As soon as John awoke in the morning, all the occurrences of the previous day passed in review through his memory; at last he recollected that he was to give Mr. Martin an answer as to Mr. Laurie. "Well," thought he, "I suppose I must go to the farm, but I would much rather stay with the Minister and Miss Helen; for it was very pleasant walking with them yesterday, and I liked very much to hear them converse and Miss Helen sing; she surely has a pleasing voice. I wonder whether Marion can sing. I am not sure whether I shall much like going to the hill every day, for it is a tiresome life to be so many hours alone; but then," continued he, "I cannot stay with Mr. Martin, for he has a herd-boy that has lived with him some time; and I am sure I should not wish to make him lose his place, for he, poor fellow, has no father any more than I have; and besides," added he, "I am to have leave to come home every night to learn to read. I shall take the place, if it be only for that; and again," continued he, after thinking a little, "if my poor father were alive, he would think it such an honour for the Minister himself to take the trouble of teaching his son, and, now that he is dead, I am determined never to do any thing, that he would have disapproved. However, I am glad that I have got summer weather to begin with: I shall understand the business better before the winter comes on, and, perhaps, be more reconciled to it."
After coming to this wise determination, John sprang out of bed and dressed himself as quickly as he could. When he came down stairs he was surprised to find that all the family were up and at work. The study bell rang, just as he got to the kitchen-door, and the maid said, "it is well, my man, you are down before the bell has rung for prayers. See what the Minister would have said, if you had been in your bed then? but come away now, for we must not keep our master waiting."—Accordingly he followed her into the study, where all the family were assembled, once more, to render thanks to their Creator for the blessings of a new day.
Helen gave her mother, during breakfast, an account of all she had seen and done the day before; and when she had finished her recital, she said, "Mamma, I have been thinking this morning that I have a half-guinea that my grandmamma Elliott gave me, when she was last here, to buy a new gown; at present I do not particularly want one, and I should like very much that you would allow me to go down the water as far as Langholm, to buy some coarse cloth to make frocks for poor David Little's children; they are almost naked, and I do not think their father will be able to procure them clothes for some time, while he is lying on a sick bed." "Helen," said her mother, "you may do exactly as you please with your half-guinea, it is your own; but I would have you think the subject well over before you act. You know I have promised that you shall go with your father and me to Melrose this autumn. Now, perhaps, you would like to have a new gown to wear whilst you are there. It is but fair to tell you, that I shall not be able to afford to buy you one this summer, having spent all I can conveniently spare, in fitting out your brother for school. Therefore, my dear, you must choose whether you prefer going to Melrose in your old gown, in order to have the pleasure of dressing these poor little creatures, or expend your money and appear smart, when you make your first visit from home." Helen looked very serious for some minutes, and then said, "my dear mamma, if you please, I will wait till to-morrow before I give you my answer; for, at present, I really do not know what to do. I should certainly like to be dressed neatly when I go to see grandmamma; because I know that that would give her pleasure; but when I think of the poor little naked children, they make my heart ache." "Very well, my dear, be it so, go now, and begin your morning lessons."
Mr. Martin then desired the servant, who was taking away the breakfast things, to send John into his study, and giving Helen a kiss, and telling her to be very attentive to her mother's instructions, left the room. On entering the study, he found John standing ready to receive him. "Well, John, what answer am I to give to Mr. Laurie?" asked Mr. Martin, "will you be his servant and my scholar, or have you any objection to the plan? Speak out, and don't be afraid. If you dislike being a herd-boy, I will endeavour to think of something else, that may suit you better." "Thank you, Sir, from my heart; I did intend only to say, yes, I will be Mr. Laurie's herd-boy; but since you ask me if I have any objection, I will tell you, Sir, all that has passed in my mind. I have been thinking how lonely it will be up in the hills all day, and how cold and dreary I shall feel when the winter comes on; but just as I had determined to tell you, I would rather not be Mr. Laurie's servant, I remembered my poor father, and how proud he would be, if he knew that you would teach me to read yourself. That thought put all about the hill quite out of my head; and, therefore, if you please, I will go to Mr. Laurie's whenever he wishes it." "That is acting like a good and sensible boy," said Mr. Martin, "and I hope you will have no reason to repent of your decision. I shall go now and call on Mr. Laurie, and make an agreement for your coming to me in the evening; and I think you had best come along with me and hear what he wishes you to do." John went for his bonnet directly, and walked after Mr. Martin, keeping near enough to speak to him, but still far enough behind, to show his respect. "Sir," said John, as he walked along, "do you think Mr. Laurie will give me a holiday on Handsel Monday?" (the first Monday in the year, and the only holiday the Scottish peasantry ever allow themselves, except, perhaps, in the case of a wedding). "Really, John, that is a question I cannot answer; but if he does, how would you like to employ it?" "The thing I should like best to do would be to take another walk with you and Miss Helen. Oh, indeed, Sir, I never was so happy in my life as I was yesterday; and besides, somehow it seems to have done me a great deal of good, for I felt so miserable and unhappy from the time I lost my father and mother, that I had no heart to do any thing; and it seemed quite a trouble to me to move. Yesterday, when you first showed me that great chest of books, and bade me dust them, I had nearly burst into tears; but now, Sir, I feel as brisk as ever, and am sure I would do any thing in the world to please you." "I am very glad to hear it, John; only I think if you take another walk with us, we must bargain to have no spurs." "No, no," said John, laughing, "you may be sure of that; I had enough of them yesterday."
They found Mr. Laurie at home; who very readily agreed to the proposal of John's learning to read at the Manse, and promised that he should attend regularly. He said, he must come into his service on the next Tuesday morning, and, as he required him to set off by four o'clock for the hill, he thought it would be best for John to sleep at the farm on Monday evening. He promised to send his own shepherd along with him, for the first day or two, to show him the method of managing the sheep; and also to train the dogs to obey him readily. John was greatly pleased with this promise, and returned to the Manse, in high spirits. Helen had finished her lessons and was walking out with her mother; but it being Saturday, Mr. Martin, as was his constant custom on that day, shut himself up in his study, to prepare for the duty of the Sabbath. John, therefore, amused himself as well as he could, by running down to the holm, and fishing with an old fishing-rod, he found in the stable; and though he was not very successful, he yet found sport enough to be pleased.
At dinner, Helen complained of a bad headache, and was obliged to go and lie down. Mrs. Martin was rather uneasy, as she had observed Helen's eyes to be heavy, and feared it might arise from fever. Helen, however, was much better after a short sleep, and got up to tea. As they were sitting round the table, John put his head in the door, and said, Archie Kerr was come down the dale, with the curiosities which he had found. Mr. Martin desired him to walk into the parlour; and added "John, my lad, you may come in, and see them too, if you like." Mr. Martin examined them, and found them exceedingly curious. He was looking at one of the coins at the window, when Mrs. Martin kindly enquired of Archie, how all his neighbours were, up the dale. "Thank ye, ma'am, all are well, excepting Mr. Scott's family at Craigie Hall, where poor little Marion is very ill. I am going, when I leave the Minister, to Langholm, for Mr. Armstrong; as her father was so distressed, that Mrs. Scott was afraid to let her husband come himself." "If that is the case, Archie," said Mr. Martin, coming forward, "I won't detain you another minute. Put up all your coins, and leave them in my care till your return; and if you find Mr. Armstrong at home, tell him he will oblige me by calling here, on his way, to let us know how the poor little girl is. For the sake of her parents, I trust she will shortly recover."
