CHAPTER I.

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MATTIE:--A STRAY.

BY F. W. ROBINSON

THE AUTHOR OF "HIGH CHURCH," "NO CHURCH," "OWEN:-A WAIF," &c., &c.

"By bestowing blessings upon others, we entail them on ourselves."

HORACE SMITH.

IN THREE VOLUMES

VOL. II.

LONDON:

HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,

SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN,

18, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.

1864.

_The right of Translation is reserved._

LONDON:

PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE,

BLENHEIM STREET, OXFORD STREET.

CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

BOOK III. UNDER SUSPICION.--CONTINUED.

IX. THE CLOUDS THICKEN

X. MATTIE IN SEARCH

XI. EXPLANATIONS

XII. A SHORT WARNING

XIII. LEAVE-TAKINGS

BOOK IV.

"WANT PLACES."

I. ONE AND TWENTY

II. SIDNEY'S CONFESSION

III. A FLYING VISIT TO NUMBER THIRTY-FOUR

IV. HIS TURN

V. THE NEW BERTH

BOOK V. STORM SIGNALS.

I. CAST DOWN

II. IN WHICH SEVERAL DISCOVERIES COME TOGETHER

III. FATHER AND DAUGHTER

IV. ONLY PITY

V. AN UNAVAILING EFFORT

VI. MR. GRAY FURTHER DEVELOPED

VII. A DINNER PARTY

VIII. MATTIE'S CONFESSION

BOOK III.

CONTINUED.

UNDER SUSPICION.

CHAPTER IX.

THE CLOUDS THICKEN.

Mattie had fully anticipated a visit from Mr. Wesden on the day

following Sidney Hinchford's departure, but the master appeared not at

the little shop in Great Suffolk Street. It was not till the following

day that he arrived--at six in the morning, as the boy was taking down

the shutters. Mattie's heart began beating painfully fast; she had

become very nervous concerning Mr. Wesden, and his thoughts of her.

Appearances had been against her of late, and he was a man who did not

think so charitably as he acted sometimes.

He gave a gruff good morning, and came behind the counter.

"You can do what you like to-day," he said. "I'll mind the shop."

"Very well, sir. I--I suppose," she added, hastily, "Miss Harriet has

told you what happened the day before yesterday?"

"I know all about it. I don't want to talk about it."

"But I do, sir!"

Mr. Wesden stared over Mattie's head after his old fashion. His will had

been law so long, that disputing it rather took him aback.

"I know that these losses put you out, Mr. Wesden," said Mattie, firmly;

"that they are due to my own carelessness--to having been taken off my

guard after all my watch here, all my interest in everything connected

with the business. I dream of the shop,--I would not neglect it for the

world,--and it _is_ hard to be so unfortunate as I have been. Mr.

Wesden, you wouldn't let me repay back the money which was taken away

from the house; but I must pay the value of that parcel stolen from

before my very eyes."

"It was large enough to see," he added, "and I expect you to pay for it,

Mattie."

"What was it worth?"

"You shall have the bill to settle, if you've saved as much--it will

come in next week. And now, just understand, once for all, that I don't

want to talk about it--that I object very much to talk about it."

"Very well."

The subject was dropped; Mattie felt herself in disgrace, and, intensely

sorrowful at heart, she went down-stairs to tell Ann Packet all that her

carelessness had brought upon her.

"He's an old savage, my dear--don't mind him."

"No, Ann--he's a dear old friend, and his anger is just enough. It was

all my fault!"

"Well, he's not such a bad master as he might be, pr'aps; but he isn't

what he used to be before my ankles took to swelling, nothing like it."

"It will soon blow over, I hope," said Mattie.

"Bless your heart!--puffed away in a breath, it'll be."

Mattie, ever ready to console others, received consolation in her turn;

and hoped for the best.

Late in the evening, Mr. Wesden departed, and early next day, much to

Mattie's surprise, Harriet Wesden, with a box or two, arrived in a cab

to the house.

Mattie watched the entrance of the boxes, and looked very closely into

the face of the young mistress. Harriet, with a smile that was well got

up for the occasion, advanced to her.

"Think, Mattie, of my coming here to spend a week with you--of being

your companion. Why, it'll be the old times back again."

"I should be more glad to see you if I thought there were no other

reason, Miss Harriet," said Mattie--"but there is!"

"Why, what can there----"

Mattie caught her by the sleeve.

"Your father suspects that I am not honest--the past life has come a

little closer, and made him repent of all the past kindness--is not that

it?"

"No, no, Mattie, dear--you must not think that!"

"He has grown suspicious of me--I can see it in his looks, in his

altered manner; and, oh! I can do nothing to stop it--to show him that I

am as honest as the day."

"Patience, Mattie, dear," said Harriet, "we will soon prove that to him,

if he require proof. If I have come at his wish, it was at my own, too,

and you are exaggerating the reasons that have brought me hither."

"I wonder why I stop here now," said Mattie, thoughtfully. "I, who am a

young woman, and can get my own living. If he is tired of me, I have no

right to stop."

"You will stop for the sake of those who love you, and who have trust in

you, Mattie; you will not think of going away."

"Well, not yet awhile. I think," dashing a rebellious tear from her dark

eyes, "that I can bear more than this before I leave you all. And if

things _do_ look a little dark just now, I shall live them down, with

God's help!"

"There's nothing dark--it's three-fourths fancy. Think of my sorrows,

Mattie, and thank heaven that you have never been in love!"

"Dreadful sorrows yours are, Miss Harriet, I must say!"

"People never think much of other people's sorrows," remarked Harriet,

sententiously.

Thus it came about that Harriet Wesden and Mattie were thrown into

closer companionship for awhile, and that Mattie began to think that the

constant presence of the girl she loved most in the world made ample

amends for the suspicions which had placed her there, for the absence of

Sidney Hinchford, and the mystery by which it had been characterized.

"It's astonishing how I miss Mr. Sidney," Mattie said, confidently, to

Harriet, "though we did not say much more than 'good morning,' and 'good

evening,' from one week's end to another--but he has been so long here,

and become so long a part of home, that it does seem strange to have the

place without him."

"And the letter--he never got the letter, after all," sighed Harriet.

"There it is, on the drawing-room mantel-piece," said Mattie; "bad news

awaiting his return. I see it every morning there, and think of his

coming disappointment."

"He'll soon get over it--men soon get over it," replied Harriet, "they

have so much to do in the world, and so many things therein to distract

them. It's not like us poor girls, who think of nothing else but whom it

is best to love, and who will love _us_ best."

"Speak for your own romantic self, Miss Harriet," said Mattie, laughing.

"You never think of these things!--you, close on eighteen years of age!"

"Never," said Mattie, fearlessly; "I seem a little out of the way of

it--it's not in my line. But--I understand it well enough."

"Or you would have never taken my part against poor old Sid," said

Harriet.

"And that reminds me that I am neglecting poor old Sid's father, and I

promised not."

Sid's father required no small amount of attention Mattie very quickly

discovered; the absence of his son preyed upon the old gentleman, and

left him entirely alone. The place was a desert without "the boy;"--with

all his love for him, he could not have imagined that his absence would

have led to such a blank. He thought that he could have put up with it,

and jogged along in his old methodical way until Sid's return; but the

horrors seized him in the attempt, and it was more of a struggle to keep

time from killing him, than to kill the hoary enemy by distraction of

pursuits.

He became absent over the account-books at the builder's office, and the

clerks laughed at him and his mistakes; whilst the employers, who had

found him slow in his movements for some time, thought he was getting

past work and becoming unendurable. These old-fashioned clerks will get

in the way, when the hand grows feeble, and the memory betrays them.

Commerce has no fine feelings, and must sweep them aside for better men

without compunction.

Mattie, remembering her promise to Sidney, and favoured in the

performance of it by Harriet's extra service, played her cards well, and

helped to wile away many hours that would have weighed heavily with Mr.

Hinchford. An excuse to enter the room led to a remark concerning

Sidney, which rendered the old gentleman voluble--and the presence of

Harriet Wesden down-stairs, his son's future wife, formed a good excuse

to lure him into the parlour, and persuade him to smoke his pipe there.

Then Mattie began to think that she should like to know backgammon, and

Mr. Hinchford condescended to instruct her, as he had instructed her,

when she was younger, in orthography and syntax. And finally, when he

was becoming excited about Sidney's non-appearance, and resolved one

night to sit up for him, as he was positive of his return, Mattie

essayed that difficult and delicate task which Sidney had confided to

her--a task which Harriet was inclined to take upon herself--and

somewhat jealous of Mattie being entrusted with it in her stead.

"He wrote to me the night he left--why didn't he ask me to console his

father, I wonder?"

Mattie thought it was for the reason that consolation might be required

at any moment, and that Sidney was ignorant of Harriet's intention to

stay a few weeks at Great Suffolk Street--but Harriet Wesden on the

scene was no reason for Mattie to relinquish her rights. Besides, she

had confidence in her own powers of breaking the news--and the unopened

death-warrant on the mantel-piece was evidence of Harriet Wesden's

rights being at an end.

The story was told by degrees then--what Mr. Sidney had said to Mattie

and wished her to do,--told with a gentleness and earnestness which did

credit to Mattie's powers, and proved what a thoughtful, gentle woman

she was becoming. Under the circumstances, also, she made the best of

it, and though Mr. Hinchford pulled at his stock, and ruffled his white

hair, and took a long while to understand it, yet it was a successful

revelation.

"Always considerate, Mr. Sidney is," said Mattie, in conclusion; "most

sons would have spoken out the truth at once, and gone away, leaving

their fathers wholly miserable; he went at the subject like a daughter

almost--didn't he, sir?"

Mr. Hinchford had felt inclined to believe himself treated childishly,

till Mattie put the question in this new light.

"Ah! he did----" he burst forth with; "he's a dear lad! What a lucky

girl that Harriet Wesden is!"

Time passed on, and no Sidney's return. The nights drew in closer yet,

and with their lengthier darkness deepened the shadows round the lives

of all our characters. Sidney had stated his intention to write no

letters, but they were expected nevertheless, and Harriet began to fancy

that it was a little strange--as strange as her interest in Sidney and

his movements, now that she had given him up for ever! A letter for

herself, from Miss Eveleigh, diverted her attention somewhat--it had

been sent to Camberwell and posted on by her father.

"Miss Eveleigh is very anxious to see me for a few minutes," said

Harriet. "She and her mother think of getting up some private

theatricals at New-Cross, and they want my assistance and advice."

"Private theatricals!--that's playing at being actors and actresses,

isn't it, Miss Harriet?"

"Oh! yes. Such capital fun!"

"For the people who come to see you as well?" asked Mattie, guessing by

intuition where the shoe must pinch.

"To be sure," responded Harriet; "they wouldn't come if they did not

like, my dear; and the change will do me good, and I think I'll go."

Mattie detected a heightened colour in Harriet's cheek.

"You will see Mr. Darcy there?"

"Well--perhaps I shall," said Harriet; "and I have a right to think

about him now, or let him think about me, if he will. Mattie, you don't

mind me going?"

"Mind!--why have I a right to stop you?"

"No; only I shall leave you all alone with that wearisome old man."

"He'll not weary me. Old friends never do."

"That sounds like a reproach, but you don't mean it, Mattie," said

Harriet; "and, after all, I shall not be very long away. I shall take

the train from London Bridge, and be there and back by eight o'clock."

Harriet hurried away to dress for her expedition; she came down in a

flutter of high spirits, a very different being from the despondent,

lackadaisical girl of a few weeks since. She had made up her mind to

begin life and love afresh; uncertainty was over with her, and she was

as gay and bright as the sunshine. But hers was a nature fit only for

sunshine--the best and most loveable of girls when the shadows of

every-day life were not cast on her track.

"By eight o'clock, Mattie; good-bye, my dear. Any advice?" she asked,

pausing, with a saucy look about her mouth.

"Yes. Don't fall too deeply in love with Mr. Darcy, before you are sure

that he is falling in love with you!"

"I can bring him to my feet with a look," she said; "bring him home here

with a chain round his neck, like an amiable terrier."

"Let me have an opportunity of admiring your choice soon--we're all in

the dark at present."

"Yes, father and mother too, until poor Sid," suddenly becoming grave,

"breaks the seal of that letter it gave me grey hairs to write. Upon my

word, Mattie, I found two in my head when I had finished it. I was _so_

dreadfully shocked!"

"Well, the troubles are over."

"I think so--I hope so. Good-bye, my dear. Tell father where I have

gone, if he should look in to-night. Home very early!"

She fluttered away, pausing to look in at the window and laugh through

at Mattie once more.

"Perhaps it was as well she gave Sidney up," Mattie thought; "for she

has been happier since, and all her dear bright looks are back again.

What a wonderful man this Mr. Darcy must be! How I should like to see my

darling's choice--the man that she thinks good enough for her! He must

be a very good man, too; for with all her weakness, my Harriet despises

deceit in any form, and would only love that which was honourable and

true. But, then, why didn't she love Sidney Hinchford more; that's what

puzzles me so dreadfully!"

She clutched her elbows with her hands, and bent herself into a Mother

Bunch-like figure in the seat behind the counter, and went off into

dream-land. Strange dream-land, belonging to the border-country of the

mists lying between the present and the future. A land of things beyond

the present, and yet which could never appertain to any future, map it

as she might in the brain that went to work so busily. Figures flitted

before her of Harriet and Mr. Darcy--of Sidney Hinchford in his

desolation, so strange a contrast to the happiness which he had

sought--of herself passing from one to the other and endeavouring to do

good and make others happy, the one ambition of this generous little

heart. And her sanguine nature wound up the story--if it were a

story--with the general happiness of all her characters, just as we

finish a story, if we wish to please our readers and win their

patronage. Even Mr. Wesden would sink his suspicions in the deep water,

and be the grave-faced, but kind-hearted patron again, in that border

country wherein her thoughts were wandering.

Mr. Hinchford came home early to give her a lesson in backgammon, and

was sadly disappointed to find Mattie on full duty in the shop that

evening. He wandered about the shop himself for a while, and then went

up-stairs early to bed, discontented with his lonely position in

society; and his place was taken by Ann Packet, who had got "the

creeps," and had a craving for "company." Ann Packet's ankles were very

bad again, and it was dull work mourning over their decadence in the

kitchen, with no one to pity her condition, or promise to call upon her,

when she was carried to "St. Tummas's." Even she went to bed early also;

for the customers came in frequently, and kept Mattie's attention

employed, and it was scarcely worth while sitting in a draught on the

shop steps, for the chance of getting in a word now and then, not to

mention the probability of Mr. Wesden turning up, and scolding her for

coming into the shop at all, an act he had never allowed in his time.

At eight o'clock, Mattie was left alone to superintend business; the

supper tray for her and Harriet was left upon the parlour table by Ann

Packet; in a few minutes Harriet would be back again.

At half-past eight, Mattie went to the door to watch her coming up the

street, a habit with nervous people who would expedite the arrival of

the loved one by these means. The action reminded her of Mr. Hinchford,

when Sidney was late, and when a few rain drops were blown towards her

by a restless wind abroad that night, the remembrance of waiting for

Sidney Hinchford startled her. "Just such a night as this when we sat up

for him, and he came home at last, so wild and stern--when we had almost

given up the hope of coming home at all--what a strange coincidence!"

thought Mattie.

When the rain came suddenly and heavily down, the coincidence was more

remarkable; and when the clock scored nine, then half-past, then ten, it

was the old suspense again.

"What nonsense!" thought Mattie; "she's stopping up for the rain. It is

not very late, and I am only fanciful as usual. Nothing can be

wrong--it's not likely!"

Those customers who strayed in still, wondered why she looked so often

at the clock, and stared so vacantly at them when they expressed their

verdict on the weather; and the policeman on duty outside observed her

frequent visits to the door, and her wild gaze down the street towards

the Borough. Yes, the old story over again--an absent friend, an anxious

watcher, a night of wind and rain in Suffolk Street. The boy came to

close the shop as usual, the door was shut _en regle_, and now it was

Harriet's time to come back, rain or no rain, mystery or no mystery with

her, and end the story _a la Sidney Hinchford_.

Mattie consulted a Bradshaw from the window, and found that the New

Cross trains ran as late as twelve o'clock to London; this relieved her;

Harriet was only waiting for the rain to clear up after all. But even

midnight dragged its way towards her; and then the time passed in which

she should have returned, and still no Harriet.

At one o'clock Mattie went to the door and looked out; the pavement was

glistening yet, but the rain had abated, and the clouds were breaking up

overhead. There had been nothing to stop her--even if Mattie had

believed for a moment that Harriet would have stayed away for the rain.

When she gave her up--when it was close on two o'clock--the stars were

shining brightly again, although the air felt damp and cold.

"She'll never come back any more!" moaned Mattie; "she has met with

danger--I am sure of it! She has come to harm, and I am powerless to

help her. I should not feel like this, if something had not happened!"

"Two," struck the clock of St. Georges, Southwark; in the stillness of

the streets it echoed towards her, and sounded like a death-bell. Mattie

covered her face with her hands, and prayed silently for help, for one

away from home. Then she sprung up again, piled some more coals on the

fire, stirred it, and sat down before it.

"I'll not believe any of these horrible things yet a while. It will all

be explained--she'll be back presently, to laugh at me for this

foolishness!"

CHAPTER X.

MATTIE IN SEARCH.

How does the time contrive to steal away from us when we are sitting up,

feverish with fear for him, or her, who returns not? The dial that we

stare at so often, marks fresh hours, and still further alarms us; but

the night is long and tedious, and there's a stab in every tick of that

sepulchral clock on the landing. We disguise our alarm from the

servants, even from ourselves, and sit down patiently for the coming

one--nervous at the footfalls in the streets without, and feeling

heart-sick as they pass our door, and die away in the distance. We set

our books and newspapers aside at last, and _wait_--we give up

pretension to coolness, and watch with our hearts also.

Mattie waited, tried to hope, then to pray again; gave up wholly after

three in the morning, and cried as for one lost to her for ever. There

was a reasonable hope in Harriet having missed the train, or in her

having been induced to stay the night at the Eveleighs'; a reasonable

fear--in these times of railway mismanagement and error--of an accident

having occurred to the up-train. But these hopes and fears were not

Mattie's; they flashed by her once or twice, but she felt that Harriet's

absence was not to be accounted for by them. At four in the morning she

took the big key from the lock, put on her bonnet and shawl, and then

paused on the stairs, hesitating in her mind whether to apprise Ann

Packet of her new intention or not.

Ann Packet would hear a knock if Harriet returned, which was unlikely

now; she would not alarm Ann, or betray her friend unnecessarily. It

might be necessary, who knows, to keep this ever a secret--she could not

tell, all was mystery, dark and unfathomable.

"It's not a runaway match, either," thought Mattie, "for there was no

occasion to run away, when Harriet and her lover could have married

quietly and without any opposition, at least on _their_ side. Harriet

knows that, and is not a girl to be led away if she did not. Weak in

many ways, but not in that, I know."

Mattie disliked mystery.

"I'll follow this to the end!" she cried with a stamp of her foot--"to

the very end if possible."

Mattie might have been spelling over a sensation novel, wherein the hero

or heroine--_i.e._ the villain catcher--goes through the last two

volumes on the detective principle; and it might have possibly struck

her that if the "catcher" had started earlier and gone a less roundabout

way to work--certainly a bad way for the volumes!--the matter might have

been more expeditiously arranged. She could always see to the end pretty

clearly--why not the 'cute-minded party in search?

Mattie closed the street-door behind her, and went out into the cold

morning. The pavement was still wet and clammy; there was no

"drying-air" in the streets, although the stars looked bright and

aggravatingly frosty.

Mattie turned to the left at the end of Great Suffolk Street, and

proceeded at a rapid pace towards the railway station; there were

stragglers still in the Borough--a broad thoroughfare, that never rests,

but is ever alive with sound. Life still at the great terminus; a train

hissing and fuming from its long journey, a handful of passengers by the

mail, a few cabmen still looking out for fares, guards full of bustle as

usual, one Kent Street gamin out on business, and dodging the policeman

behind a Patent Safety.

