It was a strange courtship—that of Sidney Hinchford and Harriet's—but they were happy. The calamity was in the distance, and their hearts were young and strong. Both had faith then—and of the chances and changes of life, it was not natural to dwell upon, after the one avowal had been uttered.
"Then it is an engagement," he had asked hoarsely, and she had answered "Yes," with his own frankness and boldness; and thus the path ahead seemed bright enough.
Outside the suburban retreat of the Wesdens', Sidney Hinchford had a little struggle with duty and inclination—conquering inclination with that strong will of his.
"I'll go back to the old gentleman," he said at last; "he is scarcely used to my reappearance yet, and a little makes him nervous. Good-bye, love."
A lovers parting at the iron gate, to the intense edification of the potman coming up the street with the nine o'clock beer; and then Sidney tore himself homewards, thinking what a happy fellow he was, and how the business disappointments of life had been softened by the events that had followed them. The future could not be dark with Harriet; before this he had become resigned to his calamity, bent his strong mind to regard it as inevitable; now there was to come happiness with it, and he would be more than content, he thought.
He was soon back in Suffolk Street. Mr. Wesden was in the shop talking to a short, thin man with a sallow complexion, a hooked nose, bright black eyes, and straight hair; a man dressed in black; with a rusty satin stock of the same colour, secured by an old-fashioned brooch of gold wire, in the shape of a heart.
"And her name was Mattie, you say?"
"That was the name she called herself, and went always by in this house."
"And you don't know her whereabouts?"
"I haven't an idea."