Kitabı oku: «The Story of Antony Grace», sayfa 29
Chapter Sixty One.
My Meeting with my Enemy
These things are a mystery. No doubt we two, parting as we did, boy and girl, ought to have met formally as strangers, perhaps have been re-introduced, and I ought to have made my approaches en règle, but all I knew then was that the bright, affectionate little girl who had been so kind to me had grown into a beautiful woman, whom I felt that I dearly loved; and as for Hetty, as she looked up in my face in a quiet, trusting way, she calmly told me that she had always felt that I should come back some day, and that though she hardly recognised me at first, she was not a bit surprised.
Terribly prosaic and unromantic all this, no doubt; but all young people are not driven mad by persecution, and do not tie their affections up in knots and tangles which can never perhaps be untied. All I know is that I remember thinking that when Adam awoke and found Eve by his side in Paradise, he could not have felt half so happy as I did then; and that, walking slowly back with Hetty’s little hand resting upon my arm, and held in its place by one twice as large, I thought Paradise might have been a very pleasant kind of place, but that this present-day world would do for me.
We said very little, much as we wanted to say, but walked on, treading as it were upon air, till, as if in a moment, we were back at the town, when she said with a quiver in her voice:
“I must leave you now. Papa will be waiting for me to pour out his coffee. He will not touch it unless I do.”
“You are in mourning for Mrs Blakeford,” I said, and my eyes fell upon the little shabby silver brooch I had given her all those years ago.
“Yes, and papa has not been the same since she died. He has very bad health now, and is sadly changed. He is in some great trouble, too, but I don’t know what.”
I did; and I walked on thoughtfully by her side till we reached the gate, where we stopped, and she laid her hand in mine.
But the next moment my mind was made up, and, drawing her arm through mine, and trying with a look to infuse some of my assurance, I walked with her into the house, and into the apparently strangely dwarfed sitting-room.
“Who’s that?” cried a peevish voice. “I want my coffee, Hetty. It’s very late. Has the post come in? Who’s that, I say, who’s that?”
I stared in astonishment at the little withered yellow man with grizzly hair and sunken eyes, and asked myself – Is this the Mr Blakeford who used to make me shudder and shrink with dread?
I could not believe it, as I stood there five feet ten in my stockings, and broad-shouldered, while he, always below the middle height, had terribly shrunk away.
“Who is it, I say, Hetty? Who have you brought home?” he cried again in a querulous voice.
“It is I, Mr Blakeford,” I said – “Antony Grace; and I have come to see if we cannot make friends.”
He sank back in his chair, his jaw dropped, and his eyes dilated with dread; but as I approached with extended hand, he recovered somewhat, and held out his own as he struggled to his feet.
“How – how do you do?” he faltered; “I’ve been ill – very ill. My wife died. Hetty, my dear, quick, Mr Grace will have breakfast with us. No, no, don’t ring; fetch a cup yourself, my dear – fetch it yourself.”
Hetty looked at him wonderingly, but she obeyed; and as the door closed upon her, Blakeford exclaimed, in quick trembling tones:
“She doesn’t know – she knows nothing. Don’t tell her. For God’s sake don’t tell her. Don’t say you have.”
“I have told her nothing, Mr Blakeford,” I replied.
“Don’t tell her, then. Bless her, I could not bear for her to know. I won’t fight, Mr Grace, I won’t fight. I’m a broken man. I’ll make restitution, I will indeed; but for God’s sake don’t tell my child.”
“Then he is not all bad,” I thought, “for he does love her, and would be ashamed if she knew that he had been such a consummate villain.”
And as I thought that, I recalled her brave defence of him years ago, and then wondered at the change as she entered the room.
I breakfasted with them, the old man – for, though not old in years, he was as much broken as one long past seventy – watching me eagerly, his hands trembling each time terribly as he raised his cup, while Hetty’s every action, her tender solicitude for her father’s wants, and the way in which she must have ignored every ill word that she had heard to his injury, filled me with delight.
He must have read my every word and look, for I have no doubt I was transparent enough, and then he must have read those of Hetty, simple, unconscious and sweet, for it did not seem to occur to her that any of the ordinary coquetries of the sex were needed; and at last, when I roused myself to the fact that Tom Girtley must be waiting breakfast, it was nearly eleven, and I rose to go.
“You are not going, Mr Grace,” said Hetty’s father anxiously. “Don’t go yet.”
“I must, sir,” I said, “but I will soon be back.”
“Soon be back?” he said nervously.
