A WHISPER OF THE OCEAN
The next day was a red-letter one in Albert's history. In the morning he
followed Uncle Terry around the circuit of his lobster traps in the
"Gypsy's" boat, with Telly as a companion, and watched the old man
hauling and rebaiting those elongated coops and taking out his hideous
prizes. The day was a perfect one, the sea just ruffled by a light
breeze, and as her first timidity had now worn away, he found Telly a
most charming companion. She not only loved the ocean that in a way had
been her playmate since childhood, but she had an artist's eye for all
its beauties. How many features, new to Albert, she called to his
attention, and how her naïve observations, so fresh and delightful, each
and all interested him, need not be quoted. It was an entirely new
experience to him, and the four hours' pull in and out of the island
coves and around isolated ledges where Uncle Terry set his traps passed
all too quickly.
"Do you know," said Albert when they had returned to the little cove
where Uncle Terry kept his boats, and as he sat watching him pick up his
morning's catch and toss them one by one into a large car, "that the
first man who thought of eating a lobster must have been almost starved.
Of all creatures that grow in the sea, there is none more hideous, and
only a hungry savage could have thought them fit for food."
"They ain't over hansum," replied Uncle Terry, "but fried in pork fat
they go middlin' good if ye're hungry."
That afternoon Telly invited Albert to row her up to a cove, at the head
of which was a narrow valley where blueberries grew in profusion. "I
want to pick a few," she said, "and you can make a sketch of the cove
while I do." It must be recorded that helping her picking berries proved
more attractive, and when her pail was full, all he did in that line was
to make a picture of her sitting in front of a pretty cluster of small
spruce trees, with the pail beside her and her sun-hat trimmed with
ferns.
"Your city friends will laugh at the country girl you found down in
Maine," she remarked as she looked at the sketch, "but as they will
never see me, I don't care."
"My friends will never see it," he answered quietly, "only my sister.
And I am going to bring her down here next summer."
"Tell me about her," said Telly at once, "is she pretty?"
"I think so," replied Albert, "she has eyes like yours, only her hair is
not so light. She is a petite little body and has a mouth that makes one
want to kiss her."
"I should like to see her ever so much," responded Telly, and then she
added rather sadly, "I've never had a girl friend in my life. There are
only a few at the Cape of my age, and I don't see much of them. I don't
mind it in the summer, for then I work on my pictures, but in winter it
is so lonesome. For days I do not see any one except father and mother
or old Mrs. Leach."
"And who is Mrs. Leach?" asked Albert.
"Oh, she's a poor old soul who lives alone and works on the fish racks,"
answered Telly, "she is worse off than I am." It was a little glimpse
into the girl's life that interested Albert, and in the light of what he
knew of her history, a pathetic one. Truly she was alone in the world,
and except for the two kindly souls who made a home for her, she had no
one to turn to.
"You will go away to-morrow, I suppose," she said with a faint tone of
regret as they were rowing home. "Father said your boat was coming after
you to-day."
He looked at her a moment, while a slight smile showed beneath his
mustache. "I suppose I shall have to," he answered, "but I should like
to stay here a month. I've not made a sketch of your house, even."
"I wish you would," she said with charming candor, "it is so lonesome
here, and then maybe you would show me a little about painting."
"Could you endure my company every day for a month?" he asked, looking
her full in the face.
"I don't believe you could endure ours," she replied, dropping her eyes,
and then she added quickly, "There is a prayer-meeting to-night at the
Cape; would you like to go?"
"Most certainly," he answered; "I can imagine it will be interesting."
Albert had expected to see the "Gypsy" in the harbor when they returned
that afternoon, but was most happily disappointed. "I hope they will
stay at Bar Harbor a week," he thought. And that evening when Telly
appeared, ready to be escorted to the prayer-meeting, he was certain
that no fairer girl was to be found at Bar Harbor, or anywhere else.
She was dressed in simple white, her masses of sunny hair half
concealed by a thin blue affair of loosely knitted wool, and had a
cluster of wild roses at her throat. It was a new and pleasurable
experience to be walking beside a well-dressed young man whose every
look and word bespoke enjoyment of her society, and she showed it in her
simple, unaffected way. "I am afraid we shall disturb the meeting," she
said with a smile, as they were walking over to the village. "The folks
will be so curious to know who you are they will sing worse than ever.
