The Eskdale Herd-boy Part 4

CHAP. X.

When Mr. Lamont had made an end of his narration, Mrs. Martin (who had borne up while he was speaking), seemed so overpowered as to be quite unable to make any remarks; she sighed heavily, and Mr. Lamont thought she would have fainted. Mr. Martin spoke to her, but she returned no answer; at last, after using every means they could think of to get her to shed tears, they became so alarmed that, though they by no means wished to let William's disappearance be known, they thought it absolutely necessary to send for Mr. Armstrong. Helen ran and called John (who was just come in for his usual lesson) to go off directly to Langholm, as he was a quick messenger, and could be trusted.

When Mr. Armstrong arrived, he deemed it proper to have Mrs. Martin bled, which being done, she seemed to take more notice, but still spoke not, lying perfectly quiet, only sighing often. Her husband felt that to leave her in that state was impossible; he was therefore obliged to trust to Mr.

Lamont's exertions to search for the wretched boy who had been the cause of all this misery. The worthy schoolmaster accordingly left the Manse early the following morning, by which time Mrs. Martin was in the height of a brain fever, knowing no one, and screaming every instant for William.

Poor Helen now found the lessons which she had been early taught, of subduing her feelings, were but too necessary to be put in practice. Her father never quitted her mother's bed-side; and in all probability would have fallen a sacrifice to the unremitting fatigue and anxiety he was enduring, had not Helen, with persevering good sense and composure far superior to her years, waited on him herself, watching every favourable moment to bring him nourishment, and using all the little winning ways she could think of or remember to have seen her mother employ when she thought he required that sort of attention.

A whole fortnight pa.s.sed in this sort of way; Mrs. Martin's disease had in some measure subsided, but it left her in such a state of exhaustion as to give them very little hope of ultimately being able to save her life. Her husband, worn out both with fatigue and misery, almost dreaded to hear her able to ask a question, for fear that that question should be one which he could not answer, for no accounts yet came of William. Helen, dear Helen, was his only comfort; dreading, even more than her father, lest some fatal accident had happened to her brother, for the innocency of her own mind did not allow her to think for a moment that he had intentionally inflicted this misery upon them all, she had nevertheless the courage to conceal her apprehensions from her father, and kept continually cheering him, by whispering that she was sure William would be heard of very soon.

One evening, when almost despairing of being able to comfort him, as he seemed almost ready to sink under his acc.u.mulated misfortunes, a thought crossed her mind, and she caught her father's arm, saying; "My dear papa, what if William has gone in search of uncle Elliott's s.h.i.+p?"--"My darling comforter!" cried her father, starting from the chair in which he was sitting, and effectually roused from the stupor in which he seemed sunk, "that thought has never once occurred to me, and yet it appears by far the most probable thing that has been suggested; but how can the unhappy boy ever reach his uncle, without money, and without a guide?" said he, despondingly. "Perhaps, papa," answered Helen, "William was not entirely without money; for I know that grandmamma sent him a guinea on his birthday, as an encouragement for the good account you brought her of his behaviour, and to make up, in some degree, for his disappointment in not coming to Melrose: and uncle Elliott gave me a guinea when he went--now I think it very likely that he gave William the same, so that I doubt not he must have at least two guineas; and perhaps he may have saved up some of his usual pocket-money besides. It is therefore very probably, that he may have had money enough to pay his pa.s.sage up to London, or nearly so, for I heard the housekeeper at the hall telling Mrs. Scott one day that it cost her three guineas to come by the smack; perhaps they might take a little boy for less." Mr. Martin, struck with the good sense of Helen's reasoning, folded her to his heart, the tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Yes, my Helen, you are right, William has certainly gone to his uncle.

Whether he will succeed in arriving at his intended place of destination in safety still remains a doubtful point, for there are many difficulties in his way; at all events, my mind is greatly relieved, by having some clue to his conduct. I will write to his uncle and Mr. Lamont directly; the one will make every enquiry in London, the other may perhaps pick up some information at Leith, whither in all probability he went; Mr. Lamont at least may learn what s.h.i.+ps sailed about that time. Do you sit down here by your mother, and watch her, while I go and write my letters, for not an instant must be lost."

