"What form is that?
The stony clenching of the bared teeth—
The gory socket that the balls have burst from—
I see them all,
It moves—-it moves—it rises—it comes on me."—BERTRAM.
Under the guidance of young Guy Campbell, Willard Drummond and Sibyl ascended the steep rocky path leading to Campbell Lodge. Captain Guy bounded over the rocks with the agility of a deer, while his two companions more leisurely followed.
"Yonder is my island-home, old Campbell Castle," said Sibyl, as an abrupt turn in the rough road brought them full in view of the mansion-house. "It is nearly three years now since I have seen it."
Both paused as if involuntarily to contemplate it. Years and neglect had performed their usual work of destruction on the lodge. The windows were broken in many places, and the great gate before the house, hung useless and fallen off it rusty hinges. The coarse, red sandstone of which it had been originally built, was now black with age and the many storms that had beat against it. No lights were to be seen, no smoke issued from the tall chimneys, all looked black, gloomy and deserted. The swallows had built their nests in the eaves and ruined gables, and even the tall, dark, spectral pines that formed an avenue to the dilapidated gate-way, had a forlorn and dismal look. In the pale, bright moonlight, the ruined homestead of the Campbells looked cold, bleak, and uninviting. Even the long, gloomy shadows from the trees, as they lay on the ground, seemed to the superstitious mind of Sibyl, like unearthly hands waving them away. She shuddered with a chill feeling of dread, and clung closer to the arm of Drummond:
"Quite a remarkable looking old place, this," said the young man, gayly. "Really charming in its gloomy grandeur, and highly suggestive of ghosts and rats, and other vermin of a like nature," while he inwardly muttered: "Dismal old hole; even Sibyl's bright eyes can hardly recompense me for burying myself in such a rickety dungeon."
"It has not a very hospitable look, I must say," said its young mistress, with a smile; "but in spite of its forbidding aspect, I hope we will be able, by some means, to make your stay here endurable."
"A desert would seem a paradise to me with you near by," said Drummond, in his low, lover-like tones. "My only regret is, that our stay here is destined to be so short."
The dark, bright face of the young island-girl flushed with pleasure; but ere she could reply, the hall-door was thrown open, and Captain Campbell stood, hat in hand, before them.
"Welcome to Campbell Castle," he said, with gay courtesy, stepping aside to let them enter.
"Thank you," said Drummond, bowing gravely, while he glanced with some curiosity around, to see if the interior looked more inviting than the exterior.
They stood in a long, wide hall, high and spacious, which the light of the flickering candle Captain Campbell held strove in vain to illuminate. At the further extremity a winding staircase rose up, until it was lost in the gloom above. Two wide, black doors flanked the hall on either side, and Captain Campbell threw open that on the right, saying:
"This I have discovered, upon investigation to be at present the only habitable apartment in the house. Woeful are the accounts I have received from worthy Aunt Moll and her son and heir, Lemuel, of the state of the chimneys. The swallows have built their nests in the only one that ever did draw respectably, and all the rest leak at such a rate every time it rains that the fire is not only completely extinguished, but the rooms filled with water."
"And what in the world are we to do, brother?" asked Sibyl, in dismay at this unpromising picture.
"Why, we must make the best we can of a bad bargain. I have sent Lem—much against his will, I must say, for the young man is disagreeably afflicted with laziness—to take the swallows' nests out of the chimney and make a fire there, while Aunt Moll does all the other et ceteras necessary for receiving as its inmate Her Majesty the Queen of the Isle. Then, as there is but one other habitable room in the house, Signor Drummond must occupy it, although it has not the most pleasant reputation in the world."
"How is that?" asked Drummond, drawing up a chair and seating himself in front of the fire, that, thanks to the exertions of Captain Campbell, was already burning brightly on the hearth.
"Why, to tell the truth, Aunt Moll and her hopeful son assert it to be haunted, as it most probably is by rats. If you are willing to trust yourself to the ghost's mercy, I can freely promise you safety from all other dangers."
"Haunted? By Jove, that's capital! I have been wishing all my life to see a genuine ghost, and lo! the time has come at last. But what manner of ghost is it, saith the legend—fair or foul, old or young, handsome or hideous?"
"On that point I am distressingly short of information. Lem's description is rather vague. He describes it as being 'higher than anything at all, with fire coming out of its eyes, long hair reaching to the ground, and dressed in white.'"
"Oh, of course!" said Drummond. "Who ever heard of a ghost that wasn't dressed in white? 'Pon my honor, I am quite enchanted at the opportunity of making the acquaintance of its ghostship."
During this conversation Sibyl had left the room "on hospitable thoughts intent," and now returned to announce that supper was already progressing rapidly—most welcome news to our hungry gentlemen.
Sibyl had taken off her hat, and now her raven curls fell in heavy tresses to her waist. In the shadow, those glittering ringlets looked intensely black; but where the firelight fell upon them, a sort of red light shone through.
As she moved through the high, shadowy rooms, with the graceful, airy motion that lent a charm to the commonest action, Willard Drummond, following her with his eyes, felt a secret sense of exultation, as he thought this magnificent creature was his, and his alone. This bright, impassioned sea-nymph; this beautiful, radiant daughter of a noble race; this royal, though dowerless island-queen, loved him above all created beings. Had she not told him as he whispered in her willing ear his passionate words of love, that he was dearer to her than all the world besides? Some day he would make her his wife, and take her with him to his princely home in Virginia; and he thought, with new exultation, of the sensation this glorious planet would make among the lesser stars of his native State.
So thought and argued Willard Drummond in the first flush and delirium of love.
He did not stop to think that he had loved with even more intensity once before; that he had raved even in a like manner of another far less bright than this queenly Sibyl. He did not stop to think that even so he might love again.
No. Everything was forgotten but the intoxicating girl before him, with her sparkling face, her glorious eyes of jet, and her flashing, sun-bright hair.
From the rhapsody of passion—from the seventh heaven of his day-dreams, he was at last recalled by the voice of Sibyl herself summoning him to supper.
He looked up with a start, half inclined to be provoked at this sudden summons from his ideal world to the vulgar reality of a supper of hot-cakes, tea, and preserves. But there sat Sibyl at the head of the table, bright and smiling—beautifying even the dull routine of the tea-table with the charm of her presence. And then, too—now that this airy vision was gone—Mr. Willard Drummond began to recollect that he was very hungry, and that "dreams and visions" were, after all, very unsubstantial things, compared with the bread and butter of every-day life, degrading as the confession was.
Guy had already taken his place, so Willard took the seat his young host pointed out to him, and the business of the tea-table commenced.
When the meal was over, Aunt Moll cleared the table, and the three gathered round the fire—for, though the weather was warm, the great unaired room was chill enough to render the fire pleasant.
By degrees, perhaps it was owing to the strange, dreary loneliness of the place, the conversation turned upon deserted houses, bold robberies, murders, and by a natural consequence, upon ghosts.
Willard and Captain Campbell seemed striving to outvie each other in telling the most frightful tales, the latter taxing his imagination to invent them, when the original failed to produce the necessary degree of horror. Every one knows what a strange fascination such ghostly legends have, the hours passed almost unnoticed, and it was only when the fire burned low on the hearth, and the solitary candle guttered in the socket before going out, that our party became aware of the lateness of the hour.
