Mattie:-A Stray Volume III Part 23

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--G.o.d 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 grat.i.tude 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 grat.i.tude 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-gla.s.s, 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.