CHAPTER XXV.

THE MANIAC'S STORY.

"All was confused and undefined
In her all-jarred and wandering mind;
A chaos of wild hopes and fears—
And now in laughter, now in tears,
But madly still in each extreme,
She strove with that convulsive dream."—BYRON.

Autumn was at hand. The woods were gorgeous in their radiant robes of gold, and purple, and crimson. Christie's chief pleasure was in wandering through the forest, and gazing on the brilliant jewelry of Nature. The weeks that had passed, had restored her to health; but her step had not regained its elastic lightness; her voice had lost its old joyous tones; her once roseate cheek had lost forever its vivid bloom; and the bright, joyous light of hope and happiness had died out in the deep, melancholy, blue eyes. She moved through the little forest cabin, the shadow of her former self, pale, wan, and spiritual. And in looking at her slight, delicate figure, her fair, transparent little face, with its sad, haunting eyes, you might have thought her some fair vision of another world, and almost expect to see her fade away before your very eyes.

It was very lonesome, buried there in the depths of the forest, with no companions but the man Reuben and the maniac Bertha. But its very loneliness made it all the more welcome to our little recluse, who dreaded nothing so much as a discovery; and in roaming through the grand old woods, she felt she never wanted to leave this solitary spot again. At any other time she would have shrank in terror from the prospect of passing the long, dreary winter here, when even the comfort of these walks would be denied her. How little did she dream of all that was to occur before that winter came.

Reuben's journeys to N—— to buy necessaries for the little family, were the only incidents that broke the unvarying monotony of their life. At first, Christie had been somewhat afraid of remaining alone with Bertha; but, finding she was, as Reuben had said, perfectly harmless—sitting for hours together playing with her kitten—she had soon recovered from this fear. Love was a necessity of Christie's life, and as time passed, she learned to love Bertha with a deep, earnest love that sometimes surprised even herself. The maniac, too, in her fitful, uncertain way, seemed to return this love, and would sit for half a day at a time, with her head lying in Christie's lap, and the vacant, childish smile on her face.

As for Reuben, no one could know him, with his simple goodness and benevolence, without loving him; and Christie already loved and revered him as a father, while he felt an affection for his little stray waif, second only to that which he felt for Bertha.

As yet, he had not told her the history of the maniac; and Christie, for the most part, absorbed in her own sad thoughts, had almost forgotten it; but one cold and blustering night, as she drew her low rocking-chair up to the fire, while her nimble fingers busily flew in making some warm clothing for the winter, she reminded him of his promise, and urged him to relate it.

Bertha had already retired, and lay asleep in her bed in the corner of the kitchen; and Reuben, his day's work done, sat opposite Christie, making wicker-baskets, which he was in the habit of taking to N—— at intervals, to sell, and which constituted the principal income of the family.

"It seems a sad thing to recall days so long past," said Reuben, with a sigh; "but thee deserves to know, Christie, for waiting so long, patiently. And, my daughter, when thee hears, thee may think it strange that there should be so much wickedness in this world; but the Lord will redeem His servants in His own good time."

"Let me see; it requires time to look so far back. My father was a farmer living in Connecticut, and belonged to the Society of Friends. He had a brother, it seems—a wild youth, who ran away at the age of sixteen, and went to sea. Eight years passed before they received any news whether he was living or dead, and then a letter came to my father from him, saying he was in Spain, in a place called Grenada, and was married to a Spanish girl of that place.

"After that, for fourteen years more, we heard nothing else from him, until one cold winter's night, as we were all sitting round the fire, there came a knock at the door, and when one of my sisters opened it, a man, dressed like a sailor, entered, leading a little girl of twelve years by the hand. That man was my father's long-absent brother, whose wife was dead, and who wished to place the child with his friends before he went to sea again. That child is now the maniac Bertha thee sees on that bed."

Uncle Reuben's lips quivered a little as his eyes fell on the still beautiful face of the sleeper, and Christie listened with a look of the deepest interest.

"Bertha, though only a child then," said Uncle Reuben, resuming his work, "was taller and more womanly looking than many girls of sixteen, with the most beautiful face thee ever saw in thy life. My three sisters were then accounted very handsome girls by everybody, but they were no more to be compared to her than candles are to stars. They had fine, healthy features, and red cheeks, and round, merry faces, but she had a dark, oval face, with long, beautiful black curls, and large, melancholy, dark eyes. Ah, my daughter, thee looks as if thee thought her beautiful still, but she is nothing now to what she was then.

"Bertha could speak very little English then—hardly a word—and I remember how the villagers used to laugh at her attempts to talk with them; but when they looked at her mourning-dress, and sad, beautiful face, their laughter quickly ceased.

