THE LITTLE MARINER ALONE UPON THE OCEAN.
Six years! How short each succeeding round appears when one has almost
reached the mountain's top-most peak of life's upward course and knows
that soon his feet must be going rapidly down upon the other side, where
his journey ends! But almost interminable their length to the weary
little foot-sore traveler who wanders alone at its base ever looking
upward to the green spots on the hillside with restless longings. Poor
little Phebe! The first words that fell upon her unappreciative ear were
mingled with the requiem notes over departed summer, and it had come for
the sixth time since that eventful night with its soft breezes and sweet
melodies--with its beautiful flowers and singing birds, and filled the
heart of the lonely child full of the glorious sunshine. Now she could
sit upon the beach and watch the white sails that floated away over the
waters where the golden beams kept dancing and skipping about upon the
waves, and listen to the deep, low murmurings of the sea that seemed to
sing to her mysterious songs, until the angry passions within would grow
calm and fairy forms would lead her away to that far-off land where in
dreams she often wandered. Poor little Phebe! She _was_ an unfortunate
child "always in the way, never good for anything, doing nothing she
ought but always the very thing she should _not_." Never in favor, at
least with her foster-mother, who almost daily declared "that the paltry
hundred and fifty dollars didn't begin to pay for the trouble and
expense of the disagreeable child," and yet it would have been no very
easy task to compute the cost of the scanty meal which twice each day
fell to the little outcast child to whom the thriving, ambitious Mrs.
Blunt gave a shelter. Sure it was that a goodly sum was stored away in
the old oak chest which would never have been there had the "troublesome
child" not found her way into the fisherman's cottage.
True, there was nothing that was winning about the diminutive figure
with the sunburnt face. An unusual growth of thick dark-brown hair was
kept conveniently "cropped," in defiance of science or taste, close to
her well-rounded head, and a pair of large hazel eyes seemed to be
always penetrating the secret depths of hearts where no welcome greeted
them. Her dress too did not set off her little dumpy figure to the best
advantage, although it was often of the finest material, being generally
the cast-off garments of the "misses" of the Cliff House, which were
duly sent every season by a servant who was commanded to "inquire after
the little girl" and always returned with a favorable report. These the
child wore regardless of size or fitness, and as she wandered alone upon
the beach with her sad face and thoughtful eyes turned upward gazing
into the deep blue sky or away in the dreamy distance one might have
been pardoned for calling the queer little figure gnome, or witch, as
the fancy struck him.
"Where under the sun has that little imp gone to now!" exclaimed Mrs.
Blunt entering the room one day where her daughter Maria, a pale, sickly
girl of sixteen, was sitting, as she deposited her basket of vegetables
upon the bare floor in no very amiable mood.
"I do declare! She's the most provoking creature I ever saw! I told her
to have all the knives scoured before I came in from the garden and
positively there has only _two_ of them been touched and _they_ are
lying out there in the sun growing blacker than ever and she is nowhere
to be seen! I don't know _what_ to do with her! It don't do a bit of
good to whip her--not a bit--and I don't know as anything but _killing_
would effect her at all!" She smiled feebly as this last observation
fell from her lips, while the daughter laughed outright.
"No it don't!" said the girl, quickly seeing that the fury of the storm
had for the time passed and the mother was about to lift the basket and
pass into the kitchen; "it don't do a bit of good to whip her! It only
makes her mad and more willful! Suppose we try coaxing for a time just
to see how it will work. I think there is good in her but cross words
will never bring it out!"
"There is one thing about it! If we don't hear from that woman before a
great while she may go and find some one to coax her besides _me_; I
don't like her well enough to begin!"
"I presume she has not come back from Europe yet," said the daughter
musingly; then she spoke more audibly. "I wouldn't send her off yet,
Mother; remember we have almost enough for Father to buy a fishing smack
of his own, then we shall be quite rich," and the blue eyes of the pale
face lighted up with the anticipation.
