LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IV, Issue 459, 3 December 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE WITCH THORN. Continued. It had been settled that they should go to France to pass a few months, for this was Miriam's wish. They were to start on the journey immediately after the weddingbreakfast. Miriam—who, pale and silent, sat beside her husband—rose, as soon as etiquette would allow, and left the room to prepare for departure. Mrs Gerard followed, but Miriam pleaded a wish to be left alone for an hour, that she was tired, and wanted to recover herself. She would come down refreshed and ready to set out, then, she said. ' You won't be angry with me ;' and she smiled as she closed the door.

' She is over-excited,' Mrs Gerard thought; ' that is why she looks so pale ; it is better she should be alone for a while.' The travelling carriage was at the door, had been there for more than half an hour, but the bride had not yet appeared, though nearly twice the time stipulated for had gone byMrs Gerard went and knocked at the door of her room, which she perceived was locked. Getting no reply she concluded Miriam must be sleeping, and she knocked louder to rouse her. Still no answer. Again and again she repeated the summons, and called Miriam's name. Others came, and loud through the house vibrated the sharp, alarmed summons. Still nothing but silence. Looking up from without they saw that the window of the room was thrown vide open, and observed —with a sudden suspicion and fear different from before—that a ladder, which had been placed against the side of the house for some repairs, was moved, and leant directly under the window. It was resolved to delay no longer, but break open the door of the room. The servants, full of curiosity and some terror as to what sight the opening of the door would reveal, ran for tools. In a few minutes the door was forced. They rushed in with beating hearts and pallid faces, then paused, and locked apprehensively round. Nothing terrible appeared, nothing but vacancy. JNo Miriam was visible. The room remained as they had seen it last. Miriam's travelling dress lay on the bed, ready to put on. She had gone, then, in her bridal attire; and whither ? Would she return ? Had she been taken away against her will, or gone of her own accord ? If so, why ? They looked at each other in bewilderment, and knew not what words to speak. Downstairs, when the word came th,at the bride was gone, the wedding guests stood in groups and talced in low grave tones, but could make no suggestion. In the servants' hall a whisper arose, tirst breathed by one voice, then taken up by others, and swelling more distinct, and louder and louder till all joined, ' Try the witch-thorn in the Black Glen, 'tis there the bride will be found.' And at length, when house, grounds, every place in the vicinity had been tried in vain, the advice was actually followed, and a party led by Owen —of whose feelings it would be superflons to speak—3et out for the Black Glen. The short wintry day was rapidly drawing to. a close. The. sunshine had long ago ceased, and twilight was gathering. A drizzling rain had begun to fall, and a mournful wind wailed down the mountain defiles.

As they proceeded, scarcely a word was uttered. They could not interpret, even to themselves, the vague thoughts and fears that were in their minds, much less to each other. The only thing they could do was was to press on, thinking as little as nrght be, and find a speedy answer if possible. So in silence the glen was reached, the witchthorn g lined at length. The bare branches of the blighted tree swayed slowly about in the wind, with a creaking noise. Owan sprang forward, half expecting to see Miriam sitting beneath it, as he haci seen her in his dream ; but no Miriam appeared. They entered the old abbey. They had brought lanterns, for the gloom of the place was intense, and as the lights held aloft Hashed on the crumbling, mildewed walls, and illuminated the pale, anxious faces of the seekers, the efl'ect produced — had there been any watcher calm enough to observe it—was startling in the extreme. And now, down the long aisle the name of Miriam rang, clear and sharp. It resounded through the glen, whose deep silence human voice, save in aive-aU'uek whi.sper, had dared

not to break for ages. But the only answer was from the mountain echoes, which repeated the name, as if the spirits of the place mocked at the vain searches. Suddenly a cry arose of such anguish and despair, that all grew silent, and shuddered, as they heard it.

• Miriam, my bride, my wife !' It was not like the expectant cry of one who seeks and waits, hoping for an answer ; rather the exclamation of him who discovers that what he sought for has passed beyond his reach for ever.

They rushed to the spot whence the cry came. Owen bent above the shallow stream which flowed beside the witch-thorn, and supported something white in his arms. As they held the lights forward, they quickly perceived that it was a human form, all in white, except for a dark cloak or shawl which clung about the shoulders. The head was thrown back, and drooped over Owen's arm, the long dense hair, dripping with water, streamed down, and a white facethough scarce whiter than when they had seen it last—looked up to the sky, Miriam's. ' Dead ! is she dead ?' they cried, pressing forward—' Drowned.'

' I don't know,' Owen answered, hoarsely, waiving them aside, and laid the motionless form on the grass, still supporting it as he knelt on the ground. One round, pale arm hung over his shoulder, and they perceived that the finger wore no wedding-ring, but a purple circle marked the spot, as if it had been torn off by force. 'Look,'cried Mr Gorard, 'there are livid marks on the temple, too ; see, there on the right temple. Violence has been used. How did you find her ?' to Owen.

