George was in the habit of going to see Mamie every afternoon, and the hours he spent with her were by far the most pleasant in his day. Mrs. Trimm had thoroughly understood her daughter’s nature when she had told George that the girl possessed that sort of charm which never wearies men because they can never find out exactly where it lies. It was not easy to imagine that any one should be bored in Mamie’s society. George returned day after day, expecting always that he must ultimately find the continual conversation a burden, but reassured each time by what he felt after he had been twenty minutes in the house. As he was not profoundly moved himself it seemed unnatural that these long meetings should not at last become an irksome and uninteresting duty, the conscientious performance of which would react to the disadvantage of his subsequent happiness. The spontaneity which had given so much freshness to their intercourse while they were living under the same roof, was gone now that George found himself compelled to live by rules of consideration for others, and he was aware of the fact each time he entered Mamie’s presence. Nevertheless her manner and voice exercised such a fascination over him as made him forget after a quarter of an hour that he and she were no longer in the country, and that he was no longer free to see her or not see her, as he pleased, independently of all formality and custom. Nothing could have demonstrated Mamie’s superiority over most young women of her age more clearly than this fact. The situation of affianced couples after their engagement is announced is very generally hard to sustain with dignity on either side, but is more especially a difficult one for the man. It is undoubtedly rendered more easy by the enjoyment of the liberty granted among Anglo-Saxons in such cases. But that freedom is after all only a part of our whole system of ideas, and as we all expect it from the first, we do not realise that our position is any more fortunate than that of the young French gentleman, who is frequently not allowed to exchange a single word with his bride until he has been formally affianced to her, and who may not talk to her without the presence of a third person until she is actually his wife. Under our existing customs a young girl must be charming indeed if her future husband can talk with her three hours every day during six weeks or two months and go away each time feeling that his visit has been too short. Neither animated conversation nor frequent correspondence have any right to be considered as tests of love. Love is not to be measured by the fluent use of words, nor by an easy acquaintance with agreeable topics, nor yet by lavish expenditure in postage-stamps. George knew all this, and was moreover aware in his heart that there was nothing desperately passionate in his affection; he was the more surprised, therefore, to find that the more he saw of Mamie Trimm, the more he wished to see of her.

“Do you think,” he said to her, on that same afternoon in November, “that all engaged couples enjoy their engagement as much as we do?”

“I am sure they do not,” Mamie answered. “Nobody is half as nice as we are!”

They were seated in a small boudoir that adjoined the drawing-room. The wide door was open and they could hear the pleasant crackling of the first wood fire that was burning in the larger room, though they could not see it. The air without was gloomy and grey, for the late Indian summer was over, and before long the first frosts would come and the first flakes of snow would be driven along the dry and windy streets. It was early in the afternoon, however, and though the light was cold and colourless and hard, there was plenty of it. Mamie was established in a short but very deep sofa, something resembling a divan, one small foot just touching the carpet, the other hidden from view, her head thrown back and resting against the tapestry upon the wall, one arm resting upon the end of the lounge, the little classic hand hanging over the edge, so near to George that he had but to put out his own in order to touch it. He was seated with his back to the door of the drawing-room, clasping his hands over one knee and leaning forward as he gazed at the window opposite. He smiled at Mamie’s answer.

“No, I am sure other people do not enjoy sitting together and talking during half the day, as we do,” he said. “I have often thought so. It is you who make our life what it is. It will always be you, with your dear ways——”

He stopped, seeking an expression which he could not find immediately.

“Have I dear ways?” Mamie asked with a little laugh. “I never knew it before—but since you say so——”

“It is only those who love us that know the best of us. We never know it ourselves.”

“Do you love me, George?” The question was put to him for the thousandth time. To her it seemed always new and the answer was always full of interest, as though it had never been given before.

“Very dearly.” George laid his hand upon her slender fingers and pressed them softly. He had abandoned the attempt to give her an original reply at each repetition of the inquiry.

“Is that all?” she asked, pretending to be disappointed, but smiling with her grey eyes.

“Can a man say more and mean it?” George inquired gravely. Then he laughed. “The other day,” he continued, “I was in a train on the Elevated Road. There was a young couple opposite to me—the woman was a little round fat creature with a perpetual smile, pretty teeth, and dressed in grey. They were talking in low tones, but I heard what they said. Baby language was evidently their strong point. He turned his head towards her with the most languishing lover-like look I ever saw. ‘Plumpety itty partidge, who does ‘oo love?’ he asked. ‘Zoo!’ answered the little woman with a smile that went all round her head like the equator on a globe.”

