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.