Archie set off immediately, and Mr. Martin and his family sat conversing together till the usual hour of going to supper, when one of the servants looked in, and said, "if you please, Sir, did you send John any where?" "No, indeed;" answered Mr. Martin; "is he not in the kitchen?" "No, Sir," answered the maid; "and I cannot find him any where; the herd tells me, that, as he was driving his sheep home, he saw John run down the lane as fast as he could, and then down the holm. Colin thought he had forgotten his fishing-rod, and was gone to fetch it, but he must have been back long before this time, had that been his errand." This account seriously alarmed both Mr. and Mrs. Martin; for it was very possible, that, in looking for the fishing-rod, he might have fallen into the river. Mr. Martin, therefore, anxiously took his hat and went in search of him. He had become most truly attached to the boy, and would have been grieved to the heart had any harm befallen him. After searching all along the river, for nearly a mile, he was on the point of returning to get some assistance to drag for him, when he heard the sound of feet as of some one running. He listened; for the moon was not up, and the night was too dark to enable him to see at any distance. The steps approached, and in a few seconds, he was convinced that it was John running as fast as he could. He called to him, but John was too much out of breath to answer. Mr. Martin's mind now felt eased on the certainty of the boy's safety. He sat down on the bank, to recover himself, being completely overpowered, and for some minutes could not articulate a word; but silently offered up his thanks to Providence for relieving him from such a state of misery, as well as for the boy's safety. John, who had stood still, when he reached Mr. Martin, could not think what was the matter, but seeing his master sitting on the damp grass, entreated him to tell him if he was ill, and wanted to run on to the house, for assistance. "No John," said Mr. Martin, "you have run enough for one night.—Where have you been to give us all such a fright?"—"Indeed, Sir, I am sorry if I frightened any of the family," replied John; "I did not think of that, but I will tell you the whole truth if you will only rise; for I am sadly afraid, you will catch cold by sitting on the grass."—"You are right, my dear, I will rise immediately; and do you tell me where you have been, for we thought you were drowned." "Why, Sir," he said, "I was looking at that curious urn which Archie found, when I heard him tell my mistress that poor Marion Scott was ill, and that he was going to Langholm for Mr. Armstrong. Now, sir, when I used to live with my father and mother, near Langholm, I many times observed Archie come down there, and though I should be sorry to be a tale-bearer, yet I cannot help explaining to you my reasons for acting as I did. I often saw him in the public-house, and my father used to say he was sure Archie would never do any good, if he did not mend his habits; for his custom was to stop and drink spirits at every place where a dram was to be had, all the way down the dale, and repeat the same on his return home again. I remember once he was a whole day and night getting from Langholm to theShaw rigg. I thought, therefore, if Archie played his old trick of stopping by the way, perhaps poor Marion might be dead before Mr. Armstrong could get near her; so I determined that I would just run myself; for she was kind to me yesterday, much kinder than you know of; for, when you were all laughing at me, (which I very well deserved) Marion came and whispered to me that my coat was torn, and that, if I would go into the stable, she would mend it. I thought the least I could do, in return, now that she is in trouble, was to try to get her some advice.
"I luckily found Mr. Armstrong, and he assured me, that as soon as his horse was saddled, he would go to her; and only think, Sir, when I came back again, I saw Archie sitting in Robert Miller's house, drinking with another man, I was so happy that I had gone myself! but now, Sir, that I find I have frightened you and my mistress and dear Miss Helen, who was not very well before, I do not know whether I ought to be glad that I went or not." "You are a good-hearted grateful boy," said Mr. Martin, "and have acted very properly, only you should have told some of us where you were going, and then all would have been right." "I could not do that, Sir, for I did not wish to tell of Archie's tricks; and I made quite sure that I should be back long before the hour of prayer; I thought you would not miss me till then." "Very likely I should not, had not Nelly come in search of you; but it was very natural for her, and very proper, when she discovered you were missing, to inform me of it."
"Here we are, my dear wife, all safe," cried Mr. Martin, when he came near the green plat, where Mrs. Martin stood with a lantern prepared, and Nelly ready to search for her master and John also; "all is right. John has been on a very needful errand, and no harm is done, save the unnecessary alarm we have been put into; he has promised me, however, to be more careful, in future, in letting us know before he sets out on any of his errands; so let us go into the house for some supper, and give me a glass of raspberry whisky, to keep me from taking cold, as I have been out too long in the night air, and feel chilled with the damp of the river." Helen was gone to bed by her mother's advice, but she could not sleep till she heard that John had returned safely.
Next morning, when the family assembled in the study, for the morning service, Mrs. Martin observed, that Helen still looked pale and unwell; but Helen said she did not feel ill, only as if she was very tired, and had caught a cold. Her mother replied, "then my dear, you must not go to church this morning; for though I disapprove very much of people absenting themselves from the public worship of their Maker, upon every light and trivial excuse, I think it wrong, when they are really ill, to go out, even to church; as by that means they often endanger their lives. Such a sacrifice is not required of us; and we act much more wisely by remaining at home, in such cases, nursing ourselves, and taking care to spend our time, not in idleness, but in our own private devotions."
In Scotland, the observance of Sunday is strict, but nor morosely severe. It is considered by the peasants as their grand day of innocent recreation. Nothing that is trifling, or that can any how be done on Saturday, is left for the Sabbath. The men are all shaved on Saturday evening; and they would even scruple to gather a cabbage out of their garden, on the Lord's day.
Mr. Martin's parish church was about half a mile from the Manse. The walk to it was pleasant, and presented a most lively scene, as Mr. and Mrs. Martin set out, accompanied by the whole of their household, excepting only one maid, who was left at home with Helen. John walked at Mr. Martin's back, carrying the Psalm books and Bible.
As they turned down the holm, the path, as far as the eye could reach, was sprinkled with men and women, dressed in the usual costume of the country, which consists of a woollen plaid, of a black and white small checked pattern, very simply thrown round the women's shoulders, as a scarf. The men wear it over the right shoulder only, and tied loosely under the left arm. The women seldom wear bonnets; they have either a beaver hat, like a man's, or else wear a snow-white cap, tied under their chin, and usually ornamented with a showy ribbon.
As Mr. Martin's family passed, every group stood still, making their bows and curtsies in silence, for it would be reckoned rude to speak to the Minister on his way to church; their greetings of enquiry being always reserved till the service is over, when the older men and heads of families look upon it as a sort of privilege, which they possess, to shake hands with their pastor, enquire after his health, talk of the news of the day, and not unfrequently give their opinion of the sermon he has just been preaching. And indeed they are often much better qualified to judge of such subjects, than the same class of society in other countries; which arises from their having all been taught to read, as their fathers before them had been, for several generations; and what has a most material effect upon both their morals and conduct is, that their reading has been properly directed to the study of the Holy Scriptures.
After church, Mr. Martin having paid his compliments all around, and Mrs. Martin having enquired who was sick, and if any one required her particular attention, the family returned to the Manse, in the same order in which they left it. They there found Mr. Armstrong, who had called on his way from Mr. Scott's. He told them that Marion's complaint had turned out to be the measles; and that, at present, she was extremely ill; but that he hoped, in a few hours, there might be a favourable change. Mrs. Scott had desired him to inform Mrs. Martin of these circumstances, as she was anxious to know whether Miss Helen and John had had the disorder.
Mrs. Martin immediately became alarmed, for Helen had never had it. Having been rather a delicate child, she was kept out of the house, with a friend in Langholm, at the time the disease had affected her brother. She therefore begged Mr. Armstrong to step up to the bedroom, where Helen was lying down, as her headache had come on again very violently. Mr. Armstrong, on seeing her, pronounced that she had undoubtedly caught the infection, and ordered her to be put to bed. On enquiry about John, they fortunately found, that he had had the disease; which they were glad of, as an illness, at present, must have prevented his going to Mr. Laurie's.
