“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.”
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.
