In the meantime the carriage was conveying the happy trio of travellers to the station, which being safely reached, they took train, and in the afternoon arrived at their destination. Amos had secured a nice little roomy cottage close to the seashore, which was in the hands of a middle-aged motherly woman, who, with her only daughter, a girl some fifteen years of age, waited on her guests. Having deposited their luggage, and ordered a substantial tea, the little party strolled down on to the sands.
It was a lovely summer day, and the sun was now hastening to the west. The tide was still running down, though it had come nearly to the turn, and its gentle rush, as it broke into a thousand sparkles of foam at each returning wave, made music in their ears. Far away to the left tall cliffs rose up, their majestic fronts scarred with the batterings of unnumbered storms. On either hand the shore swept round, completing the arc of one wide-extended bay, cleft in many places by paths which led up, now through lanes overhung by rocks of various coloured sand, and now along downs of softest turf, to the little town, or, further off, to solitary dwellings or clustering hamlets. Pebbles of dazzling whiteness lined the upper part of the slope down to the beach; and these were succeeded by a broad and even flooring of tough sand, along which visitors, old and young, found safe and ample space for exercise. There was no grand esplanade or terrace with its throng of health and pleasure-seekers. It was emphatically a quiet place, with its few neat lodging-houses and humble shops, one solitary bathing-machine, and a couple of pleasure boats now hauled up high and dry. To those who might seek excitement at the sea, this little retreat would have proved insufferably dull; but to those who brought their resources with them in heart, mind, and purpose, there was all that could be needed to cheer, elevate, and delight,—the grand old ocean, outspread in its vast dignity of space; the invigorating breezes; the passing ships; the glories of the most magnificent of nature’s painters, even the sun himself, who spread his tints of gold, crimson, and purple in broad, dazzling bands from the extreme verge where sea and sky met up to the centre of the blue vault overhead, though here in hues paler, yet as intensely beautiful. And all around now breathed peace. No storm was now ploughing up the water into mountains of angry foam; but a quiet ripple and a gentle splash at regular intervals soothed the spirit by the harmony of their ceaseless fall.
The three travellers felt the tranquillising influence of the scene. To Amos it was one of unmitigated pleasure. The others, no doubt, would naturally have preferred a livelier spot, but now the consciousness that they were there to aid in bringing about a great and noble object made them content and happy for the time. So, after a long stroll on the beach, they returned, when the great glowing ball of the sun had withdrawn the extreme edge of his fiery rim below the horizon, to their cottage.
Having finished their evening meal, a consultation was held as to the best way of carrying out the purpose which had brought them from home. The obvious thing seemed to be that Amos should go over alone to the house where his mother now lived, which was distant some eight or nine miles from their lodgings, and see what the physician in whose keeping she was might advise or suggest. So, early the next morning, he rode forth with a beating heart, and at the same time a happy trust, on his errand of love, his brother and sister having arranged to pay a visit for the day to a fashionable watering-place about five miles distant along the coast.
When Amos Huntingdon had reached his mother’s retreat and told his errand, he confided to the good physician under whose charge Mrs Huntingdon was placed his great purpose, and the hope that it might now be accomplished, since his sister had returned to her home. The kind-hearted friend at once entered into his plans, and gave him every encouragement to hope that he would meet with good success. But care and judgment and tact must be used, lest, in endeavouring to bring back the mind to its old balance, anything should be done which might rather throw it further out. Nothing sudden or exciting must be attempted; for the delicate structure, which care and sorrow had disarranged, must be brought into a right adjustment by gentle and cautious treatment. The jarring chords could not be made to vibrate in tune by sweeping them with a rough and unsympathising stroke; all could be reduced to harmony only by some loving and judicious action which would draw up or slacken the discordant strings with a force which would be felt only in its results. It was therefore arranged that on the morrow the physician should bring his patient to the sea-side at noon, and that, while he and she were seated in view of the waves, and were listening to their soothing plashing, Amos and his brother and sister should pass near, and be guided in what they should do as circumstances might suggest. “Your mother,” said the physician, “simply wants her mind clearing; all is more or less confused at present. She grasps nothing distinctly; and yet she is often very near a clear perception. But it is with her mind as with a telescope: it is near the right focus for seeing things clearly, but simply it wants the adjustment which would bring it to the point of unclouded vision, and then, when that adjustment has been reached, it wants to be kept fixed at the right focus. I cannot but hope that we may be able to come near to that adjustment to-morrow.”
Amos returned to his cottage much comforted. His brother and sister had not yet come back from their visit to the neighbouring watering-place; but at last they appeared, but not in the best of spirits. Something had gone wrong with them, but Amos was too anxious to talk over the morrow’s effort to ask them many questions about their excursion.
And now the critical day arrived. The sun rose gloriously, lighting up the heavens as he emerged from his eastern bed with a fan-shaped outpouring of his rays which streamed up over one hemisphere of the heavens, painting the edges of myriads of small fleecy clouds with a transient crimson splendour. The sea was almost glass-like in its calmness, only heaving up and down sluggishly, as though reluctant to be moved in its mighty depths. But, further out, a gentle breeze was filling the snowy sail of some graceful cutter as it stole across the bay, or steadily swelled out the canvas of some stately ship as she sped on with all sail crowded on her towards the desired harbour.
Just a few minutes before noon, Amos, with beating heart, saw his friend the physician conducting two ladies to a sunny bench on the edge of the shingles, facing the open sea. “Let us go,” he said to his brother and sister, “and walk near them, but take no notice at first.” So they all repaired to the beach, and with deeply anxious hearts drew near the little group. Which of the two ladies was their mother? One of them would probably be the physician’s wife. They neared the sitters, and passed on in front of them slowly, arm in arm. Who would have thought that mother and children, who had not met for years, were now so close to one another, and yet must for a while remain severed still? As the three on foot were passing the bench, Amos just bowed his head to the physician, and then looked at his two lady companions; and so did his brother and sister. There could not be a moment’s doubt—the children knew their mother at once. The dear familiar face was there, and not materially changed. And did the mother know her children? Something told her that they were beings in whom she had an interest; she saw in them something familiar. Yet she had not at all as yet grasped their relation to her with a realising consciousness.
“Pass on,” said the physician softly; and they passed on. A look of bewilderment and pain came over the face of the afflicted lady as the three walked forward. She followed them eagerly with her eyes. They turned towards her again, walking slowly back, and her face at once lighted up with a smile. “Sit down near us,” whispered the physician to Amos, as he came up close to him, and all three sat on the sloping bank not many feet away from the bench. Oh, how the heart of Amos ached with yearning to throw his arms round his mother’s neck; but he knew that it must not be yet. Julia and Walter also found it hard to restrain their impetuosity.
“Who are they?” at last said Mrs Huntingdon to the doctor. These were the first words that for seven years had fallen from that mother’s lips on the ears of her children. How full of music were they to those who had so long mourned her loss!