"Ah, man! she's a good woman, and everybody loves and looks up to her. And she's worth loving, too, because she's so kind," adds the good dame, significantly canting her head.
Daylight was now breaking in the east, and as there seemed no chance of making a search on the bank that day, such was the fierceness of the wind, the two men drank again of the punch, spread their blankets before the fire, lay their hardy figures down, and were soon in a profound sleep. The woman, more watchful, coiled herself in a corner of the room on some sail-cloth, but did not sleep.
At ten o'clock they were aroused by the neighbours, who, in great anxiety, had come to inform them of an event they were already conscious of,—adding, however, as an evidence of what had taken place, that sixteen male and three female bodies, borne to the rips at the point, had been thrown upon the shore. The denizens of the point were indeed in a state of excitement; a messenger had been sent into the town for the coroner, which said functionary soon spread the news about, creating no little commotion among the inhabitants, many of whom repaired to the scene of the disaster.
When it became known that two witnesses to the dire misfortune had been spared to tell the tale, and were now at Stores' house, the excitement calmed into sympathy. The wrecker's little village resounded with curious enquiries, and few were they who would be satisfied without a recital of the sad tale by the rescued men.
Carefully they brought the dead bodies from the shore, and laid them in an untenanted house, to await the coroner's order. Among them was the slender form of Franconia, the dark dress in which she was clad but little torn, and the rings yet remaining on her fingers. "How with fortitude she bore the suffering!" said the rescued passenger, gazing on her blanched features as they laid her on the floor: the wrecker's wife covered her with a white sheet, and spread a pillow carefully beneath her head.
"Yes!" returns the unfortunate seaman, who stood by his side, "she seemed of great goodness and gentleness. She said nothing, bore everything without a murmur; she was Higgins' pet; and I'll lay he died trying to save her, for never a braver fellow than Jack Higgins stood trick at a wheel."
The coroner arrives as the last corpse is brought from the sand: he holds his brief inquest, orders them buried, and retires. Soon, three ladies-Stores' wife tells us they are of the Humane Society-make their appearance in search of the deceased. They enter Stores' house, greet his good dame familiarly, and remain seated while she relates what has happened. One of the three is tall and stately of figure, and dressed with that quiet taste so becoming a lady. And while to the less observing eye no visible superiority over the others is discernible, it is evident they view her in such a light, always yielding to her counsels. Beneath a silk bonnet trimmed with great neatness, is disclosed a finely oval face, glowing with features of much regularity, large dark eyes of great softness, and silky hair, laid in heavy wavy folds across a beautifully arched brow-to which is added a sweet smile that ever and anon plays over her slightly olive countenance. There, boldly outlined, is the unmistakeable guide to a frank and gentle nature. For several minutes does she listen to the honest woman's recital of the sad event, which is suspended by the passenger making his appearance. The wrecker's wife introduces him by motioning her hand, and saying, "This is the kind lady of whose goodness I spoke so last night." Anxiously does she gather from the stranger each and every incident of the voyage: this done, she will go to the house where lay the dead, our good Dame Stores leading the way, talking from the very honesty of her heart the while. In a small dilapidated dwelling on the bleak sands, the dead lay. Children and old men linger about the door,—now they make strange mutterings, and walk away, as if in fear. Our messengers of mercy have entered the abode of the dead. The wrecker's wife says, "They are to be buried to-morrow, ma'am;" while the lady, with singular firmness, glances her eye along the row of male bodies, counting them one by one. She has brought shrouds, in which to bury them like Christians.
"Them three females is here, ma'am," says Dame Stores, touching the lady on the elbow, as she proceeds to uncover the bodies. The passenger did, indeed, tell our Lady of Mercy there was one handsome lady from Carolina. One by one she views their blanched and besanded features.
"A bonny figure that, mum; I lay she's bin a handsome in her day," with honest simplicity remarks Dame Stores, as, bent over the lifeless body of Franconia, she turns back the sheet, carefully. "Yes," is the quick reply: the philanthropic woman's keen eye scans along the body from head to foot. Dame Stores will part the silken hair from off that cold brow, and smooth it with her hand. Suddenly our lady's eyes dart forth anxiety; she recognises some familiar feature, and trembles. The rescued seaman had been quietly viewing the bodies, as if to distinguish their different persons, when a wrecker, who had assisted in removing the bodies, entered the room and approached him, "Ah!" exclaims the seaman, suddenly, "yonder's poor Jack Higgins." He points to a besanded body at the right, the arms torn and bent partly over the breast, adding, "Jack had a good heart, he had." Turning half round, the wrecker replies, "That 'un had this 'un fast grappled in his arms; it was a time afore we got 'um apart."
"Was it this body?" enquires the lady, looking at the lifeless form before her. He says, "That same, ma'am; an' it looked as if he had tried to save the slender woman." He points to the body which Dame Stores has just uncovered. The good lady kneels over the body: her face suddenly becomes pale; her lips purple and quiver; she seems sinking with nervous excitement, as tremulously she seizes the blanched hand in her own. Cold and frigid, it will not yield to her touch "That face-those brows, those pearly teeth, those lips so delicate,—those hands,—those deathless emblems! how like Franconia they seem," she ejaculates frantically, the bystanders looking on with surprise. "And are they not my Franconia's-my dear deliverer's?" she continues. She smooths the cold hands, and chafes them in her own. The rings thereon were a present from Marston. "Those features like unto chiselled marble are hers; I am not deceived: no! oh no! it cannot be a dream" (in sorrow she shakes her head as the tears begin to moisten her cheeks), "she received my letter, and was on her way seeking me." Again she smooths and smooths her left hand over those pallid cheeks, her right still pressing the cold hand of the corpse, as her emotions burst forth in agonising sobs.