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diff --git a/24963.txt b/24963.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..66ea499 --- /dev/null +++ b/24963.txt @@ -0,0 +1,14344 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Allison Bain, by Margaret Murray Robertson + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Allison Bain + By a Way she knew not + +Author: Margaret Murray Robertson + +Illustrator: G.H. Edwards + +Release Date: March 30, 2008 [EBook #24963] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALLISON BAIN *** + + + + +Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England + + + + +Allison Bain, by Margaret Murray Robertson. + +________________________________________________________________________ +For many people this will be a very difficult book to read. In the +first place most of the cast speak with a strong Scottish dialect, which +you could find very difficult to get used to. In the second place there +is a strong brand of Scottish Protestantism colouring practically every +conversation. And in the third place the book could probably be placed +fairly in the genre of "psychological novel," in which people talk a lot +but don't do much else. + +You can certainly make an audiobook of it, but you will need your +strongest concentration to follow what is happening. Don't listen to it +while driving your car--it is far too demanding for that! + +________________________________________________________________________ +ALLISON BAIN, BY MARGARET MURRAY ROBERTSON. + + + +CHAPTER ONE. + + "Was she wrong? + Is it wrong in the bird to escape from the snare of the fowler? + Is it wrong in the hunted deer to flee to the screening thicket?" + +Mr Hadden was standing at the open door of the manse, waiting +patiently, while his housekeeper adjusted his grey plaid on his +shoulders in preparation for a long ride over the hills. His faithful +Barbara was doing her part protesting, but she was doing it carefully +and well. + +"Such a day as it is!" said she. "Such a time of rain! Indeed, sir, I +canna think it right for you to go so far. Mightna ye just bide still +at home till they come to the kirkyard?" + +But the minister shook his head. "I will need to go, Barbara. Think of +poor Allison Bain on this sorrowful day." + +"Ay, poor Allie! I'm wae for her this sorrowful day, as ye say. +Greatly she'll need a good word spoken to her. But in a' the rain--and +at your age--" + +"Ay! I am a good ten years older than the man we are to lay in the +grave. I might, as ye say, meet them at the kirkyard, but I must see +that desolate bairn. And I think it may be fair." + +It was June, but it looked more like November, so low lay the clouds, +and so close hung the mist over all the valley. For a week the sun had +hidden his face, and either in downpour or in drizzle, the rain had +fallen unceasingly, till the burn which ran down between the hills had +overflowed its banks and spread itself in shallow pools over the level +fields below. The roads would be "soft and deep," as Barbara said, and +the way was long. But even as she spoke there was an opening in the +clouds and the wind was "wearing round to the right airt," for the +promise of a fair day, and it was early yet. + +"And rain or shine, I must go, Barbara, as ye see yourself. The powney +is sure-footed. And my son Alexander is going with me, so there is +nothing to fear." + +And so the two men set out together. "My son Alexander," whose name the +minister spoke with such loving pride, was the youngest and best beloved +of the many sons and daughters who had been born and bred in the manse, +of whom some were "scattered far and wide" and some were resting beside +their mother in the kirkyard close at hand. In his youth, Alexander had +given "some cause for anxiety to his father and mother," as outside folk +put it delicately, and he had gone away to America at last, to begin +again--to make a man of himself, or to perish out of sight of their +loving and longing eyes. That was more than fifteen years before this +time, and he had not perished out of sight, as so many wanderers from +loving homes have done. He had lived and struggled with varying +fortunes for a time, but he had never failed once to write his +half-yearly letter to his father and mother at home. The folk of the +olden time did not write nor expect so many letters as are written and +sent nowadays, and the father and mother lived hopefully on one letter +till another came. And for a while the lad wrote that he was making a +living, and that was all, and then he wrote that he was doing well, and +just when he was almost ready to tell them that he was coming home to +show them his young wife, there came word to him that his mother was +dead. Then he had no heart to go home. For what would the manse be +without his mother to welcome them there? + +So he sent home to his father a gift of money for the poor of the +parish, and stayed where he was, and did well still, with fair prospects +of some time being a rich man, and then--after more years--God touched +him, not in anger, but in love, though He took from him his only son and +best beloved child. For then he remembered his father who had loved +him, and borne with him, and forgiven him through his troubled youth, +and had sent him away with his blessing at last, and a great longing +came upon him to see his father's face once more. And so he had made +haste to come, fearing all the way lest he might find the manse empty +and his father gone. It was a homecoming both sad and glad, and the +week of rain had been well filled with a history of all things joyful +and sorrowful which had come to them and theirs, in the years that were +gone. And to-day father and son were taking their way over the hills, +so familiar to both, yet so strange to one of them, on a sorrowful +errand. + +They kept the high-road for a while, and then turned into a broken path +over the higher ground, the nearest way to the farm of Grassie, where +the "goodman" who had ploughed and sowed and gathered the harvests for +fifty years and more lay dead of a broken heart. + +Slowly and carefully they moved over the uneven ground which gradually +ascended and grew less wet as they went on, the son keeping by his +father's side where the roughness of the way permitted, in silence, or +only exchanging a word now and then. The clouds parted as they reached +the hilltop, and they turned to look back on the wide stretch of low +land behind them, which "looked in the sunshine," the minister said, +"like a new-made world." They lingered for a while. + +"We need not be in haste. It takes the folk long to gather at such a +time, for they will come from far, and it is weary waiting. But I must +have time for a word with Allison, poor lassie, before they carry her +father away," added he with a sigh. + +"But the sun may shine for Allison yet, though this is a dark day for +her and a most sad occasion. Though her father's hearthstone be cold, +let us hope that she may yet see good days in the home of her husband." + +But the minister shook his head. + +"She must see them there if she is ever to see good days again, but my +fears are stronger than my hopes, Oh! man Alex! I'm wae for bonny Allie +Bain." + +"Is her husband such a wretch, then?" + +"A wretch? By no means. I hope not. But he is a dour man of nearly +twice her years. An honest man? Well, I have never heard him accused +of dishonesty. A hard man he has been called, but he suits our +thriftless laird all the better for that. He has kept his place as +factor at Blackhills for fifteen years and more, and has grown rich, +they say--as riches are counted among folk who for the most part are +poor. And he is respected--in a way." + +"Well, if I had been asked about it, I would have said that it was a +rise in the world for Allie Bain to be made the mistress of the factor's +fine house over yonder. I suppose he might have looked for a wife in +almost any of the better families of the countryside, without much +chance of being refused." + +"Yes, but he is said to have set his heart on Allison Bain years ago +when she was only a child--a strange-like thing for such a man to do. +He went to work warily, and got her father and even her mother on his +side--or so it is said. But Allie herself would have naught to say to +him. She laughed at first, and then she scoffed at his advances, and +Willie, her only brother, upheld her in her scorning--for a while. But +Willie went wrong--and from bad to worse; but now he is in the tollbooth +at Aberdeen, as you have heard. But I believe that even now the poor +lassie would have a fairer chance of a peaceful life if they were to get +away to begin again together, when his time is over, than ever she can +hope for in the house of her husband. And the lad would be stronger, +and have a better chance with his sister's help. I fear--though I would +say it to none but you--I fear that Allison's consent was won at last by +no fair means." + +"I mind Willie, a nice little lad, merry and frank and well-doing. I +should never have thought of such a fate for him." + +"Yes, frank he was, and a fine lad in many ways; but he was not of a +strong will, and was easily led away. Allison was far the stronger of +the two, even when they were children. It breaks my heart to think what +a woman she might have become in favourable circumstances, and now, I +fear, she has much suffering before her. Her mother's helplessness--she +was bedridden for years before she died--laid too much on Allison, and +she has grown changed, they say, and hard. She was ay more like her +father than her mother, except for her sweet looks." + +"And how came the marriage about at last? And where was her brother?" + +"He had fallen into trouble by that time. He had got in with ill folk +that made use of him for their own purposes. There had been much +meddling with the game on the Blackhills estate, and one night one of +the gamekeepers got a sore hurt in a fight with some of those who had +been long suspected. His life was despaired of for a time, and it was +on Willie Bain that the blame was laid. At any rate he kept out of the +way. It was said afterward that Brownrig had wrought on his fears +through some of his companions, and in the meantime to save her brother, +as she thought, Allison's consent was won." + +"It will be an ill day for Brownrig when Allison shall hear of that." + +"I doubt she has heard of it already. All I know is soon told. +Brownrig came to me one night, saying that Allison Bain had promised to +marry him, and that the marriage must be in haste for this reason and +for that, and chiefly because the mother was near her end, and would die +happier knowing that her dear daughter was in good keeping. This was +for me, it seemed--for I was told afterward that the mother was in no +state for days before that to know what was going on about her. + +"As for me, I had many doubts. But I had no opportunity to speak to her +or her father till after their names had been cried in the kirk, and I +thought it was too late to speak then. But oh, man! I wish I had. For +when he brought her down to the manse with only two friends to witness +the marriage, and I saw her face, my heart misgave me, and I had to say +a word to her whatever might happen. So, when Brownrig's back was +turned for a minute, I took her by the hand, and we went into my study +together; and I asked her, was she a willing bride? Then there came a +look on her face like the shadow of death; but before she had power to +utter a word, the door opened, and Brownrig came in. An angry man was +he, and for a minute he looked as if he would strike me down, as I stood +holding her hands in mine. + +"`Allison,' I said, `you must speak to me. Remember this thing which +you are to do will be forever. When once the words are spoken there can +be no escape. May God help you.' + +"She wrung her hands from mine, and cried out:-- + +"`There is no escape now. And God has forgotten us.' And then she +looked round about her like a caged creature seeking for a way out of it +all. When Brownrig would have put his hand on her, though he did it +gently, she shrank from him as if she feared a blow. The man's eyes +were like coals of fire; but he was a strong man, and he put great +constraint upon himself, and said calmly:-- + +"`I am at a loss to understand what you would be at, sir. You heard the +banns published. Was there any in the kirk that day who had a word to +say against it? I think you can hardly refuse to do your part.' + +"I said, `Allie, where is your brother? What does he say to all this? +What says he to his sister's marriage to a man old enough to be her +father?' + +"Brownrig's face was an ill thing to see, but he said quietly enough, +`Yes, Allie, my woman, tell him where your brother is,--if ye ken, and +where he is like to be soon if he gets his deserts. Speak, lassie. +Tell the minister if you are going to draw back from your word now.' + +"A great wave of colour came over her face, and it was not till this had +passed, leaving it as white as death, that she said hoarsely that it had +to be, and there was no use to struggle against it more. + +"`He has promised one thing,' said she, `and he shall promise it now in +your presence. I am to go straight home to my father's house, and he is +not to trouble me nor come near me till my mother is safe in her grave.' + +"And then she turned to him: `You hear? Now you are to repeat the +promise in the minister's hearing, before we go out of this room.' + +"He would fain have refused, and said one thing and another, and hummed +and hawed, and would have taken her hand to lead her away; but she put +her hands behind her and said he must speak before she would go. + +"`And is not a promise to yourself enough? And will you draw back if I +refuse?' But he did not persist in his refusal to speak, for she looked +like one who was fast losing hold of herself, and he must have been +afraid of what might happen next. For he said gently, always keeping a +great restraint upon himself, `Yes, I have promised. You shall stay in +your father's house while your mother needs you. I promise--though I +think you might have trusted to what I said before.' + +"Alex, my lad, I would give all I have in the world if I had but held +out another hour. For the words that made them man and wife, were +hardly spoken, when that happened which might have saved to them both a +lifetime of misery. They had only passed through the gate on their way +home, when down the hillside, like a madman, came Willie Bain. And far +and hard he must have run, for he was spent and gasping for breath when +he came and put his hand upon his sister. `Allie!' he said, `Allie!' +and he could say no more. But oh! the face of his sister! May I never +see the like look on face of man or woman again. + +"`Willie,' she said, `have you made what I have done vain? Why are you +here?' + +"`What have you done, Allie? And why shouldna I be here? Stone is well +again, even if it had been me that struck the blow--which it was not-- +though I might have had some risk of no' being just able to prove it. +Allie, what have you done?' + +"But she only laid her white face on his breast without a word. + +"`Allie,' gasped her brother, as he caught sight of Brownrig, `you +havena given yourself to yon man--yon deevil, I should better say? They +told me over yonder that it was to be, but I said you scorned him, and +would stand fast.' + +"`Oh! Willie! Willie!' she cried, `I scorned him, but for your sake I +couldna stand fast.' + +"Then Brownrig took up the word. `Young man, if you ken what is good +for your ain safety, you'll disappear again, and keep out o' harm's way. +But that may be as pleases you. Only mind, you'll have nothing to say +to my wife.' + +"`Your wife! You black-hearted liar and villain!' and many a worse word +besides did the angry lad give him, and when Brownrig lifted his whip +and made as if he meant to strike him, Willie turned from his sister and +flew at him like a madman, and--though I maybe shouldna say it--Brownrig +got his deserts for once, and he will carry the marks the lad left on +him that day, to his grave. He was sore hurt. They put him into the +gig in which he had brought Allison down to the manse, and carried him +home, and the brother and sister walked together to their father's +house. + +"Their mother was nearer her end than had been supposed, for she died +that night, and before she was laid in her grave there came an officer +with a warrant to arrest poor Willie on a charge of having done bodily +harm to one of Blackwell's keepers months before. Two of his cousins +stood surety for him till after his mother's burial. No evidence could +be got against him in the matter and he was allowed to go free. And +then like a daft man, Brownrig had him taken up again on a charge of +assault with intent to kill. It was a mad thing for him to do, if he +ever hoped to win the good-will of Allison, but it was said to me by one +who knew him well, that he was afraid of the lad, and that he had good +reason to fear, also, that as long as Allison was under the influence of +her brother, she would never come home to him as his wife. But he might +have waited to try other plans first. + +"Poor John Bain, Allison's father, you ken, had had much to bear what +with one trouble and another, for many a day, and the last one fell +heavier than them all. On the day when his son was condemned to an +imprisonment for eighteen months, he had a stroke and he never looked up +again, though he lingered a while, and Allison refused to leave him. +Brownrig is a man who cares little what may be his neighbours' opinion +with regard to him, but he could hardly venture to insist on his wife's +coming home while her father needed her, for there was no one else to +care for the poor old man. + +"He came to the house while Mr Bain lived, but one told me who saw him +there often, that since the day of their marriage Allison has neither +given him good word nor bad, nor touched his hand, nor lifted her eyes +to his face. Doubtless the man must have his misgivings about her and +about what is to happen now. It is a sad story thus far, with no +possible good ending as far as can be seen." + +"Ay! a most sad story. Poor Allie! There seems little hope for her, +whatever may happen. As to her brother, I should like to see him, and I +assuredly shall if it be possible. I should like to take him home with +me when I go, and give him another chance." + +"Ah! that is a good word of yours, my son. It would be well done indeed +to help the poor lad who is not bad at heart. I never will believe +that. But I fear he will do no good here, even if he can keep the land, +which is doubtful now, for things have gone ill with them this while, +and Brownrig, even for Allie's sake, would never forgive her brother." + +"And it is as likely that her brother would never forgive him. Allison +may in time forgive her husband, and may end in loving him after all. +Time and change work wonders." + +But the minister could not agree with his son. + +"Another woman might forgive and love him, but never Allison Bain. She +can never honour him, unless he should greatly change, and then I doubt +it might be too late for love." + +They were drawing near the house by this time, where many neighbours had +already gathered to do honour to the dead. They stood about in groups +of two or three, speaking to one another gravely about their old friend, +and the troubles which had fallen so heavily on him and on his of late. +And doubtless, also, of other matters, that had to do with themselves +and their own affairs, and the times in which they lived; but it was all +said and done with a decent and even solemn gravity suitable to the +occasion, and it ceased as the minister drew near. + +Another gleam of sunshine broke out between the clouds as the pony +stopped of his own accord. The minister took off his hat and said +solemnly: + +"As a cloud is consumed and slowly vanishes away, so he that goeth down +to the grave shall come up no more. + +"He shall return no more to his house, neither shall his place know him +any more." + +At the first sound of his voice every "blue bonnet" was lifted and every +head was bowed, and then, pausing for no greetings, the minister and his +son passed into the house. + +But the younger man saw there no "kenned face," so he did not linger +within, but came out again to stand with the rest. + +The house was a long, low-roofed cottage, with a wide door and narrow +windows. The door opened on the side which faced the barns and +outbuildings, and the first glimpse of the place was dreary and sad. +For the rain had left little pools here and there on the ground, and had +made black mud of the rest of it, not pleasant to look upon. After a +glance to ascertain whether there were any of his old friends among the +waiting people, Mr Hadden turned toward the garden, which lay on the +other side of the house. + +There was a hawthorn hedge on two sides of it, and a beech-tree, and +many berry-bushes, and tall rose-trees covered with "drooket" roses, and +the ground beneath was strewn with their scattered petals. The garden +had a dreary look also, but he was not left to it long. For though he +had recognised no one about the door, many a one had recognised him, and +in a little time one man slowly followed another to the garden-gate, +where he leaned, and hands "with a strong grip in them" were held out +and grasped, and not one but said how glad they were to see him home +again for his father's sake. And by and by as they waited, one after +another had something to say and a question to ask. + +There was time enough. The minister had to rest awhile and refresh +himself, and the burial-bread had to be passed round, and that which +usually accompanied it as well. Besides, there was no haste, for they +had given the day to do honour to the occasion; and if they got safely +home before it was very late, it was all that they expected or desired. + +The questions were asked with lowered voices and in softened tones, but +they were asked eagerly and anxiously, and with a purpose. For one had +a Jock, and another had a Tam, and a third had a Jock and a Tam and a +Sandy as well, who were all pushing up fast, and who had their own bread +to win. And it was "whiles no' just that easy to get work the laddies +were fit for, or which was fit for them." + +"And you've done weel out there yourself, sir." + +"And was it land ye were on?" + +"Oh, man! it's the land I would like." + +"And is the cold as bad as folk have whiles said: and the heat in +summer?" + +"And would there be a chance for the laddies out there? Would they be +made welcome if they were to pack their kists and go?" + +Mr Hadden answered all questions kindly and fully, making no such rosy +picture of life in America as some wandering lecturers on the subject +had been doing of late through all the countryside. Yes, there was good +land, and there was plenty of it, and in some places it was cheap. A +man could get good land and time to pay it in, and when it was paid for +it belonged to him and his forever. Yes, of course they would have +taxes to pay and roads to keep up, and all that. And they would have to +work, hard at first, and they would _always_ have to work if they were +to succeed. They would be welcome there, no fear of that. No +well-doing lad from Auld Scotland but would find work and friends, and a +home of his own after a while, in that free country. Would they like +it? Scotch folk mostly liked it. One that would do well at home would +be able to do far better for himself out there. And some who had failed +to do anything at home, had succeeded there. It was not a country where +gold grew on the trees, as some would like; but no man need be afraid to +go there if he had a will to work--and so on for a long time; and so +close grew the crowd and so eager the questioning, there was some danger +that the solemnity of the occasion might be forgotten in the growing +interest, for more people were coming in by twos and threes, and not one +of them all but was glad of a word with the minister's son. + +In the meantime the minister was standing beside the dead master of the +house, with his hand resting on the bowed head of poor Allison Bain. +She had lifted her face once, when the first sound of his kind voice had +reached her ear--a face weary and worn, and utterly woebegone. But kind +as voice and words were, they had no power to reach her in the darkness +and solitariness of that hour. Her face was laid down again upon the +coffin-lid, and she took no heed of all that was going on around her. + +Now and then a friend or neighbour came and stood a while looking at the +closed coffin and the motionless figure of the desolate girl, but not a +word was spoken in the room, till the minister rose and said: + +"The time is come." + +Then there was a movement in the house, and those who were without came +toward the door. Two or three kinsmen of the dead man drew near and +stood ready "to lift the body." At the head, where the son of the house +should have been, Allison still sat mute and motionless, with her face +hidden on her arms, which rested upon the coffin. There was a minute's +silence, so deep that the ticking of the clock seemed to smite with pain +upon the ear. The minister prayed, and then he touched the bowed head +and said gently: + +"Allison Bain, the time has come." + +The girl rose and, still leaning on the coffin-lid, turned herself to +the waiting people. There was a dazed look in her eyes, and her face +was so white and drawn--so little like the face of "bonny Allie Bain"-- +that a sudden stir of wonder, and pain, and sympathy went through the +throng. Her lips quivered a little as she met their sorrowful looks, +and the minister hoped that the tears, which had been so long kept back, +might come now to ease her heavy heart, and he laid his hand on hers to +lead her away. Then a voice said: + +"This is my place," and Brownrig's hand was laid upon the coffin where +Allison's head had lain. + +At the sound of his voice a change passed over the girl's face. It grew +hard and stern; but she did not, by the slightest movement of eye or +lip, acknowledge the men's presence or his intent. + +"Now," said she, with a glance at those who were waiting. And with her +face bowed down, but with a firm step, she "carried her father's head" +out of the house which was "to know him no more." In breathless silence +the friends and neighbours fell into their places, and she stood white +and tearless gazing after them till the last of the long train had +disappeared around the hill. Then she went slowly back toward the +house. At the door she stopped and turned as if she were going away +again. But she did not. When her aunt--her mother's sister--put her +hand on her shoulder, saying softly, "Allie, my woman," she paused and +put her arms round the old woman's neck and burst into bitter weeping. +But only for a little while. Her aunt would fain have spoken to her +words which she knew must be said soon; but when she tried to do so, +Allie held up her hand in entreaty. + +"Wait, auntie. Wait a wee while--for oh! I am so spent and weary." + +"Yes, my dearie; yes, I ken weel, and you shall rest--but not there!-- +surely not there!" + +For Allie had opened the door of the room where her father died and +where his coffin had stood, where her mother had also suffered and died. +She would not turn back. "She was tired and must rest a while and +there was nowhere else." And already, before she had ceased speaking, +her head was on the pillow, and she had turned her face to the wall. + +In the early morning of the next day the minister's son, the returned +wanderer, stood leaning over the wall which separated the manse garden +from the kirkyard. He was looking at the spot where the grass waved +green over the graves of his mother and his two brothers who slept +beside her. As he stood, a hand touched his, and Allison Bain's +sorrowful eyes looked down upon him. Looked _down_, because the many +generations of the dead had filled up the place, and the wall which was +high on the side of the garden was low on the side of the kirkyard. + +"The minister is not up yet?" she asked without a pause. "Was he +over-wearied? I had something to say to him, but I might say it to you, +if you will hear me?" + +"My father will be up soon, and he will see you almost immediately if +you will come into the manse and wait a little while." + +"Yes, I could wait. But he is an old man and it might spare him +trouble--afterwards--not to know that I passed this way. Are ye Mr +Alex who once took our Willie out of the hole in the moss?" + +"Yes; I mind poor Willie well. Poor laddie." + +"Poor laddie ye may well say," said Allison, and the colour came to her +pale face, and her eyes shone as she added eagerly: "You will be in +Aberdeen--will you go to see Willie? _I_ canna go to see him because-- +one might think o' looking for me there. You are a good man, I have +always heard, and he needs some one to speak a kind word to him, and I +sore misdoubt that he's in ill company yonder." + +"I am going to see him soon. My father was speaking about him +yesterday. I shall certainly go." + +"And you'll be kind to him, I'm sure," said Allison, wistfully. "He is +not bad, though that has been said. He is only foolish and not wicked, +as they tried to make him out. And ye'll surely go?" + +"That I will. Even if you hadn't asked me, I would have gone. And, +afterwards, if he has a mind to cross the sea, he shall have a fair +chance to begin a new life over there. I will be his friend. He shall +be like a young brother to me." + +Allison uttered a glad cry and covered her face with her hands. + +"I mauna greet. But oh! you have lightened my heavy heart." + +"I only wish you could come with him," said Mr Hadden sadly. "It would +be well for you both." + +"But I cannot--for a while--because I am going to lose myself, and if I +were with Willie I would be found again. But you will tell him that I +will ay have him in my heart--and sometime I will come to him, maybe. +I'll ay have that hope before me." + +"But, Allison--where are you going?--I hope--" + +"I must tell no one where I am going. Somebody might ask you about me, +and it is better that you should not ken even if I could tell you. Even +Willie mustna ken--for a while." + +There was time for no more words. A little bowed old woman with a great +mutch on her head, and a faded plaid upon her shoulders, came creeping +through among the graves. + +"Allie, my woman," she whispered, "ye'll need to lose no time. I hae +seen the factor riding round the hill by the ither road. He lookit unco +angry-like, and his big dog was wi' him. Lie laich for a whilie till +he's weel by, and then tak aff ye're hose and shoon and step into the +burn and gae doon beyont the steppin'-stanes till ye get in to the +hallow and ye'll bide safe in my bit hoosie till the first sough be +past." + +Allison took a bundle of papers from beneath her shawl. + +"They are for the minister. It is about the keepin' o' the place till +Willie comes home," said she. + +But the little old woman interposed: + +"You maun gie them to me. The minister maun hae nae questions to answer +about them, but just to say that auld Janet Mair gie'd them to him, and +he can send the factor to me." + +She took the papers and put them in her pocket and went her way. +Allison looked after her for a moment, then drew nearer to the wall. + +"Sir," said she in a whisper, "I have something to give your father. He +will ken best what to do with it. I had something to say to him, but +maybe it is as well to say nothing. And what could I say? Tell him not +to think ill of me for what I must do." + +"Allison," said Mr Hadden gravely, "my father loves you dearly. It +would break his heart to think of harm coming to you. I am afraid for +you, Allison." + +"Can anything worse come to me than has come already? Tell him I will +ay try to be good. And he will tell my mother, if he goes first where +she has gone--" Her voice failed her. + +"Have you friends anywhere to whom you can go?" + +"I'll go to Willie some time, if you take him home with you. Only it +must be a long, long time first, for _he_ will keep his eye on Willie, +and he would find me. And Willie himself mustna ken where I am, for if +he came to me he might be followed. I must just lose myself for a +while, for if _he_--_that man_--were to find me--" + +Her colour had come back, and her eyes shone with feverish brightness. +What could he say to her? He tore a leaf from his note-book, and wrote +his name and his American address upon it. + +"Come to me and you shall have a safe home with my wife and children. +Come now, or when you feel that you can come safely, though it be ten +years hence. You shall have a welcome and a home." + +She gave him her hand, and thanked him, and prayed God to bless him, and +then she turned to do as Janet Mair had bidden her. But first she knelt +down beside the new-made grave, and, at the sight, Alexander Hadden +bared and bowed his head. When he raised it again she was gone. + +When the minister opened the parcel which Allison Bain had sent him, he +found folded within it her marriage lines and a plain gold ring. + + + +CHAPTER TWO. + + "Martinmas dowie did wind up the year." + +The little town of Nethermuir stands in the shire of "bonnie Aberdeen," +though not in the part of it which has been celebrated in song and story +for beauty or for grandeur. But in summertime the "gowany braes" which +lie nearest to it, and the "heather braes" into which they gradually +change as they rise higher in the distance, have a certain beauty of +their own. So have the clear brown burns which water its narrow fields, +and the belts of wood which are planted here and there on the hillsides. + +In summertime, even the little town itself, as it was fifty years ago +and more, might be called a pretty place, at least the lanes about it +were pretty. There were many lanes about it, some of them shaded by +tall firs or spreading beeches, others shut in by grassy dikes which +inclosed the long, narrow "kail-yards" running back from the clusters of +dwellings which fronted the narrow streets. There were tall laburnums +here and there, and larch and rowan trees, and hedges of hawthorn or +elder, everywhere, some of them shutting in gardens full of such fruits +and flowers as flourish in the north. + +Yes, in summer the place might have been called a pretty place; but +under low, leaden skies, when the reaches of sodden grass-land and +rain-bleached stubble had to relieve their grey dreariness only a newly +ploughed brown ridge, or the long turnip fields, green still under the +rain and sleet of the last November days, even the hills were not +beautiful, and the place itself had a look of unspeakable dreariness. + +On such a day the Reverend Robert Hume was leading his horse down the +slope which looks on the town from the south, and though his eyes had +the faculty of seeing something cheerful even in dismal things, he +acknowledged that, to eyes looking on it for the first time, the place +might seem a little dreary. + +It did not look dreary to him, as he came into one of the two long +streets which, crossing each other at right angles, made the town. +Though he bowed his high head to meet the bitter wind, and plashed +through the muddy pools which the rain had left in the hollows here and +there, he was glad at heart to see the place, and to be at home; and he +smiled to himself as he came in sight of the corner, beyond which lay +the house which held his treasures. + +All the town seemed like home to him. As he went slowly on, he had a +thought to give to many dwellers on the street. Was "auld Maggie's" +thatch holding out the wet? And surely there was danger that the water +of that pool might find its way in beneath "Cripple Sandy's" door. +There were friendly faces regarding him from some of the narrow windows, +and "welcome hame," came to him from more than one open door. The town +pump was by no means a beautiful object in itself, but his eye rested +with great satisfaction upon it. It stood on the square where the +houses fell back a little, at the place where the two streets crossed, +and it could be seen from the furthest end of either of them. It had +not long stood there, and as it caught his eye, the pleasant thought +came freshly to him, how the comfort and cleanliness of the homes might +be helped, and how much the labour of busy housewives must be lightened +by it. + +But it was no Nethermuir woman who so deftly plied the heavy handle, and +lifted her full buckets as if they had been empty, and who walked before +him down the street with a step which made him think of the heather +hills and the days of his youth. There was no woman of that height in +Nethermuir, nor one who carried herself so freely and so lightly. It +was no one he had ever seen before. But some one crossed the way to +speak to him, and he lost sight of her, and a few steps brought him to +his own door. His house was close upon the street. It was of grey +stone, and only looked high because of the low thatched cottages near +it, on both sides of the way. On the left, a little back from the +street, stood the kirk, hardly higher than the house. It had no special +features, and was not unlike in appearance to the low outbuildings of +the manse, which extended behind it. + +Its insignificance alone saved it from positive ugliness, but the +minister gave it as he passed, a fond admiring glance. He knew every +grey stone in its walls, and every pane of glass in its narrow windows. +He had not built it with his own hands but his heart had been in the +laying of every stone and the driving of every nail in it. And that was +true of the house as well. He had only time for a glance. For through +the close there came a shout, and his boys were upon him. + +"Steady, lads. Is all well? Where is your mother, and how is your +sister? Robert, you'll take good care of Bendie and rub her well down. +She's quite done out, poor beast; and John, you'll help your brother. +She must go to the smithy on Monday. There is something wrong with one +of her shoes. I've been leading her for the last miles." + +And so on. Not a spoken word of tenderness, but Davie leaned against +his father in utter content, and little Norman clasped his arms round +his knee. Jack eagerly helped to unsaddle the tired mare, not caring to +speak, though as a general thing he had plenty to say. And Robert had +enough to do with the lump that rose in his throat when he met his +father's eye. The father ended as he began: + +"Where is your mother?" + +The mother was standing at the kitchen-door with a child in her arms. + +"Well, dearie?" said the one to the other--their eyes said the rest. It +was the child that the minister stooped to kiss, but the touch of his +hand on his wife's shoulder was better to her than a caress. Fond words +were rare between these two, who were indeed one--and fond words were +not needed between them. + +Mrs Hume set down the child and helped her husband off with his wet +coat, and if he would have permitted it, she would have helped him off +with his boots also, since the wet and the chill had made him helpless. +But it was not needed this time. For a woman with a step like a +princess crossed the floor and bent down to the work. + +"Thank you, my lassie. You have both strength and skill, and you have a +good will to use them, though I may have no right to demand it at your +hands. It is perhaps your way of doing the Lord's bidding. `If I, your +Lord and Master, have washed your feet!' Do you not mind?" + +The smile which rose to Mrs Hume's face had a little surprise in it. +For it was not the minister's way to meet strangers with a text like +that. + +"It is Allison Bain," said she. + +"Oh! it is Allison Bain, is it? So you are come already. I have seen +your friend Dr Fleming, since you left." + +"Dr Fleming was kind to me when I sore needed kindness." + +Her eyes searched wistfully the minister's face, and it came into his +mind that she was wondering how much of her story had been told to him. + +"Dr Fleming said many kind things about you, and I trust it may prove +for the good of us all, that we have been brought together," said he. + +In his esteem it was no small thing that this poor soul who had suffered +and perhaps sinned--though looking in her face he could not think it-- +should have been given into their care. But nothing more could be said. +A soft, shrill voice came from a room on the other side of the house. + +"Are you coming, father? I am here, waiting for you." + +"Ah, yes! Ay waiting, my bonny dooie (little dove)." + +When his wife entered the room, he was sitting in silence with the pale +cheek of his only daughter resting against his. A fair, fragile little +creature she was, whose long, loose garments falling around her, showed +that she could not run and play like other children, whatever might be +the cause. It was a smile of perfect content which met her mother's +look. + +"Well, mother," said she softly. + +"Well, my dear, you are happy now. But you are not surely going to keep +your father in his damp clothes? And tea will soon be ready." + +"Ah, no! I winna keep him. And he is only going up the stair this +time," said the child, raising herself up and fondly stroking the grave +face which was looking down upon her with love unutterable. He laid her +upon the little couch by the fireside and went away without a word. + +"Come soon, father," said the child. + +It was not long before he came. The lamp was lighted by that time, and +the fire was burning brightly. The boys had come in, and the mother +went to and fro, busy about the tea-table. The father's eyes were +bright with thankful love as he looked in upon them. + +It was not a large room, and might have seemed crowded and uncomfortable +to unaccustomed eyes. For all the six sons were there--the youngest in +the cradle, and the little daughter's couch took up the corner between +the window and the fire. The tea-table was spread with both the leaves +up, and there was not much room certainly between it and the other +table, on which many books and papers were piled, or the corner where +the minister's arm-chair stood. + +The chair was brought forward in a twinkling, and he was seated in it +with his little white dove again on his knee. This was the usual +arrangement for this hour evidently. To-night the brothers stood before +them in a half circle looking on. + +"Well, and how has my Marjorie been all this long time?" + +"Oh! I have been fine and well, father, and the time has not been so +very long. Do you ken what Mrs Esselmont has sent me? A doll. A fine +doll with joints in her knees, and she can sit down. And her clothes +come off and on, just like anybody's. Jack has made a stool for her, +and he said he would make me a table and a chair if you brought a knife +to him when you came home. Did you bring Jack a knife, father?" + +"Well--I'm not just sure yet. I will need to hear how Jack has been +behaving before we say anything about a knife," said her father; but his +smile was reassuring, though his words were grave. + +"I think Jack has been good, father. And mother was here, ye ken, and +she would settle it all, and not leave anything over till you come home, +unless it were something serious," added the child gravely. + +Jack hung his head. + +"So I am to let bygones be bygones?" said his father. + +"And, father," said the child again, her sweet, shrill voice breaking +through the suppressed noise of her brothers--"Allie has come!" And +even the introduction of the wonderful doll had brought no brighter look +to the little pale face. "Allie has come, and I like Allie." + +"Do you, love? That is well." + +"Yes, father. Eh! but she's bonny and strong! When she carried me up +the stair to my bed, I shut my een, and I thought it might be father +himself, Robin is strong, too, and so is Jack, but I'm not ay just so +sure of them," said Marjorie, looking deprecatingly at her brothers, +"and I ay feel as if I must help mother when she carries me, because +she's whiles weary. But it is almost as good as having you, father, +when Allie takes me in her arms." + +Marjorie was "whiles weary" also, it seemed. She had talked more than +all the rest of them put together, which was not her way in general; so +she laid her head down on her father's shoulder, and said no more till +tea was brought in. It was the new maid who brought in the bright +tea-kettle at last, and set it on the side of the grate. Marjorie +raised her head and put out a hand to detain her. + +"Father, this is Allison Bain. And, Allie, ye must tell father about +the lady. Father, Allie kenned a lady once, who was like me when she +was little, and hardly set her foot to the ground for many a year and +day. I think she must have been even worse than me, for once they had +her grave-clothes made," said the child in an awed voice, "and when she +didna die, they were hardly glad, for what was her life worth to her, +they said. But she was patient and good, and there came a wise woman to +see her and whether it was the wise woman that helped her or just the +Lord himself, folk couldna agree, but by and by she grew strong and well +and went about on her own feet like other folk and grew up to be a +woman, and was the mother of sons before she died." + +Jack and his brothers laughed at the climax, but the child took no +notice of their mirth. + +"It might happen to me too, father, if a wise woman were to come, or if +the Lord himself were to take me in hand." + +"Ay, my lammie," said her father softly. + +"The mother of sons before she died," repeated the child. "But she did +die at last, father. It ay comes to that." + +"Ay, dear, soon or late, it ay comes to that." + +"But, father, I wouldna like it to be soon with me. And if only a wise +woman would come here--But never mind, father," added she, laying her +soft little hand on his as his kind eyes grew grave; "I can wait. I'm +only little yet, and there's plenty of time, and now Allie has come, and +she is strong and kind. I like Allie," she added, caressing the hand +which she had been holding fast all the time. "Allie says that maybe +the best thing that could happen to me would be to die, but I would like +to live and go about like other folk a whilie first." + +"I am sure Allie will be good to you," said her father. + +"Ay, that will I," said Allie, looking gravely down upon the child. + +"Come, now, tea is ready," said the mother's cheerful voice. And rather +quietly, considering their number, the boys took their places at the +table. + +There were five of them; the sixth was asleep in the cradle. Robert, +the eldest, just fifteen, was a "good scholar," and dux in the parish +school. He was ready for the university, and was going there when the +way should be made clear for him. As a general thing, he had a book in +his hand while he munched the oaten bannocks, which formed the chief +part of the boys' evening meal. But to-night he listened and put in his +word with the rest. And there were words in plenty, for their father +had been away ten whole days, and he had much to hear. + +The others were handsome, hardy boys, with dark eyes and sun-browned +faces, and the fair hair of so many Scottish laddies, darkening a little +already in the elder ones. They were seen at their best to-night, for +their father had been expected, and clean hands and faces had been a +matter of choice, and not, as was sometimes the case, of compulsion, and +"the lint white locks," longer and more abundant than we usually see +them on boyish heads nowadays, were in reasonable order. + +If a hundredth part of the pride and delight which filled their father's +heart, as he looked round on them, had been allowed to appear on his +face, it would have astonished them all not a little. His eyes met +those of their mother with a look in which was thankfulness as well as +pride, but to the boys themselves he said quietly enough: + +"I am glad to hear from your mother that you have been reasonably good +boys while I have been away. If there is anything that any of you think +I ought to hear of, you'll tell me yourselves." + +A look was exchanged among the older lads. + +"The nicht, father?" said one of them. + +"Well, to-morrow may do, unless it be something more than usual. Is it +Jack?" + +Of course it was Jack. He looked at his mother and hung his head, but +said nothing. + +"Hoot, man! get it over the nicht," whispered Robin. + +And so he did. But poor Jack's mischief need not be told. It was not +really very serious, though his father listened seriously, and kept his +smiles till he was alone with the boy's mother. _Mischief_ is a generic +term in the Scottish tongue, including some things bad enough, but also +some things in which fun is one of the chief elements, and Jack's +_mischief_ was mostly of this kind. Sometimes his father laughed in +private, even when he found it necessary to show displeasure to the +culprit. + +But he was reasonable in his punishments, which was not invariably the +case with even good men and good fathers, in that land, in those days. +There were whispers among some of the frequenters of the little kirk, to +the effect that the minister's laddies needed sharper discipline than +they were like to have at home, and there were prophecies that they +would be likely to get their share of discipline of one kind or another +when they should be out of their father's hands. + +Jack got easily off, whatever his fault had been, and had his knife +besides. They all grew a little noisy over their father's gifts. As it +was Saturday night, his first thought had been that they should not be +distributed till Monday. But their mother said they might, perhaps, +think all the more about them if they had not seen them. So each got +his gift, and their delight in them, seeing there was so little to +rejoice over, was in the eyes of the father and mother both amusing and +pathetic. + +But little and great are comparative terms when applied to money's worth +as to other things, and considering the amount which must be made to +stand for all that was needed in the home, the presents were not so +trifling. Still, the minister was a rich man in the opinion of many +about him, and it cannot be said that he was a poor man in his own +opinion. At any rate, between them, his wife and he had made their +comparative poverty answer a good many of the purposes of wealth, not to +their children only, but to many a "puir bodie" besides, since they came +to Nethermuir. + +"And now, my lads, we'll to worship and then you'll to your beds, for I +have my morrow's sermon to look at yet, and I see your mother's work is +not done." + +So "the Books" were brought out and Allison Bain was called in from the +kitchen. The minister asked God's blessing on the reading of the Word +and then he chose a Psalm instead of the chapter in Numbers which came +in course. It was the thirty-fourth: + +"I will bless the Lord at all times; His praise shall continually be in +my mouth," and so on to the end. + +"The Lord redeemeth the soul of His servants, and none of them that +trust in Him shall be desolate." + +"He believes it all," said Allison Bain to herself, lifting once again +her sad eyes to his face. And then they sang: + + "Oh! God of Bethel, by whose hand + Thy people still are fed--" + +which was their family song of thanksgiving, as it was of many another +family in those days, on all special occasions for rejoicing. It was +the mother who led the singing with a voice which, in after years, when +her sons were scattered in many lands, they remembered as "the sweetest +ever heard." The father sang too, but among the many good gifts which +God had given to him, music had been denied. He did not know one tune +from another, except as it might be associated with some particular +Psalm or Hymn, and his voice, both powerful and flexible in speaking, +had in singing only two unvarying tones. But he was never silent when +the time came "to sing praises," and truly his voice did not spoil the +music to those who loved him. The boys had their mother's gift and they +all sang with good will to-night. Allie's voice was mute, but her lips +trembled a little, and her head drooped low as they sang-- + + "God of our fathers be the God + Of their succeeding race." + +She was not forgotten in the prayer which followed. It was not as "the +stranger within our gates" that she was remembered, but as one of the +household, and it was reverently asked that the casting in of her lot +with theirs might be for good to her and to them for all time and beyond +it. But there was no brightening of her face when she rose and passed +out from among them. + +The minister's sermon was not his first thought when he returned to the +parlour, after carrying his little daughter up-stairs. By and by his +wife sat down with her stocking-basket by her side. They had many +things to speak about, after a ten days' separation, which had not +occurred more than twice before in all their married life, and soon they +came round to their new servant. + +"Well, what do you think of her?" said the minister. + +"I cannot say. I cannot quite make her out," said Mrs Hume gravely. + +"You have not had much time yet." + +"No; I mean that I do not think she intends that I should make her out." + +"She says little?" + +"She says nothing. She has passed through some sore trouble, I am quite +sure. She looks, at times, as if she had lost all that she cared for, +and had not the heart to begin again." + +"I think you have made her out fairly well," said the minister smiling. + +"Why was Dr Fleming so anxious to send her here? Had he known her +long? And how did he come to know her?" + +"He had not known her very long. This is the way he came to know her: +She was brought to the infirmary, ill of fever. She had gone into a +cottage on the outskirts of the town `to rest herself,' she said. But +she was too ill to leave the place, and then she was sent to the +infirmary. She had a struggle for life, which none but a strong woman +could have won through, and when she began to grow better, she made +herself useful among the other patients, and was so helpful, that when +one of the nurses went away, they kept her on in her place. But +evidently she had not been used with town life, or even indoor life, and +she grew dowie first, and then despairing, and he was glad at the +thought of getting her away, for fear of what might happen. It was +change which she needed, and work such as she had been used with." + +"But it was a great risk to send her here." + +"Yes, in one way. And I hardly think he would have ventured to do so, +but that, quite by accident, he had heard about her from an old college +friend. It seems that this gentleman came to see Dr Fleming at the +infirmary, and getting a glimpse of the young woman's face, he betrayed +by his manner that it was not for the first time. He was bound, he +said, for her sake, not to seem to know her, nor would he say anything +about her home or her station in life. But he said that he knew well +about her, that she was an orphan who had suffered much, that she was a +good woman, one to be trusted and honoured, and he begged his friend to +ask her no questions, but to get her out of the town into some quiet +country place where she might outlive the bitterness of the past. And +his last words were, `Fortunate will they be who can have her as a +helper in the house.'" + +"It is a pity for her sake that she should refuse to trust us." + +"Yes. There is one thing which you ought to know, though Dr Fleming +rather betrayed it than expressed it openly. I think, from what he +said, and also from what he did not say, that there had been some fear +that her mind might give way under the strain of her trouble, whatever +it is. She seemed to have lost the power of turning her thoughts away +from it, and yet she had never uttered a word with regard to it. She +was sometimes, he said, like one walking in her sleep, deaf and blind to +all that was going on about her. She had a dazed look, painful to see." + +"I ken the look well." + +"She had been used with country life, he thought, for in the town she +was like a creature caged and wild to get out. Her best chance was, he +said, an entire change of scene and of work, and he thought it +providential that we were to lose our Kirstin at this time. Our house, +he thought, would be a good place for her. She will have plenty to do, +and will have every allowance made for her, and she will be kindly and +firmly dealt with. And then, there are the bairns, and our bonny +Maysie. I confess the glimpse I have gotten of her has already greatly +interested me." + +"I acknowledge I have felt the same. But others will be interested in +her also. Does she really think that she can keep a secret in a place +like this? What she will not tell, others will guess. Or worse, they +will imagine a story for her." + +"We must do what we can to guard her from ill or idle tongues." + +"Yes, and if she were just a commonplace servant-lass, like our Kirstin, +it might be easy to do so. But with a face and eyes like hers, to say +nothing of her way of carrying herself, every eye will be upon her." + +"She is a stately woman truly. But her dark, colourless face will +hardly take the fancy of common folk. They will miss the lilies and +roses. She has wonderful een," added the minister. + +"Yes, like those of a dumb creature in pain. Whiles I feel, looking at +her, that I must put my arms about her and let her greet (weep) her +heart out on my breast. But she has hardly given me a chance to say a +kind word to her yet. That may come in time, however." + +"It will be sure to come," said the minister heartily. "What sorrowful +soul ever withstood you long? And you have reason to trust her? She +has done well thus far?" + +"I have had no cause to distrust her. Yes, she has done wonderfully +well. Though I doubt whether she has ever occupied a servant's place +before. And she gets on well with the lads. Jack has once felt the +weight of her hand, I believe. I do not think he will be in a hurry +again to vex her with his nonsense." + +"I must have a word with Jack, and with them all." + +"As for our Marjorie, her heart is taken captive quite." + +"My precious darling! She may do Allison good. And we must all try to +help the poor soul as we may, for I fear she is in an evil case." + + + +CHAPTER THREE. + + "For the highest and the humblest work had been given them to do." + +Yes, Allison Bain was in an evil case, but if an entire change of scene +and manner of life, and hard work and plenty of it, were likely to have +a beneficial effect upon her, she had come to the right place to find +them. And she had come also to the right place to get faithful, +patient, and kindly oversight, which she needed as much as change. + +When she had been longing to get away--anywhere--out of the great town, +which was like a prison to her, Dr Fleming had spoken to her about +taking service at the manse of Nethermuir, and she had said that she +would go gladly, and at once. + +The only manse which she knew much about was in her mind when she made +the promise,--a house apart, in a sheltered, sunny spot, having a high +walled fruit garden behind it, and before, a broad, sloping lawn, with a +brown burn running at the foot. Yes, she would like to go. She would +get away from the din and closeness of the town. In a place like that +in which the old minister lived alone among his books, with only his +children or his grandchildren coming home to see him now and then, she +would be at peace. She would be away from the curious eyes that were ay +striving, she thought, to read her sorrowful secret in her face. Yes, +she would be glad to go. + +But it was a very different place in which she found herself when she +reached Nethermuir. Anything more unlike the ideal Scottish manse than +the house to which she had come could not well be imagined. There was +no walled garden or lawn, or "wimplin burn" to see. If it had even a +right to be called "The Manse," might be doubted. + +For it was only the house of the "Missioner Minister," a humble abode, +indeed, in comparison with the parish manse. It was a narrow, +two-storied house, with but the causey (pavement) between it and the +street. Across the close, which separated it from a still humbler +dwelling, came the "clack, clack" of a hand-loom, and the same sound, +though the night was falling, came from other houses near. + +"A poor place, indeed," was Allison Bain's first thought, as she stood +regarding it from the darkening street, with a conscious, dull sinking +of the heart, which had already fallen so low. Not that the place +mattered much, she added, as she stood looking at the lights moving here +and there in the house. She was too weary to care for anything very +much that night. The morning stars had lighted her way the first two +hours of her journey, and there had been little time for rest during the +short November day. Footsore and exhausted after her thirty miles of +travel, she went slowly and heavily in. She could only listen in +silence to the kindly welcome of her new mistress, and then go silently +to the rest and quiet of her bed. + +Morning came. Rest and quiet! These were not here, it seemed. The +sound of many voices was filling the house when Allie, having long +overslept herself, awoke at last and lifted her heavy head from the +pillow. There were shrill, boyish voices, laughing, shouting, +wrangling, without pause. There was racket on the stairs, and wrestling +in the passage, and half-stifled cries of expostulation or triumph +everywhere, till a door opened, and closed again, and shut it all out. + +And so Allison's new life began. She had not come to seek an easy time. +And as for quiet, if she had but known it, the noise and bustle and +boyish clamour, the pleasant confusion of coming and going about the +homely little manse, and the many claims upon her attention and patience +and care, were just what she needed to help her. Whether she knew it or +not, she set herself to her work with a will, and grew as content with +it, after a while, as she could have been anywhere at this time of her +life. + +Mr Hume belonged to the little band of remarkable men, to whom, on +their first coming North, was given the name of "Missioners." Some +people say the name was given because these men were among the first to +advocate the scheme of sending missionaries to the heathen. Others say +they were so named because they themselves came, or were sent, to preach +the Gospel of Christ to those who were becoming content to hear what the +new-comers believed and declared to be "another Gospel." In course of +time the name given to the leaders fell also to those who followed--an +honourable name surely, but in those days it was spoken contemptuously +enough sometimes, by both the wise and the foolish, and Mr Hume, during +the first years of his ministry in Nethermuir, had his share of +contumely to meet or to ignore as well as the rest. + +But all that had been long past before Allison Bain came with her +spoiled life, and her heavy heart, to seek shelter under his roof. By +that time, to no minister--to no man in all the countryside--was a truer +respect, a fuller confidence given, by those whose good word was of any +value. + +He had not been over-eager to win the good word of any one. The courage +and hopefulness of youth and an enthusiastic devotion to the work to +which he had been set apart, carried him happily through the first +troubled years, and when youthful courage and hopefulness had abated +somewhat, then natural patience, and strength daily renewed, stood him +in good stead. He loved his work not less, but more as time went on, +and it prospered in his hands. His flock was only "a little flock" +still; but the gathering in of these wanderers to the fold had given +him, as one by one they came, a taste of such perfect satisfaction, as +few of the great ones of the world--be they heroes or sages--have +claimed to be theirs, even in the moment of their highest triumphs. + +This kind of success and his satisfaction in it might not be appreciated +by those who looked on from the outside of his circle of influence; but +there was another kind, both of success and of satisfaction in it, which +they could appreciate, and at which they might well wonder. + +By means of the pennies and sixpences and shillings slowly gathered +among themselves, though few among them had many pennies to spare, and +with the help of occasional pounds, which by one hand and another found +their way into the treasury from abroad, first the kirk had been built +and then the manse. They were humble structures enough, but sufficient +for their purpose, and indeed admirable in all respects in the eyes of +those who had a part