LITERATURE.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 3654, 27 December 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

♦ ONE TERRIBLE CHRISTMAS-EVE.

I don't mention it to Deborah. I particularly avoid mentioning it to-day, though I may have done bo now and then at other limes, when it has struck me how conveniently her nervous heaaaches visit her. But though I don't mention it, tho fact has never been borno in upon mo so strongly 03 it is this afternoon of Christmas eve. We certainly have had a good deal of trouble— and utterly in vain, so far— in looking over houses for the Soppendells ;. and then I should have thought Deborah would feel, with me, what a triumph it would be to find them the right one at last, and haw them settled within reach of us. And this advertisement in to-day's Times ia so very promising ! It offers us exactly the house the Soppendells want, and in Bearch of which wo have taken so many, fruitless journoys. And how nice it will be to add, us postoript to our Christmas letter, "Wo havo found precisely the house you desire, and it will bo ready for you early in the year." " It will only bo another disappointment," Deborah remarks, with an unworthy ingratitude ; "no advertisement ever tells the truth." I don't contradict Deborah (though I sometimes do), becauee we really have been so often lured to bootless fatigue by advertisements ; finding,, instead of the very pretty, mellowed, secluded housa we want, only interminable rows of brick and mortar, or forgotten tenements redolent of mould and animaloulao. But in this advertisement I at onco detect the ring ot truth, and am determined not to miss Buch a chance. And Mr Lovely offers exactly what wo (and the Sopendells) want— " A picturesque detached residence, known as Sylvan Tilla, charmingly situate in extensive pleaauro grounds and fruit garden, in a ealubrious suburb." " ' .Near church and station too, 1 it saya, and is not that an advantage, tho station especially to Mr Soppendell, and tho church for Mra Sopptndell ! They will be delighted Deborah," i cay, putting dovfn.the Times, as as there can bo nothing in it of further interest to either of us. " And indeed thero it nothing so attractive as individuality in one's dwelling. I don't wonder tho Soppendells waut a house that is not like everybody else's. Now wo will go out and buy our Christmas boxes, and after an early lu&ch we can go and sco Sylvan Villa." But who would thiui of tho blow that is to fall upon me, when after enjoying a little warm lunch, with a cup of tea — Deborah suddenly takes one of her nervous headaches and declares she cannot go to see Sylvan .Villa ; so that all that remains is for me to go alono. %I shall not be late, Deborah, and shall certaifflj bring good news," I say, while I arrange my bonnet at the glass ; " but I do wislryou wore coming." "You are not thinking of my head," sighs Deborah. And I'm ashamed to own that I am not ; at that particular moment lam thinking of my own. We live in Buyswator, Deborah and I, and I havo to go to Victoria to take my ticket for the salubrious suburb. Thero is a train waiting for mo when I reach the platform, which proves what a convenient line it is ; and the carriago I enter is quite filled, which proves what a favourite direction from town is this in which I journey. I havo no one to talk to, so I'm conscious now and then of a jerk, as if I were pulled up heartlessly, at about fourteen or fifteon, on the way towards forty winks. But really there is no incentive to me to keep awake, my fellow travellers being so uninteresting. It is difllcult to me at any time to feel entertained by a row of gentlemen with newspapers before their poor sh}* faces, and all their care lavished on black bagß, as is the manner of London gentlemen. It just a littlo surprises me to find that all the gentlemen, as well as all the newspapers and all the bags, have left me beforo I reach the salubrious suburb ; but yet tho fact soothes mo, because it proves they aro not hurrying in advance of mo to seize on Sylvan Villa. J The station belonging to the ealubrious suburb is a very clean and pleaeant one, and I look round it approvingly before I leave it with brisk and hopeful step. Mr Lovolr's office, too, is particularly neat, and papered entirely, as it seems to me, wit'i repetitions of his own attractive name, printed on sale-bills in a manner to inspire confidence in his connection. I find Mr Lovely himself quite an engaging man — tr it may bo his clerk ; I don't feel in a position to assert until after-dealings shall impress it upon fco. Ho speaks feelingly about Sylvan Villa, and adds, with candour, that though several parties wish for the house, ho will eco that I havo my chance. Then ho gives me the latch key, and I ttart off along a veiy pretty and quite countrified road, and walk for a long time undisturbed and comfortable. At last, just to mako assurance doubly sure, I