LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VII, Issue 745, 8 November 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A MYSTERY OF THE CLIFFS. HIS ACCOUNT OF IT. ( Continued.) For a while the glove revived a slight belief ill my story among the coast folks thereabouts ; it spread like wildtire, and at my earnest entreaties the search was renewed at every ebb of the tide, and a sharp watch kept for some days; but resulting in nothing. Very soon the whole matter was set down as the offspring of my imagination. My imagination, forsooth ! ‘ The gentleman’s got a craze like, don’t you know 1 I make no doubt but what he’s kind o’ cranky, if one knew the rights of it.’ This was the verdict I overheard pronounced by my friend of the coastguard to a comrade one day a little later, when I was wane 1 ering near the scene of my mysterious adventure. And did 1 never get any nearer to the solution of the mystery ? We shall see. For years it seemed as if I never should; but, as I still retained the glove, I thought that I saw in that just the ghost of a chance. As the commonplace expression originally rose to my mind, I started. ‘ The ghost of a chance. Ridiculous ! As if I of all men was likely to believe that I had seen a ghrst. If it had not been for the glove though, I don’t know what I might not have believed. It was not the ghost of a glove, that was quite certain; for it had never been worn; only a little stretched at the wrist; and there the maker’s name was stamped, but so imperfectly as to be illegible; the final letters rj, the number (sixes), and the word ‘ Exeter’ alone coming out clear.

Before I left the little inn 'where I was staying, I wrapped the glove up in a thick sheet of note-paper, on which I wrote the date and hour of the strange experience connected with it; and then putting the whole into an envelope, and sealing it with a signet ring, I took it with me when I returned to London, and locked it up carefully in my old bureau. lIEII ACCOUNT OF IT. He asks mo to finish his story for him. He declares that, as a dutiful wife, I am bound to do so, especially as he is so much occupied at that hateful office all day: whilst I have nothing to do. But then the thought of one incident in what has to be told makes me so sad, and revives such sorrowful memories, that I doubt if I shall be able to get through the task. Only by remembering that out of the girl’s grief has grown the wife’s happiness can 11 hope to succeed. The winter assizes were on when we first met; and I don’t deny that from the moment we were introduced at the ball I felt strangely influenced by him—pleasantly, yet somehow very sadly. I had no experience then, yet I knew that love at first sight, as it is called, would not wholly explain my sensations ; there were other agencies at work, I was quite conscious of this even then—later on how easily all was accounted for. He followed up the acquaintance, was invited to our house, spent several evenings there; both my parents liked him, and my father’s business relations with him helped the intimacy, and soon it seemed as if we had known him all our lives. When the summer assizes came round, we had gone to Torquay, my mother and I; for, despite all the associations of the place, it had a sad fascination for us both; thus the house was never given up, and we still went to it year by year. He came from Exeter with my father more than once, for an hour or two during the week. His presence seemed perfectly natural, and could but lead to one result. Our engagement was acknowledged and approved of, and amongst the little incidents connected with it came the one of my being photographed (a novelty in those days) standing, sitting, indoors, out of doors, with hat and without hat, every way. Some proofs were sent home on the eve of his going to London (the last time he would be going alone), and were brought to us as we were stepping out of the bay-window on to the lawn, just before setting off for a stroll along the cliffs. He took the packet from the servant, and slipped it into his pocket, saying, ‘ We will take them with us, and look at them whilst we are out ; I can’t afford to lose another moment of this beautiful evening. I have never yet had the chance of getting one walk by the sea.’ Ho patted my cheek affectionately ns we crossed the lawn, and went on gaily, ‘ You are going to marry one of the busiest men in England, I believe, little woman. What a lucky thing it is that we understand each other so well from the first! I should never have had time for love-making after the usual fashion ; and you, you never seemed to expect it.’ ‘No, certainly,’ I answered. ‘I don’t know what it was, but I quite felt ycu were in earnest, and that you cared for me—well, almost by the second time we met.’ ‘ Destiny, my child ; destiny or fate, or whatever you may please to call it. You must have had a strange influence over me, because I had not exchanged half-a-dozen words with you when I felt it was to be. Here is my fate, I said to myself; I’m certain of it. And what is more, I never looked upon you in the light of a stranger. When we were talking of that ball, it was to me just as if we had known each other for years,’ ‘Exactly my own case,’ said I; ‘and when you came to our bouse the next day, I knew we should be married ; something told me so.’

