LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2147, 12 January 1881, Page 3

LITERATURE.

GOUBLAY BBOTHERS. In a quiet street off one of the qniet i quires, there is a tall gloomy house with narrow, dusty windows and a massive double door that still bears a brass plate with the words * Gonrlay Brothers' engraved thereon. The lower part of the house was used as an office, but the blinds were rarely drawn up, the door seldom swung back to the energetic push of customers, the long passage echoed no hurried footstep", and Eli Haggart, the clerk, was to all appearance the idlest man in London, till one came to know his masters. The Gonrlay brothers were never any busier than their faithful old servant —never hurried or worried; never late and never early. Every morning at ten o'clock they entered their office together, read their letters, glar.ced at the paper, left Instructions for poHsiVe callers, and then went to the city. They always took the same route; at eleven they might be seen pissing along the sunny Bide of Cannon street; at 1.30 they entered the same restaurant, and sat at the same table for luncheon. Wet or dry, shade or shine, summer or winter, every workiDg day for thirty years, they had gone through the same routine, always excepting the month of September, when they took their annual holiday. i hey were elderly men —John, tall, thin, melancholy-looking, with light gray eyes, scanty gray hair and whiskers, and a general expression cf drabbineis pervaded his whole face and faultlessly neat attire. Boger was shorter, ronnder, more cheerful, and generally warmer in color. His pervading hue was brown, keen reddish eyes, that must have been merry once; crisp auburn hair, that time bad not quite yet transmuted to silver; a clean-shaved, ruddy face, and brown hands full of dents and dimples. John was the elder, still he looked up to Koger.with grave respect, consulted bim on every subject, and never, either in or out of business, took any step without his advice or approval. And Boger was no less deferential. Without any profession of affection, or display of feeling, the Gonrlay brothers dwelt together in closest friendship, and during all the years of their partnership no shadow had fallen between them, and their public life waß as harmonious as their private intercourse.

In business they were successful; every speculation they made prospered, everything they touched turned to gold; and aa their whole lives were spent ia getting, not spending, they were believed, and with reason, to be immensely wealthy. "Cold, stern, hard enterprising," men called them ; with an acuteness of vision and a steadiness of purpose only to be acquired by a long and close application to bueincsa, Reserved in manner, simple in tastes, economical in their habits, the <-'ouriay brothers were the last men in the world to be suspected of sentiment, their lives the least likely to contain even the germs of a romance. And yet they had not always been mere business machines; the sole end of their existence had not always been money. In early years they had brighter dreams, nobler ambitions. At Bchool John had distinguished himself, and his brief university career gave promise of a brilliant future. Roger had been a bright, ardent boy, with a taste for music that was almost a passion, and a talent a little short of genius. With his deep earnestness, intense steadiness of purpose, and clear, vigorous intellect, John could scarcely hive failed to make a distinguished lawyer. Roger was born an artist, with a restless, lofty ambition. Life seemed very bright for the brothers ; there was everything to assist each in following his inclination. But in the very dawn of of their career their father died, and they were suddenly reduced from affluence to actual poverty. Nothing reremained from the wreck of a magnificent fortune but the bitter experience that always accompanies such reverses. Fine friends failed them, flatterers looked coldly on their distress; those who had most frequently partaken of their lavish hospitality passed by on the other side. Not a friend remained ia their adversity but one, and she had indeed the will, but not the power, to help them. The boys left college and turned their thoughts to business. It was hopeless to attempt to follow up their professions with an invalid mother and idolized only sister depended on them for support. John secured the situation as clerk in a city warehouse. Roger accepted a desk in the office of Bernard Russell, an old friend of his father's. They moved to cheap lodgings, and for several yearn plodded on wearily, the only gleam of sunshine in their altered home being the occasional visits of Alice Rucssll to their sister.

Maude Gourlay and Alice had been schoolmates and friends; they usually spent their vacations together, and Alice felt the misfortune tbat had fallen on the family as though it had overtaken her own. But she could do nothing but psy them flying visits, 'and write pretty, sympathetic notes to Maude.

