LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VIII, Issue 1076, 8 December 1877, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE GHOUL.

{Concluded.) Red and damp! Of course red was Ibo natural color of the handkerchief, but the natural color could couceal something else red also ; and with what was the old man’s handkerchief damp? 4 Now, Mr Isaac, you may speak. No one can bear. The little old bookseller sat down, let his damp handkerchief fall into his hat, throw his body forward, and placed his elbows on his knees dropped his chin into the hollow of bis palms. 4 James,’ be whispered, ‘ I want you to do something for me.’ ‘And what may it be?’ asked James apprehensively, as he twirled his thumbs

and regarded the bent figure before him with grave disquietude. ‘ A tittle job, ’ ‘A little job!’ echoed the coffin-maker aghast, 'ln the way of business ?’ ‘ Well, yes ; in the way of business partly, and partly in the way of friendship. I want you to do the jib and say nothing about it. Do you understand ?’

‘Ah!’ cried the other, falling back against the wall and ti enabling in every joint.

‘ Of course you -won’t refuse an old neighbour. 1 ask you to say nothing about it because the case is so peculiar. The shape must be different from the ordinary one.’

4 Oli!’ moaned the appalled coffin-maker. 4 1 really—l really —I beg your pardon I’d rather not. For—excuse me a moment, and, opening the door in desperate haste, he rushed out and stood pale and trembling before his wife and Michael the apprentice. 4 Well ?’ inquired his wife, as though she had said, 4 Are you now quite satisfied I was right ? ’ 4 He wants me to make one, and of an odd shape, and to say nothing about it.’ 4 What did I tell you ? ’ cried the wife triumphantly. ‘I thought polished pine was the thing. Did he mention polished pine, sir ? ’ demanded the apprentice. 4 No What on earth ought we to do?’ 4 Send for the police,’ suggested his wife with prompt decision. 4 For a neighbour ? ’ 4 For a murderer.’ 4 1 couldn’t.’ 4 You must.’ 4 I won’t.’ 4 Then I will; that’s all.’ 4 You shall not.’

‘ Michael, run round to the station and tell them we have a murderer in the back shop. They’d better send four ’ ‘ Michael, if you stir a foot out of where you are, I’ll make you suffer for it.’ The voices of the two had been considerably raised as the dialogue went on. At this point the door of the back shop opened, and Isaac the Ghoul stepped out and stood between the husband and wife. He drew his little form up to its full height and looked reproachfully at the coffin-maker ‘ James,’ he said with sadness and dignity, ‘ I did not think you would treat me in this way. I intended you should be paid fairly —ay, more than fairly. I ask you to do a little thing for me, and you lly from me ; fearing, I dare say, that I am too poor to be a profitable customer, I am dispppointed, James.’ There was a quiet assertion of superiority in the little man’s tones, and the coffin maker stammered and hesitated, began two or three arologetic sentences, and abandoned them unfinished. Mrs Gort was not so easily confused, and broke out with :

‘Yon know very well, Mr Phayre, this is no kind of thing to ask honest folk to do. I wonder you don’t consider that you might get innocent people into trouble.’ ‘ Trouble ! What do you mean, madam ? How can your husband,’more than any other man, get into trouble by executing an order for me, if I pay him fairly ?’ The manner of the Ghoul had its influence on James He already felt doubts of the infallibility of his wife. ‘ And where is the body ?’ he demanded. A strong convulsive spasm passed through the frame of the old man. He took out the suspiciously damp red pocket-handkerchief and applied it with an uncertain hand to his face. His lips trembled, and his voice was unsteady. ‘ Yonder,’ he answered, pointing to the old bookshop.

James’s faith in his wife’s acuteness was still more shaken.

* She died this morning at six o’clock. It was grey dawn. I was sitting by her side, fori knew she was dying.’ The hard look was melting out of the eyes of Mr James. The intelligent apprentice leaned against a post to listen. Isaac Phayre spoke as though describing to himself things passing before his eyes at a distance rather than as if he were addressing anyone ‘ Upon the beam under the skylight I always put crumbs, and the sparrows used to come when the skylight wan up, and while I was in the shop the sparrows amused her. This morning, when the first snarrow came, although she raised her eyes, she did nob move her hand. It was dead. The otherhad been dead for thirty-five years.’ ‘Thirty-five years ! ’ cried James and his wife in astonishment.

‘ Yes, thirty-five years. It’s thirty years since I came to this street, and five years before that she got the first stroke, and two years after foliowed the second, and since that time she has never spoken a word, nor could she use any of her limbs but her right arm and hand.’

The old man paused a moment and passed his damp red pocket-handkerchief under his eyebrows. ‘Poor thing ! ’ ejaculated Mrs James completely softened. ‘ Was she old ? ’ ‘ Yes, very.’ ‘ Older than you ? ’ ‘ Yes ; twenty years.’ ‘ Twenty years. Why, she must have been quite old when she was married.’ * Only seventeen. She came up from the country, I often heard, as gay and fair a girl as need be. She was sixteen then, and the next year she was married. I remember her well when she was twenty-four, and from the first day I can recollect we were never separated for a week—-never.’ ‘And 'when, Mr Isaac,’ pursued the woman in perplexity, ‘ were you married ?’

‘ Married!’ he exclaimed sadly ; ‘ I never was married, Mrs Janies, though I was near it once. My marriage was all arranged, when she,’ waving his hand towards the o d bookshop, ‘got the first stroke. After that, you know, it couldn’t be. There was no one to take charge of her, and I was not able to afford a nurse. Oh, that was a bitter time. But I was young and hopeful then. Nowf am old, and she was the last link—the very last link, Mrs James. My poor old mother, good bye! ’ and he covered his cj e •. ‘ His mother ! ’

Hie good woman crossed the shop quickly and caught one of his clumsy hands in hers, and stroked it gently, and led him into the room behind, saying in a low voice, 4 Poor Vr Isaac! Come in, sir. And so it was o ir poor old mother. Who could have thought it! Who could have thought it ! Never fear for James, lie’ll do all you want and more j and I’Ji get some breakfast ready far you in a minute.’' The news soon spread, and all the people who had said or thought uncharitable things about the second hand bookseller entered into a rivalry of atonement. Surprise and sympathy and admiration tilled the air, and

no one could do too much for the strange old man. The women who had heen hardest against him were now foremost with consoling words and offices. They urged their husbands and sons to see that the stricken man wanted nothing. Several of them crept noiselessly up to the death chamber at the top of the house. They found it wonderfully neat and comfortable, but they put things in more familiar order, and some of the young girls brought sweet smelling dowers and placed them here and there in silent corners. The body of ihe old woman was doubled together with age, but upon her face rested a simple, childlike expression As Isaac gazed for the last time on the features which had been so long familiar to him, he murmured that she appeared more like what he remembered her when he was a little boy than he had seen her look since. ‘She was very sweet when she was young,’ said he, * and I often heard she had many lovers. Who would think that now?’ * No one,’ answered James softly, and added, ‘ Why, Isaac, a grand-daughter of 3 ours might have lovers now.’ ‘Ay,’ sighed the old man. A new light came into his e,yes, the light of sad, tearless despair. ‘ That is true, ’he continued after a while, ‘ that is true, my friend. My grand-daughter ! But it’s no good looking back now. Might have been ! Might have been ! You can’t know how sweet my future looked once. Might have been ! James, that phrase is the deadliest dagger memory bears.’ And shading his face he wept. Eichard Dowling.