Betty—a dim shadowy Betty like some thin wraith—moved beside him as he walked. He was not bound to her. Even if there had been a pledge between them he would have had to break it. If need be, if God willed it, and Eleanor were to die—for it seemed impossible that any lesser thing could part them—he could live his life alone; or rather with the memory of her that would give him strength and courage. But to marry any other woman was unthinkable. It would be a degradation to both.
Besides, Betty had never loved him. There had been no talk of love between them. It would have been a mere marriage of convenience, the very thing that Edward had foreseen and had warned him against. To live without love was to flout God. Love was God. He understood now. It was through love that God spoke to us, called to us. It was through the Beloved One that God manifested Himself to us. One built a tabernacle and abided with her. It was good to be there.
Would it interfere with his career? Old Mr. Mowbray had been reckoning on his marrying Betty. He might, to use a common expression, cut up rough. He would have to risk that. As things were now it would be difficult for the firm of Mowbray and Cousins to go on without him. But anger does not act reasonably. Mr. Mowbray, indignant, resentful, could do much to hamper him, delay him. But that would be the worst. He felt his own power. He had made others believe in him. They would have to wait a few years longer while he was recovering his lost ground. As to the ultimate result he had no doubt. The determination to win was stronger in him than ever before. Love would sharpen his wits, make clearer his vision. With Love one could compel Fate.
Betty and her father were abroad. They had gone to Italy for the winter, meaning to return about the end of March. But Mr. Mowbray had taken an illness which had altered their plans. Mrs. Strong’nth’arm had taken to indulge herself each day in a short evening walk. Anthony did not usually return home till between seven and eight; and as she explained to Mrs. Newt, she found this twilight time a little sad for sitting about and doing nothing. She always took the same direction. It led her through the open space surrounding the church of St. Aldys, where stood the great square house of Mowbray and Cousins. Glancing at it as she passed, she would notice that the door was closed, that no light shone from any of its windows. A little farther on she would pass The Priory, and glancing through the iron gates, would notice that, so far as the front of the house was concerned, it showed no sign of life. Then she would turn and walk back to Bruton Square, and putting off her outdoor things, watch by the window till Anthony came in; and they would sit down to supper and she would talk to him about the business of the day, his schemes and projects. She never tired of hearing about them.
One evening she had glanced as usual in passing at the office of Mowbray and Cousins. The house was dark and silent. But from the windows of The Priory lights were shining. Mrs. Strong’nth’arm looked about her with somewhat the air of a conspirator. The twilight was deepening into darkness and no one was about. She pushed open the iron gate and closed it softly behind her. She knocked at the door so gently that it was not till the third time that she was heard. The maidservant who answered it seemed flustered and bustled. Mr. and Miss Mowbray had only returned an hour ago. She did not think that either of them would see anybody. Mrs. Strong’nth’arm took from her pocket a soiled and crumpled envelope. She smoothed it out and begged the maid to take it at once to Miss Mowbray. The maid, reluctant and grumbling, took it and disappeared. She returned a minute later, and Mrs. Strong’nth’arm followed her upstairs to the small room over the hall that was Betty’s sanctum. Betty was still in her travelling dress. She was tired, but made Mrs. Strong’nth’arm comfortable in an armchair beside the fire and closed the door.
“There’s nothing wrong, is there?” she asked. “Anthony isn’t ill?”
“He’s quite all right,” Mrs. Strong’nth’arm assured her. “How’s your father?”
“Oh, not very well,” answered Betty. “I’ve just sent him to bed,” she laughed. “You’re sure there’s nothing wrong?” she asked again.
Mrs. Strong’nth’arm was sitting bolt upright on the edge of the chair, holding her hands out to the fire.