LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume I, Issue 28, 2 July 1874, Page 4

LITERATURE.

GBOEGE LOVELACE'S TEMPTATION. A Tale in Four Ciiafters. Continued. Such was their life. Had I time I could show you more of it, and make you realise more fully how thoroughly they entered into and enjoyed it. I could also show you many traits of their character and many signs of their affection for one another. I have, however, showed you enough to prevent your wondering that they were much liked in Athertonshire, and that, in the event of a vacancy, George would probably have been returned for his division without much opposition. I have also showed you that their life was a good life—so far as they were enabled to lead one—and that both George and his wife endeavoured appreciating thoroughly as they did the advantages of their position —to carry out what they considered to be its duties. And now I ask you to come on with me to a day in November, a little more than three years after George had come to Blackwood. And before I attempt to describe that day I want to ask you a question. Is a man—usually honest —who, being suddenly and unawares exposed to a terrible temptation—that temptation heightened by the absolute certainty of escaping detection falls a victim to it, as blamable as the one who deliberately, and as it were in cold blood, loes a dishonest deed ? Ido not ask, is he blamable at all? I do not ask whether every man is or is not strong enough to resist any temptation if he choose, nor do I go into the argument that that very choosing may depend on circumstances which are outside his power. I leave such questions to ogicians to discuss. I merely ask you to consider which is the more blamable in the cases which I have put. And with this preface I beg you to follow me into George's Btudy on the 10th of November in the year I have mentioned. It is a room on the ground-floor, with a bay window opening into the garden. Over the fireplace, which is opposite the window, is a looking-glass framed in carved oak, and over that an oil-painting of Ethel, the only one in the house. In the middle of the room is George's writing-table, covered with binebooks, country papers, reports of institutions, appealsjfor money. His stationery-case faces him, and on his right, so placed that he may always see it when he is writing, a silver frame containing a photograph of Ethel done before they were married. The frame is new, the photograph he has had since he first loved her, and it has always followed him wherever he has gone. Bookshelves filled with the most readable productions of the day, an edition of Shakespeare, of Byron, and of Tennyson, Praed's poems, and a series of books of reference, fill one side of the room, while the other is taken up with a cupboard containing more blue-books and parliamentary papers, and a cabinet full of old letters arranged methodically in pigeonholes. There is not much room on the walls. but there is enough for one or two watercolor sketches of rivers in Scotland and Wales, which at one time or another have been visited by George with his rod, and among which you may be sure is the river on whose banks he first saw the bonny face of bis wife. There are two arm-chairs in front of the fire, for Ethel often comes to brighten her husband's den with her presence ; and on the chimney piece are a few nicknacks which she insisted on putting there to ' make the place look habitable,' as she said, and to prevent George from strewing his ' nasty pipes ' all over the velvet covering which she had worked. It was a comfortable room and a cosy, and there George would work away at what he had to do, and look forward to the time when Ethel would come for a quiet chat before dinner. The heavy green enrtains contrasted well with the rich color of the carpet and the quiet papering : while the absence of all gaudiness, combined with the comfortable shape and furnishing of the room, made it a favorite resort for the more intimate of George's male friends on occasions when there was no risk of disturbing a conjugal tete-a-tete. On the evening I mention George had been very busy with various matters connected with his estate, and had about six o'elock drawn his chair to the fire to wait for Ethel. She did not come, however, and he was restless and with the working fit still on him. so he determined to make the most of his time and go over a box of old leases having reference to a portion of the estate in which an opportunity had arisen for the consolidation and improvement of the tenancies. It was a cold day, there was a bright fire burning on the hearth, and as George leant over it from his arm-chair the papers which he was readwere dangerously near the flames. He had read one or two leases and was proceeding to examine another, when between the leaves he noticed a document of different shape and character, which he at first took to be a map or something connected with the sub-ject-matter of the lease. He read on, however, and found that there was no allusion in the lease to any schedule, map, or appendix, I and then he took up the paper to see what it was. As he opened it, in the middle he caught sight of his own name, and on closer examination he found it was his father's will ; the lost will for which there had been such a search. The blood rushed to his head. The room seemed to whirl round, and for a moment he lost himself and was insensible. When he * recovered the shock he sat down and set to work to read the will, which was in due order and correctly drawn. By it Sir George gave and bequeathed to George Lovelace, Esq., of Ann's Court, Covent-garden, 'who having openly defied my authority, disobeyed my wishes, and married a woman of no repute, deserves no consideration at my hands and shall have none, and who'—and here followed a loDg paragraph of abuse, couched in language so violent as to make George gnash his teeth as he read it—' the sum of one thousand pounds sterling. I give and bequeath'—and here followed a few, very few, legacies to old servants and dependants, and then the will went on to say ' the residue of my property, both real and personal, I leave to Amy Annabel, commonly called Dunscombe, at present living with the lodge-keeper at Blackwood, and who is really my natural daughter by a woman named Deane, l'ormeriy a cook in my service.' George was lawyer enough to know that the will was properly drawn, properly signed, properly witnessed by two Servants now dead. There was ho loophole in that quarter, the will was a legal instrument, aud if produced could not be disputed,

