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Chapter Forty Five.
Hallett’s New Landlord

A year slipped rapidly away, full of changes for some people, no doubt; but to me it was very uneventful. I worked away at my profession steadily, liking it better every day, and for nothing more strongly than that it gave me knowledge that I felt would be of advantage to Stephen Hallett, with whom I grew more intimate than ever.

The home at Great Ormond Street seemed now less sombre and desolate; for since her serious illness, from which poor Linny had been literally nursed back into life by Mary and Hallett, the girl was completely changed.

As she began to mend, I used to find a great deal of time to go and sit with her; for her return to strength was very slow, and the poor worn face would light up and the great staring eyes brighten whenever I went into the room with some little offering or another that I thought would please her. Sometimes it would be flowers, or fruit, or any little delicacy that I thought she would fancy; but the greatest pleasure I could give her was to take some fresh book, and sit and read.

She used to lie upon a couch near the window, where she could look out upon the sky, and when I was not there I suppose she would lie like that, thinking, for hours, without speaking a word.

Mary had grown to be quite an institution at the place, and the two invalids at last took up so much of her time, that a scheme was one day proposed by me, consequent upon an announcement made to me by Hallett.

“We shall be obliged to leave,” he said. “The tenants of this house are going away.”

“But it will be terrible work, Hallett,” I said. “How will Linny and Mrs Hallett bear the change?”

“I hope patiently and well,” he said quietly, and the subject dropped; but an idea had occurred to me which I hastened to put in force.

My first step was to write to Miss Carr, whom I had not seen for many, many months, as, directly after the meeting with Mr Lister she had gone on the Continent with her newly-married sister, whose husband had an official appointment at Marseilles, and had resided with her ever since.

I was grievously disappointed at having to part with so good a friend; but she promised to write to me every week, and gave me the strictest injunctions to send to her for advice or help whenever I should find myself in need.

I had no hesitation whatever, then, in asking her in my weekly letter for help to carry out my plan, and that was to find Revitts and Mary the money to buy the lease of the house in Great Ormond Street, so that Mary would be better able to attend to her friends, and, while acting as their landlady, supply me with better rooms as well.

I broached the subject to Revitts and his wife that very evening, and the former nodded.

“How much would it take, Ant’ny?” he said.

“The lease would be a hundred pounds,” I said. “Then the rent is eighty.”

“That’s a deal of money, my dear,” said Mary; “and then there’s the rates.”

“Yes,” I said; “but then look here, Mary; I should like a sitting-room as well as a bedroom now, and I could pay you twenty-five or thirty pounds a year for that. I know Mr Hallett pays twenty-six for what he has, and you could, as you often said you would like to, let another floor; for it is a large house. I think you would live rent-free.”

“There,” cried Revitts, giving the table a slap. “What do you think of that, Polly?”

“Think of what?” she said tartly; for the seriousness of the subject unsettled her.

“What he says. D’ye hear his business-like way of reckoning it up: so much for this here, and so much for that there? He couldn’t have talked like that when he come up to London first, as green as a bit o’ grass. That’s my teaching, that is. I knew I could sharpen him up.”

“Don’t be so conceited, Bill,” she exclaimed. “But a large house means lots of furniture, Master Antony. No, I don’t think it would do. We haven’t enough.”

“But I’ve written to Miss Carr, to ask her to let me have the money for you.”

Revitts got up out of his chair, where he was partaking of tea and bread and butter in a rather wholesale style, pulled himself together, buttoned up his coat, took a couple of official strides to where I sat, and, taking my hand, began shaking it up and down for some moments.

Then he gave Mary three or four wags of the head and nods, and went back to his tea, unbuttoning the while.

“That’s very nice and kind of you, Master Antony,” she said; “but that money would be only borrowed, and it would have to be paid back again, and sit upon us like lumps of lead till it was – ”

“Oh, nonsense, Mary, I don’t believe Miss Carr would ever want it back – I think she’ll give me the money. And besides, I mean to furnish my own rooms, so that will be two less.”

“Hark at that now!” said Revitts, giving his head a wag.

“I don’t want to seem conceited, but I should like to improve my room, and have a place for my books, and be able to bring a friend home to have tea or supper with me when I liked.”

“That’s quite right,” said Revitts approvingly; “but we should want close upon two hundred pounds, Master Ant’ny, you know.”

“Yes, you ought to have two hundred and fifty pounds.”