Mattie went to business at once.

"Has any accident happened on the line to-night, sir?"

"Not any."

"What is the next train from New Cross that will reach here?"

"No train calls at New Cross till six in the morning."

"What is the next train that will leave here and call at New Cross?"

"Twenty minutes to six."

"Oh! dear."

A short spasmodic sigh, and then Mattie turned away and went back to

Great Suffolk Street, opened the door, and stole cautiously up-stairs to

the room wherein Harriet had been sleeping. Not there--still away from

home!

"If anything has happened, I must be the first to find it out," thought

Mattie, descending the stairs, listening at the foot thereof, and then

passing out into the street again, closing the shop-door very cautiously

behind her.

She had made up her mind to walk at once to New Cross, to seek out the

Eveleighs, whose address she thought that she remembered. She went on at

a rapid pace, with her veil thrown back, and her face full of

interest--not a woman in the streets, hurrying like herself on special

missions, or lurking at street corners, but Mattie glanced at for an

instant as she sped along. She was a quick walker and lost no time;

after all, New Cross was not a great distance away; she was not easily

tired, and once in action, her fears for Harriet went further into the

distance. She began to think, almost to hope, that Harriet would be at

the Eveleighs', and all would end with a wild fancy on her part, at

which Harriet and she would laugh later in the day. Down the Dover Road,

past the Bricklayer's Arms, and along the Old Kent Road, till the long

lines of closed shops ended in long lines of private houses, the railway

station and the Royal Naval School--that model of good management, by

which we recommend all directors of seedy institutions to profit.

Near the railway station Mattie found a policeman, who directed her to

the particular terrace wherein the Eveleighs were located. It was nearly

half-past five when she read by the light of the street lamp the name of

Eveleigh on the brass plate affixed to the iron gate. With her hands

upon the gate, Mattie held a council of war with herself as to the best

method of procedure.

Mattie had soon arranged her plan of action; hers was a mind that jumped

rapidly at conclusions--was quick to see the best way. Arousing the

house would create an alarm, and if Harriet were not there--of which in

her heart she was already assured--it would only set the people within

talking about her. That would be to cast the first stone at her poor

friend, and set the tongues of gossips wagging--that must not be! Mattie

resolved to wait till some signs about the Eveleigh window blinds

indicated a servant stirring in the house; she thought with a shudder of

the shop in Great Suffolk Street, and the customers waiting for their

papers; of Ann Packet's alarm, and Mr. Hinchford's perplexity; of the

food for scandal which her absence would afford to a few inquisitive

neighbours. Still all that might be easily explained, and it was only

she who would receive the blame, if all turned out better than she

dreamed; and if the worst were known, why, alas! her actions would

readily be guessed at.

Fortune favoured Mattie in the most unromantic way that morning: the

Eveleighs had resolved upon having their kitchen chimney swept at

half-past five, and young Erebus, true to the minute, came round the

corner with his soot-bag, went up the fore-court towards the side gate,

rang the bell, and gave vent to his doleful cry. The maid-servant,

however, was not prompt in her responses, and Mattie stood and watched

in the distance, until the sweep, becoming impatient, rang again, and

rattled with his brush against the side of the door steps. From Mattie's

post of vigilance she could just make him out in the darkness--a shadowy

figure, that might have represented evil to her and hers.

Presently the bolts of the side gate were withdrawn, and Mattie with

hasty steps, crossed the road and hurried up the path. The sweep was

being admitted at that time, and a red-eyed, white-faced, sulky-looking

servant-maid of not more than sixteen years of age, was closing the

door, when Mattie called to her to wait.

Surprised at this strange apparition at so early an hour, the girl

waited and stared.

Mattie's plan of action would have done credit to a detective policeman;

her questions seemed so wide of the mark, and kept suspicion back from

her whom she loved so well. Certainly they implicated another, and drew

attention to him in a marked manner; but he was a man, and could bear

it, thought Mattie, and if he were at the bottom of the mystery, there

was no need to study _him_--rather to track him out and come face to

face with him!

"Will you tell Mr. Darcy that I wish to speak a few words with him

immediately?"

"Mr. Darcy don't live here," said the astonished servant.

"He visits here--he stayed here last night."

"No, he didn't," was the abrupt reply; "he went away at ten o'clock."

"With Miss Wesden, of course," was the apparently careless answer.

"Yes, with Miss Wesden. He never stops here."

"Where does he live?"

"I don't know--somewhere about here, I believe."

"Ask his address of your mistress," cried Mattie, becoming excited as

the truth seemed to loom before her with all its horror; "I must see

him!"

The servant-maid's eyes became rounder, and she gasped forth--

"I'll--I'll wake missus."

"Ask her to oblige me with Mr. Darcy's address--and please make haste."

The servant withdrew, leaving Mattie standing in the draughty side

passage, dark and dense as the fate of her whom she loved appeared to be

from that day. She could hear the sweep bustling and bundling about the

kitchen noisily; it seemed an age before the servant's feet came

clumpeting down the stairs again.

"It's number fourteen, St. Olave's Terrace, Old Kent Road."

"Thank you."

Mattie turned away, and ran down the fore court at a rapid pace.

"Well--I _never_!" ejaculated the amazed domestic. "What's Mr. Darcy

gone and done, I wonder!"

Mattie darted backward on her homeward route; her plans of action were

at sea now; she only wished to know the worst, and feel the strength to

face it for others' sakes, not for her own. There were an old man and an

old woman to comfort in their latter days, to become a daughter to in

the place of her who had been spirited away--give her strength to solace

them in the deep misery upon its way.

People were stirring in the streets although the day was dark, and the

sky above still full of stars. Mattie made many inquiries, and at last

found St. Olave's Terrace, a row of large, gloomy houses, of red brick.

At No. 14 Mattie knocked long and vigorously, until a window was opened

in the first floor, and a boy's head protruded--the unkempt head of a

page.

"What's the row down there?" he shouted.

"Mr. Darcy--is he at home?"

"He ain't at home--he didn't come back last night."

"Are you sure?--are you quite sure?"

"I should think I was," replied young Impudence. "Who shall I say

called--Walker?"

"No matter--no matter."

Mattie turned and hurried away again. Close upon six o'clock, and an

empty cab before a public-house door. Mattie ran into the public-house,

and found the cabman drinking neat gin at the bar, and bewailing the

hardness of the times to the barman, who was yawning fearfully.

"Is your cab engaged?"

"Where do you want to go, Miss?" asked the cabman. "If it's Greenwich

way, I've got a party to take up in five minutes time!"

"Suffolk Street, Borough. I--I don't mind what I pay to get there

quickly."

"Jump in, Miss--I'll drive you there in no time."

Mattie entered the cab, the cabman mounted the box, and away they went

down the Old Kent Road. The cabman had been up all night, calling at

many night-houses in his route, and always taking gin with despatch and

gusto. He was reckless with his whip, unmerciful to his horse, and

disregardful of the cab, which he had out on hire. He was just

intoxicated enough to be confidential, mysterious, and sympathizing. He

lowered the glass window at his back, and looked through at Mattie.

"Lor bless you! I wouldn't cry about a bit of a spree," he said,

suddenly, so close to Mattie's ear, that she jumped to the other seat

with affright; "if you've kep it up late, tell your missus, or your

mother, that they wouldn't let you leave afore--she was young herself

once, I daresay!"

"Drive on, please!--drive on!"

"I'm driving my hardest, my child--cutting off all the corners--that's

only a kub-stone, don't be frightened, m'child--soon be home now. They

won't say much to you, if you'll on'y tell 'em that they was young once

'emselves, and shouldn't be too hard upon a gal--that's on'y another

kub-stone," he explained again, as a sudden jolting nearly brought the

bottom out of the cab; "we shan't be long now--don't cry any more--I

hope this here'll be a blessed warning to you!"

And suddenly becoming stern and full of reproof, he shook his head at

Mattie, drew up the window, and directed his whole attention to his

quadruped, which he had evidently made up his mind to cut in half

between Old Kent Road and Great Suffolk Street.

At half-past six Mattie was turning the corner of the well-known street;

she looked from the cab window towards the stationer's shop. The

shutters were closed still, but the news-boy was at the open door,

muffled to the nose in his worsted comforter. Mattie sprung out, paid

her fare, and ran into the shop, where Ann Packet, with her eyes red

with weeping, rushed at her at once, and began to cry and shake her.

"Oh! Mattie, Mattie, where _have_ you been?--what's the matter?"

"Nothing much--don't ask me just yet. How long have you been up?"

"I overslept myself--oh! dear, dear, dear!--and just got up in a

fright--that boy skeering me so with the heels of his boots aginst the

door. And oh! dear, dear, dear!--I found the shop all dark, and just let

him in, and was going up to call you, when here you are--oh! where

_have_ you been?"

"I'l tell you presently--let me think a bit--I'm not well, Ann."

"You've been to a doctor's. Oh! my dear, my dear, what has happened to

you? You came back in a cab--you've hurt yourself somehow, and I to be

so unfeeling and wicked as to think that, that you'd gone out of your

mind, perhaps--for you always was a strange gal, and like nobody else,

wasn't you? Shall I run up-stairs and wake Miss Harriet?"

"No, no--_not for the world_! Go down-stairs and make haste with the

coffee, Ann, please. And you boy, don't stare like that," snapped

Mattie, "but take the shutters down."

Ann scuttled down-stairs, forgetful of her ankles, in her excitement at

the novel position of affairs; the boy took down the shutters and

disclosed the cabman still before the door, carefully examining his

horse, and rather evilly disposed towards himself for the damage he had

done the animal and cab in his excitement. Mattie went into the parlour,

where the gas burned still, and stood by the table reflecting on the

end--what was to be done now?--whether it were better to keep up the

mystery, to allege some reason for Harriet's absence, frame some white

lie that might keep Ann Packet and Mr. Hinchford appeased, and save

_her_ name for a short while longer?

When the boy came staggering in with the third shutter, a new thought--a

forlorn hope--suggested itself.

"Wait here and mind the shop till I come down, William," she said.

She went up-stairs in her bonnet and shawl, and pushed open the door of

Harriet Wesden's room. Empty and unoccupied, as she might have known,

and yet which, in defiance of possibilities, she had gone up to explore

again. The blind was undrawn, and the faint glimmer of the late dawning

was stealing into the room, and scaring the shadows back.

Mattie gave way at the desolation of the place; and flung herself upon

her knees at the bed's foot.

"Oh! my darling, God forgive you, and watch over you--oh! my darling,

whom I loved more than a sister, and who is for ever--for ever--lost to

me!"

"_No_--NO--Mattie!"

Mattie leaped to her feet, and with a cry scarcely human, rushed towards

the speaker in the doorway--the speaker who, white and trembling, opened

her arms and received her on her throbbing breast. Harriet Wesden had

come back again!

CHAPTER XI.

EXPLANATIONS.

Mattie shed many tears of joy at Harriet's return; she was a

strong-minded young woman in her way, but the tension of nerve, and the

reaction which followed it, had been too much for her, and she was, for

a short while, a child in strength and self-command. For awhile they had

changed places, Mattie and Harriet--Mattie becoming the agitated and

weak girl, Harriet remaining firm, and maintaining an equable demeanour.

"Courage, Mattie!--what have you to give way at?" she said, at last.

"There, I'm better now," said Mattie, looking up into Harriet's face,

and keeping her hands upon her shoulders; "and now, will you trust in

me?--tell me the whole truth--keep nothing back."

"From you--nothing!"

"And if he has been coward enough to lead you away by the snares of your

affection----"

"Affection!" cried Harriet. "I hate him! Coward enough!--he is coward

enough for anything that would degrade me--and villain enough to spare

no pains to place me in his power. Oh! Mattie--Mattie--what had I done

to make him think so meanly of me?--to lead him on to plot against me in

so poor and miserable a fashion?"

"You have escaped from him?"

"Thank God, yes!"

Mattie could have cried again with joy, but Harriet's excitement

recalled her to self-command--Harriet, who stood there with her whole

frame quivering with passion and outraged pride--a woman whom Mattie had

not seen till then.

"Mattie," she said, "that man, Maurice Darcy, thought that if I were

weak enough to love him, I was weak enough to fly with him, forget my

woman's pride, my father, home, honour, and fling all away for his sake.

He did not know me, or understand me; my God! he did not think that

there were any good thoughts in me, or he would not have acted as he

did. I have been blind--I have been a fool until to-night!"

She stamped her foot upon the floor until everything in the room

vibrated; she caught Mattie's inquiring, earnest looks towards her and

went on again--

"You and I, Mattie, must keep this ever a secret between us; for my

sake, I am sure you will--for the sake of my good name, which that man's

trickery has tarnished, however completely I have baffled him and shamed

him. Mattie, he was at the Eveleighs' last night with his guilty plans

matured. I had every confidence in him and his affection for me. I was

off my guard, and believed that he was free from guile himself. At ten

o'clock--beyond my time--I left the Eveleighs'; he was my escort to the

railway station; he spoke of his love for me for the first time, and I

was agitated and blinded by his seeming fervour. I told him of my

promise to Sidney, and what I had done for his sake. I led him to

think--fool that I was--that he had won my love long since. At the

railway station he told me the story of his life--a lie from beginning

to end--of his father's pride, of the secrecy with which our future

marriage must be kept for awhile, away from that father--talking,

protesting, explaining, until the train came up and he had placed me in

the carriage."

"Ah! I see!" exclaimed Mattie.

"He followed me at the last moment, stating that he had business in

London, and then the train moved on--FOR DOVER!"

"Yes, he _was_ a villain and coward!" cried Mattie, setting her teeth

and clenching her hands spasmodically; "go on!"

"In less then five minutes I was aware of the deception that had been

practised on me. I woke suddenly to the whole truth, to my own folly in

believing in this man. He would have feigned it to be a mistake at

first--a mistake on his own part--and for my own safety, alone with him

there, and the train shrieking along into the night, I professed to

believe him, and mourned over the clumsy blunder which was taking us

away from home; but I was on my guard, and my reserve, my alarm, kept

him cautious. I sat cowering from him in the extreme corner of the

carriage, and he sat maturing his plans, and marking out, as he thought,

his way. He confessed at last that it was a deeply-laid scheme to secure

what he called his happiness. He swore to be a brother to me, a faithful

friend in whom every trust might be put until we were married at Calais;

but the mask had dropped, and my heart, throbbing with my humiliation,

had turned utterly against him. I lowered the carriage window, and sat

watchful of him, knowing every word he uttered then to be a lie, and

feeling that he looked upon me as a girl easily to be led astray--a

shop-keeper's daughter, whose self-respect was quickly deadened, and

whose vanity was sufficient to lead her on to ruin. But I bade him keep

his seat away from me, and give me time to think of what he had

said--time to believe in him! We were silent the rest of the way to

Ashford. My throat was choking with the angry words which burned to leap

forth and denounce him for his knavery--he who sat smiling at the

success in store for him. At Ashford, thank God! the train stopped."

"Thank God!" whispered Mattie also.

"I opened the door suddenly, Mattie, and leaped forth like a madwoman;

he followed me to the platform, when I turned upon him like--like a

she-wolf!" she cried, vehemently, "and denounced him for the cowardly

wretch he had been to me. There were a few guards about, and one

gentleman, and they were my audience. I claimed their protection from

the man; I told them how I had been tricked into that train and led away

from home; I asked them if they had daughters whom they loved to protect

me and send me back again secure from him. Mattie, I shamed him to his

soul!"

"Bravo!--bravo!" cried Mattie, giving two leaps in the air in her

excitement; "that's my own darling, whose heart was ever strong and true

enough!"

"Only her head a little weak, and likely to be turned--eh, Mattie?" said

Harriet, in a less excited strain; "well, I am sobered now for ever--and

every scrap of romantic feeling has been torn to shreds. I must have

been under a spell, for it seems like an evil dream now that I could

ever have thought of loving that man."

"And they took your part at the station?"

"Yes,--and gave me advice, and were kind to me, and he who attempted to

deceive me skulked back into the carriage, muttering a hundred excuses,

which I did not hear. The gentleman who had listened to my story, and

been prepared to defend me, had it been necessary, followed Mr. Darcy to

the carriage, added a few stern words, and then returned to offer me

advice how to proceed. He was a strange, eccentric man, very harsh even

with me in his speech, and disposed to preach a sermon on the warning I

had had, as though I were not likely to take a lesson from my

over-confidence, after all that had happened. But he was very kind in

act, and meant all for my good, though he might have spared me just a

little more. He consulted the railway time-tables for me, made many

inquiries of the guards, whom he appeared to disbelieve, for he went

back to the time-tables again; finally told me that there was no train

till a quarter past five by which I could reach home. He showed me an

hotel adjacent to the station, and left me there, after again upbraiding

me for my want of judgment; and at a quarter past five--what an age it

seemed before that time came round!--I left Ashford once again for

home."

"And are here safe from danger--to make my heart light again with the

sight of you. Well, my dear, we'll think it all an ugly dream--and shut

_him_ away in it for ever."

"And now--what will the world think of me?--how much of the story will

it believe, Mattie?" was the scornful answer.

"What will the world know of it? You and I can keep the secret between

us. Mr. Darcy will not boast of his humiliation. The old people need not

be harassed and perplexed by all that has happened this night."

"No, no--all an ugly dream, as you say, Mattie!" remarked Harriet;

"perhaps it is best, and a woman's fame is hard to establish, on her own

explanation of such a history as mine. Let it sink. I am verily ashamed

of it. My blood will boil at every chance allusion that associates

itself with last night. Oh! my poor, dear, truthful Sid, to think of

turning away from _you_ and believing in a heartless villain."

"Ah! Sidney!" exclaimed Mattie.

"Whatever happens--whatever the future may bring--that letter, Mattie,

must be destroyed. It is a false statement. We must secure it and

destroy it. With time before me, and the dark memory shut out, how I

will love that faithful heart!"

"Trust the letter to me--trust--oh! the shop, the shop all this

while!--and I haven't told you my story."

"Presently then, Mattie. I would go down now."

"Yes, I will go down. I have been very neglectful of business in my joy

at seeing you again. It did not seem possible a few hours ago that all

would have ended fairly like this. I am so happy--so very happy now,

dear Harriet!"

She shook Harriet by both hands, kissed her once more, and even cried a

little before she made a hasty dash from the room to the stairs. At the

second landing, outside Mr. Hinchford's apartments, she remembered the

letter--the evidence of Harriet's past romance in which Sidney Hinchford

played no part.

Mattie pictured the future as very bright and glowing after this--the

two who had been ever kind to her, and helped so greatly towards her

better life, would come together after all, and make the best and truest

couple in the world!

Mattie's training--moral training it may be called--was scarcely a

perfect one. She had been taught what was honest and truthful; she was

far away for ever from the old life; but the fine feelings--the

sensitiveness to the _minutiae_ of goodness--were wanting just then. The

means to the end were not particularly to be studied, so that the end

was good. Harriet had done no wrong, merely been duped by a specious

scamp for awhile; but keep the story dark for the sake of the suspicions

it cast on minds inclined to doubt good in anything--and for the sake of

general peace, make away with the letter--Sidney Hinchford's property as

much as the locket she stole from him when she was eleven years of age.

Harriet Wesden was silent from fear and shame; her nature was a timid

one, and shrank back from painful avowals; Mattie did not look at the

subject in the best light, and thought of promoting happiness by

secrecy, a dangerous experiment, that may tend at any moment to an

explosion. Mattie opened the drawing-room door softly and looked in. Mr.

Hinchford had not appeared yet, and she entered and went direct to the

mantel-piece, on which the letter had lain ever since its arrival. The

letter was gone!

