Probably there are times in the life of every human being, when the only possible method of living at all, would seem to be by living in the day—nay, in the moment—alone, resolutely shutting one’s eyes to the mistakes behind one, refusing to look at the blankness ahead. And this is more especially the case when the mistakes and the blankness have been caused by our own actions. There is not even stolid philosophy to come to our aid, a shrugging of the shoulders, a foisting of the blame on to fate. It may be that the majority of the incidents have been forced upon us, that we have not been free agents in the matter, but if we must of honesty say,—Here or there was the mistake which led to them, and I made that mistake of my own free will,—we cannot turn to philosophy regarding fate for our comfort.

To Antony’s mind he had made a big mistake. Fate had been responsible for his receipt of that letter, it had had nothing to do with himself; he might even consider that, having received it, fate was largely responsible for his journey to England and his meeting with the Duchessa, but he could not possibly accuse fate of his acceptance of those mad conditions attached to the will. He had been an entirely free agent so far as they were concerned; they had been put before him for him to accept or reject them as he chose, and he had accepted them. It had been a huge blunder on his part, and one for which he alone had been responsible.

Of course he might quite justly declare that he could not possibly have foreseen all the other moves fate had up her sleeve; but then no living being could have foreseen them. Fate never does show her subsequent moves. She puts decisions before us in such a way, that she leaves us to imagine we can shape our succeeding actions to our own mind and according to the decision made. She leaves us to imagine it is simply a question whether we will reach our goal by a road bearing slightly to the right or to the left, by a road which may take a long time to traverse and be a fairly smooth road, or a road which will take a short time to traverse and be a rough one. Or, even, as in Antony’s case, she will leave us to imagine there is one route and one route only by which we may reach our goal. And then, whatever our choice, she may suddenly plant a huge barrier across the path, labelled,—No thoroughfare to your goal in this direction.

Sometimes it is possible to defy fate, retrace our steps, and start anew towards the goal. Occasionally we will find that we have burnt our bridges behind us; we are up against an obstacle, and there we are bound to remain helpless. And here fate appears at her worst trickery.

And even supposing we are minded to call it not fate, but Providence, who does these things, it will be of remarkably little comfort to us when we are aware of our own blunders in the background.

A hundred times Antony reviewed the past; a hundred times he blamed himself for the part he had chosen. It is true that, so far as he could see, none other would have had the smallest chance of leading him to his desired goal, yet any other could not have raised the enormous barrier he now saw before him.

He had angered her: she despised him.

To his mind nothing, no subsequent happening, could alter that fact. There was the thought he had to face, and behind him lay his own irredeemable blunder.

Well, the only thing now left for him was to live his life as it was, minus one spark of brightness. Certainly he didn’t feel like singing, but whining was no earthly good. And since he could not sing, and would not whine, silence alone was left him. He would work as best he could till the year was out. He had no intention of going back on his bargain, despite the uselessness of it. At the end of the year, the Hall being his own property, he would sell the place, and travel. Perhaps he would go off shooting big game, or perhaps he would go round the world. It did not much matter which, so long as it prevented him from whining.

And quite possibly, though he would never have any heart for singing, the day might come when he would again be able to whistle.