The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 01, No. 06, April, 1858

"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.

Luke did not fear, he had once admired the man; and because he was a peace-maker by nature, and could himself keep the peace, he never took any of Bondo's scathing speech in anger nor remembered it against him. Usually he joined in the laugh, unless some brave, manly word were required; honorable in his nature, he could not be always jealous in maintaining that of which he felt so secure.

If Clarice did not penetrate the cause, she clearly saw the fact that Bondo Emmins had no love for Luke. She might wonder at it, but Luke suffered no loss in consequence,—it was rather to his praise, she thought, that this was so. And she remembered the disputes between the young men which she had chanced to hear, only to decide again, as she had often decided, in favor of Luke's justice and truth.

When the time of great trouble came, and this man was going out with her father in search of Merlyn and his son, her impulse, had she acted on it, would have prevented him. He looked so strong, so proud, in spite of his solemn face! He looked so full of life, she could not endure to think that his eyes might discover the dead body of poor Luke.

When she came home and found that he had returned with her father, before her, on the evening of that day of vain search for Merlyn and his son, a strange satisfaction came to Clarice for a moment,—touched her heart and passed,—was gone as it came. When she said, "I shall find him," conviction, as well as determination, was in the words,—and more beside than entered the ears of those that heard her.

[To be continued.]

THE STORY OF KARIN

A DANISH LEGEND  Karin the fair, Karin the gay,  She came on the morn of her bridal day,—  She came to the mill-pond clear and bright,  And viewed hersel' in the morning light.  "And oh," she cried, "that my bonny brow  May ever be white and smooth as now!  "And oh, my hair, that I love to braid,  Be yellow in sunshine, and brown in shade!  "And oh, my waist, sae slender and fine,  May it never need girdle longer than mine!"  She lingered and laughed o'er the waters clear,  When sudden she starts, and shrieks in fear:—  "Oh, what is this face, sae laidly old,  That looks at my side in the waters cold?"  She turns around to view the bank,  And the osier willows dark and dank;—  And from the fern she sees arise  An aged crone wi' awsome eyes,  "Ha! ha!" she laughed, "ye're a bonny bride!  See how ye'll fare gin the New Year tide!  "Ye'll wear a robe sae blithely gran',  An ell-long girdle canna span.  "When twal-months three shall pass away,  Your berry-brown hair shall be streaked wi' gray.  "And gin ye be mither of bairnies nine,  Your brow shall be wrinkled and dark as mine."  Karin she sprang to her feet wi' speed,  And clapped her hands abune her head:—  "I pray to the saints and spirits all  That never a child may me mither call!"  The crone drew near, and the crone she spake:—  "Nine times flesh and banes shall ache.  "Laidly and awsome ye shall wane  Wi' toil, and care, and travail-pain."  "Better," said Karin, "lay me low,  And sink for aye in the water's flow!"  The crone raised her withered hand on high,  And showed her a tree that stood hard by.  "And take of the bonny fruit," she said,  "And eat till the seeds are dark and red.  "Count them less, or count them more,  Nine times you shall number o'er;—  "And when each number you shall speak,  Cast seed by seed into the lake."  Karin she ate of the fruit sae fine;  'Twas mellow as sand, and sweet as brine.  Seed by seed she let them fall;  The waters rippled over all.  But ilka seed as Karin threw,  Uprose a bubble to her view,—  Uprose a sigh from out the lake,  As though a baby's heart did break.* * * * *  Twice nine years are come and gone;  Karin the fair she walks her lone.  She sees around, on ilka side,  Maiden and mither, wife and bride.  Wan and pale her bonny brow,  Sunken and sad her eyelids now.  Slow her step, and heavy her breast,  And never an arm whereon to rest.  The old kirk-porch when Karin spied,  The postern-door was open wide.  "Wae's me!" she said, "I'll enter in  And shrive me from my every sin."  'Twas silence all within the kirk;  The aisle was empty, chill, and mirk.  The chancel-rails were black and bare;  Nae priest, nae penitent was there.  Karin knelt, and her prayer she said;  But her heart within her was heavy and dead.  Her prayer fell back on the cold gray stone;  It would not rise to heaven alone.  Darker grew the darksome aisle,  Colder felt her heart the while.  "Wae's me!" she cried, "what is my sin?  Never I wrongèd kith nor kin.  "But why do I start and quake wi' fear  Lest I a dreadful doom should hear?  "And what is this light that seems to fall  On the sixth command upon the wall?  "And who are these I see arise  And look on me wi' stony eyes?  "A shadowy troop, they flock sae fast  The kirk-yard may not hold the last.  "Young and old of ilk degree,  Bairns, and bairnies' bairns, I see.  "All I look on either way,  'Mother, mother!' seem to say.  "'We are souls that might have been,  But for your vanity and sin.  "'We, in numbers multiplied,  Might have lived, and loved, and died,—  "'Might have served the Lord in this,—  Might have met thy soul in bliss.  "'Mourn for us, then, while you pray,  Who might have been, but never may!'"  Thus the voices died away,—  "Might have been, but never may!"  Karin she left the kirk no more;  Never she passed the postern-door.  They found her dead at the vesper toll;—  May Heaven in mercy rest her soul!

THE ABBÉ DE L'ÉPÉE

It was well said, by one who has himself been a leader in one of the great philanthropic enterprises of the day,18 that, "if the truthful history of any invention were written, we should find concerned in it the thinker, who dreams, without reaching the means of putting his imaginings in practice,—the mathematician, who estimates justly the forces at command, in their relation to each other, but who forgets to proportion them to the resistance to be encountered,—and so on, through the thousand intermediates between the dream and the perfect idea, till one comes who combines the result of the labor of all his predecessors, and gives to the invention new life, and with it his name."

Such was the history of the movement for the education of deaf-mutes. There had been a host of dreamy thinkers, who had invented, on paper, processes for the instruction of these unfortunates, men like Cardan, Bonet, Amman, Dalgarno, and Lana-Terzi, whose theories, in after years, proved seeds of thought to more practical minds. There had been men who had experimented on the subject till they were satisfied that the deaf-mute could be taught, but who lacked the nerve, or the philanthropy, to apply the results they had attained to the general instruction of the deaf and dumb, or who carefully concealed their processes, that they might leave them as heir-looms to their families;—among the former may be reckoned Pedro de Ponce, Wallis, and Pietro da Castro; among the latter, Pereira and Braidwood.

Yet there was wanting the man of earnest philanthropic spirit and practical tact, who should glean from all these whatever of good there was in their theories, and apply it efficiently in the education of those who through all the generations since the flood had been dwellers in the silent land, cut off from intercourse with their fellow-men, and consigned alike by the philosopher's dictum and the theologian's decree to the idiot's life and the idiot's destiny.

It was to such a work that the Abbé de l'Épée consecrated his life. But he did more than this; he, too, was a discoverer, and to his mind was revealed, in all its fulness and force, that great principle which lies at the basis of the system of instruction which he initiated,—"that there is no more necessary or natural connection between abstract ideas and the articulate sounds which strike the ear, than there is between the same ideas and the written characters which address themselves to the eye." It was this principle, derided by the many, dimly perceived by the few, which led to the development of the sign-language, the means which God had appointed to unlock the darkened understanding of the deaf-mute, but which man, in his self-sufficiency and blindness, had over-looked.