LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2193, 7 March 1881, Page 3

LITERATURE .

UNDER THE SPELL, ‘ It's too bad to let the child throw away her young life and happiness. Some one ought to warn her of tho rooks iu her course.’ Ho spoke the world, watching the flirtations between Eben Fnrval and Clare Welling. Of course it was flirtation, this same world decreed ; not, perhaps, cn her side—tho warning would not have been needed then—but on his. She was but eighteen, with something of the clear young eoul shining through tho eyes as they uplifted themselves to her hero’s face. Yes, he was her hero. The world, for once, had epoken truly. She had not begun to reason. She only knew that her heart beat more quickly at tho sound of her foot' step—that, had one asked her Ideal of all manly beauty, unconsciously Bben’s dark, handsome face would have instantly pic. tnred itself before her, though she might have vouchsafed no spoken answer—that to her ear was no sweeter music than the low, melodious utterance of his voice. Of course he knew his power. The world remembered numberless instances when he had used it but too mercilessly; therefore, they felt sorrow for the young, untried girl who also had fallen ‘ Under the SpelL' _ Yet, as she stood to-night by Ben Fnrval's side, the tall, slender figure draped in soft, white folds; a brilliant color on her cheek, lending now lustre to her eyes ; the soft, fair hatr, curling itself in myriad rings npon the low, white brow ; she seemed a picture of girlish happiness. Could it be that he who had made should mar it ? If so, how perfect his acting 1 ‘Clara,’ he whispered—never, never had her name sounded so sweet before— ‘ are you tired F Shall we not finish this waltz 7 ’ For answer she let him slip his arm about her waist. Tired with him! Had the music lasted, she might have gone on forever 1 She sighed when it ended, with a crash, and he drew her into the dimly lighted conservatory. What meant the look with which he pierced down throngh the azure eyes into the hidden depths of her soul P He spoke no word, but there, amid the flowers and fragrance, with a half-sleepy canary warbling his good night song above their heads, he opened wide his arms. A moment she resisted their mute entreaty ; he drew a step nearer then ; with a half-sob of the most exqnlsite happiness she ever known, she felt them fold themselves about her, and laid her head, like a tired child, npon his breast. He held her close and long, ‘ Clare, you love me I’ he half asserted, halt questioned. ‘Oh, child, what a sweet, fair page has been the life upon which I may dare inscribe my name:’ At his words of self-implied reproach, she raised her head. In his faoe was a light she had never seen before. With a glad thrill she knew that her band had illumined the torch. • I love you—l love you !’ she repeated, softly, until he hushed the words with his kiss. *Do not let us tell the world our secret, * he pleaded. *ltis so sweet to have no one share it but ourselves.’ And to this wish of his she gladly gave consent. On swiftly-joyous wings the days followed, merging themselves into halcyon weeks ; yet some lives, she had heard, were filled with misery. Could she ever fathom the meaning of the word 7 Ah, she was young to ask the question ! It was to ha answered all too soon.

Poor child I she had no mother—perhaps a mother’s hand would have been more gentle with the knife; but one day her aunt, with whom she lived, came into her room to rudely break it upon her daydreams.

‘Clare,’ she said, ‘I want to talk with yon. This Mr Furval who is here so often must come no more The day might dawn when you would become interested in him, and I would be sorry to have my singingbird’s song cease. They tell me he is fascinating. With his honeyed words and phrases be sets traps far hearts as the fowler for his game. He makes boasts, too, of his conquests, I hear. The words “I love you,” fall all too readily from bis lips. The question, ‘ Be my wife ?’ never!’ Pale as ashes, Clare had been about to utter an indignant denial of all her aunt had said. When she had added these last words, ‘The question, “Be my wife P” never !” they seemed to lend a ring of truth to all that had gone before ; yet her loyalty stood her in good stead, though her pride made her hide the freshly-gaping wound, ‘You are unjust, aunt,’ she said, speaking with effort. ‘ Why should you believe what gossip says ?’ • Because it has extended its voice to you —because it says that yon, too, are under the spell of this man’s wonderful fascination. Many is the heart he has broken, Clare—he shall not break yours !’ ‘lf what you say be true,’she replied, defiantly, l it is already broken ; but I do not—l will not believe it! He loves me, and I—l love him !’ ‘ He asked you to become his wife ?’ The question cut like a knife to the girl’s quivering heart. ‘No; not in words. I do not even miss them, so sure was lof his purpose. Why—why do you come here to torment me ?’ ‘ Because I would save you, and because he shall never know his latest victim. Child, look here ! This was sent me yesterday !’ And she placed a sheet of paper in the little trembling, outstretched baud. It was covered with the handwriting of him of whom they spoke, and it was a mad, passionate declaration of his love for her to whom it was addressed. There was neither name nor date—only his signature, bold and free.