Mary shook her head, and seemed to tighten up her face, buttering the bread she had before her the while.

“Here, I say, come, Polly, I know we should have to begin saving,” said Revitts, in tones of remonstrance; “but don’t begin to-night. Stick a little more butter on that there bread.”

Mary complied, the meal went on, and I left them at last to talk the matter over, thoroughly upset by my proposals.

They opposed them for some days to come; but when, at last, I received a kind letter from Miss Carr, bidding me tell Mary how glad she was to hear of her plans, and that they were to be sure and include a comfortable bed and sitting-room for me, the day was carried, especially as the letter contained a cheque for 250 pounds; though they would not take all this, the steady, hoarding couple being able to produce between them enough to pay in full for the lease, which was duly assigned and placed in Revitts’ hands by Tom Girtley, who was progressing fast with the firm of solicitors to whom he had been articled.

The first intimation that Hallett received of the change was from Revitts himself, who called one day on his way home to announce with suppressed glee that he was the new landlord, and to ask if there was anything that Mr Hallett would like done.

Hallett stared in astonishment, and then turned sharply to me —

“This is your doing, Antony,” he said.

I pleaded guilty.

“Well, what could be better?” I said; “I’m going to have two rooms, and Mary will be always at hand to attend upon us, and you will not have to turn out.”

“But the money?” he said, looking at me searchingly.

“Revitts and his wife have been saving people,” I replied, “and they had their savings to invest. I don’t think they could have done better.”

Hallett did not seem satisfied, but he was too much of a gentleman to push his questions home, and the matter dropped. The old tenant of the house moved out at once; Mary had a charwoman at work for a general clean up, and ended by dismissing her for smelling of gin, and doing the cleaning herself; and before a fortnight was over the change had been made, and I was able to congratulate myself on a capital arrangement.

“You think it is now,” I said, “Hallett, don’t you?”

“I do now, Antony,” he said, “for more reasons than one.”

“What do you mean?” I said; for he looked very peculiar and stern.

“I have seen that man hanging about here once or twice.”

“Mr Lister?”

He nodded.

“Oh, but surely that is all over. He would never dare.”

“He hates me, I am sure, Antony,” he replied, “and would do anything to injure me; and, besides, such a man as that would not lightly give up his plans.”

“But Linny dislikes him now, I am sure,” I said.

“I am not,” he replied sadly; and no more was said.

Chapter Forty Six.
Linny Awakes

But those words “I am not,” made no little impression on me, and a day or two later, when I had taken Linny in some flowers, I was thinking very deeply about them, and perhaps my thoughts may have influenced the mind of the poor girl, for she suddenly laid her thin white hand upon my arm and said: “Antony, do you ever see Mr Lister now?”

“No,” I said; “I have never seen him since the day of that scene with Miss Carr.”

“Tell me about it – all about it,” she said sharply. I stared at her aghast, and tried to excuse myself, but her eyes looked at me so imploringly that I felt compelled, and related all that I had heard and seen.

She lay with her eyes half-closed during my recital, and when it was ended the poor, weak, wasted girl took one of my hands between both of hers, and held it to her breast, caressing it silently the while.

“Oh, Linny, dear,” I said, “what have I done! I ought not to have told you all this. You are going to be worse. Let me call Stephen!”

“No, no, no,” she wailed. “Hush, hush! You must not wake poor mamma?”

“Let me call up Mary.”

“No, no,” she sobbed; “sit still – sit still, Antony dear; you have always been to me like a brother, and you have known all. I have no girl friends of my own age, but I can talk to you.”

“No; let’s talk of something else,” I said earnestly. “You must not think about the past.”

“I must think about it, or I shall die,” she said, adding pathetically, “no, no, don’t get up. I shall be better now. There, you see, I have left off crying.”

She seemed to make an effort over herself, and in a few minutes she looked up at me smiling, but her poor face was so wasted and thin that her smile frightened me, and I was again about to call for help.

“No, no,” she said; “I am better now. Antony dear, I could not get well, but felt as if I was wasting away because I could not see him. Oh, Antony, I did love him so, and I felt obliged to obey him in all he wished. But it was because I thought him so fond and true. I have felt all these long months that he loved me very dearly, and that if I could only see him – if I could only lay my head upon his arm, and go to rest, I should wake up well. I always thought that he loved me very dearly, and that some day he would come and say I was to be his wife. Stephen thought I hated him for his cruel ways, but I did not, I could not. I do not even hate him now. I am only sorry.”

