Well, halfway to me blindsiding twelve amazing men all to get my hands ona decent chunk ofcash,ofcourse.
My intentions are good, remember? I need the money to save my parents from their crippling debt and to spare my little brother the very bleak future that lies ahead of him if he can’t escape the family business and go back to school. But with every passing day I can’t help but wonder if what I’mdoingis right.
I’mmessingwiththe lives oftwelve menwho are inthis to find their wife. Not to be jerked around by a selfish woman witha secret mission.
AaronMorris is the sixthbachelor who receives me onhis doorstep when I’m too spent to take another plunge into
love. I’m done with it. My heart is too sore from all the goodbyes I’ve already had to say and I can’t wrap my head aroundthe fact that there are stillsix more to go.
It’s only a matter oftime before my mindstarts to crack.
For all I know maybe it’s already happening here and now. Maybe that would explain how I’d somehow ended up caringfor allofthese menso strongly.
Ha. Yeah right. If only the answer was as simple as insanity.
It’s so muchmore complicatedthanthat.
Love. Money. Secrets.
Even though we’re already halfway through I feel like there is stillso muchto go.
AndI’mscaredthat I won’t be able to handle it.
Introduction
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h, dear God, why?” I groaned and rubbed at my aching eyeballs. All my crying last night had riddled me with congestioninmy nose andinmy brainandinmy heart. It felt like I’dbeenpulverizedonthe inside before beingvigorously shaken and then expanded like a carbonated drink, pushing at my skullandribs.
It hurt to open my eyes. The bright glare of the sun streaming in through my bedroom window wasn’t helping my headache, and neither was the clattering of dishes down the hall in the kitchen, where Janie must have been cooking up a storm.
Despite my grumbling stomach, I wasn’t tempted to leave the solace of my room. Not yet. My heart was too heavy and fullofdreadto leave the warmcomfort ofmy bed.
Last night had been awful. After staying up and talking to Janie, who’d done her best to offer me words of encouragement after I confessed how terribly I was doing with this whole Casanova endeavor, I locked myself in my room to muffle my sobs in my pillow while I pined over Jeremiah. It was impossible to think of anything but him, and
I foundmyself wonderingwhat he was doingwhile I criedmy heart out.
Didhe miss me like I missedhim?
Was he lying awake, staring at his ceiling, wishing the empty side of the bedbeside himwas occupiedby me for just one more night? Was he grieving over the end of our time together,too?
Part ofme hopedso.
No, that was a lie. All of me hoped so. I desperately wantedhimto miss me as fiercely as I missedhim, whichwas a selfish, greedy, childishdesire to have. I lovedhim. I should want himto be happy.
But I was so far past that.
Whenthe clashingandclanginginthe kitchenbecame too loud to endure, I tore my blankets off and padded across my bedroomfloor to the bathroomoutside the hall.
Janie calledfor me. “Pipes,youup?”
I left the bathroom door open a crack as I sat down to pee. “Yes. I’llbe there ina minute.”
“I made pancakes! And eggs. I tried to do over medium, but youknow me.”
Yes, I did. Janie couldn’t cook to save her life. But it was the thought that counted. After I relieved my bladder, I braced myself above the bathroom sink and stared at my raggedreflection.
“Shit,” I breathed, studying my pink, puffy eyes and swollen lips. With a tired sigh, I ran the sink and splashed cold water on my face before dabbing it dry with a hand towel. ThenI slappedonsome face creamandpulledmy hair
out of its messy bun to give it a quick run through with my brush.
I emerged in the kitchen still looking rough as hell and feelingequally terrible.
Janie looked over her shoulder at me fromwhere she was stirring pancake mix, and I sat down at the kitchen island. She archedaneyebrow. “Didyoumanage to sleepat all?”
I shook my head and rested my chin in my hand. “No. Maybe a couple ofhours. Tops.”
“Sorry, babe. A good sleep would have done you some good.”
“Are yousayingI look rough?”
“No,” Janie saida little too quickly. I smiled weakly. “I know it’s bad. Nothing a hot meal and a shower won’t fix.”
“Anda bit ofmakeup.”
I laughed softly. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t show up to see Aaron later today looking like this. I’m not a psychopath. Although…” I paused, cocking my head to the side thoughtfully. “I might repulse him enough for me to guarantee that there is no chance of either of us falling for each other, and I can finally have a month of emotional peace.”
Janie pouredgiant circles of pancake batter over our pan. “You’ll be fine. What better way to get over Jeremiahthanto throw yourselfat another man?”
“Janie,I don’t—”
“I know. I know. It was just a joke. You don’t want to get over Jeremiah.”
I swallowed.
It was true. I didn’t want to get over him. And I didn’t want to forget a single minute of our time together. After spendingjust one night away fromhim, I was painfully aware ofhow specialhe was to me—andhow far away he was,too.
“I don’t know what I want anymore,” I muttered.
Janie spun around and pointed our old red-plastic spatula at me. “I cantellyouwhat youwant,Pipes.”
“Please don’t.” I buriedmy face inmy hands.
But Janie was on a roll now, and she’d taken it upon herself to rouse me from my sorrows. She still wielded the spatula the way my sixth-grade teacher used his ruler to point out the kids who were fucking around in the back row with their friends. Mr. Bishop’s tactic was, of course, to humiliate rather than inspire hope, but I couldn’t help but picture him and his bushy black eyebrows as Janie planted her free handonher hipanddrew ina breathinpreparation.
“You want to find the love of your life to settle down with. You want to find your passion and pursue it without the guilt of walking away from your mom and dad’s restaurant. You want a good life for your family. And above all else, you want your bestie to marry a man equally as wealthy as yours so we cando funshit together. AmI close?”
I giggled and let my hands fall from my face. “Yes. That sounds dreamy.”
