LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2207, 23 March 1881, Page 3

LITERATURE.

SOPHIE : AN INTERLUDE. Iff TWO CHAPIKBS. Chapter I. I met Sophie at the Elms, Severn's place, in Kent. Sid changes have taken place cince. I had spent several years ia India, and returned home in disgust at luve, life, all things. Of course there was a woman at the bottom of it—a woman whom I loved passionately. I had known her from early girlhood, watch d her gradually deve?op into a splendid woman. Shewai «norphan ; her mother died at her birth; her father, absorbed in bis business, csrtd but little for her ; her stepmother treated her with coldness, and often wfth worse. I shielded her to tho best of my power, which in those days was but rmall. She grew to love me, and we were betrothed. 1 was only a poor Civil Servant then. My elder brother was ullve. I was not much of a ' match;' but her father, a weak, kindly man, sanctioned our engagement, and I was content. After a year of waiting, I was promoted to a post far 'up country,' and I left, full of hope, and joy, to arrange a home for my wife. Alas ! other eyca than mine beheld my pearl A roue Viscount, who, having pretty nijih <xhausted all European sports and pastimes, had come to India for the great excitement of tiger shooting, saw her at a ball. Her rich luxutiant beauty attracted, her ccol re coptiou nf his attentionj piqued him. Afrer a fortnight's ardent pursuit, he offered his baud and coronet. With what result ? One day I received a packet containing all my letters and presents ; a formal business-like letter from her father, announcing 'Mies Morewood's engagement to Lord Kathalan,' and a line from Juliet—' Walter, Tam nnwi r.-.l yof you Farewell forever • Short, certaiuly, and to tne point Next day I received notioe of my brother's death. I was thus, if Dot rich, at least independent, and. asking for a year s leavtjof absence, I started for England as soon as possible. Ten years had chunked the old home. Father, mother, and elder brother were all gone; only my sister 1 ncy, married and widowed during my absence, remained. She lived in London, and with her I took up my a' o le, in the hope of finding out some of my old companions. Alas! they too were changed or gone* Only one wad unchanged to me, and that was Harry Severn. Yet, even to him those ten year<s had brought change. When I left in '66, he had just married a graceful, pretty, childish little girl—the mt st * winsomw wee thing' I ever saw. She was gone ; and another was filling her place in Severn's life, if not in hU heart. I heard from my sister that the second Mrs Severn was a most superior person—a woman of large fortune and high c nnectior, and In every way a hotter wife for my friei'd than poor little Valerie de V urgh had been. Well, well ; everyone to his taste. I was only a short time in London when Severn found me out. I can never forget his kindly greeting, or the (sincere affection which he manifested for me. ' Ton must come to ns at once,' he cried, shaking my hands as if he never meant to let them go. ' Make my house your head-quarters. We have lots of room, there being no encumbrances, I am sorry to say, in the shape of yourg ones as yet. But I want you to know and like Mary. I have often told her about you. Alfred, too, you remember A'f ? And then there is a niece of Mary's and Sophie, a little ward of mine, all staying with ns. We are a jolly party, I can tell you.' Solitude, even when enlivened by a sister, is not the best medicine in the world for a wounded spirit. I went to the Elms in a few days.

A grave old, gray-he»ded servant received me at the door ; and telling me that Mr and Mrs Severn were from home, but would soon return, ushered me'into a delightful library, filled with deep tones of color, sweet odi rs, and softened golden light. Through halfclosed curtains of some delicate texture, the garden could be seen, glowing with color and redolent with perfume.fin the after o.>n sunshine ; and a sound of falliog water gave a dreamy freshness to the whole. I stood enraptured for a moment ; then I strode to the window, flung back the dainty onrtains. and started in amazement. There, curled up in a great velvet arm-chair, lay the prettiest child I had ever seen, fast a«leep. Her fair, faint-flushed cheek rested upon the crimson cushion ; her dark curling rinps of hair ran riot over it. One dimpled band lay open on her lap ; the other touched the carpet, over the arm of the low chair. A book, which had evidently fallen from her loosened clasp, lay beside the little rosy hand. I stood and gazed upon her—for I am fond of children—ln' surprise and admiration. This, then, was Severn's ' little ward.' I bent closer to examine the beautiful sleeper. She started awake. H«r eyes met mine. Such eyes !. Not black or brown, as her dark 'hair would lead you to suppose ; but gray, liquid, limpid, brimful of fire and sweetness and expression ! Strange eyes for a child, but[beautifal beyond compare. For a second or so she looked at me without moving; then she; started to her feet with a- u Jittle bird-like cry. ' How did you come? I did not hear?' she stammered in sweet silvery tones. ,_ _ 'Yoa have been very aonnd asleep, my little lady, I replied. She put back her clustering carls, and looked at me with a queer expression. ' Have you been here long ?' the asked, her eyes dancing with misehievons light. ■ Not very—only about five minutes or so. Qiite long enough to win a pair of gloves,' 1 said merrily. She flushed crimson, then drew her little person to its full height of four feet ten or thereabout, and laughing again, said: ' Won't you be seated ?' with an assumption of maidenly dignity very charming to behold, and motioned me to a seat opposite her rouoh.

I felt rather taken aback by the change in manner and gesture, and retreated at once to the obair she pointed out, half-sighing that there were no children nowadays ; and sat down, half-vexed, half pleased. A few moments' silence, in which only the tinkliag waterfall outside and a bird singing somewhere amongst the trees, ensued.

' Yon are above talking to children,' said a plaintive little voice. I looked up. She had moved to the window, and stood there framed by the trailing clematis which wreathed it, I confess she made a lovely picture. • No,' 1 said, won by her glance and beauty; «I am very fond of talking to children when they are good.' ' Talk to me. Am I not good ?' she said softly. ' Yes; very good indeed. I like good children—grow quite fond of them, in fact. I will promise to grow fond of you, if you only give the chance.' For a moment her face crimsoned ; and ere she recovered her natural tint a sound of wheels on the gravel announced the arrival of visitor?, or perhaps the return of Severn and his wife. With a gesture of Bilence to mo, Bhe glided out of the window, vanishing ainoneat the rosea ; fit home, I thought, for *u' h a fairy like being. As she disappeared, I lifted the book she had been reading. To my surprise, it was a volume of German verse. Fancy that chit of a girl reading German I A moment afterwards, Severn, hia kind, handsome wi'e, his brother Alfred, and a tall, distinguished'looking girl, entered the room, and gave me a hearty welcome. Severn's wife was charming, but her Miss Rnfford, was not quite to attractive, being somewhat grave and formal. Alfred Severn resembled hia brother, though perhaps he was more tilent than Harry. I saw his eyes go round the room as <f he fought for something. ' Where's Sophie ?' he said at last. • Where, Indeed 1' echoed Mrs Severn; and Severn himatilf, walked to the window, calling: 'Sophia, Sophie !' But she did not appear, I said nothing; her gestures of ailc-nca sealed my lips. After a pleasant hour spent in dawdling through tho garden, we separated to njepare for dinner. When ready I wended ny*? "fltay to the library, hoping to find my littlu fairy there; bat t*e room was emt/ty. I flung myself into the couch the fairy had occupied, and bega-! to thitk of the wom»n I bad loved in far-away India, and who was, I thought, lost for ever. (She si b by my tide today ; she came to me after all, and proved her faith and trnth before the world; bub I do not thii k there was a more miserable man in tho length and breadth of Bugland than I was, upon that beautiful summer evening ) Alfred was the first to enter the room, and I was about to question him as to

Severn's ward, when Miss Bttffora*, clad in gleaming white »Si, glided into the room o'oaely followed by Mrs £«ver» As the gong boomed out ttorough the hilli Severn himself appeared, and without a moment's panse he offered his arm to Mies Kntford. I did the same to the lady of the house; and we entered the diiing-roottf Ab we seated ourselves at- table, Sevsrn looked around, and said somewhat impatiently : • Where is Sophie*?* Mia Severn replied smilingly : ' Sophie will oaine in preaontly,' Was it imagination, or did a glance of intelligence pass swiftly from -eye to eye around the table? I began to think there most be something qneer about the child. Wi h the rest of the sweets she came; and I thought her prettier than ever. She was dress(-d in white, with pale pink sash around her fairy waist, and pink bows stack over the flufts .and puffs of her stylish frock. Severn glanced at her inquiringly. She tossed up her little head as the encountered his eyeo ; and a saucy smile sent, as it seemed, a hnndred dimples playing hide and<Keek around her rose-bud mouth.

Alfred made room for her at his side ; in faot, a vacaut place was there all through dinner. Mie glided to her seat with a selfpossession and graceful ease of manner wonderful to see in one so young. • You have not met my friend, Mr Dennis, Sophie,' said Severn. She gave oue hurried glance at me through her long eyelashes. * Don't betray me,' it said.

I took up tho cue she dropped, and said I was glad to make Miss Sophie's acquaintance. ' There was a miscbievoue glitter in her eyes as she bowed to me, and a lovely pouting smile set the dimples dancing again. I bad no doubt there was some joke amongst them, for they all laughed so heartily at suoh trifling things, and even the gray headed butler trembled on the verge of a smile ; but I could not find out what it was.

When dinner was over and the ladies had withdrawn, Severn and I strolled out into the pleasure ground. Alfred did not accompany us. We had much to tell each other. Barry bad volumes to say about his happiness and good fortune, and a little of the sorrow which had preceded it. And I—l was glad of a friendly ear wherein to ponr tho story of my cruel wrong. I did not accompany Severn to the drawing-room; but Laving kirn to make what| excuses for me he best could, betook myself to the solitude of my own room and the society of a book. I had sat for some time reading, or trying to read, when suddenly outside my window arose a concord of sweet sounds, which thrilled me through and through, and brought mt, to the window at once. Four figures stood on the terrace, singing. Their voices rose and fell on the still night air, and 'trembled away into silence' in perfect oadenco. I had seldom heard anything so sweet.

' Encore, encore!' I cried, springing ont amongst them. They greeted me with a merry burst of laughter 'So,' cried Bevern, 'I knew how to unearth yon. I remembered how fond you used to be of music long ago. Sit there with Misa Ruffnrd, and be audience.' Gould it be possible that Sophie—that child—was one of the vocalists ? Yea ; there she stood beside Mrs Severn, furthest from the lamp they had net upon the table, cover >d with loose sheets of marie; her floating ribbons, white dress, and sylph-like form harmonisiog exquisitely with the background of trellised roses. Softly, very softly the music began again. A voice clear, sweet, tunable aa the song of thrushes in a spring twilight, arose from the group. The melody was simple and sweet to a degree, and the voice—l held my breath lest I should lose one note. I felt a choking sensation in my throat, and yet I was sorry when the othsr voices struck in, beautifully harmonised and tuneful as the quartette was. I listened breathless y to its close, and felt when it cesead that iom thing beautifnlhad come, and gone forever. They sang no more in the twilight We went to the drawing-room, where Miss Rufford played for us. She played uncam monly well Severn and Alfred sang. Only the fairy child was absent. I asked Mrs Severn where she was, and that lady replied, laughingly," Gone to bed. It is too late for children to st»y np.' A few bright, never-to-be-forgotten days succeeded. It was long since I had been so hap >y. Only the child was a standing puzzle to me She kept out of my way and laughed at me, and worried me with a haunting suspicion th'it she was making fun of me. One day I caught her tripping np the garden, and coaxed her to stay and talk to me. Bat she only laughed and fled away, saying her cure was waiting for her. I own I was puzzled. At last I discovered the joke thsy had been keeping np among them. It was in this wise I found it out. I had started by myself for a drive one afternoon, and had £OaG ab: u' h If a mile from the gate, when'l spied a fluttering gown and dainty hat, which 1 recognised, But what could have brought the little fai<~y so far from home ? She was standing by the roadside talking to a child of about fcer own years—a palo thin ghost of a thiog, whose uncared-for looks, ragged frock, and broken, trodden-down shoes formed a striking contrast to her own trim gracefulness. I saw the children's hands meet. The little beggar-girl courtseyed low. • (To be Continued.)