MATTIE IS TAKEN INTO CONFIDENCE.
Sidney's departure made a difference in the house; it was scarcely home without him now. Mattie and Mr. Gray took their usual places after the day's business was over, and looked somewhat blankly at each other. The father had become attached to Sidney, as well as the daughter; he was nervous as to the result of the mysterious system under which his son, by adoption, had placed himself.
He had no faith in cures effected by men who were not of the true faith—whatever that might mean in Mr. Gray's opinion—he would have liked to see this Dr. Bario himself, and sound him as to his religious convictions. If he were a Roman Catholic, Sidney's chance of success was very small, he thought.
Mattie did not take this narrow view of things; but she was anxious and dispirited. Anxious for Sidney and the result—dispirited at a something else which she could scarcely define. Sidney's last words were ringing in her ears, but there was no comfort in them now; they were meant to encourage, but they only perplexed—all was mystery beyond. She prayed that Sidney would be well and strong again, but she felt that her happiness—her best days—would lie further off when the light came back to him. It might be fancy; the best days might be advancing to her as well as to Sidney Hinchford, but the instinctive feeling of a great change weighed upon her none the less heavily.
She did not feel in suspense about a serious result to Sidney; Sidney would get better, she thought, and the shadow of a darker life for him did not fall heavily athwart her musings.
When those whom we love are away, we are full of wonder concerning them; speculations on their acts in the distance, bridge over the dreary space between us and them. "I wonder what they are doing now!" and the suggestions that follow this, wile away a great share of the time that would seem dull and objectless without them. You who are loved and are away from us, do justice to our thoughts of you, and keep worthy of the fancy pictures wherein ye are so vividly portrayed!
A week after Sidney's departure, Maurice Hinchford appeared once more in the neighbourhood of Peckham. This was in the afternoon, and he had reached Peckham in the morning, and therefore wasted a considerable portion of the day. But then Mr. Gray had been at home in the morning, and it had struck Maurice that that gentleman's excitable temperament would not allow of a long sojourn in-doors, with no one to preach to but his daughter. He would not chance meeting Mr. Gray yet a while; he would wait and watch.
Mr. Gray really found it dull work that afternoon, and business being slack, he started immediately after his dinner in search of a convert of whom he had heard in the neighbourhood of his chapel. Maurice, who had noted him turn the corner of the street, uttered a short prayer of thanks, and crossed over to the stationer's shop.
Mattie turned very pale at the first sight of Maurice.
"I am wanted—and, oh dear, my father has just gone out!"
"No, you are not wanted yet a while, Miss Gray. Pray, compose yourself, I bring you very little news."
"Sidney—he is well?"
"Very well—Dr. Bario has not given him notice to prepare for the great experiment yet awhile," said Maurice; "but I thought that you might be anxious about him, Miss Gray, and that any little news might be acceptable."
"You are very kind—yes, any news of Sidney is ever most acceptable."
"Even from such a scamp as I am?" he said, with his eyes twinkling.
"Sidney has forgiven you—that is enough, sir."
"Ah! but yours was a left-handed wrong, and the heaviest share of it might have fallen to your lot."
"But it has not. Pray don't talk of it again."
"All's well that ends well," said Maurice, taking his seat on the high chair on the shop side of the counter, facing our heroine, "and if it has ended in my doing no harm, and turning out a better fellow myself, why there's not much to regret. And you would not believe to what an extraordinary pitch of excellence I am attaining."
"I shall believe nothing if you jest, sir."
"It was not a jest—I've a way of talking like that."
"It's a very stupid way."
"Is it, though?—well, perhaps you're right enough."
Mattie wondered what he was staying for; was even still a little nervous that he had something more to communicate concerning Sidney. But he continued talking in this new desultory way, and remained on his perch there, observant of customers, the goods they purchased, and the remarks they made, and showing no inclination to depart. He rendered Mattie fidgety after a while, for he was in a fidgety humour himself, and tilted his chair backwards and forwards, and examined everything minutely on the counter, dropping an article or two on the floor, and endeavouring to pick it up with his varnished boots, à la Miss Biffin.
"Does this business answer, Miss?" he asked at last.
"It is improving—I think it will answer."
"Rather slow for old Sid, it must have been."
"We did our best to make him happy here, sir; I think that we succeeded."
"My dear Miss Gray, I do not doubt that, for an instant!" Maurice hastened to apologize; "more than that, Sidney has told me the same himself. But was he happy?"
"Have you any reason to think otherwise?" was Mattie's quick, almost suspicious question.
"Scarcely a reason, perhaps. Still I don't think that he was happy."
