A FLYING VISIT TO NUMBER THIRTY-FOUR.
Before Mr. Wesden had finally disposed of his business in Great Suffolk Street, he met with his greatest trouble in the loss of the companion, helpmate, wife, who had struggled with him for many years from indigence to moderate competence. Mrs. Wesden's health had been failing for some time, but her loss was still as unprepared for, and the husband bent lower and walked more feebly when his better half—his better self—was taken from him in his latter days.
"You have still me, remember," said Harriet, when the undemonstrative nature gave way, and he sobbed like a child at his isolation; and he had answered, "Ah! you mustn't desert me yet awhile—you must comfort me," and refused to be comforted for many a long day. His character even altered once more—as characters alter in all cases, except in novels; and though the abruptness remained, and the silent fits were of longer duration, he became less harsh in his judgments, and more easily influenced for good. This was evident one day, when after an intense study of the fire before which he sat, he burst forth with——
"I wonder if I acted well by Mattie—poor Mattie, who would be so sorry to hear all the sad news that has happened since she left us."
Harriet, who had always taken Mattie's part to the verge of her own confession, answered warmly,
"No, we all acted very badly—very cruelly. When she comes again, as she will, I feel assured—I hope she will forgive us, father."
"Forgive us?"
Mr. Wesden had not arrived to that pitch of kind consideration yet, but Mattie's departure and long silence were troubles to him when he was left to think of the past, and of the business from which he had at last retired in earnest.
The shop had changed proprietors, and the Hinchfords, father and son, had removed their furniture from Mr. Wesden's first floor to a little house Camberwell way, also. A very small domicile had this careful couple decided upon for their suburban retreat—one of a row of houses that we may designate Chesterfield Terrace, and the rents of which were two-and-twenty pounds per annum.
Mr. Hinchford, we have already premised, had somewhat lofty notions, which adversity had kept in check, rather than subdued. The removal to Chesterfield Terrace was a blow to him. The rooms in Great Suffolk Street had been only borne with, scarcely resigned to; but though he had lived there many years, he had never considered himself as "settled down"—merely resting by the way, before he marched off to independence and the old Hinchford state. It had been a mythical dream, perhaps, until Sidney's star rose in the ascendant, and then he had quickly built his castles in the air, and bided his time more sanguinely. When that vision faded in its turn, the old gentleman was sorely tried; only his son's strategy in feigning to require consolation had turned him away from his own regrets to thoughts of how to make them less light for—the BOY.
But 34, Chesterfield Terrace, Chesterfield Road, Camberwell New Road, was a blow to him. The air was fresher than in Great Suffolk Street, the large market gardens at the back of his house were pleasant in all seasons, except the cabbage season; there were three bed-rooms, two parlours, a wash-house at the back, and a long strip of garden, constituting a house and premises that were solely and wholly theirs, and entitled them to the glorious privilege of electing a member for incorruptible Lambeth; but the change was not all that Mr. Hinchford had looked forward to for so many years, and he grew despondent, and fancied that it could never be better now.
The Hinchfords had taken into their service Ann Packet, of workhouse origin, and undiscoverable parentage; she had pleaded to be constituted their servant, at any wages, or no wages at all, rather than at her time of life to be sent forth in search of fresh faces and new homes.
At this period, Mr. Wesden had required a servant also, and Ann Packet had begged Sidney Hinchford to engage her at once, before she should be asked to continue in the old service.
"What! tired of them?" Sidney had said with some surprise.
"They gave me warning," replied Ann, somewhat sullenly, "and I accepts the same. They turned poor Mattie away without warning at all, and I never forgives 'em that, sir."
"Ah! you are on Mattie's side, too, Ann?"
"There never was a girl who thought so little of herself, and so much of others!" cried Ann, "or who desarved less to be sent out into the streets. I gave up the Wesdens after that, sir."
"But Miss Harriet is Mattie's champion also, and will defend her to the death, Ann."
"And will she be a Wesden all her life, sir?" asked Ann Packet, with an archness for which she was only that once remarkable.
Ann Packet became domestic servant at 34, Chesterfield Terrace, then, and congratulated herself on the kitchen being level with the parlours, which was good for her ankles, and spared her breath considerably.
