LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2625, 5 September 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

GEORGE CONSIDINE’S MISTAKE

( Concluded,)

* I have since understood better the object St. Just had in view la asking us to Walford. It was said, on very good authority, I believe, that moi e than one large estate in the county belonged to him, and, had he chosen to lay claim to them, the nom'nal owners would have inevitably come to grief Scarcely one of hie friends was not over head and ears in debt to him, and Conaldlne’s little place of fifteen hundred acres at Marston was perhaps more a Nabath’s vineyard to hi i neighbor than he was at all aware of. Moreover, tbe fellow hsd such an extraordinary love of and desire for power that ha would spare no thought or trouble to bring a young man under bis influence, whether he had money or not. And not alone those of hla own station. His very grooms and stablemen watched for a look from him, and worshipped if they feared him. I was not altogether pleased to tied, when ho came Into dinner that night, that St. Just had sent for our things, and we were booked to spend a week there. He came to me in the gun room with a courteous word or two. ‘He had induced Coatidine to spend a few days with him, just for pheasant shooting -would I give him the ploiture of my company? Consldlne’s friends were his—l must stay,’ and so f jrth. 1 should like to have knocked him down Charlie ; but all I could do waa to accept the invitation rather awkwardly, and resolve to get George away as soon as possible. He waa standing by the window, and I went up to him. * You are going to stay, of course,’ he said to m", rather shortly. I answered him with a touch of coolness, and, seeing he waa la no mood to be reasoned with, left him clone. I wish now 1 had not done so. There were some wild things said snd done that night, and I know Considine lost a lot of money, more than he oonld afford to do, by a long shot. I had to look on, fret and fame Inwardly, and curse the winning smile and voice that were luring him on to destruction, My dear fellow, I tell you until yon experienced it yon could not understand how strong a fascination there waa in St. Just’s manner to a man younger than himself, and to whom his notice waa—well, a little flattering. He came ap to me In the coarse of the evening, confound him, and complimented me on my long distances and one or two lucky doable shots ; and, spite of my indignation and disgust at the part he was playing, I couldn’t help feeling hie halfdozen well bred, polished sentences were worth a whole chapter of praise from r-ny other man. Wo’l, he waa a brave soldier, snd served his country nobly. God forgive him the 111 he wrought to my friend. * Considine seams to be playing rather recklessly to night; perhaps It might be as well to give him a hint to morrow,’ he said to me, glancing over his shoulder at George’s flashed face. My blood waa up. and I answered him hotly. * I should think the hint would come best from yourself, sir.’ He turned away with a courteous ‘Perhaps so,’ that was in itself the most cutting rebuke I ever had; bnt, assuming that I was right, he took very good care that I should have no opportunity of giving the hint the next day, and I mads one for myself by following George to his room when he went to dress for dinner, I waa admitted, not with very good grace, however, and I plunged into the subject straight away. ’Look here, old fellow, if you mean to stay hero, I don’t.’ He sat down on the bed and stared at me. ‘ Very well, f erry this place doesn’t suit you. Shall you go up to town 1’ I No ; I don’t mean that, George. You know what I want to say. Let ua out the concern ; we have neither of ua any business here.’ ‘ I don’t kne w what right you have to dictate to mo iu the matter, Kenyon. l He spoko haughtily, and I answer flm lathe same tone. ‘ I have a right; yon are my friend. I have never proved myself otherwise, have 1?’ * No.' ‘ You must know now disagreeable it is tometohavetospeak on thin subject; but ’pon my honor, Considine, I can’t help it. I can’t see you go to the deuce without ’ He Interrupted me with a sneer. * I am much obliged; I didn’t know I was so far on the road to deatruo tlon that my friends oonld tell me to my face that I was going to the deuce.’ I saw the mistake that I bad made, and did what I could to repair it ‘I beg your pardon, George, I shouldn’t have said that, but what is the use of mincing the matter ? You know this is not a good house for a young fellow to be In. I know no reason why yon end I should stay.’ ‘I have remarked before, I believe, Kenyon, that there is no reason why yon should not go if you do not like it. 1 1 suppose I can taka cue of myself under any circumstances, and I mean to avail myself 1 of St. Last’s invitation.’

