LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IV, Issue 426, 23 October 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A WELCOME WINDFALL.

[From Chambers’ Journal .)

Continued

Bitterly did Charles Vivian blame himself, and bitterly did he lament the irrevocable past; but he was a young man yet, and instead of giving himself up to despair, he, cheered by his wife, determined to do his utmost to procure employment of some kind, and by every effort to achieve, if not the wealth he had so madly perilled and lost, at least an independence, which, for her sake, he felt he would think no labour too great or too hard, if he could in the end attain to it. But to want employment, and to get it, arc two very different things, more especially for a man who has been unfortunate in business ; and this he soon discovered. He called on many of his old friends, but the interviews were strangely cold and unsatisfactory. Even those who had received substantial assistance from him in his palmy days, now either ignored that fact or forgot it; and after expressing some words of conventional condolence, and regret that they had no influence, &c, he would take his departure, depressed and desponding, but resolved, nevertheless, not to be quite dismayed. The Atwoods assumed an attitude of righteous indignation, and stood aloof, Such a scandal--such monstrous behaviour had never been equalled—but Alice had chosen her lot, so she must stick to it. Neither she nor Fred would have anything more to do with such a scamp, proclaimed Mrs Atwood ; and as Alice had indignantly refused to listen to the most unmeasured abuse of her husband, her natural outburst was instantly seized on by Mrs Atwood as an excuse for withdrawing from all acquaintance with her unfortunate Mr" and Mrs Atwood left town shortly afterwards for Scarborough, en route for their shooting-lodge in Scotland, without a word of farewell to the sister for whom in whose brighter days they had professed so much affection. One friend only remained to the Vivians, one honest manly hand was held out to them in their adversity, and that hand was John Upton’s. John Upton, the hard, uncompromising man of business, possessed, nevertheless, a warm heart, and though few guessed it from his rough exterior, still it existed, and for no one did it beat more faithfully than for the child of his boyhood’s friend. He had never liked her marriage ; the non-settlements had roused his suspicions ; and during the few months of her fancied prosperity, he had never doubted that a crash would come sooner or later. . . , He resolved to watch well Charles Vman s conduct now; and, from a hardly confessed dislike, Mr Upton became slowly but surely convinced that his misfortunes had proceeded more from the force of circumstances, and a most unprincipled partner, than from any other cause. Meanwhile, the little money Alice had got for her ornaments melted rapidly away, and, on calculating their daily expenses, they were horrified to find how soon their little store would be ended. How they were to exist until even the time when the payment of Alice’s half-year s interest was due, neither knew; but that ‘ something would turn up,’ neither doubted. Nothing did turn up, however ; and when November came, matters looked decidedly dreary for them. Mr Upton had done his

best to hear of some suitable employment for Charles Vivian, but had not yet sueceeded; and so despairing was the latter, that at length the former offered him a post as clerk in a very small office belonging to a Mr Andrews, a quiet plodding man of business, who was indued, after some persuasion from Mr Upton, to give the ci-devant wealthy banker a trial.

Bravely and well he bore his altered f ortunes, and thankfully did he accept the only employment which it seemed possible for him to procure. The pay was small; still, it was a beginning, and anything was better than nothing. He made the best of it to Alice, describing the ease of his duties, never alluding to the drudgery he went through; but she guessed it, from his pale and worn face, but what could she do? Alas ! her hands were filled now, for, early in December, the birth of a child added to their expenses, and involved Alice in an occupation for which, in her weak and unrecovered strength, she was little able. But the baby throve in spite of its unprosperous surroundings, and though its future caused them anxiety, still the little ‘ Alice Annesley ’ became the sunbeam of their dingy home ; and as months wore on, grew into a blue-eyed, fair-haired little cherub, the image, as John Upton could have told them, of what her mother had been before her.

A year passed slowly away; it was the season once more, but how changed for the Vivians! Charles Vivian might be seen wending his footsteps daily to Mr Andrews’ office in shabby garments, returning towards evening to the home that held his earthly treasures—his wife and child. They had always a welcome which never failed to cheer his tired and aching heart.

They had a little house of their own now, as, with a baby, lodgings had been not only ten times more uncomfortable, but more expensive. It was but poorly furnished, but even necessary articles for it had been a heavy item at the time to defray out of their straitened means.

Often did Alice think of her rich sister, who, though revelling in luxuries, and living so near her, never by word or deed acknowledged her existence. Mrs Atwood did not know what poverty meant; she had no conscience; therefore, the claims of her kindred did not trouble her j and if, by chano*, any one inquired after ‘poor Mrs Vivian, * she shook her head ominously, and descanted upon Alice’s base ingratitude to herself and Mr Atwood, which had precluded the possibility of further intercourse; and she would throw out vague hints infinitely damaging to the character of both her sister and her brother-in-law, which were instantly disseminated far and near as authentic facts, by those who heard them. Her heart was hard, very hard, for once she saw her sister, saw Alice shabbily dressed, and looking thin and ill, whilst she, child of the same parents, leaned back in her luxurious barouche, and, passing the pale wayfarer, looked the other way! Shocked and grieved, Alice reached home after the rencontre feeling more worn and exhausted than usual; her baby was fractious, and the day was overpoweringly hot. When the evening came, and her husband’s welcome figure stood in the doorway, poor Alice, without rhyme or reason—so it seemed to him—threw herself into his arms, and relieved her feelings with a good cry. He proved a very efficient comforter, and by tea-time Alice was herself. After that cheering meal was ended, they went out for a. quiet stroll, which was the one pleasure they could have, for it cost nothing. What castlebuildings went on during those evening walks—what pieces of impossible good fortune they suggested as possibilities—what things they were to do, if ever they got rich again—and how differently they would spend their lives, poor souls ! They cheered each other up with visions of what certainly seemed highly improbable events, until some more prosaic subject connected with immediate contingencies dispelled their brilliant imaginings. They saw little of Mr Upton now; he had been very busy lately, and though Charles called occasionally, Alice was too constantly with her baby to be able to leave it much ; sometimes he sent them fruit, sometimes some game or other little delicacies, and on very rare and unexpected occasions, he visited them. He had been a hard-working man all his life, and even now, though he had passed the threescore and ten years allotted to him, did not relax from his business habits. He lived in a handsome house in Russell square, solitary, and with apparently no interest in life beyond his chambers in Lincoln’s Inn; occasionally he gave dinner-parties, and occasionally dined out; but there John Upton’s gaieties ended. He was wonderfully punctual in his habits, and on his not making his usual appearance one morning at nine o’clock in the dining-room, where breakfast awaited him, his worthy old housekeeper became alarmed, and proceeded to his bedroom, where she was horror-stricken to find her master lying in his bed stone dead. ‘Died from natural causes,’ was the verdict at the inquest that followed ; and a few days afterwards, in the presence of a few friends—Charles Vivian amongst the number, and Mr Atwood, who ‘ cut ’ him without any hesitation—John Upton was laid in his last resting place. {To he continued.)