CHAPTER VII.

THE HEART'S STRUGGLE.

"She loves, but knows not whom she loves, Nor what his race, nor whence he came; Like one who meets in Indian groves Some beauteous bird without a name, Brought by the last ambrosial breeze To show his plumage for a day To wondering eyes, then wing away."--LALLA ROOKH.

Pale, feverish, and unrefreshed, after a night of restless dreams, Willard Drummond arose from a vision of Christie to hail a new day.

Passion and principle were at war already. Bound by every pledge of love, by every vow, to Sibyl, his whole soul was steeped in this new, all-absorbing passion that had taken possession of him. He had fancied he loved her, until he beheld radiant, dazzling, bewildering Christie and from that moment he could have yielded heaven for her. Every feeling of his inmost heart and soul was up, in arms. Every feeling of honor bade him fly from this intoxicating siren, whose power he felt growing stronger each moment over him; but the voice of passion cried: "Remain! love her, if you will! What right has Sibyl to stand between you and the heaven of your dreams?" And, like all who allow the struggle between right and wrong to wage its warfare in their bosom, Willard Drummond was lost. For, with his hot, fervid, Southern nature, worldly considerations, former vows, reason, principle, justice, even honor, were swept away, like a wall of smoke, before the fierce impetuosity of passion.

With a head throbbing, and pulse quick and feverish with the inward conflict, Willard descended to breakfast.

Captain Campbell stood in the sitting-room, awaiting his coming. With a courteous "good morning," he advanced to meet him; but started back in surprise at beholding his extreme pallor.

"My dear fellow," he exclaimed, in a tone of solicitude, "you are ill--very ill, I am afraid. What in the world is the matter?"

"Nothing. I had bad dreams, and did not sleep well," said Drummond, with a forced smile. "A cup of Aunt Moll's excellent coffee will set me all right again."

"I don't know about that," said Captain Campbell, with his eyes fixed anxiously on his face, "You are looking terribly feverish, and you were complaining of a headache yesterday. I hope you are not going to be ill."

"I assure you it is nothing," said Willard, in a tone of slight impatience. "You are needlessly alarming yourself. A bad night's rest is the cause of all."

"Well, if it is not, I will have to call up Mrs. Tom to nurse you till Sibyl comes. And, by the way, I regret exceedingly that I shall be obliged to leave you solitary and alone for some days. Important business, that cannot be postponed, demands my immediate attention."

Willard's heart suddenly bounded--he would scarcely have acknowledged to himself the reason--at the words.

"It seems hardly courteous or hospitable to leave you thus," continued the young captain; "but I know you will excuse me, my dear fellow, when I tell you it cannot possibly be helped."

"Oh, certainly, certainly!" interrupted Drummond, cordially. "Go, by all means. I will get along well enough in your absence. When do you leave?"

"Immediately after breakfast. It is an affair that cannot be postponed. In fact, I will not have time even to go and see Sibyl; but, as you will probably be there during the day, you can tell her. Perhaps you will come over to the mainland with me?"

"No, I think not," said Willard, with affected carelessness. "I may go during the course of the day."

"But how? I will take the boat."

"Oh, with Carl Henly. He has one, I believe."

"Well, suit yourself. And now I'm off. Take care of yourself, my boy; and _au revoir_!"

"Good-by!" said Willard, accompanying him to the door. "Aunt Moll and I will keep bachelor's hall till you come back."

Captain Guy laughed, and hurried down to the beach. And when he was gone, Willard arranged his slightly disordered dress and disheveled locks, and sauntering out, almost mechanically took the road to the cottage.

It came in sight at last--this little, quaint, old house, that held all of heaven to him now.

"Shall I enter--shall I thrust myself into temptation?" was his thought. "If I look again on this fairy sylph I am lost!"

He thought of Sibyl, and her dark, bright, menacing eyes arose before him, as if to warn him back.

"For your honor's sake--for your life's sake--for your soul's sake--go not there!" said the threatening voice of conscience.

"And have I not a right to love whom I please? Why should I offer violence to myself in leaving this bright enchantress, for that dark, wild Amazon? Go, go, and be happy," said passion.

And, as if to overthrow his last good resolution, the image of Christie, radiant, dazzling, and beautiful, as he had beheld her first, in the bright flush of the fading sun light, arose before him, and once again passion conquered.

