LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 2131, 22 December 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE MYSTERY OF LORD BRACKENBTJRY: A NOVEL. BY AMELIA B. EDWARDS, Author of “Barbara’s History,” “Debenham’s Vow,” &o. ( Continued. ‘You need not go in person, of course. You will make out a cheque to self or bearer, and send your faithful Reuben to Singleton for the cash. ’ Still Miss Savage hesitated. •Do you want any money now—immediately ?’ asked Mr Marrables, a light suddenly breaking upon him. ‘My dearest young lady, why did you not tell me that at first ?’ ‘lf—if I had five pounds —’ said Winifred. coloring crimson. ... • Five pounds T Why, I have a five pound note in my purse —or, stay, yon would prefer gold. I jwoader if I have five sovereigns.' 1 1 would rather have the note,’ she said eagerly. ‘ Oh, thank yon, Mr Marrables—how good you are ! lam so glad to have the note. But how shall I repay you ?’ • You shall write me a cheque the next time I come to The Grange,’replied the little man. smiling. • You must wonder why I want all this money ?' ‘ No, no—’pon my honor, no !’ ‘lt is for a present to—to MrsPennefather’s baby.’ ‘lf I had presumed to hazard a conjecture, Miss Winifred—which I did not,’ said Mr Marrables, courteously, ‘ I should have been sure that you designed it for some kind and helpful purpose. Will yon charge yourself with my best compliments to Miss Langtrey ? Good morning. ’ He lifted hla hat, gave Kory his head, and was gone in a moment. Miss Savage stood for a moment looking after the fast-vanishing chaise. She then folded up her five-pound note very small indeed, and hid it in her glove; turned down the lane; patted the donkey as she went by; and stopped at a little garden gate leading to a small white house pleasantly embowered in trees, and almost smothered in ivy. The house was little better than a cottage, and the garden was a regular cottage garden, closely stocked with frnits and vegetables, with only a homely flowerborder at each side of the middle walk. Winifred opened the gate, and went slowly up this walk. There was no sonnd of life about this place; no sign of occupation,(save a felt hat aud a pair of shears in the porch. Not a dog barked ; not a face appeared at any window. The door stood wide open, showing a little bare passage adorned with a row of pegs and a plentiful litter of hoops, garden tools, walking sticks, and umbrellas Seeing no small hats on the pegs, Miss Savage (familiar with the ways of the little bouse) concluded that the children were oat. So she went straight to the end of the passage, and tapped upon a closed door, confident that she should find Mrs Pennefeather at home.

Chatter XXIII. MRS penrefeather’s troubles. * Come in, 1 said a slightly peevish voice. ‘Oh dear me I Why do yon knock ? Why don’t you come in?’ ‘Because I did not like to disturb you,’ replied Winifred, peeping in. It was a shabby little room, half diningroom, half schoolroom, with a much battered Davenport in one of the windows, at which sat a lady, writing. This lady looked round, put her pen down quickly, jumped up, and welcomed her guest with exclamations and kisses. ‘ Uh, my dear,' she said, 1 this is lovely of you I Disturb me, indeed I Ton have a genius for coming exactly when one most wants you. ‘ I am glad I came, if you wanted me,’ said Winifred. ‘ What is tbe matter ?’ * The matter ? Oh, anything—everything, lam so worried ! —The children ? Oh yes, the children are all right. I’ve sent them to hnnt up blackberries for a blackberry padding. Blackberries are over, of course—but they don’t know that, and it keeps them out of the way.’ ‘ And Mr Pennefeather I’ ‘ln the growlery, my dear, writing his sermons for Sunday. The Caldiootts are off again, as I daresay you have beard. Gone to Paris for a fortnight, which means a month ; leaving poor Derwent, as usual, to do the drudgery. She is recommended to consult some great French physician— Rubbish ! Wo know all about that. They’ll be dining at the Palais Royal every day, and going to operas and theatres every night, and she’ll come home with six new dresses and no end of chiffons, and declare she has been in bed at Menrice’s all the time. Ah, I know them so well! Oaldicott drops his clerioal “role,” and she her invalid “role,” the moment they cross the channel—white ties and Anglican waistcoats, megrims and attacks of faintness, all left at Dover to be called for on the way back.’ * Ton are uncharitable this morning. * ‘One can’t afford to be charitable, my dear, on a hundred and fifty pounds per annum,’ replied Mrs Pennefeather airily. ‘Poverty is demoralising. It makes one spiteful. Give me a thousand a-year, and I’ll undertake to cultivate all the virtues.’ ‘Ah, yon don’t love poverty,’ said Winifred. ‘ Love poverty! I should think not, indeed. Who does V ‘ldo.’ Mrs Pennefeather shrugged her shoulders. ‘ Ton and I are so different,’ she said. ‘ Ton have not five small children to feed and clothe. Ton are not aggravated by feeling within yourself an unlimited capacity for wealth. Now I am potentially a millionaire—and I havn’t sixpence a-year to do as I like with. Then it exasperates me to see those wretched Caldiootts perpetually going about and enjoying themselves, while poor Derwent has not had a month’s holiday for the last four years. Whst more flowers? more eggs? My dear, you spoil me I As for our hens, the abandoned wretches wouldn’t lay an egg if we were all starving.’ A crumpled-looking, delicate-featured little face, a complexion once exquisite, a pair of brilliant hazel eyes, a rapid utterance, a winning smile and an excited manner, a threadbare black gown faultlessly fitted to a faultless figure—this was Mrs Pennefeather. Now Mrs Pennefeather, wife of the Reverend Derwent Pennefeather and mother of five small Pennefeatheru aforesaid, was the only friend of Winifred Savage’s girlhood ; and the Reverend Derwent Pennefeather was curate to the Reverend Valentine Caldicoit, Vicar of Langtrey. Of the vicar—a florid agreeable man, married to a Manchester heiress—it is enough to say that he divided his time pretty equally between travelling abroad and angling at home, leaving his church and parish almost entirely to his curate, ‘ But you have not told me your troubles,’ said Winifred, smiling. ‘Are your people unmanageable ? Have you not yet poisoned the Lady Gwendoline, or succeeded in murdering the Duke ?’ Mrs Pennefeather shook her head. •That is not what worries me,’she replied, with a perfecotly matter-of-fact air, as if slaughtering the aristocracy was her peculiar vocation. ‘ I have murdered the Duke most satisfactorily—in an entirely new way, which I’m sure you’ll be charmed with. No—it’s about a ghost story.’ * A ghost story ?’ * I had a letter yesterday from the editor of ‘Gog and Magog’—such a nice letter—offering me five pounds for a ghost story for the Christmas Number. Tou may imagine how pleased I was. Well, I went into the fields after .breakfast, and it all came into my head—a thrilling suicide and a delicious apparition. Just the very thing. And now Derwent won’t let mo write it!’

