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(ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.) SONS OF FIRE. 1 By MISS 6RADD0N, Jatai TK. "kady Audley's Secret," "The for T^/f»e\. m ^*1' Come," Lost ?ft> t! n 0 Doctor's Wife," Whose the Hand ?" Thou Art the Man." &c. A U/U i CHAPTER XX. wnite Star Made of Memery Long Ago. ^arfcha'dwou^ never do.' Those words of ♦ho oarari f° °*rnesfcly spoken by the kind soul *8res fa* k me a'llnost as tenderly as a mother tapid r er own, haunted me all through the >J Trin,tv l.Viarn.blidg0' waIKed. the quadrangles &oad mvT Wl me' tramPec^ the Trumpington •hich "boulders, like that black care "over dn' behind the traveller. It would Martha o. a. No neecl to ask my Sood jion. T t meanmg of that emphatic asser- ^*ken «« knew what shape her thoughts had 4QUSLI-A «• watched ir.e sitting by the little ihin tint'r110—t^le °^< old piano, with such a voice n»w» sound, listening that seraphic 3xaui»i» \°°king at that delicate profile and am? Cu °.ur'np °* faintly flushed check, lifted ^Kised f S c*owy hair. My old nurse had aur- bot uv secret almost before I knew it myself floor was baek in my shabby ground •Marti.. i afc Trinity, I knew as well as love wii-h ew ^afc efc myself fa'l deep in tny f l~ af Rifl whom I could never marry with Way in i r s aPprobation. I might take my own to woniH u aUd marry the girl I loved but to do &lak« forfeit) my mother's affection, to •« t an outcast from her house. *»»d Mo i.uW ^at kind °f a 'a^y your mother is,' ««yr. -f f' ltl her valedictory address. Mother*8 u 01 son' I'^ely t0 h0 ignorant of the ,k*en*thJi 1racte.r» ,.or unable to gauge the io "or "er prejudices—prejudices that seemed toenm« Part of her nature as to form a strong ire n. against Locke's assertion, that there iPhilo«n 1?nate. ideas ? Indeed, in reading that io iftn -8 famous chapter, it always seemed A. g n » v1/ average infant had to begin the h*ve h«> L at ^rsb l0tter» my mother must fowailv en. orn w'tJh her brain richly stocked with Fears TK an-^ soc,al distinctions. In all the a&benrl f 6 with her I had never seen her *ith a k j aervanb, or converse on equal terms *>f tha 63man- had a full appreciation fcood h" ue °f wealth when it was allied with the i. '5 » but tlie millionaire manufacturer or Of w. ? y 8peculator belonged to that outer circle *oiii#iu knew nothing, and of which she .jucl believe no good. ^ed l"38 ^er on'^ son anc* s^e was a widow. I t (jjj ler more than most sons owo their mothers. °|0'i as nu,nber four or five in a family fmlii"1/ share in the rough and tumble Ita. ? '"e* My mother had been all in all to fcet {-• heen all in all to her. I had been libl rlend a.nd companion from the time 1 was jgQj understand the £ ngiish language, the a" ',er '^oasi 'ler likes and dislikes— *&con. stago when the childish mind •f tli« us takes shaj>e and bent from the mind «eventuParent the child loves best. From my •*cr»fl ?ear .was fatherless, and all that is fee ■nt.ul. sweethome life began and ended for •• ji word mother- italloci m°ther was what Gerald Standish It Was a masterful woman.' a woman to whom OolliQ natural to direct and initiate the whole opposite life. My father was her T>battc • ,Q tomperameni—irresolute, lym- her the* Rtld 1 think he must have handed hooeviy, re'ns °f home government before their ^oueh f°n was over- remember just well kis lif» L r?member that he left the direction of Wholly to her that he deferred to her <aij ?D?». a°d studied liar feelings in every de- *doreH existence; and that he obviously Jot ten if: don't think he cared very much I 'ion nt 8 ouly child. 1 can recall no indica- iP'^cid *??rmth of feeling on his part, only a COnca IUddierence. as of one whose affection was Gearll ntrated Upon a single object, and whose tpobn e no room f°1' any other image. He cxy>no:. °'me a3 the boy," and looked at rne Vera X w'th an air of mild wonder, as if I by gov—110 0(*y else's son, whose growth took him i8' never remember his expressing any toe lnr>L? jUb me, except that I had grown since ««rj?ed at me last. tardlJ8 about me being thus tepid, it was Itoonl ?UrPr'SII1K that be should make what many J ve called an unjust will. I have never ^ttch ? lts j^^e, for I loved my mother too of the advantages of power and which that will gave her. iDy was an heiress, and her money had cleared branr> r's estate from considerable encum- ProviJv' an^ 110 doubt he remembered this when five for ber future. He was her senior by hood f tvvsnty years, and foresaw a long widow- «Vi,?0r her. free » entail ended in his own person, so he was 'eft ^'sPose of his property as he liked. H6 mother tenant for life; and he left me 9u?dred a