“We had better say nothing about it for the present,” said Totty to
George on the following day. “It will only cause complications, and it
will be much easier when we are all in town.”
The two were seated together in the little morning-room, discussing the
future and telling over what had happened. George was in a frame of mind
which he did not recognise, and he seemed laughable in his own eyes,
though he was far from being unhappy. His surprise at the turn events
had taken had not yet worn off and he could not help being amused at
himself for having known his own mind so little. At the same time he was
grateful to Totty for the part she had played and was ready to yield to
all her wishes in the matter. With regard to announcing the engagement,
she told him that it was quite unnecessary to do so yet, and that, among
other reasons, it would be better in the eyes of the world to publish
the social banns after Sherrington had returned from abroad. Moreover,
if the engagement were made known at once, it would be in accordance
with custom that George should leave the house and find a lodging in the
nearest town.
“I cannot tell why, I am sure,” said Mrs. Trimm, “but it is always done,
and I should be so sorry if you had to leave us just now.”
“It would not be pleasant,” George answered, thoughtfully. He had wished
to inform Constance as soon as possible.
So the matter was decided, somewhat to his dissatisfaction in one
respect, but quite in accordance with his inclinations in all others.
And it was thereupon further agreed that as soon as the weather
permitted, they would all return to town, and make active preparations
for the wedding. Totty could see no reason whatever why the day should
not be fixed early in November. She declared emphatically that she hated
long engagements, and that in this case especially there could be no
object in putting off the marriage. She assured Mamie that by using a
little energy everything could be made ready in plenty of time, and she
promised that there should be no hitch in the proceedings.
The week that followed the events last narrated slipped pleasantly and
quickly away. As George had said at once, he was a very happy man; that
is to say, he believed himself to be so, because the position in which
he found himself was new, agreeable and highly flattering to his vanity.
He could not but believe that he was taken into the family of his cousin
solely on his own merits. Being in total ignorance of the fortune
between which and himself the only barrier was the enfeebled health of
an invalid old man, he very naturally attributed Totty’s anxiety to see
him marry her daughter to the causes she enumerated. He was still modest
enough to feel that he was being very much overrated, and to fear lest
he might some day prove a disappointment to his future wife and her
family; for the part of the desirable young man was new to him, and he
did not know how he should acquit himself in the performance of it. But
the delicious belief that he was loved for himself, as he was, gave
energy to his good resolutions and maintained at a genial warmth the
feelings he entertained for her who loved him.
He must not be judged too harshly. In offering to marry Mamie, he had
felt that he was doing his duty as an honourable man, and he assured
himself as well as he could that he was able to promise the most sincere
affection and unchanging fidelity in return for her passionate love. It
was in one respect a sacrifice, for it meant that he must act in
contradiction to the convictions of his whole life. He had always
believed in love, and he had frequently preached that true and mutual
passion was the only foundation for lasting happiness in marriage. At
the moment of acceding to Mrs. Trimm’s very clearly expressed proposal,
George had felt that Mamie would be to him hereafter what she had always
been hitherto, neither more nor less. He did not wish to marry her, and
if he agreed to do so, it was because he was assured that her happiness
depended upon it, and that he had made himself responsible for her
happiness by his conduct towards her. Being once persuaded of this, and
assured that he alone had done the mischief, he was chivalrous enough to
have married the girl, though she had been ugly, ill-educated and poor,
instead of being rich, refined and full of charm, and to all outward
appearances he would have married her with as good a grace and would
have behaved towards her afterwards with as much consideration as though
he had loved her. But the fact that Mamie possessed so many real and
undeniable graces and advantages had made the sacrifice seem singularly
easy, and the twenty-four hours that succeeded the moment of forming the
resolution, had sufficed to destroy the idea of sacrifice altogether.
Hitherto, George had fought against the belief that he was loved, and
had done his best to laugh at it. Now, he was at liberty to accept that
belief and to make it one of the chief pleasures of his thoughts. It
flattered his heart, as Totty’s professed appreciation of his fine
qualities flattered his intelligence. In noble natures flattery produces
a strong desire to acquit the debt which seems to be created by the
acceptance of undue praise. Men of such temper do not like to receive
and give nothing in return, nor can they bear to be thought braver, more
generous or more gifted than they are. Possessing that high form of
self-esteem which is honourable pride, they feel all the necessity of
being in their own eyes worthy of the estimation they enjoy in the
opinion of other men. The hatred of all false positions is strong in
them and they are not quick to believe that they are justly valued by
the world.
