THE MANIAC'S STORY.
"All was confused and undefined
In her all-jarred and wandering mind;
A chaos of wild hopes and fears--
And now in laughter, now in tears,
But madly still in each extreme,
She strove with that convulsive dream."--BYRON.
Autumn was at hand. The woods were gorgeous in their radiant robes
of gold, and purple, and crimson. Christie's chief pleasure was in
wandering through the forest, and gazing on the brilliant jewelry of
Nature. The weeks that had passed, had restored her to health; but
her step had not regained its elastic lightness; her voice had lost
its old joyous tones; her once roseate cheek had lost forever its
vivid bloom; and the bright, joyous light of hope and happiness had
died out in the deep, melancholy, blue eyes. She moved through the
little forest cabin, the shadow of her former self, pale, wan, and
spiritual. And in looking at her slight, delicate figure, her fair,
transparent little face, with its sad, haunting eyes, you might have
thought her some fair vision of another world, and almost expect to
see her fade away before your very eyes.
It was very lonesome, buried there in the depths of the forest, with
no companions but the man Reuben and the maniac Bertha. But its very
loneliness made it all the more welcome to our little recluse, who
dreaded nothing so much as a discovery; and in roaming through the
grand old woods, she felt she never wanted to leave this solitary
spot again. At any other time she would have shrank in terror from
the prospect of passing the long, dreary winter here, when even the
comfort of these walks would be denied her. How little did she dream
of all that was to occur before that winter came.
Reuben's journeys to N---- to buy necessaries for the little family,
were the only incidents that broke the unvarying monotony of their
life. At first, Christie had been somewhat afraid of remaining alone
with Bertha; but, finding she was, as Reuben had said, perfectly
harmless--sitting for hours together playing with her kitten--she had
soon recovered from this fear. Love was a necessity of Christie's
life, and as time passed, she learned to love Bertha with a deep,
earnest love that sometimes surprised even herself. The maniac, too,
in her fitful, uncertain way, seemed to return this love, and would
sit for half a day at a time, with her head lying in Christie's lap,
and the vacant, childish smile on her face.
As for Reuben, no one could know him, with his simple goodness and
benevolence, without loving him; and Christie already loved and
revered him as a father, while he felt an affection for his little
stray waif, second only to that which he felt for Bertha.
As yet, he had not told her the history of the maniac; and Christie,
for the most part, absorbed in her own sad thoughts, had almost
forgotten it; but one cold and blustering night, as she drew her low
rocking-chair up to the fire, while her nimble fingers busily flew in
making some warm clothing for the winter, she reminded him of his
promise, and urged him to relate it.
Bertha had already retired, and lay asleep in her bed in the corner
of the kitchen; and Reuben, his day's work done, sat opposite
Christie, making wicker-baskets, which he was in the habit of taking
to N---- at intervals, to sell, and which constituted the principal
income of the family.
"It seems a sad thing to recall days so long past," said Reuben, with
a sigh; "but thee deserves to know, Christie, for waiting so long,
patiently. And, my daughter, when thee hears, thee may think it
strange that there should be so much wickedness in this world; but
the Lord will redeem His servants in His own good time."
"Let me see; it requires time to look so far back. My father was a
farmer living in Connecticut, and belonged to the Society of Friends.
He had a brother, it seems--a wild youth, who ran away at the age of
sixteen, and went to sea. Eight years passed before they received
any news whether he was living or dead, and then a letter came to my
father from him, saying he was in Spain, in a place called Grenada,
and was married to a Spanish girl of that place.
"After that, for fourteen years more, we heard nothing else from him,
until one cold winter's night, as we were all sitting round the fire,
there came a knock at the door, and when one of my sisters opened it,
a man, dressed like a sailor, entered, leading a little girl of
twelve years by the hand. That man was my father's long-absent
brother, whose wife was dead, and who wished to place the child with
his friends before he went to sea again. That child is now the
maniac Bertha thee sees on that bed."
Uncle Reuben's lips quivered a little as his eyes fell on the still
beautiful face of the sleeper, and Christie listened with a look of
the deepest interest.
