the son of a neighbouring farmer, who had everything to recommend him
but wealth, of which he had none. His father was in straitened
circumstances; and their united labours--for they tilled and sowed the
same fields together--were unable to improve them. Indeed, the situation
of the former was almost precisely that of Waterstone. They were
tenants of the same proprietor, and old Spalding was also in
arrears--arrears which he could not pay--to his landlord.
Having given this sketch of the situation in which Marion stood with
regard to affairs of the heart, at the period of our story, we recur to
the scene which that digression interrupted.
After another long and silent pause, broken only by the suppressed sobs
of the poor girl, and at times by heavy and deep-drawn sighs from her
mother, the latter again spoke.
"Oh, my John--my John," she said, "if ye but kent o' this, I'm sure, for
a' that's come and gane yet, ye wad stretch out a helping hand to us in
this hour o' distress!"
"Betsy!" exclaimed her husband, angrily interrupting her, and starting
to his feet with an unwonted energy of manner, "havena I often tell't ye
never to name that ingrate, that undutiful son, in my presence?--and how
comes it that ye have dared to disregard my injunctions, and that at a
time, too, when I'm overwhelmed, rendered desperate, wi' other cares?
How could ye, woman, add to my distress, by naming the base fallow
before me?"
These were harsh words from a father of his own child; but, so far as
circumstances could enable that father to judge, they were not
unmerited. William Waterstone's son--his only son--who had been bred a
millwright, had gone out to the West Indies some five or six years
previous to the period of which we write; and during the last three
years of that time his parents had never heard from him, although they
had learned that he was not only living, but rapidly accumulating a
fortune. A score of letters, at least, his father had written him
through the medium of the mercantile house by which he had been first
sent out (and which kindly undertook not only to have all his letters
forwarded to his son, but offered the same obliging services in the case
of communications from the latter to the former), without ever
receiving any answer; and this was the more unpardonable, that more than
one of these letters contained requests from John Waterstone's father
for a little pecuniary assistance to help him out of his difficulties.
These, however, were equally unattended to with the others; and it is
not, therefore, to be wondered at that old Waterstone should have
charged his son with ingratitude, and considered his conduct undutiful
and unnatural. This was, in truth, as we have shown, his father's
opinion of the young man; but, oh! what can weaken a mother's love? What
can wither the strong and deep-rooted affections of her bosom for the
child of her love? The conduct must be infamous indeed that could do
this.
Mrs Waterstone, although she did allow that her son ought to have at
least written them, yet thought, and, when she dared, spoke, of him with
the most tender regard. For his apparent neglect of them, she said, she
was sure there was some good reason, that would one day be explained to
the satisfaction of them all. What this reason could be she owned she
could not conjecture; but that was a circumstance which did not in the
least shake her faith in its existence. When her husband, therefore, on
the present occasion, upbraided her for naming her son, and accused him
of ingratitude and undutiful conduct, she, as she always did in similar
circumstances, stepped forward with the ready but unsatisfactory defence
alluded to.
"Be patient, guidman, I beseech you," she said--"be patient; and, oh,
man, dinna think sae unkindly o' the puir laddie. He'll be able, I
warrant, to gie a guid reason for a' this when----"
"Let me hear nae mair o't, Betsy," again interrupted William Waterstone.
"We've ither things to think o' enow. Here's ruin staring us in the
face, woman--ruin! ruin! utter ruin!" he repeated, in a tone of the
deepest and most bitter despair. "Naething can avert it. Without a
house to shelter us, as we will sune be, our auld heads maun be exposed
to the winds o' heaven and to the pelting o' the storm."
"Never, never, never!" at this moment suddenly exclaimed Marion, who had
hitherto been sitting, as already described, absorbed in grief, at the
further end of the apartment, with her face buried in her apron. "Never,
never, never!" she exclaimed, rushing towards her father, and throwing
her arms about his neck; "ye shall never be driven to that strait, sae
lang as the means are in my power o' preventing it! Mother, mother, dear
mother," she added--and now turning to the parent she named, and
throwing herself on her knees before her--"I can stand this nae langer!