“See? All youneed is a little bit of direction. Something to strive for.”
“You’re burningthem.”
“What?”
I noddedat the pancakes now simmeringonthe pan. “The pancakes. You’re burningthem.”
“Shit!”
Janie whirled back to the pan and began frantically flipping the pancakes over. They were only slightly black on the cooked side, nothing copious amounts of butter and maple syrupcouldn’t fix.
My best friend frowned at me. “I’m sorry, Pipes. I wanted to make youa delicious breakfast.”
“It’llstillbe delicious.”
“Don’t coddle me.”
I laughed. “All right. They’ll be average. But average pancakes are stillpretty great.”
Janie lifted her chin and gave me a cute little smile. “Thanks.”
She poured me a glass of orange juice and dropped a single ice cube init—just how I likedit—before platingallthe pancakes and eggs and sliding onto the stool beside me at the kitchenisland. We butteredour pancakes, drownedthem insyrup,anddugin.
“See?” I asked with my mouth full. “Still delicious. Definitely above average.”
Janie scrunched up her nose. “You’re full of shit, and we bothknow it.”
We ate insilence for the next few minutes, whichgave my mind time to wander. Wandering thoughts hadn’t been kind to me since the start of the year, where my life became infinitely more complicated. At the end of last year, my biggest concern was my parents’ mounting debt, but now, I was burdened by my father’s worsening heart condition as well. To topit alloff, I’dfalleninlove withfour different men, allofwho wouldbe perfect for me,but I couldn’t have.
Because I neededthe money.
Correction. I needed the money for my parents and for my brother andfor my education. What I wantedwas simply out ofthe question.
Janie ran her finger through the leftover maple syrup on her plate and popped it in her mouth. Then she twisted around in her stool to face me, crossed one leg over the other, and leaned one elbow on the counter. “So, have you reconsidered your decision not to see your folks before you leave this afternoon?”
“No.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to pop in and say hi quickly? You’re not going to get the chance for a whole other month. Youmight regret it as soonas youget to Kingston.”
I shrugged one shoulder. “I’m afraid that if I see them, I won’t be able to keepthis Casanova Club thinga secret.”
“Wellat some point or another,they’re goingto findout.”
“I know. But I want to control it as much as possible. You know. To lessenthe blow.”
Janie archedaneyebrow. “Explain.”
“Well, I figure it would be best to tell my folks what I’ve been up to when I have the cash in hand at the end of the year. That way, there’s an immediate payoff, and neither of them have to fret over me spending every month with a different maninorder to earnsaidmoney.”
“I guess it makes sense that you wouldn’t want your mom anddadto think you’re a slut.”
I gapedat her. “I’mnot a slut.”
Janie sipped her orange juice and made wide, innocent eyes at me over the rimofthe glass. “DidI sayslut?”
I narrowedmy eyes at her. “Bitch.”
She laughed. “You’re the one hooking up with all these dudes. Not me.”
“It’s part ofthe deal,” I grumbled.
“Not really,though.”
“Shut up.”
Janie snickered. “I get it, Pipes. You’d rather not say anythinguntilyour dadis inthe clear withhis heart,right?”
I nodded.
She put her handover mine. “It makes perfect sense. Why stress himout?”
“Exactly.”
Janie patted my hand before sliding off her stool and clearing away our dishes. “Just be careful, okay? I worry about youandthis process,youknow.”
“Youdo?”
Janie noddedas she ranwater over the plates. “Definitely. Your heart is getting pummelled, Pipes. And on top of that, you’re dealing with all this stress at home. Sometimes, I almost wishI’dnever toldyouabout the Casanova Club.”
I studied my friend. She had her back to me. It was a classic Janie move. If she felt guilty or uncomfortable, she’d never look me inthe eye.
“Janie,” I said, keeping my voice even. “I don’t have any regrets over throwingmy name inthe hat. I’mgladI didit.”
She turnedthe sink off andlookedat me. “Youmeanit?”
“Absolutely. Sure, it sucks. Big time. And I’ve never cried so much in my entire life. But as shitty as I feel right now, I wouldn’t change it.”
Janie bit her bottomlip. “I hope Aaronis a tool.”
I laughed in surprise. “I think I’ve already mentally checked out. I can’t fathom meeting another man I could possibly care about. This month will be different. I’m going into it hoping for a chance to unwind and refuel. Take a breather.”
The corner ofJanie’s mouthtwitched.
“What was that?” I asked.
“What?”
“That little smirk.”
“Nothing,” Janie said.
“Liar.”
“It was nothing,” she insisted.
“Just tellme.”
“No.”
“Janie,” I saidsternly.
My friend rolled her eyes in defeat. “All right. Fine. I just wantedto warnyou.”
“About what?”
“About Aaron.”
“What about him?”
Janie shrugged and dried her hands on the floral-printed towel hanging off the handle of our stove. “He’s a writer, Pipes. He’s got a way with words. And you pair that with his good looks and charm? I don’t know. I guess I just don’t see how you’llbe able to stay… uninterested.”
“Easy,” I said,wavingher concerns away. BecauseI’mheadoverheelsinlovewithanotherman.
Four hours.
It had been four hours since I hit send, firing off the first six chapters of my new manuscript to my agent, Marcy Irving. She was a hard ass. A real “I’m going to fuck your work up with so much red ink you’ll think I bled all over the place” sort ofhardass.
And she was exactly what my work needed. Honest, real, brutalfeedback.
But she was usually so much faster than this. Her turnaround time for her best writer and money maker, yours truly, was usually pretty exceptional. The longest it had ever taken her to get back to me for such a short chunk of work was about anhour.
We were far past that mark, andit was makingmy insides itch.
Didshe hate it? Fuck.
