STRANGE VISITORS TO GREAT SUFFOLK STREET.
Mattie guessed the plan by which the robbery had been effected, and at which Mrs. Watts had connived. Her attention had been distracted by the story that had been fabricated for the purpose, and then the accomplice, on his hands and knees, had stolen snake-like towards the door opening on the stairs, and made short work with everything of value to be found in the upper floors. What was to be done?—what would Mr. Wesden say, he who had never had a robbery committed on his premises during all the long years of his business life, thanks to his carefulness and watchfulness? What would he think of her? Would he believe that she had paid common attention to the shop he had left in trust to her, to be robbed in the broad noonday? What should she do? wait till the shop was closed and then set forth for Camberwell with the bad news, or start at once, leaving Ann Packet in charge, or wait till Mr. Hinchford came home, and ask him to be the mediator?
Whilst revolving these plans of action in her mind, the proprietor of the establishment, wearied of his country retirement, walked into the shop.
"Oh! sir, something has happened very dreadful!" she exclaimed.
Mr. Wesden began to stare over her head at this salutation.
"What's that?" he asked.
"Some one has been up-stairs this afternoon, broken open the drawers, and the cash-box, and taken the money, eight pounds, nine shillings and sixpence, sir."
Mr. Wesden sat down in the chair formerly occupied by Mrs. Watts and tried to arrange his ideas; he stared over Mattie's head harder than ever; he held his own head between his hands, taking off his hat especially for that purpose, and placing it on the counter.
"Money taken out of this house?"
"Yes."
"At this time of day—where were you, Mattie?"
"In the shop, sitting here, I believe."
"Then they came in at the back, I suppose?"
"No, in the front, whilst Mrs. Watts was talking to me."
"What Mrs. Watts?—not the woman——"
"Yes, yes, the woman who would have tempted me to evil, years ago; she came into the shop this afternoon, and said that my father—as if I'd ever had one, sir!—had been inquiring for me in Kent Street."
"This is a curious story," muttered Mr. Wesden.
He put on his hat and went up-stairs; it was half an hour, or an hour before he reappeared, looking very grave and stern.
"They didn't come in at the back of the house—I can't make it out—eight pounds nine and sixpence is a heavy loss—I'll speak to the policeman."
Mr. Wesden went in search of a policeman, and presently returned with two members of the official force, with whom he went up-stairs, and with whom he remained some time. After a while Mr. Hinchford, senior, came home, heard the tidings, went into his room, and discovered a little money missing also, besides a watch-chain which he had left at home that day for security's sake, a link having snapped, and repairs being necessary.
Mr. Wesden and the policemen came down stairs and put many questions to Mattie and Ann Packet; finally the policemen departed, and Mr. Wesden very gravely walked about the shop, and paid but little attention to Mattie's expressions of regret.
"It's my carelessness, sir, and I hope you'll let me make it up. I've been saving money, sir, lately, thanks to you."
"Well, you can't say fairer than that, Mattie," he responded to this suggestion; "I'll think about that, and let you know to-morrow."
He never let Mattie know his determination, or seemed inclined to dwell upon the subject again; the robbery became a forbidden topic, and drifted slowly away from the present. But it was an event that saddened Mattie; for she could read that Mr. Wesden had formed his own ideas of its occurrence, and she tortured herself with the fear that he might suspect her. She had gained his confidence only to lose it; her antecedents were dark enough, and if he did not believe all that she had told him, then he must doubt if she were the proper person to manage the place in his absence.
He said nothing; he suggested no alteration; but he came more frequently to business; and he was altered in his manner towards her.
Mattie was right—he suspected her; he thought he kept his suspicions to himself, for amidst the new distrust rose ever before him the past struggles of the girl in her faithful service to him, and he was not an uncharitable man. But the police had seconded his doubts—the story was an unlikely one, Mattie had been a bad character, and, above all, Mrs. Watts, upon inquiry, had not lived in Kent Street or parts adjacent for the last three years. However, his better nature would not misjudge implicitly, although a shadow of distrust was between him and Mattie from that day forth. He said nothing to Harriet or his wife, but he seldom asked Mattie to his house at Camberwell now; he came more frequently for his money, and looked more closely after his stock; he had a habit of turning into the shop at unseasonable hours and taking her by surprise there.
Mattie bore with this for a while—for two or three months, perhaps, then her out-spoken nature faced Mr. Wesden one evening.
"You've got a bad thought in your head against me, sir."
Thus taxed, Mr. Wesden answered in the negative. Looking at her fearless face, and her bright eyes that so steadily met his, he had not the heart or the courage to confess it.
