The world was very much surprised when it was informed that Thomas Craik was not dead after all. During several weeks he lay in the utmost danger, and it was little short of a miracle that he was kept alive—one of those miracles which are sometimes performed upon the rich by physicians in luck. While he was ill George, who was disappointed to find that there was so much life in his enemy, made frequent inquiries at the house, a fact of which Mr. Craik took note, setting it down to the young man’s credit. Nor did it escape the keen old man that his sister Totty’s expression grew less hopeful, as he himself grew better, and that her fits of spasmodic and effusive rejoicing over his recovery were succeeded by periods of abstraction during which she seemed to be gazing regretfully upon some slowly receding vision of happiness.

Mrs. Sherrington Trimm was indeed not to be envied. In the first place all immediate prospect of inheriting her brother’s fortune was removed by his unexpected convalescence; and, secondly, she had a suspicion that in the midst of his illness he had made some change in the disposition of his wealth. It would be hard to say how this belief had formed itself in her mind, for her husband was a man of honour and had scrupulously obeyed Craik’s injunction to be silent in regard to the will. He found this the more easy, because what he liked least in his wife’s character was her love of money. Having only one child, he deemed his own and Totty’s fortunes more than sufficient, and he feared lest if she were suddenly enriched beyond her neighbours, she might launch into the career of a leader of society and take up a position very far from agreeable to his own more modest tastes. Sherry Trimm was an eminently sensible as well as an eminently honourable man. He possessed a very keen sense of the ridiculous, and he knew how easily a woman like Totty could be made the subject of ridicule, if she had her own way, and if she suddenly were placed in circumstances where the question of expenditure need never be taken into consideration. She had rarely lost an opportunity of telling him what she should do if she were enormously rich, and it was not hard to see that she confidently expected to possess such riches as would enable her to carry out what Sherry called her threats.

On the other hand Mr. Trimm’s sense of honour was satisfied by his brother-in-law’s new will. There is a great deal more of that sort of manly, honourable feeling among Americans than is dreamed of in European philosophy. Europe calls us a nation of business men, but it generally forgets that we are not a nation of shopkeepers, and that if we esteem a merchant as highly as a soldier or a lawyer it is because we know by experience that the hands which handle money can be kept as clean as those that draw the sword or hold the pen. In strong races the man ennobles the occupation, the occupation does not degrade the man. If Thomas Craik was dishonest, Jonah Wood and Sherrington Trimm were both as upright gentlemen as any in the whole world. It was not in Jonah Wood’s power to recover what had been taken from him by operations that were only just within the pale of the law, because laws have not yet been made for such cases; nor was it Sherrington Trimm’s vocation to play upon Tom Craik’s conscience in the interests of semi-poetic justice. But Trimm was honourable enough and disinterested enough to rejoice at the prospect of seeing stolen money restored to its possessor instead of being emptied into his wife’s purse, and he was manly enough to have felt the same satisfaction in the act, if his own circumstances had been far less flourishing.

But Totty thought very differently of all these things. She had in her much of her brother’s nature, and the love of money, which being interpreted into American means essentially the love of what money can give, dominated her character, and poisoned the pleasant qualities with which she was undoubtedly endowed. She had, as a natural concomitant, the keenest instinct about money and the quarter from which it was to be expected. Something was wrong in her financial atmosphere, and she felt the diminution of pressure as quickly and as certainly as a good barometer indicates the approaching south wind when the weather is still clear and bright. It was of no use to question her husband, and she knew her brother well enough to be aware that he would conceal his purpose to the last. But there was an element of anxiety and doubt in her life which she had not known before. Tom Craik saw that much in her face and suspected that it was the result of his recovery. He did not regret what he had done and he made up his mind to abide by it.

Meanwhile George Wood varied the dreariness of his hardworking life by seeing as much as possible of the Fearings. He went to the house in Washington Square as often as he dared, and before long his visits had assumed a regularity which was noticeable, to say the least of it. If he had still felt any doubt as to what was passing in his own heart at the end of the first month, he felt none whatever as the spring advanced. He was in love with Constance, and he knew it. The young girl was aware of the fact also, as was her sister, who looked on with evident disapproval.

“Why do you not send the man away?” Grace asked, one evening when they were alone.

“Why should I?” inquired Constance, changing colour a little though her voice was quiet.

“Because you are flirting with him, and no good can come of it,” Grace answered bluntly.

