Part 3

Around the porch there hung that day a crimson glory. It was the climbing rose about the door displaying its gorgeous bloom in a thousand crowns. Green, grass-green were the hills, but in front of the house the cliff fell abruptly, with a precipitous drop, to the sea. On either side the waving coast-line stretched away, a shining belt of yellow sand. There the breakers with unfurled banners of fleece followed each other in a never ending procession to the shore. But at the foot the billows, by day and night running in forever, dashed against the rock and chopped to a seething foam that threw up in one continual briny shower its white and glittering spray.

The surf at this point, even in pleasant weather, sounded a constant roar, and in times of storm it increased to a deafening thunder that appalled the ear and made the heart tremble before the sea in its savage ferocity. Looking off to the right, perhaps the greater part of a mile distant, the harbor discovered itself, blue, bluer than the sky. A few vessels that had grown mysteriously upon the empty horizon, and come in over the vast waste of waters, were idly lying at anchor, each one biding her time to spread her sails in the breeze and recede upon her lonely course, going, as she had come, like some spirit of solitude, dropping down silently beyond the remote sea-reaches. There the Nereid swung herself gently over the long ground-swell, patiently awaiting the coming night when again to take up her watery track that would carry her over the great Atlantic to other lands and far-off harbors. Not a trimmer ship sailed the high seas.

The sun had traveled almost down the western slope, and it lit up the mighty ocean with a splendor that burned in lances of flame along the waves, and floated in myriad rainbows over the surf. The pomp of the departing day passed across the boundless waters, a magnificent pageantry. As the sun went down, the sky became a scarlet canopy. The flying spray took up the color and spread out a thousand streamers to the wind. Long, gold-green lanes of sea ran out to where the distant mists let down their gorgeous drapery. The tireless gulls, shaking the red light from their wings, sailed and sailed and dipped and sailed again. A few fishing smacks loitered in the orange haze, and, leagues away, a single sloop in the humid north stood, like some wan water-wraith, with a garland of foam about its feet. Eastward, above the hills, the waiting moon hung her helmet, paler than pearl, and the land, transfigured by the evening light, looked on while the sea in its play flashed up a hundred hues.

The widow Aber had lived there on the cliff and seen the tides ebb and flow for more now than the quarter of a century. She was not a young girl when, twenty-six years back, poor Jacob Aber had married her. It was a sudden fancy on his part and a great surprise to the place, for Jacob was well on towards fifty, and many a girl had set her cap to catch the handsome sailor in vain. But he never rued his bargain. He was not a rich man, because he had always been a generous man, and he was content with enough merely to bring him in a modest living. When he married he took what little he had and built this cottage, built it of brick good and strong, where he could feel the salt wind blow, right in the face of the sea—the sea that, until he met Miriam Drew with her soft gray eyes, he had loved better than every thing else in all the wide world.

They were happy and prosperous for four long years. First a son, then a daughter had come to brighten their home, and it was on just such an evening as this that Miriam, holding her infant child in her arms, told Jacob good-bye two-and-twenty years ago.

It would be his last cruise, he said. The vessel was his own, and in twelve months, or less, he would come back rich enough to stay always, and if the tears were in his voice he choked them down bravely, saying again it was but for a little while he should be gone, and she must cheer up for the long and happy years that would come after.

Then she suddenly laid down her child and with a smothered sob put up her arms about his neck. It was the first time she had fairly given way, and she clung to him trembling violently, but uttering not one word. He smoothed her brow gently, with a caressing touch, for her sake keeping his own grief crushed within his heart, and said,—

“Miriam don’t you remember once saying you could always tell a sailor by the dreamy far-off look in his eyes, an expression that came only to those that lived upon the sea and watched its wide, wide fields? And don’t you remember sometimes when I was sitting quietly at home you would come up suddenly and ask me what it was I saw miles and miles away, over the summer water, in that distant sunny land? Well, do not cry so, for even when my ship has vanished from your sight, when on every side there is no trace of shore, I can stand upon her deck and look beyond the far horizon at our peaceful, happy home. And when at evening, with your eyes upon the sea, you sit and hold the children in your lap, remember I will be watching you from across its glittering line. There, that is right! You are a good, brave girl! It is but for a little while. I can look beyond this parting—I can see your waiting face turn radiant as my boat sails safely back!”