"Bertha, though only a child then," said Uncle Reuben, resuming his
work, "was taller and more womanly looking than many girls of
sixteen, with the most beautiful face thee ever saw in thy life. My
three sisters were then accounted very handsome girls by everybody,
but they were no more to be compared to her than candles are to
stars. They had fine, healthy features, and red cheeks, and round,
merry faces, but she had a dark, oval face, with long, beautiful
black curls, and large, melancholy, dark eyes. Ah, my daughter, thee
looks as if thee thought her beautiful still, but she is nothing now
to what she was then.
"Bertha could speak very little English then--hardly a word--and I
remember how the villagers used to laugh at her attempts to talk with
them; but when they looked at her mourning-dress, and sad, beautiful
face, their laughter quickly ceased.
"Her father, who, though not rich, had some money, wished her to be
sent to some good boarding-school, where she could acquire a good
education. He was going off on some voyage, in which he expected to
make his fortune; and when he came back, he said Bertha should be a
great lady.
"Accordingly, three weeks after she came, she was sent away to a
boarding-school, and I do not think there was one sorrier to bid her
good-by then than I was. Her father the next day went away in his
ship, destined to some far-off place, which he was never doomed to
reach, for a month after news came that the vessel was wrecked, and
all hands cast away; so that Bertha had now no living relatives in
this country except us.
"As her father before he went had made abundant provision for her
schooling, in case anything should happen, Bertha remained five years
at school. We saw very little of her all this time, for she mostly
spent her vacations with her friends, the school girls; but when the
period of her stay had elapsed, she came back to the old homestead.
We had parted from her a beautiful child, but she returned a
woman--peerless, superb--a perfect vision of beauty. Everybody was
raving about her. All the young men, far and near, were in love with
her; but Bertha never seemed to care for any of them, and used to
spend her time embroidering, or reading, or playing on the guitar,
and singing Spanish songs about 'beautiful Grenada.' I was a young
man then, about seven-and-twenty years of age; and I, too, like the
rest fell in love with my beautiful, dark-eyed cousin. It was a
hopeless love, and I knew it. I felt that she was as far above me as
heaven is above the earth, and I locked my secret in my own bosom,
and resolved I would never give her a moment's pain by telling her of
it.
"I was, however, her favorite; there were two more brothers, but she
liked me best--but only with a sisterly love. To me alone she used
to speak of the vine-clad hills of Spain; of her beautiful dead
mother, and of her longings for sunny Grenada once more. And I used
to sit and listen, and sympathize with her, and keep down the
yearning desire that used to fill my heart to kneel at her feet and
ask her to give me the right to take her there.
"Ah, little Christie, thee may wonder how such a rough, uncouth man
as I am could ever feel love like this; but I could have died then
for my beautiful cousin, though she, nor no one else, ever dreamed I
cherished for her other than a cousinly affection. When I used to
see her smile on other young men, and lean on their arms, and listen,
and look pleased when they talked, and blush when she would meet
their eyes, I used to feel the demon of jealousy rising within me;
and then I would be forced to tear myself away from them all, lest my
looks or actions might betray me. It was very hard then to bear my
lot patiently; but, when, after a while, Bertha would come back to
me, and tell me how tiresome they all were, and that I was the
dearest, best cousin in the world, and worth all the other young men
she knew put together, I used to feel recompensed for it all, and I
could have knelt down at her very feet in gratitude for the words.
"These were the happiest days of my life, little friend; and though I
knew Bertha could never love me, yet I felt if I might only be near
her, and know she was happy, and see her smile on me sometimes, I
could even bear to see her married to some man more worthy of her
than I was. I do not say there were not times when I was tempted to
murmur and wish Heaven had gifted me with a less ungainly form, for
Bertha's sake; yet, I think, I may say, I strove to subdue all such
ungrateful murmurs, and think of my many blessings; and, on the
whole, I was happy.
"My father, who was growing old and infirm, loved Bertha, with a
passionate fondness, and often spoke of his cherished wish of seeing
her united to one of his sons. I was the oldest, and his favorite,
and I knew his ardent desire was to see us married; but as this could
never be, I always strove to evade giving a direct answer to his
questions concerning my feelings toward my cousin. To her he had
never spoken on the subject; but on his deathbed he called us to him,
and putting her hand in mine, charged us to love one another, and
become husband and wife. Ah! there was little need to tell me to
love one I almost worshiped already. Bertha's hand lay passively in
mine. She was weeping convulsively, and neither of us would render
his last moments unhappy by saying his dearest wish could not be
fulfilled. I thought then that she had merely acquiesced to soothe
his dying moments, and resolved, much as I loved her, not to bind her
by any such promise. But in the bustle and confusion of the next
three day, there was no time for explanation, and the funeral was
over before I could even speak a word to her in private.