“Flirting? I?” The elder girl raised her eyebrows in innocent surprise. The idea was evidently new to her, and by no means agreeable.

“Yes, flirting. What else can you call it, I would like to know? He comes to see you—oh yes, you cannot deny it. It is certainly not for me. He knows I am engaged, and besides, I think he knows that I do not like him. Very well—he comes to see you, then. You receive him, you smile, you talk, you take an interest in everything he does—I heard you giving him advice the other day. Is not that flirting? He is in love with you, or pretends to be, which is the same thing, and you encourage him.”

“Pretends to be? Why should he pretend?” Constance asked the questions rather dreamily, as though she had put them to herself before and more than half knew the answer. Grace laughed a little.

“Because you are eminently worth while,” she replied. “Do you suppose that if you were as poor as he is, he would come so often?”

“That is not very good-natured,” observed Constance, taking up her book again. There was very little surprise in her tone, however, and Grace was glad to note the fact. Her sister was less simple than she had supposed.

“Good nature!” she exclaimed. “What has good nature to do with it? Do you think Mr. Wood comes here out of good nature? He wants to marry you, my dear. He cannot, and therefore you ought to send him away.”

“If I loved him, I would marry him.”

“But you do not. And, besides, the thing is absurd! A man with no position of any sort—none of any sort, I assure you—without fortune, and what is much worse, without any profession.”

“Literature is a profession.”

“Oh, literature—yes. Of course it is. But those miserable little criticisms he writes are not literature. Why does he not write a book, or even join a newspaper and be a journalist?”

“Perhaps he will. I am always telling him that he should. And as for position, he is a gentleman, whether he chooses to go into society or not. His father was a New Englander, I believe—but I have heard poor papa say very nice things about him—and his mother was a Winton and a cousin of Mrs. Trimm’s. There is nothing better than that, I suppose.”

“Yes—that odious Totty!” exclaimed Grace in a tone of unmeasured contempt. “She brought him here in the hope that one of us would take a fancy to him and help her poor relation out of his difficulties. Besides, she is the silliest, shallowest little woman I ever knew!”

“I daresay. I am not fond of her. But you are unjust to Mr. Wood. He is very talented, and he works very hard——”

“At what? At those wretched little paragraphs? I could write a dozen of them in an hour!”

“I could not. One has to read the books first, you know.”

“Well—say two hours, then. I am sure I could write a dozen in two hours. Such stuff, my dear! You are dazzled by his conversation. He does talk fairly well, when he pleases. I admit that.”

“I am glad you leave him something,” said Constance. “As for my marrying him, that is a very different matter. I have not the slightest idea of doing that. To be quite honest, the idea has crossed my mind that he might wish it——”

“And yet you let him come?”

“Yes. I cannot tell him not to come here, and I like him too much to be unkind to him—to be cold and rude for the sake of sending him away. If he ever speaks of it, it will be time to tell him what I think. If he does not, it does him no harm—nor me either, as far as I can see.”

“I do not know. It seems to me that to encourage a man and then drop him when he can hold his tongue no longer is the reverse of human kindness.”

“And it seems to me, my dear, that you are beginning to argue from another side of the question. I did not understand that it was out of consideration for Mr. Wood——”

“No, it was not,” Grace admitted with a laugh. “I am cruel enough to wish that you would be unkind to him without waiting for him to offer himself. You are a very inscrutable person, Conny! I wish I could find out what you really think.”

Constance made no answer, but smiled gently at her sister as she took up her book for the second time. She began to read as though she did not care to continue the conversation, and Grace made no effort to renew it. She understood enough of Constance’s character to be sure that she could never understand it thoroughly, and she relinquished the attempt to ascertain the real state of things. If Constance had vouchsafed any reply, she would have said that she was in considerable perplexity concerning her own thoughts. For the present, however, her doubts gave her very little trouble. She possessed one of those calm characters which never force their owners to be in a hurry about a decision, and she was now, as always, quite willing to wait and see what course her inclinations would take.

