Mattie went to her room and packed her box with trembling hands. She was very agitated still; there were many conflicting thoughts to disturb her natural equanimity. Regret at going away from the home wherein had begun her better life; indignation at the false accusations that had been made against her, and made in so hard and uncharitable a fashion; doubts of the future stretching before her, impenetrable and dusky, and the life to begin again in some way, to which she tried to give a thought, even in those early moments, and failed in utterly.
Over her box came honest Ann Packet to ask the latest news—to stare in a vague idiotic way when told it.
"I am going away, Ann—don't you understand?"
"Going away?—no, I don't yet. Going where did you say, Mattie?"
"Going away from here, where I am no longer wanted, where I am suspected of being all that is vile and wrong. Going away for good!"
"Oh I my gracious—not that! Because of last night—because of——"
"Many things, Ann, which I dare not explain, and which, if explained, perhaps would not be believed in by—him. But you, Ann—what will you think of me when I'm gone, and they say behind my back how justly I was served?"
"I say?—I say?"
"You'll hear their story, and I can't tell you mine. I can only say that since I have been here, there's not a bad thought had a place in my mind, and not a good one which I did not try, for their sakes as well as my own, to cling to. I can only ask you, Ann—you who have always thought well of me—to keep your faith strong, for poor Mattie's sake."
Ann Packet gave vent to a howl at this—wrung her fat red hands together, and then fell upon Mattie's box, as though our heroine had shot her.
"You shan't pack up no more!" she screamed; "you can speak to them as to me, and they'll believe you, or they're made of stone. Why, it's a drefful shame to turn you off like this, as though you'd been found out in all that's bad."
"Hush! you'll wake Miss Harriet, I daresay she—she's asleep still!—you will go now, Ann, please. I'm not unhappy—why, here's one to begin with who will always think the best of me!"
"The very best—as you've been the very best and the goodest to me, who used to snap you so at first, and feel jealous like, because they put you over me—but you won't mind that now?"
"No—no."
"And, Mattie, you don't want to go away and see nobody any more—to be quite alone and hear nothing of anybody? I may come and see you?"
"Yes—to be sure."
"And you'll write and tell me directly where you are."
"Ah! where I am. Yes, you shall know that first. And when I can prove to him that I have always been honest and true, I'll see him and his again, not before."
"And I shall call and tell you all the news—listen at all the keyholes to hear what they've got to talk about."
"I hope not. But get up now, Ann, and go down-stairs, or they'll suspect something. I'll send for the box presently, when I'm settled."
Ann rose with clenched hands and swollen eyes.
"If I had the settling of him! I—I almost feel to hate him. He's a brute!"
And before Mattie had time to reprove the faithful Ann for the outburst, Miss Packet had left the room, and gone down-stairs to cry afresh over the breakfast she had to prepare for Mr. Hinchford.
Mattie passed into the other room, and found Harriet Wesden asleep, as she had fancied. The toil of yesternight, the excitement and suspense, had brought their reaction, and Harriet had flung herself, dressed as she was, upon the bed, where she had dropped off into slumber.
Mattie stood for a moment irresolute whether to wake her or no; had it been simply to say "good-bye," she would have hesitated longer, though she might have awakened her at last.
"Harriet—Harriet!" she whispered, as she bent over her.
The fair girl started up and looked at Mattie.
"What's happened now, dear?"
"Nothing very important," said Mattie, who had determined how to proceed. "I have been thinking of our next step together concerning last night. Your father is down-stairs."
"Oh! he must not know it—he must never know it!" exclaimed Harriet; "he is weaker in mind—more excitable, suspicious—what would he think of me, keeping the name of Maurice Darcy from him all my life?"
"Harriet, promise me never to tell him—I am not frightened at the truth, but of their perversion of it, destroying for ever your good name—promise me!"
"But why promise you, who——"
"Promise it. I am very, very anxious, for your own sake and for mine."
"I promise—I promise faithfully."
"Whatever happens?"
"Yes—whatever happens!"
"I will tell you why now. In the first place, I have found out that the world will never accept your statement, but believe the very worst of you."
Harriet shuddered; her own trustfulness in others—her vanity, perhaps, allied thereto—had led her to the verge of the abyss—and "miraculous escapes" are only for penny-a-liners, and romancists. She thought that Mattie was right in binding her solemnly to secrecy, and she repeated her promise even more solemnly than before.
"And in the second place——"
Mattie paused; she recoiled from the explanation, the trial of another parting with this girl for whose happiness she was about to sacrifice herself, and the good name for which she had struggled. Harriet looked ill and worn now, and she could not tell her all the news, her heart was too full.
"I would bathe my hands and face, and go down-stairs as soon as possible. It will prevent suspicion, and you must stand up against the fatigue for awhile."
"Yes, yes, I can do that."
"Nothing can be helped now by confession; remember that when the truth would leap to your lips in a generous impulse, of which hereafter you would be sorry. Good-bye now."
Mattie stooped and kissed her—the quivering lips, the tear-brimming eyes, suggested a new trouble, and Harriet detected it at once.
"There is something new, Mattie—don't deceive me!"
"Very little—you will know all when you get down-stairs—be on your guard—God bless you!"
And Mattie, feeling her voice deserting her, hurried away. She went at once to Mr. Hinchford's room. Mr. Hinchford was becoming fidgety about his breakfast, and walking up and down discontentedly.
"They'll tell me I'm late again," he was muttering, when Mattie, sans ceremonie, made her appearance.
"Mr. Hinchford, will you let Miss Harriet have that letter at once? She's waiting for it."
"And I'm waiting for my breakfast, Mattie—it's really too bad!"
"I'll tell Ann; and—and the letter?"
"You're an odd girl; I'll get it you."
He went into the next room, returning with a letter in his hand.
"There!"
Mattie dashed at it in her impatience, and tore it into twenty pieces, which she thrust into the pocket of her dress, lest a fragment of the news should remain as evidence of Harriet Wesden's want of judgment.
"I say, my girl, that's not your letter, it's——"
"It's better torn to pieces. Harriet wished it, sir."
"She—she hasn't had a quarrel with my boy?"
"No, sir, to be sure not."
"I wonder how much longer he will be; there's—there's nothing further to break to an old man by degrees, Mattie?"
"Nothing further. I have a little news to tell you about myself, that I hope you'll be sorry to hear."
Mr. Hinchford's face assumed that perplexed look to which it had become prone of late years. Still he was not likely to be very much troubled—it was only about Mattie!
"I am going away from here," Mattie explained in a hurried manner; "Mr. Wesden will tell you the whole story, and it's not to my credit, looking at it in his light. You'll believe it, perhaps?" she added wistfully.
"Mr. Wesden is not accustomed to exaggeration, Mattie; but I will not believe anything that is wrong of you."
