A GIRL'S ROMANCE.
Miss Wesden continued to rock herself to and fro and moan at frequent intervals, after Mattie had intruded so unceremoniously upon her sorrows. She had reached the hysterical stage, and there was no stopping the tears and the little windy sobs by which they were varied—and Harriet Wesden in tears, the girl whom Mattie had reverenced so long, was too much for our small heroine.
"Oh! dear—what has happened?—shall I run and tell your father and mother?"
"Oh! for goodness sake, don't think of anything of the kind!" cried the startled Harriet; "I—I—I shall be better in a minute. It's only a spasm or something—it's nothing that any one—can—help me—with!"
"I know what it is," remarked Mattie, after a moment's reflection.
"You—you do, Mattie!"
"It's the wind," was the matter-of-fact reply; "you've been eating a heap of nasty buns, and then come up here without your supper—and it's brought on spasms, as you say."
"How ridiculous you are, child!" said this woman of seventeen, parting her fair hair back from her face, and making an effort to subdue her agitation; "don't you see that I am very, very miserable!"
"In earnest?"
"Are people ever really, truly miserable in fun, Mattie?" was the sharp rejoinder.
"Not truly miserable, I should fancy. But you—oh! Miss Harriet, you miserable, at your age!"
"Yes—it's a fact."
"Perhaps you have been robbed," suggested the curious Mattie; "I know that they used to send them out from Kent Street to hang about the railway stations. Never mind, Miss Harriet, I have been earning money, lately; and if you don't want your father to know how careless you have been——"
"Always unselfish—always thinking of doing some absurd action, that shall benefit any one of the name of Wesden. No, no, Mattie, it's not money, it's not that—that vulgar complaint you mentioned just now. Oh! to have one friend in the world in whom I could trust—in whom I could confide my misery!"
"And haven't you one?" was the soft answer.
Harriet looked up at the wistful face—so full of love and pity.
"Ah! there's you—you mean. But you are a child still, and would never understand me. You would never have sympathy with all that I have suffered, or keep my secret if you had."
"What I could understand, I cannot say—I'm still hard at work, in over-time, at my lessons—but you may be sure of my sympathy, and of my silence. It's not that I'm so curious, Miss Harriet—but that I hope, when I know all, to be a comfort to you."
Harriet shook her head despondently, and beat her tiny foot impatiently upon the carpet. Any one in the world to be a comfort to her, was a foolish idea, that only irritated her to allude to.
"I'm living here to be a comfort to you all," said Mattie, in a low voice; "I've set myself to be that, if ever I can. Every one in this house helped in a way to take me from the streets; every one has been more kind to me than I deserved—helped me on—given me good advice—done so much for me! I—I have often thought that perhaps my time might come some day to your family, or the Hinchfords; but if to you, my darling, whom I love before the whole of them—who has been more than kind—whom I loved when I was a little ragged girl in the dark streets outside—how happy I shall be!"
"Happy to see me miserable, Mattie—that's what that amounts to."
"I didn't mean that," answered Mattie, half-aggrieved.
"No, I'm sure you did not," was the reply. "Lock the door, my dear, and let me take you into my confidence—I do want some one to talk to about it terribly!"
Mattie locked the door, and, full of wonder, sat down by Harriet Wesden's side. The stationer's daughter had always treated Mattie as a companion rather than as a servant; she had but seen her in her holidays of late years—her father had trusted Mattie and made a shop-woman of her—she had found Mattie constituted after a while one of the family—Mattie was only a year her junior, and Mattie's love, almost her idolatry for her, had won upon a nature which, though far from faultless, was at least susceptible to kindness, ever touched by affection, and ever ready to return both.
"You must know, Mattie, then—and pray never breathe a syllable of this to mortal soul again—that I'm in love."
"Lor!" gasped Mattie.
"Dreadfully and desperately in love."
"Oh! hasn't it come early—and oh! ain't I dreadfully sorry."
"Hush, Mattie, not so loud. They'll be coming up to bed in the next room presently, and if they were to find it out, I should die."
"They wouldn't mind, after they had once got used to it," said Mattie; "and if it has really come to love in earnest—there's a good deal of sham love I've been told—why, I don't think there's anything to cry about. I should dance for joy myself."
"You're too young to know what you're talking about, Mattie," reproved Harriet.
"No, I'm not," was the quick answer; "I should feel very happy to know that there was some one to love me better than anybody in the world—to think of me first—pray about me before he went to bed at night—dream of me till the daytime—keep me always in his head. Why, shouldn't I be happy to know this, I who never remember what love was from anybody?"
"Yes, yes, I understand you, Mattie," said Harriet; "that's part of love—not all."
