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.