -<p class='c000'>The man’s face had changed during the years that had -<span class='pageno' id='Page_409'>409</span>passed since he had found himself free from his engagement -to marry his cousin. The angular head had grown -more massive, the shadows about the eyes and temples -had deepened, the complexion was paler and less youthful, -the expression more determined than ever, and yet -more kind and less scornful. In those years he had -seen much and had accomplished much, and he had -learned to know at last what it meant to feel with the -heart, instead of with the sensibilities, human or artistic. -His money had not spoiled him. On the contrary, the -absence of all preoccupations in the matter of his material -welfare, had left the man himself free to think, to -act and to feel according to his natural instincts.</p> - -<p class='c000'>At the present moment he was absorbed in thought. -The familiar sheet of paper lay before him, and he held -his pen in his hand, but the point had long been dry, and -had long ceased to move over the smooth surface. There -was a number at the top of the page, and a dozen lines -had been written, continuing a conversation that had -gone before. But the imaginary person had broken off -in the middle of his saying, and in the theatre of the -writer’s fancy the stage of his own life had suddenly -appeared, and his own self was among the players, acting -the acts and speaking the speeches of long ago, while -the owner of the old self watched and listened to the -piece with fascinated interest, commenting critically -upon what passed before his eyes, and upon the words -that rang through the waking dream. The habit of -expression was so strong that his own thoughts took -shape as though he were writing them down.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“They have played the parts of the three fates in my -life,” he said to himself. “Constance was my Clotho, -Mamie was my Lachesis—Grace is my Atropos. I was -not so heartless in those first days, as I have sometimes -fancied that I was. I loved my Clotho, after a young -fashion. She took me out of darkness and chaos and -made me an active, real being. When I see how -wretchedly unhappy I used to be, and when I think how -<span class='pageno' id='Page_410'>410</span>she first showed me that I was able to do something in -the world, it does not seem strange that I should have -worshipped her as a sort of goddess. If things had gone -otherwise, if she had taken me instead of refusing me -on that first of May, if I had married her, we might -have been very happy together, for a time, perhaps for -always. But we were unlike in the wrong way; our -points of difference did not complement each other. -She has married Dr. Drinkwater, the Reverend Doctor -Drinkwater, a good man twenty years older than herself, -and she seems perfectly contented. The test of fitness -lies in reversing the order of events. If to-day her good -husband were to die, could I take his place in her love -or estimation? Certainly not. If Grace had married -the clergyman, could Constance have been to me what -Grace is, could I have loved her as I love this woman -who will never love me? Assuredly not; the thing is -impossible. I loved Constance with one half of myself, -and as far as I went I was in earnest. Perhaps it was -the higher, more intellectual part of me, for I did not -love her because she was a woman, but because she was -unlike all other women—in other words, a sort of angel. -Angels may have loved women in the days of the giants, -but no man can love an angel as a woman ought to be -loved. As for me, my ears are wearied by too much -angelic music, the harmonies are too thin and delicate, -the notes lack character, the melodies all end in one -close. I used to think that there was no such thing as -friendship. I have changed my mind. Constance is a -very good friend to me, and I to her, though neither of -us can understand the other’s life any longer, as we -understood each other when she took up the distaff of -my life and first set the spindle whirling.