LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 1044, 30 October 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE LAST OF THE SEASON. ("Belgravia,") Chapter I. There could be no doubt as to the fact. She drove by me in the Park, and bowed—an actual bona fide bow. For several months I had endeavored to catch her eye, and now she had graciously inclined her head and smiled upon me sweetly as I leaned airily on a Park railing. I glanced round to see whether anyone was envying me, and felt disappointed because my good fortune had been witnessed only by a diminutive street boy and an unsympathetic life-guardsman. But no matter, she had bowed and I was triumphant. She was neither young, beautiful, nor sylph-like. As far as I knew, she was neither wealthy nor witty. Her fascination lay in her entourage ; in a word, she was 'in society.' My step was light and my pulses bounded with honest pride as I strutted to the club to calm my bubbling spirits with a cigar. Entering the vestibule, I was handed a letter, or rather a sheet of note paper, so fashioned as to serve as letter and envelope in one. Its ends were open, and it carried a halfpenny stamp. The address was correct-—' F. Killjoy, Esq., Geranium Club, St. James's street.' Hm ! who could my parsimonious correspondent be ? I tore open the missive, and glanced at the writing. ' Holy Blue 1' I cried, and sank into the hall porter's seat. 'This is too sudden.' The note-paper fell from my fingers to the tiled floor, and a host of fond anticipations crowded into my brain. There it lay, my admission into society, until I picked it up, once more to gaze upon its enchanting but scratchy characters. Mr. Killjoy,— Dowager Viscountess Dawlish At Home, 4 to 7. To meet the Patagonian Ambassador. 200 Park street, July 20th. Meet the Patagonian Ambassador tomorrow, drink tea and eat strawberries from four o'clock till seven ! Not a particularly invigorating way of spending an afternoon, perhaps ; but then I had never seen a Patagonian. The arrival of these Antipodean curiosities had given a mild fillip to the languishing season. The end of all things fashionable was at hand. The Eton and Harrow match had been played, Patti had sung for her benefit at Covent Garden, right honorable members were yawning oa ministerial benches, and all of us were pauting for sea breezes or mountain air. Indeed, the best people were leaving town when the Patagonians took up their abode at the Alexandra Hotel, and became the heroes of the fortnight. But upon the first appearance of these stolid savages, even the jaded brightened up for one last flicker, and half-a-dozen afternoons- and three garden parties were given in order that certain ladies might keep up their reputations as successful stalkers of lions. Not the least conspicuous among these huntresses was the lady who bowed to me in the Park. Selina, Viscountess Dawlish, was an exemplpry woman, who, having achieved a position after years of persistent fighting, was not likely to lose it through lack of energy or tact. A quarter of a century ago she "had been married to an impecunious peer, who started a stud with her money, and galloped into the Bankruptcy Court in due course. The daughter of a cotton spinner, and the wife of a viscount, Selina was not likely to forget what was due to her newfangled dignity. She was quietly ignored at first by the great ladies of society, and in her turn she fiercely snubbed those unfortunates who courted her smiles. But she was youDg, had intelligence, resource, and, what was worth both put together. i*ood taste. She carried herself modestly and demurely before the women into whose houses she coveted admission, and never flirted but in her own boudoir. In course of time, .she was looked upon as an atnia le and harmless little person who would oblige a friend, keep a secret, aud never encourage a husband or a son by idle or premeditated coquetry. To the tiiea she was always a sympathetic friend, an artful and successful flatterer, who was ever ready with advice, the result of a good memory and better tact. Then she started pleasant little dinners of eight at a round table, aud took care that the dulness of ' high life ' was always enlivened by the presence and conversation of wittier inhabitants of an inferior sphere. An attorney-general, if sufficiently engaging, might be met at Park street; the last popular novelist, and even the adapter of a naughty comedy from the French, would occasionally be bidden and be glad to come. these dinners became successes. The great ladies knew that if they dined with Selina, they would be amused and flattered by the Bohemians, without running the slightest risk of encountering the females of that kind- a wholesome and very natural horror of whom exists in the patrician lady's bosom. So Selina, Viscountess Dawlish, became tolerable, presently popular, aud was finally accepted as a partner or shareholder in the. profits and the joys whbh an established position in ' the beautiful world ' affords. We of the Geranium knew all about Lady Dawlish ; h w she had been left a widow without even the melancholy satis faction of being mother to a peer, how her , three daughters were still unmarried, i though, as their intimate friends asserted, they were old enough and willing. We remembered the story about thn Honorable bybii and the young Marquis of Teddington ; for although scarcely a member of the Geranium was in society, there wasn't one who did not affect to know the private doings of everyone who was. It was just at the commencement of the season, some time in April I think, that I was introduced to Lady (Dawlish. Young Temple, of the Grenadiers, presented me, almost by accident, I must confess. It was in the vestibule at Covent Garden, on the uighl of Albaui's first appearance this year, and flu.re was a terrible crush inside, for it was raining "Niagara without. I was making my way through the crowd when : Lady Dawlish's carriage st'pi the way' was shouted from the dcor. Tne poor lady and two of her daughters were jammed in by the crowd unable to reach their brougham, and certain that in a few seconds the vehicle would be ordered on by the police, not to return fer at lea&t threequarters of an hour.

