When George met Mamie on that evening, he hoped that she would ask no questions as to the way in which he had employed his afternoon, for he knew that if she discovered that he had been with Constance Fearing she would in all probability make some disagreeable observations about the latter, of a kind which he did not wish to hear. Without having defined the situation in his own mind, he felt that Mamie was jealous of Constance and would show it on every occasion. As a general rule she followed her mother’s advice and asked him no questions when he had been out alone. But this evening her curiosity was aroused by an almost imperceptible change in his manner. His face was a shade darker, his voice a shade more grave than usual. After dinner, Totty stayed in the drawing-room to write letters and left the two together upon the verandah. It was very dark and they sat near each other in low straw chairs.

“What have you been doing with yourself?” Mamie asked, almost as soon as they were alone.

“Something that will surprise you,” George answered. “I have been with Miss Fearing.”

He had no intention of concealing the fact, for he saw that such a course would be foolish in the extreme. He meant to go and see Constance again, as he had promised her, and he saw that it would be folly to give a clandestine appearance to their meetings.

“Oh!” exclaimed Mamie, “that accounts for it all!” He could not see her face distinctly, but her tone told him that she was smiling to herself.

“Accounts for what?” he asked.

“For a great many things. For your black looks and your gloomy view of the dinner, and your general unsociability.”

“I do not feel in the least gloomy or unsociable,” George said drily. “You have too much imagination.”

“Why did you go to see her?”

“I did not. I landed on their place without knowing it, and when I had been there a quarter of an hour, Miss Fearing suddenly appeared upon the scene. Is there anything else you would like to know?”

“Now you are angry!” Mamie exclaimed. “Of course. I knew you would be. That shows that your conversation with Conny was either very pleasant or very disagreeable. I am not naturally curious, but I would like to know what you talked about!”

“Would you?” George laughed a little roughly. “We did not talk of you—why should you want to know?”

“Oh, that mine enemy would write a book!” Mamie exclaimed, “and put into it an accurate report of your conversations, and send it to me to be criticised.”

“Why are you so vicious? Let Miss Fearing alone, if you do not like her. She has done you no harm, and there is no reason why you should call her your enemy, and quote the Bible against her.”

“I hate to hear you call her Miss Fearing. I know you call her Constance when you are alone with her.”

“Mamie, you are a privileged person, but you sometimes go too far. It is of no consequence what I call her. Let us drop the subject and talk of something else, unless you will speak of her reasonably and quietly.”

“Do you expect me to go with you when you make your next visit?”

“I shall be very glad if you will, provided that you will behave yourself like a sensible creature.”

“As I did the other day, when she was here? Is that the way?” Mamie laughed.

“No. You behaved abominably——”

“And she has been complaining to you, and that is the reason why you are lecturing me, and making the night hideous with your highly moral and excellent advice. Give it up, George. It is of no use. I am bad by nature.”

George was silent for a few minutes. It was clear that if he meant to see Constance from time to time in future matters must be established upon a permanent basis of some sort.

“Mamie,” he said at last, “let us be serious. Are you really as fond of me as you seem to be? Will you do something, not to please me, but to help me?”

“Provided it is easy and I like to do it!” Mamie laughed. “Of course I will, George,” she added a moment later in a serious tone.

“Very well. It is this. Forget, or pretend to forget, that there is such a person as Miss Fearing in the world. Or else go and see her and be as good and charming as you know how to be.”

“You give me my choice? I may do either?”

“It will help me if you will do either. I cannot hear her spoken of unkindly, and I cannot see her treated as you treated her the other day, without the shadow of a cause.”

“I think there is cause enough, considering how she treated you. Oh, yes, I know what you will say—that there never was any engagement, and all the rest of it. It is very honourable of you, and I admire you men much for putting it in that way. But we all knew, and it is of no use to deny it, you know.”

“You do not believe me? I give you my word of honour that there was no engagement. Do you understand? I made a fool of myself, and when I came to put the question I was disappointed. She was as free to refuse me as you are now, if I asked you to marry me. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” said Mamie in a rather unnatural tone. “Since you give me your word, it is a different thing. I have been mistaken. I am very sorry.”

“And will you do what I ask?”

“If you give me my choice, I will go and see her to-morrow. I will do it to please you—though I do not understand how it can help you.”

“It will, nevertheless, and I shall be grateful to you.”