Helen sat down as her father directed, her mind dwelling on the possibility that William was really gone to her uncle. In thinking thus, she shuddered, and blamed herself for having so wicked a thought as to suppose her brother could have been guilty of premeditated cruelty to such indulgent parents as they were blessed with. Engrossed with her own thoughts, she was startled by hearing her mother, in a weak low voice, p.r.o.nounce her name; she listed, and it was again repeated. It was the first time she had spoken distinctly from the commencement of her illness.

Helen drew aside the curtain, and perceived that her dear mother knew her.

Mr. Armstrong had warned her father, in Helen's hearing, to be extremely careful, whenever this should happen, not to allow her to speak more than could be helped, and to keep the room as still and quiet as possible; she therefore stooped down and kissed her cheek, and then was going to close the curtain. Her mother looked anxious, and whispered, "Not yet." Helen thought she said "your father." Helen immediately answered, "He is writing, mamma, down stairs; he is quite well." Her mother then endeavoured to articulate a "William." This was a trying moment for the poor girl; she scarcely knew how to act; but seeing her mother's eyes watching her, she said, "We hope with uncle Elliott; but, mamma, I must not speak." She had said these words so low, that her mother had only heard the sound of her brother's name, and therefore believed Helen had said William was really with him; she raised her eyes to heaven, and seemed inwardly to thank G.o.d: no more was said, and she remained quite quiet. From that moment it was evident that she was gaining strength, but so slowly as to be scarcely perceptible. Her sweet little girl now became almost her only nurse; none administered her medicines, none shook her pillows, none understood her looks so well and so quickly as Helen. Her father, who was constantly in the room with them, watched his darling's attention with the most lively feeling of delight, and thanked G.o.d he was the father of such a child.

Two days after Mr. Martin had written to Capt. Elliott, Helen came up into her mother's room in the morning. She opened the door very gently, and made a sign for her father to go down stairs; she then sat down by her mother, and endeavoured to compose herself. This was no easy task, but she felt it was necessary, therefore she had the resolution to sit quietly for nearly half an hour, without ever showing the slightest impatience, though she knew there was not only a letter from her uncle below in the parlour, but likewise, she firmly believed, one from William himself. It was a great trial of patience for a girl little more than eleven years old; but Helen's mind was so habituated to be ruled by reflection and duty, that she acted entirely as she thought her mother would have done under similar circ.u.mstances.

Her father at last came up stairs; he seemed very much agitated, and, as if afraid to speak he pointed to Helen to leave the room. She almost flew down stairs into the study, where lay the two letters on the table, which her father had placed there for her inspection, a confidence she had well earned by her dutiful and affectionate conduct.

Capt. Elliott informed Mr. Martin, that on calling at his agent's one morning, he was told that a boy had been enquiring for him the day before, and that they had given him his address on board the _Amazon_ frigate, at Chatham. Upon asking still further, he was told that the boy was a genteel good-looking lad, and one of the clerks remarked that he spoke with the Scottish accent. "I know not," continued he, "what put it into my head, but William rose to my thoughts. I believed it next to impossible that it could be he, yet I felt a sort of uneasiness, which induced me to return to Chatham that night, contrary to my intention in the morning. On going on board, I made enquiry whether a lad of that description had been there.

The lieutenant, who commanded in my absence, said, 'Yes, he has been here, Sir, but he would neither wait for your arrival nor give his name, but promised to call again to-morrow morning.' I really could not sleep for anxiety that night, as the description which I received from all who saw him almost confirmed my suspicions. I gave orders to be informed the moment he came next day; and accordingly, about nine o'clock in the morning I was told he was come alongside. I desired he might be sent into my cabin, and in a few minutes William himself stood before me."

