LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2582, 17 July 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

BEHIND THE SOEN-' S ; A LOYK STORY. {Continued, ) ‘ Yon know I can t say yea without being rude,’ eke replied; ‘ £ think you will find the place very dull,’ ‘ Thera la no fear of that now, unksi you tell me that I boro you.’ It was tha conventional compliment conventionally spoken, but for once it expressed truth. After a week spent in h s own companionship, Yincent Norman felt quite a sadden pleasure in meeting a graceful and sympathetic! woman, with whom he had sufficient acquaintance to entitle him to try and bettor it. He h»d met Miss runcome once or twlc 3 at crowded London receptions, had taken her down to supper, bed i talked to her in the park. Of course ho anew her well, as did the rest of tho world, as Miss Clement, a famous singer snd actress, as Marguerite end Ophelia and Elsa ; but hia knowledge of her as Miss Buncombe was confined to what had been already stated Down here at Pocmoath, however, where they bath had felt themselves as sooial Alexander Selkirks, they had met almost as old friend?. They walked along together, talking ‘ Sbakanesre, taste, and mnsioal glasses,’ the last new Jplay. the icadetny exhibition, which as jet neither had seen, the last artistic fads in room decoration. At length they reached the end of the lane, which had so turned and twisted that when they emerged they found themselves looking down from ths brow of a hid on the ee», glorious

in the sunlight. * Oh!’ said Miss Buncombe, drawing a breath of pleasure; then she burst out laughing j * wnat creatures of habit we are !’ she said ; ‘ h-‘ re yon and I have been talking, just as wa might ia a London drawing-room, of things wo have no present interest In, and have never spoken one word of the beauty around us,’ •Probably in London we should have disconned eloquently on the beauties of Nature —or you would ;I sm never eloquent.’ She looked up at him. * Don’t you think,’ she said, ‘that the g ood of snefa a place as this Is that cue’s thoughts and feelings grow simpler and purer, and one forgets the Babe! our lives are now ?’ ‘lf I must confers,’ he answered, *1 love the sweet shady side of Pall Mall; and so would yon, Miss Baucome, if you had been grilling eight years in India, and were due on the gridiron again In five months.’ ' Arc you going back to India ?’ ‘Yes; I may be there cs well as here, India is a better place than England for a person who has no particular aim In life. There’s less fuss made abiut living there than there is here.’ ‘ I think yon arc rather inconsistent.’ She gave a little laugh. * I am quite of your opinion. Are you consistent, Miss Buncombe ?’

Her large safe eyes met his. * I want to be,’ she said. ‘ Don’t,’ ha said, ‘ don’t wish to nnhnmanise yourself; yon could not be a woman if you were—or a man.’ ‘I don’t want to be tho last,’she answered a little sharply. ‘ Are you in jest or earnest ?’ ‘ I can’t tell you mj self.’ ‘Major Norman,’ the said suddenly, *1 believe yon have a very bad opinion of people. There is something cynical in your way cf speaking.’ ‘l am very sorry to hear it! there is nothing I bate as much as cheap cynicism, and mine would be very cheap indeed.’ ‘ But you think men and women aro-~ ’ ‘Men and women,’ he put in. ‘Ah!’ with a sudden change of voice,’ ‘ there Is my favourite wild flower.’ Ho sprang up the bank, and in a moment returned to her with a few of the frsil and small white bells and tender green trefoil leavei of the wood-sorrel in his hand. ‘ I don’t know it,’ said, as he give them her. ‘ Pretty thing; how lovely it is !’ 1 Yes ; and It will fade almost Immediately.' Miss Buncombe produced a dainty notebook from her pocket, and placed the little flowers among ita leaves. ‘I can’t bear,’ she said, ‘to throw a flower away till it is q .ita dead, or to watoh it dying.’ ‘do yen embalm It, where it may d!o out of sight without paining any one, It is the way of the world. ’ ‘ Did I not say yon were cynical ?’ * If you choose to taka every word I utter as spoken from the depths of an embittered heart, I may figure as a very Timon.* * Or Alceate ?’ 1 Yon do me t o much honor. Alcestes are not as common as— ’ be suddenly remembered she might apply bis words personally, and stopped. ‘As Celimenes;’ she fijished his sentence for him quite calmly. ‘ No, she is natural enough ; poor Alcssto ! ’ *Ho would have been much more to be pitied if Ce’Jmeno had t ben him.’ * But if she had been different? there are other kinds of women.’

