LITERATURE.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 6975, 2 October 1890, Page 1

LITERATURE.

ON THE SEA COAST OF BOHEMIA. (Pall Hall Budget.) Mr and Mrs Mallory and their cousin Geraldine Mallory dwelt habitually on the "sea coast of Bohemia" — that is, when their fluctuating finances were low ; when they were at high-water mark the Mallorj family broke up their mdnage, Bet sail gaily from their seaport town, and voyaged over the summer seas to some great capital of Mesopotamia, where they were well received by their relatives, fed sumptuously every day, laid in supplies of purple and fine linen with which to impress Bohemia on their return, and finally, on the disappearance of the last coin from their once plethoric purses, bade good-bye to respectability, sought out their carefully-preserved return tickets, and took ship for their -winter quarters on whatsoever part of the Bohemian coast seemed good nnto them ; there to remain p erdus till Tim Mallory and his wife bad painted a sufficient number of pat-boiling banalit6s, and Geraldine palmed off on the magazine public enough more or less original tales to represent an adequate buui of money to enable them to voyage forth again. la common with many other dwellers on debatable ground, Tim Mallory was far more particular about the comings and goings of his female belongings, their acquaintances and surroundings, than many Mesopotamian papas. It was therefore only by a chain of fortuitous circumstances that Arthur Maitland, a coffee planter from Tunis, and formerly an ornament to Her Majesty's — th Hussars, and as strapping and wellfavoured a man as might be seen in a day's march, was enabled to make (clandestinely) the acquaintance of Miss Geraldine Mallory. It was the first experience of that sort which that young •woman had ever had, she being as thorough a little lady, and as well guarded in reality as she was free to come and go and act for herself in theory. To Arthur Maitland, however, the last idea never occurred. It was by no means his first experience in things hidden, and even when he fell madly in love with Geraldine Mallory his passion was biased by his memories of other pretty, easily-made friends. Sojourning idly on the little hilly island -where the Mallory's tent was pitched, having exhausted the rides, the amusements, open to outsiders, not of Bohemia ; bored, distrait, unable to leave for Mesopotamia on account of scirocco, Maitland had the fortune one day to come across Geraldine Mallory and scrape acquaintance with her — since when he had been unable to leave the olive terraces, the bare, burned- up hill-sides, of which the barest will hold a bush of yellow broom, an indented hollow, a boulder, to serve as covert for two pecple anxious to escape the notic £ of their fellow-men. And to-day, on a thread-like path, on the edge of a wind-swept cliff, the two stood face to face ; both silent, both determined ; each waiting for the other to begin. The man spoke first. "Do you hear?" he said. "I love jou." " Yes," Baid Geraldine, mechanically. Maitiand laid his hand on her arm. "Come under the lee of the rocks," he began, " I must speak to you." It is not my fault, God knows, but I do love you — I can't help it." Geraldine looked sharply at him and saw he meant it. She had heard men say they loved her before now, and she knew the look no man can counterfeit ; but she made a feeble effort. "It is nonsense!" she asserted. "Yop cannot. It is too quick." „ ■ "It is true." Doggedly, learning his broad shoulders against a rock 'and looking at her : " I don't know you w/ell, certainly," he said. " I don't knevw ' your people at all; but neither do It want to; and I mean to make you love nne as I do you." "How long ■will you love me? why should I beVieve you do love me ?" She had growivpalo, and gave him no time to answer.. * " Listen," she cried, " I was once engaged to a man for three years. For •"Ctaree years I lived like a nun for hie cake, and then— he tired of me. He broke off the engagement while I was staying with his people, the only people I ever knew in all England. Of course I had to leave there, and, with neither money nor friends, where was Itogo ? I came here to my cousin, Mrs Mallory; but he was not to know that; and he did know that I had not a soul in the world who cared for me. But he had loved me. Oh, yes ! He had loved me for three years." "He waa a— well, no matter!" Maitland said, looking at her curiously. " Did you love him ?" suddenly. " Yes." " Not as I will make you love me." "There is no love in the world, there is only passion !" Bhe cried forlornly. " It doea not much matter what you call it," Maitland said. He went on abruptly : "Do you see what a glorious colour the sea is ? Do you like the sea ?" "Why?" " Because lam going to take you on it. lam going to take you to Tunis." " Who and what do you think lam ?" she said. "Do you think me young enough, or foolish enough, to take what you ■say in earnest ?" " I don't know how you will take it. I know how I mean it." " But you are talking nonsense," cried the girl, turning on him. "You know very well that I dare not go home to my cousin's and own that I know you, a stray Englishman ; that I have let you speas to me in the cafe ; that I have met you by appointment. It is absurd i" "It is nothing of tho kind," retorted Maitland. "It is your affair, not your cousin's. And I suppose you are old enough to know your own mind. And I am not an adventurer. I have a decent estate in Tunis, and money enough for both of us." " But I hardly know you !" "I know," he said composedly. He came close to her. " Will you kis3 me, once ?" he asked. She looked at him incredulous ; but the look in his eyes mastered hers. With or without her will, she did not know, the fact remained. Maitland' stooped forward and kissed her lips. And as soon as she felt the touch of hip lips Bhe knew her mistake, knew that for good or evil she had given her life and body and aoal into his keeping. There was no drawing back. He held her hand firmly in his, and looked her straight in the eyes. " I have so much to say to you," he began ; it was all he could do, looking at her, not to catch her in his arms and kisß her till she kisßed him back again. " We are not children," he said suddenly, " neither you nor I. Let me begin with a plain fact; I am not afraid of shocking you. You know I love you ?" " You say bo" — trying to take her hand from his. "No, let it stay. I cannot say what I meflD if you take it away." " Which would be an immense loss to me, doubtless.", Hut her tone did not match her words, and she let her hand lie. Maitland drew his hat over his eye 3 and gazed out to sea. At last he spoke sharply. " I never mean to marry !" he said. " I have Heen too much of marriage. It is only a form, it does not even ensure faithfulness. A woman swears anything under the sun, and then at a woid from