"I hope you will not, however proof may seem to go against me," was the sad remark; "he thinks I'm wrong, and I dare not explain part, and cannot explain the rest, and so I'm going away this morning.
"This morning!"
Mr. Hinchford took a good haul of his stock at this.
"He don't wish me to stop, and I would not if he did," said Mattie, proudly, "so we are both of one mind about my going. And now, sir," holding out both hands to him, "try and think the best of me—never mind the desk this morning, that was nothing, remember—do think well of one who will never forget you, and all the kindness you have shown me since I have been here."
"Mattie, let me go down, and see if I can't set all this straight," said the old gentleman, moved by Mattie's appeal.
"It could not be done, sir," said Mattie in reply; "you're very kind, but I know how much better it is to go. Why, sir, I have a great hope that they'll think better of me when I am gone!"
"But—but——"
"And so good-bye, sir."
The old gentleman shook both her hands, stooped suddenly and kissed her on the forehead.
"I can't make it all out, but I'll believe the best, Mattie."
"Thank you—thank you."
The tears were blinding her, so she hastened to the door, pausing there to add—
"Tell Mr. Sidney—oh! tell him above all—to think of me, as I would think of him, whatever the world said and whoever was against him. Harriet will speak up for me when he has a doubt of my honesty, and he will believe her. Don't let my past life stand between you all and your better thoughts of me—good-bye."
Mattie was gone; she had closed the door behind her, and shut in Mr. Hinchford, who forgot his breakfast for awhile in the sudden news that had been communicated. He was forgetful at times now; his memory, though he did not care to own it, would betray him when he least expected it. In the midst of his reverie, a flash of a new recollection took away his breath, and brought his hand again to his inflexible stock.
"Good heaven!—not that letter, I hope."
He bustled into the back room, and searched nervously in the pockets of coats, waistcoats, and trousers about there. A blank expression settled on his countenance as he drew from the side-pocket of the great coat he had worn yesternight, another letter—the letter which Mattie had demanded, and he thought that he had given her.
"God bless me! she's torn up the letter that was given me to post last night!"
He made a dash down-stairs, but Mattie had gone, and the double mistake could not be rectified.
Mattie had made her final leave-taking by that time. She had gone straight from Mr. Hinchford's apartments into the shop, taking up her position on the street-side of the counter facing Mr. Wesden.
"I'm—I'm ready to go now, sir!"
"Very well. I—I didn't mean you to go in such a hurry; but as you have looked upon it in that light, why I can't stop you. There's your salary up to the month."
He took it from the little back-shelf and laid it on the counter; Mattie hesitated for a moment; her face crimsoned, and there was an impulsive movement to sweep the money to the floor, checked by a second and better thought.
"Thank you, sir."
The money was dropped into her pocket; she looking steadily at Mr. Wesden meanwhile.
"I shall send for my box when I've found a home," she said. "Let the man take it without being watched; some of you might like to know what has become of me, and I don't wish that yet awhile."
"Where do you think of going?"
"Anywhere I can be trusted," was the unintentional retort. "I am not particular, and I have a hope that God will send a friend to me. I think of going from here to Camberwell to bid one friend good-bye, at least—what do you think, sir?"
"You had better not. She's ill."
"You never said that before!" cried Mattie; "ill and alone!"
"Harriet will return home when she gets up—she is just ill enough to be kept very quiet."
"I'll not go to her, then."
Mattie still fixed her dark eyes on Mr. Wesden; that steady, unflinching gaze was making the stationer feel uncomfortable.
"I don't know that there is anything else to say," said Mattie, after a long pause; "and I suppose—you've nothing else to say to me?"
"Nothing. Except," he added, after another pause on his part, "that I hope you will take care of yourself—that this will be a lesson to you."
Mattie coloured once more, and took time to reply.
"I would part friends with you," she said at last. "I have been trying hard to bear everything that you say, remembering past kindness. You saved me at the eleventh hour, when I was going back to ruin—you taught me what was good, and made this place my home; for you and yours I would do anything in the world that lay in my power. But!" she cried, her face kindling and her eyes flashing, "if it had been any one else who had spoken to me as you have done, who had cast such cruel slander at me, and believed in nothing but my vileness, I—I think I should have killed him!"
Mr. Wesden had never seen Mattie in a passion before; her frenzy alarmed him, and he backed against the drawers behind him lest she should attempt some mischief. His confidence in the righteousness of his cause was more shaken also; but he did not know how to express it, having been ever a man whose ideas came slowly.
"Upstairs, a little while ago, Mr. Wesden," continued Mattie, "I thought that we were quits with each other—that casting me back to the streets made amends for the rescue from them years ago. I thought almost that I could afford to hate you—but you must forgive me that—I was not myself then! I know better now; and if I go back alone and friendless, still I take with me all the good thoughts which the latter years have given me, and no misfortune is likely to rob me of."
"But—but——"
"But this is strange talk in a woman who cannot account for missing property, and keeps out all night," said Mattie; "you can't think any better of me now—some day you will. Good-bye, sir—may I shake hands with you?"
"I—I don't bear any malice, Mattie. I—I wish you well, girl," he stammered, as he held forth his hand.
Mattie's declamation had cowed him, softened him. He was the man of the past, who had faith in her, and whom late events had not changed so much. He thought it might be a mistake just then—he did not know—he understood nothing—his brain was in a whirl.
Mattie shook hands with him, and then went away without another word. Outside in the streets the traffic was thickening—it was Saturday morning, when people sought the streets in greater numbers. Mattie's slight form was soon lost in the surging stream of human life; Mr. Wesden, who had followed her to the door, noticed how soon she was submerged.
Five years ago he had taken her from the streets—a stray. Again in her womanhood, at his wish, he had cast her back to them a stray still—nothing more!
A stray whom no one would claim as child, sister, friend; who went away characterless in a world ever ready to believe the worst. She had spoken of her strength to do battle now alone, but she did not know with what enemies she had to fight, or what deadly weapons to encounter; watching her from that shop door, she looked little more than the child God had once prompted him to save.
He could have run after her again, as in the old times, and cried "Stop!"—he could have taken her to his heart again, and began anew with her, sinking the incomprehensible bygones for ever.
But he moved not; and Mattie, the stray, drifted from his home, and went away to seek her fortunes.
Mattie's box was fetched away from Great Suffolk Street; the man who called for it brought a note to Ann Packet, which she found a friend to read for her later in the day. It did not furnish Ann Packet with her address—"When I am settled, Ann," she promised, quoting her own words on that morning of departure, "and I am very unsettled yet awhile."
Poor Ann Packet, who had looked forward to paying sundry flying visits to Mattie, and upon spending her holiday once a month with her, mourned over this evasion of Mattie's—"won't she trust even in me, or think of me a bit?" she said.