Mamie laughed as he finished the story.

“That represented their idea of conversation, what you call ‘dear ways.’ My dear ways are not much like that and yours are quite different. When I ask you if you love me, you almost always give the same answer. But then, I know you mean it dear, do you not?”

“There it is again!” George laughed. “Of course I do—only, as you say, my imagination is limited. I cannot find new ways of saying it. But then, you do not vary the question either, so that it is no wonder if my answers are a little monotonous, is it?”

“Are my questions monotonous? Do I bore you with them, George?”

“No, dear. I should be very hard to please if you bored me. It is your charm that makes our life what it is.”

“I wish I believed that. What is charm? What do you mean by it? It is not an intellectual gift, it is not a quality, a talent, nor accomplishment. I believe you tell me that I have it because you do not know what else to say. It is so easy to say to a woman ‘You are full of charm,’ when she is ugly and stupid and cannot play on the piano, and you feel obliged to be civil. I am sure that there is no such thing as charm. It is only an imaginary compliment. Why not tell me the truth?”

“You are neither ugly nor stupid, and I am sincerely glad that you leave the piano alone,” said George. “I could find any number of compliments to make, if that were my way. But it is not, of course. You have lots of good points, Mamie. Look at yourself in the glass if you do not believe it. Look at your figure, look at your eyes, at your complexion, at your hands—listen to your own voice——”

“Do not talk nonsense, George. Besides, that is only a catalogue. If you want to please me you must compare all those things to beautiful objects. You must say that my eyes are like—gooseberries, for instance, my figure like—what shall I say?”

“Like Psyche’s,” suggested George.

“Or like an hour-glass, and my hands like stuffed gloves, and my skin like a corn starch pudding, and my voice like the voice of the charmer. That is the way to be complimentary. Poetry must make use of similes and call a spade an ace—as papa says. When you have done all that, and turned your catalogue into blank verse, tell me if there is anything left which you can call charm.”

“Charm,” George answered, “is what every man who loves a woman thinks she has—and if she has it all men love her. You have it.”

“Dear me!” exclaimed the young girl. “Can you get no nearer to a definition than that?”

“Can you define anything which you only feel and cannot see—heat for instance, or cold?”

“Heat makes one hot, and cold makes one shiver,” answered Mamie promptly.

“And charm makes a woman loved. That is as good an answer as yours.”

“I suppose I must be satisfied, especially as you say that it can only be felt and not seen. Besides, if it makes you love me, why should I care what it is called? Do you know what it really is? It is love itself. It is because I love you so much, so intensely, that I make you love me. There is no such thing as charm. Charm is either a woman’s love, or her readiness to love—one or the other.”

Mamie laughed softly and moved the hand that was hanging over the end of the sofa, as though seeking the touch of George’s fingers. He obeyed the little signal quite unconsciously.

“Who can that be?” Mamie asked, after a moment’s pause. She thought that she had heard a door open and that some one had entered the drawing-room. George listened a few seconds.

“Nobody,” he said. “It was only the fire.”

While the two had been talking, some one had really entered the large adjoining room as Mamie had suspected. Thomas Craik was not in the habit of making visits in the afternoon, but on this particular day he had found the process of being driven about in a closed brougham more wearisome than usual, and it had struck him that he might find Totty at home and amuse himself with teasing her in some way or other. Totty was expected every moment, the servant had said, and the discreet attendant had added that Mr. George and Miss Mamie were in the boudoir together. Mr. Craik said that he would wait in the drawing-room, to which he was accordingly admitted. He knew the arrangement of the apartment and took care not to disturb the peace of the young couple by making any noise. It would be extremely entertaining, he thought, to place himself so as to hear something of what they said to each other; he therefore stepped softly upon the thick carpet and took up what he believed to be a favourable position. His hearing was still as sharp as ever, and he did not go too near the door of the inner room lest Totty, entering suddenly, should suppose that he had been listening.

“So you think that I only love you because you love me,” said George. “You are not very complimentary to yourself.”

“I did not say that, though that was the beginning. You would never have begun to love me—George, I am sure there is some one in the next room!”

“It is impossible. Your mother would have come directly to us, and the servants would not have let any caller go in while she was out. Shall I look?”

