Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (206 page)

“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 elder 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.

CHAPTER XII

MRS. STRONG’NTH’ARM had not spoken figuratively when she had told Betty that there were times when she did not know her own son. As a child there had always been, to her, something mysterious about him; a gravity, a wisdom beyond his years. There had been, with him, no period of fun and frolic that she might have shared in; no mischievousness for her to scold while loving him the more for it; no helplessness to make appeal to her. From the day when he could crawl his self-reliance had caused her secret tears. He never came to her for comfort or protection. Beyond providing for his bodily wants she was no use to him.

She had thought his father’s death would draw him to her, making him more dependent on her. But instead there had grown up around him a strange aloofness that hid him still further from her eyes. For her labour and sacrifice she knew that he was grateful, that he would never rest satisfied till he had rewarded her. He respected her, was always kind and thoughtful, even loved her in a way; she felt that. In the serving world, where she had passed her girlhood, it was not uncommon for good and faithful servants to be regarded in the same way — with honour and affection.

At first the difference between him and all other boys she had ever known or heard of had been her daily cross. She recalled how eagerly he had welcomed his father’s offer to teach him to read — how it was he who had kept his father up to the mark. At six years old he had taught himself to write. He had never cared for play. He was going to be a scholar, a dreamer — some sort of crank or another. She had no use for cranks. They earned but poverty and the world’s contempt. Why couldn’t he be like other lads, differing from them only by being cleverer and stronger? It was that had been her prayer.

In time she came to understand, and then her hope revived and grew. God intended him for great things. That was why he had been fashioned in another mould. He was going to be rich, powerful. Her dream would come true. He would be among the masters — would sit in the high places.

That he had never fallen in love — had never even had a “fancy” — was further proof of his high destiny. Heaven itself, eager for his success, had chosen the wise Betty to be his helpmeet. She, loving him, would cherish him — help him to climb But on his side there would be no foolish fondness to weaken or distract him. Youth with its crazy lure of love had passed him by. It was the one danger she had feared, and he had escaped it. Nothing stood between him and his goal. The mother saw all things shaping themselves to the greatness and glory of her son. What mattered her secret tears, her starved love.

And now, in the twinkling of an eye, as it were, all was changed. She saw him shorn of his strength, stripped of his self-reliance, uncertain of his purpose. She would try to draw him into talk about his schemes and projects. It had been their one topic of common interest. He had always valued her shrewd practicability. Now he would answer her indifferently, would lapse into long silences. The steadfast, far-off look had gone out of his eyes. They had become the eyes of a boy, tender and shy — the eyes of a dreamer. The firm, strong lines about the mouth had been smoothed away as if by some magic touch. She would watch, unknown to him, the smile that came and went about his parted lips. One evening, for no reason, he put his arm about her, smoothed back her thin grey hair, and kissed her. It was the first time he had ever shown her any sign of love, spontaneous and unasked for. Had it come at an earlier date she would have cried for joy. But knowing what she did it angered her, though she spoke no word. It was but an overflowing of his love for this stranger, a few drops spilled from the cup he had poured out for another. Part of her desire that he should marry Betty had been her knowledge that he had no love for the girl. Betty would have taken nothing from her. But a mad jealousy had come to her at the thought that this stranger should have been the first to awaken love in him. What had she done for him, this passerby, but throw him a glance from her shameless eyes? What could she ever do for him but take from him, ever crying give, give, give?

She told him of her talk with Betty, so far as it had been agreed upon between them. She had a feeling of comradeship with Betty.

“It might have been a bit awkward for you,” she said, “if she had cared for you. I wanted to see how the land lay.”

“How did you find it all out?” he asked. “I’m glad you have. I’ve been wanting to tell you. But I was so afraid you wouldn’t understand.”

“Why shouldn’t I understand?” she asked dryly.

“Because I don’t myself,” he answered. “It is as if another Anthony had been growing up inside me, unknown to me, until he had become stronger than myself and had taken possession of me. He was there when I was quite little. I used to catch a glimpse of him now and then. An odd little dreamy sort of a chap that used to wonder and ask questions. Don’t you remember? I thought he was dead, that I had killed him so that he wouldn’t worry me any more. Instead of which he was just biding his time. And now he is I, and I don’t seem to know what’s become of myself.” He laughed.

“I do love Betty,” he went on, “and always shall. But it isn’t with the love that makes a man and woman one, that opens the gates of life.”

“It’s come to you hot and strong, lad,” she said, “as I always expected it would, if it ever did come. But it isn’t the fiercest flame that burns the longest.”

He flung himself on his knees in front of her, and putting his arms around her, hid his face in her lap. She winced and her little meagre figure stiffened. But he did not notice. If she could but have forgotten, if only for that moment!

“Oh, mother,” he whispered, “it’s so beautiful; it does last. It must be always there. It is only that our mean thoughts rise up like mists and hide it from our eyes.”

He looked up. There were tears in his eyes. He drew her face down to his and kissed it.

“I never knew how much I loved you till now,” he said. “Your dear tired hands that have worked and suffered for me. But for you I should never have met and talked with her. It is you who have given her to me. And, oh, mother, she is so wonderful. There must be some mystery about it. Of course, to others she is only beautiful and sweet, but to me there is something more than that. I feel frightened sometimes, as though I were looking upon something not of this world.

“What did Betty say?” he asked suddenly. “Was she surprised?”

“She said she was glad,” his mother answered him, “that you had it in you. She said she liked you all the better for it.”

