The Story of Antony Grace

“Hark at that now!” said Revitts, giving his head a wag.

“I don’t want to seem conceited, but I should like to improve my room, and have a place for my books, and be able to bring a friend home to have tea or supper with me when I liked.”

“That’s quite right,” said Revitts approvingly; “but we should want close upon two hundred pounds, Master Ant’ny, you know.”

“Yes, you ought to have two hundred and fifty pounds.”

Mary shook her head, and seemed to tighten up her face, buttering the bread she had before her the while.

“Here, I say, come, Polly, I know we should have to begin saving,” said Revitts, in tones of remonstrance; “but don’t begin to-night. Stick a little more butter on that there bread.”

Mary complied, the meal went on, and I left them at last to talk the matter over, thoroughly upset by my proposals.

They opposed them for some days to come; but when, at last, I received a kind letter from Miss Carr, bidding me tell Mary how glad she was to hear of her plans, and that they were to be sure and include a comfortable bed and sitting-room for me, the day was carried, especially as the letter contained a cheque for 250 pounds; though they would not take all this, the steady, hoarding couple being able to produce between them enough to pay in full for the lease, which was duly assigned and placed in Revitts’ hands by Tom Girtley, who was progressing fast with the firm of solicitors to whom he had been articled.

The first intimation that Hallett received of the change was from Revitts himself, who called one day on his way home to announce with suppressed glee that he was the new landlord, and to ask if there was anything that Mr Hallett would like done.

Hallett stared in astonishment, and then turned sharply to me —

“This is your doing, Antony,” he said.

I pleaded guilty.

“Well, what could be better?” I said; “I’m going to have two rooms, and Mary will be always at hand to attend upon us, and you will not have to turn out.”

“But the money?” he said, looking at me searchingly.

“Revitts and his wife have been saving people,” I replied, “and they had their savings to invest. I don’t think they could have done better.”

Hallett did not seem satisfied, but he was too much of a gentleman to push his questions home, and the matter dropped. The old tenant of the house moved out at once; Mary had a charwoman at work for a general clean up, and ended by dismissing her for smelling of gin, and doing the cleaning herself; and before a fortnight was over the change had been made, and I was able to congratulate myself on a capital arrangement.

“You think it is now,” I said, “Hallett, don’t you?”

“I do now, Antony,” he said, “for more reasons than one.”

“What do you mean?” I said; for he looked very peculiar and stern.

“I have seen that man hanging about here once or twice.”

“Mr Lister?”

He nodded.

“Oh, but surely that is all over. He would never dare.”

“He hates me, I am sure, Antony,” he replied, “and would do anything to injure me; and, besides, such a man as that would not lightly give up his plans.”

“But Linny dislikes him now, I am sure,” I said.

“I am not,” he replied sadly; and no more was said.

Chapter Forty Six.

Linny Awakes

But those words “I am not,” made no little impression on me, and a day or two later, when I had taken Linny in some flowers, I was thinking very deeply about them, and perhaps my thoughts may have influenced the mind of the poor girl, for she suddenly laid her thin white hand upon my arm and said: “Antony, do you ever see Mr Lister now?”

“No,” I said; “I have never seen him since the day of that scene with Miss Carr.”

“Tell me about it – all about it,” she said sharply. I stared at her aghast, and tried to excuse myself, but her eyes looked at me so imploringly that I felt compelled, and related all that I had heard and seen.

She lay with her eyes half-closed during my recital, and when it was ended the poor, weak, wasted girl took one of my hands between both of hers, and held it to her breast, caressing it silently the while.

“Oh, Linny, dear,” I said, “what have I done! I ought not to have told you all this. You are going to be worse. Let me call Stephen!”

“No, no, no,” she wailed. “Hush, hush! You must not wake poor mamma?”

“Let me call up Mary.”

“No, no,” she sobbed; “sit still – sit still, Antony dear; you have always been to me like a brother, and you have known all. I have no girl friends of my own age, but I can talk to you.”

“No; let’s talk of something else,” I said earnestly. “You must not think about the past.”

“I must think about it, or I shall die,” she said, adding pathetically, “no, no, don’t get up. I shall be better now. There, you see, I have left off crying.”

She seemed to make an effort over herself, and in a few minutes she looked up at me smiling, but her poor face was so wasted and thin that her smile frightened me, and I was again about to call for help.

“No, no,” she said; “I am better now. Antony dear, I could not get well, but felt as if I was wasting away because I could not see him. Oh, Antony, I did love him so, and I felt obliged to obey him in all he wished. But it was because I thought him so fond and true. I have felt all these long months that he loved me very dearly, and that if I could only see him – if I could only lay my head upon his arm, and go to rest, I should wake up well. I always thought that he loved me very dearly, and that some day he would come and say I was to be his wife. Stephen thought I hated him for his cruel ways, but I did not, I could not. I do not even hate him now. I am only sorry.”

“But you don’t want to see him again, Linny?” I said.

“No, no: not now,” she replied with a shudder. “I know now that he never loved me. I never understood it all before, Antony. I pray God I may never see his face again.”

There was something very impressive in her words, and, closing her eyes, she lay back there so still that I thought she was asleep, but the moment I tried to withdraw my hand she clung to it the more tightly, and looked up at me and smiled.

“Antony,” she said suddenly; and there seemed to be a new light in her eyes as she opened them wildly, “I am going to get well now. I could not before, for thinking about the past.”

“I hope and pray that you will,” I said, with a strange sensation of fear creeping through me.

“I shall,” she said quickly. “I can feel it now. Last week I thought that I was going to die. Now talk to me about Miss Carr. Is she very beautiful?”

“Yes,” I said eagerly, “very beautiful.”

“More handsome than I used to be?” she said, laughing.

“Oh, she’s very different to you, Linny,” I said, flushing. “She is tall and noble-looking, and dark, while you are little and fair. One could not compare you two together.”

“It was no wonder, then, that Mr Lister should love her.”