The Story of Antony Grace

It was one bright summer’s evening that we entered Rowford, which seemed to have shrunk and its houses to have grown dumpy since the days when I used to go out to post letters for Mr Blakeford.

“There’s his house, Tom,” I said; and I felt my pulses accelerate their beat, as I saw the gates, and the wall over which I had climbed, and found myself wondering whether the same dog was in there still.

We were too tired with our long walk to take much notice, and made straight for the inn, where, after a hearty meal, we were glad to go early to bed.

Tom was sleeping soundly when I woke the next morning, and finding it was not yet seven, I dressed and went out for a walk, to have a good look round the old place, and truth to tell, to walk by Mr Blakeford’s house, thinking I might perhaps see Hetty.

We had made no plans. I was to come down to Rowford, and the next day but one I was due in London, for our walk had taken some time – though a few hours by rail would suffice to take us back.

It was one of those delicious fresh mornings when, body and mind at rest, all nature seems beautiful, and one feels it a joy only to exist.

I was going along the main street on the opposite side of the way, when I saw a tall slight figure in deep mourning come out of Mr Blakeford’s gateway, and go on towards the end of the town.

I followed with my heart beating strangely. I had not seen her face, but I seemed to feel that it was Hetty, and following her slowly right out of the town, and along the main road for a time till she struck up a side lane, I kept on wondering what she would be like, and whether she would know me; and if she did – what then?

Perhaps after all it was not Hetty. It might be some friend; and as I thought this, a strange pang of disappointment shot through me, and I seemed to have some faint dawning realisation of what Stephen Hallett’s feelings must have been at many a bitter time.

Is this love? I asked myself as I walked on, drinking in the deliciously sweet morning scents, and listening to the songs of the birds and the hum of the insects in the bright June sunshine.

I could not answer the question: all I knew was that I was in an agony to see that face, to be out of my state of misery and doubt; but though a dozen times over I was on the point of walking on fast and then turning back so as to meet her, I had not the courage.

For quite half-an-hour this went on, she being about a hundred yards in advance. We were now in rather a secluded lane, and I was beginning to fear that she intended to cut across the fields, and return by the lower road, when, all at once, she faced round and began to retrace her steps.

I saw her hesitate a moment as she became aware that she had been followed, but she came straight on, and as she drew near my doubts were set at rest. It was unmistakably Hetty, but grown sweeter looking and more beautiful, and my heart began to throb wildly as the distance between us grew short.

She did not know me – that was evident; and yet there was a look of doubt and hesitation in her face, while after a moment’s wonder as to how I should address her, I saw her countenance change, and troubled no more about etiquette, but, carried away by my feelings, I exclaimed: “Hetty! dear Hetty!” and clasped her hands in mine.

Chapter Sixty One.

My Meeting with my Enemy

These things are a mystery. No doubt we two, parting as we did, boy and girl, ought to have met formally as strangers, perhaps have been re-introduced, and I ought to have made my approaches en règle, but all I knew then was that the bright, affectionate little girl who had been so kind to me had grown into a beautiful woman, whom I felt that I dearly loved; and as for Hetty, as she looked up in my face in a quiet, trusting way, she calmly told me that she had always felt that I should come back some day, and that though she hardly recognised me at first, she was not a bit surprised.

Terribly prosaic and unromantic all this, no doubt; but all young people are not driven mad by persecution, and do not tie their affections up in knots and tangles which can never perhaps be untied. All I know is that I remember thinking that when Adam awoke and found Eve by his side in Paradise, he could not have felt half so happy as I did then; and that, walking slowly back with Hetty’s little hand resting upon my arm, and held in its place by one twice as large, I thought Paradise might have been a very pleasant kind of place, but that this present-day world would do for me.

We said very little, much as we wanted to say, but walked on, treading as it were upon air, till, as if in a moment, we were back at the town, when she said with a quiver in her voice:

“I must leave you now. Papa will be waiting for me to pour out his coffee. He will not touch it unless I do.”