“But you don’t want to see him again, Linny?” I said.

“No, no: not now,” she replied with a shudder. “I know now that he never loved me. I never understood it all before, Antony. I pray God I may never see his face again.”

There was something very impressive in her words, and, closing her eyes, she lay back there so still that I thought she was asleep, but the moment I tried to withdraw my hand she clung to it the more tightly, and looked up at me and smiled.

“Antony,” she said suddenly; and there seemed to be a new light in her eyes as she opened them wildly, “I am going to get well now. I could not before, for thinking about the past.”

“I hope and pray that you will,” I said, with a strange sensation of fear creeping through me.

“I shall,” she said quickly. “I can feel it now. Last week I thought that I was going to die. Now talk to me about Miss Carr. Is she very beautiful?”

“Yes,” I said eagerly, “very beautiful.”

“More handsome than I used to be?” she said, laughing.

“Oh, she’s very different to you, Linny,” I said, flushing. “She is tall and noble-looking, and dark, while you are little and fair. One could not compare you two together.”

“It was no wonder, then, that Mr Lister should love her.”

“Oh no,” I said. “Any man who saw her would be sure to love her.”

She sighed softly.

“Is she – is she a good woman?”

“Good?” I cried enthusiastically; “there could not be a better woman.”

“And – and – ” she faltered, moistening her dry lips, “do you think she will marry Mr Lister?”

“I am sure she will not,” I said indignantly.

“But she loved him.”

“No,” I said thoughtfully; “I don’t think she did much.”

“But he loved her.”

“Ye-es, I suppose so,” I said; “but he could not have loved her much, or he would not have behaved as he did.”

There was a pause then, during which Linny lay playing with my hand.

“Antony,” she cried suddenly, “Miss Carr will forgive him some day.”

“Forgive him!” I said. “Yes, she is so good a woman that I dare say she will forgive him, but everything is over between them now.”

“I am very glad,” she said dreamily, “for I should be sorry if anything else took place.”

“What! should you be jealous, Linny?”

“No,” she said decidedly, “only very, very sorry for her. Oh! Antony,” she said, bursting into passionate tears, “I was very ignorant and very blind.”

“Linny, Linny, my child, what is the matter?” cried Hallett, entering the room, and flying with all a woman’s solicitude to the couch, to take the light wasted form in his arms. “Heaven help me, she’s worse. The doctor, Antony, quick!”

“No, no, no,” cried Linny, throwing her arms round her brother’s neck; “I am better, Steve, better now. It is only sorrow that I have been so blind.”

“So blind, my darling?”

“Yes, yes,” she sobbed excitedly, pressing her brother’s dark hair from his forehead, and covering his face with her kisses, “that I was so blind, and weak, and young. I did not know who loved me, and who did not; but it’s all over now, Steve dear. Dear brother, it’s all over now.”

“My darling,” he whispered, “let me send for help!”

“No, no,” she cried, “what for? I am better – so much better, Stephen. That is all taken off my mind, and I have nothing to do now but love you, love you all, and get well.”

Poor little thing! She lay there clasped in her brother’s strong arms, sobbing hysterically, but it was as if every tear she shed washed away from her stricken mind a portion of the canker that had been consuming her day by day.

It was more than I could bear, and if it had not been that I was called upon to speak to and comfort poor, weak Mrs Hallett, who had been awakened by Linny’s passionate sobs, I should have run out of the room and away from the house; but somehow I had grown to be part and parcel of that family, and the weak invalid seemed to love me like her own son.

At last, to my inexpressible relief, I saw Linny calm gradually down and sink to sleep in her brother’s arms, like some weary, suffering child.

Hallett did not move, but sat there fearing to disturb her, and as the evening wore on, his eyes sought mine inquiringly again and again, to direct my attention to her look: and as I watched her in that soft evening glow – a mellow light which told of a lovely evening in the country lanes – a soft, gentle calm seemed to have come upon the wasted face, its old hard angularity had gone, and with it that wistful air of suffering and constant pain, her breathing was faint, but it was soft and regular as that of a sleeping child, and at last there was a restful smile of content upon her lips, such as had not been there for years.

“What had you been saying to her, Antony?” whispered Hallett sternly, as I sat there by his side.

“She asked me questions about Lister and Miss Carr,” I said, “and I think that she woke up for the first time to know what a rascal he is.”

Hallett looked anxiously at his sister before he spoke again, but she was evidently plunged in a deep sleep.