I'll marry John Maitland, mother, and he'll lend as muckle siller as
'ill tak ye out o' this difficulty. He has often said that he wad help
my faither, if I wad promise to become his wife."
"My bairn, my bairn!" replied her mother, overcome with this instance of
her child's devoted affection; for well she knew the fearful extent of
the sacrifice she had offered to make. "My bairn, my bairn!" she said,
bursting into tears, and clasping her daughter closely in her
arms--"God's blessing be wi' ye for this dutifu conduct to your puir
parents, although it grieves me to the heart, my puir lassie, to see ye
driven by oor necessities to become an unwillin bride. But ye see, my
bairn, there is nae ither way o' savin us frae beggary in our auld
days."
"I ken it, mother--I see it," replied Marion, weeping, and as pale as
death; "and my mind's made up. Onything, onything will I endure rather
than see ye turned oot o' yer ain house, and thrown destitute on the
world."
"A faither's blessin and the blessin o' God be wi' ye, my dochter, for
this!" said her father, now interfering for the first time, and laying
his hand upon her head as she knelt before her mother. "Ye canna but
prosper, my bairn, for such conduct as this; and your marriage, though
in the meantime it mayna seem to you to promise much felicity, maun in
the end be a happy ane. It canna be otherwise. But, Marion," he added,
"I winna let ye mak this sacrifice till a' ither means hae failed me,
and till I find that the factor is really determined to carry his
threats into execution."
At this moment the latch of the outer door was raised, and Richard
Spalding, wholly unaware of the state of matters in William
Waterstone's, suddenly walked into the midst of the sorrowing family;
and great was his surprise on witnessing the scene of disconsolation
which presented itself. He guessed, indeed, in part the cause--for his
father, as has been already said, was also under the ban of the new
factor; but he little dreamed of the resolution to which it had driven
his beloved Marion.
This was now, however, soon to be made known to him. On Richard's
entrance, her father, who, as well as his wife, knew well of the
attachment between the young couple, after hastily saluting him, left
the apartment, and was speedily followed by Marion's mother; their
object being to give their daughter an opportunity of informing her
lover, with her own mouth, of the resolution she had come to regarding
his rival.
On being left to themselves, Richard went up to Marion, who, seated in a
chair, with her pale cheek resting on the back, looked the very image of
hopeless despair. On Richard's first entrance, she had not looked
towards him at all, nor exhibited any other symptom of a consciousness
of his presence. Neither did she yet offer any signs of welcome.
Astonished and alarmed at such unusual conduct, Richard took her
affectionately by the hand, and anxiously inquired what was the matter.
The poor girl burst into tears.
"Marion," said her lover, now greatly agitated and perplexed, "what in
all the earth is wrong? Will you not tell _me_, Marion?"
"O Richard, Richard, do not ask me. I cannot, I will not tell you," said
the distracted girl.
"Then you desire to make me miserable too, Marion," was the reply.
"No, no, Richard; but I cannot tell you what I know will break your
heart, as it has already broken mine. My peace is gone for ever,
Richard, but it has gone in a good cause."
"For Heaven's sake, Marion," said her agonised lover, "tell me, tell me
at once what you mean, and do not torture me longer with this strange
and unintelligible conduct. It's not using him well, Marion, who hopes
to be more to you, one day, than any other person on the face of the
earth."
"Never, Richard!--never, You can never now be more to me than you are at
this moment. That's a' owre, Richard. We maun meet nae mair. I'm gaun to
be the wife o' anither."
"Marion!" said Richard, his face now overspread with a deadly paleness,
and his lips quivering with emotion, "in God's name, what does this
mean? Have I done anything to offend you--anything to change your
opinion of me?"
"No, no, Richard, you have not," said the weeping girl; "but I maun
marry John Maitland, to save my puir father and mother frae ruin--to
save them frae bein thrown on the cauld charity o' the warld in quest o'
their bread."
And she now went on to detail the particulars of the situation in which
they stood, and concluded by mentioning the promise she had made to her
parents to accept of Maitland's addresses.
