Totty had lost no time in spreading the report that everything was broken off between George Wood and Constance Fearing, and she had done it so skilfully that no one would have thought of tracing the story to her, even if it had proved to be false. She had cared very little what George himself thought about it, though she had not failed to see that he would lay the blame of the gossip on the Fearings. The two girls, indeed, could have no object in circulating a piece of news which did not reflect much credit upon themselves. What Totty wanted was in the first place that George should know that she was acquainted with his position, in order that she might play the part of the comforter and earn his gratitude. She could not of course question him directly, and she was therefore obliged to appear as having heard the tale from others; to manage this with success, it was necessary that the circumstances of the case should be made common property. Secondly, and here Totty’s diplomatic instinct showed itself at its strongest, she was determined to prevent all possibility of a renewal of relations between Constance and George. In due time, probably in twenty-four hours at the latest, both Constance and Grace would know that all society was in possession of their secret. Having of course not mentioned it themselves to any one, they would feel sure that George had betrayed them in his anger, and would be proportionately incensed against him. If both parties should be so angry as to come to an explanation, which was improbable, neither would believe the other, the quarrel would grow and the breach would be widened. Totty herself would of course take George’s part, as would the majority of his acquaintance, and he would be grateful for such friendly support at so trying a time.

Matters turned out very nearly as Mrs. Sherrington 207Trimm had anticipated. There was, indeed, a slight variation in the programme, but she was not aware of it at the time, and if she had noticed it she would not have attached to it the importance it deserved. It chanced that Constance and Grace Fearing and George Wood had been asked with certain other guests to dine with a certain young couple lately returned from their wedding tour in Europe. The invitations had been sent and accepted on the last day of April, that is to say on the day preceding the one on which Constance gave George her definite refusal, and the dinner was to take place three or four days later. Now the young couple, who had bought a small place on the Hudson river, and were anxious to move into it as soon as possible, took advantage of those three or four days to go up to their country-house and to arrange it for themselves according to their ideas of comfort. They returned to town on the morning of their party and were of course ignorant of the gossip which had gone the rounds in their absence. Late on the afternoon of the day the husband came home from his club in great distress to tell his wife that Constance Fearing had thrown over George Wood and that the two were not on speaking terms. It was too late to make any excuse to their guests, so as to divide the party and give two separate dinners on different days. The worst of it was, that their table was small, the guests had been carefully arranged, and George Wood must inevitably sit beside either Constance or Grace. The young couple were in despair and spent all the time that was left in trying vainly to redistribute the places. There was nothing to be done but to put George next to Grace and to effect a total ignorance of the difficulty. At the last moment, however, the young hostess thought she could improve matters by speaking a word to George when he arrived. Constance and her sister, however, came before him.

“I am so sorry!” said the lady of the house quickly in the ear of the elder girl, as she drew her a little aside. 208“Mr. Wood is coming—we have been out of town, and knew nothing about it—I do hope——”

“I am very glad he is to be here,” answered Constance. She was very pale and very calm.

“Oh dear!” exclaimed the hostess, growing very red. “I hope I have said nothing——”

“Not at all,” said Constance reassuring her. “There is a foolish bit of gossip in the air, I believe. The facts are very simple. Mr. Wood is a very old and good friend of mine. He asked me to marry him, and I could not. I like him very much and I hope we shall be as good friends as before. If there is any blame in the matter I wish to bear it. There he is.”

The hostess felt better after this, but her curiosity was excited, and as George entered the room she went forward to meet him.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “The Fearings are here and you will have to sit next to the younger one. You see we have only just heard—I am so sorry.”

George Wood inclined his head a little. He was very quiet and grave.

“I may as well tell you at once,” he said, “that there is not a word of truth in the story they are telling. I shall be very much obliged if you will deny it when you hear it mentioned. There never was any engagement between Miss Fearing and me.”

“Well, I am very glad to hear it. Pray, forgive me,” said the lady of the house.

George met Constance with his most impenetrably civil manner and they exchanged a few words which neither of them understood while they were speaking them, nor remembered afterwards. They both spoke in a low voice and the impression produced upon the many curious eyes that watched them was that they were on very good terms, though slightly embarrassed by the consciousness that they were being so much talked of.

At the dinner-table George found himself next to Grace. For some time he talked with his neighbour on 209his other side, then turned and inquired when Grace and her sister were going out of town, and what they intended to do during the summer. She, on her part, while answering his questions, looked at him with an air of cold and scornful surprise. Presently there was a brief burst of general conversation. Under cover of the numerous voices Grace asked a direct question.

“What do you mean by telling such a story as every one is repeating about my sister?” she asked.

George’s eyes gleamed angrily for a moment and his answer came sharply and quickly.

“You would do better to ask that of yourself—or of Miss Fearing. I have said nothing.”

“I do not intend to discuss the matter,” Grace answered icily. “If the story were true it would hurt us and we should not tell it. But it is a lie, and a malicious lie.” She turned her head away.

