LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IV, Issue 376, 26 August 1875, Page 4

LITERATURE.

BELINDA MASON’S ROMANCE. HOW IT COMMENCED, HOW IT WENT ON, AND HOW IT ENDED. Continued. PakT 111. • Row IT ENDED. A day of two after Mr Vansittart’s visit to Mrs Mason’s shop, he went away. A cab drove to the door and whirled him off, portmanteau, violin-case, hat-box and all. Mrs Shepherd was quite confident as to his speedy return ; he had only gone, she said, to spend a fortnight’s holiday, and would certainly be back again. But poor Belinda ! how dreary and eventless the slow days now dragged on, nothing to awaken hope, or kindle the ashes of expectation into a flame. The only thing to be done was to suck her little sugar-cane of joy; and sometimes it seemed as if she had drained all its sweetness dry, and sometimes it pricked her with a sharp fear that what was past might never be again. Her imagination was perpetually wearying itself in attempts to follow Mr Vansittart, in trying to conjure up what sort of people he was amongst, and as soon as a finished picture, clear and full, would rise before her, it would be thrown aside, only to be succeeded by another, which would in its turn be crumpled up and torns to atoms. The fortnight passed, however, and Mr Vansittart did return, but he seemed moody and pre occupied ; he never glanced up at Belinda’s window, never looked for her with a smile, or asked how her geraniums were getting on. The poor little maiden’s heart sank within her. Though her body was small and fragile, yet the vigour and vitality of jher spirit was amazing, and her fears, her perplexities, and her hopes made so strong a prison-house about her, that some escape out of it must be found. The post-office was her stand-by now, as it had been before; through it she might possibly glean something as so Mr Vansittart and his movements : she had forgotten to look at the post-marks of his letters, and this, at any rate, she might do. It happened just then that Mrs Mason had received a large mourning order for a family that required no less than thirteen caps, to say nothing of bonnets, so when the evening mails were about to come in, Belinda drew nearer to her mother, and said, timidly,— * Mother, mighn’t I sort the letters for’you this evening, as you are so busy ?’ Mrs Mason looked thoughtfully at her daughter, bit the top of her thread off, knotted it at the end, and at last with some hesitation, answered, ‘Yes, I suppose you may just for this once.’ She had hardly spoken, before Belinda had fiown eagerly down the stairs. The mails had just come in, and two or three large canvas bags were waiting on the counter. Belinda undid them hastily how much did they contain for others ; but ah ! did they contain anything which would give her even a twinkling of the light she wanted?—She had set aside several large piles of letters and newspapers, when suddenly she caught sight of one of those large, thin blue envelopes, such as she had seen before, and which seemed to have a peculiar complexion of their own. She turned it up,—good heavens ! it was open, it must have become unfastened in the mail bag, which was unusually full. She turned it back again ; yes ! it was as she thought, it was addressed to Mr Vansittart. She put it aside by itself, in duty bound she must seal it up in red wax, with the great post-office seal. Meanwhile, the postmen were kicking their heels outside, and she must stamp the letters, and deliver them out in leather bags. What a time it took ! it seemed as if she would never be done. Then, like a child who keeps a stolen sugar-plum for its private delectation, she turned to the blue envelope, and putting it under her apron, she carried it up to an unfurnished garret at the back of the house, dimly lighted by a sky-light. And now came the question whether the letter should be read or not. Discretion, duty, honour, all said not; but inclination, curiosity, passion, cried vehemently, ‘ yes !’ a thousand times f yes!’ Belinda had carefully shut the door, but still she glanced stealthily around, almost pfraid to draw her breath, The room was

quiet, except for the voices of the neighbours’ children, who were playing in the garden behind the house, and who gave a merry shout now and then as they jumped over the flower pots. At the first sound of these shouts Belinda had started, but after a while she became accustomed to them, and now they sounded as if they were very far away. The light was fast fading ; just one long streak of pale amber stretched across the western horizon. The blue envelope crackled in Belinda’s shaking hand. The flap gaped temptingly open ; it must be now or never. She drew the closely written sheet slowly out—should she, or should she not ? She would ! she would ! she must. So accordingly she did, and this is what met her eyes:— ‘ St Helier’s, Jersey, ‘ June 30th. “Augustus I dearest Augustus ! —You are gone ! you are quite gone ! is it so ? and yet sometimes I can scarcely believe it. I look around ; I almost think I can see you standing in the corner of the balcony. I hear the plaintive notes of your violin. lam about to say, ‘ Augustus, is not the day lovely ? and are not the songs of the birds delicious ? and do not the syringa trees look exquisite as they wave their snowy heads in the fresh morning breeze ? ’ And then suddenly I stop. 1 recall how it is that you are no longer here. Absence ! cruel absence !it is almost like death; it is nearly as cold and still, except that our letters, which resemble veins running from one to the other, give us now and then a warm thrill of life. ‘lt is only yesterday that you went; only yesterday when I saw that great black steamer moving slowly out into the spreading world-sea. Again I see the handkerchiefs waving. Again I hear the shouts. Now the dark mass becomes smaller, the bubbling of the waves as they plash against the sides can be no longer heard ; still I can just discern your figure on the deck. How well it is. that you are tall, and that you have a red flag of a handkerchief to wave as a signal. Now this, too, fades out of sight, and we look at one another sadly and say the word ‘ gone. ’ ‘lt is not a pleasant word, that‘gone.’ Ah, no ! When we reached home our great tortoiseshell cat, Minsk, came out to meet us, rubbing her smooth furry back and long tail against the skirts of my dress, and purring like a mill-wheel. I lifted her up in my arms, and I think she could tell you that her soft coat was wet with a tear or two. Minsk has known many troubles, and she knows this. ‘ But God is good ; is it not so ? and there are letters and perhaps a meeting soon. Do you not say that in a month or so I may go to the Gibbons, at Meryod, and that we may then begin to think of housekeeping, and that that little violin of yours will turn out to be the true wand of a magician, turning all to gold ? ‘ Imagine un petit appartmeni gamie a troisieine Stage all for ourselves. The idea is quite new and charming. Already I begin to make myself useful. This morning I spent an entire hour in the kitchen trying to make tartines ; but ah ! they were burnt, sadly burnt, these tartines. Too bad, is it not ? but, as you say, ‘ better luck next time,’ I believe, after all, that I have un genie pour la cuisine, more so, at all events, than I have for the needle. I detest that needle, {To he continued,')