Calmness of this sort is often the result of an inborn distrust of motives in oneself and in others, combined with an almost total absence of impatience. The idea that it is in general better to wait than to act, gets the upper hand of the whole nature and keeps it, perhaps throughout life, perhaps only until some strong and disturbing passion breaks down the fabric of indolent prejudice which surrounds such minds. Constance had thought of most of the points which her sister had brought up against George Wood, and was not at all surprised to hear Grace speak as she had spoken. On the contrary she felt a sort of mental pride in having herself discerned all the objections which stood in the way of her loving George. None of them had appeared to be insurmountable, because none of them were in reality quite just. She was willing to admit that her fortune might be what most attracted him, but she had no proof of the fact, and having doubted him, she was quite as much inclined to doubt her own judgment of him. His social position was not satisfactory, as Grace had said, but she had come to the conclusion that this was due to his distaste for society, especially since she had heard many persons of her acquaintance express their regret that the two Woods could not forget old scores. His literary performances were assuredly not of the first order, and she felt an odd sort of shame for him, when she thought of the poor little paragraphs he turned out in the papers, and compared the work with his conversation. But George had often explained to her that he was obliged to write his notices in a certain way, and that he occupied his spare time in producing matter of a very different description. In fact there were answers to every one of Grace’s objections and Constance had already framed for herself the replies she was prepared to give her sister.

Her principal difficulty lay in another direction. Was the very decided liking she felt for George Wood the beginning of love, or was it not? That it was not love at the present time she was convinced, for her instinct told her truly that if she had loved him, she could not have discussed him so calmly. What she defined as her liking was, however, already so pronounced that she could see no objection to allowing it to turn into something warmer and stronger if it would, provided she were able to convince herself of George’s sincerity. Her fortune was certainly in the way. What man in such circumstances, she asked herself, could be indifferent to the prospect of such a luxurious independence as was hers to confer upon him she married? She wished that some concatenation of events might deprive her of her wealth for a time long enough to admit of her trying the great experiment, on condition that it might be restored to her so soon as the question was decided in one way or the other. Nevertheless she believed that if she really loved him, she could forget to doubt the simplicity of his affection.

George, on his part, was not less sensitive upon the same point. His hatred of all sordid considerations was such that he feared lest his intentions might be misinterpreted wherever there was a question of money. On the other hand, he was becoming aware that his intercourse with Constance Fearing could not continue much longer upon its present footing. There existed no pretext of relationship to justify the intimacy that had sprung out of his visits, and even in a society in which the greatest latitude is often allowed to young and marriageable women, his assiduity could not fail to attract attention. The fact that the two young girls had a companion in the person of an elderly lady distantly connected with them did not materially help matters. She was a faded, timid, retiring woman who was rarely seen, and who, indeed, took pains to keep herself out of the way when there were any visitors, fearing always to intrude where she might not be wanted. George had seen her once or twice but was convinced that she did not know him by sight. He knew, however, that his frequent visits had been the subject of remark among the young girls’ numerous acquaintance, for his cousin Totty had told him so with evident satisfaction, and he guessed from Grace’s behaviour, that she at least would be glad to see no more of him. What Grace had told her sister, however, was strictly true. Constance encouraged him. George was neither tactless nor fatuous, and if Constance had shown that his presence was distasteful to her, he would have kept away, and cured himself of his half-developed attachment as best he could.

About this time an incident occurred which was destined to produce a very decided effect upon his life. One afternoon in May he was walking slowly down Fifth Avenue on his way to Washington Square when he suddenly found himself face to face with old Tom Craik, who was at that moment coming out of one of the clubs. The old man was not as erect as he had been before his illness, but he was much less broken down than George had supposed. His keen eyes still peered curiously into the face of every passer, and he still set down his stick with a sharp, determined rap at every step. Before George could avoid the meeting, as he would instinctively have done had there been time, he was conscious of being under his relation’s inquiring glance. He was not sure that the latter recognised him, but he knew that a recognition was possible. Under the circumstances he could not do less than greet his father’s enemy, who was doubtless aware of his many inquiries during the period of danger. George lifted his hat civilly and would have passed on, but the old gentleman stopped him, to his great surprise, and held out a thin hand, tightly encased in a straw-coloured glove—he permitted himself certain exaggerations of dress which somehow were not altogether incongruous in his case.

“You are George Wood?” he asked. George was struck by the disagreeable nature of his voice and at the same time by the speaker’s evident intention to make it sound pleasantly.

“Yes, Mr. Craik,” the young man answered, still somewhat confused by the suddenness of the meeting.

“I am glad I have met you. It was kind of you to ask after me when I was down. I thank you. It showed a good heart.”

Tom Craik was sincere, and George looked in vain for the trace of a sneer on the parchment that covered the worn features, and listened without detecting the least modulation of irony in the tones of the cracked voice. He felt a sharp sting of remorse in his heart. What he had meant for something very like an insult had been misunderstood, had been kindly received, and now he was to be thanked for it.

