 | CHAPTER I. This, that and the other |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
Mine was surely a strange childhood. I grew up there in
the fisherman's lonely hut, on the Cornwall shore. The fisherman
and his wife had no children, and they loved me, and were
kind to me in their way. The woman soon found that my errant,
wandering spirit could ill brook confinement; and she ceased her
attempts to teach me knitting and net-making, and allowed me
to wander whither I listed, only exacting that I should bring
home at night a certain quantity of sea-moss, which her husband
used to carry for sale to the neighboring market-town, a
distance of some twenty miles.
Perhaps, to one of my temperament, this hardy life was not
without its advantages; at least, it was singularly free from
temptation. No Indian maiden ever led a life freer, or more
tameless. I used to scale cliffs from which the boldest hunter
would have shrunk back appalled, and, standing on their jagged
summits, laugh a defiance to the eagles, and toss back my long,
black hair, with its sea-weed coronet, a princess in my own
right.
Neither the fisherman nor his wife knew how to read, and I
grew up in a like ignorance; and yet, I was by no means devoid
of one kind of education. I could tell where the eagles hatched
and the sea-birds hung their nests; where the tallest trees lifted
storm-winds lashed the waves to wildest fury.
My keen eye could discern in the distance each little cloud
no bigger than a man's hand; and afar off I recognized the
coming spirit of a blast that should be strong to strew the sea
with wrecks.
One night — I must have been about thirteen years old — I
had climbed to the very top of a high cliff, known as the Devil's
Tea-kettle. It was a singular place; steep, pointed, jagged
rocks hemmed in a basin, on whose sandy bed white, shining
pebbles lay bleaching in the sunlight. I had heard terrible
tales of this strange chasm. The peasantry said it was the
brewing-place of the waters of the stream of death, for never
were the waves known to rise high enough to fill the basin, but
that some goodly ship went down in sight of land, with all her
freight of precious souls.
I had never seen the waves boil in the Devil's Tea-kettle, but
I had been told that never had they surged so madly as on that
fearful night when I was dashed upon the lonely shore, and
the storm-spirits clasped hands with the winds, and shouted
forth my mother's requiem.
I think I must have been born in a storm, for they wore to
me the familiar faces of dear old friends. I loved them; and
on this night of which I speak, when I had climbed to the topmost
ledge of these spectral cliffs, I planted there my firm step,
and, looking forth to sea, laughed merrily. And yet a landsman
would have said it bade fair to be a beautiful night. The sea
was very calm — too calm — for it was the lull before the tempest.
The sun was going down into his palace of clouds, flinging
over opposite, the moon, like a fair young bride, was climbing up
the east, with a star or two for bride's-maids, going forth to be
wedded to the night.
O, it was a beautiful scene! I have looked on such in later
years, till my heart ached with their quiet beauty. But it ached
not then. I clapped my hands as I looked forth over the waters,
for there, in the far distance, was a little cloud. It was a pretty
thing enough, quite in keeping with the scene; white, and
soft, and fleecy, as an angel's wing. But I recognized it; I
knew it was no seraph coming nearer; but that, as in their
funeral processions at the East, they send far on, in advance,
white-robed maidens, scattering flowers, even so now had the
advancing spirit of the storm, twin-leagued with darkness and
despair, sent forth before his face this peaceful herald. And I
knew from its position, and the rate at which it scudded before
the wind, that there was to be a fearful storm, — no gentle breeze
to rock a child's cradle, but a Euroclydon, to lash the deep sea
into fury.
O, how high my heart swelled as I looked on it, and shouted,
in my glee, that the Devil's Tea-kettle would boil well to-night!
But I think it was not from any native malignity. I desired
not death, but excitement. I wanted a wreck, it is true; but
then I would have braved life and limb to save the lives of its
victims. But the sunset glory faded out from the heavens, the
moon climbed higher, the white cloud widened, and I sprang
down the cliff, and, gathering up my basket of sea-moss, walked
slowly home.
I did not sleep that night. My little room opened out of the
kitchen and parlor, for the fisherman and his wife.
About midnight, I heard a sound. It was a signal-gun, — once
and again it boomed over the waters. Hurriedly dressing myself,
I roused the fisherman from his slumbers, and, putting on
a cloak and hood, stole unobserved from the dwelling. My feet
did not pause till I had reached the topmost ledge of the Devil's
Tea-kettle. Merciful Heavens! how the waves seethed and
boiled! What a sight! It frightened even me, who had never
known fear before; and, springing down the rocks, I fled as if
a whole army of fiends were pursuing me.
I hurried along the shore for a few rods, when the light of a
lantern flashed full in my face, and I paused. It was John.
