The Honeymoon

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXIX, Issue 25, 21 December 1907, Page 21

The Honeymoon

By

GEORGE RANDOLPH CHESTER

aND so they were married. The rain of the rice had scarcely ceased upon the roof of their carriage, and the echoes of the gaylaughter behind them had scarcely died away, when Ralph Huntington turned to his bride with a boyish laiiga and clasped her hand. “At last, at last!" he breathed, and bent forward to place a kiss upon her lips. “Wait!” she commanded, turning her face away and putting up her hand. The man drew back, shocked. “I must tell you something first,’’ she went on, her voice lowered almost to a whisper and her face pale. “I feel it my duty to let you know just what you have bought.” “Bought!” he cried. “Grace!” “Yes. bought,” she answered; “purchased like any other expensive work of art. You knew this when I agreed to marry you, although you were not told quite so plainly; but I have seen, as the days have gone by between our engagement and to-day’s mockery, that you have been more and more inclined to forget it.” “I did, almost,” replied the man even ly. “I hoped against hope until I almost began to believe.” “It is your own fault,” she retorted. “You, knew that I favoured Gilbert. You knew that he had not a friend to plead his suit. You knew that he was poor, and could not afford me. You knew that every one interested in seeing that I had a luxurious future brought me lying tales of him tried to prove him unworthy.” “Absolve me, please,” the man broke in. “I never raised a voice against him.” “No, you were too clever,” she charged cruelly, not caring to notice that he winced under the stroke. “Instead of that, you bought me. You helped my father out of his crisis and set him upon his feet again. You —” “Purely in the way of business,” interrupted the man.' “It was no more than I might have done for any other friend of mine.” “Indeed!” she replied. “And was it purely business that made you secure my brother Will his appointment? that made you get Lon out of his college scrape? that made you —oh, your favours have been too many and too lavish to enumerate! They were part of the pi ice yon paid for me, calls upon my gratitude which I could not ignore. Well, I married you; I paid my debt and my family’s ' debt to you, but 1 have made the whole transaction plain. There is no question of false pretense between us. My conscience is elean upon that score; but since the bargain is concluded. I will be ‘game’ as Lon calls it. Now, I will take your kiss,” and she held up her pallid lips. The man laughed, but the laugh was not a particularly jovial one. He had to moisten his lips before he replied to her. and there was a trace of huskiness in his voice. “Mrs. Huntington,” he replied, “the only kiss I ever bought before was at a charity fair, and I did not even then accept the goods that I paid for. The cheek that was held out to me was a beautiful one. but, in the circumstances, it repelled me. I have never been able to see the joke in these things. They—they are too saered to me; so you must continue to remain in my debt.’ “And so they were married and lived happily’ ever after.” The old. old commonplace ending to the fairy-stories recurred to him with crushing mockery. This, then, was the end of his daydreams; this the end of the impetuous wooing into which Grace Harding’s beauty’ had drawn him. He knew of other marriages like this where the bargains were more coolly sealed, where the conventions were better observed and the hideous truth better glossed over, but he shuddered to think of them. This, after all. was better. His wife presently complained of lieing chilly. He reflected grimly’ that the chill which had suddenly filled that car-

