LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 949, 10 July 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

LAURA’S LOVE. {Concluded.) Ah! what need to give Laura’s answer ? Petrarch has come. And so poor Jack loses his prize. ‘ Why do you always wear a green dress?’ he asks, as, hours later, they still sit hand in hand together. ‘ I—l—wanted to be like Petrarch’s Laura,’ she falters, with a shame risin D in her cheeks. He breaks out, at this, into *love-like acclamation. ‘My darling !my darling !’ he cries, as he folds her hands in Ins with a laugh that is half a sob. ‘ Were I Petrarch truly, then you should be my Laura, and I would hold no fame so sweet as that of winning you.’ And he takes his first kiss from her lips before tearing himself away; just escaping the meeting with Miss Rochester, who had been making a long afternoon of visits. When Miss Rochester sees the picture hanging in Laura’s room, she frowns with irriated surprise and disappointment; but she chose to treat it mockingly. * How many times do you suppose he has painted nt her faces as fair ancl silly as yours?’ she says, with cruel emphasis. ‘How many other maidens has he written verses to, before you ?’ • Not one,’ Laura retorts bravely. ‘Not one. Prove that he has if you can, Ann. I should hate him if he had,’ she adds with a burst of tears.

But .Ann Rochester, Jack’s stanch friend and supporter, sets hen-elf to see if she cannot find proofs of Petrarch’s possible indiscretions. And she succeeds, helped by a curious coincidence.

One day she enters her sister’s room with a packet in her haed. She unfolds it, revealing some letters and a picture, which she lays in Laura’s lap. ‘You have asked me to find proofs,’ she begins, coming to the point at once. ‘ There they are. Judge for yourself.’ ‘ Stop 1’ cries Laura, starting up, as pale as death. ‘ What do you mean ? What are they ?’ * I tell you to look and judge for yourself. There are the letters and poems that Claude Montrose wrote, there is the face that he painted before ever he saw you. You threw away Jack Chester’s love—Jack’s—who has always known you and loved you—and you took this man on trust the first summer you saw him. ‘ Behold how worthy he is 1’ ‘ I don’t believe it,’cries poor Laura. ‘I don’t believe it.’

The wind bursts open the casement and blows in a whole drift of leaves, that flutter across the floor and settle on her green dress, always wears a green dress now, like Petrarch’s Laura, and her picture is there, on the wall.

‘ I don’t understand this,’ she gasps, as she scans the letters, and her face has turned whither than death. ‘Who is she, Anna? How did you get these ? How did you find it all out ?’

‘No matter how I found it out. I got

these letters, which he wrote to her, and the poems and the picture. The dates are there only a year ago. You see her name is Rosacea. Most likely it was really hose, but he calls her Rosacea, for he is a poet!’ And with this last cruel thrust Anna leaves the room. Roes she tell the whole truth in this matter—the truth and nothing but the truth—or is there a reverse side to the story which Laura does not hear ? Who shad know ?

Hours after this, Laura Rochester folds up the letters and the proofs, creeps down ihc stairs like a hunted creature wounded to the death, and enters the room where sit her sister aud Mr Chester. They start at seeing her, she looks so like a ghost; so wan and shadowy in her green flowing dress. Laura feels as though that packet of proofs had killed her. She holds them out to her sister.

‘ Take them, Anna, she says, catching up a sob. ‘ I have read them, and they have — have hurt me. Perhaps,’ she breaks out into a dry sobbing, ‘ perhaps it is as well you gave them to me—but, oh ! I can’t think so. You might have let me be happy a little longer—a little longer.’ She turns to leave the room, and then stops, hearing a fo tstep without. The hall door is open, and Laura turns to it. Yes, it is Claude. He sees her and comes quickly forward.

‘ Laura, my Laura I’ he cries, reaching out his hands.

‘ But Laura draws back. ‘ Stop,’ she says, in a ringing, imperative tone, ‘ How do you presume to call me by that name ? You! Oh, the pitiless, weary scorn in her voice and manner as she says this. For she deems him to be w.ckedly base and false. Montrose stands still, struck mute by the change in her. She springs back into the s ttingroom, takes the portrait from Anna’s lap, returns, and holds it out to him.

‘Here!’ she cries, ‘take this, and go back to her. At least never dare to come here, or speak to me egain. ’ He takes the picture, looks at it, and then at Laura, and then to the faces of the two silent witnesses of the scene, who are standing su'prised at the open glass doors of the window. ‘ Who has done this ?’ he cries out indignantly. * What plot is is this against me ? Laura, do you believe it ? Is this your love for me-is this your faith in me ?’

Laura, Petrarch’s Laura, turns from him with a little moan, goes to the window, and holds out her shaking hands to Mr Chester.

‘ Take me away, Jack—Jack, take me away !’ she burst out, sobbing, and clinging to his fingers, ‘You have been faithful to me. You will always care for me.’ -And Jack, with a little pang of tribulation perhaps, for the other’s woe, folds her hands in his.

Montrose starts forward. He tries to speak, but his lips are dry—a mist gathers before his eyes. ‘ Laura ! Laura ! Laura !’ This is his cry, but she will not hear him. ‘ Faithful unto death, my darling !’ whispers Jack, as he draws her in, closes the window, and goes from it. Miss Rochester comes into the hall, shuts the door in Petrarch’s face, leaving him without in what seemed to him like the cold black night. ‘ She has destroyed every hope I had in the world,’he cries, in his despair. ‘And yet, I cannot hate her as I ought.’ But Jack is happy.

Jack is happy. Laura also. For some years has gone on since that miserable time, and Laura makes a good wife- If she lias not found the love for which she declared so gaily, in the old days of song and romance, at least she has found a brave and chivalrous soul to save her; and she is wise enough to value it at its real worth.

And it is well for John Chester that, being so happy, he makes the most of his time, for that time is fated to be but short. There comes a day, when baby Jack is three years old, that fever smites the strong father down, and eats its way into the central forces of life. Laura with a pale face sits by her husband’s side and holds his hands as he stands trembling by that open door that will soon shut upon him : when he will have passed out of her sight for ever. Jack looks ait her wistfully with his dim, dying eyes. ‘You have been a good wife,’ he sighs, ‘A good wife to me, I aura—my Laura !’

Y es, she had been a good and affectionate wife to him. But they must say to each other the last farewell now. Death enters.

So Laura is alone again. She goes about tl e home pale and s id, in her long black di ess heavily weighted with crape. People say what a pretty youngwidow Mrs Chester is, and so rich ! But she misses Jack. He was not Petrarch ; but he was pre-emi-nently good, and kind, and tender. The time slips by ; w. eks months —more than a yea• Laura is listless; rather discontented ; but for Jack the younger, she would have no object left in life. One day, when she felt unusually restless, she walked over to her old home, to see her sister. Miss Rochester was out; was gone, the servant thought, to call on Mrs Chester, Laura went into the li rary to wait. Suddenly, some time afterwards, she comes flying out of the room like m<cl, aud and d-shes through the hall into the open air Anna, chancing to be approaching with little Jack, gazes wtth astonishment at the excited woman flying down the path in her black dress.

‘Laura,’ she cries, ‘what is the matter. What h s happened. Little Jack, too, puts up his tiuy hands, half frightened, and shouts ‘Mamma !’ But Laura not heed him. Her face is flushed —she is holding some crumpled papers to her pan Jug bi east. ‘Wna&has happened?’ she repeats after Anna. ‘lt happened long ago. Oh, Anna, Anna ! How could you play me so falsely—how could you deceive me so ?’

Anna has only to look at the papers in Laura’s shaking hands to know the truth. She (lushes guiltily red. ‘ Where did you get them ? ’ she stamn 4 s.

‘ln your writing-desk. The key was in it, and I fell to looking over old letters to pass away the time. I meant no wrong; our desks used to be open to one another. Oh, Anna! What had I done to deserve this from you ? ’ Anna’s guilty face sinks lower and lower. She turns away uneasily from the reproach of those blue, sorrowful eyes. ‘ I did it for the best! ’ she pleads humbly. ‘ Forgive, forgive me 1 1 did it for your sake, Laura ; for your best interest.’ ‘ The best ! ’ Laura’s voice rings high with angry scorn. ‘ Was it best to bring reproach upon the man 1 loved dearest of all in the world ? Was it best to shadow his life as well as mine?’

Anna is silent. What can she say ? * Tell me,’ cries Laura, below her breath. ‘Tell me—did he —did Jack know? Had he any hand in this ? ’ ‘No.’ Anna, true to the last, stands between Jack and reproach. ‘He knew nothing ; at the most he dimly guessed the truth. Blame mess much as you will, butlet Jack’s name rest in peace. He was true to you—it was partly because he loved you so that I did it; and because you had been left to my care by your mother. Who was that other miserable man, that he should come here and mar your life ? Jack did love you, Laura—he was a good husband—kind, tender. What fault have you to find ? ’ ‘ None, none with him! all you say of him is true. But, oh, Anna, you forget how you wronged that other one ; how you made me stab his true heart with cruel, upbraiding words. And he was innocent of it all. Oh, it is wicked—wicked. ’

Breaking away from little Jack’s hands, she bursts away. She does not stop till she comes to the ravme, on the bridge where she met him first; where he gave her the picture—where they had ben so happy t gether those fair autumn days. For by those letters she had found Petrah was true-letters written by himself to Miss Rochester at the time to tell her so Nay, written to Laura ; but Anna had suppressed them. Why did she keep them by her to tell talers ?

