LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VII, Issue 732, 24 October 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

WARNED OF A WARNING.

If the reader who has this page before his eyes be one of those who will believe only what they understand, or who —because some impostors, pretending to deal with the supernatural, have been exposed—'treat with ridicule the idea that spirits can, or will, interpose in the affairs or mortals here below, let him skip the whole article, and go on to the next. He will have a very good shilling’s worth without it. To the more tolerant I would explain that I tell this tale as it was told to me, suppressing real names and altering the scene, according to a promise I have made. I will not attempt to account for anything. The main facts were narrated by a person sane in mind and strong of body—a man of singularly truthful disposition. The sequel I witnessed with my owe eyes, so you may be quite sure that will not come across the old familiar ‘ dodge’ of making wonders turn out to be ‘ the baseless fabric of a vision.’

In the year 1864, when I first met Frank Conroy, he was a handsome, brave, simpleminded boy. Eleven years later I saw him again. He was a great deal bigger, but very little changed. The same dark brown curly hair with a glint of red in it; the same laughing blue eyes, the same almost girlish smile, the same contempt for all that was mean or cruel; only he didn’t burst out crying now, when touched by such things. He stood six feet one in his rowing shoes ; and I would just as soon have a mule kick me as feel the full weight of his arm. A gentle giant, this Frank Conroy, with fair abilities, good prospects, a happy home, troops of friends, and the sweetest girl in Virginia loving him with all her heart. This was Annie Annesley, the only daughter of a planter whose fortunes had survived the

ravages of the civil war, and who lived in a grand old house on the James River, some fifty miles from Richmond. Her mother had died when she was a child. Annie was petite, of course, or she would not have had big Frank at her tiny feet; and there was a roundness and a softness about the lower part of her face, which appeared to be of the wax-doll order until you had taken in her eyes and brow. Isay ‘taken in,’ because they grew upon you. She was not a reigning belle, however. Frank snapped her up as soon as she came out —that was one reason. She did not consider dancing the German as the end and object of existence ; and she carried too many guns for the beaux of the period—that was another. There were ups and downs, ins and outs in the characters of this pair which favored the forging of an excellent weld when the great hammer-man, Love, should place them, all aglow, on his anvil. At first big Frank was indolent, little Annie ambitious; he was realistic, she romantic; he somewhat too easy going to keep off foes, she somewhat too given to cynicism to gain friends. In a short time they began to rub off each other’s deficiencies. He was twenty-one, and she eighteen, and they were to be married as soon as he had taken his degree. In all sorts of athletic contests and exercises he had already graduated with the highest honors. In public little Annie rather discouraged these pursuits, but her heart glowed with delight when the Harvard boat dashed first under the string, and N® 3, the captain, was carried out of it in triumph. She tore her pretty lace handkerchief into shreds during the first laps of the three mile foot-race, as the runner who wore her colors on his great heaving chest appeared only fifth in the contest. She couldn’t bear to see him beaten : and when at last he put on his spurt and went through his men like a rocket, her heart beat faster than his own. At the time when this account commences he was in training for another great boatrace, and reading hard too ; for in America, as here, your rowing man can be a good book worker, if he please. Now staying on a visit at the home of your bethrothed is both useful and charming, useful, because it gives you an insight into her character which is not to be gained out in society; and charming—well, there is no need to elaborate that cause. But it does not conduce to close study. Saint Anthony himself could not keep his eyes on his book when the Father of Evil took the shape of a pretty woman—to whom, by the bye, he was not engaged ; so how can you expect that a warm-hearted young fellow from Harvard could work in the presence of his lady love. Why did he not lock himself up in his room ? He did, but what was the use ? If she went about singing, as was her wont, he listened, and Plato might reason as he pleased unattended to. If she was silent, he (big Frank, not Plato) wondered what she was doing ; and Orestes raved in vain. The only chance for work was when she went away from house and grounds visiting some neighbour; and this, when she knew the consequences, she did as often as she could. She was proud of her lover, and wanted him to take a good degree. These absences generally lasted till luncheon time ; but one day she came down to breakfast in her riding habit, and told him she was going to see the Melvilles. Seeing the Melvilles meant a ride, out and home, of two and twenty miles. ‘ Mayn’t I go with you ?’ he asked. ‘No, sir. You have been shamefully idle lately ; besides, I have lots of things to say to Janey (her chief bridesmaid elect), and you would be in the way. You need not expect to see me again till dinner,’ she replied. Seven o’clock was their usual dinner time. Frank improved the shining hours ; read till noon, then he took a brisk walk till two, then he read till live, then like a wise man he put away his books, and packed up what he had learned into his brain.

