Chapter 5 ANN PACKET EXPRESSES AN OPINION.

Sidney Hinchford knew that he should miss Mattie, and accordingly made up his mind, as he thought, to the loss. But there is no making up one's mind entirely to the absence of those we love, and upon whom we have been dependent, and Sidney found himself no exception to the rule.

In great things he had expected to miss her, but in the thousand minor ones, wherein she had reigned dominant without his knowledge, he made no calculation for, and a hundred times a day they suggested the absence of the ruling genius. The house assumed an unnatural and depressing stillness; he felt wholly shut from the world again-no one to whom he could speak, or who, in reply, could assure him that his lot was not worse than other people's, and that there lay before him many methods for its amelioration.

He became more dull and thoughtful; but he did not sink back to his past estate-that was a promise which he had made Mattie, before she went away. When she came again-he prayed it might be soon-she should not find him the despondent, morbid being, from which her efforts had transformed him. He tried to think the time away by dwelling upon that business in which he intended to embark; but there came the grave perplexity of the general management-and whom to trust, now Mattie had returned to her father's home! Meanwhile, he was wasting money by inaction, and he had always known the value of money, and money's fugitive properties, if not carefully studied.

We say that he tried to think of his new business life, for other thoughts would force their way to the front, and take pre-eminence. He could not keep the past ever in the background; before him would flit, despite his efforts to escape it, the figure of his lost love, to whom he had looked forward once as his solace in his blindness. Blindness, with her at his side, had not appeared a life to be deplored, and it was ever pleasant to picture what might have been, had the ties between them never been sundered by his will. For he loved her still-the stern interdict upon her name was even a part of his affection; and there were times when he did not care to shut her from his mind-on the contrary, loved to think of her as he had known her once. In these latter days, he thought of both Harriet and Mattie-drew, as was natural to one in his condition, the comparison between them-saw which was the truer, firmer, better character, but loved the weaker for all that! That Harriet had not loved him truly and firmly, did not matter; he had given her up for his pride's sake, even for her own sake, but he loved her none the less. She would have been unhappy with him after a while-she could not have endured the place of nurse and comforter-she, who was made for the brightness of life, and to be comforted herself when that brightness was shut from her; she was not like Mattie, a woman of rare character and energy.

Mattie troubled him. She had awakened his gratitude; the last day her father had aroused in him his fears that she had rendered herself open to the suspicions of the world by her efforts in his service-he had not thought of that before! Mattie's character was worth studying-it was so far apart from the common run of womankind-she had treasured every past action that stood as evidence of kindness to her, and made return for it a thousandfold. Who would have dreamed of all this years ago, when he tracked her with the police to the Kent Street lodging-house, and was moved to pity by her earnest eyes? Hers had been a strange life; his had been exceptional-his had ended in blank monotony, that nothing could change-what was in store for her? He thought of the mistake that he had committed on the day that Harriet had personated her unwillingly, and blushed for the error of the act. He had been moved too much by gratitude, and had almost offered his blank life to Mattie, as he thought; Mattie who would have shrunk from him like the rest, had she believed that he had had such thoughts of her. His blindness had affected his mind; he had grown heedless, foolish, wilful. Then his thoughts revolved to Harriet Wesden again-to the girl who had not lost her interest in him with her love, but had stolen to his solitary house, to ask about him, and to note the change in him. She had been always a generous-hearted girl-moved at any trouble, and anxious to take her part in its alleviation-there was nothing remarkable in it. He was still the old friend and playfellow, after all, and in the future days, when their engagement lay further back from the present, he should be glad to hear her voice of sympathy again.

These thoughts, or thoughts akin to these, travelled in a circle round the blind man's brain, hour after hour, day after day. Thoughts of business, Mattie, Harriet Wesden-varied occasionally by the reminiscences of the dead father, and the relations who had sought him out, whom he had sought, and then turned away from.

Mattie and her father came to see him three days after their formal withdrawal from his home; that was a fair evening, which changed the aspect of things, and which he remembered kindly afterwards, notwithstanding a prayer of some duration, that Mr. Gray contrived to introduce. Something new to think of was always Sidney Hinchford's craving, and the day that followed any fresh incidents bore less heavily upon him, as he rehearsed those incidents in his mind.

Still they had said nothing of the business; they had been more anxious to know how he had spent his time since their departure, and whether Mattie's absence had made much difference to him. Sidney spoke the truth, and Mattie was pleased at the confession. It was an evidence of the good she had done by resisting her father's will, and she was woman enough not to be sorry for the result.

That evening, Ann Packet, bringing in the supper to her master, was startled by the question which he put to her.

"How is Mattie looking, Ann?"

"Looking, sir!"

"Has all this watching, studying my eccentricities, affected her?"

"She's a little pale mayhap-but she has allus been pale since her last illness."

"I never gave a thought as to the effect which the constant study of a monomaniac might produce upon her," he said half abruptly; "but she's quit of me now, and will improve."

"Oh! she was well enough here-like a bird chirping about the house-Mattie likes something to do for some one. An extrornary girl, Master Sidney, as was ever sent to be a blessing unto all she took to."

"Yes-an extraordinary girl. Sit down."

"No-it isn't for the likes of me to do that here, sir."

"Sit down, and tell me what you think of her. We don't study appearances in trouble-and a blind man loves the sound of a woman's voice."

"Then you have altered werry much, sir."

"Yes-thanks to Mattie again."

"And to think that she was a little ragged gal about the streets, sir. Many and many a time have I crept to the door after shop was shut, and given her the odd pieces I could find, and she was allus grateful for 'em."

"Always grateful-who can doubt that?"

"She was waiting for the pieces when you came home and lost that brooch-poor ignorant thing, then, sir!"