call in at a modest houeo. on tho way, to ask if I am going right for Sylvan Villa. The mastor of the house has to be extracted from a shed far down a garden before this question can be answered for me ; and, indeed, he has to bo released again and roturned to his abed, still before the question is answered, because no one on the premises can nnawer it. They never heard of Sylvan Villa ; but when I mention the road, alight breaks in upon them. They think if I go straight on ; straight on pa9t the church— a light breaks in upon me too at that word. Did not the advertisement cay, "close to church and station ?" I thank the collected household, and go smiling on my way. The road grows wider and quieter. How pretty it will be in spring and Bummer. lam conscious of walking far, as well as fast, but then Sylvan Villa is nenr a station, and after my rot urn I naed do nothing more this evening I shall enjoy a chop, or something comfortablo with my tea, and then my own easy chair and tho new annuals to read. If there is anjthing to bo done needing exertion, Deborah can do it. Has sho not had nil tho afternoon to rest ? Here is tho church. I pass it and go on, knowing 1 cannot bo wrong now ; yet I look out for a friendly passer-by, that I might ask how near I am to Bylvan Villa. But I only see a few young mc:i at a tavern door, and my heart fails mo in opening a conversation witli them. The road is still v pretty one, but it elopes downhill now, bo that tho walk is not so inspiriting as it is uphill— at least it is nevor so to me. But soon I forget all this, for before I havo walked above a mile beyond the church I reach v gate, on which I can read tho longedfor words, "Sylvan Villa." Ah! was I not right, and will not Deborah have to apologieo to mo ? Can anything, in a London suburb, bo more likely to plcaso the Soppendells than this picturesque, ivy-covered house, shaded (as it will be in summer) hv these old trers which stand so thickly in the damp winter garden all around me? With reul delight, I hurry to tbc doer, taking the latch-key from my pocket as I go. It is a good front entrance, and when I havo entered and taken the key out of tho lock I am pleased to hear how securely and unmistakably the latch catches. Tho lower promises aro nil good, though not in tho Lest ropair, for I notice a broken pane in one of tho kitchen windows, and two or threo looeo boards. But I am not surprised, for tho houso has evidently boon long uuteuanted. Upstairs tbo rooms satisfy me as they do belo-v, but it is such a now sensation to mo to bo alone in- an empty houso that I hurry a little, haling the echoing sounds of my own stops on the baro boards. Thoro seems an open uud extensivo view from every window, and even the attics aro pleasant rooms, though, for my own part, if I were the Sop-

Wendell's maids, I should prefer the front one because tho back one has that sensekss trapdoor m (he ceiling. Of cour-e the agent will liare the measures correct, but I would like to be quite sure, nnd I'vo brought my yardribbon to take the sise of the chief rooms. I need not measure the attics, 83 I go down and into one of the back rooms on tho upper storey. rr "•What a capital liouso it is !" I Fay to myself, ns I flra.v out my measure; if the owner will undertake tho few necessary repairs, it. will bn jusfc the desire of tho heart of the Soppendeih. 3uppose I had not ecen that advertisement ! Ah>l but suppose- this is the one cloud on mj Christinas horizon— all those other parties step in before me." My furs, and my long rapid walk, make ma warm even in this empty, unaired house,. and on Christmas-eve ; and as the air feels close I cross the room to open the window. What a beautiful position tho house occupies. The Soppendeih can iiwe hero as tho'roughlr tothemselves as if in a park of their own, "and cannot even see a neighbour's house, or have the faintest fearof being overlooked. I am astonished to feel tho wind blowing in upon mo so lustily when I open tho window (for as 1 walked I had scarcely noticed it), and before I take my hands-- from the frame, a sudden gust, passing me, blows to the door behind me. I hear it slam, and then something fall from it outside-, and I look round in aniairement. The door is latched tightly, and on this tide there is no handle at all. How has id been ? Tbo handle must have been off on this inner side, and the handle on tho outer side, lu'lding the abaft that turns the latch, must have- fallen when the wind slammed the door. I etand watching it, ho plessly, vacantly, not able even to believe what is so evident— that lam a prisoner in this room, doomed to spend the Christmas night in this empty, isolated house, in hunger, cold, and solitude. 