“Yes, sir. And that business of ours. That settlement.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, with lips quivering, “it shall all be done. But don’t talk about it now, not before Hetty here.”
“I think Hetty, Mr Blakeford, will help the settlement most easily for us both, will you not, dear?” I said, and I drew her to my side. “There, Mr Blakeford,” I said, holding out my hand once more, “are we to be good friends?”
He tried to answer me, but no words came, and he sank back, quivering with nervous trepidation in his chair.
He was better, though, in a few minutes, and when I left him he clung to my hand, his last words being:
“I will make all right, I will give you no trouble now.”
Tom Girtley laughed at me when I rejoined him and told him where I had been.
“This is a pretty way of doing business!” he exclaimed. “You play fast and loose with your solicitor, and end by coming down and compromising the case with the defendant. Really, Mr Grace, this is most reprehensible, and I shall wash my hands of the whole affair.”
“Glad of it,” said I, laughing. “A solicitor should always have clean hands.”
We chatted on merrily as we walked, for we had started to go as far as my old home, where, as I pointed out to him the scene of many a happy hour, a feeling of sadness more painful than I had experienced for years seemed to oppress me, and it was not until I had once more left the old home far behind that I was able to shake it off.
When we returned to the hotel it was to find Mr Blakeford waiting for us, and to the utter surprise of both, we were soon put in possession of all that was necessary to give me that which was my own by right, but which he saw plainly enough that his child would share.
“I don’t like to turn prophet, Tony,” said my companion, “but I should say that our friend Blakeford is putting his affairs in order on account of a full belief that a summons is about to issue that he is soon to meet. Well, I congratulate you,” he said, “and I don’t wonder now why it was that I did not find we were rivals.”
This was after we had spent one evening at Blakeford’s; and in the morning, after a tender leave-taking, we were on our way back to London.
My presence was needed, for the test of the machine would take place next day, and I found Hallett had been taken so ill that all prospect of his attending the public trial had been swept away.
“It does not matter,” he said to me quietly, when I was sitting with him, propped up in an easy-chair, beside Mrs Hallett. “It is better as it is, Antony, my dear boy. I shall not be there for the miserable scamps to pelt when the poor old idol breaks down again.”
“Breaks down!” I cried exultingly; “I was there last night till after twelve, and there will be no tampering this time, for a policeman is on the watch, and Mr Jabez and Mr Peter were going to take turn and turn in the room all night, the one with a box full of snuff, and the other with a couple of ounces of tobacco, and the longest clay pipe I could get.”
“‘There’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip,’” he said, looking at me with a piteous smile upon his wasted face. “Antony, lad, inventors do not often reap much from the crops they sow, but there is the unselfish pleasure of helping others. If I do not prosper from my work others may. God bless you, lad! I believe I have a trusty friend in you, and one who will be true to my poor mother here and Linny.”
“Why, my dear Hallett,” I exclaimed, “what a doleful tone to take on this, the day of success. Come, come, come, you want a dose of good news. I’m off now, and the fastest cab shall luring me back the moment the verdict is pronounced.”
“‘There’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip,’” he said again softly; and there was a strange and meaning smile upon his face.
“Out upon you, raven!” I cried merrily. “In two hours I’ll be here with such news as shall bring the colour back in those white cheeks; and to-morrow you shall come down into the country with me. I shall ask for another fortnight, and you shall wander with me in the green fields, and we’ll idle and rest, for when the work is done there should surely be some play.”
He smiled and nodded.
“Yes,” he said, “some rest.”
I hurried away at the last, leaving Linny with him, and a more easy cheerful look upon his countenance, and soon after I was at Mr Ruddle’s, to find all ready, our friends collected, and the invited people coming fast.
“‘Festina lente’ is a good motto, Grace,” said old Mr Girtley, taking me by the button. “A little more patience, and we should have had this right last time, though or course we could not guard against the accident. Ah, Tom,” he continued, “how’s parchment? I’d rather have seen you the schemer of this machine, my boy, than the winner of the most tangled legal case.”
“Rather hard that, Tony, when I have just won you five hundred a year and a wife, eh?” said Tom, laughing; and then my attention was taken up in a dozen ways. There were the brothers Rowle to talk to; Mr Grimstone to shake my hand; Mr Ruddle to chat with about the success of the machine, and about Lister, concerning whom he made a significant motion, turning his hand into a drinking-vessel, and shaking his head.
Then there was a hitch. Everything was declared in readiness, when it was found that the shaft that ran through the building was ceasing to revolve.
