They called it a breakfast; my notion of a good breakfast was ham and eggs and a pint of coffee. But at that so-called breakfast the only drink was a wine I had heard of, to be sure, but never seen—champagne— Jim said he thought was yellow bobbin-water. Then when the health of brides and grooms had been drunk, Mr. Buckley said:
“Now, Mr. Freeman, it’s your turn.” And the portly old gentleman rose and spoke as follows:
“It is known to most of you that the father of Mrs. Abel Holmes”—that was my Miriam, if you please—“was the Rev. James Garside, son of a wealthy client of my firm. Mr. Garside, senior, predeceased his wife by many years, and young James was left to the care of his mother. Mrs. Garside, a most worthy lady, took into her household a foundling who had been left upon the steps of her house—a girl babe. She became attached to the infant, and it was given the name of Esmeralda. The child grew in years, in grace, and beauty, and, as might have been foreseen, young James became enamoured of her. He persuaded her to a clandestine marriage, fearing his mother’s wrath. In this he did wrong, but I am not here to censure the dead. We all know how terrible have been the consequences of that first wrong step—the wreck of his mother’s happiness, of his wife’s, of his own, and but for a most happy chance, of the fruit of that marriage, the beautiful maiden, Miriam, who has to-day become Mrs. Abel Holmes, a rare jewel finding, I trust, a worthy setting.
“I believe that Mr. James Garside was counselled to that fatal folly by his tutor, a man in whom Mrs. Garside, sen., had the utmost confidence, of which he, alas! proved himself unworthy, and betrayed. It is, happily, no part of my duty to apportion the blame between young Mr. Garside and his tutor. Probably the youth required little encouragement to do what he did. But it is certain that the tutor profited greatly by the issue of that wicked counsel. I know that he artfully fanned the fires of the mother’s wrath against her misguided son. I know also that he told the unhappy Esmeralda that her marriage at Gretna Green was no real marriage, and that the brand of shame would for ever rest upon her offspring. I know because…”—and here the speaker paused dramatically. “I know,” he resumed, “because he has told me so with his own lips!”
I started from my chair, upsetting a glass of that sparkling wine over my brand new breeches.
“What!” I cried, “does the monster live?”
“No, sir, he does not. He is beyond the vengeance of man. He died some months ago, a remorseful and, I hope, a truly penitent man. He had never married, and he was a man of saving, almost miserly, habits. He seemed to have no use for money, save to watch it grow. What pleasure he got from the fruit of his scheming, if indeed he got any, I know not. He always struck me as one of the most joyless creatures the sun ever shone upon and failed to gladden. I became acquainted with him in my capacity as Mrs. Garside’s legal adviser, and afterwards my firm acted for him when he became her executor and sole legatee, with the exception of a small annuity to the Rev. James, Miriam’s unhappy father.
“When that father died we only surmised the fact of his death from the fact that he ceased to call at the office for his yearly due. He had absolutely refused to tell us the place of his abode. That he had left lawful issue, the smiling bride who graces this festival, I had no idea, nor was it my duty to inquire, for the annuity died with the annuitant. The bulk of Mrs. Garside’s considerable estate passed by her will to Mr. Stringer, the tutor.
“Some months ago Mr. Stringer sent for me. He confessed his part in the sad estrangement between mother and son. He instructed me to prepare a will. It is here.”
Mr. Freeman laid a document upon the table by his side, took a modest sip from his glass, passed a silk handkerchief across his mouth, took a pinch of snuff with great deliberation, then resumed: