LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 2132, 23 December 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE MYSTEET OF LOUD BRACKENBURY: A NOVEL. BY AMELIA B. EDWARDS. Author of "Barbara's History," "'Debenham's Vow," &c. ( Continued. A tender mother, a good wife, and a careful housekeeper ; as skilful with her needle as with her pen. and an adept in the art and myEtery of cooking, Mrs Pennefeather was the very reverse of that helplesß, slatternly, unattractive phenomenon, the typical ladynovelifct of the nineteenth century. She was her children's only governess, and she nuide the olothes and her own. For all this, she wrote novels—novels which ware neither brilliant nor profound ; but which were unquestionably amusing, and by no means without cleverness. And she wrote these novels anyhow and anywhere, as she could find or make time ; in the nursery, or the garden, or late at night when all the little household waa in bed Many a heart ache, many a head ache, many a disappointment they cost her. Publishers held her cheap, because she always wanted ten pounds in advance. Critics were hard on her ; and she secretly watered many a page of the periodical press with her tears. Yet ahe wrote on, and even eD joyed some of the pleasures of authorship. She was as much interested in her puppets as if they had been better dressed and painted, and worked by strings less obvious; and the sorrows of her heroine helped her many a time to forget the butcher's bill in the background. Then, when by means of this small literary gift she succeeded in supplementing her husband's narrow stipend by no matter how modest a sum, she was happy, and deemed herself well paid. This does not mean that she was of a particularly contented disposition ; but that she rated her talent at even less perhaps than its due.

'I am not witty yon know—l am only sharp. I have had no education to speak of. I know I am a shallow, and I don't expect to be read by any but those who are as shallow as myself. Thank heaven! their name is legion. What would become of the circulating libraries if the British public was not providentially blessed with an instinctive craving for rubbish ?' Such was Mrs Pennefeather's estimate of her own abilities, and, due abatement made for exaggeration, she was probably not far wrong. The baby having, meanwhile, been kissed to within an iron of his life, Mrs Pennefeather put him back into his cot, and said suddenly—•ls it true, by the way, that Lancelot Brackenbury is going up to the House of Lords?'

'Who says so?' • Every one, I believe. Derwent met Dr. Saunders last evening, riding home from Singleton Market, and he said the whole town was talking about it.' 1 Already V ' Then it is true! Well, it was time. Things could not go on in an everlasting interregnum ; and the tenancy, I know, were discontented.'

'I believe it was considered necessary,' said Winifred ; ' but it is none the less painful.'

' Painful at first no doubt; but that is a painfulneßS that will quickly wear away with use. At all events I am glad it is settled . . . glad, too, that my dear Winifred will be Lady Brackenbury after all.' ' Mrs Pennefeather ?'

Her face crimson, her eyes- flaming, her lips quivering, Mias Savage stood the incarnation of outraged pride. 'My dear, I did not mean to offend you-' ' You have offended me very much,' said Winifred, haughtily. * I am dreadfully sorry. I would not have said it for the world, if I had thought you would mini it. How could Ibe so stupid—so unguarded 7 . . . What shall I say to exouse myself?' ' Say nothing, rather than go on adding to the offence. "Unguarded!' What do you meau by " unguarded ?" Do you dare to —to imply * Her voice broke, and she burst into a passion of tears.

'My dear friend—my dear, dearest Winifred,' cried Mrs Pennefeather, now thoroughly frightened and penitent, ' don't—pray don't give way ! I was bitterly to blame—l acknowledge that, but was it my fault, after all, that I discovered your secret ? How could I write stories—no matter what poor stuff they are made of—if I had not some sort of Instinct for reading other people's hearts ? How can I help that instinct? Why, deareßt, I read yours years ago, as if it had been an open book and knowing how you love him. . . .'

' Of course I love him ; he ia almost my brother,' interrupted Winnifred, straggling hard for composure. * Almost—bnt luckily, net quite. Well, I do not ask for yonr confidence. Some day, perhaps, you will give it to me. Meanwhile I can only say that I am sorry to have vexed yon—more sorry than I have words to say ' Winifred waa silent. Not because she conld not forgive, but because she did not know how to answer. Mrs Pennefeather was her friend. She had known her intimately for some seven or eight yews—that is to say, ever since Mr Pennefeather first came to be curate at Langtrey—and during all this time she had been the confidante of Mrs Pennefeather's troubles. When the children were ill, when critics were cruel, when publishers were stonyhearted, it waa to Winifred that Mrs Pennefeather was wont to turn for sympathy and counsel. And Winifred really loved her friend, and her friend's children ; read Mrs Pennefeather's manuscripts ; was interested in her heroes and heroines ; and even, as we have seen, contrived incidents for her at a pinch. These things were undoubtedly signs and tokens of a very strict Intimacy ; and, yet, notwithstanding the strictness of that intimacy, Winifred was in no wise minded to regard her friend in light of an 'alter ego.' Mrs Pennefeather (to use her own language, which savoured occasionally of her literary style) might ' bare her inmost heart ' to Winifred as unreservedly as she pleased ; but it by no moans followed that Winifred should bare her inmost heart to Mrs Pennefeather. If she had a secret, it waa suoh a secret as she had scarcely dared to confess even to herBe lf—how, then, should she confess It to another ?

