LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IX, Issue 1261, 3 April 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

OEDEAL BY TIME; 03, THE DpMOHAELE TRYST. A Story ok Two Epochs. BY \V. \V. FENK. {Continued.) New, it came to pa'Sj that before the doctors gent j#iss Darrant to try the sea air at the new watering place, Allan's battery was again quartered at' 'anterbury, an' probably it wag his constant presence on the b ot which gave Jessie a better opportunity of judging how he bore the delay than she had hitherto had, and which led to that fatal walk and talk upon the sands. The sensation created by the heart-rend-ing fate of Jessie 11 arrant throughout society, high and low, did not readily subside, but in the course of years tho event natwallv passed into comparative oblivion. & become a legend anil tradition' of <'nlvernosp, investing 'hut primitivo spot with an interest hot its own; but it need hardly be eaid tfcat tuns <juite fatted to dull 4&&»

Hardwicke's memory of that day. Fran*', generous, noble-minded fell >w that he in reality was, how c uld he but ''eel that her life had been sacrificed for him? Howconl-i he fail to approach himself for that fickle, selfisti side or his oharanter, which had led him to tlunk he was tiring of the devotion of such a love as Jessie's ? From the hour that his senses returned to him, and he | iealised ho «• she, by superhumau strength, had helped him on to that little ledg •, which sb..: must have known by instinct c iild only support onu of them, and that that o ie t-he had, on the spur of the moment, determin d should be he rather than herself— how, in a word, ahe hid, of set intention, given hr-r own life for his—from that hour the full force of hii old love for her leturned, never acrain, he knew, to leave him while he lived. 'enceforth he was an altered man, and the suffering which his b'dly fractured unij tn> tailed f>>r many months, in noway para! ele<l the mental ag >ny which lasted h'm through years. By this time he was again fit for duty, his battery was under orders for the Cape, and he gladly hailed the distraction from his own bitter thoughts which he hoped he mii>ht find in active service. Of this the L'affre war afforded him plenty, but his hope was not realised ; court danger as he might, he passed unscathed. The fates seemed satisfied with his nelf-inflicte 1, never healing heart-wound, and they dealt him no other. .

Sixteen years of chanceand change brought him again face to face with the old locality, and found him as the captain commanding the troop of artillery stationed in Canterbury.

Now that his duties had brought him so near it, there was nothing morbid in Captain Hardwicke's desire to look once more upon the spot—upon the memorable trysting-place where the current of his whole life had received the main direction of its flow. He rode over alone to Calvemess one afternoon late in the autumn ; and though, as we look at him, we see that his slight wiry figure is but little changed, his face bears full evidence of all that he has lived through. Iron-grey, tanned and furrowed, he looks a good ten years older than he is, whilst a certain sternness and gravity, consequent perhaps upon the habit of command, has sottled on his face, to which it was a stranger in former days

The watering place had uot been a great success, and although numbering now among its attraction many torraces of lodginghouse and a long pier, looked yet in an embryo condition. Only a remnant of the season's visitors lingered, and with the exception of here and there a nursery maid with some children dawdling listlessly about, the place was as forlorn and solitary as ever.

Arriving by the top of the cliffs to within a short distance of the ruined abbey, Capt. Hardwicke soon saw that all remains of the actual cliff and bay, so memorable to him, had long ago been swallowed up by the greedy sea : but the character of the place was unchanged, and he pushed his horse some way down a slithering landslip whence he could easily gaze upon the shore. There he eat—be could not %s\l you for how long - pondering on never-to-be-forgotten theme, and realising, even perhaps more vivijdly than he had ever done since, all iha sad details connected with it. The stillness of the autumn day suited his mood, and if inwardly conscious of the harmonising tones of the robin's note, the gentle sluicing of the tide upon the shore, and the merry calls now and then of some children at play amongst the straggling weather-stunted bushes near him, he marked them, net, until aroused from his reverie by 3 young voice close by.

