CHAPTER IX.

THE VISION OF THE ISLE.

"But soft: behold! lo, where it comes again!
I'll cross it though it blast me. Stay, illusion!
    If thou hast any sound, or use a voice,
                                Speak to me!"—HAMLET.

Fickle fortune, that often favors the wrong and erring, certainly smiled on the lovers that day. For scarcely had Christie entered the house, when Mrs. Tom came bustling out, in deep distress, saying, in heart-rending tones:

"What is to be done? This five-and-forty year, rain or shine, I've had a cup o' tea for breakfast; and, now, there ain't a grain in the house. I jest know, as well as if somebody told me, that I won't be fit for nothin' to-morrow, when I ain't got a cup o' tea for my breakfast; and there's no use tryin' to make that there good-for-nothin' Carl, go for any to-night. It allers was my luck to have the most dreadfulest bad luck, but I never thought things would come to sich a pass as this. Scat! you hussy!" And Mrs. Tom gave the cat a kick, which was her usual way of winding up an address.

"Aunt Tom," said Christie, "let me go."

"You! Are you crazy? How are you goin' to go?"

"Mr. Drummond is going over to Westport this evening, and he wanted me to go with him," said Christie, turning away to hide a rising blush. "I can easily get it there."

"So you can," said Mrs. Tom, considering; "but will Mr. Drummond return early?"

"Yes," said Christie; "he has some slight business to transact, and then he is coming immediately home. The sail will be pleasant by moonlight, and I'd like to go."

"Well, go, then; and don't be gone any longer than you can help. Get two poun's of hyson at Mr. Ginger's."

"Yes ma'am," said Christie, taking the money, and putting on her hat and shawl, in a trembling, agitated way, that at any other time Mrs. Tom must have noticed.

She hurried out, and on her way met Willard coming up to the house.

"Well, has Mrs. Tom given you permission?" he asked, in pleased surprise.

Christie related her errand.

"The gods favor us!" he cried, gayly. "See, Christie! the sun is approaching the west, and before it dies out of the sky, you will be what Heaven has destined you for—my wife!"

"And to be that for one hour, is bliss enough to repay for a whole life of misery," she said, with heartfelt earnestness.

"With my own Christie! Will I ever be able to repay you for this grace, this greatest earthly blessing that Heaven could bestow upon me?" he said, fervently.

"The knowledge of your love more than repays me; for I have made no sacrifice," she said, in a low tone.

They had now reached the boat. He handed her in, pushed off the boat, took the oars, and rowed away.

But other eyes they dreamed not of were upon them. From one of the windows of the high chambers of Campbell's Lodge, Aunt Moll and her son, Lem, were taking observations.

"Dar dey go!—off a sailin'. What will Miss Sibyl say to dat?" observed the indignant Aunt Moll.

"Goin' out sailin' doesn't signify nothin'. De young gemblum wants somebody to talk to as he rows."

"'Tain't right," said Aunt Moll, with an oracular shake of the head; "dar's sumfin wrong, somewhere. Don't b'lieve Miss Sibyl would 'prove of it, nohow; dese yer young men ain't to be trusted nowadays."

"It's nat'ral Marse Drummin' would get tired o' one gal—mos' young men do—and take up wid anoder, for a change. I'd do it myself," concluded Lem, in a pompous tone.

"You would?" said his mother, in high dudgeon; "as if any gal 'd look at you, you brack fool. Marse Drummin' will get hisself inter a hornet's nest, if he trifles wid de 'fections ob Miss Sibyl. I's come to de disclusion to conform Miss Sibyl ob his goings on, soon as ebber she arrives. Dar!"

And having thus settled the matter to her own entire satisfaction, Aunt Moll descended to the kitchen, and soon forgot all sublunary things in the celestial bliss of smoking a short, dirty pipe, as black and stumpy as herself.

Meantime the erring young pair were swiftly skimming over the bright waters in the direction of Westport. The labor of rowing precluded the possibility of conversation, and both were silent and thoughtful. Urged on by his intense desire of completing what he had so successfully begun—urged on, perhaps, by Fate—the boat seemed fairly to fly over the sparkling, sun-bright waves.

Ere the last ray of sunlight had faded from the sky the boat touched the opposite shore; and drawing Christie's arm within his own, Willard set off rapidly in the direction of the town of Westport.

And having reached it, he led Christie in the direction of a little obscure Methodist chapel, while he left her to seek for a license and the clergyman.

In a short time he returned with both, and without asking any unnecessary inquiries, he hastened through the marriage ceremony; and in a few moments the passion-blinded young couple were man and wife. Then hastily paying the clergyman his fee, Willard led his bride from the church.

"My bride! my wife! my own forever, now!" he cried, with passionate exultation, folding her to his heart.

But just then, with a sharp, piercing cry of thrilling horror, Christie sprang back, frightfully pale—with dilating eyes and choking breath, gasping, stifling, suffocating.

"In the name of Heaven! what is the matter, my own Christie?" he cried, in wonder and alarm.

But, pressing her hands over her heart, she sank dizzily on the church steps, pale, gasping, trembling, horror-stricken still.

"Christie! Christie! dearest love! what is it?" he said, anxiously, encircling her with his arm.

"Oh! the doom—the doom!" she said, shudderingly hiding her face in his arm.

"What doom? Of what are you speaking, sweet wife?" he inquired, in increasing anxiety.

She rose now, and passed her hand over her brow, as if to clear away a mist. Then, seeing his pale, troubled face, she recovered herself and forced a smile.

"Dearest Christie, what was it?" he anxiously asked.

"Oh, Willard! you will laugh at me, but I felt it all, I saw it all so plainly," she said, in a weeping voice.

"Saw what—felt what? I do not understand," he said, puzzled by her look and words.

