Rensselaer Republican, Volume 17, Number 48, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 6 August 1885 — FLORENCE’S ADVENTURE. [ARTICLE]

FLORENCE’S ADVENTURE.

BY H. LENNON.

“Dearest, I am afraid you are dull here with only your grandfather and myself to keep you company,” said Mrs. Danvers to her niece, a girl of 18. “What will you do this stormy afternoon —no callers, the piano out of tune, and your grandfather laid up with goui?” It was a somewhat dreary prospect for a young girl used to a large family and lively house, and Florence Danvers had been feeling rather as if she had wandered into a forgotten, corner of the world; but now her grandmother’s question roused her, and she tried to answer cheerfully. “Oh, granny 1 dear, don’t mind me; I’m all right; it is very kind of you to be troubled with me while the children get over their scarlatina; it is a pity it looks so gray out of doors, but it does not rain, and I think I will just take a race and see what the sea is like; it will freshen me up, and then I will come in and do my letter writing.” “Don’t go far, my dear,” said Mrs. Danvers, “for it is hardly fit for you, the wind is to high.” • v But Florence was out of the room before the old lady’s sentence was finished, and in another two minutes was making her way to the cliffs, her bead bent down, and her cloak held tightly round her in a fierce contest with the wind. At first her thoughts' were rather gloomy. “Another month down here? How can I survive it ? If only mother had let me visit at the Deighs instead; I would not mind if I was doing any one any good,” she said to herself, “but the old folks are quite happy together without me; and, in fact, it rather worries them to have to amuse me. There , I could have had masters, and gone on with my music, or indeed I would far rather have stayed at home; Jpm not afraid of the fever, and I could have sat up with little Laura, now nurse is so worn out. But here one seems to do no good with one’s life; I have only to eat and drink, and take a walk and go to bed.” And Florence heaved a deep sigh. ■».- She had been reading a good deal lately upon the idle, useless lives girls often lead, and she was in a hurry, now that she was released from the schoolroom, to try and do better, to-be very useful in this world, and then, just to spoil it all, as she thought, came this banishment to Sandham, her grandfather’s place. Nothing to do indoors or out. She could not help wondering why God had allowed her to be sent there when He knew how anxious she was to do some good in the world. So she wandered on till she felt chilly, and mended her pace. By and by, for something to do, she bent her steps toward the cottage of an old woman who lived at the Point, as the place was called, where the cliffs took an abrupt turn westward. Bridget More was bedridden, and always glad for some one to chat with. This time, however, Florence was amazed and distressed to find the usually cheerful Irish woman sobbing most bitterly over a scrap of paper which she pushed into Florence’s hand as s*he entered, being unable to speak. It contained a few lines from the surgeon of the infirmary in the nearest town. “Your son, Bobert More, has been brought here suffering from concussion of the brain, having fallen off the cliffs near the town.” “Gheer up Bridget,” said Florence, cheerfully, “it may not be so sad. My father fell off his horse last year and had concussion of the brain, but he got welt I will ask my grandfather to send to the infirmary to ask afler.HoberL But how shall you manage without him ? Who will attend to you now ? You must have a little girl from the village” And Florence began to wonder who could be found to wait on the old woman. But Bridget tried to stop her sobs while she said: “It isn’t Robert frets me, Miss Danvers ; I do not so much mind that—the lad’s had many a crack on the head afore now, but it’s the light, miss. He ought to be here to see to it, and I can't stir to do it.” and she sobbed, and wept afresh. Robert, the old woman’s son, had charge of the lighthouse, which stood on a rock easily reached at low water. His duties were very simple, consisting merely of supplying the light with oil. That morning he had chanced to break the vessel containing the reserve oil, and had gone to town in quest of more when he had met with his accident On the cottage table stood the broken jar with a small remnant of oil in the bottom. “He said the light would, run down to-night” sobbed the poor woman, “and this bad weather there’ll be vessels on the rock afore morning, and my Robert will have to bear the blame, and he . sick in bed.” . , “Isn’t there enough oil there {o run the light till morning ?* asked Florence, pointing to the jar. “Ay, sure; but never a soul has been near me since the bit of a child dropped the notes and ran off, and me tied to my bed like a log.” “Let me fetch a man from the village,” said Florence •

But the old woman shook her head. I “The time wouldn’t serve,” she said, | “thia west wind, if a bodyran straight for their lives, they couldn’t only just \ get there and back before’ the tide 1 comes in.” “I will go,” said Florence, “there is time for that; I know all about it I Robert showed me how to put the oil 1 into the lamp the day grandfather and 1 I went over there;” and she took the I pitcher in her band. “The key. I Bridget. Ab, I see it;” and before 'the old woman could get out the blessings, fears, and warnings, which quickly followed another, Florence had left the cottage, carefully guarding the oil-can. The path wound down the cliff, then skirted its . base, and finally passed along the ridge of rock running some fifty yards out to sea. This last was very slippery, as it was covered with water at high tide. Florence went bravely on, however, only once stopping to gain breath, when the wind caught her hat and blew it far away. She did not attempt tc recover it, for she already heard the roar of the advancing tide and saw the white breakers approaching far toe near the lighthouse. - —— As quick as she could she pressed on. At last she reached the tower, unlocked the door and made her way up the steep stairs. As she said, she perfectly understood the simple process of feeding the lamp, and her work was soon done. When she left the lighthouse, locking the door behind her, her heart fell ten times lighter than it, had done an hour before, though a sense of shame came over her at the rememherance of her late discontent “I almost reproached God for sending ing-'me to Sardham,” she thought, “and He had this work for me to do. How wicked, how foolish I was 1” But Florence had little time for reflecting on her past conduct; she was very unpleasantly called to the present by a dash of spray in her face and a rush of water at her feet; the tide had so advanced that every now and then a wave leaped over the ridge shf was passing along. Evidently there was no tithe to be lost. She tried to hasten on, but the wind battling with her cloak sadly retarded her, and her loosened hair blew w’ildly across her face. She pushed bravely forward, though now ankle deep in water, cheering herself with the thought that when she got on the level beach she could get on faster. She would then, too, be further removed, she thought, from the boiling waters which seethed angrily around this rocky ridge and stunned her with their noises. Suddenly a dreadful mist seemed tc dim her eyes—she turned deadly pale —could this yard’s width of sand be all the footing left her ? Had the tide come in so quickly as to swallow up the rest of the beach? It was too true, and before the terrified girl had staggered on a few paces homeward an angry wave dashed over her, almost throwing her against the rocks. She cast a despairing glance upward, but the cliff in that part was too steep for human foot. She felt almost paralyzed with fear. Though she tried to cry for help she could forn no sound. Another and another wave struck her. Just then some voice in the distance seemed to cry, “Back! turn back!” and she had just sense enough left to follow the direction. With difficulty she made her way back to the ridge, which, being a little higher than the beach, still gave a footing. There just as self-possession was failing her she felt herself seized by a man’s arm and dragged hastily through what seemed a sea of boiling water toward the cliff, farthest from the point. There the strip of beach was a little wider, and for a second she would have stayed to gain breath; but the man urged her on, telling her there was not a second to loose. “We must make for the old pier,” he said hoarsely. Florence struggled on, and at times saved only from being swept away by her stronger companion. Her strength was fast ebbing away, and hope again deserted her, when the blessed sight of the old pier met her eyes. She made a violent effort, and, half dragged by her companion, clung to one of the wet seaweed-hung timbers. “There’s naught for us but to climb this,” said the man, “hold tight, while I go first and drag thee after.” How* Florence ever managed to follow her guide, and how she reached the crazy pier above, she never could tell. “Saved at last, and thank God for it,” said the man who helped her. But Florence had no strength even to say amen.

Not for some days was she able tc tell her tale to her terrified relatives. They had taken her on the. evening oi her adventure, wet and half senseless, without cloak or hat, from the arms oi the man who had rescued her, and who described how he had seen the dangerous position of the girl on the beach as he was walking on the cliff above, and instantly made the best of his way toward her. Fortunately he knew the ground, and knew that he could get down the cliffs near the old pier. Robert More, when he came to his senses the day after the accident, begged so earnestly that some one Should be sent to look after the lighthouse and his bedridden mother, thata : trusty person was dispatched for the purpose. A ■ Old Bridget was discovered halfstarved (no one having been near her since Florencie’s hasty visit the afternoon before), but quite contented since the lighthouse had seat its beams into her cottage window all night. Nothing will ever persuade Bridget that Miss Florence is not the heroine that ever trod the earth, and despite much headshaking over the dangers) their ’ darling had passed through, Mr. and Mrs. Danvers are oi the same opinion. Florence sees now that no place is too dull,or too small to do gpod in, whether it be the tiny matter of teaching a child to read, or the greater one of securing the safety oi ships laden with men’s lives. There is always work to be had for the earnest laborer. Good works are not a. matter of time and place, butiwilh—*»PAiiadeiphia Call. , \ A birt;-fancier in New York says that not less than 69,000 canaries are sold there every year, realizing at least SIOO,OOO. The trade in other birds brings the. gross sale up to $250,000-