"I begged to know what was his business with me, treating him exactly as I would have done a perfect stranger. My young gentleman was rather confounded with this reception at first, but he gradually took courage, and informed me he had made up his mind and nothing would alter his determination of going to sea; that if I was resolved not to receive him, nor to allow him to remain in my s.h.i.+p, he could not insist on it, but he would certainly go on board another, and he had no doubt he would find other captains who would not reject him. I told him that his conduct had been so extremely cruel and unfeeling, that it would be serving him as he richly merited to throw him off, and let him provide for himself in any way he chose, and that if he alone were considered I would certainly do so; but as his parents were too dear to my heart to allow me to act in this manner, the only thing I felt I could do was to write to you information of what had pa.s.sed, and be entirely regulated by your answer in what way he should be disposed of. He has appeared extremely sulky. I am told, ever since (for he is not permitted to enter my company), but you may be quite satisfied I take good care he shall not escape." Capt.

Elliott then went on to say that, if he might offer any advice on the subject, he thought it might perhaps be best to yield to the boy's wishes of making the sea his profession; nothing else would satisfy him, and in all probability he would do better in that line than he ever could now do ash.o.r.e. He then finished by earnestly desiring an answer as soon as possible, and by giving his sister every a.s.surance of his care and affection for the boy; "at the same time," he added, "I must break this _disobedient_ spirit, or he will do no good any where, and it appears to me that the discipline of a s.h.i.+p is as good a remedy for bad temper as any other that can be found."

Helen shed many tears over this long letter. "Poor William," said she aloud, "he little knows how nearly he has been the death of mamma, and how much he has made us all suffer. Oh! if papa do let him go with my uncle, how much I wish he may be allowed to come home and see us all before he sails; I am sure he can never be happy to go away for six whole years without having one kiss of forgiveness from his dear parents." She then took up the other letter, it was indeed from William; he told his father that he hoped he would forgive him, but that he had quite resolved to chuse the sea for his profession; that, having done, so, he despaired of being able to procure either his or his mother's consent to it, as he had accidentally overheard a conversation some time before, in which they both declared that nothing could induce them to agree to such a thing. He therefore thought it the best and surest way to proceed as he had done, knowing that, if he lost this opportunity, he would most probably have to go entirely with strangers, which he supposed would be still more disagreeable to them than his being with his uncle. He had gone to Leith, and got on board one of the smacks, which was just sailing as he got to the pier; and finding that his funds did not allow him to be a cabin pa.s.senger, he had gone into the steerage; in short, he had only one sixpence left by the time he saw his uncle. He finished by imploring their forgiveness, promising that if they would in this instance gratify him, he would never again give them the least reason to complain of him.

Helen folded up the letters, and sat for a few minutes considering on their contents. Her own good sense and feelings of _obedience_ to her parents pointed out to her in how very improper a style her brother wrote; but her love and affection for William made her try to excuse him. "Boys are so different from girls!" thought she, "William has been away so much, too, from home; and besides, he must chose a profession, and it would be hard not to leave him at liberty to be what he thinks himself fit for."

In the evening of this day Mrs. Martin felt herself better, and, for the first time since her illness, spoke to her husband on the subject of William. Mr. Martin told her he was with her brother, and likewise that he had heard from himself; he then stated what Captain Elliott had said as to William's being allowed to remain with him, but owned he was very averse to this plan. Mrs. Martin answered very calmly: "My dear husband, as far as my judgment goes, I perfectly agree with my brother. I would not certainly have chosen that William should be a sailor if I could have prevented it; but, as he has acted, I think it is the best thing we can now do. He will be under my dear brother's care; and I shall now,"

continued she, looking at her husband with tenderness, "die in peace on his account, convinced that Elliott will exert every means to correct and improve my poor boy, the last legacy of a dying sister." Mr. Martin, quite alarmed by this address, asked her if she felt herself worse, and rose to send for Mr. Armstrong. She laid her hand gently on his arm; "My dearest love," said she, "I am not worse; but I own I have been watching for an opportunity of preparing your mind for what I believe myself to be inevitable; I do not say I shall die immediately, yet I am convinced my const.i.tution is so shattered, that a very short time will now be allowed me to prepare for my awful change. I have thought that, by letting you know what my own opinion is, your mind would be better able to bear the stroke when it happens than if it came upon you suddenly; beside, my beloved husband, I have much to say to you with regard to Helen. At present, I must have done, my strength will not permit me to continue the conversation; only write, my dearest love, to my brother, and tell him I consign my son entirely to his management, and I trust he will endeavour to guard his father from all future anxiety on his account; he has cost him quite enough already." The last words were spoken so low, that they were evidently not meant for her husband's ear.

