  Borne swiftly to the North Cape of the Bay, Still on the wings of steam the travellers went; And tenderly the purple sunset smiled Upon their journey's end; a little cottage With oaks and pines behind it, and, before, High ocean crags, and under them the ocean, Unintercepted far as sight could reach! Foliage and waves! A combination rare Of lofty sylvan table-land, and then— No barren strip to mar the interval— Old Ocean, with a diadem of verdure Crowning the summit where his reach was stayed! The shore, a line of rocks precipitous, Piled on each other, leaving chasms profound, Into whose rifts the foamy waters rushed With gurgling roar, then flowed in runlets back Till the surge drove them furiously in, Shaking with thunderous bass the cloven granite! Yet to the earth-line of the tumbled cliffs The wild grass crept; the sweet-leafed bayberry Scented the briny air; the fern, the sumach, The prostrate juniper, the flowering thorn, The blueberry, the clinging blackberry, Tangled the fragrant sod; and in their midst The red rose bloomed, wet with the drifted spray. From the main shore cut off, and isolated By the invading, the circumfluent waves, A rock which time had made an island, spread With a small patch of brine-defying herbage, Is known as Norman's Woe; for, on this rock, Two hundred years ago, was Captain Norman, In his good ship from England, driven and wrecked In a wild storm, and every life was lost. Stand on the cliff near by,—southeasterly Are only waves on waves to the horizon; But easterly, less than two miles across, And forming with the coast-line, whence you look, The harbor's entrance, stretches Eastern Point, A lighthouse at its end; a mile of land Arm-like thrust out to keep the ocean off; So narrow that beyond its width, due east, You see the Atlantic glittering, hardly made Less inconspicuous by the intervention. The cottage fare, the renovating breeze, The grove, the piny odors, and the flowers, Rambles at morning and the twilight time, Sea-bathing, joyous and exhilarant, Siestas on the rocks, with inhalations Of the pure breathings of the ocean-tide,— Soon wrought in both the maidens visible change. Each day their walks grew longer, till at last A ten-mile tramp was no infrequent one. "And where to-day?" asked Rachel, one fair morning. "To Eastern Point," said Linda; "with our baskets! For berries, there's no place like Eastern Point; Blackberries, whortleberries, pigeon-pears,— All we shall find in prodigality!" And so by what was once the old stage-road Contiguous to the shore, and through the woods, Though long abandoned save by scenery-hunters, And overgrown with grass and vines and bushes; Then leaving on their right the wooded hill Named from the rattlesnakes, now obsolete; Then by the Cove, and by the bend of shore Over Stage-rocks, by little Half-moon beach, Across the Cut, the Creek, by the Hotel, And through the village, even to Eastern Point,— The maidens went, and had a happy day. And, when the setting sun blazed clear and mild, And every little cloud was steeped in crimson, To a small wharf upon the harbor side, Along the beach they strolled, and looked across The stretch of wave to Norman's Woe;—and Linda Wistfully said: "Heigho! I own I'm tired; And you, too, Rachel, you look travel-worn, And hardly good for four miles more of road. Could we but make this short cut over water! What would I give now for a boat to take us To Webber's Cove! O, if some timely oarsman Would only come and say, 'Fair demoiselles, My skiff lies yonder, rocking on the tide, And eager to convey you to your home!' Then would I——Rachel!" "What, Miss Percival?" "Look at those men descending from the ridge!" "Well, I can see an old man and a young." "And is that all you have to say of them?" "How should I know about them? Ah! I see! Those are the two we met three weeks ago,— The day we left New York,—met in the cars." "Ay, Rachel, and their name is Lothian; Father and son are they. Who would have thought That they would find their way to Eastern Point?" "Why not, as well as we, Miss Percival? Look! To the wharf they go; and there, beside it, If I'm not much mistaken, lies a boat. The wished-for oarsman he! O, this is luck! They're going to the boat,—he'll row us over, I'll run and ask him. See you to my basket." "Rachel! Stop, Rachel! Fie, you forward girl! Don't think of it: come back! back, back, I say!" But Rachel did not hear, or would not heed, Straight to the boat she ran, and, as the men Drew nigh and stopped,—to Linda's dire dismay She went up and accosted them, and pointed To Norman's Woe,—then back to her companion,— And then, with gesture eloquent of thanks For some reply the younger man had made, She seemed to lead the way, and he to follow Along the foot-path to the granite bench Where Linda sat, abashed and wondering. And, when they stood before her, Rachel said "Miss Percival, here's Mr. Lothian; He has a boat near by, and will be glad To give us seats and row us both across." Charles Lothian bowed, and Linda, blushing, said, "Against my orders did this little lady Accost you, sir, but I will not affect Regret at her success, if you're content." "More than content, I'm very glad," said Charles; "My boat is amply large enough for four, And we are bound, it seems, all the same way. My father and myself have taken rooms At Mistress Moore's, not far from where you live: So count your obligation very slight." "An obligation not the first!" said Linda. "So much the better!" said Charles Lothian: "Come, take my arm, and let me hold your basket. What noble blackberries! I'll taste of one." "Why not of two? As many as you will?" "Thank you. You've been adventurous, it seems." "Yes, Fortune favors the adventurous: See the old proverb verified to-day!" "Praise a good day when ended. Here's my father: Father, Miss Percival!" The senior bowed, And said, "I used to know—" And then, as if Checked by a reminiscence that might be Unwelcome, he was silent, and they went All to the boat. "Please let me take an oar," Said Linda. "Can you row?" asked Charles. "A little! My father taught me." Then old Lothian Looked at her with a scrutinizing glance. The ocean billows melted into one, And that stretched level as a marble floor. All winds were hushed, and only sunset tints From purple cloudlets, edged with fiery gold, And a bright crimson fleece the sun had left, Fell on the liquid plain incarnadined. The very pulse of ocean now was mute; From the far-off profound, no throb, no swell! Motionless on the coastwise ships the sails Hung limp and white, their very shadows white. The lighthouse windows drank the kindling red, And flashed and gleamed as if the lamps were lit. "A heavenly eve!" sighed Linda, rapt in praise, As with poised oars the two looked oceanward. Then, keeping time, they pulled out from the shore. "But you row well!" cried Charles. "I might return The compliment," said Linda. "See that duck! How near, how still he floats! He seems to know The holy time will keep him safe from harm." "Had I a gun," said Charles—"You would not use it," Cried Linda, flushing. "And why not?" quoth he. "'Nobility obliges'; sym |
|
