LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IV, Issue 457, 1 December 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE WITCH THORN. Continued. Of late the country people had begun to regard her with a strange sort of superstitious feeling, and this—though he affected to treat it with contempt, as mere ignorance, and prejudice against one who had been been brought up in a foreign country yet secretly irritated Owen, and inspired him with a vague uneasiness. When out walking with Miriam, the peasants whom they met on the roads would shrink away, as if from something unholy, making the sign of the cross as they did so. They could not understand what young Mr Gerard saw in the pale foreign girl, to induce him to give up sweet, fair-faced Annie Blake for her sake, and concluded that it must be the work of some unholy spell. Strange rumours were whispered among them. Peasants returning home late, declared that, having occasion to pass near the Black Glen, they had heard the murmur of voices, and had seen the Italian gild standing beneath the blighted witchthorn ; not alone, a figure clad in the garb of a monk, with cowl drawn over the face, was by her side—the spirit, doubtless, of some wicked friar from the adjoining ruins, doomed for his sins to do penance on earth. Or perhaps, worse still, the Evil One himself, who had assumed this garb. In this spot, and thus accompanied, it was declared Miriam might be seen nightly, by any bold enough to venture thither. At all this Owen laughed scornfully, though it was unpleasant that the girl he had chosen for his wife, should be thus regarded by those among whom she was to dwell. But there came a note one day that made him more seriously troubled than ever before. It contained but a few words, in Annie's writing. They were these : ' Ask Miriam what she does in the Black Glen at midnight. —A.B.' 'Absurd folly!' he muttered, and crumpling up the paper, Hung it into the lire. How tenderly he had once treasured every scrap of that handwriting ! Nevertheless, he did speak to Miriam that evening, as they stood together in a lonely spot where they had watched the sun go down. Lightly, laughingly he began. ' The people were suspicious of her,' he said, 'because she was a stranger. But when she was his wife, and went more among them, they would trust her and learn to love her. They believe you weave spells in the Black Glen at midnight. Perhaps it is so. What do you say ? Do you know I begin half to think that you are a witch ; at least you have laid a spell upon me, but it is a blessed one, is it not !'

Miriam slowly raised her dark eyes to his face. 'I do not know,' she said, ' Perhaps the trouble that I feel, and that I can see you sometimes feel, too, is a sign that we should not love ; I often fear that I have overshadowed your life. But they who love the most intensely are not the happiest, I think, for is not love full of deep, deep sadness, and burning pain ? When you loved me first, and I began to love you, my life seemed to brighten, as if the sun had suddenly burst out from a dark sky, and I thought 1 should be happy at last.' 'At last, Miriam !' echoed Owen, ' and you but nineteen.' ' Yes, because even when I was a child I was not happy, though I often dreamt of happiness. Sometimes at play a feeling of intense misery and horror would suddenly come over me, and I would stop playing and steal away to a lonely place. When I first came here the same feeling took possession of me, stronger than ever before, and with it another stranger still. It seemed to me that I had often seen those dark mountains before, and every rock and cliff appeared familiar. When I entered among you all, the feeling grew more overpowering. Surely I knew that room well. The pictures on the walls were old acquaintances, and everything in it came to my mind as if seen at some former time, it might be in a dream, but forgotten till they again appeared before me. Perhaps it was because I was to meet you here, you who Avere influence my life for ever. It would be strange indeed if no voice in my heart foretold that, only why should it speak in tones of fear, and make me tremble. It was tlm that caused my swoon when 1 went to my room that night, but I could not explain the reason to your mother. I wonder shall I ever be your wife. It wants but three weeks to the time, and yet —and yet—the shades are gathering thick as my love deepens. Happiness cannot dwell in my heart, no more than sunshine can rest in —in some dark valley.' She paused, and her eyes fixed themselves wistfully on the wintry landscape, over which dusk was gradually creeping. Owen thought they turned in the direction of the Black Glen

'Let us go back,' she said, suddenly. 'lt is very cold,' she shivered as she spoke. They walked on, Miriam clinging to Owen's arm. as if fearful lest anything might tear her from it; but neither spoke.

