"Come, madness! come with me, senseless death!I cannot suffer this! Here, rocky wall,Scatter these brains, or dull them!"—DE MONTFORD.
About an hour before the storm burst upon the island, Edgar Courtney, the victim of his own diabolical passions, reached it unseen and unobserved. "You will await my return here," he said, as he was moving away. "I must be back in N—— before morning."
"Don't know 'bout that," said the boy who had taken him over; "there's an awful storm rising; but if you ain't afeared to venture, I ain't."
Mr. Courtney glanced at the dark, sullen sky, but what was the storm without compared with the storm within? Leave the island he must before morning, so he replied:
"I must go back, let it storm as it will. You can remain here sheltered under these rocks till I come back."
And wrapping his cloak around him, he moved swiftly away, and concealed himself behind some overhanging trees to await the result.
The spot where he stood commanded a view of the sea on all sides. And, therefore, when in the deepening gloom, some hours after, he saw a boat approach the isle, containing the form of a woman, he had not a single doubt as to who that woman was.
Oh, the demoniac look that his face wore at that instant! His face upturned to the bleak light was that of a fiend.
Blinded by his passions, he did not observe, as in a calmer moment he might have done, even in the gloom, the difference between this tall figure and that of his wife. He only saw a woman landing on the isle, springing up the rocks, and disappearing in the darkness, and who but Laura would have ventured to the isle that stormy night.
When the night fell in more than Egyptian darkness, accompanied by wind, and lightning, and rain, he made his way blindly through it all to the trysting-place; and, sheltered behind a friendly rock, he crouched down like a panther waiting for its prey.
"She will not come in this storm—she cannot; you will wait in vain," said the voice of Reason, faintly trying to make itself heard.
"She will come—she will!" said Jealousy. "She has braved the storm to come to the island; and, though fire should fall from heaven, she will keep her tryst. Wait! wait! and you will have your revenge."
And the demon voice conquered.
* * * * *
Meantime, how went the night in the widow's cottage?
When—wet, dripping, soaked through—Carl reached the cottage, his first care was to change his wet clothes, and seat himself at the table, where a smoking supper awaited him.
Mrs. Tom held up her hands in wonder and amazement when she heard that Sibyl had braved all that furious storm to come to the isle.
"The girl must be clean crazy," she ejaculated, "to venture on the stormy sea such a night! I do wonder, though, what brought Miss Sibyl here to-night?"
"Dunno," said Carl, speaking with his mouth full of griddle-cake. "She was talking sort o' crazy in the boat. 'Spect' she thought that Mr. Drummond was here."
Christie, whose white fingers were, as usual, flying busily, as she plied her needle, suddenly flushed to the temples, and then grew paler than before. She knew what had brought Sibyl to the island, though she had hardly fancied she would have ventured out in such a storm.
"Oh, I wish it had been clear to-night!" she thought, lifting her head, and listening anxiously to the howling tempest.
Lem, true to his promise, had faithfully delivered Drummond's note to Christie unobserved. But would he come in all this storm?
Some vague rumor had reached her ear that Miss Campbell, the beauty and heiress, was soon to be the bride of Willard Drummond. She did not believe it; it was too monstrous, too dreadful; the bare possibility of such a thing was maddening. But Sibyl loved him, and might cherish hopes that could never be realized; and Christie felt it her duty, despite her promise, to put an end to all these hopes, once and forever, by proclaiming their marriage. Therefore, she had seized the first opportunity, and sent the note before mentioned by Captain Campbell.
By this time Carl Henley had dispatched his supper; and laboring under a vague impression that some one would be in presently to carry him off by force, as Mr. Drummond had done on a previous occasion, he made a hasty exit up the ladder to bed, firmly resolving not to go out again, though Aunt Tom should pull every hair out of his head.
And when he was gone, Mrs. Tom, having secured the windows and doors, drew up her wheel, and sat down to spin. And Christie, with cheeks flushed, and eyes bright with anxiety and impatience, sewed on in silence, replying vaguely and at random to the stream of smalltalk kept up by Mrs. Tom.
There were many anxious thoughts passing through the mind of the young girl. Why had Willard been absent for so long a time?—why had he appointed this strange midnight meeting?—would he venture on the sea in night and storm; and, if he came, what could his visit and note portend? His manner had changed so of late, that, in spite of herself, the conviction that he already repented of his hasty marriage forced itself upon her with a pang like the bitterness of death.
"Oh, I might have known," was her inward cry, "that he, so rich, so handsome, possessing the love of one so beautiful as Sibyl Campbell, could never be content with poor little me! Oh, I might have known he would tire of me; but I was crazed, and believed all he told me. Something warned me it would, sooner or later, come to this; but now that ithascome, it does not make it any easier to bear."
"Well," said the voice of Mrs. Tom, at this instant breaking upon her reverie, as she stopped her wheel with a jerk and looked sharply into Christie's face—"I would like to know what's got into you to-night! Here I've asked you three blessed times to hand me that there gownd, an' you don't mind me any more than if I was the cat. S'pose it's the latest fashion not to answer your elders when they speak to you? What is the matter with the gal?"
"I didn't hear you," faltered Christie, turning scarlet; "my head aches. Please excuse me; I didn't mean to offend."
"Better go to bed, then, if you head aches. Time we was all in bed, for that matter. No use sittin' up a-wastin' of candles, when we can get up airly in the morning jist as well. Gemimi! how it blows!" said Mrs. Tom, as she slipped the bands off her wheel and carried it over to its accustomed corner.
Glad of the permission, Christie arose and began arranging her bed on the wooden settle in the kitchen, where she slept. And Mrs. Tom, who preferred sleeping by herself, sought her own couch, where, by the combined effects of a light heart and a clear conscience, she was soon in the land of dreams.
Relieved of the presence of the inquisitive old lady Christie wrapped herself in her mantle, tied on her hood, and softly opened the door. The storm was at its height, and the sudden entrance of a rush of wind and rain, sent all the loose articles lying about, whirling through the room.
It was awful to venture out in such a storm; but, had the tempest raged twice as wildly, the faithful, loving child-wife would have braved it all, to meet him, she loved.
Exerting all her strength, she closed the door after her without arousing the sleepers, and quitted the house she was never destined to enter more.
On—through the falling rain, the driving wind, the vivid lightning—she plunged, making her way blindly through it all. It was well she knew the road she was traversing, and could pursue her way as well at midnight as at noonday, or she would never have been able to follow that tortuous, rocky path.
But, shrinking, and blinded by the rain, at times she was forced to stop and cover her face in her mantle; and anon, at some more furious blast that would have whirled her away as though she had been a feather, she grasped some projecting rock or tree, to protect herself from being blown over the crags; but still she toiled on to her destination.
"Will he be there?" she said, wildly. "Oh, if after all he should not come! It seems madness, for me to expect him in such a storm; but, if he should, it would never do for me to be absent. Oh, saints in heaven! what lightning," she said, as pale with terror, she hid her face in her hands.
But there was no time to pause—even now, he might be waiting for her, on the beach; and still, on through night, and rain, and storm she pressed, until at last, drenched, dripping, and totally exhausted, she gained the wet, slippery beach.