year, chargeable to his estate, a»« ri?c°me was only to begin when I came of •ftna j one-and-twentieth birthday I was indent upon my mother for everything. Iji. told myself that I had to cut my path in f' „7 *nd that I must be the architect of my own tot^y mother's income under her marriage was considerable, and this, in addi- ^jon- a rent roll of between two and three ,(a«aod a year, made her a rich woman, iltl ÁSsllredly I was not in a position to make an H ijifdent marriage, since my power to maintain 0« and family in accord wiih my own ideas. a gentleman's surroundings must depend for a j "S'derable time upon my mother's liberality. j.h.had made up my mind to go the Bar, 41. I knew how slow and hazardous is j6 road to success in that branch of the 4w\- Profession; but far dearer than mere, lQ» i °f interest was the obligation which filial ci 98 tald upon me My motber had given me the W00 years. had made me the chief object of HllIr^(l(?hta and her hopes, and I should be an itOfiuf i Wretch if I were to disappoint her. I U- .■ alas! that upon this very question of digtrl8*^6, 8^e cherished a project that it would CeJ! to forego, and that there was a hj«r 'n .frdy Emily whom I was intended to >»v f!i daughter of a nobleman who had been 8 most intimate friend, and for whom OQr nelghlxju^ a preater reKarcl t'3an f°r an^ tiear?^Wi.ng this. and wishing with all my taofchAra t ,ny duty as a son to the best of •< < T 8» A.oould but echo Martha's solent words— *• 7-"ld never do." the an;would never do.' The seraphic voice, teoq. fua* countenance, the appealing hel pless- fcie *»- j "a<^ so moved my pity, must bo to eam from which I had awakened, self • ,lza f fate must rest henceforth with her- ^*rth t honest Martha, and helped, through purse. I must never see her j hee0 1- ° word had been spoken, no hint had ^tv^ n love which it was my bounden conquer and forget. I could contemplate «on6cj^^ltal>le renunciation with a clear ^otkJT0 ^ar^er ,n that term than I had *HurnRn ^efc' and shut my door against all the »leas8lrJentlS of undergraduate friends and all the aDd a of University life. I was voted churlish f°und my books the best cure l«Ccrippy love and though the image of I was oftener with me than the of Newton or the later ghost of I Wofjf » contrived to do some really good mother and I wrote to each other once a lutein j e3FPeoted me to send her a budget of X bet* opinion, and it was only this term that a difficulty in filling two sheets of Jror paper with my niggling penmanship. I '■ttino. first time in my life I found mysolf to Pen in hand, with uothing to say mother. I could not write about 1 VpJanza> °r the passionate yearning which tryi»K to outlive. I could hardly uPon my mathematical studies to a *0^ who, although highly cultivated, knew bngt; °f mathematics. I eked out my letter as feebif °°UW« with a laboured criticism upon a of th novel which I had idly skimmed in an hour «• t1} 1 exhaustion. Iroib '0°ked forward apprehensively to my home- Q'n December, fearing that some change iu Itty ^'Ward aspect might betray the mystery of **l0n- The holiday, onoe so pleasant, would I dull. The shooting would afford tratl) rehef Perhaps, and I made up my mind to bfLP the plantations all day long. At Cam- t | had shirked physical exercise; in Suffolk A l Wa^ down my sorrow. Hrly e'ter from my mother, which reached me December, put an end to these resolves. *Wdxrbeent somewhat out ot health all I Mi0 rh November; and her local medical man, °'d ai,d pasee, had only tormented "he i. '5 medicines which made her worse. H k^eref°re decided, at Miss Marjoram's v*^do*>. 're» upon spending my vacation in KL* and ^ebson, her trusted major domo, *?l'Rh^? UP .to town, and had fonnd her *»rlc. I lodgings on the north side of Hyde Outn would await me, not at Fendyke, 1100 Onnangbt-place. *»allj jnaught-place—within less than an hour's fftat ani **reat Ormond-street! My heart beat Proninm nons'y at the mere thought of that that an Martha's latest letter had told me at finding a situation for my I kjf so far bten without result. Martha for the Charge had visited all the agencies *>»(J P'aoing of governesses and companions, Pera«° aBent had succeeded in placing 'he a*. Her education was far below 1 of the least exacting wetn»an/ )e knew very little French, and no y ear• 'f e p'ayed exquisitely, but she played 5^thiU0t tho theory of music she knew hardly dfeajv, father, an enthusiast and a r HotK filled her with ideas, but had taught > • j). thltt would help her to earn a living. "HUrtha n «you ffet about her, Mr George,' wrote ^d eh lonK as I have a roof over my ahd can make her home with me. Her bite I^k's p makes hardly any difference in the €'m only sorry, for her sake, ijtnily >8n t clever enough to get into a nice er>dvlfo i°,me pretty country house, like ^r'our t r a dull life for her here—a back 'n* two °'c' PeoP'e f°r l,er unly S'0oni8buK',l; of the small dark parlour in the dull Ury °dging house, the tinkling old piano, P<*ti0 street; a weary life for a girl of 4fttter or »ir)era,nein itiired in the country. That °*«y and the fact of being within an res()i„L 0 ^1'eut Ormond-street, broke down 'J?n the last two months. I Called aU«r j 1 ft' Vi U"' '1Pr chargn on the morning t ^'lnbiidgp. I thought Msperauza hn, -III Olnrl °1,,J of health, and could but wVl'ght. ,,c "ePalp,sad face flashedand briglitoned nil,. ,'ls-. Wo wern alone for a few minutes, «i)e '"I'lrt rt >a- 'r^iewed a butcher, and I seizwd k VMlty* I said I feared she was not rdcji Pl'y- Only l>eing unhappv "» being ° my friends, she told S'»e was depressed by finding her own uselessness. Hundreds of young women were earning their living as governesses, but no one would employ h(5-r'« No lady will even give me a trial she said. I'm afraid I must look very stupid. You look very lovely, I answered hotly. They want a commoner clay.' I implored her to believe that she was no burden to Martha or to me. If she could be content to live that dull and joyless life, she was at least secure of a safe and respectable home; and if she cared to carry on her education, some- thing might be done in the way of masters; or she might attend some classes in Harley-street, or el^owhore T She turned red and then paled, and I saw tears trembling on her long abburn lashes. •« 'I am afraid I am unteachable, she faltered, with downcast eyes. 'Kind ladies at Besbery tried to teach me, but n was no use. My mind always wandered. I could not keep my thoughts upon the book I was reading, or on what they told me. Miss Grimshaw, who wanted to help me, said I was incorrigibly idle and atrociously obstinate. But, indeed, it was not idleness or obstinacy that kept me from learning I could not force myself to think or to remember. My thoughts would only go their own way; and I cared for nothing but music, or fnr chfi noetrv my father used to read to me some- ofan eSg. I was right, and that I ought to be a dressmaker "I glanced at the hands which lay loosely elapsed upon the arm of the chair in which she was sitting. Such delicately tarring fingers were never meant for the dressmaker's workroom. The problem of Esperanza's life was not to be solved th"Ydid^ not remain long on this first morning but I went again two days afterwards, and again, until it came to be every day. Martha grumbled and warned me of my danger, and of the wrong done to Esperanza, if I were to make her care fo^I"r' cion't] think there's much fear of that,' Martha. She's too much in the clouds. lJ?vour» afraid of. You and I know who mamma "wants you to marry, don't us, Mr G^Igoou*d not gainsay Martha upon this point. Ladv Emily and I had ridden the same rocking- hnrse • she riding pillion with her arms clasped round'niy waisb. whlie I urged ihe to his LXt moe. We had taken tea out of the same Tav teitSs-her tea-things-and1 before I was fifteen years of age my mother told me that she was pleased to see I was so fond of Emily. and honed that she and I would be husband and wife some dav, in the serious future, just as we were little lovers now in the childish present. » I remember laughing at my mother s speech, and thinking within myself that Emily and I hardly realised my juvenile idea of lovers. The antic element was entirely wanting in our association. When I talked of Lady E.mly later toiGerald Standish, I remember I described her 1= i eood sort,' and discussed her excellent mialities of mind and temper with an unem- barrassed freedom which testified to a heart that T^elt more mortified than I would have cared to confess at Martha's blunt assurance that Esoeranza was too much in the clouds to care about me and it may be that this remark of my old nurse's gave just the touch of pique that acted as a spur to passion. I know that after two or three afternoons in Great Ormond-street, I felt that I loved this girl as I could never love again, and that henceforward it would be impossible for me to contemplate the idea of life without her. The more fondly I loved her, the less demonstrative 1 became, and my growing reserve threw dnst in the elderly eyes that watched us. Martha believed that her warning had taken effect, and she so far confided in my discretion as to allow me to take Esperanza. for lamp-lit walks in the Bloomsbury-squares, after our cosy tea- drinking in the little back parlour. The tea- drinking and