LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VI, Issue 673, 16 August 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

WHY ARE YOU WANDERING HERE, I PRAY. ( Continued.) ‘ I had little idea Providence had anything so pleasant in store for me when I came down here yesterday,’ he said, retaining her hand when they reached the corner where parting was inevitable, unless they meant to run the risk of encountering George Arnold’s eagle eye. That eye had, however, already seen them, for Mattie, never easy in her mind at Georgie’s long absences and solitary roamings was this evening more than usually anxious, owing to the presence in the neigbourhood of a band of gipsies, In vain ■ Georgie assured her that the vagrants were her very good friends. Mattie, convinced against her will, was of the same opinion still, that it was not safe for her treasure to wander alone so far from home, so when six o’clock came and no Georgie, it was borne in on her that she must speak to ‘ the master.’ He had not been quite free from some uneasiness on the subject himself lately. Interested chiefly in the development of the girl’s mind, he had paid but little attention to her appearance, till one day it suddenly became apparent to his astonished perception, that this forest flower, unnoticed, lonely, and wild, was of a rare and exquisite type of beauty ; bright yet tender, with a fascinating grace about her which even his accustomed eye could not ignore. Was it well to leave such a flower unguarded. Mattie, to her surprise, met with more sympathy than she expected in the uneasiness she expressed that evening. George Arnold got up from his books and wandered into the forest, looking (about and listening more anxiously than he almost liked to confess to himself. Suddenly he heard voices, sweet rippling laughter, and then the deeper tones of a man, and out into the setting sunlight, from the shadow of the (trees, came his niece and her newly-found .cousin,.(Philip Verschoyle, carrying her basket, and she accepting the service like one used to [the devotion of a squire of dames. A sharp pang shot through the old man’s heart at the sight. Vague memories of|fsorrow|"long since assuaged stirred within him : memories of the days when Georgie’s (mother had ([left him for a stranger, not so unlike the one now before him, soft-voiced, blued-eyed, and with that same glossy black hair. Meanwhile Philip took a tardy leave, and Georgie, too happy to wish even to see Mattie, sat down under a spreading beech to think over her newly-discovered bliss. Living alone as she did, with the flowers and birds for her.chief companious, she was in the habit of seeking among them for emblems of the few people she knew. Nellie Shcrgold was a daisy; Mattie was a furze blossom, always .bright, always in season, and for whose sweet motherly care and tender love Georgie thanked God, as Linnaeus did for the lovliness of the flowers which the girl thought typical of her. Her uncle George was a rush, slight, stiff, and pithy. The poppy she had always held to be emblematic of her father, the idea being suggested by Mattie’s enthusiastic description of him in his uniform. ‘He did look grand my dearie, in his red coat; so tall and stately, and with his glossy black hair. ’ ‘ Yes ; making such a good contrast, like the beaut’ful red poppies with their jetblack stamens.’

And now, as she sat watching Philip Verschoyle’s figure, the simile transferred itself to him. ‘How splendid be would look in his uniform. It is red too; and his hair and moustache are so glossy and black !’ She stood up, unconsciously almost, and yet with some vague idea of keeping the receeding figure still in sight, when a voice startled her. ‘ Pray, why are you wandering about here, Georgie V It was the very first time he had ever questioned her about her coming in or going out, and amazement struck her dumb. ‘ What are you doing ?’ he repeated, himself hardly knowing what he was saying, with those memories stirring at his heart. Alarmed at his manner, and her thoughts still running on Philip in his uniform and her emblematic device, she made answer nervously; ‘ I was looking for some flowers, uncle George—red poppies and things.’ ‘ Poppies !’ he repeated sarcastically, casting a glance as he spoke down the path where Philip’s stately figure was just disappearing. ‘ I should have thought such a rover as you are would have known by this time that poppies grow in the fields, and not here in the forest. Fie, child, fie ! Don’t try to put me off with such tales as those.’ And he turned abruptly away. Georgie stood utterly counfounded, overwhelmed with shame and confusion. She had told a lie, the first in her life, and to her uncle of all people ; to him who, his belief in her truth once shaken, would never trust her or respect her again. The lie had been an unconscious one, it is true ; her lips had merely given utterance to meaningless words while her mind was full of other thoughts. Not the less did she degraded in her own eyes. Had she then had nothing to conceal? Could -she at that moment have spoken to her uncle about Philip Verschoyle ? No, a thousand times no ! His cold, sarcastic, curt tones would have struck a chill to her soul. As it was, they had done so, and ashamed, confused, alarmed at the dawning passion in her heart, so new to her, so incomprehensible, she burst into a storm of tears.

Part 11. * Tell me again,’ the old man said, * Why are you wandering here, fair maid ?’ ‘ The nightingale’s song, so sweet and clear, * Father,’ said she, i I’ve come to hear. 1 ‘ Fie, fie !’ was the old man’s cry ; * Nightingales all, so people say, ‘Warble by night, and not by day.’ George Arnold, for his part, went home too much disturbed to settle to his books again. It was many years since the even tenor of his life had been ruffled by such a tide of emotion as now swept over him. That insane desire to be the sole possessor of the affection he valued, which had wrecked his young sister’s life, was at work in his heart —Georgie its victim this time. Naturally he felt himself the injured one. She had deceived him ; she, the child he had brought up and loved ; and he tortured himself with the question, * Why?’ What had he ever denied her that she should not have trusted him, that she should have tried to put him off with a lie too childish to deceive a very fool ? Who was the man ? Where had she met him ? How long known him ? And Mattie ? But, of course, the adept in deception was in league with her to hoodwink him. He paced up and down the walk outside his book-room, endeavouring to calm himself, and half ashamed of the passion which was sending the blood surging through his veins. Suddenly a cry—sharp, tremulous with feeling— struck his ear. ‘ O Mattie, Mattie ! I’ve found some one who knows all about my dear father ; at least, he did’t know him, he only thinks he saw him; but his mother knew him, and he is going to tell me all about (him; and his name his Philip too —Philip Verschoyle; and he is my cousin, he says. It was in the big bog; they all got lost, and I showed them how to get out. His mother and sister are coming next week to Beechlands, and he is coming to see me to-morrow. He walked home with me this evening, and I was so happy, and forgot everything until uncle George came, and was so unkind and disagreeable. And, O Mattie, I told him what wasn’t true ! I wasn’t thinking, and he asked me what I was doing: and my head was full of a beautiful red poppy, with its glossy black points, and I said I was looking for poppies ; and now he will never believe me again.’ It was all said in a breath, regardless of any relation between pronoun and antecedent—though George Arnold had always been precise in his instructions on that subject—and with that note of passionate feeling in it which had gone straight to his heart. A chance word often reveals us to ourselves in a new light. Had he never thought of himself as either * unkind ’ or ‘ disagreeable.’ All that Georgie was and should be to him was in his mind frequently enough. It had never occurred to him to reflect on what he was and should be to her, never till this moment, when the cry, carrying a revelation with it, struck his ear. The dullest perception could not have missed the tone of outraged feeling and long-suppressed affection in it.

What right had he to ignore her natural desire to hear about her father and his family ? The spirit of sarcasm and cynical hardness in him was, for the time at least, laid to rest, and he went back to his book room a better man, perhaps, than he had left it. She had not deceived him either. The headless, tailless, pronoun-outraging story to Mattie had one merit: it was truthful and spontaneous; even his scepticism could not doubt that. How much this last consideration had to do with softening his anger it would not be easy to say. Georgia did not see him again that night. Her self-respect was wounded, and she felt resentful towards the man who had, as it were, alarmed her into that involuntary falsehood. The vision of Colonel Verschoyle’s dark poetic face was the last she saw before closing her eyes, and the first when, too happy for sleep, she woke early on the following morning. Unable to settle to her usual occupations, she walked about after Mattie, telling her, for the twentieth time, the whole story ; and then, still dreading to meet her uncle, wandered out into the forest, and so on to Fritham Plain, where hundreds of larks were making the air vocal. The floods of song seemed to be literally flowing down from the arched sky, and to be clothing the rich incense-breathing earth like a garment. To he continued .

NEW AFRICAN EXPEDITION. The London Daily Telegraph has been favoured with the sut joined communication upon the subject of an envelope aud letter in English received from King M'tesa by Colonel Gordon, aud conjectured to have some possible connection with the New York Herald and the Daily Telegraph Expedition. The fact related is too slight to bear the weight of any certain comment, for though our last tidings left Mr Stanley south of the Victoria Nyanza, he was then preparing to explore the Albert Nyanza, and would scarcely have been near King M'tesa’s capital in the spring of the prere t year, ten months afterwards. Hi* English attendant, Francis Pocock, is an intelligent and fairly educated young man, who writes too well to be the author of the inscription on the envelope, or of the enclosed letter, and the probability seems that King M'tesa’s communication—if it be indeed from his Majesty of Uganda—was composed by some Zanzibar or Indian trader at his court with a smattering of English, and then slipped into an envelope left behind by Mr Stanley. THE WHEREABOUTS OF STANLEY. (To the Editor of the Daily Telegraph .) Sir, —In the long-continued silence of Mr H. M. Stanley, perhaps the following scrap of information may be of public interest. I have received a letter from Colonel Gordon, dated Lahore, March 9 th, which encloses an open envelope, bearing this inscription “From Uganda, Central Africa, Henry M, Stanley, Esq., care of E. Marston, Esq., 188, Fleet street, London, England. The whole of the above inscription is, I am nearly certain, in Stanley’s own handwriting. On the upper right hand corner is written in pencil, evidently by some uneducated hand, the words “ To Sir Cunall G.” (doubtless meaning Colonel Gordon), and Colonel Gordon, writing on the 9th of March, ■ays. , “Yesterday the post came in from my most southern station, Mrooli. This-station is five days from M'tesa. Among the letters was this envelope (above described), and inside the envelope was a pencil scrawl in English, purporting to be from M'tesa tome, the substance of which ill-written and illexpressed note was a proposal to fight Kabba Rega, of Ungoro, and a wish to go to Bombay. Its date was February 6th, 1876. At that date I was close to Mirvoli, but could hear nothing of Stanley or his party. However I suppose either Stanley or some of his party are at M'tesa’s, for otherwise who could have written the letter I not, of course, that it could ever have been written by Mr Stanley, I have sent up to M'tesa the Daily Telegraphs sent to my care, and a lot of other papers ; but since Linant came down in August last I have heard nothing of Stanley. Linant arrived safely, and was with me three days before his death. I cannot understand why Stanley does not write to me. It is too late now, but otherwise it would be as well to tell him I would gladly help him. As it is, I have been obliged to send a somewhat inexperienced man in Charge of two lifeboats to explore Lake Albert, The steamer of 38 tons is nearly completed, but it will never be of much use as it can only carry two days’ fuel (wood). You will see I say it is too late now to write to Stanley,’ because I hope to get away from the country. Stanley will run great risk in the vicinity of the Egyptian posts, for the natives have not a nice dis crimination.’* The above are extracts from Colonel Gordon’s letter. Leaving you to make use of them I am, sir, yours obediently, Edward Marston. 188, Fleet street, London, May 16.