LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2238, 4 June 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

AN ENTR’ACTE * Apartments to lot! I wonder if thoy woulddo?’ , . , Ho who thua pondered was standing .n the middle of tbo road, which a quarter of a mile further on became the High street of Pcnmouth. a town on the western coast. He was staring meditatively at a long white gate, on which was fastened a board, hearing the above-quoted inscription I'ho ■gate was set between a high hedge, white with hawthorn bloom; above it the laburnums shook thoir golden locks ; and beyond it was a winding path, loading down between shrubberies to a house which, however. could not be seen from the road. *1 might as well try,’ was the conclusion arrived nt by the individual before tho gate; and, lifting the latoh. he swung the wicket backward and enteied the garden. Tho path led downward httweeu thickly sot syringas, already showing their flower bads, and tho dark green arbutus and laurostinus. A sharp turn brought him suddenly in front of the house—a long rambling building of gray stono, which looked rather surprised at tho neglected state of itself and /it* grounds, and sulky at the degrading announcement, again put forth in a front window, of there being 1 Apartments to lot.’ * What a nice old place! ’ thought tho stranger, as he rang at the front door, and tho rusty bell-wire croaked in orthodox romance fashion. ‘ I wonder what has made it come down in the world ? ’ Romance, however, was dispelled by the appearance of tho lady who opened the door—- « stout red-faced dame of fifty, her counts nonce framed by tight rolls of dark hair and a miraculous cap. Tho gentleman had come after the lodgings. How many rooms would ho want ? A bed. room and sitting-room, she supposed. As a rule, she preferred letting to families ; but as this was not the busy time of the year, and as they had let part of the rooms to a lady, and as Would the gentleman follow her ? And Mrs Watkins, mistress of old Hornook Manorhonso, led the woy up-stairs, quite trembling with secret eagerness to secure a second lodger at a time of year when visitors to Penmouth were rare. * You have a largo old house,’ < said the stranger, as he followed her along the hall up the wide staircase, and noted tho quaint carving over the doors, tho delicate moulding of the cornices. * Yes, sir ; we don’t live on this aide of the house at all ourselves. There’s plenty of room for me and my master and the children on tho other side, which used to be the servants’ part in tho old times. You don’t know Penmonth, sir? This used to be Horneok Manor, and the lords of the manor used to have rights over the whole of Penmouth. But the people it belonged to went to rack and ruin, and so did the place.’ * How ? ’

• Mines and drink,’ replied Mrs Watkins tersely. ‘We shouldn’t have taken the honsa ; but my husband he wanted to farm the land, and as wo couldn’t have it without the house, wo thought we’d do tho beat we could by letting the r loins.’ Her possible lodger could easily imagine this beat to he not at all bad. Tbe old house was by no means in good repair, and even a person not much learned in the value of honso property could guess that a rather tnmble-down dwelling in the extreme west of England, three hundred miles from London, did not command a very exorbitant rent.

Still, Horneck House was a singularly perfect specimen of its class. It had been built in 1603, as was still registered in stone over the back door, and had never been spoilt by additions. Poor old house, it was sadly maltreated now with green-glass lustres surmounting the delicate grace of the carved wood mantelpieces, andjthe wall of the staircase embellished by many-coloured wallpaper, displaying, In a aerie j of blotched soenes, the drama of domestic life in China.

Despite of this, tho rooms that wore to let took tho visitor’s fancy greatly. The sitting-room was on the first floor, and from the window coaid be seen in the distance the blue waters of tho bay and the fretted Una of coast; and nearer was tho garden, a wide expanse of grass, that bad once been lawn, in the midst of which was a patriarchal mulberry tree. The bedroom was quaint enough, and would not have been easy to match, telliog eloquently, as it did, how the old house had fallen from its high estate. It was a very large room, leading by a door at the farther end to another of equal size ; but it was chiefly remarkable from the upper end of the room being raised two steps above the other, so as to form a dais or stage, ‘I suppose this was built for masques,’ ■aid the stranger musingly. 1 That’s just what people say, sir,’ said Mrs Watkins. ‘fomethlng like aoting, masks are, aren’t they ? 1 often tell Watkins we might let this room for a theatre ; but he don’t like the idea’ sir, being a Wesleyan,’ ‘lwill take the rooms,’ said the visitor, who did not seem to have heard much of this speech. * I’m staying at the King’s Hotel. Major Norman, that’s my name ; but as it means nothing to you, I suppose you would like a week’s rent in anvanco.’ Mrs Watkins smiled blandly and depreomtingly, and marmared something about * gentlemen being so much pleasanter to deal with than ladies; not bat what the lady down-stairs ’