‘ Yes, dear child, natural affinity; no doubt there is such a thing. Some people are drawn towards each other, others are repelled by each other ; the mere tendency we have to like or dislike people, directly we are introduced, is only the beginning of the same feeling in the lowest form. You may call it what you please—animal magnetism, odic force, psychic force, or any other scientific name ; it doesn’t matter—it exists.’ Then he went on, more slowly, ‘ I did not always think so, though indeed I never thought about it until I knew you; but the way we have got on together convinces me that there is an intangible power which constantly influences our actions, and—who knows?—perhaps even guides our footsteps towards those for whom we have an affinity.’ He was echoing my own thoughts and opinions ; undoubtedly we had been drawn together, and I said so. Our courtship had been of the very simplest ; we had not met a dozen times in all; even now, owing to the extreme pressure of his business, all his visits were flying ones ; but the most perfect conficnce had grown up between us, and without any fentimentality I may «ay that

we were irresistibly assured of each other’s love.

After a short silence, he continued, as we walked along, rather thinking aloud, as it seemed, than speaking ; ‘ Ye? (who ca” tell ?), may it not be that when the two right people are brought together, they have been travelling as it were towards each other from their birth ; that the affinities have been remotely at work attracting each to each; and that throughout the vast universe of the unseen all kindred souls are on their way to join one another—everywhere striving to assimilate, and, once meeting, do assimilate inevitably in perfect concord, understanding each other, becoming part of each other at once, as you and I have done? It must be so; and possibly when the two right people don’t meet, it is only because material and worldly barriers intervene—hence the unhappines and the mesalliances. If the spirit alone had sway, as it will hereafter, then things and people would fall into their right places, and our earth become a heaven. But this is too speculative for you, little woman, and for me too, considering the matter-of-fact fellow I am, though I fancy I am much less so than I used to be. Let us sit here,’

By this time we had reached the extreme limit of our walk, a cliff path towards Babbicombe Bay; the sun was just setting, and the whole landscape was bathed in the most lovely light. We sat down close to the edge of the cliff, and the place, the hour, and the circumstances combined to put more sentiment perhaps into our conversation than we had ever indulged in before. Now and then he rattled on gaily enough, but ever and anon be relapsed into a graver vein, * It is all very well,’ he said, ‘ to laugh at what is called a woman’s reason when they say “ they like a thing because they like it;” but, for my part, I believe they are often influenced by a subtle perceptive faculty, which again is nothing more than an expression of that same force we were talking of, magnetic or otherwise, and is therefore their more trusty guide. In nine cases out of ten they are right, and this instinct (if we may call it so) guides them more truly than all the logical reasoning in the world would. As an example—look at me. There is no reason or logic in your preference for me; yet of course you are quite right.’ Then we both laughed, but soon lapsed into a silence which was not, however, without its eloquence. At last he said, * A little leisure is very pleasant; it’s so long since I tasted it, I had almost forgotten its flavour. I have not spent such an idle day as this has been for nearly three years; not since—’ he paused, and an expression quite strange to his face came over it. *lt is very wonderful,’ he went on after a minute, ‘how this scene, and weather too, reminds me—it is not altogether unlike that place; high cliffs and sea and evening light.’ * What place ?’ I asked. ‘o,’ he answered abruptly, and with a return of his gayer mood, * a little place in the north, where I spent a short holiday once; but never mind that. By the way, where are those photographs ? We have not looked at them yet; I wonder how they have come out. ’ He searched for them, and untied the packet. I could not well get much closer to him than I was already; but still it was necessary that I should be very close indeed in order to examine the pictures, he would hold them so stupidly. Some were good, some were bad, some passable, very nice, and so on. Who does not know the sort of chatter that goes on in such a case ? We had gone through all the photographs but three, the last at the bottom of the packet, which he had been holding like a pack of cards. In the first of these three I was in a garden dress and jacket, holding my hat in my hand. ‘That’s the best,’ he said, ‘it is the same dress as you have on now, isn’t it?’ ‘ Yes, I thought ‘it would do for this quiet walk ; it is my favourite gray.’ ‘ Ah,’ he continued, ‘ I notice you are very fond of gray, dear little Quaker-woman,’ He turned to the next picture, and I thought 1 felt him give a slight start. It showed me, as in the last, standing out of doors, with a flat background of imitation rock ; only I had my hat on, and was standing more sideways. He made no remark.

