“I wish you would stay,” she said regretfully. But he shook his head. “Why not stay the rest of the afternoon?” she suggested. “We are not going out this evening and you could dine with us, just as you are.”
This was altogether more than George wanted. He did not care to meet Totty again on that day.
“Then come again soon,” said Mamie. “I have enjoyed it so much — and we are not going out of town for another fortnight.”
“But you may not have another cold, Mamie,” George observed.
“Oh, I will always have a cold, if you will come and sit with me,” answered the young girl.
When George was once more in the street, he stared about him as though not knowing where he was. Then, when the full force of his disappointment struck him for the second time, he found it hard to believe that he had been spending an hour in careless conversation with his cousin. He looked at his watch mechanically, and saw that it was late in the afternoon. It was as though a dream had separated him from his last interview with Constance Fearing. Of that, at least, he had forgotten nothing; not a word of what she had said, or of what he had answered, had escaped his memory, every syllable was burned into the page of his day. Then came the great question, which had not suggested itself at first. Why had all this happened? What hidden reason was there in obedience to which Constance had so suddenly cast him off? Had she weakly yielded to Grace’s influence? He had little faith in Grace’s assurance that she had been silent, nor in Constance’s confirmation of the statement. And Constance was weak. He had often suspected it, and had even wondered whether she would withstand the pressure brought to bear upon her and against himself. Yet her weakness alone did not explain what she had done. It had needed strength of some sort to face him, to tell him to his face what she had first told him through her sister’s words. But her weakness had shown itself even then. She had wept and hidden her face and cried out that he was breaking her heart, when she was breaking his. George ground his heel upon the pavement.
Her heart, indeed! She had none. She was but a compound of nerves, prettiness and vanity, and he had believed her the noblest, bravest and best of women. He had lavished upon her with his lips and in his books such language as would have honoured a goddess, and she had turned out to be only a weak shallow-hearted girl, ready to break an honest man’s heart, because she did not know her own mind. He cursed his ignorance of human nature and of woman’s love, as he strode along the street toward his own home. Yet, rave as he would, he could not hate her, he could not get rid of the sharp pain that told him he had lost what he held most dear and was widowed of what he had loved best.
When he was at home and in his own room he became apathetic again. He had never known himself subject to such sudden changes of humour and at first he vaguely imagined that he was going to be ill, and that his nerves would break down. His father had not yet come home from the walk which was a part of his regular mode of life. George sat in his deep old easy-chair by the corner of his table and wondered whether all men who were disappointed in love felt it as he did. He tried to smoke and then gave it up in disgust. He rose from his seat and attempted to arrange the papers that lay in heaps about the place where he wrote, but his fingers trembled oddly and he felt alternately hot and cold. He opened a book and tried to read, but the effort to concentrate his attention was maddening. He felt as though he must be stifled in the little room that had always seemed a haven of rest before, and yet he did not know where to go. He threw open the window and stood looking at the rows of windows just visible above the brick wall at the back of the road. The shadows were deepening below and the sky above was already stained with the glow of evening. The prospect was not beautiful, but the cool air that fanned his face was pleasant to his senses, and he remained standing a long time, so long indeed that the stars began to shine overhead before he drew back and returned to his seat. Far down in his sensitive character there was a passionate love of all that is beautiful in the outer world. He hid it from every one, for some reason which he could not explain, but he occasionally let it show itself in his writings and the passages in which he had written of nature as it affected him, had not failed to be noticed for their peculiar grace and tenderness of execution. Since he had begun to write books all nature had become associated with Constance. He had often wondered what the connecting link could be, but had found no answer to the question. A star in the evening sky, a ray of moonlight upon rippling water, the glow of the sunset over drifted snow, the winnowed light of summer’s afternoon beneath old trees, the scent of roses wet with dew, the sweet smell of country lanes when a shower had passed by — all these things acted like a charm upon him to raise the vision of Constance before his eyes. To-night he could not bear to look at the bright planet that was shining in that strip of exquisitely soft sky above the hard brick buildings.
That evening he sat with his father, a rather rare occurrence since he had gone so much into the world. The old gentleman had looked often at him during their meal but had said nothing about the careworn look of exhaustion that he saw in his son’s face. It was nearly ten o’clock when Jonah Wood laid down his book by his side and raised his eyes. George had been trying to read also, and during the last half-hour he had almost succeeded.
“What is the matter with you, George?” asked his father.
George let his book fall upon his knee and stared at the lamp for a few seconds. He did not want sympathy from his father nor from any one else, but as he supposed that he would be unable to conceal his nervousness and ill temper for a long time to come, and as his father was the person who would suffer the consequences of both, he thought it better to speak out.
“I do not think there is anything the matter with my bodily condition,” he answered at last. “I am afraid I am bad company, and shall be for a few days. This afternoon, Miss Fearing refused to marry me. I loved her. That is what is the matter, father.”