“You are very young, Antony, but you are getting schooled in nature’s secrets earlier than many are. Do you think that is over now?”

“I am sure of it,” I said.

“Thank God!” he said fervently, “for I was in daily dread.”

“She would never – there,” I said excitedly; “she prayed herself that she might never see his face again.”

“But they say women are very forgiving, Antony,” he said with a tinge of bitterness; and then, with his brow furrowing but a cynical smile upon his lip, he said, “We shall hear next that Miss Carr has forgiven him, and that they are married.”

“For shame!” I exclaimed indignantly. “You do not know Miss Carr, or you would not speak like that.”

He half closed his eyes after glancing at where his mother lay back in her easy-chair, asleep once more, for so she passed the greater part of her time.

“No,” he said softly, “I do not know her, Antony.”

I don’t know what possessed me to say what I did, but it seemed as if I was influenced to speak.

“I wish you did know her and love her, Hallett, for she is so – ”

He started as if he had been stung.

“Are you mad?” he exclaimed angrily.

“No,” I said quietly, “but I think she likes you.”

“How could she?”

“I have talked so much about you, and she has seemed so interested in all you do.”

“You foolish fellow,” he said, with his face resuming its old calm. “You are too young yet to thoroughly understand such matters. When you grow older, you will learn why it was that I could not play, as you seemed to wish, so mean a part as to become John Lister’s accuser. It would have been contemptible in the extreme.”

“I could not help feeling that Miss Carr ought to know, Hallett.”

“Yes, my lad, but you shrank from telling her yourself.”

He was silent for a minute.

“Ah, Antony,” he said, “Fate seems to have ordained that I am always to wear the workman’s coat; but I console myself with the idea that a man may be a poor artisan and still at heart a gentleman.”

“Of course!”

“My father was a thoroughly honourable man, who left us poor solely from misfortune. The legacy he left to me, Antony, was the care of my dear mother and Linny.”

He looked down tenderly on the sleeping girl, and softly stroked her hair; the touch, light as it was, waking her, to smile in his face with a look very different from that worn by her countenance the day before.

Chapter Forty Seven.
Miss Carr Hears the Truth

I was surprised one morning by my weekly letter from Miss Carr containing the welcome news that she was coming back; in fact, that she was following the letter, and it expressed a wish that I should meet her at the terminus and see her home.

It was with no small feeling of pride that I found myself chosen for this duty, and quite an hour before it was possible for the train to come in, I was waiting at the station.

Soon after I saw the carriage drive up, and at last, after looking endless times at the clock, I saw the train come gliding in, and the next minute I was hurrying along the platform, looking eagerly at each carriage in turn, when I found myself brushing by John Lister, who started and scowled at me as I passed.

Just then I caught sight of Miss Carr, looking from one of the carriages, and handing a bundle of wraps to her maid.

I ran eagerly up, but only to find myself rudely thrust aside by John Lister, who, in his excitement, studied nothing so that he could reach her first.

“At last,” he whispered passionately. “Let me be the first to welcome you back.”

Flushed and angry, my fists involuntarily clenched, and I felt ready to strike him as I started forward once again.

I had my recompense, though, directly, for I saw Miss Carr draw down her veil, and; completely ignoring the extended hands, she beckoned to me, and, summoning up as much importance as I could, I said sharply:

“Will you have the goodness to stand aside?”

He was so taken aback by the determined refusal of Miss Carr to renew their acquaintance that he stood back involuntarily, recovering himself though, directly, and approaching once more; but he was too late: Miss Carr had taken my arm, and I led her to the carriage, the footman, who had seen her, taking the wraps and a case or two from the maid, whom he ushered to a cab, which was then being loaded with luggage, as I sprang in beside my patroness, and gave the word to the coachman, “Home!”

I was too young not to feel excited by the importance of my position, and as the horses started and the carriage moved forward, think now that I must have been more than human if I had not darted a look of triumph at John Lister, as he stood there just beneath one of the swinging lamps, his brow furrowed and a furious look of disappointment and malice upon his face.

I heard Miss Carr draw her breath as if with pain, but the next moment her hands were in mine.

“My dear Antony,” she exclaimed, “I am very glad to get back. Why, my dear boy, what a difference one year has made in you.”

“Has it?” I said, laughing.

“Oh, yes! Why, Antony, you will soon be growing into a man.”

“I hope so, Miss Carr; but I don’t think you look well.”

