LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IV, Issue 377, 27 August 1875, Page 4

LITERATURE.

BELINDA MASON’S ROMANCE. HOW IT COMMENCED, HOW IT WENT ON, AND HOW IT ENDED, ( Concluded ) ‘ My letters, I fear, will be often dull. Sometimes I have nothing to say but that the wind is cold, that the woods are green, that we are going to tea next door; but n’ importe, I recall how you once said that you even liked to hear when I had a pair of new gloves, so I take courage and write on bravely. You know our little meanr/e here, le ion pire engrossed in his calculations, spending nearly his whole day in the new obsfervatory which he has built for himself, and Rachel—Rachel, always impetuous, always eager, flying in and out like the wind, her long black hair flowing behind her, and talking perpetually of fame and of authorship. As for me, my desires are moderate. What is it that I desire for my future ? Let me see. I desire, first of all, a roof over my head, not a large or lofty one; in great rooms I feel oppressed and lost. I desire green carpets, which remind me of the mossy woods where we first met. I desire Minsk, or, at any rate, a descendent of hers ; and, yes, I suppose, also, that I desire you. Ah ! Augustus, how is it that I love you so well ? You have told me your heart with such freedom, that I am not ashamed to tell you mine. Now, I feel I must stop. What do you think of my letter ? To say the truth, I am a little proud of it. I flatter myself that it is toui-a-fait Anglais. Make me some compliments about it, and write soon to your own about it. • Paulette ’ When Belinda came to the end, she laid down the letter, and looked vacantly around. She could see to read no more ; the amber streaks had fled from the sky, and the world was dull and dim, but this change was as nothing to the change in Belinda’s face since she had opened that blue envelope. Her cheeks were now as white, and her eyes as spiritless, as if they had never glowed or shone at the birth of a rosy joy. She replaced the letter in the envelope, and went down the stairs with a slow heavy step. At the sitting-room door she met her mother ; Mrs Mason was about to speak, but Belinda stopped her by beginning herself. ‘ I found this letter open in the mail bag,’ said she. ‘Have you sealed it up?’ inquired Mrs Mason sharply. , ‘No ; I am looking for the sealing wax,’ * It is in the top drawer at the left-hand side of the counter. Take care and don’t burn your fingers, Belinda. ’ ‘No, mother.’ ‘ Are you ill, child ? you don’t seem like yourself. Does anything ail you ?’ ‘No, mother, nothing, nothing.’ Mrs Mason followed her daughter with a scrutinizing look, and Belinda walked down the stairs, opened the door into the shop, sealed up the letter, and wrote across it—‘Found Open,’ in her largest and most busi-ness-like hand. She did not sit in the window any more, and her geraniums drooped, and her mignonette turned brown. When soon the clear notes of the violin came floating across the street, she would stop her work, and shivering would put her hand up to her ears, as if to shut those tones out for ever. They were not for her, they were for that cruel, happy Paulette, and she did not wish to hear them. She often caught herself wondering about this Paulette, wondering if she had come to Meryon, and whether there might be a chance of seeing her. She sometimes stopped in the street, and gazed earnestly at some strange face, and said to herself, ‘ Perhaps that is her !’ (Belinda, like the good folks of Eheims, was not overparticular about grammar), but she never felt that she was right, she always had to pass on with the consciousness that she had been mistaken. The summer was drawing to a close ; Mr Vansittart had left Bridge street, most of Mrs Mason’s customers were out of town, and her business consequently hud become slack. In order to attract the passers by, Belinda manufactured a peculiarly alluring cap, which she hung conspicuously in the window. For some time the bait was unsuccessful, but at last two ladies dropped in. Unlike the majority of Mrs Mason’s patronesses, they were not elderly cap-ladies, these were both young, and one of them had a clear brown skin, and a pair of black, arched eyebrows that rose and fell, and almost spoke without the help of words. ‘ You make des chapeaux— bonnets, that is to say—do you not ?’ she asked, addressing Belinda. Belinda replied that she did. ‘ Do come away,’ whispered the other lady, pulling her more vivacious companion by the shoulder, ‘ you will never get anything fashionable here ; it is quite absurd to come to such a mean little place. Come, Pauline, come, I will take you somewhere else. ’ But Pauline, with a hundred animated gestures, answered ‘ No, no, I perceive that this little one has taste—As doigts de fee. Eh! Men, I desire un chapeau des nnces, quite plain and simple; I give my orders, she obeys me, I get something with a cachet of its own ; that is well, that is all I want.’ Then turning to Belinda, she began to describe her chapeau des noces; it was to have ‘ des fleurs d'orange, des nceuds, des bouillons,’ and a hundred things besides. At last she stopped. ‘ You understand me, is it not so ? she asked ; ‘ and you will have everything ready on Wednesday.’ Belinda was about to gasp, ‘No! no ! no !’ when Mrs Mason appeared, and with a mild curtsey, answered, ‘ Yes, miss, certainly.’ After the shop-door had closed, Mrs Mason turned to Belinda, and said, ‘Belinda, you had better get out your needle, and set to work without delay. ’ But Belinda’s answer was only a stern set look on her pale face. ‘ Belinda,’ said Mrs Mason, * do you know anything of that young lady that has just gone out ? She has given me her name, Miss Pauline Durant. Do you know anything of her ? ‘No, mother.’ * Have you ever seen her before ? ’ ‘No, mother.’ ‘ Then why don’t you do what she has told you to do ? ’ Belinda saw she would have to submit, and that evening Pauline’s chapeau des noces was completed—a master-piece of millinery. After it had gone home, Belinda took a feverish wish to see it on, so the next morning she stood at the top of the street, and watched the different vehicles as they passed by. es I there was Mr Vansittart, smiling, as Belinda had once aien him smile at her ; there, too, was the bonnet, and the bright

face underneath it, with its rippling flow ofjj change. Rich, happy Pauline ! Another minute, and they were gone. Belinda, too, turned away, and went home. Old Mrs Pinfold’s mourning cap was lying on the table, and Belinda set to work at its black ribbons, but all her thoughts were with these young people. To her it seemed that they were going forth into an enchanted valley, and she, she was shut out. But, Belinda, you do not hasten things, you are a little goose, you do not know life, you cannot look into the future, and in the chaos of perambulators, of bills, of feeding bottles, of corn-flour, of jars, not alone those of crockeryware, which are before that rash pair, now driving on their reckless way. Let us give our friend a kindly chuck under the chin before we leave her. Adieu! Belinda, Adieu!