Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  One evening, the widow’s children were sharing with their mother the scanty supper of chestnut bread and goats’ milk, when the ruddy gleam of light which the setting sun cast through the open lattice was suddenly intercepted by a dark shadow, and on looking up to ascertain the cause, they beheld a stranger, of pale and ghastly countenance, wrapped in a soiled and blood-stained soldier’s cloak. His eyes were sunken, his cheek hollow, and his whole appearance bespoke the extremes of misery and famine. In broken Spanish, he requested a morsel of bread and a cup of water; but it was with the look of one who did not expect to receive what he asked for.

  Paula drew back with a feeling almost of dread as the French accent fell upon her ear; the remembrance of her suffering country, of her dead husband, and all the woes she had lately witnessed, rushed upon her mind. “How can the destroyer of our corn-fields, of our vineyards, and our flocks, ask food at our hands? the murderers of our husbands and children seek our protection? the ruthless levellers of our hamlets look for shelter beneath our roof?” — thus was she about to exclaim; but, touched by the expression of hopeless wretchedness in the unfortunate soldier, she checked the unkind words.

  At this moment the young Antonia, who had been regarding the poor stranger with tearful eyes, approached him, and placing in his hands her yet untasted supper, said, “take this; it is all the French have left us.”

  “God reward you, my child,” murmured the soldier; and sinking upon a vacant bench by the cottage-door, and covering his face with his hands, he burst into tears.

  A really benevolent heart cannot look on distress unmoved; and Paula, now forgetting the national hatred which existed among her people, remembered only the words of Him, who has commanded us to love our enemies, and to do good to those who hate and despitefully use us; who has said, “if thy enemy hunger, give him bread; if he thirst, give him drink.” “And shall I refuse the cup of cold water which he has asked, and which my Redeemer has commanded me to bestow on all such as ask in his name?” she said, mentally, as she approached her unfortunate guest, and offered him shelter, rest, and such scanty food as the plunder of the enemy had left it in her power to bestow.

  Paula was aware, that in affording an asylum to a French soldier, even for a few hours, she was exposing herself and her children to danger from the indignation of her countrymen; but she feared God rather than man: and said in her heart, “surely at my hands will God require the life of this stranger, if I refuse to give him food and shelter in his dire necessity.”

  The broken and hardly intelligible thanks and blessings of the war-worn soldier sent a glow of joy to the hearts of the generous widow and her children, who seemed to vie with each other in showing kindness to their sick and sorrowful guest. He was one of the fugitives, as he informed them, from a late conflict in which his regiment had been nearly cut to pieces; and had passed many days among the secret recesses of the neighbouring mountains, till, driven to desperation by hunger and thirst, he had ventured to ask for food at the door of an enemy’s cabin.

  For many days the poor foreigner remained extremely ill and weak, owing to the hardships he had endured, as well as from the breaking out of a wound which was not quite healed. Paula’s knowledge of the medicinal properties of some of the mountain herbs enabled her to administer to the sufferings of her guest, who at length began to appear more cheerful.

  He often spoke of a wife and children in his native country, on whose names he seemed to dwell with tender affection.

  “If I return to my country,” he would say, “my little ones shall learn to bless the names of Paula Sevilla and her children, as the preservers of their father’s life. And should I ever have it in my power to befriend you, Paula,” he added, with impressive earnestness, “you shall not find Philippe Marcet unmindful of the time when he was sick and wounded and you gave him shelter; hungry, and you fed him; thirsty, and you gave him drink; an enemy, and you befriended him.”

  A report had by some means reached the inhabitants of the hamlet, that a French refugee had been seen in the neighbourhood of the widow’s cabin; and Marcet, alarmed for the safety of his generous hostess and her family, now resolved to leave them, his health being much restored.

  Antonia and Juan, who had contracted a great friendship for their sick guest, now hung weeping on either side of him, lamenting that the time of his departure was so near; while Paula, anxious for the further preservation of the life she had saved, prevailed on him to exchange his uniform for the simple habit of an Andalusian shepherd.

  But when she saw him arrayed in the very dress that had been worn by that beloved husband whose blood had been shed by Marcet’s countrymen, her heart yielded to the bitterness of her grief, and she burst into tears. “Go,” she said, at length, turning weeping away, as Marcet expressed his inarticulate thanks for her kindness; “go, and should the chance of war ever place the widow and orphans of a Spaniard at your mercy, remember Paula and her children.”

