"Mrs. Edgar Courtney, now; she was Laura Britton when I last met her," he said, as if half speaking to himself.
"S'pose you've known her a long time?" continued Mrs. Tom.
"Yes, we were children together," he replied, in the same dreamy tone.
"And her husband—known him long?" pursued Mrs. Tom.
"Yes, I know him for a cruel, jealous, passionate tyrant!" said Willard, starting up so suddenly and fiercely that Mrs. Tom dropped the ball she was winding, and sprang back.
"Well, you needn't make such a fuss about it!" she exclaimed, recovering herself, and indignantly resuming her work. "Scaring a body out o' their wits for nothin'. I s'pose she knowed all that afore she took him."
"Pray, pardon my vehemence, Mrs. Tom," said Willard, recovering himself by an effort, as he saw Christie's troubled gaze fixed on his face; "I forgot myself for a moment. But this patient of yours, this Mr. Courtney, may need a doctor. I am going over to Westport to-night, and if you wish, I will bring one to-morrow."
"It would be better," said Mrs. Tom, thoughtfully. "He's got a temenjous cut right in his head. I did what I could for him; but, of course, a body would feel more satisfied if they had a reg'lar doctor.'
"If I were ill, Mrs. Tom, I should trust to you in preference to any doctor ever warranted to kill or cure," said Willard, as he took his hat to go.
Mrs. Tom smiled benignly at the compliment, quite delighted at this tacit acknowledgment of her skill.
And an hour after, Willard and Lem were on their way to Westport.
What were Willard Drummond's thoughts, as, sitting silently in the stern of the boat, he watched the dancing waves flash and sparkle in the sunlight? Very different from those he had indulged not long since, when, on one eventful night, he and Christie had crossed it together. This Laura Courtney, with her pretty, piquant face, and pert, saucy manners, had first won his boyish heart. He had raved, and vowed, and implored at her feet, but she only laughed at him and his passion, and now she had no more power over his heart than if she never existed. Might it not be the same with those he had loved since? Was not his passion for Christie beginning to grow cold already? Would it not grow colder every day? And in the hot ardor of his love he had made this little obscure, uneducated, shy child, his wife. Why, oh, why, had he not waited? And now that the deed was irreparable, where was this to end?
They reached Westport before dark; and Lem, having landed him, set off for the island again, promising to return for him in the morning. The moon was just rising above the pine trees when he reached home; and, on entering the house, the first object he beheld was his young mistress, in close conversation with his mother.
"Lor' sakes, Miss Sibyl! you here!" was Lem's first ejaculation.
"Yes, Lem; and glad to be home again," she answered, gayly. "Aunt Moll tells me you have just been taking Mr. Drummond over to Westport."
"So I hev; but I'm to go for him early to-morrow-mornin.' 'Spect, ef he'd know you was a comin,' he'd staid here."
"Humph!" said Aunt Moll, dubiously.
"Did he seem lonely during my—during our absence?" asked Sibyl.
"Lonesome? 'Deed he didn't, honey; he was in fust rate spirits all the time."
"Ah!" said Sibyl, a shadow falling over her face; "he spent his time in fishing and shooting, I suppose, and snaring birds?"
"Snarin' birds? Yes; an' caught one, too," said Aunt Moll, in a tone that spoke volumes.
"Caughtone! What do you mean, Aunt Moll? I don't understand," said Sibyl, anxiously.
"Miss Sibyl, don't listen to her. She's allers got some nonsense to tell," interrupted Lem, casting an angry and warning glance toward his mother.
But now that the opportunity she had so long waited for had come, the old woman's tongue was not to be stopped.
"It's all fur yer good, child, 'deed it is; an' I 'siders it my duty to warn you, honey, dat Massa Drummond ain't to be 'pended on. Dar!"
"Aunt Moll, what do you mean? Speak, and tell me what you are hinting at. What has Mr. Drummond done?" asked Sibyl, growing very pale.
"Well, chile, 'stead o' stayin' here, and thinking ob you, as he'd orter, he's been prowlin', all hours o' de night, round de island, wid dat 'ar Miss Chrissy—making lub to her, I'll be bound."
"What?" cried Sibyl, in a tone that made the old woman leap to her feet, as she sprang forward, and caught her by the arm. "Dare you insinuate such a thing? I tell you he could not, and he would not—he dare not prove false to me!"
"Miss Sibyl, honey! for de Lord's sake, don't look at me wid such wild eyes. I 'spec's she's witched him. I can't 'count for it no other way," said Aunt Moll, trembling before the awful wrath of those blazing eyes. "I on'y says what I knows. He's all the time talkin' 'bout her to hisself, when he's 'lone."
"It cannot be true; he dare not deceive me!" almost shrieked Sibyl. "What proof have you of this? Speak! speak!"
"Miss Sibyl, honey! you may 'sassinate me ef you's a mind to; but I's tellin' de trufe. Sence eber you left, dey ain't a minute apart. Dey've sailed in de riber after night, an' gone trampin' in de woods in de day time; an' I's heered him callin' her his 'dear Chrissy,' when he's 'lone. I knows, chile, 'taint pleasant, nor likewise 'greeable for you to hear dis; but I talks for your good, honey—'deed I does."
But now the first fierce gust of passion was over, and pale and tottering, Sibyl leaned against the chimney-piece—her arm on the mantel, her head bowed upon it, shuddering, sinking, collapsed. All his neglect, that had puzzled her so long, was accounted for now. She was forgotten—deserted, for this island girl!
So long she remained in that fixed, rigid attitude, that Aunt Moll began to grow alarmed; and she was on the point of commencing a consoling speech, beginning with: "Miss Sibyl, honey," when the young girl lifted her head, and, asked in a hollow voice:
"Is this—this girl on the island still?"
"Yes, chile, ob course she is—down to Miss Tom's."
For a moment longer Sibyl stood, gazing steadily before her, with those wild, fierce, burning eyes; her face perfectly colorless, save that two dark-purple spots blazed in and out upon it like burning coals; her teeth set; her hands clenched. All the humiliation, the shame, the agony of being deserted, rushed, like a burning torrent, through her mind. And with it came a fierce, demoniacal hatred of her idol, and a deadly wish to be revenged.
Starting suddenly up, she fled up the stairs, through the long, unlighted hall, out of the front door, and took the path leading to Mrs. Tom's.
The bright moonlight lit all around with a pale, radiant glory. And, standing near a rock, commanding an extensive view of the sea, Christie stood, enjoying the beauty of the night, when suddenly a fierce grasp was laid on her shoulder, and she looked up. Her vision was realized. Sibyl Campbell stood glaring upon her, with her fierce, wild, black eyes, her long hair streaming down her back, like an aroused tigress preparing to spring.
"Thou mayest hold a serpent by the tongue,A chafed lion by the mortal paw,A fasting tiger safer by the tooth,Than cross this love of mine."
Trembling, paralyzed, shrinking with terror and superstitious awe, as she recollected her vision, Christie stood quailing before that dark, passionate glance.
