The sudden death of John Bond caused an interruption in the lives of most of the people concerned in this history. George Wood had received one of those violent mental impressions from which men do not recover for many weeks. It was long before he could rid his dreams of the ever-repeated scene. When he closed his eyes the white sail of the little cutter rose before them, the sharp and sudden squall struck the canvas, and almost at the same instant he felt himself once more in the cool depths, struggling with a man already almost dead, striving with agonised determination to hold his breath, then abandoning the effort and losing consciousness, only to awake with a violent start and a short, smothered cry.

Even Totty, who was not naturally nervous, was haunted by terrible visions in the night and was a little pale and subdued during a fortnight after the accident. Mamie wore a strange expression, which neither George nor her mother could understand. Her lips were often tightly set together as though in some desperate effort, in which her eyelids drooped and her fingers grasped convulsively whatever they held. She was living over again that awful moment when she had clutched what she had believed to be the dead body of the man she loved, and almost unaided, she knew not how, had dragged it into the boat. There was another instant, too, which recalled itself vividly to her memory, the one in which the reviving man had pronounced Constance’s name, and Constance had shown her triumph in her eyes.

As often happens in such cases, both George and Mamie had been less exhausted on the evening of the fatal day than they had been for several days afterwards. It was long before Mamie made any reference again to the first word he had spoken with returning consciousness. She often, indeed, stood gazing across the river, towards the scene of the tragedy and beyond the tall trees in the direction of the house that was hidden behind them, and George knew what was in her thoughts better than he could tell what was in his own. He had learned soon enough that he owed a large share of gratitude for the preservation of his life to Mamie herself. The young doctor who had done so much, had been to see him more than once and had repeated to him that if he had been left, even with his head above water, but without the immediate assistance necessary in such cases, during two or three minutes more, he would in all likelihood never have breathed again. The presence of a boat on the spot, and above all Mamie’s exhibition of an almost supernatural strength in getting George into the wherry, had really saved his life. Without her, the four men who had acted so promptly would have been helpless. Their own craft was adrift and empty, and they had been unable to right the cutter so as to make use of her, light as she was. The doctor did not fail to say the same thing to Mamie, complimenting her on her presence of mind and extraordinary energy in a way that brought the colour to her pale cheeks. George felt that a new tie bound him to his cousin.

It was indeed impossible that where there was already so much genuine affection on the one side and so much devoted love on the other, such an accident should not increase both in a like proportion. Whether it were really true that Mamie had been the immediate means of saving George or not, the testimony was universally in favour of that opinion, and the girl herself was persuaded that without her help he would have perished. She had saved him at the moment of death, and she loved him ten times more passionately than before. As for him, he doubted his own power to reason in the matter. He had been fond of her before; he was devotedly attached to her now. His whole nature was full of gratitude and trust where she was concerned, and his relations with Constance Fearing began to take the appearance of an infidelity to Mamie. If he asked himself whether he felt or could ever feel for his cousin what he had felt so strongly for Constance, the answer was plain enough. It was impossible. But if he put the matter differently he found a different response in his heart. If, thought he, the two young girls were drowning before his eyes, as John Bond and he had been drowning before theirs, and if it were only possible to save one, which should it be? In that imaginary moment that was so real from his recent experience, when he was swimming forward with all his might to reach the spot in time, would he have struck out to the right and saved Mamie, or would he have turned to the left and drawn Constance ashore? There was no hesitation. Mamie should have lived and Constance might have died, though he would have risked his own life a hundred times to help her after the first was safe, and though the thought of her death sent a sharp pain through his heart. Was he then in love with both? That was an impossibility, he thought, an absurdity that could never be a reality, the creation perhaps of some morbid story-maker, evolved without experience from the elaboration of imaginary circumstances.

Since he had entered upon this frame of mind he had grown very cautious and reticent. He was playing with fire on both sides. That Mamie loved him with all her heart he now no longer doubted, and as for Constance, now that he had not seen her for some time and had found leisure to reflect upon her conduct, it seemed clear that the latter could not be explained upon any ordinary theory of friendship, and if so, she also loved him in her own strange way. He wished it had been easier to decide between the two, if he must decide at all. If there was to be no decision, he should lose no time in leaving the neighbourhood. To stay where he was would be to play a contemptibly irresponsible part. He was disturbing Constance’s peace of mind, and he was not sure that at any moment he might not do or say something that would make Mamie believe that he loved her. He owed too much to these two beings, about whom his strongest affections were centred, he could not and would not give either the one or the other a moment’s pain.