“No—you are quite right,” Mamie answered. “It is only the crackling of the fire.” She was holding his hand and did not care to let it drop in order that he might satisfy her curiosity. “What was I saying?”

“Something very foolish—about my not loving you.”

Thomas Craik listened for a while to their conversation, eagerly at first and then with an expression of weariness on his parchment face. He had been afraid to sit down, for fear of making a noise, and he found himself standing before a table, on which, among many other objects was placed the small Indian cabinet he had once given to his sister. Many years had passed since he had sent it to her, but his keen memory for details had not forgotten the secret drawer it contained, nor the way to open it. He looked at it for some time curiously, wondering whether Totty kept anything of value in it. Then it struck him that if she really kept anything concealed there, it would be an excellent practical joke to take out the object, whatever it might be, and carry it off. The idea was in accordance with that part of his character which loved secret and underhand dealings. The scene which would ensue when he ultimately brought the thing back would answer the other half of his nature which delighted in inflicting brutal and gratuitous surprises upon people he did not like. He laid his thin hands gently on the cabinet and proceeded to open it as noiselessly as he could.

Mamie’s sharp ears were not deceived this time, however. She bent forward and whispered to George.

“There is somebody there. Go on tiptoe and look from behind the curtain. Do not let them see you, or we shall have to go in, and that would be such a bore.”

George obeyed in silence, stood a moment peering into the next room, concealed by the hangings and then returned to Mamie’s side. “It is your Uncle Tom,” he whispered with a smile. “He is in some mischief, I am sure, for he is opening that Indian cabinet as though he did not want to be heard.”

“I will tell mamma, when she comes in—what fun it will be!” Mamie answered. “He must have heard us before, so that we must go on talking—about the weather.” Then raising her voice she began to speak of their future plans.

Meanwhile Mr. Craik had slipped back the part of the cover which concealed the secret drawer, and had opened the latter. There was nothing in it but the document which Totty kept there. He quickly took it out and closed the cabinet again. Something in the appearance of the paper attracted his attention, and instead of putting it into his pocket to read at home and at his leisure, as he had intended to do, he unfolded it and glanced at the contents.

He had always been a man able to control his anger, unless there was something to be gained by manifesting it, but his rage was now far too genuine to be concealed. The veins swelled and became visible beneath the tightly drawn skin of his forehead, his mouth worked spasmodically and his hands trembled with fury as he held the sheet before his eyes, satisfying himself that it was the genuine document and not a forgery containing provisions different from those he had made in his own will. As soon as he felt no further doubt about the matter, he gave vent to his wrath, in a storm of curses, stamping up and down the room, and swinging his long arms as he moved, still holding the paper in one hand.

Mamie turned pale and grasped George by the arm. He would have risen to go into the next room, but she held him back with all her strength.

“No—stay here!” she said in a low voice. “You can do no good. He knew we were here—something must have happened! Oh, George, what is it?”

“If you will let me go and see——”

But at that moment, it became evident to both that Tom Craik was no longer alone. Totty had entered the drawing-room. As the servant had said, she had been expected every moment. Her brother turned upon her furiously, brandishing the will and cursing louder than before. In his extreme anger he was able to lift up his head and look her in the eyes.

“You damned infernal witch!” he shouted. “You abominable woman! You thief! You swindler! You——”

“Help! help!” screamed Totty. “He is mad—he means to kill me!”

“I am not mad, you wretch!” yelled Tom Craik, pursuing her and catching her with one hand while he shook the will in her face with the other. “Look at that—look at it! My will, here in your keeping, without so much as a piece of paper or a seal to hold it—you thief! You have broken into your husband’s office, you burglar! You have broken open my deed-box—look at it! Do you recognise it? Stand still and answer me, or I will hold you till the police can be got. Do you see? The last will and testament of me Thomas Craik, and not a cent for Charlotte Trimm. Not one cent, and not one shall you get either. He shall have it all, George Winton Wood, shall have it all. Ah—I see the reason why you have kept it now—If I had found it gone, you know I would have made it over again! Cheaper, and wiser, and more like you to get him for your daughter—of course it was, you lying, shameless beast!”

“What is the meaning of this?” George asked in ringing tones. He had broken away from Mamie with difficulty and she had followed him into the room, and now stood clinging to her mother. George pushed Tom Craik back a little and placed himself between him and Totty, who was livid with terror and seemed unable to speak a word. The sudden appearance of George’s tall, angular figure, and the look of resolution in his dark face brought Tom Craik to his senses.

