LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume III, Issue 246, 24 March 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE GRAVE IN EGYPT.

(From the Argosy.)

Maky a man would have voted the place “ stupid,” but to Ralph Arnold is seemed a very haven of repose. He had been a wanderer on the face of the earth for ten years. Having no one’s pleasure to consult but his own, his nearer relatives being dead, he had gone wherever his roving fancy had led him. Had idled in the gay French capital, moralised in the Eternal City, dreamed in Venice, lingered on the Rhine, climbed the pyramids of Egypt, and fought the tiger in the jungles of India. But he had come back to his native land travelweary, now; and when his guiding star chanced to settle over the pleasant little village of Grassmead, or, as he christened it, “ Sleepy Hollow,” he resolved to halt and rest. Yes, here he would pitch his tent for the summer, and fish, and imagine himself a boy again, if he could. One clay in the month of June, when all the pretty gardens were radiant with colour and sweet with the perfume of roses, Mr Arnold went out to fish. Seated on a mossgrown log, trying to beguile the finny tribe into the belief that the nice worm he had thrown into the water was only a worm and nothing more, he was startled by a fresh young voice, evidently addressing him. * I say it is a downright shame to entice the poor little fishes to their death in that way! Now, if I were a siren, I should certainly lure you to destruction for your cruelty.’ Dropping his rod, utterly oblivious or indifferent to the fact that a fine fish was on the hook, Mr Arnold turned to see whence the voice came. A young girl who might have been taken for a vision of Flora herself, so bedecked was she with flowers, was leaning against the trunk of a tree behind, _ regarding him with a look of mock severity. She had a wreath of roses entwined carelessly round her hat; a little basket that swung from her arm was filled with wild flowers and mosses, while from one shoulder trailed a long, green vine, in vivid contrast to the white dress she wore. Evidently she had been thus decking herself out for pastime. * I fear you would have found it an easy task, fair lady,’ Ralph said, bowing gallantly. Ami at the sound of his voice, the first sight of his half-turned face, the girl started back a step or two. ‘ Oh, I beg your pardon,’ she cried, in some confusion, ‘ I mistook you for some one else. I thought it was my cousin, Mr Greyson.’ ‘ I am very much indebted to Mr Greyson, returned Arnold. ‘ I think the sun must have blinded me,’ she observed, in a vexed tone; and she caught the look of involuntary admiration that sat in the stranger’s handsome eyes. * What a bewildering little beauty it is,’ was running through Ralph Arnold’s thoughts. ‘ And how strangely familiar her face seems to me ! ’ When on earth had he seen that fair face, framed in its beautiful golden hair? Not for a few moments could he tgll; but all at once the recollection came to him. He was back, he thought, in the Vale of Chamouni: he and his fellow traveller, Karl Douglas. They .were preparing to make the ascent of Mount Blanc, and Douglas—and if the prevision lay upon him of what was to be ere many weeks went by —took a beautifully painted miniature from his breast and showed it to him. The lovely golden hair, and the steady look in the violet eyes, had never left Arnold s

memory. c Should anything happen to me/ Douglas had said, ‘ send this back to the lady whose address you wilk lind outside a packet of letters among my traps. Send both to her, Arnold ; portrait and letters. ” Arnold had done so. And he now certainly thought he" saw the same face before him in this young lady’s. But he would set the doubt at rest. * I believe,’ he said, taking off his hat, • I have the honour of addressing Miss Kaulbach * ’ ‘That is my name,’ she answered, in surprise.

* I am Ralph Arnold.’ The look of wonder died out of the blue eyes, and a little wave of sadness swept over the fair face. ‘ Then you were ’ ‘Karl Douglas’s friend and fellow traveller,’ he said, interrupting her, and he was standing close to her now. ‘ I was with him when he died.’

Christine Kaulbach held out a hand so white that the blue veins seemed to stain it. ‘ I cannot meet as a stranger one who was the friend of Karl Douglas,’ she said, as Arnold bowed low over the white hand. ‘ Are you staying in the village, Mr Arnold?’ ‘ Just at present I am. I have taken the lodgings at Mead Farm for a month, but shall probably remain all the summer. But —I do not think it was to this place that 1 addressed the letter to you?’ ‘ No, no. My aunt has only removed here for the summer —like yourself. We are at th e white house just outside the village, Rose Lawn.’

