The Three Fates

by F. Marion Crawford

“It is my own resolution,” she answered without wavering. “Grace has not spoken of my marrying you for more than a year.”

“I am glad that it is altogether from your own heart——”

“Can you think that I would have taken the advice of some one else?” Constance asked, reproachfully.

“I do not know. It matters very little, after all. Pardon me if I have been rude or hasty. My manners may have been a little ruffled by this—this occurrence. Good-bye.”

She took his hand and tried to press it, looking again for his eyes. But he drew his fingers away quickly and was gone before she could detain him. For one moment she sat staring at the closed door. Then she once more hid her face in the deep soft cushions and sobbed aloud, more passionately than the first time.

“Oh, I know I ought to have married him, I know I really love him!” she moaned.

And so the first act of Constance Fearing’s life comedy was played out and the curtain fell between her and the happiness to grasp which she lacked either the will or the passion, or both. She had acted her part with a sincerity so scrupulous that it was like a parody of truth. She had thought of marrying George Wood with delight, she had broken with him in the midst of what might be called a crisis of doubt, and she had parted from him with sincere and bitter tears, feeling that she had sacrificed all she held dear in the world to the ferocious Moloch of her conscience.

To follow the action of her intelligence any farther through the mazes of the labyrinth into which she had led it would be a labour so stupendous that no sensible person could for a moment contemplate the possibility of performing the task, and for the present Constance Fearing must be left to her tears, her meditations, and her complicated state of mind with such pity as can be spared for her weaknesses and such kind thoughts as may be bestowed by the charitable upon her gentle character. It will be easier to understand the strong passion and the bitter disappointment which agitated George Wood’s powerful nature during the hours which followed the scenes just described.

His day was indeed not over yet, though he felt as though the sun had gone down upon his life before it was yet noon. He was neither morbid nor self-conscious, nor did he follow after the chimera introspection. He was simply and savagely angry with Constance, with himself, with the whole known and unknown world. For the time, he forgot who he was, what he was, and all that he had done or that he might be expected to do in the future. He knew that Constance had spoken the truth in saying that she had promised nothing. The greater madman he, to have expected anything whatever! He knew that her whole life and conversation had been one long promise during nearly two years—the more despicably heartless and altogether contemptible she was, then, for since she had spoken what was true she had acted what was a lie from beginning to end. Forgive her? He had given her his only answer. Why should he forgive her? Were there any extenuating circumstances in her favour? Not one—and if there had been, he knew that he would have torn that one to tatters till it was unrecognisable to his sense of justice. Her tears, her pathetic voice, her timidity, even her pale face—they had all been parts of the play, harmonic chords in the grand close of lies that had ended her symphony of deception. She had even prepared his ears by sending Grace to him with her warm, sympathetic eyes, her rich, deep voice and her tale of spontaneous friendship. It was strange that he should have believed the other girl, even for one moment, but he admitted that he had put some faith in her words. How poor a thing was the strongest man when desperately hurt, ready to believe in the first mockery of sympathy that was offered him, ready to catch at the mere shadow of a straw blown by the wind! Doubtless the two sisters had concocted their comedy overnight and had planned their speeches to produce the proper effect upon his victimised feelings. He had singularly disappointed them both, in that case. They would have to think longer and think more wisely the next time they meant to deceive a man of his character. He remembered with delight every cold, hard word he had spoken, every cruelly brutal answer he had given. He rejoiced in every syllable saving only that “I believe you” he had bestowed on Grace’s asseverations of friendship and esteem. And he had been weak enough to ask Constance whether Grace had spoken the truth, as if they had not arranged between them beforehand every sentence of each part! That had been weakness indeed! How they would laugh over his question when they compared notes! By this time they were closeted together, telling each other all he had said and done. On the whole, there could not be much to please them, and he had found strings for most of his short phrases after the first surprise was over. He was glad that he disbelieved them both, and so thoroughly. If there had been one grain of belief in Constance left to him, how much he still might suffer. His illusion had fallen, but it had fallen altogether with one shock, in one general and overwhelming crash. There was not one stone of his temple whole that it might be set upon another, there was not one limb, one fragment of his beautiful idol that might recall its loveliness. All was gone, wholly, irrevocably, and he was glad that it was all gone together. The ruin was so complete that he could doubtless separate the memory of the past from the fact of the present, and dwell upon it, live upon it, as he would. If he met Constance now, he could behave towards her as he would to any other woman. She was not Constance any more. Her name roused no emotion in his heart, the thought of her face as he had last seen it was not connected with anything like love. Her false face, that had been so true and honest once! He could scorn the one and yet love the other.

If George had been less absorbed in his angry thoughts, or had known that there was anything unusual in his expression, he would not have walked up Fifth Avenue on his way from Washington Square. The times were changed since he had been able to traverse the thoroughfare of fashion in the comparative certainty of not meeting an acquaintance. Before he had gone far, he was conscious of having failed to return more than one friendly nod, and he was disgusted with himself for allowing his emotions to have got the better of his habitually quick perception. At the busy corner of Fourteenth Street he stopped upon the edge of the pavement, debating for a moment whether he should leave the Avenue and go home by the elevated road, or strike across Union Square and take a long walk in the less crowded parts of the city. Just then, a familiar and pleasant voice spoke at his elbow.