The Story of Antony Grace

“I do trust you, Antony, and I see now that your ideas are right about the money. Still, I should like you to help your friend.”

“So should I,” I said; and I sat thinking dreamily over the matter, being intensely desirous of helping Hallett, till it was time to go, when an idea occurred to me which I proposed to Miss Carr, one which she gladly accepted, joining eagerly in what was, perhaps, a deception, but one most truly and kindly meant.

Chapter Forty Eight.

An Invitation

“Hallo, young Grace,” said Mr Jabez Rowle, as I was shown up one evening into his room, to find him, snuff-box on the table and pen in hand, reading away at his paper, and, as I entered, smiling with satisfaction as he pounced upon a literal error, and marked it in the margin. “How are you?”

I said I was quite well, and he pointed to several pen marks at the side of the column.

“There’s reading,” he said contemptuously. “I’m ashamed of these daily papers, that I am. Well, how are wheels and lathes and steam-engines, eh? Bah! what a contemptible young sneak you were to leave so good a business for oil and steam and steel-filings. I give you up now. Glad to see you, though; sit down. Have a pinch or snuff?”

“No, thanks,” I said, smiling.

“Humph! how you grow, you young dog; why, you’ll soon be a man. Better have a pinch; capital bit of snuff.”

I shook my head, and he went on, smiling grimly at me the while.

“No business to have left me, Grace. I should have made a man of you. Well, how are you getting on?”

“Capitally,” I said.

“Don’t believe it. Better have stopped with me. Heard from Peter?”

“No,” I said eagerly. “Have you?”

“Yes. Just the same as usual. Down at Rowford still, smoking himself to death. Hah! capital pinch of snuff this,” he added, regaling himself again. “Sent his love to you, and said I was to tell you – tell you – where the dickens did I put that letter?” he continued, pulling a bundle of dip-proofs out of his breast-pocket, and hunting them over – “said I was to tell you – ah, here it is – to tell you – Ah – ‘Tell young Grace I shall come up to town and see him some day, and I’ll give you a look up too.’ Bah! Don’t want him: won’t have him. We should be sure to quarrel. He’d come here, and sit and smoke all day – where’s my – oh, here it is.”

He took a couple of pinches of snuff in a queer, excited way, and snapped his fingers loudly.

“I shall be very, very glad to see him when he does come,” I said warmly.

“Ah, yes, of course you will. He’s got some papers or something, he says, for you.”

“Has he?”

“So he says. Hang Peter! I don’t like him, somehow.”

There was a comical look of chagrin in the old man’s face as he spoke; but it was mingled with a dry, humorous air that refused to be concealed, and I seemed to feel in my heart that if the brothers met, Mr Jabez would be thoroughly cordial.

“Well, I’m glad you did condescend to call, young engine-driver,” he said at last; “as it happens, I’m not busy to-night. You won’t take a pinch of snuff?”

I shook my head.

“What will you have, then? Have some almonds and raisins? Figs? Some oranges? Well, some sweetstuff? They’ve got some capital cocoa-nut candy downstairs! No? Well, have some candied peel?”

“No, thank you, Mr Jabez,” I said, laughing. “Why, what a baby you do think me.”

“Well, so you are,” he growled. “You don’t want me to ask you to have beer, or grog, or cigars, do you?”

“Oh no!” I said, laughing.

“Good job, too, because you wouldn’t catch me giving them to you. Well, how’s your policeman?”

“Quite well.”

“Ever see Hallett now?”

“Every day nearly.”

“Humph! Decent fellow, Hallett; sorry he left us. Cleanest proofs I ever had. That man always read his stick, Grace. You always read yours?”

“But you forget I am not a printer now, Mr Jabez.”

“No, I don’t, stupid. Can’t you see I was speaking in metaphors? Always read your stick, boy, through life. When you’ve done a thing, go over it again to see if it’s right; and then, at the end, you’ll find your proof-sheets of life are not half so foul. Tell Hallett, when you see him again, to give me a look up. I rather liked him.”

“Why, you never seemed to like him, Mr Jabez,” I said.

“Well, what of that, boy? Can’t a man like anybody without always going about and grinning?”

He took another pinch of snuff, and then nodded and tapped his box.

“How’s Mr Grimstone?” I said, smiling.

“Oh, hard as a nut, and as awkward. Gives me a deal of trouble.”

“And is Jem Smith with you still?”

“With me? No; but he’s in a house close by, the great stupid lout! He’s got whiskers now, and grown more thick-headed than ever. Grimstone had a sharp illness, though, over that affair.”

“What affair?” I asked.

“Why, when the partnership was broken up – you know?”

“No,” I said, wonderingly.

“Why, you must have heard. When John Lister was bankrupt. He was dead in with the money-lenders, and he had to give up, you know.”

“What! was he ruined?”

“Ruined? yes, a gambling fool; and if Mr Ruddle hadn’t been pretty firm, the rascal would have ruined him too – pulled the house down.”

“This is news,” I said.

“Yes, and bad news, too,” said the old fellow. “Five hundred pounds of my savings went – lent money – for him to make ducks and drakes!”

“Oh, Mr Jabez,” I said: “I am very sorry.”