but two of the stated periods had passed without an interview. The third
was approaching; and she trembled as the necessity of throwing herself
on his bosom, and seeking counsel in her difficulty, appeared to her in
such a form as to shake her resolution not to encounter another
night-meeting with her cousin. On the morning of that evening when she
must repair to the burying-ground, or lose the chance of meeting
Kirkpatrick for a considerable time, it was announced to her parents, in
her presence, at the table of the morning meal, that Blacket House had,
on the previous day, gone on a visit to a relation in a very distant
part of the country, and that he would not return for eight days. She
heard it, and her eyes were involuntarily turned up to heaven, in
thanksgiving for the opportunity she now enjoyed of sobbing out her
sorrows on the bosom of her Kirkpatrick, and getting good counsel in her
distress. She said nothing when the announcement was made, and heard,
without heeding, the remarks of her parents. Her thoughts were in
Death's Mailing, and the pallid hue of her cheek gave place for a moment
to the flush that followed the fancied touch of his lips, and the
pressure that brought her nearer to the bosom where lay all the relief
she now had in this world. She sought more freely than she had done for
some time her old retreats, and again the song of the merle had some
music for her ear--so ready is the oppressed soul to seek its accustomed
pleasures, that it will clutch them in the interval of a suspended
grief, though sure to return. Her cousin was gone for a time; he could
not cross in these paths of the wood; and, oh happy thought! she would
lie on the bosom of her Kirkpatrick, and breathe forth, uninterrupted,
love's sweet tale, rendered sweeter and dearer by the grief with which
it was shaded.
The evening fell that night beautiful and serene. No vapour clouded the
"silver sheen," and no breath of wind rustled a leaf on the trees.
"Hail to ye, bright queen!" ejaculated Helen, as she folded her mantle
round her, and was on the eve of seeking the wood; "once more light me
to my lover, if, after this meeting, you should for ever hide your face
among the curtains of heaven."
And, breathing quick with the rising expectation of being enclosed in
his arms, she issued from the house, and sought the well-known loaning
that led to the burying-ground. Her grief had sunk for a time amidst the
swelling impulses of her passion; and it was not till she had been
pressed to his bosom, her brow kissed by his burning lips, and
deep-drawn sighs exhausted the ardour of a first embrace after so long a
separation, that one single thought of the cruelty of her situation
arose in her mind. They sat on the tumulus where they had sat often
before. The gravestones around them lay serene in a flood of moonlight;
the soft "buller" of the wimpling Kirtle was all that disturbed the
silence of the night; calmly there reposed the dead of many generations;
if their lives were ended, their griefs, too, were past; and Mary of the
Le', whose grey monument reflected clearly the moon's light, was free
from the anguish which, in struggling sighs, came from the bosom of her
who was _yet_ above the green mound. Helen told her lover all the
extraordinary circumstances of her situation. She wept at every turn of
a new difficulty, and Adam's eyes were also suffused with tears; he
pressed her again to his breast, and bade her be of better heart, for
that better days were coming on the wings of time.
"I confess," he said, "my dear love, that I am unable to understand the
conduct of that dark-minded man; but what can he do, if my Helen should
yet redeem her error, and make this necessary disclosure? That is alone
the cure of our pain. Oh, Helen! what a load of evil might have been
averted from our heads by the exercise of a little self-command!"
"I see it, I feel it," replied she; "but there are powers higher than
the resolves of mortals. I have struggled with myself till the blood was
sent back in my veins, and frightened nature saved the powerless victim
of grief by the mantle of unconsciousness. What, Adam, shall I do? I
feel I am unequal to the task of speaking a daughter's rebellion and a
traitor's resolution."
"When everything is explained, Helen," replied the other, "the treachery
disappears, and a father and mother's love will not die under the
passing cloud of a little anger. Think of our bliss, love! Did hope
never bring courage to your tongue, Helen? Ah, what would that bright
goddess make Adam Fleming dare!"
"And what," said she, "would Helen Bell not dare for the love she bears
to her Adam, if that sacred feeling of a daughter's duty were overcome?
But it must be. I shall fall upon my mother's neck, and weep out with
burning tears of repentance a daughter's contrition. I will appeal to
the heart of a mother and a woman. I will conjure up her own first love,
move again the spring of her earliest affection, and feign to her my
father lost, and her heart wrecked. Ay, Adam, hope--the hope of the
possession of you--will accomplish all this. Helen has said it, and the
issue will prove."
