Mattie:—A Stray (Vol 3 of 3)

HALF THE TRUTH.

Mattie, as we are already aware, had found Mr. Wesden the sole occupant of that house in Camberwell, whither the stationer had retired from the stirring business of life. He was alone, dull and dispirited; Harriet had gone to a thanksgiving festival at her favourite church, and her father, whom night-air affected now, was left to read his newspaper, or to think of old times, as his inclination might suggest.

Harriet always offered to remain at home to keep her father company, but old Wesden was not a selfish man; he offered no objection to her departure; it would do her good, and be a change for her. It had long ago suggested itself to him that there was nothing like change to keep Harriet well and all unpleasant thoughts away from her; and if it were only the mild excitement of religious change, it was better than brooding at home over events which had passed and left marks of their ravages.

Mr. Wesden brightened up at Mattie's visit; he had put away his pipe, and was sitting with his feet on the fender and his hands on his knees, thinking of his daughter and of the chance she had lost in not marrying Maurice Hinchford, when Mattie intruded on his reverie.

The old friends—friends who had quarrelled and made it up, and become the best of friends again—sat down together and talked of the past, of what a business that was in Suffolk Street once, slow, and sure, and money-getting. Mr. Wesden was inclined to talk more in his old age, Mattie fancied, and when he drifted to the usual subject with which all topics invariably ended—his daughter—Mattie did not stop him.

She had come to find out the truth, if possible—to make sure! Next to Sidney Hinchford, stood Harriet Wesden in her regard; she remembered all that Harriet had been to her, all that impulsiveness of action combined with steadiness of love which had won Mattie towards her in the early days, and was not likely to turn her from her then.

But the truth had been hard to arrive at; Mr. Wesden spoke of Harriet's new pursuits, of her indignation at Maurice Hinchford's offer; he could tell her little more than Maurice Hinchford had done, save that there were times when his daughter seemed very dull and thoughtful.

"P'raps it's the church, Mattie," he had said; "I wish you'd come more often and talk to her, like—like you used."

"She does not think that I have neglected her—forgotten her?"

"Oh! no."

"When I meet her here, she seems very different to me—almost cold at times," said Mattie.

"Only her way, Mattie," explained the father, "she's very different to all, now. She was more like herself after Mr. Hinchford called—Lor'! that roused her for a day or two beautifully. It was quite a treat to see her out of temper all the next day—flouting like!"

Mattie waited till half-past eight, and then took her leave, thinking that she would go home by the church-way and meet Harriet. But Harriet had gone round by the main thoroughfare, having a call to make, and so the old companions missed each other.

Mattie scarcely knew what she should have said to Harriet on meeting her, save the usual commonplace remarks; she fancied that she might have told her story of Sidney's proposal, and watched the effect—might have looked her sternly in the face, and asked if it were all true that Maurice Hinchford had asserted. It depended upon circumstances what she would have confessed or asserted; after all, did it matter what were Harriet Wesden's feelings, if Sidney had ceased to love Harriet and turned to Mattie Gray?

But Sidney was blind then, and his heart, ever full of gratitude, had deceived him. Perhaps he had read her secret by some means, and taken pity on her. Pity!—and she had told him that she scorned it! Well, true or false, right or wrong, she must wait a few days longer—for better, for worse, there was no keeping that truth back, unless it died with Sidney.

Mattie made the best of it, as usual. Hers was a mind of uncommon strength, although her slight figure and gentle face suggested to an observer the very reverse of a "strong-minded woman." The next day, she was the Mattie that deceived even her father, who had been alarmed at her yester-night. She had got over her headache, she said; she could talk of business-matters, and of going to the warehouse for fresh stock, of the customers on "the books," and of the customers—a few of them by the laws of business—who were never likely to get off them. In the morning, too, came an immense order, that staggered Mr. Gray—an order for stationery, pens, ink, and paper, &c., from Hinchford and Son, bankers.

"They've given their relation a turn—I don't think Sid would like it much," said Mr. Gray.