' If you nlejuso, will you tell me the time, sir?' it saw. A Uttle boy and girl, evidently of the visitor cfoss, had strayed up to him, and the former was the spokesman.

In his pre-cccupation, Captain Hardwicke hardly understood the question until it was repeated. Then he looked at his watch, telling the child that it was nearly five o'clock.

'Oh, it's teatime!' ho, owed, 'Jessie, Jessie, come along j ahajl be late,' and the two scampered ».W up the hill 'Jesaie !.'in this place of ajl others, with all fys associations, to have heard this name uttered! liy/olivntarily Allan Hardwicke turned in his saddle to look after the children, whilst a keen pang went through his heart.

They disappeared over the up er ridge of the slope, and the rider, as if stung by an access of melancholy which he desired to shake •ff dug bis heels into his horse's flanks and rode off at a breakneck pace across the rough ground towards the town. Nor did he slacken spe"d as he regained the cliff path whence he had diverged, but, breaking in upon it behind a row of more straggling bushes that skirted it, came suddenly upon the two children and a lady, who at that moment were passing the spot. Drawing re*n avoid riding over them, b,e apologised, and was aboit to continue his way—had, indeed, continued it for a yard or two—when he brought his horse to a dead standstill. His eyes and the lady's had met, and in that moment something that might be likened to an electric spark had flashed between them. She too had stopped, and they were now again face toface, with the strangest expression, of bewilderment on each.

'I beg your pardon,' he faltered, 'but you really rem : . 3 cannot be mistaken! yet it's imposqibij that ' She, h*id act moved, and seemed incapable of movement. He dismounted, and took a step towards her ; still she did not move, and had turned deadly pale. There was a pause. 4 Yes !' at length she said, holdiog out her hand, as if ia answer to his mute instjiga-i tion, ' Yes, it is I; little as we could have looked for this—you least of all '. .* But with the first sou.nct of her voice he had seized her hand, and it would be hard to reopxd the. speech of either for many a minute after that. • Why, it's the most wonderful thing surely that ever happened,' he cried by-and-by; ' it's like a resurrection ! What on earth does it mean ? how has it oome about ? Te'l me, why have you kept; me—kept us —all these miserable years, in the belief that you were dead? The suffering! oh, the cruel suffering I have endured!'

' Ah 1 i* was scarcely my fault,' she murmured ; 'it'sa long sad story-for you cau hardly think that Lhave not suffered too !' And truly her face, though plainly that of Jessie Darrant, bore traces of more than -she mere passage of sixteen years would have left. He kept his gaze pp. fixed on her, and seemed so absorbed in, strangeness of the situation, th,&k though he put question after he had no patience to wait for her Vjeplies, 'To think,' he continued, 'that T should have ridden over here, after all this time, with no other thought in my mind than the loss of you, and then to meet you here ! How is it that you are here, of alt places ? Still, not waiting for her \o. apeak, he went on : ' And these is called Jessie— t*U me that she is named aftss you, and is your ' The light and joy which had spread over his face suddenly vanished, aud the grave expression was there again, as he tbis time waited axiously on her words. ' No, she is not my child,' was the anawer, • though she is named after m.e }■ she is oniy my dear little friend.' (The two children were clinging round her skirts affectionately.) ' Ns, Allan ! 1 am still Jessie Dar ant !'

But she did not remain Jessie Darrant long In less than three months from the dav fhe bad thus been so miraculously iestorod to him, she became the wife of her old lover.

And her story ? Well, that came out by slow degrees, for the intensity of the feelings which it oa led up broke the narrative in,to a thousand disj"iuted explanations, and repetitions I must piece it. together, however, and let her give its yutfine as near as may be, when day after their meeting the two scrolled together along tho-e cliff tops, and sitting here aud there upon grassy knolls and banks, in the pleasant autumn weatb.**\ they poured into each other'* eaves ears the myriad details of th?i,r separated lives.