LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2250, 14 May 1881, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE MYSTEET i OF * LORD BRACKENBURY; T, b A NOVEL. n - b BY AMELIA B. EDWABDS. t Author of ‘‘Barbara’s History,” ’‘Eebenr ham’s Vow,” &o. 1 (Continued.') k EPILOGUE. Chaiteb I. after twelve years, Afte." twelve years—twelve eventful years in the bu 't°ry of the world I Years rf war and peace, °f gain and loss, of change, and sunshine, av d storm. In India, the last fires sf the K Mutiny hai been stamped out In Abyssinia, the taking of Mcgdala had been followed by the tragic death of King Theodore. Nearer home, the Erenoh and Sardinian armies had won back’ the Lombard provinces, and Victor Em.’nanuel had become King of Italy, But the war between France and Prussia, the fall of the Napoleonic dynasty, the rise of the German Empire, were yet to come. On the other band, some bloodless changes had happened, which, although they left the political map of Europe unaltered, may be said, in another sense, to have revolutionised the map of the whole world. Cities the most distant, nationalities the most diverse, bad been brought together by a network of rails and wires ; while the Mont Genie Tunnel, the Snez Canal, and the Atlantic cable bad abolished the natural boundaries of mountain, and desert, and sea. Snob, in outline, were the main events that marked the procession of those twelve years across the stage of history. Upon that minor stage occupied by the personages with whose fortunes we are here concerned, no startling changes, whether for good or ill, have meanwhile taken place. With Lancelot and Winifred, the course of true love has run with a smoothness that sets the timehonored proverb at defiance. Bietsed in their home, in their children, in each other, they are happy themselves, and a source of happiness to those around them. Under their beneficent rale, a flourishing colony has sprung up on Barfield Moor. Consisting at first of only the chnrch, schools, vicarage, and about a sqore of cottages, the new district bas, during these twelve years, assumed the aspect of a large though scattered village, and numbers a population of some eight hundred souls. It would be too much to say that all the “ dark folk ” have become members of this decent community. Many of the old stock are still unreclaimed, and not even Mr Pennefeather, whose success has already surpassed his own warmest hopes, anticipates that he shall live to see the day when the Plants and Stanways will leave off poaching and pilfering, and settle down into respectable rent-and-tax-payers like the rest. Mr Pennefeatber, it is needless to add, is the most devoted, the most earnest of North-country parsons- That which his hand finds to do. he does with all hia might; and his might, both physically and morally, is greater than the might of most men. It is, at all events, adequate to that work which is the labor and the crown of his life. ,

As for Mrs Penuefeather, she says herself that she is too happy. Her children flourish in the free air of the moor; and her two elder boys, having won their scholarships at school, are now graduating at Cambridge. The “baby,” long since deposed by a newer claimant to that title, is at Rugby. The “baby” is Lady Brackenbnry’s especial protege, and owes bis school expenses to her bounty. In the meanwhile Mrs Penne feather, having now many sixpences a year to spend as she likes, is, in her way, as active and helpful as Mr Fennefeather himself. Her way, too, is a very pleasant way. fier sympathies are quick, and she has “a hand open as day for melting charity.” It is, after alt, not wonderful if her genial nature should command more ready love than the sterner virtues of her husband. She is still, despite time and altered circumstances, Lady Braokenbury’s dearest friend ; and to Lady Brackenbnry she has confided something of the plot of that yet unwritten novel which is to show the world how well she can write under the burden of prosperity. The Brackenburys, during these twelve years, have lived principally at Brackenbury Court, on their own lands, and among their own people. They sometimes travel for a couple of months in the autumn, and it is their habit to spend a few weeks every season at some London hotel; but they have no town house, and not till their children are of an age to go into society do they propose to indulge in that expensive luxury. The world -or that small, selfconstituted body which calls itself the world —wonders why Lord Brackenbnry does so little with his wealth. He keeps a sufficient establishment, it is true ; he entertains, not extravagantly, but hospitably ; he fills bis bouse now and then for a few weeks with visitors ; he subscribes liberally to the hunt and the local charities ; but he does not spend his money so freely as “ the world ” conceives it should be spent by a nobleman with £20,000 a year on his rent-roll. Lord and Lady Everton of Toffee, who, it is well known, are no richer than the Brackenburys, give twice as many dinner-parties ; and the princely hospitalities of Mr Fink and Countesj Castelrosso are the glory of the county. Balls, hunt-breakfasts, picnics, garden-parties, private theatricals, are the atmosphere in which that popular couple live and have their being. Who, up in the “ north countree,” ever thought of giving a daylight ball with a dancing-floor laid down upon the lawn, till this beautiful American came from the fur West to teach our English country gentlefolk how te enjoy the goods the gods provide them P Who ever before invited two hundred people to a Twelfthnight feast, and entertained them with a Masque of Ben Jenson's in a hall lighted by fifty torch-bearers in the costume of •Id English beef-eaters 7 Who ever had the French actors down from London, or engaged a military band a dozen times in the course of the year ? Why, ached “ the world,” why did not the Brackenburys follow this admirable example, and do something really enterprising for society in general 7 What the world did not know, and did not oven guess, was that Lancelot Brauken bury still looked upon himself as “ a steward.” A steward he had called himself that evening when Mr Marrables carried his point, twelve years and more ago ; and a steward, in bis heart of hearts, he still deemed himself. That more than seventeen years should have gone by since his brother's disappearance weighed with him not one jot. Five years after that disappearance he had seen him—seen him face to face in the flesh. He was alive then; why should he not be alive now ? Oome what might, Lancelot would never cease to believe that he was living till he knew him to be dead.

