LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1741, 18 September 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

GERTRUDE. [From the “Argosy.”] ( Concluded .) * Think how I would have worshipped her I think how I would have watched her, and cared for her delicate woman’s fancies! I leave her for a week! Not for an hour. She’s dying—bo quiet, Ogilvie. It is my firm belief—and I now teil it you —that she is dying; dying by inches—as women like her do die sometimes.’ The major was discreetly silent. The ghost of such a thought had more than once flitted acr.iss his own kindly little brain. He had seen times when the pretty favorite had seemed so fair and spiritual, that he had wondered if so much fairness and transparency was exactly the right sort of thing, lovely as it was. The beautiful eyes had looked large, and bright, and worn, as if the wine of life had been too strong for the delicate frame. His august relative, Sir Phelim, had once praised her as the brightest and merriest of his many light-hearted guests ; now she was the quietest little woman in the hotel. But he did not say this to Darrel Barnegat. He let him wear out his hopeless rage, without interfering with him, and thei set on t> calm and sooth him with no inconsiderable tact and delicacy. ‘ Don’t let the world see it, me boy,’ he said. ‘ You are cut up, Barnegat, but don’t let the world see it—for her sake; for her sake. Think of the owld cats here with all their eyes open ; and that widow Power has got hers tno widest. Poor little soul, she has enough to bear. Keep) a bold heart for her sake, Barnegat ’ /*nd, in saying this, the major touched the right chord. Barnegat pulled himself together and began to grow reasonable. When Gertrude Yorke met them again she was on her husband’s arm, and many a day passed before they caught even a glimpse of her alone. He wa> at least attentive, this husband. It seemed that ho scarcely ever left her side. It was her he cared for, not the child. Her slightest change of expression never escaped him; her slightest movement, action, wish, was responded to. He loved her deeply, that was plain enough, but it might have been that his constant vigilance wearied her, for she was quieter and more frail-looking than ever Her mute eubmissiveness to his will was fairly touching BShe obeyed his very glance. He was lord and master.

And Mr Barnegat faltered in his purpose — that of demanding of her an explanation of the mystery of the past. Dor one thing, he oonld get no opportunity. From the time of her husband’s arrival, they exchanged no words with one another, nothing save the merest recognition of politeness. Even the major was thrown out of employment, and left to himself, though the girl had always a smile and a gentle word for him. The people who noticed her most, began to comment on the sadness and languor of her pretty, pale face ; and at last, one evening, a burly German physician burst upon a grmp, who were thus commenting, with a single guttural sentence, which fell upon them like a thunderbolt; * Dot bretty woomans, mid her glear gomblexion ?’ he said. ‘ Ach 1 Yes. She go inte gonsumption.’ And he said it with the air of a man to whom it was no new idea, but a commonplace fact. Barnegat was not one of the hearers of this, but the major was ; and when, afterwards, Gertrude came into the room, leaning as usual upon her husband’s arm, and looking, in her thin, cloud-like, white muslin, like a white flower, the major, regarding her attentively, felt his heart quicken its beating, while a strange sense of discomfort flashed through it. ‘ Ye’ll have to take good care of her, me man, if ye’d keep her by ye,’ he thought. All this time, the days passing on, Barnegat made no sign. A better feeling had come over him, and he respected the major’s words; ‘ 1 For her sake ; for her sake.” One evening, when the major was in the linden walk, away from the lights and sounds indoers, Barnegat approached him. ‘They are going away,’ he said. ‘ When?’ asked the major, * To-morrow, ’ answered Barnegat, * Well, it will be over then.’ ‘ All the better for yon,’ said the major. ‘ Better that there should be an end to it. What good is it doing ye ? Wearing your life out, grieving for another man’s wife. It’s but little use there is in crying after spilt milk.’ Barnegat turned away his haggard face. ‘lt isn’t that,’ he said doggedly, despite his misery. ‘ It’s better that I shouldn’t be tormented with the sight of her, but I want to get an explanation. How do I know what she has been made to think of me ; what It was that caused her to throw me off. I should like to know just so much, Ogilvie, and I—l cannot ask it,’ There was a queer, old-fashioned rose garden in the grounds of the hotel—a sweet, quaint rose garden, rich with color, and heavy with the perfume that floated above and around the hundred flower laden bushes, and it was to this place that Darrel Barnegat chanced to stroll, without any purpose, when ha left Major Ogilvie standing alone under the row of lindens It had been a rare treasure once, this patch of bloom and fragrance, but it had been somewhat neglected of late years, and the roses had grown into a lovely thicket, stretching long, slender arms here and there, from bed to bed, and outbarring intruders with a profusion of sweet barricades. But there was still room for a ramble down the straight walks, and if Barnegat had any latent motives in seeking it, it was onjacoount of its seclusion. But soma one was there before him, it seemed, though at first he was not aware of any presence, other than his own. The fair moonlight made the place as bright as day, and in turning the corner of an arch of tangled rose vines he came suddenly upon something white standing in the path ; a woman in a floating white dress, and with a white face turned upwards to the cloudless night sky ‘ Gertrude !’ he cried out.

