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.