LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2503, 15 April 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

A BLOOD!ESS CONFLICT. (Concluded ) His grasp tightened on her arm—his face grew very white. ‘ Dare yon tell me yon have been only acting, Ethel ? Unsay those wor is ! I love you, darling 1 Have you no return for me ?’ Again she hesitated. Could it bo love which was tugging at her strings—love which tempted her to lay down her weapons and declare defeat sweeter than any victory ? Not yet; not yet. She looked up in hia face ; she fancied she detected a little glimmer in his eyes, stain and dark though they were. ‘Do you know what I wished?’ she said, in answer to his question, and pointing to the moon. • I wished my new dresses, on this way from Baris. might be a success. Worth is so apt to make blunders nowadays. Let ns go in, Mr B-aymond. It is almost tea time, and I am growing hungry. ’ * Certainly,’ ho answered haughtily, and in silence they returned to the house But that evening Ethel looked for her friend In vain. On going to her room she found on her table a note. Hastily tearing It open, she read these lines—

4 It is right that yon should have the palm of victory. Freely I accord it to you I staked all, and lost. You staked nothing, and won. I loved you, heartless, soulless though you are. ’ I loved you in the first hour we met. God knows I would have striven to prove it to you, even as I shall now strive to wrench it from my heart. Were you at my feet, as I a few hours ago were at yours, I would turn your prayer to mockery, as yon tamed mine. My ore earnest wish for your future happiness Is that year Parisian toilettes may always prove a success ’

This and the signature were all. Once, twice, thrice, Ethel read and reread the cold catting words. ‘Were you at my feet, I would turn yonr prayer to mockery, as you turned mine 1’ So soon, then, he had ceased to love her, and she—ah, In this moment her punishment had commenced.

She had but meant to try a little longer. She had forgotten a man’s dignity, a man’s love, are not always to be valued at a woman’s weak caprice. She had thrust her hare, unprotected hands Into the dame, and willed that it should not burn. Now that It had eaten its cruel way into the flesh, she could but wring them in impotent anguish, knowing that she herself had thrust aside the cool, healing balm which wculd have brought oblivion of any pain.

All night she lay with wide-open eyes, fully dressed as aba had thrown herself upon her couch, and the letter—the first and only letter Jack had ever written her—tightly clasped in her little, cold fingers. Now and then a sob forced Its way upward through the quivering frame. But nf> tears came; her eyes were dry and burning.

Strange ! strange I In all her life she had known no want, no void. Now the future seemed filled bat with emptiness. Where were her weapon ? Shattered and useless. Where her armour? Rent asunder, so that, look where she would, she saw but hor naked, pain-tossed eoul. She realise 1 now the depth and earnestness of words which she had already answered by a mocking lie. Ah, already his wounds were heallog, but hers— He had said richly she would wear no scar, only because hers would not heal.

At last the day dawned. She watched It break, wondering if any other heart in all the w do world was as leaden-weighted as her own. 11 How should she meet him ? Pride must now be her reliance. What he had thought of her, let him think to the end. tfad he not spurned the unspoken prayer for pardon ? He had anticipated, indeed ! She and her own soul could keep their secret—aye, and would. But for the present a meeting was spared her. ‘ Mr Haymond has gone out at daybreak with the fishermen,’ some one volunteered. ‘ It is a bad day, too, gray and squally. ’ She felt a end den fear oppress her, as they added this ; tut nonsense 1 no accident hid happened all summer on tho coast. By twelve o’clock ho surely would have returned.

She took a seat on the piazza, where she could watch his approach; but tho long, alow hoars wore on, and she watched in vain At foar o’clock some cue came to her and said—

4 There has been an accident, Mias Marcus, Have you heard ? One of the fishing smacks was overturned, and two fishermen and a gentleman drowned. We fear it moy be Mr Raymond,’ A momentary blackness swept over h- r, bat she conquered it. 4 God could not be so cruel 1’ she said ; but she did not know that she had spoken. She heard about the buz-, of inquiry, the bustle cf excitement, bat she sat still and white, as though even carven from marble. This—this was the end 1 Oh, God, until tbls moment when ho e had died, she had not known all that had lived and perished wit h it ?

The day wore on. The night fell. Still she sat motionless, watching the sea. Her end of the piazza was deserted. A gloom hnng over tho hotel. The young moou shed its faint rays upon her as though it alone guessed her secret and gave her Its pity. 4 A'one—alone,’ she murmured, 4 forevermore ! Oh, my love—my love !’ Had her cry conjured up his wrath ? From whence had he sprung ? An instant before no one was in eight—now he stood close beside her. She did not pause to think. She rose, and with one wild sob threw herself upon hia breast. 4 Jack ! Jack 1 Forgive me !’ she cried. But it was no ghost which wiped away her tears and hushed her sobs with his kisses.

When they were calmer ha told her of his escape. One poor fellow, indeed, had been drowned ; but he with the others had been saved by a passing craft, whose destination had been some little distance down the coast. Bat Ethel only realises that ha is with her ; for the rest she cares nothing. 4 1—I shall never wear another of Worth’s dresses !’ she says, at last, penitently. 4 Hush, darling! No rash vows,’ he answers, once more kissing the sweet lips to silence, 4 You shall send one more order, at least, ere many days have aped, and that, my love, for the dress in which you give to me the priceless value of your own dear self ?’