As usual, I was foredoomed to failure. I could not even die when I wanted to. In the words of the unhappy Napoleonic Prince, called familiarly "Prince Plon-Plon," I acknowledged my crowning defeat: "I could succeed in nothing—not even in dying."
Fay's desertion had wounded me past healing. It was a catastrophe1 so unlooked for, so appalling2, that words were useless either to describe or to believe it. The worst had happened. I had been weighed in her balance, been found wanting, and cast aside as worthless: therefore there would be nothing worth living for ever any more.
Yet I had to live. That was the crowning wretchedness. If I could only have hidden my misery5 in the grave and have done with it—I, who was a mere6 cumberer of the ground, and worse than a cumberer! But I could not. My hateful existence still dragged on. Even the fig-tree which bore no fruit was commanded by Divine Mercy to wither7 away: but I was not granted even this much grace: I was cursed to live on, with Fay's Tekel branded on my brow. It was part of my punishment. Like Cain, I learned that there is a heavier penalty than death: and that is life. And, like him, I sometimes felt that my punishment was greater than I could bear.
As my body grew stronger my spirit was gradually roused from despondency to defiance8. What had I done that such an unspeakable retribution should be meted9 out to me? I began to feel that my punishment was not only greater than I could bear, but greater than I deserved. True, I had been weak and tactless and over-indulgent: but was that enough to merit a life-sentence? For the first time in my life I ceased to submit, but stood up like Job and challenged the Lord to answer me out of the whirlwind, even though before Him I was as dust and ashes. But I was not as dust and ashes before Fay and Frank; yet they had treated me as if I were: and my heart was hot within me as I mused10 upon their behaviour towards me.
At first I had been utterly11 crushed and prostrate12: but as I regained13 my health I became angry and bitter. All that had formerly14 been sweet in my nature turned to gall15, and I longed to curse God and die.
The hidden spirit of rebellion which I had unconsciously cherished for forty-three years, and which I had originally inherited from my mother, suddenly sprang into life, thereby16 changing my whole nature. I was no longer the weak and amiable17 dilettante18 concealing19 a real tenderness of heart under an assumed cloak of good-humoured cynicism: I was a fierce and bitter Ishmael, driven out into the wilderness20 by human treachery, and at war with God and man.
I hated Frank as vehemently21 as I still loved Fay. But I could forgive neither of them. My anger was hot against them both.
I sternly refused to write to my wife, or to have any direct dealings with her. I instructed Arthur to pay her an allowance of a thousand a year, in addition to her own income, and to tell her from me that I accepted her decision, and intended to abide22 by it.
"I will offer her the thousand per annum as you wish it, old boy," said Blathwayte, "although I know her aunt and uncle have heaps of money and nobody to give it to but Fay and Frank: but I am certain that in the circumstances Fay will refuse it."
I laughed bitterly: "Probably; but Frank and 'Aunt Gertrude' won't, if I know anything about them: and Fay will be over-persuaded by them."
And, as further events proved, I was right.
I am not justifying24 my conduct and feelings at this ghastly time: I am only recording25 them, extenuating26 nothing and setting down naught27 in malice28. I had done once for all with what Fay called "flapdoodle"—that bane of the generation to which Annabel and I belonged. Thenceforth I made up my mind to be what I was, and not what an artificially trained conscience thought that I ought to be.
The characters of the nineteenth century were rather like the gardens of the eighteenth. Their lines were formal, their trees cut into unnatural29 shapes, and their fruit carefully trained over stiff espaliers. But Fay and Frank taught me to deal with my character, as Annabel had already learned to deal with her garden: I swept away the formal beds, flung the iron espaliers over the wall, and let the trees grow according to their own will. That the result, as far as I was concerned, was not ornamental30, I admit: and if the former garden of my soul had been transformed into a waste and horrible place where only thorns and thistles and deadly nightshade grew, surely the responsibility rested with my wife and her brother rather than with me! At least so it appeared to me then.
In time I learned from Blathwayte that Fay and Frank had arrived safely in Melbourne, and were settled in the house of the Sherards, who were only too delighted to have their niece and nephew with them once more: and that my wife and her brother were beginning at once to take up the stage as their profession, Fay acting31 under her maiden32 name.
Although Annabel did not say "I told you so" in so many words, the sentiment exuded33 from her every pore. And, truth to tell, she had told me so. There was no getting away from that fact.
She and Arthur were kind enough to me in their respective ways, but I had no longer any use for kindness. There was nothing now that anybody could do to relieve the utter blankness of my misery.
