LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 860, 27 March 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

FAITHFUL TO THE LAST; OPo THE FALSE FINGER-POST.

An Acute Sensation Story. {Concluded.) ' What have we here ? ' she cried. ' Who brought it ? whence comes it ?' Why, these are Theodore's own characters; his pen alone could trace this superscription ;' and with a hasty and impatient action 'gau speedily to untie the packet. 'Mylady,' went on the abigail, 'a postman e'eu but now hath left it at the outer gate.' With the rapidity of thought, one by one she tore the many coveriugs off; the nimble yet dainty i of the beaut 30ns. girl pJied incessantly, and 10, the contents were nearly brought to view ; the last paper only had to be removed. This done with toil and pains—for it did adhere somewhat tenaciously—there then remained aome strips of woollen rag of dubious tint, unrolling which, behold, a small and clotted mass ! What follows Ave shudder to relate ; but, faithful chroniclers of this tragic tale, we may not halt. Both women for one moment gazed with fixed eyes, and then shrank back aghast; a wild shriek escaped the Lady

Etna's lips, as she fell senseless on her couch, her maid beside her; for ah, direst of horrors ! upon her lap there lay the bloodstained fragment of a human hand—a little finger !

Long while it was ere the fair lady recovered from the shock the devotion of De Schoozen had caused her. For months she lay almost at death's door ; a wild delirium alternating with melancholy mood possessed and racked her fragile frame. Now, in transports of delight, she would seem to see her lover once again before her; at another, in deep dejection, she would sit for hours, moaning and muttering, ' Woe is me 1 woe is me ! To think I should have let him go ; to think that he should even now not know how much I loved him; and, worst of all, that he should think I doubted! Oh, the wretched folly that tempted me to this ! Down, demon of coquetry, down 1' And then she would wail again, and gnash her teeth, uttering ever and anon, ' And such a proof; and such a sacrifice ! Heaven forgive me ! Little did I reck, when I pronounced that fatal sentence, "Not e'en thy little finger wouldst thou give for me !" that he would, in all earnest, take me at my word, and use such means at once to set at rest my doubts and frivolous mistrust.'

Autumn's golden hues 'gan to o'erlap the verdure on the Hampshire coast, and that soft resting-place for invalids nestling by the mouth of the river Bourne was filled, in the local phraseology of the time, to overflowing. Many a frequenter of the ' Row,' jaded and London-dried, had come to seek renewal of bloom and health, from the gentle breezes wafted from the main over the sandy mounds and fir-besotted plantations of this rural ' watering-place '— as such retreats were always called. One lovely evening, when the fullest of full moons, rising as the sun went down, prolonged the daylight, as it seemed, much beyond the usual hour, two female figures might have been seen slowly wending their way upon the river's bank towards the town. The one, from her tall and graceful bearing, would, to the most untutored eye, have seemed to be a damsel of high degree. Shrouded in a mantle of becoming fashion, and wearing upon her head for covering the little hat ycleped pokpi, she leaned from time to time on her companion's arm, and showed such signs of feeble health and great fatigue as did bespeak commisseration from her attendant lady, who, though less tall and lacking ton, was nathless becomingly attired in trim and piquant garb. As now we watch them, she is the first to speak — ' My lady, we have walked too far ; the light deceived me. I did not guess that it had been so late ; yet come a little further, and we shall find a temporary resting-place in one of these outlying cots. I marked me one this morning where a good cobbler doth ply his trade ; a kindly man, and one that will give us for the time a rough but hearty welcome. Come, lady, courage 1 But a little farther and we are there 1'

It was, indeed, a humble tenement; but sore fatigued as was the wayfarer, she scrupled not to enter and accept the seat proffered on the instant by the good woman who stood beside the door.

' My husband's at his last, myjlady, a hard-working man forsooth; but ir your ladyship will please sit in this our humble parlour, he'll not disturb ye.' So them for a while the noble high-born lady—for 'twas no other than she, the Lady Ema—reclined to rest her weary limbs.

