Chapter Fifty One.
Mr Lister is Moved On.
We had good reason to know that John Lister was hovering about the place, for I saw him several times, and found that in Hallett’s absence and mine he had called and endeavoured to see Linny; but she had always refused, and on Mary being warned, he received such a rebuff that he did not call again. Still, however, he hung about, making the poor girl’s life wretched, for at last she dared not go to the window for fear of being seen.
Both Hallett and I wondered whether his pertinacity would make any impression. While we were in a state of doubt, it fell to my lot one evening to become Linny’s escort to a distant part of London, and we were on our way back, when suddenly I felt her hand tighten upon my arm.
“Quick, Antony,” she whispered, “he is there!”
“He is there?” I said wonderingly, for I did not comprehend her; but the next moment I caught sight of Lister coming towards us, and evidently fixing her with his eyes.
There was a meaning smile upon his lip, and, apparently intending to ignore me, he was about to speak, when, with a gesture of horror, she shrank from him, turned her head aside, and begged me to hurry home.
“We’ll go home,” I said; “but we will not hurry;” and I turned and met Lister’s contemptuous stare, as he followed us at a little distance till we had reached the house.
I was annoyed and distressed about this pertinacious pursuit, and I had just made up my mind to consult Hallett on the best way to put a stop to it, when an idea occurred to me.
“It is very evident,” I thought, “that Lister does not know who lives here;” and I laughed to myself as I quietly determined to put my plan in force.
That evening, while Hallett was busy in his attic, slaving away with redoubled energy at his model, giving it what he looked upon as the final touches before proceeding with the patent, I went down as soon as I heard Revitts come in, his broad face expanding with pleasure as I followed him below to his own particular sanctuary, where, while he was enjoying his after-tea pipe, I opened my business.
“Revitts,” I said, “I’m going to take you into my confidence, and ask you to keep faith.”
“Which you may be sure I shall do, Master Antony, if so be I can.”
“Well, you can, Bill,” I replied; and I proceeded to tell him how Linny was annoyed.
“That’s very unpleasant,” he said thoughtfully; “but is it by that same chap?”
“Yes.”
“That’ll do,” he said, drawing a long breath; “and lookye here, Antony, my young friend, I’m sergeant, and have to set an example now to them as is under—them, I mean—no, I don’t—I mean those as—who—are under me—that’s right! One’s obliged to be particler now. Use of the truncheon forbidden, except when obliged; but if I do meet, that fellow annoying Miss Linny, I shall be obliged to give him a topper—a hangel couldn’t help it.”
“No, no, Bill—no, Mr Sergeant,” I began.
“Stow that, Antony, no larks. Bill, please, as afore.”
“Well, then, Bill, that is one of the things you must not do. All I want is for you to let him see that you live here, and that Miss Hallett is under your protection. He won’t face you, and as soon as he finds that you are here he will keep away.”
“But he must be taken for his assault on the police, Antony.”
“No, no: let him go on in his own way. If you take him, there will be a great deal of inquiry and exposure that would be most painful to all my friends. We should have to go into the witness-box and be cross-examined, and it would be extremely painful to me, both on my own behalf and that of others.”
“You wouldn’t like it, Antony?” he said.
“No, indeed I should not,” I replied.
“That’s enough, dear lad,” he exclaimed, giving the table a rap with his fist. “That’s settled; but I may give him a word or two of a sort, eh? Just show him I know him, and move him on pretty sharp?”
“As much of that as you like,” I said; “I leave it in your hands. What I ask of you is, as an officer, to see that we are not pestered by that man.”
“It’s as good as done, Ant’ny,” he exclaimed, stuffing some more tobacco in his pipe.
“It’s better than done, my dear,” said Mary decisively. “When my William says a thing’s as good as done, you may make yourself comfortable about it.”
Revitts said no more about it in the future, only once when he met me at the door, chuckling to himself, and shaking his head.
“What are you laughing at?” I asked.
“Only about him,” he replied. “I just run again him at the corner, and said about six words to him.”
“Well?”
“That’s all,” said Revitts, chuckling. “He showed me the back seams of his coat directly; but I followed him up and moved him on. I don’t think he’ll show himself much more about here, my lad.”
Revitts was right. Lister did not hang about our neighbourhood so much after that interview; but it had the effect of sending him back to annoy Miss Carr; so that, day by day, his actions formed a problem that it became very difficult to solve, and we little knew then how malignantly he was fighting against Hallett, whose love he must have suspected.
