A JOINT IN THE HARNESS.

Globe, Volume V, Issue 554, 28 March 1876, Page 3

A JOINT IN THE HARNESS.

BY MARIAN NORTHCOTT, AUTHOR OF ‘ TIM twinkleton’s TWINS,’ ETC. A COLD, stern, self-righteous man of business, very shrewd in bargains where his own interests were concerned, and claiming the utmost privileges ready money can command; very punctual in paying his annual subscription to the charities favoured by his countenance and support; as a creditor exacting to the utmost farthing, yet ever ready with a liberal donation for any society likely to acknowledge his contribution in the newspapers ; a modern Pharisee, who daily said in his heart, ‘ Cod, I thank Thee, that I am not as other men are,' —such was Jabez

Kyte, stock and sharebroker of Debenture court, Contango square, E.O. Outwardly, everything connected with Kyte inspired confidence. He had magnificent offices, well lighted, and occupying an amount of space that must have been productive of an enormous payment in the shape of rent; all his clerks presented a sleek well-to-do look ; whilst the stockbroker himself took great pains with his costume, and in order to keep up appearances (a rule of conduct in which he was a stanch believer), frequently invited a posse of his Stock Exchange friends to sumptuous and tasteful banquets at his suburban villa. Jabez Kyte was very rich, but, like many another City magnate, his position had originaily been of the humblest—how humble he cared not to acknowledge, for he took no delight in looking back into the past and calling himself a ‘ self-made man.’ His pride was of a different character. Some of his - more intimate associates said he was a pauper’s brat, who had commenced a business career behind a cheesemonger’s counter; others declared that whilst sweeping a street crossing the lucky chance of picking up a pocket book, and restoring it to its rightful owner, had been the means of setting him up in life; others asserted that his youth had been spent in a lawyer’s office ; but whatever his inagural step in business may have been, it was never alluded to by himself, and his guests were content to partake of his recherche banquets, and drink his excellent wines, without inquiring too closely into the antecedents of their host. He had budded into a most respectable citizen —a trifle too keen-witted in matters of business, perhaps; still a man with a high reputation, and therefore to be treated with the utmost courtesy, even if his nearest associates found it impossible to esteem him. Kyte had tried hard to win something more than cold respect, but all his efforts had been in vain. He was influenced by no sentimental theory, for his heart had little capacity for returning affection ; still he thought it would have been a good thing to have earned the love of his fellow-men. It was this, and this only, he wanted to complete his mundane content. He _ had gained enormous wealth and a high position in the City ; every one spoke of his probity —indeed, you might almost as well have doubted the Bank of England as Jabez Kyte; still, among the millions of human beings by whom he was surrounded, he was loved but by one—his daughter Rose. She was his only child, the of a brief wedded life, and on her Kyte lavished all the affection his hard cold nature could bestow. In no particular, however, did she resemble him—her eyes were of a light brown, almost dove-like in their softness, whilst his were a pale watery blue, more the hue of steel ; his features were sharp, hers rounded and subdued by a hundred tender shades of expression; in temper he was violent and overbearing, she was gentle and submissive; the good he did was actuated by a desire for publicity, Rose’s charitable acts sprang from her own sympathetic bosom—born in secret, they were carried out by stealth. Albeit the affection he experienced for his child was the only oasis in Kyte’s barren nature, he had formed plana in connection with her matrimonial future without in the slightest degree consulting her inclinations. With his monetary resources, he determined Rose should marry well; he Avould give her to no merely rich man, so that she should leave one comfortable home simply to enter another; no person would meet his approval but the descendant of a lofty and ancient family. Kyte knew many eligible young fellows of good lineage, with high sounding names but heavily encumbered estates ; and several of these hapless wights were arleady in his clutches. Rose’s father was no vulgar moneylender, demanding 60 per cent interest, but an accommodating creature, who carefully picked his clients, and troubled them for very little interest so long as he had good security for the sums advanced. He did not think it worth while to inform Rose of the splendid schemes he had concocted for her future ; she had always been a meek, passive, obedient child, and doubtless in marriage, as in most other acts of her life, she would comply with his wishes. He desired no horseraciug, club-haunting, card-playing spark for a son-in-law, but some steadygoing eldest son who was suffering the penalty of his forefathers’ extravagances. The guests at his dinner-parties were all middle-aged men, mostly of aldermanic tastes and proportions ; and as no other specimens of the genus homo were allowed within the stockbroker’s house, there seemed little danger of Rose being exposed to tha addresses of any one of whom he might disap • prove. An unforseen event, however, thwarted Mr Kyte’s well matured plans. Rose, who had just passed per twentieth birthday, had but few female acquaintances, and as they were nearly all older than herself, with no hobbedehoy brothers to be providedfor, her father could not entertain any objection to her seeking their companionship. Chief among her friends was Mrs Goode, the curate’s wife, a cheerful little lady, married to a man verging towards the completion of his fourth decade. Despite the claims upon her time of a rapidly increasing brood of children, Mrs Goode found opportunity for a fair share of district visiting and Sunday school teaching, and Rose spent many spare spare hours in her society. It was at the curate’s house Rose met her fate —that is to say, Roland Dennison. Prior to accepting his present curacy Mr Goode had been one of those self-sacrificing clergymen who find a wide field for their labours (with a scanty pecuniary recompense) in the teeming vice-ridden courts and alleys of the East end of London. He waa devoted to his work, toiling early and late in God’s vineyard, and proving himself a faithful steward of the talents entrusted to charge when the pestilential breath of typhoid entered his system. He was smitten almost unto death; the sapient physicians who were summoned to his bedside gave no hope of his recovery, and went their way ; the only watcher besido the sick man’s couch, in addition to his wife, was a struggling young doctor, who had recently commenced practice in the district in which his patient had so earnestly toiled. (To he continued.)