It was not a large world that was interested in the disruption of Sidney Hinchford's love engagement; two old men at Camberwell, and a needlewoman, might almost constitute it in this instance. We say almost, for a reason that will appear presently; a cautious writer should always speak with a reserve.
The two old men were interested in the news, but not profoundly affected; such is the selfishness of humanity, when matters do not seriously affect its own comfort.
Harriet Wesden told the news on the following day to her father, and he, after a stare over her head in the old fashion, thought, perhaps, that it was all for the best. Harriet told him the whole story of the past that had led to the parting, and he took stock of the principal features, and thought it was an odd affair, and that he might have been told of this Mr. Darcy a little earlier. After awhile he fancied that it was more comfortable to know that Harriet was to be always with him, to attend to his small ailments, and study his eccentricities. Of late he had harassed himself somewhat with the idea that there would be an early marriage, and that he should be left entirely alone in the world;—with that house and new furniture, that wash-house where the chimney always smoked, and that back-garden where groundsel grew vigorously in the garden paths. The news of the quarrel came with something like a relief to him. Harriet always at home; no one calling to distract attention away from him—well, it was for the best, though in his unselfish moments, and he had many of them, Harriet alone in the world after he was gone, was a picture that affected him.
There was something else to trouble him now; Harriet's story had cleared up the mystery of Mattie's actions, that last mystery which had led to an act of injustice on his part. That he had been unjust, and cast Mattie back to the streets, troubled him far more than the broken love-pledge between Harriet and Sidney; for the first time in his life he had done a wrong, a palpable and cruel one, which might have submerged a soul, and he was sorry, very sorry, for all that had led to it. It did not matter that Mattie had been rescued from utter loneliness by the appearance of her father upon the scene; his hasty judgment had only brought about the wrong, and he had tried to walk uprightly all his life, and do his best according to his powers.
Harriet, his daughter, kept her troubles to herself; she had met with the first shock that falls to the share of many a young life, and she had not made up her mind as to the best method of bearing up against it. Two years ago this would not have been a great trouble to her; but two years had wondrously sobered her, and her eyes had only been opened to the true estimate of Sidney's character at the time when he spoke of the necessity of ending all engagement between them. He had not blamed her, or she might have defended herself; he had spoken of his own consciousness of having done wrong to bind her by a promise made in an impulsive moment, he had intimated that it was a relief to him to give her up, and in the face of the cold, unpitying world, she was powerless to act. Still she was hopeful amidst it all; it was no serious quarrel; he had spoken of his wish to remain her friend, and by one of the many chances of life, it would not be difficult for him to discover that it was love which drew her to him, and not the pity which is akin to it. It might all be explained when the right moment came round; but as the days passed, and no Sidney appeared, her heart sank more, and she read the future in store for her through a medium less highly coloured by her fancy.
A week after the explanation between Sidney and her, she went in search of Mattie. Always in trouble thinking of Mattie—seeking from her that consolation which her own thoughts denied her. Mattie was still in Tenchester Street, although Ann Packet had gone back to the Hinchford service. Mattie was strong enough to shift for herself again—to set about packing her scanty wardrobe for removal to her fathers home; she was alone and busy with her preparations for departure, when Harriet Wesden came into the room.
After the first salutations had been exchanged—and flying remarks upon Mattie's better health and brighter looks had been made—our heroine looked steadily at Harriet, and asked what was the matter.
"Am I so altered that you should think anything had happened, Mattie?"
"There is not the look I like to see there," said Mattie, pointing to Harriet Wesden's face.
"It's not a happy look, is it?" she asked, with a little sigh.