LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 1019, 1 October 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

TWO EVILS. By Ernest Cutiibert. ( Continued .) ‘Sir,’ said the physician, ‘my advice is to discover for yourself, if you can, the mental ailment from which Miss Foster is suffering. She has no bodily ailment, except that produced by the disease of the mind, and I have no cure for that. She has expressed her wish to return to her native town to “die there” —pardon me, sir, I use her words. Give her her wish, and no more. If she desires to see any particular person, yield that also. Goodday, sir.’ And the blunt old physician de parted, leaving a sting behind all the more poignant because it was true and struck home. He received his fee mechanically, and muttered dissatisfied as he went down the stairs. The footman opened the door for him. He gave the man a sovereign. He rolled away in his carriage, but it stopped at the next crossing for a passing vehicle. There a woman with a blue cold child in her arms begged of him. He gave her a sovereign and the silver. So he got rid of his fee ; and the carriage rolled on, pursued by the blessings of the beggar. ‘Umph-nmph !’ he muttered. ‘Bah! a fool! he’s killing her. I ove and money. Money—pish ! his burnt my hand. Hope it may scorch his heart. Fool !’ Bough old man though he was, his goodnatured heart guided his head, and the man of science was right. The gentle Edith lies now in her bright retiring-room, the wreck of the fresh young beauty of a year ago. And yet not a whit less beautiful is her face, f’erhaps even more so, it is so spirituelle in its soft transparent color. But, oh, how painful that is to see ! And she lies hack on the gilded couch, her poor heart mocked by the riches about her, with her eyes veiled by the lids binged with the long lashes, from under which creep gradually the dewy evidences of the breaking heart strong in the love denied her to retain

Mr Foster paces his room alone, fighting that ‘semi-devil, bad consistency.’ For the first time in his life he finds himself opposed by an enemy that money will not buy over, nor conscience stifle. His enemy only because opposed to his will. From chair to chair he moves restlessly, but finds no rest in their soft velvet cushions. He leans his head upon his hands, and presses them upon his temples to still their throbbing, but without avail. Every beat is to him as a note of warning. He stares into the bright fire as if to find there a way out of his evils, but none presents itself. The coals torture themselves before him into fantastic figures, and the smoke seems to curl around him into fearful shapes. He sees in the one the story of the past —shall the other be the story of the future ? It needs no ‘ ghost come from the grave ’ to tell him that his daughter’s death will be at his door. In the dark smoke he sees the vision of it, The red figures in the fire present to him the face of the man who saved her in days gone by. Will he save her now—that man she loves and is beloved by ? But he stands between them. That man he cursed if ever he sought his face again. He knows that that man will not come. Shall he go to him ? Pride says ‘No 1’ One evil. Shall his child die, and he be her murderer ? Evil again. Which shall he choose? Where shall he turn to escape the penalty he has cursed himself with ? He can pray for her life. Yes. But the smoke seems to choke the words, and they will not come. The bright fire-figure shows his daughter’s face, pale, white, and dead. The agony of his mind invests it with reality ; he reaches forth his hand to touch it, but the smoke hides it from him as it gathers. He hears her last cry— ‘ Father, forgiven ! Charles, I come !’ He utters a great cry and dashes wildly from the room. He has made his choice—a choice of ‘ two evils.’

It was a few days later, when a party of three persons were in the sitting-room of a little cottage. It was only a little cottage, as I have said, but, oh, the large-heartedness of its inmates ! It really made one shiver, after being in the brightness of that room, to look out of the window at the fallen snow, lying so cold and white, the bare trees and the dreariness. Let us close the curtains and join that pleasant trio. They are Charles Norton, Archie Foster, and 'harlotte Norton, the intended wife of the batter. (This, by the bye, was another blow to Mr Foster.) These two sit side by side upon tlie sofa, where she is working, while he, with a book in his hands, sits watching her nimble fingers. ‘ What a deep nature Tennyson must have to enable him to invest his lovers with such

a strong passionate love, that the Lord of Burleigh’s wife should die only because he was not the “ landscape painter ” she had supposed him to be ! ’ said Lottie.

‘ No, Lottie dear; that’s not why she died. It wes because a “ trouble weighed upon her, and perplexed her l ight and morn,” you know,’ responded Archie. ‘ Yes,’ she replied ; and then, finishing his quotation, ‘ “ With the burthen of an honor unto whn h she was not born.” Just proves what I say.’ ' .But it’s all fiction, Lottie.’ ‘ What is ? ’

‘Why, about her being a ‘‘village maiden,” and he taking her from her ‘' father’s roof.” He found her at the wash tub, and fell in love with her there and then. Of course he sent her to school before he married her; but if he thought her a “village maiden” she certainly could not have thought him a “landscape painter.” ‘O Archie,’ said Lottie, who, having left off work in her great wonder at this story of fact, was now looking up into his face, with her hand rested upon hia arm, ‘ 0 Archie, and is that true ?’

‘ a very bit ; and her name was Sarah Sally something or other, I forget what. Dreadfully uupoetical, isn’t it?’ ‘ Yes,’ she said, sighing as if, the romance being gone, its interest was gone too, ‘ Yes ; but yet in its fancy, Archie, I think it is delightful, and only proves what I was saying is true. Tennyson must have a very deep nature. Although he is a poet I should be afraid of such a man.’

‘Why? Because of his “deep nature”? Very well; then I’ll be very superficial in my love.’ ‘ 0 Archie, I did not mean that,’ she replied. A rchie gave a quick look across the room, and the unobservant state of the third person there being satisfactory, his answer was made so as to remove at once the little pout which graced Lottie’s lips. ‘Archie,’ Charles broke the silence, ‘I have had an offer for the patent from Abel Sampson’s firm. He is to call to-night for my answer.’ ‘ Glad to hear it, old boy. It will be a great day for you when the patent is brought out.’

‘ Yes ; a very great day,’ Charles replied bitterly, as the thought of what might have been crossed his mind. ‘ Sampson’s offered me one thousand pounds for it’s exclusive use for the first twelve months,’ he continued.

Scarcely had he spoken, when the door was opened by the one servant of that little household, who announced,

‘ A gentleman to see you, sir. ’ ‘Mr .Sampson, no doubt,’ said Charles * Archie, will you excuse me ? Show him in here,’ he added to the servant, who then left the room.

‘ Don’t mention it, my boy,’ replied Archie. ‘ Besides, I sha’n’t be alone, you know. Lottie, I want you to give me one of your portraits. ’ ‘One of my portraits?’ she replied. ‘Why, you had one only the other day ’ Yes; but then you see, Lottie, I wanted you always with me, and so I took you to business ; and carrying you about in my pocket wore your head off.’ Did it indeed, you silly goose ! ’ was the affectionate but uncomplimentary response. They are gone from the room as he replied with a fond kiss, Chat les IN orton feels the contrast between his own wrecked hopes and their bright happiness, and sighs as the opening door admits his visitor. But the man who stands before him is not the man he expected to see. Yet he is the man who was in his thoughts at that moment; the last person in the world he expected to see. It is Edith Foster’s father 1 The two men, so strangely parted, so strangely met, stand there at opposite sides of Ihe table, with the lamp’s light shining upon each, and each man playing a part. ‘ Good evening, Mr Norton,’ said Mr Foster. ‘I was told you were disengaged, and I should hire a few words with you.’

* May I ask to what I am indebted for the honor of this visit?’ returned Charles, as calmly as he could. (To he continued.)