"ONE AND TWENTY."
Mattie's box was fetched away from Great Suffolk Street; the man who called for it brought a note to Ann Packet, which she found a friend to read for her later in the day. It did not furnish Ann Packet with her address—"When I am settled, Ann," she promised, quoting her own words on that morning of departure, "and I am very unsettled yet awhile."
Poor Ann Packet, who had looked forward to paying sundry flying visits to Mattie, and upon spending her holiday once a month with her, mourned over this evasion of Mattie's—"won't she trust even in me, or think of me a bit?" she said.
In Mattie's letter was enclosed a smaller one to Harriet Wesden, who understood the coup d'étât which had ensued by that time, and was agitated and unhappy concerning it. This was Mattie's letter to Harriet Wesden, in extenso:—
"Keep your promise, dearest Harriet—never forget that your happiness, and that of others, depend upon it. Do not think that I have taken the blame, or am a victim—it is not only for my actions of that night that I have gone away. Sooner or later, it must have come. God bless you!—I hope to see you again soon. Your letter to Sidney is destroyed."
Harriet pondered over this missive. For weeks she became more thoughtful, and aroused fresh anxiety in her father—for weeks went on an unknown and fierce struggle to break away from her promise and tell all.
She had been afraid of the revelation, and what would be said and thought about it; she had seen her innocence construed as half-consent, and herself set down as an accomplice in Mr. Darcy's plot; she had feared losing the esteem and confidence of all who now respected her. But when Mattie had been sent away for keeping out all night—and though she had not heard the story, she guessed of whom Mattie had been in search—her sense of justice, her love for Mattie, led her more than once to the verge of the revelation. Keeping her own secret was one thing, but the blame to rest on another was very different, and despite her promise—into which she had been entrapped as it were—the avowal was ever trembling on her lips.
After, all it was but the truth to confess—her father and mother would believe her; and if Sidney Hinchford turned away, why surely there was nothing to grieve at in that—she could not have loved Sidney, or that letter would never have been written to him! And yet let it be recorded here, Harriet Wesden's main incentive to keep her secret close was for Sidney Hinchford's sake. It tortured her to think that she should have ever entertained one feeling of love or liking for the Mr. Darcy who had sought her humiliation; the shock to her pride had not only turned her utterly away from Mr. Darcy, but the very contrast he presented to young Hinchford, had aroused the old, or given birth to a new affection for the latter.
She valued Sidney Hinchford at his just due at last; she understood his patience, energy, and love; how he had been working for her from his boyhood, and what would have been the effect to him of losing her. She had made up her mind, when he returned, to give him all her heart, and sustain him by her love against those secret cares which lately had been shadowing him. She believed that her secret was for ever shut away from the light—that keeping it under lock and key would be better for Sidney, whose trust in her was so implicit. He had always believed in her devotion to himself; why should she break in upon that dream, now she felt that all girlish follies were over with her, and she had become a staid woman, whose hope was to be his wife?
She was consoled by Mattie's letter: "It is not only for my actions of that night that I have gone away. Sooner or later it must have come."
Mattie, ever a deep thinker, considered it best also—by her confession, even Mattie would be unhappy; so Harriet kept her secret for everybody's sake, and made her last mistake in life. Mattie and she had both regarded the subject from a narrow point of view, and were wrong; the best intentioned people are wrong sometimes, and from young women, with their heads disturbed concerning young men, we do not anticipate the judgment of Solomon.
Harriet Wesden felt secure—knowing not of the letter in Mr. Hinchford's coat, of Mr. Hinchford's mistake and Mattie's. And yet the chances now were against the revelation, thanks to the treacherous memory of the old gentleman. He had mentioned his error in the counting-house to his employers the same day, and met with a reprimand and a supercilious shrug of the shoulders—"It was like old Hinchford," one partner had muttered to another, and there the subject ended for a while. Mr. Hinchford went home, resolving to restore the letter to Harriet Wesden, took the letter from his pocket and put it on the bedroom mantel-piece, to keep the matter in his remembrance until he saw Harriet again.
There for two days the letter remained, till Ann Packet, in dusting the room, knocked it on the floor, picked it up and placed it on the dressing-glass, where Mr. Hinchford found it, and rather absently-shut it in the looking-glass drawer, as a safe place; and then the letter passed completely out of recollection, there being a great deal to trouble his mind just then.
For they were not kind to him at his business, expected too much from him, and made no allowance for an old servant; and above all, and before all, the boy's birthday was drawing near—it was three days before Harriet Wesden's—and there was no sign of Sidney Hinchford on his way towards him.
