PRIDE.

Golden Bay Argus, Volume 4, Issue 37, 8 February 1895, Page 2

PRIDE.

By Grosvenor Sinister.

1 “Don’t you think it is about time you thought of getting married ?” said Mr. Ventnor to his nephew Paul, as they sat over their wine. “ You are 25, Paul, and should marry and settle.” “ I have no objection,” was the answer, indifferently uttered, “provided always—” “That the lady is to your taste. Well, there is plenty ol choice. Of course, the first consideration is the social status of the lady.” “ I don’t see that, uncle. Out here in Australia that counts for very little." “ With me,” replied the elder man, austerely, “it counts before all other things. And mark me—l warn you that if you should be foolish enough—mad enough to fix your affections upon any—ah—obscure sort of person, my doors are shut to you,and my money goes elsewhere.” Paul Ventnor frowned, and then be sighed. ‘‘Hard conditions, surely. Why, sir, there are hundreds and thousands of good young women who are not in what is absurdly called society.” It was the uncle’s turn to frown. “I am sorry,” he answered coldly, “that you do not seem to have a sense of what is due to farfiily and name. Your democratic ideas are offensive. The Ventnors belong to the best families in broad England. A mesalliance has never occurred in our branch, and it is not because you reside in Australia, exposed to the vulgar influences of what are called liberal ideas, you should be the first to make one. However, ’tis your own business. Remember, if you marry to my pleasure my fortune, which is a large one, ia youra—if not, you don’t get a penny.” The young man’s lip curled, but he merely bowed his head, and said no more. And presently they arose and left tbe table. Passing to the drawing room they were received by Miss Anne Ventnor, a maiden Bister who managed her brother’s household, and who was dozing in an arm-chair ; while a singularly handsome girl played softly a. delicious waltz upon the piano. Mr. Ventnor, the elder, was a very model of old-fashioned courtesy. As he entered, he bowed to the young lady, and approaching

