Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “I thought you saw her very often. I had a note from her yesterday. I suppose you know?”

  “I know nothing. What is it?”

  “Old Mr. Craik is very ill — dying, they say. She wrote to tell me so, explaining why she had not been here.”

  George’s eyes suddenly gleamed with a disagreeable light. The news was as unexpected as it was agreeable. Not, indeed, that George could ever hope to profit in any way by the old man’s death; for he was naturally so generous that, if such a prospect had existed, he would have been the last to rejoice in its realisation. He hated Thomas Craik with an honest and disinterested hatred, and the idea the world was to be rid of him at last was inexpressibly delightful.

  “He is dying, is he?” he asked in a constrained voice.

  “You seem glad to hear it,” said Constance, looking at him with some curiosity.

  “I? Yes — well, I am not exactly sorry!” His laugh was harsh and unreal. “You could hardly expect me to shed tears — that is, if you know anything of my father’s misfortunes.”

  “Yes, I have heard something. But I am sorry that I was the person to give you the news.”

  “Why? I am grateful to you.”

  “I know you are, and that is precisely what I do not like. I do not expect you to be grieved, but I do not like to see one man so elated over the news of another man’s danger.”

  “Why not say, his death!” exclaimed George.

  Constance was silent for a moment, and then looked at him as she spoke.

  “I hardly know you, Mr. Wood. This is only the second time I have seen you, and I have no right to make remarks about your character. But I cannot help thinking — that — —”

  She hesitated, not as though from any embarrassment, but as if she could not find the words she wanted. George made no attempt to help her, though he knew perfectly well what she wanted to say. He waited coldly to see whether she could complete her sentence.

  “You ought not to think such things,” she said suddenly, “and if you do, you ought not to show it.”

  “In other words, you wish me to reform either my character or my manners, or both? Do you know that old Tom Craik ruined my father? Do you know that after he had done that, he let my father’s reputation suffer, though my father was as honest as the daylight, and he himself was the thief? That sounds very dramatic and theatrical, does it not? It is all very true nevertheless. And yet, you expect me to be such a clever actor as not to show my satisfaction at your news. All I can say, Miss Fearing, is that you expect a great deal of human nature, and that I am very sorry to be the particular individual who is fated to disappoint your expectations.”

  “Of course you feel strongly about it — I did not know all you have just told me, or I would not have spoken. I wish every one could forgive — it is so right to forgive.”

  “Yes — undoubtedly,” assented George. “Begin by forgiving me, please, and then tell me what is the matter with the worthy Mr. Craik.”

  “Mrs. Trimm seems to think it is nervous prostration — what everybody has nowadays.”

  “Is she very much cut up?” George asked with an air of concern.

  “She writes that she does not leave him.”

  “Nor will — until — —” George stopped short.

  “What were you going to say?”

  “I was going to make a remark about the human will in general and about the wills of dying men in particular. It was very ill-natured, and in direct contradiction to your orders.”

  “I suppose she will have all his fortune in any case,” observed Constance, repressing a smile, as though she felt that it would not suit the tone she had taken before.

  “Since you make so worldly an inquiry, I presume we may take it for granted that the mantle of Mr. Craik’s filthy lucre will descend upon the unwilling shoulders of Mrs. Sherrington Trimm. To be plain, Totty will get the dollars. Well — I wish her joy. She is not acquainted with poverty, as it is, nor was destitution ever her familiar friend.”

  “Why do you affect that biblical sort of language?”

  “It seems to me more forcible than swearing. Besides, you would not let me swear, I am sure, even if I wanted to.”

  “Certainly not — —”

  “Very well, then you must forgive the imperfections of my style in consideration of my not doing very much worse. I think I will go and ask how Mr. Craik is doing to-day. Would not that show a proper spirit of charity and forgiveness?”

  “I hope you will do nothing of the sort!” exclaimed Constance hastily.

  “Would it not be a proof that I had profited by your instruction?”

  “I think it would be very hypocritical, and not at all nice.”

  “Do you? It seems to me that it would only look civil — —”

  “From what you told me, civility can hardly be expected from you in this case.”

  “I am not obliged to tell the servant at the door the motive of my curiosity when I inquire after the health of a dying relation. That would be asking too much.”

  “You can inquire just as well at Mrs. Trimm’s — —”

  “Mr. Craik’s house is on my way home from here — Totty’s is not on the direct line.”

  “I hope you — how absurd of me, though! It is no business of mine.”

  George could not say anything in reply to this statement, but an expression of amusement came over his face, which did not escape his companion. Constance laughed a little nervously.

  “You are obliged to admit that it is none of my business, you see,” she said.

  “I am in the position of a man who cannot assent without being rude, nor differ without impugning the known truth.”

  “That was very well done, Mr. Wood,” said Constance. “I have nothing more to say.”

  “To me? Then I herewith most humbly take my leave.” George rose from his seat.

  “I did not mean that!” exclaimed the young girl with a smile. “Do not go — —”

  “It is growing late, and Mr. Craik may be gathered to his fathers before I can ring at his door and ask how he is.”