The surgeon now took his leave, promising to call next morning at the same hour; and saying to John, who stood at the door holding his horse. "You must take another walk, my lad, to Langholm to-night, to bring some medicine for Miss Helen, for I cannot well manage to send up myself; and it is of consequence that she should take it in the evening." "I will do that, Sir, with the greatest pleasure; or any thing else that is in my power for Miss Helen; but I hope you do not think that either she or poor Marion Scott is likely to die," endeavouring to conceal the tears that were trickling down his cheeks; "I am sure I should feel as much, if that were to happen, as I did when my own dear father and mother died; and oh, Sir! that was a dreadful time." "I hope, my little fellow, there will be no such bad doings as that;" answered Mr. Armstrong, "at least, we must try all we can to prevent it; so do you come down to me when the evening-service is over, and I will have every thing ready, that you may not be detained. He makes a better messenger," continued he, turning to Mr. Martin, "than Archie Kerr, who has not yet returned from Langholm, though Mr. Scott sent him off yesterday morning. I suppose I shall meet him on the road as I ride down, for he will be sure to be home in time for his work to-morrow morning. To do him justice, he seldom forgets that; though, when he can find an excuse to leave it, he is a sad tippling fellow."
The family now went to dinner, which on Sunday seldom consists of any thing but eggs, bread and cheese, and such cold meat as may be in the house. When they had finished their simple meal, Mr. Martin and the servants returned to evening-service; but Helen's illness prevented her mother from leaving her. When the service was over, John set out to Langholm, promising to make all the haste in his power back to the Manse.
He soon arrived at Mr. Armstrong's, and receiving the medicine, set off on his return home. He walked very quick till he got upon the green holm, not having met a single creature the whole way; for walking is considered a very improper way of spending the Sabbath evening, unless when going upon necessary business, as that is the greatest portion of time the peasantry can bestow on catechising their children, and reading portions of Scripture to their families. John was, therefore, rather surprised to see a man walking before him, at a distance. As he himself went quick, he soon came near enough to perceive that the person, whoever he was, instead of going straight forward, kept moving from side to side of the road, in a very extraordinary manner. "I do believe," thought John, "that this must be Archie Kerr. Well! what will become of him, if, by any chance, the minister should come out to look for me? Though he is a tipsy fellow, and has behaved so ill about Marion, I should not wish any thing so bad asthatto happen to him. I think I had best run as fast as I can and get up the lane, and then Mr. Martin, when he sees me, will never think of coming to the holm to-night." So saying, he began to hasten as fast as he could; but just as came within a stone's throw of Archie, to John's great alarm, Archie lost his balance, and fell, with his whole force, across the road. John ran to endeavour to help him up again, but, when he got close to him, he perceived that his head had struck against a stone, and that it was bleeding profusely. "What shall I do now?" said John. "Pray, Archie, try to raise yourself up, if you can; for I have not strength to move you, and I cannot leave you lying here; for if a horse or cart were to come by, you would be crushed to pieces." Archie spoke not, but John continued pulling him as hard as he could, without the least success; and now, becoming seriously alarmed, as he found his temple still bleeding in spite of the neckcloth which John had taken from Archie's neck and tied round his head, he thought the only thing he could do was to run home and prevail on old Sandy, the shepherd, to come and help to remove Archie to a place of safety. "But I will get as quietly as I can in at the back door of the manse," thought John, "that the minister may know nothing about it; for I don't know what would be the consequence, if he were to learn that there was such a disgraceful sight, just before his own door, on a Sunday evening."
With this intention, John ran up the lane, and had just got his hand upon the latch of the back door, which he was lifting gently up, when he heard the study bell ring for prayers, which on Sunday were always before supper, in order that the children and servants of the family might be examined on what they had heard at church; an excellent practice, as it induces them to be more attentive while there, and gives them an opportunity of being instructed on points which they may not have perfectly understood. John had no time to deliberate. He went in, and saw the tail of the shepherd's coat, just going into the parlour. He sprung forward, in hopes of drawing him back, without being observed; but Sandy was too intent on what he had to say to the Minister to understand any of the signs that John was making. He therefore only thought the boy was playing some monkey tricks; and being greatly scandalized at such conduct, so near the presence of his master, he, with one jerk, pushed poor John into the middle of the room. A shriek, from Mrs. Martin, made her husband, who was sitting at the table, with the large family Bible open before him, raise his head. A most terrific sight was presented to him—John standing directly opposite, as pale as death, his face and hands stained in various places with blood, his clothes in disorder, and trembling from head to foot. "What has happened, child?" asked they all with one breath. "What have you been doing?" John stood undetermined what to say. He stammered; and, at last, bursting into tears and turning to the shepherd, cried, "Oh, Sandy! why did you not stop, when I pulled your coat? then I should not have been obliged to tell upon poor Archie; but now I cannot save him from disgrace." "Speak distinctly, my dear," said Mr. Martin, taking hold of his hand, and bidding him compose himself. "Something serious must have happened. Don't think of Archie's disgrace: but tell me at once what it is." John now saw that he could not avoid unfolding his tale, and therefore began, in a very confused way, to relate what had happened. Mr. Martin, however, soon gathered that Archie had fallen down and was hurt. He therefore waited no longer than to get a lantern lighted, and with old Sandy, set out after John, who ran before them to show them where Archie was.
When they got near the place, they heard him groaning most piteously. They raised him up, and tried to get him to walk between them; but though he was sensible of the pain of his head, as they supposed by his groans, he was so completely overcome by liquor, that he could not assist himself in the least; and after various trials, Mr. Martin desired John, as the only method of getting their burden to the Manse that he could think of, to go and bring Bob down some difficulty they at last succeeded in conveying Archie safe to the house; and the maids, in the mean time, having made up a bed for him in the kitchen, Mrs. Martin proceeded to examine his wound. She found it was a pretty deep cut; but not likely to be of any serious consequence. She therefore, after dressing it, ordered Sandy to put her patient to bed, and leave him to sleep off the effects of his intoxication. The family then returned to the parlour, Nelly having first washed John's face and hands, and made him a little more fit to be seen; and Mrs. Martin observing that he was still pale from the fright, gave him a glass of currant wine before he began his catechism.
After the duties of the evening were over, the supper was brought in, which on Sunday evenings is usually the most abundant meal of any during the week, and in general the most cheerful; but this night poor Helen's illness through a damp over the spirits of her parents; and the nicely-roasted fowl, with fried eggs, Mr. Martin's favourite dish left the table almost untouched; to the great displeasure of Nelly the cook, who supposing it arose from a different cause, declared in the kitchen, that it was scandalous shame for that wicked varlet, Archie Kerr, to disturb her good master, and keep him from eating his wholesome supper after the fatigues of the day, by thinking on his great wickedness. "Was there no other place for him to break his head but just before the Minister's door?" She was sure if she had seen him fall she would have let him lie.
"Hush, Nelly," said Sandy, "you would have done no such thing. You are only angry because your supper has not been eaten to-night; but I dare say Archie has nothing to do with that; it is more likely to be Miss Helen's illness."
"I did not think of that, indeed," said Nelly. "May be Archie is not to blame about the supper, and he has enough to answer for without laying that to his charge; but, good night," continued she, "it is time we were all gone to bed. Remember, Sandy, that Archie must not leave the house till our master has seen and talked with him. I was desired to tell you to be very particular about this. I am thinking the Minister will read him a lecture. I am sure I would not be in his place for the best new gown in Langholm." So saying, they all separated for the evening.
Through the night poor Helen suffered considerably; and her anxious mother never left her till towards morning, when Mr. Martin took his wife's place, and insisted that she should lie down for a few hours. "We shall have you ill too, my dear, if you do not take care; and then what will become of us?" "Pray, mamma," said Helen, (who had heard what her father said,) "do go to bed. I promise you I will lie quite still, and give papa no trouble that I can help." Mrs. Martin was at last persuaded to leave them; and after a sleep of three hours, found, on her return to the room, that the measles had made their appearance, and that Helen felt rather better than when she had left her.
