Fenn George Manville
The Story of Antony Grace

Chapter Fifty Seven.
I Find I Have a Temper

I went to Miss Carr’s nearly every evening now, to report progress; for her instructions to me, after a consultation between Mr Jabez, Mr Ruddle, Mr Girtley, and myself, were that neither expense nor time was to be spared in perfecting the machine.

We had gone carefully into the reasons for the breakdown, and were compelled reluctantly to own that sooner or later the mechanism would have failed; for besides the part I named, we found several weak points in the construction – faults that only a superhuman intelligence could have guarded against. The malignant act had only hastened the catastrophe.

It was a cruel trick, and though we could not bring it home, we had not a doubt that the dastardly act was committed by Jem Smith, who was the instrument of John Lister. A little examination showed how easily the back premises could be entered by anyone coming along behind from Lister’s, and there was some talk of prosecution, but Hallett was ill, and it was abandoned.

For the blow he had received from a piece of the machinery had produced serious injury to the head, and day after day I had very bad news to convey to Miss Carr. The poor fellow seemed to have broken down utterly, and kept his bed. He used to try to appear cheerful; but it was evident that he took the matter bitterly to heart, and at times gave up all hope of ever perfecting the machine.

It was pitiful to see his remorseful looks when Mr Jabez came to see him of an evening; Mr Peter, who always accompanied his brother, stopping in my room to smoke a long pipe I kept on purpose for him, whether I was at home or no, and from time to time he had consultations with Tom Girtley, who kept putting off a communication that he said he had to make till he had his task done.

I used to notice that he and Mr Peter had a great deal to say to each other, but I was too much taken up with my troubles about Hallett and the machine to pay much heed; for sometimes the idea forced itself upon me that my poor friend would never live to realise his hopes.

Time glided on, and I used to sit with him in an evening, and tell him how we had progressed during the day; but it made no impression whatever; he used only to lie and dream, never referring once to Miss Carr’s behaviour on that wretched day; in fact, I used to fancy sometimes that he was in such a state from his injury that he had not thoroughly realised what did occur.

It was indeed a dreary time; for poor Mrs Hallett, when, led by a sense of duty, I used to go and sit with her, always had a reproachful look for me, and, no matter what I said, she always seemed to make the worst of matters.

But for Linny and Tom Girtley, the place would have been gloomy indeed, but the latter was always bright and cheerful, and Linny entirely changed. There was no open love-making, but a quiet feeling of respect seemed to have sprung up between them, and I hardly knew what was going on, only when it was brought to my attention by Mr Jabez, or Revitts, or Mary.

“I should have thought as you wouldn’t have liked that there friend of yourn cutting you out in the way he do, Ant’ny,” said Revitts, one day; “I don’t want to make mischief, but this here is my – our – house,” he added by way of correction, “and I don’t think as a young man as is a friend of yourn ought to come down my stairs with his arm round a certain young lady’s waist.”

“Go along, do, with your stuff and nonsense, William,” exclaimed Mary sharply. “What do you know about such things?”

“Lots,” said Bill, grinning with delight, and then becoming preternaturally serious; “I felt it to be my dooty to tell Ant’ny, and I have.”

“You don’t know nothing about it,” said Mary, tittering; “he don’t know what we know, do he, Master Antony?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Mary,” I replied.

“Oh do, of course not, Master Antony; but I shouldn’t like a certain young lady down at Rowford to hear you say so.”

“Phew!” whistled Revitts, and feeling very boyish and conscious, I made my retreat, for I was bound for Westmouth Street, and had stopped to have ten minutes’ chat downstairs with my old friends on the way.

I found Miss Carr looking very thin and anxious, and she listened eagerly to my account of howl was progressing at the works.

“Mr Girtley tells me that you are doing wonders, Antony,” she said, in a curious, hesitating way, for we both seemed to be fencing, and as if we disliked to talk of the subject nearest to our hearts.

She was the first to cast off the foolish reserve though, and to ask after Hallett’s health.

“The doctors don’t seem to help him a bit,” I said sadly. “Poor fellow! he thinks so much about the failure of his hopes, and it is heart-breaking to see him. He toiled for it so long. Oh, Miss Carr, if I only knew for certain that it was John Lister who caused the breakdown, I should almost feel as if I could kill him.”

“Kill him with your contempt, Antony,” she said sternly; and then, as we went on talking about Hallett’s illness, she became very much agitated, and I saw that she was in tears, which she hastily repressed as her sister entered the room.

The next evening when I went, I found her alone, for her sister had gone to stay a few days with some friends. My news was worse than ever, and there was no fencing the question that night, as she turned very pale when I gave my report.

“But the invention, Antony,” she exclaimed excitedly; “tell me how it is going on.”

“We are working at it as fast as possible,” I replied; “it takes a long time, but that is unavoidable.”

“If you love Stephen Hallett,” she said suddenly, and she looked full in my face, “get his invention finished and perfect. Let it succeed, and you will have done more for him than any doctor. Work, Antony, work. I ask you for – for – Pray, pray strive on.”

“I will – I am striving,” I said, “with all my might. It was a cruel blow for him though, just as success was in his grasp.”

“Mr Lister is here, ma’am,” said the servant, entering the room.

“I have forbidden Mr Lister my house,” said Miss Carr sternly.

“Yes, ma’am, but he forced his way in, and – ”

Before the man could finish his sentence, John Lister was in the room, looking flushed and excited, and he almost thrust the servant out and closed the door.

As he caught sight of me his face turned white with rage, but he controlled himself, and turned to where Miss Carr was standing, looking very beautiful in her anger.

I had started up, and stepped between them, but she motioned me back to my seat, while he joined his hands in a piteous way, and said in a low voice:

“I could not help it. I was obliged to come. Pray, pray, Miriam, hear me now.”

“Mr Lister!” she said, with a look of contempt that should have driven him away – “Mr Lister! and once more here?”

“Miriam,” he exclaimed, “you drive me to distraction. Do you think that such a love as mine is to be crushed?”

“Love!” she said, looking: at him contemptuously.

“Yes; love,” he cried. “I’ll prove to you my love by saying that now – even now, knowing what I do, I will forgive the past, and will try to save you from disgrace.”

“Mr Lister, you force me to listen to you,” she replied, “for I will not degrade you by ringing for the servants and having you removed. Pray say what you mean. Hush, Antony, let him speak. Perhaps after he has said all he wishes, he may leave me in peace.”

“Leave you in peace – you will not degrade me!” he cried, stung to madness and despair by her looks and words. “Look here, Miriam Carr, you compel me to speak as I do before this wretched boy.”

“Hush, Antony, be silent,” she cried, as I started up, stung in my turn by his contemptuous tone.

“Yes: sit down, spaniel, lap-dog – miserable cur!” he cried; and I felt my teeth grit together with such a sensation of rage a as I had never known before. “And now, as for you – you blind, foolish woman,” he continued, as I awakened to the fact that he had been drinking heavily, “since fair means will not succeed, foul means shall.”

“Say what you wish to say, Mr Lister,” she replied coldly, “for I warn you that this is the last time you shall speak to me. If you force yourself into my presence again, my servants shall hand you over to the police.”

“What!” he cried, with a forced laugh, “me? – hand me over to the police? You – you think I have been drinking, but you are wrong.”

No one had hinted at such a thing, but he felt it, and went on.

“I came to tell you to-night, that I will ignore the past, that I will overlook your disgraceful intimacy with this low, contemptible compositor, the blackguardly friend of this boy – the man who has obtained a hold upon you, and who, with his companions, is draining your purse – I say I will overlook all this, and, ignoring the past, take you for my wife, if you will promise to give up this wretched crew.”

There was no answer, but I sat there feeling as if I must fling myself at him, young and slight as I was, in her defence, but she stood there like a statue, fixing him with her eyes, while he went on raving. His face was flushed, and there was a hot, fiery look in his eyes, while his lips were white and parched.

“You shall not go on like this,” he continued. “You are my betrothed wife, and I will not stand by and see your name dragged in the mire by these wretched adventurers. Even now your name has become a by-word and a shame, the talk in every pot-house where low-class printers meet, and it is to save you from this that I would still take you to be my wife.”

Still she did not speak, and a look from her restrained me, when I would have done something to protect her from his insults, every one of which seemed to sting me to the heart.

“I know I am to blame,” he said passionately, “for letting you take and warm that young viper into life; but I could not tell. It shall end, though, now. I have written to your brother-in-law, and he will help to drag you from amongst this swindling crew.”

“Have you said all you wish to say, Mr Lister?” she replied coldly.

