CHAPTER XVII.

A LULL BEFORE THE TEMPEST.

"We hold our greyhound in our hand,
Our falcon on our glove;
But where shall we find leash or band
For dame that loves to rove?"—SCOTT.

"Now, my dear Mrs. Courtney, you really must not think of going back to the island, any more. Sibyl is to remain with me, for a week or two longer, and you, positively, must stay, for, let me tell you, I have taken a desperate fancy to you, during the last few hours. Then, too, Sibyl, poor child! has seemed ill and out of spirits for the past few days—-and the presence of your lively little ladyship will tend to restore her to cheerfulness, again. So, Mrs. Courtney, you will just consider it settled; and, yourself, and husband must remain my guests for the present."

The company, were already dispersing, and Mrs. Courtney, on going to take leave of her hostess, had listened to the above harangue.

"But, Mr. Courtney," she began, rather hesitatingly,

"He will not object, my dear!" broke in Mrs. Brantwell, who was comfortably reposing in a large arm-chair. "He is looking ill, yet, and I don't believe his wound has been half attended to. Just go and tell him, that I say he must stay. I would go myself, only there is a crowd here, waiting to take their leave, and make their adieus. Mrs. Courtney, it's not possible—you do not hesitate. What earthly attraction can there be for you, in that dreary, little isle?"

"Oh, Mrs. Brantwell! it's not that; indeed, I shall be delighted to accept your kind offer; but, Mr. Courtney is sometimes so queer, and has such strange notions about intruding on people, that I do not know——"

"Intrude! Nonsense!" interrupted Mrs. Brantwell. "I'm sure there's nobody in this world, as fond of society as I am. I'd always have the house full of young people if I could. There now, run away, like a good, little woman and tell your husband that I positively will not hear of his going. Come, be off; here is Mr. Stafford, waiting to bid me good-by, and, I never care to keep a young gentleman waiting—especially such a good-looking one; though, I don't know what Mr. Brantwell would say about that!"

And Mrs. Brantwell gave Laura a facetious poke in the ribs, and went off into one of her mellow laughs.

Inwardly delighted at Mrs. Brantwell's invitation, which gave promise of much pleasure, Laura went in search of her husband, fully determined to accept it, whether that unreasonable individual liked it or not.

She found him waiting for her, in the ante-room, all ready for starting.

"What has delayed you so long?" he asked, sharply. "I have been waiting here this half hour. I have sent one of the servants to hire a cab to take us over to Westport—where for the present we can engage lodgings, instead of returning to Campbell's Isle—a place I never want to see again. Come, make haste and get ready."

"There's no occasion, for I'm not going to leave."

"Not going to leave? What do you mean, madam?" he asked, still more sharply.

"What I say. Are you really crazy enough, Mr. Courtney, to think I would undertake a two-hours' ride over to Westport, after being up all night? Catch me at it! I have too much regard for my good looks to undertake any such journey."

"Ah! you wish to return to the island?" he said, setting his teeth hard. "Captain Campbell, of course, will accompany you?"

"How provoking! Every word I say is converted into food for jealousy. No, I don't want to go back to the island. I'm going to spend a week here with Mrs. Brantwell."

"You shall not stay here. You shall come with me to Westport."

"Shall I, indeed? They'll have sharp eyes that will see me in Westport for another week, at least. Come, Edgar, have sense, and stay here for a few days."

"Will Captain Campbell be here?"

"Captain Campbell again. Oh, grant me patience! How do I know whether he will be here or not? I'm sure I hope he may, if it's only to drive you crazy; for, of all the absurd, jealous old tyrants that ever lived you're the worst. I declare, Mr. Courtney, you'd provoke a saint; and I do wish—St. Laura forgive me—that you were safely in heaven. There, now!"

"Take care, madam!" he said, hoarsely; "your good wishes are premature. Old tyrant as I am, I may live long enough to make you repent this language."

"Take care of what? I'm not afraid of you, Edgar Courtney!" she said, with flashing eyes. "Don't threaten, or you may drive me to say things I should be sorry for afterward."

"Once for all, will you come with me to Westport?"

"Once for all, no!"

"Madam, I command you!"

"Command away, then; I sha'n't budge a step."

"Mrs. Courtney, do you dare to brave my authority?"

"Your authority! It isn't the first time I have braved it."

"Take care that it is not the last!" he hissed, with gleaming eyes.

"Ugh! Don't look at me that way," said Laura, shuddering involuntarily at his unearthly look and tone. "I declare, if you're not enough to scare a person into the fever and ague! What a scowl! Edgar Courtney, you're worse than Nero, Heliogabalus, Mohammed, and all the other nasty old fellows, melted into one. Now I've made up my mind to stay here with Mrs. Brantwell, whether you like it or not; and you may do as you please, for all I care. Allow me to wish you good-night, and a pleasant journey to Westport."

And turning abruptly around, the indignant little lady quitted the room, leaving her spouse to his own not very pleasant reflections.

* * * * *

The company, by this time, had nearly all departed. Drummond, hat in hand, stood near the window, talking in low tones to Sibyl, whose face was now bright, radiant, unclouded.

Mr. and Mrs. Brantwell were still holding a parting conversation with some of their friends, among whom, stood young Stafford, watching Mr. Drummond, with a ferocious glance.

Captain Campbell stood by himself, evidently waiting for his friend to accompany him to the isle.

As Mrs. Courtney entered, he approached her, saying, with a smile:

"Well, Mrs. Courtney, are you not going to return with us to the island?"

"No, I think not," said Laura. "I have accepted our kind hostess' invitation, to remain with her a week."

"Weil, I have no doubt you will find it pleasanter than our lonesome isle, though, we poor unfortunates, left behind will find it doubly dreary, now, that it is deprived of your bright presence."

"Flatterer—flattery! I don't believe I'll ever be missed. You must remember me to good Mrs. Tom, her pretty niece, Christie, and that ill-treated youth, Mr. Carl Henley."

"Your humble servant hears but to obey. But, my dear Mrs. Courtney, you must not desert us, altogether. Will you not visit the island some day during the week?"

"Perhaps I may; indeed, it's very likely I shall. I want to see Mrs. Tom, before I start for home; so, if I can prevail on Miss Campbell to accompany me, your Island will be blessed with my 'bright presence,' once more."

"A blessing, for which, we shall be duly grateful," said Captain Campbell, gayly; "so, just name the day that I shall have the happiness of coming for you, and I shall safely convey you, 'over the sea in my fairy bark.'"

"Why, Captain Campbell, how distressingly poetical you are getting!" said Laura, laughing. "Well, let's see. This is Tuesday, isn't it? Then, I think I will go on Thursday—day after to-morrow."

"Very well, on that day, I shall have the happiness of coming for you. Until then, adieu."

"Good-by, Captain Campbell," said Mrs. Courtney, holding out her hand.

