LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume I, Issue 9, 10 June 1874, Page 4

LITERATURE.

AUSTIN CHASUBLE’S LOVE CHANCE.

IN TWO CHAPTERS. —II Concluded.

‘ Forgive me—do forgive me !' I stammered, brokenly. ‘ I never meant—but it seemed so sudden. To lose you altogether ! I cannot bear it, I

‘Mr Casublc,’ she interrupted, blushing very much, but speaking in a kind, womanly tone, 1 surely you are not going to say anything foolish. If you are, pray stop.’ ‘ls it foolish to you ?’ I exclaimed, losing my head altogether. And then, in the same moment, it rushed over me how utterly foolish—nay, insane—such love was ; and I sat down by the rickety little table, and burying my face in my hands, groaned aloud at my own madness.

She came close to me, and said in her coaxing, pleasant voice—- ‘ Mr Chasuble, pray don’t. Of course I forgive you. You did not mean anything. You are a little over-tired, that’s all. Pray don’t take it to heart.’

Nothing could be more generous, more kindly ladylike ; but I would not take the indulgence. Every tone of her liquid voice fanned my passion ; and X burst out again, not looking at her. ‘ I did mean it. I do mean it. I love you, foolishly if you will, but with all my heart. How could you not see it? Why, it has been Heaven even to be near you, though I knew I could never win you—a poor curate, without even enough to keep himself. And you so fair, so ’ I choked I was fairly crying like a baby, with my face still hidden. “I know I ought not to tell you. I never meant to. It was enough to see you now and then ; but if you go ’ ‘ Poor fellow 1” she said, as pitifully as if I bad been Mrs Ball’s crippled grandson, and laying her little gloved hand on ray bowed head. ‘ I’m so sorry. I never guessed it, indeed. Of course it was very foolish : and how you could—but you’ll soon get over it,’ Her well-meant consolation only stabbed me more keenly. The rain fell in a constant ‘ spit, spit ’ down the chimney on to the hot coals. A mangy hen sauntered into the room, and commenced pecking at my bootheels. The wet from our two umbrellas trickled together in a little pool on the muddy floor. ‘ I would give my life to win you,’ I sobbed out, ashamed to lift my head ; ‘ and I cannot I cannot.’

‘ No, you can’t,’ she said, firmly. Then after a moment, in which I did not speak, ‘ I think I had better go away.’ Another silence ; then, in a softer tone— Don’t cry. Please don’t. I’m not worth it a bit, and I’m so sorry ! Oh I you poor boy, I wish you wouldn’t—l am so very, very sorry.’ The coaxing fingers glided from my head to the hands which covered my face. I felt their kindly clasp for a second ; then a light gentle touch, like the brush of a rose-leaf on my forehead, and—she was gone ! Before I could reach the door she was almost at the entrance of the alley, and I knew I had lost her.

I went home that day feeling like a man who has passed through Heaven and lost it for ever. Only the touch on my forehead remained to save me from utter misery. If I had one grain of common sense, I might have known that it was the seal of my condemnation, the surest sign that she did not and could not love me as I loved her, for one single moment; but I was mad—mad as only a man who loves vainly can be. A telegram was lying on my lodginghouse table. I did not even notice it till evening, I was too wretched ; but when the girl came in to lay the cloth she pointed it out to me and I tore it open. It was from my mother summoning me to Bibchester on important business. Of course I hurried off by the first train on the following day ; and on my arrival was informed that the rector of Farleycombe—a pretty, rural village about three miles from Bibchester—was just dead ; and my mother had prevailed with the patron, an old friend of her own, to offer me the living.

An income of six hundred a year mine in one day. Of course I had to stay some days in Bibchester to settle matters. Nearly ten indeed had elapsed before I returned to town to bid adieu to St Stephen’s, and seek out Juliet. Yes, come what might, I had resolved to find her, and implore her to try and love me sufficiently to give up her gay London life, and share my own comfortable, if quiet home, among the green and sunny Kentish hopfields. Naturally, with this view, I went first to Mrs Bosely. ‘An’ you be a-goin away too, sir,’ cried the dame, when I told her the news. ‘Well, I never ! Seems like as I’ll be left all alone ; an’ my rheumatic’s that bad my legs is swollen right up, an’ the perspiration runs off me in streams, it do. Yes, sir, I had to take they things off the door, they did make it so ; and now Miss Julit’s gone—God bless her—she won’t take no offence.’

‘ Then she is gone ?’ I asked, half-expect-ing it, and making|upmy mind to follow her. ‘ Gone ! —eh, yes, sir, all the way to Italy, she and her husban’; though whatsumdever they wants in that Popish place I can’t imagine for the life o’ me. Ah 1 she were a darling, she were. Just ’ee look at that piece o’ cake she sent me, Aint it a big lump ? An’ there’s her letter, which there s summut about you in it, for sure.’ I only glanced at the wedge of iced and luscious cake ; but I took the thick sheet of creamy paper, and read it steadily through. I was past emotion now. ‘ Dear Mrs Bosely,’ it said—“ This is to bid you good-bye, for I am goiug to marry my cousin, Lord Danescourt. We have been engaged for more than a year, and now he won’t wait any longer, but insists on carrying me right away from London ; so I am going, and shall not see you any more. Don’t forget me, and mind and wish me joy over the cake and wine. Also bid Mr Chasuble good-bye for me. I liked him very much. ‘ Always your hearty friend, ‘ Juliet Mandeville.’ That was ten years ago, and I am unmarried still. I am more than ever convinced that celibacy is the only right and proper state for the priesthood, and make that condition a sine qua non with my curates. But I keep Juliet Mandeville’s note hidden away in the depths of my desk ; and the touch of her fresh lips has kept me from all others ever since. It may be she was the innocently cordial, pitiful child I fancy her. It may be she was only a careless coquette, amusing herself with an idle flirtation. I only know hers was the first girl-kiss that ever pressed my brow, and none has ever brushed it away.