Annabel was greatly surprised when I broke it to her that Fay did not wish to go abroad. But she was more than surprised, she was indignant, when she discovered that I intended to let my wife do as she pleased in the matter. If Fay did not want to go to France, to France she should not go: that I said and that I stuck to.
But the sticking was hard work.
I had always known that Annabel was obstinate1: but until that unhappy spring I had no idea how colossally2 obstinate she could be. Nothing that I said had the slightest effect upon her. She merely waited until I had finished speaking, and then said her own say over again, as if I had never spoken. Fay was quite right. If Annabel thought that a person ought to want a thing, she firmly believed that, therefore, they did want it: and nothing that the person or that any other person could urge to the contrary in any way shook her in this belief. I suppose I was like my sister in this respect. Fay said I was, and so I must have been. But I am sure that I made every effort to struggle against this narrow-mindedness, and I am equally sure that Annabel made no such effort at all. On the contrary, she gloried in it.
"It is nonsense to say that young people don't enjoy being taken abroad, Reggie," she declared over and over again: "absolute nonsense. It is only natural that the young should enjoy variety of place and scene."
"It may be natural, but it isn't true in this particular instance," I vainly argued: "I have told you till I'm sick of telling you that Fay doesn't want to go abroad just now: and if she doesn't want to go, she shan't go."
"I am sure you are making a mistake, Reggie, and that you will live to regret it."
"I have no doubt that I am. As a matter of fact I am always making mistakes and living to regret them. But that won't hinder me from making this one mistake more."
"She would enjoy it when once she got there: I know she would. I used to love travelling on the Continent when I was a girl."
"I dare say you did, but that has nothing to do with it. You and Fay are absolutely different people."
"Of course we are now, because I am so much older than she is: but when we were the same age, I expect Fay was very similar to me." And then I had it all over again about the normal desire of the young for variety of place and scene. I recognised the futility3 of argument. If Annabel believed that at any time or at any age she and Fay bore the slightest resemblance to one another, she could believe anything that she wished to believe: and she did.
Although my sister never shook me for a moment in my determination that Fay should have her own way, she never for a moment ceased trying to shake me; and I found it a most fatiguing4 process. Of late years we have heard much talk about "wars of attrition": that is the kind of war in which Annabel would have excelled.
There is a somewhat obscure passage in the Epistle of St. Jude about the Archangel Michael contending with the devil for the body of Moses. I don't in the least know what it means, but I know exactly what it felt like: and it felt like something very unpleasant indeed.
I suggested—and not altogether from unselfish motives—that Annabel should repair to sunnier climes alone: but she stoutly6 refused to leave me while the East wind was in the air. She seemed to think that with her at my side I could defy my (so-called) enemy more successfully than if I tackled him alone. I endeavoured to point out to her that, according to her ideas, at any rate, my vulnerable part was not my side—my heel of Achilles, so to speak, was situated7 in my chest, and that, therefore, a silk muffler would be a surer defence than a score of sisters. But she still held to her own opinion (as it was her nature to do) that by some indefinable means her bodily presence prevented the inclement8 breeze from visiting my chest too roughly: and with the best intentions and the worst results, she absolutely declined to go abroad unless Fay and I accompanied her.
But the tiresomeness10 of Annabel at this time was more than compensated11 for by the adorableness of Fay. Our little set-to in the smoking-room turned out to be one of those blessed fallings-out that all the more endear: and we had a heavenly time together, unclouded by either the presence of Frank or the persistence12 of Annabel. At any rate, for the time being we were all-in-all to each other. Tennyson remarked that "Sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things": but I must venture to disagree with him, as I once ventured to disagree with Shakspere. The memory of past happiness is a possession of which Time and Circumstance are powerless to rob one: at least I found it so in the dark days to come, when I lived over and over again in memory those happy weeks at Restham, after Fay and I quarrelled and made it up again, and before Frank came back.
