CHAPTER XIV.VANISHING OF AGNES.
They sought her that night and they sought her next day,They sought her in vain ‘till a week passed away;The highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot;Her neighbors sought wildly, but found her not.—Mistletoe Bough.
They sought her that night and they sought her next day,They sought her in vain ‘till a week passed away;The highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot;Her neighbors sought wildly, but found her not.—Mistletoe Bough.
They sought her that night and they sought her next day,They sought her in vain ‘till a week passed away;The highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot;Her neighbors sought wildly, but found her not.—Mistletoe Bough.
They sought her that night and they sought her next day,
They sought her in vain ‘till a week passed away;
The highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot;
Her neighbors sought wildly, but found her not.
—Mistletoe Bough.
Days and weeks passed on, and brought Christmas, when an event occurred of so startling and inexplicable a nature as to fill the whole neighborhood with wonder.
Miss Joe’s preparations for Christmas were all made, with the exception of the turkey and the materials for the plum-pudding. Miss Joe’s turkeys had all been drowned in the great flood. Now, to have a roast turkey and a plum-pudding at Christmas was Miss Joe’s eleventh commandment of the Lord and fortieth article of the Episcopal faith. So she took two pairs of men’s woolen socks that she had just completed, donned her antiquated bonnet and shawl, and, taking Pontius Pilate as her negro body-servant, prepared to start for Huttontown to exchange her work with the village shopkeeper for raisins, currants, and spice, and money to purchase a turkey. Snow clouds were slowly condensing in the sky, but Miss Joe assured Agnes that she would be back long before it came on to snow.
And then, full of cheerful energy and anticipation, she set out.
Agnes remained in her usual apathetic mood, unheeding the flight of time, until the sudden rising of the wind and the sudden hustling of hail-stones against the windows told her that a furious storm was coming up. She arose and closed the window-shutters with some difficulty,and lighted a candle, when she found, to her surprise, that it was already seven o’clock. It was high time for Miss Joe to be at home. And now it occurred to the kind heart of Agnes that the good old lady, coming in from the storm, might relish a cup of hot tea. So she threw more wood upon the fire (Miss Joe’s forethought had supplied her with a pile of wood by the chimney corner), and filled the tea-kettle and hung it over the blaze. But Agnes knew that if Miss Joe did not come almost immediately, if she had not already landed on the island, she would not come that night. Agnes set the table and made the tea.
An hour passed by and Miss Joe had not returned, and Agnes gave her up for the night.
At about midnight the storm abated, the clouds broke up, and a few stars looked shyly out as if reconnoitering the darkness. The night was very dark. Agnes, who felt lonely and nervous, and could not sleep, opened the window-shutters to look out, but could scarcely discern the line where the dark waters met the snow-covered beach. The sky hung like a black pall over the island. The deep darkness, the deep silence, the deep solitude oppressed her with gloom and fear. Her form was shrunk, and her eyes dilated by terror.
Suddenly, while she gazed, the whole scene was brightly illuminated. Several torches blazed along the beach, lighting up the whole line of coast, and revealing the forms of three boats already landed, and the figures of several men passing back and forth.
At the same instant that Agnes perceived them, she felt that she herself must have been seen in the strong glare of the lighted window at which she sat.
She started up with the wish to extinguish her candle, when she saw several of the men with torches approaching the house; and, overpowered with terror, she fell in a swoon.
In the meantime Miss Joe had very reluctantly been detained at Huttontown by the utter impossibility of getting through the snowstorm to the isle. She hadpassed the night with Mr. Fig’s—the grocer’s—family, bemoaning the necessity, and lamenting that “that poor young thing would feel so lonesome, staying by herself on the island all night.”
Very “bright and early” the next morning Miss Joe, with a fine fat hen-turkey, living, and tied by the legs, and several packages of raisins, currants, and spices, entered her boat and set out on her return home.
When she reached the lodge the scene of confusion that met her eyes nearly transfixed her. Both doors, front and back, were wide open, and the air was rushing through the room. The fire had gone out; the great logs of wood had burned in two and fallen apart, and the charred and blackened ends were sticking up. The candle had expired in melted grease, which was now spread, cold, all over the candlestick, and down upon the nice white-oak table. The bed had not been slept in, for there it was perfectly smooth as Miss Joe had left it, with her own peculiar folds and twists about it. And there lay the baby in the cradle, screaming its little life away.
“In the name o’ God A’mighty, Pont, what has been a-happening?” asked Miss Joe, lifting up the child, and sinking with it into a chair, pale as death.
Pontius Pilate stood there with the screeching and struggling turkey in one hand and the bundle of groceries in the other—looking like a statue of dismay, carved in ebony.
“In the name of Heaven, Pont, what has been a-takin’ place?” repeated Miss Joe.
“Gor A’mighty knows, mist’ess; but I does werily b’lieve how de Britishers is been landen’ ag’in, or else Bonnypart. Chris’ de Lor’ be praised, ole mist’, dat I an’ you wa’nt home when dey come. See, now, how ebery ting turn out for de bes’. S’pose dat snowstorm hadn’t a come up, where you an’ I been? Good Lor’! poor Miss Aggy! Wonder what’s come o’ her?”
“Yes, what, my Lord! Pont,” said Miss Joe, who never in any emergency was known to neglect the plain practical duty of the moment, “go and get the tinderbox,and light a fire quickly, and heat some milk and water for this child. He is almost frozen and almost starved.”
And Pontius Pilate put down his burdens and did as he was bid. And Miss Joe made the infant perfectly comfortable, and put him to sleep, before she joined Pont in his vain search around the island for Agnes, or some clew to her fate.
When she ascertained that Agnes was certainly not on the island, she dispatched Pontius Pilate to the mainland to rouse up the people of Huttontown to prosecute the search.
And the people were aroused indeed to a state of nine days’ wonder.
What could have become of her? How could she have left her sea-girt isle without a boat? Would she have forsaken her child at all?
No; Miss Joe was certain she would not; she was too fond of him.
Had she possibly drowned herself?
No; Miss Joe was sure not; she was too much afraid of dying and leaving her babe.
Had she been carried off, then? and by whom?
Yes. It was finally concluded that she must have been carried off; but by whom? That was still the problem unsolved. Inquiries were made up and down the coast and in every direction. Advertisements were inserted in the papers, and large rewards offered for her discovery by General Garnet, Judge Wylie, and other benevolent neighbors. For to this sort of assistance Miss Joe made no objection. She considered the recovery of Agnes quite an affair of general interest, as indeed it was. Nothing, however, was heard of her.
As months passed, the mystery deepened, and people grew weary of conjecture.