THE PURE PEARL OF DIVER'S BAY.
When the great storms raged along the Atlantic coast, they sometimes tossed a token into Diver's Bay. In more than one of the rude cabins composing the fishermen's settlement memorials of shipwreck and disaster might be found; and these memorials did not always fail to kindle imagination, and to arouse soft feelings of pity for the calamities they suggested.
One morning, that dawned bright and mild after a week of tempest, Clarice Briton went out with her coarse basket to gather the sea-weed tossed on the shore. She was the first child out that morning, and on account of the late storm, which had prevented the usual daily work, the harvest was a rich one.
There was always need that Clarice should work with her might when she found work to do, and she now labored from dawn till sunrise, filling her basket many times over, until the boards where she spread the weed to dry were nearly covered. Then she threw herself down to rest by her father's door. But when the sun was rising she went and sat among the rocks, and watched the changing of the sky and water, and the flocks of birds as they came screaming from their nests to dive among the waves and mount beyond her sight among the mists of morning. She never tired of watching them, or of gazing on these scenes. She knew the habits of the shore birds, understood their indications and devices, and whatever their movements foreboded concerning the weather. Clarice was also versed in winds and clouds, and knew as well as the wise fishermen what the north-wind had in store, and what the south-wind would give them.
While she sat resting a few minutes, and wondering that the other children of the beach were so long in waking to the pleasant day, suddenly, as she looked down along the rocks that lay between her and the water, she saw lying near her feet, securely lodged by the waves among the stones, a basket. It was a very different affair from that other, lying a few paces off, with which she went about gathering sea-weed. It was small, and light, and delicately woven,—embroidered, too, with floss. When she bent forward and picked it up, long strings of shiny weed dangled dripping from the handles,—and something beside; for, as she attempted to remove the traces of wild voyaging, something that was not weed resisted her efforts, and caused her to raise the lid. As she did so, a chain, which had been partly secured by the closing of the lid, was disengaged, and fell into her lap.
"What's that, Clarice?" said a voice just above her, as she in amazement lifted the chain, and endeavored to free it from the weed.
"Oh, Luke, there must have been a wreck! See! I found it just here at my feet," said Clarice, sorrowfully,—apparently not taken by surprise by the sudden coming and speaking of Luke Merlyn; she did not even lift her head, nor for an instant turn to him from what occupied her.
"There's a ring, too, I declare!" said Luke, coming down to her side; and he took from her lap a small ring, in which was set a solitary pearl;—the ring had dropped from the chain. "What next? Look in."
Clarice opened the basket again, and turned out the white silk lining, which was soaking and stained with wild sea-travel. "That is all," said she.
"That chain is a gold one," remarked Luke Merlyn. "There must have been a wreck. Who do you suppose these things belonged to? Some lady? Look at that basket now. She kept her trinkets in it. I suppose lots of 'em got shook out by the way. I am glad it was you found it, Clarice. Just try that ring on your finger now; I should think it might fit you."
He took up the ring and looked at Clarice, but she shrunk back shuddering.
"Oh, no!—I should feel as if it would drag me down to the bottom of the sea after the owner."
"It's the neatest thing I ever saw, though, Clarice. Look, what a pearl! You must keep it for your own, any way, if you won't wear it. Nobody about here is fit but you. The poor little basket, too,—poor little ark!"
He took it up and looked it over, much as though it were a dead bird, or some other pretty thing that once had life, and knew bow to enjoy it.
"Are you going out to-day, Luke?" asked Clarice.
"Don't you see I've got the net? Father will be down by the time I'm ready. We are tired enough hanging about waiting for the blow to be over."
"May-be you will see something," said Clarice, in an undertone. "If you could only find out about the ship, and the poor passengers!"
"May-be," answered Luke,—saying this to comfort her. "Is your father going out to-day?"
"He said he would, last night. I'm glad it came off so pleasant. See how long this chain is!—a great many times longer than his big watch-chain!"
"Worth fifty times as much, too."
"Is it?" said Clarice, looking up in wonder, almost incredulous;—but then Luke had said it.
"This is gold. Come and walk down to the boat, Clarice. How many times have you filled your basket this morning? You look tired. How did you come to wake up so soon? I believe I heard you singing, and that was what brought me out so quick."
"I haven't sung any, Luke," she answered, looking at him in wonder.
"Oh, yes!—I'm sure I heard you. I got up and looked out of my window; there you were. You are the best girl around, Clarice! Come now, why don't you say I'm the best fellow? Then we'll be even. I am, you know. But then I want to hear you say so."
The merry fellow was in earnest, though he laughed. He blushed more deeply than the girl,—indeed, she did not blush at all,—when he thus spoke to her. She looked at him a little surprised.
