LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1912, 10 April 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THIS SISTER-IN-LAW. ‘So you like it, Barbara?’ said the bridegroom, moiling down into the blue eyes, that nhonu like violot et.ira against his breast. ‘ It’s a little paradise !’the bride answered, enthusiastically. And so it was—the pretty cottage-house, with its miniature bay-windows, its frescoed parlour, the little diuing-room, with dados and frizes, according to the most modern idea of art, and the chintz-draped windows up-stairs. ‘ And everything is just as yon would have it ?’ questioned Mr Fontaine. ‘ Yes, except— ’ And then Barbara stopped short, and began, with a little embarrassment, to finger the buttons of her husband’s greatcoat.

‘ Except what, my darling ?’ urged Fontaine, tenderly. ‘ Must your sister live with us always V asked Barbara, with a little pout. Fontaine’s brow clouded over.

‘ She has no other home, Barbara.’ ‘ Don't you like her, Barbara ?’ * No, I don’t,’ said Barbara, with a shrug of the shoulders. ‘ She’s so cold, and silent, and sullen. And she isn’t a bit pretty. 1 like people to be pretty.’ ‘You’re an unreasonable little puss!’ said the bridegroom, laughing, ‘ Mary is well enough. It’s her way to be silent.’ ‘ But it isn’t mine. And I shall be sure to quarrel with her before the week is out.’

‘ The quarrelling will all bo on your side,’ said Fontaine. ‘Mary never quarrelled with any one in her life.’

• I hate human clams ! ’ said Barbara. ‘Ah, you’ll get along splendidly!’ said Fontaine, glancing at his watch. ‘And now good-bye. I’m late for business already.’ As he went out through the pretty little octagonal anteroom, he saw Mary Fontaine, standing, like a pale statue, between the white muslin curtains, and the unpleasant idea whether she could possibly have overheard any part of their recent conversation entered his mind.

‘Go in and talk to Barbara, Polly,’ said he, cheerfully, ‘ She’ll be a little lonesome without me just at first, and will be glad of your company ’| Miss Fontaine glided, like a silent ghost, into the bright drawing-room, where the tearoses blossomed, and the canaries snug, and a bright sea-coal fire glowed under the maroon velvet draperies of the mantle. But, with all her effoits to bo sociable, she found herself unable tojtalk. Subjects were taken up and dropped, until Barbara desisted in despair. ‘ Sit there, like a statue of Silence—and a grim one at that, if you like,’ said she to herself, as she took up a novel and leaned back among the sofa cushions. ‘ I can stand it, if you can ? ’ and a dead muteness fell on them.

Mary Fontaine’s eye, falling on the opposite mirror, took in the contrast between the two, and a pang thrilled through her heart. Barbara was like a little human sunbeam, so bright, so vivacious, so full of mirth and sweetness, with her flossy masses of gclden hair, wild-rose complexion and laughing blue eyes ; while she, pale and dirk, with solemn gray eyes, colorless complexion, and lips that seemed stricken absolutely dumb in the presence of the bride, was the type of a cloud. ‘lt is as she said,’ thought poor Mary. ‘ I am not a pleasant object about the house; I don’t wonder that she wants me out of it. But, oh, I did so hope that she would have loved me a little ? ’ As the weeks went on, Wary grew even colder and less demonstrative in manner; and Barbara more careless and indifferent, while Harry Fontaine looked dubiously on.] ‘ The girls don’t get on well together,’ said ho to himself, ‘‘and I’m sure I don’t know why.’ But one chilly Autumn evening, as Mary Fontaine was strolling aimlessly among the woodland paths, just beyond the garden wall, picking up a red leaf here and there, she met a fat, vulgar-looking old woman, carrying a black-velvet bag, and dressed in the very height of fashion, coming out of the cottage gate. ‘ Are you one of the family ?’ said the old woman, brusquely. Mary looked at her in amazement. • I am Mies Fontaine,’ said she. ‘Then I think you ought to-interfere, ’ said the old woman, angrily. B I don’t understand you,’ said Mary. The old woman opened her black-velvet bag. ‘ Look here!’ said she. ‘ Young Mrs Fontaine’s diamonds !’

