LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1389, 29 July 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

MY BETTER ANGEL. Br Horace Lashbboke. * Oh, blest he thine unbroken light, That watched me as a seraph’s eye, And stood between me and the night, For ever shining sweetly nigh! Byeon. While I sit., on this Christmas-eve, gazing out upon the snow-clad country, as the twilight steals softly over the wintry earth, my eyes rest upon the quiet little churchyard at the foot of the garden wall. It is not often that I am absent from my little homestead, or that I fail to take my seat at the window as the daylight sinks into the bosom of the night, and turn my eye* on the consecrated ground that holds all that was dearest to mo in the days that are gone, Golden Hair! my heart’s darling I my better angel! do you from your home above, from the mansions of the blessed, look down upon me with the old love-light in your eyes, made purer still by the presence of God, and bless mo in your angel heart P But I must not linger in this selfish mam ner ; I must tell my story as plainly as I can. I was married at the age of eighteen. My husband was passionately fond of field sports, which naturally bring into action skilfulness of hand and endurance of bodily exertion. Ho was not trained to any profession, and, having a comfortable income, he devoted himself to a country life, favourable to the realisation of his tastes. I am the daughter of a medical man, and my father was the physician and confidential friend of my husband’s family. We had grown up together from our childhood, and increasing attachment had been regarded by our parents with no unfavourable vigilance. When he was one-and-twenty and I eighteen we married. It was purely and wholly a love match. We were loft entirely to choose for ourselves. I can say now with all sincerity that I firmly believe no two beings ever loved each other more perfectly than Phillips and I. His only trouble seemed to be that he could not, in his own idea, do sufficient to make mo as happy as he wished me to be; and if I had any trouble, it was that I felt I could not do enough to return his unbounded love. There are few married people, I fear, whose only sorrows are derived from a similar source. On the first anniversary of our weddingday I was blessed with a daughter. She was our only child. We christened her Emily; but at the expiration of three years we never called her by that name; we called her Golden Hair, Need I tell you that our reason for giving her that pet title was the fact of her possessing a perfect glory of the brightest golden hair that ever decked an infant’s head P Even now I sometimes dare to fancy that I am once more caressing those golden locks, while I kiss her upturned face. One bright tress, hidden away in my desk, is all that remains to me of my better angel! Again I find myself running away from my story, but you must forgive me. I think you will when you know all. The first ten years of my married life were happier than words can tell. Never did a cross word pass my husband’s lips ; never did he wound me with one cross look or angry frown. Oh, how much I had to be thankful for! how very, very much! 1 have seen many homes, both high and humble, but I cannot call to mind a single one in which there seemed to exist the same perfect peace and affection between man and wife as there existed between Phillips and myself. There are married people who in the eyes of the world are deemed * a happy pair,’ and yet the blissful couple are very often fond of giving each other a quiet rub before their acquaintances. For instance, fond wife, in the presence of fond husband, addressing Mr Smith, who has been dining with them, declares, ‘ Dear husband peculiar with the children.’ Dear husband insists upon his paternal affection, at the same time informing Mr f-'mith (who, by the way has dropped in hoping to enjoy a pleasant evening) that his dear wife expects the whole of his evenings at home to be devoted to that wonderful natural production, the baby. Upon this, fond wife, with just a tinge of sarcasm, acknowledges to the now thoroughly uncomfortable Mr Smith that dear William does like the children, but dearly loves his cigar. I do not think Phillips or I lost anything by respecting each other so tenderly and perfectly as never to allow even a jocular sneer to pass our lips towards one another. There were plenty of people ready to call us lovesick, and to twit us with childish sentimentality ; but, thank goodness, it all fell harmlessly on our young hearts. I often thought that those who affected to laugh at our devotion would have felt right glad to own a love equal no ours. But enough of this ; I must 1 o my story. It was at the commencement of the eleventh year of our marriage life when the first shadow of sorrow crossed our threshold. If I write bitterly of him who caused all our sorrow, forgive me, even as I trust to be forgiven for thinking bitterly of him now. It was on an afternoon in January, close upon the hour of dusk, when Phillips unexpectedly brought home to dine with him an acquaintance of long standing, a Captain Barnett, who happened to be staying at a friend’s house in the neighborhood f>r the shooting. I was, as usual, sitting in