Mattie:-A Stray Volume II Part 21

"I'll not make much noise," he answered.

He stood by the bed-side, looking down at the stricken girl. The change in her, the thin face, the haggard looks, increased as they were by illness, had been a shock to Sidney Hinchford, though he did his best to disguise all evidence from her.

"Go and sit there for the little while you must remain in this room,"

said Mattie, indicating a chair by the window, at some distance. "You were rash to come into this place."

"I'm not afraid of fever, Mattie, and I was not going to lose a chance of seeing you--the first chance I have had."

"And you don't think that I have been wrong, Mr. Sidney?" asked Mattie; "you haven't let all that Mr. Wesden has said, turn you against me? I'm so glad!"

"Mattie, there's a little mystery, but I daresay you can clear it--and I swear still by the old friend and adviser of Great Suffolk Street. And as for Mr. Wesden--why, I'm inclined to think that that old gentleman is growing ashamed of himself."

"You say nothing of Harriet?"

"She is the champion of _all_ absent friends--the best girl in the world. When I tell her that you----"

"You must not tell her where to find me--you will not act fairly by her, if you thrust her into danger, sir. I rely upon you to keep her away."

"Well, you women do catch things very rapidly," said he; "I--I think that perhaps it will be as well not to let her know of your illness."

"Thank you--thank you."

"But when you are well again, I shall bring her myself to see you. We'll have no more games at hide and seek, Mattie."

"Not yet."

"Why--not yet?" was the quick answer.

"I am no fit companion for her--her father thinks. So it must not be. I have seen her--watched for her several times."

"Ah!--I suppose so. You know that we are engaged, Mattie?" he said; "that was an old wish of yours, Harriet tells me."

"Yes--when are you to be married?"

"Oh! when I can afford to keep a wife. Shall I tell you how I am getting on now?"

"I should like to hear it," said Mattie, "but you mustn't stop here very long. For there _is_ danger."

"I don't believe it," said he, laughing; "besides, my father has furnished me with a lump of camphor as big as my head, which I've been sitting on the last five minutes. Now, Mattie, let me tell you where I am, and what I am doing."

In a few words, Sidney sketched the particulars of his present mode of life, spoke of his prospects _in futuro_, and of the kindness which he received at all hands. He was an agreeable companion, and brought some of his vigour and good spirits into that little room with him. He spoke cheerfully and heartily, and the pleasant ring of his voice sounded like old times to Mattie. She lay and listened, and thought it was all very comfortable--she even forgot her fever for awhile, till she remembered the length of time that he had remained with her.

"I hope you will go now," she said, rather suddenly.

"Am I wearying you?--I beg pardon, Mattie. Some of these days when you are better, I intend a longer stay than this."

"Indeed!"

"I shall try my own powers of persuasion, in order that Harriet and I may fight your battles better for you," he said; "we must clear up that mystery--I hate mystery."

"I know it."

"Upon my honour, I would as soon have a sister maligned as you!" cried Sidney; "we are such old friends, Mattie."

"Yes, yes--go now, please. And keep Harriet away, for her own sake, and yours."

Sidney promised that, and then shook hands with her.

"You must not be very shocked at my stalking in here--fancy it is your brother, Mattie. I shall make Harriet a clean confession when I get back--not to-night, though."

He went from the room, followed by Ann Packet. Outside, the cheerful look upon his face suddenly vanished, and he became so grave that Ann Packet stared aghast at him.

"Who's her doctor?"

Ann told him.

"I'll send some one myself to see if he's treating her correctly."

"Don't you--don't you think that she's so well?"

"I think that she's very ill--worse than she is aware of herself. Take care of her, Ann, she's an old friend!"

He went down-stairs hastily, and Ann returned to the room to find Mattie in a high fever, sitting up in bed with a wild look in her eyes.

"Ann, Ann--he must never come again! I--I can't bear to see him now."

"Patience, my darling. Keep quiet--why not?"

"Oh! I don't know--but he makes my heart ache--and, and, he is coming into danger here. Oh! Sidney! Sidney!"

She flung herself back in her bed, and sobbed and tossed there till the fever grew upon her more and more, and robbed her of her senses. And in the delirium which followed, Ann Packet learned the secret of Mattie's life, and wrung her hands, and cried over it.

CHAPTER II.

IN WHICH SEVERAL DISCOVERIES COME TOGETHER.

When Sidney Hinchford called the next morning at Tenchester Street, to inquire after Mattie's health, Ann Packet met him at the door, and informed him that the invalid was worse, and on no account to be disturbed. In the course of the day a new doctor arrived, commissioned by Sidney; and being a man not inclined to pooh-pooh every system but his own, gave his opinion that Mattie was being treated correctly, and he saw nothing to improve upon. So the doctor was not changed; and being a poor man struggling for a living in a little shop round the corner, I hope he was sufficiently grateful, especially as Ann Packet did not require a twelvemonth's credit, but settled his bill every Sat.u.r.day night with the washerwoman's.

And three Sat.u.r.day nights went by before Mattie was considered out of danger of the fever's return, and in rather more imminent danger of the exhaustion which that fever had occasioned. Sidney Hinchford had taken Tenchester Street and Southwark Bridge in his new route to the City, and called every morning for the latest news--Ann Packet had brought it down to him, with Mattie's kind regards and compliments, and he had not been permitted to see her since that night referred to in our last chapter.

Mattie was getting better when the fourth week was over--learning to be strong, anxious about the expenses that had been incurred, solicitous even about her little dress-making connection, which would have flown to the four winds of heaven had scarlatina thought of taking its measure.

Mattie had found strength to leave her bed and sit up for a while in the chair by the fireside, when the second visitor astonished Tenchester Street by her arrival. No less a visitor than Harriet Wesden herself--who, having learned Mattie's address by degrees from the unfaithful Sidney, had made an unlooked-for _raid_ upon the premises.