CHAPTER XIV
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.