THE BRIDE OF THE ISLES.
A beautiful and happy girl,
With step as soft as summer air,
And fresh young lips and brow of pearl
Shadowed by many a careless curl
Of unconfined and flowing hair;
A seeming child in everything,
Save thoughtful brow and ripening charms,
As nature wears the smile of spring,
When sinking into summer’s arms.
_—Whittier._
The door was opened by a beautiful girl between fourteen and fifteen
years old, not tall for her age, but full-formed and exquisitely
proportioned. Her features were regular, with the “sweet, low brow,” and
straight nose and arched lips of the Grecian profile; her eyes were of
dark and melting hue, and her dark, rich auburn hair, parted over a
forehead of snowy fairness, dropped in a mass of irregular ringlets down
cheeks of carnation dye. The idea she inspired was that of a richness
and fullness of life.
She stood within the door with a smile, awaiting the pleasure of the
stranger, whose knock had summoned her. Captain Hugh had never seen
Agnes Seabright before, so that he handed her the letter, saying:
“I think that this is for you?”
She took it, and was about in her haste to break the seal and possess
herself of the contents, when her eyes alighted on these words, written
on the corner: “To make my little girl acquainted with Mr. Hutton, my
mate and good friend.” Then she raised her eyes from the letter in her
hand to Hugh Hutton’s face. Then she offered her hand shyly but kindly,
while she said, simply:
“How do you do, Mr. Hutton? Will you walk in and sit down, and excuse me
while I read father’s letter? I have not heard from him for so long,”
she said, as they walked into the parlor.
He sat down in a large flag-bottomed chair and began to draw figures on
the sanded floor with a stick, while she retired to an end window to
read her father’s farewell letter.
Captain Hutton watched her growing pale and paler as she read the letter
to its close—as she folded it and advanced trembling to his side—as she
laid her hand heavy from faintness on his arm, and speaking in thick,
faltering tones, said:
“Tell me! I don’t—I’m afraid to understand what this means! But, my
father—where is he gone?”
Hugh took both her hands in his, while the folded letter fell to the
ground, looked full, looked kindly and gravely into her set and anxious
eyes, and answered slowly:
“To heaven, Agnes.”
He would have held her hands longer, gazed longer upon that beautiful
but troubled countenance, as to impart his own strength and composure,
but she withdrew her fingers, sank down upon a chair, and covered her
face with her hands. Soon between the fingers copious tears flowed. Then
she arose and slowly left the room.
What was to be done with this young and beautiful girl? To be sure,
there was Hugh’s own home on Hutton Island, and there was Miss Josephine
Cotter, Hugh’s maiden aunt; but the home was so poor, and Miss Joe—so
queer! There was no knowing how Miss Joe might receive this poor child,
so much in need of love and sympathy and care just now. After ruminating
a long time he could think of no better plan than to at least consult
Miss Joe upon the subject. So, his hours for the evening being all
pre-engaged, he determined to go home early the next morning to break
the news to his aunt.
* * * * *
“You must perceive, Aunt Joe, that I’m in a serious dilemma.”
“Well, then, here! take this reel and wind off this hank o’ yarn, while
I foot my stocking. People needn’t be idle while they’re talking. More
idle time is spent talking than any other way—as if people’s hands and
tongues would not go at the same time.”
Hugh obeyed with a good-humored laugh. At last:
“Well, aunt?” he said.
“Well, Hugh! Now begin, and tell me all over, all about it, for I don’t
know as I understand it—quite!”
Hugh recapitulated the history of Captain Seabright’s illness and death,
his last will and testament, and finally the embarrassment in which he
found Agnes Seabright and the relation in which he stood toward her,
concluding with:
“Now, what am I to do with her, aunt?”
“Marry her, Hugh. There is no home open to the orphan but this—nor this,
unless you marry her first. You promised to wed her—you mean to wed
her—why not do it at once? Will the marriage rite hurt or inconvenience
you? Just let the marriage ceremony, which gives you a lawful claim to
her, and which gives her the right to live here in this house as its
mistress, and which will shut the mouths of the gossips for ever—be
performed. ‘An ounce of preventive is better than a pound of cure,’ even
in matters of gossip. Then bring her here to me. I’ll be a mother to the
child. I’ll do the best I can for her. I’ll make her feel at home, and
make her happy, even on this lonesome island.”
The next morning Hugh spent with Agnes Seabright. And after that he
visited her every day, until the orphan’s tears were nearly dried and
the maiden’s heart won.
For the reception of the bride Miss Joe was making every preparation
which she could make without spending, or, as she called it, “heaving
away of” money. Hugh schemed “to draw all points to one,” so that the
marriage should take place upon the very day on which he was to sail for
Baltimore preparatory to a longer trip to the West Indies. So, very
early on a glorious autumn morning, while the rising sun was shining
splendidly into the chapel windows, the marriage ceremony was quietly
performed in the village church by the village parson.
Immediately after the ceremony was concluded Hugh tucked Agnes under one
arm and Miss Joe under the other, and hurried down to the beach to get
them on board the boat. He lifted Agnes into the skiff, handed Miss Joe
after her, and, entering himself, laid his hand vigorously to the oar,
and they sped down the stream and over the bright waters.
It was a golden morning—grand, exultant, inspiring! Out before them
rolled the boundless, the magnificent sea, with its myriads beyond
myriads of waves, leaping, flashing, sparkling, scintillating like fluid
emeralds in the dazzling splendor of the morning sun.
As he looked upon this scene Hugh’s eyes kindled, blazed. He did not see
how sad was the brow of his young bride. No! the sea-king had already
risen above the lover.
At last the island lay before them like a line of gold. He rowed swiftly
for it. Soon they landed on the glittering strand. It was here they
parted.
“And—be kind to my little Agnes!” he whispered, as he took leave of the
old lady.
“Now, Agnes,” he said, as he folded her to his bosom and pressed his
first and farewell kiss upon her lips.
Then he sprang into the boat and struck out to sea in the direction of
his vessel, riding at anchor at about a half league’s distance, and
which was to sail with the tide.
“Come, Agnes,” said Miss Joe, kindly taking her arm to draw it within
her own.
“Not yet—not just yet! And, if you please, just let me watch until the
boat gets out of sight.”
“Honey, it will put your eyes out to try to look upon this sparkling
sea. Come; breakfast is waiting for us, I know.”
“I wish he had only stayed to breakfast with us! I could have parted
with him better then, if I had known he had eaten a good, warm
breakfast.”
“The tide wouldn’t wait, you know, child, and he will get his breakfast
on board his vessel. Why, what’s the matter, Agnes? I do believe you
like him already! I do believe you’re sorry he’s gone!”
“He was my only friend! Since father died I was getting used to him,”
said Agnes, bursting into tears.
“Well, I declare to man, if it is not wonderful! All them Huttons had
never seemed to value woman’s love—have every one of them always got
more than they deserved. Come, Agnes; the boat is quite out of sight
now; come home and take a cup of coffee, child; it will cheer you up.”
“Do you think he is safe on board of his vessel yet?”
“Oh, yes, of course! Come, a cup of coffee is first-rate for
trouble—’cause, you see, I’ve tried it! Come, honey!”
And Miss Joe drew Agnes’ arm within her own and walked up the isle
toward the cottage.