Grace received him alone in the old familiar drawing-room. She happened to be sitting in the place Constance used to choose when George came to see her, and he took his accustomed seat, almost unconscious of the associations it had once had for him.
“Constance is gone out,” Grace began. “I am sure she will be sorry. It is kind of you to come so soon.”
“You are no better,” George answered, looking at her, and not heeding her remark. “I had hoped that you might be, but your expression is the same. Why do you not go abroad, and make some great change in your life?”
“I am very well,” Grace replied with a faint smile which only increased the sadness of her look. “I do not care to go away. Why should I? It could make no difference.”
“But it would. It would make all the difference in the world. Your sorrow is in everything, in all you see, in all you hear, in every familiar impression of your life — even in me and the sight of me.”
“You are mistaken. It is here.” She pressed her hand to her breast with a gesture almost fierce, and fixed her deep brown eyes on George’s face for an instant. Then she let her arm fall beside her and looked away. “The worst of it is that I am so strong,” she added presently. “I shall never break down. I shall live to be an old woman.”
“Yes,” George answered, thoughtfully, “I believe that you will. I can understand that. I fancy that you and I are somewhat alike. There are people who are unhappy, and who fade away and go out like a lamp without oil. They are said to die of broken hearts though they have not felt half as much happiness or sorrow as some tougher man and woman who live through a lifetime of despair and disappointment.”
“Are you very happy?” Grace asked rather suddenly.
“Yes, I am very happy. I suppose I have reason to be. Everything has gone well with me of late. I have had plenty of success with what I have done, I am engaged to be married — —”
“That is what I mean,” said Grace, interrupting him. “Are you happy in that? I suppose I have no right to ask such a question, but I cannot help asking it. You ought to be, for you two are very well matched. Do you know? It is a very fortunate thing that Constance refused you. You did not really love her any more than she loved you.”
“What makes you say that?”
“If you were really in love, your love died a rather easy death. That is all.”
“That is true,” George answered, smiling in spite of himself.
“Do you remember the first of May as well as you did three months ago? Perhaps. I do not say that you have forgotten it altogether. When I told you her decision, you did not act like a man who has received a terrible blow. You were furiously, outrageously angry. You wished that I had been a man, that you might have struck me.”
“I believed that I had cause to be angry. Besides, I have extraordinary natural gifts in that direction.”
“Of course you had cause. But if you had loved her — as some people love — you would have forgotten to be angry for once in your life and you would have behaved very differently.”
“I daresay you are right. As I came here to-day I was thinking over it all. You know I have not been here since that day. In old times I could feel my heart beating faster as I came near the house, and when I rang the bell my hand used to tremble. To-day I walked here as coolly as though I had been going home, and when I was at the door I was much more concerned to know whether you were better than to know whether your sister was in the house or not. Such is the unstability of the human heart.”
“Yes — when there is no real love in it,” Grace answered. “And the strongest proof that there was none in yours is that you are willing to own it. What made you think that you were so fond of her? How came you to make such a mistake?”
“I cannot tell. I would not talk to any one else as I am talking to you. But we understand each other, she is your sister and you never believed in our marriage. It began very gradually. Any man would fall in love with her, if he had the chance. She was interested in me. She was kind to me, when I got little kindness from any one — —”
“And none at all from me, poor man!” interrupted Grace.
“Especially none from you. It was she who always urged me to write a book, though I did not believe I could; it was to her that I read my first novel from beginning to end. It was she who seized upon it and got it published in spite of my protests — it was she who launched me and made my first success what it was. I owe her very much more than I could ever hope to repay, if I possessed any means of showing my gratitude. I loved her for her kindness and she liked me for my devotion — perhaps for my submission, for I was very submissive in those days. I had not learned to run alone, and if she would have had me I would have walked in her leading-strings to the end of my life.”
“How touching!” exclaimed Grace, and the first genuine laughter of which she had been capable for three months followed the words.
“No, do not laugh,” said George gravely. “I owe her everything and I know it. Most of all, I owe her the most loyal friendship and sincere gratitude that a man can feel for any woman he does not love. It is all over now. I never felt any emotion at meeting her since we parted after that abominable dinner-party, and I shall never feel any again. I am sure of that.”
“I am sorry I laughed. I could not help it. But I am very glad that things have ended in this way, though, as I told you when I last saw you, I wish she would marry. She has grown to be the most listless, unhappy creature in the world.”
“What can be the matter?” George asked. “Is it not the life you are leading together? You are so lonely.”
“I came back on her account,” Grace answered wearily. “For my own sake I would never have left that dear place again. I have told her that I will do anything she pleases, go anywhere, live in any other way. It can make no difference to me. But she will not hear of leaving New York. I cannot mention it to her. She grows thinner every day.”
“It is very strange. I am very sorry to hear it.”
