"And where to-day?" asked Rachel, one fair morning.
"To Eastern Point," said Linda; "with our baskets!
For berries, there's no place like Eastern Point;
Blackberries, whortleberries, pigeon-pears,—
All we shall find in prodigality!"
And so by what was once the old stage-road
Contiguous to the shore, and through the woods,—
Though long abandoned save by scenery-hunters,
And overgrown with grass and vines and bushes;
Then leaving on their right the wooded hill
Named from the rattlesnakes, now obsolete;
Then by the Cove, and by the bend of shore
Over Stage-rocks, by little Half-moon beach,
Across the Cut, the Creek, by the Hotel,
And through the village, even to Eastern Point,—
The maidens went, and had a happy day.
And, when the setting sun blazed clear and mild,
And every little cloud was steeped in crimson,
To a small wharf upon the harbor side,
Along the beach they strolled, and looked across
The stretch of wave to Norman's Woe;—and Linda
Wistfully said: "Heigho! I own I'm tired;
And you, too, Rachel, you look travel-worn,
And hardly good for four miles more of road.
Could we but make this short cut over water!
What would I give now for a boat to take us
To Webber's Cove! O, if some timely oarsman
Would only come and say, 'Fair demoiselles,
My skiff lies yonder, rocking on the tide,
And eager to convey you to your home!'
Then would I——Rachel!"
"What, Miss Percival?"
"Look at those men descending from the ridge!"
"Well, I can see an old man and a young."
"And is that all you have to say of them?"
"How should I know about them? Ah! I see!
Those are the two we met three weeks ago,—
The day we left New York,—met in the cars."
"Ay, Rachel, and their name is Lothian;
Father and son are they. Who would have thought
That they would find their way to Eastern Point?"
"Why not, as well as we, Miss Percival?
Look! To the wharf they go; and there, beside it,
If I'm not much mistaken, lies a boat.
The wished-for oarsman he! O, this is luck!
They're going to the boat,—he'll row us over,
I'll run and ask him. See you to my basket."
"Rachel! Stop, Rachel! Fie, you forward girl!
Don't think of it: come back! back, back, I say!"
But Rachel did not hear, or would not heed,
Straight to the boat she ran, and, as the men
Drew nigh and stopped,—to Linda's dire dismay
She went up and accosted them, and pointed
To Norman's Woe,—then back to her companion,—
And then, with gesture eloquent of thanks
For some reply the younger man had made,
She seemed to lead the way, and he to follow
Along the foot-path to the granite bench
Where Linda sat, abashed and wondering.
And, when they stood before her, Rachel said
"Miss Percival, here's Mr. Lothian;
He has a boat near by, and will be glad
To give us seats and row us both across."
Charles Lothian bowed, and Linda, blushing, said,
"Against my orders did this little lady
Accost you, sir, but I will not affect
Regret at her success, if you're content."
"More than content, I'm very glad," said Charles;
"My boat is amply large enough for four,
And we are bound, it seems, all the same way.
My father and myself have taken rooms
At Mistress Moore's, not far from where you live:
So count your obligation very slight."
"An obligation not the first!" said Linda.
"So much the better!" said Charles Lothian:
"Come, take my arm, and let me hold your basket.
What noble blackberries! I'll taste of one."
"Why not of two? As many as you will?"
"Thank you. You've been adventurous, it seems."
"Yes, Fortune favors the adventurous:
See the old proverb verified to-day!"
"Praise a good day when ended. Here's my father:
Father, Miss Percival!" The senior bowed,
And said, "I used to know—" And then, as if
Checked by a reminiscence that might be
Unwelcome, he was silent, and they went
All to the boat. "Please let me take an oar,"
Said Linda. "Can you row?" asked Charles. "A little!
My father taught me." Then old Lothian
Looked at her with a scrutinizing glance.
The ocean billows melted into one,
And that stretched level as a marble floor.
All winds were hushed, and only sunset tints
From purple cloudlets, edged with fiery gold,
And a bright crimson fleece the sun had left,
Fell on the liquid plain incarnadined.
