Our Novelettes.

Lake Wakatip Mail, Issue 1588, 6 May 1887, Page 3

Our Novelettes.

OUR JROBIN. Chapter I. " My dear B'anche, had you not better put off the writing of that letter until tomorrow ?" I turn my eyes from the long contemplation of the never-ceasing rain, stop nibbling the end of my penholder, and answer energetically— " Decidedly not. The sooner it gors the better. I shall have no rest until I get Robin's answer." " But, my 10-e, the letter seems to be such an uncommonly difficult one to write," pursues my aunt, with most provoking honesty. " Yon have been sitting in front of that devonport for the last half-hour"—con-sulting her watch—" and I don't think you have begun it yet." " You are right, most observant of aunts," I answer, s'ightlyfcolouring, as I dip my pen for about the twentieth tsme into the ink. " I wa« thinking what a change it would make in our lives if I could only induce Robin to come." " You are too much given to dreaming, my love," rejoins aunt Louisa placidly. There is no denying the fact thus crushingly stated. My nnture is apathetic. I have an unfortunate habit of pitting for hours together doing nothing —absolutely nothing but dreaming as aunts terms it. Yet on occasion I can be even more energetic and speedy than most people, particularly when stung into action by any allusion to my pet weakness. On the present occasion I shake off the dullness which has been rendering my wits so dull and dash boldly into my letter. On, on flies my pen, with never a moment for thought as to the correct ;formation of sentences—on, on, till five sheets are blackened by my untidy caligraphy. "There!" I exclaim, pushing back my chair from the devonport as I stamp the envelope. " I can get through work as fast as anybody, you see, when I set about it. I have written five sheets in fivo-and-twenty minutes." Aunt Louisa smiles an indignant smile. " I allow, my dear, that your quill pen, once set in motion, is a formidable little instrument. It makes a great, and, to my ears, rather irritating noise, uses a vast amount of ink, and wastes a quarter of a quire of paper, over a letter that, if I were to write, would about fill three pages. I wonder why girls nowadays are taught to write like men ?'* ''The progress of the times," I return, laughing. " You know, auntie, people had to write as if a spider had crawled over the paper in your days, becauee the postage was so heavy." Aunt Louisa makes no answer; only a "click, click" of her knitting-needles was heard, which is in very truth as irritating to me as ever the scratch of my quill pen to her. She had been engaged on a shell-patterned quilt for the past six months, and it seems to the uniniated eye to be still in the days of its infancy. After watching her active fingers for a few moments, I leave the devonport and hunt up my own work, a cruel antimacassar. Truth to tell, it is just about as interminable as aunt Louisa's quilt. The only difference in our progress is this —as a rule, I eit with my work in my lap, rarely making a stitch, and is does not get finished ; aunt Louisa, on the contrary, works us ir.defatigably as any bee, her fingers never weary for a moment; and yet the quilt apparently never gets bigger. This is incomprehensible to a thinking mind. lam searching amongst my wools for a necessary shade of pink, when aunt Louisa asks abruptly—"Do you think Miss Wolstencroft will come ?" " Yes," I answer a trifle doubtfully—" that is, I hope she will; and I don't see uny reason why she should not. We were great friends at schcol." My nunt heaves a faint sigh. " You know, dear child," sho says in her gentle voice, " that I am always pleased with anything that gives you pleasure, and I dare say you particularly feel the need of a young companion just now. Of course yours has been till lately rather an isolated life. At the same time, from the description you have given me of your friend, I imagine that she is hardly the kind of girl to accommodate herself to our quiet ways." " Of course she won't! " I answer, laughing. " Robin is just as full of life and spirits as we are dull and depressed. Why, auntie dear, she wilPcome like[a fresh March wind into the house, and brace us all up into a state of activity " " For my own part, I dislike the March wind," replies aunt Louisa, with a shiver ; " and 1 don't think I appreciate restless over' energetic natures." " Yet you blame me for being lethargic," I say slyly.