in them. + +Then out of a low stretch of barren clay, which was a slimy pool, with a +green, unhealthy margin for some months of the year, the minister had +made such a garden as few in the town could boast. The hawthorn hedge +around it, as well as every tree and bush in it, was planted by the +minister's own hand, or under his own eye. It might not have seemed a +very fine garden to some people. There were only common flowers and +fruits in it, and still more common vegetables; but the courage, the +skill, the patience which had made it out of nothing, must have been +appreciated anywhere. To the moderately intelligent and immoderately +critical community of Nethermuir, the visible facts of kirk and manse, +of glebe and garden, appealed more clearly and directly than did the +building up of "lively stones into a spiritual house," which was his +true work, or the flourishing of "trees of righteousness" in their +midst, which was his true joy. + +And, perhaps, this was not so much to be wondered at, considering all +things. For some of the "trees" looked to be little other than "crooked +sticks" to their eyes; and of some of the "stones" it might well be +said, that they "caused many to stumble." And since it was halting, and +shortcoming, and inconsistency that some of their critical neighbours +were looking for among "folk that set themselves up to be better than +their neebors," it is not surprising that it was these that they should +most readily see. + +Even the minister himself saw these things only too often. But then, he +saw more. He saw the frequent struggle and resistance, as well as the +rare yielding to temptation, and he saw also, sometimes, the soul's +humiliation, the repentance, the return. + +And even the "crooked sticks" were now and then acknowledged to be not +altogether without life. Saunners Crombie might be sour and dour and +crabbed whiles, readier with reproof and rebuke than with consolation or +the mantle of charity. But even Saunners, judged by deeds rather than +by words, did not altogether fall short of fruit-bearing, as many a poor +soul, to whose wants, both temporal and spiritual, he ministered in +secret, could gladly testify. + +And on many of the folk who had "ta'en up wi' the little kirk," a change +had passed, a change which might be questioned and cavilled at, but +which could not be denied. In more than one household, where strife and +discontent had once ruled, the fear of God and peace and good-will had +come to dwell. To another, long wretched with the poverty which comes +of ill-doing, and the neglect which follows hopeless struggle, had come +comfort, and at most times plenty, or contentment with little when +plenty failed. + +There were lads and lassies among them, of whom in former days, evil +things had been prophesied, who were now growing into men and women, +earnest, patient, aspiring--into such men and women as have made the +name of Scotland known and honoured in all lands. They were not spared +a sneer now and then. They were laughed at, or railed at, as "unco +gude," or as "prood, upsettin' creatures, with their meetings, and +classes, and library books," and the names which in the Scotch of that +time and place stood for "prig" and "prude," were freely bestowed upon +them. But, all the same, it could not be denied that they were not +"living to themselves," that they were doing their duty in all the +relations of life, and of some of them it was said that "they might be +heard o' yet" in wider spheres than their native town afforded. + +Neither could it be denied that some who had set out with them in life, +with far fairer promise than they, had "gaen the wrang gait," with an +ever-lessening chance of turning back again. And what made the +difference? + +Was it just the minister's personal influence teaching, guiding, +restraining, encouraging? Or was it that a change had really passed +upon them--the change in which, at least, the minister believed, and +which he preached--which, according to him, must pass on each man for +himself, before true safety or happiness, either in this world or the +next, could be assured--the change which can be wrought by the Power of +God alone? + +Converted! The word had long been a scoff on the lips of some in +Nethermuir, but even the scoffers had to confess that, to some of the +missioners at least, something had happened. + +There was Peter Gilchrist. If an entire change of heart, and mind, and +manner of life meant conversion, then Peter was converted. And that not +through the slow process of reading the Bible on the Sabbath-day, or by +learning the catechism, or by a decent attendance upon appointed +ordinances--not even "under the rod"--the chastising hand of Him who +smites the sinner for his good--which would have been reasonable enough. +It had happened to others. + +But Peter had been converted by one sermon, it was said, a sermon +preached at the house-end of Langbarns in the next parish. No great +sermon, either. At least many a one had heard it without heeding it. +But it had "done" for Peter. + +The very last thing that Peter had been thinking about was listening to +the sermon. He, with some of his chosen friends, had gone to the +meeting--held out of doors, because there was no other place in which to +hold it--for the help and encouragement of the constable, who, it was +said, had a warrant to seize and carry before a magistrate "the +missioner minister" for a breach of the law, in holding a preaching +meeting at Langbarns without the consent of the parish minister. The +presumption was that the sight of the constable, and the announcement of +his errand, would be enough to silence the minister and disperse the +meeting. But that did not follow. If he were to be meddled with, "it +should not be for nothing," the minister declared to a rather timid +friend and adviser. And his courage stood him in good stead. He gave +the folk assembled such a sermon as probably few of them had ever heard +before. The constable had not, he acknowledged, nor Peter; and the +worst of it--or the best of it--for Peter was, that having heard it, he +could not forget it. + +When the meeting was over, Mr Hume went silently and swiftly away with +the departing crowd, and he never would have been quite sure that +anything serious had been intended if he had not afterward had Peter's +word for it. + +Returning home from a similar meeting, held in another direction, a week +or two afterward, he was waylaid by that unhappy man, and in a rather +unexpected manner called to account for his sermon, and for the misery +it had caused. They went home to the manse together, and spent a good +part of the night in the minister's study, and more nights than one +before Peter "came to himself" and "went to his Father," and so was made +ready to begin a new life indeed. + +It _was_ a new life. There was no gainsaying that. He had been a +reckless character, a drunkard, a swearer, an ill husband and a worse +father, in the sight of all men. But from the day when at last he came +out of the minister's study with a face which shone, though there were +tears upon it, all that was over. + +For days and months his wife watched him and wondered, and rejoiced with +trembling, never sure how it all might end. His children, with +something of the dogged indifference with which in former days they had +come to bear the effects of his drunken anger, took the good of his +changed ways "while they lasted," they said to one another, hardly +daring to hope that they would last "for ay." + +But though he had had a stumble or two since then he had, on the whole, +during thirteen years walked warily and wisely, even in the unwilling +judgment of those who had watched for his halting. Even they were +compelled to allow that "to be converted" meant something to the +purpose, at least in the case of Peter Gilchrist. + +There were many besides him whose lives illustrated the power of the +Gospel as held forth by Mr Hume, and there were but a few in the place +who went beyond a grumble of dissent or disapproval of him and his +doings now. Even the most inveterate of the grumblers, or the most +captious of the fault-finders, could not withstand the persistent +friendliness which never resented an injury nor forgot a favour, and +which was as ready, it seemed, with a good turn for those who wished him +ill as for those who wished him well. + +According to some folk, the minister ought to have been "sour, and dour, +and ill-conditioned," considering the belief he held and the doctrines +he preached. These were the folk who never went to hear him. But even +they acknowledged that he was friendly and kindly, cheerful and +forbearing, even when vexation or indignation on his part might have +been excusable. And they also acknowledged that "he wasna a man who +keepit a calm sough, and slippet oot o' things just to save himself +trouble." He could be angry--and show it, too--where cruelty, or +dishonesty, or treachery came under his eye, or where blasphemous words +were uttered in his hearing. And there were two or three of the +evildoers of the place who had been made to feel the weight of his +words, and the weight of his hand also on occasion, and who were in the +way now of slipping down the lanes, rather than meet the minister in the +light of day. + +And he was "a weel learnt man," and fair in an argument, and willing to +look at all the sides of a subject. This was Weaver Sim's opinion of +the minister, and he was an oracle in a small way among his neighbours. + +"He has his ain notions and opinions, as is to be expectet o' the like +o' him. But he's a weel learnt man, and on the whole fair and liberal. +And whiles he has a twinkle in his e'e that tells that he sees some +things that ither folk canna see, and that he enjoys them." + +All this had been conceded during the early years of the minister's life +in Nethermuir. He had made his own place among the town's folk since +then, and so had his wife. It was a good place, and they were worthy of +it. And it is possible that, in all Scotland, poor Allison Bain could +have found no safer refuge than she was likely to find with them. + +She filled her place well--was indeed invaluable in it. But when weeks +and months had passed, her master and mistress knew nothing more of her +heart or her history than on the day when she first came among them. +But they had patience with her, and watched her with constant and kindly +oversight, and they trusted her entirely at last. + +"Her trust in us will come in time," said her mistress; "and in the +meanwhile I can only be thankful that she has been sent to us, both for +her sake and ours." + +It was indeed "a great relief and comfort" for Mrs Hume to know that a +wise head and capable hands were between her and many of her household +cares. For what with her husband, and her six sons, and her frail +little daughter, and the making, and mending, and thinking for them all, +her days were sometimes over-full. + +To the minister his wife was hands, and eyes, and sometimes head. She +had to keep her heart light and her face bright, and now and then she +had to "set it as a flint" for his sake. She had to entertain many a +wearisome visitor, and to listen to many a tale of care or trouble or +complaint, that the quiet of his study need not be broken in upon. She +stood between him and some vexations which he might have taken +seriously, and from which he might have suffered, but which yielded +under the influence of her smiles and soft words, or disappeared in the +presence of her indifference or her anger, as the case might be. + +She had slow, dull natures to stir up, and natures hard and crabbed to +soften and soothe, and in numberless other ways to hold up her husband's +hands, and maintain his honour in the little community to which he stood +as God's overseer. + +There were "puir bodies" in every street, into whose dim little rooms +the face of the minister's wife came like sunshine. She was a kind of +Providence to some of them, having made herself responsible to them for +cups of tea, or basins of soup, or jugs of milk in their time of need. +And for better help still. To the suffering and sorrowful she came with +words of comfort and consolation, and with words of chiding or of cheer +to the "thraward" and the erring, who had helped to make their own +trouble. She was mindful of all and kind to all as they had need and +she had power. + +She had other uses for her time also, duties and pleasures which she +could not neglect. A new book found its way to the manse sometimes, and +she had the _Evangelical Magazine_ to read--it would be thought dry +reading nowadays--and the weekly paper as well, for great interest was +taken in public affairs at that time. These books and papers were to be +thought over, and considered, and then discussed with her husband, and +sometimes with the two or three hard-handed farmers or artisans of their +flock, who had, under their teaching, learned to care for books, and +even for "poyms," and for all that the great world in the distance was +trying to say and to do. + +It was well for her that she had learned to do two things at once, or +even three,--that she could enjoy her book quite as well with her +knitting-needles glancing busily in her skilful fingers, and her foot on +her boy's cradle, and withal never forget to meet and answer the smile +of her patient little daughter, or by glance or word or touch to keep +her restless lads in order. + +Her brown eyes seldom looked troubled or weary, and her voice, though at +times imperative enough, never grew sharp or fretful. Her steps went +lightly up and down the stair, and through the streets of the town, and +her smile was like sunshine at home and abroad. + +And the help that Allison's willing and efficient service was to her +mistress cannot be told. It would have helped her more if the girl had +been happier in the giving of it. + +"But," said her hopeful mistress, "that will come in time." + + + +CHAPTER FOUR. + + "She crept a' day about the house + Slow fitted and heart-sair." + +Truly there was enough to do in the house. Allison's day began long +before the dawn of the winter morning, and ended when there was nothing +more to do, and night had come by that time. All was done deftly and +thoroughly, as even the faithful Kirstin had not always done it, but +silently and mechanically. She took no satisfaction, that her mistress +could see, in a difficult or tiresome piece of work well ended--in a +great washing or ironing got through in good time, or in a kitchen made +perfect in neatness. When the lads came home from school to put it all +in disorder, with bats and balls, and sticks and stones, she made no +remonstrance, but set to work to put it in order again. It made no +difference, her downcast face seemed to say. + +With the lads themselves--tiresome and vexatious often--she was, for the +most part, patient and forbearing, but it was not a loving patience, or +a considerate forbearance, as old Kirstin's had been. Kirstin had been +vexed often, and had sometimes complained of their thoughtlessness and +foolishness. But nothing seemed to make much difference to the silent +ruler of the kitchen. Everything but the work of the moment was allowed +to pass unheeded. + +The lads, cautioned by their father, and kept in mind by their mother, +did not often go beyond the bounds of reasonable liberty in the use they +made of her domain. When they did so, a sharp word, like a sudden shot, +brought them to their proper place again and set matters right between +them. The lads bore no malice. They never complained to their mother +at such times, and if they had, she would have paid little attention to +such complaints. That "laddies must be kept in order," she very well +knew. + +And thus the early weeks of winter passed, doing for Allison some of the +good which work well done is sure to do for the heavy-hearted. But the +good which the busy days wrought, the nights, for a time, seemed to +destroy. + +In the long evenings, when Marjorie and the younger brothers were +asleep, and the elder lads were at their books, there came a time of +quiet to all the house, when Allison had the kitchen to herself and she +could sit in silence, undisturbed, but not at rest. Then her trouble +came back upon her, and night after night she sat gazing into the fire +till it fell into red embers, and then into grey ashes, thinking of the +painful days of the year now drawing to a close. And, poor soul! the +anguish of pain and shame which, months ago, had touched her and hers, +was as sharp and "ill to bide" as when the blow had fallen. Nay, in a +sense it was worse. For in the first amazement of a sudden shock, the +coming anguish seems impossible, and the natural resistance of the soul +against it gives a sort of courage for the time. + +But with Allison, the fear had changed to certainty. Trouble had fallen +on her and hers, and had darkened for her all the past and all the +future, she believed, for as yet time had not lightened the darkness. + +It was not that she was thinking about all this. She was living it all +over. She saw again the home she had left forever--the low house, with +the sunshine on it, or the dull mist and the rain. A vision of a +beautiful, beloved face, drawn with terror, or fierce with anger, was +ever before her. Or a grey head moving restlessly on its last pillow--a +face with the shadow of death upon it, and of an anguish worse than +death. In her ears was a voice uttering last words, with long, sobbing +sighs between. + +"O! Willie, Willie!" the broken voice says. "Where are ye, Willie? +Mind, Allison, ye hae promised--to watch for his soul as ane that maun +gie account. And the Lord deal--wi' you, as--ye shall deal wi' Him." + +And in her heart she answers: + +"Father, be at peace about him. I'll be more mindfu' o' him than the +Lord himself has been." + +She sees the anguish in the dying eyes give place to darkness, and +sitting there by the grey ashes on the hearth, cries out in her despair. +Thus it has been with her since her father was laid in the grave, and +the prison-doors shut upon her only brother. Their faces are ever +before her, their voices in her ears. + +She cares for nothing in the wide world at such times. She does not +even care for herself, or her own life, though a shadow dark and dread +lies on it. If her life could come to an end, that Would be best, she +thinks. But it must not come to an end yet. Oh! if she and Willie +could die together, or get away anywhere and be forgotten. If they +could only pass out of all men's minds, as though they had never been! +But all such thoughts are foolish, she tells herself. Nothing in their +lives can be changed, nor mended, nor forgotten. + +And having got thus far, it all begins again, and she lives over the +happy days when, bairns together, they played among the heather, or +followed the sheep on the hills; when their father was like God to them, +ay loving them, and being kind to them; but not ay seeming just so +mindful of them as their mother was. Their mother was ill whiles, and +took less heed of things, and needed much done for her, but they loved +their mother best. At least they never feared her, as they sometimes +feared their father, who yet loved them both--Willie best, as did all +who ever saw his face. + +And thus on through all the weary way, her thoughts would travel through +days of still content, through doubt, and fear, and anguish, to the end, +only to begin again. + +If Dr Fleming had known what good reason there was for the fears which +he had unconsciously betrayed to the minister, he would hardly have +ventured to send Allison Bain to the house of his friend. But he could +have done nothing better for her. A change was what she needed-- +something to take her out of herself, to make her forget, even for a +little while, now and then, what the last year had brought her. With +new scenes and faces around her, new duties and interests to fill up her +time and thoughts, she had the best chance of recovering from the +strokes which had fallen upon her, and of "coming to herself" again. + +For nothing had happened to her that is not happening to some one every +day of the year. Sin and sorrow and terrible suffering had touched her +and hers. One had sinned, all had suffered, and she was left alone to +bear the burden of her changed life, and she must bear it for her +brother's sake. And she had no refuge. + +For her faith in God had been no stronger than her faith in her brother, +and her brother had failed her. And God had not put out a hand to help +him--to save him from his sin and its consequences, and nothing could be +changed now. + +Yet the first months of winter did something for her, though her +mistress hardly discovered it, and though she did not know it herself. +Her day's work tired her in a natural, healthy way, so that after a time +her sleep at night was unbroken, and she had less time for the +indulgence of unhappy thoughts. But she did not, for a good while after +three months were over, take much conscious pleasure in anything that +was happening around her. + +She had much to do. The short days of winter were made long to her. +For hours before the slow coming dawn she was going softly about the +kitchen in the darkness, which the oil-lamp that hung high above the +hearth hardly dispelled. When she had done what could be done at that +hour within the house, there was something to do outside. For cripple +Sandy, whose duty it was to care for the creatures, did not hurry +himself in the winter mornings; and Allison, who knew their wants and +their ways, and who all her life had had to do with the gentle creatures +at home, would not let them suffer from neglect. By the dim light of +the lantern hung from the roof, she milked the cows and fed them, and +let in the welcome light upon the cocks and hens; and went to all +corners of the place, seeing at a glance where a touch of her hand was +needed. And she was conscious of a certain pleasure in it after a time. + +Then there was the house "to redd up," and the porridge to make, for the +elder lads had to set out early to their school, and their breakfast +must be over when their father came down to have worship before they +went away. Then came the parlour breakfast, and then the things were to +be put away, and dinner-time was at hand, and so on till the day was +over. Truly there was enough to do, washing and ironing, cleaning and +cooking, coming and going--the constant woman's work which is never +done. + +As for the cooking, there was no time for the making of dainty dishes in +the manse, even if there had been no better reason for dispensing with +them. Oatmeal was the staple of the house, of course--the food which +has made bone and muscle for so many who stand in high places on both +sides of the sea. There was the invariable porridge in the morning, +supplemented by the equally invariable cakes. Not the sweet morsels +which the name may suggest to some folk--but, broad discs of meal and +water, cut into quarters for the sake of convenience, and baked on a +griddle--solid but wholesome. + +There was a variety of them. There were soft cakes, and crisp cakes, +and thick bannocks, and sometimes there were "scones" of barley-meal. +The "loaf-bread" came from the baker's; so did the rare buns and baps, +and the rarer short-bread for great and special occasions. Beef and +mutton were not for everyday use. They had fowls and they had fish of +the best, for in those days the London market did not devour all that +the sea produced, and the fishwives tramped inland many miles, with +their creels on their backs, glad to sell their fish to the country +folk. They had soup often, and always potatoes and some other +vegetables; but milk and oatmeal, prepared in various ways, was the +principal food for the bairns of the manse, and for all other bairns as +well. + +Were they to be commiserated, the lads and lassies, who in manse and +farmhouse and cottage had to content themselves with such simple, +unvarying fare? They did not think so, for except in books, they knew +nothing of any other way of life. I do not think so, because I have +seen other ways and their results. Besides, luxury is a comparative +term, like wealth, or a competence; and the occasional slice of +loaf-bread, with jelly or even treacle on it, probably gave greater +satisfaction to the children of that country, and that time, than the +unlimited indulgence in cakes and pastry, or creams and ices can give to +the experienced young people of the present day, in some other +countries, who, taking the usual comprehensive survey of the luxuries +prepared for the frequenters of city hotels or watering-places, are +sometimes obliged to confess themselves "disappointed in the fare!" + +One thing is sure, plain food made strong men and women of most of them; +and no lingering dyspepsia of childhood spoiled the pleasure of those of +them who won their way to the right to live as they pleased in +after-life. + +During Allison's reign in the manse kitchen, the bairns were +exceptionally fortunate in their daily fare. For though she seemed to +go about in a maze, like the man in the ballad, as Robin said, "whose +thoughts were other-where," she never burned the porridge, nor singed +the broth, nor put off the weekly baking of "cakes," till they were +obliged to content themselves, now and then, with less than the usual +portion. + +It was wonderful how well the work was done, considering how little her +heart seemed to be in the doing of it, her mistress sometimes thought. +She would have been better pleased had an opening been left now and then +for the "putting in mind," which had been necessary sometimes, even in +the case of the much-valued Kirstin. She would have liked to see +whether a sharp word or two would have moved the silent Allison for a +moment out of the dull, mechanical performance of her duty. + +Praise did not do it, and she had been lavish of praise at first. +Allison heard it, as she heard all else, without heeding, as though +doing well were a matter of course, needing no words about it. She did +not respond, by ever so little, to her mistress' kindly attempts to make +friends, till something else had moved her. + +The tact and patience of her mistress in dealing with her were helped by +the belief which gradually came to her, that this silent withdrawal of +herself from all approaches of kindliness or sympathy was hardly +voluntary on Allison's part. It was not so much that she refused help +as that she had ceased to expect it. Under some terrible strain of +circumstances her courage had been broken, and her hope. She was like +one who believed that for her, help was impossible. + +Of course she was wrong in this, her mistress thought. She was young +and time brings healing. If her trouble had come through death, healing +would come soon. If it were a living sorrow, there might still be more +to suffer; but her strong spirit would rise above it at last--of that +she was sure. + +All this she had said to the minister one night. He listened in silence +a while, then he said: + +"And what if sin, or the love of it, makes her trouble? There are some +things which cannot be outlived." + +"Tell me what trouble touches any of us with which sin--our own, or that +of other folk--has not to do. Yes, there has been sin where there is +suffering such as hers, but I cannot think that she has been the sinner. +Allison is an honest woman, pure and true, or my judgment is at fault. +It is the sin of some one else which has brought such gloom and +solitariness upon her. Whether she is a real Christian, getting all the +good of it, is another matter. I have my doubts." + +All this time the minister's "new lass" had not been overlooked by those +who worshipped in the little kirk, nor by some who did not. The usual +advances had been made toward acquaintance--friendly, curious, or +condescending, as the case might be, but no one had made much progress +with the stranger. Her response to each and all alike was always +perfectly civil, but always also of the briefest, and on a second +meeting the advances had to be made all over again. + +When business or pleasure brought any of the cottage wives to the manse +kitchen, as happened frequently, their "gude-day t'ye" was always +promptly and quietly answered, but it never got much beyond that with +any of them. Allison went about her work in the house or out of it, and +"heeded them as little as the stools they sat on," some of them said, +and their husbands and brothers could say no more. + +When she was discussed, as of course she was at all suitable times and +occasions, the reports which were given of her were curiously alike. +Friendliness, curiosity, condescension--the one had sped no better than +the other. The next-door neighbours to the manse had no more to tell +than the rest. There was no lingering at the kitchen-door, or at the +mouth of the close in the long gloaming, as there used to be in +Kirstin's time. + +"Ceevil! ay, if ye can ca' it civeelity. She maistly just says naething +and gaes by as gin she didna see ye," said the weaver's wife. + +"For my pairt, I hae nae feast o' sic civeelity," said Mrs Coats from +the other side of the street. "I should like to ken mair aboot her ere +I hae muckle to say to her." + +"It winna trouble her though you sae naething," said the weaver. "She's +valued in the manse, that's weel seen." + +"Ay, she is that," said his wife. "I never thought they would soon get +one to step so readily into auld Kirstin's shoon. She gets through far +mair than ever Kirstin did in the course of the day, and the hoose is +like a new preen (pin)." + +"I daursay. New besoms sweep clean," said Mrs Coats with a sniff. + +"There's a differ in besoms, however, be they auld or new," said the +weaver. + +"She's the kin' o' lass to please the men it seems. We'll need to keep +a calm sough the lave o' us," said Mrs Coats. + +"It's ay safe to keep a calm sough," said the weaver. "Gin she suits +the minister's wife that's the chief thing. The warst we ken o' her yet +is that she's no' heedin' ony o' us, and she micht hae waur fauts." + +"That may be. But something must ail a young lass like yon when she is +sae slow to open her lips, and goes by a body--even a young lad, as gin +there was naebody there." + +"That's her loss," said the weaver with a laugh. + +That she went about "without heeding" was a more serious matter in the +case of the new lass than might at first be supposed. If she had not +lived at the manse, which was so much frequented by all sorts of people, +or if she had been plain, or crooked, or even little, it would have +mattered less that she was so preoccupied and so difficult to approach. + +Fewer people, in that case, might have noticed her. As it was, many +eyes were on her when she went down the street with her water-buckets, +or sat in the kirk in a dream. She would have been called a beautiful +woman anywhere. In the street of this dull little town, where men had +eyes as well as in larger places, it was not surprising that she should +be watched and wondered at. + +Her face was beautiful, but it wanted the colour and brightness which +made "a bonny face" to the eyes of most of the folk of Nethermuir. It +was thin and sallow when she first came there, and the gloom upon it, +and "the dazed look" which came when she was suddenly spoken to, did +much to mar and shadow its beauty. And so did the great mutch, with its +double "set-up" border of thick muslin, which was tied close around it, +covering the ears, and the round throat, and hiding all the beautiful +hair, which after the fever was beginning to grow again. But nothing +could disguise the firm, erect form, which might have been thought too +tall, perhaps, if it had not been round and full in proportion; and the +short gown confined at the waist by the long strings of her apron, and +the rather scant petticoat of dark winsey that fell beneath it, are not +such unbecoming garments as might be supposed by those accustomed to +garments of a more elaborate fashion. + +Her strength was quite as highly appreciated by the stooping weavers and +shoemakers of Nethermuir as was her beauty, and the evidences which she +unconsciously gave of it were much admired and often recounted among +them. When "Auld Maggie" fell on the slide which the town laddies had +made in the street, and tailor Coats ran to get some one to help to +carry her home, "the minister's lass" lifted her in her arms, and had +her in her bed with a hot-water bottle at her feet before he came back +again. And while every other woman in the street needed to take at +least one rest, at a neighbour's door, between the pump and her own, +"the minister's lass," turning neither head nor eye, moved on without a +pause, till she disappeared round the close that led to her +kitchen-door. + +"And, for that matter, except for the way her face is turned, ye wud +never ken whether her buckets were fou or toom" (full or empty), said an +admiring observer, as he watched her steady and rapid steps along the +street. + +So poor Allison, for one reason and another, could not be overlooked. +Her name--or rather the name which her place gave her--"the minister's +lass," was on many lips for a time. Absolutely nothing was known about +her except what the kindly and guarded letter of Dr Fleming had +conveyed; yet much was supposed and said concerning her, and some things +were repeated till they were believed, which she might have resented had +she heard of them. They might have angered her, and so have helped to +shake her out of the heaviness and dulness that had fallen upon her. +But she "never heeded." She saw neither the hand which was held out to +her in friendliness nor the face that turned away in indifference or +anger. + +And perhaps, on the whole, it was as well that she heeded nothing. For +as weeks and months passed on, and other folk came or went, and new +events--which would have hardly deserved the name elsewhere--happened to +give subject-matter for discussion at proper times and places, Allison +became just "the minister's lass," tolerated, if not altogether +approved, among the censors of morals and manners in the town, and she +still went her way, for the most part, unconscious of them all. + + + +CHAPTER FIVE. + +"He wales a portion with judicious care, And `Let us worship God,' he +says with solemn air." + +In the minister's home on Sabbath morning, the custom was for the two +eldest lads to take turns with the "lass" in keeping the house, while +all the rest, except Marjorie and the two youngest, went to the kirk. +It cannot be said that this was felt to be a hardship by the lads-- +rather the contrary, I am afraid--when the weather and the season of the +year permitted them to spend the time in the garden, or when a new book, +not in the "Index expurgatorious" of Sabbath reading was at hand, or +even a beloved old one. + +Of course there were Sabbath-day tasks to learn. But the big boys were +by this time as familiar with the catechism as with the multiplication +table, and a psalm, or a paraphrase, or a chapter in the New Testament, +hardly was accounted by them as a task. Frequent reading, and constant +hearing at family worship, and at the school, had made the words of many +parts of the book so familiar to them that only a glance was needed to +make them sure of their ground. It needed, perhaps, a second glance if +another repetition was suddenly required. It was "licht come, licht go" +with them--easily learned, easily forgotten--in the way of tasks. But +in another way it was not so. The Word thus learned "in the house and +by the way," and so associated with all else which their young, glad +lives held, could never be quite forgotten; nay more, could never--in +theory and opinion at least--cease to be authoritative as the law by +which, wherever they might wander, their steps were to be guided. But +the chief thing to them at present was, that even with "tasks" to learn, +there was still time to enjoy their books. + +The lads had the firmest belief in their father's power as a preacher. +But it must be remembered that those were the days when a full two hours +were not considered, either by preacher or hearers, too long to give to +a discourse. And the minister's sons were expected so to listen that +they should be able to give to their mother, at evening worship, all the +"heads and particulars"--and they were usually many--and a good deal +besides of the sermon. In those circumstances it is not surprising that +their turn in the summer garden, or even at the kitchen fireside, should +sometimes be preferred to going to the kirk. + +So when it began to be noticed that Allison quietly made her +arrangements to be in the house every second Sabbath, instead of every +third, as would have been fair, Robin remonstrated. + +"It's my turn at home to-day, Allie. No, Maysie, you mustna grumble. +It's but fair that Allie should have her turn at the kirk as weel as the +rest of us. You must just content yourself with me. I'm to bide +to-day." + +"I'm no' carin' to go to the kirk to-day," said Allison. + +"But that's no' the question. I'm carin' to bide at home," and as his +mother had already gone, and no appeal could be made to her, bide he +did, and so did Allison. + +When this had happened two or three times, it was considered necessary +to take notice of it, and Mrs Hume did so, telling her, quietly but +firmly, how necessary it was that the minister's household should set a +good example in the place. And, beyond that, she sought to make it +clear that it was the duty of all to avail themselves of the privilege +of worshipping with God's people on His day, in His house. If Allison-- +being the daughter of one who had been in his lifetime an elder in the +established kirk, as Dr Fleming had informed them--had any doubts of +the propriety of worshipping with dissenters, that was another matter. +But she should go to her own kirk, if she could not take pleasure in +coming to theirs. + +"It's a' ane to me," said Allison. + +But on the next fine Sabbath morning she availed herself of the +permission, and took her way to the parish kirk. She would like the +walk, at any rate, she told herself, and she did enjoy the walk down the +lanes, in her own sad fashion; but the lanes took her out of the way a +little, and made her late. + +That night, at worship-time, when Allison's turn came to be questioned +as to what she had heard at the kirk, she could tell the text. But she +did not tell that she had learned it by overhearing it repeated by an +old man to his neighbour, as they came after her up the road. Nor did +she tell that, being late at the kirk door, and shrinking from the +thought of going in alone among so many strange folk, she had passed the +time occupied by the preaching sitting on a broken headstone in the +kirkyard. + +She never went there again. It was truly "a' ane" to one whose mind, +the moment her hands and her head were no longer occupied with the round +of daily work, went back to brood over the days and joys that could +never return, or over the sorrow which could never be outlived. + +"I see no difference. It's a' ane to me," repeated she when Mrs Hume, +not wishing to seem to influence her against her will, again suggested +that, if she preferred it, she should go to the kirk. + +"Difference!" There was all the difference between truth only dimly +perceived and truth clearly uttered, in what she would be likely to hear +in the two kirks, in the opinion of the minister's wife. And if that +might be not altogether a charitable judgment, it might at least be said +that it would be but a cold exposition of the Gospel that old Mr Geddes +would be likely to give, either in the pulpit or out of it. But she did +not enter into the discussion of the matter with Allison. She was well +pleased that she should decide the matter for herself. + +"For though she sits in the kirk like a person in a dream, surely some +true, good word will reach her heart after a time," said her kindly +mistress. She had a good while to wait before it came to that with +Allison. But it came at last. + +"Allison," said Mrs Hume, coming into the kitchen one afternoon, "we'll +do without the scones at tea to-night, in case the baking them should +make you late with other things. You mind you did not get to the +meeting at all last time, and the minister wishes all his own family to +be present when it is possible." + +Allison raised herself up from the work which was occupying her at the +moment, and for once gave her mistress a long look out of her sad brown +eyes. + +"It was not that I hadna time. I wasna carin'." + +"I am sorry to hear you say that. The meetings are a means of grace +which have been blessed to many; and though there may be some things +said now and then which--are not just for edification, yet--" + +Allison shook her head. + +"I didna hear them. I mean I wasna heedin'." + +"Well, I will not say that my own attention does not wander sometimes. +Some things are more important than others," said the minister's wife, a +name or two passing through her mind, which it would not have been wise +to utter even to the silent Allison; "but," added she, "we can all join +in the Psalms and in the prayers." + +Allison's answer was a slow movement of her head from side to side, and +a look sadder than words. A pang of sympathy smote through the soft +heart of her mistress. + +"Allie," said she, laying her hand on her arm, "you pray also?" + +"Lang syne--I used to pray--maybe. I'm no' sure." + +She had left her work and was standing erect, with her hands, loosely +clasped, hanging down before her. Her eyes, with the same hopeless look +in them, were turned toward the window, through which the relenting sun +was sending one bright gleam before he went away, after a day of mist +and rain. + +"I do not understand you, Allison," said Mrs Hume. + +"It could not have been right prayer, ye ken, since it wasna answered." + +"But the answer may be to come yet. It may come in God's way, not in +yours." + +"Can the dead live again?" said Allison with dilating eyes. + +"Surely, they will live again. Is it your father, Allie? or your +mother? They served the Lord, you said yourself, and they are now in +His presence. Death is not a dreadful thing to come to such as they, +that you should grudge it." + +Allison had sunk down on a low stool, and laid her face on her arm, but +she raised it now as she answered: + +"But they didna just die. They were killed. Their hearts were broken +by the one they loved best in the world. _That_ cannot be changed. +Even the Lord himself cannot blot out that and make it as if it had +never been." + +"The Lord himself! Was there sin in it, Allie? But do you not mind? +`The blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanseth us from all sin.' It _can_ +be blotted out. It is never too late for that." + +But Allison made no answer. Rising with a cry she turned and went out +without a word. + +Mrs Hume was greatly moved, wishing earnestly that she had not spoken. +If the minister had been in his study, she would have gone to him with +her trouble. But he was out. So she went into the parlour, where she +had only little Marjorie for company. She had not even Marjorie for the +moment, for the child had fallen asleep in her absence. As she thought +about it, she was not so sure that she had made a mistake, or that there +was anything to regret. Better to be moved to anguish by sorrowful +memories, or even by remorse, than to live on in the dull heaviness of +heart, which had been Allison's state since she came to them, she +thought at last, and she was sure of it when, after a little, the door +opened, and Allison said, without showing her face: + +"I think, mem, if ye please, I will hae time for the scones I promised +wee Marjorie." + +"Very well, Allison," said her mistress quietly and with a sudden +lightening of the heart, she bent down and kissed the lips of her little +sleeping daughter. She was greatly relieved. She could not bear the +thought that she had hurt that sore heart without having helped it by +ever so little. When the time came for the meeting, Allison was in her +place with the rest. + +The kirk, which could not be heated, and only with difficulty lighted, +was altogether too dismal a place for evening meetings in the +winter-time. So the usual sitting-room of the family was on one evening +of the week given up to the use of those who came to the prayer-meeting. +This brought some trouble both to the mistress and the maid, for the +furniture of the room had to be disarranged, and a good deal of it +carried into the bedroom beyond; and the carpet, which covered only the +middle of the room, had to be lifted and put aside till morning. + +The boys, or it might be some early meeting-goer, helped to move the +tables and the chairs, and to bring in the forms on which the folk were +to sit, and sometimes they carried them away again when the meeting was +over. All the rest fell on Allison. And truly, when morning came, the +floor and the whole place needed special care before it was made fit for +the occupation of the mother and Marjorie. + +But to do all that and more was not so hard for Allison as just to sit +still through the two hours during which the meeting lasted. It was at +such times, when she could not fill her hands and her thoughts with +other things, that her trouble, whatever it might be, came back upon +her, and her mistress saw the gloom and heaviness of heart fall on her +like a cloud. It was quite true, as she had said, at such times she +heard nothing of what was going on about her, because "she wasna +heedin'." But to-night she heeded. + +She had Marjorie on her lap for one thing, for the child's sleep had +rested her, and her mother had yielded to her entreaty to be allowed to +sit up to the meeting. Allison could not fall into her usual dull +brooding, with the soft little hand touching her cheek now and then, and +the hushed voice whispering a word in her ear. So for the first time +her attention was arrested by what was going on in the room, and some of +the folk got their first good look at her sad eyes that night. + +And if Allison had but known it, it was well worth her while both to +look and to listen. The minister was the leader of the meeting, but it +was open to all who had anything to say. + +It was something else besides a prayer-meeting on most nights. There +was usually a short exposition of some passage of Scripture by the +minister, and frequently a conversational turn was given to this part of +the exercise. The minister had "the knack" of putting questions +judiciously, to the great help and comfort of those who had something to +say, but who did not well know how to say it. And though it must be +acknowledged, as Mrs Hume had admitted to Allison, that there were now +and then things said which were not altogether for edification, on the +whole, this method, in the minister's hands, answered well. It kept up +the interest of the meeting to some who would hardly have cared to +listen to a sermon out of the kirk, or on a week night. A few who were +only occasional hearers on the Sabbath liked these informal discussions +of precept and doctrine, as they would have liked the discussion of any +other matter, for the mere intellectual pleasure to be enjoyed, and, as +may be supposed, opportunities for this kind of enjoyment did not often +occur in Nethermuir. + +And there were a few men of another stamp among them--men to whom Mr +Hume and "his new doctrines," as they were called, had come, as sunlight +comes into a day of darkness. Even in that time which was already +passing away when these men were children, the time which its friends +have called "the dark days of the kirk of Scotland," the Bible had been +read and reverenced in all well-ordered households, and it was as true +then as in the day when our Lord himself had said it: "The words which I +speak unto you, they are spirit and they are life." And so, through +much reading of the Word, had come a sense of sinfulness and ill-desert +which a vain striving to work out a righteousness for themselves could +not quiet or banish, a longing for pardon from Him whom they had +offended, and for a sense of acceptance and friendship with Him who had +promised to save. + +With regard to all this, it was but "an uncertain sound" which was +uttered by the greater number of the teachers of the day; and so when +men like Mr Hume came preaching a free and full salvation through Jesus +Christ, not only from the consequences of sin, but from the power and +the love of it, there were many through all the land who "heard the word +gladly." + +There were some in Nethermuir who had heard and heeded, and found the +peace they sought, and who showed by their new lives that a real change +had been wrought in them. These were the men who rejoiced the +minister's heart and strengthened his hands both in the meeting and +elsewhere; and though some of them were slow of speech, and not so ready +with their word as others who spoke to less purpose, yet it was from +them that the tone of the meeting was taken. + +It cannot be said that this privilege of speech was often abused. As +for the sisters, they rarely went beyond a question, or a token of +assent or approval, given in one word, when something which recommended +itself to their taste and judgment had been well said. Mr Hume refused +to acknowledge that he did not sufficiently encourage them to do their +part for mutual edification in the semi-privacy of these meetings in the +manse parlour, and he did acknowledge that two or three whom he could +name among them had all the right which a high intelligence, deep +spirituality, and sound common sense could give, to lift their voices +when the right time came, to "reprove, rebuke, exhort, with all +long-suffering and doctrine." But his observation had taught him that +these qualifications did not make a woman more ready or willing, but +rather less, to put in her word at such times. + +The teaching of the kirk by law established had been in past years vague +and indefinite enough on several points of importance, it was truly +said. But in the pulpit and out of it, on one point it had been full, +clear, and definite. A man must rule (well) his own household. "The +husband is the head of the wife," who is not suffered "to usurp +authority over the man," but who is to listen in silence, being "the +weaker vessel"--and so on. + +All this had been taught by word and deed for many a year and day--not +always, it was to be feared, in the way or in the spirit that Saint Paul +would have approved. But it was still true that the best women and the +wisest had best learned the lesson. So when the "missioners" came with +new light on the matter--no longer insisting upon silence where a few of +the brethren and sisters were met to edify one another--it was not, as +the minister said, those who were best fitted for it who were the +readiest to claim the right or the privilege, whichever it might be +called; and as for him, he was not urgent about the matter, either to +encourage or restrain. + +The brethren, as a rule, were ready enough to fill up the time with +exhortation or discussion, and might have been in danger sometimes of +becoming too eager and energetic in their utterances if Mr Hume had +not, with equal gentleness and firmness, exercised his right to rule +among them. To-night the folk had their Testaments open at one of the +chapters of Galatians, and when Allison's attention was first caught, +the word was being passed backward and forward between Peter Gilchrist, +one of the staunchest supporters of the little kirk, and old Saunners +Crombie, staunch, too, in his way. Peter had grown both in knowledge +and in grace since the day when he had become a friend of the minister, +and he could take his part with the rest. He had "grown mair in gress +than in knowledge, if sic a thing were possible," his friendly opponent, +Saunners, declared. + +And in Saunners' sense it was perhaps true. For "hair-splitting" and +the art of finding and formulating distinctions where no real difference +exists, to be learned well, must be learned young, and Peter's +simplicity and common sense, which did him good service at other times, +were rather apt to be at fault when "tackled by auld Saunners and his +meta_pheesics_." + +The subject under discussion to-night was the "old law" (la, like the +sixth musical note), and its relation to the life and duty of those who +had the privilege of living under the new dispensation of grace, and it +had fallen, for the most part, to these two to discuss it. The +minister's turn would come next; but in the meantime auld Saunners, with +his elbows on his knees, and his Bible held faraway from his too +youthful horn spectacles, laid down the law in a high, monotonous voice, +never for a moment suffering himself to be disturbed by the frequent but +timid interruptions of Peter, till his own say should be said. Peter +fidgeted on his seat and appealed to the minister with his eyes. But +the minister only smiled and nodded and bided his time. + +How earnest they were, Allie thought. It was a great matter to them, +apparently. Yes, and to the rest as well. For all the folk were +looking and listening, and some nodded an approval of the sentiments of +one, and some of the other. Even Robert sat with a smile on his face +and his eye on the speakers, as though he were enjoying it all--as +indeed he was--and waiting till a few words from his father should +reconcile common sense and metaphysics again. + +What did it all mean? And what did it matter what it might mean? And +where was the use of so many words about it? Allison looked from one +face to another in amaze. Then Marjorie's little hand touched her +cheek. + +"Which side do you take, Allie?" said she softly. + +But Allie shook her head, and the ghost of a smile parted her lips for +an instant. + +"I ken naething about it," said she. + +"Well, I'm no' just sure about it myself to-night. But wait you, till +my father takes them in hand. He'll put them both right and bring them +to see the same way. At least they'll say nae mair about it _this_ +time," said Marjorie, and then she added gravely, a little anxious +because of her friend's indifference. "It's very important, Allie, if +we could understand it all." + +"Oh! ay, I daur say," said Allie with a sigh, coming back to her own sad +thoughts again. + +But the gloom had lightened a little, Mrs Hume thought, for she had not +lost one of the changes on Allison's face, as she looked and listened, +nor the smile, nor the doubtful lock with which she had answered the +child. + + + +CHAPTER SIX. + + "Do thy duty, that is best, + Leave unto the Lord the rest." + +That year there was through all the North an open winter, and the "green +yule," which is said to make "a full kirkyard." The weather was mild +and moist, with heavy fogs in the morning, which sometimes stayed all +day, and all night as well. There was serious illness in many houses, +and much discomfort in others, even where there was not danger. + +Poor old folk who had sat by the door, or "daundered" about the streets +and lanes in comfort during the summertime, now sat coughing and +wheezing in the chimney-corner, or went, bowed and stiff, about the work +which must not be neglected, though pain made movement difficult. Some +who had lingered beyond the usual term of life "dropped away," and their +place knew them no more. And death, the Reaper, not content with the +"bearded grain," gathered a flower or two as well. + +Measles came first among the bairns, and whooping-cough followed, and +Mrs Hume would have liked to wrap up her little daughter and carry her +away from the danger which threatened her. For, that the child should +escape these troubles, or live through them, the mother, usually +cheerful and hopeful in such times, could not believe. "And her +father!" thought she, with a sinking heart, while the father was saying +to himself, "Alas for her poor mother;" and out of all their anxious +thoughts, nothing better could come than this; "We must submit to God's +will, whatever it may be." + +As for wrapping her up and carrying her away, that was out of the +question. If it had been summertime they might have sent her to a +friend of theirs, who would have cared for the child tenderly and +faithfully. But on the whole it seemed wiser to keep her at home. + +"We must just leave her in God's hand," they said to one another, and +they did so entirely. Mrs Hume was kept away from no sick or suffering +household by the thought of possible danger to her little daughter. +Many needed both help and comfort who could not come to the manse to +find them, and to them the minister and his wife went gladly. But the +strain of all she had to do told on Mrs Hume. She also had her turn of +illness, which kept her in the house for a while, and then a part of her +duties to the sick poor in the neighbourhood fell to Allison. + +"It is not always that the Lord lets us see at once the good which He +has promised to bring out of what seems to be evil to us; but He has +done so this time," said Mrs Hume, after a little. + +For what she had lost in being laid aside from helping others, Allison +had gained in taking her place. It was at some cost to herself, because +of her shyness, and because of other folk's curiosity, not always kept +within bounds when a chance to gratify it came in the way. But on the +whole she held her own among the neighbours, whom she had kept at +arm's-length so long, and won the good opinion of many, and their good +words also, which were, however, oftener spoken behind her back than +before her face, because she would not stay to listen. Her way was to +bring the medicine, or the broth, or the jug of tea, and set it down +without a word, and then go at once, if there was no more needed from +her. But occasionally she put her strong, expert hands to the doing of +some good turn--the firm and gentle lifting of some weary, pain-worn +creature, while the bed was put right, or to the setting in order of the +confusion which soon befalls in a sickroom, where nurses are +unaccustomed, and have besides other cares to fill their time. + +Whatever she did was done in silence. No one in telling of the help she +gave, could tell a word that she had uttered beyond the message which +her mistress had sent. But though she had few words for any one, she +had many thoughts about other people's troubles, which helped her to +turn from the constant brooding over her own. So she got more good than +she gave, which is oftener the case with the doers of kindly deeds than +is always known. + +It was in this way that her acquaintance began with Mrs Beaton, who +lived in a house at the end of the street, close by the green. Allison +had sometimes seen her in the kirk, and had noticed her at first for no +better reason than that she wore a bonnet. Of course there were other +bonnets in the kirk--many of them. The times were changing for the +worse, it was thought, and even the servant-lassies were getting to wear +bonnets. But of the elderly women who came there, not many had so far +changed the fashion of their youth as to cover the white "mutch" with +anything but a handkerchief in the summertime, or with a shawl, or with +the hood of the mantle of scarlet or grey duffel, when the weather was +cold. + +Mrs Beaton wore a bonnet always at the kirk, and when she went to other +places, also, as if she had been used with it all her life. And she had +some other fashions, as well, which made her seem different from her +neighbours in Allison's eyes. She was small and fair, and over her grey +hair she wore a widow's cap which was not at all like the thick mutches +of the other women, and her shawls and gowns were of a texture and form +which told of better days long past. She "kept herself to herself," the +neighbours said, which meant that her door did not always stand open for +all comers, though she was neighbourly enough in other ways when there +was occasion. But though Allison had seen her, she had never spoken +with her till the night when the minister, hearing from one of the +neighbours that Mrs Beaton was but poorly, sent her over to inquire +about her. + +"Just go down and see if you can do anything for her. I cannot have +your mistress disturbed to-night. You will know what to do. Mrs +Beaton is not just like the rest of them, as you will see yourself." + +So, Allison went down the dark street, thinking a little about the sick +woman, but quite indifferent as to the welcome she might receive. The +house stood by itself, a little back from the road, and a wooden paling +enclosed a piece of garden ground before it. The gate yielded to her +hand, and so did the door. Allison felt her way to the inner door in +the dim light, and then she spoke: + +"I'm the minister's lass. Mistress Hume is no' weel, or she would have +come herself. Will I licht your lamp?" + +"Ay, might ye, if there is fire enough left," said a voice from the +darkness. + +The lamp was lighted, and holding it high above her head, Allison turned +toward the bed. Mrs Beaton raised herself up, and regarded her for a +moment. + +"And so you are wee Marjorie's bonny Allie! I am glad to see you." + +"You're not weel. The minister said I was to do what ye needed done." + +"It was kind of him to send you, and it is kind in you to come. I'm not +just very well. I was trying to settle myself for the night, since +there seemed nothing better to be done. Maybe ye might make my bed a +wee bit easier for me, if ye were to try." + +"I'll do that," said Allison. + +"Mrs Coats would have come in, I suppose; but her bairns are not well, +and she has enough to do. And Annie, the lassie that comes in to make +my fire and do other things, has gone to see her brother, who has just +come home from a long voyage. I'm more than glad to see you. It's +eerie being quite alone." + +"I'm glad I came. Will I make you some gruel or a cup of tea? When had +you your dinner?" + +"If you have the time to spare--" + +There was time enough. In a minute or two the fire was burning +brightly. Allison knew what to do, and where to find what was needed +without a question; and Mrs Beaton lay, following her movements with +great interest. + +"I was once young and strong like you," said she, with a sigh. + +Allison said nothing, but went on with the making of the gruel. + +"You have done that before," said Mrs Beaton. + +"Ay, many a time." + +She left the gruel to simmer by the fire, and taking the coverlid from +the bed, spread it over the arm-chair, then she lifted the sick woman as +if she had been a child, and placed her in it. Then she put a pillow +behind her, and wrapped her warmly round. + +"And you have done this before." + +Allison answered nothing. + +"Was it your mother, my dear?" said Mrs Beaton, laying her small, +wrinkled hand on hers. + +Allison turned toward her with startled eyes. + +"Yes, it was my mother," said she. + +"Ah! what a thing it must be to have a daughter!" went on Mrs Beaton; +and it was on her lips to ask if her mother were living still, but the +look on Allison's face arrested the words. There was silence between +them till Mrs Beaton was laid in her bed again. Allison washed the +dishes she had used, and put the room in order. Then she swept the +hearth and covered the fire, and then she said good-night. After she +had shut the door, she opened it again and said: + +"I might look in on you in the morning, but it would need to be early, +and I might disturb you." + +"You wouldna disturb me. But I doubt you would have ill leaving." + +"Oh! I can come, but I canna bide long." + +She went next day and for several days, and their friendship grew in a +silent way. And then Mrs Beaton was better, and the little lass who +came in the mornings to make the fire and do what else was to be done +returned, and Allison's visits ceased for a while. + +Indeed she had little time for anything but the work of the house, and +the care of the bairns as the winter wore on. The little boys and +Marjorie had their turn of the cough, but happily much less severely +than had been feared for them. Still there was enough to do for them, +and as their mother was not very strong, Allison took Marjorie in charge +by night as well as by day, and the child got bravely through it all. +Allison made a couch of her high kitchen-dresser, when it could be done +without interfering with the work of the moment, and Marjorie lay there +for hours among her pillows, as content as if she had been with her +mother in the parlour. + +It was good for the child to have such constant and loving care, and it +was good for Allison to give it. For many a word of childish wisdom did +she get to think about, and sometimes foolish words to smile at, and in +listening to Marjorie, and caring for her comfort at all times, she +forgot