CHAPTER XXIV.

CHRISTIE.

"Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, 'It might have been.' God pity them both! and pity us all Who 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:

"Better, thank you."

"That is well. Thee feels weak, does thee not?"

"Oh, yes--so weak," she said, closing her eyes.

"Well, I expected as much. Thee has been very, very ill," said the man, adjusting a pillow, and shading the light, with the skillful hand of a practiced nurse.

A thousand questions were rising to Christie's lips, but she was too utterly prostrated to give them voice. She fixed her eyes wistfully on the man's face with a questioning gaze that brought him once more to her side.

"Well, my daughter, what does thee now want?"

"Tell me"--the faint whisper died away, and totally exhausted, the hand she had half raised fell again by her side.

"Does thee want to know how thou camest here?"

A faint motion of her head, and that eager, inquiring gaze, was the sole reply she could make.

"It may excite thee too much; thee had better wait until thee is stronger, child," said the man, gently.

"Now--now!" she faintly gasped, with that wild, troubled, imploring look still riveted on her face.

"Then, I found thee on the beach one wild, stormy night, three weeks ago, wounded nigh unto death."

A spasmodic shudder convulsed all her frame. Oh! what would she not have given for strength to ask for Willard! Where was he? Would he be arrested for what he had done? She longed to know that he was safe and well; all she had suffered herself was as nothing compared to that. She wanted to ask how this man had come there--where she was now--if Mrs. Tom knew of this; but, to save her soul from death, she could not utter a word.

Perhaps the man read her thoughts in that eager, almost passionate gaze, for he said:

"Thee wants to ask how I came on the island that night, does thee not?"

She made a faint motion in the affirmative.

"That would be too long a story for thee to hear now, my child. When thou art stronger I will tell thee all. Rest content with knowing that thou art safe, and with friends who will care for thee as though thou wert their own. Thou must drink this now."

One question more--one on which more than life or strength depended. Willard! Willard! she _must_ ask of him.

Pushing back the proffered drink, which she knew contained some narcotic for sending her asleep, she collected all her energies for the effort and managed faintly to say:

"Was there--did you see the one who--who wounded me?"

"No, my daughter; the assassin had fled, most probably. I saw no one but thee, and made no further search. Now thee must not talk just yet. In two or three days thee will be stronger, and then I will tell thee everything thee wishes to know."

Too weak to resist, and deeply relieved that he had not seen Willard, she quaffed the proffered draught, that brought with it balmy sleep.

During the next two or three days the man was her most zealous nurse, tending her with a zeal, care, and gentle solicitude few nurses could have equaled, but resisting all her efforts to draw him into conversation.

"By and by, daughter. Be patient, and thee will learn all," was ever his firm reply, given, however, in the very gentlest of tones.

Left thus to herself and her own thoughts, as she grew stronger, Christie's mind strove to comprehend and account for the motive that had prompted Willard to commit so dreadful a deed. That it was he she never for a moment thought of doubting. That the act had been premeditated, the note he sent her appointing the meeting, on that lonely spot, at the dead hour of the night, fully proved. But his motive? That, too, she had settled in her own mind. She had heard that he loved Sibyl Campbell before he met her. Now, Sibyl was an heiress, courted and admired by all for her beauty and wealth; what so natural, then, as that he should wish to make this peerless Queen of the Isle his bride? She was the only obstacle that stood in his way; therefore, he had, no doubt, resolved to murder her, to make way for Sibyl. Perhaps, too, he had heard her message to Sibyl, and, guessing its purport, resolved that the secret of this marriage should never go forth.

Long before, she had felt he was tired of her; but she had never before dreamed he wished for her death. Yes, she felt as firmly convinced that it was his hand that struck the blow--she felt as firmly convinced, too, that these were his motives, as she did of her very existence; and yet, in the face of all this, she loved him still. Yes, loved him so well, forgave him so freely, that she resolved he should never know of her existence; she would no longer stand between him and happiness. She would never return to the world she had so nearly quitted; she would fly far away where no one would ever know or hear of her; or she would stay buried here in the depths of the forest with this recluse, whoever he was, if he would permit her.

