Mattie:—A Stray (Vol 2 of 3)

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!

"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.

STORM SIGNALS.

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.