LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2302, 19 August 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

A MIDNIGHT SKATE. I" London Sosiety."] « ABB you quite sure you will not dino at Greystone thia evening ?' said Arthur Hyde, Ssq , of Olere Park, as ho grounded his gun and sat down upon an ai-h stole. 'Quite ti~.re 'replied hia fiiand an s guest, Charles Martel, in a lino regiment; and brushing away tho thin cmatof snow whioh hai lodged upon a fallen trunk, he also -at down. Though loth young men, they appeared to posses* strongly marktd and very divergent charact r 3. Hydi the nine of tho fair d main over which they ha 1 b?en bhootin;- phcasints was about the averigo height, fair with deep blue eyes, and an h< nest open SaKon faoe, inoipabla of d. ceib or concealment, but also inospab'.e of heroc effort, though perhips equal to deep and sustained affection. Martel waa very tall, but hardly looked hia height, being uautually developed about the chest and sh u'ders. Hia gray eye, keener features, and curling chesnut hair andboird, conveyed the improaion of a daring nature, not too readily subservient to the trammels of society. 'No,' he cortinued, 'I shall not go to Greystone. Sir William looka upon me with the suspicion mtarally felt by a wealthy uncle with a beautiful ward towards a scamp of a Boldier wh > has nothing but hia sword.' 'I came out without a keeper beoause 1 thought we could talk more freely,' said Hyde, in a hesitating and doubtful tone. •There ia Bomethlng I want tj say to ycu, Charley, but—well—I—I —' 1 Nonsense I You will not offend me • Well, then, tell me, is there no other reason why you will not accompany me to Greystone P' He cocked and uncocked his gun nervously. 'There—it muat out—has anything pasaed between you and Ida ?' 'On my honor, no.'repliel Martel very earnestly. Arthur Hyde placed his hand on his friend's shoulder, and gazed anxiously into hia eyea to read the truth there. 'Thank Heaven I' he muttered. 'I waa afraid. But never miad j the sun ia tlnking, let us return.' They walked silently along the green ' drive' through the wood cf bare ash poles. Hyde, absorbed in thought, did not see the almort pitying glance of Martel. •He lovea her,'Baid the soldier to himsa!f, 'and she —I am ashamed of it—'he lovea me. Shall I tell him of our meeting under the oak? No, it would make him miserable; and why ? I undeceived her. A fellow feels confoundedly awkward when a girl he carea not a snap for will follow him ; it makes him feel like a puppy. However, I'll forget it. I wonder| if Florry will manage to slip out to-night. Arthur'—(his time aloud). ' what time does the moon rise —you're a farmer, you know ?' Methodical Arthur consulted the almanac In his pocket-book. 'Last quarter— eleven-thirty,' he *aid. ' I may go out and shoot a wild duck,' Bald Martel, explaining. 'Don't be surprised if I'm not In when you return.' It was rather a Blow solemn dinner at Greyatone that evening, notwithstanding the beauty that adorned the table. Sir William Greyatone's two nieces, Ida Swayne and Florence Greyatone, were each gemß in their particular atyle. Both of the same height and figure there was a gen°ral famUy likeness between them, but only at first sight, Ida having coal blark hair and blue eyea and pale clear oomplexion ; Florence, beautiful golden tresses of great length, gray eyes, a rosier complexion, and lively manner. Ida was more ca'm and sedate—- * still waters run deep.' Arthur Hyde sat between them, lighter at heart than he had been for many a day, for he had fancied there was an understanding between Ida and Martel. Though his heart was full of Ida, hia conversation was with Florence—as it of tan happens and sha asked aftor Martel,

'He haa just had a chance of freeing his little estate from encumbrances,' said Hyde ; • but It requires about two thousand pounda, and he will not let me lend him the money.' • Fool'sh fellow,' said Sir William. 'lt is ridiculous to despise money. What is it, Mark?'

The butler replied that Mr Johnson, one of Sir William's chief tenants,' was waiting in the library to pay hia rent. •Excuse me. sa'd Sir William, rising. •We have finished, and I always make a practice of receiving my rents myself. Johnson has been behindhand lately. He owes mo a round Bum '

Lady Greyßtone, who was a nonentity, led the way to the drawing-room. Ida was a splendid mnsician. Florence sang Bweetly. but made no pretence to excel. She admitted her bad taste —she 'preferred so simple a ballad aa ' Annie Laurie ' to tho opera airs. Sir William presently came in, and ostentatiously Bpread bank notes for £2OOO upon a card table.

