The Three Fates

by F. Marion Crawford

George collected his thoughts. He wished to make the story as short as possible, while omitting nothing that was of vital importance.

“I was rowing,” he said, “and I saw what happened. The boat was lying to and drifting very slowly. Your husband put the helm up and she began to turn. At that moment the squall came. He tried to let out the sail—that would have taken off the pressure—but it seemed as though he could not. The last I saw of him was just as the boat heeled over. He seemed to be trying to get the sheet—the rope, you know—loose, so that it would run. Then the boat went over and I thought he had merely fallen overboard upon the other side. I asked you if he could swim. When you cried out, I jumped over and swam as hard as I could. Not seeing him I dived under. He seemed to be entangled in the ropes and the sail and was struggling furiously. I tried to drag him back, but he could not get out and caught me by the arm so that I could not move either. I did my best, but my breath would not hold out, and I could not get my head from under. He was not moving then, though he held me still. That is the last I remember, his grip upon my arm. Then I took in the water and it was all over.”

He ceased speaking and looked at Grace. She was, if possible, paler than before, but she had not changed her position and she was gazing at the water. Many seconds elapsed, until George began to fear that she had fallen into a sort of trance. He waited a little longer and then spoke to her.

“Mrs. Bond!” She made no reply. “Are you ill?” he asked. She turned her head slowly towards him.

“No. I am not ill. Let us go back,” she said.

They returned to the house as silently as they had come. Her step did not falter and her face did not change. When they reached the door, she stood still and put out her hand, evidently wishing him to leave her.

“You were very brave,” she said. “And you have been very kind to-day. I hope you will come and see me sometimes.”

George bowed his head silently and took leave of her. He had not the heart to ask for Constance, and, indeed, he preferred to be alone for a time. He had experienced a new and strange emotion, and his eyes had been opened concerning the ways of human suffering. If he had not seen and heard, he would never have believed that a woman capable of such calmness was in reality heartbroken. But it was impossible to look at Grace’s face and to hear the tones of her voice without understanding instantly that the whole fabric of her life was wrecked. As she had told her sister, she had nothing left but the memory, and she had been determined that it should be complete, that no detail should be wanting to the very end. It was a satisfaction to remember that his last words—insignificant enough—had been addressed to her. She had wanted to know what his last movement had been, his last struggle for life. She knew it all now, and she was satisfied, for there was nothing more to be known.

As he rowed himself slowly across the river, George could not help remembering the Grace Fearing he remembered in old times and comparing her with the woman he had just left. The words she had spoken in praise of his courage were still in his ear with their ring of heartfelt gratitude and with the look that had accompanied them. There was something grand about her which he admired. She had never been afraid to show that she disliked him when she had feared that he might marry her sister. When Constance had at last determined upon her answer, it had been Grace who had conveyed it, with a frankness which he had once distrusted, but which he remembered and knew now to have been real. She had never done anything of which she was ashamed and she had been able now to thank him from her heart, looking fearlessly into his eyes. She would have behaved otherwise if she had ever deceived him. She would have said too much or too little, or she might have felt bound to confess at such a moment that she had formerly done him a wrong. A strange woman she was, he thought, but a strong one and very honest. She had never hesitated in her life, and had never regretted anything she had done—it was written in her face even now. He did not understand why she wished to see him often, for he could have supposed that his mere presence must call up the most painful memories. But he determined that if she remained some time longer he would once or twice cross the river and spend an hour with her. The remembrance of to-day’s interview would make all subsequent meetings seem pleasant by comparison.

The circumstances of the afternoon had wearied him, and he was glad to find himself again in the midst of more pleasant and familiar associations. In answer to Totty’s inquiries as to how Grace looked and behaved during his visit, he said very little. She looked very ill, she behaved with great self-possession, and she had wished to know some details about the accident. More than that George would not say, and his imperturbable face did not betray that there was anything more to be said. In the evening he found himself alone with Mamie on the verandah, Totty having gone within as usual, on pretence of writing letters. The weather was still pleasant, though it had grown much cooler, and Mamie had thrown a soft white shawl over her shoulders, of which George could see the outlines in the gloom.