George Manville Fenn (continued 5)

“Oh!” I ejaculated.

“Do you not wish to stay?” she said smiling.

I could not speak, for the old childish weakness that I had of late nearly mastered was almost conqueror again. It did get the better of my voice, but I involuntarily raised her soft white hand to my lips, and held it there for a few moments; while her eyes, even as they smiled upon me, seemed half-suffused with tears.

“I will write to Mr Lister presently,” she said at last, “and tell him I detained you here. That will, I am sure, be quite sufficient; so, Antony, you are my visitor for the rest of the day. And now tell me more about yourself.”

I could not speak just then, but sat thinking, Miss Carr watching me the while; but we were soon chatting away pleasantly till the servant came and announced lunch.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Sunshine.

As we went down into the handsome dining-room I seemed to be in a dream, in the midst of which I heard Miss Carr’s voice telling the servant he need not wait; and as the door closed she laid her hand upon my shoulder and led me to the front of a large picture of a very beautiful woman, standing with her arm resting upon the shoulder of a grey-haired massive-looking man, not handsome, but with a countenance full of intelligence and force.

We stood silently before them for few moments, and then Miss Carr spoke:

“Can you tell who those are, Antony?” she said.

“Your papa and mamma,” I said, looking from the picture to her face.

“My dear father and mother, Antony,” she said, in a low, sweet voice; and her lips moved afterwards while she stood gazing up at them, as if saying something to herself.

I remember feeling well satisfied that I had on my best clothes that morning. I had reluctantly taken to them, but my others had grown so bad that I had been obliged. Then, too, there was a feeling of gratification that my hands were clean, and not stained and marked with ink. I remember feeling that as I took up the snowy table-napkin. All the rest was so dreamy and strange, only that I felt quite at home, and troubled by no sense of awkwardness. Moreover, Miss Carr’s behaviour towards me, as she intently watched my every action, became more and more warm, till it seemed to me as if I were in the society of some very dear sister; and a couple of hours later I felt as if we had known each other all our lives.

Upstairs once more she played to me, and smiled with pleasure as I picked out my favourite old pieces from the various operas; and at last she swung herself round upon the music-stool, and rose to draw my arm through hers, walking me thoughtfully up and down the room.

“What should you like to be, Antony?” she said half-playfully, “a soldier?”

“There’s something very grand about being a soldier,” I said thoughtfully, “when he fights to save his country; but no, I’m afraid I should be a coward.”

“A sailor, then?”

“No, Miss Carr,” I said, shaking my head. “I should either like to be a barrister or a doctor. I think I should like to be a doctor. No, I should like to be an engineer, and help Mr Hallett with his—”

I stopped short and coloured, for I felt that I had nearly betrayed my friend.

“Well?” she said in a strange, hesitating way, “Mr Hallett’s what?”

“Please don’t think me ungrateful, Miss Carr,” I said, “but I cannot tell you. Mr Hallett trusted to me the secret of what he is making, and I cannot say more. Yes, I may say that he is busy over a great invention.”

I fancied she drew her breath as if it caught and gave her pain, but her face was like marble as she went on.

“Antony, you are quite right,” she said; “and if I had ever had any doubts about your being a gentleman’s son, these words would have removed it. So you would like to be an engineer?”

“Yes,” I said, “very much.”

She continued walking up and down the room, and then went on:

“You lodge, you say, with a Mr Revitts, a policeman. Is he respectable and nice?”

“He’s the dearest, best old fellow in the world?” I said with animation. “Old?”

“No, no,” I said, laughing. “I meant good and kind by old.”

“Oh,” she said, laughing. “But tell me, Antony; is he particular with you?”

“Oh yes; he quite watches me, to make sure what I do, and where I go.”

“Would you like to go to different and better lodgings?”

“Oh no,” I said. “He is going to be married soon to Mary, who was so good to me at Mr Blakeford’s, and they would be so disappointed if I left.”

“He watches over you, you say?”

“Yes, Miss Carr. He was very angry that night when I stopped out late with Mr Hallett, when we had to walk part of the way back.”

“And—and this Mr Hallett, is—is he a proper companion for such a boy as you?”

“Mr Hallett is a gentleman, although he is now only a common workman,” I said proudly.

“But a youth like you would be easily deceived.”

“Oh no!” I cried; “don’t think that, Miss Carr. I would not give up Mr Hallett for anything. You don’t know him,” I said almost indignantly. “Why, when his father died, he, poor fellow, had to leave college, and give up all his prospects to gain a living anyhow, to keep his poor sick mother and his sister.”

“He has a sister?”

“Yes: so very pretty: Linny Hallett. I go there, and read Latin and German with Mr Hallett, while he works at his—his great invention. Oh, Miss Carr, if you could see him, so good and tender to his invalid complaining mother, you would say I ought to be only too proud of my friend!”

She was pressing my hand as she hastened her steps up and down the room. Then, loosing my hand suddenly, she walked quickly to the window, and threw it open, to stand there for a few minutes gazing out.

“The room was too warm, Antony,” she said in a quiet, composed way; and her pleasant smile was back upon her face as she returned to me. “Why, we were quite racing up and down the room. So you read German, do you? Come, you shall read a bit of Goethe to me.”

“I’m afraid—”

“That you are not perfect, Antony?” she said, laughing in a bright, eager way. “Neither am I. We will both try and improve ourselves. Have you well mastered the old, crabby characters?”

“Oh yes,” I said, laughing. “My mother taught me them when I was very young.”

“Why, Antony,” she cried, snatching the book from my hands at the end of half an hour; “you ought to be my master. But come, it is nearly dinner-time, and we must dress.”

“Dress?” I said, falling down from the seventh heaven to the level of Caroline Street, Pentonville, and bouncing back to the second floor.

“Well,” she said, smiling; “you would like to wash your hands.”

The rest of that evening was still more dreamlike than the day. I dined with Miss Carr, and afterwards she encouraged me to go on talking about myself, and present and past life. I amused her greatly about Revitts, and his efforts to improve his spelling; and she smiled and looked pained in turn, as I talked of Mary and my life at Mr Blakeford’s.

“I should like to know Mary,” she said, laughing; “Mary must be a rough gem.”

“But she is so good at heart!” I cried earnestly, for I felt pained at the light way in which she spoke of poor Mary.

“I am sure she is, Antony,” said Miss Carr, looking at me very earnestly; and then I began to talk of Mr Hallett, and how kind and firm he had been.

To my surprise, she stopped me, her voice sounding almost harsh as she said quietly:

“You are learning through a rough school, Antony, and are fast losing your homelike ways, and childlike—well—innocence; but you are still very impressionable, and ready to take people for what they seem. Antony, my boy, you will make many enemies as well as friends. Count me always among the latter, and as your friend I now say to you, do not be too ready to make friendships with men. I should rather see you with a good companion of your own age.”

“Yes, Miss Carr,” I said; “but if you knew Mr Hallett—”

She held up her hand, and I stopped, for she seemed to turn pale and to look angry.

“Antony,” she said, as the tea was brought in, “you will soon have to go, now, and I have not written the answer to the letter you brought.”

“No, Miss Carr,” I said; and I could have added, “neither have you read it.”

“It is too late, of course, for you to take an answer back, so I shall send one by post. Do not be alarmed,” she said, smiling, as she divined my thoughts; “no one will be angry with you for staying here. It was my wish.”

“And your wish would be law with Mr Lister,” I thought.

“I shall expect you to write to me,” she continued, “and set down any books you require. Do not be afraid to ask for them. I will either lend or buy them for you.”

She was pouring out the tea as she spoke, and I took the cup from her hand, watching her thoughtfully the while, for she seemed to have grown strange and quiet during the last few hours; and it set me wondering whether she would ever be so kind to me again. In fact, I thought I must have done something to offend her.

That thought was chased away after tea, when we both rose, and she held out her hands to me with a very sweet smile, which told me the time had arrived when I must go.

“And now, Antony, you must come and see me again, often. Good-bye.”

I could not speak, but stood clinging to her hands for a few minutes.

“Don’t think me foolish,” I said, at last; “but it has seemed so strange—you have been so kind—I don’t know why—I have not deserved it.”

“Antony,” she said, laying one hand upon my shoulder, and speaking very softly and slowly, “neither do I know why, only that your simple little story seemed to go home to my heart. I thought then, as I think now, that when I lost both those who were near and dear to me, my sister and I might have been left penniless, to go out and struggle in the world as you have had to do. Once more, good-bye. Only strive on worthily, and you shall always find that I am your friend.”

The next minute I was in the street, dull, depressed, and yet elated and joyful, while I ran over again the bright, sunshiny hours that had been so unexpectedly passed, as I hastened northward to join Revitts, for it was one of his home nights.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Linny is out Late.

I noticed that there was growing trouble at the Halletts’, and more than once, when I went up, I found Linny in tears, which, however, she hastily concealed.

This was the case on the night following my visit to Miss Carr, whose words, “that I need be under no uneasiness,” were verified. The fact that I had been sent out by Mr Lister was sufficient for Mr Jabez Rowle; and when, during the next day, I encountered Mr Lister himself, he nodded to me in quite a friendly way, and said, “How are you?”

Mrs Hallett was asleep, and I went upstairs softly, tapped at Hallett’s room door, and went in, to find him deeply immersed in his task, over which he was bending with knitted brows, and evidently in doubt.

