Chapter 4 A NEW DECISION.

Sidney Hinchford rose the next morning in better spirits, and Mattie in worse. Half the night in his own room Sidney had reflected on his vexatious sullenness of the preceding day, and on the effect it most have had on Mattie; half the night, Mattie in her room had pondered on the strangeness of the incidents of the last four-and-twenty hours-on that new demeanour of Harriet Wesden, which implied so much, and yet explained so little.

After all, Mattie thought, was she right in staying there? Had she treated her father well in leaving him without a fair confession of that truth which she had breathed into the ears of a dying man, and scarcely owned till then unto herself? She had not come there with any sinister design of winning, by force as it were, a place in Sidney Hinchford's heart; she had never dreamed for an instant-she did not dream then!-of ever becoming his wife, with a right to take her place at his side and fight his battles for him.

She had been actuated by motives the purest and the best-but who believed her? Had not her father mistrusted her? Had not Harriet, who understood her so well she thought, regarded her as one scheming for herself?-she whose only scheme was to bring two lovers together once more, and see them happy at each other's side. For an instant she had not thought that she was "good enough" for Sidney Hinchford; she who had been an outcast from society, an object of suspicion to the police, a beggar, and a thief! No matter that she had been saved from destruction and was now living an exemplary life, or that misfortune had altered Sidney and rendered him dependent on another's help, he was still the being above her by birth, education, position, and she could but offer him disgrace.

With that conviction impressed upon her, conscious that Sidney had improved and would continue to improve, an object of distrust to her best friends-why not to the neighbours who watched them about the streets and talked about them?-only judged fairly and honourably by him she served, was it right to stop-was there any need for further stay there?

She was thinking of this over breakfast-afterwards in her little business round, during which period another visitor had forced himself into Sidney's presence, without exercising much courtesy in the effort. Ann Packet had opened the street-door, and looked inclined to shut it again, had not the visitor forestalled her-she was never very quick in her movements-by springing on to the mat, and thence with a bound to the parlour door.

"Oh, my goodness! you mustn't go in there. Master left word that you were never to be shown into him again on any pertence."

"Where's Mattie?"

"Gone out for orders," said Ann. "Just step in this room, sir, and wait a bit."

"Young woman, I shall do nothing of the kind. When my daughter comes in, tell her where I am. That's your business; mind it, if you please."

Mr. Gray turned the handle of the door, and walked into the room.

"Good morning, Mr. Hinchford."

Sidney recognized that voice at least-the voice of a man who had worried him to death with his religious opinions-and his face lengthened.

"You here?"

"Yes, I have come again," he answered, drawing a chair close to the table, and confronting Sidney. "I suppose you thought that I had given you up as irreclaimable."

"I had hoped so," was the dry answer.

"Given my daughter up, too."

"No; that wasn't likely."

"Indeed-why not?"

"We don't give up our best friends, those who have won upon our hearts most, in a hurry."

"Do you mean that for me, or is that another side to your confounded obstinacy? Won't you give her up to me, her father?"

"If you wish it. I cannot set myself in opposition to you. The remembrance of a dear father of my own would not lead me, did I possess the power, to stand in opposition to you."

"You-will side with me, then, in telling her that it is not right to stay here?"

"Not right! You thought so once?"

"Not for an instant."

"She is here with your consent?"

"Did she tell you that? Don't please say that my Mattie ever told you that?"

Sidney considered. No, she had not said so, he remembered.

"She came against my will, full of a foolish idea of doing you good, and no power of mine could stop her," said Gray.

"Against your will?"

"I said she did," said Mr. Gray, sharply; "don't you believe me?"

"Yes-I believe you. But this is very singular."

Sidney bit his nails, and reflected on this new discovery. After a few moments he said, "Mr. Gray, I have been forgiving you all the past torture for the sake of your kindness in allowing Mattie to constitute herself my guardian."

"Rubbish!"

"My guardian angel, I might say; for she has saved me from despair, and turned my thoughts away from many deep and bitter things. I was turning against myself, my life, my God, in the very despair of being of use in the world, and she saved me. Do you blame her coming now?"

