The Captives [141]
There had never been a surer proof that his love for Maggie was a real and unselfish love than his hesitation on that wretched day when he seemed utterly deserted by mankind, when Maggie seemed the only friend he had in the world.
Everything was just out of reach, and some perverse destiny prevented him from realising any desire that had a spark of honesty and decency in it. It was not wonderful that in the midst of his loneliness and unhappiness he should have been tempted back to the old paths again, men, women, places that for more than three months now he had been struggling to abandon.
All that day he struggled with temptation. He had not seen Maggie for a week, and during the last three days he had not heard from her, the adventurous Jane having defied the aunts and left.
At luncheon he asked about his father, whom he had not seen for two days.
"Father had a very bad night. He's asleep now."
"There's something on to-night, isn't there?" he asked.
"There's a service," Amy answered shortly.
"Father oughtn't to go," he went on. "I suppose your friend Thurston can manage."
Amy looked at him. "Father's got to go. It's very important."
"Oh, of course, if you want to kill father with all your beastly services--" he broke in furiously.
"It won't be--" Amy began, and then, as though she did not trust herself to continue, got up and left the room.
"Mother," he said, "why on earth don't you do something?"
"I, dear?" she looked at him placidly. "In what way?"
"They're killing father between them with all these services and the rest of the nonsense."
"Your father doesn't listen to anything I say, dear."
"He ought to go away for a long rest."
"Well, dear, perhaps he will soon. You know I have nothing to do with the Chapel. That was settled years ago. I wouldn't interfere for a great deal."
Martin turned fiercely upon her saying:
"Mother, don't you care?"
"Care, dear?"
"Yes, about father--his living and getting well again and being happy as he used to be. What's happened to this place?"
She looked at him in the strangest way. He suddenly felt that he'd never seen her before.
"There are a number of things, Martin, that you don't understand--a number of things. You are away from us for years, you come back to us and expect things to be the same."
"You and Amy," he said, "both of you, have kept me out of everything since I came back. I believe you both hate me!"
She got up slowly from her seat, slowly put her spectacles away in their case, rubbed her fat little hands together, then suddenly licked inquisitively one finger as an animal might do. She spoke to him over her shoulder as she went to the door:
"Oh no, Martin, you speak too strongly."
Left then to his own devices he, at last, wandered out into the foggy streets. After a while he found himself outside a public-house and, after a moment's hesitation, he went in. He asked the stout, rubicund young woman behind the counter for a whisky. She gave him one; he drank that, and then another.
Afterwards he had several more, leaning over the bar, speaking to no one, seeing no one, hearing nothing, and scarcely tasting the drink. When he came out into the street again he knew that he was half drunk--not so drunk that he didn't know what he was doing. Oh dear, no. HE could drink any amount without feeling it. Nevertheless he had drunk so little during these last weeks that even a drop . . . How foggy the streets were . . . made it difficult to find your way home. But he was all right, he could walk straight, he could put his latch-key into the door at one try, HE was all right.
He was at home again. He didn't stop to hang up his hat and coat but went straight into the dining-room, leaving the door open behind him. He saw that the meal was still on the table just as they'd left it. Amy was there too.
He saw her move back when he came in as though she were afraid to touch him.
"You're drunk!" she said.
"I'm not. You're a liar, Amy. You've always been a liar all your life."
She tried to pass him,
Everything was just out of reach, and some perverse destiny prevented him from realising any desire that had a spark of honesty and decency in it. It was not wonderful that in the midst of his loneliness and unhappiness he should have been tempted back to the old paths again, men, women, places that for more than three months now he had been struggling to abandon.
All that day he struggled with temptation. He had not seen Maggie for a week, and during the last three days he had not heard from her, the adventurous Jane having defied the aunts and left.
At luncheon he asked about his father, whom he had not seen for two days.
"Father had a very bad night. He's asleep now."
"There's something on to-night, isn't there?" he asked.
"There's a service," Amy answered shortly.
"Father oughtn't to go," he went on. "I suppose your friend Thurston can manage."
Amy looked at him. "Father's got to go. It's very important."
"Oh, of course, if you want to kill father with all your beastly services--" he broke in furiously.
"It won't be--" Amy began, and then, as though she did not trust herself to continue, got up and left the room.
"Mother," he said, "why on earth don't you do something?"
"I, dear?" she looked at him placidly. "In what way?"
"They're killing father between them with all these services and the rest of the nonsense."
"Your father doesn't listen to anything I say, dear."
"He ought to go away for a long rest."
"Well, dear, perhaps he will soon. You know I have nothing to do with the Chapel. That was settled years ago. I wouldn't interfere for a great deal."
Martin turned fiercely upon her saying:
"Mother, don't you care?"
"Care, dear?"
"Yes, about father--his living and getting well again and being happy as he used to be. What's happened to this place?"
She looked at him in the strangest way. He suddenly felt that he'd never seen her before.
"There are a number of things, Martin, that you don't understand--a number of things. You are away from us for years, you come back to us and expect things to be the same."
"You and Amy," he said, "both of you, have kept me out of everything since I came back. I believe you both hate me!"
She got up slowly from her seat, slowly put her spectacles away in their case, rubbed her fat little hands together, then suddenly licked inquisitively one finger as an animal might do. She spoke to him over her shoulder as she went to the door:
"Oh no, Martin, you speak too strongly."
Left then to his own devices he, at last, wandered out into the foggy streets. After a while he found himself outside a public-house and, after a moment's hesitation, he went in. He asked the stout, rubicund young woman behind the counter for a whisky. She gave him one; he drank that, and then another.
Afterwards he had several more, leaning over the bar, speaking to no one, seeing no one, hearing nothing, and scarcely tasting the drink. When he came out into the street again he knew that he was half drunk--not so drunk that he didn't know what he was doing. Oh dear, no. HE could drink any amount without feeling it. Nevertheless he had drunk so little during these last weeks that even a drop . . . How foggy the streets were . . . made it difficult to find your way home. But he was all right, he could walk straight, he could put his latch-key into the door at one try, HE was all right.
He was at home again. He didn't stop to hang up his hat and coat but went straight into the dining-room, leaving the door open behind him. He saw that the meal was still on the table just as they'd left it. Amy was there too.
He saw her move back when he came in as though she were afraid to touch him.
"You're drunk!" she said.
"I'm not. You're a liar, Amy. You've always been a liar all your life."
She tried to pass him,