"Oh! dear!--oh! dear!--what's to be done now?" cried Mattie, looking

from the centre table to the side table on which was Sidney's desk,

unlocked. Mattie did not think of appearances when she opened the desk

and began turning over its contents with a hasty hand--a

suspicious-looking operation, in which she was discovered by Mr.

Hinchford, who entered the room suddenly.

"Mattie," he said, sternly, "I should not have thought that you would

have been guilty of this meanness."

Mattie, with her bonnet and shawl on, and awry from her past movements,

with her face pale and haggard from want of sleep, remained with her

hands in the desk, looking hard at the new comer. Her instinct was to

tell the truth--there was no harm in it.

"I am looking for the letter which came for Mr. Sidney--I want it back."

"Want it back!--what letter?"

"The letter which has been on the mantel-piece all the week--it was Miss

Harriet's--she wishes to have it back, to put something else in it."

"Bless my soul!--very odd," said Mr. Hinchford; "I'll give it to Miss

Harriet myself--there's no occasion to rummage my boy's desk about. I

don't like it, Mattie--I am extremely displeased."

"I am very sorry," said Mattie, submissively; "I did not think what I

was doing. And you will give the letter to Miss Harriet?"

"It's in the breast-pocket of my coat--I'll give it her."

Mattie cowered before the flushed face, and the stern look thereon; this

man was a friend of hers, too--one of the rescuers!--whom she would

always bear in kind remembrance; she went softly across the room to the

door, veering suddenly round to lay her hands upon his arm.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Hinchford," she said; "it was all done without a

moment's thought. You, for the first time in your life, will not be

angry with me?"

"No, no, no, no," repeated the old gentleman, taken aback by this

appeal, and softening at once; "I don't suppose you meant anything

wrong, Mattie."

"Thank you."

Mattie went down-stairs in a better frame of mind, and yet ashamed at

having been detected in a crooked action by a gentleman who always spoke

so much of straightforwardness, and had a son who excelled in that

difficult accomplishment. She was vexed at the impulse now--what would

any man less generous in his ideas have thought of her?

"Never mind," was Mattie's consolation, "I meant no harm--I meant well.

And all will end well now, and everybody be so happy. What a change from

the terrible thoughts of only a few hours ago!"

She could think of nothing but Harriet Wesden's safety, and her own

minor _escapade_ was of little consequence. Thinking of Harriet again,

and rejoicing in the brighter thoughts which the last hours had brought

with it, she opened the door at the foot of the stairs and went at once

into the shop.

Mr. Wesden was standing behind the counter, waiting upon a customer, as

though he had never left Great Suffolk Street, and retiring from

business had been only a dream.

CHAPTER XII.

A SHORT WARNING.

Mattie stood in her disordered walking-dress, gazing at the stationer,

for whose presence she could not account; Mr. Wesden looked across the

counter at her.

"Will you go into the parlour, please?" he said at last.

"In the parlour!--ye--es, sir."

There was something wrong--radically and irretrievably wrong this time;

however greatly Mr. Wesden had changed, he had never looked so strangely

or spoken so harshly as he did at that time. Even the customer whom he

was serving, and who knew Mattie, turned round and glanced also in her

direction.

"Robbery!--there--there's been no more robbery!" gasped Mattie, her

thoughts darting off at a tangent in the direction of her old trouble.

"You can go into the parlour," he repeated, as harshly as before; "I'll

be with you in a minute."

Mattie went into the parlour, took off the bonnet and shawl that, she

had so long forgotten, and which must have added to Mr. Wesden's

perplexity, and then sat down, with her face towards the shop, to await

her master's pleasure--and displeasure! There was trouble in store for

her--perhaps for Harriet--Mr. Wesden had discovered a great deal, and

she had to bear the first shock of the storm. She could see Mr. Wesden's

face from her position; even at that distance it seemed as if the

innumerable lines in it had been cut deeper since she had seen it last,

and the heavy grey brows shadowed more completely the eyes. He was not

his usual self either--the quick glance of the watcher noticed how his

hands shook as he served the customer, and that he fumbled with the

change in a manner very new and uncharacteristic for him. His habits, or

his caution, had even undergone a change; for, as the news-boy came in

at the street-door, he told him to go behind the counter and attend to

the customers till he returned. Then he entered the parlour, still

flushed and trembling, yet so stern, and leaned his two hands on the

table till it creaked beneath the pressure which he put upon it.

"Mattie," he said at last, "I think it's quite time that you and I said

good-bye to one another!"

"Oh! sir!--_what_?" Mattie could only ejaculate.

"I've been thinking it over for some time--putting it off--giving you

another trial--hoping that I was even mistaken in you--but things get

worse and worse, and this last news _is_ a settler!"

"Mr. Wesden, there must be some mistake."

"No, there isn't--don't interrupt me--don't make any more excuses, for I

shan't believe 'em."

"Go on, sir," said Mattie, impetuously, "I don't understand."

"You need not fly in a passion, if you don't," he corrected.

"I'm not in a passion, Mr. Wesden--you _will_ think wrongly of me."

"Just listen to this--just deny this if you can. You left my house in

the middle of the night--you have been up all night, and God knows

where--you did not come back to this house--you, who have no friends to

go to--until half-past six o'clock this morning."

Mattie sat thunderstruck at this charge, so true in its assertion, and

yet the suspicions which it led to so easily refuted, or--she drew a

long breath and held her peace at the thought--so easily transferred!

"You can't deny this," continued Mr. Wesden, in the same hard manner;

"how long it's been going on, or what bad company has led you astray, I

can't say. But you haven't acted like a young woman who meant

well--you've been getting worse and worse with every day."

"It isn't true!" cried Mattie, indignantly; "I----"

She paused again.

"Ah! don't give me excuses," he said; "I'm an old man who knows the

world, and won't believe in them. I wouldn't believe in my own daughter,

if she acted as you have done, or was ever so ready at excuses. No

honest girl--I'm sorry to say it, Mattie--would ever, without a fair

reason, be walking the streets, friendless and alone, at such unnatural

hours."

"Will you not believe me, when I tell you truly, without a blush in my

face, that as God's my judge, I went out with a motive of which even you

would approve."

"What was it?"

"I--I cannot tell you that yet. Presently, perhaps--if you will only

give me time--not now."

Mr. Wesden shook his head.

"Mattie," he replied, "it won't do! It isn't what I've been used to, and

I can't wait till you have invented a story and----"

"Invented!" shrieked Mattie, leaping to her feet, "what more!--what more

have you to charge an innocent girl, who has thought of nothing but

serving you honestly from the time you took pity on her wretchedness?

You have turned against me; if you are tired of me, tell me so

plainly--but don't talk as if I were a liar and a thief still--I will

not have it!"

"You put a bold face upon it, and that's a bad sign," said Mr. Wesden;

"where there's no shame, only _bounce_, it takes away all the pity of

the thing, and makes me firmer."

The table creaked once more with the extra pressure of his hands; the

flush died away from the face, whereon settled an expression more steely

and invulnerable.

"Oh! sir--how you have altered! What do you think that I have done!"

cried the perplexed Mattie.

"See here," said Mr. Wesden; "I don't wish to rake up everything, but as

you put it to me, I'll just show you how foolish it is to brave it out

like this. I'm very sorry; I can't make it out, altering for the better

as you had--it's bad company, I suppose. First," he removed his hands

from the table, and began checking off the items on his fingers,

"there's money missing up-stairs--a cash-box opened, and only----"

"My God!--has that thought rankled so long?" interrupted Mattie; "I

don't wonder at the rest, if you begin like that with me. I'll go

away--I'll go away!"

"It didn't rankle--I gave you the benefit of the doubt," said Mr.

Wesden; "I wouldn't believe it, but I fancied that you were altering,

and that something was wrong somewhere. It looked at least as if you

were careless, and I thought the house might get robbed, or catch fire,

or anything after that--and it disturbed my mind much; I couldn't sleep

for thinking of you--and one night I came over here very late, and you

were up talking and laughing with a young man in the shop, in the dead

of night."

"That, too!" cried Mattie; "do you suspect _him_?"

"I suspected _you_, that's enough to say just now."

"More than enough!" was the bitter answer.

"And then a parcel disappears, and there's a lame excuse for that--and a

policeman finds you in Kent Street at a receiver's house--the house of a

noted thief, that you must have known long ago----"

"I went there--but no matter, you'll not believe me," said Mattie.

"And so I was obliged to have you watched for my own protection's sake,

and you were seen to leave the house last night, and come back in a cab

after the shop was open. And if all that's not enough to drive a

business man wild, why, I never was a man fit for business at all."

Mattie gathered up her bonnet and shawl from the chair on which they had

been placed, and proceeded to put them on again, keeping her dark eyes

fixed on Mr. Wesden's face.

"There's only one thing which I'll agree with, sir," she said, her voice

faltering despite her effort to keep firm, "and that's the first speech

you made me. It's quite time that you and I said 'good-bye' to one

another!"

"Well--it is!"

"I don't know whether you wish it or not--I don't care!--but I will go

away at once, trusting in Him whom your wife taught me first to pray to.

I will go away without anger in my heart against you--for oh! you have

been very good and kind to me, and I shall be grateful again when

to-day's hard words go further and further back. I will hope in the time

when you will know all, and be sorry that you lost your trust in me so

soon. Better to doubt me than--_others_?"

She corrected herself in time; she remembered her promise to Harriet.

She saw how easy it was for a few errors, a few mistakes to make this

strange man forget all the good efforts of a life--deceived in Mr.

Wesden as she had been, she could not gauge in those excited moments the

depths of his affection for his daughter.

In the avowal there would be danger to Harriet; so, for Harriet's sake,

let her take the blame and go away. Harriet could only have cleared up

the last mystery--the rest affected herself. She had had never more than

half a character--she rose from crime, and its antecedents rose again

with her at the first suspicion against her truthful conduct. It was

very hard to go away--but it was her only step, and he wished it

also--he, who had been almost a father to her until then.

"I'll pack my box, and leave at once, sir--if you don't mind."

"No," was the gloomy response.

He was deceived in Mattie still; he had hoped that she would have

confessed to everything, to the new and awful temptations that had beset

her lately, and prayed for his mercy and forgiveness--begged for his

help and moral strength to lead her from the dark road she was pursuing.

He was disappointed by her defiance--by her assumption of an innocence

in which he could not believe; and he could only see that her plans were

too readily formed, and that she had already fixed upon her future

associates and home. He was amazed at her way of encountering his

charges; and as he had been only a business-man all his life, he could

not understand her.

Mattie left the room, and he turned into his shop again, and dismissed

the news-boy from his post of promotion. The matter had worried him, and

was still worrying him. The _denouement_ was not satisfactory, and the

world was hardening very much, or becoming too complex in its machinery

for him. He had found Mattie out, and it had all ended just as he feared

it would; and still his head ached, and his thoughts perplexed him!

He counted the arrears of Mattie's salary, and put it on the back shelf,

ready for her when she came down, knocking it all over the minute

afterwards, and sending two shillings under the shop-board, where the

shutters and gas-meter were. He made mistakes with the next customer in

his change, and would not believe it was his error, although he paid the

man rather than get into a fresh dispute at that instant; he rummaged

from a whole packet of printed notices he dealt in, a "THIS SHOP AND

BUSINESS TO BE DISPOSED OF," and stuck it with wafers in the window,

upside down. He would retire from business in earnest, and not

make-believe any longer; he should be more composed in mind--more happy,

when all this was no longer a burden to him.

He served his customers absently, and wondered--for he was a good and

just man at heart--whether he was acting for the best after all; whether

it was quite Christian-like to give up the child whom he had rescued

from the cruel streets, five years ago, come Christmas.

CHAPTER XIII.

LEAVE-TAKINGS.

Mattie went to her room and packed her box with trembling hands. She was

very agitated still; there were many conflicting thoughts to disturb her

natural equanimity. Regret at going away from the home wherein had begun

her better life; indignation at the false accusations that had been made

against her, and made in so hard and uncharitable a fashion; doubts of

the future stretching before her, impenetrable and dusky, and the life

to begin again in some way, to which she tried to give a thought, even

in those early moments, and failed in utterly.

Over her box came honest Ann Packet to ask the latest news--to stare in

a vague idiotic way when told it.

"I am going away, Ann--don't you understand?"

"Going away?--no, I don't yet. Going where did you say, Mattie?"

"Going away from here, where I am no longer wanted, where I am suspected

of being all that is vile and wrong. Going away for good!"

"Oh I my gracious--not that! Because of last night--because of----"

"Many things, Ann, which I dare not explain, and which, if explained,

perhaps would not be believed in by--_him_. But you, Ann--what will you

think of me when I'm gone, and they say behind my back how justly I was

served?"

"I say?--I say?"

"You'll hear _their_ story, and I can't tell you mine. I can only say

that since I have been here, there's not a bad thought had a place in my

mind, and not a good one which I did not try, for _their_ sakes as well

as my own, to cling to. I can only ask you, Ann--you who have always

thought well of me--to keep your faith strong, for poor Mattie's sake."

Ann Packet gave vent to a howl at this--wrung her fat red hands

together, and then fell upon Mattie's box, as though our heroine had

shot her.

"You shan't pack up no more!" she screamed; "you can speak to them as to

me, and they'll believe you, or they're made of stone. Why, it's a

drefful shame to turn you off like this, as though you'd been found out

in all that's bad."

"Hush! you'll wake Miss Harriet, I daresay she--she's asleep still!--you

will go now, Ann, please. I'm not unhappy--why, here's one to begin with

who will always think the best of _me_!"

"The very best--as you've been the very best and the goodest to me, who

used to snap you so at first, and feel jealous like, because they put

you over me--but you won't mind that now?"

"No--no."

"And, Mattie, you don't want to go away and see nobody any more--to be

quite alone and hear nothing of anybody? I may come and see you?"

"Yes--to be sure."

"And you'll write and tell me directly where you are."

"Ah! where I am. Yes, you shall know that first. And when I can prove to

him that I have always been honest and true, I'll see him and his again,

_not before_."

"And I shall call and tell you all the news--listen at all the keyholes

to hear what they've got to talk about."

"I hope not. But get up now, Ann, and go down-stairs, or they'll suspect

something. I'll send for the box presently, when I'm settled."

Ann rose with clenched hands and swollen eyes.

"If I had the settling of _him_! I--I almost feel to hate him. He's a

brute!"

And before Mattie had time to reprove the faithful Ann for the outburst,

Miss Packet had left the room, and gone down-stairs to cry afresh over

the breakfast she had to prepare for Mr. Hinchford.

Mattie passed into the other room, and found Harriet Wesden asleep, as

she had fancied. The toil of yesternight, the excitement and suspense,

had brought their reaction, and Harriet had flung herself, dressed as

she was, upon the bed, where she had dropped off into slumber.

Mattie stood for a moment irresolute whether to wake her or no; had it

been simply to say "good-bye," she would have hesitated longer, though

she might have awakened her at last.

"Harriet--Harriet!" she whispered, as she bent over her.

The fair girl started up and looked at Mattie.

"What's happened now, dear?"

"Nothing very important," said Mattie, who had determined how to

proceed. "I have been thinking of our next step together concerning last

night. Your father is down-stairs."

"Oh! he must not know it--he must never know it!" exclaimed Harriet; "he

is weaker in mind--more excitable, suspicious--what would he think of

me, keeping the name of Maurice Darcy from him all my life?"

"Harriet, promise me never to tell him--I am not frightened at the

truth, but of their perversion of it, destroying for ever your good

name--promise me!"

"But why promise _you_, who----"

"Promise it. I am very, very anxious, for your own sake and for mine."

"I promise--I promise faithfully."

"Whatever happens?"

"Yes--whatever happens!"

"I will tell you why now. In the first place, I have found out that the

world will never accept _your_ statement, but believe the very worst of

you."

Harriet shuddered; her own trustfulness in others--her vanity, perhaps,

allied thereto--had led her to the verge of the abyss--and "miraculous

escapes" are only for penny-a-liners, and romancists. She thought that

Mattie was right in binding her solemnly to secrecy, and she repeated

her promise even more solemnly than before.

"And in the second place----"

Mattie paused; she recoiled from the explanation, the trial of another

parting with this girl for whose happiness she was about to sacrifice

herself, and the good name for which she had struggled. Harriet looked

ill and worn now, and she could not tell her all the news, her heart was

too full.

"I would bathe my hands and face, and go down-stairs as soon as

possible. It will prevent suspicion, and you _must_ stand up against the

fatigue for awhile."

"Yes, yes, I can do that."

"Nothing can be helped now by confession; remember _that_ when the truth

would leap to your lips in a generous impulse, of which hereafter you

would be sorry. Good-bye now."

Mattie stooped and kissed her--the quivering lips, the tear-brimming

eyes, suggested a new trouble, and Harriet detected it at once.

"There is something new, Mattie--don't deceive me!"

"Very little--you will know all when you get down-stairs--be on your

guard--God bless you!"

And Mattie, feeling her voice deserting her, hurried away. She went at

once to Mr. Hinchford's room. Mr. Hinchford was becoming fidgety about

his breakfast, and walking up and down discontentedly.

"They'll tell me I'm late again," he was muttering, when Mattie, _sans

ceremonie_, made her appearance.

"Mr. Hinchford, will you let Miss Harriet have that letter at once?

She's waiting for it."

"And I'm waiting for my breakfast, Mattie--it's really too bad!"

"I'll tell Ann; and--and the letter?"

"You're an odd girl; I'll get it you."

He went into the next room, returning with a letter in his hand.

"There!"

Mattie dashed at it in her impatience, and tore it into twenty pieces,

which she thrust into the pocket of her dress, lest a fragment of the

news should remain as evidence of Harriet Wesden's want of judgment.

"I say, my girl, that's not your letter, it's----"

"It's better torn to pieces. Harriet wished it, sir."

"She--she hasn't had a quarrel with my boy?"

"No, sir, to be sure not."

"I wonder how much longer he will be; there's--there's nothing further

to break to an old man by degrees, Mattie?"

"Nothing further. I have a little news to tell you about myself, that I

hope you'll be sorry to hear."

Mr. Hinchford's face assumed that perplexed look to which it had become

prone of late years. Still he was not likely to be very much

troubled--it was only about Mattie!

"I am going away from here," Mattie explained in a hurried manner; "Mr.

Wesden will tell you the whole story, and it's not to my credit, looking

at it in his light. You'll believe it, perhaps?" she added wistfully.

"Mr. Wesden is not accustomed to exaggeration, Mattie; but I will not

believe anything that is wrong of you."

"I hope you will not, however proof may seem to go against me," was the

sad remark; "he thinks I'm wrong, and I dare not explain part, and

cannot explain the rest, and so I'm going away this morning.

"This morning!"

Mr. Hinchford took a good haul of his stock at this.

"He don't wish me to stop, and I would not if he did," said Mattie,

proudly, "so we are both of one mind about my going. And now, sir,"

holding out both hands to him, "try and think the best of me--never mind

the desk this morning, that was nothing, remember--_do_ think well of

one who will never forget you, and all the kindness you have shown me

since I have been here."

"Mattie, let me go down, and see if I can't set all this straight," said

the old gentleman, moved by Mattie's appeal.

"It could not be done, sir," said Mattie in reply; "you're very kind,

but I know how much better it is to go. Why, sir, I have a great hope

that they'll think better of me when I am gone!"

"But--but----"

"And so good-bye, sir."

The old gentleman shook both her hands, stooped suddenly and kissed her

on the forehead.

"I can't make it all out, but I'll believe the best, Mattie."

"Thank you--thank you."

The tears were blinding her, so she hastened to the door, pausing there

to add--

"Tell Mr. Sidney--oh! tell him above all--to think of me, as I would

think of him, whatever the world said and whoever was against him.

Harriet will speak up for me when he has a doubt of my honesty, and he

will believe her. Don't let my past life stand between you all and your

better thoughts of me--good-bye."

Mattie was gone; she had closed the door behind her, and shut in Mr.