Mr. Gray took time to consider that question. He bit his nails in his turn, and looked steadily at the young man, who had altered very much for the better.

"I don't find fault with the result-there!" and Mr. Gray looked as though he had made a great concession.

"You would not be a true minister if you did," said Sidney; "and you are not a true father if you don't value the sterling gold in Mattie's character. Pure gold, with no dross in the crucible-not an atom's worth, as I'm a living sinner!"

"We're all living sinners, young man," said he, getting up and beginning to pace the room, as he had paced it, preaching meanwhile, a month ago, and nearly driven Sidney Hinchford out of his mind.

"Do you object to sitting down?" asked Sidney, after bearing with these heavy perambulations for a time.

"Presently; I am going to speak to you in a minute."

"Not in the old fashion, please," said Sidney, quite plaintively; "although I can put up with more now; for Mattie's sake I'll even listen to a sermon, if you'll give me fair warning when you're going to begin, and how long it is likely to last."

"For your soul's sake, as well as Mattie's, you mean, I hope?"

"Anything-anything you like!"

"As careless of heavenly matters as ever, I believe. The task of reformation still unperformed-perhaps left for me, unworthy instrument that I am."

"Exactly."

"Eh?"

"We are all unworthy instruments as well as living sinners, you know," said Sidney, drily.

"And flippant, too-and on such a subject! But we shall change you in good time."

"And this morning, now, you will let me off with a small sermon?"

"I haven't come to sermonize to-day," replied Mr. Gray, severely, "therefore do not give way to any groundless fears of torturing on my part."

"Thank you-thank you!"

"I have come to test your sense of justice-fairness of what is due to me from you, and Mattie."

"Test it, friend."

"Give me back my daughter!"

"Why, that's what Brabantio says in the play; but I'll give you a more gracious answer than he got. If you wish her to return with you-why, she must. I would not stop her," he added, with a sigh, "if it were in my power."

"You will persuade her to return with me."

"Was she happy with you?"

"Until your father died-yes."

"I will tell her," said Sidney; "that there is right on your side-Mattie will see that. There was right on hers, too, for she had made a solemn promise to a dying man, and she knew well enough that I was desolate. I will persuade her even, if you wish it, but--"

"Go on."

"But what harm is she doing here?"

"What harm!" echoed Mr. Gray, with an elevated voice; "why, harm to that good name which she has kept for years. What do you fancy people think of her being in this house?-her a stranger to you by blood, and you so young! Sir, she has risked her character by staying here-and I very much doubt if the world is likely to believe her own version of this extraordinary freak."

"Do you believe it?" asked Sidney.

"Well-I do."

"And I also-that makes two out of a very few for whose good opinion Mattie Gray cares."

"Whilst we are in the world we should care for the world's opinion, Mr. Hinchford."

"I think not, when it's a false one. You, a minister, telling me to study the world!"

"I never said that-how aggravating you are, to be sure!"

"Pardon me," said Sidney, quickly; "a misinterpretation, Mr. Gray. And we must study the world after all-you're right enough. Poor Mattie, what would she think of this hiss of slander in her ears?"

"I warned her of it-and she braved me."

"Ah! a brave girl, whose reward will come in a brighter world than this. Well," he added, sadly, "go she must. I agree with you."

"I am very much obliged to you-I am going to shake hands with you."

Mr. Gray and Sidney Hinchford shook hands. Sidney held the minister's tightly in his grip whilst he uttered the next words.

"You will bring her with you now and then, to hinder me from wholly sinking back," he said; "remember that she is but the one old friend of the past whom I care to know is by my side, and in whom I can trust. Remember what she found me, what she leaves me, and if you are not wholly selfish, you will not always keep her away."

Mr. Gray was touched by this appeal-his old jealousy vanished completely-he was proud in his heart of this young man's interest in Mattie.

"I promise that-until we go away, that is, of course."

"Go away!-whither?"