Now, mark ! George was quite alone. No human being knew of the existence of the will, for the lawyer who drew it had often said it must have been destroyed in consequence of the thousand-pounds' legacy, and the witnesses were both death. The fire was close at hand ; a few moments, a few efforts of the crackling Humes, and the will would be useless dust. And George, smarting under the vile language which related to himself, seized the document and turned towards the grate; but he hesitated and thought once more. The act would be wrong. Crime is punished even though man find it not out. ' Baro antecedentern seclestum Deseruit pede poena claudo.' The quotation did not occur to George, but its sense did. Even suppose he were not detected, what would his life be with the sense of guilt ? And afterwards ? ' To die, to sleep. To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub ; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause.' What would his dreams in the future be like ? Beyond these voices good is rewarded, evil punished. But then what was good ? he thought. Was it justice that his mother's son, his father's legitimate heir, should be ousted and reviled, and that the offspring of his father's guilt should be installed in the possessions which were rightly his.' Was it just that he, who had striven to do right, should be thwarted, and that a girl, who was sure to do wrong, should be aided in her attempt—that all Ethel's kind and beneficent actions should cease ? Then came thoughts of her. How could he endure to take her back again to poverty, to trials, to sickness 1 Was it good that it should be so ? How, if the Jesuits' theory were right, would not good undoubtedly follow the evil of his act 1 And, for himself, would not a life of perpetual beneficence, of continual encouragement to his wife in her acts of kindness, atone for crime 1 It would hurt no one. Amy should have a liberal allowance, better for her far than sole possession of the estate ; the county would benefit, the village would benefit, none would suffer. And, if this were so, ought not he to sacrifice himself for such an end ? Ought he not to disregard even his own innocence when weighed against so much undoubted advantage to others 1 What was he that for his personal freedom from crime he should cause so much risk of injury to the world? He had heard, and he thought, and he believed, that God was just; would He punish him for such an act 1 Would not that act give effect to what was just ; and would he not be, by doing this act, doing right ? And the parchment was held towards the fire—so close that a shooting flame actually singed one corner. But, no! The brain might reason, the heart was not convinced. The mind, irritated and overwhelmed, might be excited nearly to the pitch of action ; but against it, stronger than the logic which justified the act and the desire which made it sweet, arose the still small voice which said, ' It is wrong !' And so for a time—he knew not how long —George sat, his hand outstretched with the paper near tha coals ; and then, the contest over, turned with a heavy sigh and was opening his desk to put the deed therein, .lust at that moment the door opened and his wife came in, her face radiant and lighted up with the excitement of good news. ' FJthel !'

'Yes, dear. Lord Fairbairn has just come; he is in a great hurry ; he nays he wants to tell you that Mr Anstruthcr has resigned, and he is anxious that you should issue your address. But good heavens, George! what is the matter?' ' Ethel, look here !' CHAPTER IV. ' The evil that meu do lives after them ; The good is oft interr'd with their bones.' Though it was still comparatively early in the year the smoking room at the Minerva was full. The keenness felt at the great act which was to remedy the years of unjust legislation towards Ireland had brought member.' of parliament up earlier than usual to London. It was Wednesday. Little was goiDg on at St Stephen's, and in the club were assembled several members of either House of Parliament, and many mon well known in the public world, men who would be able to give you, one or the other of them, some information on nearly any point which you wished to discuss. ' What are you going to do, Henry 1 ' said a member of the Government, who was notorious for not turning up his nose at the attractions of society, to a tall gray-headed man. who was sitting before the fire reading the " Pall Mall." ' Going to Berkeley square ?' ' No, I told the duchess I should not come. No, I am waiting for Fairbairn, who promised to play a rubber of ecarte. I expected him here an hour ago.' ' That's odd; he is not generally unpunctual.' 'Who are you talking of?' broke in a third. ' Fairbairn ? I met him four hours ago, going down Piccadilly, in the mischief's own hurry ; he said he was going to see some one, but I did not catch the name.' ' Well, I hope, he'll come. I want to ask him about —Hallo, Fairbairn ! Here you arc at last! " Look at the clock," said Wynifrcd Pryc.o, As she open'd the door to her husband's knock ; "Look at the clock—do look at the clock!" v ' I am very sorry, but when you know the reason 1 am sure you will forgive me.' 'Well, what is it? Why your face is as long as my arm !' 'So it need be. I have seen as sad a sight to-day as I ever saw in my life.' ' What was it?'and several men crowded round, frightened out of chafling by the serious expression of Lord Fairbairn's face. ' You remember Lovelace, Henry ? The man with the little wife whom you used to admire so much ?' ' What, the man in your county, who succeeded about three years ago ?' 'Just so. Well, he's dead.' ' Good heavens ! How 1 When / To lie continued.