When George met Mamie on that evening, he hoped that she would ask no
questions as to the way in which he had employed his afternoon, for he
knew that if she discovered that he had been with Constance Fearing she
would in all probability make some disagreeable observations about the
latter, of a kind which he did not wish to hear. Without having defined
the situation in his own mind, he felt that Mamie was jealous of
Constance and would show it on every occasion. As a general rule she
followed her mother’s advice and asked him no questions when he had been
out alone. But this evening her curiosity was aroused by an almost
imperceptible change in his manner. His face was a shade darker, his
voice a shade more grave than usual. After dinner, Totty stayed in the
drawing-room to write letters and left the two together upon the
verandah. It was very dark and they sat near each other in low straw
chairs.
“What have you been doing with yourself?” Mamie asked, almost as soon as
they were alone.
“Something that will surprise you,” George answered. “I have been with
Miss Fearing.”
He had no intention of concealing the fact, for he saw that such a
course would be foolish in the extreme. He meant to go and see Constance
again, as he had promised her, and he saw that it would be folly to give
a clandestine appearance to their meetings.
“Oh!” exclaimed Mamie, “that accounts for it all!” He could not see her
face distinctly, but her tone told him that she was smiling to herself.
“Accounts for what?” he asked.
“For a great many things. For your black looks and your gloomy view of
the dinner, and your general unsociability.”
“I do not feel in the least gloomy or unsociable,” George said drily.
“You have too much imagination.”
“Why did you go to see her?”
“I did not. I landed on their place without knowing it, and when I had
been there a quarter of an hour, Miss Fearing suddenly appeared upon the
scene. Is there anything else you would like to know?”
“Now you are angry!” Mamie exclaimed. “Of course. I knew you would be.
That shows that your conversation with Conny was either very pleasant or
very disagreeable. I am not naturally curious, but I would like to know
what you talked about!”
“Would you?” George laughed a little roughly. “We did not talk of
you—why should you want to know?”
“Oh, that mine enemy would write a book!” Mamie exclaimed, “and put into
it an accurate report of your conversations, and send it to me to be
criticised.”
“Why are you so vicious? Let Miss Fearing alone, if you do not like her.
She has done you no harm, and there is no reason why you should call her
your enemy, and quote the Bible against her.”
“I hate to hear you call her Miss Fearing. I know you call her Constance
when you are alone with her.”
“Mamie, you are a privileged person, but you sometimes go too far. It is
of no consequence what I call her. Let us drop the subject and talk of
something else, unless you will speak of her reasonably and quietly.”
“Do you expect me to go with you when you make your next visit?”
“I shall be very glad if you will, provided that you will behave
yourself like a sensible creature.”
“As I did the other day, when she was here? Is that the way?” Mamie
laughed.
“No. You behaved abominably——”
“And she has been complaining to you, and that is the reason why you are
lecturing me, and making the night hideous with your highly moral and
excellent advice. Give it up, George. It is of no use. I am bad by
nature.”
George was silent for a few minutes. It was clear that if he meant to
see Constance from time to time in future matters must be established
upon a permanent basis of some sort.
“Mamie,” he said at last, “let us be serious. Are you really as fond of
me as you seem to be? Will you do something, not to please me, but to
help me?”
“Provided it is easy and I like to do it!” Mamie laughed. “Of course I
will, George,” she added a moment later in a serious tone.
“Very well. It is this. Forget, or pretend to forget, that there is such
a person as Miss Fearing in the world. Or else go and see her and be as
good and charming as you know how to be.”
“You give me my choice? I may do either?”
“It will help me if you will do either. I cannot hear her spoken of
unkindly, and I cannot see her treated as you treated her the other day,
without the shadow of a cause.”
“I think there is cause enough, considering how she treated you. Oh,
yes, I know what you will say—that there never was any engagement, and
all the rest of it. It is very honourable of you, and I admire you men
much for putting it in that way. But we all knew, and it is of no use to
deny it, you know.”
“You do not believe me? I give you my word of honour that there was no
engagement. Do you understand? I made a fool of myself, and when I came
to put the question I was disappointed. She was as free to refuse me as
you are now, if I asked you to marry me. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly,” said Mamie in a rather unnatural tone. “Since you give me
your word, it is a different thing. I have been mistaken. I am very
sorry.”
“And will you do what I ask?”
“If you give me my choice, I will go and see her to-morrow. I will do it
to please you—though I do not understand how it can help you.”
“It will, nevertheless, and I shall be grateful to you.”
