CHAPTER VII.
RETURNED.
Mattie dispatched her letter to Harriet that same evening; in her epistle she expressed surprise that they had not seen each other since the meeting at Dr. Bario's—should she visit her, or would Harriet walk over to Peckham to-morrow afternoon? She would be entirely alone, her father had business in town to attend to, and she was very anxious to see her old friend.
Mr. Gray's business in town did not take him from home till twelve in the morning; prior to that he went to work at his stock. When he returned home, he would endeavour to write a few lines to Sidney Hinchford; and whilst he was thinking what he should say, and whilst, despite his efforts to keep these thoughts back, they would intrude upon his figures, and throw him out in his accounts, Sidney Hinchford himself walked into the shop and stood before the counter, waiting for his partner to look up.
Mr. Gray, unmindful of Sid's propinquity, still bent over the books on his counter, and scratched away with his pen; Sidney, with his glasses on—the old Sidney of Suffolk Street days—stood very erect and still, smiling to himself at the surprise he should create.
Mr. Gray looked up at last.
"God bless me!" he ejaculated, and swept pens, ink, and account books on to the floor in his amazement, "it is you, then!—it must be you!"
"It looks like me somewhat, I hope," said Sidney, laughing and extending his hand, which the other warmly shook.
"Yes," said Mr. Gray, "and what a time it is since we have seen you! We were beginning to think that you had quite forgotten us."
"I never forget my best friends," Sidney replied, "and you and Mattie are the best that ever I have had. Did Mattie think that I was likely to forget her?"
"Well, not exactly," said Mr. Gray, "and if you'll wait a moment I'll run up-stairs and call her——"
"No, you'll stay here," said Sidney, firmly; "don't disturb her on my account. I shall see her presently, and I want to enjoy the luxury of her surprise. Besides, there's no hurry."
"Isn't there?" Mr. Gray asked dreamily.
"Why should there be? I'm here for good."
Mr. Gray had just stooped to pick up his books and inkstand; he dropped them again at this, and then emerged like a phantom above the counter once more.
"You don't mean that?"
"This is my home again. They were very kind to me at Red-Hill, but it wasn't like home, and it never felt like home to me. After Maurice had left for London this morning, I told them my mind very plainly—it's no good telling that harum-scarum fellow anything—expressed my thanks, my gratitude for all that they had done for me, packed up and came away. I was unsettled, dissatisfied, unhappy, somehow—and here I am."
Mr. Gray sank behind the counter again, this time to hide his confusion, which, it was evident, was visibly expressed on his countenance. Sidney back again! Sidney, without preliminary warning, once more entering his home as a friend who expected to be heartily welcomed, and as a partner whom he had no right to ask to go away! Mr. Gray did not see his way very clearly to the end; Sidney's "straightforward" habit of doing things had completely discomfited him for the nonce. He must take his time, and think of this!
He re-emerged from his hiding-place, and laid the débris he had collected on the counter.
"I was taking stock when you came in, Sidney," he said; "just seeing what each share would be, and so on."
"Indeed! what was that for?"
"Why, you—you are going back to the bank again as clerk. I believe you promised that," said Mr. Gray.
"When my sight will allow me—that will be in a month or two's time—I shall return to the old life, God willing. But what is that to do with taking stock?"
"We shall give up this partnership together, of course."
"I don't see why," said Sidney; "I shall still want a home after business-hours, and there is no home but this that I shall ever care for. The business has not become so large an undertaking that Mattie and you cannot manage it."
"No, it's not that."
"And when—when I am married, we can talk about giving it up then, or making it over to you, or anything you like," said Sidney—"and so we'll dismiss the subject."
"For the present—we shall have to talk of it again. Mattie and I are tired of it, and have thought of something new, Sidney. But, we'll explain all presently. Mattie, I have no doubt, would rather tell you herself."
Sidney looked surprised, even discomfited. He did not comprehend the hint which Mr. Gray had thrown out; he did not entirely see the drift of Mr. Gray's conversation, or understand very clearly what was the difference in his partner's manner, which rendered his return something more than an agreeable surprise. He thought that he had discovered the solution to the mystery, and said,
"Old friend, you are vexed at my long silence; you have been harassing yourself—perhaps Mattie and you together—about my anxiety to get away from here, after God has pleased to give me back my sight. And I have been struggling and scheming to get back, and escape the kindness of my relations! Why, Mr. Gray, this will not do—this is not like you to mistrust true friends, and think uncharitably of them after their backs are turned! You should have known me better, and have had more faith in me by this time."