Hinchford, who forgot his breakfast for awhile in the sudden news that

had been communicated. He was forgetful at times now; his memory, though

he did not care to own it, would betray him when he least expected it.

In the midst of his reverie, a flash of a new recollection took away his

breath, and brought his hand again to his inflexible stock.

"Good heaven!--not that letter, I hope."

He bustled into the back room, and searched nervously in the pockets of

coats, waistcoats, and trousers about there. A blank expression settled

on his countenance as he drew from the side-pocket of the great coat he

had worn yesternight, another letter--the letter which Mattie had

demanded, and he thought that he had given her.

"God bless me! she's torn up the letter that was given me to post last

night!"

He made a dash down-stairs, but Mattie had gone, and the double mistake

could not be rectified.

Mattie had made her final leave-taking by that time. She had gone

straight from Mr. Hinchford's apartments into the shop, taking up her

position on the street-side of the counter facing Mr. Wesden.

"I'm--I'm ready to go now, sir!"

"Very well. I--I didn't mean you to go in such a hurry; but as you have

looked upon it in that light, why I can't stop you. There's your salary

up to the month."

He took it from the little back-shelf and laid it on the counter; Mattie

hesitated for a moment; her face crimsoned, and there was an impulsive

movement to sweep the money to the floor, checked by a second and better

thought.

"Thank you, sir."

The money was dropped into her pocket; she looking steadily at Mr.

Wesden meanwhile.

"I shall send for my box when I've found a home," she said. "Let the man

take it without being watched; some of you might like to know what has

become of me, and I don't wish that yet awhile."

"Where do you think of going?"

"Anywhere I can be trusted," was the unintentional retort. "I am not

particular, and I have a hope that God will send a friend to me. I think

of going from here to Camberwell to bid one friend good-bye, at

least--what do you think, sir?"

"You had better not. She's ill."

"You never said that before!" cried Mattie; "ill and alone!"

"Harriet will return home when she gets up--she is just ill enough to be

kept very quiet."

"I'll not go to her, then."

Mattie still fixed her dark eyes on Mr. Wesden; that steady, unflinching

gaze was making the stationer feel uncomfortable.

"I don't know that there is anything else to say," said Mattie, after a

long pause; "and I suppose--you've nothing else to say to me?"

"Nothing. Except," he added, after another pause on his part, "that I

hope you will take care of yourself--that this will be a lesson to you."

Mattie coloured once more, and took time to reply.

"I would part friends with _you_," she said at last. "I have been trying

hard to bear everything that you say, remembering past kindness. _You_

saved me at the eleventh hour, when I was going back to ruin--_you_

taught me what was good, and made this place my home; for _you_ and

_yours_ I would do anything in the world that lay in my power. BUT!" she

cried, her face kindling and her eyes flashing, "if it had been any one

else who had spoken to me as you have done, who had cast such cruel

slander at me, and believed in nothing but my vileness, I--I think I

should have killed him!"

Mr. Wesden had never seen Mattie in a passion before; her frenzy alarmed

him, and he backed against the drawers behind him lest she should

attempt some mischief. His confidence in the righteousness of his cause

was more shaken also; but he did not know how to express it, having been

ever a man whose ideas came slowly.

"Upstairs, a little while ago, Mr. Wesden," continued Mattie, "I thought

that we were quits with each other--that casting me back to the streets

made amends for the rescue from them years ago. I thought almost that I

could afford to hate you--but you must forgive me that--I was not myself

then! I know better now; and if I go back alone and friendless, still I

take with me all the good thoughts which the latter years have given me,

and no misfortune is likely to rob me of."

"But--but----"

"But this is strange talk in a woman who cannot account for missing

property, and keeps out all night," said Mattie; "you can't think any

better of me now--some day you will. Good-bye, sir--may I shake hands

with you?"

"I--I don't bear any malice, Mattie. I--I wish you well, girl," he

stammered, as he held forth his hand.

Mattie's declamation had cowed him, softened him. He was the man of the

past, who had faith in her, and whom late events had not changed so

much. He thought it might be a mistake just then--he did not know--he

understood nothing--his brain was in a whirl.

Mattie shook hands with him, and then went away without another word.

Outside in the streets the traffic was thickening--it was Saturday

morning, when people sought the streets in greater numbers. Mattie's

slight form was soon lost in the surging stream of human life; Mr.

Wesden, who had followed her to the door, noticed how soon she was

submerged.

Five years ago he had taken her from the streets--a stray. Again in her

womanhood, at his wish, he had cast her back to them a stray

still--nothing more!

A stray whom no one would claim as child, sister, friend; who went away

characterless in a world ever ready to believe the worst. She had spoken

of her strength to do battle now alone, but she did not know with what

enemies she had to fight, or what deadly weapons to encounter; watching

her from that shop door, she looked little more than the child God had

once prompted him to save.

He could have run after her again, as in the old times, and cried

"Stop!"--he could have taken her to his heart again, and began anew with

her, sinking the incomprehensible bygones for ever.

But he moved not; and Mattie, the stray, drifted from his home, and went

away to seek her fortunes.

END OF THE THIRD BOOK.

BOOK IV.

"WANT PLACES."

CHAPTER I.

"ONE AND TWENTY."

Mattie's box was fetched away from Great Suffolk Street; the man who

called for it brought a note to Ann Packet, which she found a friend to

read for her later in the day. It did not furnish Ann Packet with her

address--"When I am settled, Ann," she promised, quoting her own words

on that morning of departure, "and I am very unsettled yet awhile."

Poor Ann Packet, who had looked forward to paying sundry flying visits

to Mattie, and upon spending her holiday once a month with her, mourned

over this evasion of Mattie's--"won't she trust even in me, or think of

me a bit?" she said.

In Mattie's letter was enclosed a smaller one to Harriet Wesden, who

understood the _coup d'etat_ which had ensued by that time, and was

agitated and unhappy concerning it. This was Mattie's letter to Harriet

Wesden, _in extenso_:--

"Keep your promise, dearest Harriet--never forget that your happiness,

and that of others, depend upon it. Do not think that I have taken the

blame, or am a victim--it is not only for my actions of that night that

I have gone away. Sooner or later, it must have come. God bless you!--I

hope to see you again soon. Your letter to Sidney is destroyed."

Harriet pondered over this missive. For weeks she became more

thoughtful, and aroused fresh anxiety in her father--for weeks went on

an unknown and fierce struggle to break away from her promise and tell

all.

She had been afraid of the revelation, and what would be said and

thought about it; she had seen her innocence construed as half-consent,

and herself set down as an accomplice in Mr. Darcy's plot; she had

feared losing the esteem and confidence of all who now respected her.

But when Mattie had been sent away for keeping out all night--and though

she had not heard the story, she guessed of whom Mattie had been in

search--her sense of justice, her love for Mattie, led her more than

once to the verge of the revelation. Keeping her own secret was one

thing, but the blame to rest on another was very different, and despite

her promise--into which she had been entrapped as it were--the avowal

was ever trembling on her lips.

After, all it was but the truth to confess--her father and mother would

believe her; and if Sidney Hinchford turned away, why surely there was

nothing to grieve at in that--she could not have loved Sidney, or that

letter would never have been written to him! And yet let it be recorded

here, Harriet Wesden's main incentive to keep her secret close was for

Sidney Hinchford's sake. It tortured her to think that she should have

ever entertained one feeling of love or liking for the Mr. Darcy who had

sought her humiliation; the shock to her pride had not only turned her

utterly away from Mr. Darcy, but the very contrast he presented to young

Hinchford, had aroused the old, or given birth to a new affection for

the latter.

She valued Sidney Hinchford at his just due at last; she understood his

patience, energy, and love; how he had been working for her from his

boyhood, and what would have been the effect to him of losing her. She

had made up her mind, when he returned, to give him all her heart, and

sustain him by her love against those secret cares which lately had been

shadowing him. She believed that her secret was for ever shut away from

the light--that keeping it under lock and key would be better for

Sidney, whose trust in her was so implicit. He had always believed in

her devotion to himself; why should she break in upon that dream, now

she felt that all girlish follies were over with her, and she had become

a staid woman, whose hope was to be his wife?

She was consoled by Mattie's letter: "It is not only for my actions of

that night that I have gone away. Sooner or later it must have come."

Mattie, ever a deep thinker, considered it best also--by her confession,

even Mattie would be unhappy; so Harriet kept her secret for everybody's

sake, and made her last mistake in life. Mattie and she had both

regarded the subject from a narrow point of view, and were wrong; the

best intentioned people are wrong sometimes, and from young women, with

their heads disturbed concerning young men, we do not anticipate the

judgment of Solomon.

Harriet Wesden felt secure--knowing not of the letter in Mr. Hinchford's

coat, of Mr. Hinchford's mistake and Mattie's. And yet the chances now

were against the revelation, thanks to the treacherous memory of the old

gentleman. He had mentioned his error in the counting-house to his

employers the same day, and met with a reprimand and a supercilious

shrug of the shoulders--"It was like old Hinchford," one partner had

muttered to another, and there the subject ended for a while. Mr.

Hinchford went home, resolving to restore the letter to Harriet Wesden,

took the letter from his pocket and put it on the bedroom mantel-piece,

to keep the matter in his remembrance until he saw Harriet again.

There for two days the letter remained, till Ann Packet, in dusting the

room, knocked it on the floor, picked it up and placed it on the

dressing-glass, where Mr. Hinchford found it, and rather absently-shut

it in the looking-glass drawer, as a safe place; and then the letter

passed completely out of recollection, there being a great deal to

trouble his mind just then.

For they were not kind to him at his business, expected too much from

him, and made no allowance for an old servant; and above all, and before

all, the boy's birthday was drawing near--it was three days before

Harriet Wesden's--and there was no sign of Sidney Hinchford on his way

towards him.

By that time Mr. Wesden had found a customer for his business, which was

to change hands early in February; and in February what would become of

him, and whither should he go himself, thought Mr. Hinchford? Good

gracious! he would have to change his residence, and his son perhaps

never be able to find him! A horrid thought, which only lasted till he

thought of his son's business address, but _whilst_ it lasted, a trying

one.

When the birthday of Sidney Hinchford came round in January, the father

grew excited; talked of his son at business all day, and worried the

clerks about his son's accomplishments; returned in the evening to

harass Mr. Wesden, always at his post behind the counter, for the few

more days remaining of his business life.

"I have brought a bottle of wine home with me in the hope of the lad's

return," said Mr. Hinchford, placing that luxury on the counter; "his

one and twentieth year must not pass without our wishing _bon voyage_ to

his manhood. You and I, Mr. Wesden, will at least drink his health

to-night."

"Very well."

"I'll come and keep you company, after tea, in the back parlour, Wesden,

and we'll have a long talk about my boy and your girl. There should have

been a formal betrothal to-night, with much rejoicing afterwards. To

think of his being one-and-twenty to-day, and away from us!"

"It must seem odd to you. Perhaps he'll come back to-night."

"That's what I have been thinking, Wesden. I fancy if he were near his

return journey he would make a push for it to-night, knowing the old

father's wishes. I fancy, do you know, that if I had been your

daughter----"

"Well--what of her?"

"If I had been Harriet, I should have remembered this day, and looked in

for a few moments."

"Her mother don't grow stronger; she is fidgety when she is away, and

the servant we have is not of much use."

"Then Harriet might have written, wishing him many happy returns of the

day, or have come to congratulate me upon having such a son grown to

man's estate."

Having expressed this opinion, Mr. Hinchford went up-stairs to the tea

which Ann Packet had prepared for him--spent an hour after tea in

putting the room to rights, opening Sidney's desk and lighting the

table-lamp at the side thereof.

"Now, if he come home, and there's work to be done--and if it's to be

done, his one-and-twentieth birthday will not stop it--there's

everything ready to begin!"

He went down-stairs to join Mr. Wesden in the parlour--the news-boy was

perched on the chair in the shop, keeping guard over the goods that

night--and found Harriet Wesden seated at the fireside.

"Why, it's all coming true," cried the old gentleman, seizing both hands

of Harriet, and shaking them up and down, "and he's coming home!"

"Have you thought so, too?" asked Harriet.

"Well, I have hoped so, at all events; and it seems as if we were

waiting for him now, and he _must_ come. But don't talk too much about

that, please," he said, with his characteristic tug at his stock, "or I

shall feel as if something had happened when he keeps away. But we'll

drink the boy's health, at all events, God bless him! and we'll have a

game at whist, three and a dummy, and make quite a party of it in our

little way. Sid one-and-twenty, Wesden! by all that's glorious, it's a

fine thing to have a son come to maturity!"

Wine-glasses were produced--even a pack of cards, a brand new pack from

the stock--and Sid's health was drunk very quietly, without any musical

honours, but very heartily, for all that.

And five minutes after the health had been drunk, Sidney Hinchford,

portmanteau in hand, entered the shop, and walked straight into the

parlour.

"I said he'd come!" exclaimed the father. "Many happy returns of the

day, you runaway! God bless you, my boy, and grant you health and

happiness!"

He wound up his wishes by kissing him as though he had been a girl.

Sidney blushed, and laughed at his father's impulsiveness, and then

turned to his two remaining friends with whom he shook hands--we need

not add with whom the longer time.

"Finish your game at whist," he said; "I must not spoil the harmony of

the evening. Here, shall I take dummy?"

"If you like. But we want to know----"

"Presently you shall know all--let us relapse into our old positions,

just as if I had never been away, for awhile. How's Mattie--where is

she?"

All three looked somewhat blankly at him. Mattie's departure, and the

reasons which had actuated it, were more or less a mystery, and

difficult of explanation.

Mr. Wesden acted as spokesman.

"I'm sorry to say she has gone away under very disagreeable

circumstances."

"Gone away!--Mattie!"

"Your father can tell you all about it some other time," said Mr.

Wesden. "I don't think we need spoil the evening by a long, sad story."

"Yes, but, dash it! disagreeable circumstances," said Sidney--"that's an

awkward phrase, and don't sound affectionate. But, until to-morrow,

we'll postpone all details. I'll take dummy, and be your partner,

Harriet."

"Very well."

He did not know whether it were better to be Harriet's partner, or to be

her father's, and sit by Harriet's side--that matter had always

perplexed him the few times he had played at whist with them. It seemed

somewhat strange his playing at whist at all that night--his arriving

from a long journey, tired and travel-worn, as evident from his looks,

and immediately sitting down to cards, as though there were an

infatuation in the game, which under no circumstances it was in his

power to resist. Harriet Wesden thought it strange at least, and now and

then furtively regarded him. He played whist well, as he did everything

well he undertook--but his heart was not in the game, and more than

once, as he held the cards, close to his glasses, in the old

near-sighted fashion, Harriet fancied that the face assumed a troubled

expression. The game at whist was over at last, and with it Sidney

Hinchford's power of endurance.

"Now that is over, I think I'll tell you a story. I don't know three

people in the world so well entitled to have the first hearing of it.

I'll ask you, sir," turning to his father, "to give me courage, and see

that I do not give way?"

Mr. Hinchford senior stared, as well he might, at this--it placed him in

a new position, and braced his nerves accordingly. Sidney had resolved

upon these tactics on his homeward route; there was no chance of

breaking _his_ news gradually--the world would be talking of it ere the

morning.

"I always hated dodging a truth," said Sidney, sturdily; "it's a bad

habit, and don't answer. It's sneaking--isn't it, Mr. Wesden?"

"Well--yes."

"If there's good luck coming, go to meet it--if there's disappointment

which you can't avoid, let it meet you, and not find you hiding away

from the inevitable. Why, that's like a baby!"

"To be sure it is," said the father; "wait a moment--I'm not a bit

nervous about this--I'll see that you keep firm, my boy, but I'll just

unfasten this buckle behind my neck a moment. Now, then!"

"When I was one-and-twenty, there seemed reason to believe in a

partnership in my masters' firm--my masters took a fancy to me when I

was a lad, and very much obliged to them I was for it. By that hope in

prospective," suddenly turning to Harriet Wesden, and leaning over the

table towards her with a very anxious look upon his face, "I was led,

Harriet, to think too much of you--to enter into a half-engagement, or a

whole one, or a something that kept me ever thinking of you, hoping for

you. When I was one-and-twenty, I was to come to your father, and say,

'I am in a good position of life--may I consider Harriet as my future

wife?'--he was to refer me to you if satisfied with my prospects, and

you were--well, I did hope very much that you were then to say, 'Yes' in

real earnest. All this, a pretty story, foolish for me to believe

in--but a story ended now in an ugly fashion. Mr. Wesden," veering

suddenly round to the stationer, "my prospects in life are infamously

bad; my employers are bankrupts, and my services will not be required

after this day month!"

Mr. Hinchford flung himself back in his chair with a crash that brought

the top rail off,--Sidney turned at once to him, and laid his hand upon

his arm.

"With my father to give me courage, I can bear this!"

"That's--that's--that's well, my lad. Keep strong--oh! Lord have mercy

upon us!--keep strong, my boy!"

"I have been fighting hard to get the firm straight--I have been abroad

to the foreign branch, working night and day there, my last chance and

my employer's. I had a hope once of success, till the markets fell

suddenly, and swamped everything--our weakness could not stand against

anything new and unforeseen, and so we--_smashed_! It will be all over

town to-morrow--but it was a good fight whilst it lasted."

"It's very unfortunate news," said Mr. Wesden.

"I'm not afraid for myself," said Sidney, proudly; "I think that with

time, and health--ah! I must not forget that--I shall work my way

somewhere, and to something in good time. But I shan't climb to

greatness all of a sudden; and it may happen that at forty--even fifty

years of age--I may be no better off than I am now. That I'm

disappointed is natural enough, for I know money's value, and perhaps it

was a little too near my heart, and this is my lesson; but the

disappointment of losing you, Harriet--of giving up that chance, as any

honourable man should--is the one loss which staggers me, and will be

the hardest to surmount. I thought that I would make a clean breast of

it, and begin my one-and-twentieth year free, as land-agents say, of all

encumbrances."

It was a poor attempt at _facetiae_--a very weak effort to carry things

off with a high hand, like a Hinchford. But he played his part well; he

did not break down; he confessed his inability to keep a wife, or think

of a wife, and he spoke out like one who had reached man's estate, and

felt strong to bear man's troubles.

Mr. Wesden stared at Sidney long after he had concluded, and a pause had

followed the outburst; Harriet Wesden, with a heightened colour, looked

down at her white hands so tightly clasped together in her lap, and

thought that it was a strange explanation--a strange hour for an

explanation which he might have chosen his time to give to her alone.

Surely she might have been offered an opportunity of giving an answer

also, and spared that embarrassment with which his thoughtlessness had

afflicted her. Could her father answer for _her_, as well as for

himself!

Mr. Wesden delivered his reply, after several moments' grave

deliberation.

"Mr. Sidney," said he, "I always did hate anything kept back, and

doubted the honesty of anybody keeping it. The truth, however hard it

may be to tell, will always bear the light upon it, I'm inclined to

think."

Harriet winced.

"And you've spoken fair," he continued, "and given her up like a man.

Now let her answer for herself; if she don't mind waiting till you're

able to keep her--till you're forty or fifty, as you say," he added

drily, "why, I shan't stand in opposition. The longer the engagement,

the longer she'll be my daughter. There, can I put it in a fairer light

than that that?"

Sidney's harangue, or Sidney's father's port-wine, had rendered Mr.

Wesden magnanimous as well as loquacious that evening; or else, in

business, his better nature was developing anew.

Now to such an answer as this, one can imagine Sidney Hinchford starting

to his feet and wringing Mr. Wesden's hand, or turning suddenly to

Harriet and looking earnestly, almost beseechingly, in her direction. On

the contrary, he remained silent and moody; Mr. Wesden's answer was

unprepared for, and his compliment to his straightforwardness brought a

colour to Sidney's cheek--for, after all, he was keeping something back!