Then a fresh storm broke. Annabel found out about the play which was being prepared for Easter week, and made herself extremely unpleasant over it. I did all in my power to smooth things over between her and Fay, but with little success. With all my affection for my sister and all my adoration13 of my wife, I cannot pretend that Fay was altogether easy and adaptable14 when once her back was up; whilst Annabel in such circumstances was absolutely impossible.
Therefore at this particular time life passed but roughly with me, as it did with the poet Cowper. But still rougher times were in store.
Frank's return complicated matters still further. He came back to Restham having left the dons and tutors of his college in a state of extreme dissatisfaction with him, on account of the things he did and the things he left undone15. Naturally he took Fay's part—as indeed I did: but he made no effort to assist me in my endeavour to placate16 Annabel as far as possible without interfering17 with the theatrical18 scheme.
I do not wish to pretend to miseries19 to which I have no title: but I cannot help feeling that in this conflict between the twins and Annabel, it was I who suffered most. Subsequent history has taught us that in a war between two Powers the chief brunt falls upon the neutral states. Certainly it was so in my case. As poor Belgium has long been the cock-pit of Europe, so I became the cock-pit of Restham. A most unenviable position for either nations or individuals!
I was never alone for a minute with Annabel without her beginning all over again about the pernicious influence of amateur theatricals20—as opposed to the beneficent effect of foreign travel—upon the rising generation: I was never alone for a minute with Frank without his rubbing into me the various difficulties which my sister raised with regard to the impending21 performance in the village hall: and—which was worst of all—I was never alone with Fay without knocking my head and bruising22 my heart against an impalpable barrier which had suddenly been raised up between us; for the building of which barrier I blamed Frank.
"You are behaving very foolishly, Reggie, and you will live to regret it," Annabel said, for about the two hundredth time: "I can't understand why you don't see the danger, as I see it."
I did see it: that was what made me so profoundly wretched: but I did not see how it was to be averted23 by any act of mine.
"I should simply put my foot down upon the whole thing, if I were you," she nagged24 on.
"The putting down of one's foot is not such a simple process as it used to be," I retorted: "or else my feet are not of the putting down sort."
"Papa could always put his foot down fast enough when he wanted to," argued Annabel.
"I know he could: but, as I have just told you, I haven't inherited his particular make of feet."
Annabel went on as if I had not spoken. "He always put his foot down when I was Fay's age, if I suggested doing anything that he didn't approve of."
"But you were his daughter and Fay is my wife. That makes all the difference."
"It didn't make any difference to him. He put his foot down just as much in dealing25 with poor Mamma as in dealing with me."
"I know he did. And she died of it."
Annabel looked surprised at the bitterness of my retort: but she would have looked more surprised still if she had seen the greater bitterness of heart which prompted it. I was surprised myself at the sudden rush of anger which flooded my soul at the memory of how my gentle mother had gradually faded away under the pressure of my father's kind, but dominating, heel. I had scarcely formulated26 it even in thought—I had certainly never put it into words before—but my subconscious27 mind must always have rebelled against the knowledge that my mother had really died of my father's strong will. That was what actually killed her, whatever the doctor's certificate might say: and I had always known it, though I did not know that I knew it until that moment.
It is strange how the dark subterranean28 rivers of knowledge and memory, which flow fathoms29 below the realm of conscious existence, now and again rise to the surface, as if upheaved by some mighty30 volcanic31 force of the spiritual world; and we suddenly know that we have always known something of which until that moment we had not the slightest idea. And we know more than this. We see how that undreamed of knowledge has moulded our minds and formed our characters independently of our conscious selves, and how in those dark, subterranean depths are laid the foundations of the temples, which it is our life-work to build and to make meet for the indwelling of the Spirit of God.
Thus suddenly I understood that it was owing to a great extent to my unconscious knowledge of my father's well-meant tyranny towards my mother, that I was what I was: a cowardly rebel, chafing32 under Annabel's sway even while I submitted to it—a weakly, indulgent husband, who would sooner relinquish33 his lawful34 authority altogether than enforce it.
