LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1646, 30 May 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

ONE AUTUMN NIGHT.

By M. E. Penn,

[From the ''Argossy."]

Continued.

She diew back with a stifled cry. 4 Wt be alarmed. It is I—Gilbert,' he said, in his pleasant cordial tones, taking her hand in both his own. ' Did I Btartle you, dear ? I am sorry; it was thoughtless of me.'

'I thought it was your ghost,'she said, with a nervous laugh. 'We did nob expect you home for another week at least. When did you arrive ?' 1 I have only just come from the station. I left my trap 3 to he sent on and walked home by the river side, that I might see the place where I b'd you good-bye a month ago I little expected to have the happiness of meeting you here. Is it really you?' he aided, bending to look at her ; ' you look as unsubstantial as a waterwraith. Maud, are you not well, or is it the moonlight makes you look so pale V • I am quite well,' she answered, averting her head. ' You will come in, Gilbert, and sea papa ?' • l* T ot to-night; I mußt go home. Bat first I want to fay a few words to you.' There was a pause. Maud's heart beat fast with the knowledge of what was coming. He seemed in no hurry to speak. Leaning back against the rail of the bridge, he took off his hat and pushed the hair from his forehead, looking thoughtfully away across the lake. The moonlight rested full upon his face, and Maud, glancing at him furtively, could not help thinking what a noble faoe it was, with its b-oad foreheid, calm serious eyes, and mouth at once firm and tender. The features were not classical, perhaps, but they weie full of character, and his bronzed complexion, dark moustache, and short pointed beard, gave him the look of a portrait by Vandyke. * What happiness it is to be near you once more,' he said at length. ' t lt seems natural to meet you here in the spot where we parted. So many times, Maud, during the last month, I have seen you In dremje, standing there in your white dresq.with the woods above you and the river at your feet! So many times I have fancied I heard your voice mingHng with the murmur of other streams far away. Waking and sleeping you we-e always in my thoughts,' 'You think of me too much,' she faltered, 'Cure me of that bad habit if yon can,' was his reply, as he took her hand. 'Maul, when I parted from you a month ago I carriod a sweet hope away with me ; will you ' She looked np suddenly, showing a pale, agitatpd faoe. ' Gilbert—forgive me !' she began. He looked at her in surprise. ' W hat have I to forgive you, Maud ?' ' Fo- avowing you to hope, only to disappoint you a f ter all.' The colour faded out of his bronzed fao? ; h ■ caught his breath as if bo had received a bIOTS". u , You never intended, thon, to accept me « Fes, yep, I did,' she interrupted,' though T wanted to have my liberty a little 1 mger, but since, then ' * Since then ?' he repeated, still holding he? hand, bat lookinp *way from her ; ' fear to tell me. Po ycu mean that—that you hive learnt to care for some one else?. Her Bi'euoe answered for her. He looked ai t')o dirk woods and tho moonlit lake; looked at them, but did not see them ; tbrr■> was a rr»i t before his ev^fl ' V\ ho is it : " he Baked slowly. Almost lnaudibly fho whiaj^B

