Far down the Maine coast, in one of the many harbors of that good old State, is a picturesque little island inhabited by simple fisher folk.
Generation after generation has been born, lived, and died in this same island village, yet all the people seem to retain the customs and quaint
ways of fifty years ago; from the old, weather-worn sailor, to the youngest child among them, they seem, to an unusual degree, guileless and
simple and kindly, while to the stranger within their gates their goodness is unlimited. It is like a reminiscence of bygone days to partake of their
generous hospitality.
At a late hour one soft, sweet night in early summer, while sojourning for a time among these people, I noticed, far down on a point of land, that
rocky and waveworn, makes out into the sea, a strange light, that seemed to be suspended a few feet from the earth. Soft and wavering it was,
sometimes dim; but so unmistakably a light, that I was somewhat perplexed, and the next morning I asked my hostess the cause of the strange
phenomenon.
The woman’s countenance changed in an instant, and she assumed a sympathetic, pitying look as she replied, with a wise, uncanny shake of her
head, “Why, that is Mistress Marian’s light.” And so she went on and told me this story.
Away down on the point, where the brown soil of the interior of the island begins to mingle with the white sand along the sea, there was, many
years ago, a small cottage, built by a seafaring man, who, with his family, occupied it for a short time. They then removed to a neighboring shore,
and the house remained untenanted many months.
In the course of time two strangers came to the island,—an old man and his little daughter. Venerable indeed was the father, and with his snowwhite
hair and beard, and his dignified, scholarly bearing, he might have been a king among men. No one seemed to know just when or how they
came; they appeared suddenly and unexpectedly, and seemed to find relief in the quietness of the place. As a wandering meteor, travelling
through limitless space, finds rest somewhere in God’s great universe, so did these two strangers find a dwelling-place in this secluded spot.
To the little uninhabited cottage on the point they went, and the simple life of the islanders became their life. They became a part, and still not a
part, of the fisher folk. The dignified old man was so unlike any one whom they had ever seen before that they were shy of him; and long though he
lived among them, quietly assisting the needy, and lending a helping hand to all, they were never quite at ease with him, though they worshipped
him from afar. It was as though he breathed a rarer atmosphere than they, and dwelt above them; and they were content to accept his kindness
and to marvel at his greatness.
Not so the child, with her soft brown eyes and her gentle, winning manner. “A lady born and bred, she is,” the good dames said, one to another,
many times. But she was a child, strangely alone, so the motherly arms were opened to her, and the children made this little Marian their
playmate.
They seemed to be people of means,—this father and daughter. The cottage was furnished comfortably, even luxuriously, and many books, some
of them in quaint and curious bindings, were about. On the low walls hung several pictures, the like of which the islanders had never seen before;
rich rugs covered the bare floors; a piece of rare Eastern embroidery was flung over a low couch; upon an oddly carved shelf were some bits of
china, delicate and fragile, as though fashioned from rose leaves; while everywhere in the tiny house were evidences of refinement. From what
faraway land the strangers came, or why they sought refuge on the little island, they themselves never said, nor were they ever questioned. The
people, with their simple faith and childlike credulity, accepted the fact of their coming as they did all the good things that befell them,—thankful,
asking naught.
So these two lived on in an alien land, their lives replete with the satisfaction that comes from helping others, their desire to do good satisfied by
the appreciation with which their efforts were met. Thus the little girl, the dainty Marian, grew to maidenhood, learning much from her father and his
books, but more from Nature: of the sea with its wonderful treasures; of the rocks that she loved, gaunt and gray though they were; of flowers and
fishes and birds. She learned, too, much of human nature—the kindly side—from the people about her; and their interests she made hers. Every
mother on the island felt a deep affection for her, and her young mates were proud to be called her friends. She was a constant surprise to them.
The dainty gowns that she fashioned for herself, out of strange fabrics, were marvels; even her language seemed somehow different from theirs;
and when a stranger chanced to visit the little building where they gathered on Sundays for worship, “our young lady,” brown-eyed “Mistress
Marian,” was always pointed out with secret pride. So she grew to pure and noble womanhood, winning respect and admiration from all.
The lads of the village were filled with unspeakable delight when she spoke to them in her sweet, low voice. Not one of them but that would have
risked his limbs, almost his life, for anything that she wanted,—a wild-flower, a stone, or a bright bit of seaweed. Yet for none of them had she
more than a word or a smile, except for tall, manly Phil Anderson. From her childhood she had seemed to set him apart from all others as a hero;
and when he came to her out on the rocks one sweet summer night, when the moon was softly shining and the sea was bright with the
phosphorescent gleam, and told her of his love for her, she accepted it quietly and trustfully.
It was a happy summer for the two, passing all too quickly. When autumn came, Phil was to sail with his father on one more voyage—to make his
fortune, he said; then he was coming back to marry Marian and to take her away into the great world of which they were never tired of talking.