There was a painful silence, broken at last by a low and faltering

voice, the musical murmur of which drew Sidney's eyes towards her at

last.

"Has Mr. Sidney the patience to wait for me, or care for a long

engagement, of which he may eventually tire?"

"Patience!--care for an engagement!" he almost shouted.

"Then when he asks me again," said Harriet, "I will give him my answer.

But," with an arch smile towards him, "I will wait till I am asked."

"Bless you, my dear girl!" exclaimed old Hinchford, "I feel like a

father towards you already--as for waiting, every true boy and girl will

wait for each other--why shouldn't they, if they love one another, eh,

Sid?"

His hand came heavily on Sid's shoulder, and knocked off his son's

glasses.

"Ah! why shouldn't they, if they are sure of love lasting all the long

time between engagement and marriage. Harriet! dear Harriet!" he

exclaimed, "I will ask you presently."

"When the old fogies are out of the way, and the courtship can be

carried on in the recondite style," cried his elated father; "a sly dog

this, who will not be embarrassed by witnesses--eh, Wesden?"

Wesden gave a short laugh--a double-knock species of laugh, in which he

indulged when more than usually hilarious.

"Ah! that's it!" he said; "and as for waiting, why Mrs. Wesden and I are

an old couple, and mayn't keep you waiting so long as you fancy, Sidney.

It isn't much money, but----"

"That will do, sir," said Sidney, hastily; "I must support my wife, not

let my wife support me. Harriet," turning to the daughter, with an

impetuosity almost akin to fierceness, "is it not time to return to

Camberwell?"

"Oh! ho!--do you hear that, Wesden?" cried the father.

Mr. Hinchford had forgotten the downfall of his son's air-built castle,

in the happiness which he believed would make amends for it to Sidney.

And if Sidney were content--why, he was.

Harriet was glad of an excuse to escape. Two old gentlemen talking of

love affairs--her love affairs--before the suitor, was scarcely fair,

and her position was not enviable. And besides that, Sidney Hinchford's

manner had not been comprehensible, and required explanation; she could

almost believe that he did not desire an engagement; there was so little

of the impassioned lover in his new demeanour. There was a mystery, and

she would be glad to have it dissipated.

Harriet went away, escorted by her lover, and the two fathers drew their

chairs closer to the fire and drank the health of the happy couple as

they went out at the door.

"This is a proud day for you and me--to have such children, and to see

them growing up fonder and fonder of each other every day--eh, Wesden?"

"Yes. I have been uneasy about Harriet, and leaving her alone in the

world. She will be always happy with him, and have a good protector."

"That she will. How the little girl would have clapped her hands at

this!"

"What little girl?" asked Wesden.

"Why, Mattie, to be sure. Mattie, who used to play the mother almost to

those two, her seniors, and be always as interested as a mother in

making a match between them."

"Ah!--Mattie!--yes!"

Mr. Wesden looked about for his pipe and his pipe-lights on the

mantel-piece.

Mr. Hinchford drew his favourite meerschaum from his coat-pocket. The

two old men faced each other, and began to smoke vigorously.

"I wonder where that girl has got to?" suggested Hinchford.

"It's impossible to say. In good hands, I hope."

"I'd lay a heavy wager that she knows whose birthday it is to-day,"

commented Mr. Hinchford; "she was a girl who never forgot anything."

"Ah--perhaps so!"

"And I think she might have cleared up the fog, if you had waited a bit,

Wesden."

"Why didn't she, if she could?"

"I don't know. I promised to believe in her, and somehow I do."

"Can anything in the world account for a girl her age being out all

night?" said Wesden.

"Ah! that looks bad--I can't get over that!" said Mr. Hinchford, giving

his head one sorrowful shake.

Poor Mattie!--poor stray! whose actions, the best and most unselfish,

were not to be accounted for, or done justice to in this world.

CHAPTER II.

SIDNEY'S CONFESSION.

Sidney Hinchford escorted Harriet Wesden home to Camberwell. A most

unromantic walk down the Newington Causeway--sacred to milliners and

counter-skippers--the Walworth Road, Camberwell Road, and streets

branching thence to melancholy suburbs--and yet a walk that was the

happiest in the lives of these two, though looked back upon in after

years through tear-dimmed eyes, and sighed for by hearts that had been

sorely wrung. Such a walk as most of us may have taken once in

life--seldom more than once--a walk away from sober realism into

fairy-land, where everything apart from love was a something to be

utterly despised, and where love first rose to fill our souls with

promise. What if the story ended abruptly, and the waking came, and one

or two of us fell heavily to earth--we did not die of the wounds, and we

see now that the fall was the best thing that could have happened for

us. We look back at the past, and regret not the sunshine that dazzled

us there.

And yet there was a stern story to relate, and Sidney had escorted

Harriet Wesden home, believing in the darkness rather than the light

upon his way. He went forth regarding life literally, and he found

himself, after awhile, in the land of romance, wherein sober existence

had no dwelling-place.

Let him tell the story in his own way.

Harriet and Sidney had not proceeded a long distance together before he

began.

"I think that I must have puzzled you very much, Harriet, by this

evening's behaviour--by the way in which I received your kindness--more

than kindness. There was a reason, and I am going to explain it."

"Is it worth explanation?" asked Harriet.

"I think so--you shall judge. It is an explanation that I cannot give my

father, for it would break his heart, I think, with the long suspense

which would follow it."

"So serious an explanation as that, Sidney?"

"Yes. Is it not odd that, with my character for straightforwardness, I

should have been all my life keeping back the truth?"

"From him--for his sake, only, Sidney?"

"Perhaps for my own--to save myself from a host of inquisitive

questions, and an attention that would irritate rather than soothe--I am

a very selfish man."

"I don't believe that yet awhile."

"When I came home to-night, I had no other hope than that you and your

father would consider that I had not made good my claim to become a

favoured suitor, and that there was nothing left me but to make my

statement and withdraw my rash pretensions. You will pardon me, Harriet,

but it had never struck me that you were strong enough, or--pardon me

again--that you had ever loved me well enough to attempt a _sacrifice_.

"I was a girl--very vain and frivolous--you were right."

"I come back and find you altered very much, Harriet. I find the old

reserve that piqued my pride no longer there, and, instead, a something

newer and more frank, a something that says, 'Trust me.' Is that a true

reading?"

"Yes," she murmured.

"I am vain enough to believe in the heart growing fonder during my

absence--though I have always fancied the experiment full of danger for

the absent one. Say that the heart has done so--or that I did not

understand you. Still the effect was the same, or I should not have the

courage to tell you the great secret of my life. If I believed that you

did not love me, or that you had ever loved any one else, I would not

venture to put you to _this_ test."

Harriet hung down her head, and her heart beat rapidly; the old story

was before her, and his very words seemed now to forbid its revelation.

His firm, self-reliant nature had never swerved from her, and he judged

others by himself. His was a love that had begun from boyhood, and grown

with his growth; should she raise the first suspicion against her by

telling him all, when it was in her power--and only in _her_ power--to

make him happy, to make amends for all by her new love for him? Let him

test her how he liked now, she was a woman who looked at life seriously,

and the follies of her youth were over!

They walked on silently for awhile; they went on together, playing their

love-dream out, and oblivious of the matter-of-fact world hustling them

in their progress.

"This is the love test--and it must be a strange, pure love to exist

after I have told all," he said.

"Do you doubt me, Sidney, already?"

"I cannot tell. I cannot," he added, more passionately, "believe in any

affection strong and deep enough to last; but I can forgive, and

consider natural, any love that turns to pity at the truth. Do you

comprehend me?"

"Scarcely."

"Well then--_I am going blind_!"

An awful and unexpected revelation, which took her breath away, and

seemed for an instant to stop her heart beating.

"Oh! Sidney--my poor Sidney--it cannot be!"

"Sooner or later, Harriet, it must be; mine is a hopeless case," he

answered; "with care, and less night work, and quiet--that last means

absence from all mental excitement--I may go on for a few years more;

the last physician whom I have consulted even thinks he can give me ten

years' grace. Now in ten years, ten of the best years of a young man's

life, I ought to save, and I hope to save, sufficient to live upon. I

may be over-sanguine, but if I get a good foothold I will try. And now

where lives the girl who will accept a ten years' engagement, with the

chance of a beggar or a blind man at the end of it?"

Harriet pressed his arm.

"Here," she answered.

"You will! There is the faith to wait, the courage to endure, and the

love to sustain me. You are not afraid?"

"No--I have no fear," replied Harriet, warmly; "God knows that I _have_

changed very much, and only lately learned to understand myself. I do

not fear, Sidney, for I--I have learned to love you, and, by comparison,

to see how noble and high-principled you are. But oh! if I were but more

worthy of you, and your deep love for me!"

"Worthy!" he echoed; "why, what have I done to deserve a life's devotion

to me, save to love you, which was the most natural thing in the world.

What have I ever done to deserve the happiness of winning your love--a

long legged, near-sighted gawky like me!--and such a love as shrinks not

from the dark prospect ahead, but will disperse it by its brightness,

and keep me from despairing. Why, in ten years time we shall not be an

old couple--I shall only be one-and-thirty, and you but nine-and-twenty.

When the light goes out," he added solemnly, "you will place your hand

in mine to make amends for it, and begin my new happiness by the wife's

companionship; shall I be so very much to be pitied then, I wonder?"

"I hope not, Sid."

She had not called him by that name since he was a boy, and his heart

thrilled at it, and took fresh hope from it.

"All this on my part, I know is very selfish," he said. "I have told you

already that I am a selfish man, to wish that your youth and beauty and

love should be sacrificed to my affliction. I did not think of gaining

them; I was content to pass away from you, and see you allied to one

more deserving, more fitting, than myself; even now, I will go away

resigned, thinking you are right to give me up, if but one doubt linger

at your heart."

"Not one," was the firm answer.

"I can bear all now--afterwards, a doubt would strike me down--remember

that."

"Trust in me, Sid--ever."

"I will."

The hand that had rested on his arm was held in his now, and they walked

on together, with their hearts as full of happiness as though blindness

were a trifling calamity, scarcely worth considering under the

circumstances.

Sidney had pictured so dark a prospect ahead, that this sudden change

made all bright, and Harriet Wesden was happy in being able to prove

that her love was unselfish and strong. She did not believe that she had

ever loved any one else then--she knew that hers was a different and

more intense affection, something that felt like love, and that nothing

in the world could destroy. Mr. Darcy was but a phantom, far back in the

mists--his own dark efforts had utterly extinguished every ray of

romance, in the false light of which he had luridly shone. Strengthened

by her new love, she could have broken her promise to Mattie, and told

all then, trusting in him to see the truth, and believe in her

henceforth; but he had spoken of the danger of excitement to him, and

once again--once for all--went the story back, never to hover on the

brink of discovery again!

It was a strange courtship--that of Sidney Hinchford and Harriet's--but

they were happy. The calamity was in the distance, and their hearts were

young and strong. Both had faith then--and of the chances and changes of

life, it was not natural to dwell upon, after the one avowal had been

uttered.

"Then it _is_ an engagement," he had asked hoarsely, and she had

answered "Yes," with his own frankness and boldness; and thus the path

ahead seemed bright enough.

Outside the suburban retreat of the Wesdens', Sidney Hinchford had a

little struggle with duty and inclination--conquering inclination with

that strong will of his.

"I'll go back to the old gentleman," he said at last; "he is scarcely

used to my reappearance yet, and a little makes him nervous. Good-bye,

love."

A lovers parting at the iron gate, to the intense edification of the

potman coming up the street with the nine o'clock beer; and then Sidney

tore himself homewards, thinking what a happy fellow he was, and how the

business disappointments of life had been softened by the events that

had followed them. The future could not be dark with Harriet; before

this he had become resigned to his calamity, bent his strong mind to

regard it as inevitable; now there was to come happiness with it, and he

would be more than content, he thought.

He was soon back in Suffolk Street. Mr. Wesden was in the shop talking

to a short, thin man with a sallow complexion, a hooked nose, bright

black eyes, and straight hair; a man dressed in black; with a rusty

satin stock of the same colour, secured by an old-fashioned brooch of

gold wire, in the shape of a heart.

"And her name was Mattie, you say?"

"That was the name she called herself, and went always by in this

house."

"And you don't know her whereabouts?"

"I haven't an idea."

"But you think she has gone wrong, don't you?" the man asked with no

small eagerness.

"Well, I hope not; but I think so."

"Who? Mattie!" cried Sidney, suddenly thrusting himself into the

conversation; "our Mattie--that be--_hanged_!"

He checked himself in time to save scandalizing the ears of the

gentleman in black, who twirled round with a tee-to-tum velocity and

faced him.

"What do you know of her, young man?" he asked abruptly.

"What do you want to know for?" was the rejoinder.

"I wish to find her--I am very anxious to find her."

"I hope you may, if it's for her good."

"Her moral and spiritual good, sir--without a doubt."

"You can't improve her. There isn't a better or more unselfish girl in

the world!"

"_What!_" screamed the man in black.

"Not a better girl, I verily believe. I haven't heard the reasons for

her departure yet," he said, looking at Mr. Wesden; "but they're good

ones, or I was never more mistaken in my life."

"You are mistaken," said Mr. Wesden; "I've tried to think the best of

Mattie, but I can't. There are no honest reasons for her conduct, or she

would have told me."

Sidney Hinchford paused,

"It must be very unreasonable conduct then," said Sidney, "and she must

have changed very much during my absence from this house. But, upon my

soul!" he exclaimed vehemently, "I shan't believe any harm in her, for

one!"

The stranger regarded Sidney Hinchford attentively, then said--

"You need not have brought your soul into question, sir. Pledge that in

God's service--nothing else."

"Oh!" said Sidney, taken aback at the reproof.

"You speak warmly; and somehow I've a hope of her not being very bad--of

reclaiming her by my own earnest efforts. Young man, I will thank you."

He stretched forth an ungloved hand, which Sidney took--a hard hand,

that gripped Sid forcibly and made him wince a little.

"You all seem in doubt, more or less," he said; "and that gives me hope.

Mr. Wesden and you don't agree in opinion, and that's something. Who's

that white-haired man I see in the parlour!"

"That's my father, sir," said Sidney, smiling at the sudden curiosity

evinced.

"Does he know anything about her?"

"Not so much as myself," said Mr. Wesden.

"Have you asked the servant--if you keep one?"

"I have asked her everything, and she knows nothing," replied the

stationer.

"Then I'll go. I think I shall find her yet, mind you," he said in an

excited manner. "I'm not a man to give up in a hurry, when I've taken an

idea in my head. I've been sixteen years looking for that girl!"

"Are you a relation?" asked Sidney.

"Her father."

"Indeed!"

The stranger began hammering the counter with his hard hand, till the

money in the till underneath rattled again. He began to take small leaps

in the air, also, during the progress of his harangue.

"Her father--a poor man reclaimed from error, and knowing what it is to

walk uprightly. A man who has, he trusts, done some good in his day--a

man who now sets himself the task of finding that daughter he neglected

once. And I'll find her and reclaim her--God will show me the way, I

think. And you shall see her again, a shining light in the midst of

ye--a brand from the burning, a credit to _me_! There's hope for her

yet. Good night."

And very abruptly the gentleman in black leaped out of the shop and

disappeared.

"That's an odd fish," remarked Sidney.

CHAPTER III.

A FLYING VISIT TO NUMBER THIRTY-FOUR.

Before Mr. Wesden had finally disposed of his business in Great Suffolk

Street, he met with his greatest trouble in the loss of the companion,

helpmate, wife, who had struggled with him for many years from indigence

to moderate competence. Mrs. Wesden's health had been failing for some

time, but her loss was still as unprepared for, and the husband bent

lower and walked more feebly when his better half--his better self--was

taken from him in his latter days.

"You have still me, remember," said Harriet, when the undemonstrative

nature gave way, and he sobbed like a child at his isolation; and he had

answered, "Ah! _you_ mustn't desert me yet awhile--you must comfort me,"

and refused to be comforted for many a long day. His character even

altered once more--as characters alter in all cases, except in novels;

and though the abruptness remained, and the silent fits were of longer

duration, he became less harsh in his judgments, and more easily

influenced for good. This was evident one day, when after an intense

study of the fire before which he sat, he burst forth with----

"I wonder if I acted well by Mattie--poor Mattie, who would be so sorry

to hear all the sad news that has happened since she left us."

Harriet, who had always taken Mattie's part to the verge of her own

confession, answered warmly,

"No, _we_ all acted very badly--very cruelly. When she comes again, as

she will, I feel assured--I hope she will forgive us, father."

"Forgive us?"

Mr. Wesden had not arrived to that pitch of kind consideration yet, but

Mattie's departure and long silence were troubles to him when he was

left to think of the past, and of the business from which he had at last

retired in earnest.

The shop had changed proprietors, and the Hinchfords, father and son,

had removed their furniture from Mr. Wesden's first floor to a little

house Camberwell way, also. A very small domicile had this careful

couple decided upon for their suburban retreat--one of a row of houses

that we may designate Chesterfield Terrace, and the rents of which were

two-and-twenty pounds per annum.

Mr. Hinchford, we have already premised, had somewhat lofty notions,

which adversity had kept in check, rather than subdued. The removal to

Chesterfield Terrace was a blow to him. The rooms in Great Suffolk

Street had been only borne with, scarcely resigned to; but though he had

lived there many years, he had never considered himself as "settled

down"--merely resting by the way, before he marched off to independence

and the old Hinchford state. It had been a mythical dream, perhaps,

until Sidney's star rose in the ascendant, and then he had quickly built

his castles in the air, and bided his time more sanguinely. When that

vision faded in its turn, the old gentleman was sorely tried; only his

son's strategy in feigning to require consolation had turned him away

from his own regrets to thoughts of how to make them less light for--the

BOY.

But 34, Chesterfield Terrace, Chesterfield Road, Camberwell New Road,

was a blow to him. The air was fresher than in Great Suffolk Street, the

large market gardens at the back of his house were pleasant in all

seasons, except the cabbage season; there were three bed-rooms, two

parlours, a wash-house at the back, and a long strip of garden,

constituting a house and premises that were solely and wholly theirs,

and entitled them to the glorious privilege of electing a member for

incorruptible Lambeth; but the change was not all that Mr. Hinchford had

looked forward to for so many years, and he grew despondent, and fancied

that it could never be better now.

The Hinchfords had taken into their service Ann Packet, of workhouse

origin, and undiscoverable parentage; she had pleaded to be constituted

their servant, at any wages, or no wages at all, rather than at her time

of life to be sent forth in search of fresh faces and new homes.

At this period, Mr. Wesden had required a servant also, and Ann Packet

had begged Sidney Hinchford to engage her at once, before she should be

asked to continue in the old service.

"What! tired of them?" Sidney had said with some surprise.

"They gave me warning," replied Ann, somewhat sullenly, "and I accepts

the same. They turned poor Mattie away without warning at all, and I

never forgives 'em that, sir."

"Ah! you are on Mattie's side, too, Ann?"

"There never was a girl who thought so little of herself, and so much of

others!" cried Ann, "or who desarved less to be sent out into the

streets. I gave up the Wesdens after that, sir."

"But Miss Harriet is Mattie's champion also, and will defend her to the

death, Ann."

"And will she be a Wesden all her life, sir?" asked Ann Packet, with an

archness for which she was only that once remarkable.

Ann Packet became domestic servant at 34, Chesterfield Terrace, then,

and congratulated herself on the kitchen being level with the parlours,

which was good for her ankles, and spared her breath considerably.

Meanwhile the shadows were stealing on towards the Hinchford

dwelling-place; Sidney's month in service with his old employers had

been extended to two months, after which the firm, utterly shattered by

adversity, was to dissolve itself into its component atoms, and be never

heard of more in the busy streets east of Temple Bar.