Totty was also not without her apprehensions in the matter. When she had somewhat recovered from the impression of the accident, she began to think it very odd that George should have been sitting alone with Constance under the trees on that Sunday afternoon. She remembered that he had disappeared mysteriously soon after luncheon, without saying anything of his intentions. She argued that he had certainly not met Constance by accident, and that if the meeting had been agreed upon the two must have met before. She knew that George had once loved the girl, and all she positively knew of the cause of the coldness between them was what she had learned from himself. She had undoubtedly refused him and he had been very angry, but that did not prevent his offering himself again, and did not by any means exclude the possibility of his being accepted. Totty was worldly-wise, and she understood young women of Constance’s type better than most of them understand themselves. They imagine that in refusing men they are temporarily, and by an act of their own volition, putting them back from the state of love to the state of devoted friendship, in order to discover whether they themselves are in earnest. Many men bear the treatment kindly and reappear at the expected time with their second declaration, are accepted, happily married and forgotten promptly by designing mothers. Occasionally a man appears who is like George Wood, who raves, storms, grows thin and refuses to speak to the heartless little flirt who has wrecked his existence, until, on a summer’s day he is unexpectedly forced into her society again, when he finds that he loves her still, tells her so and receives a kind answer, prompted by the fear of losing him altogether.

The prospect was not a pleasant one. If at the present juncture Constance were to succeed in winning George back, Totty was capable of being roused to great and revengeful wrath. Hitherto she had not even thought of such a catastrophe as probable, but the discovery that the two had been spending a quiet afternoon together under the trees strangely altered the face of the situation. If, however, George still felt anything for the girl, Totty had not failed to see that she also had gained something by the accident. It was a great point that Mamie should have saved George’s life, and the longer Mrs. Trimm thought of it, the more sure she became that he had owed his salvation to the young girl alone, and that the four gentlemen who had appeared so opportunely had only been accessories to her action. George must be hard-hearted indeed if he were not grateful, and the natural way of showing his gratitude should be to fall in love without delay. But George was an inscrutable being, as was sufficiently shown by his secretly meeting Constance. Totty wondered whether she ought not to give him a hint, to convey tactfully to him the information that Mamie was deeply in love, to let him know that he was welcome to marry her. She hesitated to do this, however, fearing lest George should take to flight. She knew better than any one that he had been more attracted by the comfort, the quiet and the luxury of her home than by Mamie, when he had consented to spend the summer under the roof, and though Mamie herself had now grown to be an attraction in his eyes, she did not believe that the girl had inspired in him anything like the sincere passion he had felt for Constance.

Meanwhile those who had been most nearly affected by the calamity were passing through one of those periods of life upon which men and women afterwards look back with amazement, wondering how they could have borne so much without breaking under the strain. Grace was beside herself with grief. After the first few days of passionate weeping she regained some command over her actions, but the deep-seated, unrelenting pain, which no longer found vent in tears was harder to bear, inasmuch as it was more conscious of itself and of its own fearful proportions. For many days, the miserable woman never left her room, sitting from morning till evening in the same attitude, dry-eyed and motionless, gazing at the place where her dead husband had lain; and in that same place she lay all night, sleepless, waiting for the dawn, looking for the first grey light at the window, listening for his breathing, in the mad hope that it had all been but a dream which would vanish before the morning sun. Her heart would not break, her strong, well-balanced intelligence would not give way, though she longed for death or madness to end her sufferings.

At first Constance was always with her, but before long she understood that the strong woman preferred to be alone. All that could be done was to insist upon her taking food at regular intervals and to pray that her state might soon change. Once or twice Constance urged her to leave the place and to allow herself to be taken to the city, to the seaside, abroad, anywhere away from everything that reminded her of the past. But Grace stared at her with coldly wondering eyes.

“It is all I have left—the memory,” she said, and relapsed into silence.

Constance consulted physicians without her sister’s knowledge, but they said that there was nothing to be done, that such cases were rare but not unknown, that Mrs. Bond’s great strength of constitution would survive the strain since it had resisted the first shock. And so it proved in the end. For on a certain morning in September, when Constance was seated alone in a corner of the old-fashioned garden, she had been startled by the sudden appearance of a tall figure in black, and of a face which she hardly recognised as being her sister’s. She had been accustomed to seeing her in the dimness of a darkened room, wrapped in loose garments, her smooth brown hair hanging down in straight plaits. She was dressed now with all the scrupulous care of appearance that was natural to her, with perfect simplicity as became her deep mourning, but also with perfect taste. But the correctness of her costume only served to show the changes that had taken place during the past weeks. She was thin almost to emaciation, her smooth young cheeks were hollow and absolutely colourless, her brown eyes were sunken and their depth was accentuated by the dark rings that surrounded them. But she was erect as she walked, and she held her head as proudly as ever. Her strength was not gone, for she moved easily and without effort. Any one would have said, however, that, instead of being nearly two years younger than Constance, as she actually was, she must be several years older.

When Constance saw her, she rose quickly with the first expression of joy that had escaped her lips for many a day.

“Thank God!” she exclaimed. “At last!”

“At last,” Grace answered quietly. “One thing only, Constance,” she continued after a pause. “I will be myself again. But do not talk of going away, and never speak of what has happened.”

“I never will, dear,” answered the older girl.

There had been many inquiries made at the house by messengers from Mrs. Trimm, but neither she, nor Mamie nor George had ventured to approach the place upon which such awful sorrow had descended. They had been surprised at not learning that the two sisters had left their country-seat, and had made all sorts of conjectures concerning their delay in going away, but they gradually became accustomed to the idea that Grace might prefer to stay where she was.

“It would kill me!” Totty exclaimed with much emphasis.

“I could not do it,” said Mamie, looking at George and feeling suddenly how hateful the sight of the river would have been to her if she had not seen his eyes open on that terrible day when he lay like dead before her.

“I would not, whether I could or not,” George said. And he on his part wondered what he would have felt, had Constance or Mamie, or both, perished instead of John Bond. A slight shiver ran through him, and told him that he would have felt something he had never experienced before.

One morning when they were all at breakfast a note was brought to George in a handwriting he did not recognise, but which was oddly familiar from its resemblance to Constance’s.

“Do see what it is!” exclaimed Totty before he had time to ask permission to read it.

His face expressed nothing as he glanced over the few lines the note contained, folded it again and put it into his pocket.

“Mrs. Bond wants me to go and see her,” he said, in explanation. “I wonder why!”

“It is very natural,” Totty answered. “She wants to thank you for what you did.”

“Very unnecessary, considering the unfortunate result,” observed George thoughtfully.

“Will you go to-day?” Mamie asked in the hope that he would suggest taking her with him.

“Of course,” he answered shortly. As soon as breakfast was over he went to his work, without spending what he called his quarter of an hour’s grace in the garden with his cousin.

George Wood was a nervous and sensitive man in spite of his strong organisation, and he felt a strong repugnance to revisiting the scene of the fatal accident. He had indeed been on the river several times since Bond had been drowned, and had taken Mamie with him, telling her that one ought to get over the first impression at once, lest one should lose the power of getting over them at all. But to row into the very water in which John had died and he himself had nearly lost his life, was as yet more than he cared to do when there was no definite object to be gained. Though the little wooded point of land was nearer to the house than the landing, he went to the latter without hesitation.

He was shocked at Grace’s appearance when he met her in the great old drawing-room. Her face was very grave, almost solemn in its immobility, and her eyes looked unnaturally large.

“I fear I have given you a great deal of trouble, Mr. Wood,” she said as she laid her thin cold fingers in his hand. He remembered that her grasp had formerly been warm and full of life.

“Nothing that you could ask of me would give me trouble,” George answered earnestly. He had an idea that she wanted him to do her some service, in some way connected with the accident, but he could not imagine what it might be.

“Thank you,” she said. He noticed that she continued to stand, and that she was apparently dressed for going out. “That is one reason why I asked you to come. I have not been myself and have seen no one until now. Let me thank you—as only I can—for your noble and gallant attempt to save my husband.”

Her voice did not tremble nor did the glance of her deep eyes waver as she spoke of the dead man, but George felt that he had never seen nor dreamed of such grief as hers.