"Her father, who, though not rich, had some money, wished her to be sent to some good boarding-school, where she could acquire a good education. He was going off on some voyage, in which he expected to make his fortune; and when he came back, he said Bertha should be a great lady.

"Accordingly, three weeks after she came, she was sent away to a boarding-school, and I do not think there was one sorrier to bid her good-by then than I was. Her father the next day went away in his ship, destined to some far-off place, which he was never doomed to reach, for a month after news came that the vessel was wrecked, and all hands cast away; so that Bertha had now no living relatives in this country except us.

"As her father before he went had made abundant provision for her schooling, in case anything should happen, Bertha remained five years at school. We saw very little of her all this time, for she mostly spent her vacations with her friends, the school girls; but when the period of her stay had elapsed, she came back to the old homestead. We had parted from her a beautiful child, but she returned a woman—peerless, superb—a perfect vision of beauty. Everybody was raving about her. All the young men, far and near, were in love with her; but Bertha never seemed to care for any of them, and used to spend her time embroidering, or reading, or playing on the guitar, and singing Spanish songs about 'beautiful Grenada.' I was a young man then, about seven-and-twenty years of age; and I, too, like the rest fell in love with my beautiful, dark-eyed cousin. It was a hopeless love, and I knew it. I felt that she was as far above me as heaven is above the earth, and I locked my secret in my own bosom, and resolved I would never give her a moment's pain by telling her of it.

"I was, however, her favorite; there were two more brothers, but she liked me best—but only with a sisterly love. To me alone she used to speak of the vine-clad hills of Spain; of her beautiful dead mother, and of her longings for sunny Grenada once more. And I used to sit and listen, and sympathize with her, and keep down the yearning desire that used to fill my heart to kneel at her feet and ask her to give me the right to take her there.

"Ah, little Christie, thee may wonder how such a rough, uncouth man as I am could ever feel love like this; but I could have died then for my beautiful cousin, though she, nor no one else, ever dreamed I cherished for her other than a cousinly affection. When I used to see her smile on other young men, and lean on their arms, and listen, and look pleased when they talked, and blush when she would meet their eyes, I used to feel the demon of jealousy rising within me; and then I would be forced to tear myself away from them all, lest my looks or actions might betray me. It was very hard then to bear my lot patiently; but, when, after a while, Bertha would come back to me, and tell me how tiresome they all were, and that I was the dearest, best cousin in the world, and worth all the other young men she knew put together, I used to feel recompensed for it all, and I could have knelt down at her very feet in gratitude for the words.

"These were the happiest days of my life, little friend; and though I knew Bertha could never love me, yet I felt if I might only be near her, and know she was happy, and see her smile on me sometimes, I could even bear to see her married to some man more worthy of her than I was. I do not say there were not times when I was tempted to murmur and wish Heaven had gifted me with a less ungainly form, for Bertha's sake; yet, I think, I may say, I strove to subdue all such ungrateful murmurs, and think of my many blessings; and, on the whole, I was happy.

"My father, who was growing old and infirm, loved Bertha, with a passionate fondness, and often spoke of his cherished wish of seeing her united to one of his sons. I was the oldest, and his favorite, and I knew his ardent desire was to see us married; but as this could never be, I always strove to evade giving a direct answer to his questions concerning my feelings toward my cousin. To her he had never spoken on the subject; but on his deathbed he called us to him, and putting her hand in mine, charged us to love one another, and become husband and wife. Ah! there was little need to tell me to love one I almost worshiped already. Bertha's hand lay passively in mine. She was weeping convulsively, and neither of us would render his last moments unhappy by saying his dearest wish could not be fulfilled. I thought then that she had merely acquiesced to soothe his dying moments, and resolved, much as I loved her, not to bind her by any such promise. But in the bustle and confusion of the next three day, there was no time for explanation, and the funeral was over before I could even speak a word to her in private.

"The day after the funeral I found her sitting alone in a sort of arbor, at the foot of the garden; and going up to her I said, with abrupt haste, for every word seemed to stick in my throat:

"'Bertha, I knew thee did not like to refuse my father's dying request to marry me; but as the promise was given against thy will, I have taken the first opportunity of telling thee I do not consider it binding, and so far as I am concerned, thou may consider thyself quite free from all engagement to me.'

"I did not dare to gaze at her, as she sat there, looking so sweet and beautiful, lest my resolution should falter; and I turned away, and was about to leave, when her voice recalled me.

"'Do you wish our engagement broken, Cousin Reuben?' she said, softly.

"'Wish it!' I cried out, forgetting prudence, resolution, everything but her. 'Oh, Bertha, I love you better than all the world!'