The result of this conversation was that Mamie actually crossed the river on the following day and spent an hour with Constance Fearing to the great surprise of the latter, especially when she saw that her visitor was determined to be agreeable, as though to efface the impression she had made a few days earlier. Mamie was very careful to say nothing in the least pointed, nor anything which could be construed as an allusion to George.

Totty saw and wondered, but said nothing. She supposed that Mamie had made the visit because George had asked her to, and she was well satisfied that George should take the position of asking Mamie to do anything for him. That sort of thing, she said to herself, helps on a flirtation wonderfully.

As for George he did not look forward to his next meeting with Constance with any kind of pleasure. It was distinctly disagreeable, and he wished that something might happen to prevent it. He did not know whether Constance would tell Grace of his coming, but it struck him that he would not like to be surprised by Grace when he was sitting under the trees with her sister. Grace would assuredly not understand why he was there, and he would be placed in a very false position.

So far, he was right. Constance had not mentioned her meeting with George to any one, and had no intention of doing so. She, like George, said to herself that Grace would not understand, and it seemed wisest not to give her understanding a chance. Of late George had been rarely mentioned, and there was a tendency to coldness between the sisters if his name was spoken, even accidentally. Constance had at first been grateful for the other’s readiness to help her on the memorable first of May, but as time went on, she began to feel that Grace was in some way responsible for her unhappiness and she resented any allusion to the past. Fortunately, Grace was very much occupied with her own existence at that time and was little inclined to find fault with other people’s views of life. She had married the man she loved, and who loved her, for whom she had waited long, and of whom she was immensely proud. He was exactly suited to her taste and represented her ideal of man in every way. She would rather talk of him than of George Wood, and she preferred his company to her sister’s when he was at home. They were a couple whose happiness would have become proverbial if it had been allowed to continue; one of those couples who are not interesting but to watch whom is a satisfaction, and whom it is always pleasant to meet. There was just the right difference of age between them, there was just the right difference in height, the proper contrast in complexion, both had much the same tastes, both were very much in earnest, very sensible, and very faithful. It was to be foreseen that in the course of years they would grow more and more alike, and perhaps more and more prejudiced in favour of their own way of looking at things, that they would have sensible, good-looking children, who would do all those things which they ought to do and rejoice their parents’ hearts, in short that they would lead a peaceful and harmonious life and be in every way an honour to their principles and a model to all young couples yet unmarried. They were people to whom nothing unusual would ever happen, people who, if they had had the opportunity to invent gunpowder, would have held a matrimonial consultation upon the matter and would have decided that explosives should be avoided with care, and had better not be invented at all. Since their marriage they had both been less in sympathy with Constance than before, and the latter was beginning to suspect that it would not be wise for them to live together when they returned to town. She was in some doubt, however, about making any definite arrangements. The elderly female relation who had been a companion and a chaperon to the two young girls, was on her hands, and had begun to show signs of turning into an invalid. It was impossible to turn her adrift, though she was manifestly in the way at present, and yet if Constance decided to live by herself, the good lady was not the sort of person she needed. She gave a good deal of thought to the matter, and turned it over in every way, little suspecting that an event was about to occur which would render all such arrangements futile.

On the Sunday afternoon agreed upon, George got into the boat alone and pulled away into the stream without offering any explanation of his departure to Mrs. Trimm or to Mamie. He took it for granted that they intended to go to church as usual and that he would not be missed. Moreover, he owed no account of his doings to any one, as he said to himself, and would assuredly give none. He started at an early hour, but was surprised to see that Constance was at the place of meeting before him. As he glanced over his shoulder to see that he was rowing for the right point, he caught sight of her white serge dress beneath the trees.

“I have been watching you ever since you started,” she said, holding out her hand to him. “Why do you always row instead of sailing? There is a good breeze, too.”

“There are two reasons,” he answered. “In the first place, the Trimms have no sail-boat, and secondly, if they had, I should not know how to manage it.”

“My brother-in-law and Grace are out. Do you see their boat off there? Just under the bluff. They said they would probably go to your cousin’s a little later. And now sit down. Do you know? I was afraid you would not come, until I saw your boat.”

“What made you think that? Did I not promise that I would come?”

“Yes—I know. But I was afraid something would happen to prevent you—and then, when one looks forward to something for a whole week, it so often does not happen.”

