LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 1045, 31 October 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE LAST OF THE SEASON. Chapter 11. ( Continued l.) On the other hand, she has that indescribable air of good breeding which does not reveal itself in the selection of words which are generally commonplace enough, but rather in the confidence and the easy delivery with which they are uttered, ‘Been ridin’ to-day, Mr Killjoy?’asked she winningly, sinking gracefully into a settee. Now, the fact is, that I do not show myself to advantage on horseback. Not but that I am a skilful and energetic rider, but it has pleased Providence during the last few years to add a certain rotundity to my once symmetrical waist. I have a keen sense of the ridiculous : I do not ride in the Park. * No, Miss Dawlish; I was rather better employed.’ ‘ Oh, yes ! playin’ pool ?’ ‘No; writing.’ ‘ Oh, indeed ! Then, wishing to give her a notion of my importance, I added, ‘ I was writing at my book. Another novel.’ ‘I didn’t know you were clever,’ said she. ‘ How nice ! ’ And Miss Sybil turned aside to conceal a yawn, as I thought. But after the yawn or the blush she took more interest in mo. She knew I was a Worcestershire man, of course ; should I be there for the shooting, or should I remain late in Scotland ? All this was delightful. I wasn’t at all certain that my cousin, the head of our family, would invite me down to the shooting ; in fact, I generally passed my August, September, and October, at the seaside Trouville, Scarborough, Dieppe and Brighton. Still, I was not going to confess that I didn’t go the round of at least a dozen good houses in the visiting season. In fact, 1 rather gave her to understand that I did. But she didn’t seem impressed. Of course, why should she ? Presently there is a stir at the door, and a stately menial announces -- ‘ His Excellency Senor Don Emmanual de Todos Santos.’ Upon which all look as if the Senor Don were the very last person they cared to see, instead of being the interesting and intelligent foreigner they had met to stare at. Lady Dawlish steps towards the door, but judge her disappointment. Instead of a procession of half-a-dozen stalwart and gigantic Patagonians, a rotund little personage clad in a dress coat, morning waistcoat and trousers, and carrying half-a-dozen decorations at his button holes, smiles and bobs to the company at the door. His native tongue is bastard Portuguese, his French is unintelligible, of English he does not know a word; in short, the Patagonians, not being able to agree on an ambassador at St. James’s, had hired a foreigner and sent him to London with a Patagonian retinue. Senor Don Emmunuel looked remarkably like a thief, and very probably was one. Appearances were decidedly against him ; and his intellectual endowments, owing possibly to inability on his part to illustrate them, were hard to find. In point of fact, he was a social failure ; and as British investors did not seize with alacrity the chances of immediate and permanent profit which he offered them through a state loau, Don Emmanuel was regarded by his stalwart employers as a financial failure likewise. But at the time I describe the Patagonians had not found him out. So as ‘ the object ’ proved less interesting even than the outsider, and as the visitors were more or less tired of each ether—the season had been long and eventful—Lady Dawlish’s drawing-room in the course of half an-hour was nearly empty. I drank another cup of tea, shot down my shirt cuffs, and prepared to depart. Don’t go, Mr Killjoy, unless you have an appointment,’ said Lady Dawlish, guessing my intention. ‘ I want two words with you. You know my daughter Olivia, 1 think ?’ and her ladyship swept to the other end of the room, leaving me face to face with Olivia, Now, this young lady is only just ‘out,’ She lacks the ease, the imperturbability, the savolr-mvre of her elder sister, goes in for being thought clever, says smart things, and is invariably rude. She evidently thought me a dolt and ‘bad form,’ and her opinion did not excite my tongue into any of the clever repartees I always keep in stock. If I had met her at Bayswater, I should have been master of the dialogue in a trice. Bat in Park street the peerage awed me, and instead of rejoining with epigram 1 feebly moaned in platitudes. Presently Lady Dawlish came back. ‘ Mr Killjoy, will you excuse ceremony and go with ns to the opera Her Majesty’s; it is the last night but one?’ Heavens! how my heart lept! Olivia, taken off her guard, almost started with surprise. 1 accepted the invitation of course, and hurried off' to rny chambers to dress. I shall never to ■ adequately' describe that c.veuing ab the opera. 'l'rue, town was rather empty, consequently my luok was the less envied and my joy thereby lessened; but I sat in a peeress’s box behind Sybil’s

