LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1502, 9 December 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE VILLAGE MISTBRV. (“ Chambers’s Journal.”) ( Continued.) I settled down also >nto my appointed place. So strange a beginning to my life at Creatnn had 1 rought me mere rapidly into intimacy with the family at the r-ctorythan months of ordinary intercourse would have done. esp°cially during the time wlnn the invalids yet remained in the village I was alwavs weloomed by both Mr and Mrs Morton; and my old Mend Hr Hamilton was a prime favorite with them and with their daughters. Was he not the oldest friends the girls had? Did they not tease and torment him to their hearts’ content; and as for the rector, he could not do without him, as they were constant companions. So the intercourse between the houses was very frequent, and the girls would often C"me down and have a cup of tea with the d ctor in the afternoon ; but generally, to my disgust, they chose the time when I was out on some hng ride over the moors, and when I r< turned, the old man would say knowingly, ‘ I see the girls are afraid of you Summers ; they only come down when you are safe off. What a dangerous fellow you must he!’

‘ ‘hey are right, sir,’ 1 replied, ‘to come and look after you when lam away When are we to have Miss Lucy’s young fellow down her ? 'J hey promised all sorts of fun at the wedding.’ ‘ Yes,’sighed the doctor; ‘it makes one feel an old man, Summers, to think of that monkey, that I he'd a baby in my arms, going to be married ; it seems only yesterday ; hut so it is. She is a rare go >d girl, and will just be the very wife Frank Lester wants to keep his fine house and play the Lady Bountiful to his cottagers. But the wa'in corner in my old heart is for Hilda Bless her sweet face and pre'ty loving ways. 7 hat’s the girl for me ; and I hope she will me* t with a real good fellow one of these days to take care ot her. Eh, Harry?’ • I hope so, too, sir,’ I replied, but somehow th * subject was not one I cared to pursue further ju«t then, so I asked abruptly, * Who is Miss Brown ?’

‘That is easily told,’ replied the doctor. ‘ She is the governess at the Poplar". You have nob been there yet, aa Mrs Nixon and the children went oIF to the sea-side for a while the very day that poor woman wns buried ; but they will not be absent very long.’

‘I have heard yon speak of Mrs Nixon,’ I replied, ‘mo c than once. Is she a widow?’

‘No no; not a widow,’ said the doctor. ‘ Per hu-hand is a judge or magistrate in India ; and as the climate did not suit his wi'e, he brought her and the children home, settled her at the p oplars, which was to let, found her Miss Brown, and departed to finish out his term of service. Then I suppose he will retire, still comparatively a young man, growl and grumble at his own idleness, and sigh for India again, like all the rest when they come home.’ ‘We will hope not sir,’ said I. ‘But tell me, do you know nothing more of Miss Brown ?’

‘Nothing.’ cried my old friend ; ‘except that Mr Nixon fou - <1 her in London ; that she was at the time staying with a friend who was lady-superintendent of one of the children’s hospitals, and gave her the highest character; and that Nixon told me she was quite irrcfHt'ble ; so he engaged her at once. He was right. He sups his wife exactly; indeed I have never met any one so entirely sympa*hetic and kindly in her ways ; and the children adore her. You saw yourself how active and handy she was that awful night; and as for that baby, it might have been her own, from the way she handled it ’

‘Yes,’said I, rather absently; for, truth to sav, Mi°s Brown’s s 1 range behaviour that awful night, her agitation, and various little circumstances I noticed, had convinced mo that she knew more of the strangers than she had chosen to tell and I was resolved to watch her as closely as I could. During the next two months, nothing particular took place, except at the rectory, where all was bustle and preparation for the wedding ; and on a bright morning early in August, the bells rang out merrily, the churchyard filled with spectators, the village children in their white dres-es strewed the churchyard path with flowers ; and as the hands of the old clock pointed to half past eleven, the bride with her fair attendants appeared. Her father, on whoso arm she leant, look proudly and fondly down upon the beloved daughter at his side. A few solemn w< rks were spoken ; the organ hurst forth into the glorious Wedding March, and Frank and Lucy, husband and wife now, camo down the churchyard path again to her old home. Loud and long were the cheers and many the congratulations that followed ; and after much feasting and merriment, the parting came. Lu 'y’s fair face was saddened for a moment as she crossed the threshold, and leaving go for an instant of her husband’s arm, she ran hack again, and giving one last hearty kiss to her mother, followed her husband, placed her hand trustingly in hi*, entered the carriage and drove aw y. Such a shower of rice and old shoes followed them ; such blessings ! such cheers 1 I looked around for Hilda, hut she had disappeared. I turned into the garden, and saw the Hutto* of her dress as she escaped down a side-walk, and heard the sound of a stifled sob

