Chapter Fifty Seven.
I Find I Have a Temper.
I went to Miss Carr’s nearly every evening now, to report progress; for her instructions to me, after a consultation between Mr Jabez, Mr Ruddle, Mr Girtley, and myself, were that neither expense nor time was to be spared in perfecting the machine.
We had gone carefully into the reasons for the breakdown, and were compelled reluctantly to own that sooner or later the mechanism would have failed; for besides the part I named, we found several weak points in the construction—faults that only a superhuman intelligence could have guarded against. The malignant act had only hastened the catastrophe.
It was a cruel trick, and though we could not bring it home, we had not a doubt that the dastardly act was committed by Jem Smith, who was the instrument of John Lister. A little examination showed how easily the back premises could be entered by anyone coming along behind from Lister’s, and there was some talk of prosecution, but Hallett was ill, and it was abandoned.
For the blow he had received from a piece of the machinery had produced serious injury to the head, and day after day I had very bad news to convey to Miss Carr. The poor fellow seemed to have broken down utterly, and kept his bed. He used to try to appear cheerful; but it was evident that he took the matter bitterly to heart, and at times gave up all hope of ever perfecting the machine.
It was pitiful to see his remorseful looks when Mr Jabez came to see him of an evening; Mr Peter, who always accompanied his brother, stopping in my room to smoke a long pipe I kept on purpose for him, whether I was at home or no, and from time to time he had consultations with Tom Girtley, who kept putting off a communication that he said he had to make till he had his task done.
I used to notice that he and Mr Peter had a great deal to say to each other, but I was too much taken up with my troubles about Hallett and the machine to pay much heed; for sometimes the idea forced itself upon me that my poor friend would never live to realise his hopes.
Time glided on, and I used to sit with him in an evening, and tell him how we had progressed during the day; but it made no impression whatever; he used only to lie and dream, never referring once to Miss Carr’s behaviour on that wretched day; in fact, I used to fancy sometimes that he was in such a state from his injury that he had not thoroughly realised what did occur.
It was indeed a dreary time; for poor Mrs Hallett, when, led by a sense of duty, I used to go and sit with her, always had a reproachful look for me, and, no matter what I said, she always seemed to make the worst of matters.
But for Linny and Tom Girtley, the place would have been gloomy indeed, but the latter was always bright and cheerful, and Linny entirely changed. There was no open love-making, but a quiet feeling of respect seemed to have sprung up between them, and I hardly knew what was going on, only when it was brought to my attention by Mr Jabez, or Revitts, or Mary.
“I should have thought as you wouldn’t have liked that there friend of yourn cutting you out in the way he do, Ant’ny,” said Revitts, one day; “I don’t want to make mischief, but this here is my—our—house,” he added by way of correction, “and I don’t think as a young man as is a friend of yourn ought to come down my stairs with his arm round a certain young lady’s waist.”
“Go along, do, with your stuff and nonsense, William,” exclaimed Mary sharply. “What do you know about such things?”
“Lots,” said Bill, grinning with delight, and then becoming preternaturally serious; “I felt it to be my dooty to tell Ant’ny, and I have.”
“You don’t know nothing about it,” said Mary, tittering; “he don’t know what we know, do he, Master Antony?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Mary,” I replied.
“Oh do, of course not, Master Antony; but I shouldn’t like a certain young lady down at Rowford to hear you say so.”
“Phew!” whistled Revitts, and feeling very boyish and conscious, I made my retreat, for I was bound for Westmouth Street, and had stopped to have ten minutes’ chat downstairs with my old friends on the way.
I found Miss Carr looking very thin and anxious, and she listened eagerly to my account of howl was progressing at the works.
“Mr Girtley tells me that you are doing wonders, Antony,” she said, in a curious, hesitating way, for we both seemed to be fencing, and as if we disliked to talk of the subject nearest to our hearts.
She was the first to cast off the foolish reserve though, and to ask after Hallett’s health.
“The doctors don’t seem to help him a bit,” I said sadly. “Poor fellow! he thinks so much about the failure of his hopes, and it is heart-breaking to see him. He toiled for it so long. Oh, Miss Carr, if I only knew for certain that it was John Lister who caused the breakdown, I should almost feel as if I could kill him.”
“Kill him with your contempt, Antony,” she said sternly; and then, as we went on talking about Hallett’s illness, she became very much agitated, and I saw that she was in tears, which she hastily repressed as her sister entered the room.
The next evening when I went, I found her alone, for her sister had gone to stay a few days with some friends. My news was worse than ever, and there was no fencing the question that night, as she turned very pale when I gave my report.
“But the invention, Antony,” she exclaimed excitedly; “tell me how it is going on.”
“We are working at it as fast as possible,” I replied; “it takes a long time, but that is unavoidable.”
