Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “You and I understand each other,” said Grace, leaning back in her seat and watching his dark face from beneath her heavy, drooping lids. “It is strange. I never thought we should, and until lately I never thought it would be pleasant if we did.”

  George was struck by the familiarity of her tone. She had always been the person of all others who had treated him with the most distant civility, and whose phrases in speaking with him had been the coldest and the most carefully chosen. He had formerly wondered how her voice would sound if she were suddenly to say something friendly.

  “You are very good,” he answered presently. “With regard to the rest — to what you have said about your sister. I have done my best to put the past out of my mind, and I have succeeded. When I met her in the garden just now, I told her what has happened in my life. I am to be married very soon. I did not mean to tell any one but Miss Fearing until it was announced publicly, but I cannot help telling you, after what you have said. I am going to marry my cousin in two months.”

  Grace did not change her position nor open her eyes any wider. She had expected to hear the news before long.

  “Yes,” she said, “I thought that would happen. I am very glad to hear it. Mamie is thorough and will suit you much better than Constance ever could. I wish that Constance were half as natural and enthusiastic and sensible. She has so much, but she has not that.”

  “No enthusiasm?” asked George, remembering how he had lived upon her appreciation of his work.

  “No. She has changed very much since you used to see her every day. You had a good influence over her, you stirred her mind, though you did not succeed in stirring her heart enough. She cares for nothing now, she never talks, never reads, never does anything but write long letters to Dr. Drinkwater about her poor people — or her soul, I do not quite know which. No, you need not look grave, I am not abusing her. Poor child, I wish I could do anything to make her forget that same soul of hers, and those eternal hospitals and charities! Your energy did her good. It roused her and made her think. She has a heart somewhere, I suppose, and she has plenty of head, but she smothers them both with her soul.”

  “She will get over that,” said George. “She will outgrow it. It is only a phase.”

  “She will never get over it, until she is married,” Grace answered in a tone of conviction.

  “It is very strange. You talk now as if you were her mother instead of being her younger sister.”

  “Her younger sister!” Grace exclaimed with a sigh. “I am a hundred years older than Constance. Older in everything, in knowing the meanings of the two great words — happiness and suffering.”

  “Indeed, you may say that,” George answered in a low voice.

  “I sometimes think that they are the only two words that have any meaning left for me, or that should mean anything to the rest of the world.”

  The settled look of pain deepened upon her face as she spoke, not distorting nor changing the pure outlines, but lending them something solemn and noble that was almost grand. George looked at her with a sort of awe, and the great question of the meaning of all life and death rose before him, as he remembered her husband’s death grip upon his arm, and the moment when he himself had breathed in the cool water and given up the struggle. He had opened his eyes again to this world to see all that was to result of pain and suffering from the death of the other, whose sight had gone out for ever. They had been together in the depths. The one had been drowned and had taken with him the happiness of the woman he had loved. The other, he himself, had been saved and another woman’s life had been filled with sunshine. Why the one, rather than the other? He, who had always faced life as he had found it, and fought with whatever opposed him, asked himself whether there were any meaning in it all. Why should those two great things, happiness and suffering, be so unevenly distributed? Was poor John Bond a loss to humanity in the aggregate? Not a serious one. Did he, George Wood, care whether John Bond were alive or dead, beyond the decent regret he felt, or ought to feel? No, assuredly not. Would Constance have cared, if he had not chanced to be her sister’s husband, did Totty care, did Mamie care? No. They were all shocked, which is to say that their nerves, including his own, had been painfully agitated. And yet this man, John Bond, for whom nobody cared, but whom every one respected, had left behind him in one heart a grief that was almost awe-inspiring, a sorrow that sought no expression, and despised words, that painted its own image on the woman’s face and spread its own solemn atmosphere about her. A keen, cool, sharp-witted young lawyer, by the simple act of departing this world, had converted a pretty and very sensible young woman into a tragic muse, had lent her grandeur of mien, had rendered her imposing, had given her a dignity that momentarily placed her higher than other women in the scale of womanhood. Which was the real self? The self that was gone, or the one that remained? Had a great sorrow given the woman a fictitious importance, or had it revealed something noble in her which no one had known before? Whichever were true, Grace was no longer the Grace Fearing of old, and George felt a strange admiration for her growing up within him.

  “You are right, I think,” he said after a long pause. “Happiness and suffering are the only words that have or ought to have any meaning. The rest — it is all a matter of opinion, of taste, of fashion, of anything you please excepting the heart.”

  “Constance will tell you that right and wrong are the two important words,” said Grace. “And she will tell you that real happiness consists in being able to distinguish between the two, and that the only suffering lies in confounding the wrong with the right.”

  “Does religion mean that we are to feel nothing?” George asked.

  “That is what the religion of people who have never felt anything seems to mean. Pay no attention to your sorrows and distrust all your joys, because they are of no importance compared with the welfare of your soul. It matters not who lives or who dies, who is married, or who is betrayed, provided you take care of your soul, of your miserable, worthless, selfish little soul and bring it safe to heaven!”

  “That must be an odd sort of religion,” said George.