2u> ; I cannot beliore it. No ; though I say tho words over and over again to myself, in my utter stupefaction. My mind cannot yet grasp anything so horrible, though my lips repeat the doom in store for me, and my eyes see tho fast-sprung lock. I go to the window as my only hope, and loan from i*--, looking every way for help. But there is no human form in si»ht. I look far and near ; then down below ;°then feebly up into the quiet winter sky ; but what can come to my help ? The largo garden that has delighted me is utterly silent and deserted i tho meadows berond, that sremed so good a boundary to this house, are a picture of wild bare emptiness. I look down and there are but bare trees "swaying weirdly in the wind. I call, in a shaking, pausing, trembling way, and then listen, almost afraid of hearing any answering sound, yet trembling more when no other cull breaks tho silence. I coll again — my vbico growing stronger in my despair -and again. But what answer can I hope for ? Who would bo wandering in such an hour, there beyond this faded, neglected garden ? And evon if any stray man did, could my call reach himthero? Way had I not; gone into a front room first ? Then possibly my call might havo been heard by some isolated passer-by. But here! I cannot be still yet, in this' beginning of my muerj. I kneel ut tbo door, and look helplefsly into iho hole from which tho handle has gono. I put my pencil-easo into it, imbecilely supposing it may turn the lock. I try again and "gain, most insanely, though tho futility is so apparent to mo from tho first. Then I risu to my feot ag* : n and beat tho door, while sloiv hot tears fall from my eyes, and I look stupidly down upon them on my dress, fearing even to wonder why they fall, because I so fear meeting the (rath really face to fucc. I look round tho bare walls vacantly, yet I notice that tho papor has three poppies on it, one crimson, one pink, and one white— and I can scarcely see the white ones now. I lean once more from tho open window, for the world teems a little nearer to me so ; and when I feel my voice is not mufllcd by my tears, I shout again for help. Wuiting — waiting— in tho silence that follows, and wondering what I can do. I feel nothing of tho cold even yet, for my great fear has made me feverish, and I dread thutting out the living world if I should close tho window. How far away can the nearest neighbour be ? I cannot see any wbito poppies on the walls now. What shall Ido ? What shall Ido ? No answer, save tho despairing echo of tho question in my heart — what shall I do? Why did I not make Deborah come with me? She ought to havo come. Perhaps she has the dear old doctor with her, and they are sipping tea, each side tho blazing fire, in the convivial way I know so well, while he gossips na usual — just as if we were old women like himself. It makes it worse for me to picture them so. But if — if they are chatting together aa snugly as wo sometimes do, they little dream of my— my own sob frightens me, as it bursts from my shaking form. It sounds so pitiful, and so like somebody elie's sob. ■Once- more utter stillness settles down upon tho houae, and so unbearable is this to me, and I feel bo afrnid of my mind going, that I try to repeat Im.-s and verses that may hold my thought p. lam going indofatigably on, when (without seeming actually to hear anything) I urn conscious of the silence being disturbed by a faint creaking. In tbo first instant my heart gives a delighted bound, feeling it is a distant step outside, nnd that B'inio one will presently come below the window, that I may throw the key <lown for him to rescue inc. But in tho next, instant I kii'iw this eouiiil is infide the deserted house, and is abort' me. How can it bo ? I etand looking wildly up, just as there comcß one heavy sound exactly over my head— the fall of a dead body ! Ah ! yes ; it can be nothing elso. I cannot move a limb. I stand motionless as that dead body above, in my overwhelming panic. This must be the rcactiogof an awful tragedy which has bfen perpetrated in this ghostly houso, and on this very spot, of course, where I stand, and where the sound fell — the hollow, ominous sound ; repeated, perhaps, in this terrible way, on every Christmas eve. There would bo the stains of blood here under my very feet, only havo I not read that blood will not sink through carpets? and have not the carpets all been ctrcfiilly taken up ? Even on the walls there would be ghastly splashes under this new paper— ah ! the pink poppies now are undistinguishablo there. Is tho ghostly tragedy over now, or aro thero spectral scenes to follow ? I can only wait, too^tcrriGcd to stir, for fear of oven the faintest sound that I myself might make. Was it really I who had valued solitude and ictiroment— once? Shall I ever cease to hate both after this night ? Ah! What is that? A stealthy, creeping step— a- slinking, lurking sound of footsteps, that may bo one, yet may bo many, so softened and subdued, fo cunning and so low — over my head ; upon the stairs ; now in the lobby, just without my door, and pausing there. In that moment, my hair turns white ! (To be continued.)