LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2659, 14 October 1882, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A GHOST IN A RAILWAY TUNNEL,

( Continued .)

We will not follow him to his home, nor attempt to picture hia tufferinge that night, with all his hopes shattered, and the light of hia life gone out for ever. I daresay soma will thiak that he gave- np Bosle t o soon ; that, had he psreevere.-i, he might have still won the nr 23 ce oovetei so greatly. I cannot pretend to judge whether he was right or wrong. Certain it is, from that night he resigned all hopes sfßosie With the quick eye of love he had seen how matters stood, and as he watched her with his rival he knew what Ids own fate mn-t be. Six Richard, though a good man, true, brave, and upright, was also a proud man. He aosld not entertain for a moment the idea of patting -himself In competition with F.-aak Melville. He wrote a note that night, saying that business wonld oblige him to go to London for a few weeks, and as he must start early the next morning, he would make his adieux then to bis friends at Hecchwood. Bir Richard was absent from home about six weeks, and when he returned he fonod Frank Melville the accepted lover of Rosetta Mannering. This news was not, however, . unexpected. He had received a letter from. Mr Mannering, informing him of the engagement, and expressing the deep at regret that the hopes he had ouca entertained of giving hia darling child to Sir Richard were destined to be disappointed, No one knew bow Sir Bichard bore this confirmation of his fears—this blow which crashed the last hope tli-t might have lingered in hia heart. When h« returned homo he war, to all appearance, the same as ever. The only person who ever inspected the deep grief it had been to him was his foster, brother and Steward, Stephen Hammond. This man was the same age as Sir Richard, had he e a bionght np on the estate, and had succeed d hia father, who hod been steward to Sir Bichard’s father. He and Sir Biohard were really more like brothers than master and servant; and the faithful attachment felt 1 y Stephen wu suoh that he wou’d freely have given his life’s blood, if by so doing he could have saved his beloved master from this or any other snfiaiicg. I hare lingered, I fear, too long over the earlier and happier portion of Roalo'a story. What remales to be to d I will relate as briefly as posiible, in order to come qniokly to that part of It which more particularly relates to my connection with the narrative. It was not without some difficulties being raised on the part of Mr and Mrs Mannering that they had been induced to consent to their daughter's marriage with Frank Mtlvd'e. A oornet in a cavalry regiment, with no money save hia pay and a smalt allowance doled out with relaotance by his father, who was indeed a poor man, was in truth a sad falling off from tho rich baronet that they had hoped to secure for her. But Frank appeared so devoted to their child, and she wept and entreated—in fact, never having yet refused to grant her smallest wish, they could not find it in their heart to do no now. It was whispered that Mr Mannering paid some heavy debts for Frank, and rumors were afloat not much to the oredi*-of the latter.

Nevertheless, preparations for the marriage were hurried on, and in less than three mentha from the time of the ball Bosle became the wife of Frank Melville People still talk o’ the beauty of the bride and the handsome brid?groom who stood before the altar on that bright April morning. For my part, I never liked Mr Meivibe’s face, handsome though it undoubtedly was. After the wedding they went'for a few weeks to Paris, sud then returned to Beechwood, that Rosie might make a parting visit to her parents before Laving for India with her husband ; for, alas)! his regiment had been ordered out there almost immediately after their marriage. Mr Mannering would gladly have bought Prank’s exchange into some other regiment, but, fir some unexplained reason, the latter refused alt offers of the kind, and obstinately expressed his determination to go out there at cnoe.

I will not dwell npoa the grief of that doting father and mother in having to part with their child It was expected Frank would be able to return to England In .wo yetrs; but what an age two years was to bo separated from Rosie I They had. however, no fears for her happiness with her husband daring their brief visit; the yoang people setmed entirely devoted to each other, acd Rosie’s sweet face was bright with a new happiness which made her more lovely than ever. At‘first Rosie’s letter's, whioh_ every mail brought to her parents, were so joyous and happy they could not fe=l otherwise than contented ; but by degrees the letters grew charter and graver, and now and again she would miss writing by a mail, and finally thorn came a long gap in the correspondence. In the meantime reports came from India, from other sources, which caused Rosie’s relatives great uneasiness. It was said that Captfin Melville (he had obtained his company directly after his arrival la India) was not steady, he gambled, drank, and mads an unkind and neglectful husband ; also that Bnsie was looking 111 and unhappy. About this time poor Mrs Mannering, who bad never been the same after her daughter’s departure, drooped and faded Into a delicate state of health ; and after a few weeks the sad tidings had to be sent to Rosie of her mother’s death.

