LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 2011, 4 August 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

IN LIFE AND IN DEATH. [From “Blackwood's Magazine ”] Chapter I. A long, old-fashioned, magnificent room, growing dim »nd shadowy in the twilight; a room fit to bo haunted, lined with shelves full of hundreds of old books ; a room that seemed really to be haunted, as the white busts gleamed out spectrally through the growing dirkness. Far-stretching, silent and solitary, so large, that the one living figure in it was almost lost and swallowed up in space ; so dreary in its vastness, that it was wonderful any living creature could endure to stay there. Four great windows, side by side, looked out on a terrace, where a fountain played, and cold white nymphs stood as if turned to stone while they danced. Tho terrace was solitary, like the room that opened on it; only at one of the windows, leaning against the frame, and keeping a steady watch through the glass, was a man. The light was so dim even there that hia figure was just plainly discernible ; but it could be seen that he was not old—not, perhaps, quite young, but under middle age—slender, pale, and worn. His profile against the window looked almost too delicate for a man ; and hia hand was painfully thin. That was all that could be seen—even that only now and then when he held up his watch to catch the light on bis face. Suddenly a soft, almost stealthy, foot came along the gravel. A woman wrapped in a large cloak, with the hood drawn over her head, came on to the terrace ; the library window swung open, and she stepped in. ‘ Is it really you, Helen, at length ?’ ‘ Am I too late ? I could not come sooner.’ ‘ Not very late —but you coma so seldon now, I suppose I am impatient.’ She let him take off her cloak, and stood quite passive while he looked at her for a moment, and then bsnt down and kissed her. She was in a very simple evening toilet; not a tall woman, bnt finely and fully proportioned ; old enough and beautiful enough to have suited a much richer style of dress than the plain white she wore ; and with a kind of steady calm abont her, even while she met her lover.

‘Close the window, please,’she said, in her composed musical voice; ‘ I want to have a long talklwith you, Philip.’ Ho obeyed gladly. ‘I have scarcely seen you for a week. ’ he answered, ‘and I have good news to night.’ ‘ You see me three times every day—is not that enough ?’ *lf you call that seeing. Are there to be no more lessons, Helen ?’ *1 am afraid not. I did not make much progress last winter. My aunt noticed it.’ Bis face glowed. “ Last winter ? No. But it was not altogether my fault. How often did yon miss coming ?’ ‘ Several times, certainly. And, Philip, yon know my reason.’ * Lord Daintry was here, and you were often occupied.’ ‘ Other people as well as Lord Daintry were here, and I did not wish our secret to be discovered. You would certainlv have ruined yourself if I had not been careful for both.’

‘ Perhaps you are right. But, Heien, it is hard to see so little of you as I do now.’ She was silent for a moment. She had sat down In a great carved arm-chair that stood near the window, and he standing opposite to her, leaned against the projecting side of the recess, and kept his eyes constantly on her face.

‘ Listen,’ she said, looking np at him with a faint colour flickering over her calm features. ‘ Don’t you think that this constant dissimulation has lasted long enough ? Don’t you think this secret-keeping ought to be put an end to ?’ ‘Doyou consent, then,’ he cried eagerly. ■Hush! hush! Ton misunderstand—’ ‘ For three years he went on quickly, ' we have been living a lie ; better the truth with any penalties it may bring, than to go on like this. ’ ‘Yes, I am glad you think so.’ 4 My darling, I began to fear I cannot tell what. Only to-night, as I waited. 1 thought you had tired of me ; and now yon will give yourself to me openly.’ He knelt at her feet—he took one of her hands, and covered it with kisses. ‘Stay,’ she answered. J‘ Don’t deceive yourself, or let me deceive you—that, at least, I have never done.’ Something in her voice sounded as if sh» were trembling, and forcing herself to stand on the defensive against an accusation. She laid her other hand over his two with a kind of reluctant caress. ‘ I mean, simply,’ she said ‘ that our engagement ought to be broken off.’ The clasp of his fingers relaxed. Be fell back a little, as if he had been struck, then grasped her hand more firmly than before. ‘ You are jesting ?’ he asked. He dare not assert that it was so —Helen Fortescns seldom jested ; but he asked it in an agony. ‘ No, ’ she answered. ‘You are hurting me. lam quite in earnest.’ He got up, turned away from her, and went into the darkness of the room, staggering and catching at the tables and chairs as he went. She sat still by the window, with the pale light falling upon her golden hair, while she considered what she should say next to him. He went all the length of the room, and came back to his former place opposite her, deadly pale, but ready to listen. ‘I do not know,’ she began again, ‘why I have not said this before. I have thought it for some time. We were very foolish three years ago, both of us; but we are not children now —not boy and girl, that we should not be able to give up our romance. My aunt’s health is giving way, and as you know, her income dies with her ; and when she is dead my uncle will have to live less expensively—he will think, first of all, of ridding himself of useless encumbrances. In fact, ray homo here, snch as it is, is every day in greater danger. I ought to think of the future.’