' I say, Killjoy,' and a man I knew slightly tapped me on the shoulder, 'do me a favor.' I was willing, of course. ' Give your arm to Miss Dawlish, and push through the crowd. Aunt, let me introduce : Mr Killjoy—Lady Dawlish.' Bhe bowed, so did the daughters. Charlie Temple marched away with a lady on each arm, and I followed escorting a third. The carriage was reached just as the coachman was ordered to drive on by the official, and I was rewarded by three slight bows. There was nothing very impressive or winning about these bows, but they were distinctly symptoms of grateful recognition, on the part of these aristocrats, of my prompt and chivalrous courtesy. ' Much obliged,' said Temple curtly. ' Have a weed ?' 'Thanks,' I answered. 'I didn't know you were related to the Dawlishes.' 'Oh lor yes. Ta-ta.' And he jumped into a hansom and vanished. I must confess that, although I have had occasion to admire and be grateful to Lieutenant and Captain Charles Walsingham Temple, his behaviour on that occasion did not inspire me with many symptoms of violent regard. I had been treated just like a play-bill—l was wanted, I was used," I was thrown aside. Two nights afterwards I tried to catch Lady Dawlish's eye, but she didn't or wouldn't see me. I met her at a flower show in Regent's Park, but never a glance did I get; at Lord's I passed her carriage three times—once I am certain she looked at me—she took me for somebody else, very possibly; but she recollected in time, and turned aside to some lobster salad. So the season sped on, and I, who am considered an acquisition in Kensington and a parti in Bayswater, was ignored and snubbed in M ayf air. But at last, at the end of the season, I am rewarded with a smile and an afternoon party. TH o doubt she had failed to notice me—perhaps she is short-sighted. To be sure she is ; does her ladyship not carry a gold rimmed pince-nez on the arch of her Roman nose ? Just as I was leaving the Club to return to my rooms to dress for the evening, old Thomas, a half-pay Indian officer, stops me. ' Will you make the fourth in a rubber tomorrow afternooa at four, Killjoy ?' 'No,' answer I, trying to impart a tone of regret into my voice. • No, I'm engaged; promised to go to Lady Dawlish's. Very sorry!' 'A-aah!' muttered my friend, and he chuckled to his idiotic old self. ' She's at it again this year, eh! But, by the way, you are a distinguished novelist —hm ! Ah ! well, don't let them flitter you too much, or you'll be married before yon get a shot at the grouse.' Could it be true ? I burned for literary fame as one of the paths towards social distinction. Was it possible that that awful novel which had cost me a year to write, £2OO to publish, and, after the criticisms appeared, as many sleepless nights through which to repent—could these three much-maligned volumes be appreciated by one individual, and that individual the (esthetic Lady Dawlish ? Delicious thought! and I revelled in it. Chapter 11. Five o'clock, and no Patagonians ! I could see that the generally expressionless countenance of Lady Dawlish was puckered with anxiety, although her manner was calm, that her eyes constantly wandered to the door even when she was smiling to a compliment from a Bulgarian Christian who had come to London for English sympathy and sovereigns. The Honorable Sybil was mildly flirting with an Australian attache in the back drawing room, Charlie Temple was yawning on a eettee not far off. and I, not knowing a soul, was standing stiff and defiant against the wall, trying to look bared, but in reality marking the features and < nd- avouring to catch the title of every ancient lady in the room. My reception half-an-hour ago had been gracious enough. '°o good of you to cane, Mr Killjoy,' Lady Dawlish had simpered ; ' you must be as amusing as possible, mind; and shall I introduce you ? but of course you know everyone in the room.' I then shook hands with Sybil and bowed across the piano to Araminta and Olivia. The damsels returned to my respectful salutation inclinations of their head's, as if they wished to be civil but couldn't, and went on with their gossip. A Herr somebody had strummed a sonata on the graud piano, and a little snub-nosed Frenchman had sung a Parisian love song with much chic and go. I had swallowed three cups of tea, not because I was thirsty, but for want of somebody to talk to, aud everyone was anxious to see the Pantagonians. Presently Lady Millelleurs arrived, exquisitely decorated by Worth. She was a gushing little person, and talked as fast as a cataract. 'Dear Lady Dawlish, so kind of you to give us this treat;' aud the little woman glauced round the room, and included myself in her observation. ' But,' she added in a lower key, ' I am horribly disappointed —he seems quite civilised and commonplace ?' • Hush,' whispered Lady Dawlish, and took her aside. I comprehended the Milleflcurs' chagrin. She had crime to wee a Pattgouian, and, as I was the only outsider in the room, she had very naturally taken me tor the interesting object of her visit. The fact was ludicrous, but annoying : 1 felt; humiliated, and began to wish niyi-'ilf in the smoking-room of the (ieraniura. I'ai 1: street was after all by no ineans as pleasant as Bayswater. Presently, Sybil advanced and made hi rself pleasant. She is not an unattractive girl; she full grey eyes and a figure which might be called graceful but for a certain inflexibility of outline which shows itself even through her morning toilette. PI once heard a man say that the Honorable Sybil had many good points 1 1 began to realise that ehe had too many. (To >"■ i-onti>n,(Hf.>