“Ah, Antony,” he said, “here we are, as busy as usual. How did you get on last night?”

“With Revitts?”

“Yes; was it not your lesson-night?”

“Yes,” I said; “but I thought perhaps you meant at Miss Carr’s!”

He dropped the file with which he had been at work and stared at me.

“Where did you say?” he exclaimed.

“Mr Lister sent me with a note to Miss Carr, and she kept me there all day.”

He drew in his breath with a hiss, caught up the file and went on working, while I chattered on, little thinking of the pain I was causing the poor fellow, as I rapturously praised Miss Carr and her home, and told him by degrees how I had spent the day.

I was too intent on my narration to pay much heed to Hallett’s face, though in fact I hardly saw it, he kept it so bent over his task, neither did I notice his silence; but at last, when it was ten o’clock, and I rose to go, he rose too, and I saw that he was rather paler than usual.

“Are you ill, Hallett?” I said anxiously. “How white you look.”

“Ill? oh no, Antony. I have been sitting too much over my model. You and I must have another run or two into the country, and put roses in our cheeks.”

He looked at me with a smile, but there was a weary, haggard look in his eyes that troubled me.

“Come, you must have a scrap of supper before you go,” he said; and in spite of my protest he led me into the sitting-room, where Mrs Hallett was seated by the shaded lamp reading, and the supper-cloth was laid half across the table.

“Yes,” she said, looking up, as she let fall her book; “it’s time you came, Stephen. It’s very, very, very cruel of you to leave me alone so long.”

“My dear mother,” he said tenderly, “I did not know you were by yourself. Where is Linny?” he said anxiously.

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Mrs Hallett querulously. “You are always either out or upstairs with your playthings.”

“For Heaven’s sake, mother, be just,” Hallett exclaimed, with a burst of energy, such as I had not seen in him before. “Don’t goad me at a time like this. Where, I say, where is Linny?”

“Goad you, Stephen! No, I don’t goad you,” whimpered the poor woman. “I cannot help myself; say what you will to me. You neglect me, and Linny is always running out.”

“Has Linny gone out now, mother?” exclaimed Hallett.

“Yes, yes, and I am left all alone—a poor helpless invalid.”

“Where has Linny gone, mother?”

“I don’t know, Stephen. She said there was something to fetch. How can I tell?” and she burst into tears.

“Mother, dear mother,” cried Hallett, bending over her and kissing her, “pray, pray don’t think me unkind; I am working for you, and Linny too.”

“But if you would only be more ambitious, Stephen—if you would only try your poor father’s profession.”

“I cannot—you know I cannot, dear,” he said appealingly.

“No, no, no,” sobbed the poor woman; “always some low mechanic’s pursuit. Oh dear, oh dear! If it would only please God to take me, and let me be at rest!”

“Mother, dear mother,” whispered Hallett, “be reasonable. Pray, dear, be reasonable, and bear with what does seem like neglect; for I am indeed working for you, and striving to make you a happier and better home. Believe this of me, and bear with me, especially now, when I have two troubles to meet that almost drive me mad. Linny, dear: think of Linny.”

“Shall I go now, Mr Hallett?” I said, for the scene was terrible to me, and I felt hot with indignation at one whom I looked upon as the most unreasonable of women.

“No, Antony; stay, I may want you,” he said sternly. “Now, mother,” he continued, “about Linny. She must not be allowed to go out at night like this.”

“No, my son,” said Mrs Hallett piteously; “and if you had taken my advice the poor child would not have been degraded to such menial tasks.”

“Mother,” said Hallett, with more sternness than I had yet heard him use in speaking to her, “it is not the mere going out shopping that is likely to degrade your child. The time has come when I must insist upon knowing the meaning of these frequent absences on Linny’s part. Has she gone out to-night on some necessary errand?”

“I—I don’t know, Stephen; she said she must go.”

“Tell me, mother—I beg, I insist,” he exclaimed, “what you are keeping from me.”

“Nothing, nothing, Stephen,” sobbed the poor woman. “You’ll kill me with your un kindness before you’ve done.”

“Do you mean to tell me that you do not know where Linny has gone, mother?”

“Yes, yes, Stephen; I do not know.”

“Has—has she gone to meet anyone?”

“I don’t know, Stephen; I think so.”

“Who is it, mother?” exclaimed Hallett.

“I don’t know, Stephen; indeed I don’t know. Oh, this is very, very cruel of you!”

“Mother,” said Hallett, “is this just and kind to me, to keep such a secret from my knowledge? Oh, shame, shame! You let that weak, foolish child keep appointments with a stranger, and without my knowledge—without my knowing it, who stand to her in the place of a father. It must be stopped at once.”

“Let me go, Hallett, please,” I whispered.

“Yes; go, Antony; it is better that you should not be here when Linny comes back. Good-night—good-night.”

I hurried downstairs, and let myself out, feeling miserable with the trouble I had seen, and I was just crossing Queen Square when I saw Linny coming in the opposite direction.

She caught sight of me on the instant and spoke.

“Where did you leave Stephen?” she said hastily; and I saw that she was flushed and panting with haste.

“With Mrs Hallett,” I said.

“Was he scolding because I was out?”

“Yes.”

She gave her head a hasty toss and turned away, looking prettier than ever, I thought, but I fancied, as we stood beneath a lamp, that she turned pale.

Before she had gone half-a-dozen steps I was by her side.

“Well? What is it?” she said; and now I saw that she was in tears.

“Nothing,” I replied; “only that I am going to see you safe home.”

“You foolish boy,” she retorted. “As if I could not take care of myself.”

“Your brother does not like you to be out alone at night,” I said quietly; “and I shall walk with you to the door.”

“Such nonsense, Antony! Ah, well, just as you like;” and she burst into a mocking laugh.

I knew this was to hide from me the fact that she was in tears; and I walked beside her in silence till we had nearly reached the door, when we both started, for a dark figure suddenly came up to us.

“Oh, Steve, how you frightened me!” exclaimed Linny with a forced laugh.

“Did I?” he said calmly; and then he held out his hand to me and pressed mine.

He did not speak, but that pressure of his hand meant thanks, I thought, for what I had done; and once more I set myself to reach Caroline Street, thinking very seriously about Linny Hallett, of her mother’s weakness and constant complaints, and of the way in which Stephen Hallett seemed to devote himself to them both.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

We Complete the Model.

Matters did not improve at Great Ormond Street as the months rolled on. There was evidently a serious estrangement between Linny and Stephen Hallett; and in my frequent visits I saw that she was as wilful as she was pettish, and that she was setting her brother at defiance. Mrs Hallett was more piteous and complaining than ever, and her son grew haggard and worn with care.

Once or twice, when Linny went out, Hallett had insisted upon going with her, when she had snatched off her hat and jacket, exclaiming:

“It does not matter; I can go when you are away. I am not a child, Stephen, to be treated in such a way as this.”

He stood looking down at her, more in sorrow than in anger, and beckoning me to follow, he went up to his attic and turned to his model, but sat down thinking, with his head upon his hand.

“Can I do anything to help you, Hallett?” I said anxiously; and he roused himself directly, and smiled in my face.

“No, Antony,” he said, “nothing. I could only ask you to follow her, and be a spy upon her actions, and that would degrade us both. Poor child! I cannot win her confidence. It is my misfortune, not my fault. I am no ladies’ man, Antony,” he continued bitterly. “Here, let us try the model. I meant to have finished to-night; let us see how my mistress behaves.”

He often used to speak in a laughing way of the model as his mistress, after Mrs Hallett telling him one day that it was the only thing he loved.

It was then about nine o’clock, and putting aside reading for that evening, I helped him to fit together the various parts. The framework had been set up and taken down and altered a score of times, for, as may be supposed in such a contrivance as this, with all its complications, it was impossible to make every part at first in its right proportions. In fact, I found out that for quite a couple of years past Hallett had been slowly and painfully toiling on, altering, re-making, and re-modelling his plans. It was always the same. No sooner had he by patient enterprise nearly finished, as he thought, than he would find out that some trifle spoiled the unity of the whole machine, and he had had to begin nearly all over again.

“There, Antony,” he said, on the night in question, as he laid down the last wheel, one that he had had specially made for the purpose, “I have got to the end of my thinking to-night. I have looked at the model in every direction; I have tried it from every point of view, and if it is not a success now, and will not work, I shall throw it aside and try no more. What are you smiling at, boy?”

“Only at you,” I said, laughing outright, for we were now, when at his house, on the most familiar terms.

“And why?” he said, half amused, half annoyed.

“I was thinking of what you so often say to me when I am discouraged and can’t get on.”

“What do you mean?”

“‘Never say die!’” I replied, laughing. “I know you’ll try again, and again, till you get the thing right and make it go.”

“Should you?” he said, looking at me curiously.

“Of course I would,” I cried, with my cheeks flushing. “I never would give up with a puzzle at home, and this is only a big puzzle. It seems, too, as if we always get a little bit nearer to success.”

“Yes,” he said, nipping his lips together; “that’s what makes it so enticing. It seems to lure me on and on, like a will-o’-the-wisp in a marsh. You’re right, Antony, my lad; never say die! I must and will succeed.”

“Hurray!” I cried, pretending to throw up my cap. “Success to Hallett’s great invention! Patent, of course?”

“Yes,” he said, with a sigh; “but where is the money to come from for the patent?”

“Suppose we finish it first,” I said, laughing.

