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.