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Was I heartless with poor Mamie? I suppose I was, -because I made her believe for a while that I loved her. -Let us be honest. I felt something, I made myself -believe that I felt something which was like love. It -was of the baser kind. It was the temptation of the -<span class='pageno' id='Page_411'>411</span>eye, the fascination of a magnetic vitality, the flattery -of my vanity in seeing myself so loved. I lived for -months in an enchanted palace in an enchanted garden, -where she was the enchantress. Everything contributed -to awaken in me the joy of mere life, the belief that -reality was better than romance, and that, in love, it -was better to receive than to give. I was like a man in -a badly conceived novel, with whom everything rests on -a false basis, in which the scenery is false, the passion -is false, and the belief in the future is most false of all. -And how commonplace it all seems, as I look back upon -it. I do not remember to have once felt a pain like a -knife just under the heart, in all that time, though my -blood ran fast enough sometimes. And it all went on -so smoothly as Lachesis let the thread spin through her -pretty fingers. Who would have believed that a man -could be at once so fooled and so loved? I was sorry -that I could not love her, even after we knew all that -her mother had done. I remember that I began a book -on that very day. Heartless of me, was it not? If she -had been Grace I should never have written again. But -she was only Lachesis; the thread turned under her -hand, and spun on in spite of her, and in spite of itself—to -its end.</p> - -<p class='c000'>“Grace is the end. There can be no loving after this. -My father tells me that I am working too hard and that -I am growing prematurely old. It is not the work that -does it. It is something that wears out the life from -the core. And yet I would not be without it. There is -that thrust again, that says I am not deceiving myself. -Grace holds the thread and will neither cut it, nor let -it run on through her fingers. Heaven knows, I am not -a sentimental man! But for the physical pain I feel -when I think of losing her, I should laugh at myself -and let her slip down to the middle distance of other -memories, not quite out of sight, nor yet quite out of -mind, but wholly out of my heart. I have tried it many -a time, but the trouble grows instead of wearing out. I -<span class='pageno' id='Page_412'>412</span>have tried wandering about the earth in most known -and unknown directions. It never did me any good. I -wonder whether she knows! After all it will be four -years next summer since poor John Bond was drowned, -and everybody says she has forgotten him. But she is -not a woman who forgets, any more than she is one to -waste her life in a perpetual mourning. To speak may -be to cut the thread. That would be the end, indeed! -I should see her after that, of course, but it would never -be the same again. She would know my secret then and -all would be over, the hours together, the talks, the -touch of hands that means so much to me and so little to -her. And yet, to know—to know at last the end of it -all—and the great ‘perhaps’ the great ‘if’—if she -should! But there is no ‘perhaps,’ and there can be no -‘if.’ She is my fate, and it is my fate that there should -be no end to this, but the end of life itself. Better so. -Better to have loved ever so unhappily, than to have -been married to any of the Constances or the Mamies of -this world! Heigho—I suppose people think that there -is nothing I cannot have for my money! Nothing? -There is all that could make life worth living, and -which millions cannot buy!”</p> - -<p class='c000'>The curtain fell before the little stage, and the eyes -of the lonely man closed with an expression of intense -pain, as he let his forehead rest in the palm of his hand.</p> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div>Typography by J. S. Cushing & Co., Boston, U.S.A.</div> - <div class='c003'>Presswork by Berwick & Smith, Boston, U.S.A.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_413'>413</span></div> -<div class='ph2'> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c001'> - <div>MACMILLAN’S DOLLAR SERIES</div> - </div> -</div> - -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div>OF</div> - <div class='c003'>WORKS BY POPULAR AUTHORS.</div> - <div class='c003'><em>Crown 8vo. Cloth extra. $1.00 each.</em></div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='sc'>By</span> F. MARION CRAWFORD.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>With the solitary exception of Mrs. Oliphant, we have no living novelist more distinguished -for variety of theme and range of imaginative outlook than Mr. Marion Crawford.—<cite>Spectator.</cite></p> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>THE CHILDREN OF THE KING. (<em>Ready in January.</em>)</li> - <li class='c008'>MR. ISAACS: A Tale of Modern India.</li> - <li class='c008'>DR. CLAUDIUS: A True Story.</li> - <li class='c008'>ZOROASTER.</li> - <li class='c008'>A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH.</li> - <li class='c008'>SARACINESCA. A New Novel.</li> - <li class='c008'>MARZIO’S CRUCIFIX.</li> - <li class='c008'>WITH THE IMMORTALS.</li> - <li class='c008'>GREIFENSTEIN.</li> - <li class='c008'>SANT’ ILARIO.</li> - <li class='c008'>A CIGARETTE-MAKER’S ROMANCE.</li> - <li class='c008'>KHALED: A Tale of Arabia.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE WITCH OF PRAGUE. With numerous Illustrations by <span class='sc'>W. J. Hennessy</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE THREE FATES.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='sc'>By</span> CHARLES DICKENS.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>It would be difficult to imagine a better edition of Dickens at the price than that which -is now appearing in Macmillan’s Series of Dollar Novels.—<cite>Boston Beacon.</cite></p> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 50 Illustrations. (<em>Ready.</em>)</li> - <li class='c008'>OLIVER TWIST. 27 Illustrations. (<em>Ready.</em>)</li> - <li class='c008'>NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 44 Illustrations. (<em>Ready.</em>)</li> - <li class='c008'>MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 41 Illustrations. (<em>Ready.</em>)</li> - <li class='c008'>THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 97 Illustrations. (<em>Ready.</em>)</li> - <li class='c008'>BARNABY RUDGE. 76 Illustrations. (<em>Ready.</em>)</li> - <li class='c008'>SKETCHES BY BOZ. 44 Illustrations. (<em>Ready.</em>)</li> - <li class='c008'>DOMBEY AND SON. 40 Illustrations. (<em>Ready.</em>)</li> - <li class='c008'>CHRISTMAS BOOKS. 65 Illustrations. (<em>December.</em>)</li> - <li class='c008'>DAVID COPPERFIELD. 41 Illustrations. (<em>January.</em>)</li> - <li class='c008'>AMERICAN NOTES, AND PICTURES FROM ITALY. 4 Illustrations (<em>Feb.</em>)</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_414'>414</span><span class='sc'>By</span> CHARLES KINGSLEY.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>ALTON LOCKE.</li> - <li class='c008'>HEREWARD.</li> - <li class='c008'>HEROES.</li> - <li class='c008'>WESTWARD HO!</li> - <li class='c008'>HYPATIA.</li> - <li class='c008'>TWO YEARS AGO.</li> - <li class='c008'>WATER BABIES. Illustrated.</li> - <li class='c008'>YEAST.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='sc'>By</span> HENRY JAMES.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>He has the power of seeing with the artistic perception of the few, and of writing -about what he has seen, so that the many can understand and feel with him.—<cite>Saturday -Review.</cite></p> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>THE LESSON OF THE MASTER AND OTHER STORIES.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE REVERBERATOR.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE ASPEN PAPERS AND OTHER STORIES.</li> - <li class='c008'>A LONDON LIFE.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='sc'>By</span> ANNIE KEARY.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>In our opinion there have not been many novels published better worth reading. The -literary workmanship is excellent, and all the windings of the stories are worked with -patient fulness and a skill not often found.—<cite>Spectator.</cite></p> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>JANET’S HOME.</li> - <li class='c008'>CLEMENCY FRANKLYN.</li> - <li class='c008'>A DOUBTING HEART.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE HEROES OF ASGARD.</li> - <li class='c008'>A YORK AND LANCASTER ROSE.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='sc'>By</span> D. CHRISTIE MURRAY.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Few modern novelists can tell a story of English country life better than Mr. D. -Christie Murray.—<cite>Spectator.</cite></p> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>AUNT RACHEL.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE WEAKER VESSEL.</li> - <li class='c008'>SCHWARZ.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='sc'>By</span> MRS. OLIPHANT.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Has the charm of style, the literary quality and flavour that never fails to please.—<cite>Saturday -Review.</cite></p> - -<p class='c000'>At her best she is, with one or two exceptions, the best of living English novelists.—<cite>Academy.</cite></p> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>A SON OF THE SOIL. New Edition.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE CURATE IN CHARGE. New Edition.</li> - <li class='c008'>YOUNG MUSGRAVE. New Edition.