LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1888, 12 March 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE LAST CEUISE. A STORY FOR THE WINTER HRESIDE. ../'> ' . (Concluded) Seeing that he had gone, the landlord explained to Mr Davis that this old fisherman's name was Bratt, and that what he meant when he spoke so suddenly was that he was thiuking of his dead brother Mark, who lost his life on a smuggling expedition on that very night close upon forty years ago; and then, at the request of a young girl who had never heard the story, the landlord proceeded to ask if anybody knew the story of Mark Bratt's last cruise, in reply to which somebody pushed forward a bent and withered old woman of superior appearance to her companions. She was the story-teller of story-loving villagers, who had no books, and no readers, and never saw a novel. She told her story singularly well for a woman in her position; but just imagine with what a start Edward Davis dropped his pipe when she began that story by saying: ' Jane Morgan was the prettiest lasa in all Wales. She was born in this village, and so was her father, and his father before him, for the matter of that. They said she had fairy blood in her veins, because she sang so sweetly, aud when she danced never seemed to touch the ground, and when she walked se med as if she could as easily fly. And Mark Bratt, her lover, was as fine a young fellow as ever stepped in Bhoe leather, and we all thought him the lucky man, and so he was —but wela ! wela 1 Jane Morgan's father was a widower at that time, and was, perhaps, as well-to-do a man as any in the village. He was dotingly fond of Jane, and cause he had. A more industrious, attentive, or affectionate daughter than Jane Morgan never breathed. Her cottage was always neat and clean, and had something about it that everybody felt made it prettier, better, more light and graceful like, more bright and cheerful tban other homes in our village. Perhaps it was the way Bhe put the things together, or perhaps it was all done for her by the fairies—l don't know.

' Jane and Mark grew very fond, and old Morgan didn't object until Mark began to .talk of marriage, and then he ups and tells him as any man living were not a-going to take his daughter to a worse home than his, and that neither Jane nor Mark must expect his consent until they could begin their married life in a good home. ' Mark was cast down, but, bless you, Jane soon cheered him and set him ag.iag—she could cheer up anyone, she could. So they went on a whole twelvemo< th—dancing together, walking together, sitting together over her father's fireside, and hoping for the best. But luck went against them. Fish were scarce, and it appeared aa if their marriage-day got faither and farther off the longer they waited. She, good, patient, little soul, didn't seem to mind it so much, but he grew peevish and restless like, and used to talk wildly about what he would do if by it he could only get money enough to satisfy old Morgan and marry his daughter. The gentry round about used to take great notice of her, and twice an artist man came a distance of many miles to make a picture of her, and so Mark began to think how some one much richer and higher than a poor fisherman might snatch her some day away from him. This thought made him low-spirited, and sometimes when she wasn't by to soothe him with her smiles, or win him back to confidence by one reproachful «How could you, Mark ?' sort of glance, savage and almost desperate. 'At that time there was a man named Jones living near here—there generally is. He was a jolly sort of person, and most people seemed to like him very well, especially at first. He was looked upon as a man of great wealth amongst us poor fishermen, and was known all round the coast as a notorious smuggler. The King's men knew it as well as we did, only they could never bring it home to him in a way which the lawyers said they must before the law could act. I don't suppose he was much worse than others. We were none of us very particular about lending a hand to smuggle a cargo ashore, and some of us often earned a deal more in that way than we can do in more honest ways.' Here the old woman paused to ohuckle and wink at her neighbors, who laughed aloud as if her doing so was a mighty joke. 'But Jane,' continued she—'l suppose the fairy blood had something to do with that, too—held out against this sort of thing, talked as if she thought the King's men had the right, and we were altogether wrong. I didn't exactly understand how she made it out. but she e eemed to convince Mark, and so, although he grumbled a bit, he kept away from us when we were working for Captain Jones, as we did on many a dark night, and often in the very teeth of the revenue officers.

• One dark winter night when the smuggler's lugger was coining in with a good wiiid and a heavy cargo, the cunning old Philistines got Bcent of it, and there was a bit of scuffle ashore, in which poor Joe Cradock was shot dead ' Here c;mo another pause, in which the hearers looked grave and the story-teller wiped away a tear. 1 Well, Mark Bratt took this poor fellow's place, hoping, in a trip or two, to win enough to gain old Morgan's consent to his marriage, I remember he went on board one cold winter morning; and that I was the last to shake hands with him, before he set sail for Holland.

' Pnor Jane turned pale and looked very sad when she heard of it—he never told her himself, hadn't the heart to do it, didn't dare —I've no doubt her relatives, the fairies, gave her a sort of iokling as to how it would all tarn out, and that was why she always set her face against his going. Any way she certainly grew so anxious and melancholy, that it was quide saddening to look at her.

* The lugger waß expected back on this very evening of all evenings in the year, and careful preparations had been made to ran her cargo inland. ' That day a King's cutter was seen cruising about the coast. Poor Jane was on the Head all day long, looking out for her lover, although nobody thought the smugglers would come ashore while daylight lasted, such as it was. There wasn't much of it, because of the fog. It began to snow as it got dark, much as It did just now, and a fierce nor'-east wind blowing hard right on shore. Most of us sat all night, and poor Jtne kept coming outside her cottage door fancying she heard all sorts of sounds, that she never could hear in the rushing noises of such a wind, and the thunder of waves, running right up the face of the great rock, and almost sending their spray showering over its huge head. As to seeing, why it was as dark as pitch.

' Early in the morning we heard guns to •eaward, which brought us all out of doors ; the women with white faces and trembling lips, and tha men with fierce, eager eyes, and cnrsea which expressed no good feeling towards the revenue officers. But the first to reach the top of the great Head was an old fisherman and a young girl—old Morgan and his daughter Jane. I thought myself tolerably strong and active, but they had fought their way against the terrible wind, and had scrambled up before me. And there she stood, awfully near to the edge, with outstretched neck, clenched hands, and eyes as wide open as eyes can be. Into the darkness, every now and then darted red flashes from guns and pistols doing deadly w> rk.

Her hair streaming loose, her cloaks and petticoats wildly tossing and flapping, there she stood. I grasped her by the hand.; my heart thumping against my ribs at her danger ; some one else grasped me as firmly, but she wouldn't move, although I prayed her with tears in my eyes to come away. Everybody loved her I And when I wanted to drag her back she looked at me ao strangely and fiercely that I dursn't have laid my hand upon her in the way of force, no, not to save a dozen lives!

' At last the grey light crept upon us, and bit by bit we made ont what was going on Within a league of the rocks were two ves-els, the cutter and the lugger which was laboring under a spread of canvas that seemed enough to snap her mssts, and drive her hull deep down under water. It was a race for life between desperate men hot with passion, long past caring about danger. As the lugger came nearer, we could dimly make out the kegs piled up upon her deck, and fancied, rightly enough, as it afterwards turned out. that Mark Bratt was standing to the helm with a dead man huddled at his feet.

' The smugglers' game was evidently to get across the bar, for they knew well that, although there was depth enough for the lugger to cross, the cutter would be wrecked if she followed them. Indeed, being of so much heavier tonnage, she was even then in danger through venturing so near the shore in Buch a gate. We all grew frantic with excitement; some of us shouted words of wild encouragement—just as if they had a chance of hearing us t —some took off shawls and jackets, waving and tossing them up, until the fierce gusts tore them from their gr^sp.

'At last, just as there was & lull o! the wind, we all set np a great, joyous shout! The cutter was giving up the pursuit. £ut that shout ended in a scream of horror, and high up above all the other voices rang the mad, hoarse screech of poor Jane Morgan. A chain-shot from the revenue vessel swept away the lugger's main-mast, and for a moment, as it seemed to the women, all was over I Men knew better. In a minute the stays were cut away, the wreck cleared, the lugger swept like a bird round the Great Orme's Head, and hurrah 1 hurrah! hurrah ! —there rhe was, safe, safe! brought with a slight shock over the sand.bank. floating in good smooth water t We all joined that shout of savage triumph and defiance, which the smugglers raised as the cutter, after delivering another and nearly harmless broadside, stood off shore, not a minute too soon.

' With the swift flight of a sea-bird, Jane Morgan followed the course of the lugger along the shore to the rocky bay in which she rode at anchor. She was the first to spring Into the boat which first reached its side. We heard her calling wilaly, ' Mark! Mark!. Mark!' and before anyone conld cover the awful sight from her eyes, or catch her in his arms, she fell, with a wild, convulsive cry of horror, on the dead body of her lover. There he lay, poor fellow, horribly mutilated ; only to be recognised by the bright blue pea-jacket, which was her own last gift, and by the brass buckles her father had bestowed upon him wh?n he claimed her as his future wife.

• When they lifted her np, and s»w how still and white she was, her father's heart gave a great leap and then stood motionless. He took her from them with a groan, and bore her back into the boat. Those sweet bine eyes never opened—his darling's fairy voice was never to be heard again. From that day to this you have never seen in Llandudno so light a step, a prettier, or a better girl. The fairies got her back again. A groan from the stranger guest brought the landlord to his feet. 'Are you ill, sir?' ' No, no—thank yon—only—only—let me alone!'

For a few minutes there was silence amongst them, and they heard the wind moaning in the chimney, and the surge hoarsely roaring far away down in the rocky ooverns beneath them. In those few moments Jane Morgan rose np before Edward Davis as he last saw her, with her large, earnest blue eyes, full of innocent frankness ; her smooth young cheeks fresh with blooming health, with her sylph-like figure, and her clustering golden curb, unchanged by the years which had separated them, and making the old trader's life In London seem like a dream in comparison with those younger days, in which he vainly sought to win the hand and heart of poor Jane Morgan. • I think I will go to bed,' said he suddenly. And so, with his face turned away, and a sound curiously like sobbing, .to bed he went. A. H. W-AXL.