THE MEETING.
"Thou mayest hold a serpent by the tongue,
A chafed lion by the mortal paw,
A fasting tiger safer by the tooth,
Than cross this love of mine."
Trembling, paralyzed, shrinking with terror and superstitious awe, as
she recollected her vision, Christie stood quailing before that dark,
passionate glance.
And, glaring upon her with a hatred and jealousy that for the time
"swept her soul in tempests," and inspired her with a momentary
frenzy, Sibyl stood, transfixing her with those wild, fierce eyes.
With one glance she took in all her rival's extraordinary beauty, far
surpassing even what she feared; and the sight, to her passionate
heart, was like oil poured upon flame.
"So," she hissed, at length, through her closed teeth, "pretty Miss
Christie has found a lover during my absence. Girl, take care! You
have begun a dangerous game, but the end has not come!"
Her words broke the spell of terror that held Christie dumb. And
now, noticing her disordered attire, and wild, disheveled hair, she
said, in surprise and entreaty:
"Miss Sibyl, what has happened? What have I done? I did not know
you were on the island."
"No; I am aware of that," said Sibyl, with a hard, bitter laugh.
"Oh, it is a wondrous pity I should have come so soon to spoil the
sport! You and your dainty lover thought yourselves secure--thought
Sibyl Campbell far away. But again I say to you, beware! for 'twere
better for you to tamper with a lioness robbed of her young than with
the passions of this beating, throbbing heart!"
She looked like some priestess of doom denouncing all mankind as she
stood there, with her long, black, streaming hair, her wild, burning,
passionate eyes, her face white, rigid, and ghastly, save where the
two purple spots still blazed in and out on either cheek.
"Oh, Miss Sibyl--dear Miss Sibyl! what have I done? Oh, I never,
_never_ meant to offend you, or stand in your path; as Heaven hears
me, I did not! Tell me, only tell me in what I have offended, and I
will never do it again," said Christie, clasping her hands in
increasing terror and childlike simplicity.
"What have you done? Have you really the effrontery to stand there
and ask me such a question?"
"Miss Sibyl, I do not know--indeed, indeed, I do not know!" exclaimed
Christie, earnestly.
In all the storm of anger and jealousy that raged in her soul, a look
of superb scorn curled the lips of Sibyl.
"You do not know! Oh, wondrous innocence! angelic simplicity! Must
I despise as well as hate you? Listen, then, since I must speak my
shame, and answer me truly, as you hope for salvation. Promise."
"I promise!"
"Swear to answer me truly, by all you hold dear on earth! by your
hopes of heaven!"
"I swear! Oh, Sibyl, speak!" cried Christie, wrought up to an agony
of terror and excitement by her wild words.
"Then, and may Heaven's heaviest curse fall upon him if I conjecture
truly--has Willard Drummond dared to speak of love to you?"
Pale, trembling, terror-stricken, Christie's tongue clove to the roof
of her mouth; had her life depended on it, no sound could have
escaped her quivering lips.
"Speak, and tell me! Speak, for I must know--I have a right to
know?" cried Sibyl, grasping her arm, and setting her teeth hard to
keep down the tempest of passion that was sweeping through her soul.
"Oh, spare me--spare me!" wailed Christie, lifting up her pleading
hands.
"Death, girl! Must I tear the truth from your false heart! Tell me,
truly, has he dared to speak of love, and have you dared to listen to
him? Heavens! will you speak before I am tempted to murder you!"
"Oh, do not ask me--do not ask me!" cried Christie, in a dying voice,
as trembling, fainting, she sank at the feet of her terrible foe.
With her hands clenched until the nails sank into the quivering
flesh, her teeth set hard, her deep, labored breathing, her
passion-convulsed face, she looked more like an enraged pythoness
than a frail girl learning for the first time her lover's infidelity.
She required no further proof now. He whom she would have trusted
with her soul's salvation was false. And, oh! what is there more
terrible in this world than to learn that one whom we love and trust
has proven untrue?
Sibyl had loved as she had done everything else--madly; had trusted
blindly; had worshipped idolatrously, adoring man instead of God; and
now this awakening was doubly terrible. Had Christie been in her
place, she would have wept and sobbed in the utter abandon of sorrow;
but her grief would have been nothing compared with the dry, burning
despair in those wild black eyes.
Now that Sibyl had learned the worst, her fiery, tempestuous
fierceness passed away, and there fell a great calm--a calm all the
more terrific after her late storm of passion.
"And so I am forsaken," she said, in a deep, hollow voice, "and for
her--this pretty, blue-eyed baby. I, whom he promised to love
through life and beyond death. Saints in heaven! shall he do this
and live?"