She thought of Mrs. Tom and Carl; they were the only ones in the wide world who cared for her. How would they account for her absence?--what construction would they put on her sudden flight? She could not tell: but she felt, long before this, that they had given her up for lost, and this grief for her loss would soon abate. Yes, her resolution was taken--she would never go back to the island more.

With this determination taken, her mind grew calm; for hers was not a nature for long or passionate grief. It is true, she wept convulsively at times; but this mood would soon pass away, and she would lie quietly, calmly for hours after, watching the trees sleeping in the sunshine, willing to submit quietly to whatever the future might have in store for her--like a stray leaf whirling down the stream of life, willing to set whichever way the current willed.

Her strange, rough-looking, but really gentle nurse was still indefatigable in his cares for her; but, as yet, he had told her nothing of himself, nor his object in visiting the island that night. Christie used to look up in his hardy, honest face sometimes, and wonder vaguely, as she did everything else, what possible reason could have brought him there.

One other circumstance perplexed her not a little. Once or twice she had caught sight of a female form and face moving about in the outer room. It had been only a momentary glimpse, and yet it vividly recalled the wild, weird woman she had seen in the island on her bridal night. There was the same pale, strange face; the same wild, streaming black hair; the same dark, woeful eyes; and Christie trembled in superstitious terror as she thought of her. Many times, too, she heard a light, quick footstep moving about, which she knew could not belong to her host; the soft rustling of female garments; and at times, but very rarely, a low, musical voice, talking softly, as if to herself.

All this perplexed and troubled Christie; and she would have asked the man about her, only--as he never by any chance mentioned her himself--she feared offending him by what might seem impertinent curiosity.

In a few days Christie was well enough to sit up at the window of her room, and drink in the health-giving, exhilarating air, and listen to the songs of the birds in the trees around. She saw this hut--for it was little more--was situated in the very depths of the great forest, far removed from every other habitation. As yet, she had not stepped beyond the precincts of her narrow chamber; but, one morning, tempted out by the genial warmth and invigorating beauty of the day, she had arisen for the purpose of going out for a short walk.

As she entered the outer room, she glanced around with some curiosity. It was a small, square apartment, scarcely larger than the one she had quitted, containing little furniture, and that of the rudest kind. Two small, uncurtained windows admitted the bright sunshine, and opposite the door was a low, smoky-looking fire place. A bed occupied one corner, and a primitive-looking deal table the other.

No one was in the room; but the door was wide open, and in the porch beyond Christie caught sight of a female sitting on the ground, with her back toward her. There was no mistaking those long, black, flowing tresses, and for a moment she hesitated and drew back in terror. But her attitude and manner showed her to be no phantom of an excited imagination, but a woman like herself; and curiosity proving stronger than dread, Christie softly approached her, but with a fluttering heart.

Whether the woman heard her or not, she did not move, and Christie was permitted to approach and look over her shoulder unnoticed. A little gray and white kitten was in her lap, which went spinning round and round after a straw which the woman held above its head, now and then breaking into a peal of silvery laughter at its futile attempts to catch it.

Surprise at this unexpected occupation held Christie for a time spell-bound; but reassured now that the person she beheld was flesh and blood like herself, she passed her and went out.

For a moment the strange woman looked up from her occupation and glanced at Christie; and then, without further notice, resumed her play with the kitten, just as if she had not seen her at all. But in that one brief, fleeting glance, Christie read her sad story. The woman before her was _insane_.

In mingled sorrow, surprise, and curiosity, Christie stood gazing upon her. She could do so with perfect impunity, for the woman never raised her eyes to look at her after that one careless, passing glance, every faculty being apparently absorbed by her straw and her kitten. In years, she might have been five-and-thirty, with a face which, it spite of its total want of expression, was still singularly beautiful. Her tall, slender form was exquisitely rounded, and her long, rich, waving hair floated like black raveled silk over her fair, sloping shoulders. Every feature was beautifully chiseled; her complexion dazzlingly fair, almost transparent; and her large, black, brilliant eyes magnificent, despite their vacant, idiotic stare. Her hands and feet were of most aristocratic smallness and whiteness; for she wore neither shoes nor stockings. Her dress was of coarse brown serge, but it could not mar the beautiful form it covered.

Moments passed unheeded, while Christie stood gazing sadly on the lovely wreck of womanhood before her, and wondering what could have driven her insane, and why she and this man dwelt alone here, so far removed from human habitation. She wondered what relation they bore to each other. He could not be her father--he was not old enough for that; neither could he be her brother--they were too totally dissimilar in looks. Perhaps he was her husband; but even that did not seem probable.

While she thus idly speculated, the woman suddenly arose, and clasping her kitten in her arms, turned and walked rapidly away in the direction of the woods, without once glancing at Christie, and was soon lost to sight amid the trees.

"Who can she be?" thought Christie; "it is certainly the same one I saw that night on the island, though she was raving mad, and this one seems perfectly harmless. I thought her a ghost that night, and fainted; and he had to tell Aunt Tom some story of his own invention to account for it."

The thought brought back the past so vividly to her mind, that the maniac was forgotten, and, sitting down on a fallen tree, she buried her face in her hands and gave way to a passionate burst of grief.

It was soon over. Christie's paroxysms of sorrow never lasted long, but exhausted themselves by their very violence, and she arose to survey the place which seemed destined to be her future home.

It was a beautiful sylvan spot. The cabin was built in a sort of natural semi-circle, surrounded on all sides by the dense primeval forest. A smooth grass-plot sloped gently, for some three yards in front of the house, and then was broken on one side by clumps of bushes, and on the other by a little clear, crystal stream, that danced over the white pebbles, flashing like pearls in the sunlight. Behind the house, was a sort of vegetable garden, with a narrow space reserved for flowers, betokening the refined taste of the gardener. The house itself was a low, rough, unpretending looking cabin of the smallest and plainest dimensions. Not a sound broke the deep stillness, save the musical ripple of the little stream, the songs of the birds, the soft swaying of the trees, and involuntarily, the deep peace of the scene passed into Christie's heart, soothing it into calmness once more.

As she sat gazing around, a heavy footstep came crashing through the trees, and the next moment her host stood before her, with a gun in one hand, and a game-bag, well filled, slung over his shoulder.

He advanced to where she sat, looking surprised and pleased to see her there.

"So thee has ventured out, my daughter!" he said, with his kindly voice and kindlier smile. "I am glad to see thee able to leave thy room once more."

"Yes; the day was so fine and the sunshine so bright and warm, I could not resist the temptation," said Christie. "I see you have been shooting with good success."

"Yes; game is plenty in our woods," he answered, replacing his gun on a couple of hooks in the porch. "But thee had better come in now; it is not good for thee to sit too long in the hot sun, thee knows."

Christie rose half reluctantly and followed him into the house.

The man drew a low wicker rocking-chair close to the open window, and said:

"Sit thee there, child. I know invalids, like thee, like to rock back and forward; it's very quieting to the feelings. I must get the dinner, now."

"Let me help you," said Christie, anxious to be useful. "Let me get the dinner."

"By no means, daughter," said the man, with his pleasant smile; "thee is too weak to work yet, and besides, I have nothing else to do. Sit thee down there, for, now that thee is strong enough to bear it, I want to have a little talk with thee."

Christie sank anxiously into the chair, and waited for what was to come. The man took a brace of partridges out of his bag, and, placing them on the table, drew up his chair, and began taking off the feathers and conversing with Christie at the same time.

"First, my daughter, I should like to know what is thy name?"

"Christie," was the response.

"Hast thee no other?"

"I am sometimes called Tomlinson, but that is not my name. I am an orphan, and live with my aunt."

"Where is thy native place?"

"Campbell's Island," said Christie, in a slightly tremulous voice.

"Ah!" said the man, in some surprise, "if I had known that I would not have brought thee here. I thought thee was a stranger. Does thee belong to the Campbells?"

"No, sir; I lived with Mrs. Tom, the widow who resides in the island."

"Yes, yes, I see," said the host, thoughtfully; "I have seen the woman thee means. But, how came thee, child, to be lying stabbed on the beach that stormy night?"

"Sir, there is a long story connected with that--which at present, you must excuse my not telling. I cannot do so without involving others, and that I do not wish to do," replied Christie, trying to steady her trembling voice.

"As thee pleases, child, as thee pleases," said the man, kindly. "Do not speak of it, if it hurts thy feelings. I merely asked from the interest I take in thee. But how about returning to thy friends? Thee wishes to do so, I suppose?"

"Oh, no, no, no!" cried Christie, with involuntary vehemence. "Oh, I never wish to go back again!"

"Does thee not?" said her host, fixing his strong gray eyes on her face in grave surprise. "Thee has good reasons for that, doubtless?"

"Oh, I have, I have! Some day I will tell you all, but not now. I have no one to accuse or to blame; and the only friends I have, have ceased to think of me as living before this. If I returned to them, there are many who would be rendered miserable for life; and as they all think me dead, I intend to be so to them."

All her courage gave way here, and bowing her face in her hands, she gave way to one of her wild, passionate bursts of tears.

The man's face expressed deep sympathy and compassion; he did not speak nor interrupt her till the violence of her sudden grief was abated, and then he inquired, in his customary, quiet tone:

"And what does thee intend to do, my daughter?"

"I do not know yet," said Christie, raising her head. "I will go away somewhere and work for my living, where I will never be heard of again."

"Poor little one, what can thee do for a living?" said the man, compassionately. "Thee is too small and delicate to work, and never was made to buffet the storms of this rough world."

"I will not have to wait long. I will die!" said Christie, sadly.

"That thee will, if thee takes thy place among the workers in the outer circle of life. So thee is fully determined never to go back to thy friends?"

"Oh, never, never! I would rather die. All I wish, all I hope and pray for, is that they never discover I am alive."

"Then stay with us; thee will not have to work at all, and no one will ever hear of thee any more than if thee wast thousands of miles away. We are buried here in the very heart of the forest, where people very rarely come; and if any one did come, thee could easily be concealed till he went away. I know it is dull and lonely here, but thee will get reconciled to that in time."

"Oh, this is just what I wished, but I hardly dared hope for!" exclaimed Christie, with sparkling eyes. "How can I ever thank you for your generous offer?"

"I do not wish for thanks, my daughter; and thee will oblige me, friend Christie, by not mentioning it more. Thou wilt be very useful, and can take care of Bertha, who is insane, but quite harmless. Thou hast seen her, has thee not?"

"The handsome woman with the dark hair and eyes? Yes," replied Christie.

"Then that is settled," said the man, with a smile; "and now that I have questioned thee, it is thy turn. Does thee wish to ask something?"

"Oh, yes, ever so many things," said Christie; "but I am afraid you may not like--that you may be offended."

"There is no danger of that, my daughter. I may not choose to answer some of thy questions, but I will not be offended, let thee say what thee will."

"Well, then," said Christie, with a faint smile, "to begin catechising alter the same fashion as yourself, may I ask your name and that of the lady who lives here?"

"Yes; her name is Bertha Campbell--mine is Reuben Deerwood; thee may call me Uncle Reuben, if thee likes."

"Then she is no relation to you?"

"She is my cousin--no more."

"Once before," said Christie, hesitatingly, "I asked you about how you came to be on the island that stormy night. You did not tell me then. May I repeat the question now?"

