"DECLINED WITH THANKS."
It had come at last, that day of explanation. Mattie would not give way
therein; she had long prepared for it, prayed for strength to sever all
past ties, and leave him ignorant, if possible, of her real thoughts
concerning him. Whatever happened, she would be firm, she thought; and
now with Sidney before her, she did not feel that she should waver. An
artificial strength it might be, but it would support her throughout
that interview, whatever might be the reaction after he had passed from
her sight, never to see her again, if she could hinder him.
Ann Packet, who had been out on divers errands, stepped into the shop at
this juncture, marked the occupants of the parlour, and went immediately
behind the counter, to attend to business during that interview, and
confuse the accounts inextricably, supposing that there was any business
likely to drift that way just then.
Mattie and Sidney had the little room all to themselves, and there was
no likelihood of being disturbed. "Now, Mattie"--"Now, Sidney," had been
said between them, and then each waited for the next words--as a
duellist might wait for the sword's-point aimed at his heart.
Mattie spoke first. It was evident that Sidney Hinchford would have
waited all day.
"A few days before you went away from here, Sidney," said Mattie, "you
asked me a question, and I promised that in good time, and with due
consideration, I would reply to it. Do you wish that question answered
now?"
"I have come for it," was the reply.
He knew by Mattie's manner what that answer would be, and he steeled
himself to meet a cold rejection of his offer. All was part and parcel
of the new incomprehensibility upon which he had intruded.
"More than once, Sidney, I have thought of writing my answer to you, but
have found the difficulty of putting all I wish to say into words that
would not look cold and indifferent to the great honour you would have
done me."
"This is satire," he said, hastily.
"Forgive me, it is not intended for that. I would not wound you by a
word, if I could help it. And it was an honour to _me_."
"I deny it," he answered, warmly.
"Ever before you and me that past which there is no shutting from
us--which would have been talked about, and have often brought the blush
of shame to your cheeks for my sake. Ever before you what I have
been--what I am fit for!"
"Fit for a higher station than it is in my power to raise you--no
position is too elevated for a good and pious woman. All this is
argument which I thought that I had combated long since--pardon me for
adding, all this foolish reasoning, utterly unworthy of you."
"Still----"
"It is no reason for declining my hand, Mattie," he interrupted, with
some sternness, "it is simply an excuse."
Mattie winced for an instant, then her quiet voice, firm and even as the
way she had chosen for herself, replied to this--
"Let me proceed, Sidney. You will hear me out fairly, I am sure."
"Why not say No at once?--you mean to tell me that you do not care to be
my wife, and share my home. Is not that your answer?"
"Yes--but I cannot let you think that I have been insensible to your
offer, or not weighed it carefully in my mind before I thought that it
was not right that I should marry you. Sidney, had it pleased God never
to have restored your sight, I would have been your faithful wife,
serving you as I alone was able, perhaps, and rendering you content with
me."
"I see. You would have taken pity on my loneliness--with that strange
idea of being grateful for past kindnesses of a trivial description, you
would have sacrificed your happiness in an attempt to attain mine.
Mattie, it would have been a terrible failure."
"No."
"I say a terrible failure, which would have embittered both lives in
lieu of promoting the happiness of either. I should have discovered the
motives which had placed you at my side, and felt too keenly the
encumbrance that I was upon you."
"I think not!--I am sure not!"
She was anxious to defend herself, to hold her best in his estimation
yet, but she feared the betrayal of her secret. She could have told him
how, for a few fleeting days, she had pictured her greatest happiness to
be ever near him, striving to brighten every thought, and vary the
monotony of every hour--sustaining, comforting, and worshipping. She
could have told him of the affection of a whole life that had been spent
in thinking of him, praying for him; but she held her peace, and let him
think that she had never loved him. In the end, she saw that it was best
to turn him from his purpose.
"I would have married you, Sidney, in affliction--out of gratitude, if
you choose to word it so, but a gratitude that _you_ would have never
known from love," she ventured to say; "but now, when the new life, to
which you will shortly turn your steps, is far removed from mine, when
you require no help from me, and when there are others, fairer, better,
and so much more worthy of you, I cannot hold you to a promise of which
you must repent."
"Why?"
The position by some means had become suddenly reversed. It was she who
had to speak of his pity and gratitude for her.
"Because you would discover that I was not fit to be your wife, that you
had not sought me out of love, but out of kindness towards me for my
services. You had pledged your word in one estate, and you would keep it
in another, like an honest man valuing a promise he had made, and
resolving to go through with it to the end, at whatever cost to his own
better chances. Therefore, Sidney, you must understand that I cannot be
your wife for pity's sake--that the man who is to become my husband,
must love me with all his heart, and soul, and strength, or he may go
his way for me!"
"I said that my romance had died out long ago. That I was too old, and
had experienced too much sorrow to talk like a lover in a novel."
"It seems to me--I do not know, Sid--that true love must belong partly
to romance. It is too pure--too full of fancies, if you will--to mingle
readily with business life; it is too deep down in the heart to rise to
an every-day surface--it is full of sacrifice as well as love. All this,
my idea, not yours, Sidney--I who would at least be romantic in that
fashion, and would care for no one but a romantic lover."
"You have altered, Mattie--you are talking like a school-girl now. If
that be another reason for refusing me, it is unworthy of you."
"It is another reason, for all that," replied Mattie; "let me dismiss it
at once, if you are ashamed of it. You have come hither
oppressed--burdened, I may say--with a sense of duty to me; let me raise
the load from you by saying, that I will not be your wife. If I would
have married you even out of pity myself," she added, a little
scornfully, "I will not take a man for a husband who would have had pity
upon me!"
