LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1431, 17 September 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

MR. ASLATT'S WARD. ["Chambers'Journal."] (Continued.) * Where have you been ?' exclaimed Rose as I approached. *We were beginning to fear you were lost.' ' I tbink it is about time for us to return home,' said Mr Aslatt, as .he looked at his watch, 'I am quite ready,' I replied ; for I felt such a dread of the strange woman making her appearance, that I longed to get away from the place. ' Oh, do not let us go yet!' exclaimed Rose; 'it is so delightful here' As she spoke she took off her hat. and the light evening breeze played at will amongst her sunny tresses. Her face was radiant with happiness, as all unsuspicious of coming woe she sat there; when suddenly a hand was laid on her arm, and a low hoarse voice startled us all with the words, ' That man by your side is a liar and a traitor, fair lady!' It was the woman I had already seen. She had come through the rain behind us, and managed to approach unseen as we sat with our faces turned in another direction. Had some explosive missile been suddenly thrown into our midst, it could not have produced greater consternation than did these words. For a moment we were all speechless from bewilderment. But the next, Rose recovered herself, and the blood rushed in an angry torrent to her face, as shaking off the woman's hand, she exclaimed indignantly, • How dare you ? What right have you to say such words V 'The right of one who knows him far better than you can—for he is my husband !' ' It is false !' broke from Rose's quivering lips, and she turned appealincdy to Mr Hamm< nd ; bnt alas ! his pallid face betrayed an agitation which seemed to confirm the woman's statement. ' This woman is mad,' he said, striving hard to maintain his composure. But Rose heeded not his words. She knew intuitively that the worst was true. Mr Aslatt was at her side in a moment, assuring her, as he tenderly supported her fainting form, that she need not fear, for the woman's Btory should not be believed without full proof. But she made no reply; indeed I doubt whether ahe heard what he said, for Nature kindly came to her relief, and she sank into unconsciousness. Chapter IV. I will pass over the misery of the days that followed; days stretched by anxiety and suspense to double their ordinary length. The woman succeeded only too well in proving the truth of her story; and knowing how useless it would be, Mr Hammond did not attempt to deny that she was his wife. Nor did he endeavor to justify his conduct, which was truly inexcusable. Yet in after years, when our indignation had cooled, and we were able calmly to reflect upon the history thus revealed, we could not help pitying the unfortunate young man. He had not been much past twenty when, on a visit to Wiesbaden, he had made the acquaintance of a woman several years older than himself, whose brilliant beauty and fascinating address had fairly bewitched him, She was a gay adventuress, who, living by the chances of the gaming table, and tir«d of such a precarious livelihood* had fostered the young m£,n ; s passion, and then condescended to marry him.

Alas ! Frederick Hammond had not been long injuried bofore he bittorly regretted tho

Btep he had taken. His wife proved the hane of his life. She had contracted the habit of drinking to excess, and her intemperance destroyed all hope of happiness in domestic life. Her husband's love changed to hatred, and unable to control her vicious propensities, he deserted her. In one place after another he took re'uge, hoping to eludo her search » but again and again she succeeded in tracking him to his place of concealment, though she was willing to leave him to himself when he had satisfied her demand for money. But at last for a long time he heard nothing of her j and as the months passed into years, the hope sprang up within him that his wife was either dead, or else had lost all clue to his whereabouts. Weary of residing abroad, he returned to England, and finding it difficult to obtain other employment, was glad to accept the post of village schoolmaster, for he thought the little country village might prove a secure hiding place. And here becoming acquainted with Miss Sinclair, he basely yielded to the temptation to aot as though the hope he cherished that his wife was dead were already a realised fact. He dared not openly ask Rose's hand of her guardian : but he sought by all the means in his power to win her love, and did not rest till he had won from her a response to his avowed affection, aud gained her consent to a secret engagement. It was a cruel selfish proceeding, for which his past misfortunes offered no excuse; and thankful indeed were we that his scheme of eloping with Rose had been frustrated. But poor Rose! Bitter indeed was her distress when she found we had no comfort to give her. The shock was too great for her physical strength, and ere many hours had elapsed it was evident that a severe illness would be the consequence. For days she lay tossing in feverish delirium; whilst we kept anxious watch by her bedside, much fearing what the issue might be. But our fears were mercifully disappointed; the fever turned, and soon the much-loved patient was pronounced out of danger. But the improvement was very gradual, and after a while almost imperceptible. Extreme exhaustion was accompanied in Rose's case by an apathetic indifference to everything around her, which formed the chief barrier to her recovery. She felt no desire to get strong again, now that life had no longer any great attraction for her. 'lf we could only rouse her to take an interest in anything she would soon be well/ the doctor said to me one day. A possibility of doing so ooourred to me at that moment, and I resolved to try, though I could scarcely hope to succeed. In the evening, when I was sitting by Rose's couch, and knew that Mr Aslatt had gone out, and would not be back for an hour or two, I said to her gently; ' I think you feel a little stronger to-day; do you not, darling ?' I knelt by her side, and gently drew her head upon my shoulder as I whispered: • I wish you could unburden your heart to me, dear Rose. Would it not be a relief to tell me the sad thoughts that occupy your mind ?'

No answer but by tears, which I was glad to see, for I knew they would relieve her heavy heart, After a whilo, wordß followed. She told me how little she cared to get well again; what a dreary blank life appeared to her, and now that he whom she had so loved and trusted had proved unworthy; how it seemed to her she was of no use in the world, and the sooner she were out of it the better for herself and every one else. And a great deal more in the same strain. I reminded her of her guardian's love for her, and her great anxiety for her recovery, and urged her to try to get well for his sake. But she only shook her head despondingly. ' I have never been anything but a trouble to him,' she said; 'he would be happier without me. If I were out of the way, I daresay he would marry. I used to make plans for his future as well as for my own, you know ; but now everything will be different.' ' I do not think Mr Aslatt would have married,' I ventured to say. ' Why not V asked Rose. I was silent, and she did not repeat the question. ' I have a story to tell you, Rose, which I think you may like to hear,' I said presently. 1 A story !' she said in surprise. • Yes, darling, a story.' ' Many years ago, a gentleman was passing through the streets of Vienna. He was a man about thirty-three years of age, but he looked older, for he had known sorrow and disappointment, and life appeared to him then nought but vanity and vexation of spirit. Yet many would have envied his position, for he possessed much of what the world most values. He was walking listlessly along, when his attention was attracted by a group of musicians who were performing at a corner of a square. In the centre of the band stood a little fair-haired girl about six years old. She was poorly clad. Her tiny feet were bare, and bleeding from contact with the sharp stones with which the roads were strewn; and tears were in her large blue eyes as, in her childish voice, she joined in the song. Her pretty yet sorrowful face, and the plaintive tone in which she sang touched the stranger's kind heart. He stood still to watch the group, and when the song was ended went forward to place some money in the child's upturned palm. 'ls this your little ghl?' he asked the man by whose side she was standing. He replied in the negative. The little girl was an orphan, the child of an Englishman, who had formerly belonged to the band, but who had died some months before, leaving his little daughter entirely dependent on the good-will of his late comrades. (7V) hfi cnntinvad.)