LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1647, 31 May 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

ONE AUTUMN NIGHT.

By M. E. Penn,

[From tho e, Argossy,”]

( Concluded.) * Who is there ? demanded Gilbert’s voice.

* It is I—Maud. Let me in.’ She heard a smothered exclamation, then there was a pause. ‘ Wait a moment; I will admit you presently,’ he said. A sound of hurried footsteps followed ; a noise as of some piece of furniture being moved ; then a long silence. * t length the door opened, and Gilbert stood bef ne her, deadly pale ; his dis ordered, bis breath coming quickly. Ue looted at her as if she were a ghost, and for a moment neither spoke. * Why are you here, Maud, at this hour?’ he asked, at length. Without replying, she passed by him into the room, followed by the dog, who began sniffing suspiciously about tho floor. It was the model of a bachelor’s sanctum; panelled walls a r _ d a polished floor ; plain furniture of unstained oak, a capacioos writing table in the middle; an easel in one corner ; over the chimneypiece an array of pities of all shapes, sizes, and colours ; on the opposite wall, near the door, a trophy of arms, f.nciug foils, fishing rods, and hunting whips, surmounted by a fox’s head, To night all was in disorder, and on the fLor at Gilbert’s feet lay a gun. Maud took in all these details before she turned to r.im again. «Where is Reginald?’ she asked, in a voice hardly above a whisper. ' He is no 1 ; here, Maud, as you see.’ ‘ He has been hero; there is his ulove.’ ‘ Ye*, he has been with n e, bat Why do you lojk at me so strangely ? ’ he broke off, taking a stop towards her. She recoiled from him, putting out both hands to keep him away. ‘ I hoard a shot,’ she panted ; ‘ there is a gun at your feet—did you —have you— — Gilbert! what baa happened? Where ia Reginald ? ’ For a moment ho stood looking 't her like one in a dream ; then, instead of replying, he walked to the doav, and after glancing out at the lake, silently beckoned her to approach. . ‘ Look! who is that ? ’ ho said, pointing down. At the same moment a boat—his own lib' 1 g canoe, the Maud shot out suddenly from the boat-house below into the moonlit P °Tae occupant was Reginald He did not even glance up at the window though he must have hoard Maud’s involuntary clamat cn, but with a few strokes of the jjadclles sent the oa-oe, swift as a swallow,

across t ! e lake, aud on up the river towards the 'all.

‘Tiu-..k heaven!’ the girl exclaimed, as she drew bac* from the window. ‘ Oh, Gilbert’she added, turning to her companion, ‘ can you forgive mo for having ’ lie put up his hand to interrupt her. There was a look of pain on his face which deepened every line ‘I have no right to resent your suspicion, Maud,’ ho said iu a low tone ; ‘it is only by heaven’s mercy that I was not the cause of my brother’s death tonight. ;-it down a moment,’ he continued ; ‘ I pro;ri-ed Reginald that I would tell you all. He was wir.fi me when you came, j oat now, hut not wishing to meet you, left the Chalet by this door, Down Timon, down go d dog. 110 stooped and showed her a trap-door in t'">e floor, which communicated, by a flight, of wooden steps, with the boat-house below.

‘ But why should he avoid me ?’ she questioned, when ho returned to her side. ‘I am going to tell you, Maud. It is a miserable story. I wish to heaven I could spare you the paiu of hearing, ».nd myself the shame of tellin it; but you must know it.’

‘Stay,’ she interposed; ‘is it something you have found cut about Reginald ? something you learnt when you were in Scotland ?’

He silently assented. ‘Perhaps—perhaps you discovered that he was already engaged?’ she hazarded. ‘Worse than that, I discovered that he was already married.’

She sank into a ohair, looking up at him incredulously. ‘ Reginald married I’ she gasped ; ‘ impossible ! Oh, Gilbert, there must be some mistake.’

He shook hia head, ‘ I saw his wife onlytwo days ago She is the daughter of the inn-kco er at Glenfalloch, and one of the loveliest women I ever met. Two years ago, when Reginald was salmon fishing In the Highlands, ho passed through the place. He had intended to stay three days ; he remained three weeks ; and when ho le't Jeanie Henderson went with him ’ * As his wife ?’

‘ There was no marriage ceremony, and he declares he never regarded her as his wife, but he owns that he acknowledged her as such in the presence of witnesses ; and that, by the law of Scotland, as he must h?ve known, constitutes a legal marriage. He took her abroad, wandered about the continent for a few months, soon wearied of his beautiful but uneducated companion, and finally—deserted her. Not knowing his address (ho had been careful to keep from her all knowledge of his seal station), she could not trace him, and so returned half heart-broken to her father’s roof.

‘1 had been slaying some days at Grlenfalloch Inn before Jeanie knew my name. When she learnt it she asked me, in an agitated tone, if I had a brother or relative named Reginald, and then—well, then I learnt what I have just told you. The next day I left the place, bearing a latter for Ueginald from his wife. For that she is reallv his wife, I ascertained beyond doubt.’

