Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Constance’s face, which had regained some of its natural colour while she had been speaking with him, grew very white again, her lip trembled and there were tears in her eyes.

  “Are you always going to treat me like this?” she asked, pronouncing the words with difficulty, as though a sob were very near.

  If George had said one kind word at that moment, his history and hers might have been very different from that day onwards. But the wound he had received was yet too fresh, and moreover he was angry with her for showing a tendency to cry, and he hardened his heart.

  “I trust,” he answered in a chilly tone, “that we shall always meet on the best of terms.”

  A long silence followed, during which it was evident that Constance was struggling to maintain some appearance of outward calm. When she felt that she could command her strength, she rose and left him without another word. It was the only thing left for her to do. She could not allow herself to break down in a room full of people, before every one, and she could not stay where she was without bursting into tears. She had humbled herself to the utmost, she had been ready to offer every atonement in her power, and he had met her with a face of stone and a voice that cut her like steel.

  That was the last time he saw her before the summer season. She and her sister left town suddenly the next day and George was left to his own devices and to the tender consolation that was showered upon him by Totty Trimm. But he was not easily consoled. As the days followed each other his face grew darker and his humour more gloomy. He could neither work nor read with any satisfaction and he found even less pleasure in the society of men and women than in his own. He would not have married Constance now, if she had offered herself to him, and implored him to take her. If it had been possible, he would gladly have gone abroad for a few months, in the hope of forgetting what had happened to him amidst the varied discomforts, amusements and interests of travelling. But he could not throw up certain engagements he had contracted, though at first it seemed impossible to fulfil them. He promised himself that as soon as he had accomplished his task he would start upon a journey without giving himself the trouble of defining its ultimate direction. For the present he remained sullenly in New York, sitting for hours at his table, a pen held idly between his fingers, his uneasy glance wandering from the paper before him to the wall opposite, from the wall to the window, from the window to his paper again. He was neither despondent nor hopeless. The more impossible he found it to begin his work, the more unyieldingly he forced himself to sit in his chair, the more doggedly he stuck to his determination. Writing had always seemed easy to him before, and he admitted no reason for its being hard now. With iron resolution he kept his place, revolving in his mind every situation and story of which he had ever heard and of which he believed he could make use. But though he turned, and twisted, and tormented every idea that presented itself, he could find neither plot nor scene nor characters in the aching void of his brain. Hour after hour, day after day, he did his best, growing thinner and more tired every day, feeling each afternoon more exhausted by the fruitless contest he was sustaining against the apathy of his intelligence. But when the stated time for work was past, and he pushed back the sheet of paper, sometimes as white as when he had taken it in the morning, sometimes covered with incoherent notes that were utterly worthless, when he felt that he had done his duty and could not be held responsible for the miserable result, when his head ached, his brow was furrowed, and his sight had become uncertain, then at last he gave himself up to the contemplation of his own wretchedness and to the pain of his utter desolation.

  Totty did her best to attract him to her house as often as possible. He was vaguely surprised that she should stay so long in town, but he troubled himself very little about her motives, and as he never made any remark to her on the subject, she volunteered no explanation. She would have found it hard to invent one if she had been pressed to do so. It was hotter than usual at that season, and Mamie was greatly in need of a change. Totty could not plead a desire to make economies as a plausible excuse with any chance of being believed, and even Tom Craik, whose health usually supplied her with reasons for doing anything she wanted to do, had betaken himself to Newport. She seemed to have lost her interest in his movements and doings of late and had begun to express a pious belief that only heaven itself could interfere successfully when a man took such rash liberties with his health. Mr. Craik, indeed, lived by the book of arithmetic as Tybalt fought, his food was weighed, his hours of sleep and half-hours of repose were counted and regulated by untiring attendants, the thickness of his clothing at each season was prescribed by a great authority and his goings out and comings in were registered for the latter’s inspection, carriage-makers invented vehicles for his use, upholsterers devised systems of springs and cushions for his rest and when he travelled he performed his journeys in his own car. It was hard to see where Totty could have been of use to him, since he did not care for her conversation and could buy better advice than she could give.

  If George had even suspected that Totty was responsible for the report spread concerning him and Constance, he would have renounced his cousin’s acquaintance and would never have entered her house again, not even for the sake of his old friendship with Sherry Trimm. But Totty’s skill and tact had not been at fault. In her own opinion she had made one failure in her life and one mistake. She had failed to induce her brother to change his will a second time, and she had committed a very grave error in opening the will itself in the strong room instead of bringing it home with her and lifting the seal with a hot knife, so as to be able to restore it with all its original appearance of security. The question of the will still disturbed her, but she was not a cowardly woman, and, in particular, she was not afraid of her husband. If worst came to worst, she would throw herself upon his mercy, confess her curiosity, give him back the document, clear her conscience and let him scold as he pleased. He would never tell any one, and Totty was not afraid of making great personal sacrifices when she could escape from a situation in no other way. At the present time the main thing of importance was to please George, and to induce him to make her house his own as much as possible. If Sherrington, knowing George’s financial situation, came back and found him engaged to marry Mamie, it would not be human in him to bear malice against his wife for the part she had played. Remorse she had none. She only regretted that she should have so far forgotten her caution as to do clumsily what she had done. She would neither fail nor make mistakes again.

