SIGNS OF CHANGE.
Mr. Gray, though he had not remarked any change that was prejudicial to
his daughter Mattie, was quick enough to detect the new difference in
her manner. He knew then that she had not been "her old self," as Ann
Packet had termed it, by the old manner which was now substituted. She
was more gentle, less distracted, kinder in her way altogether, more
thoughtful of what his requirements consisted, and which was the best
way to expedite them. If she smiled with an effort still, _that_ he did
not remark; he felt the benefit of the change and was content with it;
he knew no reason why there should be any effort in her looks.
He expected to hear all on the first day that Mattie had received good
news of Sidney Hinchford; that he was quite well perhaps, and coming
back to his old home for a while--coming back to settle _that_
engagement. He did not suggest the name however; he waited for
suggestions. Mattie had shown that she was tenacious on that question of
engagement, and far from disposed to state her ultimate intentions. He
could afford to wait, knowing that all was well!
In the evening his forbearance was rewarded by Mattie speaking of
Sidney. She knew that to hold that name for ever in the background was
unnatural. She was anxious to keep it a well known name, and not shrink
at an allusion to it, as though she feared to think of Sid, or would
consign him for ever to oblivion.
"It's almost time we heard how Sidney was, father," she said.
"Ah! it is. His cousin said that we should see him very shortly."
"It depends upon the doctor, I suppose," said Mattie; "he has promised
to obey Doctor Bario implicitly."
"That's the reason, doubtless," said Mr. Gray; "well, I shall be glad to
hear from him--a long silence between friends is always unsatisfactory,
and often leads to unsatisfactory results. We shall hear from him very
shortly, I feel certain. That young man, his cousin, might have
called--I have much to tell him about his future course in life, if he
will only listen to me. I mark progress in him, and he must not falter
in the narrow way."
Mattie thought that Maurice Hinchford might have called more frequently
if it had not been for the good advice that lay in wait for him, but she
did not tell her father so. Her father meant well, and she seldom
attacked his "best intentions." He was a man who had done much
good--chiefly in a darker sphere than his own, where hard words are
wanted for hard hearts--and she respected his opinions. She had not
understood him very quickly--such men are always hard to understand--but
she knew his genuineness, and it was not difficult to love him.
"What should I have done without him in this strait?" she often thought;
and for his presence there--showing that there was some one to love, and
some one who loved her--she was deeply grateful.
"Every day I expect visitors now," continued Mr. Gray, "and think it
very singular that no one calls. You will be glad to see Sidney,
Mattie?"
"Very glad."
That same evening a letter arrived for Mr. Gray, informing him that the
elders of his chapel would be very glad to see him on the following
afternoon--a letter that turned the subject of discourse for that day,
and took Mr. Gray away upon the next. During his absence the first
visitor arrived.
Mattie was in the shop, when Maurice Hinchford entered, walked at once
to his high chair, and assumed his customary position there. Remembering
what had happened since then, Mattie winced somewhat.
"Good afternoon, Miss Gray," he said, shaking hands with her. "Given up
for lost, and considered the most ungrateful of human kind, I am sure?"
"No, sir."
"To tell you the truth, we have had a bother with that cousin of mine.
He's so horribly obstinate, we don't exactly know what to do with him."
"He's no worse?" asked Mattie, eagerly.
"Worse!--he's so much better that we cannot keep him quiet. We locked
him up a week in the dark, and then gave him light in homoeopathic
doses--globules of light, in fact--and so brought him round to a natural
state of things. He is told to be cautious, and we catch him writing a
letter to you, and we foil the attempt, and get sauced at for our pains.
Then he wants to come back here directly, on business, he says; and we
take him _nolens volens_ to Red-Hill, and lock him up in our rooms
there, with my sisters to see after him during our absence, and at
length he is pacified a bit, and resigned to country air."
"Have you come at his request, sir?" asked Mattie.
"Yes. I promised faithfully to call to-day, and assure you that he is
nearly well, and will shortly surprise you by a visit. He is very, very
anxious to see old friends. That's my commission; and now, Miss Gray,
about this conspiracy of ours--will it succeed?"
Mattie drew a long breath, and then prepared herself. She knew where his
interest lay, and how unconscious he was whither her thoughts had
drifted once, but she was prepared to meet all now. It was for every
one's content, save hers. Only herself shut out from the general
rejoicing in the cold ante-room wherein no warmth could steal!
"It will succeed, I think--I hope."
"Yes, but how are we to begin?"
"Harriet Wesden and Sidney must meet and explain all that they have
thought concerning each other--that's all."
"Ah! that's all! Quite enough, considering how difficult it is to bring
them together. Difficult, but not impossible, Miss Gray; we shall skim
round to the proper method in due course. Harriet Wesden's appearance
roused him, did it not?"
"I think so. Has--has he ever spoken of it since?"
"A very little--he's plaguey quiet on matters in that quarter. He was
very anxious to know what he said when he saw her, what she said, and
you said; and after he had got all that _he_ wanted, you might as well
have tried to elicit confidence from an oyster. I try every day to bring
the topic round, but he dances away from it, or curtly tells me to shut
up. And now, may I ask a question?"
