as those that draw the sword or hold the pen. In strong races the man ennobles the occupation, the occupation does not degrade the man. If Thomas Craik was dishonest, Jonah Wood and Sherrington Trimm were both as upright gentlemen as any in the whole world. It was not in Jonah Wood’s power to recover what had been taken from him by operations that were only just within the pale of the law, because laws have not yet been made for such cases; nor was it Sherrington Trimm’s vocation to play upon Tom Craik’s conscience in the interests of semi-poetic justice. But Trimm was honourable enough and disinterested enough to rejoice at the prospect of seeing stolen money restored to its possessor instead of being emptied into his wife’s purse, and he was manly enough to have felt the same satisfaction in the act, if his own circumstances had been far less flourishing.
But Totty thought very differently of all these things. She had in her much of her brother’s nature, and the love of money, which being interpreted into American means essentially the love of what money can give, dominated her character, and poisoned the pleasant qualities with which she was undoubtedly endowed. She had, as a natural concomitant, the keenest instinct about money and the quarter from which it was to be expected. Something was wrong in her financial atmosphere, and she felt the diminution of pressure as quickly and as certainly as a good barometer indicates the approaching south wind when the weather is still clear and bright. It was of no use to question her husband, and she knew her brother well enough to be aware that he would conceal his purpose to the last. But there was an element of anxiety and doubt in her life which she had not known before. Tom Craik saw that much in her face and suspected that it was the result of his recovery. He did not regret what he had done and he made up his mind to abide by it.
Meanwhile George Wood varied the dreariness of his hardworking life by seeing as much as possible of the Fearings. He went to the house in Washington Square as often as he dared, and before long his visits had assumed a regularity which was noticeable, to say the least of it. If he had still felt any doubt as to what was passing in his own heart at the end of the first month, he felt none whatever as the spring advanced. He was in love with Constance, and he knew it. The young girl was aware of the fact also, as was her sister, who looked on with evident disapproval.
“Why do you not send the man away?” Grace asked, one evening when they were alone.
“Why should I?” inquired Constance, changing colour a little though her voice was quiet.
“Because you are flirting with him, and no good can come of it,” Grace answered bluntly.
“Flirting? I?” The elder girl raised her eyebrows in innocent surprise. The idea was evidently new to her, and by no means agreeable.
“Yes, flirting. What else can you call it, I would like to know? He comes to see you—oh yes, you cannot deny it. It is certainly not for me. He knows I am engaged, and besides, I think he knows that I do not like him. Very well—he comes to see you, then. You receive him, you smile, you talk, you take an interest in everything he does—I heard you giving him advice the other day. Is not that flirting? He is in love with you, or pretends to be, which is the same thing, and you encourage him.”
“Pretends to be? Why should he pretend?” Constance asked the questions rather dreamily, as though she had put them to herself before and more than half knew the answer. Grace laughed a little.
“Because you are eminently worth while,” she replied. “Do you suppose that if you were as poor as he is, he would come so often?”
“That is not very good-natured,” observed Constance, taking up her book again. There was very little surprise in her tone, however, and Grace was glad to note the fact. Her sister was less simple than she had supposed.
“Good nature!” she exclaimed. “What has good nature to do with it? Do you think Mr. Wood comes here out of good nature? He wants to marry you, my dear. He cannot, and therefore you ought to send him away.”
“If I loved him, I would marry him.”
“But you do not. And, besides, the thing is absurd! A man with no position of any sort—none of any sort, I assure you—without fortune, and what is much worse, without any profession.”
“Literature is a profession.”
“Oh, literature—yes. Of course it is. But those miserable little criticisms he writes are not literature. Why does he not write a book, or even join a newspaper and be a journalist?”
“Perhaps he will. I am always telling him that he should. And as for position, he is a gentleman, whether he chooses to go into society or not. His father was a New Englander, I believe—but I have heard poor papa say very nice things about him—and his mother was a Winton and a cousin of Mrs. Trimm’s. There is nothing better than that, I suppose.”
“Yes—that odious Totty!” exclaimed Grace in a tone of unmeasured contempt. “She brought him here in the hope that one of us would take a fancy to him and help her poor relation out of his difficulties. Besides, she is the silliest, shallowest little woman I ever knew!”
“I daresay. I am not fond of her. But you are unjust to Mr. Wood. He is very talented, and he works very hard——”
“At what? At those wretched little paragraphs? I could write a dozen of them in an hour!”
“I could not. One has to read the books first, you know.”
“Well—say two hours, then. I am sure I could write a dozen in two hours. Such stuff, my dear! You are dazzled by his conversation. He does talk fairly well, when he pleases. I admit that.”
“I am glad you leave him something,” said Constance. “As for my marrying him, that is a very different matter. I have not the slightest idea of doing that. To be quite honest, the idea has crossed my mind that he might wish it——”
“And yet you let him come?”
“Yes. I cannot tell him not to come here, and I like him too much to be unkind to him—to be cold and rude for the sake of sending him away. If he ever speaks of it, it will be time to tell him what I think. If he does not, it does him no harm—nor me either, as far as I can see.”
“I do not know. It seems to me that to encourage a man and then drop him when he can hold his tongue no longer is the reverse of human kindness.”
“And it seems to me, my dear, that you are beginning to argue from another side of the question. I did not understand that it was out of consideration for Mr. Wood——”
“No, it was not,” Grace admitted with a laugh. “I am cruel enough to wish that you would be unkind to him without waiting for him to offer himself. You are a very inscrutable person, Conny! I wish I could find out what you really think.”
Constance made no answer, but smiled gently at her sister as she took up her book for the second time. She began to read as though she did not care to continue the conversation, and Grace made no effort to renew it. She understood enough of Constance’s character to be sure that she could never understand it thoroughly, and she relinquished the attempt to ascertain the real state of things. If Constance had vouchsafed any reply, she would have said that she was in considerable perplexity concerning her own thoughts. For the present, however, her doubts gave her very little trouble. She possessed one of those calm characters which never force their owners to be in a hurry about a decision, and she was now, as always, quite willing to wait and see what course her inclinations would take.
Calmness of this sort is often the result of an inborn distrust of motives in oneself
