LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2230, 21 April 1881, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE MYSTERIOUS BANGLE. (Concluded.} Now, for a young man to go about with. a bangle round his biceps may aeem ridiculous to any ordinary mortal (I do not refer to those extraordinary ones, whose chief delight in lawn tennis is to display their silver armlets), but in mv amorous state of mind it had a soothing effect, and I liked to feel its [Terence. The next day I had to go away on business, and did not get back for a fortnight, during which time I used to think of Eva (I had droppad th« Miss Dawson now) about every quatter of an hour, more or less. At the end of a fortnight I was back in, town, and arr;on»; the letters awaiting me was one in a Ktrange female handwriting. Oould she have written ? I tore open the envelope— ecstacy ! No, misery! it was only a. card for a danco on the next at » h-juse where 1 had been introduced a month, before.

I wrote a note accepting, and excusing myself for not writing before ; and the next evening found me duiy pumped, glaved, and flowered going into the dauciog room. I found a, nice nonce, an agreeable hostess, and a tenting coutin ; one of those female cousins who take an especial pleasure in saying nasty little truths and giving one unpleasant five minutes', and presume on their relationship to place one in awkward positions. Of course I hud to ask her for • dance, another cousinly trait. She began, the conversation by saying.

'Aren't you awfully obliged to me for getting yon this invitation ? lam going to introduce yon to an object of your especial admiration—caa't yeu guess who I mean ? Miss Dawson. She's here, and I will introduce you directly.' I never expected this. It was passing; strange; I had not the slightest idea of meeting her here, but still it was very nice, and could not be more opportune. Almost before I could gather myself together and express my thanks, my cousin was saying—- • Miss Dawson, may I introduce my cousinMr ?'

She bowed just as she would to a stranger. This was fanny ; did she not know me ? £ did not like to begin ; but still she could hardly have forgotten. Perhaps she did not recognise me ; I forgot the fog"; most likely sb e did not see me at all, at least not distinctly; I would try when oar dance came on ; I put down a scrawl for No. 13. There was nothing earlier, so I was forced to wait. At last I was able to Bay, ' This ia our dance, £ think, Miss Dawson.'

She smiled and took my arm. I proponed sitting In the conservatory, as the rooms were very fnlL Bhe consented, and we sat down behind a lot of big palms. 1 opened fire at once, though I must confess in rather a commonplace way. ' There is a great improvement in the weather; don't you think so ?' She followed my lead directly. 'Yes, I am so glad those wretched fogs are over j I do hate them so.'

* They are so dangerous, too," I added. ' Yea ; I had a mo-t romantic adventure in one of them ; quite a thrilling drama.' ' Now it's coming,' I thonght, ' she ovidently has not the remotest idea who I am.' She continued.•

'On the 31st of January—l remember the date, because ot the opening of the Haymarket—l lost my maid and my way in that dreadful fog; and in trying to get home alone, I slipped and strained my ankle. I was, of course, horribly frightened, and should most likely have lain there all night if a gentleman had not passed, helped me up, and been mest attentive, holding me straight, and almost carrying me home. He talked very well, and took a great interest in the theatre; he was awfully good-look-ing, very tall, with a splendid moustache.' Thia was getting rather embarrassing. I am by no means a tall man, I am commonly known as 'the Zulu,' and my moustache won't grow, do what I will; besides, a fellow does not like being flattered, at least not to his face.

I ventured to remark cautiously, 'Yon are sure he was tall. How tall do you think? Taller than myself?' ' Oh yes, I think so—yet I don't know—perhaps not; I don't think he was very tall after all- He was so beautifully attentive ; he called to ask after me, bat I was oat.'

My hopes revived ; perhaps she might ask me to visit her. Had she any idea who he was ?

' No. My stupid servant mislaid the card. I was bo sorry, I should so much have liked to thank him again for all his kindness. And then I wanted to know whether he had found a bangle that I must have dropped ; I valued It very highly.' Confound that 'Fred,'now he was In the way ; my heart sank, it oould not be her father ?—hardly—no—and not her uncle. Bat there was no help for it. Happy thought, perhaps he was in India, or Australia, or America. * Would you know the bangle if you sawit again ?' Of course I should, it had my name engraved on it, 'From Fred to Eva.' B this ' Fred,' but I oould hardly keep it now ; perhaps when she saw it again, all would be set right. I still had hopes. I she ok my arm violently, and the bangle slipped down on to my wrist. i said quietly—' Waß your bangle anything like this ?' ' That's it. Where did you get it from ? Oh, I am glad. It was never you—yoa don't mean to say that you were my guardian angel ?' ' Yes I was, I had that honour; I am that unhappy mortal,' ' I had no idea of it. How very stupid of me! I must really beg your pardon for not recognising you before ; of course, I remember you now. Ido thank you so very much for your attention and kindness ; yoa can't think how grateful I am to you ; and j ou kept my bangle too.' My spirits rose ; perhaps, after all, it might only be a brother or cousin. I dared not say anything yet, but I felt somehow a good deal easior, and, struggling with the bangle, I pulled it off and gave it her. ' I hardly thought we should meet so soon, though I knew who you were when you said good bye, or rather au revoir. I was looking forward, to seeing you act this week. Of course, if you value the bamde I must give it you back, though I should very much like to keep it.' She smiled as though she knew what was coming. ' Oh no, you must not keep it, I value it very much; my bus baud gave it me when we were engaged.' Horror! misery I despair ! her husband ! I never thought it was so bad as this; all my hopes daubed to the ground ; übo was married! Dreadful thought! What had I beeu doing ? Almost proposing to a married woman

How I cursed my fate Bhe was married. I could only congratulate myself that I bsd not as yet committed myself in any way, by making any foolish declaration, which wonld have placed both of us in an awkward position ; I hardly knew what to say, I wan ati-nck all of a heap,|figuratively. I could only blurt out the thought that kept bnaxing in my head. ' But you call yourself Miss Dawson.' ' Y es, we always retain our maiden name on the staga for a good while after we are married.' ' But my oousin called yon Miss Dawson.' ' That was somo freak of hers; perhaps she wanted to mrprise you.' 'And she has surprised roe, I can assure you. I had no idea you were married ; excuoe my saying eo, but you don't look It.' • 1 know that. Fred is always teasing mo about it; but you mast let me introduce yon to my husband, he will be bo glad to know you and to thank you for your kindness to me. Will you give mo your arm ? Thanks. That is Fred in the crowd at the door. I shall drop the curtain here, there is nothing more to tell. I was ittroducf d to the husband, and acked to their house, where I am a pretty con tan t visiter ; aud my admiration for Miss D,;wso.i has in n.> wny decreased since our strange meeting that eventful night in the fog.—Abridged from tho " Theatre."