“That is true. But then, presentiments are always wrong. What have you been doing with yourself all the week?” George asked, feeling that since he had come so far, it was incumbent upon him to try and make conversation.

“Not much. I had one surprise—your cousin Mamie came over on Tuesday and made a long visit. I had not expected her, I confess, but she was in very good spirits and talked charmingly.”

“She is a very nice girl,” said George indifferently.

“Of course—I know. But when we were all over there the other day I thought—” she stopped suddenly and looked at George. “Is it forbidden ground?” she asked, with a slight change of colour.

“What? Mamie? No. Why should we not talk about her?”

“Well—I fancied she did not like me. She said one or two things that I thought were meant to hurt me. They did, too. I suppose I am very sensitive. After all, she looked perfectly innocent, and probably meant nothing by it.”

“She often says foolish things which she does not mean,” said George reflectively. “But she is a very good girl, all the same. You say she was agreeable the other day—what did you talk about?”

“She raved about you,” said Constance. “She is a great admirer of yours. Did you know it?”

“I know she likes me,” George answered coolly. “Her mother is a very old friend of mine and has been very kind to me. She saw that I was worn out with work, and insisted upon my spending the summer with them, as Sherry Trimm is abroad and they had no man in the house. So Mamie came over here to sing my praises, did she?”

“Yes, and she sang them very well. She is so enthusiastic—it is a pleasure to listen to her.”

“I should think you would find that sort of thing rather fatiguing,” said George with a smile.

“Strange to say I did not. I could bear a great deal of it without being in the least tired. But, as I told you, I was surprised by her visit. Do you know what I thought? I thought that you had made her come and be nice, because you had seen that I had been annoyed when we were over there. It would have been so like you.”

“Would it? If I had done what you suppose, I would not tell you and I am very glad she came. I wish you knew each other better, and liked each other.”

“We can, if you would be glad,” said Constance. “I could go over there and ask her here, and see a great deal of her, and I could make her like me. I will if you wish it.”

“Why should I put you to so much trouble, for a matter of so little importance?”

“It would be a pleasure to do anything for you,” answered the young girl simply. “I wish I might.”

George looked at her gravely and saw that she was very much in earnest. The readiness with which she offered to put herself to any amount of inconvenience at the slightest hint from him, proved she was looking out for some occasion of proving her friendship.

“You are very kind, Constance,” he said gently. “I thank you very much.”

A silence followed, broken only by the singing of the wind in the old trees. The sky was overcast and there were light squalls on the water. Presently George began to talk again and an hour passed quickly away, far more quickly and pleasantly than he had believed possible. They had many thoughts and ideas in common, and the first constraint being removed it was impossible that they should be long together without talking freely.

“Why not kill him?” said Constance in a critical tone. “It would solve many difficulties, and after all you do not want him any more.”

They were talking of the book he was now writing. Insensibly they had approached the subject, and being once near it, George had not resisted the temptation to tell her the story.

“It would be so easy,” she continued. “Take him out in a boat and upset him, you know. They say drowning is a pleasant death. A boat like my brother-in-law’s—there it is. Do you see?”

Grace and her husband had been across to see Totty and were returning. The breeze was uncertain, and from time to time the boat lay over in a way that looked dangerous.

“Murder and sudden death!” said George with a light laugh. “Do you not think it would be more artistic to let him live? When I was a starving critic, that was one of my favourite attacks. At this point the author, for reasons doubtless known to himself, unexpectedly drowns his hero, and what might have proved a very fair story is brought to an abrupt close. You know the style. I used to do it very well. Do you not think they will say that?”

“What does it matter? Besides, it is only a suggestion, and this particular man is not the hero. I never liked him from the beginning, and I should be glad if he were brought to an awful end!”

“How heartless! But he is not so bad as you think. I never could tell a story well in this way, and you have not read the book. By Jove! I believe they have brought over Mamie and her mother. There are a lot of people in the boat.”

He was watching the little craft rather anxiously. It struck him that he would rather not be found sitting under the trees with Constance, by that particular party of people.

“You do not think they will come here, do you?” he asked, turning to his companion. It seemed almost as natural as formerly that they should agree in not wishing to be interrupted by Grace, nor by any one else.

“Oh no!” Constance answered. “They will not come here. The buoy is anchored opposite the landing, much farther down, and John could not moor her to the shore. It is odd, though, that he should be running so free. He is losing way by coming towards us.”

