Chapter Forty.
Hallett’s News.
I was so staggered by this strange behaviour that I did not think of pursuit. Moreover, I was in the act of helping poor Mary to the ladder placed for her to descend, while she, poor thing, gave vent to a cutting sigh, and clung tightly to my hand.
As we stood together on the pavement, our eyes met, and there was something so piteous in the poor woman’s face, that it roused me to action, and catching her hand, I drew it through my arm.
“He has gone to get a glass of ale, Mary,” I said cheerfully. “Let’s see if we can see him.”
“No,” she said huskily; “he has gone: he has left me for good, Master Antony, and I’m a miserable, wretched woman.”
“Oh, nonsense,” I cried. “Come along. We shall find him.”
“No,” she said, in a decisive way; “he has gone. He’s been regretting it ever since this morning.”
“Don’t, pray; don’t cry, Mary,” I whispered in alarm, for I was afraid of a scene in the streets.
“No, my dear; don’t you be afraid of that,” she said, with a sigh. “I’ll try and bear it till we get home; but I won’t promise for any longer.”
“Don’t you be foolish, Mary,” I said sharply. “He has not left you. He’s too fond of you. Let’s see if he is in the bar.”
Mary sighed; but she allowed herself to be led where I pleased, and for the next half-hour we stood peering about in every likely place for the truant husband, but in vain; and at last, feeling that it was useless to search longer, I reluctantly turned to poor, patient, silent Mary, wondering greatly that she had not burst out into a “tantrum,” and said that we had better go home.
“Go where?” she said dolefully.
“Home,” I replied, “to your lodgings.”
“My lodgings, Master Antony,” she wailed. “I have no lodgings. I’m a poor, helpless, forsaken woman!”
“Oh, what nonsense, Mary,” I cried, hurrying her along; “don’t be so foolish!”—for I was in mortal terror of a violent burst of tears. “Come along, do. Here!” I shouted; “cab!”—and I sighed with relief as I got her inside, and gave the man directions to take us to Caroline Street, Pentonville.
But even in the cab Mary held up, striving hard, poor woman, to master her emotion—her pride, no doubt, helping her to preserve her calmness till she got to the happy home.
“I dare say we shall find him upstairs,” I said, after giving the cabman a shilling more than his fare; but though there was a light burning, and the landlady had spread the table, to make the place look welcome to the newly wedded pair, there was no sign of Revitts, and we neither of us, in our shame, dared to ask if he had been back.
On the contrary, we gladly got to the rooms—Revitts’ one having now expanded to three—and once there, Mary gasped out: “Master Antony dear, shut and lock the door—quick—quick!” I hastily did as she bade me, and as I turned, it was to see poor Mary tear off her bonnet and scarf, throw herself on the little couch, cover her face with her hands, and lie there crying and sobbing in a very passion of grief, misery, and shame.
It was no noisy outburst: it was too deep for that; but the poor woman had to relieve herself of the day’s disappointment and agony, and there she lay, beating down and stifling every hysterical cry that fought for exit, while her breast heaved with the terrible emotion.
I was too young then to realise the full extent of the shame and abasement the poor woman must have felt, but all the same I sympathised with her deeply, and in my weak, boyish way did all I could to console her, but in vain. For quite an hour the outburst continued, till at last, quite in despair, I cried out: “Oh Mary, Mary! what can I do to comfort you?” She jumped up into a sitting position, then; threw back her dishevelled hair; wiped her eyes, and looked, in spite of her red and swollen lids, more herself.
“Oh, my own dear boy,” she cried, “what a wicked, selfish wretch I am!” and, catching me in her arms, she kissed me very tenderly.
“There,” she said with a piteous smile; “it’s all over now, Master Antony, and I won’t cry another drop. You’re a dear, good, affectionate boy—that you are, and I’ll never forget it, and you’re as hungry as a hundred hunters, I know.”
In spite of my protestations, she hastened to make that balm for all sorrows—a cup of tea.
“But I don’t want it, Mary,” I protested, “and I’m not hungry.”
“Then I do, and I am,” she said, smiling. “You won’t mind having a cup with me, I know, Master Antony dear. Just like old times.”
“Well, I will try,” I said, “and I dare say Revitts will be back by then.”
Mary glanced at the little Dutch clock in the corner, and saw that it pointed to eleven; then, shaking her head, she said sadly:
“No, I don’t think he’ll come back.”
“But you don’t think he has run away, Mary?”
“I don’t know what to think, my dear,” she said; “I only hope that he won’t come to any harm, poor boy. It’s his poor head, and that’s why he turned so strange.”
“Yes,” I said joyfully, as I saw that at last she had taken the common-sense view of the case, “that’s it, depend upon it, Mary; and if he does not come soon, we’ll give notice to the police, and they’ll find him out.”
“No, my dear, don’t do that,” she said piteously; “it would be like shaming the poor boy; for if his mates got to know that he had run away like on his wedding-day, he’d never hear the last of it.”
I was obliged to agree in the truth of this remark, and I began to realise then, in spite of poor Mary’s rough exterior and ignorance, what a depth of patient endurance and thoughtfulness there was in the nature of a woman. Her first outburst of uncontrollable grief past, she was ready to sit down and patiently bear her load of sorrow, waiting for what more trouble might come; for I am fully convinced that the poor woman looked forward to no pleasure in her married life. In spite of her belief that her husband’s strange conduct was in some way due to his late accident, she felt convinced that he was regretting his marriage, and, if that were so now, she had no hope of winning him to a better state.
