George Wood’s reputation spread rapidly. He had arrested the attention of the public, and the public was both ready and willing to be amused by him. He had finished the second of his books soon after the appearance of the first, and he had found no difficulty in selling the manuscript outright upon his own terms. It was published about the time when the events took place which have been described in the last chapter, and it obtained a wide success. It was, indeed, wholly different from its predecessor in character and presented a strong contrast to it. The first had been full of action, passionate, strange, unlike the books of the day. The second was the result of much thought and lacked almost altogether the qualities that had given such phenomenal popularity to the first. It was a calm book, almost destitute of plot and of dramatic incidents. It had been polished and adorned to the best of the young writer’s ability, he had put into it the most refined of his thoughts, he had filled it with the sayings of characters more than half ideal. He had believed in it while he was writing it, but he was disappointed with it when it was finished. He had intended to bind together a nosegay of sweet-scented flowers about a central rose, and when he had finished, his nosegay seemed to him artificial, the blossoms looked to him as though they were without stems, tied to dry sticks, and the scent of them had no freshness for his nostrils. Nevertheless he knew that he had given to his work all that he possessed of beauty and refinement in the storehouse of his mind, and he looked upon the venture as final in deciding his future career. It is worse to meet with failure on the publication of a second book, when the first has taken the world by surprise, than it is to fail altogether at the very beginning. Many a polished scholar has produced one good volume; many a refined and spiritual intelligence has painted one lovely scene and dropped the brushes for ever, or taken them up only to blotch and blur incongruous colours upon a spiritless outline, searching with blind eyes for the light that shone but once and can never shine again. Many have shot one arrow in the air and have hit the central mark, whose fingers scarce knew how to hold the bow. The first trial is one of half-reasoned, half-inspired talent; the second shows the artist’s hand; the third and all that follow are works done in the competition between master and master, to which neither apprentice nor idle lover of the art can be admitted. He whose first great effort has been successful, and whose second disappoints no one but himself, may safely feel that he has found out his element and known his own strength. He will perhaps turn out only a dull master at his craft as years go on, or he may be but a second-rate artist, but his apprenticeship has been completed and he will henceforth be judged by the same standard as other artists and masters.

George Wood had followed his own instinct in lavishing so much care and thought and pains upon the book that was now to appear, and his instinct had not deceived him, though when he saw the result he feared that he had made the great false step that is irretrievable. Though many were ready to accept his work on any terms he was pleased to name, yet he held back his manuscript for many weeks, hesitating to give it to the world. The memory of his first enthusiasms blended in his mind with the beauties of tales yet untold and darkened in his eyes the polish of the present work. Constance admired it exceedingly, saying that, although nothing could ever be to her like the first, this was so different in every way, and yet so good, that no unpleasant comparisons could be made between the two. Then George took it to Johnson who kept it a long time and would give no opinion about it until he had read every word it contained.

“This settles it,” he said at last.

“For better or for worse?” George asked, looking at the pale young man’s earnest face.

“For better,” Johnson answered without hesitation. “You are a novelist. It is not so broad as a church-door, nor so deep as a well—but it will serve. You will never regret having published it.”

So the book went to the press and in due time appeared, was tasted, criticised and declared to be good by a majority of judges, was taken up by the public, was discussed, liked and obtained a large sale. George was congratulated by all his friends in terms of the greatest enthusiasm and he received so many invitations to dinner as made him feel that either his digestion or his career, or both, must perish in the attempt to cope with them. The dinner-party of to-day, considered as the reward of merit and the expression of good feeling, is no novelty in the history of the world’s society. Little Benjamin was expected to eat twelve times as much as any of his big brothers because Joseph liked him, and the successful man of to-day is often treated with the same kindly, though destructive liberality. No one would think it enough to ask him to tea and overwhelm him with the praises of a select circle of fashionable people. He must be made to eat in order that he may understand from the fulness of his own stomach the fulness of his admirer’s heart. To heap good things upon the plate of genius has been in all times considered the most practical way of expressing the public admiration—and in times not long past there was indeed a practical reason for such expression of goodwill, in that genius was liable to be very hungry even after it had been universally acknowledged. The world has more than once bowed down from a respectful distance, to the possessor of a glorious intelligence, who in his heart would have preferred a solid portion of bread and cheese to the perishable garlands of flowers scattered at his feet, or to the less corruptible monuments of bronze and stone upon which his countrymen were ready to lavish their gold after he was dead of starvation.

