LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2560, 22 June 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

A MABBIAGE ABBANGKD. ' A marriage is arranged between Miss Geraldine d'Arcy, youngest daughter of the Hon. Mrs d'Aroy, of Wiokham Court, Hertß, and Lord Loftus Stanley, eldest son of the Karl of Cranstoun, We hear that the happy event Is to come off at the latter end of August. I sat there in my pretty luxurious dressing room, with the morning sunshine streaming through the half drawn blinds, and read those words in the fashionable society journal of the day. But I read them with feelings that were hardly suitable for a bride eleot; feelings which many and many a fashionable martyr of my sex have experienced before and will experience after me. My marriage had not been arranged more than a week. I had seven days to consider my new position—seven d>ys of presents and congr&tu'atlons—seven days of flutter, fuss, and excitement; and now, suddenly, I seemed to wake to my full senses, to look at the aot I contemplated with calm and critical eyes, to see the folly of which I had been guilty, and—repent Was repentance any ÜB9 ? I had led the life of many a girl in soolety. I had been a successful debutante, and at the end of four months woke suddenly to the full knowledge of the fact that 1 was miserably unhappy. Ido not know that I was exceptional In being so. Though I was but eighteen I had learnt and seen much of the world ; and among the aristocratic and exclusive ciroles in which my mother moved, and through which I also had been whirled of late. I had found little, if any, happiness. Well, to return to myself. I sat there sipping my moaning chocolate, and letting my thoughts turn to the subject whioh should have been delightful to me, and yet was only hateful. Look at it from what point I might, my prospectivo marriage seemed only an odious bargain in which I myself played a very mean part. Lord Loftus Stanley was very much iu love with me ; but I doubt if he wonld have been so had I not, by some Btrange chance, been pronounced "the fashion," and had I not, unlike moit of the daughters of sooiety, shown him always a most cntemp'uous coldness and Indifference. And yet, you will naturally ask, why had I accepted him 7 Looking back now on the events of my past season, it almost surprised myself that I had done bo. How la it that clrcumstauoes sometimps drift ua on to our especial sandbank ? We see it wo know its danger, its fatality, and yet we make but passive resistance to the force that bears us there. It seems so little use to struggle ; we think, after all, things cannot be much worao than they are; and so it comes about; so, at least, it had come about'with me. Every one was delighted, or said so. My mother, who had schemed and planned for this the season through, was elated beyond measure. The hypocrisy of the world Is 'almost* as beautiful a thing as its morality. I might have been fairly content; I might have solaoid myself with the usual oant of ' respect' and ' liking,' had I been quite heart-whole, or fairly indifferent j but I was neither.

Through all these gay months, when I had lived in a whirl of pleasure, amusement,

and admiration, I had been hauntel by a grave rebuking face, whose noble truth ar-d steadfastness Boomed to put to (shame the false brilliance of all others, to look down from some great lofty height on the follies and shame by which 1 was surrounded ; au-i now, in the solitude of my own room, ss I qook the paper, and read the satire an- 4 mockery summed up in the ono little wi rd 'arranged,' the whole miserable ehamefuineas of ray position came home to me I shuddered and grew sick at heart._ The paper dropped from my hands. I hid my fate. • I cannot do it,' I said, ' I cannot ' There was a tap at the door, a laughing voioe demanded admittance, and aa I glanced impatiently up, a radiant compound of millinor's art and feminine loveliness swept into my room. ' Not finished breakfast ? You lazy girl !' and my visitor bent down and touched my forehead with her lips. 'How do you do, Jop' I said carelessly, 'you are out very early, even for you.* ' Say rather that you are up very late even for you,'she answered, heating herself in a low, lounging cha r opposite my own ; ' what a regular woman of fashion you have become, Qeraldlne. Yon take as naturally to the life as a fish to the water.' I laughed a little bitterly. 'DoI ?' I said, with an envious glanco at the radiant little widow, who was my only friend among all the maDy who bore that title ; ' appearances ai e deceptive, Jo, my dear. ' 1 don't think the life suits me nor I it. In either oase, I am heartily sick of it.' 'ifon don't say so !' she exclaimed, looking at me with wide open mou h and astonished eyes, ' well, yoa do surprise me !' * I don't see there is anything surprising in that,' I said impatiently. ' Bat I do. After being courted, admired, the belle of the fashionable world, the most brilliant debutante known for years past—after having subjugated the most difficile and invulnerable parti of the season, after being lionised, idolised, and photographed, then to say you am not suited to the life and are sick of it, R. sally, Geraldlne, lam not qui to sure th.-«t yon can be in your right senses.

