LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2198, 12 March 1881, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE MYSTEEY OP LORD BRACKENBURY: A NOVEL. BY AMELIA B, EDWARDS, Author of “Barbara’s History,” “Dcbenbam’s Vow,” &c. ( Continued .l 4 Birst let me show yon my counting house and sleeping berth,’ says Donato, opening a door that leads into two little cabins, the one giving upon the other. The first, which he calls hie ‘counting house, ’ is a tiny office, in which he keeps his ledgers, log book, oharts, correspondence, and so forth. The second, besides the ordinary berth furniture, contains some three or four shelves of books, a telescope on brackets, and, arrayed upon the walls, some carious Oriental arms, a cutlass, a fowling-piece, and a brace of pistols. The books, in their haod--B,°.m® bindings, look so attractive that La Giulietta ventures, timidly, to take one from the shelf; but it proves to be in some foreign language, and she can make nothing of it. Replacing it, she takes down another. This time, not only the language but the very alphabet is unknown to her, ‘ You are fond of reading, Carina?’ asks her lover.

' I sometimes think I am too fond of it. ’ ’ Yea ? And what reading do you like best—poetry and romances ? Ah I I thought as much. Nay, my books will not please you.’

She was looking now at a well-worn little volume, gilt • edged and vellumbound.

1 What is this ?’ she asked, shyly. ‘lt is not Italian—it looks like a Missal.’ ‘lt is so far like a Missal, that it la in Latin, These are the Odes of Horace, Have yon never beard of Horace? He was a poet, and a Roman—a Roman of the old Pagan time, when Jove was worshipped and Christ was not yet come.”

‘ That must have been before Romeo and Giulietta V

* Ah : long before.’ ‘And you can read it ? Why, you are as learned as Padre Anaelmo !’ ‘ Who Is Padre Anselmo P’ ‘He is the Parish Priest of Montorio—a saint upon earth; and learned—oh I so learned 1 Ho knows not only Latin, but Greek; and ho has written a book. 1 'He mast be a wonderful man,’ said Donato, smiling, ‘ But what will you say if 1 tell you that I have a friend at Seri, a Canon of the Cathedra), who knows Hebrew and Arabic as well as Latin and Greek, and who has written at least a dozen books, some of which are as big as those ledgers of mine yon were looking at just now ? The girl lifted her eyes to him in wonder. A Canon of the Cathedral! It was as if he had said that he was intimate with the Pope! The wheelwright, meanwhile, was peering somewhat curiously at a small ebony case that hung near the cabin door. It was a neatly made little case, like a tiny shrine, and it had folding doors mounted on silver hinges, and a silver key-hole. The whole thing, frame and all, did not measure more than eight inches by six. ‘ May one ask what that is, ’ he said. Donato took a small silver key from bis watch-chain, unlocked his oase, and disclosed a couple of miniatures on a background of purple velvet. The one was a mere head—a boy’s head, apparently—set chernb-like in a mist of clonds against a background of blue sky ; the other represented a lady dressed in the shortwaisted fashion so familiar to ourselves in portraits of the Princess Charlotte and her contemporaries, The girl’s color changed. ‘How beautiful!’ She said it, as it were, under her breath, and with a sinking heart. She dreaded to ask whose portraits they were. Could it be that her lover had already been a husband and a father.’

4 My mother,’ said Donato, with tender seriousness.

The wheelwright pulled out his spectacles, wiped them carefully, and stared at the miniatures in respectful silence. La Giuletta’s eyes filled with sadden tears.

‘ She was very beautiful. She died many—many years ago, when I was a lad ’

And this ? said old Stefano, ‘ls this your own portrait ? ’ Donato, a yet graver shade stealing over bis features, shook his head. ‘ My younger brother,’ he said, softly, 1 He is living ?*

But the girl, with a woman’s quick lympathy, saw how it was, and answered for him.

‘ No, no, ” she said hurriedly, * Don’t ask —it pains him !’ Donato closed the ebony doors and turned the key in silence. Then he drew her to his side, and kissed her on the forehead, ‘I have only you dear,’ he said. Five minutes later they were in a gondola, gliding across the shining waters and making for the landing place, in front of the Piazza of St. M ark. And then the rest of the afternoon went by in a wondrous dream —a dream of intricate canals crossed by innumerable bridges ; of narrow streets crowded with foot passengers ; of churches all sculpture without, all golden gloom of mosaics and paintings within ; of islands lying afar off in the warm blaze of the sinking sun ; of gardens, and public squares, and music of military bands; of the soft lapping of green waters against marble steps ; of a crimson sunset, and a magical twilicht; of night and the stars, and the flying train again. And than home. Chapter XLVI. UNDER THE DARK ARCHWAY. ‘I can hardly believe that it was not a dream,’ It was La Gieulietta who spoke. Her uncle, tired after his day’s work, had dropped asleep in his chair. The lovers were oat npon the balcony, talking abont Venice. It was a little after eight in the evening. The sky was dark overhead ; and, save some empty vettnras, the yard below was deserted. Old Anita, with her brazier and her three-legged stool, had cleared ont long ago from under the archway ; the business of the trattoria was over for the day ; and only here and there between attic and basement was a lighted window to be seen ; for already most of the lodger* in the Osteria del Cappello were gone to bed, •Wait till yon have seen Venice by moonlight,’ replied Donato ; ‘ then, indeed, yon will say it must be a dream. What I like is to take a gondola, and go abont the aide canals at nights, gliding silently out of darkness into light, and back again into darkness, Everything la ghostly. Yon round a corner, and something splashes into the water behind you—it seems as if a murder might have been done. You pass under a balcony, and hear voices in stealthy conversation ; or under a lighted window, and listen to a woman singing within. Every house seems full of mystery—every gondola you meet seems to carry a secret.’ • I don’t think I should like it,’ said the girl. ‘ I should be afraid.’ ‘ Not if I were with you, dear ‘Ah, no —not with you.’ ‘You would go anywhere, and feel safe anywhere, with me?’ * Anywhere!’ ‘There are so many places to which I should like to take you —ay, and to which I will take yon, by and by. Beautiful islands, whi-re ferns grow to the size of trees, and palm woods peopled with monkeys, and parrots come down to the water’s edge. Some of those are c< ral islands, built np from the bottom of the sea by myriads of tiny insects. Those are places in whioh winter Is unknown. Then in summer we will steer northwards, to the coasts of Sweden and Norway, where you will see whales spouting in deep water, and seals sunning themselves on the sands. And at one place to whioh I will take you, yon shall behold the sun i shir log at midnight. Yon can hardly believe ’ that ? Yet it is true.’ 1 ‘ How much you know !’ ehe said. ‘ How ' much you have seen !’ 1 ‘ A sailor cannot help plokmg up scraps of j knowledge by the way. V* edo not go to , sea with oar eyes shut.’ ‘Ah, but you have education !’ ‘ I can re»d and write, and keep my log 3 and my ledgers.’ The girl shook her head.

* You know Latin,’ she said, ‘ and other foreign tongnes printed in strange letters that I never saw till I looked at yonr books the other day.’ ‘ What of that ? I am a trader, and my business takes mo to foreign ports where I should be badly off indeed if I could not make myself understood. Besides, like yourself, 1 am fond of reading ; and at sea, with plenty of leisure, it would be hard it I could not manage to be learning some thing, ’ She listened ; she sighed. ‘lt is not that,’ she said. ‘lt is not what you have taught yourself, or what you have picked up. Von are a scholar. Your —your mother was a lady. Nay, I am a poor, ignorant girl; but in this I cannot be deceived. I saw it in her portrait. She was not one of ns—nor are yon.' ‘ You know me for what I am —a trader : a man of the people !’ ‘No ; yon are—a gentleman.’ ‘And supposing I were a prince,’ he said lightly ; 1 what then ?’ * I should be too far beneath yon —as I am now.’

‘ Why, Giulietta mia ? Why, carins—what folly is this ?’ He caught her in his arms ; he kissed her eyes, and found them wet with tears.

‘Yon are a silly child,’ he said. ‘lf I were a King, and yon loved me, your love would make you my equal! Bat lam not a King. I am not even “Romeo and a Montague.” I am a simple Ceaare Donato, who loves yon with all his heart, and loves yon for all his life. Listen, dearest —I am respectably born—rather more so, perhaps, than most men of my station ; and you are right in believing that I have received a tolerably good education. But do you suppose that I want a learned wife ? Should I love yon one jot better if yon knew Latin ?’

* No, but ’ * But what ?’ * I fear you will love me less by-and-by, if—lf yon are ashamed of me.’ ‘My Giulietta,’ said her lover, seriously, ‘you may be quite sure that I know my own mind, and that I shall never change, lam older than yon by many years—some might say, perhaps, that I am too old and too grave for one so young as yourself—so young and so bright! But old as I am, you are my first love. 1

‘Am I ? Am I, indeed ?’ ‘My first, dear ; and my last. With me it is once and for ever. •

* Once and for ever!’ she repeated, nestling closer within his atm.

‘ And never—never again—tell me that I conld be ashamed of you. How could Ibe anything but proud of the woman I love ? How could I love her, if I was not proud of her ?’

‘But I am only a poor girl,’ she whispered. ‘ I have no knowledge—no manners. When your friends see me . . .’

‘ I have no friends, ’ he interrupted quickly. ‘Or rather, I have but one—that one of whom I told you the other day. Ton need not be afraid of him; he is an old man, learned as one of the Fathers of the Church, and simple as a child.’ ‘ But you have relations ?’ * Well, I have cousins; but I have not seen them for many years. Yon know how it is with relations. If one is brought up with them from childhood, the tie is close and real; but when families are scattered and the young ones grow up apart, then relationship ceases to be a tie, and is forgotten. That is my case. Those distant relatives may ba dead, for ought I know— I should hardly remember them if I saw them, and I am snre they would not remember me.’ ‘ I have relations whom I have never even seen.’said the girl; ‘my annt Francesca Petrucelli and her family. She Jives near Naples, at a place called San Lorenzo. She is a widow, and has a farm of her own, and a family of three daughters and four sons. I should dearly like to see her, and my seven unknown cousins. ’

' I will take you there, carina, it you like, when wo go for our wedding crnise. No, don’t thank me. Whatever pleases yon makes me happy.’ ‘You must not indulge me too much,’ she said. ‘ Yon will spoil me.’ He passed his hand caressingly over her hair.

‘I had always meant to take you to Naples and Sicily for the first trip, my darling. And I have been thinking, too, how we will make yon comfortable on boa-d the Diamante. I mean to shift my first mate to a berth amidships, and turn his present cabin into a sort of dressing-room and counting-house for myself. Then we will knock away the partition between my own two little cabins, and make a good stateroom for you. Mind, I expect my little wife to be a good sailor I She will have to go round the world with me.’

A vettura drawn by a white horse came jolting under the arohway, and drew np in the middle of the yard. The girl had shrunk back at the first sound of wheels ; but seeing the old white horse, she was reassured, and went on talking. ’Tonio Moretti’s horses were both bays. ’ How long would it take to go round the world ?’ she asked.

‘ln a sailing vessel?’ impossible to tell. Much would depend on her length of stay in foreign parts, and still more on wind and weather. However, I don’t propose that we shaU literally circumnavigate the globe, cariua ; but only that you shall make many a voyage with me in the ‘ Diamante.’

* But what would become of Uncle Stefano ?’

‘He can come too, if he likes. We have accommodation enough and to spare.’ *As if Uncle Stefano would go to sea 1 Yet how lonely he would be here in Verona !’

‘ Why need he stay in Verona ? He has worked long enough. It is time he took life more easily. What if he came to Bari ? I have a house there, yon know, and a bit of land. I have let the land, hitherto; and as for the house, I have only lived in it for a few weeks at a time, twice or thrioe in the year. Now lam going to furnish It, and make it pretty for you ; and if yonr uncle would live with m and farm the land for me I would take it back into my own hands. How would that be, think you ?’ She thought, of coarse, that nothing could be better. It was but the other day that he said how he would fain sit in the shade of his own vine, and eat polenta of bis own growing ; and would not this be almost the same thing ? The vetturino in the yard, meanwhile had taken his horse oat of the traces, and led him into the stable. And now they could hear the other horses whinnying a welcome to their comrade, and the vettnrino whistling, and moving to and fro. In the street outside, all was as quiet as at midnight. ‘Tell me abont your house at Bari,’ she said, her cheek resting against bis shoulder. *lsit an old bouse ? Were you bom there ? ’

'lt is a little white house, carina ; neither very new nor very old ; and I certainly was not borne there, but I bought it only two or three years ago. It was just a sailor’s fancy ; for when a man is knocking about the ocean, he likes to know that there’s a rood or so of dry land all his own, on which he can set foot when he comes ashore. Well, the house stands high, on the terrace looking to the sea. It has a pergola in front; and on the terrace there grows a palm tree a real African palm. The hill side is covered with vines and olive gardens ; and down below, on a jutting promontory, washed on three eidea by the bluest sea in the world, lies the great white town, with its castle, and its cathedral, and its harbor full of shipping. ’ •It must be as beautiful as Venice 1’ ‘Ah no, —there is but one Venice. Yet ' Yet what ?’ He leaned over the balcony, and looked round the yard. ‘1 fancied I heard a sound underneath,’ he raid ; ‘ as it some one was listening.’ ‘Perhaps it was Mona Teresa shaking out her cloth after supper. Her balcony is just below ours.’

• Very likely. At all events she is not there now. ’

• And yon were saying ’ (To be continued on Tuesday.}