"Very well," he answered, moodily.
"As your wife, never--but oh! Sidney, as the old friend and sister,
always! Don't think ill of me because I cannot see my way to
happiness--don't think that there is any difference in me, or that I
value you less than I ever did. You understand me?"
"Scarcely, Mattie--you have altered very much."
"You must not think that--I have not altered in any one respect--I would
be ever your friend, ever hold a place in your heart, ever be remembered
as the poor girl who would have died to make you happy!"
"But would not have married me for the same purpose," answered Sidney,
in a kinder tone; "is that it, Mattie?"
"My marriage with you would have rendered you wretched--don't deny it
again, Sid--I am sure of that!"
"Hence your answer. Well, if it must be, I will rest content. I will
believe that it is all for the best."
"Let me tell you another reason--the last--why I would not answer Yes to
you. May I?"
"I am interested in every reason," he said.
"Because you were bound to another whom you loved once--_whom you love
still_."
He sprang to his feet, and then dropped back into his place, as though
shot at by a pistol.
"Do you believe that I would come here with a mask on--a robber, and a
liar?"
"Not intentionally, Sidney; because you have fought hard to keep the old
love back, and to believe that it was gone for ever. You have fostered
that idea by thinking uncharitably of _her_, by turning away from that
true happiness which only marriage with her will ever bring to you. You
are a man who has never changed; and in attempting to live down the
past, have but more clearly discovered the secret of your life."
"What--what makes you think this?"
"I cannot explain it, but it is as true as that you and I will never
marry one another for love, for gratitude, for anything," she answered.
"Harriet Wesden and you should never have parted, but have understood
each other better, and had more faith. You turned from her, and her
pride kept her apart from you; but, Sidney, through all, and before all,
she holds that love still."
"I cannot believe that."
"Your cousin Maurice has told you so--now let me. You will never be
happy without her--do justice to her, if you are the Sidney Hinchford
whom I have ever known. Sidney, you _do_ love her--are you not man
enough to own it?"
"I love her as one who is dead to me--passed away out of my sphere of
action, and never likely to cross it again!" he answered. "I have always
thought so--I would have told you that these were my thoughts, had you
asked me on that night I sought your hand. She was dead to me--gone from
me--some one apart from the girl who lives and breathes in her place."
"That was romance--and that _was_ love!" cried Mattie quickly; "for she
was not dead, her love was not dead, and you were likely to meet in
better faith at any moment unforeseen. Sidney, you _did_ meet--you were
affected by her visit, her evidence of the old tie still existent. Why
deny this to me, to spare my feelings now! I am living for you and
her,--I do not love you, but I am interested in your welfare, and
anxious--oh! so anxious, Sid, to advance it."
"Harriet Wesden and I met under peculiar circumstances, that must have
touched both hearts a little--all was over in an instant, like a
lightning-flash, and here's the sober life again!"
"You _will_ deceive yourself--until two lives are wholly blighted by
your obduracy, you will go on asserting this dreamy theory, and
believing in it."
"You are a strange girl--stranger and more incomprehensible to me than
you have ever been, Mattie," he said wondering. "What can you think of
me, that you coolly ask me to sit here and confess to a passion for
another, after coming for an answer to a love-suit tendered you. By
heaven! it is a mystery, or a dream!"
"When I was a little girl, untutored, and run wild, I used to fancy that
you two would marry; when we shared the same house together, I saw how
fitting you both were for each other--how, in your strength of mind and
purpose, one weak woman would always find support and love. When you
were engaged, I felt a portion of your happiness, understood that you
had chosen well, and knew--knew how proud and happy she must be in your
affection! That was _my_ dream--let it in the end come true, for Harriet
Wesden's sake, for yours--even for the sake of the woman here at your
side, the sister and friend to tell you what is best."
"You are very kind, Mattie, but--but I cannot own to anything. It is not
fear, not shame--God knows what it is, or what I am, or what I really
wish!" he exclaimed irritably.
"Leave it to me."
"No, for myself, my own battles. I will have no woman's interference, no
friend's advice. I will go on to the end my own way."
"It is not ordered so. Look there--is this _chance_ which has brought
her hither to-day, at this hour?"
"Let me go away!" cried Sidney, starting to his feet.
Mattie, flushed and excited, caught him by the wrist; he could have
wrested himself away from her grasp, but he would have hurt her in the
effort, and a something in his own will held him spellbound there.
His sight was weak yet, and though he had guessed to whom Mattie
alluded, he could but dimly distinguish a female figure advancing
towards him, as from the mists of that past sphere of which he had
spoken. It came towards him slowly, even falteringly at last; and he
remained motionless, awaiting the end of all that might ensue on that
strange day.
It was the past coming back to him, to make or mar him. He shivered as
he thought of all the folly he had committed, if, after all, Mattie and
Maurice were right, and even his own heart had misled him. He was a man
whose judgment had been sound through life--why should he have erred so
greatly in this instance?
"Mattie--Mattie!" gasped Harriet, on entering, "what does this mean?"
"That Sidney has been waiting for you," said Mattie, quickly, "to thank
you for all past interest in him. Shake hands, you two, and let me--let
me go away!"
"No, no, don't leave me, Mattie! You must remain. I have been ill. I--I
am very weak."
"If you wish it, for a little while. You two are not enemies now--let me
see you shake hands, then?"
The old sweethearts shook hands together at Mattie's wish, and then
stood shyly looking at each other, each too discomfited, even troubled,
to say a word. Mattie had one more part to play before she could escape
them.