LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1623, 3 May 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

4*. . mu s mop I "nrs Visions. CifAPifeit I. I was walking homo one evening along an autumnal road, and hurrying, for T was a little belated, when I thought I heard a step following mine. I stopped, the step also stopped. I looked back ; there was no one to be seen ; but when I set off again I once more heard the monotonous footfall. Sometimes it seemed to miss a beat; sometimes it seemed to strike on dead loaves, and then to hurry on again. This unseen march or progress was no echo of my own, for it kept an independent measure. The road was dull ; twilight was closing in ; the weather was dark and fi'fnl ; overhead the flying clouds were drifting across a lowering sky. Ml round about me fogs and evening damps were rising. I thought of the warm fireside at Keck Villa I had left behind me ; to be walking alone hy this gloomy road was in itself depressing to spirits not very equable at the best of times, and this monotonous accompaniment jarred upon my nerves. On one side of the road was a high hedge ; on rhe other a rusty iron railing with a ploughed field beyond it. A little further away stood a lodge by two closed gates. TheavViole place had long since been directed and left to ruin —one streak in the sky seemed to give light enough to show the forlornness which a more friend'y darkness might have hidden It is difficult to describe the peculiar impression cf desolation and abandonment this place produced upon people passing along the high road. The place was called “ The Folly ”by the neighbours, and the story ran that long years ago some Scotchman had meant to build a palace there for his bride ; but the biide proved false ; the man was ruined The house for which such elaborate plans had been designed was never built, although the gates and the lodge stood waiting for it year after year. The lodge had been originally built upon some fancy Italian model, but the terrace was falling in, the pillars were cracked and weather-stained, the closed gates were rusteaten ; the long railings, which were meant to inclose gardens and pleasure grounds, were, drooping unheeded. In the centre of the field, a great heap showed the place where the foundations of the house had been begun, and on the mound stood a sign post, round which the mists were gathering. Meanwhile I hurried along, trying to reason away my superstitious fears. The steps were real steps, I told myself : perhaps there was some one behind the hedge to whose footsteps I was listening, I thought of the old Ingoldsby story of the little donkey and the frighted ghost I scolded myself, but in vain , a enrious feeling of helplessness had overcome me. I could not even summon up courage to cross the road and look. I felt convinced that I should see nothing to account for the steps which still haunted me, and I did n t want to be thrown into terrified intangible speculations, which have always had only too great a reality for me. I was still in this confusion of mind, when I heard a sound of voices cheerfully breaking the silen e and dispelling its suggestions, a roll of wheels, the cheerful patter of a pony’s feet upon the road.

I turned in relief, and recognised the lamps of my aunt’s little pony carriage coming up from the station. As it caught mo up I saw my aunt herself and a guest neatly tucked up beside her, with a portmanteau on the opposite seat. The carriage stopped, to exclaim, to scold, to order me in. After a short delay the portmanteau was hauled up on the box to make room. Mr Geraldine, the arriving guest, gave up his seat to me. I did not like to to tell them how grateful I was for this opportune lift, or for the good company in which I found myself. The pony was not yet going at its full speed when we passed the lodge. ‘ Why, that place must be inhabited at last ; there is a light in the window,’ said my Aunt Mary, leaning forward as we passed the lodge. As she spoke a figure came out to the closed gate, and stood looking through the bars at the carriage. It was that of a short, broad-set man, with a wide-awake slouched hat over his eyes, and a rough jacket huddled across his shoulners. He seemed to be scanning the carriage ; but when the lamps flashed in his face he drew back from the light, I just caught sight of a dulll, sullen countenance, and as the carriage drove on, and I looked back, I saw that the solitary man was still staring after us, standing alone in the field where the streak of light was dying in the horizon and the vapor rising from the ground. ‘ That is not a cheerful spot to choose for a residence,’ said Mr Geraldine deliberately. ‘ What can induce anybody to live there ?’ ‘ Something, probably, which induces a great many people to do very strange things,’ said Aunt Mary, smiling; ‘poverty, Mr Geraldine-’