On going down stairs, Mr. Martin enquired for Archie Kerr, of Nelly, who was laying the cloth for breakfast. "He is pretty well, Sir, this morning, but wants sadly to get away to his work. At least, that is what he says; but I think he is afraid to see you, after what happened last night. When he discovered where he was, Sandy tells me, he grew quite pale, and said, 'This is the worst scrape I have ever got into. I think I would almost as soon have fallen into the river as have been brought to the Manse, for how shall I ever face the Minister?'" "Send him in to me, Nelly; and don't disturb us, till I ring the bell." Nelly did as she was ordered; and Archie made his appearance with his head bound up, and one of Sandy's woollen night-caps half drawn over his eyes, as if he wanted to hide them from the good man, who was now going to address him. As, however, the door was shut immediately, and there were none present but himself and the Minister, what Mr. Martin said to him never transpired; only when he left the study and passed through the kitchen, in his way to go home, Nelly observed that his eyes were red with weeping; and as he shook hands with John, he said, "I shall have reason, my little fellow, to bless the night you found me, and got me brought to the Manse, all my life long, if I can but remember what the minister has been saying to me; and, after his kindness, I shall be an ungrateful villain indeed, if ever I forget it; and that I would not be for all the whiskey in Eskdale. Farewell! And, my man, if ever you should be tempted to drink more than is good for you, think on Archie Kerr, last night, and I am sure that will restrain you."
When Mr. Armstrong made his appearance, after breakfast, he said, Helen was doing as well as he could wish. She was likely to have the disease very easily; and he hoped, in a few days, would be quite well. "I wish," added he, "that poor little Marion Scott may do as well. She is a delicate creature, and her fever ran very high when I left her yesterday." He added, he was going higher up the dale, and would not return till the evening, and that he would see Helen on his way back. He spoke this on the step of the door, as he was going out. John heard it, and, running up to Mr. Martin, asked him if he might go up with Mr. Armstrong as far as Mr. Scott's, "just to hear how poor Marion is, this morning, Sir." "Certainly, my dear, I am glad that you thought of it; for I am very anxious to hear of her myself. But, stop a moment, I will get you something for her that may be useful; as it is not likely that Mrs. Scott should have any herself." So saying, he went up to his wife, and asked her for a pot of black currant jelly, of which a country clergyman's wife always takes care to have a good supply, for the benefit of her poorer neighbours. John having got his affairs carefully packed by Nelly, in a wicker basket, set out at a good pace after Mr. Armstrong. As he walked along he could not help remembering in what very different circumstance he had walked that very road, only three days before. "Dear me," said he to himself, "who could have thought that so very happy a day should have produced such melancholy events? Here are we, all in sickness and anxiety, instead of singing and conversing so pleasantly as we then did. I may just as well be at the hill now, as with the Minister; for, even though Miss Helen should get well, (which I hope and trust she will,) there can be no long walks for a great while again. I remember, when I had this troublesome disease, I was not able to run about, strongly, for nearly three months." As he passed by Mr. Elliott's cottage, he gave it a look, and said, "Well, I wish Miss Helen could live at that pretty place, when she grows to be a woman; but I don't see how it can well happen, unless, indeed, Master William should become a great man, (as why should he not? He is my master's own son; and he is surely the best man in Eskdale;) then, to be sure, he may very likely buy the farm, to please his sister, and live at it with her; oh, dear! how I should like to see that day."
With such like airy castle building John amused himself till he reachedMr. Scott's where he heard that Marion still continued very ill.
"I am so glad you have brought us the jelly," said Mrs. Scott, "for her throat is very sore, and our own minister's family are all gone to Edinburgh. The General Assembly is coming on, and he is a member this year." TheGeneral Assemblyis a meeting of clergymen, chosen from the different districts of Scotland. They assemble at Edinburgh once a year, to judge and determine on the church affairs, that are brought before them, from all parts of the country.
John only waited to hear how Marion was, and then with a sorrowful heart, prepared to depart, when he saw Mr. Scott coming towards him. Mr. Scott had a bunch of cuttings, from the hot-house plants in his hands, and, holding them out to John, he said, "Here, yonker; You may have these, if you like to take the trouble of carrying them; and, if you take pains and put them into pots, they will grow and be very pretty; but you must water them regularly, and in cold weather keep them within doors. I dare say Mrs. Martin will thank you for them. If you will step with me into the tool-house, I will give you some pots; for, perhaps, there may not be any at the Minister's house."
John very thankfully accepted this offer, and Mr. Scott putting half a dozen within each other, contrived to stow them into the wicker basket. At first the delight which John felt at bringing home such a treasure, prevented him from feeling the great weight of the basket; but he had not walked far before he was obliged to put it down and stop to rest. He took it up again, but the further he walked the oftener was he obliged to stop; for Mr. Scott had considered more the size of the pots that his plants required, than the strength of the carrier. "Oh, dear!" said John, at last, "I do believe I shall be kept as long upon the road, with this heavy basket, as Archie Kerr was in going to Langholm. What shall I do with it? I cannot be so very ungrateful as to leave it on the road, after Mr. Scott has been so kind as to give the pots to me; and how I shall get it home, I am sure, I do not know. It will be dark night before I can reach the Manse."
Just as he took it up, to proceed a little farther, he heard the voice of some one singing near the spot where he was: he listened, and thought it came from the river side; but the trees that grew in that direction prevented him from seeing. He therefore put down his basket and ran across the road, to try if he could discover whether it was any one he knew; and, to his great delight, found it was Tom, David Little's son. Tom, as soon as he saw John, skipped up to him and shook hands most cordially. "I am so glad to see you," said he, "for you will tell Miss Helen that my chickens are all alive yet; and mammy says if they live another week, I shall then be pretty sure of rearing them, if I take care always to shut them up at night, to prevent the fox from getting at them. They are nasty, greedy, cruel creatures, these foxes and mammy says, I cannot be too watchful to preserve my chickens from them; for they are very cunning, and are always ready to seize the first opportunity of snapping up any thing that is left in their way." John agreed, that all Tom said was quite true; for he remembered, he had suffered himself from the depredations; having had a whole brood of young ducks devoured in one night, when he lived near Langholm. He then told Tom the distress he was in about his basket. Tom immediately cried, "O, I will tell you how we will manage. Do you take out three of the pots, and give them to me; and I will carry them as far as the Manse for you; for my mammy will not expect me home for two hours. She bade me go out and give Colly a walk; for he is quite stupid, and even ill, for want of his usual exercise on the hills; so I thought I would come down the glen and see the place where my daddy fell; and, do you know the sensible beast ran directly up to the place, and lifted up in his mouth my daddy's whip, which had been left there, I suppose, ever since that terrible night. Look at it. It is a good whip, and my daddy will be glad to have it back again; for he gave a shilling for it the last time he went to Langhold with his master's cart; and surely he grudged the price, but he was obliged to have it, for he could not drive the cart home without it." "Well," said John, "if you really think, Tom, that your mammy won't be frightened at your being so long, I shall be much obliged to you to help me with my load; and I shall perhaps be able, some day, to do you a favour, when you stand in as much need of assistance as I do now."
Having divided the load, they found they could now very easily get along; and they went on chatting, till all at once John recollected the measles. "My dear Tom," asked he, "pray, tell me, have you ever had the measles?"
"No," replied Tom, "I have never had them, and mammy is very particular in telling me, never go into any of the houses in the glen when they are there. All the children, round us, had them last summer, but mammy never let us go down the steps till they were quite gone, and so we escaped; but why do you ask?"
