CHAPTER XXII.

NEXT MORNING.

"Between the enacting of a dreadful deed And the first motion, all the interim is Like 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, and _then_ how 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.