LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 2120, 9 December 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

J?HE MYSTERY OF LORD BRACKENBTJRY: A NOVEL. BY AMELIA B. EDWABDS, Author of “Barbara's History,” ’‘Debenbarn’s Vow,” &o. (Continued.

Meanwhile, although the acquaintance ripened to intimacy, and led to this present invitation to Old Court, he knew no more of the story than before It was a subject upon which Lancelot Braokenbury never opened his lips, and upon which good taste and good feeling forbade the other to venture. This restraint however but the more stimulated his curiosity. He longed to ask a hundred questions, although he dared not a k one. Above all, he was impatient to see the heroine of the story. Sitting in the coffee room of the Three Feathers, deep as it would seem in the local news of the ‘ Manchester Mercury,’ ho could not get last evening’s conversation out of his head. That the old Grange should bo saved at the last moment by this gift from the dead was a purely dramatic touch, and one that pleased him hugely. So did the legacy. Twelve thousand pounds is a fascinating sum. There is a respectable simplicity about it which is very soothing to the imagination; and Mr Cochrane, as a man of the world, would have been one of the first to admit that a heroine with £I2OOO to her fortune is of necessity more interesting than a heroine with not so many pence. From Singleton to Langlrey the way lies through a fat, flat country rich in corn lands and apple orchards, with glimpses here and there of a winding river, and now and then a farmhouse or a grey church tower A pleasant country to ride through, especially if one knows it well enough to leave the high read and follow the green lanes through which Lancelot Braokenbury piloted hia guest this bright November afternoon. It was, indeed, more like early October than mid-November. There had of late been a long spell of mild and foggy weather, but to-day the sky had cleared, and there was a pleasant freshness in the air. The trees were thinned, but not yet stripped of their gold and russet foliage ; and the berries were scarlet in the hedge-rows. Yonder to the left, dark with furze and scrub, and breaking away here and there in walls of yellow sand-cliff, rose the long, sullen ridge of the Braokenbury moors. From Singleton, lying well out in the valley, to Langtrey nestled close under the lee of this ridge, the two friends rode at a brisk canter. Talking from time to time in a desultory way with long spaces of silence between, they came by and by to a triangular patch of grass whereon a three-fingered sign-post marked the meeting-place of three byroads. The fingers pointed'To Singleton,’ ‘To Langtrey,’ and ‘To Braokenbury.’ Cochrane was about to turn his horse’s head towards Langtrey, but Lancelot took the Braokenbury road, saying that it was prettier, and not much out of the way. It was certainly very pretty— a mere lane, scarcely more than a cart-track, skirting the right bank of a little alder-fringed stream close under tbe foot of the ridge. Between tbe opposite bank and the slope beyond there ran a strip of meadow in which cows were feeding ; and presently they came to a point where a wooden footbridge crossing the stream, and a roofless cottage standing out in strong light against a background of sandy hill-side looked as if placed on purpose for the aketcher. ‘ It only wants a few accessories,’ observed Mr Cochrane, critically. His companion smiled. * Accessories ?’ he repeated. ‘ What sort of accessories ? The time-honoured white horse, or the inevitable old woman in a red cloak ?’ ‘ Nonsense—you know what I mean. It is a nice little subject ; but to make a picture, it needs a foreground object—say a tree-trunk yonder, to balance the composition ; or an old cart standing half in and half out of the water. Anything simple and picturesque.’ ‘ A man hanged himself in that cottage about ten years ago—what do you say to that for a picturesque incident ? Yon might, by an artistic license, transfer him to a branch of that tree in the foreground. But I confess the scene is simple and picturesque enough for me as it is.' Cochrane shook his head. He sketched rather effectively in a conventional style, and he wrote occasional criticisms on the studios for a fashionable paper. Hence he had come to bo regarded as an authority on matters of art in Belgravia. * Ah,’ he said, confidently, ‘ that is where you and I differ. ‘I don’t jnthe least sympathise with your ultra-realistic school. Isn’t is Lord Bacon who defines Art as Nature plus man P ’ ‘ Yes, but not as Nature plus the stagemanager. Your tree trunk and your cart 1 are mere ‘ properties ’ —-not one jot more legitimate, to my thinking, than tho red ' cloak or the white horse. But look ! here is a foreground object after your own heart.’ A turn in the road had jnst brought them in sight of a sand-carrier limping at the heels of a very small and a very shaggy 1 donkey. The man was long and lank, and ' lame of one foot; the aes, laden with a couple ' of heavy sacks, seemed to carry his burden with difficulty. I ‘ Is this one of your Saracen-folk ? ’ asked Cockrane. ‘ Ay, and if I don’t mistake, he’s the son 1 of your acquaintance of yesterday. Halloo! ‘ my man, mind where you’re going ! ’ > The fellow looked round, pulled his ass up to the roadside, and waited for them to pass. He was a sallow, sullen looking lad of [ eighteen or twenty, with matted black looks j hanging about his ears, and a mangy fnr cap f on his head. Seeing who approached, he 6 pulled this article off, and stood twirling it ‘ In his hands. ‘ So it’s yon, Seth,’ said Mr Braokenbury, 5 reining in hia horse. ‘ Where are you I going?’ ’ ‘T’ pettery. ’ ‘What, to Stoke?’ The fellow nodded. Mr Braokenbury shook his head. ’ ‘Not with that load,’ he said, ‘I tell ' you what it is, my man—this is a case of too 8 much sand and not enough donkey.’ Seth stared and said nothing. ‘ Come, you know what I mean,’ said 8 Mr Braokenbury, sharply. ‘ Untie those 8 sacks, and let out some of the sand. Do

