LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume III, Issue 286, 12 May 1875, Page 4

LITERATURE.

RUPERT'S CHOICE. ( Concluded,) 'The servant came up to me and said, Miss Harris? (at least I thought so) for Helmsleigh? and I said 'Yes, and came here. Nothing you said showed me there was a mistake. I am very sorry,' said Miss Harris, much confused. 'But, mother!' began Rupert, 'where ' Mrs George Loraine and Miss Herries !' announced Saunders, throwing open the door very wide. Rupert's face lighted up as he sprang forward to the side of the girl I had seen in church. 'Mona, my darling, what does all this mean ?' Mrs George Loraine laughed. ' Why, it means that young men should go to stations themselves to meet young ladies, instead of going off to cricket matches and sending the footman ! Your young lady came to my house, and a nice dull evening she must have had, for I was dining ten miles off! And mine, I suppose, came here—yes, I see there she is ! —Well ! my dear, go and pack up your things again, for the cart will be here directly with Miss Herries' luggage, and will take yours back.' Miss Harris, embarrassed and mortified, left the room as if glad of an excuse to do so. I was sorry for her, for her posftion was awkward. Rupert, meanwhile, had been introducing the real Mona to his mother. What a different greeting it was ! Then he turned to me. ' Now. Mona, here is Miss Barlow, only you don't know her by that name !' Miss Herries put both hands into mine and raised her sweet face to be kissed, and whispered, ' You will help me to learn how to be a daughter to her.' ' Well, Rupert!' said Mrs George, in her loud voice. 'lt was a queer way for her to come to Helmsleigh for the first time, in the omnibus from Newbury, and then find an empty house to receive her J'

*ln the omnibus!' cried Eupert, vehemently. ' Yes, just in the common omnibus, sir !' said Mrs George, laughing. 'ltis a capital joke. Tell them about it, my dear !' Miss Herries laughed. ' I got oiit at Newbury, saw my box out of the van, and told a porter I expected some one to meet me from Helmsleigh. He asked if I were the young lady for Mrs Loraine's, and I said I was. Then he called out to another man, pointing to my box. ' Here you are, Tom, and that's the young lady !' I was rather surprised, but ' Tom' told me quite civilly that Mrs Loraine was sorry she could not send on for me, but the Helmsleigh 'bus would put me down at the gate So into the ''bus' of course I got, and in about an hour it did put me down at a lodge where a boy with a wheel-barrow was waiting. He took me and my box up to a house, where a butler informed me that Mrs Loraine was dining out and would not be back till very late, but begged I would make myself comfortable ! The housemaid would show me my room, and dinner could be ready whenever I liked.'

'My poor child !' said Mrs Loraine, ' What did you think of such a reception ?'

'I thought it very odd,' replied Mona, with a smile and a blush. ' I asked when Mr Loraine was expected back from Clevelands, and was told 'not till the next morning.' So I had my dinner all by myself, as there seemed nothing else to be done.'

' And were very angry !' said Eupert. ' Confess, Mona ! did you not begin to think of going straight home again ?' Mona laughed. ' Well, perhaps I might, only I did not suppose the ' 'bus' was likely to be going back to Newbury that evening.' ' She laughs now,' said Mrs George. * But the maids told me a different story last night!' ' How did you make out the mistake ?' asked Mrs Loraine; for Mona coloured painfully, though she smiled, as she thought of her tears the previous evening in her solitude.

' Why, the moment she came in from church this morning, and found me in the garden, she saw I was not a bit like the photographs she had seen of you, Eleanor. Then we had it out in half a minute and had a good laugh over it, and I thought the best thing we could do was just to walk up here at once to breakfast. And now,' added Mrs George, laughing her jolly, unrefined laugh, ' what sort a girl is the real Miss Harris ?

'You must find out for yourself, Harriet,' replied Mrs Loraine, smiling. ' Now, Mona, come up with me and take off your hat. Miss Barlow will go and bring down poor Miss Harris, and we will all have breakfast.

We had a very merry breakfast. After it was over, Mrs George carried off poor Marian Harris, who, it appeared, was the eldest daughter of an attorney at Bristol ; and being tired of home and poverty and a crowd of younger brothers and sisters, had come out to see the world as a companion. Seen in this new light, she was not a bad sort of girl; but we scarcely knew how to be thankful enough for having found that she was not to be Rupert's wife, and that this sweet and charming girl now left with us was the real Mona Herries. 0 AN E VERY-DAY STORY. 'Two lovers walking under the evening sky' is the most commonplace picture possible, yet I must draw it if I am to tell my story. First in the gardens of the primal Eden, always since in the ruined Paradise we call the Earth, have wandered these pairs of beautiful, happy creatures, in the world but not of it—lifted above its common joys, beyond its vulgar cares, by the engrossing delirium that has seized upon them and made a fairyland of homeliest scenes. The bright sun shines, the soft moon beams, for them alone; for them the flowers bloom, the winds blow gently, the roadside grasses grow, the woodlands hold their light and their shade, and the meadows smile: all to make an Arcadia as evanescent as their vows. The spring has a brighter beauty, the summer day a sweeter languor, the autumn a more golden glory, and the winter snows cannot chill their glowing hearts; while all eyes not wholly cold, all souls not wholly dead, must burn and thrill to see them. And then—and then—the fever cools, the beauty dies, the glory fades, and there comes the awaking. Two handsome, happy children they were: for what could they be called else but children—the one twenty, the other sixteen? and they loitered in the lanes and walks that skirted Hayford Parsonage, of which the Rev Arthur Halcroft was incumbent. The girl was his motherless daughter, Rosalie; the young man was one of whom he did not know much, but whom he would not have chosen as the companion of her walks, had he been consulted in the matter.

