LITERATURE.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 3655, 29 December 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

+ ONE TERRIBLE CHttISTATAS-EVE.

(Concluded.) Then— all my other fear seems to have bocn pay bosido this great tangible horror Miat ] !ils its grip upon me now— l hear a whoring ouisida my door, a low, Puppresged wJushjt, rapid and easer. I don't know how long if, H-how cm I ever count those ;. minutfs (hat hold years in thei: course?— v;hpn tho voices ccasp, nnl the steps pass on, slowly down Ihe stair?, to seek, as I know, a murderous wenp-in. My fingera grip each oilier till thera is blood upon my hands, as if to fit me for my part in this ghastly scene of robbery and murder. Were they living men, or tpectral forms ? But whether men or form?, I know that their return will mark my last hour. In this feeling of certainty with regard to ray impending fate, tho long tension of ray afctit ule gives way. Mv eves c'os« a moment, hi the weariness tf their strained gaze, and I walk once more to the window, in that pitiful effort to bring the world around me once again— for tho last time now. I have heard doora opening and closing below, and now a step is passing to and fro under the window Beioro this (how many hours before this?) I had eagerly longed to hear an approaching step in the forsaken garden • yet uowthatit is hero— jo unmistakeably' passing ba-kwards and forwards below me— l dare not call, or make my presence known. It is not a ghostly step, as they aro men and not forms, and, be'ns: men, how have they pursued me here ? Certainly no living man could paas that outer door, a9 I secured it. They can only havd emerged from that terrible trap door in the attic ceiling. And now one of them has gono to the front of the house, and one is here at the back, that, thev may make my escaDO impossible. But need they feai', when I am 9O helplessly imprisoned in this room? I dare not look now, seo'ng in fancy the upturned murderous face which nuy meet my gazo. Tot it is too dark now to sea it, however fierce and fiery tho eyes may be ; for not even the crimson poppies cm be distinguished on tho papor ; and only the square of bare unshaded window breaks the darkness. And time goes on, and tho blackness of night isdeepening around me, when gradually au awful thought forms itself on my mind— my poor wandering unsettled mind. This creeping step that I have followed, and the eager threatening whisper, belong to an escaped madman! A madman in whoso power I am imprisoned, and may have to spend long and hornblo days aud nights perhaps, before ho chooses to let his cunning violence culminate in my death. Have I not read of the fiendish delight with which a maniac will lengthen the torture of those who Ml into his power? And who, from that outer fading world, can elude his crafty vigilaiice and come to rescue mo beforo it is too We? Even afterwards, who will ever find my body to give it Christian burial? And this is Christmas time ; and Deborah is in caso and safety. Oh, why did I como ? We havo but each other - Deborah and I why did I ever come away from her ? Oh, horror! Thero it a rustling of the hire branches of tho treo outside the window, and a muffled angry voice crios, "I'm coming ! 8o you thought I shouldn't find you, eh? I'm coming." And then goes muttering on, hoarsely and savagely. I have crept back from tho window, and am standing now against the opposite wall, my ejes wild and fixed, my breath coming in gasps ; because I know this madman i9 climbing up to his final deed of bloodshed, and will soon step into the dark room, from that square of gloomy sky on whbh my glazad eyes are rivetted. But no face appears there ; and presently T hear a door closod beneath tho open window, and two heavy bolls shot. Then I look out, with a new wonder. Tho bare tree has been stirred and rustled by a sudden shower of rain, which makes the night more dreary and more lonely even than it was before, and this heavy rain has driven in again tho madman who has been pacing beforo my prison. So now he will come to me indeed, and this will be tho end. I hear the slow, sly step upon the stair— or many steps, I cannot tell, for there aro voices muttering all tho timo, in that samo savage threatening way. But I hear, too, that something heavy is being dragged up, and I know it lo bo tho weapon for my murder. I cover my eyes, and try to remember what I ought to think of in this dying moment j but I am only wildly wondering how so>n thaf; step can reach my door, and how this tale of bloodshed will bo broken to poor Deborah. Suddenly now; over tho dreary pa' toring of the rain outside, and over every weird and mu filed sound within ; thoro sweeps a startling peal from some subterranean bell iu this tomblo house. I hear it distinctly, and foel the shock through all my icy trembling form. Then the whole house toltors, and I become unconscious. When my eyes open, the room where I havo been so long in darkness, u lighted feebly, and a littlo weirdly, by a lean and poverty-stricken candle Muck in Iho empty grate. I am sitiiug on the floor, with my back againßt 11. 