NIGHT AND STORM.
The heavens were growing very dark; the wind was rising and driving
black clouds athwart the sky; the atmosphere was becoming piercingly
cold; the snow, that during the middle of the day had thawed, was
freezing hard. Yet Marian hurried fearlessly and gayly on over the
rugged and slippery stubble fields that lay between the cottage and the
beach. A rapid walk of fifteen minutes brought her down to the water's
edge. But it was now quite dark. Nothing could be more deserted, lonely
and desolate than the aspect of this place. From her feet the black
waters spread outward, till their utmost boundaries were lost among the
blacker vapors of the distant horizon. Afar off a sail, dimly seen or
guessed at, glided ghost-like through the shadows. Landward, the
boundaries of field and forest, hill and vale, were all blended, fused,
in murky obscurity. Heavenward, the lowering sky was darkened by wild,
scudding, black clouds, driven by the wind, through which the young moon
seemed plunging and hiding as in terror. The tide was coming in, and the
waves surged heavily with a deep moan upon the beach. Not a sound was
heard except the dull, monotonous moan of the sea, and the fitful,
hollow wail of the wind. The character of the scene was in the last
degree wild, dreary, gloomy and fearful. Not so, however, it seemed to
Marian, who, filled with happy, generous and tumultuous thoughts, was
scarcely conscious of the gathering darkness and the lowering storm, as
she walked up and down upon the beach, listening and waiting. She
wondered that Thurston had not been there ready to receive her; but this
thought gave her little uneasiness; it was nearly lost, as the storm and
darkness also were, in the brightness and gladness of her own loving,
generous emotions. There was no room in her heart for doubt or trouble.
If the thought of the morning's conversation and of Angelica entered her
mind, it was only to be soon dismissed with fair construction and
cheerful hope. And then she pictured to herself the surprise, the
pleasure of Thurston, when he should hear of the accession of fortune
which should set them both free to pursue their inclinations and plans
for their own happiness and for the benefit of others. And she sought in
her bosom if the letters were safe. Yes; there they were; she felt them.
Her happiness had seemed a dream without that proof of its reality. For
once she gave way to imagination, and allowed that magician to build
castles in the air at will. Thurston and herself must go to England
immediately to take possession of the estate; that was certain. Then
they must return. But ere that she would confide to him her darling
project; one that she had never breathed to any, because to have done so
would have been vain; one that she had longingly dreamed of, but never,
as now, hoped to realize. And Edith--she would make Edith so
comfortable! Edith should be again surrounded with the elegancies and
refinements of life. And Miriam--Miriam should have every advantage of
education that wealth could possibly secure for her, either in this
country or in Europe. If Edith would spare Miriam, the little girl
should go with her to England. But Thurston--above all, Thurston! A
heavy drop of rain struck Marian in the face, and, for an instant, woke
her from her blissful reverie.
She looked up. Why did not Thurston come? The storm would soon burst
forth upon the earth; where was Thurston? Were he by her side there
would be nothing formidable in the storm, for he would shelter her with
his cloak and umbrella, as they should scud along over the fields to the
cottage, and reach the fireside before the rain could overtake them.
Where was he? What could detain him at such a time? She peered through
the darkness up and down the beach. To her accustomed eye, the features
of the landscape were dimly visible. That black form looming like a
shadowy giant before her was the headland of Pine Bluff, with its base
washed by the sullen waves. It was the only object that broke the dark,
dull monotony of the shore. She listened; the moan of the sea, the wail
of the wind, were blended in mournful chorus. It was the only sound that
broke the dreary silence of the hour.
Hark! No; there was another sound. Amid the moaning and the wailing of
winds and waves, and the groaning of the coming storm, was heard the
regular fall of oars, soon followed by the slow, grating sound of a boat
pushed up upon the frozen strand. Marian paused and strained her eyes
through the darkness in the direction of the sound, but could see
nothing save the deeper, denser darkness around Pine Bluff. She turned,
and, under cover of the darkness, moved swiftly and silently from the
locality. The storm was coming on very fast. The rain was falling and
the wind rising and driving it into her face. She pulled her hood
closely about her face, and wrapped her shawl tightly about her as she
met the blast.
