LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 820, 7 February 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

CONTRITION FOR INTENTION. It was a warm June evening, and my father and mother and I were seated in our drawingroom, with the long glass doors loading on to the lawn thrown open, to admit the air. I was sitting at my bureau, examining some of ray jewellry, which I kept there, when the door opened, and M. Menton (a friend of my father’s staying with us at the time) entered. He was, for a Frenchman, rather a fine-looking man, but a man I never liked ; there was a look in his black, beady eyes which, to me, was at once repulsive and distrustful. He looked curiously at me, and approached. ‘ Mademoiselle is busy ? ’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ I replied, shortly. * My father and mother had dropped asleep, so, much to my disgust, M. Menton took up his station on a chair by my side, I say disgust, because I loathed the man; his politeness always seemed to me unreal. ‘Mademoiselle has some fine jewels,’he remarked, presently taking between his finger and thumb a handsome brooch of rubies.

‘All of this jewellery is not mine,’l answered, ‘ Most of it belongs to my mother. ’

Soon after, tea was announced; after which meal M. Menton and my father adjourned to the latter’s study, to talk on business, and my mother and I returned to the drawing-room. I had finished putting away the jewellery in the bureau, but had not shut or looked it, when I turned to my mother. ‘ What is the business that so often keeps M. Menton and papa closeted together ? ’ I inquired. ‘ Some money matters, my dear,’ returned my mother. *ls papa in any difficulty ? ’ I inquired, anxiously. * No, no ; but between ourselves, Louisa, I think Monsieur Menton has some heavy bills due, which I fancy he cannot pay ; but if he expects that your father can help him, he is grievously mistaken,’ My mother took up a book, and commenced to read, whilst I went over to the piano and played. In about half an hour our visitor and my father entered the room, the latter again taking up his station on a chair by my side, as close as he possibly could. Song after song he made me sing ; and, much as I would have liked to, I could not, with common civility, refuse.

It was ten o’clock when 1 rose from the piano and prepared to retire to my own room. I shut my bureau and locked it, kissed my father and mother, and bade Monsieur good night, * * * * fl-

it was about half-past one, when I was awakened from a light sleep, by hearing a stealthy footstep in the corridor outside my room. It approached my door: the person, whoever it might be, walking softly and cautiously, as if fearful of disturbing me. Who could it be ? My first impulse was to jump gut of b~d and see, but I was of a timid nature, and imagined burglars and all sorts of horrible things, so I remained still, listening with suspended breath.

Presently the handle of my door was turned. Oh, heavens ! I felt paralysed. A man entered my room, with a small darklantern in his hand, and, after pausing for a moment, slowly approached the bed. I had just sufficient presence of mind to shut my eyes and feign sleep as he bent over me. I felt that he had turned the light full on my face ; his breath fanned my cheek. My heart beat to suffocation, and I felt that if the ordeal lasted much longer, I could not control myself, and should scream or faint.

Happily, however, the next moment the light was withdrawn, and my nocturnal visitor left the room.

I heard his footsteps pass along the corridor, and descend the stairs leading to the drawing room. Then it Hashed upon me, though I had locked my bureau containing my jewellery, I had not taken away the key.

I have remarked that by nature I was timid; but, at this juncture, I felt as brave as a lion, and, springing from my bed, I threw on my dressing-gown, and went to the head of the stairs.

I paused. A dreadful fear came over me. All was dark and I heard not a sound. I began to descend. When I got opposite the door of the drawing-room, which was partly closed, I saw a dim light proceeding thence. Oh !my agony of fear lest the stairs should creak and betray me. On reaching the door of the room, I saw to my delight that the key was iu the lock outside. But if 1 should not be successful in making this villain my prisoner ? I shuddered at the thought. How this man had got into the house I could not tell, tie must bo a friend of one of the servants, I conjectured. My hand was upon the key of the door, when the handle, with a sharp click, betrayed me. I heard a quick step cross the apartment. A moment decided me.

I must feign somnambulism. In another instant the door was opened, and I with my eyes fixed wide open, entered the room. The thief started back with a smothered exclamation of surprise. I dared not look at him, but walked straight past him to the bureau, and spoke the following words disjointedly—- ‘ I have left my key here. Where can it be ?’

The man walked over to the other end of the room, where a great coat was hung ou the back of a chair, and began to search the pockets. I had in that moment time to regard him.

1 could hardly forbear a cry ; for, in this room, trying to rob my mother and myself of our jewels, was Monsieur Menton. He returned to the bureau (where I was still fumbling to find the key), and forced one into my hand. 1 then pretended that 1 had found what 1 wanted, and, turning round, left the room.