the walks became an institution. Martha's rheumatics had made walking exercise impossible for her during the last month. Ben- iamm was fat and lazy. If I didn't let the poor child go out with you, she'd hardly get a breath of fresh air all the winter. And I know that I can trust you, Mr George.' said Martha. Yes. you can trust me, answered I. 0; She might trust me to breathe no word of vil into the ear of her I loved. She could trust me to revere the childlike innocence which was my darling's highest charm. She could trust me to be loyal and true to Esperanza. But she could not trust me to be worldly wise, or to sacrifice my own happiness to filial affection. The time came when I had to set my love for Esperanza against my duty to my mother and my own interests. Dnty and interest kicked the beam. Ob, those squares t those grave old Blooms- My mother stepped out. I jurysquares, with their formal rows of windows, ind monotonous iron railings, and ways, and clean doorsteps, and enclosures oi irees, whose blackened branches showed leafless vgainst the steely sky of a frosty evening What proves Jor streams of paradise could be Sn those dull pavements which we paced ar S n-arm in the wintry greyness, telling each oon those thoughts and fancies wbich seemed in their and f. intuitive sympathy to mark us for p ife-oompanions. Her thoughts ^re chxld shly ^pressed sometimes, but it seemed to meialway is if they were only my thoughts in a fam.n.ne ruise. Nothing that she said ever jarrec1 "p? ne and her ignorance of the world and a,U .i ts vays suggested some nymph or fairy Iea™d '7. Refusion of woodland or ocean, I thought of Bndymion, and I fancied that his goddess cou. ,ave been scarcely less of the earth than th'^ir rirl who walked beside me, confiding in me like a ihild-like faith. iirfl "One night I told her that1 ,'°lve1 lad stayed out later than usual. The clock of St. Urge's Church was striking n>ue and in the •hadowy quiet of Queen's-square my 1'P3 et hers nlSs first kiss. How shyly and how falteringly ihe confessed her own secret, so carefully guarded 'A^I1 never thought you could care for a poor rirl like me,' she said • but I loved youJwmthj Irst Yes, almost from the very first. My eemed frozen after my father's death, and your S was the first that thawed it. The dull, ^numbed feeling gradually passed away, and I cnew that I had someone living to love andi care „rd think about as I sat alone. I had a world >f new thoughts to interweave with the musio I °V\ Ah that music, Esperanza I ^l1003^ j ealous of music when /see you so moved and 1 D?>afj,jusio would have been my only consolation f you 3 not cared for me,' she answered, H"P,1But I do care for you, aud I want you to ,e fl,y wife, now at once—as 'soon as we can be "^ilalked about an immediate marriage before he registrar. But willing as she was to be guided ,y mfinmost things, she would not consent to < 'It would not seem like marriage to me,' she i aid if we did not stand before the altar. | ''Well, it shall be a church, then; only we h.ll have to wait longer. And I must go back o Cambridge at the end of the week. I ixe^n" come up to London on our wedding < inv and take you home in the evening. I 8liali a^ a quiet home ready for my darling, out of he way of dons and undergraduates, but within ( "I explained to her that our marriage must be 3 JoZ till I Crime of age next year, or till I 'ould find a favourable opportunity of breaking j h?.f.aWilu"eSd?r Will she be angry?' asked i when she comes to know you, dear 1 °^ Well as I knew my mother's character, I < v,l3 infatuated enough to believe what I said. AThere was the heart so stony that w°uM n .arm to that fair and gentle creature? Where he pride so stubborn which that tender liiuuenc °° I "StTp U.. b»nn» u the oho™l. <* S'. I I Jeorge the Martyr, assured that Martha s rht i a! LaI1d Benjamin's lethargic temper would m!r. Sther of them MMndiw 'h. > urvice on any of the three fateful Sundays. If Martha went to church at all she crept therein he evening, after tea. She liked the gaslights nd the evening warmth, the short Pra^a» anc j hn lone sermon, and she met her own class inong the congregation. I felt tolerably safe 1 ,b^afctjt^ybmother been in good health, it would iftVB been diffcult for me to spend so many of my vlnines away from home; but the neuralgic « k:,fn whicb had troubled her in Suffolk had ? SSI «Siug.t.d by ft. Go,r..rglme, and he passed a good deal of ber life in her <mn ooms and in semi-darkness, ministered to ror a 1v '(uho had been a member of our household 've? shlce my father's death, and whose presence < lad been the only drawback to my homo happi- J °"9This lady was my mother's governess—Miss < il-iriorum—a woman of considerable brain power, • Sde knowledge of English and German l.tera- ure. and a style of pianoforte playing which t !ways iiad the effect of cold water down iuy back. Lml yet Miss Ma riorum played correct!