FALSEHOOD AND DECEIT.
"Ah! what a tangled web we weave,
When first we practice to deceive."--SCOTT.
There was a moment's profound silence, while they stood there
confronting each other.
With a face perfectly white, with blazing eyes and rigid lips, Sibyl,
majestic in her wrongs, stood erect before him, her form drawn up to
its fullest height, her head thrown back, her pale face looking
unnaturally white in contrast with her dark hair, like some tragic
queen in her festal robes.
All his falsehood, treachery, and deceit--all her own wrongs, her
slighted love, her deep humiliation, rushed in a burning torrent
through her mind, filling her heart and soul with one consuming
longing for vengeance, until she seemed to tower above him, regal in
her woman's scorn and hate.
And he, knowing his guilt, feeling, too, that she knew it,
momentarily quailed before the dark, fierce glance bent upon him. It
was but for a moment, and then all his self-possession and graceful
ease of manner returned, mingled with a feeling of intense admiration
for the darkly beautiful girl before him.
He had never seen her before, save in her odd, gypsyish dress; but
now, in her rich, elegant robes, she looked another being. And with
it came another revelation. Underlying all his short-lived passion
for Christie was still the old affection for this queenly Sibyl. He
had wooed her as a dowerless bride, but now she stood before him the
heiress to a princely fortune, equal to his own. Willard Drummond
was ambitious. He knew this beauty and heiress would be sought for
now by the best men of the day, and he felt what a proud triumph it
would be to bear her off from all.
"Yes," he said, inwardly, "this beautiful Sibyl, this regal Queen of
the Isle, shall be mine. I have commenced a desperate game, but the
end is not yet."
And all this had passed through the minds of both in far less time
than it has taken to describe it.
Drummond was the first to break the silence, which was growing
embarrassing.
"My own Sibyl," he said, advancing, and attempting to take her hand,
"I began to fear we were destined never to meet more. Has this new
freak of Dame Fortune made you forget all your old friends?"
"Back, sir!" she thundered, in a terrible voice. "Do you dare speak
to me like this! Oh, man! false and perjured, does not your craven
soul shrink to the dust before the woman you have wronged?"
"Sibyl, you are mad!" he cried, impetuously.
"Mad! Oh, would to Heaven I were! Then, perhaps, this aching heart
would not suffer the tortures that it does. Mad? It would be well
for you if I were; but I am sane enough, to live for vengeance on
you."
"Sibyl! Sibyl! you rave! In Heaven's name, what have I done?"
"Done? Oh, falsest of the false! have you the brazen effrontery, to
stand before me, and ask such a question as that? Done!--that, which
a life-time can never repair. May Heaven's worst curses light on
you, for what you have done!"
He almost shrank before that white, terrible face, that corrugated
brow, those lightning eyes, those white, cold lips, that mingled look
of hatred and utter desolation, her beautiful countenance wore.
He had expected passionate reproaches, vehement accusations, but
nothing like this. Yet, he knew, he felt, he deserved it all.
Never, had his crime appeared before him, in such glaring colors
before. But, outwardly, he still showed no sign of guilt, only grave
surprise and offended pride.
"Miss Campbell," he said, folding his arms, coldly, "you are crazed.
When you recover your senses, perhaps you will deign an explanation
of your conduct. At present, you will excuse me, if I put an end to
this interview; it is too painful to be prolonged."
He turned, as if to leave her; but she sprang forward and intercepted
him.
"_Dare_ to leave me!" she cried, passionately. "Never shall you quit
this room, until you hear the vengeance a Campbell can take for a
foul wrong, and deadly insult. Crazed, am I? Oh, you will find out,
to your cost, there is method in my madness, before this interview
ends. You find it painful, do you? Ha! ha! take care you do not
find it more so, before we part."
She pushed the thick, clustering, black hair back off her brow, and
laughed a wild, bitter laugh.
"Good heavens! she looks as though she really were mad," thought
Willard, with a shudder at that hollow, unearthly laugh. "I always
knew her to be a wild, fiery, passionate girl, but I never dreamed of
anything like this. What, in her frenzy, may she not dare to do;
for, verily, she comes of a daring race. Oh, Christie! Christie!
what a storm of passion have I not raised for your sake!"
"So I can make you start and shrink already!" exclaimed Sibyl, with
fierce exultation. "Oh, you will find what it is to drive Sibyl
Campbell to desperation. So you thought you could make me your
plaything for an hour, and then throw me aside for the first new face
you encountered. Oh, potent, wise and far-seeing Willard Drummond,
what a judge of character thou art!"
Her bitter mockery was worse than her first, fierce outburst of
passion, and there was a terrible menace lurking, yet, in her
gleaming, black eyes.
