LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2208, 24 March 1881, Page 3

LITERATURE.

SOPHIE : AN INTBBLUDE. IN TWO CHAPTERS, Charter I, (Cxntimir.d. ) The tiny benefactress turned and faced me. ‘You here!’ she cried, crimsoning to her brow. I sprang out of the I.jw ponycarriage, and almost lifted her in. ‘You naughty child, I said, ‘ why are you wandering so for by yourself ?’ 1 Because I had particular business,’ she said. * And, Mr Dennis, please let me go.’ 4 Tell me where your particular business lies, and I will drive you there,’ I answered, giving the rein to the spirited ponies, and carrying off my dear little prize. 4 No, no! Please, stop—please, let me go, she [pleaded. 4 1 want to visit an old friend of mine who lives near this. Do stop at this stiie.'

She half rose from her seat, but I flung an arm aronnd her dainty little waist and held her fast. 4 No, no, my lady ’ I cried, laughing. 4 We won’t part so easily.’ t*he did strngg'o for liberty ; but turned snd looked steadily in my face, saying slowly, 4 Mr Dennis, will you kindly release me ?’

How womanly the chill could turn all at once 1 Her face flushed, not one of her sweet rose-leaf blushes, but a hot angry red on each cheek, and an ominous light came into her great eyes, which seemed to darken as she looked into mine, Eeally she was very amusing, her assumption of maidenly reserve and dignity was charming to see 4 What a littie Tartar you crow,’ I said through my laughter, still holding her fast. 1 You are rude/ she said—and there was a little qniver In the tone. 4 And yon are naughty,’ I replied, 4 and must be punished.’ She did not speak again for a while. We drove on. At last I said— 4 1 wont release yon until you look at me and say— 4 I’ll be good.’ She turned her face. The dimples were Hug aronnd her rosebud mouth. She put ittlo hands together, lifted the lovely, wlstfn], dazzling eyes to mine, and lisped, 4 Please, I’ll be good—very good. ’ I know there is no excuse for me ; I know 1 was dreadfully wrong; bat I conld not help it, I drew the slender child-form to me, and kissed her onoe, twice.

W ith an angry cry, she tore herself from me, Springing to her feet, she would have leaped from the carriage, had I not caught her arm.

‘ How dare—how dare yon !’ she cried in a voice choking with indignation. 1 1 thought I could trust yon—thought yon were a gentleman— * ‘ Sophie—dear child ’ —l stammered. *I am not a child, lam twenty- one. l I—l plajed a joke upon yon—l Oh, oh!’ she cried, now sobbing angrily, in the corner of the carriage. I sat thunder stricken. Ono-and- twenty I This tiny creature, so exquisitely childish in form and manner—one and-twenty! 1 turned the ponies’ heads for home. I could not speak. I knew not what to say. All words wherein to form my apology seemed to fly from me. I only felt; hot me go the Elms at once, snd be off before Severn or his wife can hear of my misdoings, I confess I never felt so angry with myself before.

In the meantime Sophie began to recover herself. Her sobs ceased. Glancing round timidly, I saw that she had drawn her hat over her eyes; and that the beautiful red lips were quivering, just as a child’s month twitches when its paroxysm of weeping is done. I felt that I must say something ; yet what was there for me to say P I began to experience a not very pleasant sensation of utter foolishness, and to realise the disadvantage at which I must appear to her. She did not speak for a while, but sat like a little statue, looking straight before her. I urged the ponies on, and tried to whistle, and so we drove along the quiet shady road. At last I humbly asked her if she could forgive me. ‘I am as much in fault,* she replied, without turning her head. * Please, say no more. ’

I obeyed her ; and we drove home, a silent, sombre pair. I don’t think I ever had a more uncomfortable drive. I felt quite glad when we came to the gate of the Elms and sped np the avenne. As we came to the door. I said : ‘ I am most sincerely sorry for what bas happened. I oan only say that I humbly crave your forgiveness, and hope—you won’t think badly of me.’ She only answered by putting her hand on mine as she sprang from the carriage, darted into the house and vanished. Chapter II I gave np all Idea of running away ; but I did not confide my little adventure to either Severn or his wife, feeling that it was much better not to say anything about it. But I did hear of it before many hours had gone over my head; nay, betore we met at dinner. After tea, Mrs Severn called me to look at a new specie of lilinm which had just put forth its blossom in the greenhouse. I trembled like the guilty mortal 1 felt myself to be, for I knew what was coming. She said, laughingly ; * So you have discovered the triok which we have been playing on you.’ I felt extremely sheepish, and looked it, I am sure ; for she laughed good-humoredly, and went on I * You are not the only one Sophie has taken in. Her impersonations are wonderful. She acted my grandmother to the life not long ago. We had a friend of Alfred’s staying here, who is fully persuoded that my grandmother is the most wonderful old woman in the world. I must say, however, her little joke with yon was purely unpremeditated. The accident of your finding her asleep gave rise to it all. ’ I managed to get some incoherent words of regret for what bad happened ; but Mrs Severn smiled. * Sophie is quite aware that, having put her? elf in a false position, she must take the consequences,’ she said ; and we returned to the house. At dinner we met. She swept into the room, a grown up young lady, trailing two yards of cream colored satin after her, clad In the height of fashion, apparently taller, and enchantingly pretty. Severn took her hand. ‘Walter,’he said, ‘ here is a young lady yon used to know as a child—Miss de Burgh, allow me to present my friend Mr Walter Dennis.’ She made me a sweeping courtesy, and I bowed low, feeling very foolish, and very much ashamed of myself. I scarcely dared to look into her face, but at last I ventured There was just the least little twinkle in her wonderful eyes, as she glanced at me through her wonderful long lashes, and I knew 1 was forgiven. That night, in the smoking-room, Severn said—‘So Sophie played her joke out. Silly child ! She has learned a lesson.' ‘And so have I,’ 1 answered. ‘But she completely deceived me. I had no idea she was anything more than a child of twelve or thirteen.’

* Luxmoore thought her eighty or ninety. She is a wonderful little actress. But surely yon saw the likeness’— Severn’s voice broke —I knew at once to whom he alluded. He went on. She is wonderfully like poor Valerie She was with us all through—nursed her. Yon never saw anything like it, sir; never seemed to require sleep, or rest, or anything. I don’t know what I should have done but for her. We hope’— The door opened before I heard what it was that Severn hoped—though I half suspected, and Alfred, who had been dining out, entered the room; and Harry, with bursts of laughter, told how at lest I was undeceived, and how entirely taken in I had been. I must say Alfred was very cordial with me. I was ten years his ssnior, and perhaps I lorded it over the young fellow. Ones I fancied he was jealous of Sophie’s manner to me

For a day or two I treated her with tho most ceremonious politeness ; but afterward we glided into an easy familiarity very sweet to remember. She laid aside her childish frocks, but did not lay aside her charming childish manner. Of course, I called ler Miss de Burgh; but sometimes ‘Sophia’ oame so naturally to my lips, I could not refrain from colling her so. Perhaps—but 1 hope not—she really did care for me. Be that a® it may, wo were great friends. She discovered that I loved Shakespeare and Spenser and all the quaint old-world poets. So many a happy hour passed by on golden wings while we sat and read together.

About this time— I had been nearly two months at tho Elms—Alfred left us for a while.

I fear we did not miss him overmuch, although I observed a cloud upon Sophie’s usually sunny face more than once ; but

when I rallied her about • grief for Alf J e departure/ she blushed furiously, and ram off.

Harry Severn grew kinder, if possible, te me ; and Mrs Severn treated me as if I were one of the family. Poor Alfred! Long before he left, I saw how much he loved Sophie. No wonder, She was one any man must love. Put I am not sure she ever manifested anything more than sisterly kindliness to him. One thing Ido remember—she never played any of her pranks on him, bnt rather, I think, avoided him.

Bnt I must hasten to the winding np of! my sweet interlude. Summer was gliding into Autumn, I had entered upon the third month of my stay at the Elms, prolonging my visit to a most unreasonable length. I therefore determined to leave in a few days, go abroad for two months, return to London at Christmas, spend the remainder of my leave between Lucy’s bouse and Severn’s, and return to India in the spring, I must acknowledge that I felt not a little melancholy at the prospect of bidding my loved friend and his household farewell ; but it must bo done, I had a long, dreary, desolate future to face, and the sooner I quitted the oasis I had found, the bettor fitted I should be for my solitary lot. And yet—and yet— Might I not lure this beautiful bird, this child-woman, to fly with me, and make bright and beautiful the future, so dreary in prospect now? May I plead guilty to having asked myself that question oaoe? —onee only. It fell upon me this wise. One delicious, balmy September afternoon, we were walking through the pleasure ground together, Sophie and 1. She was graver than her wont when we set out on our stroll. Alfred was to return that evening. 1 bad dropped a word about a speedy departure at luncheon ; a word which Mrs Severn loudly declaimed. I was thinking a thousand things, and silent. She walked by my side silent and thoughtful too. At last a bird carolled mer.ily overhead End broke the spoil. She laughed her old mairy, childlike laugh, and we began to chat away much as usual,

Quite suddenly she turned, laid both her little hands upon my arm, lifted np those eloquent, wonderful eyes of hers to my face, as if to read my inmost sonl— 4 Mr Dennis, what is the trouble you have deep down ? You laugh and and are merry upon the swface, but within you have always a settled grief. What is it?’ How ooald I answer her F I tried to pass the question by; bnt she would not suffer It. 4 No, no!’ she persisted. 4 You won’t baffle mo. Will yon tell me?’ She colored slightly, and hung her head, 4 Tell me, is it anything about—money ?’ 4 Eemotely, money Is the cause,’ I answered.

1 Oh, oan money mend—can money pnt it away 7’ She betrayed great agitation, and was flushed and pa-e by turns. {To le continued.)