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 sometime 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
some one 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 up the valley towards the
sea. “I wanted him 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 mantel-piece.
“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 any one, 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 ex-governess 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.
His walk had brought him to The Abbey, now untenanted. The fancy that
one day it might be his home had often come to him. His mother had been
a parlourmaid there. He pictured the perfect joy that it would give her
to sit in its yellow drawing-room and reach out her hand to ring the
bell.
He passed through the rose garden. Betty would love the rose garden.
Roses she had made her hobby. But the air of Millsborough did not
suit them. Here they were still wonderful in spite of neglect. He
made a mental note to speak about it to Hobbs, the gardener. He
knew what the answer would be. Twice that summer Hobbs had walked
down to Millsborough with a tale of despair; and twice Anthony had
written to Sir Harry Coomber. But what was a penurious baronet to
do? Would Mowbray and Cousins never succeed in finding him a tenant?
And so on. Anthony determined to provided Hobbs with help on his own
responsibility. The rose garden, even if everything else had to go,
must be preserved.
He passed on to the flower garden. It had always been Hobbs’ special
pride. It had been well cared for and was now a blaze of colour. It lay
between two old grey walls that had once enclosed the cloisters; and
beyond one saw the great cedars that had been brought and planted there
by Herbert de Combles on his return from the Crusades.
A yew hedge in which there was a wicket gate separated the two gardens.
He paused by the gate with his arms resting upon it and watched the
lengthening of the shadows.
And as he looked a girl came slowly up the path towards him.
He knew her quite well, but could not for the moment recollect where he
had first seen her.
And then he remembered. It had been an afternoon back in the early
spring. Sir Harry, pleading that he was too much of an invalid to
venture out, had written asking Mr. Mowbray to come up to The Abbey to
see him on business, and Mr. Mowbray, pleading engagements, had sent
Anthony.
It had merely been to talk about the letting of the house. Sir Harry
and his family had decided to live abroad for the present and were
leaving almost immediately. Anthony had sat by the window making notes,
and Sir Harry, giving unnecessary instructions, had been walking up
and down the room with his hands behind him. The door had sprung open
and a girl had burst into the room. Anthony had hardly had time to
notice her. She had not expected a stranger and was evidently in doubt
whether she was to be introduced or not. Her father had solved the
problem for her by telling her to run away and not come back. And if
she did to come in more quietly next time and not like a whirlwind. And
she had made a grimace and had gone out again.
He had only seen her for those few seconds, and it rather surprised him
that he recollected her so minutely, even to the dimple in her chin.
She came nearer and nearer. He was wondering whether to speak to her
when for the first time she looked up and their eyes met. She was
beside a great group of delphiniums. He noticed that their deep blue
was almost the same colour as the dress she was wearing. She must have
taken a swift step behind them during some instant when he had taken
his eyes off her. He waited a while, expecting her to emerge, but she
did not do so, and for him to linger there might seem impertinence.
On his way back, past the side entrance to the house, he came upon old
Wilkins, the caretaker; he had once been the coachman.
“When did the family come back?” Anthony asked him. It was odd that Sir
Harry had not written. It might be that they had returned to England
only for a short visit and had not thought it worth while.
The man stared at him. “What do you mean?” he said. “There’s nobody
here.”
“But I’ve just seen her,” said Anthony. “Miss Coomber.” He wished the
next moment that he had not said it, for the old man’s face clearly
showed that he thought Anthony mad.
“It must be her spirit, Mr. Anthony,” he said, “that you’ve seen. Her
body ain’t here.”
Anthony felt himself flushing. He laughed.
“I must have been dreaming,” he said.
“That’s the only explanation I can see,” said Mr. Wilkins. He wished
Anthony good afternoon and turned into the house. Anthony heard him
calling to his wife.
It was dark before Anthony reached home.