“No,” he cried, stung into a fresh burst by her words; “no, I have not. No, I tell you,” he cried, taking a step forward, as if believing in his drunken fit that she was shrinking from him, and being conquered by his importunities; “No, I tell you – no: and I never shall give up till you consent to be my wife. Do you take me for a drivelling boy, to be put off like this, Miriam?” he cried, catching at her hand, but she drew it back. “Do you wish to save your name from disgrace?”

She did not answer, while he approached closer.

“You don’t speak,” he said hoarsely. “Do you know what they say about you and this fellow Hallett?”

Still she made no reply.

“They say,” he hissed, and thrusting out his face, he whispered something to her, when, in an instant, I saw her countenance change, and her white hand struck him full across the lips.

Uttering an oath, he caught her tightly by the arms, but I could bear no more. With my whole strength called up I leaped at him, and seized him by the throat, believing in my power of turning him forcibly from the room.

The events of the next few moments seem now as if seen through a mist, for in the brief struggle that ensued I was easily mastered by the powerful man whom I had engaged.

I have some indistinct memory of our swaying here and there, and then of having a heavy fall. My next recollection is of feeling sick and drowsy, and seeing Miss Carr and one of the servants bending over me and bathing my face.

For some few minutes I could not understand what it all meant but by degrees the feeling of sickness passed away, and I looked hastily round the room.

Miss Carr, who was deadly pale, told the maid to fetch some brandy, and as soon as we were alone, she knelt by me, and held one of my hands to her lips.

“Are you much hurt, Antony?” she said tenderly. “I did not send for the doctor. That wretched man has made sufficient scandal as it is.”

“Hurt? No – not much,” I said rather faintly. “Where is he?”

“Gone,” she said; and then she uttered a sigh of relief, as I sat up and placed one hand to my head, feeling confused, and as if I had gone back some years, and that this was not Miss Carr but Mary, and that this was Mr Blakeford’s again.

The confusion soon passed off, though, and after I had drunk the spirit that was brought me, I felt less giddy and strange.

Miss Carr sat watching me, looking very pale, but I could realise now that she was terribly agitated.

Before an hour had passed I felt ready to talk to her, and beg her to take some steps for her protection.

“If I had only been a strong man,” I exclaimed passionately. “Oh, Miss Carr, pray, pray do something,” I cried again; “this is horrible. I cannot bear to see you insulted by that wretch.”

“I have decided to do something, Antony,” she said in a low voice; and a faint colour came into her pale cheeks. “He will not be able to force his way to me again.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “He is a madman. I am sure he had been drinking to-night.”

“No one but a madman would have behaved as he did, Antony,” she said. “But be at rest about me. I have, after a bitter struggle with myself, decided what to do.”

“But you will not go away?” I said.

She shook her head.

“No; my path lies here,” she said quietly. “Antony, I want your help to-morrow.”

“Yes: what shall I do?” I asked.

“Will you ask Miss Hallett to come here to me – will you bring her?”

“Bring Linny Hallett here?” I exclaimed in surprise.

“Yes: bring her here,” she said softly; and there was a peculiar tone in her voice as she spoke. “And now about yourself. Do you feel well enough to go home? Shall one of the servants see you safely back?”

“Oh no,” I said; “I am better now. I shall take a cab. But I do not feel comfortable to leave you alone.”

“You need not fear,” she said quietly. “The house will be closed as soon as you leave. To-morrow I shall take steps for my protection.”

I left her soon after, thinking about her request, and as far as I could make out she intended to keep Linny with her, feeling that Lister would not dare to face her again, when the woman he had sought to injure had been made her companion.

Still I did not feel satisfied, and the only consoling thing was to be found in Lister’s own words, that he had sent for Miss Carr’s relative; and, in the hope that he might soon arrive, I reached home and went up at once to see Hallett, who looked very ill, but smiled sadly, as I sat down by his side.

“Better,” he said; “I think I’m better, but I don’t know, Antony: sometimes I feel as if it would be happier if I could be altogether at rest.”

“Oh, Hallett!” I cried.

“Yes, you are right,” he said. “What would become of them? I must get better, Antony, better, but sometimes – sometimes – ”

“Don’t speak to him any more,” whispered Mary; “he is so weak that his poor head wanders.”

“But, Mary, the doctor; does he say there is any danger?”

“No, no, my dear. He is to sleep all he can. There, go down now. I’m going to sit up to-night.”

I went down, leaving Mary to her weary vigil; for my head ached terribly, and I was very giddy.

Linny was in the sitting-room, and she uttered an exclamation.

“Why, how bad you look, Antony!” she cried.

