‘That I did,’ replied the visitor, ‘I took a parcel for him from Mr W——’s.’
‘He told us he was to be back here again in a week; but something unlooked for has kept him, for we haven’t seen a sight of him since.’
‘I don’t think he’ll be able to come at present,’ said Billy, ‘for when I was in Dublin his wife was very ill.’
‘His wife!’ exclaimed Eliza, who had been an attentive listener to the conversation.
‘Ay, his wife,’ said Billy; ‘he was married about two years ago to a lady belonging to B——.’
Eliza heard no more; she had summoned up all her energy to meet the confirmation of the dreadful news; but the struggle was too much—nature gave way, and she sunk lifeless from her chair. They ran to her assistance, and having raised her, succeeded by slow degrees in bringing her back to life. On recovering, she felt that she was ruined for ever; but the necessity of keeping her own secret, acted as a counterpoise to despair, and induced her to smother her feelings. Her parents were not surprised at her fainting, for they were aware of his attentions, and they could feel for her situation; but they had no knowledge of the extent of her misery. She was partially recovering from the effects of her grief, when she found herself in a way which she could not long hope to conceal. Her agony of mind now became excessive; she could not endure that her disgrace should be known in the neighbourhood, and she determined on leaving her home, and travelling to some distant part of the country. Packing up her clothes, and taking some money with her, she travelled to the nearest port, where she embarked for Dublin, and having found Mrs L——, to whom she was related, she confided to her the story which I now give to the reader. But not being able to procure any means of subsistence, and hearing that employment was more likely to be had in Glasgow than any other place, she resolved on going there, where, far from any one who knew her, she might drag out a miserable existence: and for this purpose she had taken her passage in the vessel I intended to go with. I was introduced to her by Mrs L——; but she shrunk from observation, and seemed to feel uneasy at being observed. Seeing this, I did not obtrude myself on her notice; but I could not see her ‘pale wasted cheek, and brimfu’ e’e, or hear her heart-bursting sighs,’ without lamenting over this wreck of human happiness.
The wind remaining contrary for two or three days, I felt so uneasy that I determined on proceeding by coach; but previous to doing so, I recommended Eliza to the care of my friend B——, who was waiting his passage by the same vessel, his term of service having expired. The sequel, which I may as well relate here, was communicated to me in a letter from him a few days after my arrival at home:—
‘Two days after you left us, we sailed from Dublin harbour, in company with two other vessels bound for Glasgow. The wind being fair, we had ran down the coast a good way before dark; but as the night came on, the weather got hazy, and the wind veered more to westward, blowing very fresh, and continued increasing: by ten o’clock it was a perfect storm. All hands had been on deck from the time it grew dark, and as we had been rather pinched for room, the passengers turned into the vacant berths; but I had never any liking to being below in bad weather, and remained on deck. The night looked frightful—the mist was such, that we could not see the vessel’s length a-head—and the wind blowing fearfully in upon the shore. The captain had never been on the coast before, and seemed to have no confidence in his knowledge of it, and in his confusion lost sight of every precaution. I was well aware of our danger, and mentioned it to the captain. “I can’t help it,” was his answer, “I can see no light—to lie-to, I would inevitably drift—and to tack with this wind would be impossible; all I can do is to keep the vessel close to the wind—perhaps it may clear up.” I saw there was little hope, and my mind turned to the poor creatures in the cabin, who were lying sick in the berths; if there was any chance for them, it must be on deck, and going below for the purpose of getting them up, I found Eliza in dreadful agony, the pains of premature labour had seized her through excessive sickness. I endeavoured to persuade her to come up, but she could not stir. I overheard one of the sailors on deck sing out that he saw a light. “Thank God!” said I, “we may be saved yet.” “Is there danger?” said Eliza. I could not conceal it. “You had better try to get up on deck, I will assist you; if you have any chance of being saved it will be there.” “O, no!” said she; “let me remain, I do not wish to be saved; God will have mercy on me, and the waves will cover my shame!” Hearing a great bustle I ran up the ladder,—“Lord have mercy on us,” said one of the sailors, “we are all lost.” “How? how?” said I. “Don’t you see the breakers a-head.” I did see them too plainly: we were close upon them. I ran down to the cabin, and partly by force, partly by entreaty, got Eliza out of her berth; and getting her in my arms, I got to the foot of the companion ladder. I was half-way up the ladder, when a crash that would have roused the dead pealed in my ear, mingled with the despairing shriek of the crew. The shock threw me back on the cabin floor, and my head coming in contact with the iron ring of the hatch, I was rendered for a few moments insensible. The stern of the vessel had been torn asunder, and it now yawned beneath me; the water rushed in—I remember no more. I was saved, miraculously saved; but Eliza escaped from the censure of an unfeeling world.’
Poor Eliza had indeed escaped from the censure of the world; but her seducer still lives: if he is not lost to every feeling, his remorse must be great. Poor B—— had a narrow escape with his life: when the vessel went to pieces, he had clung to a piece of the wreck, and was washed ashore on it; but he and one of the crew were all that were saved.