LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1444, 2 October 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

SACRIFICED TO AMBITION. By Stella. [" Tinsley."] (Continued.) Chapter 11. June had 'come in, and with it line warm weather. Madeline Beverley was accustomed to wheel herself abrmt the garden in the summer-time in her reclining chair, with no other companion than a pet dog; for Florence usually spent her mornings in bed, recruiting after the previous night's gaiety. In former times Mr Beverley used to ao company his daughter Madeline in her early rambles ; but the last twelve months had appeared to have greatly reduced his vitality, and taken away all inclination for leaving his own room, where he was allowed to remain undisturbed, to take his meals in solitude, and only emerged from his gloomy thoughts when his elder child came to spend an hour or two with him of an evening. Very, very rarely did the sight of his queenly wife or fascinating daughter Florence shed a ray of light over the old man's dreary path. No. ' Keep him out of the way,' was the figure of speech which they applied to him, always assuring their friends that Mr Beverley, or 'dear papa,' as the case might be, was of a studious turn of mind, and cared not for society. One fine warm morning one of the maidservants had persuaded ' Miss Madeline ' to take a turn iu tho open air ; for the domestics were fully cognisant of the elder young lady's kind and unselfish disposition, though at their peril did they dare to show any preference for her over her sister Miss Florence.

With a plentiful supply of materials for the manufacture of some article of adornment—not for herself, of course—a volume of poems as a luxury, and her pet Bonnebouche by way of companion, Madeline Beverley sat in a half recumbent position, looking a picture of resignation and patience. Occasionally an expression of pain would rumple her smooth young brow, and her hand would be tightly pressed into her back; for it was there she felt the pain—great pain sometimes.

Her thin straight brown hair was gathered closely into a knot at the back, and her large gray eyes were heavy and baggy—so heavy, that when she wanted to look up into a person's face she appeared to have to raise her whole head to do so. Her che( ks were hollow and wan, and her mouth drawn down, with lips pale and lifeless. For all the plainness of form and feature, there was, when those large gray eyes met one's own, such a yearning look for sympathy, that must reach one's heart unless it was wholly devoid of affection.

On that particular morning in June Madeline Beverley seemed unusually idle over work, and could not even give her mind to her favorite poet, nor talk to her faithtul Bonne-bouche. A restlessness somehow possessed her; and she wheeled herself from one place to another, until she made her way without the gates and into the country lane beyond ; for it was early, and but few people frequented that part at any time. •Come, Bonne bouche; you must be my escort and protector. I'm tired of feasting my eyes on those prim flower-beds—it's almost distracting, and makes me long for just one glimpse of Nature real and wili. Mamma says it's my uncultivated taste—preferring Nature to art ! Well, perhaps it is. But there, everything seems so artificial and made up. Even you, Bonne-bouche, will be appearing in another form by and by, and excusing yourself by saying that art must supersede Nature. Now that I'm outside of those prison-gates I mean to enjoy a happy hour for the first time since last summer, when I used to build those castles in the air as the gentle breezes fanned my poor hot head. What a glorious morning! so fresh and invigorating. I feel quite strong, and almost fancy I could—Oh!' and with a cry of pain the young girl sank back again on the cushions, for she had exerted herself too much in her endeavors to raise herself. It was fully half an hour before the invalid ventured to proceed on her way, when, upon turning the corner of the lane, she beheld a bank covered with ferns and wild flowers —a sight that caused a little color to come into those poor pale cheeks ; for Madeline had one great passion, and that was—flowers.

'O Bonne-bouche, we must have some, and take some home to mamma and FJorence. But how can we i>et them ? Bonne-bouche, Bonne-bouche, flowers—good dog—flowers! ' But in spite of her gesticulations and inducements, by way of dog-luxuries thrown in amongst the flowers, Bonne-bouche, after voraciously swallowing up the bribes, smelt the flowers and turned back to his mistress with a lazy stare in the soft brown eyes. The sunshade was next thought of, but. alas, it was fashionable and without a curved handle; so that was laid aside, and Madeline gathered all the strength she could summon to raise herself and stretch forth her hand for the longed for (lowers. But her attention was attracted by the sound of horses' feet, and in another moment a gentleman had descended from hn mount, and was by the side of the invalid's chair. * Pardon me, miss—might I be allowed ? You wi?h for some of the ferns and flowers ; do not discomposa j'ourself, pray. I caught sight of you over the hedge - might I be permitted ?' and having replaced his hat wi'h a graceful bow, the stranger, without waiting for a reply immediately set himself to work gathering the flowers, and arranging them as he did so with great taste and refinement.

