CHAPTER XVI.

FALSEHOOD AND DECEIT.

"Ah! what a tangled web we weave, When first we practice to deceive."--SCOTT.

There was a moment's profound silence, while they stood there confronting each other.

With a face perfectly white, with blazing eyes and rigid lips, Sibyl, majestic in her wrongs, stood erect before him, her form drawn up to its fullest height, her head thrown back, her pale face looking unnaturally white in contrast with her dark hair, like some tragic queen in her festal robes.

All his falsehood, treachery, and deceit--all her own wrongs, her slighted love, her deep humiliation, rushed in a burning torrent through her mind, filling her heart and soul with one consuming longing for vengeance, until she seemed to tower above him, regal in her woman's scorn and hate.

And he, knowing his guilt, feeling, too, that she knew it, momentarily quailed before the dark, fierce glance bent upon him. It was but for a moment, and then all his self-possession and graceful ease of manner returned, mingled with a feeling of intense admiration for the darkly beautiful girl before him.

He had never seen her before, save in her odd, gypsyish dress; but now, in her rich, elegant robes, she looked another being. And with it came another revelation. Underlying all his short-lived passion for Christie was still the old affection for this queenly Sibyl. He had wooed her as a dowerless bride, but now she stood before him the heiress to a princely fortune, equal to his own. Willard Drummond was ambitious. He knew this beauty and heiress would be sought for now by the best men of the day, and he felt what a proud triumph it would be to bear her off from all.

"Yes," he said, inwardly, "this beautiful Sibyl, this regal Queen of the Isle, shall be mine. I have commenced a desperate game, but the end is not yet."

And all this had passed through the minds of both in far less time than it has taken to describe it.

Drummond was the first to break the silence, which was growing embarrassing.

"My own Sibyl," he said, advancing, and attempting to take her hand, "I began to fear we were destined never to meet more. Has this new freak of Dame Fortune made you forget all your old friends?"

"Back, sir!" she thundered, in a terrible voice. "Do you dare speak to me like this! Oh, man! false and perjured, does not your craven soul shrink to the dust before the woman you have wronged?"

"Sibyl, you are mad!" he cried, impetuously.

"Mad! Oh, would to Heaven I were! Then, perhaps, this aching heart would not suffer the tortures that it does. Mad? It would be well for you if I were; but I am sane enough, to live for vengeance on you."

"Sibyl! Sibyl! you rave! In Heaven's name, what have I done?"

"Done? Oh, falsest of the false! have you the brazen effrontery, to stand before me, and ask such a question as that? Done!--that, which a life-time can never repair. May Heaven's worst curses light on you, for what you have done!"

He almost shrank before that white, terrible face, that corrugated brow, those lightning eyes, those white, cold lips, that mingled look of hatred and utter desolation, her beautiful countenance wore.

He had expected passionate reproaches, vehement accusations, but nothing like this. Yet, he knew, he felt, he deserved it all. Never, had his crime appeared before him, in such glaring colors before. But, outwardly, he still showed no sign of guilt, only grave surprise and offended pride.

"Miss Campbell," he said, folding his arms, coldly, "you are crazed. When you recover your senses, perhaps you will deign an explanation of your conduct. At present, you will excuse me, if I put an end to this interview; it is too painful to be prolonged."

He turned, as if to leave her; but she sprang forward and intercepted him.

"_Dare_ to leave me!" she cried, passionately. "Never shall you quit this room, until you hear the vengeance a Campbell can take for a foul wrong, and deadly insult. Crazed, am I? Oh, you will find out, to your cost, there is method in my madness, before this interview ends. You find it painful, do you? Ha! ha! take care you do not find it more so, before we part."

She pushed the thick, clustering, black hair back off her brow, and laughed a wild, bitter laugh.

"Good heavens! she looks as though she really were mad," thought Willard, with a shudder at that hollow, unearthly laugh. "I always knew her to be a wild, fiery, passionate girl, but I never dreamed of anything like this. What, in her frenzy, may she not dare to do; for, verily, she comes of a daring race. Oh, Christie! Christie! what a storm of passion have I not raised for your sake!"

"So I can make you start and shrink already!" exclaimed Sibyl, with fierce exultation. "Oh, you will find what it is to drive Sibyl Campbell to desperation. So you thought you could make me your plaything for an hour, and then throw me aside for the first new face you encountered. Oh, potent, wise and far-seeing Willard Drummond, what a judge of character thou art!"

Her bitter mockery was worse than her first, fierce outburst of passion, and there was a terrible menace lurking, yet, in her gleaming, black eyes.

