The Captives [95]
You're getting caught into it yourself; I've watched you all along. But that isn't the point. The point is that I'm not so bad as you think, nor so simple neither. And life isn't so simple, nor religion, nor love, nor anything as you think it. You're young yet, you know. Very young."
Martin turned back to the door.
"All very interesting, Thurston," he said. "You can think what you like, of course. All the same, the less we see of one another--"
"Well," said Thurston slowly, smiling. "That'll be a bit difficult-- to avoid one another, I mean. You see, I'm going to marry your sister."
Martin laughed. Inside him something was saying: "Now, look out. This is all a trap. He doesn't mean what he says. He's trying to catch you."
"Going to marry Amy? Oh no, you're not."
Thurston did not appear to be interested in anything that Martin had to say. He continued as though he were pursuing his own thoughts. "Yes . . . so it'll be difficult. I didn't think you'd like it when you heard. I said to Amy, 'E won't like it,' I said. She said you'd been too long away from the family to judge. And so you have, you know. Oh! Amy and I'll be right enough. She's a fine woman, your sister."
Martin burst out:
"Well, then, that settles it. It simply settles it. That finishes it."
"Finishes what ?" asked Thurston, smiling in a friendly way.
"Never you mind. It's nothing to do with you. Has my father consented?"
"Yes . . . said all 'e wanted was for Amy to be 'appy. And so she will be. I'll look after her. You'll come round to it in time."
"Father agrees . . . My God! But it's impossible! Don't you see? Don't you see? I . . ."
The sudden sense of his impotence called back his words. He felt nothing but rage and indignation against the whole set of them, against the house they were in, the very table with the papers blowing upon it and the candle shining . . . Well, it made his own affair more simple--that was certain. He must be off--right away from them all. Stay in the house with that fellow for a brother-in- law? Stay when . . .
"It's all right," said Thurston, moistening his pale dry lips with his tongue. "You'll see it in time. It's the best thing that could 'appen. And we've got more in common than you'd ever suppose. We 'ave, really. You're a religious man, really--can't escape your destiny, you know. There's religious and non-religious and it doesn't matter what your creed is, whether you're a Christian or a 'Ottentot, there it is. And if you're religious, you're religious. I may be the greatest humbug on the market, but I'm religious. It's like 'aving a 'are lip--you'll be bothered with it all your life."
But what more Thurston may have said Martin did not hear: he had left the room, banging the door behind him. On what was his indignation based? Injured pride. And was he really indignant? Was not something within him elated, because by this he had been offered his freedom? Thurston marry his sister? . . . He could go his own way now. Even his father could not expect him to remain.
And he wanted Maggie--urgently, passionately. Standing for a moment there in the dark passage he wanted her. He was lonely, disregarded, despised.
They did not care for him here, no one cared for him anywhere--only Maggie who was clear-eyed and truthful and sure beyond any human being whom he had ever known. Then, with a very youthful sense of challenging this world that had so grossly insulted him by admitting Thurston into the heart of it, he joined the tea-party. There in the pink, close, sugar-smelling, soft atmosphere sat his mother, Amy, Mrs. Alweed and little Miss Pyncheon. His mother, with her lace cap and white hair and soft plump hands, was pouring tea through a strainer as though it were a rite. On her plate were three little frilly papers that had held sugary cakes, on her lips were fragments of sugar. Amy, in an ugly grey dress, sat severely straight upon a hard chair and was apparently listening to Miss Pyncheon, but her eyes, suspicious and restless, moved like the eyes of a newly captured animal.
Martin turned back to the door.
"All very interesting, Thurston," he said. "You can think what you like, of course. All the same, the less we see of one another--"
"Well," said Thurston slowly, smiling. "That'll be a bit difficult-- to avoid one another, I mean. You see, I'm going to marry your sister."
Martin laughed. Inside him something was saying: "Now, look out. This is all a trap. He doesn't mean what he says. He's trying to catch you."
"Going to marry Amy? Oh no, you're not."
Thurston did not appear to be interested in anything that Martin had to say. He continued as though he were pursuing his own thoughts. "Yes . . . so it'll be difficult. I didn't think you'd like it when you heard. I said to Amy, 'E won't like it,' I said. She said you'd been too long away from the family to judge. And so you have, you know. Oh! Amy and I'll be right enough. She's a fine woman, your sister."
Martin burst out:
"Well, then, that settles it. It simply settles it. That finishes it."
"Finishes what ?" asked Thurston, smiling in a friendly way.
"Never you mind. It's nothing to do with you. Has my father consented?"
"Yes . . . said all 'e wanted was for Amy to be 'appy. And so she will be. I'll look after her. You'll come round to it in time."
"Father agrees . . . My God! But it's impossible! Don't you see? Don't you see? I . . ."
The sudden sense of his impotence called back his words. He felt nothing but rage and indignation against the whole set of them, against the house they were in, the very table with the papers blowing upon it and the candle shining . . . Well, it made his own affair more simple--that was certain. He must be off--right away from them all. Stay in the house with that fellow for a brother-in- law? Stay when . . .
"It's all right," said Thurston, moistening his pale dry lips with his tongue. "You'll see it in time. It's the best thing that could 'appen. And we've got more in common than you'd ever suppose. We 'ave, really. You're a religious man, really--can't escape your destiny, you know. There's religious and non-religious and it doesn't matter what your creed is, whether you're a Christian or a 'Ottentot, there it is. And if you're religious, you're religious. I may be the greatest humbug on the market, but I'm religious. It's like 'aving a 'are lip--you'll be bothered with it all your life."
But what more Thurston may have said Martin did not hear: he had left the room, banging the door behind him. On what was his indignation based? Injured pride. And was he really indignant? Was not something within him elated, because by this he had been offered his freedom? Thurston marry his sister? . . . He could go his own way now. Even his father could not expect him to remain.
And he wanted Maggie--urgently, passionately. Standing for a moment there in the dark passage he wanted her. He was lonely, disregarded, despised.
They did not care for him here, no one cared for him anywhere--only Maggie who was clear-eyed and truthful and sure beyond any human being whom he had ever known. Then, with a very youthful sense of challenging this world that had so grossly insulted him by admitting Thurston into the heart of it, he joined the tea-party. There in the pink, close, sugar-smelling, soft atmosphere sat his mother, Amy, Mrs. Alweed and little Miss Pyncheon. His mother, with her lace cap and white hair and soft plump hands, was pouring tea through a strainer as though it were a rite. On her plate were three little frilly papers that had held sugary cakes, on her lips were fragments of sugar. Amy, in an ugly grey dress, sat severely straight upon a hard chair and was apparently listening to Miss Pyncheon, but her eyes, suspicious and restless, moved like the eyes of a newly captured animal.