LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2269, 11 July 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

THE PAINTED FAN. ■ You won’t forget me, little one ?’ said Bari Lysle, in his softest accents, looking down with earnestness into the sweet, tiower face, so trustfully uplifted to his ° W “no, I will never forget you,’ answered 1 And the blue eves grow moist and the ted lips trembled. The promise broke down the last remnant of her strength, and next moment she had burst into passionate, bitter as though the branches in the tree above them bent pityingly down upon them, as though the sun lingered * moment in the tenderest sympathy, ere breathing his good-night to the world; as though the robin cheeked hia notes to listen to the sobs which echoed through the _ silence of the wood and stirred Earl Lysle s heart, as it had cot been stirred before In many a long yO He had won the love of many women—won it often for the mere pleasure of wincing ; sometimes had avon and worn it until it wearied him, but always believing that had the condition been reversed the woman would have done ea-en as he did. In this case he knew differently. When he first met Lena Manning she had been a omW. it had been his hand which had guided her wavering steps across the boundary line from childhood to womanhood ; he who had wakened her child heart from its slumber. For what ? For this ? It had been in hia life a summer idyl, a passing folly ; in_ hers, the one spot from which henceforth all things must date. He was a man of the world ; she, a child of nature, whose world henceforth was bounded by the horizon of

his presence. , , ‘Hush, Lena—hush,’ he entreated, passing his arras abent the slender waist, ‘Do yon really care for me like this ?’ A passing pride stirred at this question, «Do yon care for me so little that you cannot understand it ?’ she answered. •Nay ! I love you very dearly—so dearly, Lena, that, might I carve out my own destiny, and forget my own desire, and forget my duties, I would never go bank to the great city and the life which has grown wearisome. As It Is, I must go ; but, Lena, if I may, dear —it I can so shape my destiny —some day I will leave It all behind me and come again, this time to pluck and wear my sweet woodland rose next my heart forever.’ , Pretty words were very natural to Earl Lysle, yet oven as he spoke these, he knew that ere another year had run its course he waa destined to lead to the altar hia hairess-consln—a tall, haughty brunette —whose letter of recall now lay in the breast pocket of his coat. * But —if things should go amiss—not as you fancy?’ ... , „ There was absolute terror in the girl a tones—terror so great that to the man it -eeemed cruelty not to quiet it,^ and, besides, his heart waa stirring within him to nobler, better purpose. . Perhaps he mfght avow to his betrothed the truth that instead of a marriage of convenience, he sought a marriage of love, and to ask ask her to free him from chains which already bogan to gall ere they were

fallyforged. . 80 he only drew closer to him the girl a slender figure, until the blonde head lay on hia shoulder, aa he stooped and pressed his lips to its golden crown. • Have no fear. little one. 1 will come back with the first snow. 1 ‘ You promise, Bari?’ 4 I promise.’ * * * * Lena had always loved the summer rather than winter. The leafy trees, the birds, the tlowers, the bine sky—all had been to her as welcome friends, to be greeted rapturously, to be parted with almsat tearfully ; but this year she could scarcely wait for the turning of the foliage or the southern flight of the birds. , , , , She smiled from her window as she looked out one bright morning npon the first frost. She laughed when she heard people say there would be an early winter. All her painting -for she possessed great talent with her brush—depicted winter scenes —snow and ice. But just at the Thanksgiving season her father, a sturdy fanner, was borne senseless one day to his home, and died before he recovered consciousness. It was her drat real grief. She had lost her mother when an infant. It seemed to her that sfco could not have had strength enough to live through It, but as they lowered the coffin into the grave a few flakes of snow came whirling down from the gray sky, *he welcomed them as heaven-sent messengers of hope. Wien she csme back to the qniet house, throigh whose rooms the dear, cheery voice wood never more echo, she almost expected to fnd some one waiting for her ; but all was stil and desolate. They were dreary weeks that followed—tie more dreary that she found a heavy iiortgsge lay on the farm, and that when all (hinga were cleared up there would be left to iier but a few hundred dollars. I He will not care,’ she murmured. ‘lt will prove his love for me the more.’ The week after the funeral set in the first

heavy snow storm, and the papers told how it had spread from one end of the country

to the other. Lena waa almost heart-broken in her lonesome home, but she sat all day with folded hands, looking upon the soft, featherly flakes—watching the drifts grow higher—and knew that it was bringing summer to her heart.

The neighbors came to take in their sleighs, when the son peeped ont again and all the earth was wrapped in its white mantle. They said that her cheeks were pale and her hands feverish, and that she must have more of the clear, bracing air. But she shook her head and refused to go. Could she leave the house, when at any moment.he might come ? Beside, she had sent to him a paper with the announcement of her father’s death, and this must surely hasten him.

But day succeeded day, until week followed week, and still he neither came nor sent her word. Tho snow clouds had formed and fallen many times, and each time her heart grew sick with longing.

She loved him so wholly, she trusted him so completely, that she thought only sickness or death could have kept him from her.

