LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2150, 15 January 1881, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE MYSTERY OP LORD BRACKENBURY; A NOVEL. BY AMELIA B. EDWARDS, Author of "Barbara’s History,” •* Debenham’s Vow,” &c. ICentinued. And now this was the morning after—the morning ot the first day of the new life; the now joyless, solitary life which Winifred Savage must bear as best she conld in the empty bouse ot her fathers. She came down resolved to be brave; resolved not to begin the day by giving way to sorrow. But the sight of Miss Langtrey’s empty chair put baok against the wall, and the sound of old Bridget’s footsteps as she weut from room to room, pulling up the blinds which had been down for so many days—these sights and sounds were too muoh for her steadfastness, and she broke down utterly. It was at this moment that Reuben came to the door with his ‘ Mnn I speak to you a minnut, please, Miss?’ She started ; choked down the sobs; rose quickly; and went over to the window. ‘ls that yon, Reuben ?’ she asked, when she could trust her voice. ‘Bes, Mies.’ Well, What is it ? Come in ’ She was now standing so that he oonld not see her face. ‘ Wull, Miss, it’s aboot the kye. We|en bad so much rain, ye see, an’ it coom aioh a pash last night, that there’s a ruck o’ wayter out, an’ the flats they he welly flooded. The kye mnn bide i’ th’ yard tllly wayter goesdoon.’ *Of course they must, Reuben,’ 1 An’ please. Miss, we bin at th' list o’ th’ owd bee; an’ I mnn knaw if so be as we man begin the new stack hinder the woodshed ? An’ Joe Tunnfcliff, he be coom to fettle the stra’ yarn gate; an’ er sees if er’s to ma’ a good job on’t, er muu mi’ new poses; an’ please, miss, the. rollers o’ the chaff-cotter be out o’ gear; an’ the little tumbril warted ow’r yester mornin’, and th’ tire coomed off th’ near wheeal; an’ th’ owd mare ha’ cast a shoe, an’ I want to know aff 1 man tak' un t’ th’ smithy ?’ Poor Winifred I she knew no more about hay, and chaff-cutters, and cart-wheels than Reuben knew about the lists of Manetho. Miss Langtrey had always attended to the farming. It was the department in which she reigned supreme; herself ordering, approving, superintending everythlcg, from the ohoioa of a drain pipe to the sale of a heifer. Aud she was reputed as practical a farmer, as good a judge of dairy stock, and as keen a hand at a bargain as any agriculturist in all that country side.

As for Reuben and the two old laborers who did the farm work, they had been accustomed to look to *th’ missus’ for everything, and had not an idea of their own. Now they would turn to Winifred for their daily guidance—and how was she to guide them P Must she confess ignorance, and bid them rely upon their own experience P Her common sense at once decided against that injudicious alternative. She must accept the responsibility, and for the present, at all events, do the best she could.

* Well, Reuben,’ she said, ‘ I will come round presently to look at the chaffcutter.’

* Ees, Miss.’ * And you may tell Joe Tnnnicliff that I will speak to him myself about the gate. In the meanwhile you can take the mare over to Furkin’s, and ask him to shoe her at once.’ * Ees, Miss—an’ —an’ ’ ‘ Well, what more ? ’ ‘Noshin’, Miss; on’y, on’y, please Miss, I be so sorry.’ The tears welled up again ; but she kept them back.

* Yes, Reuben,’ she said gently, * I know yon are sorry; bat please don’t speak about it, please —at least not yet awhi'o—till I am better able to bear it. Do you understand P '

Reuben touched an imaginary cap, made his scrape, and vanished silently. But he understood so well that in less than five minutes he had warned Joe TunniclifF and the laborers to * keep a still tongue, and say nowt aboot th’ owd missus ; vor 'twar more nor Mias Win’fred could bear.

And presently Miss Winifred herself came out, marble pale, with a stern, set look about her month, and went the round of the farmbuildings, just as her aunt had been wont to go round daily ; giving an eye to the poultryyard and the stables, making sure that the cob was well cared for, inquiring after the welfare of the sitting hens and the litter of young pigs, and seeing that the cows had a plentiful meal of hay out from the new stack which Reuben described as ‘ hinder the wool-shed.’