And, sure enough, she displayed a little cross of gold studded with sparkling stones, which Mary knew had been her brother’s bridal gift to pretty Barbara Santley. ‘ I am Mrs Jackson,’ said the vulgar old woman, who had a watering eye, a red nose, and a husky voice, as if she spoke from under a feather bed, * I’m in the borrowing and lending business, and I supplied young Mrs Fontaine with money for her weddingclothes. She never paid me. Said she couldn’t ; said her husband didn’t make her an allowance —simply paid the bills as they came in. Well, I wasn't going to stand this, you know. I threatened to put the whole thing into a lawyer’s hands for collection. Then she gave me this cross for security, she said, but I can’t sell it, nor yet I can’t keep it. This way of doing business don’t suit me —no, nor never did. fc'o, _ I’m going straight to Mr Fontaine himself ; and if my young lady don’t like it she may just lump It—that’s ail there is to it.’ Mary Fontaine had listened with interest. * How much is the debt ?’ said she. ‘ Well, miss, what with interest and compound interest, and collecting charges, and my own expenses,’ said the odious old woman, counting up the items on the fingers of her dirty kid gloves. ‘ It’s nigh six hundred dollars—five hundred and seventysix dollars and eighty-seven cents.’ * Come into the house with me.’ said Miss Fontaine, ‘ and I will write a cheque for the amount.’ * You ain’t in earnest ? ’ said the old woman, incredulously. * Yes, I am.’ When Mrs Jackson departed, she carried in her greasy pocket-book a cheque for five hundred and seventy six dollars and eightyseven cents, and the little diamond cross lay in a certain rose-leaf scented Japanese box in Mary Fontaine’s dressing case. Mr and Mrs Harry Fontaine were going out together to a dinner party that evening. ’lhe bride wore her wedding dress of creamy white silk, her wedding flowers woven into the flossy gold of her hair, and a simple turquoise brooch fastened the narrow frilling of rich lace at her throat, as she came smiling down stairs. Fontaine looked critically at her, and missed one detail of her toilet. j * Whore are yonr diamonds,’ Barbara, he asked—‘the little diamond cross? ’ The sudden scarlet mounted to her brow. ‘ I —l preferred not to wear it to-night, she stammered, busying herself with her bouquet. ‘Go and get it at once, dear,’ Fontaine said, hurriedly. ‘ I want my wife to look her beat and sweetest to-night.’ * Bnt, Harry—’ ‘ Quick !’ said he, with loving imperiousness. ‘lj 11 wait in the hall while you are gone, It won’t take you a minute, ’

Slowly, and with lagging footsteps, Bar bara obeyed ; but the instant she was within her own room, she threw herself, whits silk dress and all. on the low chintz covered sofa, and hurst into tears and sobs.

‘ What shall I do V she cried aloud, in the utter despair of her poor little soul. ‘ Oh, what shall I do 7’

A soft arm was passed around her neck ; she felt herself gently lifted into a sitting posture. ‘ Here is your diamond cross, dear.’ whispered a gentle voice. ‘ Let me fasten it on for you.’ ‘ Mary!’ ‘ Yes, Mary ; your sister, dear.’ ‘ But where did you get it 7 Hew did you know ?’

‘Don’t stop to talk now,’ said Mary. ‘ Your husband is waiting. I will tell you all byeand-bye.’

Mrs Fontaine wore the diamond cross at the dinner party ; and, when she came back, she went straight to Mary’s room and heard the whole history of the little ornament

She flung herself on her knees at Mary Foniaine’s feet, and laid her cheek on her lap, with a burst of grateful tears. ‘ Oh, Mary, ’ she cried ; ‘ you don’t know what a deliverance you have wrought me ! I believe I would have committed suicide rather than to have Harry know how weak, and vain, and foolish I have been 1 But indeed, indeed, it has been a lesson to ms. You have raved me by your noble generosity, and, now, how can I ever thank you for t?’

Mary Fontaine’s deep, dark eyes swam in tears. Involuntarily she held out her hands to Barbara, with an imploring gesture. ‘ Love,’ she murmured, in low tones, ‘ That is all I shall ever ask. Call me sister—let me be truly a sister to your heart! Oh, I would rather be loved than to tread pavement of sheeted diamonds! All these months you have held aloof from me, because I am pale and plain, and have no gift of eloquence to woo people’s hearts. Oh, Barbara, love mr, and I shall be more than content !’

And the clasp of Barbara’s arms, the touch of her warm red lips against Mary’s cheek, sealed the covenant of these two hearts.

* So you’ve found out what a trump our Polly is!’ triumphantly exclaimed Harry Fontaine a few weeks afterwards. '‘Didn’t I always tell you she was worth her weight in gold ?’ * And you told me the truth,’said Barbara, giving her sister-in-law a hug that nearly took away her breath. But the two women kept their own secret.