LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IX, Issue 1218, 29 January 1878, Page 4

LITERATURE.

HALF a MINUTE LATE. London Society, (Continued.) Why didn’t you, then ? ’ , 'Because you didut ask me, Tha Wl i y j 3 there any woman in the house to see the young woman, I ’ ‘Miss Despard? She has been hurt by a cab and is in the hospital.’ ‘Well, then, she’s all right. And I m all rigkt-theVvo P »i<ll to Saturday. I doo t mind a b.d/ in the house, not I. IU Bee to it in the morning.’ . , <> ‘There’s no other woman in the ho.se . Tffo neighbors you coaid send for . ° Yon eeera to think » mighty lot of » dood body young gentleman. Hies, yea, yon wildAif yo.r r me, suppose. Then look here—lll nuke a oar Dea l men don't tell no tales, nor dead women either, and there ain't a the old ladv but her daughter, and she won t know but what she’s buried when she gets out of hospital.. You take the body fortwo sovereigns. Done? You’ll get a whole woman to cut up, and I slia’n’t be bothered < Hay I ask,’ said Harold, ‘ who are you ? His to e was not amiable. ‘Who I am? You’re a green hand, 1 reckon for a medical man, not to hear of Kuaggs, I’m Knagga. And I can get you an arm or a leg moat days-aud bones any time. But a whole body isn’t an every-day Itwas useless to argue with a ghoul. ‘Who is—-was, Mrs Despard?' «A decayed gentlewoman, I suppose. That’s what they call her sort. If she weren’t a good bit decayed I would t have had her foi a lodger. But she scraped her rent i-gather—or she wouldn’t have had me for a landlord.’ < jt is not a common name—Despard. ‘NorKnaggs.’ . __ . * You can tell me nothing of her ? Nor of the girl?’ ‘Bless us, I’ve told you enough, hoven t I ? 1 know no harm of the girl. She'd got a few pounds to keep out of the workhouse. I didn’t ask bow she came by ’em. I took ’em, as they came due.’ Every natural instinct rose up m Harold. It was nothing to him, but he could not bear the thought of that sweet-faced pure-eyed girl coming out of St. Martin’s to find her mother dead—but not buried, and unable to find so much as a mound of turf to mourn over. Without another word to Mr Knaggs he returned to the room he had left, and himself became a watcher of the dead - he him self cculd not have told, and indeed he never asked himself, why. He closed the eyes of the dead woman, and covered her face decently. , , Then -it was a ghastly process—he set himself to rob the dead for the sake of the living In that house of ghouls, with the wind howling round, he felt almost like a murderer as he searched the room for any articles of value to prevent their falling into dishonest hands. He did not find muchonly the portrait of a handsome young man, brown haired and brown eyed : a miniature, well painted, and set in a black velvet case and frame. This he took ; and then, with a sort of conscious sacrilege, drew from the dead fourth finger the woman’s only ornament —a weddlng-rDg. He sat down at tho window, drew up the blind, and did not think it sacrilege to light a cigar. « Only half a minute’—he remembered the words of his first cabman. And at that moment the clock from near St. Martin's struck one. Only half a minute late-only seven hours and a quarter. The snow-ball rolled and grew. Harold Maynard was growing hungry. But he felt like a sentinel at his post, and it was too late even to dream of dinner now. So he dreamed of Letty and looked at the stars. It was a glorious relief when he woke from hla dream, threw open the window, and let in the sun. He locked the door, carried away the key, gave it, with all needful information, to the sergeant on duty at the nearest; police-station, breakfasted, and then went straight to the hospital, ‘ How is the girl 7 ’ he asked thet surgeon. • I saw her mother - she is dead. Ought the girl to be told ? ’ ° ‘lt would kill her —that’s all. She is very weak and ill—and in my opinion she wants food as much as anything.’ So there was nothing for it but to let her wait for the bad news. It was needless even to relieve her mind with kindly equivocation, f'W she was in a high fever before noon. Ar d so, at last, Harold was left free to attend to his own affairs—and it washigh time. He had missed bis appointment: this was Tuesday, and on Thursday the Ganges was to sail ... Obviously the best thing he could do was to call at once on old Despard : and Tuesday was a g* od day, because ha was always at ho-re on Tuesday, and there was the chance of seeing Letty alone into the bargain. He must see her alone before sailing for Fong Ring, and Ids Mart told him tlat no loss of half a minute, or half a thous md minutes, could hurt him there. H e had 10-1 a dinner, but he had breakfasted, and there was an end. The sun shone and the world was beautiful again—all but for the ssd face of a girl whose mother had just died alone. An<l that, as he drew nearer to Letty, was smiled out by the snn. It i« a curious fact that when a man is in love the snn shines even when it rains - unless indeed it rains when the sun shines. But t<>-day the sun really shone. And it was high time—for Hong Kong or for anywhere. Harold had but one sovereign left in the world to call his own. and one that he bad borrowed on Saturday from Tom Winter. But it was all right now. With Hung Kong and Letty before him he could ■Afford to be as poor as Job, or even as Midis, who was tho poorest mortal ever known. By good fortune, or rather by punctual management, he f' mnd old Despard a,t home. The < Jiina merchant was a tall, rather fine looking man, with signs of port and portliness, handsome brown eyes and Don-gray hair a commercial captain, every inch of him. People »aid he was difficult to deal with, and ill-tempered when the gout was upon him; but that is a not uncommon failing or rather was not when wine was wine, and men drank it wuhout fear instead of taking it in timid nips all day. Old Despard'a toes were often tender, but his stomach was sound. He had a library, though he never read : and here he received Maynard. ‘ Take a seat, pray. Your business, if you please?’ ‘ I was to have had the pleasure of meetina vou at my friend Winter’s.’ ‘lndeed?’ 1 1 was prevented—but it was to arrange about my going out for you to Hong Kong.’ « Ah. well. Is this your letter H.M.— Harold Maynard. Never sign initials, Mr Maynard I never do, 1 was informed you were a punctual man. In my business pun c . tuality is indespensible.’ » J pride myself on punctuality.* * An excellent pride. And you say in your letter you know what a minute means. Your letter is a written undertaking to be at a certain p'acc at a certain time I don’t remember meeting you at my nephew’s.’ * Nothing could have vexed me more. But-well, I ran, or my cab ran, over a giri in the street, and I had to see her to- a hoapita’—’ . * That was not business, Mr Maynard, There is a time f >r all things, should not have done so.’ ‘ What else could I have done ?’ ‘ Kept your appointment. But too late is too late, if it’s . uly by half a minute, Mr Maynard. Not having met you 1 have this morning engaged another gentleman, who, 1 trust, will not waste my time in running over girls in the streets of Hong Koug. Time presses, and the Ganges never delays an hour.' That wretched half minute ! It Deemed fcTOias into a Jive thing. How ouijld wo

