Fenn George Manville
The Story of Antony Grace

Chapter Forty.
Hallett’s News

I was so staggered by this strange behaviour that I did not think of pursuit. Moreover, I was in the act of helping poor Mary to the ladder placed for her to descend, while she, poor thing, gave vent to a cutting sigh, and clung tightly to my hand.

As we stood together on the pavement, our eyes met, and there was something so piteous in the poor woman’s face, that it roused me to action, and catching her hand, I drew it through my arm.

“He has gone to get a glass of ale, Mary,” I said cheerfully. “Let’s see if we can see him.”

“No,” she said huskily; “he has gone: he has left me for good, Master Antony, and I’m a miserable, wretched woman.”

“Oh, nonsense,” I cried. “Come along. We shall find him.”

“No,” she said, in a decisive way; “he has gone. He’s been regretting it ever since this morning.”

“Don’t, pray; don’t cry, Mary,” I whispered in alarm, for I was afraid of a scene in the streets.

“No, my dear; don’t you be afraid of that,” she said, with a sigh. “I’ll try and bear it till we get home; but I won’t promise for any longer.”

“Don’t you be foolish, Mary,” I said sharply. “He has not left you. He’s too fond of you. Let’s see if he is in the bar.”

Mary sighed; but she allowed herself to be led where I pleased, and for the next half-hour we stood peering about in every likely place for the truant husband, but in vain; and at last, feeling that it was useless to search longer, I reluctantly turned to poor, patient, silent Mary, wondering greatly that she had not burst out into a “tantrum,” and said that we had better go home.

“Go where?” she said dolefully.

“Home,” I replied, “to your lodgings.”

“My lodgings, Master Antony,” she wailed. “I have no lodgings. I’m a poor, helpless, forsaken woman!”

“Oh, what nonsense, Mary,” I cried, hurrying her along; “don’t be so foolish!” – for I was in mortal terror of a violent burst of tears. “Come along, do. Here!” I shouted; “cab!” – and I sighed with relief as I got her inside, and gave the man directions to take us to Caroline Street, Pentonville.

But even in the cab Mary held up, striving hard, poor woman, to master her emotion – her pride, no doubt, helping her to preserve her calmness till she got to the happy home.

“I dare say we shall find him upstairs,” I said, after giving the cabman a shilling more than his fare; but though there was a light burning, and the landlady had spread the table, to make the place look welcome to the newly wedded pair, there was no sign of Revitts, and we neither of us, in our shame, dared to ask if he had been back.

On the contrary, we gladly got to the rooms – Revitts’ one having now expanded to three – and once there, Mary gasped out: “Master Antony dear, shut and lock the door – quick – quick!” I hastily did as she bade me, and as I turned, it was to see poor Mary tear off her bonnet and scarf, throw herself on the little couch, cover her face with her hands, and lie there crying and sobbing in a very passion of grief, misery, and shame.

It was no noisy outburst: it was too deep for that; but the poor woman had to relieve herself of the day’s disappointment and agony, and there she lay, beating down and stifling every hysterical cry that fought for exit, while her breast heaved with the terrible emotion.

I was too young then to realise the full extent of the shame and abasement the poor woman must have felt, but all the same I sympathised with her deeply, and in my weak, boyish way did all I could to console her, but in vain. For quite an hour the outburst continued, till at last, quite in despair, I cried out: “Oh Mary, Mary! what can I do to comfort you?” She jumped up into a sitting position, then; threw back her dishevelled hair; wiped her eyes, and looked, in spite of her red and swollen lids, more herself.

“Oh, my own dear boy,” she cried, “what a wicked, selfish wretch I am!” and, catching me in her arms, she kissed me very tenderly.

“There,” she said with a piteous smile; “it’s all over now, Master Antony, and I won’t cry another drop. You’re a dear, good, affectionate boy – that you are, and I’ll never forget it, and you’re as hungry as a hundred hunters, I know.”