for a while to think of her own cares. + +In the long evenings, when the rain or the darkness prevented the usual +run, after the next day's lessons had been prepared, the elder boys used +to betake themselves to the kitchen fireside, and on most such nights +some of their companions found their way there also. Then there was +story-telling, or the singing of songs and ballads, or endless +discussions about all things under the sun. Now and then there was a +turn of rather rough play, but it never went very far, for the sound of +their father's step, or a glimpse of their mother's face at the door, +made all quiet again, at least for a time. + +They were rather rough lads some of those who came, but they were mostly +"laddies weel brocht up," and rarely was there a word uttered among them +which it would have harmed the youngest child to hear. There was Scotch +of the broadest in their songs and in their talk, and the manse boys, +who were expected to speak English in the presence of their father and +mother, among their companions made the most of their opportunities for +the use of their own more expressive tongue. But there was no vulgarity +or coarseness in their talk. + +As silent here as elsewhere, the presence of "the new lass," as the +visitors, long accustomed to old Kirstin, called her, did not interfere +in the least with the order of things. She might have been blind or +deaf for all the difference it made to them, and, except on the rare +occasions when little Marjorie was permitted to be there, for all the +difference their coming made to her. When Marjorie was there, Allison's +wheel, or the stocking she was knitting, was put aside, and the child +rested at ease and content in her arms. No one of them all took more +pleasure at such times than Marjorie. She liked the stories and the +songs and the quaint old ballads, of which Robin and some of the others +had a store, and she was a sympathetic little creature, and could not be +happy unless Allie enjoyed them also, so her attention was never allowed +to wander when the child's hand could touch her cheek. + +But better than either song or story, Marjorie liked to hear about all +that was going on in the town. Nothing came amiss to her that any one +had to tell. She liked to hear about their neighbours, and the bairns, +their goings and comings, their sickness and recovery. Even their new +gowns and their visits to one another interested the friendly little +child, who could not visit herself, nor wear new gowns, and the lad who +had the most to say about them all was the one who pleased her best. +All they used to tell her made her a little sad sometimes, for she could +not come and go, or run and play, as those happy children could, and her +chief desire was to be strong and well and "to go about on her own feet +like other folk." + +January was nearly over before there came any frost to speak of, and the +first bright, sharp weather, it was said, did much good to the sick folk +in the town. Then they had snow--not just a shower to excite first +expectation and then disappointment among the lads and lassies who +rejoiced in its coming, as they mostly delighted in any change that +came--but a heavy fall, and then a high wind which drifted it here and +there between the hills and made some of the roads impassable for the +time. Many of the lanes were filled full, and some of the folk had to +be dug out, because the snow had covered their doors. + +There was no end to the great balls which were rolled along the streets. +A strong fort was built on the square beside the pump, which was +fiercely attacked and bravely defended, and battles were fought through +all the streets before the snow was trodden into black slush beneath the +feet of the combatants. Even the dreaded "kink-hoast" (whooping-cough) +failed to keep some of the bolder spirits out of the fray, and those of +them who took the fun in moderation were none the worse, but rather the +better for the rally. + +But Marjorie saw none of this, and she longed to see it all; and though +she had been less ill with the cough than some of the others had been, +she lost ground now, refused her food, and grew fretful and listless as +Allison had never seen her before. + +It was hard for the eager little creature to listen quietly to all her +brothers had to tell of what was going on among the young folk of the +town. They boasted of Robin's strength and skill, and of Jack's +unequalled prowess when "snawba'ing" was the order of the day, and she +wanted to see it all. And she longed to see the rush of the full burn +and the whiteness of all the hills. Allison looked at her with a great +longing to comfort her, but what could she say? Even the mother thought +it wisest to listen in silence to the child's murmurs. + +"But it's no' just the snawba'ing and the white hills I am thinking +about, mother. This is the way it will ay be, all my life long. I must +just sit still and hear the sound of things, and never be in the midst +of them like other folk. All my life, mother! Think of it!" + +"My dear," said her mother gravely, "all your life may not be a very +long time." + +"But, mother, I would like it to be long. There is Robin going to be a +great scholar and astonish the whole world; and Jack is going in search +of adventures; and Davie's going to America to have a farm of a thousand +acres, all his own. And why should I have to stay here, and not even +see the snawba'ing, nor the full burn, nor the castle that the boys +made?" + +As a general thing Mrs Hume left her little daughter's "why" +unanswered, only trying to beguile her from such thoughts to the +enjoyment of what was left to her in her quiet life. To-day her heart +was sore for the child, knowing well that her lot would not seem more +easy to bear as the years went on. + +"My darling," said she, "it is God's will." + +"Yes, mother; but why should it be God's will just with me? Surely when +He can do _anything_, He might give me a chance with the rest. Or else +He should just make me content as I am." + +"And so He will, dear, in time. You must ask Him, and leave all in His +hand." + +"Oh! yes. I must just leave it. There is nothing else to do. As to +asking--I ay ask to be made strong, and to walk about on my ain feet. +And then--wouldna I just serve Him!" + +The last words were spoken to Allison, whose kind, sad eyes had been +resting on her all the time. And Allison answered: + +"But surely it may be His will that you should see the full burn and the +snawy braes, if it be your mother's will! A' the bairns are better +since the frost came, and I might carry wee Marjorie as far as the fit +o' the Wind Hill for a change." + +"Oh! mother! mother! Let me go. Allie carries me so strong and easy. +And I might have Mrs Esselmont's warm shawl round me, and the soft +little hat, and I would never feel the cold. Oh! mother! mother!" + +"I might at least take her to the end o' the lane; and if she should be +cauld, or weary, or if the cough came on, I could be hame with her in a +minute." + +Though only half convinced of the wisdom of such a plan, her mother +consented; and by and by the happy child, wrapped warmly, her pale face +looking very bright and sweet in the soft little hat, laid herself back +in Allison's arms with a sigh of content. + +"Yes, I'm going to heed what Robin says, and fall into raptures and +weary myself. I'm just going to be quiet and see it all, and then I +will have it all to think about afterward." + +The snow was all trodden down in the street through which they passed +first, to see the snow castle which the boys had made, and the castle +itself was a disappointment. It was "past its best," Allison said. It +was battered and bulging, and the walls had lost their whiteness; and +the snow about it was trampled and soiled, and little pools of dirty +water had collected at its base. But even "at its best," it must have +fallen far short of the beauty of the castle which the child's +imagination had built, as she lay in the dark, wishing so eagerly to be +like the rest. + +But the rush of the full burn did not disappoint her, nor the long level +fields, nor the hills beyond. The only blink of sunshine which came +that day rested on them as they crossed the foot-bridge and came into +the broken path which led to the farm of Wind Hill. A hedge bordered +the near fields, and a few trees rose up bare and black on the hillside; +and all the rest of the land, as far as they could see, lay in unsullied +whiteness. + +"A clean, clean world!" said Marjorie. "It looks like a strange +country. It's bonny; but I think I like the green grass best, and the +gowans." + +"Weel, ye may take a good look o' it this day, for it winna lie long +clean and white like this," said Allison, as a soft warm wind met them +as they turned. They went up and down where the snow lay lightest, and +then crossed the burn at the end of the green. + +"Are you sure ye're nae cauld?" said Allison. + +"That I am not. And, Allie, I havena given a cough since I came out." + +"But we'll need to gae hame now. If we dinna make your mother anxious +this time, she will be the readier to let us take another turn some fine +day." + +Marjorie's face fell for an instant. + +"No, Allie, I'm no' going to be fractious. But we might just look in +and ask for Mrs Beaton, as we are so near. And Robin says John is +coming home, and we might ask about it." + +But Allison shook her head. + +"We got no leave to go and see anybody. And if we take the street we'll +hae twa or three idle folk glowerin' an' speerin' this and that at us. +I like the bonny quiet lane best." + +Marjorie's shrill laugh rang out at that. + +"Are ye feared at the folk, Allie? They ay mean it for kindness. But I +like the lane, too. And maybe my mother will let us come and see Mrs +Beaton next time." + +The end of Mrs Beaton's house skirted the green, and so did the narrow +strip of garden which was behind it. The road home was as short the one +way as the other. If they crossed the green toward the right it took +them to the street, and if they turned the other way they took the path +behind the gardens, or rather the kail-yards of the houses on the +street. Before they entered this path they turned to take a last look +of the long, snowy slope of the hills with the sunshine on them. + +"The snow is pleasanter just to look at than to wade about in," said +Allison. + +"But, Allison, that is because ye dinna ken. O! I would like weel to +wade about in it, as the other bairns do." + +"O! I ken fine what it is like. I have been in far deeper snaw whiles, +following the sheep--" + +"Have ye, Allie? But ye dinna ken what it would be like never to have +put your foot in the snaw all your life. Think of that, Allie. But +never mind. Tell me about following the sheep through the drifts." + +But the shadow, which the child had learned to know, had fallen on +Allison's face, and she answered nothing. + +"Never mind, Allie dear, I'll tell you something. Do ye ken what that +little housie is? It has neither door nor window. There is a hole on +this side that is shut with a board. But it is a nice place. I have +been in it whiles. That is the place where John Beaton makes headstones +when he's no' away building houses on the other side of Aberdeen." + +"Do ye mean stanes for the kirkyard?" + +"Just that. He's a clever lad, John. He can do many things, Robin +says. He's Robin's friend." + +"It maun be dreary wark." + +"But that wouldna trouble John. He's strong and cheerful, and I like +him weel. He's wise, and he's kind. He tells me about folk that he has +seen, and places and things. And whiles he sings to me, and I like him +best after my father and mother and my brothers--and you," added +Marjorie, glancing up at Allison. "I'm no' sure which o' the two I like +best. I'll ken better when I see you together. Ye're the bonniest +far!" said the child, fondly patting the cheek, to which the soft wind +blowing upon it had brought a splendid colour. "Did Mrs Beaton never +tell you about `My John'?" + +"Oh! ay. But I dinna mind about it. I wasna heedin'." + +"But ye'll like him when ye see him," said Marjorie. + +The mother was watching for them when they reached home, and Robin was +there too. It was Robin who took the child from Allison and carried her +in. + +"Oh, mother! I have been over the burn, and I've seen the hills all +covered with snow and the sun shining on them, and it was beautiful. +And I'm not just so very tired. Are ye tired, Allie?" + +"What would tire me? I would like to carry ye ilka (every) day to the +top o' Win'hill. It might do ye good." + +Robin had never heard Allison say so many words at a time before. + +"It has done Allie good, at any rate," said he as he seated himself by +the parlour fire and began to take off his little sister's wraps. Then +he took off her shoes and stockings "to warm her bonny wee footies," as +he said. + +"Has it done her good? I'm glad o' that," said Marjorie, "for Allie has +had sore trouble, I'm nearly sure. She forgets me whiles, even when she +has me in her arms, and her face changes, and her een look as if she +were seein' things no' there." + +"My dear!" said her mother. "It might vex Allie for you to be watching +her face, and speaking about it, since she has never said a word about +her troubles to you." + +"Oh, mother! It is only to you and Robin. Do you think I would speak +about my Allie to other folk?" and the tears came into the child's eyes. + +"Now, Maysie," said her brother, "when ye begin to look like that, I ay +ken that ye're tired and likely to grow fractious and ill to do with. +So you must just lie still in my arms, and I'll sing ye to sleep. What +shall I sing? The _Lass o' Glenshee_? or _The Lord's my Shepherd_?" + +It was not long before the child was sleeping sweetly on her little +couch, nor did the flush which her mother so dreaded to see, and which +too often followed any unusual excitement, come to her cheeks as she +slept. She slept well at night also, and nothing could be clearer than +that the long walk had done her no harm, but good. + +So, a precedent being established, Marjorie had many a walk after that. + +Sometimes she was allowed to spend an hour with Mrs Beaton, or auld +Maggie, or some other friend, and at such times Allison would leave her +and return for her again. It cannot be said that her limbs grew much +stronger, or that the dull pain in the weary little back troubled her no +more. But the change gave her new thoughts and new interests, and +rested her when she grew weary of her doll, and her books, and of the +quiet of the parlour, and sometimes even of her mother's company. + +But when the days grew long and warm, there were even better things in +store for her, and for Allison also, through her tender care of the +child. + + + +CHAPTER SEVEN. + + "The spring cam' o'er the Westlin hill, + And the frost it fled awa', + And the green grass lookit smilin' up + Nane the waur for a' the snaw." + +The winter had been so long in coming and so moist and mild when it +came, that weatherwise folk foretold a spring late and cold as sure to +follow. But for once they were all mistaken. Whatever might come +later, there came, when April had fairly set in, several days which +would have done credit to June itself, and on one of these days the +schoolmistress made up her mind that she would go down to the manse and +speak to the minister's wife about the bairns. + +She was standing at her own door, looking out over the hills, which were +showing some signs of coming summer. So were the birch-trees in the +distance, and the one laburnum which stood in a corner of Mistress +Beaton's garden. She sighed as she gazed. + +"The simmer will soon be here, and it'll soon be over again. It's but a +blink noo," she said to herself, "but if the morn is like this day, +we'll mak' the best o' it. I'se hae the bairns up to the Stanin' +Stanes. The wind there will blaw awa' what's left o' the kink-hoast +among them. They'll be a' keen eneuch to get there for the sake o' the +ploy, and if they're weel eneuch for the like o' that, their mithers +will hardly hae the face to keep them langer frae the school. And it is +high time they were comin' back again," added she, thinking less, +perhaps, of their loss of lore than of the additional penny a week which +each returning one would bring to her limited housekeeping. + +She was a tall, gaunt woman, with a wrinkled, unhappy-looking face and +weary eyes. Her grey hair showed a little under the mob cap, closely +bound round her head with a broad, black ribbon, and her spectacles, +tied with a string for safety, rested high on her furrowed forehead. +She wore the usual petticoat of dark winsey, and her short gown of some +dark-striped print fell a little below the knee. A large cotton +kerchief was spread over her shoulders and fastened snugly across her +breast. Her garments were worn and faded, but perfectly neat and clean, +and she looked, as she was, a decent, but not very cheery old woman. +She had an uncertain temper, her friends allowed, and even those who +were not so friendly acknowledged that "her lang warstle wi' the bairns +o' twa generations, to say nothing of other troubles that had fallen to +her lot, might weel account for, and even excuse that." + +She turned into the house at last, and began gathering together the +dog-eared Bibles and Testaments, and the tattered catechisms, and +"Proverbs of Solomon," which were the only books approved or used in her +school, and placed them in a wooden tray by the door. She gave a brief +examination to the stockings which the lassies had been knitting in the +afternoon, muttering and shaking her head as she held them up to the +light. The mistakes in some of them she set right, and from some of +them she pulled out the "wires," sticking them into the balls of +worsted, with some anticipatory pleasure at the thought of the +consternation of the "careless hizzies" to whom they belonged. + +Then the forms were set back, and "the tawse," a firm belt of leather, +cut into strips at one end--by no means the least important of the +educational helps of the time and place--was hung in its usual +conspicuous position, and then the school-room, which was also the whole +house, was supposed to be in order for the night. + +It was a dismal little place, having a small window on the side next the +street, and a still smaller one on the other. There was the inevitable +box-bed on the side opposite the fireplace, and the equally inevitable +big brown chest for clothing, and bedding, and all other household +valuables that needed a touch of "the smith's fingers" for safety. +There was the meal-chest, and a tiny cupboard for dishes and food, and +on a high dresser, suggestive of more extensive housekeeping operations +than the mistress had needed for many a year and day, were piled a +number of chairs and other articles not needed in the school. + +A dismal place, but it was her own, till morning should bring the bairns +again. So she mended the peat fire into a brighter glow, and seated +herself beside it, to take the solace of her pipe, after the worries and +weariness of the day. + +A pleasant sound put an end to her meditations. From under the chair +which stood near the little window at the head of the box-bed, came, +with stately step, a big, black hen, announcing, with triumphant cackle, +that _her_ duty was done for the day also. The mistress rose and took +the warm egg from the nest. + +"Weel dane, Tappie! Ye'se get your supper as ye deserve, and then I +maun awa' to the manse." So she scattered her scanty supply of crumbs +about the door, and then prepared herself for her visit. + +If she had been going to the manse by special invitation, she would have +put on her Sabbath-day's gown and shawl, and all the folk would have +known it as she went up the street. But as she was going on business, +she only changed her mutch, and her kerchief and apron, and putting her +key in its accustomed hole in the thatch, she went slowly down the +street, knitting, or, as she would have called it, "weaving," as she +went. + +She had not very far to go, but two or three greetings she got and +returned as she passed. "Mistress Jamieson," the neighbours called her +to her face, but she knew quite well that behind her back she was just +called Bell Cummin, her maiden name, as was the way among the humbler +class of folk in these parts. They all paid her a certain measure of +respect, but she was not a favourite among them, for she was silent and +sour, and sometimes over-ready to take offence, and her manner was not +over-friendly at the best of times. + +At the entrance of the close which led to the back door of the manse +stood the weaver's wife from next door, and with her a woman with whom +the mistress was not always on speaking terms. This was the wife of +tailor Coats, who spent, as the schoolmistress had once told her, more +time on the causey (pavement) than was good either for herself or her +bairns. She would fain have passed her now without speaking, but that +was not the intention of Mistress Coats. + +"The minister's nae at hame, nor the mistress," said she, "and since ye +hae lost your journey, ye micht as weel come in and hae a crack (talk) +with Mistress Sim and me, and gie's o' your news." + +"I dinna deal in news, and I hae nae time for cracks and clavers." + +"Dear me! and sae few bairns as ye hae noo at the schule. Gin ye could +but learn them their samplers noo, or even just plain sewing, ye might +keep the lassies thegither for a whilie langer. But their mithers man +hae them taucht to use their needles, and it canna be wonnered at." + +This was a sore subject with the mistress, who was no needle-woman, and +she turned, ready with a sharp answer. But the smile on the woman's +face, and the look of expectation on the more friendly face of Mistress +Sim, served as a warning, and calling her discretion to her help, she +turned at once into the manse. + +It was peaceful enough there. No one was in the kitchen, and after a +moment's hesitation she crossed the little passage and knocked at the +parlour-door. No response being given, she pushed it gently open and +looked into the room. The two youngest boys were amusing themselves +with their playthings in a corner, and Marjorie lay on her couch with +her doll and her doll's wardrobe, and a book or two within reach of her +hand. The tiny little face brightened at the sight of the mistress. + +"Come away in, Mistress Jamieson. I am very glad to see you," said she, +with a tone and manner so exactly like what her mother's might have +been, that the mistress could not but smile a little with amusement as +well as with pleasure. "My father and mother are both away from home +to-day; but they will soon be back now, and you'll just bide till they +come, will you not?" + +Mistress Jamieson acknowledged herself to be in no special haste, and +sitting down, she made advances toward an interchange of greetings with +the little boys. Wee Wattie, not quite four years old, came forward +boldly enough, and submitted to be lifted to her knee. But Norman, aged +five, had been once or twice sent to the school, with his brothers, when +his absence was convenient at home, and certain unpleasant recollections +of such times made him a little shy of meeting her friendly advances. +Even Robin and Jack had been in their day afraid of the mistress and her +tawse. But Marjorie had never been at the school, and had always seen +her in her best mood in the manse parlour. She had had rather a dull +afternoon with but her little brothers for company, for Allie was busy, +and had only looked in now and then to see that the little ones had got +into no mischief. So the child was truly pleased to see the mistress, +and showed it; and so Mistress Jamieson was pleased, also, and in the +best of humour for the afternoon. + +And this was a fortunate thing for Marjorie. For she had many questions +in her mind which no one could answer so well as the mistress--questions +about the reading of one child and of the "weaving" of another, and of +the well-doing or ill-doing of many besides. For though she did not see +the bairns of the town very often, she knew them all, and took great +interest in all that concerned them. + +She knew some things about the bairns of the school which the mistress +did not know herself, and which, on the whole, it was as well she should +not know. So when, in the case of one of them, they seemed to be +approaching dangerous ground, and Mrs Jamieson's face began to lengthen +and to take the set, which to Marjorie, who had only heard about it, +looked ominous of trouble to some one, the child turned the talk toward +other matters. + +"I must show you my stocking," said she, opening a basket which stood +within reach of her hand. "It is not done so ill for a beginner, my +mother says. But it is slow work. I like the flowering of muslin +better, but mother says too much of it is no' good for the een. And it +is quite proper that every one should ken how to make stockings, +especially one with so many brothers as I have." + +The stocking was duly examined and admired. It had been the work of +months, done in "stents" of six or eight times round in a day, and it +was well done "for a beginner." There were no mended botches, and no +traces of "hanging hairs and holey pies," which so often vexed the very +heart of the mistress in the work of some of the "careless hizzies" whom +she was trying to teach. She praised it highly, but she looked at the +child and wondered whether she would live to finish it. There was no +such thought in the mind of Marjorie. + +"Mother says that making stockings becomes a pleasant and easy kind of +work when one grows old. And though I canna just say that I like it +very well. I must try and get on with it, for it is one of the things +that must be learned young, ye ken." + +"Ay, that's true. And what folk can do weel, they ay come to like to do +in course o' time," said the mistress encouragingly. "I only wish that +Annie Cairns and Jeannie Robb could show work as weel done." + +"Oh! but they are different," said the child, a sudden shadow falling on +her face. "If I could run about as they can, I would maybe no' care +about other things." + +"Puir wee lammie!" said the mistress. + +"Oh! but I'm better than I used to be," said Marjorie, eagerly; "a great +deal better. And I'll maybe be well and strong some day, our Allie +says." + +"God grant it, my dear," said the mistress reverently. + +"And I have some things to enjoy that the other bairns havena. See, I +have gotten a fine new book here," said Marjorie, mindful of her +mother's warning about speaking much of her trouble to other folk. +"It's a book my father brought home to my mother the last time he was +away. I might read a bit of it to you." + +"Ay, do ye that. I will like weel to hear you." + +It was "The Course of Time," a comparatively new book in those days, and +one would think a dreary enough one for a child. It was a grand book to +listen to, when her mother read it to her father, Marjorie thought, and +she liked the sound of some of it even when she read it to herself. And +it was the sound of it that the mistress liked as she listened, at least +she was not thinking of the sense, but of the ease and readiness with +which the long words glided from the child's lips. It was about "the +sceptic" that she was reading--the man who had striven to make this fair +and lovely earth. + +"A cold and fatherless, forsaken thing that wandered on forlorn, +undestined, unaccompanied, unupheld"; and the mistress had a secret fear +that if the child should stumble among the long words and ask for help, +she might not be able to give it without consideration. + +"Ay, it has a fine sound," said she, as Marjorie made a pause. "But I +wad ken better how ye're comin' on wi' your readin' gin ye were to tak' +the New Testament." + +There was a tradition among the old scholars that, in the early days of +her experience as a teacher, the mistress used to make a little pause +before committing herself in the utterance of some of the long words in +the Bible; if it were so, that time was long past. But before Marjorie +had opened the book, Allison came in, to mend the fire and put things to +rights; and as the books had only been intended as a diversion from +unpleasant possibilities, they were gladly and quickly put aside. + +"This is our Allie, mistress," said Marjorie, putting out her hand to +detain her friend as she passed. + +"Ay, ay. I ken that. I hae seen her at the kirk and elsewhere," said +the mistress, rather stiffly. + +"And she is so strong and kind," said the child, laying her cheek on the +hand that had been put forth to smooth her pillow, which had fallen +aside. + +Mistress Jamieson had seen "the new lass" often, but she had never seen +on her face the look that came on it at the loving movement of the +child. + +"Are ye wearyin' for your tea, dear? It's late, and I doubt they needed +to go on all the way to Slapp, as they thought they might, and maybe +they winna be home this while." + +A shadow fell on the face of the child. Allison regarded her gravely. + +"Never heed, my lammie. I'll take the wee laddies into the kitchen, and +ye can make tea for the mistress and your brothers if they come in. +You'll like that, dear." + +Marjorie brightened wonderfully. She ay liked what made her think she +was able to do as other folk did. The mistress rose, excusing herself +for having been beguiled into staying so long. + +"And what would my mistress say if we were to let ye away without your +tea?" asked Allison, with great respect and gravity. + +Then Robin came in, and he added his word, and to tell the truth the +mistress was well pleased to be persuaded. She and Robin were on the +friendliest terms now, though there had been "many a tulzie" between +them in the old days. For Robin, though quieter than Jack, and having +the reputation of being "a douce and sensible laddie" elsewhere, had +been, during the last days of his subjection to Mistress Jamieson, "as +fou o' mischief as an egg is fou o' meat," and she had been glad enough +to see the last of him as a scholar. But all that had been long +forgotten and forgiven. Robin behaved to her with the greatest respect +and consideration, "now that he had gotten some sense," and doubtless +when he should distinguish himself in college, as he meant to do, the +mistress would take some of the credit of his success to herself, and +would hold him up as an example to his brothers as persistently as she +had once held him up as a warning. + +To-night they were more than friendly, and did not fall out of +conversation of the most edifying sort, Marjorie putting in her word now +and then. All went well till wee Wattie took a fit of coughing, and +Norman followed in turn; and then Mistress Jamieson told them of her +proposed expedition to the Stanin' Stanes, for the benefit of all the +bairns, if the day should prove fine. + +Marjorie leaned back in her chair, clasping her hands and looking at her +brother with eager entreaty in her eyes. But Robin would not meet her +look. For Marjorie had a way of taking encouragement to hope for the +attainment of impossible things when no encouragement was intended, and +then when nothing came of it, her disappointment was as deep as her +hopes had been high. + +Then she turned her eyes to the mistress, but resisted the impulse to +speak. She knew that her words would be sympathetic and encouraging, +but that it must end in words as far as she was concerned. + +"And it's ay best to go straight to my mother," said Marjorie to +herself, remembering past experiences; "and there will be time enough to +speak in the morning if the day should be fine." + +So she wisely put the thought of the morrow away, and took the good of +the present. And she had her reward. Warned by Robin, Allie said not a +word of what awaited the school bairns next day, though the little boys +discussed it eagerly in the kitchen. So, when the mother came home, she +found her little daughter quietly asleep, which was not often the case +when anything had happened to detain her father and mother from home +later than was expected. + +But though Allison said nothing, she thought all the more about the +pleasure which the child so longed to enjoy with the rest. Before she +slept, she startled her mistress not a little, entering of her own free +will into an account of the schoolmistress' plan to take the bairns to +the hills for the sake of their health, and ending by asking leave to +take little Marjorie to "the Stanin' Stanes" with the rest. She spoke +as quietly as if she had been asking a question about the morning's +breakfast, and waited patiently for her answer. Mrs Hume listened +doubtfully. + +"I hope she has not been setting her heart upon it. It will be a sad +disappointment to her." + +"If it must be a disappointment. No, we have had no words about it. +But she heard it from the mistress. It wad be as good for her as for +the other bairns." + +"I fear it would not be wise to try it. And she can hardly have set her +heart upon going, or she would not be sleeping so quietly." + +"It would do her good," persisted Allison. + +"And you could trust her with Allison, and Robin might meet them and +carry the child home," said the minister. + +Mrs Hume turned to him in surprise. When the minister sat down in the +parlour to take a half-hour's recreation with a book, he became, as far +as could be observed, quite unconscious of all that might be going on +around him, which was a fortunate circumstance for all concerned, +considering the dimensions of the house, and the number of people in it. +But never a word, which touched his little daughter, escaped him, +however much his book might interest him. + +"You would take good care of her, Allison?" repeated he. + +"Ay, that I would." + +"If it were a possible thing that she could go I would not be afraid to +trust her with Allison. But the risk of harm would be greater than the +good she could get, or the pleasure." + +"It is a long road, and I doubt ye might weary, Allison," said the +minister. + +"I hae carried hame lost lammies, two, and whiles three o' them, a +langer road over the hills than the road to the Stanin' Stanes. Ay, +whiles I grew weary, but what of that?" said Allison, with an animation +of face and voice that astonished them both. + +"Well! We'll sleep on it. A wise plan at most times when doubtful +questions are being considered." + +And who could measure the delight of the child when it was told her that +she was to go to the hills with the rest? If her mother were still only +half convinced of the wisdom of the measure, she did not suffer her +anxiety to appear in a way to spoil her little daughter's pleasure. And +Marjorie moderated her raptures and was wonderfully quiet and unexcited +while all preparations were going on. Nor did she show impatience when +she had still some time to wait after her little brothers had set out to +join the other bairns at the school. + +The mistress was to have the help of some of the elder girls in +marshalling the little lads and lassies, and in encouraging them through +the rather long, tramp up the hills. Allison, who had been busy from +early morning, and had still something to do, assured the child that it +would only be a weariness for them both if she were obliged to measure +her steps by those of the bairns, and that they would reach the Stanin' +Stanes before them; though they gave them a whiles start. + +"They are doing one another good," said the minister, as they stood at +the door, following with their eyes the stately figure of Allison as she +went steadily down the street, looking neither to the right hand nor the +left. But it was "lanesome like" to go back into the parlour and look +at Marjorie's empty couch. + +And Marjorie was moving on, as she sometimes did in her dreams, down the +street, and past the well on the green, and over the burn, and up the +brae, first between hedges that would soon be green, and then between +dikes of turf or grey stone, till at last Allison paused to rest, and +then they turned to look at the town, lying in a soft haze of smoke in +the valley below. + +They could see the manse and the kirk and the trees about the garden, +and all the town. They could see the winding course of the burn for a +long way, and Burney's Pot, as they called the pond into which the burn +spread itself before it fell over the dam at Burney's mill. A wide +stretch of farming land rose gradually on the other side of the valley +beyond. Some of the fields were growing green, and there were men +ploughing in other fields, and everywhere it looked peaceful and bright, +"a happy world," Marjorie said. They could see Fir Hill, the house +where Mrs Esselmont lived in summertime--at least they could see the +dark belt of firs that sheltered it from the east and half hid it from +the town. + +"It's bonny over yonder. I was there once, and there is such a pretty +garden," said Marjorie. + +Then they went on their way. It was the loveliest of spring days. The +sun did not shine quite all the time, because there were soft white +clouds slowly moving over the sky which hid his face now and then. But +the clouds were beautiful and so was their slow movement over the blue, +and the child lay in Allison's arms, and looked up in perfect content. + +Spring does not bring all its pleasant things at once in that northern +land. The hedges had begun to show their buds a good while ago, but +they had only buds to show still, and the trees had no more. The grass +was springing by the roadside, and here and there a pale little flower +was seen among it, and the tender green of the young grain began to +appear in sheltered and sunny spots. Oh! how fair and sweet it all was +to Marjorie's unaccustomed eyes! + +"Oh, Allie!" said she, "can it be true that I am here?" + +She could not free her arms from the enveloping shawl to clasp Allie's +neck, but she raised herself a little and laid her cheek against hers, +and then she whispered: + +"I prayed the Lord to let me come." Then they went on in the soft warm +air their pleasant way. By and by they left the road and went over the +rougher ground that lay between them and the end of their journey. In a +hollow where there was standing water, Allison took the wrong turning, +and so going a little out of the way, came suddenly on the mistress and +her noisy crowd of bairns, who were looking for them in another +direction. + +It was a day to be remembered. But it was not all pleasure to every +one, though every moment was full of delight to Marjorie. The bairns +were wild and not easily managed, and the mistress "had her ain adoes +among them." Of course the tawse had been left at home, and the +sternness of countenance which was the right and proper thing in the +school, the mistress felt would be out of place among the hills, even +supposing the bairns would heed it, which was doubtful. As for setting +limits beyond which they were not to wander, that was easily done, but +with all the treasures of the hills awaiting discovery, was it likely +that these limits would be kept in mind? + +The mistress strode after the first wandering group, and called after +the second, and then she declared that "they maun gang their ain gait, +and tak' their chance o' being lost on the hills," and she said this +with such solemnity of countenance as to convince the little ones who +remained that they at least had best bide where they were. It was not +likely, after all, that anything more serious than wet feet or perhaps +torn clothes would happen to them--serious enough troubles in their own +way, and likely to be followed by appropriate pains and penalties +without the intervention of the mistress. At any rate they must just +take their chance. + +So, she "put them off her mind," and with the other bairns, and Allison +carrying Marjorie in her arms, wandered for a while among "the Stanes." + +Seven great stones there were, arranged around another greater still; +and they might well wonder, as many had wondered before them, how they +had been brought there, and by whom, and for what purpose. That is, +Marjorie wondered, and told them what her father thought, and Robin; and +Allison listened and smiled, and wondered too, since she was called to +think about it at all. + +As for the mistress, the "Stanin' Stanes" were just the Stanin' Stanes +to her. She accepted them as she did the hills themselves, and the +heather, and the distant mountains; and she objected decidedly to the +minister's opinion as announced by his little daughter. + +"We are maybe standing in a temple where, hundreds and hundreds of years +ago, the folk worshipped an unknown God," said Marjorie. + +The mistress vehemently dissented. + +"What should put the like o' that in the minister's head? It's an ill +thing for ane to try to be wise aboon what's written." + +"But it's all in a book," said the child eagerly. "Robin read it to my +mother and me. And in the Bible ye ken there were folk seeking Him, `if +haply they might feel after Him and find Him.' And maybe they were +doing that here." + +But the mistress would not hear such a thing said. + +"Think ye the Lord wad hae letten stan' a' these years in a Christian +land like Scotland sic monuments o' will worship and idolatry? Na, na, +lassie, I couldna believe that, though your father should preach it out +o' the poopit." + +"But, Mistress Jamieson, the Lord lets ill men (evil men) live in +Scotland, and has patience with them, and whiles saves them from their +sins. And maybe the folk were `feeling after Him' in those faraway +days." + +"John Beaton told my father that these muckle stanes are quite different +from the rest o' the stanes upon the hills hereaboot," said Annie +Cairns. + +"John Beaton nae less!" said the mistress scornfully. "As gin the Lord +couldna put what kin' o' stanes He liket wherever it was His will to put +them. And what kens John Beaton mair than the lave?" + +"Grannie thinks it was the fairies that brocht them up the brae. But +John kens weel about stanes." + +It was Annie Cairns, one of the older lassies, who had made the last two +ventures. It was certainly a bold thing for a lassie, who was every day +convicted in the school of lost loops in her stocking, to put in her +word with her betters on such a matter. The mistress answered her with +a look which she knew well, and heeded little. But it startled +Marjorie, who had only heard about such looks from her brothers. Her +face warned Allison that enough had been said. + +"Ye're growing tired, my lammie, and ye'll need to lie down and rest for +a while." + +"Yes, I'm tired, now that I think about it," said the child, lying back +in her kind arms again. + +The wind had grown a little sharp by this time, and they found a +sheltered spot on which the sunshine fell, on the south side of one of +the great stones; here Allie made a couch, and the child rested on it in +perfect content. Some of the little ones were tired also, and fell +asleep, and were well happed by Allison and the mistress, and the rest +went away to amuse themselves for a while. + +Marjorie did not mean to go to sleep. She could see a wide stretch of +sky, over which the white clouds were wandering still, and the tops of +the faraway hills, and she thought she could see the sea. But she was +asleep and dreaming when it came to that. + +In the meantime, soothed by a whiff of her pipe, Mistress Jamieson was +getting on quite friendly terms with Allison, who had her good word from +that day forth. For with the most respectful attention she sat +listening to the all-embracing and rather dismal monologue of the old +woman, as few were accustomed to do. Did she listen? She certainly did +not understand all that was said, and she could not afterward have +repeated a word of it. But she saw a face, wrinkled and grey, and not +very happy--an old, tired face. And if she was thinking of troubles +that had made deep lines in other faces, rather than of the cares and +vexations which had saddened the lot and soured the temper of the +schoolmistress, her silence and the softening look in her beautiful, sad +eyes, and the grave "ay" or "no" that came in response to some more +direct appeal, pleased and soothed the heart of the lonely old woman to +a sense of comfort which came seldom enough to her. + +And though Allison's answers were of the briefest, when the mistress +began to question her about herself and her life before she came to +Nethermuir, they were civil, and they were quietly and readily given, +and fortunately there was not much time for questions; for the bairns +came straggling back by twos and threes as they had gone away. Each +brought some treasure found in their wanderings, and Marjorie would have +been buried beneath the offerings of flowers, and tender green bracken, +and "bonny stanies" that were brought to her, if Annie Cairns had not +taken possession of them all, promising to carry them safe to the manse. + +There were still some stragglers for whom they must wait. There would +have been little good in going to search for them, and there was no need +to hurry home, for the afternoon was not far over--at least there would +have been no need if the bairns had not been all so ravenously hungry. +The "piece" which each had brought from home had been made away with by +the greater number, before even the "Stanes" were in sight, and the +additional supply which Allison had provided did not go very far among +so many. + +In these circumstances, imagine the shout of welcome which greeted the +appearance of Robin with a bag upon his back--Robin's bag, the bairns +called it; but the treat of baps and buns was John Beaton's, who took +this way to celebrate his homecoming. And it is to be doubted whether +he ever in all his life spent many other crown-pieces to better purpose, +as far as the giving or the getting or pleasure was concerned. + + + +CHAPTER EIGHT. + + "Love sought is good, but love unsought is better." + +John Beaton came slowly up the height which hid for the moment the spot +where the bairns had gathered, and Robin followed with his bag on his +shoulder. Confusion reigned triumphant. Some of the little ones had +become tired and fretful, and the elder girls were doing what they could +to comfort and encourage them. But by far the greater number were as +lively as when they set out in the morning, and by no means in haste to +end their day of pleasure. Up the shelving side of one of the great +grey stones they were clambering, and then, with shrill shrieks and +laughter, springing over the other side to the turf below. Not the +slightest heed was given to the voice of the mistress, heard amid the +din, expostulating, warning, threatening "broken banes and bluidy noses, +ere a' was dane." This was what Robin saw, and it was "a sight worth +seeing." + +What John Beaton saw was Allison Bain standing apart, with Marjorie in +her arms, and he saw nothing else for a while. Even Robin, with his bag +on his shoulder, stopped a moment to gaze at "our lass," as he called +her in a whisper to his friend. She looked a very different lass from +"our Allie" in the manse kitchen, with her downcast eyes, and her +silence, and her utter engrossment with the work of the moment. Her big +mutch had fallen off, and a mass of bright hair lay over the arm which +the child had clasped about her neck. The air had brought a wonderful +soft colour to her cheeks, and her lips were smiling, and so were her +eyes, as she watched the wild play of the bairns, and her darling's +delight in it. There was not a sign of stooping or weariness. + +"Though Davie says she carried Maysie every step of the way," said +Robert to his friend. "Man! John! It might be Diana herself!" + +But John said nothing, and Robin had no time for more, for the bairns +had descried him and his bag, and were down on him, as he said, like a +pack of hungry wolves. + +So John shook hands with the mistress, "in a dazed-like way," she said +afterward, and at the first moment had scarce a word for Marjorie, who +greeted him with delight. + +"John, this is my Allie," said she, laying her hand on her friend's +glowing cheek, "and, Allie, this is Mrs Beaton's John, ye ken." + +Allie glanced round at the new-comer, but she was too busy gathering +back the wisp of hair that the wind was blowing about her face to see +the hand which he held out to her, and the smile had gone quite out of +her eyes when she raised them to his face. + +"They minded me o' Crummie's een," John told his mother long afterward. + +The schoolmistress sat down upon a stone, thankful that her labours were +over, and that the guiding home of the bairns had fallen into stronger +hands than hers. And as she watched the struggle for the booty which +came tumbling out of the bag, she was saying to herself: + +"I hae heard it said o' John Beaton that he never, a' his days, looket +twice in the face o' a bonny lass as gin there were onything to be seen +in it mair than ordinar. But I doot, after this day, _that_ can never +be said o' him again. His time is come or I'm mista'en," added she with +grim satisfaction. "Noo we'll see what's in him." + +"And now, Maysie," said Robin, coming back when the "battle of the baps" +was over, "I'm to have the charge o' you all the way home, my mother +said. Allie has had enough o' ye by this time. And we have Peter +Gilchrist's cart, full o' clean straw, where ye can sit like a wee queen +among her courtiers. So come awa', my bonny May." + +But Allison had something to say to that proposal. + +"No, no! I'll not lippen her to you and your cairt; your mother could +never expect such a thing o' me," said she, clasping the child. + +"Well, all I can say is, these were my orders, and ye maun take the +responsibility of disobedience. What say ye, Maysie?" + +"Oh! Allie, it would be fine to go with the ither bairns in the cairt." + +"But, my dearie, your mother never could have meant anything like that. +It would never, never do. Tired! No, I'm no' tired yet. And if I were +ever so tired--" + +"Will ye lippen her to me? I have carried Marjorie many a time," said +John Beaton, coming forward and holding out his arms. + +Allison raised her eyes to his for an instant, and then--not with a +smile, but with a sudden faint brightening of the whole face, better to +see than any smile, John thought--she put the child in his arms. + +"Ay, I think I may lippen her to you, since ye have carried her before." + +So the child was wrapped warmly, and was well content. + +"And as ye have the cairt, and I'm not needed with the bairns, I'll awa' +hame, where my work is waiting me," said Allison to Robin, and she lost +no time. + +They saw her appearing and disappearing, as she kept her way among the +heather for a while; and then John Beaton said, with a long breath, that +they would need to go. So the mistress was made comfortable in the cart +with as many of the little ones as could be packed into it, and Robin +took the reins. The rest of them went down the hill in a body, and all +got safely home at last. And the happiest of them all was Marjorie when +John laid her tired, but smiling and content, upon her little couch. + +"Oh, mother! it's fine to be like the other bairns. I have had such a +happy day. And, mother," she whispered, as her mother bent over her, +undoing her wraps, "you'll need to ask John to stay to tea." + +But John would not stay. He must take tea with his mother this first +night, he said, which Marjorie owned was but right. So he went away. +He came back again to worship, however, after Marjorie was in bed. + +Peter Gilchrist was there too, and Saunners Crombie. It was a way the +folk o' the little kirk had, to time their business at the smithy or the +mill, so as to be able to drop in at the usual hour for family worship +at the manse. At such times there was rather apt to be "lang worship," +not always so welcome to the tired lads as to the visitors, and to-night +Jack and Davie murmured audibly to their mother when the chapter was +given out. + +For the chapter was about Jacob seeking for his father's blessing, and +the lads felt that Peter and Saunners might keep on to any length about +him. And so it proved. Decided opinions were expressed and maintained +as eagerly as though each one present had a personal interest in the +matter. Peter Gilchrist had his misgivings about Jacob. He was "a +pawkie lad" in Peter's estimation--"nae just fair forth the gait in his +dealings with his brother, and even waur (worse) with his old blind +father, to whom he should have thought shame to tell lees in that +graceless way." + +Saunners, on the other hand, was inclined to take Jacob's part, and to +make excuses for him as being the one who was to inherit the promise, +and the blame was by him laid at the door "of the deceiving auld wife, +Rebekah, by whom he had evidently been ill brocht up"; and so they +"summered and wintered" the matter, as Jack said they would be sure to +do, and for a while there seemed little prospect of coming to the end of +it. But it mattered less to Jack or to Davie either, as they soon were +fast asleep. + +The minister put in a word now and then, and kept them to the point when +they were inclined to wander, but the two had the weight of the +discussion to themselves. As for John Beaton, he never opened his lips +till it was time to raise the psalm; and whether he had got the good of +the discussion, or whether he had heard a word of it, might well be +doubted, judging by the look of his face when Mrs Hume put the +psalm-book into his hand. + +It was time to draw to an end, for there were several sleepers among +them before the chapter was done. Allison had made a place for Davie's +sleepy head upon her lap, and then after a little her Bible slipped from +her hand, and she was asleep herself. It had been a long day to her, +and her walk and the keen air of the hills had tired her, and she slept +on amid the murmur of voices--not the uneasy slumber of one who sleeps +against her will; there was no struggle against the power that held her, +no bowing or nodding, or sudden waking up to a sense of the situation, +so amusing to those who are looking on. Sitting erect, with the back of +her mutch just touching the angle made by the wall and the half-open +door, she slumbered on peacefully, no one taking heed of her, or rather +no one giving token of the same. + +After a time her mistress noticed her, and thought, "Allison has +over-wearied herself and ought to be in her bed," and she wished +heartily that the interest of the two friends in Jacob and his misdeeds +might speedily come to an end, at least for the present. And then, +struck by the change which slumber had made on the beautiful face of the +girl, she forgot the talk that was going on, and thought only of +Allison. The gloom which so often shadowed her face was no longer +there, nor the startled look, half fear and half defiance, to which the +gloom sometimes gave place when she perceived herself to be observed. +Her lips, slightly apart, had lost the set look which seemed to tell of +silence that must be kept, whatever befell. The whole expression of the +face was changed and softened. It looked very youthful, almost +childlike, in its repose. + +"That is the way she must have looked before her trouble came upon her, +whatever it may have been," thought Mrs Hume with a sigh. And then she +said softly to the minister: "I doubt it is growing late, and the bairns +are very weary." + +"Yes, it is time to draw to a close." So he ended the discussion with a +few judicious words, and then read the remaining verses of the chapter +and gave out the psalm. + +Sometimes, on receiving such a hint from the mother, it was his way to +"omit the singing for a night." But this was John Beaton's first night +among them, and the lads and their mother would, he thought, like the +singing. And so he read the psalm and waited in silence for John to +begin, and then Mrs Hume turned toward him. + +A little withdrawn from the rest, John sat with his head upon his hand, +and his eyes fixed on the face of Allison Bain. His own face was pale, +with a strange look upon it, as though he had forgotten where he was, +and had lost himself in a dream. Mrs Hume was startled. + +"John," said she softly, putting the book into his hand. + +And then, instead of the strong, full tones which were naturally to be +expected when John Beaton opened his lips, his voice rose, full, but +soft and clear, and instinctively the tones of Robin and his mother were +modulated to his. As for the others, they did not sing at all. For +John was not singing the psalm which the minister had read, nor was he +even looking at the book. But softly, as a mother might sing to her +child, the words came: + + "Jehovah hear thee in the day + When trouble He doth send, + And let the name of Jacob's God + Thee from all ill defend. + + "Oh! let Him help send from above + Out of His sanctuary, + From Sion His own holy hill, + Let Him give strength to thee." + +Allison's eyes were open by this time. She seemed to be seeing +something which no one else saw, and a look of peace was on her face, +which Mrs Hume had never seen on it before. "She must have been +dreaming." Then the singing went on: + + "Let Him remember all thy gifts, + Accept thy sacrifice, + Grant thee thy heart's wish, and fulfil + Thy thoughts and counsels wise." + +And then John's voice rose full and clear, and so did the voices of the +others, each carrying a part, in a way which made even the minister +wonder: + + "In thy salvation we will joy, + In our God's name we will + Lift up our banner, and the Lord + Thy prayers all fulfil." + +Then the books were closed, and the minister prayed, and without a word +or a look to any one, except only sleepy Davie, Allison rose and went +away. But in her heart she was repeating: + + "Grant thee thy heart's wish and fulfil + Thy thoughts and counsels wise. + In thy salvation we will joy--" + +"Maybe the Lord has minded on me, and sent me this word. I will take it +for a sign." + +The two friends went out into the dark, as Saunners said, "strengthened +by the occasion," but it was not of Jacob, nor his blessing nor his +banishment that they "discoorsed" together as they jogged along, sitting +among the straw in Peter's cart. Peter was inclined to be sleepy after +the long day, and had he been alone he would have committed himself to +the sense and judgment of his mare Tibbie, and slept all the way home. +But his friend "wasna ane o' the sleepy kind," as he said, and he had +something to say. + +"What ailed John Beaton the nicht, think ye? He's ready eneuch to put +in his word for ordinar, but he never opened his mouth through a' the +exerceese, and was awa' like a shot ere ever we were off our knees, with +not a word to onybody, though he's but just hame." + +"Ay, that was just it. He would be thinkin' o' his mither, puir bodie, +at hame her lane." + +"Ay, that micht account for his haste, and it micht weel hae keepit him +at hame a'thegither, to my thinkin'. But that needna hae keepit his +mouth shut since he was there. It's no' his way to hide his licht +aneath a bushel as a general thing." + +"It wad be a peety gin he did that. Licht is needed among us," said +Peter, who admired in his friend the gift of easy speaking, which he did +not possess himself. + +"Oh! ay, that's what I'm sayin'. And what for had he naething to say +the nicht? I doot it's nae just as it should be with him, or he wad hae +been readier with his word." + +"There's sic a thing as being ower-ready wi' ane's word. There's a time +to keep silence an' a time to speak, according to Solomon. But word or +no word I'm no' feart for John Beaton." + +"Weel, I canna just say that I'm feart for him mysel'; and as ye say, +he's maybe whiles ower-ready to put in his word wi' aulder folk. But +gaein' here and there among a kind o' folk, he has need to be watchfu' +and to use his privileges when he has the opportunity." + +"We a' need to be watchful." + +"Ay, do we, as ye say. But there are folk for whom ower-muckle +prosperity's nae benefit." + +"There's few o' us been tried wi' ower-muckle prosperity of late, I'm +thinkin'. And as for John, if a' tales be true, he has had his share o' +the ither thing in his day." + +"Weel, I hae been hearin' that John Beaton has had a measure o' +prosperity since he was here afore, and if it's good for him it will +bide wi' him. He kens Him that sent it, and who has His e'e on him." + +"Ay, ay; it's as ye say. But prosperity or no prosperity, I'm no' feart +for John." + +"Weel, I canna just say that I'm feart for him mysel'. Gin he is ane o' +His ain, the Lord will keep a grip o' him, dootless. It's no' that I'm +feart, but he has never taken the richt stand among us, as ye ken. And +ye ken also wha says, `Come oot from among them and be ye separate.' He +ay comes to the kirk when he's here. But we've nae richt hold on him. +And where he gaes, or what he does at ither places, wha kens? I hae ay +fear o' folk that are `neither cauld nor het.'" + +Fortunately the friends had reached the spot where their ways parted, +and Peter, being slow of speech, had not his answer ready, so Saunners +went home content at having said his say, and more content still at +having had the last word. + +All this time John Beaton was striding about the lanes in the darkness, +as much at a loss as his friend, Saunners Crombie, as to what had +happened to him. He had not got the length of thinking about it yet. +He was just "dazed-like," as the schoolmistress would have said-- +confused, perplexed, bewildered, getting only a glimpse of what might be +the cause of it all, and the consequences. + +If he had known--if it had come into his mind, that the sorrowful eyes +which were looking at him out of the darkness--the soft, brown eyes, +like Crummie's, which had met his first on the hilltop, might have power +over him to make or to undo, as other eyes had wrought good or evil in +the lives of other men, he would have laughed at the thought and scorned +it. + +He had had a long day of it. Since three in the morning he had walked +the thirty miles that lay between Nethermuir and Aberdeen, to say +nothing of the rumble in Peter Gilchrist's cart to the Stanin' Stanes, +and the walk home again with little Marjorie in his arms. No wonder +that he was a little upset, he told himself. He was tired, and it was +time he was in his bed. So with a glance at the moon which was showing +her face from behind a cloud--she had a queer look, he thought--he +turned homeward. + +He stepped lightly, and opened the door softly, lest his mother should +be disturbed so late. A foolish thought of his, since he knew that "his +very step had music in't" to her ears. + +"Well, John?" said she, as he paused a moment at her door. And when he +did not answer at once, she asked, "Is it well with you, John?" + +"Surely, mother. Why should you ask?" + +"And they were glad to see you at the manse?" + +"Oh! yes, mother. They're ay kind, as ye ken." + +"Ay, they're ay kind. And did you see--Allison Bain?" + +"Allison Bain!" repeated John, dazed-like still. "Ay, I saw her--at the +Stanin' Stanes, as I told you." + +"Yes, you told me. And all's well with you, John?" + +"Surely, mother," repeated John, a little impatiently. "What should ail +me?" And then he added, "I'm tired with my long tramp, and I'll away to +my bed. Good-night, mother." + +He touched with his strong, young fingers the wrinkled hand that lay on +the coverlid, and the touch said more to her than a kiss or a caress +would have said to some mothers. + +"Sleep sound!" said she. + +But the charm did not work, for when daylight came he had not closed his +eyes. + + + +CHAPTER NINE. + + "The honest man, howe'er so poor, + Is king of men for a' that." + +John Beaton's father had been John Beaton also, and so had _his_ father +before him. The first John had farmed a three-cornered nook of land, +which had found a place among the grey stones scattered closely over a +certain part of the high coast that looks down upon one of the narrow +bays setting in from the North Sea. + +He must have been a strong man, this John, for on this bit of land he +lived and laboured for sixty years and more, and on it he brought up, +and then sent out, to make a place for themselves, in their own, or in +other land's, five strong sons and four fair daughters. And he had so +brought them up that never, as long as he lived, did he, or any one +else, hear aught of son or daughter to cause him to bow his good grey +head before the face of man. + +One son, neither the eldest nor the youngest, stayed near home. First +he had broken stones on one of the great highways which they were +stretching through Scotland about that time. Then he learned to cut and +dress the grey granite of his native hills, and then to build it into +houses, under another man's eye, and at another man's bidding. After a +time he took