THE CHILDREN OF THE ISLE.
Their earliest steps have wandered from the green and fertile land,
Down where the clear blue ocean rolled, to pace the rugged strand,
They proudly flung the proffered bribe and gilded toy away,
To gather up the salt sea-weed, or dabble in the spray;
They shouted to the distant crew, or launched their mimic bark.
They met the morning freshness there, and lingered till the dark;
And still their souls are as they were, and as they e’er will be,
Loving and wild as what they love, the curbless, mighty sea.
_—Eliza Cook._
The little sea-girt homeland of Hutton’s Isle had never recovered from
the fatal devastation of the great tempest and flood. The fences had
never been reconstructed strong and complete as before. The house had
never been properly repaired. All the little mending and rebuilding that
had been done had been the joint work of Miss Joe and her factotum,
Pontius Pilate. And these slight repairs were of such a temporary
character as to require renewal every few months. And every year the
house sank and fell, and grew more ruinous and dilapidated. And every
year the isle became more desolate and desert. Every season the soil was
less productive and the crop poorer. The oyster banks had failed
entirely. The fisheries were becoming precarious. Nothing remained in
primeval abundance except in the flocks of water-fowl that still flew in
vast clouds over the isle, darkening the very air at certain times, like
night or storm.
So much for the house and isle. Now for the inmates and inhabitants.
From having been always poor they were now upon the verge of
penury—destitution. Miss Josephine Cotter, the good fairy of this
sea-girt isle, was, to use her own expression, growing older and older
every day of her life. She did not know, she said, which was most likely
to topple down first, she or her old house.
The death of Pontius Pilate in the beginning of the winter, and a severe
attack of rheumatism in her limbs, had seemed to be the climax of the
poor old lady’s misfortunes. It was immediately after the burial of
Pontius Pilate that Miss Joe was sitting down in the depth of despair,
with her apron thrown over her head, and her head bowed upon her knees,
Hugh and Garnet suddenly stood before her.
“Don’t cry any more, granny. I and Nettie can work the farm,” said Hugh,
in a cheerful, confident tone.
“You and Nettie work the farm!” replied Miss Joe, looking up with pity,
anger, and contempt in the expression of her countenance and in the tone
of her voice. To her, a woman past sixty, the boy of twelve and the girl
of nine seemed yet infants. “You and Nettie work the farm!”
“Yes, granny, and haul the wood, and fish, and shoot——”
“Pah, pah! Hush talking, you make my head ache.”
“Granny, I have sometimes taken the plow from Pont and plowed a row for
fun. I know a little practice would make me perfect at that.”
“Granny, Hugh can hoe up the hills, and I can drop corn. Hugh can cut
wood, and I can fetch and carry it. And now, as there is no fish near
the isle, Hugh can go out in the boat, and I can go with him to bait his
hooks and look after the basket.”
And do you guess all the hard and manifold work they did?
It was the dead of winter—the earth was frozen hard, and two feet deep
with snow, crusted with ice. All the wood that was burned on the isle
had to be cut and hauled from the forest behind Huttontown, and brought
over to the isle in a boat. And the boy, with no implements but a
hatchet, a small wheelbarrow, and a little rowboat, performed all that
labor alone, until one day, when he had made very slow progress, and
effected very little, he returned home, near frozen, from having been so
long at work in the snow and among the ice-clad trees.
Then Nettie threw herself into a violent paroxysm of excitement, and
vowed that she would go with him the next day to help him gather wood in
the forest. And she went. And while Hugh cut the brush and the lighter
branches of the dead trees Nettie would break them up and pile them in
the wheelbarrow, enlivening the earnest, thoughtful boy all the time
with her wild and joyous talk.
It was late in the afternoon of a stormy day near the end of December,
that the two children, Hugh Hutton and Garnet Seabright, might have been
seen wandering on the cold, bare, snow-clad northwest beach of Hutton’s
Isle.
Hugh was at this time a fine, handsome, athletic boy of twelve and a
half years of age; tall, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, strong limbed,
with the high Roman features, dark complexion, and commanding
countenance of all his race; a noble boy, undisguised even by the old,
worn, faded, and patched suit of homespun cloth in which he was clad.
Bitterly cold as it was, his head and feet were bare—bare, because
though Miss Joe might shear the sheep, and card and spin the wool, and
knit him socks enough, yet shoes and hats cost a great deal more money
than Miss Joe or Hugh could often get together, and so shoes and hats
were luxuries and elegancies, only to be indulged in on Sundays and high
holidays.
Garnet Seabright was now about ten years of age; a beautiful, brilliant,
sun-burned, or rather sun-gilded brunette, whom the sea air and sun rays
had made as hard, bright, dark, and resplendent as the burning, crimson,
sea-coast gem whose name she bore. Child of Apollo and Amphytrite she
was. Her eyes were large, dark, and burning bright; her rich and glossy
hair seemed jet black in the shade, but emitted gleams of red light
wherever the sun shone upon it; her complexion was rich and glowing; she
wore a dress of scarlet country cloth, with coarse shoes and stockings,
and a coarse straw hat—and, altogether, her bright presence warmed and
illumined the cold, bleak desolation of the sea-coast, like some
cheerful fire. She followed close behind Hugh, stopping whenever he
stopped, and digging with a little stick wherever the little round holes
in the sand indicated the presence of the maninosies, left by the
subsiding wind and ebbing tide upon the beach. Very necessary was it
that they should fill their basket, for very little else had they at
home for supper.
Their task was finished just as the clear, red winter’s sun sank to a
level with the horizon, lighting up all the bay like a sea of fire.
The boy and girl started for home with their baskets well laden with
maninosies, and were gayly laughing around the fire, when Miss Joe held
up her hand, exclaiming:
“Hush, I thought I heard a man’s step.”
“A man’s step!” echoed Hugh, with a look of surprise.
“A man’s step!” re-echoed Nettie, her eyes wide open with astonishment.
“Yes! A man’s heavy step crunching through the snow. There, listen!
there it is again. It seems to be coming up the hill toward the
house—listen!”
They all listened.
Crunch, crunch, crunch came the heavy, regular, monotonous tramp.
And it is impossible to convey the effect of that regular, heavy sound
breaking upon the profound stillness and solitude of night on that
sea-girt isle.
“In the name of Heaven, who can it be?” exclaimed Miss Joe, as nearly
frightened as ever she was in her life.
Crunch, crunch, crunch came the step, nearing the door.
“I am going to see,” exclaimed Hugh, seizing up a pine knot, lighting it
at the fire, and making for the door.
Miss Joe could scarcely repress a scream.
Nettie stood like a young panther at bay; clinging to Miss Joe in
terror, yet looking toward the door with her eyes ablaze with defiance.
Just as a loud rap started them afresh Hugh swung the door open, and a
tall, majestic-looking man, wrapped in a large cloak, strode into the
room.