Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (202 page)

“I’m glad you’re with the Guv’nor,” he said.

It was a day or two before his return to Oxford. He had come to the office with messages from his father, who was in bed with a headache. “I should have suggested it myself if I’d known you were looking at it that way. And Betty’s pleased,” he added. “She thinks it is good for the dad; that you will steady him.” He laughed. “And now that you have begun I want you to peg away and take out your articles. I’ll write out all you’ve got to do and leave it with Betty if I don’t see you again. And if there are any books you want that you can’t find in the office, let me know, and I’ll send them to you.”

“Right you are,” said Anthony. “I’ll go ahead. The only thing that worries me is that you’re all of you making it so easy for me. It’s spoiling my character.” He looked up with a smile. Edward was sitting on a corner of his father’s desk swinging his legs. “You’ve been a ripping friend to me ever since you first spoke to me in Bull Lane, the day I fought young Penlove.” He spoke with an emotion unusual to him.

Edward flushed. “There are only two people I really care for,” he said, “you and Betty. But it isn’t only of you I’m thinking. If I come into the business it’ll be jolly our being together. And if not—” He paused.

“What do you mean?” asked Anthony. “You’re not thinking of chucking it? Your father’s reckoning on you. That’s why he’s never taken a partner; he told me so.”

“Of course I shall come into it,” Edward answered, “bar accidents.”

He was looking out of the window. Anthony followed his gaze, but the cold grey square was empty save for a couple of cabs that stood there on the rank.

“But what could happen?” persisted Anthony. “Oh, nothing,” Edward answered. “It’s only another way of saying ‘
Deo volente.’
It used to be added to all public proclamations once upon a time. We’re not as pious as we were.” He took up his hat and stick and held out his hand. “Don’t forget about the books,” he said. “They’re expensive to buy, and I’ve done with most of them.” Anthony thanked him and they shook hands. They never met again.

CHAPTER IX

IT was just before Easter that Edward wrote his father and Betty that he had developed diabetes and was going for a few weeks to a nursing home at Malvern. The doctor hoped that with care he would soon be much better. In any case he should return to Oxford some time during the summer term. He expected to be done with it by Christmas.

To Anthony he wrote a different letter. The doctor had, of course, talked cheerfully; it was the business of a doctor to hold out hope; but he had the feeling himself that his chance was a poor one. He should return to Oxford, if the doctor did not absolutely forbid it, for Betty’s sake. He did not want to alarm her. And, of course, he might pull through. If not, his idea was that Anthony should push on with his studies at high speed and become as soon as possible a junior partner in the firm. It was evident from his letter that he and Betty were in agreement on this matter and that she was preparing the way with her father. Mr. Mowbray’s appetite for old port was increasing. He was paying less and less attention to the business. It would soon need someone to pull it together again.

“Betty likes you, I know,” he wrote, “and thinks no end of you. I used to dream of you and she marrying; and when the doctor told me, my first idea was to write to you both and urge it; it seemed to me you were so fitted for one another. But then it came to me that we are strangers to one another, even to our nearest and dearest; we do not know what is in one another’s hearts. I feared you might think it your duty and might do it out of mere gratitude or even from some lesser motive. I know that in any case you would be true and good and kind; and a little while ago I should have deemed that sufficient. But now I am not sure. It may be that love is the only thing of importance, and that to think we can do without it is to imagine that we can do without God. You will be surprised at my writing in this strain, but ever since I began to think I seem to have been trying to discover a meaning in life; and it seems to me that without God it is all meaningless and stupid. But by feeling that we are part of God and knowing we shall always be with Him, working for Him, that then it all becomes interesting and quite exciting. And the thing we’ve got to keep on learning is to love, because that is the great secret. Forgive me for being prosy, but I have nothing else to do just now but walk about the hills and think. If you and Betty should get to care for one another, and I should come to hear of it, I shall be tremendously delighted. But in any case I know you will take my place and look after her. People think her the embodiment of capability and common sense. And so she is where others are concerned. But when it comes to managing for herself she’s a duffer.”

He added that he would write again and keep Anthony informed, so that before the end they could have some talk together.

