LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 895, 8 May 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

ON THE WEST TIER. A Tale in Two Chapters. ( Concluded.') ‘I know you have, old fellow,’ said Cyril, gently. ‘And if I am only given time—they say the poor old Governor can’t last more than a couple of years —I can clear everything afterwards, and begin afresh. Zitelle will pass muster well enough if she’s not blown upon; and she’s been a brick —I will sav it for her —since we’ve been married. Sometimes, ’pon my word, I dont’t know how she lives on so little ; and it would go rather hard on her if I were smashed now. Granger, I’ve laughed at you sometimes and called you a ‘stick,’ and too * churchy ;’ but, on my soul, when I look at that poor old man, who the doctors say might be carried off by an hour’s excitement or worry, and those two women looking to me as their one thing on earth, I envy you. I do indeed. Will you do this for me? I wouldn’t ask yon if it could hurt you, or if I’d any other resource : or even if Ethel hadn’t taken it into her own head ; but you’re almost a stranger to her, after all. She didn’t even want me to give any explanation, said your affairs were nothing to her (and of course they’re not, you khow); and seemed quite in a hurry to get aw y to something else ; while if it were me— Well, I’ll just tell you, only don’t laugh at it. She took me round the neck just as I was turning away and said : ‘Oh ! George, thank God, it isn’t you. You are all the world to me. What should I do if you were different from what you are!’ Granger, just guess how I felt as I thought—lf she knew !’ ‘ She need not do so,’ said Cyril, gravely. * I told you I owed you my life. If I can pay the debt this way, George, it is done. There! don’t say anything. I will leave Brighton to-morrow. ‘ No need for that, old fellow,’ snd Garsford, huskily. * You need only hold your tongue, I’ll bind over Ethel not to breathe a word of it to any one ; and you may be sure she would never allude to it to you.’ ‘I am sure of it; but all the same, it will be better for me to go. I don’t care about staying, and —I think I’ll put up my things now, and turn in early.’ He rose as he spoke. It was a hint for the Captain to go, and the latter took it. ‘ X am so awfully grateful to you, Cyril,’ he said, holding out his hand. You cannot realise what you’ve saved me from. I never felt nearer putting a bullet in my head than an hour ago. ‘1 am glad I did then,’ said Cyril, simply. ‘Goodnight, George, I suppose if- if circumstances were to make it important to me, you wouldn’t mind the truth being known after your father’s death ? ’ ‘Of course not. But you needn't be afraid. It will never get beyond Ethel; and so long as it’s not me she doesn’t care, and will forget the whole incident in a week.’ ‘Yes? Well—l suppose so. Good-night again, Garsford. You will bid them ‘goodbye ’ for me, as I shall not see them again.’ And then Garsford took himself off finally, with a last wring of the hand and volley of thanks, and left his friend to his packing and slumbers.

I doubt whether either took up much of the remaining hours of that summer’s night. He had said that he considered his life owed. Now he had paid it away. All the hope and love and passion, all the tender happiness and exquisite delights to which two hours back he had been looking forward so closely that they seemed almost within his very hand—where were they at present ? Gone; dead as last year’s wheat; faded away as utterly as though they had never been. Garsford had saved his life, and had asked this in retu n. He was his friend and he loved him. It never occurred to him for a moment that he might have let him sink and swum on himself, all the more easily for his friend’s wreck, to be a new guardian, protector, and hero to I- the], a son and consolation to the old man. Had any one even suggested such a coupe to him he would hav" been for knocking him down as a sort of ‘muscul-rly Christian’ version of the text, ‘ Is thy servant a dog, that he should do this thing ? ’ No, it was inevitable. Ethel’s own words, ‘ Who that was worth anything would think of himself !’ would have been a contirmatien of his purpose had any been needed. None was, however ; and yet—and yet—Oh ! God, it was very hard ! ‘ My darling I My darling ! ’ he kept saying to himself, as he sat with his face hidden in his folded arms on the tabic. ‘ My beauti Eul, fair, innocent darling I Oh ! Heavens, how I loved you ! apd I believe you knew it That look in your pure sweet face . . . [ believe you did ; and if so, what must you think of me ! My God, shall I never see you again, and tell you bow it was—never!’ And then the thought of what Garsford had