‘ Oh, cruel, cruel !’ cries Laura, leaning her head on the rail. * Cruel to deceive me so. And he loved me all the while. He neverloved any but me. And I—oh, how I spoke to him ! how I stabbed his dear heart with my unjust words. What does he think of me ? Claude ! Claude ! what do you think of me, to-day—me, your Laura -your Laura! not Petrarch’s, not Jack’s, but yours—yours! Her wild cry pierces the air Who is this that rises, as one would rise from the dead, in answer to love’s compelling cry, and comes forward out of the shadow of the rocks in response to her wild words 1 A slender figure; a man with stooping shoulders, and with dreamy eyes looking out from under tangled locks of dark falling hair. Laura looks at him bewildered. * Claude ! Claude !’ she whispers. *ls this you ? And here, now! Here!’ He smiles a little sadly. ‘lt is presump tion in me to come ?’ he answers, gently. ‘ I only came to see the old scenes, Mrs Chester, not you. Do not be angry, I shall not stay long to trouble anyone. It is the first time, too, since that night, seven years ago, when you drove me away from you.’ Seven years ! Ah, how changed he is. The hair is streaked with grey now that used to be so bright, so bright. The form is bent that used to bo so gracefully upright ; there are hues of care and suffering on his face. He comes forward and leans upon the rail heside her, looking over. Drawing closer, she sees how pale he is—how thin, how worn. ‘ Seven years, seven years !’ he repeats sadly. ‘ Seven years since that night.. Ah, Laura ! you hurt me with your cruel words then.’

‘ Stop ! ’ cries Laura, suddenly lifting her pale face. She has been fighting for strength to tell him the truth, for wisdom to put her knowledge of the wicked wrong done them years ago into fitting words, such as may make all things plain to him, and yet cast no shadow on the dead-no more shadow than she can help on the living. ‘ That past time—l mean its ending—was all a mistake,’ she says; ‘ray mistake. I have found these this very day.’ Montrose looks at her, simple inquiry in his eyes. Laura unfolds the packet of letters with shaking hands ; they rustle like dying leaves. Amidst them were one or two from the false woman who had first written to Anna Rochester. For in truth Anna had once thought what she said was true. A last letter from the woman was there also : a repentant letter, written from her death bed.

Claude glances at the writing with his sad faded eyes. ‘ I knew it; I knew there must be some plot against me. even there,’ he says sadly. ‘ Rosacea was my Italian cousin ; her mother and mine were sisters. Rosa cared for me too much. It was very foolish of her, for I only thought of her as a sister. I knew she used to track my wandering and movements, and I suppose she heard of my stay here —and of you. I cannot say more. One must not speak harshly of the dead. ’ * And she is dead V

* She died a year ago. Her last days were not happy ones. They were darkened with the knowledge that she had marred her own peace throughout life—and ruined my happiness.’ ‘Why did you not tell me this at the time ?’ asks Laura in a despairing tone. * All then might have been so differ nt ’

‘ How could I tell you what I did not know? Could I divine that Rosa was writing to your house, and writing falsehoods ? Besides, you would not listen to any explanation. And —I saw you in Mr Chester’s arms, and your sister shut her doors upon me,’ Laura turns away her head. The leaves drift down, down, down. They will soon make quite a little mound at her feet like a a grave. What is buried in it ? Hope love—youth—the best part of her life. Glancii g up, the meets his eyes. Turning away, they walk together towards the old house—Anna’s. It is very near. Claude Montrose is talking in the once persuasive tones.

‘ Must it be for ever, then ?’ he asks as they come to the gate, and her hand meets his in parting. Laura does not answer. For ever is a long time. But poor Jack’s grave lies between them.

‘ I will come again in—perhaps —another year or so, ’ whispers Claude, his tones full of a yearning pain. ‘ You will not deny me that much. ’

‘Yes, come,’ she says, ‘Come as a friend.’

And with this vague understanding, this glimpse of future light to dawn and shine, they part. Claude Montrose comes. And—he never goes away again : he takes his place in Laura's home. But—does Laura find in Petrarch’s love the rest she craves ? Who shall say ? Poor dead Jack ! Anna at least is faithful to his memory. She takes the boy Jack on her knee, and tells him what a great warm heart his father had, how brave he was, and simple, and generous. Laura perhaps may be in the library with Petrarch at the time, listening to his verses, and trying to find the old sweetness in them.

And Love ? Ah, Love ! Sometimes I think that the love poets tell about died with Petrarch in Italy all those ages ago.