Half dead, with cold and exhaustion, she sank on a rock, and cowered beneath the pitiless blast. The dull booming of the waves near sent a thrill of nameless awe and horror, into her very soul.
She could not long sit there, exposed to the peltings of the storm; so, wrapping her mantle still more closely around her, she rose with a shiver, and strove to pierce through the thick darkness, in search of that loved form.
In vain! The gloom of Hades could not be deeper than that which enveloped every object.
But, at that instant, there came a flash of lightning, illuminating, for a single moment, with a blue, unearthly glare, the bleak, slippery shingle, and revealing the black, heaving sea, with its foam-crested billows. Nothing more. As far as she could strain her eyes, no living thing but herself, stood on the shore.
"Oh, why does he not come?" was her heart's agonized cry. "Does he not know, in spite of storm and tempest, I am awaiting him here?"
Another flash of lightning, revealing the dark, deserted beach, the wildly shrieking ocean, and a pair of gleaming, serpent-like eyes, watching from behind a rock, revealing the slight, delicate form of a female standing alone on the shore.
"Oh, he will not come! I know it! Shall I stay here longer, or shall I go home!" thought Christie, in an agony of doubt.
Still another lurid blaze of flame! And now, looking up, she uttered a cry of joy; for the tall figure of a man, wrapped in a cloak, was seen descending the rocks, coming toward her.
"Oh, he is here! he is here!" was her joyful cry. "Dearest, dearest Willard! I knew you would come!" And springing forward she threw herself into his arms.
He did not speak—he did not move—only he drew a step back and folded his arms over his breast.
"Dearest Willard! I feared you would not come; but, oh! I am so glad you are with me once more!" And her encircling arms clasped him closer, while her sunny head sank on his breast.
With the storm within and the storm without, he heard not, heeded not the name of Willard. But another flash of heaven's fire showed him a slight, slender form, with the shining, golden hair of his faithless wife.
And now, for the first time, she noticed his strange silence; and lifted her sweet face in surprise, saying:
"What is the matter? Why do you not speak to me? What have I done? Oh, I am so sorry, if I have angered you. What, what have I done? Oh, indeed, I love you more than life!"
His teeth closed together with a galvanic snap, his eyes were like two living coals set in a ghastly skull, and his hand clutched something within the folds of his cloak with a convulsive grasp.
And still she clung to him, and still he maintained that strange silence.
"Tell me what I have done? Speak to me, or I shall die!" she cried out, in anguish and terror. "Oh, indeed, I love you better than any one in the world! I would die sooner than offend you!"
"Die, then!" fairly shrieked the maddened man; "die, since your own lips have proclaimed your guilt!" And clutching her fiercely by the throat, he plunged the hidden knife into her side.
One piercing, terrific shriek, and she sank writhing, quivering at his feet in mortal agony. And the wretched maniac above her unable to speak, or move, or think, with distending eyeballs, glazing eyes—his ghastly face like that of the dead—his trembling hands red with her life-blood—stood rooted to the ground, caring not, feeling not the furious storm now.
Was she dead? Would that wild, appalling shriek be repeated? He listened, palsied with horror. Naught met his ear but the shrieking of the warring elements.
Just at that instant there came a blaze of lightning, as though heaven and earth were on fire, and he beheld that little, child-like form lying stiff and rigid at his feet, the head fallen back; the blue lips parted, as if from them the quivering soul had taken its flight; the arms lying limp and lifeless by her side; the bright, golden hair, half shading, the cold, beautiful face, on which the pitiless rain wildly beat.
All his jealousy, his hatred, passed away with that pitiful sight; and the passionate love, the adoring worship his heart had first felt for her returned like a swelling flood. The memory of the time when she had left home, and friends, and all, to fly with him—when she had first been his loved and loving bride—bright, happy, and beautiful—came back in overwhelming force. And now she was dead—dead by his hand!
"Oh, Heaven! what have I done? Oh, my wife! my wife! my beautiful murdered Laura! Oh, what have I done? My love! speak—look up! live for me once more! Oh, she is dead! and I am her murderer!" And with a shriek of agony, the wretched man fell prone on his face beside her.
But now there came another sound more terrible than all else. Swollen by the heavy rain, the sea was rising on the island.
With the roar of a beast of prey, the furious waves, lashing themselves into foam, rushed upon the shore. It recalled the miserable assassin from his frenzy of despair; and with the instinct of self-preservation that never deserts us while life remains, he seized the cold, stark form, and fled wildly up the beach.
But just then—had the infernal regions yielded up their hosts to pursue him?—a human form, bearing tin figure of a woman, revealed by the quick flashes of lightning, came flying toward him, her uncovered hair streaming in the gale—-her wild eyes glaring with the fires of madness.
Her eyes fell upon him and his bleeding burden at the same instant; and throwing up her arms, with a piercing cry of "Murder! murder!" that pealed high above the raging of the storm, she fled in the direction of Campbell's Lodge.
That appalling cry, that awful apparition, drove the last spark of reason from his maddening brain. With a perfect yell of terror, he flung his lifeless burden on the rocks, and fled from the spot as if pursued by the avenger of blood.
"Between the enacting of a dreadful deedAnd the first motion, all the interim isLike the phantasma of a hideous dream."—SHAKESPEARE.
With blood on his hands, with horror, insanity, and wildest woe in his eyes; and worse, far worse! with the dreadful mark of Cain branded indelibly on his brow, the wretched man fled—hating himself, his crime, the earth, and heaven—only longing to fly far away, where human eyes would never more behold him, clutching his breast with his pale, talon-like fingers, as if to tear hence his insufferable agony and remorse.
On he went—flying over rocks, and chasms, and uprooted trees—on, on, still on, unable to stop. The waves were wildly, madly cannonading against the banks, as if they would tear their way to where he stood, and bodily ingulf him; but he heard nothing, save that unearthly cry of "Murder!" saw nothing but the cold, still face and lifeless form of his murdered wife.
Panting, tottering, exhausted, he fell heavily at last on the ground—shuddering, gasping, collapsed. The deafening roar of the waves still rising and booming on the beach, the crash of the thunder, the wild discord of the raging elements were serenest music, compared with the tumult, the terror of the unspeakable horror filling his soul.
"What have I done?—what have I done!" was the cry that still rived its way up through his tortured heart. And the wind and waves, in their terrific uproar, seemed answering the cry with "Murder! murder!"
Midnight approached, and the storm began to abate, the rain ceased to fall, and the mighty waters began sullenly retreating from the shore.
But still the stricken man lay prone on the ground, dead to everything above, around, about him, with that gnawing, unutterable remorse at his heart.
Another hour waned. The clouds rolled away, the lightning had ceased, the wind abated its fury, and the troubled, heaving waves were slowly calming down. And, suddenly, from behind a cloud, broke forth the moon—brightly, gloriously, grandly shedding her soft, silvery radiance over sea and land.
For the first time the murderer ventured to look up. Morning was near at hand, and must not find him at the scene of the tragedy.
"What is to be done next?" was the thought that arose through all the distracting rush of grief, horror, and remorse. "She will be missed; and if I am found here I will be taken for the murderer, and—" A shuddering spasm closed the sentence.
He rose to his feet, but tottered, so he could hardly walk; and, as if hurried by some uncontrollable impulse, took the road leading to the beach.
He reached the spot, where, in his first wild impulse of terror, he had dropped the body; but, far beyond that, the waves had risen, and the lifeless form was gone—swept away by the boiling waters.
A groan, so deep and hollow, that it seemed like rending his very heart, broke from his lips at the sight—his murdered Laura had found a grave in the boundless sea.
A footstep behind met his ear, and in terror he turned to fly; but, seeing only the half-witted boy, who had brought him over, he restrained himself and stood still.
Even through the dull mist of his clouded brain, the ghastly face before him, struck terror to the boy's soul. And well it might; for, with that white, death-like face, branded with a look of unutterable horror; those ashen lips, sunken, collapsed cheeks, glazing eyes, shuddering form, and trembling hands, he looked like a corpse galvanized for a moment, into a hideous semblance of life.
The words he had been about to say, died on the boy's lips; and, with distended mouth, and eyes all agape with surprise and fear, he stared at him in stupid bewilderment.
"Well?" came at length, from Courtney's lips, in a voice so hollow, that it seemed to issue from an empty coffin.
"What's the matter?" said the boy, "frightened by the storm?"
"What do you want?" again came in deep, husky tones from his livid lips.
"Why, you said you wanted to get back afore morning, and I reckon we can start now. The sea runs pretty high, yet, but I guess there ain't no danger."
Like a man in a dream, Courtney passed his hand across his brow, as though to clear away a cloud. Again, self-preservation, "the first law of nature," rose before him overcoming every other feeling. His eyes wandered mechanically to the fatal spot, and he turned away with a shudder.
"Can we reach N—— before morning breaks?" he asked.
"I reckon so?" was the answer, "if we start now."
"Do you think there is any danger?"
"Don't think there is. You'll be apt to be sea-sick, though," said the boy; "waves run pooty high. But what makes you speak so hoarse, and look so scared, as if you'd seed a ghost? P'r'aps you did, too; they say there's one up in that old house, there."
"Let us go!" said Courtney, unheeding his words, as he folded his cloak closer around him, and started in the direction of the boat.
The boy shuffled after him, to where the boat now lay, high and dry on the strand, requiring the united efforts of both, to launch her into the water.
"Precious hard time I had of it, all night in the storm," said the lad, as he took the oars; "got soaked right through; and, by golly! if there wasn't some thunder! I never wants to be out such a night again."
The boat was pitching and tossing wildly on the heaving waves, threatening each moment to capsize; but Courtney, lost to all sense of personal danger, sat striving to dispel the cloud of horror and remorse from his mind, and answer the momentous question: "What is to be done next?" His wife would assuredly be missed. How was her sudden disappearance to be accounted for? It seemed probable that none but Captain Campbell knew of her intended visit to the isle, save the boy who had brought her over; and, in waiting on the dark, dangerous beach, in such a wild tempest, with the advancing tide rising on the shore, what would be more natural than that she had been accidentally overtaken, and swept away by the rapid rising of the waves?
The mist was passing away from his mind, his burning fever of excitement was abated by the cool sea-breeze, and every faculty, preternaturaily sharpened by the fear of being discovered as a murderer, was at work. Of the stupid lad who had brought him to the island he felt no fear. Before the coming day's sun had set he would in all probability, have forgotten all about it, and none else knew of the visit. He would endeavor to hide all traces of guilt, and be the most zealous in the search after the lost one. Perhaps, too, suspicion might fasten on Captain Campbell, andthenhow amply would he be revenged! He thought of the note appointing the meeting, and felt in his pocket for it, but it was gone. No matter—so that he himself was not criminated, it mattered not.
Then came another thought: How was he to account for his absence during the night? It seemed scarcely probable that his wife had told any of the inmates of the parsonage of their angry parting and his brutal blow—she had too much pride for that—and they could easily be made to believe that sudden business had called him away. Doubtless, they would think it strange he had not told them before going; but as he had already acquired a character for eccentricity from his gloomy reserve, it would be readily set down to that. He had business at Westport—he would go there—remain for some hours, and return to N—— before night.
His plans thus rapidly arranged, he proceeded to carry immediately into execution. Lifting his head, he said, briefly:
"I have changed my mind. I will not go to N——. Take me to Westport."
Regarding him for a moment with his customary vacant stare, the boy, without a word, turned the boat in the direction indicated.
The rising sun was reddening the orient before they reached Westport. And Edgar Courtney having paid the boy, dismissed him, and sauntered about the town until the business of the day would begin.
Gradually the streets began to fill; men on their way to their daily labor passed him in groups, now and then stopping to gaze in wonder at the tall, muffled figure, pacing through the streets as though he were hastening for life or death.
He noticed this scrutiny at last, and slackened his rapid strides, muttering inwardly:
"This will never do. I must not allow my feelings to carry me away thus. I must be calm, or I may be suspected. Nothing but coolness will save me now."
Turning down the collar of his cloak, and pushing up his hat, that the cool morning air might fan his feverish brow, he turned in the direction of the Westport House.
The door had just been opened, and the rooms had that dreary, uncomfortable look large, lonely rooms always wear in the gray dawn of the morning, a yawning waiter, half-asleep, passed him, staring with lack-luster eyes, as though he had seen a ghost, and a slip-shod, frizzle-headed chambermaid uttered a faint scream as her eyes fell on his haggard face and wet garments.
"Let me have a private room immediately," was his command to the waiter.
"Yes, sir; this way, sir," said the man, recovering from his surprise at the entrance of so strange-looking an individual.
He ushered him into a neat, comfortably furnished room, and Courtney threw himself into a chair, and said:
"Light a fire here, and bring me up a cigar and a cup of strong coffee."
"A fire, sir," said the waiter, surprised at such a demand in summer.
"Yes, sir, a fire; did I not speak plainly enough," said Courtney, in a tone that sent the man hastily from the room.
With his garments soaked through, he began to feel cold and chilled; though in the fever of his mind, up to the present, he had not observed it. A fire was soon kindled, and spreading his cloak and outer clothes before it to dry, he threw himself on his bed to try and lose the maddening recollection of the past night in sleep.
Totally exhausted by fatigue and excitement, he succeeded at last, but only to re-act over again in his dreams the catastrophe of the preceding hours. Again he saw the lifeless form of his murdered wife lying rigid at his feet; then would flit before his horror-stricken gaze the ghostly apparition of the isle, with its wild, terrific shriek of "murderer!" then the gallows, the coffin, the hangman, with all the fearful paraphernalia of the felon's death, would rise in ghastly array before his distorted imagination; he could feel the very rope encircling his neck, and by some strange contradiction, his wife, bright, beautiful, and happy as he had first known her, stood smilingly adjusting it, and stranger still, he felt no surprise at seeing her there; he heard the fatal signal given, the drop sliding from beneath his feet, and with a shriek of terror he sprang up out of bed, the cold perspiration starting from every pore.
"Great Heaven! am I never to lose the recollection of that fearful night, and my more awful crime? Oh, for the fabled waters of Lethe to drown recollection! Must I forever go through the world with this mark of Cain?—this red-hot brand of murder on my face, as well as on my soul? Saints in heaven! should this dream prove true?"