"The day after the funeral I found her sitting alone in a sort of
arbor, at the foot of the garden; and going up to her I said, with
abrupt haste, for every word seemed to stick in my throat:
"'Bertha, I knew thee did not like to refuse my father's dying
request to marry me; but as the promise was given against thy will, I
have taken the first opportunity of telling thee I do not consider it
binding, and so far as I am concerned, thou may consider thyself
quite free from all engagement to me.'
"I did not dare to gaze at her, as she sat there, looking so sweet
and beautiful, lest my resolution should falter; and I turned away,
and was about to leave, when her voice recalled me.
"'Do you wish our engagement broken, Cousin Reuben?' she said, softly.
"'Wish it!' I cried out, forgetting prudence, resolution, everything
but her. 'Oh, Bertha, I love you better than all the world!'
"'Then take me for your wife,' she said, coming over and pushing back
the hair from my face. She kissed me and was gone.
"For a while I could not tell whether I was sleeping or waking, her
words seemed so unreal. I stood like one in a trance; like one in
some blissful dream, from which he fears to awaken. I could not
realize that this peerlessly beautiful girl could be willing to marry
me--a rough, homely, plodding farmer. I resolutely shut my heart
against the bewildering conviction; but that evening, when we sat
alone together, and I asked her to repeat what she had said, she
smiled at my incredulity, and told me she intended to be my wife just
as soon as our term of mourning expired, and that I might make known
our engagement as soon as I liked.
"'It will save me from being persecuted by the attentions of other
young men, you know, Cousin Reuben,' she said.
"Everybody was surprised when they heard of it, for she had rejected
richer and far handsomer men; and for a while people refused to
believe it. But when they saw us always together, and Bertha quietly
confirmed the report, they were forced to the conviction that it
really was true, and I was looked upon as the most fortunate and
enviable of men.
"The next six months I was the happiest man in the world; and in nine
more we were to be married, and go on a tour to Spain. It seemed too
much happiness for me. I could not realize that it would ever prove
true; and, alas! it never did.
"One day there came a letter from a school friend of Bertha's who
lived in Westport, inviting her there on a visit. Bertha wished to
go, and no one opposed her; but I saw her set out, with a sad
forboding that this visit would prove fatal to my new-found happiness.
"Three months passed away before Bertha came back. She used to write
to us at first long, gay, merry letters, telling us all about the
place, and the people she met; but gradually her letters grew
shorter, and more reserved, and less frequent, and for a month before
her return, ceased altogether.
"I was half-crazed with anxiety, doubts, and apprehensions; and was
about to set out for Westport to see if anything had happened, when
one day the Stage stopped at the door, and Bertha alighted. Yes,
Bertha--but so changed I hardly knew her; pale, cold, and reserved;
she sang and laughed no longer; but used to sit for hours, her head
on her hand, thinking and thinking. Bertha was bodily with us; but
in spirit she was far away--_where_, I dared not ask. She hardly
ever spoke now, but sat by herself in her own room, except at
mealtimes. From me she shrank with a sort of dread, mingled with
shame, coloring, and averting her head, when she met my eye; and,
much as I loved her, I used ever after that to shun meeting her, lest
it should give her pain.
"But oh, Christie, what it cost me to do this, may thee never know!
I saw she repented her promise, given in a moment of impulsive
generosity; and I resolved that that promise I would never call upon
her to redeem.
"One morning she made her appearance at the breakfast-table, looking
pale, wild, and terrified. We all thought she was ill, but she said
she was not; she had had bad dreams, she said, forcing a smile, and a
headache, but a walk in the breezy morning air would cure that.
"After breakfast as I stood leaning against a tree, thinking sadly of
all I had lost, she came up to me, and laying her hand on my
shoulder, said:
"'Cousin Reuben, I have seemed cold and distant to you for the past
few days, and I fear I have offended you. Can you forgive me?'
"She spoke hurriedly, and with a certain wildness in her manner, but
I did not notice it then. I thought she was about to be my own
Bertha again, and how readily that forgiveness was given, I need not
tell thee. She stooped down and kissed my hand while I spoke, and
then, without a word, started off down the street at a rapid walk,
from which she never came back."