All preliminaries were satisfactorily arranged, and the next evening found Major Norman comfortably settled in his new quarters. Mrs Watkins -.proved herself by no means a bad oook, and served her lodger for dinner with a spring chicken delicately roasted, fresh-cut asparagus, and a gooseberry tart clotted with oream. A hamper of wine had arrived from London, Vincent Norman not being a man to trust himself in the matter of drinks to the tender mercies of the Feumonth wiue merchant.

* Fate cannot harm me, I have dined today,’ be murmurerl, as a neat-handed and bright-faced Phyllis retired after clearing away the dinner things, and left him alone in his glory. ‘ This is better than that confounded hotel; 1 believe 1 shall be able to wgrk here, Shall I begin to-night ? No; I’ll have a smoke, and think over it—plan it out.'

He filled his pipe slowly, drew np an armchair to the window, and leant back in the seat, enjoying the freshness of the air blown across the western sea. Vincent Norman was a man of about thirty-five, tall, broad-shouldered, well knit, the ideal soldier in form, but with a face which, though not unsoldierlike, looked rather to belong to tho man of thought than of action. He had a broad forehead, but with soft dark hair, musing grey eyes, lips that could be either sweet or stern, but which of late years bad grown a little bitter in their smile, a little hard In their rep-mo under tho well-trimmed moustache; a straig v t nose, not too thin ; a strong but not heavy jaw. Ho was good looking, certainly —not quite handsome in the nsual sense of the term, but it was not a faoo that one soon tired of.

It waa a fair night; the May moon rose softly over the distant sea, and touched the jutting-out edges of the coaat with her clear light. In the cold brightness the blossomladen hawthorns end pear trees In the garden below Major Norman’s sitting room gleamed like snow, and the wide lawn was chequered by the dark shadows of the trees on the paler turf. There waa evidently a stream somewhere beyond tho dark bolt of sleeping trees that abut in the end of tho garden, for Vincent Norman could hear tho low plash and ripple of running water, A nightingale was singing among tho branches with that passionate liquid tremble which stirs so strange a delight in ns, and Vincent wondered vaguely how long it waa since he had heard that bird’s song amid the blossoming sweetness of an Knglish May, How long ? So long ago, that tho memory awakened by those throbbing notes seemed to be part of another life. The eong took him back out of his present self to an ardent dreaming boyhood when all had seemed possible. He did not know when the bird ceased to sing ; bat when he shook himself free from the thought of the dead years, all was silent, except the far-otl ripple of the brook, and the low rnstling of the breeze through tho boughs. Ho rote, with something between a sigh and a yawn, and was looking for the day's paper, when he heard from below the tender quiver of a violin. Was it fancy ? Vincent leant out of his window and looked down, but he could see nothing ; the window of the lower room was at right angles with his. He leant back again in his obair and listened to Schubert’s

serenade, released from silence by the tonob of some one to whom music was life. Tbo sound of the violin, unalloyed by any grosser music, roie through the night air with an infinite sadness and sweetness, telling, io that yearning cry of love, of the fulness of human melancholy, of joy too near akin to sorrow.

As the serenade died away in tho stillness, Major Norman held his breath. Who wa" the musician? ‘The lady down-stairs?’ Presently the violin sang again ; this time a cavatina of Raff’s, tender and passionate; then, after, a pause, there came one of the wildest, gayest, and most mournful of Chopin’s waltzes. That was the end ; the s’lenoo was not again broken by the sound of tho violin. (To he continued.)