riage was one that no fire could drive out, but nevertheless he adjusted her wrap tenderly about her, touching her as gently as if she were some beautiful, fragile thing that must not be clumsily handled or rudely breathed upon, lest it crumble before his very eyes. He tried to be strictly impersonal, and he was almost angry with himself to find that, in spite of the cold dash she had given him, the mere touch of her garment thrilled him. In the train his first impulse was to surround her with magazines and retire to the smoker, but even in his deep disappointment he could not forget what was due to her. With those white ribbons, tied by prankish friends to their luggage, flaunting their new estate to the worlcL he could not leave her to seem as one neglected, even though it might be much more pleasant for her to be alone; so he sat beside her and gave himself up to the task of entertaining her. He could do that. He had travelled much, had seen much, and had read much, and now he set himself deliberately to interest her. He knew the things that she liked best—he had studied them long enough, and, Heaven help him! earnestly enough—and all through that long, tiresome ride he exerted himself with a success that surprised her. After all, if she had sold herself, she had gone to a pleasant market. It was not until they had reached the city and the hotel where he had secured accommodations that the full sense of her loneliness and of the vast change that had come into her life flooded over her. At the door of the pretty suite he paused. “My own apartments,” he informed her, “are just across the hall there," and he pointed to the door. “The number is one hundred and two. Kindly telephone me when you are ready for dinner. I have ordered a maid sent right up to you.” Ten minutes later, when a maid knocked at the door, she was still standing looking blankly out of the window. She had not removed her hat nor her gloves. Conventionality came to her rescue. She took pains, for the maid’s benefit, to observe the dainty fittings of the suite, the flowers that he had ordered, the cheerful open fire that had been built against her coining. Books and magazines had been provided, even to a pretty diary, which was a reproach to her now, and stationery lay invitingly arranged upon the pretty desk. The flowers and the fire and the books and all were thoughtful of him —but—they only went to show what money could buy. It had even—she thought with bitter self-scorn—bought her. There followed a tastefully ordered dinner. There followed gorgeous roses for the theatre-box, the play itself, a supper where soft music and tinted lights created a fairy world for the country-bred girl, and then a comfortable carriage-ride back to the hotel. These were material pleasures to which Grace Harding had looked forward. She was of a family tnat had “skimped and scraped” most painfully, and she was starved for luxury; but now that it was hers she took no pleasure in it. She cried herself to sleep that night, and she dreamed of Gilbert. When she remembered the dream in the morning she was shocked. She had not meant to be dishonest or unfaithful even in her dreams. Oh. not that! IT. There was to be a week of shopping before their steamer sailed, and it was a busy week—one that, in other circumstances. would have been a happy week to any woman. There were fresh flowers in her room every morning: there was a carriage always at her disposal: there was a slave wealthy, devoted, and. yes. handsome —ready to dance at her every caprice, to satisfy her every whim. As the days wore on she liegan to

pity him. She had been so burdened with her own grievance that she had overlooked the fact of his deep hurt; and she began to admire the cheerfulness with which he took up his burden. He was always the same, he was always devising amusements and interesting sidetrips to keep her busy and to keep her from brooding; but he never, since that first ride with her alone in the carriage, presumed upon his conventional rights. The last day before their sailing was the only one in which he left her absolutely to her own devices. “I shall be engaged all day,” he explained. “There are business matters that I must straighten up before 1 go away, and I have had no time for them as yet. You will find the carriage ready for you, and I am quite sure that you can make your way about now to clean up the little shopping that you have left.” She was surprised to find herself lone ly. Of course, though, business couH not be neglected. In fancy she followed him to his offices. She had met his business associates. Some of them treated him with positive affection- all of them with respect. One could not see him in that environment without recognising that he was a man of great ability, and a man of rigid uprightness, too. She was proud of him for that - naturally. 'l’he forenoon was a slow one. She had suddenly lost interest in shopping, and she finished it up hastily, coming back to the hotel in time for luncheon. She seemed mor at home there. Later in the afternoon a card was brought up to her room, and she turned quickly from the light lest the boy who had brought it should see her face. “Where is the gentleman?" she asked the boy, struggling for her self-posses-sion. “In Parlour A, mum.” > “Tell him I will be down presently,” she said calmly, but when she had closed the door she dropped into a rocking-chair and buried her face in h< r hands. When she arose she looked about the apartments curiously. It seemed as if she had never seen them before, to appreciate them —the flowers, the books, the crackling wood-fire, the many little evidences of care and thoughtfulness with which she had been surrounded; and when, after a while, she stepped out into the hall and closed the door, she seemed to be shutting in a world that was in some way suddenly different from any that she had known or dreamed of before. Down in the parlour an eager young man sprang to his feet when she entered. “Grace!” he cried, and caught her hand. “Gilbert! What brings you here?” she asked, releasing her hand. “I couldn’t stay away any longer,” he replied. “Grace, I couldn’t. I understood that you were to sail to-morrow, and I had to see you. Thank God, my good luck came in time!" “Good luck?” she repeated. groping confusedly for a solution to the strange new problem that she had suddenly become to herself. "I do not quite understand.” “No." he said, “nor 1. I can scarcely realise it yet. Grace, dear, 1 have been left a legacy. I just got word of it last night ami came right on. I am rich, girl, rich as the man you married, and now this miserable mistake can be undone!” He held out his arms to her and took an impetuous step forward, but she held up her hand and stopped him. as she had stopped her husband once before. “1 am so glad you came, Gilbert!” she said with the ring of a great new joyin her voice. “So glad! Otherwise, as you ha v e pointed out. my miserable mis take might have gone on and on: but it is not the mistake you have in mind. I have spent a week with an honourable man. a man who. for all his thoughtful ness and all his devotion ami all his love his love, Gilbert! has had not one caress in payment, not even gentle words other than those that formal courtesy would bring from any one. "1 have seen him morning, noon, ami night, and. without knowing that 1 was doing it. I have studied him well; ami I know. sir. that under no ciietimstances could he have done this unworthy thing that you have done to-day; nor could he have offered to any woman, least of all the one lie loved, the insult that you have offered me. His only thought would be to shield me. “Why. when I tell him of this, as I must, so that no shadow may fall be-

