Anthony John/Chapter 7
IT was the evening previous to young Mowbray's departure for Oxford. Betty was going with him to help him furnish his rooms. They would have a few days together before term began, and she wanted to see Oxford. Anthony had come to say good-bye. Mr. Mowbray was at a dinner given by the mayor, and the three young people had been left to themselves. Betty had gone into the servants' quarters to give some orders. The old housekeeper had died the year before and Betty had taken over the entire charge. They were sitting in the library. The great drawing-room was used only when there was company.
"Look in now and again when I am away," said Edward. "Betty hasn't many friends and she likes talking to you."
"And I like talking to her tremendously," answered Anthony. "But, I say, will it be proper?"
"Oh, what rot," answered Edward. "You're not that sort, either of you. Besides, things are different to what they used to be. Why shouldn't there be just friendship between men and women?"
Betty entered as he finished speaking, and the case was put to her.
"Yes, I shall be sorry to miss our talks," she said. She turned to Anthony with a smile. "How old are you?" she asked.
"Sixteen," he answered.
She was surprised. "I thought you were older," she said.
"Sixteen last birthday," he persisted. "People have always taken me for older than I am. Mother used to have terrible fights with the tram conductors; they would have I was nearer five than three. She thought quite seriously of sewing a copy of my birth certificate inside my cap." He laughed.
"You're only a boy," said Betty. "I'm nearly nineteen. Yes, come and see me sometimes."
Edward expected to be at Oxford three years. After that he would return to Millsborough and enter his father's office. Mowbray and Cousins was the name of the firm, but Cousins had long passed out of it, and eventually the whole business would belong to Edward.
"Why don't you go in for the Remingham Scholarship?" he said suddenly, turning to Anthony, "and join me next year at Oxford. You could win it hands down; and as for funds to help you out, my father would see to that, I know, if I asked him. He thinks tremendously well of you. Do, for my sake."
Anthony shook his head. "I have thought about it," he said. "I'm afraid."
Edward stared at him. "What on earth is there to be afraid of?" he demanded.
"I'm afraid of myself," answered Anthony. "Nobody thinks it of me, I know; but I'd end by being a dreamer if I let myself go. My father had it in him. That's why he never got on. If I went to Oxford and got wandering about all those old colleges and gardens I wouldn't be able to help myself. I'd end by being a mere student. I've had to fight against it even here, as it is."
Edward and Betty were both listening to him, suddenly interested. The girl was leaning forward with her chin upon her hand. Anthony rose and walked to the window. The curtains had not been drawn. He looked down upon the glare of Millsborough fading into darkness where the mean streets mingled with the sodden fields.
"You don't understand what it means," he said. "Poverty, fear—all your life one long struggle for bare existence."
He turned and faced the softly-lighted room with its carved ceiling and fine Adams mantelpiece, its Chippendale furniture, its choice pictures and old Persian rugs.
"Everything about you mean and ugly," he continued. "Everybody looking down upon you, patronizing you. I want to get out of it. Learning isn't going to help me. At best, what would I be without money or influence to start me? A schoolmaster—a curate, perhaps, on eighty pounds a year. Business is my only chance. I'm good at that. I feel I could be. Planning, organizing, getting people to see things your way, making them do things. It's just like fighting, only you use your brains instead of your hands. I'm always thinking about things that could be done that would be good for every one. I mean to do them one day. My father used to invent machines and other people stole them from him, and kept all the profit for themselves. They're not going to do that with me. They shall have their share, but I" He stopped and flushed scarlet.
"I'm awfully sorry," he said. "I've got into a way of talking to myself. I forgot I was here."
Betty had risen. "I think you are quite right," she said. "And when you've got on you'll think of those who live always in poverty and fear. You'll know all about them and the way to help them. You will help them, won't you?"
She spoke gravely. She might have been presenting a petition to the Prime Minister.
"Of course I will," he said. "I mean to."
She rang the bell and ordered coffee and cakes.
While they were munching she sprung it upon them that she was going to buy a bicycle. A new design had just been invented with two low wheels of equal size. It could be made so that a lady could ride it.
