LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2581, 15 July 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

BEHIND THE SCENES : A LOVE SIORY. 'Apartments to let! I wonder if they would do?* Ho who thus pondered was standing in the middle of the road, which a quarter of a mile further on becamo the High street of Penmouth, a town on the western coast. He was staring meditatively at a long white gate, on which was fastened a board, bearing the above quo'.ed Inscription. ' I might as well try,' was the conclusion arrived at by the individual before the gate ;" and, lifting the latch, bo swung the wicket backward »nd entered the garden. The path led downward. A sharp turn brought him suddenly in front of the house —a long rambling building of gray stone, whioh looked rather surprised at the neglected state of itself and'its grounds, and sulky at the degrading announcement, aga n put forth io a front window, of ther e being '.Apartments to let.' •What a nice old place!' thought the stranger, as ho rang at tbe front door, and the rusty bell wire created in orthodox romance fathion; ' I winder what has made it come down in the world ?'

Romance, however, was dispelled by the appearance of the lady who opened the dcor —a stout red-faced dame of fifty, her countenance framed by tight rolls of dark hair and a miraculous cap The gentleman had come after the lodgings. How many ro:ms would he want? A bedroom and sitting-room, she supposed. As a rule, she preferred letting to families ; but as this was not the busy time of the year, and as they had let part of the rooms to a lady, and as—Would the gentleman follow her ? Acd Mrs Watkins, mistress of old Horneck Manor House, led the way up-staire, quite trembling with seoret eagernesi to seoure a second lodger at a time of year when visitors to Penmouth were rare.

' You have a large old house,' said the stranger, as ha followed her along the hall np the wide stairoase, and noted the quaint carving over the door*, and the delioate moulding of the cornice?. ' Yea, sir ; we don't live on this side of the house at all ourselves. There's plenty of room f.r me and my master and the children on the other sid ■•>, which used to be tbe servants' part in the old times You don't know Pentnoutfi, sir? This used to be Horneok Manor, and the lords of the manor used to have right* over the whole of Penmouth. But the people it belonged to went to rack and ruin, aud so did the place.' ' How ?'

'Mines and drink,'replied Mrs Catkins, tersely ; ' we shouldn't have taken the house, but my husband he wanted to farm the land, and as we couldn't have it without the house, we thought we'd do the best we could by letting the rooms.' Her possible lodger could easily imagine this beat to be not at all bad. Still, Horneck Houee waa a singularly perfeot specimen of its olaso. It had been built in 1603, as wai still registered in stone over the backdoor, and had never been spoilt by additions. Poor old house, it was sadly maltreated cow with green gloss lustres surmounting the delicate grace of the carved wood mantelpieces, and the walls of the staircase embellished by a many-colored wall paper, displaying, In a series of blotohed scones, the drama of dom stic life in China. Despite of this, the rooms that were to let took the visitor's fancy greatly. The bed room waa quaint enough, and would not have boen easy to match, telling eloquently, aa it did, how the old house bad fallen from ita high estate. It waa a very large room, leading by a door at the further end to another of equal size ; but it waa chiefly remirkable from the upper end of the room fating raised two steps above the oth-.r, so as to form a dais or stage. 'I suppose this waa built for masques,' Baid the stranger musingly. 'That's just what people say, sir,' said Mrs Watkins ; ' something like acting, masks are, aren't they ? I often tell Watkins we might let this room for a theatre ; but he don't like the idea, sir, being a Wesleyan.' ' I will take the rooms,* said the visitor, who did not seem to have heard much of this speech; ' I'm stayiug at the King's Hotel. Major Norman that's my name; but aa it means nothing to you. I suppose you would like a week's rent In advance.' Mrs Watkins smiled b'sndly and depreoatlngly, and murmured something about ' gentlemen being so much pleasanter to deal with than ladles; not but what the lady down-stair* ' All prelimlcaries were satisfactorily arranged, and the next evening found Major Norman comfortably settled In his now quarters. Mrß Watkins proved herielf by no means a bad cook, and served her lodger for dinner with a spring chicken delicately roasted, fresh cut asparagus, snd a gooseberry tart with clotted cream. A hamper of wine bad arrived from London, Vinoent Norman not being a man to trust himself In the matter of drinks to the tender merolea of the Penmouth wine merchant. ' .Fate cannot harm me, I have dined today,' he murmured, aa a neat handed and bright faced Phyllis retired after away the dinner things, and left him alone in his glory. ' This la better than that confounded hotel; I believe I ahall be able to work here. Shall I begin to-nightt No;