Mattie affected an interest in these new customers, and Mr. Gray, who admired large orders, though he was not a worldly man, trotted about the shop and rubbed his hands. The first customer who entered, and told him that it was a fine day, was assured that "Yes it was. A fine order, a very fine order indeed!"

Orders taken, delivered, and goods paid for; time making inroads into the new week; people beginning to talk of coming spring, and of the cold weather breaking up for good; Mattie waiting for the summons to Sidney Hinchford's side, and wondering why Dr. Bario was so long; the hour in which to answer Sidney approaching, and she still unresolved as to what was best and just—for others, as well as for herself!

The message came at last—by special messenger, and private cab; a dashing Hansom, with the Hinchford crest on the panel, drawn by a thorough-bred mare, which brought out all the horse-fanciers from the livery-stables at the corner to look at and admire.

Mattie opened Maurice Hinchford's hastily written note.

"Dear Miss Gray," it ran, "we have resolved upon the operation to-day. Sidney is prepared—calm and hopeful of the result. I never knew a fellow with so little fear in him. Bring Miss Wesden if you think fit.

"Yours very truly,

"Maurice Hinchford."

Bring Miss Wesden! Mattie had never thought of that, and for the first time the woman's natural jealousy seized her. Take her rival to his side, and let her comfort him, and she standing aloof and unacknowledged!—why should she do that? Thrust upon Sidney Hinchford's thoughts, at such a time, the old love; let him see, perhaps, Harriet Wesden's beauty and her own plain face side by side, the very instant that he stepped back, as it were, to his old self!

Then came better thoughts—thoughts more true to this high-minded stray of ours. It was light, or madness, or death; if it were a failure, and he should die, swiftly and suddenly—if till the last he had deceived her, and his true nature were to assert itself, and he express a wish—one last yearning wish to see Harriet Wesden—what could she say?—in the future how that reproach of not having done her best would crush her with remorse!

She was in the cab; she had made up her mind; there was to be no longer any hesitation.

"Drive to Myer's Street, Camberwell."

The thorough-bred mare stepped out and cleared the roadway; the shop and the little excited man at its door were in the background, and Mattie was being whirled along to Mr. Wesden's house. In a very little while, Mattie was driven to the old friend's. Mr. Wesden was gardening in his fore-court, or attempting something of the kind, with a little rake he had bought at a toy-shop; he dropped his rake, and stared over the private cab and its occupant at the up-stairs windows of the opposite residence.

"Mattie," he said, when she was at the gate, and had opened it and entered before he had recovered his astonishment, "what's the matter? Who's cab is that?—the stationery business won't stand cabs, yet awhile, I know."

"Where is Harriet?—not out again?"

"No, in the parlour—this way."

Mattie and Mr. Wesden entered the house. Harriet was in the front parlour—the best room, which had been Mrs. Wesden's pride, and a dream of the old lady's in business days,—working busily away at a pair of crimson slippers, with large black crosses on the instep—High Church slippers, every inch of them. Not slippers for a simpering curate to receive anonymously, as a mark of esteem from a fair unknown—Harriet was above that; but good colossal slippers, for the gouty feet of her pastor and master, who could not wear tight boots in the house, and had even been known to preach in something easy.

Harriet, who had noted the arrival, was ready to receive Mattie. She ran to her and kissed her. Harriet's first impulse was a kind and loving one whenever she met Mattie first; only as the interview lengthened, did her doubts—if they could be called doubts—step in and range themselves formally beside her, and render her almost reserved. The kiss with which they parted, always savoured more of the new Harriet, than of the bright-faced beauty whom Sidney had once loved, Mattie thought.

"Harriet, I want you to come with me, if you will," said Mattie.

"I am rather busy just now, Mattie," said Harriet; "where do you wish to take me?"

"To see Sidney Hinchford," was the calm reply.

"To see whom!" ejaculated Harriet.

Before Mattie could explain, Harriet added—

"What object can you have in taking me to him?—in coming in this strange hurried manner for me? Has he sent you?"

"No."

"He has no wish that I should be near him, I am sure. This is eccentric and foolish—what do you mean by it?"

Harriet's haughty gesture would have done more credit to royal blood than to old Wesden's.