George found it easy to imagine that he loved the young girl, when he
had once admitted the fact that she loved him. It was indeed the
pleasantest deception he had ever submitted to, or encouraged himself in
accepting. He hid from himself the fact that his heart had never been
satisfied, considering that it was better to take the realities of a
brilliant future than to waste time and sentiment in dreaming of
illusions. There was nothing to be gained by weighing the undeveloped
capabilities of his affections against the manifestations of them which
had hitherto been thrust upon his notice. He was doing what he believed
to be best for every one as well as for himself, and no good could come
of a hypercriticism of his sensibilities. Mamie was supremely happy, and
it was pleasant to feel that he was at once the cause and the central
figure in her happiness. The course of true love should run pleasantly
for her at least, and its course would not be hard for him to follow.
A fortnight passed before he thought of fulfilling his promise and
visiting Grace. The attraction was not great, but he felt a certain
curiosity to know how she was recovering from the shock she had
sustained. Once more he crossed the river and walked up the long avenue
to the old house. As he was passing through the garden he unexpectedly
came upon Constance, who was wandering idly through the deserted walks.
“It is so long since we have met!” she exclaimed, with an intonation of
gladness, as she put out her hand.
“Yes,” George answered. “I came once to see your sister, but you were
not with her. How is she?”
“She is well—as well as any one could expect. I have tried to persuade
her to go away, but she will not, though I am sure it is bad for her to
stay here.”
“But you cannot stay for ever. It is already autumn—it will soon be
winter.”
“I cannot tell,” Constance answered indifferently enough. “I confess
that I care very little whether we pass the winter here or in town,
provided Grace is contented.”
“You ought to consider yourself to some extent. You look tired, and you
must weary of all this sadness and dismal solitude. It stands to reason
that you should need a change.”
“No change would make any difference to me,” said Constance, walking
slowly along the path and swinging her parasol slowly from side to side.
“Do you mean that you are ill?” George asked.
“No indeed! I am never really ill. But it is a waste of breath to talk
of such things. Come into the house. Grace will be so glad to see you;
she has been anticipating your visit for a long time.”
“Presently,” said George. “The afternoons are still long and it is
pleasant here in the garden.”
“Do you want to talk to me?” asked the young girl, with the slightest
intonation of irony.
“I wish to tell you something—something that will surprise you.”
“I am not easily surprised. Is it about yourself?”
“Yes—it is not announced yet, but I want you to know it. You will tell
no one, of course. I am going to be married.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Constance, with a slight start.
“Yes. I am sure you will be glad to hear it. I am engaged to be married
to my cousin, Mamie Trimm.”
Constance was looking so ill, already, that it could not be said that
she turned pale at the announcement. She walked quietly on, gazing
before her steadily at some distant object.
“It is rather sudden, I suppose,” said George in a tone that sounded
unpleasantly apologetic in his own ears.
“Rather,” Constance answered with an effort. “I confess that I am
astonished. You have my best congratulations.”
She paused, and reflected that her words were very cold. She felt an odd
chill in herself as well as in her language, and tried to shake it off.
“If you are happy, I am very glad,” she said. “It was not what I
expected, but I am very glad.”
“Thanks. But, Constance, what did you expect—something very different?
Why?”
“Nothing—nothing—it is very natural, of course. When are you to be
married?” All the coldness had returned to her voice as she put the
question.
“I believe it is to be in November. It will certainly be before
Christmas. Mr. Trimm is expected to-morrow or the next day. He cabled
his consent.”
“Yes? Well, I am glad it has all gone so smoothly. I feel cold—is it not
chilly here? Let us go in and find Grace.”
She began to walk more quickly and in a few moments they reached the
house, not having exchanged any further words. As they entered the door
she stopped and turned to her companion.
“Grace is in the drawing-room,” she said. “She wants to see you
alone—so, good-bye. I hope with all my heart that you will be happy—my
dear friend. Good-bye.”
She turned and left him standing in the great hall. He watched her
retreating figure as she entered the staircase which led away to the
right. He had expected something different in her reception of the news,
and did not know whether to feel disappointed or not. She had received
the announcement with very great calmness, so far as he could judge.
That at least was a satisfaction. He did not wish to have his equanimity
disturbed at present by any great exhibition of feeling on the part of
any one but himself. As he opened the door before him he wondered
whether Constance were really glad or sorry to learn that he was to be
married.
