A WALK ON THE CLIFFS.
IT is always an odd, unhomelike moment when one wakes up for the first
time in a new place. Sleep is a separation between us and all that has
gone before it. It takes a little while to recollect where we are and
how we came there, and to get used to the strangeness which had partly
worn away, but has come on again while we dreamed and forgot all about
it.
Candace experienced this when she woke in the little blue room the
morning after her arrival in Newport. She had gone to bed, by Mrs.
Gray's advice, when their long talk about manners and customs was ended,
and without going downstairs again.
"You are very tired, I can see," said Cousin Kate. "A long night's sleep
will freshen you, and the world will look differently and a great deal
pleasanter to-morrow."
Candace was glad to follow this counsel. She _was_ tired, and she felt
shy of Mr. Gray and the girls, and would rather put off meeting them
again, she thought, till the morning. Ten hours of unbroken sleep rested
her thoroughly, but she woke with a feeling of puzzled surprise at her
surroundings, and for a few moments could not gather up her thoughts or
quite recollect where she was. Then it all came back to her, and she was
again conscious of the uncomfortable sensations of the night before.
She lay a little while thinking about it, and half wishing that she need
not get up at all but just burrow under the blanket and hide herself,
like a mouse or rabbit in his downy hole, till everybody had forgotten
her blunders, and till she herself could forget them. But she said to
herself bravely: "I won't be foolish. Cousin Kate is just lovely; she's
promised to help me, and I'm sure she will. I will try not to mind the
others; but, oh dear! I wish I were not so afraid of the girls."
She jumped out of bed resolutely and began to dress, taking her time
about it, and stealing many glances out of the open window; for she knew
it must be early, and as yet there were no sounds of life about the
house. After her hair was curled, she stood for some time at the door of
the closet, debating what dress she should put on.
The choice was limited. There were only a brown plaided gingham, a blue
calico, and a thick white cambric to choose from. The latter seemed to
her almost too nice to be worn in the morning. It was the first white
dress she had ever been allowed to have, and Aunt Myra had said a good
deal about the difficulty of getting it done up; so it seemed to Candace
rather a sacred garment, which should be reserved for special state
occasions.
After hesitating awhile she put on the brown gingham. It had a little
ruffle basted round the neck. Candace tried the effect of a large blue
bow, and then of a muslin one, very broad, with worked ends; but
neither pleased her exactly. She recollected that Georgie and Gertrude
had worn simple little ruches the night before, with no bows; and at
last she wisely decided to fasten her ruffle with the little bar of
silver which was her sole possession by way of ornament, for her
mother's few trinkets had all been sold during her father's long
illness. This pin had been a present from the worldly-minded Mrs. Buell,
who so often furnished a text to Aunt Myra's homilies. She had one day
heard Cannie say, when asked by one of the Buell daughters if she had
any jewelry, "Are napkin-rings jewelry? I've got a napkin-ring." Mrs.
Buell had laughed at the droll little speech, and repeated it as a good
joke; but the next time she went to Hartford she bought the silver pin
for Cannie, who was delighted, and held it as her choicest possession.
Her dressing finished, Candace went softly downstairs. She paused at the
staircase window to look out. Cousin Kate's storm had not come after
all. The day was brilliantly fair. Long fingers of sunshine were feeling
their way through the tree-branches, seeking out shady corners and
giving caressing touches to all growing things. A book lay on the
window-bench. It was "A York and a Lancaster Rose," which little Marian
had been reading the night before. It looked interesting, and, seeing by
a glance at the tall clock in the hall below that it was but a little
after seven, Candace settled herself for a long, comfortable reading
before breakfast.
