A NEW ADMIRER.
Master Sidney Hinchford in old times had been a playfellow of Harriet
Wesden--lodging in the same house together, returning from school at the
same hours, they had become almost brother and sister, entertaining for
each other that child's affection, which it was but natural to expect
would have been developed under the circumstances.
Mr. Hinchford, a widower, with no great ability in the management of
children, was glad to see his boy find an attraction in the stationer's
parlour, and leave him to the study of his books or the perusal of his
newspapers, after the long office-hours. He was a thoughtful man, too,
who considered it best for his son to form a friendship with one of his
own age; and he had become attached to the Wesdens, as people who had
been kind to him and his boy in a great trouble. And it was satisfactory
to pair off Harriet Wesden--who was in the way of business, and
generally considered at that period a tiresome child, seldom of one mind
longer than five minutes together--with Master Hinchford, and so keep
her out of mischief and out of the shop where the draughts were many and
likely to affect her health. This good understanding had never
diminished between Harriet Wesden and Sidney Hinchford; only the
boarding-school at last had set them apart. When they met once a year,
they were still the same warm friends, and it was like a brother meeting
a sister when the Christmas holidays came round. The last holiday but
one, when Harriet, who had grown rapidly, returned from Brighton, a girl
close upon sixteen years of age, there was a little shyness at first
between them, which wore off in a few days. Sidney met her after a
year's absence without kissing her, stared and stammered, and found it
hard to assume a natural demeanour, and it was only Harriet's frank and
girlish ways that eventually set him at his ease.
The present Christmas all was altered, very much for the worse, Sidney
thought. He had met, for the first time, a pale-faced, languishing young
lady--a lady who had become very beautiful certainly, but was not the
Harriet Wesden whom he had hitherto known. He had escorted her from the
Brighton station, thinking that she had altered very much, and that he
did not like her new ways half so well as the old; he had seen her every
evening after that return, noted the variableness of her moods, set her
down, in his critical way, for an eccentric girl, whom it was impossible
to understand.
If she were dull, he fancied he had offended her; if she were lively, he
became thin-skinned enough to imagine that she was making fun of him. He
did not like it, he thought; but he found the new Harriet intruding upon
his business ideas, getting between him and the rows of figures in his
ledger, perplexing him with the last look she gave him, and the last
musical word that had rung in his ears. He did not believe that he was
going to fall in love with her--not when he was really in love with her,
and found his sensations a nuisance.
And Harriet Wesden, who had already succumbed to the love-god, and been
enraptured by the dulcet notes of the stranger, she thought Sidney
Hinchford had not improved for the better; that his glasses rendered him
almost plain, that his dry hard voice grated on her ears, and that he
had even grown quite a cross-looking young man. She took occasion to
tell him these unpleasant impressions with a sisterly frankness to which
he appeared to object; gave him advice as to deportment, set of his
neckerchief, size of his gloves, and only became a little thoughtful
when she noted the effect which her advice had upon him, and the
lamb-like docility with which he obeyed all her directions. Finally, all
her spirits came back; she had her doubts as to the state of Sidney
Hinchford's heart, and whether her first judgment on his personal
appearance were correct in the main; she began to observe him more
closely; life appeared to present an object in it once more; her
vanity--for she was a girl who knew she was pretty, and was proud of the
influence which her pretty face exercised--was flattered by his rapt
attention; and though she should never love anybody again--never, never
in all her life!--yet it was pleasant to know that Sidney was thinking
of her, and to see how a smile or a frown of hers brightened his looks
or cast them back into shadow.
Harriet Wesden was partial to experimentalizing on the effect which her
appearance might create on society. She was not a strong-minded girl,
who despised appearances; on the contrary, as weak and as vain as that
Miss Smith or Miss Brown, whose demerits our wives discuss over their
tea-tables. She was not strong-minded--she was pretty--and she was
seventeen years of age!
If she went for a walk, or on a shopping excursion, she was particular
about the bonnet she wore; and if young men, and old men too, some of
them, looked admiringly at her pretty face as they passed her, she was
flattered at the attention in her heart, although she kept steadily on
her way, and looked not right or left in her progress. If the army of
nondescripts in the great drapers' was thrown into a small flutter at
her appearance therein, and white neckclothed servility struggled behind
the boxes for the distinction of waiting on her, it was a gratification
which she felt all the more for remaining so lady-like and unmoved on
the high chair before the counter. She was a girl who knew her
attractions, and was proud of them; but unfortunately she was a girl who
knew but little else, and who thought but of little else just then.