  The soldier’s heart was full; he wrung the hand of the widow in silence; and tenderly embracing her little ones, hastily left the cottage, and bending his steps towards a distant path that led through the mountains, speedily disappeared. Scarcely had his retreating shadow been lost among the rocks, before the cabin of Paula was surrounded by persons clamorously requiring her to give up the unhappy refugee. The widow and her trembling children were led out while every part of the cabin was searched. But there was a feeling of conscious virtue in the mind of Paula, which supported her courage, as with firm voice she replied to the charge of having concealed an enemy in her house; “that she had indeed afforded succour, and a temporary shelter to an unfortunate stranger, who was on the point of perishing from want and sickness. Soldiers and Spaniards!” she continued, addressing herself to them, with intrepid look, “should you not have blushed for your countrywoman, could she have been base enough to have betrayed to his enemies a dying fugitive, who threw himself on her protection? I know ye would, or ye are not Spaniards; nor the followers of that Redeemer, who has expressly charged us to forgive our enemies.”

  A murmur of applause was heard from among the crowd; and without offering any further molestation to the family, they slowly dispersed towards their several homes.

  The long lonely winter passed heavily away, and the returning spring found Spain still the seat of warfare, and suffering from the miseries of want and rapine. The troops of the enemy had again made good their station in the neighbouring plains, and frequent skirmishes took place between the two hostile forces.

  “Mother, when will this frightful war be at an end?” asked the weeping Antonia, clinging to her mother’s arm, as the distant report of a cannon shook their lowly cabin. “The end of all things is in the hand of the Lord, my child;” replied her mother, folding her hands meekly on her breast.

  “Hark, mother! there is a sound of battle on the heights above,” exclaimed Juan, who had been listening with intense eagerness to the distant tumult.

  The roar of the musketry now became fearfully audible, and the dun wreaths of sulphurous smoke might plainly be discerned from the cottage door.

  The widowed mother clasped her terrified children to her breast, while she raised her thoughts in silent supplication to the Lord: for she well knew “that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong; but that it is God that giveth the victory.”

  The event of the battle remained for a long time doubtful; at length a reinforcement of French troops decided the victory in their favour. The Guerillas were obliged to retreat to their secret holds in the mountains; and the enemy, elated by their success, proceeded to plunder and lay waste the adjacent villages, destroying with fire and sword the habitations of the unfortunate peasants. Nor did the humble dwelling of the Spanish widow escape their notice; a band of the ruthless soldiery had surrounded it, and were already on the point of levelling it to the ground, when a stern voice commanded them to desist, and a French officer hastily approached the spot where stood the widow, with her
children clinging in terror to her knees.

  A cry of joy burst from the lips of Antonia and Juan, as the sounds of that well-remembered voice reached their ears; and springing towards Philippe Marcet — for it was indeed the French fugitive, whom they had sheltered and befriended — they implored him to save them from these cruel men.

  “Soldiers!” he said, “touch not, I command, any thing belonging to this widow and her children. She saved the life of your captain, when he must have perished but for her generous aid. Take not a morsel of bread from her, not let one single stone be removed from her hearth, as you would answer for it with your lives. Paula Sevilla,” he added, turning towards her, “happy am I, that the life you once preserved has proved the means of protecting you and your children from the lawless violence of these men; nor need you fear, for the name of Philippe Marcet will be sufficient to protect you from any further molestation.” While he yet spoke, the cries of distress from the neighbouring hamlet smote on the ears of Paula, and blanched the cheeks of her children.

  “You have saved the lives of your friends, generous Signor,” said the widow; “add yet further to your goodness, by shielding from the vengeance of the soldiers the inhabitants of yon village.”

  The French officer heard no more, but hastened to use his influence to save the hamlet from destruction, — nor was his voice heard in vain; and the grateful peasants now acknowledged they had reason to bless the hour when Paula and her children gave shelter and succour to a distressed enemy!

  THE FISHERMAN’S FAMILY.

  BY THE OLD SAILOR.

  “As he spoke, A sea burst o’er them, and their cables broke! Then, like a lion bounding from the toil, The ship shot through the billow’s black recoil; Urged by the howling blast — all guidance gone — They shuddering felt her reeling, rushing on — Nor dared to question where; nor dared to cast One asking look — for that might be their last.”

