LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2649, 3 October 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

BCABFSIDH. [From " London Society." (Continued.) Yon boo I had believed In John, and pinned all my girlish faith on him, and I feared that my idol was of day. Who was this woman, whom he mot outside the houre, and whose hands he clasped as I had known bim clasp mine (here I fell to looking at mine and pitying them), and in whose face he gazed so earnestly ? I was sure she was handsome, and I had seen her eyes sparkle from where I sfood. Bnt I was too proud to tell hiti I had seen them. He nhculrl not think he was watched. It should be 1; ft to him to tell mo ; and I would not make It easier for him. So I washod my face; it made me break down again when I caw it in my little glass, and thought how often ho had kissed it. And I made my dresa a little gayer than usual. But when we mat at tea my ways could not be as before, and ho soon fell; that there was something wrong between us Oddly, too, this evening John was moro lite his old self ; he had got rid of his thoughtfulness, and rallied me quite rcerrily on my little knot of ribbon. Then he asked me soberly if I were well, and though I did not seem to be looking at him, I knew that he was puzzlo3 and anxious. From this his faoe changed to gravity, which, as the evening wore on, took more and mora a look of pain and thought. I would have given the world to hsve taken his dear head on my shoulder, and kissed away the oares from his brow, and tho aching from his eyes ; but that wornm was between us, and the Wound was too fresh. We had never had a lovers' quarrel—for John way always right in my ey?B —or wo might have made more light of one another's displeasure, end drawn ont the wrongs whioh we kept to ourselves. My brow, t-o, was hoavy, and my eyes aching as I laid them on the pillow ,* and it was a weary & wakening in tha morning.

OnAUTER V. Those wars four wretohed weeks that followed my nnlnaky visit to the ottir'a pool. John gavo me no explanation, nor did ho hint at hig Becret meeting; bat hiss manner grow colder and colder, and hia voioa mora hard when he cpoko to mi, so that even David saw that someihiag wa3 amiss, and. in h? 3 gcod-nature way, I suppose, thought that by being more gay himself he might oosotal, if he could not mmd, the breajh between us. Surely John woa'd ask mo the reiEOJ of my coidneas, or give mo some CA.-.se for his roady assent to this miserable lifaita of things 1 But he did neither. Only when he thought no one was looking at him, his faoe would grow s*d and hia brow perplexed, and he would sigh as he gazed into the fire with that fixed look. A hundred times did I yearn to kneil at his knees and k as hia weary eyes and comfort him, though the next moment he went out to meet that woman, I have watched him thus, and longed, until the choking Bobs re a a up and made me leave the room, that I might sacrifice my pride and make him happier; for that he was fretting how hu might tell me, I felt sure. But I could not do it. David's merrimont, we : l meant though It might ba, jarred upon up. As for Marjory, I knew not why, she was sometimes veved with me, and then, aga'n, I would catch her looking at ma in a pitying

wsy, tb.it told she guessed what was the matte.-. But the said nothing. Dear \fa.rp-y, I have oirned how i!l she wbs thinking -f her bairn, and how love wss Strug-; it'g with anger in her honest breast. tfo the fcreaoh grew wider day by day ; and by tha e .d f<f the month, without a WOTd sai i, Jon iaid 1 had tacitly made up our minds that it *■»» over between ua, On the o-'ooi: £ hi fore I was to leive for Chester that yu-vt of the pan was btilt a-'herad to — we dl.i haveßomithing In ih« of an expla; aticn. He atked. me to go for a walk wl h lim; and we elimbed Soarfaide together, as we hid so often done before. It was a silent walk. We both wished to say Homething ; but it did not gel; itself said, until wa wero at the orchard gate on the way home again. Then he did fpo-k, in his brave way, very shortly, and how mnoh to the polut; I hardly felt, until I got ta my room, and hid my face on the dear little bed that had known all my childish joya and Borrows. Ciroumstanots (it was unlike him to be lenient to himself, I thought), ha said, had come between us; and we must not blame one another In tbe time to come. And he prayed that God would bless me. Twice he said that before ho went quickly away through the rick yard, and I went in. The spring of my happiness had been very short. However, we we were more oheerful that last evening; it may be beosuse we had, to some extent, found out our footing, aid there was no fear of our warmth being mistaken Yet I was glad that we were able to be friendly to one another on this last evening of the old life, though a dull ever present pain lay under my cheerfulness. Our talk was chiefly of my journey next day. I was not sorry when John was called away on some outdoor business upon the farm, which would detain him until after our bed time, and I was able to go to my room under pretanc3 of finishing my packing, but really tp sit down and think sadly to myself that this was my laßt night in the old home which had taken me in when I was homeless and friendless. In the old days how good oonsin John had been to me 1 how generously he had sheltered me when I was a helpless child in whom he could see only something to pity! Afterwards he had seen something to love ; he had loved me once—l clueg to that; and then—a bitter then it was that followed. But thinking of these i thing?, a resolve grew strong within me that, before I left, I would tell him I freely wished him happiness, and that, forgottlng the later past, I should ever be grateful for the kindness of my childish diys His last thought of ma should not be that I went aw.y fall of resentment. The household had all gone to bed. It was oloso upon midnight, and still he had not come in, for I should have heard him pass up the stairs. What time could be better than the present, late as it was ? I should slscp more contentedly, if not more hapj'ily, when I had got lid of seme of this weight of gr»tltnde A month ago, and I should have thought him little satisfied with gratitude alone. The last time that I had waited thus—and yet not thus, alas I—for him had been on the evening of his acoldent, if it might be called so, at the orchard-gate. The stillness of the house and the hour made me think of it with an uneasy shudder; but now there could be no draper—he had only gone to an outlyicg shed to see 010 of the cattle wh'°ch was ill; David Boag should hive done it; but he was unwell and had gone early to bed. At first I was only impatient for John to come in that I might see him, nnd say what I meant to say; but as the time wore on, and It got later, and the house more end more still, and yet ho did not come, I grew uneasy about him. Not for long ;he must have let himself in very quietly, for, though I did not hoar the dco.* opened, he is moving softly in the kitchen underneath. Without taking alight I go quietly down the stairs, crcs-i the little hall, and pause an instant in the darkness at the half-open door, fearful at the last lest John may think it unmaidenly of me. The door betwe<n the hall and klt.ohen is half open, and with my hand already stretched out to push It farther, I am stopped by what I see within. Hurely this is cot the fami'iar room where the kettle has so of tea sung, and the long oaken table mirrored our laughing faces. John is not there, but someone is—some one—a dark form crouching on the hearth in the full blaze of the fire; and at the Bight of his waiting figure and the thing in his hands, my heart stands still, as it did once before at my bedroom window. That ill-omened watoher ho patiently waiting, weapon in hand, means danger to some one—to John. The hearth is on my left hand as I look in through my door, which faces the outer one leading fiom the kitchen into the open air. There is no light in the room save that of the wood fire, which is burning brightly, filling the room with l'ghts and shadows; and though I cannot see the man's face, which la turned away, watohing the outer dcor opposite me and beyond him, the door by which John may come in at any moment, yet what he holds so tenderly is plain enough* It is John's gun. He is waitirg there, in the quiet home kitchen, with only the loud tioking of the dock to keep pace with my heart, to murder him when he comes in through that door. What am I to do ? If I leave my post for an mstant, before I can get to one of the windows np stairs to warn him, John may came In, and it will be too late. What! Of all others, the man is David Boag the bailiff! He has turned his head, as if ho heard the beating of my heart, and it is he indeed ; but as the blaza lights up his profile, a gnat horror, surpassing all I had felt before, cornea npon mo, and I feel so faintjl almost fall. Bnt he does not hear the rustling of my dress; he is intent upon his aim. It is his, David's, face, and yet it is not. The features are distorted with fiendish glee; the eyes are glittering with the glitter of madness and the teeth, from whi;h the lips are drawn back, are clenched in the fixir.y of his purpose. He is watohing that door with the tenacity of a dog, never winking. Even as he turns his head to listen his eyes do not quit the door before him, and he clutches the gun with the strength of madnets. Mad he is, and in a madman's most dangerous mood. A new thought breaks in upon my mind. As I think of a hnndred lif.tle things I wonder I have never suspected this before. How shall I save John ?

