LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1551, 7 February 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

_«. ONE FATAL NIGHT. [From tho " Argosy.] (Concluded.) Now, I thought, was my opportunity; if I could only have you to myself for a t'me in the train. 1 got into the compartment, and without noticing your hag eat down upon it Wihout reflection I pushed it lehmd me. The nelt moment you returned. J s i\v you look at me steadily, then go up to tho guard. My guilty conscience made a coward iv me I to'd you, sir ' passing his han'l hurriedly across his 'that I have lately felt almost mad.' I thought you were'going to deliver me up to justice. Urou impul e, without judgment, I concealed mjf'elf under the seat A man less slim and spare than I could not have done it. What little Hash I had. upon my bones has been worried olf tliem.'

He was indeed a pale, cadaverous looking object yet with traces of refinement and good looks in his face. I searched for any indication of an evil or dishonest nature, and found none. Meeting him in the ordidinary circumstances of life it was a face I should have trusted thoroughly. 'You have indeed acted imprudently,'l said, ' Had the guard looked under the seat, nothing could have Baved yon/' ' True, sir. But I seemed to forsee what would happen. You would return to the compartment and conclude you had made a mistake. So it proved. I have been gathering up my courage ever since we started to come out and declare myself to you.' The precious packet was in my hands. I unwrapped the outer covering of brown paper, then the wash leather, then opened the cotton-wool. The stones flashed and scintillated in the dim oil-light. My companion put his hands before his eyes. ' I cannot look at them,' he said, ' the sight haunts me with horror' I soon covered them up again and put them into my bag. 1 What is your name ?' I asked. 'Carew Marshman.'

1 Marshman--Carew Marshman, I pondered aloud. • The name seems familiar to me. Was your father a clergyman ?' ' He was, sir.' I wonder whether it is the same Carew Marshman who was once curate to my father?'

' The very same,' answered Marshman. ' I have heard my mother talk of the Rev. George and Lady Anne Wellesley many a time : have heard her refer to those days as the happiest of her life, I was born at Comhe-Carden when you, sir, were about two years old.' How strange the whole thing seemed. How constantly we are being reminded that the world is narro vtr than we think. This additional fact made me more pained and grieved than before for the unhappy young man'3 position. ' But the Marshman's are well connected,' I said. ' How oomes it that I find you in the position of a mere clerk, and with an uncle a butler?'

'lt is only the old story,' he returned. ' My father died when I was fifteen, and I had to turn out into the world. I told you Brown was only my uncle by marriage. Years ago my mother's sister ran away with him, not knowing his position in life ; indeed, at that time it was far better than it is now. She has long been dead —I never knew her.' ' Your mother is living, you say ?' ' Yes, sir. She has a small income of her own, just enough to keep her. She lives on the outskirts of Hereford.' ' Has she many children ? ' ' I am her only child. I have been the one hope of her life since my father died. I could never tell you what sh« has been to me, the sacrifices she has made. And in this manner I have repaid her.' The poor fellow broke down again and burst into tears, burying his face in his hands. As for myself, I found it necessary to look out for a few minutes into the dark uight, where I saw two moons shining, and many stars that would have puzzled an aitronomer. But time was passing. We should sooa reach Gloucester and I must decide on the course to pursue 'I supple, Mr We lie l°y, you mean to give me up to justice ? ' said Marshman in a despairing tonj, when he had calmed down again.

' I cannot tell,' I replied. 'F >r the present you must leave yourself in my bauds and consider yourself my prisoner. You will ajc mpany me to my hotel in Gloucester, where you can pass as my clerk. I shall then have time to reflect in what line my duty lies ' fc-oon after this the train stopped outside Gloucester station for examination of tickets The guard looked in as he passed, and great was his surprise at seeing a second person in the compartment he had bo carefully locked against intruders. I slipped a piece of gold into his hand, hinted that it was all right and he'need take no notice, He touched his cap and passed on. 1 lay awake the greater part of that night. Not only had I an immense treasure in my possession, but the culprit also who had stolen it. Ought Ito give him up to justice? If I did not, should I, as the phrase rans, ba compounding a felony ? On the other hand, was I not justified, under the circumstances, in giving him another chance in life, during whioh he might regain hope and res; ectabiity? Once more, I ask, reader, what would you have done under the circums ances ?

The next morning decided my course of action. I would give M arshman a chance to retrieve his error. I felt that I was showing mercy, and was justified in doing so. A day might come when perhaps at a Higher Tribunal I should myself stand in greater need of mercy than this poor fellow stood now.