Mattie caught her by the wrist, so that Harriet should not escape her, or hide any sign of emotion which she might wish to conceal when all was known.

"You must come! There is no excuse. In a few hours Sidney Hinchford may be dead!"

Did the change upon that face tell all, or was it the natural result of such news as Mattie had hissed forth?

"Dead!—dead did you say?" asked Harriet, hastily.

"I did not tell your father a few nights ago that Sidney had left us—I reserved the news for you, and then missed you going home. He is in the hands of clever and scientific men, who hope to cure him of his blindness."

"Yes—go on."

"But there is a chance of failure, which Sidney risks, and thinks, perhaps, too lightly of. That failure will not subject him to his old estate, but drive him mad, or kill him."

"And you have let him risk his life—you!"

Away went the ecclesiastical slippers to the other end of the room; some wool got entangled in her hands, and she snapped it impatiently in two in preference to unwinding it; she turned to Mattie, full of reproach, fear, and indignation. Yes, the love was living still! Mattie might have known long ago that it had never died away, and that to keep it in subjection had been the task which Harriet had set herself, and failed in.

"They will murder him!—you have let them take him away to work their dangerous experiments upon, and you will have to answer for this!"

"Sidney was resolved—his cousin wished it—I had no power to stop it."

"Mattie, he loves you. He would have done as you wished."

"Who says he loves me?" asked Mattie. "I have never uttered a word to give you that belief, Harriet—have I?"

"No—but——"

"I don't own it now—I say nothing, but ask you to come with me. If I loved him, or mistrusted you, should I be here?"

"What am I to do?" asked the bewildered Harriet. "Oh! tell me, what can I do?"

"Maurice Hinchford thinks it possible—I think it possible—that Sidney may wish to speak to you before or afterwards. We may retire and see him not, or we may face him. If it should end as we all pray not, and hope not, you, at least, must not be away!"

"No, no!—I would not be away from him for all the world," cried Harriet. "I will go with you at once."

She darted out of the room, and Mr. Wesden seemed to take her place as if by magic before Mattie.

"What's it all mean, my girl?"

Mattie had to struggle with many conflicting emotions, and sober down sufficiently to relate the nature of her visit. Before she had half finished her statement, Harriet was with them again.

"Let us go at once, Mattie!—father will hear all when I return."

She almost dragged Mattie from the room; they were both in the cab, and rattling away from Camberwell, before Mr. Wesden fully comprehended that they had left him.

"Mattie, it is kind of you to think of me at this time," said Harriet. "You have read me more truly than I have read myself. I am a wicked and unjust woman."

"No—that's not true."

"I have had wicked thoughts of you—you that I have known so long, and should have estimated so truly, knowing what you have ever been to me. But, oh! Mattie, I have been so wretched and unhappy, that you will forgive me?"

"Don't say any more, please."

Harriet looked askance at the pale face beside her—the eyes were half closed, and the thin lips compressed.

"Do you feel ill?"

"No—the excitement of all this may have been a little too much for me—we will not talk of ourselves just now. Time enough for your confession, and for mine, when we return."

"How shall we return?—with what hopes or fears of him? What made his cousin and you think of me being near him? Did he wish it?"

"I don't know."

"Has he thought of me all this while?—loved me despite all? Oh! if that were true, Mattie."

"If it were true, Harriet—what a difference!"

"And now perhaps to die, and I never to know his real thoughts of me. Well, I should die too—I'm sure of that now!"

"Harriet, you can trust me again?"

"Yes, with all my heart."

"Patience, then—we will say no more until we are sure that the truth faces us."

They were silent for the remainder of the way; people who passed on the footpath, and glanced towards the occupants of that private cab, wondered at the two pale, grave-faced women sitting side by side therein.

ALL THE TRUTH.

The house wherein Sidney was waiting for the best or worst, was situated in Bayswater. A house that had been taken at Maurice's expense, and by Dr. Bario's suggestion. The Italian doctor was a man with a love of effect—one of those stagey beings whom we meet occasionally in England, and more often on the Continent. He was fond of mystery; it enhanced the surprise, and gained him popularity. He was a clever man, but he was also a vain one.