Jonah Wood uncrossed his legs and crossed them again in the opposite way rather suddenly, which was his especial manner when he was very much surprised. Mechanically, he took up his book again, and held it before his eyes. Then his answer came at last in a rather indistinct voice.
“I am sorry to hear that, George. I had thought she was a nice girl. But you are well out of it. I never did think much of women, anyhow, except your dear mother.”
So far as words went, that was all the consolation George got from his father; but he knew better than to suppose that the old gentleman would waste language in condolence, whatever he might feel. That he felt something, and that strongly, was quite evident from the fact that although he conscientiously held his book before his eyes during the half-hour that followed, he never once turned over the page.
George rested little that night, and when at last he was sound asleep in the broad daylight, he was awakened by a knock at the door and a voice calling him. On looking out a note was handed to him, addressed in Totty Trimm’s brisk, slanting, ladylike writing. He was told that an answer was expected and that the messenger was waiting.
“Dear George,” Totty wrote, “I cannot tell you how amazed and distressed I am. I do hope there is not a word of truth in it, and that you will write me so at once. It is all over New York that Conny Fearing has jilted you in the most abominable way! Of course we all knew that you had been engaged ever so long. If it is true, she is a cruel, heartless, horrid girl, and she never deserved you. Do write, and do come and see me this afternoon. I shall not go out at all for fear of missing you. I am so, so sorry! In haste. — Your affectionate
Totty.”
George swore a great oath, then and there. He had not mentioned the subject to any one but his father, so that either Constance or Grace must have told what had happened.
That the story really was “all over New York,” as Totty expressed it, he found out very soon.
CHAPTER XV.
TOTTY HAD LOST no time in spreading the report that everything was broken off between George Wood and Constance F
earing, and she had done it so skilfully that no one would have thought of tracing the story to her, even if it had proved to be false. She had cared very little what George himself thought about it, though she had not failed to see that he would lay the blame of the gossip on the Fearings. The two girls, indeed, could have no object in circulating a piece of news which did not reflect much credit upon themselves. What Totty wanted was in the first place that George should know that she was acquainted with his position, in order that she might play the part of the comforter and earn his gratitude. She could not of course question him directly, and she was therefore obliged to appear as having heard the tale from others; to manage this with success, it was necessary that the circumstances of the case should be made common property. Secondly, and here Totty’s diplomatic instinct showed itself at its strongest, she was determined to prevent all possibility of a renewal of relations between Constance and George. In due time, probably in twenty-four hours at the latest, both Constance and Grace would know that all society was in possession of their secret. Having of course not mentioned it themselves to any one, they would feel sure that George had betrayed them in his anger, and would be proportionately incensed against him. If both parties should be so angry as to come to an explanation, which was improbable, neither would believe the other, the quarrel would grow and the breach would be widened. Totty herself would of course take George’s part, as would the majority of his acquaintance, and he would be grateful for such friendly support at so trying a time.
Matters turned out very nearly as Mrs. Sherrington Trimm had anticipated. There was, indeed, a slight variation in the programme, but she was not aware of it at the time, and if she had noticed it she would not have attached to it the importance it deserved. It chanced that Constance and Grace Fearing and George Wood had been asked with certain other guests to dine with a certain young couple lately returned from their wedding tour in Europe. The invitations had been sent and accepted on the last day of April, that is to say on the day preceding the one on which Constance gave George her definite refusal, and the dinner was to take place three or four days later. Now the young couple, who had bought a small place on the Hudson river, and were anxious to move into it as soon as possible, took advantage of those three or four days to go up to their country-house and to arrange it for themselves according to their ideas of comfort. They returned to town on the morning of their party and were of course ignorant of the gossip which had gone the rounds in their absence. Late on the afternoon of the day the husband came home from his club in great distress to tell his wife that Constance Fearing had thrown over George Wood and that the two were not on speaking terms. It was too late to make any excuse to their guests, so as to divide the party and give two separate dinners on different days. The worst of it was, that their table was small, the guests had been carefully arranged, and George Wood must inevitably sit beside either Constance or Grace. The young couple were in despair and spent all the time that was left in trying vainly to redistribute the places. There was nothing to be done but to put George next to Grace and to effect a total ignorance of the difficulty. At the last moment, however, the young hostess thought she could improve matters by speaking a word to George when he arrived. Constance and her sister, however, came before him.
“I am so sorry!” said the lady of the house quickly in the ear of the elder girl, as she drew her a little aside. “Mr. Wood is coming — we have been out of town, and knew nothing about it — I do hope — —”
“I am very glad he is to be here,” answered Constance. She was very pale and very calm.
