The Sunday herald. [volume] (Washington [D.C.]) 1866-1887, 1886-05-23
UNDER ORDERS.

In a shabby ground floor room, which con-
trived to do duty as study, dining room, nur.
sery, and general sitting room OF vicarage
In the East End of London, sat, one after
noon in late autumn, q mother and son.
That most pathetic form Of poverty--the
kind which Is linked in indissoluble union
with gentility--had stamped this monde
script apartment for its own. The wall.
paper had seen better days, and had lighted
on exceptionally dingy ones ; the ceiling was
blackened with gas; the carpet had lost all
trace of It's original pattern the drugget was
copiously darned in places, where thread
bare condition recorded the track of footsteps;
the horsehair seats Of the mahogany chairs
were deplorably worn at the edges, aud the
position of railway rug in tho very centre
Of n forbidding looking sofa suggested the
idea that rents or stains probably lurked be-
meath its friendly shade.
Within the Vicarage, mother and son,
needless Of the distracting sounds, were en-
gagged in earnest conversation. The mother,
middle.aged lady, with oareworn, re.
fined face, diligently darned small sock
which stood greatly in need of her services |;
the son, n young man Of about three-and.
twenty, with slim, 1.-the figure and boy
ish, handsome, sensitive face, mechanically
watched her flying needle as he listened or
replied.
Mrs. Murray was wife Of the Vicar of st.
Stephens, Whitechapel, an elderly, schol
arly, unsuccessful clergyman, whose means
were wholly inadequate to meet all the
claims made on him by o numerous family.
| The sOn-David by name-had early devel.
| Oped Intellectual tastes his expenses at
school and college had been betrayed by a
wealthy, eccentric kinsnan Of his mother.
The youth turned out shy, studious, and
dreamy, the possessor of an enthusiasm for
poetry, but Of little practical ability, and of
no instructive knowledge of the world.
When, with the attainment of the "Newdi-
gate" and good degree, his college career
came to an end, and the time arrived when
aid in the adoption of a calling would have
been highly acceptable, the relations assist
ance was capriciously withdrawn. David
Murray returned home and doubt reigned
under the paternal roof with regard TO his
prospects in life. His father shook his head
obviously when the young man bashfully
professed himself wooer of the muse and
expressed desire to follow the vocation of a
poet. "Postry doesn't pay, even wien the
writer is genius, and-you are not 60.
MUS, you know, David, "said the clergy man,
with sorrowful candor.
Mrs. Murray belonged to wealthy family
who had taken umbrage at her marriage with
poor parson. Her brothers and sisters had
consigned her to oblivion, and her name was
omitted from her fathers will. Bat few
days before my story opens a sister, the
widow of fabulously rich Eas. Indian mer-
chant, named Wilton, held out the golden
soeptre of reconciliation, and Mrs. Murray
touched 1t with trembling rapture. owe
are sisters" graciously wrote Mrs. Wilton
from Florence, where she was spending some
months, "and it is time to forget our differ.
ences.'' From this exordium the widow
passed to the narration of family quarrel,
which had indirect relation to the Murray
interests. 81 am greatly disappointed, }" she
wrote, Sin my nephew Tom-poor James's
son-who, till lately, managed my estates in
Devon and Somerset. He has given me
grave cause for displeasure, and have shut
my doors upon him. This being the case,
am anxious to make the acquaintance o
your eldest lad, who has received no bene
fits from me, and from whom, therefore, &C
cording to the way of the world"-ange
sarcasm-"I expect the more gratitude.
You have not yet, suppose, seen your way
to putting your >son into any profession
Well. Toms empty place, as steward, may
in time and after due preparation suit him
who knowsf am resolved to like the lad
even build castles in the air for him, ant
have in my head scheme for his marriag,
with my husbands ward, Joyce Balfour
who lives with me and is my heiress. Sent
your son to Florence, to pass the winter here
and to return with us in the spring Il
Devonshire. Let him spend what time and
see what places he likes en- route. Iinclose
q check for his travelling expenses"
Consciousness of the pique (arOused by
"Nephew Tom'O which obviously lay at tn,
bottom of this letter, did not disturb III,
pleasure with which Mrs. Murray received
her sisters ovsrtures. She told herself, i,
her simple piety, that Providence had opened
way for the provision Of her son ; SIN
called on David to rejoice with her.
But David refused TO rejoice. On the
afternoon when We find him in the White
chapel parlor his aunt's communication wa
under discussion. and his contribution to tn
. conversation was favored with the spice q
petulance. He was seated on low chair
at his mothers feet, his elbows on his
knees, his face in his hands, and his eye
! fixed gloomily on the fire. One clause II
the lstter-that relating to a possible mar
riage between Joyce Balfour aud himself
had aroused his ire. The young mans idea
Of marriage was high aud pure; to have 4
rudely broken In upon with meroenary sug
gestions, and with the threatened interposi
tion Of q third person to regulate his choice
was to the last degree distssteful to him.
"Who is this Joyce Balfour, mother 2
asked David, tossing aside the momentum
letter.
81 know little more Of her than your auu
tells us, dear; she was Mr.. Wilton's ward
Is rather younger. than you, / fauoy, and
!, have heard that she has considerabl
property. When she inherits my sister
estates, in addition TO her own, she will
enormously rich. Your aunt'-with
r slight pause aud wistful look In David
: direotion-"w was always fond of match mai
ing. II her fancy for an engagement b,
b tween you two young people should DO RI
allied your fortune would be made, David.
> "But don't want my fortune to be mad
after that fashion," cried the young ma
d holly. "What do l know and what do
oare about Miss Balfourr'
u "She will be enormously rich," urged th
mother, falling feebly back on her first pon
u ~ should be glad to know you were save
u from poor mans portion, David, for hay
g. learned by experience how hard II il
struggle against poverty" The mother lai
down her sock and glanced appsalingly I,
ward the young man, and he had dreams
8, an aiiuent position, to be won, not by
mercenary marriage, but by literary achiev
10 ments. But he could not brag of his spu
before he had won them; he grew silent.
20 We nave NO rlBht W assuine, hotuer,
hs burst forth at length, his slumberiu
9. chivalry awakening a new life, "that Mi
J.. Balfour would accept the honor of an allan,
with myself even II ! were Inclined to Off
,r it,"
Mrs. Murray smiled. She took up h
work again. "Miss Balfour is pr6bab
=, aware" she said, as she stopped to rethrei
:" her needle, "of your aunt's plans, aud 81
4. must know that it might be greatly again
- her interest to oppose them"
There was another silence.
= CAT least you will not decide in the ma
, ter till you have seen Miss Balfour, David
"No, | will decide till have se'
her."
.'Aud you will 90 to Florencef"
David rose, walked to the window al
looked out. But he saw nothing; Il
thoughts were far away. "Florence" was
=. fascinating name to the untraveled lad (;
wished that his errand there were not
unwelcome.
"Yes, will CO." hs said slowly, "it
can reconcile myself to the thought that q
7 BUSTING my unknown cousin Tom from n