LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 2124, 14 December 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE MASTERY OF LOE.D BEiACKENBUET: Will bo continued o-tnorrow. MARK SUNDERLAND’S BRIDE. * But, Ethelynde, I cannot consent, child ! I cannot bring myself to consent that you accept such a position. It was bad enough when you, Gerald Van Verst’s daughter, were book-keeper and cashier in Hamill and Dnßarry’a establishment; it was awful when you insisted upon hiring out as Mrs Caldman’s child’s nurse j but this—this is worse than all, Ethelynde I A common dressmaker’s messenger! Oh, Ethelyndo, I cannot ever consent! ’ And delicate, pretty, though sadly-broken and passe Mrs Van Verst lifted her handkerchief to her eyes, and actually sobbed. A little, piteous look oame into Etbelynde’s blue eyes, as she dropped her head toward her mother; but it was quickly followed by a smile. 4 What nonsense, petite maman ! As if I am not papa's daughter, whether I occupy the highest or lowest position in society; and, mamma, I am sura papa would rather I should earn my living in any honest way, than for me to fold my bands and let you suffer for the necessaries of life. Why, mamma, I should hate myself—l should feel unworthy of poor papa’s name—if I was such a coward as to shrink from this position Mme. Courvisier offers me, simply because it may not possibly be so retired and pleasant as my former position! ’ There was a proud, resolute ring in her fresh young voice that was good to listen to, that told you of the will and spirit that adversity was powerless to quench—a determination and immovable firmness that was proof that, if the future could be conquered, she was the one who would accomplish that victory. She was a sweet-faced girl, whose blue eyes were like velvet for luscious softness of shade; whose beautiful. month gave token, in Its tightly closing lips, of a great control over herself; and whose general air, while she was unfailingly cheerfnl and content, told a keen observer that she had passed through more than one sharp storm of trouble.

And she had. Loss of home, wealth, social position, had quickly followed Judge Van Verst’s sudden death ; but Ethelynde had borne it bravely and well. The struggle for work—work for those dainty hands that had never known a task before—was grandly met. Mrs Van Verst’s hysterical helplessness, her never-ending wails of regret and selfcommiaseration—all these things Ethelynde had met, and conquered, until— One day, Mark Sunderland's mother had driven np, in her carriage, with her coachman and footman in livery, to the deor of the tenement house where Ethelynde had found rooms suited to her wretched little means—Mrs Snnderland, Mark’s mother, high, haughty, cruel, and cold as ice ; and her errand was to tell Ethelynde her son had just written her, from Paris, that he was engaged to a beautiful young French girl, and thought perhaps it would be as well if Miss Van Verst were notified. Rthelynde bad been sent for to come down to the carriage. Mrs Snnderland would not condescend to alight, and climb ten pairs of stairs in search of the girl whom she had one day, not so long ago, been perfectly willing to look npon as her future daughter. And so the girl stood on the narrow street and listened to her doom—the only blow from Fate’s spiteful hands, as yet, that had had power to cleave her heart. Mark had discarded her! Her love dream was over. Ah, it seemed as if everything was over and done now I

She listened, white to the lips, then answered, in a slow, dreary way, that was heart-breaking to see : 4 1 dare say it is ; but - for him— Perhaps you had better return this.’ And Mrs Saunders almost eagerly extended her cream kidded hand for the heavy fiain gold ring that Ethelynde’s sweet lips lad kissed time and again, over which she had cried such glad tears, which had been ber anchor all through her darkest honr. And thon—

Mrs Snnderland drove away, and Ethelynde took np her broken life as best she could. I can’t tell you how, only people do live through such agonies, and even learn to smile and sing. And then, a month or so later, came Mme. Courviaier’s offer, and Ethelynde accepted it, and the lonely, pitiful life went on. #**•**

A royal late autumn day was declining ; the cool, westerly wind, that had been stirring all through the sunshiny hours, was bearing a bnrden of invigorating frostiness as the twilight came slowly on; and Mark Sunderland, standing in his mother’s boudoir, whose four French windows, draped In silk and lace, opened upon the avenne and park beyond, was telling himself that no faroff land had shown him a more perfect city scene than this that lay before him, bathed in the latest sunset rays of golden and crimson splendor. He had that afternoon arrived, and his mother was never weary of looking at him—so tall, and straight, and handsome, very like her in general appearance, but entirely different from her in his sunny, cheery temperament, his happy, ea-y manner. Only instead of his usnal happy, easy manner and care-free face —the manner and face he had carried away with him a year before—Mr Sunderland was looking and acting gravely, and with very evident reproach in his manner. 4 lt is the strangest thing that conld have happened,’ he said, as he turned away from the window and walked np and down the long, elegant room, followed by his mother’s eager admiring eyes, 4 1 cannot understand how Ethelynde could have treated me so. It is so unlike her, so entirely unlike her, and I cannot understand it. You said it happened—how long ago, mother ?’ Not a tremor of agitation passed over Mrs Sunderland's cold, handsome face, at her son’s direct questioning. 4 1 do not remember the exact date—somewhere about three months ago, I think. Mias Van Verst and I happened to meet on the street, and of her own free will and accord she handed me the ring, requesting me to give it to yon, assuring yon it would be decidedly best so.’ She saw the look of pain that crossed his face, making it white and anguishful. 4 And she said nothing else —nothing more! No other message, to take the edge off the cruel blow ?’

