HALF THE TRUTH.
Mattie, as we are already aware, had found Mr. Wesden the sole occupant of that house in Camberwell, whither the stationer had retired from the stirring business of life. He was alone, dull and dispirited; Harriet had gone to a thanksgiving festival at her favourite church, and her father, whom night-air affected now, was left to read his newspaper, or to think of old times, as his inclination might suggest.
Harriet always offered to remain at home to keep her father company, but old Wesden was not a selfish man; he offered no objection to her departure; it would do her good, and be a change for her. It had long ago suggested itself to him that there was nothing like change to keep Harriet well and all unpleasant thoughts away from her; and if it were only the mild excitement of religious change, it was better than brooding at home over events which had passed and left marks of their ravages.
Mr. Wesden brightened up at Mattie's visit; he had put away his pipe, and was sitting with his feet on the fender and his hands on his knees, thinking of his daughter and of the chance she had lost in not marrying Maurice Hinchford, when Mattie intruded on his reverie.
The old friends—friends who had quarrelled and made it up, and become the best of friends again—sat down together and talked of the past, of what a business that was in Suffolk Street once, slow, and sure, and money-getting. Mr. Wesden was inclined to talk more in his old age, Mattie fancied, and when he drifted to the usual subject with which all topics invariably ended—his daughter—Mattie did not stop him.
She had come to find out the truth, if possible—to make sure! Next to Sidney Hinchford, stood Harriet Wesden in her regard; she remembered all that Harriet had been to her, all that impulsiveness of action combined with steadiness of love which had won Mattie towards her in the early days, and was not likely to turn her from her then.
But the truth had been hard to arrive at; Mr. Wesden spoke of Harriet's new pursuits, of her indignation at Maurice Hinchford's offer; he could tell her little more than Maurice Hinchford had done, save that there were times when his daughter seemed very dull and thoughtful.
"P'raps it's the church, Mattie," he had said; "I wish you'd come more often and talk to her, like—like you used."
"She does not think that I have neglected her—forgotten her?"
"Oh! no."
"When I meet her here, she seems very different to me—almost cold at times," said Mattie.
"Only her way, Mattie," explained the father, "she's very different to all, now. She was more like herself after Mr. Hinchford called—Lor'! that roused her for a day or two beautifully. It was quite a treat to see her out of temper all the next day—flouting like!"
Mattie waited till half-past eight, and then took her leave, thinking that she would go home by the church-way and meet Harriet. But Harriet had gone round by the main thoroughfare, having a call to make, and so the old companions missed each other.
Mattie scarcely knew what she should have said to Harriet on meeting her, save the usual commonplace remarks; she fancied that she might have told her story of Sidney's proposal, and watched the effect—might have looked her sternly in the face, and asked if it were all true that Maurice Hinchford had asserted. It depended upon circumstances what she would have confessed or asserted; after all, did it matter what were Harriet Wesden's feelings, if Sidney had ceased to love Harriet and turned to Mattie Gray?
But Sidney was blind then, and his heart, ever full of gratitude, had deceived him. Perhaps he had read her secret by some means, and taken pity on her. Pity!—and she had told him that she scorned it! Well, true or false, right or wrong, she must wait a few days longer—for better, for worse, there was no keeping that truth back, unless it died with Sidney.
Mattie made the best of it, as usual. Hers was a mind of uncommon strength, although her slight figure and gentle face suggested to an observer the very reverse of a "strong-minded woman." The next day, she was the Mattie that deceived even her father, who had been alarmed at her yester-night. She had got over her headache, she said; she could talk of business-matters, and of going to the warehouse for fresh stock, of the customers on "the books," and of the customers—a few of them by the laws of business—who were never likely to get off them. In the morning, too, came an immense order, that staggered Mr. Gray—an order for stationery, pens, ink, and paper, &c., from Hinchford and Son, bankers.
"They've given their relation a turn—I don't think Sid would like it much," said Mr. Gray.
