CHAPTER XXII.—THE LETTERS OF THE DEAD.

Otago Witness, Issue 905, 3 April 1869, Page 20

CHAPTER XXII. — THE LETTERS OF THE DEAD.

What a contrast did that solitary evening in Clifford Street afford to those which Charles Steen had been accustomed to spend for the last six months by the snug hearth of the rector, or in the pretty little drawing-room at Rill Bank ! The house was in a transition state ; vacated by its former tenant, yet not taken possession of by the incomer. The carpets were all taken away ; a small table and a couple of chairs were all the furniture left for his accommodation in the diningroom. An ancient charwoman ministered to his wants. The studio looked inexpressibly bare and comfortless ; its skylight had got broken, after that miraculous fashion which happens to all uninhabited rooms, no matter how soon after they have become disused ; a few broken chalks upon its floor alone proclaimed the purpose to which it had once been put. In Mi' Blissett's bedchamber a bulging brown-paper parcel lying in one corner, was the sole substitute for the elaborate furniture and gorgeous knick-knack 3 with which the painter delighted to surround himself.

j His solitary dinner despatched, Charles carried this parcel into the parlor. It contained the letters which it was his task to peruse and winnow. There was an immense number of them-— indeed, they comprehen de d the correspondence of years. The contents of some of them were more curious than edifying. Charles wondered to himself, as he read them, how any man, even so eccentric a personage as his patron, could suffer other eyes than his own to look at them. Perhaps Mr Blissett had forgotten their existence ; but if so, it only proved that very flagrant immorality was a matter with him. of ordinary commonplace. There were a quantity of \inpaid bills and threatening letters referring to them ; and a very few receipts. There were letters addressed to him in India ; and letters from India ; and letters so recent as to be within a few months' date. But all were thrown together in a heterogeneous mass, with one exception. This exception was the correspondence of the late squire, which was tied together with a piece of red tape, each letter neatly docketed with its date, and the whole labelled: "Letters from my brother Frank.' Charles reacd the first, then gazed with hesitation at the rest of the little pile— the tone of the contents wfes so generous, so confidential, so fraternal ! Was it possible that his patron had intended him to peruse even these ? There was no need to sort them, for they were already sorted, and surely it could not be wished that he should destroy them! Mr Frederick had bid him c read over the whole lot, and separata the chaff from the grain ; and you will find a deal more of the former than the latter.' Yet were not these 'silentspeaking letters of the dead' all grain, and good grain? Ppon the "whole, the young man determined to deliver this little packet unread, and take the risk of the painter's displeasure. Accordingly, he restored that which he had taken out to its companions, and tied them up again with the tape. As he did so, and in turning the little bundle over, the postal date of the most recent letter met his view. How he wished ho had begun at that ens of the pile J For t&s letter must needs

have arrived on the very day before the writer's death, and had probably been written within eight-and-forty hours of it. How little he could have expected his end ! Charles took it up and regarded it very wistfully. It was not mere curiosity, he reasoned, that was urging him to peruse it ; the possibility of suicide — although it had been scouted by the rector as that of murder had been — had never (to himself, who had not personally known the squire) seemed totally out of the question. The contents of the envelope he held in his hand, with Allgrove on the Rill, November 9, on it, in circular print, woxild probably evidence the state of the squire's mind. It might Bhow some cause for despondency, or exhibit some proof of aberration, of v/hich nothing might have been known in his own household. It is so easy to find arguments for the course we wish »o pursue. He slowly drew forth the note — it was but a few lines — from its cover, and read as follows : Morben Hall, November 9. My deae Frederick — I cannot, I really cannot accede to your proposition. You say it is for the last time ; but you have said that so many, many times already. As a matter of fact, I have not the sum in question at my banker's, and I cannot consent to overdraw my account. Upon my honor, Frederick, I begin to think that sending you money is like pouring water into a sieve. If 1 was a bachelor perhaps I might pursue even that course ; but I have a wife and child. As to being surety for the other sum, it is a moat unreasonable request ; but you count upon me with confidence that is not misplaced when you ask, would I see my father's son in jail? Of course I would not. Refer this Mr Ashden and his claim to my lawyer in Golden Square. I daresay the matter can be arranged ; but what recklessness do you exhibit, my dear brother ! To owe so much, and yet to have received so little ! I write these remarks with great pain, believe me, and I hope — hoping against hope, alas — that they will never have to be repeated. There, I have done: !N"ow, come down, my dear Fred, to us at Allgrove, and forget these matters. The hounds meet at Newnham the day after to-morrow, at ) 10.30, and I intend to be there, if the frost breaks up, notwithstanding the distance : you, who are half an Asiatic, and used to rise before the sun, will not mind starting by the early train. You will find Robert at the King's Head, with the bay mare you always ride. He will see that your luggage is brought on all right ; and you and I, after owt day's run, will ride home here, where, as you know, a hearty welcome always awaits you from your loving brother, Frank Blissett. This was the letter, then, to which Mr Frederick had referred on the morning after his introduction to Charles, and which had preceded but by one day's post the tidings of the squire's death. What kindness it breathed, and what longsuffering patience ! No wonder the painter had been so affected at the losa of such a brother ! Charles went on with his work, feeding the fire with many a proof of extravagance and dissipation, and setting aside oneor two business documents, and acknowledgments of money paid upon account ; but he came upon no other record of friendship or affection save those letters of the dead squire. It truly seemed that Mr Mellish had spoken no more than the truth when he said that Mr Frederick Blissett had never had a friend. Long and wearisome as was the task, the young man did not rise from his seat until it -was concluded, and night had given- place to morning. At noon he presented himself, according to his patron's directions, in Graf ton Street, and found the painter only just sat down to breakfast. He was looking ill enough. Sleep, * balm of hurt minds/ aa the rector would have observed, had he beheld him, seemed to afford but small relief to Mr Blissett ; but he was in high, nay, what seemed in him, uproarious spirits. "You have brought me good luck, . Steen," cried he. " What a fascinating young dog you must be, that the very mention of you even should have brought that ancient idiot — the father of the Heavenly Child — to reason ! He says that now I have a respectable young clergyman staying with me" " A. clergyman !" exclaimed Charles, in astonishment. " Well, you look so like one, that nobody would ever know the difference ; and I am sure this semi-Frenchman — and far less Eloise — never would. I only said so to quiet him. There can be no harm in such an innocent deception as that. It is the only way, I assure you, that I could possibly have obtained the sitting. Even now he stipulates for seeing you. I will take you to their lodgings j a hundred

