LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2285, 29 July 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

UNDSE THE MIDNIGHT LAMP. [ ■’or.vj.iED orr Fact,] 1 am a doctor, a busy professional man, whose time is money. Whenever, therefore, 1 can save I do. Many and many a night have I passed in the train, counting tho hours thus gained as a miser does his g ild. Upon this point, unfortunately, my little wife and I do not agree, and it is, I think, the only point upon which wo do not. The train was just off as 1 sprang in, and the shock of the stirt landed me in my seat. Being of a slow, placid nature, 1 was in no hurry to recover from the shock, and we were fairly eft', speeding away as only an English express can speed, before I looked round. I had not the carriage to myself, as I had at first supposed ; a lady occupied the farther end ; and at the first glance, spite of the dim light and the fact ol her veil being down. I saw that her eyes, nnna'urally large and intense, were fixed upon me - I at sll times prefer a carriage to myoelf, and if companion I must have let it be a gtutleman ; but there was no help for It ; the lady was there, and, moreover, she was looking at me. 4 So she may,’ I thought; * that shall not prevent my making myself as comfort:,b'e as circumstances will allow. ’ Slowly and deliberately, therefore, I removed my hat, substituting for it a cloth oap, which I drew well down over my ears ; then I folded my arms, and composed myself to sleep. Bat in vain; the eyes of my fellow passenger haunted me ; I saw as distinctly as if my own were open. Was she watching me still 7 Involuntarily I looked np and round, and my look mat he; a, full, burning, intense, with far more of meaning in it than I could at all fathom. It wan getting decided unpleasant, and I was growing decidedly uncomfortable; try as I might, I could not keep my eyes closed; hers were on me, and meet them I must. In her attitude, too, as well as in her look, there wjb something strange and mysterious. Huddled np in the corner, she seemed to be holding something close pressed to her, beneath the long loose mourning cape, bending low over it In a crouching posture Once or twice, her eyes still fixed upon mine, I saw her shiver ; but for that slight convulsive movement she sat perfectly still and motionless. Was aha cold ? X offered her my plaid, glad of an opportunity to break the ominous siler ca. If she would but speak, make some commonplace remark, the spell might bo broken, * I am not cold.’

A common place remark enongh ; bnt the spell was not broken. The mystery that lay in her eyes lay also In her voice. What should I try next ? I looked at my watch—--11.30 ; our train speeding on at a furious rate, no chance of a stoppage for some time to come, and the full wide open gaze of my motionless companion not for one moment removed from my face. It was unpleasant certainly. There was nothing for it but to give up all hope of sleep, and make the best of my position and companion, whom I now observed more closely. That she was a lady there could bs little doubt ; there was that In her dresa and appearance that was unmistakeable. That she was pretty, there oould be no doubt either ; those great, intensely dark eyes, the thick coils of warm burnished hair, the small pale features, seen dimly beneath the veil ; yea, she was young, pretty, a lady, and in trouble. So far I got, but no farther. How came she to be travelling alone at that time of night, and with that look on her face ? What could it be that she was holding pressed so closely to her, and yet so carefully kept out of sight ? From the size and uncertain outline, I should have guessed it to be a child ; bnt, then, there was not the faintest motion, nor could she have held even a sleeping infant long in that position. 1 think that something of curio dty must have been betrayed in my look, for her own darkened and deepened into a perfect agony of doubt and fear. Ashamed, 1 withdrew my gaze at once, and drawing out my note book, was about to make a memorandum, when, with a sadden movement, she fell at my feet, arresting my hand by the agonised grasp of her own, its burning contact sending through me a painful thrill. ‘ Don’t betray me ! Don’t give me up to him! Oh, don’t. lam so frightened.’ It was but a whisper. Breathed out rather than spoken, yet it shuddered through me like a cry. * I cannot always hide it, 1 cannot always bear it about with me; it breaks my heart, and—l am so tired.’

