Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (199 page)

He stretched out a stiff arm and laid it on old Simon’s head. “Ninety years old he’ll be on the fourteenth,” he said, “reckoning six years of a dog’s life as equal to one of a man’s. And I’m sixty-five. We haven’t done so badly, either of us.”

Anthony drew up a chair and sat down between the two.

“Nothing you want to talk about, is there?” he asked. The old man knew what he meant. He shook his head.

“Been talking about it or listening to it, on and off, pretty well all my life,” he answered. “Never got any further.”

He was silent a while, wrestling with his pain.

“Of course, I believe in a God,” he said. “There must be Somebody bossing it all. It’s the things they tell you about Him that I’ve never been able to swallow. Don’t fit in with common sense to my thinking.”

“You’re not afraid?” Anthony asked him after a silence.

“Why should I be?” answered the old man. “He knows me. He ain’t expecting anything wonderful. If I’m any good maybe He’ll find me a job. If not—”

Old Simon had crept closer. They were looking into each other’s eyes.

“Wonder if there’ll be any dogs?” he said. “Don’t see why there shouldn’t. If love and faithfulness and self-forgetfulness are going to be of any use to Him, what’s wrong with you, old chap?”

He laughed. “Don’t tell your aunt I said that,” he cautioned Anthony. “She’s worried enough about me, poor old girl, as it is.”

His aunt had looked for a death-bed repentance, but the end came before she expected it, in the night.

“He wasn’t really a bad man,” she said, crying. “That’s what made me hope, right to the end, that the Truth would be revealed to him.”

Anthony sought to comfort her. “Perhaps it came to him when he was alone,” he said.

She clung to that.

The burying of him was another trouble. She had secured the site she had always wished for herself beneath the willow. She would have liked him to be laid there beside her, but his views and opinions had been too well known to her people. They did not want him among them. There was a neglected corner of the big cemetery set apart for such as he; but to lay him there would be to abandon hope. The Lord would never venture there. Anthony suggested the Church. He undertook to interview the vicar, a kindly old gentleman, who possibly would ask no questions.

He found the vicar in the vestry. There had been a meeting of churchwardens. The Reverend Mr. Sheepskin was a chubby, blue-eyed gentleman. He had heard of Anthony’s uncle. “A very hard nut to crack,” so the vicar had been given to understand.

“But was always willing to listen, I gathered,” added the vicar. “So perhaps the fault was ours. We didn’t go about it the right way.”

Something moved Anthony to tell the vicar what his uncle had once said to him when he was a child about the world being a very different place if people really did believe all that they say they believe.

He wished he hadn’t said it, for the old gentleman sat silent for what seemed quite a long time.

“What did they answer him?” he asked at length. “Did he tell you?”

“He said they never did answer him that,” replied Anthony.

The vicar looked at him across the green baize.

“There isn’t any answer,” he said. “Your uncle had us there.”

“I dreamed of it once.” The light was fading; maybe he forgot that young Anthony was sitting there over against him in the shadows. “Living for Christ, taking no thought of aught else. What ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink or wherewithal ye shall be clothed. It’s a big thing — Believing.’ He seemed to have become aware again of the boy sitting there half hidden by the shadows.

“Most of us, Strong’nth’arm,” he said, “think that all we’ve got to do is to sing about it, to repeat it in the proper places. It isn’t enough. Take up thy cross and follow me. That’s where the trouble begins. Easy enough to worship it with folded hands. It is taking it up, carrying it with bowed head and aching shoulders, that’s the bother of it.” He rose, pushing back his chair with a grating sound upon the uncarpeted floor.

“You see,” he said, “it isn’t only oneself. One might do it if one were alone. The Roman Church is right on that point. And yet it doesn’t work, even with them. The world gets hold of them. What’s the date?” he said suddenly.

“December the fifth,” Anthony told him.

“Just three weeks to Christmas.” He was walking up and down the bare, cold room. He halted a few steps in front of the lad. “Do you know what Christmas means to me? You will later on. Bills. Butcher’s bills, baker’s bills, bootmaker’s bills — there’s something uncanny about the number of boots that children seem to want. And then there’s their school bills and their doctor’s bills and the Christmas boxes and the presents. It’s funny when you come to think of it. Christ’s birthday. And I’ve come to dread it. What were we all talking about this afternoon here in the vestry? How to help Christ? How to spread His gospel? No; pew rates, tithes, clergy relief funds, curates’ salaries, gas bills, fund for central heating and general repairs!

