LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2229, 20 April 1881, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE MYSTERIOUS BANGLE. I wonper whether there ia anyone who really likes a fog. I cannot nay ; but this much 1 do know, that, as a Londoner born and bred, I have never heard any fog so universally condemned, or known one so disastrous in its effects, as was that of the 31st of January, 1880. It was a memorable night, not only on account of the fog, but also because of the opening of the new Hoymarket Theatre. I had taken a ticket long before, and was not much inconvenienced by the crowd which was tremendous ; the house was literally crammed from the floor—robbed of its pit—to the gal ery, crowded with the discontented pitites. It may be remembered that the early part of that evening was oold but tolerably foglecs ; bo that, after being delighted with the house, charmed with the acting, and amused by the noise and speechifying, I was considerably astonished in coming out of the particularly brilliant interior to find a thick curtain of fog hanging down in front of the portioo.

I missed the familiarly hideous Opera Colonnade opposite, and my first impression was that some gigantic practical joke was being perpetrated ; but I remembered that Mr Bancroft had other things to think of, and chat Sothern was no longer at the Hay market, so I dismissed the thought and—tried to get a hansom, Ihe cabmen were extortionate, bo, girding up my loins figuratively, I set off to walk. It was not so very bad, and I easily made my way up the Haymarket, past the Criterion into Kegent street. Here it was clearer, and I trudged on, pa-t Oxford Circus, and I was half way up Oxford street before I had done thinking about my evening’s entertainment. Here it got bad, very had ; I could hardly see where the pavement loft off and the road began. Two or three times I stumbled ; but at last, after helping an old gentleman out of the gutter, where he had accidentally dropped, 1 reached the Marble Arch.

Slowly and most unsurely I still worked my way along the pavement, and was congratulating mrstlf on being near home, when I heard a little w»y on in front a low moaning and a perfectly audible shiver. 1 thought it might be a trick to catch me, for I had grown wary ; but the shiver was distinctly female, so I took half-a-dozen steps forward and knelt down. I saw it was something white I was kneeling on, and It felt furry ; I saw a woman lying on the pavement—a lady, by the look of the lining cf the cloak —she was moaning. She looked np at me, and then tried to crawl on, but fell back with a moan ; the Aid not speak, and I saw at once it was something serious. She was very well dressed ; a dark dress, with something red round the neck; a large far-lined cloak with an old silver clasp ; well-gloved and many bangled. I could see she was young, and guessed she was pretty. I hardly knew how to begin ; it was each an awkward position for a naturally shy young man. Still kneeling, I said quietly, * I am afraid you have had an ao ident; yon must allow me to assist yon. Can you stand ?*

She looked np quickly, and answered at once,

’ I think I’ve sprained my ankle ; it hurts me very much. I think, if you help me, I can stand. ’

I did so ; and she stood, but not without difficulty. ‘ I lost my maid close to the Marble Arch in the fog ; but I think I can get home, if yon will kindly call me a cab.’ I told her that no cab would take her anywhere in the fog ; but that, if she would allow me, 1 would try to support her home. She was leaning on my arm, and clinging to the railings with the other hand.

As she tried to move, something dropped off her hand and fell into my pocket. I forgot all about it directly and tried to help her to walk. Without support she found it impossible, so she took my arm ; bnt that was not much better, so I said, *lf I put my arm round yon I think you will get along better.’ She only bowed, and like this we managed to make tolerable progress. All at once a thought struck me. I did not know where she lived; she said she lived in Hotting Hill, so I had a good half hour’s walk before me—still in pleasant company it would not be so had. She seemed to feel better now, though still in pain. I tried to keep np her spirits by miscellaneous talking, and she appeared pretty lively. I was in a funny position; the whole evening bad been such a chapter of strange experiences, and walking past my own house in a dense fog with my arm round the waist of an unknown young lady, was, to say the least, a peculiar finale. I told her I had come from the Haymarket, which had been opened with great eclat; but she seemed to know all about the decorations and the play better than I did, although she said she had not been there. She seemed to take a great interest in it, and asked a lot of questions as to whether it had been a success.

It had struck me when she first spoke—and now I was sure of it—that I knew her voice very well, that I had often heard it before ; but I could not place It. We bad been walking some time now, and she was doing most of the talking ; she was very ranch up in matters theatrical, and spoke of the different actors and actresses in the moat familiar style. As we passed tbe abode of the great Toole, she asked whether I did not adore 1 that dear darling of a Toole,’ I all the while wondering how it was that I knew her voice her voice so well.