And, glaring upon her with a hatred and jealousy that for the time "swept her soul in tempests," and inspired her with a momentary frenzy, Sibyl stood, transfixing her with those wild, fierce eyes. With one glance she took in all her rival's extraordinary beauty, far surpassing even what she feared; and the sight, to her passionate heart, was like oil poured upon flame.
"So," she hissed, at length, through her closed teeth, "pretty Miss Christie has found a lover during my absence. Girl, take care! You have begun a dangerous game, but the end has not come!"
Her words broke the spell of terror that held Christie dumb. And now, noticing her disordered attire, and wild, disheveled hair, she said, in surprise and entreaty:
"Miss Sibyl, what has happened? What have I done? I did not know you were on the island."
"No; I am aware of that," said Sibyl, with a hard, bitter laugh. "Oh, it is a wondrous pity I should have come so soon to spoil the sport! You and your dainty lover thought yourselves secure—thought Sibyl Campbell far away. But again I say to you, beware! for 'twere better for you to tamper with a lioness robbed of her young than with the passions of this beating, throbbing heart!"
She looked like some priestess of doom denouncing all mankind as she stood there, with her long, black, streaming hair, her wild, burning, passionate eyes, her face white, rigid, and ghastly, save where the two purple spots still blazed in and out on either cheek.
"Oh, Miss Sibyl—dear Miss Sibyl! what have I done? Oh, I never,nevermeant to offend you, or stand in your path; as Heaven hears me, I did not! Tell me, only tell me in what I have offended, and I will never do it again," said Christie, clasping her hands in increasing terror and childlike simplicity.
"What have you done? Have you really the effrontery to stand there and ask me such a question?"
"Miss Sibyl, I do not know—indeed, indeed, I do not know!" exclaimed Christie, earnestly.
In all the storm of anger and jealousy that raged in her soul, a look of superb scorn curled the lips of Sibyl.
"You do not know! Oh, wondrous innocence! angelic simplicity! Must I despise as well as hate you? Listen, then, since I must speak my shame, and answer me truly, as you hope for salvation. Promise."
"I promise!"
"Swear to answer me truly, by all you hold dear on earth! by your hopes of heaven!"
"I swear! Oh, Sibyl, speak!" cried Christie, wrought up to an agony of terror and excitement by her wild words.
"Then, and may Heaven's heaviest curse fall upon him if I conjecture truly—has Willard Drummond dared to speak of love to you?"
Pale, trembling, terror-stricken, Christie's tongue clove to the roof of her mouth; had her life depended on it, no sound could have escaped her quivering lips.
"Speak, and tell me! Speak, for I must know—I have a right to know?" cried Sibyl, grasping her arm, and setting her teeth hard to keep down the tempest of passion that was sweeping through her soul.
"Oh, spare me—spare me!" wailed Christie, lifting up her pleading hands.
"Death, girl! Must I tear the truth from your false heart! Tell me, truly, has he dared to speak of love, and have you dared to listen to him? Heavens! will you speak before I am tempted to murder you!"
"Oh, do not ask me—do not ask me!" cried Christie, in a dying voice, as trembling, fainting, she sank at the feet of her terrible foe.
With her hands clenched until the nails sank into the quivering flesh, her teeth set hard, her deep, labored breathing, her passion-convulsed face, she looked more like an enraged pythoness than a frail girl learning for the first time her lover's infidelity.
She required no further proof now. He whom she would have trusted with her soul's salvation was false. And, oh! what is there more terrible in this world than to learn that one whom we love and trust has proven untrue?
Sibyl had loved as she had done everything else—madly; had trusted blindly; had worshipped idolatrously, adoring man instead of God; and now this awakening was doubly terrible. Had Christie been in her place, she would have wept and sobbed in the utter abandon of sorrow; but her grief would have been nothing compared with the dry, burning despair in those wild black eyes.
Now that Sibyl had learned the worst, her fiery, tempestuous fierceness passed away, and there fell a great calm—a calm all the more terrific after her late storm of passion.
"And so I am forsaken," she said, in a deep, hollow voice, "and for her—this pretty, blue-eyed baby. I, whom he promised to love through life and beyond death. Saints in heaven! shall he do this and live?"
"You?" said Christie, lifting her pale, terrified face. "And did he promise to love you, too?"
"Yes, learn it, and let it whelm your soul in shame. Before he saw you, before he knew you, he loved me; and I was to be his wife. Yes, weep, and wail, and sob; your tears shall not soon dry. You have caused him to forget his vows, his honor, his plighted faith, his promised love to me, and you must pay the penalty."
"Oh, I never knew it—I never knew it!" wailed Christie, wringing her hands.
"And, as he has been false to me, so, likewise, will he be false you. You are the cause of his treachery, of his broken vows, his perjured soul; you are the cause of all; and, think you such love can be blessed?"
"Forgive me! Oh, Sibyl, forgive me!" still wailed Christie.
"May Heaven never forgive me if I do!" cried Sibyl, with impassioned vehemence. "Think you, girl, I am one to be won by tears and protestations? Faugh! you should have thought of all this when you listened to his unlawful love."
"Oh, I did not know! As Heaven hears me, I did not know. I would have died sooner than have listened to him, had I known!"
"Prove it," said Sibyl, with a sudden gleam in her dark eyes.
"How—how? Only say how I shall redeem my error! Let me know how I may atone!"
"Atone!—you?", said Sibyl, with a withering sneer. "I tell you, girl, if your life could be prolonged for a thousand years, and every second of that time spent in torture, you could not atone for the wrong you have done me. But make such expiation as you can—prove at least that there is some truth in your words."
"Oh, Sibyl, I would willingly die if I could redeem my fault."
"Your death would not redeem it. What is your paltry life to me? Neither do I require it—the sacrifice I would have you make is easier. Give him up!"
"Oh! anything but that! Sibyl, that is worse than death!" said the stricken child-bride, in a fainting voice.
"Did you not say you would atone? Prove it now—give him up—it is my right, and I demand it. Promise."
"Oh, I cannot!—I cannot!" moaned Christie, shrinking down, as though she would never rise again.
"And this is your repentance—this, your atonement for what you have done?" said Sibyl, stepping back, and regarding her with superb scorn. "This, then, is the end of all your fine promises. Girl, I tell you, you dare not; it is at your peril you see him more. My claim is above yours. I warn, I insist, I demand you to give him up. It is my right, and you shall do it. What are you, little reptile, that you should stand in the path of Sibyl Campbell?"
"I am his wife!" arose to the lips of Christie. That little sentence she well knew would have silenced Sibyl's claim forever, but she remembered her promise in time, and was silent.
"Rise, girl, don't cower there at my feet," said Sibyl, stepping back in bitter contempt. "It is your place, it is true; but his love has ennobled you, since it has raised you to the rank of my rival. Am I to understand you promise your intimacy with him is at an end?"
"Miss Sibyl, I cannot. I love him!" And pale and sad, Christie rose and stood before her.
The blaze, the dark, scorching, flaming glance from those eyes of fire might have killed her.
"And you dare utter this to me?" she said, or rather hissed, through her tightly clenched teeth. "Audacious girl, do you not fear that I will strike you dead where you stand?"
Again Christie thought of her vision, and trembling, terrified, fainting, she clung to a rock for support, unable to speak. With all the fiery, long-slumbering passion of her lion-heart aroused, the fierce, dark girl before her looked desperate enough for anything.
"Promise!" she said, in a hollow voice, coming nearer, and raising her arm threateningly.
"I cannot! Oh, Miss Sibyl, I cannot!" faltered the almost fainting Christie.
"Promise!" again cried Sibyl, glaring upon her with her wild, dark eyes.
"I cannot!" still wailed Christie, pressing her hand over her heart.
"Promise, or die!" exclaimed the mad girl, grasping her by the arm in a vise-like grip.
"I cannot—I would sooner die!" said Christie, as, unable to stand, she again sank at the feet of her vindictive foe.
For a moment it seemed as though the threat would be accomplished, as Sibyl stood over her like one turned to stone. But the next instant releasing her hold, she hurled her from her; and, as if fleeing from temptation, fled down the rocks, over the rough path toward the lodge, and sank fainting and exhausted on the sitting-room floor.
An hour later Aunt Moll entered, and beholding Sibyl, with her streaming hair, lying prone on the floor, grew alarmed, and coming over, she shook her gently, saying:
"Miss Sibyl, is yer sick? Come, git up now, like a good chile, 'fore you catch your def o' cold, a lyin' on de bare floor. 'Deed, honey, 'taint right for young people to heave derselves into de draft, dis way."
But Aunt Moll went through all the phases of the potential mood—"commanding, exhorting"—in vain. Her young mistress neither moved nor stirred.
"Now, Miss Sibyl, do get up—please do. De Lord knows I's 'fraid you'll cotch de rheumatiz in yer bones. Most oncomfortablest thing as ever was; 'specially fore a rain storm, when ebery j'int feels as if dere was forty hundred cross-cut saws a going t'rough it. Come, chile—come, git up, an' let yer ole mammy ondress you, an' put yer to bed."
And Aunt Moll shook the supposed sleeper gently.
Sibyl lifted her head, and half rose, disclosing a face so pale and haggard, a form so sunken and collapsed, that Aunt Moll started back in terror.
"What on airth de matter in you, Miss Sibyl? I 'clare to man, if yer ain't almost skeered me out o' my wits, sure 'nuff! Is you sick, chile?"
"Yes, sick at heart!—sick at heart!" said Sibyl, in a despairing voice.
"I knowed sumfin' was de matter wid yer. Well, git up like a good chile, and let me git some catnip tea for you, it's the best cure in the world for sich complaints."
"Oh, Aunt Moll, leave me. My illness is beyond your art. 'Not poppy nor mandragora can ever medicine me to that sweet sleep' I once slept beneath this roof."
"Now, chile, don't say so," said Aunt Moll, touched by her hopeless tone. "Folks ain't tuk so sudden as all dat, you know. I ain't got no poppy nor man dragoon; but catnip tea is jes' as good, cordin' to my way o' thinkin'. An' when you take a good night's res', you'll be all well in de mornin'—please de Lor'."
"Rest! Rest! When shall I rest again? Aunt Moll, leave me. I want to be alone."
"'Deed, Miss Sibyl, I darsent do it—'twon't do to leab you here in de draf, all alone. Let me help you to bed, an' make de catnip tea, an' you'll be better to-morrow, sure."
"Oh, this heart—this heart!"
"Yes, chile, I knows; I 'spects it's de cramps you'se got, an' I 'vises of you to get up. Come, honey, come." And Aunt Moll put her arm coaxingly round her young lady's neck, and attempted to lift her up.
"Oh, Aunt Moll! if you only knew my affliction! What matters it whether I die or not, since I have nothing more to live for? I might as well die now as live; for the living death of a loveless life."
"You mustn't talk so, Miss Sibyl; 'taint right, nor likewise 'spectful to de Lord, who sends us cramps, as well as healf, sometimes. 'Tis r'ally 'stonishin', de way you takes on 'bout it."
"Aunt Moll, I am not bodily ill—only wronged, suffering, despairing, deceived, broken-hearted almost," said Sibyl, looking straight before her, with a fixed, anguished look.
"Dear heart! don't take on so about it. I's real sorry, I is."
And good Aunt Moll passed her hand gently and caressingly over the glossy, dark locks of the young girl.
"Oh! there is nothing but falsehood and treachery in this world! I, who loved and trusted so much, to be now deceived! I would have staked my life, my soul, my hopes of heaven on his fidelity! And now, this awakening from my blissful, delusive dream is worse than death. Oh, Aunt Moll! my dear old friend, is there any one who really loves me in this world but you?"
And, wholly overcome, Sibyl's strong despair gave way to a passionate burst of tears.
Since Sibyl had been a child, Aunt Moll never remembered to have seen her weep before; and now, in her quaint, tender manner, she strove to soothe her grief. But still the young girl wept and sobbed with wild vehemence, until nature was relieved; and she looked up, calmer and far less despairing than before.
"Aunt Moll," she said, suddenly, "what time does Lem go over to Westport to-morrow?"
"Before noon, honey."
"Then tell him to be ready to take me to N—— before he goes forhim! And now, Aunt Moll, I will follow your advice, and retire."
"But won't you take the catnip tea, chile?" persisted the old woman, who had some vague idea of the all-powerful virtues of the herb.
"No, no, thank you, I do not need it."
"But it'll do you good, chile; you'll feel more comfortable for it."
"Comfort! comfort! Can anything ever restore comfort here?" And she struck her breast with her hand.
"Yes, honey, de catnip tea."
"Good-night, Aunt Moll." And Sibyl flitted, like a shadow, up the long staircase, and disappeared in the gloom beyond.
——"Trifles, light as air,Are to the jealous confirmation strongAs proofs of holy writ.—OTHELLO.
The next morning, Sibyl made her appearance in the sitting-room, pale, wan, and haggard, as though she had spent a sleepless night. But she appeared calm. Whatever course she had determined to pursue, seemed fully settled, and now she was calm; but it was like the calmness of a sleeping volcano, from which fire and flame, hurling destruction on all, might at any moment burst forth.
Answering gravely all Aunt Moll's anxious inquiries after her health, she seated herself at the breakfast-table, but touched nothing, save a cup of hot coffee. And, after this slight refreshment, she put on her hat and mantle and descended to the beach, where Lem, with the boat, was already awaiting her coming.
Seating herself, she wrapped her mantle closely around her, and fixing her eyes steadily on the dancing waves, the journey was performed in stern silence. Two hours brought them to N——, and, leaving her there, Lem set out for Westport to meet Drummond. Arrived there, he found that young gentleman, accompanied by Captain Campbell and a florid, bald-headed, old man, who proved to be the surgeon.
On their way, Willard explained to them how the wounded man and his wife had been saved from the wreck. And when they reached the island, Captain Campbell, unconscious that his sister was gone, hastened to the lodge, while Willard accompanied the surgeon to the cottage of Mrs. Tom.
As they entered, Christie, who in spite of her hidden grief, was busily employed as usual, looked hastily up, and turned, if possible, a shade paler than before.