Though I was bitterly angry with Fay—though I found it impossible to excuse or condone34 her cruel behaviour towards me, her husband—I nevertheless loved and longed for her with consuming and increasing force. "Let no man dream but that I loved her still": therein lay the bitterest sting of my agony. The more I loved her the more impossible I found it to forgive her: had I cared for her less, I might have been less implacable. That may not be a symptom of ideal love, but anyway it was a symptom of mine.
But if I found it impossible to forgive Fay, I found it still further out of my power to forgive Frank. That Annabel had had her finger in the pie I could not deny: she was by no means free from blame with regard to what had happened: but the chief instigator35 of the tragedy was Frank; of that I had no manner of doubt whatever. Without his baneful36 influence Fay would never have dreamed of running away from me: without his practical assistance, she never could have accomplished37 it.
I sometimes wondered whether Annabel reproached herself too severely38 for having, by her well-meant interference, made such havoc39 of my life: had I spoiled hers, as she had spoiled mine, I felt I should have eaten my heart out with unavailing remorse40. But one day this doubt was set for ever at rest by her saying to me—
"Do you know, Reggie dear, I am sometimes inclined to blame myself for not having interfered41 with Fay more than I did, and for letting her have so much of her own way. After all, she was young, and I knew so much better about everything than she did."
After that remark, anxiety about Annabel's conscience no longer troubled me.
She and Arthur were whole-heartedly on my side in this hideous42 separation between my wife and me. Naturally they did not say much to me in condemnation43 of Fay: I could neither have permitted nor endured it: but I knew they were feeling it in my presence and expressing it in each other's; and they put no curb44 upon their expressions of indignation against Frank.
My old nurse, however, thought differently. To my surprise—though by this time I ought not to have been surprised at any vagary45 of Ponty's—the person she blamed in the whole affair was myself: and, what is more, she did not hesitate to say so. I felt that she was unjust—cruelly unjust—and all the more so that she had been so indulgent to me all through my childhood: but what I thought of her had no effect upon Ponty, any more than it had when I was a little boy.
"You've yourself to thank for the whole terrible business, Master Reggie," she said to me after my restoration to what my friends and doctors described as "health." She was far too good a nurse to utter unwelcome words into ears that she did not consider strong enough to receive them. To the needs of a sick soul neither she, nor anybody else, paid any heed46. "I knew there'd be trouble as soon as you began that 'Oranges and Lemons' nonsense of having Miss Annabel and Mr. Frank to live with you; and I said so, but you would have your own way, you having a spice of obstinacy47 in your character as well as Miss Annabel. You weren't your poor Papa's son for nothing."
"I don't call doing what you think will make other people happy exactly obstinacy, Ponty," I pleaded.
"Call it what you like, Master Reggie, but that's what it is. Folks always find pretty pet names for their own particular faults. There was a man at Poppenhall who prided himself upon what he called his firmness, and impulsiveness48, and economy: those were the pet names he used: and yet all the village knew that he was nothing but an obstinate49, ill-tempered old miser4."
"But I thought I was doing right," I said. It was strange that Ponty was the only person against whom I had no feeling of bitterness, and in whose presence I felt less wretched than anywhere else. This might have been because she had been associated with peace and comfort as long as I could remember: but I think the real reason was that she was the only person who blamed me and not Fay.
"And your Papa thought he was doing right when he arranged your poor Mamma's whole time for her, and never let her have a will or a way of her own. She didn't run away: she hadn't the spirit for it, poor thing!—and besides wives didn't run away in those days as they do now. But I saw what she didn't think anybody saw; and I watched the life die out of her like it does out of a fire that's got the sun on it."
I started. So Ponty had consciously seen for herself what had only been subconsciously50 revealed to me.
"I don't mean that Sir John was unkind to her ladyship: far from it: but he just crushed the life out of her, like Miss Annabel does out of folks, without knowing what he was up to. They've always meant well, both Miss Annabel and her Papa: but their well-meaning has done more harm than other folk's ill-meaning, in my humble51 judgment52. And when her ladyship died, Sir John was as cut up as anybody could wish to see, and never married again nor nothing of that kind. He called her ladyship's death a dispensation of Providence53, and bore it most beautiful; and nobody knew but me as it was nothing but a judgment on him for forcing poor Lady Jane into his own mould, as you might say."
"But I never forced her ladyship into my mould, heaven knows!" I exclaimed.
