LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1377, 15 July 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

RAUL CHANTREY’S DAUGHTER.

A rgnsy. (Concluded.)

On the very day following the death of Madame du Pay, Una received the offer of an engagement in Paris, for which her mother had long hoped, .-bo went to it imnvdiately, taking Margeret with her ; and hence secret <f Mr Ashb"rton's non successful inquiries af'er her. The engage- i moat in Paris at an end, they came on to Italy. Both of them had been most successful in their career since ; both had led the most retired and the best of lives. Then Margaret’s health began to fail. Symptoms of consumption manifested themselves. Lina remembered the dea h of Mrs Ohan'rey and shuddered for her friend Giving up their engagements fur a season, they came to this retired town, to so » wha” rest and quiet would do for Margaret But it did nothing—she grew worse and weaker Then the fever broke out. They thought they were safe, be ng so far from the town. And safe they would have been, but 'hat l r Biagi fokl them of his Knglish patient, one Signor Richard Ashburton ; and Margaret insisted upon going to nurse him. All this

Lina hurriedly told, together with the true history of that long-past night. Margaret had gone to dance in her place that she might stay with he* 1 dying mother. * Let me go into her,’ he gasped.

f ina stood aside, Bichard Ashburton entered the chamber of death ; and there lay Margaret white and wasted, but with more than raort si beauty. * Oh, my child ! ray darling !’ Margaret moved her eyes slowly, and then uttered a low passionate cry.

lie took her in his arms ; he kissed the pale, trembling lips and do < ncast eyelids, still radiant with their beautiful f inge, ‘My little wanderer,’ he said, ‘my precious darling? you can never know my grief at finding you thus, too late. Oh! why did you leave me ? I was cruel that night, unjust; but you need not have beeu ashamed of the truth. Lina has told mo. It was noble, if ilijudged. And if you could understand my soul at this moment, and believe that the old dream of those days has never utterly faded ’ Hejbroke down with emotion. ‘A dream P’ she mumured.

‘ The dream that I should win you for my wife The hope that I should. Margaret, I loved yon dearly.’

£he raised he” white, wan face, into which there came something of a glorifying flush, and lay in his arms, softly whispering ; ‘lt was b st then that I should go, Richard. Best for your mother’s sake ; for all our sakes. Let me tell the truth nowdeath always gives us courage, you know. Some fascination of the old life lured me, and my love for Lina and Madame du Puy was strong. They once stood between my father and starvation; they tended my mother; and Lina has repaid what I did that night with the tenderest care ; but for her you might never have looked upon the face of your poor little Margaret now. Yes, I wont that night to dance in her stead, and fate sent you there.’ ‘Oh, if yon had told me all!’ he groaned ‘You doubted me-before I had even spoken! Yes, yon did, Richard. I thought you were implacably angry, thought you scorned and despised me; while I—God will forgive it now—loved yea with a child’s unreasoning, jealous adoration. 'l'o be thrust aside because I was not your equal, to be held as pet and plaything, but never aspire to the height of friend—to see, perhaps, another loved and reverenced —ah I it was a child’s foolish folly.

‘I loved youthen, Margaret; loved you truly, tenderly, passionately. 1 shall never love another.’

She made an entreating gesture with her wasted hands. How bitter all this past misapprehension was ! 'I was not worthy of so much love, Richard,’ she softly whispered. ‘Perhaps I never should have been. But’—raising the sad, purple eyes, full of their dying lights— ‘ I want you to know that poor dancers may be good and pure, in spite of their shortened skirts and the tinsel they must wear. I and Lina have tried to do our duty before God, as truly as we could have done it had we had parents to protect us, handsome homes to shelter us. lam going to Him with, so far a clear conscience.’ ‘ And you came to save me; you have given your life for mine ! Oh, Margaret! is it too late ? Can no love, and no repentance bring you back ? Ah, heaven 1 this is bitter.’

*lt is best, Richard; dear Richard, believe me it is best,’ she answe'ed; but her voi e began to waver strangely, and the dusk of twilight floated before her dreamy eyes. • I thank you for some happy years. I was glad to do it—at the last, four life is grander and broader than my poor, pale years, gone astray among thorns Ask Ged to forgive me all - for your sake.’ He gathered her into his arms, and the warm tears of passionate regret dropped upon her pure face, slowly turning to sculptured marble. One tender, fluttering kiss, and "he old life and the new life were alike ended.

Margaret Chantrey was laid in her quiet grave; which Lina du Pay will often turn aside out of her way to tend Whether this bright impulsive, but grand and tender s ml was wasted we cannot decide here. Was it better that she should be taken to her rest thus eariy or that she should have stayed decorously at Mrs Ashburton’s, and lived to be Richard’s wife ? Who can tell ? God knows best Mrs Ashburton frets a little amid her state and e'egance that Richard does not m*iry. She has well-nigh forgotten the laughing, wayword girl who once made the house bright ‘

He will never forget. Is it so strange a thing to be true to the woman a man has loved, and who gave her sweet young life for his ? Is it not a fragment of the greater love, left amid the ruins of this grey old w