Ten Degrees Backward

by Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler

I recalled my wandering thoughts to find my sister gazing at me in perplexity mingled 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 affected 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 miserable springtime, so I will retail them as briefly as possible.

The more Annabel opposed Fay's having her own way, the more determined was I that Fay should have it; although—to confess the truth—I disliked that way, and feared its consequences, considerably more than my sister did. The memory of my dear mother's submission upheld me. I felt I had far sooner Fay despised my weakness than died of my wilfulness—even though that wilfulness were exercised solely for what Annabel and my father would have called "her own good."

The Loxleys came down like a wolf on the fold, and the Manor 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.