She might have been a spirit. She looked like one as she turned slowly towards him, in the light night. Her thin dress might have been moon lit roses Her face was delicately colorless, her skin purely transparent. It was strange that she did not seem startled ; as perhaps, all things considered, she might have been. She looked at him a little wonderingly; for his presence had awakened her from a dream. ‘ Pray do not think that I followed you. ’ he said. ‘ I beg your pardon. Mrs Yorke. I did not know you were here.’ She made a faint, quiet gesture with her hand. ‘ No, I did not think so,’ she said, in a low, calm voice. ‘ I see how it was —but I am glad you came. I have been wishing, praying, for this meeting and I think it has not come about by chance.’ The sight of her had so amazed him, and she looked so spiritual and unearthly, that he could not find words just at first to answer her. ‘ I am glad you came,’ she said again; and her voice was so clear and sweet in its mysteriously-sounding, half-wearied tone, that it seemed to float towards him with the perfume of the roses. ‘ I have been wishing to speak to you,’ she went on ; ‘ wishing to tell you before we port—for we shall never see one another again—how it came abourt that I am Mr Yorke’s wife instead of yours. I promised to be yonra, you remember, when we were in Ireland.’ • Yes,’ he groaned. * Oh, my love —my love !’ • You remember that my aunt did not like you ’ ' No,’ he interrupted with suppressed emotion ; ‘ she said I was only a beggarly lieutenant; not rich enough for you.’ • Do not blame her now, Darrel : she died long ago. It seems long to me, though it is not yet three years. It was she who took me away from you, continued Mrs Yorke ; ‘ but she did not make your poverty the plea. She told me—you had not been gone a week —a terrible story of your loving another woman ; not a lady, but a woman good people do not speak of. • I did not know whether to believe her, but the tale was so circumstantial, so apparently true. She had just discovered it, she said ; she said the person had gone away with you. I did not quite believe her, Darrel, until yon ceased writing to me. _ It was my love that made me weak avid blind, I think ; if I had not loved you so, I should have known how easy it was for her to play that poor, glaring, worn out farce, and keep your letters back.’ • And she did that 1’ flared Barnogat.

‘ That is not all. I might have fought against that; have waited patiently until you came back, and asked yourself whether or not it was true. Later wo saw a paragraph in the “ Times ” about a skirmish in which you had fought and died. Died. Darrell’ And Mrs Vorke swayed a little, and caught hold of the trunk of a tree. ‘ Oh, merciful heavens !’ ejaculated Barnegat—but he said no other word. It flashed across his mind so plainly now. He remembered the blunder, had laughed at it a thousand times, and yet had never thought that it might float to her, as it had floated to other people. Oh, careless man that he had been! light, reckless man ! —to fling away from his unsteady hand a cup so full of peace and love. ‘ Until the evening that you came into th e hotel salon, I did not know you were alive,’ went on Mrs Y orke. ‘lt was that that frightened me an! cause! me to faint. Since then I have been a little frightened at your looks, Darrel, especially since my husband came; I thought jou wanted to pick a quarrel with him.’ ‘ As I did,’ acknowledged Mr Barnegat ‘ As I, should have done but for — for your sake, aud for Ogiivie. You cannot tell me that you are happy with him.’ A faint color stole to her face —he could see it in the moonlight. ‘As happy as —as —I can be with anyone now. he is very kind to me.’ ‘ Too kind,’ muttered Barnegat : ‘he leaves you no will of your own. He is imperious, impetuous, exacting. Your husband ought to have been one to take the tenderest care of you.’ ‘He does take it; he tries to make me happy—and oh, he loves me greatly. But I am always weary, Darrel; lam sick, fading, drifting out of life.’ ‘ Don’t say so 1’ he groaned, ‘ Look at my face,’ she said, turning it into the brighter light. * Look at my hand,’ and she held up to him the slender, immaterial hand that looked almost that of a spirit, so bloodless and transparent, ‘ I am dying, Darrel.’ Darrel Barnegat did not answer. Had not the same conviction struck himself ?

