"Sidney, I wrote--I--"

"Harriet, there is no need for us to say one word in anger about this,"

he interrupted; "I will ask no further explanation--I do not wish it. I can see now where I have been wrong, and whither my folly was leading me--and there's an end of it," he added.

"An end of--what?"

"Of the one hope that I have had. I see, now, how much better it is for you and me, and what a foolish couple we have been."

There was a long silence; they had walked on some distance before Harriet said, suddenly and sharply--

"What do you mean--what am I to understand?"

"That our engagement is at an end, and that it is better for us both to forget the romantic nonsense which we talked of lately. I will not ask you to forget me; I will not try for a single moment to forget _you_. I will prefer, if you will allow me, Harriet, to remain your friend--something of the old boy-friend I was to you, before the dream came."

"Unjust--unkind!" she murmured.

"No, you will not think that presently," he answered; "you will judge me more fairly, and see for yourself how it could not have ended otherwise for either of us. You have been more than kind to me--you have offered me the sacrifice of your best wishes, even your brightest prospects, out of pity, and I cannot have it."

"Pity!" she repeated.

Harriet was unnerved at his earnestness, at the deep sorrow which betrayed itself in every word, and which he thought that he disguised so well; but her pride was wounded also at his resignation of her, and she could see that there was no defence to urge which, by the laws of probability, had power to affect him. Between her and him that cruel past, which she had hidden from him; that proof of love or fancy for another, when he was building on her lore for him; that evidence against her, which for ever robbed him of his confidence and trust. No, there was no defence, and the scornful echo of his last words were more like defiance than regret.

"Yes, pity!" he reiterated--"only pity! Harriet," he said, for an instant pressing her hand upon his arm with the old affection, "it was kind and n.o.ble of you, but it was not love. It was a sacrifice; I was a poor man; there was a great affliction in store for me, and you felt that you alone could lighten it in the present--and in the future, when it faced me and shut me in with it. You saw that you were my one hope, and you took pity on me. It was a mistake--I see the gigantic error that it was now!"

"You will see the truth--you will judge me fairer yet, Sidney."

"This past engagement between us, Harriet, has been a trouble to me lately," he continued; "my selfishness has scared me before this, and I have felt that I had no right to bind you to me for a term of years, ending in calamity at the last. I was wrong--I retract--I am very sorry for the error--I am glad of this excuse to rectify it."

"You say that!" cried Harriet; "you are glad to break with me--to believe that I did not love you, Sidney?"

"Yes, I am glad. I can see that it was all for the best; and though I could have wished that there had been a different reason for the parting, still it takes a weight from my conscience--it is a relief!"

It was a struggle to say so, but he said it without bitterness, and in good faith. By some ingenious method of word-twisting, which Harriet could not follow, he had stopped all effort to explain more fully, and turned the blame of the engagement on himself. There was no answering; she saw that his heart was wrung with the agony of the dissolution, but she read upon that pale, stern face, to which she glanced but once, an inflexible resolve, that nothing could alter. He upbraided her not; he uttered not one sarcasm upon the folly of her past pa.s.sion for Mr.

Darcy, or the mistakes to which it had led; he expressed a wish to be her friend still, but he gave her up, and with all her love for him--and she knew how truly it was love then--she could not ask him to reconsider his verdict and spare her a parting as bitter for her as him. She read in that hasty glance at his face, _incredulity_ of her affection for him; and no protestation on her part could have altered that. Yes, it was ended between them--perhaps for the best, G.o.d knew; she could not think of it then--she was ashamed, miserable, utterly cast down!

"Let me get home," she murmured; "what a long way it is to home."

"I will say no more, Harriet--I have been unkind to say so much," he said, in answer to that cry, in which he might have read the truth, had not his heart been for ever closed to it from that night.

So, in the same silent way as they had begun that inauspicious walk, the two concluded it, reaching the little house of Mr. Wesden shortly afterwards. Colder and more grim the night there; beyond the lighted London streets, in melancholy suburban districts like to this, there seemed to lurk a greater desolation.