"Well, we have been profitably spending the evening, I must say," remarked Captain Campbell, rising, with a laugh. "You should have been in bed an hour ago, Sibyl. Here! Aunt Moll," he cried, going to the door, "bring us lights, and show Mr. Drummond to his room."
He waited for a response, but none came, only the echo of his own voice sounded dolefully through the hall.
"Hallo! Aunt Moll, I say—Lem, bring candles," once more called Captain Campbell. Again he waited for an answer, and again none came. "Confound it!" he muttered, turning away, "the sleepy-headed pair have doubtless been in bed for the last three hours, and are as sound as the Seven Sleepers by this time."
"Never mind, Guy," said Sibyl, laughing at his rueful face, "I'll go. Aunt Moll and Lem are tired, doubtless, with their extraordinary exertions this evening, and it would be a pity to wake them."
She quitted the room as she spoke, in the direction of the kitchen, in search of lights.
And presently she reappeared, and announcing that Aunt Moll was stretched out on her pallet, before the kitchen fire, asleep, she took her light, and bidding them a smiling good-night, left them to seek her own room.
And Captain Campbell, taking a candle, preceded his guest in the direction of the "haunted chamber."
Willard Drummond entered, and looked round. It was a high, wide, spacious chamber, as were all in the house, with floors, doors, and casements of dark, polished oak, black now with time and use. In the wide fire-place at one end, a fire had been burning all the evening, but only the red, smouldering embers remained now. At the other end of the room, opposite the fire, was his bed, and between them, facing the door, was a deep dormer window. The room looked cheerful and pleasant, and throwing himself into an easy, old-fashioned arm-chair before the fire, he exclaimed:
"Well, in spite of all the ghosts and hobgoblins that ever walked at 'noon of night,' I shall sleep here as sound as a top until morning. Your ghost will have to give me a pretty vigorous shaking before I awake, when once I close my eyes."
"Perhaps the ghost, if in the least timorous, will not appear to so undaunted an individual as yourself. May your dreams be undisturbed! Good-night!" And placing the light on the table Captain Campbell left the room.
Willard's first care was to lock the door securely, and then carefully examine the room. There was no other means of ingress but the one by which he had entered, and the room did not seem to communicate with any other. The window was high above the ground, and firmly nailed down. Clearly, then, if the ghost entered at all it must assume its ghostly prerogative of coming through the keyhole—for there was no other means by which ghost or mortal could get in.
Satisfied with this, Willard Drummond went to bed, but in spite of all his efforts sleep would not come. Vain were all his attempts to woo the drowsy god; he could only toss restlessly from side to side, with that feeling of irritation which want of sleep produces.
The moonlight streaming in through the window filled the room with silvery radiance. The silence of death reigned around, unbroken even by the watch-dog's bark. The dull, heavy roar of the waves, breaking on the shore like far-off thunder, was the only sound to be heard. And at last, with this eerie, ghostly lullaby, Willard Drummond fell into a feverish sleep.
And sleeping, he dreamed. He was in a comfortably furnished home, and was recovering from a serious illness. Just well enough to be up, he sat in a chair made comfortable for his back by pillows. He had been reading, and, as he saw Sibyl enter the room in a neat-fitting white-merino morning-robe, he let his book fall to the floor, while she dropped on her knees beside him, and, with loving anxiety beaming from her brilliant eyes, glanced into his face.
Then the scene abruptly changed, and he seemed wandering on the verge of a precipice, treading a path so narrow and precarious that a single false step would hurl him to certain destruction down the unfathomable gulf below. Where that path was to end he knew not, but a white robed siren, with shining golden hair and smiling eyes and lips, went before him and lured him on. An inward voice seemed whispering him to beware, that the path he was treading must end in death; but the smiling eyes of the golden-haired tempter were beaming upon him, and the voice whispered in vain. Above every steep crag, as he passed, the wild black eyes of Sibyl seemed gleaming with deadly hatred and fierce malignity on him; but even those dark, warning eyes could not tempt him back from the road he was treading. Suddenly the siren vanished; he sprang after her, and fell down, down, down into the awful gulf below.
A wild laugh rang out on the air, and Sibyl was bending above him, holding a glittering dagger to his heart, while her great black eyes burned like two flames. He held out his hands for mercy, but she only mocked him with her deriding black eyes, and raised the knife to plunge it into his heart.
With a cry of terror he awoke to find it not all a dream.
An icy cold hand lay on his face.
He sprang up in bed with a thrill of horror, to behold a white, wild face, with vacant, unearthly eyes and long, streaming hair bending over him.
Paralyzed by the sudden apparition, he sat, unable to move or speak, and ere he could fully recover his senses the ghostly visitant was gone.
He sprang out of bed and seized the door. It was locked as he had left it, and, with his blood curdling, he stood rooted to the ground.
Morally and physically Willard Drummond was brave, but this midnight visit from a supernatural being might have chilled the blood of the most undaunted. Sleep now was out of the question; therefore, seating himself by the window, he prepared to wait for the approach of morning. The moon was already sinking behind the western horizon, bathing the placid river in its soft beams. The morning star shone bright and serene in the cloudless blue sky; and, gazing on the calm beauty without, the young man's pulse ceased its feverish throbbings, and he began striving to account for this ghostly visit by natural means.
But he strove in vain. The door was firmly locked, and there could be no secret passage through those strong, oaken walls. Then he arose, and carefully searched every crevice in the room that could by any possibility be made a hiding-place of. Still in vain. The room contained no living thing but himself.
Morning was now growing red in the east, and, exhausted with watching, he threw himself on the bed, and fell into a deep dreamless sleep, from which he did not awake until the sun was high in the heavens.
He sprang hastily out of bed, and proceeded to dress himself. And now a new difficulty arose. He felt he would be questioned about the supernatural visitors of the haunted chamber, and he was at a loss how to answer. If he related the event of the night, he dreaded the ridicule of the unbelieving Captain Campbell, who would assuredly laugh at him for being conquered in spite of his boasting; and to be laughed at in the presence of Sibyl was not to be endured. If, on the other hand he did not tell, he would be obliged to continue the occupant of the haunted chamber while he remained on the island—a thing he had not the slightest wish to do.
His toilet was finished before he could come to any conclusion; and still debating the case, he descended the stairs, and entered the sitting-room they had occupied the night before.
"And when the midnight hour is come,
A sound is heard in yonder hall—
It rises hoarsely through the sky,
And vibrates o'er the moldering wall."
In a former chapter, we left Mrs. Tom in rather an appalling situation.
Accustomed to the quiet unexciting life of the lonely, sea-girt island, the events of the night had momentarily terrified her, albeit her nerves were none of the weakest. The mysterious revelation of the dying man; his tale of night, and storm, and crime; the wild, ghostly face at the window; and, lastly, his sudden death, were quite enough to thrill for an instant with terror even a stronger heart than that of the solitary old widow.
For some moments Mrs. Tom sat still, gazing alternately at the window and on the ghastly face of the dead man before her, with a chill of horror creeping over her.
The sudden striking of the clock, as it chimed the hour of eleven, aroused her at last from her trance of terror. It was a sound of life, and it reassured her.
