“Cap’n, that was the closest call I’ve ever had on the Sound, and I’ve been on it, boy and man, for five-and-fifty years.”
That was what the chief pilot said to Captain Smith when he returned to the pilot-house after he had seen Hattie Butler to her state-room, and taken a turn to the engine-room and forward deck below to see how things went there.
“How on earth did we ever get in so far, with the wind holding where it did?” chimed in the other pilot. “Our course ought to have kept us full five miles farther out.”
“There was a stiff sou’wester all the night and day before, and with the tide at ebb2 it made a terrible current setting out by Montauk. I should have thought of it. I headed well over for smooth water, but not enough to throw us so far in shore, by ten miles, rather than five. I’ll never forget this experience. We have over four hundred souls on board, and had it not been for that bright-eyed girl, where would they be now?”
“Who is she, cap?”
“I don’t know. She gave me her name. Hattie Butler—that is all I know. She wears the dress, and has the manners of a high-born lady; and, as you saw, though the face was pale then, she is as pretty as pretty can be.”
“I was too bad scared to look at her,” said the chief pilot. “I’m hardly over it yet. The passengers will make up a purse for her when they hear[176] of it. If they don’t, they don’t deserve the luck they’ve had.”
“She has begged me not to tell of it at all,” replied the captain; “but I don’t see how I can keep my mouth shut. And there are three or four newspaper men on board, and they’d never forgive me if I kept it from them. But I’ll not speak of it at the breakfast table to all of ’em, as I meant to.”
The steamer was now heading her course, and the wind going down a little, while the rain, that fell heavier than ever, made the sea a great deal smoother.
But the steamer was hours behind, and though Mr. Bishop3, the chief engineer, drove the firemen to their work, the steamer could not make Fall River within four hours of the regular train time. But the captain told his passengers at the breakfast-table that there would be a special train ready when the boat reached her wharf4 to take them right on, and he added that it was better to be late and safe than early and in peril5, adding a remark which he credited to his engineer:
“I’d rather get to Fall River six hours behind time than go to perdition on time.”
Only the reporters on board knew, and it had been given to them on condition that they should not repeat it there, how near to destruction they had been; and the captain, with manly6 delicacy7 and honor, had refrained from pointing out Miss Butler to them as the heroine, thus saving her from the torture of being interviewed.
At breakfast Captain Smith was very polite and attentive8 to our heroine, but as he was always polite to all his passengers that did not expose her.
At last the noble steamer, much to the joy of all[177] on board, and of friends and agents on shore, made her port, and ran into her regular wharf.
“Miss Butler,” said the captain, “when you return to New York please take passage on my boat, and if you purchase a ticket I shall feel hurt. The complimentary9 card, which contains my name, will pass you on the railroad at all times, and I want you to think how much I owe you when you do me the real favor to accept it.”
He was escorting her from the boat to the cars when he said this, and she could not refuse to accept his card, whether she ever used it or not.
In five minutes more the cars bore the glad passengers toward the city so often called the “Hub”—I hardly understand why.
And now I must draw a sorrowful picture there. In a chamber11 in one of the most pretentious12 houses on Beacon13 Hill, in the city of Boston, a lady hardly past middle age, who must in health have been very beautiful, lay dying.
A minister, two physicians, and several weeping friends were near, and the former was speaking words which he hoped would comfort her, or lessen14 the agony of that dread15 moment.
The physicians had endeavored to get her to take an opiate to lessen her pains, which were wearing her out, but she would not, but kept crying out:
“Oh, my daughter! She will come—I know she will come to forgive me before I die. I want all my senses. I want to tell her what I have suffered through my false pride. Her father is dead—died praying that he might only see and bless his child. And must I die, too, without seeing her? Oh, no. God is too merciful. Pray—oh, pray, minister of God, that she be sent to me before I die.”
[178]
And her white, thin lips moved all the time he knelt in prayer.
And before he arose to his feet, while the others, kneeling, listened and wept, a wild, glad cry broke from that mother’s lips.
“She is coming! My Georgiana is coming! I heard a carriage stop at the door. It is she—thank Heaven, it is my daughter!”
How a mother’s ear, even when that mother was on her death-bed, could hear what no one else had heard, how she could feel so certain her child was near, is beyond our ken1. But it was so.
A minute, scarcely that, had elapsed when the door softly opened, and mother and child wept in each other’s arms.
It was a holy scene. No word of recrimination, no breath of the past, only this:
“Mother, dear mother!”
“My child! God bless my only child—my love!”
There was not a dry eye in the room—those who had wept with grief before over a dying friend, now wept with joy to think her eyes had not closed before that meeting—that reconciliation16 took place.
But the physicians knew that the strength of Mrs. Lonsdale could not last—that the spark so near gone, flashing up, could last but little longer.
And the change began almost before they expected it.
We need not say that Georgiana Emeline Lonsdale was the real name of our heroine, but that was the name of the dying lady’s daughter, and that daughter was our heroine.
“Raise me up. Let me look at you. Oh, Georgiana—my dear—dear child!” gasped17 the mother. “I[179] prayed but to live for this—and—God has been good. My will—here—under my pillow all the time!”
The physicians pressed forward. With a moan of sorrow Georgiana pressed that wan10 face to her beating heart.
“Bless—blessed—child—thank God!”
And our heroine, yet clasping that form, so dear that nothing of the past could come to mind, looked down on a smiling face frozen in the still snow of death.
“Blessed is He who gives. Blessed is He who takes away.”
Long, long the poor girl wept, and would not be comforted. What to her was the costly21 mansion22, furnished as few other houses in the city were adorned23? What to her a bank account second to few in Boston? What to her, horses, carriages, old family plate, jewels that had been owned generation after generation by her ancestors, now all her own? Her father, ever kind, her mother, with whom she had parted in anger when she chose a heart’s idol24, all too early cast down, were gone—forever gone from earth.
It was well her sorrow found relief in tears. She wept until exhausted25, and then herself needing a physician, she sank to sleep. She had not till then slept one moment since the night before she started from New York.
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1
ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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ebb
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| vi.衰退，减退；n.处于低潮，处于衰退状态 | |
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3
bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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4
wharf
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| n.码头，停泊处 | |
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5
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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6
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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7
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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9
complimentary
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| adj.赠送的，免费的，赞美的，恭维的 | |
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10
wan
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| (wide area network)广域网 | |
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11
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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pretentious
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| adj.自命不凡的，自负的，炫耀的 | |
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beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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14
lessen
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| vt.减少，减轻；缩小 | |
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15
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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pastor
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| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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23
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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24
idol
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| n.偶像，红人，宠儿 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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