the magnificent bequest of the old lady. Although they knew not the
exact value of the gems, they knew it must be considerable; and the
guineas were above two hundred. Their astonishment was great at the good
fortune of Helen; for they had always thought, from her dress and
humility, that Elizabeth was poor, although she never sought relief, but
lived principally upon the produce of her little kail-yard, and the meal
she purchased each year, in the beginning of winter, along with her
meat. This unexpected wealth added not to their happiness, nor in the
least abated their grief for the loss of the giver. Scanty as the
necessaries of life were, William Kerr was far from poor; but at this
time money could not procure food in many of the distant parts of
Scotland.
By strict economy, they contrived to put over the next long and dismal
winter, and even to have something to spare for the more necessitous of
their neighbours, in hopes that the ensuing spring would put an end to
their privations; but it proved cold and barren as the others had been,
and the more necessitous of the surviving population had retired to the
sea-shore, to eke out a scanty subsistence by picking the shellfish from
the rocks, and eating the softer sea-weeds. Often in vain the most
dexterous fisher essayed his skill, and returned without a single fish;
for even those had forsaken the shores of the famishing land, driven off
by the storms, and the swell, and surge that for weeks together beat
upon the coast.
In this, the extreme of their distress, William Kerr heard that a vessel
had arrived at Stranraer with grain. Without delay he mounted his sole
remaining horse, now so much reduced that it could scarce bear his
weight, and set off for the port--a distance of twenty miles. Short as
it was, it was late in the evening ere he arrived; and he found, to his
regret, that all had been disposed of in a few hours--being dispersed
about the town and immediate neighbourhood. Through much importunity,
and by paying a great price, he procured a scanty supply; and next
morning, laying it on his horse, went back to his home, rejoicing that
he had procured it; for what he had reaped the harvest before was now
nearly all consumed. As there was no appearance of the present summer
being better than the preceding one, he resolved to shut up his house,
and retire to Stranraer, until it should please God to remove His wrath
from the land. He took this step because there he could procure
subsistence for money, although the price was exorbitant.
With regret they bade adieu to the scenes of their former happiness;
and, taking all their valuables and cash, locked up their home; and,
with their one horse, which carried the load, accompanied by Colin, now
old and blind, led by Helen, the sad procession moved on their dull and
weary way. The land was desolate; it was the beginning of June, yet not
a bud was to be seen; the whins showed only their gaudy yellow flowers,
as if in mockery of the surrounding dreary scenes. Arrived at Stranraer,
they found their situation much more comfortable; as provisions could be
had there, although the prices were exorbitant. Several of the
inhabitants imported grain from England and Ireland, in small
quantities, for themselves and such as could purchase at the price they
demanded for it--which comparatively few could; and what was thus
brought was in a manner concealed, for the magistrate, by act of the
Estates of Scotland, had the power to seize any store of grain, either
in passing through the borough or concealed in it, and sell it to the
people at their own price. This prevented those who could from importing
it from a distance, save in small quantities.
Helen's heart bled to see the famishing multitudes wandering along the
beach at high water, like shadows--so thin, so wasted--looking with
longing eyes for the retreat of the tide, that they might commence their
search for any shellfish they could find upon the rocks, or any other
substance which the ingenuity of man could convert to food, however
loathsome, to satisfy the hunger that was consuming them. There were to
be seen mothers, bearing their infants--unmindful of the rain that for
days poured down, more or less; and fathers, more resembling spectres
than men, either upon their knees in the middle of their family,
imploring Heaven for aid, or following the wave in its slow retreat to
the utmost bound with anxious looks, exulting if their search procured
them a few limpets or whelks.
During this tedious summer, William Kerr returned occasionally to his
deserted farm; but it lay waste and uninviting, more resembling a swamp
than arable land. His heart fell within him at the sight. No one had
called; everything remained as it was; even the direction he had written
upon his door, telling where he was to be found, remained undefaced,
save by the pelting rain. Towards autumn the weather became more warm
and dry, and promised a change for the better. The family, with joy,
returned once more to the farm, to prepare for better seasons. As soon
as they entered the cold damp house, where fire had not been kindled for
many months, Colin, the faithful and sagacious dog, blind as he was,
gave a feeble bark for joy, ran tottering round each well-remembered
spot; then, stretching himself on his wonted lair beside the fire, which
Helen was busy kindling, licked her hand as she patted his head,
stretched his limbs, gave a faint howl, and expired. All felt as if they
had lost a friend.