"What else is there?"
Mattie was evidently extremely curious concerning all phases of "the heart complaint."
"It's too complicated, Mattie; when you're a woman, you'll be able to find out for yourself. It's better not to trouble your head about it yet awhile."
"I wish you hadn't, Miss Harriet. It's not the likes of me that is going to think about it; and if you had left it till you were really a woman—I don't know much about the matter yet—but I'm thinking it would be all the better for you, too, my dear."
"It came all of a rush like—I wasn't thinking of it. There were two young men at first, who used to watch our school, and laugh at the biggest of us, and kiss their hands—just as young men will do, Mattie."
"Like their impudence, I think."
Mattie's matter-of-fact views were coming uppermost again. She had seen much of the world in her youth, experienced much hardship, worked hard for a living, and there was no romance in her disposition—only affection, which had developed of late years, thanks to her new training.
"But there's always a little fun amongst the big girls, Mattie."
"What is the governess about?"
"She's looking out—but, bless you, she may look!"
"Ah! I suppose so. Well?"
"And then one young man went away, and only one was left—the handsomer of the two—and he fell in love with me!"
"Really and truly?"
"Why, of course he did. Is it so wonderful?" and the boarding-school girl looked steadily at her companion.
Mattie looked at her. She was a beautiful girl, and perhaps it was not so wonderful, after all. But then Mattie still looked at Harriet Wesden as a child—even as a child younger than she whom the world had aged very early—rendered "old-fashioned," as the phrase runs, in many things.
"Not wonderful, perhaps—but wasn't it wrong?" asked Mattie.
"I don't think so—I never thought of that—he was very fond of me, and used to send me letters by the servant, and I—I did get very fond of him. He was a gentleman's son, and oh! so handsome, Mattie, and so tall, and so clever!"
"About your age, I suppose?"
"No, four-and-twenty, or more, perhaps. I don't know."
"Well?—oh! dear, how did it end?" asked Mattie; "it's like the story-books in the shop—isn't it?"
"Wait awhile, dear. The misery of the human heart is to be unfolded now. He's a gentleman's son, and there's an estate or something in West India or East India, or in some dreadful hot place over the water somewhere, where the natives hook themselves in the small of their backs, and swing about and say their prayers."
"How nasty!"
"And—and he—was to go there," her sobs beginning again at the reminiscence, "and live there, and," dropping her voice to a whisper, "he asked me if I'd run away with him, and be married to him over there."
Mattie clenched her fist spasmodically. She saw through the flimsy veil of romance, with a suddenness for which she was unprepared herself. She was a woman of the world, with a knowledge of the evil in it, on the instant.
"Oh! that man was a big scamp, I'm sure of it—I know it!"
"What makes you think that?" asked Harriet, imperiously.
"Couldn't he have come to Suffolk Street, and told your father all about it like a—like a man?"
"Yes, but his father—his father is a gentleman, and would never let him marry a poor, deplorable stationer's daughter."
"Ah! his father does not know you, and his father didn't have the chance of trying, I'm inclined to think," was the shrewd comment here.
"Never mind that," said Harriet, "I don't see that that's anything to do with the matter just now. I wouldn't run away; I was very frightened; I loved father and mother, and I knew how they loved me. And when I cried, he said he had only done it to try me, and then—and then—he went away next day for ever!"
"And a good riddance," muttered Mattie.
"Oh! Mattie, you cruel, cruel girl, is this the sympathy you talked about a little while ago?"
"I've every sympathy with you, my own dear young lady," said Mattie; "I'm sorry to see how this is troubling you—you so young!—just now. But I don't think he acted very properly, Miss Harriet, or that you were quite so careful of yourself as—as you might have been."
"I'm a wretched, wretched woman!"
"Does he know where you live?"
"Ye—es," she sobbed.
"And where did he live before he went to India?"
"Surrey."
"That's a large place, I think. I haven't turned to geography lately, but I fancy it's a double map. If that's all the address, it's a good big one. May I ask his name?"
"Never," was the melodramatic answer.
"Ah! it does not matter much. I hope, for the sake of all down-stairs, you will try and forget it. It's no credit; you were much too young, and he too old in everything. Oh! Miss Harriet, you and the other young ladies must have been going it down at Brighton!"
"It all happened suddenly, Mattie; I'm not a forward girl; they're all of my age—oh! and ever so much bolder."
"A very nice school that must be, I should think," said Mattie, leaving the bed for the box, which she proceeded to uncord; "if I ever hear of anybody wanting to send their daughters to a finishing akkademy," Mattie was not thoroughly up in pure English yet, "I'll just recommend that one!"
