LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2465, 1 March 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

EVA D'ALTON'S REVENGE. [ e*rom " Tinsley'e Magazine." (Conchided.) Larry Brien was what would be called, nowadays, a * anug ' farmer; he held forty acres, at a moderate rent, from an indulgent landlord, and was Icoked upon as a thriving mtn. Be was, however, rather envied than liked. His temper was indifferent, and his manners unsocial. At the time of the murder of the young barrister, he wan generally suspected of knowing more than he pretended of the crime. His brother had been one of the psrty by whom the murdered man had assailed, and had received a mortal wound in the strnggle. On his death bed he gave tho name of two of his associates, but would not speak of the third. Frien was strangely disturbed at the time, but nothing could be elicited against him ; and after a little the affair was talked of no more, and the suspected man continued to prosper in his worldly affiirs. Nevertheless, it was remarked that he seemed very much changed in n any respects. He had dark silent nvods, when his temper was more sullen and morose than ever; while, on the other hand, he gave way to indulgence In strong drink much more frequently than formerly. When this mood was on he uf.ed to drink to excess, become talkative and hilarious, and boast of his land and his stock and the money he had put by. In neither aspect of his character was he admired or liked, and there were some good people who avoided him bfcanse they could not get rid of the notion that the stain of blood-guiltiness was upon him. Early one morning Larry Brien was surprised to find on the floor of the ' kitchen,' just under the door of his house, a folded paper with his name on the outside. With some difficulty he deciphered the oontents. Over and over again he conned the lines, spelling out tbe words in a low whisper, The other members of the family had nit yet risen, and he was alone. He leaned heavily against the door-pest, grasping the paper tightly in both hands. His face was livid, his lips bloodless, his eyes were staring widely open, drops of cold perspiration stood upon his forehead. The strong limbs trembled, and almost refused him support. For the uixth time he read the lines. Ho had no longer any difficulty. The words separately and distinctly burned themselves on his brain, and his lips and tongue and throat were dry as he whispered them to him«elf. • Laurence Brien, the dead calls out for justice ! The stranger you killed, the friends who were hung for your crime, demand your punishment! You are tried, found guilty, sentenced ! Your sentence is death ! Time will be given you to prepare and repent. But as pure as day follows night, you are doomed I Go to the priest. Confess your sins. Your death is at hand. This is your first warning I' For some minutes he stood gla'ing at the paper, which danced btfore his oyes until the letters grew bigger and bigger, and seemed written in blood.

At length he went into the house, and with a dismal groan ho flung himself on the table, and sobbed until bis frame shook, and bis wife heard him, and came to his side, and a c ked him what hid happened. He pushed her rudely away, while he thrust the crumpled paper into hta pocket. Then he went out, and was seen no more that day. At night he came in much tho worse for drink. He tossed about uneasily in bed, and in hi.-j short snatches of sleep moaned and muttered like one disturbed by hideous dreams. After a few days he became calmer, and began to think that, perhaps, after all, this was a joke played upon him bv some of the neighbors who hated him. When a fortnight had gone by he had Regained his courage, and became oonvlnoed that it was merely a malicious joke. There was a fair in a town some ten miles distant, and Brien had cattle there. He sold them early, and at prices he had not calculated on. In »he evening he went to have some refreshments, and found himself sitting next a queer looking little man—a hunchback—with big shoulders and bandy legs, but withal a chatty, companionable little chap, who made himself very agreeable, and joined him in eeveral glasses of strong native whisky. By the time he reached home he was tolerably 'full,' and had almost forgotten his tronble in the oblivion of whisky punch. The next morning, as he deplored the contents of his pockets for stray coins which had been misplaced during the previous night, he came across a psper whioh he had not pat there, and which he had not