I recalled my wandering thoughts to find my sister gazing at me in perplexity mingled35 with reproach.
"Really, Reggie, I don't know what you are coming to! I consider it shocking to speak of dear Papa in that way. I am sure he never controlled poor Mamma's actions except for her own good."
"Exactly: and that was what killed her. To be constantly controlled for her own good, is enough to crush the life out of any sensitive and high-spirited woman."
"But Mamma wasn't at all high-spirited," Annabel objected.
"Not when we knew her. But I dare say she was before Father began that foot exercise that you consider so desirable. Understand once for all, Annabel, that no power on earth will ever induce me to treat my wife as my father treated his."
Annabel looked still more shocked. "Then I think it is very undutiful of you; very undutiful indeed! And especially after Papa earned a baronetcy for you, and left you such an ample provision for keeping it up. And that reminds me what a pity it is that Fay doesn't seem likely to have any children at present. It would save all this dreadful theatrical fuss and trouble if she had. I always think a baby is such a suitable diversion for a young married woman, besides being so nice to have some one to carry on the title."
I felt that Annabel was becoming intolerable, so I bolted out of the drawing-room, banging the door behind me. She had rather affected36 the drawing-room of late in preference to the great hall, as Fay and Frank usually occupied the latter.
Even now I can hardly bear to recall the happenings of that most miserable37 springtime, so I will retail38 them as briefly39 as possible.
The more Annabel opposed Fay's having her own way, the more determined40 was I that Fay should have it; although—to confess the truth—I disliked that way, and feared its consequences, considerably41 more than my sister did. The memory of my dear mother's submission42 upheld me. I felt I had far sooner Fay despised my weakness than died of my wilfulness43—even though that wilfulness were exercised solely44 for what Annabel and my father would have called "her own good."
The Loxleys came down like a wolf on the fold, and the Manor45 was once again the scene of revelry by night, and a noisy bear-garden by day. I hated it all inexpressibly; but I fought for it as I would have fought for my life. Ever since that horrible time I have cherished the deepest pity for people who feel bound by a real (or mistaken) sense of duty to do battle for that which at the bottom of their hearts they hate. To them there is only one thing worse than defeat—and that is victory.
Only once did I venture on a word of remonstrance46 with my darling.
"Sweetheart," I said one day, when she had rushed into my library for some writing paper wherewith to supply the epistolary needs of the Loxley family: "I know how you are enjoying all this affair, and I wouldn't for worlds interfere47 with your pleasure: but don't you think that after this Play is over, you might rest from theatricals for a time?"
The pretty scarlet48 mouth at once grew mutinous49. "Oh, Reggie, don't be a tiresome9 kill-joy!"
"I'm trying my best not to be," I answered meekly50: "I'm not killing51 this joy: I'm letting it live out all its allotted52 days. I'm only suggesting that it shouldn't have a successor—at any rate, for the present."
Fay tossed her curly head and stamped her foot. I could read Frank's influence in every insubordinate line of her. "I think it is very horrid53 of you to be so dreadfully bossy54, and not to let Frank and me do as we like!"
"But I do let you do as you like, my own. I didn't urge you to go abroad when you said you didn't want to go; and I have never interfered55 with your theatrical performances so far. You can't say I have."
But she did say it. "Yes, you have. You have looked as if you disapproved56 and have been terribly wet-blankety at times, and Annabel has been simply vile57. Frank has noticed it too."
"I am not Annabel, nor responsible for Annabel. Heaven forbid! I can't help my looks—nobody can, or most people would—and if I look dull and what you call wet-blankety, it isn't my fault but my misfortune. And I really do try to see things from your point of view, darling: I do indeed: but I can't help my age—again, nobody can, or most people would."
Fay softened58 a little. She even went the length of sitting down on my knee as I sat by the fire, and twisting her fingers in my front hair. "You really aren't so bad after all—considering everything," she graciously admitted.