"Those eyes! those eyes! and that fierce grasp on my throat, and the keen knife! Ah, Heaven! I feel it yet." And she shuddered convulsively.

"Are you raving, Christie! In Heaven's name, what eyes, what knife, are you speaking of?" he said, beginning to think she had lost her reason.

"Oh, Willard! Willard! just as you folded me in your arms, and called me your wife, Sibyl Campbell's fierce, wild, black eyes rose before me, glaring on me like burning coals, and then I felt two strong hands clutch my throat, and a knife plunged into my breast! Oh, saints in heaven! it rises before me yet."

"Christie, you are mad!" he said, vehemently; but the ashen paleness that overspread his face told the sudden shock the name of Sibyl had given him.

In all the terror, horror, and momentary frenzy of that instant, the fear of his displeasure conquered every other feeling in her breast. Shaking off, with an effort, the creeping dread that was palsying every nerve, she clung to his arm with renewed confidence, and said, with a deep breath of relief:

"I believe I was, for the moment, Willard; but that has passed now. You are not angry with me, dearest Willard?" she said, anxiously, observing the cloud that still overspread his fine face.

"Angry? not at all!" he said, gravely. "Only sorry and surprised to think you should give way to such extraordinary delusions."

"Oh, Willard! it was not a delusion. I saw it all, as plainly as I see you now. Oh, those dreadful, dreadful eyes! they will haunt me to my dying day!"

"Do not think of it again, my own love, and do not look so wild," he said, soothingly. "Come, let us be going; the moon will soon rise, and it will be late before we reach the isle."

"And Aunt Tom will be anxious," said Christie. "And that reminds me of her commission, which I had nearly forgotten. When we reach the store, you can wait outside. I will join you in a moment."

The moon was just rising when they set sail for the isle, which Christie had left a child, and was returning a wife. Ah! where was their better angel in that dark moment of madness and temptation?

The soft, bright moonlight was lighting up the isle with its calm, pale rays when they reached it. The cry of the whip-poor-will and katy-did, from the neighboring forest, mingled with the soft, dreamy murmur of the waves on the shore, was the sweetest music ever heard.

Tempted by the beauty of the night, our lovers prolonged their stroll over the beach. At length, as it began to grow late, Christie, fearing Mrs. Tom or Carl might come out to watch for her coming, persuaded Willard to let her return.

They walked up the rocky, romantic path, whispering those low and often foolish things so sweet to lovers' ears when coming from the lips of the loved one. A light still twinkled in the widow's cottage, casting a long, thin line of yellow light far over the lonely road. But no other sign of life was visible. Christie's blue eyes were bent on the ground, and Willard's stately head was bent above her, when, suddenly looking up, he beheld a sight which froze the blood in his veins.

From the dark, mystic pine woods, a white-robed figure came floating toward them. One glance sufficed to tell him it was the strange vision that had bent over him a few nights before. There were the same hollow, ray less eyes, the same wild, streaming black hair, the same ghastly corpse-like face, with its fixed look of unutterable woe.

It was coming steadily toward them, this awful phantom. Willard stood fixed, rooted to the ground, gazing as if fascinated on the appalling specter. His next thought was for Christie. He glanced toward her to see her face blanched to the hue of death, her eyes dilating in horror, fixed, frozen, unable to speak a word, one hand raised, and one flickering finger pointing to the dread being approaching.

Neither could move nor speak. Still the phantom floated on until it stood before them, face to face. For an instant it paused, with its hollow eyes glaring upon them; then with an awful cry of "murdered! murdered!" that peeled through the dim old woods, it threw up both its arms, and with a shrill, piercing, agonizing shriek, fled away and was hid among the beetling rocks.

The hand that grasped Willard's arm was growing weaker and weaker, there was a low moan, and he turned in time to catch the senseless form of his child-wife in his arms.

The wild, unearthly scream had startled Mrs. Tom. Alarmed and wondering, she cautiously opened the door and went out. And there she saw Willard Drummond with the senseless form of Christie in his arms.

CHAPTER X.

ONE OF FORTUNE'S SMILES.

                "Fortune is merry,
And in this mood will give us anything."—JULIUS CÆSAR.

Captain Guy Campbell sat in the parlor of the Westport House, as the flaming gilt signboard announced, his heels elevated on the window-sill, his chair tipped back, a cigar in his mouth, and a newspaper in his hand. Many people were passing in and out, some of whom he greeted with a nod, others with a brief salutation, while he still went on with his reading and smoking. There seemed to be nothing very exciting in the paper, judging by Captain Campbell's suppressed yawns; and he was about to throw it aside as worthless, when a paragraph caught his eye, that brought him to his feet, as suddenly as though those members were furnished with steel springs.

The paragraph was brief, and ran thus:

"If Mark Campbell, Esq., of Campbell's Isle, be still alive, he is earnestly requested to call immediately at the office of C. Ringdon, Attorney-at-Law, No 16 —— street, Westport. In case of his death, his heirs should apply.

C. RINGDON."

"Now, what in the name of Neptune and all his scaly court can this mean?" ejaculated the amazed Captain Campbell.

"Should be happy to inform you," said a voice behind him, "only I don't happen to know what you're talking about."

Captain Campbell turned round, and saw a fashionably dressed young man, who had just entered, standing beside him.

"Ah, Stafford! how are you?" he said, extending his hand; "happy to see you. What in the world brought you here?—the very last person I ever expected to see in this quarter of the globe."

"Well," said Stafford, leisurely seating himself, "I came down here, nominally, to transact some business for the governor; but the fact is, I heard the Evening Star had arrived, and I wanted to pay my devoirs to her majesty, the Queen of the Isle. How is pretty Lady Sibyl?"

