^.•\/.'. VA IV
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 CO 
 
 
 •ex.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 A NOVEL. 
 
 BY 
 
 GEORGE HERBERT, 
 
 m THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. T. 
 
 LONDON : 
 T. C. NEWBY, PUBLISHER, 
 
 30, WELBECK STUEET, CAVENDISH SQUARE, 
 1858.
 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The following letter is extracted from the 
 Atheuceum of December 5tli, 1857 : — 
 
 "On the 14th and 21st instant there ap- 
 peared in the Athenamm an advertisement 
 of a novel of mine (the M.S. of which has 
 for some months been in the hands of Mr. 
 Newby), entitled ' Gerald Fitzgerald.' On 
 the 28th instant there appeared for the first 
 time in the Alhenceum an announcement of 
 a work by Mr. Cliarles Lever, also entitled 
 ' Gerald Fitzgerald,' to be published in the 
 I>uhlln University Magazine. I wish to 
 place these facts on record, not for the pur- 
 pose of suggesting that ' Harry Lorrequer' 
 
 ENCTISH
 
 11 PREFACE. 
 
 lias borrowed my title (such an idea I alto- 
 gether disclaim), hut simply that an odd 
 coincidence may stand upon its proper basis, 
 and those who leave the advertising columns 
 of the Alhenaum unread may not take it 
 for granted that an author whose identity 
 has hitherto been shrouded in the oracular 
 ' we,' is unmasking his batteries beneath 
 another man's bunting. — T am, &c., George 
 Herbert." 
 
 The author may add that, upon looking 
 through the printed sheets, he has discovered 
 a few clerical errors, typographical and 
 otherwise, which will no doubt be sponta- 
 neously corrected by the reader, without the 
 aid of a formal list of errata.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 BOOK I 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Sir Roger Maldon was closeted with his 
 youngest son — an ill-favoured youth, of 
 wayward temper and obstinate belief. 
 
 " To-morrow," said the father, " your 
 brother goes to Eton. You will go with 
 him." 
 
 " And after Eton, sir?" said the boy, 
 anxiously. 
 
 " The army." 
 
 " O, I dislike the army ! I'm not fit for 
 it. Pray let me choose a profession for 
 myself." 
 
 " I tell you, sir, the army is the place for 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 Z GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 you, as it has always been for second sons 
 in your family. You'll go to Ireland, or to 
 India, or to the colonies — perhaps to all of 
 them. You'll see life ; and if there's any- 
 thing in you, it will show itself. At 
 present, you whine and whimper about the 
 house like a girl — and a very ill-looking 
 girl, too !" 
 
 The father uttered these few last words in 
 an undertone, and turning on his heel to- 
 wards the door. 
 
 " Stay, sir !" exclaimed the boy. " Pray 
 reconsider your determination. I dread 
 the army — I do, indeed. Let me be a 
 lawyer, a parson — anything you please, not 
 in the army." 
 
 But Sir Roger jNIaldon was gone. 
 
 Almost at the same moment, in another 
 part of the house, Lady jNIaldon was talk- 
 ing to her eldest son — a tall, handsome 
 youth, the reverse of his brother in all 
 things, stniiingly so in person ; and a fair 
 representative of the race he belonged to.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. S 
 
 " You won't mind Eichard going- with 
 you?" said the lady. '' He'll not follow 
 you to college. He's very studious, too ; 
 and a word from you will send him to his 
 books. Besides, he'll have no money to 
 spend ; and that will keep him out of 
 notice." 
 
 " It's very annoying, though !" replied 
 the boy, " I hate to be asked questions 
 about him ! Is he really my brother ? 
 Everybody says he's not like any of us ! 
 Lord Dalton, the other day, whispered to 
 me that he thought Richard must,^be a 
 changeling ! What is a changeling ?" 
 
 " A child left in a cradle in place of 
 another child." 
 
 " Well, but that couldn't be the case 
 with Richard, — eh, — could it?" The boy 
 looked seriously at his mother, 
 
 " No ! — at least, I think not — I don't 
 see how it could," replied Lady Maldon. 
 
 And with this doubt on his mind, the
 
 4 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 young' gentleman permitted his brother io 
 follow him to Eton. 
 
 The Maldons were a good family. There 
 were no titles of nobility in Noah's ark, or 
 they might have looked there for their com- 
 mon ancestor. As it was, they found him 
 doing suit and service for the Eighth Henry, 
 and receiving, in return, the honour of 
 knighthood and the fee of an old priory 
 just vacated by a number of holy men who 
 carried across the seas many dilapidated 
 toes, teeth, fingers, shreds of old linen, cro- 
 zier-heads and other relics, with which the 
 pious Edward, having no money, had en- 
 dowed their predecessors. 
 
 The newly-made knight soon rendered the 
 Priory habitable for lay men and women ; 
 and for many, many generations it with- 
 stood the damp, destructive climate of Eng- 
 land. But it gave way at last ; and then, 
 for safety's sake, the Sir Eogcr ]\laldon of 
 Georfje the First's reif^n built himself a new
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 5 
 
 habitation, as unlike a Priory as possible, 
 and left the old place to the owls and the 
 ivy. Now, it is a mere ruin, a picturesque 
 pile enough, a feature for artists and sight- 
 seers, but otherwise out of fashion and 
 useless. 
 
 Sir Roger Maldon — the head of his house 
 in these latter days — was prominently and 
 obtrusively aristocratic. He showed his 
 blood as pointedly as a race-horse. He was 
 a tall, straight man, with a certain stiffness 
 of back, that to people who go into ecstasies 
 over the Laocoon, or borrow their notions 
 of grace from street-tumblers, might have 
 seemed awkward. His forehead was hig-h, 
 but not too benevolently broad ; his mouth 
 firm, enclosing a good set of teeth — square, 
 close, and prominent ; his eye large, dull, 
 and dark ; and his nose — arched, but 
 not Satanic — was a pattern feature, and like 
 the noses of all the ]\Ialdon portraits. He 
 had passed the rubicon of life, and yet gave 
 no signs of decay. Indeed, it was a tradi-
 
 6 GERALD FITZGLRALD 
 
 tion in his family tliat tlic ^laldons never 
 did decay, but went to their account when 
 beckoned without a stoop or a wrinkle. 
 
 He had married late in life. The woman 
 he sought in his early days, prefeiTcd 
 another suitor, and it took him a long time 
 to make up his mind for a second courting. 
 When at last he began to dread the extinc- 
 tion of his line, he picked a wife from an 
 eccentric family settled near his own, and 
 in due time his fear that the jNIaldons might 
 be extinct at his death came to an end. 
 
 Another year passed, and the family title 
 was doubly safe : there was a second son. 
 This son was not happily received. After 
 liis few first screams, he was packed off to 
 the nursery, pronounced to be anything 
 but a pretty baby, and generally forgotten. 
 Then came a daughter, a lovely little crea- 
 ture called Blanche because of her fair 
 face, and settled at once as certain to 
 bring a good name into the family ! 
 
 It was this little giri who was most af-
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 fected by the departure of the boys for 
 Eton. For the first time in her life she was 
 without playmates ; for the first time in 
 her hfe she had serious thoughts. True, 
 Lady Maldon, in mitigation of her daughter's 
 loneliness, had her brought daily to her 
 dressing-room, to spend a confidential ten 
 minutes while her Ladyship was yet in her 
 morning wrapper and could not be seriously 
 disarranged by caresses. True, Sir Koger 
 took his daughter to the ^laldon picture- 
 gallery, and read over to her his pedigree 
 and her own — 
 
 " My dear Blanche," he would say, "this 
 picture, of your very earliest ancestor, was 
 painted by Holbein ; this, of the next 
 Baronet, by Vandyke. Here, you see, is 
 the Sir Roger jNIaldon of Queen Anne's 
 time, who went with the great Duke of 
 Marlborough to the Low Countries. Those 
 are cannon-balls in the corner there ; that's 
 IMarlborough in the smoke, waving his 
 three-coraered hat."
 
 8 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 " And who is this httlo boy ?" asked 
 Bhmche, pointing- to a child's picture. 
 
 The Baronet sighed heavily. 
 
 '' Ah !" he said, " that little boy would 
 have brought a peerage into the family, 
 (^ueen Anne promised him as much for his 
 beauty. But he died young*, Marlborougli 
 was disgraced, and so there was no peerage 
 for us." 
 
 Blanche did not seem deeply affected by 
 this last fact. Only the words " he died 
 young," troubled her little heart ! Why 
 did he die young ? Wiat was a peerage ? 
 Those were the questions she asked her 
 father. He evaded the first ; but set him- 
 self seriously to answer the second — 
 
 " A peerage, my dear, is a title of no- 
 bihty; a peer is a ruler of the kingdom. 
 He sits in a great house, and controls the 
 classes beneath him. He belongs to the 
 secondar}^ estate of the realm." 
 
 All this information does not compensate 
 Blanche for the loss of her playmates. She
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. i 
 
 wanders gloomily about the house and 
 grounds, muses idly in corners, and among 
 forgotten playthings. In the avenue, she 
 looks up to the crows, and tries, as her 
 father tells her, to venerate their dull, cark. 
 ing song. The Baronet is very fond of 
 these crows ; he believes them to be of 
 good family. Probably an ancestor of their's 
 flew over with the Conqueror. Indeed, it is 
 said that they were first seen about Battle 
 Abbey, fleshing their black beaks in the best 
 blood of Saxon England ! But Blanche is 
 not moved to make friends with them. 
 There is little charm in their plumage, 
 none in their sono- ; and once she heard a 
 poor farmer complain so bitterly of their 
 depredations, that they have been in bad 
 odour with her ever since. 
 
 Her delight was to get away from the 
 house, and into the village. There, she 
 smiled at the people, and they looked at her, 
 grinned, and ran away again ! The men 
 were seized with a strange desire to take 
 
 2 B
 
 10 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 themselves by the forelock, the women to 
 crouch beneath an abundance of apron ; 
 and as to the children, they stopped up their 
 mouths with dirty fingers, cast down their 
 eyes, and waddled into their hovels abashed. 
 The maid who attended the young lady 
 was given to fancy work : her mind ran 
 upon the glories of Miss Lin wood's tapestry. 
 She was always putting something together, 
 and pulling it to pieces again. Iler's were 
 not the days of crochet, but of the little 
 outbreak of needlework which preceded 
 the advent of that fabric. Well, upon this 
 needlework she was engaged once when 
 ^liss Blanche escaped from her and wan- 
 dered in the woods alone. The little girl 
 delighted in her liberty ; she started but- 
 terflies, and pulled wild flowers ; she sang 
 to herself a nursery -rhyme setting forth the 
 adventures of robin redbreast ; she be- 
 thought her of how kindly the little birds 
 covered up the chikben in the wood ! Sud- 
 denly she turned pale, and felt frightened. She
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 11 
 
 looked back for her maid — and ! the n:a*d 
 was not to be seen ! "Wicked little girl that 
 she was ! — She covered her face, and wept ! 
 The cause of her alarm was the approach 
 of a thin, pale, sad-looking boy — quite un- 
 like any of the villagers' children. He did 
 not seem fierce or menacing, but suspici- 
 ously white and thoughtful ! He had picked 
 a quantity of flowers, too, and these, held 
 in his thin, colourless hand, made a great 
 contrast, and gave him the aspect of a little 
 ghost, stricken with a love for botany ! 
 
 But his smile was soft and assuring. He 
 saw the little girl's trepidation. 
 
 " Don't be frightened," he said,—'' Will 
 you have these flowers ?" 
 
 Blanche was glad to accept the flowers 
 as an assurance of safety. The action was 
 like eating salt with a Mussulman, or smoking 
 a pipe with a red Indian. Presently, she 
 allowed the strange boy to take her hand, 
 and show her the way out of the wood. 
 She felt that she must secure his forbear-
 
 12 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 ance by being- civil to him. Confidence 
 thus sprung- up between the children ; they 
 even loitered by the way to gather more 
 flowers ; and then, Blanche, looking into 
 her companion's face, said — 
 
 " Who are you? What's your name ?" 
 
 " Gerald !" was the reply. 
 
 " Oh, what a funny name ! My name's 
 Blanche !" And the little lady and her 
 companion w ent their w ay as before. 
 
 They were just emerging from the wood, 
 when they heard voices. Blanche stood 
 still, and trembled. 
 
 " She would run away, sir ! — And all I 
 could do, I couldn't stop her !" 
 
 " Silence ! — And point out the place 
 where you last saw her !" 
 
 Blanche knew these voices to be those of 
 her father and the negligent maid. 
 
 " I'm here !" said the little lady, " I'm 
 here ! And Oh, don't, don't be cross with 
 
 me ! 
 
 The father heard and was with her in a
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 13 
 
 moment. But ah ! who was that ill-dressed, 
 pale boy, holding his daughter's hand ; the 
 hand which was growdng to fit, perhaps, the 
 grasp of a marquis ? AVhat little vagabond 
 was he ? That he was a va^-abond Sir Roofer 
 quite decided. So, seizing him by the 
 shoulder, he pushed him rudely into the 
 bushes, and taking Blanche tenderly in his 
 arms, hurried her off to the Priory. 
 
 The maid followed — protesting her unre- 
 ^mitting care of the child — but with part of 
 the needlework hanging from her pocket. 
 
 "What's this?" said Lady Maldon, 
 bringing forth and disclosing the worsted, 
 needles and all, when the maid entered her 
 presence. 
 
 " Oh, if you please, my lady, merely a 
 cap I was making ; I'm very bad off for 
 caps, I am indeed, my lady !" 
 
 " And you were making this when you 
 lost Miss Blanche ?" 
 
 " Oh, no ! not a stitch of it ! When I 
 lost my young lady I was doing nothing but
 
 14 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 looking after her I And you'll forgive iiie ! — 
 J'ni so fond of her — I love her! I do. 
 indeed !" 
 
 " Love her !" said Lady jMaldon. 
 
 " Love her !" echoed Sir Roger. 
 
 " Oh yes. — my lady, I do." 
 
 " Then," said the baronet, " you will 
 leave Maldon Priory without a moment's 
 delay." 
 
 Blanche's next attendant submitted to 
 an extra condition. She was to refrain from 
 loving the young lady entrusted to her charge.
 
 CHAPTEK II. 
 
 For the first ten years of his married hfc, 
 Gerald Grey had been unblessed with chil- 
 dren. The music of small voices was alien 
 to his home ; the affection of young hearts 
 was not constant to him. He was a simple 
 man — of a nature to make sacrifices for a 
 child ; and he had a religious belief in the 
 propriety of multiplication and increase. 
 Therefore the denial of paternity was to 
 him a sorrow of magnitude — a grief ever 
 present ; the sole one that embittered his 
 lowly and laborious existence. 
 
 A little child — a visitor, and he had
 
 IG 
 
 GERALD FiTZGERALn, 
 
 many such — sitting- by liis fireside, filled 
 him with contending emotions. It pained 
 while it pleased him. There was a charmed 
 circle about it, into which he could not 
 thoroughly enter. True, he might caress it, 
 and for the time watch its endless variety 
 of antics ; he might grow to love it a little ; 
 but, sooner or later, he must part with it ; he 
 must forget it, as it would forget him. And 
 then, day after day, returning to his quiet 
 home, he must listen idly for the lost voice, 
 and look in vain for the little actor, now on 
 some other stage, playing a new part, and 
 with no more thought for yesterday's au- 
 dience than for to-morrow's listeners ! 
 
 But to this fleeting pleasure the good 
 man and his wife gave themselves up ; to 
 this questionable solace they clung with des- 
 perate affection. A little visitor to them 
 never failed to find a welcome. The younger 
 the visitor the better : one just weaned, best 
 beyond comparison ! When they were 
 quite alone, they looked sadly about, lost
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 17 
 
 their cheerfulness, and answered each other 
 in monosyllables. The sight of an infant 
 in long clothes melted them to tears ; the 
 news of a nei<i:hbour's christenino: made 
 them dull and dreamy. When twins came 
 to a collateral branch of the family, ]\Irs. 
 Grey was known to have spasms; when 
 measles and whooping-cough were epidemic 
 in a friend's house, j\Ir. Grey wished that 
 that house was his own. 
 
 Such a state of mind rendered the good 
 man easy of belief and hopeful of surprises. 
 The eccentricities of Joanna Southcot 
 would to him have been serious matter for 
 contemplation : his understanding would 
 succumb to what his heart wished for. Re- 
 turning from work one mid-day, he found 
 his house in disorder ; a doctor's boy — 
 basket and all — jostled him in the passage ; 
 the parlour was disarranged and deserted ; 
 from the bed-chamber above issued frac- 
 tious and continued screaming. There were
 
 18 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 footsteps ill that chamber to which his ear 
 was unaccustomed. He listened eaorerly ; 
 he smiled faintly. His palpitating^ heart 
 smote ao-ainst his breast like an engine ; he 
 put to himself the flattering- question — 
 "Am 1 indeed a father ?" 
 
 He crept softly up stairs ; he tapped cere- 
 moniously at the bed-room door ; he 
 coughed, drew back, and after an interval, 
 tapped again. The door was half-opened, 
 when lo ! a stout lady in bombazine con- 
 fronted him, and interposed the authority 
 of her person. She put her finger to her 
 lip, said — "Hush! he's going* oj0f!" and 
 closing the door with considerable firmness, 
 left Mr. Grey to wonder on the landing. So 
 he returned perforce to the parlour, and, 
 seeing his dinner prepared, tried — ah ! 
 how vainly ! — to eat. 
 
 Half-an-hour elapsed, and he heard a 
 rustling- on the stairs. The lady in bom- 
 bazine entered to him. She was arrano-ino:
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 19 
 
 her sha^Yl, and tying her bonnet. About 
 her countenance there played an anxious, 
 appealing expression. 
 
 " Oh, sir ! You will love him — won't you ? 
 I'm sure you will !" 
 
 Love him ! thought Mv. Grey. What 
 does the woman mean ? Of course I shall 
 love him. 
 
 Presently the bonnet was tied, the bom- 
 bazine all but hidden. 
 
 " Good-bye, sir." said the owner of these 
 adornments. 
 
 IMr. Grey rose, and confronted her. 
 " Your'e not [joiiirj, surely ?'* 
 
 " Yes," replied the woman, with perfect 
 coolness, " but I shall call upon you often — 
 as often as I can get here." 
 
 " Indeed !" said the good man. And as the 
 rustling of the bombazine died away in the 
 distance, he fell into his chair, wondered, 
 and tried to think seriously. 
 
 Presently a vivid recollection came across 
 his mind. That very morning he had left
 
 20 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 his wife in perfect health, and in utter 
 hopelessness of any event such as now 
 seemed to have happened. He tried to 
 smother this recollection, to pooh-pooh and 
 put it aside, to hinder it from disturhing 
 his new-born happiness. He succeeded ; he 
 convinced himself — assisted by the screamino' 
 above, now coming in short windy gusts of 
 passion — that he was really a father; and 
 hastening to complete his belief by the 
 evidence of his acuter senses, — there, des- 
 cending the stairs, in her ordinary cap and 
 gown, her smile certain and settled, her 
 physical capacity unimpaired, was, his wife ! 
 
 " Mary !" he gasped out. 
 
 " Gerald !" was the reply. 
 
 The good man turned his head aside and 
 retraced his steps to the parlour. A great 
 bell tolled — a signal that he must obey as 
 though it were fate : so he took his hat 
 avoided the anxious eye of his — wife, and 
 went back silently to work. 
 
 The next day he was happier ; he gave
 
 GERALD I'lTZGERALD. 21 
 
 himself up to the dehght as he found it. 
 The baby became the angel in the house. 
 It was his pleasure to believe it endowed 
 with surpassing intelligence and preter- 
 natural capacities for observation. Ere it 
 was six weeks old, he maintained that it 
 knew him ; at the end of another week, he 
 assigned to it a perfect knowledge of his 
 wife. Then came the cat. Ah ! that cat ! 
 What lessons it underwent as to its bearinir 
 and behaviour towards the baby. So severe 
 and demonstrative were these, that at length 
 the indignant animal, tired of them, swayed 
 his tail angrily to and fro, walked majesti- 
 cally to the tiles, and remained there till he 
 became reconciled to his diminished impor- 
 tance. Nevertheless, at two months old, 
 the baby knew the cat ! 
 
 The homage of Mrs. Grey rivalled that 
 of her husband ; perhaps surpassed it. The 
 baby became the sun of her social system, 
 the light of her little world. But now and 
 then, she had sad, thoughtful moments.
 
 22 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 As time wore away, these moments be- 
 came more frequent. One day she received 
 a letter. Tier eyes fdled with tears as she 
 read it. The baby was sleeping- in jNIr. 
 Grey's arms. 
 
 " What is it, Mary?" asked the husband, 
 anxiously. 
 
 She made no reply ; but, passing the 
 letter, took the child in exchange. 
 
 " Can you bear it, mother?" said Mr. 
 Grey, after an interval. He had taken to 
 call his wife " mother" since the coming of 
 the child. 
 
 '' Xo, Gerald, I can't ! — I know I can't ! 
 It'll break both our hearts." 
 
 She laid the baby gently in its cradle. 
 There was such a silence in the room, that 
 the child's light, regular breathing, sounded 
 with oppressive distinctness. Fixed upon its 
 resting-place were two pairs of motionless, 
 dreamy eyes, thinking, as it were, into the 
 future. To them it seemed a dreary future, 
 indeed ! Suddenly the child turned uneasily.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 23 
 
 and cried out. The watching statues were 
 startled into Ufe ; on their knees they sunk 
 bv the side of the cradle ; together they 
 soothed a way the disturbino- consciousness. 
 Then, the baby slept again. 
 
 "What shall we do, Mary?" whispered 
 the husband. His eyes looked into those 
 of his wife, as though praying her to de\ise 
 a remedy for the new grief. But she had 
 no answer ; none but a dull shake of the 
 head, a sigh, and a tear that fell like a hail- 
 stone upon the little creature she leant over. 
 
 " It will be just as though he died — to 
 us — won't it ?" continued ]\lr. Grey. " And 
 who'll care for him as we do ? Nobody !" 
 
 He uttered the last word with great em- 
 phasis, and with some indignation. The 
 chano-e of tone emboldened him ; he rose 
 from his kneeling position, and paced the 
 room. Stopping suddenly, as though he had 
 decided, he leant down, and put his great 
 muscular arm round the cradle. 
 
 " Come, mother," he said, " it's time we
 
 24 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 were asleep." And he bore off tlie baby in 
 triumph. 
 
 From that night, great but secret pre- 
 parations were made by the Greys. The 
 current rumour of the neighbourhood was 
 that they were about to emigrate ; and as 
 this rumour met with no denial from 
 those principally concerned, it grew to 
 have all the reputation of a fact. Indeed, 
 when the Greys did leave their house, they 
 were overwhelmed with congratulations and 
 hand-shakings from all sides. Wishes that 
 they might have a pleasant voyage and a 
 prosperous future were showered upon them. 
 And all this because they kept their o\vn 
 counsel, put their neighbours on a wrong 
 scent, and, after some pardonable circum- 
 locution, set up their household gods a 
 few miles distant. 
 
 The baby suffered nothing by change of 
 air ; he grew wonderfully. The measles 
 and the whooping-cough once missed by ]\Ir. 
 Grey from his home, now came to rejoice it.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 25 
 
 half-a-dozen little disorders were met and 
 overcome ; at a certain birthday, the word 
 " baby" was abandoned, and the child was 
 thenceforth called G erald. At another epoch 
 he was breeched, — an important ceremony 
 with simple people ; and then — a year or 
 two having slipped away — Gerald was sent 
 to school. 
 
 School ! That was his first trouble. His 
 preceptor was a nervous little man, who 
 used a strap as an instrument of persuasion. 
 His preceptor made up his mind that Gerald 
 was dull because he took to a box of brick 
 paints, and neglected Guy's Geography ; 
 because he was not happy in his recitation 
 of a passage from Somebody's abominable 
 "Speaker;" because when all the other 
 boys were playing at noughts and crosses, 
 lie was drawino: a cottao^e on the corner of 
 his slate. Yes, Gerald was dull. He was 
 returned to his father as dull. The school 
 made very little of him, except, perhaps, 
 that it helped him to be shy and sensitive. 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 20 GERALD FITZGEBALD. 
 
 It was now time for this shy and sensitive 
 boy to go to work in the world. The 
 Greys were great workers ; they all looked 
 for and expected to labour. For any one 
 of them to be " out of work" was a horror 
 that alarmed the whole race. So the boy 
 must prepare for his heritage. 
 
 " AVliat shall we make of you, Gerald?" 
 said Mr. Grev, " Would you like to be 
 a carpenter ?" 
 
 Gerald looked meekly at his mother. 
 
 " I don't know," he rephed. 
 
 " Don't know ! Well, but, my dear boy, 
 you must begin to know now. You must 
 think ; or if you don't,— why, you see, we 
 must think for you." 
 
 There was an ominous silence. Presently 
 the father spoke again, 
 
 " Come, now, what would you like to be ?" 
 
 " A sailor," hazarded Gerald, impressed 
 with ideas of a seafaring life such as could 
 be mentioned only to the marines. 
 
 " Ub, every boy says that," replied the
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 27 
 
 father, " but we can't part with you, Gerald. 
 If you were to go for a sailor, you'd break 
 our hearts." 
 
 " I should think some light business," 
 suggested Mrs. Grey, " something to do with 
 paper-hanging, or, or — " and the good 
 woman paused, fearful that the enlarged 
 experience of her husband might rebuke 
 her ignorance. 
 
 " Well, you see," said Mr. Grey, " my 
 way doesn't exactly lie among light busi- 
 nesses. There's cabinet-making; that's a 
 light sort of carpentering ; and there's 
 painting and glazing. Or, dear me, — now 
 I think of it, why shouldn't Gerald be a 
 printer ?" 
 
 '' Ah !" said Mrs. Grey, " why not ? 
 There's AVilliam ; he's a printer, and I'm 
 sure he's quile a gentleman." 
 
 " Oh yes ! said the father reverently, 
 " William is a gentleman. I'll speak to 
 him about Gerald," 
 
 In due time Uncle William was spoken
 
 28 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 to. His advice was liiglily favourable to 
 Gerald's bccoiiiing a printer. 
 
 Printing," he said, " at least, my branch 
 of it, is more an art than a business. A 
 printing- office is the best possible finishing- 
 school for an intelligent lad. Look at the 
 men the printing office has turned out !" 
 
 William Grey was earnest in what he 
 said. He held printing and printers in 
 high honour. His daily duties were per- 
 formed in an atmosphere of literary great- 
 ness. It was his custom to talk learnedly 
 of Faust, and Guttenbcrg, and Caxton, and 
 Wynkyn de Worde, and to look upon them 
 as men who had done more good for the 
 world than a whole rantheon of heroes. 
 He believed in all that was said of the 
 printing press. He looked upon it as the 
 palladium of liberty and the real defence 
 of nations. He loved to see it represented, 
 as it has been, playing the part of Saint 
 ISlichael, Saint George, and all good powers 
 socyer — sacrea and profane. When people
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 29 
 
 began to call it the fourth estate, he was in 
 raptures. The proudest moment of his 
 life — he said so, and meant what he said — 
 was when, at an annual meeting of printers, 
 it became his duty to propose " Prosperity 
 to the printing press." This proposition he 
 made and upheld with great fervour, casting 
 a severe look about him which would 
 have struck terror to the heart of any one 
 happening to wish the printing press 
 adversity ! 
 
 No wonder then, that he took kindly to 
 the idea of Gerald's becoming a printer. 
 
 Gerald, he thought, would do credit to 
 printing, and printing would do much for 
 him. The lad was of a superior cast of 
 mind ; his character and habits were gentler 
 than might have been expected from his 
 nui'ture. Engraft upon these advantages 
 the lessons of the printing office, and such 
 a man might be produced as would do 
 honour to his family ! So thought Uncle 
 WiUiam,
 
 30 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 Gerald went to the printing office. For a 
 few weeks he stood by and watched his uncle. 
 The novelty of his position pleased him. 
 lie was a curious boy, and he found food 
 for his curiosity. Then, after this proba- 
 tionary trial, came the mystery of appren- 
 ticeship. In the presence of an awful 
 magnate, Uncle William's employer, who 
 owTied the services of a score of boys — all 
 for seven years I — Gerald signed his name to 
 a piece of parchment, put his fingers upon 
 a red seal, supposed to be his own, and 
 said " I deliver this as my act and deed f 
 He trembled as he did this. What did he 
 deliver? What was his act? What his 
 deed? What necromancy dwelt in the 
 little spot of sealing wax? That, he was 
 yet to learn. 
 
 Uncle William patted him on the back, 
 to raise his spirits. He led him to the 
 printing office. There the journeyman de- 
 livered an inaugural address : 
 
 '' You now belong to a great business, my
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 31 
 
 boy ; make the best of it, be steady, be in- 
 dustrious ! study the interest of your master. 
 You know what the indenture says — ' his 
 secrets keep, and his lawful commands 
 obey.' Think of those words, lay them to 
 heart, learn your business ; and what is 
 there that you may not aspire to ?'' 
 
 Gerald now took his place regularly in 
 the olfice. He left his uncle's side, and 
 went among his fellow apprentices. They 
 received him with many demonstrations of 
 interest, their advances, however, taking a 
 hostile rather than a friendly character. 
 He was very shy of them indeed, for their 
 lanofuajxe sometimes alarmed him. It was 
 quite evident, too, that in the new comer 
 there was something obnoxious to the old 
 inhabitants. But he devoted himself steadily 
 to his business. When any of the boys 
 addressed him, he was civil to a nicety. 
 When they neglected him, he was dehghted. 
 
 But in time, the novelty of his occupa- 
 tion wore off. His duties became less and
 
 32 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 less amusing. The consciousness grew upon 
 him that the parchment he had signed and 
 the something he had deUvered as his act 
 and deed — still those words puzzled him ! — ■ 
 were serious matters, and justified his agi- 
 tation at the critical moment. The office 
 became more and more solemn — the faces 
 of the people about him lengthened. It 
 seemed that over the door of the business 
 pandemonium was written, 
 
 " Who enter here, leave mirth behind !" 
 
 Alas ! alas ! the boy began to dislike his 
 trade. 
 
 The first Easter of his business life was 
 a great trial for him. There were the 
 schoolfellows he had but just left, making 
 holidays ! Where were his holidays now ? 
 
 " Oh you go to w^ork, do you, Gerald?" 
 said the boys, meeting him as he plodded 
 morninof after mornino' to business. " How 
 do you hke it ? Don't they give you any 
 holidays ?" 
 
 Gerald shook his head, and went on ; but
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 33 
 
 out of the boys' sig-ht how could he hinder 
 a few tears from falUng ? lie knew that 
 those boys were going to the fields, where 
 the wickets w^ere to be set up, the bases 
 settled, and the rounder triumphantly won. 
 //<? was going to meet the awful face of 
 ^Ir. Tympan ! 
 
 Time, however, might have worn away 
 these boyish griefs, silenced the poetry within 
 him, and leavened the little purity it left 
 with useful knowledge. Time might have 
 made him a very good printer. But it was 
 not to be. There were influences at work 
 in the office opposed to any such thing. 
 The hostile attitude of Gerald's felloAV 
 apprentices grew moi'e confirmed. They 
 w^ere for ever seizing upon material guaran- 
 tees. One day his cap, another, his jacket, 
 disappeared. Occasionally he was tripped 
 up, or tumbled down stairs, jusi for the fun 
 of the thing. And to all this, Gerald oppo- 
 sed the mildest words, the humblest suppli. 
 
 cations. 
 
 c 2
 
 34 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 But the treatment preyed upon his spirits 
 and increased his growing dislike for printing. 
 He was found crying over his dinner one 
 day, in a quiet corner of the composing 
 room. He knew not what made him cry ; 
 but certain it is that, gazing through the 
 dull, dirty windows, the tears came to his 
 eyes faster than he could dry them. This, 
 in the estimation of his companions, was a 
 crime of great enormity. They never cried. 
 When anything troubled thetn^ they swore ; 
 and there was an end of it. Why did not 
 Gerald do the same? But he could not. 
 He could find no relief in simple exple- 
 tives ; so he wept out his misery, grieved over 
 his bondage, and lost health and spirits as 
 he gained bitter experience. 
 
 Uncle AViliiam helped him against the 
 boys to the extent of his ability ; but Uncle 
 William was not Argus. The boys were too 
 many for him ; and although they could not 
 apply the lex tcdionis, and thrash him when 
 he thrashed them, they observed its prin-
 
 Gerald fitzgerald. 35 
 
 ciple, and William not unfrequently found 
 his spectacles broken, or bis slippers filled 
 with printer's ink. 
 
 Forbearance — with what reason is not 
 clear — is ascribed to the worm ; and yet the 
 worm is said to turn upon cruel occasions. 
 So it was with Gerald. He bore his sufFer- 
 inofs for a lono- time without retaliation ; 
 but one day he turned against his tor- 
 mentor. This tormentor was a youth of 
 callous feelings and coarse exterior ; a boy 
 with a round bullet head, topped with short 
 hair ; indeed, such a head as it is the dehght 
 of artists to place upon the shoulders of 
 Jack Sheppard. Jack — so we will call him 
 for the occasion — had a peuchanl for fol- 
 lowinfT Gerald, and dancino; a kind of war 
 dance before, behind, and about him. (Some 
 years afterwards, the lad got into the hands 
 of Barnum, and became an Ojibbeway.) 
 Gerald had his objections to this dance, 
 knowing, as he did, that its object was to 
 provoke hostilities, and to give the dancer
 
 36 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 a pretext for knocking the mild boy's cap 
 off, kicking him, or otherwise bringing the 
 interview to a pleasing termination. 
 
 One evening, when Gerald left the office, 
 this dance was repeated. Jack's friends 
 were delighted ; to them it was a highly 
 comic entertainment. They applauded it 
 o the echo ; they encored it ; and so grati- 
 fying was their approbation to the feelings 
 of the artist, that he ventured upon a new 
 pas. Just at that point of the movement 
 where, years afterwards, as an Ojibbeway, 
 he was taught to howl and transfix some- 
 thing with an ari'ow, he came down upon 
 Geralds toe. He was a heavy boy, and his 
 boots were made at Northampton. 
 
 The blood rushed into Gerald's cheeks; 
 his eyes flashed, and his arms moved 
 nervously. 
 
 " Oh, that's it!" said the future Ojibbeway, 
 " well, come on then, I'm ready for you !" 
 And he hurried off his jacket, flung his cap 
 from him like a gauntlet, and tucked up his
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 37 
 
 sleeves in the orthodox manner. He wound 
 about Gerald ; he made many feints ; he 
 worked his arms backwards and forwards as 
 though he had just lubricated their joints 
 and was distributing the oil ; he screwed 
 his head into the proper fighting position ; 
 when, suddenly Gerald delivered a fair, 
 straiglit stroke, that told wonderfully, and 
 put his opponent's head quite out of order 
 
 agam. 
 
 The Ojibbew^y now rushed at Gerald. 
 There was much scrambling and a wondrous 
 display of harmless gymnastics on both sides. 
 Presently the spectators cried out, 
 
 " That's it, Jack ! Keep his head in 
 chancer)^ ! Hit him under !" 
 
 In the dreadful tribunal of chancery 
 Gerald suffered severely. The Ojibbeway, 
 havinf the advanta^'e in height and length 
 of arm, beat him cruelly. But he got to 
 the ground, and then, rising to his feet, a 
 new fe^'ling took possession of him ! A red 
 stream trickling down his face, was unheeded: 
 he had broken the ice, and found his
 
 38 GERALD FIT2GERALD. 
 
 natural courage! There stood the Oj 11)1 )eway, 
 still working' his arms backwards and for- 
 wards, still making feints, still troubled 
 about the conduct of his head. It was 
 Gerald's business to knock that incipient 
 savage down, to bruise him, to make him bite 
 the dust, and own that he was vanquished. 
 Gerald had this to do, — and he meant to 
 do it. 
 
 He rushed at his opponent, beat down 
 the wandering arms, disturbed the nice con- 
 duct of the bullet head. The boys, circling 
 about the combatants, swayed to and fro, 
 and fell away here and there, as the area of 
 the struggle changed. Now they applauded 
 Jack, now Gerald. 
 
 " Go it ! give it him ! There, that's it ! 
 Now you've got him !" These were the 
 cries that told the outer ring what was 
 minutely visible to the inner. 
 
 But the Ojibbeway hung back. He, too, 
 was bleeding now. But for the severe eyes 
 of his companions he would have scampered
 
 GEIL4.LD FITZGEIL\LD. 39 
 
 away. As it was, he stood only to be pun- 
 ished. Gerald struck wildly but well. At 
 last he made a grand rush, delivered a suc- 
 cession of blows, and the Ojibbeway, drop- 
 ping to the ground, gave token of sub- 
 mission. 
 
 A man was seen rapidly approaching the 
 little crowd. 
 
 " Police !" said one of the boys. 
 
 " Pohce !" echoed another. 
 
 And all but Gerald fled at the sound of 
 that terrible word. 
 
 The man was Uncle William. 
 
 " My dear boy," he said, wiping the blood 
 from his nephew's face, " how is this?" 
 
 " He hit me first," replied Gerald. 
 
 *' And you thrashed him aftenvards?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, never mind. Put somethinir 
 cold to your eye when you get home. Pve 
 wiped your face. You may tell your mother 
 there's no harm done." 
 
 The mother was not so satisfied with this
 
 40 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 adventure as Uncle William. But what 
 was to be done ? Boys will be boys. So 
 Gerald went to work the next mornini^, 
 leaving j\Ir. Grey and his wife apprehensive 
 and sorrowful. 
 
 Gerald was now regarded by his fellow 
 apprentices as a curiosity. For a time, 
 they thought it prudent to suspend the war- 
 dance ; but they met around the council 
 fire, and concerted schemes, and the hatchet 
 was not buried. They made their delibera- 
 tions known to Gerald. He could hear them 
 calculating the effect of imaginary strokes 
 upon his devoted head ; boasting of their 
 ability to disfigure him so that his mother 
 would not know him ; and carrying this 
 last idea to a singularity of detail that made 
 Gerald shake with terrible anticipation ! To 
 be punished ordinarily, was bad enough ; 
 but to be robbed of his identity so that his 
 mother would not recognise him, was a 
 horror indeed ! Ag day by day the realisa- 
 sation of this idea became more probable,
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 41 
 
 fear grew upon Gerald. The idea haunted 
 him at last, and he even dreamt of it. 
 
 His life was, indeed, veiy wretched. He 
 had not yet come to entertain that high 
 opinion of printing and printers which ani- 
 mated his uncle. A poor little apprentice, 
 with six years and more of probationary 
 servitude before him, was little likelv tp 
 find comfort in the recollection that Frank- 
 lin was a printer, and that Franklin grew to 
 be a great man ! Such ideas as this were 
 pressed upon him by his uncle ; but they 
 would not take root. He felt only a gush- 
 inor heart-brcakino; desire to be free of 
 printing, to escape from the rough lads 
 about him, and to find relief in some pur- 
 suit conjifenial to the dawning^ fancies of his 
 mind. 
 
 " Father !" said ^Irs. Grey, one mornlug 
 when Gerald had gone to woi-k, " the busi- 
 ness is killing the poor boy. See how pale 
 heis." 
 
 "Aye! what?" exclaimed the good man.
 
 42 GERALD FITZGERALD 
 
 He was at breakfast ; his time for that 
 meal was short ; and he could afford only 
 monosyllables. " Well, he is pale — very 
 pale. What can we do with him ?" 
 
 " Take him away. Send him into the 
 country." 
 
 "Ah, but he's bound, you know! IIow 
 are we to get him oiF?" 
 
 " Somehow," said Mrs. Grey. " Surely 
 ^Ir. Tympan will give him up if we tell 
 him the boy's dying !" 
 
 Mr. Grey laid down his knife and fork ; 
 he wiped his mouth with his hand. Then he 
 said, — 
 
 " Whaf, Mary?" 
 
 The wife repented of her suggestion. 
 There was her husband ; looking nervously 
 at her ; his hand shaking, his eyes filling 
 with tears. 
 
 " At any rate, Gerald is very pale; and 
 is growing very thin. If he goes on in 
 this way, we shall have him a skeleton !" 
 
 " Skeleton !" said the father. " Skc-
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 43 
 
 leton ! Mary ! Have the boy home at once I 
 Go and fetch him from the office this very 
 morning. We'll have no skeletons in this 
 house !" 
 
 At that moment the clock struck, and 
 Mr. Grey was admonished to go back to 
 work. 
 
 jNIr. Tympan, the awful magnate who 
 owned the services of so many boys, was 
 busy in his counting house, when the anxious 
 eyes of ]\Irs. Grey peered between the rails. 
 He was a peculiar man, who, from the 
 lowest position in the printing office had 
 risen to the highest, and who consecpiently 
 had little consideration for the class and 
 the condition he sprung from. JHe was not 
 without talent of a particular kind : that 
 talent had made him what he was. But 
 his intellect was curious ; perhaps a little 
 oblique. He was the most obstinate man 
 alive. It was his pride to form false 
 opinions, and stick to them. Ho would 
 have disputed with all the doctors in Chris-
 
 44 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 tendom, tliough the world should laugh in 
 his face. 
 
 " Pray excuse me, sir," began Mrs. Grey, 
 addressing him. " But you must have 
 observed the changed appearance of Ge- 
 rald ?" 
 
 Gerald was all in all to ^Irs. Grey ! What 
 w as he to Mr. Tympan ? 
 
 " Who is Gerald ?" he enquired. 
 
 " My son, sir — GeraJd Grey." 
 
 The magnate ran through his list of 
 boys. He had them of all colours— AVhite, 
 Green, Brown ; and at last he came upon 
 Grey. 
 
 "Changed, is he?" he said, "Gets 
 dirty, I suppose? All boys get dirty for 
 the first few years in a pi-inting office. I 
 did myself, I daresay. But it'll wear off. 
 Ile'll get clean in time." 
 
 " Xo, sir ; that's not it. His health is 
 going. He's turned pale, and grown thin, 
 and really " 
 
 Here ]\[r Tympan interrupted. He was 
 ready with a clincher :
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 45 
 
 '' The transition period of life, ma'am ! 
 All boys look pale and thin in the transition 
 period of life ! It's quite proper that they 
 should. If they were healthy at that 
 period, why, }ou see, by the rules of me- 
 dical science, they'd be unhealthy !" 
 
 The mao-nate felt all the better for havino- 
 delivered himself of this ; he thought the 
 idea neat and well expressed. He smiled 
 blandly at Mrs. Grey, and expected her to 
 appreciate it. But no ; she held fast to 
 her position. 
 
 " Gerald is really ill, sir, and your boys 
 are so rough," she said. " I'm sure some- 
 thing must be done. He can never bear 
 the confinement either ; his constitution is 
 very much weakened. 
 
 *' Constitution ! — confinement !*' said ]\Ir. 
 Tympan, delighted with the opportunity for 
 maintaining another paradox. " AVhv, 
 ma'am, surely you are aware thatconfinement 
 is the best possible thing for a weak constitu- 
 tion, lioys are alwavs too encro-etic ; the
 
 46 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 weaker their constitutions, the more does 
 this energy require to be kept down. Con- 
 finement keeps it down. A boy can't fa- 
 tigue himself who's kept close to a frame 
 for ten hours a day ! Therefore I say that 
 for weak boys in general, and for your boy 
 in particular, confinement is really an 
 advantage." 
 
 The face of Mrs. Grey wore a blank, un- 
 believing expression. Her eyes still peered 
 anxiously through the rails. The magnate 
 grew restless ; he dipped his pen in the ink, 
 took down a book, and turned over a file of 
 invoices. But how, with that anxious mo- 
 ther's eye fixed upon him, could he write or 
 calculate ? Yet relief was at hand. A 
 tall, thin man, who looked as though he had 
 pledged himself to abstain generally from 
 eating and drinking, and who accustomed 
 himself to be intemperate upon temperance, 
 showed his gaunt face above Mrs. Grey's 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Ah ! Mr. Teetotum ! Proof of your
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 47 
 
 pamphlet ? This way, if you please." And 
 the magnate left the counting-house. 
 
 ^ 'S? TT ^ 
 
 " Mary !" said Mr. Grey, when the good 
 woman, after vainly waiting for Mr. Tym- 
 pan's return, reached home, and told the 
 result of her mission, " Gerald shall not go 
 back ! He shall go into the country. The 
 Jacksons will be very kind to him. We'll 
 send him to them." 
 
 And so that pale, thin, London boy es^ 
 caped from his purgatory, and was found 
 roaming in the grounds of Maldon Priory, 
 and pressing the little hand of the knight's 
 daughter.
 
 CHAPTEPv IIL 
 
 Gerald was very liappily placed in his re- 
 tirement, tlioug-h in the midst of humble- 
 ness. He was with one of those country 
 famiUes that so much surprise the inhabi- 
 tants of great towns, and are so much sur- 
 prised when they get into great towns 
 themselves. The patronymic of the family 
 was Jackson. Old Tom Jackson, as he was 
 called by his familiars, was the patriarch of 
 the tribe ; and gathered about him were 
 many other Jacksons, who looked up to 
 him as the parent stem and great original 
 Noah of the family ark. Thev venerated
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 49 
 
 his grey hairs, and beheved in his wisdom. 
 lie sat in the chimney corner, and from 
 thence dehvered his oracles to true beUevers ! 
 
 But the great motive power of the place 
 was the old man's dau2rhter-in-law — his son's 
 wife. She was an excellent little woman, 
 and kept the house, and everybody in it, in 
 order ! She had a small family, growing 
 larger year by year. She was short, chubby, 
 red-faced, brioht-eved, lioht of heart, and 
 light-footed. She had more wit and wisdom 
 than all her relations put together. Her 
 name was Betsy. 
 
 She was very kind to Gerald, Tn fact, 
 she was kind to all children — but to him 
 especially. The poor boy's paleness com- 
 manded her pity— his gentle nature ensured 
 her love. In the midst of her own rosy 
 olive branches — who were thick and large 
 limbed, with square features and moon 
 faces — Gerald stood out like a statue. The 
 eldest of the young Jacksons, who had his 
 
 VOL, L D
 
 50 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 own recollections of a wax-work exhibition 
 and a certain chamber of horrors, thought 
 he had seen Gerald before ! The youngest 
 looked up in the London boy's face, pinched 
 his calves, pushed him, and was only re- 
 lieved by hearing him speak. 
 
 " And how dost 'ee loike the country, 
 ]Mas'r Gerald ?" enquired the patriarch, a 
 few days after the boy's arrival. 
 
 " I like it very much, sir." 
 
 " You needn't say ' surr' to me !" replied 
 the old man. " There aint no surrs in this 
 yere family. They don't grow yere." 
 fv' The Jacksons all laughed at this witti- 
 cism, for they knew that Tom Uked his witti- 
 cisms to be laughed at. 
 
 " You'll go back quite another creature !" 
 said Betsy. 
 
 '^ Betsy, my gal," interrupted the hus- 
 and, " Mas'r Gerald don't eat. He wastes 
 half his time over his knife and fork. Look 
 after him, my gal."
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 51 
 
 '' All !" said old Tom, " fingers was made 
 afore knives and forks. Take your fingers, 
 my lad." 
 
 Gerald laid down his knife and fork, 
 for tlie attention of the family was over- 
 whelming. How could he eat with a dozen 
 eyes fixed upon him. Betsy saw his difficulty. 
 
 " Now Tom," she said, " it's time to go 
 to work. And you boys, leave the table. 
 Father, your pipe's in the chimney there." 
 
 And forthwith the table was deserted, 
 and Gerald was allowed to finish his dinner 
 in his own way. 
 
 And after dinner ? What but liberty ! 
 — what but the glorious freedom of field 
 and wood ! To wander about and enjoy 
 this freedom was his sole occupation. His 
 young heart was thankful for so great a 
 mercy, and his soul drank eagerly at the full 
 fountains of nature. 
 
 Nature, too, gave him new ideas and 
 stranofc lonofincrs. It sup^p^ested to him a new 
 
 O O O DO 
 
 line of Hfe. One day he took out paper
 
 52 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 and pencil to sketch the ivy-covered ruin 
 that stood by the Manor House. Oh, that 
 ruin ! — wliat a wonder it was. He had 
 never seen anything- of the kind before. 
 The London ruins were mostly bare bricks 
 and mortar, that stood one day to be carted 
 off the next; or if preserved, were care- 
 fully enclosed, labelled wdth a pictorial illus- 
 tration, and provided with a showman and 
 a money taker. But this was a real ruin — 
 the ivy creeping over it, the birds singing 
 from it, the sheep pulling the grass that 
 grew at its foundations. 
 
 He was returning from a pilgrimage to 
 this ruin when he met the little girl in the 
 wood. The little girl made a great im- 
 pression upon him. Her face was a fixed 
 picture in his memory. V\\\o was she? 
 Did she live in the grand house that was 
 called the Priorv ? AYho was the rouo-h, 
 unkind gentleman that had carried her 
 away ? Surely not her father ? And yet 
 who else ? Her uncle, perhaps ! Ah, yes,
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 5 
 
 o 
 
 aer uncle. Gerald was delighted to think 
 he had come reasonably upon this conclu- 
 sion. It was better that he should be 
 pushed by the little girl's uncle than by her 
 father ! 
 
 Wanderino;' in the same neio:hbourhood 
 the next day, he saw the little lady again, 
 the cruel uncle riding by her side. She, 
 too, was riding — on a pony ! This sight 
 gave Gerald a new pang. How could he 
 hope for recognition from a little girl who 
 rode on a pony I But, as he looked timidly 
 at her, she shook her whip at him ; and 
 the cruel uncle, following the index of the 
 whip, saw Gerald, — frowned, and made up 
 his mind that the pale boy dogged them. 
 Sir Roger Maldon determind to have him 
 watched. Where did he come from ? — who 
 did he belong to ? None of the villagers, 
 certainly. So the baronet spoke to his 
 gamekeeper, stating, as his opinion, that the 
 lad was a town lad, and could be lurking in 
 the country for no honest purpose.
 
 54: GERALD I'lTZGEGALD. 
 
 That vciy afternoon Gerald was in the 
 woods again. A man dressed in a green 
 coat, and carrying a gun, came up to him, 
 and enquired what he wanted there. The 
 man's rough tone, and the sight of the gun, 
 confused the boy. He made but a poor 
 excuse, and slunk timidly away. Still he 
 remained in the wood ; and presently, being 
 tired, he sat on the trunk of a felled tree, 
 and watched the squirrels climbing, the 
 large birds flying low along the ground, and 
 the rabbits running in and out of cover. 
 
 Presently he heard a strange noise behind 
 him. He turned, and saw a shy, brown 
 animal trying to free itself from a noose. 
 He had seen similar looking creatures, 
 dead and dabbled with blood, in the shops 
 of London poulterers. It was a hare. He 
 rose and went timidly towards it. At a 
 safe distance he stood still and watched the 
 creature's struggles. 
 
 "Ah!" said a voice behind him, "you're 
 caught, are you, young chap !"
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 55 
 
 And the man in the green coat, and with 
 the gun on his shoulder, seized Gerakl 
 tightly by the arm, stooped to loosen the hare, 
 and carried away his captive in triumph. 
 
 The shame of being led ignominiously 
 through the village w^as overwhelming to 
 Gerald. The little childi'en who saw him, 
 shrunk away and seemed so terrified that the 
 poor boy imagined something horrible was 
 about to happen to him ! He was bewil- 
 dered ; he feared that he had transgressed 
 in some way. Perhaps he had trespassed, 
 had got among the man-traps and spring 
 guns, and was to be prosecuted with the 
 utmost rigour of the law ! There was a 
 board nailed to a tree, promising this 
 punishment, in one part of the grounds. 
 Oh, how he cried when he recollected the 
 existence of this board, and applied the 
 terrible promise to his own case. With the 
 utmost rigour of the law ! To what did 
 that riicour extend ? lie believed that the
 
 56 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 utmost rifrour of the law was earned out 
 somewhere near Newgate ! 
 
 In the meantime the Jacksons were in 
 great trouble. Betsy sat up for Gerald till 
 she started from her chair, and found the 
 candle burnt out and the morning break- 
 ing. The good woman worked hard during 
 the day, and therefore she must be excused 
 for sleeping at night. She had no inten- 
 tion of closing her eyes for a moment. At 
 dusk she sent her family to bed, said she'd 
 wait another half-hour before raising the 
 village to find Gerald ; and then, poor wo- 
 man, before the half-hour had expired, in- 
 stead of looking for the boy, she was dream- 
 ing of horrible things happening to him. 
 His lifeless body had just been drawn from 
 a dull roadside pond, when she awoke 
 screaming — 
 
 '' Gerald! Gerald! Ah !— that's him! 
 That's his poor, pale face ! Good God I 
 What will his mother say ?" 
 
 She pushed the hair from her forehead,
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 57 
 
 opened her eyes, and looked about her. She 
 shuddered, and gave a great sigh of relief ! 
 
 " Ah !" she said, " I've been dreaming ! 
 But oh dear me ! — where is the boy? Why 
 did I go to sleep? The dream may be true, 
 after all." 
 
 A dream, so pertinent and coming at 
 such a time, might well startle a simple wo- 
 man who had "Napoleon's Book of Fate" 
 on the shelf, and was a regular subscriber 
 to a prophetic Almanac. All the dreams 
 that, in her hmited experience, had ever 
 come true, flashed across Betsy's mind in a 
 moment ; and the result was, that the dull 
 pond and the lifeless body assumed real 
 significance I 
 
 She had one hope ; Gerald might be out- 
 side, sleeping against the door, and ready 
 to fall into the parlour when the door should 
 be opened. She lifted the latch ; she pulled 
 the. door towards her — at first, gently, then 
 hurriedly ; and at last, flinging it right back, 
 she looked out, and — Gerald was not there .
 
 58 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 Her hope was destroyed now : she fell back 
 upon the pond and the lifeless body ! 
 
 But she was not frightened into inaction. 
 She roused her husband, pulled her eldest 
 son out of bed. One she sent to the village 
 constable ; the other, to scour the woods. 
 Her own mission, of which she said nothing, 
 was to a dull pond, the original of that so 
 vividly shadowed forth in the dream ! It 
 happened that this pond was almost dry ; so 
 Betsy returned with a reheved heart. 
 
 Presently her husband came hurrying 
 back. He was indignant ; he had seen the 
 village constable. 
 
 " You've found him, Tom? Well, where 
 is he ? Why don't you speak ?" 
 
 " Yes, I ha' found him," said Tom. 
 " That is, I knows where he is !" 
 This was the critical point. 
 " Tom," said Betsy, seizing her husband, 
 and trying to shake information from him. 
 " If you don't tell me where the boy is, I 
 shall die !"
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 59 
 
 Now Tom was a very simple fellow, in- 
 deed. He was a loyal labom'er, and would 
 have taken the Squire's carriage for the car 
 of Juggernaut had the great man wished to 
 ride roughly. The constable had impressed 
 him with the conviction of Gerald's guilt, 
 and to the constable he had replied — 
 
 " To think now that that there boy, as 
 has come and hved along o' me and father, 
 should ha' gone and been a poachin ! What'll 
 Sir Ptoger say o' us ? What'll the Squire 
 say ? He's in the cage, is he ? Well, serve 
 'un right, the young willun !" 
 
 And these very words he repeated to his 
 wife. 
 
 " Nonsense !" said Betsy. " What does 
 the boy know of poaching? What could 
 he poach with ? He'd be frightened at the 
 
 sight of a gun ; and as to a snare Oh, 
 
 it's ridiculous !" 
 
 " But he's in the cage," said Tom : it 
 being a fixed idea with him that the Squire
 
 GO GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 could not put any one in the cage who was 
 innocent of offence. 
 
 " Then we must get him out of it!" re- 
 plied Betsy. 
 
 Her mind was much relieved now : the 
 phantasmagoria of the pond and the dead 
 body had entirely disappeared from it. She 
 put on her best bonnet, her most imposing 
 shawl ; she cut a large slice of bread, a 
 corresponding rasher of bacon. She filled 
 a small bottle with a rich, yellowish fluid 
 that would have disturbed the conscience of 
 a London milkman ! She hurried off to 
 the cage. 
 
 The constable was just unlocking the 
 door of the little round house, when Betsy 
 tripped up to him. He had a piece of bread 
 and a pitcher of water with him for the 
 prisoner's breakfast. Betsy knew the 
 man very well — he was an old lover of 
 her's ; so she pushed into the round-house 
 beside him ; and there, crouching in a 
 corner, was Gerald.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. Gl 
 
 Betsy asked the boy no questions, but 
 knelt down on the straw, and uncorked her 
 bottle. She gave him no time for remon- 
 strance, but fixed the neck of the bottle in 
 his mouth. He could not choose but drink ; 
 for he was treated in this instance much as 
 Betsy had treated her own Tom when that 
 stout youth was in long clothes, and not sa- 
 tisfied with mere maternal stimulants. 
 
 Scarcely had Gerald reco^^ered from the 
 effects of this kindness, when Betsy was at 
 him again. 
 
 " Give me that jug," she said to the con- 
 stable ; and dipping her apron in the water 
 that was for Gerald's breakfast, she scrubbed 
 the tear-marks from his face, kissed him, 
 and filled his mouth with bread and bacon. 
 
 It was a fixed idea of Betsy's that no- 
 thing could be said or done on an empty 
 stomach. At home it was her particular 
 business to sec that stomachs were filled ; 
 and perhaps the concentration of her energies 
 upon this point, made her believe that it
 
 G2 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 was an important one. At any rate, such 
 a belief was the substance of her remark to 
 the constable, who looked on in wonder at 
 her systematic but rapid proceedings. 
 
 " Now, Gerald," she said, " you must 
 tell me all about this. How did you come 
 here?" 
 
 " The keeper brought him," replied the 
 constable. 
 
 '' Ah !" said Betsy, " that isn't what 
 I mean. I want to know, Gerald, what you 
 did to make the keeper bring you here ?" 
 
 " Nothing !" replied the poor boy. lie 
 had passed a terrible night, alarmed at every 
 sound, — sleepless, calling vainly for his 
 mother, and still dreading the utmost rigour 
 of the law ! "I only sat down in the wood, 
 and — and — looked at the hare !" 
 
 " Looked at the hare ! How did you 
 look at it, Gerald ? Did you mean to touch 
 it ?" 
 
 " No ! I was frightened of it ! It was 
 trying to get away from the wire!"
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 63 
 
 " Oh !" said Betsy, drawing a long breath, 
 " it was snared, was it ? It was snared ; 
 and you — you — were walking in the wood, 
 and you — you— saw it— quite by accident V'' 
 
 " Quite !" said Gerald. 
 
 " Ah !" exclaimed Betsy, turning to the 
 constable, " just as I thought. This poor 
 boy's innocent enough ! What a set of 
 fools you men are ! To take a child like 
 that for a poacher ! Sam, I'm ashamed of 
 you !" 
 
 The constable cast down his eyes. Many 
 years ago he had said — " Betsy, will you 
 have me for a husband ?" And Betsy had 
 replied — " No ! Sam, you're not steady 
 enough !" And seeing what a wife Betsy 
 made, he had regretted her decision ever 
 since ! His own wife was a bit of a shrew, 
 accustomed to rule him with the terrors of 
 her tongue ; and therefore he never ceased 
 to think of Betsy, and to contrast what was 
 with what might have been ! 
 
 " I'm nothing to do with it, I'm sure," he 
 said meekly. " / didn't accuse the boy !"
 
 64 GEUALD FITZGEUALD. 
 
 " But didn't you make my husband as 
 foolish as the rest ? Didn't you send him 
 home with a parcel of stupid suspicions in 
 his head ? Now, I tell you what, Sam ! 
 Mind you treat that hoy well — the little 
 time he's here. Let's have no harsh words, 
 no roughness with him ! I'm going to see 
 Sir Roger Maldon. I'll set things right. 
 And if I hear that this poor boy's been ill- 
 treated — Sam, I shall hate you I" 
 
 Betsy kissed Gerald again, told him she 
 should be back soon, and went away. Upon 
 her departure, the constable stood irreso- 
 lutely in the doorway. He did not like to 
 lock the boy in and leave him alone now ; he 
 thought it sad that he should have nothing 
 to sit upon but straw ! So, after much con- 
 sideration, the constable fetched a chair 
 from his own house, brought his breakfast 
 with him, and giving Gerald the high seat, 
 took to the straw himself. 
 
 Certainly, his wife w^as not in the best of 
 tempers that morning.
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 Sir ItOGER Maldon was of course in the 
 commission of the peace, and it was his 
 pride to take his seat on the bench at quarter 
 sessions. He believed that this privilege 
 was one of the few unsullied dignities re- 
 maining to the magnates of the land ; and 
 while many of his colleagues assumed judicial 
 functions as mere pastime, or as affording 
 opportunity for aping the " (rusty and well- 
 beloved" of Westminster, Sir Roger ]\Ialdon 
 took to them seriously, with a sense of great 
 responsibility, and with a desire to do justice 
 as by law directed.
 
 66 GliRALD FITZGERALD, 
 
 lie was an excellent magistrate, the more 
 so that he Lever allowed his feelings to stand 
 in the way of his judgment. People who 
 came before him with tears in their eyes and 
 prayers on their lips ; who brought helpless 
 children as mute or squalling appellants for 
 his worship's mercy ; who induced friends 
 to faint in corners of the justice room at 
 critical moments ; found these arts of no 
 avail with him. A miserable little rook- 
 boy who had shot a pheasant instead of a 
 crow, and, troubled by the enormity of his 
 crime, had confessed to the woodreeve, 
 might plead his confession, his poverty, his 
 innocence of evil intention, and offer all 
 the money he had in the w^orld — per- 
 haps the wages of a month's labour — as 
 a sacrifice to offended law. But if that 
 money did not meet the prescribed penalty — 
 the pound of flesh that the Act said should 
 be cut — as surely as Sir Roger Maldon sat 
 on the bench, that miserable little rook-boy 
 must go to prison !
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 67 
 
 This kind of justice was, as many people 
 said, excellent ; but still somewhat liable 
 to make the meat it fed upon, A poor 
 little boy, exalted to the dignity of a poacher, 
 might be frio-htened for a time, but not 
 permanently improved. An honest man, 
 branded with infamy for a hasty act— scarcely 
 a misdemeanour, certainly not a crime — 
 might, in the bitterness of his soul, fall 
 away from honesty. A simple labourer, 
 flung into prison for cutting corn in his 
 own garden on a Sunday, would scarcely re- 
 turn to liberty with an humble and a contrite 
 heart. Oh these prisons ! — AVhat terrible 
 responsibility hangs upon the men who send 
 their fellows to languish in them — to leave 
 them for better or return to them for worse ! 
 
 Sir Roo-er Maldon was conscious of this 
 responsibility, and believed himself able 
 to bear it. Guided by the letter of the law, 
 he- felt that he could do no wrong. But 
 perhaps he neglected that great precept of 
 law which enjoins merciful consideration.
 
 68 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 His district was, unhappily, a disturbed one. 
 Game was sternly preserved, and poaching 
 was greatly on the increase. Every sessions 
 the baronet had to adjudicate upon this par- 
 ticular offence ; and he did so with a stern 
 determination, as he said from the bench, to 
 " root out the crime from the county." 
 
 It may be easily understood, then, that 
 when Betsy Jackson — after waiting two 
 hours in a dull ante-room — obtained an 
 audience, she found the baronet in no mood 
 to listen to her. He ran over her statement : 
 She had come about a boy — a London boy 
 (Sir Roger had a horror of London boys and 
 Londoners in general) who was found in the 
 woods poaching, had she ? Now, she must 
 be well aware that upon the boy's being 
 found guilty — and that he would be found 
 guilty the baronet had not the least doubt 
 — nothing could save him from the punish- 
 ment that the law ordained ! 
 
 " But Oh, sir ! — Oh your worship !" ex- 
 claimed Betsy. " He aint guilty ! I'll take
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 69 
 
 my oath he aint. Oh do pray let him go, 
 Thmk of his poor parents in London. How 
 can I tell them that he's in prison !" 
 
 " Ah !" said the baronet. "Just as I 
 thought. The boy comes from London ! The 
 country's deluged with crime from London. 
 Has he, to your hioivledgc^ been in prison 
 before?'' 
 
 " Lor, sir!" said Betsy, colouring richly, 
 " What a question to ask an honest woman. 
 Been in prison before ! To my knowledge, 
 too ! Begging your worship's pardon, do 
 you think, if I know'd that he'd been in 
 prison, I should let him live along o' my 
 boys, and sit in my house ? Do you think 
 he should break bread with me?" 
 
 The enormity of the baronet's suspicion 
 brought tears to Betsy's eyes. She put her 
 apron to her face, and shook and hiccupped 
 with indignant sorrow. 
 
 " He lives with you, then ? How long 
 lias he been in your house ?" enquired Sir 
 Roger.
 
 70 GERALD FITZGEIIALD. 
 
 Betsy hesitated in her answer ; the 
 baronet watched her narrowly. At last she 
 recollected herself. 
 " About a week." 
 
 Ah !'* said Rhadamanthus. " About a 
 week. My good woman, it is quite evi- 
 dent that you know very little of this boy 
 and his London habits. To your simple 
 mind he may appear innocent ; but to those 
 who are accustomed to judge of such 
 matters, the case presents quite a different 
 aspect. I cannot interfere ; the law must 
 take its course. You are at liberty to retire." 
 The baronet waved his hand grandly, to 
 put an end to the interview ; but Betsy still 
 hesitated. Her hands were clasped ; her 
 eyes were turned appealingly towards the 
 doomsman. 
 
 " Oh, do pray let him go — for his 
 mother s — for his father s — sake. I'd answer 
 for his innocence with my life." 
 
 The hand was waved again ; but its owner 
 turned and started. A fair little girl, enter-
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 71 
 
 ing the room suddenly, ran to him, and 
 caught at the arm that was still. 
 
 " Don't make her cry so," said the little 
 girl, crying too ! " Let her have the boy ! — 
 oh ! do." 
 
 Miss Blanche had been listening. She 
 often listened when poor people were in the 
 justice room. To her that room was an 
 awful, a fascinating mystery. Sympathy 
 with those in trouble made her forget the pro- 
 prieties of behaviour and defy even the cruel 
 suggestions of jNlrs. Trimmer. And in this 
 case she was doubly interested. Her quick 
 intelligence had divined that the boy in 
 trouble was her boy — the boy who had o-iven 
 her the flowers in the wood — the boy about 
 whom her father had spoken so cruelly to 
 the gamekeeper. Already she had erected 
 him into one of her heroes, lie was worthy 
 to succeed the doll she had resigned, to 
 represent the " good boy" of the story-book 
 she had taken to. In short, he was the 
 first of that series of hving favourites with-
 
 72 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 out the solace of wliich what little lady 
 ever grew out of pinafores — what little 
 gentleman ever grew into tail-coats ! 
 
 She repeated her simple prayer, " Oh do — 
 do let her have the boy. See how she's 
 crying," 
 
 Her father rang his bell violently. A 
 servant came trembling to answer it. 
 
 " Miss Blanche's maid — send her here at 
 once, — immediately !" 
 
 The little lady fell back abashed. Her 
 father turned over an Act of Parliament to 
 beguile the time. Betsy was still suppli- 
 cating, but silent. The maid came : she 
 followed the index of the baronet's finger 
 and led her young lady from the room. Sir 
 lioger flung the Act of pailiament from him. 
 
 " Kow," he said, turning to Betsy, " leave 
 this place instantly ! Kot a word! Go !" 
 
 The hand was waved again — more 
 grandly, more imperiously than ever. Betsy 
 turned away, despaired, and left the Prior)\ 
 
 " Blanche," said the father, half an hour
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 73 
 
 after v\-ards, " you did wrong- — very wrong-, 
 just now. Never listen again, my dear. 
 Never come to me when I am in that room. 
 If you do, I shall be very, very angry." 
 
 The Httle lady hung her head and looked 
 contrite. 
 
 " Come here, dear !" said the father. 
 When she came, he drew her gently to him, 
 smoothed her fair hair, and looked into her 
 bright eyes. 
 
 " Don't you think you did w^rong, 
 Blanche ?" he asked. 
 
 " Oh yes — yes,*' said the little lady. 
 " But what are you going to do to the poor 
 boy ? Won't you let him go back to his 
 mother ?" 
 
 The father lifted his hand from the 
 child's head, and turned from her impa- 
 tiently. He was grieved that her mind 
 should dwell on the affairs of the London 
 vagabond in the round-house. It was pro- 
 fanity that her heart should beat, her 
 silver voice plead, for him ; above all that 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 his condition should move her to tears. 
 He sighed heavily and left the room. 
 
 " Martha, what is the cage ? Is it a 
 prison ?" asked Blanche, a few moments 
 afterwards. 
 
 '' Yes, Miss," replied Martha. 
 
 " And what is a prison ?" 
 
 " Oh ! a dreadful place — all under- 
 ground — where people are chained by the 
 arms and legs, and chained all over — and 
 have nothing to eat but bread, and nothing 
 to drink but water — and their hair turns 
 white in a single night ! Oh ! it's a dread- 
 ful place !" 
 
 The maid had confused notions about a 
 prison. She had read Jack Sheppard, and 
 misunderstood the Prisoner of Chillon. She 
 had heard of Venetian dungeons, and 
 English jails before the time of Howard. 
 Putting this and that together, she pro- 
 duced the pretty picture she had tried so 
 forcibly to impress upon Blanche ; a picture 
 she was about fully to fill in with detail, 
 when the Httle lady stopped her.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 75 
 
 " Oh, don't— don't, Martha. Don't tell 
 me any more !" 
 
 " Well, just as you please, Miss," said 
 ^lartha somewhat offended. (She had re- 
 called to her mind the story of a prisoner 
 who was eaten to the bone by water-rats, 
 and was about to tell it.) " But don't ask 
 me any more questions." 
 
 Presently Blanche, forgetting this com- 
 mand, looked up into Martha's face, and 
 said — 
 
 " Do you think father very cruel ?" 
 
 " Miss Blanche," replied the maid, 
 severely, " I can't answer that question. 
 I've got my livin' to get ; I know my place, 
 and I don't set up for a judge of my 
 betters !" 
 
 " Oh, dear !" said the little lady, buried, 
 overwhelmed, in grief. And half an hour 
 afterwards she was romping with the kitten, 
 and- screaming delightedly at its grotesque 
 antics. 
 
