Chapter Thirty Eight.A Wedding Trip.“You’re getting such a fine gent now. Ant’ny,” said Revitts to me one morning; “but, if so be as you wouldn’t mind, Mary and me’s made up our minds to have a bit of a trip out, a kind of s’rimp tea, just by way of celebrating my being made sergeant, and getting well again.”“Why, my dear old Bill,” I cried, “why should I mind your having a trip? Where are you going?”“Well, you see, it’s a toss up, Ant’ny; Gravesend’s best for s’rimps, but Hampton Court’s the nicer sorter place for a day, and Mary ain’t never been.”“Then go to Hampton Court,” I said.“Hampton Court it is, Mary,” he said. “That settles it.”“And I hope you’ll both enjoy yourselves.”“What, won’t you come?” said Revitts blankly.“Come! what—with you?” I said.“Why, of course, Ant’ny. You don’t suppose we should care about going alone. Won’t you come?”“You didn’t ask me.”“Oh, come now; that I did!” he exclaimed.“That you did not,” I said stoutly. “Did he, Mary?”“He meant to, Master Antony,” said Mary, looking up with a very red face, and one hand apparently in a grey boxing-glove, though it was only one of Revitts’ worsted stockings, in need of another darn.“Well, I’ll ask you now, then,” exclaimed Revitts. “Will you come along with us?”“When?”“Sat’day next, being your half-holiday.”“Yes,” I said, “but I must write and tell Miss Carr I’m not coming till Sunday.”“That’s settled, then,” said Revitts, holding out his big hand for me to shake; and I could not help noticing how thin and soft it was; but he was fast recovering his strength, and was again on duty.We walked down from Pentonville together, and as we went along, he introduced the subject of his accident for the first time for some weeks.“You wouldn’t think as I’m a-trying hard to conjure out who it was fetched me that crack on the head, Antony?”“No,” I said; “I thought you had forgotten all about it.”“Not I,” he said, shaking his head. “What, me, a sergeant, just promoted, and let a case like that go by without conjuring it out! Why, it couldn’t be done! I should feel as if I was a disgrace to the force. That’s speaking ’ficially,” he said. “Now, speaking as a man, I’ve got this here to say, that I shan’t rest comfortable till I’ve put something on that there fellows wrists.”“And shall you know him again?” I asked.“Know him! Out o’ ten thousand—out o’ ten millions o’ men. I only wish I knew the gal. It would be such a clue.”“It’s no use to be revengeful, Bill,” I said. “Let it go. It brought Mary up to town.”“Yes, it did, didn’t it?” he said, with the sheepish, soft look coming over his face for a moment. But it was gone directly, and he was the officer once more. “’Taint revengeful,” he said; “it’s dooty. We can’t let outrageous outrages like that take place in the main streets. No, Antony: I feel as if my reputation’s at stake, to find out who did that, and I shan’t rest till I do.”We parted then, and the rest of the week passed swiftly away. I told Hallett that I was going to spend the afternoon out on the Saturday, so that most likely I should go to Miss Carr’s on the Sunday, and he was not to expect me for my usual walk with him, one which had grown into a custom; and being thus clear, I went off in the morning to Westminster, it being understood that I was to meet Revitts and Mary at the White Horse Cellar. Piccadilly, and go down to Hampton Court at midday by the omnibus.Punctual to my time, I went across the park and up Saint James’s Street and saw Revitts and Mary, long before I reached them, by the show they made. Mary was in white book muslin, with a long blade silk scarf, and a bonnet that I could not pretend to describe, save that over it she carried a blue parasol shot with red; and Revitts was in black frock-coat, buff waistcoat, and white trousers, with a tremendous show of collar standing bolt out of a sky-blue watered-silk stock, while his hat shone as if it was a repetition of the patent leather of his shoes.I instinctively felt that something was the matter as I drew near them, and, but for my genuine love and respect for them both, I believe I should have run away. I rebuked my cowardly shame directly after, though, and went up and shook hands.There was not a vestige of tantrums left in Mary’s countenance, for it had softened itself into that dreadful smile—the same that was playing upon Revitts’ face, as he kept looking at her in a satisfied, half-imbecile way, before giving me a nudge with his elbow, covering his mouth with his hand, and exclaiming in a loud whisper,—“We’ve been and done it, Ant’ny! Pouf!” This last was a peculiar laugh in which he indulged, while Mary cast down her eyes.“Done it!—done what? What does he mean, Mary?”Mary grew scarlet, and became puzzled over the button of one of her white kid gloves.“Here, what do you mean, Bill?” I said.“Done it. Pouf!” he exclaimed, with another laugh from behind his hand. “Done it—married.”“Married?” I echoed.“Yes. Pouf! Mrs Sergeant Revitts. White Sergeant. Pouf!”“Oh, Mary,” I said, “and not to tell me!”“It was all his doing, Master Antony,” pleaded Mary. “He would have me, and the more I wanted to go back to service, the more he made me get married. And now I hope he’s happy.”There was no mistaking William Revitts’ happiness as he helped his wife on to the outside of the omnibus, behind the coachman—he sitting one side of Mary, and I next him; but try as I would, I could not feel as happy. I felt vexed and mortified; for, somehow, it seemed as if it was printed in large letters upon the backs of my companions—“Married this morning,” and this announcement seemed reflected upon me.I wouldn’t have cared if they could have sat still and talked rationally; but this they did not do, for every now and then they turned to look in each other’s faces, with the same weak, half-imbecile smile,—after which Mary would cast down her eyes and look conscious, while Revitts turned round and smiled at me, finishing off with a nudge in my side.At times, too, he had spasmodic fits of silent laughter—silent, except that they commenced with a loud chuckle, which he summarily stifled and took into custody by clapping his great hand over his mouth. There were intervals of relief, though; for when, from his coign of vantage, poor Bill saw one of his fraternity on ahead—revealed to him, perhaps, by a ray of sunshine flashing from the shiny top of his hat—for, of course, this was long before the days of helmets—the weak, amiable look was chased off his face by the official mask, and, as a sergeant, though of a different division, Revitts felt himself bound to stare very hard at the police-constable, and frown severely.At first I thought it was foolish pride on my part, that I was being spoiled by Miss Carr, and that I was extra sensitive about my friends; but I was not long in awakening to the fact that they were the objects of ridicule to all upon the omnibus.The first thing I noticed was, that the conductor and driver exchanged a wink and a grin, which were repeated several times between Piccadilly and Kensington, to the great amusement of several of the passengers. Then began a little mild chaff, sprinkled by the driver, who started with—“I say, Joey, when areyougoing to be married?”“Married? oh, I dunno. I’ve tried it on sev’ral times, but the parsons is all too busy.”The innocent fit was on Revitts just then, and he favoured Mary and me with a left and right nudge.“Do adone, William,” whispered Mrs Sergeant; and he grinned hugely.“Shall you take a public, Joey, when you do it?” said the driver, leaning back for another shot.“Lor’, no; it won’t run to a public, old man,” was the reply. “We was thinking of the green and tater line, with a cellar under, and best Wallsend one and six.”I could feel that this was all meant for the newly wedded couple, and sat with flaming cheeks. “See that there wedding in Pickydilly, last week, Bill?” Revitts pricked up his ears, and was about to speak, but the driver turned half round, and shouted—“What, where they’d got straw laid down, and the knocker tied up in a white kid glove?”“No-o-o!” shouted the conductor. “That wasn’t it. I mean clost ter’ Arfmoon Street, when they was just going off.”“Oh, ah, yes; I remember now.”“See the old buffer shy the shoe outer the front winder?”“No-o-o!”“He did, and it ’it one o’ the post-boys slap in the eye. Old boy had been having too much champagne.”“Did it though?”“Yes. I say, Bill.”“Hal-low!”“It’s the right card to have champagne on your wedding morning, ain’t it?”“Ah! some people stands it quite lib’ral like, if they’re nobs; them as ain’t, draws it old and mild.”I had another nudge from Revitts just then, and sat feeling as if I should like to jump down and run away.“Drop o’ Smith’s cool out o’ the cellar wouldn’t be amiss, Joey, would it?”“No, old man. I wish we could fall across a wedding-party.”A passenger or two were picked up, and we went on in peace for a little while: but the chaffing was commenced again, and kept up to such an extent that I longed for the journey to be at an end.“’Member Jack Jones?” said the driver.“Ah! what about him?” said the conductor.“He went and got married last year.”“Did he?”“Yes.”“Who did he marry?”“That there Mrs Simmons as kep’ the ‘Queen’s Arms’ at Tunnum Green.”“Ah!”“Nice job he made of it.”“Did he?”“Yes; he thought she was a widder.”“Well, warn’t she?”“No; she turned out a big-a-mee; and one day her fust husban’ comes back from ’Stralia, and kicks Jack Jones out, and takes his place; and when Jack ’peals against it, Mrs Simmons says it was all a mistake.”“That was warm for Jack, wasn’t it?”“Hot, I say.”“Well,” said the conductor; “when I makes up my mind again, and the parsons ain’t so busy, I shall have the missus cross-examined.”“What for, Joey?”“So as to see as she ain’t a big-a-mee.”Revitts, who was drinking all this in, looked very serious here, as if the conversation was tending towards official matters. Perhaps it occurred to him that he had not cross-examined Mary before he was married; but he began to smile again soon after, for the conductor took a very battered old copper key-bugle from a basket on the roof, and, after a few preliminary toots, began to rattle off “The Wedding-Day.” The driver shook the reins, the four horses broke into a canter, and as we swept past the green hedgerows and market-gardens, with here and there a pretty villa, I began to enjoy the ride, longing all the same, though, for Revitts and Mary to begin to talk, instead of smiling at each other in such a horribly happy way, and indulging in what was meant for a secret squeeze of the hand, but which was, however, generally seen by half the passengers.The air coming to an end, and the bugle being duly drained, wiped, and returned to its basket, the driver turned his head again:“Nice toon that, Joey.”