The Story of Antony Grace

“Yes, yes, my dear, I’m – I’m afraid so;” and as she spoke, a hand clutched mine, and I heard Miss Carr moan:

“God help me! Am I too late?”

Linny was already half up the first flight, when Miss Carr whispered to me in agonised tones:

“Take me to him, Antony, quick. This is no time for pride and shame.”

With my heart beating painfully, I led her upstairs, and, as we reached the first floor, we met the doctor coming down.

I felt Miss Carr’s hand pressing mine convulsively, and I spoke, my voice sounding hoarse and strange.

“Is he worse, doctor?”

“I’m afraid he cannot last many hours longer,” he said. “I have done all I can, but I have a patient a few streets off whom I must see, and I will return in a short time. He must not be left.”

“Shall I go in and try to prepare him for your coming?” I whispered to Miss Carr, as we stood outside his door.

“No, no!” she cried. “Take me to him at once, or I cannot bear it. Don’t speak to me, Antony. Don’t let anybody speak to me; but you must not leave me for a moment.”

Linny was at the door, standing with the handle in her hand, but she drew back as we approached, and then ran sobbing into the next room, where Mrs Hallett was sitting helpless and alone.

I obeyed Miss Carr, leading her quickly inside, and closing the door, where she stood for a moment with one hand pressing her breast; then she hastily tore off bonnet and veil, gazing at the pale face and great dreamy eyes fixed wistfully upon the window.

The noise of our entry, slight as it was, seemed to rouse him, for he turned his gaze heavily from the light towards where we stood, and I saw that he held in his thin wasted hand a little grey kid glove, the glove we had found in Epping Forest that happy day when we met the sisters in our wait.

But that was forgotten in the change I saw come over the poor fellow’s face. It seemed to light up; the dull dreamy eyes dilated; a look of dread, of wonder, or joy seemed to come into them, and then he seemed to make an effort, and stared wildly round the room, but only to gaze at Miss Carr again as she stood with her hands half raised in a beseeching way, till, with a wild cry, his head seemed to fall back and he lay without motion.

I heard steps outside, but I darted to the door, and stopped Linny and Mary from entering, hardly knowing what I did, as Miss Carr took a step or two forward, and threw herself upon her knees by the bed, dinging to his hands, placing one arm beneath the helpless head, and sobbing and moaning passionately.

“I have killed him – I have killed him! and I came that he might live. Stephen, my love, my hero, speak to me – speak to me! God of heaven, spare him to me, or let me die?”

I was one moment about to summon help, the next prepared to defend the door against all comers, and again the next ready to stop my ears and flee from the room. But she had bidden me stay, and not leave her, and I felt it a painful duty to be her companion at such a time. So there I stayed, throwing myself in a chair by the door, my head bent down, seeming to see all, to identify every act, but with my face buried in my hands, though hearing every impassioned word.

“No,” I heard him say softly; “no: such words as those would have brought me from the grave. But why – why did you come?”

“I could bear it no longer,” she moaned. “I have fought against it till my life has been one long agony. I have felt that my place was here – at your side – that my words, my prayers would make you live; and yet I have stayed away, letting my pride – my fear of the world – dictate, when my heart told me that you loved me and were almost dying for my sake.”

“Loved you!” he whispered faintly; “loved you – Miriam, I dare not say how much!”

His voice was the merest whisper, and in my dread I started up, and approached them, fearing the worst; but there was such a smile of peace and restfulness upon his lips as Miss Carr bent over him, that I dared not interrupt them, the feeling being upon me that if he was to die it would be better so.

There was a long silence then, one which he broke at last.

“Why did you come?” he said.

The words seemed to electrify her, and she raised her head to gaze on his face.

“Why did I come?” she whispered; “because they told me you were dying, and I could bear it no longer. I came to tell you of my love, of the love I have fought against so long, but only to make it grow. To tell you, my poor brave hero, that the world is nothing to us, and that we must be estranged no more. Stephen, I love you with all my soul, and you must live – live to call me wife – live to protect me, for I want your help and your brave right hand to be my defence. This is unwomanly – shameless, if you will – but do you think I have not known your love for me, and the true brave fight that you have made? Has not my heart shared your every hope, and sorrowed with you when you have failed? And, poor weak fool that I have been, have I not stood aloof, saying that you should come to me, and yet worshipped you – reverenced you the more for your honour and your pride? But that is all past now. It is not too late. Live for me, Stephen, my own brave martyr, and let the past be one long sad dream: for I love you, I love you, God only knows how well!” She hid her burning, agitated face in his breast, and his two thin hands tremblingly and slowly rose to clasp her head; and there the white fingers lay motionless in the rich, dark hair.

There was again a pause, which he was the first to break, and his voice was still but a whisper, as he muttered something that I did not hear, though I gathered it from her smothered reply.

“Oh, no, no: let there be an end to that!” she sobbed. “Money? Fortune? Why should that keep us apart, when it might help you in your gallant fight? Let me be your help and stay. Stephen – Stephen!” she wailed piteously, “have I not asked you – I, a woman – to make me your wife?”

“Yes,” he said softly, and I heard him sigh; “but it cannot be – it cannot be.”

“What?” she cried passionately, as she half-started from him, but clung to him still; “now that I have conquered my wretched, miserable pride, will you raise up another barrier between us?”

“Oh, hush, hush!” he whispered; “you are opening to me the gates of a worldly heaven, but I dare not enter in.”

“Then I have done nothing,” she wailed, as she seemed to crouch there now in shame and confusion by his bed. “Stephen, you humble me in the dust; my shameless declaration – my appeal – do I not ask you to take me – pray you to make me your wife? Oh, what am I saying?” she cried passionately; “it is too late – too late!”

“No,” he panted; and his words seemed to come each with a greater effort, “not – too late – your words – have – given – me life. Miriam – come – hold me in your arms, and I shall stay. A little while ago I felt that all was past, but now, strength seems to come – we must wait – I shall conquer yet – give me strength to fight – to strive – wait for me, darling – I’ll win you yet, and – God of heaven! hear her prayer – and let me – ah – ”

“Quick, Miss Carr, he has fainted,” I whispered, as his head sank back. “Let me give him this.”

His face was so ghastly that I thought he had passed away; but, without waiting to pour it out in a glass, I hastily trickled some of the strong stimulant medicine he was taking between his lips, and as Miss Carr, with agonised face, knelt beside him, holding his hand, there was a quiver in his eyelids, and a faint pressure of the hand that held his.

The signs were slight, but they told us that he had but fainted, and when, at last, he re-opened his eyes, they rested upon Miss Carr with such a look of rest and joy, that it was impossible to extinguish the hope that he might yet recover.

He was too weak to speak, for the interview had been so powerful a shock to his system, that it was quite possible for the change we saw in his face to be but the precursor of one greater, so that it was with a sense of relief that I heard the doctor’s step once more upon the stairs, and Mary’s knock at the door.

I offered Miss Carr my hand to take her into the next room, and as if waking out of a dream, she hastily rose and smoothed back her hair, but only to bend down over the sufferer, and whisper a few words, to which he replied with a yearning look that seemed to bring a sensation of choking to my throat.

The doctor passed us on his way in, and I led Miss Carr into the front room, where Linny was sobbing on the couch, and Mrs Hallett was sitting back, very white and thin, in her chair.

As we entered Linny started up, and in response to Miss Carr’s extended hands, threw her arms round her neck, and kissed her passionately.

“Dear sister!” I heard Miss Carr murmur; and then she turned from Linny, who left her and glanced at me.

“Mrs Hallett,” I said simply, “this is Miss Carr.”

I hardly knew what I said, for Miriam was so changed. There was a look of tenderness in her eyes, and a sweet smile just dawning upon her lip as she advanced towards the invalid’s chair, and bent down to kiss her; but with a passionate look of jealousy and dislike, Hallett’s mother shrank from her.

“Don’t touch me!” she cried. “I knew that you were here, but I could not leave my chair to curse you. Murderess, you have killed him! You are the woman who has blasted my poor boy’s life!”

A piteous look of horror came into Miss Carr’s face, and she sank upon her knees by the great cushioned chair.

“Oh, no, no!” she said piteously. “Do not accuse me. You do not – you cannot know.”

“Know!” cried Mrs Hallett, whiter than ever with the feeling of dislike and passion that animated her; “do I not know how you have robbed me of my poor dying boy’s love; how you have come between us, and filled his head with foolish notions to invent – to make money – for you?”

“Oh, Mrs Hallett, for shame! – for shame!” I exclaimed indignantly.

“Silence, boy!” she cried, looking at me vindictively. “Do you think I do not know all because I sit helpless here? You, too, have helped to encourage him in his madness, when he might have been a professional man by now. I know all, little as you think it, even how you, and this woman, too, fought against me. That child might have been the wife of a good man now, only that he was this wretched creature’s lover.”

“Mother,” cried Linny passionately, “are you mad? How dare you say such things!”

“That’s well,” she cried. “You turn against me now. My boy is dying: you have killed him amongst you, and the same grave will hold us both.”