“Right, my young wisepate,” he cried; “but, good heavens! it’s eleven o’clock. Come, sir, pack off home to your lodging.”

“Why, I thought we were to set the model going to-night?” I said, in a disappointed tone.

“Yes, I did mean it,” he said, fitting a couple of cog-wheels one into the other. “But it is too late now.”

“Let’s try for another hour,” I said eagerly.

“No, no, my boy. I don’t like you to be out so late. Mr Revitts will be annoyed.”

“He’s away on duty,” I said. “Just another hour, and then you can walk part of the way home with me.”

“Well, just an hour,” he said, with his pale face flushing with pleasure; and we set to at once, he fitting together, while I polished and oiled wheels and spindles, and handed them and the various screws to him to fit in their places.

The model was as intricate as a clock, and there were endless little difficulties to combat; but there was something so fascinating in the task as the bright brass wheels were placed in order, and it begat such an intense longing to see it in motion, executing in miniature the great desire of Hallett’s life, that we forgot all about time, and kept steadily on till there were only a few screws to insert and nuts to tighten, and the task would be done.

Hallett looked up at me as he re-trimmed the lamp by which we worked, and I across the table at him, laughing at his puzzled face, for we had unconsciously been at work over three hours, and it was past two.

“This is dreadful, Antony,” he exclaimed, with a comical look of chagrin on his face. “I seem fated to lead you into all sorts of dissipation. What are we to do? I cannot let you go home so late as this. You must lie down here.”

“I’m not a bit sleepy,” I said, “but I am hungry.”

“Then you shall have some supper,” he said dreamily, and with his eyes fixed upon his model, forgetting me the next moment, as with his dexterous fingers he tried the action of one or other of the wheels.

“It’s a pity to leave it now,” I cried.

“Yes, yes,” he said with a sigh; “it is a pity: but it must be left. I dare—”

He ceased talking, becoming completely abstracted in his task of screwing on a nut, and without speaking I helped and watched and helped until quite an hour and a half more had glided by, when with a look of triumph he stood erect, for the task was done.

“She’s finished, Antony,” he cried, and in the elate eager face before me I seemed to see some one quite different to the stern, quiet compositor I met daily at the great printing-office by Fetter Lane.

I was as delighted as he, and together we stood gazing down at the bright, beautiful bit of mechanism—the fruit of years of toil and endless thought; but as I gazed at it a strange dull feeling of anxiety came over me, and I glanced timorously at Hallett, for the thought flashed across my mind:

“What will he say now if it fails?”

I literally trembled with dread as this thought forced its way home, and with a choking sensation at my throat I watched his eager, elated face each moment becoming more joyous and full of pride; and the more I witnessed his pleasure, the more I feared lest his hopes should be dashed.

“Why, it’s daybreak, Antony,” he said, drawing up the blind. “My poor boy, what a thoughtless wretch I am. It is cruel to you. Come and lie down directly.”

“No,” I said eagerly, “I want to see the model going.”

“And so do I, Antony,” he cried passionately; “but now the time has come, my boy, I dare not try. I feel a horrible dread of failure, and I must cover it over with a cloth, and leave it till I feel more calm.”

He took up the large black cloth with which he had been in the habit of covering it from the dust, and stood gazing down at the bright brass model which had begun to glisten in the soft pure morning light now stealing in from amidst the London chimney-pots, while a couple of sparrows seated upon the parapet set up a cheery chirp.

I felt that I dared not speak, but as if I should have liked to lead him away from the infatuation of his life. Somehow I knew that it would break down, and the anguish he must feel would be something I could not bear to see; and yet, combined with this, I shared his longing to see the model at work—the beautiful little piece of mechanism that was to produce a revolution in printing—turning easily, smoothly, and well.

As I gazed at his eager, anxious face, the pale light in the sky changed to a soft warm flush; bright flecks of orange and gold sent their reflections into the dingy garret, and seemed to illumine Hallett’s countenance, as with straining eyes and parted lips he stood there cloth in hand.

“Antony,” he said, in a low hoarse voice, “I am a coward. I feel like a gambler who risks his all upon a stake, and dare not look upon the numbers—upon the newly cast dice. No, no, I dare not try it now; let it rest till to-night.”

As he spoke he covered it carefully with the black cloth, but only to snatch it away, apostrophising it the while.

“No, no,” he cried; “it is like covering you with a pall and saying you are dead, when, you, the birth of my brains, are ready to leap into new life—new life indeed—the life of that which has had no existence before. Antony, boy,” he said exultingly, “what time could be more fitting than the birth of a new day for my invention to see the light? Throw open the window and let in the glow of sunshine and sweet fresh air. It is unsullied yet, and it will give us strength for our—for our—”

He hesitated, and his exulting tone changed to one of calm resignation. It was as if he had felt the shadow of failure coming on, and he said softly:

“Our triumph, Antony; or, God help me, fortitude to bear our failure!”

I had opened the window, and the soft, refreshing morning air floated into the room, seeming to bring with it a suggestion of the scents of the sweet, pure country; and now, in the midst of the silence, broken only by the chirping of the sparrows, and the distant rattle of the wheels of some market-cart, I saw Hallett’s countenance grow stern as he placed a little reel of thin paper, narrow as a ribbon, upon a spindle, and then, motioning to me to go to the handle which was to set the model in motion, he stood there with set teeth, and I turned.

There was a clicking, humming noise, the whirring of wheels, and the rattle of the little cogs; the ribbon of paper began to run off its spool, and pass round a tiny cylinder; and at that moment the little model seemed illumined by a brilliant ray of sunshine, which darted in at the open window. Then the light seemed to be glorifying Hallett’s face, and I was about to utter a cheer, when I felt a jar, and a shock from the fingers that held the handle run right up my arm. There was a sharp, grating noise, a tiny, piercing shriek as of tortured metal; and in place of the busy glistening, whirring wheels an utter stillness. A cloud crossed the rising sun, and with a bitter sigh Hallett stooped down and picked up the black cloth, which he softly and reverently drew over the wreck of his work, as I stood with dilated eyes looking at him aghast.

“Poor model,” he said softly, “dead so soon!” and with a sad, weary air of resignation as he smiled at me: “it was a very short life, Antony. Let us go down, my boy. You must be wearied out.”

I followed him on to the landing without a word, and after he had locked up the attic he led the way softly to the sitting-room, where he lit a fire and we had some breakfast, for it was too late to think of bed. Shortly afterwards we walked down together to the office, and I saw him no more till the day’s work was done.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Another Wakeful Night.

Stephen Hallett was in too much trouble to speak to me about the model that evening. Mrs Hallett was in tears, and full of repinings, and Linny was out, it seemed, when her brother had returned.

I soon found that he did not wish me to stay, and being tired out, I made the best of my way back to Caroline Street, and went to bed to sleep heavily, dreaming that Hallett and I were working away at the model, but as fast as ever we got it nearly to perfection, Mr Blakeford came and stood by to throw in the pieces of the stick with which he had been beaten by Mr Wooster, and every time he did so the little model was broken.

Then the whole scene of the flogging seemed to take the place of Hallett’s attic, and I saw Mr Blakeford sit down in a chair, panting, bloody, and exhausted, and he kept on saying in a low hoarse voice, “Antony, lad, water!”

It was very terrible to see him sitting there by the light of the office gas, for though I wanted to help him, the power was not there, and, strive how I would, I could not get to his side, or fetch what he asked for.

“Antony, lad, water!”

His voice sounded like a groan, and I knew he must be very bad; but still I could not help him, and the bitter moan with which he appealed to me seemed to cut me to the heart.

“Antony, lad, water!”

There it was again, and I started up to find myself in bed, with a candle burning in the room, and Revitts, with his hat on the floor, his coat torn open, and his face besmeared with the blood flowing from a cut in the forehead, was seated close beside his bed, evidently half fainting.

“Antony, lad, water?” he moaned; and leaping out of bed and hurrying on some clothes, I tried to give him what help I could, but in a strangely confused way; for I was, as it were, in a dream, consequent upon the deep sleep succeeding a night without my usual rest. I held a glass of water to his lips, however, from which he drank with avidity. And then, awakening more to the state in which he was, and realising that it was not a dream, I set to work and sponged and bound up the cut with a handkerchief, to find, however, to my horror, that there was another terrible cut on the back of his head, which was also bleeding profusely.

My next idea was to go for a doctor, but I reflected that I ought to first bind up the other wound, and this I did, leaving him in the chair, with his chest and head lying over on the bed, looking so white that a chill of horror shot through me, for I fancied that he was dying.

I knew there was a doctor’s two streets off, and I ran to where the red bull’s-eye in the lamp shone out like a danger signal; rang the night-bell; heard a window above me open, and, after explaining my business and what was the matter, the medical man promised to come.

I ran back to find that Revitts had not moved, but that my attempts to bandage his wounds had proved to be ineffectual. I did what more I could, though, and then sat horror-stricken and silent, holding the poor fellow’s hand, speaking to him at intervals, but eliciting nothing but a moan.

It seemed as if the doctor would never come, and I was about to rouse up some of the people in the house when I heard the bell, and ran to admit him.

He looked curiously at me as I stood there, candle in hand, and as I closed the door he said gruffly:

“A drunken fall, I suppose?”

“Oh no, sir,” I said hastily. “Mr Revitts never drinks.”

“Humph?” he ejaculated; and I led him up to where Revitts sat.

