"All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven
'Tis gone.
Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell,
Yield up, oh, love, thy crown and hearted throne
To tyrannous hate! Swell, bosom with thy fraught,
For 'tis of aspics' tongues!"—OTHELLO.
Inwardly congratulating himself on his successful interview with Sibyl, Willard Drummond sought his rooms to lay his plans for the future.
Sibyl must be his bride, and that soon—love, and pride, and ambition, all demanded it. It would be such a triumph to carry off this beauty and heiress—this brilliant star, who would so proudly and gloriously eclipse the lesser lights of New York and Washington. And yet, though his darker angel prompted this, he involuntarily shrank from the crime. What was to be done with Christie? What would she do, when she heard of his marriage? Poor, deceived little Christie? his heart smote him to think he had forgotten her already.
He did not fear her much; it was not that which made him hesitate. There was not a particle of revenge in her disposition. Meek, timid, and yielding, he knew if he commanded her to be silent—saying his honor, his happiness compelled him to act as he did—she would gently fold her hands across her bosom, and die, if need be, and "make no sign." No, he need not fear her, but he feared himself. There was a fierce struggle going on in his breast. Once there had been before. Then it was between honor and passion; now it was between pity and ambition. How could he tell his loving, trusting child-bride that she would never see him more—that he had deceived her and was to marry another? And on the other hand, after his interview with Sibyl the previous night, it was absolutely impossible to pursue any other course. Christie might suffer—die, if she would; but Sibyl Campbell—this regal, beautiful heiress, this transcendently lovely Queen of the Isle—must be his wife. His wife! Could she be that while Christie lived? His brain was in a whirl as he paced up and down, still revolving the question: "What next?—what next?"
Unable to answer it, he threw himself on his bed, only to live over again the past few weeks in feverish dreams.
It was near noon when he awoke; and, with a head but slightly clearer than it had been the preceding night, he set out for the parsonage.
"There is no other course for it," ran his thoughts, on the way, "but to see Christie, and tell her all. But how to see her! Sibyl's jealousy is not dead, but sleepeth; and if I visit the isle it may break out in new fury. I must write a note to Christie, and send it to the island with some one—Lem or Carl—and appoint a meeting, after night, unknown to every one. Yes, that is what must be done. Poor Christie! poor Christie! Villain that I am to wrong you so! but the hand of Destiny is upon me, driving me on. How is all this to end? In woe for some of us, if the Egyptian's prediction come true. Well, I am in the hands of Fate, and must accomplish her ends, come what may."
He found Sibyl alone in the drawing-room when he entered. Mrs. Courtney and Mrs. Brantwell were conversing in the sitting-room, while Mr. Courtney sat silently in the depths of an elbow-chair, and scowled at them over the top of a book.
Sibyl's welcome was most cordial, and they were soon engaged in animated conversation.
Once, as if by accident, during the conversation, he said: