The Three Fates

by F. Marion Crawford

“What a fool I have been!” she exclaimed under her breath.

Then she began to reflect upon the consequences of what she had done, and her curiosity being satisfied, her fears began to assume serious proportions. Was it a criminal act that she had committed? She gazed rather helplessly at the torn envelope. It would be impossible to restore it. It would be equally impossible to put the will back into the box, loose and unsealed, without her husband’s noticing the fact the next time he had occasion to look into Tom Craik’s papers. He would remember very well that he had sealed it and marked it on the outside. The envelope, at least, must disappear at once. She crumpled it into as small a compass as possible and put it into her jacket. It would be very simple to burn it as soon as she was at home. But how to dispose of the will itself was a much harder matter. She dared not destroy that also, for that might turn out to be a deliberate theft, or fraud, or whatever the law called such deeds. On the other hand, her brother might ask for it at any time and if it were not in the box it could not be forthcoming, and her husband would get into trouble. It would be easy for Tom to suspect that Sherrington Trimm had destroyed the will, in order that his wife, as next of kin and only heir-at-law should get the fortune. She thought that, as it was, Tom had shown an extraordinary belief in human nature, though when she thought of her husband’s known honesty she understood that nobody could mistrust him. He himself would doubtless be the first to discover the loss. What would he do? He would go to Tom and make him execute a duplicate of the will that was lost. Meanwhile, and in case Tom died before Sherrington came back, Totty could put the original in some safe place, where she could cause it to be found if necessary—behind one of those boxes, for instance, or in some corner of the strong room. Nothing that was locked up between those four walls could ever be lost. If Tom died, she would of course be told that a will had been made and was missing. John Bond would come to her in great distress, and she would come down to the office and help in the search. The scheme did not look very diplomatic, but she was sure that there was nothing else to be done. It was the only way in which she could avoid committing a crime while avoiding also the necessity of confessing to her husband that she had committed an act of supreme folly.

She folded the paper together and looked about the small room for a place in which to hide it. As she was looking she thought she heard John Bond’s step again. She had no time to lose for she would not be able to get rid of him if he entered the strong room a third time. To leave it on one of the shelves would be foolish, for it might be found at any time. She could see no chink or crack into which to drop it, and John was certainly coming. Totty in her desperation thrust the paper into the bosom of her dress, shut up her own box noisily and went out.

She thought that John Bond looked at her very curiously when she went away, though the impression might well be the result of her own guilty fears. As a matter of fact he was surprised by her extreme pallor and was on the point of asking if she were ill. But he reflected that the strong room was a chilly place and that she might be only feeling cold, and he held his tongue.

The paper seemed to burn her, and she longed to be in her own house where she could at least lock it up until she could come to some wise decision in regard to it. She leaned back in her carriage in an agony of nervous fear. What if John Bond should chance to be the one who made the discovery? He probably knew of the existence of the will, and he very probably had seen it and knew where it was. It was strange that she had not thought of that. If, for instance, it happened that he needed to look at some of her brother’s papers that very day, would he not notice the loss and suspect her? After all, he knew as well as any one what she had to gain by destroying the will, if he knew what it contained. How much better it would have been to put it back in its place even without the envelope! How much better anything would be than to feel that she might be found out by John Bond!

She was already far up town, but in her distress she did not recognise her whereabouts, and leaning forward slightly looked through the window. As fate would have it, the only person near the carriage in the street was George Wood, who had recognised it and was trying to get a glimpse of herself. When he saw her, he bowed and smiled, just as he always did. Totty nodded hastily and fell back into her seat. A feeling of sickening despair came over her, and she closed her eyes.

CHAPTER XII.

George Wood’s reputation spread rapidly. He had arrested the attention of the public, and the public was both ready and willing to be amused by him. He had finished the second of his books soon after the appearance of the first, and he had found no difficulty in selling the manuscript outright upon his own terms. It was published about the time when the events took place which have been described in the last chapter, and it obtained a wide success. It was, indeed, wholly different from its predecessor in character and presented a strong contrast to it. The first had been full of action, passionate, strange, unlike the books of the day. The second was the result of much thought and lacked almost altogether the qualities that had given such phenomenal popularity to the first. It was a calm book, almost destitute of plot and of dramatic incidents. It had been polished and adorned to the best of the young writer’s ability, he had put into it the most refined of his thoughts, he had filled it with the sayings of characters more than half ideal. He had believed in it while he was writing it, but he was disappointed with it when it was finished. He had intended to bind together a nosegay of sweet-scented flowers about a central rose, and when he had finished, his nosegay seemed to him artificial, the blossoms looked to him as though they were without stems, tied to dry sticks, and the scent of them had no freshness for his nostrils. Nevertheless he knew that he had given to his work all that he possessed of beauty and refinement in the storehouse of his mind, and he looked upon the venture as final in deciding his future career. It is worse to meet with failure on the publication of a second book, when the first has taken the world by surprise, than it is to fail altogether at the very beginning. Many a polished scholar has produced one good volume; many a refined and spiritual intelligence has painted one lovely scene and dropped the brushes for ever, or taken them up only to blotch and blur incongruous colours upon a spiritless outline, searching with blind eyes for the light that shone but once and can never shine again. Many have shot one arrow in the air and have hit the central mark, whose fingers scarce knew how to hold the bow. The first trial is one of half-reasoned, half-inspired talent; the second shows the artist’s hand; the third and all that follow are works done in the competition between master and master, to which neither apprentice nor idle lover of the art can be admitted. He whose first great effort has been successful, and whose second disappoints no one but himself, may safely feel that he has found out his element and known his own strength. He will perhaps turn out only a dull master at his craft as years go on, or he may be but a second-rate artist, but his apprenticeship has been completed and he will henceforth be judged by the same standard as other artists and masters.

George Wood had followed his own instinct in lavishing so much care and thought and pains upon the book that was now to appear, and his instinct had not deceived him, though when he saw the result he feared that he had made the great false step that is irretrievable. Though many were ready to accept his work on any terms he was pleased to name, yet he held back his manuscript for many weeks, hesitating to give it to the world. The memory of his first enthusiasms blended in his mind with the beauties of tales yet untold and darkened in his eyes the polish of the present work. Constance admired it exceedingly, saying that, although nothing could ever be to her like the first, this was so different in every way, and yet so good, that no unpleasant comparisons could be made between the two. Then George took it to Johnson who kept it a long time and would give no opinion about it until he had read every word it contained.

“This settles it,” he said at last.