So the weeks slipped by. October came. The trees donned their gayest colors; each bush took its own particular, matchless tint, and the breakers
dashed high in the cool breeze, as though to speed the parting, which was even then at hand. One bright, cool morning Phil went down to the little
house to say good-by. Tremblingly the old man bade the brave young sailor farewell, then sent him out to the rocks—the place of their betrothal—
where Marian was waiting. Silently he took her in his strong arms, kissed her soft hair, her forehead and her sweet red lips, then turned and strode
quickly away, as though he could not trust his courage longer.
A year passed, bringing two letters to Marian from her lover, telling her of such success as even his fondest hopes had failed to picture. At the end
of the third year, just after another letter had come, telling her that the Watersprite was homeward bound, and happiness seemed in store for her,
her father died. For months the old man had been slowly failing, living only in his daughter’s happiness. Now that she did not need him longer, he
seemed to lose all power of holding on to his life, and one evening passed quietly away with the setting of the sun.
The grief of the young girl was well-nigh unbearable. The only bright thing that life seemed to hold for her was the fact that her lover was on his way
to her. So she waited anxiously, longingly, expecting tidings every day. But after the third letter no news came.
As the days lengthened to weeks, and the weeks to months, the islanders were filled with apprehension and forebodings. A gloom settled over
the people, which even the lingering Indian summer failed to brighten; and when, one bleak November day, beneath a darkening sky, a strange
vessel came into the harbor with tidings that the gallant Watersprite had sunk and every soul on board had perished, it was almost a relief to the
anxious watchers. Certainty, though hard to bear, was better than hope deferred.
Gently did sympathetic friends tell the mournful news to the lonely girl at the point; but dazed and bewildered, she did not seem to comprehend
their meaning. For days she lay in a kind of stupor, unheeding everything, even the presence of the kind old dame who watched by her side night
and day with tear-dimmed eyes. Only when the waves dashed loudest would the girl stir uneasily, raising her head as though listening for some
one’s coming.
At last she awoke from her long sleep, coming back once more to life and to her senses; but the beautiful hair was as white as the foam that
dashed against the rocks she used to love, and the dark eyes looked large and mournful beneath the snowy wealth. As strength slowly came back
to her, so also came the firm conviction that her lover was not dead, but would one day return to her. So firm was her faith that she grew cheerful,
almost happy. Once more she assumed her duties,—clothing little children, ministering to the sick and aged, helping weary housewives. There
was not a person on the island who had not at one time or another felt her kindly influence or her strong, stimulating presence.
Every night at dusk, after her day’s work was done, she would place a large bright light in the window of the little sitting-room that looked toward
the harbor, leaving the curtain drawn aside, so that should he for whom she watched come at night, he would find her still waiting for him. Not a
night did she fail in this most important of all her duties. Her light was a bright beacon. Sailors soon learned to know it and look for it, and they
never looked in vain; it was always there, steady, clear, unwavering.
Thus passed several years, when suddenly, mysteriously, without a shadow of warning, Mistress Marian disappeared. As silently as years ago
she had entered the life of the fisher folk, so now did she leave it; and as they knew not then whence she came, neither did they know now whither
she went.
There were many conjectures as to her strange disappearance. One old sailor affirmed that one night when he was out fishing he saw a little boat
come from the point, bearing a solitary passenger with snow-white hair, who rowed out toward a large ship that could be dimly seen, as through a
fog, and was taken on board; then the huge ship quickly vanished. But as this old man was well known to take his black bottle with him on his
fishing expeditions, and as no other person could be found who saw the wonderful ship, his story did not gain the credence that its ingenuity
deserved. The most of the people inclined to the belief that she had gone back to her father’s relatives; but how, when, or where, not even the old
woman who lived with her could tell.
A decade or two passed, and the old house in its exposed locality grew more and more weatherworn and dilapidated; and finally, one winter,
doubtless feeling that its time of usefulness had passed, it succumbed to fate and, during a heavy gale, fell to the ground. Some of the timbers
were washed away, others were used for fire-wood by campers and fishermen; so that after a time nothing remained to mark the spot where the
cottage had been, save a few damp, moss-covered logs.
But still in this same place on quiet summer nights during the hot sultry time of July and August,—the time when the Watersprite was said to have
perished,—this weird, white, uncertain, trembling light, a few feet from the ground, is at times plainly seen. Not all the scientific explanations of
wiser heads can convince the simple villagers that this strange light is any other than Marian’s beacon for her sailor lover, or shake their faith in
the plausibility of a story handed down from successive generations.
The merriest sailing party, rounding the point of a sweet summer night, will become subdued at the sight of the light, while the timid maiden will
nestle closer to the skipper at the helm, as she says in awe-struck tones, “See! Mistress Marian’s light is still burning.”
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