LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2415, 31 December 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

'BOYCOTTED.' [From tho 'Burlington Magrzine.'] (Qmchtdcd.) ' Where Is Colnne! Tremaine.' Nora asks and I answer, without looking at her—'ln the yard. You will find bim there.* 'Mamma is anxious about G-er^y,' she continues ; someone told her be had gone to Li9croe about those tenants, »nd she is in a fidget. Will you go to her, Mab ?' But I cannnt fauo anyone now, and eo walk away down the avenue, out of tight of everybody, and think over all tboac pa-t daye; the days when he and I worked together, g*y and me'ry Cays always, though we were ' Boycotted" a;;d in daugi:'- i i this our own la':d ; and I was happy, with the happiness that comes but onco in a lifetime, until I awoke to find it was all a mistake. How he aid I used be such friends, snch companions, and Ei!y and George Dane. Working together in tho kitchen, cooking, laughing always, or helping to look after the farm, or the h. raes, or the thouaand-and-one things that our awkward hr.r.ds h»ve learnt to do so'deftly now, it was always he and I, we two ; and now— Oh ! what a fool 1 am ! My cheeks are wet, and tho first tears that a man ever brought to my eyes are coming th ; ek and f»Bt. A boy springs out of the bushes suddenly, and shoving a dirty b't of paper into my hand, vanishes like lightning. Everything startles na these strange terrible times, and I feel frightened as I examine the missive ; but the foar changes to terror as my eyes read the f«w badly-written words ' The young master will be shot when he passes the limetiln corning home to-night. A warning from a friend." The lime kiln ! Qalck rs thought I remember the place—a lonely bit of road a mile away or more, and Gerry must pass it coming homo, there is no other way for him to c:m». Something mutt be done ;he must bo warned. Sick and cold w)th the shock, I read and re read the scrip of paper, but mode nothing more out of It. Whoever goes to worn Gerry uiuft pass the limekiln. Who is to go ? I hide my face for a second, end feel as If I must choke, and my heart swells with love f"r Gerry and that other love. Gerry must be saved, but not by him ; no danger must come near him. I know well that he would go at once; I know so well what he wonld do—how he would go himself to the limekiln, and save Gerry that way. And they might fire at him, perhaps. No, no ; my life before bis. And so I sped b'-ck to the house, and running in, white and desperate, etand face to face with Colonel Tremaine.

' Mab, what has happened ? You are as white as a sheet.'

'Nothing,' I answered hasti-y ; ' I have a dreadfnl headache.'

t-'o I have. My head will burst, I think, and Gerry's life lies in my hands. His fingers touch mine. 1 Mab, have I offended you P ' As ho speaks the clo:k striken out five, and Gerry will bo here immediately, or rather there.

'Let me go,' I ory out, with a sob. a wild bitter look up into his face; for have I not almost chosen between my brother's life and his. <~'h no. not that ! And I fly upstairs and loave him there, with that grave, puzzled look in his eyes. There is such a littie time ti do anything in. Gerry must be on his way home now. comiug nearer and nearer to that dreadful placo. I suppose I have a good deal of presenoe of mind or self-control, for I nm outwardly calm enough as I go to the nursery, and say quietly to nurse that I wish she would go downstiirs nrid make some tea, and bring it up to me When she is gone I turn to Dot, nr.d send her down to tho drawing room to say lam going- ta lie down wi v h a headache. The child runs off and the moment fcaa arrived. In the wardrobe hangs nurse's long black c'.oak with its heavy hood. Snatching it from the peg I dart away, and creeping cautiously to Gerrv's room take a revolver from its oaso. XV& have been practising every dsy, end I knr.w I una a good shot. I may want, it this evening, I think, with a shudder, a 3 with cold hoods I hide it, and slip away down the backstairs and out otthe back door, unseen by axis body, and run as fast aa my feet will carry me through the shrubs, and reach the avenue by a path that is unsean from the drawing-room windows. Onco outside tho £atu I out on the long clotk, and with tbe hood over my head fly as if for my life along the road. Gasping and Bobbing with terror—for every second is of importance—and ' God let me be in tima ' I sob over and over again, as I fi 7 along the white hard road, my fingers clutching the revolver. The life of tbe man 1 love better th*n myself is safe; but if I have sacrificed Gerry for him 1 Was it wrong ? 1 hardly know. On and on, walking and running, feeling like one always feels in a terrible dream, utterly unable to gat on—rimning and stumbling, struggling every nerve to be in time. Along way off now I can see the old limekiln, and my heart gives one wild bound as further on beyond that, jaet where the road winds, I see a solitary horseman, and know that it is Gerry, all unconscious, riding home. Which of us will reach the spot first ? I am tho nearest, but I dare cot run now for I might bo se-jn. The oloak hides me well; who would notice a country girl passing on this lonely country road ? A little further and I can rtcognise Gerry quite well, and the grey hwo He is coming on so fast, trotting; and I almost ecream out as I see him comir g faster and falter, and I am far away jot from tho limekiln.

It must be oil over in a minute cither 1 am running now, shaking with fear and excitement, and I who piqued myself on being a gocd shot knew that my trembling hands couldn't hit a haystack now. Oh, heaven ! they are waiting for him. I pee a head cautiously pooping round the old wall, and I draw a little nearer the hedge. God give mi atrensth now ! On he comes, poor Gerry, centering on the grass on tho side of tho road. Lit!ls ho dreams that thero are murderers lying In wait aa he comes nearer and nearer, r:ud never notices mo as I fly as if for dear lifo towards him ; bnt I cannot get to the lime kiln first. He has won the rao».

