A GOLDEN SORROW.

Waikato Times, 6 January 1874, Page 2

A GOLDEN SORROW.

I swear, 't« better to be lowly born, And range with humble liver* in content, Than to be peiked up ivi u & glittering grief, And wear a golden sorrow. -Shakspuare.

CHAPTEB XIH.- ' ATTKR A 1,1, I HAVE DONE HIM NO WHONG.' Immfdiatblt after if was made known in the village of Dnn«fon thnfc Mr Clint was no morp, Mr Slnndish presented hitneelf nt the Firs, and asked to see Mrs Dixon. The Btnto of mind in which the event, ensuing so rnpidlr uprtn the disclosure ehe had made, bid left Florence was pioeediugljr pmnful. fehe had an intimate, consoling con-

viction that her husbantfa father had not received the fpmmunic&tion with displeasure, but this conviction was ne which she could not impart to any one, and she suffered e\tremely from the dread lest the revelation she had been irresistably impelled to make, should have in any degree, by the mere nftion of surprise, accelerated Mr Clint's death. Thp end had come so unexpectedly, it had almost stunned her • and her position ot responsibility, unbacked by recognised autbentj, was quite agonmng. In tho tery presence of tho i , man, as she watched the bloated ie iture» settling j«co the calm which lends dignity to even nucli a *reck aJ Reginald Clint, the question would arise : What was she to do now ? He was dead ; not indeed, n* she had drneded, until all her powers oi feeling seemed euijrotsed by tliat one terrible fear, without forgiving Walter ; but nothing, except in point of that sentiment, was altered. Ho bad forgiven Walter, and blessed her ; but, let the disposition ho made, if there were any such, in tho time of his fiercest anger, his most obstinate estrangement, bo ever so hard and unjust, they must remain unchanged now. It had happened according to the desire of her heart, but it was all too late There was something more appalling to Florence in this death than in any other which had ever signified anything to her. Hero was tho stillness, the solemnity, the decorum, the circumstance, the ceremonial of death — but no grief. A decent regret on the part of three or four persons, a formal gravity of demeanour observed by the dead man's servants, | and tempered by much conjecture about their chance of mourning and gratuiuei. But grief there wai none. No riven heartf, shrinking from the thought of a new day, to arisi- on their unwelcome Hie, yearning with horrid anguish the least little remembrance! of the one, so lately allen«ro^mg in action, us well as in thought, and suddenly , become so terribly unreal. Could there bo anything so dreary and dreadful, Florence thought, asahousa of mourning wherein wero no mourners ? She had gone through the few sad formalities, and was ft»fmg, after having written briefly to Mr St. Quentin, a ' oS^iiftst that he would communicate the fact of her father's «MgL#rntly to Miriam ; and had just decided that she WO^r-Consulf Mr Martin with respect fo her own immediate movff.nenti, when she was told that Mr Standish wished to •co her. She went to the study immediately, and there she found the lawyer and Mr Martin. Mr Standish was seated i in the place which Mr Chut had habitually occupied, and ' the circumstance gave Florence's tender heurt a stab. The of him, who lay there, up-stairs, white ond silent, already knew him no more. Florence bowed to the two gentlemen, and Mr M.irtm placed a chair for her. 1 You wished to see me, »ir?' She addressed Mr Slandiih. 1 Mrs Dixon ?' She bent her head in assent. ' I received instructions from my late client, Mr Clint,' *aid the lawyer, with a formal civility which made Florence uncomfortable, ' to make the contents of this memorandum,' producing a paper as he spoke, ' known to you and Mr Martin as soon as possible after his decea«e. You will be »o good as to take them into account in making the neceilary arrangements.' Mr Martin made no reply, and Florence had nothing to say. Mr Standish then read the memorandum, which was tifed by Mr Clint, and consisted merely of a few hue*, directing that his funeral ihould be very private and \.-iv pltin, and that, prior to it, his will, wlncli he had placed in the cuitody of Mr Standish, should be read. 1 When it suits you to have tins dene,' said Mr Standish, iddressing Florence, ' 1 shall be happy to attend for the surpose.' It was evident that ahe was expected to act in ;he absence of any direct representative of Mr Clint. But ihe appealed to Mr Martin, who undertook to do all that rai necessary, and it was finally arranged that the will ihould be read on the day before the funeral, by which time tfr and Mrs St Quentin would probably have arrived at the Fin This agreed to, Florence rose and left the room, eeling a little curious, and disturbed by Mr Standish's nanner, which was, with ell its formality, not quite res)ectful. The hours dragged on, as they always do drag on while he dread presence of the dead it with the living, heavily nd wearily. On the third morning, Miriam and her husland arrived. Mr St. Quentin's sense of decorum did not ail him on an occais,on in which there was no real sadness 0 him ; he conducted himself with perfect propriety, but Florence was conscious of the displeasure with which he •rved his wife's incautious greeting of her supposed i~l. Mr St Quentin had a peculiar faculty of making his nger felt without transgressing good manners, by cold, •onical politeness and well-arranged contempt, which Flori\2C remembered, and under which she had often cringed, he felt his anger in the slighting glance which passed over er, but, never lighted on her ; in the flighting tone of his are acknowledgment of her ; the ' How do you do, Dixon ?' 'hich made Miriam's face burn, and her eves flash. When he sisters-m-law found themselves together, Miriam burst ito a bitter complaint of Mr St Quentm'i conduct towards er, even before she enquired of Florence the particulars of er father's death. > ' I do really believe he is mad,' she said, ' though them mt much consolation in thinking so, since I cannot get id of him by the conviction : he certainly is the most hate.il^d persecuting old man in existence. Do you nonce ow Ins bud heart and odious, suspicious temper are telling n him, Rose? He is shrivelling up into such an ugly old lan ; I am sure he looks many years older than poor papa Florence wan silently thankful that Miriam vm never to nov, what her father had looked like in the last days of his fp. The face had been hidden away for ever before his aughter's arrival ; and there was nothing to disturb that urcifu! process, to which the very best amongjus must owe > much one day, by which death blot» out the memory of mlts, and fixes the memory of every affection which the eparted had to urge upon the affection and regret of hit illows ' He it looking old.' ' Yes ; and wicked, downright wicked. Ah, Koae, how iis^u were when you warned me, in this very room' (she anced around it forlornly), • that the way of escape I jized upon so eagerly might not lead to happiness !' Miriam heard Florence's account of her revelation to Mr lint with great interest and emotion, and without any parpipation from which she was suffering. To Miriam'i mind, ie few words which her father had spoken wore satisfactory id conducive. Making the fullest allowance for his state r the time, and the near apDroach of his death, Miriam ks not to be convinced that if her father had felt anger he buld have concealed it, or been induced by any sentiment gratitude to, or consideration for Florence to express any her feeling than anaer The last coherent words he had tered—' After all, I have done him no wrong .''—duly re>rted to Miriam, were as inexplicable to her as to her t*r-m-law. If they a'luded to the rumours he had heard out Walter and Florence Reeve, they were not to be iderstood, unless he actually believed that a marriage had ken place ; and any other meaning they might have had ia completely out of the reach of the two young women, icy might have been merely rambling, semi-conscious »rdi, but Florence could not regard them as such j faint bu||) their tone, their manner was purpose-like. There te W conclusion to be arrived at ; they had to close their ||»«iion where they commenced it. Tho whole of this ■jiMiriam passed in seclusion in her own rooms. She had BiJiancu in Paris, and Mrs Dixon seemed to resume her ■a 4? na naturally. It was agreed between tho sisters-in- | W/ri should br told to Mr St. Quentin after \ 1 * >ln f. ra1 ' was much distressed by the necessity the discloHuro, but nhe had no choice. Florence was now useless and uupioteuted, and Miriam must provide for her some way, let the terms of Reginald Clint'» will be what i :y might, until her brother's return. That Mr St. Quentin uld not permit her to fill her former position in his house, mam felt assured, and she expected her to prove still >re obnoxious as Walter's ivifc. Tho ni K ht closed around irts full of anxiety and disturbed by heavy care, in the use where lay the dead man for the last time' but one.

