When George entered the drawing-room he was surprised to find Grace there instead of Constance, and it was with difficulty that he repressed a nervous movement of annoyance. On that day of all others he had no desire to meet Grace Fearing, and though he imagined that her presence was accidental and that he had come before the appointed time he felt something more of resentment against the young girl than usual. He made the best of the situation, however, and put on a brave face, considering that, after all, when the happiness of a lifetime is to be decided, a delay of five minutes should not be thought too serious an affair.

Grace rose to receive him and, coming forward, held his hand in hers a second or two longer than would have been enough under ordinary circumstances. Her face was very grave and her deep brown eyes looked with an expression of profound sympathy into those of her visitor. George felt his heart sink under the anticipation of bad news.

“Is anything the matter, Miss Fearing?” he inquired anxiously. “Is your sister ill?”

“No. She is not ill. Sit down, Mr. Wood. I have something to say to you.”

George felt an acute presentiment of evil, and sat down in such a position with regard to the light that he could see Grace’s face better than she could see his.

“What is it?” he asked in a tone of constraint.

The young girl paused a moment, moved in her seat, which she had selected in the corner of a sofa, rested one elbow on the mahogany scroll that rose at the end of the old-fashioned piece of furniture, supported her beautifully moulded chin upon the half-closed fingers of her white hand and gazed upon George with a look of inquiring sympathy. There was nothing of nervousness nor timidity in Grace Fearing’s nature. She knew what she was going to do and she meant to do it thoroughly, calmly, pitilessly if necessary.

“My sister has asked me to talk with you,” she began, in her smooth, deep voice. “She is very unhappy and she is not able to bear any more than she has borne already.”

George’s face darkened, for he knew what was coming now, as though it were already said. He opened his lips to speak, but checked himself, reflecting that he did not know the extent of Grace’s information.

“I am very, very sorry,” she continued, earnestly. “I need not explain matters. I know all that has happened. Constance was to have given you a final answer to-day. She could not bear to do so herself.”

Grace paused an instant, and if George had been less agitated than he was, he would have seen that her full lips curled a little as she spoke the last words.

“She has thought it all over,” she concluded. “She does not love you, and she can never be your wife.”

There was a long pause. Grace changed her position, leaning far back among the cushions and clasping her hands upon her knees. At the same time she ceased to look at the young man’s face, and let her sight wander to the various objects on the other side of the room.

In the first moment, George’s heart stood still. Then it began to beat furiously, though it seemed as though its pulsations had lost the power of propelling the blood from its central seat. He kept his position, motionless and outwardly calm, but his dark face grew slowly white, leaving only black circles about his gleaming eyes, and his scornful mouth gradually set itself like stone. He was silent, for no words suggested themselves to his lips, now, though they had seemed too ready a moment earlier.

Grace felt that she must say something more. She was perfectly conscious of his state, and if she had been capable of fear she would have been frightened by the magnitude of his silent anger.

“I have known that this would come,” she said, softly. “I know Constance better than you can. A very long time ago, I told her that at the last minute she would refuse you. She is very unhappy. She begged me to say all this as gently as possible. She made me promise to tell you that she felt towards you just as she had always felt, that she hoped to see you very often, that she felt towards you as a sister——”

“This is too much!” exclaimed George in low and angry tones. Then forgetting himself altogether, he rose from his seat quickly and went towards the door.

Grace was on her feet as quickly as he.

“Stop!” she cried in a voice not loud, but of which the tone somehow imposed upon the angry man.

He turned suddenly and faced her as though he were at bay, but she met his look calmly and her eyes did not fall before his.

“You shall not go away like this,” she said.

“Pardon me,” he answered. “I think it is the best thing I can do.” There was something almost like a laugh in the bitterness of his tone.

“I think not,” replied Grace with much dignity.

“Can you have anything more to say to me, Miss Fearing? You, of all people? Are you not satisfied?”

“I do not understand you, and from the tone in which you speak, I would rather not. You are very angry, and you have reason to be—heaven knows! But you are wrong in being angry with me.”

“Am I?” George asked, recovering some control of his voice and manner. “I am at least wrong in showing it,” he added, a moment later. “Do you wish me to stay here?”

“A few minutes longer, if you will be so kind,” Grace answered, sitting down again, though George remained standing before her. “You are wrong to be angry with me, Mr. Wood. I have only repeated to you my sister’s words. I have done my best to tell you the truth as gently as possible.”

