LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1508, 16 December 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

TOE VILLAGE MYSTERY. [" Chambers's Journal."] {Concluded) I took it; and wo talked on for a while, Mr Nixon observing ' You see, I was quite right, Bsauchamp, to insist on your coming down to the Popiars with me. Here is one pleasant result already.' 'Yes,'said the colonel, a weary shade of pain and anxiety coining over his face. ' Bat 1 must not stay long with you, Nixon ; you know my business is urgent.' ' A day or two's rest in the country won't hurt you at all events,'said bis friend ; 'and I believe we are just at Orestoii. —Is it not 8 >, Dr. Bummers?' ' Yes,' said I; ' here we are.' And we all thro? alighted, sent on the impedimenta by a conveyance, and walked up the village tog tber. The air was cold; but it was a sunny day, very sevonahle and pl-asant, and we enj »yed the brisk walk. As Ave approached Mrs C mlsou'a cottage, b.aby was trying to peep over tKc placed across the threshold to prevent his tumbling d 'wn the door-st< p ; ana when he caught sight of me, h" stri't.'h'.d out his little arms for his accustomed toss. ' Hollo, Master Ba*>y! what arc you doing there, sir'.''.-a'd T, as I stooped dov/n and lifted him in my arms.—' This is our ahp.W-! baby,' said 1 to Colonel r>eauoh,amp.. *ls he not a fine specimen';.' The little one .rowed and laughed, and Mrs Coulsnn < ame running out to see what was the matter,

' We are admiring your littl« sou,' said Mr Nixon. ' I never saw a finer child.' ' He is not mine, sir,' said she, courtesying; ' only to take care of. We don't know who his father and mother are —bless him 1 But he'll never want for some one to see to him, he'B such a pet in the village I made him smart to-day, sir, because Miss Morton wanted him at the Beet'.ry for a bit this afternoon! and I was just cleaning mysolf ready to take him.' All this time Colonel Beauchamp had watched the baby with the most intense interest; his gaze seemed riveted upon the child; at last he paid, in a low hoarse voice : ' Did you say that child has neither father nor m thor ? Who is it ? Where did it come from ?' 'ltis a long story,' said I—' too leng to tell you now. But !■ you care to hear it and have time to listen, I will tell it to you soma day.' ' Those eyes are hcr's, her own; she speaks t") me again in them !' he murmured to himself, ia so low a voice that I scarcely heard him Then aloud: *I am very fond of children, Dr. Summers. Do you think baby would come to me V ' I am sure he would,' I replied, as I placed the little one in those great strong arms. How tenderly he took it, how eagerly he looked into its little face ! At length his eye fell upon the child's frock, of some bright blue material, with a strip of delicate embroidery round it. ' Why I drew this pattern myself!' he cried—' Vfr Summers, you may think me very strange, but I must know the story of this child. My whole happiness, my bliss or my misery for ever, mai depend upon it! When may I come to you V ' I shall be at home and ready for you at five o'clock this afternoon,' I said, ' and will tell you faithfully all I know.' He pressed my hand. ' I will surely come,' ho said : and then hastened after Mr Nixon, who, naturally anxious to reach his home, was wondeiing at his friend's delay. I hurried to the Rectory, and sat loner with Hilda, telling her all my thoughts and notions about Miss Brown and her story, and showing her my brother's letter. She was in the wildest excitement, and could scarcely control herself. ' To think, Harry, that you havo g t it all right already !' she cried, dancing about the room. ' Oh, how delicious !' ' You forget, darling, that though Miss Brown may be the lady Colonel Beauchamp married, it is not yet proved that she is his wife,' said I 'Oh, I don't know,' cried Hilda. 'I know it is a 1 right; and it must, and it shall, and it will be right! lam quite sura about it! So don't you go and bo disagreeable, aud croak so ' At last we arranged that Hilda was to persuade Mim Brown to spend the evening with her ; and that if all went well I was to bring Colonel Beauchamp to the Rectory about fcix o'clock. If things did not turn out rightly, I was to send Hilda a note. I own I was so excited myself, that the afternoon wore away very, very slowly ; but as live o'clock struck, Colonel Beauchamp entered my little stuay, and drawing a chair to the cosy fire, I bade him be seated. 'You must thiuk me a strange being,' he began, ' to crave an interview with you on this subject so soon ; but I must tell you my story, if you will let me, and then you will see how my happiness or misery may depend on the talo you have t~> relate.' I assured him, as before, that I was ready to tell him all I knew ; and ho proceeded, relating what had occurred, exactly as my brother had told it to mo, up to the time of his marriage and departure for India. He dwelt long on his unbounded love for his wife, on her apparently boundless love for him. Conjecture was h peless ; he could not suggest any motive for her abandonment of him. Ho then told me of the wonderful and startling likeness in our mysterious baby to his lost wife, and of the strange similitude of the pattern of the emhr idery on the infant's dress to one he had himself designed for his wife of her favorite flowers, the Marguerites. When he paused, I asked abruptly—' Did you see Miss at the Poplars ?' ' Who is she ?' he asked. ' I know no Mies Brown.' 'She is governess there,' I returned. ' You are sure you did not see her ?' ■ Excuse me, Dr. Summers ; you are not listening to me,'he raid coldly. 'I have taxed your attention too long and ton selfishly. I know no one of that name, nor do 1 care to. Why should I look at the governess ? What is she to me ? I tell you a story that deeply affects me and my life's happiness, and you begin to talk about some Miss Brown, who, if I remember right. I heard is about to leave under rather disgraceful' ' Hold!' I cried starting up. 'lf I mistake not. Miss Brown is the mother of that child you saw ; Miss Brown once believed herself your wife.' 'Once believed!' What do you mean?' cried the colonel 'Speak quickly. Tell me the worst, and may God help me to bear it !'