"Mattie," reproved Harriet, "you've got at all that you wanted to know, and now you're full of bitter sarcasm."
"I'm full of bitter nothing, Miss," was the reply; "and oh!—you don't know how sorry I feel that it has all happened, making you so old and womanly, before your time—filling your head with rubbish about—the chaps!"
Harriet said nothing—she sat and watched with dreamy eyes the process of uncording; only, when Mattie attempted to turn the box on its side, did she spring up and help to assist without a word.
"There, that'll do," she said peevishly; "let me only unlock the box, and get at my night-things, that's all I want. Mattie, for goodness sake, don't keep so in the way!"
Mattie stood aside, and Harriet Wesden, with an impatient hand, unlocked the box, and raised the heavy oaken lid. Mattie's eyes, sharp as needles, detected a small roll of written papers, neatly tied.
"Are these the letters, Miss Harriet?"
"Good gracious me, how curious and prying you are!" said Harriet, snatching the packet from her hand. "I wish I had never told you a syllable—I wish you'd leave my things alone!"
"I beg your pardon—I only asked. It was wrong."
"Well, there, I forgive you; but you are so tiresome, and old-fashioned. I can't make you out—I never shall—you're not like other girls."
"Was I brought up like other girls, you know?" was the sad question.
"No, no—I forgot that—I beg your pardon, Mattie; I didn't mean it for a taunt."
"God bless you, I know that. What are you doing?"
"Getting rid of these," thrusting the letters in the candle flame as she spoke. "I can trust you, but not them, Mattie."
"I'd hold them over the fire-place, then. If they drop on the toilet-table, we shall have the house a-fire."
Harriet took the advice proffered, and removed her combustibles to the place recommended. Mattie, on her knees by the box, watched the process.
"And there's an end of them," Harriet said at last, in a decisive tone.
"And of him—say of him?"
"We parted for ever—but I shall always think of him—think, too, that perhaps I was very young and thoughtless and vain, to lead him on, or to be led on. But oh! Mattie, he did love me—he wouldn't have harmed me for the world!"
"He hasn't spoken of writing—you haven't promised to write any more."
"No—it was a parting for ever. Haven't I said so, over and over again?"
"Then you'll soon forget him, Miss Harriet—try and forget him, for your own sake—you can't tell whether he wasn't making game of you, for certain; he didn't act well, for he wasn't a boy, was he? And now go to sleep, and wake up in the morning your old self, Miss."
"I'll try—I must try!"
"I don't think that this fine gentleman will ever turn up again; if he does, you'll be older to take your own part. Oh! dear, how contrary things do go, to be sure."
"What's the matter now?"
"I did think I knew whom you were to marry."
"Who was it?" said Harriet, with evident interest in her question.
"Well, I thought, Miss Harriet, that you'd grow up, and grow up to be a young woman, and that Master Sidney underneath, would grow up, and grow up to be a young man, and you'd fall naturally in love with one another—marry, and be oh! so happy. When I'm hard at work at the lessons he or his father writes out for me sometimes, I catch myself forgetting all about them, and thinking of you and him together—and I your servant, perhaps, or little housekeeper. I've always thought that that would come to pass some day, and that he'd grow rich, and make a lady of you—and it made me happy to think that the two, who'd been perhaps the kindest in all the world to me, would marry some fine day. I've pictered it—pictured it," she corrected, "many and many a time, until I fancied at last it must come true."
"Master Sidney, indeed!" was the disparaging comment.
"When you know him, you won't talk like that," said Mattie; "he's a gentleman—growing like one fast—and I don't think, young as he is, that he would have acted like that other one you've been silly enough to think about."
"Silly!—oh! Mattie, Mattie, that isn't sympathy with me—I don't know whether you're a child, or an old woman—you talk like both of them, and in one breath. Why did I tell you!—why did I tell you!"
"Because I was in earnest, and begged hard—because I was afraid, and you could not keep such a secret from me as that; and if you had wanted help—how I would have stood by you!"
Harriet noted the kindling eyes, and her heart warmed to the nondescript.
"Thank you, Mattie—one friend at least now."
"Always,—don't you think so?"
"Yes, I do."
Mattie was at the door, when Harriet called her back.
"Mattie, never a word about this again. I daresay I shall soon forget it, for I am very young; and though it was love, yet I won't let it break my heart. I'm very wretched now. I shall be glad," she added with a yawn, "to lie down and think of all my sorrows."
"And sleep them away."
"Oh! I shall not close an eye to-night. Good night, Mattie."
Miss Harriet Wesden, a young lady who had begun life early, was sleeping soundly three minutes after Mattie's departure from the room.