It seemed to me, in my masculine folly59, an auspicious60 moment for presenting a petition to my sovereign. "If I promise to be as nice as I know how for this particular Play, and never so much as show a corner of a wet blanket, won't you give up theatricals for a bit, and turn your attention to other things? It is a pity to let anything absorb you to the exclusion61 of everything else." The memory of my late father's foot still constrained62 me to supplicate63 where I knew I had the right to command.
"But you like me to enjoy myself, Reggie?"
"More than I like anything in the world."
"Then why interfere at all in what gives me such a ripping time?"
Then the devil entered into me under cover of my own cowardice64. I couldn't bear Fay to think that it was I who was inimical to her pleasure. "Well, sweetheart, it isn't I altogether: I adore you so that if I had my own way I should give you everything that you asked for, and let you do whatever you liked. But Annabel is a woman of the world, and old enough to be your mother, and she sees that this continual theatrical excitement is not altogether good for a young girl. It hurts me to refuse you anything far worse than it hurts you: but while you are so young I cannot indulge you and myself to the extent of letting you do things that may work you lasting65 harm."
I had spoken to my own undoing66. Fay sprang to her feet at once like an angry boy. "So Annabel disapproves67 of my acting68, does she? Then you can tell her that I jolly well mean to go on with it! As Frank says, she and you together are choking the life and spirit out of me, and making an old woman of me before my time. And I won't stand it—I won't!"
I struggled vainly to retrieve69 my position; but it was too late. "It isn't so much that Annabel disapproves, darling," I lied valiantly70, "but that she thinks so much excitement is bad for you."
"What rot!" retorted Fay, looking more Frank-like than ever: "I never heard such a lot of footling flapdoodle as you and Annabel concoct71 when you set fuzzling together—never in all my life! I've simply no use for you, Reggie, when you play the giddy old maid like this! I shall go and talk to Frank, who has got more sense than you and Annabel put together!" Wherewith she bounced out of the room, and left me lamenting72 over my egregious73 folly in having introduced Annabel into the conversation at all, especially as I did it with the unworthy motive5 of diverting Fay's anger from myself.
All that Eastertide stands out in my memory as a garish74 and lurid75 nightmare. I cannot recall the details of the Play, but I remember that it was considered a great success, and that Fay and Frank fairly surpassed themselves in the dance that they had prepared for the occasion. When it was over, Fay announced her intention of returning with Frank and the Loxleys to town, and staying a few days with the latter in order to attend a few pieces which were running at the London theatres.
I did not oppose her: I knew it would do no good. She refused to listen to argument, and nothing would induce me to put my foot down as my father had done with such grim success before me. But I looked forward to her return from the Loxleys, when Frank would have gone back to Oxford76, and when the summer and I would have my darling to ourselves, and everything would come right again. Annabel had announced her intention of leaving Restham for a time to visit the Macdonalds in Scotland: and I was sure that when there was nobody to come between us, Fay and I would once more be all in all to each other as we had been before.
I did not trouble her with any explanations then: I felt it was not the occasion for them: I saved them all up for the happy time coming when I should have my darling to myself. And during the few days that she was at the Loxleys' I was busy devising and arranging little treats which I knew she would enjoy when once Annabel's back was turned, and we two were like a couple of children out of school.
On the fifth day after Fay's departure, I came down to breakfast in better spirits than usual. It was a lovely April morning, and the spirit of the spring seemed to have got into my blood and to send it coursing through my veins77 more quickly than usual—that spirit of hope which always promises more than it can perform. I felt sure that there was a good time coming for Fay and me, after we had packed Annabel safely off to Scotland, and that our slight falling-out would again prove itself to be of that blessed sort which all the more endears.