another man, better-looking, or more 'sympathetic/ as women say, pouf! it all flies to the winds, and she flies to another man. If marriage meant faithfulness, well and good ; but it doesn't." "Why, is it any better for a woman to leave a man if she is not his wife ?" said Geraldine, cold as ice, and as hard. Maitland took no notice. "I love you. I want to take you to Tunis. You have no one to think of but yourself — no one to consult. I would make you happy. I know I could make you love me. Will you trust me ?" He stooped towards her and said in her ear, "Will you trust me enough ?" He finished his sentence under his breath. Geraldine started violently. A medley of thoughts and emotions awoke in her ; she was frightened and angry, and she was utterly astounded. That any man could make such a proposition to her was almost beyond her. She had sometimes wondered how a man reached a point of this sort, unless a woman were utterly worthless and led him up to it. Her life had been pure in reality as it had been free in appearance. She knew evil, and walked through it 3 mire with unspotted garments, going her own way and avoiding mud by instinct. And now she Bat and heard the coolest, most deliberate proposal to leave her life of careless chastity and become— what ? A kind of cold fury came over her ; she turned to Maitland, and was unable to speak. " Listen, child, don't judge me !" he said. "I tell you plainly, candidly, I don't believe in marriage. I don't believe in any one, man or woman, fettering their future with a tie and promises they may or may not be able to keep. If they can, in tea years' time, feel the same to one another — well and good. If not, what can be more lowering to soul and body than a eenseless bond, kept because neither has strength to throw it off, while it galls and frets both ?" " It; is more lowering to break one's promises and leave it," said Geraldine. " Yes, it is. But it is so because those promises have been made, and because no one with any decent sense of honour can break their word and not be lowered by doing it. Apart from that — well ! I confess an unloving marriage seems to me about the lowest depth to which people can fall." "I congratulate you on the way in which your ideas combine conscientious rectitude with convenience." She looked hjm full in the face, angrily. Maitland waß no less roused. (To be continued.)