I sighed wearily. ' I suppose lam not,' I said ; ' I have begun to think so of late. While possessing all the blessings you enumerate, it seems a little insane to be miserably unhappy. 'My dear,' said Jo, with a sudden earnestness, 'do you mean it ? Are you really not happy ?' 'Frankly and honestly, I am not,' I answered, turning my head away to avoid those bright and searohlng eyes, one of the chief beauties of Josephine Howard's beautiful faoe.

' And why, may I ask ?' I was silent for a moment,

' Take your time,' said Jo coolly, as she unloosed her bonnet strings; 'only let me hint that your honorable mother will be shortly paying you her matutinal vi«it; therefore it behoves you to waste as little of the next quarter of an hour as possible. I am all attention.'

'Are you ever serious Jo I' I exclaimed Impatiently; ' I believe you think life is nothing but a jest,' ' Indeed, no; it is most serious, sober, earnest only too often. I won't tease you any more, though, dear. Who is he, and what has he said ?'

' Nothing as yet,' I answered, coloring ; ' that 13 ja at the point.' ' Nothing ? Oh, and you want bias to say something. But he is out of the field now, Geraldine. Touare the 'affianced of another,' as they say in the theatre.' 'Bat I was not—a week ago.'

' O—h ?' said Jo, with great seriousness ; I so that's it, A week ago ! Did you have a quarrel ?' ' No,' I said ruefully ; 'he never gave me the chance.'

fche laughed outright. ' Poor child ! That was too bid. Did he love and ride away, then ?'

'Jo,' I said earnestly, and disregarding her question, ' have you ever been in love ?' ' Never I' she said, with too truthful an emphasis for me to doubt her veracity, ' And yet you were married V

' Yes,' she answered gravely, ' the foroe of " circumstances over which I had no control," led to that piece of folly. However, I hare bought my experience and mean to profit by it. I am very happy now; and although my masonline acquaintances are always trying to persuade me I should be much better off m a w f e than I am as a widow, I won't see it, *

' I—l thought perhaps Mr Langdon might have succeeded in persuading you to that effoot,' I said, stooping] down to pick up the journal whose perusal had so discomposed me.

'Norman Langdon!' exclaimed Jo, 'my dear, I only wish he would try ! He is the man worth sacrificing even one's liberty for. But he has no ideas exoept of his books.' • He is very clever,' I said. 'I should think he was," exclaimed my companion, 'but he is very poor, too. It really Is astonishing, after all, how little brains fetch in the world, and yet they are the only things that money can't purchase. But time is running on, dear, and you have not yet told me what is the cause of your present discontent. Don't you care for Lord Loftus V

' Do you think it possible I oould ?' I orled impatiently, 'a man whoso life is spent In the worship of self—whose very virtues are odious, insomuch as they are paraded with an ostentation more offensive than any dice. A man whe does not scruple to impress upon me the honor that awaits me in becoming his wife. Faugh ! the thought grows more sickening every day.' She looked at me with real concern. 'Do yen feel It so seriously?' she said; 'my dear, why did you accept this man ?' ' I was worried into it,' I oried, half tearfully ; ' and really just then I was in a state of mind that - well, I cannot describe it, Jo ; only it seemed as if nothing could be much worse, and so I took him.'

' And now you repent of your bargain,' she said gravely, ' but, my dear child, have you t nought seriously of what the consequences will be if you break it off V ' I have thought of nothing yet, I have not had courage,' I said weari y, ' I am very miserable ; but I suppose I must go through with it. I have given my word. I don't know which will be the worse dishonor—to break or to keep it.' She looked at me in silence. ' Has it come to that 7' she said, 'my dear, who is—the other one ?' I mightjhavo answered that question, but I was not allowed. The door swung open and my mother entered, so further confidences were at an end She did not like Jo, they never got on well together ; and I was not surprised that my friend soon rose to take leave, after wringing a reluctant consent f'om mamma that 1 should dine with her that evening. • She has not bren to see me for an age,' she said emphatically ; and as my wtahes at this time always met with consideration, I had 1 ttle difficulty in securing permission, though I know my mother would have gladly withheld it had there been any possible excuse for doing so. But there was none ; for my fiance was absent from town to-day, and we had no particular engagements for that evening. ' We shall be quite alone,' said Jo at parting; but, as I met her eye, I c lught a significant glance which set me wondering what scheme lay in her pretty head, for I knew Jo's ways of old. The day dragged itself on as most days did ; dressmakers and milliners and jewellers besieged me alternately; my chains seem growing weightier and more oppressive every hour, and my heart more heavy beneath Its gilded bonds. At last I went to my room to dress for Jo's quiet evening. No need to make a grand toilette ; had she not said we should be quite alone ? But the soft falling folds of oream-colored muslin and rich lace whioh formed my dress were not by any means the simplest apparel I possessed. ' Mademoiselle is sad,' said my Frenoh maid; ' what pity that she goes not to be beheld by the world this evening.'