Then, when all this was done, and Joe TunniclifF had received his orders about the gate, and the chaff-cutter had been duly inspected, she unchained the St Bernard, who had been straining frantically at his collar ever since hearing her voice abont the yards, and started for a long, solitary walk. It no longer actually rained; but it had been raining almost without intermission for the last ten days, and the country reeked with damp. The moat was well nigh brimming over ; the lanes were strewn with wet and rotten leaves; and a white steam brooded sullenly above the flooded flats.

But Winifred was content with the weather. To her It seemed that Nature was in tune with her own mood, and that anything was betier than bright skies and sunshine.

She walked fast, taking the driest paths she could find, and avoiding the most fre quented. All she wanted was to be alone ; to go somewhere, no matter where; to do something, no matter what; to shake off. though but for an hour the dead weight of her solitude.

For, crabbed and imperious though she might be. Miss Langtrey after all was the only mother whom Winifred Savage had known. And the old lady had done her duty well and fairly by her orphan niece, loving her next after the brother whom she so idolised, educating her as well as she knew how ; and setting her from first to last a brave example under poverty and privation. But now the very mainstay of the girl’s life was struck away. Of what comfort was it that the struggle with poverty was ended ? She told herself that without Miss Lingtroy she would as soon be poor as rijh. Even her joy in the redemption of the mortgage was turned to bitterness, she would scarcely grieve now, she thought, though The Grange were sld to a stranger. And then, what was she to do with her life ? Mrs Pennefeather had said only yesterday that she could not go on living alone ia the old house ; and though she declared at the moment that she must learn to a cept her lot, she felt in her heart that the solitude was more than she knew how to bear. By and by perhaps she might be able to devote herself to the place and the people, repairing The Grange, improving the land, rebuilding tbs cottages and schools, and striving to bo as helpful and practical as her aunt would have been under these bettered circumstances. But for this work she was not yet strong enough. Self-dependence is not learned in a day, and she instinctively felt that in order to acquire it she needed some stimulus from without.

If she could but get away for awhile away from the sympathising faces, and the familiar sights and sounds of home . . . that would give her strength ; that was what she needed, i'ut then Winifred was as ignorant of the outer world as a cloistered nun. When quite a child, she had been once to Scarborough, and twice or thrice to Khyl; but that was in the days when her Uncle Stephen was not yet mined. Since his death, and for many a year before he died, she bad not known what it was to spend a week from homo. Yet she was fast making up her mind to a bold step, though in what direction she knew not One thing at all events, seemed clear to her. She must make her plan at once, before others should begin planning for her. She must make it at once, and carry it into effect with all possible promptitude. Thus would she be spared the pain of rejecting well-intentioned counsel, ana avoid the equally painful consciousness that she was a burden and a source of anxiety to those around her. By ‘ those around her ’ she meant not only Mr and Mrs Pennefeather, but Lancelot Brackenbnry.

Where, then, coaid she go? She knew, of course, that there were numbers of good schools in France, Belgium, and Germany, where she might live as in a home, and have what is called "the benefit of masters.” There was one at Ptuttgard, for instance, where a niece of Mrs Oaldicott’s had boarded once for nearly three years, Mrs Caldicott herself was educated at a certain fstnons institute at Zollenstrasse-am-Main, Then there was Munich. . , . Had she not quite lately read the narrative of an English lady’s life as an art student in that modern Weimar; and might it not be possible for her to do likewise. Eomo again — but Rome was too far away ; and Pans was too gay, and London too vast. It must be Mun ch. Munich was neither too lively, nor too distant, nor too big. Munich was studious. In Munich she could work, and, above all else, she craved for occupation. Yes, her mind was made up ; she would go to Munich, Chaptep. XXXII, X.ETTICK LEIGH. ‘ Poor Prince!’ Winifred had walked on and on, thinking only of the future, forgetting the present, and taking no heed of the miles. But now, having oome to a derision, she paused, looked around, and found beraelf about half-way to Singleton. Prince knew that there was something wrong, and that his mistress was unhappy. He tore about like a wild dog at first starting, but finding presently that the gladness was all on his own side, he became sobered, and dropped quietly behind. Being spoken to now for the first time, he looked up with a sedate and puzzled face, and thrust his nose into Winifred’s band. * Poor Prince ! What will you do, Prince, when I am gone ?’ She stooped; kissed bis furrowed forehead ; and turned slowly homewards. A Braokenbury gamekeeper leading a leash of beagles, and a laborer plodding under a load of empty sacks, were as yet the only wayfarers she had met. She could hardly have chosen a quieter walk. Coming presently, however, to a point where two lands diverged, she found herself face to face with a woman and child—the woman black-browed, ragged, sullen-looking, with a bundle or sticks upon her head; the child warmlyclad, ruddy, and sturdy. At sight of the lady in black, the woman drew baok, catching her boy quickly by the hand; and so stood with downcast eyes, waiting for her to go by. Bat Winifred stopped with a look of surprised recognition. ‘ Why, Lettice,’ she said, ‘is that you?’

