The Three Fates

by F. Marion Crawford

Constance was surprised to find how very favourably George Wood compared with the men she had seen during the summer—men all more or less alike in her eyes, but nevertheless representing in her imagination the general type of what the gentleman is supposed to be, the type of the man of her own class, the mate of her own species. Grace had talked so much, in the early part of the season, of George’s inferior social position, of his awkward manner, and, generally, of his defects, that Constance had almost feared to find that she had been deceived at first and that there was a little truth in her sister’s words. One glance, one phrase of his, sufficed to set her mind at rest. He might have peculiarities, but they were not apparent in his way of dressing, of entering a room or of pronouncing the English language. He was emphatically what he ought to be, and she felt a keen pleasure in taking up her intercourse with him at the point where it had been interrupted more than four months earlier.

And now the exigencies of this history require that we should pass rapidly over the period that followed. It was an uneventful time for all concerned. George Wood worked with all his might and produced some very creditable papers on a variety of subjects, gradually attracting a certain amount of notice to himself, and advancing, as he supposed, as fast as was possible in his career. Success, of the kind he craved, still seemed very far away in the dim future, though there were not wanting those who believed that he might not wait long for it. Foremost among those was Constance Fearing. To her there was a vast difference between the anonymous scribbler of small notices whom she had known a year ago, and the promising young writer who appeared to her to have a reputation already, because most of her friends now knew who he was, had read one or more of his articles and were glad to meet him when occasion offered. She felt indeed that he had not yet found out his best talent, but her instinct told her that the time could not be very distant when it would break out of its own impulse and surprise the world by its brilliancy. That he actually possessed great and rare gifts she no longer doubted.

Next to Constance, the Sherrington Trimms were the loudest in their praise of George’s doings. Totty could talk of nothing else when she came to the house in Washington Square, and her husband never failed to read everything George wrote, and to pat him on the back after each fresh effort. Even George’s father began to relent and to believe that there might be something in literature after all. But he showed very little enthusiasm until, one day, an old acquaintance with whom he had not spoken for years, crossed the street and shook hands with him, congratulated him upon his boy’s “doing so well.” Then Jonah Wood felt that the load of anxiety he had borne for so many years was suddenly lifted from his shoulders. People thought his boy was “doing well”! He had not hoped to be told that spontaneously by any one for years to come. The dreary look began to fade out of his grey face, giving way to something that looked very like happiness.

George himself was the least appreciative of his own success. Even Johnson, who was sparing of praise in general, wrote occasional notes in his paper expressive of his satisfaction at his friend’s work and generally containing some bit of delicate criticism or learned reference that lent them weight and caused them to be reprinted into other newspapers.

So the winter came and went again and the month of May came round once more. George was with Constance one afternoon almost exactly a year from the day on which he had first told her of his love. Their relations had been very peaceful and pleasant of late, though George was not so often alone with her as in former times. The period of mourning for the girls’ mother was past and many people came to the house. George himself had gradually made numerous acquaintances and led a more social life than formerly, finding interest, as Johnson had predicted, in watching people instead of poring over books. He was asked to dinner by many persons who had known his father and were anxious to make amends for having judged him unjustly, and when they had once received him into their houses, they liked him and did what they could to show it. Moreover he was modest and reticent in regard to himself and talked well of current topics. Insensibly he had begun to acquire social popularity and to forget much of his boyish cynicism. He fancied that he went into society merely because it sometimes gave him an opportunity of meeting Constance, but he was too natural and young not to like it for itself.

“Shall we not go out?” he asked, when he found her alone in the drawing-room.

Constance looked up and smiled, as though she understood his thought. He was afraid that Grace would enter the room and spoil his visit, as had happened more than once, and Constance feared the same thing. Neither had ever said as much to the other, but there was a tacit understanding between them, and their intimacy had developed so far that Constance made no secret of wishing to be alone with him when he came to the house. She smiled in spite of herself and George smiled in return.

“Yes. We can take a turn in the Square,” she said. “It will be—cooler, you know.” A soft laugh seemed to explain the hesitation, and George felt very happy.

A few minutes later they were walking side by side under the great trees. Instinctively they kept away from the Fearings’ house—Grace might chance to be at the window.

“It was almost a year ago,” said George, suddenly.