CHAPTER VIII.

THE TRIUMPH OF PASSION.

"All other passions have their hour of thinking, And hear the voice of reason. This alone Sweeps the soul in tempests."

"Well," said Aunt Moll, to her son and heir, Lem, as he entered the long, high kitchen of Campbell's Lodge, "I would like ter know what dat ar Master Drummin's up ter? I doesn't understan' dese yer new-fangled young men 'tall. Fust he comes a courtin' of our Miss Sibyl, and jes' as soon as her back's turned he goes rite off an' takes up wid dat ar Miss Chrissy."

"'Tain't no business your'n, ole woman," said Lem, gruffly. "I 'spec's as how Marse Drummin' knows what he's about."

"Yes, honey; but 'pears to me I ought to tell Miss Sibyl 'bout it. Ef he is her beau, he oughtn't to be takin' up wid dat ar Miss Chrissy.'

"Better let Miss Sibyl look arter her own beau," replied her dutiful son. "How does ye know he's a courtin' Miss Chrissy?"

"'Cause I seed dem, chile--yes I did--las' night, down on de shore. De moon was shinin' jes' as bright as a new pin, an' I took dat ar litter o' kittens down to de shore to drown 'em, when I seed Marse Drummin' a walkin' along wid Miss Chrissy, and he had his head stooped down jes' so,"--and Aunt Moll ducked her woolly head to illustrate it--"an' was whisperin' soft stuff, jes' as folks do when dey're in love."

"Well, what den?" asked Lem, growing interested.

"Well dey come up ah' seed me, in course, an', Lor', Lor'! I jes' wish you seed de look Marse Drummin' give me. 'Peared as ef he'd a liked to knocked my ole head off. But I warn't afeared, 'deed I warn't, chile; so I jes' stood still an' drapped a courtesy, an' Miss Chrissy, she got red rite up to de roots ob her hair. 'Good-evenin', marse and young miss,' sez I; 'don't be skeered; I only wants to drown dese little kittens,' sez I, for I thought as I might be perlite jest as well as not.

"'Oh, how does yer do, Aunt Moll?' sez Miss Chrissy, a laughin' an' blushin'; 'how is Lem and yer rheumatiz, dese times?'

"'T'ank you, honey,' sez I, 'dey's pretty well, bof ob dem.'

"An' den Marse Drummin' he pulled her arm right troo his'n, and marched her off wid him; an' den I pitched de kittens right in de water an' come home."

"Well, dat ar warn't much," said the skeptical Lem. "Dey might be walkin' on de beach, but that ain't by no means courtin'. Marse Drummin' walk wid her, 'cause Miss Sibyl's gone, an' he ain't got nobody else to talk to."

"'Cisely so, chile; but dat ain't all," says Aunt Moll. "Dis berry mornin', as I was passin' troo de hall, de sittin'-room door was open, and I heered voices a talkin' dere; so I listened and peeked in, an' dar was Marse Drummin', rampin' up and down, a talking to hisself."

"Well, dat ain't nothin', eider," said the still contradictory Lem. "I've hearn dat ar Carl talk to hisself when Miss Tom sent him out to work; an' he ain't in love wid no one."

"But listen, honey, and don't you be puttin' me out so, 'cause 'tain't 'spectful--'deed it ain't," said Aunt Moll, getting slightly indignant. "As I was sayin', I clapt my ear to de door, an' I heered him sayin' jes' as plain as nothin' 'tall;

"'Oh, dischanting, onwildering Chrissy! ef I had nebber met you, I might yet be happy!' Dar, what he say dat for ef he warn't in lub?"

This last was a settler. Lem felt that his mother had the best of the argument, and unwilling to seem defeated, he went out, leaving the old lady to enjoy her triumph.

Three days had passed since the departure of Sibyl, and certainly Willard's conduct seemed to justify Aunt Moll's suspicions. Unable to break the thrall which bound him, wishing, yet unable to fly from the spell of the enchantress, he lingered still by her side. There were shame, dishonor, sin, in remaining, but oh! there were death, misery, and desolation in going. All worldly considerations, her unknown birth, her obscure connections, her lowly rank, were swept away like walls of cobweb before the fierce torrent of passion that overwhelmed, conquered every other feeling in its impetuous tide.

