LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 2105, 22 November 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE MYSTERY ©T LORD BRACKENBURY: A NOVEL. BY AMELIA B. EDWABD3, Author of “Barbara’s History,” •* Eebenham’s Yow,” &o. (Continued.) And now, for some miles of the way, they continued to meet a stream of holidaymakers bound from Genoa. Sometimes it was a party of Capuchin friars striding manfully along, with their brown skirts tucked up through their knotted girdles ; or a detachment of bareheaded Seminarists in black gowns, under the escort of a couple of Jesuits; or a wild looking ‘Contadioo,’ clad, like Robinson Crusoe, in jacket and breeches of undressed goat skin; or, more often still, a creaking ‘ carretta ’ full of langhing girls, drawn by a rough little nag with a wonderful headgar, all brass ornaments, fringes, and scarlet tassels. Further still, as the distance became greater and the day wore on, this tide of wayfarers gradually ceased. Meanwhile, from every fishing village nestled hundreds of feet below on the brink of the sea, there rose a faint echo of church bells ; and in one little hamlet where the way-side church was all too small for the numbers who had come to worship within its walls, there knelt oatdde in the dust of the road and the glare of the noon a silent crowd to whom the words of the priest were inaudible, but for whom there was prayer and thanksgiving enough in the chanting of the acolytes and the tinkling of the bell.

Shortly after midday, having changed horses twice since leaving Genoa, Sandro Quaranta-Sette pnt up for an hoar at a quaint little town, fantastically built, roof below roof. In a ravine opening down so steeply to the beach that it looked as if a cataract of houses had tumbled over the cliff two or three hundred years ago, and taken root among the ledges of the rocks. A dizzy road, carved out in zigzags, led down to this little town; and there were clusters of fan-palms on the heights above and rows of black fishing boats drawn up on the sands below; and on the verge of a jotting promontory, some mile or two farther along the shore, a wide-fronted, many-windowed convent surrounded by cypresses. Here, too, it was all “Festa” to-day—-streets and market place crowded with idlers; men playing at morra, women gossipping, bells ringing, church doors standing open, and a lingering perfume of incense in the air. There was but one ion in the place—a rambling old house with kitchen and stabling on the grennd floor, and a big dirty dining room up stairs, full of country folk eating, drinking, smoking, and making merry. Here Mr Fronting, not without sundry painful misgivings as to the Inferiority of his surroundings, sat down with Sandro Quaranta-Sette to a sort of rustic “ table d’ hote ” dinner, while Lord Braekenbury strolled into the chnrch to see a certain miracle working picture of the Madonna, which was the glory and pride of the place. ‘lt had been washed ashore one night during a great storm about eight years ago,’ said the old sacristan, who was trimming the lamps for the Vesper service; ‘since when, with the blessing of Gnr Lady and all the Saints, it had wrought many famous cures,’ Lord Braekenbury looked, listened, and gravely smiled. Like the generality of miracle working pictures, it was a miserable daub. ‘ Does It cure all diseases alike, or is it good for only certain ailments V he asked, The sacristan shook his head.

‘Altro, altro,’ he said doubtfully; ‘our people come hither to pray for relief from ophthalmia and rheumatism.’ * And they obtain it ?’ ‘ Undoubtedly. Signor—undoubtedly.’ The Madonna squinted, and her nose was sadly out of drawing. Lord Brackenbury thought to himself that so benevolent a Madonna might as well have been better looking. Perhaps his face betrayed his thoughts, for the old man drawing a faded cnrtain over the picture said somewhat sharply—‘lt is very old ; no one knows how old—and it has the beauty of holiness.’ To this incontrovertible assertion, Lord Brackenbury made the only answer open to an Englishman and a sceptic, He took ont his purse, gave the sacristan apiece of money, and with a pleasant ‘ Buon giorno ’walked ont again into the sunshine. The old man looked at the coin, looked after the giver, looked at the coin again, and, with a chuckle of self-gratalation, pocketed the same. ‘Per Bacco!’ he muttered, lapsing Into temporary Paganism. ‘ A scudo—a whole sondo! And 1 took him for a heretic 1’ From the church Lord Brackenbury went down again to the beach, where the empty fishing boats were drawn in a long straggling row, battered, water-worn, casting pure violet shadows on the white sands, with here and there an orange tawny sailor spread a much-mended net over the oars to dry. Here, among coils of rope and empty fish baskets and rusty anchors and piles of shells and driftwood and withered seaweed and the picturesque litter proper to a Mediterranean fishing village. Lord Brackenbury sat him down upon a little creaking capstan and watched tfco slow wash of the sea as it broke in creamy curves against the shore. Two children, a boy and a girl, came to him presently and asked, half shyly, half boldly, for “ one little soldo.” ‘ A soldo ? What would you do with it!’ The boy hung back ; the little girl hid her face against her brother’s shoulder. A bronzed, bare-focted, amphibious little pair, to whom the sands, and the rocks, and the shells, and the seaweeds were as green slopes and wild flowers to the children of inland hills and valleys. Lord Brackenbury beckoned them to come closer. ‘ What would you do with it ?’ he repeated. Still they were siient, but seeing his fingers stray in the direction of his waistcoat pocket, they ventured a foot or two nearer. Lord Brackenbury took ont two little silver half-lire of Genoese currency, value about fourpence each—a coin long since gone the way of the Roman ‘ Paul ’ and the Neapolitan • Carlino. ’ ‘ I will buy oranges !’ said the boy, his eyes sparkling, his hand outstretched. ‘And this little maiden ?’ The boy gave her a push, and Lord Brackenbury, still withholding the coins, drew her gently to his side. ‘ What is your name ?’ he asked. The boy answered for her—- ‘ Feliolta.’ ‘ And yours ?’ ‘Giovanni.’