Then, when he had kissed her and the little ones, and turned and kissed them again, there was a faint smile struggling through her tears. So, striving to keep down her grief, she parted without saying one word of the terrible dread that lay upon her heart.

And two-and-twenty years ago he had sailed away.

Many days, many nights, many weeks, many months, Miriam had watched the sea with wistful eyes. For his sake she had very nearly grown to love it, and the color came again to her cheeks as the time went by and the year was almost up, when it would give back forever the one she valued more than life. In those days she scanned the water-line, and waited patiently, and went about the house singing. She chattered to her baby-daughter all how its father was sailing home, until it laughed and cooed in wild delight. Every morning she dressed little Tommy in his best, and tied about his waist the beautiful sea-green sash that Jacob had brought her from the distant Indies; and in the queer frosted vases on the mantel, that had come from some foreign port, she kept a fresh bouquet of sweet wild flowers.

But poor Jacob never came back.

Homeward bound, his vessel was wrecked off the treacherous Newfoundland shore. A storm drove her helpless, enshrouded in fog, against the rocks where she foundered, and captain and crew went down together. Only two men escaped from the terrible disaster.

When the dreadful news came and they told Miriam as they met her on the porch, she made no reply. She did not moan or scream. She only looked out for a moment at the deceitful sea, smiling in its sheen of a thousand tints, then turned and went into the house and shut the door.

She had always been a strange woman, and they left her to bear her grief alone. She asked nobody’s sympathy, she did not complain, she never spoke of Jacob. She did not, as the people had expected, sell her house. She made no change so far as the world could see, only that she held herself, if possible, more aloof from society than ever. But before three months had gone by they noticed that her brown and shining hair had turned white, and her gray eyes showed half concealed within their depths an unfathomed trouble. Then too, her figure, once erect and straight as a dart, grew bent and stooped across the shoulders, and nothing ever brought the color to her face any more that was always pale and thin. Otherwise, however, there appeared no difference. She lived economically, and sometimes took in a small amount of fine sewing, as, beside the house, she had little else, for the sea when it buried her husband had buried his earnings also in the same watery grave.

She staid at home and watched the children in whom her life was now wholly bound up. They were her world, her all. She seemed to find in them her very existence, and after the queer frosted vases on the mantel had stood empty for years, their young hands filled them again with sweet wild flowers. So the house once more was bright and sunny, and, though Miriam herself never sang, Hannah’s voice was clear and happy.

Hannah had grown up the very picture of her mother when in her early girlhood, but young Tom was like his father. He was like his father in more respects than one, and while still a boy the people said he too will prove a sailor. They were right; though Miriam had struggled against it and watched over him with an absorbing care. She saw again developed in him the same wild fascination for the sea. She knew its strength and that it must prevail, and when he came and begged so hard, with the well remembered far-off look in his eyes, she felt all opposition would be vain.

She did not reproach herself that she had lived upon the coast and played with him upon the beach, for something in her heart told her that it could have been no different, even had she raised him up in another place where the sound of the sea would not have been always in his ears. She recognized in this fatal love the heritage he had received from his father. The thought that it could be eradicated, that he would ever be satisfied with any thing else she knew to be hopeless, and so the widow had given up, and he had gone at fourteen to seek his fortune, like his father before him, a sailor on the high seas.

