LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 855, 21 March 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

ELLEN CAVANAGH. A Tale of Three Stories. CHAPTER 11. ( Continued) It was strange, sir, wasn’t it ? but I didn’t think much of it then. I asked him if he was hurt, but he said ‘No.’ We lifted the men inside the room, and the woman ran to one of them and knelt down by his side. I heard her say to him in a whisper, ‘ He’s come at last!’ I hadn’t any time to think then, sir. Your uncle thanked me for saving his life, as he said, but I’m sure 1 had as much to thank him for. And so the inspector’s story ended. When I heard it through was I any wiser than before ? No; not a whit. The mystery had deepened. It now lay not only with the woman who had escaped punishment, whom my uncle had said was to be ‘ saved at any cost,’ but with the man as well At least, whatever the secret connected with her, he was cognisant of it, and he was a convict. What the inspector had told me deter mined me to go that evening to my uncle if he did not seek me, and ask some particulars. I would tell him what I had heard, what I feared for him. I would hope for the best. My uncle did not come for me, and so before dinner time I went to his hotel. I was known there, and I asked for him. The answer was that he had left for the country that afternoon. He had left a message for me that I was to remain in town until 1 heard from him. He would write soon.

Days afterwards his letter came, ’twas thus :

Chapter 111. MY UNCLE’S STORY.

My dear boy,—For to me you are a 3 my own boy, and my feelings towards you are as towards a son. The memories of the past are strong upon me, and the fancies ot ‘what might have been ’ are crowding to my mind. It is past midnight, and I am sitting by the window of the room that, you will remember, looks out on to the forest behind the house here. The moon is very bright and pours its silver brilliance down into the gray lir-trees, making among them, or so it seems to me, the forms of those who once with me peopled the dead past. At least I hoped it was dead - buried it could never be. You will not wonder that on such a night olden memories should be stirred for an old man who is near the end of the earthly journey. You will not wonder that I, in a little more serious mood than usual—you always knew me light-hearted—should choose such a time to fulfd my promise of writing to you. 1 am calmer now than when you saw me last, and my mind is satisfied, for I have subdued my nature to do that thing which Heaven’s justice directs. My heart would have had it so if Nature could have forgiven wholly, but lam only as other men. Now it seems to me that the beauty of this night is doubled, and a promise only of that calm brightness which shall be hereafter. It is right you should know my life’s story, for it may fall to your lot to one day defend my name against those who shall attack it when I am in the grave. I say ‘ shall attack it,’ for I have upon me a prescience, as a forewarning, of what 'may be. In this view I write my history to you, and should what I fe ir ever come to pass this my writing will be a witness for me. I go back to the days before you were out of your nursery, when I, as you do now, stood facing the world with the hopes of life lefore me. Not, however, like you, with a profession to support me in making life a pleasure. Work is the pleasure of life, and without it all is dullness. My work consisted in doing what my father had done before me—acting as a country squire should act, attending to the interests of his tenants, and using from that which was given to him opportunities for lightening the burden of others. But such duties, though well attended to, could not, with a man of energy, take the place of what the world calls work. To me it was an inactive life. My nature demanded something to, occupy itself upon, something which should rouse my energies aud lead me among men. Yet I knew nothing of life beyond my Suffolk home, aud so I felt myself shut out from the arena of humanity. I resolved at last to travel, with a view of occupying my time, storing my mind with knowledge of men and things, aud eventually of forming au idea of my own powers with a view to some ambition. Money, of course, I did not lack, as you know. With the exception of a sum of £BO,OOO, one half my father’s personal estate, I inherited all. I took the lands, the Hall, the family heirlooms, and half the money. The other half went to my brother.

You did not kuowl had a brother, you say? Yet you have seen him, but never knew him. He was not like me, and was quick, impetuous, proud. Yet we generally agreed very well; and after our father died we brothers lived together at the Hall, as of old. My home—though mine by inheritance —was his, and never once did I think otherwise.

Well, I travelled, and went, as everybody does, from London to Paris, from Paris through Switzerland to Italy, and on to Pome. I had consumed some six months of the year by the time I reached the Eternal City, and it was going in,i;o October Rome was just filled up, people arriving there for the winter, and the streets were very gay. It was while loitering through Italy that I found myself voyaging with a party of three, two ladies and a gentleman; cue lady young, the other old enough to be her mother. The gentleman was beyond the middle age, and I at first took him for the young lady’s father. I afterwards learned that ha was her lover.

1 spoke then no language but my own, and when I found that they were English I was much pleased to be cf their party. I frequently was so, though without ray seeking them or they appearing to seek me. My society was principally that of the two hulies, and certainly the gentleman (1 forget his name) appeared anything but pleased when he found we travelled the same route, The ladies were aunt and neice ; ihe latter being Miss Cavanagh, an orphan, and a ward of the aunt’s.

Wo arrived at Rome together, and though I had purposed being back in England in my homo for the Christmas time, December found me still in Rome, postponing my de parture from week to week. 1 need scarcely tell yon, for you will have guessed, that I was in love. I fancy now

that I see you smiling at the thought of the old man being in love. Yet why? It is an experience that every man, without exception, has undergone, in a great or less degree, at some period of bis life. Whatever he may seem to you or show to the world, there is no man living but has some secret connected with the tender passion. My secret I tell you now, not to weary you with the oft-told tale, but because it is a duty, and Justice says, ‘ Do it.’