By this time the moon was up so high, that its strong raj s shone through the little lattice and illumined the dwelling, showing to the guests the manner of this house. They sat in a neat and cleanly room, beyond and out of which there opened a narrow atelier, where the good Crispin at his stall, by the light of a dim taper, plied his handicraft.

He seemed a merry wight, for he did sing and sew, and sew and sing, as though the trade of cobbler were better tfrhan that of king. Her attention roused by the rough melody coming from the inner room, fair Ema let her listless gaze follow in that direction. Gradually she seemed to take an interest in the man, and though she could but dimly see his form, there was yet sufficient light to show a certain slouching downcast way he had, as though to hide his face. This trick —if trick it were—was aided in the carrying out by a huge shock head of long red matted hair, more like to the peruke of some disguised gnome than natural growth from human scalp. Still, as she gazed, her interest did increase. At last she started, rose, and watched him from a nearer point of vantage; for 10, she thought she had discovered something which made her heart beat wildly, and raised a tremour far surpassing that which her fatigue had caused. Could it be so ? Was she not deceived ? She passed her palm across her eyes, and gazed again. No, she was not deceived ; she saw distinctly, as Crispin's needle flew briskly to and fro with sewing of the shoe he held between his knees, that one hand lacked its little finger.

Great powers ! what could this mean ? What strange coincidence was here that she, whose very turning point in life had seemed to hinge on such a loss, should now be brought by merest chance face to face with one who had himself sustained it ? What could it mean ? Now the lady in her time had oft indulged in the sensation fiction of the age, and her youthful imagination, ever prone to seize upon the romantic side of life, and willing to discover in all our lives a hidden mystery which, on its solution, proved us not to be ourselves, but some other most unlikely person, felt for a moment sure that she stood before her lover. Might not this be so ? What depth of degradation would not a faithful knight like her Theodore endure for the sake of her whom he adored, whom ho worshipped, as* he had shown by his great sacrifice ? and into what dread scheme might he not have entered to save the placing of the sea between himself and all that he held dear on earth ? True the hair of Theodore partook of raven hue, whilst Crispin's here was red even to the tone of marigold But this forsooth would stand for little nowadays, for did not the Lady Saaa remember her how, many a time and oft, her rivals in the world, urged by a modem school of mighty painters, and eke the art of the great paintress llachel, had changed the colour of their hair, even to as great disguising of their proper selves as this would seem to be ?

She could delay do more; satisfy herself nhe must. An inward power appeared to stifle every rising scruple ; her impulse was to throw herself into his arms, or, prostrate

at his feet, pray pity and forgiveness Lo, with faltering step and voice, she approached the workman nearer still, and whispered with abated breath, 'DeSchooz— •

'Yes, inarm, seven-and-sixpence a pair,' replied the cobbler, suddenly raising a face no more like De Schoozen's than was the then shining moon unto the sun. Aghast, affrighted, she drew back amain, and with a gesture that but ill concealed her poignant blank dismay, she said, ' Tell me, good man, and I'll reward thee. What dire misfortune curtailed the fair proportions of thy hand ?'

' What, marm ?' inquired Sir Crispin, not catching at the purport of her words. ' Tell me, I prithee,' she went on, ' how didst lose thy little finger ?' ' Oh, la, bless ye marm, why, ye see, I was precious hard up last May when tbe " Tiger's Own" sailed for Calcutta. Says I to my wife, " Poll, we are good for the work'us," when, as luck would have it, one o' those ycung officer chaps comes to me about a pair of boots for his flunkey. He sees how ragged aud poverty-struck we was, and says he, " Hark ye, my hearty, if you'll give me your little finger, I'll give you a ' tenner'! " " Done wi' ye," says I; and the doctor whipped it off ia less than pig's whisper.' ***** One wild Bhriek, and all was over !