LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1560, 18 February 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THAT OTHER FELLOW. (Concluded.) So the days went by. I progressed not more in my studies than in the affections of Constance. But I, perhaps, should add that my advancement in learning was neither rapid nor overwhelming. Time sped. The doctor was affable, f-tuart Smart was laconic, Constance was distract!-gly fickle, and the other fellow was attentive and industrious. A month rapidly passed, and then she avoided me. f-he shunned her canoe, and, in order to keep me at a more apurouriate distance, attached to her side a couple of girls—senseless, soulless beings I thought them —the daughters of the local doctor. Constance allowed these young persons to adore her, and they, by their continual presence, threw such obstacles in the way of my adoration that her victory was, if possible, more complete. She grew paler, t o and the .m y exercise she allowed berse f was an afternoon airing in the river, when the soulless ones would punt her

mildly up stream, an t then drift back. I accompanied her ones oa one of thete lazy outings, and enjoyed it after a disconsolate fashion She read a book I remember all the time } and I employed myself in watching the action of her dark lashes against her white skin, and the varying expression which broke from the corners of her mouth. I was hardly less egotistical than most boys of my age, bat I began to realise what a worthless person I was in comparison with her bewitching and semi-divine self. Constance was worthy of the greatest and noblest m»n in the land, while—l P And in the meantime Godfrey Stow, attat twenty, was morally convinced, however much he revelled in doubt, that Constance Silverthorne a"d he were spiritually one, as he was d*ter mined they should presently be morally and practically.

Some Frenchman has remarked that a man of sense may love like a madman, but never like a fool ; and if this moral reflection be just, it is evident enough that after the fashion of a fool I must have worshipped my divinity. I never saw a maniac making love, and now adays I don’t believe a man of sense ever love" at all. Yes, I loved her, possibly like a fo 1, at all events like a boy. I have seen and know many women since wh< se beauty was indescribable, whose fascination was enthralling, whose wit was inspiring. I have been enticed through the fancy. I have been flattered through the intelle t, but never have I thought so unselfishly or lived so free from worldly craving" as during those summer days at Greybridge, with Const mce as the goal of my ambition and my life. One happy consolation was me After the soulless ones had received their dismissal, when the house was still, the doctor dreaming of his work on the digamma, 'mart of his next cricket match, and the other fellow of his oppressed Magyars. I used to leap out of the study window and watch the flickering light which shone through the curtains of her bed chanr er. Frequency she would lean ou f on the sill and watch th the stars for balf-an-hour at a time. I took care to let her be aw ere of my presence, and then she would bid me a s ft ‘ good night,’ and retire to rest One evening—bow well I remembe' it—the light was flickering as usual, but no divinity was forthcoming. T waited for au hour at least, and then her light was put out. Oh ! the anguish of that sudden eclipse. She could not have knowa that I was there, leaning, anxiously ex pectant, under the copper beech! I rushed to the study, snatched a pile of newspapers, and set light to the blameless sheets a dozen yards distant from her win dow. The flame rose and lit up the solemn grandeur of the tress ; still no movement in her room. I threw patriarchal “ Time"” on blazing “ 1 elegraph,’, heaoed blushing ‘ G’obe” upon incandescent “World,” with such effect that never have these irreproachable journals thrown so much light on a ‘sitnat'on’since. Yet there was no responsive glimmer from Constance’s chamber. The fiery co’umns of even ‘ world-wide circulations’ are less than ephemeral, and in a minute and a half they were dust. Then a voic“ reached me from her window.

‘Bh-ush! How could you? Do go to bed.’ And I did.

She next day she avoided me. And I had a notion she would, but felt piqued nevertheless. At night I mastered my desire, and did not watch beneath her window; of course I passed a sleepless night. In the mornng I met her among the standard roses. She gave me a budding flower. ‘This, without asting, she said. I know I ought to say something, if only to declare my pa-sion, but I could’t. I blushed pink»r than the rose itself. * You are a very sil'y b <y.’ she said, oh ! so demurely ; ‘ and why on earth do yon wander ab< ut the garden at night ?’ ‘ I didn’t wander last night,’ I returned with au eff rt at indifference ‘No,’ said she, fixing the rose in my coat quite as a matter of course, as it seemed. ‘ No, you didn’t wander last night. And. pray, why didn’t you ? ’ HL One evening after dinner she went into the drawing-room, contrary to her usual custom, and seated herself before the piano. The other fellow was there reading his favourite Rochefoucald, but rose as she entered, and placed some music on the in•trument. Th f n, as a matter of course he began to sing. T’o do him justice, the wretch had a magnificent voice, and the two presently started the duet, ‘ La ci damm ’ nmeh tw I felt de trap, and retired to a dark corner and watched them. The melody was anything but music in my ears, and a dull aching pain into my hea»t. Jealousy is nursed by doubt, and I was determined to put an end to both as soon as possible. In the m aniime their singing was unbearable. 1 rose and abruptly left the room, thre-v myself upon the lawn and smoked. Perhaps ten minutes passed, and then she, unconscious of my supine presence, stepped out upon the grass alone f*he was singing lightly to herself the refrain of her favorite song; — ‘ Sometimes forward, sometimes coy, ‘ Yet she never fails to please.’ ‘ Oh, here you a r e, Men sire. So you don’t like my singing? ’ ‘ Yes I do, Constance; I like it more thru words can express when you sing to me ; a d < sprang to her side, all on fire with the sweet intonation of her voice

* And may X not sing for any one else ? ’ ‘C* stance, dear, this doubt is killing me. You know I loved you, do you not ? ’ * Yes,’ she returned so f tly. ‘I suppose so, I always expected you would. ‘You darling I’ Doubt vanished for ever, and I pressed her to my heart. ‘ No, no, no Godfrey. Indeed no ’ But I held her doss, and, would listen to no maidenly protest now she was mine. ‘ I shad speak to the doctor to night,’ I said emphatically; ‘tonight. Onstance.’ Gracious ! what are you thinking aboutf’ she cried in alarm. ‘ Papa would imme diately pack me off to Yorkshire. Oh, I am sure he would. He did it only last spring.’ ‘ Last spring ? ’ ‘ Yes ; you don’t suppose that you are the first man who has—has fallen in love with me ?’