"'Then take me for your wife,' she said, coming over and pushing back the hair from my face. She kissed me and was gone.

"For a while I could not tell whether I was sleeping or waking, her words seemed so unreal. I stood like one in a trance; like one in some blissful dream, from which he fears to awaken. I could not realize that this peerlessly beautiful girl could be willing to marry me—a rough, homely, plodding farmer. I resolutely shut my heart against the bewildering conviction; but that evening, when we sat alone together, and I asked her to repeat what she had said, she smiled at my incredulity, and told me she intended to be my wife just as soon as our term of mourning expired, and that I might make known our engagement as soon as I liked.

"'It will save me from being persecuted by the attentions of other young men, you know, Cousin Reuben,' she said.

"Everybody was surprised when they heard of it, for she had rejected richer and far handsomer men; and for a while people refused to believe it. But when they saw us always together, and Bertha quietly confirmed the report, they were forced to the conviction that it really was true, and I was looked upon as the most fortunate and enviable of men.

"The next six months I was the happiest man in the world; and in nine more we were to be married, and go on a tour to Spain. It seemed too much happiness for me. I could not realize that it would ever prove true; and, alas! it never did.

"One day there came a letter from a school friend of Bertha's who lived in Westport, inviting her there on a visit. Bertha wished to go, and no one opposed her; but I saw her set out, with a sad forboding that this visit would prove fatal to my new-found happiness.

"Three months passed away before Bertha came back. She used to write to us at first long, gay, merry letters, telling us all about the place, and the people she met; but gradually her letters grew shorter, and more reserved, and less frequent, and for a month before her return, ceased altogether.

"I was half-crazed with anxiety, doubts, and apprehensions; and was about to set out for Westport to see if anything had happened, when one day the Stage stopped at the door, and Bertha alighted. Yes, Bertha—but so changed I hardly knew her; pale, cold, and reserved; she sang and laughed no longer; but used to sit for hours, her head on her hand, thinking and thinking. Bertha was bodily with us; but in spirit she was far away—where, I dared not ask. She hardly ever spoke now, but sat by herself in her own room, except at mealtimes. From me she shrank with a sort of dread, mingled with shame, coloring, and averting her head, when she met my eye; and, much as I loved her, I used ever after that to shun meeting her, lest it should give her pain.

"But oh, Christie, what it cost me to do this, may thee never know! I saw she repented her promise, given in a moment of impulsive generosity; and I resolved that that promise I would never call upon her to redeem.

"One morning she made her appearance at the breakfast-table, looking pale, wild, and terrified. We all thought she was ill, but she said she was not; she had had bad dreams, she said, forcing a smile, and a headache, but a walk in the breezy morning air would cure that.

"After breakfast as I stood leaning against a tree, thinking sadly of all I had lost, she came up to me, and laying her hand on my shoulder, said:

"'Cousin Reuben, I have seemed cold and distant to you for the past few days, and I fear I have offended you. Can you forgive me?'

"She spoke hurriedly, and with a certain wildness in her manner, but I did not notice it then. I thought she was about to be my own Bertha again, and how readily that forgiveness was given, I need not tell thee. She stooped down and kissed my hand while I spoke, and then, without a word, started off down the street at a rapid walk, from which she never came back."

Uncle Reuben paused, and his hands trembled so that for a moment he could not go on with his work. Then, recovering himself, he continued:

"All that day passed, and she did not return; and when night came we began to wonder at her delay. Still, we were not uneasy, for we thought she had stopped all night at the house of some friend; but the next day passed, and the next, and nothing more was heard of her. Then we grew alarmed; and I was about to rouse the neighborhood and go in search of her, when a letter was brought to me in her well-known writing.

"A terrible thought flashed across my mind at the sight. I sank into a chair, tore it open, and read:

"'COUSIN REUBEN:—I have gone—fled from you all forever. Do not search for me, for it will be useless. I cannot ask you to forgive me, I have wronged you too deeply for that; but do not curse the memory of the unworthy

'BERTHA.'

"Every word of that note is ineffaceably burned in my heart and brain. In that moment my whole life and destiny were changed. I did not show the note to a living soul. I rose up and told them to hush their clamors, and never to mention her name more. I think my looks must have frightened them, for they drew back in silence; and I put on my hat, and without speaking a word, walked out of the house.

"The moment I had read the words, my resolution was taken. I determined to go forth and seek for her till she was found, and tell her, with my own lips, that I forgave her all. In a week I had arranged my affairs. I left to my second brother the farm, and without telling him where I was going, or what was my object, I left home, and never saw it more.