This winter was more mild than any that had been remembered for many
years, and gave token of an early and genial spring. The famine was
still very severe; but hope began to appear in the faces of the most
reduced and desponding. William Kerr procured seed corn from Stranraer,
and distributed some among his less wealthy neighbours to sow their
lands.
For eleven long years no word had been received of Willie, the widow's
son, as he had been called, although he had been often the subject of
discourse at William Kerr's fireside. The little ebony box had never
been opened since the day of the funeral. There was now little chance of
his ever returning to receive its contents, and far less of Helen's ever
leaving Minniegaff in quest of him; and, as Elizabeth had allowed Helen,
if she chose, to read the papers, William and Grizzel proposed that she
should do so. She immediately opened it, and took out the packet, which
was neatly sealed, and tied by a riband. There was no direction upon it.
Having broken it open, the first paper was found to be directed "To
William B---- of B----;" and ran thus:--
"MY DEAR WILLIAM,--You will not have seen this until I am in
the world of spirits, and I hope the communion of saints in
heaven, through Jesus our Lord. You have ever believed that I
am your parent; but I am not. I am only your aunt--your father
being a much younger brother, who was the delight of his mother
and myself; for, from his earliest dawning of reason, his mind
was of a pious turn, and we loved him as much as he was the
aversion of his father. His elder brother had engrossed all his
parent's love; for he was more like himself, and cared not for
anything that savoured of the fear of God. My father had been a
cavalier, and suffered a share of his sovereign's misfortunes,
and hated the Covenanters with a perfect hatred; but he
interfered not with his pious wife in her mode of worship,
until your father showed an aversion, when yet a boy, to join
in the profanity and revelry which he and his elder son
delighted in. It was after this that he began to storm and
threaten his wife, for instilling her Puritanical notions, as
he called them, into his children. We were immediately taken
from her. I was sent to an aunt of his own opinion; and Andrew,
your father, to the university in Paris. Your father I never
heard of for some years. My mother I never saw again until she
was upon her death-bed, when she gave me the jewels you will
find in the box with this. Make a good use of them, and may
they prove a blessing, in placing you above want, if I am taken
away before you are claimed by your father, which he will do if
he lives, and is allowed to return to Scotland; if not, you
will be enabled to trace him out by their means. But I must
proceed:--I was still residing with my father's aunt when your
father returned to Scotland, bringing with him, from France, a
Scottish lady of family, whom he had married there. Being very
uncomfortably situated, I went to reside with him. The troubles
about religion, which distracted the country, had been laying
it waste for some time. Your father took a leading part for the
Covenant, and joined the insurgents. The fatal battle of
Bothwell Bridge was fought. Your father was dangerously
wounded; but escaped. He was concealed by a faithful servant,
and brought home, where we concealed him from the search that
was made, until his recovery. Your mother, who was of a
delicate constitution, never recovered the shock. She sickened,
and died, before her husband was convalescent. Your father was
obliged to fly his country in disguise; his property was
confiscated, and a price set upon his head; for, though he had
been seen to fall, his body had not been found. I was driven
from his house, and retired to this wild as a place of
security, of which I informed your father. He was, when I wrote
this, at the Hague, a merchant, and wealthy. You were too young
to remember any of these events, and I was as familiar in your
sight as your sainted mother. If you apply to the Prince of
Orange, should your father be dead, he will be your friend for
his sake.
"ELIZABETH B----."