There was a pleasure in knowing that, let her step into any part of the
London streets, people would notice her, even stop and look after her;
and it did not strike her that there were other faces as pretty as hers,
who received the same amount of staring and gaping at, and met with the
same little "romantic" incidents occasionally.
From her boarding-school days, Harriet had been inclined to romance; the
one foolish _escapade_ had tinged life with romantic hues, and pretty as
she was, her opinion of her own good looks was considerably higher than
any one else's. She passed through life from seventeen to eighteen years
of age taking everything as a compliment--flattered by the rude stares,
the impertinent smiles from shallow-brained puppies who leer at every
woman _en route_; rather pleased than otherwise if a greater idiot or a
nastier beast than his contemporaries tracked her footsteps homewards,
and lingered about Great Suffolk Street in the hope of seeing her again.
All this the spell of her beauty which lured men towards her; all this
without one thought of harm--simply an irresistible vanity that took
delight in her influence, and was pleased with immoderate fooleries.
Pretty, vain, foolish, and fond of attention, on the one side; but
good-tempered, good-hearted, and innocent of design on the other. A
butterfly disposition, that would carry its owner through life if the
sun shone, but would be whirled heaven knows where in a storm. She would
have been happy all her life, had all mankind been up to the dead level
of honest intentions, which it is not, just at present, thanks to the
poor wretches like us who get our living by story-telling.
Most young ladies constituted like Harriet Wesden have an ordeal to pass
through for better for worse; if for worse, God help them! Harriet
Wesden's came in due course.
It was, in the beginning, but another chapter of romance--another
conquest! Love at first sight in London Streets, and the fervour of a
new-born passion carrying the devotee out of the track, and leading him
to follow in her footsteps, worshipping at a distance. It had occurred
twice before, and was a compliment to the power of her charms--her heart
quite fluttered at these little breaks in a somewhat monotonous
existence. It was rather aggravating that the romance always ended in an
old-fashioned bookseller's shop in Great Suffolk Street, where "the
mysterious strangers" were jostled into the mud by people with baskets,
and then run down by bawling costers with barrows. That was not a nice
end to the story, and though she wished the story to conclude at the
door, yet she would have preferred something more graceful as a
"wind-up." Nevertheless, take it for all in all, a satisfactory proof
that she had a face pretty enough to lure people out of their way, and
rob them of their time--lead them without a "mite of encouragement" on
her part to follow her fairy footsteps. If there were hypocrisy in her
complaints to Mattie concerning the "impudence" of the fellows, she
scarcely knew it herself; and Mattie would not believe in hypocrisy in
the girl whom she served with a Balderstonian fidelity. The third
fugitive adorer of the stationer's daughter was of a different stamp to
his predecessors. He was one of a class--a gentleman by birth and
position, and a prowler by profession. A prowler in fine clothes of
fashionable cut, hanging about fashionable thoroughfares when London was
in town, and going down to fashionable watering-places when London
needed salt water. A man of the lynx order of bipeds, hunting for prey
at all times and seasons, meeting with many rebuffs, and anon--and
alas!--with sufficient encouragement--attracted by every fresh, innocent
face; seeking it out as his profession; following it with a pertinacity
that would have been creditable in any other pursuit--in fact, a scamp
of the first water!
Harriet Wesden had gone westward in search of a book ordered by a
customer, and had met this man, when homeward bound, in Regent Street.
Harriet's face attracted him, and in a business-like manner, which told
of long practice, he started in pursuit, regulating his conduct by the
future manoeuvres of the object in view. Harriet fluttered on her way
homewards, conscious, almost by intuition, that she was followed;
proceeding steadily in a south-eastern direction, and pertinaciously
keeping the back of her straw bonnet to the pursuer. Had she looked
behind once, our prowler would have increased his pace, and essayed to
open a conversation--a half smile, even a look of interest, the ghost of
an _oeillade_ would have been sufficient test of character for him,
and he would have chanced his fortunes by a _coup d'etat_.
