The Story of Antony Grace

“That’s well,” I said.

“Of course it is. Now look here, Ant’ny, I’ve been thinking a good deal about that there big-a-mee as we come along, and I’ll just tell you what I should have done.”

I heard Mary give a gulp; but I thought it better not to try and thwart him, so prepared to listen.

“You see, Ant’ny,” he said, in a very didactic manner, “when a fellow is in the force, and is always taking up people and getting up cases, and attending at the police-courts, and Old Bailey sessions and coroners’ inquests, he picks up a deal of valuable information.”

“Of course, Bill.”

“He do; it stands to reason that he do. Well, then, I ought to know just two or three things.”

“Say two or three thousand, Bill.”

“Well,” he said, giving his head an official roll, as if settling it in his great stock, “we won’t say that. Let’s put it at ’undreds – two or three ’undreds. Now, if I’d had such a case as that big-a-mee in hand, I should have begun at the beginning. – Where are we now?” he said, after a pause, during which he had taken off his hat, and rubbed his head in a puzzled way.

“You were talking about the case,” I said, “and beginning at the beginning.”

“Don’t you try to be funny, young fellow,” he said severely. “I said, where are we now?”

“Just passing Hyde Park Corner, Bill.”

“Yes, of course,” he said. “Well, look here, my lad, there’s no doubt about one thing: women, take ’em all together, are – no, I won’t say a bad lot, but they’re weak – awful weak. I’ve seen a deal on ’em at the police-courts.”

“I suppose so,” I said, as I heard Mary give a low sigh.

“They’re not what they should be, Ant’ny, by a long chalk, and the way they’ll tell lies and deceive and cheat ’s about awful, that it is.”

“Some women are bad, I daresay,” I said, in a qualifying tone.

“Some?” he said, with a short, dry laugh; “it’s some as is good. Most women’s bad.”

“That’s a nice wholesale sort of a charge,” said a passenger behind him, in rather a huffy tone.

“You mind your own business,” said Revitts sharply. “I wasn’t talking to you;” and he spoke in such a fierce way that the man coloured, while Mary leaned forward, and looked imploringly at me, as much as to say, “Pray, pray, don’t let him quarrel.”

“I say it, and I ought to know,” said Revitts dictatorially, “that women’s a bad lot, and after hearing of that case this morning, I say as every woman afore she gets married ought to go through a reg’lar cross-examination, and produce sittifikits of character, and witnesses to show where she’s been, and what she’s been a-doing of for say the last seven years. If that was made law, we shouldn’t have poor fellows taken in and delooded, and then find out afterwards as it’s a case of big-a-mee, like we heerd of this morning. Why, as I was a-saying, Ant’ny, if I’d had that case in hand – eh? Oh, ah, yes, so it is. I’ll get down first. I didn’t think we was so near.”

For poor Bill’s plans about the bigamy case were brought to an end by the stopping of the omnibus in Piccadilly, and I gave a sigh of relief as we drew up in the bright, busy thoroughfare, after a look at the dark sea of shining lights that lay spread to the right over the Green Park and Westminster.

Carriages were passing, the pavement was thronged, and it being a fine night, all looked very bright and cheery after what had been rather a dull ride. Revitts got down, and I was about to follow, offering my hand to poor, sad Mary, when just as my back was turned, Revitts called out to me:

“Ant’ny, Ant’ny, look after my wife!” and as I turned sharply, I just caught sight of him turning the corner of the street, and he was gone.

Chapter Forty.

Hallett’s News

I was so staggered by this strange behaviour that I did not think of pursuit. Moreover, I was in the act of helping poor Mary to the ladder placed for her to descend, while she, poor thing, gave vent to a cutting sigh, and clung tightly to my hand.

As we stood together on the pavement, our eyes met, and there was something so piteous in the poor woman’s face, that it roused me to action, and catching her hand, I drew it through my arm.