Chapter IV. THE BLACK C4LEN,

TliE days passed on, and as they went, each bringing nearer the one which would make her the bride of him she so passionately loved Miriam seemed hourly to grow sadder and stranger in her manner. Every trace of her short-lived sprightlincss gradually disappeared, and she returned to what she had been on first coming. The same strange terror was often in her eyes now, and the faint pink tinge which had begun to colour her marble-like cheek—giving to her all she needed for beauty—faded totally. Her whole mien expressed dejection, despair almost. Everything about her breathed it. The little attentions which she had of late begun to bestow on dress were relaxed ; and whether it was that her hair was less carefully twined, but the thick coils drooped heavier on her neck, and seemed to bow it down. When Owen was with her she would hang upon him, silent, but gazing into his face, her large black eyes full of such a depth of love as seemed to a great for words. None could help noticing the change that had taken place in her. ' Do you know what is the matter with Miriam '!' Mrs Gerard said one day to Owen. ' She seems unhappy.' 'I am afraid she is not happy,'lie answered, ' but I do not know why, 1 only know that she loves me.'

' She loves you, that is certain. Yet, oh, how I wish you had never thought of each other in this way ! for you are changed, too, of late, and I sometimes fear are not happy either. I can't help wishing, orphan almost as she is, that she had never come here. All would then be as it was.'

Owen frowned. ' You are all prejudiced against Miriam,' he said, in a tone of irritation. ' What ails her is probably nothing but melancholy, which will pass off. Because she is not precisely like the people one meets every day, she is looked upon with eyes of suspicion.' Then, as if anxious to avoid any reply, he turned away, and taking his hat, went out. He had scarcely left the house when a little boy—one whom he knew to be often employed by the Blakes to do errands—ran up to him, and put a letter into his hand, saying—' From Miss Blake, sir.' Owen took it, and opening, read as follows. ' Have you asked Miriam what she does beneath the witch-thorn in the Black Glen, at midnight! If you have not, delay no longer, I implore you.—A. B.' This note, like its predecessor, was crumpled up impatiently, and thrown away. But not the less did it again rouse, and stronger than ever, all the vague anxiety and dissatisfaction that oppressed him of late; though angry with himself, and ashamed that it should be so, for ought he not to trust Miriam thoroughly. Annie had allowed herself to become infected with the ridiculous superstitions of the people. He would tell her so, should she come to the house. But Annie did not come. She had not beon to Ashfield since that evening when she had called up all her fortitude to go there.

Had an occasion offered he would have again spoken to Miriam, for, despite his reasoning, his anxiety increased daily. Certainly, he might have made an opportunity, but he felt very reluctant to re-introduce the subject to her, and put it off. He determined, however, to prove for himself the truth or falsehood of the suspicions against Miriam, by watching from his window at the hour she was said to issue forth on her way to the Black Glen. It happened that the night he had resolved to do this turned out a singularly wet and wild one, so wild that it scarcely seemed possible, even if it were her custom, Miriam could go out on t his night. He went to the window, however, shortly before twelve o'clock, and looked out. It was pitchy dark, the black clouds battled with each other like fierce bears; the rain beat violently against the window, and the wind bent the trees into all sorts of strange shapes, and tore round the house with fury ; a fearful night, truly. It was out of the question to suppose that any one, least of all a delicately nurtured girl, could venture forth amid such a tempest, and through such wild, savage defiles as led to the Black Glen, defiles difficult to tread even in the broad light of day. ' None but a banshee, or a witch in league with the prince of darkness, would be abroad to-night,' he muttered. But yet, was that a figure moving half way down the avenue ? He threw open the window, heedless of the blast which rushed in, scattering all before it, and strained his eyes through the 1 ain and darkness, but saw only the tossing trees bowed by the wind to the ground. It might have been one of them he had mistaken for a human form. He gazed for a few minutes longer. Nothing else became visible, and, shutting the window, he moved away. ' Could it have been Miriam ? Impossible.' Yet the idea would not altogether quit his mind, and it was long before he slept that

night. Next morning he scanned Miriam's face closely; but nothing that could afford the slightest evidence of such a midnight expedition was apparent in her, as she took her place at the breakfast table. 'What a terrible storm there was last night,' Owen said, carelessly. 'Did it dis turb you ?' turning to Miriam ; ' I fancied I heard you stirring about twelve o'clock.' This was only a pretence to see if she would betray any sign of agitation. He gazed at her intently as he spoke.