Edward was just a little shocked. Betty had the reputation as it was of being a bit eccentric. She went long walks by herself in thick boots and rarely wore gloves. This would make her still more talked about. Betty thought she would be doing good. As the daughter of one of the leading men in Millsborough she could afford to defy the conventions and open the way for others. Girls employed in the mills, who now only saw their people twice a year, would be able to run home for weekends, would be able to enjoy rides into the country on half-holidays. Revolutions always came from the top. The girls would call after her at first, she fully expected. Later they would be heartened to follow her example.
Her difficulty was learning. She proposed to go up to the moors early in the morning where she could struggle with the thing unseen. But at first one wanted assistance and support. There was the gardener's boy. But she feared he was weak about the knees.
"I wish you'd let me come," said Anthony. "I like a walk in the early morning. It freshens my brain for the day."
"Thank you," she answered. "I was really thinking of you, but I didn't like to ask in case it might interfere with your work."
She promised to let him know when the bicycle arrived. He might like to come round and have a look at it.
It was with something of a pang that he said good-bye to Edward, though it would be less than three months before they would meet again. He had not made many friends at the school; he was too self-centered. Young Mowbray was the only boy for whom he felt any real affection.
Tetteridge's "Preparatory and Commercial School" had prospered beyond expectation. In the language of the advertisement it supplied a long-felt want. "The gentry" of Millsborough—to be exact, its better-off shopkeepers, its higher-salaried clerks and minor professionals—were catered for to excess. But among its skilled workmen and mechanics, earning good wages, were many ambitious for their children. Education was in the air; feared by most of the upper classes as likely to be the beginning of red ruin and the breaking up of laws; regarded by the more thoughtful of the workers, with extravagant hopes, as being the sure road to the Promised Land. Tetteridge had a natural genius for teaching; he had a way of making the work interesting. The boys liked him and talked about him and the things he told them. It became clear that the house in Bridlington Street would soon be too small for his needs.
"It sounds nonsensical, I know," said Mr. Tetteridge; "but there are times when I wish that I hadn't been so sensible."
"What have you been doing sensible?" laughed Anthony.
"When I followed your most excellent and youthful advice, Tony, and started this confounded school," explained Mr. Tetteridge.
"What's wrong with it?" asked Anthony.
"Success," replied Mr. Tetteridge. "It's going to grow. I shall end in a big square house with boarders and assistant masters and prayers at eight o'clock. I shall dress in a black frock-coat and wear a chimney-pot hat. I shall have to. The parents will expect it."
"There'll be holidays," suggested Anthony, "when you'll be able to go walking tours in knickerbockers and a tweed cap."
"No, I sha'n't," said Mr. Tetteridge. "I shall be a married man. There'll be children, most likely. We shall go for a month to the seaside and listen to niggers. The children will clamour for it. I shall never escape from children all my life, and I'll never get away from Millsborough. I shall die here, an honoured and respected citizen of Millsborough. Do you know what my plan was? I'd worked it all out? Wandering about the world like Oliver Goldsmith, with my fiddle. Earning my living while I tramped, sleeping under the stars or in some village inn, listening to the talk and stories; making sketches of odd characters, quaint scenes and places; sitting by the wayside making poetry. Do you know, Tony, I believe I could have been a poet—could have left a name behind me."
"You'll have your evenings," argued Anthony. "They'll all go at four o'clock. You can write your poetry between tea and supper."
"'To Irene of the Ringlets,'" suggested Tetteridge. "'God and the Grasshopper,' 'Ode to Idleness.' What do you think the parents would say? Besides, they don't come between tea and supper. They come in the mental arithmetic hour. I kick 'em out and slam the door. They never come again."
Anthony's face expressed trouble. Something within him enabled him to understand. Tetteridge laughed.
"It's all right," he said. He took the photograph of the science master's daughter from the mantelpiece and kissed it. "I'm going to marry the dearest little girl in all the world, and we're going to get on and be very happy. Who knows? Perhaps we may keep our carriage."
He replaced the latest photograph of Miss Seaton on the mantelpiece. She wasn't as dolly-faced as she had been. The mouth had grown firmer, and the look of wonder in the eyes had gone. She suggested rather a capable young woman.