his turn, first as overseer, and then as master-builder, +and succeeded, and men began to speak of him as a rising man, and one +well-to-do in the world. All this was before he had got beyond middle +life. + +Then he married a woman "much above him," it was said, but that was a +mistake. For though Marion Sinclair came of a good stock, and had all +her life lived in a home well placed and well plenished, among folk who +might have thought themselves, and whom others might have thought to be +John Beaton's superiors, yet no man or woman of them all had a right to +look down on John Beaton. He stood firm on his own feet, in a place +which his own hand had won. No step had he ever taken which he had +needed to go back upon, nor had he ever had cause to cast down his eyes +before the face of man because of any doubtful deed done, or false word +spoken. + +And Marion Sinclair, no longer in her first youth, might well go a proud +and happy bride to the home of a man wise and strong, far-seeing, +honest, and successful--one who loved her dearly, as a man of middle age +may love, who in his youth has told himself that he had neither will nor +time for such sweet folly. + +With all his strong and sterling qualities he was regarded by the world +in general, as, perhaps, a little hard and self-opinioned. But he was +never hard to her, or to the one son who was born to them. He exacted +what was his due from the rest of the world, but he was always soft and +yielding to them in all things. He was proud of his success and of his +good name in the countryside, and he offended some of those who came +into contact with him by letting his pride in all this be too plainly +seen. But he was prouder far of his wife, and his happy home, and of +his young son, with whom, to his thought, no prince in all the land +could compare. + +And so it went well with him, till one day the end came suddenly. A +broken bank, a dishonoured name, scathe and scorn to some--to him among +the rest--who was, God knows, neither in deed nor in thought guilty of +the sin which had brought ruin upon thousands. + +He made a gallant stand for his good name and his well-earned fortune, +and for his fellow-sufferers; but he was an old man by this time, and he +died of it. + +Mrs Beaton had never all her life been a strong woman, and had never +needed to think and act for herself in trying circumstances. She had +not the skill to plan nor the strength to execute, and it was too late +to begin now. But she could endure, and she did so, with long patience; +and though her face grew thin and white, she gave no sign of anger, or +discontent, or of breaking down under her troubles, as all her little +world had believed she would surely do. + +Amid the din and dulness of the great town in which they first took +refuge for a while, she made a home for her son, and waited patiently to +see what his young strength might do for them both, and never, by word +or look, made his struggle for standing room in the crowd harder for +him, or his daily disappointment worse to bear. + +He fought his way to standing room at last--standing room at a high desk +in a dark office, at work which he had still to learn, and which, though +he loathed it, he might have learned to do in time if it had not +"floored him" first. + +"Mother," he cried one night in despair, "let us get away from this +place--anywhere, where there is room to breathe. I will work with my +hands as my father did before me. There are still surely stones to +break somewhere up there in the north. We'll get fresh air at least." + +So, without a word of doubt or of expostulation, she made haste to get +ready, while they had yet the means of going, and they went north +together, where they found, indeed, fresh air, and for a time they found +nothing else. But fresh air was something to rejoice in, since it +brought back the colour to the lad's cheeks and lightened the heart of +the mother, and they kept up one another's courage as well as might be. + +A chance to earn their bread, that was all John wanted, and it came at +last; but it was dry bread only for a while. + +"What can you do? And what are you willing to do?" said a man who was +the overseer of other men, and whom John had seen several times at the +place where his work was done. John answered: + +"I am willing to do anything. And I think I could break stones." + +"I think I see you!" said the man with a shrug. + +"I only wish I had a chance to show you. I think I might even chip awa' +at cutting them, to as good purpose as some of those lads yonder." + +"Here, Sandy," said the overseer. "Gie this lad your hammer, and let +him try his hand, for the fun o' the thing." + +The man laughed, but John Beaton was in earnest. In a minute his coat +was off, and he set to work with a will. He needed a hint or two, and +he got them, with a little banter thrown in. The lad stuck to his work, +and could, as his friend said, "do no' that ill." He had perhaps +inherited the power to do the work, since he could do it, he thought, +and he asked leave to come again in the morning. + +"Ye hae earned your shilling," said the overseer, when it was time to +go, and he held one out to John. He hardly expected the lad to take it, +but he took it gladly, and looked at it, the man thought, in a curious +way. + +"Is it the first shilling ye ever earned?" said he. + +"The very first! May I come back to-morrow?" + +"O, ay! gin ye like; but I should think that this is hardly the kind o' +work ye're best fitted for." + +"One must take what one can get," said John. + +That was the beginning. He went again, and as hands happened to be +scarce at the time, he was kept on, and his wages were raised as his +skill and his strength increased. By and by he was offered permanent +work on a mill that was to be built in a country place at some distance. +It would take months to build, and he would be sure of work for that +time; so he took his mother with him, and what household stuff they had +left, and lived in a tiny room in a cottage for a while. + +Not very far from the new mill was Nethermuir, a quiet place, out of the +way, where they might live, they said to one another, unknown and +forgotten. And here, after many thoughts about it, they resolved to +make themselves a home. + +At the end of the street on which stood the missionary kirk and manse, +was a small house which had once been of the better sort, but which had +been vacant for some time, and had fallen into disrepair. The thatch +was rotten and the roof had partly fallen in, but the foundation was +firm, and the walls were thick and strong. This house John leased for +seven years, at a very small rent, and by his own strength, and skill, +and will, with some help from his fellow-workmen, he made of it such a +house as was not unworthy of being a home for his mother; and in it, +while her son went here and there as his work called him, she lived +content. + +Terrible as the blow was which took from them husband and father and +home, it might have been worse in the end had John Beaton died a rich +man. So said some of the lookers-on, who long before that time had +declared that his son, having all his life long got more of his own will +than was good for him, was in a fair way to become a "spoiled laddie" at +last. + +Some said it who envied the lad, and others said it who loved him well, +and it is possible that they were not far wrong in the belief. John the +younger was a "bonny lad," tall and strong, sweet-tempered and +light-hearted, a favourite with all. But he was open to temptation like +the rest of his kind, even more so than many, and not all of those who +gathered round him in his prosperous days were of the sort likely to +influence him for good. He went through the first years at the +university without getting much good from it, it was said. He had +disappointed his father greatly, as well as his teachers; but though he +had been foolish and idle, he had not disgraced himself by anything +beyond idleness and folly. Whether he would have gone through the +course without doing worse, might be questioned. + +The chance was not given him. His father died, and instead of +inheriting what would have been called wealth among those who were his +friends, he found himself penniless, having his own bread, and possibly +his mother's also, to win. And seeing there was good stuff in the lad, +his mother's helplessness and desolation might be the saving of him, +said one of his mother's humble friends. + +They had friends--yes, many of them--but some of them had suffered loss +as they themselves had suffered, and had no power to help except with +kind words. Others who had the power to help had not the will, or only +the will to help in their own way. Others added to their offers advice +that could not be followed, or they hurt the sore hearts of the lad and +his mother with words which implied censure on the dead, because he had +not foreseen and provided against the coming of evil days. And so, +seeing no help among "kenned folk," the two went out, "not knowing +whither they went." + +They had gone away bravely enough, and even through the dark days which +came first, it cannot be said that they quite lost heart or hope. As +long as his mother was content, John told himself, he did not care what +fell to him to do or to endure; and as long as John was well, and within +reach of hand or voice, it was well with the mother. It was not till +the first months were over that John's heart seemed to fail. When the +mill was finished, instead of going with the men to other work in +another direction, he remained in Nethermuir, hoping to find something +to do in the neighbourhood, so that he might be near his mother. He +found enough to do for a time in making the little house a comfortable +and even beautiful home for her. Then he prepared the neglected bit of +ground around it for a garden and took pleasure in doing it. It was +work which he liked, and which he knew how to do, but it put nothing +into the family purse, which was getting low, and something must be done +to replenish it. + +He worked for a few weeks in harvest in the narrow fields of Peter +Gilchrist, and to good purpose, though the work was new to him; and he +made friends with Peter himself, which was something. But the harvest +wore over and winter was coming on, and then he wrote to Jamie Dunn, his +first friend, saying he was now ready and willing to go wherever he +should be sent. + +But in his heart he knew that for the only work which was left to him to +do, he was neither ready nor willing, nor for the kind of life which he +saw stretching a long, weary way before him. + +He could do as his father had done before him, he told his mother +cheerfully, and who had done better than he? But to himself he owned +that this was to be doubted. He could never do as his father had done; +he was not the man his father had been, or he could never have played +the fool, wasting his time and losing his opportunities, as he had done. +He had been spoiled with softness, with idle days, and the pleasant +things of life, which he could not forget, and which, like a weakling, +he was in his secret heart longing for still. And even his father had +not won what men called success, and a firm footing among his fellows, +till the best part of his life was over. + +But his father had been content through all his days as they came, and +with his day's work and his day's wages. And his father had known his +own strength and could bide his time. As for his son, John told himself +that he was neither strong nor wise. He knew, or he feared at this +time, that only the thought of his mother and her need of him kept him +from despair. + +He called it despair, poor lad, not knowing what he said. The depths of +despair came to him with the thought of enlisting as a common soldier, +to go away and live his life with as little exercise of his own will as +the musket he carried, and to death and a nameless grave. Or it meant +to sail away before the mast, a slave to some tyrant who held the power +of life and death, because he held the power of the lash. And it might +have come to one or other of these possibilities with him, if it had not +been for his mother and her need of him. + +For the dead level of the life which he saw stretching out before him +seemed even worse to him than that--the life of ceaseless, +ill-remunerated labour, the companionship of men grown dull through a +changeless routine of toilsome days, or debased through ignorance or +self-indulgence, a life and a companionship with which he might at last +grow content, being no stronger or wiser than other men. + +These were dark days for the young man. At last he took his mother's +gently spoken words of counsel to heart, and opened the box in which she +had secretly packed his college-books, and where they had lain hidden +all this time. But the sight of them, and the associations they called +up, made him heartsick and ashamed, and it was only by the exercise of +strong self-restraint that he made himself pretend to take some interest +in them for his mother's sake. After this he fell into the way of +taking long walks in all directions, and did a turn of work here and +there as he could get it, and generally came home hungry, and tired, and +ready for his bed, so that no reading could be expected of him. + +But the days were growing short, and the dark hours many and long, and +the mother's heart "grew wae" for her son many a time. By and by +something happened. + +It was a good thing for the minister's Davie that John Beaton was within +sound of the voices of the lad's terrified companions the day that he +fell into "Burney's Pot," and it was a good thing also for John. The +little lad was nearly gone when he was pulled out of the water, and +having no knowledge of his home or name, since his young companions had +taken to their heels as soon as they saw Davie safe, John took him home +to his mother, and together they did what could be done for his help. + +This was the beginning. Davie was allowed to fall asleep in Mrs +Beaton's bed, and in the gloaming John carried him home wrapped in a +blanket, and then he saw the minister and his wife and Marjorie. It was +the beginning for John of more than can well be told. + +His manner of life from that time was changed. Not that he went often +to the manse at first, though the door was always open to him, and a +welcome awaiting him. But the life he saw there, the words he heard, +and the spirit that showed in all that was done, or said, or planned, in +great things and in small, came like a new revelation to him; and the +more he saw and thought of it all, the less he thought about his own +loss and his changed life and his unhopeful prospects. + +He had more days of leisure that winter than well pleased him, but not +one of them was spent in wandering aimlessly about the dreary hills. He +had company, most days, wherever he went. If he had not Robin or Jack, +there was always Davie, who seemed to think he had a special claim upon +him. Davie had not yet been promoted to a seat in the parish school, +but was beginning to think himself, at eight, too big a boy for Mistress +Jamieson's rule, since he could say the Catechism from end to end, +proofs and petitions and all. With Davie trotting along at his side, +John had little chance for brooding. Besides, he had taken to his books +again, and meant to employ his leisure and make up for lost time if such +a thing might be. It was not likely that he would have much use for +Latin or Logic in the life that lay before him, he told himself; but he +might as well make the most of the idle days, and keep his mind from +stagnation. + +And he had less of leisure after a while. It was about this time that +he began to try his hand at the making of "headstones" for the kirkyard. +Chance put such work in his way, and being ready of hand and quick of +eye, and having long patience and much need of a job, he set to work +with a will. He did not succeed in pleasing himself, but he pleased his +employer, which answered the purpose; and he did more at the work, at +odd times, when he could get nothing else to do. + +The life which he saw lived in the manse did something for him, and the +Word as it was held forth in the little kirk did more; but that came +long afterward. The minister was the busiest of men, either among his +books or among his people, or in his garden or his land; but he was +never too busy for a cheery word to John, or for help or counsel to any +one who needed them. And the same might be said of the minister's wife. +She was active and had enough to do at home, but she was glad to help +those who needed help anywhere. She had good sense and good judgment, +and was ready with sweet words or sharp words, as the case presented +seemed to demand. She was firm where firmness seemed to be required, +but had long patience and unfailing gentleness in her dealings with the +weak and even with the wilful; and as the days passed, John took heed of +her words and ways with ever-growing interest. + +She had not an easy life, but she had usually firm health and she had a +cheerful nature, and the peace of God was in her heart. So she "stood +in her lot" strong and unafraid, whatever might befall. + +She was a loving mother to her sons, but her rule was firm as well as +gentle. There was no need in that house to appeal to the father's +stronger will where obedience was not promptly given. It was a serious +matter indeed that needed an appeal to their father. To the lads their +mother's word was law. Not that the law was not forgotten sometimes, or +even wilfully broken in times of strong temptation. But confession of +sins, though not always prompt, was, in course of time, quite certain. +She had their confidence entirely. It was an unhappy boy, indeed, who +carried about, for even a few days, a sinful or sorrowful secret hidden +from his mother. + +In among these lads John came as another brother, and Mrs Hume was kind +and gracious in her intercourse with him. She was faithful also, and +told him of faults and failings which his own mother never acknowledged, +and helped him to correct them, as, even had she seen them, his own +mother might have hesitated to do. It was, indeed, a good day for John +when the door of the manse was opened to him. + +And then there was Marjorie, poor little soul, who was nearly nine, and +who looked like six, a fair, weak little creature, who could only walk a +step or two at a time, and who was yet as eager to know, and to do, and +to be in the midst of things as the strongest of them all. "Another +brother," she called their new friend, who had more sense and patience +than Robin or Jack, and who could carry her so easily and strongly +without being tired. It was a happy day for Marjorie when John came in +to see her. It was better than a new book, she thought, to hear him +talk. + +"And a new book is so soon done with," said Marjorie, who did not see +very many new books, and who had usually learned them by heart before +she had had them many days. But John had always something to tell her. +He told her about new places and new people, and he had seen the sea, +and had sailed on it. He had been in London and had seen the king and +the queen, "like the travelled cat," as Robin said. And there was no +end to the stories he could tell her that she had never heard before. +She was never tired of listening to him, and hailed his coming with +delight, and long before he had come to feel quite at ease with the +mother, John had learned to love dearly the eager, gentle little +creature, from whose eyes the joy at his coming chased the look of pain +and weariness. + +As for the friendship which grew more slowly, but quite as surely, +between John and the elder boys of the manse, it cannot be said whether +he or they benefited most by it. To Robin and Jack, John seemed a far +wiser and stronger man than he knew himself to be--a man of wider +experience, higher aims, and firmer purpose. And their belief in him, +their silent yet evident admiration of all his words and ways, their +perfect trust in his discretion and sympathy, did as much for him as for +them, and helped him to strive for the attainment of all the good gifts +which they believed him to possess. + +He helped them in many ways. He helped them at their work and kept them +back from taking part in many a "ploy," which, though only foolish, and +not so very wrong, were still both foolish and wrong to them, because in +engaging in them they would waste their time, and--being the minister's +sons--set a bad example to the rest of the lads, and, worst of all, vex +their father and their mother. And they could bear to be restrained by +him, because, in the carrying out of all harmless fun, they profited by +many a hint from John, and sometimes even by his help. But they all +agreed that the less said about this matter among the neighbours the +better for all concerned. + +John had been in Nethermuir several months before he saw the inside of +the little kirk. He knew little about the folk who worshipped there, +except that they were said to be "a queer kin' o' folk, who set +themselves up as better than their neebors, and wiser than a' their +teachers." Differing, as they seemed to do, both in preaching and in +practice, from the kirk of the nation, they were doubtless wrong, +thought John. But whatever they were, they were folk in whom he took no +interest, and with whom he had nothing at all to do. So when he had +gone to the kirk at all, he had gone to the parish kirk to please his +mother, who was not always able to go so far herself. Sometimes he had +permitted himself to go even farther than the kirk, coming back when the +service was half over to sit for a while on a fallen headstone, as +Allison did afterward when her turn came. + +On fine days his mother went with him, and then it was different. He +sat with the rest and listened to what the minister had to say, with no +inclination to find fault. Indeed there was no fault to be found from +John's point of view or from the minister's. It cannot be averred that +in what was said there was either "food or physic for the soul of man." +But not knowing himself to be in especial need of either the one or the +other, John missed nothing to which he had been accustomed all his days +to listen in the kirk. + +"We had a good discourse," his mother would say, as they went slowly +home together, and John always assented. "Yes, mother, we had a good +discourse." + +So John went most days to please his mother. But there came a day of +rain, and sleet, and bitter east wind, when, if her conscience would +have permitted, Mrs Beaton would have refrained from making her usual +suggestion about the propriety of honouring the Sabbath-day by going to +the kirk. As for John, he was no more afraid of the rain, and the +sleet, and the east wind than he was afraid of the summer sunshine; but +when he proposed to go to hear Mr Hume, the sound of the sleet and the +rain on the windows silenced any objection she might have had to his +going "once in a way, the day being wild and wintry," and she even added +a hope that he might "hear something to do him good." + +This was at the very beginning of his acquaintance with the minister and +his family. If he had waited for a while, till the charm of their +friendliness and genuine kindness had wrought, till the time came when +he had seen with his own eyes, and heard with his own ears that which +proved his new friend to be different in some ways from the most of +those to whom he had all his life looked up as leaders and teachers, yet +not unworthy also to teach and to lead, John might have been better +prepared to get the good which his mother hoped for him. And yet he +might not. At any rate, it was to that dark day in the little kirk +that, in the years which came afterward, he looked back as the beginning +of "good" to him. + +"A dismal hole," he called it, as he went in among the first and sat +down in a corner. It was scarcely barer or more dingy and dim than the +rest of the kirks in country places were in those days; but it was very +small, and it had windows only on one side. On that dark day it was +dismal, and it could not have been beautiful at any time. The chill of +the sleet and the wild east wind had got into it, and John wondered at +the folk who should choose, of their own free will, to pass two hours, +or even three, in the damp and gloom and dreariness. "There will be few +here to-day," thought he. + +But they came one after another, and by twos and threes, and there was +the stamping of wet shoes, and the shaking out of wet plaids, and many a +sneeze, and many a "hoast" (cough). And still more came, some of them +with familiar faces from the neighbouring streets, and some from beyond +the hills, miles away. Peter Gilchrist was there, of course, and +Saunners Crombie, and an old woman or two, who would better have kept +the house, John thought, on such a day. And by and by the kirk was well +filled. John would have liked to see the minister's seat. It was close +to the door, and so was the one in which he sat; but a little porch, +which protected the door, came between. He heard the clatter of the +boys' feet as they came in, and once he heard their mother's "quietly, +boys," gently but firmly uttered, and by that time the minister was in +the pulpit, and the service began. + +It was just to be like other services in other kirks, John thought at +first. There was a psalm read, and a remark was made on a verse here +and there, and then they sang. He had a certain enjoyment in the +singing, because he had never heard anything like it before. The sleet +or something else had kept the usual precentor at home, and Saunners +Crombie filled the office for the time. He had the singing mostly to +himself for the first verse, because no one knew what tune he meant to +sing, and some of those who joined, trying to do their best, "went out +of it a'thegither," as Saunners said angrily afterward. The second +verse went better. The minister's boys took it up and their mother, and +were joined by "the discordant crowd," as John called them while he +listened; and though he might have done good service on the occasion, he +never opened his lips. + +Then came the "long prayer," in which John certainly did not join. But +he listened, and after a little he wondered. It was "like all the +prayers," he said to himself at first--confession, petition, +thanksgiving. Yet it was a little different. The words came with a +certain power. It was as if he who prayed saw the face of Him whom he +addressed, a living Person whom he knew and had proved, and not an awful +unknown Being hidden in light unapproachable, or in dimness or darkness. +He was speaking to One whose promise had been given, and many times +made good unto those who trusted Him. And to him who was asking, +evidently the promise was sure, the Word unchangeable. + +"All good things! Why, a man who believed that need be afraid of +nothing," said John to himself. + +Then a chapter from the New Testament was read. It was the one in +Corinthians about charity, from every verse of which a sermon might be +preached, the minister said; but he only lingered a minute on the verse +which speaks of the charity "which thinketh no evil," and by the little +stir that went through the congregation, John thought that perhaps a +word on that subject might be specially needed. + +Then came the sermon, and John listened intently. But he did not like +it. He told his mother, when he went home, that he had heard the folk +saying about the kirk door that they had had a grand sermon. "And they +should ken," said John with a shrug. + +"The text? Oh! it was a fine text: `Christ the power of God, and the +wisdom of God unto salvation.' It was like no sermon I ever heard +before," said John, "and I am not sure that I ever wish to hear another +of the same kind." + +John did not go to the manse that week, and he had no intention of going +to the kirk on Sunday, but when Sunday came he changed his mind and was +there with the rest. He sat in his corner and listened, and wondered, +and grew angry by turns. + +"Is not my Word like as a fire? saith the Lord, and like a hammer that +breaketh the rock in pieces?" + +That was the text and that was the way in which the Word came to John +Beaton, and he would have none of it--for a time. + +To his mother, who went to the kirk with him after a while, it came in +another way. It was not new to her. It was just what she had been +hearing all her life, she said, only the minister made it clearer and +plainer than ever it had been made to her before. Or it might be that +her heart was more open to receive the Word than it used to be in former +days, when both heart and hands were full of the good things of this +life, which, she said, had contented her to the forgetting of the +Giver's greater gifts. + +She had never been a woman of many words, and even to her son she rarely +spoke of these things. But as time went on she grew sweeter and gentler +day by day, he thought. He left her with less anxiety when he went +away, and he found her always when he came home peaceful and content. +For the peace of God was with her. + + + +CHAPTER TEN. + + "O! love will venture in where it daurna weel be seen; + O! love will venture in where wisdom ance has been." + +Saunners Crombie had not been mistaken when he told his friend that "a +measure of prosperity" had, of late, come to John Beaton. A debt long +due to his father had been paid to him, and the story which the debtor +had to tell was worth many times the money to John and his mother. + +It was not the first good deed done in secret by the father which had +since his death come to the knowledge of the son. Other stories had +been told by friends and neighbours, and even by comparative strangers, +of kind words spoken by him, and generous help given, which had healed +sick hearts, and opened the way out of depths of despair to some who +were sinners, and to some who were only sufferers. And now this man +came to tell how he also had been helped--saved, he called it, and he +told it with tears in his eyes, though more than a generation had passed +since then. + +David Cunningham was the son of the minister of the parish where the +first of the three Johns had lived, and where the second John and his +brothers and sisters had been born. He had fallen into foolish ways +first, and then into evil ways, and through some act of inexcusable +folly, or worse, had, it seemed, shut upon himself the last door of hope +for a life of well-doing. An offer of a clerkship in an East Indian +house had been given him by a friend of his family, and a sum sufficient +for his outfit had been advanced. This sum he had lost, or rather it +had been claimed for the payment of a debt which he could not have +confessed to his father without breaking the old man's heart. It would +have been utter ruin to the lad if John Beaton had not come to the +rescue. + +This was before John was a rich man, or even had a prospect of riches, +but he gave the money willingly, even gladly, to save the son of his +father's friend. + +"When you come home a rich man you can pay me, if I be living; and if I +be dead, you can pay it to them who may come after me," said he. And +now David Cunningham had come home to pay his debt. + +"Every month from the very first," he told John, "I put something away +toward it, and a good many months passed before the full sum was saved. +Then, when I wrote to your father that it was ready for him, he told me +to invest it for him, and let it grow till I should come home again. +That was five-and-thirty years ago, and it has grown well since then. +It is yours now, and much pleasure and profit may you get out of it." + +"There is no fear of that," said John. + +"And I have a better wish than that for you," said Mr Cunningham +gravely. "May you have the chance and the heart to help to save some +poor fellow as your father saved me." + +"Thank you for the good wish. I will try to follow in my father's +steps," said John. "But the money is my mother's, and the pleasure of +doing good with it will be hers." + +"And if all I have heard of her be true, her pleasure will be to give +pleasure to her son," said his friend. + +"Yes; that is true, too," said John. + +But as the money was well invested, it was to be allowed to remain where +it was for the present. The income from it would secure to his mother a +home more like that to which she was born than the one in which she had +lived since her husband's death, "though, God bless her, she has never +murmured," said her son. + +And John was triumphing in his heart. He saw, or he thought he saw, his +way clear to the carrying out of several plans, which he had been +dreaming about, but which he had hardly suffered himself to regard as +possible till now. He had been in Aberdeen all the winter, working both +with his head and his hands. He had fallen in with an old schoolfellow, +who was in the second year of his university course, a cripple lad, who +was altogether unfit for the kind of life enjoyed most by lads of his +age when set free from their lectures and their hours of study. He was +living a lonely life till John found him, and his visits to the lad's +rooms were good for them both. + +John had been reading steadily during the winter leisure of the years he +had been in Nethermuir, and now he enjoyed greatly going over the ground +with his friend, and gradually the knowledge came to him that he had +grown in mind as well as in stature since the days when he had trifled +with, or utterly neglected, the opportunities which had been given him. +He could do now with ease and pleasure that which in those idle days had +been a task and a burden. Gradually that which had been a vague +longing, a half-acknowledged desire, became a settled purpose. + +It was to consult with his mother as to the carrying out of this purpose +that he had come to Nethermuir at this time, and he had not meant to +sleep until all his plans were laid before her. But when three days had +passed--on the fourth he was to return to Aberdeen--not a word with +regard to them had been uttered. John had not got out of the maze into +which he had fallen when he first caught sight of Allison Bain, standing +with loosened hair and smiling eyes, watching the mad play of the +bairns, with little Marjorie in her arms. + +He had not forgotten his plans or his purposes. There were moments when +he would have been willing to forget them, when he even tried to forget +them and to smile at his thought of them, as he had sometimes smiled at +a foolish dream in the light of the morning. He was not quite sure that +he needed to speak to his mother at all. He might at least wait a +while. Why should he trouble her by speaking about changes which might +never come? + +And yet, had he not told his mother all his plans and even his thoughts +all his life? Her word would make clear what course he should take. +Her "single eye" would see the fine scheme he had been dreaming about in +its true light. He could trust his mother's wise simplicity more than +his own ambitious desires, which could hardly be worthy, he thought, +since they were the outcome of discontent. + +And why should he not be content as he was? He had fallen from no high +estate. His father and his father's father had wrought with their +hands, and had been honoured of all who knew them. Why should he not be +content to live as they lived, or to work his way upward to an easier +life, as his father had done? + +"At any rate, I will have it out with my mother to-night," said he. + +He was standing, when he came to this resolve, on the very spot where he +first caught sight of Allison Bain. It was the second time he had stood +there since that day, for no reason that he could have told to any one. +He had come to the spot in the early morning after that first sleepless +night. He needed a walk to stretch his legs, which were rather stiff +after the long tramp of yesterday, he told his mother, when he came home +to the breakfast he had kept waiting, and he told himself that he only +chanced to take that road rather than another. + +He said nothing about it to Robert Hume. They had the night before +agreed to take an early walk together. Robin was late; but happily, as +he thought, he caught sight of John as he was disappearing over the +first hilltop, and followed with no thought of finding himself in the +way. + +But when he came to the head of the last hillock, and saw John standing +where he had stood the day before, "looking at nothing," as Robin told +his mother afterward, he was seized with sudden shamefaced-ness, and +turning, shot like an arrow down the brae. + +John had been less at the manse than he usually was while visiting his +mother. He was to go there in the evening, and he must speak to his +mother before he said anything about his half-formed plans to the +minister or Mrs Hume, as he came home fully intending to do. So he +turned homeward on the last afternoon; and as he walked he was saying to +himself, with indignant contempt of his indecision, that after all he +must be a poor creature, a fool, though he had never been in the way of +thinking so till now. + +"Well, John lad," said his mother, looking up as he came in. + +Her little maid had gone home for the day, and Mrs Beaton was sitting +in her arm-chair "just waiting," as she said. + +It was a nice little room. A bright fire burned in the grate, and a +shining tea-kettle was steaming on the hob. The carpet on the floor was +faded and worn, and the furniture was of the plainest; but there were a +few pretty things in the room to brighten it, and over the mantel-piece +was a portrait of John's father, "taken at his best." For some strange +reason, which he himself did not understand, John paused at the door, +and looked up at the strong, good face. + +The picture was not much as a work of art perhaps, but it was a striking +likeness. There was the firm mouth, and the kind grey eyes, and the +broad shoulders, rounded and stooping a little, after long years of +labour, and the abundant dark hair, which had showed no silver threads +until the last blow came to end all. A sudden pang smote John's heart +as he looked. + +"I was but a lad," he said to himself. "I didna ken what he was till I +lost him." + +"You are growing like him, John," said his mother softly. + +"Am I, mother? I doubt it is only your loving een that can see it." + +"Are ye troubled, John?" were the words that rose to the mother's lips, +but they were not spoken. "Ye're needing your tea, John," said she +instead. + +John laughed. "I'm needing something, and I'll be glad of my tea in the +meantime. No, you are not to rise. You are to sit still in your chair +and tell me what to do." + +Not that he needed telling. The skill, and the will, and the gentleness +natural to a loving daughter had come to this mother's son through long +and loving service. So the little table was brought forward, on which +all things were already arranged. The tea was "masket," and the teapot +covered with the "cosie," and during the three minutes necessary and +sufficient for its proper infusion, John went to his room, and the +mother's face grew grave while she waited. + +"He's no' at peace with himself. But he'll tell me if he's needing my +help. God bless him and keep him this day--and forever and ay." + +Then John came in and they had their tea, and spoke about other things, +about the visit she had had in the afternoon from little Marjorie, whom +Allison Bain had carried in her arms to see her, as she often did, and +of how the child was growing stronger every day. And then they agreed +together that little Annie Thorn, who had been coming in to help Mrs +Beaton all these years, should come now to stay always, because it would +be better in many ways for both mistress and maid. They spoke of other +things besides; but it must be acknowledged that John said little, and +was not so ready with assent or with response as he was wont to be when +his mother had anything to say to him. + +After a time they fell into silence for a little, and then John said: + +"I have something to tell you, mother." + +"Is it good news, John?" said his mother with a little flutter at her +heart. + +"Part of it is good, surely. As for the rest--that may be good or bad, +as you shall take it." + +"I'm waiting, John." + +For John's head had drooped on his hand, and he sat thinking. + +"And you're a wee anxious? But there is no occasion, mother dear. I +have good news. I meant to tell you the night I came home. I could +hardly wait till I got home to tell you. I dinna ken how I put it off," +added John hurriedly. "Mother, did you ever hear my father speak of a +good turn he once did to one David Cunningham, a long time ago it must +have been?" + +"No. He wasna one who was in the way of telling o' the good turns he +did, as ye ken. But I mind the name of Cunningham." + +"This must have been before your day. Maybe a good while before it." +And John went on to tell the story of his father's timely help to a +foolish lad, and of the debt which the man wished to pay, according to +his friend's desire, to those who came after him. And when he had told +all he knew about it, and how the money which his father had given had +been increasing during all these years till it had become a sum so large +that the interest alone would keep his mother in comfort for the rest of +her life, his mother only said softly: + +"Well, John?" as though the something which he had had to say was still +to be told. + +"Well, mother, I think it is your turn now. Wasna that grand of my +father?" + +"It was like him. And is this David Cunningham able to spare all that +money? It would be an ill thing to harm or harass him now after so long +a time." + +"I cannot say whether he be rich or poor; but I am certain sure that +nothing will hinder him from paying his debt. He told me that the sight +of my face had given him more pleasure than anything he had seen in +Scotland yet," said John laughing. "I would have brought him out to see +you, if the doctor would have let him come. He is but a frail man, and +must go south again till summer is fairly here. He said little about +himself, but I know he is a married man." + +"And he would be sorry to hear of your father's losses at the last." + +"Ay, that was he, and angry at the ill done him. If he had but known, +he said, he could have helped to tide him over the worst of his +troubles, and it might have prolonged his life." + +"It was God's will, and we must submit," said Mrs Beaton softly. + +"Yes, it was God's will." Then John rose and set the table back into +its place, and stirred the fire and sat down again. + +"Well, John?" said his mother in a little. + +"Well, mother! You are a rich woman again, in a small way." + +"I have ay been a rich woman. If I had been asked would I have more, I +would have said I am content. I am glad of this for your sake, John, if +you are glad. But I think the message from your father, as it seems, is +more to me than the money." + +"Yes, mother, and to me as well." + +"You had something to tell me, John," said his mother, in a little. + +"I thought I had when I came home. Now I am not sure. There is +something that we may speak about together, and you will help me to make +up my mind one way or the other." + +Mrs Beaton listened in silence as John went on to tell her what he had +been doing and thinking for a while. He had not been idle since the +building season ended. He had been in the employment of one of the +builders of the town. He had been able to make himself useful to him-- +first by going over and putting to rights the books of the business, +which had fallen into confusion, and afterward at more congenial work, +where his knowledge of drawing, to which he had given much time when he +was a boy, was brought into account with a success which had surprised +himself. And now his employer had offered him a permanent place, with +an opportunity to acquire the kind of knowledge of his work which would +come but slowly to him while he worked only with his hands. + +He owned that he liked Mr Swinton, and that they got on well together. +Yes, the prospect of success seemed reasonably certain if he were to +give himself wholly to the work. And then he came to a pause. + +"Yes. It looks like that," said his mother. She missed the eager +hopefulness with which her son was wont to bring forward any new plan or +prospect of his, and she thought it wiser to let him go on of his own +accord to say his say than to question him. "Do you think well of it, +mother? But there is one thing to be said which will please neither you +nor me. I doubt in such a case we will need to say farewell to +Nethermuir, and take up house in the town." + +"Ay, we should both be sorry for that, but it could be done. You have +more to say yet, John?" + +"I thought I might have more to say, but since you are content with +things as they are, it might be as well to say nothing." + +"Tell me what is in your mind, John. You needna doubt but I'll take it +reasonably, whatever it may be." + +John laughed. + +"I have no fears for you, mother. It is for myself and my own +discontents that I fear." + +"Tell your mother, laddie." + +Then he went on with his story. How he had taken to college work in +earnest with Sandy Begg, how he had enjoyed it and been successful with +it, and how the thought had come into his mind that after all he might +go on again and redeem his character by doing now what he had failed to +do when the way was made easy to him. + +"I think my father would be pleased, mother, if he could ken. When I +think of him I canna forget that I gave him a sore heart at the time +when his troubles were coming thick upon him. I would like to do as he +wished me to do, now that the way seems open." + +"_Is_ the way open?" asked his mother gravely. "If you take that way, +all that you have been doing and learning for the last years will be an +utter loss. I have ay liked to think of you as following in your +father's steps to overtake success as he did." + +"I am not the man my father was, as no one should ken better than my +mother." + +"But if you were to fall in with this man's offer, you could take the +road your father took with fewer steps and less labour, and I might see +you a prosperous man yet before I die. And all the good your father +did, whether openly or in secret, would begin again in his son's life, +and some of it, at least, your mother might see. I canna but long for +the like of that, John." + +"I would try to do my best, mother. But my best would fall far short of +what my father did." + +"Oh, fie! John, laddie! What ails ye at yourself the nicht, man? Do I +no' ken my ain son by this time, think ye? Ay, do I. Better, maybe, +than he kens himsel'." + +"There can be small doubt of that, mother. Only your kind eyes see +fewer faults and failings than he kens of himself. And, mother, I am +afraid the man who had my father for his good friend has done me an ill +turn. He has, in a measure, taken away the motive for my work, and so I +can have little pleasure in it." + +"But, John, you will have your ain life to live and your ain work to do +when your mother is dead and gone. I have been pleased and proud to +have my son for breadwinner, and to ken that he was pleased and proud +for the same reason. But for all that, I am glad that you are set free +to think of your ain life. You are wearing on, lad, and it would be a +great gladness for me to see you in your ain house with wife and bairns +about you before I die. Ye can let yourself think of it now, since I am +off your hands." + +"May ye live to see all you wish, mother. It winna be this while, +though. There's time enough for the like of that." + +"Well, that's true. There's no' to say much time lost at +four-and-twenty. But I am growing an old Woman and frail, and I mayna +have so very many years before me. And ye needna put marriage off till +middle life as your father did. Though he ay said had we met sooner it +might have been different even with him. And it would be a wonderful +thing for me to see my son's wife and bairns before I die," repeated she +softly. + +John rose and moved about the room. He had to do it with caution, for +there was no space for more than two or three of his long, impatient +strides between the four walls. His impulse was to rush out to the +darkening lanes or even to the more distant hills, that he might have it +out with himself there. + +For his mother's words had moved him and a pair of wistful, brown eyes +were looking at him from the dying embers and from the darkness without. +He was saying to himself that the way lay straight before him if he +chose to take it--the way to moderate success in life, a competence +before his youth was past, and, as his mother had said, a wife and a +happy home. + +And would all this content him? Who could say? No thought of these +things had troubled him, or even come into his mind till now. And no +such thoughts would have come now, he told himself, if it had not been +for his mother's words and a pair of bonny een. Should he let himself +be influenced by a dream--a mere fancy? + +It would pass away, this folly. It must pass away. Would it be wise to +let circumstances guide him to take the course which seemed for the time +to be the easiest, the most direct to insure a measure of success? +Should he be wise in putting out of his thoughts the hopes and plans +which had been occupying him lately? No, he was fit for higher work +than cutting stones or building or planning houses. He could not go +back to such work now. Even his mother's desire must be put aside when +the work of his life was in question. + +And yet!--and yet his mother's simple wisdom had never failed him since +the day they had gone forth together from what had been the happiest of +homes. She might be right, and he might be putting away the substance +to please himself by chasing a shadow. So he said to himself, as she +waited quietly with folded hands. He was anxious, uncertain, +bewildered, as unlike himself, or as unlike his own idea of himself, as +could well be. He was amazed and angry at his foolishness, and eager +only to get away from his mother's eyes. + +"I promised to go to the manse a while to-night, mother," said he with +his hand upon the door. + +"Yes, and quite right. The minister has clear vision and good sense, +and will give you none but good advice. But bide a wee. You have told +your mother nothing yet. Sit down and let me hear what you are thinking +to do. Since we have begun, it will be wise to go through to the end. +So that you truly ken your ain mind, I shall be content." + +John was far from knowing his own mind. That was what ailed him. And +he had been so sure of himself before he came home. And so sure also +that he could persuade his mother to see as he did about that which he +desired to bring to pass! He did not feel that he could do justice to +himself of his plans and prospects at this moment. + +He sat down, however, and went over the matter from the beginning. He +said something also about his hopes and plans for the future. He by no +means meant to give up his work at present. He meant to work in the +summer as he had hitherto done, and go on with his reading in the +winter. If he and Mr Swinton were to come to an agreement, it would be +all the easier for him. He had no fear but that he could get on with +both work and reading till he had got through with the college at least. + +"But, O John! it will be a lang look to the end! I can hardly hope to +see it, though that would matter little if it were the best thing for +you. But what is to come after?" asked his mother with a sigh. + +John could not tell her that. But there was nothing more certain than +that when he should be "thoroughly furnished," the right work would be +found--the very highest work--and a kind of life which would suit him, +though he might not grow rich in it. + +"John," said his mother gravely, "I hardly think all that would help you +to live a better life than your father lived. It is not the _kind_ of +work that matters; it is the way it is done. Your father did his duty +in the sight of God and man, and went far beyond what folk whiles call +duty, never letting his left hand ken what his right hand was doing. +And I have ay hoped that ye might follow in his steps. It is like a +slight on your father, John, when ye speak of higher work." + +"Mother! you cannot really think that of me! And, mother, you must mind +that my father meant me to do as I wish to do. It is only to begin a +little later than he hoped. And there is no fear but I shall see my +work when I am ready for it." + +"And yet there is many a man in Scotland with a store o' book learning +who has done little work, or only ill work, for God and man. And even +with a good-will the opportunity doesna ay come." + +"Well, never mind, mother. There is no pressing need to decide now, at +least till summer is over. We will wait to see what may happen." He +did not speak cheerfully, however. + +"John," said his mother earnestly, "are ye sure that your heart is set +on this? What has come to you? Has anything happened to unsettle you, +lad? Tell your mother, John." + +John laughed as he rose and then stooped down and kissed her. + +"Nothing has happened. It is quite possible that you are right and that +I am wrong. We will just wait and see, and decide the matter later. +Even if we have to leave Nethermuir, it need not be till summer is over. +I am sorry that I have troubled you with this now. You will vex +yourself thinking about it all." + +"'Deed I'll do nothing of the kind. I'll just leave it all in better +hands than either yours or mine. And as to your troubling me--Who has a +lad a right to trouble if it be not his ain mother? And when a' is +said, our way is laid out before us by Him who kens a' and cares for a'. +Why should I trouble myself taking thought to-day for the things o' +to-morrow? Go your ways to the manse, John, and I'll bide still and +think about it all." + +But the visit to the manse was not so satisfactory as usual. There were +other people there, and though John had a few minutes alone with Mr +Hume in the study, there was no time to enter fully into the matter +which he had at heart, and on which, he sincerely believed, he wished +for the minister's opinion and counsel, and so he said nothing about it. + +Robin went down-stairs with him, and while he was making ready the +lantern to light the way to an outhouse, where Davie had a puppy which +his friend must see, John stood waiting by the kitchen-door. In her +accustomed corner sat Allison, spinning in the light of the lamp which +hung high above her head. She raised her eyes and smiled when John came +in, but she gave no other answer to his greeting, and went on with her +spinning, apparently quite unconscious of his presence. As for him, he +found nothing to say to her, though the lighting of the lantern seemed +to take a good while. To himself he was saying: + +"I am glad I came. Of course I knew it was but a fancy and utterly +foolish, and that: it would pass away. But it is well to know it. Yes, +I'm glad I came in." + +Could this be the stately maiden he had seen smiling in the sunshine on +the hill, with wee Marjorie in her arms? There she sat in the shadow, +with the accustomed gloom on her face, wearing the disguise of the big +mutch with the set-up borders, tied with tape under the chin. An apron, +checked in blue and white, held with its strings the striped, short gown +close over the scanty petticoat of blue. John wondered whether her +thoughts ever wandered away from the thread she was drawing from the +head of flax so silently. + +"A decent, dull servant-lass, strong and wholesome, invaluable doubtless +in her place, but just like any other lass of her kind." That is what +he said, and then he added: + +"She has bonny een." Ay, wonderful soft een, with a world of sorrow and +sweetness in them; and he waited with impatience till she should lift +them to meet his again. But she did not. And though he let the lads +pass out before him, and turned at the door to look back, there she sat, +busy with her thread and her own thoughts, with never a thought of him. + +"A good lass," he repeated as he followed the lads; but he could not +quite ignore the sense of discomfiture that was on him, as he went down +the lane with Robin at his side. He had enough to say to Robin. He had +something to tell him about his winter's work, and without meaning to do +so, he gave him "an inkling," as Robin called it to his mother, of the +plans he had been making, and of the new course which was opening before +him. + +But John said no more to his mother. It was late when, he came home +that night, and there was no time for many words in the morning, for he +had a long journey before him. + + + +CHAPTER ELEVEN. + + "Oh! the happy life of children still restoring joy to ours! + Back recalling all the sweetness." + +Summer came slowly but happily to Marjorie this year, bringing with it, +oh! so many pleasures to which she had hitherto been a stranger. She +had had the early spring flowers brought into the parlour many a time, +and ferns and buds and bonny leaves, for all the bairns of the place +were more than glad to be allowed to share their treasures with her; and +the one who came first and brought the most of these, thought herself +the happiest, and great delight in past summers had all this given to +the child. She had watched, too, the springing of the green things in +the garden, the wakening of pale little snowdrops and auriculas, and the +gradual unfolding of the leaves and blossoms on the berry-bushes, and on +the one apple-tree, the pride of the place. + +But she had never with her own hands plucked the yellow pussies from the +saughs (low willows) by the burn, nor found the wee violets, blue and +white, hiding themselves under last year's leaves. She had never +watched the slow coming of, first the buds, and then the leaves on the +trees along the lanes, nor seen the hawthorn hedges all in bloom, nor +the low hills growing greener every day, nor the wandering clouds making +wandering shadows where the gowans--the countless "crimson-tipped +flowers"--were gleaming among the grass. All this and more she saw this +year, as she lay in the strong, kind arms of Allison. And as the days +went on it would not have been easy to say whether it was the little +child, or the sad and silent woman, who got the greater good from it +all. + +For Allison could no longer move along the lanes and over the fields in +a dream, her inward eyes seeing other faraway fields and hills and a +lost home, and faces hidden for evermore, when a small hand was now and +then laid upon her cheek to call her back to the present. The little +silvery voice was ever breaking in upon these dreary memories, and +drearier forebodings, with cooing murmurs of utter content, or with +shrill outbursts of eager delight, in the enjoyment of pleasures that +were all of Allie's giving. And so what could Allie do but come out of +her own sorrowful musings and smile and rejoice in the child's joy, and +find a new happiness in the child's love. + +There was much to be done in the house, but there was no day so busy or +so full of care but that Allison could manage to give the child a blink +of sunshine if the day were fair. There was much to do out of the house +also, what with the cows and the garden and the glebe. Cripple Sandy, +who was the minister's man-of-all-work, had all that he could do, and +more, in the narrow fields. So Allison rose early and milked her cows, +and led them out herself, to no wide pasture, but to one of those fields +where she tethered them first and flitted them later in the morning when +they had cropped their little circle bare. And both at the tethering +and the flitting Marjorie assisted when the day was fine, and it was a +possible thing. She woke when Allison rose, and being first +strengthened by a cup of warm milk and a bit of bread, and then wrapped +warmly up in a plaid to keep her safe from the chill air of the morning, +she was ready for a half-hour of perfect enjoyment. When that was over, +she was eager for another cup of milk and another sleep, which lasted +till breakfast was over and her brothers had all gone to school. + +And when the time for the afternoon flitting of the cows came, Marjorie +was in the field once more, sitting on a plaid while the placid +creatures were moved on, and she and Allie went home again as they came, +through the lanes in which there were so many beautiful things. + +Sometimes a neighbour met them, who had something to say to the child, +and sometimes they met the bairns coming from the school. When they +came home by the longest way, as Marjorie liked best to do, they would +have a word with the schoolmistress, as she was taking the air at her +door when the labours of the day were over, and sometimes a smile and a +flower from Mrs Beaton in her garden over the way. This was the very +best summer in all her life, Marjorie told her father one day, as Allie +laid her down on her couch in the parlour again. + +All this was beginning to do the child good. Even the neighbours +noticed the change after a little, and were glad also. Some of them +meant that the coming and going passed the time and contented her. +Others said that it was well that her mother's heart was set at rest +about her, and that she got more time for all else that she had to do; +and all thought well of the new lass for her care of little Marjorie. + +The mother, who had consented to these new doings with misgiving, began, +after a little, to see the change for the better that was being wrought +in the child. Long before midsummer there was dawning a soft little +gleam of colour on Marjorie's cheek, not at all like the feverish tints +that used to come with weariness or fretfulness or excitement of any +kind. The movements of the limbs and of the slender little body were +freer and stronger, and quite unconsciously, it seemed, she helped +herself in ways on which she had never ventured before. + +Her father saw the change too, though not so soon as her mother; but +having seen it, he was the more hopeful of the two. And by and by they +spoke to one another, saying if this thing could be done, or that, their +Marjorie might be helped and healed, and grow strong and tall like the +other bairns, and have a hopeful and happy life before her. But they +paused when they had got thus far, knowing that the child was in God's +hands, and that if it were His will to bring about the fulfilment of +their desire, He would also show a way in which it was to be done. +Whether this might be or not, their little gentle darling would ay be, +as she had ay been, the dearest blessing in their happy home. + +"And may God bless Allison Bain, however it is to be." + +"Yes," said the mother. "I think a blessing is already coming to her +through the child." + +"Is she less sad, think you? She seems more at home among us, at +least." + +"I cannot say that she is lass sad. But her sadness is no longer utter +gloom and despair, as it seemed to be at first. And she says her +prayers now, Marjorie tells me. I see myself that she listens to what +you say in the kirk. I think it may be that she is just coming out of +the darkness of some great sorrow which had at first seemed to her to +end all. She is young and strong, and it is natural that her burden of +trouble, whatever it may be, should grow lighter as the time goes by. +Oh! she is sad still, and she is sometimes afraid, but she is in a +better state to bear her trouble, whatever it may be, than she was when +she came first among us. I sometimes think if some good and pleasant +thing were to come into her life, some great surprise, that might take +her thoughts quite off the past, she might forget after a little and get +back her natural cheerfulness again." + +Mrs Hume ceased suddenly. For a moment a strong temptation assailed +her. If ever man and wife were perfectly one in heart and thought and +desires, these two were. As for the wife, no thought or wish of hers, +whether of great things or of small, seemed quite her own till she had +also made it his. Seeing the look which had come to her face, her +husband waited for her to say more. But she was silent. She had no +right to utter the words which had almost risen to her lips. To tell +another's secret--if indeed there were a secret--would be betrayal and a +cruel wrong. Even to her husband she might not tell her thoughts, and +indeed, if she had but known it, there was, as far as Allison Bain was +concerned, no secret to tell. + +But Robin, who was in the way of sharing with his mother most things +which greatly interested himself, had told her about his morning run +over the hills after John Beaton, and how he had