His style of practice he kept to himself; whether his cures were effected by the common methods of treatment, or by methods of his own, were hard to arrive at; he bound his patients and his patients' friends to secrecy; some of his English medical contemporaries called him a quack, others a mad-man—a few, just a few, to leaven the mass, thought that there was something in him. Abroad he was at the top of the tree and sought after—matter-of-fact England not being able to make him out, eyed him suspiciously.

Mattie and Harriet were ushered into a well-furnished room on the first floor, where Maurice Hinchford awaited them. He went towards them at once, and shook hands with them—even with Harriet Wesden, who had faced him with such stern words during their last interview. There was a common cause that bound all three together, and the past was forgotten.

"We are in time?" asked Mattie.

"Plenty of time, thank you."

"Where is Sidney?"

"In the room beyond there, where the curtain hangs before the door."

"Have you told him that we are here?" asked Mattie.

"Yes, he is very anxious to speak with you both before he is left in Dr. Bario's hands."

"You are hopeful of good results?" asked Harriet.

"Yes—very hopeful—are not you?" he asked curiously.

"No—I fear the worst."

"You have not considered the matter, Miss Wesden—this has come upon you with the shock of a surprise, and hence the feeling that distresses you. But I say he shall get better—we have all determined to make an extraordinary case of him."

"Hush, sir!—he is in God's hands, not yours," said Harriet.

"I beg pardon—of course."

Maurice withdrew, a little downcast at Harriet's reproof; he had assumed an over-cheerful air to set them at their ease, and they had not understood him. They fancied that he was not anxious, when he felt all a brother's suspense. He had been with Sidney day and night; he had studied Sid's wishes, sought to keep him cheerful, read to him, had wound himself into Sid's heart, and by the act enlarged his own and purified it. The cousins understood each other; all the past had been atoned for now; there was no element of bitterness in the forgiveness which Maurice had sought and Sidney granted.

Maurice was called away, and presently returned with the Italian doctor, to whom he introduced Miss Wesden.

"What is there to fear, sir?" was Harriet's first question.

She had heard all from Mattie, but was not satisfied until all had been told her again from the doctor's lips. He still spoke of the chances for and against success.

Presently, and before he had concluded, Mr. Geoffry Hinchford was ushered into the room and introduced to the ladies there.

After a bow of the old-fashioned school, he said—

"This young lady," indicating Mattie, "I have had the pleasure of seeing before. Some years ago, when she thought I had a design to rob a shop in Suffolk Street. Am I right, Miss Gray?"

He spoke in jest, but Mattie responded gravely enough. It was no time for jesting, and she thought that Mr. Geoffry Hinchford's remarks were strangely mal-ápropos. His manner changed, when he faced Doctor Bario in his turn.

"You most cure this patient, sir, and name your own terms. My son and I will chance your breaking the bank."

"You are good—very," said the pleased doctor, "and I am much obliged."

"We shall have him at his old post, I hope, ladies," said he, veering round to the fair sex again. "A banking-house is his proper sphere—he will rise to greatness with a fair chance. I do not know any man who deserves greatness better—a true man of business—what a contrast to his poor father!"

Maurice had withdrawn, and now returned again.

"He is ready to see the ladies now; keep him up, please, and speak cheerfully of the future—that's right, doctor, I believe?"

"Quite right."

"One at a time. Mattie, he will see you first, he says."

Mattie's heart leaped anew at this; she passed beneath the curtain which Maurice Hinchford held above her head, and went through the door to a large room where Sidney was awaiting her. The sun was shining through the windows upon him—a pale, calm figure, sitting there.

"Mattie," he said.

"Yes—I have come."

The door opened again, and Doctor Bario entered, taking up a position where he could watch his patient's face. There must be nothing calculated to excite his patient now.

Sidney shook hands with Mattie, saying—

"It has come at last—and we shall know the worst or the best in a few minutes."

"You are not nervous of the result?—your pulse beats calmly, Sidney."

"I have steeled my nerves to it—I shall not shrink, and I am hopeful."

"Miss Wesden is here."

"You fetched her hither, Maurice tells me," he answered. "You are not a jealous woman, Mattie."