He had left to Anthony the search for new premises. Anthony was still undecided when something unexpected happened. The younger Miss Warmington, after a brief illness, died. Mrs. Plumberry had nursed her, and at Anthony's request consented to call at 15 Bruton Square and find out how the land lay. It would be the very thing. It had two large class-rooms built out into the garden. Mrs. Plumberry was a born diplomatist. She reported that Miss Warmington, now absolutely alone in the world, had cried a little on Mrs. Plumberry's motherly shoulder; had confided to Mrs. Plumberry that the school had been going down for some time past; that she had neither the heart nor the means to continue it. Mrs. Plumberry's advice to her had been that she should get rid of the remainder of her lease, if possible, and thus avoid liability regarding covenants for reparation. Miss Warmington had expressed the thankfulness with which she would do this, that is if a purchaser could be found; and Mrs. Plumberry, though not holding out much hope, had promised to look about her.
Thus it came to pass that once again Mrs. Strong'nth'arm and Anthony were ushered into the drawing-room of 15 Bruton Square and rested on its horse-hair-covered chairs. But this time Mrs. Strong'nth'arm sat well back; and it was Miss Warmington who, on entering, held out her hand. Mrs. Strong'nth'arm, imagining beforehand, had intended not to see, but second nature again was too strong. Miss Warmington, though old and feeble, was still impressive, and Mrs. Strong'nth'arm curtsied and apologized for intrusion.
Miss Warmington smiled as she shook hands with Anthony.
"You were a little boy when I saw you last," she said, "and you sat with your leg tucked under you."
"And he wouldn't come to your school when you asked him to," interposed Mrs. Strong'nth'arm. She had made up her mind to get that out.
Miss Warmington flushed. "I think he was very wise," she said. "I hear quite wonderful accounts of him." Anthony had closed the door and placed a chair for her. "And I see he has learned manners," she added with another smile.
Anthony laughed. "I was very rude," he admitted, "and you are a very kind lady to forgive me."
The business, so far as Miss Warmington was concerned, was soon finished. She wondered afterwards why she had accepted Anthony's offer without even putting up a fight. It was considerably less than the sum she had determined to stand out for. But on all points, save the main issue, he had yielded to her; and it had seemed to her at the time that she was getting her own way. They had kept up the fiction of the business being between Mrs. Strong'nth'arm and Miss Warmington, Anthony explaining always that it was his mother who was prepared to do so and so—his mother, alas! who was unable to do the other, Mrs. Strong'nth'arm confirming with a nod or a murmur.
Over a friendly cup of tea letters were exchanged then and there, thus enabling Mrs. Strong'nth'arm to dismiss all thought of other houses that had been offered her. Mrs. Strong'nth'arm undertook to pay Miss Warmington three hundred pounds and to take over Miss Warmington's lease with all its covenants, together with all fixtures and such furniture as Miss Warmington would not require for her own small needs.
"And where the money's to come from I suppose you know," commented Mrs. Strong'nth'arm, as the door of 15 Bruton Square closed behind them. "Blessed if I do!"
Anthony laughed. "That'll be all right, mother," he said. "Don't you worry."
"To hear him!" murmured his mother, addressing the darkening sky above her. "Talking about three hundred pounds to be paid next Tuesday week and laughing about it! Ah! if your poor father had only had your head."
He explained to his aunt that this time there would be good security and that in consequence she was going to get only five per cent. She tried to make him say seven, more from general principle than with any hope of success. But he only laughed. By degrees he had constituted himself her man of business; and under his guidance her savings had rapidly increased. To Mrs. Newt a successful speculation proved that God was behind you. She had come to regard her nephew with reverence, as being evidently in the Lord's counsels.
He had a further proposition to put before her. The dogs had long ago been sold, and the old railway carriage had fallen into ruin. The tumble-down cottage, in which his aunt now lived alone, was threatening to follow its example; but the land on which it stood had grown in value. The price he felt sure he could get for it made her open her eyes. The cottage disposed of, she could come and live with them at Bruton Square, paying, of course, for her board and lodging. The sum he suggested per week made her open her eyes still wider. But he promised she should be comfortable and well looked after. Again she made a feeble effort to touch his heart, but he only kissed her and told her that he would see to everything and that she wasn't to worry. Forty years—all but—she had dwelt in Prospect Cottage, Moor End Lane. She had been married from the Jolly Cricketers, and after a day's honeymoon by the sea Joe had brought her there and never a night since then had she slept away from it. There had been fields about it in those days. She dratted the boy more than once or twice as she poked about the tiny rooms, selecting the few articles she intended to keep. But she was ready on the appointed day. She had purchased gloves and a new bonnet. One must needs be dressy for Bruton Square.
Anthony had two rooms at the top of the house, one for his bedroom and the other for his study. He had always been fond of reading. His favourite books were histories and memoirs. Emerson and Montaigne he had chosen for himself as prizes. His fiction was confined to "Gulliver's Travels." There were also Smiles' "Self-Help," "From Log-Cabin to White House," Franklin's "Autobiography," and the "Life of Abraham Lincoln."
His mother had given up the dressmaking business. Young Tetteridge had brought home his bride, and keeping house for five people, even with help, took up all her time. Often of an evening she would bring her sewing and sit with Anthony while he worked.
It was towards the end of the Michaelmas term; Anthony was in the lower sixth. He had determined to leave at Christmas. The upper sixth spent all its time on the classics which would be useless to him.
"What do you think of doing when you do leave?" asked his mother. "Have you made up your mind?"
"Go into old Mowbray's office if he'll have me," answered Anthony.
"Edward will put in a word for you there, won't he?" suggested his mother.
"Yes. I'm reckoning on that," he answered.
Anthony turned again to his book, but his mother's needle lay idle.
"The girl's friendly too, isn't she?" she asked. "They say she can't express a wish that he doesn't grant her."
Anthony did not answer. He seemed not to have heard. His mother's thimble rolled to the floor. Anthony recovered it and gave it to her.
"What's she like?" his mother asked him.
"Oh, all right," he answered, "a nice enough girl."
"She's older than you, isn't she?" said his mother.
"Yes; I think she is," said Anthony. "Not much."
"Tom Cripps was up on the moor the other morning." His mother had resumed her sewing. "Poaching, I expect. He saw you both there. He's a rare one to gossip. Will it matter?"
Anthony laid down his book. "Was father in love with you when he married you?" he asked.
His mother looked up astonished. "What an odd question to ask," she said. "Of course he was. Madly in love. Some said I was the prettiest girl in Millsborough—not counting, of course, the gentry. What makes you ask?"
Instead of answering he asked her another.
"What do you mean by madly in love?"
His mother was smiling to herself. The little grey head was at a higher angle than usual.
"Oh, you know," she said. "Walked six miles there and back every evening just to get five minutes' talk with me. Said he'd drown himself if I didn't marry him. And was that jealous—why, I daren't so much as speak to anything else in trousers. Wrote poetry to me. Only silly like, one day when I was mad with him, I burnt it."
He did not answer. She stole a glance at him. And suddenly it came to her what was in his mind.
"It never lasts," she said. "I've often thought as folks would be better without it." She chatted on, keeping a corner of her eye upon him. "Young Tetteridge was in love up to his ears when he first came to us. That marriage isn't going to turn out trumps. So was Ted Mowbray—the old man, I mean Worshipped the very ground she trod on. Everybody talked about it. Didn't prevent his gallivanting off wherever his fancy took him before they'd been married three years. Guess she wished he'd been less hot at first. Might have kept warm a little longer." She laughed. "Some one you like and feel you can get on with, and that you know is fond of you; that's the thing that wears and makes for the most happiness. And if she's got a bit of money or can help you in other ways—well, there ain't no harm in that." She stopped to thread a needle. "Ain't ever had a fancy, have you?" she asked.
"No," he answered. "That's what's troubling me. I suppose I'm too young."
His mother shook her head. "You're too level-headed, lad," she said. "You'll never make a fool of yourself; for that's what it means, generally speaking. You'll marry with your eyes open; and she'll be a lucky woman, because you ain't the sort to blow hot and cold and repent of a thing after you've done it. That's what breaks a woman's heart."
She gathered together her work and rose.
"Don't get sitting up too late," she said. "Don't do to burn the candle at both ends."
She was bending down over him. She paused a moment with his head between her hands.
"I suppose you know how handsome you are," she said.
She kissed him and went out.