The next paper was a letter in a neat female hand, which had evidently
been blotted by the tears either of the writer or the reader; for it was
blistered in many places, and the ink effaced:--
"MY LOVING ELIZABETH,--Pity me, for my heart is broken. I am
weighed down by many sorrows, and have no one to whom I can
relieve this bursting heart but you. Alas! the illusions of
love are gone. I am now the aversion of my lord. I fear his
love for me is fled for ever, in spite of all my endeavours to
please him. At the birth of my beauteous babe, he left the
castle in displeasure. Unfeeling Charles! when I expected
rapture in his eye at the sight of his child, he turned from it
as if he loathed it, because it was not a boy. For eighteen
months he has been in London, at the court, and returned only a
few weeks since. Alas! how his manner is changed! I am treated
with harshness and scorn. The only consolation I have now left
he threatens to deprive me of, and send her, young as she is,
to a nunnery in France, and make her profess. I have been on my
knees again and again to my cruel lord, to allow me to be her
companion. This he sternly refuses. Oh, teach me, my dear
Eliza, how I may soften his obdurate heart! for, cruel as he
is, I love him still, and would die a thousand deaths rather
than offend him. Had I never loved him so sincerely, I never
had been so miserable. Holy Virgin, be my aid! and all the
saints befriend me! I know it is not because I am an unworthy
daughter of the universal church that he now has ceased to love
me; for he knew I was so before we wed. He, alas! cares for
nothing holy; and, in his conversation, even favours the church
of my faith. Again, I implore, advise and pity me, your poor
and heart-broken
"LOUISA B----."
The only other paper was also a letter in the same hand, as follows:--
"MY DEAR ELIZABETH,--Fate has done its worst, and my heart is
not broken, neither am I distracted. I am bereft of my
treasure; it was torn from me by its unnatural father, with
threats and imprecations. I know no more; for nature sank under
his cruelty. When I recovered, my lord--now _my_ lord no
longer--had left the castle. I would have followed, though I
knew not whither; but I was detained a prisoner in my room, and
denied the presence of every one, except strange menials he had
appointed as my keepers. I have succeeded in my attempt, and am
now with my uncle. I leave this land, in which I have suffered
so much, for France, in search of my heart's treasure; nor will
I cease my wanderings until I find my child. Farewell! perhaps
for ever!
"LOUISA B----."
Helen and the now aged Grizzel shed tears over the sufferings of Louisa,
replaced the papers, and wished that William might once more return, if
it were for no more than to inquire if he could say whether his relation
had found her child or not. The packet could reveal nothing to him but
what he already knew.
The following summer was genial and warm, and the crops luxuriant to
profusion. Nature appeared anxious to make amends for the barrenness of
the preceding years. Famine had disappeared, but poverty had laid its
cold hand upon many a family who before had never known want. The more
fortunate William Kerr and Helen distributed their aid with a liberal
hand to all around them; his farm had resumed its wonted cheerful
appearance; and Helen occasionally visited the Eldrich Stone, as she
went out of a summer evening to meet the worthy farmer on his return
from the hill. The harvest had been gathered in, and a public
thanksgiving made in all the churches for its abundance, when, towards
the end of the year, the worthy old minister died, beloved and regretted
by all. His executor sent to William Kerr the small piece of paper his
wife had found in the clothes of Helen, with a certificate of the date
and circumstances carefully written out at the time. So little had they
thought of it, as of any importance, that its existence was almost
forgotten. Helen put it into the same box with the papers left in her
charge by Elizabeth, and thought no more of it. Happy, loving and
beloved by her foster parents, she had no other wish on earth but to see
them happy by contributing to their comfort. The new incumbent of the
parish, a pious young man, was most assiduous in the performance of his
public duties--visiting all his parishioners with a parent's care,
speaking consolation to the afflicted, and soothing down any little
animosities that arose among them; but it was observed that he called
oftener at William Kerr's, and remained longer there, than at any other
of the houses in the parish; and it was whispered by the young maidens
that Helen was, more than the old man and his wife, the inducement for
these numerous and protracted visits.
The truth was, that he loved Helen, and was not looked upon by her with
indifference; his many virtues had won her esteem, which is near akin to
love, and she received his attentions with a secret pleasure, though no
declaration of love had yet been made by him. In one of their walks,
which had been protracted more than usual, they were returning homewards
by the Eldrich Stone. The evening was mild and serene for the season;
Helen's arm was in his. She felt no fatigue, but stopped from habit at
the much-loved spot. A thought of Willie passed through her mind; a
faint wish to know if he were dead or alive rose in her bosom; and her
head dropped with a sigh as she thought of his being numbered with the
dead. The anxious lover remarked the change; and, taking Helen by the
hand, inquired, with a tremulous voice, the cause of her melancholy. The
ingenuous girl laid open to him the cause, and a pang of jealousy wrung
his heart as he dropped her hand. "Helen," he would have said, "you love
another;" but such was the agitation of his mind, that his tongue
refused utterance to his thoughts.