"Very well, and at present on a visit to the Rev. Mr. Brantwell's. But look at this advertisement, here, in the Westport Herald. What the deuce do you make of it?"

Stafford took the paper and carelessly glanced over the lines.

"Faith, I don't know. Somebody's left you a legacy, perhaps."

"Pooh! what a notion! Who under the sun is there to leave a legacy to me? The Campbells are all as poor as Job's turkey."

"Well, there's your mother's relations—the Eyres. Old Richard Eyre, the New York banker, is a millionaire, worth more hundred thousand dollars than I could undertake to count. He might have died and left you his money."

"And leave his own family without? A likely story," said Captain Campbell.

"My dear fellow, he had no family, except a wife, and she has been dead for many years. You may be certain he has left you his heir."

"By Jove! if it should prove to be true, that would be a streak of good luck. But it cannot be. Dame Fortune would never bestow on a Campbell any such friendly smile. They always were an impoverished race, and always will be, I believe."

"Don't be too confident. Strange things happen sometimes. For instance, I saw something strange a night or two ago.

"Yes? What is it?"

"Weil, you see, about dark I was wandering about the shore, enjoying a cigar and the beauty of the evening, and ruminating whether it wouldn't be advisable to take a boat and go over to see her adorable majesty, Queen Sibyl. Most likely my cogitation would have ended in my going, only, unfortunately, there was no boat to be seen. I was about to turn away in despair, when I suddenly espied a boat containing two persons land at some distance below where I stood. One was a young fellow, tall and good looking, with a certain air of aristocratic hauteur about him that told me he was not to be interfered with. But his companion—oh, ye gods and little fishes! what a perfect little sylph she was! Such a miraculous combination of blue eyes, yellow curls, snowy complexion, pink cheeks, and red, kissable lips, it never was my good fortune to encounter before. But what struck me most forcibly, was her resemblance to some one I had seen before and after puzzling myself for a long time, I at length discovered she was the very image of pretty little Christie, of the isle."

"Christie! oh, pooh! it couldn't have been she," said Captain Campbell, with an uneasy start.

"Of course, it couldn't have been she, with so dainty a knight as that, but it was most confoundedly like her, or what she was when I saw her last—four years ago; though I dare say she has greatly changed since then."

"Well, what was there so strange about a handsome fellow and a pretty girl landing on the beach, to interest the nonchalant Will Stafford?" asked Captain Campbell.

"Listen—I haven't got to the strange part of my story yet. They walked up the beach to the road, and I could see the girl was terrified and excited, while he tried to soothe and quiet her. My curiosity was aroused; for, 'pon my soul, Campbell, I never saw a lovelier little creature; and with a sort of idea they were up to some mischief, I followed them. It was nearly dark, and they hurried on so fast they did not notice me, and I tracked them into one of the most obscure streets of the town, and saw them enter a little, secluded, Methodist meeting-house.'

"Well?" said his auditor.

"Well, sir, the fellow left her there and went off. I crept softly in, and in the obscurity hid behind a post, determined to see the end. Dark as it was, I could see she trembled with inward emotion, and crouched down in her seat, with her face hidden in her hands, as if terror, remorse, sorrow, or some other feeling, was weighing down her heart."

"Wonder the gay Will Stafford did not approach and offer her consolation," said the young captain, dryly.

"By Jove! I felt like doing it," said Mr. Stafford, in all sincerity; "but I wanted to see what was up, for I knew now all could not be quite right. Presently, the young man came back, and with him a minister. All was clear as stars at noonday, now—this was a runaway match, a clandestine marriage—something which is always interesting to fast young men like myself. The happy pair stood up before the clergyman, and the twain were soon made one flesh.

"My ears would have run themselves into points in order to hear the better, but I listened in vain. The minister mumbled over the ceremony so confoundedly low that I could not hear a single word—not even the names of the parties, which I was particularly anxious to find out. I suppose it was all right, however, for I saw the clergyman pocket the fee, and the young man, tucking little blue-eyes under his arm, walked off; and, faith, I'd given a trifle to have stood in his place. I followed, not being ambitious to be locked up all night, even in so holy a place as a church. Just as I went out, I heard an awful shriek, and there the bride stood like one suddenly turned to stone, while the bridegroom was trying to console her. What scared her I don't know, but certainly I never saw a more terrified look on any face than was on hers. Not wishing to be seen, I drew back, and in a few minutes they started on. I followed them as before, and saw the girl stop for a moment in a grocery store, while he waited outside. Then they went down to the beach, he handed her into the boat, pushed off, and they were gone—leaving me to rub my eyes and wonder whether I was sleeping or waking. Now, what do you think of this wedding on the sly, without friends, or witnesses, or anything in the usual line?"

"Well, really, I cannot say, such things do not interest me as deeply as they do you. Perhaps it's the Westport fashion."

"No; there's something wrong. He was evidently of a rank superior to the girl. I could tell that, both by their dress and air, and general appearance. I would like to get at the bottom of this mystery."

"Then why not see the minister who married them, and find out from him?"

"Well, for sundry reasons. First, I didn't see his face, and wouldn't know him if I stumbled over him. Second, it looks like a rascally, low-bred trick; this tracking them and playing the spy, that I should be ashamed to tell any one of it, but so old a friend as you."

"Well, then, never mind this mysterious couple any more," said Captain Campbell, impatiently; "but tell me what I had better do about this advertisement."

"Why, go and see this C. Ringdon, attorney-at-law, at once, that's all; I'll go with you; it's not ten minutes' walk from here."

"But if it should prove to be a humbug?" said Captain Campbell, as he sallied forth, arm-in-arm with Stafford.

"Then thrash C. Ringdon, attorney-at-law, within an inch of his life," said his pacific friend. "It's the only balm for a wounded mind I know of."