The guilty man paused, while his whole frame shook, and his teeth chattered as though he had the ague.
"And yet it need not, unless this paltry cowardice of mine betrays me," he again cried, starting wildly up and pacing the room. "How many murderers walk in the open sunshine, in the broad face of day, through the very heart of our most crowded cities, with impunity? It only requires nerve, courage, boldness, to face the worst, and I can defy Satan himself and all his hosts. Others have committed murder before me, without any provocation to excuse them, and it troubled them not. Why, then, should I, who only acted in vindication of my wounded honor—and if ever murder is excusable, surely it was in my case? Why should I tremble, and shrink from my very shadow? Courage, coward soul? These dreams and phantoms of a disordered brain will pass away, with time. When this affair in some degree blows over, I will hasten to London—to Paris; and in the excitement and turmoil of a great city, forget the miserable past. Courage, Edgar Courtney! Thou hast begun a desperate game, and all thy boldness is required to carry thee through! Yes, I will put a bold face on it, and dare the worst. And, now Satan—for on thee alone dare I call now—help me in this extremity, if ever thou didst help me before!"
He paused before the glass, with clenched hands and teeth, and almost started to see the wild, fierce look his ghastly face wore. His long elf-locks fell in wild disorder over his face and neck, and added to the haggard pallor of his countenance.
"This craven face will never do," he said; "I must compose it. And this disheveled hair must not hang thus disordered. She used to twine it round her fingers once," he said, the look of agonizing sorrow and remorse coming back: "but that time long ago passed away. I must not think of it more—let me only think of this man for whose love she forgot she was already a wife."
The thought did bring a sort of fierce composure. Brushing back the heavy black hair off his face and brow, he threw on his now dry cloak, lighted one of the cigars that lay on the table, and then rang a peal that presently brought up one of the servants. When the man entered Courtney was lying back in the pillowy depths of a lounging-chair, his feet extended to the fire, looking, as he smoked—or, rather, trying to look—the very picture of nonchalance. It was a miserable failure after all, as the wildly gleaming eyes still testified.
"Breakfast!" he said, briefly, to the bowing waiter.
"Yes, sir. What will you please to have, sir?"
"Anything—coffee—waffles. I don't care what—only be quick!"
The man disappeared, and presently returned with fragrant coffee, delicious waffles, and eggs.
Courtney seated himself at the table, and drank cup after cup of the strong coffee; but the first morsel he attempted to swallow seemed to choke him.
The grateful beverage soothed his excited nerves more speedily than all his reasoning and philosophy had done.
Drawing out his watch and perceiving it was after ten, he arose, put on his hat, and having settled his bill, was about to leave the house, when he was suddenly confronted by Captain Guy Campbell, who came running up the outer steps, laughing at something that had occurred outside.
For one moment the guilty soul of Courtney quailed before the bold, bright glance of the young captain's eye—for one moment only; the next, he looked up and met his gaze with one of deep, sullen hate.
Touching his hat coldly, the young captain passed on, and Courtney emerged into the street, all his fierce hatred and jealousy returning with fourfold bitterness at the thought of the contrast between them—he himself so ghastly, so pallid, so haggard, and this lover of his dead wife so handsome, dashing, and careless.
"Heaven's worst curses forever light upon him!" he hissed, fiercely. "That he—he who has caused me to do what I have done—should be happy, flattered, and beloved, while I—I whom he drove to madness, should be doomed to a life of torture! They tell us of a certain place—I doubted its existence once, I do so no longer, for I feel already some of its torments."
And any one seeing the demoniac look his face wore, would not have doubted his words at that instant. Entering a livery-stable, he hired a horse and gig, and immediately started in the direction of N——.
He dreaded the corning scene, and the false part he would have to act in it; and yet, as if impelled by some inward power, over which he had no control, he whipped and lashed the horse in a sort of frenzy of impatience to be there. On he flew, his horse foaming and reeking in sweat—houses, people, streets, passing with the velocity of a dream, and yet all too slow for the burning, maniac impatience that was consuming him.
He reached N——, and consigning his panting horse to the care of an innkeeper, within half a mile of the parsonage, he set out for it at a rapid walk. Ten minutes brought him to it, and in spite of his haste, he paused, as its sober, gray front and green window-shutters rose before him, while a vague thrill of nameless terror shot through him.
It was no time to hesitate now—the worst must be faced at once. Drawing his breath in hard, he approached the door and rang.
The summons was answered by Jenny. As he passed into the hall, he encountered Mrs. Brantwell coming down stairs. That good lady's pleasant, cheery face wore a look of unusual gravity as she greeted him, that for a moment startled him out of his composure.
"Is my—I wish to see my wife, madam," he managed to say, while every word seemed choking him.
"Your wife is in the parlor, Mr. Courtney," said Mrs. Brantwell, gravely, as she held open the door for him to enter—ascribing his evident agitation to a far different cause.
For one moment his wild, maniac eyes were riveted upon her with a look that actually terrified the good minister's wife. Reeling unsteadily, as though he had suddenly received a violent blow, he passed her and entered the parlor.
And there before him on the sofa, supported by pillows, her little pale face looking out from its masses of floating golden hair, with a look of beseeching entreaty to be forgiven, lay she whom he supposed buried forever under the wild waves. For in instant he stood paralyzed, speechless, with ashen face and dilating eyes. And then the last glimpse of hope and reason fled, and with a terrific cry, that froze the life-blood of the hearers, the wretched man fell senseless on the floor.
"And she was gone, and yet they breathed,But not the breath of human life—A serpent round each heart was wreathed,And stung their every thought to strife."—BYRON.
And how dawned that morn on Campbell's Lodge? How on the widow's cottage?
With that appalling shriek, that most terrible of all cries, that unearthly scream of murder ringing in her ears, Sibyl sprang from her sleepless couch, and while her very heart thrilled with horror, waited for what was to come next.
Through the lonely, silent old house, it echoed and re-echoed like a knell of doom; but it was not repeated. She could hear the wild wind rushing through the open door, awakening strange, ghostly noises through the high, empty rooms, but nothing else.
What had happened? What was to be done? Was it only fancy? Had she been dreaming, and was that cry of murder only a delusion, after all?
No, it could not be; for, just as she was beginning to think it was only the effect of fancy, she distinctly heard footsteps flying up the stairs—a light, fleet step that paused at her own door.
Sibyl's heart stood still. It was but for an instant; then the same piercing cry of "Murder!" rang through the lonely house once more; the quick, light footsteps flew down the long, winding staircase again, passed through the echoing hall below, and then the large, heavy front door was slammed to, with a violence that made the old house shake, and all was again profoundly still.
In one instant, all the wild, ghostly legends she had ever heard of the old mansion, rushed through Sibyl's mind. Heaven of heavens! could this be the spirit of some murdered victim, returning from its bloody grave, to seek for retribution on its murderer? Sibyl Campbell, naturally brave, was yet, as we know, superstitious, and the terror that mortal man could never have inspired, filled her very soul at the thought. Shaking as with an ague fit, for an instant she crouched upon the floor, her face hidden in her hands, while memory recalled the tale she had once heard, of a woman stabbed by one of her dark, fierce forefathers, in that very house, whose restless spirit (the legend ran) came when the storm was wildest, and the furious tempest at its height, from her troubled tomb amid the heaving waves, to denounce woe on her murderer and on his descendants.
