CHAPTER XIII.
LEAVE-TAKINGS.
Mattie went to her room and packed her box with trembling hands. She was very agitated still; there were many conflicting thoughts to disturb her natural equanimity. Regret at going away from the home wherein had begun her better life; indignation at the false accusations that had been made against her, and made in so hard and uncharitable a fashion; doubts of the future stretching before her, impenetrable and dusky, and the life to begin again in some way, to which she tried to give a thought, even in those early moments, and failed in utterly.
Over her box came honest Ann Packet to ask the latest news--to stare in a vague idiotic way when told it.
"I am going away, Ann--don"t you understand?"
"Going away?--no, I don"t yet. Going where did you say, Mattie?"
"Going away from here, where I am no longer wanted, where I am suspected of being all that is vile and wrong. Going away for good!"
"Oh I my gracious--not that! Because of last night--because of----"
"Many things, Ann, which I dare not explain, and which, if explained, perhaps would not be believed in by--_him_. But you, Ann--what will you think of me when I"m gone, and they say behind my back how justly I was served?"
"I say?--I say?"
"You"ll hear _their_ story, and I can"t tell you mine. I can only say that since I have been here, there"s not a bad thought had a place in my mind, and not a good one which I did not try, for _their_ sakes as well as my own, to cling to. I can only ask you, Ann--you who have always thought well of me--to keep your faith strong, for poor Mattie"s sake."
Ann Packet gave vent to a howl at this--wrung her fat red hands together, and then fell upon Mattie"s box, as though our heroine had shot her.
"You shan"t pack up no more!" she screamed; "you can speak to them as to me, and they"ll believe you, or they"re made of stone. Why, it"s a drefful shame to turn you off like this, as though you"d been found out in all that"s bad."
"Hush! you"ll wake Miss Harriet, I daresay she--she"s asleep still!--you will go now, Ann, please. I"m not unhappy--why, here"s one to begin with who will always think the best of _me_!"
"The very best--as you"ve been the very best and the goodest to me, who used to snap you so at first, and feel jealous like, because they put you over me--but you won"t mind that now?"
"No--no."
"And, Mattie, you don"t want to go away and see n.o.body any more--to be quite alone and hear nothing of anybody? I may come and see you?"
"Yes--to be sure."
"And you"ll write and tell me directly where you are."
"Ah! where I am. Yes, you shall know that first. And when I can prove to him that I have always been honest and true, I"ll see him and his again, _not before_."
"And I shall call and tell you all the news--listen at all the keyholes to hear what they"ve got to talk about."
"I hope not. But get up now, Ann, and go down-stairs, or they"ll suspect something. I"ll send for the box presently, when I"m settled."
Ann rose with clenched hands and swollen eyes.
"If I had the settling of _him_! I--I almost feel to hate him. He"s a brute!"
And before Mattie had time to reprove the faithful Ann for the outburst, Miss Packet had left the room, and gone down-stairs to cry afresh over the breakfast she had to prepare for Mr. Hinchford.
Mattie pa.s.sed into the other room, and found Harriet Wesden asleep, as she had fancied. The toil of yesternight, the excitement and suspense, had brought their reaction, and Harriet had flung herself, dressed as she was, upon the bed, where she had dropped off into slumber.
Mattie stood for a moment irresolute whether to wake her or no; had it been simply to say "good-bye," she would have hesitated longer, though she might have awakened her at last.
"Harriet--Harriet!" she whispered, as she bent over her.
The fair girl started up and looked at Mattie.
"What"s happened now, dear?"
"Nothing very important," said Mattie, who had determined how to proceed. "I have been thinking of our next step together concerning last night. Your father is down-stairs."
"Oh! he must not know it--he must never know it!" exclaimed Harriet; "he is weaker in mind--more excitable, suspicious--what would he think of me, keeping the name of Maurice Darcy from him all my life?"
"Harriet, promise me never to tell him--I am not frightened at the truth, but of their perversion of it, destroying for ever your good name--promise me!"
"But why promise _you_, who----"
"Promise it. I am very, very anxious, for your own sake and for mine."
"I promise--I promise faithfully."
"Whatever happens?"
"Yes--whatever happens!"
"I will tell you why now. In the first place, I have found out that the world will never accept _your_ statement, but believe the very worst of you."
Harriet shuddered; her own trustfulness in others--her vanity, perhaps, allied thereto--had led her to the verge of the abyss--and "miraculous escapes" are only for penny-a-liners, and romancists. She thought that Mattie was right in binding her solemnly to secrecy, and she repeated her promise even more solemnly than before.
"And in the second place----"
Mattie paused; she recoiled from the explanation, the trial of another parting with this girl for whose happiness she was about to sacrifice herself, and the good name for which she had struggled. Harriet looked ill and worn now, and she could not tell her all the news, her heart was too full.
"I would bathe my hands and face, and go down-stairs as soon as possible. It will prevent suspicion, and you _must_ stand up against the fatigue for awhile."
"Yes, yes, I can do that."
"Nothing can be helped now by confession; remember _that_ when the truth would leap to your lips in a generous impulse, of which hereafter you would be sorry. Good-bye now."
Mattie stooped and kissed her--the quivering lips, the tear-br.i.m.m.i.n.g eyes, suggested a new trouble, and Harriet detected it at once.
"There is something new, Mattie--don"t deceive me!"
"Very little--you will know all when you get down-stairs--be on your guard--G.o.d bless you!"