"My dear Sidney," exclaimed Mr. Gray, "I have never had an uncharitable thought towards you. I knew that you would always think well of us—that—that you were not likely to forget us. Until yesterday, I have been building upon your return here, and thinking how happy we should all be together."
"Until yesterday—what happened yesterday?"
"Mattie will tell you, Sidney—I cannot—I must not."
"Very well, we will wait," said Sidney, gravely; "there is nothing she can tell me which I cannot explain away."
"Are you sure?" was the father's eager question.
"Sure," he answered; but there was something in the tone which wavered, and Mr. Gray fancied that he detected it. He said no more, however; he was glad to see Sidney disinclined to elicit further information. Sidney paced the shop once or twice, looked round it, and then went into the parlour, without waiting for Mr. Gray's invitation, and looked carefully and curiously round the room also.
Mr. Gray followed him.
"I see the home for the first time, if you remember," said Sidney; "here, in the darkness, a fair life was spent, thanks to you and her. Here you both first taught me that there was comfort even in affliction; and here stood by my side, and fought my battle, two dear friends. What has altered them?"
"Nothing has altered their love and esteem for you, Sidney," said Mr. Gray; "whatever happens, you must believe that."
"And what has altered my love and esteem for them?" was the quick rejoinder.
"Nothing, I hope—I believe."
"Then let us settle down into our old positions here. I have come in search of peace and rest; of the old comforts which my uncle's grandeur could not give me, and which by contrast only rendered me more restless. I find them here, or nowhere. I take my stand here and expect them, or the disappointment will be a bitter one. This is home!"
He took off his hat, and seated himself by the table—a home-like figure, which Mr. Gray felt was in its place again. He leaned his forehead on his hand, and looked down thoughtfully—an old position in his blindness, which Mr. Gray had often watched, and which drew again more forcibly the heart of the watcher towards him. That heart might have been a little estranged since yester-night; it had borne no malice, but it had thrilled a little at his daughter's confession, and the thought had crossed it that Sidney Hinchford might have spared Mattie an avowal of such weak love as had been borne towards her. Sid had guessed Mattie's secret, perhaps, and taken pity upon her; he was generous enough for that, but he had forgotten that Mattie was not humble enough to accept it. Mr. Gray could almost believe now that all had been a mistake, which Sidney's presence there would satisfactorily explain; and yet Sidney's thoughtfulness and restlessness forebade it.
Sidney looked towards him suddenly.
"What are you thinking of?"
"Of the change in you, Sidney—and of the home that it really looks again for a little while."
"For a little while," echoed Sidney; "oh! you will not explain—call Mattie, then, and let us end this. I always hated mystery," he added, a little peevishly.
Before Mr. Gray could cross the room to fulfil his partner's commands, the door opened. Mattie entered, and paused upon the threshold with her hands to her quickly-beating heart.
"Sidney here—at last?" she faltered forth.
"Yes, at last," he said, advancing towards her; "at last, as your father has said, and now you. I have returned to find that you have both lost confidence in me, and both misunderstood me cruelly."
"I hope not, Sidney."
They shook hands together, and looked one another long and steadily in the face.
"It is upwards of a year since I have seen you, Mattie. It is the same hopeful, earnest face, that I have ever known—can there be a difference in me?"
"No, you are unchanged."
"You both thought that I had forgotten you?"
"No."
"You must prove it by your old ways, then; or I shall never think this place the dear home I left a month ago."
"You have come back to——"
"To stop! Why not?—don't you wish it?"
"I—I will tell you presently—give me time, Sidney."
"I am in no hurry," he answered, coldly.
There was a difference then!—they were inclined to resent his long silence, by something more than a rebuke; they would not understand that he had been kept away against his will, by his doctor's orders, and that he had been cautioned not to write or read, or test his sight more than he could help. They had not been satisfied with his messages sent by Maurice Hinchford; they had mistrusted him! It was all very strange, and intensely disheartening; he could have trusted them all his life, and he had believed that their faith would last as long as his. Presently they would know him better, see that he had not wavered in one thought or purpose, which he had formed before his sight came back; but the consciousness that they had formed an estimate unworthy of his character, would remain with him for ever, and no after-kindness, and fresh faith, would obliterate it from his memory. There was an anxious silence; then the father's and daughter's eyes met.
"I think that I'll run into the City now," he suggested, feebly. He scarcely liked to leave his daughter at this juncture; but he knew her strength, her power to explain, and her wish that he should go. It did not seem natural that he should leave her with that strange young man, and, after he had risen to withdraw, he hesitated again.
He went slowly into the shop, and Mattie followed him.
