LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2459, 22 February 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

HI3 CH UISTMAS BOSE. Won and Lost. | From “ London Society."[ (ConcludeJ ) The f-tal hour came at Lnglh. Arrayed m a now white suit, and carrying a trusty racquet, Ned entered his friend’a garden, and at once made hie way to his hostess, who, without loss of time, bore him off in triumph to the tenn’a ground, where a great many people wore already a«nembled. Ned lifted up hia eyes ; his shyness seizad him vigorously. Some one called away his hostess ; for a minute he was left alone. Ho looked about him wildly ; the horrible truth was growing clearer to him ; in a moment ho saw it all, and stood, racquet in hand, speechless and panic-stricken, rooted to the earth, unable even to turn and flee ! What had ho seen ? Was It Mr and Mrs Monkton ? His wbi'o Christmas Rose some one olae’s wife ? As the poor young fellow stood there, with his eyes wide open in horror, an elderly barbarian approached, and said with playful irony, ‘I congratulate you, my dear fellow I You’re the only yourg man in out part of the country.’ It war true, then ; quite real—no dream ! He wsb, as he had feared, the only young man ; and it seemed to hia dazed vision as if the whole place literally swarmed with girls, women, and elderly men, ‘ Don’t be frightened,’ said the barbarian, ‘ there are only thirty-eight of them.’ Ned turned to him with an appealing look that might have softened ony other heart, ar d gasped. ‘ Wnat can Ido ? Can’t I run away ?’ «I think not. Here’s Mrs Greenwood.’ Now in spite of his nervoumess Ned was really a manly fellow ; so he stayed and f reed the county, aud, indeed, behaved with an intrepidity and an impartiality that would have done credit oven to the great Monkton himself. But it waa, indeed, a tenib’e ordeal. ‘ Never !’ he exclaimed, os ho closed his study door behind him on his return home, ‘never again ! I may have to give up Twittercombe, I may have to go back fo the Inland Kevenue, but no power on earth shall make me face the county without—without—a protector!’ Exhausted, he sank back ia his ea»y-chair and, hardly conscious of what he did, took r;p a book that lay within his reach. He opened it, and beheld, there was the Christmas Kose, and there the slip of paper with his line and a half of p etry ; bat—and this waa curious—instead of resting egainrt a well-known poem, the faded blossom w-as now facing a small wondent of the Tower, in Hare’s ‘ W a’.ka in London.’ He gazad at the page vacantly for a while, then a stiauge fascination grew upon him—a desperate wish to get away, to loss himself, to find—‘ Ah, no she’s cone forever!’ Still there was the rose, and there was the p‘clured Tower.

•Why not be a Hare and walk in London?’ Ned caught himself asking himself the question as if it were a riddle. It is strange what absurd Ideas occur to one when in pain or perplexity, Ned had never Eeen the Tower; few peop'e he knew hsd seen it. Near the Tower must, it seemed to him, bo a fine place for losing oneself; be determined to go to town next morning, before any of the county people caught him. Ho went to town, and ho put up at the Cannon street Hotel; and while he was leisurely dining there, something said to him, ‘Go to the Tower ! Go to the Tower ! Make haste, make haste ! Go to tho Tower !' So he asked the waiter the woy, and the man said it was too late, the Tower was closed ; bit Ned would not believe him and started off. Presently he cane on to Tow.r Hid; and he looked this way and looked that, bat found no reasm why he should be required to make haste. It was evening then —a very lovely midsummer evening. Ned cio<sed over to the railing of the Tower gardens, and ha saw for the first time tho turrets of the White Tower, and the quaint little belfry of the church where the headless queens were burled, and the gray old Beauchamp Tower, and the long line of red roof, and the tall chimneys, and the great walls, and the bridge over the moat, and the river, and all that makes up, of a summer evening, in spite of some unlovely detai's. one of the fairest pictures in the world Ned gazed at it, lost In wonder at its beauty; then (perhaps it was the soldier and his lass walking in what was once the moat; perhaps it was the lady and her lover in the gardens above them that suggested it) again Ned heard that voice urging him to Plot—to look—yes, this time it sud quite plainly—to look for hU Christmas Bose, So he wandered and wandered all abont the Tower railings, and then in front of the good old houses in Trinity square ; but he saw nothing—nothing, that is. of his Hose Only the boughs of the great trees in the garden of Trinity square were waving to and fro in the warm evening sunshine, and the pavement he trod was hard and dusty, and within the gardens the grass looked green as the sward at Twittercombe. ho Ned, still unconsciously seeking her always, crossed to the gate of the square garden and looked in.

