Mattie:-A Stray Volume III Part 19

She left him, to begin his thoughts anew; her reply had disturbed his equanimity; he neither understood Mattie nor himself just then. What had perplexed him?--what had come over the spirit of his dream to trouble his mind, or conscience, in so strange a manner?

Mattie went to her room and locked the door upon her thoughts, upon that new wild sense of happiness which she had never known before, and which, despite the character she had a.s.sumed--yes, a.s.sumed!--she could not keep in the background of that matter-of-fact life, now vanis.h.i.+ng away from her. She knew that she had acted for the best in giving him time to think again of the nature of his proposition--in restraining that impulse to weep upon his shoulder, and feel those strong arms enfolding her to his breast. The old days had startled her when he had spoken in so firm and hard a manner; that figure of the past which had been all to him flitted there still, and held her back, and stood between herself and him, despite the new happiness she felt, and which no past could wholly scare away.

She believed in her own coming happiness; that he would love her better for the delay--understand more fully why she hesitated. When the time came to answer "Yes!" she would explain all that had perplexed her, arrested her a.s.sent midway, and filled her with the fears of his want of love for her, his future discontent when irrevocably bound to her. Twice in life now he had offered his hand in marriage; twice had the answer been deferred, for reasons unakin to each other. It was singular; but this time all would end happily. He would love her with his whole heart, as he had loved Harriet Wesden, and she would be his proud and happy wife, cheering his prospects, elevating his thoughts, doing her best to throw across his darkened life a gleam or two of suns.h.i.+ne, in which he might rejoice.

She was very happy--for the doubts that had kept her answer back, went farther and farther away as she dwelt upon all this. There was a restless beating at her heart, which robbed her of calmness for awhile, but it was not fear that precipitated its action, and the noises in her ears might be the distant clash of marriage bells, which she had never dreamed would ring for him and her!

END OF BOOK THE SEVENTH.

BOOK VIII.

MORE LIGHT.

CHAPTER I.

A NEW HOPE.

Whether Sidney Hinchford gave much ulterior thought to his proposal, is a matter of some doubt. He had made up his mind before his conversation with Mr. Gray and daughter, and had there been no real love in his heart, he would not have drawn back from his offer. His life apart from business was akin to his business life in _that_; reflection on what was best, just and honourable, and then his decision, which no adverse fate was ever afterwards to shake. He did not believe in any motive force that could keep him from a purpose--it was a vain delusion, unworthy of a Hinchford!

On the morning of the following day, the cousin of whom he had thought more than once entered again upon the scene of action; at an early hour, when Mattie was busy in the shop, and Mr. Gray was absent on a preaching expedition. Maurice Hinchford's first inquiry was if Mr. Gray were within, and very much relieved in mind he appeared to be upon receiving the information that that formidable Christian was not likely to be at home till nightfall. Maurice did not come unattended; he brought a friend with him, whom he asked to wait in the shop for awhile, whilst he exchanged a few words with Sidney.

Mattie looked at the stranger, a tall, lank man, with an olive face, and long black hair, which he tucked in at the back between his coat and waistcoat in a highly original manner. He was a man who took no interest in pa.s.sing events, but sat "all of a heap" on that high chair which had been Maurice Hinchford's stool of repentance, carefully counting his fingers, to make sure that he had not lost any coming along.

"Good morning, Sidney," said Maurice, on entering. "Not lost yet, old fellow!"

"Good morning, Maurice."

"I have brought the latest news--I have been abroad since my last visit here."

"Abroad again?"

"I'll tell you about that presently. If you're not too busy this morning, and I'm not too unwelcome an intruder, I should be glad to inform you how I fared by following your advice."

"You are not unwelcome, Maurice, though I cannot say that there is any great amount of pleasure experienced by your visit to me."

"Still cold--still unapproachable, after forgiving all the past!"

"But not forgetting, Maurice. You bring the past in with you--I hear it in every accent of your voice; all the figures belonging to it start forth like spectres to dismay me."

"Your past has no reproaches--what is it to mine?"

"A regret is as keen as a reproach."

"Ah! you regret the past!--some act in it, perhaps?" said Maurice, with curiosity.

"We should scarcely be mortal if we could look back without regrets, I think."

"Ah! but what is the keenest--bitterest?"

"That is a leading question, as the lawyers say."

"Then I'll not press it--I'll speak of my own regrets instead. I regret having followed your advice, Sidney."

"We are all liable to err--I meant it for the best."

"I called the following evening on Harriet Wesden--I offered her my hand, as an earnest of that affection which only needed her presence to revive again--I asked pardon for my past, and spoke of my atonement in the future. Could I do more?"

"No."

Sidney was nervously anxious to learn the result, but he merely compressed his lips, and waited for the sequel. He would not ask how this had ended--his pride held back his curiosity.

"And she refused me, as you and I might have expected, had we more seriously considered the matter. By George, I shall never forget her fiery eyes, her angry gestures, her contempt, which seemed withering me up--I knew that it was all over with every shadow of hope, then."

"A man should never despair."

"It would be difficult to help it in the face of that clincher, Sidney.

Well, it served me right; I might have expected it; I might have guessed the truth, had I given it a moment's thought; but I put my trust in you, Sidney, and a nice mess I have made of it! Upon my honour, I would rather bear two--say three--of Mr. Gray's sermons, than face Harriet Wesden again."

"Still, you should not be sorry at having offered all the reparation in your power."

"Well, now I come to think of it, Sidney, I'm not sorry. To confess the real plain truth, I'm glad."

"Indeed!"

"Because I have made a discovery, and if you're half a Hinchford, you'll profit by the hint. Harriet Wesden loves _you_."

Sidney's hands grappled the arms of his chair, in which he half rose, and then set down again. The red blood mounted to his face, even those dreamy eyes flashed fire again--the avowal was too decided and uncompromising not to affect him.

"I do not wish to dwell upon this topic."

"Ah! but I do. It has been bothering me all the way to Paris--all the way back. I have been building fancy castles concerning it. I have been one gigantic, unmitigated schemer since I saw you last, planning for a happiness which is yours by a word, and which you deserve, Sid Hinchford. I feel that your life might be greatly changed, and that it is in your power to effect it."

"Were it my wish, it is too late. As it is not my wish--as I do not believe you," he added, bluntly--"as I have outlived my youthful follies, and am sober, serious, and unromantic--as I have made my choice, and know where my happiness lies, I will ask you not to pain me--not to torture me, by a continuance of this subject."

"Let me just give you a sketch of what she said to me."

"I will hear no more!" he cried, with an impatient stamp of his foot.

"I have done," said Maurice; "subject deferred _sine die_--or tied round the neck with a big stone, and sunk for ever in the waters of oblivion.

By George, Sid, that's a neat phrase, isn't it?--only it reminds one of drowning a puppy. And now to business."