Grace rose and came towards him. He could not help thinking that she
looked like a beautiful figure of fate as she stood in the middle of the
room and held out her hand to take his. She seemed taller and more
imposing since her husband’s death and there was something interesting
in her face which had not been there in old times, a look of greater
strength, combined with a profound sadness, which would have attracted
the attention of any student of humanity.
“I am very glad to see you—it is so good of you to come,” she said.
“I could not do less, since I had promised—even apart from the pleasure
it gives me to see you. I met your sister in the garden. She told me she
hoped that you would be induced to go away for a time.”
Grace shook her head.
“Why should I go away?” she asked. “I am less unhappy here than I should
be anywhere else. There is nothing to take me to any other place. Why
not stay here?”
“It would be better for you both. Your sister is not looking well.
Indeed I was shocked by the change in her.”
“Really? Poor child! It is not gay for her. I am very poor company. You
thought she was changed, then?”
“Very much,” George answered, thoughtfully.
“And it is a long time since you have seen her. Poor Constance! It will
end in my going away for her sake rather than my own. I wonder what
would be best for her, after all.”
“A journey—a change of some sort,” George suggested. He found it very
hard to talk with the heartbroken young widow, though he could not help
admiring her, and wondering how long it would be before she took another
husband.
“No,” Grace answered. “That is not all. She is unsettled, uncertain in
all she does. If she goes on in this way she will turn into one of those
morbid, introspective women who do nothing but imagine that they have
committed great sins and are never satisfied with their own repentance.”
“She is too sensible for that——”
“No, she is not sensible, where her conscience is concerned. I wish some
one would come and take her out of herself—some one strong,
enthusiastic, who would shake her mind and heart free of all this
nonsense.”
“In other words,” said George with a smile, “you wish that your sister
would marry.”
“Yes, if she would marry the right man—a man like you.”
“Like me!” George exclaimed in great surprise.
“Yes—since I have said it. I did not mean to tell you so. I wish she
would marry you after all. You will say that I am capricious and you
will laugh at the way in which I have changed my mind. I admit it. I
made a mistake. I misjudged you. If it were all to be lived over again,
instead of paying no attention to what happened, as I did during the
last year, I would make her marry you. It would have been much better. I
made a great mistake in letting her alone.”
“I had never expected to hear you say that,” said George, looking into
her brown eyes and trying to read her thoughts.
“I am not given to talking about myself, as you may have noticed, but I
once told you that my only virtue was honesty. What I think, I say, if
there is any need of saying anything. I told you that I never hated you,
and it is quite true. I disliked you and I did not want you for a
brother-in-law. In the old days, more than a year ago, Constance and I
used to quarrel about you. She admired everything you did, and I saw no
reason to do so. That was before you published your first book, when you
used to write so many articles in the magazines. She thought them all
perfection, and I thought some of them were trash and I said so. I
daresay you think it is not very complimentary of me to tell you what I
think and thought. Perhaps it is not. There is no reason why I should
make compliments after what I have said. You have written much that I
have liked since, and you have made a name for yourself. My judgment may
be worthless, but those who can judge have told me that some things you
have done will live. But that is not the reason why I have changed my
mind about you. If you were still writing those absurd little notices in
the papers, I should think just as well of you, yourself, as I do now.
You are not what I thought you were—a clever, rather weak, vain creature
without the strength of being enthusiastic, nor the courage to be
cynical. That is exactly what I thought. You will forgive me if I tell
you so frankly, will you not? I found out that you are strong, brave and
honourable. I do not expect that you will ever think again of marrying
my sister, but if you do I shall be glad, and if you do not, I shall
always be sorry that I did not use all my influence in making Constance
accept you. That is a long speech, but every word of it is true, and I
am glad I have told you just what I think.”
George was silent for some seconds. There were assuredly many people in
the world from whom he would have resented such an exposition of opinion
in regard to himself. But Grace was not one of these. He respected her
judgment in a way he could not explain, and he felt that all she had
said confirmed his own ideas about her character.
“I am glad you have told me,” he answered at length. “I have changed my
mind about you, too. I used to feel that you were the opposing barrier
between your sister and me, and that but for you we should have been
happily married long ago. I hated you accordingly, with a fine
unreasoning hatred. You were very frank with me when you came to give me
her decision. I believed you at the moment, but when I was out of the
house I began to think that you had arranged the whole thing between
you, and that you were the moving power. It was natural enough, but my
common sense told me that I was wrong within a month of the time. I have
liked your frankness, in my heart, all along. It has been the best thing
in the whole business.”
