"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 G.o.d. 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 const.i.tution, 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 circ.u.mstances 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 inc.u.mbent of the parish, a pious young man, was most a.s.siduous 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 doc.u.ment. It is very strange; and G.o.d, 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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, in a broken voice--"what of her?"
"She"s in the kirkyard o" Minniegaff," answered Grizzel. "The sods are again grown thegither, and the gra.s.s 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" G.o.d; 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" G.o.d was upon our sinfu land, and the a.s.sistance 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."
The secret which was paining Willie was now fully revealed. The sad truth that he had lost her of whom he had dreamed for years in foreign lands, and to see whom he had journeyed night and day, with the hope of being blessed at the termination of his journey, was fully disclosed.
With not again seeing Elizabeth, he had laid his account; but that he should lose Helen had never once entered his mind; and the intelligence, accompanied as it was with the painful vision of seeing her a mother, with the pledge of her love for another sitting smiling on her knee, was too painful to be endured. For some time he again sat silent and moody; but the evil was of that irremediable nature that often contributes to its cure; and, as the first emotion wore off, he gratified his auditors with a statement of what had befallen himself since he left Minniegaff.
"It was with a trusty servant I left Elizabeth to join my father in London, who had come over from his long exile in the train of King William. Upon my arrival, I was received with rapture by my beloved parent, and introduced to my sovereign. Proper masters were engaged to finish my education. As soon as I was thought ready, I received a captain"s commission in the army, and set out with my regiment for Ireland. I was present at the battle of the Boyne, where my uncle fell--he having joined the army of James; and my father became, by this event, the representative of the family. Being in favour with the court, the attainder was reversed. I rose rapidly, and had important trusts committed to my charge, which required my utmost vigilance. My mind was so occupied with public affairs, that I had little time for indulging in my own private feelings. I heard of the sufferings in Scotland, and wrote twice; but these letters appear not to have reached, as I received no answer. I could not send a special messenger, as I was in another country, and had no one I could with confidence trust. I was also in hopes, from year to year, of being relieved, and coming in person; and thus twelve tedious years have rolled on."
Willie had just finished, when Helen"s husband entered, and was introduced by her. Willie shook hands with him, but not with that cordiality he had done with the former. There was during tea a constraint, which gradually wore off; and mutual confidence being restored, they were as open with each other and kind, as if they had long been friends. The minister said that he had papers in his possession which Elizabeth had left in Helen"s charge, and which he and Helen had read, as Elizabeth had allowed; and mentioned the strange surmises he had regarding the connection his wife had with them. Willie listened in mute astonishment, and the conflict that was pa.s.sing in his mind was strongly marked upon his open and generous countenance.
"It cannot be," he said at length; "for my uncle always declared that he had sent his child to France by a trusty agent, from whence he had letters of their safe arrival. He showed these letters to the relations of his wife, my aunt-in-law, but never would inform them where he had placed her, or who the agent was. My aunt, who is still alive, has used every effort to learn its fate, in vain, and still mourns the loss of her babe."
The minister afterwards walked over to the manse and brought the papers.
Willie at once recognised the handwriting as that of his aunt. Rising, he embraced Helen, kissed her cheek, and owned her for his cousin. Next morning his servant was sent off express to H---- Castle, with a packet to his aunt, who had for several years resided there--having given up her fruitless search on the Continent. In a few days she arrived at the manse, and embraced Helen as her long-lost daughter. The sc.r.a.p of paper she kissed again and again, as the means of her present happiness. The silken dress in which Helen was found had been carefully preserved. She had sewed it with her own hand, and it had been last put on by herself; for Grizzel thought it too fine for her to wear. Not a doubt remained.
Willie, the widow"s son, joined the army again, and made a conspicuous figure in the wars of Queen Anne. Helen"s mother took up her residence in the manse, and once more, in the close of her life, enjoyed that happiness in her grandchildren"s infancy she had been denied in her own.
The unfeigned piety and example of her daughter and her husband gradually weaned her from her early faith, which had been much shaken, in her melancholy hours, by the studies she had pursued to solace her grief. Till her death she was a devout member of her son-in-law"s flock, and is yet remembered to have been heard talked of as the Good Lady.