Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “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 ev
erything, 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.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  WHEN GEORGE ENTERED the drawing-room he was surprised to find Grace there instead of Constance, and it was with difficulty that he repressed a nervous movement of annoyance. On that day of all others he had no desire to meet Grace Fearing, and though he imagined that her presence was accidental and that he had come before the appointed time he felt something more of resentment against the young girl than usual. He made the best of the situation, however, and put on a brave face, considering that, after all, when the happiness of a lifetime is to be decided, a delay of five minutes should not be thought too serious an affair.

  Grace rose to receive him and, coming forward, held his hand in hers a second or two longer than would have been enough under ordinary circumstances. Her face was very grave and her deep brown eyes looked with an expression of profound sympathy into those of her visitor. George felt his heart sink under the anticipation of bad news.

  “Is anything the matter, Miss Fearing?” he inquired anxiously. “Is your sister ill?”

  “No. She is not ill. Sit down, Mr. Wood. I have something to say to you.”

  George felt an acute presentiment of evil, and sat down in such a position with regard to the light that he could see Grace’s face better than she could see his.

  “What is it?” he asked in a tone of constraint.

  The young girl paused a moment, moved in her seat, which she had selected in the corner of a sofa, rested one elbow on the mahogany scroll that rose at the end of the old-fashioned piece of furniture, supported her beautifully moulded chin upon the half-closed fingers of her white hand and gazed upon George with a look of inquiring sympathy. There was nothing of nervousness nor timidity in Grace Fearing’s nature. She knew what she was going to do and she meant to do it thoroughly, calmly, pitilessly if necessary.

  “My sister has asked me to talk with you,” she began, in her smooth, deep voice. “She is very unhappy and she is not able to bear any more than she has borne already.”

  George’s face darkened, for he knew what was coming now, as though it were already said. He opened his lips to speak, but checked himself, reflecting that he did not know the extent of Grace’s information.

  “I am very, very sorry,” she continued, earnestly. “I need not explain matters. I know all that has happened. Constance was to have given you a final answer to-day. She could not bear to do so herself.”

  Grace paused an instant, and if George had been less agitated than he was, he would have seen that her full lips curled a little as she spoke the last words.

  “She has thought it all over,” she concluded. “She does not love you, and she can never be your wife.”

  There was a long pause. Grace changed her position, leaning far back among the cushions and clasping her hands upon her knees. At the same time she ceased to look at the young man’s face, and let her sight wander to the various objects on the other side of the room.

  In the first moment, George’s heart stood still. Then it began to beat furiously, though it seemed as though its pulsations had lost the power of propelling the blood from its central seat. He kept his position, motionless and outwardly calm, but his dark face grew slowly white, leaving only black circles about his gleaming eyes, and his scornful mouth gradually set itself like stone. He was silent, for no words suggested themselves to his lips, now, though they had seemed too ready a moment earlier.

  Grace felt that she must say something more. She was perfectly conscious of his state, and if she had been capable of fear she would have been frightened by the magnitude of his silent anger.

  “I have known that this would come,” she said, softly. “I know Constance better than you can. A very long time ago, I told her that at the last minute she would refuse you. She is very unhappy. She begged me to say all this as gently as possible. She made me promise to tell you that she felt towards you just as she had always felt, that she hoped to see you very often, that she felt towards you as a sister — —”

  “This is too much!” exclaimed George in low and angry tones. Then forgetting himself altogether, he rose from his seat quickly and went towards the door.

  Grace was on her feet as quickly as he.

  “Stop!” she cried in a voice not loud, but of which the tone somehow imposed upon the angry man.

  He turned suddenly and faced her as though he were at bay, but she met his look calmly and her eyes did not fall before his.

  “You shall not go away like this,” she said.

  “Pardon me,” he answered. “I think it is the best thing I can do.” There was something almost like a laugh in the bitterness of his tone.

  “I think not,” replied Grace with much dignity.

  “Can you have anything more to say to me, Miss Fearing? You, of all people? Are you not satisfied?”

  “I do not understand you, and from the tone in which you speak, I would rather not. You are very angry, and you have reason to be — heaven knows! But you are wrong in being angry with me.”

  “Am I?” George asked, recovering some control of his voice and manner. “I am at least wrong in showing it,” he added, a moment later. “Do you wish me to stay here?”

  “A few minutes longer, if you will be so kind,” Grace answered, sitting down again, though George remained standing before her. “You are wrong to be angry with me, Mr. Wood. I have only repeated to you my sister’s words. I have done my best to tell you the truth as gently as possible.”

  “I do not doubt it. Your mission is not an easy one. Why did your sister not tell me the truth herself? Is she afraid of me?”

  “Do you think it would have been any easier to bear, if she had told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” Grace asked.

  “Because it is better to hear such things directly than at second hand. Because it is easier to bear such words when they are spoken by those we love, than by those who hate us. Because when hearts are to be broken it is braver to do it oneself than to employ a third person.”

  “You do not know what you are saying. I never hated you.”

  “Miss Fearing,” said George, who was rapidly becoming exasperated beyond endurance, “will you allow me to take my leave?”

  “I never hated you,” Grace repeated without heeding his question. “I never liked you, and I never was afraid to show it. But I respect you — no, do not interrupt — I respect you, more than I did, because I have found out that you have more heart than I had believed. I admire you as everybody admires you, for what you do so well. And I am sorry for you, more sorry than I can tell. If you would have my friendship, I would offer it to you — indeed you have it already, from to-day.”

  “I am deeply indebted to you,” George answered very coldly.

  “You need not even make a show of thanking me. I have done you no service, and I should regret it very much if Constance married you. Do not look surprised. My only virtue is honesty, and when I have such things to say you think that is no virtue at all. I thought very badly of you once. Forgive me, if you can. I have changed my mind. I have n
either said nor done anything for a long time to influence my sister, not for nearly a year. Do you believe me?”

  George was beginning to be very much surprised at Grace’s tone. He was too much under the influence of a great emotion to reason with himself, but the truthfulness of her manner spoke to his heart. If she had condoled with him, or tried to comfort him, he would have been disgusted, but her straightforward confession of her own feelings produced a different effect.

  “I believe you,” he said, wondering how he could sincerely answer such a statement with such words.

  “Thank you, you are generous.” Grace rose again, and put out her hand. “Do you care to see her, before you go?” she asked, looking into his eyes. “I will send her to you, if you wish it.”

  “Yes,” George answered, after a moment’s hesitation. “I will see her — please.”

  He was left alone for a few minutes. Though the sun was streaming in through the window, he felt cold as he had never felt cold in his life. His anger had, he believed, subsided, but the sensation it had left behind was new and strange to him. He turned as he stood and his glance fell upon Constance’s favourite chair, the seat in which she had sat so often and so long while he had talked with her. Then he felt a sudden pain, so sharp that it might have seemed the last in life, and he steadied himself by leaning on the table. It was as though he had seen the fair young girl lying dead in that place she loved. But she was not dead. It was worse. Then his great wrath surged up again, sending the blood tingling through his sinewy frame to the tips of his strong fingers, and bringing a different mood with it, and a sterner humour. He was a very masculine man, incapable of being long crushed by any blow. He was sorry, now, that he had asked to see her. Had he felt thus five minutes earlier, he would have declined Grace’s offer and would have left the house, meaning never to re-enter it. But it was too late and he could no longer avoid the meeting.