“Policeman, eh?” said the doctor; “this is a job for the surgeon to the division, my man. Mustn’t leave him to bleed to death, though.”

He slipped off his coat, and, exerting his strength, lifted poor Revitts on to the bed, after which he removed my bandages and made an examination.

“Hold the candle nearer, boy, nearer still. That’s right. You won’t singe his hair. If you do it won’t matter, for I must clip it off short. Humph! some one has given him a pretty topper with a thick stick, and he must have fallen with his head on the edge of a step. Terrible cuts?”

“But will they kill him, sir?” I faltered, feeling quite sick at the sight of the wounds.

“We won’t let them, my man. Come, hold up, you mustn’t, let that turn you faint.”

“I—I won’t, sir,” I said.

“That’s right, my man. Nothing like a little will and determination. We men must leave fainting to the girls. That’s right; basin and sponge and towel. We’ll soon put him straight. Now that case out of my pocket. That’s well. Hold the candle nearer. No snuffers? Well, use your fingers. Dirty trick, but handy—fingery, I ought to say.”

He kept on talking—half-playfully, while with his bright scissors he clipped the hair away close from Revitts’ forehead, and then, cutting up some plaister in strips, he rapidly bandaged the cuts, after bringing the edges of the wounds together with a few stitches from a needle and some silk.

“Poor fellow! he has got a sad knocking about,” the doctor said kindly, for now the annoyance at being called out of bed was over he was deeply interested in his case. “I wonder some of his fellow-constables did not take him to the hospital. Where did you find him?”

I told him how I was astonished by finding Revitts at my bedside.

“Ah yes, I see,” he said. “Hurt and half-insensible, and nature intervenes. Education says, Take him to the hospital; instinct bids him, animal-like, creep to his hole to die.”

“To die, sir?” I cried, catching his hand.

“Die? No: nonsense, boy. I was only speaking metaphorically. Don’t you see?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“No, you don’t, you young humbug,” he retorted sharply. “You don’t know what a metaphor is.”

“Yes, sir, it’s a figure of speech in which one idea is used instead of another.”

“Hallo!” he said; “why, how do you get your living?”

“I’m a reading-boy at a printer’s, sir.”

“Oh! Are you? I should have thought you were reading-boy to a professor of language. Well, we mustn’t forget our patient. Give me a glass, boy.”

“Will a teacup do, sir?”

“Oh yes, and a teaspoon. That’s right,” he said; and, emptying a little phial into the cup, he proceeded to give poor Revitts some of the stimulus it contained.

“There,” he said, “he’s coming round, poor fellow; but I daresay he’ll be a bit shaky in the head. He mustn’t get up; and you must give notice at his station as soon as it’s light, or to the first policeman you see.”

“But you don’t think he’ll die, sir?”

“Die, my man? No. A great stout fellow like that is not likely to die from a crack or two on the head.”

I drew a long breath of relief, and soon after the doctor left, bidding me not be alarmed if I found his patient slightly delirious.

It was no pleasant task, sitting there alone, watching by my poor friend, and many times over I felt so alarmed at his condition that I rose to go and rouse up some of the people of the house; but whenever I reached the door the doctor’s reassuring words came back, and, feeling that he must know what was right, I sat by the bedside, holding Revitts’ hand till towards morning, when he began to move uneasily and to mutter and throw about his arms, ending by seeming to wake from a troubled sleep.

“Where am I?” he said sharply.

“Here at home, in bed,” I said.

“Who’s that?”

“It is I, Bill, don’t you know me?”

“Yes, yes, I know you!” he said. “Oh, my head, my head!”

“What was it? How was it done?” I said.

There was a pause, and then, in a weary way:

“I don’t know—I can’t recollect. Everything’s going round. Yes, I know: I heard a little girl call out for help, and I saw a fellow dragging her towards an open door, and I went at him.”

“Yes, Bill. Well?”

“That’s all. I don’t know anything else. Oh, my head, my head!”

“But did he hit you?” I asked.

“Yes, I think so, and I went down,” he groaned; “and I don’t know any—any more, but I should know that fellow out of a thousand, and—”

He began muttering to himself, and as I bent over him I fancied I made out the word “staff,” but all else was unintelligible, and the poor fellow sank into a heavy sleep which seemed likely to last.

Soon after seven I got the landlady to come and sit with him while I ran to the police-station, and told the inspector on duty about Revitts’ state.

“There,” he exclaimed to another officer, “I told you so. He’s too steady a fellow to have gone wrong. All right, my man, I’ll send on the surgeon, and we’ll see what’s to be done. You don’t know how it was?”

I told him all I knew, and then ran on to Hallett’s to ask him to get me excused at the office.

I found him looking very pale, but Linny was not visible; and then I told him about Revitts’ state.

“It’s very strange,” he exclaimed. “Linny came home in trouble last night. She said some man had insulted her, and when she called for help a policeman ran up; and she left them struggling together while she made her escape and came home.”

“Then it must have been Revitts who helped her,” I said; and I then told him that I wanted to stay with the poor fellow.

“I’ll arrange all that for you, Antony,” he said quietly; and I made the best of my way back to Caroline Street, to find that poor Revitts had not moved, only kept on muttering where he had been laid by the doctor; and I took the watcher’s place, made tea for him, and spoke to him again and again, but without result.

The police surgeon came soon after with the inspector I had seen, asked me a few questions as he examined the injuries, and then I saw him tighten his lips.

“Hadn’t he better be taken to the infirmary, sir?” the inspector asked.

“No,” was the reply; “he must not be moved.” Then, turning to me: “You had better get some one to come and nurse him, my lad,” he said; “mother, sister, or somebody. I’ll call in again in the evening.”

I knew from this that the poor fellow must be seriously hurt, and had I wanted confirmation, I had it in the delirious mutterings that now came from his lips.

I sat by him in great trouble, wondering what I should do, when the doctor I had fetched called in, who, on learning that the divisional surgeon had been, nodded his satisfaction and turned to go.

“Please tell me, sir,” I said, “is he very, very bad?”

“Well, bad enough, my lad; you see, he has got concussion of the brain, and I daresay he will be ill for some time, but I do not anticipate anything serious. He must have a nurse.”

As soon as he had gone I sat and thought for a few minutes what I ought to do. Miss Carr was very kind and generous. If I asked her she would pay for a nurse; but no, I would not ask her without first consulting Hallett. He would help me in my difficulty, I felt sure, especially as it was probable that Linny was the girl poor Revitts had protected. But Hallett would not be back till evening, and then perhaps he would—no, he would be sure to come in.

I sat thinking, and the landlady came up, full of bewailings about her injured lodger, and in her homely way promised to come and wait on him from time to time. Then a bright thought occurred to me. I would write and tell Mary that Revitts was hurt, for I felt that she ought to know, and hastily taking pen and paper, I wrote her word that my friend was very ill, and asked her to tell me the address of some of his relations, that I might send them word. I did not forget to add a postscript, urging her to secrecy as to my whereabouts, for my dread of Mr Blakeford was as great as ever.

Seizing my opportunity when Revitts was more quiet, I slipped out and posted the letter, running back panting to find that a lady had come—so the landlady said—during my absence, and, rushing upstairs I stood staring with amazement on finding Linny in the room taking off her jacket and hat.

“You here, Linny?” I exclaimed.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Why not?”

“Was it you, then, that poor Revitts helped last night?”

“Yes,” she said, with a shiver, and she turned white. “Yes, poor fellow. It was very brave of him, and I have come to help him in return.”

“But does—does Stephen know?”

“How can he,” she said meekly, “when he is at the office?”

“But I am sure he would not approve of your coming,” I said stoutly.

“I can’t help that,” she replied quietly. “He will think it his duty to find fault, and I think it mine to come and help to nurse this poor fellow who was hurt in serving me.”

“But your mother—Mrs Hallett?”

“I have arranged for some one to go in and wait upon her till I go back,” said Linny quietly. “Now, what had I better do?” I could think of nothing better than to suggest some beef-tea, and she snatched at the notion, running out to fetch the material; and soon after having it simmering by the fire, while she tidied the room in a way only possible to a woman; and as she busied herself in a quiet, quick fashion, I could not help noticing how pale and subdued she seemed. It was very evident that her nerves had had a severe shock on the previous night, and as I gazed at the pretty, soft little face and figure, bending themselves so earnestly to the task in hand, I could hardly believe it was the same giddy, coquettish girl who caused her brother so much concern.

The day wore slowly by, and in spite of my efforts and real anxiety, I could not keep awake, but caught myself dozing off sometimes to start up, feeling horribly guilty, and ready to excuse myself to Linny on the plea that I had had hardly any sleep for two nights.

“The more need for me to come, Antony,” she said quietly, and bidding me lie down for an hour or two, she took out her work and, seated herself by the sick man’s pillow.

She woke me up at last to have a sort of tea-dinner with her, after I had seen that Revitts remained perfectly insensible, and then the evening wore on, the surgeon came and nodded his satisfaction at finding a nurse there, said that the patient was going on all right, but must have time, and took his leave.

At half-past eight, just as I had anticipated, Hallett arrived, and started with surprise on seeing his sister.

“You here?” he said, with an angry look upon his brow.

“Yes, Stephen,” she said quietly; “I have come to help nurse him.”

“It was an ill-advised step,” he said sternly. “You did not know that this was the man who protected you.”

“I felt so sure of it that I came to see,” she replied. “Don’t be angry with me, Stephen,” she whispered. “I owned to you last night that I was in fault, and meant to do better.”