Now, ten years later, and two-and-twenty years since poor Jacob had started on his fateful cruise, young Tom was ready for his fourth voyage. He had climbed unaided several steps up the ladder in his calling, and the Nereid, waiting down in the harbor would carry him in a few hours, her first mate, out upon her long two years’ absence. It was a great lift to him, for, besides his promotion, Luke Denin, who this time commanded the ship, had been his early friend. There was but little difference in their age. They had been boys together, and together they had explored the shore for miles and fished for days, and they had rambled the hills and the woods over; so, as young Tom said, it would be just as good for him as if he commanded the Nereid himself.

When he told his mother this she had only patted him on the head, and said in a choked voice,—“My little sailor boy!”

The widow Aber, ever since her son took to following the sea, had been gradually breaking. From that time her health, heretofore always strong and robust, began perceptibly to decline. The people noticed it, but then she told them that she was getting old—how could they expect a woman well up into the sixties to be as active as a girl, and besides this she had the rheumatism. So she was constantly excusing her feebleness with anxious care, as if she feared they might attribute it to some other cause than age.

This evening she was even weaker than usual, though she did not acknowledge it, but sitting at the supper table her hands trembled so badly that the cups and saucers rattled a little as she served the tea. Miriam, whose life had been one constant struggle, was struggling still. No wonder the widow was proud of her son, her only son. Her gray eyes, beautiful as in her youth, would wander to him again and again, and rest upon his face with a strange, yearning expression, but whenever he turned to her she would drop them quickly and move a little nervously in her chair, striving to conceal, as she had done so many years ago, the burden of grief that lay at her heart.

It was a pleasant party to look at, for Luke Denin too was there, and the young people carefully avoided any allusion to the separation before them. Tom, always gay and happy, was more than handsome in his sailor’s dress, with the bronze of the tropical sun upon his face. And Luke, if he was not so tall by half a head, and if his hair, instead of being black and crisp with waves, was light and straight, had at least as honest and frank a pair of deep blue eyes as Hannah cared to see—not that Hannah looked at them, for she looked only at her plate, and once in a while anxiously at her mother. Young Tom was evidently determined that this last meal at home should not be a sorrowful one, as he kept up the conversation in his liveliest mood. He told wonderful tales in such an absurd vein of exaggeration, that sometimes it even called up a smile on the widow’s face; and when the meal was over he picked her up playfully in his strong arms and carried her out upon the porch. There together they all watched the moonlight gradually show itself out of the dissolving day, in long paths across the water. Then the hour came to say good-bye.

It was a desperate battle for Miriam, as she clung to her son in that parting moment. Then it was, for the first time, that something in her face went to the man’s inmost heart like a chill. She was old and frail, and his absence would be long, perhaps he might never look upon her again. In his wild fascination for the sea, was he not sacrificing her? The anguish of the thought overcame him. Had it been possible then he would have given up this voyage and staid at home, but it was too late now, and when he had turned for a moment, and with a strong effort fought his grief under control, he said gently,—

“No, no! Do not be so distressed, mother! It is all for the best; and when I come back this time, mother, I will never leave you any more.”

But Miriam, thinking of that other parting so long ago, remembered that Jacob, too, had said when he came back he would never leave her any more, and with a half suppressed cry she clasped her hands tighter about his neck.

“O, my son, you will come back! Only promise me you will come back, and I can wait patiently and long!”

There was a wild energy in her voice that frightened him, as she went on hurriedly with an accent he had never heard till then,—

“Once before, with this same dread at my heart, I parted two-and-twenty years ago, but I let _him_ go without saying a word. I waited patiently. I even sang and tried to be happy. As the time went by I laughed as I thought how pleased he would be when he saw how his children had grown. I tied about your waist a sash of his favorite color, that he had brought me from the distant Indies, and I kept every thing in readiness for—what? They came and told me that he had gone down at sea—No, no; do not interrupt me. I let him go without saying a word. I must speak this time!”

She paused for a moment as if waiting until her excitement had calmed, and with her trembling hand put back the hair from his forehead, then went on unsteadily in a tone but little louder than a whisper,—

“You have the same dreamy far-off look in your eyes. I know you must go my child, I know you can not resist—but when your father left he said it would be only for a little while, and I—I have waited two-and-twenty years.”

