"Deal gently with her; thou art dearBeyond what vestal lips have told,And, like a lamb from fountains clear,She turns confiding to thy fold.She, round thy sweet domestic bower,The wreath of changeless love shall twine,Watch for thy step at vesper hour,And blend her holiest prayer with thine.
"Deal gently thou, when far away'Mid stranger scenes her foot shall rove,Nor let thy tender care decay—The soul of woman lives in love.And shouldst thou, wondering, mark a tearUnconscious from her eyelids break,Be pitiful, and soothe the fearThat man's strong heart may ne'er partake."—Mrs. Sigourney.
The members of the Darling family began to perceive that they had a sister of whom they might justly be proud. She had endeared herself to them all by many tender ministrations of love; and whenever they thought of home, they thought of Grace also. And when they were away from home, pursuing their different avocations on the mainland, it occurred to them that it would give Grace pleasure, and show their appreciation of her kindness, if they sent her an occasional present. Nor was there any need to hold a consultation as to what form the gift should take.
"Nothing will please Grace so much as a book," one and all would have said, had their opinion been asked.
Grace's fondness for reading was indeed well known, as also her preference for poetry. But hitherto she had been obliged to content herself with the ballads of Bamborough and the surrounding neighbourhood. Now, however, her brothers sent her such books as she could revel in—namely, the poetic works of Goldsmith, Cowper, Milton, and Shakespeare. She especially enjoyed her favourite author, Goldsmith, and passed many a pleasant hour in the lonely lighthouse-tower, reading the "Traveller" and the "Deserted Village."
But in the midst of her reading-delights, there occurred the first wedding in the family.
"Grace, will you be my bridesmaid!" was the request which Mary Ann sent to her sister, and of course it was one that could not be resisted. Was there ever a girl who did not feel delighted to attend a wedding? And the bridesmaids sometimes have the best of it; for it is not to them so solemn an occasion as it is to the bride. They are not entering upon a new and untried sphere, nor seeking to fulfil a position which may be, and is very delightful, but which carries with it a large amount of responsibility. The duties of a bridesmaid are altogether easy and pleasant, and Grace had no difficulty in consenting to take them upon herself.
But Mary Ann was not easily satisfied. "I want Grace for a week," she said. "She can help me to do many things toward getting my new home in order, and helping me with the necessary preparations with my own dress; and I am sure that a week is none too long for so much."
"Would you like to go for a week, Grace!" asked her mother.
"I never like being away from home," replied Grace, "but, upon such an occasion as this, I think Mary Ann ought to have her own way."
Everybody thought the same, and Grace accordingly arranged to go. But so endeared was the lighthouse-home to Grace Darling, and so dear was she to the hearts of the dwellers there, that although her absence was to be only a short one, yet, when she received the parting kiss of her mother, and the blessing of her father, the affectionate girl shed tears of regret at having to leave them.
Grace, however, never forgot the week that followed, nor the happy time that she spent with her sister. She listened with hearty interest and sympathy to all the hopes of the bride—to the plans that she had formed, and the resolutions she had made. She heartily entered into all that concerned Mary Ann, and was not sorry to have so good an opportunity of becoming better acquainted with her brother-in-law, whom she soon learned to love and respect. A man must need be worthy, if a loving girl is willing to give her dear sister into his keeping, and in this case Grace was not afraid. He took his new sister into his confidence, and showed her the neat and comfortable home which he had prepared for his bride, and which altogether pleased her.
"And you must come to see us as often as you can, Grace. Remember there will always be a welcome for you, come when you may."
"Thank you," said Grace. "I cannot get away from home very often, but I will come when I can. At all events I am most glad to be here now; and I know mother will be delighted to hear all that I shall have to tell. She will want to know full particulars about every table and chair in Mary's Ann's new home."
"Then you must describe everything to her; and tell her we shall not be satisfied until she and Mr. Darling have both been to see for themselves."
The looked-for day came at last; and Grace's eyes sought the face of the young man to whom her sister had given her love, and spoke to him most eloquently. "Be kind to her—she is giving up everything for your sake," said those speaking eyes. Indeed, this is what should be so whispered as to sink into the heart of every bridegroom. A woman's happiness is so entirely in the care of her husband that, if he should betray the trust, there is nothing but sorrow for her. It is well when the man realises this, and prayerfully resolves that, God helping him, he will make, and not mar the joy of the heart that loves him.
This is what the young man meant to do who married the sister of Grace Darling; and there was every probability that they would be happy.
"If you love each other and love God, you need not fear for the future," said a wise old man once to a married couple. "If troubles come, bear them together as cheerfully as you can. If pleasures come, share them with each other, and so double them. In all things acknowledge God, and keep Him before you, and all will be well."
And she whom Grace left tearfully, and with many prayers for her happiness, doubtless found the truth of this in her own experience.
Mr. and Mrs. Darling were very glad to welcome their daughter home again, and she was quite as glad to return. She found, as she expected, that the mother had many questions to ask.
