Anthony John/Chapter 11
IT came so suddenly that neither of them at first knew what had happened. A few meetings among the lonely by-ways of the moor that they had honestly persuaded themselves were by mere chance. A little walking side by side where the young leaves brushed their faces and the young ferns hid their feet. A little laughing, when the April showers would catch them lost in talk, and hand in hand they would race for the shelter of some over-hanging bank and crouch close pressed against each other among the twisted roots of the stunted firs. A little lingering on the homeward way, watching the horned moon climb up above the woods, while the song of some late lark filled all the world around them. Until one evening, having said good-bye though standing with their hands still clasped, she had raised her face to his and he had drawn her to him and their lips had met.
Neither had foreseen it nor intended it. It had been so spontaneous, so natural, that it seemed but the signing of a pact, the inevitable fulfilling of the law. Nothing had changed except that, now, they knew.
He turned his footsteps away from the town. A deep endless peace seemed to be around him. So this was what Edward had meant when he had written, so short a while before the end, that love was the great secret leading to God, that without it life was meaningless and void.
It was for this that he had waited, like some blind chrysalis not knowing of the day when it should be born into the sunlight.
He laughed, remembering what his dream had been: wealth, power, fame: the senseless dream of the miser starving beside his hoarded gold. These things he would strive for now with greater strength than ever—would win them, not for themselves, but for Love's sake, as service, as sacrifice.
He had no fear. Others had failed. It was not love, but passion that burns itself out. There was no alloy in his desire for her. She was beautiful he knew. But he was drawn by it as one is moved by the beauty of a summer's night, the tenderness of spring, the mystery of flowers. There was no part of her that whispered to him. The thought of her hands, her feet, the little dimple in her chin; it brought no stirring of his blood. It was she herself, with all about her that was imperceptible, unexplainable, that he yearned for; not to possess, but to worship, to abide with.
For a period he went about his work as in a dream, his brain guiding him as a man's brain guides him crossing the road while his mind is far away. The thought of her was all around him. It was for that brief evening hour when they would meet and look into one another's eyes that he lived.
As the days wore by there came to him the suggestion of difficulties, of obstacles. One by one he examined them and dismissed them. Would her people consent? If not, they must take the law into their own hands. About Eleanor herself he had no misgivings. He knew, without asking her, that she would brave all things. God had joined them together. No power of man should put them asunder.
Betty—a dim shadowy Betty like some thin wraith—moved beside him as he walked. He was not bound to her. Even if there had been a pledge between them he would have had to break it. If need be, if God willed it, and Eleanor were to die—for it seemed impossible that any lesser thing could part them—he could live his life alone; or rather with the memory of her that would give him strength and courage. But to marry any other woman was unthinkable. It would be a degradation to both.
Besides, Betty had never loved him. There had been no talk of love between them. It would have been a mere marriage of convenience, the very thing that Edward had foreseen and had warned him against. To live without love was to flout God. Love was God. He understood now. It was through love that God spoke to us, called to us. It was through the Beloved One that God manifested Himself to us. One built a tabernacle and abided with her. It was good to be there.
Would it interfere with his career? Old Mr. Mowbray had been reckoning on his marrying Betty. He might, to use a common expression, cut up rough. He would have to risk that. As things were now it would be difficult for the firm of Mowbray and Cousins to go on without him. But anger does not act reasonably. Mr. Mowbray, indignant, resentful, could do much to hamper him, delay him. But that would be the worst. He felt his own power. He had made others believe in him. They would have to wait a few years longer while he was recovering his lost ground. As to the ultimate result he had no doubt. The determination to win was stronger in him than ever before. Love would sharpen his wits, make clearer his vision. With Love one could compel Fate.
Betty and her father were abroad. They had gone to Italy for the winter, meaning to return about the end of March. But Mr. Mowbray had taken an illness which had altered their plans. Mrs. Strong'nth'arm had taken to indulge herself each day in a short evening walk. Anthony did not usually return home till between seven and eight; and as she explained to Mrs. Newt, she found this twilight time a little sad for sitting about and doing nothing. She always took the same direction. It led her through the open space surrounding the church of St. Aldys, where stood the great square house of Mowbray and Cousins. Glancing at it as she passed, she would notice that the door was closed, that no light shone from any of its windows. A little farther on she would pass The Priory, and glancing through the iron gates, would notice that, so far as the front of the house was concerned, it showed no sign of life. Then she would turn and walk back to Bruton Square, and putting off her outdoor things, watch by the window till Anthony came in; and they would sit down to supper and she would talk to him about the business of the day, his schemes and projects. She never tired of hearing about them.
