The Three Fates. F. Marion Crawford
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myself.”
“Then you must be subject to a natural indolence which only affection for another can overcome.”
“I am not lazy,” objected Grace.
“Pardon me. What is a sacrifice, in the common meaning of the word? Giving up something one likes. To make a sacrifice for oneself means to give up something one likes for the sake of one’s own advantage—for instance, to give up sleeping too much, in order to work more. Not to do so, is to be lazy. Laziness is a vice. Therefore it is a vice not to sacrifice as much as possible to one’s own advantage. Virtue is the opposite of vice. Therefore selfishness is a virtue.”
“What dreadful sophistry!”
“You cannot escape the conclusion that one ought to love oneself at least quite as much as any one else, since to be unwilling to take as much trouble for one’s own advantage as one takes for that of other people is manifestly an acute form of indolence, and is therefore vicious and a cardinal sin.”
“Selfishness is certainly a deadly virtue,” retorted Grace.
“Can that be called deadly which provides a man with a living?” asked George.
“That is all sophistry—sophistical chaff, and nothing else.”
“The original sophists made a very good living,” objected George. “Is it not better to get a living as a sophist than to starve?”
“Do you make a living by it, Mr. Wood?”
“No. I am not a lawyer, and times have changed since Gorgias.”
“I may as well tell you,” said Grace, “that Mrs. Trimm has calumniated me. I am not clever, and I do not know who Gorgias was.”
“I beg your pardon for mentioning him. I only wanted to show off my culture. He is of no importance——”
“Yes he is. Since you have spoken of him, tell me who he was.”
“A sophist, and one of the first of them. He published a book to prove that Helen of Troy was an angel of virtue, he fattened on the proceeds of his talking and writing, till he was a hundred years old, and then he died. The thing will not do now. Several people have lately defended Lucretia Borgia, without fattening to any great extent. That is the reason I would like to be a lawyer. Lawyers defend living clients and are well paid for it. Look at Sherry Trimm, my cousin’s husband. Do you know him?”
“Yes.”
“He is fat and well-liking. And Johnny Bond—do you know him too?”
“Of course,” answered Grace, with an almost imperceptible frown. “He is to be Mr. Trimm’s partner soon.”
“Well, when he is forty, he will be as sleek and round as Sherry Trimm himself.”
“Will he?” asked the young girl with some coldness.
“Probably, since he will be rich and happy. Moral and physical rotundity is the natural attribute of all rich and happy persons. It would be a pity if Johnny grew very fat, he is such a handsome fellow.”
“I suppose it could not be helped,” said Grace, indifferently. “What do you mean by moral rotundity, Mr. Wood?”
“Inward and spiritual grace to be always right.”
At this point Totty, who had said all she had to say to Constance, and was now only anxious to say it all over again to Grace, made a movement and nodded to her cousin.
“Come, George,” she said, “take my place, and I will take yours.”
George rose with considerable reluctance and crossed the room. There was something in Grace Fearing’s manner which gave him courage in conversation, and he had felt at his ease with her. Now, however, the ice must be broken afresh with the other sister. Unlike Mrs. Trimm, he did not want to repeat himself, and he was somewhat embarrassed as to how he should begin in a new strain. To his surprise, however, his new companion relieved him of any responsibility in this direction. While listening as much as was necessary to Totty’s rambling talk, she had been watching the young man’s face from a distance. Her sympathetic nature made her more observant than her sister, and she spent much time in speculating upon other people’s thoughts. George interested her from the first. There was something about him, of which he himself was wholly unconscious, which distinguished him from ordinary men, and which it was hard to define. Few people would have called him handsome, though no one could have said that he was ugly. His head was strongly modelled, with prominent brows, and great hollows in the temples. The nose was straight, but rather too long, as is generally the case with melancholy people; and the thin, dark moustache did not conceal the scornful expression of the mouth. The chin would have been the better for a little more weight and prominence, and the whole face might have been more attractive had it been less dark and thin. As for the rest, the man was tall and well built, though somewhat too lean and angular, and he carried himself well, whether in motion or repose. He was evidently melancholic, nervous, and impressionable, as might be seen from his brown and sinewy hands, of which the smooth and pointed fingers contrasted oddly with the strength of the lower part. But the most minute description of George Wood’s physical characteristics would convey no such impression as he produced upon those who first saw him. He was discontented with himself as well as with his surroundings, and his temper was clouded by perpetual disappointment. Sometimes dull and apathetic, there were moments when a vicious energy gleamed in his dark eyes, and when he looked like what fighting men call an ugly customer. Mirth was never natural to him, and when he laughed aloud there was scarcely the semblance of a smile upon his features. Yet he had a keen sense of humour, and a facility for exhibiting the ridiculous side of things to others.
“What do you do, Mr. Wood?” asked Constance Fearing, when he was seated beside her.
“Nothing—and not even that gracefully.”
Constance did not laugh as she looked at him, for there was something at once earnest and bitter in the way he spoke.
“Why do you do nothing?” she asked. “Everybody works nowadays. You do not look like a professed idler. I suppose you mean that you are studying for a profession.”
“Not exactly. I believe my studies are said to be finished. I sometimes write a little.”
“Is that all? Do you never publish anything?”
“Oh yes; countless things.”
“Really? I am afraid I cannot remember seeing——”
“My name in print? No. There is but one copy of my published works, and that is in my possession. The pages present an irregular appearance and smell of paste. You do not understand? My valuable performances are occasionally printed in one of the daily papers. I cut them out, when I am not too lazy, and keep them in a scrap-book.”
“Then you are a journalist?”
“Not from the journalist’s point of view. He calls me a paid contributor; and when I am worse paid than usual, I call him by worse names.”
“I do not understand—if you can be what you call a paid contributor, why not be a journalist? What is the difference?”
“The one is a professional, the other is an amateur. I am the other.”
“Why not be a professional, then?”
“Because I do not like the profession.”
“What would you like to be? Surely you must have some ambition.”
“None whatever, I assure you.” There was an odd look in George’s eyes, not altogether in accordance with his answer. “I should prefer to live a student’s life, since I must live a life of some kind. I should like to be always my own master—if you would give me my choice, there are plenty of things I should like. But I cannot have them.”
“Most of us are in that condition,” said Constance, rather thoughtfully.
“Are