“Like it?”“Ah, I was going to say ‘hangcore,’ on’y we’re so clost to Richmond. What was it—‘Weddin’ Day’?”“That’s right, old man.”“Ah! thought it was.”Revitts sent his elbows into Mary and me again, and had a silent laugh under one glove, but pricked up his ears directly, as the conductor shouted again:“Ain’t that Bob Binnies?”“What, him on the orf side?” said the driver, pointing with his whip.“Yes.”“Well, what of him?”“What of him? Why, he’s the chap as got married, and had such a large family.”“Did he, though?” said the driver seriously.“Ten children in five years, Bill.”“Lor’! with only five-and-twenty shillings a week. How did he manage?”Revitts looked very serious here, and sat listening for the answer.“Kep’ him precious poor; but, stop a moment, I ain’t quite right. It was five children in ten years.”Revitts made another serious assault on my ribs, and I saw Mary give herself a hitch; and whisper again to her lord.There was a general laugh at this stale old joke, which, like many more well-worn ones, however, seemed to take better than the keenest wit, and just then the omnibus drew up in front of an inn to change horses.The driver unbuckled and threw down his reins, previous to descending to join the conductor, who was already off his perch. Several of the passengers got down, and after bidding Mary and me keep our places, Revitts prepared to descend, rather more slowly though, for his wedding garments were not commodious.“Don’t drink anything, William dear,” whispered Mary.“Not drink anything to-day?” he said, laughing. “Oh, come, that won’t do!”He jumped off the step, and I saw him join the driver and conductor, who laughed and nodded, and, directly after, each man had a foaming pint of ale, which they held before putting to their lips, till Revitts came round to our side with a waiter bearing two glasses of wine and another pint of ale, the driver and conductor following.“Oh, I don’t want anything,” said Mary, rather sharply.“It’s only sherry wine, my dear,” said Revitts magnificently; and, as if to avoid remark, Mary stooped down and took the glasses, one being for me, Revitts taking his shiny pewter measure of ale.“Here is long life and happiness to you, mum, and both on you,” said the driver, nodding in the most friendly way.“Aforesaid,” exclaimed the conductor, “and a bit o’ chaff on’y meant as fun. Long life and a merry one to both on you. Shaver, same to you.”I was the “Shaver,” and the healths being drunk in solemn silence, and I accommodated with a tumbler, and some water to my sherry, the driver mounted again, the conductor took out his key-bugle, the streets of pretty Richmond echoed to an old-fashioned air, and the four fresh but very dilapidated old screws that did the journey to Hampton Court and back to Richmond were shaken into a scrambling canter, so that in due time we reached the royal village, the chaff having been damped at Richmond with the ale, and ceasing afterwards to fly.I’ve learned that a return omnibus left the “Toy” at seven o’clock, and then started for our peregrination of the palace and grounds. But somehow that pint or ale seemed to have completely changed poor Revitts. The late injury to his head had made him so weak there, that the ale acted upon him in the strangest manner. He was excited and irritable, and seemed to be brooding over the remarks he had heard upon the omnibus.The gardens, of course, took our attention first, and there being few people about, and those of a holiday class, the gay costume of my companions ceased to excite notice, and I began to enjoy our trip. There were the great smooth gravel walks, the closely shaven lawns, the quaintly clipped shrubs, and old-fashioned flower beds to admire. The fountain in the centre made so much spray in the pleasant breeze that from one point of view there was a miniature rainbow, and when we walked down to the iron railings, and gazed at the long avenue of the Home Park, with its bright canal-like lake between, Mary was enraptured.“Oh, do look, dear!” she exclaimed; “isn’t it ’evingly, William?”“Yes,” he said stolidly, as he took hold of the railing with his white kid glove; “but what I say is this: Every man who enters into the state of wedlock ought fust to make sure as the woman he marries ain’t a big-a-mee.”Here he unbuttoned his waistcoat, under the impression that it was his uniform coat, so as to get out his notebook, and then, awakening to his mistake, hastily buttoned it again.“Haven’t got a pencil and a bit o’ paper, have you, Ant’ny?” he said.“What are you talking about, William?” exclaimed Mary. “Don’t be so foolish. Now, take us and show us the oranges Master Antony,” she said.This was on the strength of my having invested in a guidebook, though both my companions seemed to place themselves in my hands, and looked up to me as being crammed with a vast amount of knowledge about Cardinal Wolsey, Henry the Eighth, and those who had made the palace their home.So I took them to see the Orangery, which Revitts, who seemed quite out of temper, looked down upon with contempt.“Bah!” he exclaimed; “call them oranges! Why, I could go and buy twice as good in Grey’s Inn Lane for three a penny. That there woman, Ant’ny, what was her name?”“What woman?”“Her as committed big-a-mee?”“Oh, do adone with such stuff, William dear. Now, Master Antony, what’s next?”“I know,” said Revitts oracularly, “Mrs Simmons. I say she ought to have been examined before a police magistrate, and after proper adjournments, and the case regularly made up by the sergeant who had it in charge, she ought to have been committed for trial.”“Oh, William dear, do adone,” cried Mary, clinging to his arm.“Cent. Crim. Court—”“William!”“Old Bailey—”“William dear!”“Before a jury of her fellow-countrymen, or,—I say, Ant’ny ain’t that wrong?”“What?” I said, laughing.“Oh, it ain’t a thing to laugh at, my lad. It’s serious,” he said, taking off his hat and rubbing his head, exhaling, as he did so, a strong smell of hair-oil.“What is serious?” I said.“Why, that,” replied Revitts, “I ain’t sure, in a case like that, it oughtn’t to be a jury of matrons.”“Oh do, pray, hurry him along, Master Antony,” cried Mary piteously. “Whatever is the matter with you to-day, William?”“I’m married,” he said severely.“And you don’t wish you weren’t. William, don’t say so, please,” exclaimed Mary pitifully.“I don’t know,” said Revitts stolidly. “Go on, Ant’ny.”He went on, himself, towards the Vinery, Mary following with me, and looking at me helplessly, as if asking what she should do.The sight of the great bunches of grapes in such enormous numbers seemed to change the course of William Revitts’ thoughts, and we went on pretty comfortably for a time, Mary’s spirits rising, and her tongue going more freely, but there were no more weak, amiable smiles.At last we entered the palace, and on seeing a light dragoon on duty, Revitts pulled himself together, looked severe, and marched by him, as if belonging to a kindred force; but he stopped to ask questions on the grand staircase, respecting the painted ceilings.“Are them angels, Ant’ny?” he said.“I suppose so,” I replied.“Then I don’t believe it,” he said angrily. “Why, if such evidence was given at Clerkenwell, everybody in the police-court would go into fits, and the reporters would say in the papers, ‘Loud laughter, which was promptly repressed’! or, ‘Loud laughter, in which the magistrate joined.’”“Whatever does he mean, Master Antony? I don’t know what’s come to him to-day,” whispered Mary.“Why, that there,” said Revitts contemptuously. “Just fancy a witness coming and swearing as the angels in heaven played big fiddles, and things like the conductor blew coming down. The painter must have been a fool.”He was better pleased with the arms and armour, stopping to carefully examine a fine old mace.“Yes, that would give a fellow a awful wunner, Ant’ny,” he said; “but it would be heavy, and all them pikes and things ain’t necessary. A good truncheon properly handled can’t be beat.”Old furniture, tapestry, and the like had their share of attention, but Revitts hurried me on when I stopped before some of the pictures, shaking his head and nudging me.“I wonder at you, Ant’ny,” he whispered.His face was scarlet, and he had not recovered his composure when we reached another room, where a series of portraits made me refer to my guide.“Ladies of Charles the Second’s Court,” I said, “painted by Sir Peter Lely.”“Then he ought to have been ashamed of himself,” said Revitts sharply; and drawing Mary’s arm through his, he hurried me off, evidently highly disapproving of the style of bodice then in vogue.
“You’re getting such a fine gent now. Ant’ny,” said Revitts to me one morning; “but, if so be as you wouldn’t mind, Mary and me’s made up our minds to have a bit of a trip out, a kind of s’rimp tea, just by way of celebrating my being made sergeant, and getting well again.”
“Why, my dear old Bill,” I cried, “why should I mind your having a trip? Where are you going?”
“Well, you see, it’s a toss up, Ant’ny; Gravesend’s best for s’rimps, but Hampton Court’s the nicer sorter place for a day, and Mary ain’t never been.”
“Then go to Hampton Court,” I said.
“Hampton Court it is, Mary,” he said. “That settles it.”
“And I hope you’ll both enjoy yourselves.”
“What, won’t you come?” said Revitts blankly.
“Come! what—with you?” I said.
“Why, of course, Ant’ny. You don’t suppose we should care about going alone. Won’t you come?”
“You didn’t ask me.”
“Oh, come now; that I did!” he exclaimed.
“That you did not,” I said stoutly. “Did he, Mary?”
“He meant to, Master Antony,” said Mary, looking up with a very red face, and one hand apparently in a grey boxing-glove, though it was only one of Revitts’ worsted stockings, in need of another darn.
“Well, I’ll ask you now, then,” exclaimed Revitts. “Will you come along with us?”
“When?”
“Sat’day next, being your half-holiday.”
“Yes,” I said, “but I must write and tell Miss Carr I’m not coming till Sunday.”
“That’s settled, then,” said Revitts, holding out his big hand for me to shake; and I could not help noticing how thin and soft it was; but he was fast recovering his strength, and was again on duty.
We walked down from Pentonville together, and as we went along, he introduced the subject of his accident for the first time for some weeks.
“You wouldn’t think as I’m a-trying hard to conjure out who it was fetched me that crack on the head, Antony?”
“No,” I said; “I thought you had forgotten all about it.”
