LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume III, Issue 272, 26 April 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE OTHER EAR-RING. From the Argosy. ‘And if I could make sure that you two boys would behave yourselves and give me no trouble, perhaps I might take you this year, just for a treat.’ ‘ Behave ourselves ! ’ exclaimed Tod, indignantly resentful. ‘ Do you take us for two children, sir ? ’ ‘We would be as good as gold, sir,’ I added, turning eagerly to the Squire. ‘ Well, Johnny, I’m not much afraid but that you would. Perhaps I’ll trust you both, then, Joe.’ ‘ Thank you, father.’ ‘ I shall see,’ added the Pater, thinking it well to put in a little qualification. ‘ It’s not quite a promise, mind. But it is two or three years now, I think, since you went to them. ’ ‘ It seems like six,’ said Tod. ‘ I know it’s four.’ We were talking of Worcester Races: At that period they used to take place early in August. Dr Frost had an unpleasant habit of reassembling his pupils either the same week or the previous one ; and to get over to the races was nearly as difficult for Tod and for me as though they had been run in California. To hear the Pater say he might perhaps take us this year, just as the Midsummer holidays were drawing to an end, and say it voluntarily, was as good as it was unexpected. He meant it, too; in spite of the added reservation : and Dr Frost was warned that he need not expect us until the race week was at its close. The Squire drove into Worcester on Monday, to be ready for the races on Tuesday morning, with Tod, myself and the groom— Giles ; and put up, as usual, at the Star-and-Garter. Sometimes he only drove in and back on each of the three race days ; or perhaps on two of them ; this he could do very well from Crab Cot, but it was a good pull for the horses from Dyke Manor. This year, to our intense gratification, he meant to stay in the town. The Faithful City was already in a bustle. It had put on its best appearance, and had its windows cleaned; some of the shopfronts were being polished off as we drove slowly up the streets, Families were, like oueselves, coming in: more would come before night. The Theatre was open, and we went to it after dinner; and saw, I remember, Guy Mannering (ove** which the Pater went to sleep), and an after-piece with a ghost in it. The next morning I took the nearest way from the hotel to Sansome Walk, and went up it to call on one of our fellows who lived near the top. His friends always let him stay at home for the race week. A servantmaid came running to answer my knock at the door. ‘ Is Harry Parker at home ? ’ ‘No, sir,’answered the girl; who seemed to be cleaning up for the races on her own account, for her face and arms were all coaly. ‘ Master Harry have gone down to Pitchcroft, I think.’ ‘ I hope he has gone early enough ! ’ said I, feeling disappointed. ‘Why, the races won’t begin for hours yet. ’ ‘ Well, sir,’ she said, ‘ I suppose there’s a deal more life to be seen there than here, though it is early in the day.’ That might easily be. For of all solitary places Sansome Walk was, in those days, the dreariest, especially portions of it. What with the overhanging horse-chestnut trees, and the high dead wall behind those on the one hand, and the flat stretch of lonely fields on the other, Sansome Walk was what Harry Parker used to call a caution. You might pass through all its long length from end to end and never meet a soul. Taking that narrow by-way on my way back that leads into the Tything by St Oswold’s Chapel, and whistling a bar of the sweet song I had heard at the theatre overnight, ‘ There’s nothing half so sweet in life as love’s young dream,’ somebody came swiftly advancing down the same narrow path, and I prepared to back sideways to let pass—a young woman with a large shabby shawl on, and the remains of faded gentility about her. ‘ It was Lucy Bird ! As she drew near, lifting her sad sweet eyes to mine witli a mournful smile, my heart gave a great throb of pity. Faded, worn, anxious, reduced ! oh, how unlike she was, poor girl, to the once gay and charming Lucy Ashton ! ’ ‘ Why, Lucy ! I did not expect to see you in Worcester ! We heard you had left it months ago.’ ‘ Yes, we left last February for London, he answered. ‘ Captain Bird has only come down for the races. As she took her hand from underneath her shawl to respond to mine, I saw that she was carrying some cheese and a paper of cold cooked meat. She must have been buying the meat at the cook’s shop, as the Worcester people called it, which was in the middle of High street, Oh ! what a change, what a change for the delicately-bred Lucy Ashton! Better that her Master of Ravenswood had buried his horse and himself in the flooded laud, and of the other one did, than have brought her to this. ‘ Where are you going to, down this dismal place, Lucy?’ ‘ Home,’ she answered. ‘ We have taken lodgings at the top of Sansome Walk.’ ‘ At one of those cottages a little beyond it V ‘ Yes, at one of those. How are you all, Johnny ? How is Mrs Tcdhetley ?’ ‘ Oh, she’s blooming.’ ‘ Is she at Worcester ?’ ‘No, at Dyke Manor. She would not come. The Squire drove us in yesterday. We are at the Star.’ ‘ All ! yes,’ she said, her eyes taking a dreamy, far-off look. ‘ I remember staying at the Star myself one race week. Papa brought me. It was the year I left school. How things were altered with her. Carrying home papers of cheese and cooked meat. . ‘ Have you heard or seen anything of my brothers lately, Johnny Ludlow ?’ ‘ Not since we were last staying at Crabb Cot. We went to Timberdale Church one day and heard your brother Charles preach and we dined once with Robert at the Court, and he and his wife came once to dine with us. But—have you not seen your brother James ?’ ‘ No —and I would rather not see him. He would be sure to ask me painful questions.’ ‘ But he is always about the streets here, seeing after his patients, Lucy. I wonder you have not met.’ ‘ We only came down last Saturday ; and I go out as little as I can,’ she said, a kind