• la ib possible that you will not forgive me J' said Mrs Pennefeather, looking very pale, ' That is not why lam silent. Ido forgive yon; but— She checked herself, for Bhe heard voices below—men's voices in hearty greeting. Sound travelled clearly along those bare passages and carpetless stairs, and Wink fred's ear had caught the ring of a familiar laugh. 'Oh, dear me,' exclaimed Mrs Pennefeather, ' there are visitors down stairs. Somebody on parish business, no doubt; and Derwent has taken them into the dining room, where all my papers are lying about'

'Lizzy! Lizzy,' cried at this moment a clear, strong voice in the hall. ' Are you upstairs ? Mr Brackenbury and Mr Cochrane are here.' Mrs Pennefeather looked at Winifred. ' What shall I say ?' she asked. 'Say nothing, except that you are coming.' 'And you ¥ 1 1 am late, and must go home at once. You have only to shut tho dining room door when you go in and no one will hear or see me pass.' Mrs Pennefeather turned to leave the room.

• You are quite—quite suve that you forgive ¥ she faltered. Winifred smiled, and held out her hand ; but Mrs Pennefeather flew into her arms and

hugged her. At dso they parted. Then as soon as she was alone, Winifred

ran back to the cot; pinned her five pound note to baby's pillow ; imprinted a last kiss on his, soft little cheek; listened for a moment on the landing; and having made sure that the dining room door was. ahut,

stole breathlessly down the stairs, through the hall, and oat of the house like a culprit.

Chapter XXIV. 313 LAST LETTEBS',

It was on the day following their visit to Langtrey Grange that Lancelot and Cochrane took that long tramp over the moors. They started gaily enough in the freshness of the morning ; they came back tired and silent, as the chill November dusk was closing in. A well-lit room, a well-laid table, a blazing log fire welcomed them back to Old Conrt; and Lancelot, mindful of his duty as host, made an effort to talk. But it was visibly an effort; and, like all such efforts, fell short of the mark. Bis thoughts wandered ; and when they presently adjourned to the studio, he fell into a gloomy silence. Cochrane, meanwhile, smoked his cigarette ; sipped his coffee, stared at the fire, and enjoyed that enviable state of well-being which our Oriental friends call ' kef.'

The falling of a log, followed by a shower of sparks, roused Lancelot from his brown study. ' 1 beg your pardon,' he said. 'I am horubly dull to-night; and I make it dull for yoa also.'

*»«* at all,' replied Cochrane. 'I am glad to be quVjt.'

•The tint is—l cannot get that old woman's woia a out of my head.' 1 1 don't tiling they are words worth remembering,' said Cochrane. Lancelot shook his head. 'lt is not that i am superstitious,' he said slowly. It is not ttiafc I for one moment put faith in an old crone's dreama and fancies; but—' ' But what, then ?'

* It is that she echoed my own conviction. Ido not feel that my brother is dead. I have never felt it. I feel that he lives ' ' My dear Brackenbury !' 'Yes—lives. Somewhere «r another, on land or sea, he lives—lives at this moment. I tell you it is so. I know it.' He rose excitedly, and walked to the further end of the room. Then came back, and leaned against the chimney-piece. * Now you understand why I was ho reluctant to follow Marrables' advice,' he said, lapsing into sullen gloom, 'I am a usurper. I take his name and place; and some day, when he comes to ask me for an account of my stewardship, what shall I say to him?' ' But this 3a madness—sheer Midsummer madness.'

jjj§* It ia not madness ' said Lancelot doggedly. 'Men don't die by violence and leave no trace. If be bad been murdered, I should bave found bis corpse. If there bad been a straggle I should bare discovered signs of it. So you suppose I left any stone unturned? Do you think the smallest clue could hare escaped me unnoticed ? Why, I left not an acre of those woods and hillsides unexplored. I employed not only soldiers and police, but I sent oat bloodhonnds. If there had been so much as a shred of his clothes or a look of his hair upon the bashes they would have found it!'

•Then what do you think has become of him ?' asked Cochrane incredulously. ' I don't know what to think. It ia a dreadful mystery, groaned Lancelot. ' *lt is not as if we were living in the days of English pressgangs or Birbary corsairs,' said Cochrane.

'ltalian banditti are aa daring, and more clever.'

Cochrane got up from his chair, and laid hia hond on Lane slot's shoulder.

( To be continued)