“Thank you,” she said. He noticed that she continued to stand, and that she was apparently dressed for going out. “That is one reason why I asked you to come. I have not been myself and have seen no one until now. Let me thank you — as only I can — for your noble and gallant attempt to save my husband.”
Her voice did not tremble nor did the glance of her deep eyes waver as she spoke of the dead man, but George felt that he had never seen nor dreamed of such grief as hers.
“I could not do less,” he said hoarsely, for he found it hard to speak at all.
“No man ever did more. No man could do more,” Grace said gravely. “And now, will you do me a great service? A great kindness?”
“Anything,” George answered readily.
“It will be hard for you. It will be harder for me. Will you come with me to the place and tell me as well as you can, how it all happened?”
George looked at her in astonishment. Her eyes were fixed on his face and her expression had not changed.
“It is the only kindness any one can do for me,” she said simply; and then without waiting for any further answer she turned towards the door.
George walked by her side in silence. They left the house and took the direction of the wooded point, never exchanging a word as they went. From time to time George glanced at his companion’s face, wondering inwardly what manner of woman she might be who was able to suffer as she evidently had suffered, and yet could of her own accord face such an explanation of events as she had asked him to give her. In less than ten minutes they had reached the spot. Grace stood a few seconds without speaking, her thin face fixed in its unchangeable look of pain, her arms hanging down, her hands clasped loosely together.
“Now tell me. Tell me everything. Do not be afraid — I am very strong.”
George collected his thoughts. He wished to make the story as short as possible, while omitting nothing that was of vital importance.
“I was rowing,” he said, “and I saw what happened. The boat was lying to and drifting very slowly. Your husband put the helm up and she began to turn. At that moment the squall came. He tried to let out the sail — that would have taken off the pressure — but it seemed as though he could not. The last I saw of him was just as the boat heeled over. He seemed to be trying to get the sheet — the rope, you know — loose, so that it would run. Then the boat went over and I thought he had merely fallen overboard upon the other side. I asked you if he could swim. When you cried out, I jumped over and swam as hard as I could. Not seeing him I dived under. He seemed to be entangled in the ropes and the sail and was struggling furiously. I tried to drag him back, but he could not get out and caught me by the arm so that I could not move either. I did my best, but my breath would not hold out, and I could not get my head from under. He was not moving then, though he held me still. That is the last I remember, his grip upon my arm. Then I took in the water and it was all over.”
He ceased speaking and looked at Grace. She was, if possible, paler than before, but she had not changed her position and she was gazing at the water. Many seconds elapsed, until George began to fear that she had fallen into a sort of trance. He waited a little longer and then spoke to her.
“Mrs. Bond!” She made no reply. “Are you ill?” he asked. She turned her head slowly towards him.
“No. I am not ill. Let us go back,” she said.
They returned to the house as silently as they had come. Her step did not falter and her face did not change. When they reached the door, she stood still and put out her hand, evidently wishing him to leave her.
“You were very brave,” she said. “And you have been very kind to-day. I hope you will come and see me sometimes.”
George bowed his head silently and took leave of her. He had not the heart to ask for Constance, and, indeed, he preferred to be alone for a time. He had experienced a new and strange emotion, and his eyes had been opened concerning the ways of human suffering. If he had not seen and heard, he would never have believed that a woman capable of such calmness was in reality heartbroken. But it was impossible to look at Grace’s face and to hear the tones of her voice without understanding instantly that the whole fabric of her life was wrecked. As she had told her sister, she had nothing left but the memory, and she had been determined that it should be complete, that no detail should be wanting to the very end. It was a satisfaction to remember that his last words — insignificant enough — had been addressed to her. She had wanted to know what his last movement had been, his last struggle for life. She knew it all now, and she was satisfied, for there was nothing more to be known.
As he rowed himself slowly across the river, George could not help remembering the Grace Fearing he remembered in old times and comparing her with the woman he had just left. The words she had spoken in praise of his courage were still in his ear with their ring of heartfelt gratitude and with the look that had accompanied them. There was something grand about her which he admired. She had never been afraid to show that she disliked him when she had feared that he might marry her sister. When Constance had at last determined upon her answer, it had been Grace who had conveyed it, with a frankness which he had once distrusted, but which he remembered and knew now to have been real. She had never done anything of which she was ashamed and she had been able now to thank him from her heart, looking fearlessly into his eyes. She would have behaved otherwise if she had ever deceived him. She would have said too much or too little, or she might have felt bound to confess at such a moment that she had formerly done him a wrong. A strange woman she was, he thought, but a strong one and very honest. She had never hesitated in her life, and had never regretted anything she had done — it was written in her face even now. He did not understand why she wished to see him often, for he could have supposed that his mere presence must call up the most painful memories. But he determined that if she remained some time longer he would once or twice cross the river and spend an hour with her. The remembrance of to-day’s interview would make all subsequent meetings seem pleasant by comparison.
