“Only women are to go!”
“There are men there.”
“Three, to manage the boat.”
“Come on, Maggie! while there’s room for us,” said he, unheeding. But Maggie drew back, and put the mother’s hand into the mate’s. “Save her first!” said she. The woman did not know of anything, but that her children were there; it was only in after days, and quiet hours, that she remembered the young creature who pushed her forward to join her fatherless children, and, by losing her place in the crowd, was jostled--where, she did not know--but dreamed until her dying day. Edward pressed on, unaware that Maggie was not close behind him. He was deaf to reproaches; and, heedless of the hand stretched out to hold him back, sprang toward the boat. The men there pushed her off--full and more than full as she was; and overboard he fell into the sullen heaving waters.
His last shout had been on Maggie’s name--a name she never thought to hear again on earth, as she was pressed back, sick and suffocating. But suddenly a voice rang out above all confused voices and moaning hungry waves, and above the roaring fire.
“Maggie, Maggie! My Maggie!”
Out of the steerage side of the crowd a tall figure issued forth, begrimed with smoke. She could not see, but she knew. As a tame bird flutters to the human breast of its protector when affrighted by some mortal foe, so Maggie fluttered and cowered into his arms. And, for a moment, there was no more terror or thought of danger in the hearts of those twain, but only infinite and absolute peace. She had no wonder how he came there: it was enough that he was there. He first thought of the destruction that was present with them. He was as calm and composed as if they sat beneath the thorn-tree on the still moorlands, far away. He took her, without a word, to the end of the quarter-deck. He lashed her to a piece of spar. She never spoke:
“Maggie,” he said, “my only chance is to throw you overboard. This spar will keep you floating. At first, you will go down--deep, deep down. Keep your mouth and eyes shut. I shall be there when you come up. By God’s help, I will struggle bravely for you.”
She looked up; and by the flashing light he could see a trusting, loving smile upon her face. And he smiled back at her; a grave, beautiful look, fit to wear on his face in heaven. He helped her to the side of the vessel, away from the falling burning pieces of mast. Then for a moment he paused.
“If--Maggie, I may be throwing you in to death.” He put his hand before his eyes. The strong man lost courage. Then she spoke:
“I am not afraid; God is with us, whether we live or die!” She looked as quiet and happy as a child on its mother’s breast! and so before he lost heart again, he heaved her up, and threw her as far as he could over into the glaring, dizzying water; and straight leaped after her. She came up with an involuntary look of terror on her face; but when she saw him by the red glare of the burning ship, close by her side, she shut her eyes, and looked as if peacefully going to sleep. He swam, guiding the spar.
“I think we are near Llandudno. I know we have passed the little Ormes’ head.” That was all he said; but she did net speak.
He swam out of the heat and fierce blaze of light into the quiet, dark waters; and then into the moon’s path. It might be half an hour before he got into that silver stream. When the beams fell down upon them he looked at Maggie. Her head rested on the spar, quite still. He could not bear it. “Maggie--dear heart! speak!”
With a great effort she was called back from the borders of death by that voice, and opened her filmy eyes, which looked abroad as if she could see nothing nearer than the gleaming lights of Heaven. She let the lids fall softly again. He was as if alone in the wide world with God.
“A quarter of an hour more and all is over,” thought he. “The people at Llandudno must see our burning ship, and will come out in their boats.” He kept in the line of light, although it did not lead him direct to the shore, in order that they might be seen. He swam with desperation. One moment he thought he had heard her last gasp rattle through the rush of the waters; and all strength was gone, and he lay on the waves as if he himself must die, and go with her spirit straight through that purple lift to heaven; the next he heard the splash of oars, and raised himself and cried aloud. The boatmen took them in--and examined her by the lantern--and spoke in Welsh--and shook their heads. Frank threw himself on his knees, and prayed them to take her to land. They did not know his words, but they understood his prayer. He kissed her lips--he chafed her hands--he wrung the water out of her hair--he held her feet against his warm breast.
“She is not dead,” he kept saying to the men, as he saw their sorrowful, pitying looks.
The kind people at Llandudno had made ready their own humble beds, with every appliance of comfort they could think of, as soon as they understood the nature of the calamity which had befallen the ship on their coasts. Frank walked, dripping, bareheaded, by the body of his Margaret, which was borne by some men along the rocky sloping shore.
