Kate Douglas Wiggin - "A Summer in a Canyon: A California Story"

Clarence E. Edwords - "Bohemian San Francisco"

William Shakespeare - "All's Well That Ends Well"

Thomas Hardy - "Wessex Poems and Other Verses"

The Sea Witch

M >> Maturin Murray >> The Sea Witch




"Despise them? God forbid! How devoted!--how self sacrificing!--how
humane!--how noble to risk one's life for an entire stranger! O, Harry,
I wish we could learn his name, that we might at least thank him. I
shall never forget the first moment when he grasped my hand; it was the
first that I had hoped to live. It seemed to me there was something of a
divinity in his eyes as I met their gaze, and I did not fear to descend
into the very flames. But I know now what it was--the noble,
self-forgetting, heaven-trusting soul shining through those eyes, which
spoke to mine and bade me fear not, but trust in God."

Hal was silent for a moment; then he said, slowly and sorrowfully:

"Every fireman could not have acted thus. O, May, will you forgive me? I
felt that I could not. He impressed me with a kind of awe when after the
first ladder had fallen he raised a second, as determined as before. He
would have died rather than have given you up!"

It was a long while before the thought of Walter Cunningham crossed the
mind of May Edgerton, and then she dwelt upon it but for a moment. A
fireman had become an object of intense interest to her. Blue coats,
brass buttons and epaulets sank into shameful insignificance beside the
negligent costume of a fireman, and let Hal call, "Here, May, comes a
glazed cap and a red shirt!" and she was at the window in an instant.
One day Hal returned home with a face glowing with excitement.

"I have seen him, uncle! May, I have seen the stranger fireman!"

"Where? where?" was the quick response.

"There was a tremendous fire down town to-day, burning through from
street to street. --'s book establishment, which has so long
enlightened all the country, now illumined a good part of the city in
quite another manner. The paper flew in every direction. All New York
was there, and the stranger among the rest. Every one saw him, the
firemen recognized him, and he worked like a brave fellow. There was
more than one noble deed done to-day, for many a life was in peril."
Hal's eyes glistened now, for he had saved a life himself. "The poor
girls who stitched the books had to be taken down by ladders from the
upper stories; no one can tell how many were rescued by our hero! The
flames leaped from story to story, resistless, swallowing up everything;
the giant work of years, the productions of great minds, all fading, as
man must himself, into ashes, ashes!"

"But, Hal, our fireman--did you not follow him?"

"Indeed I did!--up through Fulton into Broadway; up, up, up, until he
hurried down Waverley Street, I after him, and suddenly disappeared
among the old gray walls of the university. I went in, walked all
through the halls, made a dozen inquiries, but in vain. I reckon he is a
will-o'the-wisp."

Scarce a week, had flown by before another terrific fire excited all the
city. People began to think that every important building on the island
was destined to the flames. The hall where Jenny Lind had sung, where
little Jullien with his magic bow had won laurels, and the larger
Jullien enchanted the multitude; the hall which had echoed to the voice
of Daniel Webster, which was redolent with memories of greatness,
goodness and delight, was wrapped in the devouring element. Hal Delancey
was quickly on the ground, but the strange fireman already had the pipe
of his company. He walked amid the flames with a fearless, yet far from
defiant air, reminding Hal only of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego in the
fiery furnace. He was everywhere, where work was to be done, gliding
over sinking beams, the example for all, giving prompt orders, as
promptly obeyed, every fireman rallying around him with hearty good
will, all jealousy cast aside, their watchword "Duty."

Towards morning, when the danger to other buildings was past, Harry
closely watched the stranger, who seemed to mark him too, and with two
members of his company determined to follow him and find out who he was,
not only that his cousin and her father might have the poor felicity of
thanking him, but because he was himself entranced by the manner of the
man, and like May, saw something mysteriously beautiful shining through
his eyes. The three--a young lawyer, a Wall Street merchant, and
Hal--now tracked the fireman's steps with a "zeal worthy of a better
cause." Hal did not think he was showing any very good manners in thus
pursuing a person who quite evidently did not wish to be known; still he
had once accosted the stranger in a gentlemanly manner, and received no
satisfactory reply, so now he had decided, cost what it might, to make
what discoveries he was able to, with or without leave.