Mrs. Gray was the first of the family to appear. She swept rapidly
downstairs in her pretty morning wrapper of pale pink, with a small
muslin cap trimmed with ribbons of the same shade on her glossy black
hair, and paused to give Cannie a rapid little kiss; but she looked
preoccupied, and paid no further attention to her, beyond a kind word or
two, till breakfast was over, the orders for the day given, half a dozen
notes answered, and half a dozen persons seen on business. The girls
seemed equally busy. Each had her own special little task to do. Georgie
looked over the book-tables and writing-tables; sorted, tidied, put away
the old newspapers; made sure that there was ink in the inkstands and
pens and paper in plenty. After this was done, she set to work to water
the plant boxes and stands in the hall and on the piazza. Gertrude fell
upon a large box of freshly cut flowers, and began to arrange them in
various bowls and vases. Little Marian had three cages of birds to
attend to, which, as she was very particular about their baths and
behavior, took a long time. Candace alone had nothing to do, and sat by,
feeling idle and left out among the rest.
"I think I shall put you in charge of the piazza boxes," said Mrs. Gray,
noticing her forlorn look as she came back from her interview with the
fishmonger. "See, Cannie, the watering-pot is kept _here_, and the
faucet of cold water is just there in the pantry. Would you like to take
them as a little bit of daily regular work? They must be sprinkled
every morning; and if the earth is dry they must be thoroughly watered,
and all the seed-pods and yellow leaves and dead flowers must be picked
off. Do you feel as if you could do it?"
"Oh, I should like to," said Cannie, brightening.
"Very well. Georgie has plenty to attend to without them, I imagine. She
will be glad to be helped. Georgie, Cannie has agreed to take the care
of all the outside flower-boxes in future. You needn't have them on your
mind any more."
"That's nice," said Georgie, good-naturedly. "Then I will look after the
plants on your balcony, mamma. Elizabeth doesn't half see to them."
"Oh, mightn't I do those too?" urged Cannie. "I wish you would let me."
"Well, you can if you like. They are all watered for to-day, though. You
needn't begin till to-morrow."
"That is just as well," said Mrs. Gray; "for now that I am through with
the orders and the tradesmen, I want Cannie to come up to the
morning-room for a consultation. Georgie, you may come too. It's about
your hair, Cannie. Those thick curls are very pretty, but they look a
trifle old-fashioned, and I should think must be rather hot, like a
little warm shawl always on your shoulders all summer long." She stroked
the curls with her soft hand, as she spoke. "Should you dislike to have
them knotted up, Cannie? You are quite old enough, I think."
"No, I shouldn't dislike it, but I don't know how to do my hair in any
other way. I have always worn it like this."
"We'll teach you," cried Georgie and Gertrude, who had joined them while
her mother was speaking. "Let us have a 'Council of Three' in the
morning-room, and see what is most becoming to her."
So upstairs they went, and the girls pounced on Cannie, and put a towel
over her shoulders, and brushed out her curls, and tried this way and
that, while Mrs. Gray sat by and laughed. She would not
interfere,--though Cannie at times resisted, and declared that they
were pulling her hair and hurting her dreadfully,--for she was anxious
that the cousins should grow intimate and familiar with each other. In
fact, Cannie's shyness was quite shaken out of her for the moment; and
before the experiments were ended, and it was decided that a little bang
on the forehead, and what Marian called a "curly knot" behind, suited
her best, she felt almost at home with Georgie and Gertrude.
"There," said Georgie, sticking in a last hair-pin, "come and see
yourself; and if you don't confess that you are improved, you're a very
ungrateful young person, and that is all I have to say."
Candace scarcely knew her own face when she was led up to the
looking-glass. The light rings of hair lay very prettily on the
forehead, the "curly knot" showed the shape of the small head; it all
looked easy and natural, and as if it was meant to be so. She smiled
involuntarily. The girl in the glass smiled back.
"Why, I look exactly like somebody else and not a bit like myself," she
cried. "What _would_ Aunt Myra say to me?"
"I am going out to do some errands," said Mrs. Gray; "will you come
along, Cannie, and have a little drive?"
Mrs. Gray's errands seemed to be principally on behalf of her young
companion. First they stopped at Seabury's, and after Mrs. Gray had
selected a pair of "Newport ties" for herself, she ordered a similar
pair for Candace. Then she said that while Cannie's shoe was off she
might as well try on some boots, and Cannie found herself being fitted
with a slender, shapely pair of black kid, which were not only prettier
but more comfortable than the country-made ones which had made her foot
look so clumsy. After that they stopped at a carpet and curtain place,
where Cannie was much diverted at hearing the proprietor recommend
tassels instead of plated rings on certain Holland shades, for the
reason that "a tossel had more poetry about it somehow." Then, after a
brief pause to order strawberries and fresh lettuce, the carriage was
ordered to a milliner's.
