The Eskdale Herd-boy Part 5

CHAP. XII.

About six o'clock in the evening, William arrived, with a countenance, oh, how unlike that which we formerly described, when he entered Mr. Lamont's parlour to meet his dear mother and uncle! Instead of that elastic step which expresses health and happiness, instead of the sparkling eye and rosy cheek which he possessed when they last parted with him, Helen, who had flown out on the green to meet him, as much to give her father time to compose himself as to show her brother her eagerness to see him, beheld by the light which John held up a dark sun-burnt young man, standing as if he was trying to gain courage to come forward, with his arms folded and his eyes fixed on the ground. On hearing Helen's voice, he started forward and caught her in his arms, "My own sister! this is kind indeed. I do not deserve this reception; but you was ever kind and good from your earliest days. Where is my father? Oh!" said he, convulsively, "how can I enter that door? how can I see my much-injured parent?" "My dearest brother,"

said Helen, recalled in a moment to her self-possession, "for that parent's sake endeavour to be composed. Let this much-desired meeting be conducted with as little agitation as you can possibly give him. He is not able to endure violent emotion, not even suspense; let me therefore hasten you into his presence. You will find him all goodness and affection towards a so-long absent son." Thus saying, she hurried him into the study, and before he had time to know almost where he was, he found himself clasped to his father's heart. He soon disengaged himself, and falling on his knees covering his face with his hands, implored his father would p.r.o.nounce his forgiveness and blessing before he would dare to look him in the face. Mr. Martin immediately, in a most emphatic way, and with much more composure than his daughter believed he could command, p.r.o.nounced both; and having done so held out his hand, saying, "Now, my dear boy, for my sake as well as your own, and as you value the blessing you have just received, let no reference to past circ.u.mstances ever be made during your short visit here. We must now endeavour to be happy, and enjoy the blessing which is granted to us by a kind Providence, of once more meeting together, without embittering our present hours by reflections which can answer no good purpose, and only tend to make us wretched." So saying, he added, cheerfully, "look at your sister, William; she is much grown since you saw her, and I shall be quite disappointed if you do not admire her."--"No fear, my dearest father, that I shall fail either in admiration or love to such a sister," answered William; "I owe her too much grat.i.tude not to be prepared to find her little short of perfection; she has been," continued he, kissing her, "my comforter and adviser for the last six years; and I am sure her correspondence with me during that time deserves to be published, to show sisters how to treat with effect a brother who required admonition coupled with tenderness."

They now sat down to tea; and upon the whole spent a more cheerful evening than Helen had dared to hope.

William was still extremely handsome: his complexion had suffered by exposure to the sea-air and the heat of the climate he had been in, but this circ.u.mstance, in his sister's eyes, seemed to have improved him, by giving him a more manly appearance than his years would otherwise have admitted of, as he was now barely twenty. His large sparkling eyes, which formerly used to flash at every sudden turn of temper, where now softened down to a mild, placid expression, occasionally brightened by good humour and warm feelings to those around him, particularly to his sister, whom each succeeding day rendered more dear to him; but the common expression of his face was decidedly mournful, and Helen saw plainly, that his lamented mother was never for one moment absent from his mind.

Captain Elliott arrived about ten days after William. He was inexpressibly surprised to find his mother not at the Manse. "Where is my mother,"

exclaimed he, as he looked round, "that she does not come to welcome her long absent son? is she ill?" asked he, turning to Helen. "No, my dear brother," answered Mr. Martin, "I will explain to you the reason of her absence when we are alone; you will see her soon." So saying, he led him into the next room to inform him where she was; for Helen had entreated that her brother might be spared the agony of knowing she had refused to see him. As she had never been mentioned, by her own particular desire, in any of their letters, further than that she continued well, he had not an idea but that she remained at Melrose, and he felt rather surprised that his father had not proposed his going over to see her; but he satisfied himself that he was waiting till his uncle arrived, and therefore asked to questions about it. When his father and uncle retired, he looked at Helen, and said, "My dear sister, what is this secret about our grandmother? How came my uncle to fancy she was here? Has she left you lately?" Helen was much distressed, but with infinite presence of mind answered, "My brother heard that my father did not choose to explain before him my uncle's questions; therefore, I am sure, he will not press me to say any thing my father did not wish known. All I can tell you is, that our good grandmother is well, and that she was here lately, but is now gone."