}', tone iitroduced no discords into that hard, dry music, diich seemed tf» me to have been wi-,t^n xpressly for her hard and precise fi^er-t.p^, ony knuckles, and broad strong hand, witha humb which she boasted of as resembling ^halberg's. In a difficult and com pi i- ated movement MPS Mnjorum's thumb worked wonders. It was ubiquitous it turned under and over, and rapped out sharp staccato notes in the midst of presto runs, or held rigid semibreves while the active fingers fired volleys of chords, or raced the bass with lightning triplets. In whatever entanglement of florid ornament Liszt or Thalberg had wrapped up a melody. Miss Marjoram's thumb could search ib out and drum it into her auditors, Miss Mat jorum was on the wrong side of fifty. She had a squat figure and a masculine countenance, and her voice was deep and strong, like the voice of a man. She dressed with a studious sobriety in dark cloth or in grey alpaca, according to the seasons, and in the evening she generally wore plaid poplin, which ruled her pquaro, squat figure into smaller squares. I have observed an affinity between plain people and plaid poplin. Miss Marjorum was devoted to my mother and antagonistic as her nature was to me in all things, and blighting as was her influence upon, the fond dream of my youth I am bound to record that she was conscientious in carrying out her own idea of duty. Her idea of duty unhappily included no indulgence for youthful impulses, and she disapproved of every indepen- dent act of mine. My evening absences puzzled her. 1 I wonder you can like to be out nearly every evening when your mother is so ill,' she remarked severely, on my return to Connaught- place after that glimpse of paradise in Queen- square. I If I could be of any use to my mother by staying at home, you may be sure I should not go out. Miss Marjoram,' I replied, rather stiffly. I It would be a satisfaction to your mother to know you were under her roof, even when she is obliged to be resting quietly in her own room,' Unfortunately my mathematical coach lives under another roof, and I have ito accommodate myself to his hours.' This was sophistication bnt it was true that I read mathematics with an ex-senior wrangler In South Kensington every other day. Do ,you spend every evening with your coach ?" asked Miss Marjoram, looking up sud. denly from her needlework, and fixing me with her cold grey eye.. Certainly not. You know the old saw— All work and no play And how do you amuse yourself when you are not at South Kensington? I did not think you knew many people in London ?" "That is because I know very few people whom you know. My chief friends are the friends of my college life—not the worthy bucolics of Suffolk." Miss Marjorum sighed, and went on with her sewing. She delighted in the plainest of plain work—severest undergarments of calico or flannel. She had taken upon herself to supply my mother's poorer cottage tenants with under- clothing—a very worthy purpose but I could not help wishing she had deferred a little more to the universal sense of beauty in her contributions to the cottagers' wardrobes. Surely those prison. like garments must have appalled their recipients. My inexperienced eye noted only their ugliness in shape and coarseness of texture. I longed for a little trimming, a softer quality of flannel, I am afraid they must huit'the people who get them,' I said one day when Miss Marjoram exhibited her bale of flannel underwear. They are delightfully warm. and friction is beneficial to health,' she replied severely. 'I don't know what more you would have.' It irked me not a little to note Miss Mar- jorum's suspicious air when she discussed my evening occupations, for I knew she had more influence over my mother than anyone living, and I fancied that she would not soruple to use that influence against me. I had lost her friend- ship long ago by childish rudenesses, which I looked back upon with regret, but which I could not obliterate from her memory by the studious civilities of later years. I went back to Cambridge, and my mother and her devpted companion left Connaught-place for Brighton, Sir Wm. Gull having lecommended sea air, after exhausting his scientific means in the weary battle with nerve pain. It was a relief to me, when I thought of Esperanza, to know that Miss Marjorum was fifty miles away from Great Ormond-street. Those suspicious glances and prying questions of hers had frightened me. Then I thought of Esperanza !