How long she sat she knew not, but the sound of the old clock below, striking in deep, sonorous tones, that echoed startlingly through the silent house, one! two! three! recalled her once more to life.
That earthly sound brought her once more to herself. She raised her head and looked wildly around. Aunt Moll lay near her, breathing heavily, and sleeping the deep, dreamless, death-like sleep that seems peculiar to the children of Africa. The consciousness of companionship—even though that companion was but a poor, helpless old negress—brought renewed courage. Rising, and half ashamed of her superstitious fears, she walked to the window and looked out.
The storm had passed away and the moon was shining brightly, lighting up with her calm, pale radiance what had so lately been a scene of deepest darkness and wildest storm. Her eyes wandered over the island; all there was still and serene. From thence they strayed out over the boundless sea, and suddenly rested on an object that banished all fears of supernatural visitors, and brought with it a new alarm.
It was a boat—a boat that had evidently just put off from the isle, and was rapidly disappearing in the distance.
It held but two persons—she could see that. But what meant this midnight visit, in darkness and storm, to that lonely isle? What terrible deed, under cover of night and tempest, had been perpetrated this night?
She caught her breath quick and short; but now that she feared only earthly dangers and earthly foes, there came with this discovery a deep breath of relief. Some one might still be concealed in the house—some one who indulged in the popular belief that there was money concealed in it somewhere.
There was no time to hesitate—the house must be searched. Lem must be aroused to assist in it. He slept in the opposite wing of the building, and, supposing any one to be concealed in the empty rooms, the journey was a hazardous one; but it could not be avoided. Sibyl grew quite calm in the face of this new danger, and, stooping, she shook Aunt Moll by the shoulder to arouse her.
A deep grunt, as the sleeper turned over and fell into a deeper sleep than before, rewarded her exertions.
"Aunt Moll, wake! Wake, I say! There are people in the house," said Sibyl, in an anxious whisper, as she shook her more violently than before. "Oh, Heaven! what shall I do? Aunt Moll, wake! wake! Do you want to be murdered in your bed?" cried Sibyl, giving her a shake that might have aroused the seven sleepers.
"Dar, Lem—dar! Don't shake yer ole mammy, dat's a good chile; 'tain't 'spectful, nor likewise——"
Here the sleeper sank into deep slumber, muttering an incomprehensible something.
There was no time to lose—it was fruitless labor seeking to wake Aunt Moll. Seizing a lamp, she hastily struck a light, and hastened out into the windy hall, pausing for an instant at the head of the long, black staircase, to listen, ere she ventured further.
The silence of the grave still reigned. Nothing met her ear but the faint echo of her own light footsteps.
Like a shadow she flitted down the dark, cheerless staircase, through the lower hall into the kitchen, and here she again paused to reflect.
The moonlight was pouring a light through the two low-curtained windows and rendering the flickering lamp superfluous. Everything stood precisely as it had the night before; chairs and table were in their places, and had not been disturbed; a few red coals still glowed like fierce eyes amid the darkness of the great, black, yawning chimney—it was evident that no one had been intruding here.
Pushing open a door leading directly from the kitchen into Lem's sleeping-room, she entered it, and stood beside him. She could not spare time to try to arouse him by ordinary means, so seizing a large pitcher of cold water that stood near, she unceremoniously dashed it in his face, drenching him completely.
The shock aroused him, as it well might; and, uttering a fearful yell of mingled rage and terror, Lem sat bolt upright in bed, unable to distinguish anything for the light of the lamp that flashed directly in his eyes.
"Oh!" was his first ejaculation; "I's gwine for to be 'sassinated 'thout a minit's warnin'!"
"Hush, hush, Lem! for Heaven's sake! It's only I, your mistress!" said Sibyl, putting one little white hand over his huge black mouth. "Get up and dress yourself as quickly as possible, and join me in the kitchen, where I will wait until you come."
And without waiting for the host of questions she saw hovering on his lips, Sibyl passed out to the kitchen to wait for him.
With teeth chattering, and shaking with terror, Lem proceeded, with trembling fingers, to draw on his clothes. Without waiting to make a very elaborate toilet, he passed out to the kitchen, where Sibyl stood waiting in a fever of impatience.
"Miss Sibyl!" he exclaimed, in trembling tones, "What's happened? Is we all gwine to be killed, or anything?"
"Hush! No, I hope not. But—be silent now—I greatly fear there are men concealed in the house somewhere. Hush, I tell you!" she repeated, with a flash of her bright eye that arrested the exclamation of terror on Lem's lips. "This is no time for idle exclamations. I only say I think there may be men here; if there are, your noise will only reveal where we are; if there are not, there is no occasion for your terror. Come, follow me; we must search the house."
"Oh, Miss Sibyl, I's afeard! 'Deed, de Lord knows I's afeard!" said poor Lem, in shivering tones.
"Pshaw! Do you think you will be any safer here? Come, give over your fears, and follow me," said Sibyl, as she turned toward the hall once more.
"Oh, Miss Sibyl, don't wenture! We'll be all 'sassinated if you do."
And poor Lem wrung his hands in mortal terror, while Sibyl hastened from room to room, but, as may be anticipated, finding no one.
"What can this mean?" she thought. "There was certainly some one here to-night, and yet I find everything undisturbed. This is most strange; they must have gone, too, for the house is perfectly still. Oh, what could that cry of murder have meant? That voice and that light, quick step belonged to a woman, most certainly; yet what woman would venture out in such a storm? The girl Christie would not come, she is too timid, neither was it her voice. What—what can it all mean?"
Suddenly the recollection of the midnight visitor, the fair, pale woman with the dark, wild hair and eyes, who had bent over the couch of Willard Drummond the first night he had spent in the lodge came over her. It must have been that same supernatural visitant; and Sibyl grew for an instant faint and sick at the thought.
Further search in the house was fruitless; but her impatience would not permit her to wait until morning to investigate further. Returning to the kitchen, where Lem was on his knees, alternately groaning, praying, and bemoaning his hard fate, she commanded him to get his hat and come out with her, to see if any traces of intruders could be found on the island.
In vain did Lem begin expostulating; Sibyl cut it short by threatening him with her brother's future vengeance if he did not instantly obey. There was no help for it; and trembling in every limb, the frightened darkey followed his imperious mistress from the house.
All without was so calm and peaceful—all the more calm and peaceful, contrasted with the wild uproar of the storm a few hours before—that it seemed like sacrilege even to think of deeds of violence in such a spot. A delicious odor from the distant pine forest filled the air, and the fitful sighing of the wind among the trees, and the dull booming of the waves on the shore, alone broke the silence of early morning. The moonlight, obscured now and then by fitful clouds, brightly illumined their way, but nothing betrayed the presence of others save themselves on the isle that night.
Sibyl took the path leading in the direction from which the boat had started, but there the waves were breaking with the same monotonous sound, giving no indication of any one having been there. The tide had now receded sufficiently to allow Sibyl to walk around the beach; and, tempted by the calm beauty of the night, and feeling a sense of security in the open air, she strolled on until she reached the spot where Courtney, in his first moment of alarm, had dropped the body of Christie.