William remained silent a few moments; then, taking his sister's hand, said, "My grandmother will not see the wretched cause of so much sorrow; she has not forgiven me; I see and understand the whole now. I am sure I do not blame her, poor dear woman; she may, perhaps, be brought to forgive me in time, but it is what I never can hope or even wish to do myself."

Helen was silent; she could not deny that what her brother suspected was indeed the truth, but she would not confirm it, by which means he remained in ignorance of the near residence of Mrs. Elliott. Helen and her uncle spent usually the greatest part of the day at Langholm, whilst Mr. Martin, delighted with his son, seldom ever separated from him till their return.

William had been made by his uncle to attend to his studies every moment he could be spared from his duty in the s.h.i.+p, and being naturally clever, and in fact fond of his book, had gained considerable information on most subjects.

The father and son now seemed exactly formed for giving pleasure and delight to each other; and it plainly appeared to Captain Elliott, that it would be difficult to say which of them would suffer most when a separation became necessary. One very stormy evening, Mr. Martin and William were sitting alone in the study, Helen and her uncle having remained to dine with Mrs. Elliott; as the wind howled in the chimney; William said, "I cannot think what takes Helen so much into Langholm; I am glad, however, that my uncle is with her, for I really do not think it is a night for her to be out in."--"I am not uneasy," answered her father; "your uncle will bring her safe, in some way or other. Helen does not mind a little wind or rain; she is not a fine lady."--"I shall return her, however," answered William, laughing, "one of her lessons to me on prudence. It is not often I can catch an opportunity of showing my superior wisdom, and I won't lose this one, I can tell her."

Just as he finished this speech, John opened the door. "Sir, if you please," said he, in the utmost agitation, "I know not what to do: in coming down the hill I called at Mr. Scott's to walk to Langholm with Marion, as Miss Helen gave her leave to go and spend the morning with her mother. It was so boisterous a night, I meant to try to persuade her to stay there, and allow me to go and tell Miss Helen she had done so; but her mother told me, when I got into the house, that Marion, seeing the storm coming, insisted on setting off, as she said her absence would vex Miss Helen very much; I therefore ran down the road, as fast as the wind and drifting snow would allow me, but she has never arrived at Langholm, Sir, nor can I hear a word of her at any of the houses, all along the dale. The very thought of what may have happened to her drives me almost distracted; what can I do, Sir? I have come to you, as perhaps you may be able to think of something that I may yet do to save her." Both William and his father started up, and began b.u.t.toning their coats to go in search of the poor little girl. William, however, remonstrated against his father's attempting to expose himself to such a storm; but Mr. Martin, more intent upon doing what he conceived to be his duty than mindful of his own health, still persevered in his preparations, till William firmly, though respectfully, said "My dearest father, it is a thing I cannot possibly consent to. John and I are strong healthy lads, that are both used to disregard either wind or weather. You may be certain that we shall both make every possible exertion for this girl's safety; but if you persevere in your intention of exposing so precious a life, where, I am sure, your strength can be but of little use, I feel it be my duty to remain where I am, and guard my father from distressing both myself and my excellent sister. Could she ever pardon me, were I to permit you to quit your house on such an errand, and on such a night? Even were it herself that was to be sought for, I would act exactly as I am now doing; therefore, unless you give me a solemn promise not to quit this room till I return, I cannot a.s.sist John in his search." Mr. Martin, seeing he was resolved, wisely took off the great coat he had been b.u.t.toning on, whilst his son was speaking. "Well, William, I believe you are right," said he, "I am not at liberty to expose a life so precious to my children. Go with John; I promise you, I will not stir from this fireside till you return. I need not entreat of you to make every exertion for poor Marion. She is little less dear to me that my own child, and it is in our service that she has got into this difficulty. I know I can trust to John to do all that is in his power, in this cause."

William and John left the house, well wrapt up in maudes, and each carrying a lantern. For nearly two hours they searched all along the holm, which they thought the most likely place to find poor Marion; for there the wind seemed to beat with such violence, as to render it impossible for a girl of her years to have strength to withstand it. The snow by this time was a foot deep, and in some places it was drifted so much as to be nearly up to their knees. Again they returned up the river, but still without the slightest success. At this time John thought he heard a dog howl, near a turn of the road about half way between Langholm and the Manse; and following the sound, William sprung forward, and with very great difficulty forced his way through some brushwood entirely covered with snow, towards an excavation in the rock which terminated the holm, and almost reached the river, only leaving room for the road to wind round it. As he approached this place the dog was distinctly heard; and John, exclaiming, "It is Trusty's voice, Marion must be here," pushed before William, who was not so well acquainted with the ground as he was. When he got quite close to the excavation, Trusty, who had heard footsteps, sprung out and barked, running back again. John followed, calling on Marion, and at length, holding up his lantern, he beheld Marion indeed, but she appeared to him to be quite dead. She lay under the rock, her head resting on a stone, and a small bundle firmly clasped in her hands. John stooped to try to raise her, but he trembled so much, and was so persuaded that they had come too late, that his strength entirely failed him; he could only cry, "Mr. William, she is gone for ever!" and sunk almost insensible by her side. William by this time had raised up her head, and felt her pulse, and perceiving that it still beat, though very languidly, was persuaded that if they could get immediate a.s.sistance she might be saved; he therefore said, "Rise, John, and let us lose no time in reaching Langholm; there is need for the greatest exertion; Marion may yet be saved, if we can only manage to carry her to Mr. Armstrong's. Do you take the lantern, and I will carry her in my arms; I am stronger than you, and not quite so nervous: so move, and remember, her life may depend upon a very few minutes' delay." John, recalled to himself by the prospect of saving her, went on as fast as the wind and the snow, drifting in his face, would allow him, and with incredible fatigue and difficulty they succeeded in reaching Mr. Armstrong's door in less than half an hour, with their apparently lifeless burthen. John knocked, and the door being opened, William waited not an instant, but pushed forward into the first room he could find, calling loudly for Mr. Armstrong. He laid Marion on a sofa that stood near the door, and then threw himself on the carpet, quite exhausted from the fatigue he had undergone. On opening his eyes, he found his sister rubbing his face and hands, with every mark of alarm in her countenance; and directly opposite to him sat his grandmother, gazing on him so earnestly that her countenance seemed absolutely convulsed with agitation. "Where, oh where have you brought me," exclaimed he, "my dear Helen! Why did you let my grandmother see me? Look, she is dying; the sight of me has killed her."

On William's fainting, Helen was too much frightened to think any thing about her grandmother, but had continued bathing her brother's temples and rubbing his hands till he became sensible and uttered the above sentence.

His words recalled her to her recollection, and looking up, she was indeed frightened to see the agitation of her countenance. "My dearest grandmother, speak to me I beseech you," said she; "William shall leave the room the moment he is able to stand; he knew not that you were here."

Mrs. Elliott at last struggled to speak, and said, "Oh! I thought never again to have seen that face, as a punishment for my own faulty indulgence; but now that an unforeseen accident has thrown him before me, I have not strength to resist, and I hope I do not act very criminally in indulging myself once more by clasping my idolized unfortunate boy in my withered arms; G.o.d knows what I have suffered by refusing myself this consolation." William did not wait to hear her finish the sentence, but threw himself on his knees before her, imploring her once more to receive and forgive him all his offences.

This reconciliation seemed to remove a load from her mind; for from the time she had left the Manse she never had been seen to smile, and a restless watchfulness, instead of her usual quiet and composed manners, had led Helen sometimes to suspect she had repented of having persevered in leaving her home; but still she would not allow the slightest hint to that effect, and had never even asked a word about William.

Meantime Marion had been laid on a bed, and every means having been used to bring her out of the trance into which she had fallen, after nearly two hours' exertion she showed signs of recovery. Mr. Armstrong insisted on her being left perfectly quiet; and they now thought it would be best for John to return to the Manse and ease Mr. Martin's mind as to her safety.

"I will do that with pleasure," said John, "and I must likewise try to get up to Craigie Hall, for her poor mother will be almost distracted if she hears by any accident that she was missing. I went twice and looked in at her window to see if her daughter had returned home, but I did not go into the house for fear of alarming her, so I hope as yet she knows nothing of the matter." William now rose and said he must go home to his father; "I pledged myself to return," said he, "as soon as Marion was in safety, and I must keep my word; good night, my dear madam, I hope to-morrow morning Helen may prevail with you to return to the Manse." So saying he kissed her, and then taking an affectionate leave of his sister, left the house accompanied by John, who was not perfectly satisfied at being obliged to go without seeing Marion himself; however, Mr. Armstrong promised that he should have that gratification the next morning.

They found Mr. Martin and Captain Elliott waiting impatiently for their return. The accounts William gave them of what had pa.s.sed imparted the greatest satisfaction to Mr. Martin, who, after making them eat something, insisted upon their going to bed immediately. He would not allow John to go to Craigie Hall that night, but promised to send his own herd-boy up to Mrs. Scott's in the morning.

Nothing very particular, from this time, happened during William's stay in Eskdale. Mrs. Elliot was prevailed on to return to the Manse, and spent three weeks in the midst of all that was now dear to her. Marion recovered, after a few days' illness. She told them, when she was able to come to the Manse, that, on leaving her father's house that dreadful evening, she thought from the look of the skies she should be able to get to Langholm before the storm began; but it increased so rapidly, that, after she was beyond the Manse, she repented not having gone in there, yet still she had no great alarm. However, about half way down the holm, the snow fell so thick as completely to blind her, and the wind drove her backwards and forwards so violently, that at last, she did not know where she was. The last thing she recollected, was finding herself under the rock; and as it sheltered her a little, she thought it best to sit down and regain her strength before she attempted to turn round the point of the rock. As she was doing so, she felt Trusty close beside her, which, she said, comforted her in her distress. She supposed that she fell asleep while she was sitting, and fell down, for she had no recollection of lying down, where, if a.s.sistance had not arrived, in a very little time longer all aid would have been in vain.

Captain Elliott now began to say he must think of leaving Eskdale. William dreaded the very thoughts of a separation from his father; but he had carved out his own destiny, and there was now no alternative. Poor Mr.

Martin seemed to fear, every time his brother opened his mouth, that he was to hear the sentence of William's banishment. It had been settled some time, that John was to accompany them, as Captain Elliot wished to have a servant from that country, and Mr. Martin immediately thought of John.

"You can never," said he, "have a more careful, active lad, nor one who will conduct himself with greater propriety and honesty than my poor orphan boy will do; but you must expect a certain degree of awkwardness at first, which I really believe he will soon get the better of; and I confess," added he, "since I must part from my dear son, I shall be more comfortable in knowing that he will have another attached, though humble friend, in the s.h.i.+p with him, on whom I can in all difficulties rely for attention and fidelity to any one who belongs to me."

