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.