LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2383, 22 November 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

HILAEIB GKABMB. She was standing, when I first saw her, under one of the grand old trees skirting the groups of Beech Hall, the home of my fair fiance, Clara Berasford, to visit whom a happy commingling of duty and pleasure had lured me from town this fair June morning. Clara had duly informed me of the installation of her orphan cousin Hilarie as a member of the family and a dependent upon Mr Beresford’a bounty, and had also described her ns an ‘ uninteresting,. oddtcmpercd girl of seventeen.’ ‘ Odd-tempered’ she might be, I decided, noting the haughty curve of the slender white throat, the stern, set expression of the delicate red lips, and the brooding passion in the large dusky eyes of the tall girl under the beeches, but ‘ uninteresting I ” Scarcely my dear Clara. A shaft of golden sunlight through the branches above illumined aa untidy wealth of rippling brown hair, crossed slender, listless hands, from which had evidently

slipped to her tiny feet the large sun hat she was too careless or too idle to wear, and the immature beauty of the proud young face, the willowy grace of the slender figure in its dingy gray gown, destitute of bow or frill, or any of the usual feminine adornments, interested me strangely. Still leaning against the tree, she lazily watched my approach, apparently expecting me to pass on to the hall without bestowing more than a passing glance upon herself ; but, determined to speak with her, I made a short detour from the path, and more amused than disconcerted by the expression of mingled curiosity and defiance which quickly overspread her features, I said with the utmost gallantry at my command : * Pardon mo, but can you inform me it any of the family are at the hall to-day ? I am not expected, and all seems unusually still V , , „ ‘ Nevertheless, Mr and Mrs Bereaford and Clare are all within, and, though not expected, Mr Forrester is sure to be a welcome guest.’ ‘You have guessed my name,’ I replied, smiling. 1 What if I return the compliment to Mies Hilarle Graeme ? You see I have heard of you, too ?’ ‘Of course, you would hear of the Bereafords’ befe noir,’ she said—oh, so bitterly. •Nay,’ I protested, ‘no such epithet has been assigned you, Miss Graeme, believe me.’

‘ Not exactly that, perhaps, hut sufficient to let you know that I, at least, am not welcome here.’

For a moment Clare’s expressions, * uninteresting ’ and ‘ odd-tempered,’ flitted before me, but when I would have spoken Hilarie stopped me with a passionate gesture of disdain, saying ; ‘ Spare your words, Mr Forrester; yonr face tells me enough. Oh, why, why did I come here ? And, to my astonishment and dismay, she burst into a passionate invective against tho misery of her dependent position and the coldness and unkindnesa of her relatives, breaking down at last Into a paroxysm of bitter tears.

With a man’s utter abomination thereof, I did my best to calm the tempest I had unconsciously raised, and was unspeakably relieved when at last she dried her tear-stained cheeks and said, brokenly : ‘ Forgive me 5 you must think very badly of me, Mr Forrester, but I will go away. I was never very good, but now I am growing hard and bad, and am so wretched that in time I shall become a hateful, wicked girlI will not stay here.’ A great pity arose within me for this lonely, high-spirited creature, little more than a child in years, and. taking one of the nervous little hands in mine, I reasoned with her kindly, but earnestly, upon the folly of the course she would pursue, pointing ont ways and means for making her present life at least more endurable; and, inquiring deeper Into her manner of occupying the long boars she spent alone, I found, as 1 suspected, she had passed them in desultory rambles about the hall grounds and the neighboring country, all the while brooding darkly over her uncongenial surroundings, while she had utterly neglected tastes and pursuits which might have lent a charm to solitnde. Finding one of these to be an innate love of art, for which 1 myself am an enthusiast, I arranged a meeting next morning for Hllarie and myself in Alton woods, a miniature forest adjoining the grounds of Beech Hall, where 1 engaged to initiate her into the art of crayon sketching. I shall never forget the quick change from sombre despondency to radiant hope and pleasure, which transformed the pale tearstained face into one of rare brilliancy and loveliness. So much does happiness involve of beauty, that when we parted I could scarcely recognise in the blushing, smiling maiden before me the pale girl of a short half hoar ago. Truly, a child's April nature had this same Hilarie Greene.

