When Sidney Hinchford called the next morning at Tenchester Street, to inquire after Mattie's health, Ann Packet met him at the door, and informed him that the invalid was worse, and on no account to be disturbed. In the course of the day a new doctor arrived, commissioned by Sidney; and being a man not inclined to pooh-pooh every system but his own, gave his opinion that Mattie was being treated correctly, and he saw nothing to improve upon. So the doctor was not changed; and being a poor man struggling for a living in a little shop round the corner, I hope he was sufficiently grateful, especially as Ann Packet did not require a twelvemonth's credit, but settled his bill every Saturday night with the washerwoman's.
And three Saturday nights went by before Mattie was considered out of danger of the fever's return, and in rather more imminent danger of the exhaustion which that fever had occasioned. Sidney Hinchford had taken Tenchester Street and Southwark Bridge in his new route to the City, and called every morning for the latest news—Ann Packet had brought it down to him, with Mattie's kind regards and compliments, and he had not been permitted to see her since that night referred to in our last chapter.
Mattie was getting better when the fourth week was over—learning to be strong, anxious about the expenses that had been incurred, solicitous even about her little dress-making connection, which would have flown to the four winds of heaven had scarlatina thought of taking its measure.
Mattie had found strength to leave her bed and sit up for a while in the chair by the fireside, when the second visitor astonished Tenchester Street by her arrival. No less a visitor than Harriet Wesden herself—who, having learned Mattie's address by degrees from the unfaithful Sidney, had made an unlooked-for raid upon the premises.
"Don't cry—don't speak—don't say anything for ever so long!" she said, with one gloved finger to her pretty mouth; "if there's anything to get over—get over it without any fuss, my dear."
Mattie was silent for a while—she turned her head away and looked at the red coals. This was a meeting that she thought would come some day; that in her heart she did not blame Sidney Hinchford for promoting, although the danger of it rendered her uneasy.
"Farther away, Harriet," she murmured at last.
"I'm not afraid," said Harriet; "I don't believe that I'm of a feverish sort, or that there's any danger. If there were, I should have come all the same, and stopped just as long, after wheedling the address from Sid."
Ann Packet fidgeted about the room; she was jealous of her charge, fearful of Mattie becoming excited, and of Harriet Wesden talking too much to her. Harriet Wesden saw this.
"You may trust me with her, Ann—I will be very careful."
"I hope you will—I shouldn't like the doctor to say I'd let you chatter her off into a fever again. You'll take care, Mattie."
"Yes, Ann."
At the door she paused again.
"You allus were such a gal to talk when once set a going, Mattie—now doee be as careful as you can! When I come back from marketing, I'll hope it's all done atween you two."
Ann Packet withdrew; the two girls—we may say, despite the difference of position between them, the two friends—looked at each other for a short while longer. Mattie was the first to speak.
"Now you have come, Harriet, you must tell me all that has happened since we parted—every scrap of news that affects you is always welcome to me."
"Shall I sum it up in three words, that will content you, Mattie—I am happy."
"I am so glad—so very glad! Harriet," she added more eagerly, "you do love him? It isn't a fancy, like—like the others?"
"Mattie, I love him with my whole heart—I never loved before—I feel that the past was all romantic folly. You don't know what a noble fellow he is—how kind and thoughtful!"
"Yes—I do."
"Ah! but you don't know him as I know him; the truth of his inner self, the nobleness of his character, the earnestness of his nature. Mattie, I feel that I have deceived him—that I should have told him all about Mr. Darcy, and trusted in his generosity, in his knowledge of me, to believe it. It was a cruel promise that you wrung from me."
"Harriet, I was thinking of your own good name, and of the story that the world would make from yours. I think I was right."
We wiser people, with principles so much higher, think Mattie was wrong, as she thought herself, in the days that were ahead of her.
"And this Mr. Darcy, Harriet, have you seen or heard from him since?"
"I received one letter. I returned it to its writer unopened."
"That was right. And the Eveleighs, what do they know, do you think?"
"Nothing."
"Then we must be safe."
"We?" echoed Harriet; "when you are bearing the stigma of my indiscretion! Mattie, you went out that night in search of me."
"No matter," responded Mattie; "I must not talk too much. Let me hear you speak of all old friends—it's like the old times back again to have you here."
"And they will come back."
"Never!" was the solemn reply.
"Not that tiresome shop, perhaps," said Harriet, "but the times like unto the old, and all the better for the difference. You know what a weak and sanguine woman I was."
"Well—yes."
"I am a strong and sanguine woman now, and there are good times I brood upon, and look forward to still. Shall I sketch you the picture?"
"If you will."
Mattie listened very anxiously; Harriet, with her bonnet in her lap, and her golden hair falling about her shoulders, sat steadfastly looking at our heroine.
"A little cottage somewhere in the country—a long, long way off from this London, which I dislike so much. Sid and I together, and you our faithful friend and housekeeper. Oh! that will come true!"
Mattie shook her head.
"I think not."
"Why, you will not desert us!"
"When the time comes round for the cottage, I will give my answer. I think that—I—should—like to come some day—when you have children, perhaps, to take care of them. But it is a long, long while to look forward to—almost wicked to build upon, is it not?"
"I don't see where the wickedness lies."
"And as for the country—why in the country, Harriet, when Sidney will have to work in London?"
"He may make his fortune and retire," she said, after a pause.
The secret of Sidney's life was sacred, even from Mattie. Harriet could not dwell upon it without arousing a suspicion.
"I feel that we shall all be together some day—and now, before that day comes, let us speak of something else."
Harriet Wesden hastened to disburthen herself of all the thoughts which she had had concerning Mattie's future mode of living; if it were dress-making, how Harriet could help her to increase the connection—and, whatever it was, how she, Harriet Wesden, must do her best for Mattie.
All this was very pleasant to our heroine, though it troubled her, and almost mastered her at times. Pleasant to witness the evidence of the old love, of no new love having ousted her from a place in Harriet's heart. With the exception of honest Ann Packet, Mattie had earned no affection for herself, and had stood even isolated from it, until Harriet turned to her as her friend, trusted in her, and—did she ever dream it in the days when she ran barefooted through the London streets?—sought advice from her. And then, from that hour, Mattie studied Harriet, saw her weaknesses, and did her best to counteract them; moulded her—though neither knew it, or would have guessed it—anew, and helped to make the true woman which she was at that hour.
Mattie felt glad that she had been ill, now; her illness had brought Harriet to her side, and proved that she had lived in all her thoughts.
They were still talking together in the gloaming when the doctor called, bowed to Miss Wesden, and then paid attention to his patient.
