SOME SPEECH OF MARRIAGE.
Measure for Measure, v—i.

A fine, drizzling rain was striking against the windows of a cosy third floor sitting-room, obscuring what in pleasant weather was a fine distant view of the Charles river. The apartment was evidently that of a woman, as numerous details of arrangement and articles of feminine use suggested; and quite as evidently it was the home of a person of taste and refinement, and of one, too, who had traveled.

Arthur Fenton, a slender young artist, with elegant figure and deep set eyes, was lounging in an easy chair in an attitude well calculated to show to advantage his graceful outlines. For occupation he was turning over a portfolio of sketches, whose authorship was indicated by the attitude of the lady seated near by.

She was a woman of commanding presence, with full lips, whose expression was contradicted by the almost haughty carriage of her fine head and the keen glance of her eye, which indicated too much character for the mere pleasure-seeker. Her hair was of a rich chestnut, and she wore a dress of steel gray cashmere, relieved at the throat by a knot of pale orange, which harmonized admirably with her clear complexion. She watched her companion as if secretly anxious for his good opinion of her drawings, yet too proud to betray any feeling in the matter. He, for his part, turned them over with seeming listlessness, breaking out now and then with some abrupt remark.

"Yes," he said suddenly, after a ten minutes' silence, "I'm going to be married at once. It will be 'a marriage in the bush,' as the Suabians call an impecunious match, since neither of us has any money; and I, at least, haven't so great a superfluity of brains that in this intelligent age of the world I am ever likely to make much by selling myself; and that is the only way any body gets any money nowadays."

"I hardly think you'd be willing to sell," his companion answered, "no matter how good the market."

"There's where you are wrong," he answered, looking up with a sudden frown, "the worst thing about me is that with sufficient inducement—or even merely from the temptation of an especially good opportunity—I should sell myself body and soul to the Philistines."

"One would hardly fancy it, from the way you talk of Peter Calvin and his followers."

"Oh, as to that," retorted the artist, "don't you see that judicious opposition increases my market value when I am ready to sell? If I could only be sufficiently prominent in my antagonism, I might absolutely fix my own price."

The lady made no answer, but regarded him more intently than ever.

"That's a good thing," he broke out again, holding up a drawing. "Why don't you do that in marble, or better still, in bronze?"

"I am putting it up in clay," she answered. "I thought I had shown it to you. It is to be fired as my first experiment in a big piece of terra-cotta. That is the first sketch; I think I have improved upon it."

It was the study for a bas-relief representing the months, twelve characteristic figures running forward with the utmost speed. Gifts dropped from their hands as they ran; from the fingers of June fell flowers, from those of August and September ripened fruits, upon which November and December trampled ruthlessly. January, in his haste, overturned an altar against which February stumbles.

"It is melancholy enough," Fenton observed, regarding it closely. "How melancholy every thing is now-a-days?"

"To a man about to be married?" she asked, with a fine smile.

"Oh, always to me. The fact that I am going to be married does not prevent my still being myself."

"Unfortunately not," she returned, with a faint suspicion of sarcasm in her tone. "You pique yourself upon being somber."

"I dare say," answered he, a trifle petulantly. "Pain has become a habit with me; discontent is about the only luxury I can afford, heaven knows!"

"Unless it is gorgeous cravats."

"Oh, that," Fenton said, putting his hand to the blue and gold tie at his throat. "I'm trying to furbish up my old body and decrepit heart against my nuptials, so I invested fifty cents in this tie."

"You couldn't have done it cheaper," remarked she; "though, perhaps," she added dryly, "it is all the rejuvenation is worth."

Fenton smiled grimly and again applied himself to the examination of the drawings, while the other looked out at the rain.

"Boston has more climate, and that far worse," she remarked, "than any other known locality."

"Does that mean that you are going to Herman's this afternoon?" asked
Fenton.

"I should have gone this morning if you had not insisted upon my wasting my time simply because you had determined to waste yours."

Fenton laughed.

"You are frank to a guest," he said. "I wished to be congratulated on my marriage."

"I shall not congratulate you," she answered. "You are spoiled. The women have petted you too much."

"According to the old fairy tale all goes well with the man of whom the women are fond."

"I remember," she said. "I always pitied their wives."

"I shall treat Edith well."

"You are too good-natured not to, I suppose; especially when you look forward to your marriage with such rapture."

"But, Helen, have I ever pretended to believe in marriage? Marriage is a crime! Think of the wretched folly of those who talk of the holiness of love's being protected by the sanctities of marriage. If love is holy, let it have way; if it is not, all the sacraments priests can devise cannot sanctify it."

"Then why, Arthur, do you marry at all?"

"Because marriage is a necessary evil as society is at present constituted."

"But," Helen said slowly, "you who pretend to have so little regard for society—"

"Ah, there it is," he interrupted. "Man is gregarious by instinct; he must do as his fellows do. He must submit to the most absurd convenances of his fellowmen, as one sheep jumps where another did though the bar be taken away. If he were strong enough to stand alone he might take conventions by the throat and be a god!"

His outburst was too vehement and sudden not to come from some underlying current of deep feeling, rather than from the present conversation. He had risen while speaking, his head thrown back, his eyes sparkling. His companion regarded him with admiration, not unmixed, however, with amusement.

"And you," she said, "choose to call yourself a man without enthusiasms."

"Yes," replied he, smiling and regaining his seat, "I am a man without enthusiasms."

"That is the cleverest thing you ever said," Helen continued, musingly. "And so we understand you intend to be ruled by conventionality and marry?"

"Precisely; it would be unjust to Edith to even talk to her of my views."

"I should hope so!" exclaimed his hostess. "But you will at least have her to yourself, and that pays for every thing."

"Oh, peutÊtre!" Fenton returned dubiously, perfectly well aware that the remark had been made to elicit comment, yet too fond of talking to resist temptation and leave it unanswered, "peutÊtre, though I never believed in the desert-island theory. It is more in your line; you still have faith in it."

"Oh, I do," she rejoined quickly; "and so would you if you were in love. You'd be content to be on a rock in the mid ocean if she were there."

"Love on a desert island," returned the young man, smiling significantly; "Oh, le premier jour, c'est bon; le deuxiÈme jour, ce n'est pas si bon; le troisiÈme jour—mon Dieu, mais comment on s'ennuie!"

"No, no, no," Helen broke in impetuously. "Good, always! Always, always, or never!"

Fenton threw back his head and burst into a shout of laughter.

"'Twere errant folly to presume,
Love's flame could burn and not consume,"

he sang, going off again into peals of laughter. "Good by, mon amie; oh, mais comment on s'en—"

"Stop," interrupted she. "I'll have no more blasphemy."

"Good-by, then," he said, picking up his hat.

"You may as well stay to lunch," his hostess said rising.

"No," returned he. "I must go and write to Edith."

And off he went, humming:

"'Twere errant folly to presume
Love's flame could burn and not consume."