“How can I preach Christ, the Outcast, the Beggar, the Wanderer in the Wilderness, the Servant of the poor, the Carrier of the Cross? That’s what I started out to preach. They’d only laugh at me. ‘He lives in a big house,’ they would say; ‘keeps four servants’ — when one can get them—’and his sons go to college.’ God knows it’s struggle enough to do it. But I oughtn’t to be struggling to do it. I ought to be down among the people, teaching Christ not only by my words but my life.”

It had grown dark. The vicar, stumbling against a small side table, brought it down with a clatter. Anthony found the matches and lit the gas. The vicar held out a plump hand.

“It’ll be all right about your uncle,” he said. “See Mr. Grant and arrange things with him.” Anthony thanked him and was leaving. The Reverend Mr. Sheepskin drew him back. “Don’t judge me too hardly,” he said with a smile. “Leastways, not till you’ve lived a bit longer. Something made me talk without thinking. If anything I’ve said comes back to you at any time, listen to it.

It may have been a better sermon than I usually preach.”

His aunt was much comforted when he told her.

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” she said, “if he got through after all. Anyhow, we’ve done our best for him.”

Old Simon had returned to the railway carriage. He seemed to know that all was over. He lingered for a little while, but there was no heart in him. And one morning they found him dead.

A friendship had grown up between Anthony and young Mowbray. It had been chiefly of Edward Mowbray’s seeking, but Anthony had been attracted by Edward’s gentleness and kindness. Mowbray’s father had also taken a liking to him, and he came to be a frequent visitor at The Priory.

Mr. Mowbray was a fine, handsome gentleman of about fifty, fonder of pleasure than of business it was said. He rode to hounds and prided himself on being one of the best shots in the county. He was a widower. Gossip whispered of an unhappy marriage, for the lady — of neglect and infidelities. But this may not have been true, for Mr. Mowbray always spoke of his wife with enthusiasm, and often tears would come into his eyes. Her portrait by Orchardson hung in the dining-room facing Mr. Mowbray’s chair: an arresting face, though hardly beautiful, the forehead being too high and narrow. It was in the eyes that the attraction lay. They seemed almost to speak. Mr. Mowbray, during a lull in the conversation, would sometimes raise his glass and drink to her in silence. He was fond of his fine old port, and so were most of his many friends. There were only two children, Edward and his sister Elizabeth. She was the elder by a couple of years. She had her mother’s haunting eyes, but the face as a whole was less striking. Anthony had been rather afraid of her at first, and she had not taken much notice of him. She was considered eccentric by reason of her not taking any interest in games and amusements. In this both children were a strange contrast to their father. She would have been dubbed a “high brow” in later years; “blue stocking” was the name then.

It was by Edward and his sister that Anthony was introduced to politics. They were ardent reformers. They dreamed of a world in which there would be no more poor. They thought it might be brought about in their time, at least so far as England was concerned. Edward was the more impatient of the two. He thought it would have to come by revolution, Elizabeth (or Betty as she was generally called for short) had once been of the same opinion. But she was changing. She pointed out the futility of the French Revolution. And even had there been excuse for it the need no longer existed. All could be done now through the ballot box. Leaders must arise, men wise and noble. The people would vote for them. Laws must be passed. The evil and the selfish compelled to amend their ways. The rotten houses must be pulled down; pleasant, well-planned habitations take their place, so that the poor might live decently and learn the meaning of “home.” Work must be found for all; the haunting terror of unemployment be lifted from their lives. It easily could be done. There was work waiting, more than enough, if only the world were properly ordered. Fair wages must be paid, carrying with them a margin for small comforts, recreation. The children must be educated so that in time the poor would be lifted up and the wall between the classes levelled down. Leaders were the one thing needful: if rich and powerful so much the better: men who would fight for the right and never sheathe the sword till they had won justice for the people.

They were tramping the moors. The wind had compelled her to take off her hat and carry it and had put colour into her cheeks. Anthony thought she looked very handsome with her fine eyes flashing beneath their level brows.

In their talk they had lost their tracks and were making a bee line for the descent. A stream barred their way. It babbled over stones and round the roots of trees. Edward picked her up to carry her across, but at the margin hesitated, doubting his muscles.

“You’ll be safer with Anthony,” he said, putting her down.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I don’t mind getting my feet wet.” But Anthony had already lifted her in his arms.

“You’re sure I’m not too heavy?” she asked.

He laughed and stepped down with her into the stream.

He carried her some distance beyond the bank, explaining that the ground was still marshy. He liked the pressure of her weight upon his breast.

CHAPTER VII

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 everyone. 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.