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LITERATURE.

'THE PEARL, BEYOND ITS CASE. {From London Society.) (Concluded.) However, I do not make ihis humbling confession to Mr Eyre, but gravely answer, ' Oh, certainly—delighted—this one, if you like.' And in another minute I experience the delightful sensation of being whirled round in Ins muscular arms. lam not a bad dancer, and I thoroughly enjoy it; and when I catch a glimpse of myself in one of the side glasses, excitement has made me look quite pretty. The valsc comes to an end only too soon ; but Mr Eyre puts down his name for two more, so I am happy. _ I have other partners brought up to me during the evening, with whom I dance : but I am thinking all the time of those that are in store for my brown-eyed friend. Alas ! they too quickly come and are over, and we find ourselves waiting in the hall for the ponycarriage to 1)0 brought round. ' 1 hope the damp won't take the curl out of our feathers,' whispered Maud confidentially, referring to the bonnets. ' 1 hope not,' I sayindifforcntly, not earing much about the matter, and I look round for papa, for whom we are waiting. He appears, after a few minutes, with Mr. Eyre. The latter sees us into the carriage, and then says good-bye, and re-enters the house. 'First-rate fellow that,' says my father. ' He asked leave to call, so I said 1 was sure we should all be delighted to see him. Was 1 light, eh, girls? ' 'Quite right, papa,' answers Maud quietly, while 1* say nothing, but a secret feeling of delight possesses me.

'And how have my pets enjoyed themselves ?' continues papa. 'Oh! so much !' I exclaim. ' I don't know when F have spent so happy an evening; do you, Maud?' And then, not waiting for an answer, I ramble on : ' And Mr Eyre is such a delightful partner ! I danced three times with him, and I shall never forget the valses we had shall you, Maud ? Oh ! by-the-by, how many times did you dance with him ?' But Maud does not answer my question; her eyes are closed, and she is apparently asleep. ' N ever mind,' I say to myself consolingly, at this unsympathetic reception of my enthusiastic confidences. 'He is going to call soon—perhaps to-morrow;' and, as I say the words, a feeling of happiness comes over me, and I do not speak again until we reach home. ***** ' Ah, well! the world is not such a bad place after all!' How often one uses the most commonplace expression, when wishing to convey the greatest idea of happiness. Such is my case. It is six weeks—six happy weeks, since I last made use of the above ejaculation. I am sitting again in the little parlour, again I am looking out on the broad lawn, and again I make use of the same words ; but how intensified their meaning is to me now—how different are my feelings as I say them from what they were then ! Yes, lam sitting in the little parlour but not alone. With Maud, of course, you will say to yourself. Allow me to correct you; not with Maud. Shall I let you guess ? No, I will tell you myself. Not with Maud, but with my brown-eyed friend, Mr Eyre. We are sitting side by side, close together—too close, you will most probably indignantly exclaim. But calm and compose yourself, and I will tell you all. Mr Eyre came and called, as he had promised, not only once, but two or three times, until, iinally, he seemed to spend more of his time here than with his hostess. This was a state of affairs highly agreeable to both Maud and myself, especially as it excited the envy, in a much stronger degree even, than the blue bonnets, of the younger portion of our female acquaintances, and ailbrded the old maids much gratification as a field for gossip and speculation. Whenever we went out they would cluster round Maud, shake their heads, curls, and lingers at her, and exclaim : 'Oh ! jou sly puss ! not to tell us anything about it. Well, never mind, my dear, lie is a most delightful young fellow, to all appearances; at least we are sure you think so. And Miss Helen, here,' turning to me, 'it will be her turn next; and, meanwhile, I am sure she will be charmed at having so nice a brother-in-law.'

Oh ! charmed,' I would answer; and all the while I \ used to smile to myself, and think—l was not sure—but still I thought that perhaps they might have to direct their congratulations in another, and a very surprising direction. And it Avas all true. I was not mistaken, and I have a lover at last—and such a lover ! No ideal that I have ever pictured to myself could come up to this dear, real Charlie (that is his name) whom I love so much, and who loves me—yes, in spite of my plain face, in spite of all my uuloveliness —for myself. Really, the way in which he has endeared me to my own face is wonderful. I have entirely forgiven it for its want of beauty, and am sorry to say that I have acquired a habit of gazing at myself in the glass. This, however, I assure you does not, in any way, add to or flatter my vanity.

