ANNABEL'S WARNING
We had a very quiet and peaceful autumn after Frank went back to
Oxford. But that Fay missed him I am sure, as she was not nearly so gay
and light-hearted as she had been during the long vacation. But
although this grieved me, I was not surprised at it: after all, Annabel
and I were but dull old fogies compared with Frank and Fay.
The autumn was always a pleasant time to me, as I was extremely fond of
both shooting and hunting: and now that Fay as well as Annabel was
sitting by the fireside that beckoned me home after my long day's
sport, my contentment was great indeed. My happiness would have been
complete if only I had felt equally sure of Fay's.
That want of self-confidence which I must have inherited from my
mother, since neither my father nor Annabel ever had a trace of it,
made it impossible for me to believe in my own power of filling my
young wife's life with joy and interest; but I had great faith in the
soothing powers of Annabel, to say nothing of the increasingly
absorbing little pleasures and interests which go to make up the sum of
country life. Surely all these were enough to make any woman content.
And in the depths of my soul I cherished an unspoken hope that there
was a greater and more satisfying joy still in store for Fay in the dim
and distant future--that highest joy of all, without which no woman's
life is complete, and the lack of which had created the only cloud that
ever dimmed the brightness of Isabel Chayford's blue eyes.
So I possessed my soul in patience, and prayed that in the years to
come my darling might be as happy as she deserved and as I desired her
to be. And I loved her so well that I was content to stand aside, if I
thought others could succeed where I had failed. I only prayed that
she might be happy: I never added a petition that her happiness might
be found in me. It would have seemed to me presumption to do so.
Perhaps I was wrong in this: I dare say I was, as I nearly always am.
It is the people who make the greatest demands that get the largest
supplies. But it was not in me either to make the one or to claim the
other; and we can only act according to our kind.
In looking back on past events I once used to think: "How much better
things would have turned out, if only I had acted differently." But as
I grew older and wiser I changed the formula to: "How much better
things would have turned out, if only I had had the power to act
differently." And at the back of my mind I knew that I never had had
the power.
Of course this does not apply to wrongdoing: we are always able to
avoid that if we wish. We are to blame for our sins, as they are
caused by temptations which are outside us, and therefore possible to
be resisted; but I do not think we are to blame for our blindness and
our blunders, as they arise from our own limitations, which are inside
us and part of ourselves. If I had my life to live over again, I
hope--and believe--that I should not repeat the wrong things I have
done; but I very much fear that I should repeat all the stupid things,
given that I remained myself. Grace and Wisdom are both gifts from on
high: but Grace is a far more common gift than Wisdom.
There was one thing that gave me great pleasure in that autumn, and
that was the increasing friendliness between Fay and Annabel. Now that
Fay was so much quieter, she naturally shocked Annabel much less
frequently than she did in her high-spirited moods, though I adored Fay
when she was wild and reckless and defiant, I knew that such qualities
were far from exercising an ingratiating effect upon Annabel.
But when Frank came home for Christmas things once more began to hum;
and he and Fay threw themselves with great zest into a succession of
theatrical entertainments. Again the Loxleys invaded the house, and
there were plays acted for the villagers and for our personal friends.
And this time the plays were not Shakspere's. Fay and Frank always
took the leading parts, and it amazed me to note how very quickly and
with how little apparent trouble they learnt a new piece. But the
histrionic art was in their blood, and all things connected with acting
came easy to them.
It was the very opposite with Annabel and me. In our early youth
anything connected with the theatre had been _Anathema_ to our
extremely Evangelical parents: and although in later years we so far
broadened down as to be able now and again to attend the theatre in
comparative spiritual comfort, there was always a lurking feeling at
the back of our minds--and in Annabel's mind it frequently did more
than merely lurk--that we were meddling with the accursed thing. Of
course, my mature judgment repudiated and laughed at this archaic idea;
but in nine cases out of ten early training is stronger than mature,
judgment, and I was one of the nine.
Therefore in the secret recesses of my heart there sprang up a tiny
doubt as to whether all this theatrical excitement was good for Fay.
