The Complete Novels of Elizabeth Gaskell. Elizabeth Gaskell
relieved by my doing. I know Frank will feel sorrow, because I myself have such an aching heart; but if I had asked him whether I was not right in going, he would have been too truthful not to have said yes. I have tried to do right, and though I may fail, and evil may seem to arise rather than good out of my endeavor, yet still I will submit to my failure, and try and say ‘God’s will be done!’ If only I might have seen Frank once more, and told him all face to face!”
To do away with such thoughts, she determined no longer to sit gazing, and tempted by the shore; and, giving one look to the land which contained her lover, she went down below, and busied herself, even through her blinding tears, in trying to arrange her own cabin, and Edward’s. She heard boat after boat arrive loaded with passengers. She learnt from Edward, who came down to tell her the fact, that there were upwards of two hundred steerage passengers. She felt the tremulous shake which announced that the ship was loosed from her moorings, and being tugged down the river. She wrapped herself up once more, and came on deck, and sat down among the many who were looking their last look at England. The early winter evening was darkening in, and shutting out the Welsh coast, the hills of which were like the hills of home. She was thankful when she became too ill to think and remember.
Exhausted and still, she did not know whether she was sleeping or waking; or whether she had slept since she had thrown herself down on her cot, when suddenly, there was a great rush, and then Edward stood like lightning by her, pulling her up by the arm.
“The ship is on fire — to the deck, Maggie! Fire! Fire!” he shouted, like a maniac, while he dragged her up the stairs — as if the cry of Fire could summon human aid on the great deep. And the cry was echoed up to heaven by all that crowd in an accent of despair.
They stood huddled together, dressed and undressed; now in red lurid light, showing ghastly faces of terror — now in white wreaths of smoke — as far away from the steerage as they could press; for there, up from the hold, rose columns of smoke, and now and then a fierce blaze leaped out, exulting — higher and higher every time; while from each crevice on that part of the deck issued harbingers of the terrible destruction that awaited them.
The sailors were lowering the boats; and above them stood the captain, as calm as if he were on his own hearth at home — his home where he never more should be. His voice was low — was lower; but as clear as a bell in its distinctness; as wise in its directions as collected thought could make it. Some of the steerage passengers were helping; but more were dumb and motionless with affright. In that dead silence was heard a low wail of sorrow, as of numbers whose power was crushed out of them by that awful terror. Edward still held his clutch of Margaret’s arm.
“Be ready!” said he, in a fierce whisper.
The fire sprung up along the main-mast, and did not sink or disappear again. They knew then that all the mad efforts made by some few below to extinguish it were in vain; and then went up the prayers of hundreds, in mortal agony of fear:
“Lord! have mercy upon us!”
Not in quiet calm of village church did ever such a pitiful cry go up to heaven; it was like one voice — like the day of judgment in the presence of the Lord.
And after that there was no more silence; but a confusion of terrible farewells, and wild cries of affright, and purposeless rushes hither and thither.
The boats were down, rocking on the sea. The captain spoke:
“Put the children in first; they are the most helpless.”
One or two stout sailors stood in the boats to receive them. Edward drew nearer and nearer to the gangway, pulling Maggie with him. She was almost pressed to death, and stifled. Close in her ear, she heard a woman praying to herself. She, poor creature, knew of no presence but God’s in that awful hour, and spoke in a low voice to Him.
“My heart’s darlings are taken away from me. Faith! faith! Oh, my great God! I will die in peace, if Thou wilt but grant me faith in this terrible hour, to feel that Thou wilt take care of my poor orphans. Hush! dearest Billy,” she cried out shrill to a little fellow in the boat waiting for his mother; and the change in her voice from despair to a kind of cheerfulness, showed what a mother’s love can do. “Mother will come soon. Hide his face, Anne, and wrap your shawl tight round him.” And then her voice sank down again in the same low, wild prayer for faith. Maggie could not turn to see her face, but took the hand which hung near her. The woman clutched at it with the grasp of a vice; but went on praying, as if unconscious. Just then the crowd gave way a little. The captain had said, that the women were to go next; but they were too frenzied to obey his directions, and now pressed backward and forward. The sailors, with mute, stern obedience, strove to follow out the captain’s directions. Edward pulled Maggie, and she kept her hold on the mother. The mate, at the head of the gangway, pushed him back.
“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