“I do not doubt it. Your mission is not an easy one. Why did your sister not tell me the truth herself? Is she afraid of me?”

“Do you think it would have been any easier to bear, if she had told you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Grace asked.

“Because it is better to hear such things directly than at second hand. Because it is easier to bear such words when they are spoken by those we love, than by those who hate us. Because when hearts are to be broken it is braver to do it oneself than to employ a third person.”

“You do not know what you are saying. I never hated you.”

“Miss Fearing,” said George, who was rapidly becoming exasperated beyond endurance, “will you allow me to take my leave?”

“I never hated you,” Grace repeated without heeding his question. “I never liked you, and I never was afraid to show it. But I respect you—no, do not interrupt—I respect you, more than I did, because I have found out that you have more heart than I had believed. I admire you as everybody admires you, for what you do so well. And I am sorry for you, more sorry than I can tell. If you would have my friendship, I would offer it to you—indeed you have it already, from to-day.”

“I am deeply indebted to you,” George answered very coldly.

“You need not even make a show of thanking me. I have done you no service, and I should regret it very much if Constance married you. Do not look surprised. My only virtue is honesty, and when I have such things to say you think that is no virtue at all. I thought very badly of you once. Forgive me, if you can. I have changed my mind. I have neither said nor done anything for a long time to influence my sister, not for nearly a year. Do you believe me?”

George was beginning to be very much surprised at Grace’s tone. He was too much under the influence of a great emotion to reason with himself, but the truthfulness of her manner spoke to his heart. If she had condoled with him, or tried to comfort him, he would have been disgusted, but her straightforward confession of her own feelings produced a different effect.

“I believe you,” he said, wondering how he could sincerely answer such a statement with such words.

“Thank you, you are generous.” Grace rose again, and put out her hand. “Do you care to see her, before you go?” she asked, looking into his eyes. “I will send her to you, if you wish it.”

“Yes,” George answered, after a moment’s hesitation. “I will see her—please.”

He was left alone for a few minutes. Though the sun was streaming in through the window, he felt cold as he had never felt cold in his life. His anger had, he believed, subsided, but the sensation it had left behind was new and strange to him. He turned as he stood and his glance fell upon Constance’s favourite chair, the seat in which she had sat so often and so long while he had talked with her. Then he felt a sudden pain, so sharp that it might have seemed the last in life, and he steadied himself by leaning on the table. It was as though he had seen the fair young girl lying dead in that place she loved. But she was not dead. It was worse. Then his great wrath surged up again, sending the blood tingling through his sinewy frame to the tips of his strong fingers, and bringing a different mood with it, and a sterner humour. He was a very masculine man, incapable of being long crushed by any blow. He was sorry, now, that he had asked to see her. Had he felt thus five minutes earlier, he would have declined Grace’s offer and would have left the house, meaning never to re-enter it. But it was too late and he could no longer avoid the meeting.

At that moment the door opened, and Constance stood before him. Her face was pale and there were traces of tears upon her cheeks. But he was not moved to pity by any such outward signs of past emotion. She came and stood before him, and laid one delicate hand upon his sleeve, looking up timidly to his eyes. He did not move, and his expression did not change.

“Can you forgive me?” she asked in a trembling voice.

“No,” he answered, bitterly. “Why should I forgive you?”

“I know I have not deserved your forgiveness,” she said, piteously. “I have been very, very wrong—I have done the worst thing I ever did in my life—I have been heartless, unkind, cruel, wicked—but—but I never meant to be——”

“It is small consolation to me to know that you did not mean it.”

“Oh, do not be so hard!” she cried, the tears rising in her voice. “I did not mean it so. I never promised you anything—indeed I never did!”

“It must be a source of sincere satisfaction, to feel that your conscience is clear.”

“But it is not—I want to tell you all—Grace has not told you—I like you as much as ever, there is no difference—I am still fond of you, still very fond of you!”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, George, are you a stone? Will nothing move you? Cannot you see how I am suffering?”

“Yes. I see.” He neither moved, nor bent his head. His lips opened and shut mechanically as though they were made of steel. She looked up again into his face and his expression terrified her.

She turned away, slowly at first, as though in despair. Then with a sudden movement she threw herself upon the sofa and buried her face in the cushions, while a violent fit of sobbing shook her light frame from head to foot. George stood still, watching her with stony eyes. For a full minute nothing was audible but the sound of her weeping.