" There is a happy medium in all things," remarks aunt sagely. " A young girl should strive to be cheerful, but not hilarious, witty, but never vulgar, anctive, but not restless." " Hut wouldn't the world become a little monotonous, auntie, if all girls were after the same pattern?" I query a little mischievously. " I don't think there is much fear of monotony in the preeont day," returns my aunt, with just tiie faintest touch of satire in her tones. "Girls now have more individuality than is consistent with my ideas of propriety." " You have just hit on the word, auntie," I say, laughing —" individuality. Yes, I believe it was Robin's individuality that rendered her such a favourite at school. She was not in the least like other girls, but always so cheery and full of spirits that she got the name of Robin —I suppose because a robin is best-loved and most spirited of our English out-of-door pets." " I am afraid the will find it very dull," muees aunt Louisa doubtfully j "we have so little to offer in the shape of gaiety." " Well, I have not succeeded in making you understand hi r character in the very least," I say, with a despairing shake of my lit ad. " Robin delights in country life. I don't think she cares a pin for society." " Still she will want seme amusement."

" Kobin in want of amusement!" I answer, raising my oyebrows. " No, 1 can't fancy that. I think she is too light-hearted to feel dull, even were she stranded, like Robinson Crusoe, on a dest rt island. She used to be first and foremost in all the fun of the school. 1 think I never knew such a band at practical jokes." " Practical jokes! " repeats aunt Louisa uneasily. "Ibat is most unfortunate. I knew a poor boy who had his spine injured for life by having bis chair pulled away when ho wub going to sit down, and another who caught, rheumatic fever through finding a wet sponge in his bed." 1 burst into a long and merry fit of laughter. " Oh, auntie," I cry, when my merriment has subsided, "of course she would not play such tricks as those—why, you must picture her a regular monkey! 1 will gua r antee she will leave the beds and chairs alone." Aunt looks relieved, though she scarcely seems to appreciate my laughter. I am anticipating t-omething in the shape of a reprimand, when the door opens, and my brother Jolio outers the room.

He is a young man of about gix-and-twenty —tall, and slightly built, with a high thoughtful forehead and big unfathomable gray eyes. He is my only brother, and I love him with a kind of enthusiastic worship. I look up to him also with a species of reverence, as being the impersonation of cleverness. Most of his time is spent in his study, a dark little den surrounded by heavy book shelves. When not occupied in reading or writing, he is a greater dreamer even than I am my self. Occasionally I have had to shout quite into his ear, jto make him understand that his meals were waiting. He wears his hair rather long, and is inclined to be neglectful of his appearance. Entering the room now, he saunters idly about, fingering the ornaments on the various tables in an absent manner; finally he works round to where we are sitting, and, taking up my bundle of wools, begins to play with tbem, idly twisting them in and out between his strong brown fingers. " Is it anywhere about the hour for tea ? " he questions, in a voice which iB deep, sonorous, and a trifle sad. I answer in the affirmative, and, folding fup my work, begin ta chat. It is so very seldom that John is to be caught in a conversational mood that I never neglect to avail myself of the occasion when such is the case. Presently the tea arrives, brought in by our one man-seivant, Robert. After setting the tray on a email wicker tea-table to his satisfaction, he is about to withdraw, when I remember my letter, and tell him to see that it is placed in the bag. " A truly feminine budget," remarks John sarcastically, as his eye lights on the wellfilled envelope. " Yes," answers aunt Louisa, with more than usual alacrity. " I have just been giving Blanche a lecture on her waste of paper; but I doubt if she will benefit by it." " "lis good for trade," I interpose oracularly. " Besides, auntie, if we both set about keeping an account of our stationary, I think jours would make mine look very small at the end of the year. You write three or four letters every day, and, as a rule, I don't get through one a week 1"

Aunt Louisa laughs. She is go genuinely good-natured' notwithstanding her pet crotchets, that she never minds being worsted in an argument. "If my invitation is accepted," I pursue, nodding in anntie's direction, " I probably gha'n't write a letter this month." John looks up quickly from the strong cup of tea he is stirring. " Your invitation ? " he says interrogatively. " Yes; don't you remember I asked you about it a few days since P" " I cun't say that I have any clear recollection of your telling me anything of the sort," he answers slowly, a slight frown puckering his forehead. " What a wretched memory you have," I exclaim, with some pity. "I certainly told you that I was going to ask my very dearest school-friend, Kobin, dowD to stay for a month." " 1 don't doubt that you told me; but I could not have been listening at the time," replies John. This explanation is so very probable that I do not argue the point any farther. " Blanche, are you determined to poison me ?" asks aunt Louisa at this moment in pathetic tones, and handing me back her cup of tea untouched. I have been so frequently asked the same question that I merely shake my head in mild dissent, pour out two-thirds of the cup into the slop basin and fill up the void with hot water. " That is better," remarks my aunt with satisfaction; and then she adds cream and sugar to her tasteless potion with a liberal hand. " You two have spoilt your nerves already with tea-drinking," she continues, after a sip of the pale fluid. John's eyes and mine met in a glanc* of sympathy. We both drink our tea black, strong, with no sugar, and only a taste of cream.