Mattie affected an interest in these new customers, and Mr. Gray, who admired large orders, though he was not a worldly man, trotted about the shop and rubbed his hands. The first customer who entered, and told him that it was a fine day, was assured that "Yes it was. A fine order, a very fine order indeed!"
Orders taken, delivered, and goods paid for; time making inroads into the new week; people beginning to talk of coming spring, and of the cold weather breaking up for good; Mattie waiting for the summons to Sidney Hinchford's side, and wondering why Dr. Bario was so long; the hour in which to answer Sidney approaching, and she still unresolved as to what was best and just—for others, as well as for herself!
The message came at last—by special messenger, and private cab; a dashing Hansom, with the Hinchford crest on the panel, drawn by a thorough-bred mare, which brought out all the horse-fanciers from the livery-stables at the corner to look at and admire.
Mattie opened Maurice Hinchford's hastily written note.
"Dear Miss Gray," it ran, "we have resolved upon the operation to-day. Sidney is prepared—calm and hopeful of the result. I never knew a fellow with so little fear in him. Bring Miss Wesden if you think fit.
"Yours very truly,
"Maurice Hinchford."
Bring Miss Wesden! Mattie had never thought of that, and for the first time the woman's natural jealousy seized her. Take her rival to his side, and let her comfort him, and she standing aloof and unacknowledged!—why should she do that? Thrust upon Sidney Hinchford's thoughts, at such a time, the old love; let him see, perhaps, Harriet Wesden's beauty and her own plain face side by side, the very instant that he stepped back, as it were, to his old self!
Then came better thoughts—thoughts more true to this high-minded stray of ours. It was light, or madness, or death; if it were a failure, and he should die, swiftly and suddenly—if till the last he had deceived her, and his true nature were to assert itself, and he express a wish—one last yearning wish to see Harriet Wesden—what could she say?—in the future how that reproach of not having done her best would crush her with remorse!
She was in the cab; she had made up her mind; there was to be no longer any hesitation.
"Drive to Myer's Street, Camberwell."
The thorough-bred mare stepped out and cleared the roadway; the shop and the little excited man at its door were in the background, and Mattie was being whirled along to Mr. Wesden's house. In a very little while, Mattie was driven to the old friend's. Mr. Wesden was gardening in his fore-court, or attempting something of the kind, with a little rake he had bought at a toy-shop; he dropped his rake, and stared over the private cab and its occupant at the up-stairs windows of the opposite residence.
"Mattie," he said, when she was at the gate, and had opened it and entered before he had recovered his astonishment, "what's the matter? Who's cab is that?—the stationery business won't stand cabs, yet awhile, I know."
"Where is Harriet?—not out again?"
"No, in the parlour—this way."
Mattie and Mr. Wesden entered the house. Harriet was in the front parlour—the best room, which had been Mrs. Wesden's pride, and a dream of the old lady's in business days,—working busily away at a pair of crimson slippers, with large black crosses on the instep—High Church slippers, every inch of them. Not slippers for a simpering curate to receive anonymously, as a mark of esteem from a fair unknown—Harriet was above that; but good colossal slippers, for the gouty feet of her pastor and master, who could not wear tight boots in the house, and had even been known to preach in something easy.
Harriet, who had noted the arrival, was ready to receive Mattie. She ran to her and kissed her. Harriet's first impulse was a kind and loving one whenever she met Mattie first; only as the interview lengthened, did her doubts—if they could be called doubts—step in and range themselves formally beside her, and render her almost reserved. The kiss with which they parted, always savoured more of the new Harriet, than of the bright-faced beauty whom Sidney had once loved, Mattie thought.
"Harriet, I want you to come with me, if you will," said Mattie.
"I am rather busy just now, Mattie," said Harriet; "where do you wish to take me?"
"To see Sidney Hinchford," was the calm reply.
"To see whom!" ejaculated Harriet.
Before Mattie could explain, Harriet added—
"What object can you have in taking me to him?—in coming in this strange hurried manner for me? Has he sent you?"