This time it was down, down Broadway, through Fulton to Peck Slip. The
stranger's light, almost boyish form moved swiftly, but evenly onward,
while behind him fell the measured tread of Hal and his companions.
Arrived at the pier, instead of crossing over by the ferry, the stranger
unloosed a small boat, and springing into it, seized the oars, turning
back a half scornful, half merry glance at his pursuers. Hal was not to
be outwitted thus. He quickly procured a boat, and the three soon
overtook the stranger. They rowed silently along, not a word spoken from
either boat, the oars falling musically upon the waves, darkness still
brooding over the waters. The stranger made no attempt to land, but held
on his course up the East River until they approached Hurl Gate.

"I do believe we are following the devil!" exclaimed the lawyer,
suddenly, recalling some of his questionable deeds, as he heard the roar
of the whirlpools, and saw the foam glistening in the dim light.

"He never came in such a shape as that!" laughed Hal, whose admiration
of the stranger momentarily increased as he watched his skilful
pilotage.

"Indeed, Delancey, I am not at all ready to make an intimate
acquaintance with the 'Pot,' or 'Frying Pan,'" again exclaimed the
lawyer fireman.

Still, Hal insisted upon following, in hopes the stranger would tack
about.

"You have no fears?" said Hal, to his brother fireman, the merchant.

"Why no," he returned, calculatingly; "that is, if the risk is not too
great."

Now the waters became wilder, lashing against the rocks, leaping and
foaming; it was a dangerous thing to venture much farther, they must
turn back now or not at all; a few strokes more and they must keep on
steadily through the gate--one false movement would be their
destruction. The stranger's bark gradually distanced them--they saw it
enter among the whirling eddies--he missed the sound of their measured
strokes, glanced back, lost the balance of his oars, his boat upset, and
Hal saw neither no more. There, on that moonless, starless night, when
the darkness was blackest, just before the dawn, the brave fireman had
gone down in that whistling, groaning, shrieking, moaning, Tartarean
whirlpool! Mute horror stood on every face. Hal's grasp slackened; the
lawyer quickly seized the oars, and turned the boat's prow towards the
city.

"Do you not think we could save him?" gasped Hal, his face like the face
of the dead.

"Save him!" ejaculated the lawyer; "that's worse than mad! Malafert
alone can raise his bones along with 'Pot Rock.'"

Hal groaned aloud. Perhaps the stranger had no intention of going up the
river, until driven by them. It was a miserable thought, and hung with a
leaden weight upon Hal's spirit. He remained at home all the next day,
worn out and dejected. May rallied him.

"How I pity you, poor firemen! You get up at all times of the night,
work like soldiers on a campaign, and sometimes do not even get a 'thank
you' for your pay. You know I told you never to be a fireman!"

"I wish I had followed your advice," answered Hal, with something very
like a groan.

May started. She noticed how very pale he was, and bade him lie down on
the sofa. She brought a cushion, and sat down by his side.

"Now, Hal, you must tell me what troubles you. Has any one been
slandering the firemen? I will not permit that now, since I have so kind
a cousin in their ranks," said May, with a wicked little smile.

In vain she racked her brain for something to amuse him; Hal would not
be amused. She bade him come to the window and watch the fountain in
Union Park, but he strolled back immediately to the luxurious sofa, and
buried his face in his hands. At last he could endure his horrid secret
no longer; it scorched his brain and withered his very heart.

"May, you have not asked me if I saw the mysterious fireman last night?"

May could not trust her voice to reply.

"He was at the fire."

"Was he?"

"I tell you he was," returned Hal, pettishly. "When I say he was, I do
not mean that he was not. I followed him after the fire."

"Did you?"

"Good heavens, you will drive me mad!" Hal sprang to his feet. "I
followed him I say--ay, to the death!"

Then ensued a rapid recital of all that had passed, Hal was excited
beyond endurance, every nerve was stretched to its utmost, and the
purple veins stood out boldly on his white forehead. He did not wait for
May to say a word, but abruptly ended his narrative with:

"Was not this a pretty way to reward him for saving the life of my
cousin--my sister. O, God, must the roar of that terrible whirlpool ring
in my ears forever?" He gazed a moment on May's countenance of
speechless sorrow, and rushed from the room.

