LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2648, 2 October 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

ECABFSIDS. £From “ Loudon Society.” (Continued. ) (~ H4TTBU 111. I have beard th t there are faw wornor se aappy sa to he 'ova-t by two nun; it fel> out so wuh tno, yet it brought euytmng but liappines i. I d o’: know when it wes that I began to see that David Baag was always at my heels as he used to bo at John’s, but it was loeg before my c?uda made me happy by a few words in tbo business parh:r. I do not thick any one ilse saw Lav d’s change of mains-, imt I did, or thought I did, and it made mo ill at ease with him He had become part of the household 10.-g before It opaned its .vm-i (o me ; ho wv; good looking until you looked at -John, -nd then you saw that his face was too long ard narrow, and his hands also, die had odd ways with bis fingers, and bis features wore never still for a moment he was so fidgety. Therefore when John told him that we were

to ba married, I was glad to see h'ra not east down, but kindly to me ; and if he was more noisy than usual, being as _ a rule a silent mss, yet it was biave of him io hide Ms vexation by a little gaiety and gcodmatured of him not to damp cu- j -y. At times life ia like a full stream. Scarcely had I become sure that Scarfsldo would always be my home, when a fresh event came upon us from that outside world which, seemed so emaT by tha side of the little glen that held all I loved. It was the death of my grandfather, old Mr Foiliott. 1 lure said n- thing of his deMlt-ga with my father, for I do not with to write any_ evil ; end indeed 1 am bound not to do so or him. Ha was sorry at the last, and would have undone the wrong. That he oould not do, for my poor father had been lying seven yean In Kirtledale churchyard, whither -John Fenton had brought him. But the old man did something. He mads a fresh will, which caused so many telegrams and letters “to coma to ns, to say nothing of keen old gentlemen in ohiisea from Derby, and even farther, that many people round who bad never heard of t-carfaldo before must have learnt the way t o it; and I suppose that was why neighbouis whom wo had eoatcely seen of late found ns out at this time. Of course 1 was pleased to find that I should bring •omething to John, but I was vexed that ho should have to go away about my bu -iness, as the lawyers would have hi a do. It was needful, they said, that I or some one for me efaoold go to the funeral. I would have 2 one myself so gladly, lest it should be thought that I bore malice towards the poor •Id man, bat for reasons I only partly understood they thought it better that a man •honld go. I was cheerful enough as I gave -John bis I reakfaat; he drove me to the high road, and there I stood at Princo Charlie's corner, waving my baud as long as I could see him, now lo.iog, now catching sight of him as the trap wound np and down the hill* toward] Derby. There be was to leave it, so that if ha should return at night he might drive home without loss of time As I walked back by the sheep-track to Bcarfslde—it la a little shorter than the cart-

road—l tried to sing, for had I not good reason to be happy 7 But this was the first time that John had been away since 1 grew wp, and my singing ended very foolishly. 1 was soon my -elf again ; the day, though •old, was bright, and I was cheery enough by the time 1 reached the farm, and qu’te ready to help Marjory In the dairy. We bad plenty to do that day and the next; and on the third, just when I felt that Marjory was very cross and David very sfcspid, a letter came from John saying he should return by the last train that night, feat would not reach Boarfaide until between •no and two in the morning ; and he added that we were not to sit np for him. This was like John, who was always thoughtful, hat he should have known that I cou.d not aieep until he had come home. We were all a little excited by bis return, so qniet was onr life, and I am sure David was as fidgety as I was myself. Twice that day we were disturbed : first a tramp called. Now we were always very good to beggars, partly because those who five in qaiet places are so, and partly because I sometimes thought of a little waif who oronohed in the cold and wet on tho steps of Bt. Martin’s Cbnrcb. Bnt this was a man of undeserving temper, for he was wicked enough to kick Kolpie—sho was very •Id and weak now, and bad crept out to enjoy a little of the winter sunshine on the stones before the porch—and foolish eno-’.gh to think that no oite saw him. Bo cure Marjory and I rated him roundly, and gave Mm nothing, but told him that when David came in from h's work ho should come after him with tho cart whip. We told David, and for a look from me he would have done It gladly, though the man must have gone some way by that time. But I did not look.

