LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VII, Issue 704, 21 September 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A DILEMMA. IN TWO CHAPTERS. Chapter I. Mr Duhamel and his daughter Claire were alone; but Mr Duhamel was not benefiting by that fact as much as usual, for, strange to say, Claire did not hear a word of his talk. He, in a bright colored dressing-gown, was marching up and down the room ; she, with the Times drooping from her half-unclosed fingers, was leaning back absently in an easy chair. The sweet hair of the summer morning came in through open windows, and set the muslin curtains waving gently ; the room was full of scent from great basins of roses which stood on the tables. Claire herself, in her white dress, and her careless attitude, was a charming object. Mr Duhamel thought so, and as he walked and talked, congratulated himself on the beauty of his daughter and the general surroundings. Only one thing vexed him : Claire was not giving him her attention. • She might have, believed me,’ he was saying. ‘I am not in the habit of making mistakes, and I always told her what would happen. I could and would, have arranged a nice, suitable, satisfactory marriage for her more than once while she was young ; but she was obstinate—a real Englishwoman—must choose for herself; and see what it has come to. An old maid ! But I always knew how it would be ! And there’s our poor neighbor, Sir George, the moment he quarrelled with his step-mother, I told him he [|had ruined himself. I told him _ she would marry again, and she has married; and not one penny will he ever get of all that his father left her. I have told him so fifty times, and you know I am a pretty good prophet. ’ When Mr fDuhamel’s voice ceased, Claire lifted her eyes languidly, -and said, ‘Yes, papa,’ but with so little interest, that her thoughts were clearly occupied with something else. Her father stood still, and examined her face.

‘ What are you thinking of, my child ? ’ he asked after a moment’s silence.

‘Can’t you guess, papa?’ she answered with a half-smile. ‘ What am I most likely to bo thinking of ? ’ ‘Of Eugene, of course,’ Mr Duhamel replied, beginning to walk up and down again. ‘ I will tell you more than that : you are thinking some misfortune has happened to him.’

Claire raised herself and spoke with some energy : ‘ He has never before missed writing every mail ; two mails have come in now without jfa letter from him. Have I not reason to think something is the matter ? ’ ‘ Nothing is the matter,’ her father said with decision. ‘He has a reason for not writing, no doubt, but none that need trouble you.’ ‘ What can it be, then ? ’ ‘ Suppose he were on his way to England ? ’

fij‘ Ah ! that would be delightful; but then lie would write to say he was coming.‘My darling, I have never seen Eugene, any more than you have, but I can tell you that he is romantic. ’

‘ Not a bit romantic, papa ; at least not a bit too romantic.’

* Let me go on. He is romantic. You and he are engaged by the arrangements of your respective fathers ; you have exchanged likenesses, and have written to each other

a great many long and very delightful letters. You love each other. What now remains but that you should meet ? Eugene has finished his business in South America sooner than he expected ; he is impatient to see his fiance ; what more natural than that he should resolve upon surprising her with a visit I ’

This time Claire fairly jumped from her chair, Hew to her father, and seized both his bands. ‘ 0 papa, you have a letter ? Oh, cruel; tell me all about it directly ! ’ Mr Duharael took his daughter’s two little hands into one of his, and patted them with the other, as he looked down into her face with a smile of loving superiority, 'A letter ? No, my child. But your father was not born yesterday. He knows the world a little, and men too —even lovers.’ Claire’s face sobered, but was still turned trustfully to her father, ‘You really think that’s it? But his name is not among any of the lists of pas-

sengers.’ ‘ Silly child ! How could he surprise you, if he allowed you to read his name in the papers ? There’s no law against inventing a name for one’s self, is there ? ’

Claire’s face gradually broke into a smile. ‘ Ah, if I could only believe that,’ she said, and went back to her chair.

‘ Mind, I don’t say positively,’ Mr Duhamel went on, with a sly smile— ‘ I don’t say it is so; but I am a pretty good prophet, and we shall see.’ With this oracular sentence he walked out of the room; and Claire, much comforted, devoted herself to the contemplation of a small portrait which she wore in a locket.

While Claire studied the counterfeit presentment of her never-seen fiance, and Mr Dahamel prepared himself for his morning walk, a very animated conversation was being carried on by two other people, who had met midway along a path which led to the house from a small side-gate of the garden. Of these two people, one was a lady, and the other a gentleman; the very lady and gentleman over whom Mr Duhamel had been lately lamenting; his niece (or rather his late wife’s niece), Annie Burton; and hia neighbor, Sir George Manners. Anne was what some might (erroneously) term an old maid; she was not quite thirty, and made no effort to appear younger. She was tall, neither stout nor thin, had plenty of pretty brown hair of her own, and a graceful figure, set off by a well-made gray dress. Sir George was a tall man, broad-shouldered, and not particularly handsome; not so handsome as Anne, by any means, yet pleasant enough to look at; certainly not povertystricken in look or dress, and at this moment very far from being oppressed by care, ‘ What will my uncle say V Anne asked, laughing softly, as she twisted a rosebud about in her fingers. ‘ I expect he’ll refuse to believe it,’ Sir George answered. ‘I shall have to bring all the documents to show him—her letter to me after she quarrelled with her husband, the notice of her death, and Payne’s letters about the will, &c.’