"I want to get you a little hat of some sort," said Cousin Kate. "The
one you wore yesterday is rather old for a girl of your age. I will
retrim it some day, and it will do for picnics and sails, but you need
more hats than one in this climate, which is fatal to ribbons and
feathers, and takes the stiffness out of everything."
So a big, shady hat of dark red straw, with just a scarf of the same
color twisted round the crown and a knowing little wing in front, was
chosen; and then Mrs. Gray spied a smaller one of fine yellowish straw
with a wreath of brown-centred daisies, and having popped it on Cannie's
head for one moment, liked the effect, and ordered that too. Two new
hats! It seemed to Cannie's modest ideas like the wildest extravagance;
and after they returned to the coupe she found courage to say,--
"Cousin Kate, please, you mustn't buy me too many things."
"No, dear, I won't. I'll be careful," replied Mrs. Gray, smiling. Then,
seeing that Cannie was in earnest, she added, more seriously: "My child,
I've no wish to make you fine. I don't like finery for young girls; but
one needs a good many things in a place like this, and I want to have
you properly dressed in a simple way. It was agreed upon between Aunt
Myra and myself that I should see to your summer wardrobe after you got
here, because Newport is a better shopping-place than North Tolland; and
while we are about it, we may as well get pretty things as ugly ones. It
doesn't cost any more and is no more trouble, and I am sure you like
them better, don't you?"
"Oh, yes, indeed," replied Cannie, quite relieved by this explanation.
"I like pretty things ever so much--only--I thought--I was afraid--" She
did not know how to finish her sentence.
[Illustration: THE OLD STONE MILL.
It was a roofless circular tower, supported on round arches.--PAGE 73.]
"You were afraid I was ruining myself," asked her cousin, looking
amused. "No, Cannie, I won't do that, I promise you; and in return,
you will please let me just settle about a few little necessary things
for you, just as I should for Georgie and Gertrude, and say no more
about it. Ah! there is the old Mill; you will like to see that. Stop a
moment, John."
The coupe stopped accordingly by a small open square, planted with grass
and a few trees, and intersected with paths. There was a music-stand in
the centre, a statue on a pedestal; and close by them, rising from the
greensward, appeared a small, curious structure of stone. It was a
roofless circular tower, supported on round arches, which made a series
of openings about its base. Cannie had never heard of the Stone Mill
before, and she listened eagerly while Mrs. Gray explained that it had
stood there since the earliest days of the Colony; that no one knew
exactly how old it was, who built it, or for what purpose it was built;
and that antiquarians were at variance upon these points, and had made
all sorts of guesses about its origin. Some insisted that it was
erected by the Norsemen, who were the first to discover the New England
shores, long before the days of Columbus; others supposed it to be a
fragment of an ancient church. Others again--and Mrs. Gray supposed that
these last were probably nearest the truth--insisted that it was just
what it seemed to be, a mill for grinding corn; and pointed out the fact
that mills of very much the same shape still exist in old country
neighborhoods in England. She also told Cannie that the mill used to be
thickly overhung with ivies and Virginia creepers, and that it had never
been so pretty and picturesque since the town authorities, under a
mistaken apprehension that the roots of the vines were injuring the
masonry, had torn them all away and left the ruin bare and unornamented,
as she now saw it.
