LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1546, 1 February 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

• ♦ ONE FATAL NIGHT. By Charles W. Wood, Author of *• Through Holland.”

[From the “ Argosy.”] My father had taken honours at Oxford, but his health, not particularly robust, partly gave way under the strain of hard wo*k and late hours. He was never again quite the man he had Nevertheless, after being five yra-s in orders, he found himself red r of a comfortable living, f om whi h he was not to be p'omoted. He did not live long enough to occupy* tne stall, or wear the apron that might one day be his. hii°t a curate at Exby ho had fallen in love with I ady Anne Norton, a-d she with him. They kept their secret until ho became rector of Combe Carden. Then in fear and much inward misgiving, yet not without boldness, he went up and asked the Earl for his youngest daughter. Perhaps because, though poor, he was of irreproachable descent ; perhaps from his refinemun; of manner, his great powers of

conversation, his unusually good looks; perhaps from the Earl’* being blessed with six marriageable but unmarried daughters ; or it may be from a combination of all these reasons, and not from any one in particular ; the Earl, after some little h< sitation, gave hie consent. The engagement of the Reverend George Wellesley and the Lady Anno Norton was announced to the world, and in due time the marriage took place. The Earl of Norwich was not a rich man, and her dowry consisted of one thousand pounds only. This sum was spent in enlarging and improving the rectory ; and they settled down in one of the prettiest homes in England, Alas ! their happiness was short-lived. I, the sole offspring of the union, was only four years ohl when my mother took a severe cold. This turned to inflammation of tho lungs, and in less than a fortnight her place knew her no more. I nan just remember her, A smsll, gentle, lovabl" lady, with a quiet, musical voice—that mo<t exoe’lent thing in woman-a soft tread, an! one of the loveliest faces ever seen in this world. She was worshipped by the village poor, idolized by her husband My father, so to say, never looked up after his wife’s death. He went through bis daily work mechauica ly, as one whose heart is no longer upon earth In less than a year he was laid beside my mother in the small churchyard of Combe-Garden, and the Jiving passed into strange hands. I was taken to London, to my uncle. Henceforth his h"use became my home Here I breathed a very different atmosphe e morally as w.dl as physically, from that J had just quitted. Child though I was, I realised the change. The atmosphere of peace of extreme refinement, was exchanged for that of wealth, luxury, and fashion. My uncle was ten years my father’s senior. He had early shown remarkable talents for finance, and eutere i the great banking house of Marlow and Marlow. The credit of the firm stood second to none in the city, and eight years after entering it my uncle had become a partner. Immediately after this he married Jane Marlow, only daughter of the younger of the two brothers, with whom he had a largo dowry, and thus found himself launched, on all sides, on the full tide of prosperity. Mrs Eustace Wellesley was a woman amiable only for her husband. Her passionate love for him made hev, in one sense, a good wife. But she was proud, ambitious ; in temper hasty and unforgiving. Her hopes were centred upon one child, a son, born five years after the ma-riage. John Wellesley was neady four years my senior. The boy was indulged by his mother until he was rendered selfish, regardless of the feelings of others, and taught to believe that his will and way were to rule the world. Almost from the first day I entered their house I was made to suffer at his hands. Petty tyranny, slights and small insults of every description, this boy of eight visited upon me I bore it long in silence. But as time went on, and I grew strong and sturdy for my age, I learned to retaliate. My cousin bated me in consequence. As the years passed I was ever ready to make f ieuds with him ; to yield the first place to him, which was his by right. I never sue cae led in softening his animosity. I have not succeeded to this day. Mrs Wellesley took an equal dislike to me. I should have been banished to school over and over again, and probably have been the happier, but it pleased her vain mind to be able to show me off as her nephew, “ the grandson of the Earl of Norwich." The Marlows had been self-made men. My uncle I loved with all the passionate fervour of a neglec ed homeless, unloved child. He alone wo* ever kind and good to me, and in disputes wocld oftener take my part than that of his own boy. * Poor lad !’ he would return, in answer to his wife’s remonstrances, *he has no one to stand up for him. Compare his future with John s. George will have to fight his battle with the world—oerhaps have to rough it through life. Make this home, whilst he is in it, as much a home to him as you can.’ It was cruel kindness on my uncle’s part. I was always made to suffer doubly for his championship. Bub it served to render the house bearable, and peril ips prevented downright ill-treatment from Mrs Wellesley. S’* time went on. At thirteen John went to Eton, and my life became comparatively happy and tra quil. At thirteen I also followel in his footsteps. The following year my aunt died. My uncle never married again. He applied himself more closely than ever to business, and only relaxed when his boys were at home. He called us both his bays, and invariably treated us alike. Again the time -went on. I went to Cambridge, and took honors without difficulty. I had inherited my father’s talents, but not his delicate health. I was strong, and a had taller than my cousin. The said I had inherited the good looks of both my parents : a subject that troubled me little, until but I must not anticipate John left Cambridge three years before 1 did. That is to say, when I went up he went d >wn, *1 hus we did not clash in our college life. As young men we were sufficiently wise to agree to differ, without coming to open warfare, Yet I could see that he never liked me—might possibly only want the opportunity some day to do me an ill turn. He left college without having distinguish'd himself, but this was from want of application, not for lack of talent. He might have made a name in the world, bub for his innate indolence. I sometimes think he may do »o still, should he ever go into Parliament. But where was the necessity for hard work and all that some argued, when John Wellesley would be one of the richest commoners in England ? My cunn had two ruling passions—his love of wealth, which led him to do incon ceivably mean and close things ; and a love of diamonds hot the littleness which detires to wear them about the person—his mania was to colie t onset stones of the purest water. A magnificent specimen was sure to find a customer in him, if be could spare the sum at the moment. I once ask d him why he was so fond of these stone*. He r plied that he did no', know. A something within him attracted him with the fascina tion of a bisihsk. An 1 , he added, so long as he could afford to indulge his mania, he thought it as sensible as going in for cracked china, or baloous, or any other caprice that men take up. I left college. Possessing the required gifts for tho profession, I decided to become a barrister. I was a ready speaker; had a powe-ful and singularly retentive memory : was quick at seizing the points of a case. Theref- re I chose the bar; and, with my uncle’s full sanction, entered myself at the Inner Temple. I renumber well a conversation I had with my uncle Eustace at this time, and his concluding words ‘ George,’ said he, * you have now chosen your path in life. I think you have chosen wisely. With your powers and energies the highest honours of the law may in time become yours. Hard work lies before you— ’ * I am not afraid of that, sir,’ I modestly put in. * I was about to say so,’ returned my uncle. ‘ I could almost have wished a similar prospect for John. But his lot will be different from yours, His fortune is made; you have to make your own —as I made mine. The hack is fitted to the burden.’ My uncle sighed ; whether at the burden of his immense wealth, or at the thought that his son, th ugh rich would nov r be distinguished, I could hardly tell ‘ I have cared for you almost equally,’ he con inued. ‘You, George, the son of my dearly loved brother, have been almost as mv ow n son ’ ‘ And you, sir,’ I interrupted with emotion ' have been ever as a kind and tender father to me. Rut for you I should have been an outcast upon the world. I can as little repay your goodness as 1 can ever forget it ’ (To hr enntinvfid.)