My subsequent meeting with Clare was of the same love.Uke description, and her parents greeted me with their nanal expressions of welcome. I bad always been a great favorite with them, especially with the stately Mrs Bereaford, whose affection for me bad been mainly instrumental in bringing about an engagement between her daughter Clare and myself, Clare was five years my junior ; a fair, aristocratic little lady of twenty summers. She was extremely devoted to me. while I was proud to know that only a few short months must intervene before the time fixed for our marriage. In the confidential chat with Clare and her mother before the luncheon was served in the quaint old dining-room, I was made painfully aware of the necessity for concealing my encounter with Hilarie and the consequent arrangement for Alton Woods on the morrow. Mrs Beresford was loud in her censure of the improvidence of her husband’s brother-in-law, Arthur Graeme, which had resulted at his death in the advent of Hilarie under her roof as a ‘ useless dependent upon her uncle,’ Clare’s laughing suggestion that Hilarie might replace her in companionship to her mother after our marriage hurt me even more than Mrs Bereaford’s exclamations against the orphan; there was such utter want of sympathy in smile and voice that contrasted oddly with the sweat emotional face 1 was longing to see again. It was not nntil dinner that my wish was gratified, when, after a careless introduction from Mr Beresford, Hilarie flashed one warm grateful glance into my face, and throughout dinner preserved a grave silence, my few well-meant endeavors at conversation with her only eliciting monosyllable replies, and the cold surprise in the faces of Clare and her mother that I should address her, warned me, for Hilarie’s sake, to appear to maintain the same indifference toward her as distinguished themselves.

Indolent Clare retained her town habit of keeping her room until the morning was far advanced, when she would descend in the most bizarre of morning toilets, in time for the late breakfast with mamma ; consequently during my sojourn at Beech H»li I was free to pass the early morning hours in whatever way suited my fancy, else I had not dared to appoint the meeting) with Hilarie, for Clare was a very exacting little brideelect indeed.

Ah, that delightful morning In Alton wood ; the first of many suoh when Hilarie and 1 wandered, sketch-book in band, among the tall, straight pines, the shadows of their murmuring branches, flecked with amber gleams of sunlight, or threaded our way through fern and braokon to some specially dainty bit of woodland scenery, where, seated on a fallen tree of moss grown boulder, with waving grasses around her, and velvet masses at her feet, Hilarie Graeme seemed to my excited fancy the embodiment of some fairy denizen of the forest. None knew but ourselves of these daily meetings. Though no word had passed between ns to the need of secrecy, we had tacitly accepted it as a fact, and apparently our mutual indifference to each other when in the society of the Beresforda was as marked as ever.

Sometimes my conscience smote me that in her sweet innocence Hilarie submitted herself so entirely to my guidance, for I knew if we were discovered, hard things might be said of her, but I was prepared to defend her with my life if need be, and ball and wood being so isolated, discovery was scarcely to be feared. Days had lengthened into weeks, nntll more than a month had elapsed since my arrival at Beech Hall, and still Clare urged me to ‘stay a little longer,’ and I, against my better judgment, stayed on nnable to deny myself those blissful hours spent with Hilarie, my beautiful love. Yea, it had come to that. I knew that Hilarie was more to me than Claire ever had been or ever could be, and the knowledge that I was in honor bound to one and dare not reveal my secret to the other, was daily, hourly torture to me.