said of his father’s frail tenure on life recurred to him, and was dismissed with a slight shiver. It seemed mean to calcultto on the chances of a poor old man’s death ; and yet it and another idea, still more angrily repulsed, that the truth might even come out by |some other means and he he cleared, would return to him and perhaps nerved him, though all unconsciously, t > the wretched little practical details of packing settling his bill, and making a poor attempt at swallowing some breakfast before starting in the morning. It is often the merciful inability to realise the irrevocableness of our loss in the first hours of an overwhelming grief which enables us to bear it even as we do. Cyril Granger was as brave a soldier as any in the army list. His friends were indeed fond of boasting of a medal won by him when, as a mere boy with only ten men behind him, he attacked and carried by a stockade defended by ne irly live times as many well-armed natives in the Abyssinian war ; but the courage needful for this was as a drop of water beside the mighty ocean compared with that requisite for passing the hotel where she lodged, and the window behind which he could fancy her sleeping, without even delaying for the too-penlous consolation of a last farewell, —a last look into those sweet, brown eyes, in whose liquid depths he had almost fancied, for one mad moment on the previous evening, that he could read an answer to the love shining in and irradiating his own.

Had he only turned his fixed, despairing gaze from the building where she lodged to a solitary female figure seated on one of the benches overlooking the sea; had he only known that those dear eyes, swollen with weeping, and glazed with sleeplessness, were even then gazing dreamily over the turb d, tumbling waves, to which she had come out to escape from her own thoughts ; had he only guessed at the bitter grief and more bitter disappointment of that young heart, in it first betrayal, at the agony of girlish shame for the love and worship so freely wasted on a man who was married already - a man so utterly unworthy as to have dared to insult her by an affection which had almost won from her a betrayal of her own secret—he had nevergone ; but her back was turned to him ; and he almost i rushed against her while his eyes were gazing in the opposite direction without either of them ever thinking how near, for one moment, they had come on that first bitter morning of their sundered lives. Ten minutes later and he was in the train en route for Loudon.

Ten weeks later, he had got his promotion, and was half way to India with his new regiment; and so it came to pass that Ethel, glancing down the first column of the TLies one morning-Ethel sadly paler and more heavy eyed than she had been wont to look befo e that fatal visit to Brighton, came upon the following advertisement : ‘On the sth instant, at Aden, on board H. M. troop ship Abercrombie, Cyril Vincent Grangee, Captain in H.M. —th Rifles, of typhus fever caught in attendance on some of his men.’

Only one of the thousand and one un finished romances blown into life like the salt sea spray on the sunny planking of the West Pier, broken like the waves in bubbles upon the Brighton beach 1 Only one of the myriad “ might-have beens ” which swell the spoilt chances and wasted lives of this world’s history ! Only a girl’s faith shaken and a true love foiled : a man’s life freely given and nobly spent; and a woman who would have counted it as shame to drop a tear upon his grave ! THE JILT. [BY CHARLES READE.] Part I. It was a summer afternoon ; the sun shone mellow upon the south sands |of Tenby; the clear blue water sparkled to the horizon, and each ripple, as it came ashore broke into diamonds. This amber sand, broad, bold, and smooth, as the turf at Lord’s—and, indeed wickets are often pitched on it has been called ‘ Nature’s finest promenade ;’ yet, owing to the attraction of a flower show, it was now paraded by a single figure ; a tall straight, well-built young man, rather ruddy but tanned and bronzed by weather ; shaved smooth as an egg, and his collar, his tie, and all his dress, very neat and precise ; he held a deck-glass, and turned every ten yards, though he had a mile to promenade. These signs denoted a good seaman. Yet his glass swept the land more than the water, and that is not like a sailor.

