isabel chayford came over to see me in the early spring, and immediately after easter, annabel, arthur and i went for a short trip to the canary isles. now that she was dean and chapter of lowchester, annabel had not as much time as formerly to stand between me and the east wind: but she still did what she could; and on this particular occasion hid me in the shelter of the canary isles until the tyranny of my traditional enemy was overpast.
nothing particular happened during the early part of the summer. my longing for fay and my hatred of frank were as great as they had ever been: neither feeling seemed to diminish in intensity: and i felt that forgiveness of frank was as far from me as ever.
i was still very unhappy: but i had now been unhappy for so long that i was fast coming to regard it as my normal state.
i did not see much of the new rector, though what i did see i liked, and he was most popular in the parish: but i was at war with the king, whose ambassador he was, and i felt that, therefore, his embassage meant nothing to me.
so the long, dreary, sunny days dragged on until the beginning of august: and then suddenly the incredible happened, and the world as we had known it was turned upside down.
it is not for me to attempt to tell the story of the great war: that is already written in blood and tears on the heart of the civilised world; and likewise on the pages of those books which shall be opened before the great white throne, when the earth and the heaven shall flee away and there shall be found no place for them. germany ruthlessly broke the laws of god and of man, and england upheld them and defended them even to the death. hell was let loose with all its furies, but the hosts of heaven were also in the field.
and whilst on the continent of europe the awful battle raged between right and might, between righteousness and unrighteousness, between the prince of peace and the lust of power, we at home saw our old world tumbling about our ears, and a new one rising phoenix-like from its ashes.
suddenly the whole scale of values was changed. in the old days before the war, the important people were the middle-aged, wealthy, intellectual people, the brains and backbone of the nation. now those people had ceased to matter at all. the only people that mattered were the young and the strong and the fearless, the blood and the sinews of the nation. the wisdom of the wise had become a thing of no moment compared with the strength and the courage of the brave. it was the boys that counted now: not the mature man of weight and position. the old standards had passed away and new ones were set up in their place. county magnates and landed proprietors sank into abysmal insignificance beside the village lads in their new khaki: rank and wealth became worthless, except in so far as they could be adapted to serve the soldiers fighting at the front.
the world which had hitherto bowed down before us middle-aged, influential, well-to-do people, simply because we were middle-aged and influential and well-to-do, suddenly found it had no use for us, and so cast us ruthlessly aside. it had heavier work on hand—work that was beyond our over-ripe powers. and the strange thing was that this casting aside did not hurt our pride as it would have done at another time, for the reason that our personal pride was dead, and in its place had come a newer and a better feeling, the sense of a corporate unity. the boys who were preferred before us were no rivals, but part of ourselves, because we were all part of one great and united empire. for the first time in the memory of living men we knew experimentally what it meant to be members one of another.
at the coming of the great war old things passed away and all things were made new, and life was suddenly charged with a terrible and yet glorious meaning. our very prayers were changed. for the first time for a century we comprehended the litany, and offered it up with understanding hearts. the "hands of our enemies," which had for so long been merely figurative dangers, were now an actual and hideous menace: and because we believed we were fighting not for greed of gain nor for lust of power, but for love of abstract righteousness, we dared to raise from our hearts that solemn and compelling plea: "o lord, arise, help us and deliver us for thine honour."
naturally i passionately wanted to enlist, and equally naturally my age and short-sightedness rendered me unable to respond to my country's need: but for the first time in my life, failure had lost the power to hurt me. what mattered it that i was worthless, if there were younger and better men ready to take my place? the individual unit had ceased to signify.
time also had changed its values. everything that had happened before the war was almost lost in the haze of a half-forgotten past: the trifling events of the last week of july seemed as far off as the happenings of my boyhood. a new era had begun on that fateful fourth of august, nineteen hundred and fourteen.
it was only a few weeks according to the old reckoning of time, though it seemed as if a long stretch of years had elapsed since the setting of the sun of peace, that another crushing blow fell, and i received the following letter from isabel chayford—
"my dear reggie,
"i have terrible news to tell you—the very worst—and trying to break it gently is no good at all. i have seen frank wildacre, who has just come over from belgium with a lot of belgian refugees and he tells me that fay is dead—killed by a shell at louvain."
i put the letter down as i could not see to read any more. a thick red mist was before my eyes, and my brain reeled.
fay dead—my beautiful, light-hearted little fay! the thought was unthinkable.
