LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1393, 2 August 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

MRS FITBQ-ERALD. By Frank Barrett. (Continued.) She locked the box and gave it with the key to the friend, and watched the cab that bore them away till it was lost to sight wishing with her whole heart she might change places with that indifferent friend, nr even the inan : mate box; and then she went back with a sigh to her bedroom, and aft ;r standing awhile motionless in reverie, she quietly kn*dt by the bed and prayed for the welfare of her dear husband. Of course she was a foo! ; but should she be loved and reverenced the 1> ss ? We mm, least of any, should discountenance folly in wiv s ; for if all were wise, how little should we be loved how hopeless our lives 1 How eagerly she looked for a letter ? The young ladies at the post-office knew her so well that thf y smi'ed and shook their heads when she made her appearance, without waiting for her to express her requirement. ‘ ‘•'ut are you sure you know me ?’ she asked ore day. ‘Oh, yes, Mrs Fox; you want a letter with a foreign post-mark ; none in, 1 assure you.’ ‘Very, very strange,’ said Mary, trying to smile, and then withdrew with no semblance < f happiness on h r face. Perhaps the pest office girls had seen that look before, and knew what it meant. Day after day she called, sometimes buying a stamp in order to call twice The anxious days and miserable nights that poor little wife spent were such as only the unlov d and solitary can c nceive. She fad no occupation, for hou ly she hoped to be called away. She con'd not rea 1 f r what interest had fact over the romance of her life, or fiction over the fact of her present position ? Presently tho truth forced itself upon her t’ at she mu-t rely upon herself only f or bread and a home. A fortnight had passed away, and she h l d not received a line of acknowledgment from her husband for the box she had sent, nor the slightest intimation of his condiVou or intention. ‘Either bis letters have miscarried or he is ill—and I not able to help Ima, not able even to kiss his dear hand !’ she said. Two of the sovereigns were already changed, and if for stay in London were prolonged beyond the week she would not have sufficient money to pay he<’ rent and passage, f ( he third sover igu dissolved, and the wan-faced wife turned in desperation to the advertisement columns of a paper. She applied personally in answer to an advertised want, and was questioned minutely respecting her marriage, ami desired to call again. She was indignant with their half expressed doubt, halfconcealed suspicion, and would not repeat her application. But she fared no better elsewhere, Sho ’was too young r and be sides, single ladies were preferred, nr married ladies whose husbands liv d with them. She unwil'ingly took off her weddingring and said nothing about her state in the next application; but when she said she was alone and friendless, she found those claims upon charily considerably wor«e than useless No one was to be blamed. Humanity demands that we should help to save tne man who might save himse f ; but discretion forbids us to approach him who struggles in mid-stream with a millstone about his neck. As a last resource she applied to the authorities of the school she had left, as she believed, for ever, and threw herse’f upon their generosity. There was demur and consideration, but the Christmas holidays being at an end. and Mary Reid’s post yet unsupplied, Mrs Fitzgerald was engaged. She could not lift her eyes from the ground as she passed on that first day of her return through George Montey’s classroom ; hut the fall of a book and a short exclamation told her she was recognised The evenings were dark now, and she walked along Oxford street to her new home ; yet she fancied that every one who passed had watched her life and knew her history. She suffered not for her own dis appointment so much as for her pride in Fitzgerald, thinking that 'people mus". missapprehend her position and think ill of him, ‘ Only I know Reginald’s real nature,’ she thought. She ttill calb’d r'gulr.rly at the posteffiee, though now days had lengthened to weeks and we ks to mouths Her fai'.h in her husband was not lesse ed by time. She believed any suggestions of her fancy, except such as were to his discredit. Nothing was inexcusable to her who loved entirely. Those who have youth and inm cenco sorrow mil) fo ■ a time. Anxiety gave i laco to hope in Maiy’s tender bosom as the uarK da) s passed away and the green huda burst them brown sheaths ; and with hope • amo composure and flecks of sunny happmesa. It was a good day when she chose the old

path through the Park—it was the nearest way to Rrixton. Tt revived painful memories for a time, hut she enjoyed the fresh green of the trees, and paused on the bridge to watch the ducks paddling in the water beneath She borrowed a novel from the circulating library, and cried over the misfortunes of the herione. The summer passed, and when the leaves again fell she obtained a kitten , and on her return from school she would linger for an hour over her tea, nursing the bitten in the flickering firelight. Perhaps as she looked into the embers she thought of a dearer nurseling which might more fitly have received her caresses at this time. For though she was but eighteen, yet was she a woman and a wife, and frequently a tear stole down her cheek as she sat there, with nothing but a drowsy kitten fo r her comfort. George Montey saw Mary every day, and heard her called Mrs Fox. He alnne knew her secret; she had told him when their acquaintance was broken—that she was to marry Reginald Fitzgerld, and subsequently he had seen the man’s portrait with the reward for his apprehension, and recognised his identity. His manner was the same towards her now as in tho’e bitter days before her marriage. He bowed when they met, and went about his duties in the old quiet way. His face alone had altered. ' A omen are quick to detect change in the faces of those about them ; the alteration in the face of her friend she could account for; and looking into the glass it vexed her to see so little change in her own. ‘ Have I grived less for the loss of a dear husband than George has for a silly girl who never cared for him as he deserved ?’ she thought. Some idea of a parallel in their misfortunes invested him with a deeuer interest than she had before felt him to possess. She sympathised with one who had loved and lost Such sympathy is a dangerous '-entiment for a young woman to harbor in her breast, especially if she be the lost loved one. Mary did not recognise her own position, and fancied her emotion was purely compassionate. One day she said * Good morning’ to him. It was eighteen months since she had spoken to him ; but he knew by the beating of his heart that his love had been subdued, not eradicated. That salutation disturbed the minds of both for a whole day, and the pupils had a pleasant time of it He doubted whether he was not a born Don Juan, and she felt as though she bad broken the Ten Commandments in thus disobeying the expressed desire of her precious husband. No wonder the cheeks of this dreadfully wicked couple were unusually pink, when, later in the day they dared to say ‘ Good eveniner.’ ITo hf> enrtf invr*],}