Mrs. Courtney sat listlessly turning over the leaves of a novel, with a bored look on her pretty face; while opposite her, supported by pillows, on Mrs. Tom's wooden sofa, lay her wounded husband, whose eyes never for a moment, wandered from her face.
He was a man of thirty, at least, and would have been handsome but for his ghastly pallor and a certain sour, querulous, suspicious expression his face were. His complexion, naturally dark, had faded to a sickly yellow, looking almost white in contrast with his black hair, and thick, black whiskers and mustache. But it was the expression of his face that was particularly unprepossessing—in the thin, compressed lips, and watchful, cunning eyes you could read suspicion, distrust, and doubt. Two things would have struck you instantly, had you seen him sitting there—one, was his passionate love for his wife; the other, a slumbering fire of jealousy, that the faintest breath might have fanned into a never-dying flame.
They formed a striking contrast as they sat there—she so pretty, careless, saucy, and indifferent; he so haggard with illness, and with that watchful, distrustful look on his face. And yet, it had been a love-match; he loved her to idolatry, and she, rejecting perhaps worthier suitors, at the age of sixteen had run away from school and eloped with Edgar Courtney. Willard Drummond had been among the rejected ones. Before the honey-moon was over, the wild girl had found she had married a jealous, exacting tyrant, who hated every man on whom she smiled, and would have kept her locked up, where no eye but his own could ever rest upon her, had he dared.
At first little Laura submitted to his caprices, because she loved him, or thought she did; but as he grew more and more exacting, this love died wholly away, and the little bride awoke one morning in dismay to find she had made a life-long mistake. Still, she was too good and generous to strive to lay the blame on him for taking advantage of her youth and romantic impulse to fly with him, and would have laughed and danced on as merrily as ever with him through life, without letting him know it, had not his own conduct brought on the denouement.
He continued to be tyrannical. Laura naturally proud and high-spirited, grew at length very tired of his absurd fancies and wishes, and vowed she would no longer be a "meek, submissive wife." But, though inwardly despising him herself, she would allow no one else to speak slightingly of him, as her first interview with Willard Drummond proved. And all the previous night she had hovered over his bedside, anticipating his every want with the most tender and vigilant care; and it was only when, the next morning, he found himself able to get up, that she had resumed her accustomed air of careless indifference to himself and his wishes. Had he been more generous and less suspicious—had he had faith in his young wife, she would have loved him and been his alone; but had he really wished to make her hate him, he could not have taken a surer plan to bring such a result than the one he did.
All this long digression is necessary, that too much blame may not be thrown upon the shoulders of the poor little girl-bride for her reckless conduct and the awful catastrophe that followed.
When Willard and the doctor entered, Christie, who had anxiously waited for this opportunity, seeing Mrs. Tom busily engaged, touched her husband on the arm, and, whispering "Follow me," left the house.
He unhesitatingly obeyed, and overtook her near the end of the garden, where, pale and troubled, she stood, leaning against a tree.
"Weil, Christie, what is it?" he asked, in surprise.
"Willard," she said, lifting her reproachful eyes to his face, "Sibyl Campbell was here last night!"
"Well!" he said, starting and coloring deeply.
"Oh, Willard! she told me all—how you had deceived her, and deceived me! Oh, Willard! how could you do so?"
"Deceived her?—deceived you? I do not understand, Christie," he said, coldly.
"Oh, Willard! you do! You promised to love only her—to marry her; yet you deceived her, and married me!"
"Well, a moment ago, you said I deceived you likewise. And how, I pray you, madam? Go on," he said, with a sneer.
"You made me your wife while pledged to another!"
"Which, doubtless, causes you a great deal of sorrow." he said, in a tone of slight pique; for though his passion for Christie was dying away, he could not endure the thought, as yet, of her forgetting him.
"Oh, Willard! you know being your wife is the greatest happiness on earth for me; but when I saw her, last night, so wild, passionate, and despairing, I felt as if I could have died for very shame to think I had been the cause of her misery!"
"Then she did seem despairing!" he said, while his face flushed.
"Oh, yes! almost crazed, mad, frenzied. Her eyes seemed killing me!"
"Who could have told her?—not you?" he exclaimed, suddenly.
"Oh, no—no! I do not know how she heard it; but she knew all."
"What! our marriage, and all?" he cried, starting up, and speaking in a tone that made Christie start back.
"No; she did not know that. But——"
"You did not dare to tell her?" he said, almost threateningly.
"Oh! why will you speak to me in that tone, dearest Willard? I did not mean to reproach you."
"It is very like it, however," he said bitterly.
"But may I not tell her, Willard? She wanted me to give you up; and I thought she would have killed me because I refused. I fear she may come again; and, indeed, such another interview would kill me! If she knew all, she would desist. Oh, Willard, dearest! will you not tell her—or may I not tell her?"
"Not for the world—not for ten thousand worlds! Would you ruin me, Christie?" he exclaimed, impetuously.
"Ruin you, Willard?" she said, faintly.
"My worldly prospects, I mean. My—oh, the thing is impossible!" he said vehemently. "I will not hear of it for a moment."
"But you promised," she began, in a choking voice.
"And will keep that promise when the proper time comes. At present it is impossible—utterly impossible, I tell you. You must have faith in me, and wait, Christie."
Faith! Was he worthy of it? The thought arose in the mind of Christie, to be instantly banished, as she heroically kept back her rising tears and strove to say, in a calm voice:
"Wait! But for how long? Willard, this secrecy is dreadful! this deception weighs on my heart like lead!"
"I do not know; I cannot tell. How often have I said, when theproper timecomes, when I may safely avow it, all shall be revealed. Christie, you are selfish—you have no consideration for any one but yourself. If I loved you better than Miss Campbell, you should be the last one to reproach me with it. Take care that many such scenes as this do not banish that love altogether."
His deeply offended tone sent the coldness of death to the very heart of Christie. She had not meant to anger him; and now he was deeply displeased. He had never looked nor spoken to her so before. And, totally overcome, she covered her face with her hands and wept aloud.
He was not proof against her tears. All the old tenderness returned at the sight, and, going over, he removed her hands, saying, gently:
"My dearest love, forgive me, I was vexed, surprised, grieved, and in the wrong. Look up, little wife. Lift those blue eyes and say you forgive me!"
Before she could reply a footstep was heard approaching, and she had only time to bestow on him one look of love and pardon, and dart away, ere Captain Campbell came in view.
"Well, Drummond, what says the doctor about your patient?" he demanded, as he came up.
"I have not seen him since he went in. But here he comes, to answer for himself."
At this moment the doctor made his appearance, and Willard propounded the inquiry.
"Oh, it's nothing serious, sir! He'll be better in a day or two," replied the doctor. "Meantime, how am I to get home?"
"My servant is down on the shore, waiting to take you over," said Captain Campbell.
"I'll attend you down, doctor," said Willard, taking the old gentleman's arm.
"And as I reign king, undisputed, here, I suppose it will be only polite attention to visit my wounded subject," said Captain Campbell, approaching the cottage.
On entering, he was presented by Mrs. Tom to her guests.
Equally surprised and pleased to find so pretty and piquant a little lady in Mrs. Courtney, the young captain took a seat beside her, and entered, forthwith, into conversation. Mr. Courtney scowled at the handsome young captain from under his black eyebrows, but said nothing.
