The Story of Antony Grace

“Oh no,” I said. “Any man who saw her would be sure to love her.”

She sighed softly.

“Is she – is she a good woman?”

“Good?” I cried enthusiastically; “there could not be a better woman.”

“And – and – ” she faltered, moistening her dry lips, “do you think she will marry Mr Lister?”

“I am sure she will not,” I said indignantly.

“But she loved him.”

“No,” I said thoughtfully; “I don’t think she did much.”

“But he loved her.”

“Ye-es, I suppose so,” I said; “but he could not have loved her much, or he would not have behaved as he did.”

There was a pause then, during which Linny lay playing with my hand.

“Antony,” she cried suddenly, “Miss Carr will forgive him some day.”

“Forgive him!” I said. “Yes, she is so good a woman that I dare say she will forgive him, but everything is over between them now.”

“I am very glad,” she said dreamily, “for I should be sorry if anything else took place.”

“What! should you be jealous, Linny?”

“No,” she said decidedly, “only very, very sorry for her. Oh! Antony,” she said, bursting into passionate tears, “I was very ignorant and very blind.”

“Linny, Linny, my child, what is the matter?” cried Hallett, entering the room, and flying with all a woman’s solicitude to the couch, to take the light wasted form in his arms. “Heaven help me, she’s worse. The doctor, Antony, quick!”

“No, no, no,” cried Linny, throwing her arms round her brother’s neck; “I am better, Steve, better now. It is only sorrow that I have been so blind.”

“So blind, my darling?”

“Yes, yes,” she sobbed excitedly, pressing her brother’s dark hair from his forehead, and covering his face with her kisses, “that I was so blind, and weak, and young. I did not know who loved me, and who did not; but it’s all over now, Steve dear. Dear brother, it’s all over now.”

“My darling,” he whispered, “let me send for help!”

“No, no,” she cried, “what for? I am better – so much better, Stephen. That is all taken off my mind, and I have nothing to do now but love you, love you all, and get well.”

Poor little thing! She lay there clasped in her brother’s strong arms, sobbing hysterically, but it was as if every tear she shed washed away from her stricken mind a portion of the canker that had been consuming her day by day.

It was more than I could bear, and if it had not been that I was called upon to speak to and comfort poor, weak Mrs Hallett, who had been awakened by Linny’s passionate sobs, I should have run out of the room and away from the house; but somehow I had grown to be part and parcel of that family, and the weak invalid seemed to love me like her own son.

At last, to my inexpressible relief, I saw Linny calm gradually down and sink to sleep in her brother’s arms, like some weary, suffering child.

Hallett did not move, but sat there fearing to disturb her, and as the evening wore on, his eyes sought mine inquiringly again and again, to direct my attention to her look: and as I watched her in that soft evening glow – a mellow light which told of a lovely evening in the country lanes – a soft, gentle calm seemed to have come upon the wasted face, its old hard angularity had gone, and with it that wistful air of suffering and constant pain, her breathing was faint, but it was soft and regular as that of a sleeping child, and at last there was a restful smile of content upon her lips, such as had not been there for years.

“What had you been saying to her, Antony?” whispered Hallett sternly, as I sat there by his side.

“She asked me questions about Lister and Miss Carr,” I said, “and I think that she woke up for the first time to know what a rascal he is.”

Hallett looked anxiously at his sister before he spoke again, but she was evidently plunged in a deep sleep.

“You are very young, Antony, but you are getting schooled in nature’s secrets earlier than many are. Do you think that is over now?”

“I am sure of it,” I said.

“Thank God!” he said fervently, “for I was in daily dread.”

“She would never – there,” I said excitedly; “she prayed herself that she might never see his face again.”

“But they say women are very forgiving, Antony,” he said with a tinge of bitterness; and then, with his brow furrowing but a cynical smile upon his lip, he said, “We shall hear next that Miss Carr has forgiven him, and that they are married.”

“For shame!” I exclaimed indignantly. “You do not know Miss Carr, or you would not speak like that.”

He half closed his eyes after glancing at where his mother lay back in her easy-chair, asleep once more, for so she passed the greater part of her time.

“No,” he said softly, “I do not know her, Antony.”

I don’t know what possessed me to say what I did, but it seemed as if I was influenced to speak.

“I wish you did know her and love her, Hallett, for she is so – ”

He started as if he had been stung.

“Are you mad?” he exclaimed angrily.

“No,” I said quietly, “but I think she likes you.”

“How could she?”

“I have talked so much about you, and she has seemed so interested in all you do.”

“You foolish fellow,” he said, with his face resuming its old calm. “You are too young yet to thoroughly understand such matters. When you grow older, you will learn why it was that I could not play, as you seemed to wish, so mean a part as to become John Lister’s accuser. It would have been contemptible in the extreme.”

“I could not help feeling that Miss Carr ought to know, Hallett.”

“Yes, my lad, but you shrank from telling her yourself.”

He was silent for a minute.

“Ah, Antony,” he said, “Fate seems to have ordained that I am always to wear the workman’s coat; but I console myself with the idea that a man may be a poor artisan and still at heart a gentleman.”

“Of course!”