Something caught her eye at some distance further up, fluttering from a prickly thorn bush, evidently a fragment of dress. Feeling as if she had at last found some clew, she approached the spot and found it to be a white muslin handkerchief, but almost saturated withblood!
A sensation of horror came over Sibyl. Had there really been a murder committed there that night? Shrinking from touching it, she was about leaving the spot, when near one corner, free from the horrible stains that covered the rest, her eye fell on something like a name or initials. Taking the corner with the tips of her fingers, she beheld, marked in full, the name "Christina."
It was hers, then, Christie's. What could have brought it there? Had anything happened to her?
"Oh, impossible!" thought Sibyl. "Who is there in the world to whom she is of the slightest importance, living or dead, except indeed, to me? Willard has gone; she is, in all probability, safely asleep in yonder cottage; and I am only torturing myself by useless fears. I will return to the lodge, and leave to-morrow to unravel this mystery."
So saying, to the great satisfaction of her attendant, who had all this time been cautiously walking behind her, looking fearfully at every tree and rock, and fancying an assassin in their very shadows, Sibyl turned slowly toward the old hall. On their way they passed the cottage of Mrs. Tom. All was perfectly quiet there; and, mystified and uneasy still, Sibyl sought her room once more, to wonder and speculate upon the events of the night until morning should dawn.
The bustling little widow, Mrs. Tom—like all those who seem to have least occasion for it—was in the habit of getting up very early in the morning, to the serious annoyance of young Mr. Henley, who preferred letting the sun rise without impertinently staring at him while doing so. Christie, too, would just as soon not be awakened from some rosy dream at daylight, by the shrill voice of the old lady; but Aunt Tom's word was law, and when she called there was no such word as disobey. The little widow was quite aware of their disinclination for early rising, therefore great was her amazement, upon going to the outer room, to find Christie absent, the bed made, the door unlocked, giving evidence of her being up and out.
"Well!" ejaculated Mrs. Tom, "what won't come to pass! Next thing, I s'pose, will be Carl offering to wash the dishes without bein' told. Shouldn't wonder if he was up and off this mornin', too. Fust time I ever knew Christie to git up 'thout bein' told. Here, you Carl! Carl!" shrieked Mrs. Tom, going to the foot of the ladder and looking up through the trap.
A sound she was well accustomed to, something between a snort and a groan, was Mr. Henley's answer.
"Hurry up there, ef ye don't want me to go up and help ye," called Mrs. Tom, "ef I do, ye'll wish ye had got up 'thout my help, that's all. I'll dress you, I reckon."
Now, as this was a formula Mrs. Tom had repeated every morning for some ten years, without ever being known to vary it in the least, Carl was too well accustomed to it to venture to disobey. Accordingly, he sprang up, and began dressing in all haste, considering he was half asleep during the performance. Mrs. Tom meanwhile set about kindling a fire, and preparing the breakfast, a meal which was usually over before the sun was up, and dressed for the day.
"Where's Christie?" was Carl's first question, upon reaching the kitchen, as he glanced in the direction of the settle, where, every morning, about this hour, he was accustomed to see her making her bed.
"Up and gathering sea-moss an hour ago, I'll be bound," replied Mrs. Tom, "same as you would do, ef you wasn't the most shiftless young vagabones on the face of the airth! I hope now this will be a warning to you for the future. Think o' all the sea-moss, and berries, and sich, you could have gathered every mornin' 'fore this time, ef you was worth your salt. But it al'ays was my luck, ever since I was born, to be plagued with a set o' the laziest, most good-for-nothing bein's ever I saw upon the face of the airth! Stand out o' my way, will you, ef you don't want to break my neck!"
Trot, the unfortunate cat, came in as usual, for the latter part of this outburst of eloquence, emphasized by a vigorous kick.
"Lor' sakes, Aunt Tom," exclaimed Master Carl, roused to something like indignation by this unexpected harangue. "You don't want a feller to get up in the middle of the night, do you? By granny, it's too bad! No matter how early a feller gets up, you always think he ought to get up earlier still. 'Spose you'll be waking me 'bout midnight pretty soon, ugh?"
Most of this reply was deliveredpianissimo(that being the most prudent tone), and accordingly did not reach Mrs. Tom's ears, who was blustering out and in, sharp and breezy as the goddess of morning, bringing in wood and water, and beginning to knead biscuit.
"Yes, grumble," said the active little woman. "I never knew you doing anything else ef you was told to work. Pity if a great, big, lazy fellow like you can't get up as airly as Christie, a delicky young gal, too! See her, up and out while you was snorin' away like a pig up there! you ought to be 'shamed o' yourself."
"I say, Aunt Tom," said Carl, looking up with as much interest as his usually expressionless face could assume, "was she out a little 'fore twelve, when it was a-stormin' so?"
"'Fore twelve?" said Mrs. Tom, in a high key, as she imagined her dutiful nephew was making fun of her. "Look here now, you Carl, ef I hadn't my hands in this dough, I'd box your ears till you wouldn't ask me such a question agin."
"Now, Aunt Tom," said Carl, in a whimpering tone, "it's too bad, so it is; a feller carn't say nothing you don't get mad at. If it wan't Christie, 'twas Miss Sibyl! I saw some woman or other out, 'bout midnight, running like mad through the storm—an' what's more, I heard her, too."
"My conscience!" ejaculated Mrs. Tom, lifting up her floury hands in holy terror, "my conscience! how that there boy does lie! Carl Henley, do you mean to tell me that you was out in that storm last night, and saw Miss Sibyl?"
"No, I wa'n't out myself," said Mr. Henley, tearing the comb fiercely through his tow-locks, in his deep indignation at having his veracity and reason both doubted. "But I seen what I saw, for all that. S'pose you ha'n't forgotten, Aunt Tom, that there's a pane of glass broken out of one of the windows up stairs, with your old bonnet stuck through it. Well," said Carl, in a slightly subdued tone, "your old bonnet got blown out with the wind last night, and the fust thing woke me was the rain a-beating into my face. So I jumped up to fix it, and, jest as I got to the window, there came such a flash of lightning as I never seen afore. Blamed if I didn't think I was a goner! Everything for nigh onto ten minutes was considerably clearer nor day; and just then I saw a woman flying through the storm, like as if all creation was after her, and as she passed the house, I heard her singing outmother, ormurder—I don't know which. I was pretty considerable scared, though I did think it was only Miss Sibyl, for she had long black hair a-flyin' behind her, jist like hers. When the flash went away I couldn't see nothing, for it was as dark as all outdoors; and though I was scared of the storm, I wanted to see if it was Miss Sibyl, and I stood there, waiting for the next; but when it came, she was gone."
"My sakes!" exclaimed Mrs. Tom, whose deepest interest was for the moment arrested. "What did you do then?"
"Well then," said Carl, in a lower key, as though sorry his story had not a more thrilling sequel, "I got tired a-settin' up, so I laid down and went to sleep. Who do you s'pose it was, Aunt Tom?"
"I don't think it was anybody. S'pose folks is fools to run out in sich a storm as that there? I know Miss Sibyl had queer notions sometimes, but she has more sense, I reckon, nor to go out philandering through the rain."
