THE VISION OF THE ISLE.
"But soft: behold! lo, where it comes again!
I'll cross it though it blast me. Stay, illusion!
If thou hast any sound, or use a voice,
Speak to me!"--HAMLET.
Fickle fortune, that often favors the wrong and erring, certainly
smiled on the lovers that day. For scarcely had Christie entered the
house, when Mrs. Tom came bustling out, in deep distress, saying, in
heart-rending tones:
"What is to be done? This five-and-forty year, rain or shine, I've
had a cup o' tea for breakfast; and, now, there ain't a grain in the
house. I jest know, as well as if somebody told me, that I won't be
fit for nothin' to-morrow, when I ain't got a cup o' tea for my
breakfast; and there's no use tryin' to make that there
good-for-nothin' Carl, go for any to-night. It allers was my luck to
have the most dreadfulest bad luck, but I never thought things would
come to sich a pass as this. Scat! you hussy!" And Mrs. Tom gave
the cat a kick, which was her usual way of winding up an address.
"Aunt Tom," said Christie, "let me go."
"You! Are you crazy? How are you goin' to go?"
"Mr. Drummond is going over to Westport this evening, and he wanted
me to go with him," said Christie, turning away to hide a rising
blush. "I can easily get it there."
"So you can," said Mrs. Tom, considering; "but will Mr. Drummond
return early?"
"Yes," said Christie; "he has some slight _business_ to transact, and
then he is coming immediately home. The sail will be pleasant by
moonlight, and I'd like to go."
"Well, go, then; and don't be gone any longer than you can help. Get
two poun's of hyson at Mr. Ginger's."
"Yes ma'am," said Christie, taking the money, and putting on her hat
and shawl, in a trembling, agitated way, that at any other time Mrs.
Tom must have noticed.
She hurried out, and on her way met Willard coming up to the house.
"Well, has Mrs. Tom given you permission?" he asked, in pleased
surprise.
Christie related her errand.
"The gods favor us!" he cried, gayly. "See, Christie! the sun is
approaching the west, and before it dies out of the sky, you will be
what Heaven has destined you for--my wife!"
"And to be that for one hour, is bliss enough to repay for a whole
life of misery," she said, with heartfelt earnestness.
"With my own Christie! Will I ever be able to repay you for this
grace, this greatest earthly blessing that Heaven could bestow upon
me?" he said, fervently.
"The knowledge of your love more than repays me; for I have made no
sacrifice," she said, in a low tone.
They had now reached the boat. He handed her in, pushed off the
boat, took the oars, and rowed away.
But other eyes they dreamed not of were upon them. From one of the
windows of the high chambers of Campbell's Lodge, Aunt Moll and her
son, Lem, were taking observations.
"Dar dey go!--off a sailin'. What will Miss Sibyl say to dat?"
observed the indignant Aunt Moll.
"Goin' out sailin' doesn't signify nothin'. De young gemblum wants
somebody to talk to as he rows."
"'Tain't right," said Aunt Moll, with an oracular shake of the head;
"dar's sumfin wrong, somewhere. Don't b'lieve Miss Sibyl would
'prove of it, nohow; dese yer young men ain't to be trusted nowadays."
"It's nat'ral Marse Drummin' would get tired o' one gal--mos' young
men do--and take up wid anoder, for a change. I'd do it myself,"
concluded Lem, in a pompous tone.
"You would?" said his mother, in high dudgeon; "as if any gal 'd look
at you, you brack fool. Marse Drummin' will get hisself inter a
hornet's nest, if he trifles wid de 'fections ob Miss Sibyl. I's
come to de disclusion to conform Miss Sibyl ob his goings on, soon as
ebber she arrives. Dar!"
And having thus settled the matter to her own entire satisfaction,
Aunt Moll descended to the kitchen, and soon forgot all sublunary
things in the celestial bliss of smoking a short, dirty pipe, as
black and stumpy as herself.
Meantime the erring young pair were swiftly skimming over the bright
waters in the direction of Westport. The labor of rowing precluded
the possibility of conversation, and both were silent and thoughtful.
Urged on by his intense desire of completing what he had so
successfully begun--urged on, perhaps, by Fate--the boat seemed
fairly to fly over the sparkling, sun-bright waves.
Ere the last ray of sunlight had faded from the sky the boat touched
the opposite shore; and drawing Christie's arm within his own,
Willard set off rapidly in the direction of the town of Westport.
And having reached it, he led Christie in the direction of a little
obscure Methodist chapel, while he left her to seek for a license and
the clergyman.
In a short time he returned with both, and without asking any
unnecessary inquiries, he hastened through the marriage ceremony; and
in a few moments the passion-blinded young couple were man and wife.
Then hastily paying the clergyman his fee, Willard led his bride from
the church.
"My bride! my wife! my own forever, now!" he cried, with passionate
exultation, folding her to his heart.
But just then, with a sharp, piercing cry of thrilling horror,
Christie sprang back, frightfully pale--with dilating eyes and
choking breath, gasping, stifling, suffocating.