"If you will," said Mattie, a little nervously.
"What does Miss Wesden think?--you have seen her very frequently since
the meeting at Doctor Bario's?"
"On the contrary, I have not seen her at all."
"Miss Gray! Miss Gray!" he said, reproachfully, "you are not working
heart and soul with me! Here are two human beings who love each other,
and will never be happy without each other, and we are letting time go
by and harden them."
"I thought that Miss Wesden would have called here, and that we might
have proceeded on _our_ plan with less formality. But if she do not come
shortly, I must visit her."
"Thank you--just sound her, if you can. She's a girl that will not be
ashamed to own what impression the meeting with Sidney has made upon
her; and after that, we'll set to work in earnest."
"I will write to her this evening, asking her to spend an hour with me."
"Ah! that's a good plan--looks better than calling. Now I will just tell
you how we might manage to bring Sidney and her together--you're not
busy?"
"No."
"Nor I. I have given myself the whole day to mature this plan, and if
you consider it feasible, why we will carry it out, and chance the
_denouement_."
He tilted his chair on to its front legs, and leaned across the counter
to more closely impress Mattie with his logic; at the same instant the
door opened, and Mr. Gray entered and gave him good day.
"Pleased to see you, Mr. Hinchford; you bring good news, I hope, of my
absent partner?"
"The best of news, sir," answered Maurice; "your daughter will tell you
how well he is progressing, and whither we have taken him. You are at
home for the day, I suppose, sir?"
"Yes--will you step into the parlour, and take a quiet cup of tea with
us. We shall be proud of your company, and I shall be glad to have a
little talk with you afterwards."
"Thank you, I have not dined yet, and--and I am very much pressed for
time to-day, or nothing would have given me greater pleasure. Some other
time, I hope, I shall be more fortunate. Please excuse this hasty visit,
but business must be attended to--good-bye, sir--good-bye, Miss
Gray--how late it is, to be sure!"
And backing and bowing politely, Maurice Hinchford reached the
shop-door, darted through it, and dashed away from his tormentor.
"That young man is always in a terrible hurry," said Mr. Gray; "a good
man of business, with a knowledge of the value of time, I daresay. Still
he should not give up serious thoughts for thoughts of money-making
entirely. I hope to find him more at his leisure shortly."
But Mr. Gray never did. Maurice Hinchford reformed, but it was after his
own method, not Mr. Gray's; and being a fair repentance, we need not
cavil at it. He was ever truly sorry for that past, and all the wrong
that he had done in it; he sobered down, fell in love once more, and in
"real earnest;" married well, and made the best of husbands and fathers.
The reader, who will meet with him no more on this little stage, whereon
our characters are preparing to make their final bows, will I trust be
glad to hear of Maurice Hinchford's better life, and to forgive him all
his past iniquities. He has been the villain of our story; bad enough
for real life, but in these latter days scarcely villain enough for the
pages of a novel. Let us take him for what he is worth, and so dismiss
him from our pages.
Father and daughter went into the parlour.
"Now let us hear all about Sidney," Mr. Gray said in the first place.
Mattie told him all that she knew, and he listened, rubbed his hands one
over the other complacently, and exulted, like a good man as he was,
over the well-doing of others. He indulged in a short prayer also for
all the goodness and mercies vouchsafed to Sidney; and Mattie, who had
never become reconciled to these sudden and spasmodic prayers, yet
joined in this one with all her heart.
"Now," said he, suddenly assuming his every-day briskness, "for _my_
news. But in the first place, don't excite yourself, Mattie--because it
ends in nothing."
"Indeed!"
"I am not fond of exciting situations, and therefore I begin with the
end, in order that I may not be excited myself. The end is, that I
declined their offer, Mattie."
"What offer?"
"We'll come to that next. They wanted to see me at the chapel--there's a
great scheme afoot for a further extension of the missionary project;
they want a very energetic man for Africa--just such a man as I am," he
added, with that old naive conceit which set well and conveniently upon
him, because he spoke the truth after all; "and they've altered their
opinion of that other man, who, if you remember, stepped into my shoes
some time ago."
"Yes, I remember."
"But they were too late--I told them so. I said that though my daughter
was about to marry and have a home of her own, yet I had learned to love
her so dearly that I did not care, in my old age, as it will be
presently, to begin life afresh without her. I thought that I could do
my Master's service here as elsewhere, and that I would rather give up
that good chance than give up you, and go away for ever."
"For ever!--why?"
"I was to settle down at the Cape--minister at a chapel there that will
be completed before the next vessel arrives--and I felt too weak of
purpose, Heaven forgive me, to leave you altogether."
"And you declined?"
"Yes, firmly and decisively. Perhaps it was wrong."
"Go back, then, at once--don't lose a moment, lest they should think of
another man whom they can put in your place!"
"What!--what!--what!" he cried, jealously, "you wish to get rid of me
like that."
"No--to go with you--share your life and labours there--be happy with
you!"
"Mattie!--what does this mean?"
