LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2182, 22 February 1881, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE MYSTERY OF LORD BRACKENBURY: A NOVEL. BY AMELIA B. EDWABDB, Author of " Barbara's History," ''Debenbam's Vow," &c. I Continued.) Chapteb XLI. STEFANO BBNI'B UNWELCOME VISITORS. The sailor crossed the piazza, and took a chair under the awning in front of a cafe, where a number of men of the better class were breakfasting 'al fresco.' Here he called for a cup of chocolate, and sat watchins; till La Giulietta should come from her nno'e's workshop. He had not long to wait. Before his chocolate was brought, he saw her on the threshold. She lingered a moment, as if listening to some one within ; cast a hurried glanoe round the piazza ; and then aped swiftly away, past the guard house and down the Via Piazza Bra. She did not see him, and he did not move. He only followed her with his eyes, as long as she was in siqht.

' Chocolate, Signore ?' Bald a sleek waiter, depositing his tiny tray upon the little table on which the sailor's elbow was resting. The man's manner was a trifle off-hand, as if he thought this pilot-coated seaman out of pl&oe among his gentlemen customers. ' How much ?' asked the sailor, his hand already in his pocket. 'One lira.'

Pilot coat threw down a two-lire piece. ' You may bring me a cigarette, and keep the change. The sleek waiter became suddenly respectful. His gentlemen customers who habitually dawdled away their mornings at the cafe were not wont to fee him in this way. They would send him to and fro, grumbled at the quality of the absinthe, read all the journals in suoceesion, keep possession of their tables the whole morning long, and not give him more than ten centesimi for himself when all was done. The Bailor, however, observed neither incivility nor his civility. Slowly smoking his cigarette, he sat looking dreamily before him, seeing and hearing nothing; Meanwhile the Englishman and his daughters came out from the Amphitheatre, entered their carriage and drove away. Old Citti hobbled along aa far aa the fifth archway to claim hiß key ; Stefano Beni emerged from the depths of his workshop, and held a conversation with Luigl the blacksmith over Padre Anaelmo's wheel; a mountebank in a gaily painted cart took np his station in the piazza, and discoursed of quack medicine to an impromptu audience; people and vehicles passed and repassed, and the life of the place grew noiser and busier as the day waxed hotter.

But of all this the smoker, absorbed in his own thoughts, was as unconscious as if Verona and its amphitheatre were a hundred miles away. By and by, having come to the end of his cigarette, he roused himself, and got np with a bright, assured look, as if he had made np his mind upon some difficult question. And then, without looking to right or left, he walked straight across to the fifth archway. ' Good morning, Signor Beni. May I speak to you for five minutes ?' La Qiulietta's uncle, having passed on the priest's wheel to his neighbor, had gone back to the shaping of his spokes. Seeing this stranger at the door, he put down his tools and wiped his hands on his apron. 'Surely,' he said ; and pointed to a three leggfl stool, which was the only seat he had to < ffer.

But the sailor preferred to stand. ' Not till I have told yon my business. The wheelwright looked at him with curiosity. 'lt i« not often,' he said, ' that a man of your calling does business with a man of my oalliog.' ' It is not with your calling that I am concerned, Signor Beni,' replied the sailor ; ' but with your niece.' 'My niece 1 What have you to do with my niece ?' ' I wish to make her my wife.' A sullen flash mounted slowly over Stefano Beni's sallow face.

« Who are yon ?' he asked, abruptly. ' I come from Barl. My name is Oesare Doaato. I am a merchant seaman, and I sail my own vessel. I have worked hard, and bfen fortunate. I want no dowry with the woman I marry.' ' Since when have yon known my niece ?' ' Since this morning.' ' This morning! What do yon mean by ' this morning ' ?' ' I mean that I saw her by chance jast now, In the market-place, and that I followed her into the Arena.'

* Never till this morning. Never before ?' «Never.'

The wheelwright laughed contemptuously. *Go!' he said. * You are mad.' ' Do I look like a madman ?' ' You talk like one ; that is worse.' The sailor smiled gravely, ' Here is my passport,' he said, pulling out a well-worn pocket-book, and producing a much stamped and counter-signed document. ' I have not my ship's papers with me ; but I will fetch them from Venice.'

' our passport and your ship's papers are nothing to me,' said the wheelwright, roughly. 'I tell you, the th ; ng is impossible.' ' Why impossible ?' ' For a thousand reasons.' 'Name five.'

' One is enough. Because you are a strangrr, and I know nothing about you.' 4 That is an objection that cures itself daily. Ism less a stranger to you now than I was ten minutes ago; and when we have known each other for a mouth, It will be as if we had been acquainted all our lives.' ' But if I don't choose to know you at all —what then?'

* Then one or other of us will have to put np with an annoyance. Either I must be disappointed of the pleasure of your friendship ;or you must tolerate mine. But, good Signar Beni, why need we waste words ? I am an honest man, and a prosperous one. I love your niece, and I will settle twentyfive thousand lire upon her and her chil dren the day of our marriago. Can I say fairer ?