“Oh dear!” exclaimed the hostess, growing very red. “I hope I have said nothing — —”
“Not at all,” said Constance reassuring her. “There is a foolish bit of gossip in the air, I believe. The facts are very simple. Mr. Wood is a very old and good friend of mine. He asked me to marry him, and I could not. I like him very much and I hope we shall be as good friends as before. If there is any blame in the matter I wish to bear it. There he is.”
The hostess felt better after this, but her curiosity was excited, and as George entered the room she went forward to meet him.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “The Fearings are here and you will have to sit next to the younger one. You see we have only just heard — I am so sorry.”
George Wood inclined his head a little. He was very quiet and grave.
“I may as well tell you at once,” he said, “that there is not a word of truth in the story they are telling. I shall be very much obliged if you will deny it when you hear it mentioned. There never was any engagement between Miss Fearing and me.”
“Well, I am very glad to hear it. Pray, forgive me,” said the lady of the house.
George met Constance with his most impenetrably civil manner and they exchanged a few words which neither of them understood while they were speaking them, nor remembered afterwards. They both spoke in a low voice and the impression produced upon the many curious eyes that watched them was that they were on very good terms, though slightly embarrassed by the consciousness that they were being so much talked of.
At the dinner-table George found himself next to Grace. For some time he talked with his neighbour on his other side, then turned and inquired when Grace and her sister were going out of town, and what they intended to do during the summer. She, on her part, while answering his questions, looked at him with an air of cold and scornful surprise. Presently there was a brief burst of general conversation. Under cover of the numerous voices Grace asked a direct question.
“What do you mean by telling such a story as every one is repeating about my sister?” she asked.
George’s eyes gleamed angrily for a moment and his answer came sharply and quickly.
“You would do better to ask that of yourself — or of Miss Fearing. I have said nothing.”
“I do not intend to discuss the matter,” Grace answered icily. “If the story were true it would hurt us and we should not tell it. But it is a lie, and a malicious lie.” She turned her head away.
“Miss Fearing,” George said, bending towards her a little, “I do not intend to be accused of such doings by any one. Do you understand? If you will take the trouble to ask the man on your left, he will tell you that I have denied the story everywhere during the last four days.”
Grace looked at him again, and there was a change in her face. She was about to say something in reply, when the general talk, which had allowed them to speak together unheard, was interrupted by an unexpected pause.
“Do you prefer Bar Harbour to Newport, Miss Fearing?” George inquired in a tone which led every one to suppose that they had been discussing the comparative merits of watering-places.
The young girl smiled as she made an indifferent answer. She liked the man’s coolness and tact in such small things. He was ready, imperturbable and determined, possessing three of the qualities which women like best in man. A little later another chance of exchanging a few words presented itself. This time Grace spoke less abruptly and coldly.
“If you have said nothing, who has told the tale?” she asked.
“I do not know,” George answered, keeping his clear eyes fixed on hers. “If I knew, I would tell you. It is a malicious lie, as you say, and it must have been set afloat by a malicious person — by some one who hates us all.”
“Some one who hates my sister and me. It cannot injure you in any way.”
“That is true,” said George. “It had not struck me at first, because I was so angry at hearing the story. Does your sister imagine that I have had anything to do with it?”
“Yes,” Grace answered, and her lip curled a little. George misunderstood her expression and drew back rather proudly. The fact was that Grace was thinking how Constance accused herself every day of having been heartless and cruel, declaring in her self-abasement that even if George had chosen to tell the story he would have had something very like a right to do so. Grace had no patience with what she regarded a
s her sister’s weakness.
To the delight of the young couple who gave the dinner it passed off very pleasantly. There had been no apparent coldness anywhere, and they were persuaded that none existed.
“Will you be kind enough to tell your sister what I have told you?” said George to his neighbour as they rose from the table.
“If you like,” she answered indifferently. “Unless you prefer to tell her yourself.” The emphasis she put on the last part of the sentence showed plainly enough what her opinion was.
“I will,” he said.
A little later in the evening he sat down by Constance in a comparatively quiet corner of the small drawing-room.
“Will you allow me to say a few words to you?” he asked.
She looked at him in pathetic surprise, and if he had been a little more vain than he was, he would have seen that she was grateful to him for coming to her.
“I am always glad when you talk to me,” she said, and her voice trembled perceptibly.
“You are very good,” he answered in a tone that meant nothing. “I would not trouble you if it did not seem necessary. I have been talking about the matter to your sister at dinner. I wish you to know that I have had nothing to do with the invention of the story that is going the rounds of the town. I have denied it to every one, and I shall continue to deny it.”
Constance glanced timidly at him, and then sighed as though she were relieved of a burden.
“I am very glad you have told me,” she said.
“Do you believe me?” he asked.
“I have always believed everything you have told me, and I always shall. But if you had told some one what everybody is repeating, I should not have blamed you. It would have been almost true.”
“I do not say things which are only almost true,” said George very coldly.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 510