‘My husband does not believe me,’ she continued; ‘but it is true. I am sure that I cannot be mistaken. And I should be glad to die, but for leaving my dear little boy. God knows what is best.’

‘ He does not believe,’ repsated Barnegat mechanically. ‘No, ho does not. He says it was this cold northern climate last winter that took my strength from me and made me ill; and he is going to carry me away to Cuba. He thinks I shall get all right there ; but I know better, Darrel. And I wanted to tell you the truth of the past before I leave—which will be lo morrow. I did not like you to think of me as false and heartless all the rest of yonr life. ’ ‘And now hear me, Gertrude,’ he broke forth, like a man awakening from a reverie. ‘ I never had any thought of another woman save yon. When I left Dublin I left it alone, nothing accompanying me but my thoughts of you, I have never ceased to love you—l love you still. Even as I now stand talking to you, looking at you, my heart is aohing with its bitter pain. Your aunt called me poor; and I had quite enough private property then, as you knew, and she knew, to render us comfortable; and since then I have come into a large fortune through my eldest brother’s death. I would have made you happier than he makes you, Gertrude. As my wife you might have been blooming now, with roses on your cheeks.’ * Fate has been against us,’ she murmured, the hot tears trickling down her face ; ‘ and fate sways us all in spite of our own will. It was surely fate that brought you to Carlsbad now; it was fate that tempted me out here alone to-night while rny husband is entertaining two South American friends, who are passing through the place, to dinner in private. I did not think of meeting you when I came out—the moonlight was so lovely, the night so balmy, that it tempted me. And now that I have seen you, Darrel, that I have spoken what was in my heart to speak, we will say good-bye. ’ * Good-bye !’ ho reiterated, as she held out to him the attenuated hand, whose touch was as the touch of a pitying spirit. * Only “good-bye” after all these years of hopelessness ! Only to meet and say good-bye, Gertrude!’

‘The suffering is mine, too,’ she whispered. 1 Life has been so hard to me that I am thankful even for this parting. A little while ago I never thought to be able to say it to you. Good bye for ever, Darrel; and God be with you !’ Her slender hand slipped itself out of her grasp, and she passed with a swift step towards the hotel. Darrel Barnegat sank down upon the nearest bench, and hid his face upon his arm. In the breakfast-room"the next morning, Mrs Torke’s p’ace was empty. She did not feel well enough to come down, it was understood ; and in the afternoon her husband took her away. The idlers in the hotel whiled away half-an-hour watching the departure. Two carriages full. Mr and Mrs Yorke in one ; the maids and the child in the other ; Mr Yorke’s man-servant and a courier in attendance. She had married wealth, at any rate, if she had not married happiness. Darrel Barnegat was left; left to wear out his passionate regrets through the weary summer days. He stayed on at Carlsbad ; there was a bitter comfort In the thought that she had borne some of her pain there. Only the little major understood Mr Barnegat’s silence, and the heavy cloud that just now seemed to hang over his life. As to Major Ogilvie, three parts of his occupation seemed to have gone out with the departure of Mrs Yorke. News reached them the following year in the shape of an advertisement in the death column of the “Times,” sent over by telegram from Cuba to be inserted. It chanced that Mr Barnegat and the major were breakfasting together in Loudon when they read it : ‘On the 10th April, at Matanzas, Cuba, Gertrude, the beloved wife of Manuel Yorke.’