"It's very dark," said he, after an ineffectual attempt to see Mattie's tongue; "but you're better, I perceive. Keep still, don't trouble yourself about a light, Miss Gray,"—Mattie, for some reason she could have scarcely explained to herself, had assumed the title which Mrs. Watts, in their last meeting, had bestowed upon her—"I have brought a friend to see you to-day, not knowing that you were engaged."
"Who is he?" Mattie inquired.
"A gentleman connected with the chapel—our chapel."
"Indeed!"
"He helps us with the district business when he's in town—and he has been very anxious to see you for the last fortnight, but the young woman who waits upon you said—very rudely, I fear—that she wouldn't have you worried for fifty parsons. May he come in?"
Before Mattie had made up her mind, he came in without permission. It was difficult to distinguish him in the shadowy room, save that he was short and thin, and moved about with extraordinary celerity.
"When the sinner is too weak to go forth in search of the Word, it should be brought to her by all men earnest for sinners' redemption," he said, in a high, hard voice, very unsuitable for an invalid's chamber; "and I trust that Miss Gray will not consider me out of place in coming hither to teach her to be grateful for her recovery."
"She is scarcely recovered yet, sir," Harriet ventured to suggest.
"What does Miss Gray say?" he said, as though Miss Wesden's word was to be doubted.
"That it is very kind of you to come—but that I am a little weak just at present."
"I called on the doctor—he's not of your opinion—he ought to know best."
"Yes, yes," said the doctor, "but you promised only a few words."
"I am a man of my word," was the brisk answer.
"I beg pardon, I never said that you were not," said the doctor; "but we must be gentle with our patient yet awhile—and she has already been receiving visitors to-day."
"If Miss Gray objects, I will go."
Mattie said that she did not object, and, without further ceremony, the stranger began to pray for her, lowering his voice when he found that he need not shout at the top of his lungs to be heard in that little room, and even praying with some degree of eloquence, and a more than common degree of earnestness, which was some little apology—if not quite enough—for his unwarrantable intrusion.
It was a long prayer, and spared no one. The doctor, after waiting five minutes, and finding thanksgivings for recovery, and for shortening his bill, not in his line, took his departure on tiptoe; Mattie listened reverently, with her hands clasped in her lap; Harriet, who had not forgiven the intrusion, thought of Sidney more than the preacher, and threw the latter out in his extempore oration by suddenly poking the fire, and then dropping the poker with a crash into the fire-place. Ann Packet returned from marketing, and found the preacher in the middle of the room on his knees, and disgusted with his tactics, after the many times she had denied him admittance, proceeded to arrange the tea-tray and light the candle, with a noisy demonstrativeness that was perfectly unnecessary.
"Amen" sounded at last, and the little man rose to his feet, over which Ann Packet had twice stumbled, buttoned his black dress-coat across his chest, picked up his hat, and proceeded to retire without further words, like a man of business, who, having done his work, was in a hurry to get home. Suddenly he paused and regarded Harriet Wesden attentively. The light in the room was feeble, and might deceive him, he thought, for, with a quick hand, he caught up the candlestick and held it nearer to her.
"Miss Wesden—surely?"
Harriet saw nothing to recognize in the wiry-haired, high-cheek-boned preacher. He was a stranger to her.
"Yes, sir."
"It's not a common name, but I presume not connected with the stationer's in Great Suffolk Street?"
"It was once, before my father left the shop."
"The coincidence never struck me before—that's rather odd, for I'm not generally so dull. You don't remember me?"
"I have never met you before."
"Oh! yes—at the Ashford railway station, in the middle of the night—you claimed my protection from a cruel snare that had been laid to entrap you."
"Hush, sir!—yes, sir," said Harriet, with a glance at Ann Packet, who, however, was still busy with the tea-things; "I remember you now; you were very kind to me, and took pains to relieve me from a great anxiety."
"And what has become of——"
"I have never seen him," Harriet interrupted.
"And he hasn't sought you out, and——"
"No, he hasn't. Please say no more about it!" she cried to the inquisitive man; "I have forgotten the story. Mattie, ask him to be quiet."
"How's that possible? How can a—Mattie!" he ejaculated, suddenly struck by that name, dropping his hat and then putting his foot upon it in his excitement; "your name Mattie, and acquainted with a Miss Wesden, who lived once in Suffolk Street! And Miss Gray, too!—my name!—Mattie Gray, why, it must be!"
"Must be—what!" gasped Mattie, rising in her chair.
"Keep quiet—you're to be kept quiet—the doctor said so," he stammered, fighting wildly in the air with both hands; "don't alarm yourself—try and guess who I am for the next hour and a half. I'll be back by that time—where's my hat?—good evening."
He turned to dart out of the room, and ran against Sidney Hinchford, who had been standing there an amazed listener—for how long?
"Break it to her by degrees before I come," he said to Sidney; "I'm her father—I have been looking for her all over the kingdom. Do me this good turn?"
"One moment—I am going your way. Mattie understands it already."
"Sidney!" cried Harriet.
"I shall be back in a few minutes," he said, and then the local preacher and the banker's clerk went out together.
The three women left behind in that little room remained silent from the shock. They were amazed, perplexed. The sudden excitement of the preacher; the strange questions he had asked Harriet Wesden before the name of Mattie had changed the topic of conversation; the presence of Sidney Hinchford as a witness to all this; his abrupt departure with the preacher—all tended to create doubt, and suggest to one, at least, the presence of danger.
Mattie had not given much thought to Sidney Hinchford's appearance; the preacher's excitement, the return of a far-off thought to her, had rendered all that had followed vague and indistinct—the scene had been even too much for her, and she began to slowly close her eyes.
"I think she has been talked and worried to death too much," cried Ann running to her; "Miss Harriet, I'd go now, if I were you."
"Perhaps I have remained too long," said Harriet, rising.
"No," said Mattie, feebly, "I have been surprised by all that has just happened. You are not the cause."
"I think I would lie on the bed a little while, Mattie," said Harriet.
"Don't go till I feel better."
Mattie lay on the bed as directed; Harriet did not resume her seat, but stood with one arm on the mantel-piece, looking thoughtfully before her, where no fancy pictures lingered now. There was a long silence. Ann Packet placed some smelling salts in Mattie's hand, and then sat at a little distance, watching her. Harriet retained her position until Mattie drew the bed-curtain further back and looked at her.
"I am better now. You will wait till Sidney comes back to fetch you home, Harriet?"
"It is very late. He may not come back."
"He is sure to come," said Mattie; "pray sit down again, and Ann shall make us tea. Harriet, that man is my father."
"Do you really think so?"
"It was all a truth that that horrible woman told me on the day the house was robbed; he has been in search of me; he has found me at last—I shall not be alone in the world ever again!"
"You are glad then, Mattie?"
"Why should I not be?" asked our heroine; "I think that he is a good man—I think that he must have cared for me a little, to have taken so much trouble in his search for me—he will come back soon, and then we shall know all."