found him "looking at +nothing" on the very spot where, the day before, he had got his first +look at Allison Bain, and how he had turned and run home again without +being seen. Robin only told the story. He drew no inference from it, +at least he did not for his mother's hearing. + +His mother did that for herself. Remembering John's dazed condition at +worship on the first night of his homecoming, it is not surprising she +should have said to herself that "the lad's time had come." + +And what of Allison? She had asked herself that question a good many +times since John's departure; but she owned that never, either by word +or look, had Allison betrayed herself, if indeed she had anything to +betray, and of that she was less assured as the days went on. But +whether or not, it was evident, Mrs Hume assured herself, that Allison +was "coming to herself" at last. + +And so she was. Young and naturally hopeful, it is not to be supposed +that Allison's sorrow, heavy and sore though it was, could make all the +future dark to her, and bow her always to the earth. She had lost +herself for a time in the maze of trouble, into which death, and her +enforced marriage, and her brother's sin and its punishment, had brought +her. But she was coming to the end, and out of it now. She was no +longer living and walking in a dream. She was able to look over the +last year of her life at home with calmness, and she could see how, +being overwrought in mind and body, spent with work and watching and +care, she had fallen under the mastery of blind terror for her brother's +safety, and had yielded where she ought to have stood firm. + +She had no one to blame for what had befallen her. Her mother had +hardly been in a state to know what was going on around her, except that +her "bonny Willie"--as she called him in her prayers, and in her +murmured longings for him--was faraway, and might not come home in time +to see her die, or to help to lay her in her grave. Her father grieved +for his son, but, angry at him also, had uttered no word either to help +or to hinder the cause of the man who had made Allison's promise the +price of her brother's safety. But he went about with bowed head, +listening, and looking, and longing, ay longing, for the coming of the +lad. So what could she do but yield for their sakes, and take what +seemed the only way to bring him back again? + +But one wrong was never righted by the doing of another, and her +sacrifice had come to worse than naught. Though she had sinned blindly, +she had suffered for her sin, and must suffer still. But gradually the +despair which darkened all the year was passing. There was hope in her +heart now, and a longing to throw off the dead-weight which had so long +held her down. And the lightening of her burden showed now and then in +eye, and voice, and step, so that all could see the change. But with +all this the thought of John Beaton had nothing to do. + +She had seen him just as she had seen other folk and he had come into +her thoughts once or twice when he was not in her sight. But that was +because of the good understanding there was between him and little +Marjorie. The child had much to say about him when he was at home; and +when she was carried out in Allison's arms on those days, she was always +wishing that they might meet him before they went home again. + +One day they met, and Marjorie being gently and safely transferred to +John's arms, Allison turned and went back into the house without a word +of explanation or apology. + +"It's ironing day," explained Marjorie, a little startled at the look on +John's face. + +"Oh! it's ironing day, is it? Well, never mind. I am going to take you +to the very top of Windhill to give you a taste of the fresh air, and +then I shall carry you home to take tea with my mother and me." + +"That will be delightful," said Marjorie with a sigh of pleasure. + +No. In those days Allison was thinking nothing at all about John. When +she went about the house, with no gloom, but only a shadow of softened +sadness on her face, and a look of longing in her eyes, it was of her +brother that she was thinking. She was saying in her heart: + +"God help him in that dismal place--he who should be free upon the hills +with the sheep, or following the plough on his ain land at home." + +And when a sudden smile came, or a bright glance, or a murmur of song, +she was telling herself that his time was nearly over; that he would +soon be free again to go faraway over the sea, where, with kind help +from Mr Hadden, he would begin a new life, and all would be well with +him once more. Yes, and they might be together again. + +But this could not be for a long time. She must not even try to see her +brother. For Brownrig would be sure to have a watch set on him when he +was free. And Brownrig--having the law on his side, as he had said in +the hearing of many, on the night of the dark day on which her father +was buried, raising his voice that she too might hear him, the door +being locked and barred between them--Brownrig would come and she would +be found, and then lost forever. + +"For," said Allison to herself, "I should have to drown myself then, and +make an end of it all." + +She was standing on the edge of Burney's Pot, near the mill-dam, when +she said this to herself, and she shuddered as she looked down into the +grey water. + +"But it will never come to that! Oh! no, mother, it will never come to +that. But to save myself from that man, even to end all would surely be +no sin." + +But these thoughts did not haunt and terrify her now, as her doubts and +dreads had done during the winter. She had no time for brooding over +the past. Every hour of the day was more than full with all she had to +do, and there were no long, dark evenings, when she had only her wheel +and her own thoughts for company. + +And there was Marjorie. Marjorie had something to do with her thoughts +through all the hours of the day. She was always there to lift or to +lay down, to carry here or to carry there, to speak to or to smile upon. +And she grew sweeter and dearer every day. Above all, the time was +hastening, and Willie would soon be free. That thought made all the +days bright to Allison. + +And so she grew, not light-hearted, but reasonable and patient in her +thoughts of all that had befallen them, and, at most times, hopeful as +to all that might lie before them. + +The neighbours who, at her first coming among them, had been inclined to +resent her gloom and her silence, were ready now, for the sake of her +friendly looks, to forgive the silence which she kept still. Even in +the kirk she was like another woman, they said, and didna seem to be +miles awa', or dreaming, or in fear. + +Of this change Allison herself was conscious, when she thought about it. +The minister's words did not seem "just to go by" her as they used to +do. She listened and took her portion with the rest of the folk, and +was moved, or glad, or doubtful, or afraid, as they were, and thought +about all she had heard afterward, as doubtless some of the rest did +also. + +She was not desirous now, as she had been at first, for more than her +own turn of staying at home from the kirk. This was partly because +little Marjorie was sometimes able to go there; and when she went she +was carried in Allison's arms, where she rested, sometimes listening to +her father's voice, and sometimes slumbering through the time. But it +was partly, also, because there came now and then a message to Allison +there. + +For some of the good words spoken must be for her, she thought, since +the minister said they were for all. Allison was not good at +remembering sermons, or even "heads and particulars," as Robin was. For +a long time she had heard nothing but the minister's voice, and carried +away no word of his, either for correction or instruction. His sermons +were "beyond her," as she said. They meant nothing to her. But now and +then a good word reached her out of the Book; and sometimes a word of +the minister, spoken, as was the way in those days, as a comment on the +psalm that was to be sung, or on the chapter that was read, touched her, +strangely enough, more even than the words of the Book itself, with +which she had been familiar all her life. + +One day in early summer she carried her wee Marjorie to the kirk with a +sad heart. For the Sabbath-days were the worst to bear, since she had +least to do, and more time for thinking. All the morning her thoughts +had been with "her Willie," shut in between stone walls, away from the +sunshine and the sweet air, and she was saying to herself: Would the +shame and the misery of it all have changed him, and would he come out, +angry and reckless, a lost laddie? Oh! if she could only go to meet him +at the very door, and if they could get away together over the sea, to +that country so great and wide that they might easily lose themselves in +it, and so pass out of the sight and out of the thoughts of all who had +known them in their happy youth, before trouble had come! Might it not +be? And how could it be? Might she not set Brownrig and his wicked +wiles at naught, and go with her brother to save him? + +And then the minister's voice was heard: "Fret not thyself because of +evildoers." And so on: "Commit thy way unto the Lord. Trust also in +Him and He shall bring it to pass." + +"Bring it to pass!" In the midst of her trouble and longing, Allison +had almost uttered the words aloud, as though they had been spoken to +her alone of all the listening people, and then Marjorie stirred in her +slumber and brought her to herself again. + +"Rest in the Lord. Wait patiently for Him. Fret not thyself because of +him who prospereth in the way, because of the man who bringeth wicked +devices to pass." + +Surely those words were for her! And she heard no more till he came to +the good man whose "steps are ordered of God." + +"Though he fall, he shall not be utterly cast down, for the Lord +upholdeth him with His hand. + +"I have been young, and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous +forsaken, nor his seed begging bread." + +And then Robin touched his mother's hand. For Allison had drawn her big +black bonnet over her face to hide from the folk in the kirk the tears +which were falling fast on the bright hair of the little sleeper. Mrs +Hume made no sign that she saw them, but she prayed silently for the +sorrowful woman who all the long winter had kept her sorrow to herself. + +"Say nothing, Robin," said she, when they rose to go out together. "She +will be the better for her tears, or rather for that which made them +flow." + +To herself Robin's mother said: + +"She will surely speak now, and open her heart to comfort." + +She had a while to wait for that, but a change came over Allison as the +summer days went on. She was restless sometimes, and anxious and +afraid. She had an air of expectation as though she were waiting for +something, and sometimes she had the look of one eager to be up and +away. + +One night when Mrs Hume went up to see her little daughter in her bed, +she found Allison writing. She said nothing to her and did not seem to +see, and waited in expectation of hearing more. But she never did. + +For Allison's courage failed her and the letter was never sent. It was +written to Dr Fleming, who had been kind to her in the infirmary, and +it told him of her brother who was in prison, and asked him to visit him +and to be kind to him, as he had been to her. But after it was written +she was afraid to send it. + +No. She must wait and have patience. Willie must go away alone over +the sea, as they had agreed together in the only letters that had passed +between them since he was a prisoner. Mr Hadden would befriend him as +he had promised, and she would follow him when the right time came. + +"But it is ill waiting," said Allison to herself. "It is ill waiting." + +In those days many a word came to her as she sat in the kirk or in the +parlour at worship-time, which set her thinking. Some of them +strengthened her courage and gave her hope, and some of them made her +afraid. For she said to herself: + +"Are these good words for me?" + +They we're for the minister and for the minister's wife, doubtless, +every promise of them all, and for many more who heard them spoken. But +were they for her? + +"For," said she, "`if I regard iniquity in my heart, the Lord will not +hear my prayer.' And I'm no' sure of myself. `Love your enemies,' the +Book says, and I doubt there's hatred in my heart to one man. + +"Or maybe it is only fear of him and anger. I think if I could only get +well away from him, and safe from the dread of him, I would hate him no +longer. I would pity him. I pity him now, even. For he has spoiled +his own life as well as mine, and what with anger and shame, and the +pity of some folk and the scorn of others, he must be an unhappy man. +Yes, I _am_ sorry for him. For the fault was partly mine. I should +have stood fast whatever befell. And how is it all to end?" + + + +CHAPTER TWELVE. + + "A man may _choose_ to _begin_ love, but not to end it." + +The spring passed quickly and summer came on, and then something +happened which made a little stir of pleasure in the manse, and in the +pleasure Allison shared, because of little Marjorie. Mrs Esselmont +came home. + +Mrs Esselmont had been, in former days, one of the great ladies of the +shire, and, with a difference, she was one of its great ladies still. +Marjorie had been "kirstened after her," as they used to call it in that +country. The child was "Marjorie Esselmont Hume," and she was right +proud of her name. + +But Mrs Esselmont did not come back this time to Esselmont House, which +had been the home of the Esselmonts for many a year and day. Her +husband was dead and her sons also, and the great house, and the wide +lands which lay about it, had passed to another Esselmont, a stranger, +though of the same blood. She came back, as indeed she had gone away, a +sorrowful woman, for she had just parted from her youngest and dearest +daughter, who was going, as was her duty, to Canada with her soldier +husband. + +The acquaintance of Mrs Esselmont and the minister had commenced soon +after the coming of Mr Hume--then little more than a lad--a "missioner" +to Nethermuir. At the bedside of one whom the lady had long befriended, +they met by chance--if one may so speak of a meeting which was the +beginning of so much to them both. The poor woman in whom both were +interested was drawing nigh to the end of all trouble, and these two did +not meet again for years. + +The next meeting was in no sense by chance. In a time of great sorrow +Mrs Esselmont came to the minister for help, because she remembered how +his words, spoken in God's name, had brought peace to one who had sinned +and suffered, and who was sore afraid as the end drew near. And that +was the beginning of a lasting friendship between them. + +They had not met often during the last few years. Mrs Esselmont had +lived much in England with her daughters, and had only once returned to +her own house during the summer. Now she said she must look upon +Firhill as her permanent home, and she did not speak very cheerfully +when she said it. + +For though she was a good woman, she was not of a cheerful nature, and +she had had many a trouble in the course of her life. Some of them had +been troubles to which, at the time, it seemed wrong for her to submit, +but which it was in vain, and worse than in vain, to resent. They were +troubles which could only be ignored as far as the world was concerned, +but which, she told herself, could never be forgotten or forgiven. They +were all over now, buried in graves, forgiven and forgotten. But the +scars were there still of wounds which had hurt sorely and healed +slowly, and now she was looking sadly forward to a solitary old age. + +She had been long away, but Marjorie had not been allowed to forget her. +Gifts and kind wishes had come often to the child from her friend, and +her name had often been named in the household. But her coming was a +shock to Marjorie. What she had imagined of the writer of the letters +which she had heard read, and of the giver of the gifts which she had +received, no one could say. But the first glimpse which she got of the +tall form, shrouded in trailing, black garments, and of the pale face, +encircled by the border of the widow's cap, and shaded by the heavy +widow's veil, struck her with something like terror, which must have +ended in tears and sobs and painful excitement, if her mother had not +seen the danger in time and carried her away. + +"Poor darling! I fear she is no stronger as time goes on," said the +lady gently. + +"Yes, we think her a little stronger. Indeed we think there is a +decided change for the better since spring opened. She is able to stand +now, and even to walk a little in the garden. But she is very frail +still, our poor little girl," said the mother with a sigh. + +"What has helped her, do you think?" + +"Nature, it must be, and Allison Bain. The doctor has done nothing for +her for more than a year, but even he acknowledges that there is a +change for the better, though he does not give us much reason to hope +that she will ever be very strong." + +"It is God's will," said Mrs Esselmont with a sigh. + +"We can only wait and see what God will send her. As it is, she is a +blessing in the house." + +"Yes. Still with your large family and your many cares, she must be a +constant anxiety to you both night and day." + +"Well, we get used with even care and anxiety. And she is a happy +little creature naturally. Allison has helped us greatly with her. She +is very kind and sensible in all her ways of doing for her." + +"And who is Allison?" + +It was on Mrs Hume's lips to say, "We do not know who she is," but she +did not say it. + +"She came to fill Kirstin's place. Poor Kirstin was called home to +nurse her mother, who is lingering still, though she was supposed to be +dying when her daughter was sent for." + +And then Mrs Hume went on to speak of something else. + +Allison was "coming to herself," growing "like other folk," only bonnier +and better than most. There was no need to call attention to her as in +any way different from the rest. Allison had been good to Marjorie, and +Marjorie was fond of Allison. That was all that need be said even to +Mrs Esselmont. But the lady and Allison were good friends before all +was done. + +For many of Mrs Esselmont's lonely days were brightened by the visits +of the child Marjorie. And though the pony carriage was sometimes sent +for her, and though she enjoyed greatly the honour and glory of driving +away from the door in the sight of all the bairns who gathered in the +street to see, she owned that she felt safer and more at her ease in the +arms of "her own Allie," and so when it was possible, it was in +Allison's arms that she was brought home. + +If there had been nothing else to commend her to the pleased notice of +Mrs Esselmont, Allison's devotion to the child must have done so. And +this stately young woman, with her soft voice, and her silence, and her +beautiful, sorrowful eyes, was worth observing for her own sake. But +Allison was as silent with her as with the rest of her little world, +though her smile grew brighter and more responsive as the days went on. + +Mrs Esselmont's house stood on the hillside, facing the west. Behind +it rose the seven dark firs which had given to the place its name. The +tall firs and the hilltop hid from the house the sunshine of the early +morning, but they stood a welcome shelter between it and the bleak east +wind which came from the sea when the dreary time of the year had come. + +The house was built of dull grey stone, with no attempt at ornament of +any kind visible upon it. All its beauty was due to the ivy, which grew +close and thick over the two ends, covering the high gables, and even +the chimneys, and creeping more loosely about the windows in the front. +Without the ivy and the two laburnums, which were scattering their +golden blossoms over the grass when Allison saw it first, the place +would have looked gloomy and sad. + +But when one had fairly passed up the avenue, or rather the lane, lying +between a hedge of hawthorn on one side and the rough stone dike which +marked the bounds of the nearest neighbour on the other, and entered at +the gate which opened on the lawn, it was not the dull grey house which +one noticed first, but the garden. + +"The lovely, _lovely_ garden!" Marjorie always called it. She had not +seen many gardens, nor had Allison, and the wealth of blossoms which +covered every spot where the green grass was not growing, was wonderful +in their eyes. + +The place was kept in order by an old man, who had long been gardener at +Esselmont House, and it was as well kept in the absence of the mistress +as when she was there to see it. The garden was full of roses, and of +the common sweet-smelling flowers, for which there seems little room in +fine gardens nowadays, and it was tended by one who loved flowers for +their own sake. + +It was shut in and sheltered by a high stone wall on the east, and by a +hawthorn hedge on the north, but the walls on the other sides were low; +and sitting beneath the laburnums near the house, on the upper edge of +the sloping lawn, one could see the fields, and the hills, and a +farmhouse or two, and the windings of the burn which nearly made an +island of the town. From the end of the west wall, where it touched the +hawthorn hedge, one could see the town itself. The manse and the kirk +could be distinguished, but not very clearly. Seen from the hill the +place looked only an irregular group of little grey houses, for the +green of the narrow gardens behind was mostly hidden, and even the trees +along the lanes seemed small in the distance. But Marjorie liked to +look down over it now and then, to make sure that all was safe there +when she was away. + +It was a strange experience for her to be for hours away from her own +home, and even out of the town. + +Poor little Marjorie had passed more time on her couch in her mother's +parlour, during her life of eleven years, than in all other places put +together. She was happy in the change, and enjoyed greatly the sight of +something new, and there were many beautiful things for her to see in +Mrs Esselmont's house. But she needed "to get used with it," and just +at first a day at a time was quite enough for her strength. The day was +not allowed to be very long, and the pleasure of getting home again was +almost as great as the pleasure of getting away had been. But the best +of all was, that the child was getting a little stronger. + +There was much besides this to make it a good and happy summer at the +manse. The younger lads were busy at school under a new master, who +seemed to be in a fair way to make scholars of them all, Robin was full +of delight at the thought that _at last_ he was to go to college, and he +fully intended to distinguish himself there. He said "at last," though +he was only a month or two past sixteen, and had all his life before +him. + +"Ay, ye hae a' ye're life afore ye, in which to serve the Lord or the +Deevil," Saunners Crombie took the opportunity to say to him, one night +after the evening meeting, when he first heard that the lad was to go +away. + +Robin looked at him with angry eyes, and turned his back on him without +a word. + +"Hoot, man Saunners! There is no fear o' the laddie," said his more +hopeful crony, Peter Gilchrist. + +"Maybe no, and maybe ay. It'll be nae haflin course that yon lad will +tak'. He'll do verra well or verra ill, and I see no signs o' grace in +him so far." + +"Dinna bode ill o' the lad. The Lord'll hae the son o' his father and +mother in His good keeping. And there's John Beaton, forby (besides), +to hae an e'e upon him. No' but that there will be mony temptations in +the toon for a lad like him," added Peter, desirous to avoid any +discussion with his friend. + +"John Beaton, say ye? I doubt he'll need himsel' all the help the Lord +is like to give to ane that's neither cauld nor het. It's wi' stumblin' +steps he'll gang himsel', if I'm no mista'en." + +But to this Peter had nothing to say. They had been over the ground +before, and more than once, and each had failed to convince the other. +Crombie went on: + +"He carries his head ower-heich (over-high), yon lad. He's nae likely +to see the stanes at his ain feet, to say naething o' being a help to +the like o' Robert Hume." + +"Hae ye had ony words wi' him of late?" asked Peter gravely. + +"Nae me! He's been here often eneuch. But except in the kirk, where he +sits glowerin' straecht afore him, as gin there was naebody worthy o' a +glance within the four walls, I havena set my een upon him. It's inborn +pride that ails him, or else he has gotten something no' canny upon his +mind." + +"His mother's no' just so strong. It's that which brings him hame sae +often. His heart is just set on his mother." + +"It's no' like to do his mother muckle gude to be forced to leave her +ain house, and take lodgin's in a toon. But gin _he_ be pleased, +that'll please her," said Saunners sourly. + +"Hae ye ony special reason for thinkin' and sayin' that the lad has +onything on his mind? He's dull-like whiles, but--" + +"I'm no' in the way o' sayin' things for which I hae nae reason," said +Saunners shortly. "As to special--it's nae mair special to me than to +yoursel'. Has he been the same lad this while that he ance was, think +ye? Gude-nicht to ye." + +"Gude-nicht," said Peter meekly. "Eh! but he's dour whiles, is +Saunners! He is a gude man. Oh! ay, he's a gude man. But he's hard on +folk whiles. As for John Beaton--I maun hae a crack (a little talk) +with himsel'." + +But Peter did not get his crack with John at this time, and if he had +had, it is doubtful whether he would have got much satisfaction out of +it. + +John was not altogether at ease with regard to the state of his mother's +health, but it cannot be said that he was especially anxious. For +though the last winter had tried her, the summer "was setting her up +again," she always told him cheerfully when he came. And she was always +at her best when her son was with her. + +Her little maid, Annie Thorn, to whom she had become much attached, and +whom she had trained to do the work of the house in a neat and orderly +manner, was permitted to do many things which had until now been done by +the careful hands of her mistress. She was "little Annie" no longer, +but a well-grown, sensible lass of sixteen, who thought: herself a +woman, able to do all that any woman might do. She was willing even to +put on the thick muslin cap of her class if her mistress would have +consented that she should so disguise herself and cover her pretty hair. + +No, John was not anxious about his mother. He was more at ease about +her than he had been since he had been obliged to leave her so much at +home alone. But he came home more frequently to see her. He had more +time, and he could bear the expense better. Besides, the office work +which he had to do now kept him closer, and made change and exercise +more necessary for him, and so he came, knowing that he could not come +too often for his mother's pleasure. + +This was what he said to her and to himself, but he knew in his heart +that there was another reason for his coming; he called himself a fool +for his pains, but still he came. + +He knew now that it was the thought of Allison Bain which would not let +him rest, which drew him ever to return. For the thought of her was +with him night and day. Her "bonny een" looked up at him from his +papers, and his books, and from the waves of the sea, when his +restlessness urged him forth to his nightly wanderings on the shore. + +But even when he turned his face toward Nethermuir, he scorned himself +for his weakness. It was a kind of madness that was on him, he +thought--a madness that would surely come to an end soon. + +"Few men escape it, at one time or another of their lives, as I have +heard said. The sooner it comes, the sooner it is over. It has gone +ill with many a one. But I am a strong man, and it will pass. Yes! It +shall pass." + +This was what he said to himself, and he said also that Allison's +indifference, which he could not but see, her utter unconsciousness of +him and his comings and goings, his words and his ways, was something +for which he might be glad, for all that would help him through with it +and hasten his cure. + +But he was not so sure after a while--sure, that is, that Allison's +indifference and unconsciousness of him and his feelings made it easier +for him to put her out of his thoughts. There were times when with a +sort of anger he longed to make her look at him, or speak to him, even +though her words might hurt him. He was angry with her, and with +himself, and with all the world; and there was truth in old Crombie's +accusation that he carried his head high and neglected his friends. + +It was all that he could do sometimes to endure patiently the company of +Robert Hume or his brothers. Even Davie, who was not exacting in the +matter of response to his talk, missed something in his chief _friend_, +and had serious misgivings about it. + +And Davie's mother had her own thoughts also, and she was not well +pleased with John. That "his time was come" she knew by many a token, +and she knew also, or guessed, the nature of the struggle that was going +on in him. She acknowledged that his prudence was praiseworthy, and +that it might not be the best wisdom for him to yield to impulse in a +matter so important; but she also told herself scornfully that if his +love were "true love," he would never have waited for prudence or for +ambition to put in a word, but would have gladly taken his chance +whatever might befall. + +"Though indeed he might have cause to repent afterward," she +acknowledged with a sigh. + +And since Allison was not thinking at all about him, little ill would be +done. The lad would get his discipline and go his way, and might never +know what a chance of happiness he had let slip out of his hands. + +"For he could make her learn to love if he were to try," said Mrs Hume +to herself. "But he must not try unless--And if he should say or do +anything likely to bring watchful eyes or gossiping tongues upon +Allison, I shall have something to say to the lad myself." + +Some one else was having her own thoughts about these two. Mistress +Jamieson had seen the lad when "his een first lichted on the lass," and +she had guessed what had happened to him. Now she waited and watched +with interest expecting more. She had not counted on the blindness or +long-continued indifference of Allison. + +Was it indifference on her part? Or was it prudence, or a proper pride? +And the conclusion the mistress came to was this: + +"She's no' heedin' him. Ay, ye're a braw lad, John Beaton, and a +clever; but it'll do ye nae ill to be neglecit for a wee while, or even +set at naucht. Ye thocht to tak' her captive wi' a smile and a few saft +words! And ye'll do it yet, I daursay, since it's the nature o' woman +to be sae beguiled," added the mistress with a sigh. + +But her interest was a silent interest. She never named their names +together in a neighbour's hearing. + +It was of her brother that Allison was thinking all this time--of poor +Willie, who, as she believed, had never seen the sunshine, or even the +light of all these summer days. Every night and every morning she +counted the days that must pass before he should be set free to go to +his own house; and she rejoiced and suffered beforehand, as he must +rejoice and suffer when that time came. + +It would be November then. She knew just how Grassie would look to him +under the grey sky, or the slanting rain, with the mist lying low in the +hollows, and the wind sighing among the fir-trees on the height. She +could see the dull patches of stubble, and the bare hedges, and the +garden where only a touch of green lingered among the withered +rose-bushes and berry-bushes, and the bare stalks of the flowers which +they used to care for together. + +She saw the wet ricks in the corn-yard, and the little pools left in the +footmarks of the beasts about the door. She heard the lowing of the +cows in the byre, and the bleating of the sheep in the fold, and she +knew how all familiar sights and sounds would hurt the lad, who would +never more see the face or hear the voice of kith or kin in the house +where he was born. How could he ever bear it? + +"Oh! God, be good to him when that day comes!" was her cry. + +And since they had agreed that they must not meet on this side of the +sea, was there no other way in which she might reach him for his good? +She had thought of many impossible ways before she thought of John +Beaton. It was in the kirk, one Sabbath-day, that the thought of him +came. + +The day was wet and windy, and Marjorie was not there to fill her +thoughts, and they wandered away to Willie in the prison, and she fell +to counting the days again, saying to herself: "How could he ever bear +it?" + +She was afraid for him. She strove against her fears, but she was +afraid--of the evil ways into which, being left to himself, or to the +guidance of evil men, he might be tempted to fall. Oh! if she might go +to him! Or if she had a friend whom she might trust to go in her stead! + +And then she lifted her eyes and met those of John Beaton. She did not +start, nor grow red, nor turn away. But her whole face changed. There +came over it a look which cannot be described, but which made it for the +moment truly beautiful--a look hopeful, trustful, joyful. + +Allison was saying to herself: + +"Oh, Willie! if I might only dare to speak and bid him go to you." + + + +CHAPTER THIRTEEN. + + "She wakened heavy-hearted + To hear the driving rain, + By noon the clouds had parted, + And the sun shone out again. + `I'd take it for a sign,' she said, + `That I have not prayed in vain.'" + +That night while Mrs Beaton and her son sat by the fireside, exchanging +a word now and then, but for the most part in silence, a knock came to +the door. Allison had given herself no time to reconsider the +determination to which she had come when she met John's eyes in the +kirk, being bent on abiding by it whatever might befall. + +It had not come into her mind that her courage might fail her at the +last moment. It was not that her courage was failing, she told herself, +as she stood waiting. It was because she had run down the lane so +quickly that her heart was beating hard. It was like the thud of a +great hammer against her side; it frightened her, and she was tempted to +turn and run away. But she did not. + +"I would be sorry when it was too late," thought she, and knocked again. + +There was a pause of a minute or two, and then the door opened, and John +Beaton appeared, carrying a light. + +"I was wishing to say a word to Mrs Beaton, if she will let me," said +Allison, making a great effort to speak as usual. + +"Surely," said John. "Come in." + +"Come away in, Allison," said Mrs Beaton's kind voice out of the +darkness. + +When John had shut the door and come into the parlour with the light, he +was surprised to see that the two women had clasped hands, and that on +his mother's face was the look which he had hitherto believed it had +worn for him alone. He moved a chair forward from the wall. + +"Sit down, Allison," said he. + +"No," said she; "I will say first what I came to say." + +John set down the candle and turned to go. But Allison put out her hand +to detain him. + +"'Bide still," said she. "I have to ask your mother to ask her son to +do something for me--something which I cannot do for myself, but which +must be done, or I think my heart will break." + +"'Bide still, John," said his mother. + +John moved the light again, so that it fell on Allison's face, and then +went and stood in the shadow, leaning on the back of his mother's chair. +Allison stood for a moment silent, and both mother and son regarded her +with interest and with surprise as well. + +This was quite a different Allison, Mrs Beaton thought, from the one +who went up and down the street, heeding no one, seeing nothing unless +the child Marjorie was in her arms to call her attention to whatever +there might be to see. She seemed eager and anxious, full of +determination and energy. She had not at all the air of one who had +been accustomed to go and come at the bidding of other folk. + +"It is the true Allison at last," said John to himself. + +"Her gown has something to do with it," thought Mrs Beaton, and perhaps +it had. Her gown was black, and hung in straight folds about her. A +soft, white kerchief showed above the edge of it around her throat, and +her Sunday cap, less voluminous and of lighter material than those which +she wore about her work, let her shining hair be seen. + +"A strong and beautiful woman," John said to himself. His mother was +saying it also; but with a better knowledge of a woman's nature, and a +misgiving that some great trouble had brought her there, she added: + +"May God help her, whatever it may be. Allison, sit down," she said +after waiting a minute for her to speak. + +"It is that my heart is beating so fast that I seem to be in a tremble," +said Allison, clasping her hands on her side. + +"Sit down, my dear," said Mrs Beaton kindly. "Not yet. It is only a +few words that I must say, I have had great trouble in my life. I have +trouble yet--that must be met. And it came into my mind when I was +sitting in the kirk that you might maybe help me, and--keep my heart +from breaking altogether," said she; then lifting her eyes to John's +face she asked, "Have ye ever been in the tollbooth at Aberdeen? It is +there my Willie is, whom I would fain save." + +John's mother felt the start her son gave at the words. Even she +uttered a word of dismay. + +"I must tell you more," said Allison eagerly. "Yes, he did wrong. But +he had great provocation. He struck a man down. At first they thought +the man might die. But he didna die. My mother died, and my father, +but this man lived. Willie was tried for what he had done, and though +all in the countryside were ready to declare that Brownrig had gotten +only what he well deserved, they sentenced the lad to a long year and a +half in the tollbooth, and there he has been all this time. A long time +it has been to me, and it has been longer to him. It is near over now, +thank God." + +"And have you never seen him nor heard from him since then?" asked Mrs +Beaton. + +"I wrote one letter to him and he wrote one to me. That was at the +first. I wrote to him to tell him what I was going to do, and to warn +him what he must do when his time was over. I dared not write again, +for fear that--and even now I dare not go to him. When we meet it must +be on the other side of the sea. But I _must_ hear from him before +then. He wasna an ill lad, though ye might think it from what I have +told you. He was only foolish and ill advised. + +"And think of him all these long days and months alone with his anger +and his shame--him that had ay had a free life in the fields and on the +hills. And there is no one to speak a kind word to him when he comes +out of that weary place--" + +"And you would like my John to go and see him?" said Mrs Beaton. + +"Oh! if he only would! Think of him alone, without a friend! And he is +easily led either for good or ill." + +"Is it likely that he would listen to anything that an utter stranger +would say to him?" said John. + +He spoke coldly, as his mother noticed with pain. Allison did not +notice it. + +"But you would not seem like a stranger to him if you came from me. And +anyway, ye wouldna be strangers long. You would like Willie, or you +would be the first one who didna, all his life. And oh! he needs one +wise, and strong, and good like you. The very touch of your hand would +give him hope, and would keep him from losing heart--and, it might be, +from losing himself--" + +She stood, bending slightly toward him, her eyes, which in spite of his +will and his reason had all these months haunted him by night and by +day, looking into his. She stood in utter unconsciousness of herself or +of him, save as one whose strength might help the weakness of another +who was in sore need. No spoken words could have made clearer to him +that he--John Beaton--was not in all her thoughts, save as a possible +friend to the unknown criminal, who, doubtless, had well deserved his +fate. + +And to think of the life which lay before this woman, with this weak +fool to share it--a woman among ten thousand! + +"She will need strength for two, and her love will give it to her," +thought John, a dull pain at his heart with which some self-contempt was +mingled. But it was no time to consider himself with Allison's eyes on +his face. + +"I could trust him to you," said Allison, trying to smile, "because ye +have a kind heart, though folk say ye're a wee hard whiles. But I ken +what you have been to the lads at the manse to win them, and to warn +them, and to keep them out of _mischief_. It would be the saving o' my +Willie if you would but take him in hand." + +"I would gladly help him, or any one in trouble," said John, "but how +could I do it in secret?" + +"But you needna do it in secret. It's not Willie that needs to hide. +When the prison-door opens to him he will be free to go where he likes-- +to his own house, and his own land, to bide there at his pleasure. But +he will have a sore heart in going to a desolate house. And the thought +of going alone to a far-off land will dismay him. The help of such a +friend as you is what he needs, though it may seem a strange thing in me +to ask it from you." + +"You have a right to all the help that I can give you, as has any one in +trouble. But why should you not go to him yourself?" + +"But that is what I cannot tell you. I would never be suffered to go +with him if I were to be found. I have been asking you to help my +Willie, but indeed it is myself that you will help most. I cannot go +with him for both our sakes, but I will follow him. He will be watched +through every step of the Way, and I would be brought back again from +the ends of the earth. And then," added Allison her face falling into +the gloom of which John had seen but little, but which his mother had +seen often during the first days of their acquaintance, "then I should +just lie down and die." + +John made a sudden, impatient movement, and then he said: + +"And what am I to say to this man from you?" + +"Willie his name is--Willie Bain," said Allison, smiling faintly. "Oh! +ye'll ken what to say to him when ye see him. And ye are not to let him +know that ye are sent from me till ye are sure of him. He is a lad who +is moved by the first thought that comes, and his first thought when he +hears of me will be to try to see me. And he must not try," repeated +she, "for he will be watched, and then we will be parted forever." + +There was a pause, and then John said: + +"I will go to him, at any rate, and do what I can. I will faithfully +help him, if he will let me--so help me God." + +"I'm not feared for him now. You're strong and wise, and you can do +what you like with Willie." + +John did not seem to see the hand she held out to him. Allison went on: + +"When he speaks of me, as he'll be sure to do, just hear him and say +nothing till you are sure that he'll listen to reason--till he promises +not to try to see me, but to have patience and wait. I can trust him to +you, John Beaton, and I must go now." + +He could not this time refuse to see the hand she held out to him. He +took it in his and held it fast, while she looked at him with eyes full +of light and longing. "John," said she softly, "ye'll mind what is said +in the Book: `I was in prison and ye came unto me.'" And then she +turned to go. + +It must be owned that was a sore moment to John Beaton. He neither +spoke nor moved while she stood thus, nor when she bent down, kissed his +mother's hand, and then without a word went away. For a time, which he +did not measure, but which seemed long to his mother, he stood leaning +on the back of her chair. His face was hidden in his hands, but happily +she did not know that, and she waited till the first word should be +spoken by him. In a little he "pulled himself together," and came +forward into the light, which was but dim at the best. He snuffed the +solitary candle, and then fell to stirring the fire, which, never very +large, was in danger of disappearing under his hand. He added a dry +peat, however, and it soon blazed up again. + +"Yon's a strange story, mother," he said at last. "I hardly see the +good of my meddling in it. I suppose I must go and see the man, +anyway." + +"Yes, ye canna do less than that," said his mother. "I'll do more. +I'll do my best to help one who seems much in need of help, but I cannot +say that I am very hopeful as to what may come of it." + +"Ye'll see when ye go what can be done. Poor lassie. Her heart is in +it." + +"Yes," said John, "her heart is in it." And then they sat silent till +another knock came at the door. + +It was Robin Hume this time, who had been sent to ask for Mrs Beaton, +who had not been at the kirk, and no one had got a chance to speak to +John. + +"My mother said I wasna to stay," said Robin. But he came forward into +the room, now bright with firelight, and he stayed a good while, and had +much to say about various matters, and the interest with which John +seemed to listen and respond comforted Mrs Beaton concerning her son. + +Of course there was something to be said about the coming winter and its +work, and some other things came in as well. Then there was a little +sparring and laughter between them, which, with a lightened heart, Mrs +Beaton gently reproved, as not suitable for the Sabbath night. Then +Robin rose to go, and John went with him to the door. But he did not +linger there, or go out for a turn in the lane as he sometimes did, and +as his mother thought he would be sure to do. He came in and fell to +mending the fire again "for a last blaze," as he said. + +"And, mother, is not it near time that we were beginning to think of the +flitting that is before us?" + +"It's early days yet, John," said his mother. + +"And you will be loth to leave your little home, mother dear?" + +"It has been home to us both, John, and I like the place. But any place +will be home to me where you are, and if you think it wise to go I'll +soon be ready. And so ye have made up your mind to go to the college, +John?" + +"I am not sure yet, but it is likely. Whether I do or not, I must be in +Aberdeen all the winter, and I will be happier and safer in my mother's +house than anywhere else. But I am sorry to disturb you, mother. Ye +have got used with the place and are happy here." + +"I can be happy anywhere where it is wise and right for you to be. But +it is only August yet, and there is time enough to think about it." + +"Yes, there is no hurry. But there are arrangements to be made. And +mother I have been thinking, how would it do for us to have Robin with +us for the winter? It would be a satisfaction to his father and mother, +and a safeguard to him." + +"Surely, if you wish it. It will make a difference, but only a cheerful +difference. And it is a small thing to do for them who have been ay so +friendly." + +"Well, that is settled then, and I will look out for rooms, or for a wee +house--that will be better wouldna it, mother dear?" + +He did not need to ask. Anything that would please him would please his +mother also. But she was not so cheerful and eager about this as she +generally was about new plans and arrangements, John thought, and after +a little they fell into silence. + +John woke his mother out of her morning sleep when he came to bid her +good-bye. She had only a single word to say to him: + +"Dinna be long in coming home again, John," said she. And he promised +that he would not be long. + +He kept his promise, coming even sooner than he was expected, and when +his mother saw his face she was glad. For there was on it no sign of +either gloom or grieving. It was John, "at his best and bonniest," she +said to herself with a glad heart, as he sat for a little while beside +her bed, for his coming was late, as usual. She asked no questions. It +was well with him, that was enough for her. As he rose to go, she said: + +"I hope you have good news for Allison Bain." Then John sat down again. + +There was not much to tell. John had not seen the man himself. He had +been set at liberty before his time was out. As to what sort of a man +he was, John had been told that after a month or two, when he had been +first wild with anger and shame, and then sullen and indifferent, a +change had come over him. A friend had come to visit him more than +once, and had encouraged him to bear his trouble patiently, and had +given him hope. But he had never spoken about himself or his affairs to +any one else. The chances were he had gone home to his own place; but +nothing, which his informant could repeat, had been heard from him since +he went away. + +"Poor Allison Bain!" said Mrs Beaton with a sigh. + +"Surely it will be good news to her that he has been free all the summer +days, and in his own house," said John. + +"Yes, but of her he can ken nothing. And he must go to America, if he +should go, with only a vague hope of some time seeing her on the other +side of the sea. And she kens his weak will, and must fear for him. +She will likely be here in the Sabbath gloaming to hear what ye have to +tell." + +But it was otherwise ordered. John rose early, as was his custom, +intent on getting all the good from the country air which could be got +in a single day. It was a fair morning, clear and still. Only a +pleasant sound of birds and breeze was to be heard. There was no one +visible in the street. Most of the tired workers of the place were wont +to honour the day of rest by "a lang lie in the mornin'," and the doors +and windows of the houses were still closed. While he stood hesitating +as to the direction he should take, out of the manse close sedately and +slowly walked Fleckie and her companions, each dragging the long chain +by which she was to be tethered; and after them limped cripple Sandy, +whose Sunday duty at all times it was to see them safely afield. + +John did not quicken his steps to overtake him, as he had now and then +done at such times, for the sake of getting the news of all that had +happened while he was away. He turned and went down the green, and +round by the lane and the high hedge which sheltered the manse garden, +and giving himself no time to hesitate as to the wisdom of his +intention, stopped at last at one of the doors of the long, low +outbuildings of the manse. He had been in the place before with the +lads, and knew it well. There was no one there; but the foaming +milk-buckets indicated that some one would be there soon, and he waited. + +He did not wait long. A light step came quickly over the round stones +of the causey, and Allison entered, carrying the great earthen +milk-dishes in her arms. It was a dark little place, and she had set +them safely down before she saw the intruder. Then she did not utter a +word, but stood looking at him with all her heart in her eyes. John +held out his hand and took hers in a firm clasp, and "like a fool," as +he told himself afterward, said that which it had never come into his +mind to say until he saw her face. + +"Allison," said he, with his eyes on hers, "why did you not tell me that +it was your brother for whom your heart was sore?" + +Her look changed to one of wonder. + +"Surely I told you it was my brother. Who else could it be but my +Willie?" + +She grew pale, and would have withdrawn her hand, but he held it fast. + +"I did not see him, but I have good news for you. Your brother has been +a free man for two months and more. It must have been that they +repented of their hard sentence, and when the summer came again he +wearied, and was like to fall sick, and they let him go home. The man I +saw had only good words to say of him. After the first he was patient +and quiet. It was hard on him at first." + +"My poor Willie!" said Allison. + +"It seems that a friend went to see him in the early summer, a year ago, +and he took heart after that and waited patiently." + +"That must have been Mr Hadden," said Allison. "It was kind of him, +and Willie would take hear when he heard that I had gotten safe away." + +"You have not heard from your brother since?" + +"Oh! no. How could I hear? He does not even know where I am." + +"But you will write to him now?" + +Allison's face fell. + +"I darena do it. No letter can reach him but may first pass through our +enemy's hand. He will be on the watch more than ever now. No, it will +be ill waiting, but we can only wait." + +"Do you mean that you must wait till you see him in America?" said John +wondering. + +"Yes, that must be the way. He will go to Alexander Hadden, and I will +find him there. Yes, it may be a long time," and Allison's eyes filled +with tears. "But now that I have heard that he is free, and that it is +well with him, I can wait. Oh! yes, I can wait." + +Allison held out her hand, and John knew it was time to go. + +"I havena thanked you yet, but--" + +"You have nothing to thank me for yet. If I only could do something for +you!" + +"You have done this. You have told me he is free and at his own home. +I have all the summer days grudged myself the sweetness of the light and +the air, because I thought of him sitting in the darkness. And he has +had it all, and now he may be on the sea! It has happened well, and I +take it for a sign that the Lord is on our side." + +"And you will not be troubled and anxious any more?" + +"I will have hope now. And I thank you in my heart though I havena the +words ready." + +And then John went away. + +Allison sat in the kirk that day a happy woman. Every one there must +have noticed the change in her looks, only she sat in the end of the +seat near the door, and the little porch hid her from a good many of the +folk, and the side of her big bonnet was mostly turned toward the rest. +Little Marjorie saw her happy look, and raised herself up to ask her +what she was thinking about that made her look so glad. Allison was +thinking that her Willie might be sitting in the kirk at home listening +to Dr Hadden's kind, familiar voice, and that in the afternoon he might +be walking over his own land with Uncle Sandy, to see the sheep and get +the air of the hills. She bowed her head and whispered softly, "Whisht, +my lammie"; but she "smiled with her een," as Marjorie told her mother +afterward, and the child was content. + + + +CHAPTER FOURTEEN. + + "Into the restful pause there came + A voice of warning, or of blame, + Which uttered a beloved name." + +More than once since she had first seen her, Mrs Esselmont had asked, +"Who is Allison Bain?" + +Mrs Hume had not much to tell her. Of her family and friends she knew +absolutely nothing. Of Allison herself she knew only what she had seen +since she became an inmate of the manse, except that she had been Dr +Fleming's patient in the infirmary, and afterward for a short time a +nurse there. Dr Fleming probably knew more of her history than he had +told to them. + +"A good woman who had seen sorrow, he called her, and a good woman she +is in every way, and a good servant, now that she seems to be growing +content and cheerful. I own that she was a weight upon my mind at +first. She is faithful, patient, true. Her only fault seems to be her +reserve--if it can be called a fault to keep to herself what others have +no right to ask her to disclose. She has greatly helped our Marjorie, +and the child loves her dearly." + +"Yes, that is easily seen. As to her reserve, there are some troubles +that can be best borne in silence," said Mrs Esselmont. "And she has +grown more cheerful of late." + +"Much more cheerful. She is always quiet, and sometimes troubled with +anxious thoughts, as one can see, but there is a great change for the +better since the spring. It is, of late, as though some heavy weight +had been taken from her heart." + +In her lonely life, with little to interest her, either in her own home +or in the neighbourhood, it was natural enough that the lady should give +some thought to the strong, gentle, reticent, young woman, who seemed to +her to be quite out of place as a servant in the manse. She would have +greatly liked to win the girl's confidence, so that she might be the +better able to give her help and counsel if the time should come when +she should acknowledge her need of them. Until that time came, she told +herself, she could offer neither help nor counsel. It was not for her +to seek to enter into the secret of another woman's sorrow, since she +knew from her own experience how vain are words, or even kindest deeds, +to soothe the hurt of a sore and angry spirit. + +"I might only fret the wound I fain would heal. And she is young and +will forget in time whatever her trouble may be. And, when all is said, +how can I think she is not in her right place, since she fills that +place so well? God seems to be giving her the opportunity and the power +to do for the child what has long seemed beyond hope, even to the +mother, who is not one inclined to despond. I will not meddle in her +concerns hastily, but oh! I would like if this Allison were ever in +sore need of a friend, that she would come to me." + +It was astonishing to herself when she considered the matter, how many +of the lady's thoughts were given to this stranger. + +"We are curious creatures," she mused. "It is little to my own credit +to say it, but I doubt if this Allison had been just a decent, plain +lass like Kirstin, I might have been left to overlook her and her +sorrows, though I might have helped her when I knew her need. I will +bide my time, and when it comes I will do what I can for Allison Bain, +whatever her need may be." + +Almost every week Marjorie spent a day at Firhill, and she was usually +carried there, or home again, in the arms of Allison; but there could be +no lingering there because of all that was to be done at home. Marjorie +needed no one to stay with her. If it were "a garden day," as she +called it when it was fair and the wind blew softly, she was content to +be quite alone for hours together. She could be trusted to walk no +farther and make no greater exertion than was good for her. + +In the house she had a book, or her doll, or the stocking she was +knitting, to pass the time. In the garden she did not need these. She +had the flowers first of all, the trees and the changing sky, the bees +and the birds. The crows, which came and conversed together on the +great firs beyond the wall, had much to say to her as well as to one +another. She put their speech into words for her own pleasure, and +looked with their eyes on the distant hilltops and into the valleys +between, and saw what they saw there. A late laverock springing up now +and then thrilled her with his song and set her singing also, or the +cooing of the doves soothed her to peaceful slumber and happy dreams. + +But there came a day when all did not go so well with the child. The +sky was overcast and rain threatened; and Marjorie fretted and was "ill +to do with," while her mother hesitated as to the propriety of her going +to Firhill. The coming of the pony carriage decided the matter, +however, and the child went away, a little ashamed of herself, but never +doubting that all would be as usual when she reached the garden. + +But she did not have a happy day. The weather was warm and close, and +as the afternoon wore on the sky darkened, so that it was gloomy even in +the garden, and a sudden pang of homesickness smote the child when they +carried her into the deeper gloom of the house. She struggled bravely +against it for a while, telling herself how foolish she was, and how +ungrateful Mrs Esselmont would think her if she were to cry, or even +seem to wish to go home before the time. + +Poor little girl! She was ill and uncomfortable, and did not know it. +She thought herself only naughty and ungrateful; and when she could no +longer keep back her tears, and in spite of a determination not to do +so, cried out that she wanted her mother, she believed that the end of +her happy days had come. + +Into the confusion which all this caused, Allison came, earlier than +usual, in the hope of getting the child home before the rain. At the +sight of her, Marjorie's tears flowed faster than ever, but not for +long. Allison's touch, and her firm and gentle words, soothed and +quieted her. The broth which she had refused at dinner was brought her, +and was eaten, and the worst was over. + +But the rain was falling in torrents by this time, and while they +waited, Marjorie fell asleep in Allison's arms. + +It had not been a very good day for Mrs Esselmont. She was not strong, +the heat and gloom had depressed her, and she sighed now and then as she +sat beside Allison and the child in the darkening room. Allison +wondered whether she had any new sorrow to trouble her. + +"She is nearly done with all sorrow now. She must be glad of _that_," +thought Allison. + +"I hope they will not be anxious about you at home," said Mrs +Esselmont, speaking softly not to waken Marjorie. + +"No, madam, I don't think it. And Mrs Hume will be sure to send one of +the lads with a lantern if the rain should keep on." + +"They know you are to be trusted with the child. You have done her much +good, poor wee lammie." + +"She has done me much good," said Allison. + +"I am sure of it. In the way of kindness done, as in other ways, `It is +more blessed to give than to receive.' You are a good nurse, Allison." + +"I love the child. It is a great pleasure to do for her." + +"It is your love for her that makes you wise and firm in dealing with +her. And you have been a sick-nurse, I hear." + +Mrs Esselmont was thinking of the time which Allison had passed in the +infirmary, but Allison had for the moment forgotten that. Her thoughts +had gone back to her home and her mother, who had needed her care so +long. + +"My mother was long ill, and there was no one but me to do for her. I +learned to do many things to ease and help her first, and my father +afterward." + +"Have they been long dead?" asked Mrs Esselmont gently. + +"A long while it _seems_--but it is not so very long. There was little +time between them, and all things seemed to come to an end when they +were gone." + +Mrs Esselmont listened in wonder to the low, pathetic voice which told +her this. Was this the girl who had never spoken of her past life in +the hearing of any one--who had never named father or mother or home, +except perhaps to little Marjorie? Mrs Esselmont was a wise woman. +She would have liked well to hear more, but she asked no question to +startle her into silence again. After a little she said: + +"They were happy in having a loving daughter to close their eyes." And +she sighed, thinking of her own dearest daughter who was faraway. + +Marjorie stirred in Allison's arms, and there was no need to answer. By +and by Jack came with the lantern, and it was time to go home. + +After this, in their brief intercourse--during a few minutes in the +garden, or by the parlour fire, while the child was being wrapped up to +go home--Mrs Esselmont had many a quiet word with Marjorie's faithful +nurse and friend, and their friendship grew slowly but surely. +Allison's revelation of herself, and of her past life, was for the most +part quite unconsciously made. Mrs Esselmont listened and made no +comments; but in her own thoughts, when she "put this and that +together," she owned that not often in the course of a long life had she +come into contact with one in whose character, strength and gentleness, +firmness and patience, were more happily combined. Without being aware +of it, she was beginning to regard this strong and silent young woman +not as a mere maid-servant in the manse, who came and went, and worked +for wages like the rest, but as one who, for reasons not to be revealed, +had chosen, or had been forced by an untoward fate, to begin a new life +in a sphere in which she had not been born. But much as she desired to +know more about her, she waited for Allison herself to speak. + +Summer passed all too quickly and the "dowie fall o' the year" was +drawing on. There was no more going through the lanes to follow or to +flit the cows for Marjorie. The harvest was over, and the patient +creatures had the range of all the narrow fields, and cripple Sandy had +leisure to do his duty toward them without the help of any one. But +whenever a bright day came, or even a gleam of sunshine when the day was +dark, the child had still a turn in the lanes, or round the garden in +Allison's arms. All the days were busy days, but none of them were so +full of work or