The result of this conversation was that Mamie actually crossed the
river on the following day and spent an hour with Constance Fearing to
the great surprise of the latter, especially when she saw that her
visitor was determined to be agreeable, as though to efface the
impression she had made a few days earlier. Mamie was very careful to
say nothing in the least pointed, nor anything which could be construed
as an allusion to George.
Totty saw and wondered, but said nothing. She supposed that Mamie had
made the visit because George had asked her to, and she was well
satisfied that George should take the position of asking Mamie to do
anything for him. That sort of thing, she said to herself, helps on a
flirtation wonderfully.
As for George he did not look forward to his next meeting with Constance
with any kind of pleasure. It was distinctly disagreeable, and he wished
that something might happen to prevent it. He did not know whether
Constance would tell Grace of his coming, but it struck him that he
would not like to be surprised by Grace when he was sitting under the
trees with her sister. Grace would assuredly not understand why he was
there, and he would be placed in a very false position.
So far, he was right. Constance had not mentioned her meeting with
George to any one, and had no intention of doing so. She, like George,
said to herself that Grace would not understand, and it seemed wisest
not to give her understanding a chance. Of late George had been rarely
mentioned, and there was a tendency to coldness between the sisters if
his name was spoken, even accidentally. Constance had at first been
grateful for the other’s readiness to help her on the memorable first of
May, but as time went on, she began to feel that Grace was in some way
responsible for her unhappiness and she resented any allusion to the
past. Fortunately, Grace was very much occupied with her own existence
at that time and was little inclined to find fault with other people’s
views of life. She had married the man she loved, and who loved her, for
whom she had waited long, and of whom she was immensely proud. He was
exactly suited to her taste and represented her ideal of man in every
way. She would rather talk of him than of George Wood, and she preferred
his company to her sister’s when he was at home. They were a couple
whose happiness would have become proverbial if it had been allowed to
continue; one of those couples who are not interesting but to watch whom
is a satisfaction, and whom it is always pleasant to meet. There was
just the right difference of age between them, there was just the right
difference in height, the proper contrast in complexion, both had much
the same tastes, both were very much in earnest, very sensible, and very
faithful. It was to be foreseen that in the course of years they would
grow more and more alike, and perhaps more and more prejudiced in favour
of their own way of looking at things, that they would have sensible,
good-looking children, who would do all those things which they ought to
do and rejoice their parents’ hearts, in short that they would lead a
peaceful and harmonious life and be in every way an honour to their
principles and a model to all young couples yet unmarried. They were
people to whom nothing unusual would ever happen, people who, if they
had had the opportunity to invent gunpowder, would have held a
matrimonial consultation upon the matter and would have decided that
explosives should be avoided with care, and had better not be invented
at all. Since their marriage they had both been less in sympathy with
Constance than before, and the latter was beginning to suspect that it
would not be wise for them to live together when they returned to town.
She was in some doubt, however, about making any definite arrangements.
The elderly female relation who had been a companion and a chaperon to
the two young girls, was on her hands, and had begun to show signs of
turning into an invalid. It was impossible to turn her adrift, though
she was manifestly in the way at present, and yet if Constance decided
to live by herself, the good lady was not the sort of person she needed.
She gave a good deal of thought to the matter, and turned it over in
every way, little suspecting that an event was about to occur which
would render all such arrangements futile.
On the Sunday afternoon agreed upon, George got into the boat alone and
pulled away into the stream without offering any explanation of his
departure to Mrs. Trimm or to Mamie. He took it for granted that they
intended to go to church as usual and that he would not be missed.
Moreover, he owed no account of his doings to any one, as he said to
himself, and would assuredly give none. He started at an early hour, but
was surprised to see that Constance was at the place of meeting before
him. As he glanced over his shoulder to see that he was rowing for the
right point, he caught sight of her white serge dress beneath the trees.
“I have been watching you ever since you started,” she said, holding out
her hand to him. “Why do you always row instead of sailing? There is a
good breeze, too.”
“There are two reasons,” he answered. “In the first place, the Trimms
have no sail-boat, and secondly, if they had, I should not know how to
manage it.”
“My brother-in-law and Grace are out. Do you see their boat off there?
Just under the bluff. They said they would probably go to your cousin’s
a little later. And now sit down. Do you know? I was afraid you would
not come, until I saw your boat.”
“What made you think that? Did I not promise that I would come?”
“Yes—I know. But I was afraid something would happen to prevent you—and
then, when one looks forward to something for a whole week, it so often
does not happen.”