He approached and entered the cottage.

Mrs. Tom sat near the window, spinning and singing to herself. Willard's eyes wandered around in search of another; but bright Christie was not to be seen.

The widow arose, smiling, to welcome her guest, and placed a chair for him near herself. And still Willard's eyes went wandering round the room.

"She will appear presently," he thought, not yet liking to inquire for her.

"What a venerable-looking affair your wheel is, Mrs. Tom," he said, surveying it, with its hard polished wood and bright brass rings.

"Yes, it's as old as the hills," said Mrs. Tom, resuming her work; "and has been in our family since the flood. I think I spun on that there wheel all the yarn that makes the socks, mittens, and comforters for half the county round; besides making sheets, blankets, and lots of other things for ourselves," said Mrs. Tom, with conscious pride.

"You deserve a premium for industry, Mrs. Tom," said Willard.

"Well, you may be jokin' now, and I dare say you are; but it is true, for all that. Many a true word is spoke in jest, you know," said Mrs. Tom, as her wheel went merrily round. "There ain't many women in this place o' my age and means, can do, or does do more work than me, though I say it as hadn't oughter. I knit, and spin, and sew, wash, brew, bake, sow, and reap, and fifty other things, too numerous to mention, besides. Carl, if I go out there I'll put an end to your lazin', you idle, good-for-nothin' vagabone, you!" she added, breaking off in sudden wrath, as she espied Carl, leaning on the spade with which he should have been digging in the garden.

"You should make Carl do these things, Mrs. Tom," said Willard, still impatiently watching the door and wondering why Christie did not come.

"Carl?" said Mrs. Tom, with a short laugh. "Lor'-a-massy! he ain't worth his salt; that there's the laziest, most worthlessest young scape-goat ever any living 'oman was plagued with. I hain't a minute's peace with him night nor day; and if scolding was a mite of good, the Lord knows he might have been a saint by this time, for he gets enough of it."

Willard laughed. And in such conversation the morning slipped away--very rapidly to Mrs. Tom, but each moment an age to our impatient lover. For Christie was absent still; and a strange reluctance, for which he could not account, still prevented Willard from asking for her. It was an inward sense of guilt that troubled him; for, feeling toward her as he did, he felt he had no right even to mention her name.

At last, in despair, he arose to go. Mrs. Tom relieved his mind by saying:

"Christie will be disappointed at not seeing you," said the old lady, following him out. "She went out berrying to the woods this morning, and hain't got home yet."

Willard started at the information; and, inwardly cursing the folly that had detained him so many hours talking to a foolish old woman, he darted off, with a rapidity that quite amazed Mrs. Tom, in the direction of the pine woods.

"What a confounded fool I have been," he exclaimed, savagely, "to stay there listening to the way to make butter, and flannel, and 'yarb tea,' as if the old beldame thought I was going to be somebody's housekeeper, or a female doctress; and all the time this enchanting little blue-eyed witch was wandering alone by herself. What an opportunity I have lost! and now I suppose I may search for an hour and not find her."

He turned an abrupt angle in the winding path, and stifled a sudden exclamation of surprise and delight; for there before him, reclining on the grass, with half-veiled eyes, and soft, musing smile, sat the object of all his thoughts, wishes, and desires.

He paused for a moment to contemplate the picture before him, for, if Christie had seemed beautiful when he first beheld her, oh, doubly lovely did she appear now in her attitude of unstudied grace.

Her dress was a loose, light muslin robe, fitting to perfection her rounded waist and swelling bust. Her straw hat lay on the ground beside her, and her golden, sunshiny hair floated, with all its wealth of rippling ringlets, round her ivory throat. How dazzlingly fair looked that smooth, snowy brow, contrasted with the full crimson lips and delicately flushed cheeks--how enchanting the long curved lashes, falling over the deep-blue eyes--how beautiful that faultless form, that soft, gentle, happy smile of guileless girlhood.

Willard Drummond's breath came and went, quick and short, as he gazed, and his dark eyes filled with a subdued fire.

He advanced toward her. His shadow, falling on the grass at her feet, was the first token she had of his coming. With a quick, startled cry, she sprang to her feet in terror; but when she saw who it was that stood before her, she stopped short, while the color flushed gloriously to her rounded cheeks. Her first impression was: He has read my thoughts in my face, and knows I was thinking of him.

