“The police are trying hard to find out how it was. If they could find the girl it would be easy.”
I was just going to say, “Here she is, sir!” when I happened to glance at Linny, who was pale as ashes, and stood holding up her hand to me to be silent.
This confused me so that I hardly understood what the surgeon said, only that he wanted a stronger and more mature person to attend to Revitts; but when I told him that the landlady came up to help he was satisfied, and left, saying that he should come in again. He was no sooner gone than Linny caught me by the arm.
“Oh, what an escape!” she cried; “Antony, you know how wilful and cruel I have been to poor Steve?”
“Yes,” I said, nodding my head.
“And you know how I have promised him that I will always do as he wishes?”
“Yes, I know that too,” I said; “and I hope you will.”
“I will – indeed I will, Antony,” she wailed; “but please promise me, pray promise me, that no one shall ever know besides us that it was I whom Mr Revitts here – a – protected.”
“But the wretch of a fellow who behaved so badly to you, and beat poor Revitts like this, ought to be punished.”
“No, no – no, no?” she cried excitedly; “let it all pass now, Antony – dear Antony, for my sake.”
“I like you, Linny,” I said; “but I like dear old Revitts, too. He has been the best of friends to me, and I don’t see why a friend of yours should escape after serving him like this.”
“He – he is not a friend of mine now,” she said, half hysterically; “but, dear Antony, I could not bear for him to be punished. It was in a fit of passion. I had made him angry first. Please, please don’t say any more – I cannot bear it!”
She sank down on the hearth-rug, covering her face with her hands and sobbing bitterly, while I felt, boy-like, powerless to say anything to comfort her, till I exclaimed:
“Well, I won’t tell or say anything I know, Linny, if you will keep your word to Stephen.”
“I will – indeed I will, dear Antony,” she cried, starting up and catching both my hands. “I was very, very foolish, but I know better now, and it – it – it is all past.”
She said those last words in such a piteous, despairing way, looking so heart-broken, that my sympathies were now all on her side, and I promised her again that I would not tell Revitts or the police that she was the girl who had been in question. I repented of my promise later on, but at my time of life it was not likely that I should know how ready a woman who loves is to forgive the lapses of him who has won her heart, and of course I could not foresee the complications that would arise.
The surgeon came again, as he had promised, and after the examination of the patient, ordered some ice to be obtained to apply to his head, and directly he had gone I started off to fetch it, thinking as I did so that Hallett would soon be with us.
I was not long in getting a lump of bright, cold, clear ice, and on hurrying back, I heard voices in the room, when, to my surprise and delight, there stood Mary, but looking anything but pleased. She had thrown a large bundle on the floor, her large Paisley shawl across the foot of the bed, her umbrella on the table, and a basket crammed full of something or another was on a chair.
As for Mary herself, she was standing, very red in the face, her arms akimbo, her bonnet awry, and a fierce angry look in her eyes, before poor Linny, who was shrinking away from her, evidently in no little alarm.
“Oh, Antony?” she cried, “I’m so glad you’ve come! Who is this woman?”
“Who’s this woman, indeed!” cried Mary, now boiling over in her wrath; “‘this woman’ indeed! Perhaps you’ll tell her that I’m a poor deceived, foolish, trusting creature, who left her place at a moment’s notice to come and nuss him, and then find as I ain’t wanted, and that he’s already got his fine doll of a madam to wait on him.”
“Oh, Mary!” I cried; “you dear foolish old thing!”
“Yes, of course, that’s what I said I was, Master Antony, and even you turn agen me. But I might have known that such a fellow as William Revitts would have half-a-dozen fine madams ready to marry him.”
This was accompanied by pantings, and snorts, and little stamps of the foot, and a general look about poor Mary as if she were going to pull off her bonnet, jump upon it, and tear down her hair.
“Oh, you foolish old thing!” I cried, flying at her and literally hugging her in my delight at seeing her so soon, in the midst of my trouble.
“Be quiet, Master Antony,” she cried wrathfully, but throwing one arm round me as she spoke, in reply to my embrace. “But I won’t stand it, that I won’t.”
“But, my good woman,” faltered Linny.
“Don’t you ‘good woman’ me, slut!” cried Mary furiously. “I was going to give up and let you nurse him and till him, for aught I cared, but I won’t now. He’s engaged to me these four years, and he’s mine, and this is my place and room, and out you go, and the sooner the better; and – as for B – B – B – Bill – do take your hand from before my mouth, Master Antony! You’re a boy and don’t understand things. Now, then, madam, you pack!”