"I am sorry to hear you say so, Mr. Hinchford."
"He tried to feel as happy as you wished to make him, but I think he failed. Under the circumstances, heavily afflicted as he was, you must own that that was natural."
"I own that."
"But his mind was never at ease—there was much to perplex it. Now, Miss Gray," leaning over the counter very earnestly, "let me ask you if you honestly believe that he has given up every thought of making Harriet Wesden his wife?"
"Every thought of it, I think he has."
"You and he have been like brother and sister together, and the truth must have escaped him," said Maurice, doubtfully; "or you are less quick-witted than somehow I have given you credit for. You would promote his true happiness, Miss Gray, by every means in your power, I am sure?"
"Yes," answered Mattie.
"Then you and I acting together, might bring about that match between them yet."
"You and I acting together for that purpose!" Mattie ejaculated. She clutched the counter with her nervous fingers, and regarded Maurice Hinchford attentively; she was no longer doubtful of that man's visit to her; he had come to steal her Sidney away—to teach her, by his indirect assertions, that it was better to resign her thoughts of happiness rather than mar his cousin's.
"There only requires one fair meeting between them—one candid explanation of what was false, and what was true—to show each to the other in a better light. That is my object in life now—I have done harm to those two—I will do good if I can!"
"You speak as though you were certain of the success of Dr. Bario's remedies."
"I am perfectly certain, Miss Gray! Dr. Bario is certain too—although he speaks of the risk, and of the hundredth chance against him, rather than of the ninety and nine in his favour. That's his way."
"Suppose him successful, and Sidney well again—what are we to do?" asked the curious Mattie.
She was anxious to sift this theory to the bottom—to know upon what facts, or fancies, Maurice Hinchford based his cruel idea. She spoke coolly and sisterly now; no evidence of intense excitement was likely to betray her again that day. On the inner heart had shut, with a clang which vibrated still within her, the iron gates of her inflexible resolve.
"First of all, let me ask you a question. You have lived with Miss Wesden—you understand her—you have loved her. You can assure me that there was no doubt of her affection for him being true and fervent?"
"There was no doubt of that."
"I can answer for the present time."
"You can?" said Mattie. She spoke very quickly, but her heart leaped into her throat for an instant, and took away her breath.
"Miss Wesden confessed to me, only a week back, that she loved Sidney Hinchford still."
"Impossible!"
"You doubt my word, Miss Gray. Why should I attempt to deceive you?"
"What possible object could she have in telling you that?"
"I made her an offer of marriage," said Maurice, coolly, "and she rejected me. She did not scruple to confess to me her reasons; she was excited I must own, and, therefore, thrown off her guard."
"What did she say?"
"That she had never loved me, and that she would have died for Sidney. That it was all my fault—my wickedness—which had parted them."
"A singular confession for her to make," said Mattie, thoughtfully; "all my life I have been endeavouring to find the truth—the whole truth—and have always failed."
"You were not the confidante that I believed, then?"
"Harriet Wesden and I loved each other very dearly—in our hearts there is no difference yet. For my sake, were I in danger, she would do much."
"And for her sake—what would you do?"
"Everything."
"Well spoken," cried Maurice heartily; "I knew that I was not deceived in you."
"She is unhappy and loves Sidney. Sidney is unhappy and loves her, you think. It is a story of the truth of which we must be certain in the first place."
"Yes, and then?"
"Then we will do our best—God willing," murmured Mattie.
"I rely upon you, Miss Gray—I am obliged by the evidence of interest in those two old lovers, parted by mistake. Both very unhappy, and both with a chance of being happy together, there is no difficulty in guessing where our duty lies."
"No."
"Think of the gratitude of those two in the days when we have helped to clear the mists away, Miss Gray. The last chapter in the novel; the last scene in the five-act comedy, where the stern parent joins the hands of the happy couple, will be nothing to the glorious ending of our story. Boundless gratitude to you, full forgiveness for me—and all going merry as a marriage bell. Miss Gray, I engage your hand for the first dance in the evening—we'll wind up with a ball that day—is it a bargain between us?"
"I make no hasty promises," said Mattie, with a faint smile.
"Well, there will be time to talk of that idea," said Maurice, laughing; "and, talking about time, how I have been absorbing yours, to be sure! Still time is well wasted when it is employed for others' happiness—your father could offer no objection to that sentiment. You are on my side?"
"On Sidney's, if he think of Harriet Wesden still."
"If—why, haven't I proved it?—did you not say that you believed every word?"
"No, I did not say that. It—it is true, perhaps—I shall know better presently. Sir, I will find out the truth."
