"We are all liable to mistakes in life," said Maurice, "and it might happen----"
"Pray dismiss the subject, Maurice."
"I met with a foreign oculist in Paris--he was an Italian, I think--who----"
"Good night--good night," said Sidney, hastily; "when a man has been trying hard to teach himself resignation, it is not fair to disturb him with ideas like these."
"Your pardon, Sid--I am going at once. Good night."
"Good night."
Sidney did not extend his hand again, and Maurice made no attempt to part in a more friendly manner than they had met; profuse civilities could do no good, and though Maurice had gained his cousin"s forgiveness, he had not roused his respect, or won upon his sympathy.
He pa.s.sed into the shop, and took up his hat that he had left there on the counter. Mr. Gray looked at him, as at a fine subject which adverse fate was to s.n.a.t.c.h away from his experiments.
"You are going, young man?"
"Yes, sir--I hope I have not put you or your daughter to any inconvenience."
"No, sir," was his reply, beginning to turn up the collar of his coat above his ears, "no inconvenience. You are a stranger to this neighbourhood, and I"ll just see you in the straight way, if you"ll allow me."
"Oh! dear no, thank you," said the alarmed Maurice; "I"m well up in the way now--I could not think of taking you away from home at this time of night--thank you, thank you!"
He seized his hat, dashed at the lock, wrenched open the door, and flew for his life down the dark streets--no matter whither, or how far out of his route, so that he escaped Mr. Gray"s companionship.
Half an hour afterwards, he was at New Cross railway station--the scene of his old duplicity--arranging for a telegraphic message to a Dr.
Bario, resident in Paris.
CHAPTER III.
A DECLARATION.
Harriet Wesden had settled down like the rest of the world, that is, this little world wherein live and breathe--at least we hope so--these characters of ours.
She had settled down! Life had taken its sombre side with her; the force of circ.u.mstances had set her apart from those for whom her heart yearned; she became bound more to this dull home; disappointment had wondrously sobered her; when her heart had been at its truest and best, it had seemed as though the whole world had turned against her, and misjudged her.
There was no romance in her after that; her romance had begun early and died early--for her share in it, she was heartily ashamed. To look back upon that past, note her weakness, and whither it had led her, was to make her cheeks flush, and her bosom heave; in those sober after-days that had come to her, she could scarcely comprehend the past.
Women change occasionally like this--more especially women whose hearts are sound, but whose judgments have not always been correct. She had met deceit face to face; her own presence of mind had only saved her perhaps from betrayal; she had pa.s.sed through a vortex--and, escaping it, the shock had sobered her for life.
Harriet Wesden turned "serious"--a very good turn for her, and for all of us, if we could only think so. Still, serious people--more especially serious young people--are inclined to dash headlong at religion, and even neglect home duties, duties to friends, and neighbours, and themselves, for religious ones. They verge on the extremes even in sanct.i.ty, and extremes verge on the ridiculous.
Harriet Wesden gave up life"s frivolities, and became a trifle austere in her manner; she had found a church to her taste, and a minister to her taste--a minister who verged on extremes, too, and yet was one of the best-meaning, purest-minded men in the world.
Harriet Wesden became his model member of the flock, as he became her model shepherd. She lived for him, and his services, and the bran span new church he had built for himself in the square at the back. She missed never a service, week-days or Sundays; early prayers, at uncomfortable hours, when the curates were sleeping, and the pew-opener audibly snored--daily sermons, evening services, special services for special out-of-the-way saints, and Sunday services innumerable.
Let it be written here, lest our meaning be misinterpreted, that Harriet Wesden had improved vastly with all this--was a better, more energetic, and devout woman. If she went _too often_ to church--that is quite possible--if she were a trifle "high" and pinned her faith on decorations, if she thought the world all vanity and vexation of spirit, if she were a little proud of carrying outward and visible signs of her own inward and spiritual grace, if she even neglected her father, at times--poor old Wesden, who sadly needed cheerful society now--still the end was good, and she was at her best then. Serious people _will_ appear a little disagreeable to people who are not serious--but then what do serious people think of their mundane critics, or care for them?
Harriet Wesden fancied that she had set herself apart from the world--that its vanities and belongings scarcely had power to arrest her steady upward progress. It did not strike her that whilst she remained in the world, the sorrows, joys, and histories of its denizens must have power to affect her.
