A wood-pile joins.
—Allan Ramsay.
Hutton Lodge, on Hutton’s Island, had been built in the palmy days of the family’s prosperity.
It was to this lodge that Captain Hugh Hutton of Revolutionary memory had retired with his sole female relative, his sister-in-law, Miss Josephine Cotter. And here, after his death, had the good woman continued to live.
And here was Hugh Hutton’s home whenever his ship would be in port. And finally, it was to this lodge, or cottage, as he called it, that Miss Joe conducted her young charge, the widowed bride.
The days were all occupied with work—yes, hard work. All day long the whir of the flying shuttle, and the dull, monotonous clap-clap of the warp-rammer would be heard, as Miss Joe sat at her loom; and the hum of the great spinning-wheel as Agnes stood and spun. Agnes had no motive under the sun for her industry but Hugh’s interest and Hugh’s pleasure. To become an efficient help-meet for Hugh—to be an industrious and saving little housekeeper for Hugh’s profit. And when Miss Joe praised her docility and perseverance, poor girl, she felt as though she were receiving Hugh’s approval. Sometimes she would be tempted to think a little hardly of his having gone to sea so instantly after their marriage, but when this thought took the hue of blame she banished it at once. But—did he love her at all, when he could leave her so soon, and with so little emotion? She feared not. Would he ever love her as she loved him—as she wished to be loved? She knew herself to be beautiful and attractive. She would have been an idiot not to have known it. In her deep and secret heart, while never acknowledging her purpose to herself, she sought to adapt herself to her circumstances and duties, and fit herself to win Hugh’s approval and love. Such were her silent dreams and reveries by day, while her spinning-wheel whirled under her hand, and the incessant clap-clap of Miss Joe’s loom sounded on her ear from the other corner. And so November and the greater part of December passed, when a letter came from Hugh announcing his speedy return home.
At length the important day dawned; it was Christmas Eve. The snow was two feet deep on the ground, and crusted with a coat of ice thick enough to bear the heaviest footsteps without breaking through. The day was cold, crisp, but clear.
It was nearly sunset when Agnes went up into her room for the fiftieth time that day to look at the sea for a sail. It was very cold, and there was no fire, so Agnes thought just to give one sweeping glance over the waters and then retire, when her eye alighted on a distant sail making toward the isle. She wrapped a large woolen shawl around herself and sat down to watch what might come. The vessel bore down rapidly upon the island. When within about a quarter of a mile and bearing away westward toward the mainland, she lowered a boat with two rowers, who pulled swiftly toward the island landing. Agnes recognized Hugh and one of his crew. She started and ran downstairs, exclaiming as she burst into the kitchen:
“Hugh is coming! Hugh is almost here, aunt! I saw him in the boat!”
“Is he?” said the old lady quietly. “Well, then, honey, do you take some water upstairs in—in—in my—no, your room for him to wash, while I put up the supper, so that he needn’t wait.”