LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1477, 9 November 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

OLD SIR PIERCE. ( Concluded.) Eleanor ChalLmer was a faded, careworn woman, nervous, and always painfully anxious, aa it seemed, concerning her father. Her sad eyes watched him unceasingly ; her hand was constantly extended towards him in case he should have need of her feeble assistance. ‘ You -ah you know this portrait ?’ asked Sir Pierce of Jack Osbo ne ‘ I do. It is the photograph of a dead child.’ ‘ There is no trick ’ ‘ Father !’ interposed Eleanor. * Pardon me, Eleanor. This—ah —this gentleman,’ he surveyed the photograph r. as though doubting the perfect correctness of this description of him. ‘This gentleman ’ he repeated. ‘ will understand me Imposture is so rife in the world, we may be excused for being incredulous —ah-a trifle incredulous on almost every occasion. It seemed to me not impossible—l will even say not improbable—that this —ah—this photograph was designed to he a means of extorting nmney —ah—under false pretences.’ ‘ Father!’ Miss Challoner again interposed, ‘ Pardon me, Eleanor,’ Sir Pierce repeated; it is necessary —ah —very necessary to he explicit. You say this is the photograph of a (Pad child ?’ ‘ Without doubt ’ ‘ But you are not aware whose child ?’ ‘I have not said that The child is the child of Hugh Challoner.’ Sir Pierce started back, he wan unprepared for so sudden a statement. Miss Challenger hastened to proffer him sunport; with a wave of his hand he signified that he did not need assistance. ‘You have been told that this is the child of Hugh ChaPoner ?’ ‘ I know that this is the child of Hugh l halloner. 1

‘ May 1 venture to ask your authority ?’ ‘My authority is Hugh Challoner himsell’.' ‘Ah i ”'ou have seen him then?’ ‘Yes. Mu brought the d n ad child here in his arms. It rested upon that pillow. Those draperies ware arranged about it ’

The eyes of Sir and hi a daughter fell, with a sort of sad interest, upon the objects pointed out by the photographer. ‘ Hugh OhaPoner is my son, my only

pon,’ the old man said at last, In afainttone He made strenuous efforts to appear calm and at ease, but it was plain that h« was painfully agitated. • The dead child was my grandson. I wished to bo sure that there was no misapprehension, or—ah — fraud in the matter; fur fraud is always posGble, you know, and we arc all liable to misapprehension. 1 am sorry—ah —if I have seemed too peremptory—or--ah—too particular in my inquiries ’ ilia affected manner of speech had become perhaps too fijeed a habit to bo readily

rJn 10 i; otherwise a change had come over him. He ; .id relaxed his efforts to appear y t>img ; his sprightly airs had vanished; he seemed to ronfe-s himself a very old man, hr >ken and'iecrepid. ‘ Kleanor ’ he said, ‘give this —this—ah— gentle nan one of my cards, and ah—one of your own. ,! wish him to know who I am. i wish him to know that we were not brought here by mere curiosity—ah —mere idle cariosity. lam Sir Pierce OhaToner, sir, of Stoke Dove 1 1, i evonshire, and of Portman Square. 1 sat in Parliament many years, sir, as Me i.iier for Stoke Ueveriil, until it was disfranchised —ah—by one of those infernal reform b 11s This is my daughter, sir— Eleanor—my sole surviving daughter. I hope, I’m sure—ah—that we may have the pleasure of meeting you —down in Devonshire—down in Devonshire—down in Devonshire.” Ho appeared to have lost the subject of his speech, gazed about rather jvacantly, and then turned helplessly to his daughter. ‘ What was 1 saying my dear? What did I come here to say ?’ ‘lt was about Hugh, father dear,’ she said softdy. ‘ Ah, yea true; about Hugh. My son Hugh He was a promising boy, sir; a very line young man. But—ah—the fact is—yes, I remember—we’ve not met for some yea-s, not for many years. I—ah—found it necessary to dismiss him the house, and, in fact, to disown Lira. He has been punished, as I have reason to believe. And he deserved to be punished. Ho had disobeyed me. I warned him of the result of his folly; hut betook upon himself to dispute my authority and to defy me. He married beneath him—his sLter’s governess—a young woman ’