“Yes, and refused to answer my questions,” he replied. “You do not tell me whom you went to see.”

“Is it not enough that I have promised you I’ll go no more?” she replied with quivering lips.

“Yes, yes, my child,” he said tenderly, as he took her in his arms and laid his cheek against her forehead. “It is enough, and I will not press you. Dear Linny, indeed I strive for your good.”

“I know that, Stephen,” she cried with a wild burst of tears, and, flinging her arms round his neck, she kissed him again and again. “My own brave, good brother,” she said; “and I’ve been so ungrateful and selfish! Oh, Stephen, I’m a beast—a wretch!” she sobbed.

“Hush, hush, little one,” he said; and then, starting, he held her at arm’s length and gazed full in her eyes. “Why, Linny,” he exclaimed, as a light seemed to have flashed across his mind, “it was that man—you went to meet—who insulted you.”

She turned away her face, and hung her head, shivering as he spoke, and weeping bitterly.

“It was,” he cried; “you do not deny it. The villain!”

“Please, please don’t, Stephen,” she sobbed in a low, piteous voice.

“Linny!” he cried hoarsely; and his face looked terrible. “If I knew who it was, I believe I should kill him?”

“Stephen,” she wailed, “pray—pray! We are not alone.”

“There is only Antony here,” he said, “and he is like a brother.” Then, making an effort over himself, he strained the little panting figure to his breast, and kissed her tenderly. “It is all past, my darling,” he said to her softly, and he smoothed her hair with his hand, as if she had been his child. “I’ll say no more, dear, for you have promised me.”

“Yes; and I will keep my word, Stephen.”

He kissed her again, and loosed her, to stand with brows knit with trouble.

“I do not like your coming here, Linny,” he cried at last.

“Why not, dear?” she said, laying her hands upon his shoulder. “It is an earnest of my promise. He came to me when I was in trouble.”

“Yes,” he said; “you are right,” and after looking at the patient he sat down and talked to us in a low tone.

“Is it not nearly time for you to go back, Linny?” Hallett said at last.

“Back!” she said; “I am going to sit up with Antony; the poor fellow must not be left. The doctor said so.”

Hallett took a turn up and down the room, and then stopped.

“You have had no sleep for two nights, Antony,” he said. “Lie down. I will sit up with my sister, and watch by poor Revitts’ side.”

I protested, but it was in vain; and at last I lay down in my clothes to watch the faces of brother and sister by the shaded lamp, till my eyes involuntarily closed, and I opened them again to see the two faces in the same positions, but without the lamp, for there was the morning light.

Chapter Thirty.

Revitts’ Nurse Arrives.

Hallett left quite early, to see that Mrs Hallett was properly attended to, and he moreover undertook to speak to either Mr Ruddle or Mr Lister about my absence, as, joined to my desire to stay with poor Revitts, Hallett wished me to bear his sister company.

Our patient was on the whole very quiet, but at times he moved his head to and fro and talked loudly, much being unintelligible, but I saw Linny’s countenance change several times as she heard him threaten the man he looked upon as an enemy.

“Can I do anything for you?” said Linny to him on one occasion, as he tried to raise himself upon his arm and stared at her wildly.

“’Taint as if I’d got my staff out to him, you know,” he said in a whisper. “He’s a coward, that’s what he is, and I shall know him again, and if I do come acrost him—ah!”

Linny shrank away, with her eyes looking wild and strange, so that I thought she was frightened by his words, and I interposed and put my arm under the poor fellow’s head.

“Lie down, Bill,” I said. “Does your head hurt you?”

“I don’t mind about my head,” he muttered, “but such a coward; treat a little bit of a girl like that. Where’s my notebook? Here, it’s time I went. Where’s that boy?” he cried angrily; “I know what London is. I won’t have him stop out of a night.”

He sank back exhausted, and as I turned from him to speak to Linny, I saw that she was in tears.

“He frightens you,” I said; “but you needn’t be afraid.”

“Oh no! I’m not,” she cried; “it’s only because I’m low and nervous. I shall be better soon.”

The surgeon came twice that day, and said the case was serious, but that there was no cause for alarm.

“He gives no clue, I suppose, to who struck him, my boy?” he said.

“No, sir,” I replied; “he talks about some man, and says he would know him again.”

“The police are trying hard to find out how it was. If they could find the girl it would be easy.”

I was just going to say, “Here she is, sir!” when I happened to glance at Linny, who was pale as ashes, and stood holding up her hand to me to be silent.

This confused me so that I hardly understood what the surgeon said, only that he wanted a stronger and more mature person to attend to Revitts; but when I told him that the landlady came up to help he was satisfied, and left, saying that he should come in again. He was no sooner gone than Linny caught me by the arm.

“Oh, what an escape!” she cried; “Antony, you know how wilful and cruel I have been to poor Steve?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding my head.

“And you know how I have promised him that I will always do as he wishes?”

“Yes, I know that too,” I said; “and I hope you will.”

“I will—indeed I will, Antony,” she wailed; “but please promise me, pray promise me, that no one shall ever know besides us that it was I whom Mr Revitts here—a—protected.”

“But the wretch of a fellow who behaved so badly to you, and beat poor Revitts like this, ought to be punished.”

“No, no—no, no?” she cried excitedly; “let it all pass now, Antony—dear Antony, for my sake.”

“I like you, Linny,” I said; “but I like dear old Revitts, too. He has been the best of friends to me, and I don’t see why a friend of yours should escape after serving him like this.”

“He—he is not a friend of mine now,” she said, half hysterically; “but, dear Antony, I could not bear for him to be punished. It was in a fit of passion. I had made him angry first. Please, please don’t say any more—I cannot bear it!”

She sank down on the hearth-rug, covering her face with her hands and sobbing bitterly, while I felt, boy-like, powerless to say anything to comfort her, till I exclaimed:

“Well, I won’t tell or say anything I know, Linny, if you will keep your word to Stephen.”

“I will—indeed I will, dear Antony,” she cried, starting up and catching both my hands. “I was very, very foolish, but I know better now, and it—it—it is all past.”

She said those last words in such a piteous, despairing way, looking so heart-broken, that my sympathies were now all on her side, and I promised her again that I would not tell Revitts or the police that she was the girl who had been in question. I repented of my promise later on, but at my time of life it was not likely that I should know how ready a woman who loves is to forgive the lapses of him who has won her heart, and of course I could not foresee the complications that would arise.

The surgeon came again, as he had promised, and after the examination of the patient, ordered some ice to be obtained to apply to his head, and directly he had gone I started off to fetch it, thinking as I did so that Hallett would soon be with us.

I was not long in getting a lump of bright, cold, clear ice, and on hurrying back, I heard voices in the room, when, to my surprise and delight, there stood Mary, but looking anything but pleased. She had thrown a large bundle on the floor, her large Paisley shawl across the foot of the bed, her umbrella on the table, and a basket crammed full of something or another was on a chair.

As for Mary herself, she was standing, very red in the face, her arms akimbo, her bonnet awry, and a fierce angry look in her eyes, before poor Linny, who was shrinking away from her, evidently in no little alarm.

“Oh, Antony?” she cried, “I’m so glad you’ve come! Who is this woman?”

“Who’s this woman, indeed!” cried Mary, now boiling over in her wrath; “‘this woman’ indeed! Perhaps you’ll tell her that I’m a poor deceived, foolish, trusting creature, who left her place at a moment’s notice to come and nuss him, and then find as I ain’t wanted, and that he’s already got his fine doll of a madam to wait on him.”

“Oh, Mary!” I cried; “you dear foolish old thing!”

“Yes, of course, that’s what I said I was, Master Antony, and even you turn agen me. But I might have known that such a fellow as William Revitts would have half-a-dozen fine madams ready to marry him.”

This was accompanied by pantings, and snorts, and little stamps of the foot, and a general look about poor Mary as if she were going to pull off her bonnet, jump upon it, and tear down her hair.

“Oh, you foolish old thing!” I cried, flying at her and literally hugging her in my delight at seeing her so soon, in the midst of my trouble.

“Be quiet, Master Antony,” she cried wrathfully, but throwing one arm round me as she spoke, in reply to my embrace. “But I won’t stand it, that I won’t.”

“But, my good woman,” faltered Linny.

“Don’t you ‘good woman’ me, slut!” cried Mary furiously. “I was going to give up and let you nurse him and till him, for aught I cared, but I won’t now. He’s engaged to me these four years, and he’s mine, and this is my place and room, and out you go, and the sooner the better; and—as for B—B—B—Bill—do take your hand from before my mouth, Master Antony! You’re a boy and don’t understand things. Now, then, madam, you pack!”

“Mary, be quiet!” I cried; “this is Mr Hallett’s sister, who kindly came to help nurse poor Bill till you could come. Bill does not know her; he never saw her before, but once.”

“Only once?” said Mary suspiciously.

“No, and then only for a minute. How could you be so foolish?”

“Because—because—because—” said Mary, bursting out into a passion of sobbing, “because my heart was half broke about my boy, and I only stopped to pack up a bundle and came—and then—when I found that pretty darling here, I—I—oh, my dear—my dear—my dear!” she cried, flinging herself on her knees at Linny’s feet, clutching her dress, and burying her wet face in the folds; “please—please—please forgive me, and don’t take no notice of my mad, foolish words. I’ve—I’ve—I’ve got such a temper! It’s a curse to me—and I was nearly distracted. Some day, p’r’aps, you’ll feel as bad and jealous as I did. Please—please forgive me!”