Didshe think it was trash?
It probably was trash.
I pushed away from my writing desk beneath my open window. The sounds of the city down below wafted up and into my apartment on the temperate afternoon breeze, carryingwithit the smell of the bakery downonthe sidewalk below; fresh baked bread and pastries, ground coffee, and spices.
As I rocked back in my chair, I clasped my hands behind my headandclosedmy eyes.
It’snottrash,I toldmyself. It’sjustdifferent.
I’d spent the last eight years of my writing career pumping out romance book after romance book. Boy meets girl. Girlmeets boy. They fallinlove. The end.
But this project? This was somethingelse entirely.
This was mayhem and death and adventure. And it was a story I’d been carrying around in my head for the last two years. Now that I was finally putting it on paper, it was turning into a much bigger endeavor than I ever imagined it could be. It had gone from being a tiny idea rolling around in my brain to a trilogy just after writing the first six chapters andscrawlinga loose outline inmy notebook.
And with the expansion came unbridled excitement on my end. I hadn’t felt so calledto write inyears. Years.
I’d only kept pumping out books for the last four years or so because Marcy was on my ass about it all the time. Two book deals a year left my bank account pouring over and bulging at the seams. I had more money than I knew what to do with, and the fact that I’d earned it off my art was still mind-bogglingto this day. It hadbeenthe dreamfor so long.
And now that it had been realized, I was coming to the conclusion that I wanted more. More worlds. More
characters. More tension and drama and conflict and gore and
My phone rang.
I swept my cell off the counter and answered the call without even checking the screen, expecting Marcy’s drawl to fillthe line.
“So, what did you think?” I asked, leaning forward to grip the edge ofmy desk andpullmyselfupright once more.
“Aaron?” A familiar male voice spoke my name into the phone.
I frowned and glanced at the caller ID. Jackson Lee. Why the hellwas he callingme?
“Hey,Jackson,” I said,rubbingthe back ofmy neck.
“Where are you?”
“Home. Why?”
“Piper James is waiting for you downstairs in your lobby. She’s beendownthere for twenty minutes already andcalled to tellme youweren’t answeringyour buzzer.”
My stomachrolledover. “Wait. What? She’s here? Now?”
“Yes,” Jacksonsaidflatly.
“Fuck.”
“Didyouforget?” he askedsharply.
“Uh,no,ofcourse I didn’t forget. I just—” “Forgot.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose and groaned. “Yeah, I forgot. I’msorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me. But go get her. I don’t think I need to point out that this is the wrong foot for you to start the monthon?”
I sighed. “No,youdon’t.”
Jacksonmade anirritatingsoundonthe other end. “Good. Thenget the helloff the phone.”
He hunguponme.
I stared down at my phone screen while my stomach twisted itself into a very tight, very painful knot. How was it the first of June already? Where had the time gone? And what fuckingtime was it?
A quick glance at the clock on the wall told me it was almost three in the afternoon, which meant my ass had been in this chair for eight hours without moving. Prior to sitting down, I’d been in the kitchen having a cup of coffee because I’dalready done a six-hour writingsprint.
I rubbed at my jaw. Three days worth of growth tickled my fingers.
Then, with the knot ever tightening in my gut, I turned to look at my apartment. My place wasn’t a disaster, but it wasn’t clean. Not evenclose.
Despite having a dishwasher, my sink was full of dishes, mostly whiskey glasses and coffee mugs. My counters were covered in crumbs from living off of toast for the last week while I worked on my new manuscript. The blinds were all closed, save for the ones cracked open above my writing desk, and blankets and clothes were strewn across my brownleather sofas inthe livingroom.
“You have to get your shit together,” I muttered to myself as I launchedinto a quick cleaningfrenzy.
I gave myself three minutes to try to restore some sense of order to my apartment. Then, not at all satisfied with the progress I’d made, I hurried to the door, wrenched it open, and jogged down the hall to the elevator that served my unit
as well as the other three corner penthouse units on the top floor ofthe building.
As I rode the elevator downto meet Piper,my headspun. It felt like just days ago that I’d been standing at the bar for the cocktail party back in December. How had the months slipped through my fingers like that? How had I missedthe time andmy chances to make sure this monthwas comfortable for her?
Sure, I’d had the guestroom made up in time, but the rest of my apartment wasn’t very welcoming. It was a writer’s den, and that much was clear. There was too much liquor in the cabinet andnot enoughfoodinthe fridge.
She was going to think me strange. Or mentally ill. Both were a little true.
The doors opened with a chime that seemed to taunt me: Timeisup,motherfucker.
I rubbedthe back of my neck anxiously as I steppedout of the elevator into the brightly lit lobby of my apartment building.
I spotted her sitting on one of the big white leather sofas near the window. She had her back to me. Her hair was down, loosely curled, and appeared a brighter, warmer shade ofbrownthanI remembered.
Probably because I’d only seen her at night. Today, she was radiant inthe sunshine.
As I crossed the lobby, I noted her crisp white jeans and yellow flowing top. She had a cropped denim jacket on and gold sandals that showed off her pink toes. She was a ray of sunshine herself, and she looked up and smiled at me when I came aroundthe edge ofthe couchto greet her.
“Piper,” I said, giving her my best grin—the same one I usedfor allmy author headshots.
“Aaron,” she said in return, getting to her feet and wrapping her arms around me in a hug. She pulled back and tuckeda strandof hair behindher ear. “I hope I didn’t arrive at a badtime.”
“Oh, God no.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I lost track of time, and all of a sudden, I’m getting a call that you’ve beenwaitingfor me. I’mtruly very embarrassed.”
Piper dismissed my concern with a wave of her hand. “Don’t worry about it. Life is busy. And this isn’t the most convenient process,is it?”