Rising, she gathered courage to approach the window cautiously, and looked out. Nothing was to be seen but the bright moonlight, bathing rock and river in its silvery light. Beyond, she could see the huge, black pile of Campbell's Castle, casting its long, gloomy shadow over the ground. Lights were still twinkling in the windows—a sight as unusual as it was pleasant—and, with renewed confidence at this sign of life, Mrs. Tom went to arouse Carl to assist her to watch beside the dead.
"It's onpossible to sleep with a corpse in the house," thought Mrs. Tom, as she climbed up the ladder leading to Carl's lofty dormitory; "leastways, I couldn't sleep a wink, though I do s'pose that there lazy, sleepy-head of a Carl could snore away jest as soundly as ef we was all dead in a heap. I reckon I'll hev an hour's work getting him up. Here, you Carl! Carl! Get up, I tell you!"
Then Mrs. Tom shook him lustily. The sleeper only replied by turning over with a grunt.
"Carl! Carl! Lor' sakes! you great, sleepy, good-for-nothing, open your eyes. I do b'lieve the last Judgment wouldn't wake you, once you got a-snorin'. Ef nothin' else won't do, I'll try how you'll like this!"
And Mrs. Tom caught the unfortunate Carl by the hair and pulled it vigorously, until that ill-used youth sprang upright, with a roar that might have been heard half a mile off.
"Thunder and lightning, aunty, do you want to kill a feller?" roared Master Carl, in a rage.
"Hush, Carl! Don't get mad, honey," said Mrs. Tom, soothingly. "I only want you to come down stairs and set up with me. That there sick man's dead."
"Dead!" repeated Carl, staring with all his eyes.
"Yes, he's dead as can be; and it's the most lonesomest thing in the world settin' up alone with a corpse, so I waked you up."
"Well don't sit up with him, then," said Carl, with a tremendous yawn. "If he's dead, he won't mind staying alone all night, I suppose. Anyhow, I know I ain't going to get up this time of night, if he was dead twice over."
And Carl lay down, and composed himself for another nap.
But Mrs. Tom was resolved not to be disobeyed; so, dropping the pacific tone she had first adopted, she very summarily snatched away sheets and quilts, pulled the mattress from under him, and overset poor Carl on the floor, from which she soon made him spring up with a sound box on the ear.
"Now then," said the indignant old lady; "tell me ag'in you won't, will ye? Now, look here, ef you ain't dressed and down stairs in five minutes, I'll come back, and this ain't no circumstance to what you'll get. Tell me you won't, indeed! There's no tellin' what the impidence of these scape-goats of boys 'ill come to, ef they ain't minded in time," muttered the old lady to herself, as she descended the ladder.
Carl's toilet, thus unpleasantly hastened, was soon complete, and he descended to the lower room with a very sulky face, and grumbling inwardly at his hard fate in being governed by so tyrannical a task-mistress:
"I don't see why the old feller couldn't have died somewhere else," inwardly muttered the ill-treated Mr. Henley; "a coming here and giving bother, keeping a feller from his sleep of nights. It's downright mean!"
Taking possession of Mrs. Tom's rocking-chair, while the old lady bustled about, laying out the corpse as best she could under the circumstances, Carl was once more soon sound asleep. Then, when all she could do was done, Mrs. Tom lay down on the hard wooden sofa, or "settee," as she called it, and, in spite of the presence of death, followed her worthy nephew to the land of dreams.
Morning was far advanced before either awoke. Mrs. Tom's first care was to send Carl up to the lodge to inform its inmates of the death of her guest, and desire Captain Campbell's immediate presence.
Immediately after breakfast the young captain hastened to the cottage, while Sibyl and Drummond went out for a stroll round the island.
Mrs. Tom had been anxiously revolving in her mind the singular story told her the night before, and resolved to reveal it to Captain Campbell and learn his opinion about it.
Accordingly, when he entered, Mrs. Tom—having first taken the precaution of turning Carl out of doors—related the story in substance as it had been told to her.
Captain Campbell listened in astonishment and in credulity.
"Now, Master Guy, what do you think of that?" exclaimed Mrs. Tom, when she had finished.
"My dear madam," replied the young man, gravely, "the man, excited, half crazed, delirious as he was, must have imagined all this. No such horrible thing could have ever occurred in a Christian land."
"But he wasn't crazy," asserted Mrs. Tom, almost angry at having the truth of the story doubted. "He was just as sensible, all through, as you or I. He wasn't colirious a mite."
"Now, Mrs. Tom, it's not possible that, with all your good sense, you can credit such an incredible tale."
"But, Master Guy, the man told it on his death-bed. Think o' that."
"And doubtless believed it, too; but that does not make it any more probable. I have heard of such cases before. It is all owing to the imagination, my dear lady. He had fancied this story, and thought about it so long, that he at last believed it himself."
"Well, I don't know nothin' 'bout the 'magination, thank my heavenly Master," said Mrs. Tom, in a sort of sullen unbelief; "but I do know, ef you was to talk till this time to-morrow, you couldn't make me believe differently. I shouldn't wonder now ef you tried to make me think the face I seed stuck at the winder was all 'magination, too."
"I was just about to say so," said Guy, repressing a smile. "It could be nothing else, you know. The hour of night, the thrilling tale, and the man's dying cry that he saw her there, would have made you imagine anything; therefore——"
But Mrs. Tom's wrath was rising. She had been inwardly priding herself on the sensation her story would create, and this fall to her hopes was more than she could patiently endure.
"It's no sich thing," she cried, in a voice louder and sharper than she was in the habit of using to any one but the unfortunate Carl. "I seen it all with my two blessed eyes, and nobody's goin' to make me believe it was my 'magination. 'Magination, indeed!" continued the old lady, in a tone of profound contempt. "Thank my divine Master, I never was troubled with 'magination since the day I was born, and 'tain't likely I'd begin now in my old age o' life. I allers hid a great respect for you, Master Guy; but I'm a poor, lone 'ooman, and can't stand to be onsulted by nobody. I hain't no doubt you mean well, but I like to hev people b'lieve me when I do tell the truth. Scat, you hussy! afore I twist your neck for you."
The latter part of this oration was addressed to Trot, the mottled cat, and was accompanied by a kick, which ejected that unoffending member of society out of doors, much quicker than was at all agreeable. Captain Campbell, quite unprepared for this burst of eloquence, listened in amazement, and seized the first opportunity, when angry Mrs. Tom paused for breath, to humbly apologize for his offense.
"My dear Mrs. Tom," said the young captain, humbly, "I had not the remotest intention of offending you, and most deeply regret having done so. I have fallen into a bad habit, of late, of doubting everything; and really this story appeared so improbable, that I think I may be pardoned for not yielding it full credit on the spot. Come, now, my dear madam," he continued, seeing the cloud still hanging on Mrs. Tom's honest face, "let's be friends still; and I promise for the future to believe everything you choose to tell me, no matter what it is."
Good Mrs. Tom was not proof against the insinuating tone of Master Guy, who had always been her favorite; so the cloud disappeared, and her own cheery smile once more beamed forth.
Having arranged that Lem should come down and prepare a grave during the morning, Captain Campbell left the cottage, and went in search of Mr. Drummond and his sister to tell them what he had heard.
He found them down on the shore. Sibyl stood on a high cliff, her dress fluttering in the morning breeze, her hat off, and her long, glittering, jetty tresses waving behind her like a banner. The wind that came sweeping across the waters had deepened the glow on her crimson cheeks and lips, and sent a living light into her glorious eyes.
Willard Drummond stood beneath, gazing at her as a poet might gaze on the living realization of his most beautiful dreams. Captain Campbell shrugged his shoulders expressively as he saw his impassioned glance, and thought inwardly of the confession he had once made to him of there being but one woman in the world worth loving.
"Well, Sibyl, one would think you were attitudinizing for the stage," said Captain Campbell, dryly, as he approached.
Sibyl laughed gayly, as she sprang down on the white, level sands between her brother and lover.
"I was only looking out for a sail, which I failed to discover," she replied.
"Well, Campbell," said Drummond, "had your old lady down below any important revelations to make, that she sent for you in such haste this morning?"
"Not very important in my eyes, though they are in hers," replied the young captain. "She wished to reveal the dying deposition of our passenger, Richard Grove."
"And what had he to tell? Was I right in saying remorse for some crime preyed on him more than mere illness?"
"Faith, Sibyl, according to worthy Mrs. Tom, I believe you were. He succeeded in frightening that good, but slightly credulous old lady out of her wits."
"Well?" said Sibyl, inquiringly.
Captain Campbell, condensing the story, gave them the outline and principal facts in a few words. Both listened with deep interest; but when he spoke of the pale, haggard face, with its dark, waving hair, glaring at them through the window, Willard Drummond started violently, and turned pale. Sibyl's eagle eyes were fixed on his face, and she alone observed it.
"And what does Mrs. Tom take this nocturnal visitor to be?" inquired Sibyl. "A mortal like herself, or a spirit disembodied?"
"Oh, a ghost, of course," replied her brother. "The spirit, perhaps, of the woman walled up to perish in the room with the murdered man. Ugh! the story altogether is hideous enough to give one the nightmare! And now that you have learned all, I believe I'll go and send Lem down to inter the body."
Captain Campbell sauntered away, and the lovers were alone.
"And what do you think of this story, Willard?" inquired Sibyl.
"I cannot tell. Yesterday I would have joined your brother in laughing at it; but, to-day——"
He paused.
"And why not to-day?" breathlessly inquired Sibyl.
"Sibyl, I do not wish to needlessly alarm you, but last night, as if to punish my presumption, I experienced something very like a supernatural visit."
"Good Heavens, Willard! Then the story told by the negroes is true?"
"It certainly seems like it. Had any one else told me what I experienced, I should think they were humbugging me; but I cannot discredit what I saw with my own eyes."
"And what was the appearance of the nocturnal visitor?"
"Exactly like the description Mrs. Tom gives of the face that appeared at her window—white as that of the dead, with dark, streaming hair, and wild, vacant, dark eyes."
"Oh, Willard! Can it be that—— But, no; it is impossible. At what hour did this apparition appear?"
"Between one and two, as near as I can judge."
"Strange! strange! I, too, heard something dreadful last night."
"Is it possible? What was it, dearest Sibyl?"
"Listen! About midnight I was awakened by something that sounded like a heavy fall right outside my door, followed by a groan so deep, so horrible, that the very blood seemed freezing in my veins. Trembling with terror, I half rose to listen; but all for a time was still. Trying to persuade myself I was only dreaming, I was about to lie down again, when a shriek the most appalling broke upon the air, and died away in an agonized moan. I dared not move; I could not sleep; and I lay cowering in superstitious horror until morning. With the bright sunshine came renewed courage, and I feared to mention what I had heard to my brother or you, lest I should be laughed at—even as you feared the same. Willard, there must be some horrible mystery here! Some foul crime, I fear, has at some time been perpetrated within those walls. What if——"
She paused.
"Well, Sibyl?" he said, inquiringly.
"Oh, Willard! what if this house has been the scene of that mystery the dying man spoke of! I thought of it from the first."
"Nonsense, Sibyl! What an idea!" And yet he looked disturbed himself, as he spoke.
"How otherwise are we to account for those ghostly visitings, those midnight apparitions, and appalling shrieks?"
"And yet nothing could induce your brother to adopt your belief. He would laugh at our credulity, were we to tell him what we have seen and heard."
"Yes; and, perhaps I had better not tell him, Willard. I will have your room changed, and my own likewise. Even if they are less comfortable, they will be more endurable than to be disturbed by midnight specters."
"Be it so, then, fairest Sibyl," he said, gayly. And turning, they walked together to the Lodge.
"Holy St. Francis! what a change is here!
Is Rosalind, whom thou didst love so dear,
So soon forsaken? Young men's love, then, lies
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes."—ROMEO AND JULIET.
The following night passed without disturbance, either earthly or ghostly, at Campbell's Lodge.
Early in the morning, Captain Campbell went over to the mainland on business. And Sibyl, accompanied by Drummond, went down to the cottage, to visit Mrs. Tom. There was an inward feeling of pleasure at Sibyl's heart, when she learned Christie was away to the mainland on a visit. Not that she doubted Willard; but she remembered Christie as a very pretty child, grown by this time, doubtless, into a lovely girl, and it might not be altogether safe, to throw the gay man of the world into dangerous society.
Toward noon, as they were sauntering along the sun-shiny beach, she hanging on his arm, while he softly whispered the words "ladies love to hear," they espied a boat advancing toward them. Sibyl raised her telescope to survey the new-comers.
"Rev. Mr. Mark Brantwell and wife," she exclaimed, in tones of surprise and pleasure. "Guy has doubtless called upon them, and told them I was here."
"Friends of yours?" asked Willard.
"Yes, the Episcopal clergyman of N——, whom I have known since my earliest childhood. But here they are."
The boat at this moment touched the shore, and Sibyl, disengaging her arm, ran down to meet them. Willard more leisurely followed, just in time to see his lady-love folded in the arms of a gentleman who sprang from the boat.
The stranger was of middle age, married, and a clergyman; yet, in spite of all, Mr. Drummond felt a sudden twinge of jealousy and anger at beholding the embrace. But the next moment jealousy, anger, every feeling was swallowed up in intense astonishment, not unmingled with superstitious horror. For as the clergyman turned round, and Willard obtained a full view of his face, he recognized the countenance of him he had seen years before in that mystic vision at the Egyptian's.
For a moment he stood regarding him, pale with wonder; and he only awoke from his trance of surprise, when he heard the clear, ringing voice of Captain Campbell, as he approached him, saying, with a hearty slap on the shoulder:
"Why, Drummond, man alive, what ails you? You are as pale as a ghost!"
"Are you ill?" said Sibyl, anxiously, as she approached, leaning on the arm of Mrs. Brantwell.
"A slight headache—nothing more," said Willard, recovering himself by an effort; "nothing worth being alarmed about," he added, seeing Sibyl's still anxious eyes.
"Why, Sibyl, have you grown nervous and cowardly?" exclaimed Mr. Brantwell—"you, who used to be as bold and daring as a mountain eaglet. But perhaps," he added, glancing meaningly at Willard, "it is only where some very particular friend is concerned that your fears are thus easily aroused."