"Tell me some more about Mary Ann, Grace," said she many times; and as the days were dull and wet, and there was nothing else to do, these two had leisure to talk together, and Mrs. Darling was satisfied.
She felt as all mothers do, when their daughters have left the parental roof and chosen for themselves one who shall take the place of the dear old home friends, that little remained for her to do now but to pray. Happily for us all, however, there is a power in prayer that makes it worth more to the beloved ones than any gift. And those who pray bring down blessings upon the household, though far away from it in body. One is always near; and the Father of the human family is a prayer-answering God.
"What might be done, if men were wise,What glorious deeds, my suffering brother,Would they uniteIn love and right,And cease their scorn of one another!
"Oppression's heart might be imbuedWith kindling drops of loving kindness,And knowledge pour,From shore to shore,Light on the eyes of mental blindness.
"All slavery, warfare, lies and wrongs,All vice and crime, might die together;And wine and cornTo each man bornBe free, as warmth in summer weather."—C. Mackay.
To attend to one's own business, and leave other people's alone, is a maxim that should perhaps generally be obeyed; but not always. It happens sometimes that, wrapping the cloak of selfishness about us, we not only lose an opportunity of doing good, and so forfeit our right to the joy that such an action always brings, but we are also the indirect means of bringing sorrow upon our fellow creatures. Let not that man who sees another going to destruction, either through ignorance, or weakly yielding to temptation, say calmly—"It is no business of mine to interfere." It is everybody's business to care for his brother, and by all possible means help him. It is true that he who thus acts will often find that the world is against him. He will meet with scorn and abuse where he expected thanks; and even those who trust him most may not understand him, or approve of his actions. But his duty is, nevertheless, plain—he is to be a helper of mankind. So at least thought the lighthouse-keeper, one day when his philanthropy was put to the test.
Grace was looking from the window of their sitting-room across the sea, when she saw a sight that interested her. All sorts of vessels came within sight of the Farne Islands; but it was very seldom indeed that she saw such a one as that on which her eyes delighted to gaze on this occasion. She thought, indeed, that she had never seen so stately a ship sailing on the waters, with sails all spread, and graceful motion, and a look of wealth about every part of her.
"Father, see!" she cried. "Is not this East Indiaman a magnificent ship? She sails along like a swan."
Mr. Darling looked, but just for a moment.
"Oh, what can they be thinking about!" he cried, in great consternation. "That splendid vessel, Grace, is on the point of destruction. In an hour's time there will not be water in the channel to float her, and she will be stranded on the rocks."
He was right. Unless something could be done, and that quickly, the ship was doomed; for she lay in a narrow channel which passes between the islands, and which is covered with rocks, and has no great depth of water.
Mr. Darling did not lose a moment, but hurried down to the beach, sprang into his boat, and was soon sailing over the sea on his errand of mercy. As he rowed towards the ship, he could not but admire her noble build and stately bearing. "She is riding in proud security upon the waves," he said to himself, "but, in a few minutes, she might be a wreck, lying helplessly among the flinty rocks."
There was no sign of these rocks now, however, for they were covered by the water; and when he neared the ship, it was plain to see that all the crew were comfortable and happy, believing that things were right. As soon as the lighthouse-keeper was observed, a rope was thrown to him, with which he secured his boat, and then sprang upon deck.
"Can I speak to the captain?"
"No; he is engaged."
"But it is something of importance that I wish to communicate."
"You must wait, then, for he will not listen to you at present."
Darling waited what seemed to him a very weary time before he could get the attention of the captain. At length the gentleman motioned to him to come forward.
"Well?"
Darling lifted his hat, and spoke to the captain most respectfully. "Will you excuse me, sir. You do not, perhaps, know the dangerous character of this coast as well as I do; but your magnificent vessel is in imminent peril."
"What do you mean?"
"There will not be water in another half-hour to float her. This is a rocky channel, and the ship will be wrecked, unless you get her out into the open sea while you have time."
The colour came into the captain's face, and an angry light into his eyes, and he immediately began pouring upon the lighthouse-keeper a volley of abuse.
"Be off, out of this ship at once, or I will have you thrown overboard! Why do you come here, telling such lies for the sake of a reward? I will report you to the authorities, my man, and make you wish you had minded your own business. Get away, I tell you, or it will be the worse for you."
For a moment, Darling was tempted to do as the captain told him; but the man's love of duty and conscientiousness was strong within him. He knew that the vessel, worth probably a hundred thousand pounds, would certainly go to destruction if left to pursue its course, and how could he, as a humane and honest man, allow that to occur because a captain had abused him?
He waited until the wrath of the captain had spent itself, and then, lifting his honest eyes to his face, he said—"Indeed, sir, you have mistaken your man; but I do not ask you to act on my word alone. If you examine the chart, or take soundings, I am sure you will be convinced. I hope you will be so kind as to do so, if only to prove to yourself that I am speaking the truth."
It was so reasonable, and the man seemed so much in earnest, that the captain could not well refuse to accede to this request, so he gave the order.
Darling, looking on, saw a change come over his face. He came to the lighthouse-keeper to apologise.