But Willard stood looking on, still unmoved, only amazed, as he
stood, with one hand resting lightly on the table, looking her
straight in the eye with cold hauteur.
That steady, concentrated gaze had on her the effect of mesmerism.
Her mood changed, and she broke forth in a strain of passionate
solemnity:
"Oh, my soul! was it for this I poured out such priceless treasures
of love at this man's feet? Was it for this I forgot God to worship
_him_? Was it for this that I would have given my soul to perdition
that his might be saved? Was it for this I would have devoted my
life, with all its high hopes and aspirations, all that I was, all
that I might become, to make him happy? Was it for this that I
thought of him day and night, sleeping and waking? Was it for a
return like this that I would have given my very life-blood to free
him from all pain? Oh, this heart--this heart! Oh, my lost faith!
my blasted hopes! my ruined life! Wealth, and youth, and beauty,
were given to me, but what are they worth, when all is desolation
here?"
She struck her breast with her clenched hand, and dropping into a
seat, her arms fell upon the table, and her grief-bowed young head
dropped heavily upon them.
The dead silence that for an instant followed her vehement outburst,
was like a sudden lull in a furious storm when the spirit of the
tempest pauses for a moment, and breaks forth in redoubled fury.
"Sibyl!"
Soft, low, and gentle, like oil poured upon troubled waves, came the
voice of Willard Drummond to her passion-tossed heart, that voice
which, in spite of all, was still dearer to her than all the world
beside.
Only a convulsive shiver, a fierce grasping of her breast, as though
she would tear from it the unspeakable gnawing of her agony, but no
reply.
"Dearest Sibyl!"
He came over, and folding her in his arms, bent over her till his
face rested on her silken hair.
"Oh, Willard!" she cried, looking suddenly up, and speaking in a tone
of piercing anguish, "why did you deceive me so?"
"Sibyl, speak and tell me what you mean. As heaven hears me I have
not deceived you. I love you still, as I have always loved you!"
"Oh, if I might believe it!" she said, dashing back the falling hair
off her pallid brow, "if I dared to dream that you spoke the truth.
But no, no!" she cried, springing up and freeing herself from his
clasp, "it is false--it is false as your own false heart! Listen,
and let the name blight you where you stand. What of Christie?"
Her menacing eyes were glaring upon him as though she would read his
very soul; but, prepared for her question, he neither started nor
betrayed the slightest emotion.
"Christie, the island-girl--what of her?" he asked, quietly.
"What of her? Man, man! you will drive me mad! Do you not love her?"
"Love her--that little, uncultured child? Sibyl, you have lost your
reason," he said, in a tone of well-feigned surprise and indignation.
"What drove such an absurd thought into your head?"
"Oh, she told me so--she told me so!" wailed Sibyl, pressing her
hands to her throbbing temples.
"Impossible! You must have dreamed it, Sibyl, She never could have
told you anything like that."
"She did; and I could have slain her where she stood for the words;
but she said them. And, Willard Drummond, do not deny it--_it is
true_."
"It is not true!" he boldly answered, though for the first time
during the interview his dark cheek grew crimson with shame.
"It is true--it _must_ be. She would not have said it else. Oh,
there was truth in her face as she spoke, and there is guilt in yours
now. Willard Drummond, take care! I am desperate, and it is at your
peril that you dare to trifle with me now."
"And so you believe this island-girl rather than me. Be it so,
Sibyl; if you have no more faith in me than this, it is better that
we never see each other more," he said, in a deeply offended tone.
"And do you tell me, really and truly, that you never wavered in your
allegiance to me--never for a moment thought of any one else--never
for one second gave another the place in your heart I should have
occupied--never was false to your vows, to your honor, to me?"
"Never, Sibyl!"
"Swear it!"
"I swear!"
"Oh, which am I to believe? Oh, Willard, if you are deceiving me
now, may Heaven's worst vengeance fall upon you! Do not, on your
soul's peril, dare to speak falsely to me; for it were better for you
to trifle with the lightning's chain than with this aroused heart.'
"Still doubting! have you lost _all_ faith in me, Sibyl?" he asked,
reproachfully.
"Would to heaven I had never had occasion to doubt! But your own
actions are all against you. Why did you so continually seek her
society while on the island? How are your long rambles together,
your moonlight sails, your solitary interviews to be explained?"
"Very easily. Your brother left me; you were absent, and I was alone
on the island, and society is a necessity of my nature. You would
not have me spend the day with your old negress or her son; Mrs. Tom
or her nephew. The child, Christie, was bright, intelligent, and
sociable; she pleased and interested me, and in my walks through the
island we frequently met. I was fond of sailing; so was she; and
what so natural as that I should sometimes ask her to accompany me?"
"Plausible! But why did you not seek _me_? I was not far distant
from you, a good part of the time, and would have been more than
delighted to see you every day."