Willard smiled slightly, while Sibyl's dark face grew crimson as she hurried on with increased rapidity, drawing her companion with her, and leaving the gentlemen behind.
When they reached the lodge Sibyl left her brother to entertain their guests, while she set about preparing luncheon. When the meal was over Mrs. Brantwell said:
"And now, Miss Sibyl, I have come to carry you off. It is three years since I have had the pleasure of seeing you, and I shall certainly take you with me now. Come, no excuses—I will not hear one of them."
"But, my dear Mrs. Brantwell——" began Sibyl.
"But, my dear Miss Campbell, you must come—do you hear that? Your brother can certainly do without you for a week."
"Yes, and glad to be rid of her, too," said the gallant Captain Campbell.
Sibyl stole a glance toward Drummond from under her long eyelashes. He was sitting, looking out of the window with an exceedingly dissatisfied frown on his brow. Mrs. Brantwell perceived the glance, and broke out again with her usual bluntness:
"And as for that other gentleman you are looking at, Sibyl, I am sure he will be generous enough to spare you for a few days, as he will, in all probability, have enough of you before long."
Again Sibyl crimsoned and glanced reproachfully at her plain-spoken friend, and again Mr. Drummond was forced to smile, in spite of his ill-humor, at the good lady's brusque bluntness.
"You will have to come, you see, Miss Sibyl," said Mr. Brantwell, laughing.
"Of course, she will," added his frank spouse; "and upon my word I think I am doing her a favor in taking her from this lonesome island, and letting her see a little of civilized life at our hands; though, from Sibyl's looks, I should say she doesn't feel at all grateful for it."
"Indeed, Mrs. Brantwell, I do, but—"
"There, there! I won't listen to another word." And Mrs. Brantwell, a tall, good-humored looking lady, clapped her hands over her ears. "Guy, make this ungrateful sister of yours hold her tongue, and do as she is told."
"Come, Sibyl, there is no help for it, you see," said Guy. "Drummond and I will get along swimmingly during your absence. He can keep his hand in, in making love to Aunt Moll, while I try my powers of persuasion over Mrs. Tom."
Sibyl laughed, and paused for a moment in thought. She would infinitely have preferred remaining on the island with Willard, but it would never do to allow them to think that was her reason; and after all, a week would soon pass. Had Christie been home, no persuasions could have induced her to go; but in her absence there was nothing to fear. Then, too, Willard, so long accustomed to her presence, would miss her so much when she was gone that doubtless his love would be increased rather than diminished.
Involuntarily, while thinking of him, her eyes wandered to where he stood. Again the sharp-sighted Mrs. Brantwell observed it, and again she broke out impatiently:
"Lord bless me! Mr. Drummond, just turn round, will you, and tell Sibyl she may go. Nothing earthly will induce her to come till you give permission. I'm sure if you were her father she couldn't be more afraid of displeasing your lordship."
"Miss Campbell needs no permission of mine. I am only too happy to think she will have an opportunity of enjoying herself so well," said Willard, with a grave bow.
"Well, I'm sure that's a mercy to be thankful for. Now, perhaps, you will come, Sibyl," said the plain-spoken old lady; "and as for you, sir, I shall expect to see you at the parsonage every day with Master Guy."
"I shall be most happy," said Willard, his face brightening a little, while Sibyl's eyes sparkled with anticipation.
"Well, now, run and get ready," said Mrs. Brantwell, turning to Sibyl.
Sibyl soon reappeared, dressed for her journey. And then, as the afternoon was far advanced, the whole party descended to the beach. The adieus were spoken, the boat pushed off, leaving the two young men alone on the sands.
"I must go over to Westbrook dock-yard this afternoon," said Guy, "where the Evening Star is now lying. What do you say to coming with me?"
"I prefer remaining here," said Willard, who had not yet recovered his good humor, after what he was pleased to call Sibyl's desertion.
"Well, then, I'll remain with you," said Guy, who was the soul of frankness and good temper.
"By no means!" said Drummond, hastily. "Do not stay on my account. I have a slight headache still, and will retire to my room."
"But it seems hardly courteous to leave you altogether alone."
"Nonsense, my dear fellow. I insist upon it. I hope you do not think of standing on ceremony with me?"
"So be it, then," said Captain Campbell, gayly, as he sprang into his boat, pushed off, and shot like an arrow out into the water.
Drawing a cigar from his pocket, Willard Drummond lit it and proceeded to stroll up and down the beach, in no very amiable frame of mind. He felt angry, in spite of all, at Sibyl's leaving him; and with this feeling would now and then mingle another—profound amazement at the exact resemblance this Mr. Brantwell bore to the face he had seen in that singular vision. Was the fell prediction about to be verified?
Lost in such thoughts as these, he was suddenly startled by a voice singing a wild, sweet song of the sea, in the clearest and most delightful tones he had ever heard. Surprised at the unexpected sound, he sprang up the rocks in the direction whence it came, and beheld a sight that transfixed him with amazement.
A young girl, beautiful as an angel, stood on an overhanging crag, with one round, white arm resting lightly on the rocks, singing to herself as she gazed on the sparkling waters. Her hair, of the palest golden hue, rose and fell in the breeze, and flashed in the sunlight that rested like a glory on her bright young head. Her complexion was dazzlingly fair, with rose-tinted cheeks and full, red lips—like wet coral—and eyes large and bright, and blue as the summer sky above her. Her figure was slight, but round and voluptuous; and there was passion, and fervor, and wild enthusiasm in her look, as she stood like a stray seraph, dropped from some stray cloud, on that lonely island.
Willard Drummond stood immovable, drinking in, to intoxication, the bewildering draught of her beauty. She was in every respect so very different from Sibyl, that she seemed to him the more charming from force of contrast. Transfixed he stood—everything forgotten but this lovely creature before him—when suddenly, like an inspiration, came the remembrance of his singular dream, and of the fatal siren with the golden hair. Strange that it should have come back to him so vividly and painfully then!
The young girl's song ceased, and turning, she leaped lightly as a young deer from her fairy perch, without perceiving him who stood so intently regarding her. Leaping from rock to rock with a fleetness that awoke the surprise of Willard, she reached the road and disappeared within she cottage of Mrs. Tom.
Everything was forgotten now but the one intense desire of knowing who this radiant sea-nymph was. Turning, therefore, into the path she had just taken, he approached the cottage and encountered Carl at the door.
"Well, Master Henley, how are you?" said Willard, carelessly.
"Sticking together," was Master Henly's concise and descriptive answer.
"Glad to hear it," said Willard, repressing a strong inclination to laugh. "Is Mrs. Tom within?"
"She was when I left the house," said Carl, who seemed determined not to commit himself.
"Any one with her?" again inquired the young gentleman, looking as indifferent as possible.
"No, nobody," was the unexpected answer.
"What!" exclaimed Willard, surprised. "I thought I saw a young lady enter a moment ago!"
"Oh, Christie—she's nobody," said the gallant Mr. Henly.
"Christie—Mrs. Tom's niece—I thought she was away!" exclaimed Willard.
