"Well, well, only in one sense of the word. And Maurice has, after all, but a little foible, which the world--the real, material world--always makes allowance for. He will grow out of it. Good evening."

Sidney did not inquire concerning Maurice Hinchford's foibles, little or otherwise--he knew that foibles were common to humanity, and that humanity is lenient respecting them. He did not believe that there was any great wrong likely to affect the brilliancy of Maurice Hinchford's character--he would be content to resemble his cousin, he thought, if he were ever a rich man like unto him, an honest, amiable English gentleman.

Sidney did not covet his cousin's riches, however; he knew that fortune was not reserved for him, and if he were scarcely content with his lot in life, he was at least thankful for all mercies that had been vouchsafed to him, though he kept his thanks to himself for the greater part.

"If he were scarcely content!" we have said, for Sidney was ambitious of rising by his own merits in the world; a laudable ambition, for which we need not upbraid him. He was careful of his money, a characteristic from his boyhood, a trait that his father, who had been never careful, took great pains to develop. He sank his pride completely for the sake of saving money, and he did save a little, despite the small income, the housekeeping expenditure, and his father to support. On Sat.u.r.day nights he toiled home from the cheapest market with a huge bag of groceries, to the disgust of the suburban tea-dealer--who wanted a hundred per cent.

profit on an indifferent article--and walked with his head rather higher in the air than usual when heavily laden.

"When I can afford it, the goods shall be brought to my door," he said, when his father once urged a faint remonstrance; "but I can't study appearances on a hundred and fifty pounds a year. Those fellow-clerks of mine can drop my acquaintance on a Sat.u.r.day night, and pa.s.s by on the other side, if they are inclined. I shall carry my big parcels and exult in my independence all the same."

"Yes, but the look of the thing, Sid."

"We'll study that some day, if we have the chance. _We must keep our eyes open_, till the chance comes."

"I did think once that you had all the Hinchford pride in you, Sid."

"I have a fair share, sir," was the answer, "and I never feel prouder than when I am carrying my plethoric bag under my arm. Proud of myself, and of the property I have invested in."

"Then I don't see why I should complain."

"You--to be sure not. Put on your hat, and let us go round to Mr.

Wesden's, and make up our whist party."

And in this quiet way--winding up the evenings with whist-playing and love-making--the time stole on.

END OF BOOK THE FOURTH.

BOOK V.

STORM SIGNALS.

CHAPTER I.

CAST DOWN.

Meanwhile Mattie, the stray, must absorb our attention for awhile. In following the fortunes of the Hinchfords, we have omitted to watch closely the progress of our heroine. Yes, our heroine--if we have not called attention to that fact before--and with many first-cla.s.s "heroinical" qualities, which would do credit to the high-born damsels of our old-fashioned novels. She had been heroine enough to make a sacrifice for Harriet Wesden; to take an unfair share of blame for Harriet's sake, and, therefore, she ranks as "first-lady" in this romance of business-life. She had made the sacrifice of her good name--for it amounted to that--with a sharp struggle; but then she would have given up her life for those to whom her better nature had taught her to be grateful. The girl's love for all who had rescued her from the evil of the past was ever intense, led her to strange actions, kept her hovering in the distance round the friends she had had once. Hers was a nature strangely susceptible to affection, and that affection was not uprooted because ill-report set its stigma upon her. Hers was a forgiving nature, also, and she thought even kindly of Mr. Wesden when the first shock was over, and she had judged him by that true character which she understood so well.

In her new estate Mattie was not happy; she was alone in the world, and we know that she was partial to society, and not always disinclined to hear the sound of her own musical voice. But she was not disconsolate; she made the best of her bad bargain, and set to work, in her humble way, with something of that doggedness of purpose, for which her friend Sidney was remarkable. She had struggled hard for a living, but had never given way. She had met obstacles in her path, which would have crushed the energy out of most women, but which she surmounted, not without wounds and loss of strength, and even health, and then went on again. She was matter-of-fact and honest, and those who had doubted her at first--for she had chosen her dwelling-place but a very little way from Great Suffolk Street, and the rumours of a lying tongue followed her, and set her neighbours and fellow-lodgers against her--soon understood her, for the poor are great observers and good judges of character.

