LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1811, 10 December 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

“ CROSS MAGGIE,” [From the “ Sunday World”] ( Concluded .) ‘The boys hereabouts call her “Cross Maggie,’ ” remarked the officer, ‘ on account of this mark she has got on her cheek. Look here! ’ He stopped beneath a gas-lamp and showed me on the girl’s left cheek a small, dark mole in form of a cross which, though hardly more than a speck, was yet very conspicuous on the spotless white skin. ‘And has she begun long ago to lead this life ?’ I asked ‘ How can she bear it? She looks so delicate.’ < Well, sir,’ the policeman rejoined, ‘ for a month past I guess she has lived on hardly anything but whiskey. I have always seen her in this state.’ We had by this timo reached tho stationhouse. In the light of its green lanterns I bade the officer good night, and recommended him to deal gently with his poor prisoner. ‘That’s all right!’ ho observed m a cheerful tone. ‘ She is quite an old acquaintance witb oar people here.’

I returned to my hotel and went to bed, but was unable to fall asleep. Was it the heat or the thunderstorm which was fast approaching through the stifling heavy atmosphere of night ? I know not, butlas I tossed about in my bed, again and again the face of that girl, that beautiful, mod-be-spattered face of an innocent child, appeared before me in the dark. It haunted mo like a ghost, and pursued me even in my dreams when at daybreak I at last fed into a fitful I got up usual and found in the breakfast room * few of the gentlemen whom I habitually met ai the same table. I noticed, however, the presence of a new guest who had arrived some days before, but who had not yet made his appearance at any of the meals. He was an old gen tleman of high, erect stature; his white, curly hair and carefully trimmed whickers of the same hue contrasted strongly with a pair of black, fiery eyes in which, as well as the firmly set, deeply farrowed brows, an expression of stubborn, almost fierce energy prevailed. His manner was cold and dia tant, though exquisitely polite. J had never seen him speak to any of the guest ■■ of the hotel ; when spoken to he answered with monosyllables and broke un the conversation as soon as possible. He had registered in the hotel book as ‘John Field, Canterbury, England.’ Still under the impression of my adv-n tnre of the preceding night, I narrated the story at breakfast; it naturally elicited on the part of my audience the usual comments and expressions of sympathy and commisseration for tbo poor girl which are habitually lavished on such occasions and which in reality mean nothing but, * It is a very tad thing, certainly; hut, thank heaven, I have nothing to do with it! ’ The old Englishmen, alone, said not a word. But when I left the table he followed me and said : ‘Excuse me, could yea oblige me by repeating your description of the girl yon saw last night. Ton mentioned, I believe, her having red hair p ’ ‘ Yes ; not red, rather of is golden auburn hue—quite extraordinary ; I never saw the like of it before.’ ‘ And she has a mole in shape of a cross on her left cheek ? ' * Exactly so.’ ; ‘ Thank you. lam very much- obliged to iyou. These details are of interest' to me, for ;I fancy I have formerly known a person who answered pretty well this description. Ho bowed courteously and went np the stfcirease with a firm step, leaning with one hand on the ballnstrade. The conversation with’the old gentleman impressed me greatly. The affair became mysterious. The man did not look as if he were liksly interest himself for some vulgar intrigue ; the earnest, eager manner in which he questioned me excluded any such suspicion. While- I was still ruminating in the ball over the unexpected development my adventure of the night before was apparently assuming, I saw Mr Field descend the stairs with his hat on and a cane in his hand and leave the house. I resolved to follow him. In the street he walked on with a brisk step, taking an easterly direction. Meeting a policeman he aocosted him, apparently asking his way, and then went straight on to the street I had mentioned in my narrative. There he again asked his way and retraced his steps to the police station of the precinct, The nearer he came to the end of his walk the slower became his step. He stopped frequently and leaning against a wall wiped the perspiration from his forehead. A powerful emotion had evidently seized on him. When he reached the station house he stopped at the door of the building, put his foot on the first step of the stairs, then drew it back again and walked off a few paces, evidently a prey to an uncontrollable agitation. While he was still lingering around the main entrance of the building a side door opened and Maggie, the girl I had seen in the night, stepped out accompanied by a policeman and entered a prison waggon which was standing at the door.