It was a subject on which he and Winifred seldom spoke. His vehemence had so impressed her at the first that she believed he had in very truth met Cuthbert Brackenbury that night of the great eruption. But when nothing more came of it, and when the Petrucelli family were sought out and questioned, and all questioning proved fruitless, then Winifred began to think that, in the excitement of the moment, her husband had been mistaken. As for Mr Fink, he treated the whole thing as an allusion. He also saw the man, and he would not admit that there was any ground, however slight, for Lord Braokenbnry’s “idee fixe.” The man was a big, rough, common-looking man, no more like the lost lord than be was himself like Hercules, do, by-and-by, finding that his wife and his only witness were both incredulous, Lancelot dropped the subject, and Winifred hoped, after awhile, that he had forgotten it. But he never forgot it; and his conviction never wavered. And now Lancelot and Winifred have been twelve years married; and twelve years and six months have passed since Mr Marrables prevailed npon Lancelot to prove his brother’s will; and seventeen years snd one mouth have gone by since Cuthbert, Lord Braokenbury, bought his diamonds in Genoa and vanished from the high road between Borghctto and La Spezzia. It is May—the second day of May; and the Brackenburys are still at Braokenbury Court, though intending to go up town in tho coarse of another week, Lancelot has

been out since half-past five, this beautiful I fresh May morning, and Lady Brackenbnry is walking to and fro on the lawn outside the broatfest room windows. Time bas dealt tend rly with this Win'fred whom the critical Cochrane wae fain to adnvre when, she fed her pigeons in the courtyard at Langtrey Grange. More than over now should she have been painted by that excellent limner, Paris Bardone. Her figure has acquired the gracious statel ness which so especially characterises Bardone’s noble Venetian ladies. The red gold in her chestnut hair catches the sunlight as she walks. Bor long skirt sweeps after her like a train. One would like to see her dressed in true Venetian style, in a robe <:t white and gold brccade with a feather fan in her hand, and a rope of pearls twisted in the locse coils of her hair. the breakfast room door is opened ; and a gentleman comes across the room, and out through the open window. *At last!’ she says gladly. 'At last, dearest. You have not waited for me ?’

‘ Wo waited till nine ; and then the hoy» were so hungry that they wou'd have eaten mo, if I had not rang for breakfast. Bat you must bo hungry too,’ * Tremendously.’ * And old Lois ?’ ‘ She died about twenty minutes after £ got there— quite painlessly and nnconaolonslyv It whs a mere ceasing of the breath. No more/

‘ And she said nothing ?’ * She muttered something once ; but it was almost inaudible. I fancied I caught the “ fire,” and I thought, perhaps; she was dreaming of her grandmother at thestake. ’ * And—you are disappointed, Lancelot ?’ ‘ Well, no,’ he replies, with an impatient sigh. ‘ Nothing in that way disappoints me now. I expect nothing. T have given up expecting anything. Still, as she had. once spoken—years ago—there was just a chance that she might speak- again. Anyhow, I am glad I was there when sb» died. ’

With this, he looked at his- watch, remarked that it was more than half-past; ten, and tamed back to the breakfastroom.

