The Mistake I Made.

Te Aroha News, Volume III, Issue 134, 26 December 1885, Page 6

The Mistake I Made.

Let mesee ~where*was~it that I first met^ Herf 6£ $&W W^W***?* lurches of the old li^dge, J9pftba| W :^ d J* light. A globe of je^liBh t J^eari c slpwty ! a* cendtog «ut of t^e,e*pt— tiie ahadows ofs&e bridge . resting , spftly on the . mirrortiike surtafee or the rive* ; the sound » of . a fliiW played softly alar off, and ' all of a sudden the keel of my boat coming, sharply into oontact with somebody^ else'? 'V ; *' j you r cried out a clear, JopN 9 ?' young voice." ** Where, are, ypn t "going to t Why don't you look which way yoli are' steering?" , ; \ "Charley Dresden!" cried out I, little heeding the torrents of obloquy he was beginning to heap upon me. , . '*• Old lfcortimore," lie responded, joyously; •« Why.;^6 on earth would have thought of finding you dreaming on the , Thames ? Here ! Gome into my boat. Hitch on your old craft behind ! And let me introduce you to Miss Sophy/Adriance.'* I looked a»,sharply at Miss Sophy as the moonlight' and my own modesty would tot me, for I* knew that she was the especial admiration 'of my friend Charley -Dresden. I had heard her blue eyes and peach-blossom cheeks raved about until even my much enduring patience had failed. - 1 had listened to^rhapßodles about her sweet "voice and pretty ways. : 1 had* been called upon to criticise original poems composed in her honour, until the subject, had> long since, palled upon'me— andhere'lhacl stumbled, as it were, upon her just as Charley was on the threshold tfadeclarajaon. l She -Was- pretty; slight,' round and rosy, with ch>na-bl»e_ eyes,., a . dimple in either cheek, and golden brown hair worn in long loose curls, with none of the fashionable abominations of crimps, frizzes, and artificial braids about her. There was something flower-like and delicate in her prettiness, something unconsciously imploring in her way of lifting her eyes up to your face. Hardened old bachelor though I was, I felt as If I could have fallen in love with her on the spot, if I hadn't know so well that Charley had the first innings. We rowed home together— or, at least, as far on our way nome as the Thames would take us. Sophy' sang little boat ballads! Charley roared out tenor barcaroles. I even essayed a German student song which I had learned in Heidelberg, nobody knows how long ago, and we parted, the boat of friends. A week afterwards Dresden and I met face to face in St. James's-street. " Hallo, Mortimore !" said Charley, his honest visage lightening up. " What do you think of her ?" " I think she is a pearl— a jewel— a princess among women 1" I answered, with perfect sincerity. "Congratulate me, then !" cried Charley, beaming all over, '• for I am engaged to her. Only last night ! Look here !" opening the mysterious silver case which he took from his inner vest pocket. " What do you think of that for an engagement ring ?" "A fine diamond," said I, putting my head dritically on one side; "and fancifully set." , n #J " We're to be married in October," said Charley, lowering his voice to the most confidential tones. "It might have been sooner if I hadn't undertaken that business in Prance for our firm. Bat I shall be sure to be back by October, and the money I shall make will -be acceptable towards fitting up and furnishing our new home. Because, you know, Mortimore, I'm not rich." So we parted with a reciprocating squeeze of the hand, and Charley's bright face haunted me all day with a sort of reminiscence of what might have happened also to me, if I hadn't been fi ve-and : fortyj with a bald spot on the back of my head. I spent an evening with her afterwards at the West End Hotel, where she and her mother— a nice, bright-eyed little woman, the full-blown rose to corresphnd with Sophy's budding loveliness -dwelt, in the cosiest of apartments, furnished in dark blue reps, and with canaries and geraniums in the windows. It was a pleasant evening, and it would have been still pleasanter if Charley and Mies Adriance had not both agreed by mutual consent to put me and the expectant mother-in-law on the same platform of old fogeyism, and expected us to talk politics, religion, and the last new opera by the shaded gaslight, while they did the Romeo and Juliet basinees out on the balcony, 1 I dare say they enjoyed it ; but it was rather embarrassing, you see, to Mamma Adriance and me. "It's so kind of you to come," Baid Sophy, with a gentle pressure of the hand when I went away. '* lam so glad to welcome Charley's friends." And I felt that I could cheerfully sit through another evening of common-place chit-chat and photograph albums for such a reward as that. Well, Charley Dresden went away, and as he didn't particularly leave Sophy Adriance in my charge, I didn't feel called upon to present myself at the lodging-house where the blue reps figured and the canaries sang in the south windows. I supposed, naturally enough, that all was going right, until one day I received a note from my old friend, Bullion, the banker, a man of- sixty, who wears a wig and spectacles, and counts his income upon the double figures. Bullion wrote from Brighton, where he had gone because ,he didn't know what else to do with himself in the dull season. He asked me to be hi* best man. Bullion was going to be married ! "Of course, you'll think it a foolish thing for me to do," wrote Bullion ; »« but!* even at sixty a man has not entirely outlined the age of sentiment ; and when once you see Sophy Adriance you will forgive any Beeming inconsistency on my part." " Sophy Adriance !" Was this the way poor Charley's blue-eyed fiancee was serving him while he was across the Channel trying to earn a little money for her sake ? My heart rebelled against the fickleness of woman. I went straight to the West End Hotel. It was possible that I might be misled by a similarity of name, although even that was unlikely. "Is Mies Adriance at home ?" I aßked of the waiter who answered the bell. " No, sir. Miss Adriance is spending a few weeks with a friend at Brighton," she !'! ' answered, promptly. That was enough, I went home and inclosed Bullion's letter in another envelope, directing it to poor Charley Dresden's address, Poste Bestante, Paris, adding a few lines of my own, wherein I endeavoured to mingle consolation and pbildsophy as aptly as possible. , : * "It ip an ungracious thing for me to do,. sending this letter," wrote I, " but I be ' lieve it to' be the part of a true friend to undeceive you as promptly as'^possible; Bullion.' is a millionaire; Sophy is~ but, a 1 fallible mortal after \ all; ' Be' ' a man, Dresden, and remember that she is V not' 'the* only woman in the world' who would rather be an old man's darling than ' -' 'young 'inai^fl slave" ' , ' , ] ft And then I wrote, curtly declining to iz " stand up" with old Bullion^ 1 ItwaWjbutafew days subsequently f A the waMr/ showed, an elegantly dressed 'i'ybungla%y into ,my ro,6m # a|the 4 hofel where I was stopping. I rose in some ; surprlße.