  She knew what she meant to do, and she knew how to do it. A man in George’s situation is not easily affected by words no matter how skilfully put together nor how kindly uttered. He either does not hear them at all, or pays no attention to them, or puts no faith in them. It is more easy to soothe his humour by giving him agreeable surroundings than by talking to him. He has no appetite, but he may be tempted by new and exquisite dishes. He wants stimulants, and an especial brand of very dry champagne flatters his palate, exhilarates his nervous system and produces no evil consequences. He smokes more than is good for him, and in that case it is better that he should smoke the most delicate cigars imported directly from Havana, than that he should saturate his brain with nicotine from a vulgar pipe — Totty thought all pipes vulgar. The love-lorn wretch is uneasy, but he is less restless when he is left to himself for half an hour after dinner, in an absolutely perfect easy-chair, with an absolutely perfect light, and with all the newest and greatest reviews of the world at his elbow. He loathes the thought of conversational effort, but he can listen with a lazy satisfaction to the social chatter of a clever mother and her beautiful daughter, or his sensitive ears may even bear the reading aloud of the last really good novel. It is distressing to learn the next day that he does not remember the name of the hero nor the colour of the heroine’s hair, and that he does not care to hear any more of the book. But it is no matter. Feminine invention is not at an end. It is late in May and there is a full moon. Would he enjoy a drive in the
Park? He may smoke in the open carriage, if he pleases, for both the ladies like it. Or it will be Sunday to-morrow, and he never works on Sunday. Would it be very wrong to run out for the day on board of Mr. Craik’s yacht, instead of going to church? Totty has the use of the yacht whenever she likes, and she can take her prayer-book on board and read the service with Mamie while George lies on deck and meditates. It is a steam-yacht, and it is no matter whether the weather is calm or not. If he likes they can go up the river with her instead. Or would he not care to have a horse waiting for him at seven in the morning at the corner of the Park? There are all those horses eating their heads off. It would be too early for Mamie to ride with him, unless he positively insists upon it, but it could not interfere with his day’s work. He has forgotten to write a letter? Poor fellow, when he has been working all day long. It is a very important letter, and must be posted to-night. There is the luxurious writing-table with its perfect appliances, its shaded candles, the beautiful “Charta Perfecta,” the smoothly-flowing ink that is changed every morning, the very pens he always uses, the spotless blotting-paper, wax and seals, if he needs them, and postage-stamps ready and separated from each other in the silver box — there is even a tiny sponge set in a little stand on which to moisten them, lest the coarse taste of the Government gum should offend the flavour of the Turkish coffee he has been drinking. He has an idea? He would like to make notes? There is the library beyond that door. It is lighted. He has only to shut himself in as long as he pleases. There is a box of those cigars on the table. He has forgotten his handkerchief? A touch of the bell, an order, and here are two of dear Sherrington’s, silk or linen, whichever he prefers. The evening is hot? The windows are open and there is a mint-julep with a straw in it by his side. Or is it a little chilly? Everything is closed, the lamps are all lighted, and the subtle perfume of Imperial tea floats on the softened air. All is noiseless, perfect, soothing, beyond description, and yet so natural that he cannot feel as though it gave the least thought or trouble, nor as if it were all skilfully prepared for his especial benefit. He wonders why Sherry Trimm ever goes to the club, when he could spend his evenings in such a home, he closes his eyes, thinks of his unwritten book and asks himself whether the wheel of fortune will ever in its revolutions give him a right of his own to such supreme refinement of comfort.

  It would have been strange, indeed, if George’s humour had not been somewhat softened by so much luxury. He had liked what he could taste of it in his old days, when Totty had hardly ever asked him to dinner and had never expected to see him in the evening, in the days when he was a poor, unhappy nobody, and only a shabby relation of Mrs. Sherrington Trimm’s. There had not been much done for his comfort then, when he came to the house, but the softness of the carpets, the elasticity of the easy-chairs and the harmony of all details had seemed delightful to him, and Totty had always been kind and good-natured. But he had seen many things in the last two years, and was by no means so ready to be pleased as he had been when his only evening coat had been in a chronic state of repair. He had eaten terrapin and canvas-back off old Saxon china, and he had looked upon the champagne when it was of the most expensive quality. He had dined in grandeur with men whose millions were legion, and he had supped with epicures who knew what they got for their money. He had seen all sorts of society in his native city, all sorts of vulgar display, all sorts of unostentatious but enormously expensive luxury, all sorts of gilded splendour, and all sorts of faultless refinements in taste. But now, after he had dined and spent the evening with Totty half a dozen times in the course of a fortnight, he was ready to admit that he had never been in an establishment so perfect at all points, so quietly managed, so absolutely comfortable and so unpretentiously sybaritic in all its details. Totty and her husband were undoubtedly rich, but they were no richer than hundreds of people he knew. It was not money alone that produced the results he saw, and the certainty that the household was managed upon a sort of artistic principle of enjoyment gave him intense satisfaction. There was the same difference between Totty’s way of living and that of most of her friends, that there is between a piece of work done by hand and the stereotyped copy of it made by machinery, the same difference there is between an illuminated manuscript and its lithographed fac-simile. The one is full of the individuality of the great artist, the other presents the perfection of execution without inspiration. The one charms, the other only pleases.

