The Captives [47]
and omens; he knew now, as he faced his father, that the power was real enough.
They talked for a little while of ordinary things; the candle flame jumped and fell, the shavings rustled strangely in the fireplace, the "Transfiguration" swung a little on its cord, the colour still lingering at its heart as the rest of the room moved restlessly under the ebb and flow of black shadows. Then the candle suddenly blew out.
"A lamp will be better," said Mr. Warlock.
He left the room and Martin sat there, in the darkness, haunted by he knew not what anticipations. The light was brought, they drew closer together, sitting in the little glossy pool, the room pitch dark around them.
"Well, Martin," at last Mr. Warlock said, "I want to hear so many things. Our first time together alone."
"There isn't very much," Martin tried to speak naturally and carelessly. "I wrote about most things in my letters. Pretty rotten letters I'm afraid." He laughed.
"And now--what do you intend to do now?"
"Oh, I don't know--Look around for a bit."
There was another long pause. Then Mr. Warlock began again. "When I ask about your life, my boy, I don't mean where you've lived, how you've earned your living--I do know all that--you've been very good about writing. But your real life, what you've been thinking about things, how you feel about everything . . ."
"Well, father--I don't know. One hadn't much time for thinking, you know. No one did much thinking in Rio. When I was in the Bermudas there was a fellow . . ."
"Yes, but tell me about yourself."
Then, with a desperate effort, he broke out:
"Father, you'll be badly disappointed in me. I've been feeling it coming all the time. I can't help it. I'm just like any one else. I want to have a good time. One's only young once. I'm awfully sorry. I want to please you in any way I can, but--but--it's all gone--all that early part. It's simply one's childhood that's finished with."
"And it can't come back ?" his father said quietly.
"Never!" Martin's voice was almost a cry as though he were defying something.
"We are very weak against God's will," his father said, still quietly as though it were not he that was speaking but some voice in the shadow behind him. "You are not your own master, Martin."
"I am my own master," Martin answered passionately. "I have been my own master for ten years. I've not done anything very fine with my life, I know. I'm just like any one else--but I've found my feet. I can look after myself against anybody and I'm independent--of every one and of everything."
His father drew a little closer to him.
"Of course," he said, "I was not so foolish as to expect that you would come back to us just as you left us. I know that you must have your own life--and be free--so much as any of us are free at all . . ." Then after a little pause. "What are your plans? What are you going to do?"
"Well," answered Martin, hesitating, "I haven't exactly settled, you know. I might take a small share in some business, go into the City. Then at other times I feel I shouldn't like being cooped up in a town after the life I've led. Sometimes, this last month, I've felt I couldn't breathe. It was though, are you, all the chimneys were going to tumble in. When you're out on a field you know where you are, don't you? So I've thought it would be nice to have a little farm somewhere in the South, Devonshire or Glebeshire . . . And then I'd marry of course, a girl who'd like that kind of life and wouldn't find it dull. There'd be plenty of work--a healthy life for children right away from these towns . . . That's my sort of idea, father, but of course one doesn't know . . ."
Martin trailed off into inconsequent words. It was as though his father were waiting for him to commit himself and would then suddenly leap upon him with "There! Now, you've betrayed yourself. I've caught you--" and he had simply nothing to betray, nothing to conceal.
But anything was better than these pauses during which the threats and anticipations piled up and up, making a monstrous
They talked for a little while of ordinary things; the candle flame jumped and fell, the shavings rustled strangely in the fireplace, the "Transfiguration" swung a little on its cord, the colour still lingering at its heart as the rest of the room moved restlessly under the ebb and flow of black shadows. Then the candle suddenly blew out.
"A lamp will be better," said Mr. Warlock.
He left the room and Martin sat there, in the darkness, haunted by he knew not what anticipations. The light was brought, they drew closer together, sitting in the little glossy pool, the room pitch dark around them.
"Well, Martin," at last Mr. Warlock said, "I want to hear so many things. Our first time together alone."
"There isn't very much," Martin tried to speak naturally and carelessly. "I wrote about most things in my letters. Pretty rotten letters I'm afraid." He laughed.
"And now--what do you intend to do now?"
"Oh, I don't know--Look around for a bit."
There was another long pause. Then Mr. Warlock began again. "When I ask about your life, my boy, I don't mean where you've lived, how you've earned your living--I do know all that--you've been very good about writing. But your real life, what you've been thinking about things, how you feel about everything . . ."
"Well, father--I don't know. One hadn't much time for thinking, you know. No one did much thinking in Rio. When I was in the Bermudas there was a fellow . . ."
"Yes, but tell me about yourself."
Then, with a desperate effort, he broke out:
"Father, you'll be badly disappointed in me. I've been feeling it coming all the time. I can't help it. I'm just like any one else. I want to have a good time. One's only young once. I'm awfully sorry. I want to please you in any way I can, but--but--it's all gone--all that early part. It's simply one's childhood that's finished with."
"And it can't come back ?" his father said quietly.
"Never!" Martin's voice was almost a cry as though he were defying something.
"We are very weak against God's will," his father said, still quietly as though it were not he that was speaking but some voice in the shadow behind him. "You are not your own master, Martin."
"I am my own master," Martin answered passionately. "I have been my own master for ten years. I've not done anything very fine with my life, I know. I'm just like any one else--but I've found my feet. I can look after myself against anybody and I'm independent--of every one and of everything."
His father drew a little closer to him.
"Of course," he said, "I was not so foolish as to expect that you would come back to us just as you left us. I know that you must have your own life--and be free--so much as any of us are free at all . . ." Then after a little pause. "What are your plans? What are you going to do?"
"Well," answered Martin, hesitating, "I haven't exactly settled, you know. I might take a small share in some business, go into the City. Then at other times I feel I shouldn't like being cooped up in a town after the life I've led. Sometimes, this last month, I've felt I couldn't breathe. It was though, are you, all the chimneys were going to tumble in. When you're out on a field you know where you are, don't you? So I've thought it would be nice to have a little farm somewhere in the South, Devonshire or Glebeshire . . . And then I'd marry of course, a girl who'd like that kind of life and wouldn't find it dull. There'd be plenty of work--a healthy life for children right away from these towns . . . That's my sort of idea, father, but of course one doesn't know . . ."
Martin trailed off into inconsequent words. It was as though his father were waiting for him to commit himself and would then suddenly leap upon him with "There! Now, you've betrayed yourself. I've caught you--" and he had simply nothing to betray, nothing to conceal.
But anything was better than these pauses during which the threats and anticipations piled up and up, making a monstrous