Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 1, No. 6, April, 1858 by Various

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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.

II.

When Luke returned from fishing, towards evening, he went down to
Briton's cabin, hardly taking time to remove from his person the traces
of his day of toil, his haste was so great.

Briton had arrived before him, and now sat at supper with his cup of
grog beside him. When Luke entered, Dame Briton was exhibiting the gold
chain, reserved, in spite of her impatience, till she had cooked the
supper.

It was partly on account of this chain that Luke had made such haste in
coming. He felt interested in the fortunes of the family to-night, and
he knew Briton's habit of bargaining and throwing away treasure.

Clarice was standing on the hearth when he arrived. As Luke passed the
window, he thought her face looked very sad; but when he crossed the
threshold, the expression greatly changed, or else he was mistaken. She
had been telling her father how she found the chain,--but concerning the
ring was silent, as in the morning. That ring was still fastened to its
cord, and hung about her neck. With reluctance she had shown it even
to her mother, and by this time, having scarcely thought of anything
beside, it possessed an almost sacred charm to her eyes. Why should I
not say it was the most sacred of all things to her, since that is but
true?

"Is that the chain," asked Luke, as he came up behind the fisherman's
chair, and clapped Old Briton on the shoulder. "You could trade that for
a silver watch."

"What's that?" asked Briton, quickly taking up the lad's words; and he
pulled out his pewter watch and laid it on the table. "A silver watch?"
said he.

"A silver watch, as good as ever run, for that gold chain. Just see how
fine it is!"

"So, so!" said the fisherman, thoughtfully resting his rough chin in his
broad palm. That was his attitude, when, at home, he contemplated any
of those famous bargains which always turned out so differently from
anything that he anticipated.

"Let Luke do the trading for ye," said Briton's wife, quickly
recognizing his symptoms.

She looked from the lad to her daughter, and back again, five or six
times in a second,--seeing more than most people could have seen in
observation apparently so careless and superficial.

"I kept a sharp look out, Clary, all day, but I saw nothing," said Luke,
going over to the hearth.

"Nothing,--but," he added, she looked so disappointed, "but, for all
that, some one else may."

"Oh, I hope so"!"

"What are you talking about?" asked Briton.

"The shipwreck," said Luke.

"Oh!--well, Luke,--will you make the trade, Sir? What do _you_ say,
Clarice? The chain belongs to you, after all," said Briton, with a
laugh,--he could not help the shipwreck. "What are you going to do with
it, my girl?"

"It is yours, father."

"Thank ye!--a present!" Old Briton looked well pleased.

"And if Luke will take it over"--

"I'll go to-night," said Luke, ready to start that moment, if such was
the wish of any person in the house.

Briton laughed. "No, you won't," said he. "What the deuse!--Sit down and
take something. What are you all standing about for? Sit down. You shall
do the trading, Luke. There now, I've said it, and I hope you are all
easy."

He laughed again; for he knew very well--he had often enough heard it
stated in full--the estimate set on his skill in making a bargain.

"You haven't seen the ring yet?" said Dame Briton, quite kindly, now
that this matter was settled to her mind. "Where's the ring, Clarice?"

Other eyes were on the girl besides those of her mother. Old Briton
pushed back his dish, and looked at Clarice. Luke was smiling. That
smile became joyful and beautiful to see, when Clarice, blushing,
removed the string from her neck and showed the ring.

"That's neat," said Briton, turning the delicate ornament round and
round, examining its chaste workmanship admiringly. "I never saw a
pearl like that, Mother. What do you wear it round your neck for,
Clarice?--put it on your finger."

Luke Merlyn had come to Briton's cabin to explain how matters stood
between him and Clarice, as well as to look after the other bargain.
Taking advantage of her hesitation, he now said,--

"She could not wear it at her work. And it's a token betwixt her and me.
_Heart and Hand_. Don't you see the letters? That's what they mean to
us."

