Sidney thought of Mattie at the last; in his own anxiety for self, he did not forget her, as she had feared he would.
"Where's Mattie?"
"Here, Sidney."
He drew her aside—away out of hearing, where neither Mr. Gray nor his cousin could listen to his grateful words.
"Mattie, dear," he said, "I know that I shall have your prayers for my success—you, who have fought my battles, and been always ready at my side. Pray for our bright future together; it will come now. Whatever happens you and I together in life, my girl, unless, with that month's reflection that I granted you, comes the want of trust in my sincerity!"
"Never that, Sidney."
"Good-bye."
He stooped and kissed her, and Mattie shrank not away from him, though it was the first time in his life that his lips had touched hers. He was going away from that house for ever, perhaps; they might never know each other again; and she loved him too dearly, and felt too happy in those fleeting moments, to feel abashed at this evidence of his affection.
So they parted, and Ann Packet, who had heard the story, rushed from the side door to fling a shoe for luck, after the receding carriage. A maniacal act, that the footman—who had not heard the story—was unable to account for, save as a personal insult to himself.
"He had gone out of his spear to a place called Peckham," he said afterwards in the servants' hall, "and had had old boots flung at him by the lower horders!"