  “Come aft here, my lads, and haul down another reef in the mainsail!” exclaimed a hoary veteran, who stood at the helm of a fishing-smack, which was buffeting the waves at the entrance to the British Channel, one October evening, when the lowering of the clouds and the freshening of the breeze gave strong indications of a south-westerly gale. The order was promptly obeyed; and the snug little craft again breasted the lofty surge, like a bird upon the wing, skimming the foaming tops of the billows.

  “We shall have a rough night, father,” said a middle-aged man, whose hardy countenance had borne the washing of many a salt-sea spray; “the sun is setting on yon bank, and tinges the ocean with his reddening hue. The summits of the Scilly Isles appear like dying watch-fires through the sullen haze; and these, you know, are sure prognostics of a rising gale.”

  “Then let it come,” replied the veteran. “He whom the winds and the seas obey can, when it pleaseth him, allay their fury and command them, ‘Peace, be still!’ But go, Richard, have the trysail ready, and get the storm-jib up; for, by the long swell from the westward, I am of opinion there has been bad weather to windward, which will be down upon us before long: so let us have all low and snug before dark, my lad! And James,” continued he, to a noble-looking fair-haired lad, “James, set St. Agnes’ light-house by the compass, for the fog will thicken presently; and yon Seven Stones — worse than the plagues of Egypt to a sailor — look far from tempting, crested as they are with feathery foam.”

  “I hope mother won’t be uneasy about us,” rejoined the youth, as he laid the edge of his hand upon the compass, directing it towards the light-house: “we have been a fortnight at sea, grandfather, and the tempests must have howled round the cottage fearfully o’nights. It has blown hard ever since we came out, and not a fish caught; besides losing part of our nets!”

  “What, still uttering complaints?” exclaimed the veteran. “Look at your brother yonder, on the windlass-end; how fearlessly he sits and watches the ill-omened bird, which triumphs in a storm.”

  “He does not think of home,” replied the youth. “But what would become of mother, and Jane, and the little ones, should the Fisherman’s Family go to wreck?”

  “The Fisherman’s Family go to wreck!” reiterated the old man, stamping his foot upon the deck; “she’ll weather many a gale yet, my boy! Look at this white head!” — and, as he uncovered his hoary locks, that wildly wantoned in the breeze, he presented a fine picture of Time steering inexperienced youth through the dangerous channels which beset human life. “Look at this white head!” he exclaimed; “the snows and storms of sixty-seven winters have passed over it, yet was I never deserted in peril by Him in whom I have placed my trust. Your mother knows what a fisherman’s life is. Ay, boy, it was my pride to fortify her mind against adversity. But go, James, and help your father to reef the bowsprit; for we shall have the gale here presently.”

  And a gale indeed they had; for scarcely was the glory of the day departed, when the wind, like a destroying angel, came sweeping over the surface of the deep, and dashing the billows up to heaven with fury. Night shed its blackness on the scene, whilst the dense fog rendered it more drear and horrible. Poor James thought of his mother and his happy home; whilst his brother Ned, though two years his junior, seemed like a child of the tempest exulting in its lavish wildness.

  The Fisherman’s Family (for such was the name of the smack) rode buoyant on the waves; she rose and fell with the heave and set of the sea, like the swift-winged swallow when it stems the tempest; and the small bark scarcely felt the roughness of the billows, where larger vessels would have laboured fearfully with their heavy burdens.

  It was about ten o’clock, when the crew of the smack thought that, amidst the roaring of the storm, they could distinguish the reports of signal-guns at a distance; and every ear was anxiously inclined to discover the quarter whence the sounds proceeded. At length they became more distinct, and it was soon ascertained that the vessel must be nearing them. The fog was still thick and gloomy, yet occasionally there were intervals of partial clearness; and it was during one of these breaks that a ship was descried drifting at the mercy of the wind and waves; for it was evident, from the wild course she was pursuing, that all management was lost. Her foremast, bowsprit, and maintop-mast, were gone; and, having nothing left aloft to steady her, the billows beat against her sides and dashed raging over her. The smack showed a light, which was immediately answered, and two guns fired to acknowledge the near approach of succour.

  “That ship has lost her rudder as well as her masts,” exclaimed the old man; “she has struck somewhere: and now, my lads, to render them assistance!”

  “Oh, if we should get her safe into Mount’s Bay, grandfather,” said James, “and a good salvage awarded, what would mother say to us then? I should not mind the loss of the nets.”