—when was she not the centre and circumference of my thoughts ? I worked hard missed no lecture neglected no opportunity for I had made up my mind to play the game of life off my own bat; but Esperanza's image was with me whatever I was doing. I think I mixed up her personality in an extraordinary fashion with the higher mathematics. She perched like a fairy upon every curve, or slid sylph-like along every line. I weighed her, and measured her, and calculated the doctrine of chances about her. She became in my mind the all-pervading spirit of the science of quantity and number. Could this int6rval between the asking in church and my wedding day be any other than a period of foolish dreaming, of fond confusion and wandering thoughts I was not twenty-ona, and I was about to take a step which would inevitably offend my only parent, the only being to whom I stood indebted for care and affection. In the rash hopefulness of a youthful passion, I made sure of being nltimately forgiven but, hopeful as I was, I knew it might be some time before 1 could obtain pardon. In the meantime I had an income which would suffice for a youthful menage. I would find a quiet home for Ksperanza at one of the villas on the Grandobester-road till I bad taken my degree, and then I should have to begin work in London. Indeed, I had fixed in my own mind upon a second floor in Martha's roomy old house, which would be conveniently near the Temple, where I might share a modest set of chambers with a Cambridge friend. In the deep intoxication of my love-dream, Great Ormond- street seemed just the most delightful- spot in which to establish the cosy home I figured to myself. It would be an infinite advantage to live uuder my dear old nurse's roof, and to know that she would watch over my girl-wife while I sat waiting for briefs in my dingy chambers, op read- ing law with an eminent Q.C. I had asked Esperanza, on the night of our betrothal whethershe thought we could live upon five hundred a year. A ripple of laughter pre- luded her reply. Dear George, do you know what my father's income was ? she asked. Sixty-five pounds a year. He paid fifteen pounds a year for our cottage and garden—such a dear old garden—and we had to live and clothe ourselves upon the other fifty pounds. He was very shabby sometimes, poor darling; but we were always happy. Though I seem so helpless in getting my own living, I think I could keep house for you, and not waste your money. Five hundred a year I Why, you are immensely rich I told her that I should be abia to add to our income by the time we had been married a few years, and then we would have a house in the country, a garden, and a pair of ponies for her to drive, and cows and poultry, and all the things that women love. What a happy dream it was, and how the sweet pale face brightened under the lamp-light as she listened to me. I wantS nothing but your love 'she said, nothing. I am not afraid of poverty.' .1 The three weeks were gone. I got an exeat, and went up to London by an early train. I had directed Esperanza to meet me at the church, whose doors we had so often passed together in our evening walks, and where we had knelt side by side one Sunday evening. She was to take Martha to church with her; but not till the last moment, not till they wate at the point of starting was she to tell my old nurse what was going to happen, lest an idea of duty to the mother should induce her to betray the son. The air was crisp and bright, and the wintry landscape basked in the wintry sun between Cambridge and Stratford, bub the dnll greyness of our Metropolitan winter wrapped me round when I left Bishopsgate-street, and there was a thin curtain of fog hanging over my beloved Bloomsbury when my hansom rattled along the sober old-world streets to the heavy Georgian church. I sprang from the oab as if I had worn Mercuxy's sandals, told the man to wait, and ran lightly up the steps, pushed back the heavy door aud entered the dark temple, bushed and breath- less. How solemn the church looked, how grey the great cold windows. The fog seemed thicker here than in the streets outside. I looked at my watch. Twenty minutes to eleven. I had entreated her to be at church at least ten minutes before the hour; and I felt bitterly disappointed that she had nob anticipated le appointment. Her last letter was three days old. Could ube be ill ? could any evil thing have happened ? I hurried back to the church door, intending to get into my cab and drive to Ormond-street. I changed my mind before I had crossed the threshold I might miss her on the way—drive