Poor Spalding stood the very personification of misery and wretchedness
during the recital of these circumstances, that laid prostrate all his
dearest hopes, and wrested from him that happiness which he had fondly
believed was within his grasp. For some time he made no reply to, or
remark on, what had just been communicated to him; but at length, taking
Marion again by the hand.
"Well, Marion," he said, with a strong effort to suppress the emotion
with which he was struggling, "this is dreadful news to me; but I do not
blame you; or, rather, I cannot but commend you for the step you are
going to take, although it be to the destruction of my peace and
happiness in this world. But is there no way of averting this evil? Is
there no way of saving your father but by your----" Here he suddenly
stopped short. His feelings overcame him; and he could not come out with
the two words necessary to finish the sentence; he could not bring
himself to add, "marrying Maitland."
"Nane, nane, Richard," said Marion, who well knew what he would have
said; "there's nae ither way left us--nane, nane, Richard."
"But," replied the latter, "your father said, Marion, you told me, that
he will not ask you to make this sacrifice, until he sees that the
factor is determined to proceed against him, and that there is no other
means of satisfying his demands. Now, as it will be some days before he
can ascertain the former, will ye promise me, Marion, that ye will take
all the time that circumstances will afford you before you commit
yourself further with Maitland? Will you promise me this, Marion?--and,
in the meantime, I'll stir heaven and earth to save you from the fate
that's threatening you."
This promise poor Marion readily gave; and, somewhat comforted by it,
Richard left the house, to try every method he could think of, to avert
the misfortune that threatened him. But, alas! what could he do? Where
was he to raise L150 some odds, which was the amount of William
Waterstone's debt to his landlord? Under the excitation of the moment
during his interview with Marion, and under the blind and bewildering
impulses excited by it, he thought he might, by some means or other,
accomplish it. But, on coming to act on the vague and indefinite notions
on this subject which first presented themselves to him, he found them
burst like soap-bells in his grasp, until even he himself, sanguine as
he was, became convinced that the pursuit was hopeless, and that his
Marion was indeed lost to him for ever.
In the meantime, the dreaded crisis approached. Step after step had been
taken by the factor in the process against William Waterstone, until at
length it arrived at a consummation. His effects were sequestrated, and
a day of sale announced. Still the poor man entertained hopes that the
last and final proceeding would not be had recourse to--that, in short,
no sale would actually take place; and in this desperate belief he had
still delayed committing himself with Maitland regarding his daughter,
although he had dropped some hints to that person of a tendency to
encourage his hopes. From this delusion, however, he was now about to be
roughly awakened. The day of sale arrived, and with it came the
auctioneer; and, as the morning advanced, several persons were seen
hovering about at a little distance. These were intending purchasers,
whose respect for poor Waterstone, and whose sympathy for his unhappy
situation, induced them thus to keep aloof, with the view of saving his
feelings as much as possible, until their purpose there should render it
necessary for them to approach nearer to the melancholy scene.
These appearances were far too serious to leave the slightest ground for
the indulgence of any further hopes from the lenity of the prosecutor;
and William Waterstone felt this. He saw now that the sacrifice which he
had thus delayed till the twelfth hour must be made--that his daughter
must pledge herself to become the wife of John Maitland; and with a
heavy heart he now put on his bonnet to go down to that person, to enter
into a full and final explanation with regard to this matter, and his
own distressed situation. Poor Marion's doom was now, then, about to be
irrevocably sealed. Her father was already at the door, on his way to
fix her destiny, when he was suddenly arrested by a person, wrapped up
in a travelling mantle, and who was about entering the house at the same
moment, seizing him by the hand.
"Father!" exclaimed the apparent stranger.
William Waterstone looked unconsciously for an instant at the person who
addressed him. It was his son.
"John!" said the father, at length, coldly, and returning the former's
eager salutation with marked indifference.
"Yes, John," replied his son, in a tone of surprise at his father's
reception of him; "and I thought you would have been more happy than you
seem to be to have seen him, father?"
"Why should I be happy to see you, John?" said the latter, gravely.
"What have you done for me that I should rejoice in the sight of you?"