"Well, it must have been somebody," said Carl, with a sort of dogged resolution. "I know I seen a woman running like a house a-fire through all the wind and rain."
"No, you didn't," said Aunt Tom, shortly. "'Twas only a touch of nightmare; so don't bother me any more about it."
Thus ignominiously silenced, Carl proceeded lazily to assist in the preparation for breakfast, which he would greatly have preferred discussing, if left to himself, to getting ready.
The coffee and biscuits were smoking at length, on the table, but Christie did not make her appearance.
"Very strange," said Mrs. Tom; "don't see what in the world keeps the gal. Here it is going on to seven o'clock, and my work a-standing, while we're waiting for her. Carl, jest run out and see ef you can see her."
Carl started on his mission, but soon returned, announcing that nothing was to be seen of her.
"Then there's no use a-waiting any longer," said Mrs. Tom. "Set down; may be she's gone to the lodge to breakfast with Miss Sibyl."
The meal was over, the service cleared away. Carl set out to weed the garden; Mrs. Tom sat down to her wheel. But still Christie came not.
"Very strange!" observed Mrs. Tom, at last beginning to grow uneasy. "Ten o'clock, and Christie not here yet! My stars! I wonder ef anything can hev happened to her? I've noticed she's been kind o' silent and pinin' away for the last two or three days. I hope nothin's happened to her. Oh, here she is now! No 'tain't neither; it's Miss Sibyl."
The little widow rose, and came smiling and cheery to the door to welcome her guest.
"Well, Miss Sibyl, I'm glad to see you. Walk in and sit down. I thought when you and Master Guy came home from furrin parts you'd stay comfortably on the island; but, 'stead o' that, we never see you no more nor if you was in Canada or Rooshia, or any other outlandish place. How's the captain, and that Mr. Drummond?"
"They were both very well when I saw them last," said Sibyl, smiling slightly, as she took the proffered seat, from which Mrs. Tom had been whisking some invisible particles of dust with her apron. "I hope you have been quite well yourself, Mrs. Tom?"
"Oh, tol'bul," said Mrs. Tom, complacently. "Fact is, you know, I hain't no time to be sick; it's only rich folks, what's well off, can afford to indulge in sickness. So you've had a great fortune left you, Miss Sibyl, I've hearn tell!"
"Yes; Guy and I have received a legacy."
"Well, the Lord never does forget his critters; and every now and then something's allers sure to happen. I've allers remarked that myself. I s'pose you don't intend to stay here much longer, Miss Sibyl?"
"I rather think not. We will leave you to keep the island, Mrs. Tom. But where is your niece this morning? I do not see her!"
"She went out this morning before any of us got up, and hasn't come back yet. I'm getting rale onasy," said Mrs. Tom, anxiously, getting up and going to the door. "I thought she had gone to see you."
Sibyl gave a sudden start, and grew deathly pale as she thought of the handkerchief, the wild cry of murder, and the men leaving the island during the night. A terrible presentiment flashed across her mind, and, sick and dizzy, she fell back in her chair and pressed her hand over her heart.
"My gracious! Miss Sibyl, what's the matter? Are you sick?" said Mrs. Tom, turning suddenly, and seeing with alarm the unaccountable paleness of the young lady. "Here's some camphire; smell of it, or ye'll faint."
"Thank you, I do not require it," said Sibyl, rising with an effort, and striving to be calm. "Have you any idea what time Christie left the house?"
"Not the slightest idee; 'cause I was asleep at the time. Carl says—though there's no puttin' confidence in him—that, somewheres 'bout midnight, he seed a woman runnin' through the storm, and singin' out 'murder!' But in course he was dreaming; there couldn't hev bin any sich thing."
"Oh, merciful Heaven! then it was no delusion on my part, since I heard it, too. Oh, this is dreadful!" said Sibyl, wringing her hands.
"Miss Sibyl, what's happened?" said Mrs. Tom, growing very pale.
"Oh, Mrs. Tom! Heaven help you, Christie!"
"Christie! what of her?" cried Mrs. Tom, grasping a chair to steady herself.
"Oh, Mrs. Tom! must I tell you? Christie, I fear, went out last night in the storm, and—oh, Heaven!" said Sibyl, sinking into a chair, with a convulsive shudder.
"And what, Miss Sibyl? Tell me, quick! Was she swept away in the storm?" said Mrs. Tom, striving to strangle her trembling tones.
"Oh, worse—worse! I fear; still worse!" said Sibyl, wildly.
"Oh, my soul! what has happened? Oh, Christie! dear Christie! where are you?"
"Christie has, I fear, been waylaid and——"
"Murdered! Oh, Heaven!" exclaimed Mrs. Tom, falling back in her chair and covering her face with her hands.
There was a moment's awful silence. Then Mrs. Tom, who (no matter what the emergency) never allowed her ever-practical mind to be long overclouded, dropped her hands from before her face, and, though she was frightfully pale, said, in a voice whose firmness astonished Sibyl:
"What makes you think so, Sibyl? My poor little Christie had not an enemy in the world!"
"Oh! she had—she had!" cried Sibyl, thinking, with bitter remorse, how intensely she herself had hated her.
"Who was it?" said Mrs. Tom, starting up. "No one but a monster could have hurted one hair of her gentle head! Miss Sibyl, who do you think has done it?"
"I do not know—as Heaven hears me, I do not know!" said Sibyl, recovering herself.
"What makes you think she was murdered?" said Mrs. Tom, who by this time had recovered all her customary composure, and now fixed her eyes keenly on Sibyl's face.
"Last night I, too, like your nephew, heard the cry of murder," said Sibyl, shuddering at the recollection; "and early this morning, I discovered in a bush, down near the shore, a pocket-handkerchief, stained with blood, and marked with her name!"
"Where is the handkerchief?"
"It is there still; I did not touch it."
"Come, then, and show me the place," said Mrs. Tom, a sudden passionate outburst of sorrow breaking through all the composure she was endeavoring to assume.
Without exchanging a word, they hurried to the spot, where the ghastly handkerchief still fluttered in the breeze.
"Oh, it is hers!" exclaimed Mrs. Tom. "They have murdered her on the beach, and the tide has swept her away. Oh, Christie! Christie!"
And bowing her face in her hands, for the first time she wept passionately.
There was a long pause, broken only by Mrs. Tom's convulsive sobs. Sibyl stood wrestling with her own bitter thoughts, not daring to break in upon her grief by any useless words of comfort.
At last Mrs. Tom looked up, her tears seemingly changed to sparks of fire.
"Who has done this?Youknow!" she said, gloomily, laying her hand on Sibyl's arm.
"Heaven be merciful! I do not."
"Have you no idea? Is there no clew? Speak; for if there is law or justice in the land, those who have done this deed shall suffer."
"The only clew is one so slight that even now I do not know whether I really saw it or dreamed that I did," said Sibyl, hesitatingly.
"Speak, and tell me what it is. I must know," said Mrs. Tom, with a sort of grim vengeance.
"Then listen. Last night after the moon rose—some two hours, I should judge, after I heard that cry of murder—on going to the window to look out, I perceived a boat push off from the shore containing the forms of two men; but so speedily did they vanish from sight, that I had barely time to catch the dark outlines of their figures. As it all passed so quickly, I ani still half disposed to believe it the effect of fancy."
