among themselves, as they watched him pace the long piazzas alone,
or saw him swinging in his hammock with eyes dreamily fixed on the
blue bay before him.
Miss Scott only smiled when curious questions were asked her, and
said she hoped John would find his mate some time, for he deserved
the best wife in the world, having been a good son and an honest boy
for six-and-twenty years.
“What is it, Captain,--a steamer?” asked Mr. Fred, as he came by the
cottage one August afternoon, with his usual escort of girls, all
talking at once about some very interesting affair.
“Only a sail-boat; no steamers to-day,” answered Captain John,
dropping the glass from his eye with a start.
“Can you see people on the Island with that thing? We want to know
if Ruth is at home, because if she isn't we can't waste time going
over,” said Miss Ellery, with her sweetest smile.
“I think not. That boat is Sammy's, and as there is a speck of red
aboard, I fancy Miss Ruth is with him. They are coming this way, so
you can hail them if you like,” answered the sailor, with “a speck
of red” on his own sunburnt cheek if any one had cared to look.
“Then we'll wait here if we may. We ordered her to bring us a
quantity of bulrushes and flowers for our tableaux to-night, and we
want her to be Rebecca at the well. She is so dark, and with her
hair down, and gold bangles and scarlet shawls, I think she would do
nicely. It takes so long to arrange the 'Lily Maid of Astolat' we
MUST have an easy one to come just before that, and the boys are
wild to make a camel of themselves, so we planned this. Won't you be
Jacob or Abraham or whoever the man with the bracelets was?” asked
Miss Ellery, as they all settled on the steps in the free-and-easy
way which prevailed at the Point.
“No, thank you, I don't act. Used to dance hornpipes in my young
days, but gave up that sort of thing some time ago.”
“How unfortunate! Every one acts; it's all the fashion,” began Miss
Ellery, rolling up her blue eyes imploringly.
“So I see; but I never cared much for theatricals, I like natural
things better.”
“How unkind you are! I quite depended on you for that, since you
wouldn't be a corsair.”
“Fred's the man for such fun. He's going to startle the crowd with a
regular Captain Kidd rig, pistols and cutlasses enough for a whole
crew, and a terrific beard.”
“I know Ruth won't do it, Floss, for she looked amazed when I showed
her my Undine costume, and told her what I wanted the sea-weed for.
'Why, you won't stand before all those folks dressed that way, will
you?' she said, as much scandalized as if she'd never seen a
low-necked dress and silk stockings before;” and Miss Perry tossed
her head with an air of pity for a girl who could be surprised at
the display of a pretty neck and arms and ankles.
“We'll HIRE her, then; she's a mercenary wretch and will do anything
for money. I won't be scrambled into my boat in a hurry, and we MUST
have Rebecca because I've borrowed a fine pitcher and promised the
boys their camel,” said Miss Ellery, who considered herself the
queen of the place and ruled like one, in virtue of being the
prettiest girl there and the richest.
“She has landed, I think, for the boat is off again to the wharf.
Better run down and help her with the bulrushes, Fred, and the rest
of the stuff you ordered,” suggested Captain John, longing to go
himself but kept by his duty as host, Aunt Mary being asleep
upstairs.
“Too tired. Won't hurt her; she's used to work, and we mustn't
pamper her up, as old ladies say,” answered Mr. Fred, enjoying his
favorite lounge on the grass.
“I wouldn't ask her to act, if you'll allow me to say so,” said
Captain John, in his quiet way. “That sort of thing might unsettle
her and make her discontented. She steers that little craft over
there and is happy now; let her shape her own course, and remember
it isn't well to talk to the man at the wheel.”
Miss Perry stared; Miss Ray, the sharp girl, nodded, and Miss Ellery
said petulantly,--
“As if it mattered what SHE thought or said or did! It's her place
to be useful if we want her, and we needn't worry about spoiling a
girl like that. She can't be any prouder or more saucy than she is,
and I shall ask her if only to see the airs she will put on.”
As she spoke Ruth came up the sandy path from the beach laden with
rushes and weeds, sun-flowers and shells, looking warm and tired
but more picturesque than ever, in her blue gown and the red
handkerchief she wore since her old hat blew away. Seeing the party
on the cottage steps, she stopped to ask if the things were right,
and Miss Ellery at once made her request in a commanding tone which
caused Ruth to grow very straight and cool and sober all at once,
and answer decidedly,--
“I couldn't anyway.”
“Why not?”
“Well, one reason is I don't think it's right to act things out of
the Bible just to show off and amuse folks.”
“The idea of minding!” and Miss Ellery frowned, adding angrily, “We
will pay you for it. I find people will do anything for money down
here.”
“We are poor and need it, and this is our best time to make it. I'd
do most anything to earn a little, but not that;” and Ruth looked as
proud as the young lady herself.
“Then we'll say no more if you are too elegant to do what WE don't
mind at all. I'll pay you for this stuff now, as I ordered it, and
you needn't bring me any more. How much do I owe you?” asked the
offended beauty, taking out her purse in a pet.
“Nothing. I'm glad to oblige the ladies if I can, for they have been
very kind to me. Perhaps if you knew why I want to earn money, you'd
understand me better. Grandpa can't last long, and I don't want the
town to bury him. I'm working and saving so he can be buried
decently, as he wants to be, not like a pauper.”
There was something in Ruth's face and voice as she said this,
standing there shabby, tired, and heavy-laden, yet honest, dutiful
and patient for love's sake, that touched the hearts of those who
looked and listened; but she left no time for any answer, for with
the last word she went on quickly, as if to hide the tears that
dimmed her clear eyes and the quiver of her lips.
“Floss, how could you!” cried Miss Ray, and ran to take the sheaf of
bulrushes from Ruth's arms, followed by the rest, all ashamed and
repentant now that a word had shown them the hard life going on
beside their idle, care-free ones.
Captain John longed to follow, but walked into the house, growling
to himself with a grim look,--
“That girl has no more heart than a butterfly, and I'd like to see
her squirm on a pin! Poor Ruth! we'll settle that matter, and bury
old Ben like an admiral, hang me if we don't!”
He was so busy talking the affair over with Aunt Mary that he did
not see the girl flit by to wait for her boat on the beach, having
steadily refused the money offered her, though she accepted the
apologies in the kindest spirit.
The beach at this hour of the day was left to the nurses and maids
who bathed and gossiped while the little people played in the sand
or paddled in the sea. Several were splashing about, and one German
governess was scolding violently because while she was in the
bath-house her charge, a little girl of six, had rashly ventured out
in a flat-bottomed tub, as they called the small boats used by the
gentlemen to reach the yachts anchored in deep water.
Ruth saw the child's danger at a glance, for the tide was going out,
carrying the frail cockleshell rapidly away, while the child risked
an upset every moment by stretching her arms to the women on the
shore and calling them to help her.
None dared to try, but all stood and wrung their hands, screaming
like sea-gulls, till the girl, throwing off shoes and heavy skirt
plunged in, calling cheerily, “Sit still! I'll come and get you,
Milly!”
She could swim like a fish, but encumbered with her clothes and
weary with an unusually hard day's work, she soon found that she did
not gain as rapidly as she expected upon the receding boat. She did
not lose courage, but a thrill of anxiety shot through her as she
felt her breath grow short, her limbs heavy, and the tide sweep her
farther and farther from the shore.
“If they would only stop screaming and go for help, I could keep up
and push the boat in; but the child will be out presently and then
we are lost, for I can't get back with her, I'm afraid.”
As these thoughts passed through her mind Ruth was swimming stoutly,
and trying by cheerful words to keep the frightened child from
risking their main chance of safety. A few more strokes and she
would reach the boat, rest a moment, then, clinging to it, push it
leisurely to shore. Feeling that the danger was over, she hurried on
and was just putting up her hands to seize the frail raft and get
her breath when Milly, thinking she was to be taken in her arms,
leaned forward. In rushed the water, down went the boat, and out
splashed the screaming child to cling to Ruth with the desperate
clutch she dreaded.
Both went under for a moment, but rose again; and with all her wits
sharpened by the peril of the moment, Ruth cried, as she kept
herself afloat,--
“On my back, quick! quick! Don't touch my arms; hold tight to my
hair, and keep still.”
Not realizing all the danger, and full of faith in Ruth's power to
do anything, after the feats of diving and floating she had seen her
perform, Milly scrambled up as often before, and clung spluttering
and gasping to Ruth's strong shoulders. So burdened, and conscious
of fast-failing strength, Ruth turned toward the shore, and bent
every power of mind and body to her task. How far away it seemed!
how still the women were,--not one even venturing out a little way
to help her, and no man in sight! Her heart seemed to stop beating,
her temples throbbed, her breath was checked by the clinging arms,
and the child, seemed to grow heavier every moment.
“I'll do what I can, but, oh, why don't some one come?”
That was the last thought Ruth was conscious of, as she panted and
ploughed slowly back, with such a set white face and wide eyes fixed
on the flag that fluttered from the nearest cottage, that it was no
wonder the women grew still as they watched her. One good Catholic
nurse fell on her knees to pray; the maids cried, the governess
murmured, “Mein Gott, I am lost if the child go drowned!” and clear
and sweet came the sound of Captain John's whistle as he stood on
his piazza waiting to row Ruth home.
They were nearly in, a few more strokes and she could touch the
bottom, when suddenly all grew black before her eyes, and
whispering, “I'll float. Call, Milly, and don't mind me,” Ruth
turned over, still holding the child fast, and with nothing but her
face out of water, feebly struggled on.
“Come and get me! She's going down! Oh, come, quick!” called the
child in a tone of such distress that the selfish German bestirred
herself at last, and began to wade cautiously in. Seeing help at
hand, brave little Milly soon let go, and struck out like an
energetic young frog, while Ruth, quite spent, sank quietly down,
with a dim sense that her last duty was done and rest had come.
The shrill cries of the women when they saw the steady white face
disappear and rise no more, reached Captain John's ear, and sent him
flying down the path, sure that some one was in danger.
“Ruth--gone down--out there!” was all he caught, as many voices
tried to tell the tale; and waiting for no more, he threw off hat
and coat, and dashed into the sea as if ready to search the Atlantic
till he found her.
She was safe in a moment, and pausing only to send one girl flying
for the doctor, he carried his streaming burden straight home to
Aunt Mary, who had her between blankets before a soul arrived, and
was rubbing for dear life while John fired up the spirit lamp for
hot brandy and water, with hands that trembled as he splashed about
like an agitated Newfoundland fresh from a swim.
Ruth was soon conscious, but too much exhausted to do or say
anything, and lay quietly suffering the discomforts of resuscitation
till she fell asleep.
“Is Milly safe?” was all she asked, and being assured that the child
was in her mother's arms, and Sammy had gone to tell Grandpa all
about it, she smiled and shut her eyes with a whispered, “Then it's
all right, thank God!”
All that evening Captain John paced the piazza, and warned away the
eager callers, who flocked down to ask about the heroine of the
hour; for she was more interesting than Undine, the Lily Maid, or
any of the pretty creatures attitudinizing behind the red curtains
in the hot hotel parlor. All that night Aunt Mary watched the deep
sleep that restored the girl, and now and then crept out to tell her
nephew there was nothing to fear for one so strong and healthful.
And all night Ruth dreamed strange dreams, some weird and dim, some
full of pain and fear; but as the fever of reaction passed away,
lovely visions of a happy place came to her, where faces she loved
were near, and rest, and all she longed for was hers at last. So
clear and beautiful was this dream that she waked in the early dawn
to lie and think of it, with such a look of peace upon her face that
Aunt Mary could not but kiss it tenderly when she came in to see if
all was well.
“How are you, dear? Has this nice long sleep set you up again as I
hoped?”
“Oh yes, I'm quite well, thank you, and I must go home. Grandpa will
worry so till he sees me,” answered Ruth, sitting up with her wet
hair on her shoulders, and a little shiver of pain as she stretched
her tired arms.
“Not yet, my dear; rest another hour or two and have some breakfast.
Then, if you like, John shall take you home before any one comes to
plague you with idle questions. I'm not going to say a word, except
that I'm proud of my brave girl, and mean to take care of her if she
will let me.”
With that and a motherly embrace, the old lady bustled away to stir
up her maid and wake John from his first nap with the smell of
coffee, a most unromantic but satisfying perfume to all the weary
watchers in the house.
An hour later, dressed in Miss Scott's gray wrapper and rose-colored
shawl, Ruth came slowly to the beach leaning on Captain John's arm,
while Aunt Mary waved her napkin from the rocks above, and sent kind
messages after them as they pushed off.
It was the loveliest hour of all the day. The sun had not yet risen,
but sea and sky were rosy with the flush of dawn; the small waves
rippled up the sand, the wind blew fresh and fragrant from hayfields
far away, and in the grove the birds were singing, as they only sing
at peep of day. A still, soft, happy time before the work and worry
of the world began, the peaceful moment which is so precious to
those who have learned to love its balm and consecrate its beauty
with their prayers.
Ruth sat silent, looking about her as if she saw a new heaven and
earth, and had no words in which to tell the feeling that made her
eyes so soft, sent the fresh color back into her cheeks, and touched
her lips with something sweeter than a smile.
Captain John rowed very slowly, watching her with a new expression
in his face; and when she drew a long breath, a happy sort of sigh,
he leaned forward to ask, as if he knew what brought it,--
“You are glad to be alive, Ruth?”
“Oh, so glad! I didn't want to die; life's very pleasant now,” she
answered, with her frank eyes meeting his so gratefully.
“Even though it's hard?”
“It's easier lately; you and dear Miss Mary have helped so much, I
see my way clear, and mean to go right on, real brave and cheerful,
sure I'll get my wish at last.”
“So do I!” and Captain John laughed a queer, happy laugh, as he bent
to his oars again, with the look of a man who knew where he was
going and longed to get there as soon as possible.
“I hope you will. I wish I could help anyway to pay for all you've
done for me. I know you don't want to be thanked for fishing me up,
but I mean to do it all the same, if I can, some time;” and Ruth's
voice was full of tender energy as she looked down into the deep
green water where her life would have ended but for him.
“What did you think of when you went down so quietly? Those women
said you never called for help once.”
“I had no breath to call. I knew you were near, I hoped you'd come,
and I thought of poor Grandpa and Sammy as I gave up and seemed to
go to sleep.”
A very simple answer, but it made Captain John beam with delight;
and the morning red seemed to glow all over his brown face as he
rowed across the quiet bay, looking at Ruth sitting opposite, so
changed by the soft becoming colors of her dress, the late danger,
and the dreams that still lingered in her mind, making it hard to
feel that she was the same girl who went that way only a day ago.
Presently the Captain spoke again in a tone that was both eager and
anxious,--
“I'm glad my idle summer hasn't been quite wasted. It's over now,
and I'm off in a few days for a year's cruise, you know.”
“Yes, Miss Mary told me you were going soon. I'll miss you both, but
maybe you'll come next year?”
“I will, please God!”
“So will I; for even if I get away this fall, I'd love to come again
in summer and rest a little while, no matter what I find to do.”
“Come and stay with Aunt Mary if this home is gone. I shall want
Sammy next time. I've settled that with the Skipper, you know, and
I'll take good care of the little chap. He's not much younger than I
was when I shipped for my first voyage. You'll let him go?”
“Anywhere with you. He's set his heart on being a sailor, and
Grandpa likes it. All our men are, and I'd be one if I were a boy. I
love the sea so, I couldn't be happy long away from it.”
“Even though it nearly drowned you?”
“Yes, I'd rather die that way than any other. But it was my fault; I
shouldn't have failed if I hadn't been so tired. I've often swum
farther; but I'd been three hours in the marsh getting those things
for the girls, and it was washing-day, and I'd been up nearly all
night with Grandpa; so don't blame the sea, please, Captain John.”
“You should have called me; I was waiting for you, Ruth.”
“I didn't know it. I'm used to doing things myself. It might have
been too late for Milly if I'd waited.”
“Thank God, I wasn't too late for you.”
The boat was at the shore now; and as he spoke Captain John held out
his hands to help Ruth down, for, encumbered with her long dress,
and still weak from past suffering, she could not spring to land as
she used to do in her short gown. For the first time the color
deepened in her cheek as she looked into the face before her and
read the meaning of the eyes that found her beautiful and dear, and
the lips that thanked God for her salvation so fervently.
She did not speak, but let him lift her down, draw her hand through
his arm, and lead her up the rocky slope to the little pool that lay
waiting for the sun's first rays to wake from its sleep. He paused
there, and with his hand on hers said quietly,--
“Ruth, before I go I want to tell you something, and this is a good
time and place. While Aunt Mary watched the flowers, I've watched
you, and found the girl I've always wanted for my wife. Modest and
brave, dutiful and true, that's what I love; could you give me all
this, dear, for the little I can offer, and next year sail with
Sammy and a very happy man if you say yes?”
“I'm not half good and wise enough for that! Remember what I am,”
began Ruth, bending her head as if the thought were more than she
could bear.
“I do remember, and I'm proud of it! Why, dear heart, I've worked my
way up from a common sailor, and am the better for it. Now I've got
my ship, and I want a mate to make a home for me aboard and ashore.
Look up and tell me that I didn't read those true eyes wrong.”
Then Ruth lifted up her face, and the sunshine showed him all he
asked to know, as she answered with her heart in her voice and the
“true eyes” fixed on his,--
“I tried not to love you, knowing what a poor ignorant girl I am;
but you were so kind to me, how could I help it, John?”
That satisfied him, and he sealed his happy thanks on the innocent
lips none had kissed but the little brother, the old man, and the
fresh winds of the sea.
One can imagine the welcome they met at the small brown house, and
what went on inside as Grandpa blessed the lovers, and Sammy so
overflowed with joy at his enchanting prospects, that he was obliged
to vent his feelings in ecstatic jigs upon the beach, to the great
amazement of the gulls and sandpipers at breakfast there.
No one at the Point, except a certain dear old lady, knew the
pleasant secret, though many curious or friendly visitors went to
the Island that day to see the heroine and express their wonder,
thanks, and admiration. All agreed that partial drowning seemed to
suit the girl, for a new Ruth had risen like Venus from the sea. A
softer beauty was in her fresh face now, a gentler sort of pride
possessed her, and a still more modest shrinking from praise and
publicity became her well. No one guessed the cause, and she was
soon forgotten; for the season was over, the summer guests departed,
and the Point was left to the few cottagers who loved to linger into
golden September.
Miss Mary was one of these, and Captain John another; for he
remained as long as he dared, to make things comfortable for the old
man, and to sit among the rocks with Ruth when her day's work was
done, listening while his “Mermaid,” as he called her, sang as she
had never sung before, and let him read the heart he had made his
own, for the lily was wide open now, and its gold all his.
With the first frosts Grandpa died, and was carried to his grave by
his old comrades, owing no man a cent, thanks to his dutiful
granddaughter and the new son she had given him. Then the little
house was deserted, and all winter Ruth was happy with Aunt Mary,
while Sammy studied bravely, and lived on dreams of the joys in
store for him when the Captain came sailing home again.
Another summer brought the happy day when the little brown house was
set in order for a sailor's honeymoon, when the flag floated gayly
over Miss Mary's cottage, and Ruth in a white gown with her chosen
flowers in her hair and bosom, shipped with her dear Captain for the
long cruise which had its storms and calms, but never any shipwreck
of the love that grew and blossomed with the water-lilies by the
sea.
POPPIES AND WHEAT
AS the great steamer swung round into the stream the cloud of white
handkerchiefs waving on the wharf melted away, the last good-byes
grew fainter, and those who went and those who stayed felt that the
parting was over,--
“It may be for years, and it may be forever,”
as the song says.
With only one of the many groups on the deck need we concern
ourselves, and a few words will introduce our fellow-travellers. A
brisk middle-aged lady leaned on the arm of a middle-aged gentleman
in spectacles, both wearing the calmly cheerful air of people used
to such scenes, and conscious only of the relief change of place
brings to active minds and busy lives.
Before them stood two girls, evidently their charges, and as
evidently not sisters, for in all respects they were a great
contrast. The younger was a gay creature of seventeen, in an
effective costume of navy-blue and white, with bright hair blowing
in the wind, sparkling eyes roving everywhere, lively tongue going,
and an air of girlish excitement pleasant to see. Both hands were
full of farewell bouquets, which she surveyed with more pride than
tenderness as she glanced at another group of girls less blessed
with floral offerings.
Her companion was a small, quiet person, some years older than
herself, very simply dressed, laden with wraps, and apparently
conscious just then of nothing but three dark specks on the wharf,
as she still waved her little white flag, and looked shoreward with
eyes too dim for seeing. A sweet, modest face it was, with
intelligent eyes, a firm mouth, and the look of one who had early
learned self-reliance and self-control.