“You here, child?” he said, in a tone which had more of
surprise than anger. I think he was glad to have some human
eyes to gaze on the terrible scene, beside his own. The moon,
which had shone out fitfully as I stood beside the Devil's Tea-kettle,
was now buried beneath billows of heavy, surging clouds.
Only now and then some vivid flash of lightning would show us,
in the distance, a great, black-looking ship, like some fearful
phantom bearing down upon the shore.
At intervals, the signal-guns would boom over the waves
like the sullen roar of some wild animal; or a human voice
would shriek out wildly, hopelessly, for the help which came
not. O, it was a terrible sight to stand there and watch that
mighty ship, hurrying helplessly to its death. I looked till my
soul grew sick — I could look no longer. I sank down upon the
cliff where I was standing, and clasped my hands across my
eyes. I did not see the struggles of the proud ship, but I heard
THE SHIPWRECK.
[Description: 655EAF. Illustration page. Image of a man and woman standing on a rocky cliff. They are watching a ship sink in the ocean. Lightning is coming down from the heavy clouds overhead.]
rocks, and went down helplessly in sight of land. I heard the
crash, and, putting my fingers in my ears, ran inland, till my
breath was spent.
And then the early summer morning dawned. We had stood
there three hours, though it seemed not as many minutes. So
long had the good ship struggled with the waves, so long her brave
crew died a living death of suspense and anguish. As soon as
the earliest dawn-rays commenced to light my path, I turned my
footsteps homeward; and, at the door of the hut, I met John,
bearing a senseless figure in his arms.
“This is all that's left of 'em, Agnes!” said he, with a sadness
unusual to his tone; and, entering the cabin, he laid his
half-drowned burden upon the sea-weed couch. His wife had
already opened the windows, and lighted the fire; and she
hastened to apply vigorously all her stock of simple restoratives.
Her care was presently rewarded, by seeing the stranger's eyes
unclose, and catching the faint sound of his irregular breathing.
It was several days, however, before he could rise from the
couch where he had been placed. On the morning of the fourth
day, he slowly approached the window, and sat down. “My
friend,” said he to the fisherman, “I owe you already more than
gold can ever pay you! Will you do more for me still? Can
you bring me, from the next post-town, a sheet of paper and some
ink; and will you let me be your guest, till I receive an answer
to the letter which I must write? When it comes, I shall have
gold to reward your care, and strength to proceed on my journey.”
Of course he gained his point, for when did Frederick Hutton
and I never knew him fail to accomplish whatever he undertook.
The letter was written and sent, and, during the two months
which glided away before its answer came, Frederick Hutton was
my constant companion in all my rambles. He wanted a guide,
and took me in the absence of a better; quite careless as to the
effects such an association might produce upon my mind. And
yet, to do him justice, he was really very good-natured; and
when he found out, a week after our acquaintance began, that I
could not read, he set himself to work in earnest, to supply the
deficiency. I loved my teacher, and my progress was rapid.
I suppose Frederick Hutton would as soon have thought of
winning the fisherman himself to love him, as me, the rough,
wild-natured child of his adoption. But I have been told, by
physiognomical connoisseurs, that half the blood in my veins is
Spanish; and I, uncultivated child of thirteen as I was, loved
the handsome young Englishman with a wilder devotion than
many a grown woman is capable of. O, how I loved him!
He told me nothing of his personal history, but years afterwards
I learned that he was very rich and noble. For a long
time I was unconscious of the nature of my own love for him,
until, one afternoon, when we were walking, his own words revealed
it to me.
“So they call you Agnes Lee, do they?” he asked, pulling
me down on a rock beside him, and leisurely drawing my long
hair through his fingers. “How, in the world, came you by such
a romantic name?”
“I don't know what romantic means, sir,” I answered, simply;
“but they call me Agnes Lee, because on St. Agnes' night I was
other name for me?”
“Ho! that 's it, is it? Quite a good account! You must have
been born for telling stories. Well, I 've a mind to amuse myself,
now, telling you one. Did you ever hear about love? But
of course you never did, you who never saw a handsome man in
your life.”
“Except you, sir,” said I, looking admiringly into his bold, handsome
face. His laughing blue eyes twinkled with fun, in appreciation
of the honestly-given compliment; and then he proceeded
to give me my first lesson of that love, stronger than life, and
more powerful than death. As he described its workings, my
cheek flushed crimson, for I knew that even so I loved him. At
last he grew weary of me, or of his subject, and, drawing a book
from his pocket (he had procured several from the next market-town,
in order to teach me to read), he bade me run away for
a while to play, and come again when I got tired.
Slowly I sauntered onward, with one remark which he had
made sounding in my ears. He had said, “Love seeks beauty as
naturally as the flowers the sunlight!”