“Not I,” he said, shaking his head. “What, me, a sergeant, just promoted, and let a case like that go by without conjuring it out! Why, it couldn’t be done! I should feel as if I was a disgrace to the force. That’s speaking ’ficially,” he said. “Now, speaking as a man, I’ve got this here to say, that I shan’t rest comfortable till I’ve put something on that there fellows wrists.”
“And shall you know him again?” I asked.
“Know him! Out o’ ten thousand—out o’ ten millions o’ men. I only wish I knew the gal. It would be such a clue.”
“It’s no use to be revengeful, Bill,” I said. “Let it go. It brought Mary up to town.”
“Yes, it did, didn’t it?” he said, with the sheepish, soft look coming over his face for a moment. But it was gone directly, and he was the officer once more. “’Taint revengeful,” he said; “it’s dooty. We can’t let outrageous outrages like that take place in the main streets. No, Antony: I feel as if my reputation’s at stake, to find out who did that, and I shan’t rest till I do.”
We parted then, and the rest of the week passed swiftly away. I told Hallett that I was going to spend the afternoon out on the Saturday, so that most likely I should go to Miss Carr’s on the Sunday, and he was not to expect me for my usual walk with him, one which had grown into a custom; and being thus clear, I went off in the morning to Westminster, it being understood that I was to meet Revitts and Mary at the White Horse Cellar. Piccadilly, and go down to Hampton Court at midday by the omnibus.
Punctual to my time, I went across the park and up Saint James’s Street and saw Revitts and Mary, long before I reached them, by the show they made. Mary was in white book muslin, with a long blade silk scarf, and a bonnet that I could not pretend to describe, save that over it she carried a blue parasol shot with red; and Revitts was in black frock-coat, buff waistcoat, and white trousers, with a tremendous show of collar standing bolt out of a sky-blue watered-silk stock, while his hat shone as if it was a repetition of the patent leather of his shoes.
I instinctively felt that something was the matter as I drew near them, and, but for my genuine love and respect for them both, I believe I should have run away. I rebuked my cowardly shame directly after, though, and went up and shook hands.
There was not a vestige of tantrums left in Mary’s countenance, for it had softened itself into that dreadful smile—the same that was playing upon Revitts’ face, as he kept looking at her in a satisfied, half-imbecile way, before giving me a nudge with his elbow, covering his mouth with his hand, and exclaiming in a loud whisper,—
“We’ve been and done it, Ant’ny! Pouf!” This last was a peculiar laugh in which he indulged, while Mary cast down her eyes.
“Done it!—done what? What does he mean, Mary?”
Mary grew scarlet, and became puzzled over the button of one of her white kid gloves.
“Here, what do you mean, Bill?” I said.
“Done it. Pouf!” he exclaimed, with another laugh from behind his hand. “Done it—married.”
“Married?” I echoed.
“Yes. Pouf! Mrs Sergeant Revitts. White Sergeant. Pouf!”
“Oh, Mary,” I said, “and not to tell me!”
“It was all his doing, Master Antony,” pleaded Mary. “He would have me, and the more I wanted to go back to service, the more he made me get married. And now I hope he’s happy.”
There was no mistaking William Revitts’ happiness as he helped his wife on to the outside of the omnibus, behind the coachman—he sitting one side of Mary, and I next him; but try as I would, I could not feel as happy. I felt vexed and mortified; for, somehow, it seemed as if it was printed in large letters upon the backs of my companions—“Married this morning,” and this announcement seemed reflected upon me.
I wouldn’t have cared if they could have sat still and talked rationally; but this they did not do, for every now and then they turned to look in each other’s faces, with the same weak, half-imbecile smile,—after which Mary would cast down her eyes and look conscious, while Revitts turned round and smiled at me, finishing off with a nudge in my side.
At times, too, he had spasmodic fits of silent laughter—silent, except that they commenced with a loud chuckle, which he summarily stifled and took into custody by clapping his great hand over his mouth. There were intervals of relief, though; for when, from his coign of vantage, poor Bill saw one of his fraternity on ahead—revealed to him, perhaps, by a ray of sunshine flashing from the shiny top of his hat—for, of course, this was long before the days of helmets—the weak, amiable look was chased off his face by the official mask, and, as a sergeant, though of a different division, Revitts felt himself bound to stare very hard at the police-constable, and frown severely.
At first I thought it was foolish pride on my part, that I was being spoiled by Miss Carr, and that I was extra sensitive about my friends; but I was not long in awakening to the fact that they were the objects of ridicule to all upon the omnibus.
The first thing I noticed was, that the conductor and driver exchanged a wink and a grin, which were repeated several times between Piccadilly and Kensington, to the great amusement of several of the passengers. Then began a little mild chaff, sprinkled by the driver, who started with—
“I say, Joey, when areyougoing to be married?”
“Married? oh, I dunno. I’ve tried it on sev’ral times, but the parsons is all too busy.”
The innocent fit was on Revitts just then, and he favoured Mary and me with a left and right nudge.
“Do adone, William,” whispered Mrs Sergeant; and he grinned hugely.
“Shall you take a public, Joey, when you do it?” said the driver, leaning back for another shot.
“Lor’, no; it won’t run to a public, old man,” was the reply. “We was thinking of the green and tater line, with a cellar under, and best Wallsend one and six.”
I could feel that this was all meant for the newly wedded couple, and sat with flaming cheeks. “See that there wedding in Pickydilly, last week, Bill?” Revitts pricked up his ears, and was about to speak, but the driver turned half round, and shouted—
“What, where they’d got straw laid down, and the knocker tied up in a white kid glove?”
“No-o-o!” shouted the conductor. “That wasn’t it. I mean clost ter’ Arfmoon Street, when they was just going off.”
“Oh, ah, yes; I remember now.”
“See the old buffer shy the shoe outer the front winder?”
“No-o-o!”
“He did, and it ’it one o’ the post-boys slap in the eye. Old boy had been having too much champagne.”
“Did it though?”
“Yes. I say, Bill.”
“Hal-low!”
“It’s the right card to have champagne on your wedding morning, ain’t it?”
“Ah! some people stands it quite lib’ral like, if they’re nobs; them as ain’t, draws it old and mild.”
I had another nudge from Revitts just then, and sat feeling as if I should like to jump down and run away.
“Drop o’ Smith’s cool out o’ the cellar wouldn’t be amiss, Joey, would it?”
“No, old man. I wish we could fall across a wedding-party.”
A passenger or two were picked up, and we went on in peace for a little while: but the chaffing was commenced again, and kept up to such an extent that I longed for the journey to be at an end.
“’Member Jack Jones?” said the driver.
“Ah! what about him?” said the conductor.
“He went and got married last year.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“Who did he marry?”
“That there Mrs Simmons as kep’ the ‘Queen’s Arms’ at Tunnum Green.”
“Ah!”
“Nice job he made of it.”
“Did he?”
“Yes; he thought she was a widder.”
“Well, warn’t she?”
“No; she turned out a big-a-mee; and one day her fust husban’ comes back from ’Stralia, and kicks Jack Jones out, and takes his place; and when Jack ’peals against it, Mrs Simmons says it was all a mistake.”
“That was warm for Jack, wasn’t it?”
“Hot, I say.”
“Well,” said the conductor; “when I makes up my mind again, and the parsons ain’t so busy, I shall have the missus cross-examined.”
“What for, Joey?”
“So as to see as she ain’t a big-a-mee.”
Revitts, who was drinking all this in, looked very serious here, as if the conversation was tending towards official matters. Perhaps it occurred to him that he had not cross-examined Mary before he was married; but he began to smile again soon after, for the conductor took a very battered old copper key-bugle from a basket on the roof, and, after a few preliminary toots, began to rattle off “The Wedding-Day.” The driver shook the reins, the four horses broke into a canter, and as we swept past the green hedgerows and market-gardens, with here and there a pretty villa, I began to enjoy the ride, longing all the same, though, for Revitts and Mary to begin to talk, instead of smiling at each other in such a horribly happy way, and indulging in what was meant for a secret squeeze of the hand, but which was, however, generally seen by half the passengers.
The air coming to an end, and the bugle being duly drained, wiped, and returned to its basket, the driver turned his head again:
“Nice toon that, Joey.”
“Like it?”
“Ah, I was going to say ‘hangcore,’ on’y we’re so clost to Richmond. What was it—‘Weddin’ Day’?”
“That’s right, old man.”
“Ah! thought it was.”
Revitts sent his elbows into Mary and me again, and had a silent laugh under one glove, but pricked up his ears directly, as the conductor shouted again:
“Ain’t that Bob Binnies?”
“What, him on the orf side?” said the driver, pointing with his whip.
“Yes.”
“Well, what of him?”
“What of him? Why, he’s the chap as got married, and had such a large family.”
“Did he, though?” said the driver seriously.
“Ten children in five years, Bill.”
“Lor’! with only five-and-twenty shillings a week. How did he manage?”
Revitts looked very serious here, and sat listening for the answer.
“Kep’ him precious poor; but, stop a moment, I ain’t quite right. It was five children in ten years.”
Revitts made another serious assault on my ribs, and I saw Mary give herself a hitch; and whisper again to her lord.
There was a general laugh at this stale old joke, which, like many more well-worn ones, however, seemed to take better than the keenest wit, and just then the omnibus drew up in front of an inn to change horses.
The driver unbuckled and threw down his reins, previous to descending to join the conductor, who was already off his perch. Several of the passengers got down, and after bidding Mary and me keep our places, Revitts prepared to descend, rather more slowly though, for his wedding garments were not commodious.
“Don’t drink anything, William dear,” whispered Mary.
“Not drink anything to-day?” he said, laughing. “Oh, come, that won’t do!”