This burst of generous resolution produced a flood of tears. She crept
closer to him, and the throbs of her heart were heard in the silence
which reigned among the graves. A rustling sound among the trees roused
her; she lifted her head, and fixed her eyes on a part of the wood on
the other side of the Kirtle. For a moment she watched some movements
not noticed by her lover. They rose, and Adam stood aside to get a
better view of the interruption. In an instant she clung to his bosom; a
loud shot reverberated through the wood; Helen fell dead--the ball
destined for Kirkpatrick having been received by the devoted maiden, who
saw the hand uplifted that was to do the deed of blood. Neither scream
nor audible sigh came from her; one spring when the ball entered the
heart--and death!
Kirkpatrick saw at once death and the cause of it, and in an instant he
gave pursuit. Springing with a bound over the Kirtle, he seized Blacket
House in the act of flight. The murderer turned, sword in hand, and a
battle was fought in the wood, such as never was witnessed in the heat
of the contest of armies. Had his opponent had twenty lives, the fury of
Kirkpatrick would have been unsatiated by them all. His spirit was
roused to that of a demon; a supernatural strength nerved his arm; he
despised life and all its blessings; the world had in an instant lost
for him any charms, but as the place where lived that one man whose
blood was to glut his vengeance. His sword found the heart of Blacket
House, and twenty wounds verified the ballad:--
"I lighted down my sword to draw--
I hacked him in pieces sma'--
I hacked him in pieces sma',
For her sake that died for me."
He returned to the burying-ground. His Helen's body was as cold as that
of those who lay beneath.
"O Helen fair beyond compare,
I'll mak a garland of thy hair,
Shall bind my heart for evermair
Until the day I dee."
Such is the story of Helen Bell, a subject that has employed the pen of
many a poet, and brought tears to the eyes of millions. We sometimes,
according to our privilege, amuse our readers with pure unadulterated
fiction. Would that our task had been such on this occasion!--for we
prefer the sorrow which fancy, imitating truth, rouses in the heart, to
the depressing power of "owre true a tale." We may add, that the Maid of
Kirconnel is more frequently called Helen Irving than Helen Bell, in
consequence of some doubt as to whether her mother was not really one of
the Bells, and her father an Irving. After giving the matter all due
consideration, and searching several authorities, we are satisfied that
the truth is as we have related it. Our very ingenious friend, Professor
Gillespie, in a section of the "Gleanings of the Covenant," says that
the beautiful ballad, some of the lines of which we have quoted, was
written on "Helen Palmer." We must have his authority.
TOM DUNCAN'S YARN.
William Duncan had lived nearly thirty years in the service of a landed
proprietor in Dumfries-shire; where his honest, upright, trustworthy
character had gained him the esteem and respect of his employer; and he
was looked upon more in the light of a humble friend, than of a hired
menial. Nearly five-and-twenty years had elapsed since his marriage to
Janet, who had long before been his "neebor" servant. Their family
consisted of two children, a son and daughter; the latter of whom had
been, at the time our story commences, for some time married to a
farm-servant, and was living in a cottage closely adjoining her
father's. The son had been sent, when about seventeen years of age, with
cattle to Annan, and had there made acquaintance with some seafaring
men, whose stories of the wonders of other lands had excited his
curiosity, and awakened an irrepressible longing to witness the strange
sights he had heard of. It was in vain that his father and mother strove
to divert his thoughts into another channel--"he _would_ be a sailor;"
and they at last wisely consented to what they could not prevent. About
two years after his departure, Willie's good old master died; having
left his faithful servant a small annuity, sufficient to make his old
age comfortable--for he was now almost superannuated. The old gentleman
had died childless, leaving his estate to a distant relative; and his
successor, knowing the estimation in which Willie had been held by his
late master, allowed him to live rent-free in one of the cottages on the
estate, and treated him, on all occasions, with great consideration and
kindness. There was but one thing wanting to make the old couple happy:
their simple appetites were easily satisfied; they had enough and to
spare, without the toil of labour; but their son, their only son, was a
wanderer, and years had passed since they had received any intelligence
of him, and then they had only been informed that he had gone to some
foreign station. "Oh, could we but see him ance mair afore we dee!" was
often their exclamation.