Was I beautiful? My whole mind and soul were full of the
question. At last I remembered a sunny pool of clear, fresh
water, where I could see myself as in a mirror. I had often
looked there, to adjust my sea-weed wreaths; but I had never
noticed my face, for never, until this afternoon, had the question
suggested itself, whether I was beautiful. Cautiously I crept to
the brink, and, many times drawing back in fear, I at length
looked in. I unbound my tresses, and they floated almost to my
feet, long, heavy, and black as night. Set in them, as in a frame,
there like a sloe's, large, black, and melting, and anon flashing
fire. I thought they might be beautiful, but I was not sure. As
to the features, I was not very well competent to judge. I know
now that they were regular enough for a sculptor's model; then
I only knew that Frederick Hutton was handsome — my face
was not like Frederick Hutton's; therefore I thought I must be
homely. But I was not satisfied. I stole lingeringly back to my
companion, and found him, in turn, tired of his book, and ready
to amuse himself with me. “Please, sir, may I ask you a question?”
I inquired, very timidly.
“Why, yes, Miss Agnes Lee, since you have never in the
world done such a thing, I rather think you may.”
“Well, sir, am I handsome?”
Frederick laughed long and loudly, ere he replied,
“Well, you genuine descendant of Mother Eve, you precious
little specimen of feminine humanity, where you picked up your
vanity, nested here on the lee-shore, like a sea-gull, I don't know;
but go and stand there in the sunshine, and I 'll answer you.
Shake down your long, black hair, all about you, gypsy, — there,
that 's right, — now stand still!”
I should think I stood still there a minute and a half, waiting
for him to make his decision. I really suffered while his eyes
were so bent upon me. At last, his fixed, steady look was
getting to be torture, and it was an inconceivable relief when he
made answer,
“Well, Aggie, it took me some time to decide, did n't it?
No, you are not handsome yet, Aggie. You are brown as a
Malay, and there 's something almost savage in your fierce, black
thick; and, if it were taken care of, and were n't sunburnt, it
might be magnificent. As it is, you 're rather homely; but, if
some people had you, you might be made a very handsome
woman.”
Strange as it may seem, dearly as I loved him, this reply gave
me pleasure, instead of pain; though I well knew, had he loved
me, he never would have made it. But I don't think I wanted
him to love me then. He had said I had the material for a
handsome woman, and that was all I wanted to know. My
heart beat quicker, with a sense of power. I said that I would
make him know I was beautiful, some time; that, some other
day, I would make his proud heart quicken; and with this hope
for the future I was quite content.
One day, soon after, we were walking together over the rough
rocks bordering the shore. I remember a sense of life swelled
high and exultant in my heart; and I bounded over the steepest
ledges, hardly seeming to touch them, or paused to balance
myself and turn around on their sharpest points.
“Come down here, Agnes Lee,” said Frederick Hutton's voice,
at length; and, in an instant, I was by his side.
“I 've been thinking,” he remarked, carelessly binding up some
strands of sea-weed, “I 've been thinking that you would make a
capital ballet-dancer.” And then he proceeded, in answer to my
eager inquiries, to explain to me the nature of theatrical performances
in general, and ballet-dancing in particular.
“It 's a bad life,” he concluded, “and I would n't advise you
to try it. But, after all, I don't know but you 'd be better
off there than here. You do very well here now, but what 'll become
you could make a fortune, if you would only keep it. Let
me tell you one thing, Agnes: some people think all dancing-girls
are wicked; but I tell you it is the soul governs the profession,
not the profession the soul; and you could be as good and pure
on the boards of the Royal Theatre as in the Hermitage of
Lough Derg.”
It was but a few days after this last conversation when the
answers to Frederic Hutton's letters came; and, having liberally
rewarded the honest fisherman's hospitality, he bade farewell
to the lee-shore of Cornwall. It was a beautiful morning
in the early autumn, and I went with him a mile or two on
his journey. O, how gladly the waves danced, and the sun
shone! and I could see his heart was dancing too. As for me,
I was not glad, nor yet very sorry; for my whole heart was
filled with a strong under-lying purpose. Pausing, at length, he
let go my hand.
“There, Agnes, you must go home now,” he said; “good-by,
my child;” and, taking a guinea from his pocket, he added,
“take that, Aggie; it 's the best thing I 've got to give you to
remember me by.”
“Will you just please to make a round hole in it, and mark
an F. on it somewhere?” I pleadingly inquired.
“Well, here 's one with a hole in it; that will do — and
there,” and, sitting down, he marked “F. H.” in bold, distinct
characters. “There, little one, good-by, now,” and, drawing me
to him he kissed me. It was the first time he had ever done
so — the first kiss man had ever left upon my lips; and it lingered
there for weeks, and its memory had power to thrill me
for many a year.
| CHAPTER I. This, that and the other | |