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.