"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 dealing 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 formulated it even in thought—I had certainly never put it into words before—but my subconscious 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 subterranean rivers of knowledge and memory, which flow fathoms below the realm of conscious existence, now and again rise to the surface, as if upheaved by some mighty volcanic 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, chafing under Annabel's sway even while I submitted to it—a weakly, indulgent husband, who would sooner relinquish his lawful authority altogether than enforce it.