And Mrs. Courtney, mutually delighted by the agreeable and gentlemanly newcomer, flung aside her novel, forgot herennui, and laughed and chatted with a volubility that amazed and delighted her companion, who immediately entered into a war of wit, words, and repartee, during which the time sped rapidly away.
Mrs. Tom was the only auditor, however, who seemed in the least to enjoy their smart sayings, and sharp, witty retorts; for Carl, under the unfailing eye of his aunt, was groaning in spirit, as he sat plucking fowls, with a haste and energy that brought great drops of perspiration to his brow, hearing, every time he ventured to look up, a shrill "You, Carl!" that instantly set him to work again with renewed vigor. Christie, pale, silent, and thoughtful, bent over her sewing, near the window; and Mr. Courtney's scowl grew every moment darker and darker.
At last, after two delightful hours, Captain Campbell arose, reluctantly, to go, saying:
"My sister, will, doubtless, be here in a day or two, Mrs. Courtney, and then you must become our guest. Meantime, I shall be delighted to show you my island home, and assist, in every way I can, to make the time of your stay pass as pleasantly as possible."
Mr. Courtney's midnight brows grew black as a thunder-cloud, and blacker, if possible, as his wife gayly replied:
"Thank you, sir. Nothing could give me more pleasure; so to-morrow, I shall, with your permission, take an inventory of your enchanting isle."
"Shall you, madam?" muttered her husband, between his teeth. "We shall see about that!"
All the rest of the evening Mr. Courtney was just as silent, sulky, and sour as he knew how to be, which is saying a good deal. And that night, after they had retired to the inner room which Mrs. Tom had vacated to their use, he took her to task in the following manner:
"Pray, madam, may I ask what business you had, giving that fellow any such promise as you did?"
Now Mrs. Courtney had seen her husband's groundless jealousy all the evening, and had been excessively annoyed thereby, fearing Captain Campbell might observe it, too, and wonder at it. Therefore, feeling justly indignant, she coolly replied:
"Because, sir, it was my good pleasure to do so."
"Indeed!" and the dark brow foreboded a storm, "indeed, Mrs. Courtney! And is it your intention to go roaming with this fellow, alone, through the island to-morrow?"
"Most assuredly, Mr. Courtney. How astonishingly clever you are at guessing!"
"Madam, you shall not go."
"Sir, I shall go!" said the lady, imitating his tone exactly.
"Have you no respect for yourself, madam—none for me, your husband?"
"Not the least, sir."
"It will be at your peril if you go."
"No, it won't—it'll be at my pleasure."
"Silence, madam!" he thundered, grinding his teeth with rage. "Do not dare to be impertinent, or you will repent it."
"Mr. Courtney, allow me to observe, the inmates of this house are trying to sleep. How they will succeed, if you go on in that manner, is a question easily answered," said Mrs. Courtney, sitting down, with a most provoking coolness, and beginning to unbutton her boots.
"Mrs. Courtney, I command you not to go with this man, to-morrow."
"Mr. Courtney, you may command till you are black in the face; but I've promised, and I'll go!" said his rebellious spouse.
He half sprang up from the bed in which he was lying, his eyes fairly scintillating with rage.
"Would you dare disgrace me in this way?" he said, in a voice hoarse with passion.
"Disgrace you? Disgrace a fiddlestick! Are you losing all the little sense you ever had, Mr. Courtney?" said his wife, now really indignant.
"Are you really smitten with—do you love this man?" he asked, in a hoarse, fierce whisper, keeping his gleaming, black eyes still fixed on her face.
For a moment a flash of intense anger shot from the eyes of Mrs. Courtney; then, as if the absurdity of the question overcame every other feeling, she threw herself back in her chair, and broke out in a hearty peal of laughter.
The action might have dispelled his absurd doubts; but, as nothing can convince jealous souls, he even looked upon this, as another proof of her guilt, and, raising himself up in his bed, he grasped her arm, while again he hissed:
"Do you love him?"
"Mr. Courtney, don't bother me!" said his polite spouse, indignantly shaking off his hand; "and don't make a greater simpleton of yourself than nature made you. Love him indeed! I've had enough of love for one while, I can tell you. I found it dose enough the last time I was fool enough to try it, and now that I've got nicely over it, nobody'll catch me at it again."
This was a most unfortunate speech, for Courtney's fear, day and night, was, lest his wife should cease to love him. He closed his teeth with a snap, and fell back on his pillow with a sepulchral moan.
There was a pause, during which Mrs. Courtney leisurely combed out her curls, and Mr. Courtney lay with knit brows, and deep, labored breathing. At length, he turned over, and said huskily:
"Laura!"
"Well?" said Laura, going on with her combing and brushing.
"You won't go out to-morrow?"
"Won't I? That's all you know about it, then."
"It's my wish you should stay."
"And it's my wish to go."
"Then youwillgo?"
"Most decidedly. And now, Mr. Courtney, hold your tongue, for I'm going to sleep."
He clenched his teeth with impotent rage, and his jealous soul shone forth hideously from his glittering eyes. And, angry and indignant, Mrs. Courtney went to sleep, muttering:
"I vow to Cupid, you shall have some cause for jealousy, my wise lord and master. Pity to have you jealous for nothing; so, handsome Captain Campbell, look out, for I mean to flirt like fury!"
"And to be wroth with one we love,Doth work like madness on the brain."—COLERIDGE.
That night of deepest woe to the passionate heart of Sibyl had been spent in pacing up and down her room, now hurling fierce, bitter maledictions on the head of him who had deceived her, and on this puny girl for whose sake she had been thrown aside; then in breathing wild, passionate vows of vengeance for the wrong, the deep humiliation that had been done her, and anon, throwing herself upon the floor in a convulsive fit of weeping. Then another mood would come, when she would forget all but the blissful days of the past, and all her despised love and tenderness would flood back to her soul, and her very heart would cry out to be with him again. And then would come the thought that this could never, never be again, and she would spring up with blazing eyes, her very tears seemingly turned to sparks of fire.
And, mingled with all these stormy passions was an under-current of deepest shame, of bitter humiliation, of wounded self-love and humbled pride. That she, the descendant of a haughty Highland clan, the daughter of a princely race, should be forgotten for one so far beneath her in every way, was a disgrace that sent the blood tingling to her pale cheeks, and made her clench her hands in impotent despair.
So passed the night.
With morning came a calmer mood. The necessity of adopting some line of conduct that would bring matters to a speedy denouement soothed for the time her frenzied brain. No one must know as yet of her desertion. She felt as though she could die sooner than survive the shame of such a discovery. Neither could she stay on the island. Her time for meeting her betrayer had not come; but it was at hand, and then——
The flame that leaped like forked lightning from her black eyes, the deep smile that curled her lips, better than words, spoke the rest.
Leaning her head on her hand, she thought intently. She would return to the parsonage, and remain there until her future course was decided upon. She could easily feign some plausible pretext for leaving the island, and good Mrs. Brantwell, she knew, would be but too happy to have her.