‘Jiv-t like her!’ I thought. ‘She has tried to st'lle her own feelings in the loss of her only sister and the companion of her life. I will not disturb her. But, ’ I added mentally, ‘what a darling she is !’ Half an hour later I heard Hilda’s merry laugh as she moved among the guests, and was privileged to accompany her when sho went up the village to take old Mrs Watson a hit of cake and tell her all about the wedding. /.ft'*r this followed picnics and excursions almost e cry day ; and as (he weather was glorious and everything favored ns, the time passed hut too quicklv. Dr. Hamilton insisted on doing all the work, and leaving me free to have a holiday. Was ho quite discreet in so doing ? I don’t know 1 only know that somehow the day did not seem half so bright or the party half so pleasant if any one appropriated my usual seat beside Hilda,

Well, all things must have an end. and this very dangerous wmld ng we k with all its festivities ami flirtations, its rambles by the shore, its qui t hours at the rectory with sweet music or merry games, all came to an end ; the guests dispersed, Hilda and her parents went on gome visits to distant friends, and the village relapsed into its ordinary calm. A few day s after these events, Mrs Nixon, with her children and governess, returned from fhc seaside, bringing with them tho see’s of a sort of low intermittent fever, which, though neither danpe-ous nor infectious, was just sufficient to require my con stanfc atleudanco at the Bop'ars. During this time, 1 «aw a great dear of Miss Brown, and could not fail to appreciate her quiet good sense, her presence of mind, and un.

tiring patience with the often fractious children, whom she seemed to have a special gift for amusing. Their mother was not very strong, and Miss Brown was indefatigab e and unwearied in her efforts. I grew to like her very much, and to rely upon her more and more.

Chapter If. Soon after T wa called in to the Poplars, Mrs Nixon asked me who .her anything fresh had been heard about the mysterious woman and child in the village. ‘ Only,’ said I, ‘ that Mrs Ooulson has had a letter, postmark “Loudon, E. 0.,” containing a five-pound note, and written on a slip of paper inside “F t baby’s use.” No clue has been found to the sender as yet.’ ‘lt is a very curious affair altogether,’ said Mrs Nixon. ‘Don’t you thmk so, Miss Brown?’ Miss Brown, whose head was bent low over her work, replied, that it certainly was most strange: and then continued, without raising her head, ‘ls baby well ?’ ‘ Quite well, ’ I replied, ‘ and growing fast. There has been a question as to whether he ought to be baptised ; but the Rf ctor thinks perhaps it may have already been done, and will defer the ceremony for a t>me, unless the child were ill, when of course he would at once do it.’

‘ Is th-re any fear of infection, supposing I went to see baby ?’ asked Miss Brown. ‘ I think not, ’ I answered ; ‘ but it might perhaps be safer not to take him in your arms. ’

* I will attend to your wishes,’ Miss Brown said quietly as she rose and moved towards the door wi n averted face. On her way she stumbled against a small worktable, whose multifarious contents scattered in all direc tions about the floor. ‘ How clumsy rf me !’ she exclaimed ; and as I stooped to assist her in replacing the fallen articles, I noticed that her cheeks w’ere crimson and her eyes fall of tears.

4 What can the mystery be ?’ I said to myself as I rode slowly and thoughtfully homewards, 4 There is certainly a connection between that woman and the child. I know there is. But what ?’

A few days later, I looked in at Mrs Coulson’s. 4 Well, how is baby?’ I inquired. 4 Well sir, he grows, he do; bless him !’ smiled the young woman, as she held up the rosy laughing child in her arms. 4 He is a b auty, and no mistake. I called at the Rectory sir, and gave Mrs Morton that money to keep. Maybe one day he’d be glad enough of it and he doesn’t cost nothing now sir, nothing but looking after. He has lots of clones—a whole suit came for him along with the money the other day; and Miss Brown, she was down too, and brought him the loveliest little frock you ever seen, and souks she had knitted for him while she was away at the sea. Why, bless you. sir, they’re good enough for any quality child. I’ll just let you see them sir.’ 4 1 am no judge of such things, Mrs Ooulson; but I am glad you have them for the baby. ’ And this set me off thinking again. (To hp ro»tin.",pd )