Uncle Reuben paused, and his hands trembled so that for a moment he
could not go on with his work. Then, recovering himself, he
continued:
"All that day passed, and she did not return; and when night came we
began to wonder at her delay. Still, we were not uneasy, for we
thought she had stopped all night at the house of some friend; but
the next day passed, and the next, and nothing more was heard of her.
Then we grew alarmed; and I was about to rouse the neighborhood and
go in search of her, when a letter was brought to me in her
well-known writing.
"A terrible thought flashed across my mind at the sight. I sank into
a chair, tore it open, and read:
"'COUSIN REUBEN:--I have gone--fled from you all forever. Do not
search for me, for it will be useless. I cannot ask you to forgive
me, I have wronged you too deeply for that; but do not curse the
memory of the unworthy
'BERTHA.'
"Every word of that note is ineffaceably burned in my heart and
brain. In that moment my whole life and destiny were changed. I did
not show the note to a living soul. I rose up and told them to hush
their clamors, and never to mention her name more. I think my looks
must have frightened them, for they drew back in silence; and I put
on my hat, and without speaking a word, walked out of the house.
"The moment I had read the words, my resolution was taken. I
determined to go forth and seek for her till she was found, and tell
her, with my own lips, that I forgave her all. In a week I had
arranged my affairs. I left to my second brother the farm, and
without telling him where I was going, or what was my object, I left
home, and never saw it more.
"I went to Westport. I felt sure I would find her there, and I was
right. Just one week after my arrival, as I was out taking a stroll
through the town, one night about dusk, a woman, dressed in deep
black and closely veiled, brushed hastily by me. I started as if I
had received a galvanic shock; for, though the vail hid her face,
there was no mistaking that tall, regal form and quick, proud step.
I knew I had found Bertha. I turned and followed her. I overtook
her, and laying my hand on her arm, said:
"'Cousin Bertha!'
"At the sudden sound of my voice, she started and shrieked aloud, and
would have fallen if I had not supported her. Fortunately, the
street was almost deserted, and no one noticed us; and I drew her arm
within mine, and said:
"'Fear not, Bertha; I have only sought you out to tell you I forgive
you for the past.'
"'And you can forgive me after all I have done--after so cruelly, so
deeply wronging you! Oh, Cousin Reuben!' she cried out passionately.
"'Hush! thee will be heard,' I said, softly. 'I am thy brother now,
Bertha. Where does thee live? I will go with thee, and, if thou art
willing to tell me, I will hear your story.'
"She tried to speak, but something seemed to choke her, and we
hurried on in silence until we reached the hotel where she stopped.
When we were in her room she sank down at my feet, and, holding up
her hands, cried out:
"'Once again--once again, say you forgive me! Oh, Cousin Reuben, I
cannot believe what I have heard!'
"She looked so pale and haggard, that I felt I had more to pity than
forgive. I raised her up and said:
"'I have nothing to forgive, Bertha. Look on me as a brother, and
while I live I will ever regard thee as a dear sister.'
"What she said then, and how wildly she talked and wept, I need not
tell thee now. I waited till she was calm, but it was long before
she was composed enough to tell me her story, and then I learned she
was already a wife, though no one knew it but myself, her husband,
and the clergyman who had united them.
"Thee has heard of Mark Campbell, the late owner of the lodge--a man
feared by all, and loved by few? It was to him she was married. His
first wife had been dead some years, and he resided with his young
son and daughter on the island. He had met Bertha during her stay in
Westport, and had fallen violently in love with her. He was a tall,
stalwart, handsome man, as all his race ever were, and she returned
his passion with all the fierce impetuosity for which those of her
nation have ever been distinguished. But he was proud, very proud,
and arrogant, like all the Campbells, and would not stoop to marry a
girl so far beneath him publicly. Thee knows I told thee she was
only a sailor's daughter, and an unknown foreigner besides. He gave
her some plausible reason--I forget what--and urged a private
marriage. She loved him, and was easily persuaded, and, though
unknown to the world, was Mark Campbell's wife.
"I promised not to reveal her secret; but I felt that a marriage with
such a passionate, vindictive man, could be productive only of misery
and sorrow to her. She had no friend in the world but me, and I
resolved to remain in Westport and watch over her safety.