A few years of hardship and poverty told on Mrs Gourlay'a always feeble frame; still, for her daughter's sake. sh» olnng to life with a strange tenacity; but when Maude's lover, who had gone to Australia to make his fortune, retnrne-1 not wealthy, but sufficiently so to claim his bride in her altered circumstances, Mis Gourlay seemed to have no other object to live for. Maude's marriage was hastened, and the very day after the ceremony the poor wesry broken hearted mother died.

George Leslie took his wife back with him to Sydney, and John and Roger Gourlay were literally alone in the world. .a 8 if in bitter mockery of their loss and loneliness, immediately after their mother's death the brothers inherited a small fortune. Bnt it was too late for John to go back to his studies, too late for Roger to return to his piano; they had fallen into the groove cf business, and John at last was seized with a feverish eagerness to tnrn bis small fortune into a large one and become wealthy. So they went into business on their own account as Gourlay Brothers, with the firm resolution of retrieving the position their father had lost, and a very few years saw them established in WhittEer street, and fairly on the high road to fortune. Then one quiet summer evening as they sat over their dessert John opened his heart to his brother, and told him of his hopes and dreams, and ambitions for the future. ' You will be surprised, and I trust pleaded to hear, Roger, that I love Alice Rußsell,' he said, laying his hand on his brother's arm; ' I oan't hardly remember the time when (he was not dearer to me than all the world beside. The bitterest part of our misfortune was that it separated me from her ; nothing elee can ever compensate me for the ruin of all my hopes and glorious ambitions. I once dreamed of being f imous Roger; for her sake I put that behind me, and I grabbed for gold like a miser. We, Gourlay Brothers, are on the high road to fortune ; I may aspire to the band of Alice now 1'

'Surely. John,' and the younger brother's voice was husky, and his hand shook as he took up his glass. 'I drink to your success.'

• Thanks, brother. I should have confided in you, but I feared troubling you on my account; you would have seen a thousand shadows in my path, you would havo been more unhappy than myself. And now I want you to promise that it shall make no difference between us. We shall be Gourlay Brothers still.'

Roger stretched hia hand aoross the table, and John grasped it heartily. ■ Gourlay Brothers to the end of the chapter, old fellow, and may you be as happy as you deserve. God bless you, John.' John's face became a shade or two paler with emotion, and he walked up and down the room a few times ; then he stood behind his brother's chair. •Roger, you will think me very weak, very nervous, but I d»re not speak to Alice myself. I could not endure a refu'al from her. I have never even given her the moat distant hint of my feelings. I have not the slightest reason to suppose that she regards me other th»n a mere acquaintance, almos as Maude's brother. Roger, we have always been friends as well as brothers—stand by me in this. Yon are less shy and more aacnßtomed to women. See Alice for me, Roger, and ask her to be my wife.' ' John, you're mad ! You do not mean it!' •Ido ; it is my only ohance. Plead for my happiness, brother, as I would plead for youra. lam a man of few words, but I feel deeply. A refusal from her lips would kill me I could hear it from you.'