‘ And—may I venture to call on you?’ he inquired, as she was moving away. ‘lndeed yes,’ was the cordial answer. ‘My aunt, Mrs Cuff will pleased to see you: and I should like to hear what you can tell me about Mr Douglas. ’ ***** On a garden chair at Rose Lawn, the following evening, sat Mr Arnold and Miss Kaulbach. Their voices were low and sad : there seemed ever to be a sadness in the gathering twilight. The stars were coming out after the hot day ; the moon was rising behind the trees. He was telling Christine Kaulbach of the lover —her lover—who had died during their tour in Egypt, not many weeks subsequent to- the well-remembered day at Chamouni. Telling her of the firm friendship that had existed between himself and that lover; of their happy Bohemian wanderings; and lastly, of his friend’s death—how the last word on poor Karl’s lips had been “Christine.” “We dug him a grave under two stately palms, Miss Kaulbach. When I left, the scarlet poppies were blooming over him.” It was a mournful story; a mournful theme. When it was ended, and Arnold’s voice died off into silence, nothing was to be heard save the splash of the pretty fountain and the chirp of a myriad insects in the dewwet grass. “ I am so glad you were with him when he died,” said Christine at length, looking up with tear-gemmed eyes. “So very glad that he had one friend to go with him to the entrance of the Valley of Shadows. ” But, before more was said, Mrs Cuff called to them. Tea was waiting. Ralph Arnold’s heart was strangely stirred as he went down the dewy, scented walk that June evening, pausing to pluck a waterlily wet with the spray from the fountain. “It’s is like her,” bethought, the “ her ” meaning the blue-eyed girl he had just left. Often and often after this did Mr Arnold call at Rose Lawn, and always found a welcome. And so, through all the glowing, ardent summer they were together; and what the result? The polished man of the world found his heart was not invulnerable. And she? Of course she did not love him. How could she, when her heart was in the grave in Egypt? But it was pleasant to be with him; he was a thorough gentleman; and he gave her wonderful word-pictures of other countries. Above all, he had been the friend of Karl Douglas. It was a sort of mournful pleasure to hear him talk of Karl, she said to herself. But, had she questioned her heart honestly, she might have found that the pleasure lay in listening to the low music of the wonderful voice, rather than in hearing of her dead lover. And did Ralph Arnold despair? Not at all. It suited his dreamy, poetic nature, this sort of dream-life they were living. But this lotus-eating existence could not go on for ever. One evening Ralph found Christine seated on the banks overlooking the river. The girl still persuaded herself that her heart was sacred to the memory of her lost love. Mr Arnold was a dear friend, nothing more. She did not realise that the dark deep eyes were fast crowding out the memory of the merry blue ones asleep under the palms in that far-off plain. Seating himself below her, the young man looked up at the face dearer to him than all the world. “ Of what were you thinking ?” he asked. “ Sighing after some far-off dream of paradise ?” “ Oh, no,” she laughed, “ I was not sighing at all, and as for my thoughts, they are not worth repeating. But here,” handing him the booking she had been reading, “ is something that will be vastly more entertaining and instructive. Will you read to me?”

“I beg pardon, Miss Christine,” he returned with a smile, “ but I’m too lazy to read, I believe the soft languor of the nearly Indian summer has stolen into my veins. I find myself unwilling to do anything more energetic than smoking or dreaming, or perhaps talking, if you will listen.” And, stretched on the mossy carpet, his head resting on one shapely hand, he did look the personification of handsome indo- ' leuce.

"Well, I don’t wish to encourage idleness, and I object to smoking; so if you will not read, Mr Arnold, you must talk,” Christine said, with pretty imperiousness. "What shall I tell you, Christine ?” he asked, toying with the silken tassels of her glove, which he had picked up from the ground where it had fallen. It was only within the last few days that he had taken to call her " Christine.” “ Tell me of Germany, the home of Schiller and Goethe, Germany is my fatheland, you know, Mr Arnold.” ‘Yes, I know it. But you have not lived there’’

* No. My father died when I was very young; and my mother—she was English—brought mo here. Karl had relatives in Germany too, and loved it. I wish I could go there! Please talk to me about it, Mr Arnold.’ ‘Very well, Miss Christine; we will imagine ourselves in the ‘ Fatherland:’ the hills yonder, wrapped in purple mists, and the river at our feet will help the illusion.’ And. leaning back against the mossy bank until his dark locks almost mingled with the golden ones rippled down over the girl’s shoulders, he painted such a mellow golden picture of Germany, that Christine declared she could hear the ripple of the blue Rhine and see the peasants gathering grapes on the purple-clad hills of Bingen. ‘1 envy you your travels,’ she said with a sigh. ‘ It has been the one dream-wish of my life to see all those beautiful places. But I suppose it will never be realised. ’ * And why not, Christine?’ he asked, (parting up and speaking upon impulse.