Time glided on. Mr Jabez used to come regularly to Ormond Street. The model and its progress seemed to give a fresh interest to the old man’s life, and, in addition, he took a remarkable liking to Linny. Mrs Hallett, too, showed a fancy for him, after a few tearful words of opposition to the way in which he encouraged Hallett in his folly.
“Folly, ma’am? it’s no such thing. He’ll be a great man yet, and a benefactor to his kind. Spread of knowledge, you know.”
“I don’t understand you, Mr Rowle,” said the poor woman plaintively; “but you may be right. All I know is, that it takes up a great deal of his time.”
“Couldn’t be better spent, my dear madam. Do you know what it means?”
“No,” said Mrs Hallett, “only neglect of his poor suffering mother.”
“Patience, my dear madam, patience,” said Mr Jabez. “I’ll tell you what it means. Pleasant changes for you; seaside; a nice invalid-carriage; silk attire for little Miss Linny here, and servants to wait upon you. Bless my soul, ma’am!” he cried flourishing his snuff-box, and taking a liberal pinch, “you ought to be proud of your son.”
“I am, Mr Rowle,” she said, plaintively; “but if you would kindly oblige me by not taking so much snuff. It makes—makes me sneeze.”
“My dear madam,” exclaimed the little man, closing his box with a snap, “I beg your pardon. Bad habit—very bad habit, really.”
Linny burst out into a merry, bird-like laugh that made me start with pleasure. It was so fresh and bright, and it was so long since anything but a faint smile had been seen upon her face, that it was like a pleasant augury of happier days to come.
The old man turned round and smiled and nodded at her, evidently enjoying it too; and when, some ten minutes after, he was going up with me to Hallett’s attic, he stopped on the landing and tapped my arm with his snuff-box.
“Grace,” he said, “I am waking up more and more to the fact that I have been an old fool!”
“Indeed! Why?”
“Because I’ve shut myself up all my life, and grown selfish and crusted. I don’t think I’m such a very bad sort of fellow when you get through the bark.”
“I’m sure you are not, Mr Rowle,” I said.
“Humph! Thankye, Grace. Well, you always did seem to like me.”
“But what do you mean about being an—”
“Old fool? There, say it if you like. I mean about women—young girls—ladies, you know. They’re very nice.”
“Yes, that they are,” I cried eagerly.
“Yah! stuff! How do you know—a boy like you? No, no—I mean yes, of course, so they are. I’ve been thinking, you know, what might have been, if I’d met with such a lady as that Miss Carr, or our pretty little bird there, thirty or forty years ago. Hah! I should have been a different man. But I never did, my boy, I never did.”
He took a pinch of snuff very thoughtfully here.
“It’s too late now, Grace, too late now. You can’t make winter into summer; and it’s getting to the winter with me now. That’s a very nice little thing downstairs. Has she—has she any—any—”
“Lover, Mr Rowle?”
“Yes.”
“Not now,” I said. “There was one, but it ended unhappily. He was a blackguard,” I said warmly.
“Was he, though?” he said eagerly. “That’s right, Grace, I like to see you have some spirit. Poor little lassie! No father, either.”
“Mr Hallett is more like a father to her than a brother,” I replied, as I thought it would be better not to mention John Lister’s name.
“Father—father—” said the old man dreamily. “How curious it must be to feel that one is the father of anything; that it is your own, and that it loves you. Now, do you know, Grace, I never thought of that before.”
“You have always been such a business man, Mr Rowle,” I said.
“Yes—yes, grinding on every day, without a thought of anything but other people’s mistakes, and none about my own. You like little Miss Linny there—downstairs?”
“Oh yes,” I cried; “she always seems to have been like a sister ever since I knew her.”
“Hum! Hah! Yes! Like a sister,” he said thoughtfully. “Well, she’s a very nice little girl, Grace, and I like her; but you need not tell her so.”
“Oh no, of course not, Mr Rowle,” I said, laughing. “Shall we go upstairs?”
“Yes, my boy, directly.
“But look here, Grace,” he continued, fumbling in his pocket, and bringing out a newspaper slip. “Hum! hah! oh, here it is. Read that.”
He pointed to an advertisement of an elderly couple without children, wishing to adopt a young girl; and I read it, and then looked at him wonderingly.
“I suppose that sort of thing is done sometimes, eh?” he said.
“I don’t know, Mr Rowle,” I replied.
“Hum! No, of course you don’t,” he said thoughtfully, after another pinch. “Come along upstairs, my boy, and let’s look at the machine.”