"No."
"He has no wish that I should be near him, I am sure. This is eccentric and foolish—what do you mean by it?"
Harriet's haughty gesture would have done more credit to royal blood than to old Wesden's.
Mattie caught her by the wrist, so that Harriet should not escape her, or hide any sign of emotion which she might wish to conceal when all was known.
"You must come! There is no excuse. In a few hours Sidney Hinchford may be dead!"
Did the change upon that face tell all, or was it the natural result of such news as Mattie had hissed forth?
"Dead!—dead did you say?" asked Harriet, hastily.
"I did not tell your father a few nights ago that Sidney had left us—I reserved the news for you, and then missed you going home. He is in the hands of clever and scientific men, who hope to cure him of his blindness."
"Yes—go on."
"But there is a chance of failure, which Sidney risks, and thinks, perhaps, too lightly of. That failure will not subject him to his old estate, but drive him mad, or kill him."
"And you have let him risk his life—you!"
Away went the ecclesiastical slippers to the other end of the room; some wool got entangled in her hands, and she snapped it impatiently in two in preference to unwinding it; she turned to Mattie, full of reproach, fear, and indignation. Yes, the love was living still! Mattie might have known long ago that it had never died away, and that to keep it in subjection had been the task which Harriet had set herself, and failed in.
"They will murder him!—you have let them take him away to work their dangerous experiments upon, and you will have to answer for this!"
"Sidney was resolved—his cousin wished it—I had no power to stop it."
"Mattie, he loves you. He would have done as you wished."
"Who says he loves me?" asked Mattie. "I have never uttered a word to give you that belief, Harriet—have I?"
"No—but——"
"I don't own it now—I say nothing, but ask you to come with me. If I loved him, or mistrusted you, should I be here?"
"What am I to do?" asked the bewildered Harriet. "Oh! tell me, what can I do?"
"Maurice Hinchford thinks it possible—I think it possible—that Sidney may wish to speak to you before or afterwards. We may retire and see him not, or we may face him. If it should end as we all pray not, and hope not, you, at least, must not be away!"
"No, no!—I would not be away from him for all the world," cried Harriet. "I will go with you at once."
She darted out of the room, and Mr. Wesden seemed to take her place as if by magic before Mattie.
"What's it all mean, my girl?"
Mattie had to struggle with many conflicting emotions, and sober down sufficiently to relate the nature of her visit. Before she had half finished her statement, Harriet was with them again.
"Let us go at once, Mattie!—father will hear all when I return."
She almost dragged Mattie from the room; they were both in the cab, and rattling away from Camberwell, before Mr. Wesden fully comprehended that they had left him.
"Mattie, it is kind of you to think of me at this time," said Harriet. "You have read me more truly than I have read myself. I am a wicked and unjust woman."
"No—that's not true."
"I have had wicked thoughts of you—you that I have known so long, and should have estimated so truly, knowing what you have ever been to me. But, oh! Mattie, I have been so wretched and unhappy, that you will forgive me?"
"Don't say any more, please."
Harriet looked askance at the pale face beside her—the eyes were half closed, and the thin lips compressed.
"Do you feel ill?"
"No—the excitement of all this may have been a little too much for me—we will not talk of ourselves just now. Time enough for your confession, and for mine, when we return."
"How shall we return?—with what hopes or fears of him? What made his cousin and you think of me being near him? Did he wish it?"
"I don't know."
"Has he thought of me all this while?—loved me despite all? Oh! if that were true, Mattie."
"If it were true, Harriet—what a difference!"
"And now perhaps to die, and I never to know his real thoughts of me. Well, I should die too—I'm sure of that now!"
"Harriet, you can trust me again?"
"Yes, with all my heart."
"Patience, then—we will say no more until we are sure that the truth faces us."
They were silent for the remainder of the way; people who passed on the footpath, and glanced towards the occupants of that private cab, wondered at the two pale, grave-faced women sitting side by side therein.