LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 987, 24 August 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A VERY STR ANGE NIGHT. {From London, Society.) ('our/oded. ‘ Why sleep in it at all, if you do not like it?’ inquired his more fortunate friend. * Come and sleep in my room—see, there is another bed.’ ‘ 0, it does not matter,’ returned the othei’. ‘I shall he fast asleep in ten minutes. Besides, the ro mi is c unfortable enough, after all. So good-night! ’ ‘Good-night!’ And Emile returned into his room, locking the door at the same time. ‘ Well,’ thought the other, as he heard the key turn, ‘he has got the best of the bargain, without doubt; and he’s determined that I shall not walk off with his port manteau, at any rate, ’ And he sat himself down on the bed, which was separated from his friend’s only by the partition, and lazily began to unlace his boots ‘ And yet somehow I don’t like the room,’ he continued ; ‘it's such a very disagreeable feeling to be in a room where there is no window. I feel as if I were half smothered. However, it is no use grumbling now, and I’ll finish my pipe, and then I’ll turn in.’ But this was sooner said than done, and by the time the pipe was finished the candle had burned low in the socket, and, judging by the heavy breathing on the other side of the partition, the Frenchman was already fast asleep. Bestirring himself at the sound, and recollecting that he had to be early afoot the next morning, Cordon wound up bis watch, which with his purse he dropped into the toe of his hoot Then he tossed the latter with its companion into the corner, remarking as he did so that there was nothing like being on the safe side.

The door which communicated with Emile’s room, as we have seen, had already been locked by that drowsy gentleman ; so, as he had no control over it, the cautious Gordon contented himself with so balancing his walking-stick against it that any attempt to open the door would at once awake him. Having executed this mameuvre to his satisfaction, he then tried the door which led into the gloomy passage, and that he found was also locked.

At that instant the candle gave a bright flicker, and sank spluttering to the bottom of the holder, leaving him in absolute darkness. Whereupon he expressed himself in a manner more forcible than polite, and groped his way into bed. But in spite of his fatigue, it was long before he could go to sleep), and he envied his friend Emile, who lay breathing so rhythmically on the other side of the thin wall His thoughts persisted in returning to the dimlylighted cathedral, with the lonely mourner beside the coffin. And then he pnondered over the recollection of that savage face that he had seen there, and which had again appeared so inopportunely in the doorway downstairs, with such a vindictive expression. ‘lf the fellow is always going to be jealous of that frisky Licschen,’ thought Gordon, smiling to himself, ‘ he will have his time fully occupied ! ’ At length the intense stillness of the night vanquished his wandering reflections, and he dropped, off to sleep. But still thoughts of Lieschen and the mysterious stranger haunted him in his dreams. He was in the coffin, and uncomfortably aware of the fact that the Frenchman was sitting on the lid He would be late for dinner ! Then it was the Frenchman who was in the coffin, and the man with the scowl had pant him there. Hark ! the organ was pffaying the ‘ Dead March’ for him !

He awoke with a start, with a vague feel ing of alarm at he knew not what. The cathedral clock was striking. One! two !

The voice of the distant clock was still humming in his ear when, from the other side of the partition where Emile was lying, came suddenly an awful cry. Such a cry ! The cry ol a strong man taken unawares, struggling desperately for his life ! Immediately following upjon the awful voice came three loud knockmgs upjon the wall, close to Gordon’s ear. And then, save a creaking from the wooden bedstead, all was still again. Still, with the stillness of death and

night. Gordon sat up in lied, every nerve trembling with horror. His blood froze in his veins ; the perspiration broke in cold beads upjon his forehead. Hardly daring to draw breath, he listened, with an awful sinking at the heart, for what should be the next sound. But all was as still as the grave —nothing to be heard save the ominous shooting of a colt in some far-off pjassage. Still he listened—listened, with that fearful cry still sounding in his ear, those terrible knockiugs upon the wall still echoing in his heart.

The room was as dark as pitch. Not so much as a glimmer of light to be seen through the little pane over the door. What a horrible feeling to b in a room with no window, with the thought that some ghastly deed was being enacted so close to him! Every instant— ho expected to hear the key of the Frenchman's door turn quietly in the lock, and a stealthy foot enter his room. The expectation was bad enough ; but what made the position doubly terrible was the knowledge that his friend was being —had been more likely—murdered in cold blood, and that he himself was powerless 'to render aid. What was he to do '! He could not get into the room, even if he could summon up sufficient courage to make the attempt ; he shout for assistance, but who would hear him in that cursed building. Summoning up all his resolution, he leant out of bed and groped for the matches. In vain ; he could feel nothing but the tin candlestick, and, as he touched it, he recollected that the candle had burnt itself out. So he had to abandon the idea of a light. He felt absolutely helpless. There was nothing whatever in the room which would serve as a weapon, even it there had been light ' iiougli to make use of it. U, for a good heavy brass candlestick' B ever became safely out of thishe would no sr again travel without a pistol! What was that ? A faint creaking of the bod in the next room made itself heard, and all his dread revived at the sound. He could endure this awful suspense no longer; he must do something, come what might. And he slipped silently out of bed, and with all his strength endeavoured to open the door leading into the other room But to no purpose ; the sturdy oak withstood his utmost strength. Then he felt his way t j the door th at opened on If the passage, and groped blindly for the key. Surely he could get

