LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VI, Issue 619, 13 June 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

BENIGNA. A Tale of Village Life. chapter v. ( Concluded.) It was the height of summer. A man came up the village street; he was tall and well built, with snow-white hair. He bore a heavy load in a basket on his back; it; consisted of scythes. He put down his burden on a low garden wall, not far from the basket-maker's cottage. He took some of the scythes and struck them to test their metal. The sound rang out clear and tuneful, and the man said in a fori ign dialect to some laborers returning from the field 4n the noonday hf-at, that they were genuine Sfcyrian scythes, and showed the trade-mark of a firm in Lcoben. The men answered that if he would stay till next morning he would probably be able to dispose of his stock of scythes. As they passed on the man stood leaning on the low wall, and gazed strangely after them with his one eye ; the other was covered with a black bandage. Just then he was struck by the sound of a flail in the barn by John's cottage. Nothing is drearier than to hear a solitary thresher, unless it be to do the lone!y work oneself, for the regular stroke of one's fellow laborer keeping time with one's own enlivens the work and keeps it going, but the solitary thresher is thrown entirely on his own resources for the energy and spirit necessary for the work.

A barefooted girl about thirteen, with a ruddy, sunburned facej and shining eyes, came down the street with an armful of ears of corn she had gleaned, and was turning up the path to John's door, when the stranger addressed her. 1 Who is that threshing away alone ? ' 'A forsaken blind woman,'answered the girl. ' What is her name ?'

'Benigna.' The child went on her way with her gleanings. The stranger put his scythes together with a trembling hand, and followed her in the direction of the cottage. At this moment Benigna came out of the barn and asked of the empty air, ' Who called me ?' The stranger stood still and held his breath. Beceiving no answer, the old woman went quietly back into the barn and returned to her work.

The stranger turned his steps, took his basket on his back agiin, and went down into the village, lie went into the inn, and asked if he could be accommodated for the night. Ho did not unpack his scythes again, but sat silent with a mug of ale before him, of which the flies drank more than he did.

When it was time to go to rest the stranger wandered out again into the village,

and up to John the basket-maker's cottage, and sat down by the hedge in the meadow; and he heard Benigna say to Babi— i. ' I will not go with you to church tomorrow ; but you must all go, and don't mind leaving me, for I want to be alone—l want to think.'

The stranger trembled when he heard these words.

After a few minutes Benigna said—- ' Are there many stars out to-night ?' ' Oh, yes ! thousands and thousands ! Oh, mother, if I could only make yon see them. John now called out to them that it was time to go to bed, for it was getting late. The cottage door opened and closed again. The stranger remained motionless for some time, and it was not until the chimes in the old church tower rang out midnight that he slowly rose and went down to his quarters. A bright morning dawned. Before church time he heard of several wonld-be customers for it was already known that he had firstrate scythes for pale at moderate prices. He cast searching looks at some of the men who spoke to him, and jstafted visibly at the meution of certain well-known names.

The bells.now rang for church, the organ was playing, and the hymn was being sung. The stranger went softly to the churchyard, and stood a long while by one of the graves which had a neglected appearance; he then turned and strode hastily t > wards John's cottage. He saw Benigna sitting on a bench before the door. Her hands were clasped, and she murmured a prayer gently to herself. But now she stretched out her arms and cried, ' Oh, George, if I could only know whether you are living still. Can you give me no sign? Am I now quite forgotten? I have suffered bitterly for my sins, but not more than I have deserved. If I might but see you once more, were it only to aay ' Forgive me !' It is all I would a?k. If lam permitted to come and ask your forgiveness in another world, oh, do not repulse me I have had hell upon earth, and I will pray God that you may be happy for evermore, for you too must have suffered cruelly. You were right to leave me, but it was hard. Yet no ! not hard! You were right George! forgive me! Oh, forgive me in heaven and on earth !'

The stranger could bear it no longer. He rushed forward and cried, 4 Benigna, it is I. Here I throw myself at your feet. Oh forgive me, as I forgive yon. Benigna, do you not know me, do you not know mv voice ?'

The old woman was stunned. She raised herself and felt his face with her hand. When she perceived the bandage over his eye, she started back and cried—'O, George lit is you come back; but what is that ?'

• A hot spark destroyed my eye; you are blind, but I can still see. Come with me, come, before they return from church. Once I forsook you? now you will leave all for me. Come, we cannot talk here, and I have so mnch to say to you.'