‘ Why not see them with me—as my wife? I have loved you always, Christine, since the first moment we met. ’

The girl’s heart gave one mighty throb of pain. Or was it joy ? Even then she did not know, as she looked with pitying eyes on the eager face so near her own. ‘ Oh, Mr Arnold, I never dreamed of this ! I thought you knew that I had no love to give ; that my heart was in that grave you made under the palm-trees. I was Karl Douglas’s promised wife. ’ * And I was his dearest friend,’ returned Arnold. * I would not wrong Karl Douglas for worlds ; but he is dead, Christine, and it is no wrong done to him to tell you of my love now. Oh ! my darling, if you could love me I would serve as Jacob did for Rachel, and wait as many years.’ And there was a world of passionate feeling in the misty depths of the dark eyes. The girl’s own eyes were misty as she answered him : answered him in perplexity and pain, ‘ Oh, lam sorry, but it cannot be. You can only be my dearest friend, Mr Arnold. You will be that, will you not ?’ ‘Always,’ he said, almost crushing the hand he held, as he let it fall in her lap. ‘ But, oh! Christine, if you could have loved me ! ’

She simply shook her head, and a grave silence supervened. Mr Arnold saw he had spoken too soon ; and he took up the book beside them.

Opening it at hazard, he saw some lines, and read them out in a low, musical voice. They were not too good, but they seemed appropriate. ‘ Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, Thy tribute wave deliver, No more by thee my steps shall be For ever and for ever. ”

Why is it that we never appreciate anything until we are about to lose it, or have lost it ? As he read, it suddenly occurred to Christine that she could not live away from the man at her side. The love that had been slumbering in her heart all the summer, rose up unmistakably now, and she knew what it meant.

* Yes, I am going away,’ Ralph said, answering the mute question in her eyes as they stood up together. ‘ I must go away, Christine. We have had a beautiful midsummer dream; but I wanted more than the dream, you see. And now nothing remains but to try and find the fabled river of the ancients, and drink and forget. Forgive me,’ he added, noticing for the first time that Christine was weeping, *if I have said anything to wound yon; believe me, I did not mean it. ’ Christine crushed back the tears. Oh, if she could only tell him the truth! But shame held her back. What would he think of her? Would he hot despise her for being weak and silly, and not knowing her own mind. Alas, yes!—and she turned away in the direction of her home.

Mr Arnold picked up the broad-brimmed hat, and they put it on together over the bright golden hair. Christine was trembbling. Never should he tie them more : and —he stooped and left a kiss on the red lips. Was he much to blame ?

‘ Forgive me, Christine ; it was the first, it will be the last. Are you offended ?’ Offended ! when her very soul went out to him in that kiss. He went home with her. Mrs Cuff was not visible, and they were alone. Christine, feeling unsettled, ill at ease, went to the piano. * Will you sing for me ? ’ he asked, ‘ What shall it be ?’

‘ Anything you please.’ Then she sang a tender little song of farewell. There was a suspicious tremble in her voice, but she bore up till she came to the words—

‘ After sweet still comes the bitter, > And the moments though so fieet, To the brim were filled with pleasure, Now they’re growing bitter-sweet.’

Then there was a break down. The golden head had fallen on the piano, and tears like rain were deluging the ivory keys. In a moment Ralph was at her side, his hand on the bowed head.

‘ Is it bitter-sweet, Christine ? Are you sorry for me ?’ No answer, but he could feel the slight form quiver as if in agony. A great wave of joy swept over him. Could it be possible that that the girl cared for him, after all ? “Christine!” he cried, “if you do not speak, I shall go mad with joy. Can it be that you do care for me a little, after all ?” Still no answer. Lifting the bowed head, he sought to read the girl’s face. The cheeks were hot with blushes; the tear-wet eyes were closed, * Christine !’ he murmured ‘ Little white dove. Mine at last, ” He drew her head to his shoulc er. He seemed hardly certain yet. *My darling, won’t you speak to me! Just one word!’

‘ Ralph!’ It was only one word: but it sounded very low and sweet: and Ralph Arnold was at rest.

Ah Karl! Karl Douglas! The grass is green over thy grave; and a warm, living living lover has taken thy place in the heart sworn to be true to thee in time and eternity. It is not pleasant to think that we shall so soon be forgotten when once we have passed out of sight for ever. Nevertheless it is the way of the world. And as to the grave in that far-off Egyptian land—the kind dews of heaven will keep it green.