tell me?” Her face expressed some uneasiness.
“Do you remember, when I first came here—the second time, I should say—when Tom Craik was in such a bad way, and I hoped he would die? You know, I told you I would go and leave a card with inquiries, and you advised me not to. I went—in fact, I called several times.”
“You never told me. Why should you? It was foolish of me, too. It was none of my business.”
“I wish I had taken your advice. The old man got well again, but I have not seen him till to-day. Just now, as I walked here, he was coming out of his club, and I ran against him before I knew where I was. Do you know? He had taken my inquiries seriously. Thought I asked out of pure milk and water of human kindness, so to say—thanked me so nicely and asked me to go and see him! I felt like such a beast.”
Constance laughed and for some reason or other the high, musical ring of her laughter did not give George as much satisfaction as usual.
“What did you do?” she asked, a moment later.
“I hardly know. I could not tell him to his face that he had not appreciated my peculiar style of humour, that I loathed him as I loathe the plague, and that I had called to know whether the undertaker was in the house. I believe I said something civil—contemptibly civil, considering the circumstances—and he left me in front of the club feeling as if I had eaten something I did not like. I wish you had been there to get me out of the scrape with some more good advice!”
“I? Why should I——”
“Because, after all, you got me into it, Miss Fearing,” George answered rather sadly. “So, perhaps, you would have known what to do this time.”
“I got you into the scrape?” Constance looked as much distressed as though it were really all her fault.
“Oh, no—I am not in earnest, exactly. Only, I have such an abominably contrary nature that I went to Tom Craik’s door just because you advised me not to—that is all. I had only seen you twice then—and——” he stopped and looked fixedly at the young girl’s face.
“I knew I was wrong, even then,” Constance answered, with a faint blush. The colour was not the result of any present thought, nor of any suspicion of what George was about to say; it was due to her recollection of her conduct on that long remembered afternoon nearly four months earlier.
“No. I ought to have known that you were right. If you were to give me advice now——”
“I would rather not,” interrupted the young girl.
“I would follow it, if you did,” said George, earnestly. “There is a great difference between that time and this.”
“Is there?”
“Yes. Do you not feel it?”
“I know you better than I did.”
“And I know you better—very much better.”
“I am glad that makes you more ready to follow sensible advice——”
“Your advice, Miss Fearing. I did not mean——”
“Mine, then, if you like it better. But I shall never offer you any more. I have offered you too much already, and I am sorry for it.”
“I would rather you gave me advice—than nothing,” said George in a lower voice.
“What else should I give you?” Her voice had a ring of surprise in it. She seemed startled.
“What you will never give, I am afraid—what I have little enough the right to ask.”
Constance laid down the work she held, and looked out of the window. There was a strange expression in her face, as though she were wavering between fear and satisfaction.
“Mr. Wood,” she said suddenly, “you are making love to me.”
“I know I am. I mean to,” he answered, with an odd roughness, as the light flashed into his eyes. Then, all at once, his voice softened wonderfully. “I do it badly—forgive me—I never did it before. I should not be doing it now, if I could help myself—but I cannot. This once—this once only—Constance, I love you with all my heart.”
He was timid, and women, whether old or young, do not like timidity. It was not that he lacked either force or courage by nature, nor any of those qualities whereby women are won. But the life he had led had kept him younger than he believed himself to be, and his solitary existence had given his ideal of Constance the opportunity of developing more quickly than the reality. He loved her, it is true, but as yet in a peaceful, unruffled way, which partook more of boundless admiration than of passion. An older man would have recognised the difference in himself. The girl’s finer perceptions were aware of it without comprehending it in the least. Nevertheless it was an immense satisfaction to George to speak out the words which in his heart had so long been written as a motto about the shrine of his imagination.
Constance said nothing in answer, but rose, after a moment’s pause, and went and stood before the fireplace, now filled with ferns and plants, for the weather was already warm. She turned her back upon George and seemed to be looking at the things that stood on the chimney-piece. George rose, too, and came and stood beside her, trying to see her face.
“Are you angry?” he asked softly. “Have I offended you?”
“No, I am not angry,” she answered. “But—but—was there any use in saying it?”
“You do not love me at all? You do not care whether I come or go?”
She pitied him, for his disappointment was genuine, and she knew that he suffered something, though it might not be very much.
“I do not know what love is,” she said thoughtfully. “Yes—I care. I like to see you—I am interested in what you do—I should be sorry never to see you again—but I do not feel—what is it one should feel, when one loves?”
“Is there any one—any man—whom you like better than you like me?”
“No,” she answered with some hesitation, “I do not think there is.”
“And there is a chance that you may like me better still—that you may some day even love me?”
“Perhaps. I cannot tell. I have not known you very long.”
“It seems long to me—but you give me all I ask, more than I had a right to hope for. I thank you, with all my heart.”
“There is little to thank me for. Do you think I mean more than I say?” She turned her head and looked calmly into his eyes. “Do you think I am promising anything?”
“I would like to think so. But what could you promise me? You would not marry me, even if you loved me as I love you.”
“You are wrong. If I loved you, I would marry you—if I were sure that your love was real, too. But it is not. I am sure it is not. You make yourself think you love me——”
The young man’s dark face seemed to grow darker still as she watched it. There was passion