"Not much, father, I confess," rejoined his son; "but I did for you what
I could; and it is my intention to do more."
William Waterstone smiled satirically. It was the only reply he
vouchsafed. At this moment, John's mother, who had heard and recognised
his voice, rushed out and enfolded her son in her arms.
"My son--my son!" she exclaimed. "Thank God, I see you once more before
I die! Ye'll explain a' noo. I'm sure, my John, and mak guid your
mother's words."
To her son, part of this address was wholly unintelligible. What
explanation was wanted he could not comprehend; and he therefore merely
said, smiling as he spoke, that if anything in his conduct wanted
explanation he would very readily give it.
"That ye will, my son," said his mother, "to the shame and confusion o'
them that entertained ill thochts o' ye."
"Well, well, mother," replied John, more puzzled than ever--"we'll put
all that to rights, whatever it is, by and by; but, in the meantime,
pray tell me what is the meaning of all this?" And he pointed to the
collection of farming implements and other articles, which had been
placed in front of the house, preparatory to the sale, and which, with
some other no less unequivocal circumstances, but too plainly intimated
what was about to take place.
"The meanin o' that, sir," said his father, sternly, "is very sune
tell't. We are gaun to be roupit out the day for arrear o' rent--that's
a'--a thing very easy understood; and ye're just come in time to see't.
Just in time," he added, bitterly, "to see your father and mother turned
out beggars on the world."
"What! rouped out! beggared!" replied his son, with a look of the utmost
consternation. "Then, surely, father, some great and sudden pecuniary
misfortune must have befallen you; or there has been grievous
mismanagement of some kind or other, to reduce you to this unhappy
state."
"Oh no," said the father, in a dry, sarcastic tone, "nae sudden
misfortune has befa'en me, nor has there been any mismanagement either.
Naething has happened but what ye a' alang kent very weel about. The
arrears o' rent, at least the greater part o' that debt, was standin
against me before ye went abroad; and I suppose ye ken very weel that
the prices o' farm produce hae been fa'in ever since; so that I dinna
see, sir, that ye need be sae very much surprised at my situation as you
seem, or pretend to be."
"I do not pretend, father. I assure you, to be more surprised than I
really am," said his son, "and I think I have some reason. Surely what I
sent you might have kept you out of debt at any rate."
"What _you_ sent me, sir," rejoined his father, sternly: "I should like
to ken what that was." And he again smiled sarcastically. "My troth, my
debts wadna hae been ill to pay, if that could hae dune't."
"And I must say," replied his son, "that they must have been very
considerable, and, I will add, more than they ought, if it could not."
"What do you mean, sirrah?" exclaimed William Waterstone, fiercely.
"I mean, father," replied John, now getting displeased in his turn,
"that the three hundred pounds, which I have been sending you regularly
every year, for the last three years, ought to have placed you in a
better situation than I now find you."
"_You_ been sendin me three hundred pounds every year, for the last
three years!" said his father, with a look of amazement; and then,
suddenly dropping this warmth of expression--"It may be sae, John," he
added, coolly and doubtingly, "and I hope, for yer ain sake, ye speak
truth; but I hae never seen a farthin o't."
"What! not of the money I have been remitting you?"
"Not a penny; but, _if_ ye sent me the money, as ye say, John," he
added, "how comes it that ye never answered ane o' my letters?"
"Your letters, father!" replied the latter. "Why, you have not written
me for the last three years, although I have despatched at least a score
of letters to you in that time, and have never had an answer to one of
them."
"Never saw ane o' your letters," said William Waterstone, dryly.
"This is a most extraordinary and unaccountable business," exclaimed
John.
"Queer aneugh," said his father, coolly, and plainly evincing by his
manner that he did not believe a word of what his son had said to him.
"The money I sent you, father," rejoined the young man, "was transmitted
you through the house of M., P., L., & Co., Glasgow. My letters were
also sent to their care, and how it has happened that neither have
reached you I cannot at all conjecture; but I will see into that matter
immediately. How were your letters to me sent father?" he added.
"Ou, of course, to thae folks, too," replied the latter. "It was yer ain
desire in the last letter I had frae ye."