She was kind. Understanding. Two things I hadn’t really beenbankingonwhenI startedthis process.
“No, it’s not,” I agreed. Then I realized she had bags. I hurried to pick them up for her and nodded toward the elevator. “Come. I’ll show youupto my apartment. I’msorry. I don’t think the accommodations are going to be quite as luxurious as you may have grown used to over the last few months. I’m not one for big, sprawling spaces. I prefer a simpler atmosphere.”
“Simple is good.”
Let’shopeso.
Piper stepped onto the elevator behind me and moved to stand in one corner. I was aware of her gaze upon my back as I leaned forward and hit the button for the tenth floor. I didn’t live in a very high building. I liked being somewhat close to the ground to have the payoff of being able to hear the city alive andbreathingdownbelow.
The perk ofthe bakery was nice,too.
I stood back and leaned into the opposite corner from Piper. She watched me for a moment before turning her attentionto the illuminatednumber above the doors counting the floors we ascended.
“How longhave youlivedhere?” she asked.
“About four years.”
“Andyoulike it?”
“Of all my apartments, this one seems to be the one where I ammost productive.”
“All?”
I nodded. “I have a few places all over the place. I bought them as writing retreats, you see. Places I could escape to if the words weren’t flowinghere.”
She nodded like she understood, but in my experience, nonwriters never did.
“Where are your other places?” she asked as we hit the topfloor.
“Hawaii. Chicago. AndLondon.”
“So random.” She giggled softly. “But that would be really nice. Homes in different cities. Almost entirely different worlds.”
I liked the way she put it. It was refreshing. There wasn’t any judgment inher voice.
Marcy saidI hadfour places because I was flighty.
Aaron shouldered open his front door and kept it open for me withhis heelas he put my bags downinthe hall. I slipped past him and turned back as he closed and locked the door behindhim.
Then he gave me a sheepish smile while he rubbed the back of his neck. “I feel like all I’m doing is apologizing this afternoon. But please, forgive the mess. I’ve been up to my eyeballs in work and lost track of time and never got around to tidyingup.”
I clasped my hands in front of myself. “It’s no problem. Youshouldsee my apartment.”
He chuckledalmost graciously. “Come onin. I’llgive youa quick tour andthenshow youto your room.”
Aaron brushed past me, and I followed him down the hall into his apartment.
The place was definitely a lot more mundane than I was expecting. In contrast to the other houses I’d been at for the last five months, Aaron’s apartment was quite small, no more thanfifteenhundredsquare feet or so.
It was an open concept with plenty of big, black-framed windows set into the south-facing wall, which was all original red brick. The blinds were closed on all the windows, save for one above a desk inthe far corner ofthe livingroom.
I imagined that was where he spent most, if not all, of his time writing.
“This is really all there is to it,” Aaron said as he hurried across the wall of curtains to open the blinds, letting in the afternoonsun.
It showed off the dust on the coffee table and other surfaces.
“It’s nice,” I said. “Rustic andhomey.”
Aaronfinishedopeningthe blinds andgave me a curt nod. “Yeah. I like it that way. Well, I like it however is the lowest maintenance,ifI’mbeinghonest.”
“Nothingwrongwiththat.”
“There are three bathrooms, which is a Godsend. My roomandthe powder roomare just downthe hall there.” He pointed down the hall off the living room before turning to point in the opposite direction, toward a closed door off the kitchen. “And through there is the guestroom, where you’ll be staying. You have your own bathroom and everything. There is an exercise room in the building, as well as an outdoor swimming pool that you’re welcome to use as my guest. And, uh,” he scratched his jaw thoughtfully, “I think that’s everything.”
“Sounds goodto me.” I smiled.
His place had a warm atmosphere. I’d give him that. The furniture was all rich earth tones of browns, olive greens, and tans. His brown leather sofas looked comfortably worn
in but still new enough. They were layered with cozy blankets in varying plaid patterns. Lamps on either side of the sofa gave off a warm light, and I imagined this place would be ideal in the cold fall and winter months with the fireplace on.
There was a liquor cabinet next to the fire stocked full of bottles of whiskey, rye, and bourbon. A couple of bottles of wine sat in the rack down below, but they looked like they hadn’t beentouched—or dusted—inmonths.
Aaron brushed past me to go into the kitchen, where he started scrubbing dishes. “I should have had all this taken care ofbefore yougot here.”
“It’s allright.”
“I’m sure this isn’t what you’re used to after being at this for five months.”
I shrugged. “Well, maybe not dirty dishes, but I have stayed on a farm. So I’ve literally been surrounded by shit, andit didn’t bother me.”
Aaronpausedhis frantic scrubbingof a pot andarchedan eyebrow at me. “The cowboy,I imagine?”
I nodded.
Why did everyone insist on referring to Wyatt as “the cowboy”, like he was something different from the rest of them?
“That actually makes me feel a little better,” he said. Then he nodded toward the door that was my room. “Feel free to check it out. Once I’m done these dishes, I’ll bring your bags infor you.”
“All right. I have to make a quick call actually, so that’s perfect. Take your time.”
Without wasting any more time awkwardly standing in his kitchen, I slipped into the bedroom and closed the door behindme.
The room was surprisingly nice. The walls were a soft, powder blue, and a rustic white chandelier hung over the king-sized bed, which boasted a watercolor-printed blue and purple duvet. It was covered in a dozen pillows and had a massive headboard of the likes I’d only ever seen in interior designmagazines.
This room felt much more modern than the rest of the apartment, and I couldn’t help but wonder if Aaron had specifically hadthis roomredone for my visit.
No. That wouldbe silly.
I hoppeduponto the edge of the bed, pulledmy phone out ofmy purse,andcalledJanie.
She answered immediately. “What? You miss me already?”
“Yes.”