Luke spoke out so boldly, that Clarice ceased to tremble; and when he
took her hand and held it, she was satisfied to stand there and answer,
that the joined hands were a symbol of the united hearts.

"What's that, old woman?" asked Briton, looking at his wife, as if for
an explanation.

"Luke, what do you mean? Are you asking for Clarice?" inquired the dame.

"Yes, Mrs. Briton."

"That's right enough, old woman," said Briton; and strong approval,
together with some emotion, was in his voice.

"Babes in arms, both of 'em! But a promise a'n'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.

III.

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 comforted each other, as men dare,--and for her sake, more
than their own, when they saw that there had come in to shore by night
no token of disaster. Doubtless, they argued, Merlyn had put into the
nearest port when the sudden storm arose. As the day advanced, they one
after another got out their boats, and rowed down the bay, but did not
take their nets.

Bondo Emmins went out with Old Briton, and Clarice heard him say, though
he did not address her, that, if Luke Merlyn was alive, they would never
come home without him. Now Bondo Emmins never loved Luke Merlyn, for
Luke won every prize that Bondo coveted; and Bondo was not a hero to
admire such superior skill. When Clarice heard his words, and saw that
he was going out with her father, her heart stood still; it did not
bless him; she turned away quickly, faint, cold, shivering. What he said
had to her ears the sound of an assurance that this search was vain.

All day there was sad waiting, weary watching, around Diver's Bay. And
late in the afternoon but one or two of the boats that went out in
search had returned.

Towards evening Clarice walked away to the Point, three miles off;
thence she could watch the boats as they approached the Bay from the
ocean. Once before, that day, under the scorching noontide sun, she had
gone thither,--and now again, for she could not endure the sympathy of
friends or the wondering watch of curious eyes. It was better than to
stand and wait,--better than to face the grief of Merlyn's wife and
children,--better than to see the pity in her neighbors' faces, or even
than to hear the voice of her own mother.

The waves had freight for her that evening. When the tide came in, and
her eyes were lifted, gazing afar, scanning the broad expanse of water
with such searching, anxious vision, as, it seemed, nothing could
escape, Luke Merlyn's cap was dashed to her very feet, tossed from the
grave.

Moving back to escape the encroaching tide, Clarice saw the cap lying,
caught on the cragged point of rock before her. Oh, she knew it well!
She stooped,--she took it up,--she need not wait for any other token.
She dared not look upon the sea again. She turned away. But whither?
Where now was her home? So long a time, since she was a child, it had
been in the heart of Luke! Where was that heart lying? What meant this
token sent to her from the deep sea? Oh, life and love! was not all now
over? Heart still, hand powerless, home lost, she sat on the beach till
night fell. At sunset she stood up to look once more up and down the
mighty field of waters, along the shore, as far as her eyes could
reach,--but saw nothing. Then she sat down again, and waited until long
after the stars appeared. Once or twice the thought that her mother
would wonder at her long absence moved her; but she impatiently
controlled the feeble impulse to arise and return, until she recalled
the words of Bondo Emmins. Luke's mother, too,--and the cap in her care.
If no one else had tidings for her, she had tidings.

Her father had reached home before her, and there was now no watcher on
the beach, so far as Clarice could discover. Perhaps there was no longer
any doubt in any mind. She hurried to the cabin. At the door she met
Bondo Emmins coming out. He had a lantern in his hand.

"Is that you, Clarice?" said he. "I was just going to look for you."

She scanned his face by the glare of the lantern with terrible
eagerness, to see what tidings he had for her. He only looked grave. It
was a face whose signs Clarice had never wholly trusted, but she did not
doubt them now.

"I have found his cap," said she, in a low, troubled voice. "You said,
that, if he was alive, you would find him. I heard you. What have you
found?"

"Nothing."

Then she passed by him, though he would have spoken further. She went
into the house and sat down on the hearth with Luke's cap in her hand,
which she held up before the fire to dry. So she sat one morning holding
the tiny basket which the waves had dashed ashore.