care as to hinder Allison in this labour of love, which +indeed was as good for herself as for Marjorie. + +For there were times as the days began to grow dark and short when +Allison needed all the help which her love for the child could give her +to keep her thoughts from the cares and fears which pressed upon her. +No word came from Willie, though she had written to Mr Hadden to tell +him that her brother was free, and that she hoped he would soon be in +America, and that he might safely write to her now. + +It was time for a letter unless Willie had lingered longer at home than +he had promised. Was he there still? or had any ill happened to him? +She could wait with patience for the sight of him, even for years, if +she could but be sure that he was safe and well. And she could only +strive to wait with patience whether she heard or not. + +She was saying something like this to herself as she sat in the silent +house one night, when the kitchen-door opened and Saunners Crombie came +in. The minister was not at home, and Mrs Hume, who was not very well, +was up-stairs with her little daughter. All this Allison told him, and +asked him to sit down, with no thought that he would do so, for few +words had ever passed between them. He sat down, however, and leaned +over the fire with his hands spread out, for "the nicht was cauld," he +said. + +Allison brought dry peats and mended the fire, and then took to her +stocking-mending again. It would not have been easy for her to begin a +conversation with Crombie under any circumstances. It seemed impossible +to do so now, for what could she say to him? Saunners had been in deep +affliction. His wife was dead, and he had just returned from her burial +in a distant parish, and it seemed to Allison that it would be +presumption in her to utter a word of condolence, and worse still to +speak about indifferent things. + +She stole a glance at him now and then as she went on with her work. +How old, and grey, and grim he looked! And how sad and solitary the +little house at the edge of the moss must be, now that his wife was not +there! His grey hair and his bowed head 'minded her of her father; and +this man had no child to comfort him, as she had tried to comfort her +father when her mother died. She was very sorry for him. + +Her sympathy took a practical turn, and she rose suddenly and went out. +The tea-kettle was singing on the hearth, and when she returned she went +to the dresser and took the teapot down. + +"Ye're chilled and weary, and I am going to make you a cup of tea," said +she. Saunners looked up in surprise. + +"There's nae occasion. I'll get my supper when I gae hame." + +He made a little pause before the word, as though it were not easy to +say it. + +"Ay, will ye. But that will be a while yet. And I must do as I am +bidden. The mistress would have come down, but she's no' just very well +the night, and is going to her bed. The minister may be in soon." + +So the tea was made and butter spread upon the bannocks, and then +Allison made herself busy here and there about the kitchen and out of +it, that he might have his tea in peace. When his meal was finished and +the dishes put away, she sat down again, and another glance at the bowed +head and the wrinkled, careworn face, gave her courage to say: + +"I am sorry for your trouble." + +Saunners answered with a sigh. + +"Ye must be worn out wi' that lang road and your heavy heart." + +"Ay. It was far past gloaming o' the second day ere I wore to the end +o' the journey. The langest twa days o' a lang life they were to me. +But it was her wish to be laid there wi' her ain folk, and I bid to gie +her that last pleasure. But it was a lang road to me and Girzzie, too, +puir beast." + +"And had ye no friend to be with ye all that time?" + +Saunners shook his head. + +"Peter Gilchrist offered to go wi' me. But he was ahind with his farm +work, an' I wasna needin' him. Twa folk may shorten a lang day to ane +anither, but it's no ay done to edification. But the warst o' a' was +coming hame to a forsaken hoose." + +The old man shivered at the remembrance and his grey head drooped lower. + +"I'm sorry for your trouble," repeated Allison. "It's the forsaken home +that at first seems the worst to bear." + +"Ay, do ye ken that? Weel, mine's a forsaken hoose. She was but a +feckless bodie, and no' ay that easy to deal wi', but she's a sair miss +in the hoose. And I hae but begun wi't," added Saunners with a sigh. +Then there was a long silence. "It's a bonny place yon, where I laid +her down," said he at last, as if he was going on with his own thoughts. +"It's a bonny spot on a hillside, lying weel to the sun, wi' a brown +burn at the foot. I got a glimpse over the wall of the manse garden. +The minister's an auld man, they say. I didna trouble him. He could +hae dane nae gude either to her or to me. It's a fine, quiet spot to +rest in. I dinna wonder that my Eppie minded on it at last, and had a +longing to lie there with her kin. It is a place weel filled--weel +filled indeed." + +Allison's work had fallen on her lap, and she sat with parted lips and +eager eyes gazing at him as he went on. + +"I saw the name o' Bain on a fine new headstane there. An only son had +put it up over his father and his mother, within a few months, they +said. I took notice of it because o' a man that came in and stood +glowering at it as we were finishing our job. It was wi' nae gude +intent that he cam', I doubt. He was ane that middled with maist things +in the parish, they said. But I could hae proved that my Eppie belonged +to the parish, and had a gude right to lie there wi' her kin. We were +near dane ere he took heed o' us, and it was ower late to speak then. +He only speired a question or twa, and then gaed awa'." + +Then there was a long pause. Saunners sat looking into the fire, +sighing now and then, and clearing his throat as if he were ready to +begin again. When he turned toward her, Allison took to her +stocking-darning. She longed to ask him a question--but she dared not +do it, even if she could have uttered the words. Saunners went on: + +"I thocht it queer-like of the man, but I would hardly have heeded it +but for that which followed. When his back was fairly turned there came +a wee wifie out o' the corner, where she had been watchin', and shook +her neive (fist) at him and ca'ed him ill names. It was like a curse +upon him. And she bade him go hame to his fine house, where he would +have to live his leefu' lane a' his days as a punishment for his +wickedness. I had a few words with her after that. She was unco +curious to hear about my Eppie, and how I came to lay her there. We +gaed through among the stanes thegither, and she had plenty to say about +ane and anither; and whiles she was sensible enough, and whiles I had my +doubts about it. Many a strange thing she told me gin I could only +mind." + +Then Saunners sat silent again, thinking. Allison turned her face away +from the light. + +Was the terrible old man saying all this with a purpose? Did he know +more than he told, and did he mean it for a warning? For it must have +been in the parish of Kilgower where he had laid down the body of his +wife. And it must have been Brownrig whom the "wee bowed wifie" had +cursed. She grew sick at the thought of what might be coming upon her; +but she put force upon herself, and spoke quietly about other matters. +Then the old man rose to go. + +"I thocht maybe I might see John Beaton the nicht. Is he at hame, think +ye?" Allison shook her head. + +"I havena heard of his being here, but he may have come for all that." + +"Ye would be likely to ken," said Saunners, and then he went away. + +Allison listened till the sound of his footsteps died in the distance, +then she rose and did what was still to be done in the house. She +barred the door, and covered the fire, and put out the lights, and went +softly up-stairs to the little room where Marjorie slumbered peacefully. +Then she sat down to think of all that she had heard. + +It was not much. Crombie had seen two names on a headstone in the +kirkyard of Kilgower. That they were the names of her father and mother +she did not doubt. She had been greatly startled by all she had heard, +but she had not betrayed herself; and after all, had she not more cause +to be glad and thankful than to be afraid? Willie had put up that +stone! Was not that enough to make it sure that he had been at home, +and that all had been well with him? He might be at home yet, on his +own land. Or he might be on the sea--on his way to a new country which +was to give a home to them both. Glad tears came to Allison's eyes as +she knelt down and laid her face on Marjorie's pillow. + +"I am glad and thankful," she said, "and I will not vex myself thinking +about what the old man said. It might just be by chance that he spoke +with no thought about me, except that the name was the same. I will be +thankful and have patience and wait. I am sure he would not wish to +harm me. Only if he were to speak of all that in the hearing of other +folk it might end in my having to go away again." + +But the thought of having to go away did not seem so terrible to her as +it would have done a few months ago. Her courage had risen since then. +She had "come to herself," and she was reasonable both in her fears and +her hopes, and so she repeated, as she laid her head on her pillow: + +"I will be thankful and have patience and wait. And I will put my trust +in God." + + + +CHAPTER FIFTEEN. + + "She courtsied low, she spoke him fair, + She sent him on his way; + She said as she stood smiling there, + You've wealth, and wiles, and wisdom rare, + But I have won the day." + +Crombie did not leave the manse with an easy mind, and the more he +thought of what he had said, and what he had not said there, the more +uneasy he became. He was in a quandary, he told himself, putting the +accent on the last "a." To his surprise and consternation he found +himself in doubt as to the course he ought to pursue. + +He had gone to the manse with the full intention of asking the +minister's lass whether she were the wife of the man whom he had seen +"glowering at the new headstane" in the kirkyard of Kilgower, and of +putting it to her conscience whether she was not breaking the laws of +God and man by keeping herself hidden out of his way. + +But he had not asked her. He could not do it. He had come away without +a word, and now he was saying to himself that the man who through +soft-heartedness, or through the influence of carnal affection, suffered +sin in another, thus being unfaithful to a sinful soul in danger, was +himself a sinner. He ought to have spoken, he told himself. He could +not be called upon to tell the story to another, but to Allison herself +he should have spoken. If her conscience needed to be wakened, he +sinned against her in keeping silence. It might have been to prepare +him for this very work that he had been sent to lay his Eppie down in +that faraway kirkyard. + +Saunners stood still on the hillside when he got thus far. Ought he to +go back again? He could not be sure. The thought of the first glimpse +he had got that night of Allison sitting quiet and busy with her work, +with a look of growing content upon her face that had once been so +gloomy and sad, came back to him, and he moved on again. + +"I'll sleep on it," said he, "and I'll seek counsel." + +It was a wise resolution to which to come. Saunners was a good man, +though, perhaps, he did not always do full honour to his Master or to +himself in the sight of those who were looking on. He was "dour, and +sour, and ill to bide," it was said of him, even by some among his +friends. + +But there was this also to be said of Saunners. It was only when a life +of struggle and disappointment and hard, wearing work was more than half +over, that he had come to see the "True Light," and to find the help of +the Burden-Bearer. A man may forsake the sins of his youth and learn to +hate the things which he loved before, and to love the things which he +hated, and in his heart long, and in his life strive, to follow the +Perfect Example in all things. But the temper which has been indulged +for half a lifetime cannot be easily and always overcome, and habits +which have grown through the years cannot be cast aside and put out of +sight in a moment, like an ill-fitting garment which will never trouble +more. Life was, in a way, a struggle to Saunners still. + +But though he lost his temper sometimes and seemed to those who were too +ready to judge him to fail in the putting on of that Charity which +"thinketh no evil" and which is "the bond of perfectness," he was still +a good man, honest, conscientious, just, and he could never willingly +have sought to harm or to alarm any helpless or suffering creature. But +then neither would his conscience let him consent to suffer sin in one +whom he might, through faithful dealing, save from loss and ruin, and +whom he might bring back to the right way again. + +"She doesna look like a sinfu' woman," he thought, recalling the glimpse +he had got through the open door, of Allison sitting at peace and safe +from harm. "She is like a woman who has seen sorrow, and who is winning +through wi't. And yon man had an evil look. + +"And after a', what hae I to go upon? A name on a headstane in a +farawa' kirkyard! A' the rest came frae the wee wud wifie (the little +mad woman), who micht have made up the story, or only believed it true +because o' the ill-will she bore to yon dark, angry-lookin' man. And +even if the story be true, what call have I to mak' or meddle in it? + +"No' an ill word that ever I hae heard has been spoken of the lass since +she came to the manse. She's at peace, and she's doing the duty that +seems to be given her to do, and--I'll bide a wee and seek counsel. And +after a', what hae I to go upon?" repeated Saunners. + +But there was plenty to go upon, as he knew well, if he had only been +sure that it would be wise to do anything, or meddle at all in the +matter. He had only spoken a word to Allison; but the wee wifie, while +they sat together on a fallen gravestone, had told him, not the whole +story--she was hardly capable of doing that--but all of it that she had +seen with her own eyes. + +Oh! yes. She knew well about bonny Allie Bain. She was in the kirk +when she was married--"sair against her will. It was like a muckle +black corbie carrying off a cushat doo. But the cushat got free for a' +that," said the wee wifie, with nods and smiles and shrill laughter. + +But she said nothing of the brother's part in that which followed, +though she told with glee how Brownrig had gotten his deserts before all +was done, and how the bride went one way and the bridegroom went +another, "carried hame wi' sair banes in his gig." She told how first +Allison's mother, and then her father, were put in the grave, where they +both lay with the new stone at their heads, and how "bonny Allie" had +come to say farewell to them there. She grew eager and eloquent when +she came to her own part in the story. + +"I was here mysel', as I am maist days, for it's a bonny place and +halesome, though ye mightna think it here among the dead folk. I like +to hae a crack with them that's been awa' for mony a year and day. My +mother lies ower in yon nook, and the man I should hae marriet. My +father and my brother were lost at sea. + +"Oh! ay--and about bonny Allie. Weel, she lay down wi' her face upon +the sod, and lay lang there, and when she lifted it again it was white +as the snaw, but there wasna a tear upon it. Then there came the bark +o' a dog that I kenned weel. He was sent after me once, though Brownrig +denies it. So I made free to go in by; and says I, `Miss Allie dear, I +hear the bark o' the black dog, Worry, and I doubt his maister's nae +farawa'.' + +"She was speakin' ower the wa' to the minister's son by that time, and +after a minute or twa she came awa', put her face down on the grave +again, and then she followed me. And when we came near to the foot o' +the brae, I garred (made) her take off her hose and shoon, and wade doon +the burn a bittie that the dog mightna follow the scent, and I laid doon +peats that she might step on them a bit o' the way between the burn and +my ain door. + +"When she came in she sat still like ane dazed and spent, and never a +word spake she. But I stirred up the fire and boiled the kettle, and +said I:-- + +"`Did ye break your fast afore ye came awa'?' + +"`There wasna time,' said she. + +"`And ye had nae heart for your supper yestreen, and ye forgot ye're +denner, and nae wonder. But if ye're thinkin' o' winning awa' to +Aberdeen this day, or even the morn, ye'll need to tak' something to +make ye strong for the journey.' + +"So she ate her bread and drank her tea, and then she lay down in my bed +and sleepit the hale day. I was unsettled mysel' that day, and I thocht +I would gang up the brae to the Meikles and get some buttermilk that the +mistress had promised me. So I darkened the window and locket my door. +But I didna leave my key in the thecking (thatch) as I do whiles, in +case any o' the neebors micht send a bairn wi' a sup o' milk, or a bit +from a new cut cheese. It's weel to gie them a chance to open the +door." + +"And what then?" said Crombie, fearful of another digression. "What +happened then?" + +"Oh! naething happened. I only thocht I would be as weel awa', in case +Brownrig sent or came himsel' to see what there was to see. So I gaed +awa' for a while, and when I cam' back I just set mysel' doon at the +door to wait for what would come next. Allie sleepit on, and had nae +appearance o' having moved when the sun was near set, which wasna early, +for the days were near their langest. But I made the fire burn up, and +b'iled the kettle to be ready, and made the tea. And then wha' should I +see but Brownrig himsel', riding on his black horse and followed by his +uncanny tyke. I had only time to draw thegither the doors o' my +press-bed ere he was upon me. + +"I was feared at the sicht o' the dog, and the man saw it; but it wasna +for mysel' that I was feared, and that he didna see. + +"`Ye needna gang white like that at the dog. He'll do ye no harm,' said +he. + +"`No, unless ye bid him,' said I. + +"He gaed me a dark look, and said he: `I'm not like to do that, though I +hear ye have accused me of it.' + +"So I saw he was gaen to speak me fair, and I cam' to the door, and a' +at once I saw the twa cups that I had set on the table for Allie and me. + +"`Ye're to hae a veesitor the nicht?' said he. + +"`Wha' kens?' said I. `I'm ay ready, and it is to be you the nicht. +Come ye away in and take a cup o' tea, and maybe I'll find a drappie o' +something stronger, gin ye'll promise no' to tell the gauger. No' that +I'm feared at _him_. He's a frien' o' mine, and that's mair than I +would mak' bauld to say o' ye're-sel',' said I, giein' another feared +look at the dog. `Come in by, and sit doon.' + +"But it was growing late, he said, and he must awa'. He had only a +question to speir at me. Had I, by ony chance, seen his wife passing by +that day? And in whose company? + +"`Ye're wife?' said I, as gin I had forgotten. I whiles do forget. + +"`Ay, my wife, Mistress Brownrig--her that was Allison Bain!' + +"`Oh!' said I then; `bonny Allie Bain? Ay, I did that! In the early, +_early_ mornin' I saw her ower yonder, lying wi' her face on the +new-made grave.' + +"I spak' laich (low) when I said it. + +"`And did ye no' speak to her?' said he. + +"`I daured na,' said I. + +"`And which way went she?' said he. + +"`She stood up on her feet, and looked about her like one dazed, and +then somebody spoke to her from ower the wall. And in a wee while I +cam' round and said a word, but she never answered me.' + +"`And wha was the man? Or was it a man?' + +"`Oh! ay. It was a man. It was the minister's son wha has come lately +frae America. But I heard na a word he said.' + +"`Hadden?' he said. `I'll hae a word wi' him.' And he gaed off in a +hurry, and I was glad enow. Then I cried after him: `Take ye're dog wi' +ye, and the next time ye come leave him at hame.' But he never heeded, +but hurried awa'." + +"And what happened then?" asked Saunners, trying to hide the interest he +took in the story, lest she should suspect that he had a reason for it. + +"Doubtless Mr Hadden told him the truth. There was little to tell. +But naething came o' it, nor of a' the search which he has keepit up +since then near and far. It gaes me lauch when I think about it. He +was mad wi' the love of her, and the last time he touched her hand was +when he put the ring upon it in the kirk. Her lips he never touched-- +that I'll daur to swear. And a' this time he has been livin' in the +house that he made sae grand and fine for her. And doesna he hate it +waur than pain or sin by this time? Ay! that does he," said she with +her shrill laughter. "He has had a hard year o' it. He gaes here and +there; and when a new-comer is to be seen among us, his een is upon him +to mak' sure that he mayna hae something to say to the folk that bides +in Grassie--that's the Bains' farm. And gin he thocht one had a word to +say about Allie, he would gar his black dog rive him in bits but he +would get it out o' him." + +Then a change came over the old woman's face. + +"And how did she get awa' at last?" asked Crombie, growing uneasy under +her eye. + +"Oh! she won awa' easy eneuch in a while. She was far frae weel then, +and I'm thinkin' that she's maybe dead and a' her troubles ower by this +time." + +"And her name was Allie Bain, was it?" + +"Ay, ay! her name was Allie Bain." + +"Weel, I need to be goin' now. I thank ye for yer story. And if ever I +happen to see her, I'se tell her that I saw a frien' o' hers wha spak' +weel o' her. And what may ye're ain name be?" + +"My name's neither this nor that, that ye should seek to ken it. And, +man! gin ye're een should ever licht on ane that ca's hersel' Allie +Bain, gae by her, as gin she wasna there. It's better that neither man +nor woman should ken where she has made her refuge, lest ane should +speak her name by chance, and the birds o' the air should carry the +sound o' it to her enemy ower yonder. Na, na! The least said is +soonest mended, though I doubt I have been sayin' mair than was wise +mysel'. But ye seem a decent-like bodie, and ye were in sair trouble, +and I thocht I micht hearten ye with friendly words ere ye gaed awa'. +But hae ye naething to say about Allison Bain neither to man nor woman, +for ill would be sure to come o' it." + +She was evidently vexed and troubled, for she rose up and sat down, and +glanced sidewise at him in silence for a while. Then she said: + +"I daursay ye're thinkin' me a queer-like crater. I'm auld, and I'm +crooket, and whiles my head's no richt, and there are folk that dinna +like to anger me, for fear that I micht wish an ill wish on them. I +read my Bible, and say my prayers like ither folk. But I'm no sayin' +that I haena seen uncanny things happen to folk that hae gaen against +me. There's Brownrig himsel' for instance. + +"I'm no' sayin' to ye to do the lass nae ill. Ye seem a decent man, and +hae nae cause to mean her ill. But never ye name her name. That's gude +advice--though I havena ta'en it mysel'. Gude-day to ye. And haste ye +awa'. Dinna let Brownrig's evil een licht on ye, or he'll hae out o' ye +a' ye ken and mair, ere ye can turn roond. Gude-day to ye." + +"Gude-day to you," said Saunners, rising. He watched her till she +passed round the hill, and then he went away. + +But the repentant wee wifie did not lose sight of him till he had gone +many miles on his homeward way. She followed him in the distance, and +only turned back when she caught sight of Brownrig on his black horse, +with his face turned toward his home. + +Though Saunners would not have owned that the woman's words had hastened +his departure, he lost no time in setting out. It was not impossible +that, should Brownrig fall in with him later, he might seek to find out +whether he had ever seen or heard of Allison Bain, since that seemed to +be his way with strangers. That he should wile out of him any +information that he chose to keep to himself, Saunners thought little +likely. But he might ask a direct question; and the old man told +himself he could hold up his face and lie to no man, even to save +Allison Bain. + +So he hastened away, and the weariness of his homeward road was +doubtless beguiled by the thoughts which he had about the story he had +heard, and about his duty concerning it. His wisdom would be to forget +it altogether, he told himself. But he could not do so. He came to the +manse that night with the intention of telling Allison all he had heard, +and of getting the truth from her. But when he saw her sitting there so +safe, and out of harm's way, he could not do it. + +And yet he could not put it altogether out of his thoughts. He would +not harm a hair of the lassie's head. A good woman she must be, for she +had been doing her duty in the manse for nearly a year now, and never a +word to be spoken against her. And who knew to what straits she might +be driven if she were obliged to go away and seek another shelter? +There were few chances that she would find another home like the manse. +No, he would utter not another word to startle her, or to try to win her +secret. + +"But there is John Beaton to be considered. I would fain hae a word wi' +John. He's a lad that maybe thinks ower-weel o' himself, and carries +his head ower-high. But the root o' the matter's in him. Yes, I hae +little doubt o' that. And if I'm nae sair mista'en there's a rough +bittie o' road before him. But he is in gude hands, and he'll win +through. I'll speak to him, and I'll tak' him at unawares. I'll ken by +the first look o' his face whether his heart is set on her or no." + + + +CHAPTER SIXTEEN. + + "Love will venture in where it daurna weel be seen." + +But John had been taken by surprise before Crombie's turn came to speak. +Some one else had spoken. + +It was Saturday night. The work of the week was over Marjorie was safe +asleep, and restless with the thoughts which always came with leisure, +Allison threw a shawl over her head and went out into the lane. It was +dark there, where the hedge was high, and the branches hung low from the +trees in the manse garden; but beyond the lane, the fields and the +faraway hills lay clear in the moonlight. With lingering steps she +turned toward the green, along the path which skirted the cottage +gardens. When she came to the last of them she heard her name called +softly. + +It was John Beaton's voice. She could not see him where he stood, but +he saw her clearly. He saw on her face, as she drew near, the shadow +which told of the old sadness and gloom; and he saw it pass, like the +mist before the sunshine, as she stood still to listen. In a moment he +had leaped the dike, and stood by her side. + +"Allison!" said he eagerly, as he took her hand. + +John was young, and he had had but small experience of woman and her +ways, or he never would have mistaken the look on Allison's face for the +look of love which he longed to see. He never would have clasped and +kissed her without a word. + +In the extremity of her surprise and dismay, Allison lay for a moment in +his embrace. Then she struggled to get free. + +"Allison, forgive me--because I love you. Allison, say that you will be +my wife." + +A low cry of anguish came from her white lips. + +"Oh! may God pity me. I have been sorely wrong, or this would not have +come to be my punishment." + +She drew herself away from him, but she made no movement to leave him. +John hung his head before her. + +"Allison, forgive my presumption, and give me a chance to win your love. +Allison, I love you dearly." + +"Hush!" she whispered. "Come with me. I must speak to you. I have +done wrong, but how could I ever have dreamed that you would give a +thought to me?" + +She laid her hand upon his arm. + +"I am in sore trouble. Come with me somewhere--to your mother--for I +must speak to you." + +"Not to my mother, if you have anything to say which will grieve her," +said John huskily. + +"It might grieve her, but she would understand. She might be angry for +a moment; but she is kind and good, and she would not think evil of me." + +They stood in silence for a minute or two. Then she said: + +"Come into the manse. No one will be there till I have time to say what +I must say." + +They moved on till they came to the lane that led thither, and passed +out of the moonlight into the shadow. + +"Allison," said John, pausing, "you cannot surely mean to cut me off +from all hope? You might come to--care for me in time." + +"Care for you? Oh, yes! I care for you. You are my friend, and +Willie's. But I have done you a wrong, and with no will to do it." + +Instead of going into the house they turned aside at the end of the +hedge, and entered the garden. On the summer-seat, under the tall +fir-trees, they sat down in silence. After a time Allison rose, and +stood before her friend. + +"John," said she, "when I heard your voice to-night I was glad. My +heart has been heavy with a great dread all the week; and when I heard +your voice I said to myself, here is a friend who will help me. John," +she said after a moment's silence, "it is my secret I am going to tell +you--my secret that I have kept all these long months. I trust you, +John. You will tell me what I must do." + +"Well," said John, as she paused again. + +"John--I am a wife already. It is from--from the man who married me +against my will that I have been hiding all this time. You must not +think ill of me, for I was like a lost creature when my father died, and +I knew not what to do. I came away hoping that God would let me die, or +keep me hidden till my brother should get away to the other side of the +sea. And God has kept me safe till now. John, will you forgive me and +help me?" + +The hands she held out to him trembled. She was shaking with excitement +and the chill of the night. He rose and wrapped her shawl close about +her. + +"Allison, sit down. Or shall we go into the house? I will do all that +I can to help you--so help me God!" said John with a groan, fearing that +he was past help. + +"No, I will not sit down. Sometime I will tell you all my story, but +not to-night. This is what I must tell you. It was in our parish of +Kilgower where Mr Crombie laid down his wife. There he heard something +of Allison Bain. He saw the man who married me against my will--who has +sworn to find me and to take me home to his house, alive or dead. It +was in my hearing that he took that oath. But whether Mr Crombie +really knows about me, or whether he was only speaking for the sake of +saying something, or whether it was to find me out, or to warn me, I +cannot say. And oh! I have been so safe here, and I have come to +myself among these kind people." + +"What do you wish me to do?" said John, as she paused. + +"If Crombie should know who I am, and should speak of me to any one, you +would hear of it. He may even speak to you. You are his friend. Then +will you warn me, and give me time to go away? I should be sorry, oh! +so sorry, to leave the kind folk here and go away again among strangers. +But I will never go with that man, never." + +"I will help you if I can. I hope you may be mistaken in thinking that +Crombie knows your story. I think, at the worst, it is only a guess he +has made." + +Allison shook her head. + +"He saw the names of my father and mother on the headstone that their +son has set up over their grave. Willie may be at home still, but I +hope he has gone away to America. Oh! if I were only sure that he were +I would go to him at once. I could hardly be brought back so far. And +I might hide myself in that great country so that I could never be +found." + +"Allison," said John gently. "Think of me as a friend, who will help +you whatever may happen." + +"I thank you kindly, and I trust you. I will bide still where I am +while I may, for oh! I dread the thought of these first dark days +coming on me again." + +"I do not think you need to be afraid of Crombie. He would not +willingly injure you. He is a good man, though his sense of duty makes +him sometimes say or do what looks hard." + +"Yes. He might think it right to betray me--not that it would be +betrayal, since I have not trusted him or any one else." + +She made a great effort to quiet herself and to speak calmly. But she +was anxious and afraid, and she grew sick at heart at the thought that +all the dreariness and misery of the first days of her stay in +Nethermuir might come back upon her again, of that she might have to go +away among strangers. + +"But I will not go to yon man's house whatever befall," she said in her +heart. + +The cloud which had hidden the moon for a while passed and showed the +trouble in her face, and John's heart smote him as he saw it. To whom +might this poor soul turn in her distress? And why should she tell her +story to any one? Since she had kept it so long to herself, it could +not be an easy one to tell. Why should she tell it? Whether she had +been right or wrong in her flight and her silence, it could not be +helped now, and if she could be saved from her present fear and pain, it +would be right to help her. + +"Allison," he said in a little, "you say you trust me. I also trust +you. You do not need to tell your story to me. Some day, perhaps, you +may tell it to my mother. No one can give you wiser counsel or warmer +sympathy than she will. And I think you need not fear Saunners Crombie. +At any rate, he would speak first to yourself, or to one whom he knows +to be your friend. He would never betray you to your--enemy." + +"Well, I will wait. I will not go away--for a while at least. And you +will be my friend?" + +"I will try to help you," said John. + +But all the thoughts which were passing through John Beaton's mind would +not have made a pleasant hearing for his mother. A sudden, strong +temptation assailed him, at which he hardly dared to look, and he strove +to put it from him. + +"As to Crombie," said he, "he is an old man, and growing forgetful. It +may all pass out of his mind again. That would be best." + +"Yes," said Allison, "that would be best." + +They walked down to the gate together. + +"And you will forgive me, Allison, and--trust me?" + +"I will ay trust you. And it is you who need to forgive me," said she, +holding out her hand. "But it never came into my mind--" + +John held her hand firmly for a moment. + +"Allison!" said he, and then he turned and went away. + +It was his mother who should befriend Allison Bain. But how to tell her +story? If it had to be told, Allison must tell it herself. As to +speaking with Saunners Crombie about Allison Bain and her troubles-- + +John uttered an angry word, and hurried down the lane and past the +gardens and the green, and over the fields and over the hills, till he +came to himself standing in the moonlight within sight of the "Stanin' +Stanes." And being there he could only turn and go home again, carrying +his troubled thoughts with him. + +He had many of them, and the thought which pressed upon him most +painfully for the moment was one which need not have troubled him at +all. How was he to meet his mother and speak to her about Allison Bain +with all this angry turmoil in his heart? He was angry with himself, +with Crombie, even with Allison. + +"How could I have thought--" she had said, looking at him with entreaty +in her lovely eyes. While she had been in his thoughts by day and in +his dreams by night, he "had never come into her mind!" + +"But I could have made her think of me if I had not been a fool, with my +fine plans about rising in the world! I could make her care for me +yet," said John to himself, quite unconscious that from the window of +her room his mother's kind, anxious eyes were watching him. + +"Something has happened to vex him," said she to herself. "I will not +seem to spy upon him. He will tell me, if he needs my help, in his own +time." + +But she waited and listened long before his footstep came to the door, +and he went to his room without coming to say good-night as he passed. + +"He is thinking I am asleep," said she with a sigh. + +There was nothing to be said. That was the conclusion to which John +came that night. What could he say to his mother about Allison Bain? +If he were to speak a word, then nothing could be kept back. His mother +had a way of knowing his thoughts even before he uttered them, and why +should she be vexed at seeing the trouble which, if he spoke at all, +could not be concealed from her? + +If the story must be told to his mother, Allison herself must tell it. +But why need it be told? If only that meddling old fool, Crombie, had +had the sense to hold his tongue. What good could come of speaking? +Why should not the poor soul be left to forget her troubles and to grow +content? Even his mother could only warn her and help her to get away +if it ever came to that with her. But until then silence was best. + +He would have a word with Saunners to find out what he knew and what he +only suspected, and he would do what might be done to keep him silent. + +John had his word with Crombie, but it did not come about in the way +which he had desired and planned. While he was the next day lingering +about the kirk in the hope of getting a word with him, Crombie was +asking for John at his mother's door. + +"Come away in, Mr Crombie," said Mrs Beaton when she heard his voice. +"I have been wishing to see you this while." + +Then there were a few words spoken between them about the sorrow which +had come upon him, and of his wife's last days, and of the long journey +he had taken to lay her in the grave. Saunners told of the bonny, quiet +place on the hillside, where he had laid her down, and before he had +taken time to consider, the name of Allison Bain had been uttered. + +"I saw the names of her father and her mother--`John Bain and Allison +his wife'--on a fine, new headstane that had been put over them by their +son. They hae been dead a year and more. Decent folk they seem to hae +been. He farmed his ain land. I heard about it from a wee bowed wifie +who was there in the kirkyard. She had something to say o' Allison Bain +as well." + +And then Crombie came to a pause. Mrs Beaton was startled by his +words, but kept silence, for she saw that he had not meant to speak. +But in a little he went on. + +"It was a queer story that she told altogether, and I hae been in a +swither as to what I was to do with it, or if I was to do anything with +it. I cam' the day to speak to your son aboot it, but taking a' the +possibeelities into consideration, I'm no' sure but what I hae to say +should be said to a prudent woman like yoursel'. I would be loth to +harm the lass." + +"I will never believe an ill word of Allison Bain till she shall say it +to me with her own lips," said Mrs Beaton, speaking low. + +"Weel, I have no ill to say o' her. There was no ill spoken o' her to +me. That is, the woman thought no ill, but quite the contrary--though +mair micht be said. Ye're her friend, it seems, and should ken her +better than I do. I'se tell ye all I ken mysel', though it was to ye're +son I meant to tell it." + +"And why to my son?" asked Mrs Beaton gravely. + +It is possible that Crombie might have given a different answer if the +door had not opened to admit John himself. The two men had met before +in the course of the day, and all had been said which was necessary to +be said about the death and burial of Crombie's wife, and in a minute +Crombie turned to Mrs Beaton again. + +"As to the reason that I had for thinkin' to speak to your son, there +was naebody else that I could weel speak to about it. No' the minister, +nor his wife. It would be a pity to unsettle them, or to give them +anxious thoughts, and that maybe without sufficient reason. And John's +a sensible lad, and twa heads are better than ane." + +John laughed and mended the fire, and asked "whether it was Robin or +Jack this time, and what was ado now?" + +"It's aboot neither the one nor the other," said Saunners, with a touch +of offence in his voice. "It's aboot the lass at the manse--Allison +Bain." + +It had been a part of Crombie's plan "to take the lad by surprise" when +he mentioned Allison's name, and he peered eagerly into his face "to see +what he could see." But the peats, which John had put on with a liberal +hand, had darkened the fire for the time, and he had taken his place +beside his mother's chair and was leaning on it, as he had a way of +doing when anything special was to be said between them, and Saunners +saw nothing. "Begin at the beginning," said Mrs Beaton. So Saunners +began again, and getting into the spirit of the affair, told it well. +They listened in silence till he came to a pause. + +"It is a curious story," said John, by way of saying something. + +"It was a curious story as I heard it," said Saunners. "Is the wee wine +`a' there'?" asked John quietly. "I'm by no means sure o' it. She +looked daft-like when she shook her neive (fist) at the man Brownrig +behind his back and called him ill names. And her lauch when she told +me that the man had never touched his wife's hand since the day he put +the ring upon it, and when she swore that _never_ had he touched her +lips, was mad enow." + +John's mother felt the start which her son gave when the words were +spoken. + +"And is it true, think ye?" said she. "There seems to be truth in the +story, but where it lies I canna say. And whether it be true or no, I +am beginning to think that I have no call to make or meddle in it." + +"There is just one thing that I must say again," said Mrs Beaton--"I'll +never believe an ill word of Allison Bain till with her own lips she +gives me leave to do it! She is a good woman, whatever trouble may have +been brought into her life by the ill-doing of others." + +"What think ye, John?" said Saunners. + +"I think ye did a wise thing when ye came to consult with my mother. +She kens a good woman when she sees her." + +"There may be truth in the story. It may be a' true. But the question +for me to decide with your advice is whether a word o' mine will help or +hinder the richt thing's being done?" + +"Yes, that is the question," said Mrs Beaton. She hesitated to say +more. For she knew that to set one side of a matter in a strong light +was the surest way to let Crombie see more clearly all that might be +said on the other side. + +"She's a weel doin' lass," said Crombie. + +"She is invaluable in the manse," said Mrs Beaton. + +"It would unsettle them sadly to lose her, or even to have a doubtfu' +word spoken o' her," said Saunners. + +"Especially just now, when Mrs Hume is not quite well," said Mrs +Beaton. + +"And what say ye, John?" asked Saunners. + +"Do ye feel responsible to this man--whatever his name may be--that ye +should wish to take up his cause? I mean, had ye any words with him +about her?" added John, as his mother touched his hand in warning. + +"No' me! The wifie said he was ay waitin', and watchin', and speirin', +and there was a chance that he would have a word wi' me. I didna bide +to be questioned. I just took the road without loss o' time, whether it +was wise to do it or no." + +"To my mind it was both wise and kind," said Mrs Beaton. "As ye say, +there may be truth in the story; but the telling of it here will be the +same thing to Allison Bain, whether it be true or false. She is alone +and friendless, it seems, and that a young lass should be spoken about +at all is a harm to her, and a word might be the means of sending her +out into the world without a friend. Surely the Lord was keeping His +eye on her for good when He sent her to the manse, and into the hands of +such a woman as Mrs Hume." + +"Ay, that's the truth. And what say ye, John?" + +"I say that my mother seldom makes a mistake when she lets herself speak +strongly about any matter. I agree with her that ye took the right +course when ye made up your mind to say nothing about the matter." + +Crombie fidgeted in his chair, and was silent for a minute or two. + +"I said nothing to the man himsel', but I did drop a word to Allison +Bain. She said nothing, but I saw by her face that she understood. I +only hope I may na hae done ill in speakin'." + +The others hoped the same with stronger emphasis, and not without some +angry thoughts on John's part. But to speak the old man fair was the +wisest way. There was no time for many words, for Annie brought in the +tea, and Saunners was prevailed upon to stay and share their meal. When +it was over it was beginning to grow dark, and he rose to go, and John +rose also, saying he would go with him a bit of his way. + +The talk between them as they went on was not of Allison, but of quite +other persons and matters, and it was kept steadily up and not suffered +to turn in that direction. When Saunners spoke of the strange things +that might be happening under "our very een," John listened in silence, +or brought him back to the kirk, and the new members, and the good that +was being done, till they came to the little house by the side of the +moss, out of whose narrow window no welcoming light was gleaming. + +"I'm no' used wi't yet," said Saunners with a groan, as he fumbled +awkwardly trying to put the clumsy key into the lock. "It's the hardest +part of my day's work, this coming hame to a dark house. But folk maun +bide what's sent, and be thankful it's nae waur. Gude-nicht to be. Ye +hae shortened my road, and mony thanks. I winna ask ye to come in." + +"No. I must be early up and awa' in the morning, and it may be long ere +I be home again. Ye might look in on my mother whiles, when ye're down +our way. She's much alone." + +If John had planned his best to win Saunners to friendliness, and to +silence concerning the affairs of Allison Bain, he could have said +nothing more to the purpose than that. Saunners accepted the +invitation, and came now and then to inquire for the health of Mrs +Beaton, and "heard only good words from her," as he said. + +He had something to say to most of his friends about the place where he +had laid down his wife to her rest beside her own folk, and even spoke +of the "daft wifie" that he had seen there; but he never uttered a word +as to the story she had told him, and in course of time, as he thought +less about it, it passed quite out of his remembrance--which was best +for all concerned. + + + +CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. + + "Fear hath a hundred eyes that all agree + To plague her beating heart." + +As for Allison, the thought of going away from Nethermuir to escape the +threatened danger, did not stay long with her. It would be wrong to go +away now, she told herself. For another little daughter came to the +manse about this time, and Allison's strength and skill were tried to +meet all demands upon them for a while. Yes, it would be wrong to leave +these good friends who had been kind to her, and above all, wrong to +steal away, as in her first alarm it had come into her mind to do. + +And besides, even if that which she feared were to come upon her, and if +by means of Crombie, or by any other means, she were discovered, the +times had gone by when force could be used and a woman carried away +secretly against her will. There would be a good many words to be said +before she could be forced to go with Brownrig, even though he might, as +he had said, have "the law on his side." + +She would wait patiently till Mr Hadden should answer the letter she +had sent him when she had first heard that her brother was set free, and +when she should hear that Willie was safe in America, then would be her +time to go away. + +"I must wait patiently; I must not let myself fall into blackness and +darkness again. Whether I have done wrong, or whether I have done +right, there's no turning back now." + +As far as Saunners was concerned it soon was seen that she had nothing +to fear. He had only kindly looks for her now, and though his words of +greeting were few, they were kindly also. The words of caution and +counsel which it was "his bounden duty" to let drop for the benefit of +all young and thoughtless persons when opportunity offered, had +reference chiefly to the right doing of daily duty, and the right using +of daily privileges and opportunities, as far as Allison was concerned. + +And so the days passed till November was drawing near. Then something +happened. Auld Kirstin came home to the manse. "Home," it must be, +thought the neighbours, who saw the big "kist" and the little one lifted +from the carrier's cart. And Allison, to whom Mrs Hume had only spoken +in general terms as to the coming of their old servant, could not help +thinking the same, and with a little dismay. But her year's experience +had given her confidence in the kindness and consideration of her +mistress, and she could wait patiently for whatever might be the +decision with regard to her. + +The minister's wife and the minister himself had had many thoughts about +the matter of Kirstin's coming home long before she came. For as the +summer days drew to a lingering end, Mrs Esselmont had fallen sick and +had appealed to them for help. + +She was not very ill, but her illness was of a nature which made her +residence at Firhill during the winter not altogether impossible, but +undesirable and unwise, as she told them, since she had the power to go +elsewhere. She could spend the winter with her eldest daughter, she +said, but as her home lay in one of the cold, English counties, washed +by the same sea from which the bleak winds came moaning through the firs +on her own hill, she would hardly better herself by the change. What +she wished was to go further south to a place by the sea, where she had +already spent more than one winter, and some of the winter days there, +she told them, might well pass for the days of a Scottish summer. What +she could not endure was the thought of going away alone. + +"I had my Mary with me when I was there last, and I dread the thought of +the long days with no kenned face near me. Milne is growing old and +frail like myself, and I will need to spare her all I can. And now will +you let me have your Allison Bain for a while?" + +"We can tell you nothing about her except what we have seen since she +came into our house," said Mrs Hume gravely. "It was a risk our taking +her as we did, but we were sorely in need of some one." + +"But you are not sorry that you took her into your house?" + +"Far from that! She has been a blessing in our house, as doubtless she +would be in yours should she go with you." + +"There is no doubt but it would be to her advantage to go with you. And +we could not prevent her if she wished to go when her year with us is at +an end," said Mr Hume. + +"Yes, it would be better for her to go. We ought not to hinder her," +said his wife; but they looked at one another, thinking of Marjorie. + +"I thank you both gratefully for your kindness in being willing to spare +her to me," said Mrs Esselmont. "But that is only the beginning of my +petition. The child Marjorie! Would it break your heart to part with +her for a while? Wait, let me say a word more before you refuse to hear +me. The child is evidently growing stronger as she grows older. +Allison has helped her, but there is more in the change than that. I am +certain--at least I have hope--that she might be helped by one who has +been proved to have skill in dealing with such cases. Let me take +Marjorie to Dr Thorne in London. He is a great physician and a good +man. He is my friend, and I know that whatever can be done for the +child he can do, and will be happy in doing it. Think of your gentle, +little darling grown strong and well, with a useful and happy life +before her!" + +A rush of tears came to the eyes of Mrs Hume. The minister went to the +window and looked long on the swaying branches of the firs, which were +only just visible through the mist and the rain. Mrs Esselmont laid +herself back on her pillow and waited. + +"Well?" said she after a little. + +"Well, mother?" said the minister, sitting down again. + +"Speak for us both," said his wife. + +"Well," said he, after a pause, "I have only this to say to-night. We +thank you for your kind thoughts for the child. We desire to say yes, +we long to say it. But it is a great thing to decide, and we must ask +counsel." + +"Surely. I will wait patiently for your decision. But the sooner we +can go, the better." + +There was much more said than this, and counsel was asked before they +parted. Mrs Esselmont's last words were these: + +"It was because of the child that I first thought of Allison Bain. +Should you decide that you cannot let Marjorie go, then I will not take +Allison. And remember, my dear," said she to Mrs Hume, "you have +another little daughter now to comfort you. And when you have made up +your mind, whatever it may be, say nothing to Allison. I would like +myself to ask her to go with us if you should decide to let the child +go." + +There was not long time needed in which to come to a decision. The +father and mother had taken counsel together, and had asked counsel +often. There was only one thing to be said at the last. Marjorie must +go; and though it was said with sorrow, it was also with thankful +gladness that they committed their darling to the care and keeping of +the Great Healer of the bodies and souls of the creatures whom He came +to save. And they agreed with Mrs Esselmont that, the decision being +made, there was no time to lose. + +Kirstin had been coming to visit them before this change was spoken +about. The only difference that this made was, that now she came home +to stay, bringing all her gear with her. After her coming, Allison was +not long kept in suspense as to what her own winter's work might be. + +"Allison," said her mistress, "I would like you to go to Firhill this +afternoon. No, Marjorie is better at home to-day. And, Allison, as you +will be likely to see the lady herself, you should change your gown and +put on your bonnet." + +Which Allison did, wondering a little, for she had hitherto gone to +Firhill with only her cap on her head, as she had gone elsewhere. Other +folk wondered also. On the stone seat at the weaver's door sat the +weaver's wife, busy with her stocking, and beside her sat her friend +Mrs Coats, "resting herself" after her work was over. + +Allison did not pass by them now without a word, as used to be her way +during the first days of their acquaintance; but she did not linger to +say more than a word or two, "as would have been but ceevil," Mrs Coats +said. Allison had a message to deliver at the school, and she did not +come back again, but went, as she liked best, round by the lanes. + +"She has gi'en warning. She was ay above the place," said Mrs Coats. + +"Ye can hardly say the like of that, since she has filled the place +weel," said her friend. + +"But I do say it. She goes her ways like ane that hasna been used with +doin' the bidding o' anither." + +"She doesna need to be bidden. She kens her work, and she does it. +What would ye have?" said the weaver, who had stopped his loom to hear +through the open window what was to be said. + +"That's true," said his wife; "but I ken what Mistress Coats means for +a' that." + +"Ye may say that! It's easy seen, though no' just so easy shown. Is +she like the ither lassies o' the place? Who ever saw her bare feet? +It's hose and shoon out and in, summer and winter, with her." + +"And for that matter who ever saw her bare arms, unless it was in her +ain kitchen, or in the milk-house? Even gaen to the well her sleeves +are put doon to her hands." + +"I should like to ken the folk she belongs to." + +"They're decent folk, if she's a specimen o' them. Ye needna be feared +about that," said the weaver. + +"It's no' that _I'm_ feared, but ane would think that she was feared +herself. Never a word has passed her lips of where she came from or who +she belongs to." + +"Never to the like o' you and me. But the minister's satisfied, and +Mrs Hume. And as to the folk she cam' o', we hae naething to do wi' +them." + +"That may be; but when there is naething to be said, there's maistly +something to be hid." + +"And when ye can put your hand on ane that hasna something to hide frae +the een o' her neebors, ye can set her to search out the secrets o' the +minister's lass. It winna be this day, nor the morn, that ye'll do that +same," said the weaver, raising his voice as he set his loom in motion +again. + +"Eh, but your man is unco hard on the women," said Mrs Coats, with a +look which implied sympathy with the weaver's wife as well as +disapproval of the weaver. But her friend laughed. + +"Oh! ay; he's a wee hard whiles on women in general, but he is easy +eneuch wi' me." + +For some reason or other Allison had to wait a while before she saw Mrs +Esselmont, and she waited in the garden. There were not many flowers +left, but the grass was still green, and the skilful and untiring hands +of old Delvie had been at work on the place, removing all that was +unsightly, and putting in order all the rest; so that, as he said, "the +last look which his mistress got of the garden might be one to mind on +with pleasure." + +"It's a bonny place," said Allison with a sigh. The old man looked up +quickly. "Do ye no' ken that it's ill for a young lass to sigh and sech +like that? Is it that this 'minds ye o' anither bonny place that ye +would fain see?" Allison smiled, but shook her head. "I never saw a +garden like this. But I ay liked to care for my own--" + +"And ye have none now. Is that the reason that ye sigh?" + +"Maybe I may have one again. If I do, I would like to have your advice +about it," said Allison, wondering a little at herself as she said it. + +"Oh! I'll gie you advice, and seeds, and slips, and plants as weel, gin +ye are near at hand." Allison shook her head. + +"I doubt if I ever have a garden of my own again, it will be on the +other side of the sea." + +"In America? They have grand flowers there, I hear. But before ye go +there ye can ask me and I'll give ye seeds to take wi' ye, and maybe +slips and roots as well. They'll 'mind you o' hame in that far land. I +once heard o' a strong man over yonder that sat down and grat (wept) at +the sicht o' a gowan." + +"Thank you," said Allison. There were tears in her eyes though she +smiled. + +"Here's my lady," said Delvie, bending to his work again. + +Mrs Esselmont came slowly toward them, leaning on the arm of her maid, +a woman several years older than herself. + +"You may leave me here with Allison Bain," said she; "I will take a turn +or two and then I will be in again." + +She had the minister's note in her hand, but she made no allusion to it +as they moved slowly up and down. They spoke about the flowers, and the +fair day, and about Marjorie and the new baby for a while, and then Mrs +Esselmont said: + +"You have a strong arm, Allison, and a kind heart. I am sure of it. I +have something to say to you which I thought I could best say here. But +I have little strength, and am weary already. We will go into the house +first." + +So into the house they went, and when Milne had stirred the fire and +made her mistress comfortable, she went away and left them together. + +"Allison," said Mrs Esselmont, after a moment's silence, "I have +something to say to you." + +And then she told her that she was going away for the winter because of +her ill-health, and spoke of the plan which she had proposed to +Marjorie's father and mother for the benefit of the child. This plan +could only be carried out with Allison's help, because Mrs Hume would +never trust her child to the care of a stranger. The mother thought +that she would neither be safe nor happy with any other. And then she +added: + +"I could only ask them to let me take her if I could have you also to +care for her. I cannot say certainly that she will ever be strong and +well, but I have good hope that she may be much stronger than she is +now. Think about it. You need not decide at once, but the sooner the +better. We have no time to lose." + +Allison listened with changing colour and downcast eyes. + +"I would go with you and the child. I would be glad to go--but--" + +She rose and came a little nearer to the sofa on which Mrs Esselmont +was lying. + +"But I cannot go without telling you something first, and you may not +wish me to go when you have heard." + +"Allison," said Mrs Esselmont, "stand where I can see your face." + +She regarded her a moment and then she said gravely: + +"I cannot believe that you have anything to say to me that will change +my thoughts of you. You have won the respect and confidence of your +master and mistress, who ought to know you well by this time. I am +willing to trust you as they have done without knowing more of you than +they have seen with their own eyes. I think you are a good woman, +Allison Bain. You have not knowingly done what is wrong." + +"I did not wait to consider whether I was right or wrong, but I should +have done what I did even if I had known it to be wrong. And I would +not undo it now, even if you were to tell me I ought to do so. I could +not. I would rather die," said Allison, speaking low. + +There was a long silence and Allison stood still with her eyes fixed on +the floor. + +"Sit down, Allison, where I can see you. Put off your shawl and your +bonnet. You are too warm in this room." + +Allison let her shawl slip from her shoulders and untied the strings of +her black bonnet. + +"Take it off," said Mrs Esselmont, as Allison hesitated. + +Her hair had grown long by this time and was gathered in a knot at the +back of her head, but little rings and wavy locks escaped here and +there--brown, with a touch of gold in them--and without the disguise of +the big, black bonnet, or of the full bordered mutch, a very different +Allison was revealed to Mrs Esselmont. + +"A beautiful woman," she said to herself, "and with something in her +face better than beauty. She can have done nothing of which she need be +ashamed." + +Aloud she said: + +"Allison, since you have said so much, if you think you can trust me, +you should, perhaps, tell me all." + +"Oh! I can trust you! But afterward folk might say that you did wrong +to take me with you, knowing my story. And if I tell you I would need +to tell Mr and Mrs Hume as well, since they are to trust me with their +child. And though you might be out of the reach of any trouble because +of taking my part, they might not, and their good might be evil spoken +of on my account, and that would be a bad requital for all their +kindness." + +"And have you spoken to no one, Allison? Is there no one who is aware +of what has befallen you?" + +Allison grew red and then pale. It was the last question that she +answered. + +"It was in our parish that Saunners Crombie buried his wife. One night +he came into the manse kitchen, and he told me that he had seen my name +on a new headstone, `John Bain and Allison his wife'--the names of my +father and mother. And he had some words with one who had known me all +my life. But I never answered him a word. And whether he was trying +me, or warning me, or whether he spoke by chance, I cannot say. I would +like to win away from this place, for a great fear has been upon me +since then. I might be sought for here. But I would never go back. I +would rather die," repeated Allison, and the look that came over her +face gave emphasis to her words. + +"And has he never spoken again?" + +"Never to me. I do not think he would willingly do me an ill turn, but +he might harm me when he might think he was helping me into the right +way. Oh! I would like to go away from this place, and it would be +happiness as well as safety to go with you and my Marjorie." + +Mrs Esselmont sat thinking in silence for what seemed to Allison a long +time. Then she raised herself up and held out her hand. + +"Allison, I understand well that there are some things that will not +bear to be spoken about. Tell me nothing now, but come with me. I +trust you. Come with me and the child." + +The tears came into Allison's eyes, and she said quietly: + +"I thank you, madam. I will serve you well." + + + +CHAPTER EIGHTEEN. + + "God be with thee, + Else alone thou goest forth, + Thy face unto the north." + +Before he went away on the morning after they had heard the story which +Crombie had to tell, John Beaton had said to his mother: + +"If Allison Bain seems anxious or restless, you must find some way of +letting her know that she has nothing to fear from the old man. He will +say nothing to harm her." + +But he did not tell her that he had already heard the story of Allison's +marriage from her own lips. And not knowing this, after considering the +matter, his mother decided to say nothing, believing that it would not +be well for Allison's peace of mind to know that the sad story of her +life had been told to them. + +And even if she had wished to do so, it would not have been easy to find +a chance to speak. For Allison was shy of Mrs Beaton at this time, and +went no more to see her in the gloaming, as she had sometimes done of +late, and was not at ease with her when they met. + +For she said to herself, that Mrs Beaton might know, or might suspect +that her son had of late been giving too many of his thoughts to one of +whom they knew nothing; and though she was not to blame, Mrs Beaton +might still blame her for her son's folly. + +Allison was indeed troubled. Since the night on which Crombie had so +startled her, she had never been quite at rest. She had striven to be +reasonable and to put away her fears; but there never came a step to the +door, that she did not pause from her work to listen for the words that +might be spoken. She looked on every unfamiliar face that came into the +kirk, or that she passed on the street or in the lanes, with a momentary +terror, lest she should meet the eyes of one whom her enemy had sent in +search of her. + +She had said to herself many times, "I will wait quietly. I will stay +where I am, and I will not yield to my fears." + +But when Mrs Esselmont spoke to her, and a way of escape appeared, she +knew that she had been sore afraid, and that she could not long have +borne the strain which had been upon her. + +"Six days!" she said to herself, as she came down from Firhill that +night, in the darkness. "Only six days and nights, and I shall be away, +and safe for a year at least; and then!