"I'd rather go away than you should think that; go away and leave you all for ever. I know," she added, very sorrowfully and humbly, "that my past life isn't a fair prospect to look back upon, and that it stands between you and your trust in me at this time."
"No, Mattie."
"If you doubt me——"
"If I believed that you were not acting fairly by me, I should not have you here an hour," he said.
He was carried away by Mattie's earnestness; he forgot his new harshness, which he had inherited with his change of life; before him stood the girl who had nursed his wife through a long illness, and he could not believe in her ingratitude towards him. After that charge and refutation, Mattie and Mr. Wesden were on better terms with each other—the robbery, the visit of Mrs. Watts, appeared all parts of a bad dream, difficult to shake off, but in the reality of which it was hard to believe. And yet it was all a terrible truth, too, and the story, true or false, of Mrs. Watts, late of Kent Street, had left its impression on Mattie, deep and ineffaceable; she could almost believe that from the shadowy past some stranger, cruel and villainous, would step forth to claim her.
Meantime the course of Sidney Hinchford's true love flowed on peacefully; he was happy enough now—with the hope of Harriet Wesden for a wife he became more energetic than ever in business; possibly even a young man less abrupt to his companions in office; for the tender passion softens the heart wonderfully. He was more kind and less brusque in his manner. To Mattie he had been always kind, but she fancied that even she could detect a different and more gentle way with him.
When he returned from Camberwell—Mr. Wesden always shut him out at early hours—he generally brought some message from Harriet to the old half-friend and confidante, and at times would loiter about the shop talking of Harriet to Mattie, and sure of her sympathy with all that he said and did.
On one of the latter occasions, about six in the evening, he remarked,
"When Harriet and I are grand enough to have a large house of our own—for we can't tell what may happen—I shall ask you to be our housekeeper, Mattie."
Mattie's face brightened up; it had been rather a sad face of late, and Sidney Hinchford had observed it, and been puzzled at the reason. The story of the robbery had not affected him much.
"Oh! then I'll pray night and day for the big house, Mr. Sidney," she said, with her usual readiness of reply.
"Why, Mattie, are you tired of shop-keeping?"
"At times I am," she answered. "I don't know why. I don't see how to get on and feel happy. It's rather lonely here."
"You dissatisfied, Mattie! Why, I have always regarded you as the very picture of content."
"I'm not dissatisfied exactly; don't tell any one that, or they'll think I'm ungrateful for all the kindness that has been shown me, and all the confidence that has been placed in me. You, Mr. Hinchford, must not think I'm ungrateful or discontented."
"Perhaps you're ambitious, Mattie," he said, jestingly, "now you've mastered all the lessons which I used to set you, and can read and write as well as most of us."
"I don't exactly understand the true meaning of ambition," said Mattie. "I'm no scholar, you know. Is it a wish to get on in the world?"
"Partly."
"I'm not ambitious. I wouldn't be a lady for the world. I would rather be of service to someone I love, than see those I love working and toiling for my sake. But then they must love me, and have faith in me, or I'm—I'm done for!"
Mattie had dropped, as was her habit when excited, into one of her old phrases; but its meaning was apparent, and Sidney Hinchford understood it.
"Something's on your mind, Mattie. Can I punch anybody's head for you?"
"No, thank you. But you can remember the promise about the housekeeper when you're a rich man."
Like Sidney's father, she accepted Sidney's coming greatness as a thing of course, concerning which no doubts need be entertained.
He laughed.
"It's a promise, mind. Good night, Mattie."
"Good night."
That night was to be marked by another variation of the day's monotony—by more than one. It was striking seven from St. George's Church, Southwark, when a stately carriage and pair dashed up Great Suffolk Street, and drew up at the stationer's door. A few moments afterwards a tall, white-haired old gentleman entered the shop leaning upon the arm of a good-looking young man, and advanced towards the counter.
The likeness of the elder man was so apparent to that of old Mr. Hinchford up-stairs, that Mattie fancied it was he for an instant, until her rapid observation detected that the gentleman before her was much thinner, wore higher shirt collars, had a voluminous frill to his shirt, and a double gold eye-glass in his hand.
"Thank you, that will do. I won't trouble you any further."
"Shall I wait here?"
"No, my boy—don't let me keep you from your club engagements. If you are behind time take the carriage."
"No, no—not so selfish as that, sir. Good night."
"Good night."
The good-looking young man did not wait to see the result of his father's mission; he glanced for a moment at Mattie, and then took his departure, leaving the stately old gentleman confronting her at the counter.
"This is Mr. Wesden's, stationer, I believe?" he asked, surveying Mattie through his glasses.
"Yes, sir."
"A Mr. Hinchford lives here?"