pounds ought to be a fortune to them ! — directly after breakfast.— What the deAil are you looking so grave about ?" " I cannot, Mr Blissett, I really cannot be a party to the deception at which you hint." "Deception! stuff and nonsense. You needn't enter iuto the joke at all — for it's only a joke of course — unless you please. You have only to look as glum as you are looking now (just as though you weie going to preach too), to be taken for a boy-bishop. — What is the parcel you have got there V " Your letters, sir — all those I thought you would care to have preserved." "And a good many more, I should think, Mr Steen," said the other laughing. ''Why, I hoped there would not be half-a-dozen worth keeping in all." "Nor were there, sir— with the exception of your brother's correspondence ; I thought you would not wish that to be destroyed." "And why not, sir?" exclaimed the painter, darting an angry look at his young friend. "What is there that I should wish preserved in those records of doled-out charity, of unwilling donations, or of downright churlish denial I S"ou think all his excuses very fine, I daresay ; everything that is said or done, or written by my relatives, dead or alive, finds favor with you, it seems ; whereas I—your1 — your benefactor, your patron, without whom you would not have a shirt to your back — when I ask ever so small a service as I did to-day, am met with objectionsscruples. Let me tell you, young man, although you have a hundred a year of ; your own, you are not in a position to entertain scruples. — You have read these high-souled letters, I suppose," added the painter contemptuously, flipping with his fingers at the little packet ; " and it is to their influence, I presume, that 1 find you so desperately well principled this morning. " "I read but two of them, sir. It seemed to me that they were oi too private a nature for any eyes but those for | which they were intended." " You did, did you 1 What exquisite delicacy of feeling ! Well, to me— so much do we differ — these letters— l don't know what induced me to preserve them — are for the most part merely special evasions ; their contents, advice unsought for, and assistance denied. Do you know that this man and I were brothers, sir 1 He .with three thousand a year, and I with not as many hundreds. Was it unreasonable that I should ask his help whenever I needed it, although I had done so ten times as often as I did ? No, sir, no." He snatched up the packet, and threw it on the fire, and beat it down with his heel upon the glowing coals in a transport of fury. " There, let them burn.— -I was not angry with you, Steen/' ] added the painter coolly, after a long pause, during which the flame rose high and wavered and sank, and all those records of a brother's love were thin, black, eddying ashes, "but irritated by a just sense of wrong. However, things have righted themselves since. It is better to be born lucky than rich, Steen, after all." There was something in his patron's tone so mocking, and even malignant, that the young man could scarce repress a shudder ; as it was, his countenance was unable wholly to disguise his inward feelings, but showed distress and pain. "You look shocked," said Mr Frede, rick, coldly; "it's plain you have never been a younger brother. Wellj this talk of yours has not improved my appetite for breakfast, and I can eat no more" — he had but swallowed, as was his custom now, a few fragments of toast. — " Let us be off, and see my Eloise. Only remember this, my impressionable young friend, that, beautiful as she may prove, and doubtless in accordance with your tastes, you are not to be her Abelard. I must have no gross and earthly affections excited in her innocent heart ; otherwise she is spoiled for my model as the Heavenly Child. There is nothing like getting the genuine article in these matters. The artist that has my sympathies above all others is he who, setting about to portray the punishment of crucifixion, hired some fellow to be bound hand and foot, and then stabbed him, to get the exact expression of the features. The legend of King Stephen, by-the-by, says the celestial children were dressed in green. I wonder whether green becomes Miss Eloise ; and whether I shall persuade her to wear it if it doesn't V (To be conthxued.)

The grain season in Canterbury, according to the Press of a recent date, may now be said to be fairly set in . The goods sheds and stores at the railway station are literally teeming with grain for export, and the heavily ladsn trucks from the south line, and the cajrts and drays of all descriptions that are continually arriving from the country with the same produce, together present a moat animated appearance.