She had read his thoughts correctly, for she said at once—
"I shall not give way before him. I am firm and cool—feel my pulse, it does not throb more quickly because I have to tell him that I will not be his wife. Before you come back, it will be all over, and I shall be waiting for you—the calm, unmoved daughter, that you see me now!"
"There'll be no scene, then?"
"All commonplace, and matter of fact—I will have no scene," she said firmly.
"Then I'll go. God bless you, my child!—if I couldn't trust you implicitly, I wouldn't move a step."
He went away, and she returned to the parlour, where Sidney had been sitting, a watcher of this whispered conference.
"Now, Mattie," he said.
Mattie sat down a little distance from him, and their eyes met steadily once more, and flinched not.
"Now, Sidney!"
CHAPTER VIII.
"DECLINED WITH THANKS."
It had come at last, that day of explanation. Mattie would not give way therein; she had long prepared for it, prayed for strength to sever all past ties, and leave him ignorant, if possible, of her real thoughts concerning him. Whatever happened, she would be firm, she thought; and now with Sidney before her, she did not feel that she should waver. An artificial strength it might be, but it would support her throughout that interview, whatever might be the reaction after he had passed from her sight, never to see her again, if she could hinder him.
Ann Packet, who had been out on divers errands, stepped into the shop at this juncture, marked the occupants of the parlour, and went immediately behind the counter, to attend to business during that interview, and confuse the accounts inextricably, supposing that there was any business likely to drift that way just then.
Mattie and Sidney had the little room all to themselves, and there was no likelihood of being disturbed. "Now, Mattie"—"Now, Sidney," had been said between them, and then each waited for the next words—as a duellist might wait for the sword's-point aimed at his heart.
Mattie spoke first. It was evident that Sidney Hinchford would have waited all day.
"A few days before you went away from here, Sidney," said Mattie, "you asked me a question, and I promised that in good time, and with due consideration, I would reply to it. Do you wish that question answered now?"
"I have come for it," was the reply.
He knew by Mattie's manner what that answer would be, and he steeled himself to meet a cold rejection of his offer. All was part and parcel of the new incomprehensibility upon which he had intruded.
"More than once, Sidney, I have thought of writing my answer to you, but have found the difficulty of putting all I wish to say into words that would not look cold and indifferent to the great honour you would have done me."
"This is satire," he said, hastily.
"Forgive me, it is not intended for that. I would not wound you by a word, if I could help it. And it was an honour to me."
"I deny it," he answered, warmly.
"Ever before you and me that past which there is no shutting from us—which would have been talked about, and have often brought the blush of shame to your cheeks for my sake. Ever before you what I have been—what I am fit for!"
"Fit for a higher station than it is in my power to raise you—no position is too elevated for a good and pious woman. All this is argument which I thought that I had combated long since—pardon me for adding, all this foolish reasoning, utterly unworthy of you."
"Still——"
"It is no reason for declining my hand, Mattie," he interrupted, with some sternness, "it is simply an excuse."
Mattie winced for an instant, then her quiet voice, firm and even as the way she had chosen for herself, replied to this—
"Let me proceed, Sidney. You will hear me out fairly, I am sure."
"Why not say No at once?—you mean to tell me that you do not care to be my wife, and share my home. Is not that your answer?"
"Yes—but I cannot let you think that I have been insensible to your offer, or not weighed it carefully in my mind before I thought that it was not right that I should marry you. Sidney, had it pleased God never to have restored your sight, I would have been your faithful wife, serving you as I alone was able, perhaps, and rendering you content with me."
"I see. You would have taken pity on my loneliness—with that strange idea of being grateful for past kindnesses of a trivial description, you would have sacrificed your happiness in an attempt to attain mine. Mattie, it would have been a terrible failure."
"No."
"I say a terrible failure, which would have embittered both lives in lieu of promoting the happiness of either. I should have discovered the motives which had placed you at my side, and felt too keenly the encumbrance that I was upon you."
"I think not!—I am sure not!"
She was anxious to defend herself, to hold her best in his estimation yet, but she feared the betrayal of her secret. She could have told him how, for a few fleeting days, she had pictured her greatest happiness to be ever near him, striving to brighten every thought, and vary the monotony of every hour—sustaining, comforting, and worshipping. She could have told him of the affection of a whole life that had been spent in thinking of him, praying for him; but she held her peace, and let him think that she had never loved him. In the end, she saw that it was best to turn him from his purpose.
"I would have married you, Sidney, in affliction—out of gratitude, if you choose to word it so, but a gratitude that you would have never known from love," she ventured to say; "but now, when the new life, to which you will shortly turn your steps, is far removed from mine, when you require no help from me, and when there are others, fairer, better, and so much more worthy of you, I cannot hold you to a promise of which you must repent."