In spite of my protestations, she hastened to make that balm for all sorrows – a cup of tea.

“But I don’t want it, Mary,” I protested, “and I’m not hungry.”

“Then I do, and I am,” she said, smiling. “You won’t mind having a cup with me, I know, Master Antony dear. Just like old times.”

“Well, I will try,” I said, “and I dare say Revitts will be back by then.”

Mary glanced at the little Dutch clock in the corner, and saw that it pointed to eleven; then, shaking her head, she said sadly:

“No, I don’t think he’ll come back.”

“But you don’t think he has run away, Mary?”

“I don’t know what to think, my dear,” she said; “I only hope that he won’t come to any harm, poor boy. It’s his poor head, and that’s why he turned so strange.”

“Yes,” I said joyfully, as I saw that at last she had taken the common-sense view of the case, “that’s it, depend upon it, Mary; and if he does not come soon, we’ll give notice to the police, and they’ll find him out.”

“No, my dear, don’t do that,” she said piteously; “it would be like shaming the poor boy; for if his mates got to know that he had run away like on his wedding-day, he’d never hear the last of it.”

I was obliged to agree in the truth of this remark, and I began to realise then, in spite of poor Mary’s rough exterior and ignorance, what a depth of patient endurance and thoughtfulness there was in the nature of a woman. Her first outburst of uncontrollable grief past, she was ready to sit down and patiently bear her load of sorrow, waiting for what more trouble might come; for I am fully convinced that the poor woman looked forward to no pleasure in her married life. In spite of her belief that her husband’s strange conduct was in some way due to his late accident, she felt convinced that he was regretting his marriage, and, if that were so now, she had no hope of winning him to a better state.

We were both weary, and when the tea had been finished, Mary carefully washed up the things, saw that there was a sufficiency of water, and kept it nearly on the boil. Then she reset the tea-things in the tidiest way, ready for Revitts if he should like a cup when he came home, and, on second thoughts, put out another cup and saucer.

“It will be more sociable like, Master Antony,” she said, by way of excuse; “for, of course, I don’t want no more, though I do bless them Chinese as invented tea, which is a blessing to our seck.”

These preparations made, and a glance round the sitting-room having been given, Mary uttered a deep sigh, took up her work-basket, placed it on her knees, thrust her hand into a black stocking, and began to darn.

I sat talking to her in a low voice for some time, feeling sincerely sorry for her, and wondering what could have become of Revitts, but at last, in spite of my honest sympathy, I began to nod, and the various objects in the room grew indistinct.

“Hadn’t you better go to bed, my dear?” said a voice near me; and I started into wakefulness, and found Mary standing near me, with the black stocking-covered hand resting on one shoulder, while with the other she brushed my hair off my forehead.

“Bed? No!” I exclaimed, shaking myself. “I couldn’t help feeling sleepy, Mary; but I shan’t go to bed.”

“But it’s close upon twelve o’clock, dear, and you must be tired out.”

“Never mind, Mary; to-morrow’s Sunday,” I said, with a yawn; and I went on once more talking to her about the engineer’s office, and how I got on with young Girtley and his father, till my voice trailed off, and through a mist I could see Mary with that black stocking upon her hand poking about it with a great needle.

Then the black stocking seemed to swell and swell to a mountain’s size, till it was like one huge mass, which Mary kept attacking and stabbing with a long, bright steel lance, but without avail, for it still grew, and grew, and grew, till it seemed about to overwhelm me, and in my horror I was trying vainly to cry to her to stab it again, when I started up into wakefulness, for there was the faint tinkle of a bell.

Mary, too, had leaped to her feet, and was clinging to me.

“Once!” she whispered.

There was another tinkle, very softly given.

“Twice!” whispered Mary.

Then another very faint ring.

“Three?” whispered Mary; “it’s Jones.”

“It’s Revitts come home!” I said joyfully.

“No,” she said, still clinging to me. “He has the latchkey.”

