LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VII, Issue 771, 9 December 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

HOW IT HAPPENED.

{ Continued.) When Frances and I were alone together again, we went into the drawing-room, and sat there until near midnight. I sent her off to bed then, and waited up alone for John. He did not return home until the early day was dawning, and then he had no good news to tell. There were no tidings of the lost pocket-book. Time went on, and this was still the case. It seemed as though the matter were hopeless, for all searches and inquiries continued to prove fruitless. Louis went daily, as of old, to the bank, where no one, I am sure, ever threw a glance of suspicion upon him, but elsewhere he was seldom seen in public. He no longer played the organ during the church services, nor did he instruct the choir any more. All these duties were delegated to his assistant. He shrank from notice with painful and morbid sensitiveness, believing himself an object of universal contempt. My husband could not persuade him out of the idea that he was now a dishonoured man, in consequence of what had occurred. He declined all entreaties to visit us, and it was a long time before I saw him again after that unhappy night when he had come to us in the first eagerness of his distress. . I was much troubled at this, as I felt impressed with a strange and strong conviction that the money would, sooner or later, be traced and restored. In spite of the ever growing improbability that this should happen, as the days and weeks went by, the persuasion was still with me, and I longed to try and impart some of my hopefulness to our poor friend. I also desired to make him aware of my sympathy with him. Frances and I never talked of this sad affair, but I had quite relinquished my hope of sending her back to the Academy stronger and happier than she had left it. I began, indeed, te doubt whether she could ever return to the routine of school life, and my husband sometimes advised me to write to her friends and recommend that she should be recalled home. She grew more beautiful and ethereal looking every day, until we felt, at times, as if we had some gentle, wistful denizen of another world on a visit with us. John and I regarded her almost as if she were a child of our own, to bo petted and loved and cared for ; and she accepted and returned our affection with interest.

I was out alone one evening. On my way home I lingered upon the old bridge. I was leaning against the parapet, looking out at the sea, lit up by the red glow of sunset, when I heard many quick footsteps pass me by, while someone, walking with a slow and heavy tread, paused at my side, I turned round. Six grey monks went up the road in procession, and Louis Carter stood near me, hesitating, as if in some doubt as to whether or not he should delay. HD gait was weary, his shoulders were bent, and I saw many silver threads gleaming in his dark hair. I put my two hands within his arm to detain him, uttering an exclamation of pleasure; but when his eyes met mine I started back, alarmed at the wild and desperate expression in them. He looked so utterly hopeless that I shuddered instinctively. ‘ I understand,’ he said, bitterly. ‘Of course you do not wish to be seen with me. I will go on.’ ‘ Oh. you must not; indeed, it is not that,’ I cried, my eyes filling with tears. ‘ I was only sorry to see you so very—sad.’ ‘ What should a dishonoured man be but sad ?’ he said, heavily. ‘ I have been wishing so much to meet you,’ I exclaimed. ‘I want to tell you not to despair about this money. I feel sure—l know it will be found. ’

‘ Have you heard anything of it, then V he asked, eagerly. I was obliged to confess that I had not, but I did my best to instil some hopefulness into him concerning the loss. He seemed a little cheered and comforted by the sympathy I displayed in his trouble. He walked along at my side, and the load of care upon his brow really appeared to lighten as we talked. We were drawing near the College, when he inquired with sudden abruptness whether Frances was still with me.

‘She is,’ I answered laconically. I did not wish to talk of her, but unhappily he did.

‘ You believe that this money will be found,’ he said. ‘lf it is, and if my character is thereby cleared from reproach, do you think I may try and explain matters to Miss Perrin ? Is there hope for me with her ?’

I could not think there was, but I have many times regretted that I did not at the moment endeavor to persuade myself and him that all might yet come right. My heart being full of hopelessness, however, I made no reply, but pulled down my veil to hide from my questioner the tears that were sti earning from my eyes. A sudden overwhelming sadness had fallen upon me. ‘I understand,’he said, speaking with a weary, unsteady voice, ‘ I hate this place. I have always felt that some dreadful fate was awaiting me here,’ With that he turned and left me, giving me no farewell greeting of any kind. I took Frances to the upper part of the town next day, where we listened to the band playing for a while; but the sun was hot, and she was ailing and confined to the house for nearly two days after this. On the evening of the second day we went out boating. We lauded, after our excursion, underneath the old bridge. We saw Louis Carter up above us, leaning upon the wall as 1 had been doiug when I met him, and looking out into the far distance. By the time we had climbed the ascent he had entirely disappeared. Frances became ill that evening. The doctor said she was suffering from a low fever, which must have been hanging about her for a long time. She grew worse as the days went by, and she was at times delirious. 1 was obliged to get a nurse to assist me in oaring for her. She was very weak, and as there was much cause for alarm, I wrote to summon Feuella back when she had been three weeks absent.

On the evening before I expected her return I went out for a lonely walk, feeling sadly in need of some refreshing air. 1 went up the hill by the most unfrequented way, and then turned into a road leading down again to the sea behind the monastery, mentioned before.

(To he continued.)