He had remained quite motionless all the time she was speaking. When she ceased, he became almost convulsed with agony for some minutes; but a violent shower of tears relieved him, and most probably saved either his reason or his life, or indeed perhaps both. Helen's coming into the room showed him the necessity of composure; and hastily pa.s.sing her, saying he must send answers to his letters, he left the room and shut himself up in his study, there to implore compa.s.sion and resignation from a being, who is never deaf to the pet.i.tions of the humble and sincere believer.

A few days showed plainly that Mrs. Martin knew her own situation but too well; she appeared gradually, though slowly sinking. One evening, she asked her husband to raise her up a little; and then, desiring Helen to bring her pen and ink, she insisted on being allowed to write a few lines.

"I shall write very little," said she, "but it is a duty that must not be longer delayed." She then wrote what appeared to be only a short note, which she sealed, and addressed to William; and putting it into her husband's hand said, "send this, my love, when all is over, not before. It may comfort him, poor fellow; he will require comfort then."

Mr. Martin now felt it his duty to inform his dear Helen, of the state her mother was really in, but it was some time before he could gain sufficient courage to break it to her. One evening, however, seeing his wife worse than usual, he was apprehensive that, should her death take place while Helen was unprepared, it might have fatal effects upon the poor girl's health. He therefore followed her into her room, when she went to prepare for bed, and there in the gentlest manner informed her of the truth. Helen at first was in such a state of violent grief, that she could listen to nothing her father said, and indeed for some hours was utterly incapable either of reasoning or exertion; but at last, lifting up her head, and seeing her poor father, pale and exhausted, leaning over her, she started up, and throwing herself into his arms, cried "Forgive me, my dearest father, for being so selfis.h.!.+ I will indulge in this almost criminal conduct no longer. Leave me for a few minutes; you may trust me; I will then join you, and endeavour to perform my duty, both in attending the last moments of my precious mother, and in being a comfort, not a burthen, to my equally dear father." Mr. Martin thought it best to comply with her request, and retired to try and subdue his own feelings, that he might be able to attend to his wife.

In half an hour Helen and her father were at Mrs. Martin's bedside; she smiled faintly when she perceived them. Holding out her hand, she thus addressed her husband: "My dear, I wish much to see my mother; pray write for her, she will, I am sure, gratify me." Mr. Martin immediately left the room, to send off a messenger to Melrose. Mrs. Martin then took hold of Helen's hand, and said, "My dearest girl, I wish to say a few words to you, but it must be when you are composed enough to listen to me. I have endeavoured, both by precept and example, to fortify your mind; and you will not, I trust, now disappoint my hopes, of having made you capable of overcoming your feelings for the sake of those most dear to you."

Helen, whose heart was almost bursting, pressed her mother's hand. "Give me a few moments, mamma, and then I will attend to all you have to say. I will not occasion you an uneasy thought, if I can help it; you shall be convinced, that your lessons have not been thrown away." She then retired to the window, and in about five minutes returned to her mother with her features perfectly composed, and sitting down, said, "Now, mamma, if you wish to speak to me, I am ready." Her mother made no comments, but immediately began by saying, it was her ardent desire that she might be able to prevail with Mrs. Elliott to give up her house at Melrose, and come and live at the Manse. "She, my dear girl, will best supply my place, both to you and your dear father. At present, my love, you are too young to take the charge of the family. My mother is still active, and loves you both with the truest affection. Should I be so fortunate as to succeed in settling this plan, I shall be comparatively easy; but you must promise me, my dear, the most perfect obedience to her wishes and directions in every particular, even though they may appear to you to differ from what you have been accustomed to receive from me; and if it please G.o.d, my child, you must likewise promise to supply my place to her in her old age.

