LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2695, 27 November 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

JOCELYN’S NOVEL. ' She did not look much like an author, at least the typical blue-stocking we are always reading about. She was a very fair and delicate girl, of a little more than twenty, with fluffy yellow hair down to her eyebrows, great, appealing eyes, soft white hands, and a good deal of ‘ style. But she had written a novel—in secret —not even her mother knew of it, much less her lover. That was to bo a surprise. She held it in her hands now, fresh from the publishers’ ; for, strange to say, it had been accepted, although never in her life before had she offered any of her heart and brain to the harpies that rule modem thought. A dainty summer idyl, with a breezy motto and tinted pages and delicate covers with tho wealth of Jocelyn’s nature lying between. Spicy dialogue, dreamy reverie, flashing wit, and the background dashed in with a masterly hand. She felt her heart leap as she looked at the little volume, and a wild lose crept into each cheek. How lovingly ‘the mither ’ would kiss her-little girl when she read this anonymous prose poem and recognised the hand that had guided the pea for the dimpled waxen one she had led in babyhood. How proud Philip would be when he knew she had written a book and managed everything so cleverly and unexpectedly, with the aid of a doting uncle in the mystical land of publishers. They had hardly dared dream of success, despite her arch playfulness, her sweet gayety ; she had always had this twilight dreaming thread through the woof of her sunrise-tinted nature. There were many hours when she did not care for excitement, when she liked to creep away by herself and sit and muse with idle hands. She hardly knew, when some voice called her hack to wakefulness, of what stuff her dreams had been made. This last year her soul had blossomed into new beauty. Her prince had found her sleeping’in the palace, and had kissed her silent lips. Henceforth the dawns were amethyst above the mystic hills ; the tremulous sunsets Wore such splendour of gold and crimson as dazzled her wondering eyes ; there was a languor in the roses, an abandon in the bird’s song, a hush in the noon-day, a holiness in the starshine —all the world was new, strange, and beautiful. And yet there was an awe upon her, as if in the midst of a garden of bloom and scent a hooded monk should glide forth with his finger on his lips and a skull in his hand. She had never been so happy; she had never been so miserable nor so restless. Even her music failed her; even her long dreams could not satisfy her now. She hardly knew what to do with herself. Suddenly she thought she would write a hook, a simple, natural little atory. No one should ever see it. It would be better than keeping a journal—journals were stilted and sentimental things, but this would be something to chain her attention and banish her restlessness. Often she did not care to read; she •would go over a chapter twenty times and see nothing but a pair of dark eyes looking at her from the pages ; sewing was too dull; music onty roused the passion-pain and rapture in her more strongly ; society palled upon her, it was like morning ale, stale and flat, after last night’s champagne. So, an hour here, an hour there, she devoted to the little desk in her room.

At daybreak, when the robins were riotous in the apple houghs ; at midnight, when the stars began to pale ; in the afternoon, when mamma was dozing; rainy days, when the falling music upon the roof made tho pen move faster in rythm. She had begun vaguely, but before she Anew it she had written out her own sweet story with its touches of pathos and joyous carelessness.

Philip was her hero, of course. It was so much easier writing about him than any other man—men were very stupid at the Best, all but Philip. And as she wrote with lingering, loving fingers her heart thrilled again with the surprise and graciousness that love had brought her a little ■while ago. Unconsciously she recorded words and events and happenings, and over all was the glamour of youth’s first changeless fancy. In every page the womanliness and childish purity of her shone out starry, and the winsomeness of a fresh and unspoiled but thoughtful and cultured nature. Ho lovelier summer idyl had been penned, with the strong background and heavy shadows throwing into relief the sunny brightness of her sketch. But when it was done to the very last word, when she had penned it and touched it up here and there, she felt the author’s insanity come upon ier.

It must be printed. She never stopped to think of rhe many strange, cold eyes that would read the open pages of her heart, she only longed to see it in clear characters between covers. Had not Philip given her this magnificent diamond for his betrothal gift ? And a diamond was a stone that any one might buy —only a cold jewel that any one might have for base money. Supposing she gave Philip this little book for her botrothral token f Would he not prize it ? Would he not be proud and pleased ? Why, it was part of herself—it was herself, his Jocelyn. And so in her eager impetuous way she had consulted no one but this one relative.

a wealthy cultured man, who was always willing to abet his little niece in any scheme that amused her, and though he had expected nothing but pretty school girl sentiment and gush, he was none the less ready. 4 It can’t possibly be worse than the majority of summer novelties,’ he said to himself, grimly. He read the work with astonishment. The crisp, breezy, sparkling little story was a revelation to him, and he had written a very respectful letter back to the coming ‘ distinguished authoress/ greatly to Jocely’s amusement. And now, after many days, this child of her brain had come back to her clothed in the latest fashion. And then a new thought came to her ; Philip was not rich, and she had nothing hut what mamma gave her ; if she were very successful Philip should bave it all. The home ho was working so hard for now should .be theirs, and he need not look so pale and harassed. She was lost in the depths of this brilliant thought, poor little Jocelyn! She had so lately joined the toiling ranks. What should she know-of the struggle and despair of the dreams that must die, the hopes that must perish, before the white, steep mountain peaks were reached ? How should she know how many had faltered and failed on the way, and dropped behind to be heard of nevermore ? How know how pitifully few they were who stood in the eternal sunshine, with eyes blinded by pain, with bleeding feet and broken hearts ?j Ah ! Fame is the Juggernaut that has rolled over countless loves, crushing out youth and brightness and joy from eager hearts forever. But little Jocelyn never dreamed of fame, she only wanted to please and surprise her mother and Philip. That evening, as her tall lover was going away, she timidly handed him a little volume, hound in white with edges of gold. * I want you to read this. Philip,’ with a -deep and beautiful blush, * and tell mo what you think of it/ He took it from her, a little perplexed at the scarlet cheeks and the trembling hands. •* Who is it by ? Oh, anonymous. Just as well for the writer, doubtless. “ A Summer Idyl,” like all the rest of them, I suppose ; wishy-washy, diluted sentiment; roses, and stars, and strawberries, and muslin drosses. Bat I will read it, my pet. Luckily it won’t take long; it isn’t voluminous. It seems to have impressed you deeply. Jooelyn/ with growing perplexity as ho saw the sweet lips tremble with mortification. ‘lf so, I shall find it worth reading ; your taste is perfect, my darling/ fondly, as he drew the slim form to him. * I will call to-morrow morning with the horses. It is a week since we have had a canter, and the lake road is gorgeous now after the frosts. Good night my Jocelyn—my joy/ and much more that is irrelevant. That afternoon she had placed one of the little hooks in her mother’s room, and now as she went upstairs she peeped in and smiled mischievously to see the madre so absorbed as to bo quite unconscious of her ■pretty daughter, until she stooped down and kissed her. ‘Mamma mca, is it nice ?’ ' • Ta be continued.