LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VI, Issue 668, 10 August 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

HAD SHE BUT KNOWN. ( Concluded .) Yes, Miss Jerningham did remember ; and how much more! Oh, my God, how much more ! She had hardly sense enough to be glad when her friend was gone at last, and she was safe in her ;own (room ; for everything seemed whirling round her. Will married ! —married a year ago ; and all her love, her passionate devotion, her fervent prayers, her whole heart’s longing, had been but so much incense wasted, so much patient, faithful worship lavished on another woman’s hushaud ! The dutiful service of two long years had become a sin and a shame in one moment, and poor Mazie sank under the hi -w. So much good had ‘living it down’ done for her! * * * * * One more scene, and I have done. A very short scene this, and laid, not in gay, glittering Southsca, by green uplands and sparkling waves, but back in busy, populous London, where we first met Mazie Jerningham.

The season was just beginning, the Academy open, the Park crowded, Kensington Gardens and the Botanical perfuming with shining white chestnut blossoms and ‘ garlands of scented May, lilacs and laburnums blooming in the squares, German bands playing on the terraces, boats on the Serpentine, parties to Richmond, life and gaiety almost everywhere * * * almost : not quite. Just at the corner of Park Lane there is a quantity of straw thrown down in front of a house where the blinds are drawn, the knocker muflled ; -where friends drive up in their gay carriages to make whispered inquiries of the solemn-looking footman at the door, and go away with faces the gravity on which lasts nearly three minutes after they are whirling along the Row; where the flowers in the balcony, once so carefully tended, are dry and dead now, and where a well-known physician is just emerging from the hall, saying, as he does so: ‘An odd fancy perhaps; but still humor it, Mrs Jerningham. It can’t do any harm now, you know, and it may cheer her at the end.’ The end 1 Yes, it had come to that now. Only twelve mouths more, and Mazie Jerningham was passing away into the great outer, shadowy world, ‘ where the weary are at rest. ’ She was lying in her little white bed now, repeating the line over and over to herself, as if it comforted her somehow. The window curtains were drawn, but through their lace folds the sun glimmered cheerfully, and a soft breeze stole in, bringing wafts of music and gay voices on its breath, revelling in a huge bowl of earty roses which shed their perfume over the sick-room, kissing the dying girl’s forehead, and rumpling with a tender touch the damp locks off her brow, ‘Where the weary are at rest.’ Yes, Mazie was very near her rest now. She did not look very ill, though : white and thin indeed; but the veil of soft, dark, wavy hair hid the sharpened outlines of her pure, pale face, and made her look more like her old childish self than the Mazie of later days. Her eye?, too, though sunken and shaded by large hollows, looked larger and brighter than they had ever done ; and the warm red shawl round her shoulders cast a sort of reflected glow r on the small face, as she lay with clasped hands, resting (as she had begged), all alone. A little while, perhaps three-quarters of an hour, and there was a sound of footsteps on the stairs, a murmur of hushed voices in the passage; and Mazie started and raised her head. Then the door opened and Mrs J erningham said gently : ‘ Captain Travers is here, Mazie, Shall he come in V She nodded her head, for her lips were very dry ; but Mrs Jerningham understood, and the next moment Will was standing by the bed. She was not pale now. A bright red spot had risen in either cheek, making her look girlishly lovely ; while he, on the contrary, though handsome and stalwart as ever, looked worn and haggard; a little nervous and embarrassed, too, as men who face death fearlessly on sea and shore will look when they come face to face with it in the quiet of a helpless woman’s chamber, Mazie’s quick e} e saw the wan looks, perhaps the nervousness as well; for there was something wonderfully calming and gentle in her tone as she put her wasted little hand into his brown one, and said simply : ‘ How good it is of \on to come to see me so quickly. I did so want to bid you goodbye when I heard you were in town; but I hardly thought yon could come so soon.’ ‘So soon I’ repeated Will, and he meant every word, poor fellow, as he crushed the cold, waxy fingers in his strong, warm clasp. ‘As if I would not have hurried here the moment I heard that—that—Oh ! Mazie, don’t call it good-bye. You’re not so very ill, arc you ? ’ The old impetuous manner made her smile, and sigh too; but she put her other hand over his as if to ward oil a blow, and answered steadily : ‘ Oh yes, Will, it’s all over with me ; or I should not have you here. They never give indulgences like this to any but dying people.’ Don’t talk like that, Mazie, for God’s sake. You dying; and you look so bright. Oh ! how —what is it V ‘ What ?’ repeated Mazie more brightly still. ‘ What is my ailment, do you mean ? I don’t know, it seems so many things, according to my numerous doctors: want of vital power, a neglected cold, nervous prostration—Oh ! Will, what does it matter how the end comes, so it does come ?’

