LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1896, 22 March 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

MARTHA JACOBI: A TRAGEDY IN BEAL LIFE. [Abridged from the Christmas Number of “ Belgravia.”] ( Continued .) The first part of this speech was spoken harshly and authoritatively. The second, after a moment’s pause, sanvely and by way of excuse. They were both foreigners, by their strange accent; the one who had spoken last was a thin man, prematurely grey. The other was tall, robust, and swarthy, with immensely long moustaches, which touched his shoulders, and were hideous in my sight. Paul picked up the stick, and I, anxious to be gone, said, ‘ Give it to the gentleman, Paul —there’s a good boy. And now let us make haste; mamma will wonder what has become of us.’ The younger and taller man stood watching us and twisting the ends of his moustaches with his gloved hand. I ;conld see his eyes wandering from the child to his companion, and then askance from his companion to me. The thin, grey man’s hand was trembling as he received the cane from the hand of the child, and he said in a husky voice, * What is your name—Paul ?’ ‘Es - Paul,’ confident and unabashed. ‘ Paul what, my fine little fellow ? Who is the father of this child ?’ he added, turning suddenly to me, and with a singular evidence of importance in his inquiries; ‘ where does he live—what— ? ’ ‘ What does It matter !’ interrupted the other with a hearty laugh ; * let ns get on. These English children are all alike —fat, healthy, handsome cherubs, who lose everything bat their fat as they grow up, I think. Let us get on, please —they will be waiting for us. Yon forget.’ ‘ Ah, yes, I forgot.’ The two men walked on, and I observed that the taller man drew the hand of his companion through his arm, as if to lead him away, or to give him support if it were needed. I was puzzled by the manner of these two gentlemen until I was in Fulhamroad, not many streets from homo, Here

they were both painfully brought to my remembrance again, for suddenly, as if he ho had risen from the ground the dark man with the long moustaches was standing by my side. ‘ I beg your pardon for troubling you, my good woman,’ho said, ‘but do you remember my friend speaking to you and this child !’

I jumped at his voice so close to my ear, looked hard at him, and felt at once distrustful. How was that —and so soon ? How was it that to my unimpressionable heart came the whisper of four words —“ Be on your guard.” Is there some hidden, unknown feeling that warns us, at times of danger, of a (also friend, erasure enemy? Is there a Fato or not 7 lam too ignorant to know, but this man was like a Bate to me. I shrank away from him ; I drew the child quickly to the other side, placing myself between Paul and him, for no reason at which my fears could guess. ‘ 1 hardly remember,’ I answered sullenly, ‘so many notice tho child, and speak to him.’ ‘Ah ! Well ; it was in Kensington Gardens ; over there.’ * Very likely.’ The man twisted his moustaches, and looked at me attentively. My bard, grim face was turned away, my eyes were steady and keeping the path before me well in view, but I was watching him for all this.

‘The gentleman who was with me is a celebrated artist, and would be glad to sketch that boy, to introduce him into an historical picture-the likeness to tho character which he wishes to pourtray being very striking, Do you think the patents would object if -—’ ‘ I am sure they would object,’ I said, interrupting him. ‘ Money would be no consideration, and one or two sittings would be sufficient. One sketch in the child’s own home might do, even. ’ ‘ The parents would not like anything of the kind,’ and I increased my pace, but the speaker did the same. I had grown terribly afraid of his persistence ; I knew nothing of art and artists, and did not understand what he was saying, or believe in him. I saw in this only an excuse, and this was strange. ‘You cannot possibly know,’ he urged, ‘ and perhaps a few pounds to the father, if poor ’ ‘ His father is very proud.’ * There is nothing derogatory in ’ ‘ Good day. ’ ‘ Will you allow me to inquire for myself ? Will you give me the address ?’ ‘No,’ I answered, bluntly, ‘ You are a very obstinate woman, I am sorry to see. My friend has been two years searching for a face like that to copy, ’ he continued ; ‘ and I have been searching with him. It is hard to lose a chance. If yon only understood art, my good woman, yon would sympathise with our pursuit. It is so slight a favour; and coming from so great an artist as my friend, it is a compliment, I solemnly assure yon.’ ‘I do not understand. Good day.’ •If fiye pounds, now. To yon— —?’ * Let me alone. I have nothing more to say to you.’ I turned and faced him, rigid and fierce at last, and he qnailed at my fixed stare, raised his hat, as to a lady born, turned on his heel, and went away. I did not take the child straight home. I was sure he would watch me. I was sure he had made up his mind to find out where I lived. I crossed and re-creased the roads. I lost myself in a maze of turnings near the Chelsea Hospital. I looked behind me constantly, in fear of watchers. I turned the corners of tho streets in haste, and then waited for my spies. But I was not followed, or they who followed were too cunning for me. I reached home unperceived, I thought, and my mistress scolded me for being away so long. My excuse’waa not a ready one, and was received in silence. I feared to tell the truth, lest I should render her more nervous than myself, or she should suspect that I was going mad. Presently I began to think I was too full of fancies to be completely sane; for the autumn passed on to winter, and still the man was on my mind, and the dark glitter, ing eyes shone out in the darkness of my dreams as though I were to be haunted by them till my dying day. It is not unlikely that my mind was a little strained at this period. I was unsettled. The picture of the oncoming troubles of my master and mistress was not pleasnt to contemplate; The master had grown dull and thoughtful, and wore a moody look that was difficult to chase away, and the mistress, my dear young mistress, seemed fading slowly from th!s world. They both looked at me curiously, and I felt that they would broach the subject presently again of my dismissal from their service. I was one too many—l knew that, and a serious item in their expenses, even with my hands open to help them, and shut against any money for my willing work. It came as I expected ; it was like a death warrant.