He jumped off the step, and I saw him join the driver and conductor, who laughed and nodded, and, directly after, each man had a foaming pint of ale, which they held before putting to their lips, till Revitts came round to our side with a waiter bearing two glasses of wine and another pint of ale, the driver and conductor following.
“Oh, I don’t want anything,” said Mary, rather sharply.
“It’s only sherry wine, my dear,” said Revitts magnificently; and, as if to avoid remark, Mary stooped down and took the glasses, one being for me, Revitts taking his shiny pewter measure of ale.
“Here is long life and happiness to you, mum, and both on you,” said the driver, nodding in the most friendly way.
“Aforesaid,” exclaimed the conductor, “and a bit o’ chaff on’y meant as fun. Long life and a merry one to both on you. Shaver, same to you.”
I was the “Shaver,” and the healths being drunk in solemn silence, and I accommodated with a tumbler, and some water to my sherry, the driver mounted again, the conductor took out his key-bugle, the streets of pretty Richmond echoed to an old-fashioned air, and the four fresh but very dilapidated old screws that did the journey to Hampton Court and back to Richmond were shaken into a scrambling canter, so that in due time we reached the royal village, the chaff having been damped at Richmond with the ale, and ceasing afterwards to fly.
I’ve learned that a return omnibus left the “Toy” at seven o’clock, and then started for our peregrination of the palace and grounds. But somehow that pint or ale seemed to have completely changed poor Revitts. The late injury to his head had made him so weak there, that the ale acted upon him in the strangest manner. He was excited and irritable, and seemed to be brooding over the remarks he had heard upon the omnibus.
The gardens, of course, took our attention first, and there being few people about, and those of a holiday class, the gay costume of my companions ceased to excite notice, and I began to enjoy our trip. There were the great smooth gravel walks, the closely shaven lawns, the quaintly clipped shrubs, and old-fashioned flower beds to admire. The fountain in the centre made so much spray in the pleasant breeze that from one point of view there was a miniature rainbow, and when we walked down to the iron railings, and gazed at the long avenue of the Home Park, with its bright canal-like lake between, Mary was enraptured.
“Oh, do look, dear!” she exclaimed; “isn’t it ’evingly, William?”
“Yes,” he said stolidly, as he took hold of the railing with his white kid glove; “but what I say is this: Every man who enters into the state of wedlock ought fust to make sure as the woman he marries ain’t a big-a-mee.”
Here he unbuttoned his waistcoat, under the impression that it was his uniform coat, so as to get out his notebook, and then, awakening to his mistake, hastily buttoned it again.
“Haven’t got a pencil and a bit o’ paper, have you, Ant’ny?” he said.
“What are you talking about, William?” exclaimed Mary. “Don’t be so foolish. Now, take us and show us the oranges Master Antony,” she said.
This was on the strength of my having invested in a guidebook, though both my companions seemed to place themselves in my hands, and looked up to me as being crammed with a vast amount of knowledge about Cardinal Wolsey, Henry the Eighth, and those who had made the palace their home.
So I took them to see the Orangery, which Revitts, who seemed quite out of temper, looked down upon with contempt.
“Bah!” he exclaimed; “call them oranges! Why, I could go and buy twice as good in Grey’s Inn Lane for three a penny. That there woman, Ant’ny, what was her name?”
“What woman?”
“Her as committed big-a-mee?”
“Oh, do adone with such stuff, William dear. Now, Master Antony, what’s next?”
“I know,” said Revitts oracularly, “Mrs Simmons. I say she ought to have been examined before a police magistrate, and after proper adjournments, and the case regularly made up by the sergeant who had it in charge, she ought to have been committed for trial.”
“Oh, William dear, do adone,” cried Mary, clinging to his arm.
“Cent. Crim. Court—”
“William!”
“Old Bailey—”
“William dear!”
“Before a jury of her fellow-countrymen, or,—I say, Ant’ny ain’t that wrong?”
“What?” I said, laughing.
“Oh, it ain’t a thing to laugh at, my lad. It’s serious,” he said, taking off his hat and rubbing his head, exhaling, as he did so, a strong smell of hair-oil.
“What is serious?” I said.
“Why, that,” replied Revitts, “I ain’t sure, in a case like that, it oughtn’t to be a jury of matrons.”
“Oh do, pray, hurry him along, Master Antony,” cried Mary piteously. “Whatever is the matter with you to-day, William?”
“I’m married,” he said severely.
“And you don’t wish you weren’t. William, don’t say so, please,” exclaimed Mary pitifully.
“I don’t know,” said Revitts stolidly. “Go on, Ant’ny.”
He went on, himself, towards the Vinery, Mary following with me, and looking at me helplessly, as if asking what she should do.
The sight of the great bunches of grapes in such enormous numbers seemed to change the course of William Revitts’ thoughts, and we went on pretty comfortably for a time, Mary’s spirits rising, and her tongue going more freely, but there were no more weak, amiable smiles.
At last we entered the palace, and on seeing a light dragoon on duty, Revitts pulled himself together, looked severe, and marched by him, as if belonging to a kindred force; but he stopped to ask questions on the grand staircase, respecting the painted ceilings.
“Are them angels, Ant’ny?” he said.
“I suppose so,” I replied.
“Then I don’t believe it,” he said angrily. “Why, if such evidence was given at Clerkenwell, everybody in the police-court would go into fits, and the reporters would say in the papers, ‘Loud laughter, which was promptly repressed’! or, ‘Loud laughter, in which the magistrate joined.’”
“Whatever does he mean, Master Antony? I don’t know what’s come to him to-day,” whispered Mary.
“Why, that there,” said Revitts contemptuously. “Just fancy a witness coming and swearing as the angels in heaven played big fiddles, and things like the conductor blew coming down. The painter must have been a fool.”
He was better pleased with the arms and armour, stopping to carefully examine a fine old mace.
“Yes, that would give a fellow a awful wunner, Ant’ny,” he said; “but it would be heavy, and all them pikes and things ain’t necessary. A good truncheon properly handled can’t be beat.”
Old furniture, tapestry, and the like had their share of attention, but Revitts hurried me on when I stopped before some of the pictures, shaking his head and nudging me.
“I wonder at you, Ant’ny,” he whispered.
His face was scarlet, and he had not recovered his composure when we reached another room, where a series of portraits made me refer to my guide.
“Ladies of Charles the Second’s Court,” I said, “painted by Sir Peter Lely.”
“Then he ought to have been ashamed of himself,” said Revitts sharply; and drawing Mary’s arm through his, he hurried me off, evidently highly disapproving of the style of bodice then in vogue.
Chapter Thirty Nine.William Revitts is Eccentric.The dinner we had at the inn was not a success. The waiters evidently settled that we were a wedding-party, and charged accordingly. Mary tried hard to keep Revitts from taking any more to drink; but he said it was necessary on a day like that, and ordered wine accordingly.He drank slowly, and never once showed the slightest trace of intoxication; but the wine also produced a strange irritability, which made him angry, even to being fierce at times; and over and over again I saw the tears in poor Mary’s eyes.Ever and again that bigamy case—real or imaginary—of which he had heard as we came down kept cropping up, and the more Mary tried to turn the conversation, the more eager he became to discuss it. The wedding-day, his wife, my remarks, all were forgotten or set aside, so that he might explain to us, with a vast amount of minutiae, how he would have got up such a case, beginning with the preliminary inquiries and ending with the culprit’s sentence.We had it over the dinner, with the waiters in the room; we had it inculs-de-sacin the maze; and we had it over again in Bushy Park, as we sat under the shade of a great chestnut; after which Revitts lay down, seeming to drop asleep, and Mary said to me, piteously:“I do believe, dear, as he’s took it into his head that I’ve committed big-a-mee?”The words were uttered in a whisper, but they seemed to galvanise Revitts, who started up into a sitting posture, and exclaimed sharply:“I don’t know as you ain’t. I never cross-examined you before we was married. But look here, Mary Revitts, it’s my dooty to tell you as what you say now will be took down, and may be used as evidence against you.”After which oracular delivery he lay down and went off fast asleep, leaving Mary to weep in silence, and wish we had never come away from home.I could not help joining her in the wish, though I did not say so, but did all I could to comfort her, as Mr Peter Rowle’s moral aphorisms about drink kept coming to my mind. Not that poor Revitts had, in the slightest degree, exceeded; and we joined in saying that it was all due to over-excitement consequent upon his illness.“If I could only get him home again, poor boy, I wouldn’t, care,” said Mary; and we then comforted ourselves with the hope that he would be better when he awoke, and that then we would go to one of the many places offering, have a quiet cup of tea, which would be sure to do him good, and then go back home, quietly, inside the omnibus.Revitts woke in about an hour, evidently much refreshed and better, but still he seemed strange. The tea, however, appeared to do him good, and in due time we mounted to our seats outside the omnibus, for he stubbornly refused to go within.He did not say much on the return journey, but the bigamy case was evidently running in his head, from what he said; and once, in a whisper, poor Mary, who was half broken-hearted, confided to me now, sitting on her other side, that she felt sure poor William was regretting that they had been married.“And I did so want to wait,” she said: “but he wouldn’t any longer.”“Are you two whispering about that there case?” he cried sharply.“No, William dear,” said Mary. “Do you feel better?”“Better?” he said irritably. “There isn’t anything the matter with me.”He turned away from her, and sat watching the side of the road, muttering every now and then to himself in a half-angry way, while poor Mary, in place of going into a tantrum, got hold of my hand between both hers, and held it very hard pressed against the front of her dress, where she was protected by a rigid piece of bone or steel. Every now and then, poor woman, she gave the hand a convulsive pressure, and a great sob in the act of escaping would feel like a throb against my arm.So silent and self-contained did Revitts grow at last, that poor Mary began to pour forth in a whisper the burden of her trouble, while I sat wondering, and thinking what a curious thing this love must be, that could so completely transform people, and yet give them so much pain.