Mrs. Damerel went pale, and stood motionless. ‘Horace, you can’t be so wicked as that!’ ‘It’s better,’ he pursued recklessly, ‘to break it off now, than to marry her and make her miserable. I don’t love her, and I have never really thought I did. I was going to marry her only for her money. Why she wants to marry me, I don’t know. There’s something wrong; she doesn’t really care for me.’ ‘She does! I assure you she does!’ ‘Then I can’t help it.’ Mrs. Damerel went close to him, and touched his arm. ‘My dear,’--her voice was so low that it seemed terror-stricken,--‘you don’t mean to marry--any one else?’ He drew apart, she followed him. ‘Oh, that would be terrible! What can I say to open your eyes and show you what you are doing? Horace, have you no sense of honour? Can you find it in your heart to cast off a girl who loves you, and thinks that in so short a time she will be your wife?’ ‘This again is your fault,’ he replied, with a violence which proved the conflict of emotions in him. ‘But for you, I should never have proposed to Winifred--never dreamt of such a thing. What do I want with her money? I have enough of my own, and I shall make more in business. Why have you driven me into this? Did you expect to get some profit out of it?’ The blow struck home, and Mrs. Damerel flinched. ‘I had your happiness in view, my dear.’ ‘My happiness! that’s your view of things; that’s why I couldn’t really like you, from the first. You think of nothing but money. Why you objected to Fanny French at first was because you wished me to marry some one richer. I don’t thank you for that kind of happiness; I had rather marry a woman I can love.’ ‘And you can love such a creature as that?’ Again she lost her self-command; the mere thought of Fanny’s possible triumph exasperated her. ‘I won’t hear her abused,’ cried Horace, with answering passion. ‘You are the last person who ought to do it. Comparing her and you, I can’t help saying--’ An exclamation of pain checked his random words; he looked at Mrs. Damerel, and saw her features wrung with anguish. ‘You mustn’t speak to me like that!’ Once more she approached him. ‘If you only knew--I can’t bear it--I’ve always been a worldly woman, but you are breaking my heart, Horace! My dear, my dear, if only out of pity for me--’ ‘Why should I pity you?’ he cried impatiently. ‘Because--Horace--give me your hand, dear; let me tell you something.--I am your mother.’ She sobbed and choked, clinging to his arm, resting her forehead against it. The young man, stricken with amazement, stared at her, speechless. ‘I am your own mother, dear,’ she went on, in a quivering voice. ‘Your mother and Nancy’s. And neither of you can love me.’ ‘How can that be?’ Horace asked, with genuine perplexity. ‘How could you have married some one else?’ She passed an arm about his neck, and hid her face against him. ‘I left your father--and he made me free to marry again.’ ‘You were divorced?’