A change has come over the world of late, and it may be that writers themselves have been the cause of it. It is certain that since those who live by the pen have made it their business to amuse rather than to admonish and instruct their substance has been singularly increased and their path has been made enviably smooth. Their shadows not only wax and follow the outlines of a pleasant rotundity, but they are cast upon marble pavements, inlaid floors and Eastern carpets, instead of upon the dingy walls and greasy mud of Grub Street. The star of the public amuser is in the ascendant, and his “Part of Fortune” is high in the mid-heaven.

It has been said that nothing succeeds like success, and George very soon began to find out the truth of the saying. He was ignorant of the strange possibilities of wealth that were in store for him, and the present was sufficient for all his desires, and far exceeded his former hopes. The days were gone by when he had looked upon his marriage with Constance Fearing as a delicious vision that could never be realised, and to contemplate which, even without hope, seemed to be a dangerous piece of presumption. He had now a future before him, brilliant, perhaps, but assuredly honourable and successful. At his age and with his health and strength the possibility of his being broken down by overwork or illness did not present itself to him, and, if it had, he could very well have afforded to disregard it in making his calculations. The world’s face showed him one glorious catalogue of hopes and he felt that he was the man to realise them all.

And now, too, the first of May was approaching again and he looked forward to receiving a final answer from Constance. Her manner had changed little towards him during the winter, but he thought that little had been for the better. He never doubted, now, that she was most sincerely attached to him nor that it depended on anything but her own fancy, to give a name to that attachment and call it love. Surely the trial had lasted long enough, surely she must know her own mind now, after so many months of waiting. It was two years since he had first told her that he loved her, a year had passed away since she had admitted that she loved him a little, and now the second year, the one she had asked for as a period of probation had spent itself likewise, bringing with it for George the first great success of his life and doubling, trebling his chances of happiness. His growing reputation was a bond between them, of which they had forged every link together. Her praise had stimulated his strength, her delicate and refined taste had often guided the choice of his thoughts, his power of language had found words for what was in the hearts of both. George could no more fancy himself as working without consulting Constance than he could imagine what life would be without sight or hearing. Her charm was upon him and penetrated all he did, her beauty was the light by which he saw other women, her voice the music that made harmony of all other sounds. He loved her now, as women have rarely been loved, for love had taken root in his noble and generous nature, as a rare seed in a virgin soil, beautiful from the first and gaining beauty as it grew in strength and fulness of proportion. His heart had never been disturbed before, by anything resembling true passion, there were no reminiscences to choke the new growth, no dry and withered stems about which the new love must twine itself until its spreading leaves and clasping tendrils made a rich foliage to cover the dead tree. He, she, the world, love, reputation, were all young together, all young and fresh, and full of the power to grow. To think that the prospect of such happiness should be blighted, the hope of such perfect bliss disappointed was beyond the power of George’s imagination.

The time was drawing near when he was to have his answer. He had often done violence to himself of late in abstaining from all question of her love. Earlier in the year he had once or twice returned to his old way of talking with her, but she had seemed displeased and had put him off, answering that the first of May was time enough and that she would tell him then. He had no means of knowing what was passing in her mind, for she was almost always the same Constance he had known so long, gentle, sympathising, ready with encouragement, enthusiastic concerning what he did well, suggestive when he was in doubt, thoughtful when his taste did not agree with hers. Looking back upon those long months of intimacy George knew that she had never bound herself, never uttered a promise of any sort, never directly given him to understand that she would consent to be his wife. And yet her whole life seemed to him to have been one promise since he had known her and it was treason, in his judgment, to suspect her of insincerity.

