LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IV, Issue 458, 2 December 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE WITCH THORN, Continued, The moon was about half way in the heavens, and shedding a shower of silver over the jagged mountains and huge rocks, glinting down a yawning precipice, and whitening the rapid streams, which, swollen by the late rain, rushed with a hoarse, threatening murmur over their stoney beds. Aided by the friendly light, Owen threaded the dangerous intricacies of the way till he gained the entrance of the dark vale. Then, bidding adieu to the gentle beams that had guided him so far, he plunged into its depths, and directed his steps straight for the witch-thorn.

The glen was long, and he had a good way to go. As be advanced, the intense silence and solitude of the place became awful. It was not like ordinary silence, the silence of a room, or such as could ever be known in the vicinity of any human habitation. It was like that of a desert, or a sepulchre shut in by massive walls of stone ; horrible, overpowering. Step by step the shadows deepened yet more. On either side two precipitous black hills rose up to the sky, and it was only by rarer and yet fainter glimpses that any moonbeans struggled through. Now and then they rested on the fantastic trees, which at intervals started up abruptly in the path. Strange dwarf trees, twisted into every variety of weird shape, gnarled and stunted in their growth for want of the invigorating influence of the sun. Dark shadows flitted across the ground. Rainsprinkled furze and brambles choked the path, and huge stones lay about. At last he came upon the old abbey, a blackened pile, the windows and doorways filled up with rank grass and nettles. A ray of moonlight rested on the ruined gable, but the blighted witch-thorn beside it, under which Owen now took his stand, was in shade. It was said that when the moon was in her zenith and streamed over it, this tree cast no shadow on the ground. Here, in the cold night air, Owen waited, and listened for any sound ; but only the hoot of an owl from the adjoining ruins broke the awful silence. Some time passed —he did not know exactly how long, for there was not sufficient light to see the hour by his watch, but it seemed to him an endless time.

As he looked up and down the gloomy solitude, the thought of his dream recurred to his mind, and something of the feeling with which he had wakened, again took possession of him. It was a sudden impulse that had led him thither ; and now that he had time to consider it, he began to feel half ashamed of the errand that had brought him, and was thinking of returning, had actually moved a few steps, when the appearance of a figure, at some distance, coming along the path, caught his eye, and rooted his feet to the spot. The next instant, he quickly concealed himself behind part of the ruin, and through a little opening, looked out. The figure came along quickly, but often paused, and looked behind and around. He was at first uncertain, amid the deep gloom, whether it were a man or a woman, but as it approached nearer, and again stopped, he was able to decide that it was a woman enveloped in a dark cloak. He had only time to observe this, when, suddenly turning, she Jled swiftly down the glen. Owen sprang out, and rushed after her. The faster he pursued the faster she ran. On, through the furze and tangled underwood. The bare branches crackled beneath the flying feet. The owls and night-birds Hew, uttering discordant cries of affright. On, through the the thick shadows. Was it Miriam he was pursuing ? The figure seemed taller, and the movements were not like hers. He redoubled his speed. He would penetrate the mystery at any hazard, discover who this woman was that came to the glen at midnight, and clear his beloved M iriam from all shadow of suspicion. How fast she fled ! how noiselessly ! It seemed to him thaf the boughs made no sound under her feet. An ominous horror seized him. Was it a human form at ail, or some witchfiend that haunted the place ? He was almost at the end of the valley now. The figure had disappeared from his view. He emerged in time to see it vanish down a hollow, in a direction which could not by any means lead to Ashfield. He followed quickly ; but not a living creature was visible anywhere. He ran on for a few minutes, then sto'd still and looked around. The view was open, and the moonlight clear; he could see far ahead, but nothing stirred. It was unaccountable, yet to proceed farther was useless. Retracing his steps, he turned homewards, and soon was in the avenue. Instead of entering as he had left, he bethought him of the dining-room window as a readier means of ingress, and opening it cautiously, he passed through into the hall and upstairs. As he went by the door of Miriam’s room, the moonlight streamed through the chinks. He stood still for an instant before it, then, as if impelled by an uncontrollable impulse, he laid his hand on the handle, and opened the door a very little way. As he did so, a faint sound caught his ear, like the moan of a person who turns in sleep, disturbed, but not fully awakened. In the same moment a few murmured words reached him. He could not distinguish what they were ; but it was enough, he had heard Miriam’s voice; she was there asleep. Noiselessly closing the door, he passed on to his own room, apd thoroughly wearied out, threw himself on the bed. Chapter V. THE WEDDING DAY. From the night of his visit to the Black Glen, all Owen’s doubts of Miriam completely vanished, He wrote to Annie, saying that she was under a mistake, that he had ascertained positively it was not Miriam who went to the glen, but some one else, he had not been able to discover who. He did not explain how he had come by this knowledge.

His manner to Miriam now became more fond and tender than ever, as if he would would atone to her for the suspicions he had suffered to entered his mind. And the days that followed were the calmest and happiest he had known for a long time.