into the passage ! Horror! there was no key in the lock ; and as he desperately pulled at the handle, it Hashed across him that he had seen the key on the outside, and that be had entered the room by way of Emile’s There w»s positively no release for him or help for his fri nd : he was like a rat in a trap, escape oomph tely cut oil’. Then indeed Ids heart sa ik within him 11c could do nothing but go back to bed and

wait for the longed for morning. Then he would know the worst. Accordingly, after another futile tug at the massive oak door, lie c- - ept fearfully back to bed, each creak of the boards beneath his bare feet bringing his heart with a jump into his mouth. For a long hour he lay with his eyes wide open, vainly endeavoring to fathom the darkness—darkness which could be felt, so intense was it. But at length, weary with watching, and in s,.ite of his determination to the contrary, he fell into an uncomfortable sleep.

it seemed to him that he had been but a short while asleep, when he was suddenly awoke by the loud crash of his stick as it fell on the oak tloor. Some one was coming into the room ; and all his horror and dread returning to him, ho stepped quietly out of bed, prepared for the worst. But whoever was seeking to gain admittance was apparently equally startled at the unexpected crash from within ; for, with a surprised ‘Eh bien !’ the door was thrown quickly open, letting in at the same instant a bright Hood of light. And Emile entered. Monsieur Emile Thouret himself ! ISot with a huge gash in his throat or a distorted countenance, but with a cigarette between his lips and a collar in his hand, looking very much amazed at the appeareuce of mingled astonishment and relief with which he was received.

‘Well,’ said he cheerfully, ‘and how do you find yourself after your night’s rest, eh?’ But Gordon could lind no words to reply ; and when at length his speech returned to him, it was to say, ‘ Best! . . . rest ! I have not had any. I thought you were being murdered. What the devil did you make all that noise for, if you were not?’ ‘Boise !’ returned the other, with a look of innocent surprise : what noise ? 1 made no noise.’

*O, did you not !’ retorted the indignant Gordon. ‘ Then pray who was it who gave that diabolical scream and thumped frantically on the wall just as the cathedral clock was striking two r 1 ’ ‘Ah,’ replied Emile, a happy thought striking him. ‘Ah, now I think I understand. Ido recollect feeling a little uncomfortable in the night. I was dreaming that rascally fellow with the scowl was choking me. Without doubt it was the kartoffelsalat. ’ ‘ D the kartoil’el-salat 1’ returned Gordon furiously. ‘ D the kartoff'el-salat !’ And the recollection of his wrongs was such that he could trust himself to pursue the matter no further ; but, dressing with much rapidity, he crammed his few odds and ends into the battered knapsack, muttered a hasty good-bye, and hastened down stairs. Politely, but tirmly, declining the pretty Lieschen’s suggestion that der Herr should finish the kartoffel-salat of which der Heir's friend had so highly approved on the previous evening, he settled ‘ die Kecnuung’ and departed. The rays of the morning sun fell aslant on the dewy grass and white dusty road. The green lizards popped their heads out from their stony beds to see who could be so early afoot. Only an Englishman, with knapsack on his back, and sunburnt nose. But the traveller's face was grave and thoughtful; and the lizard« watched him lazily as he pursued his solitary walk, no longer startling them with a loud and cheery jodel. TAKE HER. Last Saturday evening when a young man of two and twenty stood before a widow who owns a house on Congress street cast, she knew by his embarrassed manner just what was coming, and she said : ‘William, I suppose you have sought this interview to tell me that you love my dang - ter Isabel ? ’ ‘ Y-yes, yes,’ he gasped. ‘ Well, William, how are you (ixed ? ’ she sternly demanded. ‘Have yon any houses and lands ? ’ ‘Y-uot any.’ ‘ Have you auy wealth in bank ? ’ ‘ Not a c-copper.’ *;h ave you any bonds and morlages? ’ ‘.Not a one,’ he answered as ho continued to grow pale. ‘Young man!’ she sternly resumed, ‘ what have yon got to offset the 112,000 dels, which I shall give my daughter ? ’ ‘Nothing but love and—’ ‘ Too thin ! Too thin ! ’ she exclaimed, waving him away. ‘And I can sharpen lawn-mowers ! ’ he shrieked as he backed off. •You can?’ • 1 can, and it won’t be over six weeks, if they are good weeks for grass, before I’ll see your daughter’s dowry and own a street railroad besides. ‘Take her, William —take her and he happy,’ exclaimed tne wordly woman, and the daughter has been ‘took.’—“Detroit Free Press ”