Was there any change in her countenance? He could not discern it. Was there any falter in her voice ? It was imperceptible even to his quick ear, as she replied—- ' No, I was not disturbed by it; indeed, I scarcely knew that there was a storm.' ' That was fortunate. It made me very restless. I remained up till past midnight, the storm was about at its worst then. I could not help fancying, as I stood at my window, what a night it would have been for a visit to the Black Glen.'

Again he bent his gaze searchingly on Miriam. She made no reply. Her eyes were downcast, and she looked as if her thoughts had wandered away. He tried her no more. Surely, he thought, if she had been out, or if it were her habit to be so, his words would have been full of meaning to her ; yet she was perfectly calm and indifferent, as if what he said were but the idle commonplace it seemed. During the day, he observed from his window the trees, to ascertain if it were really probable one of them, as the wind swayed it, could have assumed the appearance of a moving figure wrapped iu a dark cloak. He decided that nothing was more likely. It was a fine calm day after the storm, as if nature, having exhausted all her passion, could noAV afford to smile. And the evening set in with a bright full moon, and millions of shining stars. But when Owen went to his room this night, it was with no intention of repeating his watch.

He went to bed as usual, and fell asleep at once. He dreamed that he was alone in the Black Glen. He thought he heard Miriam's voice near, but could not find her in the darkness. Suddenly the moon, as he thought, appearing from behind a cloud, lighted up the glen with the brilliancy of noontide. He saw Miriam sitting at the foot of the witch-thorn, her head bowed on her hands. H e appeared, and spoke to her, but there was no reply; he touched her hand, it was cold as marble, he tried to raise her face, but she slipped from his hold, and he sought for her in vain. Then he knew the light was not that of the moon. It shone with a fitful gleam, like that of flickering torches, and had ceased to illumine the spot on which he stood. Out from the old abbey came a procession of monks, holding lights which spread their rays over the glen, but left in deepest shadow a wide circle round the witch-thorn, where Miriam had leant. The procession swept noiselessly by, chanting a requiem for the dead. He stood transfixed till the last torch faded. He called on the name of Miriam, stretching out his hands in vain. A wind went moaning through the trees. In fright and horror he cried again, 'Miriam, Miriam.' Then he seemed to stumble in the dark, and fell down —down.

With a start he awoke, the drop's of perspiration standing on his forehead. It was some minutes before he could believe it was

only a dream. With a sigh of relief, he raised himself, and looked towards the window. The moon shone brightly through the half-closed shutters. At that moment the clock began to strike. He counted it, could it only be eleven? He had hardly been asleep half an hour. The horror of the dream still lingered. He rose, and opening the window, let the cool night air fan his feverish temples. Gradually the terror faded. Then he remembered it was just the hour at which ho had watched last night; and, as if by a sudden flash, the thought shot into his mind., not that he would do so this night also, but that he would himself go to the Black Glen, and meet Miriam there, should she come. From the instant the thought struck him it was firmly fixed in his mind, needing no consideration. He dressed quickly, and by means of a tree that stood close to his window, contrived to swing himself to the ground. Avoiding the moonlit avenue, he took a cross path among the trees and grass. The birds, startled by his approach, flew in a cloud from the tops of the trees. Strange rustlings met his ears. Once he stopped, thinking he heard a cautious footstep steal ing away among the broken branches that lay on the ground since the storm of last night. In a few minutes he had left the grounds, and was on the road, walking swiftly towards the Black Glen. To be continued.