John was silent for a minute, thinking how nearly he had led the poor little fellow into a danger his mother had taken so much pains to guard him against: he then said, "Tom, we must stop, and you must go home directly. I dare say I shall manage to get the basket home some way or other; but you must, on no account, go near the Manse. Miss Helen has got the measles and is very ill. Besides," continued John, "poor Marion Scott has got them very bad indeed, and I think you had best go home directly and tell your mammy, for the disease will soon spread all around, and I think you will be safest up the steps at this time, as you were last summer." "I shall not like that at all," said Tom, "I was so tired living up there. I was just as Colly is, and I dare say it will be the believe, John, you are right; for it would never do for any of us to be ill when my daddy is in the bed, and we are all obliged, till he is better, to sleep on some straw, in the inner room, that we may not disturb him. But tell Miss Helen all about the chickens, and that I am very sorry to hear she is ill. Good bye to you, I hope you may meet somebody else who has had the measles, and then they need not be afraid of helping you home with the basket."
John was really glad when he saw Tom fairly gone. The consequences of the poor child catching the disease, at this time, appeared to him dreadful; and he began to think how fortunate he had been in recollecting the measles before he had brought him into the Manse. With this comfortable reflection, John trudged on with the basket, and, occupied with this own thoughts, he did not feel the weight so overpowering as he had done before he met Tom; he was however, obliged at last again to stop. As he was resting himself, he saw a girl, about twelve years old, running down the holm towards him. When she came up, she said "You don't know me, John Telfer; but I am Peggy Oliphant, Mr. Elliott's herd-girl, that lives up in that cottage, (pointing to the very cottage John had been planning for Master William,) and Tom Little, whom I met as I was coming down, asked me to run forward and help you with your basket, as I am going as far as Langholm, on an errand of my mistress; you need not be afraid to let me go to the Manse, for I have had the measles, and so has all my master's children; we all had them last year."
"Thank you, Peggy," said John, "it is very kind of you, and very attentive, in such a little boy as Tom is, to think of me and my basket; I am sure I shall be glad of your assistance, for I am quite tired with it." "Oh!" answered Peggy, "I shall do it with the greatest pleasure, that, or any thing else, for any one that belongs to our good Minister; I was sorely vexed to hear that Miss Helen was so bad. But have you heard the news?" "No," answered John, "what is it?" "As I was taking away the breakfast things this morning, Nanny being busy about something in the kitchen, I heard my master read in the paper, that Capt. Elliott, your mistress's brother, had been fighting with a French frigate, and had taken her; and that he had brought her into some port in England, but I forget the name. My master said he was glad of it, for the Captain was a brave fellow, and an honour to the name of Elliott: and my mistress added, now Mrs. Martin will get a sight of her only brother; in the last letter he wrote to her, he promised that the first time he came into port, he would endeavour to get leave of absence, to come down and see his old mother, from whom he had been absent now for ten years."
"This is news, indeed, Peggy," replied John. "I am sure I wish it may be true. I only hope he may not come before Miss Helen is better, for that would spoil all my mistress's pleasure." Peggy and John went chatting along till they reached the Manse, when they parted, John thanking her very heartily for the assistance she had given him in carrying the flowerpots.
As soon as he got in, he went and tapped at the study door. "Come in, John," said Mr. Martin, "I heard your voice in the kitchen. Pray, how is Marion?" "Very bad, indeed, Sir. Mrs. Scott said she had not slept all night, and was quite delirious this morning. Mr. Armstrong said, that he hoped the measles would be fully out by the evening, and he thought she would then be better." After John had finished delivering his message, he stood still and seemed hesitating whether to go or remain. Mr. Martin at last observed this, and asked him if he had any thing more to say. "Why, yes, Sir, if I thought that it would be right to tell you what I have heard; but as it was only Peggy Oliphant that told me, I am afraid it may not be true; as, I think, you or my mistress would have had a letter yourselves, if the news had been really what she says." "What is it, my dear, that you have heard? Peggy Oliphant's news I think cannot be of any great consequence." "Yes, but it is, Sir, should it be true; for she says her master read in the paper this morning that Capt. Elliott has taken a French ship and has brought her safe to England." "That is indeed important, John, and I must lose no time in ascertaining the truth of it. Have you mentioned this story to any one but me?" "No, Sir, not a word; I thought it best to come and tell it to you directly." "That is right, my man; now you must promise not to tell any other person a word of the matter till I return; I shall go up to Mr. Elliott's and see the paper myself, before I say any thing to my wife, least it should prove some mistake of Peggy Oliphant's."
Mr. Martin set out immediately for Mr. Elliott's, saying to his wife, he was going to take a little walk. And John, having asked how Miss Helen was, and heard she was continuing better, set about planting his greenhouse slips. He found he had two or three different kinds of geraniums, a rose-bush, and one or two myrtles. "O," said he to Nelly, who stood by while he planted them, "I wish they may thrive, I shall have such pleasure in giving them to Miss Helen, when she is better. Do you think the Minister would let them stand in the study window, if I was to ask him? for the sun shines best there, and I will take great care not to make any dirt when I water them in the evening; you know, Nelly, I am to come here every night to read to the Minister, and I can water them then." "You come here every night to read to the Minister! You are surely dreaming, child; what can you mean?" "Indeed and in very truth, I am saying nothing but what he told me himself; and besides that he has settled it all with Mr. Laurie; I am sure it is very kind of him: but, Nelly, do you know, I am half afraid to come to him as a scholar, for when my poor father used to teach me, I was sometimes very stupid and could not understand what he told me? Now, if I should be so with the Minister, what will become of me? I cannot expect him to have the patience with me that my father had; and if he should be very angry with me, I shall be so frightened I shall wish I had refused his kind offer; it must be a fearful thing to make the Minister angry." "It is both a fearful thing and a wicked thing," answered Nelly; "but there is one comfort for you, it is not very easily done. If it really is as you say, that master his own self will condescend to teach you, James Telfer, the shoemaker's son, to read! you must try, with all your might, to learn as fast as you can, that you may give him as little trouble as possible. Refuse, indeed, such an offer! you would have made him angry in good earnest then, I believe, and with some reason. But," continued she, "above all things, be obedient, and do all he desires you." Then, after being silent a little, she said, as if to herself, "I should think he might have had enough of teaching, after all the trouble and sorrow his own son cost him. I am sure, if that little violent monkey had not been sent to school, he would have been the death of my master. I never wish to hear of his teaching boys again, so little like sweet Miss Helen; but it is all out of charity, I see that very well; just like his kind heart."
Nelly proceeded now to prepare for dinner, and John, after planting his slips, carried them to the green, and set them all in a row, that Mr. Martin might see them, and give him an opportunity of asking his leave to place them on the outside of his window. He had but just got them all ready, when seeing Mr. Martin walking very quick up the lane, he ran to open the gate. "It is all true, John." said his master. "Capt. Elliott has really gained a great victory. It will be quite a cordial to your mistress in the midst of her present uneasiness." So saying, without observing John's plants, he hastened into the house, and went up to rejoice his wife's heart with the good news. Helen was too unwell to be told any thing of the matter at that time, as her mother was afraid of agitating her.
After dinner Mr. Martin observed from his window the flowerpots standing on the green. "Where can these great flowerpots have come from?" asked he. "Look at them, my dear, I cannot think who can have put them there." "I am sure I don't know," said she, "how they came there, but we can soon ring and ask." John was upon the watch, and as soon as he understood what was wanted, came forward and made his request. "Certainly, my dear, you may place them where you please; they are very pretty, and I think from their appearance, they are likely to do you credit. Helen will be very proud of her present; but how did you get the pots? I really did not know I had such a thing in the garden." "I brought them with me from Mr. Scott's," said John. "He gave me them with the plants." "Why, you surely did not carry these heavy pots all that long way." "No, Sir, I cannot say that I carried themallthe way, for Tom Little carried some of them, until I thought of the measles, and then I sent him back. Peggy Oliphant helped me down the holm, and it was then she told me the story of Capt. Elliott." "Upon my word, John, you are a very active little fellow, and deserve to succeed in what you undertake, you are so persevering; I only hope I shall find you equally industrious when you begin your reading lessons with me; you remember we are to keep school for the first time tomorrow evening." "Yes, Sir, I shall be sure to remember," said John as he left the room.