In silence they walked side by side to the farmer's, as if the faculty
of speech had been taken from them. Contrary to his wont, the minister
did not enter the gate to the enclosure, but, stopping short, wrung
Helen's hand as he bade her good-night, and hurried away, before she
could inquire the cause of his agitation. She burst into tears, and
stood looking after him. He stopped, and with a quick step she saw him
returning. She still stood in the same spot, her eyes following his
every motion. Again he approached, and, leaning upon the gate where she
still stood, said, in a voice almost choked--
"Helen, do you love that person?"
"As a brother I love him, and cherish his memory," the agitated Helen
replied.
A groan burst from the minister, as he ran from the spot. Helen entered
the house, for the first time in her life, a prey to anguish. What could
be the cause of the sudden change in the manners of the minister, she
was at a loss to conceive. She retired to bed, but not to rest.
For several days she saw nothing of her lover. He had never left the
manse. On the Sabbath following, Helen and her parents were in their
usual place in the church; but she had a shade of care upon her lovely
countenance which no one had ever seen there before. Contrary to her
wont, her eyes were never once directed to the pulpit; while the
preacher sought her face with more than usual anxiety. Although there
was a tremulousness in his voice at the commencement of the service, he
preached with more than his usual eloquence and fervour.
At the conclusion of the service, the pious hearers crowded round their
pastor; but it was remarked that, although William Kerr and his wife
shook hands with him, Helen passed on out of the churchyard
unaccompanied by him, and without being recognised. The worthy pair were
not less astonished than the rest of the spectators, and wondered much
what could have caused the change. On their way home, they inquired at
Helen, who, without reserve, gave them an account of all that had
occurred at their last interview.
The good dame smiled. "He will soon come back again," said she; "it's a
good sign--only a little jealousy of Willie."
"I am sure," replied Helen, "he need not be jealous of my loving my
brother; for I shall always love him as such."
Grizzel was right: in the course of the following week the minister was
as much abroad as ever, and spent more than his usual time with the
Kerrs. All was explained to the satisfaction of both parties, and a
mutual declaration of love followed. Helen Kerr was soon after led a
bride to the manse, and became its ornament and boast. With the
plenishing of the bride, the old carved oak chest of Elizabeth was also
taken, the ebony box was opened, and, for the first time, her husband
knew of the treasure possessed by his wife. With a playful violence he
pushed it from him, and clasped her in his arms.
"Helen," said he, "you are the jewel I prize; put away from my sight
these baubles. But what papers are these?"
"I am afraid to let you look upon them," said she, "for they are
Willie's; and it is dangerous for me, you know, to speak of _him_."
She undid the riband, and handed them to him. He read them over with
care, along with the slip of paper written in French, and compared the
hand in which it was written with the two letters. Resting his head upon
his hand, he mused for some time, then again compared them, and seemed
lost in thought.
"Helen," said he, at length, "a strange fancy has taken possession of
me--that you are, in some way or other, connected with these papers. It
is so improbable, that I am greatly at a loss to conceive how it can be;
yet the conviction is not the less strong upon my mind. There is a
similarity in the handwriting of the letters that struck me at once.
Their date, and the date of my predecessor's certificate, are very near
each other; there is not a month between the first letter and the
certificate; and the second letter is a short time after the date of
that document. It is very strange; and God, in his good time, if
agreeable to his will, may bring all to light."
About eighteen months after this conversation, Helen, one day, as was
her wont, had walked over to William Kerr's, with her young son in her
arms, to spend an hour or two with them, and wait until her husband
called, on his return to the manse from his visits. William had the
babe in his arms, and was talking, with all the fondness of age, about
its mother, when he first had her on his knees in the same chair and at
the same hearth. Their attention was excited by the tramp of horses'
feet approaching the house. Helen started up, and ran to the window to
see who it might be. She could not recognise them: it was a gentleman in
a military undress, attended by a servant. The first dismounted, and,
giving his horse to the attendant, stepped hastily to the door, which he
opened with the freedom of an old acquaintance, and, before she could
leave the window, he was in the room. Helen recognised him at a glance.