In Mattie's letter was enclosed a smaller one to Harriet Wesden, who understood the coup d'étât which had ensued by that time, and was agitated and unhappy concerning it. This was Mattie's letter to Harriet Wesden, in extenso:—
"Keep your promise, dearest Harriet—never forget that your happiness, and that of others, depend upon it. Do not think that I have taken the blame, or am a victim—it is not only for my actions of that night that I have gone away. Sooner or later, it must have come. God bless you!—I hope to see you again soon. Your letter to Sidney is destroyed."
Harriet pondered over this missive. For weeks she became more thoughtful, and aroused fresh anxiety in her father—for weeks went on an unknown and fierce struggle to break away from her promise and tell all.
She had been afraid of the revelation, and what would be said and thought about it; she had seen her innocence construed as half-consent, and herself set down as an accomplice in Mr. Darcy's plot; she had feared losing the esteem and confidence of all who now respected her. But when Mattie had been sent away for keeping out all night—and though she had not heard the story, she guessed of whom Mattie had been in search—her sense of justice, her love for Mattie, led her more than once to the verge of the revelation. Keeping her own secret was one thing, but the blame to rest on another was very different, and despite her promise—into which she had been entrapped as it were—the avowal was ever trembling on her lips.
After, all it was but the truth to confess—her father and mother would believe her; and if Sidney Hinchford turned away, why surely there was nothing to grieve at in that—she could not have loved Sidney, or that letter would never have been written to him! And yet let it be recorded here, Harriet Wesden's main incentive to keep her secret close was for Sidney Hinchford's sake. It tortured her to think that she should have ever entertained one feeling of love or liking for the Mr. Darcy who had sought her humiliation; the shock to her pride had not only turned her utterly away from Mr. Darcy, but the very contrast he presented to young Hinchford, had aroused the old, or given birth to a new affection for the latter.
She valued Sidney Hinchford at his just due at last; she understood his patience, energy, and love; how he had been working for her from his boyhood, and what would have been the effect to him of losing her. She had made up her mind, when he returned, to give him all her heart, and sustain him by her love against those secret cares which lately had been shadowing him. She believed that her secret was for ever shut away from the light—that keeping it under lock and key would be better for Sidney, whose trust in her was so implicit. He had always believed in her devotion to himself; why should she break in upon that dream, now she felt that all girlish follies were over with her, and she had become a staid woman, whose hope was to be his wife?
She was consoled by Mattie's letter: "It is not only for my actions of that night that I have gone away. Sooner or later it must have come."
Mattie, ever a deep thinker, considered it best also—by her confession, even Mattie would be unhappy; so Harriet kept her secret for everybody's sake, and made her last mistake in life. Mattie and she had both regarded the subject from a narrow point of view, and were wrong; the best intentioned people are wrong sometimes, and from young women, with their heads disturbed concerning young men, we do not anticipate the judgment of Solomon.
Harriet Wesden felt secure—knowing not of the letter in Mr. Hinchford's coat, of Mr. Hinchford's mistake and Mattie's. And yet the chances now were against the revelation, thanks to the treacherous memory of the old gentleman. He had mentioned his error in the counting-house to his employers the same day, and met with a reprimand and a supercilious shrug of the shoulders—"It was like old Hinchford," one partner had muttered to another, and there the subject ended for a while. Mr. Hinchford went home, resolving to restore the letter to Harriet Wesden, took the letter from his pocket and put it on the bedroom mantel-piece, to keep the matter in his remembrance until he saw Harriet again.
There for two days the letter remained, till Ann Packet, in dusting the room, knocked it on the floor, picked it up and placed it on the dressing-glass, where Mr. Hinchford found it, and rather absently-shut it in the looking-glass drawer, as a safe place; and then the letter passed completely out of recollection, there being a great deal to trouble his mind just then.
For they were not kind to him at his business, expected too much from him, and made no allowance for an old servant; and above all, and before all, the boy's birthday was drawing near—it was three days before Harriet Wesden's—and there was no sign of Sidney Hinchford on his way towards him.
By that time Mr. Wesden had found a customer for his business, which was to change hands early in February; and in February what would become of him, and whither should he go himself, thought Mr. Hinchford? Good gracious! he would have to change his residence, and his son perhaps never be able to find him! A horrid thought, which only lasted till he thought of his son's business address, but whilst it lasted, a trying one.
When the birthday of Sidney Hinchford came round in January, the father grew excited; talked of his son at business all day, and worried the clerks about his son's accomplishments; returned in the evening to harass Mr. Wesden, always at his post behind the counter, for the few more days remaining of his business life.
"I have brought a bottle of wine home with me in the hope of the lad's return," said Mr. Hinchford, placing that luxury on the counter; "his one and twentieth year must not pass without our wishing bon voyage to his manhood. You and I, Mr. Wesden, will at least drink his health to-night."
"Very well."
"I'll come and keep you company, after tea, in the back parlour, Wesden, and we'll have a long talk about my boy and your girl. There should have been a formal betrothal to-night, with much rejoicing afterwards. To think of his being one-and-twenty to-day, and away from us!"
"It must seem odd to you. Perhaps he'll come back to-night."
"That's what I have been thinking, Wesden. I fancy if he were near his return journey he would make a push for it to-night, knowing the old father's wishes. I fancy, do you know, that if I had been your daughter——"
"Well—what of her?"
"If I had been Harriet, I should have remembered this day, and looked in for a few moments."
"Her mother don't grow stronger; she is fidgety when she is away, and the servant we have is not of much use."
"Then Harriet might have written, wishing him many happy returns of the day, or have come to congratulate me upon having such a son grown to man's estate."
Having expressed this opinion, Mr. Hinchford went up-stairs to the tea which Ann Packet had prepared for him—spent an hour after tea in putting the room to rights, opening Sidney's desk and lighting the table-lamp at the side thereof.
"Now, if he come home, and there's work to be done—and if it's to be done, his one-and-twentieth birthday will not stop it—there's everything ready to begin!"
He went down-stairs to join Mr. Wesden in the parlour—the news-boy was perched on the chair in the shop, keeping guard over the goods that night—and found Harriet Wesden seated at the fireside.
"Why, it's all coming true," cried the old gentleman, seizing both hands of Harriet, and shaking them up and down, "and he's coming home!"
"Have you thought so, too?" asked Harriet.
"Well, I have hoped so, at all events; and it seems as if we were waiting for him now, and he must come. But don't talk too much about that, please," he said, with his characteristic tug at his stock, "or I shall feel as if something had happened when he keeps away. But we'll drink the boy's health, at all events, God bless him! and we'll have a game at whist, three and a dummy, and make quite a party of it in our little way. Sid one-and-twenty, Wesden! by all that's glorious, it's a fine thing to have a son come to maturity!"
Wine-glasses were produced—even a pack of cards, a brand new pack from the stock—and Sid's health was drunk very quietly, without any musical honours, but very heartily, for all that.