•Reginald.' 'Beginald!' II is tone was one of such emphatic astonishment thit it startled her ' .Reginald !' he repeated, 'Po you mean to say that he has made love to you ? that he > ' He has proposed to mo, end I have ac cepted him,' she answered, as he paused He let fall her rand, looking at her in incredulous amazement. • Maud, what are you saying ? my brother has proposed to you ? *V ell, but —good he».vens I he—No,' he broke off, ' I can't believe it. I cannot believe that he is such a scoundrel.' 1 Gilbert, what a word I You have no right to apply such a term to Reginald. If he has wronged you, it is ' • It is not of my own wrongs I am thinking,' her companion interrupted, 1 !' though I might complain of his treachery in robbing me of—but let that pass, Do you love him Maud ?' he asked, looking at her with anxious eyes, The color ruehed to her face j she could not answer 'Yes.' In a flash, as it were, her own heart was revealed to her ; but the revelation came too late. He put his own construction on her silence. 'I see. It was an unnecessary question Of couvse you do He is the sort of man women do love—to their sorrow.' Then, with a look in his eyes such as she never seen there before, he muttered ; ' He shall answer to me for this,' Almost at the same moment, Reginald's gay voice floated down from the plantation above " Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown " Gilbert started and turned, looking up toward the path. The girl, watching his face, shivered with a sudden dread. ' Don't meet him now,' she said, anxiously, ' you ' ' STou need not fear that there will be any dispute in your presence,' he answered, divining her thought. * Not afterwards, when you are alone together ?' she urged. He did not reply ; he was looking towards the plantation, listoning to the musical voice ringing out in the evening etillness. ' Gome iato the gardrn, Maud, I am here at the gate alone.' ' Maud, Maud !' Reginald called, breaking off in his song. ' [ have good news for yon. Are you still there ?' 'Yes, I am here, I am coming,' she responded, and would have hurried towards him, hoping to prevent the meeting, but her companion's firm fingers closed on her wrist and detained her. The next moment Reginald's figure emerged from the trees into the strip of moonlight on the bank. 'Good child, to wait for me,'he began. ' Hallo, who is that? Why, Gilbert! Where have you dropped from? I thought you were in the wilds of the Highlands.' 'I have returned, as you see,' the other answered in his usually quiet tone, greatly to Maud's relief; though he made no movement to take the hand extended to him. ' You are just in time to offer U3 —Maud and me—your congratulations,' Reginald proceede 1, with a smile which had something mocking in its triumph. 'We are ' 'I know. Maud has told me. But I think, with your permission, that I will defer my congratu'ations for the present, lest they should prove premature.' His brother gave him a quick glance, as if struck by something in his tone; then, with a slight shrug, took out his cigar-case. 'As you like,'ho said carelessly. 'Hope you have enjoyed your tour, and distinguished yourself by some wonderful discovery as to the "str&ta" of the Highlauds ?' ' I have made one very unexpected discovery, but it had nothing to do with geology.' Reginald started, and paused in the act of opening his cigar-case. Gilbert met his look with one full of significance. 'When and where did you make it?' Reginald aßked, after a moment, dropping his voice so as to be inaudible to Maud. ' Only two days ago, at a place called Glenfalloch. You know it ?' He shook his head. He was lighting his cigar, and the flickering gleam of the match showed that his face was colorless. ' There is some one there who knows you, at any rate, and who has entrusted me with a letter for you. Shall I give it you now V * No, no, not now,' he muttered hastily, with a glance at Maud. "„' Come to me at the Chalet in three hours time; we Bhall be secure from listeners there,' Gilbert responded. Then turning to Maud, who had caught only a word or two here and there of the latter part of the dialogue, he continued; 'lt is getting late. I will take you home.' Reginald uttered no protest against this invasion of his privileges, but stood moodily staring at the river. 'Good night,'she said, putting out her hand to him. He looked at her absently. 'You are going? oh—good night. God bless you, Maud,' he added, with sudden and strange earnestness ; and he would have kissed her, but Gilbert hastfy, almost roughly interposed. •j-tand bajk—do not touch her! How dare you,' he said, hoarsely. His hands were clenched, his face whifc ) with suppressed passion; a lurid light burnt in his dark eyes. Maud clung tremblingly to his arm. ' Come away —please l' she entreated ; ' remember what you promised.' But already he had commanded himself, and drawing her hand through his arm, turned away without another word. In silence they traversed the plantation He seemed absorbed in thought, and there was a stern set look on his face which made her timid of addressing him. Just as they emerged into the lawn, Mrs Severne met them. ' You have stayed too long, Maud. I Why, is that Gilbert?' she exclaimed, breaking off. ' Ves, Mrs Severne ; you must scold me for detaining Maud.' ' I Bhall scold her for not bringing you to the honse at once/ she answered, ' Pray come in.' 'Excuse me tonight. I have not yet been home. Kind regards to the Vicar ; please tell him I will call to-morrow. Good Dight.' And he was gone, ' I am glad he has returned, but I wish with all my heart that he had never gone away,'the Vicar's wife said with a sigh, as they crossed tho lawn, Maud understood the sigh. 'I am very sorry you are disappointed, mother,' she said tremulously 'lt is on your account we are grieved, Maud, your father and I. We fear you have made an unfortunate choice. However, if your happiness depends upon this marriage —and Reginald has just assured us that it does—there is nothing more to be said.' The girl's heart sauk ; she made no reply. CIIAI'BER 11. An exquisite autumn night, full of misty sweetness ; the sky luminous with stars, the world sleeping in a calm so profound as to be almost melancholy. Mot a br.ath of wind swayed the treos in the plantation, or stirred their shadows on the Yicarage lawn, where the moonlight; lay white and cold ; only now and then, at long interva's, a thrill, a tremor lan through the leaves, as if a spirit had whispered to them ai it passed, It was nearly midnight. Early hours were the rule at the Vicarage, and all the household had Jong been sleeping, except Maud, who turned and tossed iu her pretty white-curtaiqed bed, too restless close ha? v\\a>. Never yet in lifj eighteen yeas had trouhlt d. It was not was anc^^j tried i'V^^

which gave a pretty glimpse, set like a picture In a frame of dark foliage, of the chalet and the moonlit lake. Bhe could not see the little waterfall, but she could heir its mur mur ; a distant dreamy sound which hardly seemed to break the silence. At length, insens.bly, it lulled her to sleep. Flew long she Blept she did not know. She woke with a violent start, and sat up in bed, her heart beating tumultuoualy. A shot, followed by a cry, ringing out in the night stillness—those were the sounds which had roused her. Her first thought was that that there were poachers in Clieveden woods, but that supposition was quickly followed by another so terrible that it turned her cold. A glance at the chalet had shown her that a light was burning in Gilbert's study, and at the same moment there rushed back to her recollection a few words she had overheard in his whispered colloquy with his brother. l At the chalet, three hours hence." Were the brothers there now? Had Gilbert-; — She sprang out of bed. and without asking herself what she intended to do, began to dress herself as quickly as her shaking fingers would let her. Gliding noiselessly down stain, she crossed the hall to the garden door. 'Timon,' the house dog, was there her, soratchlng and whining uneasily. He. too, had heard the shot, though no other inmate of the house seemed to have been roused by it. She unfastened the bolt and chain and passed out, the dog bounding on before her across the lawn, and into the deep shadow of the plantation. When she reached the bridge she was obliged to pause to recover her breath. The window of the chalet was open, but the lamp was so placed that she could see nothing of the occupants of the room. All looked peaceful enough, but she did not feel reassured. There was something ominous in the silence. The entrance of the building was at the side, up a flight of wooden steps. The dog was barking angrily, and scratching at the door, which was locked. (To be continued.)