"Come," said he, with gentle coaxing. "I know what you think. Speak out, and make me feel happy, all the days of my life. If it wasn't that you feel so about the ring—But why shouldn't you feel solemn about it? It belonged to some beautiful lady, I suppose, who lies at rest in the bottom of the sea by this time. H.H."—he read the initials engraved on the clasp of the chain.
Clarice, who held the ring, inadvertently turned it that moment to the light so that her eyes could not fail to perceive that two letters were also written by a graver underneath the pearl. These letters likewise were H.H. She gave the ring, to Luke, pointing to the initials.
"Yes, to be sure," said he, examining it with his bright eyes. "It's the prettiest thing I ever saw. These letters must have stood for something. Clarice,"—he hesitated a moment,—"Clarice, they might stand for something yet, Heart and Hand. Here they are,—take them,—they're yours,—my heart and my hand,—till Death comes between!"
"Don't talk that way, Luke," answered the girl, gravely. "Your father is waiting for you, I'm sure."
But Luke did not believe that she was in such haste to be rid of him.
"He hasn't gone down yet. I've watched," said he. "He'd be willing to wait, if he knew what I was saying. Besides, if you are in a hurry, it won't take but a minute to say yes, Clarice. Will you take my heart and my hand? Here is your ring."
Clarice took the ring and looked away; but, in looking away, her eyes fell on Luke, and she smiled.
"It's the prettiest thing, that ring is, in the world, except you,
Clarice,"—so the smile made him speak.
"That's new for me," said the girl. "Talk sense, Luke."
"Handsome is that handsome does, say I. And if you a'n't the best girl in the Bay, Clary, who is, then? When are you going to say yes?" demanded the young fellow.
"Now," replied Clarice, suddenly.
"Have you taken my heart and hand?" asked the lad as quickly, his face glowing with delight.
"Yes."
"To keep forever, Clarice?" It seemed, after all, incredible.
"Yes, Luke." And so speaking, the girl meant yes, forever.
Now this promise had not really taken either of these children by surprise. They had long understood each other. But when they had given a mutual promise, both looked grave. Clarice stood by the water's edge, careless that time was passing. Luke was in no hurry for his father.
But at length a shrill voice called the girl. Dame Briton stood in the cabin door, and her angry tongue was laden with reproaches ready for utterance when Clarice should come within easier reach of her voice.
"I must go," said Clarice to Luke.
"I'll follow you, to-night. Don't work too hard," he answered. "Take care of my heart, Clarice."
A storm broke upon Clarice when she went home to her mother. She bore the blame of her idleness with tolerable patience, until it seemed as if the gale would never blow over. At last some quick words escaped her:—
"Three bushels of weed lie there on the boards ready spread, and drying.
I gathered them before another creature was stirring in Diver's Bay."
Then she added, more gently, "I found something besides."
But though Dame Briton heard, she passed this last bit of information without remark.
"Idling down there on the beach to see the boys off fishing!" she could not help saying. "You needn't be up afore the break o' day for work like that."
"It was Luke Merlyn."
"No matter."
"I showed him what I had found. Ask him if I'm ever too free. He'd know as quick as anybody,—and care as much."
Clarice, while speaking this, had departed yet farther both in look and voice from her usual serenity.
The dame let her last words pass without taking them up. She was by this time curious.
"What did you find?" asked she.
Clarice showed the basket and the gold chain. Her mother handled both with wondering admiration, asking many a question. At last she threw the chain around her neck.
"It's gold," said she. "It's worth much. If you could pick up the like of that every day, you might let the old weed-basket drift."
"I had rather gather weeds till my back was broken doing it, than ever find another," said Clarice.
The dame took this for a child's exaggeration; observing which, Clarice said, sadly,—
"Why, don't you see how it came to shore? There's been a wreck in the storm last week. Oh, may-be I've found all that will tell of it!"
"What's that in your hand?" asked the dame, who spied the ring.
Clarice half opened her palm; she did not like to let the ring pass from her keeping, and all this while she had stood doubting whether or not she should show it to her mother.
Dame Briton took it quickly. The dull glitter of greedy eyes fell on the mild lustre of the pearl, but found no reflection.
"A ring!" said she, and she tried to fit it to her little finger. It would not pass the first rough joint.
"Try it," said she to Clarice.
"No," was the quiet answer. "But I will keep the ring. It must have been a lady's. May-be it was a token."
"May-be it was.—If your father should take that chain to the Port, he might make a handsome bargain,—if he was worth a snap at bargains.—Here's something; what be these marks? look here, Clarice."
The face of the girl flushed a little as she answered,—"H. H."
"H.H.! What does that mean? I wonder."
"May-be the name of the owner," answered Clarice, timidly.
