Puck — December 25, 1878 — page 10: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

MY COUNTRY HOUSE. ‘The stately homes of Engisnd, . How beautiful they stand! ‘Amidst theis tall ancestral trees : (O’er all the pleasant laod.— Mas. Hiewana, ‘The wet west wind from o'er the sea Moans drearily in tower and tree, “Summer is over."” And round about where hedges stood The leaden level of the flo Drowns field and covert. ‘The withered leaves which once were fair, Like dead joys chanced on unaware, Bring sudden sorrow. ‘And every day is as the last: To-morrow comes, to-morrow’s past, And then—to-morrow, Upon the gale with ceaseless call Rooks fall and mount, and mount and fall; Rest have they never. So do my thoughts toss to and fro, . Storm-driven, droning as they go The same strain ever. e * * . +, 32 Ah me! It seems but yesterday My lord came casting eyes my way. My sainted mother ee busy soul!—she’s now at rest; ic light her grave!—she meant the best) With endless bother Besought me, by hopes of grace, To recollect his lordship’s place Down here in Flatshire; How it was finer far than all— Than abbey, castle, park or hall In this or that shire, And cousin Harry?—boy and girl, Mere matter of a kiss or curl A love like his was. But flying in the holy face Of Providence to spurn a place As large as this was. And so I bade my cousin go, My cousin Harry. Well I know— Poor pair of gabies!— If we had married then at once, Life would be now a round of duns And pauper babies. Still bear I bitter punishment For all the shame I underwent, The lies they told me. This gloomy house:—how drear it is|— And yet I vow it was for this— For this they sold me! <I hate each tree! I hate each tower! But most of all I hate the hour. When day is dying. Life seems to me so over-long, Like Mariana in the song, T fall a-sighing. Poor moated maid! Time tried her sore, Yet do I bear one burden more Than all she carried. She might be weary now and then; She might be dull; but then—but then jhe wasn’t married! ‘Three dismal months to watch the rain} To sigh and ask myself again, es Why did U marry? ; ree mont fore the springtime brings London and life and living things; And—cousin Harry. ; —London World. PUCK. THREE CHRISTMAS-EVES. [From Tinsley’s Magasine.] CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY, NE sunny afternoon in the summer, when the shadows of the grand old cathedral of Woodchester were begin- ning to lengthen on the eastern side, and the rooks in the palace garden to set up a prelimi- nary cawing asa kind of rehearsal of the im- portant ceremony of going to roost, a young man crossed the greensward of the Close with a roll of music under his arm. It was the or- ganist of the cathedral. He walked rapidly, as though all his mind were set on the one ob- ject of reaching the little ivy-covered house in front of him. It certainly was a pretty abode, with the ivy trailing in graceful profusion over its walls, and surrounding the old-fashioned little windows with wreaths of greenery. But it was not the beauty of the building that made him glance with such interest towards it—it was the possi- bility of seeing a face at the window of his usually empty drawing-room. He was not disappointed: there was a fair irl in a hat stationed there, and a little way ehind her, in the shadow of the room, stood a gray-haired, military-looking man, with a face bronzed by Eastern suns and climate, but not the less handsome for that. Sidney Dainton did not need the information that his little ser- vant hastened to give him, ‘that Colonel and Miss Wynford were up in the drawing-room waiting for him.” He did not make them wait much longer, but hastily passing his fin- gers through his yellow hair, in the vain endea- vor to smooth its willful disorder, he bounded upstairs. Colonel Wynford and his daughter received him with great cordiality, and began to admire the contents of his “ pretty room.”” When they had sufficiently discussed the weather and other inevitable topics of a local nature, the Colonel asked if Mr. Dainton would do them the favor to play to them as he had romised. ‘ My Carrie,” said he, “ has a bad Readache to-day, and she was naughty to ven ture out, but she insisted upon it, and declared your delightful music would do her good.” Sidney looked his sympathy and his delight as well as he could manifest two such opposing sentiments at the same moment. Heobediently proceeded to open the piano and commenced a thrilling symphony. Colonel Wynford sat down in an attitude of deep and thoughtful attention, with his hands clas) together over the knob of his carved black