His passion for Christie was yet too new—the novelty had not worn off—the joy of knowing she was his wife, his own indisputable property, had not yet abated, as it would do some day, as it must do; for such quick, fierce, passionate, selfish love could not last. As suddenly, as completely, as it had come, so must it die; for he was not one of those who, in loving once love for a life-time. Christie was, and so was Sibyl; but in each that love despised, or neglected, would produce different results.
Christie would have folded her hands, drooped, faded, and perhaps died of a broken heart, but Sibyl would rise majestic with the strength of her wrongs, and hurl to destruction all those who had acted a part in her downfall. Something of all this would at times flit through Willard Drummond's mind; and once came the ungenerous thought that perhaps after all it would have been better had he never seen Campbell's Isle. But one smile from Christie, one fond caress from her gentle arms, and all this was forgotten, and all the world was again bounded for him by its wave-dashed shore.
So the days of Sibyl's absence were wearing away, and Willard still lingered a willing captive. Even Mrs. Tom's eyes were beginning to be opened to the fact that there must be something more than met the eye in these long solitary rambles—those moonlight walks and sails the young couple were so fond of. Aunt Moll had long been throwing out sundry mysterious hints which Mrs. Tom—who disliked gossiping—paid no attention to; but now she began to think that, after all, it might be more prudent to keep this gay young man of pleasure a little oftener from Christie. So one day she surprised Christie by a sound scolding on her "goin' prowlin' through the woods at all hours, when she ought to be at home doing her work," and positively forbidding her going out again for a week.
Christie listened in dutiful silence, but promised nothing; and in spite of all Mrs. Tom's watching, met Willard as often as ever. For that young gentleman would visit the cottage each day; and the little widow was altogether too hospitable to hint that he came oftener than was exactly desirable. And so there was nothing to do but to hope that Miss Sibyl would soon return to the isle, and look after her lover herself, for Mrs. Tom was growing tired of it. Besides, she really liked the youth exceedingly, and would have thought him a paragon of perfection if he only would be less attentive to Christie.
And Christie, the sly little child-wife, had gone on dreaming "Love's young dream," and never thinking how terrible one day would be her waking.
Since their bridal-night, the mysterious phantom had never been seen; and both were beginning to hope it had been only an illusion of a heated imagination. Mr. Drummond had accounted for the terrifying shriek and Christie's fainting fit in some ingenious way of his own, that quite satisfied the old lady, and lulled to sleep any suspicions she might have conceived.
One evening, as Willard set out to keep an appointment with Christie, he observed Lem standing, or rather sitting perched up on a limb of a giant pine tree, shading his eyes with his hands, and looking anxiously out to sea.
"Well, my boy, what has caught your attention in that direction—wild geese?"
"No, master," said Lem, solemnly; "I see a sail."
"Well, and what of that?" said Mr. Drummond. "A sail is not such an unusual sight here, is it?"