LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IX, Issue 1216, 26 January 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

HALF A MINUTE LATE. London Society. (Continued.) * Hulloh !' I write it, not because it represents by any means what the cabman said, but because his real speech must be expurgated to be presentable ; and ' Hulloh,' though not the whole truth, was really one word among many. The horse was pulled back hard against the splash-board, and Maynard thought he heard a cry, set in the cabman's volley of hard words like a lost heart in a storm.

It was just beginning to darken, and a street mist had been owning on that made the gas-lamps flare yellow and double the darkness. Maynard was out of the cab in an instant to see what mischief he had done. It was only too clear. Among the hoofs of the horse lay a figure —whether woman, girl, or child, he could not tell at first. In the by-road and in the dark a smaller crowd had sprung out of the pavement than usual, and he managed to raise, without much interference, her who had been so nearly run over, and with no more than two minutes' delay. She was of small weight, and Maynard's muscl.es soon had her into the cab, leaning back into the farther corner.

'To the nearest hospital,' he shouted to the cabrqan» following her. ' How far ?' 'Not more than four minutes.'

' Then look alive. Do it in three.'

He thiuking of himself as he urged extra speed, nor of Hong-Kong, nor eveu of Letty, nor of how, by compound interest, the first half minute had now become seven and a half: so that the five minutes' grace before meat had expired by the time he was near the hospital. He might have unwittingly caused the death of a fellow-creature for aught he kaew. She waß not dead yet,

that he could make out—only stunned ; blood was running from under the hair over one of her temples, and she was ghastly pale. She was too close for him to see more in the alternate darkness and flare of the night: he could only support her with his arm, regardless of delay. He did not even s»y to himself, ' What a bore !' By the better light in the hall of the hos pital he and the house-surgeon together saw a young girl, not more than eighteen years old, still insensible and bleeding, still as pale as death, and dressed very plainly—poorly even, though not like the poor. Her features were small, good, and a lady's but her red lips and closed eyes placed her for the present beyond criticism. She was long in coming to. But the surgeon brought her round at last. She opened her eyes, and said, in a very sweet voice, ' Mother, where am I ?'

The surgeon held her pulse as he said, ' Don't be afraid. You've had a little accident in the street, that's all, and you've been brought to St. Martin's—the best place for you.' He spoke with a little more tenderness and less quickness than are affected by men who have to deal with cases wholesale; and, now that she had opened her eyes and spoken, there was an indescribable air about her that made it impossible to speak to her merely as a case, or otherwise than tenderly. Maynard looked inquiringly at the surgeon. It is certainly more unpleasant to run down some people than others.

She suddenly put her hands to her head. 'ln a hospital ! An accident! O, for God's sake let me go !' And she tried to rise.

' Not yet. Be a good girl. We'll see tomorrow. You can't go now. We will see to your friends.' A clock struck a quarter past six. The half minute had rolled, itself on into fifteen. Harold Maynard had committed the unpardonable sin of a punctual man. He had been guilty of an act of charity, which means inevitable Io3S of time. Surely he might have sent her to St. Martin's in charge of a policeman. And now here was time flying without his hearing the flutter of a feather.

The girl fell back with a moan, and her eyes filled with despair. Harold felt con-science-striken. What had he done ? And having brought new trouble into the world, what could he do ? what should he not do ? And it is only fair to say that, if the girl with the sweet face and the sweet voice had been some broken-down and utterly uninteresting old crossing-sweeper, he would have felt the same, and for awhile have forgotten even Letty Despard. 'ls there anything I can do for you ?' he said gently and ashamed, touching her wrist slightly with his fingers. * Only—help me to go home. I must go home.'

Harold looked at the surgeon. The surgeon shook his head, and Bignified ' Impossible just now.' ' Can I see your friends ?—can I let them know ?'