We were both weary, and when the tea had been finished, Mary carefully washed up the things, saw that there was a sufficiency of water, and kept it nearly on the boil. Then she reset the tea-things in the tidiest way, ready for Revitts if he should like a cup when he came home, and, on second thoughts, put out another cup and saucer.
“It will be more sociable like, Master Antony,” she said, by way of excuse; “for, of course, I don’t want no more, though I do bless them Chinese as invented tea, which is a blessing to our seck.”
These preparations made, and a glance round the sitting-room having been given, Mary uttered a deep sigh, took up her work-basket, placed it on her knees, thrust her hand into a black stocking, and began to darn.
I sat talking to her in a low voice for some time, feeling sincerely sorry for her, and wondering what could have become of Revitts, but at last, in spite of my honest sympathy, I began to nod, and the various objects in the room grew indistinct.
“Hadn’t you better go to bed, my dear?” said a voice near me; and I started into wakefulness, and found Mary standing near me, with the black stocking-covered hand resting on one shoulder, while with the other she brushed my hair off my forehead.
“Bed? No!” I exclaimed, shaking myself. “I couldn’t help feeling sleepy, Mary; but I shan’t go to bed.”
“But it’s close upon twelve o’clock, dear, and you must be tired out.”
“Never mind, Mary; to-morrow’s Sunday,” I said, with a yawn; and I went on once more talking to her about the engineer’s office, and how I got on with young Girtley and his father, till my voice trailed off, and through a mist I could see Mary with that black stocking upon her hand poking about it with a great needle.
Then the black stocking seemed to swell and swell to a mountain’s size, till it was like one huge mass, which Mary kept attacking and stabbing with a long, bright steel lance, but without avail, for it still grew, and grew, and grew, till it seemed about to overwhelm me, and in my horror I was trying vainly to cry to her to stab it again, when I started up into wakefulness, for there was the faint tinkle of a bell.
Mary, too, had leaped to her feet, and was clinging to me.
“Once!” she whispered.
There was another tinkle, very softly given.
“Twice!” whispered Mary.
Then another very faint ring.
“Three?” whispered Mary; “it’s Jones.”
“It’s Revitts come home!” I said joyfully.
“No,” she said, still clinging to me. “He has the latchkey.”
“Lost it,” I said. “Let me run down and let him in.”
“No, no. Wait a moment,” said Mary faintly. “I can’t bear it yet. There’s something wrong with my poor boy.”
“There isn’t,” I cried impatiently.
“There is,” she said hoarsely; “and they’ve come to bring the news.”
She clung to me spasmodically, but loosed me directly after, as she said quietly: “I can bear it now.”
I ran down softly, and opened the door to admit the wandering husband; but to my astonishment, in place of Revitts, there stood Stephen Hallett.
“Hallett!” I exclaimed.
“Yes,” he said. “I saw a light in the rooms. Is Revitts there?”
“No,” I said. “Not yet.”
“On duty?”
“No; he was married to-day.”
“Yes, yes,” he said, in a strange tone of voice. “I remember now. Who is upstairs?”
“Mrs Revitts—Mary.”
“Let us go up,” he said; “I’ll step up quietly.”
I was the more confused and muddled for having just awakened from a deep sleep, and somehow, all this seemed to be part of the dream connected with the great black mass that had threatened to fall upon me. I should not have been the least surprised if I had suddenly awakened and found myself alone, when, after closing the door, I led Hallett upstairs to the little front room where Mary was standing with dilated eyes, staring hard at the door.
“You, Mr Hallett?” she exclaimed, as he half staggered in, and then, staring round, seemed to reel, and caught my hand as I helped him to a seat.
“Tell me,” gasped Mary, catching at his hand; “is it very bad?”
He nodded.
“Give me—water,” he panted. “I am—exhausted.”
Mary rushed to the little cupboard for a glass, and the brandy that had been kept on Revitts behalf, and hastily pouring some into a glass with water, she held it to him, and he drained it at a draught.
“Now, tell me,” she exclaimed. “Where is he—what is it—have you seen him?”
“No,” he cried hoarsely, as he clenched his fist and held it before him! “no, or I should have struck him dead.”
“Mr Hallett!” she cried, starting. Then, in a piteous voice, “Oh, tell me, please—what has he done? He is my husband, my own dear boy! Pray, pray, tell me—he was half-mad. Oh, what have—what have I done!”
“Is she mad?” cried Hallett angrily. “Where is her husband—where is Revitts?”
“We don’t know,” I said hastily. “We are waiting for him.”
“I want him directly,” he said hoarsely. “I could not go to a stranger.”
“What is the matter, Hallett?” I cried. “Pray, speak out. What can I do?”
“Nothing,” he said hoarsely. “Yes; tell him to come—no, bring him to me. Do you hear?”
“Yes,” I faltered.
“At any hour—whenever he comes,” said Hallett, speaking now angrily, as he recovered under the stimulus of the brandy.
“Then there is something terribly wrong,” I said.
“Wrong? Yes. My God!” he muttered, “that I should have to tell it—Linny has gone?”