LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume I, Issue 42, 18 July 1874, Page 3

LITERATURE.

IN THE HARK. In Two Chapters. —ll. [From “ Once a Week.”] [ Concluded.'] Thank God, he holds me too tightly for that ! Thank God that, before he can speak again, Jane and Tommy are stumbling on us from behind ! There could not be a better restorative, Dallas drops his arm as if shot, and turns to speak to her with more readiness than men in general show in such emergencies. I rush blindly on in the dark, knocking myself against sharp corners, slipping past Laura, and almost thrusting the guide against the wall as I dash out into the great, glittering glare of yellow sunlight and green earth. Where are I my red cheeks and chatter’ now ? Ah, reader, have not you known what it is to feel horribly,deathly pale ; to know by intuition that you arc whiter than any chalk marks on your dress ? Laura is pale too. There is an expression of mingled, joy, and sorrow on her face, which only I understand. She attaches herself to Jane obstinately. I attach myself to Tommy, whom Ido noi favor in general ; but anything rather than walk with Dallas—Dallas, who is not pale, but flushed with a sort of proud, happy audacity. Docs not silence give consent)? Little wonder his eyes rest with such open, daring tenderness on Laura’s downcast face, all the livelong journey home. We are there at last. I detect and thwart Dallas in an attempt at speaking to Miss Tremaine aside. She goes to her room. We below join in complaints of the heat, and abuse of the catacombs, ‘ iSo damp, so dirty.

4 Daisy has not got back her colour yet.’ ‘Of course not. Bad air always makes me pale. In the Metropolitan Underground I am positively ill—sick —as sick as I can bo, always.’ This in a sort of defiant reply to Dallas’s mild look of disgust. Ho goes to his room, 4 to have a smoke,’ he says. I hear the key turn in the. luck. It. is a noisy key. 1 shall be sure to hear it when ho unlocks it again ; and Laura’s room is at the other side of the house. I don’t think they could meet without my knowing it,and lam determined they shall no t_not till I am out of the house, and far, far away. Unwilling to lose time, and in amiserable, feverish hurry, which will not let me rest, I open fire, directly we arc a'onc, with — 4 Cousin John, I am going away.’ 4 Going away,’ he repeats, stupefied. ‘ Where ?’ 4 Back to Wales, to grandmamma ; and tomorrow. Please don’t say a word. Please don’t Jane—l must go.’ ‘ But why 2 What is the matter ?’ they both cry together, in utter amazement. 1 Simply that I have made up my mind that I won’t and can’t marry Dallas Gayle.’ ‘ Not—marry—Captain Gayle 1’ repeats John, more astounded than ever. ‘ Why, I thought—we all thought—you were quite in—your liked him immensely.’ 4 Nonsense, Daisy,’ Jane puts in, before 1 can speak. 4 This is some childish folly. You arc jealous of Laura, you silly girl.” 44 Laura !” repeats John ; “ why he— she — they never speak—never ’ ' 4 Of course not,’ interrupts his wife. 4 Daisy, don’t be foolish. Laura shall go away if you like. Indeed, her stepmother wants her back.’ And Jane nods at me encouragingly, I burst out, in indignation—--4 She shall not go away, Jane, how can you ? lam not jealous of—of any oue. I I do not want to marry Dallas. I—l don’t like him,’ How loud wc must have been talking ! After all, I have not heard the key turn. As 1 turn round from uttering this tremendous Ho, I sec Dallas standing in the open doorway, his face pale with cold, haughty indignation and surprise. We are all limp and gaping in conscious guilt. There is a dead silence at first— I really beg your pardon for my interruption. The door being wide open, I did not know that you were engaged in a discussion which ’ His blue, beautiful eyes arc blazing with utter scorn and wrath in my direction. He can hardly speak with anger ; and yet I, who would have been frightened out of my life usually—l, whose cowardice is proverbial, am not afraid now. There are moments when one can dare anything, and this is one of them. 4 Dallas,’ I say—somehow 1 have always called him by bis Christian name—* don’t be offended. I should have had to say it some time, and it is better now than later.’ 4 It ? Really, I hardly understand,’ he says turning on me with barely veiled irony. 4 1 was not aware that I had —’ 4 Asked me to marry you ?’ I interrupt, feverishly. 4 No, of course not ; but as it was always arranged by our fathers, and was to come off before I was twenty, I thought I had better speak honestly before you liked me enough to ask me.’ 4 Thank you,’ he says, satirically. ‘No one can complain of your frankness,Miss Jerningham, I am sure. The whole house could bear witness to it. Then I am to understand you throw me over, and will have none of me.’ Do what he will, glad light is creeping over bis face. He forgets even poverty in joy at escaping from me. 4 Yes,’ 1 say firmly. 4 I am sorry about the property —you would have managed it better than 1 ; but I can’t help it, and you will have the codicil, anyhow.’ 4 What codicil ? Daisy, arc you mad V cries Jane, finding voice at last. 4 Captain Gayle, do not mind. She is not herself. It was the sun to-day—the bad air. She does not know what she is saying.’ 4 Yes, Jane, I do,’ I answer, steadily. ‘He does not, and you don’t ; but when papa died he left a codicil in his will, to the effect that if I refused Dallas, he was to have five thousand pounds as a compensation for the disappointment. It is not much out of one hundred thousand pounds,’ I add, laughing a little bitterly, * but then it is unencumbered. It is all for yourself, and there is no me to be taken with it.’ 4 My dear Daisy,’ sobs Jane, beginning to cry with vexation, 4 as if losing you were not worse than any other loss—than—’ 4 Miss Jerningham evidently puts * mercenary’ down among the list of my unlikeable qualities,’ observes Dallas, with stinging emphasis, which almost brings the tears into my eyes. He need not be so cruel. In desperate fear of breaking down, I go up to him, both my hands outstretched in childish deprecation. 4 Don’t! Indeed, I never thought that. 1 do like you as a friend, but marriage is so different, and you cannot care much about me y e t. I —l’m not very nice—not at all, I think.’ The tears are very near the brim now ; m another minute they will be over. For one moment his bands clasp mine ; for one moment his eyes look down kindly on me. Because I am making him so happy, he will even forgive my impertinence. 4 1 think you nice,’ he says. And then we both hear her step upon the stairs. I pull my hands away, and rush, without looking at her, away up to my own room, to howl at leisure over my packing.

I have never seen either of them since.