It was autumn, when the twilight comes soon, and quickly deepens into night. The time slipped away, as it will do when one’s mind is busy, and when Annie came into the room, dressed for the evening, he was quite surprised. ‘ Back again so soon! and dressed already !’ he exclaimed, rising to greet her ; but she moved away from him towards the window and stood there silent, gazing into the rapidly deepening twilight. * Frank, dear,’ she said after a pause, ‘ I want to warn you about something.’ ‘ All right—go on,’ he replied, again advancing. ‘No, do not come near me. Stay where you are. Do not be surprised if some day you see a lady in your room. ’ * A. lady !’ ‘ Who will be there,’ she continued, not heeding his interruption, ‘ for no light purpose. If she should speak to you take good heed of what she says —for the sake of her who loves you.’ * Why not say for my sake ?’ * Well, then ; for my sake.’ ‘ And who is this mysterious counsellor ?’ ‘ Never mind.’ ‘ Oh, but Ido mind. If there is anything I hate it is the idea of any one coming between you and me. When I Iwve something to say to you, I say it right out; and I want you to do the same. Is this person a friend ? ’ ‘A great friend.’ * Then introduce us, and let us all three talk it over, whatever it is ; or, better still, hear what she has to say, and tell me yourself. ’ ‘We cannot always manage that such things as these should come exactly as we wish,’ she answered in a low sad voice. ‘No ; but don’t you think, Annie, that my receiving a lady in my room is not as good an arrangement as could be made ?’ ‘ I told you not to be surprised if she came. I did not say positively that she would come.’ ‘lf she does come, it will be with your consent ?’ ‘ She could not do so without.’ ‘Then you won’t be jealous ?’ he asked, with a smile. ‘ There will be no cause for jealousy.’ ‘ You seem to be in a strange humour today, dear.’ ‘ Why do you think that V ‘ Your voice and manner are changed. Are you ill. darling ? Is—— ’ —‘ Stay where you are,’ she again interrupted, motioning him back to his seat, ‘ This will pass. Let ua say no more on the subject. Give me your solemn promise that you will not say another word about it—only remember.’ ‘ Well, dear, I think that is the very best thing I can do, for really ’ —' Promise.’ ‘ I promise—there ! And now—™* 1 ’

‘ No, you shall not move. Let me go. I ■will come down again in a few minutes. Be a good boy, Frank, and let me have my own way.’ He turned round half vexed to put away his notes, and when he looked up again she was gone. He kept his promise, and he had hia reward. Annie was even more than usually bright and loving all the rest of that evening. The next day passed as usual, and on the next but one, there was a picnic, which would have ended as pleasantly as it began, but for big Frank, Returning by the light of the moon, the negro coachman (who had taken more champagne heel taps than conduced to careful driving) managed to put the two off-wheels of the carriage which contained the Annesley party into the ditch, at a turn in the road where the horses could not get a straight pull at it, and ten miles from home ! Frank just lifted the whole thing out—bodily, Annie and all; for (as he said with one of his cheery laughs) ‘ you don’t weigh anything.’ Then he drove them home, leaving Sambo to sober himself by a walk. ‘ I wonder if Samson was much stronger than you are ?’ said Annie, as he kissed her good night, looking up, full of love and pride, into his handsome face. ‘ Poor old Samson 1 His strength did not do him much good after all,’ he laughed. ‘Oh, Frank? It saved his country, and helped him to a glorious end. I think there is nothing in history so splendid as the retribution he worked on his persecutors—crushing them in the hour of triumph, with the temple of their false gods.’ ‘ The muff I he should have gone outside and pushed,’ said prosaic Frank. When he opened the door of his room he found that the lamp was alight. This was unusual, for he always had lit it himself. There were French windows on two sides of this chamber opening into the gallery. Two faced him as he entered, the other pair were hidden by the bed and its mosquito bar. They were all wide open; for he loved fresh air, and laughed colds to scorn. It was almost as light as day. The full moon filled the veranda with its soft, silvery beams, and the dark green evergreens below were ablaze with fire-flies. A night which tempts one to do anything but go to bed. Frank took off his coat aud boots, made himself comfortable in the rocking-chair, filled a big pipe with perique, and thought he would read a little, as he had passed an idle day; As he rose to get his book, he heard a gentle tap at the Venetian blinds outside. Flying moths, blundering after a light, as is their wont, make such noises, so he did not notice it. After a moment or two it was repeated louder, and a woman’s voice said, 1 May I come in ? ’

Now by this time he had forgotten all about the visit he might possibly receive, but was not surprised when a lady walked in without waiting for an answer. It does not take long to sayj‘ May I come in ? * yet as she spoke tbose few words the whole of his conversation with Annie, on the day before yesterday, came back to his mind. 1 You are not surprised at this invasion ? ’ asked the visitor. She was apparently about thirty years of age ; tall, slight, and elegantly dressed. A lace-edged handkerchief was loosely knotted round her throat, and in her hand she carried a common palmetto fan. She spoke in the sub-tone of assertion which a well-bred woman of her age has generally acquired without knowing how, and shoddy folk labour after in vain all their lives. Grant that a stranger could adopt this mode of presenting herself—and had not Annie told him that she might I —and nothing could be more natural.

