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 lo
ng 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.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 518