Then, earlier in the day, we had a more wnusual visitor; a lady, or one who seemed so—for aha was closely veiled, as if agiivat the cold—walked un to the door and asked to see Mr Fenton. Wa were mightily curious shout her, for she would not rest or take anything ; but when she heard that ho was from home, walked quickly hick by the wiy she came. We stated after, but she never turned, only male off quickly. I tried to hide my own carioti y, but I hard .tier jory'a guess js with pleasure, and though David said little, ha seemed to muse over it a ‘good deal, la truth, towards evening I forgot all about her in thinking of seeing John again. The night was cold and very dark. That made me fearful, and perhaps set ns talking ♦f every mischance that could befall him. When bedtime came, after making up a good fire and setting out the master’s sapper, which I did with my own hands, we yet sat lingering on la the kitchen and I was nearly ■elfish enough to ask David to go and meet him. _ But I had heard David say that be waa tired, and I was loth to ask a favor of

him, or to seem foolish. At length wo went up to bed. Until John ome home there would be no sleep for me, and I did not try "to get any, but, undreaeed, and wrapping a blanket round me, sat at the window, looking out into the darkness and praying for him. Eyes were ua less; all things were so still that the murmuring of the brook between its ice-bound banka was clear enough. I knew 1 should hear his wheels the moment he had passed the on--trance to the valley, and my ears were on the stretoh to catoh the first sound. Then I began to think that he ought already to be here, that he wa? later than ho should bo, that something had bapoened, and 1 stole downstairs to lookat the kitchen clock. But, It was not so; and no sooner had I satisfied myself than David, whom I thought asleep, harried down .also, .aroused by tho little nolle I had made. Perhaps ho was nervous too j at the time I thought so. Hardly had I got back to my post when the distant rattle of wheels on the hard road gladdened my ears. For an instant listening doubt; then hope fulfilled took its place. He was - looming—my John was o; ming ; no one else ever drove down the hill at that pace. I had heard him come bo a hundred times, .and I clasped my hands In thankfulness as I colled myself a goose, boon I could catch the jingling of the hjrners In the frosty air; nearer and nearer they were coming, hardly slackening at all, and I could hear now the herse’a footfall as well coming swiftly down the well- , known road. How dark it was i I was I trying, but peer »a I would I could not, to . make out his figure aa he drove into the - «rohard, when— Ah!—a loud crash that hounded dully through the etilineis, a nt- , lliog fall In" which splintering wor.d end : kicking heels seemed mingled; the on -j, coming wheels stopped, everything stopped : f alienee, silence. I w:s in tho act of fastening my dress, but after one oheking sob, ..while my heart stood still, I fled down tbo ; stairs, and with trembling hands unlocked .the door belore Majory and David, who had !, both been awakened by my cries, could . koto. How .quickly I sped across the garden •■ami through the orcha-d to the gateway i Think God, John himself, nod unhurt, : clasps me in hi* arms, and kin; ea mo with ■ shaking lips. I cared for nothing more They brought lights soon, and a gun to put r the poor Jhoraa oat of his pain : ho was , beyond help. Then the master and all of us .. «ame into the kitchen, and there waa that in ,-ykls. face, I bad never seen before We listened, and 1 clang to him as bespoke. It tilW no accident. Somo one had placed a -ladder.taken from the ricks across the gate- . pillar? (tnsra never was a gate there in our , time),, and leaning against them so that it must Hirpw sowa the horse, looking for no ♦ostade. Steep as the road was — tied torjgtve WmJ—ho mast have meant murder.