* Why not V x ' You may well aak! Ho doesn’t approve of ghost stories—says it is a sacrilegious levity to write such things.* ‘Then Mr Pennefeather believes in ghosts P* • He neither believes nor disbelieves. He aiys we know nothing about disembodied spirits under the present dispensation, and that one has at all events no business to tamper with such subjects. It is useless to argue with him. You have no idea how re*

solute Derwent can be when it comes to a question of conscience. But isn’t it mortifying? Five pounds, ray dear—five pounds deliberately thrown away, and Christmas coming, and the children wanting warm things for the winter ’ Here Mrs Peanefeather's voice broke into an involuntary nob. ‘ I declare,’ she said, * it’s heartbreaking. ’ Winnifred’s arms were instantly around her

* No, no ’ she said ; ‘ disappointing—perplexing—not heartbreaking. Don’t fret about it, dear; pray don’t fret.’ Mrs Pennefeather laughed nervously and brushed away a tear. ‘ This is too ridiculous,’ she said. ‘ I who never break down. . . • . I am

horribly ashamed.’ ‘ There must be a way out of the difficulty,’ mused Winifred. ‘ A very short and a very straight way. I shall write a civil note, regretting that my numerous literary engagements compel me to decline ; and then I shall never again be invited to contribute to “ Gog and Magog.” ’ ‘ Ton must of course give up your delicious apparition.’ * That is giving up the story. How can I write a ghost story without a ghost ?* ‘ You are not obliged to have the ghost of a human being.’ ‘Eh?’ ‘ Why not invent an inoffensive ghost—say the ghost of an animal ?’ ‘ The ghost of an animal!” echoed Mrs Pennefeather, breathlessly. ‘ Oh, Winifred, what a great idea !’ ‘Mr Pennefeather would not object to that?’ *Of course not. The ghost of an animal— What animal ? A dog!—yes, of course, a dog 1 A faithful bloodhound, whc appears in order to identify his master’s murderer. ’ 1 Isn’t that rather too—too obvious ?’ ‘ I dare Bay it is, dear,’ replied Mrs Pennefeather meekly. ‘That’s my fault—yon know —obviousness. All my ideas are just what anybody else’s ideas would be, I’m not a bit original. ’ ‘ That is not what I mean, ’ said Winifred quickly. ‘What do I know of originality —I who have never read any novels but yours and Scott’s ? No—l only thonght that the story should be as uncanny as possible.’ * Of course it should be uncanny.’ ‘ Unlike the generalty of ghost stories.’ ‘Ah, there’s the mb! It is so hard to think of anything new.’ 4 We can but try. Suppose we try by contraries ?’ ‘ Contraries, my dear child ! What do yon mean ?’ * Well, ghosts, you know, are always “seen”—in ghost stories,’ said Winifred, hesitatingly. ‘Suppose you had a ghost that was “felt.” Ghosts always “glide” —have a ghost that "springs.” Fancy what it would be to feel a cat spring upon your shoulder —a ghostly cat—intangible— invisible ’ Mrs Pennefeather clasped her hands ecstatically. * Oh, you darling!’ she exclaimed. 1 The children may well say there are no fairy tales like those you tell them. Yon ought to be an author.’ Winifred shook her head.

•I an author ?’ she said laughing. * Absurd ! I could not pnt a story together to save my life. No—l am but a truffle dog in your service—good for nothing but to grub up material which I don’t know how to cook.’

Saying which, she rose, pnt on her hat, and asked if she might not give baby ‘ one kiss ’ before saying good bye. So they went upstairs to a little carpetless nursery, where a fair, wide-eyed infant was lying quite quietly in hia little cot, all alone, and staring with placid contentment at the window.

‘ What a beauty ha grows V said Winifred, when this youngest Pennefeather had been duly smothered in her embraces. *He looks like a little king.’ ‘Blass him! He is my king!’ ejaculated the fond mother, taking her boy out of his cot, and dangling him in her arms. Winnifred smiled. ‘ Yon wonld rather have him than all the Caldtcotts’ money,’ she said. * What—my baby ? Heavens and earth 1 as if I would rather not have my baby than all the wealth of all the Rothschilds ! And he knows it—he knows his mother woald sooner have him than bales of bank notes, and sacks of silver and gold, and mountains of Koh i-Noors!’

And Mrs Pennefeather, pouring forth a torrent of fond, foolish, maternal endearments, looked as radiant as if she had never sighed over an nnpaid butcher’s bill or scribbled sensation stories at a penny a line.

(To be continued)