But Willard stood looking on, still unmoved, only amazed, as he stood, with one hand resting lightly on the table, looking her straight in the eye with cold hauteur.

That steady, concentrated gaze had on her the effect of mesmerism. Her mood changed, and she broke forth in a strain of passionate solemnity:

"Oh, my soul! was it for this I poured out such priceless treasures of love at this man's feet? Was it for this I forgot God to worship _him_? Was it for this that I would have given my soul to perdition that his might be saved? Was it for this I would have devoted my life, with all its high hopes and aspirations, all that I was, all that I might become, to make him happy? Was it for this that I thought of him day and night, sleeping and waking? Was it for a return like this that I would have given my very life-blood to free him from all pain? Oh, this heart--this heart! Oh, my lost faith! my blasted hopes! my ruined life! Wealth, and youth, and beauty, were given to me, but what are they worth, when all is desolation here?"

She struck her breast with her clenched hand, and dropping into a seat, her arms fell upon the table, and her grief-bowed young head dropped heavily upon them.

The dead silence that for an instant followed her vehement outburst, was like a sudden lull in a furious storm when the spirit of the tempest pauses for a moment, and breaks forth in redoubled fury.

"Sibyl!"

Soft, low, and gentle, like oil poured upon troubled waves, came the voice of Willard Drummond to her passion-tossed heart, that voice which, in spite of all, was still dearer to her than all the world beside.

Only a convulsive shiver, a fierce grasping of her breast, as though she would tear from it the unspeakable gnawing of her agony, but no reply.

"Dearest Sibyl!"

He came over, and folding her in his arms, bent over her till his face rested on her silken hair.

"Oh, Willard!" she cried, looking suddenly up, and speaking in a tone of piercing anguish, "why did you deceive me so?"

"Sibyl, speak and tell me what you mean. As heaven hears me I have not deceived you. I love you still, as I have always loved you!"

"Oh, if I might believe it!" she said, dashing back the falling hair off her pallid brow, "if I dared to dream that you spoke the truth. But no, no!" she cried, springing up and freeing herself from his clasp, "it is false--it is false as your own false heart! Listen, and let the name blight you where you stand. What of Christie?"

Her menacing eyes were glaring upon him as though she would read his very soul; but, prepared for her question, he neither started nor betrayed the slightest emotion.

"Christie, the island-girl--what of her?" he asked, quietly.

"What of her? Man, man! you will drive me mad! Do you not love her?"

"Love her--that little, uncultured child? Sibyl, you have lost your reason," he said, in a tone of well-feigned surprise and indignation. "What drove such an absurd thought into your head?"

"Oh, she told me so--she told me so!" wailed Sibyl, pressing her hands to her throbbing temples.

"Impossible! You must have dreamed it, Sibyl, She never could have told you anything like that."

"She did; and I could have slain her where she stood for the words; but she said them. And, Willard Drummond, do not deny it--_it is true_."

"It is not true!" he boldly answered, though for the first time during the interview his dark cheek grew crimson with shame.

"It is true--it _must_ be. She would not have said it else. Oh, there was truth in her face as she spoke, and there is guilt in yours now. Willard Drummond, take care! I am desperate, and it is at your peril that you dare to trifle with me now."

"And so you believe this island-girl rather than me. Be it so, Sibyl; if you have no more faith in me than this, it is better that we never see each other more," he said, in a deeply offended tone.

"And do you tell me, really and truly, that you never wavered in your allegiance to me--never for a moment thought of any one else--never for one second gave another the place in your heart I should have occupied--never was false to your vows, to your honor, to me?"

"Never, Sibyl!"

"Swear it!"

"I swear!"

"Oh, which am I to believe? Oh, Willard, if you are deceiving me now, may Heaven's worst vengeance fall upon you! Do not, on your soul's peril, dare to speak falsely to me; for it were better for you to trifle with the lightning's chain than with this aroused heart.'

"Still doubting! have you lost _all_ faith in me, Sibyl?" he asked, reproachfully.

"Would to heaven I had never had occasion to doubt! But your own actions are all against you. Why did you so continually seek her society while on the island? How are your long rambles together, your moonlight sails, your solitary interviews to be explained?"

"Very easily. Your brother left me; you were absent, and I was alone on the island, and society is a necessity of my nature. You would not have me spend the day with your old negress or her son; Mrs. Tom or her nephew. The child, Christie, was bright, intelligent, and sociable; she pleased and interested me, and in my walks through the island we frequently met. I was fond of sailing; so was she; and what so natural as that I should sometimes ask her to accompany me?"

"Plausible! But why did you not seek _me_? I was not far distant from you, a good part of the time, and would have been more than delighted to see you every day."