“Oh, yes, yes, yes!” cried Linny, whose tears now began to flow, and who, kneeling down in turn, drew poor Mary’s face to her breast, and the two remained thus, while I went and looked out of the window.

“Please—pray—forgive me!” sobbed Mary.

“Oh yes, yes, I do, indeed!” whispered Linny. “Antony is right; I never saw Mr Revitts but once, and I believe he is a very good man, and loves you dearly.”

“That he is, and that he does,” cried Mary, raising her red face, and throwing back her hair. “Though I don’t know why he should care for such a crooked-tempered, rough-tongued thing as I am.”

I thought I could understand why, as I saw Mary’s lit-up face, with her bonnet fallen back, and in spite of her distress looking quite as handsome as she was warm-hearted.

“But you do forgive me, dear?” she faltered, kissing Linny’s hands again and again.

“Forgive you?” cried Linny, kissing her ruddy cheek, “of course I do; you couldn’t help making the mistake.”

And, as if feeling that she was the cause of the trouble, Linny gave her such a look of tender sympathy that poor Mary was obliged to crouch down quite low on the floor again, and hug herself tight, and rock to and fro.

Immediately after, though, she was hastily wiping her eyes on the silken strings of her bonnet, which she tore off and sent flying to the other end of the room before dashing at me and giving me a hug, and then going down on her knees by Revitts’ pillow, and laying her cheek against his bandaged forehead.

“My poor old boy,” she whispered softly, “as if I could stay a minute from him!”

The next moment she was up, and giving a great gulp, as if to swallow down the emotion caused by Revitts’ appearance, she forced a smile upon her face, completely transforming it, and quickly but quietly dashed at her basket.

“I hadn’t time to do much, my dears,” she said to Linny and me collectively: “but I thought a pair o’ soles and a chicken must be right for the poor boy. Now, if you’ll only tell me where he keeps his pepper and salt, and the frying-pan and saucepans, I can get on. My sakes, poor boy, what a muddle he did live in, to be sure!”

We had to stop Mary in her culinary preparations by assuring her that the doctor had ordered only beef-tea.

“Then he may have chicken-broth, my dears,” she said; “I’m an old nuss, you know, though I wouldn’t attend to Mr Blakeford—eh, Master Antony?—for fear I should give him his lotion for outward application inside. But I can nuss, and not a step do I stir from this floor till I’ve made my poor old Bill well. Oh, if I only knew who done it!” she cried, with a flash of fierce rage; and as she glanced at Linny, the latter shrank away guiltily. Mary read her action wrongly, and plumped herself once more at the poor girl’s feet.

“Don’t you mind me, my dear!” she cried kissing her hands and her dress. “I’m a stupid, rough, jealous thing, and I was all on fire then, but I’m not now, and I humbly ask your pardon; as I says, God bless you, for coming to help my poor dear boy!”

There was another burst of sobbing here, and another embrace, when Mary jumped up again, all smiles, to apply a little fresh ice to the patient’s head, and gently coo over him, as if he were a baby.

After which, and having satisfied herself that the chicken-broth was progressing favourably, poor Mary felt it her duty to plump at Linny’s feet again, but she jumped up in confusion, as she heard the stairs crack as if some one were coming, and then she looked inquiringly at me, as the door softly opened and Hallett came in.

“Mr Hallett,” I said, “this is my dear old Mary, Mr Revitts’ friend, and she’s come up to nurse him. Mary, this is Miss Hallett’s brother.”

“Which I’m glad to see him,” said Mary, making a bob, and then growing redder in the face as she glanced at Linny, as if afraid that her late ebullition would be exposed.

“And I’m very glad to see you, Mary,” said Hallett, smiling and holding out his hand, which Mary took after interposing her clean pocket handkerchief, on the score that she had been cooking. “Antony often talked to me about you.”

“Have he, though?” said Mary, darting a gratified look at me.

“Often, of your great kindness to him. Your coming has helped us out of a great difficulty.”

“And your dear sister’s coming’s put my heart at rest, for I didn’t know, sir, what gin-drinking wretches might be neglecting my poor boy.”

“And how is the patient?” said Hallett, going to the bedside.

“The doctor says he is going on all right,” I replied.

“Is he a good doctor?” said Mary sharply.

“He is certain to be an eminent man,” said Hallett quietly; and his words partially pacified Mary.

“Because if he ain’t,” said Mary, “money shan’t stand in the way of his having the best in London.”

“Mary,” said Hallett, in his quiet telling way, and with a look that made poor Mary his firm friend, “a good surgeon will tell you that he can do much, but that the recovery of a patient principally depends upon the nurse. I see that Mr Revitts is safe in that respect, and I shall be only too glad to hear of his getting well.”

Mary seemed to have a ball rising in her throat, for she could not speak, and this time she forgot to place her pocket handkerchief over her hand, as she caught that of the visitor and kissed it.

“You can be quite at rest, Antony,” Hallett said then. “Mr Ruddle said he was sorry to hear about your friend, and he should leave it to your good sense to come back to work as soon as you could. Mr Lister is away—ill.”

I fancied that he knit his brows as he spoke, but it may have been fancy. Then, turning to Linny, he said:

“I am glad you are set at liberty, Linny. Our mother is very unwell, shall we go now?”

Linny nodded her assent, and put on her hat and jacket; but before they went Mary found it necessary to go down on her knees again, and in a whisper to ask Linny’s pardon; all of which Hallett took as an expression of gratitude, and shook hands warmly as he left.

I went with him down to the door to say good-night, and as we parted I asked him not to think I was neglecting him, now he was in such trouble with his model.

“I do not, my dear boy; and I never shall think ill of you for being faithful to your friends. Good-night; the model is buried for the present. When you can come again, we’ll try once more to bring it back to life.”

I stood watching them as they went together beneath the street lamps, and I was glad to see Linny clinging trustingly to her brother’s arm.

“Poor Linny!” I thought to myself. “She’s very fond of somebody who behaves badly to her. I wonder who it can be.”

Chapter Thirty One.

How Mary Broke Down.

Few as the minutes of my absence had been, Mary had done a good deal towards tidying up the room, and as I entered I could see her bonnet and shawl hanging lovingly up against the wall, side by side with poor Bill’s hat and greatcoat, just as if they had newly entered into the holy state of matrimony. There was beginning to be an appetising odour of chicken in the room, the bundle was tucked out of sight, the chairs in order, and it was plain to see that a clever housewife had been at work.

“Oh my, how you have growed, my dear!” whispered Mary ecstatically. “I never did see a boy improve so. And only to think of your running away from old Blakeford and finding out.”

She ran here to the bed to see if her sweetheart was all right, and then turned to me with open arms.

“Give us a kiss, dear,” she cried, and in a moment I was hugged tight in her arms and kissed and fondled again and again. “I am glad to see you, you can’t tell how glad,” she cried softly, “and it was good of you to write. No sooner did I get your letter, than I ups and tells Mrs Blakeford as I was going away directly, because my friend in London was ill.”

“But you did not say I wrote, Mary?” I cried in agony.

“Do you think I was such a silly, my dear? No, I’d got the letter safe in here,” she said, thrusting her hand inside her dress. “Well, as I was saying—stop a moment—let me look at the broth.”

She raised the lid, shut it again, had another look at Revitts, and then went on:

“Who should come in but old Blakeford, and he said gruffly that they couldn’t snare me, and, ‘Can’t spare me!’ I says; ‘well, you just must, for I’m going.’

“‘Then we shan’t pay you your wages,’ says old Blakeford. ‘Then I will make you,’ says I, ‘So now then. I’m not going to have people die for want of help, to please you.’

“‘Who is it then as is dying?’ says Mrs Blakeford.

“‘It’s my sweetheart, mum, if you must know,’ I says.

“‘Then all I can say is, that it’s very indelicate of you, a young unmarried woman, to go up and nurse a single man.’

“‘No more indelicate, mum,’ I says, ‘than for you to want me to nuss Mr Blakeford when he was ill.’

“‘But you didn’t do it,’ she says.

“‘No, mum,’ I says, ‘but you wanted me to, and what’s more, if the whole world and his wife come to me and told me it wasn’t right for me to go, I should go; so now then.’

“‘But when will you come back then, Mary?’ says Mrs Blakeford.

“‘Not at all, mum,’ I says, ‘for after going and nursing a single man as is dying for aught I know, I shan’t be fit company for the folks in this house. I’m going now directly, mum, and I shall leave my box and send for it and my wages too.’”

Here Mary had another look at the patient and the cooking.

“I wasn’t long getting off, I can tell you, and glad enough I was to get away. I’d ha’ left long enough ago, only I didn’t want to make any more changes till the big one, and there was only one as I minded leaving.”

“And that was little Hetty,” I said, as I understood her big change to mean her marriage.

“Yes, my dear, you’re right—little Hetty; and she came and sobbed and cried ever so, with her dear arms round my neck, till I told her that perhaps I might see you, and asked her if I might take you her love; and she sent it to you, and said she always wore your brooch.”

“And is she quite well?” I said, with sparkling eyes.

“Yes, and grows the neatest, prettiest, best girl that ever was. And now, my dear, I’m come to nuss my pore William till he’s well, and then—”

“Yes, Mary?” for she had paused.

