LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 883, 24 April 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A WINTERS TALE.

By B, E. Mclley

" Wonder on till truth makes all things plain." Midsummer Night's Bream, act v. se. I. ( Continued?)

These attempts at cheerfulness deceive her father into thinking her better ; but Arthur Courtenay's eyes are more observant, and he remonstrates with her one day for overtasking her strength. ' I can't always play the invalid ; it is good for me to rouse myself: I must fight against it,' she says petulantly. ' It is best to give in sometimes ; can't you make up your mind to do so for a time ? Be patient till you have strength enough given you to get stronger,' be says ; for he sees that it is not only bodily weakness against which she is battling so persistently, and he thinks of a suggestion that may apply two ways. ' Do youknowhow hard it is, I wonder?'she says, looking at him curiously, and debating in her mind whether he has ever had a trouble of his own, or if his counsel is given as part and parcel of his profession. '1 have never been ill in my life,' he answers ler frankly, 'so perhaps you will think T cannot judge in the matter ; but, like most people, I have had my share of trouble, and 1 always think a certain amount of illness accompanies all heart-sickne s. It must certainly be the most difficult to cure ; therefore, t may be, my advice will have a little weight, as arising from at leas a degree of experionoe ; and to my mind it is easier to bear than to rebel against what God sends.' •Is all trouble of His sending?' Phemie asks doubtfully. 'lt is so difficult to believe it, except—' ' Except of that which seems as if it must ennoble one outright—almost involuntarily, as far as we are concerned,' Arthur Courtenay says, anticipating what she means to say. ' But believe me, there is no trouble, small or great, that * e may not be the better for it if we chose.'

*I will think over what you have said.' Phemie says gravely, and drops the subject, leaving Arthur Courtenay half af aid he has said too much, and betrayed to Phemie that he suspects the tTuth. But he has felt bound to say something to help her. He is filled with a great pity for this girl, who he guesses is in some trouble or difficulty, out of which she has to struggle without aid or comfort openly given. After this half confidence they become very friendly with each other. He does her many little kindnesses : amongst others he brin s her books to read while he and her father are out. and she is left to the care of old Jenifer t who'is apt to wax doleful over herdarling, and takes amelancholy despairing view of her ever getting better, thatsometimes depresses the invalid ; for Phemie, sick and sorry as she is, has not actually wished for death. To the young death must come somewhat suddenly, or it loses its character of the great deliverer. Whea it tarries and it is only after a long weary sickness that the end ma come—the young life reasserts itself, anc\ says ' Let me live.' Th> remembrance., of the so lately lost health and strength is fresh, and has not lost its pleasantness, and the mind shrinks from lingering and suffering, while release may be

afar off. It requires the supernatural, the divine assistance to submit to death then, which is withheld when it is looked upon as merely a means of escaping sorrow, a cowardly evasion of the refiner's fire through which all souls must pass Phemie does not think of 'his: she only ferls how doubly vre'ehed it is to b* weak and ill as well as urihap y : and since she cannot die and lay the burden down at once, she would rather get well, and in a busy life and outside interests forget, or at least blunt, the remembrance of her own troubles, So she follows Arthur Courtenay's counsel, and learn the difficult lesson of patience. As the spring days grow longer and brighter the roses come back to her pale cheeks, and a great load is lifted from the squire's heart; for in the fear of losing his little pale-faced daughter, who has seemed to be slipping away out of life, with the eld days and bitter winds, he has found that she is as dear to him as a son could have been, and Phemie is at last forgiven for being a girl. It is a lovely morning late in May when Dr Ellis pays his last professional visit at Roscorla, and Phemie goes to the gate to see him off; and when he has driven away she turns and saunters up the garden, though the sun is shining down upon her head almost fiercely, and the grass is green beneath her feet nJ on all sides, since spring is late that year. Hawthorns, lilacs, and laburnums are in blossom, scenting the soft warm air. There comes to her vividly the rem mbrauce of that winter day when she an aero s the law in the snow, light of foot and light of h< art ; and the synse of all that she has lost s-inee then strikes her with a fresh pain. She cannot reconcile he self to the knowledge that the honest soul which looked out of Christopher Kennicote's brown eyes must have been a cheat, and his protestations of love a He.

' It is so unlike all I thought he was. and uncle Tom can't believe it either,' she says half aloud, as she takes Colonel Hursle) 's last letter from her pocket and reads it o. r er again. It is an answer to her own letter—written when she had quite given up all hone of things cuning right—telling him of Christopher Kennicote's unaccountable conduct ; saying pitifully in one place, 'What does it all mean ?'and ending with the urgest request that Uncle Tom will not take any notice of it if he writes to Mr Kennieote ; adding in a postscript, 'He knows where to find me. I will not have him sent to me against his will.' Colonel Hursley's indignant surprise soothes he wounded pride; it is a slight comfort to kuow that somoone else has been deceived besides herself, although th< deception remain in all its hatefulness. It is this letter from her uncle that has done her as much good as Dr Ellis's tonics, for it has given her the moral bracing sh< needed. Even now, as she reads it for per haps the twentieth titn*, its tone oi kindly sympathy comforts her. She is just putting it back into its envelope, when th( sight of Arthur Courtenay at the gate give) a turn to her thoughts, bringing them back to the workaday world Half a dozen peoph and things that she wants to ask him about come to her mind, and she goes to meet hin with alacrity: but it is evidently on n< parish affairs that he has come to see her. Ai soon as they are within speaking distance o each "ther he says, 'I was passing, so ] thought I would let you know my siste: Sibyl has come.' ' Oh, I am so glad !' cries Phemie, witl sympathy. She knows that Sibyl i his favourite sister, and that her cominj must be a great pleasure to him; an< Phemie, who possesses that happy knack o identifying herself with her friends' in terests, is pleased too. • Take me back witl you,' she says, starting off in the direotioi of the rectory, which lay only a stone' throw from Roscorla ; ' I want to make he acquaintance at once. The novelty of lady at the rectory is delightful: our las rector was a bachelor, and you are just a bad.'

' -hall I marry to oblige you ?' he asks laughing. • l>o.' says Phemie ; only mind, sh must be very nice.' ' I promise you shrc shall be,' he says ' but for the present you must put up wit Sibyl.'

He speaks jestingly, and Phemie does no for a moment suspect that the one desire c Arthur Courtenay's heart is to see her at th rectory as his wife ; that his earnest hope i that one day he may tell her, not in vair how well he loves her. As yet he kows : would be waste of words, besides causing a inseparable break in their present friendl intercourse that would utterly destroy a hope of his ever gaining any hold upon he hi art. So the the rector bides his time, an contents himself with Phemie's simple ou snoken liking aiid friendship and does n< despair when she counsels him to g< married.

He is thinking over this when Phem: says, ' That must be Miss Courtenay at tl study window She is verv much like yc on a smaller scale ;' and Phemie compan the two faces as she walks in at the gat Both have the same shade of dark hai growing: low over the forehead, the san gray eyes aud well-cut features. Opening the study door, Arthur Courten; says, ' Miss Seaton, my sister Sibyl' Phemie feels a sndden instinctive likii for the grave sweet-faced woman who ris to greet her, which makes her say impi sively, ' I am so glad you have come !' Sibyl is a little disconcerted at t*ds girli candour, but is charmed by the speake nevertheless ; and she answers, smiling, ' Thank you ; that is more than Arth said when I came la*t evening. My gre«;ti was, " I did not expect you for a fortnigni He was quite sorry, I believe.' Arthur laughs at her. 'I would have you if you h brought the Kennicotes with you,' he say * should like to see them very much, must try and run up to Caercombe wh they are there; you were fortunate having the >i as travelling companions all i way from Hedgely.' Phemie turns to him with au abrupt im tuous gesture. 'The Kennicotes !' she cries. 'ls '. Christopher Kennicote gone to Caercnn again ?' An eager excitant look comes into 1 face, and her eyes grow bright with a si denly renewed hope. It is possible that last she is to hear some tidings of hii Wi'l he come on from Caercombe to K corla even now at the ele enth hour ? Arthur Courte ay and his sister exchai dances, with the light of an npfores en velation in them ; but for a minute or t neither of th' m answers her ; then Arthu the first to speak. [Tobe continued.']