The Three Fates

by F. Marion Crawford

“And will you do what I ask?”

“If you give me my choice, I will go and see her to-morrow. I will do it to please you—though I do not understand how it can help you.”

“It will, nevertheless, and I shall be grateful to you.”

The result of this conversation was that Mamie actually crossed the river on the following day and spent an hour with Constance Fearing to the great surprise of the latter, especially when she saw that her visitor was determined to be agreeable, as though to efface the impression she had made a few days earlier. Mamie was very careful to say nothing in the least pointed, nor anything which could be construed as an allusion to George.

Totty saw and wondered, but said nothing. She supposed that Mamie had made the visit because George had asked her to, and she was well satisfied that George should take the position of asking Mamie to do anything for him. That sort of thing, she said to herself, helps on a flirtation wonderfully.

As for George he did not look forward to his next meeting with Constance with any kind of pleasure. It was distinctly disagreeable, and he wished that something might happen to prevent it. He did not know whether Constance would tell Grace of his coming, but it struck him that he would not like to be surprised by Grace when he was sitting under the trees with her sister. Grace would assuredly not understand why he was there, and he would be placed in a very false position.

So far, he was right. Constance had not mentioned her meeting with George to any one, and had no intention of doing so. She, like George, said to herself that Grace would not understand, and it seemed wisest not to give her understanding a chance. Of late George had been rarely mentioned, and there was a tendency to coldness between the sisters if his name was spoken, even accidentally. Constance had at first been grateful for the other’s readiness to help her on the memorable first of May, but as time went on, she began to feel that Grace was in some way responsible for her unhappiness and she resented any allusion to the past. Fortunately, Grace was very much occupied with her own existence at that time and was little inclined to find fault with other people’s views of life. She had married the man she loved, and who loved her, for whom she had waited long, and of whom she was immensely proud. He was exactly suited to her taste and represented her ideal of man in every way. She would rather talk of him than of George Wood, and she preferred his company to her sister’s when he was at home. They were a couple whose happiness would have become proverbial if it had been allowed to continue; one of those couples who are not interesting but to watch whom is a satisfaction, and whom it is always pleasant to meet. There was just the right difference of age between them, there was just the right difference in height, the proper contrast in complexion, both had much the same tastes, both were very much in earnest, very sensible, and very faithful. It was to be foreseen that in the course of years they would grow more and more alike, and perhaps more and more prejudiced in favour of their own way of looking at things, that they would have sensible, good-looking children, who would do all those things which they ought to do and rejoice their parents’ hearts, in short that they would lead a peaceful and harmonious life and be in every way an honour to their principles and a model to all young couples yet unmarried. They were people to whom nothing unusual would ever happen, people who, if they had had the opportunity to invent gunpowder, would have held a matrimonial consultation upon the matter and would have decided that explosives should be avoided with care, and had better not be invented at all. Since their marriage they had both been less in sympathy with Constance than before, and the latter was beginning to suspect that it would not be wise for them to live together when they returned to town. She was in some doubt, however, about making any definite arrangements. The elderly female relation who had been a companion and a chaperon to the two young girls, was on her hands, and had begun to show signs of turning into an invalid. It was impossible to turn her adrift, though she was manifestly in the way at present, and yet if Constance decided to live by herself, the good lady was not the sort of person she needed. She gave a good deal of thought to the matter, and turned it over in every way, little suspecting that an event was about to occur which would render all such arrangements futile.

On the Sunday afternoon agreed upon, George got into the boat alone and pulled away into the stream without offering any explanation of his departure to Mrs. Trimm or to Mamie. He took it for granted that they intended to go to church as usual and that he would not be missed. Moreover, he owed no account of his doings to any one, as he said to himself, and would assuredly give none. He started at an early hour, but was surprised to see that Constance was at the place of meeting before him. As he glanced over his shoulder to see that he was rowing for the right point, he caught sight of her white serge dress beneath the trees.

“I have been watching you ever since you started,” she said, holding out her hand to him. “Why do you always row instead of sailing? There is a good breeze, too.”

“There are two reasons,” he answered. “In the first place, the Trimms have no sail-boat, and secondly, if they had, I should not know how to manage it.”