One evening she had glanced as usual in passing at the office of Mowbray and Cousins. The house was dark and silent. But from the windows of The Priory lights were shining. Mrs. Strong'nth'arm looked about her with somewhat the air of a conspirator. The twilight was deepening into darkness and no one was about. She pushed open the iron gate and closed it softly behind her. She knocked at the door so gently that it was not till the third time that she was heard. The maidservant who answered it seemed flustered and bustled. Mr. and Miss Mowbray had only returned an hour ago. She did not think that either of them would see anybody. Mrs. Strong'nth'arm took from her pocket a soiled and crumpled envelope. She smoothed it out and begged the maid to take it at once to Miss Mowbray. The maid, reluctant and grumbling, took it and disappeared. She returned a minute later, and Mrs. Strong'nth'arm followed her upstairs to the small room over the hall that was Betty's sanctum. Betty was still in her travelling dress. She was tired, but made Mrs. Strong'nth'arm comfortable in an armchair beside the fire and closed the door.
"There's nothing wrong, is there?" she asked. "Anthony isn't ill?"
"He's quite all right," Mrs. Strong'nth'arm assured her. "How's your father?"
"Oh, not very well," answered Betty. "I've just sent him to bed," she laughed. "You're sure there's nothing wrong?" she asked again.
Mrs. Strong'nth'arm was sitting bolt upright on the edge of the chair, holding her hands out to the fire.
"Well, I shouldn't be here, an hour after your arrival, just for the sake of a gossip," she answered without looking up.
"That's just what I was thinking," said Betty.
"Perhaps I'd better get on to it," answered Mrs. Strong'nth'arm. "Then it will be the sooner over. I want to be back before he comes in, if I can."
Betty took a chair beside her, facing the fire.
"Don't be afraid," she said. "I've got an inkling of it."
The other looked at her in surprise.
"How could you?" she asked. "He's never said a word, even to me."
Betty smiled.
"Then how is it you know?" she answered. "Of course I knew they were back. He wrote and told me."
"Yes," said the other. "It's wonderful how love sharpens a woman's instincts." Suddenly she leant forward and gripped the girl's hand. "Don't let him," she said. "Stop him before it's too late." She felt the girl's hand tremble in hers. "I'm not thinking of you," she said. "Do it for his sake—save him."
"How can I?" the girl answered. "What would you have me do? Go down on my knees to him. Cry to him for pity?"
"Not pity," answered the other, "for common honesty. Put it to his honour. He thinks no end of that. That's his religion—the only religion he's got. He's yours, not hers. Hasn't he been dangling about after you for years? Doesn't he owe everything to you? His first start that gave him his chance! How can he get over that? Hasn't he compromised you? Doesn't everybody know of it and take it as a settled thing? What are you going to do if you let him throw you over now? If you let this brainless doll, just because of her white skin"
"Don't, don't," cried the girl. She had risen. "What's the good? Besides, what right have I?"
"What right?" answered the other. "You love him; that's what gives you the right. You were made for him, to be his helpmeet, as the Bible says. Do you think I don't know him? What could she do for him except waste his money on her luxuries and extravagancies? What does her class know about money but how to fling it about and then laugh at the man when it's all spent? What do they know of the aching and sweating that goes to the making of it? What will be his share of the bargain but to keep the whole pauper family of them in idle ease while he wears out his heart slaving for them, and they look down upon him and despise him. What right"
Her voice had risen to a scream. The girl held up a warning hand. She checked herself and went on in a low, swift tone.
"What right has she to come forcing her way at the last moment into other people's lives, spoiling them just for a passing whim? Love! That sort of love! We know how long that lasts and what comes afterwards. Only in this case it will be she that will first tire of him. His very faithfulness will bore her. He hasn't the monkey tricks that attract these women. Upstart! Charity boy! That's what she'll fling at him when some fawning popinjay has caught her fancy. I tell you I know her and her sort. I've lived among them. They don't act before their servants."
She came closer. "Get him away from her. It's only a boy's infatuation for something new and strange. Tell him how it will spoil his career. You've only got to speak to your father for all his plans to come tumbling to the ground. He'll listen to that. He hasn't lost all his senses—not yet. Besides, she wouldn't want him then. She isn't out to marry a struggling young solicitor without capital. You can take that from me." She laughed.
Betty looked at her. "You would have me injure him?" she said.
"Yes; to save him from her," answered the other, "she has changed him already. There are times when I don't seem to know him. She will ruin him if she has her way. Save him. You can."
The woman's vehemence had exhausted her. She dropped back into her chair.