As she spoke, a slight noise behind her, made her turn abruptly round, and she almost shrieked aloud, as she beheld her husband—white, ghastly, and haggard—standing like a galvanized corpse, by her side. He had entered, unobserved, and approached them in time to hear their last words—to hear them make an appointment.

What other proof of her guilt, did he require? His worst suspicions were, of course, confirmed. Oh! terrible, was the look his face wore at that moment, Without a word, he turned away, and walked to the further end of the room.

Startled, shocked, and sick with undefined apprehension, Laura leaned against the table, for support. Captain Campbell's eyes followed the jealous husband, with a look, that said as plainly as words, "what does all this mean?"

"You are ill, Mrs. Courtney," he said, noticing with alarm her sudden faintness. "Allow me to ring for a glass of water."

"No, no! It is nothing," she said, passing her hand across her brow, as if to dispel a mist. "Nothing whatever," she added, rising and forcing a smile as she saw his anxious look. "Excuse me. Good night."

She hastened away, and Captain Campbell, after a moment's wondering pause, approached the spot where Willard and Sibyl stood, and touching him on the shoulder, said, somewhat impatiently:

"Come, Drummond, it's time we were off, if we go at all. Even as it is, it will be sunrise before we reach the island."

In spite of all her efforts a cloud fell on Sibyl's sunny brow at his words. The demon of Doubt was not yet wholly exorcised. The island! the name grated harshly on her ear, for Christie was there.

Willard Drummond saw it, and his resolution was taken. He felt it would not do to return to the island just now.

"I regret having kept you waiting," he said, gravely; "but I do not intend going to the island just yet."

A radiant glance from Sibyl's beautiful eyes repaid him for the words. But Captain Campbell was amazed.

"Not return? Why, what's in you head, now, Drummond? Where are you going?" he asked, in surprise.

"For the present, I shall stay here."

"Here, at Mr. Brantwell's?"

"No, in the village."

"Tired of Campbell's Isle already, eh? I knew how it would be. Well, I suppose I'll have to submit to keep bachelor's hall alone for a day or two, and then I shall return to Westport to see after my bonny bark. As the Courtneys stay, likewise, I shall have to go alone; so au revoir."

And Captain Campbell, after exchanging a word with his hostess, left the house to return to Campbell Lodge.

The few remaining guests by this time, had gone; and Willard Drummond, also, took his departure. And then Sibyl took her night-lamp and retired to her room to dream of her new-found happiness.

Laura Courtney sat alone on a sofa in a remote corner, her head on her hand, her brows knit in painful thought. This fierce jealousy of her husband's was growing insufferable; she felt she could not endure it much longer. Every word, every look, every action was warped and distorted by his jealous imagination into another proof of her guilt. And she painfully felt that this absurd jealousy must soon be apparent to every one—an almost unendurable thought; for, in spite of all her levity and apparent indifference, the little girl-wife possessed too much pride and self-respect to carelessly submit to such a bitter humiliation.

"I wish I knew what to do," she thought. "If I submit to all his whims and caprices, it will only make matters worse. Nothing can remove this deep-rooted passion, and the yoke he will lay on my neck will become unbearable. Oh, I was mad, crazed, ever to marry him. Every one that knew him told me how it would be—that he was tyrannical, jealous, exacting, and passionate, but I only laughed at them, and deemed him perfection. How I could ever have loved him, I'm sure I don't know, for he hasn't a single lovable quality in him. However, it's too late to think of this now; I want to forget the past altogether, if I can, and my folly with it. Good gracious! what an awful look was on his face that time when I turned round. Perhaps, after all, I had better not go to the island. The man's a monomaniac on this point, and it won't do to drive him to desperation."

She bent her forehead on her hand, and remained for a few moments lost in troubled thought.

"No, I shall not go; but I will not give him the triumph of knowing it. He shall not think I am afraid of him, and that he has humbled me at last," she said, half aloud, as she raised her head proudly. "I will avoid Captain Campbell, too, as much as possible, if I can do so without attracting attention. Heigho! what it is to have a jealous husband! I wonder where Edgar is? Perhaps he has gone to Westport, and left me here!"

"Prithee, why so sad?" said the jovial voice of Mrs. Brantwell, breaking in at this moment on her reverie.

"You are looking as doleful as if some near relation had just been hung for sheep-stealing. Come, I can't allow any one in my house to wear so doleful a face. Don't indulge in the blues, my dear, or you need never expect to wax fat and portly, as I am. Come, let me see you smile, now."

"Oh, Mrs. Brantwell! who could be sad in your sunshiny presence," said Laura, smiling as brightly as even the good old lady could wish; "but, really, I wasn't out of spirits—only dreadfully sleepy." And an immense yawn confirmed the truth of her words.

"No wonder; it's four o'clock, so you had better retire. Jenny will show you to your room."

"Did you see—has Mr. Courtney—" began Laura, hesitatingly, as she rose.

"Mr. Courtney went to bed a quarter of an hour ago, my dear. And here's Jenny, now, with your lamp. Good-night, love!" And kissing her, Mrs. Brantwell consigned her to the charge of a neat mulatto girl, who appeared with a light at the door.

Laura followed her up stairs to the door of her apartment. And here Jenny handed her the light, dropped a courtesy, and disappeared.

Mrs. Courtney opened the door and entered. It was a neat, pretty little room, with white curtains on the windows and white dimity hangings on the bed; a wan-hued carpet on the floor, and a cozy arm-chair beside the window. Mr. Courtney sat on the bed, still dressed in his evening costume—his arm resting on the snowy pillows and his face bowed upon it. His dark elf-locks fell heavily over the white pillows, as he lay as motionless as though death had stifled forever his wildly Throbbing heart.

He looked up as his wife entered, and dashes back his long, dark hair. Laura really felt for him—the wretched victim of his own turbulent passions—but pity and sympathy she knew would be alike misunderstood by him, if manifested; and even, perhaps, be adding fuel to the flames already raging in his breast.

"Oh! you are here, are you?" she said, setting her lamp on the toilet-stand, and throwing herself languidly in the arm-chair, "I thought you had gone to Westport."

"And left you to flirt with your new lover. Ha! Ha! You thought so, did you?"

What a goblin laugh it was. Laura shivered involuntarily, but she would not abate one jot of her defiant sarcasm.

"Yes, I saw you playing the eavesdropper," she said, as she began taking off her collar and bracelets; "it is just what I expected of you. You did it so expertly, one would think you had been taking lessons all your life, in listening at keyholes. Perhaps, you have learned from some hotel-waiter, or lady's maid."

"By Heaven! I will strangle you!" he exclaimed, roused to madness by her taunting tone. And he sprang to his feet, glaring upon her, as though he would fulfill his threat.