chair, with Lady Dawlish occasionally lavishing on me a smile. Sybil thawed considerably, and smiled once or twice when I said a good thing. She never laughed, and I was secretly chagrined at the time, for I felt that either she knew the source of the joke or didn’t trouble herself with the application thereof. I could never make her understand what an original person I was. In this regard, however, I soon found out my mistake. In houses ruled by people like Lady Dawlish it is worse than a crime to be clever. Envious, hateful, malicious, and uncharitable you may be at convenient sea sons, but witty—never. Wit sounds professional, and Dawlishes leave all such qualities to the adventurers who live by them. At that period, only a month or so ago, there was something about Sybil attractive enough. She dressed well and in perfect taste, and gradually one forgot all about her points. Then she had a voice, and sang with plenty of execution and finish, but with little sympathy. She reflected high credit on her instructors, but the applause she received at the conclusion of a song was due rather to a sense of relief on the part of the listener than from any sympathetic chord the singer might have touched. Despite this failing, of which she was mightily proud, Sybil had admirers, and had every right to them. During the week following I met my interesting and aristocratic friends on several occasions. It is not extraordinary how easily opportunities for ‘accidental’ meetings may be obtained when both sides are parties to the accident. At a water-party at Twickenham, at a dinner at Skindle’s, and at a cricket match at Prince’s, I enjoyed the society of Lady Dawlish, and the common-place but pleasant conversation of the Honorable Sybil. I began also to find myself appreciated on the score of my intellect and accomplishments. Lady Dawlisb, when at a loss for a word or in want of a smile, would turn to Mr Killjoy, * who was so clever, and whose judgment was always so sound,’ or would subtly flatter me by bantering me with my extravagance when I brought her a bit of blue china out of my own collection, which, by the way, I had inherited. By degrees I began to feel as much at home in Park street as I used to feel in Bayswater. Her ladyship was sympathetic, indulgent even, and Sybil, when she was not singing, was gracious, and mildly interesting. Moreover, she has an undeniable ankle ; I know this, because she flirts more with her feet than with her eyes. In more respects than one, I am a man of acute observation. So a fortnight passed : we had Reached the first week of August, and still Lady Dawlish had not made up her mind where to go for the next month. Sybil hated l imerick, in which county they possessed a small country house, and Lady Dawlish objected to Homburg, Sybil’s paradise, as too expensive. Pending a definite resolution, they remained in town. One obstacle to my comfort was removed, Charlie Temple had taken himself away. ‘ Poor boy! ’ said Lady Dawlish one evening, referring to him. ‘ He is very fond of Sybil, as I dare say you know, Mr Killjoy, but what can I do ? He has only .£SOO a-year and his pay, and I have told Sybil over and over again I positively cannot increase her portion of £IO,OOO. The attachment of course is absurd, for I cannot afford to keep a son-in-law, however nice he may be.’ I sympathised with her ladyship as deeply as I was able. ‘ I have no right to bore you with family matters, Mr Killjoy, -but it is so pleasant to have a friend in whose discretion you can rely, and we poor women sadly want advice and support.’ I consoled her, and suggested all sorts of wild and impossible schemes for the amelioration of humanity generally and herself particularly. ‘Always good and thoughtful, dear Mr Kel'joy;’ and her ladyship pressed my hand and turned away to shed a tear. Great Jove ! how 1 had wronged this woman ! I had thought her wily and worldly; I found her pure, womanly, tender, appreciative, sympathetic, I called at Park street all the oftner after this little scene, and spent quiet evenings from 9.80 till 11 over chess and weak tea— ‘ So much better for a young man than a Club,’ as Lady Dawlish observed. Thus I found myself drifting into matrimony ; for though I never was passionately attached to Sybil, I felt that the tepid regard which I bore her might ripen into good fellowship, and that her position and family were matters which no well-conducted man in my station of life could afford to disregard. True, she never exerted herself to convince me that I had gained any mastery over her virgin affection, and, with the exception of that peculiarity before alluded to, she laid no violent siege cither to my vanity or my heart. Still things could not go on like this for ever. My visits could not be prompted either by mere civility or anxiety as to the physical and moral condition of the Dawlish family. My constant attendance in Park street would be noticed -- was noticed very likely, and some termination must be arrived at. Should I implore the Honorable Sybil to marry me, or should I ask Olivia, or, happier