LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 948, 9 July 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

LAURA’S LOVE. ( Continued) ‘ I saw her on the bridge from my balcony window yesterday; she was talking with Claude Montrose. She will go again to-day, and he will chance to meet her—of course. ’

Jack turns pale as he listens. * Well, Cod bless her ! whoever wins her. She is worthy of any man’s love. God bless her, I say, even though I lose her.’ And, pulling his hat over his brows, he walks dejectedly away through the open windows. ‘ Ah, well, too ! Will it not be kind, That rest from life, from pleasure and from pain, That rest from bliss we know not when we find, That rest from love which ne’er the end can gain ? Hark, how the tune swells, that erewhile did wane ! Look up, love 1 ah, cling close and never move :

How can I have enough of life and love ?’ Miss Rochester looked after him, knitting her brows. She was Laura’s eldest sister and protector, and shelov< d her very much, and wished for her happiness—only she wanted her to be happy in her own way. And that way would be to marry Jack. Jack was good, and rich, and everything that was eligible ; and not until this Claude Montrose appeared (who was a Scotchman, but had been roared abroad by his Italian mother in all the poetry of Italy) did Miss Rochester doubt but that all would go well. To suffer Laura to drift into an engagement with this beggarly artist, who earned his bread by Ins pencil, would indeed be a cruel mistake.

Down in the fragrant recesses of the river’s ravine, evening’s cool wings are slowly fanning the light away. Dusky shadows wrap themselves about the stalwart trunks of the trees, though the sunshine still lingers on their red and yellow tops. Sometimes the wind coquetishly blows apart the clustering leaves, and shows patches of the blue sky. The river here goes ravening along, snatching at. the alder roots and;‘blue flag flowers. On the bridge that spans it, a gentleman lens with folded arms, and with the air of one who waits the advent of some loitering comrade. Suddenly looking up, his face flushes and brightens gladly. He is a tall, slender, good-looking young man ; not half so strong as Jack Chester, but with a most refined face. Walking quickly to the path, he meets a lady who comes shyly forward.

* How long you have kept me, Laura,’ he says with sweet chiding as he takes her hands, ‘ I thought you were not coming at all.’

‘ Did you ?’ she answers faintly, looking up at him with eyes that have the soft gloom of beautiful purple pansies. ‘Perhaps I ought not to have come, after all,’ she finishes shyly. In answer, he lifts the little white hands he is holding to his lips ; then he points back, with a smile, along the narrow rocky path by which she came to him. It is all strewn with fallen dead leaves.

‘ See !’ he says, *Do you know what they make me think of ? “ The kisses of her feet Along the earth a dying path have made.” Dear dead leaves ? How bright they are. How like the French woman who put rouge on her cheeks to meet Death as a beauty should. ’ Claud Montrose draws Laura’s hand in his arm, and so leads her back to the bridge. ‘ May I tell you,’ he begins eagerly, ‘ that after you left me here yesterday, I thought of you, and nothing but you all night long.’ Laura’s face grows to be more than ever like a summer rose. ‘ Did you ?’ she murmurs again. ‘ And then I pictured you, just as you were in my mind. Here is where you stood under the leaves, a thing of beauty to be preserved for ever. See ! I give it you. He puts a little sketch in water colors into her hand. It is a pretty bit; a girl in an autumn day, standing on a green bank. Red and yellow leaves drift on the short, crisp grass at her feet. She holds a bunch of them dropping from her hands, and they lie along the hem of her green dress, glowing like rubies. Behind her. a priest with a pale, sad face, looks out of a doorway, from the shadow of which she just escapes. It is pretty, but sombre. ‘Do you recognise it?’ Montrose asks eagerly. ‘ Ves ! that is my face, and that is you in the shadow. But why have you made it so sad? The sunshine is still gathered about me, and you are iu the dark.’ ‘ls that not fitting ? ’ the poet answers gently. ‘ls it not fitting that you should have the sunlight, and I the shadow 1 ’ ‘ But I do not like it so,’ Laura protests gravely, and with a blush. * I should like better to give you part of my sunshine, rather than that all the darkness should fall on yc u.’ A look of dreamy pleasure illuminates the poet’s face. ‘lf I wei’e by your side, in the light, darkness would not dare come near me again, he murmurs with sweet flattery. They stand together, looking over the rail into the river’s ravening torrent, as it sweeps along, snatching and snarling. ‘ This is you stood yesterday,’ says Montrose. * The sun streamed through the branches, lighting up your hair ; the leaves drifted down and Jay upon your dress. I remember it as I would a picture iu a church. See what I have written.’ Laura the lines at the bottom of the sketch. They are tinged with a subtle flattery that thrills her through and through. Then a remembrance of Jack Chester’s malicious words comes back to her, bringing a sting through the sweetness of the lines. How many times had the poet written like this - to others ?

* They were very sweet,’ she says, with a sudd n coldness and gravity, ‘very musical! I suppose you write so many of them, now to this fair face, now to that one, that they come very easily. It is always much the same thing over again, is it not?’ Montrose’s face, as he listens, flushed fiery red. A flame of angry light leaps from his eyes. Ho snatches the paper from Laura’s hand, tears it across and across, and then flings it out into the river. ‘ls that what you think, Miss Laura ? Is that all you care for it ? Let it perish then Go 1’

Laura is silent a moment through sheer astonishment. Then she springs forward and grasps his arm. Too late! The river

has got her treasure. She will never see it more ; on and on it floats, and the waves bear it out of sight to the waiting sea. She tun s her passionate, beautiful face upon Montrose. Great tears rise, brimming over her eyes, and drop on her hot flushed cheeks.

‘ Why did you do that ?’ she cries. ‘ You had no i ight; it was mine ; you gave it me. How dared y ou destroy it ?’ He is silent; the moment’s fierce anger spent, he feels a little ashamed of his spleen. Laura bends over the rail, and her tears drip down and fall into the cool, fresh current below. 1 Why did you ! why did you. You had no right ; it was cruel, cruel.’ ‘ I will paint another for you ; I did not think you cared so much for it,’ he says humbly.

* But that will not be this one. You cannot restore this one that you have destroyed —you never can.’ ‘ I will paint it over again ; 1 will make it as like as I can,’ he pleads ; ‘ indeed I will ’

The twilight deepens as they linger the r e ; and they turn away. Montrose stays to look after her as she walks across the lawn upon bidding him good evening. Miss Rochester tells her, chidingly, it is too late ; she must not stay out after sunset again. Time creeps slowly on after that. One by one the days slip by, one by one the leaw s of autumn fall and make a part of that which has been, but will never be again. Laura is much alone. Her admirers do not trouble her ; even Jack does not, the ever faithful, And Claude Montrose, where is he ? She is beginning to feel neglected and solitary, when one afternoon a servant brings a message to her room, A gentleman was waiting to see her ; and Miss Rochester had gone out. It is Jack, of course ; and Laura hurries down. She sings as she goes ; she wears a wavy, light green dress ; her pale gold hair is pushed from her forehead ; a soft blush is on her cheeks. The visitor is standing within the shadow of the curtain in the dim room as she enters ; but it is Jack, of course. And she likes Jack, in spite of his crotchets.

‘One morn I missed him,’ she begins, with a pretty graciousness, as she came forward with outstretched hands. Then she stops, as he turns around and shows her Claude Nontiose’s pale, poet face. It is not Mr Chester.

‘ Will you pardon me for calling ?’ he says, a little humbly. ‘ I wanted to see you so much, after this long absence.’ ‘ Pardon you !’ I aura stops, with her hands pressed upon her bosom. ‘ See what I have brought you.’ He takes a picture from its hiding-place behind the the curtain and holds it towards her ‘ I have been doing it all these days for you.’ It is the old picture, the one he destroyed that night, but enlarged, elaborated; made more beautiful a thousandfold.

Laura clasps her hands together in ecstatic gratitude. ‘ Oh, how beautiful; how beautiful !’

‘Will you accept it?’ Montrose asks eagerly. Then, holding the hand she stretches out to him, the young poet-painter goes on with feverish impetuosity. ‘Will you let me give all to you, with this ? Art, life—love—everything ! Will you henceforth be my inspiration, as you have been in this ? Will you, Laura V His voice is melody itself as he says this. (To he continued.')

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