“Mary, be quiet!” I cried; “this is Mr Hallett’s sister, who kindly came to help nurse poor Bill till you could come. Bill does not know her; he never saw her before, but once.”
“Only once?” said Mary suspiciously.
“No, and then only for a minute. How could you be so foolish?”
“Because – because – because – ” said Mary, bursting out into a passion of sobbing, “because my heart was half broke about my boy, and I only stopped to pack up a bundle and came – and then – when I found that pretty darling here, I – I – oh, my dear – my dear – my dear!” she cried, flinging herself on her knees at Linny’s feet, clutching her dress, and burying her wet face in the folds; “please – please – please forgive me, and don’t take no notice of my mad, foolish words. I’ve – I’ve – I’ve got such a temper! It’s a curse to me – and I was nearly distracted. Some day, p’r’aps, you’ll feel as bad and jealous as I did. Please – please forgive me!”
“Oh, yes, yes, yes!” cried Linny, whose tears now began to flow, and who, kneeling down in turn, drew poor Mary’s face to her breast, and the two remained thus, while I went and looked out of the window.
“Please – pray – forgive me!” sobbed Mary.
“Oh yes, yes, I do, indeed!” whispered Linny. “Antony is right; I never saw Mr Revitts but once, and I believe he is a very good man, and loves you dearly.”
“That he is, and that he does,” cried Mary, raising her red face, and throwing back her hair. “Though I don’t know why he should care for such a crooked-tempered, rough-tongued thing as I am.”
I thought I could understand why, as I saw Mary’s lit-up face, with her bonnet fallen back, and in spite of her distress looking quite as handsome as she was warm-hearted.
“But you do forgive me, dear?” she faltered, kissing Linny’s hands again and again.
“Forgive you?” cried Linny, kissing her ruddy cheek, “of course I do; you couldn’t help making the mistake.”
And, as if feeling that she was the cause of the trouble, Linny gave her such a look of tender sympathy that poor Mary was obliged to crouch down quite low on the floor again, and hug herself tight, and rock to and fro.
Immediately after, though, she was hastily wiping her eyes on the silken strings of her bonnet, which she tore off and sent flying to the other end of the room before dashing at me and giving me a hug, and then going down on her knees by Revitts’ pillow, and laying her cheek against his bandaged forehead.
“My poor old boy,” she whispered softly, “as if I could stay a minute from him!”
The next moment she was up, and giving a great gulp, as if to swallow down the emotion caused by Revitts’ appearance, she forced a smile upon her face, completely transforming it, and quickly but quietly dashed at her basket.
“I hadn’t time to do much, my dears,” she said to Linny and me collectively: “but I thought a pair o’ soles and a chicken must be right for the poor boy. Now, if you’ll only tell me where he keeps his pepper and salt, and the frying-pan and saucepans, I can get on. My sakes, poor boy, what a muddle he did live in, to be sure!”
We had to stop Mary in her culinary preparations by assuring her that the doctor had ordered only beef-tea.
“Then he may have chicken-broth, my dears,” she said; “I’m an old nuss, you know, though I wouldn’t attend to Mr Blakeford – eh, Master Antony? – for fear I should give him his lotion for outward application inside. But I can nuss, and not a step do I stir from this floor till I’ve made my poor old Bill well. Oh, if I only knew who done it!” she cried, with a flash of fierce rage; and as she glanced at Linny, the latter shrank away guiltily. Mary read her action wrongly, and plumped herself once more at the poor girl’s feet.
“Don’t you mind me, my dear!” she cried kissing her hands and her dress. “I’m a stupid, rough, jealous thing, and I was all on fire then, but I’m not now, and I humbly ask your pardon; as I says, God bless you, for coming to help my poor dear boy!”
There was another burst of sobbing here, and another embrace, when Mary jumped up again, all smiles, to apply a little fresh ice to the patient’s head, and gently coo over him, as if he were a baby.
After which, and having satisfied herself that the chicken-broth was progressing favourably, poor Mary felt it her duty to plump at Linny’s feet again, but she jumped up in confusion, as she heard the stairs crack as if some one were coming, and then she looked inquiringly at me, as the door softly opened and Hallett came in.