My oheeks flaihed— my heart began to beat swiftly,, nneaenly. If I had read Jo'b meaning aright, there might be some one there whose presence was more than all the world to me ; and in my madness I kept this one sweet hope in my breast, as a woman wears the flower a lover's hand has given—hidden, but close to the heart that loves him. Jo was quite alone in her pretty flower-filled room when I entered. Did she notice that hnrrled glance of mine around ? I fancy so, for I saw her smile. ' I bave two friends coming presently,' she said; 'Sir James Qlyde and Norman Langdon.' ■ Have you asked him ?' I said, busying myself with the button o my glove, in order to avoid her eyes.

'I have sated them,' she corrected mis chlevionsly ; * don't blush so, dear. I see I was right la my oonjectate, 80 It is Norman who has said—nothing ?' I was silent and embarrassed. Jo ch-ir to my own, and laid her hand on mine.

' Qeraldiue,' she said gravely, 'I rmv*been a friend to you for years past. Yon were fourteen, and I seventeen, when we first knew each other. Women's friendshu s don't count for much, they s»y, in the world's eyes : but I am too fond of you to wish to see your happiness destroyed in the fire of sooial martyrdom, I know whatl suffered myself by that passive obedience to my parents' will which led to my own saciiflea. It is a ornel, shamefn', degrading thing to force any girl to marry a man for whom she has no love, no tenderness, no respect It is a sin against nature and honor, and all the purest, noblest instincts of onr hearts ; and yet it is a sin which is being daily, hourly committed. My two years of married life were years that I cannot look back upon without a shudder of horror and disgust, and even my present freedom is cursed with the remembrance of that loathsome degradation to whloh I submitted. My dear, when I look around on society as it is—when I read of wives forsaking their husbands and homes, and running off with other men, my wonder Ib, not that it is done by so few, but, that it is not done by many, many more' It all springs from one source—'marriages of convenience,' the degrading barter sanctioned by law and religion, and entered into by hundreds of women every year, I looked at her in amazoment. I had never heard her speak like this. A creed so strange, so totally different from what I had ever heard promulgated in society had never reached my ears ; but there seemed in it a trnth grand in its very defiance—an open challenge to all received doctrines and pretenoes that was infinitely more noble and more true.

' I have surprised you, I see,' she con tinned, speaking more calmly now, ' bnt I wish to point out to yon two distinct courses of action; for, Geraldlne, I know your nature, for what might content some girls will not long content yon. Marriage is the most momentous event of a woman's life; it requires deep consideration, for, once entered upon, it is a bondage from which there is no escape, save by death—or disgrace. I know how you have been urged and persuadad and entrapped into accepting Lord Stanley. Your future may look very brilliant, very promising. All the mothers, and perhaps moat of the daughters, of Booiety are envying you at the present moment. My dear, I also was envied, and flattered, and courted ; for money Is a great power, and the world knows it; but not for all the wealth of all the kingdoms of the earth wonld I go through a;aln what I have undergone, nor would I counsel one of my sex to do it. Ueraldine'—and she knelt beside me and looked at my agitated face—--11 know your secret; I read it long ago. To-night—onoe more —you have the chance of altering your future. Its happiness or misery lies in your hands. My dear, be wise and decide In time.'

'Mr Langdon—Sir James Clyde 1' announced the footman, throwing open the door at this moment. Jo started to her feet and went forward to greet her guests with all her usual winning grace. ' You are models of punctuality,'said Jo merrily, as she seated herself again ; 'Mr Langdon, is not your head a little dizzy with so much praise ? The critics are overflowing with milk and honey at present, it seemß to me; even the ' Saturday' has steeped its quill in oil instead of gall for once. But if you care for my humble opinion, I must say ' Argentine' is splendid.' He bowed gravely. * You are very good to say so,' he answered ; ' bat Isnppose very few people will read it.' • What an idea! Why, every one will read it after such reviews 1 They must, of course; as to understanding it, I cannot say. It is rather deep ; but you do not write for the many. I have heard you say so.' • What is your opinion, Miss d'Arcy ?' he asked, glancing at me. ' I cannot give one yet,' I answered, coloring ; 'I only began the first volume to-day.' 1 How nice it must be to be famous!' cried Jo suddenly. (To be continued.')