In the evening he took leave of Mr. Martin's family, with a very sorrowful heart, and set off for Mr. Laurie's. When he reached the house, the maid bade him come in and sit down near the fire. The other servants began to assemble, and in about ten minutes the supper was ready. It consisted of boiled potatoes and whey, the common supper for farm servants. Jeannie, the cook, then pressed John to eat: "he is shy yet, poor thing; but you need not be afraid, if you are a good boy. Our master will be very kind to you; and Will, the shepherd, is one of the drollest and best natured fellows in the dale, and will keep you laughing all day long, when he goes to the hill with you. You had best take care of his tricks, however, for he is very fond of playing them off upon people, but they are always harmless." Just as she finished this consoling address the door opened, and in came Will, the shepherd. He was a stout, sun-burnt, good-looking man of about thirty years of age, fun and good nature being strongly expressed in his face. "Ah! have you all begun, and not waited for me? I think that is not very good manners, considering that I am the life of the company," he said, laughing, as he drew his chair near the table: "and whom have we among us in this corner, looking so grave? I dare say it is my new herd-boy, that our master was talking about this morning. Come, man, cheer up, we shall be as merry as grigs to-morrow on the hill. You'll never have a grave face in my company, I promise you, long together." "I have been telling him, Will," said Jeannie, "I was sure you would be kind to him, so that he had no need to be frightened. And indeed," continued she, in a sort of whisper, "who would not be kind to a poor orphan boy like him?" "Now my lad," said Will, "I must try what you are good for, and send you on your first errand. Go into the stable for me; it stands on the left hand as you go out, and at the back of the door you will see a coat hanging up; put your hand in to the pocket, and bring me a whistle you will find there. I have been making it, Jeannie, for your nephew, Tom Little; poor fellow, he was so good natured the other day, in running down to help me to drive the sheep over the hill; he is too young yet to be a herd; but if he live he will be a fine, active, spirited fellow, some day. I promised him a whistle, and I never break my word."
John found the whistle where Will had directed him to look, and brought it to him. "Now, that is a clever fellow; and I think the least I can do, in return, is to play you a tune. I hope you like music; it is the chief pleasure we shepherds have; and it seems to me that it never sounds so sweetly as it does up among the hills." So saying, he began to play a pretty Scotch air upon Tom's whistle. When he had finished, John, whose eyes were sparkling with delight (for he did, indeed, like music), lost part of his timidity, and starting up said, "And did you make that whistle all yourself?" "That I did, my man; and I am glad it has made you find your tongue; for I began to be afraid that master had got a dumb boy for a herd; and that would not suit me at all. If I find you a brisk, merry fellow, that can sing a song, and dance a reel at times, you shall have a whistle too; and, perhaps I may teach you to make it yourself; but it will all depend upon your good behaviour. If you were always to look as grave as you were when I first saw you, I don't think I should ever trouble my head about you; but we had better go to bed. Mind that you be ready for me tomorrow morning; I do not like to be kept waiting."
In the morning, John took good care not to keep Will waiting; but was up and standing at the door when he made his appearance. "So you are ready, I see, my lad; that's well: but take care you continue alert; for that stupid boy, Sandy Laing, whom we had last, was the plague of my life, he never was ready; and somehow he contrived always to put me out of humour before we began our day's work; and then all went wrong." Will led John across a little wooden bridge that was near the farm, and after walking three miles over the hills, they came to the place were the sheep were penned. Another shepherd had been left with the dogs to guard them through the night, who, immediately after giving up his charge, set off to bed. After letting the sheep out to feed, and giving John all the necessary instructions how to manage both them and the dogs, which, when well-trained, are of the most singular importance to the shepherd, Will asked John what he had brought with him to do all day? John very innocently said, he never had thought of doing any thing, but watching the sheep. "Watching the sheep!" cried Will, "that to be sure you must do; but, if you take care to direct the dogs right, they will do that, without giving you much trouble. It will never answer for you to have nothing but that to employ yourself on. You must either bring a book with you, if you can read well enough, or else you must learn to knit, or make a whistle; or, in short, any thing but being idle. No herd of mine, that I care a farthing for, shall ever be a lazy fellow if I can help it; so, if you can keep a secret, I will tell you one. I have in my pocket some knitting needles and some worsted, which I will lend you. Knitting is easily learnt, and you may then help me to work some stockings for David Little, that met with that ugly accident the other day. When he begins to go about, he will want stockings to keep his poor broken leg warm. But you need not speak of this down at the farm; mind that, or I shall never trust you again with any of my secrets; it would spoil all the pleasure of my present." John promised faithfully to be silent, as to the stockings; and, having accepted the offer of being taught to knit, succeeded far better than he had expected himself, as he was a willing boy. "Very well, John," said Will, "you will make a famous knitter in your time; and you will, perhaps, thank Will Oliver all your life, for having taught you to be so useful. When you have become expert at it, you may always keep yourself neat and tidy about the legs, on Sundays and handsel Mondays. Besides, you will dance the better, when a wedding comes round; and I should be ashamed, at my wedding, which will perhaps be sooner than some folks know of," added he, laughing, "if my herd were to dance in any thing but hose of his own working."
Thus encouraged, John persevered; and, by dinner-time, he had learned the stitch perfectly. Meanwhile, the sheep had wandered farther up the hill, and Will thought it proper to follow them; so, sometimes whistling, sometimes singing, he beguiled the time, till they reached the very top of the highest hill. When John had got thus far, he was surprised, on looking down, to see that he was almost directly opposite to Mr. Scott's, at Craigie Hall. "Oh dear," said he, "what would I give to know how poor Marion is." "What is that you are saying, boy?" said Will, "Do you know any thing of Mr. Scott's family?" "That I do," said John; and immediately related all that had passed the day he had been there with Mr. Martin. He hesitated a good deal when he got to that part of the story about the spurs; but Will, who saw there was some sort of secret in the way, soon contrived to get it out of him, and laughed so loud and so long at poor John's mishap, that the latter was vexed at having said any thing about it. But when Will had his laugh out, he said, "Well, John, since you are anxious to hear of Marion, I will wait for you here; and you can easily run down the hill. You will find stepping stones across the river, almost exactly opposite the house, so that you may go and be back to me in half an hour. Off with you, my boy, and let me see if you can be trusted." John lost no time in reaching Mr. Scott's, where he learnt, to his great consolation, that Marion was now doing well, and that Mr. Armstrong considered her out of danger.
When John returned, Will, making a known signal to the dogs, ordered them to bring in the sheep, that they might be penned for the night; and John, to his surprise, saw the two dogs instantly set off to execute their task, with extraordinary sagacity. The sheep were scattered all about the side of the hill; and the dogsworethem in (for such is the word used to express this curious operation), by running all round the outside of the flock, barking, and driving the stragglers towards the centre, but never hurting one of them; and thus, at length, every sheep was got safe into the fold; the shepherd merely overlooking his dogs, and giving them, from time to time, the necessary word of command. "You are surprised," said Will, "to see the dogs understand so well what I say to them. They have been well-trained, and are of a particular breed, only common on these hills. I can make them bring me any one particular sheep that I describe to them out of the flock directly. We never should be able to bear the fatigue, if we had not these faithful creatures with us. The going up and down the hills so often after the sheep, would wear out any man's strength, long before the day was over. You will soon learn the way of managing them; and they, in time, will become accustomed to your voice. At present, they know the sheep, and will allow no harm to happen to them."