“Mr Hallett,” I said, “this is my dear old Mary, Mr Revitts’ friend, and she’s come up to nurse him. Mary, this is Miss Hallett’s brother.”
“Which I’m glad to see him,” said Mary, making a bob, and then growing redder in the face as she glanced at Linny, as if afraid that her late ebullition would be exposed.
“And I’m very glad to see you, Mary,” said Hallett, smiling and holding out his hand, which Mary took after interposing her clean pocket handkerchief, on the score that she had been cooking. “Antony often talked to me about you.”
“Have he, though?” said Mary, darting a gratified look at me.
“Often, of your great kindness to him. Your coming has helped us out of a great difficulty.”
“And your dear sister’s coming’s put my heart at rest, for I didn’t know, sir, what gin-drinking wretches might be neglecting my poor boy.”
“And how is the patient?” said Hallett, going to the bedside.
“The doctor says he is going on all right,” I replied.
“Is he a good doctor?” said Mary sharply.
“He is certain to be an eminent man,” said Hallett quietly; and his words partially pacified Mary.
“Because if he ain’t,” said Mary, “money shan’t stand in the way of his having the best in London.”
“Mary,” said Hallett, in his quiet telling way, and with a look that made poor Mary his firm friend, “a good surgeon will tell you that he can do much, but that the recovery of a patient principally depends upon the nurse. I see that Mr Revitts is safe in that respect, and I shall be only too glad to hear of his getting well.”
Mary seemed to have a ball rising in her throat, for she could not speak, and this time she forgot to place her pocket handkerchief over her hand, as she caught that of the visitor and kissed it.
“You can be quite at rest, Antony,” Hallett said then. “Mr Ruddle said he was sorry to hear about your friend, and he should leave it to your good sense to come back to work as soon as you could. Mr Lister is away – ill.”
I fancied that he knit his brows as he spoke, but it may have been fancy. Then, turning to Linny, he said:
“I am glad you are set at liberty, Linny. Our mother is very unwell, shall we go now?”
Linny nodded her assent, and put on her hat and jacket; but before they went Mary found it necessary to go down on her knees again, and in a whisper to ask Linny’s pardon; all of which Hallett took as an expression of gratitude, and shook hands warmly as he left.
I went with him down to the door to say good-night, and as we parted I asked him not to think I was neglecting him, now he was in such trouble with his model.
“I do not, my dear boy; and I never shall think ill of you for being faithful to your friends. Good-night; the model is buried for the present. When you can come again, we’ll try once more to bring it back to life.”
I stood watching them as they went together beneath the street lamps, and I was glad to see Linny clinging trustingly to her brother’s arm.
“Poor Linny!” I thought to myself. “She’s very fond of somebody who behaves badly to her. I wonder who it can be.”
Chapter Thirty One.
How Mary Broke Down
Few as the minutes of my absence had been, Mary had done a good deal towards tidying up the room, and as I entered I could see her bonnet and shawl hanging lovingly up against the wall, side by side with poor Bill’s hat and greatcoat, just as if they had newly entered into the holy state of matrimony. There was beginning to be an appetising odour of chicken in the room, the bundle was tucked out of sight, the chairs in order, and it was plain to see that a clever housewife had been at work.
“Oh my, how you have growed, my dear!” whispered Mary ecstatically. “I never did see a boy improve so. And only to think of your running away from old Blakeford and finding out.”
She ran here to the bed to see if her sweetheart was all right, and then turned to me with open arms.
“Give us a kiss, dear,” she cried, and in a moment I was hugged tight in her arms and kissed and fondled again and again. “I am glad to see you, you can’t tell how glad,” she cried softly, “and it was good of you to write. No sooner did I get your letter, than I ups and tells Mrs Blakeford as I was going away directly, because my friend in London was ill.”
“But you did not say I wrote, Mary?” I cried in agony.
“Do you think I was such a silly, my dear? No, I’d got the letter safe in here,” she said, thrusting her hand inside her dress. “Well, as I was saying – stop a moment – let me look at the broth.”
She raised the lid, shut it again, had another look at Revitts, and then went on:
“Who should come in but old Blakeford, and he said gruffly that they couldn’t snare me, and, ‘Can’t spare me!’ I says; ‘well, you just must, for I’m going.’
“‘Then we shan’t pay you your wages,’ says old Blakeford. ‘Then I will make you,’ says I, ‘So now then. I’m not going to have people die for want of help, to please you.’
