Very strange was the lot and life of the lonely recluse of the sea-girt isle and her little protégé. Their only possessions were the nearly barren islet, the dilapidated lodge, a cow, a sheep or two, a little poultry and a dog. No cart or horse had they, nor even any use for either. The small skiff conveyed them to the mainland whenever, for the purpose of laying in a few groceries or dry goods, or of attending divine service, they found it necessary or agreeable to go. Their faithful old servant, Pontius Pilate, whose duty it was to till the land, row the boat, fish the weir, rake the oyster bed, and cut and bring wood from the mainland, was their only companion. The soil immediately around the house being mixed with clay and marl, still yielded, with careful cultivation, corn and wheat enough for the small consumption of the little family. And Pontius Pilate saved money by grinding this in a hand-mill. The little garden produced vegetables enough for their table. And the two sheep yielded wool enough for their winter socks and mits—carded, spun, and woven by the indefatigable fingers of Miss Joe. And so time passed on, until Miss Joe, not having trouble enough on her hands already, was induced to assume the responsibility of rearing another child, a little wild elf-like girl, whose advent was almost as great a subject of gossiping speculation as the disappearance of Agnes had been. And the name of this elfin child was Garnet Seabright.
The history of Garnet Seabright, as it was understood in the neighborhood, was very briefly this:
When Hugh was about six years of age Miss Joe received a letter from a distant relation living in Calvert County, beseeching her, for the Redeemer’s sake, to lose no time in hastening to the sick-bed of the writer, who was most anxious to see her before she died.
Miss Joe had to rub her organ of eventuality before she could recognize in the writer a cousin, a wild young girl of exceeding beauty and willfulness, who had, years before, eloped with a soldier, a certain George Seabright, a distant relation of Captain Seabright.
Miss Joe never slighted any appeal to her benevolence. She shut up house, left the island in care of Pontius Pilate, took Hugh to Huttontown and left him in charge of Mrs. Fig, the grocer’s wife, borrowed a mule, and set out for Calvert County.
The house of her cousin she heard upon inquiry was a miserably poor cottage, with scarcely any cleared ground around it, and situated in the midst of a deep, dark forest. It was approached for miles only by a narrow bridle path. It was near nightfall when Miss Joe entered this lonesome path; it was quite dark before she got near the house.
“Oh, good Lord! this is a great deal more lonesomer and more wilder than my sea-girt island they make such a fuss about; for there, at least, I could see an enemy a long ways off. But here! Lord, there might be an Injun, or a bandit, or more likely still, a runaway nigger, behind every tree. Get up, Jinny! Hark! Lord deliver us! what was that?”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Highe! cheep! th-sh-sh-e-e-e-e!” laughed, screamed, chirped, chirruped a sharp, shrill voice, high up in the trees, or somewhere between them and the blinking stars.
“Lord save us, what was that?” ejaculated Miss Joe, looking up at the branches overhead, in the direction of the eerie voice.
And there she saw, in the dark, bright starlight, in the highest branches of the trees, among the green and glistening leaves, a little elfin face, with glittering eyes, and gleaming teeth and streaming hair, mopping and mowing at her—chattering, gibing, laughing, and screaming at her.