I held a long and earnest conversation with Marshman, and was as kind and considerate with him as the circumstaucea would permit. His gratitude was painful to witness. Overcome the night before in making his confession, he was doubly so now in expressing his repentance He listened to all I »aid, and acquiesed in all. I stipulated that he should give up the idea of going to Australia, and that he should return to his work after he ha 1 ! paid a month's visit to his mother to recover his nervous power. No one should ever know anything of ihn past deed ; it should be buried in oblivion. I would return ths diamonds to my cousin, and compel him to cease all further enquiries.

My business concluded in Gloucester I returned to London. The next morning I we-1 down to Portman Square and found my cousin at home.

' Any news of the diamonds ? ' I asked.

' None whatever,' he replied. ' I almost bet in to give up hope. I am so far gone that I should be thankful to get back the stones and let the thief go scot free. At first, I believe I was as anxious to punish the thief as to recover the diamonds,

I bent towards him. 'John,' I said, 'give me your earnest attention for a moment. Suupoae the diamonds were brought back to you on condition that you should let the thief go free, would you consent to ii ?'

' Yes ' he answered, after a pauFe 'I vou'd do ro, unl' ss th°y « ere brought to me by the thief hims> If I don't think I could stmd that. I might easily promise this,' he added with a grim smile: 'it is not likely to happen.' 'Yon would give up all search of the culprit on receipt of the diamonds?' I continued ' Will you pass mo your word of i.onouj ? '

' 1 pass you ray word of honour. But why,' ho continued, irritably, 'do you put such absmd questions to me.? i. tell you i of that a vt can happen.' For answer I p aeed the packet of diamonds on the table. John started up almost as if he had been shot, his eyes glistening with excitement.

'My diamonds!' be almost shouted. ' 0-eorge, where did you find them V ' That in my secret,' I answered, deliberately. ' You have the diamonds: be content. You will never know more of the mystery than this. You have given me your word of honor that you will cause all search, all advertisements, all fuss and annoyance to foe droppf d. Only on this condihave I returned them.'

' You have my word, and it shall be done,' he said. ' But it is hard to resign all idea of punishing the criminal. It is hard not to know, even, by what mysterious ch?.noo you came into possession of the ston s.

' Mysterious indeed,' I answered. * And now, J ohn, for my reward V

' What reward ?'

' The reward of £IO,OOO, to bo paid to whomsoever r, stored the diamonds, promised without condition, and to which lam entitled.'

' P>at you don't mean to say you would condescend to take a reward V he asked, his countenav.ee lowering visibly. ' altogether as a reward,' I answered. ' More as my right and due. Have you forgotten my uncle's legacy ? I have not. You refused to pay it to mo once—you dare not refuse mo now, John. It is retribution, but in a milder form than y:>u deserve.' Ho saw that I was in earnest, and he gave in ; with, an ill grace, it is true, but for that I cared little. He brought out his chequebook. ' I have a heavy balance at my bankers,' he observed, 'to meet an investment I was about to make. A portion of it must now go elsewhere I suppose.' So I left the house with my cheque, a richer man than I had entered it. In due time the important case I spoke of came on, I gained it, and was congratulated on all sides. My fortune was now assured. Briefs began to flow ifl j I was on the high road to distinction. About eighteen months from the time I had become engaged to Ellen Hayward we were married. Her mother had died suddenly within six months of my last interview with her : and in this manner her wish that we might not meet again was fulfilled. I will pass over my happiness then and now; will only briefly allude to the pattsr of small feet about the house, the laughter rf childish voices, the sunny influence of small golden heads. All this concerns not our story. I have risen in my profession beyond my hopes. lam even ambitious. Sometimes I laughingly tell my wife that the coronet she once rejected may yet be hers. Then her da»k vio'et eyes look up into mine, more beautiful than ever, and still with their old sweet shyness", and I see that the pride end glory of the world, its pomp and vanity, are of small moment so that I am near her. And Carew Marshman ?

It fell out in the end as I desired. He returned to his work in London, a sadder and more subdued man, but penitent and honest Henceforth I would have trusted him with untold gold. I did not lose sight of him. Occasionally, before I married, I had him up at night at my chambers, talked long and earnestly with him, and showed that I had both interest and confidence in him. And by degrees he regained his cheerfulness and self-respect. Several years have passed since then. Carew Marshman has become a partner in the great diamond house of Burt and Henry. He is prosperous, married, and happy. His clerks idolize him, for he is strangely lenient to their small faults and failings. They do not know why ; I do. The past is no longer referred to between us. It is blotted out. It will never be blotted out of his heart and memory. There it will remain and bring forth good fruit to the end. Reader, though you should blame me for showing mercy to him, I can never blame myself. I sometimes pause and tremble at the thought that I might possibly have acted otherwise.