MIGHT VERSUS RIGHT.

Cromwell Argus, Volume XXVII, Issue 1374, 27 August 1895, Page 2

MIGHT VERSUS RIGHT.

f COPYRIGHT.}

[two instalments APPEAR in this day’s ISSUE. ]

+*••+ —— BY JULIA HACK,

Author of “ Th’ Boggart o’ th’ Mill,” “GlenGordon,” CHAPTER XTII.- Continued. * Come, Betty,” he said, with quiet dignity, “I hardly think you would speak inldiat manner without serious occasion ; let me hear what you have to say.” “I beg your pardon, sir,” returned Betty, “if I spoke disrespectful; sich was not my intention, but it made me wild-like to see you so blind to what the poor child is suffering. I’ve seen it from the first, but I waited to be sure, and lately I’ve thought you must see for yourself.” “I don’t understand you, Betty,” said Mr. Vere, bending his short-sighted eyes upon her anxiously. “ Do you mean suffering of mind or body ? ” “Suffering of mind, sir, which the child has not had the strength to bear. She’s sinking under it; you must have seen how altered she is. Where’s her old fun and sauciness P Her merry laugh and springy step ? I’d give th’ world to see her "wilful and contvairy again, I i’stead of what she is,” and Betty raised the corner of her apron to her eyes. “ Good heavens ! ” cried Mr. Vere, rising in dismayed haste. “ Yes, you are right, she is altered, but I thought it was only the natural effect of her engagement; and it may be so, Betty—you may be mistaken.” “ I’m not mistaken, siir,” returned Betty, earnestly. “ I’m an old woman and know what luve should look like—happy luve. Is it luve that steals the roses from her cheeks and the light from her eyes ? Is it luve that robs her of all her bright, happy ways, and makes her cry hersen welly blind ? ” “ What is the meaning of it, Betty ? ” asked the poor Vicar, looking much distressed. “Alas! bow terrible it is for girls to have no mother! She would have understood,” and he sighed, and covered his eyes with his long, white fingers. Betty’s face softened. “ Nay, mester! dunnot you blame yoursel’ like a thaten; you’ve been mother and father both to the dear childer, and as for not just understanding when a body’s so full o’ book-learning,” with a glance, curiously compounded of pride and scorn, round the hook - lined walls, “ they canna’ be expected to understand little things; and I don’t say but what girls are hard to fathom.” Mr. Vere sighed again; evidently he quite agreed with Betty’s last remark. “ What does it all come to P ” he asked, wearily. “Is it the engagement she doesn’t like P She entered into it of her own free will.” “ I don’t know, sir,” returned the old servant, cautiously. “ I’ve asked no questions. O’ course, I have my own opinion, but, as you say, I may be mistaken.” “Ton had better give me your opinion, Betty,” said the Vicar, a slight twinkle of amusement crossing his perplexed face; “you are more likely to understand your own sex than I am.” “Well, sir,” resumed Betty, “I heerd that Mr. Sam asked heir to marry him that day they went to the picnic. Mr. Vere nodded, “ You’ll remember what happened that evening, as soon as they came home.” Mr.Vere did not remember; anything connected with money slipped out of his mind with carious rapidity. Betty threw him an irritated, half-scorn-ful look, “Belike you’ve forgotten, sir, as we had bailiffs in th’ house