“I hate you, and I asked because I wanted to be told that you were dead”—he could not say that, though the words were in his mind, and he could almost hear himself speaking them. A flush of shame rose to his face.

“It seemed natural to inquire,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. It had seemed very natural to him, as he remembered.

“Did it? Well, I am glad it did, then. It would not have seemed so to every young man in your position. Good day—good day to you. Come and see me if you care to.”

Again the thin gloved hand grasped his, and George was left alone on the pavement, listening to the sharp rap of the stick on the stones as the old man walked rapidly away. He stood still for a moment, and then went on down the Avenue. The dry regular rapping of that stick was peculiarly disagreeable and he seemed to hear it long after he was out of earshot.

He was very much annoyed. More than that, he was sincerely distressed. Could he have guessed what had been the practical result of his inquiries during the illness, he would assuredly have even then turned and overtaken Tom Craik, and would have explained with savage frankness that he was no friend, but a bitter enemy who would have rejoiced to hear that death had followed and overtaken its victim. But since he could not dream of what had happened, it appeared to him that any explanation would be an act of perfectly gratuitous brutality. It was not likely that he should meet the old man often, and there would certainly be no necessity for any further exchange of civilities. He suffered all the more in his pride because he must henceforth accept the credit of having seemed kindly disposed.

Then he remembered how, at his second meeting with Constance Fearing, she had earnestly advised him not to do what had led to the present situation. It would have been different had he known her as he knew her now, had he loved her as he undoubtedly loved her to-day. But as things had been then, he hardly blamed himself for having been roused to opposition by his strong dislike of advice.

“I have received the reward of my iniquities,” he said, as he sat down in his accustomed seat and looked at her delicate face.

“What has happened to you?” she asked, raising her eyes with evident interest.

“Something very disagreeable. Do you like to hear confessions? And when you do, are you inclined to give absolution to your penitents?”

“What is it! What do you want to tell me?” Her face expressed some uneasiness.

“Do you remember, when I first came here—the second time, I should say—when Tom Craik was in such a bad way, and I hoped he would die? You know, I told you I would go and leave a card with inquiries, and you advised me not to. I went—in fact, I called several times.”

“You never told me. Why should you? It was foolish of me, too. It was none of my business.”

“I wish I had taken your advice. The old man got well again, but I have not seen him till to-day. Just now, as I walked here, he was coming out of his club, and I ran against him before I knew where I was. Do you know? He had taken my inquiries seriously. Thought I asked out of pure milk and water of human kindness, so to say—thanked me so nicely and asked me to go and see him! I felt like such a beast.”

Constance laughed and for some reason or other the high, musical ring of her laughter did not give George as much satisfaction as usual.

“What did you do?” she asked, a moment later.

“I hardly know. I could not tell him to his face that he had not appreciated my peculiar style of humour, that I loathed him as I loathe the plague, and that I had called to know whether the undertaker was in the house. I believe I said something civil—contemptibly civil, considering the circumstances—and he left me in front of the club feeling as if I had eaten something I did not like. I wish you had been there to get me out of the scrape with some more good advice!”

“I? Why should I——”

“Because, after all, you got me into it, Miss Fearing,” George answered rather sadly. “So, perhaps, you would have known what to do this time.”

“I got you into the scrape?” Constance looked as much distressed as though it were really all her fault.

“Oh, no—I am not in earnest, exactly. Only, I have such an abominably contrary nature that I went to Tom Craik’s door just because you advised me not to—that is all. I had only seen you twice then—and——” he stopped and looked fixedly at the young girl’s face.

“I knew I was wrong, even then,” Constance answered, with a faint blush. The colour was not the result of any present thought, nor of any suspicion of what George was about to say; it was due to her recollection of her conduct on that long remembered afternoon nearly four months earlier.

“No. I ought to have known that you were right. If you were to give me advice now——”

“I would rather not,” interrupted the young girl.

“I would follow it, if you did,” said George, earnestly. “There is a great difference between that time and this.”

“Is there?”

“Yes. Do you not feel it?”

“I know you better than I did.”

“And I know you better—very much better.”

“I am glad that makes you more ready to follow sensible advice——”

“Your advice, Miss Fearing. I did not mean——”

“Mine, then, if you like it better. But I shall never offer you any more. I have offered you too much already, and I am sorry for it.”

“I would rather you gave me advice—than nothing,” said George in a lower voice.

“What else should I give you?” Her voice had a ring of surprise in it. She seemed startled.