Madeline, who had never experienced anything half so ro.m&ntic in her life before, now felt rather bewildered, and, it must be confessed, slightly agitated, as a succession of s ntimental adventures that she had read of rushed through her fertile brain. Bonne-bouche had evidently taken an aversion to the handsome intruder; for, not withstanding his mistress's remonstrances, he would pci'Msfc in snarling and growling, and making his presence felt uncomfortably soßp to the gentleman, who, smiling kindly

on the pretty little animal, in his inmost heart called it by a soubriquet that, had his fair companion been aware of, might have pat an end to their intercourse there and then. But young ladies are not cognisant of the inner thoughts of their gillant swains, fortunately for them perhaps, though, alas, unfortunately in this case for p >or Madeline Bwerley. Little did she know that that fair June morning would prove one of the darkest days in her whole existence !

With many thanks Madeline acknowledged the kindnesa of the unknown, and while he was engaged in seeking out the prettiest, and those that he thought would please the young girl's fancy the most, and after the ice had been broken by the ungracious behaviour of Bonne-bouche, who had now nestled down at the foot of the chair, the invalid had nothing to do but to feast her eyes on the magnificent figure of the man before her, a task that appeared, by the lightening up of her whole countenance to be anything but disagreeable. The wild flowers were only too quickly gathered for her; and, with a few more words spoken in a soft and subdued voice, so fascinating to female creation, the stranger remounted his horse, and raising his hat once more was soon—too soon—out of sight.

With a sigh of regret, Madeline Beverley sat back in her cushions, and gave herself up to meditation.

' What a glorious creature !—so tall, so graceful, so aristocratic. I wonder who he cm be? Is he a fresh comer staying in the town, or merely passing through the county? Whom does he remind me of ? —is it one of Byron's heroes? Ah, yes; surely only Byron could personify such noble bearing combined with such ease and grace. I wonder if—Perhaps Florence will meet him at one of her parties ; perhaps she has already done so—perhaps I most likely, I should say. Oh, I hope not—T hope not. He—he would of course fall in love with Florence—everybody does; and then —oh, dear, I wish I hadn't seen him;' and the girl's eyes filled w'th tears at the idea of such a contingency. ' Bonne bouche, you are very naughty, sir. Go away, you're in disgrace. Why did you behave so badly, sir, to that—that gentleman ? Ah, you're asking forgiveness. There, kiss my hand, that's a darling Bonne-bouche, but don't—don't do it again —at least, not to him. Ah, the flowers ; you're sitting on them. Get up, sir ;' and, with a poke from the sunshade, the little woolly dog was indignantly rolled over, and the flowers rescued, much crumpled and disarranged. " How pretty, and so kind of him! I cannot part with any ; no not even for mamma and Florence. I know it's very selfish, but I cannot spare one single leaf. Florence will take them should she see them ; but no, I would sooner part with anything, even you, I think, my Bonne-bouche, than these, his flowers, his gift. If only I knew his name. He muet be somebody grand ; he is so distingue, as Florence says : a Conrad, a Selim, a Lara—no, no } all sink into insignificance in his presence. Ah, if I were only like Florence, beautiful and attractive, instead of plain, uninteresting, and—humpbacked ! Perhaps he pitied me, because I am deformed. Oh how awful to be pitied, and by him, too And Fkrence- would she fall in love with him ? She is so strange; she seems to scorn such a thing as love; and I I thought it was only in novels and poetry, until—until he came. Pshaw! how foolish of me to think about love, ugly and crippled as I am. I wonder if he noticed my—my affliction ? Perhaps not; for I drew the rug closely lound me. But what nonsense ! Of course he knows ; for why should I be here on this chair ? And he pitied me ; and that is why he spoke to me, and offered to get me the flowers. Oh, why was I born to be a nuisance to myself and everyb"dy else? Florence, in her tempers, sometimes says she wishes she were me. Silly girl—she little knows w>at it is to be deformed, and to be pitied—by him. I never thought I should care for admiration until now. Oh, if I only could be beautiful and beloved, then—then, perhaps—' (To he continued.)