Of course ; how could I expect anything so ridiculously unlikely : I felt a pang, never thi less

‘ No, Godfrey, you must be calm and undemonstrative. 1 eave it all to me. And you really want me to be your wife?’ ‘ Darling, my only ambition is to devote mysdf to you,’ * It’s very prettily said. No, Godfrey, not a.-ain. Tiresome boy ; well—there. ’ The next few days fled away like a dream. Occasionally I saw the other fell iw addressing her, and then I forgave him, and began to find some go' d points about him which hitherto I had failed to appreciate. After all, he couldn’t help loving her. At the same time I w-as convinced that the one duty I owed myself and Constance was a speedy wedding. My mother would love her at first sight, and my good-natured guardian was, I knew, an advocate for early marriages. I should ba of ago in a few months, and my means would be sufficient to provide for our modest wants. Again I urged Constance to let me ask the doctor for her hand.

‘ And lose me for ever, Godfrey ?’ she would ask with tears in her eyes. Her answer was of course conclusive. There was nothing to be done but an elopemeut. 1 did not like the idea, but anything was preferable to th? lo"S of Constance. So s‘ie aud i began to plot, and without any interne trouble we arrange ! our plan. The last train left re.ybrHge statim at IMG ; we should reach London about iQ.IS, and 1 should im-r'edixtely take her to the house of my old nurse, who was now married and lived in Camberwell. The good old creature was true as steel and I c mid trust her. la Camberwell, therefore, Constance should remain until the wedding took place, the next day if possible, and then we w mid together ask forgivtuass from Capa Silvorthore.e. At nine o’clock on the appointed night—jt was a Friday—l remained behind, accord-

ing to our plan, 1 1 sec tint no inqn'sitivu eyes had watched her departure. Every* thing was quiet The doctor vss in his sanctum, the servants were going to bed, was asleep in his study, and th" other fellow was reading unconcernedly by the window.

‘What a temhln sell for Glioaka!’ I chuckled to myself, and then I scudded acrn»s the fields and reached the station just in time. Constance was waiting for me, and I rushed to the office to get the tickets.

‘ I got the tickets, Godfrey/ said she; ‘I thought you miv>ht be late, and I saved the time, you see,’ We walked on to the platform. As the train entered the station Constance—who, contrary to my suggestion, wore no veil—bade the station ma*ter * Good nigh*,’

* Good night, miss,’ said the official, look* ing f r om me to her in surprise. ‘ Ts this the to Waterloo? ’ cried I.

‘ Yes s’r, jump in/ returned the porter. And when we were seated the door was looked, and the 930 train started on its journey np, • Mine at last, Constance/ I whinnered to the b a autiful girl at my side. ‘ Who shad separate us now ? ’

She shivered slightly as my arm encircled her, but I took no notice. I was in Eh shun —no matter how s’owlv the train rolled along, h"w often we stepped—at one point in the middle of the line it seemed we waited ten minutes—she was by my side th« girl I fondly loved, mine now and evermore.

At length we reached Waterloo ; we were twenty minutes rast our time ; no matter — now for Carab«>r well.

T sprang oat of the carriage. »nd heavensJ —the first person I encou tered was that other fellow, whom I had left an hour ago in the study at Orevbridge reetory. The# was no mistaking him. (7e certaWv had not travelled by our train How on ea>-th ? Ke advanced to the carriage and raised his hat

‘I have been waiting ten minutes,’ he said to Constance; ‘come.’ She stepped f f om the carriage and took his arm. I staggered l -ack dumfouaded. ‘Wait!’ I cried; ‘confound you, sir; what do you mean ? ’ He shrugg u d his shoulder*, and led her to a hansom awaiting his orde'».

‘Mr Stow, said she, turning round to ppeak to me, ‘I have been wrong, cruel oerhaps, but you must jearn to forgive me ’

'Come, Constance,’ said Glicska, resolutely, as h« handed her into the cab. ‘Good night, Stow; many thanks for your services ; you are a brave boy, isn’t it ? ’

And the driver whipped up his hors-i, and Constance Silverthorne was carried home from my sight for ever * # * * *

I never returned to Greybridge. In a few months I nassed my examination, and went abroad. The following year at Hamburg I met Stuart Smart, who gave me some information of my Berkshire asso dares. Constance had married the other fellow, and the doctor, unable to carry on his work without their asei-tance, had graciously forgiven them. They were quite a happy family, Smart observed. Constance and her husband had secretly engaged for years, but as the doctor would not hear of their marriage, they had determined to elope. I had been used as the means of putting the doctor off the track.

‘ Yes, I understand all that now,’ I remarked to Smart; ‘ but how on earth did that other fellow get to Waterloo before we did F ’ ‘Ah 1 that was doosid clever of them. The last advertised up-train from Grey bridge to London leaves at 9.30. That’s a local train. At 9.15 the Southampton express is due at Greybridge, but is always twenty minutes late. You started at 930 punctually. Five minutes afterwards the express arrived, which the other fellow must have caught. You were shunted on to a sliding, while express and Master Glicska passed you. Eino illce lachrymae! Ta*

Nowadays I can look back without pain upon my sojourn at Greybrilge for lam morally convinced of the truth of the maxim that 4 Nothing is more natural and more fallacious than to persuade ourseives that we are beloved.