FATHER AND DAUGHTER.
The three women left behind in that little room remained silent from the
shock. They were amazed, perplexed. The sudden excitement of the
preacher; the strange questions he had asked Harriet Wesden before the
name of Mattie had changed the topic of conversation; the presence of
Sidney Hinchford as a witness to all this; his abrupt departure with the
preacher--all tended to create doubt, and suggest to one, at least, the
presence of danger.
Mattie had not given much thought to Sidney Hinchford's appearance; the
preacher's excitement, the return of a far-off thought to her, had
rendered all that had followed vague and indistinct--the scene had been
even too much for her, and she began to slowly close her eyes.
"I think she has been talked and worried to death too much," cried Ann
running to her; "Miss Harriet, I'd go now, if I were you."
"Perhaps I have remained too long," said Harriet, rising.
"No," said Mattie, feebly, "I have been surprised by all that has just
happened. You are not the cause."
"I think I would lie on the bed a little while, Mattie," said Harriet.
"Don't go till I feel better."
Mattie lay on the bed as directed; Harriet did not resume her seat, but
stood with one arm on the mantel-piece, looking thoughtfully before her,
where no fancy pictures lingered now. There was a long silence. Ann
Packet placed some smelling salts in Mattie's hand, and then sat at a
little distance, watching her. Harriet retained her position until
Mattie drew the bed-curtain further back and looked at her.
"I am better now. You will wait till Sidney comes back to fetch you
home, Harriet?"
"It is very late. He may not come back."
"He is sure to come," said Mattie; "pray sit down again, and Ann shall
make us tea. Harriet, that man is my father."
"Do you really think so?"
"It was all a truth that that horrible woman told me on the day the
house was robbed; he has been in search of me; he has found me at
last--I shall not be alone in the world ever again!"
"You are glad then, Mattie?"
"Why should I not be?" asked our heroine; "I think that he is a good
man--I think that he must have cared for me a little, to have taken so
much trouble in his search for me--he will come back soon, and then we
shall know all."
"He comes back to your gain and my loss," Harriet was on the point of
saying, but checked herself; Mattie was excited enough without the cares
of her friend to be added to her own.
It was a silent, thoughtful meal; Ann Packet, absorbed in gloomy
reverie, took her tea with stony apathy. She could see that changes were
coming towards her also, and the shape that they might assume was hard
to guess at. She should lose Mattie perhaps, and that was sufficient to
disturb _her_.
Tea was over, and Mattie had returned to her easy-chair, when a faint
rapping was heard at the outer-door. Ann Packet went to the door, and
found the preacher there, as she had anticipated.
"Is she prepared--has she guessed?"
"Yes."
"Can I come in?"
"It isn't for the likes of me to say you can't;" and with this evasive
reply, Ann Packet opened wide the door and admitted him.
He came in on tiptoe, in a manner strangely at variance with his former
brusque entrance; he turned to Harriet Wesden first, and spoke in a low
whisper to her.
"Mr. Hinchford bade me say, Miss Wesden, that he was waiting for you,
down-stairs."
"Thank you--is he----?"
Harriet did not know how to finish her sentence, and left it in its
embryo condition. Her face was pale, and her heart was beating violently
as she stooped and kissed Mattie.
"Good-bye, dear--I must go now--Sidney is waiting."
"Good-bye--are you not well?" asked Mattie, suddenly.
She was as quick an observer as of yore, and the new expression on
Harriet's face suggested the new fear.
"Yes--yes--a little upset by what has happened to-day, that's all.
Good-bye." And Harriet Wesden departed hastily.
The preacher put his hat on the floor, silently drew a chair towards
Mattie, and then sat down close to her side. Ann Packet, from the
distance watched them both--saw in an instant the likeness between them,
as they sat thus. Both had sharp black eyes, dark hair, thin noses; the
general expression of features was the same, harsher and more prominent
in the man; and, therefore, rendering him far from a being whose good
looks were apparent.
"Your name is Mattie?--you were at Mr. Wesden's for some years?--he
adopted you--he took you from the streets?--previous to his kindness,
you were living, off and on, at a Mrs. Watts' of Kent Street, Southwark,
where your mother died?"
"Yes," answered Mattie.
"The woman who died in Kent Street, Southwark, was my wife. She and I
started in life together happily enough, till she took to drink--oh! the
drink! the drink!--and then home became a misery, and we quarrelled very
much, and I took to drink myself. I lost my place through drink, and
laid the fault to her--we quarrelled worse than ever, as we became
poorer and more wretched; I struck her, fought with her, acted the brute
until she ran away from me, taking you with her, then but a year old. I
did not seek to find her out--I let her go to ruin, and went my own way
to ruin myself, until rescued by a miracle--by a good man, whom God sent
in my way to amend my life, and teach me all the truths which I had
neglected. He found me work again; he raised me from the brute into the
man; he altered me body and soul, and when he died, it struck me that I
might follow in his steps, and do good unto others, after his example. I
was not an unlearned man in all respects; I fancied that I might do good
by an effort--there is no doing good without one--and I made the
attempt. When I was rewarded by my first convert, Mattie, that was my
encouragement," he said, rising with the earnestness of his topic,
sitting down again, and flinging his arms wildly about; "that was my
incentive to go on, to save fresh souls from the danger, to struggle in
the by-ways of life, for the light which the evil one would for ever
shut from us. And I was rewarded for the effort; I have done good; I
have spent the last sixteen years of my life in the good cause!"
"You are a minister."
"A local preacher--wandering from place to place, as my employers
dictate--occasionally proceeding on my own route; for ever astir, and
letting not the sun go down upon my idleness. And all this, while I have
been in search of you--tracking your mother at last to Kent Street, and
following on your track, until I am rewarded thus!"