They talked together for some time longer and then George went away, inwardly wondering at his own conduct in having spoken of Constance so freely to her sister. It was not unnatural, however. Grace treated him as an old friend, and circumstances had suddenly brought the two into relations of close intimacy. As she had been chosen by Constance to convey the latter’s refusal, it might well be supposed that she was in her sister’s confidence, and George had said nothing which he was not willing that Grace should repeat. He had not been gone more than half an hour when Constance entered the room, looking pale and tired.
“I have been everywhere to find a wedding present for the future Mrs. Wood,” she said, as she let herself sink down upon the sofa. “I can find nothing, positively nothing that will do.”
“He has just been here,” said Grace indifferently.
Constance changed colour and glanced quickly at her sister. She looked as though she had checked herself in the act of saying something which she might have regretted.
“What did you talk about?” she asked quietly, after a moment’s pause. “I wish I had been here. I have not seen him since he came to announce his engagement.”
“Yes. He was sorry to miss you, too. He was not particularly agreeable — considering how well he can talk when he tries. I am very fond of him now. I am sorry I misjudged him formerly, and I told him so before he came to town.”
“You have discovered that you misjudged him, then,” said Constance, as calmly as she could.
“Yes,” Grace answered with perfect unconcern. “I am always glad to see him. By-the-bye, we talked about you.”
“About me?”
“Yes. What is the matter? Is there any reason why we should not talk about you?”
“Oh, none whatever — except that he loved me once.”
“He said nothing but what was perfectly fair and friendly. I asked him if he was happy in the prospect of being married so soon, and then very naturally we spoke of you. He said that he owe
d you the most loyal friendship and sincere gratitude, that you had launched him in his career by sending his first novel to the publisher without his consent, that without you, he would not have been what he is — he said it seemed natural, on looking back, that he should have loved you, or thought that he loved you — —”
“Thought that he loved me?” Constance repeated in a low voice.
“Yes. Considering how quickly he has recovered, his love can hardly have been much more sincere than yours. What is the matter, Conny dear? Are you ill?”
Constance had hidden her face in the cushions and was sobbing bitterly, in the very place she had occupied when she had finally refused George Wood, and almost in the same attitude.
“Oh Grace!” she moaned. “You will break my heart!”
“Do you love him, now?” Grace asked in a voice that was suddenly hard. She had not had the least suspicion of the real state of the case. Constance nodded in answer, still sobbing and covering her face. Grace turned away in disgust.
“What contemptible creatures we women can be!” she said in an undertone, as she crossed the room.
CHAPTER XXVI.
GEORGE WAS IN the habit of going to see Mamie every afternoon, and the hours he spent with her were by far the most pleasant in his day. Mrs. Trimm had thoroughly understood her daughter’s nature when she had told George that the girl possessed that sort of charm which never wearies men because they can never find out exactly where it lies. It was not easy to imagine that any one should be bored in Mamie’s society. George returned day after day, expecting always that he must ultimately find the continual conversation a burden, but reassured each time by what he felt after he had been twenty minutes in the house. As he was not profoundly moved himself it seemed unnatural that these long meetings should not at last become an irksome and uninteresting duty, the conscientious performance of which would react to the disadvantage of his subsequent happiness. The spontaneity which had given so much freshness to their intercourse while they were living under the same roof, was gone now that George found himself compelled to live by rules of consideration for others, and he was aware of the fact each time he entered Mamie’s presence. Nevertheless her manner and voice exercised such a fascination over him as made him forget after a quarter of an hour that he and she were no longer in the country, and that he was no longer free to see her or not see her, as he pleased, independently of all formality and custom. Nothing could have demonstrated Mamie’s superiority over most young women of her age more clearly than this fact. The situation of affianced couples after their engagement is announced is very generally hard to sustain with dignity on either side, but is more especially a difficult one for the man. It is undoubtedly rendered more easy by the enjoyment of the liberty granted among Anglo-Saxons in such cases. But that freedom is after all only a part of our whole system of ideas, and as we all expect it from the first, we do not realise that our position is any more fortunate than that of the young French gentleman, who is frequently not allowed to exchange a single word with his bride until he has been formally affianced to her, and who may not talk to her without the presence of a third person until she is actually his wife. Under our existing customs a young girl must be charming indeed if her future husband can talk with her three hours every day during six weeks or two months and go away each time feeling that his visit has been too short. Neither animated conversation nor frequent correspondence have any right to be considered as tests of love. Love is not to be measured by the fluent use of words, nor by an easy acquaintance with agreeable topics, nor yet by lavish expenditure in postage-stamps. George knew all this, and was moreover aware in his heart that there was nothing desperately passionate in his affection; he was the more surprised, therefore, to find that the more he saw of Mamie Trimm, the more he wished to see of her.
“Do you think,” he said to her, on that same afternoon in November, “that all engaged couples enjoy their engagement as much as we do?”
“I am sure they do not,” Mamie answered. “Nobody is half as nice as we are!”