 In the meantime, Gerald languished in
 
 76 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 the cage. But the night came, and pro- 
 duced a change m the aspect of aiFairs. 
 The baronet's keeper, going as usual on his 
 nocturnal rounds, came upon a scene 
 that he often looked for and expected, but 
 seldom saw. On the very spot where he 
 had found Gerald, a more formidable of- 
 fender than the poor boy was breaking the 
 commands of his country. Standing motion- 
 less and erect — the moon shining upon him 
 and giving him the cold grey aspect of a 
 statue— was a tall, athletic man, staring 
 steiiily into the gloom. A gun rested in 
 the hollow of his arm, and by his side \^as 
 a large, eager dog, watching its masters 
 fape, and waiting for a glance to inform its 
 quick intelligence. 
 
 Presently, from the tree towards which 
 the man's gaze was directed, a pheasant 
 fluttered and fell to the ground. The dog 
 crept stealthily away and returned with the 
 bird in its mouth. But there was danger 
 fit hand ; the dog was uneasy — its full.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 77 
 
 quick eye Informed its master of evil. The 
 man started, and gazed anxiously about 
 him. Then, levelling his gun, crash went 
 a bullet through the trees ! He had an- 
 other barrel, but this he reserved, and 
 waited. He expected his fire to be re- 
 turned. It was returned, and the dog, 
 howling piteously, leapt into the air, and 
 fell — shot to the heart ! 
 
 The keeper had but one antagonist now. 
 He might have shot him as he had shot the 
 dog, but a sense of humanity stayed his hand. 
 He moved stealthily, slipping from cover to 
 cover. Wherever he appeared, that 
 second barrel was levelled point blank at 
 him ! The poacher was desperate, and 
 careless of life. There was his faithful 
 dog dying by his side. The poor animal's 
 eyes were fixed upon his master, as though 
 asking for help. Help the man could not 
 give ; but revenge — ah ! revenge. He 
 might have that ! 
 
 13 u+ +1-0 l:ofT)er was wary. He had a
 
 78 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 wife and cliildrcn at home, and his life was 
 valuable. There seemed to be no chance of 
 taking the man unhurt. So at last he fired. 
 There was a hoarse cry, a flash in the air, 
 a second report, and master and dog were 
 side by side — dying surely ! 
 
 The moon shone through the trees and 
 lighted up another scene. The keeper was 
 resting on one knee, the dying man's head 
 on his arm. The poor fellow, his voice 
 broken by pangs, and his breathings short and 
 tremulous, was telling something of hishistory. 
 He had been a farmer, flourishinof and well 
 to do ; but the squire's game came into his 
 fields, and robbed and incensed him ; and 
 he had his revenge. He was tried for it, 
 convicted, punished ignominiously. He 
 was ruined, and he returned — to what ? To 
 take up as a trade that which he had at 
 first dared in an angry moment. This was 
 his story. 
 
 " And now," he said, " you've done for 
 me. Well, God forgive you. It was vour
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 79 
 
 duty, I suppose ; and it would have been 
 your life or mine. Let me see the dog. 
 Ah, poor fellow, dying — dying, like me. 
 And you've a young lad — an innocent lad, 
 taken for my trespasses. I don*t want to 
 die doing him an injury. I saw you take 
 him. I was waiting for the simpleton to 
 go away and let me have my own. ]\Iind, 
 I say he's innocent ! Dying, as I am now, 
 I say he's innocent." 
 
 And the voice ceased and was never 
 heard again.
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 Mr. Grey was in a difficulty. Gerald had 
 returned home, a new boy, in health, spirits, 
 and appearance ; a rosy-cheeked, hearty 
 youth, with a free step, a bold voice, and a 
 bright eye. The good people were delighted. 
 But, still, what was the boy to do ? — what 
 was to be done with him? Printing he 
 abhoiTed. Indeed, he seemed to dislike the 
 pursuit of anything mechanical. 
 
 " What are we to do \A\h you, Gerald ?" 
 said Mr. Grey. 
 
 Gerald had been endeavouring to extract
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 81 
 
 colour from Ihe box of brick paints. The 
 brick paints resisted his best efforts. With 
 a sigh, he fell back upon his pencil, and 
 contented himself with sketching in black 
 and white. 
 
 " Could I," he asked somewhat timidly, — 
 " Could I be a painter ?" 
 
 " Of course you could, my boy," said the 
 father. " But you've your living to get ; 
 and you can't be a painter and get your 
 li\dng too." 
 
 " Won't painting get it ?" 
 
 " Oh dear me," said Mr. Grey, convulsed 
 with merriment. " Well you are a stranot; 
 boy. What a question ! There may be 
 some people who get their livings by painting. 
 But you, Gerald ! AVhy, in the first place, 
 who's to make you a painter ?" 
 
 Gerald thought it hard that his father 
 should suji^jxest these doubts and difficulties. 
 What more than his own fancy was required 
 to make him a painter ? Give him a brush, 
 and a box of paints with pigment in them, — 
 
 E 2
 
 82 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 and he was ready to " paint the bow upon 
 the bended heavens !" 
 
 " You might paint, you know, Gerald," 
 continued the father, " and paint till you 
 were tired, and if you could get the things 
 to paint with. You might hang the pictures 
 up here, too. Of course / shouldn't mind. 
 But who'd buy any of them, my boy ? That's 
 the question. In this world, you see, people 
 can't do without money ; and money aint to 
 be had without working for it." 
 
 Mrs. Grey had hstened to all this in 
 silence. But her thoughts were busy. She 
 recollected that in a street adjacent, an un- 
 assumino; artist huno;- out the insiirnia of his 
 profession. He painted to order — painted 
 anything. But the basis upon which he asked 
 for the world's favour was that he produced 
 large likenesses in oils for a guinea, and 
 miniatures for half that sum. To his last 
 patron the artist always offered the privilege 
 of his window or his door-post, and in this 
 way, he served two ends — he advertised him- 
 self, and made his customers famous. True,
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 83 
 
 some stuck-up people had refused the advan- 
 tage ; but not many. The majority were as de- 
 lighted to see themselves simiously grinning 
 through Mr. Maguire's glass windows, as are 
 those more fortunate people who recognise 
 their much -loved faces in the " Portrait of 
 a Lady" and " Portrait of a Gentleman" on 
 the walls of loftier estabhshments. 
 
 When the portraits and miniatures were 
 asked for but slowly, the artist devoted his 
 talent to more imaginative labour ; and 
 congregated all the glories of the country 
 in his own back parlour. There is a story • 
 told of a painter who had coals shot care- 
 lessly in his studio, that he might catch the 
 proper contour of falleil and dismembered 
 rocks — of another who was accustomed to 
 let the cistern ove flow that he might be 
 inspired to paint a waterfall. To such met n 
 and mechanical arts as these ^Ir. jVIaguire 
 never resorted. In the first place, he 
 seldom had enough coals at one time 
 to serve any artistic purpose — (what rock 
 ever fell and left debris of only fourteen
 
 84 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 pounds weight?) — and in the next, at the 
 house he occupied, the water was not un- 
 f'requently cut off, and the cistern empty. 
 But settinof aside the existence of these 
 obstacles, Mr. ^laguire had a fund of 
 imagination that rendered artifice unne- 
 cessary. He might have wandered through 
 the world, and yet have failed to find such 
 scenes as he conceived, sketched, and turned 
 out of hand, between the four walls of his 
 back parlour ! But to every one of them 
 he gave a name (chalked on the back of the 
 canvas generally) and a local habitation. 
 When the demand was good, too, for old 
 masters, he worked for Wardour Street ; but 
 when this demand could not be quoted as 
 firm, and when the imaginative landscapes 
 were unasked for, he supplied the furniture- 
 brokers with florid pieces to adorn the sit- 
 ting-rooms of simple persons about to marry. 
 It was to this gentleman that Mrs. Grey, 
 upon the departure of her husband, led 
 Gerald.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 85 
 
 It happened that the artist was at the 
 window when Mrs. Grey rang his bell. The 
 poor gentleman was anything but busy : in 
 fact, he was looking through the window for 
 recreation. But the appearance- of the good 
 woman and her handsome fresh-coloured 
 boy sent a thrill of delight through his 
 heart. What could they want but a like- 
 ness ? As they crossed the road, Mr. 
 Maguire was debating within himself what 
 he should have for dinner. A herrinof and 
 potatoes were in prospect. That ring at 
 the bell made the dinner a chop and peas ! 
 
 A little servant opened the street door to 
 the visitors, and led them to the studio. A 
 sonorous voice said " Come in !'* and when 
 Mrs. Grey and Gerald cast eyes upon the 
 artist, he was arranged before a picture, 
 with a palette on his thumb, — in fact, he 
 had taken much the attitude of Titian, when 
 Royalty stooped to pick up the painter's 
 brush. Poor fellow ! he had only just 
 popped from one parlour to the other, pass-
 
 86 GERALD FITZGERALD, 
 
 ing- the little servant in the passag'e, and 
 giving her the order for the new dinner. 
 
 He was a tall, bony man, with large 
 features, a loud voice and a wondrous 
 magnificence of manner. He bowed to 
 Mrs. Grey — he was great at bowing — 
 and Mrs. Grey courteously returned the 
 obeisance. 
 
 " The young gentleman, of course ?" he 
 said. " He'll make an excellent portrait. 
 Rather a classical face ; a little too florid, 
 perhaps, for the antique. Your son, I 
 presume ?" 
 
 " Yes," said the good woman, diflidently, 
 
 and in answer to the latter question. But — " 
 
 The artist interrupted her. 
 
 " I am right in saying portrait I suppose? 
 
 The young gentleman is too old for a 
 
 miniature." 
 
 " Oh sir," exclaimed Mrs. Grey, seeing 
 how fondly the man was deceiving himself, 
 " You mistake. I'm very sorry ; but I don't 
 want a portrait."
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 87 
 
 " Nor a miniature, ma'am?" 
 
 " No," replied Mrs. Grey. 
 
 The artist shook the palette from his 
 
 thumb. His bland smile vanished ; he 
 
 was Titian no more ! Involuntarily his 
 
 thouo'hts recurred to the luxurious din- 
 
 ner he had been induced to anticipate. 
 
 Where was the little servant, that he might 
 
 countermand the order for the chop and 
 
 peas, and content himself with the herring ! 
 
 Alas ! alas ! but a moment before she had 
 
 passed the threshold, and was now, perhaps, 
 
 returning, with the chop in her hand and 
 
 the peas in her apron. The workings of 
 
 the poor man's mind were visible in his face. 
 
 Mrs. Grey could see his disappointment. 
 
 She was almost inclined to put Gerald in a 
 
 chair, let him be painted, and pay the 
 
 guinea. But guineas were not plentiful with 
 
 her ; so the incHnation was suffered to die 
 
 away. She spoke : 
 
 " My son, here, sir, thinks he should
 
 88 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 like to be a painter. Is a painter's a good 
 business?" 
 
 The artist was somewhat bitter : 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," he replied, " if he paints 
 houses, and calls himself glazier as well 
 as painter. Then it may be good, ma'am 
 — then it may be good." 
 
 " There, Gerald," said Mrs. Grey, " you 
 hear that. Now what do you say to being 
 a painter?" 
 
 Gerald hung his head and looked pitifully 
 at the pictures about him. But his desire 
 was not shaken. It struck him that he 
 might take to house painting and glazing 
 as secondary matters, and when the lighter 
 branch of the art had proved profitless. 
 He would have said so ; but in the pre- 
 sence of that tall, bony gentleman he was 
 abashed. 
 
 " Painting, ma'am," continued the artist, 
 " is not a good business. Look at me. 
 You behold the son of a gentleman, the 
 possessor of a university education, the
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. • 89 
 
 owner of talents I trust not absolutely con- 
 temptible, and yet what am I ? Ma'am, — I 
 tell you this in confidence, the boy's not 
 listening", he's busy with the pictures, — I am 
 a poor devil, not knowing whether I shall 
 have any dinner to morrow, and scarcely 
 able to afford one to-day. So it is to be a 
 painter !" 
 
 ^Irs. Grey looked at the poor gentleman 
 in wonder. Her eyes filled with tears: 
 there was such bitter sorrow in the artist's 
 tone, such a world of care printed in lines 
 and wrinkles on his countenance. She was 
 about to mention that the dinner-hour of 
 herself and husband was twelve punctually, 
 and that to-morrow, particularly to-morrow, 
 there would be a hot joint, baked potatoes, 
 and suet pudding, when she was interrupted. 
 
 " But still, ma'am," said the poor gentle- 
 man, " if I can serve your son I will. If 
 inclination can make a painter of him, he 
 seems to have enough of that. He's do-
 
 90 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 vouring' my poor productions ! Has he any 
 vocation for the art ?" 
 
 " Vocation, sir ?" 
 
 " Yes, ma'am. Has he any call, as it 
 were, to the profession, any talent that way?" 
 
 " He has never heen taught anything, 
 not even drawing. But " 
 
 The artist waved his hand and smiled. 
 He had a favourite crotchet, perhaps the 
 one his worldly prosperity had split upon ; 
 and this was, that the study of drawing- was 
 a needless accomplishment for a painter. 
 He had never studied drawing : he prided 
 himself upon the correctness of his eye, the 
 truth of his instinct. 
 
 " Drawing ! ma'am," he exclaimed, " a 
 most unimportant matter. What did 
 Buonarotti know of drawing ? He studied 
 fishes' fins in the market place, llaff'aelle, — 
 what time had he for drawing, when, as a 
 child, he surpassed the best efforts of his 
 preceptor ?"
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 91 
 
 The good woman nodded her head. Who 
 was Boonerotty ? Who was Rarfail ? 
 Friends of ^Ir. Maguire's, no doubt. Well, 
 he must know best about them. 
 
 " The worst pamters, ma'am," continued 
 the artist, " are the best draughtsmen. 
 There's A, and B, and C, — I need not men- 
 tion names, it might be invidious to do so. 
 Well, look at their pictures. There are 
 lines, and angles, and curves in them, all 
 true enough ; but what else ? I say, we 
 paint with the mind, not with the eye — 
 with the genius, not with the education." 
 
 The artist lost sight of the fact that he 
 had only a simple woman for an audience. 
 He warmed up to the spirit of the platform, 
 and hurled his sentences about him as 
 thou<j:h he aimed at the ears of a nionster 
 meeting. He had a splendid voice for a 
 public speaker ; he used happy and appro- 
 priate gesture ; his language was free and 
 flowing. He was a better orator than 
 painter ; why had he missed his proper
 
 92 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 path? Well, let him wait. Some day, 
 perhaps but we must not anticipate. 
 
 " Though there are some people," he 
 continued, " who maintain that draw- 
 ing is a requisite of the art — who go fur- 
 ther still, and drag in anatomy. Anatomy !" 
 Here the artist paused and looked grandly 
 about him. " As though skeletons came 
 for portraits, or were accustomed to lie 
 about in landscapes. Pshaw ! — if a poor 
 artist wishes to know anything about ana- 
 tomy, let him run his hand down his ribs, 
 there will he find instruction." And Mr. 
 Maguire put his hand to the side of his 
 blouse, and admirably attested the truth of 
 his assertion. 
 
 But seeing the wondering eyes of his 
 simple auditress, and noting her bewildered 
 expression of countenance, the artist was 
 recalled to a sense of the absurdity of his 
 address ; so he descended from the clouds 
 and came down to the little world of Mrs. 
 Grey's comprehension.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 03 
 
 " But let US see," lie exclaimed, "what 
 your son can do. Here, my lad, take this 
 crayon and sketch me the head yonder. 
 That's the head of Demosthenes." 
 
 Gerald took the chalk, looked up at the 
 shaggy brows of the Greek, and did as he 
 was desired. The artist watched him with 
 interest. Before Gerald had put a curl on 
 the head of the great orator, Mr. Maguire 
 snatched the sketch from him, flung it 
 aside, and slapping the boy on the shoulder, 
 said — 
 
 " You're quick, clever, and capable. 
 Mind, I don't advise you to become, but I 
 think you may become, a painter." 
 
 Gerald was delighted. Mrs. Grey picked 
 up the sketch, folded it neatly, and put it 
 in her pocket, preparatory to embalming it 
 in a drawer with Gerald's first socks, 
 his smallest shirt, and his neglected coral. 
 Mr. Maguire found a new argument in sup- 
 port of his theor\'. 
 
 '' ^ever taught di'awing," he said.
 
 94 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 " Here again Is my opinion confirmed. 
 AVliat can I do for your son, ma am? Has 
 he a father hving- ? Are you comfortably 
 off? Let him come to me occasionally, and 
 I will do my best for him. If you can 
 afford it, pay me ; if you cannot, why, 
 ma'am, — you cannot, and still 1 will do what 
 I can for him." 
 
 Yvn;ien Mrs. Grey and Gerald reached 
 home their minds were burthened with a 
 secret. They held up fingers and looked 
 knowingly at each other when the good 
 man came to dinner. They were to take 
 ^h\ Grey at a proper moment and over- 
 whelm him with surprise. The moment 
 came. 
 
 " What do you think, father?" said the 
 wife, " Gerald is to be a painter." She 
 then graphically described the scene in Mr. 
 Ma<^uire's studio, omitting the melancholy 
 parts, and ended by triumphantly producing 
 the nose, mouth, and chin of Demosthenes. 
 
 ^Ir. Grey had little leisure for admi-
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 05 
 
 ration, but what he had he made the best 
 use of. The sketch puzzled hhn somewhat. 
 Why had Demosthenes a bald head, only 
 half an eye, and no eyebrows whatever? 
 "When he was satisfied upon these points, 
 he left the table, said " good bye," and w^ent 
 back to work. 
 
 How happy were mother and son ! In 
 what dreams of greatness did they indulge ! 
 But ah, that knock — that dull official sum- 
 mons ; what did that portend ? The 
 dreamers were both alarmed by a vague 
 presentiment of evil. 
 
 " Let me go, Gerald," said Mrs. Grey. 
 
 The boy hstened, his heart palpitating 
 
 strano^elv. 
 
 " Is Gerald Grey here ?" said a voice 
 from the street. 
 
 Footsteps, heavy footsteps, sounded me- 
 nacingly in the passage. The parlour door 
 was flung open. 
 
 '" This him ?" said the voice. " He 
 scarcely answers the description — ' Pale,
 
 96 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 thill, and meagre-looking;' but I daresay it's 
 right. Come along, Master Gerald Grey." 
 
 " Where?" said the boy, clinging to his 
 mother. 
 
 " To the City Bridewell. The Cham- 
 berlain wants to see you ; he's fond of see- 
 ing runaway apprentices !" 
 
 And Gerald went.
 
 CHAPTER YL 
 
 Mr. Tympan was a wary man, and could 
 bide his time. He could keep his own 
 counsel, too. He had caused a notice to 
 be served on Mr. Grey in the early days of 
 Gerald's disa] pearance ; and the good man 
 being full of business, his wife, taking the 
 notice in her hand, went to make terms with 
 the magnate. He looked over his specta- 
 cles at her, asked when the boy would 
 be back, received liis answer, and relapsed 
 into iiiii)enetrable silence. So Mrs. Grey 
 left the counting house fully persuaded that 
 she had won a forgiveness, and that so 
 VOL. r. F
 
 is GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 small an item of humanity as Gerald was 
 little likely further to trouble the mind of 
 his generous master. She even said — " Oh, 
 thank you, sir !" and the magnate made no 
 objection to her gratitude. 
 
 But Mr. Tympan had Gerald's act and 
 deed in his desk, and he was not going to 
 relinquish its advantages simply because a 
 tearful mother entreated him to be merci- 
 ful. Besides, the boy's desertion was the 
 topic of the office. It was erected into an 
 example, to be followed or not as it might 
 be dangerous or safe. The youth with 
 the bullet head and the short hair began to 
 feel that a printing office crippled and con- 
 fined his natural talents. He was quicken- 
 ing for Barnum ! He was prepared to 
 desert upon finding desertion safe ; so were 
 several others. Indeed, in Mr. Tympan's 
 office, at that particular time, desertion was 
 epidemic. 
 
 No wonder then that the magnate, being 
 apprised of this fact, resolved to show no
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 99 
 
 mercy, and to commence those proceedings 
 conceraing himself, the City Chamberlain, 
 and Gerald, which had their result in the 
 abduction just recorded. 
 
 Having made a beginning, he thought it 
 well to go on thoroughly. His example 
 must be striking and terrific. He went to 
 the composing room, where he saw Wilham 
 Grey busy at his frame. 
 
 " Grey," said the magnate. 
 
 " Yes, sir," returned the journeyman, 
 stepping out promptly. 
 
 " Your nephew has run away from his 
 business ; he has set a bad example to his 
 fellow apprentices ; his parents have con- 
 spired to set me at defiance ! You brought 
 him here, you answered that he was an honest 
 lad, you said that his parents were respect- 
 able. In a fortnight from this day I shall 
 have no need of your services." And the 
 magnate walked majestically away. 
 
 Uncle William was thunderstruck ! From 
 a boy he had earned his subsistence in that 
 office. He had come to look upon himself
 
 loo GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 as belonging to it, as a fixture, as something 
 not to be separated from it while its walls 
 held together and its machines were going. 
 lie was the " father of the chapel," the 
 referee and arbiter of all questions that 
 arose among his fellow workmen. By 
 his fellow workmen he was looked up to and 
 respected as a Nestor ! AVhen Mr. Tympan 
 was a dirty little vagabond, picked from the 
 streets by a mendicity officer, and thought 
 just good enough to sweep the workshop, 
 "William Grey was hopefully learning his 
 business there ; was the pattern boy of the 
 place ; — and the dirty little vagabond w^as glad 
 to run of errands for him, to wait about his 
 table as a dog might ; to do anything, in 
 fact, that put reward into his mouth or his 
 pocket. 
 
 And now ! Where was the justice of 
 fate? where the propriety of circumstance ? 
 Here w as this boy — certainly larger, less dirty, 
 and not so eager for halfpence as of old — 
 coming into the composing-room, and by the
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 101 
 
 mere wind of his harsh eloquence, blowing 
 away the traditions of a life, forgetting- 
 the service that had endured for a quarter of 
 a century, and flinging a man past the meri- 
 dian of viour upon the rude waves of an ad- 
 venturous subsistence ! 
 
 Never before had William been hurt by 
 enry of ]\Ir. Tympan and his prosperity. 
 As the errand-boy's course developed itself ; 
 as he left the streets for the warehouse, the 
 warehouse for the desk saved money, and 
 lent it at startling interest to his fellows ; 
 and finally, the iron being quite hot, i. e. 
 his master dying — Mr. Tympan struck it, 
 and married the widow. Uncle William had 
 made no envious comment; but, content 
 with his own position, had served one master 
 as he had served the other. But now, con- 
 scious of insult, burning with a sense of 
 wrong, and cherishing a mistaken feeling of 
 degradation, he cursed the man as ^.parvenu,, 
 and called upon Heaven to remedy an 
 injustice !
 
 102 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 That night he left his work, in a strange 
 Immoiir. Half-a-dozen sympathetic friends 
 pressed round him ; but he repelled them 
 rudely, and shrunk from their offers of 
 service. He went home — he was unmarried, 
 and had no great love to soothe and support 
 him — and there he pondered on his disgrace. 
 He persisted in thinking it a disgrace. His 
 judgment was warped, and could find no 
 remedy for, no palHation of, the wrong. 
 He was degraded ; he was hurled from his 
 high position ; as a working man, he was 
 ruined ! These thoughts oppressed him, 
 and effected a radical change in his cha- 
 racter. He had no pride in his business 
 now. While he remained with Mr. Tympan 
 he laboured with a dull careless instinct, 
 every day serving him less efficiently ; and 
 at the end of the prescribed fortnight, so 
 poor a workman was Uncle William, that 
 the labour of his hands would scarcely be 
 missed in the establishment from which he 
 was ejected !
 
 GEI?ALD FITZGERALD. 103 
 
 He had been frufral, and had saved a Uttle 
 money. This, perhaps, was his misfortune ; 
 foi-, thinking- as he did, the money served 
 only to keep him for a time in idleness. He 
 made no attempt to obtain employment ; 
 but wandered about, hurling anathemas 
 against his wronger and complaining of the 
 grievous relations of labour and capital. 
 Mr. Tympan was capital ; he was labour, 
 Mr. Tympan had done him an injury ; there- 
 fore capital simply meant wrong and oppres- 
 sion ! He upheld this belief in conversation ; 
 he liked to hear others uphold it. Let any 
 man get up in the parlour of a pubUc-house, 
 or on a platform, or on a common, and say 
 that a capitalist was a vampire, living upon 
 the life blood of labour, sucking it as he 
 would an orange, and flinging it away when 
 exhausted, — and Uncle William would 
 swear that the speaker talked common 
 sense ! He illustrated all such arguments 
 by his own case ; and he would have over- 
 tuiTied the entire social fabric as a means
 
 lOtt GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 of bringing Mr. Tympaii down with the 
 ruin ! 
 
 He entered, too, upon a new course of 
 life — the life of the pubUc-house ! There, 
 he found men who, for the consideration of 
 a draught from his pewter, would com- 
 miserate with and champion him to the 
 utmost. There he fell in with the Pariahs 
 of his craft, the idle vagabonds who live 
 upon the charity of their fellow w^orkmen, 
 begging from office to office, brimful of lies, 
 boastful of infirmities, and disappointed 
 should their demands for subsistence be met 
 by permission to earn it ! Such men, 
 unhappily, form the lees of every trade, 
 blackening the entire body, and giving 
 it an ill-reputation. They are a vortex, too, 
 in which let an honest artisan once lose 
 himself, and he may be whirled and kept 
 down for ever ^! 
 
 Into this vortex Uncle William was insen- 
 sibly drawn. At first he took his seat at 
 the public-house table as an amateur merely,
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 105 
 
 a freshman, looking on in wonder, and shy 
 of his novitiate. Then he graduated ; 
 he became a fellow, and by consequence the 
 public-house was his principal resort. 
 His companions were blear-eyed, bottle- 
 nosed impostors ; men who lived upon beer 
 and tobacco, and fouled the winds wherever 
 they wandered ! They hung about Uncle 
 William ; they expresed their great love for 
 him ; they drank his beer and smoked his 
 tobacco ; they rejoiced in his independence 
 of labour , — and the adulation lasted just so 
 long as he had money. 
 
 It was while affairs were in this condition 
 that Gerald was taken to the City Bride- 
 well. ^Ir. Grey, coming home, and hearing 
 the ten-ible news, hastened off to confront 
 the magnate. 
 
 " You've sent, sir — you've sent, my boy 
 to prison !" said the poor man. " You've 
 taken an honest lad, and put him among 
 vagabonds. What do you mean, sir ?" 
 
 F 2
 
 106 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 Mr. Tympan asked his usual first ques- 
 tion, — 
 
 " Who are you ?" 
 
 "I'm the lad's father!" replied Mr. 
 Grey, hotly. 
 
 " Then, who is the lad ?" asked the 
 magnate. 
 
 " Gerald, Gerald Grey ; he was one of 
 your apprentices." 
 
 " Was one of my apprentices !" said Mr. 
 Tympan. " You mean he is one of them ! 
 And, as such, having misbehaved himself, 
 the law has taken its course !" 
 
 " The law !" said Mr. Grey, bitterly. 
 " What do you mean by setting the law 
 upon such a child as that ? Why didn't 
 you set it upon his father ? Why didn't 
 you set it upon me ?" 
 
 " Because," replied the magnate, with ad- 
 mirable coolness, " you're not my appren- 
 tice, you see." 
 
 Mr. Grey was bewildered ; but, staring
 
 GERALD FITZGEE.iLD. 107 
 
 through the rails of the counting-house, he 
 put a plain question. 
 
 " And won't you release him ? — won't you 
 get him at once out of the place you've 
 sent him to ?" 
 
 "My good man," replied ]\Ir. Tympan, 
 " you ask for an impossibility. Put your- 
 self in my position — goveraing a score of 
 lads who require the very strictest discipline 
 to keep them at all in order ; who would 
 defy me and run away one after the other 
 if they could do so with impunity. Con- 
 sider what would be the effect if they saw 
 one of their number escape punishment for 
 disobedience ; and then, if you have the 
 hardihood, ask me to release your son !" 
 
 Mr. Grey could not put himself in the 
 position of the magnate. 
 
 " Will you," he said persistently, " release 
 Gerald?" 
 
 " My good man, I'm busy, and the law 
 must take it's course," was the reply. 
 
 Mr. Tympan was surrounded by rails, and
 
 108 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 barricaded by ledgers. He sat on a bigh 
 stool, quite beyond tbe reach of Mr. Grey's 
 arm. It was well that he did, or the good 
 man might have committed himself. He 
 had serious thoughts of seizing the magnate, 
 shaking a pardon from his lips, and flinging 
 him back to his pandemonium. But there 
 were the rails — there the ledgers. Besides, 
 upon second thoughts, there was the law ! 
 So ^Ir. Grey left the place sullenly, and 
 went to seek his brother in the printing 
 office. 
 
 "Grey?" said a youth, when the good 
 man enquired, "Oh he don't work here 
 now. He's been gone this long time." 
 
 " Gone ?" 
 
 " Yes. He was sacked because his nephew 
 ran away. If you want him, I dare say 
 you'll find him at the Society House. He's 
 mostly there now." 
 
 The good man went away. His heart 
 was heavy, troubles seemed to come thick 
 upon him. Surely misfortune followed
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 109 
 
 Gerald ! But what did William do at the 
 house of call? Such a workman should 
 command employment, not wait for it in a 
 tavern ! These were Mr. Grey's thoughts 
 as he neared the new refuge of his hrother. 
 
 Loitering about the doors of the house 
 were a few of that brother's companions, 
 greasy, dissolute-looldng men, clothed like 
 scarecrows, unwashed, unshaven, offering no 
 evidence of clean linen, indeed, not showing 
 linen of any kind, and generally distasteful 
 to the eye and poisonous to the sense of 
 smell. These formed an out-post. The main 
 body was in the pubUc-house parlour, leaning 
 upon tables, standing by the fire-place, or 
 lying at full length upon the seats. In the 
 very midst of them, smoking a pipe, was 
 Uncle William. 
 
 There was a great stir when J\Ir. Grey 
 entered. Who was he? What did he 
 want ? A dozen pair of eyes seemed to 
 ask these questions. William was the last 
 to look up. When he did so, seeing his
 
 110 GERALD FITZGEPv.VLD. 
 
 brother, lie shuffled his pipe aside, and said, 
 " Gerald." 
 
 " William," said ]\Ir. Grey, offering his 
 hand, and receiving a few warm, clammy 
 finders in return. 
 
 " Won't you sit down?" asked William. 
 
 " No, not here," said the good man, 
 looking suspiciously around. " And at such 
 a time in the day, who could have expected 
 to find you here !" 
 
 " Ah, who — who indeed ! It isn't as it 
 used to be, is it Gerald ? I didn't come 
 here once. But what does it matter ? 
 This is a very good place ; and these are 
 very good fellows ; only they can't get work. 
 They're waiting for it now." 
 
 " Well," said Mr. Grey, impatiently, " I 
 want to talk to you. Get up, and walk 
 home with me." 
 
 " What, go home with you? Go and see — 
 and see — Mary ? Why, look at me !" 
 
 Mr. Grey did look at him, and the 
 scrutiny was a sad one. Akeady, he had
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. Ill 
 
 begun to take the complexion of his 
 companions. But what of that ? Happily, 
 his brother had come to the rescue ! 
 He was led, murmuring slightly, from 
 the room. As the two men walked 
 along, the one told his tale of injury and 
 disgrace, — told it in a querulous, carping, 
 tone, and with many invectives against 
 Mr. Tympan. There was no wholesome 
 indignation in the speaker; his story was 
 a complaint, a whine. And the moral of 
 it was that he was ruined ! 
 
 " And it's my opinion," he said, " that 
 the whole system's wrong. There should be 
 no master, no man ; the real employers are 
 the public ; there should be no middleman 
 standing between the consumer and the pro- 
 ducer. If I want a coat, the man who 
 actually makes it should have the whole of 
 the price, not a moiety of it." 
 
 " Itubbish !" said Mr. Grey, as he listened 
 to this well-worn jargon. " You never used 
 to talk such nonsense."
 
 112 GERALD FlTZGEilALD. 
 
 " Nonsense !" replied William, " Well, as 
 you please, brother ; you have your opinion, 
 I have mine. But your opinion would up- 
 hold Mr. Tympan in growing- rich upon my 
 labour and t!ie labour of others, and then 
 flinging me upon the world to do as I can." 
 
 " It would uphold no such thing !'* said 
 the good man, impatiently. " I am as much 
 at war with ISIr. Tympan as you. What 
 do you think ? He has sent Gerald to the 
 City Bridewell — to prison !" 
 
 " Well !" replied William, really asto- 
 nished. " Then he has two victims. But 
 don't you see that this carries out what I 
 say ? AVhy should he have power to do 
 this ? Under a different system, such a 
 thing could never happen." 
 
 INIr. Grey made no reply. He had hoped 
 for some useful advice from his brother ; some 
 assistance in Gerald's difficulty. But he 
 found that the man's practical good sense 
 had left him, — its place filled by abstract 
 notions of right and wTong that only made 
 confusion worse confounded !
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 How lono' Gerald mio^ht have remained In 
 durance, if j\Ir. Tympan had had the order- 
 ing of justice, may be conceived from the 
 foregoing. Probably the poor boy would 
 have picked oakum for a month, been twice 
 privately whipped, and then sent back to do 
 better with his old master. But iMr. Tympan 
 had not the ordering of justice — justice did 
 not even regard him with a favourable eye ; 
 for he seemed to come for her decision 
 vindictively, and to believe that her only 
 office was to punish. 
 
 The Chamberlain was a mild, generous
 
 114 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 man ; his leaning was always, as the law 
 prescribes that it shall be, to the unfortunate. 
 The good, honest face of Gerald's father ; 
 his plain statement of facts ; the boy's own 
 artless and tearful confession ; and lastly, 
 the scene described by INIrs. Grey as having 
 happened in the magnate's counting house 
 when she went to ask the great man's pardon; 
 impressed the Chamberlain with an idea that 
 this was a case to be judged rather by 
 the light of equity than law. He asked 
 Mr. Tympan in a persuasive tone if he would 
 forgive the lad ? 
 
 " Forgive him — and why? That half a 
 dozen others may follow his example ? — That 
 the whole office may revolt ? — If I were to 
 do anything of the kind, my place would be 
 in a tumult of revolution !" 
 
 " Mr. Tympan," said the Chamberlain, 
 quietly but solemnly. " Has it never oc- 
 curred to you that you have a duty to per- 
 form to these apprentices of equal impor- 
 tance to that they are bound to render to
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 115 
 
 you ? This duty is one of consideration 
 and care for their health, habits, and general 
 control while on your establishment. Have 
 you performed this duty ? I should think 
 not ; or why should those apprentices re- 
 maining to you celebrate as a triumph the 
 escape of one of their number from your 
 dominion ? You say they would do this, and 
 I think it is the worst evidence you could 
 offer with a view to the punishment of this 
 poor lad. He did his duty while he could, 
 he acted entirely under the control of his 
 parents when he left you ; and those parents 
 were, not unreasonably, led to believe that 
 you had forgiven him. I can only advise 
 that the indentures should be cancelled." 
 
 This was the Chamberlain's judgment. 
 Immediately upon its conclusion, Mrs. Grey, 
 who had watched the speaker with an 
 anxiety so intense that her face was painful 
 to look at, — burst into joyful tears ; Mr. 
 Grey rubbed his sleeve across his eyes, 
 looked at the judge, and muttered " God
 
 116 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 bless you, sir !" and Gerald leaped, ratlief 
 than ran into the embrace of his mother ! 
 As for ]\Ir. Tympan, that good gentleman 
 took a pinch of snuif, sneezed violently, 
 blew his nose loudly, as if in defiance, and 
 left the place without further demon- 
 stration. 
 