“It wasn’t my doing, Master Antony dear,” whispered Mary; “for I said it would be so much better for me to go back to service for a few years, and I always thought as hasty marriages meant misery. But William was so masterful, he said it was no use his getting on and improving his spelling, and getting his promotion, if he was always to live a weary, dreary bachelor—them was his very words, Master Antony; and now, above all times, was the one for us to get married.”“He’s tired, Mary,” I said; “that’s all.”“That’s all? Ah, my dear! it’s a very great all. He’s tired of me, that’s what he is; and I shall never forgive my self for being so rash.”“But you have been engaged several years, haven’t you, Mary?”“Yes, my dear; but years ain’t long when you’re busy and always hard at work. I dessay they’re a long time to gentlefolks as has to wait, but it never seemed long to me, and I’ve done a very rash thing; but I didn’t think the punishment was coming quite so soon.”“Oh, nonsense, Mary; Bill will be all right again soon,” I said, as I could see, by the light of a gas-lamp we passed, that the poor disappointed woman had been crying till she had soaked and spoiled her showy bonnet-strings.“No, my dear, I don’t think so; I feel as if it was all a punishment upon me, and that I ought to have waited till he was quite well and strong.”It was of no avail to try and comfort, so I contented myself with sitting still and pressing poor Mary’s rough honest hand, while the horses rattled merrily along, and we gradually neared the great city.I was obliged to own that if this was a specimen of a wedding-day, it was anything but a joyous and festive time; and it seemed to me that the day that had begun so unsatisfactorily was to be kept in character to the end.For, before reaching Hammersmith, one of the horses shied and fell, and those at the pole went right upon it before the omnibus could be stopped, with the consequence that the vehicle was nearly upset, and a general shriek arose.No harm, however, was done, and in a quarter of an hour we were once more under weigh, but Mary said, with a sigh and a rub of the back of my hand against the buttons of her dress, that it was a warning of worse things to come; and though very sorry for her, I could not help longing for our journey’s end.“Just you come over here, Ant’ny,” said Revitts suddenly; and I had to change places and sit between him and his wife, of whom he seemed not to take the slightest notice.“Are you better, Bill?” I said.“Better?” he said sharply; “what do you mean by better? I’m all right.”“That’s well,” I said.“Of course it is. Now look here, Ant’ny, I’ve been thinking a good deal about that there big-a-mee as we come along, and I’ll just tell you what I should have done.”I heard Mary give a gulp; but I thought it better not to try and thwart him, so prepared to listen.“You see, Ant’ny,” he said, in a very didactic manner, “when a fellow is in the force, and is always taking up people and getting up cases, and attending at the police-courts, and Old Bailey sessions and coroners’ inquests, he picks up a deal of valuable information.”“Of course, Bill.”“He do; it stands to reason that he do. Well, then, I ought to know just two or three things.”“Say two or three thousand, Bill.”“Well,” he said, giving his head an official roll, as if settling it in his great stock, “we won’t say that. Let’s put it at ’undreds—two or three ’undreds. Now, if I’d had such a case as that big-a-mee in hand, I should have begun at the beginning.—Where are we now?” he said, after a pause, during which he had taken off his hat, and rubbed his head in a puzzled way.“You were talking about the case,” I said, “and beginning at the beginning.”“Don’t you try to be funny, young fellow,” he said severely. “I said, where are we now?”“Just passing Hyde Park Corner, Bill.”“Yes, of course,” he said. “Well, look here, my lad, there’s no doubt about one thing: women, take ’em all together, are—no, I won’t say a bad lot, but they’re weak—awful weak. I’ve seen a deal on ’em at the police-courts.”“I suppose so,” I said, as I heard Mary give a low sigh.“They’re not what they should be, Ant’ny, by a long chalk, and the way they’ll tell lies and deceive and cheat ’s about awful, that it is.”“Some women are bad, I daresay,” I said, in a qualifying tone.“Some?” he said, with a short, dry laugh; “it’s some as is good. Most women’s bad.”“That’s a nice wholesale sort of a charge,” said a passenger behind him, in rather a huffy tone.“You mind your own business,” said Revitts sharply. “I wasn’t talking to you;” and he spoke in such a fierce way that the man coloured, while Mary leaned forward, and looked imploringly at me, as much as to say, “Pray, pray, don’t let him quarrel.”“I say it, and I ought to know,” said Revitts dictatorially, “that women’s a bad lot, and after hearing of that case this morning, I say as every woman afore she gets married ought to go through a reg’lar cross-examination, and produce sittifikits of character, and witnesses to show where she’s been, and what she’s been a-doing of for say the last seven years. If that was made law, we shouldn’t have poor fellows taken in and delooded, and then find out afterwards as it’s a case of big-a-mee, like we heerd of this morning. Why, as I was a-saying, Ant’ny, if I’d had that case in hand—eh? Oh, ah, yes, so it is. I’ll get down first. I didn’t think we was so near.”For poor Bill’s plans about the bigamy case were brought to an end by the stopping of the omnibus in Piccadilly, and I gave a sigh of relief as we drew up in the bright, busy thoroughfare, after a look at the dark sea of shining lights that lay spread to the right over the Green Park and Westminster.Carriages were passing, the pavement was thronged, and it being a fine night, all looked very bright and cheery after what had been rather a dull ride. Revitts got down, and I was about to follow, offering my hand to poor, sad Mary, when just as my back was turned, Revitts called out to me:“Ant’ny, Ant’ny, look after my wife!” and as I turned sharply, I just caught sight of him turning the corner of the street, and he was gone.
The dinner we had at the inn was not a success. The waiters evidently settled that we were a wedding-party, and charged accordingly. Mary tried hard to keep Revitts from taking any more to drink; but he said it was necessary on a day like that, and ordered wine accordingly.
He drank slowly, and never once showed the slightest trace of intoxication; but the wine also produced a strange irritability, which made him angry, even to being fierce at times; and over and over again I saw the tears in poor Mary’s eyes.
Ever and again that bigamy case—real or imaginary—of which he had heard as we came down kept cropping up, and the more Mary tried to turn the conversation, the more eager he became to discuss it. The wedding-day, his wife, my remarks, all were forgotten or set aside, so that he might explain to us, with a vast amount of minutiae, how he would have got up such a case, beginning with the preliminary inquiries and ending with the culprit’s sentence.
We had it over the dinner, with the waiters in the room; we had it inculs-de-sacin the maze; and we had it over again in Bushy Park, as we sat under the shade of a great chestnut; after which Revitts lay down, seeming to drop asleep, and Mary said to me, piteously:
“I do believe, dear, as he’s took it into his head that I’ve committed big-a-mee?”
The words were uttered in a whisper, but they seemed to galvanise Revitts, who started up into a sitting posture, and exclaimed sharply:
“I don’t know as you ain’t. I never cross-examined you before we was married. But look here, Mary Revitts, it’s my dooty to tell you as what you say now will be took down, and may be used as evidence against you.”
After which oracular delivery he lay down and went off fast asleep, leaving Mary to weep in silence, and wish we had never come away from home.
I could not help joining her in the wish, though I did not say so, but did all I could to comfort her, as Mr Peter Rowle’s moral aphorisms about drink kept coming to my mind. Not that poor Revitts had, in the slightest degree, exceeded; and we joined in saying that it was all due to over-excitement consequent upon his illness.
“If I could only get him home again, poor boy, I wouldn’t, care,” said Mary; and we then comforted ourselves with the hope that he would be better when he awoke, and that then we would go to one of the many places offering, have a quiet cup of tea, which would be sure to do him good, and then go back home, quietly, inside the omnibus.
Revitts woke in about an hour, evidently much refreshed and better, but still he seemed strange. The tea, however, appeared to do him good, and in due time we mounted to our seats outside the omnibus, for he stubbornly refused to go within.
He did not say much on the return journey, but the bigamy case was evidently running in his head, from what he said; and once, in a whisper, poor Mary, who was half broken-hearted, confided to me now, sitting on her other side, that she felt sure poor William was regretting that they had been married.
“And I did so want to wait,” she said: “but he wouldn’t any longer.”
“Are you two whispering about that there case?” he cried sharply.
“No, William dear,” said Mary. “Do you feel better?”
“Better?” he said irritably. “There isn’t anything the matter with me.”
He turned away from her, and sat watching the side of the road, muttering every now and then to himself in a half-angry way, while poor Mary, in place of going into a tantrum, got hold of my hand between both hers, and held it very hard pressed against the front of her dress, where she was protected by a rigid piece of bone or steel. Every now and then, poor woman, she gave the hand a convulsive pressure, and a great sob in the act of escaping would feel like a throb against my arm.
So silent and self-contained did Revitts grow at last, that poor Mary began to pour forth in a whisper the burden of her trouble, while I sat wondering, and thinking what a curious thing this love must be, that could so completely transform people, and yet give them so much pain.
“It wasn’t my doing, Master Antony dear,” whispered Mary; “for I said it would be so much better for me to go back to service for a few years, and I always thought as hasty marriages meant misery. But William was so masterful, he said it was no use his getting on and improving his spelling, and getting his promotion, if he was always to live a weary, dreary bachelor—them was his very words, Master Antony; and now, above all times, was the one for us to get married.”
“He’s tired, Mary,” I said; “that’s all.”
“That’s all? Ah, my dear! it’s a very great all. He’s tired of me, that’s what he is; and I shall never forgive my self for being so rash.”
“But you have been engaged several years, haven’t you, Mary?”
“Yes, my dear; but years ain’t long when you’re busy and always hard at work. I dessay they’re a long time to gentlefolks as has to wait, but it never seemed long to me, and I’ve done a very rash thing; but I didn’t think the punishment was coming quite so soon.”
“Oh, nonsense, Mary; Bill will be all right again soon,” I said, as I could see, by the light of a gas-lamp we passed, that the poor disappointed woman had been crying till she had soaked and spoiled her showy bonnet-strings.
