LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume I, Issue 20, 23 June 1874, Page 4

LITERATURE.

SIGHTED AT LAST. Continued. ■ Miss Darlington hurried from the room without a word ; but as Godfrey held the door open for her, he could see that her face was white and her eyes full of tears. Scarcely knowing whether to connect her evident distress with what he had been saying, he felt perplexed as to what to do when he resumed his seat; but after two or three minutes' dead silence Mr Darlington asked Blowly—- * What was the name of the boy you just spoke of ?' * Charlie Elwin Merlin.' * And he lived-—!'

' At Newby by York.' •Or Then still more slowly : 'At Newby' by York; a place I have never seen. I thought you were an eastern counties' man—that you had lived all your life at St. Osyth's?' ' ' Not quite all. I have many relations in Yorkshire—my only living relatives, cousins, all in different parts of that county. After Christmas I mean to have a holiday, and run tip to see them for ten days.' 'O, and then you will see this Mrs—these people who interest you V 'Perhaps I shall,' said the curate sadly ; and then he got up and said he would be going home,'for he did not care to anticipate or discuss so sad a meeting as his would be with that sorrowing mother. He was vexed with himself for so carelessly introducing the subject; and so, resisting Mr Darlington's invitation to remain longer, he went off to bid Miss Darlington good-night in the draw-ing-room at once. She was not there; but half a dozen candles were flaring in a strong draught, the dark curtains were pulled aside, and the window'stood wide open. While he hesitate, a voice without said ; ;;T,j£r Bfee, is papa coming ? What, are you going already V Then she stepped in with a dark"shawl gathered about.her head and shoulders ; but though she closed the winddwy'she kept well within the shadow of the curtains, holding up one hand to shield her eyes, as though the light dazzled her. 'TjVaitone moment,' she said softly, as he offered to bid her good night; then going on rapidly, a deep flush replacing her unusual pallor: 'Will you forgive me, Mr Bree"; but will you—may I give you something for that poor lady you spoke of ? Perhaps, if—if she has other children she will want it now.- O, no ; pray do not think it any liberality, papa gives me so much more than I ever use.' The last words broke into something very like a sob. ' Please go,' she whispered ; * and pray do not name who sent this.' He could but go, more puzzled than ever by the evening visit. ' This' he found on examination to be a bank note for fifty potradp, "V Chapter IT. . PRUDENCE G OES TO THE WINDS. ; : . Over and oyer again did the curate ponder the strange circumstances of his last visit to the White Cottage—last it seemed likely to be, ior no invitation to go again reached him between, that night and Christmas, and the time dragged along, each day opening oh the hope that he might see Miss Darlington _, once more, and-closing with a regret; that that one object was still unachieved ~' Among his poor folks he often heard her named, and by the many gifts that were .shown to him, it,seemed as though ;shemu,sj|; have' shut herself up to, work for her neighbours. One day ah old paralysed woman, whose home Emily had often brightenedjjiy her; presence, told the curate 'that s her young lady was a-goin'right away ; she come last night and told her so heTself; and, O, howshe should miss her, that she should!' and then the poor old creature shed ready ■lears, and pitied' herself for being about to lose so kind a friend. V'

f - After that Godfrey heard the coming de-parture-spoken of by many, together with a diQzen; reasons for the removal—nearly all Sofithem flavoured with one piece of what he fearedwasthe truth. It seemed to be pretty wellknown that Mr Darlington's habit was mastering, him- quickly, and that he was rarely to. be seen; towards the latter part of : the day, in any better than a half-intoxicated .state.- ;, ■ - 4i,..:.. ■

s-Well- might poor Emily come alone to the little Jchurchj looking ho worn and pale that rher bright girlhood seemed altogether to /have lefther; • "?.,-■

s The;curate'« heart often ached as he caught jßighti of tha? Bweet; sorrowful" face ; and mighty were-his longings that he had the Mghtrto take, her from her unshared troubles, eveß;tothe=mbdest home which was the best hecould ever offer her. ;

;- But how he, had no hold on such a hope. As darkness gathered about that other houseshadow fell on him too. Do what he would, he did"! not feel light-hearted or 'glad that Christmas time. 13 'lf I could only see her again,' he thought, as ;.he; finished a ■ weary walk in the misty garden', on the eve of Christmas day, hj pacing idown; the plantation, through the graveyard,,and so into the church. And behold, while the' wish hovered unspoken on his lips, there; stood Miss Darlington in the'narrow aisle, glad> waiting perhaps to see him, for she came forward with heightened color and outstretched hand.

.:• r • .At last I he exclaimed, hnrrying forward to meet her. " I thought I was never to speak to you again.'

; 'Nay,' she answered, 'I would not go without bidding you good-bye. I had not much time to help with the church this year, but I stayed purposely after the Daveneys and Wilsons left, because I did so hope you would eome in.'

. The curate forgot his last month's wearyings in delight at this avowal. His prudence was scattered to the winds, and before he was half aware of what he was doing, he was pouring out the story of his love, entreating her, if she might not yet share his home, to let him know and help her to bear her troubles.

'My darling,' he said, ' what is that is changing you so 1 what is it that is taking you away from us 1 and why have you never let me see you of late ?'

