Sidney Hinchford kept his word. He returned not to service in his uncle's bank. He gave up his chances of distinction in that quarter, rather than be indebted to a villain, as he considered his cousin to be, for his success in life. It was an exaggeration of virtuous indignation, perhaps, but it was like Sidney Hinchford. He considered his cousin as the main cause of his separation from Harriet Wesden; that man had met her after the little Brighton romance, of which faint inklings had been communicated to Sid by Harriet herself, and had played the lover too well—speciously coaxing her from that which was true, unto that which was false and dangerous, and from which her own defence had but saved her. Evidently a deep, designing man, who had sought the ruin of the woman Sidney had loved best in the world—Sid could not hold service under him now the mask had dropped.

"Father, I shall leave our rich relations to themselves," he had said, the next morning. "I am not afraid of obtaining work in other quarters. I have done with them."

"You know best, Sid," said the father, with a sigh.

"I'll tell you the story—it is no secret now. You shall tell me how you would have acted in my place."

Sid related the particulars of his love-engagement to his father—why it had been broken off, and by whose means, and Mr. Hinchford listened attentively, and exclaimed, when the narrative was ended—

"That nephew was a scamp of the first water, and we are well rid of him."

"I am not afraid of getting other employment," said Sidney, unremindful of his past attempts. "If I were, I think I would prefer starving to service in that bank."

"Both of us would," added Mr. Hinchford.

Sidney thought of his father, and went out again in the old search for a place. It was beginning life again; he was once more at the bottom of the hill, and all the past labour was to be begun afresh. No matter, he did not despair; he was young and strong yet; he had saved money; upwards of a hundred pounds were put by for the rainy day, and he could afford to wait awhile; if fortune went against him at this new outset, his was not a nature to flinch at the first obstacle. He had always fought his way.

But luck went with him, as it seemed to Sidney. That day he heard of the starting of a new bank on the limited liability principle, and he sought out the manager, stated his antecedents, offered his services, and was engaged. He came home rejoicing to his father with the news, and after all had been communicated, his father tendered him a letter that had been awaiting his arrival.

Sidney looked at the letter; in the left corner of the envelope was written "Maurice Hinchford," and Sid's first impulse was to drop it quietly in the fire, and pay no heed to its contents. But he changed his mind, broke the seal, and read, in a few hasty lines, Maurice's desire for an interview with his cousin. Maurice confessed to being the Darcy of that past evil story, and expressed a wish to enter into a little explanation of his conduct, weak and erring as it was, but not so black as Sidney might imagine. Sidney tore up the letter and penned his reply—unyielding and unforgiving. He could find no valid excuse for his cousin's conduct; he was sure there was not any, and he saw no reason why they two should ever meet again. This, the substance of Sidney Hinchford's reply, which was despatched, and then the curtain fell between these two young men, and Sidney alone in the world, more grim, more business-like, even more misanthropical than ever.

He had soon commenced work in the new bank. Before its start in the world with the usual flourish of trumpets, he had found himself taken into confidence, and his advice on matters monetary and commercial followed on more than one occasion; he was, in his heart, sanguine of success in this undertaking; he saw the road to his own honourable advancement; his employers had been pleased with the character which they had received from Messrs. Hinchford and Son, bankers, to whom Sidney had referred them, with a little reluctance; before him all might yet be bright enough.

Then came the check to his aspirations—the check which he had feared, which he had seen advancing to rob him of the one tie that had bound him to home. His father gave way more in body if not in mind, and became very feeble in his gait; he had reached the end of his journey, and was tired, dispirited, and broken down. He gave up, and took to his bed. Sidney, returning one day from office, found him in his own room, a poor, weak, trembling old man, set apart for ever from the toil and wear of daily life.

His mind seemed brighter in those latter days, to have cleared for awhile before the darkness set in.

"Sidney," he said, reaching out his thin hand to his son as he entered, "you must not mind my giving up. I have been trying hard to keep strong, for your sake, but the effort has tired me out, boy."

"Courage! I shall see you hale and hearty yet."

"No, Sid, it's a break up for ever. What a miserable, selfish old fellow I have been all my life! You will get on better in the world without me—only yourself to think of and care for then."

"Only myself!" echoed Sidney, gloomily.

