Before Mr. Gray could cross the room to fulfil his partner"s commands, the door opened. Mattie entered, and paused upon the threshold with her hands to her quickly-beating heart.
"Sidney here--at last?" she faltered forth.
"Yes, at last," he said, advancing towards her; "_at last_, as your father has said, and now you. I have returned to find that you have both lost confidence in me, and both misunderstood me cruelly."
"I hope not, Sidney."
They shook hands together, and looked one another long and steadily in the face.
"It is upwards of a year since I have seen you, Mattie. It is the same hopeful, earnest face, that I have ever known--can there be a difference in me?"
"No, you are unchanged."
"You both thought that I had forgotten you?"
"No."
"You must prove it by your old ways, then; or I shall never think this place the dear home I left a month ago."
"You have come back to----"
"To stop! Why not?--don"t you wish it?"
"I--I will tell you presently--give me time, Sidney."
"I am in no hurry," he answered, coldly.
There _was_ a difference then!--they were inclined to resent his long silence, by something more than a rebuke; they would not understand that he had been kept away against his will, by his doctor"s orders, and that he had been cautioned not to write or read, or test his sight more than he could help. They had not been satisfied with his messages sent by Maurice Hinchford; they _had_ mistrusted him! It was all very strange, and intensely disheartening; he could have trusted them all his life, and he had believed that their faith would last as long as his.
Presently they would know him better, see that he had not wavered in one thought or purpose, which he had formed before his sight came back; but the consciousness that they had formed an estimate unworthy of his character, would remain with him for ever, and no after-kindness, and fresh faith, would obliterate it from his memory. There was an anxious silence; then the father"s and daughter"s eyes met.
"I think that I"ll run into the City now," he suggested, feebly. He scarcely liked to leave his daughter at this juncture; but he knew her strength, her power to explain, and her wish that he should go. It did not seem natural that he should leave her with that strange young man, and, after he had risen to withdraw, he hesitated again.
He went slowly into the shop, and Mattie followed him.
She had read his thoughts correctly, for she said at once--
"I shall not give way before him. I am firm and cool--feel my pulse, it does not throb more quickly because I have to tell him that I will not be his wife. Before you come back, it will be all over, and I shall be waiting for you--the calm, unmoved daughter, that you see me now!"
"There"ll be no scene, then?"
"All commonplace, and matter of fact--I will have no scene," she said firmly.
"Then I"ll go. G.o.d bless you, my child!--if I couldn"t trust you implicitly, I wouldn"t move a step."
He went away, and she returned to the parlour, where Sidney had been sitting, a watcher of this whispered conference.
"Now, Mattie," he said.
Mattie sat down a little distance from him, and their eyes met steadily once more, and flinched not.
"Now, Sidney!"
CHAPTER VIII.
"DECLINED WITH THANKS."
It had come at last, that day of explanation. Mattie would not give way therein; she had long prepared for it, prayed for strength to sever all past ties, and leave him ignorant, if possible, of her real thoughts concerning him. Whatever happened, she would be firm, she thought; and now with Sidney before her, she did not feel that she should waver. An artificial strength it might be, but it would support her throughout that interview, whatever might be the reaction after he had pa.s.sed from her sight, never to see her again, if she could hinder him.
Ann Packet, who had been out on divers errands, stepped into the shop at this juncture, marked the occupants of the parlour, and went immediately behind the counter, to attend to business during that interview, and confuse the accounts inextricably, supposing that there was any business likely to drift that way just then.
Mattie and Sidney had the little room all to themselves, and there was no likelihood of being disturbed. "Now, Mattie"--"Now, Sidney," had been said between them, and then each waited for the next words--as a duellist might wait for the sword"s-point aimed at his heart.
Mattie spoke first. It was evident that Sidney Hinchford would have waited all day.
"A few days before you went away from here, Sidney," said Mattie, "you asked me a question, and I promised that in good time, and with due consideration, I would reply to it. Do you wish that question answered now?"
"I have come for it," was the reply.
He knew by Mattie"s manner what that answer would be, and he steeled himself to meet a cold rejection of his offer. All was part and parcel of the new incomprehensibility upon which he had intruded.
"More than once, Sidney, I have thought of writing my answer to you, but have found the difficulty of putting all I wish to say into words that would not look cold and indifferent to the great honour you would have done me."
"This is satire," he said, hastily.
"Forgive me, it is not intended for that. I would not wound you by a word, if I could help it. And it was an honour to _me_."
"I deny it," he answered, warmly.
"Ever before you and me that past which there is no shutting from us--which would have been talked about, and have often brought the blush of shame to your cheeks for my sake. Ever before you what I have been--what I am fit for!"
"Fit for a higher station than it is in my power to raise you--no position is too elevated for a good and pious woman. All this is argument which I thought that I had combated long since--pardon me for adding, all this foolish reasoning, utterly unworthy of you."
"Still----"
"It is no reason for declining my hand, Mattie," he interrupted, with some sternness, "it is simply an excuse."
Mattie winced for an instant, then her quiet voice, firm and even as the way she had chosen for herself, replied to this--
"Let me proceed, Sidney. You will hear me out fairly, I am sure."
"Why not say No at once?--you mean to tell me that you do not care to be my wife, and share my home. Is not that your answer?"
"Yes--but I cannot let you think that I have been insensible to your offer, or not weighed it carefully in my mind before I thought that it was not right that I should marry you. Sidney, had it pleased G.o.d never to have restored your sight, I would have been your faithful wife, serving you as I alone was able, perhaps, and rendering you content with me."
"I see. You would have taken pity on my loneliness--with that strange idea of being grateful for past kindnesses of a trivial description, you would have sacrificed your happiness in an attempt to attain mine.