In November I received a notice to leave them ; I was told I must go, with many tears from the weak wife ; I was even urged to go at once, as better for all. and leas painful to me. It was explained that it was impossible they could afford longer to keep me; and it was not just to themselves to do so. * I will go, then, ’ I said, after one or two vain remonstrances, and feeling that all remonstrances were vain. They had made up their minds now. and I could not beg too long, although my heart was breaking. *We shall never forget”your kindness, Martha,’ said the wife. ‘ And we hope one day to he able to repay it,’ added the husband. ‘ To have you back again with us presently, when the good times come for us, as they come to moat folks who have the patience to wait,’ said Mrs Mayfield. * I will pray for the good times, then’ I answered ; ‘ I know I shall not be liked in any other situation.’ ‘ You will not be long out of service. We are able to give you an excellent character, Martha,’ said Mr Mayfield, ‘ and good servants are scarce commodities, the papers say. ’ o I did not answer him. I did not understand why he was almost in high spirts at my going away, as if I had been a weight upon his mind, and my absence would remove it. ‘ I may call and see the child ? ’ turning to my mistress ; ‘ 1 could not live and not see little Paul.’ There was a strange hesitation here that struck me—that bewildered me. The husband’s face shadowed and his brow contracted as though I had insulted him by the appeal, and Mrs Mayfield drew a deep, long breath and stared at me. ‘Certainly, Martha,’ she said, however, 1 as often as you please.’ Mr Mayfield said not a word ; he took up a book and feigned to be absorbed in its perusal ; and I went away a discontented and suspicious woman, and Heaven knows why. 1 broke down utterly. I wept and raved, and soared the child away from me by my extravagance of grief, instead of feeling his arms round my neck, and his kisses on my worn, wet cheeks. It was only two days after I had gone that the mother told me he was fretting for his Martha, and the boy’s grief was a comfort to me, though I grieved with him. Before the week was out I had seen little Paul twice ; early in the next week I was there once more. I had obtained no new situation—l had not tried. I had settled down in a street close to theirs, and there it was likely I should remain nntil my last penny was spent. I trld them this, and offered to work for them when they liked, and go back to my own room to my meals ; bnt they would not listen to any proposition of the kind. It was putting too cruel an obligation on them, Mrs Mayfield said, and she was sure that she was strong enough to do without a servant. Then came another 1 cut ’ for me— I was not to call too frequently. I unsettled the boy ;he could think of nothing else bnt my visits and the little presents which I brought him. It would be much the better plan to keep away fer a fortnight or three weeks, they thought. ‘Very well,’l said again ; *if I can keep away I will. Bnt I did not think mistress, you would ever say as much to me.’ ‘lt 1s for Paul’s sake. Arthur thinks it is tlhgt—it is—” And then Mrs Mayfield burst into tears, and begged me to go away. She was not strong enough to argue with me. If the boy missed me, or was very unhappy, she would send for me to come to him, Fo ie continued.)