‘ She is dead, father,’ interposed Eleanor. ‘As you observe, my dear, she is dead. I will only say of her, therefore, that she was no , i my son’s equal. I told him that I would never give my sanction to such an union. I told Hugh in the plainest terms that, if he married that woman, he should never darken my door again; that ho should never more be regarded or treated by me as my son; that all would be over between us ; that, in fact, I would disown and cast him off for ever. As I said before, lam a man of my word. I have kept my word. ‘He his led a miserable life,' Sir Pierce resumed, after a pause; ‘ a miserable life, as I happen to know. Ho endeavored to support himself by his pen. I have heard of him, accidentally, from time to time. Now he was teacher of languages, now he was seeking employment as a clerk, and so on ; a wretched life. He wrote to me from tme to time, I seldom read his letters, I usually destroyed them without opening them. Then I learnt, I scarcely know how now—that his wife was dead, and that h* was in great want. lam a man of my word. I could not see him, but I offered to help him thus far—l would adopt tho child that had been born to him. Hugh is my only son, as I said. My estates are not entailed, I offered to adopt my grandchild and to appoint him my heir. I would have bequeathed him my whole property. I would have even departed, in a measure, from my original purpose, and settled upon Hugh some small allowance that would have saved him from absolute want. Would you believe it ? He was so mad as to refuse my offer. He avowed that he was so fond of his boy he could not bo parted from him. It was monstrous! ’

• Some fathers are like that,’ said the photographer calmly. ‘ What is the consequence ? The child is dead.’ He stopped abruptly, as though overcome with grief, or because mental infirmity had deprived him of power to express himself further. ‘ls there anything I had to say, Eleanor ?’he enquired, after a cause, turning with some effort to his daughter.

She whispered in his ear. ‘ I can’t hear you,’he said impatiently. * What ? .Ah ! yes—true. The body of the child. I should wish,’ he continued, addressing himself to Jack Osborne, ‘the remains of my unfortunate grandchild to be interred in the family vault of the Challoners, in the Abbey Church of Stoke Dcverill. I desire to pay every honor to his memory. I deeply lament his loss.’ ‘ As to that, I apprehend you must address yourself to the child’s father. He is very poor, as you know. He had designed to bury his pom little one after a simple fashion —as cheaply as possible in the nearest churchyard.’ ‘ That must not be.’

‘Pardon me, that will be for him to decide, I think. He is the father in this case, you see. It is his child that is in question. If it be his pleasure that his son shall lie in a pauper’s grave ’ ‘ A pauper’s grave ! My grandson ! How dare you, sir. Where is this man, my son, to bn found ?’

* Ho lives but a little way from here.’ ‘ Let us go to him, father, at once,’ urged Miss Challoner.

‘ I will not see him, Eleano l ’. I will not speak to him. I have sworn I would not, and I will not. lam a man of my word.’ Sir Pierce climbed back into his carriage, receiving considerable assistance from the powdered footman. Jack Osborne led the way on foot—the carriage following slowly—over the canal-bridge and down by the gasworks

‘ What a neighborhood !’ murmured Sir Pierce Can it be that people really live in such places ?’ It seemed the custom in Purton’s Pents to leave the door open both day and night, for whoever listed to enter without loss of time in plying bell or knocker. Certainly there was little there to tempt the dishonest, or, for that matter, the honest either. Only imperative necessity could have driven anyone towards a place so squalid, and m’ser able, and woebe.rone.

‘You will not expect me to see him, Eleanor ?’

‘Ft shall be aa you wish, dear,’ she said, ‘ Only ’

* Ycu’re not frightened, Eleanor ?’ ‘ A little frightened.’ ‘ There is nothing to fear, my dear. But certainly it’s a horrible place.’ ‘ Poor Hugh !’ ‘ I’ll not see him, Eleanor ; remember that.’

They were following Jack Osborne up a shattered staircase, to the room on theaecond Hour. Osborne entered alone. All was very still.

‘What a place!’ Sir Pierce murmured again, He stood on the landing, waving a scented handkerchief to and fro—dabbing his white lips with it. Oshnrno re-appeared. His manner had changed ; there was a scared look upon his face, and he spoke in a whispering tone.

* Come,’ he said to Miss Challoner. ‘ I may go ?’ the asked, turning to Sir Pierce.

