IN WHICH SEVERAL DISCOVERIES COME TOGETHER.
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.