“He has gone to get a glass of ale, Mary,” I said cheerfully. “Let’s see if we can see him.”

“No,” she said huskily; “he has gone: he has left me for good, Master Antony, and I’m a miserable, wretched woman.”

“Oh, nonsense,” I cried. “Come along. We shall find him.”

“No,” she said, in a decisive way; “he has gone. He’s been regretting it ever since this morning.”

“Don’t, pray; don’t cry, Mary,” I whispered in alarm, for I was afraid of a scene in the streets.

“No, my dear; don’t you be afraid of that,” she said, with a sigh. “I’ll try and bear it till we get home; but I won’t promise for any longer.”

“Don’t you be foolish, Mary,” I said sharply. “He has not left you. He’s too fond of you. Let’s see if he is in the bar.”

Mary sighed; but she allowed herself to be led where I pleased, and for the next half-hour we stood peering about in every likely place for the truant husband, but in vain; and at last, feeling that it was useless to search longer, I reluctantly turned to poor, patient, silent Mary, wondering greatly that she had not burst out into a “tantrum,” and said that we had better go home.

“Go where?” she said dolefully.

“Home,” I replied, “to your lodgings.”

“My lodgings, Master Antony,” she wailed. “I have no lodgings. I’m a poor, helpless, forsaken woman!”

“Oh, what nonsense, Mary,” I cried, hurrying her along; “don’t be so foolish!” – for I was in mortal terror of a violent burst of tears. “Come along, do. Here!” I shouted; “cab!” – and I sighed with relief as I got her inside, and gave the man directions to take us to Caroline Street, Pentonville.

But even in the cab Mary held up, striving hard, poor woman, to master her emotion – her pride, no doubt, helping her to preserve her calmness till she got to the happy home.

“I dare say we shall find him upstairs,” I said, after giving the cabman a shilling more than his fare; but though there was a light burning, and the landlady had spread the table, to make the place look welcome to the newly wedded pair, there was no sign of Revitts, and we neither of us, in our shame, dared to ask if he had been back.

On the contrary, we gladly got to the rooms – Revitts’ one having now expanded to three – and once there, Mary gasped out: “Master Antony dear, shut and lock the door – quick – quick!” I hastily did as she bade me, and as I turned, it was to see poor Mary tear off her bonnet and scarf, throw herself on the little couch, cover her face with her hands, and lie there crying and sobbing in a very passion of grief, misery, and shame.

It was no noisy outburst: it was too deep for that; but the poor woman had to relieve herself of the day’s disappointment and agony, and there she lay, beating down and stifling every hysterical cry that fought for exit, while her breast heaved with the terrible emotion.

I was too young then to realise the full extent of the shame and abasement the poor woman must have felt, but all the same I sympathised with her deeply, and in my weak, boyish way did all I could to console her, but in vain. For quite an hour the outburst continued, till at last, quite in despair, I cried out: “Oh Mary, Mary! what can I do to comfort you?” She jumped up into a sitting position, then; threw back her dishevelled hair; wiped her eyes, and looked, in spite of her red and swollen lids, more herself.

“Oh, my own dear boy,” she cried, “what a wicked, selfish wretch I am!” and, catching me in her arms, she kissed me very tenderly.

“There,” she said with a piteous smile; “it’s all over now, Master Antony, and I won’t cry another drop. You’re a dear, good, affectionate boy – that you are, and I’ll never forget it, and you’re as hungry as a hundred hunters, I know.”

In spite of my protestations, she hastened to make that balm for all sorrows – a cup of tea.

“But I don’t want it, Mary,” I protested, “and I’m not hungry.”

“Then I do, and I am,” she said, smiling. “You won’t mind having a cup with me, I know, Master Antony dear. Just like old times.”

“Well, I will try,” I said, “and I dare say Revitts will be back by then.”

Mary glanced at the little Dutch clock in the corner, and saw that it pointed to eleven; then, shaking her head, she said sadly: