Anna Maria Hall was born in Dublin in 1800; although she moved with her mother to England in 1815 and stayed there until her death in 1881, her work often dealt with Irish lore. In 1824 she married Samuel Carter Hall and was a frequent contributor to The Art Journal, which he edited. She also produced nine novels, several successful plays, and a number of short story collections; both she and her husband were prolific, and one estimate puts their total number of published works at around five hundred. Later in life, she founded several charitable organizations and was involved in women’s rights and temperance causes. This story, first published in 1840, was chosen to appear in The Romancist, and Novelist’s Library: The Best Works of the Best Authors, Volume III.

The Drowned Fisherman by Mrs. S. C. Hall

In the immediate neighbourhood of Duncannon Fort,^I along that portion of the coast, which contracts into the Waterford river, there are a number of scattered cottages, standing either singly or in small clusters along a wild and picturesque sea shore—more wild, perhaps, than beautiful, although the infinite number of creeks and bays, and overhanging rocks, vary the prospect at every hundred yards; and I know nothing more delightful than to row, during a long summer evening, from the time that the sun abates her fierceness, until the moon has fairly risen upon the waters, nothing more delightful than to row—now in, now out, now under the hanging rocks, now close upon the silver-sanded bays, where thousands of many-coloured shells form the most beautiful mosaic beneath the transparent waters.

“And what ’ud ail the boat but to do? Sure she’s done, ay, and done a dale for us, this ten years; and as to the hold, Jemmy ’ill plug his hat into it, or stick in a piece of sail-cloth, and what ’ud ail her then, but sail, God bless her—like a swan or a curlew,^II as she always does?”

“Dermot—Dermot, darling! listen to me for onc’t—!”

“Faith!” replied Dermot to his better half, Kate Browne, while his keen, blue eye twinkled with that mixture of wit and humour so truly Irish, “faith, my dear, I’ll accommodate you in any way I can, for I’ll listen to you onc’t for three speakings—come, out with it, and don’t stand twisting your face that was onc’t so purty as to win the heart and hand of the handsomest man in the parish, and that is—myself, Dermont Browne, at your sarvice, Mistress Kate Browne, madam! Don’t keep lengthening your face to the length of a herring net, but out with it—at onc’t!”

“Dermot, I’ve got the box of tools quite convanient; I brought it with me to the shore, and the last time I was in Waterford, I bought all sortings of nails, large and small; and there’s plenty of boord in the shed—and Dermot, mend the hole, and God bless you!—sure it’s the sore heart I’d have when you’d be on the wather, to think that any harm would happen you—it won’t take you anything like an hour.”

“An hour! God bless the woman, why, a body would think you had never been a fisherman’s wife! An hour would turn the tide—and the luck!—an hour! Why, the herrings out yonder would miss my company if I waited; and all for what! To go to the trouble of nailing a bit o’ boord on a mite of a hole, when it will be just as easy to stop it with a hat!”

“But not as safe, Dermot!”

“Be asy with your safety! You’re always touching on that;—ay; will it, and as safe too: hav’nt I done it before?—Why, turn up every one of the boats along the shore, and I’ll bet you the cod I mean to catch against a branyan^III that there isn’t as sound a boat as my own on the sands; doesn’t Harrison’s go without a rudder?—doesn’t Micbau’s go without a mast—barring a gag of a gate-post that he pulled out of Lavery’s field? I’m sure Michael Murphy’s craft is bang full of dowshy holes, like a riddle; and a good noggin he won on that, for he betted Lanty Moore that, at the present time, the keel of his boat had more holes in it than Lanty’s English sieve, which he had for winnowing corn; and sure enough he won; for the holes in the sieve were all stopped up with the dirt! Lend a hand, old girl, and help me and the boy to shove her off!” he continued, appealing to his wife—“What, you won’t? Why then, Kate, agra what ails ye?—I’ve been your true and faithful husband, next Candlemas^IV will be seventeen years, and you never refused me a hand’s turn before!” Still Kate Browne moved not; and her husband using, with his son, considerable exertion to push off the boat, became annoyed at her obstinacy.

Kate saw, but, contrary to her usual habit, heeded it not. She stood, with folded arms and tearful eyes, surveying the proceedings, without possessing the power of putting a stop to preparations, of the termination of which she had a fearful presentiment.

“Why, then, look at your mother, Benje,” exclaimed Browne to his son; “sure, she’s enough to set a man mad, and her’s the help that’s as good as five—she has such a knowledge of setting everything straight. Kate?” he exclaimed to his wife.