And she loved him, this angel of beauty, this fairy princess of the isle; he could see it in the quick flush of joy at his approach, the quick, burning glances shot from her beautiful eyes, more quickly averted when they met his--her low, impassioned tones, her bright, beautiful blushes. There was joy, there was rapture in the thought; and yet, unless he forgot honor, vows, all that should have been sacred, what did this love avail?

And so, like a tempest-tossed bark on a tempest-tossed sea, he strove with passion and honor, love and remorse, right and wrong.

Once only, fearing lest her suspicions might be aroused by his absence, he had visited Sibyl, whose rapturous greeting and confiding love made him feel far more of a villain than ever. He looked forward with dread to the period of her return, fearing for the discovery of his falsity; but, more than all, fearing for the effects of her fierce wrath on Christie, knowing well what must be the strength of Sibyl's passion when unchained.

And so, when Mrs. Brantwell proposed that Sibyl should remain with her another week, instead of returning to the dreary isle, instead of feeling irritated now, he backed the proposal, saying that perhaps it would be better for her to do so, more especially during her brother's absence.

And Sibyl, in her deep love and woman's trust, suspecting nothing, fearing nothing, consented, to the inward joy and sincere relief of her false lover.

Resolving to visit her frequently, and so allay any suspicions that his absence might give rise to, Willard Drummond returned to the island and to--Christie, yielding himself without further effort to the witching spell of her love.

Mrs. Tom suspected nothing of the contraband courting carried on under her very eyes. It was the most natural thing in the world, she thought, that, in the absence of Sibyl and her brother, the young man should spend whole days with them, for it was not pleasant having no one to talk to but a couple of negroes, as she very well knew. Then, it was not to be wondered at, that he preferred talking and walking with Christie to any of the rest, for she was "book-l'arned" like himself, which neither she nor Carl was. She did wonder a little sometimes, and said as much to Christie, why he should stay on the island at all, in the absence of the other.

"But, I suppose," was always her conclusion, "It's because it's Miss Sibyl's home, and, for her sake, he stays there until she comes."

But Christie, though she only blushed and was silent, was of a different opinion--one that she would scarcely own to her own heart. As to his being in love with Christie, Mrs. Tom would have scouted the idea with scorn and unbelief, had she heard it. Every circumstance was against such a conclusion. He was rich, highly connected, and proud as a prince of the blood; she was poor, unknown, and, compared with him, uneducated. Besides, in the good widow's opinion, she was a child in feeling, as she certainly was in years, scarcely knowing the meaning of the word love.

Ah! she had been till he came; and his fervid, impassioned words, his burning glances, his thrilling touch, had swept away the glamour of childhood and simplicity, and revealed to her the passionate woman's heart within her. His words, his looks, his tones, were all new revelations to the artless, island maiden, changing her, as if by magic, from a child to a woman. She revered him as the embodiment of all that was brave, generous, and noble; worshipped him as a god, and loved him with all the affection of her fresh, young heart, with all the ardor of a first, deep love.

As yet, she knew not whether that love was returned; for, unfaithful as he was in thought to Sibyl, passion had not yet so totally conquered his reason as to make him sin in words. He had never said, "Christie, I love you;" but, ah, how often had his eyes said this, and much more; and how long would this slight barrier stand before the fiery impetuosity of unstable youth?

And so that day passed, and the next, and the next, and the next, and with every passing hour the temptation grew stronger and harder to be resisted. Matters must come to a crisis now, or never. Sibyl, in a day or two, would be home, and this wild frenzy of his could be hidden no longer. If she should come, as matters stood now, all would be lost.

And thus, torn between conflicting emotions, Willard sought Christie, on the day before Sibyl was expected home, with the determination of bringing this struggle to an end, then and there.

It was a glorious August afternoon. The island wore its bright dress of green, and nestled in the blue shining river like an emerald set in sapphire. The birds in the deep pine forest were filling the air with their melody, and the odor of the wild roses came floating softly on the summer breeze.

But Willard Drummond was in no mood to admire the beauties of Nature. The morning had been spent in pacing up and down his room, hesitating, resolving, doubting, wishing, yet undecided still. For, when duty and principle would appear for a moment victorious, the waving golden hair, the beautiful blue eyes, the gentle, loving face of Christie would arise before him, scattering all his good resolutions to the winds. And, mingled with this, there was a sort of superstitious foreboding of evil to come. He thought of his dream, and of the yellow-haired siren luring him on to destruction; and of Sibyl, fiery daughter of a fiery race, fierce, vindictive, and implacable in her wrongs.

