THE FAINT HEART.

Yes, from the depths of his proud nature, William Sterling shrank from the plain duty which lay before him. But his mother must be informed of the mad act, which had made Constance Hudson his wife. Hard as the task was, he set forth to perform it.

The young man knew well, that he was preparing a cruel blow for that sensitive and proud woman. How could he present this unformed girl to her as a daughter-in-law, without a pang of bitter humiliation.

The blood burned hotly in his cheeks, as he felt the necessity of this step. He imagined his mother's look of amazement as the unformed, self-sufficient girl was brought before her, arrogant, ignorant, and so quick of resentment. How would they meet?

No princess of the blood royal had ever evinced more ambition for her son, than this poor lady. The idea of his marriage state had been one of great solicitude with her. It seemed as if some hope which appertained to her old life, had wound itself about the young man in a way that made his marriage a matter of life and death to her.

These thoughts, which pressed upon the bridegroom immediately after his marriage, made a coward of him; but he was honest as the day, and the very thought of concealment oppressed him. While the solemn marriage vows were warm upon his lips, he went to his mother resolved to confess everything, and relieve his soul from all deception. But he found Mrs. Holt in tears. Sorrows that she would not speak of preyed upon her, and chilled the young man when he thought of the blow he had come to give.

"Do not mind me, William," she said, turning the sigh that rose to her lips into a sad smile. "So long as you love and give her your heart and your full confidence, there will always be hope for your mother."

"I have always given you my confidence," faltered Sterling, turning white and red under the secret he had come to divulge. "I—I—"

"Yes, I know; but William, there must be something more than mere confidence between us."

"Between us, mother! I do not ask to wound you, but is there nothing that has been kept back from me—nothing of the past that I ought to know?"

Mrs. Holt turned painfully white, and Sterling could see that her hands began to tremble.

"Nothing that you ought to know, William, unless you are prepared to leave your mother forever, and herd with her enemies."

"Enemies?—Oh, mother, can you, so gentle and so generous, ever have made enemies?"

"Yes, my son, bitter, implacable enemies, who would never be content until they had wrested from me the trust and love of my son."

"Mother, that can never be done."

"You say this now."

"And forever; this earth holds nothing so dear to William Sterling as his mother. I shall lose faith in the angels when she becomes less than that."

Mrs. Holt leaned forward, and kissed her son with tearful eyes and quivering lips.

"And you do not condemn me, as I am forever condemning myself," she said, lowering her face and weeping outright.

"Condemn you, mother, how should I? What have you done that I should give you anything but love?"

"I—I married Mr. Holt, took half my life from you, and gave it to him."

"But not your love,—no one has ever taken that from me. As for the rest, so long as this man makes you happy—I have nothing to say against him."

"William, I was hard beset. Mr. Holt was very kind to us both. I was lonely, and troubled with a kind of trouble that frightened me."

"Hush mother, hush! One would think these words meant an apology to your own son. I will not hear it, or allow the right of every human being to choose the happiness of love for his, or her own self, to be questioned. If you married Mr. Holt, loving him, it was your natural right if any other reason influenced you wholly or in part. I know well enough it was a sacrifice to your child, for which he should be grateful. It was not of Mr. Holt I was speaking."

Mrs. Holt looked up quickly, and wiped the tears from her eyes.

"Then we will speak of nothing else until God's good time, my son. Trust your mother in the future, as you have in the past, and in one thing give her more than trust. As you value the future—your own happiness and mine—form no attachments among the people with whom your life must for a time be spent. I have suffered much, William, but the blow that strikes me down will come when you bring a wife to me, such as—as—a lady cannot take to her bosom. Never think of that, William, unless you desire to see me dead at your feet, or the most hopeless wretch that ever burdened the earth."

William Sterling checked the words that had risen to his lips, with a thrill of pain that left those lips bloodless as marble. There was such pathetic earnestness in her voice, such intense pleading in her eyes, that the secret he was about to speak, fell back on his heart, like the ashes of a quenched fire, bitter and burdensome.

"I say this now, my son, because you are of a nature and an age, when one rash act might mar your whole life; there is a path before you, dark as it seems now, that God will open in his own time, which must be entered upon without burdens and without regret. Above all things, keep free both in mind and heart."

Sterling took the two hands which Mrs. Holt held toward him, and clasped them closely.

"Mother, mother! I would give you my life," he faltered.

"Not your life—only let me guide the present, that a noble future may be secured. I ask nothing more than that."

Still the young man clasped her hands, and was about to say words that he knew would smite her to the heart, but that moment the door opened, and he arose quickly, like a prisoner reprieved.

After that interview, Sterling never found the courage to wound his mother with the truth. When William Sterling went back to his young wife, the mists of passions seemed to have fallen from his eyes, spite of his love which was half pity; he saw how impossible it was to introduce her to his mother, until study and refining influences had made her more worthy of that gentle, but proud lady's regards.

There was really no cowardice in this, but the young man could not bring himself to strike the blow which might absolutely kill his mother. He saw that her nerves were greatly shattered, that she shrank from all discussions involving the present or the past, and that she had some unexplained hope in the future, which a knowledge of his marriage would blast forever. He literally dared not present Constance to her as his wife. No, the young man had not the courage to distress his mother with news like this. He would still keep the whole thing secret; would teach this bright girl to subdue all that was low and coarse in her nature. Love must aid him in this good work. An intellect like hers, bright, vivid, and receptive, must, in the end, be capable of any degree of refinement. He had only to wait, work diligently in her behalf, trust to her warm heart and quick intellect for the rest, and all would be well in the end.

Thus it was that the young man reasoned with his conscience.