When George entered the drawing-room he was surprised to find Grace there instead of Constance, and it was with difficulty that he repressed a nervous movement of annoyance. On that day of all others he had no desire to meet Grace Fearing, and though he imagined that her presence was accidental and that he had come before the appointed time he felt something more of resentment against the young girl than usual. He made the best of the situation, however, and put on a brave face, considering that, after all, when the happiness of a lifetime is to be decided, a delay of five minutes should not be thought too serious an affair.

Grace rose to receive him and, coming forward, held his hand in hers a second or two longer than would have been enough under ordinary circumstances. Her face was very grave and her deep brown eyes looked with an expression of profound sympathy into those of her visitor. George felt his heart sink under the anticipation of bad news.

“Is anything the matter, Miss Fearing?” he inquired anxiously. “Is your sister ill?”

“No. She is not ill. Sit down, Mr. Wood. I have something to say to you.”

George felt an acute presentiment of evil, and sat down in such a position with regard to the light that he could see Grace’s face better than she could see his.

“What is it?” he asked in a tone of constraint.

The young girl paused a moment, moved in her seat, which she had selected in the corner of a sofa, rested one elbow on the mahogany scroll that rose at the end of the old-fashioned piece of furniture, supported her beautifully moulded chin upon the half-closed fingers of her white hand and gazed upon George with a look of inquiring sympathy. There was nothing of nervousness nor 178timidity in Grace Fearing’s nature. She knew what she was going to do and she meant to do it thoroughly, calmly, pitilessly if necessary.

“My sister has asked me to talk with you,” she began, in her smooth, deep voice. “She is very unhappy and she is not able to bear any more than she has borne already.”

George’s face darkened, for he knew what was coming now, as though it were already said. He opened his lips to speak, but checked himself, reflecting that he did not know the extent of Grace’s information.

“I am very, very sorry,” she continued, earnestly. “I need not explain matters. I know all that has happened. Constance was to have given you a final answer to-day. She could not bear to do so herself.”

Grace paused an instant, and if George had been less agitated than he was, he would have seen that her full lips curled a little as she spoke the last words.

“She has thought it all over,” she concluded. “She does not love you, and she can never be your wife.”

There was a long pause. Grace changed her position, leaning far back among the cushions and clasping her hands upon her knees. At the same time she ceased to look at the young man’s face, and let her sight wander to the various objects on the other side of the room.

In the first moment, George’s heart stood still. Then it began to beat furiously, though it seemed as though its pulsations had lost the power of propelling the blood from its central seat. He kept his position, motionless and outwardly calm, but his dark face grew slowly white, leaving only black circles about his gleaming eyes, and his scornful mouth gradually set itself like stone. He was silent, for no words suggested themselves to his lips, now, though they had seemed too ready a moment earlier.

Grace felt that she must say something more. She was perfectly conscious of his state, and if she had been capable of fear she would have been frightened by the magnitude of his silent anger.

179“I have known that this would come,” she said, softly. “I know Constance better than you can. A very long time ago, I told her that at the last minute she would refuse you. She is very unhappy. She begged me to say all this as gently as possible. She made me promise to tell you that she felt towards you just as she had always felt, that she hoped to see you very often, that she felt towards you as a sister——”

“This is too much!” exclaimed George in low and angry tones. Then forgetting himself altogether, he rose from his seat quickly and went towards the door.

Grace was on her feet as quickly as he.

“Stop!” she cried in a voice not loud, but of which the tone somehow imposed upon the angry man.

He turned suddenly and faced her as though he were at bay, but she met his look calmly and her eyes did not fall before his.

“You shall not go away like this,” she said.

“Pardon me,” he answered. “I think it is the best thing I can do.” There was something almost like a laugh in the bitterness of his tone.

“I think not,” replied Grace with much dignity.

“Can you have anything more to say to me, Miss Fearing? You, of all people? Are you not satisfied?”

“I do not understand you, and from the tone in which you speak, I would rather not. You are very angry, and you have reason to be—heaven knows! But you are wrong in being angry with me.”

“Am I?” George asked, recovering some control of his voice and manner. “I am at least wrong in showing it,” he added, a moment later. “Do you wish me to stay here?”

“A few minutes longer, if you will be so kind,” Grace answered, sitting down again, though George remained standing before her. “You are wrong to be angry with me, Mr. Wood. I have only repeated to you my sister’s words. I have done my best to tell you the truth as gently as possible.”

180“I do not doubt it. Your mission is not an easy one. Why did your sister not tell me the truth herself? Is she afraid of me?”

“Do you think it would have been any easier to bear, if she had told you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Grace asked.

“Because it is better to hear such things directly than at second hand. Because it is easier to bear such words when they are spoken by those we love, than by those who hate us. Because when hearts are to be broken it is braver to do it oneself than to employ a third person.”

“You do not know what you are saying. I never hated you.”

“Miss Fearing,” said George, who was rapidly becoming exasperated beyond endurance, “will you allow me to take my leave?”

“I never hated you,” Grace repeated without heeding his question. “I never liked you, and I never was afraid to show it. But I respect you—no, do not interrupt—I respect you, more than I did, because I have found out that you have more heart than I had believed. I admire you as everybody admires you, for what you do so well. And I am sorry for you, more sorry than I can tell. If you would have my friendship, I would offer it to you—indeed you have it already, from to-day.”

“I am deeply indebted to you,” George answered very coldly.