' I have a mother, and she—is dying. And she has no friends but me; I—have none but her. She is dying —alone. I went out for help, and—' The girl's agony was beyond tears. ' Good God !' said Harold. ' I will gotrust me, my poor girl. Tell me where she lives - her name. Will you trust me V The girl's eyes gave him a long look. Ap parently they were satisfied; and they thanked him in that simpbst and honestest of languages that has no tongue. '2O Powys-place—the third floor. Mrs— Despard.' The clock struck a quarter to seven. From the half minute had grown forty five.

Nevertheless, more than unpleasant as was this interruption to the plans of a punctual man, whose career was dependent upon his being 'up to time,'and who had taken the special precaution of pledging himself thereto —nevertheless, tho hospital was not so far from Powys-place, nor Powysplace from Tom Winter's lodgings, as to prevent Maynard's catching old Despard before he rose from the table ; and though to prefer the affairs of a stranger to one's own is unbecoming in a business man, and speaks ill for him to would be employers, it is like the police magistrate's opinion of drunkenness—no excuse, but a palliation. For the moment the name of Despard did not strike him ; it was so constantly running in his mind in connection with Letty that it came rather as an echo to his thoughts than as an interruption. He took another hansom and threw away another double fare. Powys-place was not so aristocratic as its name. It was nothing better, indeed, than a street of shabby, not to say doubtful, lodging-houses in the neighbourhood of a railway station, where respectable people might lodge, but most assuredly not of their own free will. It says much for the girl that Harold, who knew the world, did not take her character from that of her surroundings- Not that his instinct was singular, for pure eyes tell their own tale. He found No 20 and knocked at the door. It was opened by a red faced man in shirt-sleeves, moking a loDg churchwarden. • Mrs Despard ?' said Harold doubtfully. 4 Third floor back,' said the man gruffly, and disappeared into a darkness of dust and onions.

Harold groped his way to the third floor back, listened, heard no sound, and then entered, as noiselessly as he could, without knocking. For a while he could hardly see for the rushlight that darkened the little room with its glimmer. He hardly knew what to do. He had not till now realised ■what is meant by the word 'alone.' If the light showed him a dying woman, how should he approach the bed and speak to her, and what should he say? The house was as silent as if uninhabited, and he was not inclined to seek the help of the red-faced man who had opened the door. True, he might affect to be a doctor brought to the bedside by the girl, see what ought to be done, and account for the girl's absence in the best way possible. But whatever he might do, the situation was trying for any but a sister of mercy. For half a second he wished he had not come. He listened in the half darkness, and fancied he heard the sound of breathing The situation was ghastly altogether—alone in a light worse than darkness, in a poor room in a neighborhood without an affectation of character, and by the bedside of a dying woman, when he should by rights have been diuing himself into a career. Presently the wind began to howl, and a dog to howl in answer. The howl of a dog at night is bad for people with nerves, but, under such circumstances, bad even for those fortunate people who have none,

Harold approached the bed as softly as a pprversely-creaking board would let him, and said quietly, ' The doctor, Mrs Pespard.' There was no answer. He had heard breathing but an instant ago, and now the lied might be empty, for any sound he could hear. He listened again ; he heard nothing but the howl of the dog and of the wind. He took up the rushlight and brought it to the bedside, shading it with his hand. Then by degrees he lessened the shadow thus thrown over the bed until he could see all that was to be seen. There was not much to see. Only a dead woman—nothing more. * # # # *

What was he to do now? To leave the corpse alone with the wind and the other night-ghosts would be sheer barbarity. He must provide a watcher somehow, if only the man with the pipe and the red face—and then at tne risk of having to find a watcher for the watcher, lest any little valuables the dead woman might by any chance leave behind her should find an unintended legatee. No doubt there must be a woman in the house —and yet if there had been, Mrs Despard would hardly have been left to die alone. He closed the door behind him, turned the key, and carried the rushlight downstairs. He met nobody, and the rooms he passed were either dark or empty At last he found the head of the kitchen stairs. These also he descended, and found himself in a labyrinth of sculleries -so it seemed. ' Hoy, there!' growled a voice from somewhere that smelled like beer. ' Who are you?' 'And where are you? Mrs Deapard is dead.'

'So's Queen Anne. I could have told you that an hour ago.' (To be continued.)