Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (213 page)

She had laughed and kissed him. He remembered the tears in her eyes and the little catch in her voice.

But there was nothing heroic about this thing he wanted to do. It was the littleness, the meanness of it that would freeze her sympathies. Her sense of humour would rise up against it. Was there no better way of serving Christ than by setting up as a pettifogging solicitor in a little square of faded gentility. And a solicitor, of all professions! A calling so eminently suggestive of the Scribe and Pharisee. Was there not danger of the whole thing being smothered under laughter.

And why here in Millsborough where everybody knew him? Where they would be stared at, called after in the street, snapshotted and paragraphed in the local Press; where they would be the laughing stock of the whole town, a nuisance round the neck of all their friends and acquaintances. The boy’s career: he would be the butt of the messroom. Norah’s engagement: it would have to be broken off. What man wants to marry into a family of cranks? Could it serve Christ for His would-be followers to cover themselves with ridicule.

It was just because his going on with his own business had seemed to him the simplest, plainest path before him that he had chosen it. He had thought at one time of asking Matthew Witlock to let him come as his assistant in the workshop. He had retained much of his old skill as a mechanic.

With a little practice it would come back to him. He would have enjoyed the work: the swinging of the hammer, the flashing of the sparks, the harmony of hand and brain. His desk had always bored him. The idea had grown upon him. He would have met there the little impish lad who had once been himself. Old Wandering Peter would have sat cross-legged upon the bench and talked to him. He would have come across his father, pottering about among the shadows; would have joked with him. Strong kindly Matthew of the dreamy eyes would have been sweet, helpful company. Together they would have listened to the passing footsteps. There, if anywhere, might have come the Master.

It had cost him an effort to dismiss the desire. He so wanted to preach the practical, the rational. We could not all be blacksmiths. We could not all do big things, heroic things. But we could all work for God, wherever and whatever we happened to be; that was the idea he wanted to set going.

He wanted to preach to men that the Christ life was possible for all: for the shopkeeper, for the artisan, for the doctor, for the lawyer, for the labourer, for the business man. He wanted to tell the people that Christ had not to be sought for in any particular place, that He was here; that we had only to open the door and He would come to us just where we were. One went on with one’s work, whatever it was, the thing that lay nearest to one, the thing one could do best. We changed the Master not the work, took other wages.

He wanted to tell it in Millsborough for the reason that it was the only place where he could be sure of being listened to. Nowhere else could he hope to attract the same attention. He wanted to attract attention — to advertise, if any cared to put it that way. It was the business man in him that had insisted upon Millsborough. In Millsborough, for a time — for quite a long time — this thing would be the chief topic of conversation. Men would discuss it, argue around it, think about it when alone.

In Millsborough he had influence. In Millsborough, if anywhere, he might hope to find followers. For twenty years he had been held up to the youth of Millsborough as a shining example: the man who had climbed, the man who had
“
got on,” the man who had won all the rewards the devil promises to those who will fall down and worship him, wealth, honour, power — the kingdoms of the earth. He stood for the type of Millsborough’s hero: the clever man, the knowing man, the successful man; the man who always got the best of the bargain; the man who always came out on top; the man who whatever might happen to others always managed to fall on his feet. “Keep your eye on Anthony Strong’nth’arm.” In Millsborough it had become a saying. The man to be in with, the man to put your money on, the man God always prospered.

He could hear them — see their round, staring eyes. He could not help but grin as he thought of it. Anthony Strong’nth’arm declines a peerage. Anthony Strong’nth’arm resigns his chairmanship of this, that and the other most prosperous concern; his directorship in half a dozen high dividend-paying companies; gets rid of his vast holdings in twenty sound profitable enterprises; gives up his great office in St. Aldys Close, furniture, fittings and goodwill all included; writes a courteous letter of farewell to all his wealthy clients; takes a seven-roomed house in Bruton Square, rent thirty-two pounds a year; puts up his plate on the door: “Anthony John Strong’nth’arm, Solicitor. Also Commissioner for Oaths. Office hours, ten to four.” What’s the meaning of it? The man is not a fool. Has never, at any time, shown indications of insanity. What’s he up to? What’s come into his head? If it’s God he is thinking of, what’s wrong with the church or the chapel, or even the Pope, if he must have a change? Does he want a religion all to himself? Is it the poor that are troubling him? He’d do better for them, going on with his money-making, giving them ten — twenty, fifty per cent., if he liked, of his profits. What is the explanation? What does he say about it — Anthony Strong’nth’arm himself?

