LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1787, 12 November 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A SHADOW IN THE CORNER. (Prom “All the Year Bound. ”) ( Concluded.) ‘ I know what I ought to do,’ Michael Bascom said to himself suddenly. ‘ I’ll occupy that room myself to-night, and demonstrate to this foolish girl that her notion about the shadow is nothing more than a silly fancy, bred of timidity and low spirits. An ounce of proof is better than a pound of argument. If I can prove to her that I have spent a night ia the room, and seen no such shadow, she will understand what an idle thing superstition is,’ Daniel came in presently to shut the shutters. . ‘ Tell your wife to make np my bed in the room where Maria had been sleeping, and to put her into one of the rooms on the first floor for^to-night, *1 Skegg, ’ said Mr Basoom. ‘Sir?’

Mr Bascom repeated his order. * That silly wench has baen complaining to you about her room,’ Skegg exclaimed indignantly. ‘ She doesn’t deserve to be well fed and cared for in a comfortable home. She ought to go to the Work House.’ ‘ Don’t be angry with the poor girl, Skegg. She has taken a foolish fanoy into her head, and I want to show her how silly she is,’ said Mr Basoom.

* And yon want to sleep in his—in that room yourself ?’ said the butler. ‘ Precisely.’ ‘ Well,’ mused Skegg, ‘if he does walk—which I don’t believe —he was your own flesh and blood; and I don’t suppose he’ll do you any hurt.’ When Daniel Skegg went back to the kitchen he railed mercilessly at poor Maria, who sat pale and silent, in her corner by the hearth, darning old Mrs Skegg’a gray worsted sto:kings, which were the roughest and hardest armor that ever human foot clothed itae’f withal. ‘ Was there ever snch a whimsical fine, ladylike miss 7’ demanded Daniel, ‘toiomeinto a gentleman’s house, and drive lim out of his own bedroom to sleep in ai attic, with her nonsense and vagaries ?’ If this is the result of being educated aiove one’s station. Daniel declared that le was thankful he had never got so far in ha schooling as to read words of two syllable without spelling. Education might be haiged for him, if thisjjwas all it led to.

* I am vey sorry,’ weeping silently over her work. ‘ Indeed, Mr Skegg, I mde no complaints. My master questioned re, and I told him] the truth. That wai all’ ‘ All 1’ exoaimed Mr Skegg, irately ; all indeed! I siould think it enough.’ Poor Mara held her peace. Her mind, flattered by laniel’s unkindness, had wandered away fom that bleak, big kitchen to the lost hone of the past—the snug little parlor, whereshe and her father had sat beside the coayieartb on such a night as this ; she with her mart work box and her plain sewing, he wih the newspaper ho loved to read ; the peted cat paring on the rug, the kettle singingon the bright brass trivet, the teatray pleasutly suggestive of the most comfortable real in the day. ‘ Oh, thoseiappy nights, that dear companionship ! IVere they really gone forever, leaving noting behind them but unkindness and servitude’ Michael Bscom retired later than usual that night, le was in the habit of sitting at his books leg after every other lamp but his own had ben extinguished. The Skeggs had subsidedinto silence and darkness in their dreary grund floor bed chamber. Tonight his stuies were of a peculiarly interesting kind and belong to the order of recreative reachg rather than hard work. He was deep in the history of that mysterious people -ho had their dwelling plaoejm the Swiss lakes and was much exercised by certain speonlaons and theories about them. The old eighday clock on the stairs was striking two a Michael slowly ascended, candle in han, to the hitherto unknown region of theittios. At the top of the staircase he fend himself facing a [dark narrow passag which led northward,_ a passage that wi in itself sufficient to strike terror to a sup-titlons mind, so bleak and uncanny did it ok. ‘ Poor child I’uused Mr Bascom, thinking of Maria; ‘ thiiattic floor is rather dreary, and for a youngulnd prone to fancies —’ He had opeid the door of the north room by this tie,' and stood looking about him. It was a la» room, with a ceiling that sloped on one sb, but was fairly lofty upon the other ; an oi fashioned room full of old-

fashioned furniture —big, ponderous, clumsy —associated with a day that was gone and people that were dead. A walnut wardrobe stared him in the face—a wardrobe with brass handles, which gleamed out of the darkness like diabolical eyes. There was a tall four-post bedstead, which had been cut down on one side to accommodate the slope of the ceiling, and which had a misshapen and deformed aspect in consequence. There was an old mahogany bureau, that smelled of "secrets. There were some heavy old chairs with rush bottoms, mouldy with age, and much worn. There was a corner washstand, with a big basin and a small jug—the odds and ends of past years. Carpet there was none, save a narrow strip beside the bed. ‘lt is a dismal room,’ mused Michael, with the same touch of pity for Maria’s weakmsss which he had felt on the lauding just now. To him it mattered nothing where ho slept; but having let himself down to a lower level by his interest in '.the Swiss lake people, ho [was In a manner humanised by the lightness of his evening’s reading, and was even inclined to compassionate the weaknesses of a foolish girl. He went to bed determined to sleep his soundest. The bed was comfortable, well supplied with blankets, rather luxurious than otherwise, and the scholar had that agreeable sense of fatigue which promises profound and restful slumber. He dropped off to sleep quickly, bnt woke with a start ten minutes afterwards. What was this coneciousnes*. of a burden of care that had awakened him—this sense of all-pervading trouble that weighed 'upon his spirits and oppressed his heart—this icy horror of some terrible crisis in life through which he must inevitably pass ? To him these feelings were as novel as they were painfnl. His life had flowed on with smooth and sluggish tide, unbroken by so much as a ripple of sorrow. Yet to night he felt all the pangs of unavailing remorse, the agonising memory of a life wasted; the stings of humiliation and disgrace, shame, ruin ; a hideous death, which he ho had himself to die by bis own hand. These were the horrors that pressed him round and weighed him down as he lay in Anthony Bascom’s room.