And, in pursuance of this resolution, she went early the following morning back to N——.
Mrs. Brantwell, as Sibyl anticipated, met her with a joyful welcome, and announced her resolution of giving a party a few evenings after in her welcome. Sibyl, in her present state of mind, would have shrunk from appearing in public; but as she could not do so without offending and surprising her hostess, and perhaps arousing her suspicions, she made no resistance to the plan.
"And you know, my dear," said Mrs. Brantwell, "now that you are an heiress, it is time that you should come out. Next winter you must go to New York and spend the gay season there; for, of course, you are quite too young to think of being married yet. I do not believe, for my part, in this new fashion of marrying girls before they are out of their bibs and tuckers, and having them settled down into old women before they are five-and-twenty. So, my dear, just politely inform Mr. Drummond that he must wait your ladyship's sovereign pleasure; and if he rebels, as of course he will, give him to understand he is not your lord and master yet, and you intend doing as you please. Men need to be put down, you know, my dear; it does them good, and takes the nonsense out of them." And Mrs. Brantwell laughed her jolly little laugh.
Sibyl averted her head to conceal the deadly paleness of her face.
"And now, Sibyl," continued the good old lady, "I want you to go with me to the island. Guy has told me of a lady and gentlemen who were saved from the wreck, and are stopping at that cottage, and I wish to invite them here to-morrow. So go and get ready."
"Mrs. Brantwell, excuse me, I would rather not go," said Sibyl, still keeping her face averted.
"Not go! What now, Mistress Sibyl? This is certainly something new," said the astonished old lady.
"I have a—headache, and would prefer lying down," said Sibyl, without turning round.
"Oh, in that case I suppose I must go alone. I'll send Betty up with some vinegar to bathe your head before I go," said the unsuspecting lady of the mansion, as she left the room to dress for her journey.
Captain Campbell, who was waiting for her on the shore, accompanied her to Mrs. Tom's and presented her to pretty little Mrs. Courtney, who took captive, almost instantly, the good lady's heart as she did that of most other people, and promptly accepted the invitation, to the manifest annoyance of her husband.
Mr. Courtney, though still quite weak and ailing, resolved also upon going, to watch his wife, under the conviction that her sole intent and purpose in going was to meet Captain Campbell.
And Willard Drummond, who was present, likewise received and accepted her invitation. What his motive in going could be, knowing Sibyl would be there, it would be hard to divine.
The evening for the party came; and at an early hour the drawing-room of the parsonage was all ablaze with lights. Carriage after carriage rolled up to the door, and bevy after bevy of fair ladies, elegantly dressed, flocked like bright-plumaged birds, through the brilliant rooms, and carried on gay flirtations with their friends in broadcloth.
Mrs. Brantwell, magnificent in black velvet, stood near the door to receive her guests. But every eye was fixed wonderingly, admiringly on Sibyl, who moved with the step of an empress through the throng.
Surpassingly beautiful she looked, with her crisp, shining curls of jet, shading on either side the burning crimson cheeks, her splendid Syrian eyes emitting a vivid streaming light, the rich dark robe of sheeney satin falling with classic elegance from her rounded waist; but the light in her eye was the fire of fever—the glow on her cheek the blaze of excitement, for the hour she had waited for was come, and Willard Drummond would stand arraigned before her that night.
Mrs. Courtney, bright, piquant, bewitching, divided the honors and admiration of the evening with Sibyl. Her husband, pale, ghastly, haggard with illness, and suffering the tortures of a mind deceased, moved like a specter, silent, gloomy, and watchful, through the merry throng. And Captain Campbell, elated, handsome, and courteous, was there too, the recipient of many a bewitching glance from the bright eyes present.
The company were all assembled, chatting, laughing, fluting, all but one. Sibyl stood in the midst of a gay group, the "bright particular star" of the evening, carrying on a spirited conversation, but ever and anon her eyes would wander to the door with fierce impatience. Why did he not come?
Edgar Courtney, standing gloomily by himself, was enduring the torments of a lost soul. His wife, knowing he was unequal to the effort, had endeavored to persuade him to stay; but this he ascribed to the wish of being alone with Captain Campbell. Then she offered to remain with him; and this, also, he refused, thinking, with strange self-torture, some evil design lay beneath. He would come—he would watch her; and Mrs. Courtney's high spirit arose, and she proudly and angrily resolved to act just as she pleased, and flirt just as desperately as she could. She had told him she did not love him—she had gone in defiance of his express command, in company with Captain Campbell, walking through the island; and from this slight foundation, Mr. Courtney judged his wife had fallen in love with Captain Campbell. Where his wife was concerned the man was a monomaniac.
And now he saw them before him, she leaning on his arm; her head bent, as with downcast eyes and smiling lips she listened to his low words. He gnashed his teeth, and glared upon them like a madman. At that moment his face was like that of a demon.
There was no dancing. Mr. Brantwell was a clergyman, and did not approve of it; but there was music, and as if to excite his jealous soul to madness, Captain Campbell led Laura to the piano, and hung over her, while she glanced slyly at him from under her long lashes, and sang "Oh, had we some bright little isle of our own," as though every word was meant for him alone.
Loud and long was the applause which followed. And then Captain Campbell led her to a seat, and took another beside her, and this low conversation was resumed.
Full with jealous rage, the self-tortured Courtney watched them, until, at the end of an hour or so, he saw Captain Campbell rise and leave her alone for a moment. Then, going over, and seeing all were too much engaged, by some one who was singing, to notice him, he grasped her fiercely by the arm, saying, in a hoarse whisper:
"Madam, do you mean to drive me mad?"
"No need; you're that already," said Mrs. Courtney, startled out of a reverie she had fallen into, but instantly remembering to be provoking.
"By heavens! I shall make you repent this conduct."
"Hush-sh! You mustn't speak so loud, my dear."
"Mrs. Courtney, will you tell me what you mean by permitting the attentions of this puppy?" he said, clenching his teeth to keep down his passion.
"Puppy! I'm surprised at your want of taste, Mr. Courtney. He's as handsome as Apollo."
"Ah-h!"
It was like a groan from a sepulcher, that deep, hollow respiration from his labored chest. He looked really a pitiable object, as he sat there, white, ghastly, and rigid. It touched with remorse his wife's heart, and, laying her hand on his arm, she said, more seriously:
"Edgar, don't be absurd. Positively you are as jealous as a Turk. I wish to goodness you wouldn't make yourself ridiculous this way."
"Laura, come away!"
"Come away! Where?"
"Out of this—any place—to the island again."
"Nonsense, Mr. Courtney! what an idea! I haven't the slightest intention of going away these two hours. It's very pleasant here."
"Lord! I am miserable in it."
"That's because, like little Jack Horner, you 'sit in the corner,' instead of mingling with the rest. I've seen some of the people looking at you as if they thought you were crazy."
"I shall be, if you continue this conduct much longer."
No one could look in his pale, haggard face and doubt the truth of his words. But Mrs. Courtney lost all patience.
