LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1839, 14 January 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A QUEEN OF TRUMPS.

(Continued.)

But what was to be done? The Prince was literally in despair. It would be fatal for him to lose another day. Pnblic affairs are supposed to know nothing of a girl's sprains or brains. There was no help for it —after a long consultation with Mr Raymond he was compelled to submit to his hi st, and to leave his niece at Lanceham til he could come back and fetch her. After a private parting with the Princess Helena, he took his leave, with a pre fusion of dignified gratitude, for Durnford and Dover. Helena! Surely it was the sweetest and loveliest name in the world, and it was borne by the sweetest and loveliest of girls. Frank Raymond, as she grew gradually stronger, thought her and her name lovelier and sweeter still. Life grew up round her in the quiet home at Lanceham, where nothing had seemed really to live until Bhe came. He waß by no means a romantic young man, nor were his tastes of a particularly domestic kind, but now he began to hang about the house, and to dread the day when her uncle should return to claim Helena—the heart would seem to go out of life when that day came. But, meanwhile, though she grew strong enough to sit on the drawing room sofa for some hours every day, she did not get well. The doctor could only suspect, from her weakness, that some internal shock had prostrated her. And so ten dayß at least passed by, when at last, one afternoon, Miss Raymond had some shipping to do in Durnford, Mr Raymond was away at a Magistrate's meeting, and Frank, instead of riding as usual, went into the drawing room to get a book, and for the first time found Helena alone ; and for a moment he felt as shy as if he had expected to find the room empty. 'I hope—l hope you are better to-day ? ' he asked. But his hope was was a lie ; if anybody ever hoped in his heart that a girl whom one loves would never get well again, it was he. ' Why,' he exclaimed suddenly, ' you are better ! ' for, for the first time since she had been in the house, she was standing up, and he felt glad and sorry together. And when he looked at her again he saw more colour in her cheeks than even health would be likely to give 1 etc, JH« I—l suppose I am, a little. I was trying to walk,' she said, sinking down again on her sofa.

* But, indeed, you must not try until you can. The doctor sayß : ' Perfect rest till you are well !' Of course, you must be awfully tired of Lanceham—you must find it awfully dull. Is there nothing I can do for you ? Ho you like reading, or chess, or music? There might be something I can help you to do. We must not let you get bored.' ' I dull here 1'

* Why not ? "Sou must be. lam often—now. He was thinking of the dullness of the days that would follow when Helena was gone. She seemed to color again. ' May I ask you to do just one thing ? ' she asked.

' If you would— ! ' 'lt's —it's a thing I've often wanted to say. I want you, none of you, to be too good to me.' ' Nobody on earth can be good enough to you.' he said, flushing up himself, for he felt as if he had spoken more boldly to a woman than any man had ever spoken to one before. At Durnford, more particularly at Lanceham, people keep young for long. ' I mean, what else could we have done for any common stranger than what we have done for you?' 'Yes; but— Oh, Mr Kaymond, Im ashamed of being so happy as—while I have been here. I must say it—you have just let me rest; you have just let me lie down. When I go please remember that I said that —that I can never cease to love and be grateful to you and yours. Oh, if I could do anything to show it I would with all my heart and soul.' 'Surely, surely, Princess,' he said eagerly, ' what on earth have you to be grateful for ? One would think we had done you a service, instead of your having done us one. Don't you know how glad I—we all are to have you here ? Why, you talk as if your whole life had been wretched, instead of bright and beautiful, as it must have been.

Yes, you will forget us soon enough, with our dull ways ; but do you think we Bhall ever forget you V ' °o you call my life bright and beautiful, and that I have known bo much kindness that —that yours does not make me ashamed. Oh, Mr Raymond,' ahe aaid, seeming to lose herself in an uncontrollable impulse, and with the tears full in her eyeß, ' I never knew there were such people in the world." 'Dear, dear, Helena,' he said, fearing that her mind was beginning to wander again, ' why did yon try to move just now ? I'm afraid it has done you harm. For heaven a sake, lie down again. I won't talk to you; I'll only ait here a little longer, if you'll let me. Only lie down and reat; it is absurd to talk about being grateful to people who love you, and yet have done no more for you than what anyone would do for anyone. Oh, if I could only do some real something for you.'

