LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IV, Issue 455, 29 November 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE WITCH THORN. Continued. Her Owen; lie whom she had never known what it was not to love ; her boylover, with whom she had wandered, hand in hand, over the mountains; who for her had climbed the most dangerous heights to gather the choicest wildflowers, and had brought to her every little offering which the devotion of a boy could suggest. She knew that up to the present time she had always been his first thought, as he was hers ; and now all was over. Days passed, and Annie did not go to Ashfield ; a week, two weeks, three weeks, and still she did not go. She felt that it was impossible for her to do so. One morning a letter was handed to her. She saw that it was from Mrs Gerard, and guessed at once what it contained, by an instinct so sure that she scarcely cared to open it, needing no confirmation. She was not mistaken. It announced the fact of Owen's engagement to his cousin Miriam. Nothing was required for its completion but the consent of Miriam's father, who had been written to. They were all very much grieved, Mrs Gerard went on to say, for the idea of this had never occurred to them, aud it was quite contrary to their wishes. She did not say that they had hoped and expected Owen would have chosen Annie fur his wife. But Annie knew that this was the thought in the writer's mind as plainly as if it had been before her on the paper, knew that it was Mr Gerard's thought, too, and the thought of everybody. Owen also knew this had been expected of him, and would think she was disappointed.

Mrs Gerard did not ask Annie to come over and see them, and this, Annie knew, too, was because it was thought she would not be able to bear it. It was plain they all considered her ill-treated, and were annoyed and ashamed at it, and pitied her. But much as she knew they loved her, she would not have their pity. Though gentle, she was proud, and she determined to go to Ashfield that very evening, and show them that she was not going to pine and fret for one who cared nothing for her. She went; but no sooner had she entered the room that she half regretted her hardihood, and began to fear that her strength and powers of dissimulation would not be equal to the task she had undertaken, for Mrs Gerard came up to her, and, taking her hand, gazed kindly and searchingly into her eyes—those soft, dove-like, hazel eyes, which had sunk so deep during the last few weeks and laid a caressing touch on her nut-brown hair. She could not stand it, and hastily turning away, went to the window, and leant on the old brown window-sill, her hands drooping listlessly over it, her eyes gazed down the avenue, on the bare, tossing ash-trees, beneath which in summer and in winter she had so often walked with Owen, and listened to their rustling. They they had always seemed to murmur of love and happiness ; now they moaned writhed as if in pain. The children came round her, wanting her to sing ; but she answered them petulantly, and they left her alone, wondering why Annie was so • cross.' She heard their whispers, and they recalled her to herself. Leaving the window she went to the piano, and, choosing the liveliest airs she knew, began to sing and play. While she was thus engaged Owen came in, and, favoured by the gathering twilight, she contrived to congratulate him on his engagement, with a tolerably steady voice. When lights were brought she remained at the piano, for then her back was to the room, and she need not meet the eyes of Owen or Miriam.

' Won't you sing this, Miss Blake ?' said Miriam, approaching, and taking up a favourite Italian song which Annie had often sung at her request. Annie hesitated, for it was also a favourite of Owen's. She had learned it to please him, and she feared lest the trembling of her voice should betray her agitation. She commenced the prelude, at the same time trying to invent a hundred excuses to avoid singing that song, when suddenly a voice without began the air, accompanied by the notes of a violin.

Everybody started, and some ran to see who the musician was. He had entered the avenue, and stood before the window, a dark, slight man, of about middle age, lookin v like a foreigner. On seeing the door opened, he raised his cap, and advancing, began, in broken English, to ask for an hour's rest and some refreshment. The request was readily complied

with. He was brought into the kitchen, where an ample repast was soon spread before him. He partook of it very sparingly, however, and, having finished, took up his violin, and began to play, adding, after a few minutes, to the instrumental music his own deep, powerful voice. The servants gathered round him, The music drew the children to the spot, and after a while the rest of the family also. The violinist thanked Mrs Gerard for her hospitality. ' I will play one more air now before I go my way,' he said. ' You all here to listen to de poor Italian.' His keen, dark eyes shot a rapid glance round as he spoke. ' Cousin Miriam,' cried one of the children. ' Miriam's not not here. I will call her. She's from Italy, too,' continued the child, looking up into the man's dark face, «and can speak to you in Italian if you like ; oh, ever so fast.' But the musician was running his fingers over the strings of his violin in a rapid prelude, and did not seem to hear. In a moment Miriam entered, and going up to the Italian addressed him in his own language, with enthusiam in her tone. He replied in a low voice, and bent over his violin. They could not see his face distinctly, for his back was to the light, and the cap he kept on his head half concealed it, but his tone seemed full of emotion. The unexpected sound of his own language had evidently affected him. He began to play at once, dashing into the very middle of the air, as it appeared, a wild, irregular melody, that seemed full of struggling tumultuous emotions, each jostling the other with breathless rapidity. Now, it was low and tender, like the softest murmurings of love, the next instant, fierce and passionate, and it ended in a perfect torrent of sound, that almost took away the breath of the listeners. He rose abruptly, and slinging his violin round his neck, bowed, and went towards the door. He would not accept the money they wanted to press on him, nor the offer of a night's lodging in one of the out-houses. As he passed Miriam he paused, and holding out his hand, said—

' Exiles from the same land are equals when they meet, lady ; do not, then, disdain my touch.' Miriam held out her hand. As he took it he murmured two or three words in Italian. Whatever they were they caused her to glance up at him quickly with a startled exexpression. But she made no reply. In fact, she had not time, for the next instant he was gone. But Annie, who was nearest, fancied that she saw the gleam of something while, like a small piece of paper, nutter into Miriam's palm. She expected Miriam to speak of it instantly, but Miriam was silent, and Annie began to think she had been mistaken, and the circumstance left her mind. She had many things to think of that night on returning home. It had been a great strain on her to keep up during the evening, and now that the occasion for it was past, and she was alone once more in her own room, she felt completely exhausted. Yet to think of sleep was impossible while her mind was so full of crowding thoughts. Somehow, although she had seen Miriam and Owen together that evening, and had heard him addreßi her with the freedom of a plighted lover, she could less than ever realize the fact that he was lost to her. She seated herself at the window, and leaning her forehead on her hand, tried to picture her own life when he should have passed from it for ever ; when he must no more colour her thoughts. The empty, empty blank ! it was in vain to imagine it. It was a fine, starry, moonlight night, From where she sat she could see the quaint gables and tall chimneys of Ashfield, the trees silvered by the moonbeams, and the path between them one broad track of light. (To be continued.)