“She is not dead!” he said. He stopped at the first house they came to. It belonged to a kind-hearted woman. They laid Maggie in her bed, and got the village doctor to come and see her.
“There is life still,” said he, gravely.
“I knew it,” said Frank. But it felled him to the ground. He sank first in prayer, and then in insensibility. The doctor did everything. All that night long he passed to and fro from house to house; for several had swum to Llandudno. Others, it was thought, had gone to Abergele.
In the morning Frank was recovered enough to write to his father, by Maggie’s bedside. He sent the letter off to Conway by a little bright-looking Welsh boy. Late in the afternoon she awoke.
In a moment or two she looked eagerly round her, as if gathering in her breath; and then she covered her head and sobbed.
“Where is Edward?” asked she.
“We do not know,” said Frank, gravely. “I have been round the village, and seen every survivor here; he is not among them, but he may be at some other place along the coast.”
She was silent, reading in his eyes his fears--his belief.
At last she asked again.
“I cannot understand it. My head is not clear. There are such rushing noises in it. How came you there?” She shuddered involuntarily as she recalled the terrible where.
For an instant he dreaded, for her sake, to recall the circumstances of the night before; but then he understood how her mind would dwell upon them until she was satisfied.
“You remember writing to me, love, telling me all. I got your letter--I don’t know how long ago--yesterday, I think. Yes! in the evening. You could not think, Maggie, I would let you go alone to America. I won’t speak against Edward, poor fellow! but we must both allow that he was not the person to watch over you as such a treasure should be watched over. I thought I would go with you. I hardly know if I meant to make myself known to you all at once, for I had no wish to have much to do with your brother. I see now that it was selfish in me. Well! there was nothing to be done, after receiving your letter, but to set off for Liverpool straight, and join you. And after that decision was made, my spirits rose, for the old talks about Canada and Australia came to my mind, and this seemed like a realization of them. Besides, Maggie, I suspected--I even suspect now--that my father had something to do with your going with Edward?”
“Indeed, Frank!” said she, earnestly, “you are mistaken; I cannot tell you all now; but he was so good and kind at last. He never urged me to go; though, I believe, he did tell me it would be the saving of Edward.”
“Don’t agitate yourself, love. I trust there will be time enough, some happy day at home, to tell me all. And till then, I will believe that my father did not in any way suggest this voyage. But you’ll allow that, after all that has passed, it was not unnatural in me to suppose so. I only told Middleton I was obliged to leave him by the next train. It was not till I was fairly off, that I began to reckon up what money I had with me. I doubt even if I was sorry to find it was so little. I should have to put forth
my energies and fight my way, as I had often wanted to do. I remember, I thought how happy you and I would be, striving together as poor people ‘in that new world which is the old.’ Then you had told me you were going in the steerage; and that was all suitable to my desires for myself.”
“It was Erminia’s kindness that prevented our going there. She asked your father to take us cabin places unknown to me.”
“Did she? dear Erminia! it is just like her. I could almost laugh to remember the eagerness with which I doffed my signs of wealth, and put on those of poverty. I sold my watch when I got into Liverpool--yesterday, I believe--but it seems like months ago. And I rigged myself out at a slop-shop with suitable clothes for a steerage passenger. Maggie! you never told me the name of the vessel you were going to sail in!”
“I did not know it till I got to Liverpool. All Mr. Buxton said was, that some ship sailed on the 15th.”
“I concluded it must be the Anna-Maria, (poor Anna-Maria!) and I had no time to lose. She had just heaved her anchor when I came on board. Don’t you recollect a boat hailing her at the last moment? There were three of us in her.”
“No! I was below in my cabin--trying not to think,” said she, coloring a little.
“Well! as soon as I got on board it began to grow dark, or, perhaps, it was the fog on the river; at any rate, instead of being able to single out your figure at once, Maggie--it is one among a thousand--I had to go peering into every woman’s face; and many were below. I went between decks, and by-and-by I was afraid I had mistaken the vessel; I sat down--I had no spirit to stand; and every time the door opened I roused up and looked--but you never came. I was thinking what to do; whether to be put on shore in Ireland, or to go on to New York, and wait for you there;--if was the worst time of all, for I had nothing to do; and the suspense was horrible. I might have known,” said he, smiling, “my little Emperor of Russia was not one to be a steerage passenger.”
