Page:The Atlantic Monthly Volume 1.djvu/700

gether with some emotion, was in his voice.

“Babes in arms, both of ’em! But a promise ain’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.

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