by one street while"he and Martha were walking on another. Again there was something un. dignified in a bridegroom rushing off in search of his bridge. My place was to wait in church. I had seen a good many weddings in our parish church in Suffolk, and I knew that the bride was :iliuost always into. Yet, in spite of this experience I had expected my bride in advance of the appointed time. She had no wreath of orange-blossoms, no bridal veil to adjust, no doting mother, or sister bridesmaids to flurry and hinder her under the pretence of helping. She had no carriage to wait for. Her impatience to see me after nearly three weeks should have brought her to church earlier than this. Then I remembered Martha. No doubt she was waiting for Maitha. That good old soul was interviewing the butcher, or adjusting her Paisley < shawl, while I was fretting and fuming in the church. I had no best man to reason with my impatience and keep up my spirits. My best man was to be the parish clerk, and he had not yet appeared upon the scene. I saw a pew-opener creeping about, a pew-opener in the accustomed close black bonnet and sober apparel. Esperanza's bridesmaid Martha would have to give ber away. I took a turn round the church. looked at the monuments, and even stood still to read a tablet here and there, and knew no more of the inscription after I had read it than if it had been in arrow-headed|characters. I opened the heavy door and went out on the steps and stood watching a stray cab or a stray pedestrian, dimly visible through the thickening :og. I looked at my watch every other minute, between anger and despair. It was five minutes to 11. The curate who was to marry us passed me on the steps and went into the church, unsus- pecting that I was to be the chief actor in the cremony. I stood looking along the streets, in the only direction in which my bride was to be expected, and my heart sickened as the slow minutes wore themselves out, till it was nearly a quarter-past 11. I could endure this no longer. My hansom was waiting on the opposite side of the street. I lifted my finger, and signed to the driver to come over to me. There was uothing for it but to go to Great Ormond-street, and discover the cause of delay. Before the man could climb into his seat and cross the road, a brougham drove sharply up to the church steps—a brougham of dingy aspect, driven by a man whose livery branded him as a flyman. "I was astonished at the fly, but never doubted that it brought me my dear love, and my heart was light again, and I ran to greet her with a welcoming smile. The carriage door was sharply opened from within, and my mother stepped out and stood before me, tall and grave, in her neat dark travelling dress, her fine features sharp and clear in the wintry gloom. 4* Mother!' I exclaimed, aghast. I know I am not the person you expected, George,' she said quietly. Badly as you have behaved to me, I am soriy for your disappoint- ment.' Where is Esperanza ?" I cried, unheeding my mother's address. It was only afterwards that her words came back to me—in that long dull afterwards when I had leisure to brood over every detail in this agonising scene. She is safe and ill good hands, and she is where you will never see her again." That's a lie I cried. If she is among the living, I will find her—if she is dead, I will follow her.' "'You are violent and unreasonable; but I suppose your romantic infatuation must excuse you. When you have read this letter you will be calmer, I hope.' She gave me a letter in Esperanza's writing. We had moved a few paces from the churoh steps while we talked. I read the letter, walking slowly along the street, my mother all my side. Dearest,— "'1 am going away. I am not to be your wife. It was a happy dream, but a foolish one. I should have ruined your life. That has been made dear to me; and I love you far too dearly to be your enemy. You will never see me again. Don't be unhappy about me I shall be well cared for. I am going very far away but if ill were to the furthest end of the earth, and if I were to live a hundred years, I should never cease to love you, or learn to love you less. Good-bye for ever, Esperanza.' I know whose band is in this,' I said—'Miss Marjoram.' 