Nevertheless he did seriously determine to turn over a new leaf at the
very next occasion. His eyes were now following the obituary of Parnell
mechanically, without transmitting any message that his preoccupied
brain would seize. He had been astonished to find that Parnell was only
forty-five. He thought: "Why, at my age Parnell was famous--a great man
and a power!" And there was he, Edwin, eating bacon and eggs opposite
his sister in the humdrum dining-room at Bleakridge. But after all,
what was the matter with the dining-room? It was not the dining-room
that his father had left. He had altered and improved it to suit his
own taste. He was free to do so, and he had done so. He was free in
every way. The division of his father's estate according to the will
had proved unjust to himself; but he had not cared in the least. He had
let Albert do as Albert and Clara pleased. In the settlement Maggie had
taken the house (at a figure too high), and he paid her an adequate rent
for it, while she in turn paid him for her board and lodging. They were
all in clover, thanks to the terrible lifelong obstinacy of the little
boy from the Bastille. And Edwin had had the business unburdened. It
was not growing, but it brought in more than twice as much as he spent.
Soon he would be as rich as either of the girls, and that without undue
servitude. He bought books surpassing those books of Tom Orgreave which
had once seemed so hopelessly beyond his reach. He went to the theatre.
He went to concerts. He took holidays. He had been to London, and
more than once. He had a few good friends. He was his own master.
Nobody dreamed of saying him nay, and no bad habits held him in
subjection. Everywhere he was treated with quite notable respect. Even
when, partly from negligence, and partly to hide recurring pimples, he
had allowed his beard to grow, Clara herself had not dared to titter.
And although he suffered from certain disorders of the blood due to lack
of exercise and to his condition, his health could not be called bad.
The frequency of his colds had somewhat diminished. His career, which
to others probably seemed dull and monotonous, presented itself to him
as almost miraculously romantic in its development.
And withal he could uneasily ask himself, "Am I happy?" Maggie did not
guess that, as he bent unseeing over his precious "Manchester Guardian,"
he was thinking: "I must hold an inquisition upon my whole way of
existence. I must see where I stand. If ever I am to be alive, I ought
to be alive now. And I'm not at all sure whether I am." Maggie never
put such questions to herself. She went on in placidness from hour to
hour, ruffled occasionally.
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