She was getting along famously now, and said her ankle did not pain her much; she showed herself to be a very well-informed young lady, iu so far as she knew all about the theatres, talked ou music, criticised Wagner, admired Burne Jones, doted on Leighton, took an interest in politics, confessed herself a Radical, had read ail the latest novels, and adored dancing. We had now very nearly got to her house, and I told her how glad I had been to have this occasion of making her acquaintance, and that I hoped we should meet soma day somewhere.

*Oh yes, I’m sure you will see me again, perhaps before ycu think - that is, if my ankle gets well again soon. ’ Then she said wilh the most graceful movement imagia able : ‘I think I can manage alone, if you will take away your arm ; thanks, I know my way now; that is my house just opposite ; I can't miss the road row ; I do hope I have not brought you far out of your way ; I am really very much obliged for your kind attention; I won't say good-bye, but only au revoir,’

She lifted her veil as she said this and hobbled across the road, but not before I had recognised her as little Miss Dawson of the Queen’s Theatre. Of course now I knew how it was that her voice had struck mo as famil'ar from the first—l certainly ought to have known it well enough by this time. It was a very strange aoincidenoo that we should have met like this, and that I should have been walking with her for over an hour ; how I wished I had known who she was, for this same Miss Dawson had been the object of my adoration for some little time past. This was how it happened.

About a month before I was at the Queen’s, during the last two acts of some sensational melodrama, and bad been struck, delighted, and enchanted by a little actress, who was making her first appearance in London; a little pink-and-white chinalooking face, with lightish hair and dark eyebrows, a head like a Grenze and modelled like a Dresden shepherdess, mi ute hands and feet, and a general appearance that was truly ravishing. I was, as I said, delighted with this little girl, so I went to see her again the next night, when I became ra her more enchanted than before ; then I went night after night for three weeks, to the indescribable disgust of my relatives, who, .1 thiuk, rather pitle -1 my infatuation. I finished up by imagining myself deeply in love with the fair Miss Dawson, and, like most other fools In a like predicament, did not take advantage of my good fortune when it was so close at hand. How very strange our meeting had been, and how awfully charming she was ! If I had only guessed! But I know where she lived, and there could be no harm in calling next day to ask how she was after h- r accident.

Comforted by the idea of seeing her so soon again, I went home to bed, happy with bright thoughts, in great contrast with the dark night of fog which still hung over the early morning.

1 woke up in the morning after a dreamless sleep. This was particularly annoying, because 'when a young gentleman is unde*-" the impression that he ia despf rately in love, nothing is more consoling than continual dreaming of his beloved one. I made up for it, however, by thinking of Miss Dawson all the next day, which unfortunately happened to be Sunday; and on the Monday afternoon, as early as was possible for a morning call, I went to the fair one’s abode, with the object of asking after her dear ankle. An old housekeeping-looking party opened the door, and handing her my oard 1 asked hoir Miss Dawson was.

The old lady stared vacantly, looked at the card, and, putting her hand to her ear, said—

* Excuse me, sir, I’m rather ’ard of ’earing. ’ I accordingly bawled out, * How Is your mistress this morning ?’

This time I w«s understood, and she answered at once, * Y eT y we 'l ; she went to the theatre, sir, 'arf a hoar ago, sir, for rehearsal, eir. * I thought this seemed to be a very quick cure, but as she was out there was no help for it, so I again politely yelled to the old lady to say that 1 called and was very glad to bear of her recovery. I.istressed, and yet happy at having a< tually spoken to one so near to my adored one as her housekeeper or perhaps her cook, I hailed » hsnfom, and jumping ia told him to drive totbe club, and in the meantime tried to console myself with a cigarette ; I put my band., into my pocket for my case and palled out a foreign object, nothing more nor less than a. bangle. Of course I knew it could only belong to Miss Dawson, and happy in the possession cf anything that bad come from her, I went to the utterly ridiculous length of kissing it. I must have made an ah; urd exhibition of myself, but I was carried away by the impulse of the moment. I noticed something engraved on thoinside of the bangle, end read, ' From Fred to Eva ’

This distressed me very much indeed ; to think that any young man—of course he was young—should bo on sufficiently intimate terms with the object of my adniration os to present her with jewellery, was, to say the least of it, provoking. Still, * finding is keeping,’ as we used to say at school, and I would return the bangle—when I. thought fit. In the meantime, in order not to lose it, I slipped it over my hand, not without considerable trouble and shaking my arm, and managed to fix it somewhere about where my muscle ought to have been. (To he Continued .)