' T don't like keeping b? much in my bureau,' said be, ' bat there is no help for it to-night. I really must get a safe. There are your dividends too, Florry, just come in.'

Finding no one admired his rl::he3, Bir William gathered the notes together and departed. Hyde, thcugh really a good fellow, was not brilliart at entertaining people ; after a while a perceptible dalness began to prevail, and, failing to improve matters, he left.

At eleven the household retired. The beautiful cousins, thcugh friendly, were not affectionate : perhaps Ida, being portionless, envied Florence, who, if she married with her guardian's a: proval, would have £35,000. Thay did not visit each other in their private rooms. Florence quickly got iil of her maid North, and slipped the bolt of her door. She then partially drew up the Venetian blind of her boudoir window, and looked out upon the froken lake below Grejstone House had been a priory, and one wing—the remains of the monastic building—rose np from the very edge of a broad shallow mere. There had been a water-gate or po3terr, now a small bo t house, and a stone staircase led from thia to a passage, one end of which opened into the boudoir. It had been Florence's fancy to choose these rooms. Sir William said they would be cold ; but Florence was wilful, so he had double baize doora put np in the passage. He loved her in his way, and humoured her every wish. Had it not been for his avarice, or rather reverence for money, Sir William would have been loved by many. Florenoe placed her candle bo as to show a light out upon the ice below. Then she took from the mantelpiece what had once been the upper arched part of a small window of stained glass in the old chapel, now preserved as a relic of antiquity, and held it before the flame. The red glass colored the light; and in a few moments there was a sound under the window like tha cry of the owl. She instantly removed the stained glass, dropped the Venetian blind, and, hastily putting on her hat and fur jacket, opened the double baiz? doors, and stepped down the narrow dark staircase and out upon the ice. Not exactly out upon the ice either, but Into the strong arms of Charley Martel, who lifted her up aa if she had been a child, and covered her face with kisses. She got away from him at last, tut not very far, you may be sure. 'I mustn't stop long,' she said. 'We shall certainly be caught. I do feel, O, so wicked.'

' Why not come with ma altogether ?' said Charley ; and he began to peranade her to elopa with him. •But if I did, uncle would never forgive me, He would never let me have my money, and I should be a burden to you. "Wait a year or two.' ' I've half a mind,' aaid Charley catching her up again, and making as if he would carry her off bodily. ' I wish I had brought some skates. I will to-morrow night, and—and—'

•What's that?' said Florence in great alarm.

•I did not hear anything.' • I am sure a shadow went serosa my Hind, Hash—let me go.' • To-morrow night at this time, thon—'

•Yes—yea. Only do let me go !' She darted inside the posterngato, shut it, and ran up the stone Bteps. As she opened the first of the donble doors at the top of the stairs she distinctly heard a rustling sound, and paused. Anxiety and curiosity got the better of prudence—she pushed the second door open very slightly, and peeped into the passage. Her candle in the boudoir cast a dim light into the passage, and she saw a shadowy figure glide towards her. Amazj-

ment more than fear held her spellbound, foi she saw herself!

It was her own figure—her ' wraith' —c'a 1 In her dressing-gown, with hc-r long golden hair floating over shoulders, her eyes ha ! shut aa if asleep, and countenance extreni h pale. Florence turnod g ; ddy, h-r ho'd of th door relaxed, and it shut itsolf. She leant for a moment against the wall, bar heart seemed to havo stopped beating. All the. old stories Bho had read of wraiths, (11 the legends of the houso itself of the app r it one of monks a id nuns that had been seen, Hath ;<1 aoroas her mind Yet sho did not f lint nor cry out. Afterwards she attributed thia t> tue ruling idea in her mind, which was to kei p her meeting with Charity secret. '] ho fascination i f terror was upon her. She pushed open the door—the pasaago was empty. Sho glanced into the boudoir — nothing there. Suddenly the remembered that oat of the passage a door led to the landing—she opened it. There was a lamp on a ledgo in the landing, but it • light was feeble and uncertain. She again dist'notly saw her own figure—the back thia time — gliding without sound along the wall in tho shadow. Aa pho locked it vanished. 8b e rushed back to her room and buried her face in her pillow, to Bmother the soream that forced itself from her lips. Florenoe could never remember diatinctly, but it is probable that she became unconscious, and afterwardß slept in her dress. She was awakened by a knocking at the door, and rose with a start to meet the broad daylight. (To le continued')