Will now sent John home, as he himself was to remain till the other shepherd came to his relief. John reached the farm, when it was nearly dark, and having washed his face and hands, set out for the Manse. He found Mr. Martin waiting for him in the study. "Well, John, how do you like herding?" asked he, as his young scholar entered the room. "Very well, Sir; much better, indeed, than I expected: the shepherd has been very kind to me, and shown me every thing I have to do; and I think, Sir, I shall be able very soon to learn the business." "I have no doubt, if you take pains, you will very soon do so; but come, let us begin our evening task." When this was over, John asked how Miss Helen was. "She is much better, John; and I hope, in a few days, she will be able to come down and admire your pretty flowers. I really think they are taking root." John was glad to hear this; and having watered them, and shaken hands with his friend Nelly, he told her he should never again be afraid to encounter his reading; "for," said he, "the Minister has so much patience, and explains every thing to me so clearly, that I must be a dunce indeed not to understand him, and a very bad boy if I do not take pains to remember what he says."
John continued this kind of life without interruption for two months, in the course of which time he had become very expert in the management of his sheep; and Will was so much pleased with his diligence, that he taught him both to make and also to play upon the same sort of whistle on which he was himself so skilful a performer. John could now play, very tolerably, the old Scottish air of "the Ewe-buchts, Marion!" a very particular favourite of his, although Will said he thought it rather the name than the tune which had caught the boy's fancy. His reading had likewise improved wonderfully. Mr. Martin had lent him a common copy of Robinson Crusoe (for the elegant one with the plates was too valuable to be carried to the hill), and this book, which had first excited his desire of learning, now became the constant companion of his leisure moments. Indeed it would have entirely driven the whistle, the knitting, and everything else out of his head, if Will, who was somewhat proud of his scholar, had not insisted on his continuing to work at his stockings some part of every day, and to display his progress in music to his fellow-servants every evening.
Helen and Marion had by this time both recovered, though Marion was still delicate. The latter, however, had found out that John's sheep grazed very often just opposite to her father's house; she therefore, more than once, made her way across the water to listen to John's whistle, which she greatly admired; and she at the same time convinced him that she could sing, and, according to his taste, very sweetly.
Little offerings of friendship were continually passing, on these occasions, between the children. Sometimes Marion would save the fruit which her father was permitted to give her out of the hall garden, and she would carry it over, in a cabbage-leaf, to share it with John. He, in return, wishing to procure a basket for her greater accommodation, got his friend Will to teach him how to make one, like that which the shepherds in general use for carrying their provisions to the hill, and which is shaped something like a pouch, and slung by a strap over the shoulder. To make the basket the more acceptable, John filled it with the prettiest mosses that he could find on the hills. These mosses are remarkably fine in Eskdale, and very much in request among the ladies, who ornament their garden seats and bowers with them. The frames being made of a sort of basket-work, the moss, when fresh gathered, with the roots unbroken, is twisted into the frame so as to leave the green part only visible. Thus they take root, and if carefully watered, in a very little time have the appearance of having grown there naturally. They are calledfogg houses, and are very common. Seats and tables are likewise added, as furniture to the fogg house, and for this purpose the most beautiful moss is always reserved. The greater the variety of shades, the more it is prized; and they are sometimes seen shaded, from the darkest green to the most beautiful rose-colour. This last colour is the most rare, and is only found on one particular moor, at the top of a distant hill. John contrived, one afternoon, to coax Will to take his place with the sheep, and let him go in search of his much-coveted prize; which, having succeeded in obtaining, he arranged all the various sorts he had picked up in the basket, taking care to place the rose-coloured just at the top, and carried it over to Mr. Scott's.
On John's arrival, it was unluckily damp, and Marion's mother had desired her not to go out. He therefore peeped around the house a long time to no purpose, and was at last obliged to go up and knock boldly at the door, in order to deliver his present; otherwise he would have had to take it home and return another day with it, which he thought would be a pity, as the beauty of the moss would be impaired if immediate precaution were not taken to prevent it. Mrs. Scott opened the door herself. "John Telfer, I declare!" cried she. "What can possibly have brought you here so late? I hope no accident has happened that you are not gone to the Minister's as usual." "No," said John, "there is no accident; the minister could not have me to read to-night, for the family are all occupied with the arrival of Capt. Elliot. He was expected to dine there to day, and I took the opportunity, with Will Oliver's leave, to go up to the black moor to get some moss for Marion. She told me she wanted to make a table for her bower, and I have brought her this, which I hope she will accept."
"Oh!" cried Marion, who had been reading to her father, "what a beautiful sight! Did you ever see so much pink moss together?" "Indeed," said Mr. Scott, taking the basket out of his hand, "I have seldom seen so fine a specimen. I think, if you take pains with your table, it will surpass that which the ladies at the lodge have made, and theirs is reckoned the most beautiful in the country. I am sure, John, you must have had a great deal of trouble and fatigue to get at this. Pray, wife, give the boy something to eat, he must be hungry." "I don't mind the trouble a bit," said John, "if Marion is pleased; but I can't stop to eat any thing, for it is growing late, and I must run home as fast as I can, that I may be in time to play to Will, or he will be angry, and never let me go again." So saying he ran off, and scarcely slackened his pace till he reached Mr. Laurie's.
Captain Elliott, mean time, had arrived at the Manse. He was a fine good-looking young man, excessively attached to his sister and her family; and having been absent so long from his native country, had so much to hear and see, that he completely occupied every moment of their time. Helen was only a baby in arms when he left the country, but William was between three and four years old. After talking to them all some time, he turned to Mrs. Martin and said, "but where is young Pickle, that I do not see him? My mother wrote me something about his being a violent-tempered boy; but I suppose it is nothing else but that, having a little more spirit than his father, you think him a dragon. There never was in the world, I believe, so even-tempered a man as my good brother-in-law, and Helen looks as if she were his own child." While he was speaking, Mrs. Martin became quite grave, and her brother fancied she changed colour. Her husband, however, looked pleased at this remembrance of William; and taking her hand, said, "Come, come, my dear, you must not, by looking so serious, make your brother fancy William worse than he really is. The truth is, he has given us a great deal of uneasiness by the violence of his temper; but Mr. Lamont, with whom he is, at Kelso, writes me word that he has good hopes of getting the better of the boy's little failings in time. He is a most excellent scholar, always at the head of his class, which is a large one; and, in short, I trust he will do very well by and bye." "God grant you may not be deceived in your hopes, my dear husband," said Mrs. Martin, solemnly; "but I have my fears. His little faults, as you call them, were great ones in a boy of his age; at least they appeared in that light to me. I hope I may be mistaken." The truth was, William, when a child, had been the idol of his parents' hearts; quick, lively, and entertaining, full of trick and fun, they had no idea of contradicting him in any of his whims, they were so amused with what they called his little oddities. But, in a short time, his mother, who was of a very superior understanding, thought she perceived symptoms of a spirit beginning to appear in him of a most alarming tendency. His father, who was indeed the mildest of human beings, would not believe that there were the slightest grounds for her fears; and for several years he retained that most dangerous of all errors which parents are apt to fall into, namely, delaying to correct faults, under the notion of a child's being too young to understand its duties. At last, one morning, his sister, who was three years his junior, happened to take up one of his playthings, and was amusing herself with it in one corner of the room, when William, who had a book of prints to look at from his father, suddenly perceived her, and called out in a very peremptory tone to order her to lay it down. Poor Helen, who was not more than three years old, did not immediately obey him. He suddenly started up; and with eyes and face flaming with rage, he caught hold of her and dashed her poor little head, with all the strength he possessed, against the wainscot. His father, who was writing, had scarcely observed what was going on, till Helen's screams drew his attention. What a sight met his eyes, when he looked towards where his children stood! Helen lying on the carpet, her head streaming with blood, and William standing beside her, silent, and frightened at what he had done! This was, I may say, the most painful moment that Mr. Martin had ever endured. It completely opened his eyes to the violence of William's temper; and from that day, for the next four years of his life, he laboured indefatigably in endeavouring to control a spirit that was likely to have so pernicious an effect on his son's future happiness.