‘Yes. Let it be so I will wait for you here. I’ll not see him. ’

She entered the room, Jack Osborne leading her; for it was very dark. Her hand rested on his arm. He felt that she was trembling violently. ‘Hugh,’ she said softly. ‘Hugh —my brother, it is L —Nelly, Where is he ?’ Hugh Challoner was seen to be lying upon his ragged pallet. He was only partially clad ; it was as though he had fallen a&leep in the act of undressing for the night. He was in his shirt sleeves, and his foot were bare. He lay sideways, turned away from the light, bis arm curled beneath his head, Hia nillcw was the coffin of his child.

c , He sleeps very soundly,’ said Miss dial loner, with a throb of fear in her voice.

‘Very soundly.’ Presently Jack Osborne asked ; l ls it possible that you do not understaid? Hugh Challonpr will never Wikea more in this world. He has gone to rejoin his wife and his child.. Ho has been dead many hours/ * Head !* she gasped.

‘ Dead,’ ho repeated. * He has nothing further to fear or to hope from his offended relations, or the cruelty of the world. ’ ‘ What is the matter, Ltlean'-.r demanded Sir I’iorco querulously, from his post outside tfto door. ‘ What has happened ? Wb,y do you not speak to me? Why I sept, waiting like this ?’ ‘ We haye cm&e too late j that is the

matter, ’ she said, in & broken voice. But for Osborne’s support she would have fallen. ‘ Hugh is dead. ’ ‘ Leally dead? And in such a place ns this ? I may see him now, I think. It will not be considered that I have broken my word,’ He was led to the body of his sun.

‘ And the little one lies in that coffin ? Is it possible So wretched a coffin, too vi hat was Plugh thinking about ? How poor he must have been 1 What they must have suffered You will understand—ah — Mr—lforgH your name for the moment — that I never c ntemplated things coming to such a pass as this. lam veiy sorry indeed that things have ha:pened in this way. But, you see, my son disobeyed and defied m . And—l am a man of rny word. However, all’s over now.’ He staggered as he spoke, and leant for support against the grimy greasy wall. ‘ I grow faint in this dreadful place. Let us go home, Eleanor. We can do nothing here.’ With an effort he seemed to regain control of himself. He perceived, possibly, bis daughter’s weak and fainting state, and her need of his assistance.

‘ Everything that is proper and becoming shall be done. Hugh and his son shall lie in the Abbey Church. lam sorry, very sorry,’ he repeated, ‘that things should have happened in this way. You believe that 1 am sorry. 1 leaner ?’ ‘Yes, father.’ 1 Courage, my dear.’

They re ent- red the carriage, and were driven quickly from Burton’s Rents. For some time neither spoke. ‘There’s one thing I—ah—forgot,’ said Sir Pierce, presently. ‘l, forgot to thank that man for his attention ami civility. He was of real service to us. I forgot his name. He was not a gentleman, of course ; but he was certainly obliging, and, for his station, his manners were really superior. I fully meant to have offered him some small reward for his—ah—his assistance and sympathy. Somehow his face reminded me of someone I had seen or known before, a long time ago. Lid you notice him, Eleanor ?’

‘ I scarcely noticed him. I should not know him again. There were other things to think of.’ ‘True, true,’ said Sir Pierce. ‘You mean poor Hugh and his child. Yes, of course. But Osborne that was the name, my dear —Osborne. Surely we used to know some people of tho name of Osborne.'

Again they were silent. Sudden’y a strange hoarse cry broke from Sir Pierce. There was a drawn distorted look upon his yellow white face ; a deadly glazed sightlessness about his eyes ; his hands twitched and wrestled convulsively. He rolled or slipped from his seat on to the lioor of the carriage, crushing Lis glossy hat ruinously in his fall.

‘She did not know me, had completely forgotten me, that’s the simple truth. And how she’s changed ! And how lovely she was once! Well, we’ve arrived at the very last chapter of that romance. Let us close the book, and fling it away from us for good and all.’ The photographer was sitting in his studio, smoking his black short pipe. He took up a newspaper.

‘ What’s this ?’ he cried. And he read : “On the 12th instant, of paralysis, Sir Pierce Christian Dalrymple Challoner, Bart,, of Portman square, and Stoke l)e----verill, Devonshire, in the seventy-seventh year of his age.'’ In another column was to be found a brief biography of the lamented gentleman, setting forth the facts of his life and his claims to distinction, It stated further that the baronetcy was believed to be extinct.

‘I wish I had taken his photograph,’ mused Jack Osborne. ‘After all, he was somebody. A swell ia his way, and prodigiously obstinate. Moreover, he was poor Hugh’s father, and the last baronet. Curious people, these » halloners !’