LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 1021, 3 October 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

TWO EVILS.

By Ernest Cuthbert.

(Concluded.')

'We will not put it on a point of honor. Mr JNorton,' said Mr Foster, with an alfecta tion of bonhomie he was far from feeling •If at all, the honor is mine. You did me the honor a year ago of making me a proposal for my daughter's hand We will say nothing of the events antecedent to that, because to a man of your noble nature it would doub less be distasteful to hear recounted the heroic act which saved my daughter's life—' 'Pa> don me, sir,' interrupted Charles coldly, although his voice trembled audibly. ' Pardon mc ; but to seek a man in his own house, and there to insult him with studied phrases of cold civility, is an impertinence which not even the circumstance you have alluded to will permit me to suffer.' ' You misunderstand me. Be'ieve roe, I have no intention, no desire, to do so. I feel deeply the obligation I am under by that act. It is to that obligation my visit heie has reference. Subsequent to that heroic act you r'id me the honor of making me a proposal for my daughter's hand, and I refused it, from uoSsense of. your UttWOrthi" ness, iMifc—'

'Spare me your reasons, sir. They were sufficiently stated at the time, and I carry the remembrance of them now very deeply.' Mr Norton, you do me injustice Why nob meet as friends? Suppose that offer remade, and that I were to accept it. Suppose that I made the offer to yon, gave my sanction to my daughter's marriage with you, what would be your answer ?' These were startling words; but Charles managed to reply, in the same cold tone, ' When it is made, sir, then will be time

enough to reply to it.' 'lt is made, Mr Norton, faithfully and fully. I have seen my error and admit it. Your answer ?'

' I refuse to accept your offer.' ' Refuse ! Oh, no, no, no ; you cannot mean that!' exclaimed Mr Foster, startled by the unexpected answer. ' You don't know what you say. My daughter lives only for you. Can Igo back and kill her with the story of your refusal? O Mr Norton, I am a broken man, my hair gray with the anguish of the past year. I see my daughter dying before me. I tell you she is dying, and you can save her. You will do so, will you not ? ' And Mr Foster, in the sudden outburst which followed Charles's startling reply, and which struck his hearer like an electric shock, leant over the table, and tried to seize Norton's hand, which rested tht r«; but Charles drew back.

There was much to pity in Mr Foster now : his hair was gray, as he sa d ; and the plead ings of his voice bespoke the anguish of his mind. And ' harles, too, with his love for Edith as strong as ever, to hear that she was dying! How strong his nature he knfw not until that moment; until the man who had defied it, scoffed at its impulses, and cursed—ay, cursed—the man who owned them, told the terrible tale. 'You will save her, will you not, Mr Norton ? May I tell her that' you will see her ?' pleaded Mr Foster, after a pause. ' What I did then was for the best; but it was wrong, and my sin has found me out. 'Enough, sir,' interrupted Charles. ' I cannot be bought for a wife, nor speculate for one, as you once accused me of doing. You cursed me if ever I sought your face. I have not done so ; but you come to me now, and tell me that you were wrong. I have no answer to make to what you then said.' 'Mr Abel Sampson, sir,' interrupted the servant. 'He will not detain you long.' ' Show him up. Mr Foster, our interview ends here. The past is dead to me, I forgive you ; may you forgive yourself !' ' One won?,' said Mr Foster. But Abel Sampson's step was outside, his hand was on the handle of the door. It was too late !As Edith's father left the room, with the hope, which had been an evil, destroyed, Abel Sampson entered it. His was also a proposal.

Tea minutes sufficed for that interview; and when the Quaker merchant left the house, Charles was no longer a clerk. His patent was successful. He was a partner in Abel Sampson's firm. He was richrich ! There was magic in the words, helped on by the. fancy of what might not yet be done, tie could buy up Mr Foster; would do it. Could re turn him his own base coin, and reply to him in his own words of that year ago. His fancy and his vision carried him onward still, and like the dreamer in the " Arabian Nights," he could see the old man begging for mercy before him. He could grind him down—would do so ; could starve him ; drop by drop could drain out his life's blood—would do so. Would haunt him ever with the memory of the wrong which bred the bitter hate, and — Oh ! that was the awakpning. What of his daughter, the fair and gentle Edith ; the fresh young life which he had saved; the woman he had confessed his love to, and a tress of whose bright brown hair stid nestled in the little fold of silk over his heart—that heart which still beat in pure love and deep affection for her? Could he pursue the vision which the demon Revenge bad con jurpd up before him ? Should she know that he was rich, would &he not believe that he had wooed her only for her money's sake ? Would she not despise the man who drew from her a confession of her love only for his own eirichment? Should she say that now he had won fortune without her she had neither his love nor care ? ' No,' a thousand times 'No.' He could defy the father. What was the story, that she was dying? Was it true ?

' But I can save her,' he cried, starting up. ' She sha'l not die, I swear -1 ' ' I'm listening for the music I heard in days

of old, The bursts of joyous merriment from lips

that now areloold, The laughter and the tones of love ere yet I'd tasted pain ; Oh, hush the sounding strings awhile, and they'll coma back again ' The words came in a gush of soft melody, full of exquisite tende ness and feeling, from the adjoining room. It was hi» sister singing. And the words—were they prophetic ? 'The tones of love ' - her love ; would he hear them ? Would they ' come back again,' and for him ? Would he hear them, and from her ? Was he not rich ? Who should keep him from her now ? There was the model of his patent before him. It meant succe s, position, wealth! Yes, yes; riches! He was rich - rich ! and— A sudden check—a wild laugh—a giddiness—the hands to the head—a cry—a heavy fall—and Charles Norton lies senseless.

Yet one scene more. Far away from the noise of the northern cotton town, the bustle of its busy mills, the heart-burnings, jealousies, and struggles of its merchants - far away, in quiet and peace and l-epose of Nature. An old churchyard, with smiling green turf, and white gravestones and monuments dotting it all about. To one of these graves - most modest of them all—an old man comes day by day, and sits upon the stone and weeps, or gazes vacantly at it untd disturbed by an approaching footstep. Those who know him extol him for his virtue and charity and goodness. Yet he calls himself a murderer. But the law does not lay its hands upon him to bid him answer for his crime. .No man accuses him. None point at him in scorn for his heartless love of gold. Day by day he walks abroad, this murderer from pride and passion and greed, and is free ! ttf an may not hunt him down, but his conscience will. He is childless, friendless, and alone. His wealth of yellow gold brings him no kith, no kin. He will die, and that for which he toiled and sinned will pass to strangers. He may build a church or endow a charity to bear his name, yet still it is a murderer's! And in that narrow grave his victim lies, and the marble monument which marks the spot bears Lul the lettors * 23. F.' aad« VqmS