LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VII, Issue 779, 19 December 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE MISCHIEF MAKER.

( Concluded.) It was a mystery to some people that this well horn and fine looking lady had not long ago cast in her lot with some gentleman, to whose house she would have been both an adornment and acquisition ; but it was not so, and none but she knew the reason.

Certain it is, however, that it was not for want of suitors, and some ventured to assert chat one had found favor in her sight, and then suddenly left her, but this was a mere on dit. Had it been true, and had she been a younger woman, one would have thought that Theodore had been that favoured swain.

As it was, the conclusion to which Miss Issott naturally arrived was that she was angry on her neice’s account and not her own; and so far Miss Issott was in the right. She now rose to go, but first she went over to the window, apparently to admire Maggie’s painting. The artist moved not, and bore the inspection with composure; and presently, when Miss issott held out her hand to say good-bye, she rose and confronted her, without the least trace of the excitement under which she had so recently labored. ‘ You are looking pale and thin,’ said Miss Issott. ‘ I trust it is no love affair that is the cause.’

‘ I have just recovered from the rheumatic fever,’ she replied ; but here the flush dyed her cheeks again. Miss Issott expressed her sorrow in an increduh'us sort of tone; and recommending her to put no trust in the lords of creation, she left, well pleased with the result of her first call.

When the door had closed on her, Miss Bannatyne went over to the window and leaning over M aggie’s shoulder, gently kissed her forehead.

‘Never mind her, dear,’ she said. ‘She is a wretched mischief-maker,’

‘ Mind what, auntie ? ’ inquired the young girl, throwing back her flowing locks, and looking up earnestly at Miss Bannatyne. ‘You know I am not, and never was, properly engaged to Theodore ; and I love Peter a thousand times better, and he loves me, too ! ’ Andjshe laid her head against Miss Bannatyne, to hide her blushes. ‘Yes, yes,’ said her aunt, smoothing her wavy hair; ‘ but you must own, Madge, that Theo did not behave at all properly to you, ’ ‘ Oh, he did, auntie ! ’ ‘ Well, well, child; if you are satisfied, I am.’ Miss Issott proceeded next to the residence of Mrs Umphray, where she had a long gossip, and then to the Dalgleishs. There she learned that Maggie Bannatyne was soon to be married to Peter Dalgleish. She had begun by saying how ill Maggie was looking. ‘I fear,’she said, ‘that some love affair is the cause of her indisposition; and, between ourselves, Mrs Dalgleish, I think the object of her misplaced affection was Mr Gordon. ’ ‘lt is nothing of this kind,’ rejoined Mrs Dalgleish. ‘ She is going to be married to Peter in two months.’ Miss Issott looked astonished, soon took leave of hex - , and paid no more calls that day. * * * * * A week later, as Theodore Gordon was breakfasting, a highly-scented little note was brought in. It was from Annie Belvoir, who desired his presence as soon as convenient at Belvoir Park. In some astonishment, Theo finished his meal, and was soon flying on Diana’s back to the home of his betrothed. He found her in the library, looking restlessly and haggard, as though suffering from loss of sleep. ‘ You are ill, darling !’ he exclaimed, as he took her hand, and would have folded her in his embrace as usual. But she drew back, and swallowing down a sob, she said, ‘ Mr Gordon, read that, and tell me what it means !’ And she handed him a letter. It was written in a cramped hand, and said — * Dear Madam ;