yet though it was unthinkable, the certainty of it crushed me to the earth. i could not believe—i felt i never could believe—that fay was dead: yet on the other hand i felt as if she had been dead for years and years, and that i had always known it. sorrow is always so old. the moment that its shadow touches us we feel that it has enshrouded us for ages.
as long as i live i shall never forget the agony of that moment. the sun shone through the dining-room window as i sat at the breakfast-table, and i hated it for shining. it seemed as if it ought never to shine again now that fay was dead. and all the familiar objects around me—the furniture and the flowers and the breakfast-things—suddenly became charged with a terrible and sinister meaning, as if they were all part of a grotesque and unspeakably horrible dream.
i sat for what seemed an eternity trying to realise, though in vain, that fay was dead; and yet feeling that i had realised it, from the foundation of the world, in every fibre of my being.
so it was all over, the joy and the pain of my married life! the breach between fay and myself could never now be healed. there was now no longer any hope of her coming back to me, and asking me to let bygones be bygones and to begin our life together afresh. the bygones were bygones indeed, and there was no beginning again for my darling and me. everything was over and past, and there was nothing left—not even a happy memory. she could never again weigh me in her balance, and this time more mercifully; nor could she ever cross out that tekel she had written against my name. it must stand for ever to my eternal undoing. the anguish of this thought was almost more than i could bear, and yet live!
and across the intolerable anguish there came another feeling—an intensity of hatred against him who had destroyed the happiness of my life; and who now came back to complete the havoc he had wrought, by the news of my darling's death. if i had found it impossible to forgive frank while fay was alive, i found it still more impossible now!
after an eternity of such agony as i trust never to go through again, it occurred to me to finish reading isabel's letter. there was nothing in it that could matter: nothing could ever matter any more now that fay was dead: but i felt i might as well read it. i had a dim feeling that isabel sympathised and was sorry, but i did not care whether she was sorry or not. neither she nor anybody else could ever help me any more. still she meant to be kind; and though her kindness was of no use to me, i thought i might as well finish her letter. i owed that much to her. so i went on with the reading of the letter that i had begun to read ages ago, in that dim, far-off past before i knew that fay was dead.
"it appears," the letter continued, "that fay and frank had come over for a trip through belgium when the war began, as fay was rather overdone by acting and wanted a thorough rest and change: and instead of trying to get away at once, they stayed on at louvain in order to help to look after the wounded. during the deliberate destruction of the town, fay rushed out of cover to save a child that had run into the street by itself; and in so doing was struck by part of a shell, which killed her. so she died to save another, which is the most splendid death of all.
"frank was so prostrated by the shock that he could no longer help to nurse the wounded, so he got away, and came over to england with a lot of belgian refugees. i found him among these immediately after his arrival in london, and knew him at once from his strong resemblance to fay. i brought him home with me to prince's gate, as he looked far too fragile and delicate to be left among strangers; and he is here now—an absolute wreck.
"of course i shall only be too glad for fay's sake to keep him here and nurse him back to health: but he doesn't want to stay here: he wants to go back to you.
"i have told him how you blame him—and justly so—for all that has happened, and how impossible you find it to forgive him. i haven't spared him at all. but in spite of all that i have said he still persists that he wants to go back to restham. he is dreadfully sorry for what he has done: but of course that doesn't mend anything.
"reggie, don't think it is unfeeling of me to bother you about all this now. i need not tell you how deeply i grieve for you in your crushing sorrow, nor how fully i realise that you are beyond the reach of any grief or sympathy of mine. all this you know better than i could tell you. but i feel i must tell you that frank repents, and that he wants to come back to you from the far country. this may be your one chance of learning how to forgive your enemy: and i dare not stand between any man and his hope of salvation. so i just tell you the facts: and leave results in your hands—and god's.
"ever yours, in truest sympathy,
"isabel chayford."
yes, isabel meant well. i was sure of that: though her meaning was of no moment to me. but what she asked was impossible. if i could not forgive frank when fay was alive and there was still the chance of things coming right again between my darling and me, how could i forgive him now, when the mischief he had wrought was irremediable, and my life was spoiled beyond redemption?
no: i felt that isabel, and—i say it in all reverence—even god himself were asking too much of me.
the forgiveness of frank wildacre was a demand too exorbitant to be met by a man who was suffering as i was suffering. i could never forgive him—never: especially now that fay was dead. and suddenly, through the clouds of my spiritual anguish and across the storms of my passionate rebellion, i seemed to hear a voice which said: "behold, i stand at the door, and knock!"