Naturally I did all in my power to trample upon this horrid little
weed, and hid it away in darkness where neither light nor air could
encourage its unhealthy growth; but suddenly Annabel threw all my
precautions to the wind by remarking one day--
"Reggie dear, I don't want to interfere, and I suppose it really is no
concern of mine, although everything that concerns you must concern me:
but do you think it is wise to allow this acting spirit to take such
possession of Fay?"
"I don't know what you mean," I said coldly: although I did know
perfectly well.
"Of course I don't want to say a word against Fay----"
"Of course not," I interrupted, "and if you did, of course I should not
listen." By this time I was striding up and down the great hall, while
Annabel sat placidly by the fire.
"Now, Reggie, you are losing your temper, and it is such a pity to do
that when I am only speaking for your good and Fay's. But you know as
well as I do that her mother and her mother's people were on the stage."
"I don't see what that has got to do with it," I retorted hotly.
But Annabel remained unperturbed. "Then it is because you won't see.
Everybody knows that what is bred in the bone comes out in the flesh."
"And I think it is horrid of you to throw the poor child's mother in
her teeth in this way," I went on, lashing myself into greater fury.
"I'm not throwing her mother in her teeth--I'm only throwing her into
yours, which is quite a different thing, and can't possibly hurt you as
you never saw her," replied Annabel, with her usual clearness of
thought and confusion of expression. "I shouldn't think of mentioning
her mother's profession to Fay. There's nobody thinks more of the
sacredness of motherhood than I do: I couldn't bear anybody to say even
now that poor mamma hadn't any spirit or any go in her, though you and
I know perfectly well that she hadn't, and that you are exactly like
her in this respect. But I cannot see that there is anything
particularly sacred about a mother-in-law--and especially a
mother-in-law that you have never seen. And although Fay is a married
woman she is really only a child, and an orphan at that: and I cannot
help feeling that you and I, who are so much older, have a sort of
responsibility about her."
"I, perhaps; but hardly you." I was still very angry.
Annabel's temper, however, continued unruffled. "That is so," she
said, "but as you have never accepted your responsibilities, and never
will, I am obliged to take them on to my shoulders, as I always have
done. If Fay were an older woman, I shouldn't bother about her, but
should leave her to shift for herself: and if you had ever managed your
own affairs, I should expect you to manage them now. But as it is, I
cannot see a young girl going into danger and temptation under my own
roof, and not stretch out a helping hand to her."
I jibbed at Annabel's reference to her own roof, but did not say
anything.
"Besides," she went on, "Fay told me that if she hadn't married, she
and Frank would have gone on the stage as soon as they were of age and
independent; and that shows the theatrical craving is in them both."
I wished with all my heart that Fay had confided this idea to me
instead of to Annabel; but it was impossible to teach my darling
wisdom. And even if it had been possible, grey heads on green shoulders
are not an attractive combination. I loved Fay just as she was, and
would not have had her different for anything, but I could not deny
that that particular remark of hers to Annabel might have been omitted
with advantage.
"I am not sure that Frank has a very good influence upon her," my
sister continued, looking thoughtfully into the fire.
"Oh, so it's Frank's turn now," I replied, viciously kicking back a log
of wood that slightly protruded from the hearth: "I thought you were so
fond of Frank." Because I was jealous of Frank, I was all the more
determined to do him justice.
"So I am, Reggie; extremely fond: but being fond of people doesn't
blind me to their faults."
I could testify to the truth of this. "Far from it," I muttered.
"The fact that I am fond of Frank does not prevent my seeing that he is
volatile and flighty and lacking in any sense of responsibility: any
more than the fact that I am fond of you prevents my seeing that you
are over-sensitive and over-indulgent, and have so exaggerated a sense
of responsibility that you are frightened of it, and therefore inclined
to shirk it."
"Pray, don't mind me!" I interrupted, with a harsh laugh. The fact that
I knew my sister was speaking the truth in no way added to my relish
for her remarks.