For a long time Hal and May scarcely spoke to each other. He felt as
though he had wronged her, and was always restless in her society. He
would not bear to receive the thousand cousinly attentions which May had
always lavished on him, and which she now performed mechanically; he
hated to see the suppers by the corner of the grate, and after a few
evenings would not notice them; but above all he could not endure that
very, very sad expression in May's eyes--for worlds he would have wished
not to be able to translate it. The time for his wedding was fast
drawing nigh, and he knew he should be miserable if May did not smile
upon his bridal.

Weeks passed, and Delancey did not go to a fire; he paid his fines and
remained at home. But he could not sleep while the bells were
ringing--somehow they reminded him of that still night at Hurl Gate. By
degrees the coldness wore off between May and himself, and she consented
to be Emily's, his Emily's bridesmaid.

One night, however, the bell had a solemn summons in it, which Hal could
not resist. It tolled as though for a funeral, and spoke to his very
heart. He threw on his fire-clothes and hastened down town. Delancey
soon reached the scene of destruction. The flames were carousing in all
their mad mirth, as though they were to be the cause of no sorrow, no
pain, no death. Hal's courage was soon excited; he leaped upon the
burning rafters, rescuing goods from destruction, telling where a stream
was needed; but suddenly he became paralyzed--he heard a voice which had
often rung in his ear amid like scenes, a greater genius than his own
was at work. He learned that he was innocent, even indirectly, of the
stranger's death. Joy thrilled through every vein, he could have faced
any peril, however great. Regardless of the angry blaze, he made his way
through fire and smoke to the stranger's side. The fireman paused in his
labor a moment, grasped Hal's hand, and with a smile, in which mingled a
dash of triumph, said:

"You see I am safe."

"Do you forgive my rudeness?" asked Hal.

"Entirely!" was the ready response, and they went to work again.

In a few minutes Hal was separated from his friend--for he felt that he
was his friend, and could have worked at his side until his last
strength was expended. Retiring from the burning building to gather new
vigor for the conflict, a sight glared before his eyes as he gazed
backward for a moment, which froze his blood and made him groan with
horror. The rear wall of the building, at a moment when no one expected
it, with a crash, an eloquent yell of terror, fell, How many brave men
were buried beneath the ruins, none could say. Hal saw the stranger
falling with the timbers and the mass of brick he strained his gaze to
mark where he should rest, but lost sight of him beneath the piled-up
beams and stones.

"A brave heart has perished!" cried Hal, thinking of but one of the many
who had fallen sacrifices to their noble heroism. All night long the
saddened, horrified firemen worked in subduing the flames and
extricating the bruised bodies of the victims. Some still breathed,
others were but slightly injured, but many more were drawn forth whose
lips were still in death, their brave arms nerveless, and their hearts
pulseless forever. O, it was a night of agony, of terror and dismay! The
fireman's risk of life is not poetry, nor a romance of zeal, or picture
wrought by the imagination. It is an earnest, solemn, terrible thing, as
they could witness who stood around those blackened corses on that
midnight of woe.

Hal searched with undiminished care for the noble stranger, until his
worn energies required repose. In vain did he gaze upon the recovered
bodies to find that of the fireman it was not there, Towards morning
they found his cap; they knew it by the strange device--the anchor and
the cross emblazoned on its front, above the number of his company.

"A fitting death for him to die!" said clergymen, as they recalled his
bravery, the majesty of his mien, the benevolence of every action.

The news of the disaster spread through the city with the speed of
lightning. Friends hastened to the spot, and O, what joy for some to
find the loved one safe!--what worse than agony for others to gaze upon
the features of their search all locked in ghastly death! With
conflicting emotions, Delancey told May Edgerton of his last meeting
with the strange fireman. A gush of thankfulness shot through her heart
that he had not perished that dark night in Hurl Gate, that he had met
an honorable doom. Hal preserved his cap as an incentive to goodness and
greatness, and longed to be worthy to place on his own the mysterious
device of the stranger.