Sidney, it need scarcely be said, had not sat idle during the time; he

had looked keenly round him for a change of clerkship. His employers had

interested themselves in a way not remarkable in employers, towards

securing him a foothold in other and more stable establishments, but

business was slack in the City, and there were no fresh hands wanted

just at present.

Sidney was not a young man to despair; he let no chance slip, and

disappointment did not relax his efforts. He did not believe that the

time would come and leave him wholly without "a berth." He had faith in

his abilities, and he thought that they would work a way for him

somewhere. And even a week or two "out of work" would not hurt him; he

had saved money, and could pay his fair share towards the household

expenses as well as his father, who kept his place longer than Sidney

had ever believed he would.

His father was more solicitous than himself; every evening he asked very

anxiously if Sidney had heard of anything in the City, and was not

greatly exhilarated by Sid's careless "Not yet." Things were getting

serious when there was only a week more to spend at the old desk, where

bright hopes had been born and collapsed; Sidney was even becoming

grave, although his company manners were put on before the father, to

keep the old gentleman's mind at ease.

But Mr. Hinchford's mind was not likely to be at ease at that period; he

was playing a part himself, and disguising his own troubles from his

son, thereby causing a double game at disinterestedness between Sid and

him.

Three weeks before the son's time had expired at his office, Mr.

Hinchford had received a week's notice to quit. His memory had again

betrayed him, confused the accounts, and put the clerks out, and it was

considered necessary to inform the old gentleman that his services were

not likely to be required any longer. The notice came like a thunderbolt

to Mr. Hinchford, whose belief in his own powers was still strong, and

who had not had the remotest idea that long ago he had been tolerated by

his employers, and set down for a troublesome, pompous, and disputatious

old boy by the whipper-snappers round him. His salary had never been

more than thirty-five shillings a week, and he had put up with it rather

than been grateful for it, looking forward to the future rise of the

Hinchfords above the paltry shillings and pence of every-day routine. He

had not anticipated being turned off--pronounced worn-out in that

service which a Hinchford had patronized.

The poor old fellow's pride was touched, and he took his adieux and his

last week's salary with a lordly air, looking to the life the gentleman

that he had been once. He expressed no regret at the summary dismissal,

but marched out of the office with his white head thrown a little more

back than usual, and it was only as he neared Chesterfield Terrace that

his courage gave way, and he began to think of the future prospects of

Sid and himself.

Sid was in trouble, and a little more bad news might be too much for

him. He would try and keep his secret, until Sid had found a good berth

for himself in the City. Affairs were looking desperate, and the

revelation must come, but he could bear it himself, he thought--this

weak old man with no faith in the strong son, whom an avalanche might

affect, little else. Mr. Hinchford took Ann Packet into his confidence,

and impressed her with the necessity of keeping Sid in the dark

concerning the father's absence from business.

"Don't tell him, Ann, that I keep away from office after he's left--it's

easy for me to make an excuse for an early return, if he come back

before his time. I wouldn't have that boy worried for the world, just

now."

Ann Packet, who took time to digest matters foreign to her ordinary

business, was some days in comprehending the facts of the case, and then

held counsel with herself as to whether it were expedient to keep Sidney

in ignorance, considering how the old gentleman "went on" during his

son's absence.

"He'll fret himself to death, and I shall be hanged for not stopping it,

p'raps," she thought.

Once or twice she took the liberty of intruding into the parlour, and

recommending Mr. Hinchford, senior, to try a walk, or a book, or a visit

to Mr. Wesden; and, startled out of his maunderings, he would make an

effort to follow one of the three counsels, seldom the last, because Mr.

Wesden was Harriet's father, and saw Sid very frequently.

He took many walks in search of a situation for himself, but the one

refrain was, "Too old," and he began to see that he had overstepped the

boundary, and was scarcely fit for a new place. He almost conceived an

idea--just a foggy one, which, however, he never confessed to his dying

day--that he _was_ a little forgetful at times; for Chesterfield Terrace

lay in a net-work of newly-built streets at the back of the Camberwell

New Road, and he was always taking the wrong turning, and losing

himself. Still it was deep thought about Sid which led him in the wrong

direction--presently his mind would be more composed; Sid would be in a

good place, and he need not have one secret from him.

The last day came round; Sidney's services were over for good; he had

had a painful parting with his old masters, who had been more than

commonly attached to him, and he came home looking a little grave,

despite the best face on the matter which he had put on at the front

door.

"Anything new in the City, Sid?" asked the father.

"No, nothing new," he replied. "What makes you home so early to-day?"

Sid had turned in before the daylight was over, and found his father

walking up and down the room with his hands behind him.

"Early?" repeated the old man. "Oh! they're not particularly busy just

now in the Bridge Road. Very slack, I may say."

"Ah! I suppose so," said Sid, absently.

"And there's nothing new at all then, Sid?"

"Nothing."

"You'll keep a stout heart, my boy," said the father, with a cheering

voice, and yet with a lip that quivered in spite of him. "I suppose,

now, you don't feel very dull?"

"Dull, with my wits about me, and a hundred chances, perhaps, waiting

for me in the City to-morrow!"

"Yes, you'll have all day to-morrow--I had forgotten that," said Mr.

Hinchford; "to be sure, all day now!"

Sidney saw that his father was perplexed, even disturbed in mind, but he

set down Mr. Hinchford's embarrassment to the same source as his own

thoughts; he did not know that he had only inherited his unselfishness

from his sire. Or rather, he did not remember, how an unselfish heart,

allied to an unthinking head, had been the cause of the downfall in old

times.

On the morrow Sidney Hinchford had the day before him, but the result

was bad. He had visited many of the houses heretofore in connection with

the old firm, but luck was against him, and many objected to a clerk

from a house that had collapsed. It had been a fair bankruptcy; one of

those honourable "breaks up" which occur once or twice in a century, and

are more completely break ups from sheer honesty of purpose than cases

which make a "to do" in the Court, and march off with flying colours;

but Sidney represented one of a staff that had come to grief somehow,

and "there was nothing in his way, just at present."

Three or four days passed like this, and matters were becoming serious

to the Hinchfords--father and son seemed settling down to misfortune,

although the son betrayed no anxiety, and the father's care were for the

hours when the son's back was turned. In fact, Sidney Hinchford was not

quickly dispirited; a little did not seriously affect him, and he went

on doggedly and persistently, making the round of all the great firms

that had had, once upon a time, dealings with his own; abashed seldom,

dispirited never, firmly and stolidly proceeding on his way, and calmly

waiting for the chance that would come in due time.

Meanwhile the father went down to zero immediately the door closed

behind Sidney. He felt that he was not acting fairly by keeping the

secret of his discharge from Sid; but he was waiting for good news, that

might counterbalance the bad which he had to communicate. He knew that

in a day or two, at the utmost, all must come out, but he put off the

evil day to the last--a characteristic weakness--weakness or good

policy, which was it?--that he had adopted ever since there had been

evil days to fret about.

In the grey afternoon of an April day, he sat alone in his front

parlour, more utterly dispirited than he had been since his wife's

death, years ago. No good fortune had come either to father or son, and

he was inclined to regard things in the future lugubriously; workhouses

and parish funerals not being the least of his fancy sketches. He had

taken his head between his hands, and was brooding very deeply before

the scanty little fire-place, which he intended to heap up with coal a

few minutes before Sidney's expected return, when Ann Packet came into

the room, very confused, and speaking in a hoarse voice.

"If you please, sir, here's a visitor!"

"I can't see any visitors, Ann," he answered sharply, "unless--unless

it's any one from----"

"It's only Mattie, sir; she's come to see you for a moment!"

"Mattie! bless my soul, has she turned up again?"

"She turned up at the front door only a minute ago. Lord bless her! You

might have knocked me down with a straw, sir!"

"I'll see her--show her in."

Mattie came in the instant afterwards; the hall of the Hinchfords was

not so spacious but that anything spoken in the front room would reach

the ears of one waiting in the passage. She heard the answer, and

entered at once.

"Well, Mattie, how are you?"

"Pretty well, I thank you, sir," was returned in the old brisk accents.

Mattie was not looking pretty well; on the contrary, very pale and thin,

as though anxiety, or hard work, or both, had been her portion since she

had left Great Suffolk Street. She was dressed in black, very neatly

dressed, and possibly the dark trappings had some effect in increasing

the pallor of her countenance.

"We thought that we had lost you for good, Mattie."

"Was it likely, sir, that I was going to lose sight of all those who had

been kind to me?"

"You're not looking very well," he said.

"Ah! we musn't judge by people's looks," said Mattie, cheerfully. "I'm

well enough, thank God! And you, sir?"

"Well, Mattie, thank God, too!"

"And Sidney, sir!"

"As brave as ever. I wish he had been at home--he has been anxious to

see you, Mattie."

"He is very kind," she said, in a low voice, adding, "and what does _he_

think?"

Mr. Hinchford was not quick in catching a subject upon which Mattie had

brooded now for some months.

"Think of what?"

"Of me! Mr. Wesden has--hasn't turned him against me, sir?"

"Oh! no. He sticks up for you like a champion!"

"I thought he would. He never spoke ill of any one in his life, and he

always took the part of those who were unfortunate. I was sure he would

not side against me!"

"Sit down, Mattie, sit down!"

"Thank you, no, sir! I shall never sit down in the house of any one who

has heard ill news of me, until I can clear myself, or time clears me. I

shall never go near Mr. Wesden's, although I feel for all the sorrow

there."

"You know what has happened, then?"

"I have put on black, as for a lost mother. I was at the funeral, but

they did not see me. Oh! sir, I know all about you--what should I do

alone in the world, if I didn't think of those who _saved_ me when I was

young?"

"And what are you doing?"

"Getting my living by needlework, by artificial flower making, or by

anything that's honest which falls in my way. I keep at work, and hunt

about for work, and there are some good people, I find, who take pity

upon those situated like myself. I'm not afraid, sir, of doing well!"

"Glad to hear it, Mattie."

Mattie motioned Ann Packet to retire. Ann, who had been standing in the

doorway all this time, open-mouthed and open-eared, withdrew at the

hint. Mattie advanced and laid her hand upon Mr. Hinchford's arm.

"He goes there very often--they are engaged!"

Mr. Hinchford, who had always one thought uppermost, understood this at

once--there was no necessity for any nominative cases--"Boy Sid" always

understood!

"Yes."

"But he don't go to business now--the business is over."

"Who told you?"

"I read it in the paper a lodger lends me sometimes. Mr. Sidney's out of

work!"

"At present--for a day or two."

"He has heard of something that will better him?"

"He will--in a day or two."

"And you--you're out of work too, sir?"

"That confounded Ann has told you----"

"Not a word, sir--but I have had a habit of looking for you, when you

passed the house where I lodged, twice a-day--and I couldn't settle

down, or feel comfortable, until you _had_ passed. And when you did not

come, I knew what had happened."

"Still full of curiosity, Mattie," said Mr. Hinchford, feeling the tears

in his eyes at this evidence of Mattie's interest in him.

"Curious about all of you," she said, with a comprehensive gesture; "I

don't feel so far away when I know what has happened, or is happening.

And wanting to know the worst, or the best of everything, I come like an

inquisitive little body, as I have always been, to take you by surprise

like this!"

"But--but, my good girl, I can't tell you that we're very lucky just

now. But Sid must not hear that I am getting very uncomfortable, and

becoming less able to bear up as I ought to do, just to keep him strong,

do you see? And if all goes on like this much longer, both out of work,

what will become of us? Oh! dear, dear, dear!--what a miserable old man

I've been to him and myself, and everybody! Oh! to be comfortably out of

the world, and a burden to no one!"

"Sir," said Mattie, earnestly, "a blessing to some. Don't you remember

when you were stronger, being a blessing to me--you, my first friend!

And don't you know that you're a blessing to that good son of yours, and

that he thinks so, and loves you as he ought to do? You mustn't make him

unhappy by giving way at this time."

"I don't give way before him, that's not likely. Strong as a rock,

child!"

The rock shook and trembled from summit to base, but Mattie did not

smile at the contrast which his words suggested.

"What are you doing for him now, sitting here, Mr. Hinchford, and trying

to _look_ your best?"

"Doing?--what can I do?"

"That's what I have been thinking about, sir. When I'm at the

flower-making--which I'm learning in over-time, because it don't pay

just yet--I get, oh! such lots of time to think."

"Well?" he asked eagerly.

Mr. Hinchford always forgot disparity of age, and was content to be

taught by Mattie, and receive advice from her. He wondered at it

afterwards, but never when the spell of her presence was on him, when

her young vigorous mind overpowered his weak efforts to rebel.

"Well, I have thought that Mr. Wesden, being a little--just a

little--suspicious, would soon object to the engagement, if Mr. Sidney

kept out of work too long. I can't say, for I don't perhaps understand

Mr. Wesden, but it has been my idea; and oh! sir, they are so suited to

each other, Harriet and he!"

"Well," he said again, "I don't think that Mr. Wesden's likely to

object--but go on."

"And when I heard that the firm had failed, I began to wonder what he

would do; for places are hard to get, even when one's clever now-a-days,

and _has_ a character to back him. And I wanted to ask you if you had

thought of your brother, sir!"

"Why--what do you know of my brother?"

"He came one night to Great Suffolk Street to see you--don't you

remember? I knew him by his likeness to yourself, before I saw his name

upon his card."

"My brother!"

Mr. Hinchford gave a tug to his stock; it had not struck him before, and

its very absurdity rather amused him. His brother, who turned a deaf ear

to his own plaints, when misfortune was fresh upon him--when that

brother's help might have saved him, as he thought, from all the

troubles and adversities which had oppressed him since their bitter

quarrel.

"And he's a rich man--I have been asking about him--he's a banker, sir,

and keeps a great many hands."

"Yes, yes, I know," he said impatiently; "but it's no good. I wouldn't

ask a favour of him for the world. If it hadn't been for him, my old age

would not be like this!"

"He's an old man--perhaps he's altered very much," suggested Mattie; "he

might know something that would suit Mr. Sidney."

"Don't speak of him again," Mr. Hinchford said, with some severity.

"Very well, sir," was the sad response; "then I'll go now."

"Will you not wait till Sid comes back?--I'm sure he----"

"No, no, sir--I would rather not see him--I am pressed for time, and

have a great deal to do when I get back. There's one thing more I came

for, sir."

"What's that?"

"I want you to try and remember a letter which you gave me, when I went

away from Great Suffolk Street."

"A letter--a letter--let me see!"

The old gentleman evidently did not remember anything about a letter; no

letter had seen the light, or all had been explained between Harriet and

Sidney, and the course of true love was running smoothly to the end. So

much the better; it was as well to say no more about it, Mattie thought.

If the letter were lost, the old gentleman might only create suspicion

by alluding to it upon Sidney's return; Mattie did not know how far to

trust him.

She went away a few minutes afterwards, stopping for awhile to exchange

greetings with Ann Packet, to whom she gave her address--a back street

in Southwark Bridge Road--after much adjuration.

"You won't mind me, my dear," said Ann, "now you're settled down to

something--but, oh! dear, how thin you've got. You've been fretting all

the flesh off your precious bones."

"I haven't fretted much, Ann," was Mattie's answer; "you know I never

liked to do anything but make the best of it. And I've not tried in

vain--all will come right again--I'm sure of it!"

"And the worst is over--ain't it?"

"To be sure, the very worst. And now don't tell my address to

anyone--not to Mr. Sidney or Miss Harriet especially."

"But Miss Harriet----"

"Will only offend her father by coming to see _me_--you, Ann, won't

offend any one very much."

"Only a poor stray like yourself, Mattie--am I?"

"And our hearts don't stray very far from those we have loved, Ann--and

never will."

"Ah! she talks like a book almost--the sight of learning that that child

got hold on, and the deal of good she does a body," muttered Ann,

looking after Mattie through the misty twilight stealing up the street.

"For every one her liked, and every one her loved," wrote Spenser, ages

ago, of his heroine--Ann Packet might have quoted the same words,

barring all thoughts of Mr. Wesden, whom the force of events had turned

aside from Mattie.

Mr. Hinchford liked Mattie; her presence had brightened him up, given a

shake to ideas that had been rusting of late.

"She's a quick girl," he muttered, "but she has the most foolish and

out-of-the-way thoughts. How she disturbs one--I meant to have asked her

seriously, and yet kindly, why she stopped out all night, and offended

Mr. Wesden. Odd I should forget that--I don't generally let things slip

my memory in that ridiculous fashion. And about that man who called

himself her father--why, I forgot that, too!--God bless me! A curious

girl--my brother, indeed!--my hard-hearted and unsympathetic brother!"

CHAPTER IV.

HIS TURN!

Mr. Hinchford did not forget the foolish and out-of-the-way thought of

Mattie's. It has been already said that his memory was retentive enough

in all things that affected his son's welfare, and the new suggestion

kept his mind busy as the days stole on, and Sidney brought back his

cheerful face but no good news with him.

The old man's pride had kept him aloof from the brother for many years;

he had been hurt by that brother's coldness, and he had resolved to show

that he was able to work his own way in life, without that assistance

which he had once solicited. He had kept his word; for his own sake it

had been easy, but, for his son's, there was a temptation he could

scarcely withstand. There might be a chance, there might not be; in his

heart, he thought the odds were against Sid. He did not set much value

upon the brother's visit to Great Suffolk Street; it might have been

curiosity, or a spasm of affection which had rendered him eccentric for

a day; he remembered his brother simply as a hard, inflexible being who,

having formed an opinion, closed upon it with a snap, and was ever after

that immovable. Still for Sidney's sake he thought at last that he would

try. It should not be said of him that he neglected one chance to

benefit his son, or that his pride stood in the way of Sid's

advancement--that queer girl, whom he could scarcely make out, should

not say that he had not done his best for Sidney.

He dressed himself in his best suit one day, seized his stick, and

marched down to Camberwell Green, whence he took the omnibus to the

City. Sidney had again departed in quest of "something"--on a visit to

the news-rooms to search the papers there--and Mr. Hinchford was

following in his wake shortly afterwards.

He had a nervous fear that he should meet Sidney in the City, at first,

but the crowd which surrounded him there assured him that that event was

not likely to ensue. He had not been in the City for many years and the

place alarmed him; he almost guessed how weak and nervous he had become

when he struggled with the mob of money-hunters in King William Street,

and found it hard to fight against.

"All these hunting for places in one shape or another," he thought,

"looking but for the best chance, and greedy of any one who gets in the

way, and seems likely to deprive them of it, or add to their expenses.

Why, where's all the places that hold these men and keep my Sid doing

nothing?"

He turned into the narrow lanes branching out of the great thoroughfare

leading to the Bank, and proceeded without any difficulty to the

banking-house of his brother Geoffry. His memory was not in fault here;

every short cut through the shady by-ways of the City he took by

instinct--he had banked with his brother in days gone by, and it was

like retracing his youthful steps to find himself once more in these old

streets.

Before the swing glass doors of a quiet, old-fashioned banking-house he

paused, changed the stick from his right hand to his left, gave a little

tug to his stock, changed hands again with his stick, finally crossed

over the way, and set his back against the dingy wall opposite. The

pride which had held him aloof so long from his brother rose up again,

that ruling passion which a struggling life had circumscribed. He became

very red in the face, and looked almost fiercely at the banking-house in

front of him. He felt that his brother would say "No" again, and the

humiliation in store he should have courted by his own folly. But

Sidney?--possibly Sidney might be of service there, and room found for

him, if he asked; and if not; still, for Sidney's sake, he must attempt

it--courage and forward!

Mr. Hinchford nerved himself to the task, crossed the road, and went up

the steps into the bank. They were busy before and behind the counters

there; money was being shovelled in and out of drawers; cheques were

flying across the counter; there was the stir and bustle of a

first-class banking-house before him; everybody was talking, whispering,

studying, and thinking of money; what room for any sentiment in that

place from nine till four?

