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.