“Is everythingokay?”
I bit my bottomlip. “It’s a bit weird.”
“Weirdhow?”
“He’s… inthe kitchencleaningdishes.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Like, the place is a bit messy. And he’s known I’ve beencomingfor what, the last five months? I don’t know. It’s kindofawkward.”
“Is he nice at least?”
“Yeah.”
“Well,that’s good.”
Another random document with no related content on Scribd:
The Project
Gutenberg eBook of The queen of the isle
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: The queen of the isle
A novel
Author: May Agnes Fleming
Release date: February 2, 2024 [eBook #72860]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: G. W. Dillingham, Publisher, 1886
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE QUEEN OF THE ISLE ***
THE QUEEN OF THE ISLE.
A Novel.
BY
MAY AGNES FLEMING.
AUTHOR OF "GUY EARLSCOURT'S WIFE," "THE ACTRESS' DAUGHTER," "A WONDERFUL WOMAN," "LOST FOR A WOMAN," "SILENT AND TRUE," "ONE NIGHT'S MYSTERY," "A TERRIBLE SECRET," "A MAD MARRIAGE," ETC., ETC.
NEW YORK: COPYRIGHT, 1886. G. W. Dillingham, Publisher, SUCCESSOR TO G. W. CARLETON & Co.
LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO. MDCCCLXXXVI.
CONTENTS.
Chapter
I. Campbell's Isle
II. The Magic Mirror
III. The Maniac's Curse
IV. The Haunted Room
V. The Midnight cry
VI. "Off with the Old Love, and on with the New."
VII. The Heart's Struggle
VIII. The Triumph of Passion
IX. The Vision of the Isle
X. One of Fortune's Smiles
XI. The Storm—The Wreck
XII. Sibyl's Return to the Isle
XIII. The Meeting
XIV. Jealousy
XV. Self-Torture
XVI. Falsehood and Deceit
XVII. A Lull Before the Tempest
XVIII. The Fatal Note
XIX. That Day
XX. What Came Next
XXI. That Night
XXII. Next Morning
XXIII. Morning in the Island
XXIV. Christie
XXV. The Maniac's Story
XXVI. Remorse
XXVII. The Widowed Bridegroom
XXVIII. The Thunderbolt Falls
XXIX. The Devotion of Love
XXX. Sibyl's Doom
XXXI. The Bankrupt Heart
XXXII. Another Storm Within and Without
XXXIII. The Dead Alive
XXXIV. Explanations
XXXV. Meetings and Partings
THE QUEEN OF THE ISLE; OR,
A HASTY WOOING.
CHAPTER I.
CAMPBELL'S ISLE.
"The island lies nine leagues away, Along its solitary shore
Of craggy rock and sandy bay
No sound but ocean's roar, Save where the bold, wild sea-bird makes her home, Her shrill cry coming through the sparkling foam." R. H. DANA.
About six miles from the mainland of M——, with its rock-bound coast washed by the waters of the broad Atlantic, was an islet known in the days of which I write as Campbell's Isle.
The island was small—about two miles in length and the same in breadth, but fertile and luxurious. The dense primeval forest, which as yet the destroying ax had scarcely touched, reared itself high and dark in the northern part of the island. A deep, unbroken silence ever reigned here, save when some gay party from the opposite coast visited the island to fish or shoot partridges. Sometimes during the summer, pleasure parties were held here, but in the winter all was silent and dreary on the lonely, isolated little spot.
This island had been, from time immemorial, in the possession of a family named Campbell, handed down from father to son. The people of the surrounding country had learned to look upon them as the rightful lords of the soil, "to the manner born." The means by which it had first come into their possession were seldom thought of, or if thought of, only added to their reputation as a bold and daring race. The legend ran, that long before Calvert came over, a certain Sir Guy Campbell, a celebrated freebooter and scion of the noble Scottish clan of that name, who for some reckless crime had been outlawed and banished, and in revenge had hoisted the black flag and become a rover on the high seas, had, in his wanderings, discovered this solitary island, which he made the place of his rendezvous. Here, with
his band of dare-devils—all outlaws like himself—he held many a jolly carousal that made the old woods ring.
In one of his adventures he had taken captive a young Spanish girl, whose wondrous beauty at once conquered a heart all unused to the tender passion. He bore off his prize in triumph, and without asking her consent, made her his wife at the first port he touched. Soon, however, tiring of her company on shipboard, he brought her to his island home, and their left her to occupy his castle, while he sailed merrily away. One year afterward, Sir Guy the Fearless, as he was called, was conquered by an English sloop-ofwar; and, true to his daring character, he blew up the vessel, and, together with his crew and captors, perished in the explosion.
His son and successor, Gasper, born on the isle, grew up tall, bold, and handsome, with all his father's daring and undaunted courage, and his mother's beauty, and torrid passionate nature. He, in the course of time, took to himself a wife of the daughters of the mainland; and, after a short, stormy life, passed away in his turn to render an account of his works, leaving to his eldest son, Hugh, the bold spirit of his forefathers, the possession of Campbell's Isle, and the family mansion known as Campbell's Lodge.
And so, from one generation to another, the Campbells ruled as lords of the isle, and became, in after years, as noted for their poverty as their pride. A reckless, improvident race they were, caring only for to-day, and letting to-morrow care for itself; quick and fierce to resent injury or insult, and implacable as death or doom in their hate. Woe to the man who would dare point in scorn at one of their name! Like a sleuth-hound they would dog his steps night and day, and rest not until their vengeance was sated.