"He comes back to your gain and my loss," Harriet was on the point of saying, but checked herself; Mattie was excited enough without the cares of her friend to be added to her own.
It was a silent, thoughtful meal; Ann Packet, absorbed in gloomy reverie, took her tea with stony apathy. She could see that changes were coming towards her also, and the shape that they might assume was hard to guess at. She should lose Mattie perhaps, and that was sufficient to disturb her.
Tea was over, and Mattie had returned to her easy-chair, when a faint rapping was heard at the outer-door. Ann Packet went to the door, and found the preacher there, as she had anticipated.
"Is she prepared—has she guessed?"
"Yes."
"Can I come in?"
"It isn't for the likes of me to say you can't;" and with this evasive reply, Ann Packet opened wide the door and admitted him.
He came in on tiptoe, in a manner strangely at variance with his former brusque entrance; he turned to Harriet Wesden first, and spoke in a low whisper to her.
"Mr. Hinchford bade me say, Miss Wesden, that he was waiting for you, down-stairs."
"Thank you—is he——?"
Harriet did not know how to finish her sentence, and left it in its embryo condition. Her face was pale, and her heart was beating violently as she stooped and kissed Mattie.
"Good-bye, dear—I must go now—Sidney is waiting."
"Good-bye—are you not well?" asked Mattie, suddenly.
She was as quick an observer as of yore, and the new expression on Harriet's face suggested the new fear.
"Yes—yes—a little upset by what has happened to-day, that's all. Good-bye." And Harriet Wesden departed hastily.
The preacher put his hat on the floor, silently drew a chair towards Mattie, and then sat down close to her side. Ann Packet, from the distance watched them both—saw in an instant the likeness between them, as they sat thus. Both had sharp black eyes, dark hair, thin noses; the general expression of features was the same, harsher and more prominent in the man; and, therefore, rendering him far from a being whose good looks were apparent.
"Your name is Mattie?—you were at Mr. Wesden's for some years?—he adopted you—he took you from the streets?—previous to his kindness, you were living, off and on, at a Mrs. Watts' of Kent Street, Southwark, where your mother died?"
"Yes," answered Mattie.
"The woman who died in Kent Street, Southwark, was my wife. She and I started in life together happily enough, till she took to drink—oh! the drink! the drink!—and then home became a misery, and we quarrelled very much, and I took to drink myself. I lost my place through drink, and laid the fault to her—we quarrelled worse than ever, as we became poorer and more wretched; I struck her, fought with her, acted the brute until she ran away from me, taking you with her, then but a year old. I did not seek to find her out—I let her go to ruin, and went my own way to ruin myself, until rescued by a miracle—by a good man, whom God sent in my way to amend my life, and teach me all the truths which I had neglected. He found me work again; he raised me from the brute into the man; he altered me body and soul, and when he died, it struck me that I might follow in his steps, and do good unto others, after his example. I was not an unlearned man in all respects; I fancied that I might do good by an effort—there is no doing good without one—and I made the attempt. When I was rewarded by my first convert, Mattie, that was my encouragement," he said, rising with the earnestness of his topic, sitting down again, and flinging his arms wildly about; "that was my incentive to go on, to save fresh souls from the danger, to struggle in the by-ways of life, for the light which the evil one would for ever shut from us. And I was rewarded for the effort; I have done good; I have spent the last sixteen years of my life in the good cause!"
"You are a minister."
"A local preacher—wandering from place to place, as my employers dictate—occasionally proceeding on my own route; for ever astir, and letting not the sun go down upon my idleness. And all this, while I have been in search of you—tracking your mother at last to Kent Street, and following on your track, until I am rewarded thus!"
He held forth his hand, and Mattie placed hers within it.
"I think that you are my father," she said; "I am glad to find some one to care for me at last."
"And you will care for me?—for I have been a lonely man in the world for many years, and would make atonement for the evil act which cast you to the streets! But Mattie, look at me!"
Mattie regarded him long and steadfastly. It was a strange, hard-featured face, on which was impressed firmness, or obduracy, and little else; but she felt that he was to be trusted and believed.
"You see a very stubborn man, one who has made few friends in life, and who has met with much tribulation in his journey," said he; "you see a man who will do his duty by you, but will not be a gentle father—a man who will never win a daughter's love, and will not let the daughter take the first place in his heart, lest she should wean him too much from the pursuit of sin, and slacken his zeal in the good cause. A man who is poor—who cannot offer you a home much better than this—a man disagreeable, irritable, and obstinate—is he worth calling father?"
"Yes."
"Thank God you say so; it is very horrible to feel alone in the world."
The disagreeable, irritable, and obstinate man, shook Mattie by both hands, kissed her suddenly on the forehead, drew forth a cotton handkerchief, and wiped his eyes and blew his nose vigorously; finished by producing a shabby leather purse, and taking some silver therefrom, which he placed on the mantel-piece.
"My child!—at my expense all future housekeeping. Young woman," to Ann Packet, "you'll draw from that small amount for the future."
"I'm sure I shan't!"
"Eh!—what?"
"I've taken care of her, and been a mother to her for the last four weeks, and you're not a-coming in here all at once, and stealing every bit of comfort away from me!"
"Who is this?" he asked of Mattie.
"A faithful friend, without whom I might have died."
"Then she must be a friend of mine—young woman, you hear that?"
"Ah! I hear," said the stolid Ann.
"And who knows but that you, Mattie, in the better days in store for you and me, may become a worker in the vineyard also?"
"She's not going to work in any yard yet awhile, if I know it!" said Ann.
Mr. Gray rose and picked up his hat again, without paying heed to this allusion.
"I have work to do at home," he said; "I am a mechanic by trade, and have to labour to get my own living; when you are well enough, you must come to my home and make it a different place. I have much to ask you when you are better—I have been troubled about stories that have been told me of you—I am unhappy until I know the truth. You will keep nothing from me?"
Mattie did not reply; that was a matter for future consideration.
"I never allow anything to be kept from me," he said sharply; "I shall be a hard father, rely upon it. I allow nothing for prevarication, and I spare no sin or weakness, however plausible may be the excuse which the sinner offers. I—how dreadfully askew everything is on this mantel-piece!" he added suddenly, putting the few ornaments thereon at regular distances from each other; "I shall not be a kind father—I know I shan't! The mountains are not harder to move than I am—you're not frightened at me, Mattie?"
"No."
"Not sorry I have come here to claim you?"
"No—glad," said Mattie; "I think I shall be able to trust you, and to understand you in a little while. And the world will never be entirely desolate again."
"Neither for you nor for me—though I have had my pursuits, and been working hard for my master on earth—my Master in heaven. Amen. He has been very kind to me to reward me thus for the little which I have done of late years!"