‘lt has accidentally come to my knowledge that you are engaged to be married to the Rev Theo Gordon, formerly of this city; and before you do so foolish a thing as to unite yourself for life to so fickle a being, I deem it my duty to lay before you the following facts : —lt is now two years since the rev gentleman left Edinburgh. At that time he was the accepted lover of a young lady of great beauty in this city. Since he left, no word has she received from him, and her once fair, rosy face is now thin and colorless, and she is like a shadow of her former self. Mr Gordon has been the cause of this; and can you trust your interests to such a heartless person ? Be warned in time, young lady, by a ‘ True Well wisher.’ Annie watched him as he read, and noted the livid look which overspread his features as he read on. When he had read it once, he turned it over and read it again, as if scarcely crediting the correctness of his vision. Presently his features resumed their ordinary appearance, and a look of relief passed across them. The thing he feared had come, and he rose manfully to meet it; and putting the letter carefully away, he said, ‘ Annie, darling, do not let this part us. Come here, dear ’ —and he took her unresisting hand, and drew her to a sofa —‘ and I will explain all. ‘ When I was in Edinburgh there was a family there who, showed me great kindness. This family consisted of a Miss Bannatyne and her niece, a young girl of great beauty, as your correspondent says, and very accomplished. I was at that time a curate, and as I lived in lodgings, was delighted to avail myself of Miss Bannatyne’s repeated invitations that J should spend as much of my leisure as possible at her house. She was a kind, motherly woman, and it always did me good to go there. When I first went, Maggie was at school in the city, and I used to help her with her lessons of an evening, and at last began to teach her what I knew of Greek and Hebrew.

‘ She was a clever child, and, as yop may guess, I soon got fond of her, add was delighted by the. rapid progress my pupil made. I was a bit of a draughtsman, too, in those days, and we used to go out sketching together.

*lt was not wise; but you see how it all happened; and when Maggie left school I was still her chief companion, and at last one day, when I had been putting a sketch of her in the foreground of one of my land scapes, I fell in love with her. I suppose I had done so before, but I did not know it. I told her what had happened. She did not appear to realise it. She seemed 111 eased, too; but, after thinking awhile, she said—l remember it so well—“ No, Theo; it is very good of you, but I don’t know if it is the right kind of love. I don’t think you are acquainted with many young ladies, and I only know you and would rather wait. ” ‘ I protested, of course; and the result was that a partial engagement was entered into between ns—Maggie always stipu lating that I was free at any moment if I changed my mind. Things went on so for a year and then this living was presented to me by my uncle. I left Edinburgh with sorrow, for it had many ties for me—the strongest, my liking for Maggie. For some time after I came we kept up a constant correspondence; but when I had got to know you I found that Maggie had been right after all and at length I wrote and told her so, ‘ I never heard again. I wrote, begging her to give me my release, or recall me—but in vain; and deeming her silence a proof that she gave her unwilling consent, or, in other words, that she had taken umbrage at my faithlessness and did not wish to hold any further communication with so fiickle a lover, I threw myself at your feet, and —’ Here he clasped the fair head close to his breast and smoothed the golden locks caressingly. Annie was silent; but she suffered the caress, and he continued, * I feel convinced, darling, that this is a trumped-up story and I want you not to believe it till we have heard more. Will you trust me, dearest ?’ ‘Yes,’ said she, lifting her head from its resting-place ‘ I will, Theo.’ ‘ Thank you a thousand times for not casting me off unheard. I have a friend in Edinburgh to whom I wrote a few days ago, asking him to spend next Christmas here. I will communicate again and beg him to find out the truth. He is a good fellow and will do his best, I know. Who the writer of the anonymous letter is I can’t divine ; but it is some mischief-maker, without question. ’

Very few hours passed before Theodore despatched his letter of inquiry to his old friend, Peter Balgleish; and three days after he received the following reply—