"Have I a right to be jealous yet, before my mind is made up?" she answered, lightly.

"The month draws on apace—I am looking forward to the future."

"Time," said Doctor Bario, and Mattie withdrew, after a silent pressure of hands, given and returned. Mattie went towards the doctor instead of the door.

"These interviews must tend to excite him—his pulse is less regular than it was, sir."

"I am sorry for it," said Bario, coolly, "but he will have his way—he is one man impetuous in that. He thinks it is better, in case of anything!"

Mattie backed from him in horror; did Sid fear the result of the experiment himself now? Harriet was waiting anxiously for her return.

"Be careful," whispered Mattie, as she passed in, and Mattie followed her with her wistful eyes. They were a long while together, she thought; longer than was necessary, or Doctor Bario should have allowed. What had Harriet Wesden to say to him?—what would she say in moments like those?

The curtain was drawn back, and Harriet, with flushed cheeks, and tearful eyes, came rapidly towards Mattie.

"What have you said to him?" asked Mattie, almost fiercely.

"What I would have said to him had he been dying—as he will die!—oh! as he will die, I am sure of it."

"I pray God not," ejaculated Mattie.

"I asked him if he had forgiven me—if he would believe that when he gave me up I loved him with my whole heart, and looked for no happiness without him."

"You told him that!—you dared to tell him that at such a time!"

"I could not have told him at any other, and he was about to be sacrificed by his own will and these mad relations, who have persuaded him to this! He will die, I am sure of it."

"Don't say it again—I must hope, Harriet, and you drive me mad by this excitability. What have you done?"

"Strengthened his courage—been rewarded by the 'God bless you, Harriet!' which escaped him."

"Did he say no more?"

"Nothing but 'Too late!' In his heart he must feel that he will die, or he would not have said that. Oh! those awful words, which will ring in our ears and be our torment when this is over. Mattie, I must stop it!"

Mattie held the excited girl in her own strong arms, and backed her to a greater distance from the door of the room where Sidney was; at the same moment the banker returned from his fugitive interview with his nephew, and stood at the window taking snuff by wholesale. A confusion seemed to suddenly pervade the scene; an assistant, then another entered, and passed into Sidney's room; a third assistant ushered across the room wherein they waited, a physician, with whom Mr. Geoffry Hinchford shook hands, and took snuff for an instant. Maurice looked through the curtain for an instant, held up his hand, and then withdrew again. The instant afterwards the door was locked on the inner side, and a silence as of death settled upon the three watchers without.

All was still; the thick walls and the closed doors deadened every sound. Once and only once Dr. Bario's voice giving some orders startled the banker and the two girls cowering at the extremity of the room.

"How still!" whispered Harriet at last, and Mattie bade her be silent. Mattie was listening with strained ears for sounds from within, and the fear that had beset Harriet settled at last upon herself and unnerved her. How long would it be now, each thought and wondered—minutes, hours, or what?

"This waiting is very awful," said Mr. Geoffry Hinchford, suddenly, and Mattie bade him hush also, in an angry tone that made him jump again.

Suddenly the door was unlocked, and the three started up with clenched hands and suspended breath. Two of the assistants came forth hurriedly, and went out of the room. To the eager questions that were put to them they answered something in Italian, and balked the longing of their questioners. Then Maurice appeared, and cried,

"Success!—success! A statue in gold for Dr. Bario! The——"

"Hinchford," called the doctor from within, "come back—he calls you."

"No, not me," said Maurice, whose ears caught the English accent more perfectly, "he calls Harriet—may she come?"

"Yes, for an instant—quick!"

Harriet darted across the room with a suppressed cry; the old fear had seized her again.

"He is dying!—I knew it!"

"No, no, he will live for you!" cried Mattie, wringing her hands together; "go to him!"

Harriet passed into the room, and recoiled for an instant at the utter darkness and blackness of the place she had left so light. Maurice put his hands upon her wrist, and drew her forwards. Dr. Bario's voice arrested him.

"He has fainted—take her out again. He must speak to no one any more to-day."