"You?" said Christie, lifting her pale, terrified face. "And did he
promise to love you, too?"
"Yes, learn it, and let it whelm your soul in shame. Before he saw
you, before he knew you, he loved me; and I was to be his wife. Yes,
weep, and wail, and sob; your tears shall not soon dry. You have
caused him to forget his vows, his honor, his plighted faith, his
promised love to me, and you must pay the penalty."
"Oh, I never knew it--I never knew it!" wailed Christie, wringing her
hands.
"And, as he has been false to me, so, likewise, will he be false you.
You are the cause of his treachery, of his broken vows, his perjured
soul; you are the cause of all; and, think you such love can be
blessed?"
"Forgive me! Oh, Sibyl, forgive me!" still wailed Christie.
"May Heaven never forgive me if I do!" cried Sibyl, with impassioned
vehemence. "Think you, girl, I am one to be won by tears and
protestations? Faugh! you should have thought of all this when you
listened to his unlawful love."
"Oh, I did not know! As Heaven hears me, I did not know. I would
have died sooner than have listened to him, had I known!"
"Prove it," said Sibyl, with a sudden gleam in her dark eyes.
"How--how? Only say how I shall redeem my error! Let me know how I
may atone!"
"Atone!--you?", said Sibyl, with a withering sneer. "I tell you,
girl, if your life could be prolonged for a thousand years, and every
second of that time spent in torture, you could not atone for the
wrong you have done me. But make such expiation as you can--prove at
least that there is some truth in your words."
"Oh, Sibyl, I would willingly die if I could redeem my fault."
"Your death would not redeem it. What is your paltry life to me?
Neither do I require it--the sacrifice I would have you make is
easier. Give him up!"
"Oh! anything but that! Sibyl, that is worse than death!" said the
stricken child-bride, in a fainting voice.
"Did you not say you would atone? Prove it now--give him up--it is
my right, and I demand it. Promise."
"Oh, I cannot!--I cannot!" moaned Christie, shrinking down, as though
she would never rise again.
"And this is your repentance--this, your atonement for what you have
done?" said Sibyl, stepping back, and regarding her with superb
scorn. "This, then, is the end of all your fine promises. Girl, I
tell you, you dare not; it is at your peril you see him more. My
claim is above yours. I warn, I insist, I demand you to give him up.
It is my right, and you shall do it. What are you, little reptile,
that you should stand in the path of Sibyl Campbell?"
"I am his wife!" arose to the lips of Christie. That little sentence
she well knew would have silenced Sibyl's claim forever, but she
remembered her promise in time, and was silent.
"Rise, girl, don't cower there at my feet," said Sibyl, stepping back
in bitter contempt. "It is your place, it is true; but his love has
ennobled you, since it has raised you to the rank of my rival. Am I
to understand you promise your intimacy with him is at an end?"
"Miss Sibyl, I cannot. I love him!" And pale and sad, Christie rose
and stood before her.
The blaze, the dark, scorching, flaming glance from those eyes of
fire might have killed her.
"And you dare utter this to me?" she said, or rather hissed, through
her tightly clenched teeth. "Audacious girl, do you not fear that I
will strike you dead where you stand?"
Again Christie thought of her vision, and trembling, terrified,
fainting, she clung to a rock for support, unable to speak. With all
the fiery, long-slumbering passion of her lion-heart aroused, the
fierce, dark girl before her looked desperate enough for anything.
"Promise!" she said, in a hollow voice, coming nearer, and raising
her arm threateningly.
"I cannot! Oh, Miss Sibyl, I cannot!" faltered the almost fainting
Christie.
"Promise!" again cried Sibyl, glaring upon her with her wild, dark
eyes.
"I cannot!" still wailed Christie, pressing her hand over her heart.
"Promise, or die!" exclaimed the mad girl, grasping her by the arm in
a vise-like grip.
"I cannot--I would sooner die!" said Christie, as, unable to stand,
she again sank at the feet of her vindictive foe.
For a moment it seemed as though the threat would be accomplished, as
Sibyl stood over her like one turned to stone. But the next instant
releasing her hold, she hurled her from her; and, as if fleeing from
temptation, fled down the rocks, over the rough path toward the
lodge, and sank fainting and exhausted on the sitting-room floor.
An hour later Aunt Moll entered, and beholding Sibyl, with her
streaming hair, lying prone on the floor, grew alarmed, and coming
over, she shook her gently, saying:
"Miss Sibyl, is yer sick? Come, git up now, like a good chile, 'fore
you catch your def o' cold, a lyin' on de bare floor. 'Deed, honey,
'taint right for young people to heave derselves into de draft, dis
way."