"Come, Mr. Courtney, be calm, or I shall be under the painful necessity of going down stairs, and inquiring where the nearest lunatic asylum is located. Don't rave, now, or try to transfix me with your flashing glances. I am not, in the slightest degree, afraid of you, Mr. Courtney."

And Mrs. Courtney drew her little form up to its full height, and looked with cool contempt, in his face.

"Madam! if you go to the island, I swear, by heaven, and all its hosts, it will be the dearest night's work you have ever done."

"Hem! Why don't you swear by the other place; you are likely to know more about it, some day, than you will ever know of heaven."

"Silence!" he shouted, in a fierce voice, "I repeat it; if you keep this appointment with Captain Campbell, you shall repent it, in dust and ashes!"

For a moment, he stood perfectly paralyzed, foaming at the mouth like a wild beast. Even the audacious Mrs. Courtney, trembled before the terrible pitch of passion, she had daringly excited. And with it, came another feeling, apprehensions for her personal safety.

Springing to her feet, she darted past him, reached the door, and said:

"Mr. Courtney, your disagreeable temper renders it necessary for me to leave you to solitude, which is said to be excellent for cross people. Hoping you will have recovered your usual good-temper, before we meet again, allow me, to wish you good-night."

He darted toward her, but she was gone, slamming the door after her, and was down the stairs in a twinkling. She knew he would not dare to follow her; and, reaching the dark, deserted parlor, she threw herself on a lounge, and burst into a passionate flood of tears. In that moment, she fairly hated her husband.

But, when the household assembled next morning, little Mrs. Courtney looked as bright, and smiling, and breezy as ever, and met her pale, sour-visaged husband with her customary, careless unconcern. He, too, was calm; but, it was a delusive lull in the storm. The treacherous peace of the sleeping volcano—the menacing quiet of a savage, seeking revenge—a calm, more to be dreaded, than his former, fierce outburst of passion.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE FATAL NOTE.

"All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven
'Tis gone.
Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell,
Yield up, oh, love, thy crown and hearted throne
To tyrannous hate! Swell, bosom with thy fraught,
For 'tis of aspics' tongues!"—OTHELLO.

Inwardly congratulating himself on his successful interview with Sibyl, Willard Drummond sought his rooms to lay his plans for the future.

Sibyl must be his bride, and that soon—love, and pride, and ambition, all demanded it. It would be such a triumph to carry off this beauty and heiress—this brilliant star, who would so proudly and gloriously eclipse the lesser lights of New York and Washington. And yet, though his darker angel prompted this, he involuntarily shrank from the crime. What was to be done with Christie? What would she do, when she heard of his marriage? Poor, deceived little Christie? his heart smote him to think he had forgotten her already.

He did not fear her much; it was not that which made him hesitate. There was not a particle of revenge in her disposition. Meek, timid, and yielding, he knew if he commanded her to be silent—saying his honor, his happiness compelled him to act as he did—she would gently fold her hands across her bosom, and die, if need be, and "make no sign." No, he need not fear her, but he feared himself. There was a fierce struggle going on in his breast. Once there had been before. Then it was between honor and passion; now it was between pity and ambition. How could he tell his loving, trusting child-bride that she would never see him more—that he had deceived her and was to marry another? And on the other hand, after his interview with Sibyl the previous night, it was absolutely impossible to pursue any other course. Christie might suffer—die, if she would; but Sibyl Campbell—this regal, beautiful heiress, this transcendently lovely Queen of the Isle—must be his wife. His wife! Could she be that while Christie lived? His brain was in a whirl as he paced up and down, still revolving the question: "What next?—what next?"

Unable to answer it, he threw himself on his bed, only to live over again the past few weeks in feverish dreams.

It was near noon when he awoke; and, with a head but slightly clearer than it had been the preceding night, he set out for the parsonage.

"There is no other course for it," ran his thoughts, on the way, "but to see Christie, and tell her all. But how to see her! Sibyl's jealousy is not dead, but sleepeth; and if I visit the isle it may break out in new fury. I must write a note to Christie, and send it to the island with some one—Lem or Carl—and appoint a meeting, after night, unknown to every one. Yes, that is what must be done. Poor Christie! poor Christie! Villain that I am to wrong you so! but the hand of Destiny is upon me, driving me on. How is all this to end? In woe for some of us, if the Egyptian's prediction come true. Well, I am in the hands of Fate, and must accomplish her ends, come what may."

He found Sibyl alone in the drawing-room when he entered. Mrs. Courtney and Mrs. Brantwell were conversing in the sitting-room, while Mr. Courtney sat silently in the depths of an elbow-chair, and scowled at them over the top of a book.

Sibyl's welcome was most cordial, and they were soon engaged in animated conversation.

Once, as if by accident, during the conversation, he said:

"I have left some things I need on the island, which I suppose I must soon go after."

"If you mention it to Guy, he will send Lem over with them," said Sibyl, with an involuntary coldness in her tone.

"Jealous still—I knew it," was his inward comment.

"I presume you do not intend visiting the lodge yourself?" he asked, after a pause.

"No; the island has few attractions for me now. I really would not care much if I never saw it again," she answered, briefly.

And there the subject dropped.

That evening when Willard returned to his hotel, he sat down and indicted the following note, without date or superscription, to Christie:

"DEAREST.—For reasons which I will explain when we meet I cannot visit you during the day. Meet me to-night, on the heath below the cottage, any time before midnight."

Lest it should by any chance fall into other hands than those for whom it was intended, he had omitted his name—knowing, besides, that it was not necessary, since the person to whom he would deliver it would tell Christie who had sent it.

Folding it up, he put it in his pocket, knowing that either Lem or Carl would in all probability visit N—— during the day, and he could seize the first opportunity of handing it to either unobserved.

And thus, determined by his devoted attention to lull her slightest doubts to rest, he set out early the following morning for the parsonage.

This was Thursday—the day on which Mrs. Courtney had promised to visit the isle.

The day dawned clear and beautiful, and as the family at the Brantwell mansion assembled round the breakfast-table, little did they dream of the appalling tragedy with which it was destined to close.

Sibyl and her lover sat in their favorite seat in the recess formed by the deep bay-window, talking in low, lover-like tones.

Good Mrs. Brantwell had incased her large proportions in a rocking-chair, and was swaying backward and forward, plying her knitting-needles, and trying to find some one to talk to—a somewhat difficult task; for Mr. Courtney, sitting in sullen silence, answered coldly and briefly, while his eyes continually followed his wife, who was fluttering in and out in a restless, breezy sort of way, looking every few moments out of the window, and starting violently whenever the door opened. Her husband saw it, and said to himself:

"She is looking for her lover, and is watching impatiently for his coming. This is the morning he promised to take her to the isle."

And his eyes assumed such a wild, maniac glare, that Mrs. Brantwell, looking up suddenly from her work, uttered a stifled scream as she exclaimed:

"Gracious me! Mr. Courtney, are you ill? You look like a ghost—worse than any ghost, I declare. I knew your wound was not perfectly healed. You had better retire, and lie down."