‘ Mazie, you speak as if you were glad. ’ ‘ Because I am glad, so glad and thankful. lam not suffering now; and I have’ ‘ You,’ her eyes said; but she stopped short with a faint blush. Then, as her eyes fell beneath his, she added, ‘ Will, you look ill yourself; and I have never told you what I wanted you for; or asked after—your wife. You won’t be vexed, Will dear, but I heard yon were not very well off; and I know how money anxieties worry one, so I sent to tell you that I have left all I have—it’s very little, Will -to you and yours; and ’ ‘ Hush, Mazie! for Heaven’s sake, stop. Don’t you know ?’ ‘ What V

‘ That lam in mourning. I lost my poor wife more than seven months ago. She died in her confinement; and though the child lives, and my sisters take care of it very kindly, a motherless infant is more care than comfort to a man.’ He spoke very gravely, hut not mournfully. Perhaps the loss had not been so very bitter; or time had already done something towards healing it; but Mazie-she lay back on her pillow, with wide, blank eyes and a face as white as death itself. Will’s wife dead ! The woman who came across her path, whose very existence had destroyed hers, passed away before her; and she did not know it! That was the strange part, that she should not have known. For two years she had loved him silently and faithfully, worshipped his memory and condemned her harshness, while all the time he was married to another woman; and the did not know it. Now that for twelve mouths the misery and shame of her folly, the fierce endeavour to crush out her love, and forget him aud all belonging to him, had first ruined her health, and then taken her life, she learnt that the ctuel task had been utterly needless. The woman was deid, had passed away eight mouths ago; and she had not known it ! Oh ! if in this world we could only know, only see, not ‘as through a glass darkly, ’ but ‘ face to face,’ how happy we might be ! And yet who can tell where real happiness is to be found on earth ? ‘Le bonheur n’est qu’um rove; mais la douleur est reelle,’ quoth Voltaire at eighty, and the dictum is as true as it is bitter.

‘ Don’t mind me,’ Mazie said, in answer to Will’s evident alarm. ‘lt was only the shock. I had never heard. lam very sorry —so sorry for you; but’—and there she suddenly broke out crying; and Will knelt down, and tried to soothe and comfort her by every tender, caressing word, saying again and again: * Mazie, don’t cry. I oughtn’t to have told you; and don’t be sorry for me Bertha was a good girl; but I should never have made her happy, or she me. I knew that even before I saw your sweet face, my darling, that day at Southsea; and felt what I had lost through my cursed folly'-. ’ 4 lt was my fault. I sent you away,’ said Mazie softly. 4 Will, kiss me. I meant to do right; but I was too hard, I know that now.’ 4 You were only just, darling; I never was worthy of you; and I oughtn’t to have expected you to love me. ’ 4 But I did love you. Will,’ said the girl gently, 4 only I was too proud and hard to show it. I would not tell you now, but it can’t hurt any one at present.’ 4 What, all the time ? After I was gone ? Did you love me then ? Oh ! Mazie. you didn’t.’ 4 Always and always. Will ; and more than ever when you were gone away. Then and now just the same.’