The poor old gentleman would have offered more of this sort of consolation had not Sidney stopped him. It was a cruel philosophy, against which the son's heart protested. Sid was a man to attempt consolation, but not capable of receiving it. His austerity had placed him, as he thought, beyond it, and his father's efforts only stabbed him more keenly to the quick.

Sidney tried to believe that his father's deliberate preparation was a whim occasioned by some passing weakness, but the truth forced its way despite him, sat down before him, haunted his dreams, would not be thought away. The doctor gave no hopes; the physician whom he called in only confirmed the doctor's verdict; it was a truth from which there was no escape.

When he gave up reasoning against his own convictions, Sidney gave up his clerkship, as suddenly, and with as little warning as he had vacated his stool in his uncle's counting-house.

There was a choice to make between hard work day and night at the new banking scheme—isolated completely from his dying father—and attendance, close and unremitting, to that father who had loved him truly and well, and Sidney did not hesitate.

"Afterwards, I can think of myself," he said; "let me brighten the days that are left you, to the best of my power."

"Ah! but the future?" said the father, anxious concerning his son's position in life.

"I do not care for it, or my position in it now."

"Don't say that, Sid."

"Father, I was working for you, and for your comfort in the future—now let all thoughts of the world go away for awhile, and leave you and me together—thus!"

He laid his hand upon the father's, which clutched his nervously.

"Oh! but what is to become of you?"

"Do you fear my getting on, with the long years before me wherein I can work?"

"No, you are sure to rise, Sid."

Sidney did not answer.

"Unless you grow despondent at the difficulties in the way, or let some secret trouble weigh you down. Sid, my dear son, there's nothing on your mind?"

"Oh! no—nothing. Don't think that," was the quick response—the white lie, for which Sidney Hinchford deserved forgiveness. He would keep his sorrows to himself, and not distress that deathbed by his own vain complainings against any affliction in store for him!

When the father grew weaker, he expressed a wish to see his brother Geoffry again.

"We don't bear each other any malice—Geoffry and I, now. If you don't mind, Sid," he said, wistfully, "I should like to shake hands with him, and bid him good-bye."

"I will write at once, sir."

Sidney despatched his letter, and the rich banker came in his carriage to the humble dwelling-place of his younger brother. Sidney did not see his uncle; he bore him no malice; he was even grateful to him for past kindnesses, but he could not face him in his bitter grief, and listen, perhaps, to explanations which he cared nothing for in that hour. With this new care staring him in the face, the other seemed to fade away, and with it much of his past bitterness of spirit. Leave him to himself, and trouble him no more!

When the interview was over, and his uncle was gone, Sidney returned to his post by his father's bed-side.

"He has been talking about you, Sid," said the father; "he seemed anxious to see you."

"I am not fit for company."

"Maurice is abroad, he tells me."

"Indeed!"

Sidney changed the subject, read to his father, talked to him of the old days when the mother and wife were living—a subject on which Mr. Hinchford loved to dilate just then. But in the long, restless nights, when Sidney slept in the arm-chair by the fire-place—he left not his father day or night, and would have no hired watcher—the father, who had feigned sleep for his son's sake, lay and thought of the son's future, and was perplexed about it. His perceptive faculties had become wondrously acute, and he could see that Sidney Hinchford was unhappy—had been unhappy before the illness which had cast its shadow in that little household. There was something wrong; something which he should never know, he felt assured. Who could help him?—who could assist him to discover it?—who would think of Sid in the desolation which was to be that boy's legacy, and do his, or her, best for him?

Early the next morning, when he was very weak, he said:—

"I wonder the Wesdens haven't been to see me."

"I thought they would weary you. They are scarcely friends of ours now. I have not told them that you are ill. If you wish——"

"No, no, and they would weary you, too, my boy, and things have altered very much between you. Sidney, you are sorry that they have altered, perhaps?"

"No—glad—very glad!"

"I should like to see Mattie," he said, after a pause; "why does she keep away?"

"I thought that she might disturb you, sir," was the reply; "we are better by ourselves, and without our friend's sympathy. We are above it!"

"Why, Sid—that's pride!"

"Call it precaution, sir, or jealousy of anyone taking my place, between you and me, old stanch friends as we are."

