Not Wholly Dead [pp. 420]

APPL.ETONS' JO URNA,.
"We used to think, Aunt Gwendoline and I,
that Mark Austen and you did not dislike each other. But when the poor fellow came back, looking
such a spectre, after his journey to Folkestone, one
saw, of course, it was all over. He has passed the
most splendid examination-have you heard?"
"Through whom but you should I hear anything
of Mark Austen?"
"Through Mr. Biron, naturally. Lady Austen
and Mr. Biron are friends, you say?"
"I do not believe there is over-much love between miladi and her son," says Jet, a little confusedly. "Mark Austen has such a terrible temper!
Do you remember, even with us, how he used to
contrive to pick quarrels?"
"Mark Austen will make his way in the world,
temper or no temper. Adolphus says he took the
highest number of marks possible in physical science; and as to his mixed mathematics-"
"I hear wheels!" exclaims Jet, flying, with a
couple of bounds, across the room. "Quick, Cora!
quick! Oh, never mind looks! "-this, as Cora is
preparing to adjust her small person with mechanical precision before the glass. " If we make haste,
we shall reach the portico before the omnibus arrives. A wrap? Child, what do wraps matter?
Here, take this shawl. I am never cold. I-Ial, Cora, if you should not like each other, after
all!"
Jet's face is white with excitement. She flies
along the corridor, then down the central staircase
of the hotel, at a speed with which Cora, panting
under such unwonted exertion, can scarcely keep
pace; finally, the entrance-door of the hotel reached,
she discovers that the wheels were those of a country patache, joggling leisurely forth, with its load of
country-people, from the town of Esterel.
"Which will just give us time to recover our
breath decorously." And, taking Cora's hand, Jet
retreats behind a thick range of oranges, lemons,
and oleanders, which screens the left side of the
portico. "Here Laurence need not see us at all,
unless we choose it, and you will be able to form
your first opinion of him without let or hinderance."
The whole entrance of the Paradis, including a
short space of terrace on either side, is roofed in by
glass. Statues-each supporting a lamp, and to
whose white limbs the autumnal roses cling-are
grouped around. Tall, flowering grasses, aloes, and
eucalyptus, grow in profusion in the outer court.
Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, several
of the more inveterate hotel-idlers linger upon the
scene still. Miss Wylie, properly attended by her
maid, "is tatting," a yellow-backed novel on her
knee, under one of the gaslights. The Scottish
widow, her eyelids downcast, a heap of good, little,
sad-covered books beside her, occupies an immediately opposite corner. Major Brett trots to and fro,
with a self-important air of expectancy, upon the
steps.
Again there is the sound of approaching wheels;
this time, for certain, along the Marseilles road.
Jet feels herself get hot and cold by turns. Her
breath comes short, she steals a trembling hand
under Cora's arm for support. In another minute
the omnibus, piled, mountain-high, with luggage,
rattles noisily down the street, then swings, with one
prodigious jerk, into the court-yard of the hotel.
The driver cracks his whip. Schmidt, secretary, and waiters, rush out eagerly from the house.
Major Brett, with his crab-like little run, moves somewhat aside, inclined, for the moment, probably, to play
the part of spectator, rather than that of actor, in
the comedy. The hall-porter opens the door of
the omnibus, and on the instant descends a female,
plain of feature, timid as to the exhibition of ankles,
and who exchanges a furtive hand-shake with Karl,
the good-looking second waiter of the Paradis-an
abigail, evidently. To her are handed down shawls,
bags, baskets, flowers, and smelling - bottles, from
some person or persons, still in the interior of the
vehicle.
And then steps forth-miladi!
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
VNO F WHOLL Y DEAD.
OOK in mine eyes till my heart leaps up songfully;
Let my head lean on your heart while I sing:
I, who have loved you so, say this not wrongfully Love is a law to itself, being king.
Here, where the summer pours forth from the heart of it
All the glad music the winter held mute,
Fate has ordained and enthroned you a part of it,
Beauty embodied a song of her lute.
Oh, if this beauty could always remain to me,
All this sweet symphony swell in my soul,
Sure that cessation should bring no sharp pain to me,
Sure that Love's guerdon were also life's goal!
What should I care for the world's bleak sterility Simooms that wither men's souls with hot breathThis being stable'mid all instability,
Royal o'er ravage and deathless in death?
Soul, whence my soul draws the beauty and worth of it;
Life, where my life has its issue and end;
Star, that recalls all the glow that goes forth of it;
Rose, at whose red heart all essences blendDeath comes to alter these earthly existences,
Varies the motions of life and time's moods,
Seals up fair faces embalmed in dim distances,
Spirit-songs heard but in sleep's interludes.
Deep in some lone wood's half-luminous density,
Heart's-ease may hallow the green of my grave,
Passion lay down there its fevered intensity,
Where even you, love, are strengthless to save;
Still, in the calm of its covert obscurity,
Buds shall burst blossom-wise, birds thrill to sing;
And so my soul shall express through futurity
You who have made me a slave and a king.
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