"I went to Westport. I felt sure I would find her there, and I was right. Just one week after my arrival, as I was out taking a stroll through the town, one night about dusk, a woman, dressed in deep black and closely veiled, brushed hastily by me. I started as if I had received a galvanic shock; for, though the vail hid her face, there was no mistaking that tall, regal form and quick, proud step. I knew I had found Bertha. I turned and followed her. I overtook her, and laying my hand on her arm, said:

"'Cousin Bertha!'

"At the sudden sound of my voice, she started and shrieked aloud, and would have fallen if I had not supported her. Fortunately, the street was almost deserted, and no one noticed us; and I drew her arm within mine, and said:

"'Fear not, Bertha; I have only sought you out to tell you I forgive you for the past.'

"'And you can forgive me after all I have done—after so cruelly, so deeply wronging you! Oh, Cousin Reuben!' she cried out passionately.

"'Hush! thee will be heard,' I said, softly. 'I am thy brother now, Bertha. Where does thee live? I will go with thee, and, if thou art willing to tell me, I will hear your story.'

"She tried to speak, but something seemed to choke her, and we hurried on in silence until we reached the hotel where she stopped. When we were in her room she sank down at my feet, and, holding up her hands, cried out:

"'Once again—once again, say you forgive me! Oh, Cousin Reuben, I cannot believe what I have heard!'

"She looked so pale and haggard, that I felt I had more to pity than forgive. I raised her up and said:

"'I have nothing to forgive, Bertha. Look on me as a brother, and while I live I will ever regard thee as a dear sister.'

"What she said then, and how wildly she talked and wept, I need not tell thee now. I waited till she was calm, but it was long before she was composed enough to tell me her story, and then I learned she was already a wife, though no one knew it but myself, her husband, and the clergyman who had united them.

"Thee has heard of Mark Campbell, the late owner of the lodge—a man feared by all, and loved by few? It was to him she was married. His first wife had been dead some years, and he resided with his young son and daughter on the island. He had met Bertha during her stay in Westport, and had fallen violently in love with her. He was a tall, stalwart, handsome man, as all his race ever were, and she returned his passion with all the fierce impetuosity for which those of her nation have ever been distinguished. But he was proud, very proud, and arrogant, like all the Campbells, and would not stoop to marry a girl so far beneath him publicly. Thee knows I told thee she was only a sailor's daughter, and an unknown foreigner besides. He gave her some plausible reason—I forget what—and urged a private marriage. She loved him, and was easily persuaded, and, though unknown to the world, was Mark Campbell's wife.

"I promised not to reveal her secret; but I felt that a marriage with such a passionate, vindictive man, could be productive only of misery and sorrow to her. She had no friend in the world but me, and I resolved to remain in Westport and watch over her safety.

"So nearly two years passed. Bertha dwelt sometimes in Westport, and sometimes on the island. Campbell's Lodge, thee knows, is a large house, full of rooms and passages, and she could easily remain there for weeks at a time without being discovered. Mark Campbell had a schooner, and kept five or six rough-looking sailor fellows, half smugglers and whole villains, constantly about him. I managed to obtain employment about the place, and was enabled to remain on the island, and, unsuspected, watch over Bertha.

"Bertha, when on the island, always lived in some of the upper rooms where the children and servants never came. One day, when she was in Westport, I chanced to have some errand to those apartments, and entering a little dark closet off one of the large rooms, I knelt down to grope for something on the floor, when my hand pressed heavily on something which I knew now to be a spring; a trap-door fell, and I came very near being precipitated twelve feet to one of the rooms below—a large, empty apartment, filled with old lumber.

"When I had recovered from my astonishment at this unexpected occurrence, I examined the trap, and found it could be opened from below, and that, owing to the darkness of the closet, when shut it could never be discovered. I was at no loss to account for its object, as it had evidently been constructed by some former occupant for no good purpose. I felt convinced, however, that the present proprietor knew nothing of it, or long ere this it would have been made use of; and I resolved to say nothing about it, not knowing for what evil end he might use it.

"I was right when I felt that this hasty marriage between Bertha and Mark Campbell could be productive of nothing but misery. Already he was wearying of her, but that did not prevent him from being madly jealous. A stranger, a mere youth, and the handsomest I ever saw, had met Bertha somewhere, and was deeply struck by her beauty. He was a gay, thoughtless lad, and Mark Campbell, overhearing some speeches he had made about her, had all the fierce jealousy of his nature aroused. He set spies to watch Bertha; her every word and look was distorted, after the fashion of jealous people, into a confirmation of her guilt, and poor Bertha led a wretched life of it. Her only comfort now was her little daughter, of whom I had forgotten to tell thee before.