 Uncle William was waiting outside. When 
 he heard that Gerald was free, he merely 
 said " Ah ! he's lucky, very lucky, to escape 
 the fangs of that scoundrel." And then he 
 fell to his general topic, and reduced the 
 whole affair to a simple question of labour 
 and capital, the relative positions of which 
 he pronounced to be at the bottom of all our 
 social evils. 
 
 Although happy in his son's release, ]VIr. 
 Grey was grieving for his brother. The 
 question was ever recurring to him — " What 
 brought William to this?" — He wished to 
 recall the poor fellow to his old habits ; to 
 rescue him from the dissolute vagabondism 
 into which he was evidently falling. With
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 117 
 
 this view, when they reached home, and 
 William w^as with difficulty induced to sit 
 down with them, Mr. Grey, by some unseen 
 means, hinted to his wife that he desired to 
 be alone with his brother. So she left the 
 room, taking- Gerald with her ; and the two 
 men were at liberty to talk in confidence. 
 
 "My dear William," said Mr. Grey, 
 " me and my boy have brought you to this. 
 It is my duty to restore you to what you 
 have been. Why can't you look for another 
 situation ? — Why not find something, what- 
 ever it is, to employ you ? While you are 
 idle, I am wretched. Now, come, William, 
 do, for my sake, look for work. Do, there's 
 a good fellow ! If you don't, but keep 
 going on like this, why, really, I shall think 
 you do it to reproach me for what's passed 
 and can't be helped now. You'll get work, 
 won t you i 
 
 " Aint I looking for it, waiting for it, 
 every day?*' said William, in an equivocal, 
 querulous tone. " What more can I do?"
 
 118 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 " Get it !" said Mr. Grey, firmly. 
 
 "And where?" asked the brotlier. 
 " Would you have me go back to iSlv. 
 Tympan ; and, on my knees — mind, on my 
 knees ! — ask his pardon, and beg him to 
 employ me ? — Would you " 
 
 " William,'' said Mr. Grey, sternly. 
 " Don't talk like that." 
 
 " Then what," said the other, — " would 
 you have me do ?" 
 
 " Are you a man ?" exclaimed Mr. Grey, 
 who, not quite understanding his brother's 
 malady, thought this helplessness was as- 
 sumed and unreal, " Can you sit there and 
 tell me, that because one man won't give you 
 work no one else will ? ^Oh, William ! this 
 is too bad. God send that my poor boy had 
 never seen the place ! It's ill enough to 
 know that his being there has done you 
 harm. But that you should whine and 
 whimper about it, and pretend that it's 
 ruined you for I'fe, and there's no remedy, — 
 Oh, William, — I thought quite different of 
 you !"
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 119 
 
 Mr. Grey rose from his chair. He Avas 
 impatient of the conversation. Hard-work- 
 ing, industrious, as he was, his brother's 
 conduct seemed to him mean and unworthy. 
 What would he have done in a similar case ? 
 Why, moved the world to find work, and 
 considered it his duty to do so, if only to 
 relieve the pain and anxiety of those who 
 had innocently brought him to such a pass ! 
 These were Mr. Grey's thoughts; and he 
 could not help believing that if he and his 
 family had unwittingly injured his brother, 
 that brother was now perversely endea- 
 vouring to injure him. 
 
 Presently William rose. He felt thirsty ; 
 he longed for the sustenance and society 
 of the public-house parlour. 
 " Good bye, Gerald," said he. 
 " Good bye, William," said Mr. Grey. 
 A kind thought came to him ; he seized 
 the hand of his broth (^r, and pressed it 
 heartily. " Do you want money, William ?" 
 he said.
 
 120 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 " No," was the reply, " not at present." 
 
 *' You will get work, then ?" 
 
 " Why, how you bother me about work, 
 Gerald ! I suppose you're frightened I shall 
 come upon you. But I shan't. There's 
 the parish, you know ; there's the parish !" 
 
 This was too much for Mr. Grey. With 
 an angry word, he flung the door to, and as 
 the harsh sound smote upon his ear, it seemed 
 as though that shock rent asunder the tie of 
 blood between them ! 
 
 In a few weeks after this, Gerald w^as 
 satisfactorily installed as a pupil at the studio 
 of Mr. Maguire. The arrangement was 
 satisfactory both to the artist and the 
 neophyte. The one it supplied with a little 
 ready cash ; the other with prospective profit 
 and honour. 
 
 Mr. Maguire was much taken with Gerald. 
 He saw capability in him ; " and where there 
 is capability, you know, sir (the artist said 
 to jNIr. Grey, on the occasion of the arrange- 
 ments being completed), there is every
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 121 
 
 prospect of success : Indeed, where there is 
 capahihty, what is there not?" Mr. Grey 
 was very much impressed with this way of 
 putting the matter ; and in confidence he 
 afterwards told his wife that he thought 
 I\Ir. Maguire a wonderful creature, whose 
 conversation was that of a learned man 
 and a gentleman. 
 
 ]\Ionths, years passed thus — a boy's 
 months and years pass very rapidly ! — 
 and Gerald grew to paint as well, aye, 
 better than his preceptor, Mr. Maguire 
 saw this, and he was honest about it. 
 He paid a visit to i\Ir. Grey and told him 
 so; and Mr. Grey laughingly said that 
 perhaps, then, they might be of service to 
 one another. He said this upon the artist's 
 warranty ; he would never have presumed to 
 advance it upon his own. But he was so 
 pleased with Mr. Maguire, that he advised 
 Gerald to stay with him. At the same time 
 he said a word or two upon another point : 
 
 " And if, you know, Gerald, you could 
 
 VOL. L G
 
 122 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 begin to paint any of those pictures that 
 people would buy, perhaps it wouldn't be 
 any harm. See what you can do, my boy. 
 I don't mind keeping you while you are 
 learninf) this pretty business of yours ; 
 though, you see, it's not like any other busi- 
 ness, where you get paid almost as soon 
 as you begin it ; but as ^Ir. ^laguire says you 
 can do so well, and you say you can do so 
 well, why it might be no harm to get some- 
 body else's opinion ; and the best opinion 
 you could get would be a golden one !" 
 
 Gerald went to work full of this idea ; 
 but very humbly. He wandered about pic- 
 turesque places in the suburbs, with his port- 
 folio and pencils, trying to find a fit subject 
 for the market. Many sketches were made 
 and discarded. At last he thought he had 
 made the right one. He hurried to the 
 studio, stretched his canvass, rubbed in his 
 ground work, and made a beginning. Alas ! 
 his eagerness betrayed him. The picture 
 was a hideous affair — a sharp, hasty, glaring
 
 GEBALD FITZGERALD. 123 
 
 absurdity ; a thing- Mr. INIaguire was 
 ashamed of and Gerald disgusted with ! 
 
 He made another trial, and found another 
 scene. He walked home quietly, looked at 
 his sketch, laid it aside, thought over it, 
 and took it up again. Even then the pic- 
 ture was not begun. He went once more 
 to the scene, and saw it under a different 
 aspect. The last aspect was the best ; so the 
 whole sketch must be altered. This was 
 done, and a week or two afterwards Gerald 
 carefully conveyed home an original pic- 
 ture, marked in the corner with " G. G.," 
 and pronounced by ]\Ir. Maguire to be 
 worthy of the Academy ! 
 
 And now for the market. Who was to 
 buy it ? This was a very serious ques- 
 tion ; it altogether puzzled and got over the 
 Greys. So the picture was taken back to Mr. 
 jNIaguire, and the worthy artist, holding it 
 in his hand, and regarding it admiringly, 
 said — 
 
 " Ah, Gerald, if, instead of ' G. G.,' this
 
 124 GERALD FITZGKRALD. 
 
 canvass had ' X. Y. Z.' in the corner — T 
 don't mean ' X. Y. Z.,* but you know who 
 — we needn't ask who'd buy it. Carriages 
 would be at our door, half a hundred eye- 
 glasses would glitter and glance before the 
 glorious work, and ere the colour was well 
 dry, the picture would be bought, paid for, 
 and hung up in a gallery ! As it is, what 
 shall we do with it ? — what can we do with 
 it ? Gerald, my boy, it must go to the fur- 
 niture brokers !" 
 
 In due time Gerald's landscape was ele- 
 vated to the dignity suggested by IMr. 
 ]\Iaguire, and was exposed for sale in close 
 companionship with a fishing-rod and an 
 eio-ht-dav clock. How often did Gerald 
 pass and repass his cherished labour, won- 
 dering why it remained so long unpurchased, 
 — why people of taste kept away from the 
 neighbourhood, and perversely slighited the 
 jewel enshrined there ! Day after day, 
 week after week, it hung in the same dismal 
 com.panionship ; the shopman brought it
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 125 
 
 out morning- after morning, like any other 
 article of furniture, and rubbed it with 
 his apron much as he would rub a table, 
 and hung it up, and ticketed it, and 
 thouofht no more of it than if it were a 
 coal-scuttle or a warming-pan ! But there 
 is a crisis in the career of most things : one 
 day, as fate would have it for the last 
 time, the shopman hung it up as usual. 
 Gerald passed the place the next day, and 
 the picture was gone ! 
 
 Mr. Maguire went with a very confident 
 air to enquire about it — " Have you sold 
 my picture ? Oh, you have ; ah, I thought 
 it would go off. Capital thing ; send you 
 another soon." 
 
 Mr. Maguire was just leaving the shop 
 when the man stopped him ; he had a sug- 
 guestion to make. The picture certainly 
 did sell, but not for a long time ; hadn't 
 Mr. Maguire something with more life in 
 it ? Pigs went off well ; so did dogs, par- 
 ticulirly the King Charles's. Mr. Maguire
 
 126 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 smiled, nodded, and said he would consider 
 the matter ; he would try and send some 
 pigs next week. 
 
 A month or two aftenvards that parti- 
 cular broker's was distinguished beyond all 
 others for its splendid collection of painted 
 animals ; the place was a very menagerie of 
 art ! Mr. INIaguire had been at work ; he 
 had taken kindly to the man's suggestion ; 
 and one evening, after a happy monetary 
 transaction with the broker, J\lr. j\Iaguire 
 gave Gerald a supper, and the first toast he 
 proposed was — " Here's to the pigs — and 
 dogs !" 
 
 One day a carriage drove up to the 
 artist's door. It put the whole neighbour- 
 hood in a ferment, and drew fifty heads 
 out of window ! An old gentleman de- 
 scended from the carriage and rang the 
 artist's bell. He was shown into the studio. 
 
 "You painted this picture, I beheve ?" 
 said he, showing Mr. ^laguire Gerald's 
 landscape.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 127 
 
 " No, I did not," replied the artist, hesi- 
 tatingly.] 
 
 " Oh, you did not? Well, then, I have 
 been deceived. I wish you good morning." 
 " One moment, sir," said Mr. Maguire, 
 *' I know who did paint it; in fact, it was 
 painted here." 
 " By a pupil ?" 
 " Exactly," replied the artist. 
 " Where is he ? — is he here ? — can I see 
 him?" 
 
 The old gentleman spoke brusquely, and 
 scarcely gave any one time to answer him. 
 In this case ^h\ jMaguire had no occasion 
 to answer ; for Gerald, who had been in the 
 background, listening anxiously and trem- 
 bling with hope and expectation, now came 
 forward, and his confusion, his blushes, and 
 the anxious ingenuousness of his counte- 
 nance, marked him as the favoured artist. 
 
 The old gentleman passed his hand across 
 his eyes, and stared very hard at the youth, 
 lie fancied he had seen somebody Uke him
 
 128 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 before, and the resemblance called up sad, 
 serious recollections ! But only for a mo- 
 ment. Looldng pleasantly at Gerald, he 
 said, still preserving his brusque, business- 
 like tone — 
 
 " You painted the picture, did you ?" 
 
 *' Yes," replied Gerald, modestly. 
 
 " And you could paint a fellow to it ?" 
 
 " Oh, certainly, sir." 
 
 " Not so certainly," exclaimed the old 
 gentlemen. " But it's quite possible. At 
 any rate, you can try." 
 
 " And mth my pupil, sir, to try is to 
 succeed!" said Mr. Maguire, with some 
 grandeur of tone. 
 
 , " Oh, indeed !" rephed the old gentleman, 
 eyeing the elder artist curiously. " Your 
 pupil, then, is a favoured being." 
 
 There was an unpleasant emphasis laid by 
 the old gentleman upon the words " your 
 pupil," w^hich Mr. Maguire scarcely re- 
 lished ; and indeed the old gentleman did 
 not mean the artist to relish it ; for, unused 
 as he was to Mr. Maguire's magnificence of
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 129 
 
 manner, and knowing nothing of his real 
 goodness of heart, the old gentleman had 
 his suspicions of the poor fellow, disliked 
 his forwardness, and thought that but for 
 Gerald's presence, he might not have dis- 
 claimed the picture. Besides, the old gen. 
 tleman was rich, he was accustomed to talk 
 himself, not to listen ; andin his presence 
 people mostly shut their mouths till they 
 were asked to open them. 
 
 " Well, young sir," he said, turning to 
 Gerald, " make an attempt — see what you 
 can do. You are scarcely old enough to be 
 spoiled by conceit. There's my card. Bring 
 me a picture from your own hand worthy 
 to hang by the side of this, and I will give 
 you — never mind what ; you shall not be 
 disappointed." 
 
 The old gentleman scarcely noticed Mr. 
 Maofuirc as he left the studio. Gerald fol- 
 lowed him to the door, saw him get into his 
 carriage, heard the steps go bang, bang, 
 bang ! and then looked about him 
 
 G 2
 
 130 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 and wondered where he was ! In fairy- 
 land ? Oh, yes, it must he I else why 
 these wonderful changes — these magic 
 strokes of fortune ? Oh, ye who are rich ! 
 the power you hold eclipses that of Oberon, 
 Titania, or any of the moonshine miracles 
 of fancy ! You may work upon the human 
 heart so that from a dry desert it shall be- 
 come an oasis ; you may change curses into 
 prayers, tears into smiles, disease into 
 health ! Why, oh why, not do this oftener ! 
 
 From fairyland at the door the youth re- 
 turned to fact in the studio. There stood 
 Mr. Maguire, his head turned from Gerald, 
 his action strange, his attention apparently 
 absorbed in criticising one of his own pictures. 
 The youth wondered. Why did his pre- 
 ceptor turn aside instead of congratulating 
 him upon his good fortune ? 
 
 " Sir," said Gerald. 
 
 " My good boy," returned the artist, not 
 moving from his position, " what is it?" 
 
 The man's voice was thick and tremulous,
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 131 
 
 his gaunt frame shook with the influence of 
 some agonising emotion. There was no 
 mistaking his shyness. That pompous, 
 magniloquent man was crying bitterly — 
 crying so that his breast heaved and his 
 head dropped as an actor's might ! The 
 loose sleeves of his blouse were at his eyes ; 
 he was trying to brush away the fast-flowing 
 tears. At last he fell into a chair and hid 
 his face altogether ! 
 
 Gerald was at his knee, trying to secure 
 the hand of his preceptor. 
 
 ^' My dear sir," he said, "how is this? 
 What have I done to grieve you ?" 
 
 " Nothing, my boy, nothing," said the 
 artist, squeezing kindly the hand that 
 sought his own, " you have not grieved me ; 
 but I am foolish, over-sensitive, and too sus- 
 ceptible to slight or neglect. I am a gen- 
 tleman, my boy, and yet your friend treated 
 me as he might have treated a beggar \ 
 I asked him for nothing, and yet he 
 refused me even his courtesy. That 
 I should be humbled in the moment of your
 
 132 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 triumph seemed hard to me ; it did, indeed, 
 Gerald ! God knows that I rejoice in your 
 success, my dear boy ! I love you for your 
 genius. What am I that I should do any- 
 thing else? — a poor, desertless devil, a 
 dauber of canvass, a painter of dogs ! pigs ! — 
 nothing more. There, my boy, take no no- 
 tice of me ; I'm a fool 1" 
 
 Mr. Masfuire shook Gerald's hand as he 
 said this, and left the studio. When he 
 returned he was cheerful, wore a smiling 
 face, and was himself again. But he had 
 somethino: on his mind, somethino^ for w^hich 
 he wanted a confidant. He relieved him- 
 self at last. 
 
 " Gerald, my boy, there is a tide in the 
 affairs of man ; Shakespeare says there is, 
 and I'd sooner beheve Shakespeare than the 
 bench of bishops. Well, I mean to take 
 this tide at the turn and see what it wall do 
 for me. I shall sell up, pack up, and be 
 off to America. Not another pig will I 
 paint."
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 133 
 
 The artist kept his word. While paint- 
 ing his companion picture Gerald was dis- 
 turbed. The landlady came to ask him if 
 he would succeed Mr. Maguire and rent the 
 two parlours. Elated by his success, Gerald 
 asked himself — why not ? Besides, as he 
 remarked to his preceptor when they shook 
 hands and parted, perhaps for ever, — when 
 the artist should return, there would be the 
 place as of old ; there would be his home 
 again. Gerald would hold it, if only for 
 that hospitable purpose. 
 
 " My dear boy," said Mr. Maguire, "you 
 should say ffl return ! Understand me — I 
 shall roll over the Falls of Niagara, or drop 
 quietly from a Mississippi steamboat, if fate 
 doesn't use me better than it has done. 
 If I return, I shall return a new man. My 
 dear, dear boy ! good bye, God bless you, 
 and give you fame and fortune !" 
 
 Gerald wept, his preceptor departed.
 
 CHAPTER yill 
 
 Eton had done all it could for the two 
 brothers. In one it had implanted a love 
 for learning, in the other a distaste for it. 
 But he who loved learning was to leave it ; 
 he who slighted it, was to have it still for 
 his mistress, his gentle mother, his Alma 
 Mate?' ! Strange contrariety of fate ; but 
 there was no help for it. Roger Maldon was 
 about to enter a college ; Richard to join 
 a regiment of the line. 
 
 The portions for younger children in the 
 Maldon family were miserably small, ser- 
 \ing merely to set them going in life. The
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD, 135 
 
 boys had generally chosen the profession of 
 arms, and therefore the army came to be 
 looked upon as their natural refuge. Some 
 had turned out well ; had come to command 
 regiments when their heads were grey and 
 their energies wasted ; had been mentioned 
 in despatches from the times of Monk and 
 ]Marlborough to the days of Burgoyne and 
 Wellington ; and had reaped those mortuary 
 honours which in country churchyards some- 
 times startle us with their tales of valour 
 and victory ! Others had died early, fag- 
 ging on foreign stations, or falling in unre- 
 corded skirmishes ; their deaths creating 
 commotion only among their juniors who 
 were waiting for a step. Even now the 
 Baronet had a brother serving abroad ; a 
 man as completely forgotten as tliough the 
 grass grew over him and the wind whistled 
 his epitaph ! Tlie army, then, was the place 
 for Richard Maldon. 
 
 But the poor fellow dreaded his fate. Not 
 that he was cowardly, or feared to meet his
 
 136 GERALD FITZGERALD, 
 
 fellow man in just warfare. But the pro- 
 fession Vv^as distasteful to him. For various 
 reasons he behoved himself to be unfit for 
 it. His habits were studious ; his love was 
 ^ven to learning. He would have had 
 Minerva unhelmetted and deprived of her 
 belligerent associations. From his Pantheon 
 ho excluded warriors ! Give him a pen, and 
 you might turn your sword into a plough- 
 share ! — a library, and what to him were 
 the spoils of India ? And at the basis of 
 these feelings was a sense of personal un- 
 fitness — a shrinking from comparison with 
 those upon whom nature had showered 
 favours of form and feature. Alas, alas ! 
 nature had neglected him ; had flung him 
 roughly among his fellows, and forgotten 
 those finishing touches which from the vain 
 world win respect and admiration ! 
 
 Such were the feelings of Richard ]\Ialdon, 
 when, after a short sojourn at the Priory, 
 he found himself gazetted as an ensign in 
 her Majesty's Blank regiment of foot. For
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 137 
 
 a long time the money that secured this 
 misery to him had been deposited at the 
 Horse Guards ; for years the interest that 
 helped the money had been obtained. There 
 was no escape for Richard. He must be a 
 soldier, and bear her Majesty's commission. 
 He felt as well able to be Atlas and bear 
 the world ! 
 
 Her Majesty's Blank regiment of foot 
 was a " crack" regiment. After the 
 Brahmins, it was the favourite. Now and 
 then a Brahmin exchanged into it, com- 
 manded it, left it for the staff, and made 
 way for another Brahmin — a process com- 
 mon in those days of distinction between 
 the g-uards and the line. It was commanded 
 by a Brahmin now. It was split into de- 
 tachments, some abroad, some in Ireland, 
 some in garrison and barrack towns at 
 home. The lieutenant-colonel was an easy 
 man, well connected, and gratified that there 
 was much good blood in his regiment. He 
 winked at the reputation of his officers for
 
 138 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 fast and furious living- ; ho lived fast and 
 furiously himself. From him the young 
 gentlemen seldom met with measures 
 of severity ; and therefore among them- 
 selves they were exceedingly jolly, and 
 had nothing to complain of except when a 
 subaltern grew restive, took objection to 
 be pulled from his bed to perform the sword 
 exercise, disliked having his door smashed 
 in and cold Avater flung upon him, or turned 
 rusty upon other matters of a Uke pleasing 
 and mihtary nature. 
 
 To this regiment Richard Maldon was in- 
 troduced. AVith these young gentlemen he 
 had to mess, consort, and make himself 
 comfortable. 
 
 He got on very well the first day, for the 
 officers' quarters were almost empty. There 
 was a race somewhere, and in the evening 
 the subalterns had a bespeak at the local 
 theatre. But the second day was a trial 
 for him. He sat down to dinner with his 
 new companions. They were facetious ;
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 139 
 
 they whispered to and winked at one 
 another ; they made a great point of taking 
 wine with the new man, and laughing when 
 the new man put the wine to his hps. The 
 evening came, and the young gentlemen 
 went to billiards. 
 
 " Will you join us?" they said. 
 
 Richard declined the invitation, and went 
 to his room. He got out his books and read. 
 Presently he was disturbed : a subaltern 
 burst his door open — 
 
 " What are you doing ? "What the deuce 
 are you reading about ?" said the sub. 
 
 Richard, determined to forbear and be 
 polite, showed the intruder the Commentaries. 
 
 "Bosh! rubbish! ridiculous!" said the 
 subaltern. " You might as well read Cock 
 Robin ! Havn't you finished your educa- 
 tion ? A barrack isn't a school, you know. 
 Egad ! you're a disgrace to us !" 
 
 Richard smiled — " Is study disgraceful?" 
 he asked.
 
 140 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 "Kather! — I should think so at your 
 time of life." 
 
 " Well, I'm sorry for that. But reading 
 is my recreation." 
 
 " Indeed," was the reply. " Well, I 
 should advise you to give it up, and take to 
 billiards." 
 
 The young gentleman then went away, 
 and Richard looked to the fastening of his 
 door. Alas ! the powerful arm of the subaltern 
 had driven all before it. The fastening was 
 broken, so Kichard must sleep insecure ! 
 Fearing another visit, he backed up the 
 door with a chest of drawers. 
 
 He had been asleep some time, when he 
 was suddenly aroused. There was a great 
 crash ; the drawers were turned over, and 
 the faces of several subalterns were efrinninsf 
 by the new man's bedside. Then there was 
 a sudden tusr at his sheets. He was landed 
 roughly on the floor, and the contents of a 
 water-jug being thrown over him, he was
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 141 
 
 left to ponder upon the first practical joke 
 of which he was the victim ! 
 
 " Get wet, last night?" said one of the 
 subalterns, when Eichard appeared the next 
 day at mess. 
 
 " I thought I heard the fall of something 
 heavy !" said another, 
 
 Richard was silent. Surelv a submissive 
 demeanour would disarm these young gen- 
 tlemen, and take the zest from the jokes 
 they delighted in ! 
 
 But no ! they followed him up closely ; 
 they pressed him till he retorted. 
 
 " I tell you what, Maldon," said a subal- 
 tern, one day, " if you don't leave off those 
 
 d d quiet habits of yours, and act like 
 
 a man, the whole mess'll cut you Why 
 didn't your father make you a clerk or a 
 schoolmaster, instead of sending you among 
 gentlemen ?" 
 
 " Sir !" said Richard, with a caustic ex- 
 pression of countenance, " my father did 
 what yours must despair of doing ! He sent
 
 142 GEIULD FITZGERALD. 
 
 mc here to be of service to my country, not 
 to trifle with it ; to learn a profession, not 
 to abuse its offices." 
 
 Of course, such language as this was not 
 to be borne in any w^ell-regulated regiment. 
 It was repeated at the mess-table with de- 
 risive cheers ,• it was canvassed Mith a view 
 to the chastisement of its author. Had 
 Richard possessed a horse, the subalterns 
 would have docked its tail ; had he been a 
 fool, they would have frightened him by 
 arrangements for a sham duel. As it was, 
 thev were constant to the known remedies 
 in infantry regiments ; they fell back upon 
 the nocturnal sword exercise, and the mid- 
 night shower-bath. These served their pur- 
 pose : Eichard was driven to send in a 
 written complaint to his superior officer I 
 
 The superior officer was, doubtless, a good 
 soldier in the field. Like most Englishmen, 
 in hajid to hand combat he was probably a 
 hero. He may afterwards have proved his 
 heroism on the bleak heights about Sebas-
 
 GEHALD FITZGERALD. 143 
 
 topol or in the accursed shambles of Delhi ! 
 But as a ruler of young men of his 
 own class — the products of a vicious system, 
 obtaining nowhere beyond the limits of 
 English obstinacy — he was not to be set up 
 as an example. He treated Eichard's com- 
 plaint very coolly, called him a fool for his 
 pains, and hinted to him that there were 
 other regiments in Her Majesty's service 
 where his wfirmiiies might meet with better 
 consideration. 
 
 What was the new man to do ? He 
 might exchange, truly ; but with what cer- 
 tainty of relief? There were subalterns in 
 all regiments ; there was no geographical 
 limit to practical joking. So he determined 
 to suffer patiently, and to wear out his tor- 
 mentors. 
 
 But one of the subalterns, the most pro- 
 minent of the practical jokers, received that 
 mild punishment known as wigging ! He 
 was reprimanded, patted on the back, and 
 told to be a good boy for the future. But 
 this wigging was wormwood to him. He
 
 144 GEKALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 was a youth of birth and fortune ; and he 
 could not stomach reproof, even of the 
 mildest character. Why, — had he not 
 kicked a manager down his own staircase 
 because the man, suddenly and unaccoun- 
 tably taken with a fit of modesty — stood 
 between him and the actresses' dressing- 
 room ! How, then, could he put up with a 
 wigging ? 
 
 He was a great player of billiards; a 
 high priest at the board of green cloth I 
 Put a white ball before him, give him a 
 cue, and he was a genius ! It was delightful 
 to watch him ; but it was terrible to play 
 with him ! 
 
 " Ah, Maldon,*' he' said, " You're doing 
 nothing. Come and have a game." 
 
 This was the third day after the wigging ; 
 and for the last three ni^-hts Richard had 
 slept in peace. He began to think that the 
 subalterns had left olF their tricks, and were 
 offering to him the hand of friendship. He 
 was only too glad to grasp it ; and in proof
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 145 
 
 of his gladness, he went to play with the 
 professor. 
 
 The professor played carelessly, withheld 
 his happiest strokes, and tried to lose. But 
 that was impossible, playing against Richard ! 
 At the end of an hour, several sovereigns 
 had left the pocket of the novice, and gone 
 to the wine merchant for champagne. 
 
 Richard drank, and played on. There 
 was a fascination in the game, after all ! 
 The professor, too, began to show his skill. 
 He cannoned, filled the pockets, and ran over 
 his score, with wondrous rapidity. 
 
 " Play on ?" he said, presently, dropping 
 his cue at the end of a game. 
 
 Richard was anxious and excited. His 
 losses were large. He nodded assent. 
 
 " Pay up, then," said the professor. " I 
 hate the bother of keeping account." 
 
 Richard paid up as far as his means would 
 permit ; but even then, there was a balance 
 against him. So he pledged his credit ; 
 and then, of course, he had a fund inex-* 
 
 VOL. 1. If
 
 1-16 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 haiistible ! No man knows the extent of 
 his means till he has clone something of this 
 kind. But let him once do it, and for a 
 time he may revel in the feelings of a 
 millionaire ! It was so with Richard. He 
 was not playing for money, hut against the 
 professor's little hook ; not for five-pound 
 notes, but merely to add to or subtract from 
 various figures of five recorded by his com- 
 panion's pencil ! Besides, the luck would 
 change ; the game was not all skill. And 
 so the novice went on. 
 
 One page of the note book was covered ; 
 two bottles of champagne had been drunk. 
 
 " Play on?" said the professor, coolly 
 turning over a new leaf — of the book ! 
 
 " Yes," replied Richard, savagely. And 
 he took another cue — always the remedy of 
 a bad player ; mostly the cause of his playing 
 worse ! — balanced it, chalked it, ran it scien- 
 tifically between his fingers, as he had seen 
 his opponent do ; and, beginning a new 
 game, for the twentieth time missed his ball !
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 147 
 
 It v/as pleasant to watch the player now ! 
 You may have seen a certain great viohnist, 
 who might have been pardoned for playing 
 Nero. You may have marked the persuasive 
 grace of his movements; the wondrousdehcacy 
 of his touch ; the dexterous swaying of the 
 arm, which seems to feel out the music 
 rather than play it ! Such movements were 
 those of the professor. Men who fling balls 
 into the air, and catch them with curious 
 dexterity, are called jugglers. The real 
 juggler with balls is such a man as the 
 subaltern ! 
 
 A second leaf of the Httle book was filled 
 when, by mutual consent, the play came to 
 an end. 
 
 " How much do you think you owe me 
 now ?" said the subaltern, casting up, and 
 writing a total. 
 
 Richard shook his head sullenly. There 
 were fumes of champagne troubhng it, and 
 it ached. 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you, for fear you should
 
 1^8 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 forofet. You owe me a cool five hundred ! 
 There's a few pounds over ; but we'll say- 
 five hundred, because it's easy to recollect." 
 
 " Five hundred ! — what ?" said Richard, 
 stupidly. 
 
 *' Pounds, my boy, — pounds !" cried the 
 subaltern. " But what of that ? Here's 
 a stamp. Come, don't be shabby ! But 
 your hand to this. It's in blank ; but you 
 may trust me to fill it up afterwards." 
 
 A pen was found, and Richard did as he 
 was desired. When the subaltern had the 
 signature in his possession, he whispered in 
 Richard's ear. 
 
 " You confounded little sneak ! You'll 
 go earwigging the colonel again, won't you ! 
 Mind, I played with you to day to suit 
 myself : never expect me to do it again ! I 
 shall give you no revenge ! And now you can 
 go and cry over your losses !" 
 
 Richard was dumb with despair ! He 
 stood still, watching the professor's de- 
 parture, and wondering if the scene and the
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 140 
 
 circumstances were real. Did he owe five 
 hundred pounds? Was this the hand of 
 friendship that he thought had been extended 
 to him ? Stupid, sullen, but crying like -a 
 child, he went to sleep off the fumes of the 
 wine, and to wake to misery ! 
 
 The very next day the subaltern solicited 
 leave of absence. He went to London, to 
 a man who called himself an army clothier, 
 and did business in Saint James's Street. 
 He had Richard's bill filled up, and due at 
 a month's expiration, with him, 
 
 " Maldon !" said the outfitter, " who is 
 he ?" And he took a knightage from his 
 desk, and turned to the proper letter. 
 
 ^' His father's a baronet of some property. 
 The name's good enough." 
 
 " Ah, but he's a younger son !" 
 
 " Yes, — yes, certainly," said the subaltern. 
 
 *' I'm terribly pressed just now," replied 
 the outfitter. " I can give you very little 
 money. A hundred, perhaps." 
 
 "And what else?"
 
 150 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 " Oh, jewelry, and — and — " 
 
 " Musical boxes ?" 
 
 " Yes, musical boxes— direct from the 
 manufactory!" 
 
 The subaltern laughed. 
 
 " Very well," he said, " but let me see 
 the jewelry. The boxes can wait till I send 
 for them." 
 
 From a buhl cabinet that graced one side 
 of the apartment, the outfitter produced, 
 first, a morocco case, containing a serpent 
 diamond bracelet ; then another case, en- 
 shrining a turquoise brooch ; even another, 
 enclosing a hooped brilliant ring ! 
 
 " These," he said, " are worth tw^o hun- 
 dred ; the musical boxes fifty ; and the cash 
 ■will make three hundred and fifty." 
 
 " Well ; but they're all women's orna- 
 ments !" said the subaltern. " I can't wear 
 bracelets and brooches !" 
 
 " AVe make it a point," replied the out- 
 fitter, smiling good humouredly, '• to do
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 151 
 
 business in such a way as to benefit the 
 ladies ! And, indeed, gentlemen seldom 
 want jewelry for themselves." 
 
 " Oh, very good," was the reply. And 
 for the considerations mentioned, Richard's 
 bill passed into the hands of the chosen 
 people ! 
 
 A month and a few days had elapsed, 
 when, leaving parade one morning, Eichard 
 was tapped on the shoulder. He turned, 
 and saw a bandy little man, with keen grey 
 eyes and a hook nose, holding out a slip of 
 paper and directing attention to it. 
 
 " Mr Maldon I believe? Your little bill," 
 said the Israelite. 
 
 Richard took the bill. Yes, there was his 
 signature for five hundred pounds ! There 
 was the little man waiting for the money 1 He 
 huiTied off to the great billiard player, and 
 found him, leaning over the window sill of 
 . his apartment, smoking a cigar and talking 
 pleasantly with several brother officers who 
 were lounging on the pavement outside.
 
 152 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 " Here comes that little sneak !" said the 
 subaltern, as Richard approached. " Con- 
 way, I'll bet you twenty pounds that the 
 little wretch isn't in the regiment a week 
 longer !" 
 
 " Done!" said Conway, "if it's only for 
 sport. Besides, it will be worth twenty 
 pounds to get rid of him." 
 
 " May I speak to you for a moment — 
 privatehj ?'' said Eichard, addressing the 
 professor. 
 
 " I've not a moment to spare," replied 
 the subaltern. " I haven't picked my teeth 
 since breakfast, and this is my first cigar. 
 I shall be disengaged about the middle of 
 next week !" 
 
 The officers laughed heartily. They 
 guessed Eichard's business, for the existence 
 of the bill and its arrival at maturity were 
 no secrets among them. Besides, the pro- 
 duce of that bill had become common pro« 
 perty. The musical boxes played overtures 
 for the whole mess ; the bracelet had passed
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 153 
 
 from hand to hand, had been tossed for, 
 raffled for, played at billiards for, and ex- 
 changed about over and over again. So 
 had the brooch and the ring. And then 
 one after the other these jewels left the 
 barracks, to adorn the arms, the fingers, 
 and the bosom of a dashing young lady 
 who jobbed a brougham, and sometimes 
 drove to the officers' quarters ! In the end, 
 this young lady having an uncle — a man 
 with a world of nephews and nieces ! — the 
 trinkets passed to him, and she was enabled 
 to pay her liveryman. How, then, knowing 
 these things, could the subalterns refrain 
 from laughing at the pale, anxious young 
 fellow who sustained the damage ! 
 