“I am sure they have seen us and mean to land here,” said George in a tone that betrayed his annoyance.

Both watched the little boat in silence for some minutes.

“You are right,” Constance said at last. “They are coming here. It is of no use to run away,” she added, quite naturally. “They must have seen my white frock long ago. Yes, here they are.”

By this time the boat was less than twenty yards from the shore and within speaking distance. She was a small, light craft, half-decked, and rigged as a cutter. John Bond was steering and the three ladies were seated in the middle. John let her head come to the wind and sang out—

“Wood! I say!”

“Hullo!” George answered, springing to his feet and advancing to the edge of the land.

“Can you take the ladies ashore in your boat?”

“All right!” George sprang into the light wherry, taking the painter with him, and pulled alongside of the party. In a moment the three ladies were over the side and crowded together in the stern.

“You will meet us at the house, dear, won’t you?” said Grace to her husband just as George was turning his boat to row back.

“Yes, as soon as I can take her to her moorings,” answered John, who was holding the helm up with one hand and loosening the sheet with the other.

As George rowed towards the land he faced the river and saw what happened. The three ladies were all looking in the opposite direction. The little cutter’s head went round, slowly at first, and then more quickly as the wind filled the sail. At that moment a sharp squall swept over the water. George could see that John was trying to let the sheet go, but the rope was jammed and the sail remained close hauled, as it had been when he made the boat lie to. She had little ballast in her, and the weight of the ladies being out of her, left her far too light. George was not a practical sailor, and he turned pale as he saw the cutter lie over upon her side, though he supposed it might not be as dangerous as it looked. A moment later he stopped rowing. The little vessel had capsized and was floating bottom upwards. John Bond was nowhere to be seen.

“Can your husband swim?” he asked quickly of Grace. She started violently as she saw the look on his face, turned, caught sight of the sail-boat’s keel and then screamed.

“Save him! Save him!” she cried in agony.

“Take the sculls, Mamie!” cried George as he sprang over the side into the river. He had not even thrown off his shoes or his flannel jacket.

George had calculated that he could reach the place where the accident had occurred much sooner by swimming than in the boat, which was long and narrow and needed some time to turn, and which moreover was moving in the opposite direction. He was a first-rate swimmer and diver and trusted to his strength to overcome the disadvantage he was under in being dressed. In a few seconds he had reached the cutter. John Bond was nowhere to be seen. Without hesitation he drew a long breath and dived under the boat. The unfortunate man had become entangled in the ropes and was under the vessel, struggling desperately to free himself. George laid hold of him just as he was making his last convulsive effort. But it was too late. The wet sail and the slack of the sheet had somehow fastened themselves about him. He grasped the arm with which George tried to help him, and his grip was like a steel vice, for John Bond was a very strong man and he was in his death agony. George now struggled for his own life, trying to free himself from the death clasp that held him, making desperate efforts to get his head under the side of the boat in order to breathe the air. But he could not loosen the dead man’s iron hold. The effort to hold his breath could go no further, he opened his mouth, and made as though he were breathing, taking the cool fresh water into his lungs, while still exerting his utmost strength to get free. Then a delicious dreamy sleep seemed to come over him and he lost consciousness.

Mamie Trimm showed admirable self-possession. She brought her mother and Grace ashore in spite of their cries and entreaties, for she knew that they could do nothing, and she herself did not believe at first that anything serious had happened, and told them so as calmly as she could. She knew that George was an admirable swimmer and she had no fear for him, though as she reached the land she saw him dive under the capsized boat. He would reappear in thirty seconds at the most, and would probably bring John Bond up with him. She had great difficulty in making Grace go ashore, however, and without her mother’s assistance she would have found it altogether impossible. The four women stood near together straining their sight, when nothing was to be seen. The struggles of the two men moved the light hull of the cutter during several seconds and then all was quiet.

With parted lips and blanched cheeks Constance Fearing stared at the water, leaning against the tree that was nearest to the edge. Grace would have fallen to the ground if Mrs. Trimm had not held her arms about her. Mamie stood motionless and white, expecting every moment to see George’s dark head rise to the surface, believing that he could not be drowned.

At that moment a third boat, rowed by four strong pairs of arms shot past the wooded point at a tremendous speed, the water flying to right and left of the sharp prow, and churning in the wake, while the hard breathing of the desperate rowers could be heard.