He held forth his hand, and Mattie placed hers within it.
"I think that you are my father," she said; "I am glad to find some one
to care for me at last."
"And you will care for _me_?--for I have been a lonely man in the world
for many years, and would make atonement for the evil act which cast you
to the streets! But Mattie, look at me!"
Mattie regarded him long and steadfastly. It was a strange,
hard-featured face, on which was impressed firmness, or obduracy, and
little else; but she felt that he was to be trusted and believed.
"You see a very stubborn man, one who has made few friends in life, and
who has met with much tribulation in his journey," said he; "you see a
man who will do his duty by you, but will not be a gentle father--a man
who will never win a daughter's love, and will not let the daughter take
the first place in his heart, lest she should wean him too much from the
pursuit of sin, and slacken his zeal in the good cause. A man who is
poor--who cannot offer you a home much better than this--a man
disagreeable, irritable, and obstinate--is he worth calling father?"
"Yes."
"Thank God you say so; it is very horrible to feel alone in the world."
The disagreeable, irritable, and obstinate man, shook Mattie by both
hands, kissed her suddenly on the forehead, drew forth a cotton
handkerchief, and wiped his eyes and blew his nose vigorously; finished
by producing a shabby leather purse, and taking some silver therefrom,
which he placed on the mantel-piece.
"My child!--at my expense all future housekeeping. Young woman," to Ann
Packet, "you'll draw from that small amount for the future."
"I'm sure I shan't!"
"Eh!--what?"
"I've taken care of her, and been a mother to her for the last four
weeks, and you're not a-coming in here all at once, and stealing every
bit of comfort away from me!"
"Who is this?" he asked of Mattie.
"A faithful friend, without whom I might have died."
"Then she must be a friend of mine--young woman, you hear that?"
"Ah! I hear," said the stolid Ann.
"And who knows but that you, Mattie, in the better days in store for you
and me, may become a worker in the vineyard also?"
"She's not going to work in any yard yet awhile, if I know it!" said
Ann.
Mr. Gray rose and picked up his hat again, without paying heed to this
allusion.
"I have work to do at home," he said; "I am a mechanic by trade, and
have to labour to get my own living; when you are well enough, you must
come to my home and make it a different place. I have much to ask you
when you are better--I have been troubled about stories that have been
told me of you--I am unhappy until I know the truth. You will keep
nothing from me?"
Mattie did not reply; that was a matter for future consideration.
"I never allow anything to be kept from me," he said sharply; "I shall
be a hard father, rely upon it. I allow nothing for prevarication, and I
spare no sin or weakness, however plausible may be the excuse which the
sinner offers. I--how dreadfully askew everything is on this
mantel-piece!" he added suddenly, putting the few ornaments thereon at
regular distances from each other; "I shall not be a kind father--I know
I shan't! The mountains are not harder to move than I am--you're not
frightened at me, Mattie?"
"No."
"Not sorry I have come here to claim you?"
"No--glad," said Mattie; "I think I shall be able to trust you, and to
understand you in a little while. And the world will never be entirely
desolate again."
"Neither for you nor for me--though I have had my pursuits, and been
working hard for my master on earth--my Master in heaven. Amen. He has
been very kind to me to reward me thus for the little which I have done
of late years!"
He was down on his knees in the old place, and praying again; offering a
thanksgiving for his daughter's restoration to him. He was a man who
cared not for appearances--who doubtless rendered himself extremely
ridiculous and objectionable at times--and yet a man so thoroughly in
earnest, that it was hard to laugh at him. At first sight it was
difficult to understand him, although Mattie already felt confidence in
him, and saw a brighter life in store for her; he was a man whose
character was hard to define at a first interview.
The time was inappropriate; the prayer out of place; he might have
waited till he had got home, thought Ann; but after a while the deep
voice arrested attention, and Mattie listened and was impressed by the
man's fervour and rugged eloquence. It was not a long prayer; he was on
his feet again, and looking at his daughter once more.
"I shall come to-morrow--next week perhaps we shall be living together,
father and child! Dear me, how odd that sounds now! With you at my side,
I feel I can confront my enemies better."
"Your enemies?"
"Such as they are--I'm not afraid of them--I rather like them," he
added; "they laugh at me, and mimic my ways--shrug their shoulders, and
tell one another what a hypocrite I am. It's the easiest thing in the
world to say a man is a hypocrite, and the very hardest for that man to
prove that he is not. But we'll talk about that, and about everything
else when you're better. I--I hope I haven't been _going it_ too
much--good-bye."
"Good-bye, father."
"Ah! that's very good of you," he said; "but you must not be too
credulous. I'll bring my marriage certificate to-morrow, and we'll
proceed in a more business-like fashion. Good-bye--good evening, young
woman."
"Good evening, sir," said Ann, evidently inclined to be more civil to
him. When he had gone, Ann Packet insisted upon putting Mattie to bed at
once; she was inclined to keep her place, and talk of the extraordinary
incidents of that day.
"Talk of 'em to-morrow," said Ann; "you've _gallied_ your brains enough
for fifty fathers."
"I feel so much happier, Ann, with some one whom I shall have a right to
love."
"Well, you've a right to love who you like, o' course."
"And I shan't love my faithful, gentle nurse the worse for it."
"God bless you!--what a gal you are!"
"Life seems beginning with me for the first time--opening new scenes,
new faces, new affections. Yes, Ann, I am happy to-night."
"Then I'm glad he's come--I think he's turned up for the best;
although," she muttered to herself, "I shouldn't be very proud of
another father like him for myself. He's _such a rum un_!"
Meanwhile Harriet Wesden--what had followed the coming of this "rum un"
to her? Was her happiness fading away, as Mattie Gray's advanced? Let us
see.