LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2587, 22 July 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

AN ASITHBTIO FLIRT.

Perhaps because he was called Paul darkson, which, wo must owr, is a very r mantle name, or perhaps because his f&m ly loved old chins, or perhaps because he had five sisters and no brothers; from cno of tfcese ceuaes, or from quite a different cause—whamatters It, sinco the fact remains the same ? —Mr Paul Clarkson was without doubt an aesthetic flirt. How much cf a flirt be was. perhaps he himself hardly realised ; it all came so naturally to him. He was a handsome fellow, young Paul. He had a taT well-made figure, a pale but very expressive face, and a good deal of warm brown ha'r. No woman with such eyes could have kept from flirting; so let ns not bo too hard upon this man, especially as for some time he did no one any harm. He wrote poems, which his fair friends greatly admired. Ye gods, what sad poems they were! in them Mr Clarkson flirted with Death just as he flirted with women. Ho sat at her feet, and called her pretty names. If his stern mistress had turned round sharply, and made him take her for better or worse, I hardly imagine he would have been a very willing bridegroom ; bnt as the grim lady jnst then seemed to want cone of him— as lungs, liver, and heart were all they should be—this verse flirting with death was all very nice. Mr Paul was apparently very much distressed at having to live. He wanted no good dinners, not he; he wanted no books —cf course not; ho wanted no club; he wanted no pretty women to flirt with. What in the world did ho want, then ? He wanted to be absoihed into the spirit cf things; he desired to grow part of the Infinite ; he yearned to be mingled with the heaven’s blue, or to ha a role leaf, or a c’oud, or a sunbeam, or a weed ; in short, anything but what ho was. A very sad man was Mr Paul Clark-on. Being so sad, was it not natural that ha should turn for sympathy to the softer sex ? One fr : end could not have satisfied his great nature; his comforters were many. Let ns sse now who they were. To begin with, there was Mi?s Blandon, very strong on the question of women’s rights a clever, handsome, if somewhat mj a online-looking woman, of whom men mostly stood in awe. Clarkson found out a tender place in her heart, and walked into it. I think she thought for quite a long time that ha was going to ask her to be his wife. Then there was the beautiful Miaa Sanford, with the pale face, and the large, lovely, sad-looking eyes; was she not beauty itself, and, as such, should she not be worshipped P Then there was Mrs Clifford, quite young, and very nice to lock at, too; and she wrote poems almost as sad as Mr Clarkson’s own. Her marriage had been a gr?at mistake. She was thrown wholly away on the commonplace Clifford ; so she resigned herself to the writing of melancholy verse. O bards, bards, what would yon bo without your griefs 1 Even as children are who have no pretty playthings. Mr Clarkson’s grief was that he had once been engaged to a girl of whom he was really getting rather tired, when In the most unexpected manner she got tired of him, and threw him over, and endowed him with a wrong. Mr Clarkson felt very badly, or said he did. It is quite impossible to say what he did not get out of that grief of his. Of course its prime use was as a seasoning to his poems. Then it was a great help In those nice flirtations I have spoken of. A man with blighted sffaations may go much further in flirting than a man who is heartwhole. The dear creature comes naturally for consolation.

Did Clarkson make the boat of his opportunity ? I think hs did. He wrote I don’t know how many poems to his faithless lady; these poems he recited to other fair lanies; he plunged into all sorts of dissipations, not because he was naturally addicted to such things, but because he was so extremely unhappy. He was a very dosperats man and cynical; why, he believed in nothing, always excepting friendship between men and women.

I have mentioned three of his friends ; let me not forget Miss Kinlake, who played so beautifully, and, besides, composed such wonderful mnalo.

The amount of friendship with women, and the amount of good wines Mr Clarkson’s grief required to console It, were most surprising ; but we all know how bad is an affair of the heart.

