The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 06, April, 1858

"Luke, what do you mean? Are you asking for Clarice?" inquired the dame.

"Yes, Mrs. Briton."

"That's right enough, old woman," said Briton; and strong approval, together with some emotion, was in his voice.

"Babes in arms, both of 'em! But a promise a'n't no hurt,"—was the dame's comment. Neither was she quite unmoved, as she looked at the young pair standing on the hearth; such another, her heart told her, was not to be found in Diver's Bay.

"Clarice is a good girl, Luke Merlyn," said Old Briton, solemnly.

"She is so," confirmed the mother. "So take the ring there for your token."

Luke came forward and received the ring from Old Briton, and he laid the string that held it round Clarice's neck.

"Take this chain," said Briton, with a softened voice. "It's fitter than the string, and none too good for Clarice. Take it, Luke, and put the ring on't."

"I'm going to trade that chain for a silver watch," said Luke, answering according to the light he saw in the eyes of Clarice. "That chain is Clary's wedding present to her father."

"Thank you, Luke," said Briton,—and he drew his hand across his eyes, not for a pretence. Then he took up his old pewter watch, the companion of many years; he looked at it without and within, silently; perhaps was indulging in a little sentimental reflection; but he put it into his pocket without speaking, and went on with his supper, as if nothing had happened.

* * * * *

This took place before Clarice was fourteen years of age. At seventeen she was still living under her father's roof, and between her and Luke Merlyn the pearl ring still remained a token.

Luke used to praise her beauty when there was little of it to praise. He was not blinder when the young face began to be conspicuous for the growing loveliness of the spirit within. The little slender figure sprang up into larger, fuller life, with vigor, strength, and grace; the activity of her thoughts and the brightness of their intelligence became evident, as well as the tenderness and courage of her heart. Her own home, and many another, was the better for Clarice.

Some Sunday in this summer of her seventeenth year, when the missionary came down to the Bay, they were to be married. It was settled where they were to live. A few years before, a young artist came to the Bay and built a cabin near the settlement; there, during the summer months, he lodged, for several seasons,—spending his time in studying the rocks of the coast and sailing about in his pleasure-boat. The last autumn he spent here he gave the cabin to Luke, in consideration of some generous service, and it was well known that to this home Luke would bring his wife ere long.

III

But one bright day of this gay summer of anticipated bridal, Luke Merlyn went with his father, taking the fishing-nets, and a dozen men beside sailed or rowed out from the moorings; and all that went returned, save Merlyn and his son,—returned alive, but rowing desperately, sails furled, rowing for life in the gale. Nearly all the women and children of the Bay were down on the beach at nightfall, watching for the coming of husband, son, and brother; and before dark all had arrived except Merlyn and his Luke.

The wind was blowing with terrific violence, and darkness fell on the deep like despair. But until the windows of heaven were opened, and the floods poured down, Clarice Briton and her father, and the wife and children of Merlyn, stood on the beach, or climbed the rocks, and waited and tried to watch.

There was little sleep among them all that night. With the first approach of day, Clarice, who had sat all night by the fire watching with her fears, was out again waiting till dawn should enable her to search the shore. She was not long alone. The fishermen gathered together, and when they saw the poor girl who had come before them, for her sake they comforted each other, as men dare,—and for her sake, more than their own, when they saw that there had come in to shore by night no token of disaster. Doubtless, they argued, Merlyn had put into the nearest port when the sudden storm arose. As the day advanced, they one after another got out their boats, and rowed down the bay, but did not take their nets.

Bondo Emmins went out with Old Briton, and Clarice heard him say, though he did not address her, that, if Luke Merlyn was alive, they would never come home without him. Now Bondo Emmins never loved Luke Merlyn, for Luke won every prize that Bondo coveted; and Bondo was not a hero to admire such superior skill. When Clarice heard his words, and saw that he was going out with her father, her heart stood still; it did not bless him; she turned away quickly, faint, cold, shivering. What he said had to her ears the sound of an assurance that this search was vain.

All day there was sad waiting, weary watching, around Diver's Bay. And late in the afternoon but one or two of the boats that went out in search had returned.

Towards evening Clarice walked away to the Point, three miles off; thence she could watch the boats as they approached the Bay from the ocean. Once before, that day, under the scorching noontide sun, she had gone thither,—and now again, for she could not endure the sympathy of friends or the wondering watch of curious eyes. It was better than to stand and wait,—better than to face the grief of Merlyn's wife and children,—better than to see the pity in her neighbors' faces, or even than to hear the voice of her own mother.

The waves had freight for her that evening. When the tide came in, and her eyes were lifted, gazing afar, scanning the broad expanse of water with such searching, anxious vision, as, it seemed, nothing could escape, Luke Merlyn's cap was dashed to her very feet, tossed from the grave.

Moving back to escape the encroaching tide, Clarice saw the cap lying, caught on the cragged point of rock before her. Oh, she knew it well! She stooped,—she took it up,—she need not wait for any other token. She dared not look upon the sea again. She turned away. But whither? Where now was her home? So long a time, since she was a child, it had been in the heart of Luke! Where was that heart lying? What meant this token sent to her from the deep sea? Oh, life and love! was not all now over? Heart still, hand powerless, home lost, she sat on the beach till night fell. At sunset she stood up to look once more up and down the mighty field of waters, along the shore, as far as her eyes could reach,—but saw nothing. Then she sat down again, and waited until long after the stars appeared. Once or twice the thought that her mother would wonder at her long absence moved her; but she impatiently controlled the feeble impulse to arise and return, until she recalled the words of Bondo Emmins. Luke's mother, too,—and the cap in her care. If no one else had tidings for her, she had tidings.

Her father had reached home before her, and there was now no watcher on the beach, so far as Clarice could discover. Perhaps there was no longer any doubt in any mind. She hurried to the cabin. At the door she met Bondo Emmins coming out. He had a lantern in his hand.

"Is that you, Clarice?" said he. "I was just going to look for you."

She scanned his face by the glare of the lantern with terrible eagerness, to see what tidings he had for her. He only looked grave. It was a face whose signs Clarice had never wholly trusted, but she did not doubt them now.

"I have found his cap," said she, in a low, troubled voice. "You said, that, if he was alive, you would find him. I heard you. What have you found?"

"Nothing."

Then she passed by him, though he would have spoken further. She went into the house and sat down on the hearth with Luke's cap in her hand, which she held up before the fire to dry. So she sat one morning holding the tiny basket which the waves had dashed ashore.

Briton and his wife looked at each other, and at young Emmins, who, after a moment's hesitation, had put out the lantern light, and followed her back into the house.

"It is his cap," said Bondo, in a low voice, but not so low as to escape the ear of Clarice.

"The sea sent it for a token," said she, without turning her gaze from the fire.

The old people moved up to the hearth.

"Sit down, Emmins," said Briton. "You've served us well to-day." In any trouble Old Briton's comfort was in feeling a stout wall of flesh around him.

Bondo sat down. Then he and Briton helped each other explain the course taken by themselves and the other boat-men that day, and they talked of what they would do on the morrow; but they failed to comfort Clarice, or to awaken in her any hope. She knew that in reality they had no hope themselves.

"They will never come back," said she. "You will never find them."

She spoke so calmly that her father was deceived. If this was her conviction, it would be safe to speak his own.

"The tide may bring the poor fellows in," said he.

At these words the cap which the poor girl held fell from her hand. She spoke no more. No word or cry escaped her,—not by a look did she acknowledge that there was community in this grief,—as solitary as if she were alone in the universe, she sat gazing into the fire. She was not overcome by things external, tangible, as she had been when she sat alone out on the sea-beach at the Point. The world in an instant seemed to sink out of her vision, and time from her consciousness; her soul set out on a search in which her mortal sense had failed,—and here no arm of flesh could help her.

"I shall find him," she said, in a whisper. They all heard her, and looked at one another, trouble and wonder in their faces. "I shall find him," she repeated, in a louder tone; and she drew herself up, and bent forward,—but her eyes saw not the cheerful fire-light, her ears took in no sound of crackling fagot, rising wind, or muttered fear among the three who sat and looked at her.

