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.

He arose and paced excitedly up and down the room, so deeply absorbed in thought, that he heeded not the flight of time, until the sudden opening of the door, and the entrance of his wife startled him from his reverie.

"Well," he said, seating himself, and trying to hide his anxiety under a show of composure.

"Oh, they have searched every corner of the island so carefully, that if a pin had been lost, it must have been found; but it is all in vain. They cannot obtain the slightest clew to the discovery of the murderer or his victim. All that has been found is a knife, deeply stained with blood, which places the fact that she has been murdered, beyond the possibility of a doubt. The murderer, in his flight, probably dropped it unawares," said Laura.

Courtney started in alarm at the news; but a moment's reflection convinced him, that--as the weapon bore neither name nor initials, and had never been seen with him--there was nothing to be feared from the discovery.

"And what do they mean to do now?" he asked.

"I do not know--give up the search, I suppose, since it seems utterly useless to continue it. Poor, ill-fated little Christie!"

"Has Mrs. Tom returned to the island?"

"Yes."

"And Miss Campbell?"

"She is here, where she intends remaining."

"How does she bear this news?"

"Oh, she seems terribly excited, I must say; and I do not wonder at it. She insisted on going with them to the island, and aiding in the search; and has been walking up and down the room, like one half crazy, since their return."

"Very singular agitation to be produced by the death of a girl she did not like, isn't it?" said Courtney, in a peculiar tone.

"Why, Edgar! who could help being agitated at so dreadful a deed. Every one is horror-stricken."

"You are not thus agitated, Laura!"

"Well, I feel it none the less deeply on that account; but Miss Campbell and I are different; and, besides, she has known her much longer than I have. But it is almost dark, Edgar; and you have had no dinner. Are you sufficiently recovered to come down to tea?"

"I think not; I do not care for any. I will go to bed."

"Let me bring you up some tea and toast first," said Laura. "You have eaten nothing all day."

She left the room, and soon reappeared with the tea-tray. And Courtney, to satisfy his wife--having partaken of a light supper--retired to bed, wearied after the excitement of the day.

He closed his eyes, but not in sleep. Hour after hour passed on, while he lay tossing restlessly, striving to banish from his mind the tragedy of the previous night. All in vain! sleep would not come at his call. Again he beheld the lifeless form of the murdered girl lying before him, with the rain and wind beating pitilessly on her cold, white face, while the life-blood ebbed slowly from the wound his hand had inflicted. He closed his eyes with a shudder, and pressed his hands over them; but he saw her before him still. How the scorpion sting of conscience lashed him now in the deep silence of the solemn night!

At length he fell into an uneasy slumber, but only to re-enact, in feverish dreams, the vision of his waking hours. Still before him was that body on the beach; but now, as he gazed, the deep blue eyes seemed to open and fix themselves, with a look of unutterable reproach, on his face. Slowly the rigid form seemed to rise and approach him. Nearer and nearer it came, with its glassy, stony eyes staring upon him steadily, until it stood by his bedside. His tongue clove to the roof of his mouth; cold drops of perspiration stood on his brow; he would have cried out, but his throat seemed parched. With one spectral hand it pointed to the gash in its side; and laid the other, icy-cold, on his brow. With a shriek of terror, he sprang from the bed, and stood trembling in every limb on the floor.

He looked around in an agony of fear and horror, but he was alone; and with teeth chattering and head reeling, he sank into a seat, and covered his face with his hands, exclaiming:

"Oh, it was she! it was she! Am I never to be rid of this ghostly presence? Is she to rise from her ocean grave thus, every night, to drive me mad?"

The great old clock in the hall chimed twelve. He shuddered at the sound; and hearing footsteps ascending the stairs, knew that the family were retiring. Casting himself once more on the bed, he strove to compose himself, and while away, in fitful slumber, the tedious hours, till morning should dawn.