And five minutes after the health had been drunk, Sidney Hinchford, portmanteau in hand, entered the shop, and walked straight into the parlour.
"I said he'd come!" exclaimed the father. "Many happy returns of the day, you runaway! God bless you, my boy, and grant you health and happiness!"
He wound up his wishes by kissing him as though he had been a girl. Sidney blushed, and laughed at his father's impulsiveness, and then turned to his two remaining friends with whom he shook hands—we need not add with whom the longer time.
"Finish your game at whist," he said; "I must not spoil the harmony of the evening. Here, shall I take dummy?"
"If you like. But we want to know——"
"Presently you shall know all—let us relapse into our old positions, just as if I had never been away, for awhile. How's Mattie—where is she?"
All three looked somewhat blankly at him. Mattie's departure, and the reasons which had actuated it, were more or less a mystery, and difficult of explanation.
Mr. Wesden acted as spokesman.
"I'm sorry to say she has gone away under very disagreeable circumstances."
"Gone away!—Mattie!"
"Your father can tell you all about it some other time," said Mr. Wesden. "I don't think we need spoil the evening by a long, sad story."
"Yes, but, dash it! disagreeable circumstances," said Sidney—"that's an awkward phrase, and don't sound affectionate. But, until to-morrow, we'll postpone all details. I'll take dummy, and be your partner, Harriet."
"Very well."
He did not know whether it were better to be Harriet's partner, or to be her father's, and sit by Harriet's side—that matter had always perplexed him the few times he had played at whist with them. It seemed somewhat strange his playing at whist at all that night—his arriving from a long journey, tired and travel-worn, as evident from his looks, and immediately sitting down to cards, as though there were an infatuation in the game, which under no circumstances it was in his power to resist. Harriet Wesden thought it strange at least, and now and then furtively regarded him. He played whist well, as he did everything well he undertook—but his heart was not in the game, and more than once, as he held the cards, close to his glasses, in the old near-sighted fashion, Harriet fancied that the face assumed a troubled expression. The game at whist was over at last, and with it Sidney Hinchford's power of endurance.
"Now that is over, I think I'll tell you a story. I don't know three people in the world so well entitled to have the first hearing of it. I'll ask you, sir," turning to his father, "to give me courage, and see that I do not give way?"
Mr. Hinchford senior stared, as well he might, at this—it placed him in a new position, and braced his nerves accordingly. Sidney had resolved upon these tactics on his homeward route; there was no chance of breaking his news gradually—the world would be talking of it ere the morning.
"I always hated dodging a truth," said Sidney, sturdily; "it's a bad habit, and don't answer. It's sneaking—isn't it, Mr. Wesden?"
"Well—yes."
"If there's good luck coming, go to meet it—if there's disappointment which you can't avoid, let it meet you, and not find you hiding away from the inevitable. Why, that's like a baby!"
"To be sure it is," said the father; "wait a moment—I'm not a bit nervous about this—I'll see that you keep firm, my boy, but I'll just unfasten this buckle behind my neck a moment. Now, then!"
"When I was one-and-twenty, there seemed reason to believe in a partnership in my masters' firm—my masters took a fancy to me when I was a lad, and very much obliged to them I was for it. By that hope in prospective," suddenly turning to Harriet Wesden, and leaning over the table towards her with a very anxious look upon his face, "I was led, Harriet, to think too much of you—to enter into a half-engagement, or a whole one, or a something that kept me ever thinking of you, hoping for you. When I was one-and-twenty, I was to come to your father, and say, 'I am in a good position of life—may I consider Harriet as my future wife?'—he was to refer me to you if satisfied with my prospects, and you were—well, I did hope very much that you were then to say, 'Yes' in real earnest. All this, a pretty story, foolish for me to believe in—but a story ended now in an ugly fashion. Mr. Wesden," veering suddenly round to the stationer, "my prospects in life are infamously bad; my employers are bankrupts, and my services will not be required after this day month!"
Mr. Hinchford flung himself back in his chair with a crash that brought the top rail off,—Sidney turned at once to him, and laid his hand upon his arm.
"With my father to give me courage, I can bear this!"
"That's—that's—that's well, my lad. Keep strong—oh! Lord have mercy upon us!—keep strong, my boy!"
"I have been fighting hard to get the firm straight—I have been abroad to the foreign branch, working night and day there, my last chance and my employer's. I had a hope once of success, till the markets fell suddenly, and swamped everything—our weakness could not stand against anything new and unforeseen, and so we—smashed! It will be all over town to-morrow—but it was a good fight whilst it lasted."
"It's very unfortunate news," said Mr. Wesden.
"I'm not afraid for myself," said Sidney, proudly; "I think that with time, and health—ah! I must not forget that—I shall work my way somewhere, and to something in good time. But I shan't climb to greatness all of a sudden; and it may happen that at forty—even fifty years of age—I may be no better off than I am now. That I'm disappointed is natural enough, for I know money's value, and perhaps it was a little too near my heart, and this is my lesson; but the disappointment of losing you, Harriet—of giving up that chance, as any honourable man should—is the one loss which staggers me, and will be the hardest to surmount. I thought that I would make a clean breast of it, and begin my one-and-twentieth year free, as land-agents say, of all encumbrances."
It was a poor attempt at facetiæ—a very weak effort to carry things off with a high hand, like a Hinchford. But he played his part well; he did not break down; he confessed his inability to keep a wife, or think of a wife, and he spoke out like one who had reached man's estate, and felt strong to bear man's troubles.
Mr. Wesden stared at Sidney long after he had concluded, and a pause had followed the outburst; Harriet Wesden, with a heightened colour, looked down at her white hands so tightly clasped together in her lap, and thought that it was a strange explanation—a strange hour for an explanation which he might have chosen his time to give to her alone. Surely she might have been offered an opportunity of giving an answer also, and spared that embarrassment with which his thoughtlessness had afflicted her. Could her father answer for her, as well as for himself!
Mr. Wesden delivered his reply, after several moments' grave deliberation.
"Mr. Sidney," said he, "I always did hate anything kept back, and doubted the honesty of anybody keeping it. The truth, however hard it may be to tell, will always bear the light upon it, I'm inclined to think."
Harriet winced.
"And you've spoken fair," he continued, "and given her up like a man. Now let her answer for herself; if she don't mind waiting till you're able to keep her—till you're forty or fifty, as you say," he added drily, "why, I shan't stand in opposition. The longer the engagement, the longer she'll be my daughter. There, can I put it in a fairer light than that that?"
Sidney's harangue, or Sidney's father's port-wine, had rendered Mr. Wesden magnanimous as well as loquacious that evening; or else, in business, his better nature was developing anew.