I need not, my dear, desire your attention and obedience to your father; on that point I am easy. Your whole conduct through life, and more particularly during my long protracted illness, has convinced me that I have nothing to fear there, and it would be only hara.s.sing you to say a word on the subject; but there is one more point that I must mention, I mean your feelings towards your brother. Never, my own love, allow yourself to dwell a single moment on conduct which may appear to have shortened my life: I have forgiven him from my heart, and left him a mother's blessing. I make it my last request to you, that you never will either evince by your behaviour, or harbour in your inmost thoughts, the slightest resentment towards him. And now, my love," continued she, preventing Helen from speaking, "I have only to add my advice as to your own personal conduct. In all circ.u.mstances be guided by your father's wishes and opinions, at least as long as it pleases Providence to spare him to you; and never, my beloved girl, separate from him or your grandmother, while they require your dutiful attention."

Helen now, in a quiet composed voice, went over every circ.u.mstance her mother had enumerated, and added a sacred promise never to disobey her last commands, in thought or deed. When she had so done, her mother, clasping her in her arms, gave her in a solemn manner that most precious of all gifts to a dutiful child, a dying mother's blessing. She then asked for a little jelly; and, on her husband's coming into the room, advised Helen to take a turn in the garden and recruit herself by getting a little fresh air. She obeyed, and after a shower of tears became composed enough to return to her mournful duties within doors.

Mrs. Elliott arrived the next day, when Mrs. Martin had the satisfaction of gaining her consent to give up her house at Melrose, and come to live at the Manse. Mr. Martin a.s.sured her that she should ever be considered by him as his own mother. His wife joined their hands, exclaiming, "My work is finished in this world, I have now only to look forward to another and a better." Her work in this world did indeed seem finished. The next day, without any apparent change for the worse, as her mother and Helen were sitting by the bed-side, and her kind anxious husband was supporting her in his arms, she laid her head on his shoulder and seemed to fall asleep: it was some minutes before he was aware that she was gone for ever.

Thus perished one of the best and most exemplary of mothers, entirely from anxious solicitude about a son, who, in spite of all admonition and remonstrance, had allowed the growth and practice of _disobedience_ for several years to embitter his kind parents' lives; and whose headstrong violence and self-will at last brought the being whom he most loved on earth to a premature grave!

CHAP. XI.

For some days after this melancholy event had taken place, the family, and indeed all the inhabitants of the dale, were in the utmost state of distress. Mrs. Martin had been universally beloved by all ranks in the neighbourhood of her residence; and there was not a single individual for ten miles round, that did not, in some way or other, show a sympathy in the minister's affliction.

Helen struggled with her feelings; and this exertion was of infinite service both to herself and her father, who, struck by seeing so much fort.i.tude in so young a girl, felt it his duty to encourage her by example, at least in her presence; and Helen, aware of this, took good care to be with him continually.

Her grandmother was perfectly astonished at her conduct; and took every opportunity of praising her when they were alone. "My Helen," would she say, "you will be the means, through the blessing of G.o.d, of saving your father's life. I really feared for him for the first week or two; but he begins now to look more like himself, and I think, by a continuance of the same attention and un.o.btrusive kindness, you will in time reconcile him in some degree to his loss, and bring him again into his former habits of employment and usefulness."

On one of these occasions, Helen caught her grandmother's hand, saying "Hus.h.!.+ no more, dear madam; I cannot hear praise on this subject. I am only endeavouring to follow the precepts and example of the best and most beloved of mothers. Her advice, and the solemn promise I gave her a few hours before her death, are never out of my mind; but it is a subject too sacred for me to bear hearing it talked of;" and straining her clasped hands across her chest, she added solemnly, "No! that I cannot do." Her grandmother folded her to her breast, saying, "My Helen, pardon me, I will never distress you on this subject again; we now perfectly understand each other."

Helen for many months continued the same mild, quiet, but unceasing attention to her father; who at length had acquired composure, and even began to smile at his daughter's little sallies of humour. She had became his pupil in drawing, and this tempted him to resume their usual walks and rides when the weather would permit, so that by the end of the summer, content, and even cheerfulness, had in some degree again appeared at the Manse. Helen, however could never bring her mind to mention her mother's name to any one but her father; and only to him, from observing that it would deprive him of a great enjoyment, which he evidently had, in talking of her and her virtues.