</li> - <li class='c008'>HE THAT WILL NOT WHEN HE MAY. New and Cheaper Edition.</li> - <li class='c008'>SIR TOM. New Edition.</li> - <li class='c008'>HESTER. A Story of Contemporary Life.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE WIZARD’S SON. New Edition.</li> - <li class='c008'>A COUNTRY GENTLEMAN AND HIS FAMILY. New Edition.</li> - <li class='c008'>NEIGHBOURS ON THE GREEN. New Edition.</li> - <li class='c008'>AGNES HOPETOUN’S SCHOOLS AND HOLIDAYS. With Illustrations.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_415'>415</span><span class='sc'>By</span> J. H. SHORTHOUSE.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Powerful, striking, and fascinating romances.—<cite>Anti-Jacobin.</cite></p> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE.</li> - <li class='c008'>JOHN INGLESANT.</li> - <li class='c008'>SIR PERCIVAL.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE COUNTESS EVE.</li> - <li class='c008'>A TEACHER OF THE VIOLIN.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE LITTLE SCHOOLMASTER MARK.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='sc'>By</span> MRS. CRAIK.</div> - <div class='c003'>(The Author of “John Halifax, Gentleman.”)</div> - </div> -</div> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>LITTLE SUNSHINE’S HOLIDAY.</li> - <li class='c008'>ADVENTURES OF A BROWNIE.</li> - <li class='c008'>ALICE LEARMONT.</li> - <li class='c008'>OUR YEAR.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='sc'>By</span> MRS. HUMPHRY WARD.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Mrs. Ward, with her “Robert Elsmere” and “David Grieve,” has established with -extraordinary rapidity an enduring reputation as one who has expressed what is deepest -and most real in the thought of the time.... They are dramas of the time vitalized -by the hopes, fears, doubts, and despairing struggles after higher ideals which are swaying -the minds of men and women of this generation.—<cite>New York Tribune.</cite></p> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>ROBERT ELSMERE.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE HISTORY OF DAVID GRIEVE.</li> - <li class='c008'>MILLY AND OLLY.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='sc'>By</span> RUDYARD KIPLING.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Every one knows that it is not easy to write good short stories. Mr. Kipling has -changed all that. Here are forty of them, averaging less than eight pages a-piece; there -is not a dull one in the lot. Some are tragedy, some broad comedy, some tolerably sharp -satire. The time has passed to ignore or undervalue Mr. Kipling. He has won his spurs -and taken his prominent place in the arena. This, as the legitimate edition, should be -preferred to the pirated ones by all such as care for honesty in letters.—<cite>Churchman</cite>, -New York.</p> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>PLAIN TALES FROM THE HILLS.</li> - <li class='c008'>LIFE’S HANDICAP</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='sc'>By</span> AMY LEVY.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>REUBEN SACHS.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='sc'>By</span> M. McLENNAN.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>MUCKLE JOCK, AND OTHER STORIES.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_416'>416</span><span class='sc'>By</span> THOMAS HUGHES.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>TOM BROWN’S SCHOOLDAYS. Illustrated.</li> - <li class='c008'>RUGBY, TENNESSEE.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='sc'>By</span> ROLF BOLDREWOOD.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Mr. Boldrewood can tell what he knows with great point and vigour, and there is no -better reading than the adventurous parts of his books.—<cite>Saturday Review.</cite></p> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>ROBBERY UNDER ARMS.</li> - <li class='c008'>NEVERMORE.</li> - <li class='c008'>SYDNEY-SIDE SAXON.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='sc'>By</span> SIR HENRY CUNNINGHAM, K.C.I.E.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Interesting as specimens of romance, the style of writing is so excellent—scholarly -and at the same time easy and natural—that the volumes are worth reading on that -account alone. But there is also masterly description of persons, places, and things; -skilful analysis of character; a constant play of wit and humour; and a happy gift of -instantaneous portraiture.—<cite>St. James’s Gazette.</cite></p> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>THE CŒRULEANS: <span class='sc'>A Vacation Idyll</span>.