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.