‘ Dear Gordon : ‘ I was immensely pleased to hear from you last week, for I feared you had quite forgotten your old friend. I was mistaken, it seems ; and, as I find there has been a lady in the way, I can forgive you, as I, too, am meditating matrimony. ‘To ease your mind at once, let me say that your old pupil, Maggie Bannatyne, is the dear creature who has promised to take me for better or worse. I have shown your epistle to her, and she bids me say that she never received the two letters to which you refer relating to your desire to withdraw from your partial engagement, but that she judged, from your twelve months’ silence, that all was over between you. She joins with me in heartiest wishes for the happiness of yourself and your intended bride, and we trust you will pay us a visit when we set up housekeeping. ‘ And now for your invitation, old fellow. I would have been delighted to accept it, but Maggie and I have fixed Christmas for our wedding, so it is impossible. We cannot conceive who is the author of that very spiteful letter, but Maggie guesses that it was an emanation from the pen of a lady, who called on them lately, named Miss Issott; though why she should wish to injure you in Miss Belvoir’s eyes is more than she can tell. She says the old lady had a face like that of Reynard in the History of the Tower of London, and looked equal to any plotting whatever. She seemed to know you; so, doubtless, you will be a better judge of her motives for perpetrating such a scurvy trick, if, indeed, she was the author thereof. ‘ Wishing you all joy, we remain, ‘ Your very affectionate friends, * Peter and Maggie. ’ We need hardly inform our readers that, after this, Theodore and Annie became more devoted to each other than ever; and, ere three months had passed, they were man and wife. Miss Issott remained some time in Edinburgh, but refused all Mrs Lester’s invitations that she should make Hazlegrove her resting-place on her way back to Paris. ‘No,’she said to herself, ‘my game has failed, and I certainly will not go back to be laughed at by that silly little innocent Annie Belvoir.’ The Dalgleish family and the Gordons are great friends, and visit annually with each other; and even Miss Bannatyne agrees that ‘ All’s Avell that ends well. ’ TINY’S LOVERS. Chapter I. ‘ Now, now ; be quiet a minute, child, and listen to me. Ah ! hff mind ! Move that cushion just a little more. No, no; the other way. Oh, hot lead and burning stones ! Confound this gout ! ’ * Is that easier now, uncle ? ’ 5 No; it isn't easier now; you know it isn’t. Eider cushions, indeed ! Stuffed with broken glass and nutshells, I believe. There; do stand out of the light, child; you’re always standing in the light. No, no ; now you’re behind me, and I can’t see you; and I know you laugh at me, when I can’t see you.’ ‘ Now, uncle, dear, that is cruel; that hurts me worse than the gout does you, 1 know. ’ This in a broken voice.

‘ Ah ! don’t touch me; don’t come near me ; you’ll kill me ! Mind my leg ! ’ For there was something like a sob, and a pair of soft round arms were thrown round the tierce-looking old gentleman’s neck, while a moist cheek was laid against his forehead, as he sat back in a great leathern easy chair, with one leg wrapped, bandaged, and cushioned, resting upon another. ‘ Ha ! ’ said the old gentleman, with a sigh of satisfaction, ‘ that’s nicer, Tiny, What plump little arms you’ve got, and what soft cheeks. They’re wet too,’ he continued, drawing the, little maiden closer to him, and tenderly kissing her. ‘ Iv’e made you cry .again, and I’m always making you cry, ’ ‘No, no, uncle, darling.’ ‘ But I am, my dear*. I believe there never was such an old brute of an uncle since Noah and his family cam® out of the