The hours dragged very slowly. Her little studio was neglected. She sat all doy, and every day, beside tho widow, until one morning she wakened to know that the first robin had returned, and the first breath of fipring was in the air. He had failed to keep his promise to her. That same day they told her that the farm must be sold. Many neighbors offered her a home, but she declined them all. A andden rorolution oaino to her. Her pride forbade her seeking him, if he were not dead, as she often feared ; she might one day meet him in the street, or at least hear some news of him.

The hope of meeting him—of hearing him —vanioho;!, when she found herself in the great metropolis and realised its sizs and immensity. She had secured a comfortable home with a good, motherly woman, but her purse wjb growing scanty, and aho could not tell how long it might hold out, unless she oonld Had some means of support, when one day, sauntering Idly on the street, glancing into a shop window, she saw some fancy articles painted by band. Gathering up her courage, she went in and asked if there was a sale for that sort of work and if she might be allowed to test her skill. From that hour all dread of want vanished, and now that hands were busy, she found loss time to brood and think. ‘I want a fan painted, 1 the man said to her one day. ‘ You may make an original design, but it must be very beautiful.’ Lena’s heart had been very sad all day, as at evening she unfol'ed the satin and sat down, brush in hand, to fulfil this latest order.

‘lt is a gift to an expectant bride,’the shopkeeper had said, and the words had recalled all the long waiting, and weary disappointment these words might b/ing. And, as she thought, she sketched, and the hours crept on and the evening grew into night and the night into morning, and still she bant over bar work, silent, engrossed. The next day, the gentleman who had given the order for the fan sauntered into the store. With an air of pardonable satisfaction the man drew it from the box.

* The yoang artist has outdone herself air,’ he said. ‘ I never saw a more beautiful piece of work, and the design is entirely her own. I—’ But ha checked his sentence. _ The gentleman had taken the fan in his hands, and was examining it with startled eyes and face from which every trace of co.oi had del.

Could it be that the word Nemesis wan painted on the satin ? No, this was all h“ saw. On one side was a woodland scene while, seated on a log beneath the leafy branches cf an old oak, were, two figures, one a man and one a woman. His arm was about her waist. Her lips seemed to move ; her whole expression was full of love and trast, and his of promise. A little laughing stream rippled at their feet. A bird sang over head. Whore had ho seen just such a scone be fore ? He turned the fan on the other side. Summer had vanished. It was winter here Naught but the fast falling snow drifting in white heaps upon the earth. The man gave the name and address. How well he had known it! But how came Lena hero ? and what was this which stirred through every fibre of his being ? Coaid it be that his manhood might yet redeem him ? With swift steps he walked to the house of his betrothed. Stately and beautiful she came into the drawing room to greet him. and bent her head that he might touch her forehead with his lips. • Helen, do you love me ?’ She had known him for long years, but never had she heard such earnestness, ouch real passion, in his tones. It was as though his very soul hung on her answer. Strange, she had never dreamed his love for her was more than friendship such as she had felt for him, A tinge oi color crept into her cheek. ‘I have promised to marry you, Earl. Yon know I am fond of you and how highly I respect you. Will not this satisfy you ?’ < No. I want all the truth. Is your heart mine— a n mine, so that to tear me from it would be to tear It asunder, «No, Hath If it were for your happiness or mine, I could give up my lover and still hold my friend and cousin.’ He seized her hand and carried it to his

lips more fervently than he had done even in the moment of hia courtship. Then, taking tho fau from his pocket, ho unfolded it and told her all the tale of his summer romance. 4 1 thought that I could forget her,’ he said, In ending, 4 and that when the snow fell and I did not return to her, she would cease to remember me; hut see, Helen. She still remembers, and I still love. Ido not know what brings her here. I have heard nothing from her since last summer. But, tell me, cousin mine, what must I do ? I leave it all to yon.’ 4 1 said that I would be your friend. JTow, I will be hers as well. Go to her, Earl. Tell her all the truth. Then, if ahe forgivea you, make her your wife. If aho ia alone iu the world, aa perhaps aho may be, bring her to me. She shall be married from my house aa my aiater. I accept thia fan, not aa a lover’s gift, but a pledge to the truer, more honeot band which henceforth binds ns.’ Lena was exhausted after her sleepless night, and throwing herself on the lounge in the sitting-room cf her kind hoctesa, ahe had fallen into a dreamless slumber. Lorg Earl Lyle stood and watched her until the magnetism of his glance aroused her. She thought that she was dreaming of the fan, but as he stooped and took her In his arms, she knew that it was reality. She listened silently while he told her all, even hia struggle for forgetfnlneaas and his ignorance of hia own heart and its demands. Ae heard that she had sent the paper with the news of her father’s death to the wrong address, that he had known nothing of the long, lonely [winter to which had succeeded this wonderful, glorious summer time of hope. Poor child ! She had no room for pride In the heart so filled by his imago. She forgot that there was sore need for forgiveness. He loved her now! Of that she felt assured, and, after all, the snow had only lain upon the ground to worm the earth and foster the rich, sweet violets which now bloomed and clustered at her feet, ready for her to stoop and pluck them. Perhaps some women, iu their pride, would have rejected them. She conld not, bus stooping, kissed them, and then transplanted them to her heart, there to shed sweat ffirorOrmurd,