Now to such an answer as this, one can imagine Sidney Hinchford starting to his feet and wringing Mr. Wesden's hand, or turning suddenly to Harriet and looking earnestly, almost beseechingly, in her direction. On the contrary, he remained silent and moody; Mr. Wesden's answer was unprepared for, and his compliment to his straightforwardness brought a colour to Sidney's cheek—for, after all, he was keeping something back!
There was a painful silence, broken at last by a low and faltering voice, the musical murmur of which drew Sidney's eyes towards her at last.
"Has Mr. Sidney the patience to wait for me, or care for a long engagement, of which he may eventually tire?"
"Patience!—care for an engagement!" he almost shouted.
"Then when he asks me again," said Harriet, "I will give him my answer. But," with an arch smile towards him, "I will wait till I am asked."
"Bless you, my dear girl!" exclaimed old Hinchford, "I feel like a father towards you already—as for waiting, every true boy and girl will wait for each other—why shouldn't they, if they love one another, eh, Sid?"
His hand came heavily on Sid's shoulder, and knocked off his son's glasses.
"Ah! why shouldn't they, if they are sure of love lasting all the long time between engagement and marriage. Harriet! dear Harriet!" he exclaimed, "I will ask you presently."
"When the old fogies are out of the way, and the courtship can be carried on in the recondite style," cried his elated father; "a sly dog this, who will not be embarrassed by witnesses—eh, Wesden?"
Wesden gave a short laugh—a double-knock species of laugh, in which he indulged when more than usually hilarious.
"Ah! that's it!" he said; "and as for waiting, why Mrs. Wesden and I are an old couple, and mayn't keep you waiting so long as you fancy, Sidney. It isn't much money, but——"
"That will do, sir," said Sidney, hastily; "I must support my wife, not let my wife support me. Harriet," turning to the daughter, with an impetuosity almost akin to fierceness, "is it not time to return to Camberwell?"
"Oh! ho!—do you hear that, Wesden?" cried the father.
Mr. Hinchford had forgotten the downfall of his son's air-built castle, in the happiness which he believed would make amends for it to Sidney. And if Sidney were content—why, he was.
Harriet was glad of an excuse to escape. Two old gentlemen talking of love affairs—her love affairs—before the suitor, was scarcely fair, and her position was not enviable. And besides that, Sidney Hinchford's manner had not been comprehensible, and required explanation; she could almost believe that he did not desire an engagement; there was so little of the impassioned lover in his new demeanour. There was a mystery, and she would be glad to have it dissipated.
Harriet went away, escorted by her lover, and the two fathers drew their chairs closer to the fire and drank the health of the happy couple as they went out at the door.
"This is a proud day for you and me—to have such children, and to see them growing up fonder and fonder of each other every day—eh, Wesden?"
"Yes. I have been uneasy about Harriet, and leaving her alone in the world. She will be always happy with him, and have a good protector."
"That she will. How the little girl would have clapped her hands at this!"
"What little girl?" asked Wesden.
"Why, Mattie, to be sure. Mattie, who used to play the mother almost to those two, her seniors, and be always as interested as a mother in making a match between them."
"Ah!—Mattie!—yes!"
Mr. Wesden looked about for his pipe and his pipe-lights on the mantel-piece.
Mr. Hinchford drew his favourite meerschaum from his coat-pocket. The two old men faced each other, and began to smoke vigorously.
"I wonder where that girl has got to?" suggested Hinchford.
"It's impossible to say. In good hands, I hope."
"I'd lay a heavy wager that she knows whose birthday it is to-day," commented Mr. Hinchford; "she was a girl who never forgot anything."
"Ah—perhaps so!"
"And I think she might have cleared up the fog, if you had waited a bit, Wesden."
"Why didn't she, if she could?"
"I don't know. I promised to believe in her, and somehow I do."
"Can anything in the world account for a girl her age being out all night?" said Wesden.
"Ah! that looks bad—I can't get over that!" said Mr. Hinchford, giving his head one sorrowful shake.
Poor Mattie!—poor stray! whose actions, the best and most unselfish, were not to be accounted for, or done justice to in this world.
Sidney Hinchford escorted Harriet Wesden home to Camberwell. A most unromantic walk down the Newington Causeway—sacred to milliners and counter-skippers—the Walworth Road, Camberwell Road, and streets branching thence to melancholy suburbs—and yet a walk that was the happiest in the lives of these two, though looked back upon in after years through tear-dimmed eyes, and sighed for by hearts that had been sorely wrung. Such a walk as most of us may have taken once in life—seldom more than once—a walk away from sober realism into fairy-land, where everything apart from love was a something to be utterly despised, and where love first rose to fill our souls with promise. What if the story ended abruptly, and the waking came, and one or two of us fell heavily to earth—we did not die of the wounds, and we see now that the fall was the best thing that could have happened for us. We look back at the past, and regret not the sunshine that dazzled us there.
And yet there was a stern story to relate, and Sidney had escorted Harriet Wesden home, believing in the darkness rather than the light upon his way. He went forth regarding life literally, and he found himself, after awhile, in the land of romance, wherein sober existence had no dwelling-place.
Let him tell the story in his own way.
Harriet and Sidney had not proceeded a long distance together before he began.
"I think that I must have puzzled you very much, Harriet, by this evening's behaviour—by the way in which I received your kindness—more than kindness. There was a reason, and I am going to explain it."
"Is it worth explanation?" asked Harriet.
"I think so—you shall judge. It is an explanation that I cannot give my father, for it would break his heart, I think, with the long suspense which would follow it."
"So serious an explanation as that, Sidney?"
"Yes. Is it not odd that, with my character for straightforwardness, I should have been all my life keeping back the truth?"
"From him—for his sake, only, Sidney?"
"Perhaps for my own—to save myself from a host of inquisitive questions, and an attention that would irritate rather than soothe—I am a very selfish man."
"I don't believe that yet awhile."
"When I came home to-night, I had no other hope than that you and your father would consider that I had not made good my claim to become a favoured suitor, and that there was nothing left me but to make my statement and withdraw my rash pretensions. You will pardon me, Harriet, but it had never struck me that you were strong enough, or—pardon me again—that you had ever loved me well enough to attempt a sacrifice.
"I was a girl—very vain and frivolous—you were right."
"I come back and find you altered very much, Harriet. I find the old reserve that piqued my pride no longer there, and, instead, a something newer and more frank, a something that says, 'Trust me.' Is that a true reading?"
"Yes," she murmured.
"I am vain enough to believe in the heart growing fonder during my absence—though I have always fancied the experiment full of danger for the absent one. Say that the heart has done so—or that I did not understand you. Still the effect was the same, or I should not have the courage to tell you the great secret of my life. If I believed that you did not love me, or that you had ever loved any one else, I would not venture to put you to this test."