"Why?"
The position by some means had become suddenly reversed. It was she who had to speak of his pity and gratitude for her.
"Because you would discover that I was not fit to be your wife, that you had not sought me out of love, but out of kindness towards me for my services. You had pledged your word in one estate, and you would keep it in another, like an honest man valuing a promise he had made, and resolving to go through with it to the end, at whatever cost to his own better chances. Therefore, Sidney, you must understand that I cannot be your wife for pity's sake—that the man who is to become my husband, must love me with all his heart, and soul, and strength, or he may go his way for me!"
"I said that my romance had died out long ago. That I was too old, and had experienced too much sorrow to talk like a lover in a novel."
"It seems to me—I do not know, Sid—that true love must belong partly to romance. It is too pure—too full of fancies, if you will—to mingle readily with business life; it is too deep down in the heart to rise to an every-day surface—it is full of sacrifice as well as love. All this, my idea, not yours, Sidney—I who would at least be romantic in that fashion, and would care for no one but a romantic lover."
"You have altered, Mattie—you are talking like a school-girl now. If that be another reason for refusing me, it is unworthy of you."
"It is another reason, for all that," replied Mattie; "let me dismiss it at once, if you are ashamed of it. You have come hither oppressed—burdened, I may say—with a sense of duty to me; let me raise the load from you by saying, that I will not be your wife. If I would have married you even out of pity myself," she added, a little scornfully, "I will not take a man for a husband who would have had pity upon me!"
"Very well," he answered, moodily.
"As your wife, never—but oh! Sidney, as the old friend and sister, always! Don't think ill of me because I cannot see my way to happiness—don't think that there is any difference in me, or that I value you less than I ever did. You understand me?"
"Scarcely, Mattie—you have altered very much."
"You must not think that—I have not altered in any one respect—I would be ever your friend, ever hold a place in your heart, ever be remembered as the poor girl who would have died to make you happy!"
"But would not have married me for the same purpose," answered Sidney, in a kinder tone; "is that it, Mattie?"
"My marriage with you would have rendered you wretched—don't deny it again, Sid—I am sure of that!"
"Hence your answer. Well, if it must be, I will rest content. I will believe that it is all for the best."
"Let me tell you another reason—the last—why I would not answer Yes to you. May I?"
"I am interested in every reason," he said.
"Because you were bound to another whom you loved once—whom you love still."
He sprang to his feet, and then dropped back into his place, as though shot at by a pistol.
"Do you believe that I would come here with a mask on—a robber, and a liar?"
"Not intentionally, Sidney; because you have fought hard to keep the old love back, and to believe that it was gone for ever. You have fostered that idea by thinking uncharitably of her, by turning away from that true happiness which only marriage with her will ever bring to you. You are a man who has never changed; and in attempting to live down the past, have but more clearly discovered the secret of your life."
"What—what makes you think this?"
"I cannot explain it, but it is as true as that you and I will never marry one another for love, for gratitude, for anything," she answered. "Harriet Wesden and you should never have parted, but have understood each other better, and had more faith. You turned from her, and her pride kept her apart from you; but, Sidney, through all, and before all, she holds that love still."
"I cannot believe that."
"Your cousin Maurice has told you so—now let me. You will never be happy without her—do justice to her, if you are the Sidney Hinchford whom I have ever known. Sidney, you do love her—are you not man enough to own it?"
"I love her as one who is dead to me—passed away out of my sphere of action, and never likely to cross it again!" he answered. "I have always thought so—I would have told you that these were my thoughts, had you asked me on that night I sought your hand. She was dead to me—gone from me—some one apart from the girl who lives and breathes in her place."
"That was romance—and that was love!" cried Mattie quickly; "for she was not dead, her love was not dead, and you were likely to meet in better faith at any moment unforeseen. Sidney, you did meet—you were affected by her visit, her evidence of the old tie still existent. Why deny this to me, to spare my feelings now! I am living for you and her,—I do not love you, but I am interested in your welfare, and anxious—oh! so anxious, Sid, to advance it."
"Harriet Wesden and I met under peculiar circumstances, that must have touched both hearts a little—all was over in an instant, like a lightning-flash, and here's the sober life again!"
"You will deceive yourself—until two lives are wholly blighted by your obduracy, you will go on asserting this dreamy theory, and believing in it."
"You are a strange girl—stranger and more incomprehensible to me than you have ever been, Mattie," he said wondering. "What can you think of me, that you coolly ask me to sit here and confess to a passion for another, after coming for an answer to a love-suit tendered you. By heaven! it is a mystery, or a dream!"