 " What's the matter ?" said one, "have 
 you lost a five pound note and found six- 
 pence i 
 
 " Will you give me a moment's private 
 conversation?" said Richard, still address- 
 ing the professor. 
 
 " No, I won'L I know what you're shiver- 
 
 H 2
 
 154: GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 ing about, — the bill ! I'm not the holder of 
 it ; I've nothing to do with it. It went to 
 the Jews !" 
 
 Kichard turned away, leaving the young 
 ofentlemen delio-lited with the scene that 
 had happened. He went to parley w^ith 
 the bandy little man. 
 
 " I've no money ; it's impossible for me 
 to pay this," he said. 
 
 "Lor! but bless my shoul, haven't you 
 got a father ? Aint he a baronet ? Shend 
 me down to your father." 
 
 " Not for the world !" exclaimed Richard. 
 " What do you mean to do then ?" asked 
 the little man. 
 
 " I'm utterly helpless; lean do nothing." 
 
 " I tell you what you can do," suggested 
 
 the Israelite, " you can renew the bill; but 
 
 only for a month, mind — only for a month ! 
 
 Another Httle bill for fifty will do it." 
 
 Richard had, of course, as little prospect 
 of being able to pay five hundred and fifty 
 pounds in a month's time, as he had of pay-
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 155 
 
 ing five hundred pounds then. But what 
 was he to do ? To get the bill renewed 
 was to get a reprieve. So he gave the Httle 
 bill for fifty, and for a month he might be 
 a free man ! 
 
 Oh that month ! Ordinarily it was a dull 
 month, favourable to suicide and hypo- 
 chondria. In that month toll-takers at the 
 Bridge of Sighs were on the alert ; keepers 
 of private lunatic asylums made up extra 
 beds and engaged additional strong men ! 
 In that month Guy Fawkes w^as burnt 
 solely that the English people should not 
 die of dullness ! In that month the winds 
 forgot to whistle, and the fo^ too hung fune- 
 really about, covering great cities as with a 
 pall ! The heavens wept pitifully in that 
 month. What could they do when earth 
 was so miserable ! 
 
 But worse still, every day of that month 
 helped to mature Richard's two bills, and 
 to bring the prospect of a jail nearer and 
 cbarer to his apprehension !
 
 156 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 The month came to an end, and there 
 was the little man again ! There was no re- 
 newal this time, for the Jews began to be 
 anxious. One or two legal quibbles — such 
 as that which robbed Shylock of a pound 
 of merchant's flesh — had lately robbed his 
 Guccessors of many pounds sterling. 
 
 " Can't you give us shecurity ?" said the 
 bandy little man. *' Haven't you any pro- 
 perty you can charge with the amount ? 
 We can wait till you are of age if you give 
 us shecurity and interest — and — interest !'* 
 
 *' I have no property; I have no expec- 
 tation of any," said Richard. 
 
 " Well, then," replied the little man, 
 ** you must come with me ; you must sell 
 out ; father'll buy you in again, you know. 
 Come to London and shettle the business at 
 once. If you don't, we must proceed to 
 judgment and — and — and execution." 
 
 Judgment and execution ! Terrible words, 
 thought Richard. Well, the commission 
 muLt be sold. So he left the little man, and
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 157 
 
 after a moment with his superior officer, 
 returned. 
 
 The subalterns were at the barrack win- 
 dow when Richard went away. 
 
 *' By Jove !" said one of them, " he's 
 going." 
 
 " Going, is he ?" cried another. 
 
 *' Yes ; there he is ; that's Isaacs with 
 him ! Conway, you've lost your bet ! Wind 
 up the boxes !" 
 
 The musical chests were wound up. They 
 played one against the other, producing a 
 confused sound that was pleasant to the 
 ears of the subalterns. As one of them said, 
 it was like listening to a good row between 
 Mozart and Donizetti, and a good row was 
 the best entertainment going ! So Richard 
 departed to the sound of music — paid for, 
 perhaps dearly, by himself !
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Every house has its particular trouble, every 
 family its little mystery. Maldon Priory 
 was not an exception ; neither were its in- 
 habitants singular in being unafflicted. 
 There was a tradition current among the 
 servants that Lady Maldon was — yes, she 
 was — eccentric ! They talked of epileptic 
 fits and delirium tremens — they recollected 
 the coming of a little learned-looking man, 
 fetched by the baronet himself in the middle 
 of the night from the nearest post town, 
 and having a reputation for remedying diffi- 
 cult diseases — they remembered that the
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 159 
 
 maid who attended her ladyship upon that 
 occasion was from thence kept secluded 
 from her fellows, and ultimately suited with 
 an excellent situation, the duties of which 
 took her to India ! All this remained green 
 in the memories of the domestics. It was 
 handed down from John to James and 
 from Martha to IVIary, as the succession 
 happened, and lost none of its interest by 
 the descent. 
 
 Just now this story was revived to give 
 colour to a mystery that troubled the house. 
 For a w^eek Lady Maldon had kept her 
 room, the learned httle man had been at- 
 tending upon her hourly, the baronet walked 
 angrily and suspiciously about the house, 
 and Blanche was confined to her own 
 apartments! 
 
 Cruelly confined ! said the servants ; but 
 the young lady said nothing of the kind. 
 True, she was anxious ; she wondered what 
 secret it was that her father seemed to pre- 
 serve so rehgiously. But then he was
 
 160 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 unusually kind and attentive, and sat 
 with and talked divertingly to her. He 
 took her out every day — he riding his great 
 horse, and she her little pony. And when 
 she did not misbehave herself — as she some- 
 times did, by smiling at and talking to the 
 villairers — he was the most affectionate 
 father alive ! 
 
 He was very proud of, and . anticipated 
 great things for her. Already he had his 
 eye upon the eldest sons of the county 
 families. In a few, a very few years she 
 would be a woman ; and then, if she must 
 be taken away from him, why, let no- 
 bility take her, and he w^ould be content ! 
 Therefore must Giles keep his distance, and 
 Peggy shut the door and hide herself when 
 the young lady rides through the village ! 
 
 Unfortunately, he was not seconded in 
 this feeling by the daughter. Pride was 
 the one quality of which she could not 
 boast, and famiUarity was her failing. To 
 her, Peggy and Giles were objects of in-
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 161 
 
 terest. She had kind words for them, 
 sometimes more substantial kindnesses. 
 Riding with her father, she had been known 
 to amble from his side, stop at the door of a 
 cottage, and talk to a poor woman imme- 
 diately afflicted with a paralysis of curtsey- 
 ing ! Then some such dialogue as this 
 would happen between the knight and his 
 daughter. 
 
 " You see Maldon Priory yonder, 
 Blanche?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And you have not forgotten the hovel 
 you stopped at just now ?" 
 
 "Oh, no. The poor people " 
 
 " There, never mind the poor people ! 
 It is enough that they are poor, and that 
 God in His wisdom made them so. 
 But I wish to show you that just as much 
 out of place as the hovel would look by the 
 side of Maldon Priory, did you seem by the 
 side of that low, ill-bred labouring woman !" 
 
 Blanche casts down her eyes.
 
 162 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 " Are you angry, father?" 
 
 " No, my dear, not angry. But you have 
 very httle pride." 
 
 " But is it proper to be proud ?" 
 
 " Well, ' proud,* though a good word, is 
 perhaps a harsh one. I wish you to have 
 more self-respect." 
 
 Self-respect — what is self-respect ? thinks 
 Blanche. And at home she refers to a 
 little book, given to her by her father 
 wherein this quality is made the subject of 
 an essay. It seems to say that self-respect 
 consists in avoidinof mean and unworthv 
 actions, and in that proper bearing towards 
 the world which wins affection ! She shows 
 the essay to her father. He tells her that 
 the book is a child's book, and she should 
 grow out of it ! 
 
 Thus she approaches womanhood. If she 
 does not mend, thinks Sir Roger, what will 
 become of her ! 
 
 But during Lady Maiden's illness, 
 Blanche was humoured even in this failing.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 163 
 
 She was allowed to find occupation for her 
 thoughts in little acts of kindnesses that 
 come gracefully from the daughter of the 
 manor. She might do anything but pry 
 into the secrets of her mother's seclusion ! 
 
 The baronet detested illness. His own 
 was a healthy family. The IMaldons had 
 always been consistent in papng the debt of 
 nature without incurring the heavy interest 
 of infirmity ! They knew no lingering years 
 of bedridden sufifering. On the contrary, 
 two baronets of the line, hale, hearty gen- 
 tlemen under fifty, had passed from their 
 mortal estate without even time to partition 
 their personal property and make their 
 servants legatees ! 
 
 The family of Lady ^laldon had diflferent 
 habits of life and death. They were plagued 
 with strange illnesses ; they gave long warn- 
 ino-s of dissolution. It was not uncommon 
 for their collateral branches to be set apart 
 and destined for each other, in a royal and 
 ridiculous manner; and so good did they
 
 164 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 think their blood, that they kept it to them- 
 selves and impoverished it ! Almost all 
 their married people were cousins! 
 
 Had Sir Roger Maldon known anything 
 of this family's infirmity, undoubtedly he 
 would have kept clear of it. But he married 
 in haste ; and now — with Lady Maldon 
 hidden in her bed chamber, and the doctor 
 coming daily — he was enabled to repent at 
 leisure ! 
 
 But her ladyship recovered, and Blanche 
 was released from confinement. The young 
 lady, holding out both her hands and asking 
 many questions, ran to embrace her mother, 
 
 " My dear child," said her ladyship, " How 
 curious, how exigeant you are ! Can't I be 
 ill if I please ? If I like my own room can't 
 I keep it ? I suppose I smell of medicine. 
 Do I ? So you've a letter from Richard 
 eh ?" 
 
 The last question was addressed by the 
 lady to her husband, who was crushing a 
 letter in his hand.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 165 
 
 " Yes," he said. 
 
 " AYell, what's it about ? Is he going to 
 India, or Canada, or where ?" 
 
 " He's an idiot ! as I always thought him ; 
 a graceless rascal, — with even less brains 
 than beauty !" 
 
 " Dear me !" exclaimed her ladyship. 
 " ^^^lat is the matter ?" 
 
 " Read this," said the baronet, — and he 
 flung the letter to his wife. 
 
 " Blanche, — you read it. My eyes are 
 very weak just now." 
 
 The young lady took the letter, and trem- 
 bled as she opened it. Poor Richard ! He 
 was in the hands of the Jews ; his credit 
 pledged for five hundred and fifty pounds ; 
 and the debt daily increasing ! He had 
 nothing of value but his commission. Might 
 he sell that ? 
 ^ This was the prayer of the letter. 
 
 " And what do you intend to do ?" said 
 her ladyship. 
 
 " Nothing !" rephed the baronet, " not
 
 1G6 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 even answer him. He may sell if he 
 pleases. I shall neither advise nor assist him." 
 
 Blanche's heart ached for her poor 
 brother; but what could she do? Her 
 father w as stem and inflexible ; her mother 
 calm, cold, and repellant. The letter, too, 
 was angrily torn up, and cast into the fire. 
 So the address was destroyed, and the sister 
 could not even write ! 
 
 Soon after this, Roger Maldon was sur- 
 prised by seeing his brother at Oxford. The 
 heir was the centre of a circle, the glass of 
 fashion for university men, and the great gun 
 of his college ! Wherever he went, he had a 
 shoal of followers, and his name was a tower 
 of strength. How, then, could he recognise 
 as his brother a poor, humble young fellow 
 who sought his Alma Mater only for her 
 lessons ? The idea was preposterous ! Half 
 his flock would fall away from and despise 
 him for the connection. Besides, Richard was 
 not entered of the same college as the heir. 
 So what need was there for intercourse ? 
 None !
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 167 
 
 The brothers met, however, one evening, 
 in the cloisters. 
 
 " Ah ! Eichard ! What do you do here ?" 
 said Koge r,faning back into the shade. " I 
 thought you were in a marching regiment ?" 
 
 " I was," replied the shabby young man. 
 
 " And what do you intend to do now — 
 Surely not to stay here ?" 
 
 " Yes, till I take a degree." 
 
 " And you mean to be a parson, I 
 suppose ?" 
 
 " No, I have not settled my profession 
 yet." 
 
 " Well, here, come this way, out of the 
 liffht : those fellows are lookino- at us. 
 You see, I've plenty of friends here ; and 
 if you should meet me, you know, at any 
 time with them, why, you understand, it 
 mio-ht be inconvenient for us to — to — " 
 
 " Recognise each other ?" suggested 
 Richard. 
 
 - " Yes, — ^just so," replied the heir, '^ Good 
 bye. You won't forget what I say, will you ?"
 
 1G8 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 " Oil no ! I shall not forget it !" said 
 Richard bitterly. And he went back to his 
 dull little room, bent over his books, and 
 there found solace. 
 
 Sir Roger ]\Ialdon kept his word ; he 
 neither assisted nor advised his youngest 
 son. He left him to extricate himself 
 from the toils of the chosen people as he 
 pleased. The result was that the commission 
 found its way to the army agents, was 
 sold, and the money obtained for it 
 applied in liquidating the debt due on 
 the two bills, and in entering and main- 
 taining Richard Maldon at Oxford as a 
 student for a degree. 
 
 At the various stages of these proceedings 
 Richard addressed letters to his father. To 
 the last of these only did he obtain any 
 reply ; and this reply was written in anger, 
 Sir Roger declining to have anything to do 
 with the balance of the commission money, 
 and telling his son to keep it, and consider 
 it as his entire heritage !
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 169 
 
 \Yell, the time passed away, and Roger 
 Maldon went up for his degree, — just 
 escaped plucking, and therefore his edu- 
 cation was complete ! He left Oxford, and 
 returned home, intending, after a short 
 retirement, to make the grand tour. 
 
 " Ah ! Blanche," he said, when he met 
 his sister. *' AVhat a fine girl you've grown ! 
 Six months have made you almost a woman ! 
 But how dull this place seems." 
 
 " Have you brought Richard with you?" 
 enquired the sister. 
 
 " Richard ! no. He has six months to stay 
 yet. But I hear he's doing great things." 
 
 " When did you see him last?" 
 
 " My dear girl! what a terrible way you're 
 in about Richard. I havn't seen him three 
 times these three years !" 
 
 Blanche asked more questions. She had 
 to assist at the cutting up and disposition 
 of the fatted calf, which in a figurative 
 sense, was killed to celebrate the heir's 
 majority. This calf was served up cold for 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 170 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 many days to come : indeed, while Eoger 
 Maldon was at the Priory, it was a standing 
 dish But he grew tired of it, tired of the 
 place, and went away for foreign excitement. 
 Some months after this, there was a less 
 significant arrival. Lady Maldon was uneasy, 
 and Sir Roger secluded himself, as though 
 he feared an unpleasant meeting. Only 
 Blanche had a welcome for her poor brother ! 
 But her welcome was fervent, and her love 
 was manna to the soul of Richard ! It w^as all 
 unexpected, too. The young man had not 
 even hoped for it. He believed himself to 
 be an outcast from family affections ; and 
 here was this fair sister showering upon him 
 the blessings of her regard ! 
 
 " You are a great scholar, Richard. I 
 hear that you have gone far beyond your 
 brother in university honours." 
 
 " What need has he of honours ? Has he 
 not the substantial favours of fortune ?" 
 
 " And you have to seek them ! Therefore 
 your career should be the greater !"
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 171 
 
 •' And how to begin ?" 
 
 "Oh, I have a very pretty prospect 
 sketched out for you !" 
 
 " What is it ?" 
 
 " Why, you are to be a pastor ! You 
 are to have charges and charities, and lead 
 a reverend and decorous existence ! The 
 rich are to respect, and the poor look up to 
 you ! You are to preach the Gospel !" 
 
 Richard shook his head, 
 
 " And you think me fit for those duties? 
 True, I could perform them ; but I should 
 do so mechanically, and as I might follow a 
 profession. And the church should not be 
 a profession, Blanche ! Its offices should not 
 be undertaken rashly, and without especial 
 grace and fitness !" 
 
 " But I thought you were studying for it ? 
 What did you go to college for ? Why did 
 you labour for a degree ?" 
 
 " My dear sister, a college does not fit a 
 man for the pulpit ; a degree does not give 
 him faith and authority ! iind as for myself,
 
 172 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 how, with a soul all uncured of my own, can 
 I undertake the cure of others ? What if, 
 after blindly leading my follows, I should 
 discover that I was myself blind ?'* 
 
 Blanche had nothing to reply ; but she 
 thought her brother strange and wayward. 
 
 " How, then, shall we employ ourselves ?" 
 she said. " Mine are simple amusements. 
 What books have you brought ? Dry ones, 
 of course. Well, you shall translate the 
 great Greeks for me ; and make me as fa- 
 mihar with Herodutus as with Hume ; with 
 Sophocles as with Shakspere. You shall — " 
 
 There was a tap at the door. 
 
 " My lady wishes to see you, miss." 
 
 Blanche went down to her mother. 
 
 "Where have you been hiding ? What 
 have you been doing, Blanche ?" said that 
 lady. " We have a letter here from Roger. 
 He's at Geneva, and has met with friends 
 already !" 
 
 The sister's face expressed a very proper 
 degree of congratulation.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 173 
 
 " \Yhat friends are they?" she enquired. 
 
 " Oh, you shall hear, at least, you shall 
 hear all we know," said her ladyship ; and 
 she read — 
 
 " ' I met a Monsieur de Lisle at Paris, at 
 the Embassy. He is a very nice fellow ; 
 talks of going to Baden with me ; is 
 acquainted with the best life and the best 
 people to be found out of England ! and 
 that is saying a great deal, for the new 
 ideas in this part of the world have 
 driven all but the common herd to shady 
 places. The roads and the hotels are just 
 now crowded with tradesmen and their 
 wives, and people who pay their travelling 
 expenses by writing about what they have 
 seen. Every third man has a note-book, 
 and if you speak to him, ten to one but 
 he sketches your person and prints 
 your conversation ! So I consider myself 
 fortunate in being here in a cottage out of 
 the way, with the advantage of good so- 
 cictv. M. de Lisle has a sister, a lady
 
 174 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 ' of great beauty and accomplishments. 
 ' She travels with him.' " 
 
 Lady Maldon dropped her eye-glass, and 
 looked at her daughter to see what she 
 thought of the letter. 
 
 " Very amusing, isn't it, Blanche'?" 
 
 " Very," replied the young lady. 
 
 The Baronet said nothing, hut wondered 
 of what family the De Lisles came, how 
 long their pedigree was ; and, like a good 
 father, encouraged other suspicions of 
 those friends who had sufficient influence 
 over his son to detain him, as Sir Roger 
 thought, on the edge of a dreary lake !
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Roger Maldon did not go direct to Baden 
 when he left the cottage on the lake of Ge- 
 neva. Something called him to Rome, 
 From that city he dated a curious letter — a 
 letter that puzzled his father, bewildered his 
 mother, and was unintcllioible to Blanche ! 
 It said nothing about the De Lisles, but en- 
 shrined a little romance, with which he had 
 nought to do, but which seemed to interest 
 him mightily ! It was all about one Fran- 
 cesca, who was married unhappily — married 
 to an old man, and condemned to receive 
 his shivering adorations ! The letter might
 
 176 GEILiLD FITZGERALD. 
 
 have been written by a woman, it had such 
 a fervid but, melancholy tone ; the episode 
 might have been taken from a book, it was 
 so very Hke a fourth edition of a thrice-told 
 tale ! Above all, the writer, who should 
 have been tame as a schoolboy with Plato, 
 was impassioned as the Greek chorus ! 
 
 He was himself again in a month, how- 
 ever, for Baden cured him of sentiment. De 
 Lisle w^as at his right hand ; Count 
 Kreutzer, a new friend, at his left. "When 
 he was tired of these, there was Mademoi- 
 selle ! — as he said, a lady of great beauty 
 and accomplishments ! The letter ex- 
 plaining these facts was short and hurried. 
 It was written more for fiUal courtesy than 
 anything else, and seemed to say — " I've 
 scarcely time for this ; but you'll expect it, 
 and here it is. Besides, I want money. 
 Let me have letters of credit immediately !" 
 The Baronet sat down and wrote a long 
 reply to this communication. He enclosed
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 177 
 
 the letters of credit, but sent with them 
 many warnings, many suggestions as to his 
 son's behaviour. Baden was very well — 
 everybody went there ; but then there was 
 so much play about ! Let the novice be- 
 ware of the tables ! He must keep up his 
 reputation as a gentleman ; but he was not 
 to be careless. All which fatherly advice 
 no doubt did the young man much good, and 
 influenced him mightily ! 
 
 When Sir Roger Maldon rose from his 
 seat, after wi'iting this letter, he shuddered 
 slightly, and complained of a pain in his 
 side. The writing had given it him, he 
 thought. Sedentary employment disagreed 
 with him. But the hounds were out that 
 day, and a run with them would set him 
 right again ! 
 
 Blanche saw her father just as he was 
 leaving the house. She was alarmed at the 
 pallor of his countenance ! 
 
 " Don't ride to-day !" she said. '' You
 
 178 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 look anything but well ! I never saw you 
 pale before." 
 
 " Pale! Am I pale? Ah! it's the writ- 
 ing ! A gallop will make me red again !" 
 And, pushing Blanche gently aside, he 
 mounted, and rode off to cover. 
 
 The fox that day was tenacious of his 
 hiding-place. In a most discourteous man- 
 ner, he kept twenty Enghsh gentlemen 
 waiting in their saddles, all ready to run 
 him to the death ! He would not break ! 
 The first whip went slashing and swearing 
 about ; and as it was bitterly cold weather, 
 several of the gentlemen were nearly frozen 
 to their pig- skins ! 
 
 '' Devilish annoying, isn't it, Maldon ?" 
 said Lord Dalton, an awkward young gen- 
 tleman, who had just come of age, and 
 taken possession of his property. 
 
 The Baronet was ill and in an ill-humour. 
 He was in no mood to be called " Maldon" 
 by a young fellow who might be his grand- 
 son ! He answered angrily —
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 179 
 
 '^ My Lord ! For many years I had the 
 honour of your father's acquaintance ; but 
 I never recollect him addressing me as you 
 have done !" 
 
 " Oh !" said the young lord, who was im- 
 pervious and unimpressionable upon points 
 of ceremony, and, indeed, upon most other 
 points. "Don't you like it? Well, I'll 
 call you what you do like, if you'll tell me. 
 What shall it be ?" 
 
 " I shall be content with being unnoticed 
 by your lordship!" replied the Baronet, 
 stifflv. 
 
 The young gentleman would have had his 
 retort, but the old huntsman started off. 
 The fox was visible ; the dogs were flying 
 after him like fate ; the horses were carry- 
 ing their riders gallantly over hedge, ditch, 
 and fence. Oh, what a run that was ! The 
 fox crossed the borders of three counties, 
 and tired out all but his toughest pursuers ! 
 For years afterwards that fox-hunt was 
 the subject of conversation at all tables ; its
 
 180 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 history was written in a book almost as big 
 and with as many illustrations as Foxe's 
 Martyrs ! For miles round the public-house 
 parlours were embellished with gorgeously 
 coloured prints, showing the various phases 
 of that fox hunt, from the break at the 
 cover to the kill on the hill side ! 
 
 In the last of this series of prints might 
 be seen an elderly gentleman, in bright 
 scarlet, leaning somewhat feebly towards 
 the neck of his horse, yet following, like a 
 thorough sportsman, to the death! That 
 figure was not an ill-representation of Sir 
 Roger Maldon, one of three gentlemen who, 
 as actors in the adventure, witnessed it con- 
 clusion. 
 
 These three gentlemen turned to ride 
 home. 
 
 '' What's the matter, Maldon ?" said one 
 of them. " Why, you're trembhng !" 
 
 Sir Roger tried to grasp the reins firmer, 
 to sit steadier, and to shake off his weak- 
 ness ; but it was no use. Crossing a hedge
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 181 
 
 he lost his balance, slid from the saddle, 
 and came to the ground I 
 
 He was put into a farmer's gig-, and thus 
 conveyed home. When he reached the 
 Priory, he exerted himself to the utmost to 
 hide his illness. He dismissed the gig at 
 the avenue, led his horse to the door, and 
 walked unassisted into the dining-room, 
 where he found his wife and daughter wait- 
 ing anxiously. 
 
 " Where have you been?" said her lady- 
 ship. " I'm famished !" 
 
 Blanche rose from her seat, and took her 
 father's arm. It trembled terribly ! 
 
 " We've had a long run — a very long 
 run," he said. " I never recollect such a 
 run in my life ! "And he sat to the table. 
 
 The covers were removed, and the baronet 
 took his knife and fork as usual. 
 
 " D — n it !" he said, flinging the knife 
 petulantly from him, — " This won't cut ! 
 Let me have another." 
 
 A second knife was brought, but
 
 182 GEILiLD FITZGERALD. 
 
 with the same result ; the hand that held 
 it had not the strength of a child's ! Then 
 the baronet believed that something serious 
 was the matter with him. He tried to rise, 
 and leave the table ; but he fell back 
 powerless in his chair, covered his face 
 with his hands, and cried, 
 
 " Good God ! Then I am ill !" 
 
 Lady Maldon laid down the knife and 
 fork she had been impatiently playing 
 with during her husband's strange proceed- 
 ings, raised her eye-glass, and looking 
 inquiringly through it, said, 
 
 " WeU, you do look ill, really ! What a 
 strange thing ! Send for the doctor at once. 
 Blanche, my dear, will you carve ?" 
 
 Blanche was busy. She was assisting her 
 father to rise. With a great effort, he 
 stood for a moment on his feet. Then, 
 suddenly putting his hand to his side, and 
 uttering spasmodic expressions of pain, he 
 fell back to his former position.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 183 
 
 There was a man behind Lady Maiden, 
 waiting for her plate. Blanche beckoned to 
 this man ; and he came ! His master was 
 fainting ! 
 
 " We must carry him to his bed-room," 
 said Blanche. 
 
 Shall I fetch James?" enquired the man. 
 
 Blanche nodded, and James made his 
 appearance. Then the two men, taking 
 their master by the heels and the shoulders, 
 carried him solemnly from the room. As 
 they were passing the doorway, Lady j\Ialdon 
 spoke : — 
 
 " Blanche, my dear ! do tell them to put 
 your poor father down, and carry him in 
 some other way. I can't bear his being 
 moved like that !" 
 
 The physician, her ladyship's medical 
 attendant, was sent for, and he came. Lady 
 ]Maldon was the first to see and talk to 
 him. He listened to a diagnosis of her 
 disorders for the last tw^o or three months, 
 and was then permitted to approach the real
 
 184 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 patient. His countenance fell when he saw 
 the baronet, 
 
 " Serious ! very serious 1" he said, " I 
 must not conceal from you that this is a 
 dangerous case, and may be fatal in 
 twenty-four hours !" 
 
 Lady Maldon, to whom this was specially 
 addi'essed, went at once to her toilet-table, 
 and looked in the glass to see how the news 
 affected her ! She was certainly crying ; 
 and the sight convinced her that her in- 
 ward feelings must be lacerated, and her 
 heart little likely to hold together for any 
 bng period. She returned to her husband's 
 bedside ; and there, dabbing a lace hand- 
 kerchief to her eyes, she wept, and tried to 
 worry her daughter into as useless a creature 
 as herself. 
 
 Pray send me something," she said to the 
 physician, " I can't bear this. It will be 
 too much for me. 1 know it will." 
 
 Presently the baronet was calm enough 
 to talk.
 
 GERA.LD FITZGERALD. 185 
 
 " Come here," he said to his daughter, 
 " I want to speak to you. I guess what 
 your mother and the doctor have been 
 whispering about. They need not treat me 
 as a child ! l^Tiat they can say, I can bear 
 to hear. If I am to die, I can die calmly." 
 
 " Oh, no, no, no !" said Lady Maldon, 
 hysterically, " don't talk of dying ! I can 
 never bear it." 
 
 " But I can !" said Sir Roger, somewhat 
 sternly. " My only anxiety is about you, 
 Blanche. I had great hopes for you ; and 
 now, who is to carry them out? Your 
 brother is too young to have consideration 
 enough. But I should like to see him, to 
 talk to him. Write, Blanche ; wi'ite at 
 once. How long does the doctor give me ?" 
 
 The poor girl shook her head. She had 
 not the flow of words possessed by her 
 mother, and such a scene made her dumb ! All 
 her energies were bent upon doing, not 
 talking. So her father's question was un-
 
 186 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 answered. She wrote, however, as he desired. 
 Alas, alas, with what vain hopes ! 
 
 Lady Maldon was sobbing in a corner of 
 the room ; camphor, sal volatile, vinegar — 
 all were about her — and yet she could not 
 keep up ! When her husband fell asleep, 
 she beckoned Blanche to her. 
 
 " This will be too much for me !" she 
 said, " I feel myself to be gradually sinking. 
 I havn't eaten a morsel since lunch ; and 
 I've no appetite now. How could I have, 
 under the circumstances ? Who could expect 
 me to eat ?" 
 
 Ah ! who indeed ! thought Blanche. 
 
 " And Roger's away ; and there's nobody 
 in the house if anything should happen ! 
 At least there's Richard; but what can 
 he do ?" 
 
 " Oh pray talk less familiarly of anything 
 happening 1" said Blanche. " Let us hope 
 that nothing will happen !" 
 
 " But you heard w^hat the doctor said?"
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 187 
 
 " Oh yes, I heard. But doctors are 
 sometimes wrong. He may be wrong. See 
 how quietly father's sleeping now. When 
 he wakes, surely he will he better !" 
 
 Lady Maldon shook her head drearily. In 
 her own mind she had determined that her 
 husband could not get better ; and it seemed 
 ill-natured of her daughter to disturb this 
 certainty, and put doubt in its place. 
 Besides, there was a kind of relief in 
 believing in the w^orst : it put beyond possi- 
 bility the deceptions that wait upon hope ! 
 
 When the night came, her ladyship left 
 the room, and retired to her uneasy couch. 
 Eichard took her place, and watched with 
 his sister. With the first blush of morning, 
 the physician was at the bedside of his 
 patient. He whispered hurriedly to Blanche : 
 
 " Call her ladyship !" If she wishes to 
 see her husband alive, she must see him 
 at once!" 
 
 Lady Maldon came down, shivering and 
 complaining of the cold. But the physician's
 
 188 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 look alarmed her. She went meekly to her 
 husband's bedside. He turned feebly, and 
 seeing all eyes bent tearfully upon him, 
 divined the reason. 
 
 " Good bye, Margaret !*' he said. "Blanche, 
 stoop down, and kiss me. Stay, — have I 
 forgotten anything ?" 
 
 His eye wandered round till it rested upon 
 Richard. 
 
 " My boy !" he said, as the young man 
 clasped the cold fingers of his father, — " I 
 have been harsh to you. The recollection 
 seems to rise up and rebuke me now. If I 
 might live, but — but — " 
 
 The dying man had no more words ; he 
 sunk heavily upon his pillow. 
 
 " Hush I" said the physician, raising his 
 hand, as Lady Maldon was about to speak. 
 And even as the physician's hand drooped 
 slowly to his side, the long sleep of death 
 came gently upon Sir Roger Maldon !
 
 CHAPTER Xr. 
 
 " Betsy, my gal," said Tom Jackson, when, 
 after much reading and spelling, and many- 
 references to the dictionary, he had mas- 
 tered the contents of a letter just received 
 from London — " Betsy, my gal, Mas'r 
 Gerald's coming down here to paint !" 
 
 " To do what ?" enquired the wife. 
 
 " To paint 1" repeated the husband. 
 
 " Lor !" said young Tom, now grown 
 into a great raw lad of six feet or so — the 
 very man for a grenadier — " what's he goin' 
 to paint, I wonder ? Squire*s gates looks
 
 190 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 weny bad, certainly ! P'raps lie's g-oiii' to 
 paint them." 
 
 " No," replied Betsy, '' I should think 
 not. I fancy it's another sort of painting 
 — pictures, you know." 
 
 " Oh," said the lad, " Hke them at the 
 White Lion, in the parlour, I spose ?" 
 
 " Yes," rephed Betsy, " very likely. 
 But how kind of him to think of us, now, 
 and to come down here, aint it, Tom ?" 
 " Werry !" returned the husband. 
 '' Ah," said Betsy, thoughtfully, " he 
 looked as though he'd come to be something 
 great, he seemed so clever, didn't he, Tom ? 
 Wasn't I always saying he seemed clever ?" 
 " Oh, yes, you was always a say in* on it !" 
 Betsy sighed. She was melancholy that 
 day. She thought the w^orld was get- 
 ting a little before her and her family ! 
 There w^as her tall, large-limbed son an 
 idler ; not that he wished to be unemployed, 
 but much of Sir Boger Maiden's land was 
 put out of cultivation. A new baihff, a
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 191 
 
 man of an experimental turn, was doing 
 great things with the estate. He was 
 draining, inclosing, and fencing off, lie 
 pulled down cottages and built boilers ; 
 threshed his corn and cut his turnips by 
 steam-power ; hatched chickens in an oven ; 
 and made the farm buildings resound with 
 the whizzing and crashing of wheels ! At 
 certain times to enter them was like going 
 into a back kitchen on a washing day ; to 
 come away from them was to be conscious 
 of headache. Greasy little boys, smelling 
 vilely of oil, and covered with coal-dust, 
 haunted the place. They assisted to keep 
 up the snorting, the pufRng, and the 
 general air of dampness that reigned around 
 them. Experiments were made in the 
 baronet's fields, —when dull, mechanical 
 things, being well watered, well warmed, 
 well screwed together, and well oiled, were 
 led to and put upon certain tracks, there to 
 run blindly backwards and forwards till they 
 wanted well watering, warming, screwing
 
 192 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 together, and well oiling again ! They were 
 man's most obedient, humble servants while 
 they were in working order, and man kept 
 his eye on them ! — but let a bolt snap, let 
 man be inattentive, and they would crush 
 him, grind his bones, rend him limb from 
 limb, and then break up and bury them- 
 selves, as though conscious of murder and 
 stricken with remorse ! 
 
 Tom Jackson and his family were not 
 sufficiently learned in these wonders to 
 appreciate the great, the incalculable be- 
 nefits they conferred upon mankind ! 
 The Jacksons were dull people in this mat- 
 ter, and seeing their eldest son idle, and the 
 greasy little boys running about the farm, 
 they had no love for machinery, but watched 
 it jealously, and shook their heads at its 
 progress. Neither did they take kindly to 
 the improvements — the fencing and the en- 
 closing — going on about them ; for these im- 
 provements w^ere approaching them too 
 nearly, and threatened to rob them of house
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 193 
 
 and home, as it had robbed several of their 
 neighbours. There was a town within 
 seven miles or so, truly ; but then seven 
 miles was a long distance for a labourer to 
 walk to and from his work, — besides, the 
 place was Tom's particular aversion ! It 
 was a factory towTi, crowded with close 
 courts and alleys, into one of which, if Tom 
 became a townsman, he must inevitably go ! 
 These facts, and this prospect then, made 
 Betsy melancholy, and somewhat soured her 
 husband's temper. 
 
 When the wife had been silent and 
 thoughtful for a time, she looked at Tom 
 and said — 
 
 " Ah, Tom, we aint better off, are we, 
 than when Mas'r Gerald was here as a boy ? 
 Somehow times don't mend. AVhen poor 
 father was alive, though he did nothing, 
 and before I^euben was took away from us, 
 we lived just as well, didn't we ? And we 
 saved a little money, too !" 
 
