UNDER THE MIDNIGHT LAMP.

Star (Christchurch), Issue 4158, 18 August 1881, Page 4

UNDER THE MIDNIGHT LAMP.

(Tinsley's Magazine.) Founded on Fact.

I am a doctor, a busy professional man, whose time is money. Whenever, therefore, I oan save it 1 do. Many and many a nif?ht have I pa*sed in the train, counting the hours thus gained aa a mieer does his gold. Upon this point, unfortutately, my little wife and I do nofc agree, and this is, I think, the only point upon which we do not. The train was just off aa I sprang in, and the 3hock c e tho ■tart landed me in my seat. Being of a rlow, placid nature, I was in no hurry to recover tVem the shock, and we wero fairly off, seeding away as only an English express cm speed, before I looked'round. I had nofc the carriago to myself, .ia I had at firafc supposed j a lady occupied the farther end ; a"d at tb r.rsr. glance, spiis ofthe dim light and the f-ut of ha veil >.*ing down, I taw ***at her eyes, •smnaturally large and intense, were fixed upon ■me. lat Till times prefer a can as;e to im self, and if companion I must bav-- let it be a gentleman ; bufc there was no help for it ; the lady was there, and, moreover, Bhe was lev.iring at me. "So she may," I thought;

•*• shall not prevent my making mys**lf as t-0.. Portable as circumstances will allow." Slowly and deliberately, therefore, I removed my hat, s; bstitutng for it a cloth cap, which I drew well down over my ears ; then I folded nay arms, and composed myself to sleep. But in vain; the eyes of my fellow-passe "ger haunted me ; I saw them as distinctly ar* if ay own were open. Was Bhe watching me stall? Involuntarily I looked up and round, and my look met hers, full, burning, intense, with far more of meaning in it than I could at all fathom. It was getting decidedly unpleasant, and I was growing decidedly uncomfortable ,* try a3 I might, I could not keep my eyes ei-aec. ; hers were on me, and meet them I muit,

In her attitude, too, as well as in her look, there was something strange and mysterious. Huddled up in the corner, she seemed to be holding something close pr, .<3ed to her, beneath the long loose mourni- •.' cape, binding low over it in a crouching ; "sture. Once or twice, her eyes still fixed u:> u mine. I saw her ihiver ; but for fchafc *>light convulsive movement she tat perfectly still nnd motionless. Was she cold ? I offered her my plaid, glad of an opportunity to break the coinon*silence, ir she would but speak, make some commonplace remark,' the spell might be broken.

"lam not cold."

A commonplace remark enough ; but fche spell was not broken. The mystery ! hat lay in her eyes lay alao in her voice, Whafc should I try nex* ? I looked at my watch — 11.30 ; our train speeding on at a furious rate, no chance « * .-. stoppage for some time to come, snd the ' ull wide-open gaze of my motionless companion not for ont* moment removed from my faoe. Ifc was unpleasant certainly. There was nothing for it bufc to give up all hope of sleep, and make the beat of my position and companion, -*hom 1 cowobserved morr closely. That sh<* -vas a Udy th»re could bt* little donbt; *Jvre waa that i.-i '>ar dresa and appearance that waa nnmi?*nk -ble. I hat Bhe was pretty, there could be no daubt either ; those great, intensely d;- '■: *-yeß, the thick coQs of warm burnished b -. the small pal? features, seen dimly bene;- -. i:.e veil j yes, she was young, pretty, a lady, und in trouble. So far I got, but no farther. How came ehe to be travelling alone at that time of night, and with that. l'*ok on her face ? What could ifc be thafc sho was holding pressed so closely to her, and yt-fc so carefully kept out of sight ? From the eize and uncertain outline, I .should have guessed ifc fco be a child ; but, then, there was not the faintest motion, nor could she have held even a sleeping infant long in tbat position. I think that something of curiosity must have been b^lra^sd in my look, f.-r her own dark n?d and deepened into a perfect agony of doubt and fear. Ashamed, I withdrew my gaze at or.c-f, ard drawing oufc my notebook, was aboufc to make a memorandum, when, with a sudden forward movement, Bhe fell at my feet, arreeting my hand hy the agonised grasp of her own, its burning contact sending through me a painful thrill.

" .Don't betray mo ! Don't give me up to him! Oh, don't. lam so frightened !" Ifc was put in a whisper. Breathed out rather than spoken, yet it shuddered through me like a cry.