Anthony read the letter again. His friendship with Edward meant more to him than he had thought. It was as if a part of himself were being torn away from him, and the pain that he felt surprised him. Evidently he was less self-centred, less independent of others than he had deemed himself. Outwardly his life would go on as before. He would scheme, manœuvre, fight and conquer. But there was that other Anthony, known only to himself, of whom even he himself had been aware only dimly and at intervals: Anthony the dreamer. It seemed that he too had been growing up, that he too had hopes, desires. He it was who had lost his friend and would not be comforted. And almost it seemed as if from his sorrow he had gained strength. For as time went by this Anthony, the dreamer, came more often, even interfering sometimes with business.

He would have liked to have gone over to Malvern and have seen Edward. Betty was there. But he was wanted in the office. So often Mr. Mowbray had one of his headaches and did not care to leave the house, and then it was always Anthony he would send for, and they would work in the library. And of late he had taken to absenting himself for days at a time, being called away, as he would explain, upon private affairs. And to Anthony alone he would confide his address, in case it was “absolutely necessary” for him to be recalled. Anthony had his suspicions where these journeys ended. He was worried. Betty had returned from Malvern, Edward having assured her that he was much better. Anthony, looking at the matter from all sides, came to the conclusion that he ought to tell her. It was bound to come out sooner or later.

Betty was not surprised.

“It’s what I’ve been fearing,” she said. “It was Ted that kept him straight. He’s always been a good father to both of us. He wanted Ted to succeed to a sound business; but now this blow has come he doesn’t seem to care.”

“But Ted is going to succeed to it,” replied Anthony without looking up.

“I wish you could persuade him of that,” she said. “I’ve tried; but I only make him excited.

He says it’s God’s punishment on him for his sins and apparently argues from that that he may just as well go on sinning. If Ted could get well enough to come home, if only for a few days, it might make all the difference.”

“Don’t you think he could?” suggested Anthony.

“Not to Millsborough,” she answered. She glanced out of the window at the everlasting smoke that was rolling slowly down the valley towards the sea. “I wanted dad to take The Abbey — Sir William Coomber’s old place up on the moor — it is still to let. But this woman seems to have got firmly hold of him at last. My fear is that she’ll marry him. Poor dad! He’s such a kid.”

“Has he known her long?” asked Anthony.

“She was our governess when Ted and I were children,” Betty answered. “She was a pretty woman, but I always hated her. It was instinct, I suppose. She married soon after she left us, and went back to France, but returned to London when her husband died about six years ago. I’d rather anything than that he should marry her. To see her sleeping in mother’s room! I couldn’t stand that. I should—”

She stopped abruptly. She was trembling.

“I don’t think there’s any fear of that,” said Anthony. “He still loves your mother. I’m not talking merely to please you. It’s the best thing about him. And he loves you. He’d think of all that.”

“He didn’t think of it when she lived,” Betty answered.

They were in the long dining-room and had just finished dinner. Mr. Mowbray had telegraphed that he was coming home that evening and would want to see Anthony. But he had not yet arrived. She was looking at the portrait of her mother over the great mantelpiece.

“If ever I marry,” she said, “I shall pray God to send me a man who will like me and think of me as a good friend and comrade.”

They neither spoke for a while.

“It was a love-match on both sides, between your father and your mother, wasn’t it?” asked Anthony.

“No woman ever had a more perfect lover, so my mother told me,” she answered with a curious laugh. “For the first five years. I remember waking in the night. My mother was kneeling by my bed with her head buried in her arms. I didn’t understand. I supposed it was something grown up people did. I went to sleep again, and when I opened my eyes again it was dawn. She was still there. I called to her, and she raised her head and looked at me. It was such a strange face. I didn’t know it was my mother.”

Anthony looked at the picture. Betty was growing more like her every day.

“I wonder if we would be better without it,” he said. “All the great love stories of the world: they’ve all been tragedies. Even the people round about us whom we know; it always seems to end in a muddle. Is every man bound to go through it?” he added with a laugh. “Or could a man keep out of it, do you think?”

“I think a strong man might,” she answered. “It’s weak men that make the best lovers.”

“There have been strong men who have loved,” suggested Anthony.

“Yes,” she admitted. “Those are the great love stories that end in tragedy.”

There came the sound of carriage wheels.

“I expect that’s dad,” she said.

