“And where the money’s to come from I suppose you know,” commented Mrs. Strong’nth’arm, as the door of 15 Bruton Square closed behind them. “Blessed if I do!”
Anthony laughed. “That’ll be all right, mother,” he said. “Don’t you worry.”
“To hear him!” murmured his mother, addressing the darkening sky above her. “Talking about three hundred pounds to be paid next Tuesday week and laughing about it! Ah! if your poor father had only had your head.”
He explained to his aunt that this time there would be good security and that in consequence she was going to get only five per cent. She tried to make him say seven, more from general principle than with any hope of success. But he only laughed. By degrees he had constituted himself her man of business; and under his guidance her savings had rapidly increased. To Mrs. Newt a successful speculation proved that God was behind you. She had come to regard her nephew with reverence, as being evidently in the Lord’s counsels.
He had a further proposition to put before her. The dogs had long ago been sold, and the old railway carriage had fallen into ruin. The tumble-down cottage, in which his aunt now lived alone, was threatening to follow its example; but the land on which it stood had grown in value. The price he felt sure he could get for it made her open her eyes. The cottage disposed of, she could come and live with them at Bruton Square, paying, of course, for her board and lodging. The sum he suggested per week made her open her eyes still wider. But he promised she should be comfortable and well looked after. Again she made a feeble effort to touch his heart, but he only kissed her and told her that he would see to everything and that she wasn’t to worry. Forty years—all but—she had dwelt in Prospect Cottage, Moor End Lane. She had been married from the Jolly Cricketers, and after a day’s honeymoon by the sea Joe had brought her there and never a night since then had she slept away from it. There had been fields about it in those days. She dratted the boy more than once or twice as she poked about the tiny rooms, selecting the few articles she intended to keep. But she was ready on the appointed day. She had purchased gloves and a new bonnet. One must needs be dressy for Bruton Square.
Anthony had two rooms at the top of the house, one for his bedroom and the other for his study. He had always been fond of reading. His favourite books were histories and memoirs. Emerson and Montaigne he had chosen for himself as prizes. His fiction was confined to “Gulliver’s Travels.” There were also Smiles’ “Self-Help,” “From Log-Cabin to White House,” Franklin’s “Autobiography,” and the “Life of Abraham Lincoln.”
His mother had given up the dressmaking business. Young Tetteridge had brought home his bride, and keeping house for five people, even with help, took up all her time. Often of an evening she would bring her sewing and sit with Anthony while he worked.
It was towards the end of the Michaelmas term; Anthony was in the lower sixth. He had determined to leave at Christmas. The upper sixth spent all its time on the classics which would be useless to him.
“What do you think of doing when you do leave?” asked his mother. “Have you made up your mind?”