Meanwhile Revitts had gradually recovered, and more than once related to Mary and me how, on that unfortunate night, he had been attracted by a slight scuffle and a woman’s cry; that he had run up, and the woman had clung to him, which so enraged the man that he had struck him with the heavy stick that he carried, and that was all.
“Should you know the woman again?” I asked, feeling very guilty as the possessor of Linny’s secret.
“No,” he said. “She was only a little thing, quite a girl, and she had her veil down; but I should know the man, and if ever I do get hold of him, if I don’t give him a wunner my name ain’t Revitts.”
He was still too ill to resume his duties, but he used to go out for a walk every day, leaning on Mary’s arm, Mary herself now taking to the room that had been engaged ostensibly for me.
“It’s a-coming off, Antony,” said Revitts to me one night, when I had returned from the office in high glee; for I had received a note from Miss Carr, saying that she wished to see me the next day, she having just returned to town with her sister from a long round of visits, following a tour on the Continent.
“Coming off?” I said, looking from him to Mary and back.
“Don’t you take any notice or his nonsense,” cried Mary, running her arm up to the elbow in one of Revitts’ stockings.
“’Tain’t nonsense,” said Revitts, rubbing his hands softly; “it’s a-coming off soon as ever I’m quite well.”
“’Tain’t,” said Mary tartly. “I’m going to take another place as soon as ever you’re fit to leave.”
“Yes, my dear, so you are,” said Revitts, smiling at me in a soft, smooth, sheepish way; “a place as you won’t never leave no more.”