of evasiveness—or rather, perhaps, hesitation—in her tone and manner that struck me. I did think I saw James’s carriage before me just now as I came up the Tything, It turned into Britannia Square.’ * I daresay. We met it yesterday in Sidbury as we drove in.’ ‘ His practice gets large, I suppose. You say Charles was preaching at Timberdale ?’ she added : ‘ was Herbert Tanterton ill ?’ ‘ Yes. Ailing, that is. Your brother came over to take the duty for him. Will you call at the Star and see the Squire, Luca ? You know how pleased he would be.’ .* N—o,’ she answered, her manner still more hesitating, just as though she were in a peck of inward doubt ; and she seemed to be debating some matter mentally. * I—l would have come after dark, had Mrs Todhetley been there. At least I think I would —I don’t know.’ ‘ You can come all the same, Lucy.’ ‘ But no—that would not have done,’ she went on to heiself, in a half whisper. ‘I might have been seen. It would never have done to risk it. The truth is, Johnny, I ought to see Mrs Todhetley on a matter of business. Though even if she were here, I do not know that I might dare to see her. It is—not exactly my own business—and—and mischief might come of it.” ‘ Is it anything I can say to her for you?’ ‘I think you might,’ she returned alowly, pausing, as before, between her words. ‘ I know you are to be trusted, Johnny.’ * That I am. I’d not forget a single item of the message. ’ ‘ I did not mean in that way. I shall have to entrust to you a private matter ; a disagreeable secret. It is a long, long while that I have wanted to tell some of you; ever since last winter ; and yet, now that the opportunity has come that I may do it, I scarcely dare. The Squire is hasty and impulsive, his son is proud ; but I think I may confide in you Johnny. 1 ‘ Only try me, Lucy. ’ ‘ Well, I will. I will. I know you are true as steel. Not this morning, for I cannot stop—and lam not prepared. Let me see. Where shall we meet again ? No, no, Johnny, I cannot venture to the hotel ; it is of no use to suggest that. ’ * Shall I come to your lodgings ?’ She just shook her head by way of dissent, and remained in silent thought. I could not imagine what it was she had to tell me that required all this preparation ; but it came into my mind to be glad that. I had to go that morning to Harry Parker’s. * Suppose you meet me in Sansome Walk this afternoon, Johnny Ludlow ? Say at ’ — considering— ‘ yes, at four o’clock. That will be a safe hour, for they will be on the racecourse and out of the way. People will, I mean,’ she added, hastily ; but somehow I did not think she had meant people. ‘Can, you come!’ ‘ I will manage it.’ ‘ And if you don’t meet me at that time—it is just possible that I may be prevented coming out —I will be there at eight o’clock this evening instead,’ she continued. * That I know I can do.’

‘ Very well. I’ll be sure to be there.’ Hardly waiting another minute to say good morning, she went swiftly on. I began wondering what excuse I could make for leaving the Squire’s carriage in the midst of the sport, and whether he would let me it. * But the way for that was paved without any effort of mine. At the early lunch, the Squire, in the openness of his heart, offered a seat in the phaeton to some old acquaintance from Hartley. Which of course would involve Tod’s sitting behind with me, and Giles’s being left out altogether. ‘ Catch me at it!’ cried Tod. ‘ You can do as you please, Johnny : I shall walk.’ ‘ I will walk too,’ I said—though you of course understand that I had never expected to sit elsewhere than behind. And I knew it would be easier for me to lose Tod in the crowd, and so get away to keep the appointment, than it would have been to elude the Squire’s questioning as to why I could want to get out of the carriage. Lunch over, Tod said he would go the Bell, to see whether the Letsoms had come in ; and wo started off. No ; the waiter had seen nothing of them. Onwards, down Broad Street we went, took the Quai, and so got on that way to Pitchcroft—as the racecourse is called. The booths and shows were at this end, and the chief part of the crowd. Before us lay stretched the long expanse of the course, green and level as. a bowlinggreen. The grand-stand (comparatively speaking a new erection there) lay on the left, higher up, the winning-chair and dis-tance-post facing it. Behind the stand, flanking all that side of Pitchcroft, the beautiful river Severn flowed along between its green banks, the nouses of Henwick opposite looking down upon it from their great height, over their sloping gardens. It was a hot day, the blue sky dark and cloudless. ‘ True and correct card of all the running horses, gentlemen : the names, weights, and colors o’ the riders!’ The |shouted-out words, echoing on all sides from the men who held these cards for sale, are repeated in my brain now ; as are other sounds and sights. I was somewhat older than I had been ; but it was not so very long since those shows, ranged around there side by side, a long line of them, held the greatest attraction for me life. Guy Mannering, the past night, had been very nice to see, very enjoyable; but it possessed not the nameless charm of that first “ play ” I went to in Scowton’s Show on the racecourse. That charm could never come again. And 1 was but a lad yet. To be continued.