The Three Fates

by F. Marion Crawford

But in the midst of her passionate self-accusation, the thought of her own state after she should have put him away for ever, presented itself with painful distinctness. Whether she loved him or not, he was a part of her life and she felt that she could not do without him. For one moment she allowed herself to think of his face if she told him that she consented to their union at last, she could see the happy smile she loved so well and hear the vibrating tones of the voice that moved her more than other voices. Then, to her inexpressible shame, there arose before her visions of another kind, and notably the face of Johnson, the hardworking critic. All at once George seemed to be surrounded by a host of people whom she did not know and whom she did not want to know, men whom, as she remembered to have thought before, she would not have wished to see at her table, yet friends of his, faithful friends—Johnson was one at least—to whom he owed much and whom he would not allow to slip out of his existence because he had married Constance Fearing. She blushed scarlet, though she was alone, and passionate tears of anger at herself burst from her eyes. To think of that miserable consideration, she must be the most contemptible of women. Truly, the baseness of the human heart was unfathomable and shore-less as the ocean of space itself! Truly, she did not love him, if she could think such thoughts, and she must tell him so, cost what it might.

The last night came, preceding the day on which she had promised to give him her decisive answer. She had written him a word to say that he was expected, and she sat down in her own room to fight the struggle over again for the last time. The morrow was to decide, she thought, and yet it was impossible to come to any conclusion. Why had she not set the period at two years instead of one? Surely, in twelve months more she would have known her own mind, or at least have seen what course to pursue. Step by step she advanced once more into the sea of her difficulties, striving to keep her intelligence free from prejudice, and yet hoping that her heart would speak clearly. But it was of no use, the labyrinth was more confused than ever, the light less, and her strength more unsteady. If she thought, it seemed as though her thoughts would drive her mad, if she prayed, her prayers were confused and senseless.

“I cannot marry him, I cannot, I cannot!” she cried at last, utterly worn out with fatigue and anxiety.

She threw herself upon her pillows and tried to rest, while her own words still rang in her ears. She slept a little and she uttered the same cry in her sleep. By force of conscious and unconscious repetition of the phrase, it became mechanised and imposed itself upon her will. When the morning broke, she knew that she had resolved not to marry George Wood, and that her resolution was irrevocable.

To tell him so was a very different matter. She grew cold as she thought of the scene that was before her, and became conscious that her nerves were not equal to such a strain. She fancied that the decision she had reached had been the result of her strength in her struggle with herself. In reality she had succumbed to her own weakness and had abandoned the contest, feeling that it was easier to do anything negative rather than to commit herself to a bondage from which she might some day wish to escape when it should be too late. With a little more firmness of character she would have been able to shake off her doubts and to see that she really loved George very sincerely, and that to hesitate was to sacrifice everything to a morbid fear of offending her now over-delicate conscience. Even now, if she could have known herself, she would have realised that she had by no means given up all love for the man who loved her, nor all expectation of ultimately becoming his wife. She would have behaved very differently if she had been sure that she was burning her ships and cutting off all possibility of a return, or if she had known the character of the man with whom she had to deal. She had passed through a sort of nervous crisis, and her resolution was in the main, a concession to her desire to gain time. In making it she had thrown down her arms and given up the fight. The reaction that followed made it seem impossible for her to face such a scene as must ensue.

At first it struck her that the best way of getting out of the difficulty would be to write to George and tell him her decision in as few words as possible, begging him to come and see her a week later, when she would do her best to explain to him the many and good reasons which had contributed to the present result. This idea, however, she soon abandoned. It would seem most unkind to deal such a blow so suddenly and then expect him to wait so long before enlightening him further upon the subject. Face him herself, she could not. She might be weak, she thought, and she was willing to admit it; it was only to add another unworthiness to the long list with which she was ready to accuse herself. She could not, and she would not tell George herself. The only person who could undertake to bear her message was Grace.

She felt very kindly disposed to Grace, that morning. There was a satisfaction in feeling that she could think of any one without the necessity of considering the question of her marriage. Besides, Grace had opposed her increasing liking for George from the beginning, and had warned her that she would never marry him. Grace had been quite right, and as Constance was feeling particularly humble just then, she thought it would be agreeable to her pride, if she confessed the superiority of Grace’s judgment. She could accuse herself before her sister of all her misdeeds without the fear of witnessing George’s violent grief. Moreover it would be better for George, too, since, he would be obliged to contain himself when speaking to her sister as he would certainly not control his feelings in an interview with herself. To be short, Constance was willing in that moment to be called a coward, rather than face the man she had wronged. Her courage had failed her altogether and she was being carried rapidly down stream from one concession to another, while still trying to give an air of rectitude and self-sacrifice to all her actions. She was preparing an abyss of well-merited self-contempt for herself in the future, though her present satisfaction in her release from responsibility had dulled her real sense of right and had left only the artificialities of her morbid conscience still sensitive to the flattery of imaginary self-sacrifice.

An hour later she was alone with her sister. She had greeted her in an unusually affectionate way on entering the room, and the younger girl immediately felt that something had taken place. She herself was smiling, and cordial in her manner.

“Grace, dearest,” Constance began, after some little hesitation, “I want to tell you. You have talked so much about Mr. Wood—you know, you have always been afraid that I would marry him, have you not?”

“Not lately,” answered Grace with a pleasant smile.