"What, in the name of all the saints, have I done?" she burst out, angrily. "My own husband sits up like a living automaton in a dark corner, and pays me no more attention than if there wasn't such a pretty little person as Mrs. Courtney in existence; and because another gentleman, who has better taste, and doesn't wish to see me pining to death in solitude, pays me a few trifling attentions here, you come making as much fuss as if I were going to elope with him to-morrow. I declare Iwilltoo, if you don't let me alone."
"You will!"
And the hollow eyes glared like those of a maniac. Even the taunting little wife quailed before it.
"Ugh! 'Angels and ministers of grace defend us!' what a look that was. Really, Mr. Courtney, you are a ghoul, a vampire—a Vandal, a Goth! You'll scare the life out of me some day, if you don't take care. I wish to mercy you could be a little more reasonable, and not make such a goose of yourself!" said Mrs. Courtney, edging away from him.
"Take care, madam; it is not safe to trifle with me!"
"Well, who in the name of mercy,istrifling with you? Not I, I'm sure. And now, Mr. Courtney, here comes Captain Campbell; and do, for goodness sake! drop this subject, and don't make a laughing-stock of yourself and me, too. What under the sun would the man think if he heard you?"
"Do not fear, Mrs. Courtney; I will not interrupt yourtete-a-tetewith the gallant captain," said her husband, rising, with a ghastly smile. "I leave you to his care, satisfied you will make the best possible use of your time."
"That I will!" said his irritated spouse, turning her back indignantly on him, and greeting Captain Campbell with a smile.
Thus, in that scene of gayety, there were at least two tempest-tossed, jealous, passionate hearts—Edgar Courtney and Sibyl Campbell.
All the evening she had watched the door with burning, feverish impatience. Why, oh! why, did he not come.
Her heart was swelling, throbbing, as if it would escape from its frail tenement. She was growing wild, mad, with impatience and excitement. And yet, in spite of all her watching, he had entered unobserved by her.
At last, wrought up to an uncontrollable pitch of excitement, that was beginning to betray itself in every feverish action, she fled from the crowd that surrounded her, only anxious to be alone, feeling half crazed with her throbbing head and brow. A conservatory, cool, shady, and deserted, was near. Hither she went; and pushing open the door, entered.
A man stood revealed under the light of the chandelier.
With a suppressed cry of mingled surprise and fierce joy, she stepped back, and Sibyl and her false lover stood face to face.
"Ah! what a tangled web we weave,When first we practice to deceive."—SCOTT.
There was a moment's profound silence, while they stood there confronting each other.
With a face perfectly white, with blazing eyes and rigid lips, Sibyl, majestic in her wrongs, stood erect before him, her form drawn up to its fullest height, her head thrown back, her pale face looking unnaturally white in contrast with her dark hair, like some tragic queen in her festal robes.
All his falsehood, treachery, and deceit—all her own wrongs, her slighted love, her deep humiliation, rushed in a burning torrent through her mind, filling her heart and soul with one consuming longing for vengeance, until she seemed to tower above him, regal in her woman's scorn and hate.
And he, knowing his guilt, feeling, too, that she knew it, momentarily quailed before the dark, fierce glance bent upon him. It was but for a moment, and then all his self-possession and graceful ease of manner returned, mingled with a feeling of intense admiration for the darkly beautiful girl before him.
He had never seen her before, save in her odd, gypsyish dress; but now, in her rich, elegant robes, she looked another being. And with it came another revelation. Underlying all his short-lived passion for Christie was still the old affection for this queenly Sibyl. He had wooed her as a dowerless bride, but now she stood before him the heiress to a princely fortune, equal to his own. Willard Drummond was ambitious. He knew this beauty and heiress would be sought for now by the best men of the day, and he felt what a proud triumph it would be to bear her off from all.
"Yes," he said, inwardly, "this beautiful Sibyl, this regal Queen of the Isle, shall be mine. I have commenced a desperate game, but the end is not yet."
And all this had passed through the minds of both in far less time than it has taken to describe it.
Drummond was the first to break the silence, which was growing embarrassing.
"My own Sibyl," he said, advancing, and attempting to take her hand, "I began to fear we were destined never to meet more. Has this new freak of Dame Fortune made you forget all your old friends?"
"Back, sir!" she thundered, in a terrible voice. "Do you dare speak to me like this! Oh, man! false and perjured, does not your craven soul shrink to the dust before the woman you have wronged?"
"Sibyl, you are mad!" he cried, impetuously.
"Mad! Oh, would to Heaven I were! Then, perhaps, this aching heart would not suffer the tortures that it does. Mad? It would be well for you if I were; but I am sane enough, to live for vengeance on you."
"Sibyl! Sibyl! you rave! In Heaven's name, what have I done?"
"Done? Oh, falsest of the false! have you the brazen effrontery, to stand before me, and ask such a question as that? Done!—that, which a life-time can never repair. May Heaven's worst curses light on you, for what you have done!"
He almost shrank before that white, terrible face, that corrugated brow, those lightning eyes, those white, cold lips, that mingled look of hatred and utter desolation, her beautiful countenance wore.
He had expected passionate reproaches, vehement accusations, but nothing like this. Yet, he knew, he felt, he deserved it all. Never, had his crime appeared before him, in such glaring colors before. But, outwardly, he still showed no sign of guilt, only grave surprise and offended pride.
"Miss Campbell," he said, folding his arms, coldly, "you are crazed. When you recover your senses, perhaps you will deign an explanation of your conduct. At present, you will excuse me, if I put an end to this interview; it is too painful to be prolonged."
He turned, as if to leave her; but she sprang forward and intercepted him.
"Dareto leave me!" she cried, passionately. "Never shall you quit this room, until you hear the vengeance a Campbell can take for a foul wrong, and deadly insult. Crazed, am I? Oh, you will find out, to your cost, there is method in my madness, before this interview ends. You find it painful, do you? Ha! ha! take care you do not find it more so, before we part."
She pushed the thick, clustering, black hair back off her brow, and laughed a wild, bitter laugh.
"Good heavens! she looks as though she really were mad," thought Willard, with a shudder at that hollow, unearthly laugh. "I always knew her to be a wild, fiery, passionate girl, but I never dreamed of anything like this. What, in her frenzy, may she not dare to do; for, verily, she comes of a daring race. Oh, Christie! Christie! what a storm of passion have I not raised for your sake!"
"So I can make you start and shrink already!" exclaimed Sibyl, with fierce exultation. "Oh, you will find what it is to drive Sibyl Campbell to desperation. So you thought you could make me your plaything for an hour, and then throw me aside for the first new face you encountered. Oh, potent, wise and far-seeing Willard Drummond, what a judge of character thou art!"
Her bitter mockery was worse than her first, fierce outburst of passion, and there was a terrible menace lurking, yet, in her gleaming, black eyes.
But Willard stood looking on, still unmoved, only amazed, as he stood, with one hand resting lightly on the table, looking her straight in the eye with cold hauteur.