That's about all they do," she added by way of explanation,--"sing a few
hymns, and Deacon Oaks will make a prayer and Mr. Gates another. They
may call on you to give testimony," she continued, looking at Albert
archly; "will you respond?"
"Hardly," was the reply. "I always respect people's religious feelings,
but I must confess I belong to the great majority of sinners who have
never had a change of heart."
That evening's gathering was a unique one in Albert's experience, and
the religious observances such as he never forgot. The place was a
little square, unpainted building, not larger than a country
schoolhouse, and when Telly and he entered and seated themselves on one
of the wooden settees that stood in rows, not over a dozen people were
there. On a small platform in front was a cottage organ, and beside it
a small desk. A few more entered after they did, and then a florid-faced
man arose, and, followed by a short and stout young lady, walked forward
to the platform. The girl seated herself at the organ, and the man,
after turning up the lamp on the organ, opened the book of gospel hymns,
and said in a nasal tone, "We will naow commence our sarvices by singin'
the forty-third psalm, and all are requested to rise an' jine." In the
centre of the room hung a large lamp, and two more on brackets at the
side shed a weak light on the gathering, but no one seemed to feel it
necessary to look for the forty-third selection. Albert and Telly arose
with the rest, and the girl at the organ began to chase the slow tune up
and down the keys. Then the red-faced man started the singing, a little
below the key, and the congregation followed. To Albert's surprise,
Telly's voice, clear and distinct, at his side joined with the rest. A
long prayer, full of halting repetitions, by the man at the desk,
followed, and then another hymn, and after that came a painful pause. To
Albert's mind it was becoming serious, and he began to wonder how it
would end, when there ensued one of the most weird and yet pathetic
prayers he had ever listened to. It was uttered by an old lady, tall,
gaunt, and white-haired, who arose from the end of a settee close to the
wall and beneath one of the smoke-dimmed lamps. It could not be classed
as a prayer exactly, for when she began her utterance she looked around
as if to find sympathy in the assembled faces, and her deep-set piercing
eyes seemed alight with intense feeling. At first she grasped the back
of the settee in front with her long fleshless fingers, and then later
clasped and finally raised them above her upturned face, while her body
swayed with the vehemence of her feelings. Her garb, too, lent a pathos,
for it was naught but a faded calico dress that hung from her attenuated
frame like the raiment of a scarecrow. It may have been the shadowy room
or the mournful dirge of the nearby ocean that added an uncanny touch to
her words and looks, but from the moment she arose until her utterance
ceased, Albert was spell-bound. So peculiar, and yet so pathetic, was
her prayer, it shall be quoted in full as uttered:
"O Lord," she said, "I come to Thee, knowin' I'm as a worm that crawls
on the airth; like the dust blown by the winds; the empty shell on the
shore, or the leaves that fall on the ground. I come poor an' humble. I
come hungry and thirsty, like even the lowliest of the airth. I come and
kneel at Thy feet--believin' that I, a poor worm o' the dust, will
still have Thy love and pertection. I'm old, an' weary o' waitin'. I'm
humble, and bereft o' kin. I'm sad, and none to comfort me. I eat the
crust o' poverty, an' drink the cup of humility. My pertector and my
staff have bin taken from me, and yet, for all these burdens Thou in Thy
infinite wisdom hev seen fit to lay on me, I thank Thee! Thou hast led
my feet among thorns and stuns, and yet I thank Thee. Thou hast laid the
cross o' sorrow on my heart, and the burden o' many infirmities for me
to bear, and yet I bless Thee, yea, verily shall my voice be lifted to
glorify and praise Thee day and night, for hast Thou not promised me
that all who are believers in Thy word shall be saved? Hast Thou not
sent Thy son to die on the cross for my sake, poor and humble as I am?
An' fer this, an' fer all Thy infinite marcy an' goodness to me, I
praise an' thank Thee to-night, knowin' that not a sparrer falls without
Thy knowin' it, and that even the hairs of our heads are numbered.