“‘Who is it then as is dying?’ says Mrs Blakeford.
“‘It’s my sweetheart, mum, if you must know,’ I says.
“‘Then all I can say is, that it’s very indelicate of you, a young unmarried woman, to go up and nurse a single man.’
“‘No more indelicate, mum,’ I says, ‘than for you to want me to nuss Mr Blakeford when he was ill.’
“‘But you didn’t do it,’ she says.
“‘No, mum,’ I says, ‘but you wanted me to, and what’s more, if the whole world and his wife come to me and told me it wasn’t right for me to go, I should go; so now then.’
“‘But when will you come back then, Mary?’ says Mrs Blakeford.
“‘Not at all, mum,’ I says, ‘for after going and nursing a single man as is dying for aught I know, I shan’t be fit company for the folks in this house. I’m going now directly, mum, and I shall leave my box and send for it and my wages too.’”
Here Mary had another look at the patient and the cooking.
“I wasn’t long getting off, I can tell you, and glad enough I was to get away. I’d ha’ left long enough ago, only I didn’t want to make any more changes till the big one, and there was only one as I minded leaving.”
“And that was little Hetty,” I said, as I understood her big change to mean her marriage.
“Yes, my dear, you’re right – little Hetty; and she came and sobbed and cried ever so, with her dear arms round my neck, till I told her that perhaps I might see you, and asked her if I might take you her love; and she sent it to you, and said she always wore your brooch.”
“And is she quite well?” I said, with sparkling eyes.
“Yes, and grows the neatest, prettiest, best girl that ever was. And now, my dear, I’m come to nuss my pore William till he’s well, and then – ”
“Yes, Mary?” for she had paused.
“I shall get a place somewhere in London; for I shan’t go back.”
Then, after another look at the patient, she came back to me.
“Could you drink a cup o’ tea, dear?” she said.
“Yes, Mary, and you must want something.”
“Well, my dear, I do begin to feel a bit faint, for I hadn’t only just begun my breakfast when your letter came, and I haven’t had nothing since.”
The result was that the kettle was soon made to boil, and Mary seemed quite delighted to be pouring out for me and making the toast.
“Lor’, my dear, now it do seem like old times!” she cried.
“Only you’ve grown to look so handsome and well, Mary,” I said.
“Do I, my dear? Well, I am glad. Not as I care myself, but some people might. But, Lor’, I never looked well down at old Blakeford’s. My! what a row there was because you run away – ”
“Was there?” I said with a shudder, half pleasure, half delight.
“Warn’t there?” said Mary, who kept running to the bedside at the slightest movement. “Bless your ’art, old Blakeford was nearly mad, and Miss Hetty ’most cried her eyes out, till I told her you’d be happier away, and then she cried ’em out more than ever, for fear her par should catch you. He was out days and days, until his leg got so bad he was really obliged to go to bed. The dog bit him, you know, the night you run away. Then there was the upset before the magistrates, and that Mr Wooster somehow managed to get the day, because master – I mean old Blakeford – hadn’t got the right witness. And that made master – I mean old Blakeford – worse. And now I don’t think I’ve any more to tell you, only you ain’t half eating your toast. My sakes! it do put me in mind of old times, for it was precious dull when you was gone.”
“Were you cross with me for running away, Mary?”
“I was then, for not telling me, but I soon got to think it was quite right.”
“I hope it was, Mary,” I said; “but did you ever see old Mr Rowle?”
“What, that yellow little man? oh, often; he used to come and talk to me about you, and when I said you was very ungrateful for running away, he used to stick up for you. He didn’t come very often, though,” continued Mary, correcting herself, “because he couldn’t smoke in my kitchen, else I believe he’d have come every night to talk about you.”
A slight moan from poor Revitts took Mary to the bedside, and very soon after she insisted upon my lying down and going to sleep a bit, and when I awoke the next morning, Mary was looking as fresh and wakeful as ever.
I don’t know to this day how Mary managed, for she never seemed to close an eye, but to be always watching over her “pore boy.” When I talked about her going to bed, she only laughed, and said that “a good nuss never wanted no sleep.”
“And now, my dear, you’ve been kep’ away from your work,” she said; “so, as soon as you’ve had your breakfast, you be off. I can manage till you come back. I don’t hold with neglecting nothing.”
