LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1724, 29 August 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE FATE OP FOSBROOKE. (Concluded ) I thought it quite time to interfere. As haughtily aa himself, I stepped forward. ' Mr Beginal Fosbrooke, I presume.' His bow said • Ay, and who on earth are you ?' 'Tour brief, sir, and my retainiug-fee shall be in Mr Stretton's office in less than twenty minutes. There is no need to withdraw the case—l throw it up.' And I turned on my heel under the archway. I met my clerk on his way to dinner, and sent him back flying for the offending brief and Stretton's cheque, which lay unchanged in my drawer. I had heard Stretton's remonstrance as I went, and the other's annoyed response. I had barely taken three steps after my clerk when a crush and a shriek called me back. Reginald Fosbrooke was lying stunned on the pavement, and the page waß scrambling to his feet, a bystander had caught the affrighted horse, the carriagewheel was crashing in collision with a cab, and the lovely occupant was in imminent peril. Darting forward I managed to extricate the lady from the phaeton before the plunging animal had made a total wreck of it. She seemed as lifeless as the man on the ground. My clerk was back by this time. Shouting to him to bring back a doctor to my chambers and to Stretton to have his prostrate client conveyed thither, I hurried forward with the insensible girl in my strong arms, and placed her in my own chair. The couch had soon another occupant. ' This will be quieter than a shop,' I whis pered to Stretton, 'and we can keep the orowd out here.' He nodded a sort of dazed assent. Before a doctor had reached us, my charge had revived. And then her distress over her 'dear brother,' her 'dearßeggy,' was pitiable to witness. I did my best to console her, and to assnre her that her brother was not dead, only stunned, and would doubtless recover shortly; and, as Bhe turned her liquid eyes on mine I felt there was one Fosbrooke who could never be my enemy. A couple of hours went by before Reginald Fosbrooke gave a sign of returning animation. The doctor had muttered something of concussion of the brain and internal injury from the horse's hoof; insisted on quiet, forbade removal, and, aside to Stretton and me, suggested telegraphing to friends, Barbara —I could almost have guessed her name, had not the injured man murmured it, as she knelt beside him in sobbing agony—caught the suggestion, and remarked simply so simply that I am sure the doctor thought her wits were wandering—' There is no need; they will already know of this catastrophe at home.' They must have had a telegraph of their own quicker than that of science 1 Surely enough, before our close of the afternoon Squire Fosbrooke —who must have been on the road before us message was despatched —stood by the side of his eldest son, and clasped my hand with grateful earnestness as that of a stranger, saying he was glad he had found him alive. He was a grave, dignified, but not haughty man, preternaturally old and bent beneath the burden of inexorable fate.

He and his daughter took possession of my chambers with many courteous apologies for turning them into a hospital, apparently unconscious that they were Indebted to more than a chance namesake. Only the patient knew my antecedents, and when, at the close of the week, he recognised me as his involuntary entertainer, he grew irritably impatient to be removed.

The doctor shrugged his shoulders, his gentle sister shed tears, his father, Mr Stretton, and myself remonstrated. The heir of Fosbrooke was wilful. He was borne thence with the tenderest care ; but barely had he crossed the threshold than violent hemorrhage set in, and only a lifeless body was carried into the neighbouring hotel. A broken rib, displaced, had lacerated some internal organ. Morning did not arrest the lawsuit. The squire, ignorant of Reginald's prohibition, wrung my hand at parting, and said he was sure his case was in good hands. I had gone with them to the station, possibly drawn thither by the grateful thanks in Barbara Fosbrooke's every tone and gesture. Then it occurred to the squire that I might better understand how the case stood between him and Meyers if I went over the grounds and tracked the Fosse-brooke; and he asked me to follow them down in time for his poor boy's funeral I went back to my chambers musing. Two strange events had come to pass. I, the descendant of Rupert the discarded, had been invited to the manor. Moreover, I was in love with Barbara. The manor house was a magnificent pile with a background of waving woods. Perhaps it was the presence of undertakers, and a crowd of funeral guests with mourning robes and faces, made me feel the interior so gloomy in its grandeur, notwithstanding the faint smile of Barbara, and the courteous reception of Barbara's mother. Was it chance that assigned to me, the last comer in the crowded mansion, the apartment at the end of the corridor. I had followed the servant mechanically, my mind filled with Barbara's greeting, and not his apologies ; but my rapid survey of the hastily-pre pared chamber, set me thinking. A label outside the door showed that it was set apart for 'Lawyer Stretton's friend.' The hurried and bewildered servants had no conception that they had shown Rupert Fosbrooke's representative into Rupert's room. If I had a doubt it was dispelled by the sight of a large picture reared against the wall, from which three faces seemed to look at me through a veil of dust.

