LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 835, 26 February 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

ONE FARTHING DAMAGES.

Charter I.

In a darkened chamber, dark with the awful shadow still more than wjth the lack of material light, four persons were gathered round a bed, on which lay a man bearing in his face thy unmistakable signs of the summons which none can refuse to answer. A weeping girl knelt by the bedside, her face bent over the nerveless hand which lay upon the coverlet, and which she hedd as though by that convulsive clasp she could hold her father still to life. The doctor and nurse stood quietly aside, as having done their part and waiting for the inevitable end. A shadow lamp cast a ring of bright; white light amid the surrounding gloom, and within its gleaming circle, at a table covered with papers and writing materials, sat the dying man’s solicitor engaged in the preparations of his will. The instructions were short and simple, Bernard Hope had but one near relative, his daughter Mary, now kneeling by his bedside, and to her, as was natural, he desired to leave his few possessions. After an interval of silence, br-oken only by the suppressed sobs of the weeping girl and the monotonous scratching of the attorney’s pen upon the paper, he paused, and inquired, in a harsh unpleasant voice,

' What names shall I insert as trustees ? You should have two at least. ’

The dying man paused ere he replied with an effort.

‘Geoffrey Howard, Major 111th, now in India. I have no other friend.’ ‘ In that case may I venture to offer my humble services, subject to the usual proviso. I should bo delighted to be useful to Miss Hope ; and if your friend is abroad, there may be difficulties.’

1 True, Slythorpe, I thank you. Make yourself trustee, than, with Major Howard. Logary— two hundred pounds for your trouble.’

‘ N ay, my dear sir, quite unnecessary, X really—’

But again the ready pen travelled over the paper ; and a quarter of an hour later Mr Slythorpe announced that the document was ready for execution, and in a low mechanical monotone read over its provisions. The sick man seemed more than once to lose consciousness during the reading, but at the close lie appeared to nerve himself for a supreme effort.

‘Yes, that will do. Give me the pen,’ ho said; and \vith a shaking hand affixed his signature, arid with eager eyea watched the

doctor and nurse as they added their own as witnesses, after which he sank back exhausted on his pillow. * Thank God, that’s safe !’he gasped. ‘Mary, my child, yon and Geoffrey—you and Geoffrey ! What was I saying ? God bless you, my darling 1 God bless— ’

These were the last word? Bernard Hope ever spoke. For a little while he lay with half-closed eyes, still breathing, but past all consciousness of earthly things. The doctor stepped noiselessly to the bedside, and laid a finger on the fluttering pulse, now beating with unnatural quickness, now failing altogether. Another quarter of an hour passed —a quarter of an hour which seemed an age to the anxious watchers—and then the doctor laid down the thin white hand, and tenderly touching the head of the orphaned girl, said, *My dear, the Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away. Your father has passed to a better world,’

Chap ter 11.

A year had passed away since Bernard Hope’s death, and Mary still remained an inmate of the house of Mrs Murgatroyd, the good woman whom we have seen in attendance at her father’s last illness, and who, to her occasional occupation as nurse, added the more permanent one of letting lodgings. Mary’s sweet face and gentle manner had quite won the heart of her good-natured landlady, who was unceasing in her endeavours to soothe her grief and minister to her comforts. Mary still showed in face and figure the tokens of the fiery trial through which she had passed. Her slight form looked slighter still in her soft black drapery, and the shadow of an unforg itten sorrow still rested on her delicate features. Maty Hope had been her father’s constant companion; and she sorely missed the happy hours in which his power ful intellect and varied experience had been unfolded for her benefit. But she had, too, another trouble none the less hard to bear that it was one in which she could have few confidants. Major Howard, of whom mention has already been made, was not only her father’s most valued friend, but had insensibly grown very dear to herself; and when, six months before Bernard Hope’s death, he was summoned with his regiment to India, he left Mary his promised bride. Twice he had written within the first few weeks of his departure, since which time there had been a terrible silence ; and in the same week which left Mary fatherless, a second blow fell upon her. The lllth had neen engaged in a smart skirmish, the number of dead and wounded being considerable. Major Geof frey Howard was reported among the fallen; and Mary had to mourn at once her lover and her father.

