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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. SHORTHOUSE. - -Powerful, striking, and fascinating romances.—_Anti-Jacobin._ - - BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE. - JOHN INGLESANT. - SIR PERCIVAL. - THE COUNTESS EVE. - A TEACHER OF THE VIOLIN. - THE LITTLE SCHOOLMASTER MARK. - - - BY MRS. CRAIK. - - (The Author of “John Halifax, Gentleman.”) - - LITTLE SUNSHINE’S HOLIDAY. - ADVENTURES OF A BROWNIE. - ALICE LEARMONT. - OUR YEAR. - - - BY MRS. HUMPHRY WARD. - -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.—_New York Tribune._ - - ROBERT ELSMERE. - THE HISTORY OF DAVID GRIEVE. - MILLY AND OLLY. - - - BY RUDYARD KIPLING. - -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.—_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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