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 mischievousness2 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 aloofness3 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[Pg 173] she had passed her girlhood, it was not uncommon4 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.[Pg 174] But on his side there would be no foolish fondness to weaken or distract him. Youth with its crazy lure5 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 lapse6 into long silences. The steadfast7 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[Pg 175] earlier date she would have cried for joy. But knowing what she did it angered her, though she spoke1 no word. It was but an overflowing8 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 jealousy9 had come to her at the thought that this stranger should have been the first to awaken10 love in him. What had she done for him, this passerby11, 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[Pg 176] 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 biding12 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 winced13 and her little meagre figure stiffened14. 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.
[Pg 177]
“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 have given her to me. And, oh, mother, she is 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, deserted15 him, when he thought of his necessary interview with Sir Harry16 Coomber. He himself was anxious to get it over in order to put an end to his suspense17. 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[Pg 178] 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 enlist18 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 retrieving19 the family fortunes. It was the family pride that would be her great obstacle. An exceptionally ancient and umbrageous20 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 goat skin. The artist had chosen the fig-leaf period. It was with Charlemagne that it began to take shape. From William the Conqueror21 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 reign23 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[Pg 179] 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 instinctively24 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 any one 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 banking25 on me.”
[Pg 180]
“You mean a rich marriage?”
She nodded.
“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 solicitor27,” she answered, “the son of a blacksmith. They say his mother used to go out charring. 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 conquerors28 are drawn29. Napoleon was only the son of a provincial30 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[Pg 181] 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 charring, 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.”
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 monk32 Anthony standing33 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[Pg 182] had borne him away. He has been asleep all these years in the bosom34 of Saint Aldys; and now he is come back. It must be he. The likeness35 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 squires36. He is come to lift them up again. And I am going to right the old wrong by helping37 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.”
[Pg 183]
“And himself a millionaire, with a seat in the House of Lords,” quoted her brother.
“So did the old churchmen,” she answered. “As Anthony, the monk, he would have become a cardinal38 with his palaces and revenues. A great man is entitled to his just wages.”
Jim had risen, he was pacing the room.
“There’ll be the devil to pay,” he said. “The poor old guv’nor will go off his head. Aunt Mary will go off her head. They’ll all go off their heads. I shall have to exchange and go out to India.”
The colour had gone out of her cheeks.
“Why should they punish you for me?” she asked.
“Because it’s the law of the world,” he explained. “They’ve got to kick somebody. When he’s a millionaire with his seat in the House of Lords they’ll forgive us.”
“You’re making me feel pretty mean and selfish,” she said.
“Love is selfish,” he answered. “Don’t see how you can help that.” He halted suddenly in front of her. “You do love him?” he demanded. “You are not afraid to be selfish? You are going to let me down. You are going to hurt the guv’nor, very seriously. He hasn’t had much luck in life. This[Pg 184] is going to be the last blow. You are willing to inflict39 it.”
The tears were in her eyes.
“I must,” she answered.
He took her by the shoulders.
“If you had hesitated,” he said, “I should have known it wasn’t the real thing. You are under orders, kid, and can’t help yourself.
“You needn’t worry about me,” he said. “I’d have hated taking their confounded charity in any case. We must let the dad down as gently as possible. Leave it to me to break it to him. He must be used to disappointments, poor old buffer40. Thank the Lord we haven’t got to worry about the mater. Tell her all that about Monk Anthony. She will love all that. Never mind the millionaire business and the House of Lords.”
Lady Coomber was a curiously41 shy, gentlelady, somewhat of an enigma42 to those who did not know her history; they included her two children. Her name had been Edith Trent. She came of old Virginia stock. Harry Coomber, then a clerk in the British Embassy, had met her in Washington where she was living with friends, both her parents being dead. They had fallen in love with one another, and the marriage was within a day or two of taking place when the girl suddenly disappeared.
[Pg 185]
Young Harry, making use of all the influence he could obtain, succeeded in tracing her. She was living in the negro quarter of New Orleans, earning her living as a school teacher. She had discovered on evidence that had seemed to her to admit of no doubt that her grandmother had been a slave. It was difficult to believe. She was a beautiful, olive-skinned girl with wavy43, dark brown hair and finely chiselled44 features. Young Harry Coomber, madly in love with her, had tried to persuade her that even if true it need not separate them. Outside America it would not matter. He would take her abroad or return with her to England. His entreaties45 were unavailing. She regarded herself as unclean. She had been bred to all the Southern American’s hatred46 and horror of the negro race. Among her people the slightest taint47 of the “tar brush” was sufficient to condemn48 man or woman to life-long ostracism49. She would have inflicted50 the same fate upon another, and a sense of justice compelled her not to shirk the punishment in her own case.
Five years later a circumstance came to light that proved the story false, and the long-delayed marriage took place quietly at the Sheriff’s office of a small town in Pennsylvania.