Captain Campbell laughed; and the conversation turned on various matters as they walked on.

In a short time they reached the office of C. Ringdon—a dingy-looking, old house, with his name over the door, in exceedingly dingy letters.

Mr. Ringdon, a sharp, shrewd-looking little man, sat alone in his office, when they entered. He pushed up his spectacles, and surveyed them keenly as they came in.

"You, I presume, are the Mr. Ringdon mentioned in this advertisement?" said Captain Campbell, handing him the paper, and pointing to the advertisement.

"I am sir. Can you give me any information concerning the parties in question?"

"Faith, he ought to, being the principal party in question himself," interposed Stafford.

"How, sir,—are you a relative of these Campbells of the Isle?" asked the attorney.

"Yes; the son of the Mark Campbell mentioned there."

"Ah! Are there any more of you? Is your father living?"

"No; he has been dead these four years; and there are no more of us, as you are pleased to term it, but one sister. May I ask what all this affair is about?"

"Certainly, Mr. Campbell. You are aware, perhaps, you had an uncle in New York—-Mr. Richard Eyre, the banker?"

"I knew it! Wasn't I just saying the old gentleman was at the bottom of it?" said Stafford, giving Captain Campbell a dig in the ribs.

"I am aware of that fact, sir; he was my mother's only brother."

"Exactly. Well, he is dead."

"Indeed!" said the young man, gravely.

"Yes, sir; and, having no heirs of his own, he has left his whole fortune to be divided equally between his sister's children. The sum is enormous; and I beg leave to congratulate you on your good fortune. I do not know the exact amount, and for further particulars it will be necessary for you to visit New York, where the lawyer who drew up the will resides. Here is his address. All you have to do, is to prove your identity, settle a few preliminaries, and take immediate possession of your fortune. Excuse me, gentlemen, I am very busy, and, with your permission, will bid you good-morning."

And the little attorney bowed them politely out.

"Well, this is a streak of good luck!" exclaimed Stafford. "Upon my word, Campbell, you must have been born with a silver spoon in your mouth. I suppose you will start instantly for New York?"

"Not instantly, my dear Stafford. I must go and inform Sibyl of our good fortune. Dear, noble girl, for her sake I am truly thankful for this."

"Of course you ought to be; not many men are blessed with such a sister as that radiant, glorious Sibyl. Have you any objections to my accompanying you?"

"Delighted to have you, my dear fellow. Suppose we start now; we will be at Brantwell's before dark."

"Just as you please, my dear sir. I suppose it will be 'sight for sair een' to see her dazzling majesty, the Queen of the Isle, again."

A carriage was soon in readiness, and our two friends started to impart this sudden glimpse of fortune's sunshine to Sibyl.

It was dark when they reached the parsonage—a handsome and rather imposing-looking mansion—and were ushered into the drawing-room by a neat-looking little maid. Sibyl and Mrs. Brantwell were seated alone, Mr. Brantwell having gone to see a sick parishioner.

Sibyl joyfully hailed her brother, and smilingly greeted his companion, who was an old friend and secret admirer. Poor Will Stafford! The impressions the child Sibyl had formerly made on his heart, time had nearly obliterated; but that radiant smile, those glorious eyes and bewitching glance, totally finished him.

Good Mrs. Brantwell welcomed her guests in her usual hearty manner, and with a jolly little laugh. But when she heard of the unexpected good fortune of Sibyl and her brother, her rapturous delight knew no bounds.

"Just to think of it!" she exclaimed, "my handsome Sibyl an heiress. Oh, won't she create an excitement now? Young, rich, and beautiful! Sibyl! Sibyl! what an enviable fate is yours!"

Sibyl's cheek flushed, and her eyes brightened, as she thought of Willard. For his sake she rejoiced over her new-found fortune. Often and bitterly had she secretly regretted, and her pride revolted at the idea of becoming the bride of one so far superior in wealth and fortune. But now she was his equal! there was triumph, joy, exultation in the thought. His aristocratic friends could not look down on her now—could not despise her for her poverty. Look down on her—a Campbell of the Isle! In other days, who would have dared to do so and live? But times had changed since those days; and people looked more now to dollars and dimes than to blood or noble ancestry. Now she had both; she was his equal in wealth, as she was infinitely his superior in every noble quality, and the triumphant thought sent the blood rushing to her crimson cheeks, her red, glowing lips, and the dark, Southern eyes of jet, lit up magnificently with pride, love, and exultation. This fortune of hers she would cast at his feet, with her passionate devotion, as she had already cast heart, and life, and being, and soul.

"What are you thinking of, Sibyl?" said Captain Campbell, after watching her a few moments, with a smile. "Your cheeks and eyes are blazing, your whole face illuminated, as it were, with an inward light of joy and triumph. Surely you do not care as much as this for wealth?"

"Pooh! I know what it's all about," broke in Mrs. Brantwell, in her customary matter-of-fact manner. "She's thinking that good-looking Mr. Drummond will have a richer bride than he bargained for. Isn't that so, Mistress Sibyl?"

Sibyl started from her reverie, and blushed deeply at finding her thoughts thus interpreted. Stafford turned pale as he watched her glowing face; and the conviction came home to him, for the first time, that Sibyl Campbell's rare beauty was appreciated by other eyes than his.

"By the way, when was Drummond here?" asked Captain Campbell.

"Day before yesterday—wasn't it, Sibyl? He doesn't visit us very often—not half so often as so devoted a lover should. Oh, you needn't try to annihilate me with those flashing eyes of yours, my lady. I'm not a young gentleman, thank goodness! and am proof against even those bright, angry glances. To be sure the young man may have some plausible excuse; but it seems to me if I were in his place I'd stick to you like a chesnut-burr, for fear you might slip through my fingers. Poor, dear Mr. Brantwell was twice as attentive in his courting days, and I never had any beauty worth mentioning," said Mrs. Brantwell, with her usual jolly laugh.