"Through you then, Ann, we first knew Mattie Gray. Strangely things come round!"

"Ah! you don't know half her goodness, sir-she's just as kind to anybody who wants kindness-just."

"Yes, it is like her!"

"It's a pity her father isn't less of a fidget-she ought to have had a better un than that, or have never lighted on him, I think."

"Is she not happy with him, then?"

"She may be, she mayn't-but he is a fidget, and Mattie ought to have some one to take care of her now, and make her happy-like."

"A husband, you mean?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Sit down, Ann. Perhaps you know of some one who is likely to take care of Mattie in the way you think?"

"I don't know."

"Some one who calls and sees her, and in whom she is interested?"

"Oh! no-no one calls to see her," said Ann, "her father's jealous of her liking anybody save himself. I saw that long ago."

"I should like to see-ah, ha! to see!" he cried-"Mattie happy. She deserves it."

"Those who think so little of theirselves seldom find happiness though-do they, sir?"

Sidney started at the axiom-it was deeper than Ann Packet's general run of observations.

"There are so few of those good folk in the world, Ann."

"Mattie's one."

"Yes-Mattie's one!" he repeated.

"I've often wondered and a-wondered what would make her happy; do you know, sir, sometimes I think that-that you might, if you'll excuse an ignorant woman saying so."

"That I might!-what has made you think that? Sit down-why don't you sit down!"

"Well, just to talk this over, and for my darling's sake, I will for once demean myself;" and Ann Packet, red in the face with excitement, seated herself on the verge of the horsehair chair.

Ann Packet had broken through the ice at last; it had been a trouble of long duration; she who knew Mattie's secret, guessed where Mattie's chance of happiness rested, she thought. But it is delicate work to strive for the happiness of other people, and leads to woful failures, as a rule.

Ann Packet was nervous; the plunge had been made, and the truth must escape-she dashed into the subject, for "her gal's sake."

"Lookee here, sir-it's no good my keeping back my 'pinion, that our Mattie is really fond of you! When she was a girl in Suffolk Street, and you a bit of a boy, she used to worry me about you, and yet I never guessed it! When she growed bigger and you growed bigger, she showed her liking less, but it peeped out at times unbeknown to herself, and yet I never guessed it! But when she was ill in Tenchester Street, and I left here to nus her, the truth came on me all of a heap, and mazed me drefful!"

"What made you think of this-this nonsense, then?" he asked.

"She spoke about you in her fever, when her head was gone," said Ann; "of how your happiness hadn't come, and yet she'd worked so hard for it. And somehow I guessed it then-and when she came here, and was, for the fust time, happy in her way-I knowed it!"

"Folly! folly!" murmured Sidney.

"And they who says that she had no right to come here, don't know the rights of things-she liked you best of all, sir, and she comes here, duty bound, to do her best. If they says a word aginst her in MY hearing for her coming here, let 'em look out, that's all!"

Sidney sat, with his fingers interlaced, thoughtful and grave.

"You may go now, Ann-I'm sorry that you have put this into my head. It can't be true."

"True or not, just ask her some day when you feel that you can't do without her help, and see who's wrong of us two. And you'll have to ask her, mind that!"

Ann rose and bustled towards the door. At the door a new form of argument suggested itself, and she came back again.

"You're blind enough not to care for good looks so much now-if you can get a good heart think yourself lucky, sir. You've just the chance of making one woman happy in your life, and in finding your life very different to what it is now, with a blundering gal like me to worry you. She won't think any the wus of you for being blind and helpless-she's much too good for you!"

"Well, that's true enough, Ann."

"I don't say that I'm saying this for your sake, young man," said Ann Packet in quite a maternal manner, "for you're no great catch to anybody, and will be a sight of trouble. But I do think that Mattie took a fancy to you ever so long ago, and that it didn't die away like other people's because you came to grief. And if my opinion has discumfrumpled you more than I expected, why, you asked for it, and I haven't many words to pick and choose from, when I've made up my mind to speak. And I'm not sorry now that I've spoke it any-ways."

"I fear Mattie would not thank you, Ann."

"Mattie never knowed what was good for herself so well as for t'other people-I looks after her good like her mother-I don't know that any one else would. And though I'm your servant, I'm her friend-and so I asks you, if you've any intentions, to speak out like a gentleman!"

Still suffering from nervous excitement, Ann Packet closed the door, and ran down-stairs to indulge in an hysterical kind of croaking, with her head in the dresser-drawer. It had been a great effort, but Ann had succeeded in it. Her young master knew the whole truth now, and there was no excuse for him. He must give up Mattie or marry her, she thought-either way her girl would not be "worrited" out of her life any longer!

Meanwhile the young master left his supper untouched, and dwelt upon the revelation. Something new to think of!-something to stir afresh the sluggish current of his life.

Was it true?-was it likely?-was it to be helped, if true or likely? Could it be possible that it lay in his power to promote the happiness of any living being still? Could he make happy, above all, the girl whom he had known so long, and who had served him so faithfully? He did not think of himself, or ask if it were possible to love her; possibly for the first time in his life, he was wholly unselfish, and thought only of a return for all the sacrifices she had made. He could remember now that hers had been a life of abnegation-that she had risked her good name once for Harriet Wesden-once, and in the latter days, for himself. All this simply Mattie's gratitude for the kindness extended in the old days-nothing more. It was not likely that that ignorant woman below could know all that had been unfathomable to brighter, keener intellects.

But if true, what better act on his part than to gladden her heart, and add to the content of his own? He began a new existence with his loss of sight-the old world vanished away completely, and left him but one friend from it-let him not lose that one by his perversity or pride. Still, let him do nothing hastily and shame both him and her. He would wait!

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