"Thank you, madam; I am perfectly well," he answered, in a hollow tone that belied his words.

Laura, absorbed by her own thoughts, had not heard this brief conversation. Yes, she was watching for Captain Campbell, with a nervous restlessness, she could not control, but, with a far different object to that which her husband supposed. She wanted to see him for a moment, before he entered, to tell him she could not go with him, to the island, and, to beg of him, not to allude to the subject in the presence of the others. If he did, she knew her husband's jealousy would be apparent to all—a humiliation, she wished to postpone, as long as possible.

Therefore, when at last she espied him coming, she flew down the stairs, and, flushed, eager, palpitating, met him in the hall.

"Really, Mrs. Courtney," he said, smiling at her haste, "I hope I have not kept you waiting."

"No, no," she answered, eagerly. "I wanted to tell you, Captain Campbell, that I cannot go."

"No?" he said, looking somewhat disappointed. "Then, perhaps, you will come to-morrow?"

"Neither to-morrow nor ever. I cannot explain now, but, I wanted to tell you this, before you met the others. Don't say anything about this, up stairs; and, if my conduct appears strange, set it down to woman's fickleness, to eccentricity, to anything you like."

She did not venture to look up, but he saw the burning flush that swept over her face, and, for the first time, guessed the secret of her husband's gloom.

"My dear Mrs. Courtney," he said, gently, "there is no explanation or apology needed. I intended setting out for Westport, to-morrow; but, now, since you will not go, I will start this afternoon. You will, most probably, be gone before I return; and so, besides the formal adieu I shall bid you up stairs, let me say farewell, now. Should we never meet again, I hope you will sometimes think of me as a friend."

He pressed her hand and passed up stairs; while Laura ran to hide her burning cheeks, in the solitude of her own room.

The dark, fierce glance of hatred, which Mr. Courtney bestowed upon the captain, as he entered, confirmed him in his opinion. Pitying Laura, while he despised her husband, he determined to positively neglect her, rather than give him further cause for jealousy.

"You have left Lem waiting on the beach," said Sibyl, some half-hour after his entrance. "Is he to wait for you, there?"

"By Jove! I forgot all about him. I ought to have gone down, and told him to return. I must go now," said Captain Campbell, starting up.

"No; ring the bell, and I will send Jenny down, to tell him," said Mrs. Brantwell.

"Never mind, I'll go," said Drummond, rising suddenly, as he thought what an excellent opportunity this would be, to deliver his note. "I must be off, anyway, and, I can just take the beach in my way."

"Very well," said the young captain, resuming his seat. "Tell him I won't need his services, and he may return home."

Making his adieu, Drummond hastened out and went down to the beach, where Lem sat patiently sunning himself on a log, and waiting for his master's return.

"Lem," said Drummond, as he reached him, "You are to go back to the island without waiting for Captain Campbell."

"Yes, marser," said the obedient Lem, starting up.

"And, Lem, I want you to do me a service."

"Berry well; I's willin'."

"I want you to carry a note from me to Miss Christie."

"Yes, sar," replied Lem, inwardly wondering what the "ole 'oman" would say to this if she heard it.

"You are to give it to no one but herself—neither to Mrs. Tom nor Carl; and you must not let any one see you giving it either. Why, where the deuce can it be? I surely have not lost it?"

All this time he had been searching in his pockets, but the note was nowhere to be found. He felt in his vest-pocket, where he had placed it, then in his coat-pockets, then back again to his vest. All in vain. The note was gone!

"I must have dropped it on the way, confound it!" he muttered, angrily. "What if any one should find it? But, luckily, if they do, there is no clew by which they will discover me to be the writer. Well, I must write another, that is all."

He took a pencil from his pocket, tore a leaf out of his tablet, and wrote a few lines. Then he consigned them to Lem, with the caution:

"Be sure you do not lose it, nor let any one see you deliver it. And this is for your trouble—and silence. You understand?"

"Sartin, marse," said Lem, rolling up his eyes with a volume of meaning; and he pocketed with unfeigned delight the silver coin. "I's dumb, and nobody'll see me givin' Miss Christie dis. Cotch a weasel asleep."

"All right, then; push off," said Drummond, as, with a mind intensely relieved, he sprang up the bank, while his messenger set off for the island.

Meantime we must return to the parsonage.

Scarcely had Drummond gone, when Mrs. Courtney entered, and took the seat he had just vacated beside Sibyl. Noticing Captain Campbell only by a grave bow—for the watchful eyes of her husband were upon her—she entered into a low-toned conversation with Sibyl.

"Ah! she is growing careful; that is a bad sign. I must watch them more closely, now that they have become guarded," thought Mr. Courtney, setting his teeth hard.

And, while the captain remained, every word, every look, every tone was watched and perverted by the jealous husband. Captain Campbell treated him with cool contempt, and scarcely noticed him at all; but Laura watched him constantly from under her long eye-lashes, anxious and alarmed, as she noticed his ghastly face.

"Oh! I wish Captain Campbell would go—I wish he would go," thought Laura, looking uneasily out of the window, "Heaven help Edgar! the man is mad!"

Did some sweet instinct tell him her wish? He rose that instant to take his leave.

"And—oh! by the way, Sibyl," he said, suddenly, as he was departing, "I came near forgetting I had an epistle for you. This is it, I believe," he added, drawing a note from his pocket, and going over to where slip and Laura sat.

"For me?" said Sibyl, opening it. "Who from, I wonder?"

"Little Christie gave it to me as I was going."

"Christie?" cried Sibyl, in a voice that made them start, as her eyes ran eagerly over the lines. They were as follows:

"DEAR MISS SIBYL.—I did not tell you all that night. I have thought since I should have done so. When next you visit the island I shall reveal to you my secret; for I feel you have a right to know. CHRISTIE."

Pale with many emotions, Sibyl leaned for a moment against the window, without speaking.

"Well, Sibyl, what awful revelation does that tiny note contain, to alarm you so?" he asked, in surprise.

"Guy," she said, impatiently, starting up. "I must visit the island to-day."

"The island! Nonsense, Sibyl!" broke in Mrs. Brantwell.

"I must—I must! My business there will not admit of delay. I must go."

"Why, what's wrong? They seemed all well when I left," said her brother, still more surprised.

Feeling it would not do to excite a curiosity she could not satisfy, Sibyl controlled her emotions, and said, more calmly:

"They are well enough. It is not that; but circumstances render it necessary that I should go there to-day. Who will take me over?"

"If you wait for an hour or two, Carl Henley will be here. I heard Mrs. Tom saying he would visit N—— to-night, for things she wanted. If you must go, he will take you when he returns."

"Very well; I suppose that must do," said Sibyl, controlling her burning impatience by a great effort, as she hastily left the room.