"When I was a little girl, untutored, and run wild, I used to fancy that you two would marry; when we shared the same house together, I saw how fitting you both were for each other—how, in your strength of mind and purpose, one weak woman would always find support and love. When you were engaged, I felt a portion of your happiness, understood that you had chosen well, and knew—knew how proud and happy she must be in your affection! That was my dream—let it in the end come true, for Harriet Wesden's sake, for yours—even for the sake of the woman here at your side, the sister and friend to tell you what is best."
"You are very kind, Mattie, but—but I cannot own to anything. It is not fear, not shame—God knows what it is, or what I am, or what I really wish!" he exclaimed irritably.
"Leave it to me."
"No, for myself, my own battles. I will have no woman's interference, no friend's advice. I will go on to the end my own way."
"It is not ordered so. Look there—is this chance which has brought her hither to-day, at this hour?"
"Let me go away!" cried Sidney, starting to his feet.
Mattie, flushed and excited, caught him by the wrist; he could have wrested himself away from her grasp, but he would have hurt her in the effort, and a something in his own will held him spellbound there.
His sight was weak yet, and though he had guessed to whom Mattie alluded, he could but dimly distinguish a female figure advancing towards him, as from the mists of that past sphere of which he had spoken. It came towards him slowly, even falteringly at last; and he remained motionless, awaiting the end of all that might ensue on that strange day.
It was the past coming back to him, to make or mar him. He shivered as he thought of all the folly he had committed, if, after all, Mattie and Maurice were right, and even his own heart had misled him. He was a man whose judgment had been sound through life—why should he have erred so greatly in this instance?
"Mattie—Mattie!" gasped Harriet, on entering, "what does this mean?"
"That Sidney has been waiting for you," said Mattie, quickly, "to thank you for all past interest in him. Shake hands, you two, and let me—let me go away!"
"No, no, don't leave me, Mattie! You must remain. I have been ill. I—I am very weak."
"If you wish it, for a little while. You two are not enemies now—let me see you shake hands, then?"
The old sweethearts shook hands together at Mattie's wish, and then stood shyly looking at each other, each too discomfited, even troubled, to say a word. Mattie had one more part to play before she could escape them.
CHAPTER IX.
MATTIE, MEDIATRIX.
Harriet Wesden was strangely afraid of the old lover—what he would say to her in the first moments of meeting, whether he would speak of the past in which she had been misjudged, of the present hour which had brought them face to face, or of the future for them both, and what it would be like from that day.
She was afraid to speak, afraid to trust herself with him, and she clung closer to the skirt of the old friend, a child still in moments of emergency, as she had ever been. Sidney Hinchford stood perplexed, amazed—what could he say in the presence of the woman to whom he had been talking about marriage?—what dared he say were she even to leave them to fight out their explanations their own way?
Mattie read the fear of one, and exaggerated in her imagination the reserve of the other; even then all might be marred, and all her efforts end in nothing, if she were not quick to act.
"I asked Sidney, as you entered, Harriet, if it were not something more than chance that brought you two together to-day—that brought him hither, in particular," she said; "I think it is—I trust that from to-day a brighter life opens for you both. Why should it not?—you who have kept so long asunder from each other, only require an honest mediator to pave the way for a fair explanation. Both of you will have faith in Mattie!"
Neither answered, but Mattie did not take silence for dissent.
"When Sidney was blind, Harriet, the thought did cross me once or twice that I had better marry him and save him from his utter loneliness—and I think that he was desperate, and would even have married me! When Sidney or I relate this story some day, we three shall have cause to laugh at it heartily, and think what a narrow escape we all have had—even I, who have never been able to understand Sidney like yourself—as you know! I have only seen, Harriet, that this Sidney of whom we are speaking has become a desperate man, soured by contact with himself, and full of vain regrets for much trouble that his own rashness has brought on him—that he wants one true friend to aid him now, more than ever he did!"
"Pardon me, Mattie, but you must not speak for me," said Sidney, blushing; "if I have injured Miss Wesden by any hasty action, I will explain it, and take my leave of her and you."
"You will explain of course," said Mattie; "and if you part again after that explanation, it will be your own faults, and I will never have confidence in either of you any more. For you two—both friends and benefactors, whose childish hands were first held out towards me—I must see happy; I have striven hard for it, and I hope not to find this last disappointment the keenest and the heaviest. Remember old days, and the old hope you had together in them."
"Mattie, you mast be a very happy woman some day!" cried Sidney, "you think so much of making others happy."