But Maggie was too much shaken to smile; and the thought of Edward lay heavy upon her mind.
“Then the fire broke out; how, or why, I suppose will never be ascertained. It was at our end of the vessel. I thanked God, then, that you were not there. The second mate wanted some one to go down with him to bring up the gunpowder, and throw it overboard. I had nothing to do, and I went. We wrapped it up in wet sails, but it was a ticklish piece of work, and took time. When we had got it overboard, the flames were gathering far and wide. I don’t remember what I did until I heard Edward’s voice speaking your name.”
It was decided that the next morning they should set off homeward, striving on their way to obtain tidings of Edward. Frank would have given his only valuable, (his mother’s diamond-guard, which he wore constantly,)as a pledge for some advance of money; but the kind Welsh people would not have it. They had not much spare cash, but what they had they readily lent to the survivors of the Anna-Maria. Dressed in the homely country garb of the people, Frank and Maggie set off in their car. If was a clear, frosty morning; the first that winter. The road soon lay high up on the cliffs along the coast. They looked down on the sea rocking below. At every village they stopped, and Frank inquired, and made the driver inquire in Welsh; but no tidings gained they of Edward; though here and there Maggie watched Frank into some cottage or other, going to see a dead body, beloved by some one: and when he came out, solemn and grave, their sad eyes met, and she knew it was not he they sought, without needing words.
At Abergele they stopped to rest; and because, being a larger place, it would need a longer search, Maggie lay down on the sofa, for she was very weak, and shut her eyes, and tried not to see forever and ever that mad struggling crowd lighted by the red flames.
Frank came back in an hour or so; and soft behind him--laboriously treading on tiptoe--Mr. Buxton followed. He was evidently choking down his sobs; but when he saw the white wan figure of Maggie, he held out his arms.
“My dear! my daughter!” he said, “God bless you!” He could not speak more--he was fairly crying; but he put her hand in Frank’s and kept holding them both.
“My father,” said Frank, speaking in a husky voice, while his eyes filled with tears, “had heard of it before he received my letter. I might have known that the lighthouse signals would take it fast to Liverpool. I had written a few lines to him saying I was going to you; happily they never reached--that was spared to my dear father.”
Maggie saw the look of restored confidence that passed between father and son.
“My mother?” said she at last.
“She is here,” said they both at once, with sad solemnity.
“Oh, where? Why did not you tell me?” exclaimed she, starting up. But their faces told her why.
“Edward is drowned--is dead,” said she, reading their looks.
There was no answer.
“Let me go to my mother.”
“Maggie, she is with him. His body was washed ashore last night. My father and she heard of it as they came along. Can you bear to see her? She will not leave him.”
“Take me to her,” Maggie answered.
They led her into a bed-room. Stretched on the bed lay Edward, but now so full of hope and worldly plans.
Mrs. Browne looked round, and saw Maggie. She did not get up from her place by his head; nor did she long avert her gaze from his poor face. But she held Maggie’s hand, as the girl knelt by her, and spoke to her in a hushed voice, undisturbed by tears. Her miserable heart could not find that relief.
“He is dead!--he is gone!--he will never come back again! If he had gone to America--it might have been years first--but he would have come back to me. But now he will never come back again;--never--never!”
Her voice died away, as the wailings of the night-wind die in the distance; and there was silence--silence more sad and hopeless than any passionate words of grief.
And to this day it is the same. She prizes her dead son more than a thousand living daughters, happy and prosperous as is Maggie now--rich in the love of many. If Maggie did not show such reverence to her mother’s faithful sorrows, others might wonder at her refusal to be comforted by that sweet daughter. But Maggie treats her with such tender sympathy, never thinking of herself or her own claims, that Frank, Erminia, Mr. Buxton, Nancy, and all, are reverent and sympathizing too.
Over both old and young the memory of one who is dead broods like a dove--of one who could do but little during her lifetime--who was doomed only to “stand and wait”--who was meekly content to be gentle, holy, patient, and undefiled--the memory of the invalid Mrs. Buxton.
“THERE’S ROSEMARY FOR REMEMBRANCE.”
MR. HARRISON’S CONFESSIONS
This episodic novella was first published in 1851 and features a doctor in provincial England. It is notable for being a ‘prequel’ to Cranford.
An original illustration for the novella
MR. HARRISON’S CONFESSIONS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER XVI
CHAPTER XVII
CHAPTER XVIII
CHAPTER XIX
CHAPTER XX
CHAPTER XXI
CHAPTER XXII
CHAPTER XXIII
CHAPTER XXIV
CHAPTER XXV
CHAPTER XXVI
CHAPTER XXVII
CHAPTER XXVIII
CHAPTER XXIX
CHAPTER XXX
CHAPTER XXXI
CHAPTER I
The fire was burning gaily. My wife had just gone upstairs to put baby to bed. Charles sat opposite to me, looking very brown and handsome. It was pleasant enough that we should feel sure of spending some week
s under the same roof, a thing which we had never done since we were mere boys. I felt too lazy to talk, so I ate walnuts and looked into the fire. But Charles grew restless.
‘Now that your wife is gone upstairs, Will, you must tell me what I’ve wanted to ask you ever since I saw her this morning. Tell me all about the wooing and winning. I want to have the receipt for getting such a charming little wife of my own. Your letters gave the barest details. So set to, man, and tell me every particular.’
‘If I tell you all, it will be a long story.’
‘Never fear. If I get tired, I can go to sleep, and dream that I am back again, a lonely bachelor, in Ceylon; and I can waken up when you have done, to know that I am under your roof Dash away, man! “Once upon a time, a gallant young bachelor” - There’s a beginning for you!’
‘Well, then: “Once upon a time, a gallant young bachelor” was sorely puzzled where to settle, when he had completed his education as a surgeon - I must speak in the first person; I cannot go on as a gallant young bachelor. I had just finished walking the hospitals when you went to Ceylon, and, if you remember, I wanted to go abroad like you, and thought of offering myself as a ship-surgeon; but I found I should rather lose caste in my profession; so I hesitated, and, while I was hesitating, I received a letter from my father’s cousin, Mr. Morgan - that old gentleman who used to write such long letters of advice to my mother, and who tipped me a five-pound note when I agreed to be bound apprentice to Mr. Howard, instead of going to sea. Well, it seems the old gentleman had all along thought of taking me as his partner, if I turned out pretty well; and, as he heard a good account of me from an old friend of his, who was a surgeon at Guy’s, he wrote to propose this arrangement: I was to have a third of the profits for five years, after that, half; and eventually I was to succeed to the whole. It was no bad offer for a penniless man like me, as Mr. Morgan had a capital country practice, and, though I did not know him personally, I had formed a pretty good idea of him, as an honourable, kind-hearted, fidgety, meddlesome old bachelor; and a very correct notion it was, as I found out in the very first half-hour of seeing him. I had had some idea that I was to live in his house, as he was a bachelor and a kind of family friend, and I think he was afraid that I should expect this arrangement; for, when I walked up to his door, with the porter carrying my portmanteau, he met me on the steps, and while he held my hand and shook it, he said to the porter, “Jerry, if you’ll wait a moment, Mr. Harrison will be ready to go with you to his lodgings, at Jocelyn’s, you know;” and then, turning to me, he addressed his first words of welcome. I was a little inclined to think him inhospitable, but I got to understand him better afterwards. “Jocelyn’s” said he, “is the best place I have been able to hit upon in a hurry, and there is a good deal of fever about, which made me desirous that you should come this month - a low kind of typhoid, in the oldest part of the town. I think you’ll be comfortable there for a week or two. I have taken the liberty of desiring my housekeeper to send down one or two things which give the place a little more of a home aspect - an easy-chair, a beautiful case of preparations, and one or two little matters in the way of eatables; but, if you’ll take my advice, I’ve a plan in my head which we will talk about tomorrow morning. At present, I don’t like to keep you standing out on the steps here; so I’ll not detain you from your lodgings, where I rather think my housekeeper is gone to get tea ready for you.”
Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Gaskell Page 315