yon hear V He heard, but stirred not. ‘ T’ hummar be strong eno’, he said surlily. Mr Brackenbury looked at him, drew off his right hand glove, turned back hla coatcuff, and examined the lash of hla ridingwhip. ‘lf you don’t immediately follow my advice, Seth Plant,’ he said, very quietly, «I shall have the pleasure of giving you as smart a licking as ever you had in your life. Ah ! I thought that argumentjwould convince you. How let it run till I bid you

stop. * ' unwillingly, Mr Seth Plant untied, the mouth first of one sack and then of the other, leaving by the wayside two conical sand heaps, like the runnings of a giant hour glass. He then slowly reloaded his donkey, intending to scrape up the sand, and put it back again as soon as the gentlemen should be out of sight. But Lancelot Braokenbury was fully awake to this possibility, and though it compelled himself and bis friend to travel at a footpace, he made the sand-carrier trudge on before. « There isn’t a bigger scamp on the moor than that long scoundrel,’ said he presently; • except his father. In fact, it would be hard to find two more characteristic specimens of our 11 dark folk ' than Isaac pere and Seth fils.’ . ‘ Are they all so swarthy ? asked Cochrane. „ , ~ « Pretty nearly. Some of the women are red-haired, though. Do you see anything peculiar in the type ?’ • X fancy I do, though I cannot define it. 1 Nor any one else ; though our local wiseacres have a variety of theories about it. Some credit them with the heavy-lidded Oriental eye ; others detect something Semitic in the shape of the skull, and so on. But so far as I can see—and I’m no ethnologial—they’re uncommonly like gipsies ; a dark-skinned, light-fingered lot, remarkable for nothing but dirt and dishonesty. There a

I something odd however abont their dialect My brother had begun to collect and classify their vocabulary—for it seems they have a vocabulary which la in some respects different from our regular North country jargon.’ * That’s carious.’ ‘ Very curious; especially if poor Cntbbert’s theory was correct. Did you notice the name this fellow gave his donkey j uat now? Be called it the ‘ hummar.’ That’s one of their words. My brother declared it was pure Arabic —identical with ‘ homar, ’ the Arabic for ass. I don’t knew a syllable of any Eastern language myself; but he was very strong on all those matters, and he traced lots of their words—or fancied ha traced them—to Arabic originals. Then, again’ He checked himself, pulled off his hat, and said—- ‘ There’s Miss Savage.’ Chapter XVII. THE BRIDE - STORES. Cochrane looked up, and high above the opposite bank, pursuing the windings of a sheep track in and out of the fnrzs, he saw a lady in a dark dress followed by a St. Ber- J nard mastiff. > The young men dismounted, called up Seth Plant to hold their horses’ heads, jumped the little stream, and made for the hill side. A short climb brought them to the spot where Miss Savage was 1 standing. c ‘This is a niece of unlooked-for good * fortune,’said Lancelot. ‘We have been to { Singleton, and were coming round to call c on Miss Langtrey. My friend Cochrane, of * whom I have so often told you, Winifred—an awfully clever fellow—knows all about architecture, and is dying to see the Grange.’ Miss Savage put out her hand with a frank [ smile. ‘My aunt will be very glad to see Mr Cochrane, ’ she said, ‘ and to show him the house. But I hope it has not been overpraised. I love it so much that I cannot { bear a stranger to be disappointed in it.' 1 Cochrane looked at her with much ] cariosity, and told himself that in her, at all ] events, he was immensely disappointed. Her < month was too large and her nose too short j for his standard ; and though she had on a broad-brimmed hat with a drooping feather which concealed her forehead and shaded ] the upper part of her face, he saw that she j was very pale, and that her eyes looked as ( though she had been crying. Now Cochrane hated disfiguring emotions, and those red eyelids at once repelled him. 1 (To he continued .) {