“Let her alone, father dear,” interrupted the boy, “let her alone, and don’t vex her more; don’t ye see there’s a tear in her eye?”

“And how can I help that?” expostulated the father, looking kindly towards his wife at the same time; “them women are ever so hard to manage and manage as ye will, ye can’t find ’em out; there’s the sun shining above her head, the waters dancing and capering like jewels at her feet, the herrings crying ‘Come, catch me,’ and Benje, between you and I, as handsome a husband, and as fine, ay, and for the matter of that, as good a boy as a woman’s heart could wish, and yet the tears are in her eyes, and the corner of her mouth drawn as far down as if she did nothing but sup sorrow all her life.” Benjamin, the fisher’s only child, made no reply; and, after a moment’s pause, his father looked at him, and said, “Why, boy, you look as much cast down as your mother—stay on shore, and good luck to you!”

“No, father, that I won’t! I’ll not put more on the trouble she’s in, by letting you go by yourself; I wish from my heart the boat was mended, if it would make her easy.”

“Don’t bother about the boat, boy,” replied Browne; “I never meddle or make with her house, or land business; hasn’t she got a back-door for the cabin—a sty for the poor pig—chaney dish for the pratees,^V and a white table-cloth for saints’ days and bonfire nights?—Can’t she stay at home and mind them, and let me and the cobble alone?” Benjamin loved the wild and careless spirit of his father better than the prudence and forethought of his mother; yet did he not forget that the very arrangements and luxuries to which his father alluded, were solely the effects of her care and industry.

“Won’t you say, God speed me, Kate?” inquired the fisherman as he pushed off his dangerous craft with a broken oar, “won’t you say, God speed me and the boy?” The woman clasped her hands suddenly and fervently together, and dropping on her knees, without moving from the spot on which she had been standing, uttered a few earnest words of supplication for their safety. Benjamin sprang on the shingles, and raising his mother affectionately in his arms, whispered—

“Keep a good heart, we will be back with such bouncing fish, before morning, any how; and mother, darling, if you see Statia Byrne, here is the neckerchief she promised to hem for me; tell her not to forget her promise.” The kisses Mrs. Browne bestowed on her son were mingled with tears. She watched the boat until it had dwindled to a small speck on the horizon. As she turned to ascend the cliff, she saw the round, laughing face of Statia Byrne peer from behind a rock, and withdraw itself instantly on being perceived. She called to her; and, after a little time, Statia came blushing, and smiling, and lingering by the way to pluck every sprig of samphire,^VI every root of sea-pink, that grew within her reach.

“I just came down to gather a few bits of herbs for the granny’s cures, and a few shells to keep the children asy,” said Statia—pulling her sea-pinks to pieces at the same time.

“And what does the granny cure with these?” inquired Mrs Browne.

“Sorra a know I know,” replied the girl, blushing still more deeply.

“Maybe,” continued Mrs. Browne gravely, “maybe, Stacy honey, there’s a charm in them like the yarrow you put under your pillow last holy-eve night.”^VII

“Ah! thin, Mistress Browne, ma’am, let me alone about the yarrow—sure it was only out of innocent mirth I did it, and no harm; and, any way, I’ve no belief in such things at all, at all.”

“And why do you disbelieve them?” inquired the fisherman’s wife. Statia made no reply—“I can tell you,” she continued; “because though you neither spoke nor laughed that blessed night, my poor girl, after you placed the yarrow under your pillow—still you did not dream of Benje Browne. Stacy, Stacy, I mind the time myself, when, if a spell worked contrary, I’d disbelieve it directly—it’s only human natur, darling.”

Statia Byrne flung her handful of sea-pinks upon the shingles, and passed the back of her hand across her eyes, for they were filled with tears.

“You have thrown away the granny’s pinks,” said Kate, pointing to the flowers that the sea-breeze was scattering far and wide.

“Ah, thin, let me alone, Mistress Browne dear!” exclaimed the girl, “And good by for the present, ma’am, I’m sure the child ’ill be woke before this, and mother is carding wool, so she’ll want me now.”

“Good by, Statia—but stop, child: Benje desired me to put you in mind that you promised to hem this handkerchief for him; and tell your mother, jewel, that if she’ll let you come down to my cabin to-night, when the grawls^VIII are all in bed, I’ll be for ever obliged to her; Browne and the boy are out to sea, and there’s something over me that I don’t care to be quite alone this blessed night: so come down a lannan^IX—and thin you can hem the neckerchief—before morning.”

“I will, I will,” said the maiden, with whom smiles had already taken the place of tears, for she loved Mrs. Browne’s cottage almost better than her own; “I will, and I’ve learnt a new song; oh, I shall be so happy,” and she danced up the cliffs with all the light gaiety of fifteen.

The fisherman’s wife set her house in order, and then commenced mending her husband’s nets. It would have been evident to any observer that her mind was ill at ease; for instead of pursuing her occupation with her usual steadiness, she frequently suffered the hard meshes to drop from her bony fingers, and the wooden needle to lie idle on her lap. She would rise and peer from her small window, or more frequently still from the open door, into the heavens; but there was no cause for disquiet in their aspect—the moon was in her full, calm glory; and the stars, bright, glittering, and countless, waited round her throne as handmaids silently attending upon their mistress. She could see the reflection of the moonbeams on the far-away waters—but her ear, practised as it was, could hardly catch the murmur of the ocean, so profound was its repose; and yet Kate continued restless and feverish. Benjamin was her only surviving child, although five others had called her mother; and, indeed, while he was absent from her, she felt that undefined, but perfectly natural, dread, which steals over a sensitive mind for the welfare of a beloved object, whenever the one is separated from the other.

It was a great relief to her spirits when she heard the light foot of Statia Byrne on her threshold, and she felt new-sprung hope within her heart when she looked into the bright eyes, and observed the full smile of the joyous girl.

“They’re all a-bed, and the baby went off to sleep without an hushow! and mother says, as you’re all alone by yourself, I might stay with you all night, Mrs. Browne; and so I will, if you please—and I’ve brought my needle, and I’ll hem the handkerchief, if you please—and then, maybe—maybe you’d show me how you mend nets—I should so like to mend Mister Browne’s herring-net; he gave mother (God bless him!) as many herrings last year as lasted all Lent!—I’m sure we can never forget it to him.”

“Pray for him then, Stacy—pray on your bended knees—for Dermot and Benjamin Browne this night.”

“Why so I will,” rejoined the girl—astonished at the woman’s earnestness of manner—“but the night is fine, the sky is blue, the waters clear as chrysthal; they’ve been out many a night when the winds do be blowing the waves into the sky, and I’ve wondered to see you heart-easy about them—what then ails you to-night?”

“God knows,” replied Kate Browne, with a heavy sigh, “I think I’ll go over my bades a bit;^X ough, Stacy darling, it’s a fine thing to have the religion to turn to when the heart turns against everything else.”—Kate sprinkled herself with holy water out of a small chalice, and knelt down, with a “decket” of beads in her hands, to “say her prayers;” almost unwittingly, she repeated them aloud, but they had, in a degree, lost their soothing power, and she mingled the anxieties of earth with her petitions, not to heaven but to its inhabitants; her “mingled yarn” ran thus:—“ ‘Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us’—Statia, open the door, agra and listen, myself thinks the wind’s rising—‘now, and in the hour’—the cat, avourneen,^XI don’t you see the cat at the herring tub, bad luck to that cat’?—‘now, and in the hour of our death’—” There was a long pause, and she continued murmuring her petitions, and speaking aloud her anxieties, while Statia went on hemming the handkerchief; at last she looked up at her young companion and inquired, “Where did I leave off, my darling, was it at ‘Virgin most powerful,’ or at ‘Queen of Confessors’?”

“I did not hear,” replied the industrious maiden.

“Hear what?” exclaimed Kate Browne, starting off her knees.

“Lord defend us, you startle the very life out of me—” ejaculated the girl, devoutly crossing herself.

“But what did you hear, Stacy?”

“Nothing. I told you I did not hear where you left off.”

“Ough! ay! ay!” exclaimed Mrs. Browne; “God forgive me, I am a poor, sinful thing; quite full of sin; I must give up the prayers for to-night; I can’t steady my heart to them, good nor bad: there! finish your work, and we’ll go to bed, jewel—it is, as you say, a beautiful night, thanks be to God for his mercies! and I ought to have more faith.”

Long did they both remain awake during that calm moonlight: the fisherman’s wife muttering prayers and fears, and raising her eyes to the little window, which opened at the foot of her bed, and from which, as she lay, she could catch a view of the distant sea—at last, she fell off into a deep, deep sleep. But Statia, though free from all anxiety as to the fate of the absent, could not close her eyes—poor girl! her young imagination had passed a gulf of years, and she was thinking, that, perhaps, she might be to the young fisher what Kate what was to the old; and she thought how good he was, and how handsome; and how happy she should be to mend his nets, and watch the return of his boat from the highest cliff that “toppled o’er the deep.” The grey morning was stealing on the night, yet still Kate slept—and still Statia Byrne continued with her eyes fixed on the window, creating—not castles, but—nets, and boats, and cottages in the air; when suddenly before the window stood Benjamin Browne—she had not seen his shadow pass—she had heard no step, no voice—no sound; nor did she see a figure, but there was his face almost pressed to the glass—his long, uncurled hair hung down either cheek—and his eyes were fixed on her with a cold, unmoving, rayless gaze—she endeavoured to sit up—she felt suddenly paralyzed—she could not move—she tried to speak, to call Mrs. Browne, who still slept heavily, heavier than before—she could make no sound—still her lover gazed—gazed on. And what occurred to her, (for she afterwards declared she never, for a moment, was deprived of consciousness) as most strange was, that though the room within was dark, and his head obscured the window, still she could see his features, (to use her own expressive phrase) “Clear like wax:” while, as he gazed, their beautiful form assumed the long, pale hue of death—by a sudden effort she closed her eyes, but only for a brief, brief moment. When she re-opened them he was gone—and she only looked upon the grey mingling of sea and sky; trembling and terror-stricken she at last succeeded in awakening her companion. Mrs. Browne heard her story with apparent calmness, and putting her lips close to the ear of the fainting girl, whispered—“HE IS DEAD!”

It was long, long before Statia recovered from her swoon, for when she did, the morning sun was shining on her face—and she was alone, quite alone in the fisherman’s cottage; at first she thought she had fearfully dreamed, but the realities around her recalled her to herself; she flew to the same cliff where, the evening before, unconscious of the strong affection, which bound her almost childish heart to her young lover, she had watched his departure; and looking down on the beach, her painful vision was too truly realized—Dermot Browne was leading his wife from a group of persons who were bearing the corpse of the young fisherman to the shore; in the distance could be seen the keel of the doomed boat floating upwards, while crowds of sea birds overhead screamed the youth’s funeral dirge.

It might be about two months after this occurrence—which plunged the warm-hearted people of the neighbouring villages into deep sorrow—that Kate Browne visited the cottage of Statia Byrne; it was the first time the bereaved mother had entered any cottage, save her own, since “her trouble.” As soon as Statia saw her, she flung herself upon her neck and sobbed as if her heart would break; the fisherman’s wife held her from her, and parting her hair from off her brow, said,

“Sorrow has worked with you, and left his mark upon your face, avourneen; and though, my darlint, you did not drame of him that’s gone last Holy-eve, you’ve dramed of him often since.”

The poor girl wept still more bitterly.

“You must have been very dear, very dear entirely, to him,” continued Kate Browne, “for his blessed spirit found it harder quitting you than his own mother, who nursed him a babby at her breast; but whisht, darlint, don’t I love you better for that now? Sure everything—let alone every one that he regarded—that his regard only rested on, is more to me than silver or goold, or the wealth of the whole world! Didn’t the bright eyes of his spirit look from the heavens on you, my jewel? And what I’m come here for, Mistress Byrne, ma’am, is, that as you have so many children, (and God keep them to you!) may be you’d spare Statia to bind my heart from breaking, and let her bide entirely with us—we have prosperity enough, for when the Lord takes one thing away, why he gives another—blessed be his holy name! And sure, since the boy’s gone, nothing can equal Dermot’s industry and carefulness, stopping every hole in every fisherman’s boat—when he’s ashore the hammer and nails is never out of his hand. Let her be to me as my own child, Mistress Byrne, and you’ll have a consolation that will never lave you, no! not on your death-bed. Sure you’ll see her every day the sun rises—let her bide with me, for I am very desolate!”

The mother, as she looked round upon seven rosy, healthy children, felt that indeed her neighbour was desolate and in a voice hoarse with emotion, she said—

“Statia may go, and take our blessing with her, if she likes!”

Many little voices wept aloud in that cottage, although they knew they should see their sister daily; but the maiden was firm in her resolve, and that night greeted, as a father, the father of him whom her young heart had loved with an entireness of affection, which the heart can know but once.

Statia is now long past the age of girlhood, and it is pleasant to see how perfectly her simple life is an illustration of the pathetic exclamation of the Jewish damsel, “Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God!”^XII She manages admirably between her two “mothers,” as she calls them, so that the one may not be jealous of the other; but though she has had many suitors for her hand, she has never forgotten—the drowned fisherman!