Ten Degrees Backward

by Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler

The murder being out, Annabel was herself again, and went on explaining with her accustomed volubility: "I was surprised myself, Reggie, when Arthur (I shall call him Arthur now) proposed to me, as I had given up the idea of marrying years ago. Just at first the notion seemed to me ridiculous. But after I'd thought it over for a bit, I saw how necessary it was for anybody as important as a Dean to have a wife at his elbow to tell him what to do, and what not to do. It didn't matter while he was only Rector of a small village like this, though even here he rarely acted without my advice: but I don't see how he could possibly manage to be Dean of Lowchester all by himself, do you?"

I admitted the difficulties of undertaking such a situation single-handed, and my sister continued: "Although I have the greatest respect—I think I may say the deepest affection—for Mr. Bl——Arthur (I find it a little difficult to remember to say Arthur at present, but I shall soon get into the way), I cannot blind my eyes to the fact that he is inclined to have ritualistic tendencies, and a cathedral, I consider, is just the place to encourage that sort of thing, what with the anthems and daily services, and goodness knows what! So different from the quiet routine of a mere parish church. But, you see, if I was there, he couldn't give himself over altogether to ritualism."

I did see that—clearly—in spite of my dazed condition.

"I should be dreadfully vexed," Annabel went on, as I was still more or less speechless with amazement, "if after having got such a splendid appointment, Mr. Blathwayte, I mean Arthur, spoilt it all by ritualism or any folly of that kind. It would be such a dreadful pity! I have often noticed that people wait for a thing for years, and then when they get it at last, they do something that makes you wish they had never had it at all. And I should blame myself if Arthur did anything of that kind."

I winced. I had waited for forty-three years for the happiness that comes to most men in their twenties, and then somebody had done something that made me wish I had never had it at all: but I was as yet far from seeing that that somebody was myself.

"And then, of course," continued Annabel, with a change in her voice, "there is you."

"Yes, there is me," I replied grimly. I wondered how Annabel was going to explain me away.

"At first I felt I really couldn't leave you—especially now you are quite alone; and that I must refuse Mr. Blath—Arthur, in consequence. But on thinking the matter over and looking at it sensibly, I remembered that a man must leave his father and mother and cleave to his wife, which of course includes a woman and her brother. And, when all's said and done, you married, so why shouldn't I?"

By this time I had recovered my speech, and also my better feelings. At the first shock the idea of Annabel's marriage was revolting to me: I do not attempt to deny it: and the thought of her leaving me seemed Fate's final blow. But as I pulled myself together I realised that the selfishness of sorrow was swallowing me up, and I determined to escape from it before it was too late.

Much is said on behalf of the sweetening uses of adversity; but, for my part, when people talk about the discipline of suffering, I always want to substitute the word "temptation" for "discipline," as I know few greater temptations to selfishness than bodily sickness and mental anguish. I cannot believe that either sickness or sorrow in itself makes men better: but if men grow better in spite of sickness and sorrow, then they are conquerors indeed. When we are told that the Captain of our Salvation was made "perfect through suffering," I do not think it is a proof of the beauty of suffering, but of the Divinity of Christ. Even that crowning temptation was powerless to hurt Him. And if He could be perfect in spite of the things He suffered, so can we, provided that we abide in Him and He in us.