"So nearly two years passed. Bertha dwelt sometimes in Westport, and
sometimes on the island. Campbell's Lodge, thee knows, is a large
house, full of rooms and passages, and she could easily remain there
for weeks at a time without being discovered. Mark Campbell had a
schooner, and kept five or six rough-looking sailor fellows, half
smugglers and whole villains, constantly about him. I managed to
obtain employment about the place, and was enabled to remain on the
island, and, unsuspected, watch over Bertha.
"Bertha, when on the island, always lived in some of the upper rooms
where the children and servants never came. One day, when she was in
Westport, I chanced to have some errand to those apartments, and
entering a little dark closet off one of the large rooms, I knelt
down to grope for something on the floor, when my hand pressed
heavily on something which I knew now to be a spring; a trap-door
fell, and I came very near being precipitated twelve feet to one of
the rooms below--a large, empty apartment, filled with old lumber.
"When I had recovered from my astonishment at this unexpected
occurrence, I examined the trap, and found it could be opened from
below, and that, owing to the darkness of the closet, when shut it
could never be discovered. I was at no loss to account for its
object, as it had evidently been constructed by some former occupant
for no good purpose. I felt convinced, however, that the present
proprietor knew nothing of it, or long ere this it would have been
made use of; and I resolved to say nothing about it, not knowing for
what evil end he might use it.
"I was right when I felt that this hasty marriage between Bertha and
Mark Campbell could be productive of nothing but misery. Already he
was wearying of her, but that did not prevent him from being madly
jealous. A stranger, a mere youth, and the handsomest I ever saw,
had met Bertha somewhere, and was deeply struck by her beauty. He
was a gay, thoughtless lad, and Mark Campbell, overhearing some
speeches he had made about her, had all the fierce jealousy of his
nature aroused. He set spies to watch Bertha; her every word and
look was distorted, after the fashion of jealous people, into a
confirmation of her guilt, and poor Bertha led a wretched life of it.
Her only comfort now was her little daughter, of whom I had forgotten
to tell thee before.
"One night one of his spies came to the island and sought an
interview with Mark Campbell. What its purport was I know not; but
when it was ended his face was livid--absolutely diabolical with
passion. Two of his villainous crew were dispatched in a boat to
Westport; and when they returned they brought with them this youth,
gagged and bound hand and foot. Bertha was at the time dwelling in
the lodge, for Campbell was too madly jealous to suffer her to go out
of his sight.
"I had a presentiment that something terrible would occur that night,
but I never dreamed of the awful murder that was perpetrated in one
of the upper rooms. It was a stormy, tempestuous night, but the men
were sent off again to a little sea-coast village some miles below
N----, and when they came back they had with them another man, gagged
and bound like the first.
"I could not rest that night, but sat anxiously in my room, in the
basement story, longing with a strange dread for the morning. I felt
sure some evil was meditated, and as I listened I suddenly heard one
wild, terrific shriek, which I knew must be Bertha's. Half mad with
terror, I fled from the room and stole into the lower hall to listen,
but all was perfectly still. For upward of half an hour I remained
thus; but nothing broke the deep stillness until heavy footsteps
began to descend the stairs, and I saw the two worst of Campbell's
gang coming down, and leading between them the man they had last
brought to the isle. They placed him in a boat and rowed away, and I
returned to the house, still ignorant of what had transpired. As I
approached it I saw two others of the crew talking in low, hushed
voices as they descended to the shore. I stole behind them to
listen, and judge of my horror when I learned that, in his frantic
jealousy, Campbell had murdered this stranger youth, and in his
infernal barbarity had cast his loving wife and the murdered body of
her supposed lover into a room together--consigning her to a death
too fearful to contemplate. The man who had just been taken away was
a mason, who had been procured to wall up the only door to the room.
"I listened, my very life-blood freezing with horror; but judge of my
feelings when, from their description of the room, I knew it to be
the one with the hidden door. In that instant everything was
forgotten but the one thought of freeing her who was dearer still to
me than life. I was more like a frantic man than one sane. I
procured a ladder, made my way noiselessly into the deserted lumber
room, ascended it, and carefully let fall the trap. The lifeless
form of the murdered man lay across the opening, but I pushed it
aside and sprang into the room, thinking only of Bertha. In the
farthest corner, crouching down to the floor, she sat, a glibbering
idiot. The terrible shock had driven her insane.
