MIGHT VERSUS RIGHT.

Cromwell Argus, Volume XXVII, Issue 1374, 27 August 1895, Page 7

MIGHT VERSUS RIGHT.

BY JULIA HACK,

\ copyright. ]

[two instalments aitkah in this hay's issue ]

Author of “ Th’ Bogijnrt o’ th’ Mill,” “ Glen • Gordon,” ( f*c, CHAPTER XlV.— Continued. “The fact remains, however, that unless I had found it out and interfered, Elsie was fully determined to marry without love. She meant to sell herself,” continued Mr. Vere, impressively; ‘ the question is, why ? What was to be the price ? ” “ Oh, don’t go on, father," cried the boy, in a stilled voice. “I see it all; I am a selfish wretch —mean! horrible ! I am ashamed of myself, and yet I cannot help feeling it hard,” and he suddenly dashed out of the room. “ It is hard for him,” said his father, looking after him anxiously; “we must not be severe upon him, Mollie. The first stand-up fight we have with self is always a terrible conflict; we must pray for him, but otherwise we cannot help him. All that one soul can do for another is to point out the truth, the rest each must do for himself.” Bitterly did the good Vicar take himsc f to task tiiat night in his lonely little study. For once, all his favourite occupations failed him. , lie turned his back upon his beloved microscope; it pained him even to look at what reminded him of Betty’s accusation. He, who had never neglected a parishioner, ho been equally careful of his own children? Conscience did not acquit him. How was it that ho was only now discovering that Bertie was selfish ? How was it that Elsie had so nearly succeeded in throwing away the happiness of her life ? No thanks to him that she had not done so. He sighed, and threw himself into his armchair'. “ I wonder how I dared to convict poor Bertie of selfishness,” ho soliloquised ; “ I should at least practise, what I preach! My selfishness, alas ! has been a thousand times more culpable than his.” The tenderhearted Vicar was indeed truly distressed and conscience - stricken; but the habits of a lifetime cannot easily be broken. His books would soon resume ; their sway over him, and his microscope would claim him for iis own. But for the present he was thoroughly aroused to a sense of his responsibilities; far into the night he sat thinking how best to manage the difficult task he had in hand. He was, in no humour to spare Sam, but he had a great respect and affection for old Mr. Dodd, and was anxious to save him as much as possible the pain his son’s unworthiness must inevitably cause. ‘ . XV. Oh,who would tru«t this world or prize what’s in it. That (fives and takes, flud chops and changes ev’ry minute ? * • ♦ * * Fond youth, go build thy hopes on better ground. The soul that vainly founds Her joys upon this world but feeds on empty sounds. —Quarles. “ R. SAM, sir P ” said the smart foot|f| man; “Mr. Sam is not at home, ' sir; but master is in the grounds —shall I call him, sir?” “No, thank you, Morris,” replied the Vicar; “my business is with Mr. Sam. I will not trouble Mr. Dodd.” Sara’s absence was very provoking to Mr. Vere. Slow to wrath; slow to believe evil of others, he was yet, when roused, capable.of great severity. Sato’s offence was one peculiarly hateful to a man of chivalrous instincts, and Mr. Vere’s indignation was intensified