"I don't know about that, my dear lady," said Guy, gayly. "If I were a marrying man, I'd sooner bend my knees to you than half the young girls I know. Only I've an immense respect for Mr. Brantwell, there is no telling what I might be tempted to do."

"Don't be too confident, Master Guy," said the good-humored lady. "I wouldn't have anything to do with such a graceless young scamp as you for any consideration; though, for the sake of sound morality and good taste, I should hope you wouldn't fall in love with me. And here comes Mr. Brantwell himself, who wouldn't approve of it, by any means."

At this moment the good clergyman entered, and warmly greeted his guests.

In a few words his wife told him of this astonishing good fortune. Mr. Brantwell always took matters very coolly, a circumstance which sometimes provoked his more excitable lady, as on the present occasion—he merely elevated his eyebrows slightly in token of surprise, and said:

"Indeed!"

"Yes, indeed!" responded his wife, irreverently mimicking his tone, "and one would think fortunes were in the habit of pouring into people's hands as they walked, by the way you take it."

"Well, where is the use of flying off at a tangent at everything," retorted her spouse, "as you do. I suppose, captain, you will start for New York immediately?"

"Yes, to-morrow morning."

"And as Sibyl may be wanted, you had better take her, too," said Mr. Brantwell.

"Very true; I never thought of it before. Can you be ready, Sibyl?"

Sibyl thought of Drummond, and asked, rather hesitatingly, "How long will you be gone?"

"About a week—or two or three, at the farthest."

"Now, Sibyl," broke in Mrs. Brantwell, who seemed to possess the faculty of reading people's thoughts, "never mind Mr. Drummond; I'll break the news of your absence to him in the gentlest manner possible. Your fortune is of more importance just now than his lordship, who, no doubt, will follow you to New York when he hears you are there."

There was no use getting angry with the good-humored old lady, so Sibyl smiled, and promised to ready betimes next morning.

And early the following day the brother and sister set out for New York.

CHAPTER XI.

THE STORM—THE WRECK.

"The strife of fiends is in the battling clouds,
The glare of hell is in these sulphurous lightnings!
This is no earthly storm."—BERTRAM.

It was two days after the departure of Sibyl ere Willard Drummond visited the parsonage again. And then he heard of her departure with real surprise and affected concern; but he did not follow her to New York, as Mrs. Brantwell had prophesied.

His passion for Christie was yet too new—the novelty had not worn off—the joy of knowing she was his wife, his own indisputable property, had not yet abated, as it would do some day, as it must do; for such quick, fierce, passionate, selfish love could not last. As suddenly, as completely, as it had come, so must it die; for he was not one of those who, in loving once love for a life-time. Christie was, and so was Sibyl; but in each that love despised, or neglected, would produce different results.

Christie would have folded her hands, drooped, faded, and perhaps died of a broken heart, but Sibyl would rise majestic with the strength of her wrongs, and hurl to destruction all those who had acted a part in her downfall. Something of all this would at times flit through Willard Drummond's mind; and once came the ungenerous thought that perhaps after all it would have been better had he never seen Campbell's Isle. But one smile from Christie, one fond caress from her gentle arms, and all this was forgotten, and all the world was again bounded for him by its wave-dashed shore.

So the days of Sibyl's absence were wearing away, and Willard still lingered a willing captive. Even Mrs. Tom's eyes were beginning to be opened to the fact that there must be something more than met the eye in these long solitary rambles—those moonlight walks and sails the young couple were so fond of. Aunt Moll had long been throwing out sundry mysterious hints which Mrs. Tom—who disliked gossiping—paid no attention to; but now she began to think that, after all, it might be more prudent to keep this gay young man of pleasure a little oftener from Christie. So one day she surprised Christie by a sound scolding on her "goin' prowlin' through the woods at all hours, when she ought to be at home doing her work," and positively forbidding her going out again for a week.

Christie listened in dutiful silence, but promised nothing; and in spite of all Mrs. Tom's watching, met Willard as often as ever. For that young gentleman would visit the cottage each day; and the little widow was altogether too hospitable to hint that he came oftener than was exactly desirable. And so there was nothing to do but to hope that Miss Sibyl would soon return to the isle, and look after her lover herself, for Mrs. Tom was growing tired of it. Besides, she really liked the youth exceedingly, and would have thought him a paragon of perfection if he only would be less attentive to Christie.

And Christie, the sly little child-wife, had gone on dreaming "Love's young dream," and never thinking how terrible one day would be her waking.

Since their bridal-night, the mysterious phantom had never been seen; and both were beginning to hope it had been only an illusion of a heated imagination. Mr. Drummond had accounted for the terrifying shriek and Christie's fainting fit in some ingenious way of his own, that quite satisfied the old lady, and lulled to sleep any suspicions she might have conceived.

One evening, as Willard set out to keep an appointment with Christie, he observed Lem standing, or rather sitting perched up on a limb of a giant pine tree, shading his eyes with his hands, and looking anxiously out to sea.

"Well, my boy, what has caught your attention in that direction—wild geese?"

"No, master," said Lem, solemnly; "I see a sail."

"Well, and what of that?" said Mr. Drummond. "A sail is not such an unusual sight here, is it?"

"Bur dare's a storm brewing an' if de Lord ain't took 'special charge ob dat vessel, de fust lan' it makes will be Davy Jones' locker," said Lem.

"A storm, you blockhead!" exclaimed Drummond, "There is not a cloud in the sky."