"What I felt at that dreadful sight no words can ever tell. I raised
her in my arms and bore her, unresisting, down into the lumber-room.
I closed the trap, concealed the ladder, and carrying her as if she
were an infant, I fled from the accursed spot. She neither spoke nor
uttered a single cry, but lay passively in my arms. There were boats
on the shore; I placed her in one, and with a strength that seemed
almost superhuman rowed over the heaving waves till morning. Whither
I was going I knew not, neither did I care; my only object was to
bear her beyond the reach of her deadly enemy.
"When morning came, I found myself on the shore, below this place. I
had often been here, and admired this quiet and hidden spot, buried
in the depths of the wood. Here I bore Bertha, who followed me like
a child; and, before noon I had constructed a sort of rude hut, to
screen her from the heat of the sun and the night dew. Then I went
to N---- for such necessaries as I immediately required, and
resolved, that here I would spend my life in watching over my poor,
insane cousin.
"It would be dull, tedious, and uninteresting to relate how I labored
for the next few weeks, to construct this hut, and form, as best I
could, the rude furniture you see here. It was a labor of love, and
I heeded not fatigue nor want of rest, until it was completed. No
child in the arms of its nurse could be more quiet and docile than
Bertha, but I saw that reason had fled forever. I fancied she would
always remain thus still and gentle, and never dreamed she could be
attacked by paroxysms of violence, like other lunatics; until one
night, I was startled to find her raving mad, flying through the
house and shrieking murder. All the events of that terrible night
seemed to come back to her, and she fled from the house before I
could detain her, sprang into the boat, and put off for the island.
She knew how to manage a boat, and before I could reach N---- and
procure another, she had reached the island, entered Campbell's
Lodge, still making the air resound with her shrill shrieks of
murder. Fortunately, in the dark, she was not perceived, and I
managed to seize her and bear her off to the boat before any one
beheld her.
"A fortnight after, when I visited N----, I learned that Mark
Campbell was dead; and, I knew that he must have heard her cries, and
supposing them to be supernatural, the shock had hastened his death.
"Of Bertha's child, I could discover nothing. How he disposed of it
is unknown to me to this hour.
"And so, Bertha and I have lived here for fourteen years, unmolested,
and our very existence is doubtless long since forgotten. She is, as
you see her, gentle and harmless; but, she still has those periodical
attacks of violence, but in a lesser degree than at first. At such
times, by some strange instinct, or glimmering of reason, she always
seeks the isle, enters Campbell's Lodge, and goes wandering through
the rooms, as if vacantly trying to remember something that is past.
These nocturnal visits have given the lodge the reputation of being
haunted, which her appearance at different times upon the isle has
confirmed. As the house was for several years deserted, except by
some old servants, after the death of Mark Campbell, she could roam
with impunity through the rooms--sometimes even pushing back bolts
and entering apartments that were locked. Such, Christie, is the
story of the maniac Bertha."
All this time Christie had been listening, with a look of the
deepest, most absorbed attention, in silent amazement at all she
heard. The mystery of the haunted house and the spirit of the isle,
was cleared up at last.
"And the child--did you never hear anything more of it?" inquired
Christie.
"Nothing concerning it have I ever heard."
"Then it may be still alive."
"It is very probable; villain as he was, he would not slay his own
child. But enough of this; it is wearing late, and thee looks tired,
Christie. Good-night, my daughter."
Christie sought her couch, to wonder and dream over what she had
heard, and forget for a time her own griefs in thinking of the
greater ones of poor Bertha. How similar, too, seemed their fate!
The sufferings of both had originated in those fatal secret
marriages. Bertha's were over, but Christie's were not; and
wondering how hers were to end, Christie fell asleep.
And thus days, and weeks, and months glided by in the little, lonely,
forest cottage. The long, dreary winter passed, and spring was again
robing the trees in green, while the inmates of the cottage knew
nothing of the events passing in the great world, more than if they
no longer dwelt in it--dreamed not of the startling denouement to the
tragedy of the isle that was even then hastening to a close; until
their peace was broken by an unexpected occurrence that roused
Christie into electric life once more.
But for the present we must leave her, and return to the other scenes
and characters of our story.