“You and I understand each other,” said Grace, leaning back in her seat
and watching his dark face from beneath her heavy, drooping lids. “It is
strange. I never thought we should, and until lately I never thought it
would be pleasant if we did.”
George was struck by the familiarity of her tone. She had always been
the person of all others who had treated him with the most distant
civility, and whose phrases in speaking with him had been the coldest
and the most carefully chosen. He had formerly wondered how her voice
would sound if she were suddenly to say something friendly.
“You are very good,” he answered presently. “With regard to the rest—to
what you have said about your sister. I have done my best to put the
past out of my mind, and I have succeeded. When I met her in the garden
just now, I told her what has happened in my life. I am to be married
very soon. I did not mean to tell any one but Miss Fearing until it was
announced publicly, but I cannot help telling you, after what you have
said. I am going to marry my cousin in two months.”
Grace did not change her position nor open her eyes any wider. She had
expected to hear the news before long.
“Yes,” she said, “I thought that would happen. I am very glad to hear
it. Mamie is thorough and will suit you much better than Constance ever
could. I wish that Constance were half as natural and enthusiastic and
sensible. She has so much, but she has not that.”
“No enthusiasm?” asked George, remembering how he had lived upon her
appreciation of his work.
“No. She has changed very much since you used to see her every day. You
had a good influence over her, you stirred her mind, though you did not
succeed in stirring her heart enough. She cares for nothing now, she
never talks, never reads, never does anything but write long letters to
Dr. Drinkwater about her poor people—or her soul, I do not quite know
which. No, you need not look grave, I am not abusing her. Poor child, I
wish I could do anything to make her forget that same soul of hers, and
those eternal hospitals and charities! Your energy did her good. It
roused her and made her think. She has a heart somewhere, I suppose, and
she has plenty of head, but she smothers them both with her soul.”
“She will get over that,” said George. “She will outgrow it. It is only
a phase.”
“She will never get over it, until she is married,” Grace answered in a
tone of conviction.
“It is very strange. You talk now as if you were her mother instead of
being her younger sister.”
“Her younger sister!” Grace exclaimed with a sigh. “I am a hundred years
older than Constance. Older in everything, in knowing the meanings of
the two great words—happiness and suffering.”
“Indeed, you may say that,” George answered in a low voice.
“I sometimes think that they are the only two words that have any
meaning left for me, or that should mean anything to the rest of the
world.”
The settled look of pain deepened upon her face as she spoke, not
distorting nor changing the pure outlines, but lending them something
solemn and noble that was almost grand. George looked at her with a sort
of awe, and the great question of the meaning of all life and death rose
before him, as he remembered her husband’s death grip upon his arm, and
the moment when he himself had breathed in the cool water and given up
the struggle. He had opened his eyes again to this world to see all that
was to result of pain and suffering from the death of the other, whose
sight had gone out for ever. They had been together in the depths. The
one had been drowned and had taken with him the happiness of the woman
he had loved. The other, he himself, had been saved and another woman’s
life had been filled with sunshine. Why the one, rather than the other?
He, who had always faced life as he had found it, and fought with
whatever opposed him, asked himself whether there were any meaning in it
all. Why should those two great things, happiness and suffering, be so
unevenly distributed? Was poor John Bond a loss to humanity in the
aggregate? Not a serious one. Did he, George Wood, care whether John
Bond were alive or dead, beyond the decent regret he felt, or ought to
feel? No, assuredly not. Would Constance have cared, if he had not
chanced to be her sister’s husband, did Totty care, did Mamie care? No.
They were all shocked, which is to say that their nerves, including his
own, had been painfully agitated. And yet this man, John Bond, for whom
nobody cared, but whom every one respected, had left behind him in one
heart a grief that was almost awe-inspiring, a sorrow that sought no
expression, and despised words, that painted its own image on the
woman’s face and spread its own solemn atmosphere about her. A keen,
cool, sharp-witted young lawyer, by the simple act of departing this
world, had converted a pretty and very sensible young woman into a
tragic muse, had lent her grandeur of mien, had rendered her imposing,
had given her a dignity that momentarily placed her higher than other
women in the scale of womanhood. Which was the real self? The self that
was gone, or the one that remained? Had a great sorrow given the woman a
fictitious importance, or had it revealed something noble in her which
no one had known before? Whichever were true, Grace was no longer the
Grace Fearing of old, and George felt a strange admiration for her
growing up within him.