The funeral obsequies of the deceased firemen were celebrated by all the
pomp esteem could propose, or grief bestow. Mary Edgerton stood by the
window as the long ranks of firemen filed round the park, all wearing
the badge of mourning, the trumpets wreathed in crape, the banners
lowered, the muffled drums beating the sad march to the grave. All the
flags of the city were at half-mast, the fire bells tolled mournfully,
and when, wearied with their sorrowful duty, their cadences for a while
died away in gloomy silence, the bells of Trinity took up the wail in
chiming the requiem to the dead. Everywhere reigned breathless silence,
broken only by these sounds of woe.

As May gazed on the slow procession, her eye was attracted by the emblem
on a fireman's cap--it was the same--an anchor and a cross! That form,
it could be no other, the face was turned towards her, it was the
stranger fireman! His very step bespoke the man, as with folded arms and
solemn tread he followed in the funeral cortege.

That evening Hal Delancey returned home, his countenance beaming with
joy, in strange contrast with the gloom of the day. "May, he is safe
again!" was his first exclamation, "He is a perfect Neptune, Vulcan,
master of fire and flood. Neither the surging eddies of Hurl Gate, nor
ghastly flames and crashing beams have been able to overcome him. How he
escaped he scarcely knows, and yet he does not bear a scar. So skilful,
so agile, so brave, so dominant over all dangers, we easily might fancy
him one of the old heathen deities!"

The next day there was to be some public literary exercise at the
university, to which the alderman's family had been invited. May
remembered Hal's once saying that he saw the fireman disappear somewhere
around that venerable building, so an early hour found her seated at her
father's side in the solemn-looking chapel, watching the arrival of the
spectators, but more particularly the entrance of the students. The
exercises commenced, still May had discovered no face resembling the
fireman of her dreams. Several essays were pronounced with ease and
grace, and the alderman took a fitting occasion to make a complimentary
remark to one of the officers of the institution who was seated near
him. "Exactly, exactly," echoed the professor, "but wait until young
Sherwood speaks!"

Marion Sherwood was called, and there arose from among the heavy folds
of the curtain that had almost entirely concealed him, a student who
advanced with the dignity of a Jupiter and the grace of an Apollo. Duty
was his theme. The words flowed in a resistless torrent from his lips.
Every thought breathed beauty and sublimity, every gesture was the
"poetry of motion." More than once did the entranced May Edgerton catch
the dark eyes of the orator fixed with an almost scrutinizing gaze upon
her face. The walls rang with applause as he resumed his seat; bouquets
were showered at his feet by beauty's hand, the excited students called
out "Sherwood, Sherwood!" he had surpassed himself. May scarcely heard a
word that followed. She was delighted to find that she had not deceived
herself, that in intellectual strength he equalled the promise of his
daring.

At the close of the exercises Marion Sherwood would have hastened away,
but the chancellor detained him. "Alderman Edgerton desires an
introduction to you, sir," deliberately remarked the chancellor. Marion
bowed. The alderman, after the first greeting, caught his hand. "I
cannot be deceived, sir; you are the gallant youth who so nobly rescued
my daughter from a terrible death." Again Marion bowed, hesitatingly,
striving to withdraw his hand from the alderman's grasp. "Will you not
permit me at least to thank you?" said Mr. Edgerton, in a wounded tone.
Young Sherwood had not the slightest intention of offending him, and
wished to hasten away only to escape observation. Now, however, with his
usual generosity, he forgot his own inclinations, and permitted himself
to be overwhelmed with expressions of heartfelt gratitude. He suddenly
checked the alderman's torrent of eloquence by requesting an
introduction to his daughter, who stood in the shadow of a pillar
awaiting her father. May Edgerton's one little sentence of earnest
thanks, speaking through every feature, was more grateful to the young
student than all her father's words. One mutual glance made them friends
in more than name. Now many an evening found Marion Sherwood whiling
away a student's idle hours in the luxuriant drawing-room of Mr.
Edgerton. May and he together read their favorite poets and the old
classic writers, his daring mind stored with philosophy, guiding her
wild imagination, her gentle goodness beguiling his holder thoughts into
the paths of virtue. O, it was blissful thus to mingle their day-dreams,
encircling themselves in rainbows of hope and stars lit by each other's
eyes, all breathing upon them beauty and blessings. May had already
wreathed the unknown fireman in all the attributes of virtue and of
manliness; happy was she to find them realized in Marion. And he, when
sitting in the shadows of the old marble pile, gazing up at the
brilliant sky, had pictured a being beautiful and good, whose soul could
comprehend the yearnings of his own, and this he found in May. Thus
their two souls grew together, until their thoughts, their hopes, their
very lives seemed one.