“You need not even make a show of thanking me. I have done you no service, and I should regret it very much if Constance married you. Do not look surprised. My only virtue is honesty, and when I have such things to say you think that is no virtue at all. I thought very badly of you once. Forgive me, if you can. I have changed my mind. I have neither said nor done anything for a long time to influence my sister, not for nearly a year. Do you believe me?”

George was beginning to be very much surprised at 181Grace’s tone. He was too much under the influence of a great emotion to reason with himself, but the truthfulness of her manner spoke to his heart. If she had condoled with him, or tried to comfort him, he would have been disgusted, but her straightforward confession of her own feelings produced a different effect.

“I believe you,” he said, wondering how he could sincerely answer such a statement with such words.

“Thank you, you are generous.” Grace rose again, and put out her hand. “Do you care to see her, before you go?” she asked, looking into his eyes. “I will send her to you, if you wish it.”

“Yes,” George answered, after a moment’s hesitation. “I will see her—please.”

He was left alone for a few minutes. Though the sun was streaming in through the window, he felt cold as he had never felt cold in his life. His anger had, he believed, subsided, but the sensation it had left behind was new and strange to him. He turned as he stood and his glance fell upon Constance’s favourite chair, the seat in which she had sat so often and so long while he had talked with her. Then he felt a sudden pain, so sharp that it might have seemed the last in life, and he steadied himself by leaning on the table. It was as though he had seen the fair young girl lying dead in that place she loved. But she was not dead. It was worse. Then his great wrath surged up again, sending the blood tingling through his sinewy frame to the tips of his strong fingers, and bringing a different mood with it, and a sterner humour. He was a very masculine man, incapable of being long crushed by any blow. He was sorry, now, that he had asked to see her. Had he felt thus five minutes earlier, he would have declined Grace’s offer and would have left the house, meaning never to re-enter it. But it was too late and he could no longer avoid the meeting.

At that moment the door opened, and Constance stood before him. Her face was pale and there were traces 182of tears upon her cheeks. But he was not moved to pity by any such outward signs of past emotion. She came and stood before him, and laid one delicate hand upon his sleeve, looking up timidly to his eyes. He did not move, and his expression did not change.

“Can you forgive me?” she asked in a trembling voice.

“No,” he answered, bitterly. “Why should I forgive you?”

“I know I have not deserved your forgiveness,” she said, piteously. “I have been very, very wrong—I have done the worst thing I ever did in my life—I have been heartless, unkind, cruel, wicked—but—but I never meant to be——”

“It is small consolation to me to know that you did not mean it.”

“Oh, do not be so hard!” she cried, the tears rising in her voice. “I did not mean it so. I never promised you anything—indeed I never did!”

“It must be a source of sincere satisfaction, to feel that your conscience is clear.”

“But it is not—I want to tell you all—Grace has not told you—I like you as much as ever, there is no difference—I am still fond of you, still very fond of you!”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, George, are you a stone? Will nothing move you? Cannot you see how I am suffering?”

“Yes. I see.” He neither moved, nor bent his head. His lips opened and shut mechanically as though they were made of steel. She looked up again into his face and his expression terrified her.

She turned away, slowly at first, as though in despair. Then with a sudden movement she threw herself upon the sofa and buried her face in the cushions, while a violent fit of sobbing shook her light frame from head to foot. George stood still, watching her with stony eyes. For a full minute nothing was audible but the sound of her weeping.

183“You are so cold,” she sobbed. “Oh, George, you will break my heart!”

“You seem to be chiefly overcome by pity for yourself,” he answered cruelly. “If you have anything else to say, I will wait. If not——”

She roused herself and sat up, the tears streaming down her cheeks, her hands clasped passionately together.

“Oh, do not go! Do not go—it kills me to let you go.”

“Do you think it would? In that case I will stay a little longer.” He turned away and went to the window. For some minutes there was silence in the room.

“George——” Constance began timidly. George turned sharply round.

“I am here. Can I do anything for you, Miss Fearing?”

“Cannot you say you forgive me? Can you not say one kind word?”

“Indeed, I should find it very hard.”

Constance had recovered herself to some extent, and sat staring vacantly across the room, while the tears slowly dried upon her cheeks. Her courage and her pride were alike gone, and she looked the very picture of repentance and despair. But George’s heart had been singularly hardened during the half-hour or more which he had spent in her house that day. Presently she began speaking in a slow, almost monotonous tone, as though she were talking with herself.

“I have been very bad,” she said, “and I know it, but I have always told the truth. I never loved you enough, I never cared for you as you deserved. Did I not tell you so? Oh yes, very often—too often. I should not have told you even that I cared a little. You are the best friend I ever had—why have I lost you by loving you a little? It seems very hard. It is not that you must forgive, it is that I should have told you so that I should—you kissed me once—it was not your fault. I let you do it. There seemed so little harm—and 184yet it was so wrong. And once, because there was pain in your face, I kissed you, as I would have kissed my sister. I was so fond of you—I am still, although you are so cruel and cold. I did think—I really hoped that I should love you some day. You do not believe me? What does it matter! You will, for I always told you what was true—but that is it—I hoped, and I let you see that I hoped. It was very wrong. Will you try—only try to forgive me?”

“Do you not think it would be better if you would let me leave you, Miss Fearing?” George asked, coming suddenly forward. “It can do very little good to talk this matter over.............