He held her at arm's length, and looked into her tear-dimmed eyes; he
read the truth at last there, and, though unable to account for it, he
folded his stricken daughter to his heart, and even wept with her. A man
who had known little of earth's romance, or of the tenderness of life,
and yet who understood it, now it was face to face with him, and could
appreciate the loneliness of her whose life had become linked with his
own.
"So," he said, at last, "you do not--you do not love Sidney well enough
to become his wife?"
"Yes, I do. I love him too well ever to make him unhappy by becoming so,
and standing between him and one he loves so much better than me. Some
day I will tell you the whole story--explain it more minutely--you will
spare me now, and keep my secret ever?"
"Ever," he responded.
"He will never know how I have loved him, therefore his memory will not
be embittered by thinking that I--I felt this separation very much. I
shall give him up--that's all! I don't think that he will care for any
explanation--and after that, I should very much like to go away with you
to a new world."
"Beginning life anew, and leaving all old troubles behind us--well, if
it must end like this, so much the better, Mattie!"
Mattie was silent for awhile, then said suddenly--
"You will go back now, and tell them that your daughter is anxious to go
with you--to serve you there, and be your faithful servant in the good
work lying before us both."
"If it's certain that you----"
"Father, there can be no alteration in _me_."
Mr. Gray took up his hat again and prepared to depart. He would have
liked to attempt consolation to his daughter, but he felt, probably for
the first time, that his efforts would have resulted in no good--that
she was already resigned, and that the utterance of trite aphorisms
would only unnecessarily wound her.
He departed, and Mattie, true to her old business habits, took once more
her place in the shop. She was glad that there was no business doing
that afternoon--that Peckham in the aggregate was undisturbed with
thoughts of stationery. She could sit there and deliberate upon her
plans for bringing Harriet and Sidney together--they must be happy at
least, and she must not go away from England uncertain about their
future. Two old sweethearts, whose liking for each other had only been
temporarily disturbed--for whose happiness she had made many efforts,
and did not flinch at this one. After all, she thought, their happiness
would be hers--and she should go away content.
Then there rose before her that future for herself, and she could see in
the new life, in the new world, that which her father had prophesied.
All the old troubles would be left behind on the old battle-ground; she
would make up her mind to that, and thus life would be different with
her, and happiness for her, perhaps, follow in due course. She had no
idea of being unhappy all her life, because she had discovered that
Sidney Hinchford's heart had been true to its first love; on the
contrary, she was certain now that she should get over all her romantic
difficulties in a very little time. At the bottom of all this was the
woman's pride to be above all petty sorrowing for those who had never
really loved her,--as she deserved to be loved,--and that would keep her
strong, she knew.
Afar, then, she saw herself happy enough in the new world--with the
familiar faces of her father and Ann Packet to remind her of the old.
New friends, new pursuits, new incentives to do good, and defeat evil at
every turn of her life--her young life still--with scope for energy and
a fair time given her, not entirely alone, and never unloved, there
would be nothing to disturb, and much to gladden, the future progress of
the stray.
When her father returned in the evening, he found her very anxious to
learn the result of his second journey to London.
"Were you in time?" she asked.
"Yes. It's all settled, my dear."
"I am very glad of that," she murmured; "there is no uncertainty about
our next step."
"No--we must see Sidney now, dissolve partnership, and put the shutters
up, Mattie."
"We must write to him in a day or two about the partnership--I would
prefer that they know nothing of our intentions until the last
instant--until we are ready to go--perhaps until we _are_ gone. I don't
think I could stand up against all their good-byes and best wishes--I
would rather go away quietly, with you and Ann."
"Ann!"
"We must not forget her."
"She'll never go to the Cape, my dear--she can't go to Finsbury to bank
her wages without hysterics, now."
"Because she's nervous, and I don't go with her," said Mattie.
"Ah! I see--you're right, my child. Ann Packet will have no fear about
accompanying _us_. And she'll make a much handier servant than a Zulu
Kaffir."
"And we'll go away quietly," said Mattie again.
"Yes my dear, if you wish it. I object to anything in the dark, but as
it's for your sake--I promise."
"Thank you," whispered Mattie.
Whilst Mattie was writing a letter to Harriet Wesden, as she had
promised Maurice Hinchford--Mr. Gray broke the news to Ann Packet, and
impressed secrecy upon her. Ann Packet was asked to state her wishes,
and Mattie looked up from her desk and smiled at the old faithful
servant.
"Anywhere's you like," said Ann, without a moment's hesitation; "black
men or brown men--I suppose they're one or tother there--won't matter
anythink to me. I'm too old to care about the colour on 'em. And, Miss
Mattie"--she always called our heroine Miss Mattie in Mr. Gray's
presence--"whilst you're at your desk, do'ee give notice at my bank
about my money."
"Plenty of time, Ann," said Mr. Gray; "we shan't leave here for two
months yet, at least."
"Then give 'em two months' notice," was Ann's rejoinder. "There's
thirty-seven pounds nine and sevenpence halfpenny in there, and they may
as well be told to get it ready for me. If they've been a speccilating
with it, it'll give 'em time to call it in."