"I cannot always hide it. I cannot always bear it about with me • it breaks my heart, and — I am so tired." And letting fche hand, which still held, pressed closely to her, the mysterious burden that had so raised my curiosity drop heavily i o her side, there lay afc ber feet and mine a little dead baby, a tiny creature, evidently nofc many week* old. Then the woman threw up her veil, and withdrawing her ejea for the first time from mine, clasped her hands before her, her figure thrown slightly back, and looked down upon it. A pre'ty picture ; the poor young mother with her pale, child-like face and deep mourning dress ; the woo baby, gleaming so white in its death and baby-robe agit'nst the heavy crape skirt on which ifc lay — a pretty picture certainly for a railway carriage, and lighted by its dim midnight lamp. " Dead ! " waa my involuntary exclamation.

She stretched her claaped hands downwards towards it with a despairing gesture, speaking with low, wild, rapid utterance.

"It was nofc his look that killed it, but my love. He hated it — my baby — my first-born. For all the love I gave him he hated it ; and that his look mighfc nofc kill ifc I held ifc in my arms — so close, so clo.-*e — till it was dead. Oh, my baby, my baby ! "

Tho outstretched hands had reached it now, and raised it from the floor to the seat, folding it around until the enclosing arms and the bent-down face hid it once more oufc of sight. Was ever luckless traveller mora awkwardly, placed ?— the dead child ; tbe prostrate woman ; the scene, a public railway carriago ; tho hour, midnight. Would not My littlo wife have triumphed could she but havo known how infinitely I should have pre-. ferred the spring mattress and snowy sheeta to my present position ! lamof a blunt nature. Mrs Merton often scolds me for my blunt straightforward speeches. I mußt go straight to the point as soon aa ever I see ifc. I did so now. "How came you to he travelling alone, and with a dead child ? Are you going home ? " The question seemed to rouse her once more fco a perfect frenzy of fear. She turned to me as before, clinging to my hand -with small hot firgera, and the old heart-broken cry — " Don't betray me ; don't -*ive mo up to him ! Hia look would bav dlled my baby ; it would kill me if I had v. meet it; she ia safe, for I killed her, and she is dead ; and he hates me, and I have no home, no home ! — no home ! "

I was in a perfect maze of doubt. Could the pretty eoffc young creature at my feet be indeed a murderess ? And could ifc bo her husband of whom she seemed in such abject terror? My blood boiled; I felt ready to defend her against a dozen husbands ; "but bow ? It was midnight now ; wo could not bo far from London; the guard might be popping hi3 head in afc any moment. I jumped to a sudden conclusion. " Were you going to any friend in London ? "

" I know nobody in london."

"The j oor little thing is either mad or her her husband is a brute," was my mental exclamation. " Then you must come home with rae to my wife ; ehe will see after you." An upward glance of wild agonised supplication — " She won't betray me, or — take baby from mo?"

And once more the wee dead thing was lifted np into the arms that seemed almost too frail to hold it, and hidden away beneath the long mourning cape.

I took her home. Mary received her with a broad look of amaze that made mo smile, but that found no expreßsi"• , *"•* words. When, taking her aside, I told bei •'! I knew, ahe wrong her hands in sheer • r, latbising pity. "Murdered her own baby — her firstborn? Oh, how sad, how dreadful !" And involuntarily she glanced towards the door that hid from us our own little ones, safely cradled and asleep. Then she went back to our strange guest, who sat huddled up in my own big easy chair, the dead still at her boaom.

" I must get her to bed," Mid Mary, with a quiok, determined nod ; and she really did contrive to do so by soft, tender, cooing word^and solemn assurance* of safety for herself and baby, whom she kissed and cried over, and considered as she might some living object of solicitude, much fco tho little mother's comfort.

" And you won't betray me ; and he won't eome and take her from me, or hurt us with his angry look ! Oh dear, how nice it is to lie down ! I am so tired, and baby is so oold : but I think I can gloep now a little and — forget." Sho was half asleep already; the heavy

lida had d.opped together, tho amall faco ba i drooped downwarda upon tho littlo downy head that lay upon her bosom. "Her husband must be Bent for," I aaid resolutely, whon we found ourselves onco more alone ; and I glanced at an envelope I had taken from the stranger's pocket : — " Mra Tremayne, Grantley Lodge, Grantley." Mary stared afc me agbaat. " Her husband, who hates her, and wonld have killed h»r baby ! Oh, John, you would nofc be bo cruel! She seems so frightened of him. poor little thing ! You may be suro he ia some horrid, wicked tyrant. And if aho really killed her baby— oh dear, how sad ifc ia ! What over will become of her ?"

" But ray dear, if she haa a husband or friends we must restore her to tbem. Why, she is little more than a child ! It's very strange, very, and sad ; but the mystery must be cleared, and the baby buried." (To be continued.)