This incongruity, however, was soon explained, and justified. There hove in sight a craft as attractive to every true tar, f rom an admiral of the red to the boatswain’s mate, as any cutter, schooner, brig, barque, or ship; and bore down on him, with colours flying alow and aloft. Lieutenant Greaves made all sail towards her, for it was Ellen Ap llice, the loveliest girl in Wales, He met her, with glowing cheeks, and sparkling eyes, and thanked her warmly for coming, ‘ Indeed you may,’ said she: ‘ when I promised, I forgot the flowershow. ’

‘ Dear me,’ said he, what a pity ! I would not have asked you.’ ‘ Oh,' said she, ‘ never mind ; I shall not break my f heart; but it seems so odd you wanting me to come out here, when you are always welcome at our houso, and papa so fond of you.’ Lieutenant Greaves endeavoured to explain. ‘ Why, you see, Miss Ap Rice, I’m expecting my sailing orders down, and before I go, I want and the sight of the sea gives one courage. ’ ‘ Not always ; it gave me a lit of terror the last time I was on it.’

‘ Ay, but you are not a sailor; it gives mo courage to say more than I dare in your own house ; you so beautiful, so accomplished, so admired, I am afraid you will never consent to throw yourself away upon a seaman.’ Ellen arched her brows * What are you saying, Mr. Greaves ? Why, it is known all over Tenby that I renounce the military, and have vowed to be a sailor’s bride.’

By this it seems there were only two learned professions recognised by the young ladiesat Tenby. ‘Ay, ay,’ said Greaves, ‘an admiral, or that sort of thing.’ ‘ Well, said the young lady, ‘ of course he would have to be an admiral; eventually. But they cannot be born admirals ’ at this *tage of the conversation she proferednot to look like Lieutenant Grenves, R.N., in the t'ace ; so she wrote pothooks and hangers on the sand, with her parasol, so carefully, that you would have sworn they must be words of deepest import. ‘ From a lieutenant to an admiral is a long way,’said Greaves, sadly.

‘Yes,’ said she, archly, ‘it is as far as from Tenby to Valparaiso ; where my cousin Dick sailed tn, last year—such a handsome fe low—and there’s Cape Horn to weather. But a good deal depends on courage, and perseverance. In uttering this last remark she turned her eye askaunt a moment, and a flash shot out of it, that lighted the sailor’s bonfire in a moment. ‘ Oh, Miss Ap Eice do 1 understand you ? Con Ibe so fortunate ? if courage, perseverance, and devotion, can win you, no other man shall ever—you must have seen I love you. ’ * It would be odd if I had not,’ said Ellen, blushing a little, and smiling slily. * Why, all Tenby has seen it. You don’t hide it under a bushel.’

The young man turned red. * Then I deserve a round dozen at the gangway, for being so indelicate.’ ‘No, no,’ said the young Welshwoman generously, ‘ Why do I prefer sailors ? Because they are so frank, and open, and artless, and brave. Why, Mr Greaves, don’t you be stupid ; your open admiration is a compliment to any girl; and I am proud of it, of course,’ said she, gently. ‘ God bless you ! ’ cried the young man. ‘ Now, I wish we were at home, that I might go down on my knees to you, without making you the town-talk. Sweet, lovely, darling Ellen ; will you try and love me ? ’ ‘ Humph ? you, should I be here ? ’ ‘ Ay, but I am asking for more,’ said Greaves : ‘ for your affection, and your promise to wait for me till I am more than a lieutenant. I dare not ask for your hand till I am a post-captain at least. Ellen, sweet Ellen, may I put this on your dear finger ? ’ ‘ Why, it is a ring. No. What for ? ’ * Let me put it on, and then I’ll tell you.’ ‘ I declare, if he had not got it ready on purpose,’ said she, laughing, and was so extremely amused, that she quite forgot to resist, and he whipped it on in a trice. It was no sooner on, than she pulled a grave face ; and demanded an explanation of this singular conduct. ‘ It means we are engaged,’ said he, joyfully, and flung his cap into the air a great height, and caught it.’ ‘ A trap ! ’ screamed she. ‘ Take it off, this instant.’