Only one, photograph was left. We bent over it at the same moment, ami then—there was no doubt—he started as if he had been electrified. I looked up in his face ;he was deadly pale, and that same strange expression which I have just referred to when he was speaking of his last holiday was upon it. ‘ What on earth is the matter ? ’ For a second he made no answer, but continued to glare—there is no other word for it—at the picture. I repeated the question earnestly, * What—what is the matter ?’

‘Very wonderful, very wonderful indeed,’ he said slowly, without noticing me. Then, turning round suddenly, he added, ‘ Dear child, just go and sit like that over there, against that rock there ; sit in the same attitude, and let me look at you.’ ‘ But, please, I began to entreat, ‘ do tell me what— ’

‘No, no,’ he broke in sharply; ‘do as I tell you, just for a minute ; let me be convinced ; mind, as nearly as you can in this precise attitude. ’ I did as he wished ; that is, I went to a mass of rock at the end of the walk, a little distauceolT, and satdowuinthepositionshown by the photograph he held in his hand, the position in which I had last been taken, a sitting profile view, in hat and jacket as before, and in the act of pulling on my lefthand glove. * * * * *

You who have read the beginning of this story will easily guess what was now to follow. Of course he thought he recognised in my portrait and in me, as I sat for it, the semblance of the girl whom he had seen up on that northern headland. But I, I who was still in the dark, what could I think of his behaviour ? Until the explanation came, sore indeed was my perplexity, my amazement, but it did not last long.

After gazing for a minute or two alternately at me and the photograph, as if comparing them, his face terribly pale, and his whole manner extremely agitated, he rose, walked straight up to me, and taking the hand I anxiously extended towards him, he said, ‘Tell me, child, were you ever at Dryley, a little fishing-village on the Yorkshire coast, between Scarborough and Whitby ? ’ ‘ Never,’ I answered. ‘ Never ! ’ he repealed. Then suddenly falling into his musing tone again for a

moment, * Do you mean to say you were not there on the 29th of August, 1858 ?’ It was then that I felt as if 1 had been stabbed, so unexpected, so utterly unlocked for was the utterance of that date of all others by his lips. For him to thrust it upon my recollection at such a time, so suddenly and recklessly, as it seemed to me, what did it mean ? What could he know of anything that had happened on the 29th of August, 1858 ? We had never spoken of it to him, neither my father, mother, nor myself ; we spoke of it now to no one. It wa a too sacred a day for us lightly to think of even. But that I felt and knew how strong, and beyond all power to disturb, his love for me was, I should have been wounded past telling. As it was, after the first shock his words gave me was over, I divined in an instant that there was some strange mystery at the bottom of it, and I implored him to explain, to tell me why he asked the question, and what connection that date could have with him.

Then he sat down beside me, and began the relation of what he has written, but in a far graver and more thoughtful tone; for the matter was then strong upon him, and he felt its import keenly, whilst nowadays he takes a far lighter and more philosophic view of it all; and I too, though not the less impressed by its strangeness, have come to regard it, as I write, of course more calmly and rationally, and also as a coincidence ; strange, of course—coincidences are always so, more or less.

Breathless and agitated, I listened to what he said; but before he had quite finished, I was obliged, impelled by an irresistible impulse, to tell him what we had hitherto never spoken of to him, and what was shaping itself out of it in my mind as ha went on. (To be continued.)