Every thing was now prepared for our travellers; and, much as Helen felt in separating from her friends, she even now wished that they were gone, on her father's account. He neither ate nor slept, and seemed in a continual state of agitation. At last, the day was finally fixed for their departure; Mr. Martin heard it in silence, but, from that moment, never suffered William out of his sight; indeed, poor William was equally unwilling to move from his side. They often sat together for hours, holding each other's hand, not daring to utter a sentence. The morning of the departure produced a most affecting scene, and it required almost all Captain Elliott's strength of mind and resolution to separate the father and son. They clung to each other again and again, as if they had a presentiment that they should meet no more. Poor John was almost as violently affected: his master, as he always called Mr. Martin, was as dear to him as a father. He stood by, witnessing this heartbreaking struggle, overpowered with his own feelings, and wretched at seeing his dear respected master undergoing such a trial. "Ah, Miss Helen," whispered he, "what would I give to get one kiss of my master's hand before I leave him! But do not intrude on him: I would not add to his distress for any satisfaction it might give me. Do not tell him I ever mentioned it." Helen thought, however, it might perhaps divert her father's attention into another channel. She therefore said, loud enough for him to hear her, "John, Sir, wishes to take leave of you, will not you let him kiss your hand?"--"My poor fellow," replied Mr. Martin, "come to me and receive my blessing. A dutiful and affectionate boy I have ever found you, since you have been under my care; and now remember, all the love and affection you have shown me I entreat maybe continued to my son; be a dutiful and obedient servant to your master; be sure and write to me on every opportunity; and now, G.o.d bless you!" So saying, before John was aware of his intention, he clasped him in his arms and kissed him. John from that moment fancied himself raised in his own estimation, far above any thing he could have looked to. He flew out of the room to conceal his feelings; and, in a few seconds, the travellers had left the Manse.

CHAP. XIII.

Soon after their arrival in London an order for sailing arrived, and they were all obliged to get on board, without having time to show John much of the wonders of the metropolis. They however had the satisfaction of receiving good accounts from the Manse. Helen wrote to this effect, that, within a few days after the parting was once fairly over, her father recovered in a great degree his spirits, and that she had great hopes of seeing him soon as cheerful as ever. Marion wrote to John, and told him that she had been with Miss Helen for some days, and that she thought they were all much better than she had expected to find them; "but," she added, "the dale now looks so melancholy, I can scarcely believe it the same place."

The Amazon was now sent into the Mediterranean, therefore it was seldom that letters could pa.s.s between our navigators and their friends in Eskdale. About a year after they had left England, Captain Elliott received a letter, on putting into Gibraltar, from Mr. Martin, informing him of the sudden death of his mother. He said she had been complaining a few days, but they were not in the least alarmed till the day before her death, when Helen thought she perceived a change in her manner of speaking, and sent for Mr. Armstrong, who immediately saw she had had a stroke of the palsy. Nothing could be done; and before the next morning, another stroke carried her off. From the time she became seriously ill, she never quitted Helen's hand; having her near her seemed her only consolation.

Every letter that Mr. Martin received was filled with John's praises, Captain Elliott affirming he was a perfect treasure to him as a servant, as well as a great acquisition to the s.h.i.+p's company, and that he was such a happy good-tempered fellow that he was beloved by every one on board.

William wrote regularly to his father, and his letters const.i.tuted the chief enjoyment of Mr. Martin's life. John sent him an account of all he saw and heard, that he thought would in any way serve to amuse either him or Helen; and, at the same time, he never forgot to send a letter to Marion in every packet.

This kind of communication had continued about two years, when one afternoon the sailors on board the Amazon discovered a strange sail at a distance, and Captain Elliott gave orders to give chase to her directly.