* f myself I did not think, thank Heaven, as I leant against the wall, hardly four yards from this armed manaic, tut only how I might save my lover. For the moment he was my lover again, and the last weeks of estrangement wero forgotten. Not a sound in the house hut the clock ticking and the hushed fall of the wood ashes, Mvjory and the servant were fast asleep at the end of a long passage up stairs, little witting of the Bcene that tho firelight was shining upon. liven if I dared move away, there was no other way ont of the house but through the kitchen. How I racked my brain for some plan, and bethought myself in my terror that an old soldier of my father's regiment, who chanced to light upon Scarf aide, and spoke innoh of him, and was, yon may be Euro, well treated there, called me my 'father's daughter every inch!' I kept thinking of that, wondering why then I was not equal to this call upon my presence of mind, I dared not stir; John might open that door at any moment, and I felt no hope that that dark vengaful form crouching in tha shadowy room, would miss his aim, though the tire flickered, and sometimes to my fancy ssemed to multiply him, and fill all the room with larking figures, ready to pounce upon me. No plan occurred to me; and even as I thought, the key turned slowly and gratingly in the lock of the outer door, at which I gazed desperately. It shook; John's fingers were on the latoh lifting it; and wioh every nerve strained, with a faoe like stone, the madman was bringing the gun to his shoulder. This was no time for thought now. As quiok as thought itself, and almost as still, I glided in behind him into the room, and as he raised the weapon, and the door was opened widely, I sprang forward and flung my arms round the madman, striking up the, gun. Even so it was Beaven's mercy, not I, saved my lover. Had he not lingered a moment to scrape his boots I had been too late ; as it was the charge struck the wall just above tho door, Aa David dashed me. screaming loudly now, on the floor, John, who seemed to take it all in in an instant, had his hands upon him and tried to throw him. It was a grim straggle by the flickering blaze of the fire, while I lay only able to scream—not that David in his saner moments was any matoh for his master in (trenth, but to-night the force of madness was in him, Again and again he tried to dash John against the fireplace or tha table, and seemed getting the better of hi ii, while the half-uttered ories that forced themselves from his writhing foaming lips told of the fierce hate that nerved his mad fingers in their clutches at his master's

throat. And I could do nothing, or only scream. But fortunately my criea and the gun-shot brought down Marjory, and the stout old woman, fcarlers in her iovo for her master, give snoh aid that f-oon the poor mad wretch waj lyin>; fast and h <und on the flo r. Then th y tarnrd tf< van with suoh pltyiuK words. It |hi»d noii hurS mo &s I fell, bnfc Bomphiw my arm was broken. 1 wouifi hwe had it broken a doz-n times to Bive John's life. But I ant glad that eld soldier w»s n.t there as they lifted me up ; for I fainted In a very foolish way, qulta unlike my father's daughter. It was my first and last transgression of that kind ; lant, I trust, for It cannot be that I shall ever be oo tried again. {To be continued )