“I could not do less,” he said hoarsely, for he found it hard to speak at all.

“No man ever did more. No man could do more,” Grace said gravely. “And now, will you do me a great service? A great kindness?”

“Anything,” George answered readily.

“It will be hard for you. It will be harder for me. Will you come with me to the place and tell me as well as you can, how it all happened?”

George looked at her in astonishment. Her eyes were fixed on his face and her expression had not changed.

“It is the only kindness any one can do for me,” she said simply; and then without waiting for any further answer she turned towards the door.

George walked by her side in silence. They left the house and took the direction of the wooded point, never exchanging a word as they went. From time to time George glanced at his companion’s face, wondering inwardly what manner of woman she might be who was able to suffer as she evidently had suffered, and yet could of her own accord face such an explanation of events as she had asked him to give her. In less than ten minutes they had reached the spot. Grace stood a few seconds without speaking, her thin face fixed in its unchangeable look of pain, her arms hanging down, her hands clasped loosely together.

“Now tell me. Tell me everything. Do not be afraid—I am very strong.”

George collected his thoughts. He wished to make the story as short as possible, while omitting nothing that was of vital importance.

“I was rowing,” he said, “and I saw what happened. The boat was lying to and drifting very slowly. Your husband put the helm up and she began to turn. At that moment the squall came. He tried to let out the sail—that would have taken off the pressure—but it seemed as though he could not. The last I saw of him was just as the boat heeled over. He seemed to be trying to get the sheet—the rope, you know—loose, so that it would run. Then the boat went over and I thought he had merely fallen overboard upon the other side. I asked you if he could swim. When you cried out, I jumped over and swam as hard as I could. Not seeing him I dived under. He seemed to be entangled in the ropes and the sail and was struggling furiously. I tried to drag him back, but he could not get out and caught me by the arm so that I could not move either. I did my best, but my breath would not hold out, and I could not get my head from under. He was not moving then, though he held me still. That is the last I remember, his grip upon my arm. Then I took in the water and it was all over.”

He ceased speaking and looked at Grace. She was, if possible, paler than before, but she had not changed her position and she was gazing at the water. Many seconds elapsed, until George began to fear that she had fallen into a sort of trance. He waited a little longer and then spoke to her.

“Mrs. Bond!” She made no reply. “Are you ill?” he asked. She turned her head slowly towards him.

“No. I am not ill. Let us go back,” she said.

They returned to the house as silently as they had come. Her step did not falter and her face did not change. When they reached the door, she stood still and put out her hand, evidently wishing him to leave her.

“You were very brave,” she said. “And you have been very kind to-day. I hope you will come and see me sometimes.”

George bowed his head silently and took leave of her. He had not the heart to ask for Constance, and, indeed, he preferred to be alone for a time. He had experienced a new and strange emotion, and his eyes had been opened concerning the ways of human suffering. If he had not seen and heard, he would never have believed that a woman capable of such calmness was in reality heartbroken. But it was impossible to look at Grace’s face and to hear the tones of her voice without understanding instantly that the whole fabric of her life was wrecked. As she had told her sister, she had nothing left but the memory, and she had been determined that it should be complete, that no detail should be wanting to the very end. It was a satisfaction to remember that his last words—insignificant enough—had been addressed to her. She had wanted to know what his last movement had been, his last struggle for life. She knew it all now, and she was satisfied, for there was nothing more to be known.

As he rowed himself slowly across the river, George could not help remembering the Grace Fearing he remembered in old times and comparing her with the woman he had just left. The words she had spoken in praise of his courage were still in his ear with their ring of heartfelt gratitude and with the look that had accompanied them. There was something grand about her which he admired. She had never been afraid to show that she disliked him when she had feared that he might marry her sister. When Constance had at last determined upon her answer, it had been Grace who had conveyed it, with a frankness which he had once distrusted, but which he remembered and knew now to have been real. She had never done anything of which she was ashamed and she had been able now to thank him from her heart, looking fearlessly into his eyes. She would have behaved otherwise if she had ever deceived him. She would have said too much or too little, or she might have felt bound to confess at such a moment that she had formerly done him a wrong. A strange woman she was, he thought, but a strong one and very honest. She had never hesitated in her life, and had never regretted anything she had done—it was written in her face even now. He did not understand why she wished to see him often, for he could have supposed that his mere presence must call up the most painful memories. But he determined that if she remained some time longer he would once or twice cross the river and spend an hour with her. The remembrance of to-day’s interview would make all subsequent meetings seem pleasant by comparison.