“You are so cold,” she sobbed. “Oh, George, you will break my heart!”

“You seem to be chiefly overcome by pity for yourself,” he answered cruelly. “If you have anything else to say, I will wait. If not——”

She roused herself and sat up, the tears streaming down her cheeks, her hands clasped passionately together.

“Oh, do not go! Do not go—it kills me to let you go.”

“Do you think it would? In that case I will stay a little longer.” He turned away and went to the window. For some minutes there was silence in the room.

“George——” Constance began timidly. George turned sharply round.

“I am here. Can I do anything for you, Miss Fearing?”

“Cannot you say you forgive me? Can you not say one kind word?”

“Indeed, I should find it very hard.”

Constance had recovered herself to some extent, and sat staring vacantly across the room, while the tears slowly dried upon her cheeks. Her courage and her pride were alike gone, and she looked the very picture of repentance and despair. But George’s heart had been singularly hardened during the half-hour or more which he had spent in her house that day. Presently she began speaking in a slow, almost monotonous tone, as though she were talking with herself.

“I have been very bad,” she said, “and I know it, but I have always told the truth. I never loved you enough, I never cared for you as you deserved. Did I not tell you so? Oh yes, very often—too often. I should not have told you even that I cared a little. You are the best friend I ever had—why have I lost you by loving you a little? It seems very hard. It is not that you must forgive, it is that I should have told you so that I should—you kissed me once—it was not your fault. I let you do it. There seemed so little harm—and yet it was so wrong. And once, because there was pain in your face, I kissed you, as I would have kissed my sister. I was so fond of you—I am still, although you are so cruel and cold. I did think—I really hoped that I should love you some day. You do not believe me? What does it matter! You will, for I always told you what was true—but that is it—I hoped, and I let you see that I hoped. It was very wrong. Will you try—only try to forgive me?”

“Do you not think it would be better if you would let me leave you, Miss Fearing?” George asked, coming suddenly forward. “It can do very little good to talk this matter over.”

“Miss Fearing!” exclaimed the young girl with a sigh. “It is so long since you called me that! Do you want to go? How should I keep you? Only this, will you think kindly of me, sometimes? Will you sometimes think that I helped you—only a little—to be what you are? Will you say ‘Good-bye, Constance,’ a little kindly?”

George was moved in spite of himself, and his voice was softer when he answered her.

“Of what use is it, to speak of these things? You know all that you have been to me in these years, better than I can tell you. It turns out that I have been nothing to you—well, then——”

“Nothing to me! Oh George, you have been everything—my best friend——” She stopped short.

His heart hardened again. It seemed to him that every word she spoke was in direct contradiction to her action.

“Will you tell me one thing?” he asked, after a pause during which she seemed to be on the point of bursting into tears again.

“Anything you ask me,” she answered.

“Have you come to this decision yourself, or has your sister influenced you?” His eyes sought hers and tried to read her inmost thoughts.

“It is my own resolution,” she answered without wavering. “Grace has not spoken of my marrying you for more than a year.”

“I am glad that it is altogether from your own heart——”

“Can you think that I would have taken the advice of some one else?” Constance asked, reproachfully.

“I do not know. It matters very little, after all. Pardon me if I have been rude or hasty. My manners may have been a little ruffled by this—this occurrence. Good-bye.”

She took his hand and tried to press it, looking again for his eyes. But he drew his fingers away quickly and was gone before she could detain him. For one moment she sat staring at the closed door. Then she once more hid her face in the deep soft cushions and sobbed aloud, more passionately than the first time.

“Oh, I know I ought to have married him, I know I really love him!” she moaned.

And so the first act of Constance Fearing’s life comedy was played out and the curtain fell between her and the happiness to grasp which she lacked either the will or the passion, or both. She had acted her part with a sincerity so scrupulous that it was like a parody of truth. She had thought of marrying George Wood with delight, she had broken with him in the midst of what might be called a crisis of doubt, and she had parted from him with sincere and bitter tears, feeling that she had sacrificed all she held dear in the world to the ferocious Moloch of her conscience.

To follow the action of her intelligence any farther through the mazes of the labyrinth into which she had led it would be a labour so stupendous that no sensible person could for a moment contemplate the possibility of performing the task, and for the present Constance Fearing must be left to her tears, her meditations, and her complicated state of mind with such pity as can be spared for her weaknesses and such kind thoughts as may be bestowed by the charitable upon her gentle character. It will be easier to understand the strong passion and the bitter disappointment which agitated George Wood’s powerful nature during the hours which followed the scenes just described.