by the fact that Elsie was this morning too ill to leave her bed. Betty was stern and onigmatical. She would give no opinion, but the anxious father read signs of fever in the girl’s brilliant, restless eyes and flushed cheeks, and his anger was hot indeed. The disappointed and irate Vicar was striding hastily down the avenue, when bis steps were arrested by a genial but, at that moment, most unwelcome voice. “’Ulloa! going away, Vere? Never heard of such a thing! Want to see Sam. do yon ? Well, you’ll see enough of 'im by-aud-by,” aud lie laughed jovially. Mr. Vere made no reply. He coloured, and looked as nervous as a girl at her first dinner-party, “Come along,” continued Mr. Dodd. “ I want to show you the new rose-garden I’ve been making for Helsle. It’s a bit late for planting roses, but we’ve had no frost to speak of yet, and my man tells me they’ll do.” Mr. Vere followed, feeling as guilty as if he were the aggressor. “ Ton see,” continued the old man, pointing out his improvements, proudly, “ you see this wide border; rose bushes in front, short standards next, and taller standards at the back—my own idea that —good, isn’t it ? ” “Very good; very good indeed,” assented the unhappy Vicar. All this was for Elsie, What a blow it would be to this kind old man! “Then there’s the rose bower,” said Mr. Dodd. “ Helsie fixed the place for it her own self—commands that grand view down the valley, you know. Says I, ‘ Helsie, my love,’ave it where you like, and God grant I may see you a-sittin’ in it many a long year! ’ ” “Mr. Dodd,” said the Vicar, desperately, “ I have something to tell you.” Mr. Dodd wheeled round and fixed his keen blue eyes upon the Vicar’s agitated countenance. “ All right,” he said, cheerily, “Never say die, dear old friend. Come along into my den. We shan’t be meddled with there.” “ Got into some hobble,” he thought, as he led the way to his private room. “ Glad he came to me, anyhow, poor old chap ! Reg’lur child about money.” It was, however, no tale of debt and difficulty which had brought the Vicar to the Hall that morning. Consideration for his friend determined him to touch as lightly as possible upon Sam’s conduct, but indignation soon mastered prudence, and he found himself pouring out hot, angry words, by no means remarkable for moderation, Mr. Dodd listened with mingled feelings of shame, grief, and disappointment. Sam’s unscrupulous behaviour gave him great pain; yet he was his son, his only son, and he could not hear him condemned without saying a word in his defence. “ Stop a bit,” he said, laying his large hand upon the threadbare knee of his companion; “ it seems to me, old friend, that you are a trifle hard upon my Sam. I don’t say lie has behaved well, but when a man is as deep in love as he is, there's some excuse to be made for him. We were young ourselves once.” “ Neither you nor I were ever young enough to take advantage of the inexperience of a motherless girl,” returned Mr. Vere, hotly. “ He has allowed a mere child to sacrifice herself to a mistaken sense of duty, and the misery of it has half killed her. She was too ignorant and innocent to know what she was doing; but that cannot be said for him. I ought, however, to remember that he isjour son,” he added, checking himself,