And letting the hand which still held, pressing closely to her, the mysterious burden that had so raised my curiosity drop heavily to her side, there lay at her feet and mine a little dead baby, a tiny creature, evidently not many weeks old. Then the woman threw up her veil, and withdrawing her eyes for the first time from mine, clasped her hands before her, her figure thrown slightly back, and looked down upon it. A pretty picture; the poor young mother, with her pale, obild-like face and deep mourning dress ; the wee baby, gleaming so white in its death and baby-robe against the heavy crape skirt on which it lay—a pretty picture certainly for a railway carriage, and lighted by its dim, midnight lamp,

‘ Dead !' was my involuntary exclamation. She stretched her clasped hands downwards towards it with a despairing gesture, speaking with low, wild, rapid utterance. ‘ it was not his look that killed It, but my love. He hated it—my baby—my firstborn. For all the love I gave him he hated it; and that his look might not kill it I held It in my arms —so close, so close—till it was dead. Oh, my baby, my baby !’ The outstretched hands had reached it now, and raised it from the floor to the seat, folding it around until the enclosing arms and the down bent face hid it once more oat of sight. Was ever luckless traveller more awkwardly placed’—the dad child; the prostrate woman ; the scene, a public railway carriage ; the hour, midnight. Would not my little wife have triumphed could she bat have known how infinitely I should have preferred the spring mattress and snowy sheets to my present position ! I am of a blunt nature. Mrs Merton often scolds mo for my blnnt straightforward speeches. I must go straight to the point as soon as ever I see it. I did so now.

* How come you to be travelling alone, and with a dead child ? Are you going home V

The question Boomed to ronaa her once more to a perfect frenzy of fear. She turned to me as before, clinging to my hand with small hot fingers, and the old heartbroken cry—

* Don't betray mo ; don’t give me up to him ! His look would have killed my baby ; IS would kill mo If I had to meet it ; she is safe, for I killed her, and she is dead ; and he hates me, and I have no home— no home—no homo !’

1 was in a perfect maze of doubt, Could the pretty soft youug creature at my feet bo indeed a murderess? And could it be her husband of whom she seemed in such abject terror ? My blood boiled ; I felt ready to defend her against a dozen husbands ; but how ? It was midnight now ; we could not be far from London ; the guard might bo popping his head in at any moment. I jumped to a sudden conclusion. ‘ Were you going to any friend in London ?’ * I know nobody in London.’ * The poor little thing Is either rnad cr her husband is a brute,’ was my mental exclamation, ‘ Then you must come horns with me to my wife ; she will sea after you ’ An upward glance of wild agonised supplication— ‘ She won’t betray mo, or—take baby from me ? ’ And once more the wee dead thing was lifted up into the arms that seemed almost too frail to ho d it, and hidden away beneath the long mourning cape. I took her home. Mary received her with a broad look of amaze that made me smile, hut that found no expression, in words, When, taking her a-ido, I told her all I knew, she wrung her hands in sheer sympathising pity. ‘ Murdered her own baby—her firstborn? Oh, how sad, how dreadful!' And involuntarily she glanced towards the door that bid from ns cur own little ones, safely cradled and asleep. Then iho wont back to our strange guest, who sat huddled up in my own big easy chair, the dead still at her bosom. ‘I must get her to bed,’ said Mary, with a quick determined nod ; and she really did contrive to <lo so by soft, tender, cooing words, and solemn assurances of safety for

herself and baby, whom she ki»aed and cried over, and considered as she might some living object of solicitude, much to the little mother’s comfort.

4 And you won’t betray me ; and ho won t come and take her from me, or hurt us with his angry look ! Oh dear, now nice it is to Ho down ! 1 am so tired, and baby is so old; but I think I can sleep now a little and—forget.’ She was half asleep already ; tho heavy lids had dropped together, tho small pale face had dropped downwards upon the li. tie dowoy head that lay upon hor bosom. ‘ Her husband mast be sent for,’ I said resolutely, when wo found ourselves once more alone; and I glanced at an envelope I had taken from the stranger’s pocket : Mrs Tremayno, Grautley Lodge, Grantley.’ Mary startd at meaghuat. ‘ Her husband, who hates her, and would have killed her baby! Oh, Johr, you would not bo so cruel 1 She seems so frightened of him, poor little thing 1 You may he sure he is some horrid wicked tyrant. And if she really killed her baby—oh hear, how sad it is 7 Whatever will become of her 1’ ‘ Bat my dear, if she has a husband or friends we must restore her to them. Why, she is little more than a child ! It’s very strange, very, and sad ; but tho mystery must bo cleared, and the baby burled.’ Mary still pronounced me cruel and unfeeling hoyond anything she could have conceived.