He was down on his knees in the old place, and praying again; offering a thanksgiving for his daughter's restoration to him. He was a man who cared not for appearances—who doubtless rendered himself extremely ridiculous and objectionable at times—and yet a man so thoroughly in earnest, that it was hard to laugh at him. At first sight it was difficult to understand him, although Mattie already felt confidence in him, and saw a brighter life in store for her; he was a man whose character was hard to define at a first interview.
The time was inappropriate; the prayer out of place; he might have waited till he had got home, thought Ann; but after a while the deep voice arrested attention, and Mattie listened and was impressed by the man's fervour and rugged eloquence. It was not a long prayer; he was on his feet again, and looking at his daughter once more.
"I shall come to-morrow—next week perhaps we shall be living together, father and child! Dear me, how odd that sounds now! With you at my side, I feel I can confront my enemies better."
"Your enemies?"
"Such as they are—I'm not afraid of them—I rather like them," he added; "they laugh at me, and mimic my ways—shrug their shoulders, and tell one another what a hypocrite I am. It's the easiest thing in the world to say a man is a hypocrite, and the very hardest for that man to prove that he is not. But we'll talk about that, and about everything else when you're better. I—I hope I haven't been going it too much—good-bye."
"Good-bye, father."
"Ah! that's very good of you," he said; "but you must not be too credulous. I'll bring my marriage certificate to-morrow, and we'll proceed in a more business-like fashion. Good-bye—good evening, young woman."
"Good evening, sir," said Ann, evidently inclined to be more civil to him. When he had gone, Ann Packet insisted upon putting Mattie to bed at once; she was inclined to keep her place, and talk of the extraordinary incidents of that day.
"Talk of 'em to-morrow," said Ann; "you've gallied your brains enough for fifty fathers."
"I feel so much happier, Ann, with some one whom I shall have a right to love."
"Well, you've a right to love who you like, o' course."
"And I shan't love my faithful, gentle nurse the worse for it."
"God bless you!—what a gal you are!"
"Life seems beginning with me for the first time—opening new scenes, new faces, new affections. Yes, Ann, I am happy to-night."
"Then I'm glad he's come—I think he's turned up for the best; although," she muttered to herself, "I shouldn't be very proud of another father like him for myself. He's such a rum un!"
Meanwhile Harriet Wesden—what had followed the coming of this "rum un" to her? Was her happiness fading away, as Mattie Gray's advanced? Let us see.
A cold frosty air in the streets that night—a chilling welcome to Harriet Wesden as she emerged from the hot room into Tenchester Street. Sidney was waiting for her, staid, silent, and statuesque; he offered her his arm, which she took, and together they proceeded along the narrow street into the Southwark Bridge Road—thence past the old house in Great Suffolk Street towards the Borough.
Harriet Wesden felt that she would have given worlds, had she possessed them, to have broken the silence, and ventured on some topic which might have tested the truth or the folly of her fears; but all thought seemed to have deserted her.
These sudden vacuums are difficult things to account for—most of us suffer from them more or less at some period or other of our lives. Who cannot remember the sudden hiatus with the friend—male or female—whom we intended particularly to impress with the force of our eloquence; or the collapse in the grand speech with which we wished to return thanks for the handsome manner in which our health had been drunk at that dinner party, or the vote of confidence placed in us at that extraordinary general meeting?
Harriet Wesden was dumb; there was not one thought at which she could clutch, even the coldness of that night did not suggest itself till it was too late to speak, and the idea began to impress her that it would be more unnatural to say a few commonplace words than to keep silence.
She guessed that Sidney knew her secret, or the greater part of her secret, the instant that she had emerged into the street; and to attempt a commonplace discourse with a great sorrow overshadowing him would, after all, have been a mockery, unworthy of herself and him.
But if he would only speak!—not proceed onwards so firmly, steadily saying, never a word to relieve the embarrassment of her position. Sidney Hinchford maintained a rigid silence for almost a similar reason to Harriet's; he was at loss how to begin, and break the spell which had enchained him since his engagement. He was walking in darkness, and there was no light ahead of him. All was vanity and vexation of spirit.
At last the silence was broken. They had left behind them the long rows of lighted shops, and come to private houses, and long dreary front gardens, with interminable rows of iron railings; there were a few late office-clerks—a shadowy woman or two—hastening homewards; the roar of London was growing fainter in the distance.
"Harriet," he began, in a deep voice, wherein all excitement was pent up and constrained, "I have heard a strange story to-night from that man claiming to be Mattie's father—is it true?"
"Yes."
She did not ask what he had heard, or attempt any defence; the sound of his voice, deep and resonant after the long silence, had set her heart beating, and rendered her answer a matter of difficulty.
"It is a strange story, and I have been hoping it might have been explained away by some means not only unnatural—I can almost believe that it is all a dream, and no cruel waking is to follow it. Harriet, may I ask if your father is aware of this?"
"He is not yet."
"You were travelling alone with a gentleman—I will call him a gentleman for the sake of argument—in the middle of the night by the Dover mail train; at Ashford you leave the carriage abruptly, and demand protection from him—speak of a trap into which he had led you, and seek counsel of that man we met at Mattie's house to-night?"
"But——"
"But do not misunderstand me, Harriet—I can read the story for myself; I can see that you were deceived in this man, and had no consciousness of the snare prepared for you, until the hour was too late. I can believe that your sense of right was outraged, and the gentleman merited all the scorn which he received—but who was this man to whom you could trust yourself at that hour, and by what right were you, under any circumstances, his companion?"
"He was a man I met at Mrs. Eveleigh's—he offered to escort me to the railway station."
"A stranger?"
"No—I had met him at Brighton, before then, when I was a school-girl. He—he paid me attentions there which flattered my girlish vanity; and—and then I met him again at Mrs. Eveleigh's."
"What is his name?"
"Darcy."
"You have not seen him since?"
"No—I hope that he and I will never meet again."
"Harriet, you loved this man!"
"No," was the fearless answer; "I cannot believe that now. I might have fancied so at the time—for oh! I was bewildered by many thoughts, and my heart was troubled, Sid—but I never loved him, on my honour!"
"It is easy to think that now," said Sidney in reply; "the idol has fallen from the pedestal, never to be replaced again—a ruin, in which no interest remains. But you loved him, or believed you loved him at that time—it is a nice distinction—and there was no thought of me and my hopes."
"Sidney, I wrote—I—"
"Harriet, there is no need for us to say one word in anger about this," he interrupted; "I will ask no further explanation—I do not wish it. I can see now where I have been wrong, and whither my folly was leading me—and there's an end of it," he added.
"An end of—what?"
"Of the one hope that I have had. I see, now, how much better it is for you and me, and what a foolish couple we have been."
There was a long silence; they had walked on some distance before Harriet said, suddenly and sharply—
"What do you mean—what am I to understand?"