“Do I?” I said with a laugh; “I had a bit of a fall, and it has shaken me. But, Linny dear, I have a message for you.”

“For me, Antony?” she said, turning white.

“Yes; Miss Carr bade me ask you to come with me to her house to-morrow.”

“I go to her house!” faltered Linny.

“Yes, dear, you will – will you not? I am sure it is important.”

“But I could not leave poor Steve.”

“It need not take long,” I said; “you will go and see what she wants?”

Linny looked at me in silence for a few moments, and there was something very dreamy in her face.

“If you think it right that I should go, Antony,” she said at last, “I will. Shall I speak to Stephen first?”

“No,” I said. “Hear first what she has to say.”

She promised, and I went down to my own room, glad to lay my aching head upon the pillow; where I soon fell into a troubled sleep, dreaming of my encounter with John Lister, and feeling again the heavy blow as we fell, and my head struck the broad, flat fender with a sickening crash, that seemed to be repeated again and again.

Chapter Fifty Eight.
This Crisis

By my advice, then, Linny said nothing to Hallett about where she was going, and as I had stayed at home from the works on purpose, we started in pretty good time for Westmouth Street, my companion’s flushed cheeks making her look extremely bright and pretty. She was terribly nervous though, and when we neared the door I feared that she would not muster up courage enough to enter.

“I feel as if I dare not meet her, Antony,” she faltered.

“What nonsense!” I said, smiling. “Why, she is gentleness and tenderness itself. Come, be a woman.”

“It is not that,” she whispered. “There is so much more behind. Take me back, Antony. Why does she want to see me?”

“I don’t know,” I replied; “but you may be sure that it is for some good purpose.”

“Do – do you think she will be angry with me – about – about, you know whom I mean? Do you think it is to reproach me?”

“I am sure it is not, Linny. Come, come, make an effort. I don’t know, but I feel sure it is to try and help poor Hallett.”

“Do you think so?” she faltered, “or is this only to persuade me to go on? Oh, Antony, you cannot think how my heart beats with dread. I am afraid of this Miss Carr, and feel as if I ought to hate her.”

“Come along, you foolish girl,” I said; and, yielding to me, I led her up to the door, when we were admitted, and at once ushered into the drawing-room.

I did not at first see Miss Carr, but the door had hardly closed before I heard the rustle of her dress, and the next moment Linny was folded in her arms, and returning the embrace.

I stood for a moment listening to Linny’s passionate sobs, and then stole softly away, going down into the dining-room to stand gazing out of the window, but seeing nothing of the passers-by, only in imagination the scene upstairs, and wondering why Miss Carr had sent for Linny.

I was kept in doubt for quite an hour, and then the servant came and asked me to step upstairs, where, to my surprise, I found Miss Carr dressed for going out.

She held out her hand to me as I entered, and pressed mine.

“Don’t speak to me, Antony,” she whispered, in a broken voice. “I am going home with Linny Hallett.”

“You – going home – with – ”

The rest died on my lips as I saw her draw down her veil to hide her convulsed face, and then, without a word, she rang the bell, the door was opened for us, and, feeling like one in a dream, I walked in silence by their side to the house in Great Ormond Street, where, as I placed my latchkey in the door, it was snatched open, and Mary, with her face red with weeping, stood there.

“Oh, Miss Linny! Oh, Master Antony!” she sobbed, “I’m so glad you’ve come. The doctor sent me out of the room, and I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Is my brother worse?” sobbed Linny hysterically.

“Yes, yes, my dear, I’m – I’m afraid so;” and as she spoke, a hand clutched mine, and I heard Miss Carr moan:

“God help me! Am I too late?”

Linny was already half up the first flight, when Miss Carr whispered to me in agonised tones:

“Take me to him, Antony, quick. This is no time for pride and shame.”

With my heart beating painfully, I led her upstairs, and, as we reached the first floor, we met the doctor coming down.

I felt Miss Carr’s hand pressing mine convulsively, and I spoke, my voice sounding hoarse and strange.

“Is he worse, doctor?”

“I’m afraid he cannot last many hours longer,” he said. “I have done all I can, but I have a patient a few streets off whom I must see, and I will return in a short time. He must not be left.”

“Shall I go in and try to prepare him for your coming?” I whispered to Miss Carr, as we stood outside his door.

“No, no!” she cried. “Take me to him at once, or I cannot bear it. Don’t speak to me, Antony. Don’t let anybody speak to me; but you must not leave me for a moment.”