But Aunt Moll went through all the phases of the potential
mood--"commanding, exhorting"--in vain. Her young mistress neither
moved nor stirred.
"Now, Miss Sibyl, do get up--please do. De Lord knows I's 'fraid
you'll cotch de rheumatiz in yer bones. Most oncomfortablest thing
as ever was; 'specially fore a rain storm, when ebery j'int feels as
if dere was forty hundred cross-cut saws a going t'rough it. Come,
chile--come, git up, an' let yer ole mammy ondress you, an' put yer
to bed."
And Aunt Moll shook the supposed sleeper gently.
Sibyl lifted her head, and half rose, disclosing a face so pale and
haggard, a form so sunken and collapsed, that Aunt Moll started back
in terror.
"What on airth de matter in you, Miss Sibyl? I 'clare to man, if yer
ain't almost skeered me out o' my wits, sure 'nuff! Is you sick,
chile?"
"Yes, sick at heart!--sick at heart!" said Sibyl, in a despairing
voice.
"I knowed sumfin' was de matter wid yer. Well, git up like a good
chile, and let me git some catnip tea for you, it's the best cure in
the world for sich complaints."
"Oh, Aunt Moll, leave me. My illness is beyond your art. 'Not poppy
nor mandragora can ever medicine me to that sweet sleep' I once slept
beneath this roof."
"Now, chile, don't say so," said Aunt Moll, touched by her hopeless
tone. "Folks ain't tuk so sudden as all dat, you know. I ain't got
no poppy nor man dragoon; but catnip tea is jes' as good, cordin' to
my way o' thinkin'. An' when you take a good night's res', you'll be
all well in de mornin'--please de Lor'."
"Rest! Rest! When shall I rest again? Aunt Moll, leave me. I want
to be alone."
"'Deed, Miss Sibyl, I darsent do it--'twon't do to leab you here in
de draf, all alone. Let me help you to bed, an' make de catnip tea,
an' you'll be better to-morrow, sure."
"Oh, this heart--this heart!"
"Yes, chile, I knows; I 'spects it's de cramps you'se got, an' I
'vises of you to get up. Come, honey, come." And Aunt Moll put her
arm coaxingly round her young lady's neck, and attempted to lift her
up.
"Oh, Aunt Moll! if you only knew my affliction! What matters it
whether I die or not, since I have nothing more to live for? I might
as well die now as live; for the living death of a loveless life."
"You mustn't talk so, Miss Sibyl; 'taint right, nor likewise
'spectful to de Lord, who sends us cramps, as well as healf,
sometimes. 'Tis r'ally 'stonishin', de way you takes on 'bout it."
"Aunt Moll, I am not bodily ill--only wronged, suffering, despairing,
deceived, broken-hearted almost," said Sibyl, looking straight before
her, with a fixed, anguished look.
"Dear heart! don't take on so about it. I's real sorry, I is."
And good Aunt Moll passed her hand gently and caressingly over the
glossy, dark locks of the young girl.
"Oh! there is nothing but falsehood and treachery in this world! I,
who loved and trusted so much, to be now deceived! I would have
staked my life, my soul, my hopes of heaven on his fidelity! And
now, this awakening from my blissful, delusive dream is worse than
death. Oh, Aunt Moll! my dear old friend, is there any one who
really loves me in this world but you?"
And, wholly overcome, Sibyl's strong despair gave way to a passionate
burst of tears.
Since Sibyl had been a child, Aunt Moll never remembered to have seen
her weep before; and now, in her quaint, tender manner, she strove to
soothe her grief. But still the young girl wept and sobbed with wild
vehemence, until nature was relieved; and she looked up, calmer and
far less despairing than before.
"Aunt Moll," she said, suddenly, "what time does Lem go over to
Westport to-morrow?"
"Before noon, honey."
"Then tell him to be ready to take me to N---- before he goes for
_him_! And now, Aunt Moll, I will follow your advice, and retire."
"But won't you take the catnip tea, chile?" persisted the old woman,
who had some vague idea of the all-powerful virtues of the herb.
"No, no, thank you, I do not need it."
"But it'll do you good, chile; you'll feel more comfortable for it."
"Comfort! comfort! Can anything ever restore comfort here?" And she
struck her breast with her hand.
"Yes, honey, de catnip tea."
"Good-night, Aunt Moll." And Sibyl flitted, like a shadow, up the
long staircase, and disappeared in the gloom beyond.