LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 2081, 25 October 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

AN ONLY OFFEB. [Frcm " Harper'a Weekly."] 1 Aunt Phoebe, were you ever pretty?' ' When I was sixteen I was considered so. I was very like you then. Julia. I am forty, three now, remember.' 'Did you ever have an offer —an offer of marriage, I mean, aunt ?' ' No. Well, that's not true ? I did have one offer.' ' And yon refused it ?' •No.' ' Then he died, or went away f 'No.* * Or deserted you ?' 'No.* ' Then you deceived him, I snppose ?' 'I did not.' ' Whatever happened, then ? Was he poor, or crippled, or something dreadful ?' ' He was rich and handsome.' ' Snppose you tell me about him.' 'I never talk abou» him to anyone.' ' Did it happen in the old place V ' es, Julia. I never left Byelanda until I was thirty. This happened when I was sixteen.' ' Was ho a farmer's son in the neighborhood?' ' He was a fine city gentleman.' ' Oh, aunt, how interesting ! Put down your embroidery and tell me about It; you cannot see to work longer.' Perhaps after so many years of silence a sudden longing for sympathy and confidence seized the elder lady, for she let hsr work fall from her hands, and, smiling sadly, said—-'Twenty-seven years ago I was standing one afternoon by the gate at Byolahds. All the work had been finished early, and my mother and two elder sisters had gone to the village to see a friend. I had watched them a little way down to the hill-side, and was turning to go into the houss, when I saw a stranger on horseback coming up the road. He stopped and spoke to mother, and this roused my curiosity; so I lingered at the gate. He stopped when he reached tt, fastened his horse, and asked, ' Is Mr Wakefield in?' I said ' father was in the barn, and I conld fetch him,' which I immediately did. He was a dark, unpleasant looking man, and had a masterful way with him, even to father, that I disliked; but after a short, business-like talk, apparently satisfactory to both, he went away without entering the house. Father put his hands in his pockets and watched him out of sight; then, looking at me, he said, ' Pat the spare rooms in order, Phoebe.' ' They' are in order, father j but la that man to occupy them ?' ' Yes, he and his patient, a young gentleman of fine family, who Is hi bad health.' ' Do you know the young gentleman, father ?' • I know it is young Alfred Compton—that is enough for me.' ' And the dark man who has just left ? I don't like his looks, father.' ' Nobody wants thee to like his looks. He is Mr Alfred's physician—a Dr. Orman, of Boston. Neither of them are any of thy business, so ask no more questions;' and with that he went back to the barn. Mother was not at all astonished. She said there had been letters on the subjeot already, and that she had been rather expecting the company. * But,' she added, ' they will pay well, and as Melissa is to be married at Christmas, ready money will be very needful.' About dark a carriage arrived. It contained two gentlemen and several large trunks. I had been watching for it behind the lilao trees, and I saw that our afternoon visitor was now accompanied by a alight, very fair man, dressed with extreme care in the very highest fashion. I saw also that he was handsome, and I was quite sure he must be rich, or no dootor would wait upon him so subserviently. This doctor 1 had disliked at first sight, and I soon began to imagine that I had good cause to hate him. His conduct to his patient I believed to be tyrannical and unkind. Some days he insisted that Mr Compton was too ill to go out, thongh the poor gentleman begged for a walk ; and again, mother, said, he would take from him all his books, though he pleaded urgently for them, One afternoon the postman brought _Dr Orman a letter, which seamed to be important, for ho asked father to drive him to the next town, and requested mother to see that Mr Compton did not leave the house. I suppose it was not a right thing to do, but this handsome sick stranger, so hardly used, and so surrounded with mystery, had roused in me a sincere sympathy for his loneliness and suffering, and _ I walked through that part of tho garden into which his windows looked. We had been politely requested to avoid it, because the sight of strangers increased Mr Oompton'a nervous condition. I did not believe this, and I determined to try the experiment. He was leaning out of the window, and a sadder face I never saw. I smiled and courtesied, and he immediately leaped the low still, and came towards me. I stooped and began to tie up some fallen carnations. He stood and helped me, saying all the while I know not what, only that it seemed to me tho most beautiful language I overheard. Then we walked up and down tho long peach walk until I heard the rattle of father's wagon. After this we became quietly, almost secretly as far as Dr. Oiman was concerned, very great friends. Mother so thoroughly pitied Alfred that Bhe not only pretended oblivion of our friendship, but promoted it In many ways, and in the course, of time Dr,