And Captain Campbell, having made his adieus, also departed, followed by Mrs. Brantwell. Laura kept her seat by the window, while her husband still scowled gloomily from under his midnight brow.

"Well, this is certainly pleasant," thought Mrs. Courtney. "What a prize I have drawn in the great matrimonial lottery, to be sure. Ugh! I declare he looks like a ghoul—a death's head—an ogre—a—I don't know what, as he sits there, glaring at me in that hideous way. That man will be the death of me yet, I'm sure. Positively I must have committed some awful crime, some time or other, to be punished with such a husband. His mouth looks as if it had been shut, and bolted, and locked, and the key forever lost. I wonder if he could open it. I'll see."

"Mr. Courtney," she said, facing round.

An inarticulate "Well?" came growlingly forth from the compressed mouth.

"Look pleasant, can't you? I declare, the very sight of you is enough to make one's blood run cold."

"You would rather look at the gallant Captain Campbell, perhaps!" he said, with an evil sneer.

"Yes, I would then—there! You don't see him wearing such a diabolical, savage, cut-throat look as you do. I wish to mercy you'd take him for a model, and not make such a fright of yourself, I'm positively ashamed to present you as my husband, of late—you have got to be such a hideous-looking creature!"

He glanced at her, without speaking, until a circle of white flamed around his eyes. And now that Laura's by no means angelic temper was roused, there is no telling what she would not have said, had not Mrs. Brantwell's voice been heard at that moment at the head of the stairs, calling:

"Mrs. Courtney—Mrs. Courtney, I want you a moment."

Mrs. Courtney hastened from the room, and Mr. Courtney was left alone with his evil passions.

As she rose from her seat, his eye fell on something like a note under her chair. Like a tiger pouncing on his prey, he sprang upon it, seized it, opened it, read it, and crushed it convulsively in his hand.

It was Willard Drummond's lost note!

"This is hers; she has dropped it. He gave it to her!" said the unhappy man his face growing absolutely appalling in its ghastly pallor. "Oh, I see it all—I see it all! They dare not meet in day-time, and she will meet him this night on the isle. Good Heaven! I shall go mad! Dishonored, disgraced forever! and by the woman I have loved so madly. And she laughed, mocked, and taunted me to my face, with this in her possession!"

He ground his teeth, to keep back the terrific groans that were making their way up through his tortured heart.

And, as if sent by his evil demon, Laura entered at that moment, laughing merrily at some jest she had left behind.

He stood with his back to her, as if looking out of the window.

"And is this the woman I have loved—this vilest of her sex, who dare laugh with such a crime on her soul? I know now—oh! I know now, why she did not go to the island with him, to-day. She thought to blind me, and make me think she was not going at all, that I might be lulled into security. Curses light on them both!" came through his clenched teeth.

Little dreaming of the thoughts that were passing through his mind, Laura—ever the creature of impulse—forgetting her momentary anger, went over, and, laying her hand on his arm, said:

"Come, Mr. Courtney, throw off this gloom, and be a little like you used to be. There is no occasion for all this anger, for, I am not going to the island, at all. You see, I have even given up my own, sweet will, to please you; so, I think I deserve something in return, for being so good. Don't I?"

He turned, and she almost shrieked aloud, at the awful face she beheld.

"Edgar! Oh, Edgar! Great Heaven! do not look so wild. I never meant to make you so angry. I will not go—indeed, I will not go. Only speak to me, and do not wear that dreadful look!"

And, pale, trembling, and terrified, she clung to his arm.

With an awful malediction, he hurled her from him, and sent her reeling across the room.

She struck against the sharp edge of the table, and fell to the ground, her face covered with blood.

But he heeded her not. Seizing his hat and coat, he rushed from the house, as if driven by ten thousand furies. And his face, upturned to the light, was the face of a demon.

Three hours later, a boat, containing two persons, put off for Campbell's Isle. One, was a rough fisher-boy, half simpleton, half idiot; the other, a tall, dark man, who sat in the stern, his hat drawn far down over his brow, the collar of his coat turned up, leaving nothing to be seen, but a pair of wild, black, maniac eyes, that glared like live coals, with the fire of madness.

CHAPTER XIX.

THAT DAY.

"The day is lowering, stilly black,
Sleeps the grim wave."

"Really, Sibyl, my love, you are getting to be a most singular girl. Two or three days ago you were all in the dismals; then, after the party, you got as amiable and bright as a June morning; and scarcely had you promised to stay with me here for an indefinite length of time, and I was congratulating myself on having secured you here, when Guy brings you a tiny note from this little blue-eyed island-girl, Christie, and lo! you are off on the wing again, and I am left to go moping about like a poor old hen-turkey with the distemper."

"But my dear Mrs. Brantwell," said Sibyl, "you have Mrs. Courtney, who is twice as agreeable and lively a companion as I am. It's impossible for you to go moping around, as you say, when she is here."

"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Brantwell, "that's all very fine, without being in the least consoling. I want you. Mrs. Courtney's very lively and all that, I know; but I invited her here as much to keep you in spirits as anything else, and now you fly off and leave us for my pains."

"I am very sorry, Mrs. Brantwell, to disturb your amusements," said Sibyl, gravely; "but when I tell you this affair is of the utmost importance to me, and that my happiness, in a measure, depends upon my going, I am sure you will withdraw your objections."

"Your happiness? Now, Sibyl Campbell, I would just like to know what this island-girl has to do with your happiness?" said Mrs. Brantwell, folding her fat hands, and looking in Sibyl's face.

"More than you would ever think, perhaps—more than I once ever dreamed myself she would have," said Sibyl, while a cloud fell over her brow. "But enough of this. I cannot explain further at present. The amount of it is, I must go to-night!"

And Sibyl's face assumed that look of steady decision it could sometimes wear.

"Humph! particularly mysterious all this. When do you return?"

"That depends upon circumstances. To-morrow, perhaps."

"Sibyl, do you know what I think?" said Mrs. Brantwell, with such abrupt suddenness that the young girl started.

"No, indeed; I do not pretend to divination," she said, with a smile.

"Shall I tell you?"

"If you please. I am all attention."

"And you will not be angry with your old friend, who talks for your good?"

"Of course not. What in the world is this preface about?"

And Sibyl's large eyes were fixed surprised on the fair, florid face of the matron.

"Well, then, Sibyl, it's my opinion you're jealous of some one," said the old lady, with the air of one who has made a discovery.

Sibyl's dark face flushed, and then grew very pale.

"And that's a very miserable feeling, my dear," said Mrs. Brantwell, composedly, "and also very foolish. No sensible person ever gives way to it, because they only bestow their affections on those in whom they can place implicit trust. Now, I hope you have too much good sense to fancy Mr. Drummond can care for any one in this world more than you."

Sibyl sat with her face averted, and made no reply.