have supposed that an errand of common charity would have cost him so much more than a dinner ? And hi re, just because he had delayed in pulling a bell-rope for an inapp’ ec able space of time, he was as far from Hong Kong as London, as far from Letty as from Hong Kong ; with only two sovereigns in the world, and one borrowed, an 1 with no prospect of earning more. The sun went oui of the day. It was a cruel blow. But there was nothing to be done After all, it was fair enough that old Despard should have supposed him indifferent, and have e jgaged another employee under the pressure of time. He could not even complain. He could only put a brave face over his heavy heart, and say, ‘l’m very sorry. Good-day’ But, as it happened, ho had left his hat in t 1 e drawing-room. And, on return! ig there to fetch it, found not only his hat, bub Letty so radiantly lovely that the sun came back again. He had never seen her so beautiful; and there was a shy joy in her face as she turned to him that contrasted bitterly with his own sad look of a beaten man. But —was he beaten ? Could he feel beaten when the girl whom he loved was there before him ? Repulsed at one point, could he not do all things for her ? Only he must have hope —he was no poet, to be willing to live for a dream. He must feel something to win That the was more than half won, he knew ; but the word had never been said, -nd now, m his disappointment, he was bmging and hungering for the w ord that would console him for all

‘ Letty,’ he said, ‘ I die n’t mean to see you to-day, but—l’m glad. To see you, I mean. I’m not glad, other ways. It’s hard that a wretched cabman should have —Well, it seems I must try again in England, after all. 1 ‘ Well, she said sweetly, ‘ I suppose you don't very much mind ? ’ ‘.Not miud?’ ‘ I suppose if you’d minded —very much, you know —you would have seen papa yesterday ? I hoard all about it, an I—yes, l“\vas very, very glad you v ere going to HongKoug. But, of course, if you can do better in England I shall be gladder still ’ ‘ Letty! What chance is there in England?’ ‘You know best, Harold.’ ‘You know I don’t know. And you know why—why I was so anxious to go to China.’ * Indeed I don’t know,’ * Letty 1 Don’t you know what I live for?’

‘lf you had cared-so very much —I think you’d have managed to dine with cousin Tom and papa ’ * 1 couldn’t, dear—Letty, I mean. It was not my fault—the devil seems to be in everything. I mLs my appointment. I lose my employment. And now you tell me that I don’t care.’

‘lf you had cared you would have done what you cared,’ said Letty, with the sweete.-t obstinacy. * Hut 1 had to look after a girl—’ ‘Yes?’ * My cab nearly killed her. ’ ‘ Well ?’ ‘ Well! what would you have clone ?’ ‘lt depends on how much I cared for her, I suppose - if I was a man.’ ‘ Letty ? I never saw her in all my life before.’

1 ‘ Then it was odd you cared about her so much as to give up everything for her.’ ‘ Letty ... I love you . . , Will you be my wife , . . someday?’ Letty had oeeu coarmingly composed. Put the quo-tion was sudden, and itwas at least a second be f ore she recovered hec comp isure. Well she did like Harold Manyard very much indeed. He darned and flirted to perfection. He loved her. He was handsome and stio -g, aud made love straight out, in the right way. She sighed. But but but—what was a girl to say to a man who nob only had no money, and would only waste her youth in a long engage ment, but was so obstinately unlucky as to throw away the one change he had of winning her ? ‘ Yes ’ gave a little flutter in her heart; it almost spread its wings but ‘O, lam so sorry, Harold !’ she said with the most touching sweetness. And that meant No. (To he continued.')