"Yes, sir."
"Is he within?"
"Not the old gentleman, I believe, sir."
"As I have not come hither to base my hopes of an interview on the belief of a black-eyed shop-girl, will you be kind enough to inquire?"
The old gentleman sat down and loosened the gilt clasp of a long cloak which he wore—an old-fashioned, oddly cut black cloak, with a cape to it.
Mattie forgot the likeness which this gentleman bore to the lodger up-stairs; lost her impression of the carriage at the door, and thought of Mrs. Watts and the hundred tricks of London thieves. She began thumping with her heels on the floor, until she quite shook up the old gentleman on the other side of the counter.
"What's that for, my child?" he asked.
"That'll bring up the servant—I never leave the shop."
The gentleman closed his glasses, and rapped upon the counter with them, in rather an amused manner.
"By Jupiter Tonans, that's amusing! She thinks I am going to make off with the stationery," he said, more to himself than Mattie.
Ann Packet, round eyed and wondering as usual, looked over the parlour blind. Mattie beckoned to her, and she opened the parlour door.
"Run up and tell Mr. Sidney that a gentleman wishes to see his father. Is he to wait, or to call again?"
"I think I might answer that question better myself—stay."
The slim old gentleman very slowly and deliberately searched for his card-case, produced it and drew forth a card.
"Present that to Mr. Sidney, and say that the bearer is desirous of an interview."
Ann Packet took the card in her great red hand, turned it over, looked from it to the owner, gave vent to an idiotic "Lor!" and then trudged up-stairs with the card. Mattie and the old gentleman, meanwhile, continued to regard each other—the suspicions of the former not perfectly allayed yet.
Ann Packet returned, appearing by the staircase door this time.
"Mr. Sidney Hinchford will see you, sir—if your business is of importance, he says."
The gentleman addressed compressed his lips—very thin lips they became on the instant—but deigned no reply. He rose from his chair, and followed Ann through the door, up-stairs towards Mr. Hinchford's room, leaving his hat on the counter, where he had very politely placed it upon entering the shop.
Mattie put it behind her, and then scowled down a lack-a-daisical footman, who was simpering at her between a Family Herald and a portrait of T. P. Cooke.
The stranger followed Ann Packet up-stairs, and entered the room on the first floor, glancing sharply round him through his glasses, and taking a survey of everything which it contained on the instant. There was a fire burning in the grate that autumn night; the gas was lighted; the tea-things ready on the table; at a smaller table by the window, working by the light of a table-lamp adorned with a green shade, and with another green shade tied across his forehead by way of extra protection for the eyes he worked so mercilessly, sat Sidney Hinchford, the only occupant of the room.
Sidney rose, bowed slightly, pointed to a chair with the feather of his pen, then sat down again, and looked at his visitor from under the ugly shade, which cast his face into shadow.
The gentleman bowed also, and took the seat indicated, keeping his gold-rimmed glasses on his nose.
"You are my brother James's son, I presume?"
"The same, sir."
"You are surprised to see me here?"
"Yes, sir—now."
"Why now?" was the quick question that followed like the snap of a trigger.
"Years and years ago, when I was a lad, I fancied that you might visit here, and make an effort to bridge over an ugly gulf, sir."
"Years and years ago, young man, I had too much upon my mind, and, it was just possible, more pride in my heart than to make the first advances."
"You were the richer man—and you had done the wrong."
"Wrong, sir!" replied the other; "there was no wrong done that I am aware of. I was a man careful of my money, and your father was a man improvident with his. Was it wrong to object to an alliance?"
"I have but a dim knowledge of the story, sir. My father does not care to dwell upon it."
"I will tell it you."
The old gentleman drew his chair nearer to Sidney; the young man held up his hand.
"Pardon me, but I have no desire to hear it. Were I to press my father, I could learn it from his own lips. Please state the object of your coming hither."
"To make the first advances in the latter days that have come to him and me," he said; "can I say more? To help him if he be in distress—and to assist his son if he find the world hard to cope with. It is a romantic appearance, a romantic penitence if you will, for not allowing your father to spend my money as well as his own," he added, with a slight curl of the lip, which turned Sidney suddenly against him; "but it is an effort to bridge over the gulf to which you have recently alluded."
"I fear my father will not thank you for the effort," was the cold reply; "and for the help which you would offer now, I can answer for his refusal."
"Ah! he was always a proud fellow, and blind to his own interest," was the quiet observation here; "his friends laughed at his pride, and traded in his weakness before you were born."
"He has one friend living who respects them now, sir."
"His son, I presume?"
"His son, sir."