William had sailed before he heard of his mother's death. For the present, therefore, he had been spared the punishment of his disobedience; but Mr.

Martin had written both to him and his uncle, and inclosed his mother's last legacy. Helen likewise had thought it her duty to write to William, and a.s.sure him how kindly and affectionately her mother had spoken of him before her death, and how much she wished to impress on both their minds love and confidence in each other. She then entreated him to write soon, and often, as their father was not in a state to bear much anxiety; she durst not say a word about her grandmother, for the old lady had positively refused to allow her name to be mentioned to him, and it evidently gave her pain whenever she heard Helen and her father conversing about him.

At this time, Mrs. Scott, the gardener's wife at Craigie Hall, was obliged, by the sudden illness of her father, to go to Edinburgh. Her husband was to accompany her, and leave her there if necessary, but they knew not exactly what to do with little Marion. Mr. Martin and Helen happening to call in one of their daily walks, he asked them to send Marion to the Manse. "She will be much better with us, Mrs. Scott, than being left here; and I am sure my daughter will take care to make her attend to all that she has learnt from you during your absence." Helen, also, was quite pleased with the plan, and pressed Mrs. Scott to agree to it. "I am sure, Sir," said Mr. Scott, "my wife can have no objection, unless it be the thought of giving you and Miss Helen trouble: but Marion is a good little girl, and will trouble you as little as possible; and therefore, as you are kind enough to ask her, Sir, I really think we ought to accept the offer; the advantage of being near so good a daughter, and seeing how she conducts herself, may be of use to her all her life."

Accordingly, the next day Marion was brought down to the Manse by her father; and John was not a little surprised and pleased to find her established there when he came in the evening. Marion was but a short while under Helen's care, when her grandmother perceived she was of the greatest use, both to her health and spirits; she was a tractable child, with a very feeling heart. She had heard from her parents the continued praises of Miss Martin's conduct, from the time of her mother's death, and Marion fancied her the first of human beings; she therefore had the greatest ambition to please her. She watched even her looks to antic.i.p.ate which she thought might be her wishes, and if ever a cloud of sorrow came over Helen's face, Marion was sure, by some little winning attention, to endeavour to direct her thoughts into a different channel. She remained at the Manse nearly three months, and returned home, to the great regret of all the family; from that time, however, she was a constant visitor, and a sincere attachment took root between her and Helen, which has lasted all their lives.

Very little change took place in the dale after this, for the s.p.a.ce of several years. Mr. Martin had in some degree recovered his health and spirits; but a shock had been given to his nerves, which rendered him more delicate, and requiring more care than he did before; and it was not likely, Mr. Armstrong said, that he would ever be otherwise. Mrs. Elliott still enjoyed good health, though from rheumatism she was obliged to live more within doors. Helen was their comfort and support; she was now fast approaching womanhood, and never was there a more amiable creature; her dear mother's lessons and instructions had _indeed_ not been thrown away.

She had unfortunately known sorrow in early youth; but it had acted upon her for good, in teaching her the proper regulation of her mind and she now felt the comfort of having done so, by being the friend and confident both of her father and grandmother.

John had gone on under Will the shepherd, performing his duty as a servant in the day, and improving his mind with Mr. Martin in the evening; for though he had learned all that was necessary for him to know, yet Helen encouraged his constant attendance in the study, as she thought it amused her father's mind. John was now becoming a stout lad, almost too big for the hills, and on some occasion, when Mr. Martin happened to mention that he thought he must begin to consider whether he meant to be a shepherd all his life, John answered directly, "No, Sir, not if I can help it;" but recollecting himself immediately, he added, "in that as in every thing else, I feel it is my duty to be regulated by your advice. I certainly have formed a wish to see a little more of the world, and if I could go into the service of some gentleman who would have patience with my awkwardness, I think I should prefer that, at least for a few years, to settling here immediately for life. I have wished to speak to you, Sir, upon this subject, as my time is out next summer with Mr. Laurie; but if you think I am wrong, I will give up all thoughts of leaving the dale, and hire myself out as a shepherd. I have no doubt any of the farmers around will engage me, as I am well known among the hills; and Will's herd-boys are always preferred, as he takes so much pains to teach us our duty." Mr.