It unfortunately happened, that, about this time, Mr. Martin had a very serious illness, which rendered it impossible for him to continue his instructions and watchful vigilance. On this account Mrs. Martin's mother, who doted on her grandson, persuaded them to send the child to her; and added, as an inducement, that he might attend the school at Melrose. Mrs. Martin very strongly opposed the plan. She knew her son, and she feared the effects of the good old lady's indulgence; but at last, as her husband seemed to fret, and continually regret that his boy would forget all he had learned, she was persuaded to send him to his grandmother, an event which, in all probability, finally fixed the destiny of William. He remained at Melrose two years, attending the school regularly, and sleeping and eating at Mrs. Elliott's. For the first year, though often very obstreperous, he yet stood in some degree of awe both of his master and grandmother; and on his promising good behaviour for the future, Mrs. Elliott very unfortunately forbore mentioning to his parents, either by letter or when they paid their annual visit in August, any part of his bad conduct; and as he took care to appear to them, whilst they remained, a very good boy, they went home quite delighted with the thoughts that he was entirely cured of his bad habits. In the course of the next year he became so perfectly unmanageable, that at last his grandmother, though greatly unwilling to complain of him, as well knowing he would be removed directly, thought it her duty to impart the real state of the case to his parents. They hastened their visit on this account, and went to Melrose a month sooner than they were expected; and before William had an opportunity, by better behaviour, which he had planned in his own mind (going home being the last thing he desired), to prevail on his indulgent grandmother to entreat that he might be once more left with her.
On his return to the Manse, his father again began the arduous task of subduing a temper, which was likely to be of such fatal consequence, both to his own happiness, and likewise to all those connected with him. But William was now twelve years old, and had indulged himself in such uncontrolled liberty of spirit for the last twelve months, that, though Mr. Martin tried every means he could think of, endeavouring sometimes to convince his reason, laying before him the baneful consequences that must ensue from such conduct, and at other times by more violent methods, yet he made very little or no progress towards a cure; so that, at last, Mrs. Martin became perfectly convinced that, if William remained at home much longer, the father would be sacrificed for the son, as she saw that the continued struggle and exertion he was obliged to live in began materially to affect his health. In this state of affairs, she thought at last of consulting Mr. Lamont, the schoolmaster at Kelso, under whom her brother had been educated. He was a man of superior understanding, had long been in the habits of teaching, and had, as he very well merited, acquired great celebrity. Both Mr. and Mrs. Martin had a high opinion of his judgment, and knew that, when the truth was full laid before him, he would give them his candid advice on what was best to be done; and Mrs. Martin hoped he would be able to convince her husband, that it became a duty in him not to sacrifice his own health in an attempt which, it was quite evident, could obtain no success.
Mr. Lamont's answer was, that without seeing the boy he could not so well judge; and that, as his holidays were just commencing, he would come over and spend some days with them at the Manse. Accordingly he came, and remained a fortnight, during which time he was fully convinced that what Mrs. Martin apprehended would infallibly be the case; that Mr. Martin's health was already injured, and that, if a speedy remedy were not found, in all probability it would end fatally. He therefore one morning, when walking out with Mr. Martin, took the opportunity of some reference which his father made to William's unhappy temper, to propose to undertake the charge of him for the next twelve months.
"I am well used to all kind of tempers," said he; "and though William has great and alarming faults to combat, yet I am not without hope that I shall be able to succeed in managing him better than you are doing. He knows the mildness and affection of your nature, and most ungenerously takes advantage of it to torment you, in hopes of wearing you out, and making you, in the end, cease from opposing him. It will be quite a different thing with me; he will find one uniform system of restraint and punishment, in my school, practised towards all those who dare to act otherwise than they are all directed. No violence or opposition on his part will ever be able to make me yield in a single instance. One stipulation, however, I must insist on making, that no excuse is to be strong enough for taking him away from me, till I can with safety assure you that I can trust him from under my own eye." Mr. Martin said he would consider over the subject with his wife, and give him an answer next day; telling him, at the same time, that he fully appreciated the kindness of the offer, for he knew too well, that this poor unhappy boy was not a pupil from whom Mr. Lamont was likely to derive much credit.—"He is, however," added he, "a good scholar, and, as far as his lessons go, you will never have any fault to find. It is his temper alone that is in fault, at least I hope so; I do not think there is any thing wrong in the heart." "I hope you are right," answered Mr. Lamont, "my dear Sir; by we must lose no time, for, unless this temper be corrected, it will soon lead to corrupt both heart and principles."
Next morning, Mr. Martin informed Mr. Lamont that he found Mrs. Martin so extremely anxious for removing William, that he would very thankfully accept his offer. It was therefore settled that Mr. Lamont should remain a few days longer at the Manse, and that Mrs. Martin would, during that time, get her son ready to accompany him; which accordingly took place.
William had now been at Kelso nearly a year, and his conduct, upon the whole, was rather better than Mr. Lamont had expected; the latter, however, put a decided negative upon his pupil's visit, either to the Manse, or, what he more ardently desired, to his grandmother, during the ensuing holidays; a determination which excited the greatest possible indignation on the part of William. A day or two after Captain Elliott's arrival, while they were sitting at breakfast, Nelly came in and said, "Miss Helen, a little boy wishes to see you. He has a basket in his hand; but he won't tell me what is his business. He says, he must see you your own self." Helen rose and went out to speak to him, wondering who it could be. When she got to the door, she found it was Tom Little. "Ah! Miss Helen," said the boy, "you see I have kept my word, I have brought the chicken I promised you; and mammy thought, as you had company at the Manse, you would like two; so, here they are; and nice plump things indeed." "I am very glad, Tom," said Helen, "to see you here, and very much obliged to you for your chickens; but I won't kill them. I shall keep them to lay eggs; for I am very fond of eggs, though I should not like to give so much money for them as you say they do at the hall. Come in, and let mamma see your pretty present." Tom stept forward, and stood at the study door till Mrs. Martin called to him to come in. He then displayed his chickens, and told the company that their mother laid more eggs than any fowl in the dale; and that he was very glad to hear Miss Helen say she would not kill them, as he thought it would be a pity, they were so very beautiful. Helen then said, "How lucky it is, mamma, that Tom has come down here to day; for I was thinking I must find time to ride up to his father's cottage, with my little present this morning; and I have so much to do, I did not well know how to manage it. Now Tom will take it, when he returns, and save me the trouble!" She then went up stairs, and returned, bringing a couple of frocks, of coarse woollen stuff, which she had made herself, and a little jacket and trowsers, made out of an old coat of her brother's which she presented to Tom, telling him that it was for him to wear when he went to church. The frocks were for his two little sisters; and Mrs. Martin added an old gown of her own, for his mother.
Tom was in such an extacy of delight, that it was with great difficulty he could be prevailed on to stay to eat some breakfast; though he owned he had come away before his porridge was ready. Helen, however, insisted on his going with her into the kitchen, and getting Nelly to supply his wants. Whilst he was eating, Helen enquired after his father. "He is a great deal better, Miss Helen, and begins now to walk about with the help of a stick. Only think how kind Will Oliver has been, and John Telfer, that was with you at the cottage. They came up the glen, last Monday evening, and brought each of them a pair of nice warm worsted stockings, for my father, of their own working. Was not that kind? And Will says that, when I am big enough, he will take me to his herd, and teach me to knit stockings, just as he had done John. I should like to be Will's herd better than any other shepherd's in the dale; he is such a merry fellow, and so good natured. He made me a whistle a little while ago, but I cannot play on it so well as John does yet. Will says John is very clever, and can do every thing well. I suppose that is with the Minister's teaching. Don't you think it is?" Helen laughed; but she very much doubted whether the Minister's teaching had much to do with John's playing on the whistle. When she returned to the parlour, her mother said, "Now, my dear Helen, you must go and pack up your little parcel, that we may be all ready for our journey early to-morrow morning."