LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume I, Issue 10, 11 June 1874, Page 4

LITERATURE.

SAVED BY A WOMAN’S SMILE.

[From “ Bow Bells.”] It was at the sea-shore, the most fashionable resort at the time, that from one of the windows floated out in the evening air a woman’s voice. She was singing an old song —Kathleen Mavourneen. There was a world of passion in her tone, passion really felt, not affected, one was wild enough to believe, as leaning over the instrument, he listened to her song. She had a wonderful voice ; so full and powerful now, and then again lulling one into a blissful dream by its soft sweetness. The song was finished. Both the words and music had penetrated the inmost soul of Cecil Delmar.

‘ Why did you sing thatsong, Florence?’he fisksd* * Because it pleased mo,’ she answered, raising her eyes to his, and smiling. How beautiful she was 1 And her smile ! < Did ever woman smile as Florence Carrington ?’many have asked ; such a bright bewildering smile was hers. _ _ * Florence do you know your smile is the brightest that ever lingered on a woman’s lips,’ Cecil said gazing lovingly on her. ‘ So many have told me she,’ answered, with provoking carelessness. “ Aye, Florence, a smile which carries a man almost to heaven when it is given to him, or sinks him to the realms of despair, if turned on another. Florence, I never hear that song, “Her bright smile haunts me still” but I think of .'your smile, and feel as the poet must have felt. Yes, love, even in eye and heart it has lived, cheering, comforting, and bringing me back to you, ever constant and true ’ ‘ There, there, Cecil ; do stop. One would think you were rehearsing for a private theatrical,’she said, turning again, and running her fingers over the keys of the instrument. ‘ Florence,’ . .

‘ Cecil, please do not stare at rae so; it is very impolite. I should have thought your travelling abroad would have polished and changed you a little,’ she said. ‘ Changed! Florence, what do you mean?’ he asked. . , ' 1 mean, Cecil, that three years might be expected to bring change to all, When you left home, I was a child, not knowing my own heart ; and you ’ ‘A man, Florence, giving his heart with perfect faith to a girl he believed loving, constant, and true,’ Cecil exclaimed, his voice trembling with emotion. ‘ Nonsense, Cecil ! Ours was but a boy and girl affair, and years have ‘ Changed the artless, loving girl to a woman of the world, no longer content with the devotion of one heart. Florence, you are try ing me ; say it is so.’ ‘No, Cecil ; nothing of the kind. lam sorry to grieve you, but it will only be a passing cloud. And you will, perhaps, thank me for considering your future welfare. You have work to do for years yet, Cecil ; your fortune to retrieve, a name to make. And then you can think again of love. You wrong me when you say I am not content with the devotion of one heart. I am, and am proud of it too. But it is the heart of one of his country is proud of. And when so many fair women were sighing for what I have won, I should be very content. See, Cecil.’ She took from her pocket a little portrait, and handed it to him. It was the face of one Cecil had seen lingering long beside her the night before ; one he had known by reputation for years ; the most popular and polished gentleman of the time and place, * Now, Cecil, I have acted candidly with you ; can wo not still be friends?’ He knew all all then—knew she was lost to him—knew that the hopes of years wore crushed—knew that the girl before him was false. Aye, bathe knew not that to more than him she was false—false to the pleadings of her own heart. Ambition had conquered in the contest, and love was buried in the bidden recesses of her heart. The false girl vainly thought that in the brilliant future she would win, if not happiness, at least content oblivion of the past. The compressed lips parted ; he was about to speak to her—to upbraid, perchance, with words of forgiveness to part. Whichever it might have been was checked by the sound of a coming step—a firm commanding tread. Both knew it. A flush mantled her pale face. With a cold, bitter smile, Cecil Delmar turned away. Another instant, and she knew he had gone, ‘ False girl!’ he said, * will wealth and position make her happy ? Yes—perhaps : for surely she has no heart for aught else. How true 1 Well, the dream is over, and life has nothing more for me. Could my loss of fortune have made her fly from me ? Ah, she might have known how I would have worked for wealth and fame to offer her ! How inviting the water looks to-night. The waves seem to call mo. I will go I

Cecil, leaving Florence, had wandered beside the sea shore. Certainly life seemed very dark to him then. He believed the mysterious future could not be more so. Mounting on the pier, he determined from thence to plunge into the bosom of the ocean.

Although a late hour, many persons still lingered there, Cecil seated himself to wait their departure. At length all were gone save a party just opposite. ‘ Come, let us go,’ said one of them. ‘ No, no, said a voice so peculiarly sweet that Cecil was suddenly drawn from his sad musiugs to listen, ‘Do come now, Louise. What are you stopping for V again urged one. ‘No, no; I want to stay—to enjoy this scene. What a glorious night. Ours is a world of such beauty, I often think how can one wish to leave it,’ said the sweet voice

again. ‘ Oh, Louise, as yet you have only seen the bright side of life. Clouds may arise ’ ‘ Yes, I know. But don’t talk of clouds. Now only see. The moon has stolen behind that huge dark bank, as if to demonstrate your ideas. But oh ! true to life, the darkness is only temporary. Here our beautiful queen comes forth again, all darkness dispelling. 1 think the scene of the last few moments is a true picture of life, and with its lessons too. Oh. yes, I cling to our beautiful earth, never fearing its darkness, which I know must fade away, and the coming day be all the brighter for the dreariness preceding it,’ Was she talking to him ? Cecil almost believed she had penetrated his very soul, and was pleading to him for its safety. ‘Louise, you should have been called Hope. That name would have just suited you, you are such a trusting, hopeful little body,’ said pne of her companions,

1 Yes ; I know neither doubts nor fears. ‘ Hope on, hope ever,’ is my motto. Come ; now we will go, if you please.’ She arose, with her friends, and moved with them until within a few steps of Cecil, when she turned, as if for a last look on the beautiful scene.

Was it by accident or design that a cluster of natural flowers feel at Cecil’s feet? He had seen them in her hair, a few moments before.

She stooped, as if to regain them, when Cecil sprang forward and caught them up. Quickly detaching one, he handed the others to her. She saw him, he knew, for the night was as bright and clear as noonday, lleceiving her flowers she thanked him with a smile—a smile, so different to Florence’s smile, not near so bright, but a gentle sweet pleading, savingsmilc. She passed onand Cecil Delmar drew back from the entrance of the ‘dark valley,’ and slowly followed—saved. ‘ Louise, what meant your words and actions to-night?’ asked the gentle girl’s lover a few moments after, when they were seated alone in a private parlour. < Harry, yon know I meant something ?’ she asked.

‘ Surely. I know too, my darling ; it was something of good only.’ ‘Thank you, Harry,’ she answered, her eyes filliug with tears of joy. ‘ I will tell you. You have often said I could read one’s thoughts. Sometimes I can. That young man who sat opposite us I thought was waiting our departure to throw himself into the sea. I watched him closely from the moment he come near. I read despair on every feature. I talked for his ear and saw he heard and listened. Believing I had caused him to waver in his determination, I thought possibly I might save him. That was why I dropped my little bouquet, and smiled upon him. I may never see him again, as we leave to-morrow morning. But Heaven grant my endeavour may have helped him, if he was in despair, as I believed.’

‘ Louise, you are an angel, and have saved one man from destruction, I know. What I am, you have made rae. If that young man was in danger, you have saved him too, I think, I saw him leave the pier.’

Years passed on, during which many times Cecil Delmar’s thoughts reverted to the girl who saved him. Louise was a name to him most beautiful and sacred. A little flower, faded and yellow, was treasured away and prized dearly, when all reminders of Florence were lost and forgotten. He often heard of her in the world of fashion. Eumor spoke of her as not a happy woman. The man that many women smiled upon and ‘sighed for,’ as Florence had said, cared but little for the smiles of his wife. Perhaps he had looked into the depth of her heart, and found the skeleton hidden there.

Florence bad told Cecil Delmar he had work to do. He had done, and was still doing it. Fortune had returned. Fame crowned him with her brilliant laurels. Fair women smiled upon him. Men were proud to call him friendOnce more they met, ten years afterwards, when Florence, regally beautiful, and a widow, seated in at James’s Hall, gazed down upon the member for Elmvale, who was finishing a brilliant speech on some exciting political topic. The same old smile—the bright, bewitching smile, But she felt its power was over; gone, she feared, beyond recall. He hastened not to her side. She almost despaired of his coming at all, when, as though they had parted but yesterday, he approached her. There was no hesitation in his greeting. Calm, easy, and graceful, he accepted the scat beside her, and entered into a conversation on the popular topics of the day. What cared she for them. Was it of this she had dreamed, watched, and waited for? Skilfully she turned his thoughts that they might drift back to other days. But he cared nut to linger with the past she felt.

Oft his gaze wandered over the brilliant throng. At length Florence saw a look of great interest in his eye, and turning to her he asked, ‘ Do you know the young lady just leaving over there ?’ 1 Slightly; I have met her. Butshe is not a very young lady—Mrs Clifton. She is thought quite pretty,' Florence answered. There came a look of disappointment over his face quite unmistakeable to Florence as well to a young lady friend who sat near, and who said, ‘ Oh, but do not despair, Mr Delmar. She is a widow,’

• Thank you,’ Cecil answered, smiling. And Florence saw the information gave him pleasure. A few moments after the young lady had left to speak to a freind in another part of the Hall. Cecil Delmar and Florence were alone. Turning towards her with a forgiving smile, he said ‘Florence.’ Hope brightened again. It was the first time he had called her so.

‘ Years ago,’ he continued 1 ( you told me I might some day thank you. Perhaps I shall. You say Mrs Clifton is thought pretty ; to me she is more than beautiful. To her I owe all that I am. She saved me that night yon sent me forth despairing and reckless. I intended to flee from the world that seemed so dark. Her words to others reached my ear. I hesitated in my purpose then. A little longer and she smiled on me ; that smile was ray salvation. Do-you wonder that to me she is more than ever woman was before ? Until to-day, I have never met her since that night. I shall seek an introduction ; and if fortune favors me, I shall thank you for my happiness.’

There was no bitterness in his tone. She would have liked it better had there been. He was dealing candidly, truthfully with her. Next night, at the Duchess of Lynville’s ‘ at home,’ she saw him beside Louise Clifton.

She knew he was happy ; that he would grow daily happier. The gentle woman was smiling upon' him. Smiles not deceiving were Louise’s, but sweet and encouraging coming not alone from lips and eye, but from the pure, beautiful spirit within.

Before the close of the session, Florence read the announcement of the approaching nuptials of Cecil Delmar, M.P., and the woman ho loved as she knew she had never been loved.

She left the gay capital, a sad and disappointed woman. Life had taught her the severe lesson that wealth and position cannot satisfy the heart’s yearnings.