"Jes' look ober dar, massa, and see dat black cloud, 'bout de size o' your hand."

"Well?" said Willard.

"Pretty soon dat will be all ober the sky, and den we'll hab a taring squall. De trees tell de wind's risin' already, and you needn't be s'prised ef to-morrow mornin' you sees de ruins o' dat wessel spread all over the shore."

And Lem, with a doleful shake of his head, descended from his perch and sought the house.

Ere the hour had passed, Lem's prognostications proved true. The heavens rapidly darkened, as dense, black, threatening clouds rolled over it; the sea became of an inky hue, crested with white, ghastly-looking foam, as it heaved and groaned like a "strong heart in strong agony," The wind rose and crashed with terrific force through the woods, bending strong trees like reeds before its might.

"Lor' sakes, how it blows!" said Mrs. Tom, as she blustered in and out. "I 'clare to man, it 'most took me right off my feet. I ain't heerd sich a wind these five year come Christmas, and them two ships were wrecked right out from the shore, and every soul perished. Dear, dear! what a sight it was next day, when all the drowned corpses was washed ashore. It was the most awfulest sight I ever seed. Carl, don't sit layin' there in the corner all night, toastin' your shins like a singed cat. Get up and pick the pen-feathers out of that fowl."

"I heard Lem saying there was a ship in view about an hour ago," said Drummond, rising.

"Lord a' massy upon them, then!" said Mrs. Tom; "for, if they touch the shore, they'll every one go to the bottom.'"

"Oh, dreadful!" said Christie, turning pale with pity and horror.

"It's goin' to be an awful night! Just listen to the wind roarin' through the trees, and that rain! I never heard the waves boomin' on the beach as they're doin' now, that a wreck didn't foller. It's a blessin' Captain Guy and Miss Sibyl ain't on the sea this dreadful night. When they were away, I used to think of them in every storm. Lord preserve us! look at that." And, with a piercing shriek, the startled Mrs. Tom sprang back.

A fierce gust of wind, threatening to bring down the roof about their heads; a tempestuous dash of rain, as if the flood-gates of heaven had opened for a second deluge; a blaze of blue, livid lightning, as though the whole firmament was one sheet of flame; a crash of thunder, as though heaven and earth were rending asunder!

With a wild cry of terror, Christie sprang up pale, trembling, horror-struck. Carl crouched into a ball in a remote corner. Neither dared to speak or move.

Mrs. Tom, forgetting her first involuntary alarm, sprang to close the shutters, and make fast the doors. And Willard, amazed at the suddenness with which the storm had arisen, buttoned up his coat, preparatory to starting for the lodge, ere it should further increase in violence.

"Oh, do not go—do not leave us!" cried Christie, springing forward, and pale, wild, terror-stricken, clinging to him, scarcely conscious of what she did.

"Dearest love, do not tremble so; there is no danger," he whispered, encouragingly, encircling her slight waist with his arm.

But Mrs. Tom, turning suddenly around, and beholding them in this position, in spite of her panic, was shocked and indignant.

"Lor' a' massy 'pon us, child, sit down—no, kneel down, and say your prayers. You ought to be ashamed of yourself to do sich a thing. Mr. Drummond, I'd be 'bliged to you not to keep your arm 'round her that way; it doesn't look right, nor, likewise, respectable."

But here, Mrs. Tom's words were abruptly cut short; for, across the stormy, raging sea, high above the roar and shrieking of the storm, pealed a minute-gun of a ship in distress, like an agonized cry for help.

"Heaven be merciful! Listen to that!" exclaimed Mrs. Tom, turning pale.

Another fierce, tempestuous burst of wind and rain another blinding glare of sulphurous lightning; another appalling peal of deafening thunder rent the air. And then again boomed the minute-gun over the sea.

"Something must be done; something shall be done!" cried Willard, excited beyond endurance, at the thought of so many perishing almost within a dozen rods of where he stood. "Carl, my boy, come with me; and, with the assistance of Lem, we may be able to save some of those perishing wretches."

"It's too wet!" said a terrified voice, from the corner, as its owner crouched into a still smaller ball.

But Mrs. Tom—who never forgot the practical no matter what her alarm might be—went over, and taking the unfortunate youth by both ears, lifted him, with a jerk, to his feet.

With a howl of pain, Carl extricated himself from her hands, and clapped both his own palms over the injured members.

"Now, go this minute, and get your hat and overcoat, and go out with Mr. Drummond, and do whatever you can. And if he goes laying around, just give him a blow 'long side of the head, and make him know he's got to mind you. Come, be quick!"

Carl, whose dread of the storm was far inferior to his dread of Mrs. Tom, donned his coat and hat with amazing alacrity—having tied the former under his chin, with a red handkerchief, to keep it on—stood ready to depart, wiping the tears from his eyes, first with the cuff of one sleeve, and then with the other.

Willard cast one look at Christie, who had sunk on the floor, her face hidden in her lap; and then turned to depart, followed by the unwilling Carl. The blinding gust of wind and rain that met them in the face nearly drove them back; but, bending to the storm, they resolutely plunged on; and it required all the strength of Mrs. Tom to close the door after them.

The storm seemed increasing in fury. The wind howled, raged and shrieked; the waves thundered with terrific force over the rocks; the thunder roared, peal upon peal, shaking the very island to its center; the lightning alone lit up for an instant, with its blue, livid glare, the pitchy darkness; and then the crash of the strong trees in the neighboring forest, as they were violently torn up by the roots, all mingled together in awful discord.

But, above all, the minute-gun came wailing once more over the sea.

The two, plunging so blindly through the storm, hastened on as if winged at the saddest of sounds. And, after tumbling, slipping, falling, rising, and hurrying on again, they reached the old lodge at last.

