She and I | Page 4

obtained a glance, a look, which dwelt in
my memory for days and days. She had brought with her into church a
tiny spray of mignonette, and this she left behind her on the seat close
to where she had been sitting. I perceived it, and taking it up, made as if
to restore it to its lawful owner.
A half smile faintly played across her slightly parted lips, as she looked
at me for an instant, an amused sparkle in her clear, grey eyes, and then
turned away with a polite inclination and shake of her little head, in
refusal of the mignonette, which I have kept ever since. But that smile!
Her whole face lit up, gaining just the colour and expression which it
appeared to lack. My fate was sealed; and, as the organ pealed forth the
grand prayer from Mose in Egitto for the exodus of the congregation,
and I slowly paced down the aisle after my enchantress, my soul
expanded into a very heaven of adoration and love!
CHAPTER TWO.
EXPECTATION.
"With what a leaden and retarding weight, Does expectation load the
wing of time!"
When, after a few minutes, I got outside the church, she had
disappeared, although I had endeavoured to follow as close as I could
on her footsteps, without, of course, appearing to be intrusively
watching her.
I had managed too cleverly. She was gone. I had been so long, to my
great vexation, painfully pacing after the slowly-moving, out-shuffling
mass of ex-worshippers--dexterously essaying the while to avoid
treading on the trailing trains of the ladies, or incurring the anathemas,
"not loud, but deep," of gouty old gentlemen with tender feet, which
they would put in one's way--that, on my succeeding at length in
arriving at the outer porch, and being enabled to don my hat once more,
there was not a single trace of either her mother or herself to be seen
anywhere in sight.

Here was a disappointment! While getting-out, I had made up my mind
to track them home, and find out where they lived; and now, they might
be beyond my ken for ever.
I had noted them both so keenly, as to their appearance and the manner
in which each was dressed, for, in spite of mother and daughter being
alike "in mourning," there were still distinctive features in their toilets,
that I could not have failed to distinguish them from the rest of the
congregation.
But now, my plans were entirely overthrown. What should I do in the
emergency? Stop, there was Horner; I would ask him if he had seen
them. There, dressed a merveille and with his inseparable eye-glass
stuck askew in the corner of his left eye, he stood listlessly criticising
the people as they came forth from prayer, in his usual impertinently-
inoffensive way. He was just as likely as not to have seen them, and
could naturally give me the information I sought about the direction in
which they had gone.
"Jack Horner," as he was familiarly styled by those having the honour
of his acquaintance, was a clerk in Downing Street languishing on a
hundred-and-fifty pounds per annum, which paltry income he received
from an ungrateful country in consideration of his valuable services on
behalf of the state. How he contrived merely to dress himself and
follow the ever-changing fashions on that sum, paid quarterly though it
was, appeared a puzzle to many; but he did, and well, too. It was
currently believed, besides, by his congeners, that he never got into
debt, happy fellow that he was! notwithstanding that, in addition to his
hopes of promotion at "the office," he had considerable "expectations"
from a bachelor uncle, reported to be enormously wealthy and with no
near kindred to leave his money to save our friend Horner, who
cultivated him accordingly.
No, Horner never got into debt. He was said to be in the habit of
promptly discharging all his tailor's claims punctually every year, as the
gay and festive season of Christmas--and bills!--came round.
Truth to say, however, there need not have been any great astonishment

concerning Horner in this respect. The surprise would have been that he
had not discharged his just obligations to his tailor and others; for his
habits were regular, and he was guiltless of the faintest soupcon of
extravagance. He never played billiards, did not smoke, did not care
about "little dinners" at Richmond or elsewhere, never betted, never
went to the Derby, seldom, if ever, patronised the theatre, unless
admitted through the medium of orders; consequently, he had no
expenditure, with the exception of that required for his toilet, as he
eschewed all those many and various ways mentioned for running
through money, which more excitable but less conscientious mortals
than himself find thrown