It chanoed one night that Mr Clarkson met, at a recaption, Miss Hilda Ford. She was not a girl. She was about thirty ; she was very pretty, and not at all aesthetic. She had a good intellect, though, and loved poetry genuinely. Her voice was unuiually low and sweet; it had a strange thrilling music in it. She live with her mother in the country ; but tiny made frequent visits to London, Now when Clarkson saw her he fell in love at first eight. He loved everything about her : her full beautiful figure, her be nsitivo face, with the deep dark blue eyes, the red passionate mouth, the long slender hands, the way she carried herself, Ha was quite bowled down. His love-grief—that had seen so much service ; had been paraded, O, in how many poems! had been talked over, sighed over langhed over, with what awful laughter—was put away ! Mr Clarkson no longer wished to die, he wished to mary Mias Ford,

He loved bis dear friends ; but there had been till now no one that hehad quite wanted to marry. Truth tc say, ho was rather hoping that some one in whom he oould take a very decided interest would turn up ; when 10, she appeared upon the scene! I think a man should rospeos a really useful grief more than Clarkson did. He thrust it away without a tear —what do Isay ?—without even a farewell sonnet ! Heart and soul he went in for his new love. O bards, bards, are ye not an ungrateful lot! Paul Ciarkson, then, loved Hilda Ford; and what is very much to the point is, that the kind feel he entertained for her she entertained for him. So, why not say at once that he proposed, and was accepted. ‘Hilda,’ he cried, looking into her eyes passionately, ‘ tell me how much yon love me?’

She pressed bis hand and said—- * I love yon with my whole heart. Your love la the crown and glory of my life; it is my supreme rapture and my supremo rest.’ And then, perhaps, because her face flushed so, she leaned it on his shoulder, while he kissed her thick gold hair. All this was very nice, and Jnst as it should be ; bat troubles came. As it happened, most unfortunately, Miss Ford had a jealous temperament, and she got to find out about Paul's flirtations, to which she very much objected. Of course, nothing would have been easier than for Pan! to have given up such flirtations ; to which I think Miss Ford was quite right in excepting. Only that was just what he did not do, Easy, I said ; no, far more difficult than we dream of. To be in love, and to play at being in love, are two very different things; an in their own way, they are both pleasant enough. Playing at being la love is a very fascinating game ; and, like most games. It takes at least two glayers. This game Miss Ford liked not, a fact which he oould not tell to these dear co-players. * When our engagement Is made public,’ he said to himself, * 1 will knock all these affairs on the head,’

So he very wrongly—wishing at the same time to have and eat hi* pie—t >ld his beloved that he would .forswear the clcse friendships that so much troubled her ; and all the while he privately indulged in them. She found him out ounce. H e rushed down to her house in the country, where, as can be easily imagined, a scene took place. It was the beautiful Miss Sandford that Hilda specially objected to* He promised faithfully that he would see her no morel but the old habit was so strong that, as soon as be returned to London, he went back to his Platonic worship of her. He kept, however, his proceedings very dark Indeed, I can tell you : but, as we all know, murder will out.

As ill or goad luck would have it, an intimate friend of Miss Sanford went to visit some friends who were neighbors of the Fords. To the pleasure of all parties concerned, it turned out that Mr Clarkson was a mutual friend. Then came the question from our friend’s friend, * Was Mr Clarkson going to marry Miss Sandford V

Every one know what a flirt he was ; still his attentions in that quarter were extremely marked.

1 Perhaps so,’ said Hilda quietly. She wrote a few words to Paul that night, asking him to come down and see her.

Jam was aloe when we wore young ; but was It nice to be detected in the act of prigging it; when wo thought every one was far away, to hear a door handle turn sh rply, and be faced by a father, a mother, or an old servant sure to tell P It was with feelings similar to those then experienced that Paul read Hilda’s letter. It contained only a few words, asking him to come down ; but he had instantly a sense of something being wrong ; he suspected the truth that his sin had found him out. The Fords lived in a remote country village. It was a hot June evening when he found himself walking np the long garden that surrounded their house.