No reply, ‘ We thought you were lost or dead. Where have you been all these years, my poor girl? Yon look as if the world had gone hardly with you ’ The woman’s lip quivered ; but she still looked down silently. ' Are yon back at the old place on the Moor 7’ She shook her head, * Nay, Miss Min’fred,’ she said huskily, ‘ Once partad’s aye parted, wi’ moorfolk and me.’ * Where then are you living 7 ’ She pointed by the way she had come, * Yon knaw whar Abel Brunt hanged hieself years agone ? Blackpool, they call ’nn; down agin’ the Ridge, Nobody ’ll live there; so I ’spose I mnn bide in’t an’ no rent to p'y>’ * That ruin ? Why there is no roof on it!’

* There’s roofin’ at one end, Miss. ’ Have you been there long ? ’ ‘ Nigh on five weeks.’ ’ A dreary home, Lettioe 1 How will yon support yourself 7 ’ * I’ae ben harvestin’ Stoke way, Miss ; an’ since harvesting ow’r I’se gone back to the gimp work. But earnina isn’t what they used to be; and the gimp’s hard livin’ now, wl' two mouths to feed.’

‘ And this little fellow—is he yours ? ’ She nodded. Winifred bent over the child, and caressed his little brown cheek.

* Have you ever been to school, my man ?’ she asked. * Can you read ?’ He looked up at her with big. wondering eyes—eyes as bine as his mother’s were black. Never were parent and child more dissimilar —she all gipsy ; he all Saxon. ‘A’ dnnno’ what readln’ means. Miss Wln’fred,’said the mother, half sadly, half sullenly. ‘ We’ae lived pretty much on th’ tramp ; an’ 'a never had no learuia’.’ * How old is he ?’

‘ Fower last September. ’ • He looks five, and I’m sure he is a bright boy. You must give up wandering, Lettice, and I engage he shall soon know what reading means! Tell me, my little friend—would you not like to go to Langtrey school ?’

* Nay. Langtrey school-house baint for the bikes o’ he,’ said the mother, wistfully.

*lt is for all who live in the parish. Continue to live in the parish, Lettice, and I will pay for his schooling.' Again she shook her head, ‘Nay, nay,’ she said; ‘we mun’ keep ourselves to ourselves —thankin’ you all the same, Miss. But I wouldna’ like to have un slighted. ’ The woman was moor bred, and had been reckoned a beauty among the “ dark folk” some five or six year, ago, Then she disappeared under some vague cloud of illreport. and had been neither seen nor heard of since She at all events bad in her veins the wilful, lawless moor-blood—the blood that would be neither driven nor coaxed ; and Winifred knew that for the present it would be well to press her no further.

* Well, in any case, you are not going away just yet,” she said, gently; ‘ and you will come over on Monday, we will see what can be done to make Blackpool more comfortable. There’s plenty of old furniture at the Grange ; and I daresay Bridget can look out for something in the way of warm clothing that would cut up for the child, for winter wear. You shall be welcome to whatever 1s useful to you.’ Muttering an ungracious ‘ Thank’ee,’ Lettice drew her boy closer to her side. • I’m a’moat afraid to ax a’ter th’ owd lady,’ she said, looking at Winifred’s black dress. • Eh, then, is she gone ? And my lord, too —they tell me, a’s ne’er bin heerd on more 1 Well, Mias W’nifred, things ha’ gone collyweat* wi’ you, same as other folk. ‘ You’ve yer troubles, I reckon.’ (To he continued on Tuesday.)