Natalie; Or, A Gem Among the Sea-Weeds

by Emma V. Hallett

The blue waves rolled on, in their untiring way, and the sun went calmly down upon this day,--the twenty-seventh of September, eighteen hundred and fifty-four,--a day long to be remembered, both in the Eastern and Western world, for in it was the sundering of many mortal ties. Many a family circle wept as they looked upon the familiar places, which would know their lost ones no more; but ah, chide me not, kind reader, in thus leading you adown to the coldness of death, in setting before you that which causes your tender heart to shudder. Mourn not for these departed; for would we not wish to meet them there, when, ere long, this mortal shall have put on immortality? Grieve not because that gentle one has passed away! say not that she met with an untimely end, when in her summer of life all was pleasantness before her. Think of her not as one gone far away, never to be on earth more; cast her not from your heart, where, during her little day here, in innocence she entwined herself within its recesses. Oh, no, for she is nearer to us now; she is not dead, but has passed from death to life; and may her memory remain with us, in freshness as the ivy green, which loves best the churchyard's place of holy quietude,--and by her influence may we in spirit come to be more Christ-like.

CHAPTER XII ALONE

"Shall I not listen to the sea-shell's moaning,
That strangely vibrates like the swelling sea,
And fancy it an echoed storm, intoning
A solemn dirge in memory of thee?"
MISS MARY M. CHASE

A lone man walks the shores of Nantucket; his noble form is slightly bent, and with the raven of his hair is blended the faintest tinge of gray, though he is evidently a man to whom the meridian of life is yet far in the distance; his fine countenance is sad, yet as he gazes far out o'er the sea, deep in his piercing eye is a subdued look of resignation, shedding light over his features, which a stranger might attribute to a mind of happiness; and yet that look of sadness is oftenest triumphant, leading those who meet him for the first time to ask from whence he came, for his countenance betrays that his has been not the common lot of man. Ah, who is he,--on whom young men and maidens look with pitying eye? to whom the old man lifts his hat, and little children cease from their sports as he passes, and quietly slip the innocent daisy, or the sweet-scented arbutus into his hand, which they have culled from the wide commons, where, they have been told, the good Sea-flower loved to stray.

It is Clarence Delwood! his has been a bitter, bitter draught; yet its dregs have in a measure lost their power, for he has learned that 't is his Father holds the cup. Little, did he think, as they sat together there on that high bank, which overlooks the sea, upon that last evening spent with his cherished one in her island home, that it was to be the last forever! that her voice would no more be heard! in glad response to nature's shouts of joyousness. Yet, as alone he sits beneath the silent night, there where she last told to him her love, he fancies that the stars in pity smile upon him, and as one more gentle than the rest, leaves its place in the heavens and slowly descends, drawing nearer and nearer, finally resting upon the bosom of ocean,--he listens, for the music of her harp strikes upon his soul, and in the crested billows which play at his feet, a shining form he sees, her robe all sparkling with the pearly drops of the sea. He would fain go to her, as she smiles upon him, as was ever her wont, but a voice he hears, saying, "not yet," and the bright one recedes from his view.

Reader, you may visit Nantucket's sea-girt isle, you may walk those peaceful shores where she loved to roam; you may meet there that lone man on the shore; you will approach him with feelings of deep regard, not unlike reverence; but do not hesitate to inquire of him for the grave of the Sea-flower. With eyes fixed upon the ocean's blue, pointing with his finger heavenward, he will direct you to a grassy mound, at whose head is a weeping willow, upon the broad trunk of which is wrought in letters of pearl,--"The Sea-flower awaits for thee." With a tear you turn away, with the resolve in your heart that you will henceforth so live, as that when this mortal life is ended, you may "attain everlasting joy and felicity, through Jesus Christ, our Lord."

You will seek the fireside of the widow Grosvenor, where from a mother's lips, you will be assured of the blessings which accompany a dutiful child. That fireside is not desolate, for the members of the household have been led to say,--"Thy will, O Lord, not mine, be done." Mrs. Grosvenor, though somewhat advanced in life, still retains that peculiar freshness of her earlier days; and as she proudly glances upon the young man by her side, calling him "my son," you can hardly recognize in his athletic form the little sailor-boy of other days; yet it is none other, although he has arrived to the dignity of captain, and as Sampson prophesied, a smarter man never sailed the ocean. But who is this witching beauty at his side, who would fain impress you with a belief that that mischief which will not remain concealed for the briefest period, is not her entire composition? Do you not mistrust? who other than Miss Winnie Santon? she who having tired of the gallants of the wild West, or rather of their numbers, came to the wise conclusion that a city life was designed for such as she; she the coquettish heiress, who once stood very much in doubt as to the state of civilization among these "poor fishermen."

Yes, it is our Winnie, and she is now the wife of Capt. Harry Grosvenor. And is she happy in this her choice? Ask her if she would exchange her brave husband for one of those superfine niceties, who suing for favor at her feet, had at the same time lined their vows of love and constancy with the yellow dust, which had they known the strong chest to have been at their backs, while in this humble posture, it were uncertain to which might have been made an apology,--the fair lady or her dowry.

But what is the cause of that little commotion among sundry flowered blankets, juvenile counterpanes, etc., etc., which you have but this moment discovered in a neighboring niche? Is it old Nep who has ensconced himself in this dainty little nest? No, for you left him sleeping under the shade of the weeping willow. Surely, those seven kits, with fourteen blue eyes, have not lived to this green old age! Ah, the mystery is solved, by the presence of a tiny hand, which elevates itself above the little heap of whiteness, and a smiling baby face has contrived to work its way into the no less smiling sunlight, the which baby must not partake of too freely; consequently the owner of said property appears, to alleviate the difficulty, which is done by giving miss baby a toss into mid-air, and with a ringing laugh, not unlike those wild bursts of merriment which were wont to be heard reverberating through the halls of Santon Mansion.