But he was in doubt. Once in crossing the Strand, towards Waterloo
Bridge, he managed to veer round and confront her, but she never glanced
towards him; so with a consideration not generally apparent in prowlers,
he contented himself with following her home. He had his time on his
hands--he had not met with an adventure lately--he was approaching a
region that was not well known to him, and the smell of which disgusted
him; but there was a something in Harriet Wesden's face which took him
gingerly along, and he was a man who always followed his adventures to
an end. Cool, calculating and daring, he would have made an excellent
soldier--being brought up as an idler, he turned out a capital
scoundrel.
Harriet reached her own door and gave a half timid, half inquiring
glance round, before she passed into the shop; our prowler took stock of
the name and the number--he had an admirable memory--examined everything
in the shop window; walked on the opposite side of the way; looked up at
the first and second floor, and met with nothing to reward his vigilance
but the fierce face of old Hinchford; finally entered the shop and
purchased some cigars, grinding his teeth quietly to himself over Mr.
Wesden's suspicions of his sovereign being a counterfeit.
We should not have dwelt upon this incident, had it thus ended, or had
no effect upon our story's progress. But, on the contrary, from the
man's persistency, strange results evolved.
Twice or thrice a week this tall, high-shouldered, moustached _roue_, of
five-and-thirty, appeared in Suffolk Street--patronized the bookseller's
shop by purchases--hulked about street corners, watching the house, and
catching a glimpse of Harriet occasionally. This was the Brighton
romance over again, only Harriet was a year older now, and the hero of
the story was sallow-faced and sinister--there was danger to any modest
girl in those little scintillating eyes of his; and that other hero had
been much younger, and had really loved her, she believed!
Pertinacity appears like devotion to some minds, and our prowler had met
with his reward more than once by keeping doggedly to his post; he held
his ground therefore, and watched his opportunity. Harriet Wesden had
become frightened by this time; the adventure had lost its romantic
side, and there was something in her new admirer's face which warned
even her, a girl of no great penetration.
Mattie was always Harriet's _confidante_ in these matters--Harriet was
fond of asking advice how to proceed, although she did not always take
the same with good grace. That little, black-eyed confidante kept watch
in her turn upon the prowler, and resolved in her mind the best method
of action.
"I'm afraid of him, Mattie," whispered Harriet; "I should not like
father to know he had followed me home, lest he should think I had given
the man encouragement, and father can be very stern when his suspicions
are aroused. Besides, I shouldn't like Sidney to know."
"But he wouldn't believe that you had given him encouragement; he thinks
too much of you, I fancy."
"You're full of fancies, Mattie."
"And--oh! there's the man again, looking under the _London Journals_.
How very much like the devil in a French hat he is, to be sure!"
This dialogue occurred in the back parlour, whilst Mrs. Wesden was
up-stairs, and Mr. Wesden in Paternoster Row in search of the December
"monthlies"--and in the middle of it the devil in his French hat,
stepped, with his usual cool imperturbability, into the shop.
This procedure always annoyed Mattie; she saw through the pretence, and,
though it brought custom to the establishment, still it aggravated her.
It was playing at shop, and "making-believe" to want something; and shop
with our humble heroine was an important matter, and not to be lightly
trifled with. She had her revenge in her way by selling the prowler the
driest, hardest, and most undrawable of cigars, giving him the penny
Pickwicks for the mild Havannahs; she sold him fusees that she knew had
been left in a damp place, and the outside periodicals, which had become
torn and soiled--could she have discovered a bad sixpence in the till, I
believe, in her peculiar ideas of retaliation, she would not have
hesitated an instant in presenting it, with his change.
The gentleman of energy entered the shop then, rolled his eyes over the
parlour blind towards Harriet, who sat at fancy-work by the fireside,
finally looked at Mattie, who stood stolidly surveying him. Now energy
without a result had considerably damped the ardour of our prowler, and
he had resolved to push a little forward in the sapping and mining way.