* If I could only weep,' sighed Benigna. George still urged her to come with him. She rose and said with all her strength, 'Yes, I will go with you. I will take your hand ; lam yours. Do with me what you will ? Thrust me from you down the craigs or into the river. Do what you will, I obey.' The two sat down, and no more words would come.

Benigna took the stranger's rough hand and held it to her lips. Then she heard the token that service was over.

' Come, we will go before the people come out,' said George vehemently. And while the bells were ringing the two went down the village, took the footpath, and ascended the little hill to the tall hazel bush. CHAPTER VI. ' I have now led you to the place which has been present to my mind, waking and sleeping, for thirty long years. Now do not speak; let me tell you all,'began George. ' What you did was wicked, but I was still more wicked in what I did. You mocked old age, and have come to be dispised in your old age, with tenfold suffering.' Benigna 'groaned. ' Nay, I did not mean to pain you,' continued he, gently stroking her face as he spoke. ' I took a terrible revenge —and revenge is the heaviest burden in the world—there is no rest for him who has laid that on his soul. With that terrible companion I have wandered through the world, hither and thither, as far as Turkey, and returning thence I have traversed Poland and Russia, and then over the sea and home ?

again. I have toiled so that my limbs are almost crippled, and I have found no rest. I have been for the last ten years in Styria, and four months since a spark flew into my eye, and there I was laid aside, with nothing to do but think, and it was borne in upon me that I should go mad ; there seemed a fire burning in my head and heart, and I thought to die, and it came over me how I had struck the lamp from your hand, and set off down the street, while the light was shining out at me from the window. And then I vowed that I would go and seek you as soon as I should recover, and intreat your forgiveness, and do what remains possible for me to make amends. lam still obliged to wear the bandage over my eye, but my eye is now quite well again. If only I could give you back your sight. But here I am, and we will do what we can to lighten each other's burden during the few years that remain to ua. All shall be forgotten. There must be a season for reparation, even in this world. You will go with me, and we will never part again.' Benigna threw her arms round his neck, and paseionately embraced him. 'We will not go back into the village. We do not need to say farewell. No one need know what has become of us. I will leave my scythes behind, and you leave them what you have. I have money enough. I have saved a comfortable competence, and I have a place and a good master in Styria, there we will live together until death parts us.'

Benigna joyfully consented to follow George whither he would. She only grieved to think of leaving the people who had been so kind to her, without a word of thanks ; but still more she grieved for Babi, to whom. she now felt as to a dear child of her own, and who would thus be a second time orphaned and cast out into the world. At length George agreed that they should,. at least, retrace their steps to the cottage. Scarcely was this settled than voices approached, and they heard the words — ' There she is, the man with the scythes, too.'

John and his wife and Babi, in search of Benigua, naturally went to the hazel bush, and they were overwhelmed with astonish-

1.1 I ment when they learned who the strange man really was. They gladly assented to Babi's entreaty that Benigna should take her too on their travels.

After all parties had somewhat recovered their wonderment, John said, ' Now tell me plainly, Benigna, whether you have already dag out your buried treasure ?' 'J never had any,' answered Benigna. 4 But you have been a treasure to us,' said the wife; ' for, thank God, weare well-to-do and comfortable.' They all returned together to the village, or rather to John's cottage, which. was the end-house of it, so that they were not likely to be observed by anyone, for George insisted on that; but a bright idea struck him. It was that Babi should fetch the guardian of the poor, and, pledging him to keep silence until they were safely off, that George should pay him back a sum covering all the expenses which the parish had defrayed on Benigaa's account. ' That is good—that is noble,' cried Benigna. ' You were always a proud man, and an honest. It is well.'

'But there is another thing,.' said George. ' All that was wrong must be now and for ever over and done away with.' ' Better still,' cried Benigna. When night came, George fetched his scythes, and while myriads of stars illuminated the hea\ ens, he wandered down the valley with Benigna and Babi, and passed the silent forge, and so on to the fair country of Styria. Not far from the beautiful town of Leoben, on a green meadow skirting the forest, there stands a cottage. On a bench before the cottage there sits a blind woman, and a charming (girl beside her. When evening comes, George retu-ns from the forge, and greets Benigna and their daughter. After endless terrible sufferings, there yet remains a peaceful, happy life for George and Benigna; and they rejoice in it day by day.