 " Yes," replied Tom, *' we did. But 
 VOL, I. K
 
 194 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 then, you know, my gal, there was none o' 
 them there machines, and things ! It's 
 them things as ruins us poor people." 
 
 " Ah !" said Betsy, " perhaps they do, 
 Tom." 
 
 " P'raps !" returned the husband, who 
 was laconic except under excitement, " there 
 aint no p'raps about it ! Look at Tom 
 there. What ought he to be doing, and 
 what is he doing? And spose he was a 
 doin' better, and wanted to git married, 
 where's there a cottage or a bit o' land for 
 him? How could he git married?" 
 
 Tom at once felt an intense desire to 
 enter the holy estate of matrimony ! Such 
 a delight being denied him, what more 
 natural than that he should crave for it ? 
 He never thought of it before ; he knew 
 no one to marry ! — but if at that moment 
 he had been asked to take any kind or con- 
 dition of woman whatever to be his wedded 
 wife, he would have answered " I wool !" 
 and borne her triumphantly away to realise
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 195 
 
 the terrible picture painted by his father ! 
 As it was, he sat down doggedly, and con- 
 sidered himself to be a young man blighted 
 in the very flower of progenitive promise ! 
 
 " Well, Tom," said Betsy, seeing her 
 son's dejection, " let's say no more about 
 it, but hope for the best. It was very 
 stupid o' me to set it goin' !" 
 
 '' Ah," replied the husband, who, getting 
 hold of a grievance, was averse to let it go : 
 " it's all very well to hope ; but we may 
 hope an' hope while they're pulhng the 
 place about our ears. I heard 'em talkin' 
 on it the other day ; and when they do 
 it, why we shall have to go to the town and 
 Uve up a court, and then God knows what'll 
 will become of us !" 
 
 Betsy was silent. She thought it well 
 that her husband should subside into better 
 spirits, not be worried into them by words. 
 There was Tom, too, wanted soothing. 
 Poor fellow ! — couldn't he get married ! His' 
 mother felt for him, and as she pould not
 
 196 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 give him a wife and a cottage, she gave him 
 — what was really much better — a hot sup- 
 per, and sent him happily to bed ! 
 
 In a few days Gerald came, and his ap- 
 pearance was the signal for great wonder 
 among the Jacksons. Oh what a man he 
 was ! — how he had grown ; how improved ; 
 how handsome he was ! what bright eyes 
 he had ; how white his teeth were ! He 
 was as much the object of astonishment as 
 was the wolf found in the bed of Red 
 Riding Hood's grandmother — the aspect of 
 the two cases being different to the extent of 
 Gerald not having eaten or intended to eat 
 any old lady whatever ; while Betsy, as was 
 observed by her husband, evinced every in- 
 clination to eat Gerald ! 
 
 " Oh, Mister Gerald," she said, " you 
 have grown into a gentleman ! Well, after 
 all, there aint so much difference between 
 poor people and rich people ! I'm sure you 
 might stand by the Squire or Sir Roger 
 and not be a bit the worse for it !"
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 197 
 
 " Indeed !" said Gerald, " then I am 
 flattered ! To be placed upon a level with 
 a knight and a squire ! What will happen 
 next ?" 
 
 Betsy was not aware that Gerald spoke 
 half ironically, so she reiterated her asser- 
 tion, bearing it out with many matters of 
 detail that might well put Gerald to the 
 blush. He was relieved when, the greeting 
 being over, she permitted him to wear his 
 favours in peace. 
 
 But Betsy's notes of admiration were not 
 all uncalled for : the artist had gained graces 
 a s he gained years. An easy untroubled 
 life, the pursuit of a profession that he 
 loved, the consciousness that he had chosen 
 the right path, and was prospering in it — 
 these were the aids that had helped the 
 work of nature ; and it is enough to say that 
 the result was something little to be won- 
 dered at, but much to be admired. 
 
 The artist had earned a name in his pro- 
 fession, and was known as a young painter
 
 198 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 of much promise. The great Mr. Buskin 
 had said he was ; so had Mr. Sock — another 
 art-critic of reputation. Between Sock and 
 Buskin, Gerald got on very well. They 
 put him in books, and made him the 
 hero of a circle ; they fought savagely for 
 him, and were as much his partizans as 
 though he retained, fed, and clothed them ! 
 Probably they would have refused to lend 
 him five shilhngs upon any pretence what- 
 ever ; but they were wilhng to peril their 
 reputations, to stake the whole wealth of 
 their words, in his behalf ! The champions 
 of the other side were just as eager to hurl 
 him from his eminence, and pull his repu- 
 tation to pieces. They had a favourite of 
 their own, for whom they fought as savagely 
 and expended as many words as did Sock 
 and Buskin for Gerald. To the one party 
 Gerald was a genius ; to the other, an 
 idiot ! But the public, discriminating be- 
 tween the two, bought his pictures, and thus 
 did him the real service he wanted.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD, 199 
 
 Undoubtedly the violent convulsions of, 
 Messrs. Sock and Buskin assisted Gerald in 
 his profession. No better advertisement 
 could he have had. Surely a picture that 
 is worth fighting over is worth buying ! 
 That production must be great which can 
 induce critics to foam at the mouth and call 
 each other anything but gentlemen ! So 
 thought the public ; and because the artist's 
 name was dinned into their ears week after 
 week, they agreed to consider it a great name, 
 and the very best letter of recommendation 
 when printed in a catalogue. 
 
 Thiswas also Mr. Grey's opinion, and there- 
 fore the opposing agitations of the critics 
 were to the goodman a source of never-ending- 
 wonder. How any two people could differ 
 about the merits of a picture painted by 
 Gerald passed his understanding ! There 
 was the picture : it had blue, brown, and 
 ^reen in it ; there were cows drinking, and 
 sheep nibbling at turnips. There was a sun 
 that seemed to give positive warmth, water
 
 200 
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 that refreshed the senses with a wonder of 
 coohiess ! A man, wdth whom no fault could 
 be found except that he was squarish and 
 had no features, was walking out of the 
 horizon : had he been nearer to the cows, 
 no doubt he would have been clearer to the 
 eye. As it was, he very properly consisted 
 of three neutral colours, produced by three 
 dabs with three different brushes ! What 
 could be said against such a picture as this ? 
 
 Thinking and reasoning thus, when Mr. 
 Grey came upon a favourable criticism, he 
 cried out, " Look here, Mary ! Here he is 
 again !" and, in the happiest humour, read 
 the whole article, simply, as it were, to 
 extract the particular sweetness that he 
 loved. When, on the contrary, he came 
 to an adverse criticism — and Gerald sent him 
 one sometimes — he turned red in the face, 
 shook his head, clenched his fist, and said 
 to his wife : — 
 
 " This fellow's a villain, Mary. He's a 
 painter himself ; he's envious, and wants to
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 201 
 
 injure Gerald !" and he flung the paper 
 aside, and read no more that day. 
 
 All this happiness had been brought about 
 by Gerald's earhest patron — the kind old 
 man who had given the youth his first 
 encouragement. No doubt, the little land- 
 scape bought by this gentleman was a simple 
 production ; but it exhibited signs of fresh- 
 ness and capability ; it was an index to latent 
 genius ; and as such, it was the pleasure 
 of its purchaser to esteem it ! But it was 
 after the completion of the second picture 
 that Gerald began to advance in his pro- 
 fession. A httle scene happened when this 
 second picture was delivered. The old 
 gentleman lived in a grand house, maintained 
 a gallery, and was known as a connoiseur. 
 He was a lonely man, having a family grief 
 that made him crabbed upon occasions ; 
 and the collection of works of art was 
 his hobby. In these works, perhaps, he found 
 solace for his sorrows, and occupation for 
 his thoughts. Once, Gerald discovered hira 
 
 K 2
 
 202 GEUALD FITZGERxVLD. 
 
 in tears ! He had been writing in an old 
 red book, having the appearance of a diary. 
 The artist could not help seeing what was 
 written ; for the old gentleman called him 
 to the table, and the book was open upon it. 
 The last line ran thus : — 
 
 " Her birthday ! a happy day once ; what 
 is it now ?" 
 
 But the old jrentleman was seldom so sad 
 as this. When Gerald took home the second 
 picture, he found his patron in a merry 
 mood, indeed ! The youth was ushered into 
 the gallery. There, amidst the greatness 
 and glory of the art, he saw his own modest 
 landscape ! 
 
 " Come," said the old gentleman, " let 
 me see what you've brought. Why, dear 
 me, did I not tell you that I wanted a picture 
 05 good as the other?" 
 
 This was said after Gerald had uncovered 
 the commission, and handed it to his patron ; 
 and as it was said, to Gerald's teiTor and , 
 astonishment, the connoiseur turned away,
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 203 
 
 and hid his face in his handkerchief ! He 
 writhed, he shook, he chuckled, and bent 
 his body as though he were setting Gerald 
 a back for leap-frog ! Then he turned round, 
 and seeing the youth's pale face, and nervous 
 expression, said, 
 
 " Capital ! That's the best picture of 
 Disappointment I ever looked upon !" 
 
 He even turned away again, set another 
 back, laughed again in his handkerchief, 
 and suddenly resuming his former position, 
 exclaimed, 
 
 " Good again ! That's Indignation !" 
 
 Gerald was indignant, indeed ; but the 
 old gentleman soon cured him. 
 
 " My dear boy," he said, " excuse me. 
 You are not in the secret ; but I am. 
 There's nothing like studying from the life ; 
 and your face is very flexible. It's a capital 
 face for expressing the passions. Were I a 
 painter, you should sit to me : I'd provoke 
 you one moment, please you the next ; and
 
 204 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 in time I should be able to illustrate Collins's 
 Ode — on canvass !" 
 
 The old gentleman had now an oppor- 
 tunity of observing how joy was expressed ; 
 and in the end, as Gerald was leaving the 
 place — possessed of such a reward as made 
 him think Croesus had come again ! — the 
 connoiseur gave the youth some excellent 
 advice, showing that he could be considerate 
 as well as facetious : — 
 
 " Come here when you please," he said, 
 shaking Gerald's hand for a long, long, time, 
 " perhaps these pictures may do you good. 
 But escape from that tutor of yours : he'll 
 ruin you if you don't ! lie paints vilely ; 
 paints pigs that would not be recognised 
 were they to squeak ; and dogs that would 
 be kicked for impostors if they were to 
 bark ! you want drawing ; you must attend 
 an academy, and take lessons. Mind what 
 I say, you want drawing ! 
 
 This advice Gerald took to heart and pro- 
 fited by. Poor Mr. Maguire was not present
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. * 205 
 
 to remonstrate ; so his pupil fell away from 
 his old allegiance, and followed a new 
 master. In time, his own genius and the 
 teachings of this master helped him to 
 great things. He became that pleasant 
 mouthful over which the critics quarrelled. 
 
 How often did he contrast his happy 
 position with what he might have been — 
 his profession with the dull drudgery he had 
 escaped I Memory recalled to him the fea- 
 tures of the dark printing office, the figure 
 of the poor little boy, looking through the 
 dirty windows towards the sky, and weeping 
 in very wretchedness ! He could see the 
 obnoxious apprentices, seated at the council 
 fire ; he could hear the awful step of Mr. 
 Tympan ! Uncle William, too ! — ah, where 
 was he now ? This was the saddest, the 
 most real, of all Gerald's recollections ! 
 
 Then, again, seated in his old place at 
 
 ■ Mr. Jackson's table, other thoughts came to 
 
 him. Strange things had happened during 
 
 his first visit to the country ! There was
 
 206 GERALD FITZGERALD, 
 
 the meeting with the little lady in the wood ; 
 the meeting her on a pony, — where was she 
 now ? There was the poaching ; the prison ; 
 the release ; and the terrible event that had 
 brought the release about ! He was thinking 
 of these things, when he saw Tom's eyes 
 fixed upon him, and beheld the young man's 
 mouth shut hke a mousetrap upon discovery. 
 
 "There, Mister Gerald!" said Betsy, 
 handing to him a plate which she had just 
 polished with her apron, " I've made it quite 
 hot with rubbin !" 
 
 With many thanks, Gerald took the plate. 
 Had it escaped the polishing, he would have 
 been equally thankful. The friction of a 
 common apron may improve the appearance 
 of a plate ; but somehow or other, it always 
 seems to leave a taste or a smell after it, 
 that, to say the least, is not appetising. 
 
 " I want you to tell me," said Gerald, 
 trjdng to divert general attention from his 
 OTvn particular proceedings, " all you know 
 about the family living in the Manor House —
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 207 
 
 the Priory, is it not ? — in the grounds of 
 which I once got into such mischief!" 
 
 " The Maldons ?" said Betsy. 
 
 " Ah, yes, the Maldons !" 
 
 Gerald was much relieved : he was enabled 
 to proceed with his dinner, the attention of 
 the Jacksons being concentrated upon a new 
 subject. 
 
 " The Uttle girl I met in the wood, — who 
 was she ? Did I tell you I met a little girl 
 in the wood?" 
 
 " No," said Betsy. 
 
 " Well, I did ; and I gave her some 
 flowers I had picked." 
 
 " Lor !" said Betsy, " perhaps it was Miss 
 Blanche." 
 
 " I dare say it was ! Is Miss Blanche at 
 the Priory now ?" 
 
 " Yes. She walks or rides almost every 
 day through the \illage." 
 . " And the old ruin ! Is that standing ? 
 I came down here expressly to paint that 
 ruin !"
 
 208 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 *' Lor !" exclaimed young Tom, " paint 
 the rooin I What's it want paintin' for ?" 
 
 " My dear Tom," said Betsy, " you mis- 
 take. Mister Gerald does not mean to 
 pa'nt the ruin itself ; but to paint something 
 like it ; to paint another ruin, you know, on 
 paper. But why?" she continued, turning 
 to the artist, " don't you paint the house ? 
 It would make a deal grander picture." 
 
 Gerald smiled at the simple woman, and 
 tried to find an explanation that would meet 
 her apprehension. The task was difficult, 
 although Betsy was not more obtuse upon 
 the point than many well-informed and prac- 
 tical people in the world. 
 
 " Because," he said, " there's a great 
 difference between the house and the ruin. 
 The ruin has all the poetry, the sentiment, 
 you know, on its side ; while the house was 
 built, as it were, but yesterday, is made of 
 unromantic bricks and mortar, and the 
 people who lived in it have not been dead 
 long enough to render their memories in-
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 209 
 
 teresting ! The ruin has survived a score of 
 generations, was raised by the rude hands 
 of our early ancestors, and its walls may 
 have sheltered kings, knights, priests — all, 
 in fact, that makes history grand or glorious !" 
 
 During the delivery of this poor oration, 
 Betsy's eyes had been fixed upon Gerald. At 
 each pause in his voice, she had given him 
 one nod ; as the climax approached, her 
 mouth had opened mder and wider ; but 
 when he came to a full stop, no image in a 
 grocer's window could have nodded more 
 persistently ! 
 
 *' WeU, Mister Gerald," she said, the 
 nodding dying away naturally, " I always 
 thought you was clever ! but I never ex- 
 pected that ! It's beautiful ! Tom, my 
 dear, take the spoon out of your mouth ! 
 Mister Gerald, do have another piece of 
 bacon !"
 
 CHAPTER Xri. 
 
 The crows cawed loudly among the trees in 
 the avenue that led to Maldon Priory, and 
 their dull song suited the silence and so- 
 lemnity of the place. It was quite out of 
 hearing of the wondrous noises that ruled 
 in the farmyard, and sometimes flourished 
 in the fields adjacent. High up among the 
 Priory windows was a hatchment, and on 
 this were perched two large black birds — 
 fathers of families, creatures of repute in 
 the rookery — sharpening their beaks upon 
 the framework, and screwing their strange
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 211 
 
 eyes about to peep into the mysteries of 
 heraldry ! 
 
 Some twelve months before, the crows 
 had watched the erecting of this hatch- 
 ment with suspicious interest. The very 
 oldest among them could not recollect any 
 such event happening in their time, and they 
 had no tradition handed down to them by 
 their forefathers that might throw Ught 
 upon it. So, when the carpenters had de- 
 parted, two of the elders were dispatched to 
 the escutcheon, to examine and report ac- 
 cordingly. 
 
 Oh ! what a discord there was when they 
 came back ! The commissioners could not 
 agree. One, perched upon his side, had 
 seen this ; the other, upon his side, had 
 seen that ! The crows were driven to ap- 
 point an umpire ; and his report, being 
 utterly and entu'ely different from that of 
 either of the commissioners — because he had 
 viewed the escutcheon from the centre — was
 
 2L2 GlillALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 approved and entered among the minutes of 
 the sable society. 
 
 From this time the escutcheon was the 
 favourite trysting-place of the birds. Its 
 sombreness suited them. Old female — some- 
 times male — crows, talked scandal there ; 
 young crows went there to make love ! In 
 short, look at the escutcheon when you 
 might, ten to one that you saw a crow 
 perched upon it ! 
 
 The voices of these birds made Gerald 
 conscious that he was approaching the 
 Priory and the ruin. Their harsh music 
 fell upon his ear like an old tune, awaken- 
 ing the romance of recollection ! Dislike the 
 tone of this music as we may, let it burst from 
 among tall, stately trees— offering their green 
 arms to Heaven, sheltering simple sheep, or 
 flinging fantastic shadows about the dappled 
 backs of timid deer — embowering, too, 
 a red bricked, many-windowed mansion, 
 softened and encrusted by the wearing
 
 GEEALD FITZGERALD. 213 
 
 fingers of time ; and surely it will go to our 
 hearts, give us solemn, subdued feelings, 
 and permeate us with a sense of earth's 
 sweetest grandeur ! 
 
 Gerald was thus impressed. He sat down 
 in the wood, and Hstened ; he listened and 
 thought. He was a boy again ! He could 
 see the fair little girl and the cruel uncle ! 
 he felt over again his fears in the cage ! 
 Ah ! he was sitting on the very spot where 
 the tragedy had happened! — where the 
 poacher and his dog were shot to the death ! 
 He felt somehow that the poor man died 
 to release him 1 As the dead body was borne 
 through the village, the boy's prison was un- 
 locked, and he was free ! Then came the in- 
 quest and the gloom that hung about the 
 place for many days ; and then the funeral ! 
 Looking timidly over the low wall of the 
 churchyard, Gerald witnessed this last act 
 of the tragedy. The pastor muttered — "dust 
 to dust !" the clods fell upon the coffin ; the 
 last prayer was prayed ; and the crowd went
 
 214 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 away. Then the boy entered the church- 
 yard, and crept from stone to stone, till he 
 neared the terrible trench ! The grave- 
 diggers were carelessly filHng it up. Sud- 
 denly one of them paused in his labour, and 
 looked straight at his fellow. 
 
 " Tom," he said, " if I had the writin' 
 o' this man's epitaph, I'd say he was mur- 
 dered !" 
 
 This scene — these words — came vividly to 
 Gerald's recollection now ! 
 
 " Well," he said, soliloquising aloud. " I 
 think with the grave-digger. The man ruas 
 murdered ! — and on this very spot !" 
 
 " Your pardon, sir," said a low, mu- 
 sical voice, coming from behind the artist, 
 " May I ask who w^as murdered on this 
 spot ?" 
 
 Gerald turned hastily, if not indignantly. 
 He saw a small, spare young man, aged be- 
 yond his years, with a careworn countenance, 
 and a sad smile. The smile disarmed 
 Gerald of indignation. It was soft and
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 215 
 
 winning. When it played about the 
 stranger's face, it redeemed the coarseness 
 and irregularity of his features. His voice, 
 too, repeating the inquiry, sounded like a 
 bell, and could provoke nothing but a 
 gentle answer ! 
 
 " A poor man," replied Gerald, " who 
 was called a poacher." 
 
 " Called a poacher!" repeated the 
 stranger. 
 
 " Yes," said Gerald. " And will you 
 credit me if I tell you, that once, when a 
 boy, I too was called a poacher ?" 
 
 " Scarcely." 
 
 " But I was." 
 
 " And you were innocent, of course ?" 
 
 *' I was not guilty." 
 
 " Ah, you juggle with words ! Was the 
 poacher innocent also ?" 
 
 " He was not guilty — not guilty of crime 
 in the abstract. Juggle as I may with 
 words, I can scarcely express what I mean. 
 He was guilty, perhaps, when he came into
 
 21G GERALD FITZGERAI-D. 
 
 this wood to take what was not his own. 
 And yet whose was it ? The day before it 
 might have fed in his field, helped to waste 
 his substance ! Who should have power of 
 life and death over it then ?" 
 
 '' Ah," said the stranger, smiling his 
 softest, " you bring into the country the 
 reasoning of towns. Our simple minds are 
 unfit to consider the subtleties of innocence 
 in the abstract." 
 
 The stranger bowed, and would have 
 passed on; but Gerald had no intention 
 of parting with him so abruptly. It was 
 pleasant to be met and opposed cour- 
 teously — it was invigorating to come unex- 
 pectedly upon a brother in argument ! Once 
 upon a time brothers in arms were wont to 
 meet in the same pleasant way, and batter 
 each other in very love for chivalry ! They 
 became the best friends in the world when 
 the passage of arms was over ! Why should 
 that time be out of joint? Gerald felt 
 much inclined to put it together again.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 217 
 
 From where he sat he could see the top of 
 the old Prior}^ ruin. He pointed to it, and 
 said — 
 
 " Let us forget the poacher. How long, 
 I wonder, has that old ruin defied decay ?" 
 
 The stranger considered. 
 
 " Well," he said, " it was built when 
 the Confessor was on the throne. It was 
 endowed by him. It stood intact till the 
 reign of the first George." 
 
 " You seem famihar with its history.*' 
 
 " And should be what I seem. When 
 that ruin was habitable, the greatest of my 
 great grandfathers lived in it !" 
 
 Gerald was startled. Why, then, here 
 was a Maldon standing before him ! — Here, 
 perhaps, was the fair httle girl's brother ! 
 And yet surely not. AVhere was the family 
 likeness ? This the brother of Blanche ! 
 At that moment the stranger bowed, smiled, 
 and uttered words of farewell. The bow, 
 the smile, the voice — these converted 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 Gerald. He thought the plain, graceless 
 young man worthy of the lovehest sister 
 that ever made mischief with the heart of 
 her hrother's friend ! — and he sighed as the 
 plain young man departed. 
 
 Gerald was alone. He went to the ruin ; 
 he had the materials of his art with him, 
 and sat down to use them, but not a line, 
 could he draw decently. Where was the 
 charm of the ruin after all ? — where its 
 wondrous beauties ? They had faded for a 
 time. The artist wanted to look upon the 
 loveliness of life I That strange young man 
 had disturbed the proper current of his 
 thoughts — scared the cunning from his 
 hand. He rose and left the place. As he 
 walked along he tore his miserable sketch 
 into small pieces and scattered them to the 
 winds. The crows — ever on the alert to 
 allay their hungry cravings — saw these 
 pieces in the air ! They were credulous, and 
 seldom looked upon paper ; so they flew after
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 219 
 
 the white wonders, swallowed them, and 
 then flew back in all the horrors of 
 indigestion ! 
 
 The artist reached the house of the Jack- 
 sons. Betsy was crying, the husband was 
 silent and surly. Young Tom cherished an 
 aspect of dull despair. 
 
 " Oh, Mister Gerald," said Betsy, " we've 
 got to go at last ! The cottage is coming 
 down, the land's goin' to be enclosed, and 
 we shan't have a roof to cover us." 
 
 '• Look'ee yere, sir," said Tom, starting 
 up and addressing the artist, " doan't you 
 think it hard — werry hard ! — that they 
 should turn us out of this here place, where 
 grandfather lived, and father lived, and I've 
 lived, and brought up a whole family o' 
 children ? None of us never lived no 
 where else, sir ! Doan*t you think it's 
 hard?" 
 
 " Very, very hard !*' said Gerald. 
 
 " Ah, I knowed you would ; I said so,
 
 220 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 didn't T, my gal? And now, where are we 
 to go ?" 
 
 Tom sat down in the very agony of 
 despair ; but his wife dried her eyes, and 
 beo-an to turn the matter over in her mind. 
 She was looking for the bright side of the 
 picture ! 
 
 '' My dear Tom,*' she said, sitting by her 
 husband, and putting her hand on his 
 shoulder, " we must do the best we can." 
 
 " I tell you, my gal," replied Tom, 
 doggedly, " I aint goin* to live in that there 
 town ! T ain't goin' to live up a court, I'll 
 starve fust ! I'll go to Lunnun fust !" 
 
 " Well, but my dear," said Betsy, " the 
 children can't starve, you know. Tom, my 
 dear, be a man !— think of the children." 
 
 At this juncture the children — one of 
 tender years, the other of somewhat tough 
 aspect — entered the room. Betsy was 
 moved to take them up and kiss them, to 
 press them to her heart, to expend upon
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 221 
 
 them much more than ordinary affection ! 
 She was also inspired to place them, one after 
 the other, upon the knees of her husband. 
 He looked at the children, brushed his hand 
 across his eyes, and was then moved to do 
 with the innocents as his wife had done ! 
 The children had never before had so much 
 fervent embracing at one time ! They were 
 alarmed — the child of tender years espe- 
 cially ; and when Tom put them down they 
 were both relieved, and ran back to their 
 playthings. Poor little creatures ! they 
 had no interest in the scene, it was beyond 
 their small understandings. How do Mrs. 
 Haller's children — the children of Norma 
 — of the Duchess of York — feel under 
 similar circumstances? No doubt they 
 hasten to the wings and take off their tight 
 stockings in secret satisfaction ! 
 
 But Betsy was struck with an idea. 
 
 " I tell you what," she said, " the house 
 aint down yet. I'll go to the Priory and
 
 222 " GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 see Miss Maldon ! I'll ask her to interfere ! 
 The bailiff shan't have it all his own way !" 
 And buoyed up by this suggestion, the 
 Jacksons regained their good humour, 
 and their • guest's heart ceased to ache for 
 them.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Richard Maldon was reading lazily ; 
 Blanche writing industriously. Now and 
 then the young- lady spoke to her brother : 
 
 " Let me see ; where did the last letter 
 say Roger was staying ?" 
 
 " At Baden." 
 
 " Ah, yes, at Baden. How fond he is of 
 Baden !" 
 
 " I had an adventure yesterday, Blanche." 
 
 " Oh indeed ! what was it ?" 
 
 ^' Merely a passage of polemics. I met a 
 heretic, a man who has no fiiith in the 
 justice of game laws !"
 
 224 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 " There are many such heretics, are there 
 not? But did you convert him ?" 
 
 " No. I am scarcely a true beHever 
 myself ! But as I live ! — There, there, he is I'' 
 
 Blanche left the writing-table, and followed 
 Richard to the window. She did not wish 
 to be caught peeping, so she looked over her 
 brother's shoulder, — hiding all but her fair 
 face. 
 
 " Where is he ?" she said. 
 
 "There, — there, — by the edge of the 
 wood. Why, surely he's an artist ! What 
 is that but a portfoHo on his knee, — a pencil 
 in his hand ? " 
 
 " Ah !— truly !" repHed Blanche. " But 
 I must finish my letter. What day is this ?" 
 
 " Tuesday !" 
 
 " Then if this is not sent to day, we shall 
 lose a post ; and that wiU be dreadful, so 
 the baihff says I" 
 
 " What has he to do with it ?" 
 
 ^' Oh, I enclose a letter from him. Here 
 
 IS.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 225 
 
 '' Ah !" said Richard. " That bailiff is 
 a busy man ! He seems to make money 
 by the farm, certainly ; a feat never at- 
 tempted before ; but the poor people suffer 
 for it ! He pulls down their cottages, and 
 sets them adrift without the least com- 
 punction !" 
 
 " Indeed !" said Blanche. 
 
 " Yes. I passed through the village 
 yesterday, just before I met with the artist 
 vonder. The bailiff had been at work ; I 
 saw him leave a cottage, and I heard the 
 weeping and wailing that followed !" 
 
 Blanche laid down her pen. 
 
 " And are such doings necessary?" she 
 said. 
 
 " Yes — to the plans of the baihff; not 
 otherwise." 
 
 A servant entered. " A person from the 
 \'illage wants to see you, miss !" 
 
 The servant departed, and Betsy Jackson 
 took her place. The poor woman made 
 many curtsies, hung her head humbly, and 
 
 L 2
 
 226 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 was abaslied at her own boldness. Blanche 
 knew her face well ; it had never been for- 
 gotten since the scene in the justice room ! 
 It was a face that she looked for and hked 
 to see in the village ; for was it not closely 
 connected with the hero that once upon a 
 time the little lady had taken to heart, to 
 replace her neglected doll, and to realize the 
 good boy of her story-book ! Blanche had 
 therefore much interest in Betsy. She 
 called her by her Christian name, and other 
 wise patronised her. 
 
 " What is it, Betsy?" she said. 
 
 " Oh Miss ! You'll excuse the liberty 
 I've took ; but I'm in great, very great, 
 trouble I We're goin* to be turned out of 
 house and home ! We've had notice to leave ; 
 the bailiff give it to us yesterday ! Oh pray 
 do speak to Sir Roger for us !" 
 
 Richard looked meaningly at his sister, 
 and Blanche understood him to hint that 
 Betsy's visit was the result of what he had 
 alluded to ! The bailiff's letter was at her
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 227 
 
 right hand. It was a business letter, un- 
 sealed, and as she was to send it with her 
 own, there could surely be no harm in looking 
 over its contents ! It might, perhaps, refer 
 to the eviction of the Jacksons. Her 
 instinct was right : 4t did. The bailiff 
 urgently pressed for more authority — for 
 full liberty, in fact, to do as he pleased with 
 the hearths and homes within the jurisdiction 
 of his stewardship ! 
 
 " You may return home, Betsy, and stay 
 in your cottage — at least for a time," said 
 Blanche, firmly. " I'm sure you will not 
 be interfered with till Sir Roger comes back, 
 even if you are then." 
 
 The poor woman was overjoyed and pro- 
 lific of blessings. She exalted Blanche at 
 once to the beneficent dignity of an angel, 
 and beheved in her beatitude ! Then she 
 went back to her husband ; and that very 
 day Tom Jackson, meeting the bailiff, 
 snapped his fingers — of course behind the 
 bailiff's back — at him !
 
 228 GliRALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 The man in office was terribly angered 
 when Blanche returned his letter, told him 
 she had read it through, and did not think 
 it of sufficient importance to merit imme- 
 diate attention ! But he was inwardly in- 
 furiated when she advised him to do nothino; 
 in the way of improvement till he saw his 
 master ! He promised himself, however, the 
 sweets of revenge; and confidently waited 
 for his master's coming. 
 
 Since the death of Sir Roger Maldon, 
 the arrival of this baiUff was the only event 
 that occurred out of the usual routine of 
 things at the Priory. The heir had returned 
 home, stayed just long enough to take pos- 
 session, and had then gone back to his eager 
 friends on the continent. Lady Maldon, — 
 terribly cut up, of course, and extravagant 
 in handkerchiefs and sal volatile^ — had 
 looked to the safety of her jointure, and 
 taken to habits of retirement. She was 
 kept alive and solaced by the occasional 
 visits of her physician ; and one day, when
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 229 
 
 Blanche happened to mention the awkward 
 and embarrassing position of Richard, her 
 ladyship asked, — Why wasn't he a captain ? 
 — AYhy wasn't he a clergyman ? and begged 
 that in her afflicted and bereaved condition, 
 she might be spared any further cruelties ! 
 
 Eichard, then, — unsettled, uncertain what 
 to do for a living — lingered, and did nothing ! 
 He seemed httle Ukely to take to any active 
 pursuit, for he dehghted in literature and 
 learned leisure. Why he missed becoming 
 a fellow of his college, and thus winning his 
 bread by labour that he loved, was a secret 
 best known to himself, — perhaps having to 
 do with that foolish modesty, that retiring 
 diffidence, which isolated him from his 
 scholastic brethren, and lost their friendship ! 
 
 The natural result of this idle life was, 
 that being a young man of literary tastes 
 and laudable but profitless ambition, he sat 
 down to write poetry ; not verses to M. or 
 N. ; not Stanzas to Eliza, or any such co-
 
 230 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 quettish trifling with the muses ; but poetry 
 in sonorous lines of ten syllables, spasmodic 
 cadence, and called cj^ic ! The construction 
 of this epic was his chief occupation, and — 
 saving the solace of his sister's society — his 
 sole happiness ! While he was engaged 
 upon it, he was content. Living with the 
 w^ondrous children of his fancy, thinking 
 their thoughts, saying their smart sayings, 
 and dealing out to them the peculiar justice 
 of the study, he had a world to himself ! 
 For the time he could forget the actual 
 world — the world of his mother and his 
 brother — and — glorious privilege! — he could 
 rail at it in melodious numbers, and then, 
 as if in defiance, take all his good people to 
 a brighter and a better ! Surely this was 
 consolation ! Every half-hour or so he ran 
 to his sister, ha\ing with him a new length 
 of the epic — hot, seething, as it were, from 
 the furnace of his brain — and she, poor 
 thing ! listened to him, and often a^jplauded.
 
 GEILILD FITZGERALD. 231 
 
 and never complained ! Wliat sister could 
 do more? How many sisters would do as 
 much ? 
 
 Never since Homer had there been any- 
 thing so grand as this epic ! It was to 
 wring: from fortune the favours she had 
 hitherto withheld ! It was to go forth and 
 conquer the connoiseurs ! As yet it had 
 subdued only a weak woman ; had taken 
 captive merely the poet's sister ! The poet 
 was eager to try its effect upon some one 
 else, and his heart ached for a preliminary 
 rehearsal. A thought struck him as he 
 looked through the window at Gerald : — 
 The first book was complete : what if the 
 artist yonder could be brought beneath its 
 fascinating influence ! Richard was a man 
 of energy — where the epic was concorned ; 
 to think was to act. He flung aside the 
 volume he had been reading, gathered up 
 the loose sheets of the poem, and alarmed 
 his sister by a feverish haste that was un- 
 natural to him ! Unfortunately for his
 
 232 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 purpose, the loose sheets were many ; 
 like most young gentlemen who finish their 
 education at crack colleges, he wrote a 
 huge, indistinct hand that sprawled and 
 meandered over the paper in the approved 
 style of fashionable caligraphy. His writing 
 was antipodal to that of the man who put 
 the Lord's prayer in the circumference of 
 a fourpenny piece : the circumference of 
 the moon would barely have sufficed for 
 him to perform the pious labour in ! The 
 consequence was that the first book of the 
 epic made a formidable bundle, a thing to 
 frighten any man who knew the unpitying 
 rapacity of a manuscript author ! In this 
 extremity, Blanche came to the rescue : 
 
 " Why not," she said, " bring Mahomet 
 to the mountain ? The task will surely be 
 easier !" 
 
 It wanted but this. In the interests of 
 the epic, what was ceremony ! So the poet 
 cast aside his modesty, and took the wel- 
 come advice.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 233 
 
 Gerald, now in the right frame of mind, 
 and sketching furiously — was disturbed by 
 the soft, bell-like voice again. He rose 
 promptly, offered his hand, and the author 
 accepting it, freedom and famiUarity of 
 speech were at once established, 
 
 " Do I interrupt you ?" said Richard ; 
 knowing well enough that he did. But what 
 was a sketch to an epic ? 
 
 " No," returned Gerald. " I am almost 
 tired. I shall give up work for to-day !" 
 