  “It is the religion of those who cannot feel. It is good enough for them. I do not know why I am talking in this way, except that it is a relief to be able to talk to some one who understands. When are you to be married?”

  “I hope it may be in November.”

  “By-the-bye, what will Mr. Craik think of the marriage? He ought to do something for Mamie, I suppose.”

  “Mr. Craik is my own familiar enemy,” said George. “I never take into consideration what he is likely to do or to leave undone. He will do what seems right in his own eyes, and that will very probably seem wrong in the eyes of others.”

  “Mrs. Trimm doubtless knows best what can be done with him. What did Constance say, when you told her of your engagement?”

  “Very little. What she will say to you, I have no doubt. That she hopes I shall be happy and is very glad to hear of the marriage.”

  “I wonder whether she cares,” said Grace thoughtfully. George thought it would be more discreet to say nothing than to give his own opinion in the matter.

  “No one can tell,” Grace continued. “Least of all, herself. I have once or twice thought that she regretted you and wished you would propose again. And then, at other times, I have felt sure that she was only bored — bored to death with me, with her surroundings, with Dr. Drinkwater, the poor and her soul. Poor child, I hope she will marry soon!”

  “I hope so,” said George as he rose to leave. “Will you be kind enough not to say anything about the engagement until it is announced? That will be in a fortnight or so.”

  “Certainly. Come and see me when it is out, unless you will come sooner. It is so good of you. Good-bye.”

  He left the house and walked down the garden in the direction of the trees, thinking very much more of Grace and of her conversation than of Constance. Apart from her appearance, which had a novel interest for him,
and which excited his sympathy, he hardly knew whether he had been attracted or repelled by her uncommon frankness of speech. There was something in it which he did not recognise as having belonged to her before in the same degree, something more like masculine bluntness than feminine honesty. It seemed as though she had caught and kept something of her dead husband’s manner. He wondered whether she spoke as she did in order to remind herself of him by using words that had been familiar in his mouth. He was engaged in these reflections when he was surprised to meet Constance face to face as he turned a corner in the path.

  “I thought you were indoors,” he said, glancing at her face as though expecting to see some signs of recent distress there.

  But if Constance had shed tears she had successfully effaced all traces of them, and her features were calm and composed. The truth of the matter was that she feared lest she had betrayed too much feeling in the interview in the garden, and now, to do away with any mistaken impression in George’s mind, she had resolved to show herself to him again.

  “Are you in your boat?” she asked. “I thought that as it was rather chilly, and if you did not mind, I would ask you to row me out for ten minutes in the sun. Do you mind very much?”

  “I shall be delighted,” said George, wondering what new development of circumstances had announced itself in her sudden desire for boating.

  A few minutes later she was seated in the stern and he was rowing her leisurely up stream. To his surprise, she talked easily, touching upon all sorts of subjects and asking him questions about his book in her old, familiar way, but never referring in any way to the past, nor to his engagement, until at her own request he had brought her back to the landing. She insisted upon his letting her walk to the house alone.

  “Good-bye,” she said, “and so many thanks. I am quite warm now — and I am very, very glad about the engagement and grateful to you for telling me. I hope you will ask me to the wedding!”

  “Of course,” George answered imperturbably and then, as he pulled out into the stream he watched her slight figure as she followed the winding path that led up from the landing to the level of the grounds above. When she had reached the top, she waved her hand to him and smiled.

  “I would not have him think that I cared — not for the whole world!” she was saying to herself as she made the friendly signal and turned away.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  SHERRINGTON TRIMM ARRIVED on the following afternoon, rosier and fresher than ever, and considerably reduced in weight. After the first general and affectionate greeting he proceeded to interview each member of the family in private, as though he were getting up evidence for a case. It was characteristic of him that he spoke to Mamie first. The most important point in his estimation was to ascertain whether the girl were really in love, or whether she had only contracted a passing attachment for George Wood. Knowing all that he did, and all that he supposed was unknown to his wife, he could not but regard the match with complacency, so far as worldly advantages were concerned. But if he had been once assured that his daughter’s happiness was really at stake, he would have given her as readily to George, the comparatively impecunious author, as to Mr. Winton Wood, the future millionaire.

  “Now, Mamie,” he said, linking his arm in hers and leading her into the garden, “now, Mamie, tell us all about it.”

  Mamie blushed faintly and gave her father a shy glance, and then looked down.

  “There is not much to tell,” she answered. “I love him, and I am very happy. Is not that enough?”

  “You are quite sure of yourself, eh?” Mr. Trimm looked sharply at her face. “And how long has this been going on?”

  “All my life — though — well, how can I explain, papa? You ought to understand. One finds out such things all at once, and then one knows that they have always been there.”

  “I suppose so,” said Sherry. “You did not know that ‘it,’ as you call it, was there when I went away.”

  “Oh yes, I did.”

  “Well, did you know it a year ago?”

  “No, perhaps not. Oh, papa, this is like twenty questions.” Mamie laughed happily.

  “Is it? Never played the game — cannot say. And you have no doubts about him, have you?”

  “How can anybody doubt him!” Mamie exclaimed indignantly.