"So she was, but I went for her this morning; couldn't be bothered doing her work and my own both any longer," said Carl.
"I suppose I may go in?" said Willard, feeling a sudden thrill of pleasure at the knowledge that this radiant girl was an inhabitant of the island.
"Yes, I suppose you may, if you like," said Carl, in a tone of the utmost unconcern.
Thus kindly permitted, Willard advanced and rapped at the door. It was opened by Mrs. Tom, whose surprise was only equaled by her delight at being honored by this unexpected visit.
Near the window that overlooked the lodge, stood the golden-haired vision of the beach. She turned round with a quick, shy glance, and blushed most enchantingly beneath the deep, dark eyes of the stranger.
"My niece, Christie, Mr. Drummond," said Mrs. Tom, directing his attention to her with a wave of her hand. "She got back this mornin'. I allers find it powerful lonesome here without Christie."
"I have no doubt of it," said Mr. Drummond, seating himself. "But I have had the pleasure of seeing Miss Christie before."
"Where?" asked Christie, opening her blue eyes in wonder.
"Down on the beach, a few moments ago."
"Oh, yes."
And again Christie blushed vividly, as she recollected how she had been caught singing.
"Where's Miss Sibyl and Master Guy?" inquired Mrs. Tom.
"Miss Sibyl has gone to N—— with the clergyman's family, and will not return for a week; and Captain Campbell has gone to Westbrook, where his vessel is undergoing repairs. So I am left all alone, and came to pay my respects to you."
"Then you'll stay and spend the evenin'?" said Mrs. Tom, smiling complacently.
Mr. Drummond professed his willingness; and the little widow, delighted at the condescension, set about preparing tea instantly, assisted by Christie, whose wild, shy glances were bent on his face whenever she fancied herself unobserved. Half pleased, half afraid of him at first, she was reserved and timid; but as this wore off, he drew her into conversation, and, to his surprise, found her intelligent and well-educated. This Mrs. Tom accounted for, by saying she had gone to school for the last five years at Westbrook, residing there with the friend she had now been visiting.
The evening passed away with the rapidity of magic. Christie, after much solicitation, consented to sing for him; and if anything was needed to fairly enchant him, that sweet, clear voice would have done it. Then, too, Carl added to the general hilarity, by drawing out a rusty Jew's-harp, and playing a favorite tune of his own composition. Not once during the evening did he think of Sibyl; her dark, resplendant face, and wild fierce, black eyes, were forgotten for the golden locks and sweet, fair face of blue-eyed Christie—this dainty island Peri.
The hour for leaving came all too soon. As he reluctantly rose to go, he pressed the hand Christie extended, to his lips, with such passionate ardor that the blood flushed to her very temples, but not with pleasure. Ere he left, Mrs. Tom cordially invited him to visit her house while he remained on the island—an invitation he was not loth in accepting.
Christie stood at the window, watching his tall, elegant form as he walked toward the castle in the bright, clear moonlight.
"I like him, Cousin Christie; don't you?" said Carl, when he had gone.
But Cousin Christie turned away without reply, longing to lay her burning cheek on the pillow, and muse over the new and delicious joy that was thrilling her whole heart, and in her slumber to lie dreaming "Love's young dream."
And Willard Drummond, forgetting his vows, forgetting Sibyl, forgetting honor, forgetting all but this lovely island-maiden, sought his couch with but one name on his heart and lips—
"Christie, Christie!"
"She loves, but knows not whom she loves,
Nor what his race, nor whence he came;
Like one who meets in Indian groves
Some beauteous bird without a name,
Brought by the last ambrosial breeze
To show his plumage for a day
To wondering eyes, then wing away."—LALLA ROOKH.
Pale, feverish, and unrefreshed, after a night of restless dreams, Willard Drummond arose from a vision of Christie to hail a new day.
Passion and principle were at war already. Bound by every pledge of love, by every vow, to Sibyl, his whole soul was steeped in this new, all-absorbing passion that had taken possession of him. He had fancied he loved her, until he beheld radiant, dazzling, bewildering Christie and from that moment he could have yielded heaven for her. Every feeling of his inmost heart and soul was up, in arms. Every feeling of honor bade him fly from this intoxicating siren, whose power he felt growing stronger each moment over him; but the voice of passion cried: "Remain! love her, if you will! What right has Sibyl to stand between you and the heaven of your dreams?" And, like all who allow the struggle between right and wrong to wage its warfare in their bosom, Willard Drummond was lost. For, with his hot, fervid, Southern nature, worldly considerations, former vows, reason, principle, justice, even honor, were swept away, like a wall of smoke, before the fierce impetuosity of passion.
With a head throbbing, and pulse quick and feverish with the inward conflict, Willard descended to breakfast.
Captain Campbell stood in the sitting-room, awaiting his coming. With a courteous "good morning," he advanced to meet him; but started back in surprise at beholding his extreme pallor.
"My dear fellow," he exclaimed, in a tone of solicitude, "you are ill—very ill, I am afraid. What in the world is the matter?"
"Nothing. I had bad dreams, and did not sleep well," said Drummond, with a forced smile. "A cup of Aunt Moll's excellent coffee will set me all right again."
"I don't know about that," said Captain Campbell, with his eyes fixed anxiously on his face, "You are looking terribly feverish, and you were complaining of a headache yesterday. I hope you are not going to be ill."
"I assure you it is nothing," said Willard, in a tone of slight impatience. "You are needlessly alarming yourself. A bad night's rest is the cause of all."
"Well, if it is not, I will have to call up Mrs. Tom to nurse you till Sibyl comes. And, by the way, I regret exceedingly that I shall be obliged to leave you solitary and alone for some days. Important business, that cannot be postponed, demands my immediate attention."
Willard's heart suddenly bounded—he would scarcely have acknowledged to himself the reason—at the words.
"It seems hardly courteous or hospitable to leave you thus," continued the young captain; "but I know you will excuse me, my dear fellow, when I tell you it cannot possibly be helped."
"Oh, certainly, certainly!" interrupted Drummond, cordially. "Go, by all means. I will get along well enough in your absence. When do you leave?"
"Immediately after breakfast. It is an affair that cannot be postponed. In fact, I will not have time even to go and see Sibyl; but, as you will probably be there during the day, you can tell her. Perhaps you will come over to the mainland with me?"
"No, I think not," said Willard, with affected carelessness. "I may go during the course of the day."
"But how? I will take the boat."
"Oh, with Carl Henly. He has one, I believe."
"Well, suit yourself. And now I'm off. Take care of yourself, my boy; and au revoir!"
"Good-by!" said Willard, accompanying him to the door. "Aunt Moll and I will keep bachelor's hall till you come back."
Captain Guy laughed, and hurried down to the beach. And when he was gone, Willard arranged his slightly disordered dress and disheveled locks, and sauntering out, almost mechanically took the road to the cottage.
It came in sight at last—this little, quaint, old house, that held all of heaven to him now.
"Shall I enter—shall I thrust myself into temptation?" was his thought. "If I look again on this fairy sylph I am lost!"
He thought of Sibyl, and her dark, bright, menacing eyes arose before him, as if to warn him back.
"For your honor's sake—for your life's sake—for your soul's sake—go not there!" said the threatening voice of conscience.