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='sc'>By</span> GEORGE GISSING.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>We earnestly commend the book for its high literary merit, its deep bright interest, -and for the important and healthful lessons that it teaches.—<cite>Boston Home Journal.</cite></p> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>DENZIL QUARRIER.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='sc'>By</span> W. CLARK RUSSELL.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>The descriptions are wonderfully realistic ... and the breath of the ocean is over -and through every page. The plot is very novel indeed, and is developed with skill and -tact. Altogether one of the cleverest and most entertaining of Mr. Russell’s many -works.—<cite>Boston Times.</cite></p> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>A STRANGE ELOPEMENT.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='sc'>By the Hon.</span> EMILY LAWLESS.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>It is a charming story, full of natural life, fresh in style and thought, pure in tone, and -refined in feeling.—<cite>Nineteenth Century.</cite></p> - -<p class='c000'>A strong and original story. It is marked by originality, freshness, insight, a rare -graphic power, and as rare a psychological perception. It is in fact a better story than -“Hurrish,” and that is saying a good deal.—<cite>New York Tribune.</cite></p> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>GRANIA: <span class='sc'>The Story of an Island</span>.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_417'>417</span><span class='sc'>By</span> A NEW AUTHOR.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>We should not be surprised if this should prove to be the most popular book of the -present season; it cannot fail to be one of the most remarkable.—<cite>Literary World.</cite></p> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>TIM: <span class='sc'>A Story of School Life</span>.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='sc'>By</span> LANOE FALCONER.</div> - <div class='c003'>(Author of “Mademoiselle Ixe.”)</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>It is written with cleverness and brightness, and there is so much human nature in it -that the attention of the reader is held to the end.... The book shows far greater -powers than were evident in “Mademoiselle Ixe,” and if the writer who is hidden behind -the <i><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">nom de guerre</span></i> Lanoe Falconer goes on, she is likely to make for herself no inconsiderable -name in fiction.—<cite>Boston Courier.</cite></p> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>CECILIA DE NOËL.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='sc'>By the Rev. Prof.</span> ALFRED J. CHURCH.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p class='c000'>Rev. Alfred J. Church, M.A., has long been doing valiant service in literature in -presenting his stories of the early centuries, so clear is his style and so remarkable his -gift of enfolding historical events and personages with the fabric of a romance, entertaining -and oftentimes fascinating.... One has the feeling that he is reading an accurate -description of real scenes, that the characters are living—so masterly is Professor -Church’s ability to reclothe history and make it as interesting as a romance.—<cite>Boston -Times.</cite></p> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><em>Just ready.</em></div> - <div class='c003'>STORIES FROM THE</div> - <div class='c003'>GREEK COMEDIANS.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>ARISTOPHANES.</li> - <li class='c008'>PHILEMON.</li> - <li class='c008'>DIPHILUS.</li> - <li class='c008'>MENANDER.</li> - <li class='c008'>APOLLODORUS.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div><em>With Sixteen Illustrations after the Antique.</em></div> - </div> -</div> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>THE STORY OF THE ILIAD. With Coloured Illustrations.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE STORY OF THE ODYSSEY. With Coloured Illustrations.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE BURNING OF ROME.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='pageno' id='Page_418'>418</span>BY MISS CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.</div> - <div class='c003'>AN OLD WOMAN’S OUTLOOK.</div> - <div class='c003'>(<em>Just ready.</em>)</div> - <div class='c003'>NOVELS AND TALES.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE. Illustrated.