"That our engagement is at an end, and that it is better for us both to forget the romantic nonsense which we talked of lately. I will not ask you to forget me; I will not try for a single moment to forget you. I will prefer, if you will allow me, Harriet, to remain your friend—something of the old boy-friend I was to you, before the dream came."
"Unjust—unkind!" she murmured.
"No, you will not think that presently," he answered; "you will judge me more fairly, and see for yourself how it could not have ended otherwise for either of us. You have been more than kind to me—you have offered me the sacrifice of your best wishes, even your brightest prospects, out of pity, and I cannot have it."
"Pity!" she repeated.
Harriet was unnerved at his earnestness, at the deep sorrow which betrayed itself in every word, and which he thought that he disguised so well; but her pride was wounded also at his resignation of her, and she could see that there was no defence to urge which, by the laws of probability, had power to affect him. Between her and him that cruel past, which she had hidden from him; that proof of love or fancy for another, when he was building on her lore for him; that evidence against her, which for ever robbed him of his confidence and trust. No, there was no defence, and the scornful echo of his last words were more like defiance than regret.
"Yes, pity!" he reiterated—"only pity! Harriet," he said, for an instant pressing her hand upon his arm with the old affection, "it was kind and noble of you, but it was not love. It was a sacrifice; I was a poor man; there was a great affliction in store for me, and you felt that you alone could lighten it in the present—and in the future, when it faced me and shut me in with it. You saw that you were my one hope, and you took pity on me. It was a mistake—I see the gigantic error that it was now!"
"You will see the truth—you will judge me fairer yet, Sidney."
"This past engagement between us, Harriet, has been a trouble to me lately," he continued; "my selfishness has scared me before this, and I have felt that I had no right to bind you to me for a term of years, ending in calamity at the last. I was wrong—I retract—I am very sorry for the error—I am glad of this excuse to rectify it."
"You say that!" cried Harriet; "you are glad to break with me—to believe that I did not love you, Sidney?"
"Yes, I am glad. I can see that it was all for the best; and though I could have wished that there had been a different reason for the parting, still it takes a weight from my conscience—it is a relief!"
It was a struggle to say so, but he said it without bitterness, and in good faith. By some ingenious method of word-twisting, which Harriet could not follow, he had stopped all effort to explain more fully, and turned the blame of the engagement on himself. There was no answering; she saw that his heart was wrung with the agony of the dissolution, but she read upon that pale, stern face, to which she glanced but once, an inflexible resolve, that nothing could alter. He upbraided her not; he uttered not one sarcasm upon the folly of her past passion for Mr. Darcy, or the mistakes to which it had led; he expressed a wish to be her friend still, but he gave her up, and with all her love for him—and she knew how truly it was love then—she could not ask him to reconsider his verdict and spare her a parting as bitter for her as him. She read in that hasty glance at his face, incredulity of her affection for him; and no protestation on her part could have altered that. Yes, it was ended between them—perhaps for the best, God knew; she could not think of it then—she was ashamed, miserable, utterly cast down!
"Let me get home," she murmured; "what a long way it is to home."
"I will say no more, Harriet—I have been unkind to say so much," he said, in answer to that cry, in which he might have read the truth, had not his heart been for ever closed to it from that night.
So, in the same silent way as they had begun that inauspicious walk, the two concluded it, reaching the little house of Mr. Wesden shortly afterwards. Colder and more grim the night there; beyond the lighted London streets, in melancholy suburban districts like to this, there seemed to lurk a greater desolation.
"Good night," he said; "don't think that we part in anger, or that I am hurt in any way at what has happened—or that I am less your friend than ever, Harriet."
"Good night," was all her answer.
He lingered still, as though he had more to say, or was endeavouring to think of something more to render the disruption less abrupt and harsh; but he relinquished the attempt, and left her, walking away rapidly as though at the last—the very last—he feared to trust himself.
He did not go straight home, but walked for awhile up and down the street wherein his home was, at the same rapid pace, with his breath held somewhat, and his hands clenched.
He had acted for the best—it was for the best, he thought!—but the result was not satisfactory, and the future beyond was the grey density at which he had recoiled, when crossing the Channel on the day he came to man's estate.
If he had died on that day, or the ship had gone down with him, how much better he thought then; better for her, for him—even for his father, perhaps, he could not tell at that time!
He went indoors at last, feigned for awhile the old demeanour, and failed at a task beyond his strength for once. He gave it up, and, looking vacantly at his amazed father, said,
"I'm not well to-night. I think I'll go to my room."
"Not well!—you not well, Sid?" exclaimed the father, as though the assertion were the most improbable to make in the world.
"Not very well—a head-ache."
"Ah! too much book-work. Be careful, Sid, don't overtask yourself."
"I shall be well enough to-morrow. Good night."
He left the room abruptly, and turned the key in his own apartment a few minutes afterwards. In his own room, he hunted for a few letters which she had written to him during their brief engagement, and proceeded to burn them in the empty fire-grate.
"So much the best," he muttered, "so much the best!" as though they were charmed words, that kept him strong.
He missed something else, and was uneasy about it. He went to the looking-glass drawer, and turned out the whole contents upon the toilet-table—staring at a letter soiled, crumpled and torn, but still sealed, which rewarded his search, and lay at the bottom.
"What's this?" he muttered.
He drew a chair nearer the drawers on which the light was placed, examined the post-mark, the superscription, the seal, then opened the letter, dated on the day he went away on special service.
A long, confused epistle, written with difficulty and under much agitation, but telling one truth, at which he had guessed—which he had spoken of that night.
"I knew it before!" he cried; but the news daunted him, and unmanned him notwithstanding.
It was the climax, and he gave way utterly.
The dry, matter-of-fact world, with its face to business and its back to romance, is still interested in love-matters, and passingly agitated by the sudden disruption of any love-engagement. It shows an interest in the latest news, and turns from its account-books for awhile to know how it came about that Damon and Phyllis could not agree upon "proprieties," and thought that it was better to part, for good and aye, than to settle down for good as man and wife. Having learned the news, remarked upon the pity that it was, or the best thing that could happen for her or for him, the world goes upon its course again, and the story is as old as the hills before the leading characters have got over their first heart-pangs.
It was not a large world that was interested in the disruption of Sidney Hinchford's love engagement; two old men at Camberwell, and a needlewoman, might almost constitute it in this instance. We say almost, for a reason that will appear presently; a cautious writer should always speak with a reserve.
The two old men were interested in the news, but not profoundly affected; such is the selfishness of humanity, when matters do not seriously affect its own comfort.