“I shall get a place somewhere in London; for I shan’t go back.”

Then, after another look at the patient, she came back to me.

“Could you drink a cup o’ tea, dear?” she said.

“Yes, Mary, and you must want something.”

“Well, my dear, I do begin to feel a bit faint, for I hadn’t only just begun my breakfast when your letter came, and I haven’t had nothing since.”

The result was that the kettle was soon made to boil, and Mary seemed quite delighted to be pouring out for me and making the toast.

“Lor’, my dear, now it do seem like old times!” she cried.

“Only you’ve grown to look so handsome and well, Mary,” I said.

“Do I, my dear? Well, I am glad. Not as I care myself, but some people might. But, Lor’, I never looked well down at old Blakeford’s. My! what a row there was because you run away—”

“Was there?” I said with a shudder, half pleasure, half delight.

“Warn’t there?” said Mary, who kept running to the bedside at the slightest movement. “Bless your ’art, old Blakeford was nearly mad, and Miss Hetty ’most cried her eyes out, till I told her you’d be happier away, and then she cried ’em out more than ever, for fear her par should catch you. He was out days and days, until his leg got so bad he was really obliged to go to bed. The dog bit him, you know, the night you run away. Then there was the upset before the magistrates, and that Mr Wooster somehow managed to get the day, because master—I mean old Blakeford—hadn’t got the right witness. And that made master—I mean old Blakeford—worse. And now I don’t think I’ve any more to tell you, only you ain’t half eating your toast. My sakes! it do put me in mind of old times, for it was precious dull when you was gone.”

“Were you cross with me for running away, Mary?”

“I was then, for not telling me, but I soon got to think it was quite right.”

“I hope it was, Mary,” I said; “but did you ever see old Mr Rowle?”

“What, that yellow little man? oh, often; he used to come and talk to me about you, and when I said you was very ungrateful for running away, he used to stick up for you. He didn’t come very often, though,” continued Mary, correcting herself, “because he couldn’t smoke in my kitchen, else I believe he’d have come every night to talk about you.”

A slight moan from poor Revitts took Mary to the bedside, and very soon after she insisted upon my lying down and going to sleep a bit, and when I awoke the next morning, Mary was looking as fresh and wakeful as ever.

I don’t know to this day how Mary managed, for she never seemed to close an eye, but to be always watching over her “pore boy.” When I talked about her going to bed, she only laughed, and said that “a good nuss never wanted no sleep.”

“And now, my dear, you’ve been kep’ away from your work,” she said; “so, as soon as you’ve had your breakfast, you be off. I can manage till you come back. I don’t hold with neglecting nothing.”

She would not hear of opposition, so I left her the field, and went down to the office, where I saw Mr Hallett looking very pale and stern, and soon after I was at my old work, reading to Mr Jabez Rowle, who seemed very glad to see me back, complimenting me on my reading, by saying I was not quite so stupid as my substitute had been.

When I returned to Caroline Street, I found Mary in consultation with the landlady, who then descended, and, to my great delight, Revitts was, if anything, better.

Mary was very glad to see me back, and began to unfold her plans, to wit, that she had found that the front room was to let furnished, and she had taken it of Mrs Keswick, the landlady; for my use.

“It will be better for all of us, my dear,” she said, “so just you hold your tongue.”

I sat up late with Mary that night, and the next, and the next, talking about the past and the future, and still she seemed to get no sleep; but she always laughed about it, and declared that she went to sleep with one eye at a time. Be that as it may, a more patient, untiring nurse man never had, and right through poor Revitts’ weary state of delirium she was always by his pillow, always smiling and cheerful through the worst crisis, till, one night, when I returned to be met by her on the stairs; and, finger on lips, she led me into the front room, to fall on my neck, and silently sob as if her heart would break.

“Oh, Mary, Mary!” I said, “he’s worse; and I thought he seemed so much stronger this morning.”

“No, no, dear,” she sobbed, “he’s better. He opened his eyes this afternoon and knowed me, and said: ‘Ah, Mary, old gal, is that you?’”

Poor woman! The pent-up suffering that had been longing to burst forth, and which had all been hidden behind her mask of smiles, had come pouring out, and for the next half-hour Mary sobbed and wept in a quiet way till I was in despair. Then, to my surprise, she got up in a business-like manner, wiped her eyes, and smiled once more.

“There!” she exclaimed, “I’m better now.”

Chapter Thirty Two.

Coming Off.

With Revitts better there was no occasion for me to stop in of an evening, and as soon as I could I went on to the Halletts’, where I was warmly welcomed by the whole family. Mrs Hallett had a string of troubles to tell me, and interspersed with them I had narratives of how different matters used to be.

Linny was very affectionate and kind, but I could see that she looked pale and troubled. Her pretty face lighted up though, whenever her brother spoke, and I noted the air of satisfaction in Hallett’s face as he realised how his sister was keeping to her promise.

“Well, Antony,” he said cheerily, as soon as Mrs Hallett had retired, which was always before nine, Linny going away to attend upon her. “What do you say: shall we go and look at the model?”

“Yes,” I said eagerly; “I’ve been longing to have another turn at it.”

“You are not wearied out then?”

“Wearied out?” I cried, laughing; “no, and I never shall be till I see it a success.”

He sighed, but there was a smile upon his lip at the same time; and leading the way upstairs, we were soon busy over the model.

I saw at a glance that it had remained untouched, covered with the black cloth, ever since that unfortunate morning, so that I did not need his confirming words as he spoke:

“I thought I would leave it till you came.”

That night and many more were taken up in separating and repairing the broken parts of the little piece of mechanism, and then came the difficult task—how to contrive so that it should not again break down.

The days flew by and became weeks, and the weeks months, but still the problem was not solved. Experiment after experiment was tried without effect, and it seemed as if Hallett’s clever brain could only bring the work up to a certain point. Then it required the powers of a second brain to carry it on to perfection.

Meanwhile Revitts had gradually recovered, and more than once related to Mary and me how, on that unfortunate night, he had been attracted by a slight scuffle and a woman’s cry; that he had run up, and the woman had clung to him, which so enraged the man that he had struck him with the heavy stick that he carried, and that was all.

“Should you know the woman again?” I asked, feeling very guilty as the possessor of Linny’s secret.

“No,” he said. “She was only a little thing, quite a girl, and she had her veil down; but I should know the man, and if ever I do get hold of him, if I don’t give him a wunner my name ain’t Revitts.”

He was still too ill to resume his duties, but he used to go out for a walk every day, leaning on Mary’s arm, Mary herself now taking to the room that had been engaged ostensibly for me.

“It’s a-coming off, Antony,” said Revitts to me one night, when I had returned from the office in high glee; for I had received a note from Miss Carr, saying that she wished to see me the next day, she having just returned to town with her sister from a long round of visits, following a tour on the Continent.

“Coming off?” I said, looking from him to Mary and back.

“Don’t you take any notice or his nonsense,” cried Mary, running her arm up to the elbow in one of Revitts’ stockings.

“’Tain’t nonsense,” said Revitts, rubbing his hands softly; “it’s a-coming off soon as ever I’m quite well.”

“’Tain’t,” said Mary tartly. “I’m going to take another place as soon as ever you’re fit to leave.”

“Yes, my dear, so you are,” said Revitts, smiling at me in a soft, smooth, sheepish way; “a place as you won’t never leave no more.”

“It’s all stuff, Master Antony, and I’m not,” cried Mary.

“Tantrums won’t save you from it now, my dear,” said Revitts, shaking his head and pointing to the wall. “I says to myself as soon as ever I began to be able to think again, and see that there shawl and bonnet a-hanging so comfortable-like up again my greatcoat and hat—I says to myself, I says, she’s hung up her bonnet now and give in, and it can be Mrs William Revitts as soon as ever I like.”

“It’s all stuff and nonsense, I tell you. Don’t listen to him, Master Antony.”

“That ain’t a real tantrum,” said Revitts, rubbing his hands; “she’s give in—she’s give in.”

“I declare I wouldn’t have come a-nigh you, Bill, if I’d knowed you’d go on like that before Master Antony,” cried Mary, who was perfectly scarlet.

“Master Antony’s a gentleman,” said Revitts, “and he bears witness that you’ve give in; and, tantrums or no tantrums,” he cried, bringing his hand down upon the table with a bang, “you don’t go away no more. Look at that!”

He took a blue official envelope from his pocket and opened it, took out a letter, and smoothed it upon his knee.

“That’s dictation, that is, Antony. That’s what that is,” he cried, holding up his chin, and giving his head an official roll, as if to settle it in a stock that he was not wearing.

“Why, where did you get that letter?” cried Mary.

“Brought me this afternoon while you was out shopping,” said Revitts triumphantly. “Look here, Antony, that ain’t directed to P.C. Revitts, that ain’t;” and he handed me the envelope, which I read aloud:

“‘To Sergeant Revitts, VV Division, Caroline Street, Pentonville.’”

“‘Sergeant Revitts!’” he said, rising and buttoning up his coat, but pausing to reach down his stiff, shiny stock and buckle it on. “‘Sergeant Revitts,’ if you please; and if,” he said, walking up and down the room excitedly, “it ain’t Inspector Revitts some day, and after that Sooperintendent and a sword, my name ain’t Bill.”

“Hurrah!” I cried; “I am glad;” and then I caught his arm, for, poor fellow, he was very weak yet, and needed the chair Mary placed for him to sit down.