He laughed. “Dear Betty,” he said. “I knew she’d understand.”

His self-confidence, for the first time in his life, deserted him when he thought of his necessary interview with Sir Harry Coomber. He himself was anxious to get it over in order to put an end to his suspense. It was Eleanor who held him back.

“You don’t know dad,” she said. “He’s quite capable of carrying me off to China or Peru if he thought there was no other way of stopping it. Remember, I’m only seventeen. Besides,” she added, “he may not live very long, and I don’t want to hurt him. Leave it until I’ve had a talk with Jim. I’ll write him to come down. I haven’t seen him in his uniform yet. He’ll be wanting to show himself.” She laughed.

Jim was her brother, her senior by some five or six years. There was a strong bond of affection between them, and she hoped to enlist him on her side. She did not tell Anthony, but she saw in front of her quite a big fight. It was not only the matter of money, though she knew that with her lay the chief hope of retrieving the family fortunes. It was the family pride that would be her great obstacle. An exceptionally ancient and umbrageous plant, the Coomber, genealogical tree. An illustration of it hung in the library. Adam and Eve were pictured tending its roots. Adam, loosening the earth around it, while Eve watered it out of a goatskin. The artist had chosen the fig-leaf period. It was with Charlemagne that it began to take shape. From William the Conqueror sprang the branch that bore the Coomber family. At first they did not know how to spell their own name. It was not till the reign of James I that its present form had got itself finally accepted.

Under this tree Eleanor and her brother sat one evening after dinner beside a fire of blazing logs. Sir Harry and Lady Coomber had gone to bed; they generally did about ten o’clock. Jim had brought his uniform down with him and had put it on, though shy of doing so before the servants. Fortunately there were not many of them. Neither had spoken for some few minutes. Jim had been feeling instinctively all the evening that Eleanor had had a purpose in sending for him. He was smoking a briar wood pipe.

“I like you in your uniform, Jim,” she said suddenly; “you do look handsome in it.”

He laughed. “Guess I’ll have to change into something less showy,” he answered.

“Must you?” she asked.

“Don’t see who is going to allow me fifteen hundred a year,” he answered; “and it can’t be done on less. There’s Aunt Mary, of course; she may and she mayn’t. Can’t think of anyone else.”

“It was rather a mistake, wasn’t it?” she suggested.

“It’s always been the family tradition,” he answered. “Of course, it was absurd in our case. But then it’s just like the dear old guv’nor: buy the thing first and think about paying for it afterwards.”

She was tapping the fender with her foot. “It’s putting it coarsely,” she said with a laugh, “but I’m afraid he was banking on me.”

“You mean a rich marriage?”

She nodded.

He was leaning back in his chair, puffing rings of smoke into the air.

“Any chance of it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Not now,” she said. “I’m in love.”

It brought him up straight.

“In love?” he repeated. “Why, you’re only a kid.”

“That’s what I thought,” she answered, “up to a month ago.”

“Who is it?” he asked.

“A young local solicitor,” she answered, “the son of a blacksmith. They say his mother used to go out charing. But that may be only servants’ gossip.”

“Good God!” he exclaimed. “Are you mad?”

She laughed. “I thought I would tell you the worst about him first,” she said, “and so get it over. Against all that is the fact that he’s something quite out of the common. He’s the type from which the world’s conquerors are drawn: Napoleon was only the son of a provincial attorney. He’s the most talked about man in Millsborough already, and everything he puts his hand to succeeds. He’s pretty sure to end as a millionaire with a seat in the House of Lords. Not that I’m marrying him for that. I’m only telling you that to make it easier for you to help me. I’d love him just the same if he were a cripple on a pound a week. I’d go out charing, if need be, like his mother did. It’s no good reasoning with me, Jim,” she added after a pause. “When did a man or woman of our blood ever put reason above love? It’s part of our inheritance. Your time will come one day, and then you will understand, if you don’t now.”

She had risen. She came behind him and put her arms about his neck.

“We’ve always stood by each other, Jim,” she said. “Be a chum.”

“What’s he like?” he growled.

She laughed. “Oh, you needn’t worry about that,” she said. “There he is. Look at him.”

She took his face between her two hands and turned it towards the picture of the monk Anthony standing with crossed arms, a strange light round about him.

“It’s like some beautiful old legend,” she continued. “Sir Percival couldn’t have killed him. You know his body was never found. It was said that as he lay there, bleeding from his wounds, Saint Aldys had suddenly appeared and had lifted him up in his arms as if he had been a child and had borne him away. He has been asleep all these years in the bosom of Saint Aldys; and now he is come back. It must be he. The likeness is so wonderful and it is his very name, Anthony Strong’nth’arm. They were here before we came — the Strong’nth’arms — yeomen and squires. He is come to lift them up again. And I am going to right the old wrong by helping him and loving him.”

“Have you told all that to the guv’nor?” he asked with a grin.

“I’m not sure that I won’t,” she answered.

“It’s all in Dugdale. Except about his coming to life again.”

“It’s his turning up again as a solicitor that will be your difficulty,” Jim suggested. “If he’d come back as a curate—”

“It wouldn’t have been true,” she interrupted. “It was the Church that ruled the land in those days. Now it is the men of business. He’s going to make the valley into one great town and do away with slums and poverty. It was he who made the docks and brought the sea, and linked up the railway. He comes back to rule and guide — to make the land fruitful, in the new way; and the people prosperous.”