He had often, during his work with the members of his community, been conscious of his ignorance of the impulses and powers that went up to make the ordinary sensual physical life of the normal man.His own troubles, trials, failures were so utterly of another kind that in this other world his imagination refused to aid him.This had often deeply distressed him and made him timid and shy in his dealings with men and women.It was this, more than anything else, that held him back from the ambition to proselytise.How could he go forth and challenge men's souls when he could not understand nor feel their difficulties? More and more as his years advanced had he retired into himself, into his own mystical world of communion with a God who drew ever nearer and nearer to him.He humbled himself before men; he did not believe himself better than they because he had not yielded to their temptations; but he could not help them;his tongue was tied; he was a man cut off from his fellows and he knew it.
He had never felt so impatient of his impotence as he did to-night.
For ten years he had been waiting for this interview with his son, and now that it was come he was timid and afraid as though he had been opposed by a stranger.He had always known that Martin would return.It had been his one worldly ambition and prayer to have him at his side again.When he had thought and dreamt of the time that was coming, he had thought that it would be simple enough to win the boy back to the old allegiance and faith to which he had once been bound.Meanwhile the boy had grown into a man; here was a new Martin deep in experiences, desires, ambitions of which his father could have no perception.Even in the moment that he was aware of the possibility of losing his son he was aware also of the deep almost fanatical resolve to keep him, to hold him at all costs.
This was to be the test of his whole earthly life.He seemed, as he sat there, looking across at his boy, to challenge God Himself to take him from him.It was as though he said:
"This reward at least I have a right to ask.I demand it..."Martin, on his side, was conscious of a profound discomfort.He had, increasingly as the years had passed, wished to take life easily and pleasantly.Suddenly now another world rose up before him.Yes, another world.He was not fool enough to dismiss it simply because it did not resemble his own.Moreover it had been once his, and this was increasingly borne in upon him.But it all seemed to him now incredibly old, childish and even fantastic, as though here, in the middle of London, he had suddenly stepped into a little wood with a witch, a cottage and a boiling cauldron.Such things could not frighten, of course--he was no longer a child--and yet because he had once been frightened some impression of alarm and dismay hovered over him.
During all his normal years abroad he had forgotten the power of superstition, of dreams 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 Iask 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.Iwant 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.Ican 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.
