Chapter Thirty Seven.
An Angry Parting.
I had four days to wait before going to Westmouth Street to receive my usual welcome—at least, not my usual welcome, for though she seemed to grow more sad and pale, Miss Carr’s reception of me increased each time in warmth, till at last, had I been a younger brother she could not have been more kind. I was a good deal troubled at heart about what I knew, and puzzled myself as to my duties in the case. Ought I to take Mr Hallett into my confidence, and ask his advice, or ought I to tell Miss Carr herself? It was hard to settle, and I have often thought since of how strangely I was brought at so young an age into the consideration of the weighty matters of life of those with whom I was in contact.
It seemed to me that my patroness ought to know what people said about Mr Lister, and that if it were true she ought not to marry him. Certainly, at the interview at which I was an unwilling listener, there had appeared to be no probability of the wedding taking place soon, but all the same, Miss Carr had seemed to me terribly cut up, consequent upon the parting with Mr Lister.
I was so strange and quiet that afternoon that Miss Carr noticed it, and had just asked me what was the matter when the servant brought up a card and I saw her change colour.
“Show him up, Edward,” she said quietly; and though I did not see the card I felt sure from her manner that I knew who had come, and I looked up at Miss Carr, expecting to be told to go into the next room, but to my surprise she did not speak, and the next moment Mr Lister came in.
“Ah, Miriam!” he exclaimed; “how well—You here, Grace?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, feeling very much in the way, as I stood where I had risen.
“Sit down, Antony,” said Miss Carr quietly; and as I obeyed I saw an angry flush cross Mr Lister’s countenance.
“Will you give me a few minutes in the next room, Miriam dear?” he said in a low voice.
“In my last answer to your letters, John,” she replied, “I begged that you would not come to see me for a month or two. Why are you here now?”
“Why am I here now?” he said in a low, deep voice. “Can you ask me? Because I want to speak to you—particularly—come in the next room.”
I could not help looking hard at him as he spoke, and thinking about what I had heard concerning his affairs, and as I thought that he was to marry Miss Carr to pay off his debts, a strong feeling of resentment against him made me almost determine to utter some word of warning.
“He is so handsome, and has such a way with him,” I thought, “that she will do just as he wishes her;” but as the thoughts were in my mind, I was surprised and pleased by finding Miss Carr take quite a firm standing.
“You can have nothing more to say to me, John, than has been said already. I have told you that at least six months must elapse before I can consent to what you ask.”
“Will you come into the next room, or send away that boy?” he said in a low voice, but one which showed that he was fast losing his temper.
“No,” she said firmly; “and after my last letter I think it cruel of you to press me.”
“I cannot help whether it is cruel or not,” he said, growing white with anger at her opposition, “and you are forcing me to speak before this boy.”
“I leave that to your common-sense, John,” she said calmly, and with no little dignity in her manner. “I don’t know that I wish to hide anything from Antony Grace. He knows of our engagement.”
“Are you mad, Miriam?” he cried, unable to contain himself, and indirectly venting his spleen upon me. “You pick up a poor boy out of the gutter, and you take him and make him your bosom friend and confidant.”
Miss Carr caught my hand in hers, as I started, stung to the quick and mortified by his words.
“Shame, John Lister!” she said, with a look that should have brought him to his senses. “Shame! How can you speak like that in Antony Grace’s presence, and to me?”
“Because you make me desperate,” he cried angrily. “I can bear it no longer. I will not be trifled with. For months now you have treated me as a child. Once more, will you send away this boy, or come with me into another room?”
“Mr Lister,” she said, rising, “you are angry and excited. You are saying words now which you will afterwards grieve over, as much as I snail regret to have heard them spoken.”
“I can’t help that,” he exclaimed. “Day after day I have come to you, begging you to listen to me, but I have always been put off, until now I have grown desperate.”
“Desperate?” she said wonderingly.
“Yes, desperate. I do not wish to speak before this boy, but you force me to it.”
“What is there in our engagement that I should be ashamed to let the whole world hear?” she said proudly. “Why, if I listened to you, it would be published to every one who would hear.”
Mr Lister took a few strides up and down the room.
“Will you hear me, Miriam?” he cried, making an ineffectual effort to command his temper.
“John Lister,” she replied, “I have given you your answer, Come to me in six months’ time.”
“Am I to take that as final?” he said hoarsely.
“Yes. How can I reply otherwise to your violence?”
“Violence! It is enough to drive a man mad! But, once more, Miriam, give me your verbal answer to the note I sent you this morning. Yes or no. Pause before you answer, for you do not know how much depends upon it. You have made me desperate. Don’t leave me to repent of what I have done.”
“John, dear John!” she said softly, “I am alone in the world, with none to guide me, and I have prayed for help that I might give a right answer to your request.”
“Yes,” he said, with his lip curling, “and it is—”
“It is for both our sakes, John,” she said softly; “I could not in justice to us both say yes, now; it must be no!”
He did not speak, but stood glaring at her for a few moments. Then, looking very white, and drawing in his breath with a long, low hiss, he turned upon his heel and left the room.
For a few minutes Miss Carr sat gazing at the door through which he had passed, and then, turning and seeing my hot, flushed face, she seemed to recall Mr Lister’s words about me, and she took my hand, sitting very quietly for a time.
“When people are angry, Antony,” she said quietly, “they say things they do not intend or mean. You must forgive Mr Lister his words about you—for my sake.”
“I will do what you wish,” I said, and then I began wondering whether I ought to tell Miss Carr what I knew about Mr Lister’s affairs, for it seemed to me that the words I had heard must be true, and that this was the explanation of his great anxiety to fix the day.
A dozen times over the words were on my lips, but I felt that it would seem as if I took advantage of my position, and were trying to blacken Mr Lister to gain her favour. More likely, I thought, it would make her bitter and angry against me, and, reflecting that she had determinedly insisted that he should wait six months for her answer, I remained silent.
Miss Carr strove very hard to make me forget the unpleasantry of the early part of my visit, but she was at times very quiet and subdued, and I believe we both looked upon it as a relief when the time came for my departure.