‘ Must I ? ’ said he, sadly. ‘Of course you must.’ And she crooked her finger, instead of straightening it. ‘ It won’t come off,’ said he, with more cunning than one would have expected. *No more it will. Well, I must have my finger amputated, the moment I get home. But, mind, I am not to be caught by such artifices. You must ask papa.’ *So I will,’ cried Greaves, joyfully. Then, upon reflection, he’ll wonder at my impudence.’

* Oh, no,’ said Ellen, demurely, * you know he is Mayor of the town, and has the drollest applications made to him at times, ha ! ha ! ’ * How shall I ever break it to him ? ’ said Greaves. ‘ A lieut-nant 1 ’

‘ Why, a lieutenant is a gentleman ; and are you not rela' ed to one of the First Lords of the Admiralty ? ’ ‘Yes. But he won’t put me over the heads of my betters. All that sort of thing is gone by.’ {To he continued.) POETRY. FARMER JOHN; OR, “THE BEST OP A JOURNEY IS GETTING HOME.” (from the sportsman.) Home from his journey Farmer John Arrived this morning safe and sound. His black coat off, and his old clothes on, “Now I’m myself,” says Farmer John ; And he thinks, “I’ll look around.” Up leaps the dog ; “ Get down, you pup ! Are you so glad you would eat me up ?” The old cow lows at the gate to meet him ; “Well, well, old Bay; Ha, ha, old Gray ! Do you get good feed when I am away ?” “You have not a rib !” says Father John ; ‘ ‘ The cattle are looking round and sleek, The colt is going to be a roan, And a beauty, too ; how he has grown ! We’ll wean the calf next week. ” Says Farmer John, “ When I’ve been off, To call you again about the trough, And watch you, and pet you, while you drink, Is a greater comfort than you can think ! And he pats old Bay, And he slaps old Gray : “Ah, this is the comfort of going away.” “For after all,” says Farmer John, “ The best of a journey is getting home. I’ve seen great sights ; but would I give This spot, and the peaceful life I live, For all their Paris and Rome ? These hills for the city’s stifled air, And big hotels all bustle and glare ; Land all houses, and roads all stones, That deafen our ears and batter our bones ? Would you, old Bay ? Woidd you, old Gray ? That’s what one gets by going away ! “ There money is king,” says Fanner John, ‘ ‘ And fashion is queen ; aud its mighty queer To see how sometimes, while the man. Rakes and scrapes for all he can, The wife spends every year, Enough you would think for a score of wives, To keep them in luxury all their lives ! The town is a perfect Babylon To a quiet chap,” says Farmer John. “You see, old Bay, You see, old Gray, I’m wiser than when I went away. ” “ I’ve found out this,” says Farmer John, ‘ ‘ That happiness is not bought and sold, And clutched in a life of waste and hurry, In nights of pleasure and days of worry : And wealth isn’t all in gold, Mortgage and stocks and ten per cent., But in simple ways and sweet content, Few wants, pure hopes, and noble ends, Home land to till, and a few good friends, Like you, old Bay, And you, old Gray— That’s what I learned by going away. ” And a happy man is Farmer John : Oh, a rich and happy man is he ; He sees the peas and mangolds growing, The corn in tassel, the buckwheat blowing, And fruit on vine and tree ; The large, kinc oxen look their thanks As he rubs their foreheads and strokes their Hanks The doves light round him, and strut and coo. Says Farmer John, “I’ll take you, too, And you, old Bay, , Aud you, old Gray, Next time I travel far away,”