LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 2116, 4 December 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

is THE MYSTEEY 0 i OF \ LOED BEACKENBUEY: y A NOVEL. * BY AMELIA B. EDWABDS, r Author of “Barbara’s History,” •*Doboni barn’s Vow,” Ac, I ( Continued. ■ Setting aside the fact that he had pre- ' pared this little speech as he rode along. ' Lord Braokenbnry delivered it with very * proper emphasis, and even with tenderness, ■ * Surely—surely, it is too soon to think 1 of these things,’ said Miss Savage; no 1 longer with vehemence, bat with manifest distress. ‘ Too soon ? It Is nearly seven months.’ ‘Nearly ?. Say, only,’ Lord Braokenbnry hesitated. Was it really too soon, and should he have waited till the full year of mourning had elapsed ? Was he premature, or was Miss Savage over sensitive? Be weighed it for a moment in his own mind, and then gave judgment in in his own favor. ‘Dear Winifred,’ he said, very gently, ‘I am not urging you to take any immediate step, Nothing is farther from my thoughts. And I am sure I need hardly say that for the whole world I would not desire to show disrespect to my father’s memoryßut this one matter was the dearest wish of his heart; and io look forward to the fulfilment of that wish—well knowing that it is what ha would himself desire us to do—can be in no wise disrespectful. Of this I am convinced.’ ‘ The world would say it was disrespectful,” said Miss Savage, ‘ldo not agree with yon. I am quite sure the world would say nothing of the kind. And if it did, why should we care, so- long as wo know that what we do is right I’ ‘ But why thing of it at all just yet ? There id no need for haste. We are very happy as we are 1’ Now here, in truth. Miss Savage was right. There was really no need for haste ; and Lord Braokenbnry knew quite well that he had sought this conversation chiefly through a sense of what was dne_ to the young lady herself. He was sincerely attached to Miss Savage in his own way; but his own way was a cool way, and his feeling for her, if analysed, would have yielded a result more approximate to friendship than to love. He knew in his heart that he was by no means impatient to be married —that, in fact, he would very gladly i let matters drift for at all events some months longer. But then ho felt himself called : upon to assume the virtue of lover-like- i impatience, though he had it not. Again, i in Miss Savage’s reluctance—which was i quite distinct from mere coyness—there was ' a something that irritated his self-love, and l spurred him to resistance. ‘ However happy they msy be in the present, ’ he replied gravely, * those who marry must always hope to bo happier afterwards. Now I venture to think, Winifred, that your life at Braokenbnry Court will be happier i than your life at the Grange. I shall cer- 1

tainly try to make it so. i ‘ 1 know that,’ said Miss Savage, quickly, * I have never doubted It.’ I Then as for haste—well, I admit that 1 there is no argent haste. I am neither on I my death-bed, nor on the eve of a long i voyage, nor under sentence of execution, i But lam of opinion that matrimony is one 1 of the things about which one may dellbe- 1 rate too long—“ When ’tis done, then ’twere i well’tweredone quickly.’' ’ < * Isn’t that rather an ominous quotation ?’ - said she, with a nervous little laugh. i Lord Brackenbury smiled. Ho had made I use of the hackneyed quotation without any | thought of the context. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘1 admit that it Is not a happy one.’ Then, after a moment’s pause he did what < he had never done befere. He took Miis i Savage’s hand with gentle courtesy, and kissed it. 1 ‘ Tell mo how long T must wait for this hand, dear,’ he said. ‘I do not with to be importunate. I will wait as long aa yon lihe—in reason.’ She looked at him, seeming scarcely to be : aware of the kiss. * If—if I might tell you what I wish!’ she faltered, with an appealing look in her • eyes. * It is what I am asking you to do.’ Still she hesitated, her awe of him was very real, and she feared to offend him. ‘ Son must not be vexed with me, ’ she said ; “ you must promise not to be vexed with me !’ 1 I I will not be unjust/ said Lord Brackenbury. ‘ I think I can promise that.’ _ * Then I wish—l wish that we might go on like this, making no change, as long as— Aunt Heater lives.’ Lord Brackenbury was silent from sheer astonishment. ‘ I am so necessary to her, and —and we are so poor—you have no idea how poor 1 In truth, I do not know how she oonld live without me. I don’t mean as regards her love for me—it is not that; although she loves mo better than she loves anything in the world, since TJnole Stephen’s death—but—l do so many things for her that no one else could do—ah 1 it is so difficult to explain 1’ *lt is, indeed, difficult to explain how Miss Langtrey should be injured by a marriage which would give ns both the right to be of use to her,’ said Lord Brackenbury. *Of use ? Of use to Aunt Hester ? How little you know her. She is so proud—as proud as she is poor. She would not accept help, even from me.’ * My dear Winifred, that is absurd.’ *lt may be absurd, bat it is true. Besides, it would be your money, and—though the old feud is healed over, she has never really forgotten.’ ‘.Never really forgotten! What do you mean ? Is it possible that Miss Langtrey, whom I have always believed to be sincerely my friend, still cherishes the old grudge T I cannot believe it.’ ‘Oh, not that—not a grudge. Only it was a grievance of so many, many years, and Uncle Stephen was so bitter, and—what Uncle Stephen believed was Annt Hester’s religion. 1? et she is yonr friend, Cnthbert, in a way. But I cannot make you understand it.’ Lord Brackenbury’s face grew stern, ‘lf you mean that Mias Langtrey cannot forget the old family quarrel with which you and I have nothing to do, and that because she cannot forget it you are willing to sacrifice everything to her, then I confess X do not understand it,’ he said. ‘And, moreover, I had believed that Miss Langtrey 6esired the marriage—desired It as much almost as did my own father.’ * She does I’ replied the girl warmly ; ‘ indeed she does!’ ‘ Yet admitting that she desires It, you propose for her sake to put it off indefinitely. That is bad logic, Winifred.’ *lt may be the worst of logic—l dare say it is ; but you don’t realise what paupers we are. Yes, paupers,’ said Miss Savage in a kind of desperation. ‘ There is no other word for it! Why, I make all our dresses— I help Ruth in the dairy. I—l am a sort of general servant, sempstress, upper housemaid, and so forth. ... How shocked yon look! Don’t be shocked, I like it—indeed I do. I—l am quite happy ! I could not possibly be happier !’ Her voice broke. She was half laughing, half crying. Lord Brackenbury had never seen her like this before. ‘Dear child,’ he said, hurriedly, ‘pray don’t do that! I—l confess I had no Idea that yon—l mean that Miss Langtrey—upon my honor, I hardly know what I mean !’ i ‘ X am so sorry!’ said the girl, recovering her self-control by a resolute effort. ‘I am i ashamed to have given way like this. Bray i forgive me.’ * I have nothing to forgive. On the ooni trary, I am glad to know the truth. Of i this, however, I am certain—that nothing s will be easier than to supply your place at i the Grange. Your aunt’s circumstances can also be improved without offence to her i pride. Trust me to work out this problem. i In the meanwhile ” i He paused, and looked at her keenly, a * Well, in the meanwhile, seeing that you i are happy, and that for the present you pres fer to travel on in the old groove—am I right h in saying you prefer it ?’ it *Oh ! yes—quite right ?’ ‘ Just so. Seeing, then, that such is yonr

! actual preference, shall we conclude to wail —how much longer, Winifred V Miss Savage was silent. * Shall we say a year from now V Bat that he had negatived it so absolutely she would fain have resorted to her first proposition. Bat this she dared not do. ‘Why fix a time—just yet?’ she said. ‘ Why not wait and—and see ?’ ' ‘And see what She was again silent. ‘My dear Winifred, one cannot pat off so important an event ‘ sine die,’ ’ It would not be reasonable. It would not .be convenient. It would not be just either to yourself, or to Miss Langtrey, or to me. We must come to a definite conclusion of some kind—distant, if you will; but definite. VTill a year hence content yon ?’ He waited, looking at her gravely; and she conscious of hia eyes, turned red and then pale. ‘ If—if it might be two years’ • . • • she ventured, tremulously. *Ycry good. let it be two years—two years from now. The time is long ; but I prefer that it shoull be of your own choosing.’ She tried to say that she was glad—that she was sorry—that she was grateful—but the words became eutangled, and ended in nothing. Lord Brackenbnry smiled. ‘Do not name it, I entreat,’ he said drily, ‘lf you are pleased it is enough. In the meanwhile wo understand each other, which is very desirable. And now, before we go in, I have a little request to make. I have never given you a ring, Winifred; and a ring, yon know, is indispensable. I ought, in fact, to have given you one long ago. May I hope you will wear this for my sake ?’ Saying which, he drew from his waistcoat pocket a small morocco box containing a massive ring set with one large brilliant. ‘lt is very handsome,’ said Miss Savage, drawing back; ‘ Much too handsome for me,’ ‘That I deny,’ ‘Bat—but I never wear rings. I never had a ring in my life.’ * The more reason that yon should have one now. Let ns see if it will fit. No, not this hand—the other,’ If Miss Savage had never possessed a ring, Lord Braokenbury, for hia part, had never given one. He may therefore be excused for feeling not a little awkward when he found himself, according to immemorial tradition, with a lady’s finger in one hand and a ring in the other. However, ha put the ring on with a good grace, pronounced it an excellent fit, and, for the second time that day, kissed the girlish hand that wore it. Thus, to the contentment of both, the marriage was deferred for yet two more years. Liberty is sweet; and Lord Braokenbnry, although he had done his 1 devoir ’ as a lover, was not sorry to pat off the sale of bis yacht. As he rode home, in fact, that afternoon, making a wide cironit round the outskirts of tho moor, he planned how he would make an autumn cruise among the Norwegian fiords; and'wondered whether Lancelot wonld like a trip to the Oreek islands in the spring.