"But he will die!—oh! sir, will he not die?" cried Harriet.

"He will live; he will be as well in three weeks as ever—please withdraw."

Harriet and Maurice Hinchford came back together.

"There is no use in waiting," Maurice said; "the result is as successful as I anticipated. Let me recommend you to return home at once, Miss Wesden. Miss Gray will accompany you, I am sure."

"Mattie, will you come with me?" asked Harriet, faintly.

Mattie moved like an automaton towards her, and the two went out together arm-in-arm, down the broad staircase to the hall, from the hall to the street, where Maurice's cab still waited for them.

"I am faint and ill, Mattie," said Harriet, sinking back.

"Will you rest awhile?"

"No—let us get home at once. How coldly and quietly you take this news, Mattie!" she said, looking intently at her; "ah! if you had only loved him like me all your life!"

"If I had!" murmured Mattie, "this would have broken my heart!"

"Hearts don't break with joy, Mattie, or I should not see another morning."

"No. You are right—not with joy!"

STRUGGLING.

Had Harriet Wesden been less disturbed by all the trials of that day, she might have wondered more at Mattie's manner, and have guessed more shrewdly at the truth. But she had suspected unjustly; and feeling now that Sidney loved her, and had always loved her, there were dissipated for ever all bitter memories. It was Mattie's turn to change, but Harriet did not notice it at that time; Mattie had become distant, grave; in the first shock of the real truth—though Mattie had seen it advancing, and thought herself prepared to meet it—it was impossible to smile and feel content. Harriet was anxious that the old friend should stay with her at Camberwell for awhile, but Mattie was firm in her refusal.

"I must get home—I am very weary!" she murmured.

So they had parted, and Mattie had returned home to offer the great news concerning Sidney, and then escape to her room and be seen no more that night. What happened on that night—what resolves, what struggles, we need not dwell on here; she was one who had been injured—the best of women come in for the greatest injuries at times—and it was not a night's thought or struggle which could set her right. She was a heroine, but she was a woman—and women brood on matters which affect the heart for a long, long time after we have been deceived by their looks.

Mattie did not blame Sidney; she saw how far he had been led to deceive himself, and how far pity and gratitude had betrayed him; she knew that he considered himself bound to her still, and that only her word could release him from his. She felt that he was miserable like herself, and she fretted impatiently for the day when she could let him go free to his sphere, and to the only woman whom he had loved.

But the change had not been good for her; she was not resigned yet; her heart was in rebellion. Life before her seemed a dreary vista—a blankness on which no light could shine; ever in the world ahead, she traced her figure plodding onwards without a motive in life, or a hope that had not been lost in it—from first to last, only in various disguises, and on different roads, ever the Stray!

Was she better off now than in the old, old days when she walked the London streets bare-footed, and sang or begged for bread—even stole for it once or twice? No one had loved her then, or taken heed of her; a few had pitied her at that time as they might pity her in this, if she were weak enough to tell her story to them. Her father would pity her, but did he love her, she thought gloomily? She was not inclined to do him justice in that dark estate of hers; he had never wholly understood her; she had become a necessity to his existence, and he was grateful for it, as Sidney had been grateful—nothing more! Yes, she stood alone—for the love and generous hearts around her womanhood, she might be on a mountain top, with the cold, unsympathetic winds freezing her as she lingered there. Almost with regret she looked back at the past, and wondered if it had been well to save her from the dangers that surrounded her; she might have fought against them, and grown up more ignorant perhaps, but more loved. In a different sphere she would have made different friends, and known nothing of this genteel life, where there had been no happiness, and much trouble and remorse!

Hence, by noting Mattie's thoughts, we arrive at the conclusion that this was Mattie's darkest hour; that a change had befallen her which time might remedy, or might harden within her to a wrong—it depended upon the forces brought to bear upon her, and her own heart's strength.

She had heard nothing of Sidney since the experiment in a direct manner. Maurice had met her father in the streets, and informed him that all was progressing well, and Sidney was gaining ground rapidly—that had been "information enough for the Grays," Mattie thought, a little bitterly; there was no occasion for further visits to out-of-the-way districts, now the banker's son could exult over the result of his scheming! From Harriet no news had reached her, and Mattie had not sallied forth in search of her. The day on which Mattie was to have made up her mind and answered Sidney came and went without anyone taking heed of it. When would the sign come that he remembered her?—what would he do and say when he was well again?—what would he think of her?