In the last days of April, he saw less of her than usual, though he could scarcely tell why. More than once, when he had hoped to find her alone, there had been visitors with her, or her sister had been present, and he had not been able to exchange a word with her without being overheard. Indeed, when Grace was established in the room he generally made his visits as short as possible. There was something in the atmosphere of the house, too, that filled him with evil forebodings. Constance often seemed abstracted and preoccupied; there appeared to be a better understanding between the sisters in regard to himself than formerly, and Grace’s manner had changed. In the old days of their acquaintance she had taken little pains to conceal her dislike after she had once made up her mind that George loved her sister, her greeting had been almost haughty, her words had been few and generally ironical, her satisfaction at his departure needlessly apparent. During the last month she had relaxed the severity of her behaviour, instead of treating him more harshly as he had expected and secretly hoped. With the unerring instinct of a man who loves deeply, concerning every one except the object of his love, George had read the signs of the times in the face of his old enemy, and distrusted her increasing benignity. She, at least, had come to the conclusion that Constance would not marry him, and seeing that the necessity for destruction was decreasing, she allowed the sun of her smiles to penetrate the dark storm-clouds of her sullen anger. George would have preferred any convulsion of the elements to this threatened calm.

Constance Fearing was in great distress of mind. She had not forgotten the date, nor had she any intention of letting it pass without fulfilling her engagement and giving George the definite answer he had so patiently expected. The difficulty was, to know what that answer should be. Her indecision could not be ascribed to her indolence in studying the question. It had been constantly before her, demanding immediate solution and tormenting her with its difficulties throughout many long months. Her conscientious love of truth had forced her to examine it much more closely than she would have chosen to do had she yielded to her inclinations. Her own happiness was no doubt vitally concerned, but the consideration of absolute loyalty and honesty must be first and before all things. The tremendous importance of the conclusion now daily more imminent appalled her and frightened her out of her simplicity into the mazes of a vicious logic; and she found the labyrinth of her difficulties further complicated in that its ways were intersected by the by-paths of her religious meditations. When her reason began to grow clear, she suddenly found it opposed to some one of a set of infallible rules by which she had undertaken to guide her whole existence. To-day she prayed to heaven, and grace was given her to marry George. To-morrow she would examine her heart and ascertain that she could never love him as he deserved. Could she marry him when he was to give so much and she had so little to offer? That would be manifestly wrong; but in that case why had her prayer seemed to be answered so distinctly by an impulse from the heart? She was evidently not in a state of grace, since she was inspired to do what was wrong. Selfishness must be at the bottom of it, and selfishness, as it was the sin about which she knew most, was the one within her comprehension which she the most sincerely abhorred. But if her impulse to marry George was selfish, was it not the direct utterance of her heart, and might this not be the only case in life in which she might frankly follow her own wishes? George loved her most truly. If she felt that she wished to marry him, was it not because she loved him? There was the point, again, confronting her just where she had begun the round of self-torture. Did she love him? What was the test of true love? Would she die for him? Dying for people was theatrical and out of fashion, as she had often been told. It was much more noble to live for those one loved than to die for them. Could she live for George? What did the words mean? Had she not lived for him, said her heart, during the last year, if not longer? What nonsense, exclaimed her reason—as if giving a little encouragement and a great deal of advice could be called living for a man! It meant more than that, it meant so much to her that she felt sure she could never accomplish it. Therefore she did not love him, and it must all come to an end at once.

She reproached herself bitterly for her weakness that had lasted so long. She was a mere flirt, a heartless girl who had ruined a man’s life and happiness recklessly, because she did not know her own mind. She would be brave now, at last, before it was quite too late. She would confess her fault and tell him how despicable she thought herself, how she repented of her evil ways, how she would be his best and firmest friend, his sister, anything that she could be to him, except his wife. He would be hurt, pained, heartbroken for a while, but he would see how much better it had been to speak the truth.

But in the midst of her passionate self-accusation, the thought of her own state after she should have put him away for ever, presented itself with painful distinctness. Whether she loved him or not, he was a part of her life and she felt that she could not do without him. For one moment she allowed herself to think of his face if she told him that she consented to their union at last, she could see the happy smile she loved so well and hear the vibrating tones of the voice that moved her more than other voices. Then, to her inexpressible shame, there arose before her visions of another kind, and notably the face of Johnson, the hardworking critic. All at once George seemed to be surrounded by a host of people whom she did not know and whom she did not want to know, men whom, as she remembered to have thought before, she would not have wished to see at her table, yet friends of his, faithful friends—Johnson was one at least—to whom he owed much and whom he would not allow to slip out of his existence because he had married Constance Fearing. She blushed scarlet, though she was alone, and passionate tears of anger at herself burst from her eyes. To think of that miserable consideration, she must be the most contemptible of women. Truly, the baseness of the human heart was unfathomable and shore-less as the ocean of space itself! Truly, she did not love him, if she could think such thoughts, and she must tell him so, cost what it might.