A light was burning in the kitchen. Both rushed in there—wet, dripping, and half-blinded by the storm. Aunt Moll was on her knees in the middle of the floor rocking back and forward, and praying aloud in an agony of terror and apprehension; and Lem was walking up and down, groaning and praying, at intervals, with his mother.

"Oh, good Lor'! I's been a drefful sinner, I is; but if you'll only spare me jes' a little while longer, I tends to do better. Oh, do spare me! I ain't ready to go 'deed and 'deed I ain't. Please do, good Lor', an' I'll nebber do nothin' sinful again. Oh, what a streak o' lightnin' dat 'ar was! O, Lemuel, kneel down, or yer ole mammy'll be took away in a flash o' lightnin' like 'Lijah was."

And in an agony of fear Lem tramped up and down the long kitchen, quaking at every fresh clap of thunder.

"Come, cease that caterwauling!" said Drummond, as he burst in upon them, dripping like a sea-god; "and you, Lem, get your coat, and come with us down to the beach, and see if we cannot save some poor unfortunates from death and destruction."

"'Deed, Master Drummin', honey, I dassent, I's 'feared to go out," said Lem, his teeth chattering like a pair of castanets.

"You black villain, if you are not ready in ten minutes, I'll thrash you till you are not able to stir!" exclaimed Willard, catching and shaking him furiously.

Too terrified by the young man's fierce tone to resist, Lem drew on his hat and coat, and, shaking like one in an ague-fit, followed them out into the night, and darkness, and storm.

Once more over the tempest-tossed waves rolled the mournful voice of the minute-gun, like a dying cry.

"Oh, Heaven, this is maddening!" exclaimed Willard, rushing to the beach like one demented; "to think they should perish thus, within reach of us almost, while we are here in safety. Carl, where is your boat? I will venture out, and see if I cannot save some one, at least."

"Oh, Marse Drummin'! for de dear Lord's sake, don't risk it!" cried Lem, in an agony of terror. "No boat could live two minutes in dem waves."

"You couldn't launch the boat in these breakers," said Carl, "much less pull, if you were into her."

"And they must perish before our very eyes! Oh, heavens, this is awful!"

Again he listened for the gun, but it came no more. Its voice was silenced in storm and death.

"They have gone down!" said Carl; "the signal gun will fire no more."

"Heaven have mercy on their souls!" said Willard, solemnly, lifting his hat.

"Amen!" said Lem, whose fears seemed swallowed up in awe.

"We may soon look out for the bodies," said Carl, straining his eyes over the black, seething waves.

Even as he spoke, by the blinding light of a glare of lightning they beheld two bodies, lashed to a spar, thrown violently on the sands near them. All sprang forward, and drew them up beyond the reach of the waves.

"Unfasten this rope," said Carl, "and we will bring them up to the house. Perhaps they may not be drowned yet."

"One's a woman," said Lem, as he cut the lashing. "I can carry her, I reckon, while you two tote the man along."

"Go on, then," said Willard, "up to Mrs. Tom's. Be quick!"

Bearing, with the utmost difficulty, their wet and apparently lifeless burdens in their arms, they reached the cottage of the widow, and deposited the senseless forms before the fire. Then, leaving them to her charge and that of Christie, they descended once more to the beach to rescue any other unfortunate who might providentially be washed ashore.

Toward midnight the storm abated, and the king of the tempest sullenly began to call off his hosts. The dense thick clouds slowly rolled back, the lightning ceased to flash, and the thunder only growled in the distance. The wind abated, and the rain fell more slowly; but, though they waited until morning dawned, no more bodies were wafted to their feet.

The next day's light showed a scene of ruin and death. The beach was strewn in every direction with fragments of the broken ship, and some half-dozen dead bodies lay scattered on the sands. All were cold and dead; and sad and disappointed, our tired and drenched watchers turned a way.

Before going to the lodge Willard visited the cottage, and learned that the rescued ones were both alive, and might recover. And, grateful to have been the means of saving even two of the unfortunates, he sought his own couch, to dream of wrecks and drowned men till noon-day.

CHAPTER XII.

SIBYL'S RETURN TO THE ISLE

"There is a shadow in her eye,
    A languor in her frame;
Yet rouse her spirit and she'll glow
    With passion's fiercest flame."—T.W.H.

It was late in the afternoon of the following day when Willard Drummond left the lodge for Mrs. Tom's cottage. Curiosity to see the rescued ones prompted the visit as much as any other feeling; and he walked along rapidly, viewing the scene of desolation which the preceding night's tempest had left.

The cottage door was open to admit the pleasant sunshine, and Willard paused for a moment to view the scene before he entered.

Mrs. Tom went bustling about the room in her usual breezy, chirruping way, talking incessantly, but in a subdued tone, as though afraid of disturbing some one. Christie sat near the window, bending over her sewing, looking pale still, after the terror and excitement of the previous night. But Willard's eyes did not linger a moment on her; they were fixed, as if fascinated, on another, who lay back in Mrs. Tom's arm-chair, propped up with pillows.

It was the woman, or rather the girl, he had saved, What was there in that pale young face to make him start so vehemently, while the blood rushed in a crimson torrent to his very temples? He only saw a small, slight figure; short, crisp, golden curls clustering over a round, white, polished forehead; bright, saucy gray eyes, half veiled now under the long, silken eyelashes, resting on the pearly cheek; a little rosebud mouth, and a nose decidedly retrousse. It was not a wonderfully pretty face; but there was something bright, piquant, original, and charming about it—something daring, defiant, and high-spirited, as you could see even in its pallor and languor. She might have been sixteen, though she scarcely looked so old as that.