Briton and his wife looked at each other, and at young Emmins, who,
after a moment's hesitation, had put out the lantern light, and followed
her back into the house.

"It is his cap," said Bondo, in a low voice, but not so low as to escape
the ear of Clarice.

"The sea sent it for a token," said she, without turning her gaze from
the fire.

The old people moved up to the hearth.

"Sit down, Emmins," said Briton. "You've served us well to-day." In any
trouble Old Briton's comfort was in feeling a stout wall of flesh around
him.

Bondo sat down. Then he and Briton helped each other explain the course
taken by themselves and the other boat-men that day, and they talked of
what they would do on the morrow; but they failed to comfort Clarice,
or to awaken in her any hope. She knew that in reality they had no hope
themselves.

"They will never come back," said she. "You will never find them."

She spoke so calmly that her father was deceived. If this was her
conviction, it would be safe to speak his own.

"The tide may bring the poor fellows in," said he.

At these words the cap which the poor girl held fell from her hand.
She spoke no more. No word or cry escaped her,--not by a look did she
acknowledge that there was community in this grief,--as solitary as if
she were alone in the universe, she sat gazing into the fire. She was
not overcome by things external, tangible, as she had been when she sat
alone out on the sea-beach at the Point. The world in an instant seemed
to sink out of her vision, and time from her consciousness; her soul set
out on a search in which her mortal sense had failed,--and here no arm
of flesh could help her.

"I shall find him," she said, in a whisper. They all heard her, and
looked at one another, trouble and wonder in their faces. "I shall find
him," she repeated, in a louder tone; and she drew herself up, and bent
forward,--but her eyes saw not the cheerful fire-light, her ears took
in no sound of crackling fagot, rising wind, or muttered fear among the
three who sat and looked at her.

Bondo Emmins had taken up the cap when Clarice dropped it,--he had
examined it inside and out, and passed it to Dame Briton. There was
no mistaking the ownership. Not a child of Diver's Bay but would have
recognized it as the property of Luke Merlyn. The dame passed it to the
old man, who looked at it through tears, and then smoothed it over his
great fist, and came nearer to the fire, and silence fell upon them all.

At last Dame Briton said, beginning stoutly, but ending with a sob, "Has
anybody seen poor Merlyn's wife? Who'll tell her? Oh! oh!"

"I will go tell her that Clarice found the cap," said Bondo Emmins,
rising.

Clarice sat like one in a stupor,--but, that was no dull light shining
from her eyes. Still she seemed deaf and dumb; for, when Bondo bade her
good-night, she did not answer him, nor give the slightest intimation
that she was aware of what passed around her.

But when he was gone, and her father said,--"Come, Clarice,--now for
bed,--you'll wake the earlier,"--she instantly arose to act on his
suggestion.

He followed her to the door of her little chamber and lingered there a
moment. He wanted to say something for comfort, but had nothing to say;
so he turned away in silence, and drank a pint of grog.

IV.

Bondo Emmins was not a native of Diver's Bay. Only during the past three
or four years had he lived among the fishermen. He called the place his
home, but now and then indications of restlessness escaped him, and
seemed to promise years of wandering, rather than a life of patient,
contented industry. He and Luke Merlyn were as unlike as any two young
men that ever fished in the same bay. Luke was as firm, constant,
reliable, from the day when he first managed a net, as any veteran whose
gray hairs are honorable. Emmins flashed here and there like a wandering
star; and whatever people might say of him when he was out of sight, he
had the art of charming them to admiration while they were under his
personal influence. He was lavish with his money; almost every cabin had
a gift from him. He could talk forever, and with many was a true oracle.
Though he worked regularly at his business, work seemed turned to play
when he took it in hand. He could shout so as to be heard across the
ocean,--so the children thought; he told stories better than any; and at
the signal of his laughter it seemed as if the walls themselves would
shake to pieces. When he hit on a device, it was strange indeed if
he did not succeed in executing it; and no one was the wiser for the
mortification and inward displeasure of the man, when he failed in any
enterprise.