The last night came, preceding the day on which she had promised to give him her decisive answer. She had written him a word to say that he was expected, and she sat down in her own room to fight the struggle over again for the last time. The morrow was to decide, she thought, and yet it was impossible to come to any conclusion. Why had she not set the period at two years instead of one? Surely, in twelve months more she would have known her own mind, or at least have seen what course to pursue. Step by step she advanced once more into the sea of her difficulties, striving to keep her intelligence free from prejudice, and yet hoping that her heart would speak clearly. But it was of no use, the labyrinth was more confused than ever, the light less, and her strength more unsteady. If she thought, it seemed as though her thoughts would drive her mad, if she prayed, her prayers were confused and senseless.

“I cannot marry him, I cannot, I cannot!” she cried at last, utterly worn out with fatigue and anxiety.

She threw herself upon her pillows and tried to rest, while her own words still rang in her ears. She slept a little and she uttered the same cry in her sleep. By force of conscious and unconscious repetition of the phrase, it became mechanised and imposed itself upon her will. When the morning broke, she knew that she had resolved not to marry George Wood, and that her resolution was irrevocable.

To tell him so was a very different matter. She grew cold as she thought of the scene that was before her, and became conscious that her nerves were not equal to such a strain. She fancied that the decision she had reached had been the result of her strength in her struggle with herself. In reality she had succumbed to her own weakness and had abandoned the contest, feeling that it was easier to do anything negative rather than to commit herself to a bondage from which she might some day wish to escape when it should be too late. With a little more firmness of character she would have been able to shake off her doubts and to see that she really loved George very sincerely, and that to hesitate was to sacrifice everything to a morbid fear of offending her now over-delicate conscience. Even now, if she could have known herself, she would have realised that she had by no means given up all love for the man who loved her, nor all expectation of ultimately becoming his wife. She would have behaved very differently if she had been sure that she was burning her ships and cutting off all possibility of a return, or if she had known the character of the man with whom she had to deal. She had passed through a sort of nervous crisis, and her resolution was in the main, a concession to her desire to gain time. In making it she had thrown down her arms and given up the fight. The reaction that followed made it seem impossible for her to face such a scene as must ensue.

At first it struck her that the best way of getting out of the difficulty would be to write to George and tell him her decision in as few words as possible, begging him to come and see her a week later, when she would do her best to explain to him the many and good reasons which had contributed to the present result. This idea, however, she soon abandoned. It would seem most unkind to deal such a blow so suddenly and then expect him to wait so long before enlightening him further upon the subject. Face him herself, she could not. She might be weak, she thought, and she was willing to admit it; it was only to add another unworthiness to the long list with which she was ready to accuse herself. She could not, and she would not tell George herself. The only person who could undertake to bear her message was Grace.

She felt very kindly disposed to Grace, that morning. There was a satisfaction in feeling that she could think of any one without the necessity of considering the question of her marriage. Besides, Grace had opposed her increasing liking for George from the beginning, and had warned her that she would never marry him. Grace had been quite right, and as Constance was feeling particularly humble just then, she thought it would be agreeable to her pride, if she confessed the superiority of Grace’s judgment. She could accuse herself before her sister of all her misdeeds without the fear of witnessing George’s violent grief. Moreover it would be better for George, too, since, he would be obliged to contain himself when speaking to her sister as he would certainly not control his feelings in an interview with herself. To be short, Constance was willing in that moment to be called a coward, rather than face the man she had wronged. Her courage had failed her altogether and she was being carried rapidly down stream from one concession to another, while still trying to give an air of rectitude and self-sacrifice to all her actions. She was preparing an abyss of well-merited self-contempt for herself in the future, though her present satisfaction in her release from responsibility had dulled her real sense of right and had left only the artificialities of her morbid conscience still sensitive to the flattery of imaginary self-sacrifice.