“Lost it,” I said. “Let me run down and let him in.”

“No, no. Wait a moment,” said Mary faintly. “I can’t bear it yet. There’s something wrong with my poor boy.”

“There isn’t,” I cried impatiently.

“There is,” she said hoarsely; “and they’ve come to bring the news.”

She clung to me spasmodically, but loosed me directly after, as she said quietly: “I can bear it now.”

I ran down softly, and opened the door to admit the wandering husband; but to my astonishment, in place of Revitts, there stood Stephen Hallett.

“Hallett!” I exclaimed.

“Yes,” he said. “I saw a light in the rooms. Is Revitts there?”

“No,” I said. “Not yet.”

“On duty?”

“No; he was married to-day.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, in a strange tone of voice. “I remember now. Who is upstairs?”

“Mrs Revitts – Mary.”

“Let us go up,” he said; “I’ll step up quietly.”

I was the more confused and muddled for having just awakened from a deep sleep, and somehow, all this seemed to be part of the dream connected with the great black mass that had threatened to fall upon me. I should not have been the least surprised if I had suddenly awakened and found myself alone, when, after closing the door, I led Hallett upstairs to the little front room where Mary was standing with dilated eyes, staring hard at the door.

“You, Mr Hallett?” she exclaimed, as he half staggered in, and then, staring round, seemed to reel, and caught my hand as I helped him to a seat.

“Tell me,” gasped Mary, catching at his hand; “is it very bad?”

He nodded.

“Give me – water,” he panted. “I am – exhausted.”

Mary rushed to the little cupboard for a glass, and the brandy that had been kept on Revitts behalf, and hastily pouring some into a glass with water, she held it to him, and he drained it at a draught.

“Now, tell me,” she exclaimed. “Where is he – what is it – have you seen him?”

“No,” he cried hoarsely, as he clenched his fist and held it before him! “no, or I should have struck him dead.”

“Mr Hallett!” she cried, starting. Then, in a piteous voice, “Oh, tell me, please – what has he done? He is my husband, my own dear boy! Pray, pray, tell me – he was half-mad. Oh, what have – what have I done!”

“Is she mad?” cried Hallett angrily. “Where is her husband – where is Revitts?”

“We don’t know,” I said hastily. “We are waiting for him.”

“I want him directly,” he said hoarsely. “I could not go to a stranger.”

“What is the matter, Hallett?” I cried. “Pray, speak out. What can I do?”

“Nothing,” he said hoarsely. “Yes; tell him to come – no, bring him to me. Do you hear?”

“Yes,” I faltered.

“At any hour – whenever he comes,” said Hallett, speaking now angrily, as he recovered under the stimulus of the brandy.

“Then there is something terribly wrong,” I said.

“Wrong? Yes. My God!” he muttered, “that I should have to tell it – Linny has gone?”

Chapter Forty One.
The Bridegroom’s Return

“Oh, Hallett!” I cried, catching his hand, as the poor fellow sat blankly gazing before him in his mute despair. “It is a mistake; she could not be so wicked.”

“Wicked!” he said with a curious laugh. “Was it wicked, after all her promises – my forgiveness – my gentle, loving words? I was a fool. I believed that she was weaning herself from it all, and trying to forget. A woman would have read her at a glance; but I, a poor, mad dreamer, always away, or buried in that attic, saw nothing, only that she was very quiet, and thin, and sad.”

“Did she tell you that she would go, Hallett?” I asked, hardly knowing what I said.

“No, Antony,” I replied, in a dreary tone.

“Did you have any quarrel?”

“No; not lately. She was most affectionate – poor child! and her heart must have been sore with the thought or what she was about to do. Only this evening, before I went up into the attic to dream over my invention, she crept to my side, put her little arms round my neck, and kissed me, as she used when she was a tiny child, and said how sorry she was that she had given me so much pain. Antony, lad,” he cried passionately, “I went up to my task to-night a happy man, thinking that one heavy load was taken off my shoulders, and that the future was going to be brighter for us both. For, Antony, in my cold, dreamy way, I love her very dearly, and so I have ever since she was a little wilful child.”

