England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Families -- Fiction; Murder -- Fiction
“Now I understand so many things that were dark--my mother’s sadness and
the melancholy eyes which rested upon me from childhood. She was looking
for the hand of Fate: she expected disaster: she kept me in ignorance:
yet she was haunted by the thought that for the third and fourth
generation the sins--the unknown sins--of the fathers would be visited
upon the children. When I learned these things”--he repeated himself,
because his mind was so full of the thought--“I felt the same
expectation, the same terror, the same sense of helplessness, as if
wherever I turned, whatever I attempted, the Hand which struck down my
father, my grandfather, and that old man would fall upon me.”
“It was natural.”
“So that these words came to me like a direct message from the old
Hebrew Prophet. Our ancestors went for consolation and instruction to
those pages. They held that every doubt and every difficulty were met
and solved by these writers. Perhaps we shall go back to the ancient
faith. And yet----” He looked round; it was a new world that he saw,
with new ideas. “Not in my time,” he said. “We are a scientific age.
When the reign of Science is ended, we may begin again the reign of
Faith.” He spoke as one in doubt and uncertainty.
“Receive the words, Leonard, as a direct message.”
“At least, I interpreted the words into an order to look at events from
another point of view. And I have taken all the misfortunes in turn.
They have nothing whatever to do with heredity. Your illustration about
a man losing his money, and so bringing poverty upon his children, does
not apply. My great-grandfather has his head turned by a great trouble.
His son commits suicide. Why? Nobody knows. The young sailor is drowned.
Why? Because he is a sailor. The daughter marries beneath her station.
Why? Because she was motherless and fatherless and neglected. My own
father died young. Why? Because fever carried him off.”
“Leonard”--Constance laid her hand upon his arm--“do not argue the case
any more. Leave it. A thing like this may easily become morbid. It may
occupy your thoughts too much.”
“Let me forget it, by all means. At present, I confess, the question is
always with me.”
“It explains something in your manner yesterday and to-day. You are
always serious, but now you are absent-minded. You have begun to think
too much about these troubles.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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