George Fenn - The Story of Antony Grace

“If they don’t like it about the sofy, they must do the other thing,” she said, laughing. “I say, do you know what time it is?”

“No,” I replied.

“Half-past ten, and I’ve been waiting breakfast till you woke. You have had a sleep. I wouldn’t wake you, for I thought it would do you good.”

“I am better, a great deal,” I said.

“Yes; so you are. He ain’t, or pretends he ain’t. Miss Hetty’s been catching it.”

“Has she?”

“Yes; for wanting to know about you. Missus told her you were a wicked young wretch, and had half killed your master, and she was never to mention your name again.”

I was decidedly better, and in the course of the afternoon I got up and found that the various objects had ceased to waltz around. I made my way up to my bedroom, and for the first time had a look at myself in the glass, where I found that a sore feeling upon my face was caused by a couple of black marks which crossed each other at a sharp angle, and that high up above my temple, and just where the hair would cover it, there was a patch of black court-plaister, which was placed across and across in strips to cover a long and painful cut.

The days glided by; the weals on my face changed colour and began to fade, while the cut on my head grew less painful. I was thrown a good deal with Mary, for no work had been set me in the office, and Mr Blakeford kept his bed, being regularly attended by the doctor.

I found – Mary being my informant – that there was to be quite a serious case made of it, and Mrs Blakeford had told her that I was to be an important witness to the assault.

A fortnight had passed; and as I sat alone day after day in the office thinking of a plan that had suggested itself to my mind, but fearing to put it into execution, I had two visitors who completely altered my career in life.

The first came one morning as I was writing a letter to my uncle – a letter destined never to reach him – in the shape of the big farmer, Mr Wooster, who rapped sharply at the office door, and gazed sternly at me as I opened it and stood in the little passage.

“Where’s Blakeford?” he said sharply.

“Ill in bed, sir,” I said.

“It’s a lie, you young rascal,” he cried, catching me by the collar. “Here, how old are you?”

“Thirteen, sir.”

“And you can tell lies like that, eh? and without blushing?”

“It is not a lie, sir,” I said stoutly. “Mr Blakeford hasn’t been down since – since – ”

“I thrashed him, eh?” he said, laughing. “It was a good thrashing too, eh, youngster? But, hallo! what’s the matter with your head?”

“A cut, sir.”

“What! Did you tumble down?”

“No, sir. It was done the day you – you beat Mr Blakeford.”

“How?”

I was silent.

“He – he didn’t dare to do it, did he?”

I was still silent.

“Look here, youngster, tell me the truth and I’ll give you a shilling.”

“I never told a lie yet, sir,” I said stoutly, “and I don’t want your shilling.”

He looked at me intently for a few moments, and then held out his hand. “Shake hands,” he said.

I placed mine in his, and he squeezed it so that he hurt me, but I did not flinch.

“I believe you, my lad. You don’t look like a lying sort, and I wish you were out of this. Now, tell me, did he make that cut on your head?” I nodded. “What with?”

“That ruler.”

“Humph! And what for?”

“Because I let you in on that day.”

“Hang him!” he cried, striding up and down the office, for he had walked straight in, “he’s a bigger scoundrel than I thought him. Now, look here, my man, there’s going to be an action, or a trial, or something, against me, and you’ll be the principal witness. Now, what are you going to do?”

“Going to do, sir?”

“Yes,” he said impatiently; “you’ll have to appear before the magistrates, and you’ll be asked all about my thrashing your master. What are you going to say?”

“I shall tell them the truth, sir.”

“No, you won’t, my boy. You’ll say what Mr Blakeford tells you to say.”

“I shall tell the truth, sir,” I said stoutly.

“Look here, my lad, if you tell the truth, that’s all I want; if you don’t, you’ll ruin me.”

“I’m sure I shall tell the truth, sir,” I said, colouring up and speaking earnestly.

“You’ll tell the magistrates, then, that I snatched up the poker and beat Mr Blakeford with that, eh?”

“No, sir, it was your walking-stick.”

“Was it anything like that?” he said, holding out the one he carried.

“Yes, sir, just like it. Here are the pieces, sir,” I said; and I took them out of my desk, where I had placed them.

“You’re a brave boy,” he cried, rubbing his hands; “so they are. Now look here, my boy: Mr Blakeford says I assaulted him with the poker. Just you button those pieces of stick up in your socket – no, give them to me; I’ll take them. Now; when the day comes, and I ask you to tell the truth about it, you speak out honestly, or, better still, go and hide yourself and never come near the court at all. There’s half-a-crown for you. What, you won’t take it! Well, just as you like. Good-bye!”

He shook hands with me again, and nodding in a friendly way, left the office.

He had not been, gone more than an hour when there was another knock at the door, and on opening it, I admitted Mr Rowle, who smiled at me as he took off his hat and smoothed his thin streaky hair across his bald head.

“Well, young un,” he said, “why, you’re growing quite a man. But what’s the matter with your forehead?”

I told him, and he gave a low, long whistle.

“I say, young un,” he said, “I dare say it ain’t no business of mine, but if I was you, I should look after another place. Perhaps, though, he wouldn’t let you go.”

“Mr Blakeford often says, Mr Rowle, that he wishes I was out of his sight.”

“Gammon!” said my visitor; “don’t you believe him. You do as you like; but if I was a boy like you, I wouldn’t stay here.”

I looked up at him guiltily, and he stared hard at me, as if reading my thoughts.

“Why, what’s wrong?” he said; “you look as red as a turkey cock!”

“Please, Mr Rowle – but you won’t tell Mr Blakeford?”

“Tell Mr Blakeford? Not I.”

“I mean to go up to London, and try and find my uncle.”

“Try and find him? What, don’t you know where he lives?”

“No, sir.”

“Humph! London’s a big place, you know.”

“Yes, sir, but I dare say I could find him.”

“What is he – a gentleman?”

“Yes, sir, I think so.”

“So don’t I, my boy, or he’d never have left you in charge of old Pouncewax. But lookye here now; out with it! What do you mean to do – give notice to leave, or are you going to cut?”

“Cut what, sir?”

“Cut what! Why, cut away – run up to London.”

I hesitated for a few moments and hung my head; then, looking up in my old friend’s face, as he thrust his hand into his cuff – and I expected to see him draw his pipe – I felt that I had nothing to fear from him, and I spoke out.

“Please, Mr Rowle, I’m so unhappy here, that I was going to run away.”

He caught me by the collar so sharply that I thought he was going to punish me; but it was only touring down his other hand with a sharp clap upon my shoulder.

“I’m glad of it, young un. Run away, then, before he crushes all the hope and spirit out of you.”

“Then you don’t think it would be very wrong, sir?”

“I think it would be very right, young un; and I hope if you find your uncle, he won’t send you back. If he wants to, don’t come: but run away again. Look here; you’ll want a friend in London. Go and see my brother.”