Linny was at the door, standing with the handle in her hand, but she drew back as we approached, and then ran sobbing into the next room, where Mrs Hallett was sitting helpless and alone.

I obeyed Miss Carr, leading her quickly inside, and closing the door, where she stood for a moment with one hand pressing her breast; then she hastily tore off bonnet and veil, gazing at the pale face and great dreamy eyes fixed wistfully upon the window.

The noise of our entry, slight as it was, seemed to rouse him, for he turned his gaze heavily from the light towards where we stood, and I saw that he held in his thin wasted hand a little grey kid glove, the glove we had found in Epping Forest that happy day when we met the sisters in our wait.

But that was forgotten in the change I saw come over the poor fellow’s face. It seemed to light up; the dull dreamy eyes dilated; a look of dread, of wonder, or joy seemed to come into them, and then he seemed to make an effort, and stared wildly round the room, but only to gaze at Miss Carr again as she stood with her hands half raised in a beseeching way, till, with a wild cry, his head seemed to fall back and he lay without motion.

I heard steps outside, but I darted to the door, and stopped Linny and Mary from entering, hardly knowing what I did, as Miss Carr took a step or two forward, and threw herself upon her knees by the bed, dinging to his hands, placing one arm beneath the helpless head, and sobbing and moaning passionately.

“I have killed him – I have killed him! and I came that he might live. Stephen, my love, my hero, speak to me – speak to me! God of heaven, spare him to me, or let me die?”

I was one moment about to summon help, the next prepared to defend the door against all comers, and again the next ready to stop my ears and flee from the room. But she had bidden me stay, and not leave her, and I felt it a painful duty to be her companion at such a time. So there I stayed, throwing myself in a chair by the door, my head bent down, seeming to see all, to identify every act, but with my face buried in my hands, though hearing every impassioned word.

“No,” I heard him say softly; “no: such words as those would have brought me from the grave. But why – why did you come?”

“I could bear it no longer,” she moaned. “I have fought against it till my life has been one long agony. I have felt that my place was here – at your side – that my words, my prayers would make you live; and yet I have stayed away, letting my pride – my fear of the world – dictate, when my heart told me that you loved me and were almost dying for my sake.”

“Loved you!” he whispered faintly; “loved you – Miriam, I dare not say how much!”

His voice was the merest whisper, and in my dread I started up, and approached them, fearing the worst; but there was such a smile of peace and restfulness upon his lips as Miss Carr bent over him, that I dared not interrupt them, the feeling being upon me that if he was to die it would be better so.

There was a long silence then, one which he broke at last.

“Why did you come?” he said.

The words seemed to electrify her, and she raised her head to gaze on his face.

“Why did I come?” she whispered; “because they told me you were dying, and I could bear it no longer. I came to tell you of my love, of the love I have fought against so long, but only to make it grow. To tell you, my poor brave hero, that the world is nothing to us, and that we must be estranged no more. Stephen, I love you with all my soul, and you must live – live to call me wife – live to protect me, for I want your help and your brave right hand to be my defence. This is unwomanly – shameless, if you will – but do you think I have not known your love for me, and the true brave fight that you have made? Has not my heart shared your every hope, and sorrowed with you when you have failed? And, poor weak fool that I have been, have I not stood aloof, saying that you should come to me, and yet worshipped you – reverenced you the more for your honour and your pride? But that is all past now. It is not too late. Live for me, Stephen, my own brave martyr, and let the past be one long sad dream: for I love you, I love you, God only knows how well!” She hid her burning, agitated face in his breast, and his two thin hands tremblingly and slowly rose to clasp her head; and there the white fingers lay motionless in the rich, dark hair.

There was again a pause, which he was the first to break, and his voice was still but a whisper, as he muttered something that I did not hear, though I gathered it from her smothered reply.

“Oh, no, no: let there be an end to that!” she sobbed. “Money? Fortune? Why should that keep us apart, when it might help you in your gallant fight? Let me be your help and stay. Stephen – Stephen!” she wailed piteously, “have I not asked you – I, a woman – to make me your wife?”

“Yes,” he said softly, and I heard him sigh; “but it cannot be – it cannot be.”

“What?” she cried passionately, as she half-started from him, but clung to him still; “now that I have conquered my wretched, miserable pride, will you raise up another barrier between us?”

“Oh, hush, hush!” he whispered; “you are opening to me the gates of a worldly heaven, but I dare not enter in.”