"No; but there was them as did. And you let 'em, and never interfered."
I felt I was a little boy again, being scolded by Ponty in the sunny old nursery for some childish misdemeanour. It was a peaceful feeling and somehow seemed to rest and soothe54 my weary and wounded heart.
"But I did interfere," I said: "I always interfered if I thought any one was interfering55 with her ladyship. Surely no husband ever let his wife have more of her own way than I did."
Ponty looked me up and down with scorn, as I lolled on the chintz-covered window-seat. "And what good would your interfering do as long as Miss Annabel was there, I should like to know? Mark my words, Master Reggie: the King of England couldn't hold his own against Miss Annabel; let alone a pretty young girl like her present ladyship. I knew what would happen as soon as you told me Miss Annabel was going to stay on here after you married. There's no throwing dust in my eyes! I knew Miss Annabel before you were born, and I knew her Papa too; and I know what they're like when they're set on moulding people. I should pity the Pope of Rome hisself if he was being moulded by Miss Annabel."
I agreed with her there.
"And if you ask me, Master Reggie" (I hadn't asked her, but that was neither here nor there), "I should say that the dreadful trouble was far more Miss Annabel's fault than Mr. Wildacre's, though I know some do say as it was all his doing: and I dare say it was partly his doing too, as more than one can play at 'Oranges and Lemons.' But to put a young girl under Miss Annabel's thumb, as you may say (for when all's said and done her ladyship is only a young girl), to my mind it was like throwing Daniel into the den3 of lions; and unfortunately it didn't turn out so well."
"I apparently56 was not successful in the role of the angel who shut the lions' mouths," I said bitterly.
"Not you, Master Reggie! You haven't yet got it in you to stand up against Miss Annabel, and never had: any more than your poor Mamma had it in her to stand up against Sir John. Some folks can stand up and some folks can't, and there's no blame either ways, it happening just as you're made. There was a man at Poppenhall who married three times, and his third wife was the only one of the three as ever stood up to him. And nine weeks to the day from his third marriage he was laid to rest in Poppenhall Churchyard. I remember it as if it was yesterday, and the wreaths were something beautiful."
"I suppose he couldn't stand being stood up to after all those years," I suggested.
"No more than Sir John could have stood it, or Miss Annabel. Folks isn't used to it, if they've had too much of the other thing: and that's where the judgment comes in of letting them get like that. It stands to reason that the Almighty57 didn't send folks into this world to be always having their own way at the expense of other folks's: and they shouldn't be given it. What was sauce for you was sauce for Miss Annabel, as I've told your poor Mamma over and over again when you were both children. But nobody but her Papa could stand up to Miss Annabel even then; and it isn't likely that they'll begin now."
I knew it was very weak of me to go on trying to justify23 myself in Ponty's eyes; but I did it nevertheless. "You see, I thought it would be too quiet for her ladyship to be shut up to an old husband like me, and that it would be more cheerful for her with Miss Annabel and Mr. Wildacre here as well."
Ponty looked at me with a fresh influx58 of contempt: "That's just what you would think, Master Reggie: even as a little boy you were always one for taking the wrong end of a stick. You're not at all old—quite a boy you seem to me; and old or not old, nobody could deny that you're still a very handsome gentleman. And no woman ought to feel it dull to live with her own husband, even if he were one of the plain sort, and hadn't your good looks. She's taken him for better for worse, and for rougher for smoother, according to the Marriage Service, and she ought to abide by it."
"Always verify your quotations," I murmured, but Ponty took no notice of my interruption.
"Not that I don't hold with relations," she went on, "in moderation, and at the proper time and place. I remember when you and Miss Annabel were children, her late ladyship gave me a fortnight's holiday after a bad cold I'd had, and I went to stay with a sister-in-law who was a widow, living some twenty miles from Poppenhall. It happened that my sister-in-law died two days after I got there, which turned out most fortunate for me, as such a lot of relations came to the funeral, I can tell you I saw more of my own family then than I'd seen for years, and I quite enjoyed myself. I always say there's nothing like your own relations for a pick-me-up, as you might say: but you don't want 'em hanging about all the time, and telling you how to manage your own home and husband."
At that moment there was a tap at the nursery door, and Jeavons came in to say that old Parkins had sent a message to know if I could come and ease his pain as I had done before, it being specially59 severe that morning.