  “It is my business to doubt,” said Sherry Trimm with a twinkle in his eye. “‘I am the doubter and the doubt’ — never knew what it meant till to-day.”

  “Then go away, papa!” laughed the young girl.

  “And let George have a chance. I suppose that is what you mean. On the whole, perhaps I could do nothing better. But I will just see whether he has any doubts, and finish my cigar with him.”

  Thereupon Sherrington Trimm turned sharply on his heel and went in search of George. He found him standing on the verandah pensively examining a trail of ants that were busily establishing communication between the garden walk and a tiny fragment of sponge cake which had fallen upon the step during afternoon tea.

  “George,” said Sherry in business-like tones, through which, however, the man’s kindly good nature was clearly appreciable, “do you mind telling me in a few words why you want to marry my daughter?”

  George turned his head, and there was a pleasant smile upon his face. Then he pointed to the trail of ants.

  “Mr. Sherrington Trimm,” he said, “do you mind explaining to me very briefly why those ants are so particularly anxious to get at that piece of cake?”

  “Like it, I suppose,” Sherry answered laconically.

  “That is exactly my case. I have gone to the length of falling very much in love with Mamie, and I wish to marry her. I understand that her views coincide with mine and that you make no objections. I think that the explanation is complete.”

  “Very well stated. Now, look here. The only thing I care for on earth is that child’s happiness. She is not like all girls. You may have found that out, by this time. If you behave yourself as I think you will, she will be the best wife to you that man ever had. If you do not — well, there is no knowing what she will do, but whatever it is, it will surprise you. I do not know whether hearts break nowadays as easily as they used to, and I am not prepared to state positively that Mamie’s heart would break under the circumstances. But if you do not treat her properly, she will make it pretty deuced hot for you, and by the Eternal, so will I, my boy. I like to put the thing in its proper light.”

  “You do,” laughed George, “with uncommon clearness. I am prepared to run all risks of that sort.”

  “Hope so,” returned Sherry Trimm, smoking thoughtfully. “Now then, George,” he resumed in a more confidential tone, after a short pause, “there is a little matter of business between you and me. We are old friends, and I might be your father in point of age, and now about to become your father-in-law in point of fact. How about the bread and butter? I have no intention of giving Mamie a fortune. No, no, I know you are aware of that, but there are material considerations, you know. Now, just give me an idea of how you propose to live.”

  “If I do not lose my health, we can live very comfortably,” George answered. “I think I can undertake to say that we should need no help. It would not be like this — like your way of living, of course. But we can have all we need and a certain amount of small luxury.”

  “Hum!” ejaculated Sherry Trimm in a doubting tone. “Not much luxury, I am afraid.”

  “A certain amount,” George answered quietly. “I have earned over ten thousand dollars during the last year and I have kept most of it.”

  “Really!” exclaimed the other. “I did not know that literature was such a good thing. But you may not always earn as much, next year, or the year after.”

  “That is unlikely, unless I break down. I do not know why that should happen to me.”

  “You do not look like it,” said Sherry, eyeing George’s spare and vigorous frame, and his clear, brown skin.

  “I do not feel like it,” said George.r />
  “Well, look here. I will tell you what I will do. I have my own reasons for not giving you a house just now. But I will give Mamie just half as much as you make, right along. I suppose that is fair. I need not tell you that she will have everything some day.”

  “You may give Mamie anything you like,” George answered indifferently. “I shall never ask questions. If I fall ill and cannot work for a long time together, you will have to support her, and my father will support me.”

  “I daresay we could spare you a crust, my boy,” said Sherrington Trimm, laying his small hand upon George’s broad, bony shoulder and pushing him along. “I do not want to keep you any longer, if you have anything to do.”

  George sauntered away in the direction of the garden, and Sherry Trimm went indoors to find his wife. Totty met him in the drawing-room, having just returned from a secret interview with her cook, in the interests of Sherry’s first dinner at home.

  “Totty, look here,” he said, selecting a comfortable chair and sitting down. He leaned back, crossed his legs, raised his hands and set them together, thumb to thumb and finger to finger, but said nothing more.

  “I am looking,” said Totty with a sweet smile. She seated herself beside him. “I have already looked. You are wonderfully better — I am so glad.”

  “Yes. Those waters have screwed me up a peg. But that is not what I mean. When I say, look here, I mean to suggest that you should concentrate your gigantic intellect upon the consideration of the matter in hand. You have made this match, and you are responsible for it. Will you tell me why you have made it?”

  “How do you mean that I have made it?” asked Totty evasively.

  “Innocence, thy name is Charlotte!” exclaimed Sherry, looking at the ceiling. “You brought George here, you knew that Mamie liked him and that he would like her, not on the first day, nor on the second, but inevitably on the third or fourth. You knew that on the fifth day they would love each other, that they would tell each other so on the sixth, and that the seventh day, being one of rest, would be devoted to obtaining our consent. You knew also that George was, and is, a penniless author — I admit that he earns a good deal — and yet you have done all in your power to make Mamie marry him. The fact that I like him has nothing to do with it.”