stick; but find- ing that the composer had his back to him, and thus missed the spectacle of this courteous homage to his genius, the Colonel soon began to tire of his position, and walked on to the little balcony outside the window. Caroline Wynford lay back with half-shut eyes on the sofa, as if entranced, but every now and then she would glance observantly at the young mu- sician, who was. pem/pouriog out his soul for her ina passion of melody. Though fair- haired and good-looking, he was no slender, wildly-artistic, languid genius, but broad-shoul- dered ‘and massive-featured, with broad fair brow, on which was written power and intel- léct, and eyes that shone with the fire of a con- scious inspiration. Now his eyes glowed with ‘a strange light, and his lips trembled with sym- thetic emotion, as his white hands flashed ither and thither over the key-board, and formed chords and combinations of sound with a facility which, to a beholder, would seem al- most marvelous, But the fire died out of his eyes, and a softer beam of sympathy awoke in them as he advanced to Miss Wynford when he had finished playing, and said, “I fear I have tired you with my foolish :-eanderings.” “No; it was perfect,” said Miss Wynford, in a shrill languid voice; “and this sofa is so de- licious, 1 should like to stay here for ever.” “Well, do; I mean stay as long as you like,” said Sidney, reddening; “ and I will leave you in. peace, for I am sure my noise cannot be good for your head.” “Indeed, my head would be much worse without,” said Carrie, with a glance that spoke more plainly even than her words. What mat- tered it to Sidney that her eyes were green and small, if they could—and would—look at him like that? She looked very refined and charming as she lay back again, with half-shut eyes, as though that one effort had been too much for her. Small wonder that the young man should take her hand tenderly in his, and tell her that he would give worlds to bear her suffering, and other fond and foolish speeches, such as the enraptured on similar occasions are wont to utter. Colonel Wynford- was atten- tively engaged in studying the weathercock at the top of the cathedral, and was only recalled to sublunary topics by the young people com- ing to the window to reveal to him what had meanwhile been passing in the drawing-room. CHAPTER II, THE FIRST CHRISTMAS-EVE. Ir was Christmas-eve in Woodchester, a calm cloudy night that seemed to foretell rain for the morrow. Sidney Dainton was still living in his charming little house, his bachelor house no longer, for he had been married for some months. His time was much occupied just now, for his name was beginning to be much celebrated in the musical world, and the young ladies of the county were more anxious than ever to have the benefit of his instruction. ‘Then, too, he was very busy with the cathedral choir, who had been roused to a spirit of emu- lation by the sudden improvement of the new choir of St. Mary’s, under the direction of Sidney’s brother, Stephen Dainton. Great was the conflict between Gregorians and Angli- cans, and strong the rivalry between the two head choristers. But, meantime, Sidney and Stephen were very great friends, and often enough, when.work was over, they would meet at a late hour in the cathedral, and peal forth their pet creations in the stillness of the solemn moonlight; or sometimes they would smoke their pipes over Stephen's fire and discuss all kinds of questions, social, political, religious, or musical. Both enjoyed this time of recreation, but Sidney seemed to most intensely; he was al- ways the one unwillingly to stir, even when sleep would hardly allow him to speak, so that sometimes Stephen had to say, “ Will not Car- rie be wondering where you are?” or ‘Well, I must be off, whether you are or not.” Then Sidney would rouse himself with a groan and astretch, and bid a doleful good-night to his brother. On this Christmas-eve Sidney returned home at about eight o'clock, after the choir practice at the cathedral, When he entered the draw- ing-room he found there no lights, and only a very dim fire burning in the grate. On tryin; to make his way across the room he stumbled over the cat. “ Why on earth can’t Carrie—” he said, and stopped. He heard some very faint noise—it sounded like the feeble com- plaint of the cat—and listened more atten- tively. But no, it was his own name uttered from the sofa in Carrie's well-known complain- ing tones. Certainly it did sound strangely cat-like, but Sidney was well accustomed,to the sound, and only waited patiently till Carrie had finished speaking. comichooks.co