He took his place by the counter, waiting to address one of the clerks

at the first convenient opportunity that might present itself; he was in

no hurry; he wished to collect his thoughts, and arrange his plan of

action; and instead of arranging any plan, he looked at the clerks, and

thought Sidney Hinchford might as well have a place behind that counter

as not--and how well he would look there, and what a good place for him

it would be!

He stood there for a considerable time, until his presence began to

oppress a bald-headed young man at the third desk, an energetic young

man of uncivil appearance--soured in life perhaps, by his hair coming

off so early--who, in the hurry of business, had taken little notice of

Mr. Hinchford until then.

"What is it?" he asked, abruptly.

Mr. Hinchford objected to abruptness, and felt it hard to be snubbed by

his brother's clerk to begin with. He reddened a little, and said that

he wished to see Mr. Hinchford directly.

"Mr. Hinchford!" the clerk repeated; "oh! you can't see either of

_them_!"

"Just ask, young man, and don't answer for your master!"

"If it's anything about an account, Mr. Maurice will, if you've a proper

introduction, at----"

"Mr. Maurice will not do, sir!" cried Mr. Hinchford; "go and tell my

brother directly that I wish to see him, if you please."

There was some pride in claiming brotherhood with the banker, even under

the difficulties before him; the effect upon the uncivil bank clerk--why

are bank clerks uncivil in the aggregate?--was bewildering; he stared at

Mr. Hinchford, detected the likeness at once, and backed from the

counter on the instant. Mr. Hinchford saw no more of him--he was

beginning to think that his message had not been delivered after all,

when a young man behind touched him on the arm.

"Will you please to step this way?"

Mr. Hinchford turned, followed the usher to the end of the

counting-house, passed through a room, where two or three gentlemen were

busily writing, went through another door into a larger room, where one

old gentleman--very like himself--was seated in all the divinity that

doth hedge a principal.

"Good morning, James," was the banker's first remark, nodding his head

familiarly in his brother's direction.

"Good morning, Geoffry."

And then there was a pause; the two men who had parted in anger nearly

twenty-six years ago, and had not met since, looked at each other

somewhat curiously. It was a strange meeting, and a strange commencement

thereto, a little affected on the part of the banker, the senior by

eight years. In the same room together, the likeness between them was

singularly apparent--the height, figure, features, even the scanty crop

of white hair, were all identical; but in the senior's face there was

expressed a vigour and determination, which in Sid's father was wholly

wanting. Geoffry Hinchford was still the cool, calculating man of

business, who let no chance slip, and who fought for his chances, and

held his place with younger men.

There was no sentiment in the meeting of the brothers, and yet each was

moved and touched by the changes time had made. They had parted in the

prime of life, stalwart, handsome men, and they came face to face in

their senility.

"Take a seat," said Geoffry Hinchford, indicating one with the feather

of the quill pen he held in his hand.

The brother took a chair with a grave inclination of the head, and then

crossed his hands upon his stick, and began to evidence a little of that

nervousness that had beset him before he entered the banking-house.

Geoffry Hinchford's keen eyes detected this, and he hastened to avoid

one of those scenes which he had confessed to his nephew he hated, when

he made his first and last call in Great Suffolk Street.

"You have been walking fast, James; will you look at the _Times_ a bit,

and compose yourself. _That's_ the money article."

He passed the paper over to his brother, and then began making a few

entries in a small pocket volume before him--a hybrid book, with a lock

and key. Mr. Hinchford turned the paper over in his hands, inspected the

money article upside down, and appeared interested in it from that point

of view--gave a furtive tug to his stock, which he was sure Sid, who

always buttoned it, had taken in a hole too much, and then mustered up

courage to begin the subject which had brought him thither.

"Geoffry, it's six-and-twenty years or so since I sat in this very place

and asked a favour of you."

"Ah! thereabouts," responded Geoffry from over his private volume.

"Which was refused," added the old gentleman.

"Of course it was."

"Ahem."

Mr. Hinchford cleared his throat with some violence. He did not like

this method of receiving his first remarks; it warmed his blood after

the old fashion, and, what was better, it cleared off his nervousness.

"One would think that I had got over asking favours of a brother who had

proved himself so hard----"

"No," interrupted Geoffry, "not hard--but go on."

"And yet I am here again to ask a second favour, and chance as curt a

denial."

"Ah! I did hope, James, that you were here to say 'I was in the wrong to

take myself off in a huff, because my brother would not let me fling

some of his money after my own,' or, at least to say, 'Glad to see you,

Geoffry, and hope to see you more often after this,'--but _favours_!"

"Not for myself, sir," said Mr. Hinchford, hastily; "don't mistake me--I

wouldn't ask a favour for myself to save my life."

"I would to save a shilling; I often do."

"That is the difference between us," Mr. Hinchford answered.

"Exactly the difference. Pray proceed, Jem."

The younger brother softened at the old appellative; he composed his

ruffled feathers, and went at it more submissively.

"Look here, Geoffry, I ask a favour for my son. His firm has dissolved

partnership----"

"What firm was it?"

Mr. Hinchford told him.

"Smashed, you mean--bad management somewhere--go on."

"And he, who would have been made partner in his twenty-first birthday,

has now to begin the world afresh. I thought that you might know of

something suitable for him, and would, remembering our common name, do

something for him."

"He's a tetchy young gentleman--what I remember of him, in a flying

visit. Who the deuce can he take after, I wonder?" and the banker

appeared to cudgel his brains with his pen, as if lost in perplexity as

to any trait in the Hinchfords identical with "tetchiness." The father

did not detect the irony--perhaps would not at that juncture.

"Well," said the banker, "what general abilities has he?"

Mr. Hinchford burst forth at once. The wrongs of the past were

forgotten; the theme was a pleasant one; the abilities of his son were

manifold; he could testify to them for the next two hours, if a patient

listener were found him. He launched forth into a list of Sid's

accomplishments, and grew eloquent upon his son's genius for figures,

adaptability for commercial pursuits, his energy, and industry in all

things, at all times and seasons.

"This lad ought to be governor of the Bank of England," Geoffry

Hinchford broke in with, "there's nothing suitable for such

extraordinary accomplishments here. I can only place him at the bottom

of the clerks, with a salary of a hundred and twenty to begin with."

"Geoffry, you're very kind," ejaculated his brother; "you mean that--you

will really do something for us, after all?"

"Why, you vexatious and frivolous old man," cried the banker,

exasperated at last, "I would have always helped you in my own way, if

you had not been so thoroughly set upon my helping you in yours. You

were hot-headed, and I was ill-tempered and _raspish_, and so we

quarrelled, and you--you, my only brother--sulked with me for six and

twenty years. For shame, sir!"

The banker evinced a little excitement here; he tossed his pen aside and

beat his thin fingers on the book; he spoke his mind out, and amazed his

brother sitting at a little distance from him.

"Geoffry--I--I didn't sulk exactly. But you were a rich man, and I was

left poor; and if you remember, when I came here last I----"

"If I listen any more to that story, I'm damned!" cried the banker;

"it's dangerous ground, and if we get upon it, we shall begin sparring

again. Now, sir--look here."

He stood up, and began laying down the law with the fingers of his right

hand in the palm of his left.

"I swallowed my pride by coming to Great Suffolk Street in search of

you--that was my turn. We were to sink the past, and be friends, I

thought; we two foolish old septuagenarians, with nothing to quarrel

about. You swallowed your pride--a larger pill than mine, Jem, for it

nearly choked you in the attempt--by coming here, and now it's your

turn--eh?"

He held forth both his hands suddenly towards his brother, who answered

the appeal by placing his own within them, and holding them in a nervous

trembling grasp.

"Amen!" said the banker; and the younger and weaker man understood what

he meant, and felt the tears in his eyes.

"And now, I have heard a great deal of your son--you shall see mine."

He left his brother, touched a hand-bell, and a servant immediately

responded.

"Ask Mr. Maurice to step here a moment."

"Yes, sir."

Exit servant; enter very quickly a tall young man of about thirty years

of age, fresh-coloured, well formed, with curly brown hair, and a long

brown moustache, "making tracks," as the Americans say, for his

shoulders.

"Maurice, here's your obstinate uncle come to see us at last."

"I am glad to see _you_, sir--I think the difference has lasted long

enough."

Uncle and nephew shook hands--Mr. Hinchford thought this nephew was a

fine young fellow enough--not like his Sid, but a very passable and

presentable young fellow notwithstanding.

"We're going to try your cousin as a clerk, Maurice. Any objection?"

"Not in the least," was the ready answer.

"We shall not claim relationship over the ledgers," intimated Geoffry

Hinchford; "if he's clever, he'll get on--if he's a fool, he'll get the

sack. And we don't expect him, after the general fashion of relations,

to cry out, 'See how my uncle and cousin are serving me, their own flesh

and blood, by not lifting me over the heads of the staff, and making my

fortune at once!'"

"Sid wants no favours, sir," said Mr. Hinchford, sharply.

"After office hours we shall remember that he's a Hinchford, perhaps,"

said the banker. "Send him when you like, James."

"To-morrow, Geoffry, if you will."

"He's sure to come, I suppose?" asked his brother. "Is he aware of your

visit here to-day?"

"No."

"Ah! then it's doubtful, I think. By Gad! I shan't forget in a hurry his

sermon to me, and his flourish of trumpets over his own independence."

"He will come, sir, I think."

"Out of place makes a difference," remarked the banker; "we shall see.

And now, what can I do for you, James?"

"Oh! nothing, nothing," he said hastily; "I ask no favours for

myself--I'm doing well, thank you--very well indeed! Where's my stick

and hat? I--I think I'll bid you good morning now, Geoffry."

"I shall see you again, I daresay--I can always send a message to you by

your son, who will be here to-morrow, perhaps. Good-bye, old

fellow--Maurice, see to your uncle."

Maurice Hinchford, noticing the feeble steps of the new relation,

offered his arm, which was declined by a hasty shake of the head.

"I'm strong enough, sir--but the meeting has upset me just a little.

Geoffry," turning back to address his brother, "we won't say anything

more about that old affair--I think you meant well, after all."

"I hope I did. Good day."

"Good day, brother."

Maurice closed the door behind his uncle.

"He's getting quite the old man," said Mr. Hinchford to his nephew; "he

had an iron nerve once. He seems very feeble to me--does he enjoy good

health?"

"Oh! first rate health--he's a strong man for his age, Mr. Hinchford.

Don't you think so?"

"Perhaps he is. You can't expect him like myself, eight years younger

than he."

"Well, no," said the nephew, drily.

"He ought not to worry himself about business at his age--why, I have

given it up myself," he added.

"Oh! indeed!"

Business had given him up; but the old man did not think of it that

moment. He was anxious to show the Hinchfords in the best light

possible, lest Sid should be looked down upon too much when he came to

his new berth.

"And your father must feel the cares of business a little?"

"Not a bit," said Maurice; "he wouldn't be happy out of the bank! He's

strong and well, thank God, and one of the best-hearted men and fathers

in the world. Too good a father, by half, for that matter!"

"How's that?"

"Oh! it's difficult to explain," was the answer of the nephew, whose

cheeks flushed a little at the question; "you'll excuse me now, uncle.

Through here and straight across the office--good day."

He shook hands with Mr. Hinchford, and left him at the door of the inner

office which the old gentleman had passed through half an hour since,

less hopeful of good fortune in store for the Boy!

CHAPTER V.

"THE NEW BERTH."

Mr. Hinchford scarcely maintained an equable demeanour until Sidney's

return; the burden of good news was almost too much for him, and just to

wile away the time, and experience the blessed privilege of telling a

good story twice, he found out Ann Packet and enlightened her as to the

new chance that was presented to Sid.

When Sidney returned, and informed his father that there was no news,

Mr. Hinchford bade him not despair, for good luck was sure to turn up in

one direction or another.

"Despair!" cried Sidney, cheerfully; "why, I haven't dreamed of

despairing yet! Is it likely?"

"Shall I tell you some bad news, Sid?"

"Out with it!"

Mr. Hinchford detailed his dismissal from service at the builder's

office. Sidney looked a little discomfited at first, but clapped his

father on the shoulder heartily.

"We can bear it--you and I together. You'll be better away from

business, and have your health better. I shall be strong enough for the

two of us, sir."

"Good lad--but if nothing turns up."

"Oh! but it will!"

"And, oh! but it has!" cried the father; "now for the good news, Sid,

which I have been keeping back till it has nearly burst me."

Mr. Hinchford exploded with his confession, and Sidney listened not

unmoved at it. In his heart he had grown dispirited, though not

despondent, and the news was grateful to him, and took a load therefrom

which had seemed to become a little heavier every day. He would have

preferred a clerkship away from his relation's office; but his pride was

not so great as his common sense, and he saw the advantages which might

accrue to him from an earnest application to business. He remembered,

with a slight feeling of discomfort, his past hauteur to the man from

whom he now accepted service; but he had had a fall since then, and the

hopes of that time--with one bright exception--had been bubble-blown,

and met the fate of bubbles. He had been too sanguine; now he was

matter-of-fact, and must proceed coolly to work. He had ten years to

work in--what would be the end of them? His heart had sunk a little;

upon cool reflection he began to doubt whether he had acted well in

confiscating the affections of one to whom he might never be able to

offer a home.

Still he judged Harriet Wesden by himself, and judged her rightly. If

she loved him for himself, she would not care what money he brought her;

and if his affection were selfish, knowing what an end to a love story

his life must be, he had concealed nothing from her, and the truth had

only drawn her closer to him. He felt that that was his one hope, and he

could not be magnanimous enough to insist upon its dissolution, and of

the unfitness of his prospects to her own. When the time came round and

left him penniless; or when he saw, three or four years hence, that

there was no chance of saving money, and he remained still the clerk

with an income that increased not, it would be time to resign her--not

now, when she loved him, and he was happy in her smiles, and understood

her, as he thought, so well.

He entered upon his novitiate at his uncle's banking-house; his father

had not reiterated the hint which Geoffry Hinchford had given him about

relationship, but Sid was a young man who knew his place, and who kept

it, and rather shunned his relations than forced himself upon them.

Uncle and nephew proved themselves very different beings to what Sidney

had imagined; they were kind to him in their way--they were even anxious

he should do the family name credit; they watched his progress, and were

quick enough to see that he would prove a valuable and energetic

auxiliary.

Geoffry Hinchford was pleased at his nephew's reticence, and took note

of it as he had taken note of most things during his earthly pilgrimage.

He even condescended to give him a little advice in the shape of a

warning one day.

"Sidney," he said, when chance brought them together in that bank back

parlour, "how do you like your cousin Maurice for a master?"

"He is very kind to me."

"Ah! that's it--that's his fault. When I'm gone, I have a fear that he

will make a muddle of the bank with his easiness. He's the best son that

ever lived, I think, but he's too easy."

Sidney did not consider himself warranted in replying to this.

"So take my advice, Sidney, and steer clear of him as much as you can,"

he said.

"I don't think that the advice is needed, sir. Our position--"

"Fiddle-de-dee--he never cared for position, and, unfortunately, he's

taken a fancy to you. The scamp wanted to double your salary yesterday,

without any rhyme or reason, only relationship. Foolish, wasn't it?"

"Well, I don't deserve any increase of salary yet, sir--it has not been

fairly earned," was the frank answer.

"Exactly--now listen to me. I think it is just possible that Mr. Maurice

may forget that your salary is small, and that you have a father to

keep. Let me tell you that he is an expensive acquaintance, and a little

removed from your sphere."

"I know it, sir."

"Some day it may be different--we can't tell what may happen, but take

care of him for awhile. A noble young fellow, a good business man in

business hours, but not calculated to improve your mercantile abilities

by a closer acquaintance."

Sidney Hinchford considered the warning somewhat of a strange one, and

even for awhile did his uncle the half-injustice to believe that he

spoke more in fear of Maurice "lowering" himself, than on account of his

nephew forming expensive acquaintances. But Sid soon found the warning

worth attending to. It happened, at times, that Sidney Hinchford had

extra work after the bank was closed, and the majority of clerks had

departed. His cousin Maurice, who always remained long after his father

had gone--he rented apartments in London, whilst his father went off by

train every afternoon to Red-Hill--did occasionally, in the early days

of their acquaintance, come to Sid's desk and watch his labours for a

few minutes, very intently.

"What are you going to do with yourself to-night, Sidney?"

"I am going home, Mr. Maurice."

"Come and dine with me at my club, and take pity upon my loneliness."

"Thank you--but my father will be expecting me home."

"Oh! the governor can't expect you, at your age, to be always turning up

to five o'clock teas."

"You must excuse me, if you please."

"Well, if you'll give me one plain answer to the next question, I won't

press it."

"I'll give it you."

"Isn't there a young lady your way, as well as the governor?"

"Yes," was the quick answer.

"By Jove! if I didn't think so. Ah! you're a gay deceiver, Sidney, after

the bank doors have closed upon you."

On another occasion, and under similar circumstances, he said, in a

quick, abrupt way, that almost bordered on embarrassment--

"Has your father any property of his own?"

"No."

"Your salary supports yourself and him entirely?"

"Yes, and leaves something to spare."

Maurice whistled, took up a lead pencil on Sidney's desk, and began

scribbling with it on his finger nails. Suddenly he laid the pencil

down, saying--

"Oh! that's a thundering sight too bad, old fellow!--we're all

Hinchfords, and must alter that. How are you going to marry?--and when?"

"In the usual fashion--and in ten years' time."

"That's an engagement that will never come to anything, then."

"How do you know?"

"Because long engagements seldom do--and no man, to my fancy, has a

right to tie a girl down to such horrible agreements."

"It can't be helped, Maurice," said Sid, a little sadly.

"I'd start in some business. Are you too proud for trade?"

"I don't care about retail--selling ha'porths of something across the

counter, wearing white aprons, and so on," replied Sidney; "it's very

wrong of me, but it's the Hinchford pride that bars the way, I suppose."

"Try wholesale on a small scale, as a start--the old tea business, for

instance."

"Don't you think that I am fit for this, Mr. Maurice?"

"Yes, but it takes time to rise, and you mean marrying. Now, to my

fancy, you are a man who would do better in commerce."

"Ah! but then there's capital to sink by way of a beginning."

"I can lend you a thousand pounds--a couple of thousands. I'm a very

saving man, Sidney--I'm as certain that you would pay me back again as

that I'm standing here."

"You're very kind," murmured Sidney, taken aback by this liberal offer;

"but--but, it can't be done."

"Borrow it from my father and me--as your bankers, if you will. My

father will not say no to it, I fancy--and if he does, why, there's the

other resource just alluded to."

Sidney was still bewildered, and at a loss to account for the offer. For

an instant he was even tempted; there rose before him the one chance of

his life, the happiness of his life with Harriet, forestalled by

years--and then he put his hands out, as though to push all dangerous

thoughts away.

"Thank you--thank you--" he said; "but when I speculate, it must be with

my own money. I will not start in life burdened by a heavy debt. You're

very kind--far too kind to me, sir."

"A Hinchford--I never forget that. You don't know how proud I am of my

family, and all its belongings. And, joking apart, Sidney, we really are

a fine family, every one of us! And you'll not--well, subject postponed,

_sine die_; the bank isn't such a bad place, and we shall give a lift to

your salary when you deserve it. Not before, mind," he added, with a

seriousness that made Sidney smile, who remembered the anecdote related

by the senior partner.

Sidney Hinchford was touched by his rich cousin's efforts to promote his

interests, by his frankness, his _bonhomie_. Though he held himself

aloof from him, yet he respected, even admired him. There was not a man

in the banking-office who did not admire Mr. Maurice Hinchford; he had a

good word for even the porter; he treated his servants liberally; he was

always ready to promote their interests; the cares of money-making, and

taking care of other people's money, had never soured his temper, or

brought a dark look to his face.