"I had too high an opinion of you, Sibyl," went on the old lady, very gravely, "to think you could stoop to be jealous of any one, much less an insignificant little girl like this Christie. Don't be angry, my love; I am talking for your good. And indeed you have not the slightest cause to fear a rival; for, go where you will, you cannot find one more peerlessly beautiful than yourself. I don't say this to make you vain—though I know you, my queenly darling, could never be vain—but it is to inspire you with confidence. Come, my dear child, shake off this feeling that is unworthy of you. Mr. Drummond, I feel assured, has never for an instant wavered in his fidelity to you."

"Who said I was jealous?" said Sibyl, passionately. "I am not. He dare not be false to me. Let him try it at his peril. He knows I am not one to be trifled with."

"Why, my dear, your very vehemence convinced me of what I only suspected before. I am afraid you will be very unhappy, Sibyl, if you indulge in such feelings. You ought to try and cultivate a more trusting spirit, my dear; without perfect faith in the person we love, there can be no happiness.

"I do trust! I do trust! I will trust!" said Sibyl, clenching her small hand as though she would in a like manner shut out all doubt from her heart. "But, oh, where we love, the faintest symptom of distrust is madness."

"Where we love truly we feel no distrust, Sibyl."

"Oh, you do not know. Do I not love truly? Have I not staked life, and heart, and happiness on him, and yet——"

"You doubt."

"No, no—not now. I did doubt, but that time has gone," said Sibyl, with a sort of incoherence.

"Then, wherefore this visit to the isle, Sibyl?" said Mrs. Brantwell, fixing her eyes searchingly on her face.

Before Sibyl could reply, a sound, as if of a heavy fall below, reached their ears.

"What can that be?" said Mrs. Brantwell, starting up.

"It sounded like some one falling," said Sibyl, listening breathlessly. "I will go down and see."

She flew down the long staircase, followed by Mrs. Brantwell; and, on entering the room, there they found Mrs. Courtney lying senseless on the floor, her face deluged with blood.

"Great Heavens! what has happened!" said Sibyl, turning faint and sick at the sight.

"Oh, I know," said Mrs. Brantwell, wildly, as she hurried forward and raised the slender, prostrate form. "Oh, that demon of jealousy! How many souls is it destined to torture? Sibyl, please ring the bell."

"But what does this mean? I do not understand," said Sibyl, as she obeyed.

"Why, this poor child's husband is crazy with jealousy—I have observed it, though she thought I did not."

"Heaven be merciful! he cannot have struck her?" said Sibyl, white with horror.

"Oh, I do not know; but jealousy will make a man do anything—commit murder. It has done it before now, and will again. Jenny," she said, as the mulatto servant entered, "tell Tom to go instantly for the doctor, and then come back and help me to carry this poor lady up stairs."

The alarmed girl flew to obey; and after dispatching the boy for the doctor, hurried back and aided Mrs. Brantwell in conveying the slight form of Mrs. Courtney to her room.

Then, with some tepid water, she washed off the blood and disclosed a deep gash right above the eye, which continued bleeding so profusely as to awaken fears for her life.

"Oh, I fear she will bleed to death! Would that the doctor were here!" said Mrs. Brantwell, wringing her hands in deepest distress.

"And here he is," said Sibyl, as at that moment the doctor hastily entered.

After examining the wound the doctor pronounced it dangerous, but not fatal, and soon succeeded in stopping the bleeding. And then the dark eyes of Laura opened wildly, and wandered with a vague, frightened look around.

"My poor child, what has happened?" said Mrs. Brantwell, bending over her, and parting the bright disordered hair on her pale brow.

"Where is he?" she said, grasping Mrs. Brantwell's arm, convulsively.

"Who, love?" said Mrs. Brantwell, gently.

"Oh, he—Mr. Courtney," she said, in the same frightened whisper.

"He is gone, dear. Did he strike you?"

"Oh, no!—no, no!" she cried, wildly. "I fell, and struck against something. Oh, my head! I am going crazy, I think."

"Hush, love! You must not excite yourself. Lie still, and do not talk."

"I have been very wicked—very rash," she said, "but, I did not mean it. Oh, I never meant it—I never—never meant it!" she moaned, pressing her hands over her heart.

"My dearest child, I know it. But it will hurt you to talk so much."

"Yes, yes; I always did talk thoughtlessly, and it has driven him mad. Oh! I loved him once, and I have driven him mad, now," she cried, wringing her pale fingers.

Mrs. Brantwell looked at the puzzled doctor in deepest distress.

"Give her this; it will compose her," said that gentleman, who could not tell what to make of all this.

"Drink this, love; it will soothe you," said that good lady, raising the poor, wounded head of the young wife, and holding the cup to her lips.

With the passive obedience of a child, she complied, and fell back on her pillow. And, gradually, the wild, frenzied expression left her face, and she fell into a deep slumber.

"And now, she must be kept very quiet," said the doctor, as he took his hat and gloves. "There is not the slightest danger, if she is not allowed to excite herself, and is carefully nursed, which I know she will be, with Mrs. Brantwell. Repeat the medicine, when she wakes, and I will call again, to-morrow."

And the doctor bowed himself out, while Mrs. Brantwell sat down beside the poor, pale sleeper, fanning her gently, and watching her while she slept.

Sibyl, seeing her presence was not necessary, went down to the parlor, where she found Willard Drummond awaiting her. She started in alarm, for his countenance was grave and deeply troubled.

"Why, Willard, what has happened?". she asked, hurriedly, quick to take the alarm, where he was concerned.

"Sibyl," he said, slowly, "I am obliged to leave you."

She turned deadly pale, and her large, dark eyes were fixed on his face, in agonized inquiry.

"Scarce an hour ago, I received a letter from home," he went on, "saying, that my father was at the point of death, and, if I ever wished to see him again, I must hasten there, immediately. I have not a moment to lose. I start instantly; but first, I have come to take leave of you."

The news came so suddenly, that, for a moment she seemed stunned.

"When do you return?" she said, in a voice faint with emotion.

"Soon, I hope; but, I cannot, as yet, tell. Farewell, my own, dearest love; believe me, I will return to you as soon as may be."

"And you will write?" she said, burying her face in his shoulder.

"Certainly, Sibyl—that will be my first care. Remember me to our friends, and explain to them the cause of this abrupt departure. And now, once more, adieu."

He pressed her to his heart, and then quitted the house, and, mounting his horse, rode rapidly away.

Once he paused, and looked anxiously in the direction of the isle. He thought of Christie receiving his note, and waiting for him in vain, at their lonely, trysting-place.

"What will she think of my absence?" he mused; "for, I know, poor, faithful child, she will await my coming there, until morning dawn. What cause will she assign for my not keeping my appointment? Well, I cannot help it. I dare not wait until morning; and she will hear to-morrow, why I was absent."

And he rode on, never thinking whether Christie was destined to live to see that eventful tomorrow, dawn.