"So it was, I recollect. Well, we shall have all this explained
presently; but, in the meantime, father, let me know what is the amount
of the debt that is just now pressing on you, that I may discharge it,
and put a stop to these proceedings."
"I'm no sure if we'll need your assistance noo," said his father,
coldly. "Your sister's gaun to be married to John Maitland, and I
believe he'll lend me as muckle siller as 'll clear my feet o' this
mischief, at ony rate."
"What! my sister going to marry old John Maitland!" said her brother, in
amazement. "Impossible! He cannot have been her own free choice."
"I did not say he was," replied his father; "but Marion's a dutifu
child, and would do that and mair to save her father frae ruin. But
there she is comin," he added (pointing to Marion, who was now
approaching the house, from which she had been absent since her
brother's arrival, of which, therefore, she knew nothing), "and ye may
speak to her yersel on the subject."
John ran towards his sister, and clasped her in his arms. She did not
recognise him for a second or two; but when she did, she burst into
tears, and--
"O John, John," she said, "this is a sorrowfu hoose ye hae come to; but
yer faither 'll hae tell't ye a'?"
"He has, Marion; and, amongst the rest, he has told me, what has
surprised me more than all, that you intend marrying old John Maitland."
Marion burst afresh into tears. "It maun he sae, brother," she said--"it
maun be sae. There's nae ither way o' savin my puir faither and mother
frae ruin."
"But there is, though, Marion," replied her brother. "Ye need not now
give your hand where your heart is not, for any such purpose. I have the
means of saving you from the necessity of making this sacrifice, and
gladly shall I employ them. I will pay our father's debts, Marion, and
make you once more a free woman."
We would fain describe the joy--the rapturous, the inexpressible
joy--with which these delightful words filled the bosom of the poor girl
on whose ravished ear they fell; but we are sure that such an attempt
would only interfere with the reader's more lively and vivid
conceptions, and we therefore refrain from it.
On the same day on which these events occurred, John Waterstone, having
previously settled his father's debt to his landlord with those sent to
look after the latter's interest at the intended sale, wrote to the
house through which the money he had transmitted to his father had been
sent, mentioning its non-delivery, and requesting an explanation of the
circumstance.
To this letter Mr Waterstone received, two days afterwards, the
following reply:--
"SIR,--We have received, with very painful feelings, though not
with surprise, yours of the 10th instant. The misconduct of our
junior partner, which has placed us in a similarly distressing
predicament with several others as with you, has been the cause
of the gross irregularity of which you demand an explanation.
Your remittances, together with other moneys to a large amount,
were appropriated by this person (who has lately absconded) to
his own use--a practice which we have since discovered he has
been long addicted to. As we, however, consider ourselves bound
in honour to make good all such claims as yours--the sums you
transmitted having been advised to the firm, and the
responsibility accepted--we beg to inform you that the money
alluded to will be paid to your order, at our counting-house,
on demand. We need scarcely remark, that the circumstance above
mentioned will sufficiently account for the suppression of
letters of which you also complain.--We are, sir," &c.
This letter John Waterstone lost no time in laying before his father,
whom it at once convinced of his son's veracity, and consequently of the
injustice he had done him. But it was to his mother that this proof of
her son's integrity and dutiful conduct brought the most triumphant joy.
"I was sure my John," she said, "wad never either forget or deceive us;
and weel did I ken, as aften I have said, that it wad a' be
satisfactorily accounted for, and that my laddie wad yet triumph owre a'
his backbiters, and shame them that misdooted him."
We have only now to add, that John's generosity, on the occasion of this
visit to his parents, which was only temporary, was not confined to the
latter, but extended to his sister, on whom he bestowed a portion that
enabled her and Richard Spalding to unite their destinies.
John returned shortly after to the West Indies, where he pursued a
prosperous career for ten years longer, when he came home an independent
man, and spent the remainder of his life in the place of his nativity.
MR SAMUEL RAMSAY THRIVEN:
A TALE OF LOVE AND BANKRUPTCY.
CHAP I.--A WAY OF MAKING MONEY.