Harriet hung down her head, and her heart beat rapidly; the old story was before her, and his very words seemed now to forbid its revelation. His firm, self-reliant nature had never swerved from her, and he judged others by himself. His was a love that had begun from boyhood, and grown with his growth; should she raise the first suspicion against her by telling him all, when it was in her power—and only in her power—to make him happy, to make amends for all by her new love for him? Let him test her how he liked now, she was a woman who looked at life seriously, and the follies of her youth were over!
They walked on silently for awhile; they went on together, playing their love-dream out, and oblivious of the matter-of-fact world hustling them in their progress.
"This is the love test—and it must be a strange, pure love to exist after I have told all," he said.
"Do you doubt me, Sidney, already?"
"I cannot tell. I cannot," he added, more passionately, "believe in any affection strong and deep enough to last; but I can forgive, and consider natural, any love that turns to pity at the truth. Do you comprehend me?"
"Scarcely."
"Well then—I am going blind!"
An awful and unexpected revelation, which took her breath away, and seemed for an instant to stop her heart beating.
"Oh! Sidney—my poor Sidney—it cannot be!"
"Sooner or later, Harriet, it must be; mine is a hopeless case," he answered; "with care, and less night work, and quiet—that last means absence from all mental excitement—I may go on for a few years more; the last physician whom I have consulted even thinks he can give me ten years' grace. Now in ten years, ten of the best years of a young man's life, I ought to save, and I hope to save, sufficient to live upon. I may be over-sanguine, but if I get a good foothold I will try. And now where lives the girl who will accept a ten years' engagement, with the chance of a beggar or a blind man at the end of it?"
Harriet pressed his arm.
"Here," she answered.
"You will! There is the faith to wait, the courage to endure, and the love to sustain me. You are not afraid?"
"No—I have no fear," replied Harriet, warmly; "God knows that I have changed very much, and only lately learned to understand myself. I do not fear, Sidney, for I—I have learned to love you, and, by comparison, to see how noble and high-principled you are. But oh! if I were but more worthy of you, and your deep love for me!"
"Worthy!" he echoed; "why, what have I done to deserve a life's devotion to me, save to love you, which was the most natural thing in the world. What have I ever done to deserve the happiness of winning your love—a long legged, near-sighted gawky like me!—and such a love as shrinks not from the dark prospect ahead, but will disperse it by its brightness, and keep me from despairing. Why, in ten years time we shall not be an old couple—I shall only be one-and-thirty, and you but nine-and-twenty. When the light goes out," he added solemnly, "you will place your hand in mine to make amends for it, and begin my new happiness by the wife's companionship; shall I be so very much to be pitied then, I wonder?"
"I hope not, Sid."
She had not called him by that name since he was a boy, and his heart thrilled at it, and took fresh hope from it.
"All this on my part, I know is very selfish," he said. "I have told you already that I am a selfish man, to wish that your youth and beauty and love should be sacrificed to my affliction. I did not think of gaining them; I was content to pass away from you, and see you allied to one more deserving, more fitting, than myself; even now, I will go away resigned, thinking you are right to give me up, if but one doubt linger at your heart."
"Not one," was the firm answer.
"I can bear all now—afterwards, a doubt would strike me down—remember that."
"Trust in me, Sid—ever."
"I will."
The hand that had rested on his arm was held in his now, and they walked on together, with their hearts as full of happiness as though blindness were a trifling calamity, scarcely worth considering under the circumstances.
Sidney had pictured so dark a prospect ahead, that this sudden change made all bright, and Harriet Wesden was happy in being able to prove that her love was unselfish and strong. She did not believe that she had ever loved any one else then—she knew that hers was a different and more intense affection, something that felt like love, and that nothing in the world could destroy. Mr. Darcy was but a phantom, far back in the mists—his own dark efforts had utterly extinguished every ray of romance, in the false light of which he had luridly shone. Strengthened by her new love, she could have broken her promise to Mattie, and told all then, trusting in him to see the truth, and believe in her henceforth; but he had spoken of the danger of excitement to him, and once again—once for all—went the story back, never to hover on the brink of discovery again!
It was a strange courtship—that of Sidney Hinchford and Harriet's—but they were happy. The calamity was in the distance, and their hearts were young and strong. Both had faith then—and of the chances and changes of life, it was not natural to dwell upon, after the one avowal had been uttered.
"Then it is an engagement," he had asked hoarsely, and she had answered "Yes," with his own frankness and boldness; and thus the path ahead seemed bright enough.
Outside the suburban retreat of the Wesdens', Sidney Hinchford had a little struggle with duty and inclination—conquering inclination with that strong will of his.
"I'll go back to the old gentleman," he said at last; "he is scarcely used to my reappearance yet, and a little makes him nervous. Good-bye, love."
A lovers parting at the iron gate, to the intense edification of the potman coming up the street with the nine o'clock beer; and then Sidney tore himself homewards, thinking what a happy fellow he was, and how the business disappointments of life had been softened by the events that had followed them. The future could not be dark with Harriet; before this he had become resigned to his calamity, bent his strong mind to regard it as inevitable; now there was to come happiness with it, and he would be more than content, he thought.
He was soon back in Suffolk Street. Mr. Wesden was in the shop talking to a short, thin man with a sallow complexion, a hooked nose, bright black eyes, and straight hair; a man dressed in black; with a rusty satin stock of the same colour, secured by an old-fashioned brooch of gold wire, in the shape of a heart.
"And her name was Mattie, you say?"
"That was the name she called herself, and went always by in this house."
"And you don't know her whereabouts?"
"I haven't an idea."
"But you think she has gone wrong, don't you?" the man asked with no small eagerness.
"Well, I hope not; but I think so."
"Who? Mattie!" cried Sidney, suddenly thrusting himself into the conversation; "our Mattie—that be—hanged!"
He checked himself in time to save scandalizing the ears of the gentleman in black, who twirled round with a tee-to-tum velocity and faced him.
"What do you know of her, young man?" he asked abruptly.
"What do you want to know for?" was the rejoinder.
"I wish to find her—I am very anxious to find her."
"I hope you may, if it's for her good."
"Her moral and spiritual good, sir—without a doubt."
"You can't improve her. There isn't a better or more unselfish girl in the world!"
"What!" screamed the man in black.
"Not a better girl, I verily believe. I haven't heard the reasons for her departure yet," he said, looking at Mr. Wesden; "but they're good ones, or I was never more mistaken in my life."
"You are mistaken," said Mr. Wesden; "I've tried to think the best of Mattie, but I can't. There are no honest reasons for her conduct, or she would have told me."
Sidney Hinchford paused,
"It must be very unreasonable conduct then," said Sidney, "and she must have changed very much during my absence from this house. But, upon my soul!" he exclaimed vehemently, "I shan't believe any harm in her, for one!"
The stranger regarded Sidney Hinchford attentively, then said—
"You need not have brought your soul into question, sir. Pledge that in God's service—nothing else."
"Oh!" said Sidney, taken aback at the reproof.
