Constance had hidden her face in the cushions and was sobbing bitterly, in the very place she had occupied when she had finally refused George Wood, and almost in the same attitude.
“Oh Grace!” she moaned. “You will break my heart!”
“Do you love him, now?” Grace asked in a voice that was suddenly hard. She had not had the least suspicion of the real state of the case. Constance nodded in answer, still sobbing and covering her face. Grace turned away in disgust.
“What contemptible creatures we women can be!” she said in an undertone, as she crossed the room.
CHAPTER XXVI.
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——”