LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VI, Issue 662, 3 August 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE ONE, AND THE OTHER. Chapter I. The summer sun had not yet risen. The white silver radiance of the morning spread in the sky over the eastern sea. Blue twilight rolled stealthily downward towards the west. Overhead stretched unfathomable depths of hueless air. From the azure limits of the mysterious ocean, to the gloomy rim of the patient laud, no cloud broke the purpose of the light. Careworn, passionless cliffs rose from the still waters, lifting watchful heads against the east. No sound of earth or sea marred the stupendous calm, falling like an insensible <J ew of silence from the ether deserts of the morning. It seemed , as though creation had gone no further here than the separation of the dry land from the waters, and the gathering of the light from the darkness. No bird sailed by ; no cry sounded; no shadow of the beast lengthened on the cold, grey uplands. Day was rising out of the ocean to illumine a stagnant sea, a voiceless land. In the cold blue dimness of the sea stood three fixed objects : —Close to the shore, what seemed a tall, dull-red, shattered rock; midway between the shore and the horizon, what seemed a spire of sullied sapphire ; near the horizon, partly against the white silver radiance of the sky, a slender dark bar, rising towards heaven. What barren desolation the twilight showed! What prodigality to promise regal glories of day to this place in which no spirit was arrayed for worship ! The yellow sun of morning stood over the eastern waters. The pale blue sky hung above the fresh blue sea. Against the brown cliff's the level light flowed, broken into a thousand luminous stars of gold by ragged teeth of rocks, and scattered into a thousand shining cataracts by colossal prows of jutting cliffs. Between'perpendicular pillars, the sun stretched gleaming arms to seize in burnished hands wet weeds, glittering like the amber hair of some huge monster rising out of the unexplorable depths. No bird sailed by, no cry sounded, no shadow of beast lengthened on the warm yellow uplands. Day was looking down upon a voiceless sea, a barren land. In the startling brightness of the waters stood three fixed objects:—Close to the shore, a mass of yellow sails above a great dark hull; midway between the shore and the horizon, dull white sails above a dark hull; and near the horizon, partly against the white crystal sea, and partly against the fiery yellow disc of the sun, a slender black bar rising towards heaven. And upon the warm yellow upland facing the east, a woman clad in white, gazing with wistful, unexpectant hope upon the face of the waters towards the realms of the morning. There were golden shadows in her loose white robe, and lights of golden bronze in her careless hair. The ships were new to the scene, the day in the east was new, but the look upon her face was old and familiar to her features. Yain yearning had wrought the lines, and love divorced had lent the spirit, and chance had made the face beautiful, and purity had set before and behind a troup of angelic lictors who kept a circle round her, and slew evil thoughts that would approach. Where was he ? Would he never come ? When should she see him again ?—hear his voice ?—touch his hand ? Here was day again. Here were ships safe, in view of land, within her view. Beyond the headland in the harbor ships lay by hundreds, safe ; those who had gone voyages in them, safe, and walking on the secure earth. Hundreds of those men wandered purposelessly about the city. Their time] was idle, useless to them. There was no object in their being on shore. They had no ties, no love, no hearts to fill here. But he —he was out beyond the verge of sea. He was swallowed up in the inexplicable mystery of vague distance, the insecure hollows of a hidden ocean. What injury to any one if one of those ships now there might bear him. What unspeakable pleutitude of calm to her ! She had no definite fear he would not return in good time ; but while he was away seemed a dreary, wasted, bad time, when life was running idly to seed, and the days were longer than years, and the nights were vacant centuries filled with countless hydra dreads.

