Fenn George Manville
The Story of Antony Grace

Poor weak suffering Mrs Hallett’s face changed; her lips quivered, her menacing hands trembled, and with a low moaning wail she bent down, clasping Miriam to her breast, sobbing aloud as she rocked herself to and fro, while Miriam clung to her, caressing the thin worn face, and drawing herself closer and closer in a tight embrace.

How long this lasted I cannot tell, but it was interrupted by the entrance of the doctor, who came in very softly.

“He is in a very critical state,” he said in answer to the inquiring eyes of all. “Hush, my good woman, you must try and be firm,” he said parenthetically to Mary, who was trying hard to smother her sobs in her apron. “A nurse ought to have no feelings – I mean no sympathies. As I said,” he continued, “our patient is in a very critical state, but he has now sunk into a very restful sleep. There is an access of strength in the pulse that, however, may only be due to excitement, but your visit, ma’am,” he continued to Miss Carr, “seems to have wrought a change – mind,” he added hastily, “I don’t say for the better, but there is a decided change. I will come in again in a couple of hours or so; in the meantime, let some one sit by his bed ready to give him the stimulant the instant he wakes, but sleep may now mean life.”

The doctor went softly away, and as he closed the door, Miss Carr knelt down once more by Mrs Hallett’s chair, holding up her face, and the poor invalid hung back for a moment, and then kissed her passionately.

“God forgive me!” she wailed. “I did not indeed know you, but you have robbed me of my poor boy’s love.”

“No, no,” whispered Miss Carr softly. “No, no, dear mother, we will love you more and more.”

Miriam Carr’s place was by the sick man’s pillow all that afternoon and evening, and right through the weary night. I had been to Westmouth Street to say that she might not return, and at her wish had brought back from Harley Street one of the most eminent men in the profession, who held a consultation with Hallett’s doctor.

The great man endorsed all that had been done, and sent joy into every breast as he said that the crisis was past, but that on no account was the patient to be roused.

And all that night he slept, and on and on till about eight o’clock the next morning, Miss Carr never once leaving his side, or ceasing to watch with sleepless eyes for the slightest change.

I had gone softly into the room the next morning, just as he uttered a low sigh and opened his eyes.

“Ah, Antony,” he said in a low whisper, “I have had such a happy, happy dream! I dreamed that – Oh, God, I thank Thee – it was true!”

For just then there was a slight movement by his pillow, and the next moment his poor weary head was resting upon Miriam’s breast.

Chapter Fifty Nine.
My Inheritance

“Oh, Master Antony, ain’t she a’ angel!” exclaimed Mary.

This was one day during Stephen Hallett’s convalescence, for from the hour of Miriam Carr’s visit, he had steadily begun to mend. He showed no disposition, however, to take advantage of his position, and I was not a spectator of his further interviews with Miss Carr. She looked brighter and happier than I had seen her look for a long time, and by degrees I learned that with his returning strength Hallett had determined upon achieving success before he would ask her to be his wife.

He asked her, so she told me, if he had not her to thank for the assistance he had received, and she had confessed to the little deception, begging him to let her help him in the future; but this he had refused.

“No,” he said; “let me be worthy of you, Miriam. I shall be happier if I try,” and she gave way, after exacting a promise from him that if he really needed her assistance he would speak.

Hallett seemed rapidly to regain his strength now, and appeared to be living a new life as he devoted himself heart and soul to the perfection of his invention.

I believe that I honestly worked as hard, but, in spite of all our efforts, nine months passed away, and still the work was not complete.

It was a pleasant time, though, and I could not help noticing the change that had come over Miriam Carr.

Her sister’s husband had given up his appointment, and was now in town, residing with his young wife in Westmouth Street, where, about once a fortnight, there was a meeting, when Hallett would take Linny, and Tom Girtley, Mr Ruddle, and several of our friends would assemble.

I look back upon it as a very happy time. The old sordid feeling of my wretched early life seemed to have dropped away, now that I was winning my way in the world; and Hallett had told me that I was to share in his success, even as I had shared his labours.