t ha was speaking simply and earnestly ; simply and earnestly he answered her, ‘I believe It ’ But something in his look made hor, actress and woman cf the world as she was, flush rosy red, and a silence fell between them for a few moment*; at last Miss Duncombe felt the need of making some casual remark to break it, and said, ‘Are you stay ing at an hotel, or in lodgings ? * I was at the Kiag’s till yesterday ; now I am in lodgings.’ ' Are you well off now ?’ asked Miss Duncombe. ‘Yes, I have found rooms in a charming old p’aoo ; do you know It 7 tloraeck House.’ * Hornoob Hcuss! why, we are fellowlodgers ! So yon are ‘ the new geat’eman’ Miss Watkins told me of this mors ing !’ * And yon are “ the lady down-stairs 1” I understand now. Miss Duuscombo ; it was you whom I hoard playing the violin last night,’ She blushed slightly. ‘ I should not have played if I had known any one could hear ; but they won’t let me sing, an 1 music I must have, so turned to my violin for comfort. I hopo it did not annoy yon.’ ‘ L>o yon think me ‘ ‘ fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ?” Bnt I never know you played the violin. ’ ‘ How should you !’ she said; ‘I only play to myself. My lather was an amateur, music was bis great passion, and so he had me taught the violiu when I was almost a baby, and made me keep on the study even after my other capabilities were discovered. I hated it then, but I am so glad of it now. I might lose my voice any day, hut unless I were deaf or . paralysed I should still have my music.’ *lt is a great blessing,’ said Major Norman, 'to xt fleet, as a listener, that one enjoys the sweets without the bitters of music.’

‘But yon don’t know all the sweets,’ she answered quickly, ‘ any more than one who looks at a picture knows the joy cf an artist.’ • No,’ he answered, * yon are right; and yet. Miss Dnncombo, you can never hear your own voice as we hear it.’ ‘I wish I could,’ she said ; * then I should learn my faults. But neither can you know what It is not only to sing, but to aing in a great theatre, with the dramatic excitement to aid one.’ • I suppose, to you, it is the only real life.’ ‘Yes,’ she answered ; ‘ that is, at times ; but then at other times one feels such a poor thing; oae’s art is only for a day, only a rendering of other people’s higher art. It passes away and Is forgotten.’ ‘But without it we could not appreoiate the higher art in the same measure. ‘ I know; the singer and the player are simply the instruments through which the composer and the dramat'at speak to mer. It is not always a pleasant thought, if one loves art. ’ • I think what you say is only a ha’f truth ; bat it is no mean lot to be the priestess of Mozart. Is it not,’ be said, with real interest in his eyei, ‘ that you are over tired by the o train of work f You will get rested here, u.nd will see things more healthily. ’ ‘Yes * she said, ‘I am resting between the acta. I feel rather as if yon and I had first met on the stage, and now wese resting and talking behind p he scenes.*