</li> - <li class='c008'>HEARTSEASE; <span class='sc'>or, The Brother’s Wife</span>. Illustrated.</li> - <li class='c008'>HOPES AND FEARS. Illustrated.</li> - <li class='c008'>DYNEVOR TERRACE. Illustrated.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE DAISY CHAIN. Illustrated.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE TRIAL: <span class='sc'>More Links of the Daisy Chain</span>. Illustrated.</li> - <li class='c008'>PILLARS OF THE HOUSE; <span class='sc'>or, Under Wode Under Rode</span>, 2 Vols. Illustrated.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE YOUNG STEPMOTHER. Illustrated.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE CLEVER WOMAN OF THE FAMILY. Illustrated.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE THREE BRIDES. Illustrated.</li> - <li class='c008'>MY YOUNG ALCIDES. Illustrated.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE CAGED LION. Illustrated.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE DOVE IN THE EAGLE’S NEST. Illustrated.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE CHAPLET OF PEARLS. Illustrated.</li> - <li class='c008'>LADY HESTER, AND THE DANVERS PAPERS. Illustrated.</li> - <li class='c008'>MAGNUM BONUM. Illustrated.</li> - <li class='c008'>LOVE AND LIFE. Illustrated.</li> - <li class='c008'>UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. A Story of the Captivity of Mary of Scotland.</li> - <li class='c008'>STRAY PEARLS. Memoirs of Margaret de Ribaumont, Viscountess of Belaise.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE ARMOURER’S ‘PRENTICES.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE TWO SIDES OF THE SHIELD.</li> - <li class='c008'>NUTTIE’S FATHER.</li> - <li class='c008'>SCENES AND CHARACTERS; <span class='sc'>or, Eighteen Months at Beechcroft</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>CHANTRY HOUSE.</li> - <li class='c008'>A MODERN TELEMACHUS.</li> - <li class='c008'>BEECHCROFT AT ROCKSTONE.</li> - <li class='c008'>WOMANKIND. A Book for Mothers and Daughters.</li> - <li class='c008'>A REPUTED CHANGELING; <span class='sc'>or, Three Seventh Years, Two Centuries Ago</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE TWO PENNILESS PRINCESSES. A Story of the Time of James I. of Scotland.</li> - <li class='c008'>THAT STICK.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div>MACMILLAN & CO.,</div> - <div>112 FOURTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<div><span class='pageno' id='Page_419'>419</span></div> -<div class='ph2'> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c001'> - <div>GOLDEN TREASURY SERIES.</div> - </div> -</div> - -</div> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> -<div class='nf-center c002'> - <div><span class='sc'>Uniformly Printed in 18mo, with Vignette Titles Engraved on Steel.</span></div> - <div class='c003'><em>New and Cheaper Edition. $1.00 each volume.</em></div> - </div> -</div> - -<ul class='index'> - <li class='c008'>THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF THE BEST SONGS AND LYRICAL POEMS. By <span class='sc'>F. T. Palgrave</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE CHILDREN’S GARLAND. Selected by <span class='sc'>Coventry Patmore</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE BOOK OF PRAISE. Selected by the <span class='sc'>Earl of Selborne</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE FAIRY BOOK. By the Author of “John Halifax, Gentleman.”</li> - <li class='c008'>THE BALLAD BOOK. Edited by <span class='sc'>William Allingham</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE JEST BOOK. Selected by <span class='sc'>Mark Lemon</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>BACON’S ESSAYS. By <span class='sc'>W. Aldis Wright</span>, M.A.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE PILGRIM’S PROGRESS. By <span class='sc'>John Bunyan</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE SUNDAY BOOK OF POETRY. Selected by <span class='sc'>C. F. Alexander</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>A BOOK OF GOLDEN DEEDS. By the Author of “The Heir of Redclyffe.”</li> - <li class='c008'>THE ADVENTURES OF ROBINSON CRUSOE. Edited by <span class='sc'>J. W. Clark</span>, M.A.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO. Translated by <span class='sc'>J.Ll. Davies</span>, M.A., and <span class='sc'>D. J. Vaughan</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE SONG BOOK. Words and Tunes selected by <span class='sc'>John Hullah</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>LA LYRE FRANÇAISE. Selected, with Notes, by <span class='sc'>G. Masson</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>TOM BROWN’S SCHOOL DAYS. By <span class='sc'>An Old Boy</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>A BOOK OF WORTHIES. Written anew by the Author of “The Heir of Redclyffe.”