"Well, if I must confess it, Sibyl, I was somewhat piqued that you should have gone away at all, and wished to let you know it by my absence. Perhaps it was very unreasonable on my part, but, loving you as devotedly as I did, I felt your abrupt absence far more than you are disposed to give me credit for."

"But, when alone, why were you ever talking of Christie? If she had not been continually in your thoughts, her name would not have been so frequently on your lips."

"_Still_ jealous! Oh, Sibyl! hard to be convinced! I did not talk of her."

"You did; for Aunt Moil heard you."

"Saints and angels! was ever man in the same dilemma I am in? Even an old, half-deaf negress is believed sooner than I! Sibyl, I _never_ talk to myself. Aunt Moll has seen me with this island girl--whom I wish to Heaven I had never met--and has fancied, perhaps, I spoke of her. Oh, Sibyl! Sibyl! by your dark, doubting look, I see you are unbelieving still. What shall I do, or say, to convince you?"

"Oh, I do not know--I do not know! Heaven direct me!" said Sibyl, pacing up and down. "I _want_ to believe you, but I cannot get rid of those doubts. Willard, once our faith in those we love and trust is shaken, it is very hard to be renewed. There were truth and earnestness in that girl's eyes when she spoke--more, there was love for you. Whether or not you love, or have loved her, one thing is certain--you have taught her to love _you_."

"I have not taught her, Sibyl, nor am I to blame for her childish fancies. Even if she does care for me, which Is doubtful, it is a sisterly affection--nothing more."

"I am not blind, Willard. It was no sisterly affection read in those soft, pleading eyes; it was strong, unchanging, undying love. Oh, Willard! what if you are deceiving us both?"

"Sibyl, this is too much! I will not endure those doubts. You do not love me as you say you do, or you would have more faith in me. If you believe I could so forget my vows to you, my honor, my plighted faith, for this little artless child, then it were better we should forever part than live in doubt and jealousy. Do you think I could endure these constant recriminations, these stormy scenes, these violent outbursts of passion? Sibyl, it is beneath you to stoop to the mean, low passion of jealousy. I thought you had too much pride and self-respect to think any one, no matter how beautiful and enchanting, could surpass you. And certainly you pay a very poor compliment to my taste in supposing that I could fall in with an illiterate, uneducated child of fifteen, simply because she has a passably pretty face. Sibyl, you are surpassing beautiful and I have to-night seen gentlemen whom I am sure were fascinated by you, hovering the whole evening by your side, while you seemed to have eyes and ears for no one but them; yet it never once entered my mind to doubt you, or be in the slightest degree jealous."

"Yes, yes; I talked and laughed with them; but, oh! if you had known how every thought and feeling of my whole heart, and soul, and mind were with you all the time--if you had but dreamed of the insufferable agony at my heart all the while, you would have felt how little cause you could have had for jealousy."

"I knew nothing of this, Sibyl, and yet, for not one fraction or a second did the slightest, faintest doubt of you enter my mind. Oh, Sibyl! Sibyl! when will you have faith like this in me?"

"_Now!_--forever! Oh, Willard, I must believe--I do believe, and I will never doubt you more!" said Sibyl, her beautiful face growing radiant with new hope. "If I judged you rashly, at least I have atoned for it, for never while you live can you dream of all I have endured for your sake. Oh, Willard, with your cool nature and calmly pulsating heart, you can never form any idea of the passionate heart throbbing here--of the fiery blood that has descended to me from a fiery race. Oh, Willard, for all my unjust doubts, and suspicions, and accusations, can you ever forgive me!"

He had borne her frenzied outbursts of passion, her bitter, withering sarcasm, her utter woe and desolation, calmly enough; but now her renewed hopes, and trust, and confidence, pierced to his very heart. He felt the blood rush to his very temples, but her head was bent on his shoulder, and she did not observe it. How intensely in that moment did he despise himself, and this necessity of lying, which his own fault had created! Without thinking of the guilt, as a gentlemen he felt himself degraded by a falsehood--something which he had never hitherto stained his lips with. And yet, in the last hour how low he had sunk! Verily, in that moment he felt "the way of the transgressor is hard."

But Sibyl Campbell, loving and hating alike with utter abandon--going from one extreme to the other, without knowing what a medium meant--knew nothing of the thoughts that set the heart she prized even above her hope of heaven, beating so tumultuously against her own. Casting all doubt to the winds, resolving she would not believe him guilty--the delicious joy of knowing and believing she was still beloved filled her heart. And so for the present she gave herself wholly up to this new happiness. But how long was this delicious joy destined to last?