His father said no more upon the question; he had been ever influenced by his son, and borne down by his strong will. He thought now that it was better to see no one but Sid, and the good clergyman who called every day—better for all! Sid knew best; he had always known best through life!

But later that day, Sidney altered his mind. He had been sitting in the arm-chair apart from his father, revolving many things in that mind, and maintaining a silence which his father even began to think was strange—he whose thoughts were few and far between now—when he said suddenly to Ann Packet, who was entering on tiptoe with a candle:—

"Ann, fetch Mattie here at once."

"Mattie, Master Sidney?—to be sure I will," she added, with alacrity; "I've been thinking about that, oh! ever so long!"

"Be quick!—don't stop! Leave a message, if she's away. Here's money, hire a cab there and back. Take the key with you, and let yourself in!"

"What's that for, Sid!" asked the father.

"I think she should be here—I think all should be here who have ever known you, and whom you have expressed a wish to see. I am selfish and cruel!"

"Oh, ho!—we don't believe that, boy!" said the father, "we know better—oh! much better than that!"

"Why shouldn't the Wesdens come?—they are old friends—they were kind to you and me in the old days."

"Yes, very kind. You're quite right, Sid; but if they trouble you in the least, Sid, keep them away. I don't care about seeing anybody very much, now."

"Father, you are worse," said Sidney, leaping to his feet.

"No, boy—better. A spasm or two through here," laying his hand upon his chest, "which will go off presently."

"That's well."

Sidney sat down again in his old place, muttering, "I wish she would come," and the father lay quiet and thoughtful in his bed once more.

Presently the father went off to sleep, and Sidney sat and listened, with his face turned towards the bed, all the long, long time, until the cab, containing Ann Packet and Mattie, drew up before the house.

They entered the house and came up-stairs together, Mattie and Ann. Sid made no effort to stop them, though his father was in a restless sleep, from which a step would waken him—he still sat there, gloomy and apathetic. They entered the room, and Mr. Hinchford woke up at the opening of the door.

"Where's Sid?" he called.

"Here," said the son, "and here's Mattie—the old friend, adviser, comforter at last!"

"Oh! why haven't I been told this before?—why have you all kept me so long in the dark?" said Mattie. "Oh! my dear old friend, my first kind friend of all of them!" she cried, turning to the sick bed where Mr. Hinchford was watching her.

"Tell him, Mattie, that I shall not be entirely alone or friendless when the parting comes," said Sidney; "it troubles him—I see it. Ann, don't go—one minute."

He crossed to her, laid his hand upon her arm, and went out whispering to her, leaving Mattie and Mr. Hinchford in the room together.

"Don't let him go away—the boy mustn't leave me now!" he said, in a terrified whisper. "Mattie—I'm worse! I have been keeping it back from the boy till the last, but I'm awfully worse."

Mattie glanced at him, and then ran to the door and called Sidney.

"I am coming back," said he, in reply; "speak to him, Mattie, for awhile. I am wanted here."

Mattie returned to the bed-side.

"He is wanted down-stairs, he says."

"Ah! don't call him up, then, Mattie—some one has heard of his cleverness, and come after him to secure him. Well, it will be a distraction to him—when—I'm gone."

"And you so ill—and I to be kept in the dark!" said Mattie, dropping into the chair at the bed's head, and looking anxiously into the haggard face.

"I have been thinking of you, Mattie," he said, in a low voice; "thinking that you might be—of use—to him in the—future."

Mattie shook her head sadly.

"Why not?" was his eager question.

"He is strong, and young, and knows the world better than I. How could I ever be of use to him?"

"He is weak—low-spirited—not like his old self now—never again, perhaps, like his old—self! Mattie, I—seem—to think so!"

"Courage, dear friend. He will be always strong; his is not a weak nature."

"Mattie, I think he should have married Harriet Wesden, after all," said he; "he loved her very dearly. She loved him, and understood how good, and honourable he was, at last. What separated them? I—I forget."

And he passed his hand over his forehead, in the old vacant way.

"No matter now, perhaps. They are parted—perhaps only for a time. I have hoped so more than once."

"You have? You who guess—at the truth—so well. Why, Mattie, I—have hope, then, too—that it will not be—always dark like this."