“That is true. But then, presentiments are always wrong. What have you
been doing with yourself all the week?” George asked, feeling that since
he had come so far, it was incumbent upon him to try and make
conversation.
“Not much. I had one surprise—your cousin Mamie came over on Tuesday and
made a long visit. I had not expected her, I confess, but she was in
very good spirits and talked charmingly.”
“She is a very nice girl,” said George indifferently.
“Of course—I know. But when we were all over there the other day I
thought—” she stopped suddenly and looked at George. “Is it forbidden
ground?” she asked, with a slight change of colour.
“What? Mamie? No. Why should we not talk about her?”
“Well—I fancied she did not like me. She said one or two things that I
thought were meant to hurt me. They did, too. I suppose I am very
sensitive. After all, she looked perfectly innocent, and probably meant
nothing by it.”
“She often says foolish things which she does not mean,” said George
reflectively. “But she is a very good girl, all the same. You say she
was agreeable the other day—what did you talk about?”
“She raved about you,” said Constance. “She is a great admirer of yours.
Did you know it?”
“I know she likes me,” George answered coolly. “Her mother is a very old
friend of mine and has been very kind to me. She saw that I was worn out
with work, and insisted upon my spending the summer with them, as Sherry
Trimm is abroad and they had no man in the house. So Mamie came over
here to sing my praises, did she?”
“Yes, and she sang them very well. She is so enthusiastic—it is a
pleasure to listen to her.”
“I should think you would find that sort of thing rather fatiguing,”
said George with a smile.
“Strange to say I did not. I could bear a great deal of it without being
in the least tired. But, as I told you, I was surprised by her visit. Do
you know what I thought? I thought that you had made her come and be
nice, because you had seen that I had been annoyed when we were over
there. It would have been so like you.”
“Would it? If I had done what you suppose, I would not tell you and I am
very glad she came. I wish you knew each other better, and liked each
other.”
“We can, if you would be glad,” said Constance. “I could go over there
and ask her here, and see a great deal of her, and I could make her like
me. I will if you wish it.”
“Why should I put you to so much trouble, for a matter of so little
importance?”
“It would be a pleasure to do anything for you,” answered the young girl
simply. “I wish I might.”
George looked at her gravely and saw that she was very much in earnest.
The readiness with which she offered to put herself to any amount of
inconvenience at the slightest hint from him, proved she was looking out
for some occasion of proving her friendship.
“You are very kind, Constance,” he said gently. “I thank you very much.”
A silence followed, broken only by the singing of the wind in the old
trees. The sky was overcast and there were light squalls on the water.
Presently George began to talk again and an hour passed quickly away,
far more quickly and pleasantly than he had believed possible. They had
many thoughts and ideas in common, and the first constraint being
removed it was impossible that they should be long together without
talking freely.
“Why not kill him?” said Constance in a critical tone. “It would solve
many difficulties, and after all you do not want him any more.”
They were talking of the book he was now writing. Insensibly they had
approached the subject, and being once near it, George had not resisted
the temptation to tell her the story.
“It would be so easy,” she continued. “Take him out in a boat and upset
him, you know. They say drowning is a pleasant death. A boat like my
brother-in-law’s—there it is. Do you see?”
Grace and her husband had been across to see Totty and were returning.
The breeze was uncertain, and from time to time the boat lay over in a
way that looked dangerous.
“Murder and sudden death!” said George with a light laugh. “Do you not
think it would be more artistic to let him live? When I was a starving
critic, that was one of my favourite attacks. At this point the author,
for reasons doubtless known to himself, unexpectedly drowns his hero,
and what might have proved a very fair story is brought to an abrupt
close. You know the style. I used to do it very well. Do you not think
they will say that?”
“What does it matter? Besides, it is only a suggestion, and this
particular man is not the hero. I never liked him from the beginning,
and I should be glad if he were brought to an awful end!”
“How heartless! But he is not so bad as you think. I never could tell a
story well in this way, and you have not read the book. By Jove! I
believe they have brought over Mamie and her mother. There are a lot of
people in the boat.”
He was watching the little craft rather anxiously. It struck him that he
would rather not be found sitting under the trees with Constance, by
that particular party of people.
“You do not think they will come here, do you?” he asked, turning to his
companion. It seemed almost as natural as formerly that they should
agree in not wishing to be interrupted by Grace, nor by any one else.
“Oh no!” Constance answered. “They will not come here. The buoy is
anchored opposite the landing, much farther down, and John could not
moor her to the shore. It is odd, though, that he should be running so
free. He is losing way by coming towards us.”
