after her marriage. It was in a strain of the wildest agony. In one
line, she implored to have her full dowery bestowed upon her, and in the
next she demanded it--and again she entreated me to release her "dear
Charles," who, as she termed it, had been imprisoned for the paltry sum
of five hundred pounds. I saw plainly that to do anything for them would
be money thrown away, and only encouraging them in their ridiculous, not
to say wicked, course of fashion and folly. Therefore, in a way, I had
made up my mind to let them feel what distress was, so that they might
come to some kind of an understanding of the value and the use of money,
which it was as clear as the sun at noonday that neither the one nor the
other of them had. But Priscilla was dreadfully distressed; I never had
seen anything put her so much about. We held a sort of family
parliament, consisting of my wife and myself, Rachel and her husband, to
consider what was best to be done. Rachel, poor thing, pled hard for her
sister, which I was pleased to see, though I said nothing; and Thomas
suggested that I should release Charles Austin from prison, and give
Elizabeth two hundred pounds for their immediate wants, and that I would
set up her husband in whatever line of business he might prefer; but
that I neither could nor should keep them in idleness and extravagance.
This advice was agreed to. I released my hopeful son-in-law from prison,
and sent two hundred pounds to my daughter, with a long letter of
admonition, entreaty, and advice.
We heard no more of them for six months; and I wrote to Elizabeth again,
and her mother wrote, and so did Rachel; but we all wrote in vain--our
letters were never noticed. But there was one morning that my son,
Thomas Galloway, came into the parlour where I was sitting, with an open
letter in his hand, and his face was like the face of death. A trembling
seized me all over. I was glad that there was no person beside me, for I
saw that something had happened.
"Thomas!" cried I, as I saw the letter shake in his hand, "is my bairn
dead?"
"No," said he, "but----" And he stood still, and handed me the letter.
I just glanced my eyes on it, and it fell out of my hand. It showed us
that a forgery had been committed upon our house to the extent of ten
thousand pounds!--and, oh horrible!--by my own worthless son-in-law,
Charles Austin! It was a dreadful trial--I knew not how to act. If I
permitted the villain to escape unpunished, I was doing an injustice to
society; and, oh, on the other hand, how was it possible that I could
send to the gallows the husband of my own bairn! Thomas posted off
instantly to London, to see what could be done; and I broke the bitter
tidings in the best manner I could to Rachel and her mother. Their
distress was even greater than mine. Thomas returned in a few days, and
brought us word that the villain had escaped abroad somewhere; but where
he could not learn; and it was supposed he had taken his wife and child
with him--for they had an infant about eight months old.
It was not the loss of the money, nor even the manner in which it had
been lost, that chiefly affected me, but the loss, the ruin, the
disgrace of my bairn. Indeed, it made such an impression upon me, that I
never was the same man afterwards in any business transaction.
Therefore, about twelve months after this melancholy event, I purchased
a property in Dumfries-shire, and Priscilla and myself went to reside
upon it. I intrusted the entire business to the prudence and experience
of Thomas Galloway, and became merely a sleeping partner in the firm.
We had been better than a year in our house in Dumfries-shire--it was
about the Christmas time, and Thomas and Rachel were down seeing us,
with their little son, who was just beginning to run about and climb
upon our knees. It was a remarkably cold and gousty night, and a poor
wandering woman came to our door, with a bairn at her breast, and
another on her back, and begging a morsel, and a shelter for herself and
infants. We were all sitting round the fire, when one of the servants
came up and told us concerning her, asking if they might give her a seat
by the fire. I never liked to harbour beggars, and, says I--
"No: there is a shilling for her; gie her some broken meat, and tell her
to go down to the village--it is only two miles."
"And give her this from me," said Rachel; and Priscilla had her hand in
her pocket, when the lass added--
"Poor creature! I dinna believe she is able to crawl as far as the
village, for baith her and her infants seem starving to death."
"What like is she?" asked Rachel.
"A bonny young creature, ma'am," answered our servant, "but sair, sair
dejected."
"She had better be brought in, father," said my daughter.
"Take her into the kitchen, and let her warm herself and her bairns by
the fire," said Priscilla. And the lass went away down-stairs and
brought her in.
Well, in the course of half-an-hour, Rachel went down to the kitchen, to
see if there was anything that she could do for the poor woman and her
infants--anything that they stood in need of, like--such as a gown, a
frock, a pair of shoes, or the like of those things. But the sound of
her light footsteps was hardly off the stairs, when we heard a scream,
and the exclamations--
"Sister! sister!"
I started to my feet--we all started to our feet; and Priscilla, and
Thomas, and myself looked for a moment at each other, in an agony of
wonder. We hurried down to the kitchen, and there was Rachel weeping on
the bosom of the poor wandering woman--my lost, my ruined Elizabeth! She
sobbed as though her heart would burst, and would have fallen down and
embraced our knees; but her mother pressed her to her bosom, and cried,
"My bairn! my bairn!"
I took her hand, and, bursting into tears, could only sob, "My poor
Betsy!"--and I felt her heart throb, throbbing, as she pressed my hand
to her breast.
Rachel again flung her arms around her neck, and took her and her little
ones from the kitchen, to clothe them with her own apparel, and that of
her child. Poor Priscilla could do nothing but weep; and, when Rachel
had clothed her, and cast aside the rags that covered her, she brought
her into the parlour, where we sat waiting for them; and her mother and
myself again rose and kissed her cheek, and bade her welcome. Throughout
the evening, she sat sobbing and weeping, with her face towards the
ground, and could not be comforted. We were not in a state of feeling to
ask her questions, nor she to answer them.
But, in a few days, she voluntarily unbosomed her griefs to her sister,
who communicated to me her tale of wo. It was evident that she knew
nothing of the crime which her husband had committed, and we agreed that
she should never know, as it would only add a heavier load to her broken
spirit. All she knew was, that he had hastened with her to America,
where he had changed his name, in consequence, as he said, of a property
that had fallen to him in that country. He had long treated her with
coolness and neglect, and prohibited her from writing to us, using
threats that made her tremble for her life, if she attempted to do so.
But, on arriving in America, his indifference gave place to open
brutality; and in a few months he basely deserted her and her infants in
a strange land. She sold the few trinkets and articles of apparel he had
left her; and, with her children in her arms, fainting and
broken-hearted, slowly performed a journey of several hundred miles, to
the nearest seaport, where, after waiting for some months, doling out
the little money she had left to procure food for her children, she at
length found a vessel about to sail for Greenock, and her passage-money
deprived her of her last coin. My poor bairn had been landed in Scotland
without a penny in her pocket, and was begging her way to Manchester,
to throw herself at our feet, when Providence directed her to our door.
Never do I think of the sufferings which my bairn must at this period
have endured, but my heart melts within me, and I think what must have
been the tortures of her proud spirit before she could seek assistance
from the cold and measured hand of charity. Oh, what a struggle there
must have been in her gentle bosom, between the agonies of hunger, the
feelings of the mother, and the shame that burned upon her face, and
deprived her of utterance!--and while her bits of bairnies clung to her
neck, or pulled at her tattered gown, and cried, "Bread, mother--give us
bread!"--while her own heart was fainting within her--how dreadful must
have been the sufferings that my poor Betsy endured! The idea that she
was perishing, and begging like a wretched outcast from door to door,
while we were faring sumptuously every day, brings the tears to my eyes
even to this hour; and often has my heart overflowed in gratitude to the
Power that in mercy directed her steps to her father's house.
From that day, she and her children have never left my roof; and she
shall still share equally with Rachel. About six months ago, I received
a double letter from America. The outer one was from a clergyman, and
that which was enclosed bore the signature of _Charles Austin_. It was
his confession on his death-bed, begging my forgiveness, and the
forgiveness of his wife--my poor injured Elizabeth--for the wrongs and
the cruelties he had committed against her; and declaring that she was
ignorant and innocent of the crime he had committed against me. He also
beseeched me to provide for his children, for their mother's sake, if
they yet lived. It was the letter of a dying penitent. Four thousand of
the sum with which he had absconded he had not squandered, and it he had
directed to be restored to me. The letter from the clergyman announced
the death and burial of the unhappy young man, and that he had been
appointed to carry his dying requests into effect.
I communicated the tidings of his death and his repentance of his
conduct towards her; and she received them meekly, but wept as the
remembrance of young affection touched her heart.
Such, sir, is an account of my speculations, and the losses and crosses
with which they have been attended. But success and happiness have
predominated; and I must say that I am happier now than ever. And at the
season when Rachel and Thomas come down to see us, with the bairns, and
they run romping about with Elizabeth's, who are two interesting
creatures, and three or four will be crying at once, "Granny this, and
granny that," I believe there is not a happier auld woman in Britain
than my Priscilla, who first enabled me to speculate to some purpose.
THE SEA-STORM.
It was a beautiful, calm afternoon in summer; the surface of the Solway
was as smooth as glass, for it was just high-water, and there was
scarcely wind enough to dimple its surface, or to raise the dense train
of smoke which the Liverpool steamer left behind her, as she came
rapidly and steadily bearing down from Port Carlisle towards Annan
Water-foot, where a crowd of passengers were anxiously expecting her
arrival. The air was so still that the sound of her paddles, and the
rush of water from her bows, were distinctly heard a great distance, and
the toll of the bell of Bowness Church fell full and clear upon the ears
of the dweller on the Scottish coast. Here and there a solitary sea-gull
soared lazily over his shadow in the water, and then bending downwards,
dipped his wing in the smooth stream, rising up again with a sharp,
quick turn, and a shrill scream, which sounded rather ominously,
particularly as there was a kind of bright, hazy indistinctness hanging
over the whole scene, and a close, suffocating oppression in the
atmosphere, foretelling change and storm. The wooden jetty at the
water-foot was crowded with people--some about to embark for Liverpool,
others attracted by curiosity, and by the beauty of the afternoon. On
the road near the jetty lay a large flock of sheep, and several cattle,
ready for embarkation; and Ambrose Clarke's Dumfries coach, and other
conveyances, stood at hand, ready to transfer their freights into the
steamboat. It was altogether a beautiful and exciting scene; bright and
joyous summer seemed to have shed its cheering influence over the spirit
of man, as well as over the face of nature; and, amid the throng around
me, I did not remark a single unhappy countenance. At length the
steamboat bore up for the mouth of the Annan, and, after a great deal of
manoeuvring with the paddles, was laid safely alongside the jetty.
Then came the tug of war, and the peaceful quiet of the calm afternoon
was disturbed by the loud and various sounds of embarkation. The
bleating of sheep, the bellowing of cattle, the loud shouts of their
drivers; the elbowing and jostling of passengers of various classes
making a rush on board, dragging after them their trunks or
portmanteaus, regardless of legs or elbows in their progress; and, over
and above all, the loud, deafening, rushing, roaring noise of the steam,
like the voice of some giant bellowing to them all to be as quick as
possible--converted the late quiet scene into one of Babel-like
confusion. At length the sheep were comfortably wedged up together, and
the cattle secured; and then the bell rang as a warning to those who
were going to stay on board, and to those who were staying on board too
long, to take their departure.
While standing on the jetty, I had exchanged a few commonplace remarks
with a frank, middle-aged, gentlemanly-looking man standing near me,
who, like myself, was _en route_ for Liverpool; and when the steamboat
was fairly off, I made up to my new acquaintance again, and we had a
long and amusing conversation together. To those who are fond of
studying human character, and who derive amusement from observing its
numerous varieties, a public conveyance of any kind is an interesting
_study_--a cabinet in which they may chance to meet with strange and
rare specimens to add to their collection of human originals. I do not
envy the man who seems to think the warning bell of the steamboat, or
the shutting of the door of the stage-coach, a signal to him to close
the door of his mouth and ears; and who can doze away in a corner,
uninterested and uninteresting, and leaves the conveyance, as he entered
it, dull and heavy, uncomfortable and discontented himself, and a
species of incubus upon the spirits of his companions.
We had only left our port about two hours, when the sky began to
overcast, and heavy clouds rose slowly from the horizon. The wind seemed
to be awaiting in silence, and reserving its strength for the
approaching conflict of the elements, for there was not a breath
stirring; the sea-birds shrieked around us, as if to warn us of
approaching danger; and the smoke from the engine-fire hung heavily over
the deck, and covered the water around us, as if to hide us from the
coming storm. At length the forerunner of the _squall_ appeared in the
shape of a broad, bright, sudden blaze of lightning, followed by a
rattling peal of thunder, which seemed to have burst open the floodgates
of heaven, for the rain descended in torrents from the overcharged
clouds, while flash followed flash, and peal followed peal, in rapid
succession. A light breeze soon springing up from the south, the flashes
of lightning became less and less vivid; and we heard, afar off, the low
growling of the thunder, as the clouds slowly and unwillingly retreated
before the wind, which now freshened up rapidly. In a short time it blew
a gale, and occasioned such a heavy sea, that most of the passengers
were driven below by the violent motion of the vessel. I, being an old
stager, preferred the cool breeze on deck, to the close, confined air of
the cabin; and, to my great surprise, saw my new and agreeable
acquaintance walking up and down the deck as unconcernedly as if the
boat were lying at the jetty.
"You seem to have excellent _sea-legs_, sir," said I; "you walk the deck
with the confidence of one to whom such unsteady footing is familiar;
you do not look like a sailor, but still I am greatly mistaken if this
is the first time you have been in a gale of wind."
"You are right," replied he, "in both your conjectures: I am not a
sailor by profession, and I have been in many a gale. I owe the
greatest happiness of my life to a storm and its consequences."
"Indeed!" said I; "if it is not asking too much, will you favour me with
an account of the adventure to which you allude?--it will serve to
beguile the time till we turn in."
"With all my heart," said he; "and with the greater pleasure, because I
perceive you are a sailor, and will understand me. If you find me
tedious, remember you have yourself to blame for the infliction:"--
When I was a youngster, I was sent out by my friends to join a
mercantile house in Bombay, of which my father had formerly been a
partner. After labouring for some years as clerk, I was admitted as
junior member of the firm, and being considered a stirring man of
business, I was sent by the heads of the house as supercargo of one of
their ships trading to the Straits and China. It was in this way I
acquired the sea-legs on which you have been pleased to compliment me;
and, what was still more to the purpose, I managed well for my
employers, and added considerably to my own resources.
Fortune smiled upon all my private mercantile speculations; and, in the
course of a few years, I amassed what I considered a comfortable
competency. As my constitution, although it had been severely tried, was
still tolerably unimpaired, I thought it wiser to return home at once,
to enjoy the moderate fruits of my labour, than to risk my health in the
endeavour to add to my means. I accordingly retired from the firm, wound
up my affairs, transferred my money to the English funds, and took my
passage in a country ship to China. From thence I embarked in a fine
Indiaman of 1000 tons burden, called the Columbine, bound to England,
and to touch at the Cape of Good Hope. Our passage was quick and
pleasant; and I greatly enjoyed our fortnight's stay at the Cape, where
our party was increased, by the addition of a lady and gentleman to our
cabin circle. The gentleman was a retired surgeon of the Indian army,
and one of the funniest little Sancho Panza figures I ever beheld. When
he first stepped over the gangway, there was a general titter among the
crew at his strange appearance. He was dressed in a little scarlet
shell-jacket; a pair of wide Indian-made _continuations_ of nankeen,
with stockings as nearly as possible of the same colour; a little black
velvet hunting-cap, stuck on one side over his round, fat, rosy face; a
walking-cane in one hand (a walking-cane on board a ship!); and a
leather bottle, suspended by a belt from his shoulders. On further
acquaintance, I found he was as odd in character as in appearance. He
was a regular old bachelor, fidgety and particular. His countenance
bespoke him a lover of the good things of this life--and it did not
belie him, for dearly did he enjoy them all; nothing came amiss to him,
that came in a _perishable_ shape, provided it had all the "appliances
and means to boot" of the culinary art. It was really quite a treat to
hear the smack of genuine pleasure (a kind of _parting-salute_, a token
of good-will and kindly feeling) which followed the engulfment of every
mouthful of the captain's excellent claret--and his mouth, like the
Irishman's, held exactly a glass; and then his little dark eye twinkled
with anticipated delight, as it wandered discursively over the cuddy
table, when the covers were raised at dinner. And yet with all this
spice of epicurism and apparent selfishness, he was liberal,
kind-hearted, and obliging. He had been so long absent from home that he
had become completely _Indianised_; and his strange opinions and
expectations respecting England, were in the highest degree ludicrous.
The lady was a young widow, who had accompanied her husband, a Madras
civilian, many years her senior, to the Cape, in the hope of
re-establishing his health; but it was too late--the hand of death was
upon him, and he had been taken from her about six months before our
arrival. She remained at the Cape, waiting for expected letters from
Madras, and then determined upon proceeding to Europe. She came on board
in mourning and in tears: the sight of the ship seemed to have
re-awakened the memory of him she regretted; and she did not for some
time take her place at the cuddy-table, nor appear among the other
passengers. Now and then, in the calm moonlight evenings, she came
stealing up like a shadow, and wandered listlessly up and down the deck,
leaning on the captain's arm, or bending over the bulwark of the poop,
gazing mournfully on the waves below. Time, with the absence of all
objects that could revive her painful recollections, soon had the effect
of soothing her grief; and after we had crossed the _Line_, she was
persuaded to join the cuddy party. She was young, and without being
decidedly beautiful, was one of the most interesting-looking females I
had ever met with. There was an air of mild, uncomplaining resignation
in her look and manner, which irresistibly attracted sympathy and
admiration. During the bustling scenes of my life in various parts of
the East, I had met with all varieties and shades of beauty, and,
strange to say, had passed unharmed and "fancy-free" through the ordeal
of whole constellations of bright and beaming eyes. Love had hitherto
been a stranger to me; I had read of it, talked of it, heard of it, but
had never felt its overpowering influence; and I had begun to doubt
whether I had a heart at all, at least for the tender passion. But I now
soon found that I had been mistaken, and that I had feelings, and tender
ones too, as well as those whom I had been in the habit of ridiculing
for them. I could hardly analyse them at first, they were so various and
contradictory. I began with admiration of the widow's expressive
countenance and gentle manner. I was loud in her praise to every one who
would listen to me: "If ever there was an angel on earth" (afloat I
should have said), "she is one." I eagerly sought every opportunity of
throwing myself in her way, till I happened to hear one of the officers
calling me "the widow's shadow." Then, all at once, I felt confused
whenever her eyes met mine; the warm blood rushed to my cheeks, and a
flutter of nerve came over me, whenever she spoke to me. I gradually
withdrew from her society; lost my appetite; became fond of solitary
walks; and was seized with a most extraordinary oppression of the lungs,
which obliged me to sigh continually.
"Holloa, Wentworth!" said the officer of the deck to me one night, "what
is the matter with you? There was a sigh like the blowing of a grampus!"
He was an old friend of mine, and as kind-hearted a rough diamond as
ever breathed.
"I don't know, Wildman," replied I; "I'm afraid my liver is terribly out
of order."
"Liver!" said he, with a loud laugh--"tell that to the marines; I
suspect it's the heart that's out of trim more than the liver." And so
saying, he walked forward to hail the foretop, and left me to my
meditations. He left me an enlightened man; his words had flashed
conviction on my mind.
"And so," muttered I, "I am actually in love! How strange that the
_novelty_ of my emotions should so long have blinded me to their
_nature_! Heigh-ho! But why the plague should I sigh about it? Love! No,
no; I'm sure I'm going to have an attack of liver. I wonder if she likes
_me_?"
"Why don't you ask her?" said my sailor friend, who had returned
unobserved to his place at my elbow, and had overheard the last part of
my soliloquy. "Come, come, Wentworth," said he, seeing that I looked
rather annoyed, "don't be angry with me; you have been like the bird
that hides its head in the sand, and fancies no one can see it; but I
have long observed your growing partiality for the fair widow, and I
admire your taste--she is a prize worth trying for. Take a friend's
advice, and, if you are in a marrying mood, put your modesty under
hatches, and make a bold stroke for a wife at once."
"Oh, nonsense, Wildman!--how can you talk so foolishly? She is in such
affliction! I could not dream of following your advice; it would be
indelicate in the extreme at present."
"Ay, it is too soon to come to close quarters yet; but there is nothing
like laying an anchor to windward in time. Play at long balls with her,
my boy. Stand in a corner, and gaze in admiring silence; send a few
well-aimed die-away glances through her, and play off a sigh or two now
and then, backed by a little sentiment. Why, man, a broadside of such
red-hot sighs as yours would riddle her heart, and make her strike her
colours at once, if you had but courage to lay her alongside."