There was another moment of silence, as though her thoughts had gone back over that long, long watch, then, in a wavering voice, she went on once more, calling him again unconsciously by the name she had used when he was a little child,—

“Tommy, Tommy! my boy, my only boy! if you—if the cruel sea—O, I can not say it, I can not bear it! You will come back, you must come back to me!”

A wild terror had crept into her face, then she broke down completely.

“There, forgive me, Tommy, forgive me! I did not used to be so foolish. Do not mind me. I am getting old and feeble, Tommy—I am not strong any more, but—I can wait again—”

“Why, mother, there is no danger. Look,” he said, drawing his arm close about her, “how peaceful is the sea! After you, mother, I love it better than any thing else in the whole world. It has always been gentle to me—you need not fear, I will surely come back, surely—if—if you can only wait.”

Tom’s voice had grown thick and choked, as he added the last words, and when Miriam, anxious to atone for her past weakness, said quickly,—

“Yes, yes, Tommy, I can wait—” he made her repeat it. Then rallying himself he went on gaily,—

“Why, I will come back, mother, I will come back so grand and rich that you shall be three times as proud of me, you shall, indeed! And I will take care of you always then. But, mother,” he said, the choking sensation coming again in his throat,—“promise that you will not worry about me while I am gone, or I shall never be happy, not even in any of the beautiful lands I will see—won’t you promise me, mother? Promise me that you will wait patiently, promise me that—that you will not give up—”

“Yes, yes, Tommy, if you will only come back, I can wait again—I can even wait a long while.”

“It will not be so very long! why the time will slip by, and almost before you know it you will find me standing beside you here again, when I mean you to be so proud of me that it will well nigh turn my head.”

“Ah, Tommy, you know I am proud of you now, so proud of you, that sometimes it fairly frightens me, and I dare not think of it.”

“Heaven knows,” he said, all the gay sound dying from his voice, as, stricken with remorse, he remembered the many times he had left her with no thought beyond the parting moment, “I’m not much to be proud of, but, mother—” taking up her thin hand and passing it over his face, once more driven to the last extremity to command his voice—“you and Nan are all I have on earth to care for me, and out in midocean, or in the far-off foreign ports, your love, like a constant prayer to keep me from harm, will be with me always. When I am at home once more I am going to be a good boy to you, mother. Nothing, not even the sea, shall ever part us again.”

“You have always been a good boy to me, Tommy—I only thought—I was afraid that—O never mind, I can wait for you, Tommy. I do not feel so nervous now.”

“There, that is right! We will meet again, mother, and then we will be very, very happy.”

He kissed her yearningly, reverentially. It seemed as if he stood awed before the heart that for a moment had disclosed itself in its most silent depths, and in that moment there had been revealed to him, with all its overwhelming strength, that divine love which is mightier than life. It seemed as if now, for the first time, and almost blinded by the revelation, he saw—his mother.

After a little silence, taking her face between his hands, he said, gently,—

“Mother, I want to see you smile once more before I go.”

“I will wait for you, Tommy,” she said again.

“And I will surely come back.”

When Miriam looked up there was a faint smile struggling through her tears, as there had been once before, two-and-twenty years in the past. Then he was gone.

Down by the gate Hannah stood, trying to hide in the shadow of the great honeysuckle the new shy beauty on her face that had been called there by the kiss of warmer lips than the gentle sea-breeze.

“Good-bye, Nan,” said Tom, unsuspiciously, throwing his arms about her in his rough brotherly embrace,—“why how you are trembling! You are not going to cry? Don’t, I can’t stand it!”

“No, no,” came uncertainly in a helpless voice, evidently, in her wild conflict of emotion, not knowing exactly what she was going to do.

“There, that’s right! Don’t cry, or I’ll—I’ll break down too!” said Tom, hoarsely, fairly strangling in his throat, and almost worn out by the strain he had undergone.