As she was but a slow sailer they soon gained on her, and when they came near enough, William was ordered into the boat, to go alongside and discover what she was. The wind blew rather fresh, and the clouds looked lowering. John, who was standing on deck, took alarm at the weather, and coming up to William as he was preparing to enter the boat, endeavoured to persuade him to speak to the Captain before he went. "He has not looked at the sky, I am sure," said John, "or he would never send you on such an expedition"--"Pho! pho!" answered William, "we must have no fresh-water sailors here. Go I must; so there is no alternative. My orders are explicit."--"Then, Sir, permit me to go with you," said John. "I am an expert swimmer, which you are not; and I really feel so very wretched and uncomfortable at seeing my master's son go out in such a night, that if you won't take me otherwise, I will run and get the Captain's orders to be of the party, and then you cannot refuse."--"No, John," said William, "if there really is danger, I shall not needlessly expose more lives than I can help. G.o.d bless you, my lad. See that you have a dry s.h.i.+rt for me, when I come back; for I think we are likely to have wet jackets. Here is my key. Mind your orders!" So saying, he jumped into the boat; and though John ran as quick as he could, to get the Captain's permission to accompany him, the boat had left the s.h.i.+p by the time he came back. John staid on deck, watching with a gla.s.s all the boat's movements; he saw it safe alongside the other vessel, where it was detained nearly half-an-hour, he then had just light enough to see it leave the s.h.i.+p on its way back.

Oh! what an anxious hour was the next! The wind had been gradually rising, and by this time nearly blew a hurricane. John could conceal his uneasiness no longer; he ran down below to the Captain, who had been unwell, and was lying in his cot. "Captain Elliott," exclaimed he, "for G.o.d's sake get up, and see if any thing can be done to save Mr.

William."--"Good G.o.d! John," said Captain Elliott, starting up from a sound sleep, "it blows a hurricane. How long has the boat been out? Why was I not called before?" John said that the sailors on deck, even now, did not consider there was any danger; but that the boat had been parted from the other s.h.i.+p above an hour, and he could not help feeling very uneasy. The night was excessively dark, and it rained in torrents.

Captain Elliott got on deck instantly; he was perfectly convinced that John had not been alarmed without good cause. Every expedient that could be thought of was tried. They hung out lights at every part of the s.h.i.+p, to direct the boat in its course; but alas! no boat appeared. Such a night of wretchedness did Captain Elliott and John spend, as cannot possibly be related. When day broke, it required force to prevent John from throwing himself into the sea, as if he meant to search the ocean for his dear master's son. He absolutely screamed with agony, when a boat that had been sent out in search of the one missing returned, bringing a hat, with poor William's name inside of it. There was not a shadow of hope. Captain Elliott, who till now had never quitted the deck, fainted away at this confirmation of the ruin of all his poor brother's happiness, and indeed of his own.

William had been as dear to him as a son, almost from the moment he had seen him; and for the last eight years they had scarcely ever been separated. He was carried down to his cabin insensible, whilst poor John's equal, though more violent grief, attracted the attention of the first lieutenant, who had him taken to his own cabin, and endeavoured in every way he could think of to soften the misery he could not remove.

Several weeks pa.s.sed over their heads, and no opportunity offered of writing to England. Indeed both Captain Elliott and John dreaded the thoughts of putting pen to paper to give this intelligence. "It will kill his father," said the Captain; "but I shall never live to hear it, most probably." John asked him if he felt unwell; "I am not well, John,"

answered he; "my complaints were but trifling till this unlucky affair; my head and soul were wrapt up in that boy, and to lose him in such a way has quite ruined my const.i.tution. Take my advice, John," added he, "return to Eskdale as soon as you have an opportunity. Now that poor William is gone, you will be a comfort to his father, should he survive the blow, which I do not believe; but in all events, you may be of serious use to my poor niece, who, G.o.d knows, will require a friend. Promise me, John, that you will be this friend, and I shall feel more comfortable in looking forward to my own death." John gave him the promise required; and there was no opportunity of resuming the subject.

The very next morning after this conversation, an engagement took place with two large French frigates. Captain Elliott and his crew performed prodigies of valour; but at last, unfortunately, Captain Elliott received a shot through the heart, which killed him on the spot. He fell into the arms of John, who stood behind him, and was carried below, in hopes that the wound was not mortal; but the surgeon only shook his head; all was over.