•As you will, John ; I'll do my best, * and Roger leaned his head on his hand and shaded his face from tne light •I'll call on Alice to-monow.' The next day was the longest of John Qourlay's life—a bright, warm, happy day, that made people even in the city look glad and cheerful He went about his business as usual, ate his luncheon, and walked home leisurely. Roger was standing at the window watching for him, and he kept his back to him when he entered the room. 'Well,' John said, gently, 'well Roger, have you seen her ?' ' Yes, I've seen her,' said Roger, facing round suddenly, ' John, old fellow, it's no use.' ' Brother!' and he lifted his hand as if to ward off a blow. ' It's no use,' Soger went on in a hard voice. 'She doeß not love you; she loves some one else. Be a man, John, and bear it, for there's no hope.' One low stifled groan, and then John Gourlay wrung his brother's hand and walked steadily out of the room. What he suffered in the hours that followed no one ever knew, and when he appeared at the dinner table he was calm and self-possessed, but something had either come into his face or gone out of it that altered him. But of the two Roger looked the most unhappy. The blow had really fallen moat heavily on him. * Jack, old fellow, we're Gourlay Brothers now to the end of the chapter,' he said huskily. • I know you'll never marry, and neither will I,' and some-how John felt that Koger meant what he said. * # * ♦ » * # Twenty-five years passed by, a quarter of a century of changes and chances, and still the Gourlay Brothers held the even tenor of their way. They were rich beyond their wishes or desires, and not altogether unhappy in their solitary friendship, Alice Ruisell seemed to have drifted completely out of their lives; her name was never mentioned, and whether she was married or dead they did not know. One morning, about the middle of September, they were walking along the King's road to Brighton, whither they had gone for their annual holiday. Roger entered a shop to purchase something, and John stood outside, looking dreamily at the passers-by. Suddenly he started and advanced a step, as a lady in an invalid chair was wheeled by. Chancing to look up, she met a glance of recognition. 'Mr Gourlay, it must be you. lam so glad to nee you.' ' And I to, to meet you,' John said, with a courteous bow. ' I have not the pleasure of knowing—' 'My name—l am Alice Russell still,' she said frankly. At that moment Roger appeared. For an instant the blood forsook his his ruddy face, wbile a hot crimson flush rose to Alice's pale cheek as she tried to stammer out some words of greeting. Roger was no less confused, and the expression of both faces was a revelation to John Gourlay. He felt as if the world had suddenly drifted away from him, and he was left solitary In some unknown infinite shade. But there was nothing of that in his voice when he asked Alice for her address and permission to call upon her in the afternoon. Then, taking his brother by the arm, he led him away, and they continned their walk without exchanging a single word about the sLrauge encounter. In the afternoon John called at Miss Russell's hotel, and in a few moments he found himself seated beside her in a pleasant fitting room overlooking the sea. ' Alice,' he said, plunging into the subjbet at once, 'do you remember a conversation you had with my brother a long time ago?' ' Yes, I remember, Mr Gourlay,' she replied, sadly. ' He made a request for me then which it was not in your power to grant. lam come to make a similar one for him now. Roger loves you, Alice. He has loved you all these long weary years though you will at least believe I did not know it then.' ' Poor Roger !' Alice said softly, ' Sou oare about him ? You will make him happy even at this late hour. Tell me, Alice, that you love my brother." ' Yes Mr Gourlay, I do. Why should I deny it ? I have loved him always, though I did not know that he oared about me, and if the little life that is left me can make him happier, I will devote it to him gladly, proudly—poor Roger ! Yon see lam too old for pretences, Mr Gourlay, and I fear I am dying ; therefore I tell you all.' ' Dying, Alice ? No, no 1 You will live many years yet I hope, to make my dear brother h*ppy, brave, loyal, great heartod Roger. Let me send him to you now ; and Alice, for my old affection's sake, make him happy. He deserves it, and that is the only way I can ever help to repay the devotions of his life.' ■ I love him,' Alice replied s'mply. ' I cannot do more.' In their lodgings John Gourlay found his brother paciog restlessly up and down. ' Roger, I've fonnd out your secret and hers,' he said, laying both his hands on his shoulders. ' Loyal, faithful friend, go to her; she loves you—she is waiting for you.' ' Poor Alice ! How she must have suffered ! ' ' How we all have suffered! But it'B nearly over now, Roger—the grief, pain, regret. It's all clear and bright. Boger, dear friend, can you forgive me P ' • Forgive you John ? Say rather, can you forgive me ?' ' True to the last,' John murmured, as he wrung his brother's hand. ' Now Roger, go to her; she is waiting for you. She loves you —loves you, Roger I Good bye, and may you both be happy 1' Late that evening, when Roger Gourlay returned home full of a deep quiet gladness, he found his brother sitting in an easy chair near the window, apparently asleep. The full moon shone down on his pale face, and showed a smile on his lips ; his hands were clasped on an open book that rested on his knee. The attitude was lifelike, but at the very first glance Boger felt that his brother was dead. The doctors said he had died of duease of the heart. Perhaps they were right. More people die of that malady than the world knows of-