"I see that you were right," he said, "and beg your pardon for my rudeness. There is no time to lose; and as you are so well acquainted with the shore, will you pilot us into safe water!"
"Certainly; I will do so with pleasure."
"Of course, you will be rewarded for your trouble."
Darling was glad to help in this emergency, and he had the great joy of saving the ship and cargo. No man likes to see a valuable thing destroyed, and it may safely be said that the lighthouse-keeper experienced a most exquisite pleasure as he felt that he had been the means of preventing a terrible catastrophe. It is well, however, that 'virtue is its own reward,' for he had very little beside.
When his work was done, he went to the captain again. "She is all right now, sir, and there is no further danger, for the way is clear."
"Very good."
The captain then took from his pockethalf-a-crown, and gave it as a reward to the lighthouse-man for his solicitude and trouble!
One of the rules for the regulation of lighthouse-work is that the keeper should record the particulars of all occurrences in a journal which is provided for the purpose. Mr. Darling entered a full account of the aid he had rendered to this vessel in his book; but it shows the kindly character of the man that he did not say a word about the abuse, or the meanness of the East Indiaman's captain.
William Darling was fitted to be the father of a heroine, for he longed to do good for its own sake, and not for selfish reward. He minded his own business well; but when he saw other people in danger, he could not help wishing and trying to save them. He knew that "Prevention is better than cure," and that to save a vessel from going on the rocks was a far nobler thing to do than to assist in getting her off again, and looking after the salvage. Nor was he to be deterred from his humane and kindly purpose by scorn and lack of appreciation in others. And this little incident is worthy of record, for it shows his character, and teaches lessons to us all—lessons which, in these times of eager ambition and selfishness, are very necessary. Let us go and do likewise. If we cannot save a ship we can perhaps save a soul, if only we are patient, persevering, and filled with a loving and Christian sympathy. It is just this desire for usefulness, this willingness to be servants or ministers, and to spend and be spent for others, that the world wants now. It can do without many great men, but it needs more than ever a multitude of kindly hearts, loving spirits, and willing hands. Who will help to swell the number?
"Howe'er it be, it seems to me'Tis only noble to be good;Kind hearts are more than coronets,And simple faith than Norman blood."
"There was not on that day a speck to stainThe azure heaven, the blessed sun alone,In unapproachable divinity,Careered, rejoicing in his fields of light.How beautiful beneath the bright blue skyThe billows heave, one glowing green expanse,Save where along the bending line of shoreSuch hue is thrown, as when the peacock's neckAssumes its proudest tint of amethyst,Embathed in emerald glory! All the flocksOf ocean are abroad. Like floating foamThe sea-gulls rise and fall upon the waves.With long protruding neck the cormorantsWing their far flight aloft; and round and roundThe plovers wheel, and give their note of joy.It was a day that sent into the heartA summer feeling. Even the insect swarms,From their dark nooks and coverts, issued forthTo sport through one day of existence more.The solitary primrose on the bankSeemed now as though it had no cause to mournIts brief Autumnal birth. The rocks and shores,The forest and the everlasting hills,Smiled in that joyful sunshine; they partookThe universal blessing."—Southey.
Grace expected company!
What that meant to the lonely lighthouse-maiden, those young people who can meet their friends every evening cannot imagine. They do not like to be solitary, even for a week, but if, instead, it should be—not a week, but months and years—then the pining for companionship would indeed be intense. It has already been mentioned that, on one occasion, Grace went to the mainland to help some friends with the ingathering of the harvest. These friends were the Herberts, who lived near Bamborough, in a pleasant farmstead, and it was them whom she was expecting.
The joyous excitement of such a remarkable event, as the arrival of guests, was enough to wake the heroine of the lighthouse early in the morning. It was the first of August, and the day dawned brightly, the sun looking like a mass of burnished gold. Grace rose and cast her eyes anxiously over the sea. It was as calm as a lake, and looked as if it might be trusted to bring her friends safely to her side. There was plenty to do that day, for the lighthouse-home was to be set in order, and everything made to look its best. Grace, therefore, was up betimes, and busily at work in the rooms. But ever and anon she turned her beautiful hazel eyes to the opposite shore, searching for an object to appear like a speck upon the waters. Presently she saw what she looked for, and her heart leaped for joy.
"Mother, mother, they are coming!"
"They cannot be here yet, though," said Mrs. Darling, who saw how far away they were still.
"They will come rapidly, I know; for they are as anxious to be here as I am to see them," said Grace.
Presently they had come over the glittering sea, and were near the island. Handkerchiefs were waved then, and Grace went down to the beach to greet them as they arrived.
They were her friends, Ellen and Mary Herbert, and their brothers, Henry and George.
Grace had a warm welcome for the girls, and to the young men she held her outstretched hand.
"Now, Grace," said George, laughingly, "why are you so partial? I have as much right to a welcome as my sisters have," and with that he stooped to kiss her.
"Now, George, I am afraid you have not improved."
"No, indeed; why should I! I have been good enough always. You are not offended with me, are you, Grace?"