Fierce alike in love and hatred, the Campbells of the Isle were known and dreaded for miles around. From sire to son the fiery blood of Sir Guy the Fearless passed unadulterated, and throbbed in the veins of Mark Campbell, the late master of the lodge, in a darker, fiercer stream than in any that had gone before. A heavy-browed, stern-hearted man he was, of whose dark deeds wild rumors went whispering about, for no one dared breathe them aloud, lest they should reach his vindictive ears, and rouse the slumbering tiger in his breast. At his death, which took place some two or three years previous to the opening of our story, his son Guy, a true
descendant of his illustrious namesake, became the lord and master of the isle, and the last of the Campbells.
Young Guy showed no disposition to pass his days in the spot where he was born. After the death of his father, Guy resolved to visit foreign lands, and leave Campbell's Lodge to the care of an old black servant, Aunt Moll, and her son Lem, both of whom had passed their lives in the service of the family, and considered that in some sort the honor of the house lay in their hands.
Vague rumors were current that the old house was haunted. Fishermen out, casting their nets, avowed that at midnight, blue, unearthly lights flashed from the upper chambers—where it was known Aunt Moll never went—and wild, piercing shrieks, that chilled the blood with horror, echoed on the still night air. The superstitious whispered that Black Mark had been sent back by his master, the Evil One, to atone for his wicked deeds done in the flesh, and that his restless spirit would ever haunt the old lodge—the scene, it was believed, of many an appalling crime. Be that as it may, the old house was deserted, save by Aunt Moll and her hopeful son; and young Guy, taking with him his only sister, spent his time in cruising about in a schooner he owned, and—it was said, among the rest of the rumors—in cheating the revenue.
Besides the lodge, or Campbell's Castle, as it was sometimes called, the island contained but one other habitation, occupied by a widow, a distant connection of the Campbells, who, after the death of her husband, had come here to reside. The cottage was situated on the summit of a gentle elevation that commanded an extensive view of the island; for Mrs. Tomlinson—or Mrs. Tom, as she was always called—liked a wide prospect.
The most frugal, the most industrious of housewives was Mrs. Tom. No crime in her eyes equaled that of thriftlessness, and all sins could be pardoned but that of laziness. Unfortunately for her peace of mind, she was afflicted with an orphan nephew, the laziest of mortals, whose shortcomings kept the bustling old lady in a fever from morning till night. A wild young sister of Mrs. Tom's had run away with a Dutch fiddler, and dying a few years after, was soon followed to the grave by her husband, who drank more than was good for him one night, and was found dead in the morning.
Master Carl Henley was accordingly adopted by his living relative and, as that good lady declared, had been "the death of her" ever since.
A young girl of sixteen, known only as "Christie," was the only other member of Mrs. Tom's family. Who this girl was, where she had come from, and what was her family name, was a mystery: and Mrs. Tom, when questioned on the subject, only shut her lips and shook her head mysteriously, and spoke never a word. Although she called the old lady aunt, it was generally believed that she was no relation; but as Christie was a favorite with all who visited the island, the mystery concerning her, though it piqued the curiosity of the curious, made them like her none the less. A big Newfoundland dog and a disagreeable chattering parrot completed the widow's household.
Mrs. Tom's business was flourishing. She made a regular visit each week to the mainland, where she disposed of fish, nuts, and berries, in which the island abounded, and brought back groceries and such things as she needed. Besides that, she kept a sort of tavern and place of refreshment for the sailors and fishermen, who sometimes stopped for a day or two on the island; and for many a mile, both by land and sea, was known the fame of Mrs. Tom.
Such was Campbell's Isle, and such were its owners and occupants. For many years now it had been quiet and stagnant enough, until the development of sundry startling events that for long afterward were remembered in the country around and electrified for a time the whole community.
CHAPTER
II
"I turned my eyes, and as I turned surveyed An awful vision."
The sun was sinking in the far west as the little schooner Evening Star went dancing over the bright waves towards Campbell's Isle. Captain Guy Campbell stood leaning negligently over the taffrail, solacing himself with a cigar, and conversing at intervals with a slight, somewhat haughty-looking young man, who stood beside him, watching the waves flashing, as they sped along. No two could be more opposite, as far as looks went, than those two, yet both were handsome and about the same age.
Like all his race, young Campbell was very tall, and dark as a Spaniard. His short, black, curling hair shadowed a forehead high, bold, and commanding. Dark, keen, proud eyes flashed from beneath jetty eye-brows, and the firm, resolute mouth gave to his dark face a look almost fierce. His figure was exquisitely proportioned and there was a certain bold frankness, mingled with a reckless, devil-may-care expression in his fine face, that atoned for his swarthy complexion and stern brows.
His companion was a tall, elegant young man, with an air of proud superiority about him, as though he were "somebody," and knew it. His complexion was fair as a lady's, and would have been effeminate but for the dark, bold eyes and his dashing air generally. There was something particularly winning in his handsome face, especially when he smiled, that lit up his whole countenance with new beauty. Yet, with all, there was a certain faithless expression about the finely formed mouth that would have led a close observer to hesitate before trusting him too far. This, reader, was Mr. Willard Drummond, a young half-American, half-Parisian, and heir to one of the finest estates in the Old Dominion. The last five years he had passed in Paris, and when he was thinking of returning home he had encountered Campbell and his sister. Fond of luxury and ease as the young patrician was, he gave up all, after that, for the attraction he discovered on board the schooner Evening Star. And Captain Campbell, pleased with his new friend, invited him to cross the ocean with him, and spend a few weeks with him in his ancestral home, whither he was obliged to stop while some
repairs were being made in his vessel, which invitation Willard Drummond, nothing loth, accepted.
"Well, Campbell, how is that patient of yours this evening?" inquired Drummond, after a pause.
"Don't know," replied Captain Campbell, carelessly; "I haven't seen him since morning. Sibyl is with him now."
"By the way, where did you pick him up? He was not one of your crew, I understand."
