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 passed 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 accumulated 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 ship?"--"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 passage 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 ships 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,
pronounce 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 God: 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 God 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
circumstances.
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 ship, 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 passed, 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
ashore. He then finished by earnestly desiring an answer as soon as
possible, and by giving his sister every assurance 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 ship 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
passenger, 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
constitution 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 passing her, saying he
must send answers to his letters, he left the room and shut himself up in
his study, there to implore compassion and resignation from a being, who
is never deaf to the petitions 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 selfish! 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 God, 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 harassing 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 circumstances 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 circumstance 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 assured 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!