In the poor neighbourhood wherein she had settled down, she asked for advice as to the best method of leading an honest life, and received it from her landlady. She turned dress-maker, and when customers came not with a grand rush to Tenchester Street, she asked if she might learn her landlady's business, artificial flower-making, and offered her services gratuitously, until it pleased her mistress to see that she was the handiest "help" she possessed. Then her health failed, for she worked hard, lived hard, and had hard thoughts to contend with; and when the doctor told her sedentary pursuits would not agree with her, she went a step lower for awhile, and even sold play-bills at the doors of a minor theatre to keep the wolf from _her_ door.

Mattie had one fear of seeing her money melt away to the last farthing, and being left in the world penniless and friendless, as in the days of her desolate childhood. She had no fear of temptation besetting her in her poverty--for ever she was above that--but she did not wish to die poor, to seek the workhouse, or to be reminded in any way of her past estate. She _would_ be above that; she was ever hoping to show Mr.

Wesden that she was honest and respected, she struggled vehemently against the tide, and earned her own living at least, varying the mode very often as her quick wits suggested; but never idle, and rising or sinking with the seasons, as they proved fair or sharp ones with the working cla.s.ses.

It had been a fair season when she called on Mr. Hinchford last, and she had even found courage to give Ann Packet her address; the sharp season set in after that, and, though Ann Packet in her monthly visits was deceived by Mattie's manner, yet it became another struggle for bread with our heroine. For the season was not only sharp, but Mattie gave way in health over her work for a rascally waistcoat-maker, who drove hard bargains, and did not believe in Charity covering a mult.i.tude of sins.

And with an opposition clothier over the way, who sported a gla.s.s chandelier, and sold fancy vests for three and sixpence, it was hard to believe in anything.

Mattie gave way more than she intended to acknowledge to Ann Packet, had not that indefatigable young woman made her appearance unexpectedly, and found Mattie in bed at six in the evening.

"Good lor! what's this?"

"Nothing, Ann--only a little cold, which I have been recommended to nurse for a-day," said Mattie; "don't look so scared!"

"But why wasn't I to know it?--I might have brought in something good for you," bemoaned Ann; "if I'm to be kep in the dark, who's to take care of you, my gal?"

"I am taking very good care of myself, Ann."

"What _are_ you taking?"

"Oh! all manner of things--won't you believe me?"

"No--I won't."

And Ann proceeded to inspect mantel-pieces, open cupboards and drawers, to Mattie's dismay.

"Yes, I see just how it be," she said, after her search had resulted in nothing satisfactory. "You're working yourself to death, and starving yourself to death, without saying anything to anybody. And that's grat.i.tude for all my love for you--you who want to leave me alone in the world, with not no one to love."

"Why, my dear Ann, I'm not going to die."

"You're trying all you can--oh! you ungrateful gal!"

Mattie defended herself, and maintained that it was only one "lay up,"

but Ann Packet did not like the red spot on each cheek, the unnatural brightness of the eyes, and secretly doubted her a.s.sertion.

"I must go back now. I shall come to-morrow, first thing."

"I shall be well enough to-morrow, Ann."

Ann Packet kissed her and departed; half-an-hour afterwards, to Mattie's astonishment, she made her reappearance, accompanied by a tall, slim gentleman.

"There's the gal, sir. Now, please tell me what's the matter, and don't mind _her_ a bit."

Mattie saw that it was too late to offer a resistance, and refrained, like a wise young woman, from "making a scene." The doctor felt her pulse, looked at her tongue, took the light from the table and held it close to Mattie's face.

"Well--what's the matter, sir?" was Mattie's question.

"Humph! don't know that I can tell exactly, yet. I'll look in to-morrow."

"No, don't do that," said Mattie, alarmed at the expense.

"Yes, do," cried Ann Packet, "your money's safe, sir. Look to me at 34 Chesterfield Terrace, Camberwell, for it. I'm a respectable maid-of-all-work, with money in the bank."