* Em got up and rang for hot water. I knew, blundering fool that I was, that I had overshot my mark. One more effort I made. ‘I think you owe me an apology for that speech, Conaidlue; but I don’t want to quarrel. I have only spoken because we are friends, and I’m sorry yon can’t take my warning as I meant it. ’ * Don’t say any more: we shall understand each other

better in future, I hope.' * I hope bo, ’ I ssid, and took my departure. My wounded feelings would have induced me to act upon his suggestion and go straight back to town, but for thj memory of that voyage home, and the almost womanly tenderness with which he had nursed a confoundedly irritable invalid After that evening, I began to hare a suspicion that he had gone too far to retreat, and that he couldn’t have broken with St, Just if ha would ; but why it was that ho refused me his confilenoe, I do not know. I’m afraid I was too calmly superior and self righteous in my well-msact warnings. Ah ! among the sins and follies of y iuth a man has to repent of, the memory cf his b'ggarly little virtues is sometimes the bitterest. Our little d fferenca satmel to have been forgotten next day, and Conaidine spoke to me In his usual manner. I did not sea much of him though, and it went on for several days. Bat I will not trouble yon with the details. I don’t know if Conaiiine lost much more money. I fancy not ; but he never went to bed sober; and of all the wild, reckless set gathered In the smoklng-rcom at Walford every night, he w»s the wildest and most reckless.

‘The hunting season boaan. !?t. Just offered to mount us fco'h, and wo stayed on. I was more determined than e\ er not to go without < oaaidine, and though very wall aware that my host had had enough of_ my company, I ignored the faot, and received hla cool courtesies with the best grace I could. You know the sort of hunting country it is down in Meidshlro —small fields, high hedges, very little grassland, and covers a 1! 010-e together, not the best place in tbe world for a forty mluntss run. St. Just’s stud was, taking It altogether, tbe best lot of horses .1 ever saw in any meeting stabb a ; and Conaidiue and I were well mounted. A good, bold horseman George always was, but his wild daring of those days made some of the hardest riders in the field hold their breath and shout a warning that was lo.t in the gallant rush of the little Irish hunter ho rode to the fence. Two horses he completely knocked up in as many days, and tven St. Just remonstrated. Oonsidiue pulled in a little, and 1 began to hope that after all we might escape without further mif chief worked; but he so persistently avoided having anything to say to me in private, I con’d not again introduce the subject of our le wing, save in the presence of others —and that I did not ch' Ote to do. I think we must have been there something Iko tea days before the —— end came. Conaidine had a letter that morning; I don’t know from whom, or anything of the contents ; 1 never did know, for he burnt it almost at once; but the writing was a lady’s, and I saw bis whole face darken as he read It, saw him hand it to St. Just with a little laugh and sneer, and realised, perhaps, for the first time, that I had already lost the George Constdine who was ones my friend. I took a heavy heart with me to cover-side th»t morning, Charlie. The hounds met at Walford, and found at Deepdene; the fox broke cover, and went away for Weston—a good run? Ay, I think it was tbe bast I ever bad, and longer by twenty minutes than the one to day. A burning scent, breast high, and not a check all along. The pace tbe first two or three miles bft all the stragglers behind, and the rest of us settled down Into our saddles and hardened tar hearts. It was worth a man’s while to live for each a morning ss that. A soft, south w nd, and cloudy sky, a good horse under you, answering gallantly to voice and hand, the hounds on well ahead, close together as they could ran, and far away in the distance, widening in the long, steady stride of a raca for life, the dark speck you knew to be the beat old dog fox of ihe season.