4 No other word, my son ; and, indeed, I am glad it is so. Hush, dear I Let me say my say. She was never worthy of yon—never for one minute did she love you as you fancied she did—and the proof is before you, Mark. She has jilted yon to marry a richer man—if, indeed, she is not already married to him—a Western man, who owns immense silver mines.’

He compressed hit lips hardly—this handsome, princely fellow, who loved Ethelynde Van Verst so well, and whose soul was in agonies at her incomprehensible treatment of him.’

4 Well, mother, I have lost her—the one only woman in the world I shall ever love enough to want for my wife. It is a sorry home-coming,’ Mrs Sunderland, for one little second, almost regretted everything, as she saw her boy’s face and heard his weary, passienful complaint. 4 But it was for the beat —it must be for the best,’ she persisted in telling herself, 4 Mark could not marry a beggar; it would have broken my heart. And when he has met Florence Vane, with her beauty and riches, ho will speedily forget that other. Yes; what I did was surely for the best—for him and myself.’ Then Mrs Snnderland went on with her toilet very tranquilly and composed, listening to her son’s footsteps in his room overhead, and succeeding in convincing herself that she had been conscientiously zealous in his behalf just as her maid tapped, deferentially, on the door. 4 Madame Courvisier has sent your apricot silk toilet, Mrs Snnderland, and one of madame’s young women is instructed to see if there is any alteration required.’ And so, perfectly unconscious that grim fate was waiting at her very threshold, Mrs Sunderland did the most natural thing under the circumstances—ordered that the toilet be brought to her, and the young woman wait l in the hall below, while the dresa was examined,

Tien, when the magnificent dress was on Mrs Sunderland’s matronly form, she went for her son to see it, and pass his opinion whether or not Mine. Courvisier was not almost up to the immortal Worth ; and Mr Sunderland looked at it, said it was very nice, so far as masculine taste couid judge ; ; and then Mrs Sunderland broke the hair by which the sword was suspended over her head she sent for Mme. Conrvisier’s * young woman ’ to be shown up, Ethelynde Van Verst, her blue eyes full of cold, repressed hauteur, her face pale and set, her manner that of a thorough woman of the world, who was determined to maintain and make every one else maintain her position, Ethelynde came In to the presence of the man she had loved—yes, that she that moment loved better than her own life—the man who had sent her word about the beautiful French girl—the cruel, heartless lover to whom she had returned her slighted troth. It was a tableau for the brush of the mightiest artist that ever lived—that look on Ethelynde’s white, proud face, the utter horror of bewildered fury and chagrin on Mrs Sunderland’s, and the sudden lighting and gloryfying of Mark’s face. He sprang towards her eagerly. ‘Ethelynde] Eth ’ But she passed him with a freezing, scornful bow. ‘Mies Van Verst, sir, Mme. Courvisier’s apprentice messenger. Tour dress is satisfactory, madam ?’ Not a tremor in her cold, quiet tones. ‘ Hut there is something here I do not understand. Ethelynde, my mother told me yon were married. She told me you returned my ring, desiring to be free. Ethelynde, what does it mean ? Oh, my darling, don’t tell me I have lost you ?’ A sudden flame leaped to the girl’s eyes ‘And your mother came to me and told me yon desired to be free, because you were to marry abroad.’ And Mrs - underland, in her trailing silk and satin robe whose elegance was such a mockery, quailed before the eyes bent npon her. * Mother, is this true ?’ The son’s words out her like a sword. ‘ Madam, it is true.’ And Ethelynde’s low. intense accusation > brought the desperate pallor to her face. * Vee, it is true ] She was a beggar, and you were my son, and—’ Sunderland cut the cruel words short. She may be a beggar, but she is to be my wife. Mother, I can forgive you, because Fate has been kind to mo. But if I had lost her! Oh, Ethelynde, my love, my darling, we are not to blame; we have only to right a most cruel wrong! My love, we will renew our troth, and forgive my mother, and be happy! ’ In after days, Mrs Sunderland, jnu., and Mrs Sunderland, sen., were the very best of friends, and their mutual objects of worship were Mark, sen., and Mark, jnn.