LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1394, 3 August 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

MRS FITZG-ERiLD.

Bt Fbank Barrett,

(Continued.)

Mary went to sleep repenting that she had broken the silence; but when the morning came bright and fresh, she saw thineß in a matter of fact clear way, and resolved that she meant no harm and had done none. Certainly our conscience Is less exacting before the meridian than after. They felt little compunction in repeating their greeting ; but a seized George Montey as tho time approached to say two words to her again in the evening. His utterance was thick when, after some days, he attempted a remark upon the weather ; but she smiled encouragingly, and he made quit* a long speech on the same subject the next night. Insidiously the rulers of their destinies brought about a renewal of their friendship; and when their reserve was broken through, and George Montey saw Mary's motive, he was no longer afflicted with doubts as to his own virtue, and his composure assured her that she had done no wrong. So they met without blushes, and enjoyed companionship as reasonable souls should. She told him of her husband's goodness—she never tired of talking about him—and George listened attentively, not attempting by a word to lessen her faith ; but he sighed that such love should be so wanted, and hoped sincerely that Reginald Fitzgerald would never come to destroy the only happiness ho had ever given hii wife. That he was dead seemed more than probable ; for now sufficient timo had elapsed since his flight for him to return and make use of the notes he had left in Mary's pissession. Time alone would so have altered his appearance as to shield him from detection by the few who bad briefly known him ; and a man of his cleverness would not be wanting in devices to disguise himself Year followed year, and nothing occurred to turn the current of their liveß. It ran placid and even. Perhaps its very placidity made it unsatisfactory. There was neither joy nor sorrow in their days, and without these varieties life is incomplete and savour less. Both felt the dull oppression of mere existence. Mary enceived her feeling to be regret for the husband she had lost, but George Montey obtained a clearer perception of the truth, and saw no wisdom in encouraging her misconception now that her husband was morally, it not actually, dead. She no longer loved Fitzgerald. That which she thought was love was but morbid sentiment, unhealthy and not good, encouraged by a Btrained sense of duty. George felt that even he would have ceased to love Mary exclusively after a sepa r ation of twelve years, and he was not influenced by vanity in supposing that he himself was of all men the one f-he really loved. Neither he nor she was happy, and he s*V that the' heaviness of their lives was attributable to one cause—an instinctive yearning (which she failed to recognise) for a fuller love and a more complete life. They were to each other more than friends, aud the constraint unon their feelings was contrary to nature. It. was as if earth were piled above the shoot whenever it struggled to the light. Sickly and pale and attenuated the growth must be, and though for a while it continued to exist, despite the unnatural conditions imposed upon it, it must surely perish, never developing >t« intended beauty of bud and blossom aud fruit. He saw no wrong in asking her to be his wife, but he dreaded the result of his temerity, knowing the strong hold that prejudice had upon her. He told her what was upon his mind, and had his worst apprehensions realised. Mary started from him as though he had suddenly held a viper towards her. She would not believe that he was in earnest, until he cssured her of his calm judgment and sincerity, when she treated his offer as an unwarranted insult offered to herself which she could never forgive. She bade him discontinue his acquaintance with her until he returned to his senses, and could bring her an apology for what he had sad. Then she went home and cried.'

George Montey took her at her word, and accepting an advantageous oflfer which had Ions; been open to him. he became head master of a school at Shoreham. Mary accepted his farewell coldly enough, and felt bitterly towards him. She said to her self she was glad he was gone, but in truth it was his going that stung he*, was angry because he did not return humbly to ask her forgiveness and continue silently to worship her ; but she imagined her displeasure to be consequent upon his believing her ''capable of forgetting her dear handsome Reginald to love him, a plain old conceited fellow. Then she was vexed with herself for taking the matter to heart and thinking at all of him. Shfl was utterly wretched. The weather was bad, the children tiresome, and the work of teaching th?m unbearable.

'Am Ito be a drudge all my life?' she wondered. Her loneliness was like a dead weight upon her heart, which nothing lightened. Hhe was strangely anxious to hear from him, and looked eagerly for a letter upon Centering her room when she came home at night. He wrote two or three letters during the term ; but she did not encourage him to write more frequently, although she so desired to hear from him. Nothing could be more formal than her replies. She mi°sed his companionship far more than she had expected, and was surprised to find how poor all conversation was in comparison with his. It made her think deeply of the quiet devotion he had practised without display for thirteen years. One day the thought struck her that but for her sake ho might have married a woman who would more fully have appreciated his fidelity and goodness than ever she had, and that now, instead of being a lonely old bachelor, he might have been a happy husband, with children about his knee. She felt she had been sel6sh in accepting his devotion, knowing that she never, oh, no ! never could be more to him than a friend. And the truth forced itself upon her that her husband, if living, could care little for her, since ho never wrote a line to her. Hhe could not help comparing him with George. Young dandies, though they frequently east admiring glances upon this pretty lady of thiity, had lost their charm for her, and she hoped that if her husband lived he would be something like George Montey. But despite these sentiments, Mrs Fitzg' raid continued to regard George as an offender.