I think no one is more delighted with the present state of affairs than my father, and it seems to have quite rejuvenated the dear old fellow. He is as brisk and lively as possible, has taken to give us twenty minutes more sermon on Sundays (this proof of delight Charlie is wicked enough not to rejoice at), and five minutes more family prayers every morning and evening. The only one I do not quite understand is Maud: she is a little silent, a little pale, and not so high-spirited as usual. She says it is the heat; and perhaps she it right; only her conduct has seemed to me strange. However, I am almost too happy to let anything damp my spirits—even the remembrance of Maud's paleness—especially on this morning, as Charlie and I sit together _ in the little parlour. We have been talking, oh ! so delightfully! of the pleasant times to come, and of ail the happiness which the future seems to have in store. 'I wonder,' I say, ' what made you first take an interest in me ?' and then I add, with terrible earnestness, for the thought has been haunting me for some time, ' Oh ! Charlie, tell me one thing. Was it, could it have been, the blue bonnet. But this question is received with such shouts of laughter on the part of my fiance. that I look and feel foolish. At this moment Maud enters the room, and seeing us, glides silently out again. I jump up and follow her, for there is nothing so disagreeable to inc as the thought that every one must contrive to leave us alone together. I find her upstairs. 'Maud,' I exclaim, 'Why did you go away ? I wish you wouldn't be so unsociable.' And I walk to the glass whilst speaking. Maud does not answer ; she is busy at the other end of the room. 1 look at myself. Hair rumpled, collar disarranged, and decidedly red in the face. ' This tells tales,' I think, while a happy smile creeps over my lips. ' Come here, Maud,' I say out loud. ' Look at yourself, and then at me. Who, to see us two, would think, that six weeks ago you were the blooming daughter and I the sallow and pale one ! We have changed places ; have we not ?' ' Indeed we have,' says Maud, sadly. _ « So much for my plain face,' say I, giving it a hard pinch, as it appears to immense disadvantage by the side of Maud's. ' And so much for mine,' says Maud, first administering a contemptuous kind of slap to her offending cheek, and then, much to my surprise, bursting into tears. I walk up to her, and place my hand on her shoulder. ' Maud,' 1 say quietly, ' you are wicked.' The positions are reversed, and 1 am using the very words to Maud which, not long ago, she used to me. They have their effect, for Maud dries her eves a'ud half smiles through her tears. * 'But, seriously,' I ask, winding my arms round her, ' why are you so melancholy ? Do you know, 1 have such news! The wedding is arranged for this day five weeks, and when Charlie goes to sea I am to stay at home with ycu and father; so that we shall not be separated. And oil ! Maud, I have spoken to Charlie, and he assures me that it

wps not the bonnet, and that he likes me quite as well without it. Did you ever know such a dear, generous fellow? Darling, I am so happy ! Is not my joy your joy, too?' ' My sorrow.' The words arc said to herself, but still I hear them, and for the first time my happiness seems dimmed. 1 sec it all now—the reason for her paleness, her subdued manner, her apparent want of sympathy. My poor, pretty Maud ! She loves my Charlie, too ! The thought is not pleasant, but its effect is momentary. No, Ido not fear him for one moment. He has chosen mo, with all my shortcomings, in preference to Maud, and I know he loves me. Hue Maud—what is to be done for her ? Nothing—l see that nothing. Time, the never-failing remedy for all ills, will heal her wound, and when hers is healed mine will be gone. The cup of life is not all sweets. _ This morning Ims taught me that; but it has shown me that love will more than counterbalance the bitter. All, me !no rose without a thorn ; and my rose is so large and so fair, surrounded, as it is, with clustering hopes of future joy, that I scarcely credit the existence of a thorn. .Should I occasionally feel it—what then? Why, lam thankful that its wound is no greater, thankful that my rose seems all the sweeter for its contrast.

Permanent link to this item
Hononga pūmau ki tēnei tūemi

https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/GLOBE18750922.2.18

Bibliographic details
Ngā taipitopito pukapuka

Globe, Volume IV, Issue 399, 22 September 1875, Page 3

Word count
Tapeke kupu
1,705

LITERATURE. Globe, Volume IV, Issue 399, 22 September 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE. Globe, Volume IV, Issue 399, 22 September 1875, Page 3

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