Martin replied, "My dear John, I am rather unprepared to give you an answer; but I will think of the subject, and talk it over with you before your time is out with Mr. Laurie. You are a good lad, and will, I am sure, be guided by reason."

The day after this conversation took place a letter arrived from Capt.

Elliott, saying that he was safely arrived in England; that he was now at Portsmouth, and he hoped in a very few weeks to be in Eskdale. He gave a most flattering account of William, who was now all that his warmest friends could wish. His poor mother's death had had a most astonis.h.i.+ng effect upon his whole conduct. When he first received the sad tidings, he was so affected, that his uncle feared for his reason, and could scarcely ever trust him out of sight; but at length he became calm and composed, and from that time was never seen, even in a single instance, out of humour. For the first two years this appeared to cost him great mental exertion, his colour often rising when any thing displeased him; but he always on those occasions left the cabin, or retired to a corner away from every one, and on his joining the company again appeared with a placid countenance. Now all appearance of pa.s.sion, or any thing approaching to it, had entirely vanished; his uncle entreated that his father, for his own sake, would allow him to come down with him to the dale, as he was quite sure he would be delighted to witness so complete a reformation.

Mr. Martin immediately answered this letter, by requesting William to come to him as soon as he could be spared from the duties of his s.h.i.+p. As Capt.

Elliott found he should be detained in town longer than he at first expected, he thought it cruel to keep William from going to his father a day longer than was necessary; he therefore despatched him off by the mail, about a week after he had heard from Mr. Martin.

As soon as this news had reached the Manse, both Helen and her father felt the greatest anxiety; wis.h.i.+ng, yet fearing to see one who would recall so many bitter thoughts to their minds. The having a few days to prepare themselves for this meeting was of great service to them: for, long before the time of his arrival was come, the delight of once more seeing a being so beloved had overcome in their minds all unpleasant reflections. Not so with Mrs. Elliott. When his arrival in England was first mentioned to her she made no remark, not even when it was told her that he was coming down with her son; but, as soon as she understood that he was coming alone, she informed Helen she was determined to go away before he arrived, and would take that time for paying a long promised visit to some friends at Melrose. Helen was absolutely in despair when she heard this. Her grandmother had been very far from well for some time, and was in her opinion quite unable to take such a journey; she therefore used every argument she could think of herself, being very unwilling to let her father know any thing of the matter if she could possibly help it, but all was in vain. She was therefore obliged, at last, to tell him what was her grandmother's intention. Mr. Martin was excessively distressed. He joined Helen in her entreaties, representing, in the mildest way, the great necessity we all have for forgiveness from our heavenly father, and that therefore it becomes a first-rate duty to forgive those who injure us.

Poor William, now that he was sensible of his former bad conduct, was in fact an object rather of pity than of dislike; since in all probability he would never in this life be able to forgive himself. All their arguments were however vain, till Helen said, "Well, my dear grandmother, since you really are determined to act in this cruel manner, it must deprive me of the pleasure of enjoying my brother's society whilst he is here; for, in the state of your health, I consider my self bound, both by affection and the solemn promise I gave my dearest mother on her death-bed, never to separate from you while you require any a.s.sistance; and I never will, however much it may cost me. My father will receive William, and I hope will explain to him the great sacrifice I am taking in not remaining to welcome him; I have no doubt my brother will come and see me at the inn at Melrose; for I know not how I could bear to be entirely deprived of seeing an object, endeared to me, both by natural affection, and by the strong injunctions of one whom, I trust, I have never yet intentionally disobeyed."--"You are right, my dearest girl," said her father, "your grandmother must not be permitted to go alone in the present state of her health. It is a great sacrifice we must all make to part at this time; but to you, my sweet child, it is even of more importance than to any of us, as it must in a great degree prevent that intimacy and friends.h.i.+p taking place with your brother, which I think of essential consequence to the happiness of you both, and which you may not have another opportunity of forming for many years; but we must act (according to our best judgment) up to our duty, however much that duty may be unpleasant to us." Mrs.