"Did you never read Longfellow's 'Skeleton in Armor'?" she asked; and
when Cannie said no, she repeated part of the poem, and promised to find
the rest for Cannie to read when they got home. Then they drove on; and
Cannie's head was so full of "Lief the son of Arnulf," the "fearful
guest," and the maiden whose heart under her loosened vest fluttered
like doves "in their nest frighted," that she could hardly bring herself
back to real life, even when Cousin Kate stopped at a famous
dress-furnisher's in the Casino Block, and caused her to be measured for
two dresses. One was of white woollen stuff, like those which Georgie
and Gertrude had worn the night before; the other, a darker one, of
cream-and-brown foulard, which Mrs. Gray explained would be nice for
church and for driving and for cool days, of which there were always
plenty in the Newport summer. She also bought a little brown parasol for
Cannie, and a tightly fitting brown jacket to match the foulard; and
altogether it was a most exciting and adventurous morning. Cannie, as
she took off her hat at home and fluffed the newly constructed "bang"
into shape with gentle finger-touches, asked herself if it could be
really only a day and a half since she said good-by to Aunt Myra in
North Tolland; and if in fact it were really herself, little Candace
Arden, to whom these wonderful things belonged, or was it some one else?
Perhaps it was all a dream, and she should presently wake up. "If it be
I, as I believe it be," was the tenor of her thought, as of the old
woman in the nursery rhyme; only Cannie had no little dog at hand to
help her to a realization of her own identity.
Into Candace's bare little cradle in the hill country had been dropped
one precious endowment. From both her father and her mother she
inherited the love of reading. If old tales were true, and the
gift-conferring fairies really came to stand round a baby's bed, each
with a present in her hand, I think out of all that they could bestow I
should choose for any child in whom I was interested, these two
things,--a quick sense of humor and a love for books. There is nothing
so lasting or so satisfying. Riches may take wing, beauty fade, grace
vanish into fat, a sweet voice become harsh, rheumatism may cripple the
fingers which played or painted so deftly,--with each and all of these
delightful things time may play sad tricks; but to life's end the power
to see the droll side of events is an unfailing cheer, and so long as
eyes and ears last, books furnish a world of interest and escape whose
doors stand always open. Winds may blow and skies may rain, fortune may
prove unkind, days may be lonely and evenings dull; but for the true
lover of reading there is always at hand this great company of
companions and friends,--the wisest, the gentlest, the best,--never too
tired or too busy to talk with him, ready at all moments to give their
thought, their teaching, to help, instruct, and entertain. They never
disappoint, they have no moods or tempers, they are always at home,--in
all of which respects they differ from the rest of our acquaintance. If
the man who invented sleep is to be blessed, thrice blessed be the man
who invented printing!
There were not many books in the old yellow farm-house at North Tolland;
but all that there were Cannie had read over and over again. Shakspeare
she knew by heart, and "Paradise Lost," and Young's "Night Thoughts,"
and Pollock's "Course of Time." She had dipped into her dead father's
theological library, and managed to extract some food for her
imagination, even from such dry bones as "Paley's Evidences" and
"Edwards on the Will and the Affections." Any book was better than no
book to her. Aunt Myra, who discouraged the practice of reading for
girls as unfitting them for any sort of useful work, used to declare
that the very sight of a book made Cannie deaf and blind and dumb.
"You might as well be Laura what's-her-name and have done with it," she
would tell her; "only I don't know where to look for a Dr. Howe or a Dr.
anybody, who will come along and teach you to develop your faculties. I
declare, I believe you'd rather read a dictionary any day than not read
at all."
"I don't know but I would," said Cannie; but she said it to herself. She
was rather afraid of Aunt Myra.
With this strong love of reading, the girl's delight may be imagined
when Mrs. Gray, true to her promise, put into her hands a great
illustrated volume of Longfellow, and left her free to dip and select
and read as long as she chose. She curled herself up on the staircase
bench, and was soon so deep in "The Skeleton in Armor" as to be quite
oblivious to all that went on below. She did not hear the bell ring, she
did not see various ladies shown into the drawing-room, or notice the
hum of conversation that followed. She never lifted her eyes when
Georgie Gray and a friend, who was no other than the identical Miss Joy
of the "Eolus," stood at the staircase foot for some moments and held a
whispered conversation; nor was she conscious of the side glances which
the visitor now and then cast up toward the brown gingham skirt visible
above. It was not till
"_Skoal!_ to the Northland! _skoal!_"
ended the poem, that her dream ended, and she roused herself to find the
callers gone and luncheon on the table.
