LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1448, 7 October 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

SACRIFICED TO AMBITION. By Stella. [“Tinsley.”] ( Continued .) Chapter V. The early spring had come round again, and Madeline Beverley had grown so weak as to be compelled to remain in bed. Mrs Beverley had not been reluctant in obtaining the best medical advice, and had felt an icy hand clutch at her heart when the physician begged of her to prepare for the worst —that the poor invalid would most likely pass away when the summer flowers began to bloom. Florence had been seized with a violont paroxysm of grief, and screamed hysterically at the announcement of the news, and was taken with a second edition when her common sense told her that her wedding would have to be put off for that year. Alas, she knew not what that year would bring forth ! Madeline was perfectly resigned to her fate. She had insisted on the doctor giving her a truthful account of her state, and when he, the doctor, who was a white-haired old man, turned away to hide the tears that had dimmed his kindly eye, she was the one who sympathisingly clasped his hand in her own, and murmured her thanks for his tender regards. The morning was clear and cool, one of those light sunny mornings of spring before the sun has much power to give warmthjust such a morning as was that when the reader made the acquaintance of the Beverley family in the opening chapter. Only twelve months had passed away, only twelve months ; but what an eternity had it seemed to the invalid girl! All was quiet, awfully quiet, at Myrtle Down ; awfully quiet, for the reaper Death was expected to pay a visit and carry away the young and guileless soul of poor Madeline.

So calm and peaceful she looked as she slumbered, utterly unconscious of the anxious faces around her, with eyes that were red and sore with weeping. A blow had struck the hearts of her mother and daughter Florence at last! They both wondered at themselves and at each other for being capable of such an amount of feeling, but even the hardest and cruellest feel awed in the presence of ghastly Death The old doctor was there also, silent and grave, for he had been touched, as he had never been touched before, by the patient look of resignation and the holy calm that pervaded the sweet young face of the dying girl; no longer was she plain and uninteresting, but ethereal and saiut-like in her beauty.

V' ith a gentle smile she opened her eyes to gaze on all around, and tneu uttered her last words upon earth, feebly, so feebly, though at first distinct and clear. * Mamma —come nearer—kiss me—goodbye - I’m going—an angel has come for me—-good-bye—and papa —dear papa —tell him I did not forget him, and —’ But the rest was too weak to be heard.

After a brief pause Madeline again spoke: ‘FI rence—dear Florence—be happy—and —and—kind to him —Adolphus—forgive me, I loved him once, but that is all over now—forgive me, dear, and —and —bless you both. Good-bye ! ’ And she raised her sister’s hand to her lips and kissed it ; then turning to the old doctor, she smiled and said, ‘ God bless you I ’ And so the poor sufferer died. Died at peace with all, and glad to leave this world of cafes and troubles. Happier, far happier would she be in that land of truth and love, where her gentle soul would meet with others kindred to her own. A small bunch of faded wild flowers was found under the pillow where lay the cold dead head, and it was the old doctor who gave orders that it should be placed inside her coffin, to bo buried with her.

For a whole week the house was shut up. Mrs Beverley was too ill to leave her room, and Florence went about like one who had had a great fright —as indeed she had, for never had she been brought face to face with death before.

The news was broken gently to the aged father by the sympathetic old doctor, who grieved as much as if he had lost a beloved child himself.

At first the shattered understanding of Montague Beverley could not comprehend the full meaning of the loss ; but when the truth dawned upon him, the reaction was too great, he was taken with a lit, from which he never recovered consciousness, but passed on after his much-loved child, who had been the only solace of his old age, Whether the second loss was a relief rather than a sorrow to those left behind, w i> will not say ; but certainly a meaning look that savoured very much of approval passed between the mother and daughter almost as soon as the dying man had drawn his last breath.

A month paired by, and Mrs Beverley and Florei’ were sitting together one morning is their own private apartment, whioh was dignified with the aristocratic appellation of ‘ the boudoir. ’ Both ladies were becoming attired in mourning robes of closely-fitting black, with frilimgs of tulle at the throat and wrists, and. ornaments of rough jet.