The morning of the wedding dawned propitiously, with a cloudless sky and bright sunshine, and that clear, fresh atmosphere which had so exhilarating an effect on the spirits. When Owen came downstairs, there was no on® in the breakfast room, for it was

early. He went to the window, and raised it to pluck a few snowdrops that had just opened their petals, to offer to Miriam. As he walked to the table to arrange them, he noticed a letter lying on it. It was addressed to himself, and a frown gathered on his brow as he perceived Annie’s writing. Her letters had brought him nothing but trouble and anxiety of late. He delayed a few moments, holding it in his hand, glanced at the sun-lit lawn without, and the snowdrops before him, then slowly broke the envelope and unfolded the paper. As he read, the cloud spread darker and thicker over his countenance, so bright a few moments since. The words that produced this effect were these :

‘ Owen, once more I implore you, before it is quite too late, to ask Miriam what tryst she keeps by the witch-thorn in the Black Glen, at midnight. As you value your own future happiness, and by everything you hold most sacred, I conjure you not to go before God’s altar to-day, without having received from her a full explanation.— Annie.’

Owen had hardly finished reading when the door opened, and Mrs Gerard, with some other members of the family entered the room. He hastily thrust the note into his pocket. Miriam had not appeared. He was standing alone, after the others had gone away, leaning his arms on the mantelpiece, his head resting on them, when a light, sudden touch startled him, and raising himself quickly, he saw Miriam beside him, all in a cloud of fleecy white, her great black eyes gleaming out from beneath the veil, like dark torches, the r.’st of her face pale as marble, and set. Yet there was a peculiar, wild loveliness, with something almost unearthly in its character about her.

He took her hand, and holding her at arms length, gazed searchingly, half sternly, into her face. She bore the scrutiny for a few moments, then threw herself on his breast with a wordless, passionate cry, and clung to him desperately, it seemed. ‘ Oh, Owen, my darling, my darling !’ she breathed out, in accents of such vehement intensity that they thrilled through his whole being. ‘My love for you is so great that I don’t know what to do with it. I sometimes think it will kill me, if nothing else does. Do I weary you with it ? Shall I ever weary you ? Ever ! Ah ! that is thinking of the future, and what have I to do with the future ? It is dark—all dark. You are mine now, and 1 am yours. I would protract this moment for ever, if I could. ’

‘ Why, dearest V Owen asked tenderly, as he folded her closer in his arms, startled by this sudden outburst, accustomed as he was to the wild fondness of this strange girl. 6 ln an hour will there not be fuller happiness, when the words have bfen spoken which none can put aside !’ ‘None? Ah, I don’t know. Death could. ’ Owen started. * Death ! What makes you mention it ? It is a thing in the distance. We are young. Why should we think of it ? What an illomened word to utter on your bridal morning, my darling Miriam !’ She was silent, still clinging closely to him.

‘ I want to speak a few words to you, Miriam,’ he said, after three or four minutes.

‘ Will you come to the garden, where no one will be likely to disturb us ? ’

She raised her head, and looked at him steadily, with a sad, half reproachful gaze. ‘lt is nothing very important,’ he continued, almost apologetically. ‘ You will think me foolish, no doubt, perhaps I shall lower myself in your estimation. Still, I should like to hear from your own lips, although I know ’ ‘Not now,’she interrupted. ‘lt is late. There is no time. Hush, is not that Mrs Gerard calling me?’ * Miriam, Miriam, where are you ?’ ‘ I must go. ’ She pulled her hands from his slight detaining pressure, and was hastening away. ‘ Wait one instant, Miriam,’ he called. ‘ Let me give you these snowdrops that I pulled for you.’ He turned to the table where they still lay. ‘ No, they are withered,’ he said ; ‘ of no use. ’ ‘ Ah, withered !’ she exclaimed, in a tone of pain.

For a moment she stood still, then sprang back to him, and throwing her arms once more about his neck, kissed him with wild energy. Another instant and she was gone ; but that pressure, so full of tenderness, passion, and despair, that it might have been a last embrace, yet lingered on his lips.

The peasantry gathered to see the wedding ; but no congratulation or blessings met the ears of the bride and bridegroom. The people looked on in silence, and the ominous expression of their countenances bore no reliection of the brightness of the morning. When the service was over, those who had entered the church gathered in knots, and talked in hushed tones about the deportment of the bride, how she had about the church, with those large, weird, black eyes of hers wide open, as if it were no sacred place, and ‘ no bride were she. ’ Even during the prayers, when she knelt before the altar, her glances wandered wide around, and rested on the faces of those about, as if she were seeking, with fearful apprehension, for something or some one. ‘ Holy Virgin, it wasn’t right,’ they whispered. ‘ They never saw a bride like that before, ’ and feared ‘no good would come of it.’

But an hour lienee, in the servants’ hall, where a banquet was prepared for the tenantry, when good cheer was passing round, and wine was flowing, such bodings were not remembered by many, and the old walls rang with joyous shouts, as long life and happiness were drunk to the wedded pair, in brimming goblets. {To be continued .)