"No boat could reach the island in the storm last night," said Mrs. Tom, still keeping her gloomy eyes fixed on Sibyl's face.
"I know that; and that is the principal reason I have for thinking what I saw may be the effect of fancy. And yet—and yet some one must have been here, else how are we to account for the committing of the deed? And what could have induced Christie to go out in such a storm, and at such an hour?"
"I do not know; it is all wrapped in mystery," said Mrs. Tom, taking the handkerchief and turning away. "But I'll find it out—I'll discover the murderers, if I should spend my whole life in seeking for them myself.'
"What do you mean to do?" said Sibyl, anxiously.
"To have the island searched the first thing. I suppose you will let Lem come and help?"
"Of course. But would it not be a better plan to go over to N—— immediately, and inform the authorities, and let them investigate the matter?"
"Carl shall take me right over," said Mrs. Tom.
"I will accompany you," said Sibyl; "we may both be needed to give testimony."
Half an hour later, the boat, containing Carl, Mrs. Tom, and Sibyl, was dancing over the water in the direction of N——, to electrify the community by the announcement of the atrocious deed.
But where, meantime was Christie? Had she really, as they so readily supposed, found a grave beneath the wild waves?
"Then she took up her burden of life again,Saying only, 'It might have been.'God pity them both! and pity us allWho vainly the dreams of youth recall,For of all sad words of tongue or pen,The saddest are these, 'It might have been.'"—WHITTIER.
With the cold rain falling in her face, the colder wind fanning her brow, Christie awoke from that deep swoon that had been mistaken for death.
She opened her eyes, and gazed vacantly around, but all was dark as Erebus. There was a roaring sound, as of many waters, in her ears—a vague, dull sense of some awful calamity, a heavy, suffocating feeling in her chest, a misty consciousness of some one supporting her head. Dark and dreary was the night around, but darker and drearier lay the heart in her bosom. Memory made a faint effort to regain its power, to recall some dreadful woe that pressed like leaden weights on her bosom, but in vain. Only that dull aching at her heart, only some past unutterable sorrow—that was all.
Bodily as well as mentally every faculty was prostrated. She made an effort to speak, to ask what had happened, to know where she was; but her lips moved in vain, no word came forth. She strove to rise, but at the first faint motion a sudden pang, like a dagger-thrust, pierced her breast, and she fell back in a deadly swoon once more.
When next she woke to consciousness she found herself lying in a bed, with the bright sunshine shining in broad patches on the floor. Memory had not yet resumed its throne, and of that last dreadful night she was mercifully prevented from recalling anything. She strove in vain to collect her thoughts; nothing could be remembered, only that strange aching—that vague, unspeakable pang that lay on her heart still.
She cast her eyes, in a sort of languid amaze, about the room where she lay, with a dreamy wonder how she had got there. She saw indistinctly, as we see things in a dream, a small, square room, with a rough, uncarpeted floor; two chairs, a small table, and various articles of wearing-apparel hanging around the walls. A little stand, on which lay bottles, linen bandages, and a glass filled with a dark liquid stood near the head of the bed on which she lay. At the foot of the bed was a small, square window, covered with a dark paper blind, but through which the sunlight peeped here and there in chinks.
All was profoundly still. She could hear the flies buzzing and droning as they flew over her head; she could hear what she fancied must be trees waving gently in the wind, with a low, soothing sound, inexpressibly sweet; and like a wearied child she closed her eyes, and fell into a deep slumber.
Again she awoke; and now she knew it must be night. Some one had evidently been in the room while she slept, for the curtain had been rolled up from the window, and the moonlight came softly and brightly in. She could see, without moving, the tall, dark trees beyond; and she knew she must be in the forest. Once more her eyes wandered round the room; and reason now made a terrible effort to resume its powers. Where was she? What had happened? Who had brought her here? As her mind began to clear, and consciousness to return, question after question rose to her lips. She closed her eyes, and struggled to recall the past. Gradually the broken links in the chain of memory began to reunite. She recalled the note Willard had sent her, that appointed their meeting on the beach—that night of storm and tempest through which she had gone to meet him—that meeting—and then, with a pang sharper than death, came the terrible recollection of his plunging the knife into her side.
She could think no further, the recollection of that dreadful moment seemed driving her mad. She made an effort to rise, to cry out; but just then, a hand was laid soothingly on her forehead, and a voice met her ear, saying:
"Gently, gently, my child. Thee must not get up. Here, lie still, and drink this."
Some one—she could not tell whether it was man or woman—was bending over her, and holding the glass to her lips. Too weak to resist, she drank it off, and almost instantaneously, fell into a deep sleep.
Days, weeks passed before consciousness returned. During all that time she had a vague idea of talking, raving wildly, incoherently to Willard—imploring him not to kill her, and she would never reveal their marriage; and then shrieking aloud as though again she felt the steel entering her bosom. Sometimes, too, she fancied Sibyl standing before her, with her wild, black, menacing eyes, as she had been the last time she saw her, and once again, would she clasp her little, pale hands, and piteously implore her to spare her. Anon her mood would change, and she would speak in low, subdued tones of Mrs. Tom and Carl, and strive to rise from bed, saying wildly, "she must go home to Aunt Tom." And then, falling back exhausted, she would vaguely see a kind face bending over her, a hand holding a cooling drink to her lips, or wetting and arranging the bandages on her wound. This, too, like the rest, would pass, and life and thought would again fora time be blotted out.
But one bright, golden, August afternoon, the blue eyes opened, no longer wild with the fires of fever, but calm and serene once more. A naturally strong constitution, united with youth, and skillful though rough nursing, had triumphed at last over her long and dangerous illness.
Weak as an infant; unable to move hand or foot; pale, thin, and spiritual as a shadow, she came back to life once more. Her feet had stood on the threshold of the valley of the shadow of death, but they were not permitted to pass therein; and the soft eyes looked forth from the little wan face, with the light of reason again.
It was a glorious summer evening. From the window at her feet, she could see the tall trees crowned with sunshine, that fell like a glory on her pale, transparent brow. Through the open door, came floating in the delicious odor of flowers, and the sweet, wild songs of birds, breathing of peace and holy calm.
While she yet lay with her little, wan hands lying listlessly on the quilt, the gentle quiet of the sylvan scene stealing into her heart, too weak even to think, she heard a footstep beside her, a hand lightly arranging her pillows, and then a voice, one of the kindest Christie had ever heard, saying;
"How does thee feel to-day, my child?"
Christie lifted her eyes languidly, and saw a man bending over her. He might have been forty years of age; short, square, and ungainly in form, but with a chest and shoulders betokening vast, almost herculean strength. His hair was almost white, but dark streaks here and there showed what had been its original color; his face, with its irregular features, would have been positively ugly, had it not been for the expression of benevolence, of quiet goodness—the gentle, tender look it wore, that seemed shedding a very halo around it, and you forgot the brown skin, the rough, large features, the bushy eyebrows, and stony gray eyes in the almost womanly sweetness and softness of his smile. His dress was a long, drab coat, with blue homespun vest and trousers.
At any other time this unexpected apparition might have alarmed Christie, but that gentle voice reassured her; and she answered, faintly: