LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1413, 26 August 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE HOUSE ACROSS THE STREET. A Stokv in Two Chapters. [” All the Year Round. ”J ( Concluded.) Her father had kept it from her, and had never intended it to reach her eyes. It had been written six years ago, when she was only a young girl. The young man had never been seen or heard of since. The probability was that he had long since forgotten her, and she well, she had wept for him, and had dried her tears and grown happy again as she had been before he crossed her path. What earthly end could showing her this letter serve now, save to upset her peace of mind, add a cruel tinge of bitterness to her grief for her father, and perhaps stir up some morbid scruple as to her right to accept the new love which was waiting to be offered to her ? 1 thought of it all night and all the next day. and in all ways and lights, but this was the result to which I invariably came; and in the end I resolved to abide'by it. 1 did not destroy the letter, however j something within mo

made me averse to doing so ; and I locked it up again with other papers which were to remain in my keeping. The funeral was on the following day. Magdalen w- uld go, though I tried to t ersuade her to the conttary. for it was a cold, raw day. and I was afraid for her health ; but, though pale as death, she was very calm, and even at the graveside made no moan or crying ; hut stood the*e with locked hands and head a little bent, a tall, slender figure, all black from head to fo t, cut out against the faint red color of an afternoon sky—a figure so solitary and pathetic in its voiceless bereavement, that it comes back to me even now with the longing I had then to take her in my arms, and so show her that love had not left her alone in the world after all. ‘ But to-morrow, * I said to myself, as I put her and cousin Jane, who had arrived in time for the ceremony, into the carriage. ‘ Only till to-moroow ! We shall both know then.’ Was it some mocking fiend that whispered to me that if she cared for me she would never have kept her face so steadily averted from mine, and answered me as briefly and coldly as I fancied she had done all that day—the day which saw the completion of the last services I could do for her? But what did it matter? I would have served her all my life long, even if I had known I could never have so much reward as a smile from her. Young men, when they make love, do it as they run and leap, for the prize they hope to win. With men of my age it is different. When we love a woman, it is not what we can get from her, but what we can do for her, that we think about. I went to see her on the following day. She was in the dining-room, the servant said, and alone ; and there I found her. I had gone in unannounced, and I must hare startled her, for a deep crimson spot came into her cheek as she rose to greet me, and I felt her hand tremble in mine. It had never done so before. ‘ I did not expect you,’ she said, a little formally. ‘ It is kind of you to come, when I have been taking up so much of your time of late. Cousin Jane has only just gone upstairs. I will ring for her,’ and she was reaching out her hand to the bell when 1 stopped her. ‘ Do n-'t ring just yet,’ I said. ‘ I have something I want to say to you first. Do you mind ? It is not a good time, perhaps, but I will not keep you Jong, and I have waited ’ My voice was husky, and I broke off. I did not tell her how long I had waited. Her sweet, soft eyes met mine with a questioning glance. Somehow she must have guessed that it was no trifle I had come about, for her facs had grown very white again ; yet even then the trouble and yearning which I could not keep out of mine touched her. She answered very gently : * Yon may keep me as long as you like Do you think I have forgotten what you were to papa, and that he left me to your care ? What is it you want to say to me ? ’ She was still looking up at me. The late coldness which bad so distressed me had quite gone from her manner. It was grave and full of trust. I had got my opportunity at last, and how did I use it 1 * hy, I let go her hand, turned away from her sweet eyes, and. crossing the room, unlocked the o>*k cabinet in the corner, and took out Guy Latham’s letter. I had decided that it ought never to be shown her. My mind was quite clear ou the subject. My reason and my conscience were alike convinced, and Well, well, I daresay'! am a blundering, inconsistent fellow, but I couldn’t help it. I could not take advantage of an absent man when it came to the point, no, not even if I were to win Magdalen by so doing ; and so I just put the letter in her hand and said : ‘ I have something to show you first. I found this among your father’s papers It was written over rix years ago; hut he thought it better not to give it you then. You will not blame him even if he was wrong ; for he meant it for your good. Do you know the handwriting ? ’ For the moment one glad moment —I hardly thought she did ; for she looked up at me, and then at the paper with a puzzled, wondering glance. Then I, looking on with what a soie-wrung heart no mhn can know, saw the blood suddenly rush up into her face, dyeing throat and cheeks and brow with one vivid crimson glow. Her lips parted vith a quick shivedng gasp, her great eyes dilated with a look half fierce, half tender and yearning ; and then a cloud came over them, ‘ there came a mist and a driving rain,” and down came the tears in a blinding torrent, bowing the fair head, and shaking the slender figure, aud blotting all the faded words with their passionate dr ps, as she hid her face above them, murmuring the name which I had read at the bottom of the letter; but which none had heard cross her lips for many a weary year. ‘Guyl My Guy! Oh! why did I never see it!’ I said nothing. What could I say—aye, or do either, in such a case ? When wife and home, and all that this world holds for a man has just been swept away by a mountain avalanche, it is not words that you expect from him. He may know that in that one moment his broken ; but what of that? Hearts break every day; and mine—even the worst ache in it was to see her grief and be so impotent to heal it. Yeq that was the worst of it; that passion of sorrow told me that my hope was vain; I should never now have the right to com fort and protect her as I had prayed I might Ind I turned ray face away, and crushed my hands together with a stifled groan for the vanishing of my foolish dream It was she who recalled me. Far more quickly than I had thought for she checked her grief, brushing the tears from her eyes with the air of one 1 ng used to repression, and touched me half timidly on the arm, as though she feared I was displeased with her. ‘lam so sorry,’ she said gently. ‘Dr. Elliot, I do not know what you are thinking of me; but it was the sudden shock i and it is so long since ’ Her voice broke, and her eyes wandered to the letter which her other hand held pressed gently against her bosom. ‘ I loved him,’ she said, looking up at me again with a sweet simplicity that was above all disguise, ‘ and we were parted. I do not blame my dear father ; and it is all over now. I ought not to have given way so, and before you. What was it that you wanted to say to me ? ’ Wanted! Ah, but the want was past now. I too could have said : ‘ It is all over,’ but looking at the gmtle courage in her fair pale face, I could not but be brave myself. ‘ Nothing of any importance,’ I answered, taking her hands in mine, it was to be for the last time ; though she did not know it. * I had meant to ask you something ; but it does not matter, and yon have answered it, not knowing, already. Let me speak of this letter instead. You will know I did not mean to grieve you when I showed it you. What I want is to see you happy, my child. Only be frank with me ; and do not forget that you are in my care. I will not fail you. You love this-this young man. Do you know if he is true to you; or where we can find him ? ’ The red fire-light was on her face, but I saw it whiten through all the ruddy glow; and felt her hands tremble. Yet her pathetic eyes never wavered in their straightforward glance. ‘Do you not know?’ she said. *Dr. Elliott, you are very good. I never knew how good till to day ; but you cannot help me in the way you think. There is nothing now of Guy to find but his grave. He died five years ago, just before we came to this house.’ ‘ Died ! ’ I must have said it; but it did not sound like my voice, and the room seemed reeling with me. ‘Yes,’ she said softly, the tears brimming up into her eyes again, ‘ it was barely twelve months after after papa sent him away. He went to Australia, The friends where we first m<‘t gave me news of him two or three times ; but it was not good news—there was no good news to hear.’ Her lip quivered even now at the remembrance ; but she went on, ‘ I sup-

poso papa was right; he was not steady., my poor Guy, and he grew less so after wo parted. At first I hoped that my love might help him ; for he knew I would be true and wait until he had got on, and won papa’s consent. And papa was not unjust, doctor ; ho would have given it if Please do not mind me crying ; but I can’t talk about that time, I don’t think my poor Guy could work or to anything ior long, and I daresay he had many temptations : hut oh ! even when I heard it, I knew God had never been so merciful as when He took him away. Poor Guy is safe now. It is better so far.’ There was a dead silence in the room. Only the ashes fell with a soft rustling sound into the hearth, and the flames leaped up a threw a warm glare over the dim green walls, the slender figure in its black robes, and tender, wistful face. A little small rain was pattering against the window-pane ; and in the corner of the room a great basket of hyacinths gave out a sweet, faint fragrance. Magdalen remembered herself with a start, and our eyes met. ‘ I have pained you, ’ she said sorrowfully. * T)r. Elliott, I am so sorry. Forgive me. Indeed, I never meant to say so. I who owe you so much, and would give so much to be able to repay you, even in the least, for all you have done for me.’ ‘My dear,’l answered, lifting her pretty clinging fingers to my lips, ‘ love does not want repaying. I love you. Magdalen. Did not your father tel- you ? Thee is only one thing you can do for me ; hut I would not have it, though it has been the one hope of my life all these years I have known you, except you can give it me freely-of your own will—my love.’ And then 1 stopped for an answer. What it was I will not tell you. Only, if you think it wrong that she, so fair and beautiful, should have given herself to a dull, middle-aged man like me, I cannot say anything. She will tell you if she has ever repented it—she, my wife, and the mother of my children, Bitting with her hand in mine while I say this. And the house across the street has had other tenants for more than ten years now.