‘“Eeco," Felioita. Giovanni haa answered—therefore I give him not a soldo, but a mezzo-lira. The other is yours when you tell me how you will spend it,’ The boy’s fingers closed eagerly on the coveted coin. Then, like a young savage, he sprang back, fearing lest the giver should repent him of his gift. Felicita, left with the terrible stranger, looked uncertain whether to howl or run away. “What! quite dumb? Very well, then Felicita keeps her tongue to herself, and I keep my mezzo-lira!’ And, suiting the action to the word. Lord Brackenbury returned the money to his waistcoat pocket. The child's Up quivered, and two big shining drops slipped slowly down her cheeks. The half lira was out again directly, and held before her eyes. _ * Hush !no tears, little one. See, now—what is it to be ? Oranges ?’ Felicita, staring at the coin through tears that magnified it to the size of a scudo, shook her head. ‘ Oakes I —sweets ? —toy s ?’ Another silent negative. * Nay, then, I am at the end of my guessing ’ The boy stamped his foot impatiently. _ * But, speak—apeak, Felioita !’ ho cried. Then, turning to the stranger, he added, with all a boy’s contempt for the weaker sex:—‘Give it to me for her, Signore—she would no 1 : know what to do with it.’

JThe little maiden stopped crying, lifted her head, and with an indignant sob, said—- ‘ Yes—l do know. I will buy a pair of filagree ear-rings. ’ Lord Braekenbury laughed. ‘ Oh, Eve ! Eve 1’ ha said. ‘Everywhere the same 1 “Vivat vanitaa !” Here, thon small daughter of Danae here is thy half lira, and another to the back of it; one for each little ear ! Go on thus, and hereafter thon shall sell thy soul for dross !' Unintelligible words! and yet the children were somehow conscious of their cynicism. The little girl, clutching her silver pieces, shrank back and ran to her brother. * What I not even a word of thanks ? ’ said Lord Braekenbury. Half glad, half frightened, they lingered for a moment hand in band ; then, moved by a common impulse, fled away like young antelopes, and vanished among the boats. Lord Braekenbury looked after them, and his face darkened. Was this the sweet simplicity of untutored childhood ? Blushed the flowery meads of Temp& and the vales of Arcady with such idyllie blossoms of cupidity and vanity ? Was the Golden Age peopled with archaio Giovannis and penlnmtrailing Felicitas ? Ay, vtrily—with sneh and none other. A disjointed world ! fair to look upon : rotten to the core I He rose and strolled on, pausing now and then to look at the long line of land and water; on the one hand, the palm-crowned cliffs, the shimmering sands, the far-off frosted peaks ; on the other—waveless, palpitating, melting into a golden haze on the horizon, the blue and dreamy sea. *lt would not be such a disagreeable world, _ after all, if there were no human beings in it 1 ’ murmured Lord Braekenbury. Chapter V. OVER THE PASS OP BRACC. When Lord Braekenbury came hack to the point from which he had started, he found Sandro Quaranta-Sette helping to put In fresh horses. So he settled down again into the roomy depths of the yellow caleche, ordered a onp of coffee to be brought out to him, and prepared to resume his journey. Presently an old, old woman, with scant dishevelled looks, and skin like shrivelled parchment, tottered to the carriage window, mumbling for charity. Lord Braekenbury felt for his purse ; but a stalwart fisherman stepped out from among the bystanders, and drew the crone gently back.

* Pardon, Signore,’ he said hastily, *we are not beggars, God be praised! But the mother is old and her memory . . . He stopped, touched his cap, and said with a look of surprised recognition : ‘ “Ecoo 1” The Signore of the “Felucca!”’ Lord Brackenbury smiled. ‘ And yon,’ha replied, ‘are the carpenter who rigged up her bowsprit for me ! That wag the beginning of the rough weather- six weeks ago,’ * The signore goes to sea in a cockle-shell when the hurricanes are out, and travels by land in a carriage and four when waters are smooth and skies are fair. ’ * Why not ? Don’t yon like wind enough to fill your sails when yon put to sea V The fisherman shrugged his shonlders. ‘ A little more wind that day, and the signor would have been dashed to pieces, boat and all, on the rooks yonder! A broken neck is not so easy to mend as a broken bowsprit.’ * That is true, my lad,’ said Lord Brackenbury ; ‘ but necks are as likely to get broken on shore as on sea, when one travels by each roads as these. The next time 1 pay your town a visit, I shall prefer to come by water.’ The fisherman laughed. * The Signore has left hia Felucca in harbor at Genoa V he aiked. Lord Brackenbury shook his head. ' I shall not be along this coast again for a year,’ he replied, * I have parted from the Felucca.’ ‘That’s a pity,’ said the fisherman, carrying on his share of the conversation with the childlike familiarity of his class. * She’s a sound little craft. If I had money enough, 1 would have liked the refusal of her. The Signore is going to La Spezzia ?’ {To be continued.)