Meanwhile the shadows were stealing on towards the Hinchford dwelling-place; Sidney's month in service with his old employers had been extended to two months, after which the firm, utterly shattered by adversity, was to dissolve itself into its component atoms, and be never heard of more in the busy streets east of Temple Bar.
Sidney, it need scarcely be said, had not sat idle during the time; he had looked keenly round him for a change of clerkship. His employers had interested themselves in a way not remarkable in employers, towards securing him a foothold in other and more stable establishments, but business was slack in the City, and there were no fresh hands wanted just at present.
Sidney was not a young man to despair; he let no chance slip, and disappointment did not relax his efforts. He did not believe that the time would come and leave him wholly without "a berth." He had faith in his abilities, and he thought that they would work a way for him somewhere. And even a week or two "out of work" would not hurt him; he had saved money, and could pay his fair share towards the household expenses as well as his father, who kept his place longer than Sidney had ever believed he would.
His father was more solicitous than himself; every evening he asked very anxiously if Sidney had heard of anything in the City, and was not greatly exhilarated by Sid's careless "Not yet." Things were getting serious when there was only a week more to spend at the old desk, where bright hopes had been born and collapsed; Sidney was even becoming grave, although his company manners were put on before the father, to keep the old gentleman's mind at ease.
But Mr. Hinchford's mind was not likely to be at ease at that period; he was playing a part himself, and disguising his own troubles from his son, thereby causing a double game at disinterestedness between Sid and him.
Three weeks before the son's time had expired at his office, Mr. Hinchford had received a week's notice to quit. His memory had again betrayed him, confused the accounts, and put the clerks out, and it was considered necessary to inform the old gentleman that his services were not likely to be required any longer. The notice came like a thunderbolt to Mr. Hinchford, whose belief in his own powers was still strong, and who had not had the remotest idea that long ago he had been tolerated by his employers, and set down for a troublesome, pompous, and disputatious old boy by the whipper-snappers round him. His salary had never been more than thirty-five shillings a week, and he had put up with it rather than been grateful for it, looking forward to the future rise of the Hinchfords above the paltry shillings and pence of every-day routine. He had not anticipated being turned off—pronounced worn-out in that service which a Hinchford had patronized.
The poor old fellow's pride was touched, and he took his adieux and his last week's salary with a lordly air, looking to the life the gentleman that he had been once. He expressed no regret at the summary dismissal, but marched out of the office with his white head thrown a little more back than usual, and it was only as he neared Chesterfield Terrace that his courage gave way, and he began to think of the future prospects of Sid and himself.
Sid was in trouble, and a little more bad news might be too much for him. He would try and keep his secret, until Sid had found a good berth for himself in the City. Affairs were looking desperate, and the revelation must come, but he could bear it himself, he thought—this weak old man with no faith in the strong son, whom an avalanche might affect, little else. Mr. Hinchford took Ann Packet into his confidence, and impressed her with the necessity of keeping Sid in the dark concerning the father's absence from business.
"Don't tell him, Ann, that I keep away from office after he's left—it's easy for me to make an excuse for an early return, if he come back before his time. I wouldn't have that boy worried for the world, just now."
Ann Packet, who took time to digest matters foreign to her ordinary business, was some days in comprehending the facts of the case, and then held counsel with herself as to whether it were expedient to keep Sidney in ignorance, considering how the old gentleman "went on" during his son's absence.
"He'll fret himself to death, and I shall be hanged for not stopping it, p'raps," she thought.
Once or twice she took the liberty of intruding into the parlour, and recommending Mr. Hinchford, senior, to try a walk, or a book, or a visit to Mr. Wesden; and, startled out of his maunderings, he would make an effort to follow one of the three counsels, seldom the last, because Mr. Wesden was Harriet's father, and saw Sid very frequently.
He took many walks in search of a situation for himself, but the one refrain was, "Too old," and he began to see that he had overstepped the boundary, and was scarcely fit for a new place. He almost conceived an idea—just a foggy one, which, however, he never confessed to his dying day—that he was a little forgetful at times; for Chesterfield Terrace lay in a net-work of newly-built streets at the back of the Camberwell New Road, and he was always taking the wrong turning, and losing himself. Still it was deep thought about Sid which led him in the wrong direction—presently his mind would be more composed; Sid would be in a good place, and he need not have one secret from him.