Harriet Wesden told the news on the following day to her father, and he, after a stare over her head in the old fashion, thought, perhaps, that it was all for the best. Harriet told him the whole story of the past that had led to the parting, and he took stock of the principal features, and thought it was an odd affair, and that he might have been told of this Mr. Darcy a little earlier. After awhile he fancied that it was more comfortable to know that Harriet was to be always with him, to attend to his small ailments, and study his eccentricities. Of late he had harassed himself somewhat with the idea that there would be an early marriage, and that he should be left entirely alone in the world;—with that house and new furniture, that wash-house where the chimney always smoked, and that back-garden where groundsel grew vigorously in the garden paths. The news of the quarrel came with something like a relief to him. Harriet always at home; no one calling to distract attention away from him—well, it was for the best, though in his unselfish moments, and he had many of them, Harriet alone in the world after he was gone, was a picture that affected him.
There was something else to trouble him now; Harriet's story had cleared up the mystery of Mattie's actions, that last mystery which had led to an act of injustice on his part. That he had been unjust, and cast Mattie back to the streets, troubled him far more than the broken love-pledge between Harriet and Sidney; for the first time in his life he had done a wrong, a palpable and cruel one, which might have submerged a soul, and he was sorry, very sorry, for all that had led to it. It did not matter that Mattie had been rescued from utter loneliness by the appearance of her father upon the scene; his hasty judgment had only brought about the wrong, and he had tried to walk uprightly all his life, and do his best according to his powers.
Harriet, his daughter, kept her troubles to herself; she had met with the first shock that falls to the share of many a young life, and she had not made up her mind as to the best method of bearing up against it. Two years ago this would not have been a great trouble to her; but two years had wondrously sobered her, and her eyes had only been opened to the true estimate of Sidney's character at the time when he spoke of the necessity of ending all engagement between them. He had not blamed her, or she might have defended herself; he had spoken of his own consciousness of having done wrong to bind her by a promise made in an impulsive moment, he had intimated that it was a relief to him to give her up, and in the face of the cold, unpitying world, she was powerless to act. Still she was hopeful amidst it all; it was no serious quarrel; he had spoken of his wish to remain her friend, and by one of the many chances of life, it would not be difficult for him to discover that it was love which drew her to him, and not the pity which is akin to it. It might all be explained when the right moment came round; but as the days passed, and no Sidney appeared, her heart sank more, and she read the future in store for her through a medium less highly coloured by her fancy.
A week after the explanation between Sidney and her, she went in search of Mattie. Always in trouble thinking of Mattie—seeking from her that consolation which her own thoughts denied her. Mattie was still in Tenchester Street, although Ann Packet had gone back to the Hinchford service. Mattie was strong enough to shift for herself again—to set about packing her scanty wardrobe for removal to her fathers home; she was alone and busy with her preparations for departure, when Harriet Wesden came into the room.
After the first salutations had been exchanged—and flying remarks upon Mattie's better health and brighter looks had been made—our heroine looked steadily at Harriet, and asked what was the matter.
"Am I so altered that you should think anything had happened, Mattie?"
"There is not the look I like to see there," said Mattie, pointing to Harriet Wesden's face.
"It's not a happy look, is it?" she asked, with a little sigh.
"Not very."
"Sit down here beside me, and let me tell you why the happy looks have gone for ever."
"For ever! Oh! I'll not believe that."
"You'll never guess what I am going to tell you?"
"Sidney and you have quarrelled."
"Yes—no—not exactly quarrelled—what a girl you are to guess things! Sidney and I, by mutual consent, have cancelled our engagement."
"I am sorry," said Mattie, after a moment's silence; "sorry, not that the engagement has been broken for awhile, for it will be renewed again—"
"Never!—never!"
"But that any difference should have arisen between you two. As for not making it up again," said Mattie, cheerfully, "oh! we can't believe that, we two who understand Sidney Hinchford so well."
"There will never be an engagement between him and me again," said Harriet; "over for once and all, Mattie."
"I say there will be," said Mattie, in an equally decisive manner. "Have I lived so long to see it all ended thus? I say it shall be!" cried Mattie, in an excited manner, that surprised even Harriet, who knew Mattie's character so well; "and we shall see, in good time, which is the true prophetess."
"Mattie, you don't know Sidney, after all."
"Tell me the story—I am very anxious."
And with a woman's keen interest in love matters—her own, or anybody else's, as the case might be—Mattie clasped her hands together, and bent forward, all eagerness for Harriet's narrative.
"It's all through your father—that father of yours, who comes upon the scene, and brings misery with him at once!" said Harriet, a little petulantly.
"Hush, Harriet!—remember that he is my father, now!" said Mattie, who had found one more to defend in life, and to live for, "and I am learning to love him, and to understand him better every day."
"Yes—yes—you will forgive me—I am always offending some one with my hasty words. This is how the quarrel came about."
Harriet launched into her story at once; in a torrent of hurried explanations the details were poured forth, and Mattie, in a short while, knew as much as Harriet Wesden, which was not all however, as we, who are behind the scenes of this little drama, are aware.
"Perhaps it serves us right," said Mattie, pluralizing the case after her old fashion; "we kept something back, and Sidney is straightforward in everything, and hates deceit, even innocent deceit like ours, practised for your good name's sake. Did you tell him that?"
"I don't know what I told him," answered Harriet, sadly. "I said nothing—I was found guilty, and there was no answer left me."
"We shall live this down, I think," said Mattie, confidently. "After all, there's nothing very serious about it—if he don't suspect us of behaving wrongly on that night."
"Sidney suspect that of me! Oh! no, no—not so bad as that!"
"Then it will all come right in time," cried Mattie. "He has loved us all his life, and will not fling himself from us in his pride and anger, as—as other men would do, more selfish and unjust than he. I see the future brightening—we will wait patiently, and not be cast down by this slight trouble."
"Slight trouble!" exclaimed Harriet. "Oh! Mattie, if you only understood what love was like, you would guess my—my sense of desolation."
Harriet flung herself on the bosom of the old faithful friend, whose face, over her shoulder, became suddenly, and for an instant only, very white and lined.
"I will try and guess," she said, in a low voice. "It must be desolate; I—I may know better some day!"
Then Mattie set herself the task of comforting this child—a child still, she thought, in her impulsiveness, and in that weakness which gave way like a child at the first trouble, and sought help and comfort from others, rather than from her own heart. And Mattie, who had the gift—that rare rich gift above all price—of comforting those who are afflicted, succeeded in putting the facts of the case in their best and less distorted light, and was rewarded before the interview was over—and when Harriet remembered it—by the new fact of how one revelation had brought about another, and cleared up the mystery of Mattie's absence from home to the man who had suspected her.
"I broke the promise—there was nothing to keep back, when I had my own story to relate."
"He knows all this," said Mattie, "and he——"
"He is very sorry for all that harshness which drove you from us—I am sure of it."
"Why, it is brightening all round," said Mattie; "we shall have no secret in the midst of us, and all will be well now!"