01 Miss Marjorum is my true and loyal friend, and yours too, though you may not believe it.' Whoever it may be who has stolen my love away from me, that person is my dire and deadly foe. Whether the act is yours or hers, it is the act of my bitterest enemy, and I shall ever so remember it. Look here, mother, let there be no misunderstandingbetweenyouand me. I love this girl better than my life. Whatever trick you have played upon her, whatever cajoleries you and Miss Marjorum have brought to bear upon her, whatever false representations you may have made appealing to her selfishness against her love, you have done that which will wreck your son's life unless you can undo it.' I have saved my son from the shipwreck his own folly would have made of his life,' my mother answered calmly. I have seen what these unequal marriages come to—before the wife is thirty. III would be no unequal marriage. The girl I love is a lady. A village organist's daughter by her own confession totally without education. A pretty, delicate young creature with a certain surface refinement, I grant you; but do you think that would stand the wear and tear of life, or counter-. balance your humiliation when people asked questions about your wife's antecedents and be- longings ? People, even the politest people, will asked those questions, George. My dear, dear, boy. the thing you were to have done to-day would have been utter ruin to your social exist- ence for the next fifty years. You will never be rich enough or great enough to live down such a marriage.' Don't preach to me,' I cried savagely. 'You have broken my heart. Surely that is enough for you.' I broke away from her as she laid hand upon my arm—such a shapely hand in a dark grey glove. I remembered even in that moment of auguish and of Anger bow my dear love bad often walked by my side, loveless, shabbier than a milliner's apprentice. No, she was not of my mother's world no more was Tibania. She belonged to the realm of romance and feerie not to Belgravia or Mayfair. I ran back to the spot where the hansom sfail waited for me, jumped iu, and told the man to drive to Great Ormond-street. I left my mother standing on the pavement, to find her way back to her carriage as she Stood, to go where she would. "I knocked at the lodging-house door loud enough to wake the seven sleepers. I pushed past the scared maid-servant, and flashed into Martha's parlcur. She was sitting with her spectacles on her nose poring over a tradesman's book, and with other books of the same kind on the table before her. Martha, this is your doing,' I said, • you have betrayed me to my mother.' Oh, Mr George, forgive your old nnrse that loves you as if you were her own flesh and blood. I only did my duty by you and my mistress. It would never have done, dear; ib would never have done.' "She called me dear,' as in the old nursery days. Tears were streaming down her withered cheeks.' It was you, then.' 'Yes, it was me, Mr George, leastways me and Benjamin. We talked it over a long time before he wrote the letter to my mistress at Brighton. Sarah came home from church on Sunday dinner time. The drawing-rooms were dining out, and the second floor is empty, so there was nothing to hinder Sarah's going to church. She came home at dinner time, and told me you and Esperanza Campbell had been asked in church—for the third time. You might have knocked me down with a feather. I never thought she could be so artful. I talked it over with Benjamin, and he posted a letter that night.' 'And Miss Marjorum came up from Brighton next morning, and came to see Esperanza.' How did you know that, Mr George r '1 I know Miss Marjorum.' Yes, it was Miss Marjorum that came. She asked to see Esperanza alone, and they were shut up together for over ah hour, and then the bell was rung, and Miss Marjorum told the girl to pack up Miss Campbell's things, bring her box down to the hall, and when she had done that, to fetsh a four-wheeler. Sarah was nearly as upseb as I was, but she and I packed the things between us—such a few things, poor child—and carried the box downstairs, and I waited 1D the hall while Sarah ran for the cab. And presently Esperanza came out with Miss Majorum, and put on her bat and jacket, and then came to bid me good-bye. 'She put her arms round my neck and kissed me, aud though I had done my duty by you and your mal Mr George, I felt bke Judas. It was right of you to tell," she said it was only right —for his sake," and Miss Marjoram hurried her down the steps and into the ca.b before she could say another word. I do believe the poor dear child gave you up withoub a murmur, Mr George, beoause she knew that it would have been your ruin to marry her.' "'Fudge. That bad been drummed into her by Miss Marjorum. You have done me the worst turn you ever did any one in your hfe, Martha; and yet I thought if there was anybody in the world I could trust it was you. Where did the cab go—do you know that ?" "Charing Cross Station. I heard Mrs Mar. jorum give the order. (To be continued.)

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