"If I have hurt you, pray forgive rne. You would imderstand my feelings if you knew how ill and broken down my Elsie looks." " I understand," said Mr. Dodd, slowly. "I have not liked her look ever since the Priory picnic, bub I set it down to a gel's natural shyness. Helsie's none of your bold, slap-dash sort. All this is a great blow to me, Mr. Vere; not only because I'm above a bit ashamed of my Sam, but I'm dreadful disappointed myself, and that's a fact. I've looked forward to 'aving Helsie for my darter," and he sighed and lookod dejectedly about the room, as though he miwied someone who ought to be there. Mr. Vere was silent; he thought of the half-finished rose-garden, and knew that this was only one of many phum for Elsie's happincßS. " Well, it'H a had bunineSH," continued Mr. Dodd, with a shrewd glanne at WIH friend, " but it Htrikea me it never would have happened il! your affairs had fun')) in a better atato, i tun ui> o\<\ fiimi'l, and may perhaps take the liberty hj) speak my mind. It's a wi'cnift U)U)%i If) my opinion, for gel« like Mary mm Helsic to have money nmiini'ii on ifomr minds. Hue what's «om« of it." " Von are right, f)odd," i-nyiU'A ihte poor Vicar, bin w)inH/'tvti t'fiwi (IhhUm) with pain. "1 know that < have MKJwh* ed my affairs; I know it; you mull/A blame me more than ( Warm; mywW" " Ah to blame," returned Mr, ho'i'i, softening at once, "I'm in no portion to IdaiiM*. you. I and mine have enough to answer for in the matter. Hut jt HnninH to me that jf there was a difficulty about bills and such like, the most neighbourly thing would have been, for you to come and tell me about it; you don't wanfc reminding that my purse is always at ? your command; it's no obligation, nothing but a pleasure for mo to help you." Mr. Vere looked perplexed and distressed; this was an oid bono of contention between him and his wealthy parishioner. Kind as the old mill-owner was, and- tactful too, in his way, lie could not undei stand how impossible it was for Mr. Vere to ask for help in his frequent money difficulties. Mr. Dodd argued that, as more than half the parish belonged to him, and as all his income' was derived from Broolcclale mill, it was his bounden duty to help the Vicar, whose stipend was small. Mr. Vere could not see the matter in this light. "You are a true friend, my dear Dodd," he said, after a pause, " good as gold, I always knew that; but—as to these difficulties, you know they really ought not to exist. We live quietly enough; I cannot imagine where the money goes to—the fact is, I fear I. am not a good man of business." A gleam of amusement crossed Mr.' Dodd's face, and danced in his keen little blue eyes. " Hardly, perhaps," he replied, dryly ; "all the more reason why you should not be above asking advice of one who knows about as much of business as most people." " That is true," sighed Mi-. Vere, feeling very dejected and humiliated. ' When all this trouble has passed over, I'll have a talk to you about my affairs and take your advice. At present I really have no heart to think of anything but my E'sie." "I shall hold you to that, bargain;" replied Mr. Dodd, with some satisfaction. " Now, how shall we manage about Sam ? Shall I tell him you wish to speak to him, and let him go to the Vicarage this afternoon ? " "That will be best," said Mr. Vere, rising to take bis leave, and heartily wishing his interview with theiniquitous Sam well over, i :; ! He did not feel in as good cue for "the attack as when he entered the Hall. He could not help knowing that the tables had been rather turned, and that he had been made to realise that more than a little blame fell to his own share. As to the mill-owner, he laid his plans with great cleverness and dispatch. He ordered the dog-cart to be brought round, and hastily crammed a few necessaries into a bag. Then he went in search of his spouse. "My dear," he said, humedly, "I find I am obliged to go to Gloucester on business. Letter from Pawson this morning—must see him at once. Goodbye, I'm just off." " Stop!" cried Mrs, Dodd, who had no notion of being treated in this way. " What is the business about, Samuel ? I am sure it is nothing but what a letter or telegram could settle. I won't have yon going off like this at a moment's notice. Absurd!" "You don't understand, my dear," said Mr. Dodd, retreating to the door, " and if I stop to explain, I shall miss the train. Oh, by the bye," he said, coming back a few steps, " tell Sam the Vicar wants to see him this afternoon very particularly. Don't forget, now; it's on business;" and not stopping to reply to the stream of questions his wife began to pour out, he waved his hand to her and drove off, chuckling to himself to think how cleverly he had managed to escape the first burst of the storm. He. had not the smallest intention of returning home for three days at least, by which time he hoped that matters would have calmed down a little. Sam received his father's message with much amusement, and not a little contempt. Whoever heard of the Vicar wishing to see any one on business ? Whatever was necessary in the way of settlements had already been proposed and arranged—not by the bride's father, but by her future husband! Could it be another affair of bailiffs ? Sam's face darkened. This sort of thing must not be allowed to go on, he thought, the Vicar's affairs must really be looked into and settled. He soon found out, however, that it was not the Vicar's affairs, but his own which were to be scrutinised and settled. The process was not agreeable, and when he left the Vicar's study his brow was as black as night. between them Mr. Vere never revealed. Once only he referred to the interview when talking to Mary and Bertie. "It is terrible to me—terrible," said the Vicar, solemnly, "to see one I have known from a little lad, one I ought to have influenced to better purpose and he sighed —" such a slave to evil passions. It was not so much what he said —he has self-control, and did not speak rashly—but the expression of his face was awful. It was more dreadful to me than violent language. Nettie's doll was on the floox - , and he put his heel upon it and crushed the head to atoms. It may seem a trifle, but no one who saw the malignity of his countenance at the moment could call it a trifle. I am almost glad Elsie is ill, and so safely out of his way. He is dangerous." , ,-vj "Oh, father!" cried Mary, "what a mercy our dear Elsie didnot marry him! What an escape! How odd it is that one may live so near a person all one's life, and never know his real character." Bertie said nothing. He, too, had received a serious shock that afternoon, and had by no means recovered from its effects. His father's arguments, although theyhaj impr^ssejLWmjdtkaienjiejof