"With you? No, indeed! Whoever thought enough of George Herbert to be offended with him!"
"Grace, you are incorrigible; and very much too hard on a poor fellow, who has not the courage to take his own part."
Grace turned from the good-humoured and merry banter of the young man to his more serious elder brother, who stood by his side, waiting for her greeting. She held out her hand to him, and he took it, bowing respectfully, but holding it warmly in a clasp that brought a deepened colour to the cheeks of the lighthouse-girl.
"Come into the house; father and mother are waiting for you. Is not the morning lovely? I am so glad it is. I assure you I have been watching the weather most anxiously," said Grace.
"So have we. But it is a lovely August, and Grace, you must make up your mind to return with us. We do not intend to go home without you. So you had better promise at once, unless you wish us to become residents of the lighthouse."
"But I should rather like you to reside here," said Grace; "what a nice party we should make."
Mr. and Mrs. Darling received the young folks most kindly, giving them a hearty welcome, and expressing a hope that they would stay as long as possible, and have a good time.
"We shall," said Mary Herbert. "We are always happy in the Longstone lighthouse."
The father of the Herberts was Mr. Darling's friend, so that the children did but cement the friendship which the elders entertained for each other. The Misses Herbert were Grace's nearest and dearest friends, and the young people came oftener perhaps than any others to spend a few days on the island.
They had not been long in the house before Mr. Darling made a suggestion, which delighted them.
"To-morrow," said he, "I have a leisure day; and I should like to join you in an excursion. What do you say to going over to Lindisfarne?"
"I say, let us go by all means," said Mary. "If the day is as lovely as this has been, it will be a splendid opportunity for a pic-nic. Do you not all think so?"
"I do," said George; "and let us be up early, so as to have a long day. When I go to visit ruins, I do not like to be hurried.
"You will not have to wait for the girls," said Mrs. Darling. "Grace is an early riser."
"It is well to rise early, but that is not better than to spend the day well. I knew a man who was fond of praising himself, and blaming others. When he rose betimes he used to rebuke us with the words—'It is the early bird that picks up the worm;' but when he had laid longer than he intended, he excused himself by saying, 'It is not altogether the early rising, but the well spending of the day, that is of the highest importance.' Whatever he did was right in his own eyes."
"But we will do both on our holiday," said Henry; "we will rise early, and also spend the day well."
The weather on the following morning was all that could be desired. The young people were animated and merry, and there was nothing to bring a cloud over the day. They were soon among the romantic ruins on the Holy Island, having had a most enjoyable sail across the blue water.
"I think I should never tire of visiting these old places," said Henry Herbert. "They are so venerable, and therefore dear to me. Do you like them, Grace?"
"Yes, they are sombre and melancholy, but, to my mind, it is much more interesting to live amongst them than in new places. One cannot help thinking of the past, and the strange scenes that were enacted in it."
"Do you understand much about ancient architecture?"
"No, I know almost nothing of it."
"I have always been fond of it, and I think I can give you some explanation of these walls and relics."
"I shall be glad if you will," said Grace, whom nothing could delight more than the acquirement of fresh knowledge.
She spent a very pleasant time listening to the young man while he described the different characteristics of the antiquities that were before them.
"We had better seek the others," said Grace presently; "they will be wondering what has become of us."
At that moment, looking up, they saw that a stranger was passing the archway.
Excursionists were not so many in those days as they are In these, and Grace was surprised. Henry Herbert, however, looking intently at the new comer, said to his companion, "I believe it is an old school-fellow of ours, who is now studying in the University of Durham. Yes, indeed, it is he!"
The young men greeted each other with evident satisfaction, and the stranger was soon introduced to the others. He was quite an acquisition to the party, whom he was only too glad to join, as he was taking his holiday alone. They were all sorry when the pleasant day at Lindisfarne was over, and it was time to return to the Longstone lighthouse, where, however, an evening spent in the genial society of each other fitly closed the delightful day.
The next morning all rose early; and so soon as breakfast was concluded, they were eager to be afloat on the blue sea.
"George and I will each take an oar," said Henry, "and our friend will attend the ladies."
"With pleasure," replied the student, as he took his seat.
"Tell us about your foreign travels, and give us a description of the places you have visited," said Mary.
"Yes, please do," added Grace, eagerly; "that will make the time pass pleasantly indeed."
"What will you hear about—France and Paris, or Italy and Rome? Shall I describe to you my journey over the mountains, or my voyage up the Rhine?"
"Tell us anything and everything you can remember,"
"That will be said more easily than done; but I will try to tell you a few of my experiences."
Soon the pleasant sound of merry laughter floated over the sunny water, for the student was a good talker, and he gave most lively descriptions of people and places. He talked about gay Paris, until the girls wanted to go there; and of beautiful Italy and Switzerland, until their faces glowed, and their pulses beat more quickly. He told of the fortresses on the Rhine, of the pleasant holiday resorts, whose names are even more familiar to us than they were to his listeners, and for a time they almost fancied themselves sailing on other than British seas, and about to visit places which, in reality, their feet might never tread.