But the memory of those five years of her life,[Pg 186] passed in what to her had been a living grave, had changed her whole character. An outcast among outcasts, she had drunk to the dregs their cup of terror and humiliation51. In that city of shame, out of which for five years she had never once emerged, she had met men and women like herself: refined, cultured, educated. She had shared their long-drawn martyrdom. For her, the veil had been lifted from their tortured souls.
As a girl, she had been proud, haughty52, exacting53. It had been part of her charm. She came back to life a timid, gentle, sorrowful woman with a pity that would remain with her to the end for all creatures that suffered.
Left to herself, she would have joined some band of workers, as missionary54, nurse or teacher—as servant in any capacity. It would not have mattered to her what so that she could have felt she was doing something towards lessening55 the world’s pain. She had yielded to her lover’s insistence56 from a sense of duty, persuaded that she owed herself to him for his faithfulness and patience. The marriage had brought disappointment to them both. She had hoped some opportunity would be afforded her of satisfying her craving57 to be of help if only to some few in some small corner of the earth. But her husband’s straitened means had always[Pg 187] kept her confined to the bare struggle for existence. Another, in her place, might have been able to give at least sympathy and kindliness58. But she was a woman broken in spirit. All her strength went out in her endeavours to be a good wife and mother. And even here she failed. She was of no assistance to her husband, as she knew. For business she had neither heart nor head. In society she was silent and colourless. On her husband’s accession to the baronetcy and what was left of the estate, she had made a last effort to play her part. But the solitary59 years on the ranch22 had tended to increase her shyness, and secretly she was glad of the need for economy that compelled them to live abroad more or less in seclusion60. The one joy she had was in her love of birds. To gather them about her, feed them, protect them by cunning means against their host of enemies, had become the business of her life. Even in the days of poverty she had been able to do that. She had come to love The Abbey even in the short time they had occupied it. She had made of its neglected gardens a bird sanctuary61. Rare species, hunted and persecuted62 elsewhere, had found there a shelter. At early morning and late evening her little grey-clad figure could be seen stealing softly among the deep yew63 hedges and the tangled64 shrubberies that she would not have [Pg 188]disturbed. One could always tell her whereabouts by the fluttering of wings above her in the air—the babel of sweet voices that heralded65 her coming.
Her children had never been told her story. She had exacted that as a promise. Though her reason had been satisfied that the rumour66 told against her had been false, the haunting fear that it yet might be true remained with her. She would not have it passed on to them lest it should shadow their lives as it had darkened hers. Rather than that she was content that they should grow up wondering at the difference between her and other mothers, at her lack of interest in their youthful successes and ambitions; at her strange aloofness from the things that excited their fears and hopes.
As Jim had said, Eleanor’s marrying a blacksmith’s son would not trouble her. The story of Monk Anthony she would love. The wrong done to him would probably bring tears into the still childish eyes. The prophecy of his millions and his seat in the House of Lords would not interest her.
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1
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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mischievousness
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| 恶作剧 | |
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aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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lure
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| n.吸引人的东西，诱惑物；vt.引诱，吸引 | |
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6
lapse
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| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
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7
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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11
passerby
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| n.过路人，行人 | |
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biding
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| v.等待，停留( bide的现在分词 )；居住；（过去式用bided）等待；面临 | |
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winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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14
stiffened
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| 加强的 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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18
enlist
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| vt.谋取(支持等)，赢得；征募；vi.入伍 | |
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retrieving
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| n.检索（过程），取还v.取回( retrieve的现在分词 )；恢复；寻回；检索（储存的信息） | |
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20
umbrageous
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| adj.多荫的 | |
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conqueror
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| n.征服者，胜利者 | |
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ranch
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| n.大牧场，大农场 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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banking
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| n.银行业，银行学，金融业 | |
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26
puffing
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| v.使喷出( puff的现在分词 )；喷着汽（或烟）移动；吹嘘；吹捧 | |
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solicitor
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| n.初级律师，事务律师 | |
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conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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31
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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squires
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| n.地主，乡绅( squire的名词复数 ) | |
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helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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38
cardinal
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| n.(天主教的)红衣主教；adj.首要的，基本的 | |
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39
inflict
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| vt.(on)把…强加给，使遭受，使承担 | |
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40
buffer
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| n.起缓冲作用的人(或物)，缓冲器；vt.缓冲 | |
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curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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42
enigma
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| n.谜，谜一样的人或事 | |
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43
wavy
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| adj.有波浪的，多浪的，波浪状的，波动的，不稳定的 | |
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44
chiselled
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| adj.凿过的，凿光的； （文章等）精心雕琢的v.凿，雕，镌( chisel的过去式 ) | |
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45
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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46
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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47
taint
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| n.污点；感染；腐坏；v.使感染；污染 | |
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48
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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ostracism
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| n.放逐；排斥 | |
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inflicted
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| 把…强加给，使承受，遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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haughty
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| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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missionary
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| adj.教会的，传教(士)的；n.传教士 | |
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lessening
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| 减轻，减少，变小 | |
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insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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yew
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| n.紫杉属树木 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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heralded
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| v.预示( herald的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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rumour
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| n.谣言，谣传，传闻 | |
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