By that time Mr. Wesden had found a customer for his business, which was to change hands early in February; and in February what would become of him, and whither should he go himself, thought Mr. Hinchford? Good gracious! he would have to change his residence, and his son perhaps never be able to find him! A horrid thought, which only lasted till he thought of his son's business address, but whilst it lasted, a trying one.
When the birthday of Sidney Hinchford came round in January, the father grew excited; talked of his son at business all day, and worried the clerks about his son's accomplishments; returned in the evening to harass Mr. Wesden, always at his post behind the counter, for the few more days remaining of his business life.
"I have brought a bottle of wine home with me in the hope of the lad's return," said Mr. Hinchford, placing that luxury on the counter; "his one and twentieth year must not pass without our wishing bon voyage to his manhood. You and I, Mr. Wesden, will at least drink his health to-night."
"Very well."
"I'll come and keep you company, after tea, in the back parlour, Wesden, and we'll have a long talk about my boy and your girl. There should have been a formal betrothal to-night, with much rejoicing afterwards. To think of his being one-and-twenty to-day, and away from us!"
"It must seem odd to you. Perhaps he'll come back to-night."
"That's what I have been thinking, Wesden. I fancy if he were near his return journey he would make a push for it to-night, knowing the old father's wishes. I fancy, do you know, that if I had been your daughter——"
"Well—what of her?"
"If I had been Harriet, I should have remembered this day, and looked in for a few moments."
"Her mother don't grow stronger; she is fidgety when she is away, and the servant we have is not of much use."
"Then Harriet might have written, wishing him many happy returns of the day, or have come to congratulate me upon having such a son grown to man's estate."
Having expressed this opinion, Mr. Hinchford went up-stairs to the tea which Ann Packet had prepared for him—spent an hour after tea in putting the room to rights, opening Sidney's desk and lighting the table-lamp at the side thereof.
"Now, if he come home, and there's work to be done—and if it's to be done, his one-and-twentieth birthday will not stop it—there's everything ready to begin!"
He went down-stairs to join Mr. Wesden in the parlour—the news-boy was perched on the chair in the shop, keeping guard over the goods that night—and found Harriet Wesden seated at the fireside.
"Why, it's all coming true," cried the old gentleman, seizing both hands of Harriet, and shaking them up and down, "and he's coming home!"
"Have you thought so, too?" asked Harriet.
"Well, I have hoped so, at all events; and it seems as if we were waiting for him now, and he must come. But don't talk too much about that, please," he said, with his characteristic tug at his stock, "or I shall feel as if something had happened when he keeps away. But we'll drink the boy's health, at all events, God bless him! and we'll have a game at whist, three and a dummy, and make quite a party of it in our little way. Sid one-and-twenty, Wesden! by all that's glorious, it's a fine thing to have a son come to maturity!"
Wine-glasses were produced—even a pack of cards, a brand new pack from the stock—and Sid's health was drunk very quietly, without any musical honours, but very heartily, for all that.
And five minutes after the health had been drunk, Sidney Hinchford, portmanteau in hand, entered the shop, and walked straight into the parlour.
"I said he'd come!" exclaimed the father. "Many happy returns of the day, you runaway! God bless you, my boy, and grant you health and happiness!"
He wound up his wishes by kissing him as though he had been a girl. Sidney blushed, and laughed at his father's impulsiveness, and then turned to his two remaining friends with whom he shook hands—we need not add with whom the longer time.
"Finish your game at whist," he said; "I must not spoil the harmony of the evening. Here, shall I take dummy?"
"If you like. But we want to know——"
"Presently you shall know all—let us relapse into our old positions, just as if I had never been away, for awhile. How's Mattie—where is she?"
All three looked somewhat blankly at him. Mattie's departure, and the reasons which had actuated it, were more or less a mystery, and difficult of explanation.
Mr. Wesden acted as spokesman.
"I'm sorry to say she has gone away under very disagreeable circumstances."
"Gone away!—Mattie!"
"Your father can tell you all about it some other time," said Mr. Wesden. "I don't think we need spoil the evening by a long, sad story."
"Yes, but, dash it! disagreeable circumstances," said Sidney—"that's an awkward phrase, and don't sound affectionate. But, until to-morrow, we'll postpone all details. I'll take dummy, and be your partner, Harriet."
"Very well."