A Batavian paper, the Handehblad , r\yh a description, ich may possibly have some interest for Mr Darwin, of oxtraordtnary bein^ half human, hnlf simian, winch a manmn named Tan Hoathts exhibited — "This mnn ii, more monkey than man, is 12 years of nge, and 2ft 3in ;n ; bis head is wholly like that of a monkey, and his enrs ml wide apait from the head, as in most species of that mial. The forehead it flat and small, the jugnl bones ck out, the nose js flat, and the under jaw proj.'ctm^ A eular tuft of fine close cut hair grows on his ball-round all The arms, which are extraordinarily long and thin, apt themselves to the most rapid niorrmcuN, just like oise of monkeys when climbing or clambering Tho hands cl feet are, on the contrary, perfectly lm.r.an, rxcepting it the legs from the thigh to the heel are particularly ig The gait of this bem<j is exactly like that of a monk.'v, sjhtfullj, rapid ; tho arms then ho loosely and halfetched over the breast, and the body make* peculiar movement. This strange creature, when Igry, rolls about over the ground like v, ball, bites 8 tody, and pulls out his hair. He U, however, dBt^P:alm, and sits in a squatting position with his Ion" Dis around his neck. He is accompanied bv his mother, i ordinary Tjanjor native woman, wiio looks after her child with true motherly tenderness, and makes hi r If intelligible by means of sign*, or bj iound«, which her jiih »on seems to understand. He, agreeably to the onkey nature, cats fruit only ; money he knows not, but I throws away any that is given to him. Very shy of men, , when inquisitive persons come to toe him, rushes to his Bther forthwith. When people obterve mother and son iring these repented embraces, which strikingly resemble nssetAj » young orangoutang, they become involuntor ly pnilUV «fc this ventnble curiosity. Un exchange) sajs that the Count Chnmbord has lost his ftiif he accepts the French throne. He will loose it, no he ao-epta the throne.— Horntt.

£D,— A 1W of Sawjeri to Bre«k Down Logi. James S. Oinnoy & Co., At»u» «aw MiHg,