Hannah, surprised, raised her face, but Tom had already got the better of himself. “How your eyes shine to-night, Nan; I did not know how pretty you were before!” Down went her head again immediately, and changing his voice he said, with a sigh,—“Nannie, there ain’t many fellows that have as good a mother and sister as mine; you won’t forget me while I’m gone, or get tired waiting? I’ve been a worthless, roving chap; I’ve never been of much comfort to you or mother, but when I come back next time, I’m going to stay at home a while. Look up now and tell me you are glad.”

“O, Tom, I am! You don’t know how glad I am, if it was only for mother’s sake.”

Then, turning his head away to hide the anguish that had come over his face, he asked, slowly, trying rather ineffectually to keep his voice natural,—“You don’t think, Nan, any thing will happen to her while I am gone?”

“What do you mean?” said Hannah, struck by the awe in his tone.

“I mean,” he said, unwilling to trouble his sister by the thought that had so oppressed him, and speaking gaily again: “I mean that you must be a good girl, and keep up mother’s spirits, but don’t get so used to my absence, that neither of you will care when I come back.”

“O, Tom!”

“Come out into the moonlight where I can see you. I’m dreadfully proud of you, Nan, because you don’t take on like other girls. You see I couldn’t have stood it!” said Tom, in a frightfully uncertain state of mind, as to whether it was possible to swallow the lump in his throat. “I’m going now. Be good to mother, you know she’s—she’s not very strong—Have you told Captain Denin good-bye?”

“No, she hasn’t. Not yet. I thought I’d let you do it first; but you’ll tell me good-bye now, until I come back never to say it again, won’t you, Nanine?” said Luke, coming up in his most masterly way, right under Tom’s very nose, and almost hiding his sister from view in an embrace that this time was neither rough nor brotherly.

“Whew!” gasped Tom, as Hannah came in sight again, with no friendly honeysuckle near to conceal the carnation bloom upon her cheeks. “Is that the way the wind blows! I’ve been as blind as a bat. Kiss me, quick, both of you, or I’m a gone case!”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort. Sit down on the stone there, and recover yourself. You’ve said your good-bye, now just wait for me!” said the superior officer triumphantly. And Tom, spent, exhausted, sank down; but the next instant Hannah had her arms tight about his neck, and was hiding her face against the crisp waves of his black hair.

“Tom, dear, you ain’t sorry?”

“No, Nan, I couldn’t have wished for any thing better; but it was so sudden, it just kind of knocked the wind out of my sails for a minute.” Then, after a pause,—“I say, there’ll be a grand glorification when the Nereid comes back, won’t there?”

“Yes.”

“I—I wish it was back now! I don’t know what’s upset me so—There, kiss her, Luke, and let’s be off, quick, or I’ll disgrace myself outright, before I know it!” and Tom, gulping down great quantities of air with all his might, got up from the stone hurriedly, as if he meditated making a sudden bolt.

But he did not. He stood there quietly looking out at sea; and when, a moment after, the young captain, taking his arm, said, “Come, now I am ready,” he started as from a dream. Turning to his sister, with every trace of his rollicking manner lost, he said, as though he had not spoken of her before,—

“You must take good care of mother—poor mother. Do not let her grieve while I am gone. Oh, Hannah, you will be very careful of her, and not allow any thing—not allow her to get tired, and tell her always, while she waits, that when I am with her again, I will never leave her.”

Then they had passed through the gate and were going rapidly down the narrow foot-path to the bottom of the hill. Hannah strained her eyes after them, and when at the turn of the road both brother and lover were lost to view, still she lingered at the spot pondering over Tom’s unwonted emotion. It was not like him. Never before had she seen him so singularly affected, and now that he was gone, it came back to her with redoubled intensity. The unusual sorrow that had almost choked him, the strange tone in his voice that he had tried vainly to conceal, the sudden wish that the Nereid was back even now, his repeated charges about their mother, all troubled her.