The last day came round; Sidney's services were over for good; he had had a painful parting with his old masters, who had been more than commonly attached to him, and he came home looking a little grave, despite the best face on the matter which he had put on at the front door.
"Anything new in the City, Sid?" asked the father.
"No, nothing new," he replied. "What makes you home so early to-day?"
Sid had turned in before the daylight was over, and found his father walking up and down the room with his hands behind him.
"Early?" repeated the old man. "Oh! they're not particularly busy just now in the Bridge Road. Very slack, I may say."
"Ah! I suppose so," said Sid, absently.
"And there's nothing new at all then, Sid?"
"Nothing."
"You'll keep a stout heart, my boy," said the father, with a cheering voice, and yet with a lip that quivered in spite of him. "I suppose, now, you don't feel very dull?"
"Dull, with my wits about me, and a hundred chances, perhaps, waiting for me in the City to-morrow!"
"Yes, you'll have all day to-morrow—I had forgotten that," said Mr. Hinchford; "to be sure, all day now!"
Sidney saw that his father was perplexed, even disturbed in mind, but he set down Mr. Hinchford's embarrassment to the same source as his own thoughts; he did not know that he had only inherited his unselfishness from his sire. Or rather, he did not remember, how an unselfish heart, allied to an unthinking head, had been the cause of the downfall in old times.
On the morrow Sidney Hinchford had the day before him, but the result was bad. He had visited many of the houses heretofore in connection with the old firm, but luck was against him, and many objected to a clerk from a house that had collapsed. It had been a fair bankruptcy; one of those honourable "breaks up" which occur once or twice in a century, and are more completely break ups from sheer honesty of purpose than cases which make a "to do" in the Court, and march off with flying colours; but Sidney represented one of a staff that had come to grief somehow, and "there was nothing in his way, just at present."
Three or four days passed like this, and matters were becoming serious to the Hinchfords—father and son seemed settling down to misfortune, although the son betrayed no anxiety, and the father's care were for the hours when the son's back was turned. In fact, Sidney Hinchford was not quickly dispirited; a little did not seriously affect him, and he went on doggedly and persistently, making the round of all the great firms that had had, once upon a time, dealings with his own; abashed seldom, dispirited never, firmly and stolidly proceeding on his way, and calmly waiting for the chance that would come in due time.
Meanwhile the father went down to zero immediately the door closed behind Sidney. He felt that he was not acting fairly by keeping the secret of his discharge from Sid; but he was waiting for good news, that might counterbalance the bad which he had to communicate. He knew that in a day or two, at the utmost, all must come out, but he put off the evil day to the last—a characteristic weakness—weakness or good policy, which was it?—that he had adopted ever since there had been evil days to fret about.
In the grey afternoon of an April day, he sat alone in his front parlour, more utterly dispirited than he had been since his wife's death, years ago. No good fortune had come either to father or son, and he was inclined to regard things in the future lugubriously; workhouses and parish funerals not being the least of his fancy sketches. He had taken his head between his hands, and was brooding very deeply before the scanty little fire-place, which he intended to heap up with coal a few minutes before Sidney's expected return, when Ann Packet came into the room, very confused, and speaking in a hoarse voice.
"If you please, sir, here's a visitor!"
"I can't see any visitors, Ann," he answered sharply, "unless—unless it's any one from——"
"It's only Mattie, sir; she's come to see you for a moment!"
"Mattie! bless my soul, has she turned up again?"
"She turned up at the front door only a minute ago. Lord bless her! You might have knocked me down with a straw, sir!"
"I'll see her—show her in."
Mattie came in the instant afterwards; the hall of the Hinchfords was not so spacious but that anything spoken in the front room would reach the ears of one waiting in the passage. She heard the answer, and entered at once.
"Well, Mattie, how are you?"
"Pretty well, I thank you, sir," was returned in the old brisk accents.
Mattie was not looking pretty well; on the contrary, very pale and thin, as though anxiety, or hard work, or both, had been her portion since she had left Great Suffolk Street. She was dressed in black, very neatly dressed, and possibly the dark trappings had some effect in increasing the pallor of her countenance.