"I hope I shall," said Mattie cheerfully—almost too cheerfully, save for those two preoccupied ones from whom she hastened to withdraw. Harriet Wesden made no further movement to stay her; she sank into a chair, covered her face with her hands, and trembled very much; in her heart was a strange fluttering of fear and hope, and the struggle for pre-eminence was too much for her.
Yes, she was a weak woman—not strong and resolute, and with the will to conquer difficulties like Mattie; but still a woman very lovable and beautiful, and with a heart that was true enough to all who had been ever cherished therein. From the moment that she had understood it, it never swerved from Sidney Hinchford; it had known its greatest trial when Sidney turned away from her, sceptical as to the reality of any love for him.
She had doubted his love for her until that day when Mattie came to draw her into the old vortex, and then her faith in him came back, and life took fairer colours—she knew not wherefore, save that the reflex of that day's brightness might have shone upon her from the distance. For it was a bright day for both these old lovers; Mattie had augured well that one explanation—a few words, true and gentle, that scarcely stood for explanation even—would be sufficient, and disperse all clouds that had hung heavily above them. Both had had much time for thought and regret—both had found little solace on the paths of life they had pursued, and looked back very often at the life they had given up together.
But the worst was over, and the fairer time—the old love, almost, if that were possible—was coming back once more. Sidney had believed it, when Mattie had stolen into the shop and closed the door upon them; he had felt all his old love return at Harriet's appearance, at her fear of him; at her strange half-sad, half-reproachful look towards him when they had first met that day; he knew, then, how wrong he had been, and how rightfully Mattie had read him—what love he bore to the weak girl still, and what a poor substitute for love he would have offered the stronger, better woman. Will our readers think that Mattie Gray was worth a dozen Harriet Wesdens?—that Sidney made a bad choice, and that the hero—if we dare call him so—should have married the heroine according to established rule? Or will they believe, with us, that he made his proper choice, and that Harriet and he were the most fitting couple to live happy ever afterwards? If he did not treat Mattie as fairly as she should have been treated, it was an error of judgment on his part, and we are all liable to errors of a similar description. He believed that he was acting for the best; he had taught himself in the first instance to believe in his love for her, and when he had awakened to the truth his honour would not let him draw back, until Mattie's pride had released him. Later in life he fancied, once or twice, that he caught a glimpse of the real truth, but he kept the idea to himself, like a sensible man; he had succeeded in life, and was his cousin's partner then—perhaps more conceited than in the old days. And if Mattie suffered for awhile, why, heroines are born unto trouble, or where would be the subscribers to our story-books?
This was Mattie's great day of suffering—for ever to be remembered as a landmark standing out sharp and rugged in life's retrospect. No one ever guessed half the terrible battle which she fought that day; and how she came forth smiling and victorious, with the deep wounds hidden, lest her distress should affect others who were happier than she.
When she returned to that room again, they had forgotten her, as they had forgotten all the doubts, fears, jealousies, harsh words that had stood between them, preventing their reunion. They were lovers again, and were happy once more—for the first time, since he had taunted Harriet with pitying him, as Mattie had taunted him that very day!
Mattie forgave them—asked to be forgiven for intruding on their reverie, and bringing them back to thoughts of others sat down with them, and listened to their stories of what their future was to be—to really be this time!—and how, in their generous hearts, they had built a plan for Mattie's share in it. They saw only Mattie's effort to bring them together, nothing else, in that hour; and they were very grateful, and not selfish in their joy.
"To think it has all ended as you wished at last—as you have prophesied it would end!" said Harriet; "and to think that I even mistrusted you at one time, and was cold towards you, who sacrificed so much for me, in the old days."
"In the old days!" thought Mattie.
"It makes a great difference when one is unhappy," said Harriet; "we look at things sceptically, and are mistrustful of all good intentions."
"For awhile!" added Mattie.
"Ah! for awhile!" repeated Sidney, "for we are three together now in heart, and there is no mystery or misconception in the midst of us. For ever after this—the sunshine!"
Sidney and Harriet were there when Mr. Gray returned; they spoke of their reconciliation, and Mattie's share in it, and he listened very patiently, betraying but little animation at the recital. He was more anxious to speak of giving up the business, having other views, he said—and still more anxious to see Sidney, the young man whom he had loved like a son, and who had done such irreparable mischief, out of the house. He knew Mattie would have to endure more, if Sidney called that place home ever again; and Sidney, who thought of the natural embarrassments which would attend his further stay there, was ready to return to Red-Hill, and his uncle's home, after he had accompanied Harriet to her father's.
They were gone at last, and Mattie and her father were facing each other. Mattie's face was white, and her lip was quivering just a little as they went out together.