“You are in mourning for Mrs Blakeford,” I said, and my eyes fell upon the little shabby silver brooch I had given her all those years ago.

“Yes, and papa has not been the same since she died. He has very bad health now, and is sadly changed. He is in some great trouble, too, but I don’t know what.”

I did; and I walked on thoughtfully by her side till we reached the gate, where we stopped, and she laid her hand in mine.

But the next moment my mind was made up, and, drawing her arm through mine, and trying with a look to infuse some of my assurance, I walked with her into the house, and into the apparently strangely dwarfed sitting-room.

“Who’s that?” cried a peevish voice. “I want my coffee, Hetty. It’s very late. Has the post come in? Who’s that, I say, who’s that?”

I stared in astonishment at the little withered yellow man with grizzly hair and sunken eyes, and asked myself – Is this the Mr Blakeford who used to make me shudder and shrink with dread?

I could not believe it, as I stood there five feet ten in my stockings, and broad-shouldered, while he, always below the middle height, had terribly shrunk away.

“Who is it, I say, Hetty? Who have you brought home?” he cried again in a querulous voice.

“It is I, Mr Blakeford,” I said – “Antony Grace; and I have come to see if we cannot make friends.”

He sank back in his chair, his jaw dropped, and his eyes dilated with dread; but as I approached with extended hand, he recovered somewhat, and held out his own as he struggled to his feet.

“How – how do you do?” he faltered; “I’ve been ill – very ill. My wife died. Hetty, my dear, quick, Mr Grace will have breakfast with us. No, no, don’t ring; fetch a cup yourself, my dear – fetch it yourself.”

Hetty looked at him wonderingly, but she obeyed; and as the door closed upon her, Blakeford exclaimed, in quick trembling tones:

“She doesn’t know – she knows nothing. Don’t tell her. For God’s sake don’t tell her. Don’t say you have.”

“I have told her nothing, Mr Blakeford,” I replied.

“Don’t tell her, then. Bless her, I could not bear for her to know. I won’t fight, Mr Grace, I won’t fight. I’m a broken man. I’ll make restitution, I will indeed; but for God’s sake don’t tell my child.”

“Then he is not all bad,” I thought, “for he does love her, and would be ashamed if she knew that he had been such a consummate villain.”

And as I thought that, I recalled her brave defence of him years ago, and then wondered at the change as she entered the room.

I breakfasted with them, the old man – for, though not old in years, he was as much broken as one long past seventy – watching me eagerly, his hands trembling each time terribly as he raised his cup, while Hetty’s every action, her tender solicitude for her father’s wants, and the way in which she must have ignored every ill word that she had heard to his injury, filled me with delight.

He must have read my every word and look, for I have no doubt I was transparent enough, and then he must have read those of Hetty, simple, unconscious and sweet, for it did not seem to occur to her that any of the ordinary coquetries of the sex were needed; and at last, when I roused myself to the fact that Tom Girtley must be waiting breakfast, it was nearly eleven, and I rose to go.

“You are not going, Mr Grace,” said Hetty’s father anxiously. “Don’t go yet.”

“I must, sir,” I said, “but I will soon be back.”

“Soon be back?” he said nervously.

“Yes, sir. And that business of ours. That settlement.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, with lips quivering, “it shall all be done. But don’t talk about it now, not before Hetty here.”

“I think Hetty, Mr Blakeford, will help the settlement most easily for us both, will you not, dear?” I said, and I drew her to my side. “There, Mr Blakeford,” I said, holding out my hand once more, “are we to be good friends?”

He tried to answer me, but no words came, and he sank back, quivering with nervous trepidation in his chair.

He was better, though, in a few minutes, and when I left him he clung to my hand, his last words being:

“I will make all right, I will give you no trouble now.”

Tom Girtley laughed at me when I rejoined him and told him where I had been.

“This is a pretty way of doing business!” he exclaimed. “You play fast and loose with your solicitor, and end by coming down and compromising the case with the defendant. Really, Mr Grace, this is most reprehensible, and I shall wash my hands of the whole affair.”