She had risen. Passing, she lightly laid her hand on him.

“Don’t ever fall in love,” she said. “It would spoil you.”

Mr. Mowbray had aged of late, but with his white, waving hair and fine features was still a handsome man. Old-fashioned clients, shaking their heads, had gone elsewhere. But new business had come to the firm. Anthony had taken his employer for a walk one summer’s evening along the river’s bank, and had talked him into the idea of turning Millsborough into a seaport town. “It could be done, with money.” The river could be widened, deepened; locks could be built. The traffic from the valley that now went north or south could be retained for Millsborough. The marvel was that nobody had ever thought of it before. “We’ve all been asleep here for the last quarter of a century,” Mr. Mowbray said, laying his arm affectionately on Anthony’s shoulder. “You’ll wake us up.”

Engineers had been consulted and had sent in their reports. The scheme was practicable; Mowbray and Cousins was still a name to conjure with in business circles. The enterprise had been launched, had forced its way by its sheer merit. Not only could a handsome dividend be safely reckoned on; it would be of enormous benefit to Millsborough as a whole.

“Mowbray’s coming back,” they said in Millsborough.

Anthony’s share was to be a junior partnership. It was Mr. Mowbray who was the more impatient. Anthony promised to be through before the long vacation.

“If dear Ted comes back,” said Mr. Mowbray, “he’ll be glad to find you here. If God is hard on me for my sins we must make our fortune for Betty’s sake.”

Edward had gone to Switzerland for the summer. Anthony had hoped to see him before he went, but examinations had interfered; and Edward himself had been more hopeful. He had written that in spite of all he felt he was going to live. His mind was getting lighter. He was forming plans for the future. And then suddenly there had come a three-word telegram:

“I want Betty.”

Mr. Mowbray was away when it came. He had gone, without saying a word to anyone, the day before, and had not as usual left Anthony any address. He did not return until the end of the week, and then it was all over. Betty had wired that she was bringing the body back with her. Mr. Mowbray broke down completely when Anthony told him, throwing himself upon his knees and sobbing like a child.

“Betty will hate me,” he moaned through his tears, “and it will serve me right. I seem to do nothing but hurt those I love. I loved my wife and I broke her heart. There is no health in me.”

Edward was buried in St. Aldys’ Churchyard beside his mother. Anthony had seen the exgoverness and made all things clear to her. Mr. Mowbray seemed inclined to settle down to business a reformed character. Anthony had taken out his articles and had been admitted into partnership, though the firm would still remain Mowbray and Cousins.

It was an evening in late September. Mr. Mowbray and Betty had gone abroad. Anthony, leaving the office earlier than usual, climbed the hill to the moors. He took the road he had climbed with his mother when he was a child and had thought he was going to see God. He could see the vision of his own stout little legs pounding away in front of him and his mother’s stooping back and her short silk jacket, remnant of better days, that she had always worn on these occasions. If his aunt’s theories were correct, then surely the Lord must have approved of him and of all his ways from his youth upwards. At school, in the beginning, he had put himself out to make a friend of Edward Mowbray, foreseeing the possible advantages. So also with Betty. He had tried to make her like him. It had not been easy at first, but he had studied her. The love for Edward that had come to him had been an aftergrowth. It belonged to Anthony the dreamer rather than to the real Anthony.

With Betty also he had succeeded. She liked him, cared for him. That she did not love him he was glad. If she had loved him he would have hesitated, deeming it an unfair bargain. As it was, he could with a clear conscience ask her to be his wife. And she would consent; he had no doubt of that. Old Mr. Mowbray would welcome the match. He was reckoning on it as assuring Betty’s future. Anthony would succeed to the business, and behind him there would be the old man’s money to help forward the plans with which his brain was teeming for the benefit of Millsborough and himself. The memory of what Edward had written him about love came back to him. But Edward had always been a dreamer. Life was a business. One got on better by keeping love and religion out of it. He and Betty liked each other. They would get on together. Her political enthusiasms did not frighten him. All that would be in his own hands. When success had arrived — when his schemes had matured and had brought him wealth and power — then it would be time enough to venture on experiments. Prudently planned, they need not involve much risk. They would bring him fame, honour. To the successful business man all prizes were within reach.