LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1866, 16 February 1880, Page 3

LITERATURE.

B JNKETT ’S LETTER. Past of a Honeymoon. [ From * 1 Temple Bar.' ’] Chapter I. ‘ Those whom Ood hath joined together let no man pnt asunder.’ Little more than an hour ago, ’mid hushed silence throughout the church, the voice of the officiating bishop uttered the truly solemn old words, bride and bridegroom kneeling devoutly, surrounding friends with bowed head and hearts beating with sympathy, and tho gorgeously-dyed lights from the tall window falling with hallowing tint npon the white satin bridal robe, the soft pearls and gleaming diamonds, and the orange flowers which trembled as though shaken by a gentle wind. Ah ! but the veil of Honiton lace ehaded a pale, tear-stained little face. W oil, all that is over and done with now. The bride has been kissed and blessed, warmly by her friends, very warmly by her enemies, and here they are now speeding along the Northeastern Railway, steaming to the North, to The land where the spirits flow And the tartan kilts do blow, And having entered together into the holy state of matrimony exactly an hoar and a half ago, have already retreated from each other as far as the narrow circumstances of the ca' e will permit. At the window on the right he, Grenville Bapot Paulyn, sits, his felt hat tilted upon his fair, glistening hair, tbe better apparently to suowl at the lovely, flying landscape, the sunny, green fields, and broad rivers of his native clime. The [cool September sucb v »3 slants into bis bonnie blue eyes, and upon the little gold moustache and well cut chin. B th hands are thrust, for lack of better employment, deep into the pockets of his uls« er. At the window on the left band side, his wife, Clothilde du Berri Paulyn, is seated reading. Already, seemingly, the cares of married life are making their impress upon this little mignon face as, with a frown, she pnrnees her book, the small head, with the dark, satin.like hair, slightly bent the long black lashes veiling the eyes. In attire her garments correspond as nearly as female modesty wM permit with those of her husband—a light ulster coat »ud plain felt hat, and about her throat the present prevailing curate like aspect is present. For twenty minutes there has been silence between the two, and in that time Clothilde has read, without grasping the sense of one single line. And wbat is the meaning of this ? Why tHs attitude of, if not actual active warfare, at least smouldering threatening symptoms of the same 4 This is the day both have looked forward to as the crowning one of their happiness ; after it, they would live in Blyseum. Only yesterday their horizon seemed cloudless. When last night they parted at the moonlight window in the gallery, and Clothilde’s white dress Buttered a prolonged and crushing eclipse from the dark body at her side, did they think that the next their wedding day, was to be like this ? What can have produced this chance ? Place aux dames ! As in bounden duty lot us examine the lady’s case fire. Poor Clothilde feels herself very much aggrieved. What girl eonld stand this or was ever so tried, that on her bridal morning, nay, even at the very moment when she is busv in her bride’s attire, the bridegroom should insist on an interview in order to moot the question as to whether or net the marriage should take place at all ? This is what occurred : After the small select breakfast part, consisting of the bride, her maidens and her mother, had broken up, the bridesmaids had retired each to her bower to don the robe of office, from which a little later they emerged, radiently beautiful, after Rubens, and straightway repaired again to the bride’s chamber to superintend her toilet, which ought now to be at an advanced stage. It was at this inconvenient, ill timed moment that the hero of the day, in spite of all warnings of the proceeding, demanded to speak with hia bride. In pale azure draped, blushing and porpbxed, Clothilde stands. ‘ If he will see me, I suppose he must ’ she says, app- aling to her friends, ‘ but in my dressing gown, you know—can I ? ’ ‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ cries Lady Rose Plantagenet, the eldest of the bridesmaid’s, • why you are almost married to him ? Besides, Plant told me the other day that I was danced more decent.looking in my dressing-gown than in any of my ball dresses ! So, backed by ’ Plant’s ’ opinion, (Tothi de moves shyly across the room toward tho beleagneisd door. ‘ Grenville! she exclaims, as she motions him to enter her boudoir, ‘still in your tw ed suit, and my hair is quite finished ! But pood heavens ! has anything happened !’ How pale you are !” Yes, ho is pale, and more than that, he is gloomy, a heavy frown is on his brow ; altogether ha is not a good specimen of a happy, joyous brid groom. Approaching her, he somenh&t ronghly grasps her band. “ Clothilde," he says hoarsely, “ are yon sure you sure you wish to become my wife ? Kor God's sake let us make no mistake in such an impoitaut matter. Though late, it is not yet toa late. Shall we delay the marriage, or break it off altogether ?’’ He speaks hurriedly, and without any preamble. Is he not in a quarter of an hour due at tho altar to receive his bride ? Clothilde, poor child, looking like a ermhed snowdrop gazes at him in amazement. ■ Delay 1 Break ofi the marriage!’ sho falters, with whit?, trembli- g lips*, whilst sinking on to a coach for support. ‘Oh, Grenville, something dr.adfal has happened 1 ’ ‘ No, nothingat all—at least nothing new,’ is the bitter reply. •Nothing has happened, and yet you wish the marriage stopped !’ f-he looks at him with wide, wondering eyes, and the color begins to come again into her pure cheek. Ere be can answer, sounds are heard in the cor idor, footsteps of many, apparently -high-heeled female footsteps ; and the unhappy pair recognise that a small crowd of their nearest and dearest, intent upon their welfare, is forming at the donr, upon which presently a continuing tattoo is begun by the impatient hand of the oldest son of the honse. * I say, 010, come, out ! I say, Gren. this is 100 much, you know. Come out both of yju or we’ll just go straight away to church without you.’ 1 What on earth to do ? ’ asks tho laughing voice of 1 ady Rose, ‘ do yon wish to pet up a little impromptu prayer meeting ? Stupid old Jick.’ To which impertinence ‘Stupid old Jack’ whispers somsthirg about ’after the ceremony,’ and paying her ladyship ont ’ Grenville, an expression ol intense disgust on his moody fare, strides ac-rcss the room,

and with a few words at once overwhelms aad disperses the anxious relatives. ‘We shall be cut in three minutes if you will only go away at once ; if you don't, we won’t come ont at all!’ and strides back arain to his agitated bride. ‘Now, :Clothilde,’ he c;ntirues, when all i quier again ‘it is for you to decide, and thtre is but oesut time. Answer me truly, for God’s sake—ought we tw T o to be man and and wife ? ’ In his earnestness he grasps her arms, and with eager eyes endeavors to read her face The returning blood is painting her cheeks scarlet, and the brillancy of indignation is shining in her dark eyes, as, rising from her seat and confronting him, she gives her answer. ‘ I think your conduct very strange, to say the lerst of it, but not for that will I submit t > be made the of the country. Our guests are by this time assembled in tbe church—you say yourself that nothing has occurred to make any change. Do you agree to this ? ’ A look of relief, nay, almost of happiness, da»ts for a moment into his face as she speaks, and then the gloom returns, but he answers quickly—- ‘ Yes, yes ; of course, I agree ’ Half an hour later the marriage service is read over them. Now we know why she sits reading, sulky and unhappy in the presence of her two honr-old husband; let ns see what is the reason of the extraordinary conduct that has so wounded her. Here he sits defying the sunshine, ever and anon, as an unpleasant thought arises, extracting one hand from a pocket in order to pull viciously his moustache, and now and then stealing a glance at his wife. In the breast pocket of his coat lies a latter which already he wishes he had never received. It is this letter which is the cause of this strange behaviour. It bears the Algerian postmark, and arrived only this morning, and being from his oldest and best friend, it was at first hailed with mnch delight, hot that feeling quickly changed to pain and consternation as he read the first few lines. The signature of this epistle is ‘Hugh Bankett, ’ and the first: half, the only part with which we have to do, runs thus : Dear Old Gren, —Knowing how I hate letter writing, you will be surprised to receive this. Wouldn’t have written it if I could have helped it, but am uneasy in my wind about you. Now, old fellow, don’t take amiss what I’m going to say —for I can tell yon it’s a comfortable exertion, made only for the sake of friendship, and