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.Mrs.Alweed, stout in pink with a large hat full of roses, smiled and smiled, waiting only for a moment when she could amble off once again into space safe on the old broad back of her family experiences, the only conversational steed to whose care she ever entrusted herself.She had a son Hector, a husband, Mr.Alweed, and a sister-in-law, Miss Alweed; she had the greatest confidence in the absorbed attention of the slightest of her acquaintances.
"Hector, he's my boy, you know--although why I call him a boy Ican't think--because he's twenty-two and a half--he's at Cambridge, Christs College--well, this morning I had a letter..." she would begin.She began now upon Martin.His mind wandered.He looked about the little room and thought of Thurston.Why was he not more angry about it all? He had pretended to be indignant, he had hated Thurston as he stood there...But had he? Half of him hated him.
Then with a jerk Thurston's words came back to him: "There's two of each of us, that's the truth of it." "Two of each of us..."Sitting there, listening to Mrs.Alweed's voice that flowed like a river behind him, he saw the two figures, saw them quite clearly and distinctly, flesh and blood, even clothes and voices and smile.And he knew that all his life these two figures had been growing, waiting for the moment when he would recognise them.One figure was the Martin whom he knew--brown, healthy, strong and sane; a figure wearing his clothes, his own clothes, the tweeds and the cloths, the brogues and the heavy boots, the soft untidy hats; the figure was hard, definite, resolute, quarrelling, arguing, loving, joking, swearing all in the sensible way.It was a figure that all the world had understood, that had been drunk often enough, lent other men money, been hard-up and extravagant and thoughtless."A good chap.""A sensible fellow." "A pal." "No flies on Warlock." That was the kind of figure.And the life had been physical, had never asked questions, had never known morbidity, had lived on what it saw and could touch and could break...And the other figure! That was, physically, less plainly seen.No, there it was, standing a little away from the other, standing away, contemptuously, despising it, deriding it.Fat, soft, white hanging cheeks, wearing anything to cover its body, but shining in some way through the clothes, so that it was body that you saw.A soft body, hands soft and the colour of the flesh pale and unhealthy.But it was the eyes that spoke: the mouth trembled and was weak, the chin was fat and feeble, but the eyes lived, lived--were eager, fighting, beseeching, longing, captive eyes!
And this figure, Martin knew, was a prey to every morbid desire, rushed to sensual excess and then crept back miserably to search for some spiritual flagellation.Above all, it was restless, as some one presses round a dark room searching for the lock of the door, restless and lonely, cowardly and selfish, but searching and sensitive and even faithful, faithful to something or to some one...pursued also by something or some one.A figure to whom this world offered only opportunities for sin and failure and defeat, but a figure to whom this world was the merest shadow hiding, as a shade hides a lamp, the life within.Wretched enough with its bad health, its growing corpulence, its weak mouth, its furtive desires, but despising, nevertheless, the strong, healthy figure beside it.Thurston was right.Men are not born to be free, but to fight, to the very death, for the imprisonment and destruction of all that is easiest and most physically active and most pleasant to the sight and touch...
"And so Hector really hopes that he'll be able to get down to us for Christmas, although he's been asked to go on this reading party.Of course, it's simply a question as to whether he works better at home or with his friends.If he were a weak character, I think Mr.Alweed would insist in his coming home, but Hector really cares for his work more than anything.He's never been very good at games; his short sight prevents him, poor boy, and as he very justly remarked, when he was home last holidays, 'I don't see, mother, how I am going to do my duty as a solicitor (that's what he hopes to be) if I don't work now.Many men regard Cambridge as a time for play.Not so I.'""But I hope that if Hector comes home this Christmas he'll attend the Chapel services.The influence your father might have on such a boy as Hector, Mr.Warlock, a boy, sensitive and thoughtful...Iwas saying, Miss Pyncheon, that Hector--"Miss Pyncheon was the soul of good-nature--but she was much more than that.She was by far the most sensible, genial, and worldly of the Inside Saints; it was, in fact, astonishing that she should be an Inside Saint at all.
Of them all she impressed Martin the most, because there was nothing of the crank about her.She went to theatres, to the seaside in the summer, took in The Queen, and was a subscriber to Boots'
