The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 07, May, 1858

She was floating toward the Point, when she knelt in the fishing-boat and plunged the hand that wore the ring under the bright cold water. How bright, how cold it was! It chilled Clarice; she shuddered; was she the bride of Death? But she did not rise from her knees, neither withdraw her hand, until her vow, the vow she was there to speak, was spoken. There she knelt alone in the great universe, with God and Luke Merlyn.

When at last she stood upon the Point, she had strength to meet her destiny, and patience to wait while it was being developed. She knew her marriage covenant was blest, and filial duty was divested of every thought or notion that could tempt or deceive her. Treading thus fearlessly among the high places of imagination, no prescience of mortal trouble could lurk among the mysterious shadows. By her faith in the eternity of love she was greatly more than conqueror.

The day passed, and night drew near. It was the purpose of Clarice to row home with the tide. But a strange thing happened to her ere she set out to return. As she stood looking out upon the sea, watching the waves as they rolled and broke upon the beach, a new token came to her from the deep.

Almost as she might have waited for Luke, she stood watching the onward drift; calculating the spot at which the waves would deposit their burden, she stood there when the plank was borne inland, to save it, if possible, from being dashed with violence on the rocks.

To this plank a child was bound,—a little creature that might be three years old. At the sight of this form, and this helplessness, the heart of the woman seemed to break into sudden living flame. She carried the plank down to a level spot with an energy that would have made light of a burden even ten times as great; she stooped upon the sand; she unbound the body; and she thought, "The child is dead!" Nevertheless she took him in her arms; she dried his limbs with her apron; she wiped his face, and rubbed his hair;—but he gave no sign of life. Then she wrapped him in her shawl, and laid him in the boat, and rowed home.

There was no one in the cabin when Clarice went in. When Dame Briton came home, she found her daughter with a ring upon her finger, bending over the body of a child that lay upon her bed.

The dame was quickly brought into service, and there was no reason to fear that she would desist from her labors until she had received some evidence of death or life. She and Clarice worked all night over the body of the child, and towards morning were rewarded by the result. The boy's eyes opened, and he tried to speak. By noon of that day he was lying in the arms of Clarice, deathly pallor on his little face; but he could speak, and his pretty eyes were open.

All those hours of mutual sympathy and striving, Dame Briton had been thinking to say, "Clarice, what's the ring for?" But she had not said it, when, in the afternoon, Bondo Emmins came into the cabin, and saw Clarice with a beautiful boy in her arms, wrapped in her shawl, while before the fire some rags of infant garments were drying.

They talked over the boy's fortune and the night's work, the dame taking the chief conduct of the story; and Bondo was so much interested, and praised the child so much, and spoke with so much concern of the solitary, awful voyage the little one must have made, that, when he subsequently offered to take the child in his arms, Clarice let him go, and explained, when the young man began to talk to the boy, that he could not understand a word, neither could she make out the meaning of his speech.

Emmins heard Clarice say that she must go to the Port the next day and learn what vessel had been lost, and if any passengers were saved; and by daybreak he set out on that errand. He returned early in the morning with the news that a merchantman, the "Gabriel," had gone down, and that cargo and crew were lost. While he was telling this to Clarice he observed the ring upon her finger, and he coupled the appearing of that token with the serenity of the girl's face, and hailed his conclusion as one who hoped everything from change and nothing from constancy.

Clarice had found the boy in the place where she had looked for Luke that night when his cap was washed to her feet. Over and over again she had said this to her father and mother while they busied themselves about the unconscious child; now she said it again to Bondo Emmins, as if there were some special significance in the fact, as indeed to her there was. He was her child, and he should be her care, and she would call him Gabriel.

People could understand the burden imposed upon the laborious life of Clarice by this new, strange care. But they did not see the exceeding great reward, nor how the love that lingered about a mere memory seemed blessed to the poor girl with a blessing of divine significance.

To make the child her own by some special act that should establish her right became the wish of Clarice. It was not enough for her that she should toil for him while others slept, that she should stint herself in order to clothe him in a becoming manner, that she should suffer anxiety for him in the manifold forms best known to those who have endured it. She had given herself to Luke, so that she feared no more from any man's solicitation. She would fain assert her claim to this young life which Providence had given her. But this desire was suggested by external influence, as her marriage covenant had been.

Now and then a missionary came down to Diver's Bay, and preached in the open air, or, if the weather disappointed him, in the great shed built for the protection of fish-barrels and for the drying of fish. No surprising results had ever attended his preaching; the meetings were never large, though sometimes tolerably well attended; the preacher was almost a stranger to the people; and the wonder would have been a notable one, had there been any harvest to speak of in return for the seed he scattered. The seed was good; but the fowls of the air were free to carry it away; the thorns might choke it, if they would; it was not protected from any wind that blew.

A few Sundays after Gabriel became the charge of Clarice, the missionary came and preached to the people about Baptism. Though burdened with a multitude of cares which he had no right to assume, which kept him busy day and night in efforts lacking only the concentration that would have made them effective, the man was earnest in his labor and his speech, and it chanced now and then that a soul was ready for the truth he brought.

On this occasion he addressed the parents in their own behalf and that of their children. The bright day, the magnificent view his eyes commanded from the place where he stood to address the handful of people, the truth, with whose importance he was impressed, made him eloquent. He spoke with power, and Clarice Briton, holding the hand of little Gabriel, listened as she had never listened before.

"Death unto sin," this baptism signified, he said. She looked at the child's bright face; she recalled the experience through which she had passed, by which she was able to comprehend these words. She had passed through death; she had risen to life; for Luke was dead, and was alive again,—therefore she lived also. Tears came into the girl's eyes, unexpected, abundant, as she listened to the missionary's pleading with these parents, to give their little ones to their Heavenly Father, and themselves to lives of holiness.

He would set the mark of the cross on their foreheads, he said, to show that they were Christ's servants;—and then he preached of Christ, seeking to soften the tough souls about him with the story of a divine childhood; and he verily talked to them as one should do who felt that in all his speaking their human hearts anticipated him. It was not within the compass of his voice to reach that savage note which in brutal ignorance condemns, where loving justice never could condemn. He had an apprehension of the vital truth that belief in the world's Saviour was not belief in a name, but the reception of that which Jesus embodied. He came down to Diver's Bay, expecting to find human nature there, and the only pity was that he had not time to perform what he attempted. Let us, however, thank him for his honest endeavor; and be glad, that, for one, Clarice was there to hear him,—she heard him so gladly.

To take a vow for Gabriel, to give him to God, to confirm him in possession of the name she had bestowed, became the desire of Clarice. One day when she had some business to transact in the market, she dressed Gabriel in a new frock she had made for him, and took him with her to the Port, carrying him in her arms half the way. She did not find the minister, but she had tested the sincerity of her desire. When he came down again to the Bay, as he did the next Sunday, she was waiting to give him the first fruits of his labors there.

He arrived early in the morning, that he might forestall the fishermen and their families in whatever arrangements they might be making for the day. When Clarice first saw him, her heart for a moment failed her,—she wished he had not come, or that she had gone off to spend the day before she knew of his coming. But, in the very midst of her regrets, she caught up Gabriel and walked forth to meet the preacher.

The missionary recognized Clarice, and he had already heard the story of the child. He was the first to speak, and a few moments' talk, which seemed to her endless, though it was about Gabriel, passed before she could tell him how she had sought him in his own home on account of the boy, and what her wish was concerning him.

A naturalist, walking along that beach and discovering some long-sought specimen, at a moment when he least looked and hoped for it, would have understood the feeling and the manner of the missionary just then. Surprise came before gladness, and then followed much investigation, whereby the minister would persuade himself, even as the naturalist under similar circumstances would do, of the genuineness of what was before him;—he must ascertain all the attending circumstances.

