The Story of Antony Grace

“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.