This was the father's anxiety, that Maurice was too easy--that nothing

put him out of temper, or chased away the smiles from his good-looking

countenance; the banker was glad to see his son happy, but he did wish

now and then that Maurice had looked at life less frivolously, and been

more staid and sober in his ways. The banker was glad to see him

generous--although, if the fit seized him, Maurice was a trifle too

liberal with his cheques, for natural wants, bequests, and monuments;

but he was not a spendthrift, and even put money by, from the princely

share of the profits which he received twice a year.

Certainly it would have been difficult for a single man to run through

it without sheer gambling at green tables, or on green turfs; and

Maurice Hinchford never betted on the red and black, and hated horsy

people. He spent all the money a man _could_ honestly get through; he

fared sumptuously every day, and dressed figuratively in purple and fine

linen; it was his boast that he had the best of everything around him,

and anything second-rate had been his abomination from a child; he was a

Sybarite, to whom luck had been wafted, and he enjoyed life, and cared

not for the morrow, on the true Sybarite principle. But he was not a

proud man; he was fastidious in a few things--young ladies of his circle

generally, and the mothers of those young ladies especially, thought him

_much_ too fastidious--but he was a man whom men and women of all

classes liked, and whom his servants idolized.

It was no wonder that his pleasant manners had their effect upon Sidney,

who had found few of his own sex to admire in the world, and who knew

that the man of whose energy everyone spoke well was of his own kith and

kin. He held himself aloof, knowing that his ways were not Maurice's

ways. When the rich cousin once asked why he so rigidly refused every

offer to join him at his club, to make one of a little party at the

opera, sharing his box with him, and put to no expense save a dress-coat

and white choker, he confessed the reason in his old straightforward

manner.

"You're too well-off for me--I can't be your companion, and I'll not be

patronized and play the toady. It looks bad in business here, and it

will look worse apart from it."

"You're a regular stoic!"

After awhile Mr. Geoffry Hinchford again asked his nephew what he

thought of Maurice.

"A warm-hearted and a generous man, whom I am proud to think is a cousin

of mine."

"Yes--just as you say. And very proud I am, too, to think that this

dashing handsome young fellow is a son of mine. He has all the virtues

except one, under heaven, Sidney."

"We're not all perfect, sir," said Sidney, laughing.

"Oh! but you are, according to my brother James--he won't see even a

flaw in your armour," said the old banker, acrimoniously; "but then he

always was aggravating me with something or other--and now it's you."

"I hope not, sir."

"Well, well, only in one sense of the word. And Maurice has, after all,

but a little foible, which the world--the real, material world--always

makes allowance for. He will grow out of it. Good evening."

Sidney did not inquire concerning Maurice Hinchford's foibles, little or

otherwise--he knew that foibles were common to humanity, and that

humanity is lenient respecting them. He did not believe that there was

any great wrong likely to affect the brilliancy of Maurice Hinchford's

character--he would be content to resemble his cousin, he thought, if he

were ever a rich man like unto him, an honest, amiable English

gentleman.

Sidney did not covet his cousin's riches, however; he knew that fortune

was not reserved for him, and if he were scarcely content with his lot

in life, he was at least thankful for all mercies that had been

vouchsafed to him, though he kept his thanks to himself for the greater

part.

"If he were scarcely content!" we have said, for Sidney was ambitious of

rising by his own merits in the world; a laudable ambition, for which we

need not upbraid him. He was careful of his money, a characteristic from

his boyhood, a trait that his father, who had been never careful, took

great pains to develop. He sank his pride completely for the sake of

saving money, and he did save a little, despite the small income, the

housekeeping expenditure, and his father to support. On Saturday nights

he toiled home from the cheapest market with a huge bag of groceries, to

the disgust of the suburban tea-dealer--who wanted a hundred per cent.

profit on an indifferent article--and walked with his head rather higher

in the air than usual when heavily laden.

"When I can afford it, the goods shall be brought to my door," he said,

when his father once urged a faint remonstrance; "but I can't study

appearances on a hundred and fifty pounds a year. Those fellow-clerks of

mine can drop my acquaintance on a Saturday night, and pass by on the

other side, if they are inclined. I shall carry my big parcels and exult

in my independence all the same."

"Yes, but the look of the thing, Sid."

"We'll study that some day, if we have the chance. _We must keep our

eyes open_, till the chance comes."

"I did think once that you had all the Hinchford pride in you, Sid."

"I have a fair share, sir," was the answer, "and I never feel prouder

than when I am carrying my plethoric bag under my arm. Proud of myself,

and of the property I have invested in."

"Then I don't see why I should complain."

"You--to be sure not. Put on your hat, and let us go round to Mr.

Wesden's, and make up our whist party."

And in this quiet way--winding up the evenings with whist-playing and

love-making--the time stole on.

END OF BOOK THE FOURTH.

BOOK V.

STORM SIGNALS.

CHAPTER I.

CAST DOWN.

Meanwhile Mattie, the stray, must absorb our attention for awhile. In

following the fortunes of the Hinchfords, we have omitted to watch

closely the progress of our heroine. Yes, our heroine--if we have not

called attention to that fact before--and with many first-class

"heroinical" qualities, which would do credit to the high-born damsels

of our old-fashioned novels. She had been heroine enough to make a

sacrifice for Harriet Wesden; to take an unfair share of blame for

Harriet's sake, and, therefore, she ranks as "first-lady" in this

romance of business-life. She had made the sacrifice of her good

name--for it amounted to that--with a sharp struggle; but then she would

have given up her life for those to whom her better nature had taught

her to be grateful. The girl's love for all who had rescued her from the

evil of the past was ever intense, led her to strange actions, kept her

hovering in the distance round the friends she had had once. Hers was a

nature strangely susceptible to affection, and that affection was not

uprooted because ill-report set its stigma upon her. Hers was a

forgiving nature, also, and she thought even kindly of Mr. Wesden when

the first shock was over, and she had judged him by that true character

which she understood so well.

In her new estate Mattie was not happy; she was alone in the world, and

we know that she was partial to society, and not always disinclined to

hear the sound of her own musical voice. But she was not disconsolate;

she made the best of her bad bargain, and set to work, in her humble

way, with something of that doggedness of purpose, for which her friend

Sidney was remarkable. She had struggled hard for a living, but had

never given way. She had met obstacles in her path, which would have

crushed the energy out of most women, but which she surmounted, not

without wounds and loss of strength, and even health, and then went on

again. She was matter-of-fact and honest, and those who had doubted her

at first--for she had chosen her dwelling-place but a very little way

from Great Suffolk Street, and the rumours of a lying tongue followed

her, and set her neighbours and fellow-lodgers against her--soon

understood her, for the poor are great observers and good judges of

character.

In the poor neighbourhood wherein she had settled down, she asked for

advice as to the best method of leading an honest life, and received it

from her landlady. She turned dress-maker, and when customers came not

with a grand rush to Tenchester Street, she asked if she might learn her

landlady's business, artificial flower-making, and offered her services

gratuitously, until it pleased her mistress to see that she was the

handiest "help" she possessed. Then her health failed, for she worked

hard, lived hard, and had hard thoughts to contend with; and when the

doctor told her sedentary pursuits would not agree with her, she went a

step lower for awhile, and even sold play-bills at the doors of a minor

theatre to keep the wolf from _her_ door.

Mattie had one fear of seeing her money melt away to the last farthing,

and being left in the world penniless and friendless, as in the days of

her desolate childhood. She had no fear of temptation besetting her in

her poverty--for ever she was above that--but she did not wish to die

poor, to seek the workhouse, or to be reminded in any way of her past

estate. She _would_ be above that; she was ever hoping to show Mr.

Wesden that she was honest and respected, she struggled vehemently

against the tide, and earned her own living at least, varying the mode

very often as her quick wits suggested; but never idle, and rising or

sinking with the seasons, as they proved fair or sharp ones with the

working classes.

It had been a fair season when she called on Mr. Hinchford last, and she

had even found courage to give Ann Packet her address; the sharp season

set in after that, and, though Ann Packet in her monthly visits was

deceived by Mattie's manner, yet it became another struggle for bread

with our heroine. For the season was not only sharp, but Mattie gave way

in health over her work for a rascally waistcoat-maker, who drove hard

bargains, and did not believe in Charity covering a multitude of sins.

And with an opposition clothier over the way, who sported a glass

chandelier, and sold fancy vests for three and sixpence, it was hard to

believe in anything.

Mattie gave way more than she intended to acknowledge to Ann Packet, had

not that indefatigable young woman made her appearance unexpectedly, and

found Mattie in bed at six in the evening.

"Good lor! what's this?"

"Nothing, Ann--only a little cold, which I have been recommended to

nurse for a-day," said Mattie; "don't look so scared!"

"But why wasn't I to know it?--I might have brought in something good

for you," bemoaned Ann; "if I'm to be kep in the dark, who's to take

care of you, my gal?"

"I am taking very good care of myself, Ann."

"What _are_ you taking?"

"Oh! all manner of things--won't you believe me?"

"No--I won't."

And Ann proceeded to inspect mantel-pieces, open cupboards and drawers,

to Mattie's dismay.

"Yes, I see just how it be," she said, after her search had resulted in

nothing satisfactory. "You're working yourself to death, and starving

yourself to death, without saying anything to anybody. And that's

gratitude for all my love for you--you who want to leave me alone in the

world, with not no one to love."

"Why, my dear Ann, I'm not going to die."

"You're trying all you can--oh! you ungrateful gal!"

Mattie defended herself, and maintained that it was only one "lay up,"

but Ann Packet did not like the red spot on each cheek, the unnatural

brightness of the eyes, and secretly doubted her assertion.

"I must go back now. I shall come to-morrow, first thing."

"I shall be well enough to-morrow, Ann."

Ann Packet kissed her and departed; half-an-hour afterwards, to Mattie's

astonishment, she made her reappearance, accompanied by a tall, slim

gentleman.

"There's the gal, sir. Now, please tell me what's the matter, and don't

mind _her_ a bit."

Mattie saw that it was too late to offer a resistance, and refrained,

like a wise young woman, from "making a scene." The doctor felt her

pulse, looked at her tongue, took the light from the table and held it

close to Mattie's face.

"Well--what's the matter, sir?" was Mattie's question.

"Humph! don't know that I can tell exactly, yet. I'll look in

to-morrow."

"No, don't do that," said Mattie, alarmed at the expense.

"Yes, do," cried Ann Packet, "your money's safe, sir. Look to me at 34

Chesterfield Terrace, Camberwell, for it. I'm a respectable

maid-of-all-work, with money in the bank."

"It's of no consequence," muttered the doctor; but he entered the

address in his note-book, like a man of business as he was.

"Shan't I be well to-morrow, sir?" asked Mattie, anxiously.

"Humph!--scarcely to-morrow, I think."

"Why don't you say what it is?--do you think I'm likely to be frightened

at it, even if it's death, sir? Why, I've lived down all fright at

anything long ago."

"It's a little attack of scarlatina, I think," he answered, thus

adjured.

"You only think?"

"Well, then, I'm sure."

"She's had it afore, you know," Ann Packet suggested, "when she was a

child. I thought people couldn't have these nasty things twice."

"Oh! yes."

"That's enough, then," said Ann Packet, taking off her bonnet and shawl,

and putting them on the table as centre ornaments; "here I sticks till

you're better."

"Ann--Ann Packet!" cried Mattie.

"Ah! you may say what you like, I shan't move. When this gentleman's

gone, we'll quarrel about it--not afore."

The gentleman alluded to took his departure, promising to send round

some medicine in a few minutes. Mattie looked imploringly at the

obdurate Ann.

"You _must_ go home, Ann."

"Not a bit of it, my dear," said Ann; "I have knowed you for too long a

time to leave you in the lurch like this, for all the places in the

world. And it isn't that I haven't knowed the Hinchfords long enough, to

think they'll mind."

Mattie sighed.

"But you keep quiet, my dear, and fancy I'm your mother taking care on

you--which I wish I was. And I'll send a boy to Camberwell to tell 'em

why I ain't a coming back just yet."

"Let me write a----"

"Let you keep yourself quiet, and don't worry me. I'm going to manage

you through this."

"You're very good, Ann," said Mattie; "but if you catch the fever of

me!"

"Lor bless you! I shan't catch no fever--I'm too old for changing

colour, my dear. You might as well expect buff-leather to catch fevers.

But don't you remember how skeered I was once when you came in piping

hot with it from Kent Street? Ah! I was vain of my good looks then, and

afraid they might be spiled."

Ann Packet had been a girl with a bat-catching-against-wall kind of

countenance all her life, but distance lent enchantment to the view of

the merry days when she was young. And Ann Packet's will was absolute,

and carried all before it. Mattie was bowed down by it; she felt weaker

than usual, and too ill to assert supremacy in her own house. Giving up,

she thought that it was comfortable to have a friend at her side, and to

feel that the loneliness of a few hours since was hers no longer.

Ann Packet went down-stairs, and found a boy prepared--for twopence down

and twopence when he came back--to deliver any message within a radius

of fifty miles from Tenchester Street. The messenger departed,

returning, in due course, with a favourable, even a kind reply. Ann

Packet was to take her own time, and a girl would be found to assist

until Mattie was better. Mattie read the note to Ann.

"There, didn't I say so?"

"It's in Mr. Sidney's handwriting," said Mattie, putting the letter

under her pillow; "he's always kind and thoughtful."

"Ah! he is."

"As kind and thoughtful as ever, I suppose, Ann?"

"Lor bless you!--yes."

"What a long while it seems since----"

"Since you've held _your_ tongue," added Ann. "Yes, it does. I'd keep

quiet a bit now, if I was you."

Thus adjured, Mattie relapsed into silence, and Ann Packet, thinking her

charge was asleep, stole out of the room a short while afterwards, and

went into the streets marketing. In the night the fever gained apace

with our heroine; the next day the doctor pronounced her worse--enjoined

strict quietness and care.

"He seems afraid of me," said Mattie, after he had gone, "as if there

were anything to be alarmed at, even if I did die. Why, what could be

better for me, Ann?"

"Oh! don't--oh! don't."

"Not that I am going to die--I don't feel like it," said Mattie. "I can

see myself getting strong again, and fighting," she added, with a little

shudder, "my battles again. There, Ann, you need not look so scared; I

won't die to please you."

It was a forced air of cheerfulness, put on to raise the spirits of her

nurse; and succeeded to a certain extent in its object, although Ann

told her not to go on like that--it wasn't proper.

Mattie lay and thought of the chances for and against her that day; what

if that burning fever and increasing restlessness gained the mastery,

who would be the worse for her loss, and might not she, with God's help,

be the better? She was scarcely a religious woman; but the elements of

true religion were within her, and only biding their time. She was

honest, pure-minded, anxious to do good for others, bore no one malice,

and forgave all trespasses against her--she went to chapel every

Sunday--and she did not feel so far off from heaven on that sick bed.

She thought once or twice that she would be glad to die, if she were

sure of the future happiness of those for whom she had lived. She would

like to know the end of the story, and then--_rest_. She could not die

without seeing the old faces, though, and therefore she must make an

effort to exist for her own sake.

In the evening, Ann Packet, looking a little scared, said--

"Here's a gentleman come to see you. It's not quite right for him to

come up, I'm thinking."

"Who is it?"

"Mr. Hinchford."

"_Old_ Mr. Hinchford?"

"No, the young one."

Mattie, even with the scarlatina, could blush more vividly.

"Mr.--Mr. Sidney!" she gasped. "Oh! he mustn't come in here."

"Mustn't he, though!" said the deep voice of Sidney, from the other side

of the room. "Oh! he's not at all bashful, Mattie."

Sidney Hinchford came into the room and walked straight to the bed where

Mattie was lying--where Mattie was crying just then.

"Why, Mattie!--in tears!"

"Only for a moment, Mr. Sidney. It is very kind of you to come and see

me--and you have taken me by surprise, that's all."

"She's to be kept quiet, sir," said Ann.

"I'll not make much noise," he answered.

He stood by the bed-side, looking down at the stricken girl. The change

in her, the thin face, the haggard looks, increased as they were by

illness, had been a shock to Sidney Hinchford, though he did his best to

disguise all evidence from her.

"Go and sit there for the little while you must remain in this room,"

said Mattie, indicating a chair by the window, at some distance. "You

were rash to come into this place."

"I'm not afraid of fever, Mattie, and I was not going to lose a chance

of seeing you--the first chance I have had."

"And you don't think that I have been wrong, Mr. Sidney?" asked Mattie;

"you haven't let all that Mr. Wesden has said, turn you against me? I'm

so glad!"

"Mattie, there's a little mystery, but I daresay you can clear it--and I

swear still by the old friend and adviser of Great Suffolk Street. And

as for Mr. Wesden--why, I'm inclined to think that that old gentleman is

growing ashamed of himself."

"You say nothing of Harriet?"

"She is the champion of _all_ absent friends--the best girl in the

world. When I tell her that you----"

"You must not tell her where to find me--you will not act fairly by her,

if you thrust her into danger, sir. I rely upon you to keep her away."

"Well, you women do catch things very rapidly," said he; "I--I think

that perhaps it will be as well not to let her know of your illness."

"Thank you--thank you."

"But when you are well again, I shall bring her myself to see you. We'll

have no more games at hide and seek, Mattie."

"Not yet."

"Why--not yet?" was the quick answer.

"I am no fit companion for her--her father thinks. So it must not be. I

have seen her--watched for her several times."

"Ah!--I suppose so. You know that we are engaged, Mattie?" he said;

"that was an old wish of yours, Harriet tells me."

"Yes--when are you to be married?"

"Oh! when I can afford to keep a wife. Shall I tell you how I am getting

on now?"

"I should like to hear it," said Mattie, "but you mustn't stop here very

long. For there _is_ danger."

"I don't believe it," said he, laughing; "besides, my father has

furnished me with a lump of camphor as big as my head, which I've been

sitting on the last five minutes. Now, Mattie, let me tell you where I

am, and what I am doing."

In a few words, Sidney sketched the particulars of his present mode of

life, spoke of his prospects _in futuro_, and of the kindness which he

received at all hands. He was an agreeable companion, and brought some

of his vigour and good spirits into that little room with him. He spoke

cheerfully and heartily, and the pleasant ring of his voice sounded like

old times to Mattie. She lay and listened, and thought it was all very

comfortable--she even forgot her fever for awhile, till she remembered

the length of time that he had remained with her.

"I hope you will go now," she said, rather suddenly.

"Am I wearying you?--I beg pardon, Mattie. Some of these days when you

are better, I intend a longer stay than this."

"Indeed!"

"I shall try my own powers of persuasion, in order that Harriet and I

may fight your battles better for you," he said; "we must clear up that

mystery--I hate mystery."

"I know it."

"Upon my honour, I would as soon have a sister maligned as you!" cried

Sidney; "we are such old friends, Mattie."

"Yes, yes--go now, please. And keep Harriet away, for her own sake, and

yours."

Sidney promised that, and then shook hands with her.

"You must not be very shocked at my stalking in here--fancy it is your

brother, Mattie. I shall make Harriet a clean confession when I get

back--not to-night, though."

He went from the room, followed by Ann Packet. Outside, the cheerful

look upon his face suddenly vanished, and he became so grave that Ann

Packet stared aghast at him.

"Who's her doctor?"

Ann told him.

"I'll send some one myself to see if he's treating her correctly."

"Don't you--don't you think that she's so well?"

"I think that she's very ill--worse than she is aware of herself. Take

care of her, Ann, she's an old friend!"

He went down-stairs hastily, and Ann returned to the room to find Mattie

in a high fever, sitting up in bed with a wild look in her eyes.

"Ann, Ann--he must never come again! I--I can't bear to see him now."

"Patience, my darling. Keep quiet--why not?"

"Oh! I don't know--but he makes my heart ache--and, and, he is coming

into danger here. Oh! Sidney! Sidney!"

She flung herself back in her bed, and sobbed and tossed there till the

fever grew upon her more and more, and robbed her of her senses. And in

the delirium which followed, Ann Packet learned the secret of Mattie's

life, and wrung her hands, and cried over it.