that even-ing—-Mr, Jones, of Conyston——” “I know, I know,” said Mr. Vere, hastily. “ Go on.” “ Mr. Sam Dodd paid that bill, sir, and I mind well how white Miss ElsieLlooked when she were told. She had been very distressed about Will’s bill, only a fortnight before; next thing I hear is that she is to be married to Mr. Dodd, and same day I’m told that Mr. Bertie is to be sent to a good school. I think, sir, you’ll see there were reasons why a girl like Miss Elsie should agree to be married, even if she did not love the young man. I didna like her look from the beginning, but she took me in a bit with her peaceful look ; allers as if she’d just said her prayers like; but after a while I noticed how strange she was—a-fading away like; then I began to find out that she cried a deal, locked up by herself, and trying for nobody to know. I am an old body, now, sir, but I havna forgotten what it is to be young.” Mr. Vere sat listening, with his head bent; a sea of remorseful thoughts filling his heart. Presently he raised his head. “ Well, Betty.” he said, simply, "you bnro done me a great service Tlk. "fitter shall not be neglected. I thank you heartily in my wife’s name. You have been more faithful to your charge than I.” “ Nay, nay, sir,” responded Betty, anxious to comfort him; “no childer could have a kinder father, nor a better; and as for book-learning ” “ Leave me, good Betty,” interrupted Mi’. Vere. “I must have time to think.” Alas! thinking will not always undo the harm done by want of thought. Long after Betty left the study, her master sat brooding over this new trouble, which had grown so unexpectedly out of the old. The longer he thought, the more , probable it seemed that Betty was right. It was just like his noble-hearted little Ekie; but what a terrible mistake! what i shipwreck! A wave of despairing grief swept over his soul as bethought of the gentle mother who would have known so well how to guard the happiness of her children. “Alas! my Mary!” lie sighed, “I have indeed proved a faithless guardian i to your precious children ! May God J help me to amend! ” Chapter XIV. If need doe not yon bynd. Doe it disclose, to ease your griered spright. Oftimes it hap 4 that sorrowes of the mynd Find remedie unsought, which seeking cannot fynd. Spensse. ELSIE was asleep when her father entered the room. Carefully shading the candle with his hand, he looked at her attentively, and was shocked to see how ill she appeared. Dark shadows lay beneath the long brown lashes, now clinging to her cheek. And how white and thin that cheek had grown! How was it he had never noticed this before ? Could it be that Betty’s warning had; come too late P Slow to take alarm, Mi’. Vere was now unreasonably anxious. His wife had died young; was his bright little Elsie also doomed to fade in the days of her youth P While he stood watching, an uneasy dream disturbed the sleeping girl. She moaned, and an expression of fear and pain crossed her face. “ I cannot bear it,” she murmured. “ I cannot bear it! Oh, mother, mother, save me!” She awoke with a start, and gazed at her father in surprise. Mr. Vere was greatly moved. If Elsie longed for her mother, how much more need of her had he, who felt so unequal to the task of winning the confidence of his young daughter. How could