"We thought that we had lost you for good, Mattie."
"Was it likely, sir, that I was going to lose sight of all those who had been kind to me?"
"You're not looking very well," he said.
"Ah! we musn't judge by people's looks," said Mattie, cheerfully. "I'm well enough, thank God! And you, sir?"
"Well, Mattie, thank God, too!"
"And Sidney, sir!"
"As brave as ever. I wish he had been at home—he has been anxious to see you, Mattie."
"He is very kind," she said, in a low voice, adding, "and what does he think?"
Mr. Hinchford was not quick in catching a subject upon which Mattie had brooded now for some months.
"Think of what?"
"Of me! Mr. Wesden has—hasn't turned him against me, sir?"
"Oh! no. He sticks up for you like a champion!"
"I thought he would. He never spoke ill of any one in his life, and he always took the part of those who were unfortunate. I was sure he would not side against me!"
"Sit down, Mattie, sit down!"
"Thank you, no, sir! I shall never sit down in the house of any one who has heard ill news of me, until I can clear myself, or time clears me. I shall never go near Mr. Wesden's, although I feel for all the sorrow there."
"You know what has happened, then?"
"I have put on black, as for a lost mother. I was at the funeral, but they did not see me. Oh! sir, I know all about you—what should I do alone in the world, if I didn't think of those who saved me when I was young?"
"And what are you doing?"
"Getting my living by needlework, by artificial flower making, or by anything that's honest which falls in my way. I keep at work, and hunt about for work, and there are some good people, I find, who take pity upon those situated like myself. I'm not afraid, sir, of doing well!"
"Glad to hear it, Mattie."
Mattie motioned Ann Packet to retire. Ann, who had been standing in the doorway all this time, open-mouthed and open-eared, withdrew at the hint. Mattie advanced and laid her hand upon Mr. Hinchford's arm.
"He goes there very often—they are engaged!"
Mr. Hinchford, who had always one thought uppermost, understood this at once—there was no necessity for any nominative cases—"Boy Sid" always understood!
"Yes."
"But he don't go to business now—the business is over."
"Who told you?"
"I read it in the paper a lodger lends me sometimes. Mr. Sidney's out of work!"
"At present—for a day or two."
"He has heard of something that will better him?"
"He will—in a day or two."
"And you—you're out of work too, sir?"
"That confounded Ann has told you——"
"Not a word, sir—but I have had a habit of looking for you, when you passed the house where I lodged, twice a-day—and I couldn't settle down, or feel comfortable, until you had passed. And when you did not come, I knew what had happened."
"Still full of curiosity, Mattie," said Mr. Hinchford, feeling the tears in his eyes at this evidence of Mattie's interest in him.
"Curious about all of you," she said, with a comprehensive gesture; "I don't feel so far away when I know what has happened, or is happening. And wanting to know the worst, or the best of everything, I come like an inquisitive little body, as I have always been, to take you by surprise like this!"
"But—but, my good girl, I can't tell you that we're very lucky just now. But Sid must not hear that I am getting very uncomfortable, and becoming less able to bear up as I ought to do, just to keep him strong, do you see? And if all goes on like this much longer, both out of work, what will become of us? Oh! dear, dear, dear!—what a miserable old man I've been to him and myself, and everybody! Oh! to be comfortably out of the world, and a burden to no one!"
"Sir," said Mattie, earnestly, "a blessing to some. Don't you remember when you were stronger, being a blessing to me—you, my first friend! And don't you know that you're a blessing to that good son of yours, and that he thinks so, and loves you as he ought to do? You mustn't make him unhappy by giving way at this time."
"I don't give way before him, that's not likely. Strong as a rock, child!"
The rock shook and trembled from summit to base, but Mattie did not smile at the contrast which his words suggested.
"What are you doing for him now, sitting here, Mr. Hinchford, and trying to look your best?"
"Doing?—what can I do?"
"That's what I have been thinking about, sir. When I'm at the flower-making—which I'm learning in over-time, because it don't pay just yet—I get, oh! such lots of time to think."
"Well?" he asked eagerly.