It was a simple story that his questioning drew forth. The missionary learned something in the interview, as well as Clarice. He learned what confidence there is in a noble spirit of resignation; that it need not be the submission of helplessness. He saw anew, what he had learned for himself under different circumstances, the satisfaction arising from industry that is based on duty, and involves skill in craft, judgment in affairs, and that integrity which keeps one to his oath, though it be not to his profit. He heard the voice of a tender, pitiful, loving womanhood, strongly manifesting its right to protect helplessness, by the utterance of its convictions concerning that helplessness. He knew that to such a woman the Master would have spoken not one word of reproach, but many of encouragement and sympathy. So he spoke to her of courage, and shared her hopes, by directing them with a generous confidence in her. He was the man for his vocation, for in every strait he looked to his human heart for direction,—and in his heart were not only sympathy and gentleness, but justice and judgment.

While he talked to Clarice, the idea which had taken cognizance of Gabriel alone enlarged,—it involved herself.

"What doth hinder me to be baptized?" she asked, in the words of Philip.

"If thou believest, thou mayest."

Accordingly, at the conclusion of the morning prayer, when the preacher said, "Those persons to be baptized may now come forward," Clarice Briton, leading little Gabriel by the hand, rose from her seat and walked up before the congregation, and stood in the presence of all.

Not an eye was turned from her during the ceremony. When she lifted Gabriel, and held him in her arms, and promised the solemn promises for him as well as for herself, the souls that witnessed it thought that they had lost Clarice. The tears rolled down Old Briton's cheeks when he looked upon the girl. What he saw he did not half understand, but there was an awful solemnity about the transaction, that overpowered him. He and Dame Briton had come to the meeting because Clarice urged them to do so;—she had said she was going to make a public promise about Gabriel, and that was all she told them; for, beside that there was little time for explanation in the hurry of preparing Gabriel and herself, Clarice's heart was too deeply stirred to admit of speech. After she had obtained the promise of her parents, she said no more to them; they did not hear her speak again until her firm "I will" broke on their ears.

Dame Briton was not half pleased at what she saw and heard, during this service. She looked at Bondo Emmins to see what he was thinking,—but little she learned from his solemn face. When the sign of the cross was laid on the forehead of Clarice, and on the forehead of Gabriel, a frown for an instant was seen on his own; but it was succeeded by an expression of feature such as made the dame look quickly away, for in that same instant his eyes were upon her.

Enough of surprise and gaping wonder would Dame Briton have discovered in other directions, had she sought the evidences; but from Bondo Emmins she looked down at her "old man," and she saw his tears. Then came Clarice, and before she knew it she was holding the little Christian Gabriel in her stern old arms, and kissing away the drops of hallowed water that flashed upon his eye-lids.

A sermon followed, the like of which, for poetry or wonder, was never heard among these people. The preacher seemed to think this an occasion for all his eloquence; nay, for the sake of justice, I will say, his heart was full of rejoicing, for now he believed a church was grafted here, a Branch which the Root would nourish. His words served to deepen the impression made by the ceremonial. Clarice Briton and little Gabriel shone in white raiment that day; and, thanks to him, when he went on to prove the Kingdom of Heaven upon earth one with that mysterious majesty on high, a single leap took Clarice Briton over the boundaries of faith.

VII

But if to others Clarice seemed to have passed the boundary line of their dominion, to herself the bond of neighborhood was strengthened. The missionary told her all he had a right to expect of her now, as a fellow-worker, and pointed out to her the ways in which she might second his labors at the Bay. It was but a new form of the old work to which she had been accustomed her life long. Never, except in the dark summer months when all her life was eclipsed, had Clarice lived unmindful of the old and sick and helpless, or of the little children. Her kindliness of heart could surprise no one; her generosity was nothing strange; her caution, her industry, her courage, her gentleness, were not traits to which her character had been a stranger hitherto. But now they had a brighter manifestation. She became more than ever diligent in her service; the Sunday-school was the result of old sentiments in a new and intelligent combination; and the neighbors, who had always trusted Clarice, did not doubt her now. Novelty is always pleasing to simple souls among whom innovation has not first taken the pains to excite suspicion of itself.