“You are right, I think,” he said after a long pause. “Happiness and
suffering are the only words that have or ought to have any meaning. The
rest—it is all a matter of opinion, of taste, of fashion, of anything
you please excepting the heart.”
“Constance will tell you that right and wrong are the two important
words,” said Grace. “And she will tell you that real happiness consists
in being able to distinguish between the two, and that the only
suffering lies in confounding the wrong with the right.”
“Does religion mean that we are to feel nothing?” George asked.
“That is what the religion of people who have never felt anything seems
to mean. Pay no attention to your sorrows and distrust all your joys,
because they are of no importance compared with the welfare of your
soul. It matters not who lives or who dies, who is married, or who is
betrayed, provided you take care of your soul, of your miserable,
worthless, selfish little soul and bring it safe to heaven!”
“That must be an odd sort of religion,” said George.
“It is the religion of those who cannot feel. It is good enough for
them. I do not know why I am talking in this way, except that it is a
relief to be able to talk to some one who understands. When are you to
be married?”
“I hope it may be in November.”
“By-the-bye, what will Mr. Craik think of the marriage? He ought to do
something for Mamie, I suppose.”
“Mr. Craik is my own familiar enemy,” said George. “I never take into
consideration what he is likely to do or to leave undone. He will do
what seems right in his own eyes, and that will very probably seem wrong
in the eyes of others.”
“Mrs. Trimm doubtless knows best what can be done with him. What did
Constance say, when you told her of your engagement?”
“Very little. What she will say to you, I have no doubt. That she hopes
I shall be happy and is very glad to hear of the marriage.”
“I wonder whether she cares,” said Grace thoughtfully. George thought it
would be more discreet to say nothing than to give his own opinion in
the matter.
“No one can tell,” Grace continued. “Least of all, herself. I have once
or twice thought that she regretted you and wished you would propose
again. And then, at other times, I have felt sure that she was only
bored—bored to death with me, with her surroundings, with Dr.
Drinkwater, the poor and her soul. Poor child, I hope she will marry
soon!”
“I hope so,” said George as he rose to leave. “Will you be kind enough
not to say anything about the engagement until it is announced? That
will be in a fortnight or so.”
“Certainly. Come and see me when it is out, unless you will come sooner.
It is so good of you. Good-bye.”
He left the house and walked down the garden in the direction of the
trees, thinking very much more of Grace and of her conversation than of
Constance. Apart from her appearance, which had a novel interest for
him, and which excited his sympathy, he hardly knew whether he had been
attracted or repelled by her uncommon frankness of speech. There was
something in it which he did not recognise as having belonged to her
before in the same degree, something more like masculine bluntness than
feminine honesty. It seemed as though she had caught and kept something
of her dead husband’s manner. He wondered whether she spoke as she did
in order to remind herself of him by using words that had been familiar
in his mouth. He was engaged in these reflections when he was surprised
to meet Constance face to face as he turned a corner in the path.
“I thought you were indoors,” he said, glancing at her face as though
expecting to see some signs of recent distress there.
But if Constance had shed tears she had successfully effaced all traces
of them, and her features were calm and composed. The truth of the
matter was that she feared lest she had betrayed too much feeling in the
interview in the garden, and now, to do away with any mistaken
impression in George’s mind, she had resolved to show herself to him
again.
“Are you in your boat?” she asked. “I thought that as it was rather
chilly, and if you did not mind, I would ask you to row me out for ten
minutes in the sun. Do you mind very much?”
“I shall be delighted,” said George, wondering what new development of
circumstances had announced itself in her sudden desire for boating.
A few minutes later she was seated in the stern and he was rowing her
leisurely up stream. To his surprise, she talked easily, touching upon
all sorts of subjects and asking him questions about his book in her
old, familiar way, but never referring in any way to the past, nor to
his engagement, until at her own request he had brought her back to the
landing. She insisted upon his letting her walk to the house alone.
“Good-bye,” she said, “and so many thanks. I am quite warm now—and I am
very, very glad about the engagement and grateful to you for telling me.
I hope you will ask me to the wedding!”
“Of course,” George answered imperturbably and then, as he pulled out
into the stream he watched her slight figure as she followed the winding
path that led up from the landing to the level of the grounds above.
When she had reached the top, she waved her hand to him and smiled.
“I would not have him think that I cared—not for the whole world!” she
was saying to herself as she made the friendly signal and turned away.