thought still, should I wed the Viscountess herself ? When I put the question to myself, I discovered that Sybil was the nearest and of all others dearest Her dainty slippers and clocked ankles had conquered even my antipathy to her voice. My senses had been won through the eyes, although my ears vainly protested against the victory. One evening we sat in the drawing room in Park street after dinner. Night was falling and we enjoyed that delicious twilight which to persons who had dined well suggests precisely the train of thought each diner is loudest of revelling in. Lady Dawlish was presumably dozing in an easy-chair; Sybil, who had been engaged in stitching at some feminine frippery, reclined, ■ languishing and lazy,’ in a low settee, near which I had placed myself. I had been talking to her in my most poetic and unintelligiule vein, and she was either occupied in considering my thoughts, or had fallen asleep in pondering over them. To this day I know not which. She had not been singing, and I felt that she was very dear to me indeed. There is an ecstasy too eloquent for words— too sacred even to be broken by a sigh. At that moment I enjoyed that ecstasy. But twilight is destroyed by the approach of wax candles and cups of tea. ‘ A letter for your ladyship,’ said the menial. » ■ .. ‘ Ah! freifl garlic Temple,’ returned

Lady Dawlish, regarding the hand-writing. As the lady spoke, her daughter Sybil started, and began to labor at her frippery once more. I saw her ladyship’s face fall as she' read her letter. Then her marble forehead was puckered with frowns, and she colored with passion. I watched her with anxiety, for I felt that ill tidings were forthcoming. The letter was contained in a few lines written on the front page ; for her ladyship, after scanning them, folded the paper carefully, replaced it methodically in its envelope, and sat gazing before her with her hands clasped upon her lap. Sybil was evidently alarmed. At last, after an ominous silence, her mother spoke. ‘ So, Mr Killjoy, you are an impostor/ * I beg your pardon, Lady Dawlish,' I cried. ‘An impostor, sir, neither more nor less. Head that letter.’ Sybil shivered and walked to the window. I read the letter. ‘ Phoenix Club, Dublin. ‘My dear Aunt,—You will be delighted to know that I have got the appointment I have long desired—it adds something to my pay, and means promotion. By the way, I think you are making a mistake about your friend Killjoy. He is not the Killjoy of Worcester, but a retired lieutenant of militia, and a great ass to boot. But of course you have found out both these facts long ago. * Your affectionate nephew, * U. W. Temple.’ The reference was hardly complimentary to myself, but I was more dazed than surprised, Then I turned the letter over and read more MS. I made up my mind at once. ‘ Well, sir, what have you to answer to the charge ?’ * I have only to say, Lady Dawlish, that I never presented myself to you in borrowed plumes. I have not mentioned even the name of my distant relation.’ ‘ Stuff!’ cried her ladyship; ‘you know as well as I do that unless you were a member of a county family, or a man of genius, I should never have admitted you here. And presuming on the mistake I was goose enough to make, you have endeavoured to engage the affections of my daughter. ’ ‘ Madam ! ’ ‘ Don’t answer me, you monster of ingratitude. Sybil and I will never recover from the disgrace.’ * Disgrace ! Indeed, Lady Dawlish! ’ Then I felt mad, and was determined to give her blow for blow—not a very chivalrous proceeding perhaps, but pardonable. ‘Excuse my interference, but I think you have not read the postcript to this letter, here on the third page. ’ She seized the paper, and read what had before escaped her eyes. ‘ P. S. - Sybil and 1 love each other; you know it, but you will not allow her to marry me, yet you have declared that she must be married this season for the sake of her sisters’ chances next. I feared to go to Ireland, leaving her here to be handed over to the first pecunioua and well born nincompoop you might meet. Your wish dear aunt, has accordingly been gratified without your knowledge. Sybil is married —she married mo two weeks ago at the Registrar’s office Now I have got my appointment I confess all, for to-morrow I shall be in town, and will take her away for our honeymoon. In a month we sail for Canada. ‘P.P.S,—Poor Killjoy 1 He is an ass, but still we have all been rather too hard on him. I’ll write and thank him some day for the great assistance he has been to Sybil and myself. Pray forgive me—l only told you he was his own second cousin.’ Lady gDawliah did not receive this intelligence with her usual philosophic indifference. Indeed, she gave every indication of impending hysterics ; and whilst Sybil ministered to her needs I—crestfallen, indignant, and humiliated—rushed from the house. Since this bitter experience of society I have shunned Mayfair, and for ever will be true to my again beloved Bayswater.