‘ Of course her husband is a madman, who will murder her as soon as he gets her into his hands, You knew, John, that husbands are always murdering their wives.’ ‘ Middle aged wives, dear, or elderly, whose lives are hoarlly insured. I shall telegraph at once.’ ‘ Then her death will bo at your door, sir —mind that!’ and too indignant to waste upon mo more words, away went Mary to take a last peep at our own sleeping babes, at the dead baby about which there was so much mystery, and the poor young mother whom she had doomed to a violent death.

She was still bending over her, and had called me up to the bedside to notice the extraordinary length of the lashes, and the beauty of the face in repose, when we were startled by a knook at the front door. 4 It’s the husband! I know it is; oh John, don’t betray her, don’t give her np ; yon wouldn’t be so cruel.’ 4 Nonsense, child; watob by her till I return , if she awakes say nothing about —’ 4 Her husband i as if I should !’

Our household having long since retired—long, indeed, before my return—l myself opened the door. The street lamp lighted dimly two figures; one tall, stout, and mnftlad. 4 Mr Merton ?’ I answered in affirmative. 4 You have kindly given shelter to a lady ?’ 4 Just so.’ The speaker nodded to his companion, who touched his hat and vanished. The other stranger had now entered the hall, and grasped my hand. 4 Mr Tremayne ?’ I asked hesitatingly, 4 Captain Treraayna j how is she ?' 4 Asleep, under my wife’s care; sleeping ns peacefully as a child.’ • Thank God 1 bo young —at such an hour —in such a state—’ I saw a long shudder run through the tall powerful frame. 4 And the child V he added, after a pause, in a horror-stricken whisper. 4 She had it with her ?’ I hardly knew what to answer, but he had thrown oft his heavy ulster and travelling oap, and now stood before me as handsome and pleasant and honest-looking a young fellow as X ever saw, and my heart was warmed to him. He was no assassin, or ruffian, or cowardly bully, whatever Mary might say. The shadow of a great horror that lay in the blue mellow eyes had been laid there by terror, not crime. 4 The child is dead,’ he said softly ; 4 it died two days ago, died suddenly in convulsions in her arms, and the shock turned her brain. She was doing so well, poor little thing; but afterwards she grew delirous, and In her ravings she accused herself and me. I could do nothing; she would not have me near her, hut beat me off with her hands, as she couldn’t bear the sight of me. And I was so food of her and she of me.’ Here the man broke down. He walked to the window, then turned and asked abruptly, 1 May I go to hor ?’ I thought of Mary, and hesitated. 4 She is sleeping so peacefully just now; and if she awoke suddenly and saw you ’ 4 She shall not see mo,’ he broke in eagerly ; 4 I will be so quiet, but I must see her. I nursed her through a long illness a year ago, and she would have no one near her but me ; but now - ’ Under the heavy military moustache I saw his lip quiver ; he paused, then added— 4 I must go to her,’ not in command, but yearning appeal, both in voice and eyes. 4 Will yon wait here a minute 7 I will see whether she still sleeps,’ She still slept, tho heavy peaceful sleep of a tired child, Mary keeping a stern watoh and guard over her. I beckoned her out of the room. • Well !* with fretful, impatient eagerness; 4 you have seen him ? What la he libe ? Is ho horrid ?’ 4 Judge for yourself ; he is in the diningroom. He says ho must see her—he must come in.’ 4 That he aha’n’t, the cruel wretch ; or it shall be over my prostrate body !’ tragically. 4 Well, go and tell him so.’