"No; I met him in Liverpool. He came to me one day, and asked me to take him home. I replied that I had no accommodations, and would much rather not be troubled with passengers. However, he pleaded so hard for me to accommodate him, and looked so like something from the other world all the time, that I had not the heart to refuse the poor fellow. Before we had been three days out at sea he was taken ill, and has been raving and shrieking ever since, as you know."
"What do you suppose is the matter with him?"
"Well, I haven't much experience as nurse myself, but I think it's brain fever, or something of that kind; Sibyl, however, thinks that bitter remorse for something he has done is preying on his mind, and girls always know best in these cases."
"He is, if I may judge by his looks, of humble station," said Mr. Drummond, in an indifferent tone.
"Yes; there can be no doubt of that, though he appears to have plenty of money."
"Has he given his name?"
"Yes; Richard Grove."
"Hum! Well, it would be unpleasant to have him die on board, of course," said Drummond.
"Oh, I think he'll live to reach our destination; he does not appear to be sinking very fast."
"We must now be quite near this island home of yours, Captain Campbell; I grow impatient to see it."
"We shall reach it about moonrise to-night, if the wind holds as it is now."
"And what, may I ask, do you intend doing with this—Richard Grove, when you get there? Will you take him into your Robinson Crusoe castle and nurse him until he gets well, as that enterprising canoe-builder did Friday's father?
"No, I think not. There is an old lady on the island, who is never so happy as when she has some one to nurse. I think we'll consign him to her."
"Then there is another habitation on the island beside yours?" said Drummond, looking up with more interest than he had yet manifested.
"Yes; old Mrs. Tom, a distant connection of our family, I believe. And, by the way, Drummond, there is a pretty little girl in the case. I suppose that will interest you more than the old woman."
"Pretty girls are an old story by this time," said Drummond, with a yawn.
"Yes, with such a renowned lady-killer as you, no doubt."
"I never saw but one girl in the world worth the trouble of loving," said Drummond, looking thoughtfully into the water.
"Ah, what a paragon she must have been. May I ask what quarter of the globe has the honor of containing so peerless a beauty?"
"I never said she was a beauty, mon ami. But never mind that. When do you expect to be ready for sea again?"
"As soon as possible—in a few weeks, perhaps—for I fear that we'll all soon get tired of the loneliness of the place."
"You ought to be pretty well accustomed to its loneliness by this time."
"Not I, faith! It's now three years since I have been there."
"Is it possible? I thought you Campbells were too much attached to your ancestral home to desert it so long as that."
"Well, it's a dreary place, and I have such an attachment for a wild, exciting life that positively I could not endure it. I should die of stagnation. As for Sibyl, my wild, impulsive sister, she would now as soon think of entering a convent as passing her life there."
"Yet you said it was partly by her request you were going there now?"
"Yes, she expressed a wish to show you the place." A slight flush of pleasure colored the clear face of Drummond. "I don't know what's got into Sibyl lately," continued her brother. "I never saw a girl so changed. She used to be the craziest leap-over-the-moon madcap that ever existed; now she is growing as tame as—as little Christie."
Drummond's fine eyes were fixed keenly on the frank, open face of Captain Campbell; but nothing was to be read there more than his words contained. With a peculiar smile he turned away, and said, carelessly:
"And who is this little Christie to whom you refer?"
"She's the protege of the old lady on the island—fair as the dream of an opium-eater, enchanting as a houri, and with the voice of an angel."
"Whew! the bold Campbell, the daring descendant of old Guy the Fearless, has lost his heart at last!" laughed Willard Drummond.
"Not I," answered Guy, carelessly. "I never yet saw the woman who could touch my heart, and, please Heaven, never will."
"Well, here's a wonder—a young man of three-and-twenty, and never in love! Do you expect me to believe such a fable, my good friend?"
"Believe or not, as you will, it is nevertheless true."
"What—do you mean to say you have never felt a touch of the grande passion—the slightest symptom of that infectious disorder?"
"Pooh! boyish fancies go for nothing. I have now and then felt a queer sensation about the region of my heart at the sight of sundry faces at different times, but as for being fatally and incorrigibly in love, never, on my honor!"
"Well, before you reach the age of thirty, you'll have a different story to tell, or I'm mistaken."
"No; there is no danger, I fancy, unless indeed," he added, fixing his eyes quizzically on Drummond's handsome face, "I should happen to meet this little enchantress you spoke of awhile ago."
A cloud passed over the brow of his companion; but it cleared away in a moment as a quick, light footstep was heard approaching, and the next instant Sibyl Campbell, the haughty daughter of a haughty race, stood bright, dazzling, and smiling before them.
No one ever looked once in the face of Sibyl Campbell without turning to gaze again. Peerlessly beautiful as she was, it was not her beauty that would startle you, but the look of wild power, of intense daring, of fierce passions, of unyielding energy, of a will powerful for love or hate, of a nature loving, passionate, fiery, impulsive, and daring, yet gentle and winning.
She might have been seventeen years of age—certainly not more. In stature she was tall, and with a form regally beautiful, splendidly developed, with a haughty grace peculiarly her own. Her face was perfectly oval: her complexion, naturally olive, had been tanned by sun and wind to a rich, clear, gipsyish darkness. Her hair, that hung in a profusion of long curls, was of jetty blackness, save where the sun fell on it, bringing out red
rings of fire. Her large Syrian eyes, full of passion and power, were of the most intense blackness, now flashing with sparks of light, and anon swimming in liquid tenderness. Her high, bold brow might have become a crown—certainly it was regal in its pride and scorn. Her mouth, which was the only voluptuous feature in her face, was small, with full, ripe, red lips, rivaling in bloom the deep crimson of her dark cheeks.