“No, my dear, I don’t think so; I feel as if it was all a punishment upon me, and that I ought to have waited till he was quite well and strong.”
It was of no avail to try and comfort, so I contented myself with sitting still and pressing poor Mary’s rough honest hand, while the horses rattled merrily along, and we gradually neared the great city.
I was obliged to own that if this was a specimen of a wedding-day, it was anything but a joyous and festive time; and it seemed to me that the day that had begun so unsatisfactorily was to be kept in character to the end.
For, before reaching Hammersmith, one of the horses shied and fell, and those at the pole went right upon it before the omnibus could be stopped, with the consequence that the vehicle was nearly upset, and a general shriek arose.
No harm, however, was done, and in a quarter of an hour we were once more under weigh, but Mary said, with a sigh and a rub of the back of my hand against the buttons of her dress, that it was a warning of worse things to come; and though very sorry for her, I could not help longing for our journey’s end.
“Just you come over here, Ant’ny,” said Revitts suddenly; and I had to change places and sit between him and his wife, of whom he seemed not to take the slightest notice.
“Are you better, Bill?” I said.
“Better?” he said sharply; “what do you mean by better? I’m all right.”
“That’s well,” I said.
“Of course it is. Now look here, Ant’ny, I’ve been thinking a good deal about that there big-a-mee as we come along, and I’ll just tell you what I should have done.”
I heard Mary give a gulp; but I thought it better not to try and thwart him, so prepared to listen.
“You see, Ant’ny,” he said, in a very didactic manner, “when a fellow is in the force, and is always taking up people and getting up cases, and attending at the police-courts, and Old Bailey sessions and coroners’ inquests, he picks up a deal of valuable information.”
“Of course, Bill.”
“He do; it stands to reason that he do. Well, then, I ought to know just two or three things.”
“Say two or three thousand, Bill.”
“Well,” he said, giving his head an official roll, as if settling it in his great stock, “we won’t say that. Let’s put it at ’undreds—two or three ’undreds. Now, if I’d had such a case as that big-a-mee in hand, I should have begun at the beginning.—Where are we now?” he said, after a pause, during which he had taken off his hat, and rubbed his head in a puzzled way.
“You were talking about the case,” I said, “and beginning at the beginning.”
“Don’t you try to be funny, young fellow,” he said severely. “I said, where are we now?”
“Just passing Hyde Park Corner, Bill.”
“Yes, of course,” he said. “Well, look here, my lad, there’s no doubt about one thing: women, take ’em all together, are—no, I won’t say a bad lot, but they’re weak—awful weak. I’ve seen a deal on ’em at the police-courts.”
“I suppose so,” I said, as I heard Mary give a low sigh.
“They’re not what they should be, Ant’ny, by a long chalk, and the way they’ll tell lies and deceive and cheat ’s about awful, that it is.”
“Some women are bad, I daresay,” I said, in a qualifying tone.
“Some?” he said, with a short, dry laugh; “it’s some as is good. Most women’s bad.”
“That’s a nice wholesale sort of a charge,” said a passenger behind him, in rather a huffy tone.
“You mind your own business,” said Revitts sharply. “I wasn’t talking to you;” and he spoke in such a fierce way that the man coloured, while Mary leaned forward, and looked imploringly at me, as much as to say, “Pray, pray, don’t let him quarrel.”
“I say it, and I ought to know,” said Revitts dictatorially, “that women’s a bad lot, and after hearing of that case this morning, I say as every woman afore she gets married ought to go through a reg’lar cross-examination, and produce sittifikits of character, and witnesses to show where she’s been, and what she’s been a-doing of for say the last seven years. If that was made law, we shouldn’t have poor fellows taken in and delooded, and then find out afterwards as it’s a case of big-a-mee, like we heerd of this morning. Why, as I was a-saying, Ant’ny, if I’d had that case in hand—eh? Oh, ah, yes, so it is. I’ll get down first. I didn’t think we was so near.”
For poor Bill’s plans about the bigamy case were brought to an end by the stopping of the omnibus in Piccadilly, and I gave a sigh of relief as we drew up in the bright, busy thoroughfare, after a look at the dark sea of shining lights that lay spread to the right over the Green Park and Westminster.
Carriages were passing, the pavement was thronged, and it being a fine night, all looked very bright and cheery after what had been rather a dull ride. Revitts got down, and I was about to follow, offering my hand to poor, sad Mary, when just as my back was turned, Revitts called out to me:
“Ant’ny, Ant’ny, look after my wife!” and as I turned sharply, I just caught sight of him turning the corner of the street, and he was gone.
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?”
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?”
Chapter Forty One.The Bridegroom’s Return.“Oh, Hallett!” I cried, catching his hand, as the poor fellow sat blankly gazing before him in his mute despair. “It is a mistake; she could not be so wicked.”“Wicked!” he said with a curious laugh. “Was it wicked, after all her promises—my forgiveness—my gentle, loving words? I was a fool. I believed that she was weaning herself from it all, and trying to forget. A woman would have read her at a glance; but I, a poor, mad dreamer, always away, or buried in that attic, saw nothing, only that she was very quiet, and thin, and sad.”“Did she tell you that she would go, Hallett?” I asked, hardly knowing what I said.“No, Antony,” I replied, in a dreary tone.“Did you have any quarrel?”“No; not lately. She was most affectionate—poor child! and her heart must have been sore with the thought or what she was about to do. Only this evening, before I went up into the attic to dream over my invention, she crept to my side, put her little arms round my neck, and kissed me, as she used when she was a tiny child, and said how sorry she was that she had given me so much pain. Antony, lad,” he cried passionately, “I went up to my task to-night a happy man, thinking that one heavy load was taken off my shoulders, and that the future was going to be brighter for us both. For, Antony, in my cold, dreamy way, I love her very dearly, and so I have ever since she was a little wilful child.”He sat gazing at me with such a piteous expression in his face that his words went to my heart, and I heard Mary give quite a gulp.“But, Hallett,” I said, “you are not sure; she may have gone to some friend’s. She may have come back by this time.”“Come back?” he said fiercely. “No; she has not come back. Not yet. Some day she will return, poor strayed lamb!” he added, gazing straight before him, his voice softening and his arms extending, as if he pictured the whole scene and was about to take her to his heart.“But are you sure that she has really gone?” I cried.“Sure? Read that.”I took the crumpled paper with trembling fingers, and saw at a glance that he was right. In ill-written, hardly decipherable words, the poor girl told her brother that she could bear it no longer, but that she had fled with the man who possessed her heart.I stared blankly at poor Hallett, as he took the note from my hand, read it once more through, crushed it in his hand with a fierce look, and thrust it back in his pocket.“Is it—is it your poor dear sister who has gone?” said Mary excitedly.“Yes,” he cried, with his passion mastering him once more; and his hands opened and shut, as if eager to seize some one by the throat—“yes; some villain has led her away. But let me stand face to face with him, and then—”He paused in his low, painful utterance, gazing from me to Mary, who stood with her hand upon his arm.“And I thought my trouble the biggest in the world,” she sobbed; “but you’ve done right, sir, to come for my William. He’ll find them if they’re anywhere on the face of this earth, and they shall be found. Poor dear! and her with her pretty girlish gentle face as I was so jealous of. I’m only a silly foolish woman, sir,” she cried, with the tears falling fast, “but I may be of some good. If I’m along with my William when he finds ’em, she may listen to me and come back, when she wouldn’t mind him, and I’ll follow it out to the end.”“You’re—you’re a good woman,” said Hallett hoarsely, “and may God bless you. But your husband—where is your husband? We must lose no time.”“Master Antony?” cried Mary, and then, as if awakening once more to her position, and speaking in tones of bitterness—“Oh, what has come to my William? He must be found!”“Send him on to me,” said Hallett. “I’ll go back now. Antony, will you come?”“Why, there’s your poor mother, too,” cried Mary, “and all alone! I can help her, at all events!”As Mary spoke, she hurried to get her work-a-day bonnet and shawl, while Hallett stood gazing at her in a dazed and helpless way.“Your pore sister did come and help my pore boy when he was bad, and—Oh!”Mary uttered a fierce, angry cry. Bonnet and shawl fell from her hands, her jaw dropped, her ruddy face grew mottled with patches of white, and her eyes dilated. Her whole aspect was that of one about to have a fit, and I took a step towards her.She motioned me fiercely back, and tore at her throat, as if she were suffocating.“I see it now!” she cried hoarsely, “I see it now! Oh, the wretch, the wretch! Only let me find him again!”“Mary!” I cried, “what is it?”“I see it all now!” she cried again. “Then I was right. She come—she come here, and poisoned him with her soft looks and ways, and he’s left me—to go away with her to-night!”Mary made a clutch at vacancy; and then, tottering, would have fallen, had not Hallett been close at hand to catch her and help her to the couch, where the poor woman lay perfectly insensible, having fainted for probably the first time in her life.“What does she mean?” cried Hallett, as he made, with me, ineffectual efforts to restore her.“She was angry and jealous the night she came and found Linny here attending on Revitts,” I cried in a bewildered way, hardly knowing what I said. “And now she thinks, because he has left her to-night, that he has gone away with Linny.”“Poor fool?” he said sadly.“Revitts was very strange to-day,” I said, “and—and—and, Hallett—oh, forgive me,” I said, “I’ve kept something from you.”“What!” he cried, catching me so fiercely by the arm that he caused me acute pain. “Don’t tell me that I have been deceived, too, in you!”“No, Hallett, I haven’t deceived you,” I said. “I kept something back that I ought to have told you.”“You kept something back!” he cried. “Speak—speak at once, Antony, or—or—speak, boy; I’m not master of myself!”“Linny begged me so hard not to tell you, and I consented, on condition that she would mind what you said.”