He had a sudden
glimpse of understanding, strange indeed in one who had so little power
of seeing into others' hearts: Ought she ever to have been born into
a world like this? But the flash of insight yielded quickly to that
sickening consciousness of his own position, which never left him now.
Whatever else he did, he must get rid of that malaise! But what could he
do in that coming life? Write books? What sort of books could he write?
Only such as expressed his views of citizenship, his political and
social beliefs. As well remain sitting and speaking beneath those
towers! He could never join the happy band of artists, those soft and
indeterminate spirits, for whom barriers had no meaning, content-to
understand, interpret, and create. What should he be doing in that
galley? The thought was inconceivable. A career at the Bar--yes, he
might take that up; but to what end? To become a judge! As well continue
to sit beneath those towers! Too late for diplomacy. Too late for the
Army; besides, he had not the faintest taste for military glory. Bury
himself in the country like Uncle Dennis, and administer one of his
father's estates? It would be death. Go amongst the poor? For a moment
he thought he had found a new vocation. But in what capacity--to order
their lives, when he himself could not order his own; or, as a mere
conduit pipe for money, when he believed that charity was rotting the
nation to its core? At the head of every avenue stood an angel or devil
with drawn sword.
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