As soon as he had closed the door of his bedroom he knew that his bad time was come upon him.It was a physical as well as a spiritual dominion.The room visibly darkened before his eyes, his brain worked as it would in dreams suggesting its own thoughts and wishes and intentions.A dark shadow hung over him, hands were placed upon his eyes, only one thought came before him again and again and again."You know, you have long known, that you are doomed to make miserable everything that you touch, to ruin every one with whom you come in contact.That is your fate, and you can no more escape from it than you can escape from your body!"How many hours of this kind he had known in Spain, in France, in South America.Often at the very moment when he had thought that he was at last settling down to some decent steady plan of life he would be jerked from his purpose, some delay or failure would frustrate him, and there would follow the voice in his ear and the hands on his eyes.
It was indeed as though he had been pledged to something in his early life, and because he had broken from that pledge had been pursued ever since...
He stripped to the waist and bathed in cold water; even then it seemed to him that his flesh was heavy and dull and yellow, that he was growing obese and out of all condition.He put on a clean shirt and collar, sat down on his bed and tried to think the thing out.To whomsoever he had done harm in the past he would now spare Maggie and his father.He was surprised at the rush of tenderness that came over him at the thought of Maggie; he sat there for some time thinking over every incident of the last three weeks; that, at least, had been a good decent time, and no one could ever take it away from them again.He looked at her picture in the locket and realised, as he looked at it, a link with her that he had never felt with any woman before."All the same," he thought, "I should go away.She'd mind it at first, but not half as much as she'd mind me later on when she saw what kind of a chap I really was.She'd be unhappy for a bit, but she'd soon meet some one else.She's never seen a man yet except me.She'd soon forget me.She's such a kid."Nevertheless when he thought of beginning that old wandering life again he shrank back.He had hated it--Oh! how he'd hated it! And he didn't want to leave Maggie.He was in reality beginning to believe that with her he might pull himself right out of this morass of weakness and indecision in which he had been wallowing for years.
And yet what sort of a life could he offer her? He did not believe that he would ever now be able to find this other woman whom he had married, and until he had found her and divorced her Maggie's position would be impossible.She, knowing nothing of the world, could disregard it, but HE knew, knew that daily, hourly recurrence of alights and insults and disappointments, knew what that life could make after a time of women in such a position; even though she did not mind he would mind for her and would reproach himself continually.
No, it was impossible.He must go away secretly, without telling her...Then, at that, he was pulled up again by the thought of his father.He could not leave him until this crisis, whatever it might be, was over.A very little thing now might kill him, and at the thought of that possibility he jumped up from his bed and swore that THAT catastrophe at least must be prevented.His father must live and be happy and strong again, and he, Martin, must see to it.
That was his charge and his sacred duty above all else.
Strong in this thought he went down to his father's room.He knocked on the door.There was no answer, and he went in.The room was in a mess of untidiness.His father was walking up and down, staring in front of him, talking to himself.
At the sound of the door he turned, saw Martin and smiled, the old trusting smile of a child, that had been, during his time abroad, Martin's clearest memory of him.
"Oh, is that you? Come in."
Martin came forward and his father put his arm round his neck as though for support.
"I'm tired--horribly tired." Martin took him to the shabby broken arm-chair and made him sit down.Himself sat in his old place on the arm of the chair, his hand against his father's neck.
"Father, come away--just for a week--with me.We'll go right off into the country to Glebeshire or somewhere, quite alone.We won't see a soul.We'll just walk and eat and sleep.And then you'll come back to your work here another man.""No, Martin.I can't yet.Not just now."
"Why not, father?"
"I have work, work that can't be left."
"But if you go on like this you'll be so that you can't go on any longer.You'll break down.You know what the doctor said about your heart.You aren't taking any care at all.""Perhaps...perhaps...but for a week or two I must just go on, preparing...many things...Martin."He suddenly looked up at his son, putting his hand on his knee.
"Yes, father."
"You're being good now, aren't you?"
"Good, father?"
"Yes...Not doing anything you or I'd be ashamed of.I know in the past...but that's been forgotten, that's over.Only now, just now, it's terribly important for us both that you should be good...like you used to be...when you were a boy.""Father, what have people been saying to you about me?""Nothing--nothing.Only I think about you so much.I pray about you all the time.Soon, as you say, we'll go away together...only now, just now, I want you with me here, strong by my side.I want your help."Martin took his father's hand, felt how dry and hot and feverish it was.
"I'll be with you," he said."I promise that.Don't you listen to what any one says.I won't leave you." He would like to have gone on and asked other questions, but the old man seemed so worn out and exhausted that he was afraid of distressing him, so he just sat there, his hands on his shoulders, and suddenly the white head nodded, the beard sank over the breast and huddled up in the chair as though life itself had left him; the old man slept.