“And you so ill and weak still, and talking about such stuff,” she cried hastily.

“I’m getting round fast enough,” said Revitts; “it was only the ‘sergeant’ took my breath away a bit; that’s all. It’s all right, Antony. It’s a-coming off, ain’t it, Mary, my dear?”

“I am glad, Bill. But they couldn’t have made a better man a sergeant if they’d tried,” said Mary evasively.

“I said it was a-coming off,” said Revitts, “ain’t it?”

He leaned forward, and looked at Mary; she, with the stocking on one arm, and the long darning-needle in her hand, held it as if to keep him off. I saw Mary’s scarlet face gradually raised till her eyes met his, and then a soft, foolish-looking smile began to dawn upon one corner of her lips, pass over to the other, and gradually make them open to show her white teeth, before running right up, and half-closing her eyes. The same kind of smile, but much larger, appeared on Revitts’ face; and there they sat, smiling at one another, till I took up my cap and went out—even my exit being unnoticed—for another good servant was veritably lost to society. Mary’s “tantrums” were at an end.

Chapter Thirty Three.

I Have Another Lesson in Love.

I felt rather nervous about asking for leave, but summoning up courage the next day, I knocked at the principal’s door, and Mr Ruddle’s voice bade me come in.

“Well, Grace,” he said, nodding to me pleasantly, “I wanted to see you.”

I looked at him wonderingly.

“Only to say how glad I was to hear such a good account of you from Mr Rowle.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“But Mr Grimstone doesn’t give you much praise,” he continued, with rather a droll look in his eyes; “so I’m afraid you are a very ordinary sort of boy after all. Well, what do you want?”

“I had a note from Miss Carr, sir, saying she would like to see me to-day. Can I be spared?”

“Oh yes, certainly—certainly,” said the old gentleman. “And look here, my man, you’ve made a good friend in that lady. Try and deserve it—deserve it.”

“I will try, sir,” I said.

“That’s right,” he said; “and try hard.—Well, Grimstone, what is it?”

The overseer looked from me to his principal and back again, before rustling some papers in his hand in an ill-used way.

“It’s very hard on me, sir, that more attention isn’t paid to the business. Here are you and me toiling and moiling all day long to keep the customers right, and Mr John at races and steeplechases, and Lord knows what—anything but the business!”

“You’re always grumbling, Grimstone,” said Mr Ruddle testily. “Here, let me see.—You needn’t wait, Grace, you can go.”

I thanked him and hurried off, leaving the two immersed in some business matters, and thinking of nothing else now but my visit.

There was a warm welcome for me at Westmouth Street, and Miss Carr’s eyes looked bright and satisfied, I thought; but I could not help seeing that she was paler and thinner than when I saw her last.

“Well, Antony,” she said, after seating me beside her; “it seems an age since we met. What have you been doing?”

I told her—busy at the office, and also about Mr Revitts.

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “I was in the neighbourhood of Rowford last month, and I—”

“You were down there?” I said eagerly.

“Yes, Antony, and I had a long chat with the old clergyman there, when he visited my friends. He knew your father and mother.”

“Oh yes,” I said, as a flood of recollections came back.

“And he asked me very kindly about you, saying he thought Mr Blakeford had behaved very badly to Mr Grace.”

“I mean to pay Mr Blakeford every penny my dear father owed him,” I said, flushing, and getting up from the couch. “He shall not dare to speak ill of the dead.”

Miss Carr looked at me curiously, and I thought her manner was more tender to me as she took my hand and once more drew me to her side.

“About this Mr Revitts, Antony,” she said; “I think the time has come now when you should have different lodgings.”

“Oh, Miss Carr!” I exclaimed, “he has been so kind to me, such a good friend; and now poor Mary has come up, and they are going to be married, and Mary would be terribly disappointed if I went to lodge anywhere else. He’s Sergeant Revitts now: he has been promoted.”

“If Mr and Mrs Revitts set up a home of their own, that would be different,” she said thoughtfully. “But in your new position, Antony, you ought to be better provided for than while you were at the office.”

“In my new position?” I said, hesitating.

“Yes,” she said, smiling; and as I gazed in her face I thought what a happy man Mr Lister must be. “You said you would like to be an engineer, when I saw you last.”

“Oh yes,” I said, “and then I could help Mr Hallett with his model.”

There was a little spot of colour in each of her cheeks as I spoke, and a slight knitting of her brows; but she went on:

“I have consulted Mr Ruddle, who has spoken to the proprietors of a large engineering firm, and they have engaged to take you as a pupil.”

“Oh, Miss Carr!” I cried.

“But understand, Antony, that it is not merely sitting in an office and handling pen and drawing instruments: as I understand, the pupils have to learn to use lathe and tool, so as to thoroughly understand their profession. Shall you mind that?”

“Mind it?” I said. “Do you think I mind dirtying my hands? Why, my father had a regular workshop, where we used to make and mend. Besides, if I learn all that, I can help Mr Hallett.”

“Antony,” she said, in a weary, half-annoyed way, “don’t talk to me of Mr Hallett. My dear boy, you must not be a hero-worshipper.”

“I don’t know what a hero-worshipper is,” I said, feeling hurt; “but Mr Hallett has been so good to me that it would be ungrateful if I did not love and respect him.”

The two little spots of colour came in her cheeks again, and there was a strange twitching of her brows.

“Kinder to you than Mr Revitts?” she said softly.

“Oh, he’s not like William Revitts,” I said eagerly. “I can’t quite explain it; he’s so different. I like Revitts, but I always seem to have to teach him. Mr Hallett teaches me, Miss Carr. I think he will be a great man.”

“You foolish boy!” she cried, in a nervous, excited way. “There, then: it is settled. You will go and see Mr Girtley, at his office in Great George Street, Westminster, and you may hid adieu to the printing-office, and make your first start towards being a professional man as soon as ever you like.”

“I—I can never be grateful enough to you, Miss Carr,” I said, in a trembling voice.

“Oh yes, my dear boy, you can. Work on and succeed, and you will more than repay me.”

“Then I shall soon be out of debt,” I said joyfully.

“I hope so, Antony,” she said sadly; “but don’t be too sanguine.—Yes?”

“Mr Lister, ma’am,” said the servant who had entered. “He would be glad if you would see him for a few minutes.”

“Did—did you tell him I was not alone?” said Miss Carr, whose face seemed to have turned cold and stern.

“No, ma’am, I only took his message.”

“Show Mr Lister up,” she said, in a quiet dignified way; and, as the footman left the room—“Go in there, Antony, and wait until Mr Lister has gone. He will not stay long.”

She pointed to the folding-doors that opened into a larger drawing-room, followed me, and pointing to a table covered with books, returned, leaving the door ajar.

The various illustrated books were no little attraction, but the thought of becoming an engineer, and perhaps being of service to Mr Hallett, kept me from looking at them, and the next moment I heard the little drawing-room door open, and Mr Lister’s voice, every word being perfectly audible.

“Ah, my dear Miriam!” he exclaimed; “why, my dear girl, you look quite pale.”

I felt very guilty, and as if I were listening purposely to the words passing in the next room; so, taking up a book, I tried to read it, but in spite of my efforts every word came plain and clear, and I heard all.

“I have been a little unwell,” said Miss Carr quietly.

“My poor girl!” he said tenderly. “Ah, you have been away too much! Miriam, dear, I want you to listen to me to-day. When am I to make you my prisoner, and keep you from these errant ways?”

There was no reply, and a dead silence seemed to fall.

“Why, Miriam, darling,” said Mr Lister, in a tender voice, “you are more unwell than I thought for; why not have advice?”

“No, no,” she said hastily. “I am quite well, indeed, John.”

“Then why are you so cold and strange and distant? Have I offended you, darling?”

“Oh no, John; indeed, no.”

“I could not visit you more frequently, Miriam. I could not join you abroad, for, as you know, my circumstances are only moderate, and I have to keep very, very close to the business. Ruddle does not spare me much. Are you annoyed because you think I slight you?”

“Oh no, no, John—indeed no.”

“Yes, that is it,” he cried; “you think I ought to have come down when you were staying at Rowford.”

“Can you not believe me, John,” she said coldly, “when I tell you that there are no grounds for such a charge? You ought to know me better now.”

“I do know you better, my own, my beautiful darling,” he cried passionately; “but you drive me nearly mad. We have been engaged now so many weary months, and yet I seem to occupy no warmer position in your heart than when I first met you. It is dreadful!”

I heard him get up and walk about the room, while she sat perfectly silent.

“You rebuff me,” he cried angrily. “You are cold and distant; my every advance is met by some chilly look. Good heavens! Miriam, are we engaged to be man and wife, or not?”

“You are unjust, John, in your anger,” said Miss Carr in her low, sweet voice. “I do not rebuff you, and I am never intentionally cold. Indeed, I try to meet you as the man who is to be my husband.”

“And lover?” he said, with an almost imperceptible sneer.

“As my husband,” she said quietly; “a holier, greater title far than that of lover. We are not girl and boy, John Lister, and I do not think that you would love and respect me the more for acting like some weak, silly school-girl, who does not know her own mind.”

“She would at least be warmer in her love.”

“But not nearly so lasting,” said Miss Carr, in a low, almost pathetic voice. “I look upon our engagement as so sacred a thing that I think we ought not to hurry on our marriage as you wish. Besides, was it not understood that we should wait awhile?”