"One night one of his spies came to the island and sought an interview with Mark Campbell. What its purport was I know not; but when it was ended his face was livid—absolutely diabolical with passion. Two of his villainous crew were dispatched in a boat to Westport; and when they returned they brought with them this youth, gagged and bound hand and foot. Bertha was at the time dwelling in the lodge, for Campbell was too madly jealous to suffer her to go out of his sight.

"I had a presentiment that something terrible would occur that night, but I never dreamed of the awful murder that was perpetrated in one of the upper rooms. It was a stormy, tempestuous night, but the men were sent off again to a little sea-coast village some miles below N——, and when they came back they had with them another man, gagged and bound like the first.

"I could not rest that night, but sat anxiously in my room, in the basement story, longing with a strange dread for the morning. I felt sure some evil was meditated, and as I listened I suddenly heard one wild, terrific shriek, which I knew must be Bertha's. Half mad with terror, I fled from the room and stole into the lower hall to listen, but all was perfectly still. For upward of half an hour I remained thus; but nothing broke the deep stillness until heavy footsteps began to descend the stairs, and I saw the two worst of Campbell's gang coming down, and leading between them the man they had last brought to the isle. They placed him in a boat and rowed away, and I returned to the house, still ignorant of what had transpired. As I approached it I saw two others of the crew talking in low, hushed voices as they descended to the shore. I stole behind them to listen, and judge of my horror when I learned that, in his frantic jealousy, Campbell had murdered this stranger youth, and in his infernal barbarity had cast his loving wife and the murdered body of her supposed lover into a room together—consigning her to a death too fearful to contemplate. The man who had just been taken away was a mason, who had been procured to wall up the only door to the room.

"I listened, my very life-blood freezing with horror; but judge of my feelings when, from their description of the room, I knew it to be the one with the hidden door. In that instant everything was forgotten but the one thought of freeing her who was dearer still to me than life. I was more like a frantic man than one sane. I procured a ladder, made my way noiselessly into the deserted lumber room, ascended it, and carefully let fall the trap. The lifeless form of the murdered man lay across the opening, but I pushed it aside and sprang into the room, thinking only of Bertha. In the farthest corner, crouching down to the floor, she sat, a glibbering idiot. The terrible shock had driven her insane.

"What I felt at that dreadful sight no words can ever tell. I raised her in my arms and bore her, unresisting, down into the lumber-room. I closed the trap, concealed the ladder, and carrying her as if she were an infant, I fled from the accursed spot. She neither spoke nor uttered a single cry, but lay passively in my arms. There were boats on the shore; I placed her in one, and with a strength that seemed almost superhuman rowed over the heaving waves till morning. Whither I was going I knew not, neither did I care; my only object was to bear her beyond the reach of her deadly enemy.

"When morning came, I found myself on the shore, below this place. I had often been here, and admired this quiet and hidden spot, buried in the depths of the wood. Here I bore Bertha, who followed me like a child; and, before noon I had constructed a sort of rude hut, to screen her from the heat of the sun and the night dew. Then I went to N—— for such necessaries as I immediately required, and resolved, that here I would spend my life in watching over my poor, insane cousin.

"It would be dull, tedious, and uninteresting to relate how I labored for the next few weeks, to construct this hut, and form, as best I could, the rude furniture you see here. It was a labor of love, and I heeded not fatigue nor want of rest, until it was completed. No child in the arms of its nurse could be more quiet and docile than Bertha, but I saw that reason had fled forever. I fancied she would always remain thus still and gentle, and never dreamed she could be attacked by paroxysms of violence, like other lunatics; until one night, I was startled to find her raving mad, flying through the house and shrieking murder. All the events of that terrible night seemed to come back to her, and she fled from the house before I could detain her, sprang into the boat, and put off for the island. She knew how to manage a boat, and before I could reach N—— and procure another, she had reached the island, entered Campbell's Lodge, still making the air resound with her shrill shrieks of murder. Fortunately, in the dark, she was not perceived, and I managed to seize her and bear her off to the boat before any one beheld her.

"A fortnight after, when I visited N——, I learned that Mark Campbell was dead; and, I knew that he must have heard her cries, and supposing them to be supernatural, the shock had hastened his death.

"Of Bertha's child, I could discover nothing. How he disposed of it is unknown to me to this hour.

