RETURNED.
Mattie dispatched her letter to Harriet that same evening; in her epistle she expressed surprise that they had not seen each other since the meeting at Dr. Bario's—should she visit her, or would Harriet walk over to Peckham to-morrow afternoon? She would be entirely alone, her father had business in town to attend to, and she was very anxious to see her old friend.
Mr. Gray's business in town did not take him from home till twelve in the morning; prior to that he went to work at his stock. When he returned home, he would endeavour to write a few lines to Sidney Hinchford; and whilst he was thinking what he should say, and whilst, despite his efforts to keep these thoughts back, they would intrude upon his figures, and throw him out in his accounts, Sidney Hinchford himself walked into the shop and stood before the counter, waiting for his partner to look up.
Mr. Gray, unmindful of Sid's propinquity, still bent over the books on his counter, and scratched away with his pen; Sidney, with his glasses on—the old Sidney of Suffolk Street days—stood very erect and still, smiling to himself at the surprise he should create.
Mr. Gray looked up at last.
"God bless me!" he ejaculated, and swept pens, ink, and account books on to the floor in his amazement, "it is you, then!—it must be you!"
"It looks like me somewhat, I hope," said Sidney, laughing and extending his hand, which the other warmly shook.
"Yes," said Mr. Gray, "and what a time it is since we have seen you! We were beginning to think that you had quite forgotten us."
"I never forget my best friends," Sidney replied, "and you and Mattie are the best that ever I have had. Did Mattie think that I was likely to forget her?"
"Well, not exactly," said Mr. Gray, "and if you'll wait a moment I'll run up-stairs and call her——"
"No, you'll stay here," said Sidney, firmly; "don't disturb her on my account. I shall see her presently, and I want to enjoy the luxury of her surprise. Besides, there's no hurry."
"Isn't there?" Mr. Gray asked dreamily.
"Why should there be? I'm here for good."
Mr. Gray had just stooped to pick up his books and inkstand; he dropped them again at this, and then emerged like a phantom above the counter once more.
"You don't mean that?"
"This is my home again. They were very kind to me at Red-Hill, but it wasn't like home, and it never felt like home to me. After Maurice had left for London this morning, I told them my mind very plainly—it's no good telling that harum-scarum fellow anything—expressed my thanks, my gratitude for all that they had done for me, packed up and came away. I was unsettled, dissatisfied, unhappy, somehow—and here I am."
Mr. Gray sank behind the counter again, this time to hide his confusion, which, it was evident, was visibly expressed on his countenance. Sidney back again! Sidney, without preliminary warning, once more entering his home as a friend who expected to be heartily welcomed, and as a partner whom he had no right to ask to go away! Mr. Gray did not see his way very clearly to the end; Sidney's "straightforward" habit of doing things had completely discomfited him for the nonce. He must take his time, and think of this!
He re-emerged from his hiding-place, and laid the débris he had collected on the counter.
"I was taking stock when you came in, Sidney," he said; "just seeing what each share would be, and so on."
"Indeed! what was that for?"
"Why, you—you are going back to the bank again as clerk. I believe you promised that," said Mr. Gray.
"When my sight will allow me—that will be in a month or two's time—I shall return to the old life, God willing. But what is that to do with taking stock?"
"We shall give up this partnership together, of course."
"I don't see why," said Sidney; "I shall still want a home after business-hours, and there is no home but this that I shall ever care for. The business has not become so large an undertaking that Mattie and you cannot manage it."
"No, it's not that."
"And when—when I am married, we can talk about giving it up then, or making it over to you, or anything you like," said Sidney—"and so we'll dismiss the subject."
"For the present—we shall have to talk of it again. Mattie and I are tired of it, and have thought of something new, Sidney. But, we'll explain all presently. Mattie, I have no doubt, would rather tell you herself."
Sidney looked surprised, even discomfited. He did not comprehend the hint which Mr. Gray had thrown out; he did not entirely see the drift of Mr. Gray's conversation, or understand very clearly what was the difference in his partner's manner, which rendered his return something more than an agreeable surprise. He thought that he had discovered the solution to the mystery, and said,
"Old friend, you are vexed at my long silence; you have been harassing yourself—perhaps Mattie and you together—about my anxiety to get away from here, after God has pleased to give me back my sight. And I have been struggling and scheming to get back, and escape the kindness of my relations! Why, Mr. Gray, this will not do—this is not like you to mistrust true friends, and think uncharitably of them after their backs are turned! You should have known me better, and have had more faith in me by this time."
"My dear Sidney," exclaimed Mr. Gray, "I have never had an uncharitable thought towards you. I knew that you would always think well of us—that—that you were not likely to forget us. Until yesterday, I have been building upon your return here, and thinking how happy we should all be together."
"Until yesterday—what happened yesterday?"
"Mattie will tell you, Sidney—I cannot—I must not."
"Very well, we will wait," said Sidney, gravely; "there is nothing she can tell me which I cannot explain away."
"Are you sure?" was the father's eager question.
"Sure," he answered; but there was something in the tone which wavered, and Mr. Gray fancied that he detected it. He said no more, however; he was glad to see Sidney disinclined to elicit further information. Sidney paced the shop once or twice, looked round it, and then went into the parlour, without waiting for Mr. Gray's invitation, and looked carefully and curiously round the room also.
Mr. Gray followed him.
"I see the home for the first time, if you remember," said Sidney; "here, in the darkness, a fair life was spent, thanks to you and her. Here you both first taught me that there was comfort even in affliction; and here stood by my side, and fought my battle, two dear friends. What has altered them?"
"Nothing has altered their love and esteem for you, Sidney," said Mr. Gray; "whatever happens, you must believe that."
"And what has altered my love and esteem for them?" was the quick rejoinder.
"Nothing, I hope—I believe."
"Then let us settle down into our old positions here. I have come in search of peace and rest; of the old comforts which my uncle's grandeur could not give me, and which by contrast only rendered me more restless. I find them here, or nowhere. I take my stand here and expect them, or the disappointment will be a bitter one. This is home!"
He took off his hat, and seated himself by the table—a home-like figure, which Mr. Gray felt was in its place again. He leaned his forehead on his hand, and looked down thoughtfully—an old position in his blindness, which Mr. Gray had often watched, and which drew again more forcibly the heart of the watcher towards him. That heart might have been a little estranged since yester-night; it had borne no malice, but it had thrilled a little at his daughter's confession, and the thought had crossed it that Sidney Hinchford might have spared Mattie an avowal of such weak love as had been borne towards her. Sid had guessed Mattie's secret, perhaps, and taken pity upon her; he was generous enough for that, but he had forgotten that Mattie was not humble enough to accept it. Mr. Gray could almost believe now that all had been a mistake, which Sidney's presence there would satisfactorily explain; and yet Sidney's thoughtfulness and restlessness forebade it.
Sidney looked towards him suddenly.
"What are you thinking of?"
"Of the change in you, Sidney—and of the home that it really looks again for a little while."
"For a little while," echoed Sidney; "oh! you will not explain—call Mattie, then, and let us end this. I always hated mystery," he added, a little peevishly.
Before Mr. Gray could cross the room to fulfil his partner's commands, the door opened. Mattie entered, and paused upon the threshold with her hands to her quickly-beating heart.
"Sidney here—at last?" she faltered forth.
"Yes, at last," he said, advancing towards her; "at last, as your father has said, and now you. I have returned to find that you have both lost confidence in me, and both misunderstood me cruelly."
"I hope not, Sidney."
They shook hands together, and looked one another long and steadily in the face.
"It is upwards of a year since I have seen you, Mattie. It is the same hopeful, earnest face, that I have ever known—can there be a difference in me?"
"No, you are unchanged."
"You both thought that I had forgotten you?"
"No."
"You must prove it by your old ways, then; or I shall never think this place the dear home I left a month ago."
"You have come back to——"
"To stop! Why not?—don't you wish it?"
"I—I will tell you presently—give me time, Sidney."
"I am in no hurry," he answered, coldly.
There was a difference then!—they were inclined to resent his long silence, by something more than a rebuke; they would not understand that he had been kept away against his will, by his doctor's orders, and that he had been cautioned not to write or read, or test his sight more than he could help. They had not been satisfied with his messages sent by Maurice Hinchford; they had mistrusted him! It was all very strange, and intensely disheartening; he could have trusted them all his life, and he had believed that their faith would last as long as his. Presently they would know him better, see that he had not wavered in one thought or purpose, which he had formed before his sight came back; but the consciousness that they had formed an estimate unworthy of his character, would remain with him for ever, and no after-kindness, and fresh faith, would obliterate it from his memory. There was an anxious silence; then the father's and daughter's eyes met.
"I think that I'll run into the City now," he suggested, feebly. He scarcely liked to leave his daughter at this juncture; but he knew her strength, her power to explain, and her wish that he should go. It did not seem natural that he should leave her with that strange young man, and, after he had risen to withdraw, he hesitated again.
He went slowly into the shop, and Mattie followed him.
She had read his thoughts correctly, for she said at once—
"I shall not give way before him. I am firm and cool—feel my pulse, it does not throb more quickly because I have to tell him that I will not be his wife. Before you come back, it will be all over, and I shall be waiting for you—the calm, unmoved daughter, that you see me now!"
"There'll be no scene, then?"
"All commonplace, and matter of fact—I will have no scene," she said firmly.
"Then I'll go. God bless you, my child!—if I couldn't trust you implicitly, I wouldn't move a step."
He went away, and she returned to the parlour, where Sidney had been sitting, a watcher of this whispered conference.
"Now, Mattie," he said.
Mattie sat down a little distance from him, and their eyes met steadily once more, and flinched not.
"Now, Sidney!"