And Willard Drummond, who was present, likewise received and accepted her invitation. What his motive in going could be, knowing Sibyl would be there, it would be hard to divine.
The evening for the party came; and at an early hour the drawing-room of the parsonage was all ablaze with lights. Carriage after carriage rolled up to the door, and bevy after bevy of fair ladies, elegantly dressed, flocked like bright-plumaged birds, through the brilliant rooms, and carried on gay flirtations with their friends in broadcloth.
Mrs. Brantwell, magnificent in black velvet, stood near the door to receive her guests. But every eye was fixed wonderingly, admiringly on Sibyl, who moved with the step of an empress through the throng.
Surpassingly beautiful she looked, with her crisp, shining curls of jet, shading on either side the burning crimson cheeks, her splendid Syrian eyes emitting a vivid streaming light, the rich dark robe of sheeney satin falling with classic elegance from her rounded waist; but the light in her eye was the fire of fever—the glow on her cheek the blaze of excitement, for the hour she had waited for was come, and Willard Drummond would stand arraigned before her that night.
Mrs. Courtney, bright, piquant, bewitching, divided the honors and admiration of the evening with Sibyl. Her husband, pale, ghastly, haggard with illness, and suffering the tortures of a mind deceased, moved like a specter, silent, gloomy, and watchful, through the merry throng. And Captain Campbell, elated, handsome, and courteous, was there too, the recipient of many a bewitching glance from the bright eyes present.
The company were all assembled, chatting, laughing, fluting, all but one. Sibyl stood in the midst of a gay group, the "bright particular star" of the evening, carrying on a spirited conversation, but ever and anon her eyes would wander to the door with fierce impatience. Why did he not come?
Edgar Courtney, standing gloomily by himself, was enduring the torments of a lost soul. His wife, knowing he was unequal to the effort, had endeavored to persuade him to stay; but this he ascribed to the wish of being alone with Captain Campbell. Then she offered to remain with him; and this, also, he refused, thinking, with strange self-torture, some evil design lay beneath. He would come—he would watch her; and Mrs. Courtney's high spirit arose, and she proudly and angrily resolved to act just as she pleased, and flirt just as desperately as she could. She had told him she did not love him—she had gone in defiance of his express command, in company with Captain Campbell, walking through the island; and from this slight foundation, Mr. Courtney judged his wife had fallen in love with Captain Campbell. Where his wife was concerned the man was a monomaniac.
And now he saw them before him, she leaning on his arm; her head bent, as with downcast eyes and smiling lips she listened to his low words. He gnashed his teeth, and glared upon them like a madman. At that moment his face was like that of a demon.
There was no dancing. Mr. Brantwell was a clergyman, and did not approve of it; but there was music, and as if to excite his jealous soul to madness, Captain Campbell led Laura to the piano, and hung over her, while she glanced slyly at him from under her long lashes, and sang "Oh, had we some bright little isle of our own," as though every word was meant for him alone.
Loud and long was the applause which followed. And then Captain Campbell led her to a seat, and took another beside her, and this low conversation was resumed.