"And so, Bertha and I have lived here for fourteen years, unmolested, and our very existence is doubtless long since forgotten. She is, as you see her, gentle and harmless; but, she still has those periodical attacks of violence, but in a lesser degree than at first. At such times, by some strange instinct, or glimmering of reason, she always seeks the isle, enters Campbell's Lodge, and goes wandering through the rooms, as if vacantly trying to remember something that is past. These nocturnal visits have given the lodge the reputation of being haunted, which her appearance at different times upon the isle has confirmed. As the house was for several years deserted, except by some old servants, after the death of Mark Campbell, she could roam with impunity through the rooms—sometimes even pushing back bolts and entering apartments that were locked. Such, Christie, is the story of the maniac Bertha."

All this time Christie had been listening, with a look of the deepest, most absorbed attention, in silent amazement at all she heard. The mystery of the haunted house and the spirit of the isle, was cleared up at last.

"And the child—did you never hear anything more of it?" inquired Christie.

"Nothing concerning it have I ever heard."

"Then it may be still alive."

"It is very probable; villain as he was, he would not slay his own child. But enough of this; it is wearing late, and thee looks tired, Christie. Good-night, my daughter."

Christie sought her couch, to wonder and dream over what she had heard, and forget for a time her own griefs in thinking of the greater ones of poor Bertha. How similar, too, seemed their fate! The sufferings of both had originated in those fatal secret marriages. Bertha's were over, but Christie's were not; and wondering how hers were to end, Christie fell asleep.

And thus days, and weeks, and months glided by in the little, lonely, forest cottage. The long, dreary winter passed, and spring was again robing the trees in green, while the inmates of the cottage knew nothing of the events passing in the great world, more than if they no longer dwelt in it—dreamed not of the startling denouement to the tragedy of the isle that was even then hastening to a close; until their peace was broken by an unexpected occurrence that roused Christie into electric life once more.

But for the present we must leave her, and return to the other scenes and characters of our story.

CHAPTER XXVI.

REMORSE.

"Oh, tell me, father, can the dead
Walk on the earth and look on us,
And lay upon the living's head
Their blessing or their curse?
She comes to me each night—
The dried leaves do not feel her tread;
She stands by me, in the deep midnight,
In the white robes of the dead."—WHITTIER.

And now we must return to the day following that night of storm and crime on the shore of Campbell's Isle.

When Edgar awoke to consciousness once more, he found himself lying on a lounge, with some one chafing his hands and temples. Unable for a moment to realize what had happened, he started up and gazed wildly around.

The first object on which his eyes rested was the pale, anxious face of his wife, as she bent over him.

That sight brought back all. With a hollow, unearthly groan, he fell back, exclaiming:

"Heaven and earth! has the grave given up its dead? Or am I dead, with my victim confronting me in another world?"

But, at the sound of his voice, Laura uttered a joyful cry, and falling on her knees beside him, clasped her arms round his neck, crying out:

"Oh, Edgar! dearest Edgar! thank Heaven you are still alive! Oh, Edgar, I was made reckless. Only forgive me for the miserable past, and, as Heaven hears me, I will never, never make you so wretched more!"

Her tone, her look, her clasp, convinced him she was really alive. With his brain burning and throbbing as though he were going mad, he started up and grasped her by the arm, while he fairly shrieked:

"Woman, do I speak to the living or the dead? Did I not murder you?"

"Dearest Edgar, no! The fall scarcely hurt me at all. It was all my own fault. Do not think of it any more, and do not speak or look so crazed and excited. Do you not see I am alive and well?"

Yes, he saw it. She whom he supposed was buried forever in the heaving sea was bending over him, holding his frenzied head on her breast, pushing back the wild black hair soothingly off his burning brow.

Was he sane or mad? Were all the events of the previous night only the horrible delusion of a dream—the vivid deception of a nightmare? Was the storm, the murder, all a mocking unreality?

He looked down and saw on his cloak a dark, clotted mark, the maddening evidence of the past, and knew that it was not a dream. His wife was living, still. Who, then, had fallen by his hand? In the storm and darkness, what horrible mistake had he made?

He ground his teeth and clenched his hands together to keep back the terrible emotions that made his very brain reel, feeling as though nothing, in that moment, could inflict greater tortures than he endured.

Dreaming not of what was passing in his mind, Laura still bent over, caressing him, and striving to soothe him back to calmness, bitterly accusing herself for her heartless conduct, that had driven him to such a depth of misery and despair.

"Oh, Edgar! my dearest husband! only say you forgive me for the past! I have done you wrong, but I never meant to torture you thus. Oh! indeed, I never—never meant it! I will do anything, be anything, go anywhere you wish for the future. Dearest Edgar, will you not say you pardon me?"

"Leave me—-leave me!" groaned the unhappy man, averting his head, and shading his eyes with his hands.

"But say you forgive me first, Edgar! Oh! if you knew what a miserable night I have passed, you would think I had atoned sufficiently for what I have done."