Mrs. Gray was wont to say that they always had a meal at noon and a meal
at night; and when her husband was at home, the first was called lunch
and the second dinner, and when he was away the first was called dinner
and the second supper; and that the principal difference between them
was that at one there was soup and at the other there was not. Candace
did not particularly care what the meal was called. Under any name she
was glad of it, for sea-air and a morning drive had made her very
hungry; and this time she was on her guard, watched carefully what
others did, and made no serious blunders.
"What are you girls going to do this afternoon?" asked Mrs. Gray.
"Berry Joy has asked me to drive with her," replied Georgie; "she wants
to take her friend over to the Fort to hear the band play. You have no
objection, have you, mamma?"
"No; none at all. And you, Gertrude?"
"I haven't made any particular plan."
"Then suppose you and Candace take a walk on the Cliffs. I have to take
Marian to the dentist; but Cannie has not seen the sea yet, except at a
distance, and you both ought to have a good exercise in the fresh air,
for I am almost sure it will rain by to-morrow. You might take her to
the beach, Gertrude, and come home by Marine Avenue."
"Very well, mamma; I will, certainly," said Gertrude. But there was a
lack of heartiness in her tone. Like most very young girls she had a
strong sense of the observant eyes of Mrs. Grundy, and she did not at
all approve of the brown gingham. "I wonder why mamma can't wait till
she has made Cannie look like other people," she was saying to herself.
There was no help for it, however. None of Mrs. Gray's children ever
thought of disputing her arrangements for a moment; so the two girls set
forth, Cannie in the despised gingham, and Gertrude in a closely fitting
suit of blue serge, with a large hat of the same blue, which stood out
like a frame round the delicate oval of her face, and set off the
feathery light hair to perfection.
Their way for a little distance was down a sort of country lane, which
was the short cut to the Cliffs. It ended in a smooth greensward at the
top of a wall of broken rocks; and, standing on the edge, Cannie called
out, "Oh!" with a sense of sudden surprise and freedom.
Before her was a bay of the softest blue, with here and there a line of
white surf, where long rollers were sweeping in toward the distant
beach. Opposite, stretched a point of land rising into a low hill, which
shone in the yellow afternoon sun; and from its end the unbroken sea
stretched away into a lovely distance, whose color was like that of an
opal, and which had no boundary but a mysterious dim line of faintly
tinted sky. Sails shone against the moving water; gulls were dipping and
diving; a flock of wild-ducks with glossy black heads swam a little away
out from the shore. Beyond the point which made the other arm of the
little bay rose an island, ramparted by rocks, over which the surf
could be seen to break with an occasional toss of spray. There was a
delicious smell of soft salty freshness, and something besides,--a kind
of perfume which Candace could not understand or name.
"Oh, what is it; what can it be?" she said.
"What?"
"The smell. It is like flowers. Oh, there it is again!"
"Mamma makes believe that it is the Spice Islands," answered Gertrude,
indifferently, "or else Madeira. You know there is nothing between us
and the coast of Africa except islands."
"Really and truly? How wonderful!"
"Well, I don't see how it is so very wonderful. It just happens so. I
suppose there are plenty of sea-side places where they can say the same
thing."
"Perhaps,--but I never saw any sea-coast but this. It is all new to me."
"I suppose so," responded Gertrude, with a little yawn. She looked to
right and to left, fearing that some acquaintance might be coming to
see her in company with this rather shabby little companion. "Would you
like to walk up the Cliffs a little way, or shall we go down to the
beach?" she asked.
"Oh, let us just go as far as that point," said Candace, indicating
where, to the right, past a turnstile, a smooth gravel path wound its
way between the beautifully kept borders of grass. The path ran on the
very edge of the Cliff, and the outer turf dipped at a steep incline to
where the sharp rock ran down perpendicularly, but to the very verge it
was as fine and as perfectly cut as anywhere else. Candace wondered who
held the gardeners and kept them safe while they shaved the grass so
smoothly in this dangerous spot, but she did not like to ask. Gertrude's
indifferent manner drove her in upon herself and made her shy.
A hundred feet and more below them the sea was washing into innumerable
rocky fissures with a hollow booming sound. The cliff-line was broken
into all sorts of bold forms,--buttresses and parapets and sharp
inclines, with here and there a shallow cave or a bit of shingly beach.