His vacation commenced before here, and that was how it came to pass that, on her way home one evening, she saw George Montey walkiDg towards her. Age had improved him. His beard was of fashionable cut, and the air of the downs had brought color to his cheek. Fe wore now a suit jot clothes which fitted j)him well, and were not threadbare. Altogether he looked quite handsome, and Mary was conscious of blushing in spite of herself. Hia tone was cheerful—much more so than Mary desired ? sho was piqued. He had neither offered apology nor suffered remorse; he had grown bright and handsome, whilst she had been pining and growing pale and thin. She resolved not to show what she felt; and as

he would not be dejected, she assumed a gaiety which she wan far from fe> ling. 'Are there many young ladies at Shoreham ?' she asked archly. •Yes.' 'And I suppose you lead quite a gay life ?'

' Why do you suppose that ?' ' You haven't to listen to the troubles of a miserable woman.' 1 True.'

' And instead of the wearying work of lightening to one sad woman's burden, you have had a dozen smiling girls to relieve you of yours.' *la that my fault, Mrs Fitzgerald?' he asked. Mary was silent, and he continued, in a bantering tone, ' I can prevent a dozen girls loving me no more than I can induce one other to love me.'

•I am not a girl; perhaps that is why I do not love you. lam quite an old woman —thirty next month.'

' Is that all ?' 'Your passion does not make you a flatterer, Mr Montey.' ' I hope not. It seems absurd to think I have known you only thirteen years. lam forty, and I remember nothing of my life before I knew you.' I suppose I have altered greatly.' 'So I snppope have those trees under which we walked so long Bince ; yet to me they seemed no less beautiful then than now.'

Mary bowed and smiled. She was not too old to be pleased with the delicate compliment that is offered truthfully, and yet means more than it says. ' Have you ever sat in a train which ran side by side with another at an equal rate V ask el George. ' "Ves, and the other seemed not to move at all.'

•So it is with our growth. We have kept pace with these trees, and see no change; but if the natural growth of one had been retarded, we should at once detect it. For examnle. Mrs Fitzgerald, suppose an iron band had been riveted about this trunk pome eleven or twelve years since, we should find, instead of the noble growth above us, fulfilling the divine purposes for which it was created, a life beautiful in its decline. A tend<rer tint would distinguish the unnourished leaves, and its drooping arms would fall in graceful curves. W> should look at it sad'y, »e at a wasted life All its vigor would be devoted to overcoming the unnatural condition of living in a fetter. All the ablest gardener could do, short of re moving that cincture, would never give the tree health. Presently, even it* pa 1 e beauty must depart, for nature will have nothing more to do with it; for you must know. Mrs Fitzgerald, that nature did not intend her beautiful creations to have iron bands riveted upon them Poor tree ! In twelve yea r s the iron would sink so deep into its bark, that not even the kind gardener could wrench it awav without cutting into the very heart of the tree. Perhaps the tree would rather die quietly than be so hacked and torn. The gardener would look to nature for assistance. Even iron decays with long exposure; and possibly the noble tree, in one last struggle to keep nature's divine law, might, with its swell'ng heart —I think yon said it had a heart, Mrs Fitzgerald—burst its unnatural bond. 'Chen, with the joy of a new life, it would shoot its arms gratefully npward to the heavens.' Mary was not offended; she led up to such conversations rather than avoided them, and sat in the waning light of evening, under the Park trees, listening with quiet happiness to the pleasant voice of her companion. •Why can't we go on like this for ever? «he thought; yet she was not anxious to go to her solitary room, and lingered long in parting from George, inventing specious excuses f>r delay. Indeed she sat on her bedside dejected when she was alone She looked forward in the morning to meeting George Montey, and dreaded his departure for Shoreham. Then she perceived that she did love him, and that her affection was deeper than passion. She let her hand lie in his when they were separating one evening and said, ' I was very unkind to you when you offered to marry me, George. Can you ever forget that ?' • I can forget everything bu<; that I love you, Mary,' he answered ; and there not being a soul in the street, he took her hand to his lips and kissed her for the first time in his life. That very night Mary Fitzgerald received a letter from her husband. (To be continued.)