* That is an experience fortunately unknown to mo,’ said Mr Geraldine, tucking the rug round his legs. Rock Lodge is at some distance from a railway : the garden is not pierced by flying shrieks and throbs; it flowers silently amid outlyincr fields, with tall elm trees to mark their bound Ties, The road thither leads across a flat country; it skirts a forest in one place, and passes more than one brick baked village, with houses labelled, far the convenience of passers-by; Villas Post Office, r chools, Surgery, and so on. We saw Dr. Evans’ head peeping over his wire blind as we passed through Kockberry, and then five minutes more brought us to the gates of Rock Villa, where my aunt has lived for many years. My cousins came out to greet the newcomer. ‘Aunt Mary’s bachelor,’ they used to call him in private; in public, he was ‘ Uncle Charles ’ The two little boys, my aunt’s grandsons, appeared from their nursery. There was a great deal of friendly exclaiming. The luggage was handed up and down. Little Dick seized Mr Geraldine’s travelling-bag, and nearly upset all its silver bottles on the carpet. My aunt, Mrs Rock, began introducing her old friend. ‘ You see, wo have Nora and her boys, and Lucy and her husband,’ said she cheerfully ushering him in, ‘ and ray niece Mary, you know, and Miss Morier I think you also know; she is in the drawing room.’ And then Mr Geraldine was hospitably escorted info a big room, with lights, and fire, and all thrusual concomitants of five o’clock. Chapter If. We had all been staying for some days at Rock Villa, and enjoying the last roses of summer from its warm chimney corners. It is a comfortable, unpretending house standing in a pretty garden, which somehow seems to make part of the living rooms, for there are many windows, and the parterres almost mingle with the chintzes; the draw-ing-room opens into a conservatory; (here is also a bow-window with a cushioned seat and a tall French glass door leading into the garden. The conservatory divides the drawing-room from tho young ladies’

| room or study, which again opens into the hall. The dining-room is on the opposite side, and the windows face the entrance gati s. Inside the house, as I have said, the fires burned bright in the pretty sittingrooms 5 outside the glories of October were kindling in the garden before winter came to put them all out. The pi nts were still green and spreading luxuriantly, stretching their long necks to the executioner ; a golden mint of fairy leaves lay thickly scattered on the grass ; from every branch the foliage still hung, painting trees with russet and with umber On the stable-wall a spray of Oloirede Dijon roses started shell-like, pink, against the sky. The guelder rose-tree by the hall-door was crimson, the chcanuts were blazing gold. The days passed very quietly ; all the people in the house were very intimately connected with one another ; married sisters arc prove bially good company. The outside world was almost forgotten for a time in family meetings and greetings and personalities ; Nora’s husband, the Colonel, was in India ; Lucy’s husband, the clergyman, came up and down from London twice a week ; Clarissa, the only unmarried daughter of the family, made music for us, for Mr Geraldine especially, who delighted in good music i Miss Morier was also a very welcome visitor in ray aunt’s hntue; For many years she had been too ill and too poor to leave her own home ; but her health had improved of late, and a small inheritance had enabled her to mix with her friends again. (Ore was a peculiar-looking woman, with dilating eyes under marked brows ; she may have been pretty once, but i laer B had destroyed every trace of good looks. She was very delicate Still, afad on her way to the South for the winter ; she was well educated, well mannered, and full of ready sympathy ; gold and silver had she not in great abundance, but what she had to bestow upon others was the ease and help of heart winch real kindness and understanding can always give. I could not help contrasting her in my mind with Mr Geraldine, who was also unmarried and in his way full of friendly interest in us all ; but then it was in his way. He was easily put out of it, easily vexed ; punctual and, alas I oft- n kept waiting ; he liked to lead the conversation, and it rambled away from him ; he was impatient of bores, and they made up to him ; ee didn’t like ugly people or invalids ; he detested Miss Morier, and her place was always by his at table. Notwithstanding these peculiarities we are all fond of him, and grateful, too. Colonel Fox is supposed to owe his appointment to Mr Geraldine’s influence. Lucy’s husband, the curate, declares that half his parish is warmed and beflanneled with Uncle Charles’ Christmas check ; there is no end to his practical kindness and liberality. The intangible charities of life are less in our old friend’s way perhaps. As we were all sitting round the fire that evening after dinner, the conversation was turned upon our meeting in the road.

‘ Were you frightened, Mary?’ said my aunt; ‘you were walking yety fast.’ ‘ I was never more glad to see you, Aunt Mary,’ said I, gaining courage to speak of my alarm, and I told 'hem my story. ‘ One has all sorts of curious impressions when one is alone,’ said ray aunt, hastily. ‘ You musn’t go out by yourself so late, my dear. It must have been fancy, for we should have seen anyone following you, 1 Footsteps ? How very curious,’ said the curate.

‘ Do you remember, Lucy, the other day I thought we W're followed V

‘ (Jla/issa, will you play us something V interrupted ray aunt, rather uneasily ; ‘ and it is time for tea.’

‘You need not be afraid of ray nerves,’ said Miss Morier, smiling. ‘I have quite got over my old troubles, dear Mrs Kock, and I can hear people discuss hobgoblins of every sort with perfect equanimity. My aunt evidently disliked the subject very much. She did not answer Miss Morier and again said something about tea time ; but Nora, with some curiosity, exclaimed ;

(To hr eontinurd.)