‘Ooneidlne kept on my left hand »s we went up Longbrook Valley. He waa riding a clever little mare of St. Jnet’s, a chestnut with a vile temper, which she displayed at her fences pretty frequently. Ooneidlne lest his temper once or twice, but he mansged to get his own way with the little brute, snd waa iu the first flight when the fox waa headed and turned west again over the Wixhope Common, My horse was getting a little winded then, and I knew I must ride carefully If I wished to eee anything of the finish. Ooneidlne passed me. Hi i mare bad cooled down, and was going splendidly with a free yet steady gallop, that lef; many a veteran In the rear. Ihe pioe increased as we neared the edge of tbe common and canght sight of Wixhope village lying in the hollow, and the blue smoke wreaths curling up In the misty sunlight that had struggled through the bank of gray cloud above It. Down at the brook wo loft more than one good horse and rider—over a grass field or two, through old Dobbs’ farm yard, we held on like grim death, till a stiller fence than any wa bad yet left behind made the beat of ns look to our girths and harden our hearts. I was no light weight at that time, and had some doubts as to whether my horse would do it, bat a closer view showed me the ground was sound, and there was nothing much of a drop, and I gave him hla head. A warning shout r»ng in my ears —‘Hold hard, sir I not there ; a bit bigher up.’ But my horse cleared it, fell, and recovered himself before I turned round In my eadd'e to glance behind. Some fifty yards lower down there was a tremendous drop, a wide deep ditch, and a bit of boggy ground, altogether the nastiest place you can imagine, and there Considine had jumped. He must have been mad to attempt It with a horse a bit tired. I suppose the mare cleared it, though, for she lay on the bank beyond the ditch. I saw his fair head down on the wet, red c’ay, a flashing out of white heels, as the mare struggled and got up, and 1 knew there was something awfully-wrong.

* I believe I was the first to reach him ; but ere I coold speak half a dozen flasks worn thrust Into my hand and half a dozen dismayed faces bending over the still, slight figure. St. Just’s voice stilled the momentary confusion. Is that you, Forbes ? Come here. Stand back, please, gentlemen. It is fortunate that we have a doctor at hand.’ Soma of them moved away, and Forbes, the Wixhope surgeon, strode up. A big, rough looking fellow he was, with the voice and touch of a woman. I knelt, with George’s head on my arm, while he went to work. He looked up at mo in a minute or two and shook his head. * Can’t do anything, he ‘a dying. No, don’t try to move him ; It will not lasi long.’ Something else he said, bnt I neither heard nor heeded more. They moved farther away, the other fellows, and stood staring at eaoh other In silence and dismay. I think St. Just waa bealde mo; 1 heard him speak to the doctor once or twice, but I hadn’t a thought to give him. I saw nothing but the white face upturned to the dull gray sky, and the crushed, motionless figure that blast of horn or ring of horse hoofs would never wake to life and and vigor again, I have always been thankful, Charlie, that there was a momentary interval of consciousness before the end oame. I felt a slight pres are fiom the hand iu mine. Considine opened his eyes. I had to bend down very low to catch the broken words, and St. Just, with instinctive courtesy, moved sway, a look on bis face I had never teen btfora. If his remorse and sorrow were bat a passing feeling then, I know th.t when his own time came to die, George Conaidlne’s name waa the last on his lips. * I’m done for. Jack,’ ha muttered brokenly; ‘I had always hoped to die in battle ; this la almost as good -eh ? Tell—tall her—ls that her little hand In mine T No, no, I tell you, St. Just 1’ He tried to raise himself : ‘ Gone away! is it? What does ha say? W*re wheat, gentlemen, ware wheat 1 Cut of the way there—steady, lad—steady ’

•It was a dea'h no man need fear to die, Charlie, out under the quiet sky, the green fields around, your head on mother earth ; hushed, friendly voices you will never hear again floating in on y- ur dulled senses, and some strong, faithful hand holding yours till the (art. Considine died peacefully, as a brave martvehould, a smile on his lips, and his eyes still seeking mine even in the little struggle which, thank God, did not last long.’ ‘Yes, yea, they ran to earth at Auatey Wood, and found again there. This wine is rather mnddy, eh, old fellow ?’ Jack ceased speaking, and appeared buried in thought. Were the keen, dark eyes that a few weeks back faced death so calmly when that Victoria Cross waa wen—were they filled with tears 2