LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2422, 10 January 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

FROM THE GRAVE,

( Concluded .) ‘ No-—tho c.".?c was urgent—wo could hear of no workhouse subject suitable. Our order was verv strict. But, there was a funeral this morning at Bt. Pancridge’s. Our dread was !e : -t there should be anyone watch’ng the crave. We get shot at sometimes —no one want? to bo shot at if he can help it. But there were no watchers this time, and tho dark night favored ns. We managed tho business very comfortably.’ • Lo me fill your glasses again ’ They drank more and more brandy. l<e gave them money; they departed ; tha painter closing, locking and bolting tho door behind them. He listened ; ho could hear their footsteps, tha grinding of wheels, tha tramp of a horse's hoofs. They had gone. Paul Reinhardt was left alone with the dead body, It was with an effort ha induced himself to approach it. Hia face was very •palid, his lingers trembled curiously as ho lightly raised iha sackcloth sheet and tossed it on one side, and gazad at tho figure it had wrapped and concealed. ‘A man of my own age,’ mused the painter, ‘and about my height. Wellfcrmed, symmetrical, muscular, with short curling dark hair. He must have been handsome, I think. Surely he has not been long dead. How pale he is—how very pale. Tes,’ ha added, as he caught sight of his reflection in the glass, ‘ not paler than I am, I think ; no one could well be paler than that. How cold and dark and stiff are his hands. How cold he is hero about his heart. Yet, I should have thought death would have been colder. What has this man’s life been ? W hat brought him to the grave whence he has been but now so rudely torn ? Ho bad not lived so very many years in the world. Was hla life happiness to him ? Did ho love much? Was he loved? Wes he loath to die ? Who can tell ? Hia lips are closed for over. The story of his life—if it had a story—is a secret that will never be told. Do I know the man ? No, A face like that, it seems to me, that I may have seen somewhere, at some time. But not that face. No, I do not know tho man.'

The painter brought hla lamp nearer to his large picture of the Entombment, then glanced from the design to hii dead model. With a scrap of white chalk he made certain marks, corrections, or memoranda upon the canvas. ‘lt is curious,’ he noted, ‘how noarlv the body has fallen into the lines of the figure in the picture, Chance brought me iu the neighborhood of the trnth then. Yet the doctor is right. There is a want of accuracy hero. I have failed to give or to suggest the effect of death, The painting is not so dead as the model, If the doctor were to place his finger npon the wrist he would feel no pulse beating.’ Ha glanced again from the model to the picture end back again. Suddenly he stopped. ‘Strange,’ he said, ‘ what is the spot upon the wrist ? A scar ? A birth mark ? He bent down to examine it more particularly. It was a tattoo mark, a double circle about half an Inch in diameter, enclosing a St. Andrew’s cross. The artist was painfully agitated. * What may this mean?' he demanded huskily, his heart throbbing noisily. He bared his own wrist; It was marked in a corresponding manner, with a like double circle enclosing a St. Andrew’s cross I Years ago, when I was a boy at Utrecht, that figure was tattooed upon my wrist by a Scotch schoolfellow and comrade of my own age—one Allan Hay. Con this be Indeed Allan Hay ? It might be. I cannot be sure. For years we have not met. Bat what wondrous chance could bring Allan Hay to me, and in this dreadful plight ? Am 1 dreaming? Am I going mad? We were firm fast friends once. Did we ever join in a pledge that If each a thing might be, whichever of ns died fii.'st should come back from the grave to visit the survivor with tidings of the other world? Some such mad thing we may have madly said in the long-forgotten past. I* this, indeed, Allan Hay ? Ah!’ he started back with a scream. There was a strango movement about the body, a sort of ccnvnhive twitching of the nerves ; then there j. .aaed over the frame a curious trembling. Paul Reinhardt placed his hand again gently npon the bare breast of his madel, ‘ Great Heaven!' he cried, * the heart beats! He grows warm ! The dead man is coming to life again!’ He might have said with Lear, “You do wrong to take mo out of the grave,” He seemed to suffer so acutely in returning to animation. It .was anguish to him to breathe again. Vitality was restored gradually and painfully. It was so hard to induce* the little leaven of life that bad awoke within him to leaven his whole body, to extend to hia extremities. A faint action of the heart was discoverable, and for a long time nothing more than that. Then came a slight and intermittent heaving of the cheat. He waa bathed in hot water, his limbs were chafed, his lips ware moistened with wine. For hours he lay wrapped in blankets before the fire. He began to mnrmnr inarticulately. The first words he uttered were scarcely intelligible; but he was understood to complain of the cold. He moaned, shivered, and his teeth chattered, the while he was nearly scorched by the heat of the heapedup and roaring fire. Dr. Dempster had been sent for, bat could not be found. Paul Reinhardt bad been left almost to his own resources. He thought there might be danger in admitting strangers to his counsels. The man he recognised as hla former friend, Allan Hay, had been brought to the studio under snob strange conditions. The painter deemed it possible that some criminal charge might be brought against him, that he had rendered himself liable to some penalty of the law. It was desirable, he decided, that secrecy should bo maintained as far as possible—for the present at any rate. ‘I wish the doctor were here to advise and help me,’ he said to himself over and over again ; ‘ hla absence at this time, of all others, is most inconvenient and vexations.’