He sat gazing at me with such a piteous expression in his face that his words went to my heart, and I heard Mary give quite a gulp.

“But, Hallett,” I said, “you are not sure; she may have gone to some friend’s. She may have come back by this time.”

“Come back?” he said fiercely. “No; she has not come back. Not yet. Some day she will return, poor strayed lamb!” he added, gazing straight before him, his voice softening and his arms extending, as if he pictured the whole scene and was about to take her to his heart.

“But are you sure that she has really gone?” I cried.

“Sure? Read that.”

I took the crumpled paper with trembling fingers, and saw at a glance that he was right. In ill-written, hardly decipherable words, the poor girl told her brother that she could bear it no longer, but that she had fled with the man who possessed her heart.

I stared blankly at poor Hallett, as he took the note from my hand, read it once more through, crushed it in his hand with a fierce look, and thrust it back in his pocket.

“Is it – is it your poor dear sister who has gone?” said Mary excitedly.

“Yes,” he cried, with his passion mastering him once more; and his hands opened and shut, as if eager to seize some one by the throat – “yes; some villain has led her away. But let me stand face to face with him, and then – ”

He paused in his low, painful utterance, gazing from me to Mary, who stood with her hand upon his arm.

“And I thought my trouble the biggest in the world,” she sobbed; “but you’ve done right, sir, to come for my William. He’ll find them if they’re anywhere on the face of this earth, and they shall be found. Poor dear! and her with her pretty girlish gentle face as I was so jealous of. I’m only a silly foolish woman, sir,” she cried, with the tears falling fast, “but I may be of some good. If I’m along with my William when he finds ’em, she may listen to me and come back, when she wouldn’t mind him, and I’ll follow it out to the end.”

“You’re – you’re a good woman,” said Hallett hoarsely, “and may God bless you. But your husband – where is your husband? We must lose no time.”

“Master Antony?” cried Mary, and then, as if awakening once more to her position, and speaking in tones of bitterness – “Oh, what has come to my William? He must be found!”

“Send him on to me,” said Hallett. “I’ll go back now. Antony, will you come?”

“Why, there’s your poor mother, too,” cried Mary, “and all alone! I can help her, at all events!”

As Mary spoke, she hurried to get her work-a-day bonnet and shawl, while Hallett stood gazing at her in a dazed and helpless way.

“Your pore sister did come and help my pore boy when he was bad, and – Oh!”

Mary uttered a fierce, angry cry. Bonnet and shawl fell from her hands, her jaw dropped, her ruddy face grew mottled with patches of white, and her eyes dilated. Her whole aspect was that of one about to have a fit, and I took a step towards her.

She motioned me fiercely back, and tore at her throat, as if she were suffocating.

“I see it now!” she cried hoarsely, “I see it now! Oh, the wretch, the wretch! Only let me find him again!”

“Mary!” I cried, “what is it?”

“I see it all now!” she cried again. “Then I was right. She come – she come here, and poisoned him with her soft looks and ways, and he’s left me – to go away with her to-night!”

Mary made a clutch at vacancy; and then, tottering, would have fallen, had not Hallett been close at hand to catch her and help her to the couch, where the poor woman lay perfectly insensible, having fainted for probably the first time in her life.

“What does she mean?” cried Hallett, as he made, with me, ineffectual efforts to restore her.

“She was angry and jealous the night she came and found Linny here attending on Revitts,” I cried in a bewildered way, hardly knowing what I said. “And now she thinks, because he has left her to-night, that he has gone away with Linny.”

“Poor fool?” he said sadly.

“Revitts was very strange to-day,” I said, “and – and – and, Hallett – oh, forgive me,” I said, “I’ve kept something from you.”