I responded at once: and the request brought the first ray of light that had shone on my life since Fay left me. It showed that I still had my uses, and was not a mere cumberer of the ground. Even if life was over as far as I myself was concerned, I could still help others by means of my healing power. So I entered the Parkins's cottage less miserable60 than I had been for months.
I found the poor old man in great agony, and I knelt down by the bed as was my custom, laying my hand upon the painful part. But for the first time since I had received the gift, I found the heavens as brass61 above me. I was conscious of no Presence in the room—of no vital force flowing through me. My prayers were dull and lifeless, and no virtue62 went either in or out of me.
"It don't seem to answer this time, Sir Reginald," the old man groaned63 at last: "the pain do get worse instead of better. Oh dear, oh dear, what shall I do? Nothing seems to do me any good, not even you!"
Sick at heart I tried again, but to no purpose. There was no blinking the fact. The power of healing had gone from me.
Making what poor excuse I could, I stumbled out of the cottage and into the open air: and then I found my way into a little wood, and fell on my face, and prayed that I might die. It seemed as if God Himself had forsaken64 me.
But gradually the knowledge came to me that it was not so. It was not that God had forsaken me, but that I had forsaken God.
Scientists and materialists would doubtless explain this loss of healing power by the fact that my sickness and sorrow had so lowered my vital force that there was no strength left in me, and that I could not pass on to another what I no longer possessed65 myself. But I did not trouble my head with such soothing66 and soporific sophistries67. To me, they were utterly beside the mark. Once again I adopted the simpler course of accepting literally68 the words of Christ: "If ye forgive not men their trespasses69, neither will your Father forgive you your trespasses." That was what He said, and that was what I believe He meant.
I had not forgiven—I could not forgive—Fay and Frank for the evil that they had done me: therefore I was no longer a fit channel for Divine Grace.
To my mind the thing was as clear as daylight, and needed no (so-called) scientific explanation.
But that did not make it any easier to forgive them: on the contrary. If I had found it too hard to forgive Frank for coming between me and my wife, I found it a hundred times harder to forgive him for coming between me and my God. I hated him for having spoilt this life: but I hated him still more for having spoilt the life to come. It was bad enough of him to have turned me out of my earthly Paradise: but it was infinitely70 worse to have shut me out of Heaven as well!
And as I lay on my face writhing71 in spiritual agony, from the depths of my soul I cursed Frank Wildacre.
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1
catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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appalling
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| adj.骇人听闻的，令人震惊的，可怕的 | |
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den
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| n.兽穴；秘密地方；安静的小房间，私室 | |
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miser
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| n.守财奴，吝啬鬼 (adj.miserly) | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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meted
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| v.（对某人）施以，给予（处罚等）( mete的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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gall
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| v.使烦恼，使焦躁，难堪；n.磨难 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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dilettante
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| n.半瓶醋，业余爱好者 | |
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concealing
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，遮住( conceal的现在分词 ) | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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vehemently
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| adv. 热烈地 | |
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abide
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| vi.遵守；坚持；vt.忍受 | |
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justify
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| vt.证明…正当(或有理)，为…辩护 | |
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justifying
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| 证明…有理( justify的现在分词 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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recording
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| n.录音，记录 | |
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extenuating
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| adj.使减轻的，情有可原的v.（用偏袒的辩解或借口）减轻( extenuate的现在分词 )；低估，藐视 | |
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naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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unnatural
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| adj.不自然的；反常的 | |
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ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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acting
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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exuded
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| v.缓慢流出，渗出，分泌出( exude的过去式和过去分词 )；流露出对（某物）的神态或感情 | |
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condone
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| v.宽恕；原谅 | |
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instigator
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| n.煽动者 | |
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baneful
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| adj.有害的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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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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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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curb
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| n.场外证券市场，场外交易；vt.制止，抑制 | |
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vagary
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| n.妄想，不可测之事，异想天开 | |
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heed
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| v.注意，留意；n.注意，留心 | |
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obstinacy
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| n.顽固；（病痛等）难治 | |
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impulsiveness
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| n.冲动 | |
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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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subconsciously
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| ad.下意识地，潜意识地 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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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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56
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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57
almighty
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| adj.全能的，万能的；很大的，很强的 | |
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58
influx
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| n.流入，注入 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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60
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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61
brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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62
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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63
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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64
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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65
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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66
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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67
sophistries
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| n.诡辩术( sophistry的名词复数 )；（一次）诡辩 | |
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68
literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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69
trespasses
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| 罪过( trespass的名词复数 )； 非法进入 | |
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70
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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71
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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