There was no love-making in the ordinary sense of the word, but when Miriam Carr and Hallett met, there would be one long earnest look, a pressure of the hand; and then – they waited. It was his wish, and she reverenced his noble pride.

One evening we were very few at Westmouth Street; only Linny, Tom Girtley, Mr Jabez, Hallett, and myself, when I found that there was a surprise for me.

Tea was over, and I was just about to propose some music, when Tom Girtley took a black bag from under one of the settees, and opening it, drew out a packet of papers.

What was going to happen? I asked myself. Was it a marriage settlement, or some deed of gift, or an arrangement by which Hallett was to be forced to take what was needful to complete his work?

Neither. For at the first words uttered by Tom Girtley, I realised that it was something to do with the half-forgotten papers brought up by Mr Peter Rowle.

“Miss Carr wished me to enter into the business matters here, Grace,” he said; “and I should have talked to you more about it, only we thought it better to elucidate everything first, and to make perfectly sure.”

“But – ” I began.

“Wait a moment,” he said, in regular legal form. “This has been a very intricate affair, and I was obliged to tread very cautiously, so as not to alarm the enemy. Before I had been at work a fortnight, I found that I needed the help of more experienced brains, so I consulted my principals.”

“And ran up a long bill?” I said, laughing.

“Yes, a very long one,” he said, “which Miss Carr, your friend and patroness, has paid.”

“Oh, Miss Carr!” I exclaimed.

“Listen, Antony,” she said, looking at me with a proud and loving look.

“Being sure, then, of our pay,” said Tom Girtley, laughing, “we went to work with the greatest of zeal, making another long bill, and for result – after completely disentangling everything – after finding out, without his knowing it, that the enemy was well worth powder and shot – in short, after making the ground perfectly safe under our feet, I have the pleasure of announcing to you, my dear fellow, that not only is there a sum of five hundred pounds a year belonging to you in your lawful right – ”

“Five hundred!” I ejaculated.

“But the same amount, with interest and compound interest, due to you for the past eight or nine years, and which that scoundrel Blakeford will be obliged to refund.”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, as I realised my position.

“The rascal plundered your poor father of goodness knows how much, but of that we can get no trace. This five hundred pounds a-year, though, and the accumulation, is as certainly yours as if you had inherited it at once, and no judge in England can gainsay it. Let me be the first to – ”

“No!” exclaimed Miss Carr, rising; “let me, Antony, my dear boy, be the first to congratulate you, not so much because of the amount, as that it will give you a feeling of independence, and take away that sense of obligation to pay your father’s debts.”

She took my hands in hers, and kissed me, and then, feeling giddy with surprise, I turned away for a moment, but only to falter out something in a disconnected way.

“Peter’s delighted,” cried Mr Jabez; and he took a tremendous pinch of snuff, “I shall be turning out somebody’s long-lost child myself before long, only we are twins, and I shall have to share it.”

“I am very, very glad, Antony,” said Hallett, shaking hands.

“And now, if you like, Grace,” continued Tom Girtley, “we will set to work to-morrow to make that scoundrel Blakeford disgorge; and before a fortnight is passed, if he doesn’t mind, he will be cooling his heels in prison, for I have undeniable proofs of his illegal practices. At the very least he will be struck off the Rolls. It is utter professional ruin.”

I did not speak, for the scene seemed to change to that wretched office once more, and I saw the black, forbidding, threatening face gazing down into mine. I heard the harsh, bitter voice reviling my poor dead father, and a shudder ran through me. The next moment, though, I was dwelling on the soft sweet face of Hetty, and as I recalled the child’s many gentle, loving acts, there was a strange choking sensation at my breast, and I walked into the little drawing-room to be alone.

“Antony, dear,” said a soft, sweet voice, “you seem quite overcome.”

“I shall be better directly,” I said. “But, dear Miss Carr, this must be stopped. You all meant so kindly by me, but if proceedings have begun they must not go on.”