Mr. Gray did not observe any particular change in his daughter; she was graver and more thoughtful, but he attributed that to her concern for Sidney's recovery. Once he was about to speak of Sidney's proposal to Mattie, and was asked, almost imploringly, to say no more; but he was not alarmed. Mattie was nervous still, and had not recovered the shock yet. She was his dutiful daughter whom he loved, and though her grave face did not become her years, still it was the face of a girl who took things studiously and reverently, and he was proud of it. Serious people suited Mr. Gray; his daughter was becoming every day more worthy of him, thank God!

Still there was one watcher on whom Mattie had not reckoned—a watcher who knew all the story, and guessed more than Mattie could have wished—to whom every change in Mattie was a thing of moment, which affected her. This humble agent, who had watched thus, since the time Mattie was a child, had some inkling of the truth—hearts that have but one idol are sensitive enough. Through the stolidity, the inflexibility of Mattie, Ann Packet read the despair, and charged it with her honest force.

One night, when Mattie thought that the house was quiet for good—meaning by that, that her father and Ann Packet were in their rooms, and asleep—she was sitting by her little toilet-table, dwelling upon a hundred associations, that all verged to one common centre, when a tapping on the panels of her door startled her.

"Who's there?" she asked; "is that you, Ann?"

"Yes—let me in."

She demanded it as a right, rather than as a favour, but Mattie admitted her without opposition. Ann Packet entered with her cap awry—hanging in fact, by strange filaments, to her back comb—and she placed herself in front of Mattie, with her arms akimbo, quite defiantly.

"Now, what's the matter with you?"

"Have I complained?—is there likely to be anything the matter, Ann?"

"Yes, there is. And you'll just tell me, please, what is it!"

"Ann, you forget yourself."

"No, it's you who is forgetting yourself, and me, and all you had a liking and a love for wunst. It's you as has altered so dreffully, that I can only think of one thing to make you different."

"Don't tell me!—don't tell me!" Mattie entreated.

Ann Packet took no heed.

"It's him!" she whispered.

Mattie did not answer; she went back to her seat by the toilet-table, and turned her head away from the one faithful to her, to the last. She was vexed that she had not kept her secret closer, and deceived them all!

"It's no good telling me it ain't him, Mattie—cos it is!" Ann Packet said, after following Mattie to the table, and taking another chair facing her; "there's nothing else—there can't be nothing else, girl. Well, I wouldn't grieve because his sight's come back—that's not right!"

"Do you think I grieve for that?" cried Mattie, fired into defence; "oh! Ann, how can you ever think so badly of me!"

"Then you're afraid that he won't like you any more?"

"How do you know he ever liked me, or said he did?"

"I—I guessed as much."

Ann Packet, we know, possessed a secret as well as Mattie.

"You guessed wrongly."

"I guessed what you did, Mattie—there!"

"I am not always in the right, Ann," was the hard answer; "I am a foolish woman, ever ready to drop into the snare of a few fine words!"

Ann scarcely understood her; but she went on resolutely—

"You think he's tired of you—that it won't come right now. Why not?"

"Nothing can come right out of nothing," said Mattie, passionately, and not too clearly; "I can't be worried like this, Ann. I have nothing to tell you; I am what I have always been. If there be a difference, it is only that I am getting older, and more world-worn. Won't you believe me?"

"No, I won't. I think I know you well enough by this time, and aren't to be done by any reason short of what's a true un. Oh! Mattie gal, you're not happy; you, who have done so much for happiness to other people—and this shan't be, if I can help it! You and Mr. Hinchford must get married; and if there's been a quarrel, that'll mend, it."

"Mr. Hinchford and I will never marry, Ann."

"You mean it?"

"Yes."

"I don't see why," said Ann, reflectively.

"Mr. Hinchford will marry Harriet Wesden—they are old lovers, and true ones."