“You want to know the meaning of it,” he said. “Quite right. You shall. When I was dying—nearly three years ago, I made a will in your favour. I left you everything I have in the world. Why? Because I pleased. This woman thought she was to have my money. Oh, you might have had it, if you had been less infernally greedy,” he cried, turning to Totty. “This will was deposited in my deed-box at Sherry Trimm’s office. Saw it there, on the top of the papers with my own eyes the last time I went; and Sherry was in Europe then. So you took it, and no one else. Poor Bond did not, though as he is dead, you will say he did. It will not help you. So you laid your trap—oh yes! I know those tricks of yours. You broke off George Wood’s marriage with the girl he loved, and you laid your trap—very nicely done—very. You gave him Sherry’s wines, and Sherry’s cigars to make him come. I know all about it. I was watching you. And you made him come and spend the summer up the river—so nice, and luxurious, and quiet for a poor young author. And you told nobody he was there—not you! I can see it all now, the moonlight walks, and the rides and the boating, and Totty indoors with a headache, or writing letters. It was easy to get Sherry’s consent when it was all arranged, was it not? Devilish easy. Sherry is an honest man—I know men—but he knew on which side his daughter’s bread was buttered, for he had drawn up the will himself. He did not mind if George Winton Wood, the poor author, fell in love with his daughter, any more than his magnanimous wife was disturbed by the prospect. Not a bit. The starving author was to have millions—millions, woman! as soon as the old brother was nailed up and trundled off to Greenwood! And he shall have them, too. It only remains to be seen whether he will have your daughter.”

Craik paused for breath, though his invalid form was as invigorated by his extreme anger as to make it appear that he might go on indefinitely in the same strain. As for George he was at first too much amazed by the story to believe his ears. He thought Craik was mad, and yet the presence of the will which the old man repeatedly thrust before his eyes and in which he could not help seeing his own name written in the lawyer’s large clear hand, told him that there was a broad foundation of truth in the tale.

“Defend yourself, Totty,” he said as quietly as he could. “Tell him that this story is absurd. I think Mr. Craik is not well——”

“Not well, young man?” Craik asked, looking up at him with a bitter laugh. “I am as well as you. Here is my will. There is the cabinet. And there is Charlotte Sherrington Trimm. Send for her husband. Ask him if it is not a good case for a jury. You may be in love with the girl, and she may be in love with you, for all I know. But you have been made to fall in love with each other by that scheming old woman, there. The only way she could get the money into the family was through you. She is lawyer enough to know that there may be a duplicate somewhere, and that I should make one fast enough if there were not. Besides, to burn a will means the State’s Prison, and she wants to avoid that place, if she can.”

The possibility and the probability that the whole story might be true, flashed suddenly upon George’s mind, and he turned very pale. The recollection of Totty’s amazing desire to please him was still fresh in his mind, and he remembered how very unexpected it had all seemed, the standing invitation to the house, the extreme anxiety to draw him to the country, the reckless way in which Totty had left him alone with her daughter, Totty’s manner on that night when she had persuaded him to offer himself to Mamie—the result, and the cable message she had shown him, ready prepared, and taking for granted her husband’s consent. By this time Totty had sunk into a chair and was sobbing helplessly, covering her face with her hands and handkerchief. George walked up to her, while old Tom Craik kept at his elbow, as though fearing that he might prove too easily forgiving.

“How long have you known the contents of that will?” George asked steadily, and still trying to speak kindly.

“Since—the end—of April,” Totty sobbed. She felt it impossible to lie, for her brother’s eyes were fixed on her face and she was frightened.

“You did, did you? Well, well, that ought to settle it,” said Craik, breaking into a savage laugh. “I fancy it must have been about that time that she began to like you so much,” he added looking at George.

“About the first of May,” George answered coldly. “I remember that on that day I met you in the street and you begged me to go and see Mamie, who was alone.”

“I like men who remember dates,” chuckled the old man at his elbow.

“I have been very much deceived,” said George. “I believed it was for myself. It was for money. I have nothing more to say.”

“You have not asked me whether I knew anything,” said Mamie, coming before him. Her alabaster skin was deadly white and her grey eyes were on fire.