It w»s a rarely beautiful view beyond that garden pate. In the background there was tho great gray pile of the Tower buildings, and a few masts on the river, all aeon through green waving boughs and golden haze ; while near at hand, at his feet, was the green, green turf, bo cool, so exqnisitively kept; and just a little to the right, crossed by the Ion? evening shadows, eat a girl reading, all alone. ‘ My Christmas Bose !’ Fed’s heart almost stood still] as the words rushed through his brain. She read on unheeding. Could she, Indeed, be his Bose, and yet not know ha was so near. His rose? Ho, she was some one else’s Bose now ! And, with a desperate effort, ho wrenched himself away. But presently he stole back again. ‘She om’t have married Monkton ; Monkton’s a millionaire,’ He looked at her again. Still she read on. Fo, she did not look like a rich man’s wifo. Perhaps—could It be possible ?—perhaps she was not married, after all. He saw her profile. It was paler than her favorite flower, and thinner than it once had been. Had ha been unjust, ornel to her? Had he broken her heart? She looked so sad, so worn, so sweetly pensive. Two little children ran out from among the shrubs ; they draw her book away from her ; they asked her to come and play. She rose reluctantly, and, with a graceful turn of her wrists, gave a hand to each, and went away with them. How like she was then to that Bose cf his who bad played abont the hall on that too well remembered Christmas evening. The children came out presently with their maid. Ned stopped them and asked them eagerly the name cf the lady who had played with them. . , , , , » Miss Sheddon, ’ they said, ini we uke to play with her, she’s so nice.’ • Mien Sheddon I My Bose I my Christmas Bose still! What have I done? I mast speak 1 What can I say ? Why is the gate locked? Why can’t Igo to her?’ Bote took up her book and crossed the grass ; when she was within a few feet of the gate she started as if she had seen a ghoot, and seemed as if fainting. ‘Bose I Bose 1’ cried Fed, forgetting all except that she was there, and that he oould not get near her. bhe took a few steps towards him ‘ Yes,’ she answered, as if in a dream. ‘Hose! O may I come to you?’ pleaded Fed. ‘lf you wish,’ she answered still as in a dream ; end, making a great effort, she unlocked tho gate. ‘There has been, there must have b en, some terrible mistake! ’ stammered Ned, seizing her hand, which, even throngh her glove, felt cold as Ice. ‘Then you’re not married?’ he asked, getting out the words as best he oould. ‘ How could I be? Yon were gone,’ she said, with simple directness. «They told me you were going to be married 1’ said Fed distractedly. •So I was once—to you.’ ■ But—but —but about Monkton ?' ‘Ho married Lady Mary Southlake j net after you went away.’ • O Bose! And yon never gave him that flower ?’ ‘ Nod, I can only tell you now what I told you then—you ought to know.' ‘ I onght, I ought 1 Can It be possible that yon never cared for any one except such a fool as I am ? O Bose, can it bo t*«o ?’

* Yon ought to know,’ she murmured; and then. a little rmlle curving her lips, ond a vivid blush mounting to her brow, she said : ‘ Ned. I never oared for you because you were clever, but only—only, dear, because you were Ned and I was your Christmas Rose.’ They were married at St. Mildred’s Mild Church, in a oity lane near Tower Hill, the church to which her father had recently been appointed curate, having met with an accident that had compelled him to give up Lis small rural living; It was not until they were safely on their wedding tour that Ned ventured again to allude to Mr Monkton. by that time Rose could afford to laugh at the whole affair, it was so ridiculous. * You seo. O moat sapient Nod,’ she said, * the little Caratons didn’t feel very bright after their merry Christmas ; so, to amnse them. Mr Monkton and I made toffee in the school-corn, which burned onr faces ; then we made paper ships for them in the library, and were just clearing np when you happened to see us.’ * Ah, but who gave him that rose ?’ * I haven’t an idea. I should think no one. Most likely he gave it to himself. But how came mv rose in the wrong—l mean the Ight—book ?’ Ned put his hand to his head, tapped his brow, and looked more puzzled than ever, ’Can’t think I em’t think!’ he »jaoulated ‘ Beats mo altogether.’ * But I know ; he moved them himself on the morning of the eventful day, for the poems wore borrowed, and were going to bo returned. Afieralong honeymoon, Ned went home to Twitterrombe, proud and nappy to face all England and its forty counties with so sweet a guardian angel as bis Christmas Rose. I need not tell yon what flowers a certain bride wore that winter at the Twittcrjombe festivities