I have not an atom of superstition in me —at least I had not then, It was rather reverence than awe that sacrificed my cambric handkerchief to the restoration of the picture. Then IJ was struck with the resemblance between my ancestor and myself, and wondered if any of the many assembled guests would perceive it, never thinking how little was known of the face I was scanning so minutely. Yet I think my appearance at the dinnertable did excite some enriosity, if furtive glances and whisperings were any_ index. Sombre dresses and long faces spoiled the meal for me. I was glad when I found myeelf back in my room in front of a wood fire, kindled at my request; and, taking advantage of the double doors, took out a cigar and made my3elf at home. There was a snggestiveness of damp rheumatism about the heavy velvet-hung fourpost bed. I declined its invitation, preferring to wrap myself in my travelling-rug and stretch my limbs on an antique couch at right angles with :the hearth. A second cigar sent me to sleep to dream of Barbara. I awoke shivering with an uneasy impression of a hand laid on my shoulder to arose me. The fire was almost out, the candles quite, but there was a light in the room, and—yes ! in the very midst of that light stood Rupert the painter, palette and brush in hand, painting away at a picture on his easel. I rubbed my eyes and gave myself a shake. The artist was still at work, and I saw the picture growing under the brush. It was an Alpine scene familiar to myself. _ Now figures appeared on the canvas, toiling up the snowy ascent. The artist looks round at me, back at the canvas. I see delineated

a broken rope, a shattered alpenstock, and a figure slipping and falling headlong int J a terrible crevasse. . Again the artist turns his head, and nis dark eyes transfix me. The canvas is blank. Again the brush is plied. Judge, jury, counsel take their places. I see a brother barrister of long standing addressing the Court, see him painted out; and my very counterpart stands out in my very attitude and in my most eloquent mood. I see_ the effect on the faces of judge and jury ; it is cheering. The artist turns round and smiles. Picture, painter, easel, and light are gone I I am shivering in the dark, with barely a ray of moonlight straggling In through the windows.

I give myself another shake, say I am an arrant fool, conclude I have been dreaming, and compose myself to sleep again. Convinced when I awaken in the morning that I have been dreaming, I Bay nothing at the breakfast table of my broken rest, not caring to excite either alarm or ridicule. As Stretton and I return to town in the express the day after the funeral, I elicited from him that the squire has another Bon, now travelling in Switzerland, to whom, of course, the heirship will descend. After that I fear Stretton had but a stupid companion to the end of the journey. My survey of the moat converted into a shrubbery, and the track of the watercourse in dispute, did. not tell in my client's interest. Nevertheless, I went into Court with a conviction I should win, although I scouted the idea of being influenced by a dream. And I was successful. The case was dismissed as litigious and vexatious, and when I Bhcok hands with onr client, he insisted on my returning with him to the manor, and said I did honour to the name I bore.

Other cases kept me in town until the end of the term. Then I, John Fosbrooke, availed myself of the squire's invitation, and was welcomed, Mrs Fosbrooke offering many apologies for my being thrust into an unused room on my former visit. I protested 1 was perfectly satisfied, and thought it a pity so commodious a chamber should be left to me and the spiders. The lady sighed and said no more. This time I occupied the adjoining room, small, but well kept, and less antique in its appointments. The squire took to me amazingly, and Barbara's heart opened to me. I hesitated how best to disclose my ancestry and propose for the sweet girl, when the whole fabric of my future was shaken by a telegram from Switzerland Charles Edward Fosbrooke had perished in the ascent of the Simplon. I was staggered, and the whole family were overwhelmed. It was no time for love proposals. I volunteered a journey for the recovery of the body, saying that I knew the precise spot in which he was lying. This involved explanation of what I called my dream ' Dream! It was no dream,' cried Barbara and her parents simultaneously. ' But who are you ?' demanded the squire, rising to his feet, 'who have seen the spectral painter of our house ? Bupert Fosbrook never reveals the future save to one of his own near kin.' My answer and its effect may be imagined. An avalanche conld scarcely have overwhelmed them more completely. The old squire, his eyes suffused with tears, held out his to me. ' This is no time to perpetuate fend,' said he. ' Fate is too strong for us.' Need I add that I went to Switzerland and recovered the remains of the last heir of the elder Fosbrooke's. But ere I took my departure, unknown to the family, I spent a night in the haunted chamber, still inclined to be sceptical. I came out next morning converted. Once more the mountain scene was painted before me, and I saw myself and guides recovering the lost, and the means employed. Another picture was painted before me, and then the artist seemed to fling brushes and palette aside and vanish with a benediction.

I stand, with my aow acknowledged relatives, by the grave of the squire's last son, and see his tears fall fast on the coffinlid before he turns away, and, grasping my hand, calls me, with a sigh, the heir of Fosbrooke manor.

I could hardly realise it then. I can realise it now, as I stand amid a perfect bower of holly and evergreens at Christmas in a pretty country church, and clasp the hand of Barbara before the altar, in that bond which for ever unites the severed branches, and averts the fate of the Fosbrookes.

And this was the last picture shown me—now a Fosbrooke of Fosbrooke, a picture of love and peace and goodwill at Christmastide.