"In the name of Heaven! what is the matter, my own Christie?" he
cried, in wonder and alarm.
But, pressing her hands over her heart, she sank dizzily on the
church steps, pale, gasping, trembling, horror-stricken still.
"Christie! Christie! dearest love! what is it?" he said, anxiously,
encircling her with his arm.
"Oh! the doom--the doom!" she said, shudderingly hiding her face in
his arm.
"What doom? Of what are you speaking, sweet wife?" he inquired, in
increasing anxiety.
She rose now, and passed her hand over her brow, as if to clear away
a mist. Then, seeing his pale, troubled face, she recovered herself
and forced a smile.
"Dearest Christie, what was it?" he anxiously asked.
"Oh, Willard! you will laugh at me, but I felt it all, I saw it all
so plainly," she said, in a weeping voice.
"Saw what--felt what? I do not understand," he said, puzzled by her
look and words.
"Those eyes! those eyes! and that fierce grasp on my throat, and the
keen knife! Ah, Heaven! I feel it yet." And she shuddered
convulsively.
"Are you raving, Christie! In Heaven's name, what eyes, what knife,
are you speaking of?" he said, beginning to think she had lost her
reason.
"Oh, Willard! Willard! just as you folded me in your arms, and
called me your wife, Sibyl Campbell's fierce, wild, black eyes rose
before me, glaring on me like burning coals, and then I felt two
strong hands clutch my throat, and a knife plunged into my breast!
Oh, saints in heaven! it rises before me yet."
"Christie, you are mad!" he said, vehemently; but the ashen paleness
that overspread his face told the sudden shock the name of Sibyl had
given him.
In all the terror, horror, and momentary frenzy of that instant, the
fear of his displeasure conquered every other feeling in her breast.
Shaking off, with an effort, the creeping dread that was palsying
every nerve, she clung to his arm with renewed confidence, and said,
with a deep breath of relief:
"I believe I was, for the moment, Willard; but that has passed now.
You are not angry with me, dearest Willard?" she said, anxiously,
observing the cloud that still overspread his fine face.
"Angry? not at all!" he said, gravely. "Only sorry and surprised to
think you should give way to such extraordinary delusions."
"Oh, Willard! it was not a delusion. I saw it all, as plainly as I
see you now. Oh, those dreadful, dreadful eyes! they will haunt me
to my dying day!"
"Do not think of it again, my own love, and do not look so wild," he
said, soothingly. "Come, let us be going; the moon will soon rise,
and it will be late before we reach the isle."
"And Aunt Tom will be anxious," said Christie. "And that reminds me
of her commission, which I had nearly forgotten. When we reach the
store, you can wait outside. I will join you in a moment."
The moon was just rising when they set sail for the isle, which
Christie had left a child, and was returning a wife. Ah! where was
their better angel in that dark moment of madness and temptation?
The soft, bright moonlight was lighting up the isle with its calm,
pale rays when they reached it. The cry of the whip-poor-will and
katy-did, from the neighboring forest, mingled with the soft, dreamy
murmur of the waves on the shore, was the sweetest music ever heard.
Tempted by the beauty of the night, our lovers prolonged their stroll
over the beach. At length, as it began to grow late, Christie,
fearing Mrs. Tom or Carl might come out to watch for her coming,
persuaded Willard to let her return.
They walked up the rocky, romantic path, whispering those low and
often foolish things so sweet to lovers' ears when coming from the
lips of the loved one. A light still twinkled in the widow's
cottage, casting a long, thin line of yellow light far over the
lonely road. But no other sign of life was visible. Christie's blue
eyes were bent on the ground, and Willard's stately head was bent
above her, when, suddenly looking up, he beheld a sight which froze
the blood in his veins.
From the dark, mystic pine woods, a white-robed figure came floating
toward them. One glance sufficed to tell him it was the strange
vision that had bent over him a few nights before. There were the
same hollow, ray less eyes, the same wild, streaming black hair, the
same ghastly corpse-like face, with its fixed look of unutterable woe.
It was coming steadily toward them, this awful phantom. Willard
stood fixed, rooted to the ground, gazing as if fascinated on the
appalling specter. His next thought was for Christie. He glanced
toward her to see her face blanched to the hue of death, her eyes
dilating in horror, fixed, frozen, unable to speak a word, one hand
raised, and one flickering finger pointing to the dread being
approaching.
Neither could move nor speak. Still the phantom floated on until it
stood before them, face to face. For an instant it paused, with its
hollow eyes glaring upon them; then with an awful cry of "murdered!
murdered!" that peeled through the dim old woods, it threw up both
its arms, and with a shrill, piercing, agonizing shriek, fled away
and was hid among the beetling rocks.
The hand that grasped Willard's arm was growing weaker and weaker,
there was a low moan, and he turned in time to catch the senseless
form of his child-wife in his arms.
The wild, unearthly scream had startled Mrs. Tom. Alarmed and
wondering, she cautiously opened the door and went out. And there
she saw Willard Drummond with the senseless form of Christie in his
arms.