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?’

Horace did not mean to speak brutally; in his wonderment he merely pressed for a complete explanation.  The answer was a sob, and for some moments neither of them spoke.  Then the mother, her face still hidden, went on in a thick voice: 

’I married because I was poor—­for no other reason—­and then came the temptation.  I behaved wickedly, I deserted my little children.  Don’t revenge yourself upon me now, darling!  If only I could have told you this before—­I did so want to, but I was afraid.  I had to conceal half my love for you.  You can’t imagine how I have suffered from your anger, and from Nancy’s coldness.  You don’t know me; I have never been able to let you see what I really think and feel.  I am worldly; I can’t live without luxuries and society and amusements; but I love you, my dear son, and it will break my heart if you ruin yourself.  It’s true I thought of Winifred’s money, but she is very fond of you, Horace; her mother has told me she is.  And it was because of my own position.  I have spent nearly all my husband left me; it wasn’t enough to supply me with an income; I could only hope that something—­that you, dear, would forgive your poor mother, and help her.  If you cast me off, what shall I do?’