the captives-第18部分

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ttle　flock　on　to　the　wide　spaces　of　Salisbury　Plain。　James　Warlock；　unlike　his　father　and　grandfather；　was　a　little　sickly　man　with　a　narrow　chest；　no　limbs　to　speak　of　and　a　sharp　pale　face。　Martin　had　a　faded　daguerreotype　of　him　set　against　the　background　of　the　old　Wiltshire　kitchen；　his　black　clothes　hung　upon　him　like　a　disguise；　his　eyes　burning　even　upon　that　faded　picture　with　the　fire　of　his　spirit。　For　James　Warlock　was　a　mystic；　a　visionary；　a　prophet。　He　walked　and　talked　with　God；　in　no　jesting　spirit　it　was　said　that　he　knew　God's　plans　and　could　turn　the　world　into　a　blazing　coal　so　soon　as　he　pleased。　It　was　because　he　knew　with　certainty　that　God　would；　in　person；　soon；　descend　upon　the　earth　that　he　separated　from　the　main　body　and　led　his　little　band　down　into　Wiltshire。　Here　on　the　broad　gleaming　Plain　they　prepared　for　God's　coming。　Named　now　the　Kingscote　Brethren　after　their　new　abode；　they　built　a　Chapel；　sat　down　and　waited。　Then　in　1840　the　prophet　declared　that　the　Coming　was　not　yet；　that　it　would　be　in　the　next　generation；　but　that　their　preparations　must　not　be　relaxed。　He　himself　prepared　by　taking　to　himself　a　wife；　a　calm　untroubled　countrywoman　of　the　place；　that　she　might　give　him　a　son　whom　he　might　prepare；　in　due　course；　for　his　great　destiny。　John；　father　of　Martin；　was　born；　a　large…limbed；　smiling　infant；　with　the　tranquillity　of　his　mother　as　well　as　something　of　the　mysticism　of　his　father。

Upon　him；　as　upon　his　ancestors；　this　consciousness　of　God　had　most　absolutely　descended。　Never　for　a　moment　did　he　question　the　facts　that　his　father　told　to　him。　He　grew　into　a　giant　of　health　and　strength；　and　those　who；　in　those　old　days；　saw　them　tell　that　it　was　a　strange　picture　to　watch　the　little　wizened　man；　walking　with　odd　emotional　gestures；　with　little　hops　and　leaps　and　swinging　of　the　arms　beside　the　firm　long　stride　of　the　young　man　towering　above　him。

When　young　John　was　twenty…three　years　of　age　his　father　was　found　dead　under　a　tree　upon　a　summer's　evening。　His　expression　was　of　a　man　challenging　some　new　and　startling　discovery；　he　had　found　perhaps　new　visions　to　confront　his　gaze。　They　buried　him　in　Kingscote　and　his　son　reigned　in　his　stead。

But　they　were　approaching　new　and　modern　times。　These　old　days；　of　simple　faith　and　superstition　were　passing　never　to　return。　There　were　new　elements　in　the　Kingscote　company　of　souls　and　these　elements　demanded　freer　play　both　of　thought　and　action。　They　argued　that；　as　to　them　alone　out　of　all　the　world　the　time　and　manner　of　God's　coming　was　known；　they　should　influence　with　their　activities　some　wider　sphere　than　this　Wiltshire　village。

John　Warlock　clung　with　all　his　strength　to　the　old　world　that　he　knew；　the　world　that　gave　him　leisure　and　quiet　for　contemplation。　He　had　no　wish　to　bring　in　converts；　to　stir　England　into　a　frenzy　of　terror　and　anticipation。　God　gave　him　no　command　to　spread　his　beliefs；　even　his　father；　fanatic　though　he　had　been；　had　cherished　his　own　small　company　of　saints　as　souls　to　whom　these　things；　hidden　deliberately　from　the　outside　world；　had　especially　been　entrusted。

So　long　as　he　could　he　resisted；　then　when　he　was　about　forty；　somewhere　around　1880；　the　Kingscote　Brethren　moved　to　London。　In　this　year；　1907；　John　Warlock　was　sixty…seven　and　the　Kingscote　Brethren　had　had　their　Chapel　in　Solomon's　Place；　behind　Garrick　Street；　for　twenty…seven　years。　In　1880　John　Warlock　had　married　Amelia；　daughter　of　Francis　Stephens；　merchant。　In　1881　a　daughter；　Amy；　was　born　to　them；　in　1883；　Martin；　they　had　no　other　children。　Martin　was　at　the　time　of　Maggie's　arrival　in　London　twenty…four　years　of　age。

Upon　a　certain　fine　evening；　a　fortnight　after　Martin　Warlock's　first　meeting　with　Maggie；　he　arrived　at　the　door　of　his　house　in　Garrick　Street；　and　having　forgotten　his　latch…key；　was　compelled　to　ring　the　old　screaming　bell　that　had　long　survived　its　respectable　reputable　days。　The　Warlocks　had　lived　during　the　last　ten　years　in　an　upper　part　above　a　curiosity　shop　four　doors　from　the　Garrick　Club　in　Garrick　Street。　There　was　a　house…door　that　abutted　on　to　the　shop…door　and；　passing　through　it；　you　stumbled　along　a　little　dark　passage　like　a　rabbit　warren；　up　some　crooked　stairs；　and　found　yourself　in　the　Warlock　country　without　ever　troubling　Mr。　Spencer；　the　stout；　hearty；　but　inartistic　owner　of　the　curiosity　shop。

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…traphad　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　Martinnone　of　these　noticed　himbut　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　wayhis　deep　and　permanent　relations　had　been　with　his　fatherbut　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　m