They were not sorry, however, to come back to Northumbria, and the resorts to which they were really going.
"Our destination is Warkworth, is it not?" asked Mary, after a time, during which the student's narrative had not been interrupted.
"Yes, we are about to enter the Coquet now."
"Where does the Coquet rise?"
"In the Cheviot hills; and it flows for forty miles through well-wooded scenery, which is called Coquetdale, and then falls into the German Ocean, below Alnwick Bay."
"You must have been studying a gazetteer lately."
"I have been; and can tell you something more of the Coquet which is interesting."
"Pray, do so."
"I know a little about it. It is famous for its salmon and trout, for which it is greatly esteemed by anglers," said one.
"Among the pebbles which it washes up, cornelians, agates, and mountain crystals, are sometimes found," said another.
"I wonder if we shall be fortunate enough to discover any of these treasures!"
"I do not care to look for them; for when there are old castles to be visited, I think a few little pebbles need not expect to be noticed."
Presently they came to the bottom of the hill on which the famous fortress of Warkworth formerly stood, and there, at the landing-place, they fastened the boat. The hill was steep, but the young people enjoyed the fun of climbing it all the more for that; when they reached the top, they were well repaid for their trouble.
"What a magnificent view!" exclaimed the student.
"Do you say so," cried Grace, "who have seen the beautiful spots in so many countries? I am myself very proud of our Northumberland, but that you should show any delight, is almost a surprise to me."
"Nay, why should it be? 'A thing of beauty is a joy for ever;' but the joy is still greater when the beautiful objects are our own."
"What splendid old ruins they are!" exclaimed Ellen.
"Yes," said George; "although the keep remains, all the rest being in ruins, it has a most imposing appearance."
"How grand it must have been before its glory passed away!"
"Yes, it must indeed! Even now it is not so gloomy as many ruins are."
"Perhaps that is because the stones keep their natural colour."
"To whom does it belong?"
"To the Percy family. We shall find their arms on several parts of the 'keep.'"
"That must have been restored, since it alone remains."
"Yes, it has been; and, indeed, it was well worthy of preservation."
"We must visit the tower, the chapel, and the baronial hall, each of which will reward inspection."
They looked at each in turn, and their admiration expressed itself in appreciative words. It would not have been satisfactory had they not visited also some of the subterranean cells.
"You must come and see the donjon keep, girls," said George.
But the girls could not repress a shudder, as they did so, for their sympathetic spirits felt for the poor prisoners who ages ago had been incarcerated in the terrible dungeon.
"You see it has no means of admission," explained the student, "but by a very narrow aperture; so that the prisoners had to be lowered into it by ropes."
"And how could they ever get back again when their term of imprisonment was over?"
"I am afraid few, if any, ever did come back again."
"How glad we ought to be that we live in times that are so very different."
"Indeed, we ought. It seems as if it can scarcely be the same world when we contrast the past with the present," said Grace.
They examined the castle very carefully, and then went to the hermitage. To reach this they had to cross the river, as it is on the opposite side.
There were wonders to delight them all; for the hermitage includes a room and chapel, cut in the solid rock. It contains the effigies of a lady and a hermit. It has been immortalised by Dr. Percy's beautiful ballad—
"Dark was the night, and wild the storm,And loud the torrent's roar,And loud the sea was heard to dashAgainst the distant shore."
"How are we to get to the hermitage?" inquired the student.
"We have to walk along this narrow footpath, close to the river."
"It is quite a romantic path."
Indeed it was; for on one side were high perpendicular rocks, on the top of which was a grove of oaks, and on the other side the pretty river.
"These oaks are very valuable, not only because of the beauty they lend to the scene, but also because they make a shelter from the sun."
"Yes, and from the wind too, in winter."
"Do you not feel as if you are treading on hallowed ground, Grace? I experience emotions among ruins felt nowhere else."
Both she and Henry Herbert felt a delight in being there, and the former especially tried to people the scene as it was of old, and realise the days of the far-away time which it represented.
"There is a spring issuing from a rock, and the water is cool and most delicious. Try it for yourselves."
They found it very refreshing; and having drunk some, they entered the chapel. It is very beautiful, decorated like a cathedral, and almost perfect.
"Each proper ornament was thereThat should a chapel grace,The lattice for confession framed,And holy water vase."
"Is it not a wonderful place?" exclaimed the girls; "it is all in good condition—the altar is quite entire."
"And so is the monument to Isabel Widdrington."
It was with difficulty that they could bring themselves to leave a place so interesting on account of its hallowed associations; but as they wished also to visit Dunstanborough, they could not delay their departure.
Dunstanborough Castle stands upon a bold basaltic rock, and is thirty feet above the sea-level It is supposed to have been built by the Lancaster family, in the year 1315, and the Yorkists destroyed it after the battle of Hexham. It has never been rebuilt, and nothing is left of it but its outer walls.
"It looks a very melancholy place," was the opinion expressed by the holiday folks, "and very fierce and warlike."
"Perhaps that is partly because of the black frowning rock on which it stands," suggested one.