One stormy night in October, the old couple were startled by a loud rap
at the door.
"Preserve us!" said Janet, in great alarm, "what's that? Wha can that be
chappin at the door on sic a nicht as this? Maybe it's some puir seekin
body, wantin shelter frae the blast. Up, Willie, man, an' ask wha it
is."
"It's me, faither--it's Betty," replied the voice of the daughter, in
answer to her father's queries; "let me in."
"What's brocht ye oot, woman," said Willie, "in sic a clash o' rain as
this?"
"There's a puir sailor lad come to oor hoose," replied she, "an' he
wants something to eat an' drink, an' we haena a bite o' cake left: hae
ye ony to spare? An', what think ye, faither? he kens oor Tam weel, an'
says he saw him no tha' lang syne."
"Kens oor Tam!" said the old man; "what for did ye no bring him wi' ye?
Gie's doon my plaid; I'll gang an' speak to him mysel."
"Na, na, faither; ye maunna cross the door while it's pourin this gate.
I'll fetch him when he's had his supper. I'd hae brocht him afore, but I
thocht maybe he micht be makin ye believe oor Tam was comin hame, or
some sic clavers, an' ye wad be wearyin to see him, an' maybe no see him
after a'."
"An' what for micht he no be comin hame?" said Willie. "It's time he
war, I think, if he wishes to find the auld folk to the fore."
"Well, but, faither, suppose he war to tell ye that he had seen oor Tam
twa or three days syne, an' that ye micht expeck to see him hame sune?"
"Mercy, lass! what's the matter wi' ye, wi' yer maybes an' yer supposes?
What gars ye gang swaggerin up an' doon that gait, lookin as ye were
demented? There's something pleasin ye by common. If 'twar Tam himsel,
ye couldna be mair uplifted."
"An' guid richt hae I to be uplifted, mither, if ye kent a'."
"Eh, it's Tam himsel!" almost screamed the old woman; "where is he? Let
me see my bairn."
"Here's all that's left of him, mother," said a fine, stout-looking
sailor; who, unable any longer to restrain his impatience, stumped in on
a wooden leg just as Janet was speaking.
"My bairn! my bairn!" sobbed the old woman, throwing her arms round him;
"mony a lang day hae I prayed to see ye ance mair; an' noo that I hae
ye, oh, do I see ye a puir cripple!"
"Oh, that's nothing, mother; nothing but the fortune of war. If I'd lost
my head instead of my leg, mother, I wouldn't have been here to tell my
own story."
"That's Gude's truth; an' great reason hae we to be thankfu it's nae
waur. But, oh! it's a sair dispensation."
"Ah, old boy! how are you?" said Tom, shaking his father heartily by the
hand; "all alive and hearty--eh?"
"Weel aneugh, weel aneugh, Tam; just choppin on; but richt glad am I to
see ye again, my son. But, Tam, that wasna the gate ye wad hae spoken to
yer auld faither afore ye gaed frae hame."
"My manner of speaking may be changed, father," replied the young man,
respectfully; "but there's no change in my heart--that's true-blue
still; and it'll be long before I can clear off my reckoning with you
for all your kindness to me. No, no, father, my _heart's_ in the right
place still."
"Weel, my man, I hope sae. Sit doon an' tell us a' that's happened ye
sin' we last heard frae ye. But wait a wee. Janet, seek oot the best
that's in the hoose for the puir fallow; an', whan he's had a guid
supper, he'll be in better fettle for giein us his cracks."
"Tak aff yer jacket, my bonny man," said his mother; "an' hing it up
afore the fire, an' draw in till't yersel. Willie, I'm thinkin there's
something in the bottle. I'll put on the kettle, an' we'll gie the lad
something he'll be nane the waur o'."
After the sailor had done his devoirs at the supper-table, the whole
party drew round the fire, and the old man, lighting his "cutty," said--
"Noo, Tam, tell us a' aboot what ye've been doin, an' hoo ye cam to lose
yer leg."
"It's a terrible long yarn, father, and I'm afeared ye'll be glad to
sing out Avast! before I've spun it out; besides, you'll not understand
my sea lingo."