“No?”

“You look thin and careworn.”

“Marseilles is a very hot place, Antony,” she said evasively, “and does not suit English people. Of course, you are my property this evening, Antony. You have no engagement?”

“No,” I said, smiling. “I should have gone to spend the evening with Mr Hallett if I had been alone.”

Her hand gave a slight twitch as I said these words, and her voice sounded a little hoarse as she continued:

“You must come and dine with me, Antony, and we will have a long, long chat. It seems like old times to be with you again.”

I was delighted to have her back, and chatted on in the most unreserved way, until we reached Miss Carr’s house, where the door flew open as the carriage stopped.

I jumped down, and was in the act of holding out my right hand and the carriage-door open with the left, when I started with surprise; for a swift hansom cab had brought John Lister there before us, and he stood on the other side, holding out his hand.

“I must speak to you, Miriam!” he exclaimed in a low voice, when, seeing her shrink back in alarm, and with an unmistakable look of horror in her face, boy as I was, I felt some sense of manhood flush to my cheek, and, feeling no fear of him for the moment, I placed my hand upon his chest, and thrust him with all my might away.

“Stand back, sir!” I cried, “or I call the police.”

Ere he could recover from his astonishment, Miss Carr had lightly touched my hand, stepped out, and hurried in, while I, with my heart beating fast at my temerity, slowly closed the brougham-door, and stood facing John Lister.

“You insolent dog?” he cried threateningly; and I thought he was about to strike me, but at that moment, as I stood before him with my teeth set, I would hardly have run in to save my life.

“How dare you insult Miss Carr!” I exclaimed.

“Insult! Oh, this is too much!” he muttered. Then, half-raising his hand, he let it fall once more, turned upon his heel, and strode away.

The coachman seemed disposed to speak, but the field being now my own, I walked – very pompously, I’m afraid – into the hall, Miss Carr coming out of the dining-room as soon as the front door was closed, to catch my hand in hers, and look eagerly in my flushed face.

“You have grown brave too, Antony,” she whispered, as she led me upstairs. “Thank you, thank you; I did not know that I could look for a protector in you.”

I had calmed down by the time Miss Carr had dressed; and then followed one of those, to me, delightful evenings. We dined together; she chatted of her life in Southern France, and at last, over our tea in the drawing-room, as she was sitting back in her lounge-chair, with her face in the shade, she said, in what was meant to be a perfectly calm voice:

“Well, Antony, you have not said a word to me about your friends.”

I did not answer directly, for I felt a strange hesitation in so doing; and a similar emotion must have been in my companion’s breast, for she sat there for some minutes in silence, till I said:

“Linny Hallett seems to have quite recovered now, and is bright and happy again, though very much changed.”

Miss Carr did not speak.

“Mrs Hallett is precisely the same. I do not think she has altered in the least since I have known her.”

Miss Carr seemed to turn her face more away from me, or else it was the shadow, and now, instead of speaking of Stephen Hallett, something seemed to prompt me to turn off, and talk of Revitts and Mary, and of how admirably the arrangement had answered of their taking the house in Great Ormond Street.

There seemed to be a slight impatient movement as I prattled on – I can call it nothing else. It was not from a spirit of mischief, but all the time I seemed to feel that she must want to know about Stephen Hallett, and somehow I could not mention his name.

“It is quite droll, Miss Carr,” I said. “Mrs Hallett says that it is such an admirable arrangement, having a police-constable on the premises, and that she has never before felt so safe since she has been in London.”

“You have not spoken to me yet of your friend – Mr Hallett.”

I started, for it did not sound like Miss Carr’s voice, and when I looked up I could not see her face.

“No; not yet,” I said. “He is toiling on still as patiently and enduringly as ever.”

“And the invention, Antony?”

“The invention,” I said bitterly, “lags behind. It is impossible to get on.”

“Is – is it all waste of time, then?”

“Waste? No,” I said. “The invention is one that would carry all before it; but, poor fellow, he is tied and fettered at every turn. He has nearly got it to perfection, but, after months of constant toil, some wretched part breaks down, and the whole thing has to be done again.”

“But is it likely to succeed?”

“Likely?” I said: “it must succeed; but it never can until it has been made and tried. It should be carefully constructed at some large engineering establishment like ours.”

“Yes,” she said, evidently listening intently.

“But how can it be? Poor Hallett earns about two pounds a week, and the demands upon his pocket, through his mother’s and sister’s illness, have been terrible. He is heavily in debt now to the doctors.”