Heaven knows I tried hard then to be loyal to my troth ; but Clare’s evidences of affection grew daily more distasteful to me, and I found myself constantly comparing her unfavorably with beautiful, high-scaled Hilarie. I fancied, too, that my betrothed had become conscious of some change in tho warmth of manner towards her, for latterly she became strangely pale and acxious-eyed, while a new clinging tenderness in her demeanor toward me, seemed a conscious roproaoh to my faithlessness. Yet how could I wound sensitive Hilarie by suddenly ending those mootings iu Alton woods. Clearly it was my duty to return to town at once, and on the afternoon of tho day on which I arrived at this determination I went for a last stroll through the grounds, going mechanically in the direction of Alton woods.

I came suddenly upon Hilarie, who seemed intently reading or examining a scrap of writing hel i in her hand. She started and

crimsoned guiltily, I thought, at my approach, crushing the paper ruthlessly in her hand. Half jealous, I inquired—--1 Have I surprised a secret, Hilarie ?’ ‘ No,’ she answered, still confused. ‘ They were merely some lines I had written.’ “Hilarie a poetess? ” I exclaimed, laughing.

“ Scriblmus [indocit doctique poemata passim,’’ she answered playfully, and the incident faded from my mind, to be when and how recalled, I little then imagined. Hilarie received the news of my approaching dopartnre in a strangely silent mood which piqued me not a little, especially when I found she was absent from the dinner-table on this, the last night of my stay.

Clare, too, was away. When I had communicated to her my resolve to leave by the 12 30 train on the morrow she had kissed me as though she were losing me for ever, and her white wan face and pitiful blue eyes touched me so deeply that I had taken her in my arms and kissed away her tears, promising to return long before the day fixed for our wedding. ‘ Gh, Gerald I' she sobbed, ‘ I could not give you up dear, now,’ and again I wondered could she have guessed my secret. Still pale and trembling with agitation she had gone to her room, and at dinner her maid informed us that Miss Clare had given orders not to be disturbed, and Hilarie, being inquired for. was found to have gone out some hours previously and not yet returned. Still conversation was lively at the dinner table when we were suddenly startled by a hurried tramping of feet and a confusion of voices, broken suddenly by the unceremonious entrance of Mark Thompson, under gardener at the Hall, who, breathless with excitement, informed ua that * there was summit wrong up at Alton woods ; a man murdered, sur, and Miss Hilarie she be wi’ him, and sent me on for help.’ I was already at the door, my one thought of Hilarie. Mr Beresford and the men servants following, when Clare, white and shivering, met me as though she would go with me ; she looked so terribly 111 that I begged her to return to her room, but *he shook her head, saying,— ‘ I must go, Hilarie must not bs there alone,’and so Clare and I were the first to sac Hilarie with her face buried in her hands, kneeling beside the murdered man, sobbing bitterly. Clare turned shuddering away, but I sprang forward, crying : * Hilarie 1 Hilarie ! ’

Oh, the agony of the white streaming face, crying out wildly, “ Ob, why did you come here ?” and with a low, sobbing cry, she fell insensible in my arms.

‘ Hilarie, apeak to me. Oh, Hilarie. my love, my darling!’ I cried, pressing her frantically to my heart, and all my love for Hilarie was revealed in those few passionate words to Clare.

Even then I was conscious of the pitiful, dumb despair on the poor, pale face as she abruptly turned and left me alone with my unconscions burden.

I pray heaven I may never know again the terrible agony that followed close upon that fatal night. I wonder I did not go mad when they accused Hilarie, my beautiful Hilarie, of the foul crime of murder. I had been mercifully spared the sight of her arrest, but they to;d me she had uttered no word—only white and still had let them lead her away to a felon’s cell. The murdered man had been stabbed to the heart with some weapon which had not yet been discovered, and hidden in his clenched right hand was found part of a torn certificate of marriage solemnised two years before between ‘ George Morton Bean and Hilarie ’ The rest had been torn away, so that only that Christian name remained with what appeared to bo the upper part of a capital Q-, the initial letter of the surname Graeme.

In the opinion of the police this was sufficient to fasten the crime upon poor Hilarie, and it was generally believed that in her wild, unrestrained youth she had been led into a mesalliance with the murdered man, whoso appearance was decidedly plebian; and his coming to Beech Hall to claim his wife had aroused her dormant passion, and that in her dread of exposure she had first tried to obtain possession of the proof of her marriage, end stained her soul with murder.