Frank replied that he was not a bit surprised, and advanced his best chair; which she declined.

‘ No, thanks,’ she said, leaning one hand against the side of the window space, and fanning herself ; ‘ I won’t come in any farther. Do you sit down and listen to what I have to say. I won’t keep you long. Oh ! you may smoke. I don’t mind that in the least; but I insist ! I will not say a word till you have made four good puffs. That is right. One—two—three —four ; now for it. ’

Frank began to feel that he must have known this lady for several years ; so completely did she put him at his ease. • Don’t you think,’ she continued, ‘ that when a man is engaged to be married it is high time for him to leave off playing like a boy?’ * Certainly it is.’ ‘ That’s right. All the running, and rowing, and jumping is well enough in its way. It makes boys men ; but it makes men just a little bit coarse—at least, that is my view.’ ‘ May I ask if Annie shares that opinion ?’ ‘ Let us leave her out of this discussion. She knows nothing about it.’ ‘And yet she prepared me for this—pleasure,’ said Frank dryly. ‘ Never mind. I repeat ; she knows nothing about my present object. If she did, I am afraid she would not much assist me, for she is proud of her great athlete. I am old enough to be her mother, and (with a bright smile) am nothin love with you ; so I can talk sense. Now, really, what is there worth winning that you have not already won ? Why risk defeat V ‘ I am not afraid of that.’

* The confidence of the man! Well, I’ll put it in another way. Why not give some one else a chance ? Do you think it is fair to monopolise all the glory and silver cups ? You greedy giant!’ This shot went home, Frank despised ‘pothunters.’ Was he a pot hunter himself ?

‘ There, I see you are coming round,’ his visitor resumed, pursuing her advantage. ‘ Promise me that you will stick to your books like a good boy, take a splendid degree, and give up rowing and all that sort of thing, once and for ever.’ ‘ Would it be indiscreet to inquire whom I have been so fortunate as to inspire with such a deep interest in my affairs ?’

‘Ah! do not be sarcastic. You cannot tell how it pains me,’ she said. He looked up, and felt a power of tender, sad pleading which quite subdued his impulse to resent her interference. ‘ I have no right, I know,’ she continued, ‘ to ask this promise for myself. lam nothing to you ; but I love Annie, oh ! how fondly. I plead for her, and this I say solemnly, Frank Conroy—if your affection be as deep as she deserves it should be, you will not hesitate. Man, man ! what is success in a game that you should prefer it to the happiness of the woman you love V * You seem in earnest.’ ‘ I am in earnest.’

* Well, I’ll talk it over with her. ’ * Think it over by yourself first,’ said his visitor after a pause, during which she

seemed to be struggling with something she wished to add, and dared not. ‘And, if you cannot resolve—as I pray you may—then you can tell her what has passed tonight. Good bye. God bless and guide you.’ She kissed her hand to him, and passed out into the bright moonlight. ‘ I ought to have thanked her, anyhow,’ he mused when she had gone. ‘ What an unmannerly dog she’ll think me. She’s not far wrong, I ought to give other fellows a turn, and I’m not sure whether a lighter man at No 3 well, I’ll sleep on it. Who the deuce can she be ?’ Who the deuce can she be ? was the question which filled his mind when he woke—much earlier than usual—in the morning, and diligent inquiries made of all the servants about failed to satisfy it. Should he ask Annie ? No; he was a little piqued with Annie, It was absurd to suppose that these two were not in concert. And how unfair to make him promise not to speak of what should pass, and then send this person to lecture him ! True, he had ‘ this person’s’ permission to talk it over with Annie, if he could not make up his mind to follow her advice ; but he had done so, and there was an end of that part of the case. He had made a sacrifice much against the grain, and therefore—man like—he hedged, by getting cross with a woman.

He wandered about from one room to another, fretting, fidgeting, unsettled. He tried to read. He opened one book, and it was too heavy—another, and it was too flippant. He went out into the garden, and the chirruping of the birds annoyed him. Ho returned to the house, and made for Mr Annesley’s study. His host was an early riser, and he wanted some one to talk to. Mr Annesley was not down yet. On his table lay a black leather case, with silver clasps, that Frank had not noticed before. He undid the clasps and opened it. It contained a photograph of the woman who had visited him the night before. * Now I can find out all about you,’ he chuckled, ‘ without breaking auy promise.’ As he gazed at the picture, and took in its details, a recollection arose which puzzled him. Man as he was, he remembered that his visitor’s dress, though of costly material, and in excellent taste, was made in a fashion which had long since gone out. The dress in the picture was in the same style. How was this? As he mused, Annie tripped in, gay and bright as ever, and laid a soft little hand on his shoulder. ‘Up so early! ’ she cried gaily. Then, as she she saw what he held, her face became suddenly sad. * Whose likeness is this 7 ’ he asked, not noticing the change. * Poor dear Mamma’s,’ she replied with a sob. Then his heart gave a great bound, and a cold sickening stupor fell upon him. {To he continued.)