 " Then, I have a favour to ask. I am 
 an author, — at least, an author out of print." 
 
 Gerald smiled. 
 
 " Ah ! you smile ! I suppose there are 
 so many authors out of print ?" 
 
 " Many — very many ; but not necessarily 
 the worse for that ! What is the favour ?" 
 
 " That you will be my first audience." 
 
 Gerald hesitated, for he knew the terrors 
 that might wait upon acquiescence. There 
 is no more rapacious monster alive than 
 your manuscript author ! He is worse than
 
 231: GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 the Ancient ISIariner, more terrible than 
 the Sibyl, and has less compassion than 
 either ! 
 
 But the artist thought his new friend 
 might be merciful of his kind, — so, prepar- 
 ing to seat himself, he gave token of assent. 
 
 " Not here !" said the poet, characteris- 
 tically. " The muse is to be heard only at 
 her particular shrine !" 
 
 "And that?" 
 
 " Is in one of the quietest chambers of 
 Maldon Priory !'* 
 
 Gerald felt, and rightly, that he was con- 
 ferring a favour, so he had no dehcacy in 
 following the beneficiary. He passed the 
 avenue, mounted the broad steps, and en- 
 tered the house. Before Blanche could re- 
 treat, she found herself returning the 
 courtesies of a well favoured young man, 
 whose face seemed wondrously familiar to 
 her ! As to Gerald, he was confused, and 
 troubled in the extreme ; for his sense of 
 familiarity was a certainty, and the lady was
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 235 
 
 no stranger to him ! Besides, he had evi- 
 dence that she had not to sustain, the sug-ffes- 
 
 / DO 
 
 tions of memorv^ Before hini, surely enough, 
 stood the fair httle o-irl jjrown into a wo- 
 man ! 
 
 But the epic was produced ; the epic was 
 the business in hand. There might have 
 been poetry, but there was no romance in 
 that ! Richard began to recite fervently 
 and fiercely ; to employ all the graces of 
 elocution and the realities of feeling:; to 
 smile, scowl, look defiant and fearful, con- 
 fident and craven ! As a simple young man, 
 given entirely to his subject, he declaimed 
 with all the vigour of actual indignation ! 
 His very soul centred in the work ! And 
 yet — strange to say, before the first book 
 was half exhausted, Gerald was somewhat 
 bored ! He asked himself — what was it all 
 about ? Whv that constant recurrence of 
 simile — that terrible luxury of imagination ? 
 The chief object of the poem seemed to be 
 the elaborate illustration of an idea that
 
 236 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 everything was like something else, and that 
 nothing was what ordinary intelligence 
 took it for ! Here it was geological ; there 
 it was busy with astronomy ; in another 
 place it wandered into pantheistic divinity ! 
 — and running through the whole of it was 
 a petty but unconscious egotism, w^hich 
 might be said to be its granite formation 
 and to crop out with rugged offensiveness ! 
 Otherwise, what was it all about ? It might 
 be satisfactory to the author to talk of — 
 
 " The silver-horned moon, gemm'd with her stars ; 
 The bright, all-searching, permeable glow!"' 
 
 But to whom else ? Where was the advan- 
 tage of thus heaping words upon words ? 
 Above all, had not some such thing been 
 said before? 
 
 But Richard went on uninterrupted to 
 the end ! Then, looking at Gerald with an 
 air of triumph, he waited for a judgment. 
 
 " Your opinion ?" he said, confidently. 
 
 Blanche, who had praised the epic much 
 when given to her in small doses, was
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 237 
 
 scarcely so pleased as she might have been 
 upon swallowing the whole ! Judging, then, 
 by her own feelings, and thinking that the 
 artist might be an honest man, not accus- 
 tomed to flatter or deceive,— she feared for 
 the result, and laboured to get a reprieve 
 for the epic. 
 
 " You should not press hastily for an 
 opinion," she said to her brother " Such 
 a poem requires consideration." 
 
 " Just so !" exclaimed Gerald, hoping to 
 escape the judicial office. 
 
 But the author pressed for a verdict. 
 " Give me," he said, " at least, an idea 
 of your general impression. Never mind 
 detail. What do you think of the work as 
 a whole?" 
 
 " Well, as a whole," replied the artist, 
 with hesitation, '' perhaps it is scarcely in- 
 telligible enough; probably a httle too 
 discursive; and the argument might, T 
 should think, be better explained in fewer 
 words !"
 
 238 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 Richard smiled sarcastically, and said, 
 " Indeed !'* Then he turned to the win- 
 dow, made one or two dull remarks, and 
 exhibited very little desire for the artist's 
 further companionship ! Blanche saw this, 
 and was grieved ; she endeavoured, by her 
 own marked attention, to destroy the un- 
 gracious effect it might produce ; and, of 
 course, Gerald was delighted with her, and 
 thought her the loveUest, the most amiable 
 woman in the world 1 He ceased to think 
 of the epic ; he scarcely noticed its 
 author ; and it was only when propriety 
 moved him to rise and say farewell to his 
 enchantress, that he regretted the cold de- 
 meanour of her brother ! Then his heart 
 whispered — Oh, that I could call this man 
 my friend ! But, alas ! the hand he offered 
 was taken coldly, dropped hastily, and not 
 a word was said of future intercourse ! 
 
 " Blanche !" exclaimed the poet, when 
 Gerald was out of hearing, *' that young 
 man, though an artist, has not an atom of
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 239 
 
 soul ! I have no hesitation in saying that a 
 common-place novel, or a trashy book of ad- 
 venture, would please him better than the 
 loftiest epic that was ever penned !"
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Sir Roger Maldon was oi route for his 
 hereditary mansion. He brought friends 
 with him ; and for these friends he deter- 
 mined to put his house to its capabilities. 
 The poor people of the village having heard 
 of his coming, began to ring the bells very 
 early on the day of his expected arrival, ex- 
 temporised a sort of pubHc welcome, set the 
 time apart as a holiday, and brought out 
 their Sunday clothes that they might find 
 favour in the eyes of the baronet ! 
 
 But, unhappily it was wet that day, and 
 the rain came dowTi and spoilt all their pre-
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 241 
 
 tensions ! The men who were to fling up 
 their caps ; the maidens who were to strew 
 flowers ; the fiddler who was to play 
 a country version of the " Conquering 
 Hero ;" — all disappeared, suddenly and mys- 
 teriously ! Even the ringers, after two hours' 
 exertion, left the belfry in peace ; — and 
 when the baronet came by, in a plain tra- 
 velling carriage, and without any ceremony, 
 — the majority of his tenants were in the 
 public house ! 
 
 The friends whom Sir Roger brought 
 with him were his hospitable entertainers 
 on the Lake of Geneva, his society at 
 Baden, and his companions everywhere else. 
 They were Monsieur Auguste De Lisle and 
 his sister Marie. To them he assigned the 
 best suite of apartments in the Priory — re- 
 mo\ing Richard from a room that some- 
 what interfered with the arrangement, and 
 requesting Blanche to resign a little boudoir. 
 This Blanche did with good grace ; for was 
 it not to comfort a lady — a foreign lady — a 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 very gorgeous creature, who spoke broken 
 English with a grand perversity of accent 
 that gave additional charms to the many 
 she possessed ! 
 
 The suite of apartments occupied by 
 these two visitors was — as we have said — 
 the best in the house. The rooms had a 
 grand view over park and woodland, and the 
 windows were within arm's-length of tall 
 trees, which, when the wind was high, bent 
 and bowed, and seemed to greet the eyes that 
 looked out upon them ! The crows, too, 
 seeing something unusual astir, were eager 
 to know the meaning of it ; and when De 
 Lisle put his head out of the window the 
 morning after his arrival, to take, as he 
 said " the air," and to look at the " black- 
 birds," as he called them, the creatures 
 cawed all the louder, and flapped their 
 wings, and started from their nests — keep- 
 ing their young families hungry while they 
 did the stranger the honours of recogni- 
 tion ! De Lisle appreciated this, and often
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 243 
 
 aftenvards opened the window, and threw 
 out inviting bribes, and talked to his sable 
 friends ! 
 
 De Lisle was a well-built, heavy-shoul- 
 dered man, taken in nicely at the waist, and 
 flowing into full-pleated rotundity at the hips. 
 He had a dark oHve skin, covered, in the 
 proper places, by a bristly black beard, and 
 moustachios that had never been ruined by 
 the razor. His features were finely 
 chiselled, and his eyes black, bold, and 
 piercing ! His nose was aquiline — Mephis- 
 tophilean, perhaps, inclining to the Devil's 
 bridge ; and his mouth firm, it might be, 
 sinister. Altogether he was a man of 
 mark, — a man to be looked at twice, when 
 met for the first time. When he stood to 
 his full height, and played his eye angrily, 
 his look was menacing — stiletto-like — and 
 cut keenly with the edge of the passion it 
 was intended to express. When he bent, 
 and smiled, and said soft words, no one 
 could be more gentle, kind, and persuasive !
 
 244 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 He would have made a versatile actor, for 
 he could play Lovelace as well as lago ! 
 
 His sister partook materially of these 
 characteristics ; indeed, the brother and 
 sister were very much alike. And yet what 
 was menacing in the man, was majestic 
 in the woman. She was a paragon of ma- 
 jesty, and her carriage and presence were 
 such as should belong to a queen ! She 
 mio'ht, in other times, have been Semiramis 
 or Cleopatra! Indeed, her brother, when 
 when they were alone, often abbreviated the 
 latter name, and called her " Cleo !" Her 
 age was difficult to tell : she may have been 
 twenty-five — perhaps a year or tw^o younger ; 
 for women of her mould and material come 
 to maturity early, and sometimes do injus- 
 tice to themselves in the matter of years ! 
 
 There was great attraction in these two 
 people for Sir Eoger Maldon : they were 
 privileged to be on terms of familiarity with 
 him, and he unbent in their presence — and 
 in their presence only. Perhaps it was be.
 
 GEILiLD FITZGERALD. 245 
 
 cause the brother and sister offered him the 
 same distinction. They were French aris- 
 tocrats ; he was an EngHsh one ; and he 
 admu'ed them, probably, because, hke him- 
 self, they possessed a great power of indivi 
 vidual repulsion, and were dangerous t(? 
 approach as torpedos ! During their travels, 
 they had exercised their benumbing power 
 upon several intrusive people, to the satis- 
 faction of Sir Eoger, who could conceive no 
 better entertainment than that of shghting 
 and behaving rudely to those he might con- 
 sider beneath him ! 
 
 The baronet had his simplicities ; his 
 head was exalted so high that he was de- 
 ceived in many matters passing below its 
 level. The French gentleman and his sister 
 were aware of this, and reckoned up their 
 host's weaknesses as easy as a child counts 
 upon its fingers ! They first met him in a 
 diplomatic salon at Paris ; in his hearing 
 they spoke to his Excellency ; in his sight 
 Marie executed one of the most graceful
 
 246 GERALD FITZGEILiLD. 
 
 movements of the day ! The baronet — 
 till that moment cold and callous — watched 
 Marie with interest. Certainly, she was 
 the queen of the assembly! Yet, strange 
 to say, not one of the attaches, — not one of 
 the many gentlemen — young or old — of any 
 note, in the place, ventured to ask her 
 hand ! Sir Roger set this down to her 
 credit : she was too grand, too majestic for 
 them ! He went at once to her brother, 
 made himself known, was received with 
 great empressement ; and from that moment 
 he secm-ed the De Lisles to himself ! 
 
 It was made to appear — quite naturally 
 and in the course of conversation — that the 
 French gentleman was the representative of 
 a good family, robbed and ruined by the 
 confounded revolution. One of the De 
 Lisles was a follower and friend of the 
 first Hugh Capet ; another was beloved and 
 trusted by the great Francis ; and a third 
 was of those who wore the cross and band 
 and conferred with the Guises and the
 
 GERALD FITZGEILiLD. 247 
 
 Queen Mother on the eve of Saint Bar- 
 tholomew I They were obscure now ; — yes, 
 happily ! In the new constitution of things 
 in France, to have been famous would have 
 been infamous ! 
 
 These were De Lisle's statements, deli- 
 vered to the baronet over several after- 
 dinner tables, and under the influence of 
 generous wine; and as Sir Roger was 
 willing to believe anything from such a 
 quarter, he was convinced that he Hstened 
 to truth. His researches into modem his- 
 tory — French, especially — were not deep ; 
 and therefore he did not think and compare 
 names and dates for himself. True, he was 
 a well-educated young man, crammed with 
 classical knowledge and familiar with lan- 
 guages that were seldom used orally. But 
 this knowledge did not bring him down to 
 his o\\Ti day. From the age of Augustus 
 he was a little at fault ; and all he knew of 
 the Gauls was that they were a rude, inde- 
 cent people, obnoxious to the classical
 
 248 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 ^'orld, and to be best dealt with by the 
 Tenth Legion. Had Sir Roger Maldon 
 lived in China, he would have been one of 
 the firmest believers in outer barbarians ! 
 
 A dinner at Maldon Priory was an event 
 now : Lady Maldon appeared at table in new 
 glory ! Every day she appeared, and lis- 
 tened with subdued interest to De Lisle' s 
 stories of the haute noblesse. De Lisle tried 
 to please her, and he succeeded. 
 
 " My dear Roger," she said to her son, 
 when his visitors had been with him for 
 some days, " your friend the Chevalier" — 
 (Lady Maldon persisted in calHng De Lisle 
 the Chevalier) — " is excellent company. 
 How terribly he must feel the loss of the 
 society to which, in more fortunate times, 
 his family was accustomed ! You said that, in 
 politics, he was an elder Bourbon, did you 
 not ? — that he would accept nothing from 
 the Orleans branch ?" 
 
 " Well, yes, — something of the kind," 
 repUcd the baronet. " At any rate, he
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 249 
 
 withholds his countenance from the reisrn- 
 ing family," 
 
 " Ah !" said her ladyship, " I don*t 
 wonder at it ! It seems that Louis Phihppe 
 prides himself upon being styled ' The 
 Citizen King !' As the Chevalier said, I 
 say — ' Vive Henri Cinq /' " 
 
 '• Truly !" exclaimed the baronet, yawn- 
 ing. And he left her ladyship to the en- 
 joyment of her predilection. 
 
 At first, Blanche rather dishked her bro- 
 ther's friends, and the feeling was perfectly 
 mutual. j\Iarie complained to De Lisle 
 that Blanche teased her ! The English 
 girl was so simple and sincere, so calm and 
 collected ! Nothing excited or made an 
 impression upon her ! When Marie majes- 
 tically rolled out her broken Enghsh, 
 Blanche did no more than try to understand 
 it ; she made no remark upon its peculiarity, 
 but answered the French lady just as 
 though a common, every-day sort of person 
 had addressed her. This Marie did not 
 
 M 2
 
 250 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 like ; she was accustomed to create a sensa- 
 tion — to make people start, and remark, and 
 wonder ! and it was an offence that Blanche 
 — a little, pale English girl under age — 
 should presume to be at ease in her 
 presence I 
 
 As for De Lisle, for the first few days he 
 quite sympathised with his sister in her 
 dishke of the English girl. But after a 
 time there came another feeUng : the girl 
 interested him ! If he could do nothing 
 else, he could break her heart ! And why 
 not ? He had never tried such a pastime 
 before ; and really these English country 
 houses were very dull ! He would begin to 
 break her heart at once ! 
 
 Blanche knew nothing of this kind in- 
 tention on the part of her brother's guest ; 
 and as the days passed she became more 
 used to his society and the society of his 
 sister. They improved upon acquaintance, 
 and as they grew gracious, she grew con- 
 siderate I till at last De Lisle talked flat- 
 
 #•
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 251 
 
 teringly of her, and even Marie began to 
 dislike her less ! 
 
 But Richard was ever distant and inac- 
 cessible. Not that any one — unless it 
 might be his sister — courted him ! From 
 the first, De Lisle had watched the baronet's 
 treatment of his brother, and had followed 
 the example with all the good and bad 
 grace of which he was capable. ]Marie, 
 after the first glance, averted her eyes from 
 the young man, and never could be brought 
 to believe that he belonged to the family ! 
 She hinted as much, in a very flattering 
 manner, to the baronet ; and his answer 
 gave her a rule by which to think of and 
 treat Richard Maldon ! 
 
 Marie took to horse-riding as naturally 
 as though she had been bred in an English 
 manor-house. Her fine figure looked still 
 finer in a riding-habit ; and when the breeze 
 blew the black curls from her face, and a 
 rich red glow made her dark skin trans 
 parent, she was a beauty as well as a queen !
 
 252 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 Sir Roger saw this, and often indulged her 
 with out-door exercise. When, for the sake 
 of showing De Lisle and his sister how 
 English gentlemen pass their time in the 
 country, he took them to the cover-side, a 
 dozen young fellows in scarlet were excited 
 to admiration ! . " Di Vervon ! — by Jove !" 
 said one. " Rides like a Centaur — doesn't 
 she?" said another. But the baronet 
 frowned them all down ! — all except one, 
 who coming up late, and hearing the re- 
 marks of his fellows, beheld Marie galloping 
 in the distance, and added his approval to 
 the many others that the lady's face and 
 figure called forth. That late comer was 
 the young Lord Dalton ! 
 
 Blanche sometimes joined her brother 
 and his guests in these rides. She was 
 with them when Marie captivated the young 
 Nimrods in scarlet ; and upon her return 
 home, she found Richard dull, dejected, 
 and incKned to be reproachful. He had 
 finished the epic, and resting after his
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 253 
 
 great work, his mind was unoccupied, and 
 he had left the world of fancy for the world 
 of fact ! He wanted to know what Blanche 
 could see in those odious French people 
 that she should give^them her sweet society ! 
 He was querulous and complaining : 
 
 " I sought you," he said, " to tell you of 
 a resolve I have made. This house is no 
 place for me, and I must leave it ! I am 
 even outstaying your affection !" 
 
 Blanche was eloquent with denial ; but 
 all to no purpose. There was a motive 
 power urging Richard ; and that power was 
 the epic ! 
 
 " Yes," he continued, " I must leave 
 this place, and bring my abihties to the 
 market ! I can but fail, and there will be 
 an end of me !" 
 
 " Richard !" 
 
 " Blanche !" 
 
 This was the turning-point in the con- 
 versation, and from thence the poet began
 
 254 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 to reason, and the sister to think. Richard's 
 reasoning was all rose-colour and promise. 
 He talked of his "pen" with a sublime 
 confidence in its sustaining powers, and 
 pointed to Scott, and Byron, and Southey, 
 and the entire race of successful poets, to 
 prove that the mines of Golconda were in 
 the hands of the Muses I What would 
 Paradise Lost have fetched in the nine- 
 ^enth century ! — and when a man belong- 
 ing to that century had a Paradise Lost in 
 his portmanteau, where was the limit to his 
 fame and fortune ? 
 
 Blanche was unable to answer this ques- 
 tion, but she had her doubts about the 
 matter. Of the few authors whose biogra- 
 phies she had dipped into, it occurred to 
 her that many had died in penury, some in 
 jail, and some had broken their hearts when 
 their fortunes were fluctuating ! Others 
 had laid violent hands on themselves ; and, 
 indeed, take them for aU in all, they were
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 255 
 
 not, as a class, what the dull world would call 
 happy ! Of two sets of men — those whose 
 souls live in an alley, and those whose minds 
 soar to the clouds — it was difficult to say 
 which set a man had best belong to ! There 
 might be foulness and torpor in the alley, 
 but in the clouds there was often starvation ! 
 This was a point well worth considering. 
 
 But not by the poet expectant ! " You 
 see, Blanche," he said, " 1 am that help- 
 less thing called a gentleman ! You may 
 have heard that one of my class finds it 
 difficult to dig, and has a certain native 
 modesty which hinders him from begging ! 
 Happily, the pen comes to release me from 
 the inevitable conclusion that, situated as I 
 am, such a man must starve ! Would you, 
 then, advise me to neglect its proffered ad- 
 vantages ?" 
 
 Poor Blanche ! — advice to an author ! 
 She might well murmur a faint " No," and 
 put her arms round her brother's neck, and
 
 25G GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 kiss him fondly, and inwardly pray for him ! 
 All this she did ; and the very next day 
 Richard, gathering up the loose sheets of 
 the epic, and giving it the monopoly of his 
 portmanteau, left Maldon Priory, and went 
 with the priceless treasure to London !
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 When Lady ^laldon heard that Richard 
 had departed — upon what business she did 
 not enquire — ^her natural anxiety was quieted. 
 She was glad, she said, that he had decided 
 upon taking some independent course in life. 
 All she hoped was that he would do nothing 
 to degrade his family ! With these few 
 words, she dismissed the subject, and was 
 never known to speak of it again ! 
 
 The baronet was similarly affected by the 
 news. But his hope as to the propriety of 
 Richard's conduct was more strongly ex-
 
 258 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 pressed than her ladyship's. He trusted 
 that Richard would not forget the duty he 
 owed to his family ; that he would not 
 descend to the meannesses of trade ! Having 
 expressed this trust, he also permitted the 
 subject to drop, and never took it up again ! 
 He was busy with an idea that was a 
 source of continual anxiety to him. He felt 
 that the Priory was getting dull, and knew 
 that his friends — on account of this dullness, 
 perhaps — were talking of departure. How 
 should he amuse them and induce them to 
 stay ? Unfortunately, his circle of acquain- 
 tance was limited ; for he had forgotten his 
 father's friends, and made few friends of his 
 own. He was looked upon by hisneighbours as 
 an absentee, voted inhospitable, and when 
 the carriages rolled out and the cards were 
 left, he was forgotten 1 This annoyed him 
 just now, when he wanted the world at his 
 feet and found that he stood alone ! The 
 ideas of his foreign friends had exalted him 
 to the position of a territorial prince, with
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 259 
 
 a miniature court, a great following of 
 flatterers, and an army of sei*ving-men ! 
 He knew this, and their surprise at his 
 quiet way of living galled him. He believed 
 that they esteemed him the less for his 
 failings in this matter, and began to think 
 that English titles were mere badges of 
 wealth, not evidences of rank and position. 
 
 " My dear jMaldon," said De Lisle, once 
 when the after-dinner conversation flagged 
 unusually, " what a solitary people you 
 English ai'istocrats are ! How you shut up 
 and seclude yourselves ! What poor service 
 satisfies you ! A man of your position 
 should be the centre of a crowd, with half-a- 
 dozen titles waiting upon him ! You would 
 have, in Germany. You've acres enough !" 
 
 " Titles are scarce, you see, in England." 
 retuiTied the host. " Besides, our gentry 
 object to render service, unless to the Crown ! 
 They have estates to look after ; they fill 
 civic ofiices." 
 
 "True!" replied Do Lisle. "Yet, I
 
 260 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 think your system a poor one ! No wonder 
 you travel so much !" 
 
 The conversation had its due effect upon 
 the baronet. He determined to bring a 
 neighbour or two about him ; and, looking 
 through the list of county families for this 
 purpose, foremost upon that list he found 
 the honoured name of Lord Dalton ! The 
 late baronet and the late lord had been on 
 terms of close intimacy, and their present 
 representatives had met at Eton. Lord 
 Dalton was then a dull, uninteresting youth, 
 hard to teach and careless to learn. But 
 he had a peculiarity that, assisted by his 
 rank and fortune, brought him many 
 friends and made his life a merry one. It 
 was impossible to offend him ! He was con- 
 sidered the best humoured boy in the school, 
 and he managed to keep a highly plea- 
 sant company about him. He had a 
 habit of making his way, and getting what 
 he wanted, and he was gifted with a conceit 
 that armed him ao^ainst all attacks and
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 261 
 
 carried him well through all verbal encoun- 
 ters. He came, too, of a capital family : 
 two of his ancestors had been executed for 
 high treason ; one had murdered his wife ; 
 and another had robbed the public treasury ! 
 So his name was historical, and men were 
 accustomed to hear it mentioned with 
 reverence. 
 
 The baronet thought it well to inaugurate 
 the cultivation of new intimacies by seeking 
 the scion of so distinguished a family as 
 this ; and the local paper supplied him with 
 a pretext. It contained an item — a very 
 prominent one — of news that brought grief 
 upon the entire county ! In the very first 
 column of this local paper, in large, leaded 
 type, was the report of an accident that had 
 happened to his lordship ! If the Editor 
 did less than weep and call to his wife for 
 consolation while he penned this report, 
 he must have been more than man ! The 
 Trojan who drew Priam's curtains in 
 the dead of night, to tell him half his Troy
 
 262 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 was burnt, must have suffered by comparison 
 with the reporter who first lighted upon and 
 rushed to the newspaper office with the 
 desolating intelligence ! IIow he could 
 possibly gain courage to go to Dalton 
 House — as he did — day and night, to fetch 
 bulletins and give occasion for second editions, 
 is httle less than miraculous! — For Lord 
 Dalton had sustained a compound fracture 
 of his left fore-finger ! 
 
 Sir Roger Maldon — not waiting for the 
 fourth edition of the local paper — went to 
 Dalton House. He took his friends and his 
 sister with him, and they all drew rein at 
 the lodge. The house was a grand one, — 
 approached by a semicircular path -way, and 
 reached by a flight of broad marble steps. 
 A terrace fronted the entire breadth 
 of the mansion, and to this terrace the 
 dining-room windows opened. As the 
 baronet and his friends rode round the semi- 
 circle, something flitted backwards and for- 
 wards behind the windows. It was some-
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 263 
 
 thing in a bright red dressing gown and 
 slippers, apparently leaping over the bent 
 body of a little man in black cloth ! The 
 performance ceased when the visitors reached 
 the marble steps ; and the performer came 
 out upon the terrace. 
 
 " Ah !" Maldon, he said, " Is it you?— 
 Thought I knew your face ! How de do ? 
 Come in !' 
 
 " No thank you !" replied the baronet, 
 coldly. He scarcely liked the appearance 
 and pursuits of his lordship; nor did he 
 relish the bold glances that the young 
 gentleman cast upon Marie. 
 
 " Oh but you must ! I shan't let you 
 go ! The lodge-keeper shall close the gates ; 
 he shall, upon my soul ! Ah ! I forgot 
 myself ! — I'm always forgetting myself and 
 making lapses — not lapsis^ Maldon; you 
 understand me. But come in !" 
 
 " No, really,*' replied the Baronet, " I 
 called only to enquire about the accident. 
 You don't seem so very much hurt !" 
 
 " Oh, lor bless you, no ! — it's a mere
 
 264 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 trifle ! — but those newspaper fellers will put 
 you in print if they can ! I've one in 
 my kitchen, now ; he eats like a horse ! 
 The doctor's just given him a bulletin. But 
 do come in !" 
 
 It was difficult to refuse so earnest an in- 
 vitation, especially as it was backed up with 
 some slight muscular energy exerted by 
 Lord Dalton upon the Baronet's shoulder, 
 with a view to pull him from his horse. So 
 the whole party dismounted, and entered 
 the dining-room, where they saw the little 
 man in black cloth who had been making a 
 back for his lordship. Blanche thought she 
 knew him ; and indeed she did ; for he was 
 her mother's physician ! 
 
 " My doctor." said Lord Dalton, "Never 
 mind him : he's nobody ! Are you, doctor ?" 
 
 The physician bowed. By the side of 
 Lord Dalton, what was he ? 
 
 " I've been jumping over his back for 
 exercise. He makes a capital back ; but he 
 puts it in the biU ! Don't you, doctor ?"
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 265 
 
 The physician bowed again. He cer- 
 tainly did mean to put his back in the bill, 
 not as a back, but as calisthenics ! 
 
 Lunch was introduced, and it was excel- 
 lent ; for Lord Dalton kept a capital cook, 
 a man who wrote books upon his " art," 
 wore orders, was a Chevalier of the Legion 
 of Honour, and somehow rose from the 
 kitchens to the company of noblemen ! 
 Lord Dalton had him up now and then ; 
 and he, no doubt, recorded his Lordship's 
 conversations to enrich some future literary 
 labours. The result, however, of his present 
 occupation was satisfactory in the extreme : 
 the lunch was delightful to all but Sir 
 Roger Mai don. He might have got on 
 very well, but he could not stomach his host ! 
 Lord Dalton was so blusteringly attentive 
 to Marie ; so curious in his questions and 
 yet so careless about answers. He altogether 
 lacked refinement, and talked and acted 
 Hke an overgrown boy ! The effect of this 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 2GQ GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 was that the Baronet grew coldly polite, and 
 left his white soup untasted. 
 
 " Now," said 'his Lordship, rising from 
 the table, and scarcely able to speak for a 
 half-swallowed morsel — " I shall ride back 
 nith you. You've seen my house, and I 
 shall see yours. Doctor, may I ride ? How's 
 the finger ? — painful? — dangerous ? — eh ?" 
 
 " Not absolutely dangerous," said the 
 physician, deferentially. " With care, your 
 Lordship can do no harm on horseback !" 
 
 " Thankee, doctor ! You're a capital 
 feller ; you give capital advice ; and you 
 make a capital back ! Well, I'm off to the 
 stables !" 
 
 Lord Dalton, soon mounted, made a queer 
 figure on horseback. He had a long body, 
 narrow shoulders, and thin legs. His head 
 was large and seemed to overweight him. 
 He used to bet upon his head at Eton. It 
 was too big for the biggest hat in the 
 school, and deceived all the new boys. It
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 267 
 
 was the foundation of a proverb — " x\.s 
 large as Dalton's head;" a proverb that 
 may be current at Eton even now. His 
 face, fair and fresh-coloured, was lighted up 
 by pale blue eyes, his nose had the bend 
 sinister, and his teeth a habit of showinof 
 themselves like the teeth of a celebrated 
 comedian of our days. He belonged to a 
 cavalr)' regiment, and therefore his upper 
 lip was lightly furred with a yellowish 
 fungus. 
 
 He had no sensibilities, and was not the 
 man to cry out before, or even after, he 
 was hurt. Full of confidence in himself, he 
 believed that he was a capital fellow, a for- 
 tunate fellow, a fellow to be followed and 
 admu'ed ; and if, in the height of his en- 
 joyment, any kind friend had advised him — 
 as many kind /ricnds are in the habit of 
 advising — " Dalton, you are making an ass 
 of yourself ! Those who don't laugh at you 
 are disgusted with you!" — he would have 
 smiled and said, —
 
 268 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 " Nonsense ! Bosh ! Don't you see how 
 dehsrhted the fellers are ?" — and would have 
 made the people merry or disgusted again 
 before the kind friend had fully digested 
 the reply?" 
 
 " This your place ?" said his Lordship, 
 as the party approached the Priory. " Dull, 
 isn't it ? Oh, those confounded crows ! 
 What's the difference between a rook and a 
 crow ? Do you know ? I don't ! I have 
 heard that you eat the one, and you don't 
 the other ! Is it so?" 
 
 In this way his Lordship talked till dinner 
 time, to the great amusement of the French 
 gentleman and his sister, who had never seen 
 such a strange animal before ! Blanche 
 laughed heartily at him ; but the Baronet 
 was annoyed beyond measure. Lady 
 Maldon, coming down to dinner, was 
 gracious in the extreme. 
 
 "Why havn't you been before?" she 
 said. " Your father and poor Sir Eoger 
 were great friends !"
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 2G9 
 
 " Better late than never, you know !" 
 said his Lordship. " I'm here now, aint I ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, you are here now ! And how's 
 your finger? IVe heard of it?" 
 
 " Oh, here it is !" said his Lordship, 
 holding it up and moving it backwards and 
 forwards in a facetious fashion. " It aint 
 very bad ! But you know those fellers will 
 put you in the paper, if they can !" 
 
 The dinner passed away. For a wonder, 
 Lord Dalton had been paying much more 
 attention to his vis-a-vis than to the dishes ! 
 His vis-a-vis was Marie. She could scarcely 
 eat her soup for him ! He favoured her 
 once or twice with a sly look that was the 
 nearest possible approach to a wink. ^Vhat 
 did he mean ? 
 
 Then the ladies retired, and Lord Dalton 
 was at liberty to talk of them. 
 
 " Remarkablv line woman that sister of 
 yours, Mister Do J^isle ! Pass the wine, 
 Maldon. No !— d — n the decanter ! I like 
 to pour out of a black bottle ! I like the
 
 270 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 sound it makes ! De Lisle, I drink to your 
 lovely sister !" 
 
 His Lordship tossed off the wine, and 
 De Lisle bowed his thanks. 
 
 " Miss Maldon, too, is well worth looking 
 at ! But, certainly, by the side of Made- 
 moiselle, she comes off second best ! I've 
 no sisters, you see ; I can't get a woman to 
 stay in my house, unless, you know, — un- 
 less, I " 
 
 Lord Dalton paused, and looked know- 
 ingly at his two friends. He had forgotten 
 himself again, and thought he was in the 
 mess-room among boon companions — fellows 
 who could take a joke ! But he was sur- 
 prised to see the blank cold countenance of 
 his host, and the curious, enquiring expres- 
 sion of De Lisle. Couldn't they under- 
 stand a wink ? He was about to make them 
 do this, when the Baronet spoke : — 
 
 " You are slighting your wine, my Lord ! 
 The black bottle's all your own !" 
 
 " Don't call me ' my Lord,' Maldon ! I
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 271 
 
 don't mind your beino- familiar. You can 
 forget differences^ .of rank, and talk tome , 
 just as I might to you." 
 
 " Thank you !" said Sir Roger, sarcas- 
 tically. . 
 
 Except by signs and symbols, De Lisle 
 took no part in this conversation, but he 
 had quick eyes and ears for the scene. Now 
 and then, particularly when his -Lordship - 
 spoke of Marie, the .French gentleman 
 smiled, tossed off his wine, and let the glass . 
 fall with a ring upon the table ; or he 
 twirled it on its edge, and looked into the _ 
 air, with all the abandon of a man possessed 
 by a pleasant conceit ! But when Lord 
 Dalton, rising to leave, profeiTcd his hand, .. 
 De Lisle took it eagerly, shook it heartily, 
 and said, — 
 
 ^^ Au revotr, my Lord ! I shall tell my 
 sister your good opinion of her. She will 
 be much gratified, I am sure !*' 
 
 The baronet looked strangely at his guest. 
 What did the man mean ? Marie be gratified
 
 272 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 by the coarse admiration of a foolish fellow 
 like Lord Dalton ! Preposterous ! The 
 Dal ton line had lasted too long, and had 
 produced an idiot ! So thought Sir Roger 
 Maldon ; but he was scarcely reflective 
 enough, and had no just idea of what a for- 
 midable creature a fool is ! He had no con- 
 ception of the value of blunt weapons in 
 social warfare ! 
 
 "What!" said Lady Maldon, when she 
 beheld her son and his guests enter the 
 drawing-room alone, " Has his lordship 
 gone ?" 
 
 " He has !" 
 
 " Oh ! we were all expecting to be 
 amused !" said Marie. " What a curious 
 fellow Milord is !" 
 
 " Very !'* returned De Disle, " quite 
 entertaining, is he not ?" 
 
 " Remarkably so !" said Marie. " Are 
 there any more lords like him in England ?" 
 
 " I think I may venture to say — for the
 
 GEUALD FITZGERALD. 273 
 
 credit of the English aristocracy — that there 
 are not !" replied the baronet. 
 