Mra Ford greeted him very warmly : ‘ IT! go and send Hilda to you,’ she said. In her Had cheerful voice. She left the room, and a few minutes after Miss Ford asms in. He heard her drees whispering as she walked. ... ‘Good evening,’ she said, ‘it was kind of you to come when I asked yon.’ _ She sat down In a low chair, her hands clasped loosely in each other. «But 1 shall not,’ she resumed, ‘ have to tax yon again In this way.’ * Have I done anything to displease yon . he answered, turning very pale. * Tell me at onoe, and let mo have It over.’ ‘What I have to say is,’ she rejoined, ‘ that everything between ns mast be over, now and for ever. If it is 'hard for yon, It is harder for me; you meant my all of life.’ ‘ Some one has been telling lies about me, he burst out, , ‘ It is you who have not told the truth, she said, with perfeot quietude. Ho turned on her desperately, seeing that she knew everything. * Hilda,’ he cried, ‘ 1 have acted meanly to you ; bnt this shall never happen in the future.’ ‘For ns two together,’ she answered, ‘ there will be no future 1’ ‘You can’t mean that!’

‘ What else should I mean ? I love you, Paul; but I would never trust my happiness in the bands of a man who could deceive me twice. I forgive yon, love you, but I trust you no more.’ Outside the hi' ds sang on through the still evening ; the air of the room was heavy with the scent of roses. ‘Yon must take baok these words,’ he said j ‘you don’t begin to know how I love yon.’ ‘Perhaps not,’ aha answered; ‘but I mean what I have said.’ ‘ Hilda, till I met yon it seems to me that I really never lived } you must show me some pity.’ Ho threw himself on his knees before her, caught her hands and kissed them. * Vain, vain,’ she cried. ‘lt is done, and It cannot be nndone.’ *Do you really mean what you say ?’ he asked, his voice trembling. The man was in earnest at last.

‘Yea,’ she answered sadly and unwaveringly, ‘I mean it most absolutely.’ _ ‘Then I must abide by your decision,’ he said, rising, a certain pride in his voice. ‘Qod-bye, then.’ He had got as far as the door when she called him back. ‘Don’t be too angry with me,’ she said, laying her hands in bis j ‘ kiss me.’ He did kiss her long and very .passionately ; then he left the aoom, loft the house, left the village, and reached London by a late train, bringing a real grief in his sham grief’s stead. Besolved on doing something desperate, he oast himself at the feet of the beautiful Miss f-andford ; but to his surprise she did not appreciate her happiness. * I never believed all the flue things yon said,’ she remarked. ‘ I knew you to be a flirt; but you amused me, and for that I am grateful.’ He went away very considerably humbled. The real grief, unlike the sham one, was totally useless. It inspired no poem; it stimulated to no pleasant flirtations ; it lay at Mr Clarkson’s teart a great, heavy, unremovable weight. Like a wounded animal, he shunned his fellows. B e thought grimly to himself as he roamed about the London streets, now grown to him so dreary, that at last he knew what the real thing was. In the coursa of a month or two, there came to him a desire In some way to do something which might at least lighten the gloom that wrapt him round, ‘l’ve spoilt my own life,’ he mused, ‘ still it might turn to some good account for others; I have money, and great sympathy with the people, and they need both. To spend my life helping them le what Hilda would approve of if she knew It, and that is what I will do. 1

The very next day he carried out his good resolution ; for he was perfectly in earnest. Still the man had been bo in the habit of posing that he oould not help at first surveying himself with a little melancholy satisfaction as the people’s helper given to them by a great sorrow. When he got really into his work, however, he ceased this sort of exhibition upon the stage of life with himself as spectator. Things seemed to him too serious to incline him to strike an attitude before them. For the first time he forgot himself, In view of other people’s calamities. Truly his labors were not light; and he felt no disposition to toy with his work as once he had toyed with love. Daily he risked hla life, sometimes from interfering to protect some woman from the drunken violence of her master, sometimes through long nightwatches beside a wretch ill of some frightful contagious disorder. He held not his own life dear unto him, and perhaps it was for that reason that he came alive out of every peril. Often, before the world was well awake, he would re'urn home from a night passed beside the dyiog, only to soatch a little sleep and go forth again to his selfimposed tasks. He saw lights and heard sounds before which a leas determined spirit would have quailed ; but his strong purpose upheld him. ('To be continued.)