Mr. Hinchford always forgot disparity of age, and was content to be taught by Mattie, and receive advice from her. He wondered at it afterwards, but never when the spell of her presence was on him, when her young vigorous mind overpowered his weak efforts to rebel.
"Well, I have thought that Mr. Wesden, being a little—just a little—suspicious, would soon object to the engagement, if Mr. Sidney kept out of work too long. I can't say, for I don't perhaps understand Mr. Wesden, but it has been my idea; and oh! sir, they are so suited to each other, Harriet and he!"
"Well," he said again, "I don't think that Mr. Wesden's likely to object—but go on."
"And when I heard that the firm had failed, I began to wonder what he would do; for places are hard to get, even when one's clever now-a-days, and has a character to back him. And I wanted to ask you if you had thought of your brother, sir!"
"Why—what do you know of my brother?"
"He came one night to Great Suffolk Street to see you—don't you remember? I knew him by his likeness to yourself, before I saw his name upon his card."
"My brother!"
Mr. Hinchford gave a tug to his stock; it had not struck him before, and its very absurdity rather amused him. His brother, who turned a deaf ear to his own plaints, when misfortune was fresh upon him—when that brother's help might have saved him, as he thought, from all the troubles and adversities which had oppressed him since their bitter quarrel.
"And he's a rich man—I have been asking about him—he's a banker, sir, and keeps a great many hands."
"Yes, yes, I know," he said impatiently; "but it's no good. I wouldn't ask a favour of him for the world. If it hadn't been for him, my old age would not be like this!"
"He's an old man—perhaps he's altered very much," suggested Mattie; "he might know something that would suit Mr. Sidney."
"Don't speak of him again," Mr. Hinchford said, with some severity.
"Very well, sir," was the sad response; "then I'll go now."
"Will you not wait till Sid comes back?—I'm sure he——"
"No, no, sir—I would rather not see him—I am pressed for time, and have a great deal to do when I get back. There's one thing more I came for, sir."
"What's that?"
"I want you to try and remember a letter which you gave me, when I went away from Great Suffolk Street."
"A letter—a letter—let me see!"
The old gentleman evidently did not remember anything about a letter; no letter had seen the light, or all had been explained between Harriet and Sidney, and the course of true love was running smoothly to the end. So much the better; it was as well to say no more about it, Mattie thought. If the letter were lost, the old gentleman might only create suspicion by alluding to it upon Sidney's return; Mattie did not know how far to trust him.
She went away a few minutes afterwards, stopping for awhile to exchange greetings with Ann Packet, to whom she gave her address—a back street in Southwark Bridge Road—after much adjuration.
"You won't mind me, my dear," said Ann, "now you're settled down to something—but, oh! dear, how thin you've got. You've been fretting all the flesh off your precious bones."
"I haven't fretted much, Ann," was Mattie's answer; "you know I never liked to do anything but make the best of it. And I've not tried in vain—all will come right again—I'm sure of it!"
"And the worst is over—ain't it?"
"To be sure, the very worst. And now don't tell my address to anyone—not to Mr. Sidney or Miss Harriet especially."
"But Miss Harriet——"
"Will only offend her father by coming to see me—you, Ann, won't offend any one very much."
"Only a poor stray like yourself, Mattie—am I?"
"And our hearts don't stray very far from those we have loved, Ann—and never will."
"Ah! she talks like a book almost—the sight of learning that that child got hold on, and the deal of good she does a body," muttered Ann, looking after Mattie through the misty twilight stealing up the street.
"For every one her liked, and every one her loved," wrote Spenser, ages ago, of his heroine—Ann Packet might have quoted the same words, barring all thoughts of Mr. Wesden, whom the force of events had turned aside from Mattie.
Mr. Hinchford liked Mattie; her presence had brightened him up, given a shake to ideas that had been rusting of late.
"She's a quick girl," he muttered, "but she has the most foolish and out-of-the-way thoughts. How she disturbs one—I meant to have asked her seriously, and yet kindly, why she stopped out all night, and offended Mr. Wesden. Odd I should forget that—I don't generally let things slip my memory in that ridiculous fashion. And about that man who called himself her father—why, I forgot that, too!—God bless me! A curious girl—my brother, indeed!—my hard-hearted and unsympathetic brother!"