I'll have » smoke, and think over It —plan I tut.* Ho filled his pipe slowly, drew up an arm chair to the window, and leant back In the seat, enjoying the freshness of the air blown aaroes the western sea. Vincent Normi'.n was a man of about thirty five, tall, broad ah' uldered, well-knit, the ideal soldier in torn, but with a face which, though n t un soldierlike, looked rather to belong to the men if thought than of tction. tJews good-looking, "cert inly—not quite handsome in tho usual docse of the ttrm but it was not a face that one soon tired of. It was a fair night; the May moon rcse eof ily over fie distant tea, a-.;d touched the ja'.tiog out edges of tho coast with her clear light. In tho cold brlghtnrss the blossom-laden hawthorns and po3r-trees in the garden below Major Norman's sitting-room gleamed like snow, and the wide lawn was chequered 1 y the dark shadows of the trees on the paler tuif There was evidently a stream somewhere b?yond the dark belt of sleeping rre?s that shut in the end of the garden, for Vincent Norman conld hear the low splash and ripple of running wa*er. A nightingale wai singing among the branches wlth_ that passionate liquid tremble which stirs to strange a delight in us, aud Vincsnt wondered vaguely how long It was since he bad heard that bird's song amid the blossoming sweetness cf an English May. Hew long ? So long ago, that the memory awakened by those trobb!ng n> to 3 seemed to be part of another life. Tbe song took him back out of his present self to an ardect dreami- g boyhood when all bad a;em;d possible. Be did no's know when the bird ceased to sing ; but when he shook himself free from the thought of the dead years, all was silent, except the far eff ripple of the biook, and the low rustling of the breeze through the boughs. He rose, with something between a sigh and a yawn, and was looking for the day's piper, when he heard from below the tender paiver of a violin. Was it fancy ? Vinoent leant of the window and looked down, but he could see nothing ; the window of the lower room wis at angles with his. Be leant back in his chair and llstenelto Schubert's serenade, re'eaaed from silence by the touch of some one to whom musio was life. The sound of the vidiD, unalloyed by any grosser music, rose through the night air with an infinite sadness and sweetness, telling, in that yearning cry of love, of tha fulness of human melancholy, of joy too near akin to sorrow. As the serenade died away in the stillness, Major Norman he'.d hii breath. Who was the musician ? ' The lady downstairs?'

Presently the violin sang again : this time tender aud passionate ; then, after [a pause, there came one of the wildest, gayest, and most mournful of Chopin's waltzss. That was the end; the silence was not again broken by the sound of the violin. •It is 'the lady downstairs?" thought Major Norman; 'I wonder what ehe is like ? Forty eight and frightfu', I suppose; or, more likely, it isn't she at all, but some visitor or relative of the music-master sort. Whoever it is, knows how to play. She oan'fc be young and unmarried, or she wouldn't be here alone. How the deuoe do I know she is alone ? and what the devil does it matter to mo ? If she were the very spirit of romance, I didn't come here to mike a fool of my .self, but to set to work in earnest.'

He got up late the next morning, and it was about one o'clock when he sauntered out of doors, a-d took the road down t> the shore.

The beach was deserted ; the children and nursemaids who had populated it during the forenoon had departed to their midday dinners. One old gentleman In. a bath-chair was boing dragged slowly a'oag the esplnna le ; three email boys were doing their best to commit ruioide by hurling themselves violently down the esplanade on to the caudg below ; and two coastguardsmen were sitting, half in and ha ; f outside tbe lifeboat-home, ready for a ohat with, or a tip from, any stranger. Major Norman w*b well acquainted with their habits, anl, cot feeling a deeire for conversation, briefly replied to their original remark of 'Pine morning, sir,' by 'Very,' aud, turning away from the esplanade, tcok the read that followed the line of the bay, past Penmouth and the little fhhing village whioh nearly joins it. He walked along -under hanging boughn, by apple orchards in whioh the trees were jast past the fu'l flash of their rosy bloom, and under eray stone walls over which the ivy clambered, and which a month before had been g Ided by the primroses aud purpled by the dogviolets, which grew in every mo:-sy crevioe and clink between the stones.

Aa be reached a plnoo where the road branched eff into two, be hesitated for a moment which way ha ahonld ohooe. One, aa he knew, still followed tbe line of the bay ; the other wan a narrow, woody lane, with steep banks and overarched by trees. He turned down the latter path, and had gone a little way, when he saw some one in front of him—a lady, standing high on the steep bank, which she hid climbed to gather mme late blooming primroses. Her face wa* turned from Major Norman, and aha did not parotivo his approach till he was quite close, and she canght sight of him as she sprang down. fr-m the bank. Her look w«s one of half recognition, half donlbt ; then a smile flushed over her face aa she exclaimed, ' Major Norman 1' ' Miss Buncombe!' She was a woman of twenty-eight or thhty, very graceful, with gold brown hair which canght the light, a beautiful fore head, a:d more beautiful eyes. She wore a dress of dull olive green, and her hands were full of flowers she hud gathered—dark wild hyacinths, golden cowslips, a cluster of the apple blooms mingled rose and snow, and the psle primrose. A vision of spring? Hardly ; rather a very g.acions perfectly-dressed woman. ' Are you very much astonished to see me here !' she said. * Well, yea, though it is always foolish to be surprised.' * Ton thought I was bound to be in Louden, and at my toll of amusing the British public. Ko ; lam on sick leave, snd onme down here to recruit, The doctors won't let me sing f>r another month yet; I have been ill. But yon em't be moieaurprked to see me than lam to see you. I did not know thero was another London exile be-

sides myself at Penmouth.' ' Did you fancy you had the monopoly of tho place ? he said dryly. She laughed ; her ;augh was wonderfully sweet. • I feel my sovereignty to be disturbed,' she said j ' and I daresay you do the same.' •What is to be done?' said M»jor Norman ; ' shall I abdicate, pack up, and return to night to Padding'on ?or ahall we agree to reign together ?' Miss Duncombe shook her heed. 'I can't determine at once/the said ; 'I don't know whether your claim is better or worse than mine.' * How ia that to be deolded ? By priority of arrival ?' 1 1 think, rather, by the strength of one's reaeon for being here.' 'la that case,' he said, 'I yield. I have no reason for coming here. Any place that is quiet and pretty will do aa well for ime. Shall I leave ?' (.To be continued)