"_Humph!_ Well she has got to do better than she has if she wants to
stay here!" and with this satisfactory conclusion she disappeared with
her basket through the narrow door into the kitchen. Maria quietly laid
aside her knitting and went out where upon a wooden bench standing on
one side of the humble cottage lay the neglected knives which she in a
very short time polished and put away in the narrow wicker basket on the
dresser, then taking her neatly starched sun bonnet from its nail in the
entry and placing it on her head passed out through the garden down a
narrow footpath across the common to the sea shore. She was in quest of
the truant Phebe, and well did she know where to find her. Walking along
a few rods by the sandy beach she came suddenly to the foot of a steep
ascent whose side facing the sea was almost entirely composed of
precipitous rocks unevenly thrown together, while here and there a
stunted pine or a yellow clump of moss struggled for existence. Here
too, half way down the rugged descent Phebe lay concealed in her cozy
retreat, sheltered from the summer sun by the rocks above her, with an
uninterrupted view of the boundless ocean spread out to her delighted
gaze. In a few moments Maria was sitting by her side. She did not seem
at all surprised at the presence of her visitor, but raising herself
remarked quietly: "Maria how _can_ those birds stand on the water out
there? _I_ can't do it. I wish _I_ could lie down on that wave that
keeps rocking--rocking and singing--why can't I Maria? Hark! Do they
talk to you--the waves? Did they ever say 'come here? come here?' They
do to _me_."
"You _are_ a queer child!" replied Maria impatiently, forgetting for the
time the grand purpose of her visit. "But why don't you try to be a good
girl and do as Mother wants to have you? This morning she told you to
scour the knives which you know is your work every day, and _why_ didn't
you stay and do it and not make her so cross with you?"
"'Cause--" interrupted the child; "I don't like to scour knives and I
ain't a-going to!"
"You don't like to be _whipped_ either," answered Maria; "but you know
Mother will do it if you don't mind her!"
"_I_ don't much care," said the child, shrugging her shoulders, as she
settled herself down with calm composure.
"_I_ don't care _much_. I'll be big some day, and then she won't _dare_!
O Maria, see that wave dash up on the rock, and break all to pieces.
Somehow--"
"Never mind the waves; I want to talk to you. Do you love me, Phebe?"
"Love you? What is _that_? I don't love nothing," and then starting up
and rubbing both her dirty hands across her brown forehead, an act she
always performed when some new thought flashed up from within, she
exclaimed: "O, Maria! last night, when Father and Mother thought I was
asleep in my trundle-bed, I heard her say that somebody had paid lots of
money for me or something; and then she laughed and said I didn't look
much like a 'lily,' and guessed that if my mother could see me now,
she'd be glad 'cause my name wasn't 'Lily-Pearl.' O Maria! _What_ did
she mean? '_Lily-Pearl!_' I keep saying it all the time. That's my name;
and O it's such a pretty one. Lily-Pearl! Pearls come up out of the
ocean. The teacher said so the other day, and I guess _that's_ what
makes _me_ love the sea so much. _Who_ is my mother, Maria? And what
makes you call me Phebe Blunt, when it's Lily-Pearl? I don't like it,
and I won't have such an ugly name. Tell me, who _is_ my mother?" Maria
was a long time silent, while a deeper pallor overspread her face. But
the large, wondering eyes of her interrogator were fixed intently upon
it. How _could_ she answer? It was a secret that never was to be
mentioned; yet well did she know that Phebe would never rest with this
sly peep into the exciting mystery, and it would be as well to satisfy
her now as any time, and so she said mildly:
"I don't know, Phebe, who your mother is; but she was beautiful, and
without doubt rich, and, I think, would have been very glad to have kept
you, had it not been for her proud, wicked mother, who did not think it
best, and so you came to live with us. Now, wasn't Mother kind to take
care of you when a little baby, and shouldn't _you_ try to be good, and
do as she tells you, to pay her for her trouble?"
Phebe was silent for a moment, while her thoughtful eyes were
penetrating the deep blue far away. "No," she said at last. "She might
have thrown me back into the sea, where the pearls grow. But I _knew she
wasn't my_ mother," she continued musingly, as she pointed her finger in
the direction of the cottage.
"What made you think so?" asked Maria.
"Because, if she was, she would kiss me like Lutie Grant's mother does.
She always says, 'good morning, daughter,' and kisses her when she goes
to school. I wonder what good it does, though," she continued, musingly.
"_I_ was never kissed in my life."
"That is _one_ way to love," answered Maria with a smile. "Now will you
be a good little girl if _I_ kiss you and love you?"