Ciiipteh XIV. OLD COUET. A long, low, antique-looking room, with wainscoted walls, and polished oaken door, and a huge carved chimney-piece surmounted by a defaced coat of arms. At the further end of this room, a modern bay-window. On the hearth, newly lined with blue and white Dutch tiles, a blazing log fire. On the floor, all kinds of Eastern rugs and mats of shaggy furs; and, on the walls (besides innumerable oil sketches and studies finished and unfinished, framed and unframed), a heterogeneous array of curious mediteval and Oriental weapons; old brass plates and seventeenthcenturysconces; Delf, Majolica, and Paliesy dishes; Venetian mirrors; Albert Dnrer woodcuts and Piranesi engravingst in old black frames; and Dreyshout Shakespeare, and Blake’s Canterbury Pilgrims, and a magnificent proof of the Madonna di San Sisto, The furniture is as picturesque and various —a medley of high-backed Elizabethan chairs, old Italian cabinets, Japanese screens, stools of exquisite Arab work In rosewood and mother of pearl and painted bridechests that might be as old as the legend of Ginevra. Ho and there stand tables of carved oak or Florentine mosaic laden with books and papers, and big china bowls full of many colored chrysanthemums. And in the recess of the window stands an easel, and on the easel a picture. The room, in short, with its warmth, its luxury, its wealth of color, and its costly "bric-a-brac,” is an artist’s studio. The artist, too, is there, brush and palette in hand. He has been at work in a desultory way ever since breakfast, and has made little or no progress. And now the light is fast fading, and the early November dusk ls close at band; and although he is dissatisfied with every touch, yet—half in impatience, halt in obstinacy—he still paints on. In his picture there Is a female figure, and on a chair close by a sketch in crayon. This sketch is his model. He refers to it perpetually, translating it into color, adapting it to his subject as he goes along. Suddenly self - dissatisfaction having reached its climax —he flings down the brush, hangs his palette on one of the easel pegs, and, gloomily whistling, surveys the damage he has done. His day’s work, he tells himself, has been one long failure. The picture as he left it yesterday was in a better state by far than he leaves it to-day. _ He was then, at all events, content with it, as far as it went. To-day he hss done nothing but mar it. He began by marring it with the first touch he laid upon the canvas, and he has gone on marring it ever since. What a fool he had been to persist hour after hour when he knew he was not in the vein, What work it will cost him to repair the mischief, if indeed it can be repaired without scraping down to the canvas and beginning again ab ovo. There are momenta when the masculine mind feels impelled to unburden itself in strong language, and this gentleman’s sentiments on the present occasion found expression in vernacular more forcible than select. Believed apparently by this little outburst, he shoved the easel back into a corner, and turned the picture with its face to the wall. He then lit a cigar, snatched up a broadbrimmed ferocious looking felt hat, threw open the window, and went out upon the terrace beyond. To a stranger unacquainted with the place and its history, nothing could well be more startling than the contrast between that well furnished interior and the aspect of the building as seen from outside. Within, all was comfort, warmth, and careless luxury ; without, all was ruin. (To be continued.')