“Then I have done nothing,” she wailed, as she seemed to crouch there now in shame and confusion by his bed. “Stephen, you humble me in the dust; my shameless declaration – my appeal – do I not ask you to take me – pray you to make me your wife? Oh, what am I saying?” she cried passionately; “it is too late – too late!”

“No,” he panted; and his words seemed to come each with a greater effort, “not – too late – your words – have – given – me life. Miriam – come – hold me in your arms, and I shall stay. A little while ago I felt that all was past, but now, strength seems to come – we must wait – I shall conquer yet – give me strength to fight – to strive – wait for me, darling – I’ll win you yet, and – God of heaven! hear her prayer – and let me – ah – ”

“Quick, Miss Carr, he has fainted,” I whispered, as his head sank back. “Let me give him this.”

His face was so ghastly that I thought he had passed away; but, without waiting to pour it out in a glass, I hastily trickled some of the strong stimulant medicine he was taking between his lips, and as Miss Carr, with agonised face, knelt beside him, holding his hand, there was a quiver in his eyelids, and a faint pressure of the hand that held his.

The signs were slight, but they told us that he had but fainted, and when, at last, he re-opened his eyes, they rested upon Miss Carr with such a look of rest and joy, that it was impossible to extinguish the hope that he might yet recover.

He was too weak to speak, for the interview had been so powerful a shock to his system, that it was quite possible for the change we saw in his face to be but the precursor of one greater, so that it was with a sense of relief that I heard the doctor’s step once more upon the stairs, and Mary’s knock at the door.

I offered Miss Carr my hand to take her into the next room, and as if waking out of a dream, she hastily rose and smoothed back her hair, but only to bend down over the sufferer, and whisper a few words, to which he replied with a yearning look that seemed to bring a sensation of choking to my throat.

The doctor passed us on his way in, and I led Miss Carr into the front room, where Linny was sobbing on the couch, and Mrs Hallett was sitting back, very white and thin, in her chair.

As we entered Linny started up, and in response to Miss Carr’s extended hands, threw her arms round her neck, and kissed her passionately.

“Dear sister!” I heard Miss Carr murmur; and then she turned from Linny, who left her and glanced at me.

“Mrs Hallett,” I said simply, “this is Miss Carr.”

I hardly knew what I said, for Miriam was so changed. There was a look of tenderness in her eyes, and a sweet smile just dawning upon her lip as she advanced towards the invalid’s chair, and bent down to kiss her; but with a passionate look of jealousy and dislike, Hallett’s mother shrank from her.

“Don’t touch me!” she cried. “I knew that you were here, but I could not leave my chair to curse you. Murderess, you have killed him! You are the woman who has blasted my poor boy’s life!”

A piteous look of horror came into Miss Carr’s face, and she sank upon her knees by the great cushioned chair.

“Oh, no, no!” she said piteously. “Do not accuse me. You do not – you cannot know.”

“Know!” cried Mrs Hallett, whiter than ever with the feeling of dislike and passion that animated her; “do I not know how you have robbed me of my poor dying boy’s love; how you have come between us, and filled his head with foolish notions to invent – to make money – for you?”

“Oh, Mrs Hallett, for shame! – for shame!” I exclaimed indignantly.

“Silence, boy!” she cried, looking at me vindictively. “Do you think I do not know all because I sit helpless here? You, too, have helped to encourage him in his madness, when he might have been a professional man by now. I know all, little as you think it, even how you, and this woman, too, fought against me. That child might have been the wife of a good man now, only that he was this wretched creature’s lover.”

“Mother,” cried Linny passionately, “are you mad? How dare you say such things!”

“That’s well,” she cried. “You turn against me now. My boy is dying: you have killed him amongst you, and the same grave will hold us both.”

“Mrs Hallett,” said Miss Carr, in her low, sweet voice; and the flush of pride that had come for a few moments into her face faded out, leaving nothing but resignation there, as she crouched there upon her knees by the invalid’s chair, “you do not know me, or you would not speak to me like this. Don’t turn from me,” she said, taking One of the poor weak woman’s trembling hands.

“Out of my sight, wretch!” she cried. “Your handsome face fascinated him; your pride has killed him! and you have come to triumph in your work.”

“No, no, no,” sobbed Miss Carr in a broken voice, “do not condemn me unheard; I have come to tell him how I love him. Mother, dear mother,” she cried, “be pitiful to me, and join your prayers to mine that he may live.”