"It is Willie, father!" she cried, in a voice of joy. "I am so happy to
see you again, and well!--for we all thought you had been dead."
It was indeed Willie; but he appeared not to partake of the joy of those
who greeted him with such fervour. He gazed at Helen, and then at the
babe she now held in her arms, in silence; and a deep shade of
disappointment clouded his brow. He had stood thus for a minute or two
in silence, with a hand of each of the old people grasped in his. Helen
felt awkward and abashed at his melancholy and imploring glance, and,
turning from it, appeared busy with her son. Willie seated himself, and
seemed as if in a fit of abstraction, his eyes still fixed on the object
of his early love, and strong emotion depicted on his countenance. The
sight of the child had awakened suspicions which he was not for a time
able to confirm or dissipate by a simple question; and his agitation was
so extreme, that no one present could call up resolution enough to
explain to him how or when Helen had changed her situation. The silence
was painful to all, but to none more than to Willie himself; for he
could read in the looks of William and Grizzel the reason why they were
unwilling to speak. They felt for him; and Helen's eye was filled with
a tear, as she looked up blushingly into the face of one who had claimed
the first love offering of her virgin heart. This state of painful and
too eloquent silence was put an end to by him who had most to dread from
a disclosure. Starting, as if by an effort forcing himself out of a
train of thoughts, he held out his finger, and pointed to the babe that
was looking up smiling into the face of Helen, in whose eye the tear
still stood--
"Is it possible, Helen?" said he, in a voice choking with strong
emotion, and unable to get out the rest of the sentence, the meaning of
which his pointed finger sufficiently indicated.
Helen was silent; the blush rose higher on her face, and the tear
dropped on the face of the child. William and Grizzel looked at each
other, as if each wished the other to speak.
"Speak, Helen," said Willie, partly recovering himself. "Can it be----?"
and he again faltered.
His emotion stopped still more effectually the voice of Helen, who hid
her face on the breast of her child.
"Indeed, and it is just sae," at last said Grizzel. "That is Helen's
bairn, and as bonny a ane it is as she was hersel when we found her by
the Eldrich Stane, wi' her head restin on the side o' puir auld Colin,
wha is since dead. Ah, Willie! ye hae yersel to blame; for ye never let
us ken whether ye were dead or alive."
Willie drew his hand over his eyes, and was silent. There was another
subject that pressed upon his heart, and one which he equally feared to
broach by a question.
"And Elizabeth--my more than mother!" he ejaculated, in a broken
voice--"what of her?"
"She's in the kirkyard o' Minniegaff," answered Grizzel. "The sods are
again grown thegither, and the grass is hail and green owre her grave."
"Oh, did I expect to meet all this!" muttered the unhappy man, as he
held his hands upon his face. There was again silence in the cottage.
"Had my dear friend plenty, and was she well cared for in her last
moments?" he continued, with the same broken voice.
"Nane o' us had plenty at that dreadfu time," answered Grizzel; "death
was the only creature that seemed to hae aneugh. We killed auld Hawky to
save the life o' puir Elizabeth; but her time was come. She died i' the
fear o' God; and you, Willie, that was her only love on earth, was her
last thought, as she left this warld for that better ane whar friends
dinna forget their auld benefactors."
"You are unkind, Grizzel," said he, "to add to my present sorrow by the
reproof contained in that hint. I have to you the appearance of being
undutiful; but I was so situated that it was not in my power to
communicate with her by letter; and to visit her in person was
impossible. I would have been here years since, if I could have
accomplished it; for I can solemnly declare my heart has been ever
here."
"I believe ye, Willie," replied Grizzel. "I was owre hasty. Ye could hae
dune her nae guid, even if ye had been here; for at that time the hand
o' God was upon our sinfu land, and the assistance o' man was o' nae
avail. But your Helen mightna hae been the minister's wife this day, if
ye had been mair mindfu o' Minniegaff and yer auld friends."