“They have commenced, Antony, by my wishes,” she said in a low voice, as she took my hand. “Antony, my dear boy, you have always seemed to me like a younger brother whom it was my duty to protect, and I have felt quite a bitter hatred against this man for the wrongs he did you.”

“Not wrongs,” I said. “It was through him I came to know you and Hallett.”

“Yes, but he has wronged you cruelly.”

“Miss Carr,” I said – “let me call you sister.”

“Always,” she whispered, as she laid her hand upon my shoulder. “This would be ruin and disgrace to Mr Blakeford?”

“Which he richly deserves,” she said warmly.

“And it would be ruin and disgrace – ”

“Yes,” she said, for I had stopped – “ruin and disgrace – ”

“To his poor child?”

“Hetty?”

“Yes: to the tender-hearted little girl whose bright face is the only sunny spot in that time of sorrow. I don’t know,” I said passionately, “I may be wrong. I may see her now, and the fancy be driven away, but I feel as if I love little Hetty Blakeford with all my heart.”

There was silence in the little drawing-room, where all was in shadow, while in the larger well-lighted room the others talked in a low voice, and as I glanced there once, and saw Linny Hallett gazing up in Tom Girtley’s face, I wondered whether Hetty Blakeford would ever look as tenderly in mine.

It was a passing fancy, and I was brought back to the present by feeling Miss Carr’s warm lips brush my cheek.

“We will wait and see, Antony,” she said gravely. “Miss Blakeford’s feelings must be spared.”

Chapter Sixty.
At Last

The work of two years was complete, and I stood by Hallett as he watched the trial of the machine where it was set up at our great factory; and though we tried hard to find weak points, we were compelled to declare that it was as near perfection as human hands could make it.

Hallett was very pale and quiet; he displayed no excitement, no joy; and I felt rather disappointed at his apathy.

“Well,” said Mr Jabez, aside to me, “if I didn’t know that the poor fellow was ill, I should have said that he didn’t care that! whether the thing succeeded or not.”

That! was the snap of the fingers which followed the taking of a pinch of snuff.

But he was ill. Poor fellow! He never seemed to have recovered from the shock his system had received during his late illness; and, though he had rallied and seemed strong and well, there had been times when he would turn ghastly white, and startle me by his looks.

I mentioned it more than once to Miss Carr, who begged him to see a physician; but he said it was nothing, and with a smile he used to tell her that the perfection of the machine and a change would completely restore him to health.

This we both believed; – and I can honestly say that I strove with all my might to inspire the workmen with the spirit in which I toiled.

And now the new machine was finished. All that remained was to have it removed to Mr Ruddle’s place for a public inspection of its merits.

There had been something so depressing in the fate of the lost machine that I strenuously advised that the trial should be made where the present one now stood, but Hallett was averse to it.

“No, Antony,” he said quietly; “I am neither vindictive nor spiteful, and doubtless that man feels that he has good cause for hating me. Men of his stamp always blame others for their own failings. I am, I say, neither vindictive nor spiteful, but, feeling as I do, that he was the cause of our last breakdown, I am determined that the scene of our last failure shall also be the scene of our triumph.”

This silenced opposition, and the workpeople were soon at work, taking down and re-setting up Hallett’s masterpiece at the old place.

For my part, I was regularly worn out. I had worked very hard, and felt as if I was so deeply interested in the success that I must make it this time a foregone conclusion. Hallett’s health worried me a great, deal too, and in addition to this, I was in more trouble than I can very well express about my affair with Mr Blakeford.

My objections to the proceedings had come too late. As Tom Girtley said, it was quite within our province to withdraw, and leave him in possession of his ill-gotten gains, but the attack upon his character as a solicitor was one which he was bound to disprove – in other words, he could not afford to let it drop.

“And what is he doing?” I asked.

“Riding the high horse,” said Tom. “Tony, my boy, I think you are wrong.”

“If Linny’s father were alive, and he had injured you, Tom, would you seize the first opportunity to ruin him?”

“Am I to answer that question as solicitor to client, or between friends?”