"You speak warmly; and somehow I've a hope of her not being very bad—of reclaiming her by my own earnest efforts. Young man, I will thank you."
He stretched forth an ungloved hand, which Sidney took—a hard hand, that gripped Sid forcibly and made him wince a little.
"You all seem in doubt, more or less," he said; "and that gives me hope. Mr. Wesden and you don't agree in opinion, and that's something. Who's that white-haired man I see in the parlour!"
"That's my father, sir," said Sidney, smiling at the sudden curiosity evinced.
"Does he know anything about her?"
"Not so much as myself," said Mr. Wesden.
"Have you asked the servant—if you keep one?"
"I have asked her everything, and she knows nothing," replied the stationer.
"Then I'll go. I think I shall find her yet, mind you," he said in an excited manner. "I'm not a man to give up in a hurry, when I've taken an idea in my head. I've been sixteen years looking for that girl!"
"Are you a relation?" asked Sidney.
"Her father."
"Indeed!"
The stranger began hammering the counter with his hard hand, till the money in the till underneath rattled again. He began to take small leaps in the air, also, during the progress of his harangue.
"Her father—a poor man reclaimed from error, and knowing what it is to walk uprightly. A man who has, he trusts, done some good in his day—a man who now sets himself the task of finding that daughter he neglected once. And I'll find her and reclaim her—God will show me the way, I think. And you shall see her again, a shining light in the midst of ye—a brand from the burning, a credit to me! There's hope for her yet. Good night."
And very abruptly the gentleman in black leaped out of the shop and disappeared.
"That's an odd fish," remarked Sidney.
Before Mr. Wesden had finally disposed of his business in Great Suffolk Street, he met with his greatest trouble in the loss of the companion, helpmate, wife, who had struggled with him for many years from indigence to moderate competence. Mrs. Wesden's health had been failing for some time, but her loss was still as unprepared for, and the husband bent lower and walked more feebly when his better half—his better self—was taken from him in his latter days.
"You have still me, remember," said Harriet, when the undemonstrative nature gave way, and he sobbed like a child at his isolation; and he had answered, "Ah! you mustn't desert me yet awhile—you must comfort me," and refused to be comforted for many a long day. His character even altered once more—as characters alter in all cases, except in novels; and though the abruptness remained, and the silent fits were of longer duration, he became less harsh in his judgments, and more easily influenced for good. This was evident one day, when after an intense study of the fire before which he sat, he burst forth with——
"I wonder if I acted well by Mattie—poor Mattie, who would be so sorry to hear all the sad news that has happened since she left us."
Harriet, who had always taken Mattie's part to the verge of her own confession, answered warmly,
"No, we all acted very badly—very cruelly. When she comes again, as she will, I feel assured—I hope she will forgive us, father."
"Forgive us?"
Mr. Wesden had not arrived to that pitch of kind consideration yet, but Mattie's departure and long silence were troubles to him when he was left to think of the past, and of the business from which he had at last retired in earnest.
The shop had changed proprietors, and the Hinchfords, father and son, had removed their furniture from Mr. Wesden's first floor to a little house Camberwell way, also. A very small domicile had this careful couple decided upon for their suburban retreat—one of a row of houses that we may designate Chesterfield Terrace, and the rents of which were two-and-twenty pounds per annum.
Mr. Hinchford, we have already premised, had somewhat lofty notions, which adversity had kept in check, rather than subdued. The removal to Chesterfield Terrace was a blow to him. The rooms in Great Suffolk Street had been only borne with, scarcely resigned to; but though he had lived there many years, he had never considered himself as "settled down"—merely resting by the way, before he marched off to independence and the old Hinchford state. It had been a mythical dream, perhaps, until Sidney's star rose in the ascendant, and then he had quickly built his castles in the air, and bided his time more sanguinely. When that vision faded in its turn, the old gentleman was sorely tried; only his son's strategy in feigning to require consolation had turned him away from his own regrets to thoughts of how to make them less light for—the BOY.
But 34, Chesterfield Terrace, Chesterfield Road, Camberwell New Road, was a blow to him. The air was fresher than in Great Suffolk Street, the large market gardens at the back of his house were pleasant in all seasons, except the cabbage season; there were three bed-rooms, two parlours, a wash-house at the back, and a long strip of garden, constituting a house and premises that were solely and wholly theirs, and entitled them to the glorious privilege of electing a member for incorruptible Lambeth; but the change was not all that Mr. Hinchford had looked forward to for so many years, and he grew despondent, and fancied that it could never be better now.
The Hinchfords had taken into their service Ann Packet, of workhouse origin, and undiscoverable parentage; she had pleaded to be constituted their servant, at any wages, or no wages at all, rather than at her time of life to be sent forth in search of fresh faces and new homes.
At this period, Mr. Wesden had required a servant also, and Ann Packet had begged Sidney Hinchford to engage her at once, before she should be asked to continue in the old service.
"What! tired of them?" Sidney had said with some surprise.
"They gave me warning," replied Ann, somewhat sullenly, "and I accepts the same. They turned poor Mattie away without warning at all, and I never forgives 'em that, sir."
"Ah! you are on Mattie's side, too, Ann?"
"There never was a girl who thought so little of herself, and so much of others!" cried Ann, "or who desarved less to be sent out into the streets. I gave up the Wesdens after that, sir."
"But Miss Harriet is Mattie's champion also, and will defend her to the death, Ann."
"And will she be a Wesden all her life, sir?" asked Ann Packet, with an archness for which she was only that once remarkable.
Ann Packet became domestic servant at 34, Chesterfield Terrace, then, and congratulated herself on the kitchen being level with the parlours, which was good for her ankles, and spared her breath considerably.
Meanwhile the shadows were stealing on towards the Hinchford dwelling-place; Sidney's month in service with his old employers had been extended to two months, after which the firm, utterly shattered by adversity, was to dissolve itself into its component atoms, and be never heard of more in the busy streets east of Temple Bar.
Sidney, it need scarcely be said, had not sat idle during the time; he had looked keenly round him for a change of clerkship. His employers had interested themselves in a way not remarkable in employers, towards securing him a foothold in other and more stable establishments, but business was slack in the City, and there were no fresh hands wanted just at present.
Sidney was not a young man to despair; he let no chance slip, and disappointment did not relax his efforts. He did not believe that the time would come and leave him wholly without "a berth." He had faith in his abilities, and he thought that they would work a way for him somewhere. And even a week or two "out of work" would not hurt him; he had saved money, and could pay his fair share towards the household expenses as well as his father, who kept his place longer than Sidney had ever believed he would.
His father was more solicitous than himself; every evening he asked very anxiously if Sidney had heard of anything in the City, and was not greatly exhilarated by Sid's careless "Not yet." Things were getting serious when there was only a week more to spend at the old desk, where bright hopes had been born and collapsed; Sidney was even becoming grave, although his company manners were put on before the father, to keep the old gentleman's mind at ease.