The shafts wore snapped like matches, and the dog-car thrown on the poor horso’i; back ; but by what we cannot osll ch* nee h's d Tver was Hang sideways on to the t trf, and escaped with the shaking. Wo gtzrd into each one n-’o'h f-ces. and found the whitaue-s i £ oar own redacted there. ! he poor old h r e ! he hid a good uerv .nt, aid I had o'un f d him ont of mv own had. Who h d dune this cruel, thin dastard y thin 7 ■nd why ? Had John laid his hand upon him at that moment small m rcy would have been hn>; and even Marjory would have made him tremble, the old worn’ n’s anger was so deep. For me, John was safe I

Charter IY. The peaceful life that we had led at Scortsicle, s-jf-mod to have come to an end. In truth, we had now much to think of and much to do; and the attempt upon my cousin’s- life—base as it was, having, as far as we know, no link with the future—filled less and loss of oar thoughts. I, indeed, was afraid to let my mind ten upon it, my anger grew so hot within mo. It was all pot down to the tramp ; and if suspicion fell elsewhere, we did not hear of it. They scoured the countryside for him as far as Derby; but he must have made haste to put the miles between himself and us, for they did not come up with him. Wo were all mistaken, as yon will see.

When our excitement had somewhat died away, John had great news for us. My grandfather had latt all he bad to leave to me; and though the acres that onoo stretched on every side of the still stately old mansion were sadly diminished by long bygone extravagances, enough remained to give rise to a fair rent-roll, and the lawyers held ont hopes that, by prudence, the waning fortunes of the house might in time be augmented. John had ta tell ua that 1 was quite a rich young lady. We could hardly believe it. Even now I was to have an allowance that to ns seemed wonderful, and as he told ns of all these things, I am not ashamed to avow that my heart beat faster—but it was for his sake. How old Marjory oritd with delight as she called me an heiress, and stroked my looks as if they had turned to real gold I David’s fingers worked faster than ever with pleasure, and only John teemed almost sad ss he painted my possessions in the richest colors Perhaps it was because the lawyers thought fit that I should live at Foiliott Pork for a short time before our marriage—as, indeed, we all allowed was seemly. They had arranged that I should go there in a month or so, when some nice old lady had been found to take care of me, until my cousin should have the best of all rights to do so. Suoh matters gave ns a great deal to do. Still I had time to notice that John, whose every look I knew so well, was troubled by a letter which o-mo to him about this time. He did not show it to me as was his way. I would not vex him with questions ; bnt I was sure that day that he was fidgeting about something, and he made so little of me that I was very low when bedtime came. But what David Boag was doing next day was even a greater puzzle to me. He was always in and oat of the house, getting very much in oar way—now looking from the hay loft window, as if expecting someone ; now talking to me of my money—which, Indeed, he was never tired of doing, making suoh dreadful faces to show hia pleasure, that I wondered how I had ever thought him anything bnt ugly. It was very foolish to be troubled by John’s abstraction ; but I was And it seemed as If David raw it and wished me not to think of it ; for in the afternoon he came and told me that the otter was In the little pool jnet below the orchard. A week before, one took up bis abode thereabout; and as I had never seen an otter, John and he had promised to fetch me, when there was any chance of catching sight of it out of Its holt. I was not at that moment in spirits to enjoy the chanae to the fall; bnt David had so set hia heart upon my going, and was so eager that I should not miss it. that I did not like to diappoint him after he had taken the trouble to fetch me. I ran out with him without my hat through the garden, and down the brook; and we had just reached the end of the orchard above the pool, when we saw John—or rather I did; for David was intent upon the other. John was not alone—how quickly I saw that! And as I looked, the dnll feeling of trouble that had been hanging over me for a day or two, caused by hia coldness, or perhaps only a shadow of whot was coming, took solid shape. There waa a woman with him; tall and young and handsome. The one. In aT certainty, who had called upon ns while he ’was away. But now her veil was back and she was gazing into his face, and he was holding both her hands tightly and leaning over her as he talked slowly and earnestly, just as he and I had often talked. Oh, John, Joan ! I had seen enough far my pride. They Wr.re in the road jnet at the entrance of the valley, ont of ear shot from the orchard, and where no one could ate them from thehouse. I 'had no eyes for the otter now ; only for him and her. As well as I oould I made soma excuve, Happily David was too eager in his quest to notice thorn, and I made him come back with me to the house. Then 1 crept np to my room and cried, a 3 bitterly! (To be continued )