Both had forgotten the letter, wherein absence of all true affection was asserted; Harriet believed it destroyed, and Mattie did not think to remind her of the danger—in her heart believed it even far removed from her.
They parted hopefully; Mattie made the best of the position, and was really trustful in a good result. Sidney Hinchford loved Harriet, and she could not understand a man loving on, and yet holding aloof from the idol he would fain worship still.
Sidney Hinchford, a few days afterwards, came to make his last inquiries concerning Mattie's health—had he waited another day he would have found empty rooms and a desolate hearth—and Mattie seized that opportunity to say a word. The grass never grew under the feet of Mattie Gray, and the dark look—new to his face in its intensity of sternness—did not deter her.
"I am sorry to hear the last news, Mr. Hinchford."
"It was to be expected," he replied shortly. He would have hastened away from a subject that distressed him, but Mattie was not deterred by his harsh voice.
"Not to be expected, you mean, Mr. Sidney," she said; "for she and you, who have been together all your lives, should——"
"Pardon me, Mattie," he interrupted, decisively; "I cannot bear a third person's interference in this matter. It lies between her and me, and both she and I have thought it better to part, without reproach or ill-will. She has made up her mind——"
"But——"
"And had she not," he said, catching at Mattie's wrist and holding it firmly with his hand, as though to stay her defence by that means, "I have made up mine, and there is nothing on earth, or in heaven, to alter it, I swear!"
"Oh! sir," cried Mattie, dismayed at this assertion, "you will think of this again—of her you have known from a little child, and should be able to trust. There's not a truer, kinder heart, in all the world!"
"She is true and kind—she would even have sacrificed her happiness for my sake—but she never loved me. I have her written evidence to that."
"The letter!—oh! the letter!"
"You knew it?—you helped to deceive me, too!"
"Not deceit—all was done for your own good, Mr. Sidney—she did not know her own mind when that letter was written; she——"
"She will never know it—she is a weak woman—God help her! She was never fit for me!"
"Yes," was the quick denial.
"No, I say. A thousand times no!"
He stamped his foot upon the floor, and then turned away, sterner and darker in his looks than ever. Mattie's heart sank then—for she read in his face a resolve that love could not soften, or time ameliorate. She lost hope herself from that day.
"I must make up for him as well as I can," said Mattie, after he had gone; "she must not break down, because he turns away. She is young and will get over it—let me see, now, how shall I teach my darling to forget all this?"
That is a grand trait of character in man, woman, or child—unselfishness. It is a trait that scarcely exists, perhaps, in its pure state; for we are selfish mortals, struggling to cut one another's throats all our lives, and coveting our neighbour's goods with a rare intensity. It is a selfish globe on which we are spinning, and it is natural to think deeply—think altogether, perhaps—of our loves, our successes, our chances of fame, fortune, happiness, rather than of other people's. For the reason that it has been our lot to drop upon an exception to this rule—as near an exception as this rule sans exception will allow—do we hold Mattie a first place in our affections, and think her story—approaching its turbulent stage—worth the telling.
Springing from a low estate, and saved as by a miracle—this flower put forth strange buds and blossoms after its transplanting. It outlived the past, and turned quickly to the light, as though light had been its craving from the first, and only a better chance, and a purer moral atmosphere, were needed to wholly change it. Mattie passed from evil to good swiftly, grateful to the hands that had been outstretched to save her; the untaught childhood became swiftly the days of grateful girlhood—and from girlhood to the gentle, honest womanhood, that thought of others' happiness, and strove hard for happiness in those she loved, was but another step, easily made and never repented of.
She did all for the best, and strove hard to make the best of everything—for others. We know no better heroine than this, and I am very doubtful if we care for one better educated or of higher origin. And yet, heaven be thanked, not a model heroine, who was always in the right!
Mattie removed to her father's apartments in Union Road, Brunswick Street, New Kent Road. Brunswick Street is an artery that lets the wild blood of Great Dover Street into the New Kent Road—a quiet street by day, but subject to scared strangers at night in search of the medical students who locate here in legions. Union Road is on the right of Brunswick Street, and a near cut, if you are fortunate enough not to lose yourself, to Horsemonger Lane Gaol, though what you may want there is more your business than ours. Mr. Gray rented the two top rooms of a small house in Union Road, the sitting room provided with a sofa bedstead, which was henceforth to be of service to Mattie, when the day's duties were over, and Mr. Gray had finished his praying.
Here settled down the new-found father and child, and began "home" once more. Here Mattie learned by degrees to understand her father, to appreciate the many good qualities which he possessed, and to "make allowance"—as she always made allowance—for the few bad ones, which he possessed also, minister of the gospel as he termed himself.
They agreed very well together; there was little to disturb the even tenor of their way; and it fortunately happened that Mr. Gray, who was fond of argument, was blessed with a daughter who always shunned it, when the topics did not directly affect her. Mr. Gray, on the whole, was a little disappointed in his daughter—agreeably disappointed, we might have said, had not the discomfiture been so apparent on his features for a while. He was a man fond of making converts; it had been his profession, and he had met with success therein. He had promised himself the pleasure of saving his daughter from the dangers and temptations of the world, and he had found one who was out of danger and as above temptation as he was. From Mrs. Watts' account, subsequently from Mr. Wesden's, he had been led to expect a very different daughter to this; a girl who had run the streets for eleven years—who had been a friendless stray upon those streets, a thief and beggar at intervals when honesty did not pay—who had afterwards left her master's house under suspicion of a grave character—was likely to be a wilful, vicious specimen of womanhood, and worthy of his earnest efforts to subdue. Though he would not have owned it to himself, yet the belief in Mattie being unregenerate and defiant had added an intensity to his search for her; since his own better life, he had been ever in search of a thoroughly fine specimen of impenitence to practise upon, and now even his own daughter had disappointed him!
He discovered that she was a regular attendant at chapel—not even at church, to whose forms he had the true dissenter's objection—that she read her Bible regularly, and took comfort from its pages—that she was gentle, charitable, kind, unselfish, everything that he would have liked to make her by his intense love and application, and which he had found ready-made to hand.
He returned thanks for all this in his usual manner, but there was an occasional blankness of expression on his countenance; he was truly glad to have discovered his daughter, but he found that she was never to owe him an immense debt of gratitude for her reformation, and he had built upon that whenever they were thrown together, father and child, at last. Beyond his home he must look once more for the obdurate specimen that he could attack, follow up, analyze and dissect, with the gusto of a surgeon over "as fine a case as ever he saw in his life!"