"I am glad that his son is so high-spirited; but he will find that amiable feeling rather in the way of his advancement."
"No, sir—I think not."
Mr. Hinchford regarded Sidney very closely; he did not appear put out by the young man's retorts, and he was pleased at the effect that his own satire had upon him.
"Well," he said at last, "I have not come to quarrel with my nephew—I am here as a peace-maker, and, lo! the son starts up with all the father's old obstinacies. Your name is Sidney, I believe."
"Yes, sir."
"Sidney Hinchford, then," said he, "if you be a man of the world—which I fancy you are—you will not turn your back on your own interests for the sake of the grudge which my unforgiving brother may owe me. That's not the way of the world, unless it's the world of silly novel-writers and poets."
"Sir, this sudden interest in my father and myself is somewhat unaccountable."
"Granted," was the cool response.
"Still, let me for my father and myself thank you," said Sidney, with a graceful dignity that set well upon him, "thank you for this sudden offer, which I, for both, must unhesitatingly decline."
"Indeed!"
"We are not rich, you can see," Sidney said with a comprehensive sweep of his hand, "but we have managed to exist without getting into debt, and I believe that the worst struggle is over with us both."
"Upon what supposition do you base this theory?"
"No matter, Mr. Hinchford, my belief is strong, and I would not deprive myself of the pleasure of saying that I worked on with my father to the higher ground without the help of those rich relations who would at the eleventh hour have taken the credit to themselves."
"You are a remarkable young man."
"Sir, you come too late here," said Sidney, with no small amount of energy; "we bear you no ill-will, but we will not have your help now. If you and yours forgot my father in his adversity, if you made no sign when he was troubled by my mother's death, if you held aloof when assistance and sympathy would have made amends for the old breach between you, if you turned your backs upon him and shut him from your thoughts then, now we repudiate your service, and prefer to work our way alone!"
"Well, well, be it so," said his uncle; "it is heroic, but it is bad policy, more especially in you, a young man who will have to fight hard for a competence. You will excuse this whim of mine."
"I have already thanked you for the good intention."
"I did not anticipate encountering so hard and dogmatic a disposition as your own, but I do not regret the visit."
Sidney looked at his watch, fidgeted with the feather of his pen, but made no remark to this.
"We will say it was a whim—you will please to inform your father that this was simply a whim of mine—the impulse of a moment, after an extra glass of port wine with my dessert."
"I will think so, if you wish it."
"You perceive that I am an old man—your father's senior by eight years—and old people do get whimsical and childish, when the iron in their nerves melts, by some unaccountable process, away from them. Possibly this is not the first time that it has struck me that my brother James and I might easily arrive at a better appreciation of each other's character, if we sat down quietly face to face, two old men as we have become. The sarcasm that wounded him, and the passionate impulse that irritated me, would have grown less with our white hairs, I think. I don't know for certain—I cannot answer for a man who always would take the wrong side of an argument, and stick to it. By Gad! how tightly he would stick to it!"
The old gentleman rapped his gold-headed cane on the floor, and indulged in a little sharp laugh, not unpleasant to hear. Sidney repressed a smile, and looked significantly at his watch again.
"You wish me gone, young sir," said his uncle.
"Candidly, I see no good result to arise from your stay. My father is of an excitable disposition, and, I am sorry to say, neither so strong nor so well as I could wish. I fear the shock would be too much for him."
"I will take the hint," he said, rising; "I hate scenes, and if there is likely to be a second edition of those covert reproaches with which you have favoured me, why, it is best to withdraw as gracefully as possible, under the circumstances. You will tell him that I have called?"
"Yes, sir."
"You will tell him also—bear this in mind instead of sucking your pen, will you?—that if he owe me no ill-will, he will call on me next—that it is his turn! I never ask a man twice for anything—except for the money he may owe me," he added, drily.
"I will deliver your message, Mr. Hinchford."
"Then I have the honour, sir, to apologize for this intrusion, and to wish you a good evening."
He crossed the room and held out a thin white hand to Sidney, looking very strangely, very intently at him meanwhile. Sidney placed his own within it, almost instinctively, and the two Hinchfords shook hands.
They parted; Sidney thought that he had finally taken his departure, when the door opened, and he reappeared.
"Do you mind showing me a light?—it's a corkscrew staircase, leading to the bottomless pit, to all appearances."
Sidney seized the table-lamp, and proceeded to the top of the stairs, which his uncle descended in a slow and gingerly manner. At the first landing he looked up, and said:
"That will do, thank you—remember, his turn next—good evening."
Sidney went back to the room, and shortly afterwards Mr. Hinchford, the great banker, the owner of princely estates in three counties, was whirled away westward in his carriage.