LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IX, Issue 1279, 25 April 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

SUNSHINE AMD SHADE. By F. Garrett. [Tinsley,] { Continued.) But, by this time, ‘ Love was lord of all;’ and so, despite the coolness of the parents, Tom Hunton still lingered in the neighbourhood, until at last came the order to join his ship. His days at Staudfop were numbered now ; but he deferred until the last moment telling ‘ the girls ’ —as to himself he generally called them—of his speedy departure. Yet it must be done very soon ; and one evening, meeting them unexpectedly in a lane near tne house, he plunged desperately into the subject. ‘ I shall be very sorry, more sorry than I can t 11, to leave here 5 but I have orders to join my ship in a week.’ Dead silence for a minute or two ; then Jane spoke. ‘ Will you be obliged to go ? We shall miss you so much.’ ‘ I am glad to hear you say that,’ he replied, answering Jane, but looking full at Mary. ‘ 1 shall never forget the happy time 1 heve spout here. It has been the happiest of my life.’ This last sentence wa* spoken in a low tone, only audible to the small person beside him I hero had been no direct word of love making uttered between these two as yet, but the indetiuable attraction, wtiioh had begun its work in York Master, h*d by this time drawn '.hem so cioaeiy togethtr that the prospect of parting Was an equal grief to both. * I wish y.m’d give me a bit of your hair, Doth, of you’— photographs had not then came into fashion—‘just to remind me of this time when I am on the great wide sea.’ Jane at once professed her readiness to do so ; Mary, who had learnt to be more reticent than in days of yore, said nothing, but promised ia the depths ot her heart to give him the hair, and far more if he chose to ask for it. 1 I’ll go in with you, and say good-bye to your father and mother,’ said '1 om, when tiiey reached the gate. ‘ 1 shall have to leave here to-morrow.’

They all went into the drawing-room together; nut aa the fa ewella wore being said Mary slipped quietly out of the room, and was wandering disconsolately up and down the garden walk ween her lover came out of the house. He saw her at once, and came up to her. vv haiever would Mrs Cantuare have said Could she have seen that leave taki g ? ‘ Good-bye again, Mr Hunton. There is the haii—if—if y u really wish tor it.’ * Thank you.’ He took her hand in both of his, ana looked straight- mto her eyes. Appirantly he was satisfied with what he saw tiuo e, for he clropp d tne slender angers and added, ‘1 am very sorry to go. : had hoped we might have had many more walks and talks.’

‘I am sorry too.’ That was all her lips said, but her heart was echoing them, oh, hjw bitterly ! * •' o are sure to meet again some time. I know wo shell.’ H.a eyes, deep and tender, looked into hers. * Till that time comes you won’t f rget me ?’ ‘ JSo,’ she anstvered quietly ; and then he went.

Forget him ! him to whom her strong passionate young heart had gone out with the fullness of love a woman gives but once in a lifetime. Forget hi a ? tu« only man in the world who in her opinion was worth a thought. Iso, that she certainly would n»t have done if he had gone away without a word; how much closer would she cherish the remembrance of him now that he had asked her to do so.

And then sue went indoors again with a woman’s nurden of patient waiting and hope deferred laid upon her, and left the last lingering remnant of girlhood beh.nd her in that sunny garden. Four days after this Jane burst into the bedroom, where her sister was sitting list lessly over a piece of Work, in an unuual flutter of excitement.

‘ Mary, Mary, put down your work and listen. I have news for you. Me has come, and is with papa in the library.’ A somewhat incoherent announcement, perhaps; but there was only one he in the wor d for Mary ; and she dropped her work and started up wnth shaking hands and quivering lips. And then the sisters hugged aod ki.-sod each other, and laughed a little, and pul ed down each oth r’s hair, and crumpled each other’s collars in a second fervent embrace For Jane had by this time become the confidante of her sister’s hopes and feaia, and took a far keener interest in her love-affair than she ever thought to do in her own.

By and by the bell rang, and Mary was summoned to the study. There sat Tom Hunton, and her father opposite to him, with a very long solemn face. ‘ I don’t know what to saj - . Certainly 1 cannot approve of your proposal. You have no income to speak of, and your profession obliges you to lead such a wandering life,’ was saying as she entered. ‘ I wmuld rctiic from it,’ if you wished,’ interrupted Tom eagerly j ‘I have no doubt— ’ And then Maiy made u little noire with the door ban die 5 and they turned, and saw her. ‘Mary, my dcir,’ Mr Cantuare began, ‘ M? Hunton has been asking my consent to seek you for his wife. On many grounds I am tempted to withhold it} and I trust you yourself bay* been eutoatly well brought

up to recognise the numerous obstacles in the way of such a union. I certainly consider Mr Hunton very premature in his request, but as he desired to hear your answer from your own lips I have sent tor you. Y>u know mv wishes ; and I trust, as a daughter of mine, you will seek to follow them ’