Yes, even he, the man who could recognise nothing in nature, or in nature’s God, better or higher than an irresponsible and invariable machine governed by mechanical laws, was fain to admit that here he found himself face to face with a psychological mystery. This trouble, which came between him and sleep, was the trouble that had pursued Anthony Basoom on the last night of his life. So had the suicide felt as he lay in that lonely room, perhaps striving to rest his wearied brain with one last earthly sleep before he passed to the unknown intermediate land, where all is darkness and slumber. And that troubled mind had hannted the room ever since. It was not the ghost of the man’s body they returned to the spot where he had suffered and perished, bnt the ghost of his mind—his very self ; no meaningless simulacrum of the clothes he wore, and the figure that filled them.

Michael Basoom was not a man to abandon his high ground of skeptical philosophy without a struggle. He tried his hardest to conquer this oppression that weighed upon mind and sense. Again and again he succeeded in composing himself to sleep, but only to awake again and again to the same torturing thoughts, the same remorse, the same despair. So the night passed in unutterable weariness; for, though he told himself that the trouble was not his trouble, that there was no reality in the burden, no reason for remorse, these vivid fancies were as painful as realities and took as strong a hold upon him. The first streak of light crept in at the window—dim, and cold, and gray ; then came twilight, and he looked at the corner between the wardrobe and the door. Yes; there was the shadow; not the shadow of the wardrobe only—that was clear enough, but a vague and shapeless something which darkened the dull brown wall; so faint, so shadowy, that he could form no conjecture as to its nature, or the thing it represented. He determined to watch this shadow till broad daylight; but the weariness of the night had exhausted him, and before the first dimness of dawn had passed away he had fallen fast asleep, and was tasting the blessed balm of undisturbed slumber. When he awoke the winter sun was shining_ in at the lattice, and the room had lost its gloomy aspect. It looked old fashioned, and gray, and brown, and shabby; but the depth of its gloom had fled with the shadows and darkness of night. Mr Bascom rose refreshed by a sound sleep, which had lasted nearly three hours. He remembered the wretched feelings which had gone before j but he recalled his strange sensations only to despise them, and he despised himself for having attached any importance to them. ‘ Indigestion, very likely,’ he told himself; ‘or perhaps mere fancy, engendered by that foolish girl’s story. The wisest of us is more under the dominion of imagination than he would care to confess. Well, Maria shall not sleep in this room any more. There is no particular reason why she should, and she shall not be made unhappy to please old Skegg and his wife.’ When he had dressed himself in his usual leisurely way, Mr Bascom walked up to the corner where he had seen or imagined the shadow, and examined the spot carefully. At first sight he could discover nothing of a mysterious character. There was no door in the papered wall, no trace of a door that had been there in the past. There was no trapdoor in the worm-eaten boards: There was no dark, indelible stain to hint at murder. There was not the faintest suggestion of a secret or mystery. He looked up at the ceiling. That was sound enough, save for a dirty patch here and there where the rain had blistered it. Yes ; there was something—an insignificant thing, yet with a suggestion of grimness which startled him. About a foot below the ceiling he saw a large iron hook projecting from the wall just above tho spot where he had seen the shadow of a vaguely-defined form. He mounted on a chair the better to examine this hook, and to understand, If he could, the purpose for which it had been put there. It was old and rusty. It must have been there for years. Who could have placed it there, and why? It was not the kind of hook upon which one would hang a picture or one’s garments. It was placed in an obscure corner. Had Anthony Bascom put it there on the night he died, or did he find it there ready for a fatal use ? ‘lf I were a superstitious man,’ thought Michael. ‘I should bo inclined to believe that Anthony Bascom hanged himself from that rusty old hook,’ ‘ Sleep well, sir 1’ asked Daniel, as he waited upon his master at breakfast. ‘Admirably,’ answered determined not to gratify the man’s curiosity. He bad always resented the idea that Wildheath Orange was haunted. ‘ Oh, indeed’ sir. Yon were so late that I fancied— ’ • Late, yes 7 I slept so well that I overshot my usual hour of waking. But, by the way, Skegg, as the poor girl objects to the room, let her sleep somewhere else. It can’t make any difference to us, and it may make some difference to her. ’