the unfitness of the marriage, and his own self-interested motives in desiring it, had not shaken his confidence in Sam. He was a very affectionate lad, easily won by kindness, and enthusiastic in his friendship. He could not get over the feeling that Sam had not been well treated. At any rate, lie had been very kind to him, and he wished to show that he, at least, had not forgotten it. So he hung about the garden that afternoon, waiting for him to come out of the study, and anxious to express his sympathy with his fa! Jen hero. " Oh, Sam," he exclaimed, when at length he appeared, "I want to tell you how sorry I am " he stopped, for Sam turned, upon him with such savage fury that his breath was literally taken away. " Sorry, are you p " lie snarled, taking DO notice of the boy's outstretched hand. "iioi'i'y you've lost your dunce of mounting upon my shoulders, eh? Was it an Prime Minister or as Archbishop of l'n,))lni')>uvy you meant to dazzle the WOfld? A precious genius, truly!—a Dihi'whUi, sneaking, conceited young UiU/il You and your old fool of a father ii.fn wdi watched, and you may muddle Of) as you please so long as you don't )))ixiii'vm with me." 'r'hia speech was plentifully interwith oaths and curses such as IU-4 'Ue had never in his life heard before. I !*/.-; turned pale and shrank back in horror Was this the man to whom he had been so yts&dy to give his pretty sister ?—the man who had promised to be a brother to him P Bertie took ref u ge in solitude, and eat, pa le and shaken, feeling as though his little world had tumbled to pieces about his jb&eb. Hitherto his life had been even a#iig mOBotoiMJUs; yesterday a pretty sure forecast of tomorrow. No doubts,as to the cbaiwter oi* s'jJcenty of his'friends had even entered his mind. Now all was changed. He had loved and trusted Frank Armitage, only to find out that he was a "wolf in sheep's clothing"; and as to Sam —well, that last catastrophe was too recent for him to have any clear ideas on the subject; only he felt that he could never again have faith in any human being. Little care had Sam for Bertie and his £eeling3. He had flattered him while he was useful; now he threw him aside like a broken tool, as lie -tfas". A black storm of jealous hatred raged within him. He was defeated'. After all his planning and scheming, Elsie had eluded his grasp—and why P Why had he been unable to win her heart ? Because it was already won—won by that ugly, povertystricken cleric. Andnmsthe stand aside and witness the success and happiness of the man who had shaken him like a puppyiandtlirown him into a mud-heap—■ never! '? •-■■ \| *' yk f '"■ Only that morning his father had informed him of his intention to offer a partnership to Frank Armitage. At all costs this must be prevented. Love was gone, but no man should rob him of his revenge. What form vengeance should take lie had not yet determined, but, alas! Satan never fails to suggest what the heart is so ready to receive. Sam. was not long in doubt. Chapter XVI. GLOUCESTER in a fog is like any other town sirnilai'ly afflicted—it might be any city, any whei-e ! All its distinguishing features are blotted out> The Cathedral may stand where it used, or it may not • it is purely a matter of faith. The eye sees nothing but muddy streets, gloomy shops, and still more gloomy shopkeepers, who appear now and then at their forsaken shop-doors, rubbing their hands for lack of something better to do. They glance up the street and down the street, and then, with a last hopeless look at the grey sky overhead, vanish, and are seen no more. The few passengers go hurrying by; each is wrapped up in his own affairs and bent* only upon getting home as fast as may be. -When the sun shines, people can spare a litt'e interest for their fellow creatures; ,butina fog, who cares for anybody but' himself P: =; '.J •, ;.- u Frank Armitage knew Gloucester well. He had lived there as a boy, the last two years: r'he had been in the habit of visiting the town frequently; for it was through him that Mr. Dodd transacted his business,. both with the warehouses and the bank. Like every one else to-day, Frank was in low spirits, ;But he cared little for weather, .havMg''otlier and far graver causes for depression. Elsie was ill, and the difficulty of obtainingreliable information increased his anxiety. Mrs. Gimlet shook her head when Elsie was mentioned. " I never says nothing," she remarked, mysteriously, "but I've got eyes, same as other folks, and them as remembers how Mrs. Vere did look when she was agoin' off didn't need to be wondering what ails Miss Elsie," Mrs. Gimlet's opinion tallied too well with Frank's fears to be lightly dismissed. His dnrling was dying of a broken heart, and he could not help her. Frank was not in a state of mind to cai'6 about __the fog, vMechanically-he went through''the varied duties of the day, and finally turned into the bank. Here he was well known, and had more than a passing acquaintance with many of the clerks; the head clerk especially had a high respect and warm regard for him. To-day, when business was transacted, he beckoned him into his own peculiar corner. " Glad to-hear about the partnership, Armitage/' he whispered, confidentially. " I've been longing to congratulate you." " Early days for that, Mr. Jakes," replied Frank. "Nothing is arranged; and I thought nobody but myself knew a word about it." '' I overheard Mr. Dodd talking," said Mr. Jakes, pointing significantly towards the manager's rooni. "If it's not settled, it soon will be, and I'm heartily glad. It's just what ought to be done." '"Thank you, Jakes," said Frank, smiling. "I'll come to you for a character when I want one." "Young conceit!" laughed the old clerk. "Didn't mean you deserved it! Bless you! I meant that there's a sort of justice in those mills coming back into your hands. Four generations of Armitages owned that property, and but for your father's misfortunes, it's you would be living at the Hall now, and not Mr. Dodd." "Yes," replied Frank, gravely, "it seems strange how things work round. I shall be glad to have a share in the old place, but I do not grudge Mr. Dodd his fortune; he has been the kindest of friends to me. By the way, that just puts me in mind of a cheque I have to cash for Mr. Sam Dodd; he asked me to bring the change in gold—no paper, if you please." [to be ooktixukd] ' " ' ' ■: ■ ' '. if '■■■