For a long time, more than usual uncertainty seemed to attend the chances of Gabriel's life. In the close watching and constant care required of Clarice, the child became so dear to her, that doubtless there was some truth in the word repeated in her hearing with intent to darken any moment of special tenderness and joy, that this stranger was dearer to her than her "born relations."

As much as was possible by gentle firmness and constant oversight, Clarice kept him from hurtful influences. He was never mixed up in the quarrels of ungoverned children; he never became the victim of their rude sport or cruelty. She would preserve him peaceful, gentle, pure; and in a measure her aim was accomplished. She was the defender, companion, playmate of the child. She told him pretty tales, the creations of her fancy, and strove by them to throw a soft illusion around the rough facts of their daily life. The mystery surrounding him furnished her not meagrely with material for her imagination; she could invent nothing that seemed to herself incredible; her fairy tales were not more wonderful than facts as she beheld them. She taught the boy songs; she gave him language. The clothes he wore, bought with her own money, fashioned by her own hands, were such as became the beauty of the child, and the pure taste and the little purse of Clarice.

Never had a childhood so radiant in beauty, so wonderful in every manifestation, developed before the eyes of the folk of Diver's Bay. He became a wonder to the old and young. His sayings were repeated. Enchantment seemed added to mystery;—anything might have been believed of Gabriel.

Sometimes, when she had dressed him in his Sunday suit, and they were alone together, Clarice would put upon his finger the pearl ring,—her marriage ring. But she kept to herself the name of Luke Merlyn till the time should come when, a child no longer, he should listen to the story; and she would not make that story grievous for his gentle heart, but sweet and full of hope. Well she knew how he would listen as none other could,—how serious his young face would look when the sacred dawn of a celestial knowledge should begin to break; then a new day would rise on Gabriel, and nothing should separate them then.

But, lurking near her joy, and near her perfect satisfaction, even in the days when some result much toiled for seemed to give assurance that she was doing well and justly, was the shadow of a doubt. One day the shadow deepened, and the doubt appeared. Clarice was sitting in the doorway, busy at some work for Gabriel. The boy was playing with Old Briton, who could amuse him by the hour, drawing figures in the sand. Dame Briton was busy performing some household labor, when Bondo Emmins came rowing in to shore. Gabriel, at the sound of the oars, ran to meet the fisherman, who had been out all day; the fisherman took the child in his arms, kissed him, then placed in his hands a toy which he had brought for him from the Point, and bade him run and show it to Clarice. Gabriel set out with shouts, and Emmins went back smiling to look after his boatload.

"He's a good runner," said Old Briton, watching the child with laughter in his eyes. Dame Briton, drawn to the door by the unusual noise, looked out to see the little fellow flying into Clarice's arms, and she said, softly, "Pretty creature!" while she strode back to her toil.

Presently, the little flutter of his joy having subsided, Gabriel sat on the doorstep beside Clarice, his eyes seriously peering into the undiscoverable mystery of the toy. Then Bondo came up, and the toy was forgotten, the child darting away again to meet him. Emmins joined the group with Gabriel in his arms, looking well satisfied.

"Gabriel is as happy as if this was his home in earnest," said he. He dropped the words to try the group.

"His home!" cried Dame Briton, quickly. "Well, ain't it? Where then? I wonder."

The sharp tone of her voice told that the dame was not well pleased with Bondo's remark; for the child had found his way into her heart, and she would have ruined him by her indulgence, had it not been for Clarice's constant vigilance. And this was not the least of the difficulties the girl had to contend with. For Dame Briton, you may be sure, though she might be compelled to yield to her daughter's better sense, could never be constrained by her own child to hold her tongue, and the arguments with which she abandoned many of her foolish purposes were almost as fatal to Clarice's attempts at good government as the perfect accomplishment of these purposes would have been.