“If you love Stephen Hallett,” she said suddenly, and she looked full in my face, “get his invention finished and perfect. Let it succeed, and you will have done more for him than any doctor. Work, Antony, work. I ask you for—for—Pray, pray strive on.”
“I will—I am striving,” I said, “with all my might. It was a cruel blow for him though, just as success was in his grasp.”
“Mr Lister is here, ma’am,” said the servant, entering the room.
“I have forbidden Mr Lister my house,” said Miss Carr sternly.
“Yes, ma’am, but he forced his way in, and—”
Before the man could finish his sentence, John Lister was in the room, looking flushed and excited, and he almost thrust the servant out and closed the door.
As he caught sight of me his face turned white with rage, but he controlled himself, and turned to where Miss Carr was standing, looking very beautiful in her anger.
I had started up, and stepped between them, but she motioned me back to my seat, while he joined his hands in a piteous way, and said in a low voice:
“I could not help it. I was obliged to come. Pray, pray, Miriam, hear me now.”
“Mr Lister!” she said, with a look of contempt that should have driven him away—“Mr Lister! and once more here?”
“Miriam,” he exclaimed, “you drive me to distraction. Do you think that such a love as mine is to be crushed?”
“Love!” she said, looking: at him contemptuously.
“Yes; love,” he cried. “I’ll prove to you my love by saying that now—even now, knowing what I do, I will forgive the past, and will try to save you from disgrace.”
“Mr Lister, you force me to listen to you,” she replied, “for I will not degrade you by ringing for the servants and having you removed. Pray say what you mean. Hush, Antony, let him speak. Perhaps after he has said all he wishes, he may leave me in peace.”
“Leave you in peace—you will not degrade me!” he cried, stung to madness and despair by her looks and words. “Look here, Miriam Carr, you compel me to speak as I do before this wretched boy.”
“Hush, Antony, be silent,” she cried, as I started up, stung in my turn by his contemptuous tone.
“Yes: sit down, spaniel, lap-dog—miserable cur!” he cried; and I felt my teeth grit together with such a sensation of rage a as I had never known before. “And now, as for you—you blind, foolish woman,” he continued, as I awakened to the fact that he had been drinking heavily, “since fair means will not succeed, foul means shall.”
“Say what you wish to say, Mr Lister,” she replied coldly, “for I warn you that this is the last time you shall speak to me. If you force yourself into my presence again, my servants shall hand you over to the police.”
“What!” he cried, with a forced laugh, “me?—hand me over to the police? You—you think I have been drinking, but you are wrong.”
No one had hinted at such a thing, but he felt it, and went on.
“I came to tell you to-night, that I will ignore the past, that I will overlook your disgraceful intimacy with this low, contemptible compositor, the blackguardly friend of this boy—the man who has obtained a hold upon you, and who, with his companions, is draining your purse—I say I will overlook all this, and, ignoring the past, take you for my wife, if you will promise to give up this wretched crew.”
There was no answer, but I sat there feeling as if I must fling myself at him, young and slight as I was, in her defence, but she stood there like a statue, fixing him with her eyes, while he went on raving. His face was flushed, and there was a hot, fiery look in his eyes, while his lips were white and parched.
“You shall not go on like this,” he continued. “You are my betrothed wife, and I will not stand by and see your name dragged in the mire by these wretched adventurers. Even now your name has become a by-word and a shame, the talk in every pot-house where low-class printers meet, and it is to save you from this that I would still take you to be my wife.”
Still she did not speak, and a look from her restrained me, when I would have done something to protect her from his insults, every one of which seemed to sting me to the heart.
“I know I am to blame,” he said passionately, “for letting you take and warm that young viper into life; but I could not tell. It shall end, though, now. I have written to your brother-in-law, and he will help to drag you from amongst this swindling crew.”
“Have you said all you wish to say, Mr Lister?” she replied coldly.
“No,” he cried, stung into a fresh burst by her words; “no, I have not. No, I tell you,” he cried, taking a step forward, as if believing in his drunken fit that she was shrinking from him, and being conquered by his importunities; “No, I tell you—no: and I never shall give up till you consent to be my wife. Do you take me for a drivelling boy, to be put off like this, Miriam?” he cried, catching at her hand, but she drew it back. “Do you wish to save your name from disgrace?”
She did not answer, while he approached closer.
“You don’t speak,” he said hoarsely. “Do you know what they say about you and this fellow Hallett?”
Still she made no reply.
“They say,” he hissed, and thrusting out his face, he whispered something to her, when, in an instant, I saw her countenance change, and her white hand struck him full across the lips.
Uttering an oath, he caught her tightly by the arms, but I could bear no more. With my whole strength called up I leaped at him, and seized him by the throat, believing in my power of turning him forcibly from the room.