‘lt would be mere hypocrisy,’ replied Anne, ‘ if I were to pretend to be sorry she is dead. She did you a great wrong by coming between you and your father.’ ‘ And another by coming between me and you.’ ‘ But that was your own fault,’ Anne answered quickly. ‘Give me that rose,’ Sir George said; and made use of the excuse to take the lady’s hand into his, very much as if she were a young maid. ‘ I had not courage to speak while I was poor, you see; but since you waited for me, all is right.’ Anne laughed, and, in spite of her thirty years, blushed, as she drew her fingers away. ‘You will miss your train,’ she observed.

Sir George looked at his watch. ‘ Plenty of time,’ he answered. ‘Ten minutes to see your uncle, if I must see him, and a good hour to drive to the station in. I’d rather stay here for the ten minutes.’ ‘ No; you must go in, lest anybody should have noticed you. After to-morrow, you can come to visit me, if you like; at present, I am nobody.’ ‘ Good-bye, then. I shall see Payne this afternoon, and if necessary, to-morrow. At the latest, I shall be down by the four o’clock train, and will come over here at once.’

‘ My poor uncle ! It is a bad return for all his kindness, to prove him a false prophet. ’ A minute or two after saying this, Anne went on alone through the garden-gate; and Sir George, with a rose in his buttonhole, rang the door-bell, and asked for Mr Duhamel. Claire dropped her locket hastily as her father and Sir George came into the room together. ‘ Just off, are you ? ’ said Mr Duhamel. ‘ Why, you look like a bridegroom already ; and you are right, you are right. The lady won’t say “ No.” ’ ‘ I hope not,’ replied Sir George, laughing ; and Claire looked at him with sympathetic eyes. 1 No, no. And I’m glad you’ve learned wisdom at last. A baronetcy on one side, a fortune on the other; a reasonable bargain, and one I always foresaw you would make at last. I am not in the habit of making mistakes.’ ‘ But, Mr Duhamel, I never said I was going to be married, still less that the lady was rich. ’ • No need to say it, my dear sis—no need to say it to me. But you can’t say you’re not thinking of marrying ? ’ ‘No.’ ‘ Nor that you are looking forward to love in a cottage ? ’ ‘ No. But my time is up. Good-bye.’ The visitor went, and Mr Duhamel followed him with a regretful glance, sighing ‘ Poor Anne ! ’ Half-way to the station, Sir George met a shambling fly with two young men in it. One of them was looking out, and it could bo seen plainly that his dark, good-humored face was that of a stranger. ‘ Who can that be ? ’ said the baronet to himself. ‘ Claire’s Eugene ? Mr Duhamel prophesies that he will be here unexpectedly, and he may be right for once.’ But the young man who had looked out of the fly was not Eugene Bertand, for his companion called to him: ‘ Do sit still, Marco, and give me your advice.’ Marco dropped back into his corner, and began to excuse himself in Italian. ‘ English ! English I ’ cried the other. ‘ What have I told you ? ’ « Yes —I—know,’ answered Marco, bringing out each word by a separate effort of reflection. ‘ You tell me,’ continued the first speaker, * that I speak Italian as well as you do. My English friends have often said the same to

me of their language. How do Idoit ? By forcing myself always to talk the tongue of any country I happen to be in.’ * Yes—l know,’ said Marco again. * Very well. Remember, I don’t understand a word of either Italian or French as long as lam in England. And now, tell me, how am I to do it ? ’

‘ Foveretta ! ’ began Marco, and then corrected himself. ‘ Poor girl ! lam sorry for her. ’ ‘ Poor girl indeed, for I believe she lovea him. Her letters are Well, lam glad he told me to read them, for they show she is worthy of him. But how to tell her that he is dear) ? ’ ‘ Yes, to tell her. She has a father i ‘Of course. It was her father uht arranged it all. He and old Mr Bertrand, Eugene’s fatner, were great friends, and they decided that their children should marry. 1 guppose they would have been married before now, if it had not been for Eugene s unlucky journey to South America.’ t why did you not write to them ? ’ Marco managed to ask. . , , ~ < Because Eugene made me promise to tell the news myself. He thought Mademoiselle Duhamel would bear it better, if she were able to hear all she should wish to ask,’ Both the travellers were silent for a while, and by-and-bye the fly began to pass the first cottages of the village near to which Mr Duhamel’a house stood. A minute or two more, and it drew up at the door of the village inn. ~ , ‘ Here we are/ said the elder of the travellers with a scrutinising look at their quarters. ‘ Let us see our rooms, and then get this miserable business over.’ Half an hour later, the two young men walked up to Mr Duhamel’s door, and the elder sent in a card with a request for a few minutes’ private conversation. Mr Duhamel had come back from his walk, and was sitting with his daughter and niece when the card was given to him. ‘ Emile de Bellechasse,’ he read aloud. ‘ Who is he, I wonder ? Ah—h—h ! ’ he went on after a moment, looking with excessive slyness at his daughter. ‘E.B, We have seen those initials before, I think? There’s a ‘de’ here, to be sure. But what did I say ? Eh, Claire ? ’ He got up, and went briskly out of the room, leaving the card, on which Claire seized, eagerly reading the name over and over, , . , ‘What does it all me, Claire?’ asked Anne from her work-table. ‘ Papa said Eugene meant to surprise us—and oh, Anne,’ Claire cried, breathless, ‘ if this be him ! ’ . In Mr Duhamel’s ‘ study an odd meeting was taking place. M. Emile de Bellechasse, sorely troubled by his mission, stood dumb before the beaming looks of his host. He, who was so seldom embarrassed, stammered, and changed color like a girl. ‘ Monsieur de Bellechasse ? ’ said Mr Duhamel, with an accent which plainly expressed, ‘ Call yourself what you will, you are sure of a welcome.’ To he continued