AMANDA'S MARRIAGE.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXXVII, Issue 11372, 15 May 1900, Page 3

AMANDA'S MARRIAGE.

Otheh people's engagements are always unintelligible. Amanda's was protracted. Year after year Iho harassed pucker of hor forehead deepened, the tremor of her mouth became more ominous. The only barrier to her marriage was—"relations" (the grammar is her own). Harold's parents reeked of money as he did of superior cigarettes. The house in Portland Placo was as revoltingly luxurious as Amanda'* " ono pair back" in Sidney-street, Chelsea, was destitute of more necessities. Amanda was of age. Unkind people said she was over-age. She was a handy woman, as Harold's people soon discovered. They turned their knowledge to account. Amanda became unpaid secretary, typewriter, nursemaid, governess, sewing girl, hairdresser, manicurist, sympathiser in general, hospital nurse, confidante—and all tho animals of tho " Zoo"- -in turn. One night "mamma," in satin and diamonds stopped at the nursery door to watch Amanda—in frayed silk and Roman pearlsplay " weddings'" with the children in an interval before tho dinner hour. "Dear Amanda!" mamma murmured, caressingly addressing her friend, a fellow guest, also resplendent. " Such a comfort in the house—so unselfish, so devoted. I really don't know what we shall all do when dear Harold makes enough to take her away from US." Amanda sat silently while the rustle of mamma's gown died in tho distance. Tho children-prodded her mercilessly, as was their pleasant habit, and screamed in unison "Again! Again!" But she did not heed them. Purpose gleamed in her eyes. Hor brow grew big with thought. Tho amazed children swarmed in hotter relays upon the available portions of her body. Tho dinner-gong rang. Amanda rose, and firmly and with determination, boxed tho children's eats all round. Amanda— matron of a year's standing—confided in a friend last week. " I made a mistake," sho said. " Girls do. They try to be kind and unselfish. Do kind and unselfish people over get their way?" "Accident showed mo how wrong I was. Then I began to make myself universally disagreeable. Not disagreeable for the moment only, lint consistently, and all the time when I 'helped' mamma with her knitting, I dropped her stitches. When I 'amused' (be children they dropped tears. When I sat, next to papa at dinner—you know I dined there regularly every Wednesday and Sunday night (or five years on end, and always sat next to papa, because he said I was so witty —I never spoke unless I had to. I varied 1 yes' and ' no' with ' please' and ' thank you occasionally—that was all. " At first they thought, I was ill, and were solicitous. Then they said I was ill tempered and wore cross. 1 didn't mind. I continued goinu-indeed, I went more often. Seldom was I absent from their morning prayers. "They suggested at last that it would bo a ' nice change' for us if Harold would ' dine me out' on Wednesday and Sunday nights. Sidney-street was so far—and they would •dadiy pay. Harold said Chelsea was no farther than it bad been. He was in my confidence, and he declined. "The household was demoralised. Despair wrapped round the family as with a garment. Mamma grew nervous and took to drugs; nana grew rash and took to speculation. Within the month mamma was in Dr. Playfair's hands; within a week papa had lost a few odd thousands on the Stock Exchange. "At last matters came to a crisis. Papa gavo in. One morning ho unexpectedly stormed the office where Harold had been doing nothing w patiently for all these years. " Papa fell upon his neck; he was a shattered man. 'Take her away.' he almost wept. 'To tho "White Man's Grave I"to the altar, even ! I'll give you a thousand a vear if you two will live hovond the radinsfive thousand if you'll settle in the country !' " Anundiv smiled sorenly upon the sunny landscape of her Berkshire home. They think me a changed woman, said Amanda, mildly. ,