Orman began to recognise its valne. I was 1 requested to walk past Mr Compton's windows and say " Good morning," or offer him a flower or some ripe peaches', and finally to accompany the gentlemen in their short ramblea in the neighborhood. I need not tell yon how all thlß restriction ended. We were soon deeply in love with each other,, and love ever finds out the way to make himself understood. We had many a five minntes' meeting no one knew of, and when these were impossible, a rose bnsh near his window hid for me the tsnderest little love letters. In fact, Julia, I fonnd him irresistible. He was so handsome and gentle, and though he most have been thirtyfive years old, yet to my thinking he looked handsomer than any young man oould have done.

As the weeks passed on, the doctor seemed to have more confidence in ns, or else his patient was more completely under control. Xhoy had much fewer quarrels. I do not know how I received the idea, but I certainly believed that Dr. Orman was keeping Alfred sick for aome purposa of his own, and I determined to take the first opportunity of arousing Alfred's suspicions. So one evening, when we were walking alone, I asked him if he did not wish to see his relatives.

He trembled violently, and seemed in the greatest distress, and only by the tenderest words could I soothe him, as, half sobbing, he declared that they were his bitterest enemies and that Br. Orman was the only friend he had in the world. Any further efforts I made to get at the secret of his life were equally fruitless, ahd only threw him into paroxisms of distress. During the month of August he was very 111, or at least Dr. Orman said so. I scarcely saw him, there were no letters in the rose-bush, and frequently the disputes between the two men ress to a pitch which father seriously disliked.

One hot day in September every one was in the fields or orchard ; only the doctor and Alfred and I were in the house. Early iu the afternoon a boy came from the village with a letter to Dr. Orman, and he seemed very much perplexed, and at a loss how to act. At .'ength he said, ' Miss Phoebe, I must go to the village for a couple of hours ; I think Mr Alfred will sleep until my return, but if not, will yon try and amuse him ?' I promised gladly, and Dr. Orman went back to the village with the messenger. No sooner was he out of sight than Alfred appeared, and we rambled about the garden, *a happy as two lovers could be. But the day was extremely hot, and as the afternoon advanced, the heat increased. I proposed then that we should walk up the hill, where there was generally a breeze, and Alfred was delighted at the larger freedom it promised ns. But in another hour the sky grew dark and lurid, and I noticed that Alfred grew strangely restless. Bis cheeks flashed, his eyes had a wild look of terror in them, he trembled and started, and in spite of all my efforts to soothe him, grew irritable and gloomy. Yet he had just asked me to marry him, and I had promised I would. He had called me ' his wife,' and I had told him again my suspicions about Dr. Orman, and vowed to nurse him myself back to perfect health. We had talked, too, of going to Europe, and in the eagerness and delight of our new plans, had wandered quite up to the little pine forest at the top of the hill. Then I noticed Alfred's excited condition, and saw also that we were going to have a thunder storm.

There was empty log-hut not far away, and I urged Alfred to try and reach it before the Btorm broke. Eat he became suddenly like a child in his torror, and it was only with the greatest difficulty I got him within its shelter.

As peal after peal of thunder crashed above ua, Alfred seemed to lose all control of himself, and seriously offended, I left him, nearly sobbing, in a corner, and went and stood by myself in the open door. In the very height of the storm I saw my father, Dr. Orman, and three of our workmen coming through the wood. They evidently suspected our sheltering-place, for they came directly toward it.

' Alfred,' shouted Dr. Orman, in the tone of an angry master, 'where are yon, sir? Come here instantly.'

My pettedness instantly vanished, and I (aid—' Doctor, van have no right to speak to Alfred in that way. He is going to be my husband, and I shall not permit it any more'

'Miss Wakefield,' he answered, 'this is sheer folly. Look there 1' I turned and saw Alfred crouching in the corner, completely paralysed with terror; and yet, when Dr. Orman spoke to him, he rose mechanically, as a dog might follow his master's call.

•I am sorry, Miss Wakefield, to destroy your fine romance. Mr Alfred Compton is, as you perceive not fit to marry any lady. In fact, I am his—keeper.' ' Oh, Aunt Phoebe ! Surely he was not a lunatic !'