"Good night," he said; "don't think that we part in anger, or that I am hurt in any way at what has happened--or that I am less your friend than ever, Harriet."

"Good night," was all her answer.

He lingered still, as though he had more to say, or was endeavouring to think of something more to render the disruption less abrupt and harsh; but he relinquished the attempt, and left her, walking away rapidly as though at the last--the very last--he feared to trust himself.

He did not go straight home, but walked for awhile up and down the street wherein his home was, at the same rapid pace, with his breath held somewhat, and his hands clenched.

He had acted for the best--it _was_ for the best, he thought!--but the result was not satisfactory, and the future beyond was the grey density at which he had recoiled, when crossing the Channel on the day he came to man's estate.

If he had died on that day, or the ship had gone down with him, how much better he thought then; better for her, for him--even for his father, perhaps, he could not tell at that time!

He went indoors at last, feigned for awhile the old demeanour, and failed at a task beyond his strength for once. He gave it up, and, looking vacantly at his amazed father, said,

"I'm not well to-night. I think I'll go to my room."

"Not well!--you not well, Sid?" exclaimed the father, as though the a.s.sertion were the most improbable to make in the world.

"Not very well--a head-ache."

"Ah! too much book-work. Be careful, Sid, don't overtask yourself."

"I shall be well enough to-morrow. Good night."

He left the room abruptly, and turned the key in his own apartment a few minutes afterwards. In his own room, he hunted for a few letters which she had written to him during their brief engagement, and proceeded to burn them in the empty fire-grate.

"So much the best," he muttered, "so much the best!" as though they were charmed words, that kept him strong.

He missed something else, and was uneasy about it. He went to the looking-gla.s.s drawer, and turned out the whole contents upon the toilet-table--staring at a letter soiled, crumpled and torn, but still _sealed_, which rewarded his search, and lay at the bottom.

"What's this?" he muttered.

He drew a chair nearer the drawers on which the light was placed, examined the post-mark, the superscription, the seal, then opened the letter, dated on the day he went away on special service.

A long, confused epistle, written with difficulty and under much agitation, but telling one truth, at which he had guessed--which he had spoken of that night.

"I knew it before!" he cried; but the news daunted him, and unmanned him notwithstanding.

It was the climax, and he gave way utterly.

CHAPTER V.

AN UNAVAILING EFFORT.

The dry, matter-of-fact world, with its face to business and its back to romance, is still interested in love-matters, and pa.s.singly agitated by the sudden disruption of any love-engagement. It shows an interest in the latest news, and turns from its account-books for awhile to know how it came about that Damon and Phyllis could not agree upon "proprieties,"

and thought that it was better to part, for good and aye, than to settle down for good as man and wife. Having learned the news, remarked upon the pity that it was, or the best thing that could happen for _her_ or for _him_, the world goes upon its course again, and the story is as old as the hills before the leading characters have got over their first heart-pangs.

It was not a large world that was interested in the disruption of Sidney Hinchford's love engagement; two old men at Camberwell, and a needlewoman, might almost const.i.tute it in this instance. We say almost, for a reason that will appear presently; a cautious writer should always speak with a reserve.

The two old men were interested in the news, but not profoundly affected; such is the selfishness of humanity, when matters do not seriously affect its own comfort.

Harriet Wesden told the news on the following day to her father, and he, after a stare over her head in the old fashion, thought, perhaps, that it was all for the best. Harriet told him the whole story of the past that had led to the parting, and he took stock of the princ.i.p.al features, and thought it was an odd affair, and that he might have been told of this Mr. Darcy a little earlier. After awhile he fancied that it was more comfortable to know that Harriet was to be always with him, to attend to his small ailments, and study his eccentricities. Of late he had hara.s.sed himself somewhat with the idea that there would be an early marriage, and that he should be left entirely alone in the world;--with that house and new furniture, that wash-house where the chimney always smoked, and that back-garden where groundsel grew vigorously in the garden paths. The news of the quarrel came with something like a relief to him. Harriet always at home; no one calling to distract attention away from him--well, it _was_ for the best, though in his unselfish moments, and he had many of them, Harriet alone in the world after he was gone, was a picture that affected him.