‘And yet bo would have married me!’ Maud exclaimed * What an escape I have had. I understand now,’ she added thoughtfolly ; ‘ SirHichard wished him to propose tome; that was the “condition” Reginald spoke of.’ ‘No doubt. Wei!,’ ho pursued, ‘when we met here half an hour ago, we were both in the worst possible morel for such an interview. I was suffering under a strong sens of personal wrong, and his careless, defiant manner seemed to add insult to injur?. I told him briefly what I had learnt, and required his promise that he would immediately acknowledge his wife. He flatly refused to give any such engagement. I set my back against the door, and vowed he should not leave me till he did. In a spirit of angry jesting he took down a gun from the wall, and printed it at m*', with some taunting words wbi h I need not repeat. F rgetting, in my excitement, that; it was loaded, I seized it, and tried to wrest it from him ; in the struggle it went off —to roy horror he uttered a cry and staggered backwards, his forehe id covered with blood.’

Maud shuddered and put both hands to her ej es. ‘ Mercifully, the bullet had only grazed his temple, but the thought of what might have bee; turned me cold and sick. In the sudden revulsion of feeling all anger was swept away, not from my heart only, but from his too. I bathed his forehead and gave him some water, and then he silently offered me his hand.

‘“I have acted like a brute and a villain, Gilbert, I know well enough,’ he said in a changed voice; after a pause, “you said you had a letter for me; give it me now,” he added. He r. ad it through in silence till he came to a sentence near the end. “The child—our child ?” he repeated, with a start, “good heavens, I did not know”—his face suddenly flushed and softened, and there were tears in his eyes. “ Poor little Jeanie,” he muttered, as he folded it again,’ ‘ I must have a heart of stone if I could resist this appeal, I shall go to her at once. I must leave you to break it to the pater, and —and to Maud. Tell her—no,” he broke off ; “I dare not say all I feel, and I won’t say less. I will send no message.” I promised to make the best of the case to everyone, and if my father still refused to help him, I undertook to pay. Well, it does not matter what more passed between ns, we were still talking when we heard the dog barking at the door, and directly afterwards you? vpiqe. To avoid meeting you he went out by way of the boat-house, and the moment I had closed the trip I admitted you.’ Maud drew a long deep breath, and raised her head Her mind was occupied by a mixture of feelings, too confused to be inter igitfle. but chief amongst them was relief. She was free once more. There might yet be a chance of winning back the treasure she had cast aside so carelessly. Her companion heard the sigh and misinterpreted it. Re sat down beside her and took her hand, looking tenderly into her face.

‘ Maud, my friend and sister, what can I say to you ? I dare not even offer you you sympathy, it is too like pity, and that, 1 know, you would resent. But child, you are young; your wounded heart will heal more quickly than yon think and the day will come when another more worty of your love ’

She withdrew her hand quickly, and turned aw*y her head A look of pain crossed his face. Again he misunderstood tho action. *lt was not of myself I was thinking,’ ho said gendy. ‘ I shall nob trouble you again with my own feelings. All that is pa«t. Lest my presence shoul 1 keep alive painful memories, I shall go away for a time, til

' Why should you go away ?’ she murmured, without raising her eyes ; ‘ let us—let us go back to the old times, when I was what you called mo just now, your friend and sister.’

He shook his head with a grave smile. * The old times are past and gone, and the old feelings wi'.h them. Having once be n your lover, I can never again feel for you as a brother ’

‘But you ’she then stopped abruptly, with a vivid Llrsh. ‘ I must go home,’ she added., rising Ho extinguished the lamp, and they went out into the cool, fragrant night.

The waterfall was still singing its monot mons song to the s eeping woods. To Ter ears R seemed to echo like a mournful refrain—‘The old times aie past and gone —past and gone ! As she walked silently at her companion’s side, ter heart was swelling with vain regret. Bitter tram, such as she had never shed before, blinded her eyes. She longed to cry aloud all that filled her heart; but when she tried to speak no W( rds would romq Midway iu the steep plantation path she stumbled ever a projecting root, and would have, fallen if Gdhe’t bad not supported her. As he raised her he heard a supp osed sob. Ho pressed her hand passionately to his breast,

< Maud, Maud, it breaks my heart to see you suffer ! What can I do, what can I say to comfort you V

‘ Don’t leave me,’ she sobbed, clinging to his arm ;‘ if you want to comfort mo, don’t go away ! Gilbert

Something in the pleading voice, something in the clinging pressure of the little I hands on his arm, made h ; s heart leap with a sudden sweet hope, wild though it seemed. ‘Maud,’ ho whispered, pausing; ‘don’t tell me to stay unless you can tell mo to hope too.’ ‘btay,’ she repeated, laying her tearful cheek against his rdeeve. ‘ Child, do not trifle with me,’ he said, his voice stern with emotion ‘ I cannot be content with half your heart; I must have all, or none ; and if you loved Reginald, how can you ’ * I did not love him,’ she Interrupted, looking up; ‘ I mistook my own feelings. I was weak and foolish and perverse, and—oh I Gilbert, if you will but forgive me ; if you will only take mo to your heart again, I The sentence was never finished. Before she could utter another word rho was clasped to that faithful heart, and Gilbert, in lover’s fashion, closed her lips.