LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VI, Issue 615, 8 June 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

BENIGNA. A Talk of Village Life. chapter I. It was the Sunday after Pentecost. The fields were rich with the waving corn, and the wild rose bloomed in the hedge. A young man and a maiden met on the narrow footpath that ran through the field of rye. Tfiey met stopped? Each stood a head and shoulders above the tall corn stalks, and each was fair to look upon. The young man had a well-knit and powerful frame; the girl, who swung her broad-brimmed straw hat on her arm, had a clear, rosy complexion; her forehead crowned with, rjoh plaits of golden hair j her- bright, roguish blue eyes, j(nd the whole form and expression of her face was so charming that it was a joy to behold her. The girl nodded smilingly; the young man, after a moment's hesitation, offered his hand. ' Good morning, George. What is the matter ?' said she. ' This is my birthday, and you don't seem to have a kind word for m§-' fYour birthday ? Well, well! you came into the world at a beautiful time of year ; but roses have thorns,' ■f What have I been doing ?' 'You have grieved my mother to th« heart.' 'Nonsense,'laughed the maiden, and her laugh was full of insolence, her white teeth shone, her eyes sparkled, and besides the dipple in her cheek her whole face rippled with laughter. ' Do not take it so easily,' said the youth. ' Perhaps you forget what you have done.' The girl shrugged her shoulders, fit so I will remind you of it,' he continued. ' You were down at the forge yesterday to give in your work, and the collector said to you : look at that poor old woman ;' and you said : ' the old fright she had better keep out of my way j' and you said many more cruel words scornful, poisonous words. You surely did not observe that it was my mother—say that you did not!' «I did not.'

' But when she cried, ' May you live to be scoffed at your old age,' then you must have seen that it was my mother. She is deformed, God help her! and cannot look much of a fine lady when she is carrying coals. But when you did recognise her, why did you not go to her and say, ' Pardon me ; I did not know it was you ?' ' I did not feel inclined.'

'And her anger naturally led her to say hard things to you. But what did you do then? You asked the collector to give her a pinch of snuff, for you would really like to see how the old scarecrow sneezed, and you laughed too.' ' I have had enough of this,' answered the girl. ' I laugh where I please, and when I please, and at whom I please. Go out of my way, or I shall be obliged to tread down the rye.' George stood aside, and Benigna passed on. Suddenly, as though he were called, he raised his downcast eyes. Benigna went on her way through the cornfield. He followed her to the edge of the field where the path turns off, and there he stood still beside the tall hazel bush, where thoy had firat told their love. Here, thought he, she will surely turn, and ask me to forgive her. But she went on, and never looked round; and he knew she was smiling and thinking to herself, ' I know that you are looking after me, and would like to run after me, for I am the beautiful Benigna!' And she was so beautiful; words cannot tell how beautiful she was ; and she knew it too, for people were always telling her so ; they could not help it—if they were silent, their looks spoke it as plainly as words. Wherever she went, among old and young, among rich and poor, joy sprung up in her footsteps. She had only to appear, and everyone brightened up ; for what is more cheering than the sight of a human creatuie radiant with health and beauty.

But Benigna was not often to be seen; she was diligent at her work ; she did embroidery. The Swiss factories, as well as those near at hand, give out their designs for curtains, handkerchiefs, &c, to the peasant women in the villages ; and Benigna's work always showed more taste than her pattern gave promise of—something of her own loveliness seemed to overflow into her embroidery. An orphan from her infancy, Benigua lived with an old aunt; and was of such an independent character, and so born to govern, that every one gave in to her, and did homage to her. Contradiction was unknown to her. She had often been advised