I have often wondered since then why 1 did not raise the house, but truth to tel], my movements on that night were quite mechanical; ray faculties seemed to have given way under the unnatural tension to which they had been subjected; I felt in a sort of stupor, and hardly knew whether 1

was asleep or awake. I returned to my bedroom, and, looking at the key as I placed it on my dressing-table, saw that it was that of the front door of our house, which Monsieur Menton must have taken from my father’s study after we had retired for the night. Then' I returned to bod, leaving a thief down stairs ransacking the place. After about a quarter of an hour I heard a stealthy step ascend the stairs. I closed my eyes, and as I did so my door was opened, and again I underwent another examination by the light of the lantern. Presently I heard my persecutor go over to the dressing table. There were no articles of jewellery there ! so if that was what he wanted, he was disappointed. Soon he withdrew from my room and descended the stairs once more. I cannot say that I slept, but the heavy stupor which had been creeping over me deepened into complete insensibility, and I remained in that state till morning. It was my habit to wake without being called by the servant, but it was late when I arose the following morning, aud I was informed by the maid that my father and mother were at breakfast. 1 could not wait till I was dressed to tell my adventure, so I threw on my dressing-gown, aud went to the breakfast room. I opened the door. My father’s back was turned to me, and my mother was facing me. She looked up as I entered the room—looked up, yes, and with a terrific scream, rushed towards me.

My father evidently thought, as I did, that she was deranged, till he looked at me, when he in his turn uttered a cry of surprise and horror. My parents both dragged me to the chimney-piece, above which there was a looking glass. It was then my turn to exclaim. When I took down my hair to brush it the night before, it was black as jet; now it was streaked with gray 1 The work of years had been accomplished in one terrible night! An explanation was asked aud an explana tion given ; after which my mother left the room, and in a few moments returned, bringing with her the key of the bureau. ‘You must have been dreaming, my love,’ she said; ‘ evidently not a thing has been touched. Our jewellery is as safe as it was this time yesterday.’ ‘Well, where is Monsieur Menton?’ I asked.

‘ln his room, undoubtedly,’ answered my father. So saying he went from the room, but quickly returned with a pale face, aud iu his hand a note, hastily written in pencil. ‘Read it aloud,’ he said, handing it to my mother, who ,took it and read as follows : ‘My Very Dear Friends

‘ I write to say farewell to you. We shall never meet again. When you have read the confession I am about to make, you will think yourselves well rid of one who accepted your hospitality and then turned traitor.

* Yes, lam a poor, despicable wretch. You, my benefactor, remember that last evening I asked you to help me in some money matters, which yon said you could not do, and you know I had asked you several times before and you had declined; but yesterday night you said you had given me my final answer. I then grew desperate (though your face was fair enough), and determined to steal the money from you, if I could get it in no other way. ‘ Earlier in the evening—before our conversation iu your study—you may remember that your daughter (who, by the way, never seemed to like or trust me) was seated at her bureau, looking at some jewelly. An idea seized me that if I could only get possession of these jewells—for some of them were very costly—l could sell them at a price which would not only pay my debts, but would leave me enough besides to enable me to get clear out of the country. ‘Your daughter, in having locked her bureau, did not take the key, but left it iu the lock; therefore, so far the way was paved for me. ‘ I did my best to conquer these temptations, but alas ! we are but weak creature?, and I at length succumbed, and resolved to turn (oh ! my friends, pass over the word as soon as possible) thief ! So at an early hour this morning, opened the bureau, and was about to take the jewels, when, hearing the handle of the door move, I went to see the cause, and imagine my feelings at seeing your daughter standing before me. I soon perceived, however, by the fixed look in her eyes that she was asleep. She began talking disjointedly of having left the key in the lock of her bureau. I went to my great coat which was in the room, and got a key —that of the front door—which I had taken from your study, and forced it into her hand. She believed herself to be the possessor of what she wanted, and, turning round, left the room. ‘ For some moments I stood where she had left me, looking after her, as if I myself were in a dream. When I had seen her standing before me, with a face as pure and innocent as her mind, unconscious of all evil or danger, I seemed to realise for the first time what a mean and guilty wretch I was. ‘ Contrition seized me; I recoiled with horror from the thought of the action I had been about to commit, and thanked Heaven it was not too late to resist the temptation. After the lapse of a few moments, I went up to her to possess myself of the key I had put iu her hand, which I found on her dressing-table. I then went back to your study, put it back in its place, wrote the present letter, opened the windows and shutters, and bade farewell to the house where I had spent so many happy hours.

‘ And now that you know what I have done, try and forget my ingratitude if you can.

‘ Ever yours loving, ‘ My dear friends, ‘Eugene Menton.’

So ended the letter. Poor man ! I inquired of my father if nothing could be done to trace him, and get him to return. He replied that he would do what he could. We succeeded in tracing him to Paris, and there the clue was lost. Wc tried every means which occurred to us for discovering his whereabouts, and inserted advertisements iu the French aud English papers, begging him to let us know at least that he was alive and well; but all our endeavors were in vain—we never heard of him again.

We often think of him with pity and regret, for, whatever were his faults, there must have been some good in a man who was capable of feeling such profound and sincere contrition for a guilty intention.

A Settled Question. There are few subjects that are not open to debate. Captious disputants are to be found who are even prepared to prove that black is white, bntther;.' is one point so well settled that no one, except the man who denrs the rotundity of the earth, will be likely to dispurr- it—viz. that as a general invfgorant, a blood depnreuT, a care for sick headache, a remedy for hysteria, an appetising n.nic, » mild vxhilarant, Udolpho Wolpb’S Schiedam Aromatic Schnapps is unso • pissed.—[ADVT.J