Every moment the color of the water seemed to change, and the soft duns
and purples of the horizon line to grow more intense. Candace had no
eyes but for the sea. She scarcely noticed the handsome houses on her
right hand, each standing in its wide lawn, with shrubberies and beds of
dazzling flowers. Gertrude, on the contrary, scarcely looked at the sea.
It was an old story to her; and she was much more interested in trying
to make out people she knew at the windows of the houses they passed, or
on their piazzas, and in speculating about the carriages which could be
seen moving on the distant road.
"How good it is of the people who own the places to let everybody go
through them!" exclaimed Candace, when it was explained to her that the
Cliff walk was a public one.
"Oh, they can't help themselves. There is a right of way all round the
Island, and nobody would be allowed to close it. Some owners grumble
and don't like it a bit; but mamma says it is one of the best things in
Newport, and that it would be a great injury to the place to have it
taken away. The Cliff walk is very celebrated, you know. Lots of people
have written things about it."
"Oh, I should think they would. It is the most beautiful place I ever
saw."
"You haven't seen many places, have you?" observed Gertrude, rather
impolitely.
"Oh no, I never saw anything but North Tolland till I came to Newport."
"Then you can't judge."
They had now turned, and were walking eastward toward the beach. Its
line of breaking surf could be distinctly seen now. Carriages and people
on horseback were driving or riding along the sands, and groups of black
dots were discernible, which were other people on foot.
"There is Pulpit Rock," said Gertrude, stopping where a shelving path
slanted down toward a great square mass of stone, which was surrounded
on three sides by water. "Would you like to go down and sit on top for
a little while? I am rather tired."
"Oh, I should like to so much."
Down they scrambled accordingly, and in another moment were on top of
the big rock. It was almost as good as being at sea; for when they
turned their backs to the shore nothing could be seen but water and
sails and flying birds, and nothing heard but the incessant plash and
dash of the waves below.
"Oh, how perfectly splendid!" cried Cannie. "I should think you would
come here every day, Gertrude."
"Yes, that's what people always say when they first come," said the
experienced Gertrude. "But I assure you we don't come every day, and we
don't want to. Why, sometimes last summer I didn't see the Cliffs for
weeks and weeks together. It's nice enough now when there are not many
people here; but after the season begins and the crowd, it isn't nice at
all. You see all sorts of people that you don't know, and--and--well--it
isn't pleasant."
"I can't think what you mean," declared Cannie, opening her eyes with
amazement. "I'd just as soon there were twenty people on this rock, if I
needn't look at them and they didn't talk to me. The sea would be just
the same."
"You'll feel differently when you've been in Newport awhile. It's not at
all the fashion to walk on the Cliffs now except on Sunday, and not at
this end of them even then. A great many people won't bathe,
either,--they say it has grown so common. Why, it used to be the thing
to walk down here,--all the nicest people did it; and now you never see
anybody below Narragansett Avenue except ladies'-maids and butlers, and
people who are boarding at the hotels and don't know any better."
"How funny it seems!" remarked Candace, half to herself, with her eyes
on the distance, which was rapidly closing in with mist.
"What is funny?"
"Oh, I was--I was only thinking how funny it is that there should be a
fashion about coming down to such a beautiful place as this."
"I don't see how it is funny."
"Yes," persisted Candace, who, for all her shyness, had ideas and
opinions of her own; "because the Cliffs are so old and have always been
here, and I suppose some of the people who make it the fashion not to
walk upon them have only just come to Newport."
"I really think you are the queerest girl I ever saw," said Gertrude.
A long silence ensued. Each of the two girls was thinking her own
thoughts. The thickening on the horizon meanwhile was increasing. Thin
films of vapor began to blow across the sky. The wind stirred and grew
chill; the surf on the beach broke with a low roar which had a menacing
sound. Suddenly a wall of mist rose and rolled rapidly inland, blotting
out all the blue and the smile of sky and sea.
"Gracious! here's the fog," cried Gertrude, "and I do believe it's going
to rain. We must hurry home. I rather think mamma's storm is coming,
after all."