I can't shake off a sense that there is something to be done. I can't
realise that it is too late.
CASTLES NEAR SPAIN
I.
That he should not have guessed it from the beginning seems odd, if
you like, until one stops to consider the matter twice; then, I think,
one sees that after all there was no shadow of a reason why he should
have done so,--one sees, indeed, that even had a suspicion of the
truth at any time crossed his mind, he would have had the best of
reasons for scouting it as nonsense. It is obvious to us from the
first word, because we know instinctively that otherwise there would
be no story; it is that which knits a mere sequence of incidents into
a coherent, communicable whole. But, to his perceptions, the thing
never presented itself as a story at all. It wasn't an anecdote which
somebody had buttonholed him to tell; it was an adventure in which he
found himself launched, an experience to be enjoyed bit by bit, as it
befell, but in no wise suggestive of any single specific climax. What
earthly hint had he received from which to infer the identity of the
two women? On the contrary, weren't the actions of the one totally
inconsistent with what everybody assured him was the manner of
life--with what the necessities of the case led him to believe would
be the condition of spirit--of the other? If the tale were to be
published, the fun would lie, not in attempting to mystify the reader,
but in watching with him the mystification of the hero,--in showing
how he played at hoodman-blind with his destiny, and how surprised he
was, when, the bandage stripped from his eyes, he saw whom he had
caught.
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