LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 1018, 29 September 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

TWO EVILS.

By Ernest Cutiibert.

(Continued.)

' Ten minutes t' Ten minutes in which to convey to a man you serve the hopes lie has raised in your breast by his treatment of you. It does not seem much; but ' ten minutes' in which to tell a father, your master, that you love his daughte-, and want his consent to an engagement with her, seems twice too long. So Charles Norton thought, and said to himself that had it been ' ten seconds ' he C.would have felt more at ease, because it would have been the sooner over. As he stood there by the fireplace, resting his head on his hand, and reviewed his standing in the mill from his first service there to that time, Mr Foster's first surprise yielded to an expression upon his face which indicated a doubt as to the sanity of his clerk. As Charles Norton went on, however, and came to that part of his short story where he mentioned the daughter of his employer, Mr Foster's face grew gave, and he started when her name was mentioned It had never occurred to him that the intimacy he had established between his only child and his clerk could have had a result at all undesirable. He had given no thought to such a contingency. It was to him an improbable thing. The tale proceeded, and the face of the hearer grew from sternness to ashen whiteness as Charles called her 'Edith' only ; and before it was finished he had turned away and covered his face with his hands. When Charles at last ceased to speak there was a long and anxious pause. ' May I ask, Mr Norton,' Mr Foster spoke at length, in a strong deep voice, and with an emphasis, as his hearer thought, upon the small word ' Mr,' which was not usually prefixed by his employer to his name —' may I ask if the same " sense of honour " which has led you to inform me of this matter now has also led you so far as to make mention of it to Miss Foster ?' ' Sir,' replied Charles, who felt the sneer implied by the emphasis upon the words 'sense of honour,' ' I could not be so mean a thing as to accept a return of my passion unsanctioned by a parent —' ' Indeed !' interrupted Mr Foster. 'But,' Charles went on, 'I could not do otherwise than discover to Miss Foster the love of which I sought the honour of a return.' ' You did!' shrieked Mr Foster, starting up from his chair; ' then, sir, you are a miserable, sneaking, contemptible hound. You hop*d to find a fortune ready made to your hands, its only incumbrance being the stup d fool of a girl, ready to believe the first scamp who made love to her. But I tell you that I am too old a bird to be caught with the chaff of your "honourable feelings," and I will spoil your plans yet Leave my place at once, scoundrel; and when you seek my presence again, may I have the power to curse you 1 Take your salary, thief, and more money in lieu of notice. Take it too as a moiety of what you hoped to obtain, but never shall.' Saying this, Mr Foster flung on the floor at the feet of his indignant hearer three or four bank notes, and then fell back exhausted in his chair.

Much has been written and read of the pride of wealth, its temptations, and its falls. Before us now stand two men—one raised by his own exertions from obscurity to a station with those whom but days ago he scoffed at for their pride; the other striving upward to the goal of man's ambition. JKead in the faces of each the relative nobility of the soul. Norton's hands clenched tightly as the opprobrious epithets fell upon his ear, and he made a half movement as though he would strike his caluminiator. The other cowered before the steady and indignant glance which met his scowl, and then turned away. Norton turned too, and standing at the door, holding it open, he said, • Mr Foster, when next we meet you shall apologise ' • Liar !' cried Mr Foster. But the door was closed, and the two men met no more in that place.

Twelve months have passed when I take up again the thread of my st'>ry. All that is necessary to bridga the period of time may be told in a few words. After the stormy parting of Mr Foster and his clerk, Charles wrote at once to Edith, nobly and rightly refraiuing from exposing her father, and simply stating the fact that he had been rejected, and that the terms of that rejection prevented his suing again. ' But remember, Edith,' he wrote, 'that our love was founded in trouble; and though it continues, it may not be for long. My Edith. God knows with what hopes and how truly I call you mine; but, if you desire it, will—how can I write the hard word ?—will release you from your engagement. If—ah, why do I deal in " ifs " ? do I not know you ? —you love me still, then I will win you yet, my Edith For myself I have no fear; my hope is time.' Edith's reply was made soon afterwards. It was unwritten, unspoken, but most eloquent ; a simple case, and its jewel a tiny lock of hair. Charles Norton worked on, then, in a new employment, and indulged in a gigantic dream. M ight after night saw him sitting up working out a mechanical puzzle, but that puzzle was to effect a revolution in mill-machinery, and bring fortune and—what ? Mr Foster's weaknesses were pride and rank. He loved his daughter, but he loved position more. He did not know it, and would not have credited it had any told him so. He would have denied it. He would have fallen at his daughter's feet, and called on her to wituess how much he loved her—would have loaded her with gold, jewels, presents, all that 'they' say women want—and yet have denied her her heart's love. Day by day he saw his daughter pale and spiritless, paler still and yet more spiritless, and yet would not acknowledge that he was the cause. Change, he 'said, was what she required. So he took her to London, thrust her in the midst of its)gaietios and its follies, mid bade her forget tho ' silly girlish folly she had committed.* London society opened its doors to ths> heiress of the cotton mer chant, whose money paved the way for her reception. Society raved about the delicate beauty of the season's belle—and raved with truth. She was, of course, adored by the male ton, and was always engaged. Balls, routs, fetes, and fl iwer-shows made up, with a ride or drive, the sum of her daily life, and the novelty sustained her. But was she happy? No, a thousand times no! > v ho Went because sijo bad lib will; because her

chaperone accepted the invitations. But through them all, besides the penniless younger sons—hounded on by the scheming m-immas or with an occasional eldest son of a lord, at fetesor flower-shows, there was the one face —Charles .Morton's before her. Among the pictures in the gallery every portrait had, to her fancy, some resemblance to him; he was besides her in the danc , hef >re her in all places ; was with her in her dreams, forgotten never On a raw, cold, and damp day in February, in a square of London's fashionable quarter, a carnage stood at the door of a mansion. In the warm morning-room of the house two men faced each other. One was an eminent] physician, the other Mr Foster. He was hearing the opinion of the man of science as to his daughter's condition. (To be continued.)