* Humph !’ muttered Daniel in his grumpy way, ‘ you didn’t sea anything queer there, did yon ?’ 1 See anything P Ofccn'se not. ‘Well, then, why should she Bee„ things ? Its all her silly fiddle-faddle.’ ‘ Never mind, let her sleep in another room.’ * There ain’t room on the top floor that s dry.’ * Then let her sleep on the floor Ixilow. Sho creeps about quietly enough, poor little timid thing. She won’t disturb me.’ Daniel granted, and his master understood the grunt to mean obedient assent; but here Mr Basoom was, unhappily, mistaken. The proverbial obstinacy of the pig family is as nothing compared w ilh the obstinacy of a cross grained old man whoso narrow mind has never been illuminated by education. Daniel was beginning to feel jealous of his. master’s compassionate interest in the orphan girl. She was a sorb of gentle, clinging thing that that might creep into an elderly bachelor’s heart unawares and make herself a comfortable nest there. * We shall have fine carryings-on, and me and my old woman will be nowhere, if I don’t put down my heel pretty upon this nonsense,’ Daniel muttered to himself, as ha carried the breakfast tray to the pantry. Maria met in the passage, •Well, Mr Skegg, what did my master say ?’ she asked breathlessly. * Did he see anything strange in the room I’.

‘ No, girl. What should he see ? He said yon were a fool ’ ‘ Nothing disturbed him ? And he slept there peacefully ?’ faltered Maria. ‘ Never slept better in his life. Now, don’t you begin to feel ashamed of yourself?' ‘ Yes, ’ she answered meekly ; ‘ I am ashamed of being so full of fancies. I will go back to my room to-night, Mr Skegg, it yon like, and I will never complain of it again. ’ * I hope yon won’t,’ snapped Skegg; ‘ you’ve given ns trouble enough already.’ Maria sighed, and went about her work in saddest silence. The day wore slowly on, like all other davs in that lifeless old house The scholar sat in his study ; Maria moved softly from room to room, sweeping and dusting in the cheerless solitude. The mid day sun faded into the gray of afternoon, and evening came down like a blight upon the dnll old honse. Throughout that day Maria and her master never met. Any one who had been so far interested in the ’girl as to observe her appearance would have seen that she was ununusually pale, and that her eyes had a resolute look, as of one who was resolved to face a painful ordeal. She eat hardly anything all day. She was curiously silent. Skegg and his wife put down both these symptoms to temper. ‘She won’t eat and she won’t talk,’ said Daniel to the partner of his joys. 'That means sulkiness, and I never allowed sulkiness, to master me when I was a young man, and you tried it on as a young woman, and I’m not going to be conquered by sulkiness in my old age.’ Bedtime came, and Maria bade the Skeggs a civil good night and went up to her lonely garret without a murmur. The next morning came, and Mrs Skegg looked in vain for her patient handmaiden when she [wanted Maria’s services in preparing the breakfast. ‘The wench sleeps sound enough this morning,’ said the old woman. ‘Go and call her, Daniel. My poor legs can’t stand them stairs. ’ * Your poor legs are gettingjunoommon useless, ’ muttered Daniel testily,;as he went to do his wife’s behest, He knocked at the door, and called Maria —once, twice, thrice, many times; but there was no reply. He tried the door and found it locked. He shook the door violently, cold with fear.

Then he told himself that the girl had played him a 'trick. She had stolen away before daybreak, and left the door locked to frighten him. But no, this could not be, for he could see the key in the lock when he knelt down and put his eye to the keyhole. The key seeing, into the room.

* She’s in there, laughing in her sleeve at me, ’ he told himself ; ‘ but I’ll soon be even with her. ’

There was a heavy bar on the staircase which was intended to secure the shutters of the window that lighted the stairs. It was a detached bar, and always stood in a corner near the window, which it was but rarely employed to fasten, Daniel ran down to the landing and seized upon this massive iron bar, and then fan bask to the garret door.

One blow from the heavy bar shattered the old look, which was the same lock the carter had broken with his strong fiat seventy years ago. The door flaw open, and Daniel went into the attic which he had chosen for the stranger’s bed-chamber. Maria was hanging from the hook in the wall. She had contrived to cover her face decently with her handkerchief. She had hanged herself deliberately about an hour before Daniel found her, in the early gray of morning. The doctor, who was summoned from Holcroft, was able to declare the time at which she had slain herself, but there was no one who could say what sudden access of terror had impelled her to the desperate act, or under what slow torture of nervous apprehension her mind had given way. The coroner’s jury returned the customary merciful verdict of 4 temporary 1 insanity.* The girl’s melancholy fate darkened the rest of Michael Bascom’s life. He fled from Wildheath Grange as from an accursed spot, and from the Bkeggs as from the murderers of a harmless, innocent girl. He ended his days at Oxford, where he found the socity of congenial minds and the books he loved. But the memory of Maria’s sad face and sudden death, was his abiding sorrow. Out of that deep shadow his soul was never lifted.