The death of Major Howard left Mr Slythorpe sole trustee of Mr Hope’s will. This to Mary was a matter of the most perfect indifference. Suspecting evil of no one, she was as willing that her little fortune, amounting to some five or six thousand pounds, should rest in Mr Slythorpe’s hands as in those of any other person. But of late the attorney had begun to persecute her with attentions which, under existing circumstances would have been distatesful from any one, but were doubly so from a person whom she could not help regarding with an instinctive dislike. And in truth Mr Slythorpe was not precisely the person to win a fair lady’s fancy. Undersized, high-shouldered, with blinking lashless eyes, and a general angularity, not to say knobbiness, of feature, he might have been expected to rise superior to any weakness as to personal appearance ; but such was by no means the case. In Mr Samuel Slythorpe’s own opinion, Mr Samuel Slythorpe was a gentleman of considerable personal advantages, and it was his constant endeavor to make the very best of them. He was obtrusively, we might almost say offensively clean. His shirt-front, collar, and wristbands were all of the most liberal dimensions, and of intense whiteness and starchiness, giving him !he appearance of being, so to speak, ‘ all shirtwhile his hands, which were naturally coarse and red, were made still coarser and redder by perpetual washing. He was always profusely scented, and his short scrubby hair was tortured, by the combined use of the brush and the pomatum pot, into the semblance of the split almonds wherewith tipsy-cakes are wont to be decorated. His hats and coats were always intensely new, and he perpetually creaked as he moved his patent leather boots, maintaining a friendly rivalry in this particular with his well starched shirt front. In his habitual gorgeous array — indeed, if possible, looking even cleaner and newer than usual—Mr Slythorpe this morning knocked at Mrs Murgatroyd’s door. That good lady was that moment engaged in dusting Miss J lope’s room, and catching sight of his approach, exclaimed, ‘ There’s that nasty worriting lawyer again, Ido declare. Slythorpe indeed,! I’d Slythorpe him !’ it; would be hopeless to. endeavor to express on paper the intensity of meaning Mrs Murgatroyd threw into her newly coined verb : but it was evident that " Slythorping’ in her mind included all the tortures of the Middle Ages, with a supplement of horsepond and other modem inventions. Mary smiled at the good lady’s vehemence. ‘My dear Mrs Murgatroyd, you really shouldn’t be so severe. MrjSlythorpe is a little peculiar, but I have no doubt he means kindly, and you know he is the trustee of poor papa’s will. ‘ I know he is, my dear, and I wish h$ wasn’t. I know he shouldn’t be trustee to a tomcat of mine, drat him !’

‘Now redly, Mrs Murgatyoyd, you are too, bad,’ said Mary, smiling in spite of herself. ‘ I am sura poor Mr Slythorpe isn’t nearly so dreadful as you make out.’ At this point the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the gentleman in question, and Mrs Murgatroyd, passing him wi th a dual sniff' of abhorrence, quitted the apartment. Mr Slythorpe, for once m his life, appeared ill at wuso. 15c was got up with his accustomed earc, and the suggestion of scented soap which accompanied him was even stronger than usual; but his usual self-satisfied air was wanting. lie evidently had something on, his mind--—some piece of rascality, a physiognomist would har e conjectured, which he either had recently perpetrated, or was about to perpetrate. Let us hope the physiognomist i would have bocA wrong. 1 My tjear Miss Hope,’ he began, after i the first greetings had been exchanged, ‘ I 1 grieve to be the bearer of very unpleasant intelligence.’ Mary up with quiet indifference, scarcely |believing that, after} all she had

gone through, any news, good or bad, could have for her more than the most passing interest. Slythorpe continued : ‘ I am sure that you will believe T did it for the best; but misfortunes will happen, you know, even with the utmost care and caution. I am sure I thought the investment was as safe as the bank ; but there’s no trusting anything nowadays. ’ ‘ What is the misfortune, Mr Slythorpe, for you haven’t yet told me ? Nothing very serious, I hope. ’ ‘ Only too serious, my dear Ma’—he tried to say ‘Mary,’ but couldn’t get it out, and substituted ‘Miss Hope ’— ‘ nothing less than the loss, I fear, of the whole of your little fortune. ’ Mary turned very pale, but gave no other sign of emotion. ‘ How did it happen ?' she said, with an effort.

‘ Your money was, as you know, in the Three per Cents, where it produced a miserable £l(>U a year. In the hope of doing better for you, I sold out, and invested it in a new mining company, the Wheal Marina, which promised to pay a minimum dividend of ten per cent, and so would have just trebled your income. And this morning I am grieved to find from the Times that the company is an utter smash. The directors have bolted, and the shareholders will lose every penny of their money. ’ ‘ls all gone? Nothing left ?’ ‘ Not a sixpence, and you remain liable for calls to the amount of about as much more.’

Poor Mary’s fortitude quite gave way. ‘0 dear, what shall I do? I haven’t a friend in the world.’

‘No, no, don’t say that, Miss Mary,’ said Slythorpe, in a gently patronising manner ; *it isn’t as bad as that comes to. I haven’t disguised my own feelings towards you; and though you’ve lost your money, you know, that needn’t make any difference between you and me. My affection ain’t of the mercenary sort; in fact, as I got you into the mess (though with the best of in tentions, mind you), it’s only fair I should get you out of it.’ {To he continued.)