She would not hear of opposition, so I left her the field, and went down to the office, where I saw Mr Hallett looking very pale and stern, and soon after I was at my old work, reading to Mr Jabez Rowle, who seemed very glad to see me back, complimenting me on my reading, by saying I was not quite so stupid as my substitute had been.
When I returned to Caroline Street, I found Mary in consultation with the landlady, who then descended, and, to my great delight, Revitts was, if anything, better.
Mary was very glad to see me back, and began to unfold her plans, to wit, that she had found that the front room was to let furnished, and she had taken it of Mrs Keswick, the landlady; for my use.
“It will be better for all of us, my dear,” she said, “so just you hold your tongue.”
I sat up late with Mary that night, and the next, and the next, talking about the past and the future, and still she seemed to get no sleep; but she always laughed about it, and declared that she went to sleep with one eye at a time. Be that as it may, a more patient, untiring nurse man never had, and right through poor Revitts’ weary state of delirium she was always by his pillow, always smiling and cheerful through the worst crisis, till, one night, when I returned to be met by her on the stairs; and, finger on lips, she led me into the front room, to fall on my neck, and silently sob as if her heart would break.
“Oh, Mary, Mary!” I said, “he’s worse; and I thought he seemed so much stronger this morning.”
“No, no, dear,” she sobbed, “he’s better. He opened his eyes this afternoon and knowed me, and said: ‘Ah, Mary, old gal, is that you?’”
Poor woman! The pent-up suffering that had been longing to burst forth, and which had all been hidden behind her mask of smiles, had come pouring out, and for the next half-hour Mary sobbed and wept in a quiet way till I was in despair. Then, to my surprise, she got up in a business-like manner, wiped her eyes, and smiled once more.
“There!” she exclaimed, “I’m better now.”
Chapter Thirty Two.
Coming Off
With Revitts better there was no occasion for me to stop in of an evening, and as soon as I could I went on to the Halletts’, where I was warmly welcomed by the whole family. Mrs Hallett had a string of troubles to tell me, and interspersed with them I had narratives of how different matters used to be.
Linny was very affectionate and kind, but I could see that she looked pale and troubled. Her pretty face lighted up though, whenever her brother spoke, and I noted the air of satisfaction in Hallett’s face as he realised how his sister was keeping to her promise.
“Well, Antony,” he said cheerily, as soon as Mrs Hallett had retired, which was always before nine, Linny going away to attend upon her. “What do you say: shall we go and look at the model?”
“Yes,” I said eagerly; “I’ve been longing to have another turn at it.”
“You are not wearied out then?”
“Wearied out?” I cried, laughing; “no, and I never shall be till I see it a success.”
He sighed, but there was a smile upon his lip at the same time; and leading the way upstairs, we were soon busy over the model.
I saw at a glance that it had remained untouched, covered with the black cloth, ever since that unfortunate morning, so that I did not need his confirming words as he spoke:
“I thought I would leave it till you came.”
That night and many more were taken up in separating and repairing the broken parts of the little piece of mechanism, and then came the difficult task – how to contrive so that it should not again break down.
The days flew by and became weeks, and the weeks months, but still the problem was not solved. Experiment after experiment was tried without effect, and it seemed as if Hallett’s clever brain could only bring the work up to a certain point. Then it required the powers of a second brain to carry it on to perfection.
Meanwhile Revitts had gradually recovered, and more than once related to Mary and me how, on that unfortunate night, he had been attracted by a slight scuffle and a woman’s cry; that he had run up, and the woman had clung to him, which so enraged the man that he had struck him with the heavy stick that he carried, and that was all.
“Should you know the woman again?” I asked, feeling very guilty as the possessor of Linny’s secret.
“No,” he said. “She was only a little thing, quite a girl, and she had her veil down; but I should know the man, and if ever I do get hold of him, if I don’t give him a wunner my name ain’t Revitts.”
He was still too ill to resume his duties, but he used to go out for a walk every day, leaning on Mary’s arm, Mary herself now taking to the room that had been engaged ostensibly for me.
“It’s a-coming off, Antony,” said Revitts to me one night, when I had returned from the office in high glee; for I had received a note from Miss Carr, saying that she wished to see me the next day, she having just returned to town with her sister from a long round of visits, following a tour on the Continent.
“Coming off?” I said, looking from him to Mary and back.
“Don’t you take any notice or his nonsense,” cried Mary, running her arm up to the elbow in one of Revitts’ stockings.