he draw from her a confession of the truth without hurting her feelings ? " Betty tells me you are not well, my darling," he said, tremulously. "Only a headache, dear father," replied Elsie, the colour deepening in her transparent cheek. "Betty ought not to have worried you about such a trifle." "If your headache is better, dear, I want a little talk with you; but if you feel too poorly you must say so." "No, dear father," returned Elsie, raising herself upon her elbow; " Betty tyrannically put me to bed, but my head is rea'ly better. Can I do anything for you?" " You can, my dear," said her father, seating himself beside her, and feeling dreadfully at a loss how to proceed. " I think—that is, it has occurred to me, Elsie, that you have not looked happy of late. I begin to doubt the—the wisdom of your engagement. Tell me truly, my child, do you love the man you have promised to marry ? " Thus, like most nervous people, the Vicar rushed into his subject, without any preparation at all! Elsie looked at her father in speechless dismay. How cou d she reply to such a question ? The room seemed to spin round with her. There sat her father patiently waiting for an answer, and she had none to give. " You must try and give me your confidence, Elsie,'' he said, gently. "If your dear mother were here, she could make it easier for you; but we must do without her—you and I." 1 Elsie's eyes fil'ed. "I do not know what to say, father," she faltered. " Sam is no stranger. We have known him all our lives, and—and he loves me very much. I am sure he does." "I do not doubt it, my love; it is your feeling for him that I wish to ascertain." Elsie looked much distressed. "I am trying—l do my best —I—l hope in time " she stammered. Then, giving up the attempt, she hid her face in her hands. It was true then! Until now Mr. Vere had indulged a faint hope that Betty might be mistaken. " You are trying!- trying to love him," he exclaimed, in what Elsie thought was a tone of horror. " My dear child, is it possible? You have been over-per-suaded—coerced in some way." " No, no! " cried Elsie, eagerly. " It is my own doing, father. I wished it —I do wish it." Here was a fresh perplexity. The poor Vicar drew his brows together and looked keenly into his daughter's eyes. | " You wish it, E sie; you wish to marry I Sam, and yet you do not love him. That appears to me strange—hardly honourable, in fact." I Elsie met her father's gaze bravely, but her colour rose, and her breath grew ] short. I " Not dishonourable, father," she said, firmly. " It would have been so, had not iSam known all about it. I have not deceived him." Mr. Vere's face changed. The look of pained surprise was succeeded by a gleam of anger. " Do you mean to say that Sam allowed you to engage yourself to him, knowing that you did not love him ? The young villain!" " No, father," pleaded Elsie. " Do not be unjust; Sam loves me truly, and he says—he says in time I shall be sure to—to return his affection; and indeed I will do my best." Mr. Vere felt that he was not getting on. , The, piteous expression of Elsie's eyes unnerved him, and yet he must both make her confess and show her how wrong she had been. He took a, thoughtful turn tip and down the room! " You have not yet told me why you engaged yourself to Sam," he said, presently. " You tell me that no one has persuaded you—therefoi'e you must have been actuated by some powerful reason of your own. What was it ? " Elsie could not reply. She lay back upon her pillows with fluttering heart, and panting breath, and her eyes looked large and wild. Mr. Vere mistook these signs of illness for tokens of alarm. " Do not be frightened, my little darling," he said, gently, taking her hand. " Surely you are not afraid to tell your old father the truth?" " Not afraid," panted Elsie, " not afraid, dear father; but—l cannot tell you —I cannot." " Then I will tell you, dear child," said Mr. Vere, with his slow, sweet smile. " You thought to relieve me from the pressure of debt, and to secure Bertie's future. That was the price Sam was to pay for £ou —was it ? " His voice hardened" and is eyes grew fiery. " It was worth while," was Elsie's low response. " Father, I hardly think you know how grievously Bertie needs the discipline of school." " It is never Avorth while to do wrong," replied the Vicar, gravely. " I must convince you of this, my dear child." And Elsie was not difficult to convince. In a few words her father, laid the case before her in such a manner as to show plainly the serious error into which she had fallen. " Oh, father !" she cried, " I never saw it in that light! I have been so miserable —no one knows how miserable! but I deserved it all." "Hardly that, my love,", said Mr. Vere; " yours has been no wilful transgression. To do evil that good may come has ever been the temptation of such natures as yours, my little girl. Older and wiser people than you often find it hard to distinguish between right and wrong. In such cases it is well to ask advice of some experienced friend. Why did you not go to our good neighbour, Mrs. Armitage ? She wou'd have been a safe guide. I do not say you should have come to me." Elsie's cheeks flushed still more deeply. Consult Mrs. Armitage; ah! how impossible. " I ought to have been more open—l see it now," she said, in tones of distress. " Dear father, forgive me !" " Hush, hush! " said Mr. Vere, suddenly becoming conscious that Elsie's appearance and manner betokened much feverish excitement. "Say no more—and think no more to-night. Only I beg you to understand, dear child, that your engagement is at an end. I will myself see Sam and release you from your promise. Now then, try to sleep." He left her and went at once to Betty, whom he found restlessly pacing about her kitchen. '" You must look after her, Betty," he said, uneasily. "She seems very feverish." " You've been wi' her too long, sir—much too long," said Betty, sternly. " I told you th' child wasna : well. You'd ought to ha' quieted her mind instead of exciting her." " Well, well," returned the poor Vicar. " The matter has not been so easy to arrange as you fancy, Betty; one must not be rough and sharp with a timid young girl, you know." The idea of her master being rough and sharp to any one brought a twinkle into Betty's eyes. " There mun be no more on it, anyhow," she observed. " I'll gi' th' child a soothing draught as'll quiet her nerves, and you'll mind, sir, as nobody goes near her. Little Miss mun sleep wi' Miss Mollie to-night." ..^^