He did not know whether it were better to be Harriet's partner, or to be her father's, and sit by Harriet's side—that matter had always perplexed him the few times he had played at whist with them. It seemed somewhat strange his playing at whist at all that night—his arriving from a long journey, tired and travel-worn, as evident from his looks, and immediately sitting down to cards, as though there were an infatuation in the game, which under no circumstances it was in his power to resist. Harriet Wesden thought it strange at least, and now and then furtively regarded him. He played whist well, as he did everything well he undertook—but his heart was not in the game, and more than once, as he held the cards, close to his glasses, in the old near-sighted fashion, Harriet fancied that the face assumed a troubled expression. The game at whist was over at last, and with it Sidney Hinchford's power of endurance.
"Now that is over, I think I'll tell you a story. I don't know three people in the world so well entitled to have the first hearing of it. I'll ask you, sir," turning to his father, "to give me courage, and see that I do not give way?"
Mr. Hinchford senior stared, as well he might, at this—it placed him in a new position, and braced his nerves accordingly. Sidney had resolved upon these tactics on his homeward route; there was no chance of breaking his news gradually—the world would be talking of it ere the morning.
"I always hated dodging a truth," said Sidney, sturdily; "it's a bad habit, and don't answer. It's sneaking—isn't it, Mr. Wesden?"
"Well—yes."
"If there's good luck coming, go to meet it—if there's disappointment which you can't avoid, let it meet you, and not find you hiding away from the inevitable. Why, that's like a baby!"
"To be sure it is," said the father; "wait a moment—I'm not a bit nervous about this—I'll see that you keep firm, my boy, but I'll just unfasten this buckle behind my neck a moment. Now, then!"
"When I was one-and-twenty, there seemed reason to believe in a partnership in my masters' firm—my masters took a fancy to me when I was a lad, and very much obliged to them I was for it. By that hope in prospective," suddenly turning to Harriet Wesden, and leaning over the table towards her with a very anxious look upon his face, "I was led, Harriet, to think too much of you—to enter into a half-engagement, or a whole one, or a something that kept me ever thinking of you, hoping for you. When I was one-and-twenty, I was to come to your father, and say, 'I am in a good position of life—may I consider Harriet as my future wife?'—he was to refer me to you if satisfied with my prospects, and you were—well, I did hope very much that you were then to say, 'Yes' in real earnest. All this, a pretty story, foolish for me to believe in—but a story ended now in an ugly fashion. Mr. Wesden," veering suddenly round to the stationer, "my prospects in life are infamously bad; my employers are bankrupts, and my services will not be required after this day month!"
Mr. Hinchford flung himself back in his chair with a crash that brought the top rail off,—Sidney turned at once to him, and laid his hand upon his arm.
"With my father to give me courage, I can bear this!"
"That's—that's—that's well, my lad. Keep strong—oh! Lord have mercy upon us!—keep strong, my boy!"
"I have been fighting hard to get the firm straight—I have been abroad to the foreign branch, working night and day there, my last chance and my employer's. I had a hope once of success, till the markets fell suddenly, and swamped everything—our weakness could not stand against anything new and unforeseen, and so we—smashed! It will be all over town to-morrow—but it was a good fight whilst it lasted."
"It's very unfortunate news," said Mr. Wesden.
"I'm not afraid for myself," said Sidney, proudly; "I think that with time, and health—ah! I must not forget that—I shall work my way somewhere, and to something in good time. But I shan't climb to greatness all of a sudden; and it may happen that at forty—even fifty years of age—I may be no better off than I am now. That I'm disappointed is natural enough, for I know money's value, and perhaps it was a little too near my heart, and this is my lesson; but the disappointment of losing you, Harriet—of giving up that chance, as any honourable man should—is the one loss which staggers me, and will be the hardest to surmount. I thought that I would make a clean breast of it, and begin my one-and-twentieth year free, as land-agents say, of all encumbrances."
It was a poor attempt at facetiæ—a very weak effort to carry things off with a high hand, like a Hinchford. But he played his part well; he did not break down; he confessed his inability to keep a wife, or think of a wife, and he spoke out like one who had reached man's estate, and felt strong to bear man's troubles.
Mr. Wesden stared at Sidney long after he had concluded, and a pause had followed the outburst; Harriet Wesden, with a heightened colour, looked down at her white hands so tightly clasped together in her lap, and thought that it was a strange explanation—a strange hour for an explanation which he might have chosen his time to give to her alone. Surely she might have been offered an opportunity of giving an answer also, and spared that embarrassment with which his thoughtlessness had afflicted her. Could her father answer for her, as well as for himself!
Mr. Wesden delivered his reply, after several moments' grave deliberation.
"Mr. Sidney," said he, "I always did hate anything kept back, and doubted the honesty of anybody keeping it. The truth, however hard it may be to tell, will always bear the light upon it, I'm inclined to think."
Harriet winced.