An hour later she was alone with her sister. She had greeted her in an unusually affectionate way on entering the room, and the younger girl immediately felt that something had taken place. She herself was smiling, and cordial in her manner.

“Grace, dearest,” Constance began, after some little hesitation, “I want to tell you. You have talked so much about Mr. Wood—you know, you have always been afraid that I would marry him, have you not?”

“Not lately,” answered Grace with a pleasant smile.

“Well—do you know? I have thought very seriously of it, and I had decided to give him a definite answer to-day. Do you understand? I have treated him abominably, Grace—oh, I am so sorry! I wish it could all be undone—you were so right!”

“It is not too late,” observed Grace. Then, seeing that there were tears in her sister’s eyes, she drew nearer to her and put her arm round her waist in a comforting way. “Do not be so unhappy, Conny,” she said in a tone of deep sympathy. “Men do not break their hearts nowadays——”

“Oh, but he will, Grace! I am sure he will—and the worst of it is that I must—you know——”

“Not at all, dear. If you like I will break it to him——”

“Oh, Grace, what a darling you are!” cried Constance, throwing both her arms round her sister’s neck and kissing her. “I did not dare to ask you, and I could not, I could not have done it myself! But you will do it very kindly, will you not? You know he has been so good and patient.”

There was an odd smile on Grace’s strong face when she answered, but Constance was not in a mood to notice anything disagreeable just then.

“I will break it to him very gently,” said the young girl quietly. “Of course you must tell me what I am to say, more or less—an idea, you know. I cannot say bluntly that you have sent word that you have decided not to marry him, can I?”

“Oh no!” exclaimed Constance, suddenly growing very grave. “You must tell him that I feel towards him just as I always did——”

“Is that true?”

“Of course. I always told him that I did not love him enough to marry him. You may as well know it all. A year ago, he proposed again—well, yes, it was not the first time. I told him that if on the first of May—this first of May—I loved him better than I did then, I would marry him. Well, I have thought about it, again and again, all the time, and I am sure I do not love him as I ought, if I were to marry him.”

“I should think not,” laughed Grace, “if it is so hard to find it out!”

“Oh, you must not laugh at me,” said Constance earnestly. “It is very, very serious. Have I done right, Grace? I wish I knew! I have treated him so cruelly, so hatefully, and yet I did not mean to. I am so fond of him, I admire him so much, I like his ways—and all—I do still, you know. It is quite true. I suppose I ought to be ashamed of it—only, I am sure I never did love him, really.”

“I have no idea of laughing at the affair,” answered Grace. “It is serious enough, I am sure, especially for him.”

“Yes—I want to make a confession to you. I want to tell you that you were quite right, that I have encouraged him and led him on and been dreadfully unkind. I am sure you think I am a mere flirt, and perfectly heartless! Is it not true? Well, I am, and it is of no use to deny it. I will never, never, do such a thing again—never! But after all, I do like him very much. I never could understand why you hated him so, from the first.”

“I did not hate him. I do not hate him now,” said Grace emphatically. “I did hate the idea of his marrying you, and I do still. I thought it was just as well that he should see that from the way one member of the family behaved towards him.”

“He did see it!” exclaimed Constance in a tone of regret. “It is another of the things I inflicted on him.”

“You? I should rather think it was I——”

“No, it was all my fault, all, everything, from beginning to end—and you are a darling, Gracey dear, and it is so sweet of you. You will be very good to him? Yes—and if he should want to see me very much, after you have told him everything, I might come down for a minute. I should so much like to be sure that he has taken it kindly.”

“If you wish it, you might see him—but I hardly think—well, do as you think best, dear.”

“Thank you, darling—you know you really are a darling, though I do not always tell you so. And now, I think I will go and lie down. I never slept last night.”

“Silly child!” laughed Grace, kissing her on both cheeks. “As though it mattered so much, after all.”

“Oh, but it does matter,” Constance said regretfully as she left the room.

When Grace Fearing was alone she went to the window and looked out thoughtfully into the fresh, morning air.

“I am very glad,” she said aloud to herself. “I am very, very glad. But I would not have done it. No, not for worlds! I would rather cut off my right hand than treat a man like that!”

In that moment she pitied George Wood with all her heart.