She was thinking, not of what the letters might have meant to others, but of what they had come to signify to her and Luke.
"Who knows?" answered her mother; and she stood musing and absent, and her face had a solemn look.
Clarice now took the basket to the fireplace and held it there till it was dried. With the drying the colors brightened and the sand was easily brushed away; but many a stain remained on the once dainty white silk lining; the basket would hardly have been recognized by its owner. Having dried and cleansed it as well as she was able, Clarice laid it away in a chest for safe-keeping, and then ate her breakfast, standing. After that, she went out to work again until the tide should come in. She left the chain with her mother, but the ring she had tied to a cord, and hung it around her neck.
By this time the children of the fishermen were all out, and the most industrious of them at work. They scattered among the rocks and crags, and wandered up and down the coast three miles, gathering sea-weed, which it was their custom to dry, and then carry to town, the Port, not many miles distant, where it was purchased by the glassmakers.
Clarice had neither brother nor sister, and she made little of the children of the neighboring fishermen; for her life was one of toil, and her inheritance seemed very different from theirs, though they were all poor, and ate the crusts of labor.
Her father, had Nature only given him what she seemed to have intended at the outset, might have been as successful a fisherman as lived at the Bay. But he trusted to luck, and contrived to make half of what he earned a serious damage to him. The remainder was little enough for the comfort of his family, small though that family was.
Briton was a good fellow, everybody said. They meant that he was always ready for sport, and time-wasting, and drinking, and that sort of generosity which is the shabbiest sort of selfishness. They called him "Old Briton," but he was not, by many, the oldest man in Diver's Bay; he might have been the wickedest, had he not been the jolliest, and incapable of hiding malice in his heart. And if I said he was out and out the wickedest, I should request that people would refrain from lifting up their hands in horror, on account of the poor old fellow. We all know—alas, perhaps, we all love—wickeder souls than could have been produced from among the older fishermen, had all their sins been concentrated in one individual.
Old Briton was what the people called a lucky fisherman. In seasons when he chose to work, the result was sufficiently obvious, to himself and others, to astonish both. But even in the best seasons he was a bad manager. He trusted everybody, and found, to his astonishment, how few deserve to be trusted.
Dame Briton was a stout, loud-talking woman, whom experience had not softened in her ways of speech or thought or action. She was generally at strife with her husband, but the strife was most illogical. It did not admit of a single legitimate deduction in the mind of a third person. It seemed sometimes as if the pair were possessed of the instincts of those animals which unite for mutual destruction, and as if their purpose were to fulfil their destiny with the utmost rapidity.
In the years when Dame Briton, by nature proud and ambitious, was putting forth the most successful efforts she ever made at decent housekeeping, endeavoring to transform her husband into such a person as he was not born to be, striving hard to work her will,—in those years Clarice was born.
Is the pearl a product of disease?
Clarice grew up in the midst of influences not the purest or most elevating. She was not by nature gay, but silent, truthful, and industrious. She was no coward by nature, and her training made her brave and hardy. Sometimes Old Briton called her his boy, and exacted from her the service of a son. Dame Briton did not quarrel with him for that; she was as proud as the fisherman of any feat of skill or strength or courage performed by Clarice. In their way they were both fond of the child, but their fondness had strange manifestation; and of much tender speech, or fondling, or praise, the girl stood in no danger.
Idleness especially was held up before her, from the outset, as the most destructive evil and dire iniquity of which human creature was capable; and Old Briton, lounging about all day with his pipe in his mouth,—by no means a rare spectacle,—did not interfere with the lesson the child's mother enforced. Winter and summer there was enough for the little feet and hands to do. So, as Clarice grew up, she earned the best reputation for industry of any girl in Diver's Bay.
Before she became the praise of the serious Bay people, Luke Merlyn's bright eyes were on the little girl, and he had a settled habit of seeking times and opportunities for quiet talks with her. He liked to ask and follow her advice in many matters. Many a heavy basket of weeds had he helped her carry home from the rocks; many a shell and pebble had he picked up in his coast-work, when he went beyond the limits of the Bay,—because he knew the good girl had a liking for every pretty thing.
If Clarice Briton was the finest girl, Luke Merlyn, beyond question, was the most promising fellow in this little village of fishermen. He was strong, active, ready for any undertaking that required a bold spirit and firm hand,—was quicker in thought and readier in speech than any lad about. He had a little personal vanity,—and good looks to encourage the same; but he had besides a generous heart, and the conviction was general, whether expressed or not, that in Luke a man was growing up who would some day take the lead among the fishermen of Diver's Bay. He had a livelier fancy, a more active imagination, than any lad thereabout; these qualities of mind, united to his courage and warmth of heart, seemed to point toward a future worth arriving at.