"That's not likely."

"And if the chance comes—to bring those two together—you will do it? Oh! Mattie, you promise this—for me?"

"I promise."

"But," with a new fear visible on his face, "you will lose sight of him before the chance—of happiness—comes to the boy. You, ever apart from him—may not know——"

"Yes, I shall know—always!"

"He always stood your friend, remember, Mattie," said the old man, as if endeavouring to win over Mattie heart and soul to the new cause, by all the force of reasoning left in him. "He wasn't like—me, and Wesden—ever inclined to waver in his thoughts of you. He believed—in you ever—to be good and true—and you will think of this?"

"I will," was the faint reply.

Mattie had bowed her head, and it was almost hidden in the bed-clothes. The old man's hand rested for an instant on the girl's raven hair.

"I have—a hope—that from you, and through your means, Sid—poor old Sid!—may find peace and comfort at last. I was thinking—of your liking for us all—this very night."

"Were you? It was kind to think of me," with a low murmur.

"And I—somehow—built my hopes in you. Do you remember how you—and I—used to talk of Sid—in that old room, in Suffolk—Street?"

"Well."

"Keep me in his memory, when he's very sad, remind him—of me—and how I loved him, Mattie," in a low, excited whisper. "I'm sure that he's in trouble—that he keeps something—back from—me!"'

"A fancy, perhaps. What should he hide from you?"

"I cannot tell; it may be fancy, but it—it worries me to think of. Oh! Mattie, you'll forget him, if that trouble—should come to him! You'll forget—all this—and turn to that new father of yours! And I had hope in you."

"Hope in me ever. I will not betray your trust in me. Before all—myself, father, friends—your son!"

"Mattie!"

The father looked with a new surprise at our heroine. He had grown very weak, but her hasty, impetuous voice, seemed for an instant to give new life unto him.

"Hush! don't betray me. Never to living soul before have I dared to tell, to breathe this! God forgive me, if I have failed to break away from all my folly, and have thought of him too much, as I, a stray from the streets, had never a right to think of one so well-born, honourable, and true. You forgive me—you, his father?"

"Yes."

"You know all now. How, without one ambitious thought of linking his name with mine, I will love him ever, and be ever, if he need it, his true friend, and sister. I will die for him, when the time comes, and the secret will die with me, and not shame us both. Judge me, if I am likely to forget him, sir."

"No—no—I see all now."

"Don't mistake me; don't think at the last that I would scheme for him, or ever marry him, to disgrace a family like yours. Don't think anything but that I love Harriet Wesden, also, before myself, but not before him, though I have tried so hard to live him down! and that I will do my best—always my very best—to bring about the happiness of both of them!"

"And there—may—be only one way, Mattie."

"Only one way, I hope."

"I trust you—God bless you!—you were always a good girl. Call the boy—my poor boy, Sid!"

Mattie did as requested. At a slow, almost a painfully slow pace, Sidney re-entered, his hand still on Ann Packet's arm.

"Sid—I—I think I'll say good-bye, now!"

Sidney sprung forward and caught his hands.

"Not yet—not good-bye yet, sir!"

"Why not? I don't fear to say it Sid—I'm strong at—heart—still; it's a brave—a brave parting! No regrets—no sense of duty—neg—lected! A kind father, I hope—a—a good son—I know! God bless you, boy!—peace and happiness to yours—in life. Mattie—think—of him!"

Mattie bowed her head, and covered her face with her hands.

"Sidney—help her, too—if she's in trouble—ever an old friend."

"A true one!"

"True as steel—I know it. Good-bye, Sid—keep strong for—the—old—father's sake. Will—you?"

"Yes."

"That's well!"

Sid bent over him and kissed him—kissed the calm face, so awfully calm and still now!—and then turned to Mattie.

"Take me away, Mattie. I can bear no more now. He was spared one trouble, thank God! In all his life he never guessed the end of this."

Mattie turned round, with a new fear possessing her.

"Sidney—Mr. Sidney!"

"Here—Mattie," he said, stretching forth his hand, and grasping, as it were, furtively for hers. "I shall need friends now to help me."

"Not—oh! my God, not blind?"

"I have been blind all day!"

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.