“I am sure they have seen us and mean to land here,” said George in a
tone that betrayed his annoyance.
Both watched the little boat in silence for some minutes.
“You are right,” Constance said at last. “They are coming here. It is of
no use to run away,” she added, quite naturally. “They must have seen my
white frock long ago. Yes, here they are.”
By this time the boat was less than twenty yards from the shore and
within speaking distance. She was a small, light craft, half-decked, and
rigged as a cutter. John Bond was steering and the three ladies were
seated in the middle. John let her head come to the wind and sang out—
“Wood! I say!”
“Hullo!” George answered, springing to his feet and advancing to the
edge of the land.
“Can you take the ladies ashore in your boat?”
“All right!” George sprang into the light wherry, taking the painter
with him, and pulled alongside of the party. In a moment the three
ladies were over the side and crowded together in the stern.
“You will meet us at the house, dear, won’t you?” said Grace to her
husband just as George was turning his boat to row back.
“Yes, as soon as I can take her to her moorings,” answered John, who was
holding the helm up with one hand and loosening the sheet with the
other.
As George rowed towards the land he faced the river and saw what
happened. The three ladies were all looking in the opposite direction.
The little cutter’s head went round, slowly at first, and then more
quickly as the wind filled the sail. At that moment a sharp squall swept
over the water. George could see that John was trying to let the sheet
go, but the rope was jammed and the sail remained close hauled, as it
had been when he made the boat lie to. She had little ballast in her,
and the weight of the ladies being out of her, left her far too light.
George was not a practical sailor, and he turned pale as he saw the
cutter lie over upon her side, though he supposed it might not be as
dangerous as it looked. A moment later he stopped rowing. The little
vessel had capsized and was floating bottom upwards. John Bond was
nowhere to be seen.
“Can your husband swim?” he asked quickly of Grace. She started
violently as she saw the look on his face, turned, caught sight of the
sail-boat’s keel and then screamed.
“Save him! Save him!” she cried in agony.
“Take the sculls, Mamie!” cried George as he sprang over the side into
the river. He had not even thrown off his shoes or his flannel jacket.
George had calculated that he could reach the place where the accident
had occurred much sooner by swimming than in the boat, which was long
and narrow and needed some time to turn, and which moreover was moving
in the opposite direction. He was a first-rate swimmer and diver and
trusted to his strength to overcome the disadvantage he was under in
being dressed. In a few seconds he had reached the cutter. John Bond was
nowhere to be seen. Without hesitation he drew a long breath and dived
under the boat. The unfortunate man had become entangled in the ropes
and was under the vessel, struggling desperately to free himself. George
laid hold of him just as he was making his last convulsive effort. But
it was too late. The wet sail and the slack of the sheet had somehow
fastened themselves about him. He grasped the arm with which George
tried to help him, and his grip was like a steel vice, for John Bond was
a very strong man and he was in his death agony. George now struggled
for his own life, trying to free himself from the death clasp that held
him, making desperate efforts to get his head under the side of the boat
in order to breathe the air. But he could not loosen the dead man’s iron
hold. The effort to hold his breath could go no further, he opened his
mouth, and made as though he were breathing, taking the cool fresh water
into his lungs, while still exerting his utmost strength to get free.
Then a delicious dreamy sleep seemed to come over him and he lost
consciousness.
Mamie Trimm showed admirable self-possession. She brought her mother and
Grace ashore in spite of their cries and entreaties, for she knew that
they could do nothing, and she herself did not believe at first that
anything serious had happened, and told them so as calmly as she could.
She knew that George was an admirable swimmer and she had no fear for
him, though as she reached the land she saw him dive under the capsized
boat. He would reappear in thirty seconds at the most, and would
probably bring John Bond up with him. She had great difficulty in making
Grace go ashore, however, and without her mother’s assistance she would
have found it altogether impossible. The four women stood near together
straining their sight, when nothing was to be seen. The struggles of the
two men moved the light hull of the cutter during several seconds and
then all was quiet.
With parted lips and blanched cheeks Constance Fearing stared at the
water, leaning against the tree that was nearest to the edge. Grace
would have fallen to the ground if Mrs. Trimm had not held her arms
about her. Mamie stood motionless and white, expecting every moment to
see George’s dark head rise to the surface, believing that he could not
be drowned.
At that moment a third boat, rowed by four strong pairs of arms shot
past the wooded point at a tremendous speed, the water flying to right
and left of the sharp prow, and churning in the wake, while the hard
breathing of the desperate rowers could be heard.