"How very rugged the shore is; and what a quantity of sea-weed," said Ellen Herbert; and, indeed, it was not easy to move over the broken cliffs, since the accumulation of wrack made it dangerous.
"We must go and see the Rumble Churn," said one, who knew what a treat it would be to those who had never seen it.
"It is an immense chasm, four hundred feet in length and fifty in depth," continued the informant.
They regarded it with awe and wonder. The sea came rushing in with a tremendous roar, bursting and boiling into foam, and seeming as if it would leap over the tower, and submerge the hill altogether. It has been said of it—"The breaking of the waves into foam over the extreme points of the rocks, the heavy spray, the noise of the disturbed waters, and the foam whose echo returns through the towers, are most awful and sublime."
Of course, such ruins as those of Northumbria could not exist without having many interesting legends attached to them; and with one of these the student was acquainted, and this he resolved to narrate to the party.
When the young people had been sufficiently awed by looking into Rumble Churn, it was time for them to partake of refreshment and rest.
"Shall I tell you the legend of the Wandering Knight of Dunstanborough Castle?" then asked the student, to which inquiry a chorus of eager voices responded in the affirmative—the girls declaring that to hear it there, among the very ruins, would be most delightful.
"In ages gone by," then began the young man, "a Red Cross Knight, returning from the holy land, sought shelter from the storm beneath the ruined archway of the castle—
"A braver knight ne'er trod afarThe hallowed fields of Salem's war."
Suddenly there fell upon his ear the tolling of a convent bell; and scarcely had the sound died away, ere a long loud shriek proceeded from the ponderous walls of the castle. The startled knight grasped his ready sword—the gates flew open, and a light appeared from a lamp held by a shadowy hand. A hollow voice addressed the awe-struck knight, conjuring him, if his heart were inaccessible to fear, and if unmoved he could look upon danger's wildest form, to follow; for within the desolated castle a lovely maid was spell-bound, and his might be the power to break the enchantment which bound her there.
"Lead on," the gallant knight replied. Preceded by the magic lamp, the knight passed through the silent court, the chapel, and at last the vaults where reposed the ashes of the departed dead. They entered a magnificent hall, lighted with bright burning lamps, outvieing in number the stars of heaven. A hundred columns descended from the lofty roof, and to each of these was tied a bronze charger, mounted by a marble warrior, fully armed. In the centre of the apartment was a mystical altar, composed of emeralds, and inlaid with diamonds, and upon this stood a crystal globe, encircled with a wreath of coral. Kneeling within the circle was a youthful maiden, surpassing in loveliness the brightest imagery of Eastern poets.
"Long gazed the knight on this captive bright,And thus at length began—'O, Lady, I'll dare for thee whateverMay be done by mortal hand!'"
Not a word in reply proceeded from the lips of the beauteous lady. At length the hollow tone of the awe-inspiring guide broke upon the death-like stillness, revealing that the lady should not be freed from the spell that bound her till some daring hand should unsheathe the magic sword, or blow the mystic horn worn by a giant warrior, who kept guard by the magic vase. If the Red Cross Knight would attempt the deed, the choice of drawing the sword, or blasting the horn; was left to himself; but on whichever he decided, on no account must he cast it from him, or a dark and fearful doom would be his fate.
"After a momentary hesitation, the knight drew from its scabbard the ponderous sword; but scarcely had he done so than upsprung the giant of marble, and blew a blast so loud and fearful as to awaken a thousand echoes. With a deafening noise each sable charger pawed the pavement, and the riders, unsheathing their glittering brands, rushed on to attack the single warrior, who, with shuddering horror, beheld the magic sword had become a living serpent. Forgetful of his guide's commands, he flung it from him, and drew forth his own well-tried blade. In a moment the lights faded into total darkness, and the haunted hall became as silent as a grave. A groan of anguish first broke upon the stillness, and next a voice of anger, in hollow murmurs, spoke—
"'Devoted wretch! whose coward handForsook the consecrated brand,When one bold thrust, or fearful stroke,At once the powerful spell had broke,And silently dissolved in airThe mock array of warriors there—Now take thy doom, and rue the hourThou look'dst on Dunstanborough tower!Be thine the canker of the soul,That life yields nothing to control!Be thine the mildew of the heart,That death alone can bid depart!And death—thine only refuge—beFrom age to age forbidden thee!'"
"A blow from the giant then stretched the pale warrior senseless upon the marble floor. In that deep trance he remained till the dawn of morning; and when he awoke, all the pageantry of the previous evening was gone, and he lay beneath the ruined portal—himself arrayed in wretched weeds, and his gallant courser, which had borne him unharmed amid the din of battle, gone. Centuries have passed by, yet still the wandering knight lingers amid the desolate towers of Dunstanborough, vainly attempting to gain an entrance to the enchanted hall."
They all thanked the student, as they rose to leave, and one of the girls remarked that she wished she could see the wandering knight.
