On the present occasion, after pulling the bell, Martin stared down the street as though somewhere in the dim golden light of its farthest recesses he would find an answer to a question that he was asking.The broad sturdy strength of his body, the easy good-temper of his expression spoke of a life lived physically rather than mentally.And yet this was only half true.Martin Warlock should at this time have been a quite normal young man with normal desires, normal passions, normal instincts.Such he would undoubtedly have been had he not had his early environment of egotism, mystery and clap-trap--had he, also, not developed through his childhood and youth his passionate devotion to his father.The religious ceremonies of his young days had made him self-conscious and introspective and, although during his years abroad he had felt on many occasions that he was completely freed from his early bondage, scenes, thoughts and longings would recur and remind him that he was celebrating his liberty too soon.The licences that to most men in their first youth are incidental and easily forgotten engraved themselves upon Martin's reluctant soul because of that religious sense that had been driven in upon him at the very hour of his birth.He could not sin and forget.He sinned and was remorseful, was impatient at his remorse, sinned again to rid himself of it and was more remorseful still.The main impulse of his life at this time was his self-distrust.He fancied that by returning home he might regain confidence.He longed to rid himself of the conviction that he was "set aside" by some fate or other, call it God or not as you please.He thought that he hurt all those whom he loved when his only longing was to do them good.He used suddenly to leave his friends because he thought that he was doing them harm.It was as though he heard some Power saying to him: "I marked you out for my own in the beginning and you can't escape me.You may struggle as you like.Until you surrender everything shall turn to dust in your hands." He came back to England determined to assert his independence.
He gazed now at the placidity of Garrick Street with the intensity of some challenging "Stand and Deliver!" All that the street had to give for the moment was a bishop and an actor mounting the steps of the Garrick Club, an old lady with a black bonnet and a milk-jug, a young man in a hurry and a failure selling bootlaces.None of them could be expected to offer reassurance to Martin--none of these noticed him--but an intelligent observer, had such a stranger to Garrick Street been present, might have found that gaze of interest.
Martin's physical solidity could not entirely veil the worried uncertain glance that flashed for a moment and then, with a little reassuring sigh, was gone.
The door opened, a girl looked for a moment into the street, he passed inside.Having stumbled up the dark stairs, pushed back their private entrance, hung up his coat in the little hall, with a deliberate effort he shook off the suspicions that had, during the last moments, troubled him and prepared to meet his mother and sister.
Because he had a happy, easy and affectionate temperament absence always gilded his friends with gifts and qualities that their presence only too often denied.His years abroad had given him a picture of his mother and sister that the few weeks of his return had already dimmed and obscured.His mother's weekly letters had, during ten long years, built up an image of her as the dearest old lady in the world.He had always, since a child, seen her in a detached way--his deep and permanent relations had been with his father--but those letters, of which he had now a deep and carefully cherished pile, gave him a most charming picture of her.They had not been clever nor deep nor indeed very interesting, but they had been affectionate and tender with all the gentleness of the figure that he remembered sitting in its lace cap beside the fire.
After three weeks of home life he was compelled to confess that he did not in the least understand his mother.His intuitions about people were not in fact of a very penetrating character.
His mother appeared to all her world as a "sweet old lady," but even Martin could already perceive that was not in the least what she really was.He had seen her old hands tremble with suppressed temper on the very day after his arrival; he had seen her old lips white with anger because the maid had brought her the wrong shawl.Old ladies must of course have their fancies, but his mother had some fixed and fierce purpose in her life that was quite beyond his powers of penetration.It might of course have something to do with her attachment to his father.Attached Martin could see that she was, but at the same time completely and eternally outside her husband's spiritual life.That might have been perhaps in the first place by her own desire--she did not want "to be bothered with all that nonsense." But certainly all these years with him had worked upon her: she was not perhaps so sure now that it was all "nonsense." She wanted, it might be, a closer alliance with him, which she could not have because she had once rejected the chance of it.Martin did not know; he was aware that there was a great deal going on in the house that he did not fathom.Amy, his sister, knew.
There was an alliance between his mother and his sister deep and strong, as he could see--he did not yet know that it was founded very largely on dislike and fear of himself.