The circumstances of the afternoon had wearied him, and he was glad to find himself again in the midst of more pleasant and familiar associations. In answer to Totty’s inquiries as to how Grace looked and behaved during his visit, he said very little. She looked very ill, she behaved with great self-possession, and she had wished to know some details about the accident. More than that George would not say, and his imperturbable face did not betray that there was anything more to be said. In the evening he found himself alone with Mamie on the verandah, Totty having gone within as usual, on pretence of writing letters. The weather was still pleasant, though it had grown much cooler, and Mamie had thrown a soft white shawl over her shoulders, of which George could see the outlines in the gloom.

“Tell me, what did she really do?” Mamie asked, after a long silence.

George hesitated a moment. He was willing to tell her many things which he would not have told her mother, for he felt that she could understand them and sympathise with them when Totty would only pretend to do so.

“Why do you want to know?” he asked, by way of giving himself more time to think.

“Is it not natural? I would like to know how a woman acts when the man she loves is dead.”

“Poor thing!” said George. “There is not much to tell, but I would not have it known—do you understand? She made me walk with her to the place where it happened and go over the whole story. She never said a word, though she looked like death. She suffers terribly—so terribly that there is something grand in it.”

“Poor Grace! I can understand. She wanted to know all there was to be known. It is very natural.”

“Is it? It seemed strange to me. Even I did not like to go near the place, and it was very hard to tell her all about it—how poor Bond gripped my arm, and then the grip after he was dead.”

He shuddered and was silent for a moment.

“I said it all as quickly and clearly as I could,” he added presently. “She thanked me for telling her, and for what I had done to save her husband. She said she hoped I would come again sometimes, and then I left.”

“You did not see Constance, I suppose?”

“No. She did not appear. I fancy her sister told her not to interrupt us and so she kept out of the way. It was horribly sad—the whole thing. I could not help thinking that if it had not been for you, the poor creature would never have known how it happened. I should not have been alive to tell the tale.”

“Are you glad that you were not drowned?” Mamie asked in a rather constrained voice.

“For myself? I hardly know. I cannot tell whether I set much value on life or not. Sometimes it seems to be worth living, and sometimes I hardly care.”

“How can you say that, George!” exclaimed the young girl indignantly. “You, so young and so successful.”

“Whether life is worth living or not—who knows? It has been said to depend on climate and the affections.”

“The climate is not bad here—and as for the affections——” Mamie broke off in a nervous laugh.

“No,” George said as though answering an unspoken reproach. “I do not mean that. I know that you are all very fond of me and very good to me. But look at poor John Bond. He always seemed to you to be an uninteresting fellow, and I used to wonder why he found life worth living. I know now. He was loved—loved as I fancy very few men have ever been. If you could have seen that poor woman’s face to-day, you would understand what I mean.”

“I can understand without having seen it,” said Mamie in a smothered voice.

“No,” said George, pursuing his train of thought, tactless and manlike. “You cannot understand—nobody can, who has not seen her. There is something grand, magnificent, queenly in a sorrow like that, and it shows what she felt for the man and what he knew she felt. No wonder that he looked happy! Now I, if I had been drowned the other day—if you had not saved me—of course people would have been very sorry, but there would have been no grief like that.”

He was silent. Then a sharp short sob broke the stillness, and as he turned his head he saw that Mamie had risen and was passing swiftly through the door into the drawing-room. He rose to his feet and then stood still, knowing that it was of no use to follow her.

“What a brute I am!” he thought as he sat down again.

Several minutes passed. He could hear the sound of subdued voices within, and then a door was opened and closed. A moment later Totty came out and looked about. She was dazzled by the light and could not see him. He rose and went forward.

“Here I am,” he said.

She laid her hand upon his arm and looked at his face as she spoke, very gently.

“George, dear—things cannot go on like this,” she said.

“You are quite right, Totty,” he answered. “I will go away to-morrow.”

“Sit down,” said Totty. “Have you got one of those cigars? Light it. I want to have a long talk with you.”

Totty Trimm had determined to bring matters to a crisis.