It was now time to return home, and they all walked down to the boat, the student keeping by the side of Grace, and enjoying an earnest conversation, which left pleasant memories on the minds of both to recall and dwell upon in after-days. Neither did they soon forget the sail over the water. The moon was shining brightly, and threw its path of light across the rippling sea. There was no fun, and but little conversation, for all were tired; but there was not one of them but would be the better for the peaceful hours thus spent.
The next day the Herberts went home; but the holidays and pleasant social intercourse did not even then come to an end.
"You know you are to return with us, Grace," said Miss Herbert.
"I should like to do so, for some reasons very much, but"—
"But what!"
"I do not care to leave home, and be away from my father and mother," said Grace.
"Now, Grace, you must not be foolish. You will appreciate your home all the more for having been absent from it for a time," said Miss Herbert.
"And a change will be good for you," urged her sister.
"Besides, you can help us very much with the harvest again this year. We shall begin to-morrow," said George.
Grace hesitated; and it was not until her parents, though admitting that they would miss her very much, and that the lighthouse would be most lonely when she had gone, yet pressed her to go for a few days, that she consented.
She found the "adieus" very difficult to utter, when she went away, for she was a home-loving girl.
"You will be sure to send for me, mother dear, if you should particularly want me," she said.
"Yes, Grace, you may be sure of our doing so."
"When the last moment really came, she was even then half inclined to go back to the lighthouse instead of into the boat, which was waiting for her, though she knew that she would greatly enjoy the visit.
"You will have to put Grace into the boat yourself, Mr. Darling," said Mary. "Here is room for her beside me."
Mr. Darling took the hint, and lifted his daughter in his arms and seated her by the side of Miss Herbert; and the next moment the boat was dancing merrily over the waves.
The warm welcome which our heroine received from Mr. and Mrs. Herbert, showed that they cherished a kindly affection for her. She was made to feel indeed how glad they were to receive her as their guest, by the care which they exhibited to make her thoroughly happy and comfortable, In this they were seconded by all the members of their family, among whom the gentle lighthouse-maiden was a decided favourite.
"You have come from play to work, Grace," they said, "for we shall begin harvest operations to-morrow."
But Grace replied that such work would be as good as play to her. At least they would be carrying on the pleasures which they had begun on the Farne Islands, and in the neighbourhood; for if they could not take excursions, they would all be together, and their work at any rate would be done merrily enough. There was one missing, however; for, on the night of their arrival at Mr. Herbert's, the young student left them for the Highlands of Scotland, where he intended to spend part of his vacation. Grace did not forget him, for he was one of whom she often spoke pleasantly as long as she lived; and such a holiday as they had spent together, though short, had been very delightful, and would be sure to be remembered by one whose life was on the whole very uneventful, until the great event occurred.
The harvest fields of the Herberts presented a most lively appearance; for a large number of country girls, and active young men, were engaged in them. They reaped the fields in those days with the sickle; and had not come to our own times, when the work is mostly done by a machine, and all the music, poetry, and pleasure, seem to have gone out of the operation. Harvest-time used to be of all the year the most merry and joyous. Masters and men were then on the best of terms, and worked together in harmony. Friendship seems too often quite left out of the contract now, when people do their work by steam, and have not time, as they seem to think, to cultivate good fellowship.
In Grace Darling's time, as we have said, there were merry days in the harvest-field, and she herself very gladly helped. Indeed, all hands had to assist, and it was only by so doing that the harvest could be gathered in time. But the reaping, and binding into sheaves, and carrying home, as well as the gleaning, were done with so much merriment that it was like a pic-nic out of doors. Good bread and cheese, and brown ale, would be served to the labourers, and they would see by many signs that their employers felt a kindly sympathy with them, as well as a personal, and not altogether disinterested solicitude in their work.
And so the good harvest was gathered in, and then, when the last sheaf was set up, and the laden waggon went slowly away from the bare fields, the harvest-home was celebrated.
Who that has lived a country life for many years, does not remember with pleasure those merry feasts? The Herberts had one of the best, and really old-fashioned kind. Everybody was invited, and nobody thought of declining that invitation. Master and men met together as equals, and the tables were heaped with good cheer. No slow and solemn feasts were those of the harvest homes. Laughter, loud and long, was heard continually, and the hilarity became somewhat tumultuous as the evening advanced. Mr. Herbert's granary was taken possession of, and the party adjourned there for a dance. The two best fiddlers of the neighbourhood were engaged for the occasion, and they struck up a lively reel The young people were quite ready for a good country dance, and they indulged in it to their heart's content. Dance succeeded dance, until it was wonderful that they could longer continue, even at that pleasant pastime. But had they grown tired a new impetus would have been given to the festivities by the appearance of Mrs. Herbert, with her daughters and Grace. At the moment when they entered, George was leading to her seat a pretty rosy-cheeked girl, with whom he had been dancing, but, on seeing the lighthouse-maiden, he went immediately to her side, and solicited her to become his partner for the rest of the evening. After that the villagers began again, and kept up the mirth until late at night, when they returned to their homes much gratified with their pleasant entertainment.