"You—you—where were you last night?" he cried, with sudden wildness, starting up.

"I was here, of course. For Heaven's sake, Edgar, do not excite yourself so," she said, startled and alarmed.

"Were you here all night?"

"Certainly, Edgar. If I had been inclined to go out, I was not able; and if able and inclined, I could not have done so in such a storm. Do compose yourself, Mr. Courtney."

"You are sure you were here all night?"

"Most certainly I was. Why will you persist in asking me such a question?" she said, in extreme surprise. Again he fell back with a shuddering groan. "Dear Edgar, you are very ill. I must send for a physician," said Laura, in great alarm, thinking his violent jealousy had unsettled his brain.

"No—no! on your peril, no!" he vehemently exclaimed. "Leave me! all I want, all I ask for, is to be alone!"

"But you have not yet forgiven me. Will you not do so before I go?"

"Yes—yes, anything, only leave me."

Sighing deeply, Mrs. Courtney arose, and pressing a kiss on his brow, left the room.

And he was alone—alone with his own frenzied, tumultuous thoughts—alone with his own conscience, the most terrific companion a guilty man can have. Again came the torturing thought, What, oh, what had he done? Whom, in his mad passion, had he slain? While reason and judgment slept, and jealousy and blind frenzy raged, what wrong had he committed?

But his wife lived. With a sudden revulsion of feeling, in all the tempest of agony and remorse, that conviction was the one gleam of blessed sunlight in the dark night of despair. Come what might, she who had given up all for him, had not fallen by his hand; her death was not on his soul. And he drew a deep breath of relief; and, if he had dared to breathe the holy name, would have thanked Heaven for her preservation.

How strongly amidst the wildest chaos of doubt and anguish does the instinct of self-preservation ever remain in the ascendant. All other thoughts quickly passed away, and the one absorbing idea of securing his own safety filled his whole breast. He thought, with a start of alarm, what conjectures his strange questions and wild excitement must have given rise to in the mind of his wife, and resolved that, for the future, come what might, he would be on his guard, and not commit himself by betraying his emotions.

"I must leave this place immediately," was his thought, "before suspicion will have time to fix on me, and trust to time and absence for security. But first, I must find some clue to this horrible mystery. Oh! that dreadful night. Oh, that it could be forever blotted from my memory."

Even while he spoke, an unusual bustle below met his ear. He heard voices speaking in quick, excited tones; then a scream, and then the sound of many feet hurrying to and fro.

With the one idea, the one dread thought of his guilt being discovered, ever uppermost in his mind, he listened in an agony of impatience for what might follow.

Still the bustle and excitement continued, and, wrought up to a fever of anxiety, he was about to rise and go in quest of information, when the door suddenly opened, and Laura, pale, trembling, and horror-stricken, stood before him.

"In the name of Heaven, what is the matter, Laura?" he asked, in a voice hoarse with agitation.

"Oh, Edgar! you have not heard the dreadful news?" she said, trembling.

"What dreadful news? Speak and tell me instantly," he said, grasping her arm, and setting his teeth hard.

"You remember that lovely little island-girl, Christie?"

"Yes; what of her?" he said, turning frightfully pale.

"In the fearful storm of last night, she was most foully murdered. Poor, gentle little Christie!"

He knew all now, he remembered her resemblance to his wife; that had deceived him. She, then, had been his victim. In spite of all his resolve to be calm, he was forced to grasp a chair to steady himself. But in her sorrow and horror, his wife did not perceive his increasing agitation.

"Dear beautiful Christie! so fair, so young, so gentle, to meet so terrible a fate. Oh, Edgar, what a demon her assassin must have been, worse than a demon, for even a demon would not have committed such a deed. Poor little child! what an awful doom was hers."

He had recovered his outward calmness by this time, and, steadying his trembling voice, he asked:

"Who could have done the deed?"

"No one knows. Mrs. Tom and Sibyl Campbell have only just arrived, and all they can tell about it is, that, owing to some unknown cause, she either left or was borne from the house during the night, and part of her clothing was found this morning covered with blood. The body could not be found, and it is supposed it was carried away by the waves. Oh, it is horrible! What crime would not men be guilty of, since they could even murder that gentle girl. The proper authorities are about to be apprised of the fact, and the island is to be searched to see if any clew to the discovery of the murderer can be found."

"What is supposed to be the cause of the murder?"

"Oh, there is no cause assigned. Everything is wrapped in the deepest mystery; but I have an idea of my own. You know poor Christie was exceedingly beautiful, and some one may have become enamored of her and attempted to carry her off, thinking the night and storm favorable to his purpose. Most probably she resisted; and, failing in his purpose, in a fit of passion he may have slain her, and fled to escape the consequences of the act."