Stefano Bent bit his lip. He was bewildered, angry, impatient. He knew not what to Bay. The man looked honest and spoke frankly. To test the truth of his statements would not be difficult. Supposing all was as he represented it to be —would he, Stefano, be justified in maintaining an attitude of opposition ? _ He loved his nieoe dearly—as dearly as if she were his cwn daughter ; bat his love was not without a touch of selfishness. He had never said to himself that he wished his little Giulietta to live unwedded for his s»ke ; but the future held few possibilities more unwelcome than that of her marriage. And yet ... a man so well-to do as this stranger! A man willing and able to plscn her in a position beyond the reach of worldly dangers! Twenty five thousand lire! To a man in Stefano Beni's rank of life, twenty-five thousand lire (a thousand pound English) is a handsome fortune. ' How can I tell that you will do all this ?' he said sullenly ; ' how can I tell that what you say is true ?' ' Give mo till the day after to morrow, and I will satisfy you on every point. If you like to come with me to Venice you shall see my ship. As for tho money, I will lodge it here, in Verona, iu the hands of any Y anker you please to name.' * And what then ? My girl is not to bo bought and sold like a bale of morchani disel'

* God forbid ! No, Signor Beni—l know that. Let me convince you ; and then lot me take my chance with the donzella. That Is all I ask.' But Cesare Donato'a ' all' was more by far than Stefano Beni whs willing to concede. That " all' was neither moro nor less than the small end < f an iron wedge In an iron hand.

Driven into a oorner, the wheelwright considered for a moment —not *s to what he shoalel say, bat as to how he should Biy it. 'See herd, Signor Donato,'he answered presently, with a dogged of utterance. " Yon have been plaiu with me—l will be plain with you. I am in no haste to

get my girl married. The longer she stays with me the better content shall I be. But when she marriea —if marry she must—lt shall not be to nuoh an one as yon.'

' What do you mean by " anoh an one "" aa I? Am I blind, or dumb, or a humpback P'

'You are not one of cs You say yon come from Bari. That is jiut aa if ycu said you came from America I know nothing about Bar!; except that it is hundreds of miles away—aa far away ns .America, for aught I oan tell. Your people arc not our people ; your wsya are not our ways, We are of the north—you are of Ihe couth. We are of the land—you are of the sea. It will not do. Let there be an end of it.'

' I cannot take that answer from yon, Stefanr> Beni.'

' You will have to take it,' said the wheelwright, roughly. ' I may have to take it ; bat it will be from herself. I claim only fair treatment and a fair chance. Hake inquiry as to my character and my means. Sift the question as much as you pW<e. It is your right. Or I will myself lay tie proofs before yon ; and to insist on your iuveoiigation of them la my right. The reut concerns your niece.'

The wheelwright burst into an angry laugh.

' By_ the body of Bacchus !' he said r ' this is good! A fellow whom I never saw before, and whom I wish never to scgagain, walks into my workshop, tells me ho has taken a fancy to my niece at first sight, and refuses to accept " No," for ananswer !'

' I deny that yon have the right to say " No," unless yon show that I am unworthy, and a liar.'

' Worthy or unworthy, true or a liar, it's all one to me. I disapprove ; and that's enough.' 'I beg your pardon,' Bald Donate 'lts is a great deal too much. To watch over your niece's interests, to protect her against a spendthrift, a drunkard, or a thief, is your duty. But you are not justified in standing between her and an honest man who would settle his money upon her, and make her a good husband.'

'I have said my last word. I disapprove. Good morning ?' And Stefano Beni took up his chisel and mallet with the air of a man who had no more time to waste in idle argument. ' Then I say again that I accept no refusal but hers. In the meanwhile Igo to Venice for my papers. Till we next meet, Signor Beni.:

With these words the sailor lifted his hat and left the workshop. Then Stefano Beni fell to work savagely, and the chips flew from his chisel-point like sparks from a smith's anvil. Was ever a, man so tried—so defied—so thwarted? His little Ginlietta, forsooth! His pearl of girls 1 His very own! She whom he had fed, sheltered, cherished in the care of his heart, since she was a tiny, toddling child —she for whom he had bean scraping and saving year by year, as persistently as if she were the offspring of his own loins. That a fellow like this—a foreigner as one might almost say—should dare to cast covetous eyes upon her. . . . Holy Madonna! it was enough to enrage a faint! Was it for this that he had taken st:ch pride in her education, sending her to the Carmelite school daily for nine long years till she could not only read and write as well as the nuns themselves, bat embroider better than any other skilled workwoman in Verona T Warn it for this that he had worked summer and winter week days and feasts, counting every lire, grudging nothing for the good of the little one, and denying nothing for the little one, and denying everything to himself f By the mass—no! ITo be continued on Saturday.")