Every girl has a romance, and Grace had her's. The attentions of George Herbert had been those of a brother, but during this visit they partook of a warmer character. He lingered by her side, occasionally pressing her hand with a warmth that brought the blood to her cheeks, and made her turn away from his glances. She understood what was meant; and it is almost certain that her heart was in a measure touched by that which she saw in him. But she did not mean to yield. She loved her home and her parents; and knowing what she was to them, she resolved not to encourage the attentions of any lover. George Herbert was generous and kind—too generous and kind for her to wish to give him pain, and she therefore contrived, as most women can, and all gentle and modest women will, if possible, under such circumstances, to prevent him from acknowledging his love. She must have refused him had he made a declaration; but he was her friend, and she did not wish to wound him. She therefore showed unmistakably that his feeling for her was not returned, and the young man was not slow to take the hint.
At length the holiday was over, and the time came for Grace to return home. She knew that her father would bring the boat over for her, and she therefore went down to the shore to meet him. When she saw him tears of joy came into her eyes; and as soon as he stepped on the beach, she clung to him with fondest emotion.
"Are you ready to come home, Grace?" he asked.
"Yes, father, quite ready. I have had a very happy time, but there is no place like home. How is mother, and has the time seemed long to her as to me?"
"She is well, but is wishing for your return. Are Mr. and Mrs. Herbert at home?"
"Yes, and they are both waiting to receive you. Come with me."
He went, leaning on his daughter's arm, and feeling the exquisite pleasure of a parent whose children are lovely and good, and loving and beloved. When he reached the house, he was most warmly welcomed by the Herberts, who told him, however, that they did not like to spare Grace so soon; but as her father had the greatest right to her, they supposed they must submit.
"Come and look at my stacks, Darling," said Mr. Herbert; and the two men had a walk together. The lighthouse-keeper greatly enjoyed an opportunity of holding intercourse with his fellow men, and was not sorry to have this errand. George was busy preparing his fowling-piece for the next day, for it was the 12th of August, and he was much gratified at Mr. Darling's admiration of his spaniels, two beautiful creatures, that fawned about their master, and showed their attachment to him by caresses. George was unusually gay—too gay, indeed, to be quite natural and Grace sighed, as she saw him.
"There is nothing like shooting," he said; "I shall have some most happy hours on the moors with my gun and dog. There is nothing like a free unfettered life, such as the sportsman loves. I delight in it, and would exchange it for no other.
"He is not in the least distressed at my going away," thought Grace; "and yet he seemed to care for me. If he did, his love is not worth having; for if he were sincere and faithful, he could not so soon cast me off. I am glad I do not care for him, if such is his character."
But Grace sighed as she said it, even to herself. In thus judging, however, she did him great injustice; for a closer observer might have seen that his spirits were forced, and his gaiety assumed. He did feel, and most acutely; but he was a manly young fellow, and did not intend his heart to be broken by any girl. Therefore, not seeing that his affections were reciprocated, he determined, with a decision of character that was peculiar to him, to overcome the feelings that could only be productive of pain. He was resolved, too, that he would conceal from her the fact that he was affected by her indifference. He could not quite do as he wished, however, for he was too honest to be a good dissembler, and his voice faltered, and his hand trembled, as he uttered a hurried good-bye. His emotions imparted the most painful regret to Grace, whose eyes filled with tears when she turned to bid farewell to the rest. They—Ellen, Mary, and Henry, went down to the water, and there affectionately parted from their friend. Long after the boat had left the shore, she saw them watching its progress over the waves. But though she looked eagerly for George, she could not see him. Immediately after uttering his adieus he hastily disappeared; and though she would like to have had one more look, it was not to be. That Grace was disappointed was evident from the deep sigh that escaped her; but like a sensible girl, she turned her thoughts away from this painful subject to the home-love that was waiting for her.
"I think, father," said she, "that our home on the Longstone rock, is the very best and loveliest that any one could have; and that I should be quite content to stay in it always."
"I am glad you feel so, Grace, for we do not want to lose you," said her father, fondly.
Assuredly that bright little island, which lay like a gem in the midst of the sunny ocean, was an object which was calculated to awaken admiration in a less partial and enthusiastic mind than that of Grace Darling. The laughing waves were flowing with a soft and tranquil motion, and gently laving the pebbly shore. Sea-birds were skimming the waves, their graceful plumage gilded by the setting sun, and ever and anon darting beneath the waters. The sky was serene and beautiful, tinged with the rich and glorious hues of a summer's evening; and the orb of light was retiring to rest, reflecting a bright and splendid halo around him.
The feelings of Grace became so animated and joyous as she neared home, that it was with difficulty that she could keep her seat. When at last she reached the shore, she bounded up the ragged pathway with a light step, and was soon within the well-known walls. She had never before thought her home looked so bright and cheerful; so true is it that there is a charm about the place where we dwell with our own kindred, however humble, which is never experienced anywhere else, even among the most beautiful and picturesque scenery.
"There blend the ties that strengthenOur hearts in hours of grief,The silver links that lengthenJoy's visits when most brief.
"Then dost thou sigh for pleasure?Oh do not wildly roam;But seek that hidden treasureAt home—dear home!"