"Oh, that I had never met this dark, passionate girl!" he murmured, distractedly, "who now stands between me and the heaven of my dreams; or would that I had seen this beautiful, enchanting Christie first! Oh, for that angel as my wife! And but for those fatal vows once made to Sibyl, she might be mine. I was mad, crazed, to mistake my fancy for that dark, wild-eyed girl for love! And now, for that one mistake, am I to be wretched for life? Shall I give up this beautiful, radiant creature, who loves me, for one I care for no longer? No; the struggle is past. Christie shall be my bride, and I will brave the worst that may follow!"

He set his teeth hard; and, as if fearing second reflection might make him change his mind, he left the house and hurried out to meet Christie.

Down on the shore, under the shade of an overhanging willow, he knew Christie had a favorite seat, where, on pleasant days, she used to take her work. Here he was sure of finding her, and in this direction he bent his steps.

She sat, sewing, under the shade of the drooping willow, singing softly to herself, and looking like some sylvan goddess of a sylvan scene; or some beautiful sea-nymph, just risen from her grotto of coral and chrystal.

Radiant and bewildering was the smile and blush with which she welcomed him--a smile and blush that might have been found too strong even for more potent principles than his.

He seated himself beside her, with a look of moody abstraction, all unusual with him, watching her covertly from under his eyelashes, as she bent smiling and happy over her work.

For a time, Christie chatted gayly on various commonplace matters; but, at last, catching her tone from his, she, too, grew silent and thoughtful. She bent lower over her work, wondering if she had offended him, and involuntarily sighed.

He heard it, and said:

"And wherefore that sigh, Christie! Are you unhappy?"

"No not unhappy; but troubled."

"And why should you be troubled, bright one? What can there be to grieve one so fair?"

"I--I--feared I had offended you," she answered, timidly. "You appear out of spirits."

"You offend me, gentle one--you who never offended any one in your life? No, no; it is not that."

"Then you are unhappy," she said, shyly.

"Yes, I am miserable--wretched!" he cried, vehemently. "I wish to Heaven I had never been born!"

"Oh, Mr. Drummond! what has happened!" she cried, laying her hand on his, and looking up wistfully in his face.

Her touch, her tone, her look swept away every remaining trace of fidelity. He forgot everything he should have remembered--his vows, his honor, his truth--and saw nothing but the bright, radiant, bewildering vision before him. In an instant he was on his knees at her feet, exclaiming, with impassioned vehemence:

"Christie! Christie! my life, my dream, my hope, I love you. See, I am at your feet, where my heart, my name, my fortune, long have been. With my whole heart, and soul, and life, I love you with a love stronger than death or the grave. All the devotion and hopes of my life I offer you, if you can only say you love me."

He was pale and panting; his eyes were fierce and burning; his tones low, thrilling, and passionate.

Trembling, shrinking, blushing, yet, with a deep, intense, fervent joy thrilling through her heart and being, Christie listened. The blood swept in torrents to her face, neck, and bosom, which rose and fell with her rapid breathing. She dare not look up to meet his ardent, burning, gaze.

"Christie, Christie! my love, my life! look up; speak--answer me--tell me that you love me!"

Still no reply, only those downcast eyes, deepest blushes, and quick, hurried breathing.

"Speak! speak! my beautiful love! only one word from those sweet lips; but one touch of your dear hand to tell me I may live," he cried, growing more wild and impassioned.

With a low, glad cry of intense joy, she buried her blushing face on his shoulder.

"Thanks! my heart's thanks for this sweetest, loveliest Christie!" he cried, with exultant joy, pressing her yielding form to his bounding heart. "My life, with all its hopes, energies, and ambitions, shall be devoted to but one purpose now--that of rewarding you for your priceless love."

"Oh, Mr. Drummond, your love is all the reward I ask!" she said, in the deep, earnest voice of perfect trust.

"Not Mr. Drummond now, sweetest Christie. I am _Willard_ to you, now and forever. Let me always hear that name in music from your lips, and earth has no higher boon in store for me."

"But oh! can you love me thus--me, a poor, little, nameless, uncultured girl, while you are rich, distinguished, and highly connected. Oh, Willard, will you not, some day, repent this choice--you, who might win the highest and fairest in the land?"