“What!” he cried, catching me so fiercely by the arm that he caused me acute pain. “Don’t tell me that I have been deceived, too, in you!”

“No, Hallett, I haven’t deceived you,” I said. “I kept something back that I ought to have told you.”

“You kept something back!” he cried. “Speak – speak at once, Antony, or – or – speak, boy; I’m not master of myself!”

“Linny begged me so hard not to tell you, and I consented, on condition that she would mind what you said.”

“Then – then you knew that she was carrying on with this man,” he cried savagely, neither of us seeing that Mary had come to, and was watching us with distended eyes.

“No, no, Hallett,” I cried. “I did not – indeed, I did not; I only knew it was he who so beat poor Revitts.”

“Who was he – what’s his name?” cried Mary, seizing my other arm, and shaking it.

“I don’t know; I never knew,” I cried, faring badly between them. “Linny begged me, on her knees, not to tell that it was her friend who beat Revitts when he interfered, and when she promised me she would always obey you, Hallett, I said I would keep her secret.”

“Then Linny was the girl poor Revitts saved,” said Hallett hoarsely.

“Yes!” cried Mary. “The villain! he likes her pretty face. I was right; and I’ve been a fool to faint and go on. But that’s over now,” she cried savagely. “I’ll wait here till he does come back; for I’m his lawful wife; and when he does come – Oh!”

Mary uttered that “Oh!” through her closed teeth, and all the revenge that was in her nature seemed to come to the surface, while Hallett walked up and down the room.

“You have no idea, Antony, who he is?”

“No, on my word, Hallett,” I cried; “I never knew. Pray forgive me! I thought it was for the best.”

“Yes, yes, lad,” he said; “you did it from kindness. It has made no difference. I could not have borne it for you to deceive me, Antony,” he said, with a sweet, sad smile lighting his face as I caught his hand. “Come, let us go. Mary, my good soul, you are labouring under a mistake. Good-night!”

“No, you don’t!” cried Mary, setting her back against the door. “You don’t go till he comes back. He’ll come and bring your sister here. And you may take her home. I’ll talk to him. What?” she cried triumphantly; “what did I say?”

She turned, and threw open the door; for just then a heavy step was heard below, and, as if expecting some strange scene, Hallett and I stood watching, as step after step creaked beneath a heavy weight, till whoever was coming reached the landing and staggered into the room.

“You – ”

Mary’s sentence was never finished; for her husband’s look, as he strode in with Linny in his arms, seemed to crush her.

“I couldn’t get him, too, but I marked him,” he said, panting, “and I’ve stopped his little game.”

“Linny!” cried Hallett to the half-insensible girl, who seemed to glide from Revitts’ arms, and sink in a heap at his feet, while I stood gazing in utter amazement at the turn things had taken.

“Mary, my lass! a drop of something – anything – I’m about done.”

Mary’s teeth gritted together, and she darted a vindictive look at her husband; but she obeyed him, fetching out a bottle of gin and a glass, which he filled and drained before speaking.

“Not so strong as I was,” he cried excitedly. “Glad you’re here, sir. I ketched sight of him with her from the ’bus as we come in. I’d a known him from a thousand – him as give it me, you know. ‘Look arter Mary,’ I says to Master Antony here, and I was after him like a shot, hanging on to the hansom cab he’d got her in, and I never left ’em till it stopped down at Richmond, at a willa by the water-side.”

“Richmond?” said Hallett blankly.

“Richmond, as I’d been through twice that very day. When the cab stops – I’d made the man right with half-a-crown, and – telling him I was in the police – my gentleman gets out, and I had him like a shot. I might have got help a dozen times, but I wanted to tackle him myself, as I allus swore I would,” cried Revitts savagely; “but he was too much for me again. I’m stronger than him, but he’s got tricks, and he put me on my back after a good tussle – just look at my noo things! – and afore I could get up again, he was off, running like a coward as he is. But I brought her back, not knowing till I had her under the gas-lamp as it was Master Ant’ny’s friend and your sister, and she’d told me who she was, and asked me in a curious crying way to take her back to Master Ant’ny, as she said was the only one who’d help her now.”