When the s.h.i.+p was taken possession of by the French, John was found sitting on the floor of the cabin, by the side of his captain's body, perfectly insensible to all that was pa.s.sing around him. He took no notice of any thing, till they attempted to move the body. He then threw himself on it, and entreated they would bury them together; saying he now no object to live for. As he repeated this, a sudden flash of recollection crossed his mind. "Yes," exclaimed he, "I have still a great and important duty to perform to Miss Helen and my master!" He then suffered them to remove the captain, and became more composed from that moment.

When the s.h.i.+p was carried into Toulon, John and the other prisoners were ordered immediately to Thoulouse. Mr. Murray, the first lieutenant, who had been so kind to John at the time of William's death, still felt a great interest for him. He was a kind-hearted young man, and seemed to enter into all John's feelings. He endeavoured, on their long and wearisome march, to keep him near himself; and when they reached Thoulouse, he prevailed on his guard to allow John to remain with him as his servant. He was a man of considerable property, and being allowed to draw on England for remittances, had it in his power to obtain many favours and advantages denied to his poorer companions.

Meantime Mr. Martin and Helen were looking forward with the hope of seeing their sailor friends very shortly. William, in the last letter his father had from him, said he thought the s.h.i.+p would most probably be sent home in the course of the next autumn, and that his uncle had promised to give him leave of absence for a fortnight; "and in that time," he added, "I shall try hard to get another peep at my friends in Eskdale."

One morning, as they were at breakfast, Helen said, "Surely that is Mr.

Scott, from Craigie Hall; what can have brought him here?" and rising, she opened the gla.s.s door. Mr. Scott came in and sat down. He did not seem to have any thing particular to say beyond common occurrences, yet still he remained; and Helen wondered what could be the meaning of the visit. As she rose to move something from the table, she observed him make her a sign to leave the room un.o.bserved by her father: a cold chill came over her. "What can be the matter?" thought she, as she entered the parlour.

In a few minutes Mr. Scott quitted the study, and going out at the front door, beckoned at the parlour window for her to follow him.

"What can you have to say, Mr. Scott?" said Helen, as she approached him; and, suddenly struck with the look of woe that was in his face, would have fallen if he had not supported her. "William?" uttered she, and could say no more. Mr. Scott then said, "the family at the hall receive many of the London newspapers, and sometimes the housekeeper sends them in for me to read. The family are all gone on a visit from home for some days, consequently the paper was sent me early. I have, my dear Miss Helen, read a very unpleasant account of the Amazon: but it may not be correct; and even if it is so, Mr. William may yet be safe, for his name is not mentioned." "My uncle's is then," said Helen, greatly agitated; "Thank G.o.d! my grandmother did not live to hear this: but wait a moment, Mr.

Scott, I shall be able to hear it all presently." She leant against the gate for a few seconds, and then begged Mr. Scott to read the paragraphs.

He did so; and then said, "I thought, Miss Helen, it was best to tell you this dreadful news in the first place, that you might consider how our good Minister can be informed of it; for he will certainly hear it in the dale from somebody, and I think it will be better to break it to him by degrees." Helen thought so too. "But how can I tell him," said she, weeping, "both my dear uncle's death and William's imprisonment, all at once? It seems more than he can ever bear," and recollecting John, suddenly said, "poor Marion, too, will feel for John. All, all our friends at once, is too much to bear." Mr. Scott was a very sensible man. He allowed her to weep for some time and then, seeing her a little more composed, said, "You must, my dear Miss Helen, endeavour to moderate your grief, for the sake of your father. I see him coming toward the green, and if he observe us he will be alarmed." Helen replied, "I will do all I can, but I cannot possibly see him just yet; so I shall get into the house without meeting him, if possible. Leave me the paper, and good morning!"