  “Let us save their lives,” said Ned, “at all events; and if we can save the ship too, so much the better.”

  In the course of another hour, the smack was hailing the ship, and found that her rudder had been knocked away upon the rocks, at the same time that the masts and bowsprit had fallen with the shock. She had also sprung a leak under the bows, and the pumps could barely keep her free. As, however, no immediate danger was apprehended, the smack kept near the shattered vessel until daylight, when the father of the youths contrived to get on board, by running close alongside and catching a rope with a noose at the end, which he passed securely round his body, and was hauled through the water by the ship’s crew. The smack then dropped astern with a stout rope, and, by her judicious movements, acted as a rudder to the large vessel, which was got before the wind for the Bristol Channel; but the tow-rope parted soon afterwards, and the gale increased to a downright hurricane.

  Upon an eminence on the coast, between Penzance and the Land’s End, stood a substantial dwelling, which, though designated a cottage, presented every token of homely comfort. A quantity of fishing-materials, hung out to dry, showed it to be tenanted by those hardy sons of the ocean who brave the greatest dangers to procure fish for the markets
; whilst the air of neatness and enjoyment also proved it to belong to one of that class of men who risk their existence to save the lives and property of others — the undaunted pilot. A winding and declivous path led to the shelving rocks below, which formed a small inlet or bay for vessels of a light draught, that had received the name of the Smugglers’ Gap, from its having been frequently used by those daring outlaws in their illegal trade.

  On the same evening that has been already mentioned, an anxious mother quitted the cradle in the cottage to look out towards the sea for those whom next to heaven she loved best. Her foreboding eye had witnessed the same prognostics of the gale, and, with a heavy heart, she resumed the mother’s watch over her sleeping infant. A fair and beautiful female, about fifteen years of age, was attending to the duties of the house; a boy of ten years sat by his mother’s side, gazing on her care-marked countenance; whilst a girl of three years was sharing her supper with a rough but favourite dog, on the hearth before the fire.

  “I must feed poor Dorey, mother,” said the little one; “for James told me to be kind to him. Poor Dorey!” continued she, patting his head, “I wish James was here.”

  “You should remember, Mary,” replied the mother, “there are also your father and your grandfather.”

  “And Edward,” added the boy; “I miss him very much; for he used to help me up the rocks; and I am afraid to scramble along alone.”

  “All are equally dear to us, William,” rejoined the mother; “and all are equally under the care of Providence. Yes; I trust the Fisherman’s Family is safe.”

  “Who gave her that name, mother?” inquired William; “you promised to tell me.”

  “I did, my child; and, as my heart is heavy, I will now relate to you how it happened. Your grandfather, in his younger life, was brought up to expect a genteel competency; for his father was a wealthy ship-owner at Liverpool. He was sent to sea early, whilst his brother remained at home to manage the business. But that brother was cruel and treacherous; he weaned his father’s affections from the poor sailor, and got a will made entirely in his own favour. Your grandfather, not suspecting the wickedness of his brother, was frequently absent on long voyages; and, when only in his twentieth year, he married a poor girl, who had no other recommendation than her beauty of person and integrity of heart. He married, too, without the sanction of his father, who from that hour forbad him his presence, and never saw him more — for the angry parent died a few months afterwards. On arranging his father’s affairs, your grandfather found himself disinherited; and his brother, who had dissipated a great portion of the property previous to the old man’s dissolution, gathered the residue together and embarked for the East Indies. But your grandfather was not wholly destitute; he had saved something handsome to begin life with, and purchased a share of a ship, of which he obtained the command. Still adversity pressed upon him: his ship was captured by the enemy, and he returned (for they did not detain the prisoners then) to England almost penniless. My mother had relations at St. Ives, and thither the poor sailor and his wife repaired. They were received with welcome; and he, unwilling to leave my dear mother for any length of time, commenced his career as a fisherman and a pilot. Success crowned his labours; and he not only obtained a handsome maintenance, but was enabled to purchase a vessel of his own. In this house I was born, and, when I grew up, was married to your father, and had a family. The old vessel was broken up, and a new one built, which was called by the name it now bears. Oh, how many anxious hours does your father pass for the fisherman’s family ashore, and how many days of earnest solicitude do I endure for the Fisherman’s Family at sea! But go, my children, the storm is coming — go to your beds; but first kneel to the Creator, and humbly implore his guardian care for the poor mariners.”