LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IV, Issue 395, 17 September 1875, Page 4

LITERATURE.

PHYLLIS AND CORYDON. Bv Julia Kavanagh. Five years had gone by. The Marquis de la Faille was sitting in his chair, wrapped in a long quilted morning gown ; a white mget cap came down to his very eyebrows, and the gay Nemorin twirled his thumbs and stared at a fly buzzing against the windowpanes in the autumn sun. < My love,’ he plaintively said to his wife, who sat near him at her tambour-frame, do tell that fly not to buzz so.’ Madame did not answer, but gave him and everything around her a moody look. The room was a splendid room, no one could deny it. The gardens below were green and lovely, the fountains were playing gaily, and the dancing fawns and nymphs looked white and merry in the sunshine. But what availed splendid home, green garden, and money, if Madame de la Faille could not enjoy them ? , , The man she had married was an idiot for life, and she was tied to his sickness ; an unwilling nurse. Pleasure was denied her ; although his death would give her liberty, it could not give her wealth as well. The Marquis had made no will, and the girl whom her stepmother kept mewed up in a room in the chateau would inherit all her father’s property. Madame de la Faille had made a bad bargain. The Marchioness was brooding over the whole story, and not heeding poor old Nemcrin’s querulous request that she would tel. the fly not to buzz, when a servant came up with a message. The Count of Saint Brie:: was below, and asked to see the Marquis. So he had returned from America, where he had been fighting under La Fayette, What was he like ? she wondered, and what errand made him seek her husband ? Perplexed and curious, she [bade the Count be shown up. When he entered the room, in a suit of silver and grey, the lady thought she had never seen a young man of aspect so noble and prepossessing as the son of her betrayed friend. She gazed at him graciously, and seeing the involuntary start of surprise he gave on looking at the Marquis, she heaved a deep, tender sigh, bade him welcome, and said to her husband:

‘My love, the Count of Saint Brice has come to see you.’ ‘Let him tell the fly not to buzz so,’ answered poor Nemorin. The Marchioness took out her handkerchief and stifled a sob, whilst her visitor gazed with sorrow and surprise on the ruin before him.

1 Madame,’ said the Count, addressing the lady, after a pause, ‘ I perceive your unfortunate husband cannot attend to me ; in your hands, therefore, lies my fate. Through you, I ask Monsieur de la Faille for the hand of his daughter. ’ On hearing this all signs of favor vanished from the lady’s face, and she coldly answered:

‘You are very good, sir, but my husband has no wish to see his daughter married just yet.’ ‘ Madame,’ replied the Count, ‘ this refusal comes not from him, but from you.’ Madame de la Faille did not attempt to deny this. Resting her arm across the t'm-bour-frame, she looked moodily at her guest. Then, after a long pause, she said, with a dark smile :

‘ Pray, when did you last see my stepdaughter ?’ ‘ Five years ago,’ ‘ But you have had some glimpse of her since your return.’ ‘ Madame, I arrived last night.’ ‘ And you ask her in marriage this morning, though you have not seen her for five years. ’ ‘Madame, I do.’ ‘Well, sir, for the sake of constancy so rare, also because your mother and I were friends once, I shall grant your request; but, like the wicked fairy in the story, I lay down three conditions. Do you agree, first, to marry Mademoiselle de la Faille without a dowry ?’ ‘I do, and gladly.’ ‘ Secondly, my beloved husband’s health not allowing him to be disturbed in any fashion, and on any account, are you satisfied that the marriage shall take place in the chapel of your castle !’ ‘ Madame, I am satisfied.’ ‘ Thirdly, as, on account of my dear husband's illness, I can allow no courtship or Wooing, are you content not to see your bride till you meet her on the morning of your wedding day ?’ The Count gave a start. ‘ Madame, that is impossible.’ ‘Then, sir, I cannot grant your suit.’ He tried to move her, but she was inexorable.

11*Madame,’ he said, warmly, ‘no change which may have taken place in Mademoiselle de la Faille’s appearance can alter my feelings ; but in honor I must ascertain what hers are before I marry her,’ The lady brooded awhile, and her face was not pleasant to look at when she was thus meditating, ; then she coldly informed the Count that she would allow him to see her step-daughter once, namely, on the eve of his wedding day, which she left him free to fix. He tried hard to get better terms, but failed. He yielded, but, indignant at her harshness, he emphatically assured her that if he de tected the least signs of reluctance in Mademoiselle de la Faille, he should set her free, no matter at what risk.

* Sir, you are wrong to mistrust your own powers of fascination,’ was her ironical reply, ‘ Mademoiselle de la Faille will never reject so accomplished a gentleman, and so rare a lover.’

On this they parted- the lady triumphant at having prevailed, the Count angry at being conquered ; and—why deny it ? rather troubled at terms which were harsh even for an age which, ’spite its arcadian fancies, the feelings of noble damsels were very rarely consulted. ‘ Oh, my Phyllis !’ he could not help saying to himself, as he rode home. * What has happened to you, my darling ? What cruel disease or fatal accident has come to wither your youth ? —for beauty you had not. You have shed bitter tears since we parted near this very spot, my Phyllis ; but now, please Heaven, your troubles and your sorrows are over, and faithful is yours for ever.’ Chivalry is undying, though the age of chivalry has gone by and chivalry was strong in the young Count’s heart. u blended with and tempered all his feeling and though now put to so severe a test, n. was not found wanting, When disquieting thoughts would come, suggesting that Phyllis had had the small-pox, or lost an eye, or undergone some terrible change for

Liic worse, this faithful lover bade them avaunt, and only hurried on the preparations for his marriage. At length the rooms which were being lifted up, prepared at much cost for the young Countess, were ready, the day was fixed, and, on the eve of that eventful day, the Count rode forth to see Phyllis, and learn his fate. Hut he did not think of that. All his apprehensions, all his fears, were gone, and a great sense of happiness had come in their stead. The day was a beautiful autumn day, full of a mellow, golden light. As the Count rode through the little wood, near the pool of watercresscs, it seemed to him that the birds warbled love-songs on every bough, and that the soft breeze which passed through the trees was laden with fragrance as delicious as any breeze that ever blew in fairyland. For were not the great thoughts of his boyhood, and the great desire of his youth, going to fulfilled at last ? Was he not going to wed his Phyllis on the morrow ? But when the Count reached the chateau of La Faille, when he went up the steps and crossed the threshold, there is no denying that his mood was much subdued. All the doubts and fears which he had kept at bay came back to him with cruel power, He dreaded this much wished-for meeting; especially did he fear lest his countenance should betray a painful surprise, which might wound his Phyllis’s tender heart. Devoutly did he pray that however she might be altered, and whatever he might feel, she might rend nothing in his eyes save the strong love which had never ceased, and never should cease, he trusted, to burn in his heart for her. That heart throbbed rather fast as he entered the room in which the Marcpxis and his wife were sitting. A young girl stood in the furthest window, but her face was turned from him, and she neither moved nor looked round on his entrance.

‘Well, sir,’ said the Marquise, in a mocking tone, ‘ you are a puntual man, and I keep my word, of course. My love, this is the Count of Saint Brice, whom you are to marry to-morrow morning. Will you not look at us ?’

But instead of obeying, the young girl only buried her face in her hands, and all the poor, puzzled young Count could see was a slender, graceful figure, standing very still in the sunshine which poured in through the tall window.

‘ Well, sir, ’ resumed the elder lady, in the same mocking tone, ‘ you shall not think or say that I lay any constraint on this coy bride. I leave her with her father and you. ’ She rose and left the room as she spoke. So long as the train of her silk dress swept the polished floor, so long as her stately figure had not vanished behind the panelled door, the Count did not stir. His heart indeed fluttered wildly in his breast, but his olive cheek, and his bright dark eye, betrayed no emotion. When the room, however, was empty of Madame de la Faille’s presence, when he was fairly alone with his love and her poor, old, foolish father, who leaned back in his chair, twirling his thumb, as usual, as self-control left him.

‘ Phyllis, my Phyllis,’ he cried, ‘ have we met at last—at last !’ and in a second he was by her side, gently, but vainly, endeavouring to remove her hands. ‘My Phyllis,’ he pleaded, ‘what do you fear? Not that I should love you less : that is imposssible ; not that I should take advantage of the bondage in which you live : that, too, is impossible. Then look at me, remember our old love; look at me—above all, trust in me.’

His voice faltered a little as he said the words, for something terrible, he thought, must be hidden behind those little white hands which still resisted his. At length they yielded, revealing a face so witching, and so beautiful, that, through very wonder, the Count let them drop, and started back. Thus they stood for a moment in the old window, he amazed and doubtful, she blushing like a rose in the warm sunlight. ‘ Forgive me,’ he said, recovering with a deep sigh, ‘ but you are so altered that 1 cannot yet conquer my amazement. Are you really, can you be, my Phyllis ?’ Again his eager gaze scanned her lovely face. The charming profile, and the pretty Grecian lip of his Phyllis, he knew, but white pow'der hid the bright hair, another soul seemed to look through the blue eyes, the smile of the rosy lips had another meaning. The Count’s dainty, delicate lily-of-the-valley look had turned into a garden rose, gorgeous and beautiful in the bloom of its eighteen summers. The change was so great that involuntarily he looked for the mole which he had kissed on the day of their parting ; it was still there, near her white, dimpled chin. ‘ Well,’she asked, laughing softly at his perplexed looks, ‘ am 1 Phyllis ?’ ‘Forgive me,’ he said again; ‘but how could I expect to find you grown so very, very beautiful ?’ She smiled at his praise, but smiled like one who knew that praise her due. That bright, fond smile dazzled him. ‘ Ah !’ he said, with involuntary transport, * how could your stepmother be so cruel ? I thought some terrible disease had disfigured you, and I find you so lovely, so lovely !’ he repeated, taking her hand, and looking in her witching face. ‘ And you would have married me all the same ?’ ‘ Can you ask it ?’ ‘ And loved me all the same ?’ ‘ Ah ! Phyllis, Phyllis, can you doubt it ?’ ‘ 1 have learned to doubt many things,’ she replied, with some bitterness. ‘ Because you have been unhappy, mv Phyllis ?’ {To he continued.')