“Your mother knows you too well to have told you,” George answered very kindly. “I have promised to marry you. I do not suspect you, but I would not break my word to you, even if I thought that you had known.”

“It is for me to break my word,” answered the young girl proudly. “No power on earth shall make me marry you, now.”

Her lips were tightly pressed to her teeth as she spoke and she held her head high, though her eyes rested lovingly on his face.

“Why will you not marry me, Mamie?” George asked. He knew now that he had never loved her.

“I have had shame already,” she answered. “Shame in being thrust upon you, shame in having thrust myself upon you—though not for your money. You never knew. You asked me once how I knew your moods, and when you wanted me and when you would choose to be alone. Ask her, ask my mother. She is wiser than I. She could tell from your face, long before I could, what you wished—and we had signals and signs and passwords, she and I, so that she could help me with her advice, and teach me how to make myself wanted by the man I loved. Am I not contemptible? And when I told you that I loved you—and then made you believe that I was only acting, because there was no response—shame? I have lived with it, fed on it, dreamed of it, and to-day is the crown of all—my crown of shame. Marry you? I would rather die!”

“Whatever others may have done, you have always been brave and true, Mamie,” said George. “It may be better that we should not marry, but there has been no shame for you in this matter.”

“I am not so sure,” said Tom Craik with a chuckle and an ugly smile. “She is cleverer than she looks——”

George turned upon the old man with the utmost violence.

“Sir!” he cried savagely. “If you say that again I will break your miserable old bones, if I hang for it!”

“Like that fellow,” muttered Craik with a more pleasant expression than he had yet worn. “Like him more and more.”

“I do not want to be liked by you, and you know why,” George answered, for he had caught the words.

“Oh, you don’t, don’t you? Well, well. Never mind.”

“No I do not. And what is more, I will tell you something, Mr. Craik. When you were ill and I called to inquire, I came because I hoped to learn that you were dead. That may explain what I feel for you. I have not had a favourable opportunity of explaining the matter before, or I would have done so.”

“Good again!” replied the old gentleman. “Like frankness in young people. Eh, Totty? Eh, Mamie? Very frank young man, this, eh?”

“Furthermore, Mr. Craik,” continued George, not heeding him, “I will tell you that I will not lift a finger to have your money. I do not want it.”

“Exactly. Never enjoyed such sport in my life as trying to force money on a poor man who won’t take it. Good that, what? Eh, Totty? Don’t you think this is fun? Poor old Totty—all broken up! Bear these little things better myself.”

Totty was in a fit of hysterics and neither heard nor heeded, as she lay in the deep chair, sobbing, moaning and laughing all at once. George eyed her contemptuously.

“Either let us go,” he said to Craik, “and, if you have exhausted your wit, that would be the best thing; or else let Mrs. Trimm be taken away. I shall not leave you here to torment these ladies.”

“Seat in my carriage? Come along!” answered Mr. Craik with alacrity.

George led Mamie back into the little room beyond. As they went, he could hear the old man beginning to rail at his sister again, but he paid no attention. He felt that he could not leave Mamie without another word. The young girl followed him in silence. They stood together near the window, as far out of hearing as possible. George hesitated.

“What is it, George?” asked Mamie. “Do you want to say good-bye to me?” She spoke with evident effort.

“I want to say this, dear. If you and I can help it, not a word of what has happened to-day must ever be known. I have been deceived, most shamefully, but not by you. You have been honest and true from first to last. The best way to keep this secret, is for us two to marry as though nothing had happened. Nobody would believe it then. I am afraid that Mr. Craik will tell some one, because he is so angry.”

“I have told you my decision,” Mamie answered firmly, though her lips were white. “I have nothing more to say.”

“Think well of what you are doing. One should not come to such decisions when one is angry. Here I am, Mamie. Take me if you will, and forget that all those things have been said and done.”

For one moment, Mamie hesitated.

“Do you love me?” she asked, trying to read his heart in his eyes.

But the poor passion that had taken the place of love was gone. The knowledge that he had been played with and gambled for, though not by the girl herself, had given him a rude shock.

“Yes,” he answered, bravely trying to feel that he was speaking the truth. But there was no life in the word.

“No, dear,” said Mamie simply. “You never loved me. I see it now.”

He would have made some sort of protest. But she drew back from him, and from his outstretched hand.

“Will you let me be alone?” she asked.

He bowed his head and left the room.