Florence Beverley had regained her good looks, but a more matured expression had taken the place of her former girlishness, giving her a more thoughtful, perhaps, though no less beautiful, appearance ; indeed, her large dark eyes seemed to have gained depth and loveliness, and though her cheeks might not be of so rich a roseate hue as of yore, yet they were soft and delicately rounded, and, if anything, more charming than before.

The mother, Mrs Beverley, was again her old self; majestic, dignified, calm, and severe, a species of cold statuary exquisitely modelled. Looking up from her writingtable, where lay a heap of unanswered letters, the lady addressed her daughter, who was carelessly reclining on a couch and pulling to pieces in an absent kind of manner, for her thoughts seemed far away, a pretty antimacassar, a piece of poor Madeline’s industry. * Florence, I’ve been thinking it would be beat for us to make up our minds at once about leaving this house. You see, now that you are really engaged to Mr Wotherspoon, and—and—the others are out of the way—l mean—well, that we are alone, it would be greatly to our advantage to reduce our expenditure by giving up housekeeping : and—we might take a tour on the Continent, now that your marriage is put off until next spring. A great bo’-e that putting off. I never liked the idea; not that I’m superstitious, but it —it’s — * Unlucky, certainly,’ Florence broke in. * I agree with you, mamma, in your idea of travelling for a while ; and if people should make odious remarks, why, we could always say that we could not bear to remain in the house after papa’s death, you know. If we could get away to be in Pads in time for the late season, now, it would be delightful. And, who knows ? I might meet with another and a better than Adolphus—disagreeable bear ! I’m sure I’ve put up with his sulks and humours like—like Qriselda herself ; but I take an account of them all, and —and—he shall pay dearly for them, as soon as I become the Hon. Mrs Adolphus Wotherspoon,’said she, with an expression of determination on her haughty lips. * Well, well, Florence, it won’t be for long, dear; it would all have been settled now if it hadn’t been for—for—’ Mrs Beverley stammered and looked away. ‘ Why don’t you say what you mean, mamma? For papa, you would say, who only lived on out of spite, and died when he was really wanted to live Oh, dear ! I’m the most wretched being on the face of the earth; everything is plot and counter-plot, with traps to catch one, whichever way one turni—scheming and planning always. I'm heartily tired of it, and at times am inclined to give it a I up and retire from the world. Let us try the Continent by all means, mamma,’ said Florence, glad to catch at any chance of change. ‘ But Adolphus—what would he say ? Would he like it ? ’ a'ked the mother. ‘ Like it ? I don’t believe he cares a straw for me, and that’s the truth ; and if he marry me it will only be because he dare not shirk out of it. I wish—l wish—l hadn’t given young Spanker his cong6 so speedily. What a fool I was! Oh, dear! ’ sighed Florence Beverley, for she was beginning to feel dreadfully hlasi. * Young Spanker, indeed, with a paltry £SOO a year 1 What would you be as a poor man’s wife, I should like to know ? ’ asked the indignant mother, with a tinge of sarcasm in her voice.

‘ What should I be ? ’ Florence repeated. ‘I should be a better and a happier woman; and, perhaps, that is not to be scorned so much as you would have it, mamma— ’ * Don’t you becin to moralise, Florence, pray, I am sure I have done my duty as a mother; so don’t turn upon me,’ said Mrs Beverley, assuming the air of a martyr, as she occasionally did to her daughter Florence.

‘ I’m not turning upon you in particular. ‘ It’s the whole world I blame, and—and—myself too. But there, I’m in for it now, and—l mast go on with it. So let us try Baris first, and then the German spas, and then—’

‘As you like, my dear ; only don’t give way to temper and moralising, for I don’t know which affects me most ’

Even the fr gid Mrs Beverley thawed in the presence of her daughter, and became a mere tool in her hands.

There was certainly some reason in Florence Beverley’s affirming that her Jlancd ‘did not care a straw for her,’ as she expressed it, in so much that his conduct towards her —ever since the night of the county ball, when he was in such a state of excitement, and had made an offer of his hand and heart there and then to the girl who overwhelmed him with her brilliant beauty—had waxed cooler and cooler, until it seemed as though he were endeavouring to arouse the dormant spirit of his betrothed, and by that means extricate himself from his engagement. (To he continued.)