"And you've spoken fair," he continued, "and given her up like a man. Now let her answer for herself; if she don't mind waiting till you're able to keep her—till you're forty or fifty, as you say," he added drily, "why, I shan't stand in opposition. The longer the engagement, the longer she'll be my daughter. There, can I put it in a fairer light than that that?"
Sidney's harangue, or Sidney's father's port-wine, had rendered Mr. Wesden magnanimous as well as loquacious that evening; or else, in business, his better nature was developing anew.
Now to such an answer as this, one can imagine Sidney Hinchford starting to his feet and wringing Mr. Wesden's hand, or turning suddenly to Harriet and looking earnestly, almost beseechingly, in her direction. On the contrary, he remained silent and moody; Mr. Wesden's answer was unprepared for, and his compliment to his straightforwardness brought a colour to Sidney's cheek—for, after all, he was keeping something back!
There was a painful silence, broken at last by a low and faltering voice, the musical murmur of which drew Sidney's eyes towards her at last.
"Has Mr. Sidney the patience to wait for me, or care for a long engagement, of which he may eventually tire?"
"Patience!—care for an engagement!" he almost shouted.
"Then when he asks me again," said Harriet, "I will give him my answer. But," with an arch smile towards him, "I will wait till I am asked."
"Bless you, my dear girl!" exclaimed old Hinchford, "I feel like a father towards you already—as for waiting, every true boy and girl will wait for each other—why shouldn't they, if they love one another, eh, Sid?"
His hand came heavily on Sid's shoulder, and knocked off his son's glasses.
"Ah! why shouldn't they, if they are sure of love lasting all the long time between engagement and marriage. Harriet! dear Harriet!" he exclaimed, "I will ask you presently."
"When the old fogies are out of the way, and the courtship can be carried on in the recondite style," cried his elated father; "a sly dog this, who will not be embarrassed by witnesses—eh, Wesden?"
Wesden gave a short laugh—a double-knock species of laugh, in which he indulged when more than usually hilarious.
"Ah! that's it!" he said; "and as for waiting, why Mrs. Wesden and I are an old couple, and mayn't keep you waiting so long as you fancy, Sidney. It isn't much money, but——"
"That will do, sir," said Sidney, hastily; "I must support my wife, not let my wife support me. Harriet," turning to the daughter, with an impetuosity almost akin to fierceness, "is it not time to return to Camberwell?"
"Oh! ho!—do you hear that, Wesden?" cried the father.
Mr. Hinchford had forgotten the downfall of his son's air-built castle, in the happiness which he believed would make amends for it to Sidney. And if Sidney were content—why, he was.
Harriet was glad of an excuse to escape. Two old gentlemen talking of love affairs—her love affairs—before the suitor, was scarcely fair, and her position was not enviable. And besides that, Sidney Hinchford's manner had not been comprehensible, and required explanation; she could almost believe that he did not desire an engagement; there was so little of the impassioned lover in his new demeanour. There was a mystery, and she would be glad to have it dissipated.
Harriet went away, escorted by her lover, and the two fathers drew their chairs closer to the fire and drank the health of the happy couple as they went out at the door.
"This is a proud day for you and me—to have such children, and to see them growing up fonder and fonder of each other every day—eh, Wesden?"
"Yes. I have been uneasy about Harriet, and leaving her alone in the world. She will be always happy with him, and have a good protector."
"That she will. How the little girl would have clapped her hands at this!"
"What little girl?" asked Wesden.
"Why, Mattie, to be sure. Mattie, who used to play the mother almost to those two, her seniors, and be always as interested as a mother in making a match between them."
"Ah!—Mattie!—yes!"
Mr. Wesden looked about for his pipe and his pipe-lights on the mantel-piece.
Mr. Hinchford drew his favourite meerschaum from his coat-pocket. The two old men faced each other, and began to smoke vigorously.
"I wonder where that girl has got to?" suggested Hinchford.
"It's impossible to say. In good hands, I hope."
"I'd lay a heavy wager that she knows whose birthday it is to-day," commented Mr. Hinchford; "she was a girl who never forgot anything."
"Ah—perhaps so!"
"And I think she might have cleared up the fog, if you had waited a bit, Wesden."
"Why didn't she, if she could?"
"I don't know. I promised to believe in her, and somehow I do."
"Can anything in the world account for a girl her age being out all night?" said Wesden.
"Ah! that looks bad—I can't get over that!" said Mr. Hinchford, giving his head one sorrowful shake.
Poor Mattie!—poor stray! whose actions, the best and most unselfish, were not to be accounted for, or done justice to in this world.