Artists -- Fiction; England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; London (England) -- Fiction
He lounged round the room, and pulled his beard and yawned as he
looked out of the window; pulling himself together afterwards by
stretching out his hands and arms, and shrugging his shoulders and
shaking himself, as if endeavouring to shake off depression. He _was_
depressed; there was no doubt about it. Out there it was well enough.
He had been out there just long enough to have begun to settle down
into his new life, to have forgotten old ties and old feelings; but
here every thing jarred upon him. He was back in England certainly, but
back in England in a condition which he had never known before. In the
old days, at this time of year, he would have been staying down at some
country-house, or away in some fellow's yacht, enjoying himself to the
utmost; thoroughly appreciated and highly thought of,--a king among
men and a favourite among women. Now he was cooped up in this deserted
beastly place, which every one decent had fled from, not daring even
to go out and see whether some old comrade, haply retained in town by
duty, were not to be picked up, from whom he could learn the news, with
whom he might have a game of billiards, or something to get through the
infernally dragging wearisome time. He expected his mother. She was
his truest and stanchest friend, after all, and had behaved splendidly
to him all through this terrible business. It was better that she
should come down there, and let him know exactly how the land lay. He
would have gone home, but he did not know what sort of a reception
he might have met with from the governor; and from all he could make
out from his mother's letters, it was very likely that Caterham might
cut up rough, and say or do something confoundedly unpleasant. It
was an infernal shame of Caterham, and just like his straightlaced
nonsense--that it was. Was not he the eldest son, and what did he want
more? It was all deuced well for him to preach and moralise, and all
that sort of thing; but his position had kept him out of temptation,
else he might not be any better than other poor beggars, who had fallen
through and come to grief.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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