GEORGE CONSIDINE'S MISTAKE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2623, 2 September 1882, Page 4

GEORGE CONSIDINE'S MISTAKE.

* By-the-way, Jack, you have never told me how it was that George Considine left the army. Hadn't be a disappointment, or something of that sort V We were sitting together, my brother and I, in the old fashioned, oak-panelled Cjffee room of the Hook and Hatchet, at Bernburst, our hunting quarters in the year of grace, '73, enjoying the pleasant warmth of a genuine wood fire, and a bottle of our landlord's '47—very good it was, too, —after a long, hard day with the West Dartshire hounds.

'Ah, that it rather a long story and a sad one,' answered Jack gravely, refilling my glasi and his own, whilst I composed myself to listen to the following narrative :—' He was a great chum of mine/ began Jaok, ' when we were at Sandhurst together. I met him first at Raeford, that Summer you went abroad with my father. He and I, poor Wenfcworth, and two or three other lads were staying down in the holidays. He first met Mary Laborde there She, too. was staying at Raeford. Lady Lanchester was her aunt, or cousin, I forget which, and Considine f 11 desperately in love with her after a boyish fashion ; he was about four, teen, I suppose at the time. After that visit I don't think Considine saw much of his lady love until he came of age Ho aihel me to the ball they gave there, and had no eyes for anyone but Miss Liborde, so I was no' surprised when he told me, a month later, that they were engaged. Beautiful ? Ay, she was, and she made many an honest heart ache, too. Well, Considine and I went out to India soon after, ai you know. Of omrae hia people would not hear of his taking a wife with him ; In fact, I believe they did not altogether like the engagement. I lost sight of him for two or three years ; he was a shockingly bad correspondent, and the on'y letter I ever had from him, about six months after our arrival out here, contained nothirjg in the world but a deecipticm of a pony he and another fellow had bought, and some rather strong language relative to mosqultoa. I answered the Interesting despatch, and then the correspondence dropped About three years after, you know I was ordered home invalided, and the first person I met on board the City of Edinburgh was Considine, looking as if I had parted with him but the day before. He nursed me during that voyage as you would have done, Charlie, an-i when I got a little better, and condescended to take some Interest in my fellow-oreatures, he told me how it wes we chanced to meet again on our homeward way. He was still engaged, and had kept np a regular correspondence with Miss Laborde during those three yoara. Her last letter had brought him news of her mother's death. * So I'm going home to be married, old fellow. She is left without a penny in the world ' he said to me, ' kow on earth Mrs Laborde oontrived to live in the style she did, goodness only knows. But I have enough with Marston, and she shall never know what poverty is in future, if I oan he'p it.' He asked me to be his best man at the wedding, as his last words, as we pa>ted at Paddington—he was going straight down to Raeford—were, * I'll write and let you know all about It, Jack. Keep yourself in readiness to come and do your duty by me ; you mustn't fall me, you know.' I answered him jokingly, and he ran off to his train. I went down to Paddington next morning to meet a servant—a lad they were sending up to me from Aldrnm; and standing on the platform watching the Birmingham train draw up and empty itself, I canght sight of the back of a slight, familiar figure in a grey Bait, getting out of a smoking carriage, and I ran up and laid my hand on Oonsldine's shoulder. ' Didn't expect to see you baok so soon, old fellow. .Nothing wrong, I hope Where are you going?' ' To the devil, I think,' he said, under his breath and trying to shake my hand off. I just glanoed at him, acd knew what was the matter. He had his portmanteau in his hand, and was striding off towards the cabstand as he spoke. I followed him, and put my arm through his. ' 'Pon my word, Considine, I'm awfully sorry; come home with me, will you ? It will be better than going to the club; my rooms are quiet.' ' No,' he answered, eavagely, ' hanged if I do!' but he j umped into a cab, giving the fellow no answer when he asked where to drive ; bo I gave him my addresi, and Coutidlne muttered a ' thanks, Kenyon,' as I sat down beside him. He looked wretchedly ill and exhausted, and suapecting that he had not breakfasted, I made him have something when we reached home. Afterwards he said he was going down to his place at Marston, if I would go with him; they could easily get a oouple of beds ready for us, and he thought there was bo me shooting. I had nothing particular to keep me in town just then, I aaw Considine really desired my company, so I consented to go with him. His father had been dead some eighteen months, and his mother was abroad at some German baths for her health; the house at Marston was shut up and left in the charge of the housekeeper and a oouple of maidservants. We telegraphed, giving them about an jhoar'a notice, and then cal.

looted oar traps and ran down by the four express. Marston Magna is a small ont-cf-the-world village, hidden down among hollows of South Meadshire, and the Grange, Contiiina's place, is little more than a shooting box; a quaint, many gabled, grey stone house, standing on a little platform of green turf, and surrounded on three sides by a belt of Scotch firs, and a wide moat. Bet in a dark background of trees, the place h> s a damp and somewhat dreary look. At night, after we had dined together, and were smoking in sober silence by the fire, I looked up suddenly and saw the keen, quiet eyes of C onsidi no fixed on me. He put down his cigar, and spoke. ' I should like to tell you all about it, Jack,' he said in his usual tone, • I'm afraid I made rather a fool of myself this morning and was rude to you.' I Interrupted him with a gestnre of dissent. *I teg your pardon if I were so," he went on, ' but I was In a cursed temper; it's all over now ; I only feel like a fellow awakened out of a pleasant dream a little too rougly.' He paused a [moment or two ; I thought I ought to speak, bnt I didn't in the least know what to say. So I held my tongue, and Considine began his story quietly, with his usual dry and composed manner. {To be oontimted )