"Reggie, don't be foolish! I am not thinking about either you or Frank
just now, but about Fay: and I feel bound to say that I do not think it
does her any good to be so much under Frank's influence."
"He provides the only bit of young life she sees, and I want her to
have as much youthful society as she can get. Does it never strike you
that you and I are somewhat old and dull companions for a girl of
nineteen?" I still struggled against my own inclinations.
"Of course it strikes me," replied Annabel in her smooth and even
tones: "it struck me so forcibly at one time, if you remember, that I
tried to dissuade you from marrying her. I thought she was much too
young for you, and said so; and I think so still. But that's all over
and done with. You have married her, and you've got to take the
consequences, just as she has got to take the consequences of marrying
you. You knew you were taking a young wife, and she knew she was
taking a middle-aged husband; and it is nonsense now to be struck all
of a heap with surprise to find that you and she are not identical in
tastes and interests. I knew you wouldn't be, and you ought to have
known it too."
"But it so happened that we loved each other," I retorted drily.
"Of course you did: otherwise you wouldn't have been so foolish as to
marry each other. But marrying one another hasn't altered your own
selves. It always amazes me to see how people imagine that a
quarter-of-an-hour's service in church will entirely change the
characters of a man and a woman. How could it? Especially as they are
generally quite opposite characters, or they wouldn't have fallen in
love with one another at all. You and Fay had the idea that the minute
you put the wedding-ring on to her finger you would become eighteen and
she would become forty-two."
"In which case we should have been exactly as far apart as we are at
present. I cannot see that the fulfilment of that idea would have
mended matters at all."
"Oh, Reggie, how tiresome you are in always tripping people up! You
know perfectly well what I mean. My point is that having persisted, in
opposition to my advice, in marrying a young girl, your duty is to make
her as happy and contented as possible."
I was amazed at the incapacity of the feminine mind to apprehend
justice. "That is what I am trying to do," I replied; "and what you
are abusing me for doing."
"Not at all. You are trying to make her happy apart from you: you are
not trying to make yourself the principal factor in her happiness. You
are blundering--as you have so often blundered--through too great
unselfishness. You are standing aside for fear you should cast a
shadow over her pleasure: and standing aside is not at all the proper
attitude for a husband. If you'd been so set on standing aside, you
should have stood aside altogether and not married her: but having
married her, the time for standing aside has gone by."
Indignant as I was I could not help admiring Annabel's power of
grasping a situation. In ordinary conversation she often appeared
_distraite_--at times almost stupid; but when once her bed-rock of
common sense was touched, her judgment was excellent.
"For my part, as you know," she continued inexorably, "I do not approve
of old men marrying young wives. But if they do so, the wife must not
take her own young way and leave the husband to take his old one. They
must merge, and hit on a comfortable _via media_, or whatever it is
called in Latin. You are letting Fay go her own way too much, Reggie:
and mark my words--you will live to regret it."
"I don't agree with you," I said shortly, once more venting my
righteous indignation on the smouldering logs in the great fire-place.
"Don't do that, Reggie," said Annabel in her most elder-sisterly tone:
"you'll burn holes in the bottom of your boot, besides sending sparks
all over the carpet. And I know I'm right, whether you agree with me
or whether you don't. The first thing you have got to do is not to
have Frank here so much. Let him go back to live with Mr. Blathwayte
at the Rectory."
"I shall do nothing of the kind," I retorted angrily: "I couldn't very
well send away Frank as long as you are living here! What is sauce for
the goose is sauce for the gander: and my wife's brother has as much
right here as my sister."
"What utter nonsense!" exclaimed Annabel; "there is no parallel between
the two cases. This is my home: I have a right to be here; but Frank
is only a guest partaking of your hospitality, and therefore has no
claim to stay on longer than you choose."
This was more than I could stand. So as I did not want a final rupture
with my sister, I strode out of the hall, and flung myself into the
library. The fact that in my inmost heart I wanted Frank out of the
house made me all the more determined not to send him.
For the first time in my life I was furious with Annabel. How dared
she try to come between my wife and me?--I asked myself in my rage.
