The queen of the isle

by May Agnes Fleming

And so that day passed, and the next, and the next, and the next, and with every passing hour the temptation grew stronger and harder to be resisted. Matters must come to a crisis now, or never. Sibyl, in a day or two, would be home, and this wild frenzy of his could be hidden no longer. If she should come, as matters stood now, all would be lost.

And thus, torn between conflicting emotions, Willard sought Christie, on the day before Sibyl was expected home, with the determination of bringing this struggle to an end, then and there.

It was a glorious August afternoon. The island wore its bright dress of green, and nestled in the blue shining river like an emerald set in sapphire. The birds in the deep pine forest were filling the air with their melody, and the odor of the wild roses came floating softly on the summer breeze.

But Willard Drummond was in no mood to admire the beauties of Nature. The morning had been spent in pacing up and down his room, hesitating, resolving, doubting, wishing, yet undecided still. For, when duty and principle would appear for a moment victorious, the waving golden hair, the beautiful blue eyes, the gentle, loving face of Christie would arise before him, scattering all his good resolutions to the winds. And, mingled with this, there was a sort of superstitious foreboding of evil to come. He thought of his dream, and of the yellow-haired siren luring him on to destruction; and of Sibyl, fiery daughter of a fiery race, fierce, vindictive, and implacable in her wrongs.

"Oh, that I had never met this dark, passionate girl!" he murmured, distractedly, "who now stands between me and the heaven of my dreams; or would that I had seen this beautiful, enchanting Christie first! Oh, for that angel as my wife! And but for those fatal vows once made to Sibyl, she might be mine. I was mad, crazed, to mistake my fancy for that dark, wild-eyed girl for love! And now, for that one mistake, am I to be wretched for life? Shall I give up this beautiful, radiant creature, who loves me, for one I care for no longer? No; the struggle is past. Christie shall be my bride, and I will brave the worst that may follow!"

He set his teeth hard; and, as if fearing second reflection might make him change his mind, he left the house and hurried out to meet Christie.

Down on the shore, under the shade of an overhanging willow, he knew Christie had a favorite seat, where, on pleasant days, she used to take her work. Here he was sure of finding her, and in this direction he bent his steps.

She sat, sewing, under the shade of the drooping willow, singing softly to herself, and looking like some sylvan goddess of a sylvan scene; or some beautiful sea-nymph, just risen from her grotto of coral and chrystal.

Radiant and bewildering was the smile and blush with which she welcomed him—a smile and blush that might have been found too strong even for more potent principles than his.

He seated himself beside her, with a look of moody abstraction, all unusual with him, watching her covertly from under his eyelashes, as she bent smiling and happy over her work.