Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland, Volume 06

by Unknown

We found her extended upon the hard boards, to all appearance dead; I placed my hand upon her heart, to ascertain if life was extinct. She opened her eyes, and made a motion with her hand as if she wished me to retire. Humanity forbade compliance; and, in the best manner we could, we conveyed her to the foot of the ladder, where she gradually began to recover and breathe more freely. This was now the third day of our confinement. The storm had almost subsided, as we could feel from the vessel lying more steady in the water; and, to our unspeakable joy, the hatch was opened, and a supply of water and biscuit given to us. Next to the water, the pure air of heaven was most welcome to us. I wet the parched lips of the pale sufferer, then held the beverage to them. She swallowed a few mouthfuls, blessed me for my kindness, then sank into her usual melancholy. We were now told by the mate that we were not to come on deck; but he would leave the hatch open. We obeyed this command, which came from the captain. William and Peter, who had witnessed and endured the whole storm, in irons, lashed at the foot of the mainmast to a ring bolt, were also liberated, and came down amongst us. We learned from them that we had been in great danger, and that the mate and crew had been alarmed for the safety of the vessel. The captain was still unable to leave his cabin; and, from all accounts, he was very bad of the wound. This was so far fortunate; for the mate, who was of a humane disposition, brought some coffee for the female, which William, with great difficulty, prevailed upon her to take. She gradually began to recover; and the more passionate bursts of her grief having subsided, we were anxious to learn how she had been reduced to her present situation, and thought of making a delicate inquiry into her history. At length the frank and generous William put the question to her in the most gentle manner; a burst of tears followed the request.

‘Much as it will pain me,’ she said, ‘I am so indebted to you all for your kindness and humanity, that I cannot refuse your desire. I almost feel it a duty to myself; for appearances are strongly against me. So low as I must appear at present to you all, I was born in affluence, though not of an ancient family. My father was a wealthy merchant, and the best of parents. My sainted mother died before I had reached my tenth year, leaving us both inconsolable for her loss. My father, who could scarce endure to have me out of his sight—for I was an only child—engaged a governess to complete my education. She was a young woman of engaging manners, and possessed of every accomplishment; yet under these she concealed a selfish disposition and hardness of heart, which neither my father nor myself suspected could have existed in one so young and bland in her speech. To me she was most kind and unremitting in her duties—more, indeed, like a mother than a hireling; and I loved her as if she had stood in that relation to me. This won my father’s esteem for her, which, unfortunately, soon ripened into love. One day, I recollect, as I was walking in the garden, accompanied by him, he led me to an arbour, and, placing me beside him, said—

‘Eliza, do you love Marian?’

I artlessly threw my arms around his neck, and exclaiming—

‘Oh, yes, papa; how much I thank you for getting me so good a governess!’

I had pleased him; for he smiled and said—

‘My dear Eliza, I mean to bind her to you by a stronger tie. I have watched her maternal care and affection for you, and mean to give her the right to call you daughter.’

I was delighted. The marriage was solemnised, and we lived in harmony and mutual love, so far as I could perceive, for six years. At this period my father fell into a bad state of health, which threatened to terminate fatally. Our attentions to him, unremitting and anxious, were repaid by a gratitude and love which seemed equally divided between his young wife and the child of his first love. Marian showed no jealousy; and my heart was incapable of any feelings but those of affection. Meanwhile, my dear parent, to prepare for the worst, settled his affairs. We were both in the room with him along with the lawyer. He was dissolved in tears, and asked us if we were satisfied with the manner in which he dictated the disposal of his wealth. I could only answer by my sobs. My grief was excessive. The making of a will, to my young and inexperienced mind, had all the appearance of the last act of a living person. Death soon closed the scene. By the settlement, it was provided that we were to be treated as sisters, only a greater share of power (as if she had been the elder sister) was given to his wife. It ran thus:—If neither married, we were to live together, and the survivor was to enjoy and have the disposal of all. If Marian married, she was, during her life, to enjoy one-half, which was to revert to me or my children at her death. If I married during her life, without her consent, I was to be cut off from any part of my father’s property, except what she might choose to give me. This was a hard condition. I was to have no claim at law; and, in the event of me or my husband instituting an action, I was to be cut off with a shilling. This fatal clause, which I heard read to me at the time with indifference, has been the cause of all my misfortunes, and since then I have had every reason to believe my confiding father was prompted to insert it, at the suggestion of my artful stepmother. For some time, she had, at every opportunity, been speaking of foolish marriages made by young women, and their fatal consequences, illustrating them by numerous anecdotes and examples, whereby she invidiously prepared him for her selfish purpose, and at last compassed her object without the appearance of a dictation which he would have spurned. I was thus left at the mercy of this designing woman, who, when she put on her widow’s robes, put off her hypocrisy towards me, and began to appear in her true colours. Alas! I have every reason to think that her acting had all along been irksome to her. She became harsh and cruel, doing all she could to make the house and her presence disagreeable to me. She became gay, and frequented company, of which I was forced to partake; and when I could scarce refrain from tears at the remembrance of some cutting speech she had used to me only a few hours before, I was forced to smile to hide my chagrin. Before strangers, there was no change towards me, neither was there anything I could complain of to my acquaintance; for so artfully did she manage to make me miserable, that every fault was imputable to my own apparent bad temper. It was when alone that I experienced her bitter manner. All was wrong I said or did, and her admonitions for my amendment were more cutting than her reproofs and abuse. I had several eligible offers for my hand; all of which she refused, under one pretence or another—covering her designs against me by the mask of an anxiety for my happiness; so that she was looked upon by all who were acquainted with her as the best of stepmothers—the kindest protector of youth. At length, her wishes were accomplished. A nephew of her own, by her invitation, came to reside with us for a short time, upon a visit. As if my good genius warned me of my fate, I disliked him so much at first, that I felt unhappy in his presence; but his assiduities gradually won upon me. I contrasted him with his aunt; love succeeded to aversion; and I was ruined.’

Here a burst of tears for a time choked her utterance. After some time, she resumed—

‘I was now, for a time, happy in the delirium of youthful love. His tender attentions had completely won my heart. With a thrill of pleasure, covered by maiden modesty, I heard his first declaration of unalterable love for me. He saw too plainly the power he had over me. His aunt refused, as usual, her consent to our union; and, after upbraiding me for seducing the affections of her nephew, locked me up in my room, while she retained him in the house. Stolen interviews were the natural consequence. He was all indignation at his aunt for her unkindness to me; and, if possible, more tender and respectful than ever. To escape the tyranny I had so long suffered, I unfortunately agreed to elope with him, and be privately married. I explained to him the situation in which I was placed, by my father’s will—he declared he loved me for myself alone. I was now completely in the toils; gave my consent; on the third night left my late father’s house in his company, and set off in a postchaise, which was drawn up at a short distance from the gate. Next forenoon, we were lawfully married—his aunt taking no steps to prevent it by following us, but contenting herself by putting on the appearance of grief for my folly and ingratitude to her, for all the care and attention she had bestowed upon my education, and the base return I had made for all her kindness. Can there be a doubt she was the cause of all? Nay—she was the first to make known to me the prior history of my husband—the man whom she had first introduced to me, and to whom she gave every facility to win my unsuspecting heart. She herself now blushed not to say that he was a reprobate, without principle, addicted to every vice, and one whom his friends had found it out of their power to reclaim. With well-feigned tears of regret, she upbraided herself for having ever allowed him to enter her house—ascribing her motive to humanity, and a desire to reclaim him from his errors; and hinting, when she could, that I had defeated her good intentions, and ruined myself. Alas! how true the latter part has proved to me! I and my husband wrote to her letter after letter, in vain. She refused, in the most insulting manner, to allow me a shilling of my father’s fortune. All I obtained was my own personal effects, and a few of the jewels that had belonged to my mother. Poverty came fast upon us, and debts increased. My husband had become unkind, and often absent from me for days—excusing himself by fears for his creditors. In our extremity, he spoke of emigration to America, describing the country in glowing colours, and dwelling on the happy prospects he anticipated from the assistance of some relations he had there. I offered no objection; for I had now no partiality for one country more than another—where my husband was, there was my heart and home; and, with a severe pang, not for their value, but for the sake of her who now was unconscious of my situation, I parted with the last of my mother’s jewels, to defray the expense of our voyage. My own jewels had been long since disposed of, to supply our urgent wants. We left Edinburgh, like guilty creatures, under the cloud of night, for fear of his being arrested, and proceeded to join the vessel at Aberdeen. I can proceed no further, lest my heart should burst. My heartless husband had sold me to the captain, to be disposed of in America—trepanned me north for his wicked purpose. The rest you know.’