"Courage, Mattie," he said, "we shall not give way now. We have fought well, and the worst is over."
"Yes, the very worst!"
"You will not envy them their happiness—two weak addlepated mortals, only fitted for each other. You will keep strong!"
"For ever after to-day. But you must not be too critical with me now that he is gone, and I have no longer any occasion to keep firm. Oh! father, I loved him very, very much!"
"It is hard to lose him, I know that," said he, as Mattie flung herself into his arms, and wept there.
"Harder to think that he never loved me after all!"
"Courage!" he repeated, "God knows what is best for you. He will bring you peace, I am sure!"
And in good time, when Mattie was young still, the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, rested on her, and rendered her content.
CHAPTER X.
CONCLUSION.
Linger not, O novel-writer, at the helm when the ship sails into the harbour, or your readers will escape you. When the end is known, and the facts and fancies pieced together, remarks are wearisome. The lovers have made it up, and good fortune awaits them; bon voyage!—what's the next story, who writes it, and is the heroine fair or dark, ugly or handsome? The readers are off to fresh leaves and pastures new, in much the same hurry as playhouse folk, who scent the conclusion and the tag, are scrambling over their seats whilst paterfamilias is giving his blessing to the young couple, who haven't agreed very well till the last two minutes.
Who would care at this late stage for Mr. Wesden's surprise at his daughter's companion, or for his delight at things "coming comfortably round?" The end is known; there is no room for fresh disasters—Sidney Hinchford marries Harriet Wesden, and there's an end of that book!
And yet there is another scene with which we would fain conclude—those readers who are in no hurry will be tolerant of our prolixity. It is a fair picture, and we will very briefly sketch it whilst our guests retire.
A scene on shipboard—the ship outward-bound—the new minister and his daughter standing on the deck, exchanging farewell greetings with visitors that have surprised them by their presence there; Ann Packet, with her money sewed in her stays, in the background. Two months have passed since the events related in our last chapter—the partnership has been dissolved, the business sold, friends taken leave of in a very quiet manner by Mattie, who knows that it is for ever, and yet would deceive them all by an equable demeanour, and a talk of going away for a little while.
The task is beyond her strength, and she betrays herself a little, and suggests doubts, which resolve themselves to certainties, and lead to this.
She is glad now that they have found out the truth; she would have spared herself a little pain, but lost a bright reminiscence—it is as well to say "Good-bye" honestly and fairly, and not steal away from them in the dark, and leave her name finally associated with a regret.
They are all there who have ever cared for Mattie, or been indebted to her. Sidney Hinchford and Harriet, and Harriet's father, very feeble now, and more inclined to stare over people's heads than ever. They are gently upbraiding Mattie for her vain deception, and speaking of the sorrow they feel at losing her. The tears are in Mattie's eyes, and she trembles and clings to the stout arm of her father, whilst she offers her excuses.
"I had not the courage to look you all steadily in the face and say that I was going away for ever—I preferred to see you all one by one, as though nothing was about to happen to separate us, and to leave to the letters, which are already in the post-office, the last news which you have thus forestalled."
"You speaking of want of courage! said Harriet.
"I am stronger now—I am glad now to see you all—I can bear to say good-bye to you."
She says it well and stoutly, too, when the time comes, and friends are warned to let the ship proceed upon its course, and not delay it by their presence there. With Sidney, facing him with her hands in his, she gives way somewhat; she lets him stoop and kiss her—for the second time in life—the last!
"God bless you, Mattie!—best of women!" he murmurs.
"God bless you, Sidney!—with this dear girl!"
She flings herself into Harriet's arms, and cries there for a little while—there is no jealousy now—Harriet is the little girl of old, old days, the first of all these friends she has learned to love, and is learning now to part with.
"To lose you, Mattie—the friend, sister, counsellor, whose good words and strong love have kept me from sinking more than once—it is hard!"
"In a few months, a wiser, better, and more natural counsellor than I—trust in each other, and have no secrets—don't forget me!"
Thus they parted—thus hoping for the best, and believing that the best had come for all, Mattie is borne away to the new world, wherein her father had prophesied would come new friends, new happiness. And they came; for Mattie made no enemies in life, and won much love, and was rewarded for much labour in God's service, by that good return, even on earth, which renders labour sweet and profitable.
THE END.
MESSRS. HURST AND BLACKETT'S LIST OF NEW WORKS.
COURT AND SOCIETY FROM ELIZABETH TO ANNE,
Edited from the Papers at
Kimbolton, by the Duke of Manchester.
Second Edition, Revised.
Opinions of the Press.