"Repent! never--never! Perish my heart, if it ever admit of any love but thine; palsied be my arm, if it ever encircle any form but this; accursed be my lips, if they ever perjure the words I have spoken now; lost forever be my soul, when it is false to thee!" he cried, with passionate vehemence.

"Oh, Willard! dearest, hush! I do not doubt you--Heaven forbid. I should die, if I thought you could be false to me."

"Speak not of death; it is not for such as you, bright, beautiful Christie. And now, only one thing is wanting, to make me the happiest of men."

She lifted her radiant face with a look of earnest inquiry.

"Christie, one little word from you, and ere the sun rises on a new day, my joy will be complete--my cup of earthly happiness will be filled to the brim."

Still the same earnest, anxious gaze.

"Dearest love, you will not refuse? It will be but a small matter to you, and will make me supremely blessed."

"And that?" she inquired, wonderingly.

"Brightest Christie, be my bride--my wife!" he cried, folding her closer in his arms, and speaking in a thrilling whisper.

Again the eloquent blood swept over her stainless neck and bosom, but she did not reply.

"You will not refuse me, my own Christie, this last, greatest favor? Comply now--to-day; for if the present opportunity passes, it may never occur again."

"But how--_how_ can we be wedded here?" she said, shyly, lifting her eyes to his impassioned ones, and dropping them in brightest blushes.

"Christie, yonder lies a boat; it is three hours to sunset; long before that time we can reach Westport; there we can find a clergyman, and there you can become my own for life!"

"But it is so soon--so sudden," she faltered; "and Aunt Tom--she will never consent."

"She would not consent any way, fairest Christie. She would say you were too young--too far in social position beneath me. She would not believe my intentions honorable. In short, dearest, she would raise a thousand objections, and the end would be, that we would be parted forever."

"Oh, Willard! it would not be so bad as that; if you explained it all to her, I think she would consent. Aunt Tom is good and kind, and loves me, and would do anything to make me happy."

"That may be, brightest Christie; but that very love she has for you, and her wish to make you happy, would cause her to hesitate. For she would repeat the old, senseless saying, 'Marry in haste and repent at leisure,' and think the best way to make us both happy would be to postpone our marriage for years."

"But this secret marriage, it seems wrong--sinful. Oh, Willard, my soul revolts from it! If I could only tell Aunt Tom!" cried Christie, imploringly.

"When the proper time comes, dearest love, she shall know, and the world shall behold my beautiful bride. But until then, you must have confidence in me, and wait."

"But, oh! I have such a presentiment of what may follow, Willard--such a cloud seems to enshroud this secret marriage, that my very soul shrinks from it in fear."

"Christie," he said, drawing back, and speaking in a deeply offended tone, "you do not love me!"

She raised her bright, beautiful eyes, so full of love and devotion, but did not speak. No words could have told such a tale of perfect, intense love, as did that quick, eloquent glance.

"You do not love me," he went on, in the same deeply hurt tone; "you have no confidence in me, no trust, no faith. I have given you my reasons, good and valid to any one else, but of no avail with you. If you cared for me, you would be content to wait, with perfect trust in my love; but I see you will not trust me. Be it so; there remains nothing for me but to leave you forever."

"Oh, Willard!" was all she could say, as her voice was choked in tears.

"I thought I had found an artless, loving, trusting girl," he went on, with increased bitterness; "but I have found one who will not yield in the slightest iota, lest she should compromise herself in the eyes of the world, who fears what it will say of her more than she loves me! Farewell, Christie! we have met for the last time. Since you care for your aunt more than for me, I leave you to her."

He arose, coldly and haughtily, to go.

"Oh, Willard! do not leave me!" was her passionate cry. "I will do anything, be anything you ask, only do not leave me in anger!"

"Will you be my wife?"

"Yes."

"To-night?"

"Oh, yes! to-night and forever!"

"My own gentle love!" he whispered, pressing her fondly in his arms, "will you go and get ready, and return to me here in a quarter of an hour?"

"But what shall I say to Aunt Tom--how account for my absence?"

"Leave that to me, dearest. In a few minutes I will follow you to the cottage, and ask her to let you take a sail with me on the river by moonlight; she will not refuse me."

"As you will," said Christie, turning toward her home. While Willard, triumphant, exulting, and dizzy with joy, descended to the beach to prepare the boat.