"It will be easy for an acute woman to discover the truth both in Sidney and Harriet; for the truth—for the better days, we are all waiting. Good-bye."
"Good-bye, sir; that promise to give me warning of the day which will be life or death to Sidney—you will not forget?"
"I never forget, Miss Gray. Rely upon me."
Maurice Hinchford departed, full of his hope, dreaming not of the despair that he had left behind in the heart of that simple-minded woman. He had intended all for the best; he had known nothing of Sidney's proposal to Mattie; he had relied on Mattie's sisterly affection for the man and woman in whose happiness he was deeply interested. He went on his way rejoicing—proud of the new volunteer he had enlisted in his cause, and sanguine as to a result which should bring peace to every one.
Mattie sat behind the counter in her old position after Maurice Hinchford had left her—rigid and motionless. This was the turning-point of her life—the ordeal under which she would harden or utterly give way. A customer entering the shop waited and stared and wondered at the silent figure which faced him and took no heed of his presence—at her who was finally roused to every-day life by his direct appeal to her. Mattie served him, then dropped into her chair again, and the old stony look settled once more upon her face.
Fate was before her, and she rebelled against it; the whole truth—hard and cruel—she could not believe in. "It's not true!" her white lips murmured; "it's false, as he is! He has heard from Sidney all that Sidney purposes, and is alarmed for the honour of his family. I see it all now—a plot against me!" But "was it true?" sounded in her ears like a far-off echo, from which she could not escape.
It was a desperate struggle, and she was fighting that silent intense battle still when her father returned. Hours ago she had prayed that he might come back soon, and end that weary watch there—suffer her to escape to her own room, and lock the door upon that world upon which the mists were stealing. But when he returned, she did not go away from him; a horror of being alone and giving way like a child kept her at her post there, answering, and inwardly defying, all suspicious questions.
"You're very white, Mattie? Has anything happened?" asked her father.
"Sidney's cousin has been here. Sidney is well and hopeful."
"Good hearing!—he will be back in the midst of us before we know where we are. Mattie, I'm sure you have a headache?"
"A little one—nothing to complain about."
"Why don't you go for a walk?—it's not very late. What a time it is since you have seen Mr. Wesden!"
"I will go there."
Mattie sprang to her feet.
"Yes, I will go—at once."
Mattie ran up-stairs, quickly dressed herself, gave one frightened glance at her own face in the dressing-glass, and then hurried down-stairs away from the silence wherein she could not trust herself.
"I am going now," she said, and hurried away.
Mr. Gray was disturbed by Mattie's eagerness to depart, but explained it by the rules he considered most natural.
"She is unsettled by Sid's absence—by the danger he is in. Well, there's nothing remarkable in that."
He took his work into the shop and devoted himself to it, in the leisure that his customers—few and far between after nightfall—afforded him. When the shutters were up before the windows, and the gas turned low, he stood at the door waiting for Mattie, who was late, and speculating as to the advisability of proceeding in search of her.
Mattie came swiftly towards him whilst he watched. She had been trying to outwalk her thoughts, and failed—the odds were against her.
"Ah! that is you, Mattie!—how are they?"
"Well. I did not see Miss Wesden. She was not at home."
"All the time with that old man?" he said, with a little of his past weakness developing itself.
"We have been speaking of old times—and Harriet. Oh! dear! I am very tired. May I go up to my room at once?"
"If you will—but supper is ready, Mattie."
"Not any for me. Good night."
Mattie thought that she had made good her escape, but she was mistaken; on the stairs Ann Packet had been waiting to waylay her, and to talk of the little events of that day—any talk whatever, so that she saw Mattie for a while, after the day's labour was ended. Mattie was considerate even in her distress; she stood on the stairs listening to Ann's rambling accounts of minor things, waiting for the end of the narrative, and only expressing her weariness by a little quivering sigh, now and then.
After the story there was Ann Packet to hold the candle closer to her face, and see a change in Mattie also. Mattie had feared this—knowing Ann's vigilance—but there was the old plea of a headache to urge, and all the old receipts of which Ann Packet had ever heard for the headache to listen to. Ann Packet knew an old woman of her workhouse days who had had "drefful headaches," and this was how she cured hers—and off went Ann Packet into more rambling incoherencies.
All things have an end; Mattie was free at last. At last the door locked, and the room she had longed for, feared, and longed for again, engulphing her. Mattie took off her bonnet, opened noiselessly the window for the air which she felt she needed, and then dropped into a chair, and looked out at the dark sky, and the bright stars that were shimmering up there, where all seemed peace!
The battle was not over, and Mattie was unconvinced still.
"Is it true?" she asked again; "is it ALL true!"