I nearly stopped before I began, as Pat says. Truth is, Chayters, who has turned up here unexpectedly, says you are going to get married ! And to of all people in the world—Clothilde Tollemache! Now, of course, the fellow was never known to speak the truth, but in case by chance he has hit the mark this time, I write to say, don’t let your choice fall on Clothilde Tollemache! Her conduct at Florence about Charley Shore was destestable; the way she ran after him—aad of course got talked of no end. The girl was really badly hit, and that was clear, and—although I got nothing from him (you know the man) —I’d bet a hundred to one she proposed to him 1 Now, of course, there’s no troth in the report, but still—don’t marry Clothilde Tollemache 1 With the remainder of the letter we have nothing to dc. A pleasant epistle this for a bridegroom to have with him on his wedding tour ! A most inspiring one—especially the refrain : ‘ Don’t marry—yonr own wife ! ’ ‘ Good God, how double she has been ! ’ he thinks. ‘ Do all women tell lies with faces innocent as angels ? I, the first man she ever loved ! Oh, fool I And she lost no time, either ; let me see, they had ju-.t returned from Florence in March when I met her first, and 1 she loved me the very first day !’ Had it been any other than Blunkett I couldn’t have believed it. Beigho ! Since it was too late I wish he had never written at all ! He’ll wish the same, soon ! If I know the man he’ll eat his words—say it was a joke ! Oh, yes, it will be a joke to the end of our lives that he called my wife’s conduct detestable, and said she was * talked of no end ! ’ A few more miles have flown past ; they have skirted a sp’endid moor, the broad sunshine lying upon a purple heather ; his face has softened, hla eyes have lit np with pleasure at the sight, for he has said to himself— * I shall have some good shooting, at least ! ’ then, though the pleasure has faded out of bis eyes the softened expression remains as hie thoughts return once more to his wife. ‘ Perhaps she’s thinking my conduct is detestable just now’ She doesn’t look very happy, certainly,’ stealing a glance at her ; 1 bang it, I wish Bunkett had kept his letter to himself 1 How happy wo were last night 1 And if I had not married her, Harcourt would ; the fellow was dying to jet her ; I shouldn’t have liked that I No, I’m glad it’s n t Harcourt, and by Jove, he’s far richer than I am, and yet she took me 1 Now. if I could only smoke for half an hour, I believe I could make make It up a bit—this is deuced disagreeable 1’ A moment’s reflection shows him. however, that though by the powerful aid of tobacco the equanimity of his own mind might be restored, the effects of it at this time on his wife’s might be of a contrary description ; accordingly he decides without its help to begin the making up process, casting about in his own mind what ha ought to do or say in order to accomplish It. ‘ What on earth shall I say? Of conrse, by this time she thinks me a brute ; perhaps 1 didn’t behave very well this morning ; to be sure she knew nothing of Bnnkelt's letter. What did we talk of yesterday ? Or I might try a cough. Perhaps she’ll ask me if I am taking cold and so make a beginning.’ But the cough is so flagrantly unreal,_ that it receives not the slightest notice ; a minute cr two later, however, Clothilde, tiring at length of her stooping position, raises herself, and, leaning back wearily, gazes out at the country. Immediately Grenville seizes the opportunity ; ‘ something to say ’ has at last come into his head. ‘What are yon seeing out at yonr window, Clothilde? ’ he asks eagerly, rising and going over to her side of the carriage. ‘ Jnst the same as you were seeing at yours,’ is the icy reply, made with coldly averted head. ‘Oh, no, Clothilde, you know that old house is not at my side, too,’ he continues, glancing down at her with a mischievous smile, which, a.though she does not see it, she feels it on his lips. ‘Then by all means,’ rising, ‘take my p’ace to view it better; for my part, I would rather not have to look at it at all,’ and she in tarn moves across to the opposite corner ol the carriage, and seats herseif in the place he has just vacated. ‘ By Jove 1 what shall I do now ? ’ he exclaims to himself. ‘ Follow her cnee more ? But then she’ll bolt back again. Shall I have to chase her all around the carriage ? 'lbat would he a merry going round—hem, I question tha merriment! O, Bunkett, what you've to answer for.’ (To ho continued.)