She lay back now with her little white hands folded listlessly on her lap, her veiled eyes fixed upon them with a dreamy, abstracted look, as of one whose thoughts are far away—replying low and languidly to Mrs. Tom's ceaseless questioning. And Willard Drummond, pale and excited, leaned against the door-post, gazing upon her like one who cannot believe his senses.

Suddenly Christie raised her eyes from her work, and uttered an ejaculation as she espied him. He could linger no longer, and like one who walks in his sleep, he passed in.

The clear, dark eyes of the little lady in the chair were raised as he entered, and fixed with a look of complete amazement on his face. Her dark eyes dilated—her lips parted in surprise, as she made an effort to rise from her chair, and then sank back exhausted.

"Willard Drummond!" broke in surprise from her lips.

"Laura!" he exclaimed.

And he was by her side in an instant, holding her hands in his, and gazing in her eyes with a look that would have aroused Sibyl's jealousy, had she been present, but which only puzzled Christie, who, with Mrs. Tom, looked on in astonishment.

"Who in the world would have expected to meet you here!" said the lady, recovering first from a moment's embarrassed silence; "certainly the last spot on earth I should ever look for the gay, pleasure-loving Willard Drummond. So, sir, I presume you have been 'taking the world easy,' here in this Enchanted Isle, while your poor, deluded friends were laboring under the conviction you were improving your mind—-which needed improving, goodness knows—by foreign travel? Pretty conduct, Mr. Drummond, I must say!"

"Oh, Laura! Laura! how little did I dream, last night, you were in that fatal ship!" he exclaimed, passionately.

"Ugh! yes; wasn't it awful?" said the young girl, with a shudder. "I'll never get the horrid sight and sounds of that dreadful night out of my mind while I live. Oh! to have heard the screams, and cries, and prayers, and blasphemies of the drowning crew, mingling with the fearful storm, was appalling. Holy saints! I hear them yet!"

With a convulsive shudder, she hid her face in her hands.

"Thank Heaven your life was saved, at least," said Drummond, with fervor.

"Yes, our escape was little less than miraculous. I remember some one making me fast to a floating spar, as the ship struck; then the waves swept furiously over me, and I remember no more, until I awoke and found kind friends chafing my hands and temples. Was it you who saved me, Willard?"

"Not exactly. The waves washed you ashore, and my part of it was merely to have you conveyed up here. But how little did I dream then, that Laura Britton was so near!"

"Laura Courtney, if you please, Mr. Drummond," she said, quietly. "I have had the honor of changing my name since I saw you last."

"And you have married Edgar Courtney! Oh, Laura, Laura?" he said, reproachfully.

Her eyes flashed as she faced suddenly round, and said, sharply:

"Yes, I have married him; and, Mr. Drummond, don't you dare to speak of him in that tone again. I will not endure it. No, not if you had saved my life a dozen times."

The angry blood flushed to her pale cheek, and she jerked her hand angrily away from his grasp.

Willard bit his lip till it bled, to keep down his rising anger; while Christie and Mrs. Tom still sat staring in increasing amazement.

There was a long, disagreeable pause, broken at last by Mrs. Courtney saying, in her usual quick, abrupt way:

"There! you need not get mad, now, Willard; have you forgotten that no one used ever to get angry at anything said by 'Madcap Laura?' Come, don't speak so of Mr. Courtney again, and I'll forgive you; there's my hand on it. I cannot forget that we are old friends."

A shadow crossed Willard's face, as he bent over the little hand she extended.

"Has your—has Mr. Courtney been saved?" he asked, in a subdued tone.

"Yes, the waves washed us ashore together, but something struck him on the head, and he is unable to rise. I suppose you are puzzling your brains now to know what brought us to this quarter of the globe?"

"I confess I have some curiosity on that point."

"Well, you see," said little Mrs. Courtney, adjusting herself more comfortably in her chair, "we went on a bridal-tour to New York, and on our way home Edgar thought he would call at Westport, where he had business of some kind. All the way we had fine weather until the journey was at its end, and then the storm arose in which we nearly perished. But, Willard, what under the sun can have driven you here?"

Willard colored as he met her keen, bright glance.

"Well, I came with a friend of mine, a certain Captain Campbell, who owns a residence here, and I am for the present his guest, though unexpected business, for a time, called him away. Anything for a change, you know," he added, laughing, "and this island is not quite devoid of attraction."

"By no means," said Mrs. Courtney, glancing demurely at Christie. "I certainly admire your good taste in saying so. Once here, with such a divinity as this, I can easily account for the attraction that binds you, most fickle of men, here," she added, in a lower tone.

"Pshaw, Laura!" he said, striving to hide by a laugh the guilty flush that lingered still on his face, "you surely do not think I have forgotten you so soon?"

"If it were any one else I would not, but you—oh, you never would be true to any one longer than a month. Talk about woman's fickleness! I'm sure the wind never was half so changeable as you."

"Yes, you gave me great encouragement to be true to you," he answered, with some bitterness.

"Did I," said Mrs. Courtney, with a yawn. "Well, I know I was a horrid little simpleton once, but I've grown old and wise now. And, if it's all the same to you, Mr. Drummond, I'll leave you now. I feel tired and half sick yet, after last night."

She rose and went into the room with a weary, tired air.

"So, you know her?" said Mrs. Tom. "Who'd ever thought it? So that tall, dark-looking fellow, with all the whiskers and mustaches, is her husband? I declare if it ain't scandalous the way gals will get married afore they're out o' short frocks. I jist wish I had a darter—no, I mean if I had a darter—I'd like to see her tryin' to get married at such an unchristian age!"

Christie turned scarlet, and bent lower over her work.

Willard stood leaning with one arm on the mantel-piece, gazing thoughtfully into the fire.

"What did you say her name was?" inquired Mrs. Tom, sitting down, and beginning to reel off yarn.