--but I will not look beyond the +year. I will care for the child, and be at peace." + +As for John, he had written to his mother that he was to be sent north +on business that might keep him there some days. He did not tell where +he was going, and she did not hear again for a good while after that. +When he did write he said nothing about his journey or its results, as +he was usually in the way of doing, and he said nothing about coming +home. His mother's heart was sore for her son. No word concerning +Allison Bain had passed between them, but she knew that his heart had +gone from him and that he must suffer for a time. + +"But he'll win through," she said, hopefully, to herself, "as other men +have won through the same trouble in all the generations of men, since +ever the world began; and may he be the wiser and the better for the +pain! He will be sorry not to see her again," added she, with a sigh. + +So she wrote a letter telling him, among other things, that wee Marjorie +was to be sent away with Mrs Esselmont for the good of her health; that +she was likely to be away a year at least. She said some hopeful words +as to the benefit the child might receive, and then she added: "It is +Allison Bain who is to have the care of her." Of Allison herself she +only said that she was one to be trusted, and that the child would be +happy in her care. But to this there came no word in reply. + +On the last day at home Marjorie was carried down the street by Jack, +that she might say good-bye to Mrs Beaton and the schoolmistress, and +the neighbours generally. Jack had been warned by his mother that if +there should be any signs of weariness or excitement, there must be no +lingering. The child must be brought home at once. But Marjorie took +it all very quietly. + +"Yes, I'm going away. Yes, I'm sorry, and I'm glad, but I'm not afraid, +because our Allison is going with me. Oh! yes, I'm glad. I'm going to +see new things and places--me that was never ten miles away from home in +all my life! And I'm going to come home strong and well, like the other +bairns to help my mother and them all. And my mother has my sister now +to take my place. It's my father that I'm sorriest for. But I'll come +home strong and well, and then he'll be glad that he let me go." + +She said the same to the bairns who lingered on their way home from the +school to speak to her as they passed. She was coming home again well +and strong, and she would be happy, having Allison all to herself; and +though she was sorry to leave them, she was not afraid. + +Allison had no formal leave-takings. She had been very busy all day, +and came down-stairs after seeing Marjorie quietly asleep, doubtful +whether she should go to say good-bye to Mrs Beaton and the +schoolmistress or not. The question was decided for her. + +"Allison," said Mrs Hume, as she passed the parlour-door, "I think it +would be but kind to ask Mrs Beaton if she has any message to send to +her son. You could leave it with Robin if you should not chance to see +him yourself in the town. Are you very tired?" + +"I am not so very tired. Yes, I will go now," said Allison. + +So she turned down the lane and went round by the green, as she had gone +so many times before, not without some troubled thoughts of her own. +She found Mrs Beaton sitting alone in the firelight. + +"Come away in, Allison. I have been expecting you," said she. + +Allison sat down at her bidding, and gave Mrs Hume's message. + +"I hope you may see him. But I have nothing to say or to send. He will +be home soon. And you are glad to be going, Allison, for the sake of +the child?" + +"Yes, I am glad to be going." + +"But you are not sorry that you came here? You have been content?" + +"No. I had to go away from home. I am not sorry I came here. +Everybody at the manse has been kind." + +"And you have been good to them and to me. I am glad to have kenned +you, Allison Bain," but Mrs Beaton sighed as she said it. + +What could Allison answer? Indeed, what was to be said between these +two? Nothing, unless all might be said. A word might have broken the +spell of silence between them, but the word was not spoken. + +"It would make her unhappy to know that her secret had been told to us," +thought Mrs Beaton. And Allison thought: "His mother would be grieved, +if she knew all; and she never need know. He will forget me when I am +gone away." + +And so, after a few quiet words about other matters, they said +"good-bye" to one another. Allison lingered a moment, looking down with +wistful eyes on the gentle old face of her friend. + +"Have you anything to say to me, Allison Bain?" + +But Allison shook her head. "Nothing that it would please you to hear; +and it is all over now, and I am going away." + +"Yes, you are going away. I may not be here when you come back again, +and I must say one thing to you. I trust you, Allison Bain. I believe +you to be good and true, whatever trouble may have come into your life +by the ill-doing of others. May the Lord have you in His keeping, and +bring you safe through all trouble `into a large place.' Kiss me, my +dear." + +Allison stooped and kissed her, and went away without a word. As she +turned from the door a hand was laid upon her arm, and a voice said: + +"Is it you, Allison Bain? I would like a word wi' ye. I'll no' keep ye +lang." + +Allison was tired and sad at heart, and she longed to be alone. She +could not but yield, however, to the entreating voice of the mistress, +and she crossed the street to her door. The lamp was lighted, and a +small, bright fire burned on the hearth, and one of the chairs had been +taken down from the high dresser for the expected visitor. + +"Sit ye doon, Allison," said the schoolmistress. "I saw ye when ye gaed +into Mistress Beaton's, and I waited for you, but I winna keep ye lang. +And ye're going farawa'? Are ye glad to go? And are ye ever comin' +back again?" + +"I must come back with Marjorie. Whatever happens, I must bring home +the child to her father and her mother," said Allison, gravely. + +"Ay, ye must do that, as ye say, whatever should happen. And may +naething but gude befall ye. I'll miss ye sairly; ye hae been a great +divert to me, you and the minister's bairn thegither--especially since +the cloud lifted, and ither things happened, and ye began to tak' heart +again. Do ye mind the `Stanin Stanes' yon day, and a' the bairns, and +John Beaton wi his baps? Oh! ay. I'll miss ye mair than ye ken." + +The old woman sat for a time looking in silence at Allison, then she +said: + +"Eh! woman! It's weel to be the like o' you! Ye're young, and ye're +strong, and ye're bonny; and ye hae sense and discretion, and folk like +ye. It's nae ance in a thousand times that a' these things come to a +woman thegither. Ye mind me o' mysel' when I was young. I had a' that +ye hae, except the sense and discretion. But that's neither here nor +there, at this late day," added she, rising. + +Allison sat watching her as she took a key from its hiding-place and +opening the big chest in the corner, searched in it for a while. When +the old woman raised herself up and turned toward Allison again, there +lay on the palm of her hand a gold ring. It was large and massive, and +had evidently been rubbed and polished lately, for it shone bright in +the light as she held it up to the lamp. + +"Look ye at it," said the mistress. "Until this day I have never, for +forty years and mair, set e'en upon it. I hae been twice marriet-- +though folk here ken naething about that--and this was my first marriage +ring. It was my mother's before me, and her mother's before her. It +held a charm, they said, to bring happy days, but it brought none to +me--he died within the year. The charm was broken, maybe, because I was +a wilfu' lassie--an undutifu' daughter. But it may work again wi' you. +Take it, and put it on your finger." + +But Allison refused it, and put her hands behind her. + +"And what for no'? It's my ain to give or to keep as I like. Ye needna +be feared," said Mistress Jamieson, with offence. "But why should ye +wish to give it to me?" + +"Because I hae naebody else to gi'e it to. There's not, to my +knowledge, one living that ever belonged to me. I may be dead before ye +come back again. And I like ye, Allison Bain. And the ring may keep +evil from ye, if ye wear it on your hand." + +Allison looked anxiously into the old woman's eager face. What did she +mean? Why did she offer to her a marriage ring? Did she know more than +others knew about her? Was a new danger coming upon her? She must not +anger her, at any rate. So when the old woman took her hand again she +did not resist. + +"There is the charm written on the inside of it, `Let love abyde till +death devyde.' Ye'll see it by the daylicht." + +But the ring was far too large for Allison's finger. It slipped from it +and fell to the ground. + +"Eh! me! is that an ill sign, think ye?" said the mistress. + +"It is a sign that your grandmother was a bigger woman than me," said +Allison with an uncertain smile. "It is very kind of you, Mistress +Jamieson, to think of giving it to me, but--" + +"It's a pity. But it's yours. On your hand it would hae keepit awa' +evil. Ye must put it on a ribbon and hang it roun' ye're neck, and it +may do the same. It will keep ye in mind yoursel', if it minds naebody +else." + +Allison gazed at her with eyes full of trouble. But in the face so +deeply marked with the cares and sorrows and discontents of many years, +she saw nothing to awaken distrust or fear. There were tears in the +pale, sunken eyes, and the tremulous movement of the lips told only of +kindly interest. Whatever she knew or suspected, Allison felt that the +old woman did not mean her harm. + +"Why should you be so kind to me--a stranger?" said she gently. + +"I hardly ken mysel', except that I wish ye weel. And then ye mind me +o' my ain youth, partly that ye're sae like what I once was, and partly +that ye are sae different. I can see _now_ where I gaed wrang. And ye +hae your life afore ye. Hae patience, and make the best of it that ye +may." + +"I'll try," said Allison humbly. And so they parted. + +Allison got a glimpse of the grim old face among those who were standing +about the door to see them set off in the morning. And she never saw it +more. Before Allison came back to Nethermuir again the schoolmistress +was done with her toils, and troubles, and discontents, and was at rest. +And Allison never knew what the old woman might have known or guessed +of her life before she came to the manse. + +There were a good many others there to see the travellers away. +Marjorie was in the "gig" with her father and mother, who were to take +her to join Mrs Esselmont at Firhill, so her time for tears was not +come, nor was theirs. The child looked round on the faces of her +friends and smiled and nodded, and was sorry, and glad, at the same +time, but she was not, as she had told them, in the least afraid of what +might be before her. + +The same might be said of her father and mother--with a difference. +They were glad, and they were sorry, and the mother was a little +fainthearted for them both at the thought of the long days, that lay +before them. But they were not afraid. They trusted their child in the +Good Hand which had "led them all their life long until now," and they +had confidence in Allison Bain. + +Allison herself wondered a little at their perfect faith in her. The +night before, when worship was over, she had stayed behind the others to +hear a few last words which were yet to be spoken. When the father and +mother had said all they had to say and Allison was at the door to go +away, she paused a minute or two, then coming back again she said +gravely: + +"I think if you had known me all my days,--if you had seen all my life +till now,--I think you would still be willing to trust me with your +Marjorie. But I cannot tell you. There is a reason--it is better to +say nothing. Some day, I hope, I may be able to tell you all." + +"We can wait till then," said the minister heartily. The child's mother +said the same. + +They had trusted her from the first, and any doubts which might have +arisen as to the wisdom of committing their child to the care of one of +whom they really knew very little, were put aside at the remembrance of +all that she had already done for her. The few words which Mrs +Esselmont said to them as to her interview with Allison encouraged them +also, and they, too, agreed with her in thinking that it was as well not +to seek to know more than Allison was willing to reveal. + +Allison was glad, and more than glad, to get away. But still when the +travellers reached the last point where a glimpse could be caught of the +valley in which the little town lay, she told herself that thankful as +she was to leave it for a while, she was more thankful still that in her +time of need she had been guided to find a refuge there. + + + +CHAPTER NINETEEN. + + "Unless you can swear for life or for death + Oh! fear to call it loving." + +Business made it necessary for Mrs Esselmont to remain one day in +Aberdeen. She stayed with a friend, but Allison and Marjorie found a +place prepared for them in the house where Robin, now a student in the +university, had taken up his abode. + +It was a dark and rainy day, and Robin was greatly disappointed that he +could not take them out to see all that was to be seen in the town, and +Marjorie was disappointed also. But in her heart Allison was glad of +the rain and the grey mist which came when the rain was over. For how +could she be sure of those whom she might see in the streets, or of +those who might see her? Every hour that passed helped to lighten the +dull weight on her heart, and gave her courage to look forward with +hope. + +Dr Fleming came to see Marjorie in the afternoon, as her father had +asked him to do. He looked at Allison with astonished eyes. + +"You owe me thanks for sending you out yonder," said he. + +"And so do we," said Robin. + +"It was a good day for me," said Allison, and her eyes said more than +that. + +"Yes, better than you know," said the doctor. "And for you, too, my wee +pale lily, if all I hear be true. And so Allison Bain is going to carry +you away and to bring you home again a bonny, blooming rose, is she? +May God grant it," added the doctor reverently. + +"I will try to take good care of her," said Allison. + +"I am sure of that." + +When the visit was over, Allison followed the doctor to the door. + +"I would be glad if I were sure that my name would not be named over +yonder," said she, casting down her eyes. + +"Be glad then, for your name shall not be spoken. Yes, one man has come +to inquire about you, and more than once. When I saw his face and heard +his voice, I understood how you might well wish to keep out of his +sight. Stay in the house while you remain here. There may be others +who would speak, though I keep silence. God bless you." And then he +went away. + +"I may be doing the man a wrong, since he says she is his lawfully +wedded wife, but I cannot--I have not the heart to betray her into his +hands." + +In the evening John Beaton came in. Marjorie was already in her bed, +but she was not asleep; and they wrapped her in a plaid, and brought her +into the parlour again to see her friend. She had the same story to +tell. She was glad, and she was sorry; but she was not afraid, since +Allison was with her. + +"I will have her all to myself," said Marjorie. + +John stooped to touch with his lips the little hand that lay on his arm. + +"Happy little Marjorie," he whispered in her ear. + +She soon fell asleep, and was carried away to bed again. While Allison +lingered beside her, John said to his friend: + +"Robin, my lad, go up to your books for a while. I must have a word +with Allison." + +Robin nodded his head, but he did not move till Allison returned. Then +he started up in great haste. + +"I must see Guthrie for a minute. Don't go till I come back, John," +said he. "Can I do anything for you, Allison?" + +"Nothing more," said Allison; and Robin disappeared. + +There was nothing said for a while. Allison took up her work. She was +taking a few necessary stitches for the student, she said. They spoke +about the child, and about those at home who would miss her greatly, and +about other things. + +"Did you see my mother before you came away?" said John. + +"Yes, I went to bid her good-bye on the last night." + +And then she added that she thought his mother was "wearying" to see +him, and that he should go home soon. + +"Yes, I have been busy of late, and I have been away. Allison, I have +been in the parish of Kilgower." + +Allison laid down her work and fixed her eyes on his face, growing very +pale. + +"It was a business journey. A letter came asking that some one should +be sent to make an estimate as to the cost of repairing a farmhouse. It +was asked that John Beaton might be the man sent, and when I turned the +leaf, and saw the name of Brownrig, I guessed the reason why." + +Allison asked no question, but sat regarding him with troubled eyes. +All the story was not told to her, and John spoke very quietly. But it +had been an unpleasant visit to him, and had moved him greatly. + +He found Brownrig waiting for him at the inn of the town, but John +refused his invitation to go to his house, saying to himself: + +"If I have any lies to tell him, they would be none the easier to tell +after I had eaten his bread." + +Brownrig did not take offence at the refusal, as at first he had seemed +inclined to do. He came in the morning, and was quite civil, even +friendly, as they went away together to attend to their business. He +told John about the country folk, and about the various farms which they +passed; and at last they came round by Grassie. + +"`It is a good farm, but it has fallen back of late, and will likely +soon be in the market. John Bain was a good farmer and a good man, much +respected in the countryside. He died lately. His son William Bain had +gone wrong before that. An idle lad he was, and hastened his father's +death.' + +"I kenned by this time what he was to be at," said John to Allison, when +he had got thus far. "And I thought it wiser to take the matter into my +own hands. So I said that I thought I had heard the name of William +Bain before. Where could it have been? + +"`In the tollbooth, likely,' said Brownrig, losing hold of himself for a +minute, for his eyes gleamed with eagerness or with anger, I could not +say which. `Yes, it might. I have been there,' I said. `I had a +friend who went there now and then on Sunday afternoons, and once or +twice I went with him. But I never saw Bain. He must have been out +before ever I went there.' + +"I saw the change in the man's face when I said this. + +"`He was here in June,' he said. `He's off to America now, and I would +give much to ken who went with him. There are few men that one can +trust. Truth may be so told as to make one believe a lie; but I'll win +to the end o' the clue yet,' he said. He had an evil look when he said +it. + +"I made haste over my work after that," went on John, "for I could not +trust myself to listen. If he had named your name--" + +John rose and went to the window, and stood there long, looking out into +the darkness. + +The unhappy story did not end here, but Allison heard no more. Brownrig +appeared again in the early morning, and John was asked to go with him +to see what repairs might be required on the outbuildings of a farm that +was soon to pass to a new tenant. Something would need to be done, and +the matter might as well be considered at once. + +On their way they passed by the manse, and Dr Hadden's name was +mentioned. + +"He has a son in America who has done well there. There are two or +three lads from this parish who have gone out to him, Willie Bain among +the rest"; and then Brownrig muttered to himself words which John could +not hear, but he answered: + +"I have heard of several who have done well out there. Land is cheap +and good, and skilled labour is well paid," and so on. + +But Brownrig came back again to Bain. + +"That will not be the way with him. An idle lad and an ill-doing was +he. Folk said I was hard on him. He thought it himself. I would have +been glad to help him, and to be friends with him before he went away, +but he didna give me the opportunity. I respected his father and would +gladly have helped him for his sake. If you should hear word of him, ye +might let me know." + +"I might possibly hear of him," said John; "but it is hardly likely." + +He was glad to get away from the man. If by any chance he had uttered +the name of Allison, John could not have answered for himself. But he +was not done with him yet. Late at night Brownrig came again to the inn +and asked for him. John had gone to his room, but he came down when the +message was brought to him. The man had been drinking, but he could +still "take care of himself," or he thought so. He made some pretence +of having something more to say about business, but he forgot it in a +little, and went off to other matters, speaking with angry vehemence +about men and things of which John knew nothing. It was a painful sight +to see, and when two or three men came into the room John rose and +wished him good-night. Brownrig protested violently against his +"desertion," as he called it, but John was firm in his refusal to stay. + +He was afraid, not of Brownrig, but of himself. He was growing wild at +the thought that this man should have any hold over Allison Bain--that +the time might come when, with the help of the law, he might have her in +his power. But he restrained himself, and was outwardly calm to the +last. + +"Ye're wise to go your ways," said the innkeeper, as John went into the +open air. "Yon man's no easy to do wi', when he gets past a certain +point. He'll give these two lads all the story of his wrongs, as he +calls it, before he's done. He's like a madman, drinking himself to +death." + +John would not trust himself to speak, but he stood still and listened +while the man went on to tell of Brownrig's marriage and all that +followed it, and of the madness that seemed to have come upon the +disappointed man. + +"She has never been heard of since, at least he has never heard of her; +and it's my belief he would never hear of her, though half the parish +kenned her hiding-place. It is likely that she's safe in America by +this time. That is what he seems to think himself. I shouldna wonder +if he were to set out there in search of her some day." + +John listened in silence, catching every now and then the sound of +Brownrig's angry voice, growing louder and angrier as time went on. + +It was of all this that John was thinking now, as he stood looking out +long into the darkness. Then he came and sat down again, shading his +eyes with his hand. + +"I am glad to be going away," said Allison, after a little; "and I thank +you for--all your kindness." + +"Kindness!" repeated John. "I would like to be kind to you, Allison, if +you would let me. Allison I think I could make you a happy woman." + +He rose and stood before her. Allison shook her head sadly. + +"I cannot think of myself as being a happy woman any more;" and then she +added: "But when I am fairly away, and not afraid, I can be content. I +have my Marjorie now, and when she does not need me any more, I can go +to Willie. Oh! if I were only safe away." + +John went to the window again. When he came back his face was very +pale, but his eyes were gleaming. He sat down on the sofa beside her. + +"I am glad--yes, I am glad you are going away. That will be best for a +time. And I am glad you have Marjorie. But, Allison, what is to come +after? You have your brother? Yes, but he may have some one else then, +and may not need you. Oh! Allison, will you let me speak?" + +Allison looked up. She grew red, and then pale, but she did not +withdraw her eyes from his. + +"Speak wisely, John," said she. + +"Allison! You cannot think that you owe duty to that man--that brute, I +should rather say? Is there anything in the laws of man or of God to +bind you to him? Would it be right to let him claim you as his wife? +Would it be right for you to go to him?" + +"Even if it were right, I could not go to him," said she. + +"And will you let him spoil your life? Will you let him make you a +servant in another woman's house--a wanderer on the face of the earth?" + +"He cannot spoil my life if I can only get safe away." + +"And do you not hate and loathe him for his sin against you?" + +"I do not hate him. I would loathe to live with him. I think--that I +pity him. He has spoiled his own life, though he cannot spoil mine--if +I only _get_ safe away. It was my fault as well as his. I should have +trusted in God to help Willie and me. Then I would have been strong to +resist him." + +John bent toward her and took her hand. + +"Will you use your strength against me, Allison?" + +"No, John. If I have any strength, I will use it in your behalf." + +"Allison, I love you dearly. Let me speak, dear," he entreated, as she +put up her hand to stop him, "Yes, let me tell you all. From the first +moment that my eyes lighted on you I loved you. Do you mind the day? +Wait, dear; let me confess all. I did not wish to love you. I was in +love with myself, only seeking to satisfy my own pride and vain ambition +by striving to win a high place in the world. The way had opened before +me, and some day I was to be wise and learned, and a great man among +men. I fought against my love. Are you angry with me. Do you despise +me? But love conquered. Love is strong and true." + +Allison's colour changed; and, for a moment, her eyes fell before his; +but she raised them again, and said, gravely and firmly: + +"John, when a good man loves a woman whom he believes to be good, what +is due from him to her?" + +"Ah! Allison. Let me have a chance to show you! It will take a long +life to do it." + +"John, let me speak. Does he not honour her in his heart? And does he +not uphold her honour before the world?" + +"We would go away together across the sea." + +"Hush! Do not say it. Do not make me sorry that you love me. Do not +make me doubt it." + +"Ah! but you cannot doubt it. You will never be able to doubt that I +love you. Allison, do you love me, ever so little? I could teach you, +dear, to love me." + +He sought to take her hand, but she would not yield it to him. + +"And your mother, John?" + +"She would forgive us, if it were once done." + +"And my mother, up in heaven? What would she think if she were to know? +No, John, it cannot be." + +"You do not love me. You would not hesitate if you loved me." + +"Do I not love you? I am not sure. I think I might learn to love you; +but I could not go with you. No, I could not." + +"Allison, I could make you a happy woman," said John, ending where he +had begun. + +"And would you be a happy man? Not if you are the good man that I have +ay believed you to be. You would be wretched, John; and seeing it, +could I be happy, even if my conscience slumbered?" + +"Allison, do you love me, ever so little? Whatever else is to be said, +look once into my face and say, `John, I love you.'" + +She looked into his face as he bade her, and her own changed, as she met +his eyes. But she did meet them bravely. + +"I think I might have learned to love you--as you said--but I will not +do you that wrong. You may suffer for a while, but your life will not +be lost. God be with you, and fare ye well." + +She rose as she spoke. John rose also, pained and angry. He did not +take the hand which she held out to him. + +"Is that all you have to say to me?" + +"We shall be friends always, I hope." + +"Friends! No. We have got past that. It must be all or nothing +between us. You must see that." + +She looked at him with wet, appealing eyes. + +"It cannot be all," said she, speaking low. + +John turned and went away without a word. + +That was not the very last between them. John came in the morning in +time to carry Marjorie to the carriage, and to place her in Allison's +arms. Something was said about letters, and Marjorie exclaimed: + +"Oh! Allison, will it not be fine to get letters from Robin and John?" + +John looked up to see the tears in Allison's sad eyes, and his own +softened as he looked. + +"Good-bye, my friend," said she. "Good-bye." + +Even if he had wished he could not have refused to take her hand this +time, with Marjorie and Robin looking on. But he did not utter a word, +and in a moment they were gone. + +John stood on the pavement looking after the carriage till it +disappeared around a corner of the street, "And now," said he, "I must +to my work again." + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY. + + "Will I like a fule, quo' he, + For a haughty hizzie dee?" + +There was work enough waiting him, if he were to carry out the plans he +had pleased himself with making, before ever he had seen the face of +Allison Bain. In one year more he had hoped to get to the end of his +university course. If not in one year, then in two. After that, the +world was before him and hard work. + +"It has happened well," he was saying to himself, as he still stood +looking at the corner of the street. "Yes, it has happened well. I am +glad she is gone away. If she had been staying on in Nethermuir, it +might not have been so easy for me to put her out of my thoughts. It +has happened well." + +And then he turned and went down the street "with his nose in the air," +as was said by a humble friend of his who saw him, but whom he did not +see. + +"I must have my turn of folly like the lave (the rest), as auld Crombie +would say. And `it's weel over,' as he would also say, if he kenned +all. I must to my work again." + +Then he turned the corner and came face to face with the husband of +Allison Bain. John's impulse during the space of one long-drawn breath +was to knock the man down and trample him under his feet. Instead of +this, in answer to Brownrig's astonished question, "Have you forgotten +me?" John met his extended hand and stammered: + +"I did not expect to see you. And for the moment--certainly--" + +"I have been at Mr Swinton's office to see him or you. You are late +this morning." + +"I am on my way there now. Have you time to go back again? That is, if +I can do anything for you!" + +"I'll go back with you. It is business I came down about. I am sorry +to hear from Mr Swinton that you are thinking of leaving his +employment. I was hoping that ye might have the overseeing of a job +that the laird has nearly made up his mind to." + +"Oh! as to that, the matter is by no means settled yet, though I have +been thinking about it. I may stay on." + +"A place in the employ of a man like Swinton, and I may add, after what +I have heard him say,--a place in his confidence also, must make good +stepping-stones to fortune for a young man. Where were you thinking of +going, if one may ask? To America, I suppose, like so many other folk +in these days." + +"To America! Oh! no; I have no thought of leaving Scotland at present, +or even of leaving Aberdeen. I intend taking a while at the college. I +began it when I was a lad. But my plans may fall through yet." + +"It would take time and it would take money," said Brownrig. + +"That's true, but I have plenty of time before me." + +"Well, ye may be up our way after all. The laird has ta'en it intil his +head to have a new wing put to the house. It has as muckle need of a +new wing as a Collie dog has o' twa tails," said Brownrig--falling into +Scotch, as some folk have a way of doing when they wish to be +contemptuous or jocose, or indeed are moved in any way. "But if it is +to be done, it is to be done well, and Swinton is the man, with you to +oversee." + +"There could be little done this year," said John. + +"Plans and preparations could be made. The work must be done in the +summer." + +Brownrig seemed to be thinking of something else, for when they came to +the corner of the street, he stood still, looking out toward the sea. +John paused also for a moment, but he grew impatient and moved on. All +this time he had been saying to himself: + +"In some way I must keep this man in sight through the day and through +the night as well, as long as he shall stay in the town. If he were to +see her now! If he were to follow her!" + +John drew his breath hard at the thought. + +There was a long stair to go up before Mr Swinton's rooms could be +reached, and when they came to the foot of it Brownrig paused. + +"I am not quite myself this morning," he said. "I'll wait till later in +the day before I try to see Mr Swinton again. There's no special +hurry." + +"You are not looking very well," said John gravely. "It would be as +wise for you to wait a while and refresh yourself. I'll go with you a +bit of the way." + +They went back together till they came to the door of the inn. John +refused Brownrig's invitation to enter, and left him there. Then he +took his way to Robert's lodgings. Robert had not returned. + +"Can they be lingering yet?" said John to himself. "I must see that +they are fairly away." + +In the street opposite the house where Mrs Esselmont had stayed, no +carriage was standing. John slowly passed the house and turned again, +waiting for a while. Then he went toward the office. Looking in at the +inn parlour on his way thither, he saw Brownrig sitting with a friend. +There were a bottle and glasses between them, and judging that he was +"safe enough for the present," John went to his work. Brownrig paid +another visit to Mr Swinton the next day, but nothing was definitely +arranged between them as to the work which was to be done, and in a day +or two he went away. + +It must be owned that it went ill with John Beaton about this time. He +had been in the way of saying to himself, and of saying to others also, +whom he wished to influence, that the thing which a man desired with all +his heart to do, that he could do. Of course he meant only such things +as were not in their nature impossible to be done. But after a while he +was not so sure of himself. + +While Brownrig had lingered in the town, John had been more or less +occupied with thoughts of him. He had kept sight of him at most times. +He had known where he was and what he was doing, and in what company. +He had done this for the sake of Allison Bain, declaring to himself that +whatever might be done to prevent her falling into the hands of the man +who called her his wife, it was right for him to do. + +But Brownrig showed no sign of knowing that Allison had been in the +town, and in a few days he turned his face homeward again. + +Then John had time to attend to his own affairs, and it went ill with +him for a while. He faced his trouble like a man, and "had it out with +himself," as he might have "had it out" with friend or foe, with whom a +battle was to be fought for the sake of assured peace to come after. + +Yes, he loved Allison Bain--loved her so well that he had been willing +to sacrifice a hopeful future at home, and begin a life of labour in a +strange land, so that she might share it with him. He had not tried to +shut his eyes as to the right and wrong of the matter. He had seen that +which he had desired to do as other men would see it, and he had still +spoken. + +But Allison Bain did not love him. At least she did not love him well +enough to be willing to do what was wrong for his sake. And now it was +all past and gone forever. + +What, then, was his duty and interest in the circumstances? + +To forget her; to put her out of his thoughts and out of his heart; to +begin at the work which he had planned for himself before ever he had +seen her face; to hold to this work with might and main, so as to leave +himself no time and no room for the cherishing of hope or the rebelling +against despair, and he strengthened himself by recalling the many good +reasons he had seen for not yielding when the temptation first assailed +him. + +He ought to be glad that she had refused to listen to him. She had been +wise for them both, and it was well. Yes, it was well. This momentary +madness would pass away, and he had his work before him. + +And so to his work he determined to set himself. So many hours were to +be given to Mr Swinton and so many to his books. In these +circumstances there would be no leisure for dreams or for regrets, and +he would soon be master of himself again. + +And he must lose no time. First he must go and see his mother. He hung +his head as he owned to himself how few of his thoughts had been given +to her of late. + +All this while she had had many thoughts concerning him; and when, one +night, he came at last, wet and weary, through the darkness of a +November night, she welcomed him lovingly, and uttered no word of +reproach or even of surprise at his long silence, or at his seeming +forgetfulness of the plan which he had himself proposed. She was just +as usual, more glad to see him than she had words to tell, and full of +interest in all that he had to say. + +And John flattered himself that he was "just as usual" also. He had +plenty to say at first, and was cheerful over it. Of his own accord he +told her about the travellers, as he called them; how he had seen them +at Robin's lodgings at night, and when they went away in the morning; +and of how content little Marjorie seemed to be in Allison Bain's care, +and how sure she was that she was coming home strong and well. + +"You'll need to go and tell her mother about it to-morrow," said Mrs +Beaton. "She will be glad to hear about her, though I daresay they have +had a letter by this time." + +"Surely, I'll go to tell them," said John. + +But he grew silent after that. He said a few words about how busy he +had been of late, and then he owned that he was very tired, and bade his +mother good-night cheerfully enough. + +"For," said he, "why should my mother be vexed by any trouble of mine, +that is so sure soon to pass away?" + +And his mother was saying, as she had said before: + +"If he needs me, he will tell me, and if I cannot help him, silence is +best between us. For oh! I fear if all were told, there might be some +things said that his mother would grieve to hear." + +The next day passed as Sabbath-days at home usually passed. They went +to the kirk together in the morning, and John went alone in the +afternoon. He led the singing, and shook hands with a good many people, +and was perhaps more friendly with some of them than was usual with him. + +He went to the manse in the gloaming to tell them how he had seen the +last of Marjorie, how she had been happy and bright, and how she had +promised to write a letter to him and to many more; but he never +mentioned Allison's name, Mrs Hume noticed, nor did she. + +He found his mother sitting by the light of the fire. She gave him her +usual greeting. + +"Well, John?" said she, cheerfully. + +"Well, mother?" said he cheerfully also. + +There was not much more said for a while. John's thoughts were faraway, +his mother saw, and she sat waiting with patience till they should come +back again--with a patience which might have failed at last. + +"He maybe needs a sharp word," she thought. + +It could wait, however; and in a little she said gently: + +"You are looking tired, John; you have been overworking yourself, I +doubt." + +John laughed. + +"Oh! no, mother; far from that. I have plenty of work before me, +however, and must buckle to it with a will. You are thinking of coming +with me, mother? I hope your heart is not failing you at the thought of +the change?" + +"Failing me! by no means. Surely, I have been thinking of it and +preparing for it, and it is full time the change were made, for the +winter is drawing on." + +"Yes, the winter is drawing on." + +"But, John, I have been taking a second thought about the house. I must +go to the town with you for the winter, and that for various reasons. +Chiefly because you cannot come here often without losing your time, and +I weary for you whiles, sorely. I did that last year, and this year it +would be worse. But I would like to be here in the summer. If I have +to part from you I would rather be here than among strangers." + +"But, mother, what has put that in your head? It is late in the day to +speak of a parting between you and me." + +"Parting! Oh, no. Only it is the lot of woman, be she mother or wife, +to bide at home while a man goes his way. You may have to seek your +work when you are ready for it; and I am too old and frail now to go +here and there as you may need to do, and you could ay come home to me +here." + +John's conscience smote him as he listened. He had been full of his own +plans and troubles; he had been neglecting his mother, who, since the +day he was born, had thought only of him. + +"You are not satisfied with the decision I have come to--the change of +work which I have been planning." + +His mother did not answer for a minute. + +"I would have been well pleased if the thought of change had never come +into your mind. But since it has come, it is for you to do as you think +right. No, I would have had you content to do as your father did before +you; but I can understand how you may have hopes and ambitions beyond +that, and it is for you to decide for yourself. You have your life +before you, and mine is nearly over; it is right that you should choose +your way." + +John rose and moved restlessly about the room. His mother was hard on +him, he said to himself. His hopes and ambitions! He could have +laughed at her words, for he had been telling himself that such dreams +were over forever. It mattered little whether he were to work with his +head or his hands, except as one kind of work might answer a better +purpose than the other in curing him of his folly and bringing him to +his senses again. + +"Sit down, John," said his mother; "I like to see your face." + +John laughed. + +"Shall I light the candle, mother?" + +"There is no haste about it. I have more to say. It is this. You may +be quite right in the decision to which you have come. You are young +yet, and the time which you may think you have lost, may be in your +favour. You have a stronger body than you might have had if you had +been at your books all these years; and you have got experience, and I +hope some wisdom, that your books could not have given you. I am quite +content that you should have your will." + +"Thank you, mother. That is a glad hearing for me. I could have had +little pleasure in my work, going against your wish and will." + +"Well, take pleasure in it now. If I held back for a while, it was only +that I thought I saw a chance of a better kind of happiness for you. +The sort of work matters less than we think. If it is done well, that +is the chief thing. And you have been a good son to your mother." + +"Thank you, mother. I hope you will never have to say less of me than +that. And now is it settled?" + +"Now it's settled--as far as words can settle it, and may God bless you +and--keep you all your days." + +She had almost said, "comfort you!" but she kept it back, and said it +only in her heart. + +Though Mrs Beaton's preparations were well advanced, there was still +something to do. It could be done without John's help, however, and he +left as usual, early in the morning. It was a good while before he saw +Nethermuir again. + +In a few days his mother was ready to follow him. The door was shut and +locked, and the key put into the responsible hand of cripple Sandy for +safe keeping. It must be owned that John's mother turned away from the +little house where her son had made a home for her, with a troubled +heart. Would it ever be her home again? she could not but ask herself. +It might be hers, and then it would also be his in a way--to come back +to for a day or a week now and then for his mother's sake. But it could +never more be as it had been. + +It was nothing to grieve for, she told herself. The young must go forth +to their work in the world, and the old must stay at home to take their +rest, and to wait for the end. Such was God's will, and it should be +enough. + +It was, in a sense, enough for this poor mother, who was happier in her +submission than many a mother who has seen her son go from her; but she +could not forget that--for a time at least--her son must carry a sad +heart with him wherever he went. And he was young, and open to the +temptations of youth, from which his love and care for his mother, and +the hard work which had fallen to his lot, had hitherto saved him. How +would it be with him now? + +"God guide him! God keep him safe from sin," she prayed, as she went +down the street. + +Mrs Hume stood at the door of the manse, waiting to welcome her, and +the sight of her kind face woke within the mother's heart a momentary +desire for the easement which comes with the telling of one's anxious or +troubled thoughts to a true friend. Loyalty to her son stayed the +utterance of that which was in her heart. But perhaps Mrs Hume did not +need to be told in words, for she gave silently the sympathy which was +needed, all the same, and her friend was comforted and strengthened by +it. + +"Yes," said she, "I am coming back again in the spring. It is more like +home here among you all than any other place is likely to be now; and +John will ay be coming and going, whatever he may at last decide to do." + +Perhaps the silence of the minister as to John's new intentions and +plans implied a doubt in his mind as to their wisdom. Mrs Beaton was +silent also with regard to them, refusing to admit to herself or to him, +that her son needed to have his sense and wisdom defended. + +But they loved John dearly in the manse, and trusted him entirely, as +his mother saw with a glad heart. So her visit ended happily, and no +trace of anxiety or regret was visible in her face when John met her at +her journey's end. + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. + + "The very rod, + If we but kiss it as the stroke descendeth, + Distilleth oil to allay the inflicted smart." + +And so their new life began, and long before the first month was over, +Mrs Beaton was apparently as content with the state of affairs as could +well be desired. She had no trouble as to household matters, and sat +with her book or her needle at one side of the table, while her son sat +with his books and his papers at the other side, very much as they had +done during those evenings which John had spent at home in Nethermuir. + +Robert Hume lived in the same house, and their meals were served +together. But Robert pursued his college work in his own room, and only +came as a visitor to Mrs Beaton's parlour when his books were put +aside. John still spent several hours daily in Mr Swinton's office, +and all the rest of the time he was busy also with his college work. To +see her son content, was enough for Mrs Beaton. + +To give the history of one day would be giving the history of nearly all +the days of the winter, except as the Sabbath made a break among them, +Robin was reasonably industrious, but he could not be expected to +satisfy himself with the unbroken routine into which John readily fell. +He had his own companions and his amusements, and their meals were +enlivened by his cheerful accounts of all that was happening in the +world around them. At his books Robert did fairly well, but he was not +likely to overwork himself. + +They heard often from Marjorie by the way of the manse, and several +times during the winter a little letter came to Robin or to John, +written with great care and pains by her own hand. She was very happy, +she said, and she had not forgotten them; and by and by she hoped to be +able to tell them that she was growing strong and well. + +Twice or thrice during the winter Brownrig made his appearance at the +office of Mr Swinton. He had, each time, something to say about +business, but apparently the laird had changed his mind about the +building of the new wing, for nothing more was to be done for the +present. + +John could not help thinking that his chief reason for coming there was +to see him, in the hope that he might hear something about William Bain. +More than once he brought his name into their talk, asking if Mr +Beaton had heard anything of him, and hoping that he was doing well. On +his second visit, meeting John in the street, he turned and walked with +him, and told him that one of the lads who had sailed with Bain had been +heard from by his friends. The ship had been disabled in a storm before +they were half-way over, and had gone far out of her course, but had got +safely into a southern port at last. + +The passengers had gone their several ways probably, and lost sight of +one another, for this lad could tell nothing of Bain, though he had +himself safely reached the town where Mr Hadden, the minister's son, +lived, and to which Bain had also intended to go. "I thought perhaps +you or your friend might have had some word from him, as you had taken +some trouble to help him," said Brownrig. + +"No, that is not at all likely," said John, "at least as far as I am +concerned. Neither likely nor possible. He never saw me, nor I him. +He never, to my knowledge, heard my name, and it was only by chance that +I ever heard his. But I will give you the name of the man who used to +go to the tollbooth on Sunday afternoons. It is just possible, though +not very likely, that he may have heard from him." + +John wrote the name and address, and gave it to him. + +"Have you been at the shipping office for news?" said he. + +Yes, Brownrig had been there, and had been told that the ship was +refitting in the American port, and would soon be home, but that, was +all he had heard. Whenever it was possible to do so, John kept out of +the man's way. He had spoken to him nothing but the truth, yet he could +not help feeling like a deceiver. And though he told himself that he +was ready to lie to Brownrig, rather than say anything that might give +him a clue by which the hiding-place of Allison Bain might be +discovered, still lying could not be easy work to unaccustomed lips, and +he said to himself, "the less of it the better." So he did not +encourage Brownrig when they met, and he kept out of his way whenever it +was possible for him to do so. But he pitied the man. He was sorry for +the misery for which there could be no help, since Allison Bain feared +him, even if she did not hate him. He pitied him, but he could not help +him to gain his end. Whether it were right or whether it were wrong, it +was all the same to John. He could not betray to her enemy the woman +who had trusted her cause in his hands. + +But while he pitied him, Brownrig's persistence in seeking him irritated +him almost beyond his power to endure. And the worst of it to John was, +that he could not put it all out of his thoughts when Brownrig had +turned his back upon the town, and had gone to his own place. + +He grew restless and irritable. He could not forget himself in his work +as he had been able to do at first, nor fix his attention upon it at +all, at times. He read the same page over and over again, and knew not +what he read; or he sat for many minutes together, without turning a +leaf, as his mother sometimes saw, with much misgiving as to how it was +all to end. And when it came to this with him, it was time for her to +speak. + +"John, my lad," she said suddenly one night, and in her voice was the +mother's sharpness which is so delightful to hear and so effectual when +it is heard only at long intervals; "John, my lad, shut your book and +put on your coat, and take Robin with you for a run on the sands, and +then go to your bed." + +John's dazed eyes met hers for a moment. Then he laughed and rose, +yawning and stretching his arms above his head. + +"You are right, mother, as you always are. We'll away to the links;" +and his cheerful voice calling up-stairs for Robin to come down at once, +was music to the ears of his mother. + +"There's not much wrong with him," she said to herself hopefully. +"He'll win through, and begin again, when once he is fairly free." + +She meant that when "those weary examinations" were all over, he would +have time to rest and come to himself, and be ready for his work, +whatever it was to be. And--hopeful old mother that she was--she meant +more than that. She meant, that before this son of hers, who was wiser +and stronger and better than the sons of most mothers, lay a fair +future. "The world was all before him where to choose." He would only +be the stronger for the weight of the burden which had fallen so early +on his young shoulders. In time he would forget his dream, outlive his +disappointment, and be not the worse, but the better for the discipline. +He would go his way and serve his Master, and win honour among good +men. "And I'll bide at home and hear of him whiles, and be content," +said the anxious, happy mother, with tears in her loving eyes. + +In the meantime John was on the sands, facing the wind, which drowned +his voice as he sang: + + "Will I like a fule, quo' he, + For a haughty hizzie dee?" + +But it was not the wind which silenced his song, for Allison Bain was no +"haughty hizzie" of the sort, "Who frown to lead a lover on," but a sad +and solitary woman, who might have a sorrowful life before her. + +"To whom may the Lord be kind!" said John, with a softened heart. "I +love her, and it is no sin to love her, since I may never see her face +again." + +And many more thoughts he had which might not so well bear the telling; +and all the time Robin was bawling into his inattentive ears an account +of a battle of words which had taken place between two of his friends, +who had agreed, since neither would acknowledge defeat, to make him +umpire to decide between them. + +When they, turned their backs to the wind and their faces homeward, +hearing and answering became possible. They had the matter decided to +their own satisfaction before they reached the house, and their merry +sparring and laughter, and the evidence they gave of an excellent +appetite when supper-time came, might have been reassuring to Mrs +Beaton, even had she been more anxious than she was about her son. + +After that John was more careful of his looks and words and ways, when +in his mother's presence. All tokens of weariness or preoccupation or +depression were kept out of her sight; and, indeed, at all times he felt +the necessity of struggling against the dullness and the indifference to +most things, even to his work, which were growing upon him. + +He did his best against it, or he thought he did so. He forced himself +to read as usual, and when he "could make nothing of it," he took long +walks in all weathers, so as to keep his "helplessness" out of his +mother's sight, believing that when the necessity for exertion should be +over--when he could get out of the groove into which it would have +perhaps been better that he had never put himself, all would be as it +had been before. And said he grimly: + +"If the worse comes to the worst, I can but fall to breaking stones +again." + +It ended, as it generally does end, when a man sets himself to do the +work of two men, or to do in six months the work of twelve, in order to +gratify a vain ambition, or to lighten a heavy heart. It took no more +than a slight cold, so it was thought to be at first, to bring the +struggle to an end, and the work of the winter. + +There was a night or two of feverish restlessness, of "tossing to and +fro until the dawning of the day," a day or two of effort to seem well, +and to do his work as usual, and then Doctor Fleming was sent for. It +cannot be said that there ever came a day when the doctor could not, +with a good conscience, say to John's mother, that he did not think her +son was going to die; but he was very ill, and he was long ill. The +college halls were closed, and all the college lads had gone to their +homes before John was able, leaning on Robert's arm, to walk to the +corner of the street; and it may be truly said, that the worst time of +all came to him after that. + +He had no strength for exertion of any kind; and worse than that, he had +no motive, and in his weakness he was most miserable. It was a change +he needed, they all knew, and when the days began to grow long and warm, +something was said about returning to Nethermuir for a while. + +"To Nethermuir, and the lanes where Allison used to go up and down with +little Marjorie in her arms, to the kirk where she used to sit; to the +hills which hid the spot where his eyes first lighted on her!" + +No, John could not go there. He had got to the very depths of weakness +when it came to that with him--and of self-contempt. + +"There is no haste about it, mother," said he. "The garden? Yes, but I +could do nothing in it yet. Let us bide where we are for a little." + +Robert, who had refused to leave while John needed him, went home now, +and Mr Hume came in for a day. Robert had "had his own thoughts" for a +good while, indeed ever since the day when John had gone to his morning +walk without him; but Robert had been discreet, and had kept his +thoughts to himself for the most part. During John's illness the lad +had been about his bed by night and by day, and he had now and then +heard words which moved him greatly--broken words unconsciously +uttered--by turns angry, entreating, despairing. Foolish words they +often were, but they brought tears to Robin's "unaccustomed eyes," and +they turned his thoughts where, indeed, all true and deep feeling turned +them, toward his mother. + +Not that he had the slightest intention of betraying his friend's +weakness to her. How it came about he did not know--it had already +happened more than once in his experience--before he was aware the words +were uttered. + +They were going together, by special invitation from Delvie, to see the +tulips in the Firhill garden. They went slowly and rested on the way, +not that they were tired, but because the day was warm and the air +sweet, and the whole land rejoicing in the joy of the coming summer; and +as they sat in the pleasant gloom which the young firs made, looking out +on the shadows of the clouds on the fields beyond, it came into Robin's +mind that there could be no better time than this to tell his mother +some things which "by rights" ought never to have happened, but which, +since they had happened, his mother ought to know. They should never +happen again, he said to himself, and he swore it in his heart, when he +saw her kind eyes sadden and her dear face grow grave as he went on. + +Then when she had "said her say," and all was clear between them again, +he began to speak about John Beaton; and before he was aware, he was +telling her what he knew, and what he guessed of the trouble through +which his friend was passing; then he hung his head. + +"I never meant to speak about it," said he. "It is only to your mother, +Robin. And I have had my own thoughts, too. Oh! yes, many of them. I +am sorry for John, but he needed the discipline, or it would not have +been sent, and he'll be all the wiser for the lesson." + +But there was no comfort in that for Robin. "It is like betraying him, +mother," said he. And when it was one night made known in the house +that his father was going to Aberdeen, and that his chief reason for +going was to see how it was with John Beaton, Robin's eyes sought those +of his mother in doubtful appeal. His mother only smiled. "Cannot you +trust your father, Robin?" said she. "I canna trust myself, it seems," +said Robin. "There's no harm done yet, my lad. You need not fear that +ill will come from speaking your secret thoughts to your mother." + +"But other folk's secret thoughts?" said Robin. + +No ill came of it this time. Of course Mrs Hume had told her husband +of Robert's words, and of some thoughts of her own, which she had kept +to herself hitherto. Her husband's first idea was that it was a pity +that she should not have a chance of a few words with John. But that +was not her idea; and, besides, it was not possible, for various +reasons. + +"He needs a kind word from some one, but not from me. I am not well +pleased with John at present. And it would hardly be wise to give him +`a piece of my mind,' now that he is down-hearted. It is you who must +go." + +It must be remembered that at this time Mrs Hume did not know all that +was to be known of John and his troubles. As for the minister, he was +scarcely as much moved as his wife thought he ought to have been by the +tale she had told. + +"There is no fear of him, if that is all that ails him," said he. + +Still he loved John and longed to help him, and a visit might do both +him and his mother good. So he made up his mind to go and see them +without loss of time. + +It all happened well, though it happened without forethought or planning +on his part or on theirs. They rejoiced at his coming. "You have done +him good already," Mrs Beaton's eyes said to the minister, when she +came in and found them together. John sat erect and cheerful, taking +his part in the conversation, and though after a little he grew weary +and bent his head on his hand as the talk went on, he was more like +himself than he had been yet, his mother told the minister, when she +went to the door with him, as he was going away. Though he had already +said good-night to John, he turned back to say it once more. + +"I am afraid I have wearied you, lad," said he; "and you were weary +enough before I came--weary of time and place, and of the words and ways +of other folk, and of your own thoughts. I would like well to have the +guiding of you for the next month, and I have but a day. Will you put +yourself into my hands, John, for one day?" + +"Ay, that I will, and for as many as you like." + +"We'll take one day of it first, if to-morrow be fair." + +The day was all that could be desired; clear, but with clouds now and +then, moving before the breeze, to make shadows for their delight, upon +land and sea. + +They took a boat at the wharf and sailed away toward the north, having a +mutual friend--"auld Boatie Tamson"--for captain and pilot and crew. +There was health in the smell of the sea, strength in every breath of +the salt air, and rest and peace alike in their talk and in their +silence, and all went well. + +After a time, when they had left the town far behind them, they turned +landward to a place which Mr Hume had known in the days of his youth, +and which he had sought with pleasure, more than once since then. Auld +Boatie knew it also, and took them safely into the little cove which was +floored with shining sands, and sheltered on three sides by great rocks, +on which the sea birds came to rest; on the other side it was open to +the sea. Here he left them for the day. + +They had not many appliances for the comfort of the invalid, but they +had all that were needed. A pillow and a plaid spread on the sand made +his bed, and another plaid covered him when the wind came fresh. In the +unexplored basket which Mrs Beaton had provided they had perfect faith +for future needs, and so they rested and looked out upon the sea. + +They had not much to say to one another at first. Mr Hume had brought +a book in his pocket, from which he read a page now and then, sometimes +to himself and sometimes to his friend; and as John lay and listened, +looking away to the place where the sky and ocean met, he fell asleep, +and had an hour and more of perfect repose. + +How it came about, I cannot tell, but