" Tea is a very strong stimulant," pursues aunt Louisa solemnly. "I am not at all sure that it is not even intoxicating. I think there ought to be a league ugainst excessive tea-drinking, as there is against beer and spiiiis." " A ladies' tea-league,'' laughs John; and his usually sad eyes light up with such a gleam of lun that 1 just clasp u.y hands in my lap and stare at hiui. It is so seldom, so very seldom, that John smiles ; and when he does his smile is something worth watching. I know well enough why ho is habitually wrapped as in a cloak of sadness, and aunt Louisa knows too—we have both done our best to help and cheer him in his trouble j but, apparently, we cannot have set about it in the right way, lor we have not succeeded. Just two years since, John lost his love. Her death was not even natural. It came upon us suddenly, and with an awful shock. In the midst of a scene of gaiety, with a rippling laugh on her lips and the impress of health in every limb, the treacherous ice opened, ar.d the cruel cold waters sucked her down to her grave. John was not on the pond at the time. If he had been he would not be sitting opposite to me now; he'would either have reacued her, or died in the attempt. The tragedy caused a commotion in the neighbourhood, and many tears were shed over Lucy's untimely end ; yet I never saw John weep, though his heart was almost broken. He stood beside the open grave and listened to the funeral service with no more emotion depicted on his features than as if he had been a statue; then he placed a fair white hly on the collin-lid, and, turning, walked qu ly from the spot. " He's got not more 'art nor a millstone ! " I heard a poor woman eiplain bitterly, as she watched his departing figure w i t h evident contempt—and such doubtless was the general opinion in the neighbourhood. Only those of his own household knew how for hours and hours he sought the solitude of his little stud}', sitting far into the night engrossed in literature of a dangerous, unwholesome, jet most fascinating tjpe.

W heu I use the word unwholesome, I do not mean that John indulged in low and coarse works of fiction; but he read thoce authors who, by reaaon of deep thinking, crooked reasoning, and an overwhelming faith in their own infallibility, have lost all faith in the traditions of their forefathers, and have struck out a new path across the desert of life. In the early days we almost trembled for his reason. " My pear Blanche, if John is not roused he will go melancholy mad," auntie informed me one evening when we were passing up. stairs at ten o'clock, and she pointed dejectedly to his study-room, from beneath which there issued a steady light.

On the impulse of the moment I ran back and tapped at the door j then my heart almost stood still with a kind of fear—there was nothing John hated so much as being disturbed in his studies. My first summons did not rouse him; so, gathering courage frsm the silence witbin, I knocked again. Then came an impatient exclamation, the door was half opined, and John stood before me, looking cold and hard.

" John," I faltered," do shut up your books and go to bed; I am sure it is very bad for you stopping up so late." A satirical smile played round his Hps, and bending out through the open doorway, he kissed me lightly on the forehead. "Go to bed yourself, little woman," be said, in his low gentle voice. The unusual caress—for we are neither of us of a gushing nature —disarmed me. '•Oh, John," I cried, bursting bodily into his sanctum, and shutting the door, lest any of the servants should be passing, " you must give up reading so much—indeed you must. Aunt Louisa saya you will go mad if you persist in shutting yourself up alone." " Only one of her crotchets, Blanche," he answered wearily, drawing his band across his forehead—but there was no reassuring smile in his grave eyes. " I should be fur more likely to go mad if I did not read so hard," he continued meditatively, " for in that case I should never sleep." Then he dismissed me ; and I knew that I had no influence over him. It was in no very cheerful frame of mind that I ascended the stairs that evening. Aunt Louisa informed me that John would go mad if he did read, and he declared that the like catastrophe would take place if he did not read—it was a dismal prospect for me. However time fled, and fortunately no change assailed our quiet household. Gradually John abandoned his night-watches—-gradually he assumed some of his old habits ; but his interest in life flickered feebly. Nothing vexed him, nothing pleased him. But enough of poor Johu's early trouble —suffice it to say that the cloud still hangs over us as we sit sipping our tea around the cheery firelight. My brother is dreamy and thoughtful Nature does not seem to have endowed him with sufficient energy to rise out of his trouble. Having been knocked down by fate, he makes no effort to pick himself up again. As the twilight deepens, silence creeps down upon us like a sombre mantle. lam the first to break the spell. " Ugh," I exclaim suddenly, and with a fierce touch of impatience, " we are as silent as the witches in Macbeth. "The witches were not silent," corrects Andrew, passing me his empty cup. " Ah, no—l remember—they stirred up all kinds of horrors in a pot for the purpose of raising ghosts—didn't they ?" John nods assent. " Well, theS had more energy than we have any way. I believe we are getting duller and duller eevry diy in the home-circle "—glancing round, with a sigh. " However, there is hope in the distance; Robin will be here next week." "Is she very sprightly," asks John; and I fancy there is a little sneer on his lips. "Yes, indeed: she is like a vein of quicksilver—for ever on the move." "I only'hope we shall not find her too lively," interposes Louisa. "I trust you will keep her out of my study," adds John with a slight shudder. " I can't promise anything so utterly improbable," I say, with a wish to tease. " I have a stout key," answers John, in no wav put out.