My cheerfulness was further increased by the sight of a letter from Fay lying on the breakfast-table. She had only favoured me with hurried post-cards so far since she left home; but this was a letter, and her letters always gave me pleasure. Moreover, I felt this was going to be an extra pleasant one, as it would doubtless herald78 her return home. So I opened it with all the joy of anticipation79, and this is what I read—
"My DEAR REGGIE,
"It is no good going on as we are doing: it is horrid for you and horrid for me. Annabel is quite right in saying that we aren't at all suited to one another; and I am sure that you will be much happier alone with her, without Frank and me to bother you and upset all your little fussy80 ways. So we have decided81 to leave England for good, and go back to live with Aunt Gertrude: and we shall both go on the stage and earn our living that way, though there is no necessity for us to do so, as we have got some money of our own, and Uncle Sherard and Aunt Gertrude have plenty and will be only too pleased to have Frank and me to live with them again. But we shall still go on the stage because we adore it so, and love acting and dancing so much. We always intended to do it, but falling in love with you changed everything and upset my plans.
"Please don't try to stop us, because you can't. Frank arranged everything beforehand, and before you get this letter we shall have sailed for Melbourne. I shan't write to you again, because the sooner you forget me the better. I hope you and Annabel will be very happy together, just as you were before Frank and I came to Restham. And I am sure you will be, as you have always loved her more than you have loved me.
"Good-bye.
"From your loving wife,
"FAY."
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1
obstinate
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| adj.顽固的，倔强的，不易屈服的，较难治愈的 | |
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colossally
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futility
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| n.无用 | |
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fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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7
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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inclement
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| adj.严酷的，严厉的，恶劣的 | |
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9
tiresome
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| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
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tiresomeness
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11
compensated
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| 补偿，报酬( compensate的过去式和过去分词 )； 给（某人）赔偿（或赔款） | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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adaptable
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| adj.能适应的，适应性强的，可改编的 | |
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undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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16
placate
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| v.抚慰，平息(愤怒) | |
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interfering
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| adj. 妨碍的 动词interfere的现在分词 | |
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18
theatrical
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| adj.剧场的，演戏的；做戏似的，做作的 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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theatricals
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| n.（业余性的）戏剧演出，舞台表演艺术；职业演员；戏剧的( theatrical的名词复数 )；剧场的；炫耀的；戏剧性的 | |
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impending
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| a.imminent, about to come or happen | |
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bruising
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| adj.殊死的；十分激烈的v.擦伤(bruise的现在分词形式) | |
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averted
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| 防止，避免( avert的过去式和过去分词 )； 转移 | |
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nagged
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| adj.经常遭责怪的；被压制的；感到厌烦的；被激怒的v.不断地挑剔或批评（某人）( nag的过去式和过去分词 )；不断地烦扰或伤害（某人）；无休止地抱怨；不断指责 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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fathoms
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| 英寻( fathom的名词复数 ) | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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volcanic
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| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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32
chafing
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| n.皮肤发炎v.擦热（尤指皮肤）( chafe的现在分词 )；擦痛；发怒；惹怒 | |
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relinquish
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| v.放弃，撤回，让与，放手 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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retail
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| v./n.零售；adv.以零售价格 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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40
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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41
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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42
submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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43
wilfulness
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| 任性；倔强 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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47
interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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48
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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49
mutinous
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| adj.叛变的，反抗的；adv.反抗地，叛变地；n.反抗，叛变 | |
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50
meekly
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| adv.温顺地，逆来顺受地 | |
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51
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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allotted
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| 分配，拨给，摊派( allot的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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bossy
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| adj.爱发号施令的，作威作福的 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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auspicious
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| adj.吉利的；幸运的，吉兆的 | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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constrained
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| adj.束缚的,节制的 | |
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supplicate
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| v.恳求；adv.祈求地，哀求地，恳求地 | |
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cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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disapproves
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的第三人称单数 ) | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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retrieve
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| vt.重新得到，收回；挽回，补救；检索 | |
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valiantly
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| adv.勇敢地，英勇地；雄赳赳 | |
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concoct
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| v.调合，制造 | |
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lamenting
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| adj.悲伤的，悲哀的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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egregious
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| adj.非常的，过分的 | |
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garish
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| adj.华丽而俗气的，华而不实的 | |
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lurid
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| adj.可怕的；血红的；苍白的 | |
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Oxford
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| n.牛津（英国城市） | |
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veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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