 This was said in a tone that at once ex- 
 tinguished Lord Dalton as an object of 
 remark. But it left the French gentleman 
 and his sister to the enjoyment of their 
 thoughts and the cultivation of their merry 
 conceits. These pleased them much, spoilt 
 their card-playing, and made them generally 
 absent. Thus the day passed off; and Sir 
 Koger ]\laldon, when he retired to his 
 chamber, could not congratulate himself on 
 the success of his first attempt to bring 
 friends about him ! Before he took off his 
 signet-ring, and said his prayers, he was 
 moved to question himself: — Did he love 
 Marie? — Had Lord Dalton made him 
 jealous ? He could answer neither of these 
 questions to hu satisfaction ; — so he gave 
 them up as riddles, and they did not recur 
 to him till the sun rose the next morning, 
 .when he asked them over again ! And a 
 second time they were given up, and Lord 
 
 N 2
 
 274 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 Dalton was abused for having suggested the 
 game ! 
 
 His guests, too, were busy with the subject. 
 Before they went down to breakfast, they 
 held counsel with closed doors. They stood 
 ny a window from whence De Lisle was 
 wont to talk to tlie " black birds." The 
 morning was dark and dull, and the crows 
 cawedlouder than ever, covered up theirinva- 
 lids with leaves and branches, and flew hither 
 and thither to coUect stray items for shelter. 
 Presently the sky grew dark indeed ! A 
 heavy cloud sailed along, low in the air, like 
 a messenger. The lighter fringe of the 
 cloud came over the high trees ; the dense 
 black mass followed ; — and then, as a dozen 
 large drops fell like bullets into the loftiest 
 nest, the patriarch of the tribe shook him- 
 self and sent forth a note of defiance ! The 
 whole choir took up the strange music ! — 
 And looking on this scene, hearing these 
 sounds, De Lisle said quietly to his sister, 
 
 " What do you think of Lord Dalton ?"
 
 &ERALD FITZGER.U.D. 275 
 
 " Oh, a curious fellow ! — an amusing- 
 idiot ! But what a fine place he has !" 
 
 " Mag-nificent ! — And if that place were 
 your s ? 
 
 The French lady shrugged her shoulders, 
 sighed audibly, and turned towards the 
 window. 
 
 " Shall we go down to breakfast?" she 
 said. 
 
 " Yes. But stay ! I hear a footstep ?" 
 
 It was a servant, with letters. There was 
 one for Marie. She opened it, turned pale, 
 and fell into a chair. 
 
 " What news ?" said De Lisle, " has 
 death at last ?" 
 
 Marie shook her head. 
 
 " Ah !" continued the brother, " death 
 seldom comes when wanted ! But what of 
 that ? Some day it will come, Marie ! and 
 then but let us go down to breakfast." 
 
 Thelctter was locked in a cabinet, and Marie 
 regained her colour, and moved towards the 
 door. The dark clouds had left the heavens?
 
 276 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 and the sun, with a hazy obscure face — hke 
 any other face after tears — shone out faintly. 
 The crows were happy again ! They left 
 their nests, salHed forth into the fields, and 
 found their breakfasts. The day, after all, 
 turned out a bright one— at least for the 
 birds !
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The two parlours that were once tenanted 
 by Mr. Maguire had still the honour of 
 being occupied by an artist. True, the out- 
 ward insignia of the profession had dis- 
 appeared : there were no portraits in the 
 windows, neither were there miniatures on 
 the door-post. But the inner mysteries 
 were the same ; there were the same odours, 
 the same dabs of colour on the walls, the 
 same rough sketches, hanging, lying, and 
 being trodden about, the same easel, the 
 same stool ; everything, in fact, but the tall, 
 thin, anxious-looking man, — with his hands
 
 278 G!':rald fitzgeuald. 
 
 prying nei'vously in the pockets of his 
 blouse, and his head busy as to what he 
 could afford for dinner ! 
 
 In the place of this familiar figure, there 
 was one more pleasant, if not more profit- 
 able, to contemplate : a successful labourer 
 in the world of art — a contented, hopeful, 
 young man, handsome, healthy, full of 
 spirits, and with just sufficient means to 
 satisfy his modest desires. This young man 
 was Gerald Grey. 
 
 He was in the room devoted to private 
 purposes —the very room in which poor Mr. 
 Maguire once stood, checking his appetite 
 by going into the dreary business of ways 
 and means, and looking through the 
 window for patrons ! He had a friend with 
 him ; and the two men were reclining 
 easily and talking lazily upon anything that 
 came uppermost — neither of them lecturing 
 the other, but both indulging in a give-and- 
 take conversation that might have as- 
 tonished Wordsworth and afforded the great 
 Lexicographer a new sensation !
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 279 
 
 A pertinent passage from one of our 
 poets had escaped from the lips of 
 Gerald's companion. It contained an un- 
 answerahle argument. 
 
 " That decides the question," said 
 Gerald. 
 
 " Quite I" replied the other, — "and 
 shifts the responsibility from my shoulders 
 to those of Shakespeare. And now let us 
 change the subject ; let us go to hard, every- 
 day facts, — one of which is that the world 
 as yet turns its back upon me ! Nobody 
 will look at the Epic : it is pronounced to 
 be utterly unsaleable. One gentleman, 
 whom I pressed rather closely for his 
 opinion, gave it me at last with great free- 
 dom. ' My dear sir !' said he, ' as far as I 
 have read, vvliich is not beyond the first 
 half-dozen lines, the poem appears to be 
 utterly incomprehensible and absurd ; and 
 depend upon it, no one would go farther 
 into it than I have. There is nothing, sir, 
 nothing at all, but to make tinder of it !' "
 
 280 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 " A charitable opinion, truly !" said 
 Gerald. *' But why not try something else 
 — a novel, for instance ?" 
 
 " A novel !" 
 
 " Yes, the world in three volumes ! — a 
 hero, a heroine, an angry father, a foolish 
 mother, a town house, a country house, a 
 fool, a villain, and cake and gloves for the 
 last chapter ! There are your materials : 
 make the most of thenh" 
 
 " My dear Gerald 1 — just the idea I want. 
 You have saved me from despair ! They 
 won't let me be a poet, so I must be a moun- 
 tebank 1 m write a novel !" 
 
 " Softly ! Don't be too confident," said 
 Gerald, " you may find the task more diffi- 
 cult than I have sketched or you imagine 
 it. The artistic mind will probably pro- 
 duce a work of art ; it will not be satisfied 
 with less ; and your's being an artistic " — 
 
 " Pshaw ! Gerald. Novels are mere 
 manufactures, of which nonsense is the raw 
 material I — or they are hard, outline tran-
 
 GERALD FITZGER.U.D. 281 
 
 scripts, picked up in the police-court or 
 filched from the fireside, and seasoned with 
 sentiment to make the plain story go down ! 
 Nevertheless — and that's a long word — I'll 
 write a novel ! — and it shall so take the 
 pubHc that honest housewives shall forget 
 the pot boils over and the cobwebs are 
 about ; and fine ladies shall lie a-bed reading 
 till noon ; and lovers, with heads all empty, 
 shall have them filled with plain pictures of 
 their own everlasting folly ! I'll wTite a 
 novel !" 
 
 The way in which Gerald renewed his 
 acquaintance with Richard Maldon was sin- 
 gular. Threading one of our great tho- 
 roughfares, turning in and out to escape 
 the pressure of the daily crowd — a portfolio 
 under his arm, and his mind busy with the 
 world of pictures — he was suddenly made 
 conscious of an obstacle in his path. That 
 obstacle the artist's impetuosity brought to 
 the ground ! He was profuse in apologies ; 
 he assisted the stranj^er to rise ; he l)rushed
 
 282 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 the dust from his coat ; and then, looking 
 fairly in his face, saw that it was the face of 
 Ilichard Maldon ! 
 
 Of course the apologies were renewed with 
 tenfold vigour, the coat was brushed with 
 the ability of a Jew clothesman ; and the 
 result of the accident was that an honr af- 
 terwards the artist and the poet were 
 seated amicably together — the one talking 
 of his hopes, his troubles, and his fears ; 
 the other listening with an almost over- 
 whelming sense of favour conferred ! For 
 Richard talked of his sister — of her kind, 
 generous heart, and the great love she bore 
 him : 
 
 " She is the only friend I have in the 
 world !" he said, " and were I to lose her, 
 the world would be empty !" 
 
 He talked, too, of the epic, and was in 
 high spirits about it then ! He had just 
 come from Paternoster Kow, where he had 
 been courteously received by the head of 
 a great publishing house, who smiled and
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 283 
 
 told him that ordinary poetry was a drug ; 
 but that for extraordinarj' poetry, why — as 
 the world knew — there was room enoug-h. 
 This quite satisfied Richard. He was con- 
 vinced that if there was such a thins" as 
 X-traordinar}' poetry, his was Double 
 X-traordinary, and would be accepted and 
 admired upon its merits. 
 
 Time, as we have seen, had somewhat 
 changed his opinion upon the point ; and 
 this, perhaps, drew him nearer to Gerald, 
 and made the two men companions. The 
 artist was delighted to consort with the 
 brother of Blanche, and reckon him as a 
 friend ; and the poet found in the proffered 
 friendship so much consolation, and such 
 signal advantage in the shape of kind and 
 considerate advice, that thorough confidence 
 was speedily established between the two 
 young men, and their liking for each other 
 grew day by day. 
 
 Blanche was duly informed of the meet-
 
 28-i: GERALD FITZviEUALD. 
 
 ing — ludicrous at first, fortunate in the 
 end : — 
 
 " Our artist (ran the letter which con- 
 " veyed the information) is an excellent, 
 " kind creature. He has taken me in hand, 
 " and is ti'ying to talk me into contentment. 
 *' I pass many hours in his studio, or I walk 
 " about London with him, and moralise as 
 " well as one can in a crowd. So you see 
 *' I am not so lonely as I might have been. 
 " True, I miss you very much — and you ! 
 " do you miss me ? I should grieve to 
 " know that you were sad ; and yet — 
 " strange contradiction of feeling ! — I have 
 " enough self-love to wish that my absence 
 " may be regretted ! Of my prospects I 
 " will say little till they are brighter : the 
 " epic hangs on hand.'* 
 
 Another letter — evidently written after 
 the conversation just recorded — contained 
 this passage : 
 
 '' What do you think, Blanche? Will
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 285 
 
 " you believe me when I tell you that I am 
 "actually writing a novel? It shall be 
 " called ' Love and Lunacy ' — beginning; in 
 " Lesbos and ending in St. Luke's ! I am 
 " told that the public (they talk much 
 *' about the public here in London) will not 
 " look at anything thoughtful ; so I am 
 " trvinof to do without thinkino- at all ! ^Iv 
 " hero has blood on his hands already, and 
 " my heroine and her maid are preparing 
 " to go mad, — the one in white satin, the 
 " other in white linen, — as Sheridan says. 
 " Oh the artifice of all this ! And yet the 
 
 " epic ! There, I'm disgusted, and 
 
 " shall say no more !" 
 
 Notvnthstanding this contemptuous tone, 
 Richard worked well at his task. Perhaps 
 he was scarcely sincere in what he said and 
 -vvTote about it ; but the world had rejected 
 the epic, and how, without some qualms of 
 bitterness, could he take another mistress ? 
 He grew out of his distaste for the work, 
 however, as the work progressed ; and at
 
 286 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 length he began thoroughly to interest him- 
 self in it. Duly considering this change, 
 he was humbled and abashed at his own 
 imperfections of thought. The result was 
 a letter to his sister : 
 
 " A young man with many prejudices, 
 ' Blanche, deserves a whipping. I fear I 
 ' deserve one myself ! Less than a week has 
 • sufficed utterly to destroy an opinion 
 ' upon which I believed myself firm and 
 ' infallible. Pray bum the ridiculous letter 
 
 ' I last sent you. As to the epic our 
 
 ' artist was right, the booksellers Avere 
 ' right, everybody was right but myself ! 
 ' I tried to read a length of it yesterday, 
 ' and could not. It is crude and boyish in 
 ' the extreme." 
 
 A few days after writing this letter, 
 Kichard Maldon was with Gerald again. 
 He entered hastily, and found the artist busy 
 upon a picture. It was the Priory ruin, by 
 moonlight. 
 
 " A marvel !" he exclaimed, " Were my
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 287 
 
 brother to see it, he might claim it as his 
 own ! You painters are clever fellows — at 
 least, the few of you who have any ideas." 
 
 '^ And how goes the novel ?" asked Gerald. 
 
 Richard hung his head, and smiled faintly. 
 
 " You find the task a difficult one, eh ?" 
 
 " No, not difficult, but different. I have 
 changed my mind about it. J have been 
 weeping with my own heroine, and the 
 remorse of my hero for his first murder has 
 so afiected me that he has pto wn a o'ood 
 man, and is to leave his other wickednesses 
 undone ! Why, you only smile. You're 
 not surprised ! You take the matter as of 
 course !" 
 
 " Just so," said Gerald, " why should I 
 not ? The mind has its fashions as well as 
 the body, and wears them as capriciously. 
 To-day, russet ; and to-morrow motley ; and 
 the day after, whatever you please, so long 
 as it be not consistent with the fancy of the 
 day before. 
 
 " Well, I am wiser, and must pay for
 
 288 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 wisdom in the plentiful coin of conceit. 
 But let us give up these dry topics ; I came 
 here .is an idler, and I want to make holiday. 
 As yet, I have seen none of the sights of 
 London. Are there any worth seeing ?" 
 
 " Saint Paul's, and Westminster Abbey, 
 the Thames Tunnel, the outside of the 
 National Gallery, the New Model Prison, 
 the ^luseum, the " 
 
 " Stay ! Are there no living sights ? The 
 Queen, I hear, is to open Parliament to-day. 
 Shall we go and see her ?" 
 
 Gerald assented, and the two friends took 
 their way to the west end of the town. It 
 w^as " queen's weather," and the streets 
 were full of people. The sun, beaming with 
 invitation, looked into dull shops and dark 
 counting-houses, and made wavering money- 
 gainers unhappy ; while those who in the 
 successful pursuit of wealth could not be 
 made unhcappy by anything else, drew down 
 their blinds, turned over their ledgers, and 
 merely remarked that the day was close !
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 289 
 
 Richard Maldou was given greatly to 
 moralise upon things about him, and when 
 he found sennons in stones, he translated 
 them for his friend's benefit. He was occu- 
 pied with a process preliminaiy to this 
 translation, when the artist shook him 
 vigorously, and provoked a reply : 
 
 " You are unkind ! You might have let 
 me finish my problem. The grace Archimides 
 had woidd have been sufiicient ; and yet his 
 w^as a simple task compared to mine !" 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " A\Tiv, his could be worked out with 
 chalk, while mine— mine cannot be worked 
 out at all !" 
 
 " A reason for interrupting it." 
 
 " Perhaps so; butit will come again. Look 
 at this half-million of brothers with scarcely 
 more love for each other than the two first ! 
 Is it not strange that these people should 
 walk on thus indifferently to the end ?" 
 
 " What an odd question to put in Pall 
 Mall !" 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 290 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 " Ah, you are like the rest, careless ! 
 You leave your serious thoughts with the 
 hassocks and the church services from 
 Sunday to Sunday, and never bring them 
 to bear upon the actual world ! Yours is 
 the religion of ease !" 
 " And yours?" 
 " Of enquiry." 
 
 " Very well ! But look at those mounted 
 giants ! Dear me ! — what a strange figure 
 that is on horseback yonder!" 
 
 The strange figure was Lord Dalton, who 
 had exchanged into the Blues, and now 
 made his first appearance as one of Her 
 Majesty's body-guard. He was naturally 
 proud of his position, and carried his sword 
 in a martial manner that was scarcely natural 
 to him. Still, he looked affably upon the 
 crowd, and the crowd returned the com- 
 pliment by staring at his lordship with open 
 mouths. Occasionally a vulgar little boy, 
 more facetious and familiar with state than 
 his fellows, would utter something in dis-
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 291 
 
 paragement of Lord Dalton's personal 
 appearance ; but his lordship did not hear 
 the remark ; and had he heard it, would 
 never have believed that it was addressed to 
 him ! 
 
 Presently his lordship's troop was set in 
 motion. The crowd followed it, and swayed to 
 and fro ; little children were hoisted in the 
 air, and larger children obtained the ad- 
 vantage of a sudden and momentary 
 elevation. All eyes were turned towards a 
 certain archway ! 
 
 Kichard Maldon was one of the short 
 people, — but he clung nervously to his 
 friend's arm, strove to look above his neigh- 
 bours, and was greatly excited ! He saw 
 the top of a carriage, garnished at one end 
 by a portly coachman, at the other by three 
 gorgeous creatures, standing in a semi-circle ! 
 He saw staves flying about, and descending 
 upon his fellows' heads like drumsticks ! He 
 heard a en-, a groan, and innumerable 
 hisses. Then, staring straight before him,
 
 292 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 he saw a mild, domestic-l(3oking lady, in a 
 simple white bonnet, — bowing her head 
 gracefully to a line of boisterous royalists 
 who from either side claimed her attention. 
 
 " Hurrah !" exclaimed Richard raising 
 his hat. 
 
 " Hurrah !" repeated Gerald. And the 
 shout was taken up and accompanied 
 royalty till it was housed and invisible to 
 the outer barbarians. 
 
 " Now what did I shout for?" asked 
 Richard. " Why am I in this perspiration ? 
 What makes my heart beat so ridiculously ?" 
 
 Gerald was about to answer, when his 
 attention was diverted. There was confusion 
 in the crowd ; in the midst of, and towering 
 above it, a glazed hat gleamed in the sun, 
 and strove to make wav through the sea of 
 
 •i CD 
 
 hats by which it was surrounded. It was 
 very irregular in its movements— at times 
 disappearing altogether, and at other times 
 shaking from side to side as though the 
 wearer of it was engaged in a serious
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 293 
 
 struggle ! At length it seemed to keep 
 company with several of its fellows ; and at 
 last, it came out into the open space, and 
 the crowd closed up and followed. 
 
 But many cries were raised in its rear, 
 and many were the expressions of sympathy 
 for a miserable looking old man, who was 
 being hurled onward by the collar. The 
 policeman heeded neither, but pursued his 
 way sternly. As he passed Gerald, the 
 artist started, rushed towards him, and 
 seizing one arm of the captive, gazed in his 
 face, and cried : — 
 
 " My God, uncle !-Is this you?*' 
 
 '' Bravo!" said the crowd, — thinking it a 
 rescue. " Bravo !" — 
 
 The policeman heard these '^ bravos," — ^ 
 and took the same view of Gerald's pro- 
 ceedings as the crowd did. He was wroth ; 
 the staff was ready to his hand ; he raised 
 it, and Gerald fell, bleeding from the 
 forehead ! 
 
 Lord Dal ton was just riding back to
 
 294 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 barracks, to get a moment's relief from his 
 helmet and breast-plate. He saw Gerald 
 lying on the ground; he leant over his 
 horse, and looked compassionately upon the 
 artist. 
 
 " What's this ?" he said, addressing no 
 one in particular. " What's the matter ? 
 The man on the ground looks like a gen- 
 tleman ! Pick him up !" And as Gerald 
 rose, his lordship looked in his face and said 
 " Damn shame, sir! I hate those pohce- 
 men ! Here's my card ! Say 1 saw it all !" 
 And his lordship departed amid the cheers 
 of the populace.
 
 CHAPTEK XVII. 
 
 Since Mr. Grey had parted in anger from 
 his brother William, he had seen the fallen 
 man but once ; and then they met under 
 such circumstances as hardened both their 
 hearts, and separated them more certainly 
 than ever ! Mr. Grey sought his brother at 
 the public house ; and there he found him ! 
 His recent habits of life had become con- 
 firmed, and he had fallen entirely to the 
 level of the society he mixed with. The 
 poor fellow still had a little money ; and as 
 he spent some of it among his companions, 
 they were very faithful to him. and cliam-
 
 296 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 pioncd his cause with all the strength of 
 their lungs. 
 
 When these men saw Mr. Grey — with 
 his lionest hut indignant face, and all the 
 marks of labour fresh upon him, — they 
 were scandalised that he should enter their 
 domain ! — above all, that he should push 
 by them roughly, take his brother by the 
 hand, and ask him to leave their company I 
 They had learnt Uncle William's story, and 
 they knew the cause of his dismissal from 
 Mr. Tympan's. This, then, was the bro- 
 ther ; this was the father of the boy who 
 had been their companion's ruin ! 
 
 Presuming upon this knowledge, one of 
 them — a large, lazy fellow, with an un- 
 washed, unshaven face, and eyes that 
 blinked and fell when looked fairly into — 
 took up the cudgels for the companion who 
 was to be rescued : 
 
 '' Can't you leave the man alone ?" he 
 said, taking the pipe from his mouth, and 
 hiccupping the words with all the emphasis
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 297 
 
 of whicii he was capable. " He's comfortable 
 enough where he is ! Aint you, Grey ?" 
 
 " Yes, I'm comfortable enough," said 
 William, trying to free his hand from his 
 brother's grasp. " Do— do— let me go, 
 Gerald ! What do you want with me?" 
 
 " ^^^lat does he want !" said the man 
 who had spoken before. " Why, I'll tell 
 you what he wants ! Don't our relations 
 always look after us while we've got any- 
 thing ? And don't they keep a long way 
 off of us if we havn't ?" 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! — don't they !" said the whole 
 company. 
 
 " And if I was you. Grey," continued 
 the principal speaker, emboldened by the 
 applause of his friends, — '• I'd shake off the 
 lot ! It's all very well for 'em to come sneak - 
 ing about you while your money lasts ! But 
 wait till it's gone ! — Then see where they'll 
 be !" 
 
 Mr. Grey said nothing in reply ; he was 
 
 o2
 
 298 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 bending- over his brother and whispering 
 persuasive words in his ear : 
 
 " For God's sake, WiUiam, do come 
 away from this place ! Do give up this 
 hfe ! Come and Hve vidth me ! — Work if 
 you Uke, or be idle if you like ! But don't 
 go on in this way ! You are disgracing 
 yourself — you are disgracing me, and all 
 your family !" 
 
 *' Well," said William, peevishly, " and 
 who brought me to disgrace ? — whose fault 
 is it that I am here ? — did / give up my 
 situation? — did / work my own ruin ?" 
 
 " No !" returned Mr. Grey, sternly, 
 " you did not ! Your ruin is not yet com- 
 plete ; but you are trying to complete it ! 
 I ask you again — Will you come away ?" 
 
 "What!— now?" 
 
 " Now !" replied Mr. Grey. 
 
 " No !^ — I can't ! I ain't going to get up 
 and follow you just when you please ! Why 
 do you want me to come now ? Won't to-
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 299 
 
 morrow do, — or the next day, — or the day 
 after ?" 
 
 WilHam uttered this in a high, treble 
 key, audible to the company. 
 
 " You'd better leave your watch and your 
 money with the landlord if you do go !" 
 said one of the listeners. 
 
 Mr. Grey heard these words distinctly. 
 He turned from his brother, looked about 
 the room, and his eye at last fell upon the 
 speaker. 
 
 " This is my brother !" he said, with 
 suppressed passion, and pointing to William. 
 " I ask him to leave this place— this com- 
 pany — and to go where he will have friends 
 about him ! Now, will any one repeat the 
 words I heard just now ?" 
 
 There seemed little likelihood of this chal- 
 lenge being taken up ; for Mr. Grey's atti- 
 tude was peculiar, and his eye menacing ! 
 He was quite prepared to spring upon 
 whomsoever should speak first, and do bat- 
 tle with him for the right ! William's com-
 
 300 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 panions saw this, and they shrunk and 
 cowered beneath the glance directed at 
 them. But at length the first speaker took 
 courage. Were not his friends with him ? 
 — Was he not six feet high, and with all the 
 outward marks of a ruffian ? 
 
 " I will !" he said. " What do you want 
 with the man ?— Do you want to rob him of 
 what he has, after ruining him ?" 
 
 The suspense was over ! Mr. Grey took 
 but one stride, and his hand was on the 
 fellow's collar ! He hurled him across the 
 table to the open space ! Then, letting 
 him loose, and giving him one little word of 
 warning, all the gathered force was liberated, 
 and the tall ruffian fell crashing among the 
 tables ! 
 
 Mr. Grey waited for a moment or two ; 
 but his opponent made no show of rising ; 
 neither did the fellow's companions offer to 
 assist or revenge him ! So with just one 
 glance at William, the disappointed brother 
 strode away, and thus ended the interview ! 
 
 mi /
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 501 
 
 When he reached home, his \v4fe was 
 waiting anxiously to know the result of his 
 mission. 
 
 " You haven't brought him?" she said. 
 
 " No !" replied Mr. Grey, falling into a 
 chair. 
 
 " And isn't he coming ?" 
 
 " No, he's not, Mary ! He's a vagabond, 
 a worthless, lazy fellow ! He's a " 
 
 The poor man could say no more ! Even 
 while he vented these reproaches, his heart 
 denied them. A great burst of tears came 
 and choked his utterance ! The voice of 
 nature was powerful within him, and it 
 whispered sadly and reproachfully — " Still 
 he's my brother ! — still he's my brother !" 
 
 He never went to the public house again ; 
 but each night, when the simple man said 
 his prayers, he added a heartfelt, earnest 
 appeal for WiUiam. " And, Mary !" he 
 would say sometimes, — " pray for him ! 
 ask God to help him ! — for who else can ?" 
 
 Months, years, passed away ; and still
 
 302 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 Uncle William was an idler and a vagabond ! 
 His money was soon exhausted ; he fell 
 from his position as a hero, and took rank 
 with the besotted creatures about him. 
 It was pitiful to see him, lounging at the 
 public house threshold, or nervously passing 
 to and from the parlour, to enquire for work 
 that seldom came ! There was a miserable 
 apology for a book kept at the place, in 
 which these unemployed men entered their 
 names, and were, upon occasions, called to 
 work according to the rota. But this work 
 was merely temporary — for a day or a 
 night, as the hurry might happen ; and 
 then the value of it was brought to the 
 public house, and probably spent there, — 
 and no more was to be had till the rota was 
 exhausted, and the name came round again. 
 Sometimes, with faculties muddled by a 
 day's drink. Uncle William sallied out in the 
 evening with his fellows, and took the round 
 of the newspaper printing offices. A sup- 
 plement, an extra sheet, or what not —
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 303 
 
 caused by a President's message, an over- 
 land mail, or a long-winded parliamentary 
 debate — gave employment for the night to 
 these desultory workmen ; and then, in the 
 cold, grey morning they crept shivering to 
 their beds, — probably in an unclean attic, 
 the worst room of a wretched, ill-kept house, 
 in a close unwholesome court I Even this 
 shelter w as denied to some ; and these 
 waited till their house of call opened, and 
 the pot-boy, rubbing his dazed eyes, let 
 them in ; — and in that dull, vile parlour 
 — oh ! how vile in the early morning, and 
 after the night's smoking and drinking ! — 
 they sat down, and then* heads fell upon the 
 tables, and the sun, striking in upon their 
 dirty, matted hair, then* bleared eyes, and 
 unwashed faces, — helped to make them 
 more hideous ! When they woke, — they 
 
 had but two wants — beer, tobacco ! 
 
 But the majority of these unhappy men 
 
 were more to be pitied than blamed. The 
 
 evils of the system made them what they
 
 SOi GDRALD F^ITZGERALO. 
 
 were. Many, like Uncle William, fell from 
 competency through no fault of their own. 
 They were suddenly thrown unemployed 
 upon the world ; they wanted work ; and 
 where were they to ask for it ? The public 
 house was the readiest place. There the 
 book was kept ;* there, if they received 
 rehef from their trade society, they must 
 show themselves at stated intervals. If 
 they were houseless, at least the place 
 offered them temporary shelter ; if they 
 were hungry, beer was passed about the 
 tables, and tobacco was to be had by begging 
 for it ! 
 
 What wonder, then, that the least indus- 
 trious made the public house their home ? — 
 that the weak-minded contracted there the 
 habits of those about them, lost self-respect, 
 
 * Since the above was written, the system pictured here has 
 been partially reformed. The house of call — for Printers — has 
 been severed from the public house. The result is a decided 
 improvement in the habits and persons of the casually employed. 
 But as a rule, other trades are conservative of the abuse ; and 
 so the argument may stand.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 305 
 
 and were content to be the Pariahs of their 
 class ? As sure as the public house set its 
 seal upon them, they were faithful to it ! 
 And what seal is more terrible, more glaring, 
 and degraded ? 
 
 The remedy is so plain that it need not be 
 pointed out here. A public house should 
 not be the chief medium through which work 
 may be obtained ! Such a place is utterly 
 repugnant to all ideas of labour; it has 
 temptations especially seductive to poverty 
 and misfortune, and it offers for these a 
 pretended anodyne that renders them 
 permanent ! In England we believe too 
 strongly, in the capability of the bowl to 
 drown care : — It is certain that after any 
 such drowTiing, care always turns up — some- 
 times with a headache — the next morning ; 
 and the result of continual drowning is that 
 care at last becomes a duller, deader body, 
 and hangs about us, and refuses to be buried 
 ever after ! 
 
 When Uncle WilUam grew tired of the
 
 306 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 public house, and missed many of his old 
 companions — some of whom had died, some 
 retired to the workhouse, and others gone 
 '' on tramp," — he determined to go on tramp 
 himself. He obtained a card, or ticket of 
 credit, from his trade society, — and in a 
 pitiable plight as to clothing, started on the 
 great north road. Oh what weary miles he 
 plodded ! — what harsh answers and miserable 
 doles he had flung to him, as, from printing 
 office to printing office, through the beautiful 
 country, he pursued his career of legalized 
 mendicancy ! At one pleasant little town, 
 that was approached by a wooden bridge^ 
 with a clear trout-stream bubbling beneath, 
 and where there was a village-green, with 
 boys playing at cricket and geese cackling 
 about, — Uncle WiUiam made his way to the 
 printing office, showed his card, and asked 
 for work or money. The master was a plain, 
 matter-of-fact man, with little pity in 
 his constitution, and less patience for
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 307 
 
 poor wretches who could not help them, 
 selves. 
 
 " Me and my men," he said, " work hard 
 from ]\Ionday mornmg till Saturday night, 
 and earn our living ! — while you d — d idle 
 vagabonds prowl about the country, and 
 make us support you in laziness ! There, 
 that's all you'll get I" And he flung WilHam 
 a small piece of money, and told him roughly 
 to go ! 
 
 WiUiam picked up the piece of money, 
 and left the place. Never, till then, had he 
 felt how very, very, like a beggar he was ! 
 He went to the green, and sat down, and 
 tried to interest himself in the cricket match. 
 The sun shone gorgeously, and lighted up 
 the scene about him. It pierced through 
 the holes and among the rags that made up 
 the apparel of the poor mendicant. Oh 
 what a wretch he was ! And what a con- 
 trast once ! Looking into the shining haze 
 before him, he saw himself as of old, — the 
 honest, respected workman, independent of
 
 308 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 the world, and shrinking from beggary even 
 while he relieved it ! The retrospect was 
 too much for him ! — lie burst wildly into 
 tears, fell on his face, and groaned aloud ! 
 All those gay, happy boys, came leaping 
 running, crowding about him. What was the 
 matter? — " Oh! — only a beggar in a fit!" 
 And when Uncle William was calmer, and 
 the boys had gone back, laughing, to cricket, 
 he rose up and went his way muttering 
 " Only a beggar in a fit I — Only a beggar 
 in a fit !'* 
 
 A few months of this tramping made him 
 an old, decrepid man. He returaed to 
 London, and to the public house, even worse 
 than he had left them ! There were his 
 companions — not the same men as of old, 
 but of a like kind, for the supply was ever 
 constant ! — There was the book, the beer, 
 the tobacco I Nothing changed ! And 
 William took his place as naturally as 
 though he had never left it ! 
 
 There was no hope for him now ! Onces,
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 309 
 
 indeed, he seemed to have a chance. A 
 rare accident happened. A demand came 
 to the public house for a man to fill a per- 
 manent situation ! William's name was 
 first on the book, and he was looked upon 
 as lucky, indeed ! His companions crowded 
 round him ; they would expect to see him 
 at the public house in the evening, when his 
 day's work was done. He promised that 
 they should see him, and he kept his word ! 
 The next moraing — the second of his en- 
 gagement — he went to work, with a sleepy, 
 uncertain gait, a trembling hand, smelling 
 vilely of liquor, and half-an-hour behind 
 time ! When he returned to the public- 
 house tliat evening, he pulled out a handful 
 of silver, and ofi'ered to treat the company ! 
 He drank largely, and grew uproarious ; 
 he sung snatches of song, and made a 
 drunken speech. At last, he burst into 
 tears, and bellowed like a child ! And in 
 the midst of these tears, he turned his 
 glazed, giddy eyes upon his companions, and 
 said, hiccupping,
 
 310 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 " I've got the sack, gen'lmen ! By G — d 
 I've got the sack !" 
 
 This was quite true. He had been sum- 
 marily discharged. The pubUc-house had 
 marked him, and would not give him up ! 
 
 Occasionally, the poor fellow had a fit of 
 politics. Whenever a meeting was held, 
 to take social or political questions into con- 
 sideration, if Uncle William could hide his 
 rags cleverly enough to pass the door- 
 keeper, he was one of the audience. If it 
 was a quiet, nonsensical meeting, got up by 
 respectable people to give currency to plati- 
 tudes, and get their names in the paper, — 
 William would be sure to rise at its conclu- 
 sion, and ask the chairman what he proposed 
 to do to ameliorate the social condition of 
 the people, — and whether he and the gen- 
 tlemen on the platform were favourable to 
 the enjoyment of property in common ? If 
 if was a turbulent meeting, presided over by 
 a fierce demagogue, and spoken to by pro- 
 fessional agitators, he would sit dehghted.
 
 GERALD FITZGERALD. 311 
 
 applaud, but say nothing ! In the latter 
 case, he came to no harm ; but in the for- 
 mer, it mostly happened that a dozen res- 
 pectable people pushed him, pulled him, held 
 him dov^Ti, and covered his mouth, till a 
 poUceman haled him out of the place, flung 
 him in the road, and threw his hat after 
 him ! Indeed, he has been known, under 
 these precise circumstances, to thng so tena- 
 ciously to the iron balustrades of a certain 
 staircase in a great tavern in Bishopsgate, 
 that the whole place shook with the commo- 
 tion, and the waiters turned whiter than 
 their cravats ! 
 
 He had attended some place of the kind 
 the night before Gerald saw him in the pre- 
 dicament detailed in the last chapter. The 
 poor fellow had been torn almost to pieces 
 by the respectable people and the police- 
 man ! — and in the end, he had been hurled 
 into the road, — his head coming rudely 
 against the paving-stones ! The blow partly 
 stunned him ; but he rose, and went his way 
 home. In the morning he awoke with
 
 312 GERALD FITZGERALD. 
 
 strange thoughts ! He sought the pubhc- 
 house, and there told the story of his night's 
 adventure ! He told it in a queer way ; but 
 his companions thought he was merely tipsy. 
 '■'■ Ah, by-the-bye,*' said one, " the Queen 
 opens Parliament to-day. Let's all go and 
 hiss !" 
 
 " Capital !" said others. But the ma- 
 jority were against the hissing. 
 
 They all started, however, — Uncle William 
 among them. As they went along he said 
 to the man who walked with him — " I tell 
 you what ! I shall try and speak to the 
 Queen. Perhaps she'll do something for the 
 people !" 
 
 His companion looked at him, laughed, 
 
 and said, " Ah ! — you try ! I'd advise you !" 
 
 " I will !" said the poor, deluded fellow. 
 
 And he did try; and the result has been 
 
 told! 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 T. C. Newby, Publisher, 30, Welbeck Street, Cavendish Square.
 
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