While I am laughing at the determined and even aggresive way in which this announcement is made, ther*4omes a loud ring at the hall door. Aunt Louisa looks at me, and gives me a knowing little nod —John sighs — and I try rather unsuccessfully to keep a straight face. I have only been engaged for a fortnight, and am not quite used to the situation yet —this is why I want Robin to couie and stay with me. I want some one at hand in whom I Gan confide. .Aunt Louisa is very kind and very well intentioued, but she is a trifle too practical to be sympathetic; and of course I cannot even mention my lore to John—it would seem quite cruel and heartless.

Aa Harry enters the room now, with firm tread and deep-tonod voice, he brings with him a gush of the outer freshness. Hia features are not finely chiselled, like those of my brother, John, but he has a frank genial face, bronzed by continual exposure to the elements. Alas for my future peace of miud, this lover of mine is in the Navy! And very proud the Navy should be of such a gallant young oflicer, is my thought when I glance at his curly gelden beard and tail stalwart form. Before he hag been two minutes in our midst, our usually quiet walls are echoing with mirth and laughter. My disposition is naturally quiet j but Harry's high spirits are infectious; and, if I have not the power ot creating cheerfulness, I can at least retleot it. I do not let my lover's jokes fall flat, which they inevitably would do were only Louisa and John present. He tells us the news of the day, drives my Pereian puss wild by imitating the note of various birds, and then—juat aa he is at the telling point of au amusing story —I notice that Johu rises and moves quietly from the room. Harry only remains for twenty miuutes yet I feel ten years lifted from my shoulders by the time he leaves. " I wonder," muses aunt Louisa aloud, as soon as his back is turned—" I wonder very much bow it was that Harry came to choose jou P He is so lively himself, and you, my love, are such a quiet little thing. " Indeed lam not! On the contrary, I consider myself very lively," in my nettled and not over-trutbful answer. " That ia," — correcting myself—" I should be lively if I had a chance; only one can't very well be facetious all alone."

" I should think that your friend, Miss Wolsteocroft, and Haray are likely to become grejt friends," continues auntLouiea thoughtfully- " Well, yes, I suppose so," I acquiesce, after a moment's reflection. And then I wonder vaguely what induces aunt Louisa so frequently to make remarks which clash somehow with one's feelings. It ia not want of heart, I am sure; it must be simply want of tact.

Chaptkb 11. Robin is tired enough after her twelve hours' journey, and accepts with alucrity aunt Louisa's proposal that she shall go to bed at onco; so I see little of her on the evening of her arrival. The next morning, however, I am up betimes, quite balf-an-hour earlier than my wont. When dressed, I tap at Rubin's door very softly, to know whether she is awake. " Come in," cries her cheery voice; and, entering, I lind myself clasped by a pair of strong arms and nearly smothered with kisses. «' Oh, dear, dear," I exclaim, as breathless, I extricate myself from her energetic embrace, " why you are as much like a bear as ever! I have not experienced such a hug as that since I left tchool." Robin opens her laughing hazel eyes very wide. " Why," she says, in tones of wonder, " I thought you told me you were engaged! " " Ai.d so I am," I answer smiling, " but not to a Polar bear." " Ah, uo, Dame Frigid ! This is the style of your youiiJ man ; I can picture him—just now! "—and, taking m.y hand, she raises it slowly to her lips, sinking meanwhile on her left knee and placing her right hand sentimentally on her heart.

{To bo coniiiwtd),