They would have to listen to him. If only from curiosity they would hear him out to the end. It might be but a nine days’ wonder; the talk grow tiresome, the laughter die away. That was not his affair. He wanted to help. He was sure this was the best thing he could do.

He had not noticed the door open. She was standing before him. She drew his face down to her and kissed him.

“Thank you,” she whispered, “for one of the happiest days of my life.”

He held her to him for a while without speaking. He could feel the beating of her heart.

“There is something I want to tell you,” he said. She put a hand upon his lips. “I know,” she answered. “In three minutes’ time. Then you shall tell me.”

They stood with their arms round one another till the old French clock upon the mantelpiece had softly chimed the twelve hours. Then she released him, and seating herself in her usual chair, looked at him and waited.

CHAPTER XVIII

HE had not asked her for an answer. She had promised to think it out. She might wish to talk it over with Jim. She and Jim had always been very near to one another. And there were the children to be consulted. She was to be quite free to choose. Everything would be arranged according to her decision. He had said nothing to persuade her — unless he had hoped that by explaining to her his own reasons he might influence her — and beyond a few questions she had remained a silent listener. It was shamefacedly, as one confessing a guilty secret, that he had told her. From the tones of his voice, the look in his eyes, she had read his unconscious pleading to her to come with him. But whether she went with him or stayed behind would make no difference to his going. It was that had hardened her.

To a certain extent she had been prepared. Ever since the child John’s death she had felt the change that was taking place in him. There was an Anthony she did not know, dimly associated in her mind with that lover of her dream who standing by the latchet gate had beckoned to her, and from whom she had hidden herself, afraid. She had set herself to turn his thoughts aside towards social reform, philanthropy. It was with this idea she had urged him to throw himself into public affairs, to prepare for Parliament. She had hoped for that. There she could have helped him. It would have satisfied her own craving to be doing something herself.

And then the war had engulfed them, obliterating all other horizons: it had left her nothing but her animal emotions. Her boy’s life! She could think of nothing else. Norah was in France; and she also was in the danger zone. The need of work — distraction obsessed her. She had found a rambling old house, far away upon the moors, and had converted it into a convalescent hospital.

Labour was scarce and the entire management had fallen upon her own shoulders. Anthony’s duties had confined him to Millsborough. For years they had seen one another only for a few hours at a time. There had been no opportunity for intimate talk. It was not until her return home to The Abbey that her fear had come back to her. There was no definable reason. It was as if it had always been there — a presence, waiting its time. One evening, walking in the garden, she had seen him standing there by the latchet gate, and had crept back into the house. She had the feeling that it would be there, by the latchet gate, that he would tell her. So long as she could avoid meeting him there she could put it off, indefinitely. The surer she felt of it, the more important it seemed to her to put it off — for a little while longer. She could not explain to herself why. It was when, without speaking, he had pressed her to him so close that she had felt the pain in his body, that she knew the time had come for her to face it.

What answer was she to make him? It seemed such a crazy idea. To give up The Abbey. To think of strangers living there. It had been the home of her people for five centuries. Their children had been born there. For twenty years they had worked there lovingly together to make it more beautiful. It would be like tearing oneself up by the roots. To turn one’s back upon the glorious moors — to go down into the grimy, sordid town, to live in a little poky house with one servant: presuming the Higher Christianity permitted of even that. Yes, they would get themselves talked about: no doubt of that.