In the doctor’s opinion the crime had been committed daring the afternoon of the day npon which the body was discovered. Like a Hash of fire there came to me the remembrance of that meeting with Hilarie and her hasty concealment of the scrap of paper. I remembered her guilty flush and confused replies, and heaven forgive me for one brief moment I trembled lest she should be guilty of the horrible crime imputed to her. I drove the mad thought from me as unworthy my manhood and my love, and redoubled my unceasing efforts to establish her innocence. Hilarie from the first had refused to see me. I had written imploring her to speak, If only one word that might prove her innocence 5 but she wrote ‘ I can say nothing. I pray only that you may bo happy with Clare.’ And the terrible dark days followed swiftly one upon the other, each adding to the subtle web of evidence they were weaving around my darling, until sometimes I fancied it must be some horrible dream from which I must surely soon awake. Yet there was Mrs Beresford’s bitter wailing for the disgrace upon her house, and Clare’s terrible pallor and mute sorrowful despair gave me an additional pang that 1 had brought double trouble npon her. There remained but one day now before that on which Hilarie was to appear in a felon’s dock, and on the morning of that day Clare came to mo with the old wistful tenderness of manner, and pressing her cold white cheek to mine, said in a low sad voice —‘Gerald, if Hilarie dies, what will yon do? ’ * Hilarie must not die ? ’ I exclaimed passionately. Unheeding my words, Clare continued—- * Could you not love me again, Gerald ? ’ Perhaps my silence answered her, for with a long, sobbing sigh she stooped and kissed my hand; but, when I would have taken hers in mine, she turned from me swiftly and hurried from the room. I never looked upon her living face again. Late that night they brought her home, white and dripping, from the Mere, near Alton woods, and with her a letter addressed to me. I opened it with shaking hands, and then fluttered at my feet the missing fragment of her marriage certificate. Yes, hers ; for, that which was thought to form part of the letter G was in reality part of the initial C in the name Clare. ‘ Hilarie Clare Beresford,’ —poor, sinful Clare, whom we had always called by her second name nntil we had forgotten that she, too, was Hilarie, In her letter she told me how she had grown to hate and fear the man who had been the hero of her thoughtless schooldays, and had lured her into that fatal marriage ; how her love for me and dread of him had conquered all sense of right and wrong, until his threat of exposure bad impelled her to commit the crime for which Hilarie Graeme stood accused. She told how Hilarie had met her coming from the scene of the murder, and knew her to be guilty ; how she had agreed to keep silent that I might bo spared all pain and shame, and how, finding Hilarie had won the love Clare had sinned for, she had determined to seek rest and oblivion in the dark waters of the Mere.

Need I dwell on the Joy of that time which followed when Bilarie’s innocence was proclaimed and she was free to see me again. She wept bitterly for poor Clare, and devoted all her time to the bereaved parents until they grow to love her as their saving angel, and as the months rolled on in peace, and happiness returned to Beech Hall, that was a proud and blissful day to me when sweet Hilarie Graeme became Mrs Gerald Forrester,

The previous morning Hilarie had unblush - . ingly placed in my hand a scrap of crumpled paper, on which was written in Hilario’a delicate caligraphy a few lines containing a passionate avowal of love for a certain * Gerald,’ which brought vividly to mind the moment when I had surprised Hilarie in the grounds of Beech Hall, • And was this the paper, Hilarie ?’ ‘Yes, Gerald,’ aha answered, blushing rosier than before.

‘ Oh, darling, why did you not show it to me then?’l asked, remembering that ugly doubt that had once tempted me. ‘Nay, dear,’ she whispered, * how could I let you know I loved you so ?' And somehow her answer contented me.

There are two important events in the life of man—when he examines his upper lip and sees the hair coming, and when ho examines the top of his head and secs the hair going.