But the Reverend Mr Halcroft was not consulted. He sat in his shady study poring over his sermon for to-morrow, amending its crudities and referring to the various books that littered his table, or lying back in his easy chair in a long reverie, as was his frequent custom, with his eyes fixed on his dead wife's portrait. Quite forgetiul, was he, of the flight of time, till a sharp knock at the door announced a visitor he especially dreaded —a gossiping widow, who, as all the parish knew, was "setting her cap" at him.

Mrs Dale, the widow, took her seat in the clergyman's study, and consulted him upon some parish business for which she had ostensibly come. That over, she passed to other matters. She was not an ill-natured woman; but she did consider that the par sonage children needed a step mother, very especially the parson's daughter : and she would have liked to fill the post. Rosalie, meanwhile, reached the gate, lingering there when she had passed through it, to watch the receding figure of her lover, and dream over it in the favouring darkness. Her hard was ihrilling with his parting clasp, her eyes were still burning with the reflected light of his —those wonderful lustrous eyes that surely had rarely had their compeers—her ears listening still to the last melody of his voice : and few voices were so melodious as Bertram Payne's. Few men had been gifted with beauty such as his—beauty of face and of form. Handsome, slender, graceful, his features of a perfect type, he was, she thought, fit to win a princess, and proud enough to be the peer of anything earthly—of herself, who had once been haughty, even to him, as it was Rosalie Halcroft's disposition to be j but she was

humble enough at heart now, in the deep love she bore him. She regretted that she had not shown it more to-night, this love; that she had not broken through the bounds of her reserve and pride, inborn and hard to conquer—for one who was surely worthy of the trust she felt but could not speak. To-night he seemed more than ever dear, more than usually fond and tender, for he had been absent for several weeks, and had changed for the better even in that little timegrown more manly and more energetic, more determined and more hopeful; and that unspoken passion which softened his eyes and mellowed his voice, would, she instinctively felt, have found words to-night but for her coldness. She did not yet go in; her breath still came quickly, her cheeks burned, her hands trembled, and her heart throbbed audibly. She could not meet the inquiries and greetings of the four noisy boys, her brothers, whom she heard conning their lessons beyond the open door, and ready to be disturbed from their unwelcome task by her entrance; so she lingered at the gate, and dreamed. Rosalie found material for her thoughts in the sweet remembrance of the short past, since she had known Bertram Payne. She recalled the incidents of their first acquaintance, the pretexts upon which he had met her, the trifling tokens that betrayed his love, the secret, gradual growth of the power that drew their hearts together, making them nearer and dearer to each other than all the world beside. Till at last they stood, as they had for many weeks now, lingering on the borders of the enchanted land, trembling with delightful awe, yet unable to pass those barriers of silence and reserve which in true love always attends youth and inexperience. But this silence was weakening with every sweet, embarrassing meeting, and ready to fall before one impulsive word—a word which neither had spoken tonight. But to-night the confession had trembled on his lips, which she half-feared, halfwished, to hear, and her coldness had driven it back : but not for long. A new light of hope and courage was shining in his splendid eyes, a new determination curved those beautiful lips ; lines of thought and care marked his young face, and made it more admirable in her sight, as it was more strong and manly and incomprehensible. She herself was no longer a child : she felt older in these few eventful months, than years had made her. The heart's awakening had brought to her a wider and graver experience than she had learnt in all the motherly and housekeeping cares that had been hers since her mother died. Calm now, she went in out of the darkness, passing by the study door, where she heard a sharp voice she knew, preferring rather to join her brothers than to encounter its owner. But she caught a word of the tale it was telling : that arrested her. Presently Mrs Dale took her leave, and went out, ignorant of the pale, drooping figure in the passage. Then she rose up, and entered the room where her motherless boys were wrangling over their lessons, soothed them with her quiet authority, and sat down by the open window, cold and white, to wait for the blow to come.

She heard her father's uncertain step in the hall, his gentle voice calling her name, and she went to him without a word and followed him into his study ; but the air of the room struck a chill to her heart as her feet crossed its threshold.

Mr Halcroft was tremulous and agitated—he was a mild, nervous man, who hated a scene, and dreaded the part he had to play in the present one. He fumbled over the books on the table, hesitated long for the proper words, and finally broke down altogether, as he caught sight of her mother's picture, so like —just above her head. ' My daughter,' he faltered. She sat before him, cold and stern as he had never seen her—waiting. 'My child,' he stammered, 'I have just received a great blow. I fear there is one also for you, if—if my information is correct. It is—a severe shock to me, and I have but one course to take, however painful.'

She made a gesture of impatience and tried to speak, but failed. What right had Mrs Dale to come and make mischief about her?

' I don't blame you, I can't blame you, my darling,' said the clergyman. ' You are young and motherless ; I have been absorbed and neglectful—l deeply repent it. You were a child, Rosalie, and knew not what you did; your disobedience is your father's fault more than yours. Forgive him, my dear : he cannot forgive himself.'

To be continued,