To do her own shopping. She had noticed them — passing them by swiftly in her shining car — tired women, carrying large network bags bulging with parcels. Some of them rode bicycles. She found herself wondering abstractedly whether she would be able to afford a bicycle. She had learnt to ride a bicycle when a girl. But that was long ago. She wondered whether she would be able to pick it up again. She pictured herself bargaining outside the butchers’ shops, examining doubtful-looking chickens — when chickens were cheap. There was a particular test you had to apply. She would have to make inquiries. She could see the grinning faces of the tradesmen, hear their oily tongues of mock politeness.

Her former friends and acquaintances — county folk who had motored in for a day’s shopping, the stout be-jewelled wives of the rich magnates and manufacturers of Millsborough. Poor ladies! how worried they would be, not knowing what to do, meeting her by chance in the street. She with her umbrella and her parcels, and their red-faced husbands who would squeeze her hand and try to say the right thing. There would be plenty of comedy — at first, anyhow. That was the trouble. Tragedy she could have faced. This was going to be farce.

The dullness — the appalling dullness of it. The long evenings in the one small living-room. She would have to learn sewing — make her own dresses, while Anthony read aloud to her. He read rather well. Perhaps, by help of great economy in the housekeeping, they might be able to purchase a piano, on the hire system — or would it have to be a harmonium?

She had risen. From the window she could see the cloud of smoke beneath which the people of Millsborough moved and had their being.

Why should it seem so impossible? Her present ordered existence, mapped out from year to year, calling for neither thought nor effort, admitting of neither hope nor fear, the sheltered life of a pampered child — had not that also its dullness, its monotony? Why did rich people rent sæters in Norway, live there for months at a time on hunter’s fare, doing their own cooking and cleaning — welcome the perils and hardships of mountain climbing; of big game shooting; of travels into unknown lands: choose danger, privation and toil, and call it a “holiday”? Had not she herself found the simple living and hard work of the hospital a welcome change from everlasting luxuriousness? Would the Garden of Eden have been the ideal home for men and women with brains and hands? Might not earning one’s living by the sweat of one’s brow be better sport?

Need those evenings after the day’s work was done be of necessity so deadly? Her great dinners at The Abbey, with all their lights and lackeys, had they always been such feasts of intellectuality? Surely she had had social experience enough to teach her that brains were a thing apart from birth and breeding, that wit and wisdom were not the monopoly of the well-to-do. It came back to her, the memory of her girlhood’s days when they had lived in third-rate boarding-houses in Rome and Florence; rented small furnished
appartements
in French provincial towns; cheap lodgings in Dresden and Hanover. There had been no lack of fun and laughter in those days. Those musical evenings to which each student brought his own beer, and was mightily careful to take back with him the empty bottles, for which, otherwise, ten pfennigs would be charged. How busy she and her mother had been beforehand, cutting the sandwiches and how sparing of the butter. Some of the players had made world-famous names; and others had died or maybe still lived — unknown. One of them she had heard just recently, paying ten guineas for her box; but his music had sounded no sweeter than when she had listened to it sitting beside Jim on the uncarpeted floor, there not being chairs enough to go round. Where had she heard better talk than from the men with shiny coat sleeves and frayed trousers who had come to sup with her father off macaroni and chianti at two lire the flask? There might be clever, brilliant men and women even in Millsborough. So far as she could judge she had never succeeded in securing any of them for her great receptions at The Abbey. They might be less shy of dropping in at Bruton Square.

It was what one felt not what one had that was the source of our pleasure. It was the schoolboy’s appetite, not a Rockefeller’s wealth that purchased the good dinner. The nursery filled with expensive toys: the healthy child had no need of them. It was the old rag doll, clutched tight to our bosom, that made the attic into heaven. It was astride on the wooden horse without a head that we shouted our loudest. We overburdened life with empty show, turned man into a manikin. We sacrificed the play to the scenery and dresses. Four walls and a passion were all that the poet demanded.