LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VI, Issue 632, 28 June 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

AN OLD LOVE STORY. ( Continued.) But there came a time with Willy and me when we had our first great trouble; and our sore hearts took in, tor the first time in our lives, the great fact that cruelty and hardness—so it seemed to us—were not only to be found greatly developed in boys, but in their elders also. It seemed a great blow to us to discover this, and it swept away like cobwebs whole chapters of catechism. It was in the year 1800, and when the day came, it brought with it the astonishing news, that Willy was not only a grandson of Uncle Stephens, but of Squire Harding also, and heir to his great estate. I well remember hearing all about it in the mill parlor, when Willy was called in, and I, as usual, went with him, and sat unnoticed and forgotten for the time during the interview between Uncle Stephen and Mr Harding. The miller sat by the window, resting his head upon his hand, and looking out very sadly, I thought, and slight'y turned away from Mr Harding, who sat at the table with a package of foreign looking letters near him. They seemed to have been sitting in that way for some time ; but when we entered, Uncle Stephen spoke to Willy, and made him sit on a chair close by him. Mr Harding nodded to Willy, and smiled and shook hands with him j whilst I seated myself

near the squire’s dog Sancho, at a little distance off; for, thank goodness, I have always, man and b >y, known my proper manners in the presence of the quality; although, when Willy became a {gentleman, heaven knows, it was hard to bear. ‘ How old are you now, Willy V asked Mr Harding. Willy confessed to thirteen. Uncle Stephen sighed, and Willy, who misunderstood him, ran to the large Bible to prove it, and there stood the entry, in Uncle Stephen’s firm bold writing : ‘ William Gutiibert Brand ; bom at Calais, July 1787.' The entry immediately above was partially obliterated, as if it had been scratched out and written again. It was the record of the birth of Uncle Stephen’s daughter, Willy’s mother ; and against it was written on the edge of the page the words : ‘ Dead. God forgive me my anger, and her ’ The sentence was incomplete. Uncle Stephen .took the open book upon eis knee, and drew a pen through the word Brand, and wrote Harding instead—the squire looking on. Then he closed the book and clasped it, and the hand he laid upon it trembled. I wondered at that, and the unusual paleness of his face and his tight lips as he looked at Willy. But Uncle Stephen was never a man of words ; and I have since known, that in that action of a moment he had surrendered the dearest object in life, for he cherished Willy as few have a son ! more than Willy ever knew, for as I have said, he was a silent man, who seldom gave utterance to the deep feeling that belonged to his nature. The squire entered into conversation with Willy with all the pleasantness of the openhearted gentleman that he was ; and he and Uncle Stephen told Will between them, bit by bit, all that it was necessary for him to know of a very" sad story. I knew all very well in after-years, when Uncle Stephen began to treat me as a man; but at that time it had been agreed to make Willy alone understand that he was the only son of Mr Harding’s only sou ; and that the time had come when he should leave the mill, and live at his own proper home at the Hall for the future. * Shall I have a pony, like Miss Joy ?’ he said, when all had been made clear him. ‘ That you shall, my boy,’ replid the squire, smiling. ‘ Hurrah ! Hide about, never go to school any more ! Good-bye, old Snuffy Tegg !’ he cried, capering about the room, for he had quite lost all fear of the squire. The squire laughed aloud; but Uncle Stephen looked at Willy very sadly and wistfully, I thought, as he sighed again. I felt a passing lifting up of the spirits at all this, but my heart sank again directly, as I had heard them arranging to take Willy away to the Hall to live, and I knew that I should scarcely see him any more; and in imagination I saw him riding by with Joy, whilst I looked forth at them from the dusty grinding room of the mill, riding past—away out of my life for ever. I forgot my good manners for a moment, and moaned out aloud before them all. • Then I rushed out of the room, and away down the riverside to the meadow, and there I threw myself upon the grass, and cried out my heavy grief with hot tears. The cows were mouthing the~ grass all around me, and now and then they lifted their clumsy, honest heads and stared at me; and now and then I could hear the faint tinkling of the sheep-bells on the heathy hills, and the familiar noise of the mill, and I began to think of the happy times we had had together, till my head ached with weary pain. By-and-by, I heard Willy’s signalwhistle, and I answered it very feebly. He came jumping over the stile and down the meadow to me, holding up two large silver pieces the squire had given him. He gave me one, for we had always shared everything but he afterwards took it back aud jjtc the other, although they were both Then lie said how line it was to be rich ; and putting his hands in his pockets, he said suddenly; ‘Hollo, Ned, you’ve been blubbering !’ The tears, in spite of me, began to shew themselves again; and Willy looked serious, and very soon his under lip gave way. We sat down on the hank of the river and sniffed a good deal, both of us looking ' straight down into the water rippling past at our feet. But a consoling thought struck me, aud I said; ‘ Let us go aud tell old Bill.’ Bill uttered a long whistle when we told our news; a whistle that would have been shrill in most men. But Bill Stubbs had the . pipe of a mavis, and his whistle, though as-1 tonished, was sweet. He looked at Willy ‘very jkindly, and said he hoped he would do honour to the quarter-deck. Willy did not seem to trouble his mind much about that. His thoughts at the time, I think, ran chiefly on ponies. Indeed, after a time, he took everything that happened to him in a matter-of-course sort of way which greatly surprised me, it was so little like what I expected of him. Willy was recognised by all the squire’s family and friends, and before long was sent to a public school in the south ; and when I think of the time when he left the old mill and Uncle Stephen so easily, I feel a very heavy weight on my heart to this hour, so deep was the impression it made on me.. I had resolved to be a miller like Uncle Stephen ; but the glory of it was gone. A shadow seemed to have fallen on the dear old mill, and I could see nothing beyond but dullness. Willy told me he was precious sorry to go and leave me behind, aud advised me not to be in the dumps about it. ‘ Here are lots of things I shall not want any more,’ he said. He also gave me his little brown terrier, Tuck, to keep for him, and cried over it, for his heart was good, although he did not seem to know it himself. Uncle Stephen, I remember, scarcely spoke to any one at that time. He went about and did as he had used to do, but I could see the deep sadness in his eyes. * * H 1 *■ I saw very little of Joy Harding for the next four or five years, or of Willy either, for I had become a miller, and my business was to grind corn, and not to hanker after the footsteps of the quality. Willy became a gentleman with the greatest ease, and I was prepared to find him proud aud haughty -when he came home from school the first time ; but ho was not. He came to the mill several times, and brought Joy with him. He looked very grand in his new clothes, which fitted him without shewing creases to hold the dust, as mine did. He gave Joe Blake a guinea, which Joe hid away among fhe rafters of the granary, but afterwards begged Uncle Stephen to keep for him, as it made him uneasy at nights, and caused him to visit it with a lanthorn. [To Oe continued.']