Will’s face had Hushed j deeply, and his lips were set like a vice. 4 You loved me,’ he said hoarsely,’ and I might have won you if I had only waited and been true ! Oh ! my God, how lam punished !’ and then his bowed head went down on the bedclothes ; and the floor shook with the strong man’s passionate sobbing. Poor Mazie ! she was sinking fast, and her strength was nearly gone; but she managed to put her weak arms round him, and to stroke the bright chestnut head as she murmured words of soothing and consolation 4 it was all for the best, and they had so little time now.’ 4 And all through me ?’ Will groaned; but the little fingers were pressed to his lips; and Mazie answered: 4 No, Will, it was my fault at the beginning ; and how could you know ? Besides, women are different to men ; and there was no one like you, Will.’ 4 There never could be anyone like you,’ he answered passionately. 4 My darling, my darling, if you would but live a little longer! I would give my life to have you for but one year. ’ 4 And then leave me alone 1 Oh ! Will, I am so tired of being alone. I would rather have it as it is, and you here, than anything else. Will, love, don’t fret. See how bright it all is. I can hear the carriages in the Park—and that band playing—“M’appari.” Do you remember the last night we heard that at the Opera ? You stole a flower from my hair; and I thought it was so improper of me to allow you ; but I did’t know then what dreadfully improper things I should do before the end.’ 4 You do anything improper, my innocent pet! ’ 4 Yes, didn’t I send for you to come and see me up here, and tell you to kiss me ? and you did both. You have grown very good and obedient, Will darling.’ 4 Mazie,'don’t ! you break my heart.’ 4 But I want to cheer you, Will. I can’t be happy, if I think you are sad. Love, it’s only for a little while. I shall go and wait for you there ; and see you coming up, as I did on the pier at Southsea. You weren’t changed a bit then, Will. I wonder will you be the same next time. ’ 4 God knows, Mazie. I wish I were dying now with you.’ 4 Oh ! no Will, you are young and strong, and have lots of glory to win and work to do before you come. Besides I should know you however changed you were. But oh ! darling, promise me you will come; for I don’t think (it’s very wicked, I know), but don’t think I should ever care about heaven if you were not there.’ Mazie, Mazie, how can I ever get to heaven ? Oh ! love, if I try it will only be for you.’ 4 Say the “ Our Father” with me now, then,’ she said coaxingly. 4 Say it for me, Will. lam so tired, I can’t talk any more, even to God. ’ Her face had grown whiter than ever ; or was a grey shadow creeping over it 1 Will folded her in his arms ; and with his hands clasped together round her shoulders, and bis eyes hidden on her breast, he went through the prayer they had both said from childhood apart : now for the first time together. Her lips followed him all the way ; and when it was over she said softly, 4 Thank you,’ then after a little pause : 4 lt is so nice to have you, Will. lam very tired. I can’t breathe. Lift my head a little on your shoulder, and let me rest before mamma comes. I shall be better then.’ He raised her head obediently : pillowing it upon his strong arm. Her eyes were closing as if in sleep already ; but first he bent his face down and asked : 4 Kiss me first, Maz e—only once, darling. You have never kissed me yet.’ The girl’s eyes opened ; and she put up her lips, pale and pure as an infant’s, to meet his tender, passionate kiss. 4 God bless you, Will love,’ she whispered very wearily. ’ 4 Don’t fret any more. ’ * * * * * It must have been ten minutes later when the door opened softly to admit Mrs Jerningham and the doctor. Captain Travers held up a warning finger. 4 Hirsh ! ’ he whispered gently. 4 You will wake her; and she is sleeping so peacefully. ’ Mrs Jcrniugham stood still; but the doctor, an old, white-haired man, came forward, and looked narrowly at the white face lying so quie ly on the sailor’s rough coat. Then he stooped, touched the slender girlish wrist and parted lips ; and, turning to Captain Travers, said quietly : 4 Lay her down. No one can disturb her now. It is all over. ’ All over ! Even as their lips had parted in that last, lingering kiss, the spirit had slipped away : had gone, as it had lived, quietly and alone ; with a last thought, a last blessing for the man she had loved—away into the vague, misty future of the world to come.