The events of the next few moments seem now as if seen through a mist, for in the brief struggle that ensued I was easily mastered by the powerful man whom I had engaged.
I have some indistinct memory of our swaying here and there, and then of having a heavy fall. My next recollection is of feeling sick and drowsy, and seeing Miss Carr and one of the servants bending over me and bathing my face.
For some few minutes I could not understand what it all meant but by degrees the feeling of sickness passed away, and I looked hastily round the room.
Miss Carr, who was deadly pale, told the maid to fetch some brandy, and as soon as we were alone, she knelt by me, and held one of my hands to her lips.
“Are you much hurt, Antony?” she said tenderly. “I did not send for the doctor. That wretched man has made sufficient scandal as it is.”
“Hurt? No—not much,” I said rather faintly. “Where is he?”
“Gone,” she said; and then she uttered a sigh of relief, as I sat up and placed one hand to my head, feeling confused, and as if I had gone back some years, and that this was not Miss Carr but Mary, and that this was Mr Blakeford’s again.
The confusion soon passed off, though, and after I had drunk the spirit that was brought me, I felt less giddy and strange.
Miss Carr sat watching me, looking very pale, but I could realise now that she was terribly agitated.
Before an hour had passed I felt ready to talk to her, and beg her to take some steps for her protection.
“If I had only been a strong man,” I exclaimed passionately. “Oh, Miss Carr, pray, pray do something,” I cried again; “this is horrible. I cannot bear to see you insulted by that wretch.”
“I have decided to do something, Antony,” she said in a low voice; and a faint colour came into her pale cheeks. “He will not be able to force his way to me again.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “He is a madman. I am sure he had been drinking to-night.”
“No one but a madman would have behaved as he did, Antony,” she said. “But be at rest about me. I have, after a bitter struggle with myself, decided what to do.”
“But you will not go away?” I said.
She shook her head.
“No; my path lies here,” she said quietly. “Antony, I want your help to-morrow.”
“Yes: what shall I do?” I asked.
“Will you ask Miss Hallett to come here to me—will you bring her?”
“Bring Linny Hallett here?” I exclaimed in surprise.
“Yes: bring her here,” she said softly; and there was a peculiar tone in her voice as she spoke. “And now about yourself. Do you feel well enough to go home? Shall one of the servants see you safely back?”
“Oh no,” I said; “I am better now. I shall take a cab. But I do not feel comfortable to leave you alone.”
“You need not fear,” she said quietly. “The house will be closed as soon as you leave. To-morrow I shall take steps for my protection.”
I left her soon after, thinking about her request, and as far as I could make out she intended to keep Linny with her, feeling that Lister would not dare to face her again, when the woman he had sought to injure had been made her companion.
Still I did not feel satisfied, and the only consoling thing was to be found in Lister’s own words, that he had sent for Miss Carr’s relative; and, in the hope that he might soon arrive, I reached home and went up at once to see Hallett, who looked very ill, but smiled sadly, as I sat down by his side.
“Better,” he said; “I think I’m better, but I don’t know, Antony: sometimes I feel as if it would be happier if I could be altogether at rest.”
“Oh, Hallett!” I cried.
“Yes, you are right,” he said. “What would become of them? I must get better, Antony, better, but sometimes—sometimes—”
“Don’t speak to him any more,” whispered Mary; “he is so weak that his poor head wanders.”
“But, Mary, the doctor; does he say there is any danger?”
“No, no, my dear. He is to sleep all he can. There, go down now. I’m going to sit up to-night.”
I went down, leaving Mary to her weary vigil; for my head ached terribly, and I was very giddy.
Linny was in the sitting-room, and she uttered an exclamation.
“Why, how bad you look, Antony!” she cried.
“Do I?” I said with a laugh; “I had a bit of a fall, and it has shaken me. But, Linny dear, I have a message for you.”
“For me, Antony?” she said, turning white.
“Yes; Miss Carr bade me ask you to come with me to her house to-morrow.”
“I go to her house!” faltered Linny.
“Yes, dear, you will—will you not? I am sure it is important.”
“But I could not leave poor Steve.”
“It need not take long,” I said; “you will go and see what she wants?”
Linny looked at me in silence for a few moments, and there was something very dreamy in her face.
“If you think it right that I should go, Antony,” she said at last, “I will. Shall I speak to Stephen first?”
“No,” I said. “Hear first what she has to say.”
She promised, and I went down to my own room, glad to lay my aching head upon the pillow; where I soon fell into a troubled sleep, dreaming of my encounter with John Lister, and feeling again the heavy blow as we fell, and my head struck the broad, flat fender with a sickening crash, that seemed to be repeated again and again.