LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2209, 25 March 1881, Page 3

LITERATURE.

SOPHIE : AN INTERLUDE, IN TWO CHATTERS. Concluded.) I could not imagine what had agitated her so I took her little hands in mine •—she was still a child to me and said™ ‘ Why do yon ask me that, my dear ?’ ' Because —I have too much, far too much money for a little girl. Oh ! you don’t know how ranch I have; and—couldn’t you take some of it, and get rid of your trouble ?’ I looked down into the sweet anxious face up-lifted to mine ; and a fancy that she might fill the aching, empty heart to which she stood so close, with light and sweetness, and the desolate life with bloom and sunshine, shot through my brain ; but I put it from me—at least I resolved to consider the question before I said or did anything definite. ‘Dear child,’ I said, ‘if money at first caused my trouble, it is, alas ! beyond the power of money to cure it now.’ *Do you think it cannot be cured ?’ She had hung her head, and cast her beautiful eyes to the ground. * Time only can cure me. My dear, when I come back again, and find yon in your own home—when yon have discovered that your fortune is not too much to give to the man you love, then will I tell yon all my sorrow, and you will see how hard it was to cure.’

She lifted up her eyes and looked at me steadily. She had removed her hands from my arm and stood up alone, her eyes looking straight into mine with the strangest expression in them I had ever seen. Was It reproach ? Was It surprise ? Was it pain unspeakable? What ever It was, it made my heart beat quick.

Before X had time to speak, I heard a footstep on the gravel behind. She looked past me and cried : ' Oh, you good Alfred, do come and fetch me [into the honse, I am so tired ”

Then I saw Alfred Severn, who had jaat returned, take her on his arm, and go toward the house; she walking erect, her head thrown back, her hand clinging to his arm, he bending above her tenderly. She was laughing gaily, and even a snatch of a eong came wafted on the still September air. I must ray I felt ill at ease with myself and my surroundings all that day. We met at dinner. She was gay as a lark, her little face red as a rose, her eyes shining like stars. Beside, she was much more easy and intimate in her manner to Alfred than I had ever seen her before ; she joked and jested, mimicked one or two of onr acquaintances, was the life and soul of na all. After dinner she sang for us, her bird like voice trilling and warbling deliciously. Next morning, ehall I ever forget the quick rush of blood to brain and brow—the sadden throb of agonized surprise when I saw that letter which changed my fate, lying upon my plate at breakfast-time I I remember clutching It up and flying to my room, not to read, only to wonder over it. How well I knew the bold firm characters 1 How every dot and line made by heart thrill! The vague indefinable perfume which hnng about tne letter The monogram, J. E. M., which I knew so well, A letter from Jnliet —from London 1 I sat speechless im my room, dreading to open it and learn the truth. At last I found courage, and tore it open. It was only a line : * Walter, lam in London, Come to me.’ * Juliet.’