his sister, who now opened her eyes, he observed : “My dear Anne, you are to be congratulated. You are like the fortunate individual of the mythologie legend who was lulled to Bleep by tkesongß of the syrens.” “A sleep, if I recollect brother, which had no awakening,” observed the lady. “True, true—but who would care to awaken under such circumstances?” “ Well,” returned the old lady with a laTigh, “I should. I find life, thanks to you, dear brother, far too comfortable to deBire to leave it, even under the most favorable auspices. My dear Miss Carlyle, will you please sing us that pretty German ditty —I forget its name—but it really is tue sweetest, most pathetic morceau I ever listened to.” The young girl immediately complied, and sang the song with infinite tenderness. But it was impossible to avoid the impresssion that while she rendered it with irreproachable taste and admirable effect, she did so, almost automatically. The tender cadence, the pathetic sentiment, the sweet poetrj did not seem to find an eobo in her sensibility—if one might judge from the cold immobility of her face, and the calm and haughty indifference of its expression. Mr. Ventnor seqior was much pleased. He was personally fond of music and possessed of a cultivated taste. The air and words of this German song affected him. “Beautiful!” he exclaimed. “What sentiment, what pathos. And-how tr-ue-i MissCarlyle. Let me see—the verse runs thus, in English : “ ‘ Love is not bound in fetters Of gold or jewels rare ; But the simple flowers and blossoms That deck the bosom fair Of mother earth in the spring-time, When Nature beams with smih-s, And the love song of the cooing dove His coy mate, soft beguiles.’ “ Beautiful I beautiful I” “ You have a talent for versification, Mr. Ventnor,” answered Miss Carlyle, impassively. “ Yes, the words and air are pretty. But the Bentiment is false, like moßt sentiment.” “My dear Miss Carlyle!” protested the gentleman. “ And yet, sir,” broke in the younger gentleman, now speaking for the first time, “ you must allow Miss Carlyle is right. The sentiment is false. Gold will purchase love, or at least its similation ; gold and the position it brings the possessor. I think you hinted as much as we sat oyer our wine.” “Pshaw!” exclaimed the uncle, “you only see with one eye, as the Greeks used to say. I protest —with all deference to Miss Carlyle’s views—that the sentiment is true, and also, I protest vehemently against Miss Carlyle’s opinion that all sentiment is false. False I—then we should be without poetry, music, painting, sculpture —the arts, in fact, could net exist.” “All the same, in the affairs of life,” pursued the younger man. “ The affairs of life, my dear fellow,” interrupted the elder man with a soupcort of patronage in his voice and manner, “are based upon the principle of expediency. The business of life could not go on were it otherwise. But then the business of life is an artificial principle. Sentiment, on the other hand, is a natural impulse. Each is well—in its place.” A swift glance passed between Miss Carlyle and young Ventnor, and the faintest flush of pink came into the young lady’s cheek. Then she resumed her playing, her fingers idly improvising the softest chords and most tender cadences. Mr. Ventnor senior sat down, and, despite his politeness, dozed off in company with his sister. Then it was that his nephew, hastily scribbling some words on the leaf of biß pocket-book, tore it out, and furtively passed it to the lady at the piano. For a moment she hesitated ; then, with a proud gesture, she took the paper and placed it in v.he bosom of her dress. That night, when Miss Carlyle was alone in her room, she read the paper; and as she did so, all the cold haughtiness of her look departed; and in its place there came one of love and softness. Thus Bhe read : “ Darling,—l have sounded my uncle, ind, as I feared, his prejudices are imnovable. Still, dear love, what then ? I am poor, but I have youth and some talent. Be mine, and, believe me, we shall be happy. I cannot bear this suspense any longer. Paul.” The girl smiled softly, while her eyes grew humid with gentle tears. “ Be his—ah ! how gladly," she murmured. “ But he little knows how much I love him, if he deems I could consent to such a sacrifice. No—it must not be, nor can I remain here longer : else I shall yield. I must depart, and hide myself. He will forget—men can do that—and in time will be happy with a bride his proud old uncle approves of. But oh, my love 1 my love 1” she whispered. None can ever love you as I do.” Thus, then, it will be seen an understanding existed between the young heir and his kunt’s companion. Of the latter, little was known beyond the faot that she bad come to Brisbane a year before, bringing, among otberß, a letter of introduction from a friend of Mr, Ventnor, in whose family she had passed a brief time a? governess. Nothing, however, was said of her friends, beyond a passing note that her father, a poor clergyman, was dead. Mr. Ventnor, struck by her beauty, and »fili more by her dieDnguiohed bearing, introduced her to his sister, ana that lftSy; partly in benevolence, partly with an eye fc» her own* comfort and entertainment, M once engaged her as companion. Then 11 •was that Paul Ventnor, who had been » fellow-passenger, met her again—loved her. Hia unde and aunt must have been blma m-

tieerl in tneir aristocratic pnae not to anticipate gome such result. But so it was. Neither could conceive for one moment •.hat a Venlnor could ever entertain a serious passsion for an unknown and portionless jirl. As for any other love, neither doubted that Miss Carlyle could protect herself, while they had no fear either that their nephew could descend to any dishonorable conduct. They were right in these last conclusions ; utterly wrong in their sense of security in respect to the first. About a week following the episode which opens this narrative, Miss Carlyle disappeared; No letter from her reached the Ventnors to explain her absence—but, as she had taken with her all he? little belongings, it was justly concluded that there was no reason to apprehend she had met with any disaster.

Mr. Ventnor senior was much vexed ; his sister doubly so.

“ Whai extraordinary conduct,’’ said Mr. Ventnor to ms nephew. “ I hope there is no love nonsense at the bottom of it.”

His nephew, who looked very pale and troubled took a letter from a pocket-book, and handed it to his uncle, “ There is a love affair at the bottom of it,” he said, bitterly. “ Read that letter, sir.” Mr, Ventnor senior looked at the envelope. “Why it is addressed to you!” he exclaimed petulantly. “Eh? What—surely ” and then he turned to the letter and read :

“You know, dear Paul—you must know how very dearly I love you. But I love you too well to permit yon to sacrifice your prospects for toy sake. Do not attempt to seek me. Nothing can move me from my resolution. Forget me, and marry some happj girl of whom your proud uncle will approve. As for me, I shall love you, as I do now, to the last. Edith. ’

“ Amazing I” cried Mr. Ventnor. “ And so, sir, under our very noses, you have been making love to Miss Carlyle.’’ “You forget, sir—we were fellow-pas-sengers.” “ True, true—what fools I and Anne have been 1 Well, she’s a fine girl, and has behaved splendidly. Wish 1 knew were to find her; I’d do all I could to help her on in the world.”