"Most probably that is it," said Courtney, wishing fervently that every one else would adopt his opinion.

"But, oh, it is terrible—terrible!" exclaimed Laura. "Poor little Christie! And her aunt is almost deranged. Oh, to think we should all have been safe here, thinking only of our own petty troubles, while she was lying, wounded and dying, exposed to the fury of the winds and waves! I do not know how it is, but there is a feeling of remorse in my heart, as if I were in some way accountable for this crime."

"You, Laura! What nonsense!"

"Yes, I know; but still it is there."

"An over-excited brain, that is all. Who is down stairs now?"

"Sibyl Campbell and Mrs. Brantwell. Mrs. Tom and Mr. Brantwell have gone to the magistrate's."

"I think you said Sibyl Campbell came with Mrs. Tom. Was she on the island last night?"

"Yes; she went there about dark."

"What! in all that storm?"

"Yes, I believe so."

"What could have taken her there?" asked Courtney, who scarcely knew what his own object was in asking these questions, except it was to keep his mind from dwelling on what he had done.

"I do not know. Oh, yes! now I recollect; it was a note brought her by her brother; and, strangely enough, from Christie herself. She seemed very much agitated upon receiving it, and insisted on going immediately to the isle, in spite of the storm."

Courtney gave a sudden start; a strange light leaped into his eyes; his white face flushed, and then became paler than before, as he said:

"Do you know what this note contained?"

"No, how should I?"

"Did Miss Campbell meet Christie the night of the murder?"

"No. I heard her telling Mrs. Brantwell that the storm came on so violently that she was scarcely able to reach the lodge, much less the cottage."

"Are you aware whether those two girls were on good terms?"

"Why, what a question! What do you mean, Edgar?"

"Nothing, nothing; answer my question."

"Why, I really do not know; but I fancy not."

"Ah! Why?"

"Well, of course, I may be mistaken, but I think Sibyl was jealous of poor Christie at one time. Willard Drummond certainly paid her a great deal more attention than he should have done, considering he was betrothed to Sibyl. But, then, he was always fickle."

"And Sibyl was jealous?"

"Yes, I am quite sure she was."

"And, consequently, this island-girl's enemy?"

"Well, I cannot say as to that. What on earth do you mean, Edgar?"

"Who first discovered the murder?"

"Sibyl."

"Ah! she did! And I presume she immediately went and told Mrs. Tom?"

"No; I heard her telling Mrs. Brantwell that she found it out somehow—-I forget how—somewhere about midnight; but she did not inform Mrs. Tom till morning."

"Why was that?"

"I don't know. Really, Mr. Courtney, if I were on trial as a witness, you could not cross-examine me more strictly," said Mrs. Courtney, beginning to lose patience.

"I wish to know all the particulars, Laura. Did you hear anything else?"

"No—yes. I heard Mrs. Tom telling Mr. Brantwell, that about the time they suppose the deed was committed, Carl Henley saw a woman flying through the island; but that no one credits."

"A woman, did you say?"

And the strange light in Courtney's eyes grew almost insufferable.

"Yes; but I suppose he dreamt it, or wished to add to his own importance by a made up story."

"I do not think so," said Courtney, who had good reasons for the belief. "Perhaps this tangled web may yet be unraveled."

"Edgar, in the name of all the saints! what do you mean?"

"Hush! I mean nothing—never mind now. Perhaps my suspicions are premature."

"Good heavens, Edgar! you surely do not suspect——"

"Hush!" he said, in a hoarse whisper; "I suspect no one. Be silent concerning what has passed. Leave me now, I wish to lie down. When those people return from searching the island, come and let me know the result. I do not wish to be disturbed before."

Wondering what possible meaning could be couched beneath his mysterious words, Mrs. Courtney left the room.

Edgar Courtney sat down, and with knitted brows and compressed lips fell into deep thought. Now and then his white face would blanch to a more ghastly hue still, and his muscles would twitch convulsively; and, again, an expression of demoniacal joy and triumph would light up his countenance, to be clouded a moment after, by doubt and fear, while his customary midnight scowl grew darker and darker. At last, a look of desperate resolution usurped every other expression, and he hissed through his clenched teeth:

"I will do it! I will do it! Anything, even this, sooner than the fate that may be mine. It can easily be proved. A slighter chain of circumstantial evidence has been found, before now, strong enough to hang——"

He paused suddenly, and cast a terrified glance around, as if fearful the very walls might hear his diabolical plot. Or, perhaps, the word suggested what might one day be his own destiny.