When Marion Sherwood requested of Mr. Edgerton the hand of his daughter,
and learned that she was not free, at least until she had met a certain
gentleman who was every day expected, his soul recoiled with a sudden
sting; he had so leaned upon this staff of happiness, and now it bent
like a fragile reed. May laughed in scorn that she should prefer any one
to Marion, but he learned that the stranger was talented, handsome,
wealthy, everything that a lady would desire in her favored suitor. If
he did not release her, she was not free, and could he be adamant to the
captivating charms of guileless, spiritual, beautiful May!

Scarcely had a day passed after Marion--whom May and her father knew
only as one of Nature's noblemen--had learned this wretched news which
sank into his heart like a poisoned dagger, when the vessel arrived
which bore Walter Cunningham, his mother and step-father from France. A
few miserable days passed--miserable they were to May and Marion, and
the evening was appointed when Cunningham and his parents should call at
the alderman's and May's fate, in part, at least, be decided. Marion
also was to be there. He arrived early, unknowing even the name of his
rival. He concealed himself among the flowers in the conservatory,
pacing up and down the fragrant, embowered walks with hasty step and
anxious heart. How fondly memory roved back over the jewelled past,
glistening with departed joys; how fearfully imagination strove to
penetrate the gloomy future; how tremblingly did he await the bursting
storm of the blackened present.

The guests had arrived, and Marion was summoned to the drawing-room.
With jealous care he had dressed himself in a fireman's costume made of
rich materials, which wonderfully became him, that it might remind May
what he had dared for her, and what had rendered them so dear unto each
other. He stood with folded arms, his eyes fixed upon May Edgerton,
scarcely daring to glance at the stranger. Suddenly he lifted his eves
to the pale face of his rival, which was bowed towards the floor.

"Walter!" he cried.

"Marion!" was the startled response.

"Choose, May! choose between us!" exclaimed Marion, with glistening eyes
and extended hand.

"With your leave, Mr. Cunningham," she said joyfully, speaking to
Walter, but placing her hand in that of Sherwood.

"Man proposes, God disposes." A weight was lifted from Cunningham's
heart. While abroad, negligent of his promise to his parents, he had
woed and won a lovely girl to whom he had been privately married a few
weeks before setting sail for home, with the promise of a speedy return.
So desirous did he find his parents that May Edgerton should be his
wife, that he did not dare confess his recreancy, but relied upon the
hope that May's affections were already engaged, and thus she would save
him in part from the anger of his parents. Why did not Mr. and Mrs.
Sherwood frown and scold at May's poor taste! Why! Because they loved
their son Marion quite as well his half-brother, Walter Cunningham, and
were easily reconciled to the change of suitors, especially when they
learned Walter had already secured a most estimable wife.

Marion had heard that his brother was engaged conditionally to some
"proud, beauty heiress" of New York, and was not at all displeased to
have him renounce all claim to his promised bride, when he found to his
astonishment that it was his own May Edgerton, whom Cunningham confessed
it would have been no difficult thing to love.

"Only to think of May Edgerton marrying a fireman!" exclaimed Hal
Delancey, in great glee, as the wedding, which passed off as all
weddings should, without a cloud upon heart, face, or sky.

May blushed and whispered to Marion that if ever there was a benevolent,
noble, trustworthy man upon the earth, it was a true-hearted fireman.

If my recital has enlarged one contracted soul, has persuaded one mind
to throw aside false prejudices, has taught one child of luxury to look
with sympathetic admiration on those who devote themselves so nobly to
the public good, has encouraged one bold heart to labor with more
exalted zeal in the cause of humanity, this "ower true tale" has not
been written in vain.

THE END

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