‘ Clare, you believe now V ‘ Yes, I believe,’ she answered softly. • leave me to myself. The next day when Eben Furval called, a daintily-folded note was pat into his hand. Eagerly ho tore it open, to read these words :

‘ I must ask yon not to see ms again. Ton are a better actor than I. I have weasied of the farce. Doubtless, with the wo>ld for your audience, you can find some one better fitted to play my part.’ This was all. Thus had the child striven to hide the wound from which was pouring what she vainly hoped might be the lifecurrent.

With a bitter curse, ending in a groan, the man crushed the paper in his hand. *Oh God!' he said, beneath his breath ‘ After all these years, is this a scond time to be my reward ? Is there no truth in woman V

And his soul echoed, ‘ None !’ But Clare had been half-child, half woman. Only yesterday her eyes had looked with worshipful light into his. There was some mistake, some treachery probably. He could not let her thus escape him. He had been world-worn and weary. Her love had been like finding the cooling spring in the arid desert, Must he pass it by, end perish of thirst ? Not so ! He would write to her, and bog her to tell him if indeed she had but played with him. If so, to let her silence answer; if not, to bid him come to her.

His very soul seemed to pour itself out upon the senseless sheet. The next day he himself saw it delivered at her door. What he unhappily did not see, were they that received it.

‘lt will but make tbe child grieve more,’ reasoned her aunt ; and, with the seal unbroken, laid it on the flames. For what had Clara hoped as the weary days went by ? Had she expected any answer to the poor little note with which the had struggled to bolster up her ptido ? Paler and wanner she grew as her hops died. Truly she was ‘under the spell,’ said her aunt, sadly ; but her own lips were dumb, until the strain on brain and heart gave way, and the name she had held so long unspoken was breathed in every accent of love and despair from her fever-parched lips as she lay tossing in delirium. Her annt, good woman though the was, conld have cursed the owner’s name as sfce listened, shudderingly, to its repetion. * My one poor little ewe lamb !’ she would whisper, tearfully ; ‘ why might ho not have spared you ?’ But one day, when the whisper had spread abroad that Clara Welling was dying, a man, haggard and white, forced himself into her presence. * Let mo see her 1’ he entreated.

Some spirit rose in the crushed heart at sight of him. ‘You would see your victim!” she questioned with eoom ‘ Wait until your work is complete—it will not be long.’ ‘lf you have a woman’s soul within you, tell me what yon mean I” he answered. My victim ? Do yon know that one little month ago my dearest hope was to make Clare my wife 7 Ah, heaven ! I thought she shared it then. But they tell me she is dying. Let me but see her cnee !’

Was the man speaking falsely ? or had sho, who had meant to save the child, brought her to this pass ? ‘Wait here,’ she commanded, and hurried from the room.

When she returned, ebo carried a sheet of paper in her hand. • This was sent to me, ’ she explained. * Did you write it V He glanced over it, and bis face paled, ‘ Yes,’ he said. ‘ Ten long years ago, when I was a lad of twenty, I loved the woman to whom it was addressed, and ohe played with and jilted me. For a time I lost all faith in women, until—until I met Clare. She taught mo what it was to love again, but this time with the endless passion of the man. Tho woman I once loved is a widow now. To you I may confess she has striven vainly to allure me back into the toils. Doubtless she has sent you this paper. Tell me’—a sudden light dawning upon him— ‘ did Clara see and believe this ? ’ The woman bowed her head, * Forgive me !’ she mm mured, brokenly. ‘ Help me to nurse my darling back to life, and together we will make her atonement.’ It was a hard struggle .they had set themselves, but they conquered. Perhaps even in her delirium Clare knew who answered to his name, or who held her in his strong, loving arms; bat, however this may be, certain it is that one day the blue eyes opened to look with dawning recognition into the pale, handsome face of her lover as it bent above her.

‘ Hush, my love.’ he whispered, as she was about to speak. *I am with you, never to leave you again. It has all been a mistake, darling—all except our love, which has won for ns the victory.’ Was she dreaming? She did not know, hut nestling closer in his arms, fell into the sweet refreshing sleep which was the turning point from death to life. A month later, and in the gray old church was a quiet wedding, * Who would have believed it V said the world.

This time it really looked as thongh they were both ' Under the Spell;’ and so indeed they were, but the name of tho magician’s wand was—Love 1