The old man caught sight o£ her as she crossed the sidewalk. A terrible change came over him; he staggered, stretched out his arms towards the prisoner, who bent her eyes to the ground without seeing him, and rushed forward two or three paces; then suddenly hejchecked himself, grasped convulsively the iron railing which surrounded the building, then buried bis head in both his hands. Thus ho remained motionless while the policeman slammed the door of the wagon behind the prisoner and bade the driver move on. When the wagon had disappeared around a corner the old man raised his head. He was as pale as death, his eyes glared with an ominous fire and he staggered on, attempting to walk. Then suddenly ho drew himself up with a haughty gesture, and leaning on his cane walked slowly back to the hotel. He did not appear either at dinner or at supper. The next morning before seven I was awakened by an unusual bustle in the house. Anxious waiters ran to and fro in the corridors, doors were slammed, questions of ‘ What is the matter ?' were heard, followed by answers whispered in a subdued tone. I dressed hurriedly and went down to the office. There sad news—Mr Field had been found dead in his bed. A doctor was summoned and declared a heartstroke to have been the cause of the old man's death, An inqnest was held later in the day, but nothing touching the family or business associations of the deceased could be brought to light. Not a letter nor a card was found on his person, and nothing else was known of him except the name he had registered John Field, of Canterbury, England. A year and a half later I was passing 'my vacation on a visit at a friend’s honse, situated in that paradise of the English coast—the Isle of Wight. During a stroll in the neighbourhood a mansion of beautiful appearance, surrounded by a garden, attracted my attention by the peculiarly desolate and abandoned look both garden and house wore. The gravel walks of the former were overgrown with weeds, all the shutters of the honse were closed and the massive iron gates of the garden had rusted on their hinges. The only of life in the neighbourhood of this enchanted castle was the old gate-keeper, who lived in a small stone cottage, built in the wall which surrounded the property. The old man -was sitting at his door, basking in the rays of the aatnmn sun. ‘ Whose house is this ?’ I asked, coming up to him. *Mr L ’s,’ he answered in a gruff voice. * Does hot the family live here ?’ * No.’ ‘ Why not ?’ ‘ Dead and gone—all of them,’ the old man rejoined in a sepulchral tone. Persevering in my interrogatory I succeeded in squeezing ont of him the information that Mr L had quitted hio residence about two years ago, that he had never been heard of since and that his wife had died a year after his disappearance. ‘ Could you show me the house ?' I asked, pressing a piece of money into the hand of the old man. ‘ Well, I suppose I can, ’he grumbled in response, and after fetching his keys he let me into the garden and thence into the house. Inside I found nothing very remarkable. The house was furnished with a somewhat severe and old-fashioned elegance, and I was about to leave it after passing through several rooms when a picture in the library turned with its face against the wall at traoted my attention. I went up to it and turned it over without heeding the old keeper’s exclamation : ‘ Don’t touch that 1’ At the first glance I cast on the picture I remained motionless, dumb-founded. There, gazing at me in all her wondrous, majestic beauty, with her hair falling in waves of gold over her shoulder, a disdainful, haughty smile curling her full red lips, her proud eyes glowing with the tire of youth and beauty, appeared before mo ‘ Maggie ’ — the outcast I had seen crouching like a dog in the mud of a back street in New York ! ‘ Good God 1 is it possible ? ’ I exclaimed. Tell me, who is that girl ? ’ I continued, shaking the old man by the shoulder. Ho frowned darkly, and I saw a tear run down his wrinkled, shrivelled cheek. 1 1 was forbidden by him to speak of her,’ he answered. ‘ Since the day she went ofi with that accursed villian ‘She had been dead for her father and mother and all of us. And now she is indeed dead, I suppose.’ ‘No, no 1’ I exclaimed. ‘Man, for God’s sake! give me the address of some business man, some lawyer of the family—somebody! I know where she is ; I have seep her ; I can find her 1 1

The old man looked at mo with a wild stare ; then suddenly grasping my hand and sobbing like a child, he c ied : ‘Oh, sir, if this is true, then God help and bless you I Oh, bring her back, sir—bring her back ! She was such a dr»r, dear child ; there was no real harm in her. It was all that villain, * # * Oh, bring her bsck—my dear little ‘golden witch 1 ’ Begging your pardon, iir, that’s the name all the neighbourhood gave ter ’ I told the poor old man what I knew of tbo case aid that I was now certa’n that the John' Field who died at try hole 1 in Hew York had beO.n no otb»r than Mr L—. I then took leave of him, btomising to write to the address of a lawyer iu tinndon as soon os I had discovered s'.m hng in New Y< rk. On my re'nrn I begin at onoa my search bat in vain- 4 Cross Maggie * had disappeared from New Yoik and no trace of jwr was to bo f ?nnd. Maybe .-.he had sought in the da-k depths of the river the peace and quiet she bal not found in her short, dismal life, and the r. tresth g tide had borne her toward the waves of that same ocean, the deep murmur of which hid lulled hir to deep no a child, her mother silting at h:r btdride. One mo’-c waif had drifted away—no matter 1 The huge waves roll on and on, hmying ar.d Cushing nil in their cold tin''race.