Ann Packet looked fixedly for awhile at Mattie, and then burst forth:

"Let him! Pr'aps he's fitter for her than you, if he's weak-minded and babyish, and can't tell what's best for him. Let him pack up his traps and go—you can do without him." Ann Packet, carried away by the feelings of the moment, went on, in a higher key. "You're too good for him, and the likes of him, and ain't agoing begging because a pink-faced gal is set afore ye. You're young yet. You've people to love you, and take care on you—you shan't be lonely, and you shall get over all your disappintments and be as happy as the day is long. It isn't for you, Mattie, to fret yourself to death because a little trouble's come, and you can't shake it off yet—you'll show 'em that you've never been a fretting, and that you've got a consolation yet, that their goings on can't take away!"

"Well, Ann, where would be your consolation?" asked Mattie.

"Where you taught me to find it, big words and all—where you will never lose it, Mattie, good as you've growed."

There was something touching in the manner with which Ann Packet snatched from the toilet-table the little Bible that always had a place there, and laid it suddenly in Mattie's lap. Mattie shivered, even cowered somewhat at the demonstration; it had been unexpected as that interview, and for the first time in her life Ann Packet took the vantage ground, and Mattie looked up to her.

"When you turned good, Mattie," said Ann, "you turned to that—you read it to me, and tried to make me read it, telling me that there was comfort to be found there for my loneliness. I found it—so will you, child. You can't miss what you found me!"

"It does not follow," murmured Mattie.

"Yes it does," said Ann, who would not abate one jot of her assertions; "with you, who ain't like tother people, and who never was. You liked tother people better than yourself, and so got posed upon—but you're all the better for it—lor bless you!—you'll see that in there. And, Mattie, there's your father and me, still—we shan't drop away from you. The likes of me," she added, after a little more reflection, "isn't much to brag on, but you'll find me allus true—that's something."

"Everything!"

"You ain't like me, with no one to look to—with no one but you in all the world that would do me a good turn if I wished it ever so. With you there isn't one but'd go anywhere to help you, knowing what a contented soul you are. And when it comes to you, allus so cheerful, getting mopish—you, who finds somethin' good in things that others fret at, and makes us warm and comfurble instead o' shivering with fright—why, it's sixes and sevens all a topsy turvy anyhow, and no one to look up to nowhere!"

"I must come back to my old self, if I have wandered from it so much that your honest heart is touched by the change, Ann," said Mattie. "Perhaps I have been gloomy without a cause—perhaps you are right and I am wrong—though I don't confess to all your implications, mind—and from you I can bear to hear my lesson better than from others at this time. Ann, I'm not going to break my heart."

"God bless you! I knew that."

"I'm going to be just my old self again—nothing more. Not quite that, suddenly, but finding my way back, as it were. There, you'll leave me now—to think."

"Only to think?" said Ann, with a wistful look at the holy volume in her lap; "it's too much thinking that has done this harm."

"To think what is best, Ann," said Mattie, rising, "and, failing that, to pray for it; there, leave me now. Don't fear for me ever again."

"And I haven't done wrong in talking of all this—you were angry when I first comed in, Mattie?"

"I am glad that you came now—I must have been aging very rapidly to have alarmed one who always had such trust in me. It's all over now!"

When Ann Packet had withdrawn, Mattie clasped her hands together and cried again, "It is all over!" as though for ever some hope had been dismissed rather than some fear. Hopes and fears had perhaps gone down the stream of time together, and it was impossible to arrest the sighs for the fair blossoms which had been once. But she was stronger from that day; Mattie was not likely to harden, and it had only needed one warm-hearted counsellor to turn her from the wrong path she was pursuing. The right counsellor had come—a humble messenger, but a true one; one to whom Mattie could listen without shame.

"I was never fit for him—in his new estate, I might have brought him shame rather than happiness—and it was his happiness I tried for, not my own!"

She sank down on her knees and prayed as honest Ann had wished. But she did not pray for the best to happen as she had promised. She knew what was best for her and others—so far as it is possible to know that—and she asked for strength to do her best.

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 homœopathic 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 dénouement."

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."