Bondo answered her quick interrogatory, and the troubled wonder in the eyes of Clarice, with a confused, "Of course it is his home; only I was thinking, that, to be sure, they must have come from some place, and maybe left friends behind them."

Now it seemed as if this answer were not given with malicious purpose, but in proper self-defence; and by the time Clarice looked at him, and made him thus speak, Bondo perhaps supposed that he had not intended to trouble the poor soul. But he could not avoid perceiving that a deep shadow fell upon the face of Clarice; and the conviction of her displeasure was not removed when she arose and led the child away. But Clarice was not displeased. She was only troubled sorely. She asked her surprised self a dreary question: If anywhere on earth the child had a living parent, or if he had any near of kin to whom his life was precious, what right to Gabriel had she? Providence had sent him to her, she had often said, with deep thankfulness; but now she asked, Had he sent the child that she might restore him not only to life, but to others, whom, but for her, death had forever robbed of him?

From the day that the shadow of this thought fell across her way, the composure and deep content of the life of Clarice were disturbed. Not merely the presence of Emmins became a trouble and annoyance, but the praise that her neighbors were prompt to lavish on Gabriel, whenever she went among them, became grievous to her ears. The shadow which had swept before her eyes deepened and darkened till it obscured all the future. She was experiencing all the trouble and difficulty of one who seeks to evade the weight of a truth which has nevertheless surrounded and will inevitably capture her.

Nothing of this escaped the eyes of the young fisherman. Time should work for him, he said; he had shot an arrow; it had hit the mark; now he would heal the wound. He might easily have persuaded himself that the wound was accidental, and so have escaped the conviction of injury wrought with intention. All would have been immediately well with him and Clarice, had it not been for Clarice! There are persons, their name is Legion, who are as wanton in offence as Bondo Emmins,—whose souls are black with murderous records of hopes they have destroyed; yet they will condole with the mourners!

To this doubt as to her duty, this evasion of knowledge concerning it, this silence in regard to what chiefly occupied her conscience, was added a new trouble. As Gabriel grew older, a restless, adventurous spirit began to manifest itself in him. From a distance regarding the daring feats of other children, his impulse was to follow and imitate them. At times, in ungovernable outbreaks of merriment, he would escape from the side of Clarice, with fleet, daring steps which seemed to set her pleasure at defiance; and when, after his first exploit, which filled her with astonishment, she prepared to join him in his sport, and did follow, laughing, a wilfulness, which made her tremble, roused to resist her, and gave an almost tragic ending to the play.

One day she missed the lad. Searching for him, she found that he had gone out in a boat with other children, among whom he sat like a little king, giving his orders, which the rest were obeying with shouted repetitions. When Clarice called to him, and begged the children to return, he followed their example, took off his cap, and waved it at her, in defiance, with the rest.

Clarice sat down on the shore in despair. Bitter tears ran down her cheeks.

Bondo Emmins passed by, and saw what was going on. "Ho! ho! Clarice needs some one to help her hold the rein," said he to himself; and going to the water's edge, he raised his voice, and beckoned the children ashore. He enforced the gesture by a word,—"Come home!"

The little rebels did not wait a second summons, but obeyed the strong voice of the strong man, trembling. They paddled the boat to the shore, and landed quite crestfallen, ashamed, it seemed. Then Bondo, having bid the youngsters disperse, with a threat, if he ever saw them engaged in the like business, walked away, without speaking to Gabriel, or even looking at him.

VIII

Clarice was half annoyed at this interference; it seemed to suppose, she thought, that she was unequal to the management of her own affairs.—But was she equal to it?

After Bondo had walked away, she called to Gabriel, who stood alone when the other children had deserted him, and knew not what to do. He would have run away, had he not been afraid of fisherman Emmins.

"Come here, my son," said Clarice. She did not speak very loud, nor in the least sternly; but he heard her quite distinctly, and he hesitated.

"I'm not your son!" he concluded to answer.