LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2654, 9 October 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

THIS STORY OF A LjYjS LSITdS.

* One 1 —Two ! —Three ! —Four 1 - Five ! Six ! Sevan ! Eight! Nine ! Ten ! Eleven ! ~‘> wei ve! —’ >■ Idnipht and so soon.' Lie a me! And my bedroom fire almost ou l '.! How cold it is—bitterly cold. Tho thermometer is down to freezing point; s.n loy breath o ov-s me ling In at every orack and cranny - his fine saowflikes are beginning to fall a-d titv on the Iron-bound roads. Ugh! Rita-taut look out thia for tomorrow. To-morrow 1 Ay, to morrow I am to be married; at the extremely tin--oam.'ortabla hour of 10.30 a.m.’ that celebrated knot will be tied which will have the effect of achieving tho little arangemont so sjgaificaitly defined by Messrs Wall er Webster—‘ The Union of Man and Woman fat Ufa Ugh ! Ant yet, what does It matter? What, If you come to that, does rnything matter—mow I In the meantime let me take a leaf cat of Mr Tapley’s book ! lot’s ba jolly under (tfao circumstances. Ltok hero are all my wedding togs; my fellow. West, has duly aafc out fn all their glory Oh, yes, of «onr:o, I’m happily expeotsnt, positively brim >u!l of dolight! And why not, indeod ! {She' is, as ell my people ray, very ‘ nice,’ olid, as my ‘best man,* the Honorable Tom Bollock, siys, ‘ her form is A 1; her going aamie take able, and there’s not a suspicion cf vice.’ Perhaps yon’il >ay that this is coarse, but really it’s only old Tom’s usual horsey vernacular, and which he systematically applies to everybody and everything. Of tourje, then, I ought to ba, I am, very jolly. I r.tn happily expectant—positively brimfv.ll of delight. I’m humming m-rry fcurea ! My eyes a-o bright with anticipation! Why, what’s this? Who Is that woe begone, wretched looking individual staring out at me from the glsss, with boggard face, with bloodshot eyes ? Who la it? Why, It’s the happy bridegroom in esse ; St’s me I

Why am I going to wed this woman tomorrow? Is she pretty? Weil, pretty weli for that Is she nice ? Well,

that has boen all settled for ms, it is generally acknowledged she Is. . . Am I fond of her ? (Love ? —pshaw ! that is not at all a fashionable word now-a days.) I like her well enough, and that is ail the exigencies •f to-day require. . . . Ay, wa don’t snako such romantic donkeys of ourselves sow a-days as some of us did in those days, *enoo upon a time.’ you understand. But why am I going to bo married? Well, I’ll 4all you. As there hapi-ens to be more than «ne reison. I’ll catalogue them thus :—l, Because my doctor recommends ma to do so. -2, Because Im’ forty-eight years af age. 8. —Because I’m sick of furnished lodgings and (tavern dinner•. 4 —Because my relations and friends have worried me into 1 settling dawn’ and becoming ‘respectable.’ But why don't I marry some one I could have more than a liking for; some one, in fact, whom I could love ? Pshaw! Did I not tell you that the word la out of date and oldfashioned, Bless you. we have another soil do now-a days, highly-polished, highly -aleccrotyped, ’warranted to wear.’ Besides, Hr I do tell you, tan to one you’ll only jeer at me ; tha only reasons I have to offer are such very weak, foolish schoolboy ones. However hare they are at your service:—l. Because, just twenty-two years ago (on this vary day), I was cruelly jilted by the only woman I ever loved. 2.—Because, somehow ac other, I have never beaen able to go In for ‘that sort of thing’ again. Ay, on the morning of this very day (what a bright smiling day it was ! how different to this I) I wrote a latter. Into which I put my whole heart and soul —a passionate, foolish, erode letter, doubtless, but the words came straight from my heart, and should have met with, at least —oonrtasy. She never took the slightest asotioa of it I Yet she had let me understand thtt she was fond of ma —that sha loved me dearly, very dearly. Tho last time that I was with her she let me go away believing ij*»ln- .... She encouraged me in that belief. . . .

Sha led me on, and on . . . Sha—ha ! ha !—she fooled me to the top of my bent. Why? I cannot tell— I cannot, God help me, Bein'- times, even now. believe that she was so cruelly false. Yet she never anawered.that letter. She never took even the very slightest notice of it. She utterly and completely ignored It, If she had only written a big * No’ on a scrap of paper and put it in the penny post—but she didn’t Ihiuk It worth—ha, ha !—even a queen’s head!. Nearly one o’clock ! I ought to bo in bad. This’ll pever do, as I have to ba up betinea for the “Happy Occasion.’’ I really must turn in now. . , . Hope I shall have a good night—none of those confounded dreams I’ve been having of late. . , Let swa see, everything settled, and ready for to-morrow? . . , Yes. Really, that fallow of mine. West, ia quita invaluable. . . . Whore’s the extinguisher ? . . . Sob— . . . “Tho Happy Occasion!’ Hat Hal Ha! A fair lawn sloping to the broad shining river. A two-storeyed, picturesque old house, so thickly covered with ivy and honeysuckle, with climbing roses, clematis, and jiamine, as to leave, scarce an inch of the red brickwork visible. Beyond, a large, old-fashioned garden, where lilacs fling abroad their rich soeuis, laburnums drop their golden blossoms In prodigal waste, and oompaot masses of geraniums flash crimson in the sunlight. At the far end, which tends gently towards the river, a large rosory, where the air ia heavily sweet with the perfume of a hundred choice trees, ... A golden-haired girl wandering drermily among the flowers she loves so well. Fragrant roses are in her hair, in her toffy heating bosom, whilst in her hand she bears a dueler of pale yellow blossoms gathered for her hy her companion. Bash I Her companion ia addressing her with passionate speech ; hia voice trembles, he is, indeed, pleading for something which, from his earnestness of purpose, might be his very life. . . Her faca iS now burled in tho yellow roses ; these serve to render the flash creeping np over the fair nook and brow cnly more apparent. , . Presently ohe lifts the glowing face, , . it is turned towards him. . . a little hand, dropping tha roses, comes flattering into his. A top set of chambers in Gray’s Inn. A young man seated at a writing table An autumnal evening, rapidly darkening Into night. Tha boughs of the ancient elm trees outride the open window are murmuring in tho rising wind a language whloh appears to be intelligible to the youth at the table. . He writes rapidly, his heart seemingly in his occupation. Presently he finishes his letter, folds is carefully, places it in an envelope, stamps and directs it. Then he takes « tiny paper packet from his breast-pocket. Inside this packet is a yellow rose, its beauty aad Lothnesi scarcely yet gone. He raises this to hia lips, then ho kieses the fragrant petal tenderly—so tenderly ! Ho goes over to tho window, and sits there gazing oat Into the darkening night. He is very, very happy. He is, yon sae, so very yonng, and —he is ia love. ‘Eh ? Hallo. Oh, it’s yon, West ! Time to get up ?—Shaving wat«r ? Boy just coma with tho travelling trunk I’ve ordered ? —Yes, of course, of course. I—l forgot. I—l—suppose I must have been having another of those confounded dreams. Th-sats. West, tfcat’il do.'

Yes, it was a dream—though even now I could aim oat swear that Pshaw 1 Yes, and this is the waking ! . Jove, though, I've not much time, trow, then, for Mr Poole’s triumphs ! » . . Confound it, there’s the button off my shirt co Jar! How tight these new boots era! My hand trembles bo I c-.n scarcely shave—there! cat myself again ! confound it oil! . . . Xhorr, dressed at last I Jove 1 what a swell I do lock ! This blue frock coat, this mi-aculously stiff white ■waistcoat, aud this remarkably sweet thing in cravats, really make me quite the gay bridegr-om. * * Yes, it Sivas a drerin, nothing more. Strange, the ugh, how distinctly I see everything—even now ! Why, the deep blue haunting soh !—eyes as I stmt mine I can sea them—now! . . . Bat their expression, how very, very ntrsmgo J They look at me as If repr- aohfully. . . . Reproachfully ! And she jilted mo in that cruel, shameful manner. . . , I wonder where she is now ? . . I wonder whether she ia married, or about to bs married ? . • . . I hope she is happy now. ... I do, ay, I pray Heaven she is h»ppy. . , . But my letter to her —ray foolish, boyish letter—that letter written under a passionate impulse, in which, I poured out for her all my boy’s love—which was, perhaps, illjadg sd, badly expressed, passionate, crude—yet which gave up to her all tho hope and pro-

miaa of my young Hie —why did eho not vouchsafe my answer to that ? . . . See ! tho paper ia brown from very age ; the one e fragrant heavy blossoms have crumbled Into a tiny scrap of mere dust. . . . Two and twenty years! Yet methlnks I can almost smell tho fragrance of this pitiful *cr»p of dust, this poor little “Id Memoriam” of a dead lovo, even now 1 . , , Dead 7ay dead —rt> me! . . Pshaw, I’m a foil! Am 1 not going to be married in an hour's time ? . There, I will put the memory, as I pus away Its emblem—thus—Now at d for ev —Who la that ?

* Como in, . . . Oh, it’s only you. West.’

* If you please, sir, I have got everything ready for the honey-moon trip. The brown portmanteau is picked and looked—here ia the key, eir. The tin travelling-case is also picked avid locked—the key of that sir. The dressing-case I’ll finish eff while you are at the church, sir. Everything else is ready. ’ ‘ .Nothing more to be done. West. Thanks ; then you may go now.’ ‘ Thank you, sir. . . . Beg pardon, sir, but I almost forgot. There is tha old writing-case I found in the cupboard, underneath all those files of the “ Times,’’ yon know sir. Don't suppose yon want it, air ; but thought I’d ask yon before throwing it away.’ • No, It’s of no nse to me ; he can have it himself,; if ho Uses ; but {l’ll just glance at tho contents first, and destroy them. He thanks me, shuts the door noiselessly behind him, and leaves me with the old fashioned out-of place writing case.* It isn’t even locked. It Is covered with dust, and begrimed with the accumulated grimineas of numberless years, yet as I take It up a dim recollection, like a far-off dream, comes to ma of it. I open the rusty fastening end dive in for tho contents. . . . Nothing

here of any value. ... A quantity of business letters, nnpaid bills, and memoranda of different sorts, all food for the fire. 1 here ! Now West can have it —Stay ! What is this ? . . . A bulky envelope, stamped and directed—ready, in fact, for the post. . . . It Is now lying on its face, but some-thing borides thia faint, deadly sickness, with the hard lump rising in my throat, tells me the address. Something that has had life in my life for twenty years, and that Is burning with as fierce a flame now as then—tells me what it is. It is the letter, never posted—never sent to her! * * * ‘lf yon please, sir, it’s me, sir. Missis have sent me to know if you wasn’c well, as the clergyman have been at tho church some time, the oarrlsges is all here, and everybody ia quite ready—waiting for yen !’