rail, i\ recognised the- soft blue eyes and aairi^lfrr&e+eheeks oiSophy Adriance. " I know you won't mind my ccMfiing to y oWlom'-becauye «ra6tl^lflc^ lather, td me.' 1 !l winoed, ft>litttev*t thie^ " ButXhave receded) such, »{le|;te* v from bnarley, and w-£a you've knoWblm^ ong time, I thought' petha^s you fohld e*^ dam it -to m& •- Oh, I haver (been Abo ! And indeed, indeed, I didn/t ieaerveitl" > .>' ,; ■ " j •She gave ime a tear-blotted letter, -and bhen sat. down to ory quietly in the.corner of i the sofa, until such time as I should have finished its perusai_ ■■ .n ■', ,■- ! It was a fit mirror of Charley Dresden's mv petubus 1 nature, full of bitter refrroaohes.i dark innuendoes, hurling baofrher troth and* hinting gloomily at suioidet When Lread !ifc, I scarcely wondered at poor Sophy's distress. . ' I "What does he mean, Mr Mortimorer asked Sophy, plaintively, '* when he accuses !me of deceiving him, of selling myself to the highest bidder? Oh, it'a so dreadful I" I folded the letter, and looked severely at her. v "Miss Adriance," said 1, gravely, "it strikes me you are trying to play -a double part here. The affianced bride of Benjamin Bullion ought hardly to hope to retain the allegiance of poor Charles Dresden into the bargain." I KI don't understand you,'! said Sophy, looking' wistfully at me. ** Are you not about to become^the; wife ; of Mr Bullion, the banker?" I asked, sternly. "Oh, dear ho," said Sophy. "That's mamma !" "EH!" gasped I. "It's mamma," answered Sophy. " She's to be married next week i Didn't you know it?" . , • I stared straight before me. Well, I had got myself into a pretty pickle by meddling officiously in affairs that didn't concern me. " Look here, Miss Adriance," said I, " I will tell you all about it." So I did. I described old Bullion's letter, my own false deductions therefrom, and the rash deed I had committed-|n.send-ing the banker's correspondence to Charley Dresden. "And now," said I, "do you wonder that he is indignant ?" Sophy's face grew radiant. " But there's no harm done," said she. "No real harm, I mean. Because I've written him a long letter all about mamma and Mr Bullion, . which he must have received almost the next mail after he sent off this cruel, cruel sheet of reproaches. And pray, Mr Mortimore, don't look so woe begone," she said, kindly, " Your mistake was natural enough." Sophy was a true prophet. There was no " real harm " done. The next mail brought a letter full of entreaties to be pardoned, and a brief, brusque note to me, which told me, not exactly in so many words, but in spirit, that I had a great deal better have minded my own business. Which I really think I had. I stood up with old Ben Bullion and that full-blown rose, Sophy's mamma, after all ; and when Charley Dresden came home, I cut the big wedding-cake at his marriage feast. Papa Bullion gave the bride away, and people say that Sophy was the I prettiest bride of the season. But it came very near being a broken off affair at one time, and all through my fault. I've since learned" to hold my tongue— a lesson none the less valuable for being learned late in life !— " Prize Tit-Bit."