"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.