4 I will.’ And away, nothing daunted, went Mary, I smiled.

‘ She will no more resist the pleading of those blue handsome eyes than did her husband. He will win her with a look.’ I was right; she soon returned, and not alone. 1 He will bo very quiet, and she need not see him. I thought It would be better all this apologetically. He crossed the room as noiselessly as a woman, stooped over the bed in silence, then sat down beside it. Mary shaded the lamp, so that the room was in twilight, and so we all three sat down to wait. For more than an hour we waited, then Mary stela out. Oaptain Tremayne looked up as the door opened and closed; then, with a quick sigh, laid the brown early head down upon the pillow as close as possible to that of the poor young wife without touching it, and his hand moved up towards hers where it lay on the coverlet, bat without touching that either, for fear of awaking or disturbing her. It was not until the first gray streaks of daylight were struggling in through the window, beside which I sat, that there was a slight stir; she awaking at last. ‘ Hugh!’ she breathed—dreamily at first, then urgently—' Hugh!' ‘ Tea, dear.’ She tamed her face towards his where it lay beside her. She was only partially awake as yet, her eyes were still closed; but tho hand on the coverlet crept up softly towards him, fluttered over hia face, rested one moment caressingly on the brown carls, then, with a long contented sigh, her arm stole round his neck ‘ Husband, kies me?’ 1 His presence has saved her,’ was my mental comment; ‘there is nothing now to fear and, unnoticed, I left the room. Chilled and cramped with tho long sitting after the night’s journey, I was not sorry to find the sitting-room bright with lamp and firelight, tho kettle singing on the hob, breakfast as comfortably laid out for two ns if the hour had been nine instead of six, and Mrs Merton as neat and fresh and trim as if that midnight tragedy had been all a dream, i.et caviiiats sneer as they may, there is nothing for a man like a wife, if she be a good one. I myself may have had my doubts on t!:o subject—wives are but women after all, and must therefore be trying at times, even the best of them. But 1 certainly had no doubts whatever ns I stretched out my feet to tho blaze, and resigned myself cheerfully to being potted and waited on. • Well ?’ questioned Mrs Morton, when mv crenture comforts hed all been duly attended to, and not before. I told her how matters stood ; she was delighted. * And so they are fond of each other, after all ; and his being unkind to her and her poor little baby was only a delusion. How dreadful! Dow delightful, I mean! Poor fellow—so young anti handsome and nice I I felt so sorry for him.’ ‘ He mutt have travelled down in tho same train as she did.’ ‘ Oh no ; ho told me ail about it. Ha had been summoned up to town on business, and left home yesterday merning. In tho evening the nurse left her, as she thought, asleep, to fetch something from tho kitchen. Mrs Tremayne got away while tho nurse waa

I downstairs, and being traced to the station, where she had taken a ticket to London, ’,'aptain Tremaync was telegraphed to, and was stopped as he got into tho train on bis way home. Some one must have seen you leave tho station.’ ‘ As he came to look for her here, somebody must have brought him ; two came to the door.’ ‘ It will bo all right now that ho has found her, and is fond of her ; she will got quite well, and he will only have to comfort her for tho lo;;a cf her poor little baby,’ I wipe my pan, blot the manuscript, and rise. My story is done, and, as it is the fust, so it will probably be the last of which 1 shall be guilty. Mrs Merton looi sup from the glovo she is mending. ‘ The story dona! jWhy, all you have written la only the beginning of the end. You could not surely have the heart to break off in that unsatisfactory manner. Not a word about Captain Tremayne’a gratitude, or the hamper they sent us at Christmas, or the birth of their little son last year, and tho pretty way in which she coaxed you to be godfather, though her ancle, the duke, was only waiting to bo asked ; or how she insisted upon your bringing baby and Johnny and Freddy, and how baby ’ But I have seized my hot and gloves. Mary is, as I have said, the beat cf wives, if just a little trying at times, and her baby the most wonderful of all created babies—but I have an appointment at twelve.