They were seated in a small boudoir that adjoined the drawing-room. The wide door was open and they could hear the pleasant crackling of the first wood fire that was burning in the larger room, though they could not see it. The air without was gloomy and grey, for the late Indian summer was over, and before long the first frosts would come and the first flakes of snow would be driven along the dry and windy streets. It was early in the afternoon, however, and though the light was cold and colourless and hard, there was plenty of it. Mamie was established in a short but very deep sofa, something resembling a divan, one small foot just touching the carpet, the other hidden from view, her head thrown back and resting against the tapestry upon the wall, one arm resting upon the end of the lounge, the little classic hand hanging over the edge, so near to George that he had but to put out his own in order to touch it. He was seated with his back to the door of the drawing-room, clasping his hands over one knee and leaning forward as he gazed at the window opposite. He smiled at Mamie’s answer.
“No, I am sure other people do not enjoy sitting together and talking during half the day, as we do,” he said. “I have often thought so. It is you who make our life what it is. It will always be you, with your dear ways — —”
He stopped, seeking an expression which he could not find immediately.
“Have I dear ways?” Mamie asked with a little laugh. “I never knew it before — but since you say so — —”
“It is only those who love us that know the best of us. We never know it ourselves.”
“Do you love me, George?” The question was put to him for the thousandth time. To her it seemed always new and the answer was always full of interest, as though it had never been given before.
“Very dearly.” George laid his hand upon her slender fingers and pressed them softly. He had abandoned the attempt to give her an original reply at each repetition of the inquiry.
“Is that all?” she asked, pretending to be disappointed, but smiling with her grey eyes.
“Can a man say more and mean it?” George inquired gravely. Then he laughed. “The other day,” he continued, “I was in a train on the Elevated Road. There was a young couple opposite to me — the woman was a little round fat creature with a perpetual smile, pretty teeth, and dressed in grey. They were talking in low tones, but I heard what they said. Baby language was evidently their strong point. He turned his head towards her with the most languishing lover-like look I ever saw. ‘Plumpety itty partidge, who does ‘oo love?’ he asked. ‘Zoo!’ answered the little woman with a smile that went all round her head like the equator on a globe.”
Mamie laughed as he finished the story.
“That represented their idea of conversation, what you call ‘dear ways.’ My dear ways are not much like that and yours are quite different. When I ask you if you love me, you almost always give the same answer. But then, I know you mean it dear, do you not?”
“There it is again!” George laughed. “Of course I do — only, as you say, my imagination is limited. I cannot find new ways of saying it. But then, you do not vary the question either, so that it is no wonder if my answers are a little monotonous, is it?”
“Are my questions monotonous? Do I bore you with them, George?”
“No, dear. I should be very hard to please if you bored me. It is your charm that makes our life what it is.”
“I wish I believed that. What is charm? What do you mean by it? It is not an intellectual gift, it is not a quality, a talent, nor accomplishment. I believe you tell me that I have it because you do not know what else to say. It is so easy to say to a woman ‘You are full of charm,’ when she is ugly and stupid and cannot play on the piano, and you feel obliged to be civil. I am sure that there is no such thing as charm. It is only an imaginary compliment. Why not tell me the truth?”
“You are neither ugly nor stupid, and I am sincerely glad that you leave the piano alone,” said George. “I could fi
nd any number of compliments to make, if that were my way. But it is not, of course. You have lots of good points, Mamie. Look at yourself in the glass if you do not believe it. Look at your figure, look at your eyes, at your complexion, at your hands — listen to your own voice — —”
“Do not talk nonsense, George. Besides, that is only a catalogue. If you want to please me you must compare all those things to beautiful objects. You must say that my eyes are like — gooseberries, for instance, my figure like — what shall I say?”
“Like Psyche’s,” suggested George.
“Or like an hour-glass, and my hands like stuffed gloves, and my skin like a corn starch pudding, and my voice like the voice of the charmer. That is the way to be complimentary. Poetry must make use of similes and call a spade an ace — as papa says. When you have done all that, and turned your catalogue into blank verse, tell me if there is anything left which you can call charm.”
“Charm,” George answered, “is what every man who loves a woman thinks she has — and if she has it all men love her. You have it.”
“Dear me!” exclaimed the young girl. “Can you get no nearer to a definition than that?”
“Can you define anything which you only feel and cannot see — heat for instance, or cold?”
“Heat makes one hot, and cold makes one shiver,” answered Mamie promptly.
“And charm makes a woman loved. That is as good an answer as yours.”
“I suppose I must be satisfied, especially as you say that it can only be felt and not seen. Besides, if it makes you love me, why should I care what it is called? Do you know what it really is? It is love itself. It is because I love you so much, so intensely, that I make you love me. There is no such thing as charm. Charm is either a woman’s love, or her readiness to love — one or the other.”
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 526