but i would not heed it.
i pushed my untasted breakfast away from me and rang the bell. jeavons answered it, and i heard myself saying to him in a voice that i did not recognise as my own—
"let all the blinds be pulled down at once. her ladyship is dead."
then—before he could utter the commonplace condolences which i felt would kill me—i went along the passage to the library and shut the door: and i sat down at my writing-table and laid my head on my arms and wept like a child. and there was none to comfort me.
everybody was very kind to me for the next few days, with that combination of fear and pity which we always show towards the newly bereaved, and which sets these apart from their fellows as completely as if they were lepers. arthur and annabel came over at once from the deanery, and vainly endeavoured to console me in their different ways: annabel by letting me see what a sacrifice she had made on my behalf by leaving lowchester, even for a day, with all the work—red cross and otherwise—which the war had thrown on her hands: and arthur by saying hardly anything at all, but gazing at me with the eyes of a faithful dog.
and all the time that still small voice kept sounding in my ears: "behold, i stand at the door, and knock!"
i showed arthur and annabel isabel's letter, and awaited their comments upon it.
annabel was very indignant with lady chayford. "it is just like isabel to begin bothering you about frank at a time like this!" she exclaimed: "but she never did have any sense. as if you hadn't trouble enough, poor dear boy, without her trying to thrust belgian refugees on to your shoulders as well!"
"i could not possibly have frank here," i said.
"of course you couldn't," replied my sister: "it would be most upsetting to you, with his likeness to fay, and the way in which he has treated you, and all! i cannot conceive what induced isabel chayford to make such an improper suggestion. but she always was utterly inconsiderate of other people's feelings."
my sense of justice rebelled at this. "i don't think you are quite fair to her there, annabel. isabel may be unwise, but she is never inconsiderate."
"well, at any rate, she used to be," retorted annabel; "and what people used to be they generally are."
i could not deny the truth of this statement, broadly speaking: and i had not the spirit to point out that there might be exceptions.
"what do you think?" i asked, appealing to arthur.
he was silent for a moment; then he said in his slow, grave way: "it is very difficult to judge for other people, and i agree with annabel that had i been in lady chayford's place i should never have ventured to make such a daring suggestion. but i cannot help feeling that she is right when she says that it may be your one chance."
"that is just isabel's nonsense," interpolated annabel. "i haven't patience with her. as if frank wildacre deserved to be forgiven! and even if he did—which he doesn't—it isn't the time to bother poor reggie about it now."
"i can never forgive him," i repeated.
"i didn't say you could, old man," replied arthur: "neither does lady chayford. she only says that this might be your one opportunity of doing so: not that you could necessarily avail yourself of that opportunity. as i take it, she does not suggest to you to forgive frank, but to put yourself in a position where it might become possible for you to forgive him. there is a difference between the two, i think."
"i can never forgive him," i repeated doggedly. and we left it at that.
annabel pressed me to go back to lowchester with her and arthur: but i declined to do that, or even to let them remain at restham with me. i wanted to be alone with my sorrow. and as they had their hands full of all kinds of work connected with the war and could ill be spared from lowchester, they let me have my way.
i wrote a short note to isabel chayford thanking her for her sympathy in my overwhelming sorrow: and saying that i found it impossible to grant frank's wish and to let him come to restham. and then i sat alone in my house that was left unto me desolate, and mourned my dead.
but was i alone?
through the long sunless days and the dreary sleepless nights that voice kept ringing in my ears—
"behold, i stand at the door, and knock!"
and i knew that the hand that knocked was pierced; yet i steeled my soul against that incessant pleading, and kept fast shut the door.
some ?ons of agony passed—i think in reality it was three or four days as happy people count them—and arthur came over to see me again.
we sat chiefly in silence, or else talked about impersonal matters, arthur looking at me all the time with his dog-like eyes. but just as he was leaving he said—
"have you thought any more about lady chayford's suggestion, old man?"
"i have thought about nothing else."
"then don't you think you might do as—as—she suggests?" he asked timidly: then: "for fay's sake," he added, almost in a whisper.
i turned round upon him quickly.
"if i consent to have frank wildacre here, i shall not do it for fay's sake," i said, "but for christ's sake."
and as i uttered the three words which are the greatest lever of power, both human and divine, which the world has ever known—those words whereby man is permitted to control the actions of even god himself—i knew that at last the door had been opened to him who stood outside and knocked. once again the galilean had conquered.