seen before. As the eyes rested upon the handwriting he turned de«dly pale, and his band shook as it it had been palsied. With hasty and nervous gestures he tore it open, and the perspiration gathered thickly upon his forehead, and a wild, scared, hnntedlook oame Into his eyes as he read:— 'Laurence' Brea, —You have treated my warning aa if it were a joke. Do no deceive yourself. You are condemned, and will assuredly meet the penalty. Ido not wish to send you out of the world unprepared, with all your black crimes upon your soul. Once more take warning. Prepare to die, for your condemnation oannot be recalled. * The horror and despair with whloh the wretched man read his sentence of death were expressed in th 9 working rf every feature, the livid pallor of his face, the quivering of his limbs. Crushing the paper in his hands, he walked out of the back door in a half-dazed condition. Meeting nono of his family he his way through the meadows, and by the bright sparkling little river, and struck into a thick wood upon its banks, where no eye could look upon his agony and remorse. For a moment he thought of putting an end to his miserable life, but the fear of the ' undiscovered land ' stopped him ; and he lay ! upon the grasßlfor maDy an hour, suffering I the tortures whioh fear, despair, and the terrible consciousness of guilt inflicted upon him. After the second warning he drank more than ever, and when under the influenco of deep and constant potations, became pot-valiant and oblivious. Three weeks had pissed since the reoeipt of the second mysterious letter. He had spent a J night of uproarious hilarity In the village, ard consumed any quantity of the strongest whisky. As he npproaohed his own house he was in a condition of perfect contentment, muttering, as he went on, 'What a fool I am to be frightt-ned of writing and paper ! Haven't I two pistols in my pooket and a good stick, and wonjt the boys stand to me ? An' sure there isn't one in the barony 'd hurt a hiir o' my head; and there's my house foment me that they daren't - ' At this moment he stopped as if paralysed —his hands fell by his aide, his drunkenness seemed suddenly to have vanished ; a terriole fear took possession of him. On the house door was nailed a piece of paper, ehioing ghastly white in the moonlight. He had no need to look at it—instinct to'd him what it was. Slowly and painfully he Btretched out his hands and took the paper from the nail, and, glanclrjg over it, rtad. ' The third and last warning 1' Then he Bank slowly to bis knee?, and bent bis body until his forehead touched the very stones ! and frcm his white lips there issued, with a piteous groan, the words, ' Lord, bave meroy upon my soul 1 ' It was Saturday night; tha priest sat in his confessional in the parish church, a small, poor, thatched edifice. The wind blew and the rain pattered -gainst the windows. The pscple who had been Bhriven had gone away. One penitent had knelt long at the fathei 'a feet, At length even he bad finished, and the priest arose, aod, pas&ing through the little vestrj, left the ohurch and made the best of hia way home through the storm to his humble dwelling. Then the old clerk, tired and sleepy and illtempered at being kept so long, came and put out the candles iu the tin ecrnces, and he also wont away without remarking that some one remained behind. The man who had been last ut confession lay prostrate at the foot of the altar. Nor did prioft nor penitent nor clerk notice a tall figure, closely veiled and dressed in black, which an hour b&fore had moved swiftly and silently from the door of the church and stood motionle s in the shadow of a curtain. The chapel wis now in darkness, save for the dim religious light cf ti« a ore m ntal lamp. Larry Brien lay for seme time with his face on the clay floor, showing no sign of life save an occasional envu'sive heaving of his shoulders. After nomo time he roeo to his knees, and began to pray aloud in piteous »ud pasai-jna'e lang Jage. He called on the Virgin and t'ae saints, bewailed the misery of an untimely death, talked wi h a strong rude eloquence of hia wife and little ones. Then the harek voice was si fteDed and subdued, and the feeling spot in tbe man's nature was rovea'e-J. He dwelt on the names of his children, especially that of the youDgeat, and there was a stracge wild pathos in the stricken man's reference to the golden hair and blue eyes of the little child. Then his mcod cbanged. He rose to his feet, crossed his arms, and looked at the window behind the altar. The storm had abated, the rain had oeased, and the moonlight occasionally broke through the heavy clouds. Ha spoke as if Clarence Meara were brfore him, and he addressed his prayer to the dead . ' You wo? killed in the wrong ; you wor innocent, and you're a ma'thyr; you must be in heaven now ; how oan you beep spite in yonr heart if you're there ? Didn't three men die through it, wan o* them my brother, the same father and mother's son ? Didn't you kill him, and wasn't it that