"Maybe so," was the laconic reply.
Maria put her arms around the child's neck and drew her towards her,
imprinting upon her lips a hearty kiss.
"Pshaw! _That's_ nothing!" she replied, disdainfully. "Is that love,
Maria?"
"No; it was a kiss. If you loved me, you wouldn't say _pshaw!_ but kiss
me as I did you. Now come, let us go to the house. Remember, I have told
you a secret about your mother and this will make us friends. You must
not tell any one, or even speak about the beautiful lady for Mother
would be very angry because I talked about it; and don't forget that you
promised to be just as good as you can be, which I am sure will be all
right, and by and by we shall all love you. Come!"
"I shan't go! She will want me to wash potatoes, or something, and I
_won't_ do it."
"But you promised that you would be a good girl if I would love you, and
this is not keeping your promise."
"O _you_ don't love me; you only want me to go home and scour knives,
and I don't like to scour knives, and I _won't_, either."
"But Mother will whip you when you do come home, and I don't like to see
you whipped; why won't you come now?"
Phebe looked at her companion with surprise. She had never heard her
talk so gently and feelingly before. For a moment she was almost tempted
to yield. Maria saw her advantage and once more urged the willful child
to accompany her. Phebe's eyes turned again towards the sea.
"O Maria, Maria! see that big wave chase the other clear up on the
sand!"
And the little dumpy form swayed to and fro while her large eyes
glistened. Maria turned hopelessly away. Her experiment had failed. "The
child is past redemption," she thought, as she walked moodily home.
Phebe sat a long time gazing out from her rocky "eyrie" by the sea,
thinking over and over again the little story to which she had just
listened, and wondering how the beautiful lady looked; and if she really
was her mother, and if, instead of being brought by an angel, as Lutie
Grant said her little sister was, she had been picked up from off the
ocean by somebody she had never seen, and so they called her
"Lily-Pearl!" By and by a sudden impulse took possession of her.
"I _must_ go and see where that sail boat was going that had just
rounded the point yonder!" It had disappeared from sight, but _where_
had it gone? With rapid steps she ascended the rocks, and ran up the
hill with her utmost speed and then descended into a broad, thick
woodland, where for a time she forgot her haste, listening to the music
of the birds and gathering wild flowers that were growing all about her.
Still she wandered on. It was past noonday when she emerged from the
woods and espied just before her, on a slight elevation, a beautiful
house--the house where she was born! There was nothing here, however, to
reveal the interesting fact to the little wanderer, and so she traveled
on, stopping only for a moment to peep through the heavy iron gate at
two pretty children who were playing in the yard, skipping and jumping
along the gravel walk; and then, as if fearful of being discovered,
started off as fast as possible, leaping down the edge of the cliff
until she reached the sandy beach far below. Here she stopped. The
pretty sail boat that had allured her hither was nowhere to be seen, and
weary and heated, she threw herself upon the ground and watched the
rising tide as it came dashing upon the beach. It had risen rapidly,
when suddenly she became aware that a dark object was floating near her
on the water. It was a small row boat often used by the inmates of Cliff
House, but which the tide had washed from its moorings, and was now with
its bow still clinging to the sandy beach, swaying impatiently at her
feet, restless as her own adventurous spirit. With a scream of delight
she sprang into the frail bark, and soon found herself floating steadily
and rapidly away from the shore. Now, for the first time, she was out
upon the waves where she had so longed to be, amid the sparkling gems
which the sunbeams were scattering all around her, while the huge
billows just beyond beckoned her to follow. A small oar lay by her feet,
and with this she caressed the ripples and drew, now and then from the
unknown depths, the dark-green seaweed that floated by.
Thus she was borne away, unmindful of the danger into which her wild
spirit was leading her, and heeding not the sun descending into the
dark, gloomy clouds that hung about his ocean bed, for she was happy
now; alone upon the boundless sea, her life had become the fairy dream
in which she had so often revelled while closeted in her rocky retreat,
from which she was floating forever.
She was no more a child, but a wave--a billow--one of those which had
sung to her so often while she sat and watched them, and her low, sweet
voice joined in the anthem of the sea as if it said--
"Rock me, Mother, gently rock me,
Sing the songs I love so well."
[Illustration]