ark, and made all the future uncles and aunts to fill the world.’ ‘0 don’t, uncle.’ * But I am a brute, my pretty one, and I say all sorts of cruel things to you when I am in agony with that leg of mine.’ ‘ And does it hurt so very much, uncle ? ’ ‘ Hurt 1 ’ exclaimed the old man, ‘ so very much ? ’ ‘I mean,’ faltered the girl, ‘is it so verjmuch worse than toothache 1 ’ ‘ Worse than ten thousand toothaches made boiling hot; worse than the quintessence of ticdoloureux I Ugh 1 just move that top cushion, Tiny ; it feels like lead.’ ‘ Why, uncle, darling, it’s as light as down. ’ "‘ Yes, yes; I daresay it is, but when those twinges come Hff ! there they are again. Send for one of the keepers, child, or the bailiff, so that I can have something to swear at.’ ‘ Bear uncle !’ The young girl went to his side again, took his head upon her shoulder, leaned her cheek against his hot forehead, and gently rocked it to and fro. ‘ Is it so very bad now, dear V ‘ Just like a leg of mutton being roasted before a slow fire without any one to give it a baste,’ groaned the old man. ‘There, do go away, child, or I shall begin to say cruel things to you again, and be sorry for it after. ’ ‘Bo I laugh at you whon you are in pain, unky ?’ ‘ No, no, no, no !’ ‘ You are sure V * I’m sure you love your old uncle dearly ; but go away; I feel as if I should say all sorts of things—as if I were going to swear horribly.’ ‘You wouldn’t swear before me, uncle,’ said the girl gently. ‘ Shouldn’t I, darling ?’ said the old man. ‘ No, uncle; and you may say all the cruel things yon like, if it does you good; I won’t mind,’ ‘ But I don’t want to, child. Send for one of the keepers—Simpson ; I want to bully that scoundrel.’ ‘ No, uncle; I won’t send for him, now.’ * And why not ?’ ‘ Because all the men respect you so, and say you’re such a good master; and I shouldn’t like to hear you say things that you would be sorry for afterwards; because, then you would go and apologise.’ ‘ That I wouldn’t,’ cried the old man, grinning with pain. ‘ O yes, you would, uncle, dear ; the same as you did to Benny, when you called him a —said he didn’ speak the truth,’ ‘ Master, indeed ! ’ grumbled the old gentleman ; ‘ master, grand master ! Why, I’m not the master; you’re the real master of the place, you puss; and a nice lot of trouble you give me. I was going to speak about it when those pains came on, and —and you wouldn’t listen to me. Where’s Lonsdale ? ’ ‘ln the billiard-room, I think, uncle, with Captain Barry.’ ‘ And where’s Harry Lawler ? ’ ‘ In the library. ’ ‘ Ugh ! ’ grunted the old man, holding his young niece to him; ‘ nice state of things to come to. Here have I been a careful, saving, hard-working sailor all my life, and I buy this place, to end my days in peace, and I’m worried like this. ’ ‘ Bear uncle ! ’ said the girl softly, as she Stroked his cheek and kissed him. ‘ You’re laughing at me then.’ ‘ Just a little, uncle; but only at the fancied pains, not the real. ’ ‘ Oh, go it; laugh at my gout too, if you like ! Wouldn’t get married, I wouldn’t, but lived a bachelor ’ ‘ 0 uncle, I know all the story well—about how you loved mamma, and would have married her.’ ‘ Eh, what ? Why, who told you that ? ’ ‘ Mamma herself,; and about how nobly you behaved ’ * Hold your tongue, puss ! ’ * When she found she loved another, and that it was your own brother. ’ ‘ Hold your There, there ! I—l Oh, this confounded gout again I I won’t be contradicted, child ; I say I wanted to be a bachelor, and—and I came home to end my days in peace, and—and, as if just out of spite, your father and mother must go and die, and leave you on my hands 1 ’ ‘ And should you have liked me to die too, to be out of your way, uncle ? ’ sinking down at the side of his chair, with her arms round him.

‘ Now, now, he whimpered, ‘ That’s — that’s —very cruel of you. To talk to me like that —a poor, broken old man, with nobody else left to love 1 ’ ‘ But you said I was a great trouble to you, uncle.’ ‘And so you are, my darling—a very—very great deal of trouble ; but 1 don’t mind. Tiny, my pretty one,’ he said, fondling her ; ‘you’re very hard on poor old uncle : it’s about the only indulgence I give myself, a good grumble, and you cut me very short.’ She kissed him affectionately and fetched the newspaper to read to him. No, no; not now,’ he said: ‘ I want to talk to you.’ I’m bothered about you, child.’ ‘ Bothered, uncle ? ’ ‘ Yes, because —because There, hang it! the Ugh ! those twinges ! Better now. Because the men want to marry you, my dear,’ ‘Uncle!’ * Well, you know they do. Lonsdale’s been asking my permission to address you, and I told him he might, though I didn’t approve of it. ’ ‘ But, uncle !’ ‘ And then Harry Lawler must come and make the same petition. ’ ‘ 0 uncle!’ ‘Yes; O uncle indeed. And then there’s that tali parson with the frock coat down to his heels, who is always wanting you to go visiting he means to make you the Rev Mrs Fanshawe. And there’s Hunting Jones, he’s taken too. It’s too bad, my dear, too bad,” ‘ But, uncle, darling, I can’t help it.’ ‘ Can’t help it, you puss *’ cried the old man indignantly. ‘ How _ dare you be so pretty, and look so enticing, you wicked little man-trap, you !’ (To he continued.'