"Nae fear o' that," replied he; "ye ken I was ance a bit o' a sailor
mysel. We could see the Solway frae the hoose I hired at when I was a
callan."
"But, eh, Tam, my man," said old Janet, "ye talk English as weel's the
grand folk doon by."
"Ay, ay, mother; leave me alone for that. My messmates used to say as
how I ought to have been a Methodist preacher, seein I knowed so well
how to tip them the dictionary."
"Hear till him!" said the delighted mother, holding up her hands in
admiration.
"But, howsomdever, they haven't made me proud on't, you see, with all
their blarney. But I must carry on, or my yarn'll reach from this to the
end of next week. It's now six years since I got a berth on board one o'
them Newcastle colliers, and a jolly time we had on't; for, though we'd
lashing to do, and no want of wet jackets, there was always a full
bread-bag, and swipes and grub at no allowance. They're the craft to
teach a man his duty! Well, I'd been in that trade about a year, when I
goes ashore one day with the mate at Wapping; and, while we were sitting
comfortably swigging our grog, the landlord comes rushing in, and, says
he, 'My lads, you must brush; there's the pressgang a-coming.' Hearing
that, the mate and I bolted out of the door, and ran for it; but they
twigged us, and gave chase. They nabbed the mate in less nor no time;
but I cracked on a press o' sail, and was dropping them astern fast,
when, as I was looking back at them over my shoulder, I ran stem on to
an old fishwife. My eyes, what a crash! I sends her and her sprats
a-swimming in the gutter, and I falls as flat as a flounder on the
pavement, spouting out blood from my nose, like a whale. Well, to cut a
long yarn short, we were taken on board the tender, and afterwards
drafted into the Fire-eater frigate, which was stationed on the north
coast of Ireland. I was very well off on board the frigate. 'Sharp' was
the word, to be sure, and the cat often wagged her tail; but then, as
long as a man was smart and willing, he'd never no 'casion to be
afeared: there was never no favour nor affection there. Well, as I said
afore, we were cruising off the coast of Ireland, when, one day, it came
on to blow great guns from the westward. For three blessed days, there
was the little Fire-eater tossing and tumbling, and kicking up her
starn, and going through as many manoeuvres as a dancing-master, till
at last we were driven so far west that we made the coast of Argyle;
then 'bout ship we went, and stood away again to the eastward. Well, we
carried on for a matter of four-and-twenty hours, with a little more
northing in the wind, when we made land again, and hauled up two or
three points to clear it. The weather was so thick ye might a'most have
cut it with a knife, and there wasn't such a thing as a dirty face on
board, the sea made a clean wash of everything, and it blowed--my eyes,
how it did blow! Mayhap, you call this a gale, but you wouldn't have
heard it beside that. It was bad enough to be on deck, but ten times
worse below; a devil of a sea smashed in some of the ports, and the
leeside of the main-deck was three feet deep in water. And then, while
we were hard at work, stuffing up the holes where the water was pouring
in, and pumping, there was an awful stramash on deck; for there was the
land again, close aboard of us ahead. 'Wear ship!' was now the cry, and
away went the little hooker again on the other tack, and bravely did she
behave--a better sea-boat never swam; for, battered and knocked about as
she was, she showed true pluck; no sooner was she knocked over by a sea,
than she rose again like a duck, though she was forced to shake her
feathers now and then. Well, at eight-bells in the first watch
(midnight), we thought it was all up with us again, for there was the
surf breaking on the rocks little more than half-a-mile on the
lee-bow--and touch-and-go it was; but our tight little barky--though she
was anything but tight by that time--though she lay over till she was
half buried alive, looked boldly up in the wind, and shot past like a
sea-bird. If there hadn't been such a devil of a noise, you might have
heard a pin drop just then. There was not a man on deck who did not hold
his breath, and gasp, when the danger was past, like one that's just
escaped drowning.
"'By the powers!' says I to Bill Jones, 'that was a close shave.'
"'You may say that,' says he.