Not a doubt appeared to cross the pompous gentleman’s mind as to Mary’s answer But all her reply was to cross the room to where her lover stood. There was no doubt or hesitation about her, and a look of firm resolve overspread her face as she laid her hand upon Tom’s arm. Her eyes moistened, and the colour mounted to her cheeks ; but her hand never trembled, and her voice sounded clear and distinct as she said, ‘ I knew you would come for me ’

Mr Cantuare was so utterly amazed at this response to his address, that the sudden surprise produced more effect than weeks of entreaties and lamentalations. For the present he surrendered at discretion—that is to say, he made no further remonstrance, but went in search of his wife, leaving the young people together. ‘He is not at all the kind of man I intended my daughter to marry,’ he said, after describing the scene in the library. ‘ Mary is so unstable, and has so little thought about serious mutters, that some one more decided in his principles, more mature in years, and better provided also with worldly stibslance, would be fur more suitable. “ The meat that perisheth” is but a secondary consideration compared with other things, of course ; yet still —’

‘ I quite agree with you that it is most unfortunate,’ rejoined Mrs Cantuare, iu her most acid tones. ‘lt is a great pity you i-howed the young man any civility in York ; but Mary is always so obstinate, it will be very little use talking to her. You seem to have given a sort of tacit consent’ (this in a tf-ne of considerable disdain, as implyi g, ‘ I should like to know which is the weaker vessel now’) ; ‘and it appears to me all we can do is never to mention Mr Hunton’s name, and trust, during his absence, one or other of them may tire of waiting, or circumstances arise to make the marriage impossible.

And by these specious words this wise woman soothed her husband, though I cannot say, with her deeper knowledge of her daughter’s nature, she put much trust in them herself. For she too grill retained a a faint recollection of the d ijs when she was young, and when Mr Cantuare’s elongated form and gold-rimmed spectacles had not been quite her ideal of m anly perfection. Mr Cantuare, indeed, was somewhat comforted by Lis wife’s words ; but lie could not resist a second lamentation over ruined hopes.

1 If it bad only been Mr Dodson, now, who had asked for her, I should have had no possible objection.’

* Mr Dodson has never hinted at anything of the kind, has he ?’ asked Mrs Cantuare ; for this was a favourite little scheme with both of them.

‘ Well, no, not exactly ; but I have sometimes fancied he liked Mary.’ ‘ He is from home just now, is he not ?’ ‘ I believe so ; but he is a man I thoroughly respect and trust. I could have no objection to that engagement.’ Now Mr Dodson was fat and foriy, and reputed very rich. One other little conversation on this eventful day mustfbe recorded. ‘I thought your husband was to" be tall and handsome, with dark eyes and a long moustache?’ Jane said maliciously to her sister from the shelter of the bed clothes.

‘ Oh, one never does as one ssy-s’ replied Mary, in a tone, however, which implied that the inconsistency between her doings and her sayings troubled her not one whit. And now followed a few sunny summer days of love-making. The pirents, in pursumce of the plan they had sketched out for themselves, offered no active opposition to their daughter’s engagement; but they threw cold water on it, in all those numberless small ways which the fertile imaginations of persons who desire to be disagreeable so readily suggest. Tom, after bis first parting from Mary in the garden walk, had been to London upon some business matters before ho joined his ship. There he heard she would not sail for another month; so he immediately hurried back to Standrop, and, as we have s> en, spent his last few days on shore in the triumphant happiness of an accepted lover. But ail too soon the final summons came, and for the last time the young people walked forth together through the waving cornfields, now nearly ripe to harvest. Arm in arm they paced slowly along in ‘silence more eloquent than speech;’ for it is surely only to our nearest and dearest we tell most truly, by the absence of words, of the deep hidden feelings they cannot express. But as they walked along the narrow path between two golden cornbanks, Mary stopped, and looked steadfastly in der lover’s face. ‘I know you must go,’ she said, breaking the long silence, ‘ but it is hard for me to be left. Tell me once again you will be faithful to me.’

‘ Ay, clearest, faithful to death,’he answered, in low tones, while a wave of passionate emotion swept across his face. A”d the birds sang, and the yellow ears waved in the light bre -xe, unwitting of the fowler’s smre and the cruel scythe and the hard threshing floor. Yet those things also are needful. Sunshine may mature to a certain ex en’; but the wheat must be cut and bruised b fore it attains the end of its growth. For all tnings alike suffering is the crown of life. ( To ho continueH )