"Oh! nothing is settled-there was a little talk of appointing me a missionary abroad some time ago-a preacher at a foreign station, where the benighted require stirring words, and the preacher is expected to be continually stirring-preaching, I mean. But it is only talk, perhaps-they may have found a better man," he added, a little tetchily.

"Should you care to leave England?"

"Care, sir!-it is my great ambition to do good-to make amends for the evil of my early life."

"Ah!-yes."

Sidney had become absent in his manner-Mr. Gray, who had become voluble, discoursed at great length on his peculiar principle of doing good, but Sidney heard but little of his argument, and was engrossed by thoughts of the change coming unto him again, and to which he could not offer opposition. Discoursing thus, and thinking thus, when Mattie returned, and stood in the doorway, looking from father to friend.

"Father," she ejaculated at last.

"Don't say that you are sorry to see me, after this long parting!" he exclaimed, as he rose in an excited manner, and went towards her with both hands outstretched.

"Not sorry-no-but very, very glad!"

She held his hands, and leaned forward to kiss him. He caught her to his heart then, and the tears welled into his eyes at this evidence of the past parting having been forgotten and forgiven.

"Mattie," he said, "I have been thinking of all this again-over and over again, patiently, and not in anger-and I still think that it is wrong to stay here."

"And he-what does he think?" looking towards Sidney.

Sidney answered for himself.

"That, perhaps, we are both too young-blind though I am, and pure as you are, Mattie-to keep house together after this fashion. For your sake, I will ask you to go back with your father. I have been wrong and selfish."

"I said that I would go when you wished it, Mr. Sidney."

"I wish it, then!"

"Very well."

"Go-to return again very frequently with your father, and see that I am well, and likely to do well. Mattie, for ever after this understand that I cannot do utterly without you. Wrong and selfish also in that wish, perhaps, but I am sure of you forgiving me!"

"Yes-yes," she said, hurriedly. "It is strange that we three should all have been thinking of going away to-day-and perhaps," with a blush, "it was scarcely right to come. But," evincing here her old rebellious spirit, with a suddenness that made her father and Sidney leap again, "if he were the same man I found here first, I would have stopped-mark that!"

"Yes, but he isn't, my dear!" said Mr. Gray, cowed into submission, and afraid of Mattie talking herself into a change of mind; "so it's all happened for the best, and we are all thankful, and-all friends!"

"I will be ready when you wish, then."

"I have ordered a cab to come round at twelve. You see I was sure that you would not turn against me ever again."

"I never turned against you-don't think that."

Mattie went out of the room-was a long while gone-returned with her eyes red and swollen, as though she had been weeping. The cab at the same time rattled up to the door, and Ann Packet-with red and swollen eyes also, if she could have been seen just then-was heard struggling down-stairs with Mattie's box, which she had not allowed Mattie to touch.

"Go and talk to Mr. Sidney again, gal. You mayn't have another chance," she had said, and Mattie had started and glared at her as at a phantom. Surely it was time for her to go, when this faithful but dull-witted woman saw through the veil which she believed had hidden her true heart from every one on earth. But that must be fancy, she thought, and she went back to the room to bid Sidney good-bye, and to check the thanks with which he would have overwhelmed her.

"No thanks, sir-only my duty to one whose last thoughts were of your happiness, and how it was best to promote it. He had faith in me, and I have endeavoured to deserve it, as though he had been watching every action of my own from heaven. Good-bye, Mr. Sidney."

"Good-bye-best of friends. You will not desert me wholly?-your father is on my side now."

"Yes. I shall look in upon you very often, I hope-and you must keep strong, and make up your mind about that business-and-and not think yourself into that low estate ever again. Now I am ready to go."

Mattie and her father left the house the former had brightened by her presence. In the cab she struggled for awhile with her forced composure, and then burst forth into irrepressible tears.

"Patience, Mattie. I see the end to this. All's well."

"You see the end to this? No, you cannot!"

"Oh! yes-I can."

Mr. Gray uttered not a syllable more during the remainder of the journey; and Mattie, ashamed of her tears, dried her eyes, and asked no further questions.

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