“What you will never give, I am afraid—what I have little enough the right to ask.”

Constance laid down the work she held, and looked out of the window. There was a strange expression in her face, as though she were wavering between fear and satisfaction.

“Mr. Wood,” she said suddenly, “you are making love to me.”

“I know I am. I mean to,” he answered, with an odd roughness, as the light flashed into his eyes. Then, all at once, his voice softened wonderfully. “I do it badly—forgive me—I never did it before. I should not be doing it now, if I could help myself—but I cannot. This once—this once only—Constance, I love you with all my heart.”

He was timid, and women, whether old or young, do not like timidity. It was not that he lacked either force or courage by nature, nor any of those qualities whereby women are won. But the life he had led had kept him younger than he believed himself to be, and his solitary existence had given his ideal of Constance the opportunity of developing more quickly than the reality. He loved her, it is true, but as yet in a peaceful, unruffled way, which partook more of boundless admiration than of passion. An older man would have recognised the difference in himself. The girl’s finer perceptions were aware of it without comprehending it in the least. Nevertheless it was an immense satisfaction to George to speak out the words which in his heart had so long been written as a motto about the shrine of his imagination.

Constance said nothing in answer, but rose, after a moment’s pause, and went and stood before the fireplace, now filled with ferns and plants, for the weather was already warm. She turned her back upon George and seemed to be looking at the things that stood on the chimney-piece. George rose, too, and came and stood beside her, trying to see her face.

“Are you angry?” he asked softly. “Have I offended you?”

“No, I am not angry,” she answered. “But—but—was there any use in saying it?”

“You do not love me at all? You do not care whether I come or go?”

She pitied him, for his disappointment was genuine, and she knew that he suffered something, though it might not be very much.

“I do not know what love is,” she said thoughtfully. “Yes—I care. I like to see you—I am interested in what you do—I should be sorry never to see you again—but I do not feel—what is it one should feel, when one loves?”

“Is there any one—any man—whom you like better than you like me?”

“No,” she answered with some hesitation, “I do not think there is.”

“And there is a chance that you may like me better still—that you may some day even love me?”

“Perhaps. I cannot tell. I have not known you very long.”

“It seems long to me—but you give me all I ask, more than I had a right to hope for. I thank you, with all my heart.”

“There is little to thank me for. Do you think I mean more than I say?” She turned her head and looked calmly into his eyes. “Do you think I am promising anything?”

“I would like to think so. But what could you promise me? You would not marry me, even if you loved me as I love you.”

“You are wrong. If I loved you, I would marry you—if I were sure that your love was real, too. But it is not. I am sure it is not. You make yourself think you love me——”

The young man’s dark face seemed to grow darker still as she watched it. There was passion in it now, but of a kind other than loving. His over sensitive nature had already taken offence.

“Please do not go on, Miss Fearing,” he said, in a low voice that trembled angrily. “You have said enough already.”

Constance drew back in extreme surprise, and looked as though she had misunderstood him.

“Why—what have I said?” she asked.

“You know what you meant. You are cruel and unjust.”

There was a short pause, during which Constance seemed to be trying to grasp the situation, while George stood at the other end of the chimney-piece, staring at the pattern in the carpet. The girl’s first impulse was to leave the room, for his anger frightened and repelled her. But she was too sensible for that, and she thought she knew him too well to let such a scene pass without an explanation. She gathered all her courage and faced him again.

“Mr. Wood,” she said with a firmness he had never seen in her, “I give you my word that I meant nothing in the least unkind. It is you who are doing me an injustice. I have a right to know what you understood from my words.”

“What could you have meant?” he asked coldly. “You are, I believe, very rich. Every one knows that I am very poor. You say that I make myself think I love you——”

“Good heavens!” cried Constance. “You do not mean to say that you thought that! But I never said it, I never meant it—I would not think it——”

There was a little exaggeration in the last words. She had thought of it, and that recently, though not when she had spoken. It was enough, however. George believed her, and the cloud disappeared from his face. It was she who took his hand first, and the grasp was almost affectionate in its warmth.

“You will never think that of me?” he asked earnestly.

“Never—forgive me if any word of mine could have seemed to mean that I did.”

“Thank you,” he answered. “It is only my own folly, of course, and I am the one to be forgiven. Things may be different some day.”

“Yes,” assented Constance with a little hesitation, “some day.”

A moment later George left the house, feeling as a soldier does who has been under fire for the first time.