The circumstances of the afternoon had wearied him, and he was glad to find himself again in the midst of more pleasant and familiar associations. In answer to Totty’s inquiries as to how Grace looked and behaved during his visit, he said very little. She looked very ill, she behaved with great self-possession, and she had wished to know some details about the accident. More than that George would not say, and his imperturbable face did not betray that there was anything more to be said. In the evening he found himself alone with Mamie on the verandah, Totty having gone within as usual, on pretence of writing letters. The weather was still pleasant, though it had grown much cooler, and Mamie had thrown a soft white shawl over her shoulders, of which George could see the outlines in the gloom.
“Tell me, what did she really do?” Mamie asked, after a long silence.
George hesitated a moment. He was willing to tell her many things which he would not have told her mother, for he felt that she could understand them and sympathise with them when Totty would only pretend to do so.
“Why do you want to know?” he asked, by way of giving himself more time to think.
“Is it not natural? I would like to know how a woman acts when the man she loves is dead.”
“Poor thing!” said George. “There is not much to tell, but I would not have it known — do you understand? She made me walk with her to the place where it happened and go over the whole story. She never said a word, though she looked like death. She suffers terribly — so terribly that there is something grand in it.”
“Poor Grace! I can understand. She wanted to know all there was to be known. It is very natural.”
“Is it? It seemed strange to me. Even I did not like to go near the place, and it was very hard to tell her all about it — how poor Bond gripped my arm, and then the grip after he was dead.”
He shuddered and was silent for a moment.
“I said it all as quickly and clearly as I co
uld,” he added presently. “She thanked me for telling her, and for what I had done to save her husband. She said she hoped I would come again sometimes, and then I left.”
“You did not see Constance, I suppose?”
“No. She did not appear. I fancy her sister told her not to interrupt us and so she kept out of the way. It was horribly sad — the whole thing. I could not help thinking that if it had not been for you, the poor creature would never have known how it happened. I should not have been alive to tell the tale.”
“Are you glad that you were not drowned?” Mamie asked in a rather constrained voice.
“For myself? I hardly know. I cannot tell whether I set much value on life or not. Sometimes it seems to be worth living, and sometimes I hardly care.”
“How can you say that, George!” exclaimed the young girl indignantly. “You, so young and so successful.”
“Whether life is worth living or not — who knows? It has been said to depend on climate and the affections.”
“The climate is not bad here — and as for the affections — —” Mamie broke off in a nervous laugh.
“No,” George said as though answering an unspoken reproach. “I do not mean that. I know that you are all very fond of me and very good to me. But look at poor John Bond. He always seemed to you to be an uninteresting fellow, and I used to wonder why he found life worth living. I know now. He was loved — loved as I fancy very few men have ever been. If you could have seen that poor woman’s face to-day, you would understand what I mean.”
“I can understand without having seen it,” said Mamie in a smothered voice.
“No,” said George, pursuing his train of thought, tactless and manlike. “You cannot understand — nobody can, who has not seen her. There is something grand, magnificent, queenly in a sorrow like that, and it shows what she felt for the man and what he knew she felt. No wonder that he looked happy! Now I, if I had been drowned the other day — if you had not saved me — of course people would have been very sorry, but there would have been no grief like that.”
He was silent. Then a sharp short sob broke the stillness, and as he turned his head he saw that Mamie had risen and was passing swiftly through the door into the drawing-room. He rose to his feet and then stood still, knowing that it was of no use to follow her.
“What a brute I am!” he thought as he sat down again.
Several minutes passed. He could hear the sound of subdued voices within, and then a door was opened and closed. A moment later Totty came out and looked about. She was dazzled by the light and could not see him. He rose and went forward.
“Here I am,” he said.
She laid her hand upon his arm and looked at his face as she spoke, very gently.
“George, dear — things cannot go on like this,” she said.
“You are quite right, Totty,” he answered. “I will go away to-morrow.”
“Sit down,” said Totty. “Have you got one of those cigars? Light it. I want to have a long talk with you.”
Totty Trimm had determined to bring matters to a crisis.
CHAPTER XXII.
GEORGE FELT THAT his heart was beating faster as he prepared to hear what Totty had to say. He knew that the moment had come for making a decision of some sort, and he was annoyed that it should be thrust upon him, especially by Totty Trimm. He could not be sure of what she was about to say, but he supposed that it was her intention to deliver him a lecture upon his conduct towards Mamie, and to request him to make it clear to the girl, either by words or by an immediate departure, that he could never love her and much less marry her, considering his relatively impecunious position. It struck him that many women would have spoken in a more severe tone of voice than his cousin used, but this he attributed to her native good humour as much as to her tact. He drew his chair nearer to hers, nearer than it had been to Mamie’s, and prepared to listen.
“George, dear boy,” said Totty, “this is a very delicate matter. I really hardly know how to begin, unless you will help me.” A little laugh, half shy, half affectionate, rippled pleasantly in the dusky air. Totty meant to show from the first that she was not angry.