  George appreciated most thoroughly at the end of the first week everything he ate, drank, felt and saw at his cousin’s house, and what he heard was by no means as wearisome to his intelligence as he had supposed that it must be. Totty was far too clever a woman to flatter him openly, for she was keen enough to perceive that he was one of those men who feel a sort of repulsion for the work they have done and who put little faith in the judgment of others concerning it. She soon found out that he did not care to see his books lying upon the drawing-room table and that he suspected her of leaving them there with the deliberate intention of flattering him. They disappeared into the shelves of the library and were seen no more. But when George was reading the papers or a review — a form of rudeness in which she constantly encouraged him, she occasionally took the opportunity of introducing into her quiet conversation with Mamie some expression or some thought which he had used or developed in his writings. She avoided quotation, which she had always considered vulgar, and exercised her ingenuity in letting his favourite ideas fall from her lips in a perfectly natural manner. Though he was not supposed to be listening, he often heard her remarks, and was unconsciously pleased. The subtlety of the flatterer could go no further. Nor was that part of the talk which concerned himself neither directly nor indirectly by any means tiresome. Totty possessed very good powers of conversation, and could talk very much better than most women when she pleased. If she pretended to abhor the name of culture and generally affected an air of indifference to everything that did not affect her neighbours or herself, she did so with a wise premeditation and an excellent judgment of her hearers’ capacities. But her own husband was fond of more intelligent subjects, and was a man of varied experience and wide reading, who liked to talk of what he read and saw. Totty’s memory was excellent, and as she gave herself almost as much trouble to please Sherrington as she was now taking to please George, she had acquired the art of amusing her husband without any apparent exertion. What she said was never very profound, unless she had got it by heart, but the matter of it was generally clear and very fairly well expressed.

  As for Mamie, she was perfectly happy, for she was unconsciously very much in love with George, and to see him so often and in such intimacy was inexpressibly delightful. It was a pleasure even to see him sitting silent in his chair, it was happiness to hear him speak and it was positive joy to wait upon him. She had been more disturbed than she had been aware by his evident devotion to Constance Fearing during the winter. The gossip about the broken engagement had given her the keenest pain, due to the fact, as she supposed, that Constance was totally unworthy of the man she had jilted. But George’s own assurance that no engagement had ever existed had driven the clouds from her sky, although his own subsequent conduct might well have aroused her suspicions. Totty, however, took good care to explain to her that the talk had been entirely without foundation and that George’s silence and gloomy ways were the result of overwork. She hoped, she said, to induce him to spend the summer with them and to give himself a long rest.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  “DEAR GEORGE,” SAID Totty, one evening near the end of May, “I hate the idea of going away and leaving you here in the heat!”

  “So do I,” answered George, thoughtfully, as he turned in his chair and looked at his cousin’s face.

  “I am sure you will fall ill. There will be nobody to take care of you, no place where you can drop in to dinner when you feel inclined, and where you can do just as you like. And yet — you see how Mamie is looking! I cannot conscientiously keep her here any longer.”


  “Good heavens, Totty, you must not think of it! You do not mean to say you have been waiting here only on my account?”

  Totty Trimm hesitated, withdrew one tiny foot, of which the point had projected beyond the skirt of her tea-gown, and then put out the other and looked at it curiously. They were both so small and pointed that George could not have told which was the right and which the left. She hesitated because she had not anticipated the question. George was not like other men. He would not be flattered by merely being informed that the whole Sherrington Trimm establishment had been kept up a month beyond the usual time, on a war footing, as it were, for his sole and express benefit. Most men would be pleased at being considered of enough importance to be told such a thing, though they might not believe the statement altogether. It was necessary that George should know that Totty was speaking the truth, if she answered his question directly. She hesitated and looked at the point of her little slipper.

  “What does it matter?” she asked, suddenly, looking up and smiling at him affectionately.

  It was very well done. The strongest asseverations could not have expressed more clearly her readiness to sacrifice everything she could to his comfort. George was touched.

  “You have been very good to me, Totty. I cannot thank you enough.” He took her hand and pressed it warmly.

  “What is the use of having friends unless they will stand by you?” she asked, returning the pressure, while her face grew grave and sad.

  Since she had written her first note after his disappointment, she had never referred to his troubles. He had answered her on that occasion as he answered every one, by saying that there had never been any engagement, and he had marvelled at her exceeding tact in avoiding the subject ever since. Her reference to it now, however, seemed natural, and did not hurt him.