“Jump on her keel, fellows!” roared a lusty voice. “There are four of us and we can right her. They’re both under the stern!”

In an instant, as it seemed, the little cutter was lying on her side, and the four women could see the bodies of John Bond and George Wood clasped together and entangled in the sail, but partly drawn out of water by the lifting of the boat’s side. Quicker than thought Mamie was in the wherry again and out on the water. The cutter had drifted in shore with the current during the two or three minutes in which all had happened. The girl saw that the rescuers needed help and was with them in an instant. What she did she never remembered afterwards, but for many days the strain upon her strength left her bruised and aching from head to foot. In less than a minute the bodies of the two men were in her boat and two of the newcomers were pulling her ashore. The others caught their own craft again and swam to land, pushing it before them.

With a cry that seemed to break her heart Grace fell upon her husband’s corpse. He was dead, and she knew it, though two of the men did everything in their power to restore him. They were all gentlemen who lived by the river, and knew what to do in such cases.

On the other side the two young girls knelt beside the body of George Wood, both their faces as white as his, both silent, both helping to their utmost in the attempt to bring him to life. The men were prompt and determined in their action. One of them was a physician. For many minutes they moved George’s arms up and down with a regular, cadenced motion, so as to expand and contract the lungs and produce an artificial breathing.

“I am afraid it is all up,” said one in a low voice to his companion.

“Not yet,” answered the other, who was the doctor. “I believe he is alive.”

He was right. A minute later George’s eyelids trembled.

“He is alive,” said Constance in a strange, happy voice.

Mamie said nothing, but her great grey eyes opened wide with joy. Then all at once, with a smothered cry she threw herself upon him and kissed his dark face passionately, heedless of the two strangers as she was of the girl who was kneeling opposite to her.

Constance seized her by the arm and pushed her away from George with a strength no one would have suspected her of possessing.

“What is he to you, that you should do that?” she asked in a tone trembling with passion.

Mamie’s eyes flashed angrily as she shook herself free and raised her head.

“I love him,” she said proudly. “What are you to him that you should come between us?”

George opened his eyes slowly.

“Constance!” He could hardly articulate the name, and a violent fit of coughing succeeded the effort.

The two girls looked into each other’s eyes. Both had heard the syllables, and both knew what they meant. In Constance’s face there was pride, triumph, supreme happiness. In Mamie’s closely-set lips and flashing eyes there was implacable hatred. She rose to her feet and drew back, slowly, while Constance remained kneeling on the ground. One moment more she remained where she was, gazing at her retreating rival. Then, with one more glance at George’s reviving eyes, she sprang up and went to her sister’s side.

Grace’s grief was uncontrollable and terrible to see. During the night that followed it was impossible to make her leave her husband’s body. She was far too strong to break down or to go mad, and she suffered everything that a human being can suffer without a moment’s respite.

Constance never left her, though she could do nothing to soothe her fearful sorrow. Words were of no use, for Grace could not hear them. There was nothing to be done, but to wait and pray that she might become exhausted by the protracted agony.

It was late in the evening when the four gentlemen who had saved George’s life brought him home with Mamie and her mother. There had been much to be thought of before he could think of returning. They had carried him to Constance’s house at first, for he had been unable to walk, and they had given him some of the dead man’s clothes in place of his own dripping garments, had chafed him and warmed him and poured stimulants down his throat. The doctor in the party had strongly urged him to spend the night where he was. But nothing could induce him to do that. As soon as he was strong enough to walk he insisted on recrossing the river.

Even Totty was terribly shocked and depressed by what had happened. She was not without heart and the tears came into her eyes when she thought of Grace’s cruel bereavement.

“Oh, George,” she said before they retired for the night, “you don’t think anything more could have been done, do you? It was quite impossible to save him, was it not?”

A faint smile passed over the tired face of the man who had to all intents and purposes sacrificed his own life in the attempt to save John Bond, who had been as dead as he so far as his own sensations were concerned.

“I did what I could,” he answered simply.

Mamie looked keenly into his eyes, as she bade him good-night. Her mother was already at the door.

“You love Constance Fearing still,” she said in a tone that could not reach Totty’s ears.

“I hope not,” George answered with sudden coldness.

“When you opened your eyes, you said ‘Constance’ quite distinctly. We both heard it.”

“Did I? That was very foolish. The next time I am drowned in the presence of ladies I will try and be more careful.”