“As you like, only let’s have the truth.”

Tom Girtley rubbed one of his ears, and a dry comical look came into his countenance.

“Well, Tony, old fellow – ” he began.

“Oh, come,” I cried, “that form of address is not legal, so it is between friends.”

“Just as you like,” he said, laughing. “Well, Tony, old fellow, under the circumstances, I should put the screw on, especially if I knew him to be a scoundrel. First and foremost, I should have his consent to our marriage; secondly, I should inspect his money affairs, and if they were in a satisfactory state, I should make the sneak disgorge.”

“But you would not ruin him, and blast his character, for his child’s sake?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then, suppose the young lady did not care for you?”

“Then I should fire at the old man hotter and stronger, so us to ease my wounded feelings.”

“No, you wouldn’t, Tom,” I said; “so don’t humbug.”

“You’re a rum fellow, Tony,” he retorted, “and ’pon my word it’s precious disappointing. Here’s old Peter Rowle been hoarding this up for his ‘dear boy,’ as the smoky old cockolorum calls you, and old Jabez in a high state of delight too. Then Miss Carr has spent no end over it, and thought she had secured you your rights, and now you kick us all over.”

“I can’t help it, Tom,” I said. “I feel as if I should be a brute if I went on.”

“I say, Tony,” he said, after a pause, “how long is it since you have seen the young lady?”

“Nine years.”

“What do you say to a run down to Rowford?”

“Run down?” I said eagerly. “No, I could not. I am too busy over the preparations for the trial.”

“Nonsense, man. You told me only yesterday that you had done all your part, and that you meant to take a rest. I should like a run in the country.”

“At Miss Carr’s expense,” I said spitefully, “and charge it in her bill of costs as out of pocket.”

“Oh, that settles it,” he cried, jumping up and stamping about the room, roaring with laughter. “You must go for a run. Why, my dear boy, your liver’s out of order, or you, Antony Grace, the amiable, would never have made a speech like that. Look here, Tony, you have overdone it, and nothing will do you good but a week’s walking-tour.”

“Nonsense! Impossible!” I cried.

“Then you’ll break down like the governor did once. Ever since, he says that a man must oil his wheels and slacken his bands. Now you’ve got to oil your wheels and slacken your bands for a week. When shall we start?”

“I tell you it’s impossible,” I said testily.

“I tell you that, so far from its being impossible, if you don’t give in with a good grace – that isn’t meant for a pun – I’ll go and frighten Miss Carr, and see the governor, and tell him how bad you are.”

“Rubbish, Tom,” I cried. “Why, you couldn’t go and leave Linny Hallett for a week,” I added.

“Sneering, too,” he said, with a mock assumption of concern. “My dear Tony, this is getting serious. You are worse, far worse, than I thought for.”

“Don’t talk stuff,” I cried petulantly.

The result of it all was, that as he was pulling the string in the direction that pleased me, I began to yield, and a proposition he made carried the day.

“Look here, Tony,” he cried, as if in a fit of inspiration. “A walking-tour is the thing! you told me all about your tramp up when you ran away from Blakeford’s. Let’s go and tramp it all down again, over the very road.”

His words seemed to strike an electric chord, and I grasped eagerly at the plan. The result was, that after arranging with Hallett to keep an eye on the preparations, and after winning from him a declaration that he would not think I was forsaking him at a critical time, and also after receiving endorsement and persuasion from Miss Carr, I found myself one bright summer morning at Paddington, lightly equipped for the start, and together Tom Girtley and I strode along by the side of the dirty canal.

How familiar it all seemed again, as we walked on! There was the public-house where I had obtained the pot of beer for Jack’s father, when I had to part, from them at the end of my journey up; and there, too, directly after, was just such a boy in charge of a couple of bony horses, one of which had a shallow tin bucket hanging from the collar-hames, as they tugged at a long rope which kept splashing the water, and drew on Londonward one of the narrow red and yellow-painted canal-boats, covered in with just such a tarpaulin as that under which Jack and I had slept.