‘ Have you not thought ? aud I for you ? Helen, yon have been faithful to me so long, don’t, don’t change now. For heaven’s sake be patient a little 1’ ‘ Is it a question of patience ?’ ‘ Yes. only that. To day, this very day, I have had an appointment offered me.’ She raised her head a little with a quick inquiring movement. She had loved him once, in her fashion ; perhaps did still. She had been used to think that, with his foot on the first step of the ladder of success, he would certainly reach the top. If he had that first step now, she might still be true to him. But it struck her that there was a singular hesitation in his manner. ‘lt )s a good thing,’ he went on, ‘ almost an unhoped-for fortune; and yet it has its dark aide. I should have to leave you for a year.’ ‘ Well ?’ she said, impatiently, as if that were a little thing. ‘And it comes from a quarter I don’t like.’

‘ Can you afford to have preferences ? I cannot.’ ‘No, truly. But this is from Mr Stuart, Lord Daiutry’s brother. He wants a private secretary, and will take me. It is in itself a much better thing than this, and will lead to something more.’ ‘ And yet you do not like it? Why not, Philip ?’ * I think you know. You will say it is foolish; but except for the sake of making sure of you, I would not take it. With your promise and for your sake I will.’ * And that very promise would deprive you of it. No, Philip, you must take it—the first chance of prospsrity which has come to you —but you must take it without me.’ ‘ Never. Why but for you should I care for it ? I have all the necessaries of life here —and you.’ _ ... He came to her side and laid his hand softly in her hair, which still gleamed golden through the half darkness; but she leaned back in her chair, moving her head from under his tench.

‘I have something to toll you also,’ she said, * and yon will not like to hear it. This morning I had a letter which is of importance to both of ua.’ She paused a moment, shook off all hesitation, and went on quickly—- • Lord Daintry wishes mo to marry him. He is rich, and I am tired of poverty ; ho is anxious to give mo a home, and I am certain soon, to want one. Ought Ito refuse him ?’ *y ou have accepted him? Your word to me Is nothing, Ho.en ?’ He spoke brokenly and harshly. ‘ Not yet; I must answer his letter tomorrow.’

Suddenly he fell, half-kneeling, before her, grasplng'her hands again passionately. ‘ Sou cannot do it!’ ho cried. * yon arc mine, and I will not give you up. 1 could not live and lose yon. ’ ‘ Hush, pray hush, dear Philip!’ she answered, soothing him as if he were an intractable child. * You see that I have oome to consult you. I have done nothing, said nothing yet, that you need complain of.’ ‘You come to consult me?’ he repeated bitterly. *Do you come to ask me whether I will give you up to this man who la rich, and can make you a countess ?’ ‘ Honestly, yes.’ ‘And yon said you loved me !’ ' I did—ldo But you know what I am, and what our prospects, both of ns, are. I don't think I could bear to live in a small house, to have everything abont me poor and miserable and straitened. It has been bad enough here as a dependant. It grows worse and worss as I grow older. lam weary of my life. Release me. Philip. Let us each seek something better for ourselves than this hopeless waiting.’ ‘ I, too, am weary of life.’ He got up and stood facing her ; while ehe also startled by something in his tone, rose, and waited with her hand upon tho arm of her chair. ‘ Helen,’ he went on, ‘ there has been one inequality between us always. You have, when you choose, an iron will. lam naturally weak, easily persuad ’d. Yon have made up your mind to break your word to me. and to marrs this Bad. Tun will do it. But for once lam as reso ute as you. Here, In this very place, where, three years ago you promised solemnly in the sight, of heaven to be my wife—here, where you have over and over again repeated your promise, I tell you I never will release j'ou from it. Go marry whom you will—get all the good yon can from your bargain; but, married or single, rich or poor, living or dying, yon are mine !’ He had raised his head with a threatening gesture. His words sounded like a curse. For all her steady nerves, she shuddered. ‘ Philip! hear me—let me speak— ’ she cried. *No more. If I have been blind, it has been wilfully. Now I see. But yon are bound, now and for ever, in life and in death.’ He broke from her; and rushing away, through the window, past the white nymphs was lost instantly in the darkness. (To be continued .)