“About Mamie?” George suggested.
“Yes,” Totty answered with a quick change to the intonation of sadness. “About Mamie. I am very much troubled about her. Poor child! She is so unhappy — you do not know.”
“I am sincerely sorry,” said George gravely. “I am very fond of her.”
“Yes, I know you are. If things had not been precisely as they are — —” She paused as though asking his help.
“You would have been glad of it. I understand.” George thought that she was referring to his want of fortune, as she meant that he should think. She wanted to depress him a little, in order to surprise him the more afterwards.
“No, George dear. You do not understand. I mean that if you loved her, instead of being merely fond of her, it would be easier to speak of it.”
“To tell me to go away?” he asked, in some perplexity.
“No indeed! Do you think I am such a bad friend as that? You must not be so unkind. Do you think I would have begged you so hard to come and stay all summer with us, that I would have left you so often together — —”
“You cannot mean that you wish me to marry her!” George exclaimed in great astonishment.
“It would make me very happy,” said Totty gently.
“I am amazed!” exclaimed George. “I do not know what to say — it seems so strange!”
“Does it? It seems so natural to me. Mamie is always first in my mind — whatever can contribute to her happiness in any way — and especially in such a way as this — —”
“And she?” George asked.
“She loves you, George — with all her heart.” Totty touched his hand softly. “And she could not love a man whom we should be more glad to see her marry,” she added, putting into her voice all the friendly tenderness she could command.
George let his head sink on his breast. Totty held his hand a moment longer, gave it an infinitesimal squeeze and then withdrew her own, sinking back into her chair with a little sigh as though she had unburdened her heart. For some seconds neither spoke again.
“Cousin Totty,” George said at last, “I believe you are the best friend I have in the world. I can never thank you for all your disinterested kindness.”
Totty smiled sweetly in the dark, partly at the words he used and partly at the hopes she founded upon them.
“It would be strange if I were not,” she said. “I have many reasons for not being your enemy, at all events. I have thought a great deal about you during the last year. Will you let me speak quite frankly?”
“You have every right to say what you think,” George answered gratefully. “You have taken me in when I was in need of all the friendship and kindness you have given me. You have made me a home, you have given me back the power to work, which seemed gone, you have — —”
“No, no, George, do not talk of such wretched things. There are hundreds of people who would be only too proud and delighted to have George Winton Wood spend a summer with them — yes, or marry their daughters. You do not seem to realise that — a man of your character, of your rising reputation — not to say celebrity — a man of your qualities is a match for any girl. But that is not what I meant to say. It is something much harder to express, something about which I have never talked to you, and never thought I should. Will you forgive me, if I speak now? It is about Constance Fearing.”
George looked up quickly.
“Provided you say nothing unkind or unjust about her,” he answered without hesitation.
“I?” ejaculated Totty in surprise. “Am I not so fond of her, that I wanted you to marry her? I cannot say more, I am sure. Constance is a noble-hearted girl, a little too sensitive perhaps, but good beyond expression. Yes, she is good. That is just the word. Scrupulous to a degree! She has the most finely balanced conscience I have ever known. Dr. Drinkwater
— you know, our dear rector in New York — says that there is no one who does more for the poor, or who takes a greater interest in the church, and that she consults him upon everything, upon every point of duty in her life — it is splendid, you know. I never knew such a girl — and then, so clever! A Lady Bountiful and a Countess Matilda in one! Only — no, I am not going to say anything against her, because there is simply nothing to be said — only I really do not believe that she is the wife for you, dear boy. I do not pretend to say why. There is some reason, some subtle, undefinable reason why you would not suit each other. I do not mean to say that she is vacillating or irresolute. On the contrary, her sensitive conscience is one of the great beauties of her character. But I have always noticed that people who are long in deciding anything irritate you. Is it not true? Of course I cannot understand you, George, but I sometimes feel what you think, almost as soon as you. That is not exactly what I mean, but you understand. That is one reason. There are others, no doubt. Do you know what I think? I believe that Constance Fearing ought to marry one of those splendid young clergymen one hears about, who devote their lives to doing good, and to the poor — and that kind of thing.”
“I daresay,” said George, as Totty paused. The idea was new to him, but somehow it seemed very just. “At all events,” he added, “she ought to marry a better man than I am.”
“Not better — as good in a different way,” suggested Totty. “An especially good man, rather than an especially clever one.”
“I am not especially clever,” George answered. “I have worked harder than most men and have succeeded sooner. That is all.”
“Of course it is your duty to be modest about yourself. We all have our opinions. Some people call that greatness — never mind. The principle is the same. Tell me — you admire her, and all that, but you do not honestly believe that you and she are suited to each other, do you?”
Totty managed her voice so well that she made the question seem natural, and not at all offensive. George considered his reply for a moment before he spoke.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 520