"Just as he was a-speaking, the moon shone out, and there, not six
hundred yards to leeward, were breakers again. The sea was running as
high as our tops at the time; but beyond and above it we saw the
breakers curling their white tops, foaming, and dashing, and roaring, as
if they were raging to get at us, as you may have seen wild beasts
tearing and leaping, and striving to break their chain to get out of the
menagerie at their prey. Now, indeed, it seemed there was no chance of
escape--there was no room to wear, and the ship was already half-buried
under her canvas; our only hoped seemed to be in our ground tackle, and
orders were given to clear away the anchors, and to have all ready for
cutting away the masts. That was an awful moment; we thought it was all
up with us, and there was many a pale cheek, and many a muttered prayer
for mercy and deliverance; for the worst amongst us are glad to look
aloft when death is staring us in the face below. Our captain was as
brave a fellow, and as good a seaman, as ever stepped a plank. What his
feelings may have been, it's impossible for the likes o' me to say; but
I never seed him more cool in a calm than at that moment, when the
bravest might have flinched, and no man could have cast it in his teeth.
His voice never shook when he gave his orders, loud, clear, and
distinct; and his gallant bearing cheered the down-hearted, and gave
fresh pluck to the daring. He was a trump, that fellow! He ordered the
foretopsail and foresail to be set. It seemed to be a rash and dangerous
experiment, but it succeeded. Nothing venture, nothing win; we might
have lost our masts, but we saved the ship. The little frigate lay over
for a minute, as if she was never going to rise no more; all hands
thought the masts must go, for everything aloft grinned again, and the
rigging was as taut as bars of iron; but it held on, and the frigate
righted again, and sprung ahead, as you have seen a hare make a fresh
stretch from the hounds--and we were all saved. We shaved the reef so
close, that I'm blessed if I couldn't a'most have chucked a biscuit on
shore."
"Mercy!" said the old woman; "what an escape!"
"Ay, mother, we sailors have many a narrow squeak for it, that you
long-shore folks never dream of; but you know, as the song says,
'There's a sweet little cherub sits perched up aloft, to take care of
the life of poor Jack;' and we're as safe, for the matter o' that, on
the stormy sea, as you are on the terry firmy, as our doctor used to
call the land."
"Weel, but what was the upshot o' the business?" said Willie.
"Why, ye see, though we had escaped so mirac'lously like, we were still
too near a lee-shore to be quite comfortable; for we'd another headland
to weather afore we could say we was clear o' danger. There was never an
eye closed on board that night, and a long and weary night it was.
Blessed if ever I seed a craft stand up under her canvas as our little
barky did, carrying on at the rate of seven knots an hour, while the sea
made a fair breach over her every now and then, and made her stagger
from stem to starn. At last, 'old roarer,' as I've heard our doctor call
the daybreak, made its appearance, and we saw the land we was afeared
o', some distance astarn. After that, the gale began to moderate, and a
fair wind soon took us under our anchorage."
Here old Janet interrupted her son, with, "Weel, but Tam, ye haena tauld
us yet hoo ye cam to lose yer leg."
"Never hurry no man's cattle, mother," replied the sailor; "leave me to
spin my own yarn my own way, and I'll come to the end on't at last; I
told you you'd cry out Avast! afore I'd done."
"Hoot, Janet," said Willie, "let the lad tak his ain gate. It just
astonishes me to hear him rinnin the words oot sae glib, an' him sic a
solid callant as he used to be."
"Weel, weel, gang on, my man; I'll no meddle wi' ye ony mair."
"Then here goes! Carry on again, says I," replied Tom. "The frigate I
belonged to afterwards went on the Jamaica station, and cruised about,
to protect the merchantmen from the pirates as infested them seas. Well,
we were dodging about one night, under topgallantsails, off Cape St
Antonio, with just wind enough to make the barky crawl through the
water. It was my look-out on deck, and I sees something like a large
bird, as it seemed to me, hovering about in a patch of clear sky; so I
stared at it, and stared at it, but I couldn't make out what it could
be, for it kept moving backwards and forwards, but always in the same
part of the sky. So I calls the midshipman of the watch, and says to
him--
"'D'ye see that large bird a-flying about there, sir? It's the biggest I
ever seed, and it keeps always about the same place; I can't make out
what it can be after.' Well, he looks and wonders like myself, and then
he goes to fetch the night-glass; and, after he'd squinted through it
for a minute or two, he just mutters to himself, 'The devil!' and away
he runs aft to the luftenant of the watch, and brings him a-running back
with him.
"'Whereabouts?' said the luftenant.
"'There, sir; just under that cloud that's hiding the moon.'