Mr. Tere did not go back to Ma studies. It was necessary that Mary and Bertie should be informed of the important change in their sister's prospects. So he turned into the drawing-room, where Mary was busily preparing wedding garments, and Bertie working hard at his much-neglected Greek. Mary listened to her father with mingled feelings of distress and anger. Why had Betty chosen to keep her in the dark? If she had doubts as to Elsie's happiness, surely her sister had a right to be told ! and why—oh ! why had not Elsie trusted her? But after all, these were trifles compared to the terrible fact that, but for Betty's interference, Elsie would have succeeded in her wild scheme of self-sacrifice. " What was I thinking of!" she murmured blankly. " You,Mollie!"said her father, "your share of blame is small compared to mine. Mine was the charge—mine the responsibility. Ah! Betty is right. I have thought more of my specimens than my children!" " Did Betty say so ? " cried Mary, in hot indignation. " .Really, father, you should reprove her. She says what she chooses to us, but surely she ought to respect you." " Betty was right, my dear," said the Vicar, gravely. "As we grow old we seldom hear the truth about ourselves; it is nobody'B place to find fault with us, and," he smiled Badly, "some of us, : Mollie, have faults—old as we are ! Betty was right." "Betty is always right, in her own opinion," returned Mollie, resentfully; I " but I quite agree we ought to be grateful to her for opening our eyes to the facts of the case, and that she should do It in her own way was only to be ex'pected." | "I am amazed at my own blindness, ; pursued Mr. Vere. " The girl has been | breaking her heart—pining away before my very eyes, and I did not see it." I " Nor I," said Mary, " and lam a girl, and ought to have known how girls feel, —my poor, poor little Elsie!" I "Poor Elsie, indeed!" burst forth Bertie. "Nobody says 'poor Sam'! Nobody thinks how hardly he is being used. I think Elsie is treating him abominably." i Mr. Vere looked up in amazement. I "Is it possible, Bertie, that you do not understand how infamous Sam's conduct has been ? To gain his end, he has taken advantage of Elsie's youth and inexperience, and traded upon her love for her family. It was cowardly and cruel; and so I shall tell him." " Where's the crue'ty ? " cried Bertie. " You say Elsie did not love him ? What of that ? Everybody does net marry for love. She told him she was willing to marry him without love, and if she was not willing, she said what was untrue. Do you call that fair play ? " No one replied.' Mr. Vere was too much distressed and horrified to speak, and Mary felt that it would indeed be idle for her to attempt to reason with the boy. "I think Sam had the worst of the bargain," he continued, angrily. " See now, father, he offers to give her everything she can want, everything! And what does she give in return ? Nothing! She is barely civil to him ; but he is so generous, and so fond of her that he put up with her airs. And now —just before the wedding—she throws him over. I call it disgraceful." I It was not difficult to read the secret .feeling which prompted this outburst. Mr. Vere was unobservant, but even he ! knew why the boy threw down the book the had been studying. There was a world of disappointment in the gesture.) Mary noticed it with a pang of remorse. How persistently, blindly, she had fed his hopes, and helped him to build his castle in the air! And how much—how much more she had thought of the material benefits accruing from the marriage, than of Elsie's chance of happiness. How could she ever forgive herself ? But, at this moment, Mr. Vere felt small compassion for his son's disappointment. " What you say amazes me, Bertie," he said; "either you are a child and do not know what marriage means, nor what it involves; or you are a cold-blooded, precocious man of the world—which Heaven forbid. Are you incapable of understanding that by consenting to this marriage, your sister outraged every instinct most precious to a young girlthat, had I not found out the truth, she would have sacrificed the happiness of her life. Think of it!" " I do think of it," replied Bertie, vehemently, "and I see no reason why she should not have been happy. She would have had every wish gratified—every luxury that money could buy—what more did she want ? Why should she not be happy P " Mr. Vere rose and began to pace the room, his hands clasped behind him, his head bent; and when next he spoke, it seemed to his children that he had forgotten the subject under discussion. Such mental somersaults were not unusual with the absent-minded scholar. " When I was a young man," he began, " I went abroad for a year or two —I and a few other college friends. Happy days those were!" he said, dreamily. "We went to Paris and had a high time there, as you may imagine. Then we went to Rome, and from there to Venice; finally, we visited Constantinople, and there we remained for some time. I daresay you are aware that in Turkey it is customary for men to buy their wives. I was young and foolish at that time, and the idea of girls being bought and sold, like any other article of merchandise, was dreadful to me. I went into the slave-market once, and felt desperately inclined to kick some of the fat, sleek, old pachas, who were coolly making their bargains in flesh and blood, and taking very good care they were not cheated. So much beauty —so many piastres. It made my blood boil; but it was a great waste of sentiment. The transaction was, in reality, a fair one; the girls were willing to sell themselves to a rich master, the richer the better; and, as Bertie observes, there was no reason why they should not be happy." " Stop, father," interrupted Bertie, springing to his feet, his face on fire; " you are very unfair to me. I never said or thought of such a thing. Who said anything about buying and selling?" " I do not suppose you did mean it, my boy," replied his father. " At your age, it would be sad indeed if you were coldhearted enough to desire such a fate for four sister. The fact is, you have not juite understood the case —at least, I hope so. It is not unusual for girls, even in these days and in this country, to marry for wealth and position; ambitious girls, who barter all they should hold most sacred for the glitter and tm<H <~>f Hi« world. Is Elsie'this sort of girl, do you think ? " Bertie hung his head, and made no reply. >" i ( CONTINUED ' ELSEWHERB.]