Sidney Hinchford had mistrusted her--the man for whom she had been anxious to make sacrifices, had refused them, and discredited their genuineness; her only friend, in whom she thought there could not be a possibility of guile, had supplanted her. From that hour let her set herself apart from them; bear no ill-feeling towards them, but keep to her new world. Her life was not their lives, and they were best away from her. After that set in more strongly the seriousness to which we have alluded, and all former trace of Harriet Wesden"s old self submerged for good--and all.
Mattie and Harriet met at times; Mattie would not give up the old friend, the girl she had loved so long and faithfully. Despite the new reserve--even austerity--that had suddenly sprung up, Mattie called at regular intervals, took her place between Harriet and Mr. Wesden, and spoke for a while of the old times. Harriet"s manner puzzled her, but there seemed no chance of an explanation of it. Her quick observation detected Harriet"s new ideas of life"s duties, and she did not intrude upon them, or utter one word by way of argument, or in opposition. It happened, sometimes, that Harriet would be absent during Mattie"s visits--"gone to church," old Wesden would say, ruefully--and Mattie would take her place by the deserted father"s side, and play the part of daughter to him till Harriet"s return.
Harriet seldom spoke of Sidney Hinchford to our heroine--he did not belong to her diminished world; she flattered herself that there was no thought of him, or of what might have been, to perplex her with new vanities. When the name of Sidney Hinchford intruded upon the subject of discourse, she heard it coldly enough. She was always glad to learn that Sidney was well, and doing well; it had even been a relief to her to know that the business, after a stand-still of some months, had taken a turn in the right direction; but, when all was well, what was there to agitate _her_? If Sidney were ill, and needed her help, she would have taken her place at his side, perhaps; if Mattie were ill even--though in her heart she felt that she did not love Mattie so well as formerly--she would have devoted herself to her service; but they were both well, living under the same roof with Mattie"s father, and all things had changed so since Suffolk Street times.
Harriet was from home at her usual devotions, and her father was endeavouring to amuse himself, as he best might under the circ.u.mstances, when a stranger, who preferred not to give his name, requested an audience of Miss Wesden. Miss Wesden not being at home, Mr. Wesden would do for the nonce, and the stranger was, therefore, shown into the parlour.
The _ci-devant_ stationer put on his spectacles, and looked suspiciously at the new comer. Mr. Wesden was a man of the world, and hard to be imposed upon. A man more nervous and irritable with every day, but having his wits about him, as the phrase runs.
"Good evening," said the stranger.
"Good evening," responded Mr. Wesden. "Ahem--if it"s a subscription for anything, I don"t think that I have anything to give away."
"My name is Hinchford--Maurice Hinchford--possibly better known to you by the unenviable _alias_ of Maurice Darcy."
"Oh! you"re that vagabond, are you?--well, what do you want? You haven"t come to torment my daughter again?" he said, in an excited manner; "you"ve done enough mischief in your day."
"I am aware of it, sir--I come to offer every reparation in my power."
"We don"t want any of that sort of stuff, Mr. Hinchford."
"It"s late in the day to offer an apology--to attempt an explanation of my conduct in the past; but if you would favour me with a patient hearing, I should be obliged, sir."
"I"ve nothing better to do," said Mr. Wesden; "take a seat, sir."
Maurice Hinchford seated himself opposite Mr. Wesden, and commenced his narrative, disguising and extenuating nothing, but attempting to a.n.a.lyze the real motives which had actuated his past conduct--motives which had been a little incomprehensible, taken altogether, and were therefore difficult to make clear before an auditor, as we have seen in our preceding chapter.
Mr. Wesden rubbed the back of his ear, stared hard over Maurice"s head at the opposite wall, till Maurice looked behind him to see what was nailed up there; wound up by an emphatic "Humph!" when Maurice had concluded.
"Therefore, you see I was not so very much to blame, sir--that is, that there were at least extenuating circ.u.mstances."
"Were they, though?"
"Why, surely I have proved that?"
"Can"t say you have--can"t say that I plainly see it at all. But, then, I haven"t so clear a head as I used to have--oh! not by a long way!"
"I hope at least you understand that I am heartily ashamed of my past conduct?"
"I am glad to hear that, sir."
"I have become a different man."
"Been in a reformatory, perhaps?" suggested Mr. Wesden.