“Then—then you knew that she was carrying on with this man,” he cried savagely, neither of us seeing that Mary had come to, and was watching us with distended eyes.“No, no, Hallett,” I cried. “I did not—indeed, I did not; I only knew it was he who so beat poor Revitts.”“Who was he—what’s his name?” cried Mary, seizing my other arm, and shaking it.“I don’t know; I never knew,” I cried, faring badly between them. “Linny begged me, on her knees, not to tell that it was her friend who beat Revitts when he interfered, and when she promised me she would always obey you, Hallett, I said I would keep her secret.”“Then Linny was the girl poor Revitts saved,” said Hallett hoarsely.“Yes!” cried Mary. “The villain! he likes her pretty face. I was right; and I’ve been a fool to faint and go on. But that’s over now,” she cried savagely. “I’ll wait here till he does come back; for I’m his lawful wife; and when he does come—Oh!”Mary uttered that “Oh!” through her closed teeth, and all the revenge that was in her nature seemed to come to the surface, while Hallett walked up and down the room.“You have no idea, Antony, who he is?”“No, on my word, Hallett,” I cried; “I never knew. Pray forgive me! I thought it was for the best.”“Yes, yes, lad,” he said; “you did it from kindness. It has made no difference. I could not have borne it for you to deceive me, Antony,” he said, with a sweet, sad smile lighting his face as I caught his hand. “Come, let us go. Mary, my good soul, you are labouring under a mistake. Good-night!”“No, you don’t!” cried Mary, setting her back against the door. “You don’t go till he comes back. He’ll come and bring your sister here. And you may take her home. I’ll talk to him. What?” she cried triumphantly; “what did I say?”She turned, and threw open the door; for just then a heavy step was heard below, and, as if expecting some strange scene, Hallett and I stood watching, as step after step creaked beneath a heavy weight, till whoever was coming reached the landing and staggered into the room.“You—”Mary’s sentence was never finished; for her husband’s look, as he strode in with Linny in his arms, seemed to crush her.“I couldn’t get him, too, but I marked him,” he said, panting, “and I’ve stopped his little game.”“Linny!” cried Hallett to the half-insensible girl, who seemed to glide from Revitts’ arms, and sink in a heap at his feet, while I stood gazing in utter amazement at the turn things had taken.“Mary, my lass! a drop of something—anything—I’m about done.”Mary’s teeth gritted together, and she darted a vindictive look at her husband; but she obeyed him, fetching out a bottle of gin and a glass, which he filled and drained before speaking.“Not so strong as I was,” he cried excitedly. “Glad you’re here, sir. I ketched sight of him with her from the ’bus as we come in. I’d a known him from a thousand—him as give it me, you know. ‘Look arter Mary,’ I says to Master Antony here, and I was after him like a shot, hanging on to the hansom cab he’d got her in, and I never left ’em till it stopped down at Richmond, at a willa by the water-side.”“Richmond?” said Hallett blankly.“Richmond, as I’d been through twice that very day. When the cab stops—I’d made the man right with half-a-crown, and—telling him I was in the police—my gentleman gets out, and I had him like a shot. I might have got help a dozen times, but I wanted to tackle him myself, as I allus swore I would,” cried Revitts savagely; “but he was too much for me again. I’m stronger than him, but he’s got tricks, and he put me on my back after a good tussle—just look at my noo things!—and afore I could get up again, he was off, running like a coward as he is. But I brought her back, not knowing till I had her under the gas-lamp as it was Master Ant’ny’s friend and your sister, and she’d told me who she was, and asked me in a curious crying way to take her back to Master Ant’ny, as she said was the only one who’d help her now.”“You—you brought her home in the cab?” cried Mary hoarsely.“Yes, my lass, and it’s cost me half-a-sov altogether; but I’ve spoilt his game, whoever he is. Poor little lass, she’s been about mad ever since I got into the cab, a-clinging to me.”“Yes,” hissed Mary.“And crying and sobbing, and I couldn’t comfort her, not a bit.”“No!” said Mary softly, through her teeth.“It was rather rough on you, Mary, my gal,” said Revitts; “but you would marry a police-officer, and dooty must be done.”Mary was about to speak; but he held up his hand, for Linny seemed to be coming to, and Hallett was kneeling on the floor by her side.“Mary—Bill,” I whispered; for the right thing to do seemed to be suggested to me then. “Let us go and leave them.”“Right you are, Master Ant’ny, and always was,” said Bill hoarsely; and, passing his arm round Mary’s waist, he drew her into the other room, by which time the scales seemed to have fallen from poor Mary’s eyes, for the first thing she did, as soon as we were in the room, was to plump down on her knees, clasp those of her husband, lay her cheek against them, and cry, ready to break her heart.Probably the excitement of his adventure had had a good effect upon Revitts; for the strange fit of petulance and obstinacy had passed away, and he was all eagerness and smiles.“Why, what a gal you are, Polly!” he exclaimed. “Don’t cry, my lass; I was obliged to go off. Pleecemen ain’t their own masters.”“Oh, Bill dear,” sobbed Mary, “and I’ve been thinking sich things.”“Of course you have, Polly,” he said; “and I’ve been wishing myself at home, but I knew Ant’ny would take care of you. Poor little lass! I’ve had a nice job, I can tell you. I say, Ant’ny, is she quite right in her head?”“Oh yes,” I said.“Well, she don’t look it then, poor little woman. One minute she was begging and praying me to take her home, the next she was scolding me for interfering. Then she’d be quiet for a few minutes, and then she’d want to jump out of the cab; and it’s my belief that if I’d let her go, she’d have throwed herself into the river.”“Poor soul?” murmured Mary.“Then she’d take a fit of not wanting to go home, saying that she daren’t never go there any more, and that I wasn’t to take her home, but to you, Ant’ny; and that sorter thing’s been going on all the time, till she seemed to be quite worn out, and I was so puzzled as to what to do, that I thought I would bring her on here, and let Mary do what she thought best.”“Did you think that, Bill?” said Mary eagerly.“Of course I did. I don’t understand women-folk, and I hate having jobs that puts ’em in my care. ‘Mary’ll settle it all right,’ I says, ‘and know what’s best to be done.’”“Antony,” said a voice at the door just then, and I went out to find Hallett looking very pale, and Linny lying insensible upon the couch.“Oh, Hallett!” I exclaimed. “Shall Mary come?”“Yes—directly,” he said hoarsely; and there was something very strange about his manner. “Shut the door, boy,” he continued. “Look here, Antony; this note was inside the neck of her dress, as I opened it to give her air. You need not read it; but look at it. Tell me whether you have ever seen the handwriting before.”I took the letter from him, and looked at the bold, free, rather peculiar hand, which I recognised on the instant.“Oh yes!” I exclaimed, “often.”“Whose writing is it?” he said, pressing his hand upon his breast to keep down the emotion that seemed ready to choke him. “Don’t speak rashly, Antony; make sure before you give an answer.”“But I am sure,” I exclaimed, without a moment’s hesitation. “I have often seen it—it is Mr Lister’s writing. What does it mean?”“Mean?” cried Hallett, in a low, deep voice, as if speaking to some one across the room, for he was not looking at me. “My God, what does it not mean, but that John Lister is a villain!”
“Oh, Hallett!” I cried, catching his hand, as the poor fellow sat blankly gazing before him in his mute despair. “It is a mistake; she could not be so wicked.”
“Wicked!” he said with a curious laugh. “Was it wicked, after all her promises—my forgiveness—my gentle, loving words? I was a fool. I believed that she was weaning herself from it all, and trying to forget. A woman would have read her at a glance; but I, a poor, mad dreamer, always away, or buried in that attic, saw nothing, only that she was very quiet, and thin, and sad.”
“Did she tell you that she would go, Hallett?” I asked, hardly knowing what I said.
“No, Antony,” I replied, in a dreary tone.
“Did you have any quarrel?”
“No; not lately. She was most affectionate—poor child! and her heart must have been sore with the thought or what she was about to do. Only this evening, before I went up into the attic to dream over my invention, she crept to my side, put her little arms round my neck, and kissed me, as she used when she was a tiny child, and said how sorry she was that she had given me so much pain. Antony, lad,” he cried passionately, “I went up to my task to-night a happy man, thinking that one heavy load was taken off my shoulders, and that the future was going to be brighter for us both. For, Antony, in my cold, dreamy way, I love her very dearly, and so I have ever since she was a little wilful child.”
He sat gazing at me with such a piteous expression in his face that his words went to my heart, and I heard Mary give quite a gulp.
“But, Hallett,” I said, “you are not sure; she may have gone to some friend’s. She may have come back by this time.”
“Come back?” he said fiercely. “No; she has not come back. Not yet. Some day she will return, poor strayed lamb!” he added, gazing straight before him, his voice softening and his arms extending, as if he pictured the whole scene and was about to take her to his heart.
“But are you sure that she has really gone?” I cried.
“Sure? Read that.”
I took the crumpled paper with trembling fingers, and saw at a glance that he was right. In ill-written, hardly decipherable words, the poor girl told her brother that she could bear it no longer, but that she had fled with the man who possessed her heart.
I stared blankly at poor Hallett, as he took the note from my hand, read it once more through, crushed it in his hand with a fierce look, and thrust it back in his pocket.
“Is it—is it your poor dear sister who has gone?” said Mary excitedly.
“Yes,” he cried, with his passion mastering him once more; and his hands opened and shut, as if eager to seize some one by the throat—“yes; some villain has led her away. But let me stand face to face with him, and then—”
He paused in his low, painful utterance, gazing from me to Mary, who stood with her hand upon his arm.
“And I thought my trouble the biggest in the world,” she sobbed; “but you’ve done right, sir, to come for my William. He’ll find them if they’re anywhere on the face of this earth, and they shall be found. Poor dear! and her with her pretty girlish gentle face as I was so jealous of. I’m only a silly foolish woman, sir,” she cried, with the tears falling fast, “but I may be of some good. If I’m along with my William when he finds ’em, she may listen to me and come back, when she wouldn’t mind him, and I’ll follow it out to the end.”