It came like a black cloud over the proceedings, but it was only the stoker’s neglect. Half an hour after, the steam was well up once more, and, with the room crowded, Mr Girtley, just as on the last occasion, gave the long leathern band a twitch; shaft was connected with shaft; a touch from a long lever tightened the driving-wheel and its fellow portion; there was a whirring, clanking noise, the spinning of wheels, the revolving of cylinders; ink-rollers ran round; the great reel of paper began to give its fair surface to the kiss of the type; the speed was increased, faster – faster – faster, and those who had shrunk back at first, as if expecting an accident, grew excited and drew in, while the ponderous machine, working as easily as a watch, turned off perfected newspaper sheets at a rate that seemed astounding.
There was no hesitation now; there were no doubting looks, but a hearty cheer arose, one that was taken up again on the staircase, and ran from room to room, till the girls, busy folding down below, joined their shrill voices merrily in the cry.
“Success, Tony!” cried Tom, catching my hand.
“And Hallett not here!” I cried.
The next minute I seized one of the printed newspapers that came from the machine, doubled it hastily, and dashed downstairs.
There was a hansom cab waiting, and as I gave my breathless order, “Great Ormond Street,” the horse started, and panting with excitement, I thought I had never gone so slowly before.
“I shall be within three hours, though,” I said to myself, as I glanced at my watch. “That want of steam spoiled me for keeping my word.”
“Faster!” I shouted, as I thrust up the trap; “another half-crown if you are quick!”
The horse sprang forward, and I carefully redoubled my precious paper, holding the apron of the cab-door open, my latchkey in my hand, and being ready to spring out as the vehicle stopped at the door – not quite though, for the doctor’s brougham was in the way.
No need for the latchkey, for the door was open, and, dashing along the hall, I sprang up the stairs, flight after flight, from landing to landing, and rushed breathlessly into the room, waving the paper over my head.
“Victory, victory!” I shouted. “Hur – ”
The paper dropped from my hands, as my eyes lighted upon the group gathered round a mattress laid upon the floor, on which was stretched my poor friend, supported by Miriam Carr, upon whose arm his head was lying.
Doctor, Linny, Mary, Revitts, all were there, watching him in silence, while the poor stricken mother was bending forward like some sculptured figure to represent despair.
“Hallett! Stephen?” I cried, “my news.”
My words seemed to choke me as I fell upon my knees at his side; but I saw that he recognised me, and tried to raise his hand, which fell back upon the mattress.
Then, making a supreme effort, he slightly turned his head to gaze upon the face bending over him, till a pair of quivering lips were pressed upon his brow.
There was a smile upon his countenance, and he spoke, but so low that the whisper did not reach our ears, and then the smile seemed to grow fixed and hard, and a silence that was awful in its intensity fell upon that group.
I did not catch those words, but she told me afterwards what they were.
“At last! Now let me sleep.”
Fallen when victory was won.
Chapter Sixty Two.
Miss Carr has Another Offer
“Antony,” said Miss Carr to me one day, “you are very young yet to think of marriage.”
“But it is not to be yet for quite a year.”
“I am glad of it,” she said, laying her hand on mine; and as I took it and held it, looking up with a feeling akin to awe in her dark, far-off-looking eyes, I could not help thinking how thin it was, and how different to the soft, white hand that used to take mine years ago.
“We both think it will be wiser,” I said, talking to her as if she were an elder sister, though of late there had grown up in me a feeling that she looked upon me as if I were her son.
“Marriage must be a happy state, Antony, when both love, and have trust the one in the other.”
I looked at her, feeling in pain, for I dared not speak, knowing that she must be thinking of poor Hallett; and as I looked I could not help noticing how the silver hairs were beginning to make their presence known, and how much she had changed.
“You think it strange that I should talk like this, do you not?”
I could not answer.
“Yes, I see you do,” she said, smiling. “Antony, I have had another offer of marriage.”
“You have!” I exclaimed. “From whom? Who has asked you?”
I felt almost indignant at the idea; and my indignation became hot rage as she went on.
“John Lister has asked me again to be his wife.”
“The scoundrel! the villain!” I exclaimed.
“Hush, Antony,” she said quietly, as she laid her thin white fingers upon my lips. “He says that he has bitterly repented the past; that he is a changed man, and he begs me not to blight the whole of his life.”
“You? Blight his life!” I exclaimed hotly. “He has blighted yours.”
She did not speak for a few moments, and then she startled me by her words.
“He is coming here to-day to ask for my answer from my lips. He begged that I would not write, but that I would see him, and let him learn his fate from me.”
“But you surely will not see him?” I exclaimed.