Yet all the time my better self whispered to me that it was not fair to
accuse Annabel of trying to separate us: according to her lights she
was doing her best to keep us together.
But on another score I felt that I did well to be angry. Her last
remark had put my back up with a vengeance. I should have been within
my rights had I allowed Annabel to leave the Manor on the occasion of
my marriage--as indeed she herself had suggested: I should not have
been in any way behaving shabbily to her had I adopted this suggestion:
but I felt I could not do it after all the years that she and I had
lived there together. But the fact that Fay and I had not the heart to
turn her out in no way altered the truth that it was a favour on our
part to keep her in. And she ought not to have forgotten this, I kept
repeating to myself, or to have regarded our kindness as something to
which she was entitled, and which--in my present fury--I considered she
had abused.
It is strange how quickly a favour develops into a right. We show a
kindness to some one, and the first time it is received with gratitude:
the second time it is accepted as a matter of course: and the third
time we are given to understand that any deviation from its accustomed
rendering would be regarded as a cause of justifiable offence.
There is another problem which has always puzzled me, and which I have
never been able to explain: and that is that we all behave so much
better to other people than other people behave to us. It would seem
as if there must be a converse to this, to set the balance right; but
there isn't; or, at any rate, nobody that I ever knew has been able to
find it. I have never yet met the man or the woman who, in common
parlance, got as good as they gave. So I have no doubt that while I
was aghast at Annabel's ingratitude to me, she was equally aghast at my
ingratitude to her. Such is that queer compound which we call human
nature.
And as I mused upon these mysteries my anger gradually evaporated; and
when its departing mists cleared away, I tried to look at the whole
matter calmly and dispassionately.
An old friend of mine used to say: "If any one says anything
disagreeable to you, see what good you can get out of it. You have had
the pain of it: so don't dismiss it from your mind until you have got
the profit as well."
Therefore I set about seeing what profit I could derive from my
sister's most unpleasant remarks.
Although she had irritated me almost beyond endurance, I knew that
Annabel possessed too much sound sense for her opinion to be lightly
set aside. Her words were worthy of consideration, even if
consideration did not induce me to agree with them. So I considered
them with as much impartiality as I could muster at the moment.
I was perfectly aware that certain kinds of men have sufficiently
strong personalities to make marriage with them a profession in
itself--a profession absorbing enough to occupy a wife's entire time
and thoughts. But I was not that kind of man; and it was no use
pretending that I was.
I hesitate before setting up my humble opinion in opposing that of
Shakspere: but I cannot believe that to "assume a virtue if you have it
not" is at all a wise course to pursue: for the reason that every
quality has its corresponding defect, and one is so apt to assume the
defect and to leave out the quality. When old women pose as young
ones, they assume the follies of youth without its compensating charms:
when dull men set up as wits, they indulge in the gaseousness of
repartee without its accompanying sparkle. Therefore it was of no use
for me to act as if I were an interesting or absorbing husband, while
all the time I was only a rather dull and very devoted one. I felt it
was not in me to be a profession for any lively and intelligent woman.
I was only fit for a pastime--or at best a hobby.
Now if Annabel had been a man, she would have been quite different.
She would have married a quiet, pliable sort of girl, and then would
have moulded the girl's character, and filled the girl's thoughts, and
ordered the girl's actions, until the girl's whole world would have
been summed up in Annabel. And the girl would have been quite content
and happy, and would have asked for nothing else. But it was out of my
power to do any of these things. Again I was brought face to face with
my old mistake of being the boy and letting Annabel be the girl: it
seemed as if I should never outlive the consequences of that early
error.
Things being as they were--that is to say, I being the quiet and
uninteresting person that I was--I did not see that I was justified in
taking away from Fay any legitimate source of pleasure and interest in
her life which might in some way make up for my limitations and
deficiencies.
So having carefully weighed Annabel's most unpalatable suggestions, I
decided to take no notice of them--at any rate, for the present: but to
leave my darling to go her own sweet way, unfettered by the rules and
restrictions of a middle-aged husband.