'So they said, Julia. His frantic terror was the only sign I saw of it; bat Dr. Orman told my father that he was at times really dangerous, and that he was annually paid a large sum to take charge of him, as he became uncontrollable la an asylum.' * Did you see him again Y * No. I found a little note in the rosebush, saving that ho was not mad ; that he remembered my promiae to be his wife, and would surely come some day and claim me. Bat they left in three days, and Melissa, whose wedding outfit was curtailed in consequenoe, twitted me very unkindly about my line crazy lover. It was a little hard on me, for he was the only lover I ever had. Melissa and Jane both married and went west with their husbands ; I lived on at Ry elands, a faded little old maid, until my uncle Joshua sent for me to come to New York and keep his fine house for him. Yon know that he left me all he had when he died, nearly two years ago. I remembered my own lonely youth, and thought I would give you a fairer chance, dear.' ' Did you ever hear of him again, aunt ?' *Of him, never. His elder brother died more than a year ago. I suppose Alfred died many years since; he was very frail and delicate. I thought it was refinement and beauty then ; I know it was now illhealth.' ' Poor Aunt I'

• Nay, child, I was very happy while my dream lasted, and x never will believe bnt that Afred in his love for me was quite sane, and perhaps more sincere than many wiser men.'

After this confidence Miss Phoebe seemed to take a great pleasure in speaking of the little romance in her youth. Often the old and the young maidens sat in the twilight discussing the probabilities of poor Alfred Compton's life and death, and every discussion left them more and more certain that he had been the victim of some cruel plot The Bubject never tired Miiß Phoebe, and Julia, in the absence of a lover of her own, found in it a charm quite in keeping with her own youthful dreams. One cold night in the middle of January they had talked over the old subject until both felt it to be exhausted—at least for that night Julia drew aside the heavy satin curtains, and looking out, said, 'it Is ! snowing heavily, aunt; to-morrow we can have a sleigh ride. 'Why, there is a sleigh iat our door! Who can it be t A gentleman, ! aunt, and he is coming here.' 'Close the curtain, child. It is my lawyer, Mr Howard. He promised to call to-night.' 'Oh dear! I was hoping it was some nice strange person.' Miss Phoebe did not answer; her thoughts ; were fat away. In fact, she had talked : about her lover until there had sprung np anew in her hoart a very strong sentimental affection for his memory; and when the ' servant announced a visitor on business, she 1 arose with a sigh from her reflections, and 1 went into the reception room. In a few minutes Julia heard her voice in rapid excited tones, and era she could decide whether to go to her or not, Aunt Phoebe | entered the room, holding by the hand a i gentleman whom she announced as Mr Alfred Compton. Julia was disappointed to say the least, but she met him with enthusiasm. Perhaps Aunt Phcebe had quite unconsciously magnified the beauty of the youthful Alfred; certainly this one was not handaome. He was sixty, at least; his fair curling looks had vanished, and his fine figure was slightly bent. But the dear sensitive face regained, and he was still dressed with scrupulous care. The two women made much of him. In half an hour Delmonico had furnished a delicious little banquet, and Alfred drank his first glass of wine with an old-fashioned "to his promised wife, Miss Phoebe Wakefield, beat and loveliest of women,"

Miss Phcobe laugh, d but she dearly liked! it. and h»n lin hand the +wo old lovers s*t r while Alfred told bis sad little story of lifeloDg wrong and suffering ; of an intensely nervous, self-c .nscioua nature driven to extremity by cruel usage and many wrongs. At the mention of l.'r. Orman, Miss Pfccsbo expressed herpelf a little bitterly. * Nay, Phoebe ' said Alfred ; «whatever hswas when my brother put me in his care, hs became my true friend To his skill and patience I owe my restoration to perfect health ; and to hia firm advocacy of my right aud ability to manage my own estate T omr the position I now hold, and my ability tocome and ask Phoebe to redeem, her never forgo*ten premise.' Perhaps Jnlia got a little tired of these old-fashioned lovers, but they never tired of each other. Miss Phmbe was not the least abashed by any contrast between her ideal and her real Alfred, and Alfred was never weary of assuring her that he fonnd her infinitely more deliahtful and womanly than in. the d&ys of their fist courtship. She can n t even call them a "silly" er- " foolish " couple, or usa any other relieving phrase of that for Miss Phoebe—or rather Mrs Compton— resents any word as applied to Mr Alfred Compton that would imply less than supernatural wisdom and intelligence. 'No one but those who have known him as long as I have,' she continually avers, ' oan possibly estimate the superior information and infallible judgment of my husband/