'Gerry!' I shri«k, and oat into the middle of the road end wave him back. ' Gerry ! Gerry I go back.' On he como!', I can sre bis face ; and l—oh heavens for a little more strength ! Spent, breathless, exhausted with running, it is a very hosrao cry that breaks from my lips, and then Oh ! if I live to be a hundred, I must see it all than as I Bee it now. A Bhot fired, and then a horso dashing rlderlesß away, and Garry lying on his face on the road, quite stilC, and over the white field a man running like the wind, 'Gerry ! Oerry ! * Ar_d like cne bereft of reason, I fa 1 ! prone beside him, and wild with agony unspeakable, hide my face, for my brother is dead, and io i 3 my fault ; I might haves%ved bim It seems to mc a long time, but I believe it is only a moment or two after all, till I feel Gerry struggling and getting up to his feet, and hear him say—' "hank God !' under his breatb. Not dehd. not hurt. ' Mab !' he cries, as I lift my head and look at him ; * what brings you here, and what on earth does it all mean ?'

Mine is a vory gaspieg incoherent atory, but Gerry's fice flash* s as he listens. 'Bravo RirV he whispers fondly; 'yoa saved me, Mab. I thought you were some mad woman, bet your cry must have frightened that wretch, for the shot never touched me.'

•You are sure, Gerry P ' 'YeE; 7'm not touched. The horse shied, and pitched mo off, and I suppose I wao stunned for a second.'

:£j And then his obeeks grew white snddenly. 'To think they should have tried to murder mo, Mab, it was a very near shave.'

'Yes.' I whisper brokenly; 'oh, Gerry dear, if I hadn't been In time I ' And I fall sobbing and crjicg as if my heart would break.

•' Come, Mab, old woman, don't break down now, for you were bo plucky before; and I pay, here c imea Tremalne on the horse ; I wonder what he will say to it all.' He says very little, but listens in silence, as Gerry gives a very excited account of the narrative, and I never ones look in his direction, but cling to Gerry's arm with downbent face, down whloh the tears are falling. When it Is all told. Colouel Tremaine draws along breaih, and looks quickly round.

' Which way did the man go P ' Then I speak—' Ycu can never overtake

him; he has been gone for ten minutes and more; Gerry, don t try, but go for the police'

' Mab is right ; it would be only a wildgoose chase; Tremaine, will you take Mab Home, aud 1 will rido ot once and let tho oolice know about this work."

!"0 Gerry rides away, and wo two aro left standing with no sound but the retreating beat of the ho.ee's hoofs.

' Mali, why didn't you lot mo help you?' He speaks gravely. ' Sou rlskod your own 'ife, and might not have been able to nave his.'

No answer; I turn my face away anrl walk slowly on. * Yon might have been hurt,'he goes on presently, in a low voice.

'lt wouldn't have mattered much,' I whispo l- , almost inaudibly ; 'my life is not much value to anyone.' ' That is for o'.hera to judge.' he returns, and thero is a something in his voice that makes my whole heart ory out with a longing unspeakable. ' Take me home—oh, please take me home,' I ory brokenly. He puts my hand on his arm, and takes the revolver from my cold Sogers. ' So it was this you came to the house for? M«b, I wondered at your white face, and I followed you here ; and I met Gerry's horse and came on as quiok as I could ; but why didn't you let me help to save your brother? a man's judgment might have been needed.' And this from him.

• They might have shot you,' I return, in a low voice. ' And—and I thought they wonld never notice me.'

*My God! And if you had come to harm ? *

Strong and quick, half to himself, the words fall from his lips, and over my hand his fingers close suddenly, 'Why did yon run away from me to-day ?' No anower—l cannot speak, ' Why did you run away ?' he repeats : and I know from his fond, tender voice he is thinking of Nora. ' Mab, I bad something to say to you, and you wouldn't listen ; and then Nora came; and what do you think happened ? Eily and George Tauo have made it up, and it is all right now.'

' Oh, I am no glad,' I oried heartily. Did they tell yon ?' * Yes ; they settled it all to-day, over the mysteries of harness cleaning, I believe. I thought George meant core than cleaning saddles and bridles this afternoon.'

'lt means a bridal anyway,' I say ; and I laugh nervously at the bad pan. ' Vcs, and double harness,' he rejoins, and sighs suddenly. 'Mab—Queen Mab—l little thought that the first n'ght you opened the door, and looked such a demure little handmaiden, helping me off with my coat that, that '

'Let us hnr'y home,' I say hastily; ' what is the good of us talking nonsense when Gerry has only just escaped from being murdered ?'

'You shall listen to me,' sharp and storn ; and then bis voice breaks; 'Mab, don't you know I love yon ? Won't you give roe one little bit of your heart— even Griffith's valuation—Mab, my darling T ' It Is Nora ho is speaking of, not me ; it must be Nora, and yet, ' his darling 1 ' One look in his face, one brief sby glance, and I know it is not Nora at all—only me. 'My own ! My own! « * * # *

It takes us an awful long time to get home, and he knows now why I wouldn't let him know of Gerry's dinger; and a graver, deeper look comes Into his face as he listens, and whispers acffcly—- ' For my sake ? Oh. Mab ! ' *****

I don't suppose the man who fired at Gerry will ever be found out, but I hope matters will have quieted down before a certain happy day, when there is to be a doable wedding in the old church. And I know Eily and I bless the day that we were 'Boycote^.'