I forget how I a-id good-byo at the Elms. I think I told Severn some incoherent nonsense. I found myself at the station by some means or other ; and in an hour I had my beloved o'asped to my heart. She had a long story to tell. I will relate it briefly. I would not tell it, only that I feel it justifies my subsequent conduct. She was free. She had been most cruelly coerced by her relatives from first to last ; the miaerabla halfwit. ed Viscount, upon whom they were thrusting her, persecuting her with unwelcome attention ; her father’s affairs in a tottering condition ; her step mother railing at her from morning until night. She wavered, for very peace-sake, and consented to become the peer’s wife, to save her father. Just a week before the day fixed for the wedding, a well-known bank failed, dragging down many commercial houses in its fall, Mr Moorwood amongst the number. Thereupon Lord Eathlan’s yacht got up steam, and vanished in the night. The next day Mr Morewood died of apoplexy, they said ; but I knew from Juliet’s face the real truth—by his own hand. Juliet took what portion of goods remained for her—a very scanty one—and came to me, penniless, wellnigh heart-broken, but still my own true love, my Queen of Women. Before I left her, she had promised to be mine at once. The lady and gentleman with whom she had travel’ed home arranged to stay in London nntil all could be settled; and half delirious with happiness, I almost forgot my friends at the Elms, I wrote a long letter to Severn, however, telling him the happy sequel of my lovestory. Strange to say, I received no answer. So, just before f was married, I resolved to run down and bid them good-bye at the Elms, and I confess I wished my interview with Sophie well over. Yet why ? I had done noth’ ng for which I ought to blush, I reasoned with myself. To my amazement, the gates were locked, the house shut up. Only an elderly woman, grim and sour to look upon, appeared at a side door in answer to my ringing of the bell She told me— 1 The family as gone abroad—to Paris, or France, or might be Germany. She wasn’t used with foreign parts. The master's address was at the office. If I wanted it, I con'd get it there. 1 explained to her bow I had forgotten some books and papers in my hurried departure some time since ; and with evident reluctance, she admitted me. Even the few day’s neglect and deeert'on had sadly altered the beautiful lawn and terraces. It was now mid-antumn. An early frost had scorched and blackened the blooming parterres, Fallen leaves bestrewed the unmown turf. The bright geraniums had been removed from the porch ; and a long trailer, covered with rosebuds, frost nipped before their time, swayed loosely in the freshening wind across the library window, A chill of sadness and desolation struck upon my heart. My grim companion unlocked the door. I entered under protest as it seemed. A snail douceur, however, improved the temper of my cicerone, and I cross-questioned her to some effect. The Peverns’ departure had been strangely sudden. Only a day’s preparation h»d preceded it. They would be a great loss to the poor ; they were all so good, ’specially Miss Sophie. With an inexplicable feeling of regret—nay. self-reproach—l entered my room. It was just as I had left it; my books and papers laid neatly together. One bo ik only was out of its place—a volume of Browning’s poems. It lay open on my dressingtable. a withered rose upon the page. 1 bent and read one stanza which was underlined— “ Never aoy more, W hile I live, Need I hepe to sea his face As before.” I put back the dead flower, and closed the book. I have never opened it since. Poor littlo Sophie ! In a few days I was married. In a fortnight I w.s in Switzerland with my wife. I wrote to Severn from Basle ; but I suppose the letter never reached him, as I had no reply. In the spring we went back to India, the happiest pair on earth. I have been truly blest in my noble wife; but—shall I confess ?—I often remember Sophie, and wish I could h<ar of her, and wonder if wo aro to meet again. *•«*## *

I wrote the above more than a year ago, when my life’s cup seemed full to overflowing, and not a olcud dimmed the sky. I write the sequel to day, a lonely, wora-ont man, with no tie left upon, earth save my motherless babe. A month ago, I returned from India, a broken-hearted man. Lucy has tried to console me. Childless herself, my dear sistrr has taken the p inr orphan to her heart, and watches over him with a mother’s care. * But, d- ar me, Walter, she said yesterday, ‘ you will be sure to marry again. There is your friend Harry Severn, how Inconsolable -ho was after the death of his first. Seo how happy he is now with his second ’

Severn ? Hia name recalled much to my memory. That very hour I visited him at his office. He received me at first, as I thought, coldly; but when I told him of my great sorrow the man’s kindly nature asserted itfielf; he became friendlv and affectionate as ever. There was a subject 1 longed to ask him about, a name I longed to pronounce, yet dared not,

As I rose to leave, ho said, ‘ I won’t ask you to the Elms, Walter, Mary could not bear it. She has not been qnlte herself since’— ’ Since what ?’ I asked eagerly, ’ ray heart sinking strangely. Severn looked at me in dnmb surprise tor a moment or two ; then he said— * Can it be possible you have not heard’— * What ?' I gasped, clutching at the back of the chair, ‘He looked fixedly at me, and said slowly: * About Sophie ?’ ‘ I have heard nothing. For God's sake, what of her ? ’ I could not pronounce her name, ’ Dead 1 ’ The room spun round. J sank into a chair overwhelmed. Severn stood before me looking solemnly in my face, ‘ She faded from us,’ he raid in a voice husky with emotion, ‘ like a flower. One day she would rally, the next decline. It lasted for a your. We did all we could—took her everywhere. But no use. She drooped away away, and died in Autumn—a year after you left us.’ He paused and wiped his eyes. My own over-flowed ; I could not speak. He went on : ‘ Onr happy home is altogether broken up. Alfred could not bear to stay in England after —he lost b er . You know how much he loved her, and how we hoped they would corns together ; and how—that was all put an end to. He has gone to Bio, I have opened a business there, of which he has taken charge. Emily llufford belongs to a Sisterhood, She works very hard. Only Mary and I are leit. 1 have been to her grave in the beautiful country churchyard. Some kindly hand has made It bright with flowers. A wreath and cross of snow-white blossoms are laid above the warm, loving heart, now still and cold for ever ; and a memory of what was, and what might have been, keeps green within my heart a thousand tender recollections.