The very pulse of ocean now was mute;
From the far-off profound, no throb, no swell!
Motionless on the coastwise ships the sails
Hung limp and white, their very shadows white.
The lighthouse windows drank the kindling red,
And flashed and gleamed as if the lamps were lit.
"A heavenly eve!" sighed Linda, rapt in praise,
As with poised oars the two looked oceanward.
Then, keeping time, they pulled out from the shore.
"But you row well!" cried Charles. "I might return
The compliment," said Linda. "See that duck!
How near, how still he floats! He seems to know
The holy time will keep him safe from harm."
"Had I a gun," said Charles—"You would not use it,"
Cried Linda, flushing. "And why not?" quoth he.
"'Nobility obliges'; sympathy
Now makes all nature one and intimate;
And we'd respect, even in a duck, his share
In this tranquillity, this perfect rest."
"I'm glad, then, that I'm gunless," Charles replied.
"Hear him!" the sire exclaimed; "he'd have you think
He's a great sportsman. Be not duped, my dear!
He will not shoot nor fish! He got a wound
At Gettysburg, I grant you,—what of that?
He would far rather face a battery
Than kill a duck, or even hook a cunner."
"See now," said Charles, "the mischievous effect
Of this exhilarating Cape Ann air!
'Tis the first taunt I've heard from lips of his
Since my return from Europe. Look you, father,
If I'm to be exposed before young ladies,
Your rations shall be stopped, and your supply
Of oxygen reduced,—with no more joking.
Don't eye those berries so feloniously.
Because you've now an appetite,—because
You've just begun to gain a little flesh,—
Must I be made the target of your jeers?"
Smiling, but with sad eyes, the father said:
"Ah! Charlie, Charlie, when I think of it,—
Think how you've thrown, poor boy, your very life
Into the breach of ruin made for me,—
Sacrificed all, to draw the lethal dart
Out of my wounded honor—to restore—"
"Give us a song, Miss Percival, a song!"
Charles, interrupting, said. "The time, the place,
Call for a song. Look! All the lighthouses
Flash greeting to the night. There Eastern Point
Flames out! Lo, little Ten Pound Island follows!
See Baker's Island kindling! Marblehead
Ablaze! Egg Rock, too, off Nahant, on fire!
And Boston Light winking at Minot's Ledge!
Like the wise virgins, all, with ready lamps!
Now might I turn fire-worshipper, and bow
In adoration at this solemn rite:
I'll compromise, however, for a song."
"Lest you turn Pagan, then, I'll sing," quoth Linda.
And, while they rested on their oars, she sang.
A little bird flew
To the top of a tree:
The sky it was blue,
And the bird sang to me.
So tender and true was the strain
The singer, I hoped, would remain;
O little bird, stay and prolong
The rapture the grief of that song!
A little thought came,
Came out of my heart;
It whispered a name
That made me to start:
And the rose-colored breath of my sigh
Flushed the earth and the sea and the sky.
Delay, little thought! O, delay,
And gladden my life with thy ray!
"Such singing lured Ulysses to the rocks!"
Old Lothian said, applauding. "Charles, look out,
Or, ere we reck of it, this reckless siren
Will have us all a wreck on Norman's Woe.
See to your oars!—Where are we drifting, man?"
"Who would not drift on such a night as this?"
Said Charles; "all's right." Then, heading for the Cove,
Slowly and steadily the rowers pulled.
But, when the moon shone crescent in the west,
And the faint outline of the part obscured
Thread-like curved visible from horn to horn,—
And Jupiter, supreme among the orbs,
And Mars, with rutilating beam, came forth,
And the great concave opened like a flower,
Unfolding firmaments and galaxies,
Sparkling with separate stars, or snowy white
With undistinguishable suns beyond,—
They paused and rested on their oars again,
And looked around,—in adoration looked.
For, gazing on the inconceivable,
They felt God is, though inconceivable;—
And, while they mutely worshipped, suddenly
A change came over Linda's countenance,
And her glazed mortal eyes were functionless;
For there, before her in the boat, stood two
Unbidden, not unwelcome passengers,
Her father and her mother....