A • stream of questions that the poor girl could not answer, for she was crying bitterly, unable* for some minutes to speak a word. -*

-■Grievously perplexed at the effects of his words, Godfrey stood anxious and impatient, while she fought a battle with her tears and conquered them; then, not venturing a look towards him, sfiu drew away awiiy a step, and almost unconsconsciously toying With-■ a holly wreath, spoke at last tremuloudly aad nervously;

'1 have done very wrong. I only waited — indeed, I only waited to hear if you had sent—my poor gift—to your—your friend.' He told her half-impatiently that the gift had gone almost as soon as she gave it, and as secretly as she had desired. ' Then I do thank you more than I can tell,' she said, once more voluntarily giving him her hand. And she added slowly and earnestly, ' I ask you one thing more—forget you ever spoke to me as you have just done. There are reasons why I must not, and—' faltering a moment —' why I will not listen to such words. No, no, please don't make me cry again ;' for he was at her side trying to stop her words. What lover, indeed, would be likely to be put off with such entreaties as these ? Not he, thought Godfrey; hear him she should ; and he made her find her hat and leave the gray little church, while he eagerly and passionately pleaded his cause with her as slowly they moved on towards the home she was so soon to leave. But all in vain. 'lt cannot be.' 'lt must not be.' I cannot tell you why,' These were the only answers he could wring from her, though, poor girl, she had not strength or skill enough to conceal that it was her will, and not her heart, that was rejecting him.

'Will you never give me any other answer ?' he asked, as they neared the gate of the White Cottage. ' I dare not think I ever shall, she answered.

1 And will you forgive me the pain that my presumption has caused you V he asked jesui+ically. ' I had almost forgotten till now how rich you were and how poor I am.' ' How can you ! That is cruel !' she broke out. 'lndeed, you don't know how cruel you are. Ah, Godfrey !' for he held her, all unseen in the quiet shadowy lane, close in his arms for one moment while he said—'Then I will wait; Whatever it be that keeps you from me cannot last for ever. Whether it should last for months or years, I'll wait. I'll have no wife if I cannot have you, Emily ;' and then he released her, and left her without another word, striding off for a six-mile walk along the old Roman road close by, to cool his hot head aud recall what few senses the last hour had not deprived him of altogether. Chapter V. After waiting comes reward. The next day brought its work of services, and ' Lady Margaret's dole of certain shillings and woollen garments and loaves of bread to six poor women of the parish of Maybeck.' Godfrey Bree had plenty to keep him occupied till • the time came for his lonely Christmas dinner, for he had declined joining the family gathering at the Hall; and Major: Garret had gone to spend his Christmas from home. But the dinner was dismal; not even Flop's companionship could make it otherwise. The one thought would obtrude itself, ' How long would it be thus with him? How many Christmas-tides must he pass alone ? Would his rash love have ever the ending he longed for?' Brooding and depressed, the minutes lagged along heavily, the excitement of the afternoon was telling on him now, when every word that had passed filled hie memory, to the exclusion of all else.

He started, as a nervous woman might have done, when a peal at the door bell rang through the bouse, and hastened to, relight the ,lamp (he had been-sitting idly by the firelight) as Jim's wife opened the door to tell him that Mr Darlington was waiting to speak with him, but would not come into the house.

'Now for it!' thought the curate, rousing himself for the anticipated fray ; for he never questioned what must have called forth the visit. His mind was full of that one idea ; and he stepped out into the hall, where a cold wind was rushing about, slamming the doors and whistling mournfully through all the.house. ' Pray come in, Mr Darlington,' he begged, going out on the steps and standing shi?er» ing beneath the dark wintry sky. -' No, thank you,' said the other shortly; 'I am, merely come to say good-bye.; we shall be 'off to-morrow or the next day. I should be too busy,to see you if you called. This place is all very well in the summer. What's that?'

4 Nothing,' said the curate, peering into the darkness. 'What do you mean ? I wish you would come in.'

\. ' But it's confoundedly cold in the winter; that's why we are leaving,' went on Mr Darlington rapidly ; and I hate the country to walk in, one is so apt to meet all sorts of people. You're not inclined for a walk, are you?' . : 'Certainly not,' said the curate; 'and really I think it would be best for you to go hprije if you will not come in with me. It's bitterly cold, and beginning to snow.' The flakes were coming down thick and fast as he spoke.

* Then I will be off,' said Mr Darlington. 'Good-night and good-bye ! Have you heard—l beg your pardon, 1 thought I was talking to some one else. Good-night.' , He went off down the garden path muttering strangely to himself, and Godfrey Bree stood watching his dark figure as long as it could be seen, little thinking that the departing man was hurrying carelessly to meet bis death. But so it was. While the church bells were ringing merrily, and men gathered their children about them on their bright hearths that Christmas night, unknown to, them all a life went out in their very midst. Late, after all the cottagers had gone to rest, the servants from the White House roused Mr Bree and Jim from the rectory to help them in their search for their master. 1

And they found him at the bottom of the stone qurarry, where Godfrey had looked shudderingly down the first night he came to Maybeclr, Dead! With broken crushed limbs, but the white cold face unhurt even by a scratch: the eyes, awfully wide open and staring now, that in life had never looked you fairly in the face. An intensely cold day early in the following week, and the curate stood reading a short note that had just been given to him. It was from Emily Darlington, whose father he had buried that morning. j'l am going,' the writer said, ( to leave this very afternoon. I cannot see you, I cannot write to you again, till I have waked from this horrible dream ; for so it seems to me Be content to wait, perhaps for months; then I will write again.' To be Continued,