Bondo Emmins had taken up the cap when Clarice dropped it,—he had examined it inside and out, and passed it to Dame Briton. There was no mistaking the ownership. Not a child of Diver's Bay but would have recognized it as the property of Luke Merlyn. The dame passed it to the old man, who looked at it through tears, and then smoothed it over his great fist, and came nearer to the fire, and silence fell upon them all.

At last Dame Briton said, beginning stoutly, but ending with a sob, "Has anybody seen poor Merlyn's wife? Who'll tell her? Oh! oh!"

"I will go tell her that Clarice found the cap," said Bondo Emmins, rising.

Clarice sat like one in a stupor,—but, that was no dull light shining from her eyes. Still she seemed deaf and dumb; for, when Bondo bade her good-night, she did not answer him, nor give the slightest intimation that she was aware of what passed around her.

But when he was gone, and her father said,—"Come, Clarice,—now for bed,—you'll wake the earlier,"—she instantly arose to act on his suggestion.

He followed her to the door of her little chamber and lingered there a moment. He wanted to say something for comfort, but had nothing to say; so he turned away in silence, and drank a pint of grog.

IV

Bondo Emmins was not a native of Diver's Bay. Only during the past three or four years had he lived among the fishermen. He called the place his home, but now and then indications of restlessness escaped him, and seemed to promise years of wandering, rather than a life of patient, contented industry. He and Luke Merlyn were as unlike as any two young men that ever fished in the same bay. Luke was as firm, constant, reliable, from the day when he first managed a net, as any veteran whose gray hairs are honorable. Emmins flashed here and there like a wandering star; and whatever people might say of him when he was out of sight, he had the art of charming them to admiration while they were under his personal influence. He was lavish with his money; almost every cabin had a gift from him. He could talk forever, and with many was a true oracle. Though he worked regularly at his business, work seemed turned to play when he took it in hand. He could shout so as to be heard across the ocean,—so the children thought; he told stories better than any; and at the signal of his laughter it seemed as if the walls themselves would shake to pieces. When he hit on a device, it was strange indeed if he did not succeed in executing it; and no one was the wiser for the mortification and inward displeasure of the man, when he failed in any enterprise.

When Emmins came to Diver's Bay Clarice Briton was but a child, yet already the promised wife of Luke Merlyn. If this fact was made known to him, as very probably it was, Clarice was not a girl to excite his admiration or win his love. But as time passed on, Emmins found that he was not the only man in Diver's Bay; of all men to regard as a rival, there was Luke Merlyn! Luke, who went quietly about his business, interfering with no one, careful, brave, exact, had a firm place among the people, which might for a time be overshadowed, but from which he could not be moved. Two or three times Bondo Emmins stumbled against that impregnable position, and found that he must take himself out of the way. A small jealousy, a sharp rivalry, which no one suspected, quietly sprang up in his mind, and influenced his conduct; and he was not one who ever attempted to subdue or destroy what he found within him, he was instead always endeavoring to bring the outer world into harmony with what he found within. A fine time he had of it, persistently laboring to make a victim of himself to himself!

People praised Clarice Briton, and now and then Emmins looked that way, and saw that the girl, indeed, was well enough. He despised Luke, and Clarice seemed a very proper match for him. But while Bondo Emmins was managing in his own way, and cherishing the feeling he had against Luke, by seeking to prove himself the braver and more skilful fellow, Clarice was growing older in years and in love, her soul was growing brighter, her heart was getting lighter, her mind clearer,—her womanhood was unfolding in a certain lovely manner that was discernible to other eyes than those of Luke Merlyn. Luke said it was the ring that wrought the change,—that he could see its light all around her,—that it had a charm of which they could know nothing save by its results, for its secret had perished with its owner in the sea. His mermaid he would sometimes call her,—and declared that often, by that mysterious pearly light, he saw Clarice when far out at sea, and that at any time by two words he could bring her to him. She knew the words,—they were as dear to her as to him.