WHICH AUE THE HAPPIESTMAURI AGES ? It you ask the ordinary middle-aged person thai question, he or she will probably reply, "Those where the husband 1 can make a jruod settlement, and the wife has a little money of her own." ; These people will tell you that, after all, a comfoi table income is the great sweetener of life, and with a good balance at one's bankets, nobody can call their married life miserable. It is rather odd, after having these facts dinned into our ears, that the marriage de convenance so often turns out a failure, and that the people whose lives serve as a warning against matrimony to others, are, more often than not, in prosperous circumstances. Those where there is equality of station, somebody else will say : certainly, a jjreab inequality of position makes any marriage more of a risk ; but the mere social level does not secure happiness by any manner of moans. Another will tell you that people's tastes should bo similar. It undoubtedly is a jjreab point when this is the case, for it increases people's mutual interests. But, on the other hand, some of the happiest marriages on record have been those where there was not a single taste in common shared by husband and wife ; and some of the most, miserable have been where people have said beforehand, " What a perfectly assorted pair!" " Happy the wooing that's nob long in doing," says one proverb ; while another tells us that if we marry in haste, we shall most probably repent at leisure—so that cannot be taken as an invariable truth, it would seem. Some people say there is more chance of a happy marriage if people have known each other all their lives ; others say that peoples who have not long known each other will most probably get on best together."'''' ~*.:'., .'' .■:'','■-■ %$& An article in a recent periodical stated that when a man married his first love, the marriage was sure to be a satisfactory one, and then someone came" out, in another paper, and declared that it was only after people had been in love a dozen times, that they were capable of making a wise and judicions choice. What then makes the happiest marriage 1 Those in which there is sympathy, forbearance, consideration between the two, are undoubtedly the happiest to the eyes of the outside public, and it is qui'e true that outsiders see most of the game. And what brings about that state ol affairs ? Can well-invested money do it 1 or the fact that both sides have known each other nearly six months and a half, or have been engaged a fortnight, or have been in love before, or both like Sullivan's operas. Will any one of these things, or all of them, produce that state of domestic harmony, that mutual toleration and understanding and friendship that alone make the wheels of marriage run smooth ? No, it is absurd to suppose or suggest it. there is only one great promoter of this state of happiness, and that is mutual love. | Then the marriages where love is, are the happiest marriages 1 Undoubtedly ; ifor nothing else helps to smooth away the inevitable jars and jolts of the chariot of life, and makes its wheels run without a hitch. All lives have their trials and troubles, bub only love can make them endurable, and help the sufferers to support their weight. No couple who love each other truly have ever been heard even to hint that marriage' is a failure. They would laugh at the very idea. They know that marriage is not exempt from trials, any more than the other phases of this mortal life. Bub they also know that where love is, marriage halves one's sorrows and doubles ont's joys. Love can bridge over inequality between two people ; it can draw bhem together when their tastes are as opposite as the poles; ib can gild even the slenderest income, and make dwellers in a cottage happier than those in a/palace, who don't possess it. Love,'fmarriages are the happiest marriages, and tjfere are no others that can begin to rank beside bhem.—Forgeb-Me-Vnt.