  “Oh, please do not talk any more about that poor man!”

  “If I stay here I shall. May I come again some day, Miss Fearing? You bear me no malice for being afflicted with so much original sin?”

  “Its originality almost makes it pardonable. Come whenever you please. We shall always be glad to see you, and I hope that my sister will be here the next time.”

  George vaguely hoped that she would not as he bowed and left the room. He had enjoyed the visit far more than Constance had, for whereas his conversation had somewhat disquieted her sensitive feeling of fitness, hers had afforded him a series of novel and delightful sensations. He was conscious of a new interest, of a new train of thought, and especially of an odd and inexplicable sense of physical comfort that seemed to proceed from the region of the heart, as though his body had been cheered, his blood warmed, and his circulation stimulated by the assimilation of many good things. As he walked up the Avenue, he did not ask himself whether he had produced a good or a bad impression upon Miss Fearing, nor whether he had talked well or ill, still less whether the young girl had liked him, though it is probable that if he had put any of these questions to his inner consciousness that complacent witness would, in his present mood, have answered all his inquiries in the way most satisfactory to his vanity. For some reason or other he was not curious to know what his inner consciousness thought of the matter. For the moment, sensation was enough, and he was surprised to discover that sensation could be so agreeable. He knew that he was holding his head higher than usual, that his glance was more confident than it was wont to be, and his step more elastic, but he did not connect any of these phenomena in a direct way with his visit in Washington Square. Perhaps there was a vague notion afloat in his brain to the effect that if he once allowed the connection he should be forced into calling himself a fool, and that it was consequently far wiser to enjoy the state in which he fo
und himself than to inquire too closely into its immediate or remote causes.

  It is also probable that if George Wood’s condition of general satisfaction on that evening had been more clearly dependent upon his recollection of the young lady he had just left, he would have felt an impulse to please her by doing as she wished; in other words, he would have gone home or would have passed by Totty’s house to make inquiries, instead of executing his purpose of ringing at Mr. Craik’s door. But there was something contradictory in his nature, which drove him to do the very things which most men would have left undone; and moreover there was a grain of grim humour in the idea of asking in person after Tom Craik’s health, which made the plan irresistibly attractive. He imagined his own expression when he should tell his father what he had done, and he knew the old gentleman well enough to guess that the satire of the proceeding would inwardly please him in spite of himself, though he would certainly look grave and shake his head when he heard the story.

  Constance Fearing’s meditations, when she was left alone, were of a very different character. She stood for a long time at the window looking out into the purple haze that hung about the square, and then she turned and went and sat before the fire, and gazed at the glowing coals. George Wood could not but have felt flattered had he known that was the subject of her thoughts during the greater part of an hour after his departure, and he would have been very much surprised at his own ignorance of human nature had he guessed that her mind was disturbed by the remembrance of her own conduct. He would assuredly have called her morbid and have doubted the sincerity of her most sacred convictions, and if he could have looked into her mind, that part of his history which was destined to be connected with hers would in all likelihood have remained unenacted. He could certainly not have understood her mood at that time, and the attempt to do so would have filled him with most unreasonable prejudices against her.

  To the young girl it seemed indeed a very serious matter to have criticised George’s conduct and to have thrust her advice upon him. It was the first time she had ever done such a thing and she wondered at her own boldness. She repeated to herself that it was none of her business to consider what George Wood did, and still less to sit in judgment upon his thoughts, and yet she was glad that she had spoken as she had. She knew very little about men, and she was willing to believe they might all think alike. At all events this particular man had very good cause for resentment against Thomas Craik. Nevertheless there was something in his evident delight at the prospect of the old man’s death that was revolting to her finest feelings. Absolutely ignorant of the world’s real evil, she saw her own path beset with imaginary sins of the most varied description, to avoid committing which needed the constant wakefulness of a delicate sensibility; and as she knew of no greater or more real evils, she fancied that the lives of others must be like her own — a labyrinth of transparent cobwebs, to brush against one of which, even inadvertently, was but a little removed from crime itself. Her education had been so strongly influenced by religion and her natural sensitiveness was so great, that the main object of life presented itself to her as the necessity for discovering an absolute right or wrong in the most minute action, and the least relaxation of this constant watch appeared to her to be indicative of moral sloth. The fact that, with such a disposition she was not an intolerable nuisance to all who knew her, was due to her innate tact and good taste, and in some measure to her youth, which lent its freshness and innocence to all she did and thought and said. At the present time her conscience seemed to be more than usually active and dissatisfied. She assuredly did not believe that it was her mission to reform George Wood, or to decorate his somewhat peculiar character with religious arabesques of faith, hope, and charity; but it is equally certain that she felt an unaccountable interest in his conduct, and a degree of curiosity in his actions which, considering how slightly she knew him, was little short of amazing. Had she been an older woman, less religious and more aware of her own instincts, she would have asked herself whether she was not already beginning to care for George Wood himself rather than for the blameless rectitude of her own moral feelings. But with her the refinements of a girlish religiousness had so far got the upper hand of everything else that she attributed her uneasiness to the doubt about her own conduct rather than to a secret attraction which was even then beginning to exercise its influence over her.