“I have told him that I will. He will be here, Antony, almost directly.”
I was for the moment stunned, and could do nothing but gaze helplessly in Miss Carr’s face, for the question kept asking itself, “Will she accept him?” and it seemed to me like an insult to the dead.
She returned my gaze with a quiet look, full of mournfulness, and as the minutes flew on, I felt a kind of irritation growing upon me, and that I should be bitterly hurt if she should be weak enough to accept John Lister.
“She will consider it a duty, perhaps,” I thought; “and that she does it to save him, now that he has repented and become a better man.”
My ponderings were brought to an end by the servant bringing in a card, and I rose to go, but she laid her hand upon my arm.
“Going, Antony?” she said.
“Yes,” I replied angrily, and I pointed to the card.
“Sit down, Antony,” she said, smiling; “I wish you to be present.”
“No, no, I would rather not,” I exclaimed.
“I beg that you will stay, Antony,” she said, in a tone of appeal that I could not have disobeyed, and I petulantly threw myself back in a chair, as the door opened, and John Lister was announced.
He came forward eagerly, with extended hands, as Miss Carr rose, but changed colour and bowed stiffly as he saw me.
Recovering himself, however, he took Miss Carr’s extended hand, raised it to his lips, and then drew back as if waiting for me to go.
“I felt,” he said, to put an end to our awkward silence, “that you would grant me this private interview, Miriam.”
He emphasised the word “private,” and I once more half rose, for my position was most painful, and the hot anger and indignation in my breast more than I could bear.
“Sit still, Antony,” said Miss Carr quietly; “Mr Lister has nothing to say to me that you do not already know.”
“But you will grant me a private interview, Miriam,” said Lister appealingly.
“Mr Lister,” said Miss Carr, after pointing to a chair, which her visitor refused to take, remaining standing, as if resenting my presence, “you wrote and begged me to see you, to let you speak instead of writing. I have granted that which you wished.”
“Yes,” he said bitterly, “but I did not ask for an interview in presence of a third party, and that third person Mr Antony Grace.”
There was something so petty in his emphasis of the title of courtesy Mr, that I once more rose.
“Miss Carr,” I said, “I am sure it will be more pleasant for all. Let me beg of you to excuse me now,” and as I spoke I moved towards the door.
“I wish you to stay,” she said quietly; and as I resumed my seat and angrily took up a book, “Mr Lister, Antony Grace is my very dear friend and adviser. Will you kindly say what you wish in his presence?”
“In his presence?” exclaimed Lister, with the colour coming into his cheeks.
“In his presence,” replied Miss Carr.
“Am I to understand, Miriam,” he said imploringly, “that you intend to go by Mr Grace’s advice?”
“No, Mr Lister; I shall answer you from the promptings of my own heart.”
“Then for heaven’s sake, Miriam,” he cried passionately, “be reasonable with me. Think of the years of torture, misery, probation, and atonement through which I have passed. Come into the next room, I implore you, if Mr Grace has not the good feeling and gentlemanly tact to go.”
He began his speech well, but it seemed as if, for the life of him, he could not refrain from being petty, and he finished by being contemptible in his spite against one whom he evidently looked upon as being the cause of his disappointment.
“I wish for Antony Grace to stay,” said Miss Carr quietly; “Mr Lister, you have resumed your addresses to me, and have asked me by letter to forgive you, and let you plead your cause; and more, you tell me that you bitterly repent the past.”
“Miriam,” he cried, “why do you humiliate me before this man?”
“John Lister,” she continued, “I am but repeating your words, and it is no humiliation for one who repents of the wrong and cruelty of his ways to make open confession, either by his own lips or by the lips of others. You do repent the ill you did to me, and to him who is – dead?”
“Oh yes, yes!” he cried passionately; “believe me, dear Miriam, that I do. But I cannot plead my cause now before a third party.”
“The third party, as you term him, John Lister, has been and is to me as a dear brother; but I grant that it would be cruel to expect you to speak as we are. I will, then, be your counsellor.”
“No,” he exclaimed, holding out his hands imploringly, “you are my judge.”
“Heaven is your judge,” she said solemnly; and as she spoke I saw a change come over John Lister’s face. It was a mingling of awe, disappointment, and anger, for he read his sentence in her tones – “Heaven is your judge,” she repeated, “but I will not keep you in suspense.”
He joined his hands as he turned his back to me, but I could not help seeing his imploring act in the glass.
“John Lister, I have pleaded your cause ever since I received your first letter three months ago. You have asked my forgiveness for the past.”
“Yes, yes,” he whispered, gazing at her as if hanging on her lips for his life.
“And I forgive you – sincerely forgive you – as I pray Heaven to forgive the trespasses I have committed.”
“God bless you!” he whispered; “Miriam, you are an angel of goodness.”
“You ask me now to resume our old relations; to receive you as of old – in other words, John Lister, to become your wife.”
“Yes, yes,” he whispered hoarsely, as he bent before her, and in his eagerness now, he seemed to forget my presence, for he bent down upon one knee and took and kissed the hem of her dress. “Miriam, I have been a coward and a villain to you, but I repent – indeed I repent. For years I have been seeking to make atonement. Have mercy on me and save me, for it is in your power to make me a better man.”
She stood there, gazing sadly down upon him; and if ever woman wore a saint-like expression on this earth, it was Miriam Carr as she stood before me then. She, too, seemed to ignore my presence, and her voice was very sweet and low as she replied:
“Take my forgiveness, John Lister, and with it my prayers shall be joined to yours that yours may be a better and a happier life.”
“And you will grant my prayer, Miriam? You will be my wife?” he whispered, as I sat back there with an intense feeling of misery, almost jealousy, coming over me. I felt a terrible sense of dread, too, for I could not believe in the sincerity of John Lister’s repentance, and in imagination I saw the woman whom I loved and reverenced torn down from the pedestal whereon she stood in my heart, to become ordinary, weak, and poor.
“You ask me to forget the past and to be your wife, John Lister,” she said, and the tones of her sweet low voice thrilled me as she spoke, “I have heard you patiently, and I tell you now that had you been true to me, I would have been your patient, loving, faithful wife unto the end. I would have crushed down the strange yearnings that sought to grow within my heart, for I told myself that you loved me dearly, and that I would love you in return.”
“Yes, yes,” he whispered, cowering lower before her; “you were all that is good and true, and I was base; but, Miriam, I have repented so bitterly of my sin.”
“When I found that you did not love me, John Lister, but that it was only a passing fancy fed by the thought of my wealth – ”
“Oh, no, no, no! I was not mercenary,” he cried.
“Is your repentance no more sincere than that?” she said sadly; “I know but too well, John Lister, that you loved my fortune better than you loved me.”
“Oh, Miriam!” he exclaimed appealingly.
“Hear my answer!” she said, speaking as if she had not caught his last words.
“Yes,” he cried, striving to catch her hand, but without success. “It is life or death to me. I cannot live without your love.”
“John Lister,” she said, and every tone of her sweet pure voice seemed to ring through the stillness of that room as I realised more and more the treasure he had cast away. “You are a young man yet, and you may live to learn what the love of a woman really is. Once given, it is beyond recall. The tender plant I would have given, you crushed beneath your heel. That love, as it sprang up again, I gave to Stephen Hallett, who holds it still.”
He started from her with a look of awe upon his face, as she crossed her hands upon her breast and stood looking upward: “For he is not dead, but sleeping; and I – I am waiting for the time when I may join him, where the weary are at rest.”
She ceased speaking, and John Lister slowly rose from his knee, white with disappointment and rage, for he had anticipated an easy conquest.
He looked at her, as she was standing with her eyes closed, and a rapt expression of patient sorrow upon her beautiful face. Then, turning to me with a furiously vindictive look upon his face, he clenched his fists.
“This is your doing,” he hissed; “but my day will come, Antony Grace, and then we’ll see.”
He rushed from the room, choking with impotent fury, and nearly running against Hetty, who was coming in.
I was frightened, for there was a strange look in Miriam Carr’s face, and I caught her hands in mine.
“Send for help, Hetty,” I cried excitedly; “she is ill.”
“No, no,” Miss Carr answered, unclosing her eyes; “I often feel like that. Hetty, dear, help me to my room; I shall be better there.”
I hastened to hold the door open as Miriam Carr went towards it, leaning on Hetty’s arm, and as they reached me Miss Carr turned, placed her arms round my neck, and kissed me tenderly as a mother might her son. Then, as I stood there gazing through a veil of tears at which I felt no shame, the words that I had heard her utter seemed to weigh me down with a burden of sorrow that seemed greater than I could bear. I felt as if a dark cloud was coming down upon my life, and that dark cloud came, for before a year had passed away, Hetty and I – by her father’s dying wish, young wife and young husband – stood together looking down upon the newly planted flowers close beside poor Hallett’s grave.
It was soft and green, but the flowers and turf looked fresh, as the simple white cross looked new with its deeply cut letters, clear, but dim to our eyes as we read the two words —
“Miriam Carr.”