“Jump on her keel, fellows!” roared a lusty voice. “There are four of us
and we can right her. They’re both under the stern!”
In an instant, as it seemed, the little cutter was lying on her side,
and the four women could see the bodies of John Bond and George Wood
clasped together and entangled in the sail, but partly drawn out of
water by the lifting of the boat’s side. Quicker than thought Mamie was
in the wherry again and out on the water. The cutter had drifted in
shore with the current during the two or three minutes in which all had
happened. The girl saw that the rescuers needed help and was with them
in an instant. What she did she never remembered afterwards, but for
many days the strain upon her strength left her bruised and aching from
head to foot. In less than a minute the bodies of the two men were in
her boat and two of the newcomers were pulling her ashore. The others
caught their own craft again and swam to land, pushing it before them.
With a cry that seemed to break her heart Grace fell upon her husband’s
corpse. He was dead, and she knew it, though two of the men did
everything in their power to restore him. They were all gentlemen who
lived by the river, and knew what to do in such cases.
On the other side the two young girls knelt beside the body of George
Wood, both their faces as white as his, both silent, both helping to
their utmost in the attempt to bring him to life. The men were prompt
and determined in their action. One of them was a physician. For many
minutes they moved George’s arms up and down with a regular, cadenced
motion, so as to expand and contract the lungs and produce an artificial
breathing.
“I am afraid it is all up,” said one in a low voice to his companion.
“Not yet,” answered the other, who was the doctor. “I believe he is
alive.”
He was right. A minute later George’s eyelids trembled.
“He is alive,” said Constance in a strange, happy voice.
Mamie said nothing, but her great grey eyes opened wide with joy. Then
all at once, with a smothered cry she threw herself upon him and kissed
his dark face passionately, heedless of the two strangers as she was of
the girl who was kneeling opposite to her.
Constance seized her by the arm and pushed her away from George with a
strength no one would have suspected her of possessing.
“What is he to you, that you should do that?” she asked in a tone
trembling with passion.
Mamie’s eyes flashed angrily as she shook herself free and raised her
head.
“I love him,” she said proudly. “What are you to him that you should
come between us?”
George opened his eyes slowly.
“Constance!” He could hardly articulate the name, and a violent fit of
coughing succeeded the effort.
The two girls looked into each other’s eyes. Both had heard the
syllables, and both knew what they meant. In Constance’s face there was
pride, triumph, supreme happiness. In Mamie’s closely-set lips and
flashing eyes there was implacable hatred. She rose to her feet and drew
back, slowly, while Constance remained kneeling on the ground. One
moment more she remained where she was, gazing at her retreating rival.
Then, with one more glance at George’s reviving eyes, she sprang up and
went to her sister’s side.
Grace’s grief was uncontrollable and terrible to see. During the night
that followed it was impossible to make her leave her husband’s body.
She was far too strong to break down or to go mad, and she suffered
everything that a human being can suffer without a moment’s respite.
Constance never left her, though she could do nothing to soothe her
fearful sorrow. Words were of no use, for Grace could not hear them.
There was nothing to be done, but to wait and pray that she might become
exhausted by the protracted agony.
It was late in the evening when the four gentlemen who had saved
George’s life brought him home with Mamie and her mother. There had been
much to be thought of before he could think of returning. They had
carried him to Constance’s house at first, for he had been unable to
walk, and they had given him some of the dead man’s clothes in place of
his own dripping garments, had chafed him and warmed him and poured
stimulants down his throat. The doctor in the party had strongly urged
him to spend the night where he was. But nothing could induce him to do
that. As soon as he was strong enough to walk he insisted on recrossing
the river.
Even Totty was terribly shocked and depressed by what had happened. She
was not without heart and the tears came into her eyes when she thought
of Grace’s cruel bereavement.
“Oh, George,” she said before they retired for the night, “you don’t
think anything more could have been done, do you? It was quite
impossible to save him, was it not?”
A faint smile passed over the tired face of the man who had to all
intents and purposes sacrificed his own life in the attempt to save John
Bond, who had been as dead as he so far as his own sensations were
concerned.
“I did what I could,” he answered simply.
Mamie looked keenly into his eyes, as she bade him good-night. Her
mother was already at the door.
“You love Constance Fearing still,” she said in a tone that could not
reach Totty’s ears.
“I hope not,” George answered with sudden coldness.
“When you opened your eyes, you said ‘Constance’ quite distinctly. We
both heard it.”
“Did I? That was very foolish. The next time I am drowned in the
presence of ladies I will try and be more careful.”