"And have I not a right to love whom I please? Why should I offer violence to myself in leaving this bright enchantress, for that dark, wild Amazon? Go, go, and be happy," said passion.
And, as if to overthrow his last good resolution, the image of Christie, radiant, dazzling, and beautiful, as he had beheld her first, in the bright flush of the fading sun light, arose before him, and once again passion conquered.
He approached and entered the cottage.
Mrs. Tom sat near the window, spinning and singing to herself. Willard's eyes wandered around in search of another; but bright Christie was not to be seen.
The widow arose, smiling, to welcome her guest, and placed a chair for him near herself. And still Willard's eyes went wandering round the room.
"She will appear presently," he thought, not yet liking to inquire for her.
"What a venerable-looking affair your wheel is, Mrs. Tom," he said, surveying it, with its hard polished wood and bright brass rings.
"Yes, it's as old as the hills," said Mrs. Tom, resuming her work; "and has been in our family since the flood. I think I spun on that there wheel all the yarn that makes the socks, mittens, and comforters for half the county round; besides making sheets, blankets, and lots of other things for ourselves," said Mrs. Tom, with conscious pride.
"You deserve a premium for industry, Mrs. Tom," said Willard.
"Well, you may be jokin' now, and I dare say you are; but it is true, for all that. Many a true word is spoke in jest, you know," said Mrs. Tom, as her wheel went merrily round. "There ain't many women in this place o' my age and means, can do, or does do more work than me, though I say it as hadn't oughter. I knit, and spin, and sew, wash, brew, bake, sow, and reap, and fifty other things, too numerous to mention, besides. Carl, if I go out there I'll put an end to your lazin', you idle, good-for-nothin' vagabone, you!" she added, breaking off in sudden wrath, as she espied Carl, leaning on the spade with which he should have been digging in the garden.
"You should make Carl do these things, Mrs. Tom," said Willard, still impatiently watching the door and wondering why Christie did not come.
"Carl?" said Mrs. Tom, with a short laugh. "Lor'-a-massy! he ain't worth his salt; that there's the laziest, most worthlessest young scape-goat ever any living 'oman was plagued with. I hain't a minute's peace with him night nor day; and if scolding was a mite of good, the Lord knows he might have been a saint by this time, for he gets enough of it."
Willard laughed. And in such conversation the morning slipped away—very rapidly to Mrs. Tom, but each moment an age to our impatient lover. For Christie was absent still; and a strange reluctance, for which he could not account, still prevented Willard from asking for her. It was an inward sense of guilt that troubled him; for, feeling toward her as he did, he felt he had no right even to mention her name.
At last, in despair, he arose to go. Mrs. Tom relieved his mind by saying:
"Christie will be disappointed at not seeing you," said the old lady, following him out. "She went out berrying to the woods this morning, and hain't got home yet."
Willard started at the information; and, inwardly cursing the folly that had detained him so many hours talking to a foolish old woman, he darted off, with a rapidity that quite amazed Mrs. Tom, in the direction of the pine woods.
"What a confounded fool I have been," he exclaimed, savagely, "to stay there listening to the way to make butter, and flannel, and 'yarb tea,' as if the old beldame thought I was going to be somebody's housekeeper, or a female doctress; and all the time this enchanting little blue-eyed witch was wandering alone by herself. What an opportunity I have lost! and now I suppose I may search for an hour and not find her."
He turned an abrupt angle in the winding path, and stifled a sudden exclamation of surprise and delight; for there before him, reclining on the grass, with half-veiled eyes, and soft, musing smile, sat the object of all his thoughts, wishes, and desires.
He paused for a moment to contemplate the picture before him, for, if Christie had seemed beautiful when he first beheld her, oh, doubly lovely did she appear now in her attitude of unstudied grace.
Her dress was a loose, light muslin robe, fitting to perfection her rounded waist and swelling bust. Her straw hat lay on the ground beside her, and her golden, sunshiny hair floated, with all its wealth of rippling ringlets, round her ivory throat. How dazzlingly fair looked that smooth, snowy brow, contrasted with the full crimson lips and delicately flushed cheeks—how enchanting the long curved lashes, falling over the deep-blue eyes—how beautiful that faultless form, that soft, gentle, happy smile of guileless girlhood.
Willard Drummond's breath came and went, quick and short, as he gazed, and his dark eyes filled with a subdued fire.
He advanced toward her. His shadow, falling on the grass at her feet, was the first token she had of his coming. With a quick, startled cry, she sprang to her feet in terror; but when she saw who it was that stood before her, she stopped short, while the color flushed gloriously to her rounded cheeks. Her first impression was: He has read my thoughts in my face, and knows I was thinking of him.
"Have I disturbed you, bright Christie?" he asked, coming nearer.
"Oh, no!" she answered, blushingly. "I was only waiting to rest a little while before going home."
"And dreaming, I perceive," said Willard. "May I ask, of what—of whom?"
"I wasn't dreaming," said Christie, innocently. "I was wide awake all the time."
"Day-dreaming, I mean," said Drummond, with a smile. "Do you know, fairest Christie, I have been at your cottage all the morning, waiting to see you?"
"To see me?" said Christie, with another quick, glad blush.
"And not finding you there, I have come in search of you," he continued.
"And found me," she said, laughing. "If I had known you were coming I should have staid at home."
"Perhaps it is better as it is, bright one; for I have found you alone. It is very pleasant to have found so fair companion on this lonely isle."
"Yes, it is a lonely place," said Christie, musingly; "and yet I like it better than Westbrook, or any other place I have ever been in. Only I would like always to have a friend with me to talk to; and that, you know, I cannot have here. Aunt Tom is always too busy to go out; and Carl don't care about the trouble of talking, much less walking, so I always have to go alone."
"And if he would go, I fancy Master Carl is hardly the kind of companion Miss Christie would select," said Willard.
"Not if I could find any better," said Christie, with a laugh; "but I have grown so accustomed to being alone now that I do not mind it at all, as I used to."
"And so you are perfectly happy here, fairest Christie, reigning queen of this fairy isle?"
"Ah, no! beautiful Miss Sibyl is queen of the isle. I am only her most loyal subject," said Christie, gayly; "you ought to know that, having paid her your allegiance."
"What if I should say that the subject is more lovely than the queen?" said Willard, in a low voice, and in a tone that brought the hot blood flushing to Christie's face.
"I should say you were laughing at me, as of course you would be. Certainly no one would ever think of me while Miss Sibyl was near. Oh! how I wish she would always stay here, and then I would have a companion."
"Ah, bright one! if I were in her place, what would I not surrender for such a privilege!"
"Would you?" said Christie, looking at him in unfeigned surprise; "then why not stay? I am sure I should be glad to have you here always."
Her innocent words, her enticing beauty, her child-like candor, were a strong temptation. For one moment he was about to fall before her, to clasp her in his arms, to hold her there forever, while he breathed forth his mad, passionate love, and told her nothing on earth should ever part them now. But again rose before him the dark, warning face of Sibyl to allay the fever in his blood. It seemed to him he could see her black, fierce eyes gleaming on them through the trees—he could almost hear her voice shouting "Traitor!"