Her dress was like herself—odd and picturesque, consisting of a short skirt of black silk, a bodice of crimson velvet, with gilt buttons. She held in one hand a black velvet hat, with a long, sweeping plume, swinging it gayly by the strings as she came toward them.
She was a strange, wild-looking creature, altogether; yet what would first strike an observer was her queenly air of pride, her lofty hauteur, her almost unendurable arrogance. For her unbending pride, as well as her surprising beauty, the haughty little lady had obtained, even in childhood, the title of "Queen of the Isle." And queenly she looked, with her noble brow, her flashing, glorious eyes, her dainty, curving lips, her graceful, statuesque form—in every sense of the word "a queen of noble Nature's crowning."
And Willard Drummond, passionate admirer of beauty as he was, what thought he of this dazzling creature? He leaned negligently still against the taffrail, with his eyes fixed on her sparkling, sunbright face, noting every look and gesture as one might gaze on some strange, beautiful creation, half in fear, half in love, but wholly in admiration. Yes, he loved her, or thought he did; and gazing with him on the moonlit waves, when the solemn stars shone serenely above him, he had told her so, and she had believed him. And she, wild, untutored child of nature, who can tell the deep devotion, the intense passion, the fiery, all-absorbing love for him that filled her impulsive young heart?
"Love was to her impassioned soul Not, as to others, a mere part Of her existence; but the whole— The very life-breath of her heart."
As she advanced, Willard Drummond started up, saying, gayly:
"Welcome back, Miss Sibyl. I thought the sunlight had deserted us altogether; but you have brought it back in your eyes."
"How's your patient, Sibyl?" said Captain Campbell, who, not being in love, found Mr. Drummond's high-flown compliments very tiresome sometimes.
"Much worse, I am afraid," she answered in a peculiarly musical voice. "I do not think he will live to see the morrow's sun. His ravings are frightful to hear—some terrible crime seems to be weighing him down as much as disease."
"After all, the human soul is an awful possession for a guilty man," said Captain Campbell, thoughtfully. "Things can be smoothed over during life, but when one comes to die—"
"They feel what retributive justice is, I suppose," said Drummond, in his customary careless tone; "and apropos of that, somebody will suffer terrible remorse after I die. I am to be murdered, if there is any truth in fortunetelling."
He spoke lightly, with a half smile; but Sibyl's face paled involuntarily as she exclaimed:
"Murdered, did you say? Who could have predicted anything so dreadful?"
"An old astrologer, or enchanter, or wizard of some kind, in Germany, when I was there. The affair seems so improbable, so utterly absurd, in short, that I never like to allude to it."
"You are not fool enough to believe such nonsense, I hope," said Captain Campbell.
"I don't know as it is nonsense. 'There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in philosophy,' you know."
"Yes—I was sure you would quote that; everyone does that when he advances some absurd doctrine; but it's all the greatest stuff, nevertheless."
"But did he tell you who you were to be—"
Sibyl stopped short; even in jest she could not pronounce the word.
"Murdered by?" said Willard, quietly finishing the sentence for her. "No, he told me nothing. I saw it all."
"Saw it! How? I do not understand."
"Oh, the story is hardly worth relating, and ought not to be told in the presence of such a skeptic as Captain Guy Campbell," said Drummond, running his fingers lightly through his dark, glossy locks.
"Heaven forbid I should wait to be inflicted by it!" said Captain Campbell, starting up. "I will relieve you of my presence, and allow you to entertain my superstitious sister here with your awful destiny, of which she will doubtless believe every word."
"I should be sorry to believe anything so dreadful," said Sibyl, gravely; "but I do think there are some gifted ones to whom the future has been revealed. I wish I could meet them, and find out what it has in store for me."
"Let me be your prophet," said Drummond, softly. "Beautiful Sibyl, there can be nothing but bliss for an angel like you."
Her radiant face flushed with pride, love, and triumph at his words.
"Do you believe in omens?" she said, laughingly. "See how brightly and beautifully yonder moon is rising! Now, if it reaches the arch of heaven unclouded, I shall believe your prediction."
Even as she spoke, a dense cloud passed athwart the sky, and the moon was obscured in darkness.
The dark, bright face of Sibyl paled at the dread omen. Involuntarily her eyes sought Drummond's who also had been gazing at the sky.
"Heaven avert the omen!" she cried, with a shudder. "Oh, Willard, the unclouded moon grew dark even while I spoke."
"And now the cloud is past, and it sails on brighter than ever," he said, with a smile. "See, fairest Sibyl, all is calm and peaceful once more. My prediction will be verified, after all."
She drew a deep breath, and looked so intensely relieved that he laughed. Sibyl blushed vividly, as she said:
"I know you must think me weak and childish; but I am superstitious by nature. Dreams, inspirations, and presentiments, that no one else thinks of, are all vivid realities to me. But you promised to tell me the German wizard's prediction concerning your future, so, pray, go on."
"Well, let me see," said Willard Drummond, leaning his head on his hand. "It is now three years ago that a celebrated Egyptian fortune-teller visited the town in Germany where I resided. His fame soon spread far and wide, and crowds of the incredulous came from every part to visit him. He could not speak a word of any language but his own; but he had an interpreter who did all the talking necessary, which was very little.
"I was then at a celebrated university; and, with two or three of my fellow-students, resolved, one day, to visit the wizard. Arrived at his house, we were shown into a large room, and called up one by one in the presence of the Egyptian.
"Our object in going was more for sport than anything else; but when we saw the first who was called—a wild, reckless young fellow, who feared nothing earthly—return pale and serious, our mirth was at an end. One by one the others were called, and all came back grave and thoughtful. By some chance, I was the last.
"I am not, like you, bright Sibyl, naturally superstitious; but I confess, when the interpreter ushered me into the presence of this wizard, I felt a sort