tween us, 1 know just what he will do. He will attach weight only to the fact that I have told him, and then lie will never again refer to it never. So good and kind and generous he is, and so made of honour. I don’t think that 1 can make you understand the sort of man he is. 1 did not realise it myself until now. And to think that 1 might not have known! For this awakening 1 thank you; oh, Gilbert, how 1 do thank you! And good-by!” Turning, she swept from the room, and when she had gained her own apartments and had closed the door behind her, she caught up the roses that he had provided for her and buried her face in them. When she presently raised her head there were tears upon her lashes, bu» she was smiling, and as she went about dressing for dinner she found nerself singing for the first time in many, many days. There was a flush upon her cheeks, too, that did not go away. 111. That was a long, long afternoon, but she had a splendid joke—oh, a grand, good joke!—to keep her company; one that made her laugh aloud time after time, but that nearly always brought the tears springing to he; eyes. It was not a jol.e, though, to be lightly frittered away at the first opportunity, Ah, no, it was one to be nursed and jealously guarded for the very joy of it, and when Ralph came to take her to dinner she wa,-, as gravely reserved -.rith him as usual, though he thought her more beautiful and i ore vivacious in appearance than ever. That rich flush upon her face was becoming, too. Throughout the dinner she preserved her grave formality, except that once or twice she startled him by breaking into happy chatter, apropos of nothing; but when he strove to seize upon this boon she grew reserved again and hid her eyes. She carried her calm graciousness through the performance at the theatre, though once or twice he fancied that he detected her turning to him with twinkling eyes. Through the supper she was composed and primly formal, but when they had got into their closed carriage and were on the way home she turned to him with a question as to his own day. “Did you conclude your business satisfactorily?” she asked him. It was elaborately prepared, this exquisite joke, and she was carrying it oft' splendidly —only she was afraid that he could hear the beating of her heart. “Quite.” he assured her. “1 don’t feel exactly satisfied about that,” she replied. “I think that some one ought to oversee your contracts, for really I’m afraid that you are a very poor business man.” “Indeed,” he answered. smiling. “What makes you think that? I assure you that I have a very good reputation in that way among the people who know me.” “Well,” she retorted, and now that the supreme joke was coming to its point she could hardly keep down that foolish flutter in her voice, “that nr.y be, but I am quite certain that any man who buys expensive things and d >es not take them must have flaws in his business met hods.” He turned in her dire tion with perplexity. but in the dim light that came through from the street she could not see tile wonderful leek that she turned up to him. He made no reply. "Don’t you think it is about time to collect that kiss?” she tremblingly asked. “Please, Grace!" he remonstrated, with more pain in his tone that she had ever heard there. He could not dare to believe, yet. could not allow himself to catch at that wild hope that had suddenly sprung up within him. She had intended to tease him a little longer, to have him perplexed possibly half angry, but she could stand no more. "Do take it,” she pleaded. “As a gift.” The brief instant of fits dazed joy *hat followed she took for hesitation. “Oh. don’t, you see? Won’t you see?” she cried. ‘’Ralph. I—l love you!” Her arms circled up around his neck, and she pressed her head, sobbing, upon his shoulder as he clasped her to him.