He had sent again to Dr. Dempster’s house In Suffolk street, Pall Mall. He could only learn, concerning the doctor’s movements, that he had been hurriedly summoned to attend a patient in the neighbourhood who was presumably In a state of danger. The doctor had been absent some hours, and was expected back at any moment, but as yet he had not returned. Paul Reinhardt, pondering on the anxieties and difficulties of his position, sat by his studio fire, leaning forward. -He was gazing Into the burning coals, his hands supporting his head and his elbows resting upon his knees. What was he to do next ? What was the story, the mystery of Allan Hay’s life ? What strange occurrences had brought him to this dreadful pass ? It was plain that he had been buried alive ! By what cruel chance, or by what Infamous design ? VV onld he recover ? Was it possible he could survive the terrible trial ho had undergone ? The painter distressed himself with these questions, asking them repeatedly, and vainly striving to reply to them. Suddenly he was conscious of a movement on the part of the man. The poor creature was moving uneasily in his blankets. One hand was raised and waving feebly and helplessly above his head. He seemed struggling to rise. His eyes were wide open, his ashen lips were parted, exposing his clenched teeth. There was upon his face an expression not so maoh of fear as of almost insane wonder and extreme perplexity. ‘ Where am I V he asked in a strangely scared voice. ‘ Hush! Be calm. Yon are safe now. You have nothing to fear. Be sure of that.' ‘ Ah, I have seen your face before. I have heard your voice, somewhere, I know. Ram sure of it. But where ? Let me think, think. No, I am not mad, I have been called mad, but I am not mad. Ah, tell mo, la this Utrecht ?’ ‘ No, not Utrecht. Bat you are safe. In friendly hands. No harm can come to you hero. ’ ‘ Stay ; yon are Paul Reinhardt. I know you now. Wo were friends once.' ‘ We are friends still, Allan Hay• if you have need of my friendship, or of any help that I can render yon— ’ * Friends ! no. We are foes rather. Wo parted years since. Have you forgotten? We loved the same fair haired doll, Amanda Milston, with her schoolgirl prettiness, her lily face, her rosy lips, her heaven-blue eyes. She came between ns, and we quarrelled, as men always quarrel when a woman comes between them, And we who had vowed to Bo such friends always ! To fall apart for a wretched thing like Amanda Milston ! A doll, did I say 1 A devil rather. We loved her; fcola that we were! And we hoped, each of us, for her love in return. Madness!

