Capt. Elliott remained only a couple of days at the Manse; the parting was a melancholy one. He expected to be sent to India, where he was sure to remain at least six years. He had heard twice from William, since leaving Kelso; and at his departure, he put a letter into Helen's hand directed for her brother, which he desired her to be sure and forward by the next day's post. "I promised him, poor fellow, that I would be sure to let him hear from me the very day I left Eskdale, and I must keep my word." Then, shaking his sister's hand, he added, "I prophecy that William will be both an honour and a comfort to you yet, for all his trifling faults and imperfections."
About a week after Capt. Elliott had left the Manse, the family were sitting at tea, conversing very comfortably together, when the study door opened, and to their astonishment Mr. Lamont walked in. All expressed their surprise at so unexpected a visitor; Mrs. Martin alone sat still, her eyes fixed on Mr. Lamont's face, seeming to dread what she was to hear. Mr. Lamont, however, spoke cheerfully, and after looking round the room sat down, only saying a little private business required him to come unexpectedly into Eskdale. Mrs. Martin was not satisfied; she remained silent a few minutes, and then said, "Mr. Lamont, I know something has happened: tell me at once what it is, I cannot be deceived; this state of suspense is intolerable." "Madam, I find it is impossible to blind the eyes of a mother so anxious and attached as you are; William has given me a little uneasiness, but I hope there is no occasion for serious alarm." He was proceeding when he perceived Mr. Martin almost gasping for breath; he handed him a glass of water, and when Mr. Martin had drank it, he waited about a minute, and then said, "Pray Mr. Lamont proceed, I am prepared now to hear what you have to tell us." Mr. Lamont then began by saying that, from the time they had parted from William at Kelso, he had observed a most remarkable change in the boy. He no longer opposed any thing he was desired to do, however disagreeable it might be to him; he was never out of his place; his lessons were always attended to; in short, he had flattered himself that an impression had been made on the boy's mind which promised to be lasting. "About a week ago," continued Mr. Lamont, "I observed him to be uncommonly grave, and once or twice he complained of a head-ache, and asked leave to go to bed earlier than his usual hour. Mrs. Lamont, upon one of these occasions, being anxious about him, happened to go into his room to enquire how he was before she went to bed. He told her the next morning he was much obliged to her for her attention, but that she had awakened him by the light of her candle, and he had not been able to sleep any more all night. Last Friday evening he complained in the same way of his head, and went to bed, saying, as he left the room, 'Pray, madam, don't awake me to-night if you please, for my head aches more than usual.' Accordingly, when we went to bed, we did not go into his room, but only in passing shut the door gently, observing, it was odd he had left it open when he was so much afraid of noise. Next morning, when the school assembled, William did not make his appearance. I became alarmed lest his headache had increased, or been the forerunner of some other complaint, and I therefore hastened in search of him; when, to my great dismay, I found his room empty, and the bed evidently bearing the appearance of never having been slept in. After a general search through the house and the town, and making every possible inquiry of every creature we could meet with, we heard from a man who had been fishing in the Tiviot the evening before, that he had seen one of my scholars walking quickly along the road to Edinburgh, with a small parcel in his hand, much about the time when William pretended to be going to bed." Mr. Lamont went on to inform the miserable parents, that, on this information, he had traced William as far as the end of Princes Street, in Edinburgh, but there he had lost him; and though both himself and one of the ushers had continued their search for two days, they had not yet been able to get the slightest intelligence of him; that he had then thought it his duty to come himself to inform Mr. Martin, in order that they might consult together what was best to be done.
CHAP. X.
When Mr. Lamont had made an end of his narration, Mrs. Martin (who had borne up while he was speaking), seemed so overpowered as to be quite unable to make any remarks; she sighed heavily, and Mr. Lamont thought she would have fainted. Mr. Martin spoke to her, but she returned no answer; at last, after using every means they could think of to get her to shed tears, they became so alarmed that, though they by no means wished to let William's disappearance be known, they thought it absolutely necessary to send for Mr. Armstrong. Helen ran and called John (who was just come in for his usual lesson) to go off directly to Langholm, as he was a quick messenger, and could be trusted.
When Mr. Armstrong arrived, he deemed it proper to have Mrs. Martin bled, which being done, she seemed to take more notice, but still spoke not, lying perfectly quiet, only sighing often. Her husband felt that to leave her in that state was impossible; he was therefore obliged to trust to Mr. Lamont's exertions to search for the wretched boy who had been the cause of all this misery. The worthy schoolmaster accordingly left the Manse early the following morning, by which time Mrs. Martin was in the height of a brain fever, knowing no one, and screaming every instant for William. Poor Helen now found the lessons which she had been early taught, of subduing her feelings, were but too necessary to be put in practice. Her father never quitted her mother's bed-side; and in all probability would have fallen a sacrifice to the unremitting fatigue and anxiety he was enduring, had not Helen, with persevering good sense and composure far superior to her years, waited on him herself, watching every favourable moment to bring him nourishment, and using all the little winning ways she could think of or remember to have seen her mother employ when she thought he required that sort of attention.
A whole fortnight 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.