“Why do you not help your friend, then, Antony?” she said in tones of reproach.

“Because he will not let me,” I replied quietly. “He is too proud.”

Miss Carr was silent.

“What amount would it take,” she said at last, in a strange tone, “to perfect the machine?”

“Amount?” I said eagerly; “an awful deal. It is impossible to say how much. Why, the patent would cost nearly a hundred. Poor fellow! I wish sometimes he would give it up.”

“Why?” she exclaimed softly.

“Because,” I said, “it is breaking his heart.”

“Is – is he so constant in his attentions to it?”

“Oh yes, Miss Carr. Whenever he can spare a minute, he is working or dreaming over it; he calls it his love – his mistress, in a half-mocking sort of spirit. Poor fellow, it is a sad life.”

There was again a deep silence in the room.

“Antony,” she said again, “why do you not help your friend?”

“I do,” I said eagerly. “I have worked at it all night with him sometimes, and spent all my pocket-money upon it – though he doesn’t know it. He thinks I have turned some of the wheels and spindles myself, but I set some of our best workmen to do it, and cut me the cogs and ratchets.”

“And paid for them yourself?”

“Yes, Miss Carr. I could not have made them well enough.”

“But why not help him more substantially, Antony? With the money that is required?”

“I help him?” I said.

She did not answer for a few moments, for a struggle was going on within her breast, but she spoke at last. Her pride and feminine shrinking had given way before the love that she had been striving these many months to crush, but which was sweeping all before it now.

“Antony,” she said softly, “I can trust to you, I know; and I feel that whatever I help you in will be for the best. You shall help your friend Mr Hallett. My purse shall be open to you, and you shall find the means to enable him to carry his project to success.”

“Oh, Miss Carr!” I cried; and in my new delight I caught and kissed her hand.

She laid one upon my shoulder, but her head was averted still, and then she motioned me to resume my seat.

“Does that satisfy you, Antony?” she said.

“Yes – no,” I cried, getting up and walking up and down the room. “He would not take the money; he would be a great deal too proud.”

“Would not take the money, Antony? Why?”

“Because he would know that it came from you.”

“And knowing that the money came from me, Antony, would he not take it?”

“No, I am sure he would not.”

“Why?”

“Because – because – Miss Carr, should you be angry with me if I told you the truth?”

She paused again, some minutes, before she replied softly, but in so strange a tone: “No, Antony. How could I?”

“Because, Miss Carr, I am sure he loves you: and he would think it lowered him in your eyes.”

She turned upon me a look that seemed hot with anger, but the next moment she had turned her face away, and I could see that her bosom was heaving with suppressed emotion.

A great struggle was evidently going on within her breast, and it was some time before she could master it. At last, however, she turned to me a face that was deadly pale, and there was something very stern in her looks as she said to me:

“Antony, we have been separated for a year, but can you speak to me with the same boyish truth and candour as of old, in the spirit taught you, my dear boy, by the father and mother you have lost?”

“Oh yes, Miss Carr,” I said frankly, as I laid my hand in hers, and looked in her beautiful eyes.

“Yes, Antony, you can,” she said softly. “Tell me, then, has Mr Hallett ever dared to say such a thing as – as that to you?”

“Never, Miss Carr.”

“Has – has my name been made the subject of conversation amongst your friends?”

“Never, Miss Carr.”

“Or been coupled with his?”

“Oh! no, no,” I cried, “never. Mr Hallett has rarely mentioned your name.”

“Then how can you – how can you dare to make such an assertion as you did?”

“I don’t know,” I replied thoughtfully. “I could not tell you how it is, but I am sure he does love you as much as I do, Miss Carr.”

“I believe you do, Antony,” she said, bending forward and kissing my forehead. “But, you foolish boy, drive that other notion from your head, and if you do love me, Antony – and I would have you love me, my boy, as dearly as you loved her who has gone – never speak to your dearest friend of our words to-night.”

“Oh, you may trust me for that,” I said proudly.

“I do trust you, Antony, and I see now that your ideas are right about the money. Still, I should like you to help your friend.”

“So should I,” I said; and I sat thinking dreamily over the matter, being intensely desirous of helping Hallett, till it was time to go, when an idea occurred to me which I proposed to Miss Carr, one which she gladly accepted, joining eagerly in what was, perhaps, a deception, but one most truly and kindly meant.