“You – you brought her home in the cab?” cried Mary hoarsely.

“Yes, my lass, and it’s cost me half-a-sov altogether; but I’ve spoilt his game, whoever he is. Poor little lass, she’s been about mad ever since I got into the cab, a-clinging to me.”

“Yes,” hissed Mary.

“And crying and sobbing, and I couldn’t comfort her, not a bit.”

“No!” said Mary softly, through her teeth.

“It was rather rough on you, Mary, my gal,” said Revitts; “but you would marry a police-officer, and dooty must be done.”

Mary was about to speak; but he held up his hand, for Linny seemed to be coming to, and Hallett was kneeling on the floor by her side.

“Mary – Bill,” I whispered; for the right thing to do seemed to be suggested to me then. “Let us go and leave them.”

“Right you are, Master Ant’ny, and always was,” said Bill hoarsely; and, passing his arm round Mary’s waist, he drew her into the other room, by which time the scales seemed to have fallen from poor Mary’s eyes, for the first thing she did, as soon as we were in the room, was to plump down on her knees, clasp those of her husband, lay her cheek against them, and cry, ready to break her heart.

Probably the excitement of his adventure had had a good effect upon Revitts; for the strange fit of petulance and obstinacy had passed away, and he was all eagerness and smiles.

“Why, what a gal you are, Polly!” he exclaimed. “Don’t cry, my lass; I was obliged to go off. Pleecemen ain’t their own masters.”

“Oh, Bill dear,” sobbed Mary, “and I’ve been thinking sich things.”

“Of course you have, Polly,” he said; “and I’ve been wishing myself at home, but I knew Ant’ny would take care of you. Poor little lass! I’ve had a nice job, I can tell you. I say, Ant’ny, is she quite right in her head?”

“Oh yes,” I said.

“Well, she don’t look it then, poor little woman. One minute she was begging and praying me to take her home, the next she was scolding me for interfering. Then she’d be quiet for a few minutes, and then she’d want to jump out of the cab; and it’s my belief that if I’d let her go, she’d have throwed herself into the river.”

“Poor soul?” murmured Mary.

“Then she’d take a fit of not wanting to go home, saying that she daren’t never go there any more, and that I wasn’t to take her home, but to you, Ant’ny; and that sorter thing’s been going on all the time, till she seemed to be quite worn out, and I was so puzzled as to what to do, that I thought I would bring her on here, and let Mary do what she thought best.”

“Did you think that, Bill?” said Mary eagerly.

“Of course I did. I don’t understand women-folk, and I hate having jobs that puts ’em in my care. ‘Mary’ll settle it all right,’ I says, ‘and know what’s best to be done.’”

“Antony,” said a voice at the door just then, and I went out to find Hallett looking very pale, and Linny lying insensible upon the couch.

“Oh, Hallett!” I exclaimed. “Shall Mary come?”

“Yes – directly,” he said hoarsely; and there was something very strange about his manner. “Shut the door, boy,” he continued. “Look here, Antony; this note was inside the neck of her dress, as I opened it to give her air. You need not read it; but look at it. Tell me whether you have ever seen the handwriting before.”

I took the letter from him, and looked at the bold, free, rather peculiar hand, which I recognised on the instant.

“Oh yes!” I exclaimed, “often.”

“Whose writing is it?” he said, pressing his hand upon his breast to keep down the emotion that seemed ready to choke him. “Don’t speak rashly, Antony; make sure before you give an answer.”

“But I am sure,” I exclaimed, without a moment’s hesitation. “I have often seen it – it is Mr Lister’s writing. What does it mean?”

“Mean?” cried Hallett, in a low, deep voice, as if speaking to some one across the room, for he was not looking at me. “My God, what does it not mean, but that John Lister is a villain!”