' Vou want to —for me.' ' Heaven knows I do.' ' Then,' she said, * I will ask you to do something that is impossible.' ' Nothing shall be impossible.' ' Then, whatever happens —when you think ill of me—when I do ill—don't think me ungrateful, or that ' ' Helena, what in the name of Heaven do you mean ? You do ill. That is the only impossible thing that there is in this world.'

' Promiae me that. I must ask you that, whatever happens. Promise me. Don't spo'J my last days. I shall soon be gone now.'

* Soon I What do you mean by soon ?' 'I don't know. Any time. Whenever my uncle comes, or sends for me. I must go. Won't you promise me even to try.' The young man's whole heart was going out to her. It was almost like a parting ; and her words, in spite of his love for her, made him afraid—and he had seen tears in her eyes. ' I don't know what on earth you mean,' he said. 'But Ido promise—to love you. and you only, with all my heart and soul. Helena, don't yon know what you are to me?'

Weak as she was, she almost started to her feet again. ' Hush !' she almost moaned. ' You don't know what you are saying—never think it, never dream it. Yon don't know, and I can't tell you ; and if you knew, you would—and I mnst go. For Heaven's sake, promise what I have asked you, and nothing more.'

' Helena ! do you Buppoae—of course. I didn't think yoa could for me—a Princess. And you—only I couldn't help my heart's coming out. It would, in spits of me.' * A Princess,' she said with a scorn. * That is the one cruel thing you have ever said to me or done. Dear Mr.Jßaymond, don't care for me ; only don't think me ungrateful, don't think me not sorry, not ashamed—that's all.'

She seized his hand suddenly, and, before he could hold hers, he felt her lips, close and burning, upon his fingers. Then she turned round upon her sofa, set her face to the wall, and said • Good-bye.' And in such a way she said it that a far older and more experienced lover would not have known what to say or do. Chapter 111. All kinds of strange and jealous thoughts crowded the heart of Frank Kaymond after he left her, having in vain tried to wring from her another word. Of course, he could understand that his love for an angel should not He easily returned ; but hope need not have been born in order to die. ' Perhaps,' he thought bitterly, ' I was mad to speak to her. No doubt there Is some Prince In her own country ; but then'—and hope returned to him—' did she speak as if it were so, or did she not rather cry out against life, as if she were being compelled to give her hand without her heart in it!' He thought he