Oh! where was Thurston, and why did he not come? She blamed herself for
having ventured out; yet could she have foreseen this? No; for she had
confidently trusted in his keeping his appointment. She had never known
him to fail before. What could have caused the failure now? Had he kept
his tryste they would now have been safely housed at Old Field Cottage.
Perhaps Thurston, seeing the clouds, had taken for granted that she
would not come, and he had therefore stayed away. Yet, no; she could not
for an instant entertain that thought. Well she knew that had a storm
risen, and raged as never a storm did before, Thurston, upon the bare
possibility of her presence there, would keep his appointment. No;
something beyond his control had delayed him. And, unless he should now
very soon appear, something very serious had happened to him. The storm
was increasing in violence; her shawl was already wet, and she resolved
to hurry home.
She had just turned to go when the sound of a man's heavy, measured
footsteps, approaching from the opposite direction, fell upon her ear.
She looked up half in dread, and strained her eyes out into the
blackness of the night. It was too dark to see anything but the outline
of a man's figure wrapped in a large cloak, coming slowly on toward her.
As the man drew near she recognized the well-known figure, air and gait;
she had of the identity. She hastened to meet him, exclaiming in a low,
eager tone:
"Thurston! dear Thurston!"
The man paused, folded his cloak about him, drew up, and stood perfectly
still.
Why did he not answer her? Why did he not speak to her? Why did he stand
so motionless, and look so strange? She could not have seen the
expression of his countenance, even if a flap of his cloak had not been
folded across his face; but his whole form shook as with an ague fit.
"Thurston! dear Thurston!" she exclaimed once more, under her breath, as
she pressed toward him.
But he suddenly stretched out his hand to repulse her, gasping, as it
were, breathlessly, "Not yet--not yet!" and again his whole frame shook
with an inward storm. What could be the reason of his strange behavior?
Oh, some misfortune had happened to him--that was evident! Would it were
only of a nature that her own good news might be able to cure. And it
might be so. Full of this thought, she was again pressing toward him,
when a violent flurry of rain and wind whistled before her and drove
into her face, concealing him from her view. When the sudden gust as
suddenly passed, she saw that he remained in the same spot, his breast
heaving, his whole form shaking. She could bear it no longer. She
started forward and put her arms around his neck, and dropped her head
upon his bosom, and whispered in suppressed tones:
"Dearest Thurston, what is the matter? Tell me, for I love you more than
life!"
The man clasped his left arm fiercely around her waist, lifted his right
hand, and, hissing sharply through his clenched teeth:
"You have drawn on your own doom--die, wretched girl!" plunged a dagger
in her bosom, and pushed her from him.
One sudden, piercing shriek, and she dropped at his feet, grasping at
the ground, and writhing in agony. Her soul seemed striving to recover
the shock, and recollect its faculties. She half arose upon her elbow,
supported her head upon her hand, and with her other hand drew the steel
out from her bosom, and laid it down. The blood followed, and with the
life-stream her strength flowed away. The hand that supported her head
suddenly dropped, and she fell back. The man had been standing over her,
speechless, motionless, breathless, like some wretched somnambulist,
suddenly awakened in the commission of a crime, and gazing in horror,
amazement, and unbelief upon the work of his sleep.
Suddenly he dropped upon his knees by her side, put his arm under her
head and shoulders and raised her up; but her chin fell forward upon her
bosom, and her eyes fixed and glazed. He laid her down gently, groaning
in a tone of unspeakable anguish:
"Miss Mayfield! My God! what have I done?" And with an awful cry,
between a shriek and a groan, the wretched man cast himself upon the
ground by the side of the fallen body.
The storm was beating wildly upon the assassin and his victim; but the
one felt it no more than the other. At length the sound of footsteps was
heard approaching fast and near. In the very anguish of remorse the
instinct of self-preservation seized the wretched man, and he started up
and fled as from the face of the avenger of blood.