put the devil in my heart and the strength of a giant in my arm ? Ah, have pity on my poor wife and chiider; don't take me away in tbe prime of me life from thim that's dear to me; turn the heart of thim that wants me life ; you were young and handsome, bright and good, and if I could bring you hack to life this night I'd suffer tortures to do it; oh, have mercy on me, and ask the blessed saints to pray for me." As he poured out bis passionate appeal, his voice now deep and low, aud again raised to a pitch that made the little chapel echo, he suddenly became aware that there was a mysterious something beside him. He turned, and saw a female figure clad all in black. Ihe lady threw back her veil, and Brien looked on a face so beautiful and so sad that for a moment he fancied some pity' ing angel had hearkened to his prayer. The light from the little lamp barely sufficed to show to the terrified man the pale features and brilliant eyes. He could not utter a word, but peered into Kva's face with unspeakable wonder and fear. 'Follow me,' she said, turning to tbe door of the church ; and he obeyed her meohanically. She lei the way, he following wit'aout question, until they arrived at the grave of Clarence Meara, A short swift shudder pasted through his limbs, and then he became as rigid as a statue of stone, while his ej cs were fixed intently on tbe girl's face. ' Laurence Brien,' she said, speaking slowly end deliberately, while her musical voice had a most touching and pathetic tone, ' doei your conscience not inform you who I am ? Have ycu never heard of the most miserable woman whone life you have darkened for ever, whose lamp of happiness you have broken and quenched, never more to be relighted in all the long, weary, wretched years ? You killed CI arence Meara's body i you killed my heart. Ycu sent his poor gallant spirit to the company of the angels ; you have plunged mine into an esrthly hell. Man, what had he done to yen. what had I done to you, that you should nave taken bis young life and filled mice with a sorrow more than you could ever realise if you were to live ten live* ? What care I for your wife and children ? Do you expect me to bo pitiful and forgiving and merciful, and to bid you go home in peace and rejoice with your family, and tell them a story cf a half-crazy woman whose lover you killed, and who had not the strength and courage, though she awore it, to kill you and avenge him whoii you foully slaughtered 1 Man, man, 'she repeated, 'is thereanylh'ng you can say wby I should not kill you here apon his grave ?' And as she said this she drew from her breast a pistol, the barrel of which shone ominously in the moonlight j and yet he made no sign. She held the pistol at first on a level with his chest, raising her wrist slowly, as she continued—' I loved the man you murdered, I had no one else to love —no one else in this wide world—no fsther, brother, mother, sister. He had all my love j and now I am alone, and to you I owe this. That is why I've watched for long hours in the church, that is why I brought you here.' The pallor increased on the man's face, and a sweat like the sweat of death poured from bis forehead, as he I saw the gleaming barrel on a level with hi* eyes; and he was powerless to move hand !or foot, * I brought you here to hip grave to kill you, that you might fall there with a bullet through your brain, and fall beside your victim ; aud the neighbors would come and find you, aud say, ' Clarence Meara is avenged, and his murderer is dead." But I heard you pray to him, and my heart melted. You have killed my husband, my lover, and my life, and I forgive you, aa I hope to be forgiven.' She drew her oloak tightly round her, pulled down her veil, and walked rapidly from the churchyard. As she reached the gate a little deformed man met her, and preceded her silently to where a carriage with a pair of horsea was drawn up. Then he mounted the box and drove away. For the space of a m«ment Brien stood motionless by Clarence Meara's grace ;

then he suddenly flung his arm* Into the air, and with a queer wild shriek fell upon the mound. The next morning, as the priest was taking his way through the churchyard', he saw the motionless figure of a man stretched on Clarence Meara's grave. He lifted the head and looked at the dead man's face. He then raised his hat reverently, saying—" Thank God, he was not unprepared.' Within a few days afterwards it was remarked that there was a change in tb.3 inscription on the white-marbJj cress that marked Clarence Meara's last resting-place ; and the hedge schoolmaster, when appealed to, told the carious that the former words meant ttat he whose bones lay below was unavenged, and that the new inscription was fiormiens rcqxiicsoat —" He rests sleeping."