Resting on the tiller was just such another heavy, red-faced, dreamy man, staring straight before him as he sucked at a short black pipe, while forming herself into a living kit-cat picture was the woman who appeared to be his wife, her lower portions being down the square hatch that led into the cabin where the fire burned, whose smoke escaped through a little funnel.

I seemed to have dropped back into the boy again, and half wondered that I was not tired and footsore, and longing for a ride on one of the bony horses.

And so it was all through our journey down.

Every lock seemed familiar, and at more than one lock-house there were the same green apples and cakes and glasses of sticky sweets, side by side with two or three string-tied bottles of ginger-beer.

Two or three times over I found myself getting low-spirited as I dwelt upon my journey up, and thought of what a poor, miserable little fellow I was; but Tom was always in the highest of spirits, and they proved at last to be infectious.

We had pretty well reached the spot at last where I had first struck the river, when we stopped to see a canal-boat pass through the lock, the one where I had stared with wonder to see the great boat sink down some eight or nine feet to a lower level.

The boat, which was a very showily painted one, evidently quite new, was deeply laden, and in one place a part of a glistening black tarpaulin trailed in the water. As the boat’s progress was checked, and the lock-keeper came out, the short, thick-set man who had been at the tiller shouted something, and a round-faced girl of about twenty, with a bright-coloured cotton handkerchief pinned over her shoulders, came up the hatch, and took the man’s place, while he douched forward to alter the tarpaulin where it trailed.

He was quite a young man, and I noticed that his hair was fair, short, and crisp about his full neck, as he bent down, pipe in mouth, while a something in the way in which he shouted to the boy in charge of the horses settled my doubts.

“Jack!” I shouted.

He rose up very slowly, took the pipe out of his mouth, and spat in the water; then, gradually turning himself in my direction, he stared hard at me and said:

“Hello!”

“Don’t you know me again, Jack?”

He stared hard at me for some moments, took his pipe out of his mouth again, spat once more in the water, said surlily, “No!” and bent down slowly to his work.

“Don’t you remember my going up to London with you nine years ago this summer?”

He assumed the perpendicular at once, stared, scowled, took his pipe out of his mouth with his left hand, and then, as a great smile gradually dawned all over his brown face, he gave one leg a smart slap with a great palm, and seemed to shake himself from his shoulders to his heels, which I found was his way of having a hearty laugh.

“Why, so it is!” he cried, in a sort of good-humoured growl. “Missus, lash that there tiller and come ashore. Here’s that there young chap.”

To Tom’s great amusement, Jack came ashore at the lock, and was followed by his round-faced partner, for whom he showed his affection by giving her a tremendous slap on the shoulder, to which she responded by driving her elbow into his side, and saying, “Adone, Jack. Don’t be a fool!” and ending by staring at us hard.

“I didn’t know yer agen,” growled Jack. “Lor’ ain’t you growed!”

“Why, so have you, Jack,” I exclaimed, shaking hands with him; and then with the lady, for he joined our hands together, taking up hers and placing it in mine, as if he were performing a marriage ceremony.

“Well, I s’pose I have,” he said in his slow, cumbersome way. “This here’s my missus. We was only married larst week. This here’s our boat. She was born aboard one on ’em.”

“I’m glad to see you again, Jack,” I said, as the recollection of our journey up recurred to me, strengthened by our meeting.

“So am I,” he growled. “Lor’! I do wish my old man was here, too: he often talked about you.”

“About me, Jack?”

“Ah! ’member that pot o’ beer you stood for him when you was going away – uppards – you know?”

“Yes; I remember.”

“So do he. He says it was the sweetest drop he ever had in his life; and he never goes by that ’ere house without drinking your health.”

“Jack often talks about you,” said “my missus.”

“I should think I do!” growled Jack. “I say, missus, what’s in the pot?”

“Biled rabbit, inguns, and bit o’ bacon,” was the prompt reply.

“Stop an’ have a bit o’ dinner with us, then. I’ve got plenty o’ beer.”