But that home—in a very little time what a different place it was to him! He found in Mattie all that he could have made of her, and after awhile he was more than content. He was a man who made but little show of earthly affection, and possibly deceived Mattie, who took his love for duty more often than he wished, though it was his pride to abjure all evidence of earthly affection, and to consider himself, as he termed it, above it. He was a man who deceived himself by this—people have that peculiar trait of character now and then, and place credence in their own impossibilities.
Mr. Gray was a lithographer by trade—a man who would have earned more money had not his preaching interfered with his work, and had he not been rather too particular for a business man upon what work he engaged himself. A crotchety, irritable being, who brought his religion into his business, and, therefore, occasionally muddled both. On one occasion he had been horrified by the receipt of an order to lithograph several scenes from the last new pantomime, to be exhibited on broadsheets outside the theatre-doors, and in tobacconists' shops; and having declined to be an agent in such a "Worke of the Beast," had been dismissed from the staff of a firm which he had faithfully-served for many years. He had lived hard after that, known what it was to be penniless and fireless, and almost bootless, but those unpleasant sensations had their comforts for him—they were evidences of his sacrifice for his character's sake, and he had fought on doggedly till other employment came, which brought his head above water. He was a man who never gave way in his opinions, or sacrificed them for his personal convenience—a disagreeable man more often than not, but a man respected amongst his chapel-circle, and who, when once understood—that was not often, however—was generally liked. A man who dealt in hard truths, and had not invariably the gentlest method of distributing them; but a man who loved to see justice done to all oppressed, and did his best after his own way.
His first attempt to do justice, after Mattie's acquaintance with him, was in Mattie's favour. He understood all the reasons for Mattie's departure from Great Suffolk Street, and he saw where Mr. Wesden had been deceived, and in what manner he had been led by degrees to form a false estimate of Mattie's conduct.
He was a fidgety man, we have implied—more than that, he was an excitable and restless man.
"I must see that Mr. Wesden again—we must both see him, Mattie," he said one evening.
"Oh! I can never face him," said Mattie, in an alarmed manner, "after all that he has thought of me. I could not bear to ask him to confess that he was in the wrong, if he will not confess it of his own free will."
"But he shall, my dear!"
"I can't explain the robberies—can't prove that I was innocent of all implication in them. I was a thief once, and he will never forget that."
"Won't he?" said Mr. Gray, decisively; "we'll see about that. I'll rouse him, my dear, depend upon it. The first opportunity I have, I'll call upon that man, and—rouse him."
"I hope not."
Mattie was at work at the fireside; she had taken to dress-making again, amongst a new connection of chapel-goers introduced by her father, and Mr. Gray was busy at his lithography. He was working hard into the night, doing extra work, in order that he might have all the next week free for a preaching expedition amongst the colliers, and he did not turn from his work to express his opinion; on the contrary, bent more earnestly over it.
"It's no good hoping, my dear, I have made up my mind; he hasn't acted fairly by you—he hasn't made atonement—I must talk to him presently."
Mattie was glad of the postponement, and hopeful that her father, in his multiplicity of engagements, would forget his determination—a strange hope, for Mr. Gray never forgot anything.
"What kind of man is this Mr. Wesden, Mattie?" he asked; "I have only seen him once, for a few minutes. Hard, isn't he?"
"Sometimes. He has altered very much lately."
"A worldly man—fond of money—grasping, in fact. Such a man is hard to impress. I'll have a try at him, though."
"He's a very good man, father," Mattie said; "you must remember that he saved me from the streets, and that for years and years was very good and kind to me."
"Yes, yes—I shall pay him back some day—but he must be worldly, I should think, and in return for all his goodness I'll make a good man of him—see if I don't! I suppose you used to open on Sundays in Great Suffolk Street?"
"Never."
"Hum—that's well. Not so bad as I thought. Did he go to chapel of a Sunday, now?"
"To church—St. George's."
"Hum—that's not so bad. Not much credit in making a better man of him," he muttered; "but I'll—rouse him!"
The next day he neglected his work on purpose to attempt the experiment. He was successful enough, for there was a rough eloquence inherent in him, and he had a fair cause to plead; and the result was, that the roused Mr. Wesden made his appearance arm in arm with Mr. Gray at Mattie's home.
"I've got him!" said Mr. Gray, triumphantly; "here's Mr. Wesden, Mattie. He has come to say how very sorry he was for all that parted you and him—haven't you, sir?"
"Very sorry," said Mr. Wesden, looking at Mattie askance; "I've been thinking of it a long while—yes, Mattie, very sorry!"
He held out both hands to her, and Mattie ran to him, clasped them in her own, shook them heartily, and then burst out crying on his shoulder.
"Oh! my first father!—I didn't think that you would believe wrong of me all your life!"
"No—and it was very wrong—Mattie. And all will be right now—you and your father must come and see us very often."
"Yes."
She turned to her father eagerly, but Mr. Gray was at his lithography, bending closely over his work, and apparently taking no heed of this reconciliation. He had done his share of duty, and so his interest had vanished.
"Father—you hear?"
"I don't care about much company—when we've nothing better to do than idle our time away, perhaps," was the far from suave reply to this.
"My daughter and yours are old friends, Mr. Gray," said Mr. Wesden, almost entreatingly.
"Mattie won't care about much company herself—and I very much doubt if—if that young person you allude to—is exactly fitting for my daughter, whose character I am anxious to model after my own ideas of what is truly womanly."
Mattie looked up at this; her father was strange in his manner that night, and he perplexed her.
"Am I not truly womanly now, sir?" she asked, with a merry little laugh. She was in high spirits that night.
Mr. Gray softened.
"You are a very good girl, Mattie—a very good girl indeed; there are only a few little alterations necessary," he added, as though he was speaking of some marble statue whose corners he might round off with a chisel at his leisure.
"And you, sir," said Mattie, turning to Mr. Wesden again, "don't think any harm of me now! The robberies—the talk with Mr. Hinchford—" she added, with a faint blush.
"What was that?" asked Mr. Gray, with renewed alacrity.
"Foolishness—all foolishness on my part," said Wesden; "how could I have acted so? And yet, when it came to being out all night, the fancies turned to truths, it seemed. Ah! no matter now."
"No matter now. Oh! I am very happy. Will you sit down here for awhile, and tell me about Harriet and yourself—and she who was always so kind to me?"
"And thought well of you to the last. We wrangled once or twice about that—the only thing we ever had to quarrel about, Mattie, in all our lives together."
"Sit down and tell me about her—my true mother! You will excuse my father—he is very busy."
"Certainly."
And after his old dreamy stare at Mr. Gray, who appeared to have suddenly and entirely lost all interest in Mr. Wesden, he sat down by the fireside and, talked of old times—the dear old times that Mattie loved to hear about. Mattie was happy that night; her heart was lighter; her character had been redeemed to him who had mistrusted her; he was sitting again by her side—all her love for him had come back as it were, and all his cruel thoughts of her had vanished away for ever.