Before six weeks of the time I was in their company had passed, I knew that I had lost all heart in the purpose of my journey. All my intentions of finding an ambition in life were gone, flown to the winds; and the ambition to make Miss Cavanagh. my wife had taken its place. We had gone from place to place together, had done the night journeys in the diligence through the Swiss villages, had yachted on the Bay of Naples, and more than once I had been on the point of declaring myself, when some powerful impulse controlled me, and seemed to keep back my words. Cue night I had a dream, in which she and I were the only actors. I saw her then, looking—as she always to my thinking did look - very beautiful, in a saloon, where crowds of titled persons flocked to look upon her, to follow and to hang upon her footsteps. I was with her, surrounded by the magnificence which was hers ; and this, I dreamed, was happiness. It then seemed to mo that she was in a foreign land, fled from her home, from me and mine; and at me men who had been my professed friends pointed in scorn. Was it prophetic? I was not superstitious, and laughed at the bare notion of such a dramatic absurdity. Yet it recurred; when the passion of my love would have spoken out, the words upon my tongue seemed held back. We had been two months in Borne when one evening, standing at the window of my apartment in the hotel, I heard voices on the balcony outside. I knew that Miss Cavanagh and her aunt were lodged on the same floor, and the gentleman above. I did not think of overhearing secrets, and so stood still. But the voices I heard came nearer as the speakers promenaded the balcony, and they were English. I heard my own name pronounced, and at once I woke to what was being said.

The speakers were a man and a woman, and I recognised them by their voices to be the aunt and the gentleman travelling with Miss Cavanagh, ‘ I tell you, madam, it is my intention to start for home to-morrow,’ he said. * I’ll not stay another day in this hole. I’ve wasted my time -my money I won’t speak of—and—and sacrificed my personal comfort I have acted in every respect up to your suggestion, like a fool, but find I’m no nearer attaining my wishes than when I started. I leave here to-morrow, madam, and yon may then pursue your game with that booby boy as long as you like. ’ ‘ My dear sir,’ I heard the aunt reply, ‘ consider how much we are under your protection. You cannot leave us here, and wc could not be ready. I have only this evening had a long talk with my neice, and pressed your claims upon her gratitude aud love quite strongly. I found her quite disposed to listen ’ ‘She won’t listen to me,’he interrupted sharply. ‘ She would if you hadn’t tacked that boy on to your tail.’

turned then at this coarseness, and at once assumed a high tone. It was evident she knew how to manage him ; for, although I lost some words, I found that he was alarmed, and was mumbling an apology. I presume it was accepted; for the next I heard w'as,

£ Well, I don't mind stopping here two days longer—not an hour later mind; and if it is done in that time I add another thousand to what I promised.’ This maddened me, and I forgot the dream. J saw that the aunt was trying to lead the neice to consent to marry the man, who was rich, and I tried to think what the contract between them was which I endangered. The next night, mid the ruins of the Coliseum, I cam© upon Miss Cavanagh alone. It was auoh a night as this is ; the light of the broad full moon falling in a silver glory on the earth. She sat full in the moonlight on some broken steps, and she looked to me like a statue of the sad Madonna. Her hair was loose and wavy ; her hat lay on the ground by her side ; and she looked, as she was, very beautifvd.

You soe I have not forgotten some of the feelings of emotion I felt in the days when the passion of youth painted everything in bright colors. It is such passion which, yielded to unthinkingly, spoils the pleasures of after life, It is such a passion which 1 am now expiating. She affected no surprise at seeing me; she was above the artifice. But she said lightly, ‘ Young people like you and me can enjoy this beautiful night, where the old, like my aunt, only moralise. Youth does not moralise ; it only builds castles in the air, and hopes.’ We talked then—l talked rather, and she listened ; and soon I was telling her of the castle I had built, and the hope which had grown for me. Was my castle built in the air, or was my hope to be a delusion ? I asked her. In reply she told me a story. She had been left an orphan by the death of her father, and where she had believed herself a,u heiress was found to be poor. She was then taken to live with her aunt, and soon afterwards was asked to wed the gentleman travelling with them. She refused, although he was very rich, and she had no other suitor. Her aunt was not wealthy, and pressed her to consent. The journey' to Baris and Home was proposed; and when they started she found that her would-be lover was of the party, and that he paid all the expense. This had been her persecution throughout, although he was kind in his attentions to her. Recently she had ascertained that he had promised her aunt a large sum of money if the marriage was arranged through her agency.

At once the recollection of what I Lad beard— the promise to the aunt of an, additional thousand—occurred to me, and 1 saw then the nature of the contract which I endangered. 1 saw that the, girl was being bartered by the aunt; and again I pressed my suit.

C I do nob believe/ she replied, * that I have in me the capacity to love any man. It maybe that my nature is too cold. If so, pity me for the sorrow which came to my young life. It may be that 1 have never seen the man to whom I should give my heart. My regard—l cannot say it is love, as, to my mind, man should receive affection

—my regard you have. If you can take me, knowing this, I give myself to you, and trust to make you an honorable wife.

I do her this justice, even to myself, that she did not give herself to me with a false profession of the holy promise upon her lips. !n my selfishness I tooK her, and trusted to ime to change her regard into h>ve. I was wrong. To-night I condemn myself. What right had I to take advantage of her weariness of life to bind her to me ? There was all the world before her. IS'one. If conscience be expiation, that error has been atoned long since. Two later we were married by a Catholic priest. I feared to run the risk of absence from her; for then, I thought, she might change. It was my intention immediately after the ceremony to start for England, leaving my bride to follow with her aunt, so as to reach her home in Ireland in a month’s time. From Ireland I proposed, having completed the arrangements for receiving my wife, to meet her and conduct her to her future home.

Her aunt stood by the side of my beautiful bride in the Catholic church, and we three then dined quietly together. Hirectly the dinner was over I started from Home—alone.

(To l>econtinued.)