When he was gone, Sibyl sat for a few moments, with a feeling of utter desolation. She knew he was not to be gone long; but, it was their first parting, save the few days she was absent in New York, and there was a dreary sense of loneliness—a passionate longing to be with him, to never leave him—filling her heart. With her hands lying upon the table, and her head dropped upon them, she remained wholly unconscious of the flight of time, until the entrance of Mrs. Brantwell, aroused her.

She lifted her head and tried to listen, as the good old lady spoke of Laura.

"She has had a quiet sleep, and now appears much better. But how pale you are, Sibyl! Are you going to be ill, too?"

"No, I am quite well; only it gave me such a shock, it was so sudden," said Sibyl, pressing her hands to her throbbing brow.

"Yes, I don't wonder at it," said Mrs. Brantwell, thinking the shock she alluded to, was the sudden sight of Laura. "I came to look for a sponge, and must go back to Mrs. Courtney, now."

She left the room, and Sibyl went to the window, and looked out.

The afternoon was waning, the sun was slowly sinking toward the west, and, Sibyl saw, with some concern, that a dark, dense cloud was rising.

"There is a storm coming, and perhaps there may be no boat from the island, after all," she said, anxiously. "How can I wait until to-morrow?"

But, even while she spoke, she espied the well-known form of Carl Henley, approaching the house.

Sibyl sprang to the bell, and rang a peal, that presently brought Jenny.

"Jenny, run down to the door, and tell the boy you will see passing to come up here immediately," she said, excitedly.

Jennie disappeared, and soon returned with Master Carl looking considerably amazed, not to say frightened, at this unexpected summons.

"Carl, what time do you return to the island?" asked Sibyl.

"Right off—soon's ever I get some tea, and sugar, and coffee, and starch, and things for Aunt Tom."

"Will you take me over when you are going, Carl?"

"Yes'm, if you'll not be long getting ready; 'cause there's a storm a comin', an' no matter how hard I pull, it'll be dark afore we get there," said Carl.

"I will be ready in five minutes, and wait for you on the beach. That will do," said Sibyl, rising, to close the interview.

Carl hurried out to fulfill his commissions for Mrs. Tom, and Sibyl went to her room to dress, and take leave of Mrs. Brantwell.

"Self-willed—self-willed!" said the good old lady, sorrowfully, as she kissed her. "Well, good-by, my love. Remember, I half expect you back to-morrow."

"And I shall certainly try not to disappoint you," said Sibyl, as she quitted the room.

She took her way to the beach, where she was soon joined by Carl, who, muttering an inarticulate something about having a "stunner of a storm pretty soon," pushed off and took the oars, and under his practiced hands the boat was soon flying like a bird through the sparkling waves.

CHAPTER XX.

WHAT CAME NEXT.

"And on the midnight air arose
That awful dying cry,
That echoed through the lonely house
Vibrating to the sky."

The sky was rapidly darkening. The wind came wailing with a low, menacing sound over the waters. The sun sank red, fiery, and threatening in the far west, and the scared water-fowl went skimming over the troubled face of the bay, sending full, wild shrieks, as if to herald the coming storm. The darkened sea heaved and tossed, as if struggling with an inward foe, and the little boat quivered in every joint as it flew over the glassy waves.

Sibyl's eyes kindled as they surveyed the grand but terrible beauty of the scene. On the east, as far as the eye could see, spread out the boundless, tempestuous ocean; on the west stretched a long line of coast, forming a sort of semi-circle, lost on one side in the dense primeval forest, that as yet the woodman's axe had not desecrated, and on the other jutting out in a wild, rocky promontory. On the south was the island, which they were now approaching, looking a mere dark speck in the vast and mighty deep.

"If we don't have a screamer of a storm to-night you may say I don't know nuthing 'bout the weather," said Carl, pausing for a moment to wipe the perspiration off his heated brow, and glance at the darkening face of the sky. "Such a one as we ain't had since the night me and Mr. Drummond and Lem saved the man and woman what was washed ashore from the wreck."

"That was an awful night," said Sibyl, still keeping her kindling eyes fixed on the gloomy grandeur of the sea and sky, "but how splendid, how magnificent, how glorious this prospect is. Oh, I love a storm. I love the grand jubilee of the earth, when sea, and wind, and lightning, and storm, all join in the glorious hymn of the tempest. Oh, the nights that I have spent on sea when nothing was to be seen but the black pall of the heavens above, rent every instant by the forked lightning, while the crash of the thunder, and the roar of the wind and waves mingled together in the sublime refrain, and our ship went driving on, as if mad. Oh, for those nights again! when my very soul was inspired by the unspeakable glory of the scene."

Her wild eyes shone and flashed like stars, and her cheeks flushed with the impetuosity with which she spoke.

She was not addressing Carl, she was not thinking of him, she did not even see him; her whole soul, and heart, and mind, were filled with the present scene, and the remembrance of those she had seen.

Carl stared for an instant at the wild girl, wondering if she had gone mad, but Sibyl recovered from her momentary trance, and asked, quietly:

"Do you think we will reach the island before the storm bursts?"

"Yes. I guess so. We'll be there in 'bout ten minutes now. Oh, by granny, here it comes!"

A low, sullen rumbling, the herald of the coming storm, was heard, and two large, heavy drops of rain fell pattering on the thwart.

"Lor' sakes! ef the squall comes now we'll go to the bottom for sartin," said Carl, pulling with the energy of desperation, until the perspiration stood in great globules on his brow.

But the storm, as if in pity for that frail bark and its inmates, held up a few moments longer, and Carl uttered a yell of triumph, as he shot into a little natural harbor, sheltered by overhanging rocks, immediately below the lodge.

"Let the storm come," he cried, waving his cap in exultation; "we're all right as a trivet now."

And as he spoke his last words were lost in the roar of the wind and sea.

Safe and sheltered as it was in the little cove, the boat quivered for an instant, like a reed in the blast, before the first furious crash of the storm. Had it burst upon them a few moments sooner they would instantaneously have been swamped. But Carl, bending before the furious gale, drove his stanch little craft ashore in triumph and sprang out, followed by Sibyl.

The rain was falling heavily, and the wind blew so furiously, driving it in her face, that for the first moment she shrank back, and was forced to grasp a projecting rock to prevent herself from being blown backward. The next instant her dauntless spirit returned, and, raising her head, she shook the rain from her dripping locks, and sprang up the rocks with the fearless agility of a young mountain-kid, until she stood at the door of Campbell's Lodge, her ancestral home.

All the front of the house was dark and cheerless, for Aunt Moll never visited the front chambers when the family were absent. Pushing open the hall-door, which was never locked, Sibyl, accustomed to the way from earliest childhood, passed through the hall to the door leading to the kitchen, while the old house shook to its center, and every window rattled in the furious blast of the storm. The very chimneys shook as though they would fall and annihilate them, when Sibyl opened the door, and, wet, dripping like a mermaid rising from the sea-foam, she stood before her two astonished servants.