"Certainly. Bertha, though usually quiet, has certain paroxysms of violence, during which, with the usual cunning of insanity, she sometimes eludes my vigilance and escapes. On these occasions she goes down to the shore, takes a boat, and goes over to the island. I, of course, follow her; and it was one of these times I happened to be there. That afternoon she had gone over, and was wandering through the pine woods. I went after her, and just reached the island as that furious storm came on. I wandered around for a long time without finding her, and in my search, somewhere about midnight, I providentially chanced to reach the spot where thee lay wounded and exposed to the fury of the storm. The tide was rising on the shore, and five minutes later thee would have been swept away. I lifted thee in my arms and carried thee down to the boat, instead of following my first intention of leaving thee at the cottage or at Campbell's Lodge. I did not wish to let it be known I was on the island. Then I heard a voice screaming 'Murder!' and knew it must be Bertha; so I set off to look for her again, and found her just coming out of the lodge. I had to bind her hand and foot and tie a handkerchief over her mouth to keep her quiet; and there I waited till the storm had abated.

"It was near noon the next day when we reached the shore, a quarter of a mile below here; and Bertha's paroxysm being over, she followed me quietly home, while I carried thee. I feared thee was dead for a long time, and only I happened to have some knowledge of surgery, thee never would have recovered. That is the whole history," said Uncle Reuben, rising with a smile, and hanging his partridges over the fire to roast.

A light had broken on the mind of Christie while he spoke. This woman must be the apparition that had so often been seen on the isle, and had given it the name of being haunted.

"May I ask," she said, eagerly, "if this--if Bertha has been in the habit of visiting the island?"

"Yes, such is her habit at times," said Reuben, gravely. "About the full of the moon she gets these bad turns, and generally makes her escape to the island, though sometimes I prevent her. Has thee ever seen her there?"

"Yes, once," said Christie; "but I thought she was a spirit."

"More than thee has thought that, friend Christie; but thee need not be afraid of her; she is perfectly harmless."

"Why is it she always goes to the island at such times?" said Christie, curiously.

The man's face clouded.

"There is a long story connected with that, my daughter--a sad story of wrong and crime. Some day I will tell it to thee, if thee reminds me of it."

"How long has she been insane?"

"Nearly fourteen years."

"A long time, indeed. I should like to hear her history very much. Do you not fear she has gone to the island now? I saw her go into the woods an hour ago."

"No; she has only gone for a stroll through the trees, or to look for berries; she will soon be back--and here she is," he added, as the woman Bertha abruptly entered, her kitten still in her arms; and, without looking or speaking to either of them, she sat down on a low stool and began sorting some pine cones held in her lap.

All this time the man Reuben had been getting dinner and setting the table, proving himself to be as good a cook as a nurse. In a few minutes it was smoking on the table, and then he went over, and, touching the woman on the shoulder, said gently:

"Is thee ready for dinner, Bertha?"

"Yes," she said, rising promptly and taking her seat.

Christie took the place pointed out to her, and Uncle Reuben, taking the head of the table, did the honors.

Then, when the meal was over, Bertha resumed her stool and her pine cones; Christie took the rocking-chair by the window, and Reuben busied himself in clearing away the dinner dishes and setting things to rights.

Weak still, and exhausted by the efforts of the morning, Christie threw herself on her bed during the course of the afternoon, and fell into the profound and refreshing sleep of bodily weariness, from which she did not awaken until the bustle of preparing supper aroused her.

In the evening Reuben took down an old, antiquated-looking Bible and read a few chapters aloud, and then they all retired to their separate couches.

And thus began Christie's new life--a life of endless monotony, but one of perfect peace. As the days passed on, bringing with them no change or excitement, she gradually settled down into a sort of dreamy lethargy, disturbed now and then as some circumstance would forcibly recall all she had loved and lost forever, by short, passionate outbursts of grief, but which were always followed by a deeper and more settled melancholy than before.