As he took his seat at the table, the door flew open, and three noisy boys, one carrying a post-bag, barst into- tbw room. ‘ Incursion of the barbarians !’ said Lancelot, laughing. * There now ! don’t all talk at once. Well, Cnthbert, Wi.at about? that pony ?’ ‘l’ve just been round to the stables, papa.. Carter says I masn't ride him for two orthree days ; but Sam Leigh has looked at his foot, and so have I, and we don't either of us believe there’s anything the matter" with it.’ *lf Carter says you musn’t ride him, my lad, there’s no appeal. Sam Leigh’s opinion is worth a trifle less than nothing ; and as for you—you are a baby.’ ‘ A baby I Yon call a fellow who was eleven last birthday a baby ! Herbert and Wilfred are babies, if yon like!’ Whereupon Herbert, aged seven, and Wilfred, aged five, make an indignant raid upon the buttered toast, and retire laden, with spoil. * We are waiting for papa to open the postbag,’ says Lady Brackenbnry, pouring out her hnsband’s coffee. So Lancelot unlocks the bag, and transfers the duty of sorting its contents to bis wife. * Two for Miss Purcell ‘ (Miss Purcell Is the younger boy’s governess) three for yon, Lancelot; and ever so many—seven, 1 declare I—for me; to say nothing of papers and pamphlets. Mine look like invitations. Yours look like business—no 1 this one is in. Mr Cochrane’s writing. ' Lancelot laid hie three letters beside his plate, aod went on chatting with his boys and eating his breakfast. Lady Brackenbnry, opening her own bndget, announced the contents of each letter as she read it. 1 Prom the Frenchays—an invitation to dine on the sixteenth ; we shall have gone tetown, Afternoon party at the Endell’a on the ninth, the very day we have fixed for starting. Countess Gastelrosao, for the eighth—‘to meet the American Minister; a Transatlantic breakfast. Midday.’ What does she mean by a Transatlantic breakfast T Well, we have no engagement, and it is snre to be something new and pleasant. Shall I say we will go ? ’ Lancelot does not answer. The boys have seen a rabbit cross the lawn, and have rushed out with a whoop and a halloo ; and now he ie looking at his letters.. The first he opens is short and written in a smooth, clear baud. He knows the bandwriting well; it is the handwriting of Mr Gilbert Blake, who is Mr Marrables' junior and acting partner. The next, from the same writer, encloses a letter which looks very long and business-like, ana is written on Bath-post paper. AH these Lancelot reads in turn, looking grave the while, and somewhat perplexed. His gravity and his perplexity seem to increase as he reads on. * Y onr letters do not annoy you, dear ? r said Lady Brackenbnry, anxiously. ‘ Well, yes ; a little, Marrables wants to see me ; and it is a bore to have to go over to Blngleton to-day.' * To-day ? ’ ‘So he says; If I can spare time to ride over.’ * Bat, after being called np this morning" at five, and riding fourteen miles before breakfast . . . .’ * Oh, that’s nothing 1’ ‘Mr Marrables’ business cannot be very urgent. Why not go to-morrow ? ’ •It is Blake who writes. He says Marrables will himself be at the office today—a rare event, rather ; for the old man seldom goes to business now. No j I will go to-day.’ Then, noting an Inquiring look upon her face, he adds, carelessly : ‘ It's about some old claim or other. £ don’t quite understand it. ’ ‘ You have not opened Mr Cochrane’s letter yet.’ ‘By Jove ! No, I had forgotten it.’ And so ho opens his third letter ; from which, as he unfolds it, a couple of newspaper cuttings fall out. ‘ What have we here, I wonder ?’ But at the first printed words which meet his eye, his face flushes darkly. He crushes them in hls hand ; glances through the letter ; thrusts them all together in his pocket; and, rising hastily, says : ‘ Don’t ask me abont Cochrane’s letter, Winifred—at least not now. It’s all about town talk and olnb scandals—neither amusing nor edifying.’ ‘ I don’t care In the least for town talk or club scandals,’ replies Lady Brackenbnry, smiling ; ‘ and I never desire to know anything that yon would rather not tell me. Am I not the best of wives ?’ ‘ The best In the world ! —but then you have the best of husbands.’ ‘ I know, at all events, that I have a husband who never keeps a real secret from me.*

Then Lancelot rings for Church —the same grave and reverend Church —and sends word round to the stables that he will have ‘ Dnohesa May ' saddled Immediately. His shortest way to Singleton lies under The Bidge, past Abel Brunt’s cottage, and through those same green lanes in which Winilred met Lottioe Leigh the day after old Miss Langtrey was buried. How all things have changed since then ! The cottage, no longer a rum, is a comfortable dwelling, inhabited by one of the Brackenbury gamekeepers ; and Abel Brant’s ghost is as dead as himself. Lottice Leigh has taken Joan’s place at Langtrey Grange, where Bridget (now very old and infirm) reigns with undivided sway as housekeeper and care-taker. 1 Little Sam,’ a strapping lad of sixteen, is in Lancelot's service as a stable-help at the Court ; and Joan, married to the Danebtidge blacksmith, is the mother of seven sturdy boys and girls. (To he continued on Tuesday,)