I made him sit down, while I told him as rapi ily and as clearly as I could all Miss Brown's story. His face lit np as he heard of the love she bore him, her grief at parting from him, her joy in the thought of reunion. But when 1 came, to the dreadful letter she had received, and its contents, he started up, exclaiming—'lt is a fa'schood! She is my own true wife, and nothing else!' I went on, heedless of the interruption, and told how Miss Wright had, or thought she had proved the facts. He pondered long, hiding his face between his hands ; when he raised it, it was very pale. He said with a deep sigh—' My poor darling, how ehe has suffered All I can do from this time will be to devote myself to making her happy ; and so I will, God helping me ! I will explain everything to you now, Pr. Summers, as [ ou»ht to have done long ago to my wife; but the tale of sin and shame was, I thought, unfit for her pure ears to hear. That woman who wrote to ray wife was right. I had been married before. When a boy at college, I was fascinated by a woman who was a singer at one of the music halls, fancied myself in and was induced by her to marry her Her name was Julia West; and we were legally married in the church and by the clergyman named in that unhappy letter to my wife, which I take it wns written by my first wife's companion and friend, who wis present at our marriage. I was scarcely of age myself ; and had no sooner been entrapped into the business than I found it became a ourso to both of us. We lived a wretched lifo for about a year; when my wifo. chafing at the restraint and decorum I insisted upon, left mo to pursue her former calling. She rapidly went downwards deeper ami deeper, and for some time I heard nothing of her. At last I was appealed to. ller health was broken; her vice, her only means of support, was gone ; and exacting from her a promise to live quietly and respectably with her mother .and crippled brother, who were, really honest people, I, as in duty bound, made her an allowance, to be regularly drawn, by a solicitor in the town in which she lived, every quarter-day Four years ago she died, leaving me a letter containing an earnest appeal en bthalf of h?r aged mother and invalid brother, who, she represented, would l)e deprived now of the comfortable home she had been able to give them. I heard that her life in latter years had been a reformed one, and found, "» inquiry, that her statements respecting her relations were true. I therefore desired the lawyer to continue drawing the same allowance as before fur thq family; and hence this dreadful mistake lias arisen. Had Miss Wright gone a little further and insisted on seeing the person who signed the receipts, aho would have found out all; but she must have jumped very hastily, I fear, at a conclusion. —My poor darling V he added, springing up and seizing hifl ha,t; 'I must go and find her at oucy.' said I, 'one moment. Mrs Beauchamp i J at the llcctory now ; but remember she doc* Tiot know, she is unprepared ; she Would it not be better if some one' • No, Dr. Summers !' be said firmly. '•My

wife shall hear the story from no one but myself, and I must do it at once. It will not take Jong to convince her,' he added smiliDg; ' nor, I think, to gain her forgiveness. Let me go.' I assented silently. He pressed my hand very warmly. • I little dreamt of finding such a friend an hour ago,'he said. 'God bless you!' ' Kay,' said I, ' I have done nothing except keep my eyes and ears open.' 'To some purpose, at all events,' he added, as he linked his arm within mine, and with long rapid strides walked on. Five minutes later we were at the Rectory. I walked in unannounced ; and opening the library door a very little, we looked in. The room was lit up with the warm glow of a bright wood-fire. Hilda sat in her own little chair beside it; and at her feet sat Miss Brown, or rather Mrs Beauchamp. Her fa :e was very pad, and the traces of tears were in her eyes and on her cheeks. I closed the door quickly, gave three loud sharp knocks upon it, and we entered. Hilda started up. ' All is well, my darling,' I whispered. I saw a slight figure dart forward, then pause suddenly, and holding by the table, lift a face as white as ashes to the intruder. I saw Colonel Beauchamp dash forward and strain her to his heart, murmuriug loving —' My wife, my darling wife !' And then I whispered to Hilda—'Come away; let us leave them now.' Hilda was quite overcome, and T carried her off, shedding tears of joy. In a few moments she fled away, and running to the drawing room, seized the baby, who was pitting on Mrs Morton's lap. She carried him to the door of the library, * which she gently opened, and having deposited the little one just within the floor, she ran back to me, saying, ' Now they're all right. Begin and tell me the whom story, Harry. I told Margaret everything would come right when you took it in hand.' ' No,' said ; ' I think the baby did it. Let us go and tell the story to the elders now, or they will think us quite demented.' And so we did ; and the universal verdict was, 'The baby did it.' And surely no happier people were in the world that night than we people of Creston. How proud little Mrs Beau >hamp looked of her tall soldierly husband ; how she laughed and cried, and nearly devoured the baby ! And with what loving eyes her gallant soldier looked down at her, as if he never could believe in his recovered happiness. Mr and Mis Nixon came down in t*>e evening, very happy likewise ; and as for Hilda and mo, no need to say much on that score. Next Sunday, the church witnessed within its walls the baptism of the baby at last— Arthur Henry Beauchamp, after i f s father and its godfather, my unworthy self; and Hilda stood as godmother. Every one was glad, everyone was happy, except poor little Mrs Coulson, who, though well cared for, lamented her severe trial—the parting with Baby. And in the beauteous summer-time, amid the cheering of the people and the ringing of the bells and the blessings of all around us, I carried off my wife ; and among our dearest and most valued friends are Colonel Beauchamp and Margaret; and the tale of The Village Mystery is often asked for, and often told to eager listeners.