* It U a pleasant rest,’ he said ; * h?t a-e yon not longing to be back in the midst ol your triumphs and year labou's 1’ * No ; I am glad to breath quietly, to have time to think and remember myself.’ All this while they had been welkin,-; along the road that led to Horneok House, and now they were opposite the tree-em-bowered gate. Major Norman held it open for his componion to pass through, and then followed himself, * Good morning,’ Nora said a - , they reached the front door ; ‘ I don’t go in this way ; I havo my own door Into the silting room round oa the other side.’ She hoid out her hand, thou turned round by the side of the house, and Major Norman went up-stairs to bis own rooms. The days went by like a quiet pleasant dream to the two people who had established then'selves for a little while at Horneck House. Major Norman simply hid coma to Penmouth because he wanted some quiet place where he could mediate on a book he had wrntedto write for the last ten years on our Indian frontier. Nora Buncombe’s reasons for visiting the pretty out oE-tha-world sea-silo town have been already given Neither he nor she often spoke of returning to London ; but if Mies Buncombe alluded to it, it was always with a certain ragret that this lotus eating calm must come to an end, and the c attain of her life-stage ring up again sho tly. Vioce.it and Mies Buncombe had seen a good deal of each other during this time. This could not last long ; it was but a dreamy melody, peaceful and tender , bnt perhaps one of the two half unconsciously wished it could be the overture to a fuller and fairer life. It was the first evening of June ; the day had burnt itself away in the west, but the sky was still blue, deepening to the darkest hue of the sapphire tint. Major Norman had had letters to write for the Indian mail, and they had kept him in his rooms the whole day; but now, looking down to the garden, he etkw there a tali and graceful figure In a dress of dim grey, A quick thrill shot through him, suoh as of late had stirred his pulses whenever he had touched * the white wonder’of Bo a Buncombe's hand. lie mentally anathamatised himself for a foci, sat down, and took up a French novel. He read three-quarters o! a page, then threw the book down and loft the room for the garden, where Nora Buncombe was walking In the twi’ight She looked np cs hs came towards her. It was not so dark but that he coaid oatoh the smile on her lips and the welcome of her eyes. ‘ I [have not seen you before to-day, ’ she said; ‘ltwaiapity if you stayed indoors, for it has been suoh a perfect day.’ * And will be a perfect night.’ he said. ‘ The day grows pale. Oh, If June would but last!’ , ‘How tired one would be of it 1’ Major Norman lazily observed. * I don’t think I should,’ said Nora, * this is the first Juno I have spent in the country since I have bean a woman. Jane to me always means the season and the stage.’ ’ * And Jnne roses, Covent Garden bouquets. This is a different side of the mouth.’ ‘Yes,’ she said softly. For a moment he seemed about to say something; but her face was turned away, and his words, whatever they were, remained unspoken They hod wandered down to where the garden was bounded by a flowing between banks of rushes and forget-me-nots, overshadowed by ire-s and shrubs. They stood by the side cf the stream at a little open spice ; the lingering light fell on Miss Buncombe's fair face, making it look pale, bnt showing the long sweep of her white throat, the fad curve of the heavy eyelids, the beautiful mouth. It was one of those times when she was love’y, and contented the eye absolutely. She was loaning by a syringa, plucking its white blossoms one by one, and casting thorn into the water as she spoke. ‘Shall you remain at Penmouth much longer ?’ the asked, ‘No,’ Vincent answered; ‘I am due at my brother’s on the 14th; and you, I suppose, will B'oa be in tha midst of that other Jane yon know so well.’ ‘ Yes, my voice is quite strong again.’ She spoke musingly. Major Norman o.u’d almost have fancied that he heard a rieg of regret in her voice, ‘ Would it be asking too mnob, I wonder,’ he said half jestingly, ‘ if I asked yea to let ms ju’ge of your recovery.’ She laughed. * There is no accompaniment, except the brook. ‘What does that matter? Your voice needs no support.’ ‘Thank you,’ she answered; then sho half turned away as though to pluck another syriegi flower, and the low notes of her voice fell on Vincent Norman’s ear, perfect in their tenderne s and sweetneaa. He had heard her sing in a great theatre, her voice put forth in all its strength ; but her singing had never touched him as it did now. How could It 1 she was only an actress and singer to him, he but a unit if her audience; but now they were man acd woman together under the silent stars, and each one of her notes vibrated in his heart and stirred to new life —what ? It was a strange song she sang, with a pession and sadness in the music that gave life to the words ; “ Was it for this I loved thea ? Only this? Ob, bow thy head down onoe before we part; Po seal mine agony with one sad kiss j Fear rot, thou shalt not feel my salt tears smart. No word of hope or comfort ere I go ? Tis batter so. “ Turn thou away ; be mine the grief aloce! Thine eye shall keep its light, thy lip its red; Earth has enough of woe without thy moan ; Eetain thy beauty, though its sou! be dead. ’lVas not in thee Love’s perfectness to know ; ’Tis bettor so. ’

What strange contradiction in her nature was it that moved her to chco e that song f A song written by a man ont of his heart’s bitterness, and the words and music of which held a reproach for her, and for her alone. Years ago she had been engaged to marry Cyril Elmore, a young man just rising into fame as a musician. She broke off the engagement in a moment’s revulsion at the idea of losing her freedom, Cyril having wished her not to si»n a contract for America for the winter after their proposed marriage. He left her without a word of reproaoh or reply; and, in spite of her relief at once more being her own mistress, she was sorry for the loss of her boy lover with the dark gray eyes and beautiful sensitive 'face. Shortly afterwards she heard that he was about to leave England for a long while, and then wrote to him asking eno kind word of farewell and forgiveness, fn reply the received no letter, only the MS. of the song of which the words are written above. A week later she learned that the ship In which Cyril Elmore hid sailed had gone down with every soul on board. Nora was sorry then I perhaps her self-reproach never quite died away when she thought of tho poor boy who had loved her so well, whom she had fancied she was fond of. She kept to herself his legaey of tfcis his last song ; and no one but herself had ever heard it till this night when she sang it to Vincent Norman, She could not understand now what impulses had

made her choose this Bong of all others, and ■was vexed -with herself the next moment that she had done so. She had the dramatic sympathy with the muaioi’.n, which goes so far towards the making of a great singer ; and she had sung this song, whioh told of the love she had never understood or prized, as though she herself felt the pain from whence the music had its birth. And so Major Norman, looking at her, thought that here was a woman in whom a man might safely trust. ‘Do you remember,’ she sa : d, turning to him, ‘our talk that first day of Aloeste and Celimene ? My with your view of the matter,’ ‘ Yes ; yet Alceate needed pity as it was.’ ‘ 1 thought you held that Celimene was not worth the wincir.g.’ 1 Better oaro for some object of unworthy love than not care for anyone.’ Nora shrugged her rhouldere. ‘Very well,’she said; ‘and in real life Aloeste would have carried it out by marrying the first girl he met, and consoled himself for Celimene’a weakness by being weaker himself. ’ Vincent turned quickly on her. ‘You don’t believe that I’he said; ‘why should yon say it !’ She laughed. * 1 have only caught your own tons of talk. Yon should be glad to have so apt a pupil,’ {To be continued )