But Mr. Hinchford's mind was not likely to be at ease at that period; he was playing a part himself, and disguising his own troubles from his son, thereby causing a double game at disinterestedness between Sid and him.
Three weeks before the son's time had expired at his office, Mr. Hinchford had received a week's notice to quit. His memory had again betrayed him, confused the accounts, and put the clerks out, and it was considered necessary to inform the old gentleman that his services were not likely to be required any longer. The notice came like a thunderbolt to Mr. Hinchford, whose belief in his own powers was still strong, and who had not had the remotest idea that long ago he had been tolerated by his employers, and set down for a troublesome, pompous, and disputatious old boy by the whipper-snappers round him. His salary had never been more than thirty-five shillings a week, and he had put up with it rather than been grateful for it, looking forward to the future rise of the Hinchfords above the paltry shillings and pence of every-day routine. He had not anticipated being turned off—pronounced worn-out in that service which a Hinchford had patronized.
The poor old fellow's pride was touched, and he took his adieux and his last week's salary with a lordly air, looking to the life the gentleman that he had been once. He expressed no regret at the summary dismissal, but marched out of the office with his white head thrown a little more back than usual, and it was only as he neared Chesterfield Terrace that his courage gave way, and he began to think of the future prospects of Sid and himself.
Sid was in trouble, and a little more bad news might be too much for him. He would try and keep his secret, until Sid had found a good berth for himself in the City. Affairs were looking desperate, and the revelation must come, but he could bear it himself, he thought—this weak old man with no faith in the strong son, whom an avalanche might affect, little else. Mr. Hinchford took Ann Packet into his confidence, and impressed her with the necessity of keeping Sid in the dark concerning the father's absence from business.
"Don't tell him, Ann, that I keep away from office after he's left—it's easy for me to make an excuse for an early return, if he come back before his time. I wouldn't have that boy worried for the world, just now."
Ann Packet, who took time to digest matters foreign to her ordinary business, was some days in comprehending the facts of the case, and then held counsel with herself as to whether it were expedient to keep Sidney in ignorance, considering how the old gentleman "went on" during his son's absence.
"He'll fret himself to death, and I shall be hanged for not stopping it, p'raps," she thought.
Once or twice she took the liberty of intruding into the parlour, and recommending Mr. Hinchford, senior, to try a walk, or a book, or a visit to Mr. Wesden; and, startled out of his maunderings, he would make an effort to follow one of the three counsels, seldom the last, because Mr. Wesden was Harriet's father, and saw Sid very frequently.
He took many walks in search of a situation for himself, but the one refrain was, "Too old," and he began to see that he had overstepped the boundary, and was scarcely fit for a new place. He almost conceived an idea—just a foggy one, which, however, he never confessed to his dying day—that he was a little forgetful at times; for Chesterfield Terrace lay in a net-work of newly-built streets at the back of the Camberwell New Road, and he was always taking the wrong turning, and losing himself. Still it was deep thought about Sid which led him in the wrong direction—presently his mind would be more composed; Sid would be in a good place, and he need not have one secret from him.
The last day came round; Sidney's services were over for good; he had had a painful parting with his old masters, who had been more than commonly attached to him, and he came home looking a little grave, despite the best face on the matter which he had put on at the front door.
"Anything new in the City, Sid?" asked the father.
"No, nothing new," he replied. "What makes you home so early to-day?"
Sid had turned in before the daylight was over, and found his father walking up and down the room with his hands behind him.
"Early?" repeated the old man. "Oh! they're not particularly busy just now in the Bridge Road. Very slack, I may say."
"Ah! I suppose so," said Sid, absently.
"And there's nothing new at all then, Sid?"
"Nothing."
"You'll keep a stout heart, my boy," said the father, with a cheering voice, and yet with a lip that quivered in spite of him. "I suppose, now, you don't feel very dull?"
"Dull, with my wits about me, and a hundred chances, perhaps, waiting for me in the City to-morrow!"
"Yes, you'll have all day to-morrow—I had forgotten that," said Mr. Hinchford; "to be sure, all day now!"
Sidney saw that his father was perplexed, even disturbed in mind, but he set down Mr. Hinchford's embarrassment to the same source as his own thoughts; he did not know that he had only inherited his unselfishness from his sire. Or rather, he did not remember, how an unselfish heart, allied to an unthinking head, had been the cause of the downfall in old times.
On the morrow Sidney Hinchford had the day before him, but the result was bad. He had visited many of the houses heretofore in connection with the old firm, but luck was against him, and many objected to a clerk from a house that had collapsed. It had been a fair bankruptcy; one of those honourable "breaks up" which occur once or twice in a century, and are more completely break ups from sheer honesty of purpose than cases which make a "to do" in the Court, and march off with flying colours; but Sidney represented one of a staff that had come to grief somehow, and "there was nothing in his way, just at present."
Three or four days passed like this, and matters were becoming serious to the Hinchfords—father and son seemed settling down to misfortune, although the son betrayed no anxiety, and the father's care were for the hours when the son's back was turned. In fact, Sidney Hinchford was not quickly dispirited; a little did not seriously affect him, and he went on doggedly and persistently, making the round of all the great firms that had had, once upon a time, dealings with his own; abashed seldom, dispirited never, firmly and stolidly proceeding on his way, and calmly waiting for the chance that would come in due time.
Meanwhile the father went down to zero immediately the door closed behind Sidney. He felt that he was not acting fairly by keeping the secret of his discharge from Sid; but he was waiting for good news, that might counterbalance the bad which he had to communicate. He knew that in a day or two, at the utmost, all must come out, but he put off the evil day to the last—a characteristic weakness—weakness or good policy, which was it?—that he had adopted ever since there had been evil days to fret about.
In the grey afternoon of an April day, he sat alone in his front parlour, more utterly dispirited than he had been since his wife's death, years ago. No good fortune had come either to father or son, and he was inclined to regard things in the future lugubriously; workhouses and parish funerals not being the least of his fancy sketches. He had taken his head between his hands, and was brooding very deeply before the scanty little fire-place, which he intended to heap up with coal a few minutes before Sidney's expected return, when Ann Packet came into the room, very confused, and speaking in a hoarse voice.
"If you please, sir, here's a visitor!"
"I can't see any visitors, Ann," he answered sharply, "unless—unless it's any one from——"
"It's only Mattie, sir; she's come to see you for a moment!"
"Mattie! bless my soul, has she turned up again?"
"She turned up at the front door only a minute ago. Lord bless her! You might have knocked me down with a straw, sir!"
"I'll see her—show her in."
Mattie came in the instant afterwards; the hall of the Hinchfords was not so spacious but that anything spoken in the front room would reach the ears of one waiting in the passage. She heard the answer, and entered at once.