knew enongh about foreign ways to know that in every country save England girls do not mairy for love, but for money or rank, or because their parents bid them. In that case, he wonld strike at least one good stroke for her because he loved her. When the Prince came back, he would go to him boldly and tell him all; and if he failed with the Prince, Helena Bhould not be made miserable until his life was spent in her cause. And then, at last, she might learn to be a little grateful to him for something, Instead of for nothing. The very resolve gave him strength, and the hope that comes therefrom, and he still felt her kiss upon his hand. The invalid dined alone up stairs, and went to bed early, under the care of Miss Baymond, Mr Raymond occasionally playing a rubber of piquet with her before she 1 retired. More observant people would have noticed that, for a presumably well educated Russian Princess, she was exceptionally illinformed ; never read books, never spoke of them and seemed to know nothing of them ; but that she showed an extraordinary knowledge of horseflesh, and a singular proficiency in all gamos of cards. Nor did she ever speak of her past, or of her relations. But the only Raymond who observed her carefully was in Jove with her. The others were not likely to find fault with her for loving horses or for not loving books. As to her past, Bhe was a Princess; and her skill at cards was in no way noteworthy, as it waa was wasted upon an elderly gentleman who played for love only in the card-playing sense of that many-meaninged word. This evening, however, she lost both games, even though she held especially good hands. No doubt she was tired, and Miss Raymond sent her off to bed even earlier than usual. She lay awake till she heard the village clock chime twelve. Then, at the last stroke, she sprang from her be 3 as if, instead of being a prostrate invalid, she was as strong and active as a girl need be. She hurriei on a dress whioh she took from her travelling trunk —a plain cotton dress and straw bonnet, suoh as a servant might wear moving about with noiseless activity. Then she left her room, locked the door, turned the key, and with a dark lantern — also taken from the same trunk—in her hand, went quickly down stairs, with no sign of weakness, fatigue, or pain. She went into Mr Raymond's study, shutting the door behind her, and, as dexterously as a professicnal burglar, opened with a pick lock a wooden chest standing in a corner. Without much search she took out a slip of paper, put it carefully into her pocket, re-closed the box, left the room, re-looked the door, and returned to her own room as noiselessly as she had come. Stairs are given to cry out when trodden upon at sleep-time ; but if she had been a ghost, they could not have been more silent under her feet. Her next proceeding was, for an invalid, even more remarkable. She opened the window, which was high above the lawn, and did what not only a few strong and active men, but few trained gymnasts, could do. G-athering up her skirts, and securing them round her waist, she took a firm graßp of the lowest bar of an iron frame for flower-pots, and let herself down outside the window so as to swing freely, holding up her whole weight by one hand only. Pushing herself from the wall with her feet, so as to give herself an impulse, she swung backward and forward, pendulum-wise, for a few seconds, and then, when motion had reached its very highest possible pitch, she threw her feet and her free hand forward to their utmost reach, let the bar go from her other hand, and caught with both feet and both hands at once a lightning-rod, down which she went, in a way between sliding and climbing, to the ground. One would have thought that only the nature of an ape, or the second nature of an acrobat, could have performed a feat carried out easily as well as safely by a Princees who had been scarcely able to riee from the sofa a fsw hours ago. After this, to climb the park wall into the road is not worth mentioning, were it not that as soon as she was clear of it she knelt down and kissed the wall. But perhaps even more remarkable than her climb was her speed in covering the five long miles that lay belween Lacceham and Durnford. But she did not go into the town : she went into a field, whence a large canvass tent rose up, looking in the moonlight like a huge heap of snow, with a number of vans and caravans lying hard by. At the door of the latter she tapped lightly. It was opened by a solemn-looking nun in a night-cap, who started when he saw her.^ ' So it's you come back again, Polly,' he said. ' I never thought anything would make me so glad again, after you went away. I hope, though, you've come to no harm? he asked, anxiously, examining her face with the help of a flaring candle. ' I shall go right off and kill somebody if you've come to harm. 1 did think think you wouldn't turn out like—well, jußt like the rest of 'em.' * No, no; I'm all right. "What harm should I oome to V

• And there it just is—you don't know. But you haven't—eh ? No ; it's all right, I see, wherever you've been. But what'll the Governor say ? He's in a terrible rage ; and I know it, for he's never even asked after you. Bat never mind, my girl. I've been meaning to be off myself some day. ever since you've been gone ; and if you get turned off, I'll get turned off, too. * ' You've always been good to me, Danvers, ever since I can remember,' she said, bat in a tone of which the kindness must have frozen him, if he cared for her in any way but a father's. ' I don't know how I should have got on at all without you. But never mind that now. Where's Mr Seymour V

The Governor ? "Who knows where he is, when he isn't at home ? But don't you want something to eat, Polly ? I can get hold of a bit of cold beef somewhere, and I didn't finish my own beer ; I tell yon, you'll find things here ia a bad way, just now.' * Well, goodnight then, I'm not hungry ; but I'll try and get to sleep somevmere. When you see Mr Seymour, tei.l him I've come back, and it's all right. Mind ard say it's all right; he'll know what I mean. Good night, Danvers.' Bat though he held out his hand ti her, she did not him hers. The show, where the Princess Helena Neranski seemed better known as Polly, did not appear to be a very flourishing concern. The delicate invalid found an uncomfortable corner in one of the caravans, and lay down without undressing in sorry plight aftsr her experience of the luxuries of Lancaham, where she had been treated as a Princess indeed. But long after dawn she fell asleep, and when she awoke, and had changed her servant's clothes for those of her every-day life, she felt as if Lanceham had been a dream, and last night a nightmare. She was crossing the field, now hither in particular, when: ' Oh, there you are ?' said Prince Michael Neranski. ' Well ? ' he asked, half sternly, half anxiously. She put her hand into her bosom, and handed him the document she had stolen. He looked at it carefully and eagerly. (To be continued.')