“Miss Fearing,” George said, bending towards her a little, “I do not intend to be accused of such doings by any one. Do you understand? If you will take the trouble to ask the man on your left, he will tell you that I have denied the story everywhere during the last four days.”

Grace looked at him again, and there was a change in her face. She was about to say something in reply, when the general talk, which had allowed them to speak together unheard, was interrupted by an unexpected pause.

“Do you prefer Bar Harbour to Newport, Miss Fearing?” George inquired in a tone which led every one to suppose that they had been discussing the comparative merits of watering-places.

The young girl smiled as she made an indifferent answer. She liked the man’s coolness and tact in such small things. He was ready, imperturbable and determined, possessing three of the qualities which women like best in man. A little later another chance of exchanging a few words presented itself. This time Grace spoke less abruptly and coldly.

210“If you have said nothing, who has told the tale?” she asked.

“I do not know,” George answered, keeping his clear eyes fixed on hers. “If I knew, I would tell you. It is a malicious lie, as you say, and it must have been set afloat by a malicious person—by some one who hates us all.”

“Some one who hates my sister and me. It cannot injure you in any way.”

“That is true,” said George. “It had not struck me at first, because I was so angry at hearing the story. Does your sister imagine that I have had anything to do with it?”

“Yes,” Grace answered, and her lip curled a little. George misunderstood her expression and drew back rather proudly. The fact was that Grace was thinking how Constance accused herself every day of having been heartless and cruel, declaring in her self-abasement that even if George had chosen to tell the story he would have had something very like a right to do so. Grace had no patience with what she regarded as her sister’s weakness.

To the delight of the young couple who gave the dinner it passed off very pleasantly. There had been no apparent coldness anywhere, and they were persuaded that none existed.

“Will you be kind enough to tell your sister what I have told you?” said George to his neighbour as they rose from the table.

“If you like,” she answered indifferently. “Unless you prefer to tell her yourself.” The emphasis she put on the last part of the sentence showed plainly enough what her opinion was.

“I will,” he said.

A little later in the evening he sat down by Constance in a comparatively quiet corner of the small drawing-room.

“Will you allow me to say a few words to you?” he asked.

211She looked at him in pathetic surprise, and if he had been a little more vain than he was, he would have seen that she was grateful to him for coming to her.

“I am always glad when you talk to me,” she said, and her voice trembled perceptibly.

“You are very good,” he answered in a tone that meant nothing. “I would not trouble you if it did not seem necessary. I have been talking about the matter to your sister at dinner. I wish you to know that I have had nothing to do with the invention of the story that is going the rounds of the town. I have denied it to every one, and I shall continue to deny it.”

Constance glanced timidly at him, and then sighed as though she were relieved of a burden.

“I am very glad you have told me,” she said.

“Do you believe me?” he asked.

“I have always believed everything you have told me, and I always shall. But if you had told some one what everybody is repeating, I should not have blamed you. It would have been almost true.”

“I do not say things which are only almost true,” said George very coldly.

Constance’s face, which had regained some of its natural colour while she had been speaking with him, grew very white again, her lip trembled and there were tears in her eyes.

“Are you always going to treat me like this?” she asked, pronouncing the words with difficulty, as though a sob were very near.

If George had said one kind word at that moment, his history and hers might have been very different from that day onwards. But the wound he had received was yet too fresh, and moreover he was angry with her for showing a tendency to cry, and he hardened his heart.

“I trust,” he answered in a chilly tone, “that we shall always meet on the best of terms.”

A long silence followed, during which it was evident that Constance was struggling to maintain some appearance 212of outward calm. When she felt that she could command her strength, she rose and left him without another word. It was the only thing left for her to do. She could not allow herself to break down in a room full of people, before every one, and she could not stay where she was without bursting into tears. She had humbled herself to the utmost, she had been ready to offer every atonement in her power, and he had met her with a face of stone and a voice that cut her like steel.

That was the last time he saw her before the summer season. She and her sister left town suddenly the next day and George was left to his own devices and to the tender consolation that was showered upon him by Totty Trimm. But he was not easily consoled. As the days followed each other his face grew darker and his humour more gloomy. He could neither work nor read with any satisfaction and he found even less pleasure in the society of men and women than in his own. He would not have married Constance now, if she had offered herself to him, and implored him to take her. If it had been possible, he would gladly have gone abroad for a few months, in the hope of forgetting what had happened to him amidst the varied discomforts, amusements and interests of travelling. But he could not throw up certain engagements he had contracted, though at first it seemed impossible to fulfil them. He promised himself that as soon as he had accomplished his task he would start upon a journey without giving himself the trouble of defining its ultimate direction. For the present he remained sullenly in New York, sitting for hours at his table, a pen held idly between his fingers, his uneasy glance wandering from the paper before him to the wall opposite, from the wall to the window, from the window to his paper again. He was neither despondent nor hopeless. The more impossible he found it to begin his work, the more unyieldingly he forced himself to sit in his chair, the more doggedly he stuck to his determination. Writing had always seemed easy to him before, and he 213admitted no reason for its being hard now. With iron resolution he kept his place, revolving in h............