“You’re—you’re a good woman,” said Hallett hoarsely, “and may God bless you. But your husband—where is your husband? We must lose no time.”
“Master Antony?” cried Mary, and then, as if awakening once more to her position, and speaking in tones of bitterness—“Oh, what has come to my William? He must be found!”
“Send him on to me,” said Hallett. “I’ll go back now. Antony, will you come?”
“Why, there’s your poor mother, too,” cried Mary, “and all alone! I can help her, at all events!”
As Mary spoke, she hurried to get her work-a-day bonnet and shawl, while Hallett stood gazing at her in a dazed and helpless way.
“Your pore sister did come and help my pore boy when he was bad, and—Oh!”
Mary uttered a fierce, angry cry. Bonnet and shawl fell from her hands, her jaw dropped, her ruddy face grew mottled with patches of white, and her eyes dilated. Her whole aspect was that of one about to have a fit, and I took a step towards her.
She motioned me fiercely back, and tore at her throat, as if she were suffocating.
“I see it now!” she cried hoarsely, “I see it now! Oh, the wretch, the wretch! Only let me find him again!”
“Mary!” I cried, “what is it?”
“I see it all now!” she cried again. “Then I was right. She come—she come here, and poisoned him with her soft looks and ways, and he’s left me—to go away with her to-night!”
Mary made a clutch at vacancy; and then, tottering, would have fallen, had not Hallett been close at hand to catch her and help her to the couch, where the poor woman lay perfectly insensible, having fainted for probably the first time in her life.
“What does she mean?” cried Hallett, as he made, with me, ineffectual efforts to restore her.
“She was angry and jealous the night she came and found Linny here attending on Revitts,” I cried in a bewildered way, hardly knowing what I said. “And now she thinks, because he has left her to-night, that he has gone away with Linny.”
“Poor fool?” he said sadly.
“Revitts was very strange to-day,” I said, “and—and—and, Hallett—oh, forgive me,” I said, “I’ve kept something from you.”
“What!” he cried, catching me so fiercely by the arm that he caused me acute pain. “Don’t tell me that I have been deceived, too, in you!”
“No, Hallett, I haven’t deceived you,” I said. “I kept something back that I ought to have told you.”
“You kept something back!” he cried. “Speak—speak at once, Antony, or—or—speak, boy; I’m not master of myself!”
“Linny begged me so hard not to tell you, and I consented, on condition that she would mind what you said.”
“Then—then you knew that she was carrying on with this man,” he cried savagely, neither of us seeing that Mary had come to, and was watching us with distended eyes.
“No, no, Hallett,” I cried. “I did not—indeed, I did not; I only knew it was he who so beat poor Revitts.”
“Who was he—what’s his name?” cried Mary, seizing my other arm, and shaking it.
“I don’t know; I never knew,” I cried, faring badly between them. “Linny begged me, on her knees, not to tell that it was her friend who beat Revitts when he interfered, and when she promised me she would always obey you, Hallett, I said I would keep her secret.”
“Then Linny was the girl poor Revitts saved,” said Hallett hoarsely.
“Yes!” cried Mary. “The villain! he likes her pretty face. I was right; and I’ve been a fool to faint and go on. But that’s over now,” she cried savagely. “I’ll wait here till he does come back; for I’m his lawful wife; and when he does come—Oh!”
Mary uttered that “Oh!” through her closed teeth, and all the revenge that was in her nature seemed to come to the surface, while Hallett walked up and down the room.
“You have no idea, Antony, who he is?”
“No, on my word, Hallett,” I cried; “I never knew. Pray forgive me! I thought it was for the best.”
“Yes, yes, lad,” he said; “you did it from kindness. It has made no difference. I could not have borne it for you to deceive me, Antony,” he said, with a sweet, sad smile lighting his face as I caught his hand. “Come, let us go. Mary, my good soul, you are labouring under a mistake. Good-night!”
“No, you don’t!” cried Mary, setting her back against the door. “You don’t go till he comes back. He’ll come and bring your sister here. And you may take her home. I’ll talk to him. What?” she cried triumphantly; “what did I say?”
She turned, and threw open the door; for just then a heavy step was heard below, and, as if expecting some strange scene, Hallett and I stood watching, as step after step creaked beneath a heavy weight, till whoever was coming reached the landing and staggered into the room.
“You—”
Mary’s sentence was never finished; for her husband’s look, as he strode in with Linny in his arms, seemed to crush her.
“I couldn’t get him, too, but I marked him,” he said, panting, “and I’ve stopped his little game.”
“Linny!” cried Hallett to the half-insensible girl, who seemed to glide from Revitts’ arms, and sink in a heap at his feet, while I stood gazing in utter amazement at the turn things had taken.
“Mary, my lass! a drop of something—anything—I’m about done.”
Mary’s teeth gritted together, and she darted a vindictive look at her husband; but she obeyed him, fetching out a bottle of gin and a glass, which he filled and drained before speaking.
“Not so strong as I was,” he cried excitedly. “Glad you’re here, sir. I ketched sight of him with her from the ’bus as we come in. I’d a known him from a thousand—him as give it me, you know. ‘Look arter Mary,’ I says to Master Antony here, and I was after him like a shot, hanging on to the hansom cab he’d got her in, and I never left ’em till it stopped down at Richmond, at a willa by the water-side.”
“Richmond?” said Hallett blankly.
“Richmond, as I’d been through twice that very day. When the cab stops—I’d made the man right with half-a-crown, and—telling him I was in the police—my gentleman gets out, and I had him like a shot. I might have got help a dozen times, but I wanted to tackle him myself, as I allus swore I would,” cried Revitts savagely; “but he was too much for me again. I’m stronger than him, but he’s got tricks, and he put me on my back after a good tussle—just look at my noo things!—and afore I could get up again, he was off, running like a coward as he is. But I brought her back, not knowing till I had her under the gas-lamp as it was Master Ant’ny’s friend and your sister, and she’d told me who she was, and asked me in a curious crying way to take her back to Master Ant’ny, as she said was the only one who’d help her now.”
“You—you brought her home in the cab?” cried Mary hoarsely.
“Yes, my lass, and it’s cost me half-a-sov altogether; but I’ve spoilt his game, whoever he is. Poor little lass, she’s been about mad ever since I got into the cab, a-clinging to me.”
“Yes,” hissed Mary.
“And crying and sobbing, and I couldn’t comfort her, not a bit.”
“No!” said Mary softly, through her teeth.
“It was rather rough on you, Mary, my gal,” said Revitts; “but you would marry a police-officer, and dooty must be done.”
Mary was about to speak; but he held up his hand, for Linny seemed to be coming to, and Hallett was kneeling on the floor by her side.
“Mary—Bill,” I whispered; for the right thing to do seemed to be suggested to me then. “Let us go and leave them.”
“Right you are, Master Ant’ny, and always was,” said Bill hoarsely; and, passing his arm round Mary’s waist, he drew her into the other room, by which time the scales seemed to have fallen from poor Mary’s eyes, for the first thing she did, as soon as we were in the room, was to plump down on her knees, clasp those of her husband, lay her cheek against them, and cry, ready to break her heart.
Probably the excitement of his adventure had had a good effect upon Revitts; for the strange fit of petulance and obstinacy had passed away, and he was all eagerness and smiles.
“Why, what a gal you are, Polly!” he exclaimed. “Don’t cry, my lass; I was obliged to go off. Pleecemen ain’t their own masters.”
“Oh, Bill dear,” sobbed Mary, “and I’ve been thinking sich things.”
“Of course you have, Polly,” he said; “and I’ve been wishing myself at home, but I knew Ant’ny would take care of you. Poor little lass! I’ve had a nice job, I can tell you. I say, Ant’ny, is she quite right in her head?”
“Oh yes,” I said.
“Well, she don’t look it then, poor little woman. One minute she was begging and praying me to take her home, the next she was scolding me for interfering. Then she’d be quiet for a few minutes, and then she’d want to jump out of the cab; and it’s my belief that if I’d let her go, she’d have throwed herself into the river.”
“Poor soul?” murmured Mary.
“Then she’d take a fit of not wanting to go home, saying that she daren’t never go there any more, and that I wasn’t to take her home, but to you, Ant’ny; and that sorter thing’s been going on all the time, till she seemed to be quite worn out, and I was so puzzled as to what to do, that I thought I would bring her on here, and let Mary do what she thought best.”
“Did you think that, Bill?” said Mary eagerly.
“Of course I did. I don’t understand women-folk, and I hate having jobs that puts ’em in my care. ‘Mary’ll settle it all right,’ I says, ‘and know what’s best to be done.’”
“Antony,” said a voice at the door just then, and I went out to find Hallett looking very pale, and Linny lying insensible upon the couch.
“Oh, Hallett!” I exclaimed. “Shall Mary come?”
“Yes—directly,” he said hoarsely; and there was something very strange about his manner. “Shut the door, boy,” he continued. “Look here, Antony; this note was inside the neck of her dress, as I opened it to give her air. You need not read it; but look at it. Tell me whether you have ever seen the handwriting before.”
I took the letter from him, and looked at the bold, free, rather peculiar hand, which I recognised on the instant.
“Oh yes!” I exclaimed, “often.”
“Whose writing is it?” he said, pressing his hand upon his breast to keep down the emotion that seemed ready to choke him. “Don’t speak rashly, Antony; make sure before you give an answer.”
“But I am sure,” I exclaimed, without a moment’s hesitation. “I have often seen it—it is Mr Lister’s writing. What does it mean?”
“Mean?” cried Hallett, in a low, deep voice, as if speaking to some one across the room, for he was not looking at me. “My God, what does it not mean, but that John Lister is a villain!”