It required all Helen's gentleness and caution to inform her poor father of this afflicting news. Notwithstanding all the precaution and care with which she broke it to him, he fainted before she could finish the narration; and though he endeavoured to regain composure, it was evident to Helen that his strength was sinking. Nothing, however, seemed to bear so hard upon him as the uncertainty of the fate of William. Nothing had been mentioned of him, and indeed nothing could be known, for there had been no communication from the s.h.i.+p between the time of his accident and that of their being all taken prisoners. The winter pa.s.sed on: a long a dreary one it was to Helen and her father. Marion, likewise, looked ill and melancholy; she had loved John as a brother, and his loss was severely felt. Early in the spring, Mr. Martin had occasion to go to Langholm; Helen insisted on accompanying him. After finis.h.i.+ng his business, they were pa.s.sing the inn where the mail stops. Just as they got to the door of it, the landlord was standing speaking to a sailor, a good-looking man, and seeing Mr. Martin, he said, hastily, "Oh, Mr. Martin, this person is just returned from Thoulouse, in France; he has made his escape. Perhaps he may be able to give you some account of Mr. William!" Mr. Martin, on hearing this, turned to the man, and asked him what s.h.i.+p he had belonged to, and how he became a prisoner. "I belonged, Sir, to the Amazon, and was taken with the whole s.h.i.+p's company that remained after the battle."--"Tell me," said Mr. Martin, quickly, "was William Martin, Captain Elliott's nephew, at Thoulouse when you left it?" "Oh, no!" said the man, "he was drowned six weeks before the battle." Mr. Martin heard no more; he fell as if a shot had pa.s.sed through his heart. The landlord carried him into the inn, and sent for Mr. Armstrong; his poor daughter, almost in as pitiable a state as he was, still endeavoured to exert herself to save her father. She undid his stock, rubbed his face and hands with vinegar, and tried every means her experience had ever found useful, at last Mr. Armstrong made his appearance. He was excessively alarmed, and begged Helen would leave the room; but she answered, firmly, "No, Mr.

Armstrong, I never will quit my father whilst a spark of life remains. He is not dead yet, for I feel his pulse; therefore do not talk of my leaving him, even for an instant." In the evening Mr. Martin just opened his eyes, fixed them on Helen, and said, "My poor girl:" and drawing a long sigh, was removed from all his sufferings.

CHAP. XIV.

Poor Helen, having no longer any motive for exertion, sank down by her father's side. Mr. Armstrong had her removed while she remained insensible; and knowing her attachment to Marion Scott, he sent off a messenger with the fatal news, and requested Mrs. Scott would allow her daughter to come down and be with Miss Martin. Mrs. Scott not only gave permission to her daughter, but came herself, and for many days watched by the bedside of Helen. When she became composed enough to think and act, she found that her dear father had been buried by the side of her mother and grandmother; Mr. Armstrong had acted for her, and settled all matters of business, that she might have no trouble on that account, further than going to the Manse for a little while, till a successor was appointed to her worthy father. Mr. Scott insisted on her permitting Marion to remain with her for some time, though Helen said she should feel happier, she thought, if she could be left alone. It is impossible to describe what the poor desolate girl felt on returning to her melancholy home. "The time is now indeed come," said she to herself, "when I must prepare to look out for another place of residence; and when that will be, G.o.d alone knows."

Her grandmother, before her death, had been very uneasy on account of Helen's prospects in case of her father's death; and more than once mentioned to her, that she wished she could make up her mind to go to Edinburgh, and apprentice herself either as a dress-maker or as a milliner; as she knew her father had very little to leave her, she herself had only an annuity, which would cease with her life. Her father did not like the plan, and told her that her uncle had promised to support her till William was enabled, by promotion or prize-money, to do it himself.

Now both these resources were cut off for ever; and, after mature deliberation she thought her grandmother's plan was the only rational thing she could do; she therefore, in her own mind, determined, as soon as she knew who was to be her father's successor, to adopt it.