Two months wedded, and one whole year divorced by fate ! That was hard to bear. Hard to think of his glances and words, and kisses that had been, and of the vacant eyes, and meaningless words, and idleness of heart that were. Idleness of heart! Ah, no 1 The waiting heart is never idle; but, oh 1 the waiting arms are weak with longing, the waiting eyes are sunken for want of joy, the waiting lips droop for want of cherishing. Oh, Dead Sea fruit, to close the eyes, and winding arms around the fluent air, fancy him circled, and looking once again, freeze and faint I , Come back ! come back! Wherefore has he gone ? That old man who had died far down in the south of the other hemisphere might have sent the gold. Why had that old man said, *lf he come not instantly upon hearing of my death, he shall have none ? ’ Why had her love not taken her ? Ah, yes ! He had feared danger for her. Danger of the sea; danger of wild beast; danger of a reeking land. But his danger was her danger. His absence was her death. Had he brought her with him, she should have lived even if stricken; she should have lived until her eyes closed on him for ever, and the heart had ceased to beat, and the hunger of the spirit had passed away for ever. Who would pause to count any danger, compared with the dull relentless coma of parted hearts ! Danger I And was there not danger in his leaving her behind? Danger which he had never dreamed of. Danger more hideous than any wickedness except the wickedness which that other man could create. Danger so unutterably horrible; danger of so maddening a kind that to think of it was almost to die. For, who had come that night to the lonely house in the glen when he was gone ? Who had stormed and battered at the door, and sought to force the windows, and stood writhing, and cursing him that was away and her that was there? Who was he, who, forcing the door, at last stood, blood-stained and pale, within the threshold, his wild eyes flaming with a conflict which goaded him on ? Who was he, whom, stretching forth her hand as he touched her, she saw through the smoke fall wounded, saw [ grovel, and heard curse at her feet ? Who was he that she and the other women sought help for accross the downs by midnight, and reaching the village, reported of him an accident, and had him carried away ? Who was he but the other —the lithe, dark, narrow-shouldered, nar-row-faced suitor ? He had followed her about the village before her marriage. He had pleaded to her. He had prayed to her. He had cursed and sworn to her, and flung himself upon the sea-sand and vowed by all that {was above to lie there until the rising waters overwhelmed him, unless she raided him up. And then when she had hurried away in terror of his violence, he had sprung to his feet, and bending his head, run in pursuit; and overtaking her, had thrown himself on his knees, and prayed and blessed, and struck his forehead and wept, until a frenzy of dread seized upon her, the sea-sand seemed to tremble beneath her feet, and the sky and sea were blended by her terrified sight. What has become of that other ? When his wound was healed he had left; going no one knew whither. Her husband had now been away a year. In two months more he might be back. Where was he now ? Where was the other ? She turned her back upon the east, and with the broadening light of day around, and her long, slender shadow before, passed across the upland and down to a hollow !)lace above a lonely cove, where her home ay. Chapter 11. It was a bright, clear winter night, over one of the greatest harbors of South America. Around the harbor silent peaks stretched up into the deep blue air. Above the peaks flamed the southern stars. In the water the solemn refl ctions of the peaks rested upon a floor spangled with the reflections of the stars. Here and there a light burned on the water. Now and then a voice rose, now and then a chain* grated. From off the land a light wind blew, faintly ruffling the surface of the water, and perplexing and sullying concave vault of argent rays beneath, A large vessel, with all sails set , was leaving the harbor. Silently she glided onward, like a gigantic sea-fowl floating midway between two heavens. She was bound to a port on the western coast of England. This port lay behind an iron coast of gaunt, careworn cliffs. Between the cliffs and the entrance to this port the sea ran inward a little way, and in the valley, where the land dipped to meet the sea on the beach, stood a solitary house. In that house two women, a young wife and an old servant, dwelt, expecting the return of the young woman’s husband. The ship was freighted with a general cargo. She carried a crew of twentj-five men and officers, the captain, his wife, and two passengers, men. The captain was low sized, broad-shouldered, stout, florid; his wife younger by ten years, fresh-colored, comely, and placid. One of the passengers was low of stature, dark, secret, small across the shoulders, lithe, narrow-faced; the other was tall, light-haired, athletic, outspoken. Under the head of the latter, as he slept in his narrow state room, reposed a locket containing a miniature of the young wife waiting in the lonely glen ; under the head of the former was a dagger. The taller man never slept without that locket; the lesser man never without that dagger. He guarded the locket with unabated solicitude, and it, like an amulet, shielded him from evil in his wanderings. (To he continued.)