"I thank Thee, O Lord, for the sunshine every day, and the comin' o' the
birds and flowers every season. I thank Thee that my eyes are still
permitted to see Thy beautiful world, and my ears to hear the songs o'
praise. I thank Thee, too, that with my voice I can glorify and bless
Thee fer all Thy goodness, and fer all Thy marcy. An' when the day of
judgment comes an' the dead rise up then I know Thou wilt keep Thy
promise, an' that even I, poor an' humble, shall live again, jinin'
those that have gone before, to sit at Thy feet an' glorify Thee for
life everlastin'. Fer this blessed hope, an' fer all Thy other promises,
I lift my voice in gratitude an' thankfulness an' praise to Thee, my
heavenly Father, an' to thy son, my Redeemer, to-night an' to-morrer an'
forever an' forever. Amen."
To Albert, a student of Voltaire, of Hume, of Paine, and an admirer of
Ingersoll, a doubter of scriptural authenticity, and almost a
materialist in belief, this weird and piteous utterance came with
peculiar effect. That she who uttered it had only told the tale of her
own sad life and hope he understood at once, and what was of more force,
that she believed and felt in her own heart that every word of her
recital was heard by her Creator. Albert had heard prayers and religious
exhortations without number; prayers that were incoherent, pointless,
vague, or uttered to the hearers instead of God; prayers that contained
advice to the Deity galore, but of supplication and thankfulness not a
vestige; but never before one that reached his heart and touched his
feelings as the strange and piteous supplication uttered by this weird
old lady there in the dimly-lighted room with the sad and solemn dirge
of the ocean whispering through the open windows.
The rest of the services were of little interest to him, except the fact
that Telly's voice at his side, now a little bolder than at first, led
the gospel hymns that followed. Old and time-worn they were, and yet
rendered with a zest of feeling reflected, maybe, from the plaintive
prayer of this old lady.
Our moods, and more especially our thoughts, are often turned from one
groove into another by some single word or reference that, like a little
rudder at the stern of a great ship, seems of no account. To Albert, who
for a year had had no thought except to win success amid the hard,
selfish scramble of life in a busy city, this episode, and more
especially the utter self-abnegation and piteous appeal of this poor,
ill-clad, and gaunt-faced old lady, was the tiny rudder that changed his
thoughts and carried him back to the many times when he, a boy,
exuberant in spirit, was made to kneel each night at bed-time and listen
to a loving mother's prayer. Then, too, the memory of that mother's
face, and even the very tones of her voice as she prayed that God would
guide her boy's footsteps aright, came back to him now, and into the
remembrance too was woven all of that mother's kind and patient acts;
all her earnest and good advice; all her self-denials; all the pinchings
and small economies she had endured to enable him to receive an
education, and as each and all came trooping back like so many little
hands tugging at his heart-strings and moistening his eyes, he realized
that there was needed in this hurrying, selfish life of ours something
deeper, and something beyond the skepticism of Voltaire and the
materialism of Ingersoll. And there in that dim little room, with two
dozen poorly clad and simple fisher-folk singing gospel hymns to the
accompaniment of a wheezy cottage organ, he realized that while atheism
and doubt might appeal to his intellect, it did not satisfy his heart,
and that while materialism might be a good enough theory to live by, it
was a cheerless belief to die by.
And then too, as he stole covert looks at the fair girl who stood by his
side, joining her sweet voice in "Hold the Fort," "Pull for the Shore,"
"Gathering at the River," and all the other time-worn gospel songs,
older than he was, into his heart came the first feeling, also, that she
was the one woman he had ever met whose gentle, unaffected goodness and
purity of thought was worthy of any man's devotion. But words are given
us to conceal as well as to reveal our feelings, and when the unique
little prayer-meeting was concluded with an oddly spoken benediction by
Deacon Oaks, and Albert and Telly were on their way back to the point,
his first words bore no disclosure of his feelings.
"Who was the poor old lady that prayed so fervently?" he asked; "I have
never heard anything like it since I was a boy."