Elliott said she would on no account agree to this arrangement; but finding that nothing could shake Helen's resolution, she then proposed going only into Langholm, where she thought she might easily procure lodgings. "I can, I am sure," said she, "get Marion Scott to come and be with me, when you are in the Manse; and by this plan you can both see me every day. And besides, Mrs. Armstrong will then be near me, if any thing should be the matter. Will you, my dear son, agree to this plan? I cannot, indeed I cannot see William and live," added she, in great agitation: "at least I feel quite unable to bring my mind to it: I bear him no ill will; on the contrary, I shall ever be thankful to G.o.d for his reformation and prosperity, but I feel I was myself greatly to blame in my conduct towards him whilst under my charge; and to see him now would bring the recollection of my own culpability so strongly to my mind, that I am persuaded my life would fall a sacrifice to the acuteness of my feelings."

Mr. Martin and Helen now thought it improper to press her further upon the subject; but they agreed that it would be much more satisfactory to them to adopt the plan of going into Langholm, than that at the present season (for it was now December) she should take so long a journey as Melrose.

Helen proposed speaking to Mr. Armstrong on the subject who, as he was an unmarried man and had a good house, she did not doubt, for the few weeks her grandmother might require it, would offer to receive her at his own home.

Mr. Martin liked the idea very much, and said he would walk into Langholm and endeavour to arrange something immediately, as they had very little time, William being expected in the course of two days. Helen in the mean time got her pony and rode up to Mr. Scott's, to make her request concerning Marion. She felt that if she could succeed in this her mind would be quite at ease, as Marion was extremely handy and attentive, and what was of equal importance, a great favourite of Mrs. Elliott's; she might therefore with safety and satisfaction to herself be able to be a great deal at the Manse, without feeling any anxiety at leaving her grandmother. Mrs. Scott cheerfully agreed to her request. "I am sure, Miss Helen," said she, "any thing that Marion can ever be able to do for you or your worthy father she will have the greatest pleasure in doing; and I cannot, my dear miss, wonder much at the old lady's disliking to meet her grandson. Being a mother myself," continued she, looking at Marion with affection, "I do not think I could ever bear to see any one who, however innocently, occasioned the loss of my child. Oh, no! (shuddering at the bare thought of it). I am sure I could not." "We must and ought to forget and forgive, Mrs. Scott," answered Helen. "Poor William was but a boy when he brought so much distress upon us; but he is quite an altered character now I do a.s.sure you, and I am certain would not give any of us a minute's uneasiness."--"I am rejoiced to hear you say so; the sight of him will then be a cordial and a blessing to our dear and esteemed friend the minister; pardon my presumption in styling him so, but a friend in the truest sense of the word he is to us, and indeed to all that are in the dale." Helen now wished her good morning, she having promised to send Marion down in the evening. "I shall send John up early," said Helen, "that he may carry her parcel, and take care of her, for it gets soon dark at this time of the year."--"That will do nicely," said Mrs. Scott; "I was just thinking how unlucky it was her father was not at home to-day; he is gone down as far as Canonby this morning, and it will be late before he returns."

Mr. Martin had settled with Mr. Armstrong, that Mrs. Elliott and Marion were to be his visitors, as he would not for a moment hear of their going anywhere else; and Mrs. Elliott, when informed of the arrangements, expressed herself perfectly satisfied. "I am glad it has happened, my dear," said she to Helen, "that Mr. Armstrong can take me into his own house, for now you and your dear father will feel satisfied that I am quite comfortable. It has given me the greatest distress that I have been obliged to vex you both as I have done, but you must pardon an old woman, who has not strength now left, either of body or mind, to make the exertion that would have been necessary to have acted otherwise. Had I attempted it, I think it would have brought on you more serious evils than the little inconvenience of my changing my residence for a few weeks."

The following morning, a chaise, which Mr. Martin had ordered from Langholm, arrived to carry Mrs. Elliott and Marion to Mr. Armstrong's.

Helen went along with them, and having stayed to see them safely settled, and all her grandmother's little comforts placed around her, she returned home to her dear father, well knowing that he required her society at that moment even more than the old lady.