All unconscious of the struggle raging in his breast, Christie stood leaning against a tree, her curved crimson lips half parted—her blue eyes fixed on a cloud drifting slowly over the sky, little dreaming of the far darker clouds gathering rapidly, now, over the horizon of her life.
And still in Willard's heart went on the struggle. He dared not look at her as she stood before him—-bright, radiant, bewildering—lest the last lingering remains of fidelity and honor should be swept away by the fierce impetuosity of passion in his unstable heart.
But his good angel was in the ascendant still, for at that moment the voice of Carl was heard calling loudly;
"Christie! Christie!"
"Here, Carl! Here I am," she answered; and in another instant honest Carl stood before them.
"Aunt Tom sent me looking for you," said the young gentleman, rather sulkily; "and I've been tramping through the woods this half-hour, while you were taking it easy here," said Carl, wiping the perspiration from his brow.
"It was all my fault, my good Carl," said Willard, as Christie hastily snatched up her hat and basket and fled, having a just terror of Mrs. Tom's sharp tongue. "Make my excuses to your good aunt, and here is something for yourself."
Carl's dull face brightened wonderfully as Willard drew a gold piece from his pocket and pressed it into his hand, and then turned his steps slowly in the direction of Campbell Castle, thinking all earthly happiness lay centered in the opposite direction.
Mrs. Tom's reproaches fell unheeded, for the first time, on Christie's ear that day. She heard not a word of the long lecture delivered with more than the good widow's usual eloquence, for she was thinking of another voice, whose lowest tone had power already to thrill to the innermost recesses of her heart. She loved without knowing it, without wishing to define the new, delicious feeling filling her breast, only conscious she had never been so happy before in her life, and longing for the time when she should see him again. Ah, well had it been for her had they never met more.
"All other passions have their hour of thinking,
And hear the voice of reason. This alone
Sweeps the soul in tempests."
"Well," said Aunt Moll, to her son and heir, Lem, as he entered the long, high kitchen of Campbell's Lodge, "I would like ter know what dat ar Master Drummin's up ter? I doesn't understan' dese yer new-fangled young men 'tall. Fust he comes a courtin' of our Miss Sibyl, and jes' as soon as her back's turned he goes rite off an' takes up wid dat ar Miss Chrissy."
"'Tain't no business your'n, ole woman," said Lem, gruffly. "I 'spec's as how Marse Drummin' knows what he's about."
"Yes, honey; but 'pears to me I ought to tell Miss Sibyl 'bout it. Ef he is her beau, he oughtn't to be takin' up wid dat ar Miss Chrissy.'
"Better let Miss Sibyl look arter her own beau," replied her dutiful son. "How does ye know he's a courtin' Miss Chrissy?"
"'Cause I seed dem, chile—yes I did—las' night, down on de shore. De moon was shinin' jes' as bright as a new pin, an' I took dat ar litter o' kittens down to de shore to drown 'em, when I seed Marse Drummin' a walkin' along wid Miss Chrissy, and he had his head stooped down jes' so,"—and Aunt Moll ducked her woolly head to illustrate it—"an' was whisperin' soft stuff, jes' as folks do when dey're in love."
"Well, what den?" asked Lem, growing interested.
"Well dey come up ah' seed me, in course, an', Lor', Lor'! I jes' wish you seed de look Marse Drummin' give me. 'Peared as ef he'd a liked to knocked my ole head off. But I warn't afeared, 'deed I warn't, chile; so I jes' stood still an' drapped a courtesy, an' Miss Chrissy, she got red rite up to de roots ob her hair. 'Good-evenin', marse and young miss,' sez I; 'don't be skeered; I only wants to drown dese little kittens,' sez I, for I thought as I might be perlite jest as well as not.
"'Oh, how does yer do, Aunt Moll?' sez Miss Chrissy, a laughin' an' blushin'; 'how is Lem and yer rheumatiz, dese times?'
"'T'ank you, honey,' sez I, 'dey's pretty well, bof ob dem.'
"An' den Marse Drummin' he pulled her arm right troo his'n, and marched her off wid him; an' den I pitched de kittens right in de water an' come home."
"Well, dat ar warn't much," said the skeptical Lem. "Dey might be walkin' on de beach, but that ain't by no means courtin'. Marse Drummin' walk wid her, 'cause Miss Sibyl's gone, an' he ain't got nobody else to talk to."
"'Cisely so, chile; but dat ain't all," says Aunt Moll. "Dis berry mornin', as I was passin' troo de hall, de sittin'-room door was open, and I heered voices a talkin' dere; so I listened and peeked in, an' dar was Marse Drummin', rampin' up and down, a talking to hisself."
"Well, dat ain't nothin', eider," said the still contradictory Lem. "I've hearn dat ar Carl talk to hisself when Miss Tom sent him out to work; an' he ain't in love wid no one."
"But listen, honey, and don't you be puttin' me out so, 'cause 'tain't 'spectful—'deed it ain't," said Aunt Moll, getting slightly indignant. "As I was sayin', I clapt my ear to de door, an' I heered him sayin' jes' as plain as nothin' 'tall;
"'Oh, dischanting, onwildering Chrissy! ef I had nebber met you, I might yet be happy!' Dar, what he say dat for ef he warn't in lub?"
This last was a settler. Lem felt that his mother had the best of the argument, and unwilling to seem defeated, he went out, leaving the old lady to enjoy her triumph.
Three days had passed since the departure of Sibyl, and certainly Willard's conduct seemed to justify Aunt Moll's suspicions. Unable to break the thrall which bound him, wishing, yet unable to fly from the spell of the enchantress, he lingered still by her side. There were shame, dishonor, sin, in remaining, but oh! there were death, misery, and desolation in going. All worldly considerations, her unknown birth, her obscure connections, her lowly rank, were swept away like walls of cobweb before the fierce torrent of passion that overwhelmed, conquered every other feeling in its impetuous tide.
And she loved him, this angel of beauty, this fairy princess of the isle; he could see it in the quick flush of joy at his approach, the quick, burning glances shot from her beautiful eyes, more quickly averted when they met his—her low, impassioned tones, her bright, beautiful blushes. There was joy, there was rapture in the thought; and yet, unless he forgot honor, vows, all that should have been sacred, what did this love avail?
And so, like a tempest-tossed bark on a tempest-tossed sea, he strove with passion and honor, love and remorse, right and wrong.
Once only, fearing lest her suspicions might be aroused by his absence, he had visited Sibyl, whose rapturous greeting and confiding love made him feel far more of a villain than ever. He looked forward with dread to the period of her return, fearing for the discovery of his falsity; but, more than all, fearing for the effects of her fierce wrath on Christie, knowing well what must be the strength of Sibyl's passion when unchained.
And so, when Mrs. Brantwell proposed that Sibyl should remain with her another week, instead of returning to the dreary isle, instead of feeling irritated now, he backed the proposal, saying that perhaps it would be better for her to do so, more especially during her brother's absence.
And Sibyl, in her deep love and woman's trust, suspecting nothing, fearing nothing, consented, to the inward joy and sincere relief of her false lover.
Resolving to visit her frequently, and so allay any suspicions that his absence might give rise to, Willard Drummond returned to the island and to—Christie, yielding himself without further effort to the witching spell of her love.