When Emmins came to Diver's Bay Clarice Briton was but a child, yet
already the promised wife of Luke Merlyn. If this fact was made known
to him, as very probably it was, Clarice was not a girl to excite his
admiration or win his love. But as time passed on, Emmins found that he
was not the only man in Diver's Bay; of all men to regard as a rival,
there was Luke Merlyn! Luke, who went quietly about his business,
interfering with no one, careful, brave, exact, had a firm place among
the people, which might for a time be overshadowed, but from which he
could not be moved. Two or three times Bondo Emmins stumbled against
that impregnable position, and found that he must take himself out of
the way. A small jealousy, a sharp rivalry, which no one suspected,
quietly sprang up in his mind, and influenced his conduct; and he was
not one who ever attempted to subdue or destroy what he found within
him, he was instead always endeavoring to bring the outer world
into harmony with what he found within. A fine time he had of it,
persistently laboring to make a victim of himself to himself!

People praised Clarice Briton, and now and then Emmins looked that way,
and saw that the girl, indeed, was well enough. He despised Luke, and
Clarice seemed a very proper match for him. But while Bondo Emmins was
managing in his own way, and cherishing the feeling he had against Luke,
by seeking to prove himself the braver and more skilful fellow, Clarice
was growing older in years and in love, her soul was growing brighter,
her heart was getting lighter, her mind clearer,--her womanhood was
unfolding in a certain lovely manner that was discernible to other eyes
than those of Luke Merlyn. Luke said it was the ring that wrought the
change,--that he could see its light all around her,--that it had a
charm of which they could know nothing save by its results, for its
secret had perished with its owner in the sea. His mermaid he would
sometimes call her,--and declared that often, by that mysterious pearly
light, he saw Clarice when far out at sea, and that at any time by two
words he could bring her to him. She knew the words,--they were as dear
to her as to him.

While Clarice was thus unfolding to this loveliness through love, Bondo
Emmins suddenly saw her as if for the first time. The vision was to him
as surprising as if the ring had indeed a power of enchantment, and
it had been thrown around him. He was as active and as resolute in
attempting to persuade himself that all this was nothing to him as
he was active and resolute in other endeavors,--but he was not as
successful as he supposed he should be. For it was not enough that
Emmins should laugh at himself, and say that the pretty couple were
meant for each other. Now and then, by accident, he obtained a glimpse
of Clarice's happy heart; the pearl-like secret of their love, which was
none the less a secret because everybody knew that Luke and Clarice were
to be married some day, would sometimes of itself unexpectedly give some
token, which he, it seemed, could better appreciate than any one beside
the parties concerned. When some such glimpse was obtained, some such
token received, Bondo Emmins would retire within himself to a most
gloomy seclusion; there was a world which had been conquered, and
therein he had no foothold. If Clarice wore the pearl in her bosom, on
Luke's head was a crown, and Bondo Emmins just hated him for that.

But he never thought of a very easy method by which he might have
escaped the trouble of his jealousy. The great highway of ocean was open
before him, and millions of men beside Luke Merlyn were in the world,
millions of women beside Clarice Briton. No! Diver's Bay,--and a score
of people,--and a thought that smelt like brimstone, and fiery enough
to burn through the soul that tried to keep it,--this for
him;--fishing,--making bargains,--visiting at Old Briton's,--making
presents to the dame,--telling stories, singing songs by that fireside,
and growing quieter by every other,--that was the way he did it;--cured
himself of jealousy? No! made himself a fool.

Old Briton liked this young man; he could appreciate his excellences
even better than he could those of Luke; there were some points
of resemblance between them. Emmins was as careless of money, as
indifferent to growing rich, as Briton ever was; the virtues of the
youth were not such as ever reproached the vices of the veteran. They
could make boisterous merriment in each other's company. Briton's praise
was never lacking when Bondo's name was mentioned. He accepted service
of the youth, and the two were half the time working in partnership. In
the cabin he had always a welcome, and Dame Briton gave him her entire
confidence.

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