'Lying in the water,' he replied, 'but with her head resting on the bank. She is not dead,' he exclaimed, suddenly, 'there is a faint beating at the heart. I can feel it distinctly. She is only stunned by some blow, and benumbed from lying in the water. Let aid be got at once, or bring her from here. No time must be lost.

Mr Gerard, half doubting Owen's words, in presence of that death-like aspect, pressed his hand on the girl's cold wrist. After a few moments he thought he felt a veryslight, flickering motion, so feeble, indeed, as to be hardly perceptible ; still, he could not be mistaken; it was enough, life was there, though at any instant the lingering spark might die out. But while that feeble fluttering lasted, hope might flutter too, although as feebly. They laid her in the chamber which she had quitted in the morning in health, her white robes fresh and unsullied as a bride's should be. Now they were torn and wet, and all drooping like herself, beyond possibility of restoration, as perhaps she was too.

The country people looked on coldly as she was carried into the house, and shook their heads. The demon that she had leagued herself with to bewitch Owen Gerard had forsaken her now, they said, and destroyed her.

The doctor held out but little hope of her recovery. Still, he did not declare it impossible ; but she might die in a few hours, he said, or live and never regain her reason.

Chapter VI.

While Miriam lay unconscious, inquiries were set on foot in hope of unravelling the mystery that hung over her condition. There were some who inclined to the belief that all inquiries would meet with no result, that the act was Miriam's own. But Owen was decided in rejecting this idea, and it appeared, from information received the following morning, that he was right in doing so. The night of the fatal wedding-day a strange man had entered the next village, which was at a considerable distance, and stopping at one of the cabins, requested a night's lodging. He looked much fatigued, as if he had come a great way, and the kindhearted peasants were about to bid him welcome warmly, when they observed stains, like blood, on his clothes and hands. They began to think, too, there was something very singular in his manner, and they refused to give him shelter. Not aware, apparently, of the cause, the stranger sought elsewhere for admittance, but with the same result in every instance ; none would allow him to enter.

They thought no more of him till next morning, when a cry was raised that a man had just been found burnt to death, in a lime-kiln in the vioinity, Then, recollecting their visitor of last night, those at whose dwellings he had called, ran to the spot, with the idea that it might be the same. By means of the dress, portions of which were unburned, and other testimony, they were quickly able to decide that it was indeed so. it was evident that on being refused lodgings by all, and as the night had become intensely cold, he had sought refuge in the lime-kiln, for sake of the warmth, and while sleeping, had met his fate. A wedding ring, slightly stained with blood, and a letter, unconsumed, though greatly scorched, were found in his pocket. When the ring was shown to Owen, he immediately recognized it as Miriam's marriage ring ; and the contents of the letter proved beyond a doubt that it was the murderer—or would-be murderer—of Miriam they had found. The note was from Miriam herself, bearing the date of the day previous to her marriage. It ran as follows : * I will meet you at the witch-thorn tomorrow, at the hour you name. I can only stay for a few minutes, and remember your promise, that it is the last meeting you will ever ask, and that you will never seek to look on my face again. When I leave this country to-morrow, you have promised not to follow me whither 1 go. l)o not forget that, nor ever strive to learn what becomes of me. You sail for Australia next week % you have promised, and all is to be forgotterx I wish you had not insisted on this inter, view. Was not everything said at our lasi meeting? What can you want with me more ? You know the difficulties that beset me in coming. Yet I have never failed you, neverj but once ; and I will come this time, I must, since you demand it in the manner you do.-^MiRiA.H.' At the end of the letter was written, Stephen Kearney. But who this Kearnoy was, what his connection with Miriam, and his motive for seeking her life, remained a mystery which it seemed none but Miriam herself coulci unfold; and to the watcher bending above that crushed, scarcely breathing form, ife appeared almost hopeless to expect that those pale lips would ever unclose to give the needed information. Nevertheless, before long, testimony was found, and supplied by Miriam, though she lay motionless and unconscious as ever. On her toilet-table a small book, fastened with a clasp, was found. There was nothing

about it to attract notice, till Owen, taking it up, observed that it was manuscript, the ■writing Miriam's. It was a diary begun, he perceived, by the date, while was in Italy, with her father. The first name that caught his eyes was that of Kearney. Here, then, doubtless, was an answer to the questions that perplexed them, questions which, should they remain unanswered, must for ever leave a shadow on Miriam's memory, and increase a hundred-fold the bitterness of her death. Burning with impation to learn all that the book could reveal, Owen took it to his room, and began to read, nor did he cease till he had become possessed of its contents. The first few pages were taken up with entries of no importance to the present purpose, but which showed the simple, secluded life the writer led, seeing scarcely any one but her father. These were varied by snatches of reflection, half sad, half bright, as of an ardent, restless spirit looking forward to the future, from a present, calm, though sKghtly tinged with a sombre hue. (To be continued.)