"Listen," said the girl. "I do love your son. I love him so well that if he and this girl really loved one another and I was sure of it, I would do all I could to help him to marry her. It all depends upon that: if they really love one another."
The woman made to speak, but the girl silenced her with a gesture.
"Let me try and explain myself to you," she said, "because after tonight we must never talk about this thing again. I should have been very happy married to Anthony. I knew he did not love me. There is a saying that in most love affairs one loves and the other consents to be loved. That was all I asked of him. I did not think he was capable of love—not in the big sense of the word. I thought him too self-centred, too wrapped up in his ambition. I thought that I could make him happy and that he would never know, that he would come to look upon me as a helper and a comrade. That perhaps with children he would come to feel affection for me, to have a need of me. I could have been content with that."
She had been standing with her elbow resting on the mantelpiece, gazing into the fire. Now she straightened herself and looked the other in the eyes.
"But I am glad I was wrong," she went on. "I'd be glad to think that he could love—madly, foolishly, if you will—forgetting himself and his ambition, forgetting all things, feeling that nothing else mattered. Of course, if it could have been for me"—she gave a little smile—"that would have been heaven. But I would rather—honestly rather that he loved this girl than that he never loved any one—was incapable of love. It sounds odd, but I love him the better for it. He is greater than I thought him."
The other was staring at her. The girl moved over to her and laid a hand upon her shoulder.
"I know what you are thinking," she said. "It doesn't last. A few years at most and the glory has departed. I'm not so sure of that."
She had moved away. Mechanically she was arranging books and papers on her desk. "I was going over an old bureau in my mother's room a while ago," she said. "And in a little secret drawer I found a packet of letters written to her by my father. I suppose I ought not to have read them, but I don't regret it. I thought they were the letters he had written her in their courting days. They were quite beautiful letters. No one but a lover could have written them. But there were passages in them that puzzled me. There was a postscript to one, telling her of a new underclothing made from pine wood that the doctors were recommending for rheumatism, and asking her if she would like to try it. And in another there was talk about children. And then it occurred to me to look at the date marks on the outside of the envelopes. They were letters he had written her at intervals during the last few years of her life; and I remembered then how happy they had been together just before the end. Our lives are like gardens, I always think. Perhaps we can't help the weeds coming, but that doesn't make the flowers less beautiful."
She turned her face again to the woman.
"And even if so," she said, "even if sooner or later the glory does fade, at least we have seen it—have seen God's face.
"I remember a blind boy," she continued, "that dad took an interest in. He had been born blind. Nobody thought he could be cured except a famous oculist in Lausanne that dad wrote to about him. He thought there was just a chance. My mother and I were going to Switzerland for a holiday and we took him with us. He was a dear, merry little chap in spite of it. The specialist examined him and then shook his head. 'I can cure him,' he said, 'but it will come again very soon.' He thought it would be kinder to leave him to his blindness. But my mother urged him and he yielded.
"It was wonderful to look into his eyes when he could see. We had warned him that it might be only for a time, and he understood. One night I heard a sound in his room and went in. He had crept out of bed and was sitting on the dressing-table in front of the window with his hands clasped round his knees. 'I want to remember it,' he whispered.
"You may be right," she said. "It may bring him sorrow, this love. But, even so, I would not save him from it if I could."
She knelt and took the older woman's hands in hers.
"We must not stand in his way, you and I," she said. "If it were only his happiness and prosperity we had to think of we might be justified. But it might be his soul we were hurting."
The woman had grown calm. "And you," she asked, "what will you do?"
Betty smiled. "Oh, nothing very heroic!" she answered. "I shall have dad to look after for years to come. We shall travel. I'm fond of travelling. And afterwards—oh! there are heaps of things I want to do that will interest me and keep me busy."
The woman glanced at the clock. The time had slipped by; it was nearly eight. "He'll guess where I've been," she said.
"What will you tell him?" the girl asked.
"Seems to me," answered the woman, "I may as well tell him the truth: that I've had a bit of a clack with you. That you will do all you can to help him. That's right, isn't it?"
The girl nodded.
The woman took the girl's face in her two hands.
"Not sure you're not getting the best of it," she said. "I often used to lie awake beside my man, and wish I could always think of him as he was when I first met him: brave and handsome, with his loving ways and his kind heart. I saw him again when he lay dead, and all my love came back to me. A girl thinks, when she marries, that she's won a lover. More often she finds that she's lost him. It seems to me sometimes that it's only dreams that last.
"Don't bother to come down," she said. "I'll let myself out."
She closed the door softly behind her. The girl was still kneeling.