“Would you consent to our marriage,

sir?” “ Ah—poob ! —pooh! That’s out of the question—utterly out of the question. You know my views on such matters.” “So did Edith—and hence her departure. “ And very worthy conduct,” pursued the uncle. “At anyrate, you can’t be very hard hit, Paul.” “ So much so,that I swear no other woman shall be my wife." His uncle regarded him with frowning brow. Do not be so ready to swear, my young friend. Of course, ;f you do fike to sacrifice your prospects, and make - ourself a beggar, you may—that's your affair. But if you want to inherit my fortune after my death, and enjoy a noble income during my life, you’ll 1 o as this lady recommends— forget her. You must marry as I approve, or tutu the consequences,’ 1 and Mr. Ventnor closed the conversation. Two days afterwards he received a letter from him informing him that he considered it no sacrifice to lose his fortune, if lie could gain Edith Carlyle for his wife, and that hr had departed for the south in si in eh oi her. “Very good,” said Mr. Ventnor to his Bister; “very good. He goes to his fate with his eyes open.’’ But the old gentleman was very pale, and the news had evidently struck him hard. As for his sister Anne, she was greatly distressed. She loved her nep lew dearly, and altheu-h she her brother all his absurd notions as to family and connection, her woman’s heart secretly sympathised with a love which was so evidently unselfish. A year passed. No news came to the Ventnors of their erring nephew, as they deemed him. But though neither admitted it to each other, each was moved by a great yearning to he of him, if not from him. At last, a gentleman, recently arrived from New Z -aland, and who was dining at Ventnon House, said : “ By the way, I met a nephew of yours, 1 think, in Dunedin.” “ Indeed 1” was Mr. Ventnor’s comment. “I have a nephew somewhere in the colonies.” “ Oh, yea—Paul Ventnor. He and I were very friendly. Indeed, I acted as hia best man at bis marriage.” The hand with which Mr. Ventnor was carrying his glass of wine to his lips trembled, and his face grew pale —Miss Ventnor uttered an exclamation. “ Married I” she cried. “ And the lady ?” “ A beautiful and accomplished woman -- Miss Edith Carlyle. She had taken Dunediu by storm with her superb voice, and Ventnor was not thanked, I can tell you, for taking her from the stage 1” “ The stage I” echoed Mr. Ventnor, aghast. “The stage 1” repeated his sister; “unhappy boy." Mr. Eldred looked puzzled. “ Unhappy 1” he cried, “ I can’t see that. Miss Carlyle is a person that would adorn a coronet. Indeed, as I happen to know, Bhe is not very far removed from one. Her father—Rev. Philip Carlyle—belonged to the Gombage family—Duke of Acorn, you }. now _andlf he hadn’t died so soon, would undoubtedly have worn the strav. berry “ Then what—what—in the name of Heaven!” cried old Ventnor, “made her turn governess at home, and come out here to find employment?” Mr. Eldred smiled. “An independent spirit, my dear sir. She refused to seek aid from her relatives, and preferred to rely upon her own talents and accomplish merits, rather than accept the benevolerce of aristocratic relatives." “ Well, I own I can't make it out,” said Mr. Vei.tnor, when he and his sister were alone. “If she had only told us, Anne !” “ Well, it doesn’t much matter, as things have turned out,” observed the old lady. “ Write and make your peace.” “ Gladly,” said her brother. “ The more so that I am now so broken that I fear my days will not be many more.” And indeed this was r pparent. The last twelve months had made a great change in the old gentleman. He had growu thin and weak, querulous and irritable of temper. He fretted for Paul, and was continually conducting a war between his pride and his affection.

A month later, Paul and his wife arrived in Brisbane. They were welcomed with affection. “My dear,” said old Ventnor to his nephew’s wife, and taking her hands, “ why did you not tell us you belonged to the Gombage family ?” “ Because I do not value the circumstance one jot, dear-Mr. Ventnor. The accident of birth has no influence upon me. The merit of the individual lies in the individual, and cannot be inherited.” «<Ah— a h," said the old man, feebly, “ perhaps you are right; things are changed altogether—the world is upside down. But my dear, l am happy now that you and Paul are happy.” “ Yes,” said Edith, turning to Paul, “ we are happy.” And for answer her husband folded hereto bis breast.

I’oor Hick. It was a sultry summer afternoon. Nothing could be heard in the fields but the song of birds and the “ click-click” of the mowing machine. The perspiration rolled down the foreheads and cheeks of the men. They held no conversation with each other. Probably they thought it cooler to be quiet. Nothing broke the stillness of the air, excepting the birds and the mowing machine. “ Click-click” steadily went the latter. Suddenly the piteous howl of a dog was heard ; the machine stopped ; the driver jumped oil the seat and the other men ran to the spot. Poor Dick! Those big, sharp teeth had cut him down almost as completely as they cut the hay. There he Lay, his legs all bleeding and the front ones nearly severed. He moaned and looked up at the men as if asking them for help. One of them caught hold of him, but he howled and snapped at him. “We might as well put him out of his pain," said one. “I’ll go to the house and get the gun," He started oil on a run and soon disappeared. The men remained in the same place. The horses at the machine stood quietly. The poor dog no more took notice of the presence of the men, who spoke in low tones, seeming to sympathize with him. Soon the man who had gone to the house returned with a gun. He reached down and stroked Dick ? perhaps tenderly then he moved oil' a short distance. A I man went to the horses heads, to hold them, and the one with the gun took aim —he pulled the trigger. Dick gave his last howl and after a short struggle was out of pain. They picked him up and laid him under a tree, covering him with hay. That evening they buried him there. Two little girls planted flowers on his grave, and it took them a long time to get used to the loss of their playmate Dick. A. Merchant Navigator's* Voyages. “Voyages of a Merchant Navigator ” is tho title of an interesting little hook which has just been published by Harper-A Bros. The author is H. W. S. Cleveland, and the man whose adventures he relates was the late Richard J. Cleveland, a resident of Salem, Mass., who, during the last ten years of the last century, and up to the year 1820, was actively engaged in the merchant service, owning and sailing vessels on his own account., it is an interesting fact that this R : ehml J. Cleveland was of the same blood as the present, President of the United States, the Rev. Aaron Cleveland, of Norwich, Conn., the great grandfather of the latter, being the brother of Stephen Cleveland, the father of tho man whose life story is told in tins book. Richard J. Cleveland, being bom in 1773, was a young man at the time tlia-t the wars of the French Revolution commenced, and the succeeding period i f twenty years, when all Europe was at war, with one brief interval, was the harvest of the American shipowner. The United States being the only neutral nation possessed of much shipping became the carrier for all Europe, and great fortunes were made by the bold adventurers who had money and ships and were prepared to take their chances freely. One of these was Richard J. Cleveland, who appears to have been a man singularly bold in conception and able in execut ion, and not too scrupulous in the means lie adopted to attain llis ends. Wherever Hiere wo t money to be made t ’ Jie be' would go, and if it became nec ssar y for him to change his nationality te porarily, he did not hesitate to do so, beco i n g a Frenchman, a Dane, or an Englishm nas occasion served. His first trip of importance w 15 taken in 1799, from Havre to the Isle of Fi’auce, in a little cutter of about fifty tons, which he had loaded up with goods such as h.? thought would sell at his destination. He also carried despatches from the French Government. He, however, never completed this voyage, for putting in at the Cape of Good Hojie the British officials there smelt a rat, and detained him. They thought it highly improbable that so small a vessel should start on so long a voyage merely for the purposes of trade ; so they would not allow him to proceed, but bought out liis vessel and cargo at a rate which gave him a handsome profit. We next find him at Canton, undertaking a voyage to the northwest coast of America to buy furs, and in this trip he met with many adventures ; but the voyage was successful, and yielded him a large sum. He is found next on a voyage from Isle of France to Denmark, and when this was completed he started for Chili and Peru, where lie thought he saw a chance of great profits. This trip also ended prosperously, although it was attended by many difficulties, and he reached his homo in Salem after several years’ absence, the possessor of a fortune of £17.000, with which he proposed to retire and spend the rest of his days in comfort. Like Robinson Crusoe, however, lie was impelled to go to sea again, and Iris next essay was most disastrous. After this he gained and lost two or three fortunes, but we must reserve the remainder of liis adventures for the readers, who will not fail to peruse this most interesting book, which is far more thrilling than many a work of fiction. Richard J. Cleveland died in 18G0, aged 87, after such a life of adventure as has fallen to the lot of few men to pass through.