The Three Fates

by F. Marion Crawford

“She shall, this time,” said Mamie with considerable emphasis. Then there was silence for some moments.

George did not know what she was thinking and cared very little to inquire. He was conscious that the surroundings in which he found himself were soothing to his humour, that Mamie’s harmless talk was pleasant to his ear, and that if he had gone anywhere else on that afternoon, he might have committed some act of folly which would have had serious consequences. He was neither able nor anxious to understand his own state, since, whatever it might be, he desired to escape from it, and he was grateful for all external circumstances which helped his forgetfulness. He was no doubt conscious that it would be out of the question to recover from such a shock as he had received without passing through much suffering on his way to ultimate consolation. But he had been stunned and overcome by what had happened. The first passion of almost uncontrollable anger that swept over his nature had left him dull and almost apathetic for the time, bruised and willing to accept thankfully any peace that he could find.

Presently, Mamie turned the conversation to his books and talked enthusiastically of his success. She had read what he had written with greater care and understanding than he had expected of her, and she quoted whole passages from his novels, puzzling him sometimes with her questions, but pleasing him in spite of himself by her sincere and admiring appreciation. At last he rose to leave her.

“I wish you would stay,” she said regretfully. But he shook his head. “Why not stay the rest of the afternoon?” she suggested. “We are not going out this evening and you could dine with us, just as you are.”

This was altogether more than George wanted. He did not care to meet Totty again on that day.

“Then come again soon,” said Mamie. “I have enjoyed it so much—and we are not going out of town for another fortnight.”

“But you may not have another cold, Mamie,” George observed.

“Oh, I will always have a cold, if you will come and sit with me,” answered the young girl.

When George was once more in the street, he stared about him as though not knowing where he was. Then, when the full force of his disappointment struck him for the second time, he found it hard to believe that he had been spending an hour in careless conversation with his cousin. He looked at his watch mechanically, and saw that it was late in the afternoon. It was as though a dream had separated him from his last interview with Constance Fearing. Of that, at least, he had forgotten nothing; not a word of what she had said, or of what he had answered, had escaped his memory, every syllable was burned into the page of his day. Then came the great question, which had not suggested itself at first. Why had all this happened? What hidden reason was there in obedience to which Constance had so suddenly cast him off? Had she weakly yielded to Grace’s influence? He had little faith in Grace’s assurance that she had been silent, nor in Constance’s confirmation of the statement. And Constance was weak. He had often suspected it, and had even wondered whether she would withstand the pressure brought to bear upon her and against himself. Yet her weakness alone did not explain what she had done. It had needed strength of some sort to face him, to tell him to his face what she had first told him through her sister’s words. But her weakness had shown itself even then. She had wept and hidden her face and cried out that he was breaking her heart, when she was breaking his. George ground his heel upon the pavement.

Her heart, indeed! She had none. She was but a compound of nerves, prettiness and vanity, and he had believed her the noblest, bravest and best of women. He had lavished upon her with his lips and in his books such language as would have honoured a goddess, and she had turned out to be only a weak shallow-hearted girl, ready to break an honest man’s heart, because she did not know her own mind. He cursed his ignorance of human nature and of woman’s love, as he strode along the street toward his own home. Yet, rave as he would, he could not hate her, he could not get rid of the sharp pain that told him he had lost what he held most dear and was widowed of what he had loved best.