The Story of Antony Grace

“Then be my dear honoured wife in a week’s time – a fortnight? What, still shaking your head? Well, then, there: I am the most patient of lovers – in a month from to-day?”

“No, no, I cannot,” she said; and in place of being so calm she spoke now passionately. “You must wait, dear John, you must wait.”

“Then there is something,” he cried, in a low, angry voice. “Some wretch has been maligning me.”

“Indeed no.”

“You have been told that I am wasteful and a spendthrift?”

“I should not have listened to any such charge.”

“Then that I am weak, and untrustworthy, and gay?”

“I should have told anyone who hinted such a thing that it was a lie.”

“Then,” he cried hoarsely, “there is some one else; you have seen some one you like better!”

“John! Mr Lister! You hurt my wrist.”

“You do not answer me,” he cried, his voice growing more hoarse and intense, while I stood there with my heart palpitating, feeling as if I ought to run to Miss Carr’s help.

“I will not answer such a question,” she said angrily; “but I will tell you this: that I have looked upon myself as your betrothed wife; do not make me think upon our engagement with regret.”

“Forgive me, Miriam, pray forgive me,” he said in a low, pleading voice. “It is my wretched temper that has got the better of me. Say you forgive me, Miriam, or I shall be ready to make an end of myself. There, there, don’t take away this little hand.”

“Leave me now, I beg of you,” she said in a low, pained voice.

“Yes, directly, sweet,” he whispered; “but let there be an end of this, my darling. Say – in a month’s time – you will be my wife, and then I shall know I am forgiven.”

“I forgive you your cruel, passionate words, John,” she said, in such a tone that I began once more to look out of the window, wondering whether Mrs John Lister would be as kind to me as Miss Carr.

“And, in a month to-day, you will make me a happy man?”

“I cannot promise that,” she said after a pause.

“Yes, yes, you can, dearest – my own love!” he cried; and I felt now as if I should like to open the window and step out on the balcony.

“No, I cannot promise that, John,” she repeated. “You must – we must wait.”

“Then it is as I say,” he cried, evidently springing up from her feet, and stamping up and down the room. “You are a cruel, cold, heartless girl, and I’ll come begging and pleading no more. Our engagement holds good,” he said bitterly; “and you shall name the day yourself, and we shall be a happy pair, unless I have blown out my brains before we’re wed.”

I heard the little drawing-room door close loudly, descending steps, and then the front door shut almost with a bang, and from where I stood I saw Mr Lister, looking very handsome and well dressed, with a bouquet in his button-hole, stride hastily down the street, cutting at imaginary obstacles with his cane, and as he turned the corner I heard from the next room a low moan, and Miss Carr’s voice, saying:

“God help and teach me! I am a wretched woman! How shall I act?”

Chapter Thirty Four.

I Take the News to my Friends

“Wretched!” I thought, “in the midst of wealth, and loved by that passionate, handsome man.” Then I recalled how I had often heard of lovers’ quarrels, and supposed that this was one that would soon be made up.

I felt very uncomfortable, and wondered what I ought to do. There was a deep silence in the next room that became painful, and I wondered whether Miss Carr had gone; but directly after I heard such a low bitter sobbing that it went to my heart, and, unable to bear it longer, I went to the door, looked in, and saw her half-lying on the couch, with her face buried in the pillow, weeping bitterly.

I hesitated for a moment, and then went in unheard over the soft thick carpet, and kneeling down, I took the inert hand hanging down, and kissed it.

In a moment she stood up with pale and angry face, flinging me off as if I had stung her.

“Oh, Antony, my boy; is it you?” she cried; and flinging her arms round me, she let her head fall upon my shoulder, and went passionately and long, while I tried to utter some feeble platitude to soothe her.

The storm passed off suddenly, and she wiped her swollen eyes.

“I had forgotten that you were there, Antony,” she said. “I have had a great trouble.”

She spoke with her face averted, and she was trying now to remove the traces of her tears.

“You could not hear what was said?” she asked.

“Yes, Miss Carr. I did not wish to, but I heard every word.”

“Oh!”

She turned her wild eyes upon me, and her pale face flushed crimson as she rose to leave the room, hurrying away and leaving me wondering whether I ought to go.

I had just concluded that I ought, and, taking up a sheet of paper, I had written a few lines saying how very sorry I was that I had been an unwilling listener, when she came back with her hair re-arranged, and looking pale and calm.

“Were you writing to me, Antony?” she said.

“Yes, Miss Carr.”

“Let me see.”

She read that which I had written, and smiled sadly. Then, tearing up the note, she took my hand and led me once more to the couch.

“I am sorry that you heard what passed, Antony,” she said; “but since I have known you, I have gradually grown to look upon you as a friend as well as a protégé; you have told me your little history, and every time I have seen you, you have shown me the fruit of the teachings of those to whom you were very dear. I feel quite happy in knowing that you, as the son of a gentleman, Antony, will hold all that you have heard quite sacred.”

“If you will only believe in and trust me,” I cried.

“I do believe in and trust you, Antony,” she said warmly. “Now I am going to ask you to leave me, and come again to-morrow, after you have been to the engineer’s office. I am not well, and I should be glad to be alone.”

I rose, and as she held out her hand I took it and kissed it reverently – so reverently, that she drew me to her, and touched my forehead with her lips.

“Go now, Antony,” she said, “and I think it will be better that you should not return to the printing-office. I will arrange with Mr Ruddle about that. A letter from me will be sufficient. And look here, Antony: you will come here to me every Saturday, and Sunday too, if you like. You need stand upon no ceremony – tut come. You will not be sorry to leave the office?”

“Oh no,” I said; “but I shall regret leaving Mr Hallett.”

I thought it was fancy then, as I seemed to see a spasm shoot through her. She said no more to me, but pressed something into my hand, and I went downstairs.

I felt very proud as I made my way along the streets, wondering what was in the packet Miss Carr had given me, and longing for an opportunity to open it.