"Oh, that's the Widow Leach," Telly responded; "she always acts that way
and feels so too, I guess. She is an object of pity here, and very poor.
She has no relation living that she knows of, lives alone in a small
house she owns, and works on the fish racks summers, and winters has to
be helped. Her husband and two sons were lost at sea many years ago, and
father says religion is all the consolation she has left."
"Does she always pray as fervently as she did to-night?" was Albert's
next query.
"Oh, yes, that's her way," was the answer; "father says she is a little
cracked about such matters. He pities her, though, and helps her a good
deal, and so does 'most every one else here who can. She needs it." Then
after a pause she added, "How did you enjoy the meeting, Mr. Page?"
"Well," replied Albert slowly, and mentally contrasting it with many
Sunday services when he had occupied a pew with the Nasons at their
fashionable church in Boston, "it has been an experience I shall not
soon forget. In one way it has been a pleasure, for it has taken me back
to my young days." Then he added a little sadly, "It has also been a
pain, for it recalled my mother and how she used to pray that I might
grow to be a good man."
"You are not a bad man, are you?" responded Telly at once, looking
curiously at him.
"Oh, no; I hope not," he answered, smiling, "I try to do as I would be
done by, but the good people here might think I was, maybe, because I am
not a professor of religion. For that reason I should be classed as one
of the sinners, I presume."
"Well, so is father," responded Telly, "but that doesn't make him one.
Deacon Oaks calls him a scoffer, but I know he trusts him in all money
matters, and I think father is the best and kindest man in the world. He
has been so good and kind to me I would almost lie down and die for him,
if necessary."
It was an expression of feeling that was not surprising to Albert,
knowing as he did her history, but he felt it unwise to discuss it. "How
do you feel about this matter of belief?" he asked after a pause. "Are
you what this old lady would call a believer, Miss Terry?"
"Oh, no," she replied slowly, "I fear I am not. I always go to meeting
Sundays when there is one,--mother and I,--and once in a while to the
Thursday evening prayer-meeting. I think it's because I enjoy the
singing."
When they reached the point Albert could not restrain his desire to
enjoy the society of this unaffected, simple, and beautiful girl a
little longer. The moon that Frank had planned to use was high overhead,
and away out over the still ocean stretched a broadening path of silvery
sheen, while at their feet, where the ground swells were breaking upon
the rocks, every splash of foam looked like snow-white wool.
"If it's not asking too much, Miss Terry," said Albert with utmost
politeness, "won't you walk out to the top of the cliff and sit down a
few moments, while I enjoy a cigar? The night is too beautiful to turn
away from at once."
Telly, nothing loath perhaps, assented, and they took possession of the
rustic seat where Albert had listened to her history the night before.
Perhaps a little of its pathos came to him now as he watched her sweet
face while she gazed far out to seaward and to where the swells were
breaking over a low, half-submerged ledge. And what a flood of new and
bewitching emotions came to him as he watched his fair companion, all
unconscious of his scrutiny!--and with them, a sudden and keen interest
to unravel the mystery of her parentage, and the hope that some time he
might do it. He also felt an unaccountable desire to tell her that he
knew her pathetic story, and to express his interest in it and his
sympathy for her, but dared not. "It may hurt her to know I know it," he
thought, "and I will wait till she knows me better." Instead he began
telling her about himself and his own early life, his home, his loss of
parents, his struggle to earn a living, and how much success he had so
far met. It may be considered egotism, but it was the wisest thing he
could have done, for it awakened her interest in him far more than he
realized. When his recital and cigar were both at an end and it was time
to go in, he said: "I may not have another chance to ask you, Miss
Terry, before I leave here; but when I get back to Boston may I write to
you, and will you answer my letters if I do?"
The question startled her a little, but she answered:
"I shall be pleased to hear from you, Mr. Page, and will do the best I
can in replying, only do not expect too much."
When he had bade her good night and was alone in his room, the memory of
Mrs. Leach and her pitiful prayer, coupled with Telly's pleading eyes
and sweet face, banished all thoughts of sleep, and he had to light
another cigar and watch the moonlit ocean for a half hour while he
smoked and meditated.