That steady, concentrated gaze had on her the effect of mesmerism. Her mood changed, and she broke forth in a strain of passionate solemnity:
"Oh, my soul! was it for this I poured out such priceless treasures of love at this man's feet? Was it for this I forgot God to worshiphim? Was it for this that I would have given my soul to perdition that his might be saved? Was it for this I would have devoted my life, with all its high hopes and aspirations, all that I was, all that I might become, to make him happy? Was it for this that I thought of him day and night, sleeping and waking? Was it for a return like this that I would have given my very life-blood to free him from all pain? Oh, this heart—this heart! Oh, my lost faith! my blasted hopes! my ruined life! Wealth, and youth, and beauty, were given to me, but what are they worth, when all is desolation here?"
She struck her breast with her clenched hand, and dropping into a seat, her arms fell upon the table, and her grief-bowed young head dropped heavily upon them.
The dead silence that for an instant followed her vehement outburst, was like a sudden lull in a furious storm when the spirit of the tempest pauses for a moment, and breaks forth in redoubled fury.
"Sibyl!"
Soft, low, and gentle, like oil poured upon troubled waves, came the voice of Willard Drummond to her passion-tossed heart, that voice which, in spite of all, was still dearer to her than all the world beside.
Only a convulsive shiver, a fierce grasping of her breast, as though she would tear from it the unspeakable gnawing of her agony, but no reply.
"Dearest Sibyl!"
He came over, and folding her in his arms, bent over her till his face rested on her silken hair.
"Oh, Willard!" she cried, looking suddenly up, and speaking in a tone of piercing anguish, "why did you deceive me so?"
"Sibyl, speak and tell me what you mean. As heaven hears me I have not deceived you. I love you still, as I have always loved you!"
"Oh, if I might believe it!" she said, dashing back the falling hair off her pallid brow, "if I dared to dream that you spoke the truth. But no, no!" she cried, springing up and freeing herself from his clasp, "it is false—it is false as your own false heart! Listen, and let the name blight you where you stand. What of Christie?"
Her menacing eyes were glaring upon him as though she would read his very soul; but, prepared for her question, he neither started nor betrayed the slightest emotion.
"Christie, the island-girl—what of her?" he asked, quietly.
"What of her? Man, man! you will drive me mad! Do you not love her?"
"Love her—that little, uncultured child? Sibyl, you have lost your reason," he said, in a tone of well-feigned surprise and indignation. "What drove such an absurd thought into your head?"
"Oh, she told me so—she told me so!" wailed Sibyl, pressing her hands to her throbbing temples.
"Impossible! You must have dreamed it, Sibyl, She never could have told you anything like that."
"She did; and I could have slain her where she stood for the words; but she said them. And, Willard Drummond, do not deny it—it is true."
"It is not true!" he boldly answered, though for the first time during the interview his dark cheek grew crimson with shame.
"It is true—itmustbe. She would not have said it else. Oh, there was truth in her face as she spoke, and there is guilt in yours now. Willard Drummond, take care! I am desperate, and it is at your peril that you dare to trifle with me now."
"And so you believe this island-girl rather than me. Be it so, Sibyl; if you have no more faith in me than this, it is better that we never see each other more," he said, in a deeply offended tone.
"And do you tell me, really and truly, that you never wavered in your allegiance to me—never for a moment thought of any one else—never for one second gave another the place in your heart I should have occupied—never was false to your vows, to your honor, to me?"
"Never, Sibyl!"
"Swear it!"
"I swear!"
"Oh, which am I to believe? Oh, Willard, if you are deceiving me now, may Heaven's worst vengeance fall upon you! Do not, on your soul's peril, dare to speak falsely to me; for it were better for you to trifle with the lightning's chain than with this aroused heart.'
"Still doubting! have you lostallfaith in me, Sibyl?" he asked, reproachfully.
"Would to heaven I had never had occasion to doubt! But your own actions are all against you. Why did you so continually seek her society while on the island? How are your long rambles together, your moonlight sails, your solitary interviews to be explained?"
"Very easily. Your brother left me; you were absent, and I was alone on the island, and society is a necessity of my nature. You would not have me spend the day with your old negress or her son; Mrs. Tom or her nephew. The child, Christie, was bright, intelligent, and sociable; she pleased and interested me, and in my walks through the island we frequently met. I was fond of sailing; so was she; and what so natural as that I should sometimes ask her to accompany me?"
"Plausible! But why did you not seekme? I was not far distant from you, a good part of the time, and would have been more than delighted to see you every day."
"Well, if I must confess it, Sibyl, I was somewhat piqued that you should have gone away at all, and wished to let you know it by my absence. Perhaps it was very unreasonable on my part, but, loving you as devotedly as I did, I felt your abrupt absence far more than you are disposed to give me credit for."
"But, when alone, why were you ever talking of Christie? If she had not been continually in your thoughts, her name would not have been so frequently on your lips."
"Stilljealous! Oh, Sibyl! hard to be convinced! I did not talk of her."
"You did; for Aunt Moil heard you."
"Saints and angels! was ever man in the same dilemma I am in? Even an old, half-deaf negress is believed sooner than I! Sibyl, Inevertalk to myself. Aunt Moll has seen me with this island girl—whom I wish to Heaven I had never met—and has fancied, perhaps, I spoke of her. Oh, Sibyl! Sibyl! by your dark, doubting look, I see you are unbelieving still. What shall I do, or say, to convince you?"
"Oh, I do not know—I do not know! Heaven direct me!" said Sibyl, pacing up and down. "Iwantto believe you, but I cannot get rid of those doubts. Willard, once our faith in those we love and trust is shaken, it is very hard to be renewed. There were truth and earnestness in that girl's eyes when she spoke—more, there was love for you. Whether or not you love, or have loved her, one thing is certain—you have taught her to loveyou."
"I have not taught her, Sibyl, nor am I to blame for her childish fancies. Even if she does care for me, which Is doubtful, it is a sisterly affection—nothing more."
"I am not blind, Willard. It was no sisterly affection read in those soft, pleading eyes; it was strong, unchanging, undying love. Oh, Willard! what if you are deceiving us both?"
"Sibyl, this is too much! I will not endure those doubts. You do not love me as you say you do, or you would have more faith in me. If you believe I could so forget my vows to you, my honor, my plighted faith, for this little artless child, then it were better we should forever part than live in doubt and jealousy. Do you think I could endure these constant recriminations, these stormy scenes, these violent outbursts of passion? Sibyl, it is beneath you to stoop to the mean, low passion of jealousy. I thought you had too much pride and self-respect to think any one, no matter how beautiful and enchanting, could surpass you. And certainly you pay a very poor compliment to my taste in supposing that I could fall in with an illiterate, uneducated child of fifteen, simply because she has a passably pretty face. Sibyl, you are surpassing beautiful and I have to-night seen gentlemen whom I am sure were fascinated by you, hovering the whole evening by your side, while you seemed to have eyes and ears for no one but them; yet it never once entered my mind to doubt you, or be in the slightest degree jealous."
"Yes, yes; I talked and laughed with them; but, oh! if you had known how every thought and feeling of my whole heart, and soul, and mind were with you all the time—if you had but dreamed of the insufferable agony at my heart all the while, you would have felt how little cause you could have had for jealousy."
"I knew nothing of this, Sibyl, and yet, for not one fraction or a second did the slightest, faintest doubt of you enter my mind. Oh, Sibyl! Sibyl! when will you have faith like this in me?"