to go to the capital and make her fortune there, but she had no wish to do so —it was enough for her to be the beauty of the little village, to be the acknowledged queen at every dance or merry-making there. Besides that, there had arisen since last harvest a decided attachment between herself and young George the blacksmith, who was the only suitable match for her, at least in point of age and good looks. George was the only son of an old widow, who, though feeble and crippled, still toiled on to the last, never sparing herself. She sometimes helped in the forge, and the sight of her, ragged and blackened with coal dust, had provoked Benigna's raillery, as we have just learned. She never thought for a moment that anyone would remember an insult to grieve over it. She herself never retained even flattery, but cast all to the winds, and enjoyed the present moment. But from the first George's mother had been averse to the engagement. She would lament for hours together, telling her son that he -would bring the greatest misery upon himself if he took such a beautiful wife, one who heard a hundred time a day how beautiful she was. He would find that, wherever he might go, vexation and discomfort would be his portion. How would he bear it when everyone paid court to his wife ? So far she certainly was steady, but who should say what might come of it all ? George paid little heed to these sad fore bodings, as was natural, though he truly loved and honored his mother. Cut to the heart by the insults she had received, George's mother now besought her son with clasped hands to break off the engagement, not for her sake, though she had suffered &o much, but for the sake of his own peace. ' She who does not respect old age would not respect her husband,' she would say, again and again. * Only think, were you to displease her, or should misfortune or illness overtake you, she would leave you then and there, and never trouble herself about you any more.' George tried {to pacify his mother, but it was useless. That evening he stayed longer than usual at home, in the belief that Benigna would surely be coming to say a kind word to his mother. He made up his mind not to go to her, not to see her, until she should have apologised to his mother ; he felt this was her duty. But after long waiting in vain, he reflected that perhaps she was unwilling to come alone, and might be expecting him to escort her. Old Bridget well knew what was passing in her son's mind, and sought to strengthen his determination, thinking, if he only waited a few days, the thing would take its own course, and result in a final rupture. George stood by the garden fence, and softly hummed, ' Oh, the merry, merry month of May ;' and the moment his mother went into tho house he set off full speed, as though he had forgotten something of the most vital importance. He came to Benigna; she received him with a smile. She knew that he could not live without her even for one day, and when he began to speak of his mother's distress, she begged him to let that stale, stupid story rest, and she knew how to enchant him, so that he was soon once more exquisitely happy. For many days the mother went about with a sad heart, and in silence.

George urged Benigna with all his power just to go and say a word of apology to his mother, but Benigna vowed she would never do such a thing. ' But if I break with you ?' * You are as little likely to do that as I am to apologise.' And she was right. But George could not endure the brooding grief of his mother, and he forced himself to a falsehood, which he thought would be forgiven. One day he assured his mother that Benigna had asked her pardon a thousand times, but could not bear to do so in person, thinking, strangely enough, that h's mother should make the first advance, and then she would see how kind Benigna was. He told Benigna how well his mother was disposed to her. Benigna nodded. Old Bridget came and said to Benigna, who sat at her embroidery frame : ' I forgive you ;' and Benigna replied, * you must forgive me too for having wished you scorn in your old age. We were both in the wrong.' 'Very well; be it so,' answered Benigna, re-threading her needle. But when Bridget held out her hand to her she sewed on industriously. ' You are beautiful indeed, everyone says so,' said Bridget. «May I tell you something?' 'Why not?' ' Well then, see, I was never beautiful, but I can imagine what it must feel like.' ' Indeed ; and how is that ?' 'lt must be a joy, a great joy. But if you only think of your beauty, then it cannot come to good, for you will expect more than your share of love and kindness merely on that account.' The old woman said much more that should have softened the hard heart, and Benigna concluded with, ' Oh yes, I understand. ' But as soon as Bridget was gone she want to her looking-glass—she had provided herself with a pretty large one—and looked laughingly into it, nodded to her image, and was more self-satisfied than ever. Autumn came on, the banns were published in church. When the neighbours came round to congratulate old Bridget as Church came out, she thanked them without speaking, for she had a suspicion, hardly amounting to a certainty, that Benigna had insisted on George sending his mother away to her sister, who lived at some little distance. It was true; but George had protested in moving terms against this proposition. He could not do it. He would never forsake his mother; death only should part him from her. And besides that, he could never send her to her s ; ster—hers was such a wretched home ; the mother would die ! At length Benigna gave in, but added, mischievously, ' Do you know why I consent 1' ' Because you love me and have a good heart.'

' I do love you, but I cannot bear to hear people always talking about their good hearts. I consent, because you were sensible enough this time not to threaten to leave me, for that is impossible you know." The marriage was celebrated, and a handsomer couple never stood at the altar in the village church than George and Benigna. All was joy and festivity, only mother Bridget maintained her sorrowful bearing. She would not taste a morsel at the wedding feast. Later on, when the party were dancing, she sat in a corner and ate a piece of bread which she had brought in her pocket. | (7b be continued,.)