§ 19
He had failed again. As he walked through the thick yellow light of the Hunter’s Moon to Leasan, he saw himself as a curiously feeble and ineffective thing. It was not only that he had failed to persuade his brother by convincing arguments, or that he had failed once more to inspire his father with any sort of respect for his office, but he had somehow failed in regard to his own soul, and all his other failures were merely branches of that most bitter root.
He had been unable to convince Gervase because he was not convinced himself—he had been unable to inspire his father because he was not inspired himself. All his life he had stood for moderation, toleration, broad-mindedness ... and here he was, so moderate that no one would believe him, so tolerant that no one would respect him, so broad-minded that the water of life lay as it were stagnant in a wide and shallow pond instead of rushing powerfully between the rocky, narrow banks of a single heart....
He found Rose waiting for him in the hall.
“How late you are! I’ve shut up. They must have kept you an awful time.”
“I’ve been rather slow coming home.”
“Tired?”
“I am a bit.”
“How did you get on? I expect Gervase was cheeky.”
“Only a little.”
“Have you talked him round?”
“I can’t say that I have. And I don’t know that I want to.”
“George!”
Rose had put out the hall lamp, and her voice sounded hoarse and ghostly in the darkness.
“Well, the boy’s got some sort of religion at last after being a heathen for years.”
“I’m not sure that he wouldn’t be better as a heathen than believing the silly, extravagant things he does. I don’t suppose for a minute it’s gone really deep.”
“Why not?”
“The sort of thing couldn’t. What he wants is a sober, sensible, practical religion——”
“Soup?”
“George!”
“Well, that’s what Mary called it. And when I see that the boy has found adventure, discipline and joy in faith, am I to take it away and offer him soup?”
“George, I’m really shocked to hear you talk like that. Please turn down the landing light—I can’t reach it.”
“Religion is romance,” said George’s voice in the thick darkness of the house—“and I’ve been twelve years trying to turn it into soup....”