From The Athanæum.—"The Duke of Manchester has done a welcome service to the lover of gossip and secret history by publishing these family papers. Persons who like to see greatness without the plumes and mail in which history presents it, will accept these volumes with hearty thanks to their noble editor. In them will be found something new about many men and women in whom the reader can never cease to feel an interest—much about the divorce of Henry the Eighth and Catherine of Arragon—a great deal about the love affairs of Queen Elizabeth—something about Bacon and (indirectly) about Shakspeare—more about Lord Essex and Lady Rich—the very strange story of Walter Montagu, poet, profigate, courtier, pervert, secret agent, abbot—many details of the Civil War and Cromwell's Government, and of the Restoration—much that is new about the Revolution and the Settlement, the exiled Court of St Germains, the wars of William of Orange, the campaigns of Marlborough, the intrigues of Duchess Sarah, and the town life of fine ladies and gentlemen during the days of Anne. With all this is mingled a good deal of gossip about the loves of great poets, the frailties of great beauties, the rivalries of great wits, the quarrels of great peers."
From The Times.—"These volumes are sure to excite curiosity. A great deal of interesting matter is here collected, from sources which are not within everybody's reach."
From The Morning Post.—"The public are indebted to the noble author for contributing, from the archives of his ancestral seat, many important documents otherwise inaccessible to the historical inquirer, as well as for the lively, picturesque, and piquant sketches of Court and Society, which render his work powerfully attractive to the general reader. The work contains varied information relating to secret Court intrigues, numerous narratives of an exciting nature, and valuable materials for authentic history. Scarcely any personage whose name figured before the world during the long period embraced by the volumes is passed over in silence."
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THE LIFE OF THE REV. EDWARD IRVING, Minister of the National Scotch
Church, London.
Illustrated by his Journal and Correspondence. By Mrs.
Oliphant.
Third and Cheaper Edition.
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CHEAP EDITION of LES MISÉRABLES.
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THE AUTHORIZED
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A PERSONAL NARRATIVE OF THIRTEEN YEARS' SERVICE AMONGST THE
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By Major-General John Campbell, with Illustrations.
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THE DESTINY OF NATIONS, as indicated in Prophecy.
By the Rev. John
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MEMOIRS OF JANE CAMERON, FEMALE CONVICT.
By a Prison Matron, Author of
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MEMOIRS OF QUEEN HORTENSE, MOTHER OF NAPOLEON III.
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THE LAST DECADE of a GLORIOUS REIGN;
completing "THE HISTORY of HENRY
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from Original and Authentic Sources.
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GREECE AND THE GREEKS.
Being the Narrative of a Winter Residence and
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Translated
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ENGLISH WOMEN OF LETTERS.
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Author of "Nathalie,"
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HISTORY OF ENGLAND, FROM THE ACCESSION OF JAMES I. TO THE DISGRACE OF
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ITALY UNDER VICTOR EMMANUEL. A Personal Narrative.
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DRIFTWOOD, SEAWEED, AND FALLEN LEAVES.
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2
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Translated, by W. B. Mac Cabe.
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Second Edition. With Map and 88 Illustrations.
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Under The Especial Patronage of her Majesty.
Published annually in One Vol.
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LIST OF THE PRINCIPAL CONTENTS
Historical View of the Peerage.
Parliamentary Roll of the House of Lords.
English, Scotch, and Irish Peers, in their
orders of Precedence.
Alphabetical List of Peers of Great Britain
and the United Kingdom, holding superior
rank in the Scotch or Irish Peerage.
Alphabetical List of Scotch and Irish Peers,
holding superior titles in the Peerage of
Great Britain and the United Kingdom.
A Collective List of Peers, in their order of
Precedence.
Table of Precedency among Men.
Table of Precedency among Women.
The Queen and the Royal Family.
Peers of the Blood Royal.
The Peerage, alphabetically arranged.
Families of such Extinct Peers as have left
Widows or Issue.
Alphabetical List of the Surnames of all the
Peers.
The Archbishops and Bishops of England,
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The Baronetage, alphabetically arranged.
Alphabetical List of Surnames assumed by
members of Noble Families.
Alphabetical List of the Second Titles of
Peers, usually borne by their Eldest
Sons.
Alphabetical Index to the Daughters of
Dukes, Marquises, and Earls, who, having
married Commoners, retain the title
of Lady before their own Christian and
their Husbands' Surnames,
Alphabetical Index to the Daughters of
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Commoners, are styled Honourable
Mrs.; and, in case of the husband being
a Baronet or Knight, Honourable Lady.
Mottoes alphabetically arranged and translated.
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