The Three Fates

by F. Marion Crawford

“No it will not,” she answered. “You would not keep me in New York when it is too hot, would you?”

“I will do my best,” said George.

He kept his word and three weeks later he sat in his room, in the small hours of the morning, writing the last page of his first novel. He was in a state of indescribable excitement, though he seemed to be no longer thinking at all. The pen seemed to do the work of itself and he followed the words that appeared so quickly with a feverish interest. He had not the least idea how it would all look when it was done, but something told him that it was being done in the right way. His hand flew from side to side of the paper, and then stopped suddenly, why, he could not tell. It was not possible that there should be nothing more to say, no more to add, not one word to make the completion more complete. He collected his thoughts and read the page over carefully to the end. No—there was nothing wanting, and one word more would spoil the conclusion.

“I do not understand why, I am sure,” he said to himself. “But that is the end, and there is no doubt about it. So here it goes! George—Winton—Wood—May 29th.”

He pushed the sheet away from him. Rather theatrical, he thought, to sign his name to it, as though it were a real book, and as though the manuscript were worth keeping. He had done it all to please Constance, and Constance was pleased. In twenty-four days he had concocted a novel—and he had never in his life enjoyed twenty-four days so much. That was because he had seen Constance so often and because this wretched scroll had amused her. Would she like the last three chapters? Of course she would. He would take her the whole manuscript and make her a present of it. That was all it could be good for. To publish such stuff would be folly, even if any publisher could be found to abet such madness. On the whole, he would prefer to throw the whole into the fire. Nobody could tell. He might be famous some day in the far future, and then when he was dead and gone and could not interfere any longer, some abominable literary executor would get hold of this thing and print it, and show the world what an egregious ass the celebrated George Winton Wood had been when he was a very young man. But Constance could have it if she liked, on condition that it was never shown to anybody.

Thereupon George tumbled into bed and slept soundly until ten o’clock on the following morning, when he gathered up his manuscript, tied it up into a neat bundle and went to meet Constance at their accustomed trysting-place in the Park.

There were some very striking passages towards the conclusion of the book, and George read them as well as he could. Indeed as many of the best speeches were put into the mouth of the hero and were supposed to be addressed to the lady of his affections, George found it very natural to speak them to Constance and to give them a very tender emphasis. It was clear, too, that Constance understood the real intention of the love-making and, to all appearance, appreciated it, for the colour came and went softly in her face, and there was sometimes a little moisture in her eyes and sometimes a light that is not caused by mere interest in an everyday novel. George wrote better than he talked, as many men do who are born writers. There was music in his phrases, but it was the music of pure nature and not the rhythm of a studied prose. That was what most struck the attention of the young girl who sat beside him, drinking in the words which she knew were meant for her, and which she felt were more beautiful than anything she had heard before.

To tell the truth, though she had spoken her admiration very frankly and forcibly, she was beginning to doubt her own ability to judge of the work. If George’s talent were really as great as it now seemed to her, how had it remained concealed so long? There had been nothing to compare with this in his numerous short writings. Was this because they had not been addressed to herself, or was it for this very reason that his novel was so much more fascinating? Or was it really because he had at last found out his strength and was beginning to use it like a giant? She could not tell. She confessed to herself that she had assumed much in setting up her judgment as a standard for him in the matter. The more he had read, the more she had been amazed at his knowledge of things and men, at his easy versatility and at the power he displayed in the more dramatic parts of the book. Of one thing she felt sure. The book would be read and would be liked by the class of people with whom she associated. What the critics might think or say about it was another matter.

She had been prepared for something well done at the last, but she had not anticipated the ending—that ending which had so much surprised the writer himself in his inexperience of his own powers. His voice trembled as he read the last page, and he was not even conscious of being ashamed of showing so much feeling about the creatures of his imagination. He was aware, as in a dream that Constance’s small hand was tightly clasped in his while he was reading, and then, as his voice ceased, he felt her head resting against his shoulder.

She was looking down and he could only see that there was colour in her face, but as he gazed at the tiny fair curls that were just visible to him, he saw a crystal tear fall upon his rough sleeve and glisten in the May sunlight.