I was about to say no, as I glanced at Tom; but his eyes were full of glee, and he kept nodding his head, so I said yes.

The result was that the barge was taken through the lock, and half-a-mile lower down drawn close in beneath some shady trees, where we partook of Jack’s hospitality – his merry-hearted, girlish wife, when she was not staring at us, striving hard to make the dinner prepared for two enough for four.

I dare say it was very plebeian taste, but Tom and I declared honestly that we thoroughly enjoyed the dinner partaken of under the trees upon the grass; and I said I never knew how good Dutch cheese and new crusty country loaf, washed down by beer from a stone bottle, were before.

We parted soon after, Jack and I exchanging rings; for when I gave him a plain gold gipsy ring for his handkerchief, he insisted upon my taking the home-made silver one he wore; while his wife was made happy with a gaily coloured silk handkerchief which I used to wear at night.

The last I saw of them was Jack standing up waving his red cap over his head, and “my missus” the gaily coloured handkerchief. After that they passed on down stream, and Tom and I went our way.

I could not have been a very good walker in my early days, for my companion and I soon got over the ground between the river and Rowford, even though I stopped again and again – to show where I had had my fight; where I had hidden from Blakeford when the pony-chaise went by; and, as if it had never been moved, there by the road was a heap of stones where I had slept and had my bundle stolen.

It was one bright summer’s evening that we entered Rowford, which seemed to have shrunk and its houses to have grown dumpy since the days when I used to go out to post letters for Mr Blakeford.

“There’s his house, Tom,” I said; and I felt my pulses accelerate their beat, as I saw the gates, and the wall over which I had climbed, and found myself wondering whether the same dog was in there still.

We were too tired with our long walk to take much notice, and made straight for the inn, where, after a hearty meal, we were glad to go early to bed.

Tom was sleeping soundly when I woke the next morning, and finding it was not yet seven, I dressed and went out for a walk, to have a good look round the old place, and truth to tell, to walk by Mr Blakeford’s house, thinking I might perhaps see Hetty.

We had made no plans. I was to come down to Rowford, and the next day but one I was due in London, for our walk had taken some time – though a few hours by rail would suffice to take us back.

It was one of those delicious fresh mornings when, body and mind at rest, all nature seems beautiful, and one feels it a joy only to exist.

I was going along the main street on the opposite side of the way, when I saw a tall slight figure in deep mourning come out of Mr Blakeford’s gateway, and go on towards the end of the town.

I followed with my heart beating strangely. I had not seen her face, but I seemed to feel that it was Hetty, and following her slowly right out of the town, and along the main road for a time till she struck up a side lane, I kept on wondering what she would be like, and whether she would know me; and if she did – what then?

Perhaps after all it was not Hetty. It might be some friend; and as I thought this, a strange pang of disappointment shot through me, and I seemed to have some faint dawning realisation of what Stephen Hallett’s feelings must have been at many a bitter time.

Is this love? I asked myself as I walked on, drinking in the deliciously sweet morning scents, and listening to the songs of the birds and the hum of the insects in the bright June sunshine.

I could not answer the question: all I knew was that I was in an agony to see that face, to be out of my state of misery and doubt; but though a dozen times over I was on the point of walking on fast and then turning back so as to meet her, I had not the courage.

For quite half-an-hour this went on, she being about a hundred yards in advance. We were now in rather a secluded lane, and I was beginning to fear that she intended to cut across the fields, and return by the lower road, when, all at once, she faced round and began to retrace her steps.

I saw her hesitate a moment as she became aware that she had been followed, but she came straight on, and as she drew near my doubts were set at rest. It was unmistakably Hetty, but grown sweeter looking and more beautiful, and my heart began to throb wildly as the distance between us grew short.

She did not know me – that was evident; and yet there was a look of doubt and hesitation in her face, while after a moment’s wonder as to how I should address her, I saw her countenance change, and troubled no more about etiquette, but, carried away by my feelings, I exclaimed: “Hetty! dear Hetty!” and clasped her hands in mine.