</li> - <li class='c008'>GUESSES AT TRUTH. By <span class='sc'>Two Brothers</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE CAVALIER AND HIS LADY.</li> - <li class='c008'>SCOTTISH SONG. Compiled by <span class='sc'>Mary Carlyle Aitken</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>DEUTSCHE LYRIK. Selected by Dr. <span class='sc'>Buchheim</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>CHRYSOMELA. A Selection from the Lyrical Poems of Robert Herrick. Arranged by <span class='sc'>F. T. Palgrave</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>SELECTED POEMS OF MATTHEW ARNOLD.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE STORY OF THE CHRISTIANS AND MOORS IN SPAIN. By <span class='sc'>Charlotte M. Yonge</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>LAMB’S TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE. Edited by the Rev. <span class='sc'>A. Ainger</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'><span class='pageno' id='Page_420'>420</span>SHAKESPEARE’S SONGS AND SONNETS. Edited, with Notes, by <span class='sc'>F. T. Palgrave</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>POEMS OF WORDSWORTH. Chosen and Edited by <span class='sc'>Matthew Arnold</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>POEMS OF SHELLEY. Edited by <span class='sc'>Stopford A. Brooke</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE ESSAYS OF JOSEPH ADDISON. Chosen and Edited by <span class='sc'>John Richard Green</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>POETRY OF BYRON. Chosen and Arranged by <span class='sc'>Matthew Arnold</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>SIR THOMAS BROWNE’S RELIGIO MEDICI, ETC. Edited by <span class='sc'>W. A. Greenhill</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE SPEECHES AND TABLE-TALK OF THE PROPHET MOHAMMED. Chosen and Translated by <span class='sc'>Stanley Lane Poole</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>SELECTIONS FROM THE WRITINGS OF WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. Edited by <span class='sc'>Sidney Colvin</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>SELECTIONS FROM COWPER’S POEMS. With an Introduction by <span class='sc'>Mrs. Oliphant</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>LETTERS OF WILLIAM COWPER. Edited by Rev. <span class='sc'>W. Benham</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE POETICAL WORKS OF JOHN KEATS. Edited by <span class='sc'>F. T. Palgrave</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE TRIAL AND DEATH OF SOCRATES. Translated into English by <span class='sc'>E. J. Church</span>, M.A.</li> - <li class='c008'>CHILDREN’S TREASURY OF ENGLISH SONG. Edited by <span class='sc'>F. T. Palgrave</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>IN MEMORIAM.</li> - <li class='c008'>TENNYSON’S LYRICAL POEMS. Edited by <span class='sc'>F. T. Palgrave</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>PLATO, PHÆDRUS, LYSIS, AND PROTAGORAS. Translated by Rev. <span class='sc'>J. Wright</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>THEOCRITUS, BION, AND MOSCHUS. In English Prose. By <span class='sc'>Andrew Lang</span>, M.A.</li> - <li class='c008'>BALLADEN UND ROMANZEN. Edited by <span class='sc'>C. A. Buchheim</span>, Ph.D.</li> - <li class='c008'>LYRIC LOVE. Edited by <span class='sc'>William Watson</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>HYMNS AND OTHER POEMS. By <span class='sc'>F. T. Palgrave</span>.</li> - <li class='c008'>THE ART OF WORLDLY WISDOM. <span class='sc'>Balthasas Gracian</span>.</li> -</ul> - -<div class='nf-center-c1'> - <div class='nf-center'> - <div>MACMILLAN & CO.,</div> - <div>112 FOURTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.</div> - </div> -</div> - -<div class='pbb'> - <hr class='pb c003' /> -</div> -<div class='tnotes'> - -<div class='chapter'> - <h2 class='c005'>TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</h2> -</div> - <ol class='ol_1 c002'> - <li>Added “the” between “spend” and “best” on p. <a href='#t342'>342</a>. - - </li> - <li>Silently corrected typographical errors. - - </li> - <li>Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. - </li> - </ol> - -</div> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Three Fates, by F. 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