The Three Fates

by F. Marion Crawford

When he was at home and in his own room he became apathetic again. He had never known himself subject to such sudden changes of humour and at first he vaguely imagined that he was going to be ill, and that his nerves would break down. His father had not yet come home from the walk which was a part of his regular mode of life. George sat in his deep old easy-chair by the corner of his table and wondered whether all men who were disappointed in love felt it as he did. He tried to smoke and then gave it up in disgust. He rose from his seat and attempted to arrange the papers that lay in heaps about the place where he wrote, but his fingers trembled oddly and he felt alternately hot and cold. He opened a book and tried to read, but the effort to concentrate his attention was maddening. He felt as though he must be stifled in the little room that had always seemed a haven of rest before, and yet he did not know where to go. He threw open the window and stood looking at the rows of windows just visible above the brick wall at the back of the road. The shadows were deepening below and the sky above was already stained with the glow of evening. The prospect was not beautiful, but the cool air that fanned his face was pleasant to his senses, and he remained standing a long time, so long indeed that the stars began to shine overhead before he drew back and returned to his seat. Far down in his sensitive character there was a passionate love of all that is beautiful in the outer world. He hid it from every one, for some reason which he could not explain, but he occasionally let it show itself in his writings and the passages in which he had written of nature as it affected him, had not failed to be noticed for their peculiar grace and tenderness of execution. Since he had begun to write books all nature had become associated with Constance. He had often wondered what the connecting link could be, but had found no answer to the question. A star in the evening sky, a ray of moonlight upon rippling water, the glow of the sunset over drifted snow, the winnowed light of summer’s afternoon beneath old trees, the scent of roses wet with dew, the sweet smell of country lanes when a shower had passed by—all these things acted like a charm upon him to raise the vision of Constance before his eyes. To-night he could not bear to look at the bright planet that was shining in that strip of exquisitely soft sky above the hard brick buildings.

That evening he sat with his father, a rather rare occurrence since he had gone so much into the world. The old gentleman had looked often at him during their meal but had said nothing about the careworn look of exhaustion that he saw in his son’s face. It was nearly ten o’clock when Jonah Wood laid down his book by his side and raised his eyes. George had been trying to read also, and during the last half-hour he had almost succeeded.

“What is the matter with you, George?” asked his father.

George let his book fall upon his knee and stared at the lamp for a few seconds. He did not want sympathy from his father nor from any one else, but as he supposed that he would be unable to conceal his nervousness and ill temper for a long time to come, and as his father was the person who would suffer the consequences of both, he thought it better to speak out.

“I do not think there is anything the matter with my bodily condition,” he answered at last. “I am afraid I am bad company, and shall be for a few days. This afternoon, Miss Fearing refused to marry me. I loved her. That is what is the matter, father.”

Jonah Wood uncrossed his legs and crossed them again in the opposite way rather suddenly, which was his especial manner when he was very much surprised. Mechanically, he took up his book again, and held it before his eyes. Then his answer came at last in a rather indistinct voice.

“I am sorry to hear that, George. I had thought she was a nice girl. But you are well out of it. I never did think much of women, anyhow, except your dear mother.”

So far as words went, that was all the consolation George got from his father; but he knew better than to suppose that the old gentleman would waste language in condolence, whatever he might feel. That he felt something, and that strongly, was quite evident from the fact that although he conscientiously held his book before his eyes during the half-hour that followed, he never once turned over the page.

George rested little that night, and when at last he was sound asleep in the broad daylight, he was awakened by a knock at the door and a voice calling him. On looking out a note was handed to him, addressed in Totty Trimm’s brisk, slanting, ladylike writing. He was told that an answer was expected and that the messenger was waiting.

“Dear George,” Totty wrote, “I cannot tell you how amazed and distressed I am. I do hope there is not a word of truth in it, and that you will write me so at once. It is all over New York that Conny Fearing has jilted you in the most abominable way! Of course we all knew that you had been engaged ever so long. If it is true, she is a cruel, heartless, horrid girl, and she never deserved you. Do write, and do come and see me this afternoon. I shall not go out at all for fear of missing you. I am so, so sorry! In haste.—Your affectionate