the window, watching for my husband, when I saw them coming up the garden walk with their guns thrown [across their shoulders. Captain Barnett was a tall athletic man, with an extreme y handsome cast of fea tures. Like most military men, he was polished in manner and address. I afterwards learnt he had been but too successful in his blandishments towards the weak ones of our sex and his so-called conquests had gained him some notoriety as to his uascrupulousness towards women in general. Dinner being over, we three were comfortable seated in the drawing-room, Captain Barnett doing all in his power to make the evening a pleasant one. His anecdotes abounded in wit and interest; his repartee would have immortalised him as a dramatist of the modern school; his voice, pealing forth rich and mellow, would have obtained him high rank upon the lyric stage. In fact, ho was a most accomplished and fasci nating guest. Phillips was enchanted with him, and long before he rose to leave had pressed upon him an invitation to stay with ua for a fortnight prior to leaving the country. I, of course, added my persuasions; and, thanking us heartily, ho accepted. He would come the following week, and stay with us until the close of the shooting season. He came, and the first week of his visit passed away happily enough. His gaiety never flagged, no matter how frtiguing the day’s exertions might have been. He was in the evening like a giant refreshed. Four days prior to the arranged date of his departure, in jumping a fence he severely sprained his ankle, and had to bo driven home from the covers they were shooting. I found groat pleasure in doing all in my power to allay the pain that he suffered. All day he used to recline upon the sofa, and, while apologising for the trouble he gave, profess that he could not bear any one but myself to attend upon him. Phillips offered to remain at home with him, but Captain Barnett would not fir one moment countenance the idea of his losing the concluding sport of the season. ‘My dear fellow,’ ho said, ‘your good little wife always takes the greatest care of me; and in her absence Golden Hair comes and chats with me.’ Golden Hair was in the room when ho spoke, and I noticed that she did not look up when he mentioned her. ‘ My darling,' I said to her that evening, when preparing for dinner, ‘ you do not seem to take such pleasure in attending to Captain Barnett as you generally do to our other visitors.’ She flushed up at my words and did not immediately answer me. At last she said, ‘lt’s very wrong, I know, mamma, but I caunot like him.’

* But why, my child 7—why V I presevered. ‘I have tried, mamma dear, but I cannot. His eyes frighten me.’ ‘You funny child!’ I said, as we went down to dinner, little thinking that her antipathy was the innate shrinking of innocence when in contact with that which was evil. Captain Barnett had been with us a month when an end came to all my faith in him. Phillips was out about the grounds, and I was alone in the dining-room with Captain Barnett. The conch was drawn across the window, and my chair was placed at the end. I was occupying myself with some needlework, but at the moment was attracted by seeing my darling on her pony, led by a groom, passing through the gate towards the village. She had scarcely passed out of sight when Captain Barnett addressed me, ‘ What a wonderful woman you are !’ he began, in his usually sincere tone. What a wonderful man you are for thinking so !’ I responded laughingly. ‘Not at all,’ he replied; ‘you are a wonder — a man’s better angel. What a heavenly benediction your husband received when he married you 1’ His voice was full of pathos as he said this. ?;T laughed innocently and merrily at this extraordinary eulogy. ‘ Ah, there it is, yon see,’ he said disappointedly ; ‘ you are different from other women.’ He seemed so hurt at my want of seriousness that I thought I had pained him. ‘ You really cannot exp r ct me to take such unmerited praise seriously,’ I remarked. * A little old-womanlike nursing cannot deserve such encomiums,’ ‘ It was not unmerited, and it was serious,’ the replied earnestly, * You are the best the most patient wife God ever made. Would o Heaven I had such a one!’ I felt my bosom heave with pride at the man’s words. I felt the tears rise to my eyes with the thought that Phillips had told him how dear I was in his sight. I could not speak for joy. He saw the tears stealing through my fingers as I held them before my face. He saw the heaving of my glad bosom, and, God forgive him, he misinterpreted the cause of my emotion. * Ellen, ’ he whispered hoarsely, * I love you. Come with me away from this place —away from your neglectful husband for ever 1’ As the words passed his lips he leaned forward to where I was sitting. At the touch of his hand I rose with passion inexpressible. * Yon villain,!’ I uttered, with a struggle. ‘ You false despicable villain 1’ I could not go on; my horror of one who could thus treacherously endeavour to betray the unsuspecting friend who trusted him with all sincerity was greater than words could express. In a moment he recognised the error he had made ; in a moment he recognised the speechless indignation and abhorrence he had awakened in my breast, (To he. continued.)