LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1391, 31 July 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

MRS. FITZGERiLD. By Frank Barrett. Chapter I. A reflective old gentleman does not want to read novels in the summer time, especially before dinner. If his eyes be open he must see romance wherever their glance falls. There are farce and tragedy for him in the crowded streets if he choose to go there; but when the days are hot and the air dustladen he prefers the entertainment to be found under the shade of the trees in the Park. There he may select subjects of an idyl in harmony with the season and the repose of the place, and the mood of one who has played out his own romance and is content to take his place amongst the audience—a calm, eventless, happy song of life, drowsy, as if sung to the humming of bees when the still air is heavy with the p rfurac of clover. Such an idyl was furnished by the two young people who traversed the Park from the Marble Arch to Storey’s Gate day after day from spring-time until autumn. She was young, very pretty, and not a day older than seventeen ; he was ten years older, and plain enough to be good, and good enough—if one judged by appearances —to be loved even by one so young and bright as she. Hid his manner been like hers there would have been but little romance in their association, for she exhibited the playful carelessness of a sister; but in his every action there was earnestness of feeling. Yet it was evident to the reflective old gentleman (hat she knew the regard her companion had for her. There were times when her young eyes dwelt dreamily on the horizon as she listened to him, and an expression of tender sympathy dwelt in the smile about her lips. lie wore a suit of black cloth, threadbare at the wrists, and shiny with -wear in places ; under his arm ho carried three or four shabby schoolbooks. She, too, dressed plainly, her neat dress relieved by a bright bow mayhap ; but every day there was a fresh flower in her bosom, such as was in season, and might be bought for a penny or two-pence. That flower told a tale. It was argued amongst those wdio took notice of these companions that, when the evenings grew dusk and chill, she would take his arm. Then the end of the story would be apparent. But before the leaves were all fallen theie appeared a change in their lives, abruptly checking the promised easy flow of events. She walked with no flower in her bosom, she carried her two dingy books, and by her side there stepped a companion taller, handsomer, younger —oh, ten thousand times gayer than ho of the threadbare coat. And after they had pissed, some ten or twelve minutes later, followed the discarded man, Ids hands at his back, and his melancholy eyes turned earthwards to the withered leaves. This gay young gentleman accompanied her the next day, and the next. He was dressed rather above than below (he height of fashion —that is to say, his linen was possibly too conspicuous in the cuff and collar, his hat rather more on one side than is correct, his rings a trifle too brilliant, and his stick shorter than consistent with use or ornament. But, undoubtedly, he was a creature to be admired of women. There was no doubt that the little beauty who stepped by his side admired him, although he did suffer her to carry her books, and kept the flower-buds to adorn his own breast. Dog-eared school-books looked in keeping with (lie seedy sleeve of her late companion, but would have looked as out of place under this gay gentleman’s arm as his rich exotics in her plain stuff dress. Ho talked but little, but all that he said she caught up and amplified with quick delight. No longer her eyes dreamily lingered on the distance; their animated glance was bent upon the elegant figure beside her, or dwelt in maidenly modesty on the path when she felt him looking upon her. He was not constant in his escort ; more frequently she walked alone ; for her shabby old friend chose another path, and no more carried her books. And so the idyl was ended, and the old gentleman went home in ill-temper, and declaring the afternoons were become too bleak for the Dark, ordered a fire to bo lit in his sanctum. Sitting there in the fading light, he said pettishly twice or thrice, ‘ Little fool!’ For this romance was concluded to his dissatisfaction, and ho was out of humor with the heroine. Yet it was all perfectly natural that Mary Reid should prefer a gay young fellow of fortune with the name of Reginald Fitzgerald to plain George Montey, who knew no more of ‘ society’ and the world that she did, and

worked from morning till evening teaching in a school for seventy pounds a year. The girl was but seventeen, and could not be expected to be pretty and wise in equal proportions. And in affairs where the heart is concerned it is doubtful if any amount of wisdom will save us from folly. Men of forty will love foolish pretty girls in preference to plain clever women, and still claim to have more mind than their fellows. Our own conceit should prevent us from expecting girls to bo more discreet. But Mary Reid was not a silly girl ; on the contrary, she possessed far more than most girls the ability to manage her affairs wisely and well. She was entirely self-dependent; for excepting George Montey, whom she had known before her parents’ death, she was friendless. Now she could no longer retain him as a friend. Her new lord was emphatic in hi* command that she should discard him. ‘ I do not doubt this Montey is a good fellow, and all that,’ he said ; ‘ but it’s absurd that he should be allowed to continue his intimacy now that I have engaged myself to you.’ ' But he is only a friend, Reginald—very old friend ; and ho has been very kind to me, and I think it would grieve him If I were to break off our acquaintance entirely.’ ‘ Perhaps you would rather give mo up ?’ Mary was silent. 1 It seems (hat you would rather annoy me than grieve me.’ ‘ You know that I love you.’ ‘ Of course I do, or I shouldn’t offer to make you my wife. Don’t suppose lam jealous of the man —oh, dear no !’ Mr Fitzgerald shot out his cuff and shook his hat a little on one side, pleasantly think - ing of any one usurping his place in a girl’s opinion. ‘I simply say he is a man with whom I cannot associate, and with whom therefore I cannot permit you to associate if you still desire to be my wife.’ ‘ He is worthy to be any one’s companion,’ cried Mary quickly. *He is clever and kind, and would offend nobody ; and I am certain— ’ • Don't be childish, Mary. I admit that the man may be everything that is charming ; ho may be able to stand on his bend and say the Greek alphabet backwards ; he may be a blessing to his grandmother, and carry washing to save her dear old legs; but he is not fit for the society in which you are to move.’ They quarrelled on this point and were reconciled, but Mary gave in. George Montey did not give much embarrassment; he took his dismissal as he would death from her hand—submissively. He helped her to pronounce his own sentence of banishment. He understood things as they were ; he knew how plain and sober he was, how young and bright she ; he had anticipated this end, and ho felt as one struck down by a kmg impending blow. That afternoon he loitered over his school duties when the time came to leave. It was the first time he had not hastened to be in readiness for her. She came into his class-room with assumed ease, and gave him her hand, both knowing it was for the last time; she withdrew her hand hastily, saying ‘ Good-bye’ as though she was unconscious of his own. Only his pale cheek betrayed the emotion he subdued ; and she walked lightly away, leaving him quietly gathering up his papers. So lightly she tripped out into the sunlight, so heavily he stood in the deserted room. It was his first bitter moment of hopeless solitude. All happiness seemed to go from him and with the sweet face. He looked at the door through which she had passed away, and then at the spot where a moment since she stood. ‘ She will never touch this hand again, ’ ho murmured. Bravely he tried not to think of himself, and endeavored to fix his attention upon the papers. Usually he collected them with eager cheerfulness, as the last work of the day before the happy homeward walk ; now it seemed to him that he should never finish the hateful task. Outside the sky was "glow with the setting sun. He thought of such evenings when his heart had seemed to reflect the calm glory. They were gone, and their like were for him to see no more. No more! He looked around at the gray walls, the dull ink-stained desks, the material of that work which had been a pleasure to him, and he sickened at the thought of returning to it on the morrow. Ah, then he must walk alone to school, and the sparrows, with whom they together had made a crumb-acquaintance, must get a double share from his hand; and all the thoughts suggested by tree and flower and sky he must keep within his own silent heart. The papers wore all collected, but he waited awhile, sitting on a form in the shadow of the wall, that he might not overtake her. There was no sound but the monotonous ticking of the school-clock to disturb his reflections, and his memory recalled trifling things she had said, and occasions when some little self-sacrifice of his had earned acknowledgment from the pretty eyes that were never again to look freely into his. The sense of his love and utter loneliness moved him with compassion for himself, and he longed for the relief of tears. He put on his hat presently, and turned slowly to the old path, treading it for the first time alone and in sorrow. Mr Fitzgerald was graciously pleased with Mary. He liked obedience in women ; it was especially a virtue necessary in one who was to be his wife. Under his smile Mary soon shook the heaviness from her heart, which, for all her assumption of ease, lay there when she bade George Montey farewell. Soon she forgot all about the poor fellow as she listened to her present companion. A bough Mr Fitzgerald’s conversation referred mostly to himself, he said little about his past life to Mary, nor did he tell her in what manner he obtained the money which enabled him to live at case as becomes a gentleman. He was fortunate in his speculations on the turf —at any rate he never told of loss by these transactions ; but it was impossible that be depended on hazard for his subsistence, or planned the future with no better security for the income it would necessitate. It was his intention, he said, to travel on the Continent for a few years after his marriage, which was to be performed ns soon as his agent had concluded his business arrangements. The scheme was delightful to Mary. She never questioned his honor even in thought, for perfect confidence was included in the love she bestowed upon him. He was professedly extravagant, and bought jewel" and dresses for Mary, which she in her present position could not wear. It dazzled her to survey her treasures. ITo he continued.)