"Have I disturbed you, bright Christie?" he asked, coming nearer.

"Oh, no!" she answered, blushingly. "I was only waiting to rest a little while before going home."

"And dreaming, I perceive," said Willard. "May I ask, of what--of whom?"

"I wasn't dreaming," said Christie, innocently. "I was wide awake all the time."

"Day-dreaming, I mean," said Drummond, with a smile. "Do you know, fairest Christie, I have been at your cottage all the morning, waiting to see you?"

"To see me?" said Christie, with another quick, glad blush.

"And not finding you there, I have come in search of you," he continued.

"And found me," she said, laughing. "If I had known you were coming I should have staid at home."

"Perhaps it is better as it is, bright one; for I have found you alone. It is very pleasant to have found so fair companion on this lonely isle."

"Yes, it is a lonely place," said Christie, musingly; "and yet I like it better than Westbrook, or any other place I have ever been in. Only I would like always to have a friend with me to talk to; and that, you know, I cannot have here. Aunt Tom is always too busy to go out; and Carl don't care about the trouble of talking, much less walking, so I always have to go alone."

"And if he would go, I fancy Master Carl is hardly the kind of companion Miss Christie would select," said Willard.

"Not if I could find any better," said Christie, with a laugh; "but I have grown so accustomed to being alone now that I do not mind it at all, as I used to."

"And so you are perfectly happy here, fairest Christie, reigning queen of this fairy isle?"

"Ah, no! beautiful Miss Sibyl is queen of the isle. I am only her most loyal subject," said Christie, gayly; "you ought to know that, having paid her your allegiance."

"What if I should say that the subject is more lovely than the queen?" said Willard, in a low voice, and in a tone that brought the hot blood flushing to Christie's face.

"I should say you were laughing at me, as of course you would be. Certainly no one would ever think of me while Miss Sibyl was near. Oh! how I wish she would always stay here, and then I would have a companion."

"Ah, bright one! if I were in her place, what would I not surrender for such a privilege!"

"Would you?" said Christie, looking at him in unfeigned surprise; "then why not stay? I am sure I should be glad to have you here always."

Her innocent words, her enticing beauty, her child-like candor, were a strong temptation. For one moment he was about to fall before her, to clasp her in his arms, to hold her there forever, while he breathed forth his mad, passionate love, and told her nothing on earth should ever part them now. But again rose before him the dark, warning face of Sibyl to allay the fever in his blood. It seemed to him he could see her black, fierce eyes gleaming on them through the trees--he could almost hear her voice shouting "Traitor!"

All unconscious of the struggle raging in his breast, Christie stood leaning against a tree, her curved crimson lips half parted--her blue eyes fixed on a cloud drifting slowly over the sky, little dreaming of the far darker clouds gathering rapidly, now, over the horizon of her life.

And still in Willard's heart went on the struggle. He dared not look at her as she stood before him---bright, radiant, bewildering--lest the last lingering remains of fidelity and honor should be swept away by the fierce impetuosity of passion in his unstable heart.

But his good angel was in the ascendant still, for at that moment the voice of Carl was heard calling loudly;

"Christie! Christie!"

"Here, Carl! Here I am," she answered; and in another instant honest Carl stood before them.

"Aunt Tom sent me looking for you," said the young gentleman, rather sulkily; "and I've been tramping through the woods this half-hour, while you were taking it easy here," said Carl, wiping the perspiration from his brow.

"It was all my fault, my good Carl," said Willard, as Christie hastily snatched up her hat and basket and fled, having a just terror of Mrs. Tom's sharp tongue. "Make my excuses to your good aunt, and here is something for yourself."

Carl's dull face brightened wonderfully as Willard drew a gold piece from his pocket and pressed it into his hand, and then turned his steps slowly in the direction of Campbell Castle, thinking all earthly happiness lay centered in the opposite direction.

Mrs. Tom's reproaches fell unheeded, for the first time, on Christie's ear that day. She heard not a word of the long lecture delivered with more than the good widow's usual eloquence, for she was thinking of another voice, whose lowest tone had power already to thrill to the innermost recesses of her heart. She loved without knowing it, without wishing to define the new, delicious feeling filling her breast, only conscious she had never been so happy before in her life, and longing for the time when she should see him again. Ah, well had it been for her had they never met more.