What love had she to give ? None ! She knew not, she could not know, she could not even dream what love was. A doll. A devil, I say again.’ * Hush 1 hush ! yon over excite yourself. ‘ I wrong her, yon think ? No, no ; I do her no more than justice. You did not—you do not know her as I know her.’ ‘ But all this is past and gone by long since. Wo have nothing to do with this now, The child—the was but a child— Amanda Milston is nothing now to you or to me. Why diitress yourself with reviving these old sad memories ? Pray he calm. Forget that we ever disagreed and parted. Let us be friends again as in the same long past, Allan Hay. Forget that thero ever lived this Amanda Milston.’

‘ F. rgot her ?’ ho laugho 1 wildly ; ' It i? easy for you to say that. You can afford to be lenient and generous, benign and benevolent. It costs you nothing to forgive or forgot. You did net marry her as I did.’ * You married her I 1 ‘ What! You did not know ?’

‘ Pray psrdon me. I thought I heard that Amanda Milston had dismissed you as she had dismissed mo ; that she had affected to prefer you only to di-comfit you the moro. And, bus that harsh words had passed between ns, no real reason existed why our old schoolboy friendship sheuld not be resumed, and that we might meet again in the old way upon the old terms. But it so chanced that we never did meet again until now, in this strangest of fashions.’

‘ True, she dismissed me as she dismissed yon, but it was to beckon me back as she would have beckoned you back had you remained in sight and within range of her power to allure and illude. Prudently yon received her sentence and manfully departed. You did not know how easily she could reverse her own judgments, unsay to-day the things she had said yesterday, In order, per haps, to say them over again to-morrow. Fool that I was ! I lingered, to find myself at her feet again, her claimed slave, her abject spaniel, fawning and crouching, only to be tensed amd buffeted, the victim of her every idle caprice and wanton fancy. I loved her so I I begged for her hear L .; and she gave me —a stone. It was all she had t:o give. She promised to become my wife—withdrew her promise—renewed it again. We parted for ever; to meet again half an hour afterwards. No wonder yon heard that all was over between us ! We were for ever agreeing that we could be anything to each other. At length it really seemed that we had finally separated. For weeks I did not see her or hear from her. Suddenly a wild impulsive letter reached me. She implored my return. I went. A new whim had taken possession of her, or she wished to wound some other lover. I found her in a yielding mood, the fled with me to Scotland and became my wife. What a triumph! Amanda Miston my wife—my evil genius—my sworn tormentor ! The happiness of my life was wrecked upon her flint of a heart. Give me wine ; let me wash away the taste of these thoughts. His voice grew weaker; he had over-taxed his strength ; he was still suffering from the perils he had undergone ; he had not escaped whole and unscathed from the grave. Bat a nervous excitement possessed him ; he tossed to and fro uneasily among his blankets before the fire. He talked incessantly ; he could not be calmed or silenced. Almost he seemed as though hia wits were disordered, his mind diseased. He told of the discord, the strife, the misery of his married life ; of hia wife’s heartlessneas, cruelty and treachery. ‘ I had not, as you had,’ he said, *an art to turn to as an anodyne. I conld not, as yon could, seek in professional life forgetfulness of the miseries of my home, I was, as yon may remember, a law student. I was duly called to the Scottish bar ; bat I had not the strength, the alertness of mind, the firmness of nerve, necessary to success as an advocate. 1 had but little practice. Amanda had thus new reasons for despising me. Our means were but small. The son of a Scottish laird of small fortune, nnable to proceed with my profession. 1 found myself often poor enough. Even those who love find poverty hard to bear. Think how Amanda found it I She could not love, but she could hate, as 1 had soon to learn. She despised me ; she hated me ; she wished me dead. But I can say no more now. I grow faint and very, very weary. By-and-by I will tell yon more. ’

He fell back, and In a moment was soundly asleep ; not to waken for some hoars. Paul sat beside the sleeper, contemplating him, and considering his strange story. Suddenly he stirred, shook himself, and rose. ‘ I must go out ; fear not, I will come back. lam strong enough now. Lend me clothes and money—a very little will do ; enough to pay for a hackney-coach.’ It was vain that Paul opposed his going forth. ‘ Yon forget,’ he said, ' I have a wife at home who thinks herself a widow; I must undeceive her. She has to learn that lam still alive. ’ Paul offered to accompany him ; it was not prudent for him to go alone. ‘ What 1 ’ cried Allan Hay with a wild langh, ' yon would see year old love again ? Yon are carious as to how Amanda looks after all these years ? Another time, my friend—another time will do for that. ’ And, weak and ailing, wild of look and with trembling limbs, he went forth alone. It was late at night when Dr. Dempster re-entered Paul Reinhardt’s studio. ‘Yon sent for me,’ said the doctor, ‘but I could not come before. I have been closely engaged all day long. I have not had an hour to call my own Are yon ill? Has anything happened? You wear a strangely troubled look; your face is very pale and worn. Have you been suffering from indigestion, and are yon, just wakened from a nightmare ?’ ‘ Not that exactly,’ answered Paul, with some hesitation. He felt some difficulty in relating to the doctor what had happened, noting his unsympathetic mood. ‘ Has Joel kept his word ?’ The doctor glanced ronnd the stndio as though looking for something. * Bat 1 see he has not.’ ‘ Who is Joel ?’ ‘The question shows that he has failed me. Joel deals in‘‘subjects." He received particular instructions from me. I suppose some difficulty occurred. Bat I never knew Joel ta fail before; he is usually very businesslike and punctual and trustworthy in his dealings. Let me sit down by the fire; I feel quite worn out. I have seldom gone through a more trying and fatiguing day. And If yon coaid give me a glass of punch I’d drink it and be obliged to yon.’ ' It is my turn to ask what has happened ?' said the painter, as he attended to the doctor’s needs.

‘ You must know,’ Dr, Dempster began presently, ‘ that I was hurriedly sent for the morning after I left yon, to attend a lady who had been seized with violent fever and delirium. She was a young woman of considerable beauty, a widow. She had lost her husband very recently, I was told, and it was supposed that the shock had deranged her intellects. At the same time I gathered—though it mattered little enough, all things considered—that she and her departed husband had not lived happily together—had, indeed, lived most unhappily together. He had been a Scottish advocate, I learnt, but had no practice. For some time they had been living in lodgings near Charing Cross. I saw her for the first time. I was called in to advise with her regular medical attendant, a man of whom I knew nothing, and whom, I may say at once, I did not like, His manner struck me as insolent and offensive. He had simply sent for mo to confirm his opinion, and to second his proposals as to the treatment of the patient. Now I am In the habit of forming opinions for myself, and of adopting my own modes of medical treatment.

* It bo happens,' the doctor confirmed, after a pause, * that I have made mnch study of cerebral derangement. That the lady was suffering from a serious mental disorder I could not doubt. She had made some attempt at self-destruction. She had accused herself of a very dreadful crime—nothing less than the murder of her husband. She believed detection to be imminent. She had persuaded herself that she was being watched, and that the officers of justice were already In quest of her ; that a shameful death upon the scaffold was assuredly In store for her. 1 need not tell you that propensity to suicide, unreasonable fears, forebodings, and self-accusations are plain indications of a diseased mind. The patient was in a state of aonte mental distress ; she waa talking wildly, incoherently, deliriously : she was what people call raving. But 1 mustn’t weary you with a long story, or set forth the process by which 1 arrived at a certain Important conolnslon. I was influenced, however, less by what the woman

said, though she said many strange things, than by the man’s manner. He evidently desired to silence her at all coats, by the rnoat brutal means if no others were available. In fine, I convinced myself that a crime had really been committed ; that the woman’s husband had been murdered in the most shameful manner, and that the man I found with her was her accomplice, and, as I suspect, her lover. la plain words, the husband had been heavily drugged with opium, thou treated as dead, and hurriedly burled — alive.’