"Well, if I must confess it, Sibyl, I was somewhat piqued that you
should have gone away at all, and wished to let you know it by my
absence. Perhaps it was very unreasonable on my part, but, loving
you as devotedly as I did, I felt your abrupt absence far more than
you are disposed to give me credit for."
"But, when alone, why were you ever talking of Christie? If she had
not been continually in your thoughts, her name would not have been
so frequently on your lips."
"_Still_ jealous! Oh, Sibyl! hard to be convinced! I did not talk
of her."
"You did; for Aunt Moil heard you."
"Saints and angels! was ever man in the same dilemma I am in? Even
an old, half-deaf negress is believed sooner than I! Sibyl, I
_never_ talk to myself. Aunt Moll has seen me with this island
girl--whom I wish to Heaven I had never met--and has fancied,
perhaps, I spoke of her. Oh, Sibyl! Sibyl! by your dark, doubting
look, I see you are unbelieving still. What shall I do, or say, to
convince you?"
"Oh, I do not know--I do not know! Heaven direct me!" said Sibyl,
pacing up and down. "I _want_ to believe you, but I cannot get rid
of those doubts. Willard, once our faith in those we love and trust
is shaken, it is very hard to be renewed. There were truth and
earnestness in that girl's eyes when she spoke--more, there was love
for you. Whether or not you love, or have loved her, one thing is
certain--you have taught her to love _you_."
"I have not taught her, Sibyl, nor am I to blame for her childish
fancies. Even if she does care for me, which Is doubtful, it is a
sisterly affection--nothing more."
"I am not blind, Willard. It was no sisterly affection read in those
soft, pleading eyes; it was strong, unchanging, undying love. Oh,
Willard! what if you are deceiving us both?"
"Sibyl, this is too much! I will not endure those doubts. You do
not love me as you say you do, or you would have more faith in me.
If you believe I could so forget my vows to you, my honor, my
plighted faith, for this little artless child, then it were better we
should forever part than live in doubt and jealousy. Do you think I
could endure these constant recriminations, these stormy scenes,
these violent outbursts of passion? Sibyl, it is beneath you to
stoop to the mean, low passion of jealousy. I thought you had too
much pride and self-respect to think any one, no matter how beautiful
and enchanting, could surpass you. And certainly you pay a very poor
compliment to my taste in supposing that I could fall in with an
illiterate, uneducated child of fifteen, simply because she has a
passably pretty face. Sibyl, you are surpassing beautiful and I have
to-night seen gentlemen whom I am sure were fascinated by you,
hovering the whole evening by your side, while you seemed to have
eyes and ears for no one but them; yet it never once entered my mind
to doubt you, or be in the slightest degree jealous."
"Yes, yes; I talked and laughed with them; but, oh! if you had known
how every thought and feeling of my whole heart, and soul, and mind
were with you all the time--if you had but dreamed of the
insufferable agony at my heart all the while, you would have felt how
little cause you could have had for jealousy."
"I knew nothing of this, Sibyl, and yet, for not one fraction or a
second did the slightest, faintest doubt of you enter my mind. Oh,
Sibyl! Sibyl! when will you have faith like this in me?"
"_Now!_--forever! Oh, Willard, I must believe--I do believe, and I
will never doubt you more!" said Sibyl, her beautiful face growing
radiant with new hope. "If I judged you rashly, at least I have
atoned for it, for never while you live can you dream of all I have
endured for your sake. Oh, Willard, with your cool nature and calmly
pulsating heart, you can never form any idea of the passionate heart
throbbing here--of the fiery blood that has descended to me from a
fiery race. Oh, Willard, for all my unjust doubts, and suspicions,
and accusations, can you ever forgive me!"
He had borne her frenzied outbursts of passion, her bitter, withering
sarcasm, her utter woe and desolation, calmly enough; but now her
renewed hopes, and trust, and confidence, pierced to his very heart.
He felt the blood rush to his very temples, but her head was bent on
his shoulder, and she did not observe it. How intensely in that
moment did he despise himself, and this necessity of lying, which his
own fault had created! Without thinking of the guilt, as a gentlemen
he felt himself degraded by a falsehood--something which he had never
hitherto stained his lips with. And yet, in the last hour how low he
had sunk! Verily, in that moment he felt "the way of the
transgressor is hard."
But Sibyl Campbell, loving and hating alike with utter abandon--going
from one extreme to the other, without knowing what a medium
meant--knew nothing of the thoughts that set the heart she prized
even above her hope of heaven, beating so tumultuously against her
own. Casting all doubt to the winds, resolving she would not believe
him guilty--the delicious joy of knowing and believing she was still
beloved filled her heart. And so for the present she gave herself
wholly up to this new happiness. But how long was this delicious joy
destined to last?