  It was to be foreseen that Constance Fearing would not fall in love easily, even under the most favourable circumstances. The most innocent love in the world often finds a barrier in the species of religious sentimentality by which she was at that time dominated, for morbid scruples have power to kill spontaneity and all that is spontaneous, among which things love is first, or should be. Constance was not like her sister Grace, who had loved John Bond ever since they had been children, and who meant to marry him as soon as possible. Her colder temperament would lose time in calculating for the future instead of allowing her to be happy in the present. Deep in her heart, too, there lay a seed of unhappiness, in the habit of doubting which had grown out of her mistrust of her own motives. She was very rich. Should a poor suitor present himself, could she help fearing lest he loved her money, when she could hardly find faith in herself for the integrity of her own most trivial intentions? She never thought of Grace without admiring her absolute trust in the man she loved.

  CHAPTER V.

  THOMAS CRAIK LAY ill in his great house, listening for the failing beatings of his heart as the last glow of the February afternoon faded out of the curtains and withdrew its rich colour from the carved panels on the walls. He lay upon his pillows, an emaciated old man with a waxen face and head, sunken eyes that seemed to have no sight in them. Short locks of yellowish grey hair strayed about his forehead and temples, like dry grasses scattered over a skull. There was no beard upon his face, and the hard old lips were tightly drawn in a set expression, a little apart, so that the black shadow of the open mouth was visible between them. The long, nervous hands lay upon the counterpane together, the fingers of the one upon the wrist of the other feeling the sinking pulse, searching with their numbed extremities for a little flutter of motion in the dry veins. Thomas Craik lay motionless in his bed, not one outward sign betraying the tremendous conflict that was taking place in his still active brain. He was himself to the last, such as he had always been in the great moments of his life, apparently cool and collected, in reality filled with the struggle of strong, opposing passions.

  He was not alone. Two great physicians were standing in silence, side by side, before the magnificent chimney-piece, beneath which a soft fire of dry wood was burning steadily with a low and unvarying musical roar. An attendant sat upright upon a carved chair at the foot of the bed, not taking his eyes from the sick man’s face.

  The room was large and magnificent in its furniture and appointments. The high wainscot had been carved in rare woods after the designs of a great French artist. The walls above were covered with matchless Cordova leather from an Italian palace. The ceiling was composed of rich panels that surrounded a broad canvas from the hand of a famous Spanish master, dead long ago. The chimney-piece was enriched with old brass work from Cairo, and with exquisite tiles from Turkish mosques. Priceless eastern carpets of which not one was younger than the century, covered the inlaid wooden floor. Diana of Poitiers had slept beneath the canopy of the princely bedstead; it was said that Louis the Fourteenth had eaten off the table that was placed beside it, and Benvenuto Cellini had carved the silver bell which stood within reach of the patient’s hand. There was incongruity in the assemblage of different objects, but the great value of each and all saved the effect from vulgarity, and lent to the whole something of the odd harmony peculiar to certain collections.

  It was the opinion of the two doctors that Tom Craik was dying. They had done what they could for him and were waiting for the end. As to his malady it was sufficiently clear to both of them that his vitality was exhausted and that even if he survived this crisis
he could not have long to live. They agreed that the action of the heart had been much impaired by a life of constant excitement and that the nerves had lost their elasticity. They had taken pains to explain to his sister, Mrs. Sherrington Trimm, that there was very little to be done and that the patient should be advised to make his last dispositions, since a little fatigue more or less could make no material difference in his state, whereas he would probably die more easily if his mind were free from anxiety. Totty had spent the day in the house and intended to return in the evening. She bore up very well under the trial, and the physicians felt obliged to restrain her constant activity in tending her brother while she was in the room, as it seemed to make him nervous and irritable. She had their fullest sympathy, of course, as persons who are supposed to be sole legatees of the dying very generally have, but so far as their professional capacity was concerned, the two felt that it went better with the patient when his faithful sister was out of the house.

  From time to time inquiries were made on the part of acquaintances, generally through their servants, but they were not many. Though the other persons in the room scarcely heard the distant ringing of the muffled bell, and the careful opening and shutting of the street door, the feeble old man never failed to catch the sound of both and either with his eyes or half-uttered words asked who had called. On receiving the answer he generally moved his head a little wearily and his lids drooped again.

  “Is there anybody you expect? Anybody you wish to see?” one of the physicians once asked, bending low and speaking softly. He suspected that something was disquieting the dying man’s mind.

  But there was no answer, and the lids drooped again. It was now dusk and it would soon be night. Many hours might pass before the end came, and the doctors consulted in low tones as to which of them should remain. Just then the faint and distant rattle of the bell was heard. Immediately Tom Craik stirred, and seemed to be listening attentively. The two men ceased speaking and they could hear the front door softly open in the street below, and close again a few seconds later. One of the physicians glanced at the patient, saw the usual look of inquiry in his face and quickly left the room. When he returned he held a card in his hand, which he took to the bedside after looking at it by the fireside. Bending down, he spoke in a low tone.