He was a man who had made feminine pursuit a study; he knew human
weakness, and the power of the money he carried in his pockets. He was
well up in Ovid and in the old comedies of a dissolute age, where the
Abigail is always tempted before the mistress--and Mattie was only a
servant of a lower order, easily to be worked upon, he had not the
slightest doubt. There was a servant who did the scrubbing of the stones
before the door, and sat half out of window polishing the panes, till
she curdled his blood, but she was a red-faced, stupid girl, and as
there was a choice, he preferred that shop-girl, "with the artful black
eyes," as he termed them.
"Good morning, Miss."
"Good morning."
"Have you any--any more of those exceedingly nice cigars, Miss?"
"Plenty more of them."
"I'll take a shilling's-worth."
Mattie, always anxious to get him out of the shop, rolled up his cigars
in paper, and passed them rapidly across the counter. The prowler, not
at all anxious, unrolled the paper, drew forth his cigar-case, and
proceeded to place the "Havannahs" very carefully one by one in their
proper receptacles, talking about the weather and the business, and even
complimenting Mattie upon her good looks that particular morning, till
Mattie's blood began to simmer.
"You haven't paid me yet, sir," she said, rather sharply.
"No, Miss--in one moment, if you will allow me."
After awhile, during which Mattie moved from one foot to another in her
impatience, he drew forth a sovereign and laid it on the counter.
"We're short of change, sir--if you have anything smaller----"
"Nothing smaller, I am compelled to say, Miss."
Mattie hesitated. Under other circumstances, she would have left her
shop, ran into the pork-butcher's next door, and procured change, after
a hint to Harriet to look to the business; but she detected the _ruse_
of the prowler, and was not to be outwitted. She opened her till again,
and found fourteen shillings in silver--represented by a preponderance
of threepenny pieces, but that was of no consequence, save that it took
him longer to count--and from a lower drawer she drew forth one of many
five-shilling packets of coppers, which pawnbrokers and publicans on
Saturday nights were glad to give Mr. Wesden silver for, and laid it
down with a heavy dab on the counter.
"What--what's that?" he ejaculated.
"That's ha'pence--that's all the change we've got--and I can't leave the
shop," said Mattie, briskly. "You can give me my cigars back and get
change for yourself, if you don't like it."
"Thank you," was the suave answer, "I was not thinking much about the
change. If you will buy yourself a new bonnet with it, you will be
conferring a favour upon me."
"And what favour will you want back?" asked Mattie, quickly.
"Oh! I will leave that to time and your kindness--come, will you take it
and be friends with me? I want a friend in this quarter very much."
He pushed the silver and the cumbrous packet of coppers towards her. He
was inclined to be liberal. He remembered how many he had dazzled in his
time by his profuse munificence. Money he had never studied in his life,
and by the strange rule of contraries, he had had plenty of it.
Mattie was impulsive--even passionate, and the effort to corrupt her
allegiance to the Wesdens fired her blood to a degree that she even
wondered at herself shortly afterwards.
"Take yourself out of this shop, you bad man," she cried, "and your
trumpery change too! Be off with you before I call a policeman, or throw
something at you--you great big coward, to be always coming here
insulting us!"
With her impatient hands she swept the money off the counter,
five-shilling packet of coppers and all, which fell with a crash, and
disgorged its contents on the floor.
"What--what do you mean?" stammered the prowler.
"I mean that it's no good you're coming here, and that nobody wants to
see you here again, and that I'll set the policeman on you next time you
give me any of your impudence. Get out with you, you coward!"
Mattie thought her one threat of a policeman sufficient; she had still a
great reverence for that official personage, and believed that his very
name must strike terror to guilty hearts. The effect upon her auditor
led her to believe that she had been successful; but he was only alarmed
at Mattie's loud voice, and the stoppage of two boys and a woman at the
door.
"I--I don't know what you mean--you're mad," he muttered, and then slunk
out of the shop, leaving his cumbrous change for a sovereign spread over
the stationer's floor. Mattie went round the counter and collected the
_debris_ of mammon, minus one threepenny piece which she could not
discern anywhere, but which Mr. Wesden, toiling under his monthly
parcel, detected in one corner immediately upon his entrance.
"Why, Mattie, what's this?--MONEY--_on the floor_!"
"A gentleman dropped his change, sir."
"Put it on the shelf, he'll be back for it presently."
"No, I don't think he will," was Mattie's dry response.