* The woman’s name is Amanda Hey.’ cried Paul; she is the wife of Allan H»y, advocate.’

‘ How did you know that ? I was careful not to mention any names, ’ Fanl then related how Allan Hay had returned to life from the grave, describing tho incidents that preceded bis recovery. ‘All this is very strange,’ mused the doctor ; * you are sure you have not been dreamh g, Paul ? Then, after all, Joel was a a good as hia word. ’ ‘ But Amanda—is her state hopeless 1 ’ ‘ the cannot recover, as I judge. She Is shattered, mind and body, by her fears and her remorse. Could anyone wish her to life ’ ’

1 She was very beautiful once,’ * She is beautiful still, for that matter.’ * And I loved her with my whole heart.’ ‘Of course that alters tho case,’ said the doctor.

A sudden movement in the half-lighted studio startled tho two men. A. gaunt, weird, ghostly figure emerged from the darkness and stood before them, It was Allan Hay, ‘ I have seen her. She lives,' ho said in hollow tones, feebly swaying to and fro the while; ‘ but she did not know me. She la stsrk mad. If she had known me I should have killed her. I looked into her eyes. I found no recognition, no speculation there. It was as though she had never seen me. So 1 spared her. It was best, I think. Ho laughed wildly, tossing up his arms and staggering about tho room. ‘ Who is this?’ whispered Dr. Dempster. 1 Allan Hay.’ ‘ The hnsband. Ah, I understand. _ Rising from hia ohalr, the doctor with his hawk’s eye watched curiously the mau returned from the grave. ‘ But he is dead I’ cried Allan Hay, langhiug and staggering anew. But for Paul’s aid, indeed, he would have fallen, ‘ Who Is dead!’ cried Panl, with both arms supporting him. ‘ Her lover. The man who helped her to poison me. He loved her and he hated me. She was to became his wife after my death. I heard them whispering their plans together. He will never whisper again. 1 did not quit my hold until I knew that he was dead. Look here !’ He held out bis hands; they were torn and bleeding, * See how he scratched and bit, like a wild cat! But 1 strangled him. He will bite and scratch no more. All is over now.’

Uttering a strange cry, a sob, a gasp, a groan— it waa hard to say which —the poor wretoh slipped through Paul’s arms on to the dais beside the pictnre of the entombment. Dr. Dempster sprang towards him. In a moment the doctor’s fingers were upon his pulse. ‘He is dying,’ said the doctor with a significant glance at FauL * Gan nothing be done ? ’ * Nothing.’ There waa a dreadful stillness for some minutes.

‘ He is dead,’ said the doctor. He released the wrist he had been holding between his right forefinger and thumb, and lightly let the dead man’s hand fall beside him. 1 You can ‘renew your studies from the dead model ’ The painter shook his head mournfully. ‘ Never more,’ he said; ' Allan Hay was dear to me onoe. Paul bnried his face In his hands. ‘ Come, come, my friend ; this must not be. There is something to be thought about. After all, the living ate rather to be considered than the dead. What are we to do ? I will tell you. We must turn our backs upon all this. We must treat it as though It had never been, or as though It had been the bad dream I once judged it to be.’ He threw over the body some ragged sackcloth he found upon the dais. ‘ We mnst forget the whole business.’ ‘ Never,’ said Paul Reinhardt. ‘This I will do, at any rate,’ said the doctor ; ‘it will be the best coarse to parsne for all concerned. 1 will send to Joel straightaway and bid him carry back to St. Pancras’ Cbnrohyard the body he stole from it some few hours since. That act of restitution la in out power at any rate. For the rest—well, 1 think we will leave the rest to chance, and hold onr tongues meanwhile. ’ The doctor regaled himself with repeated pinches of snuff as he literally turned hia back npon the dead body of Allan Hay,