His day was indeed not over yet, though he felt as though the sun had gone down upon his life before it was yet noon. He was neither morbid nor self-conscious, nor did he follow after the chimera introspection. He was simply and savagely angry with Constance, with himself, with the whole known and unknown world. For the time, he forgot who he was, what he was, and all that he had done or that he might be expected to do in the future. He knew that Constance had spoken the truth in saying that she had promised nothing. The greater madman he, to have expected anything whatever! He knew that her whole life and conversation had been one long promise during nearly two years—the more despicably heartless and altogether contemptible she was, then, for since she had spoken what was true she had acted what was a lie from beginning to end. Forgive her? He had given her his only answer. Why should he forgive her? Were there any extenuating circumstances in her favour? Not one—and if there had been, he knew that he would have torn that one to tatters till it was unrecognisable to his sense of justice. Her tears, her pathetic voice, her timidity, even her pale face—they had all been parts of the play, harmonic chords in the grand close of lies that had ended her symphony of deception. She had even prepared his ears by sending Grace to him with her warm, sympathetic eyes, her rich, deep voice and her tale of spontaneous friendship. It was strange that he should have believed the other girl, even for one moment, but he admitted that he had put some faith in her words. How poor a thing was the strongest man when desperately hurt, ready to believe in the first mockery of sympathy that was offered him, ready to catch at the mere shadow of a straw blown by the wind! Doubtless the two sisters had concocted their comedy overnight and had planned their speeches to produce the proper effect upon his victimised feelings. He had singularly disappointed them both, in that case. They would have to think longer and think more wisely the next time they meant to deceive a man of his character. He remembered with delight every cold, hard word he had spoken, every cruelly brutal answer he had given. He rejoiced in every syllable saving only that “I believe you” he had bestowed on Grace’s asseverations of friendship and esteem. And he had been weak enough to ask Constance whether Grace had spoken the truth, as if they had not arranged between them beforehand every sentence of each part! That had been weakness indeed! How they would laugh over his question when they compared notes! By this time they were closeted together, telling each other all he had said and done. On the whole, there could not be much to please them, and he had found strings for most of his short phrases after the first surprise was over. He was glad that he disbelieved them both, and so thoroughly. If there had been one grain of belief in Constance left to him, how much he still might suffer. His illusion had fallen, but it had fallen altogether with one shock, in one general and overwhelming crash. There was not one stone of his temple whole that it might be set upon another, there was not one limb, one fragment of his beautiful idol that might recall its loveliness. All was gone, wholly, irrevocably, and he was glad that it was all gone together. The ruin was so complete that he could doubtless separate the memory of the past from the fact of the present, and dwell upon it, live upon it, as he would. If he met Constance now, he could behave towards her as he would to any other woman. She was not Constance any more. Her name roused no emotion in his heart, the thought of her face as he had last seen it was not connected with anything like love. Her false face, that had been so true and honest once! He could scorn the one and yet love the other.

If George had been less absorbed in his angry thoughts, or had known that there was anything unusual in his expression, he would not have walked up Fifth Avenue on his way from Washington Square. The times were changed since he had been able to traverse the thoroughfare of fashion in the comparative certainty of not meeting an acquaintance. Before he had gone far, he was conscious of having failed to return more than one friendly nod, and he was disgusted with himself for allowing his emotions to have got the better of his habitually quick perception. At the busy corner of Fourteenth Street he stopped upon the edge of the pavement, debating for a moment whether he should leave the Avenue and go home by the elevated road, or strike across Union Square and take a long walk in the less crowded parts of the city. Just then, a familiar and pleasant voice spoke at his elbow.

“Why, George!” exclaimed Totty Trimm. “How you look! What is the matter with you?”

“How do you do, cousin Totty? I do not understand. Is there anything the matter with my face?”

“I wish you could see yourself in the glass!” cried the little lady evidently more and more surprised at his unusual expression. “I wish you could. You are as white as a sheet, with great rings round your eyes. Where in the world have you been?”

“I? Oh, I have only been making a visit at the Fearings. I suppose I am tired.”