There was a bright fire roaring cheerily up the wide chimney, for, summer or winter, Aunt Moll insisted on having a fire; and over this, the affrighted old woman crouched, mumbling strange prayers and invocations for mercy, and fairly gray with terror. Lem, little less alarmed, sat in a remote corner, keeping his eyes tightly shut, to exclude the blinding glare of the vivid flashes of lightning.

At the sudden and startling opening of the door, both looked up, and beholding their young mistress, whom they supposed safe at the parsonage, standing before them, her wild, black hair streaming in disorder down her back, Aunt Moll uttered a piercing shriek, and, springing to her feet, rushed over and threw herself into Lem's arms, with the cry:

"Ah, it's a ghos'! it's a ghos'! Oh, Lem, sabe yer poor, ole mudder! It's our young missus' ghos'!"

And, terror-stricken, Aunt Moll clung shrieking to Lem, who stood unable to speak, his teeth chattering with terror.

The scene was so ridiculous—Aunt Moll's terror, and Lem's frightened face and distended eyeballs—that Sibyl, throwing herself into a seat, could scarcely refrain from laughter.

At this, Aunt Moll ceased her shrieks, and looked up, and Lem looked at her in utter bewilderment.

"It's our young Miss Sibyl, herself," ventured Lem, at last.

"Why, of course it is," said Sibyl, as soon as she could speak, for laughter. "Come, Aunt Moll, I'm no more of a ghost than you are yourself. Don't look so terribly afraid of me."

"Miss Sibyl, is it you?" said Aunt Moll, beginning cautiously to approach, and eying her askance. "Well, I 'clare to gracious, ef I didn't t'ink 'twas your ghos', Miss Sibyl!" said Aunt Moll, drawing a deep breath. "What could take you out sich a stormy night?"

"Carl Henley's boat, brought me here; I wanted to see you and Lem, Aunt Moll. And now, Lem, go and make a fire in my bed-room, to air it; I am going to stay here, all night."

"S'pect you'll have to. Should like to know who could go out ag'in dis night. Oh, Lor' a massy-sakes! jist listen to dat, will yer!" said Aunt Moll, trembling and shrinking, as another furious blast made the old house shake.

"Yes, it's a terrible night. Heaven grant there may be no wrecks on the coast!" said Sibyl, thoughtfully.

"An' now, honey, when de fire's made in yer room, yer mus' go up an' take off'n your wet clothes, else you'll catch your deff o' cole. An' I'll get yer supper, cause yer mus' be hungry," said Aunt Moll, approaching the fireplace.

But at that instant, a vivid flash of lightning blazed down the wide chimney, and old Moll sprang back, with a yell.

"Oh, Lor'! who ebber did see de like o' dat! S'pect it t'ought it had me dat time; but I ain't cotched yet!" said the old woman, quaking in terror.

"Oh, don't mind, Aunt Moil; I do not care for anything," said Sibyl. "And here comes Lem; so I will go to my room."

"Oh, Miss Sibyl, may I go too? 'Deed an' 'deed, I is 'feared to stay here!" said Aunt Moll, in trembling tones, as she listened to the roaring, howling, shrieking of the wild storm without.

"Certainly, Aunt Moll, if you think you will be any safer with me, you are welcome to come. But your trust should be placed in a higher power. He who rules the storm alone can help you," said Sibyl, gravely.

"Yes, Miss Sibyl, I knows all dat, an' I does trus' in Providence; but, 'pears like I'd feel safer ef I was with you. Seems like de danger wouldn't be so near, nor so drefful," said Aunt Moll; "an' I allers was awfully skeered o' lightnin'."

"Very well; come, then," said Sibyl.

And Aunt Moll, glad of the permission, lit a candle, and preceded Sibyl through the hall, and up the polished oaken stairs, at a shuffling trot, leaving Lem, much against his will, sole possessor of the kitchen.

There was a bright fire burning on the hearth, which the damp, unused rooms required, rendering the flickering tallow candle superfluous.

"Now, where are you going to sleep, Aunt Moll?" said Sibyl.

"Here on de floor, honey; I'll bring in de mattrass, an' spread it here afore de fire."

Sibyl assented to this arrangement; and, lifting the blind, seated herself by the window to watch the storm. But Aunt Moll coming in, held up her hands in speechless terror at her hardihood.

"Settin' at de winder, an' it a lightnin'!" she exclaimed. "Miss Sibyl, honey, dat's de mos' recklesses thing to do as eber was. Put down de curtain, chile, an' go to bed; it's a temptin' o' de Lor', dat ar."

"There's no danger, Aunt Moll," said Sibyl; "it is just as safe here as in bed."

"But it ain't, chile; you doesn't know. It's wrong, and likewise sinful, to sit down a lookin' at de storm," persisted the old woman.

But Sibyl, without paying the slightest attention, still sat gazing out, while Aunt Moll from entreating took to scolding, which was likewise unheeded.

"Hold your tongue, Aunt Moll!" said her young mistress, at last, impatiently facing round, tired of hearing the garrulous old woman.

And at this unprecedented rebuke, Aunt Moll sat down before the fire in mortified silence.

Though burning with feverish impatience to meet Christie, and learn what meaning lay couched in her mysterious note, Sibyl found herself forced to wait until morning. The storm seemed steadily increasing, the wind raved wildly, shaking every beam in the old house, and the booming of the sea on the rocks was deafening.

Perhaps it was the wildly shrieking tempest, the appalling crash of the angry elements, but an unaccountable depression weighed on Sibyl's spirits—a creeping feeling of horror that no effort could shake off. She strove to rouse herself, to reason herself out of the superstitious dread that was overwhelming her, but in vain. A nameless terror had clutched her heart, and would not relax its hold.

And so the hours wore on, and midnight approached. And the storm without seemed to have shrieked and roared, and worn itself hoarse, and was at last relapsing into sullen silence. The fire on the hearth was burning low, and casting wild and fantastic shadows through the gloomy room. Aunt Moll lay in that deep, deathlike sleep which only those of her race enjoy, and her deep breathing sounded audibly through the room.

Exhausted with the excitement of the storm and her own thoughts, Sibyl rose and prepared herself for bed, hoping in sleep to lose the strange feeling that was overpowering her.

She lay down, but she wooed the drowsy god in vain. Sleep would not come at her call. So she tossed from side to side, wishing—vaguely, wildly—morning would come, and listening to the dreary beat of the waves on the shore.

A death-like silence reigned within the old house, while the storm without was still sullenly grumbling.

It was near midnight, and Sibyl lay with her hands clasped over her forehead, when suddenly she heard the front door burst violently open, and through the silent house arose the wild, terrific, appalling shriek of "Murder!"