Mr Mannering then wrote, and entreated her to take compassion on his loneliness, and to bag her husband’s permission to return to England, end spend the remainder of the uuexpired two years in her old hema with htr bereaved father. To this letter Mr Mannering soon received an answer full of d.ep expressions of sorrow for the loss of her beloved mother, aud passionate regrets that she should ever have left her darling parents, bat she did not allude in any way to that pvrfc which requested her return. Mr Mannering wrote again and again urging his ro-qu-st, but received no answer to any of bia letters for several months. At last, after a long, long nil-rc->, came a letter—very short, a mere scrawl. It ran thus —

‘ When this reaches you, my own dearest father, I shall ha on my way to England. My husband has left me. Take me boms, father, and never let me leave you again. Your unhappy child, Rcsie P.S.—I will telegraph when I reach Southampton.’ No sooner had Mr Mannering read this letter, than, as was his custom in any trouble or difficulty, bo sent for Sir Richard Dalton, who was a'.wavs ready with clear U..ad and wise council to aid the weaker mind of his fiiead. Directly he had been made ecquainted with the letter’s contents hn proposed going at ones to Southampton, to be In readiness to receive the poor wanderer. T hla proposition was gladly t.coedod to by Mr Mannering, who of late had become so infirm through repeated attacks of rheumatism, that he was almost entirely confined to the house Scarcely had Sir Richard left trim, when a tdegrsm, dated London, not Southampton, arrived from Rosie. It aoid;— ‘ I shall leava

■fcy the eight o’clock train to-night, Fle.se m oet me.* Of coarse this was sent immediately to Mr Eiohard, who, instead of goicg to Southampton, prep »red himself with a be .tIng heart, to met the c oar travel,r that •veiling at the railway station a distance of abont five miles from Melt n Park. Bet, alas! poor ill fated Bosie was not destined to see her home again, or her father, or th t faithful friend ! The dreadful archie tit above referred to occurred tl at night, wir Blohord and bis stewar , Stephen Hammond, were among tie fi at to arrive at the scone •f the disaster, and to discover In one of the sufferers—bnt, no her anff rings were over —Bosie was dean ! —quite dead ! When my fellow passenger had reached this part of his story he almost b oho down, and I could with difficulty refrain from tears. I gra-ped his hand, and, thanking him for the inter-sllrg narrative, begged him to be composed. ‘a-h, air,’ he said, 1 thongh it Is so long ago, the dreadful scene appears before my eyea as if I had > eheld it but yesterday ! Bat,' he added, rousing himself with an effort, * I must be drawing near the end of ay journey, and I must say farewell. In abont half an hour after I leave you. you will be passing through that terrible tunnel, ike name of which I can never hear without a shudder. Heaven bless and preserve yon ! Should yon ever be in the neighborhood of St. Helen’s, it will gratify me much if yon pay me a visit, I am now residing there on a small property belonging to Sir Biohard Dalton ; anyone will direct yon to me if yon inquire for Stephen b'ammond.’ The train stopped, and he gave my hand a cordial clasp, but I was so struck with his Hat worda that I hardly recovered myself in time to retnrn his f- iendly grasp and ■ meet - -

MOteaa a hope anas t»- r. — ~ - *"a j J "o before th 6 train was again mjtloa hn ° 1 ’ found myaslf S’dne. . . i I sat tor some time lost In thougnt, my ( mind following all the circumstances of the aad story I had heard. Vainly I endeavored to shako off the melancholy this oppressed me; thoughts of Ro»'.o and her terribo fate pursued me, I took out my papers and •xrled to fix my mind upon them. But It woa useless; a strange gloom, such as I had never felt before, seemed to weigh ms down; then a drowsiness oime ever mo, and I fell Into one of those thoroughly uncomfortable slumbers which visit one in a railway carriage. The samelthonghti were carried into my dreams. I fancied that Rosie's husband was on his trial for her murder, »ai that I was the chief witness against him ; and I was in the act of using all my •loanenca before the jury to try and prove that it waa he and not the railway accident that had killed her, when I woke with a sudden start, feeling a sensation of intense oeld. My first impression was that one of the windows roast b? "pen ; bnt po } th.Sy , were both closed, and then to my astonish- I ment I found I was not alone. Seated on j the Opposite side, in the farthest Co nor oi the carriage from my sell, was a lady 1 I TH Indeed surprised ; being usually a light deeper, I could not conceive how the train could have stopped, the caralage door been opened and closed again, and a passenger admittsd, without disturbing ms. Moreover, t was seated on the side next to the platform where we stopped, so that any person entering the carriage must have passed mo to reach the seat occupied by the lady. I was lost in wonder, and rnhbed my eyes .to confines myself that my senses were not deceiving me or that I was still dreaming. 1 even altered an exclamation of aarpriie, and, looking towards the laiy, waa about to ark her an explanation of the mystery, when, as I gazed, tae words I was going to uttsr died on my Hpa. There was something in her bearing which seemed to forbid me from addressing her, I conld not even catch a glimpse of her face, for It was entirely oonceiled by a thick black veil. She was dressed In a gray cloth garment, with sleeve*of the same, and small hood b.hlnd. I believe It was a dress which Is called by ladies m * waterproof.* She aat io perfectly still that I should bare Imagined her asleep had there been any repose in her attitude; but she neither leaned back nor to one side, bat remained rigidly upright and motionless. Thongh I *auld not see her face, there waa something 1b the graceful fall of her (boulders and the slender, fair throat, that told me she was young; and she waa pretty, too, I fancied, for beneath the small bonnet at the back of the head waa an abandonee of rich and

beautiful brown hair. I was beginning to

feel on intense cariosity aboat her, a longing to'aee her face, to hear her speak, hat I coaid ne* find words to begin a conversation. She was so still, and seemed so utterly unconscious of my presence. Feeling a little piqued at being so completely ignored, I coughed slightly, shufiiad my papers, and made other sounds and movements. In the hope of attracting her attention, or at least inducing her to tarn towards me, and show ■he waa sensible of my existence. Alas I I might as well have been one of the cushions of the seat, or the door itself, for any notice ■ha deigned to take of me. Still she sat quiet—oh, so quiet'! I was becoming quite feverish. Thank heaven ! the whistle sounded—we were approaching a station —anything to change this dreadful state of things 1 What an Intense relief It was when we dashed up to the platform and the station lights flashed in upon na. I could have almost embraced the porter who threw open the door and said, 'Tickets, please. »ir.’ I gave him mine, which, after having examined, he returned to me, and I was about to reach out my hand to receive the lady’s, to give it also to the man, when he suddenly bagged the door, and the whistle again screeched and we were off. Under any other circumstances I should have expressed the surprise I felt that my fellow traveller’s ticket had not been de-

manded ; but an unaccountable feeling kept me silent— something seemed to weigh mo down and oppress me, and the cold of the winter’s night crept Into my very heart and paralysed me with a feeling that was new and strange, I endeavored to speak, lam not constitutionally shy. I can always talk freely with strangers. Why, then, this feeling about a mere girl—one whom it might reasonably be supposed would be more afraid than myself ? ‘ AhJ perhaps, ’ thought X, ' this Is, alter all, the reason she is so quiet. She may feel nervous at being alone with me. I will leave her to herself, and when she finds I do not wish to notice her she will feel more at her ease,’ Fall of this oew idea, I again had recourse to my much neglected papers; this time 1 resolved I would give them my undivided attention ; but the business was not very interesting, or I was tired, or something prevented me making any progress with my task. 1 found mysel l involuntarily glancing towards my companion. Why did she net move ? Why not recline In her seat, or lean forward, or make some change in her position P The feeling was becoming a mania with me. 1 longed to shoot ont, to break a window, or do something desperate. Was I going mad, or was it some horrid dream ? The oppression of this te'rlble presence was unbearable —anything to rid me of its horrible influence. (To be continued.)