“The Fearings?” repeated Totty, with a sweet smile. “How odd! I was just going there—walking, you see, because it is such a lovely afternoon. You won’t come back with me? They won’t mind seeing you twice in the same day, I daresay.”

“Thanks,” answered George, speaking hurriedly, and growing, if possible, paler than before. “I think it would be rather too much. Besides, I have a lot of work to do.”

“Well—go in and see Mamie on your way up. She is alone—got a horrid cold, poor child! She will be so glad and she will give you a cup of tea. You might put a little of that old whiskey of Sherry’s into it. I am sure you are not well, George. You are looking wretchedly. Good-bye, dear boy.”

Totty squeezed his hand warmly, gave him an earnest and affectionate look, and tripped away down the Avenue. George wondered whether she had guessed that there was anything wrong.

“I suppose I ought to have lied,” he said to himself, as he crossed the thoroughfare. “They will—but I cannot do it so well. I ought to have told her that I had been to the club.”

Totty Trimm had not only guessed that something was very wrong indeed. She had instinctively hit upon the truth. She, like many other people, had seen long ago that George was in love with Constance Fearing, and she had for a long time been glad of it. During the last three or four days, however, she had changed her mind in a way very unusual with her, and she had been hoping with all her heart that something would happen to break off a match that seemed to be very imminent. The matter had been so constantly in her thoughts that she referred to it everything she heard about the Fearings and about George. She had not really had the slightest intention of going to the house in Washington Square when she had met her cousin, but the determination had formed itself so quickly that she had spoken the truth in declaring it. She made up her mind to see Constance the moment she had seen George’s face and had learned that he had been with her. She pursued her way with a light heart, and her nimble little feet carried her more lightly and smoothly than ever. She rang the bell and asked if the young ladies were at home.

“Yes ma’am,” answered the servant, “but Miss Constance is not very well, and is gone to her room with a headache, and Miss Grace said she would see no one, ma’am.”

“I just met Mr. Wood,” objected Totty, “and he said he had been here this afternoon.”

“Yes ma’am, and so he was, and it’s since Mr. Wood left that the orders was given. Shall I take your card, Mrs. Trimm, ma’am?”

“No. It is of no use. You can tell the young ladies I called.”

She descended the steps and went quickly back towards Fifth Avenue. There was great joy and triumph in her breast and her smile shed its radiance on the trees on the deserted pavement and on the stiff iron railings as she went along.

“That idiotic little fool!” said Mrs. Sherrington Trimm in her heart. “She loves him, and she has refused one of the best matches in New York because she fancies he wants her money!”

She reflected that if Mamie had the same chance, she should certainly not refuse George Winton Wood, and she determined that if diplomacy could produce the necessary situation, she would not be long in bringing matters to the proper point. There is no time when a man is so susceptible, so ready to yield to the charms of one woman as when he has just been jilted by another—so, at least, thought Totty, and her worldly experience was by no means small. And if the marriage could be brought about, why then——Totty’s radiant face expressed the rest of her thoughts better than any words could have done.

While she was making these reflections the chief figure in her panorama was striding up the Avenue at a rapid pace. Strange to say his cousin’s suggestion, that he should go and see Mamie had proved rather attractive than otherwise. He did not care to walk the streets, since Totty had been so much surprised by his appearance. He might meet other acquaintances, and be obliged to speak with them. If he went home he would have to face his father, who would not fail to notice his looks, and who might guess the cause of his distress, for the old gentleman was well aware that his son was in love with Constance and hoped with all his heart that the marriage might not be far distant. Mamie would be alone, Mamie knew nothing of his doings, she was a good girl, and he liked her. To spend an hour with her would cost him nothing, as she would talk the greater part of the time, and he would gain a breathing space in which to recover from the shock he had received. She was indeed the only person whom he could have gone to see at that moment without positive suffering, except Johnson, and he was several miles from the office of Johnson’s newspaper.

As he approached the Trimms’ house his pace slackened, as though he were finally debating within himself upon the wisdom of making the visit. Then as he came within sight of the door he quickened his steps again and did not pause until he had rung the bell. A moment later he entered the drawing-room where Mamie Trimm was sitting in a deep easy-chair, among flowers near a sunlit window. She held a book in her hand.

“Oh George!” she cried, blushing with pleasure. “I am so glad—I am all alone.”

“And what are you reading, all alone among the roses?” asked George kindly.

“What do you think?”

Then she held up the novel for him to see. It was the book he had just published.