0 wall, and my feet straight out before me, conscious only of one definite sensation — that of dampness in every garment and on every feature, and I am feebly conscious of being astonished that Deborah, who is kneeling besido me, should bo damp too— Deborah being s> particular about her dress I think I slowly and sleepily begin to understand it a little, when I find that sho is sprinkling water over mo from the dmwor of a kitchen dresser, which is held for her by tho Btrungoft object on which my eye can light— a stooping, feeble, Bhaking object, with hollow, wild eyes, looking out from long and Bna gg>" locl£3 °f unkempt hair tho very colour of pale ale. I think Deborah is crying a little, when I turn my eyes from this strange sight ; but I cannot be sure, because when I 89e it is really Deborah, and meet her pitiful eyes, and feel her hind, and know she has found me, I faint again. But only for a little time, I think; because there falls uprn mo lueh a deluge from th_o drcsjer drawer. " Don't tell me anything about it yet, Eephzibah ; nothing, till wo get home, and have had something warm and nourishing. To think what my nerves havo undergone in tricing you, and having to cut out tliat advertisement for the cabman, and trust mysolf blindly to him to find the house, aud ho taking mo all round deserts and forests before lie brought me here ! And to think that that wretchod object of a man— you needn't look round ; he went away when he saw you waking— to think he should have como in hero through a broken window, for hie night's rest — rest, indeed, in an empty home, with only bare boards to lie on !— and should havo heurd you, and got into tho trapdoor (ill ho thought you were gone, and went to scara the rats— at least, that's what ho | soems to say, but he ta ks to himself, and I can't understand; and I'm quite suro ho is as ma-'o as a March halter. And my nerves aro in that state I don't know what anybody says. I've the cab at tho door, and you arc all right now, Ilophzibah ; a little damp perhaps, that's all ; a- d I hope this will be a lesson to you not to act in tho eccentric way that is your delight, and wears me to a shadow. Tio your bonnet. I seem to hear that poor imbocilo coming back, and I'm in that Elate of nerves that I cannot stand it ; though if ho hadn't been hero to let mo in, and hadn't thought of that dresser drawer to bring tho water in, I really don't know what I should have dono— or, rather, what you would have dono, Hephzibah. Where are you going now ? For goodness gracious sake do consider the fitato you've put me into, and don't DO BO spasmodic." Bufc I cannot help it. He looks such a feeble, helpless, harmless creafuro: shrinking back there in tho empty hall ; such a threadbare, sickly shadow of a man ; bucli a dazed, bewildered object— gone astray not knowing how or when— that I cannot help it. It is such a littlo to do. Thero is no cab wailing to take him from this bare desolate house to a cheery firo-eido. Thei'o is no warm, merry Christmas-day to dawn for him. Ah ! it is such a very little thing to do ! "But most unwiso," says Deborah— not knowing that I see her 6urreptitiou«ly put back her purac, pretending sho never touched it — " most unwise." But she says it with unusual ha<lc nnd jerkiness, and says nothing more until we ure warm and safe at homo ; and— mellowed by a littlo chicken Hicassee, and a glass of negus afterwards— l tell hor tho story, and she listens. « And bo," Deborah sajs, when I have finished, and the negus (and other circumstances) have soothed and cheered us both a little, "jour hah grew white in a single night, did it Hephzibah ?" And Deborah has no right to smile ; for it certainly would have grown white in that single night, if— well, il it hadn't been quite wLi e before.— Abridged, from the A yosy.