when he opened his eyes to meet +the grave, kind eyes of the minister, looking down upon him, there came +to him an utter softening of the heart--a longing unspeakable for the +rest and peace which comes with the sympathy, be it voiced or silent, of +one who is pitiful and who understands. + +The minister put forth his hand and touched the hand of his friend. + +"You have been at hard and weary work of late, John, or shall I say, you +have been fighting a battle with a strong foe? and it has gone ill with +you." + +John had no words with which to answer him. His lips trembled and the +tears rose to his eyes. + +That was the beginning. They had enough to say to one another after a +little time; but not a word of it all is to be written down. Of some +things that passed between them neither ever spoke to the other again. +Before all was said, John "had made a clean breast of it" to the +minister, and had proved in his experience, that "faithful are the +wounds of a friend," and that "a brother is born for adversity." They +had been friends before that day. Thenceforth they were brothers by a +stronger tie than that of blood. + +When John was brought home to his mother that night, she could not but +be doubtful of the good which their day had done him. But he was rested +and cheerful in the morning, and she was not doubtful long. As time +passed, she could not but see that he was less impatient of his weakness +and his enforced idleness; that he was at peace with himself, as he had +not been for many a day, and that he was looking forward to renewed +strength with a firmer purpose and a more hopeful heart. + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY TWO. + + "And so, taking heart, he sailed + Westward, not knowing the end." + +Dr Fleming was by no means satisfied with the progress which his +patient was making. He had called at the house with Mr Hume, and had +expressed himself very decidedly as to the desirableness of a change for +the young man, but he did not approve of Nethermuir, and he startled +them all by saying: + +"What you need is a sea voyage. It will take time and it will take +money, but it is the very thing you need to make a new man of you. And +the sooner you go the better." And then he went away. + +"You should go to America, John, where so many are going these days," +said the minister. + +Mrs Beaton looked from one to the other with appealing eyes; and seeing +this, John said nothing. Not a word more was spoken on the subject that +day nor the next. On the third, as they sat together by the fireside in +the gloaming, Mrs Beaton said: + +"Well, John, what do you think?" + +"Well, mother, I think the worst is over. I am growing stronger every +day." + +His mother smiled and shook her head. + +"You havena won far on yet," said she. "But it was about the voyage to +America that I was wishing to hear." + +"It might do me good, but it is not absolutely necessary, I suppose." + +"You might take a voyage without going so far as America." + +"Yes, that is true." + +"And the sooner the better for us both," said his mother, after a pause. + +"A voyage to America would be as safe as any other, though it would be a +long one." + +"Yes, it would be a long voyage. America is far, faraway. And when you +were once there, you might take it in your head to bide there." + +"And you wouldna like that, mother?" + +"I mightna like it, but it might be for your good, for all that." + +"It wouldna be for my good to go away anywhere and leave my mother +behind me," said John gravely. "Would you come with me, mother?" + +"No, lad; no. I couldna do that for several reasons. But if you were +to go there, and should see a prospect of prosperous days, I might +follow you." + +"Would you, mother dear?" + +John rose and walked up and down the room a good many times. His mother +waited with patience till he sat down again. + +"Well, John?" said she. + +"Do you mean it, mother?" + +"Surely I mean it, or I wouldna say it. I should like better that you +should content yourself at home. But it would be a new beginning." + +"Yes, it would be a new beginning," said John gravely. + +"It would need to be that, even here, in some ways, I suppose, and a new +beginning might be easier there." + +"Have you been thinking about all that, mother?" + +"Surely! What else have I to think about but that which concerns you, +who have your life before you?" + +"And wouldna you be afraid of the long voyage, and the going to a +strange land and leaving all behind you?" + +"I would have my fears, I daresay, like other folk; but I would have few +to leave if you were away; and I would have you to welcome me." + +"I might come home for you in the course of a year or two." + +"You could hardly do that without interfering with your work, whatever +it might be. But I might come to you with some one else. I feel strong +and well now." + +"You are none the worse for the winter, mother?" + +"None the worse, but much the better," said she cheerfully. And then +she paused to consider whether it would be wise to say more. + +"It will hurt him, but it may help him as well," she thought; and then +she said aloud: + +"I am far stronger than I was when I came here, and in better health +every way. I may tell you now, since it is over, that all the last +summer I was afraid--ay, sore afraid, of what might be before me. But I +had a few words with Dr Fleming about myself, and he bade me put away +my fears, for I had mistaken my trouble altogether. It was a great +relief to my mind, and he helped my body as well. I am a stronger woman +to-day than I ever thought to be." + +John, remembering the lingering illness of an aunt, knew or guessed what +her fear had been, and he grew white as he met her eyes. + +"Are you sure, mother," said he hoarsely, "that you are now safe from +all fear?" + +"As sure as the word of a skillful doctor and honest man can make me. +Yes, I think I may say I have no fear now." + +"And you kept this dread to yourself! Oh! mother! mother!" said John, +covering his face with his hands. + +She had been enduring this trial--this great dread, in one way worse to +meet than suffering itself would have been; while he, full of himself +and his own plans and disappointments, had been taking no heed. + +"I have great reason to be thankful," said Mrs Beaton softly; "and, +John lad, what could I do, but keep my fears to myself till I was quite +sure? You had your own trouble to bear, as I could well see, and it +would have made mine none the less to add to your pain." + +"Oh! mother! mother!" was all her son could say. + +"John," said Mrs Beaton, after a time, "I think you might tell your +mother!" + +John raised his head and laughed, but there were tears in his eyes as he +came over to her, and stooping, he softly kissed her. "Do you need to +be told, mother?" said he. + +These were the very first words which had passed between them concerning +the sorrow which had come to them both through Allison Bain, and they +were nearly all that were ever spoken. + +"I grieved for you, John, and I feared for you; but I trusted Allison +Bain. If she does not love him, he is in no danger, I said. If she +loves him, she will withstand him for his own sake." + +"Be content, mother. She withstood me, whether she loved me or not." + +"I thank God for you both. May He ever lead you in His own way!" + +Of course a voyage was to be taken. There was some hesitation as to +whether John should avail himself of the opportunity offered by a ship +which was to sail at once to bring home timber from Norway, or wait a +little longer for the _Griffin_, an emigrant vessel, bound for Quebec. +There were already great steam vessels crossing the ocean--not many of +them, however, at this time, but the long voyage would be rather an +advantage in John's case, and he made up his mind to go by the +_Griffin_. But he said nothing to make any one suppose that he did not +intend to return with her. There would be time enough to decide as to +the length of his stay, when he had seen the country. + +So the mother and son bade one another farewell for a while, and Mrs +Beaton was the more courageous of the two when it came to the last words +between them. But they did not linger over last words. Robert Hume had +come to say good-bye to his friend, and to take care of Mrs Beaton on +her homeward journey to Nethermuir, and he was amazed at John's +"down-heartedness." + +"Oh! man! if I only had your chance! Or if I were going with you!" said +he, and John echoed his wish. + +He had been a good many days out of sight of land, before he began to +take himself to task for his utter inability to feel, or to profess an +interest in that which was going on about him. He was, indeed, very +down-hearted, as Robert had said. He said in his foolishness: + +"My days are past. My purposes are broken off, even the thoughts of my +heart." + +And he told himself that, except for his mother's sake, it did not +matter whether he made his home in America or in Scotland, or whether he +should ever make a home at all. But this melancholy did not continue +long. Little by little the salt winds brought him health and strength. +They blew away his foolish fancies, and soothed the smart of a pain +real, and ill to bear. Then he began to see and to interest himself in +that which was going on in the little world around him. + +There were all sorts of people in it--fathers and mothers, and little +children, young men and maidens. There were doubtful characters among +them, it is to be supposed; some of them seemed to be poor enough, and +some were evidently "well-to-do." All were alike cheerful and not +afraid of the future, for they were all looking forward to having land +of their own and a fair chance in the new world. + +John made acquaintance with many, and made friends with a few, and got +good, and tried to do good among them. There is time to make +acquaintance during a voyage which lasts for weeks, and the seventh week +was over before they anchored within sight of the citadel of Quebec. + +There are letters still in existence in John's handwriting--great +sheets, larger than common foolscap, written in small, even characters, +like "copper-plate," and so written that every available hairbreadth of +space is covered, except that part which, when the elaborate process of +folding was accomplished, was left blank for the address. There are a +good many of these letters, and there is great variety both as to matter +and to manner among them, some of them being addressed to his mother and +others to the minister and to Robert. Altogether, they might afford +material for a very full account of John's first impression of the +scenery, the climate, the character of the people, the state of morals +and manners, of education and religion in the new country to which he +had come. + +When they fell into John's hands many years after they were written, he +enjoyed the reading of them greatly. He was very proud of the +handwriting for one thing, and pleased with the evidence they gave of +his patient and faithful efforts to satisfy his correspondents, both as +to the quantity and the quality of the information conveyed. + +His descriptions of natural scenery, of the grand river Saint Lawrence, +the mountains, the islands, the great falls of Niagara, were very +fine--"perhaps a little too fine"--he acknowledged. But his opinions as +to the state of morals and manners, education and religion, and American +institutions generally, were greatly modified by the time he read his +letters again; his "first impressions" may therefore be omitted in his +story, and his adventures also, which were not of extraordinary +interest, even to himself, until he came to the town of Barstow in the +United States, the only town in all America which at that time had any +special attraction for him. + +In those days Barstow used to be spoken of as a Western town; but so +many new States have been made since then, and so many towns and cities +have risen up far to the westward, that it is now regarded as belonging +to the eastern part of the great republic. It was not a large town when +John Beaton first saw it. It had a few long, tree-shaded streets, where +the great square, white houses, stood far apart, with pleasant lawns and +gardens about them. Even the business streets were wide and clean, and +had trees growing in them; and, altogether, "the place gave one the idea +of plenty of elbow room," as John told Robert Hume in the first letter +which he wrote there. + +But he did not tell Robert or any one else why he had turned his face +thitherward. + +Before Dr Fleming had ended the sentence which declared that a sea +voyage would be the best thing for his patient, John was saying to +himself, that to the town of Barstow, where Alexander Hadden lived, and +where William Bain was likely to go at last, wherever he might be +lingering now, he should first direct his steps when his voyage was +ended. If such a thing were possible, Allison's heart should be set at +rest concerning her brother. + +But now that he was there, for a reason which he could not well have +declared to any one, he hesitated to apply to Mr Hadden for the +information which he desired. It would be more natural and more +agreeable to them both, he thought, that meeting William Bain as it were +by chance, he should claim him as a countryman, and strive to win his +confidence first of all. Afterward, he might be able to help and +influence him. And it was too likely that he would need both help and +influence. + +That this lad who, not through wickedness perhaps, but through weakness +and folly, had brought sorrow on all who loved him, would have strength +and wisdom to resist all temptation, and begin a new life in a new land, +was hardly to be believed. Alone, homesick, remorseful, there was +little hope of his doing well without help from some one. + +"And whatever else I may do, I must first find Willie Bain and help him +as he may need, for Allison's sake." + +But time was precious, and John's purse was not very deep; and if he +were to see anything of this wonderful country, he told himself, he must +not linger long in Barstow. But he did linger day after day. He did +not seem to care so very much for seeing the country. He was growing +well and strong, and to get health and strength was his motive for +crossing the sea. He was as well here as elsewhere, and here he must +stay. It seemed to be "borne in upon him," that there was something for +him to do in the place. + +When several days had passed, he made up his mind that he would go to +the bank and see Mr Hadden, and he went. It was too late to see him +that day. Mr Hadden had gone home. On that night something happened. +John met the man whom he was seeking, face to face. + +It could be no one else, he said to himself. For the eyes which met his +for a moment were the beautiful, sad eyes of Allison Bain. "Now, God +guide me!" said John in strong entreaty, and then he followed the lad. +He followed him down one street and up another, and out into the country +along the lake shore. The stranger moved more slowly as he went on and +stopped at last; and, leaning upon a broken fence, looked out long upon +the water. + +"I'm not so very strong yet," said John to himself, as he paused also, +for his heart was beating hard and his hands trembled. + +While he hesitated whether he should speak at once or wait a while, the +lad turned and began to retrace his steps. John addressed him as he +passed. "Can you tell me if I am on the right road to--to--Jericho?" +said he, at a loss for a name. "No, I cannot tell you. I am a stranger +here." + +"A stranger? So am I. And you are a Scotchman, I ken by your tongue. +So am I. We are both strangers in a strange land." + +If John had had time to think, he might not have spoken in this way, but +it is very likely he might have said nothing which would have answered a +better purpose. The lad turned and looked at him. + +"Yes, I am a stranger. I have no friends--no one," he said huskily, and +the tears came into his eyes. + +"I have no friends on this side of the sea, and not so very many beyond +it--besides my mother." + +This, also, was a stupid sort of thing to say, he owned, when he came to +think of it, and then he added: + +"I have heard that this is a fine country to get on in." + +"Yes, so they say." + +They went on in silence, and very slowly, the stranger walking wearily, +as John could see. + +"I am done out," said he at last, stopping and leaning against a tree. + +"Yes, so I see. Have you far to go? I will go with you." + +"I have nowhere to go. I came here yesterday, and I slept last night in +a boat by the wharf." + +"Then ye'll just come with me," said John heartily, giving him his arm +to lean upon. He would have liked to ask his name, but he did not. +They walked on slowly, till they came to the house where John was +staying. + +"I have brought a friend," said he to the mistress of the house. "He +will share my room, and I will be responsible for him." + +"He looks sick," said the woman gravely. "I hope you realise what you +are undertaking?" + +John _thought_ he "realised" it, but he did not. It would have made no +difference, however, if he had. His new friend tossed and muttered all +night, and in the morning was unable to raise his head from the pillow, +and that was but the beginning. Many days passed before he was able to +do so. He was light-headed much of the time, and uttered a great many +names, some of them angrily enough, and some of them with love and +longing unspeakable. It was, "Oh! mother! mother!" Or, "Oh! Allie! +Allie! where are you gone?" through the whole of one painful night when +he was at the worst, till the dawn brought sleep at last, and a respite. + +He grew better after a while, and the visits of the doctor ceased, but +his strength came slowly and his spirits failed him often. The house in +which they lodged stood near the water's edge. The heat was great in +the middle of the day, and at night the wind which came from the lake +was damp and chill. John saw that a change of place was needed, and he +would fain have carried him away to get the fresh air of the country. + +"A change is what he needs. We can manage it for a day now and then, to +get somewhere," said John to himself; "and then--I must to work again." + +He knew, or he supposed, that if he applied to Mr Hadden, who had the +reputation of being a rich man who did much good with his money, all +would be made easy to this stranger; but he himself had the best right +to have the pleasure of helping Allison's brother; and he said to +himself: + +"I'll bide a wee. He has not mentioned Mr Hadden's name, nor his own, +for that matter. Yes, I'll bide a wee, and we'll manage it in some +way." + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY THREE. + + "Let us be content to work-- + To do the thing we can, and not presume + To fret because 'tis little." + +And it was managed very much to John's satisfaction, and very easily +managed. One morning John hailed an early market-man, returning home +with his empty waggon, and asked him if he would take passengers for a +little way into the country. The man hesitated only for a minute. + +"Well, yes, I guess so--just as well as not. Glad of your company," +said he, after a second glance at John's face, and away they went +together. It paid to have their company their new friend told them, as +he took his leave of them. + +"If you think of walking back to town to-night, I guess you've come far +enough," said he, when they came to the top of the hill. + +He left them on a little knoll, sheltered by a few great maple-trees, +and having a sloping, stony pasture between it and the lake, and here +they spent the morning. John had a book, and he enjoyed it, while his +patient slept. But he could not quite put away all anxious thoughts, +and he laid it down at last to face them. + +What was to be done with this silent lad, who had fallen into his hands? +Since the night of their meeting, he had spoken no word about himself, +except as he had muttered or cried out unconsciously while the fever was +upon him. He had not asked a question or hesitated a moment in letting +John do with him as he would, accepting all help and tendance as quietly +and naturally as they were cheerfully given. + +And John liked all this, in a way. But it could not continue. For the +lad's sake something must be said, something must be done. + +"He must be made stronger, and put in the way of doing for himself, +before I leave," said John, thinking rather of the lightness of his +purse than of any desire he had to see the country or even to get home +again. + +"Yes, we must lose no time," he repeated, and looked up to meet the +lad's eyes fixed on him. + +"You have never told me your name," said he gravely. + +John laughed. + +"Have I not? Well, it is John Beaton. Did you ever hear it before?" + +"No, I have never heard it." + +"And you have not told me yours. It is rather queer, too. The name is +usually the first exchange made between men meeting as strangers, when +they wish to become friends." + +There was no answer to this. "Well?" said John, after a little. + +"I have been thinking--I mean I call myself William Leslie." + +"And is that your name?" asked John gravely. + +"Yes, it is my name. It is not all of my name. But what does it matter +in this new country? My name is nothing to any one." + +"But it is something to yourself. I havena a fine name, but it was my +father's before me, and my grandfather's, and I wouldna change it to be +called a lord," said John gravely. "My lad, I hope you have done +nothing to make you afraid or ashamed to own your name?" + +"I have done nothing that I wouldna do again, ten times over, if it +would give me my revenge!" he cried, raising himself up, while his eyes +flashed angrily. "It is not for shame, but for safety that I wish to +have my name forgotten, and--for Allie's sake." + +He lay down again, and after the anger, the tears came. Then John did +an extraordinary thing. When he stooped to arrange the plaid over his +friend, he kissed him on his lips and on his closed eyelids. Then he +rose and turned his back upon him. + +While he stood thus the rain began to fall, the first drops of a summer +shower, which promised to be a heavy one. What was to be done now? +Where were they to find shelter? John ran up the hill to the other side +of the grove and looked northward toward the threatening clouds, and +down over a wide landscape, which even the glooming clouds could not +make otherwise than fair. There were fields of grass and grain +stretching as far as the eye could reach. There were men at work among +the hay, piling high the long wagons, in haste to get it to shelter +before the rain came on. A white farmhouse, half hidden by trees, stood +near, and great barns with doors wide open, waiting for the coming of +the wagons. It did not need a minute for John to take all this in, and +in another he was speeding down the hill and over the meadow with his +friend in his arms, nor did he pause till he had laid him in one of the +barns on a bed of fragrant hay. + +"I must go back for the plaid and the basket," said he; and stooping +down, he added gently: "My lad, if any one should ask your name, mind +that you are Willie Bain." + +He came back as a great load of hay drew up at the barn door. + +"Drive right in under cover, Sam," said the farmer, who followed. "I +expect we'll have to leave it here. We can't unload in time to do much +more. Hurry up and cock up as much of the rest as you can. If it had +only held up another hour!" + +The man slid down from the load and made for the field. + +"Well how, it begins to look as though it might hold up," soliloquised +the farmer. "I 'most wish I had let him stay. Halloo, Sam!" + +But Sam was out of hearing by this time, though he was not making the +greatest possible haste to the field. + +"Perhaps I might help you to unload," said John from the dimness of the +barn floor. The farmer did not hesitate a second. + +"I don't know who you be, but I expect you are to be trusted to pitch +the hay back as fast as I pitch it down. Go ahead." + +John could be trusted, it seemed. The farmer did not succeed in +embarrassing him with the abundance of the great forkfuls which he threw +down into the mow, and the team was backed out into the yard in what the +farmer called "pretty considerable quick time." And then he saw William +Bain sitting with John's plaid about him, on a bundle of hay in the +corner. + +"Well! it seems to me that we're goin' to have company," said he. + +"We have been enjoying the fresh air up among your trees yonder. But I +was afraid of the rain for the lad, who has been ill of late, so we +ventured to take possession of your barn." + +"All right. It's nothing catching he's had, is it? He'd better go +right into the house, hadn't he?" + +But Bain preferred to stay where he was, among the hay. John took his +place on the hay-cart, and set out with the farmer to the field. + +"Well, I shouldn't wonder if we saved most of it now. It's just +possible--with your help," added he, nodding in a friendly way to John. +As they passed the door of the farmhouse he called out: + +"See here, Myra; there's company out there in the south barn. You tell +grandma she'd better have him in, and see to him. There's nothing +catching, you say? Well, the old lady will fix him up, and make him +comfortable; and she'll like nothing better." + +The rain "held up" for a while, and the farmer and his two men, with the +help of John, wrought wonders. When, at last, the rain came down in +torrents, the fragrant hay was all safe under cover, and the farmer was +triumphant. + +Of course John came to the house with him, and there he found Willie +Bain sitting in a rocking-chair, content and smiling, under the +guardianship of a lovely old woman, whose face told that her pleasure +all her life had been found in pleasing and helping others. It was a +good sight for John to see. + +"He'll do now," said he to himself. "He has fallen into good hands. I +only wish I might leave him here for a day or two. It would set him up +again." + +"Be you brothers?" said the farmer, as he caught the satisfied look with +which John regarded the lad sitting at his ease among them. + +"We are fellow-countrymen," said John, "and that makes brothers of us +here in a strange land." + +The evening was one to be remembered by these brothers, who had been +strangers less than a month ago. A good many times in the course of his +life has John told the story of that first evening in Jacob Strong's +house. He has forgotten many things, and times, and places better worth +remembering, perhaps, but he will never forget his first coming into +that long, low room, through whose open windows shone in the afterglow +from the west, when the first heavy shower was over. + +There was a wide fireplace, and on high, brass andirons a bright wood +fire was burning. Over it was a mantel-shelf on which were arranged +candlesticks of brass and snuffer-trays, and various other things quaint +and pretty. There was a tall clock in the corner, and a tall +looking-glass between the windows. There was a secretary in another +corner, with a book-case above it, and some pictures on the walls. The +table was laid for tea, and the room and all that was in it was perfect +in neatness. Grandma Strong was there waiting for them, and the +farmer's wife and his "little daughter," as Jacob Strong called a +slender girl of sixteen, who was leaning shyly on her grand mother's +chair. He might well remember it, and his friend also, for it was a +good day for them both which brought them there, and Jacob Strong and +his household proved true friends to them. + +Jacob Strong! John told his mother long afterward, that if the Bible +had been searched from end to end to find a good name for a good man, +none better than that could have been found for their new friend. Not +that either of the patriarch's names fitted him exactly. He was not a +"supplanter," and though he was on the right side, as no one who knew +him well would deny or even doubt, yet if one had wished to tell his +character in two words, it would not have been as "a soldier of God" +that one would have described him. But he was in many ways very like +the patriarch, as we see him in the Bible story. He was wise, he was +wily, he was patient. He could bide his time and secure his chance, and +when it came to that, that he had to yield, of to humble himself, to +meet loss, or to dispense beyond what was pleasing to a man who took +reasonable satisfaction in getting and in holding, he could yet do it +without wincing visibly. He was fortunate in being in the hands of two +good women, his mother and his wife, who knew him well, and loved him +well, and who were jealous for his honour before men, and for his +singleness of heart before God. + +Of course John's knowledge of his character came later, and by slow +degrees. But even on this first night he was greatly interested in his +talk, which was at once "worldly wise and heavenly simple," as he +afterward heard one of his neighbours say. And Jacob was strong in +nature as in name. He could "hold on." He had paid every dollar which +his farm had originally cost him, by the work of his own hands on other +men's farms. And with the help of his mother first, and then of his +wife, "who each carried a good head on her shoulders," as he told John, +he had made it pay. By and by he added another hundred acres to the +first hundred, and later, when "the Western fever" set in, and people +began to talk about prairie lands, and great wheat farms to be made out +there in the Far West, one of his neighbours sold out to him, and +Jacob's two hundred acres became four. + +"And that is about as much as I want to have on my hands, till labour +comes to cost less, which won't be for a spell, as things look now," +said he. + +All this he told to John while a second heavy shower kept him waiting. +Before the rain was over, Willie Bain was at rest for the night, in Mrs +Strong's south chamber. Then John told all that was necessary for them +to know about the lad,--how, though he had known friends of his at home, +he had never seen the lad himself until he had met him by chance on the +lake shore. Finding him alone and ill, he had taken him home and cared +for him. Bain was better now, and would soon be well. Yes, he meant to +stay in the country. As to himself, John could not say whether he would +stay long or not; the chances were he would remain for a time. + +Then when the rain seemed over, John rose to go. The folk where they +lived might be troubled about them. He had something to do in the +morning, but in the course of the day he would come back for his friend. +And with many thanks for their kindness to the lad, he took his +departure. + +Since William Bain had acknowledged his name, John thought it right that +Mr Hadden should be informed of his arrival in the town, and next +morning he went again to see him, at his place of business. He was a +good deal surprised at the manner in which Mr Hadden received him. It +was not at all as one receives a stranger, he thought, but the reason +was soon made clear to him. + +John Beaton was not altogether a stranger to Mr Hadden. His name had +been mentioned in both letters which Allison had written, as one who had +been willing to befriend her brother while he was in prison, and who +wished still to befriend him since he was set free. John told of his +meeting with the lad, of his illness, and his good fortune in falling +into the hands of the kind people out at the farm. + +"It must be the Strongs you are speaking of. Certainly he could be in +no better hands, if he still needs to be taken care of. And the longer +he is there, the better it will be for him." + +"I would like well to leave him there for a while, if they were willing +to keep him. I will see how things look when I go out for him +to-night." + +Of his own affairs or intentions John said nothing. He spent the rest +of the morning in looking about him, in order to ascertain what sort of +work there was to be done in the town, to which he might put his hand +with a hope of success. There was building going on, and he came at +last to a wide yard, where stone-cutting was done, and he said to +himself, that if they would but give him a chance, he would fall to, and +do his best for a while at least. + +But he did not go to inquire at once. He stood thinking of the day when +he first tried his hand on the granite of Aberdeen, and earned his +shilling before he laid the hammer down again. + +"I might have done better, but then I might have done worse," he +admitted with not unreasonable satisfaction. "And if I take it up +again, it need not be `for a continuance,' as auld Crombie would say. I +must see the lad fairly set to honest work, and then I may go my way." + +He offered himself at the place, and was taken on at once. His wages +were to be decided upon when his first day's work should be done, and it +need not be said that his wages were of the best. + +When he went to the Strong farm that night, he found that Mr Hadden had +been there before him. Willie Bain's first word to him was: + +"Why did you never tell me that ye had seen our Allie?" + +"Do ye no' mind that, till last night you never told me your name? How +was I to ken?" added John, as Willie hung his head. "I did ken you as +soon as ever I saw your face. Yes, I have seen your sister. She is +safe where she is. No evil hand can touch her, and in a while she is +coming out here to you." + +Poor Willie Bain was but weak yet, and the tears were running down his +cheeks, while John told him in few words what his sister had been doing, +how she had won the respect of all who had known her, and how she had +now gone away from Scotland with a good friend, but was looking forward +to the time when she might join her brother, so that they might have +again a home together. + +"And, Willie, my lad," added John, gravely, "if I had a sister like +yours, I would make a man of myself for her sake." + +"You are a man already," said Willie, with a sound which might have been +either a laugh or a sob. "As for me--yes, I ken I havena been taking +right care of myself for a while. I fell into ill hands down yonder. +But now I have you, and I _will_ be a man for Allie's sake." + +There had been tokens visible of the fact that the young man had not +been "taking care of himself," but John had spoken no word which +betrayed his knowledge. + +They were in the garden at this time, sitting in a wide, green walk, +between high rows of currant-bushes, a great apple-tree making a +grateful shade around them. By and by they rose and walked up and down, +John lending his strength to help his friend's weakness; and he asked: + +"Would you not like to stay here a little while?" + +"Till I get my strength back again? Yes, I would like it well. I mean +sometime to have land of my own, and could begin to learn here the new +ways that are needed in a new country. Yes, I would like well to bide +here for a while." + +He spoke eagerly and hopefully. + +"I wish Allie were here. There would be no fear then," said Willie, +looking up at John with Allie's wistful eyes. + +"She cannot come for a time. It is likely that she might be sought for +here--in Mr Hadden's neighbourhood, I mean. But, Willie man, I think +it is as well that she should not come just now, even for your sake. It +_is you who_ would be _looking_ up to her, because she is wiser than +you, and maybe stronger. She would lead, and you would follow. That +might be well, in a way. But it would be better, it would be far more +manly for you to learn to stand by your own strength--to walk by your +own wisdom. Of course, I mean by the help of God, in all things," said +John, gravely. + +"Do ye ken Allie well?" asked Willie, looking up into his friend's face. + +John hesitated a moment. + +"I cannot say that I have known her long, or seen her often. But I know +that she has borne much trouble well and bravely, and that she must be +strong. And I know that she has walked warily and done wisely in +difficult places, so that all those who _do_ know her well, respect her, +and some few people love her dearly--my mother among the rest." + +"You must tell me all about her some time," said Willie, with glistening +eyes. + +"Yes," said John. Then he paused before he added: + +"I think, Willie, in speaking of your sister to any one here, you should +say nothing about her marriage, since it has not been a happy one." + +Willie withdrew his hand from John's arm, and turned upon him with a +face white with anger. + +"Married! Happy! I'll swear that he has never touched her hand, nor +looked in her face, since that cursed day. Call you that marriage?" + +"Thank God!" said John; "and may he never touch her hand, nor look upon +her face. Gently, my friend, she is safe from him now." + +Then he led him back to the shadow of the apple-tree, and told him more +about his sister. He told how she had lived at the manse, and how they +had valued her there. He told of little Marjorie, whom her father and +mother had intrusted to Allison's care, and of the child's love for her, +and how Allison had been helped and comforted through her love for the +child. She was quite safe now, so faraway in the South, and no one +would harm her while she was in Mrs Esselmont's care. John talked on +till the lad had grown quiet again, and then they were called to tea. + +The first words that Grandma Strong said when they came in together +were: + +"You don't think of taking that boy back to that hot place to-night, do +you? I don't think you had better--for a day or two, at least." + +It was all very easily settled after that. John was glad to agree with +the dear old woman. Willie was to stay at the farm till he was a little +stronger. + +"We're glad to have him stay. Don't you say a word about it," was the +younger Mrs Strong's answer, when John tried to thank her for all their +kindness to his friend, for whom he felt responsible, he said, until he +should be strong and well. + +"You had better stay and help us through with haying and harvesting. +You could pay your way and his too, and have something over," said Mr +Strong. + +But John had his own work laid out before him, and intended to make long +hours, so that he could hardly hope to come out to see his friend for a +while. + +"Come Saturday night and spend Sunday. You can go to meeting here as +well as there." + +And John answered: + +"Yes, I will be glad to come." + +Does this sudden friendship, this acceptance of utter strangers, +without a word spoken in their behalf, except what they spoke for +themselves, seem strange, unlikely, impossible? It did not seem strange +to John, till he came to think of it afterward as he walked home. Face +to face with these kind people, their mutual interest seemed natural +enough. In thinking about it, as he went swiftly on in the moonlight, +he did wonder a little. And yet why should he wonder? he asked himself. + +"Honest folk ken one another, with few words about it. It has happened +well, and--not by chance," added he, reverently, recalling many a one at +home who would have him often in their thoughts at the best place--and +thinking especially of two, who, in all quiet moments, would be +"remembering" both him and his friend there. + +It must not be forgotten that all this happened many years ago, before +all the nations of the earth had turned their faces toward the West, in +search of a refuge from poverty or tyranny, disgrace or despair. There +was room enough, and land enough for all who were willing to work and to +live honestly. Every strong and honest man who came, while he bettered +himself and those who belonged to him, did good also to his neighbours, +and to the country at large. And so in those days, as a rule, new +comers were well received. But beyond this, John and his friend were +liked for their own sakes, and might well rejoice at the welcome which +they got at the farmhouse, for a great many good things and happy days +came to them through the friends they found there, before all was done. + +It is possible that if John had not met in with William Bain in those +circumstances, he might have travelled about for a while till he was +strong again, and then he might have turned his face homeward. If he +had found the lad well, and doing well, he might have contented himself +with leaving him to the kindly care, or the unobtrusive supervision of +Mr Hadden, who had known his family, and who had promised to befriend +him. But John could not quite free himself from a sense of +responsibility with regard to Willie Bain. He must keep sight of him +for a while. He liked the lad from the first and soon he loved him. He +would not be losing time by remaining for a few weeks. He meant to +travel by and by, and see the country, and in the meantime he might do +something toward helping Willie to make a man of himself for Allison's +sake. + +So he went to the stone-yard, and did his day's work with the rest. It +was hard work for a while. He had got out of the way of it somewhat, +and he had not got back his strength altogether. The day was long, and +he was glad when night came. After the first week, however, he was +himself again, and then he grew strong and brown, and was as fit for his +work as ever he had been, he told his mother in the second letter which +he sent her, after he began. + +He told her about William Bain. But that was for herself alone. As no +one else in Nethermuir had ever heard of the lad, it was not necessary +to speak of him there, lest his name might be mentioned in the hearing +of some who might not wish him or his sister well. He did not write to +Allison about her brother. Mr Hadden did that, and the story of John's +kindness to the lad lost nothing in being told by him. + +Before the summer was over, John had begun to consider the question, +whether, after all, it might not be as well for him to stay where he +was, and take up a new life in a new land. His mother had more than +once in her letters assured him of her willingness to come out to him +should he decide to remain in America. But there was to be no haste +about it. He must be quite certain of himself and his wishes, and he +must have won such a measure of success, as to prove that he was not +making a mistake, before she joined him. It might be better for him to +be alone for a while, that he might be free to come and go, and do the +very best for himself. The best for himself, would be best for his +mother. And in the meantime she was well and strong, in the midst of +kind friends, and content to wait. And she would be more than content +to join him when the right time came. + +And so John followed his mother's counsel. He kept his eyes open and +"worked away," and by the end of the first year, he began to see his way +clear to "the measure of success" which his mother desired for him. He +had proved himself, as a workman, worthy of the confidence of those who +had employed him, and as a man, he had won the esteem of many a one +besides. That he worked with his hands, did not in that country, at +that time, necessarily exclude him from such society as the town of +Barstow offered. But it made him shy of responding to the advances of +some of the people who lived in the big white houses among the trees +along the street, and who went to the same church in which, after a few +weeks of wandering, here and there, John settled down. + +The only people whom he came to know very well during his first year, +were the Strongs at the farm, and the Haddens. Mr Hadden was friendly +with him from the first, because he was a fellow-countryman, and because +he was a friend of William Bain's. Afterward, they were more than +friendly, for better reasons. Mr Hadden had no cause to feel surprise +in finding in a skilled workman from his native land, a man of wide +reading and intelligence. He had found many such among his countrymen +who had come to seek a home in his own adopted country. But John Beaton +was different from most of those with whom he had come in contact, in +that it was not necessary in his case, that allowance should be made for +unconscious roughness of manner or speech, or for ignorance of certain +ways and usages of society, which are trifles in themselves, but of +which it is desirable that one should be aware. + +But at this time John did not care much for society of any kind. He +never had cared much for it. In Nethermuir he had "kept himself to +himself," as far as most of the townsfolk were concerned, and it must be +owned, that beyond his own small circle of friends in the manse, and in +one or two other houses, he had not been a very popular person. He had +no time to give to anything of that sort, he had always said, but he +might have found the time, if he had had the inclination. He had not +much leisure in Barstow. Still, in the course of the first two years, +he came to know a good many people in the way of business; and in +connection with the work undertaken by the church to which he belonged, +he also made friends whom he valued, but his first friends were his best +friends. + +All that need be told of the first three years of his residence in +Barstow, may be gathered from a letter which he wrote to his mother +about that time. + +"You ought to be a happy woman, mother, for you have gotten the desire +of your heart. Do you not mind once saying to me, that you desired for +me nothing better in this life, than that I should do as my father had +done, and make my own way in the world? Well, that is just what I am +doing. There is this difference between us--that I have got `a measure +of success' on easier terms than my father did. I am not a rich man, +and I have no desire to be one--though even that may come in time. But +I stand clear of debt, and I see a fair way to success before me. I +have `got on' well even for this country, where all things move more +rapidly than with us at home. + +"I have had two friends who have stood by me all these years. They have +helped me with their money, with their names, and with their influence. +I might, in the course of time, have gotten on without their help, but +they have taken pleasure in standing by me, like true friends. + +"Yes, I have liked my work, and my way of life, though to you I will own +that I have sometimes wearied of them--and of everything else. But +one's life must go on till God's will brings it to an end, and I know of +no other way that would suit me better now. And between whiles, as I +have told you before, I find higher work which I am able to help along. + +"And now, dear mother--when are you coming home?--For this is to be your +home, is it not? You say you are able to come alone. But if you can +wait a few months longer I will go for you. I have building going on in +different parts of the city, and the foundation of your own house is +laid, on the knowe (knoll), which I have told you of, beneath the +maple-trees, and full in sight, the great lake into which the sun sinks +every night of the year. In six months it will be ready for you, and I +shall be ready to cross the sea to bring you home. + +"I long with all my heart to have my mother here. I think I shall be +quite content when that time comes. + +"William Bain had told me about his sister before your letter came. He +was wild with anger, and said, some things which he has taken back since +then. I heard from Mr Hume and from Mrs Hume, as well. I cannot +blame them for their advice--or rather, for their silence. And I cannot +blame Allison Bain for what she has seen right to do. God bless her-- +Amen." + +And so the letter ends, without even his name. + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR. + + "Oh! Blessed vision! happy Child." + +"Are you sure you are glad to come home, Allie dear?" said Marjorie +Hume, looking up rather doubtfully into her friend's face, for Allison +had said not a word in answer to her exclamations for some time. + +They were walking together through a wide street in Aberdeen, and +Marjorie had been amusing herself looking at the people whom they met, +and at the pretty things in the shop windows, and had been enjoying it +all so much that, for a while, she had never doubted that Allison was +enjoying it also. But Allison was looking away to the sea, and her face +was very grave, and there was a look in her eyes that Marjorie had not +seen in them for a long time now. The look changed as the child +repeated the question: + +"Allie, you are surely glad to be going home?" + +"I am very glad to be bringing my darling home strong and well to her +father and mother and them all. They will be more than glad to see us +again." + +"And, Allie dear, it is your home too, till Mrs Esselmont wants you +again. And you will try to be happy there? And you will not be ay +wishing to win away to your brother in America--at least for a while?" + +"No, not for a while. But I must go when he sends word that he needs +me. That may be sooner than we ken. When he gets his own land, and has +his house built, then I will go. But I am in no hurry," said Allison, +after a pause. "And now let us go and take a look at the sea. It is +too early yet to see Dr Fleming." + +"But it is not the same sea that we have been looking at so long--the +sea that has helped to make me strong and well." + +"It is a grand sea, however, and it is our own. And to-day it is as +bonny, and smooth, and blue, as ever the Southern Sea was, and the same +sun is shining upon it. And we must make haste, for we have no time to +lose." + +They did not go at once, however. As they turned into the next street, +a hand was laid on Allison's arm, and looking up she met the eyes of one +whom she had not seen for many a day. She had last seen him looking +sorrowfully down on the face of her dying father. + +"Mr Rainy!" cried she, faintly, thinking of that day. + +"Eh! woman, but I am glad to see you after all this time. Where have +you been since that sorrowful day? I was just thinking about you as I +came down the street. I must believe in a special Providence after +this. I was just saying to myself that I would give a five-pound note, +and maybe twa, if I could but put my hand on Allison Bain. And lo! here +ye are. And, Allison, my woman, if your father could speak to you, he +would say, `Put yourself into my old friend's hand, and be advised and +guided by him, and ye'll never have cause to repent it.' And now I say +it for him." + +Allison shook her head. + +"I cannot do that--blindly. I need neither the help nor the guidance +that you would be likely to give me. I must go my way with the child." + +"The child! Ah! yes, I see, and a bonny little creature she is," said +Mr Rainy, offering his hand to Marjorie. "And whose child may she be?" + +"She is the child of my master and mistress. I have been in service all +this time, and I need help from no one." + +"In service! Yes, and among decent folk, I'll be bound! Well! well! +And doubtless you will be able to account for every day and hour that +has gone by since you--were lost sight of. That is well." + +"It might be well if there were any one who had a right to call me to +account," said Allison, coldly. + +Mr Rainy had turned with them, and they were walking down the street +together. + +"A right? The less said about rights the better. But this I will say, +you have a right to look upon me as a friend, as your father did before +you. And I have a right to expect it from you. Your father trusted me, +and it will be for your good to trust me likewise." + +"Yes, he trusted you. And if I needed help that you could give, I might +come to you for it. But I have only to ask that you forget that you +have seen me. Not that it matters much now; I have got over my first +fear. I must bid you good-day. We are on our way to see Doctor +Fleming. But first we are going down to the sands." + +And then Allison made him a courtesy which minded Marjorie of Mrs +Esselmont. Then they went down another street together, and left him +standing there. + +Mr Rainy had been for many years the friend and legal adviser of the +laird of Blackhills, and more than once, in his visits to the great +house on the laird's business, he had given counsel to Allison's father +with regard to his affairs. He had been with him when he was drawing +near his end, and had done, what, at that late day, could be done, to +set his affairs in order, and to secure, that which he possessed, for +the benefit of those he left behind. He had known all the circumstances +of Allison's unfortunate marriage. He had not spared Brownrig when the +matter was discussed between them, but in no measured terms had declared +his conduct to have been cowardly, selfish, base. + +But when Allison disappeared so suddenly, he had done his utmost to find +her. That a woman might begin by hating a man, and yet come to love him +when he was her husband, he believed to be possible. At the least +Allison might come to tolerate her husband if she did not love him. She +might come, in time, to take the good of her fine house and of the fine +things, of which there was like to be no stint in it, and live her life +like the rest, when her first anger at his treacherous dealing was over. +For her own sake, for the sake of her good name, and the respect he +owed to the memory of her father, Mr Rainy left no means untried, that +might avail to discover her. He never imagined it possible that she +would remain within a short day's journey of the place where all her +life had been spent. + +Of late he had come to believe that she was dead. And he said to +himself, that if she could have been laid to her rest beside her father +and her mother, no one need have grieved for her death. For her +marriage could hardly have been a happy one. All her life long she had +forgotten herself, and lived only for her father and mother, because she +loved them, and because they needed her. For the same reason she would +have laid herself down in the dust, to make a way for her young scamp of +a brother to pass over to get his own will. But for the man who had +married her she had professed no love, and even in his fine house it +might have gone ill with them both. + +"But it is different now," he said to himself, as he went down the +street. "Brownrig is a dying man, or I am much mistaken, and he has +known little of any one belonging to him for many a year and day. And +his heart is softening--yes, I think his heart must be softening. He +might be brought to make amends for the ill turn he did her when he +married her. As for her, she will hear reason. Yes, she must be +brought to hear reason. She seemed to ken Dr Fleming. I will see him. +A word from a man like him might have weight with her. I will see him +at once." + +Mr Rainy lost no time. He needed to say his say quickly, for the +doctor had much before him in his day's work. The patience with which +he listened, soon changed to eager interest. "It is about Brownrig--the +man whose horse fell with him in the street--that I want to ask. He was +brought to the infirmary lately. You must have seen him." + +Then in the fewest possible words that he could use, Mr Rainy told the +story of Allison Bain. + +"I met her in the street, and the sight of me hurt her sorely, though +she did not mean that I should see it. I came to you because she named +your name, and I thought you might help in the matter." + +Dr Fleming listened in silence. He had never forgotten Allison Bain. +He had never been told her story before; but through some words spoken +by Mr Hadden, and later by Mr Hume, he knew that she _had_ a story, +and that it was a sad one. It was not necessary for him to say all this +to Mr Rainy, who ended by saying: + +"What I want you to tell me is, whether the man is likely to live or to +die." And then he added, with an oath, "If I thought he might live, I +would not lift my finger to bring a woman like her, into the power of a +man like him. Certainly I would not do so against her will. But if he +is to die--that is another thing." + +Doctor Fleming was not the kind of man to be taken altogether into his +confidence as to the motive he had in desiring to bring these two +together, and he said no more. + +"I will see the man to-day," said the doctor, gravely. + +As one door opened to let Mr Rainy out, another opened to admit Allison +and Marjorie. It was Marjorie who spoke first. + +"My father said I was to come and see you, doctor. I am little Marjorie +Hume. You'll mind on me, I think." + +Doctor Fleming laughed, and lifting the little creature in his arms, +kissed her, "cheek and chin." + +"My little darling! And are you quite well and strong?" + +"Oh! yes. I'm quite well and strong now--just like other bairns. I'm +not very big yet," added she, as he set her down again. "But I am well. +Allie will tell you." + +Allison, who had remained near the door, came forward smiling. + +"She is much better indeed," said she. + +"You should say quite well, Allie dear," urged Marjorie, in a whisper. + +"Yes, I may say quite well. Her father wished us to come and see you +before going home. Or rather, he wished you to see the child. But your +time is precious." + +"Where are you staying? At the old place with Mrs Robb? Well, I will +come round and see you this evening. I have a good many questions to +ask. You were not thinking of leaving to-day?" + +No, they were to remain a day to rest, and some one was to meet them +when they left the mail-coach to take them home. The doctor asked a +question or two and let them go, but his eyes followed them with +interest till they passed round the corner out of sight. + +When he came to see them in the evening, he found Marjorie sleeping on +the sofa, while Allison sat by her side with her work in her hand. It +happened well, for the doctor had some questions to ask which could be +answered all the more clearly and exactly, that the child need not be +considered in the matter. They spoke softly, not to disturb her, and in +answer to the doctor's questions Allison told briefly and directly all +that he wished to know. Indeed, he could not but be surprised at the +fulness and the clearness of the account which she gave, of all that the +doctor had done. The minutest details of treatment were given; and +sometimes the reason, and the result, almost as fully and effectively as +they were written down, in a letter which had been sent him by Dr +Thorne. To this letter he referred for a moment, and as he folded it +up, he said: + +"The child fell into good hands. Dr Thorne is a skilful doctor and a +wise man. That is well seen in his works and his words." + +"Yes," said Allison. "You are right there." + +She had spoken very quietly and gravely up to this time. Now the colour +came into her cheeks, and her eyes shone as she went on. + +"I could never tell you all his goodness. At first he seemed just to +wish to please his friend, Mrs Esselmont. I doubt whether he had much +hope of helping the child at first. And then he took up the case in +full earnest, for the sake of science, or just for the pleasure of +seeing what wonderful things skill and patience could do for help and +healing. But in a while, it was not just a _case_ with him. He soon +came to love her dearly. And no wonder he loved the gentle little +creature, ay patient and cheerful and making the best of everything, +even when they hurt her, or wearied her, with this thing or that, as +whiles they had to do. Not a child in a thousand would have borne all +she has come through, to have health and strength at last. And not a +doctor in a thousand could have brought her through, I hope, sir, you +will excuse my saying so much," said Allison, pausing suddenly, as she +caught the look with which Doctor Fleming was regarding her. + +"Oh! yes. I understand well." And then he opened his letter and read a +line or two. + +"`It is a remarkable case altogether. The pleasure I have taken in it +has paid me ten times over for my trouble.'" + +"I am sure of it," said Allison, speaking low and eagerly. "I could +never tell you all his kindness. You see it was not just saving a life. +It was a far greater thing to do than that. It would not have been so +very sad a thing for a child like her to have died, to have been spared +the trouble that comes into the life of even the happiest, though many +would have missed her sorely. But she might have lived long, and +suffered much, and grown weary of her life. It is from that that she +has been saved, to happy days, and useful. It will be something to see +her father's face when his eyes light upon her. And the doctor speaks +in earnest, when he says he took pleasure in helping the child." + +Doctor Fleming looked up from his letter and smiled, and then read a few +words more from it. + +"`You will understand and believe me when I say, that her firm and +gentle nurse has done more for the child than I have done. Without her +constant, wise and loving care, all else could have availed little. She +is a woman among a thousand--a born nurse--'" + +Allison laughed softly though the tears came to her eyes. + +"Did he say that? He is kind. And I am glad, because--if a time should +come when--" + +And then she paused as she met Marjorie's wondering eyes. The doctor +had something to say to the child, but he did not linger long. He had +come with the intention, also, of saying something to Allison of +Brownrig's condition. But he could not bring himself to do it. + +"I will wait for a day or two, to see how it is like to be with him. He +is not in a fit state to be moved, as the sight of her would be likely +to move him. And even if I knew he were able to bear it, I could not by +any words about him, spoil her happy homecoming." + +"A happy homecoming!" It was that truly. When they came to the mill, +where the houses on that side of the town begin, Marjorie would have +liked to leave the gig, with which Robert had gone to meet them, at the +point where they left the mail-coach, that all the folk might see that +she could walk, and even run, "like the other bairns." And then +everybody would see how wise her father and mother had been in sending +her away to a good man's care. But Robert laughed at her, and said +there would be time enough for all that in the days that were coming, +and Allison bade her wait till her father and mother might see her very +first steps at home. + +The time of their homecoming was known, and there were plenty of people +to see them as they passed down the street. Every window and door +showed a face which smiled a welcome to the child. As for Marjorie she +smiled on them all, and nodded and called out many a familiar name; and +there were happy tears in her eyes, and running down her cheeks, before +she made the turn which brought the manse in sight. + +And then, when they stopped at the door, her father took her in his +arms, and carried her into the parlour where her mother was waiting for +her, and set her on her own little couch which had never been removed +all this time, and then the door was shut. But not for very long. + +For there were all the brothers waiting to see her, and there was the +little sister, who, when she went away, had been a tiny creature in a +long white frock, whom Marjorie longed to see. She was a little lass of +two years now, rosy and strong as any brother of them all. She was in +Allison's arms when the door was opened to admit them, and the pleasant +confusion that followed maybe imagined, for it cannot be described. + +That was but the beginning. During the next few days, many a one came +to the manse to see the little maiden who had suffered so patiently, +though she longed so eagerly to be strong and well like the rest. And +now she was "strong and well," she told them all, and the eager, smiling +face was "bonnier and sweeter than ever," her admiring friends agreed. + +And those who could not come to see her, she went to see--auld Maggie +and the rest. The schoolmistress was come to the end of all her +troubles, before this time, and was lying at peace in the kirkyard. So +were some others, that Marjorie missed from the kirk and from the +streets, but there was room only for brief sorrow in the heart of the +child. + +In the course of a few days Marjorie and Allison were invited to drink +tea at Mrs Beaton's, which was a pleasure to them both. Mrs Beaton +read to them bits out of her John's last letters, which told a good many +interesting things about America, and about John himself, and about a +friend of his, who was well and happy there. Marjorie listened eagerly +and asked many questions. Allison listened in silence, gazing into her +old friend's kindly face with wistful eyes. + +That night, when the child was sleeping quietly, Allison came back again +to hear more. There was not much to hear which Allison had not heard +before, for her brother wrote to her regularly now. She had some things +to tell John's mother, which she had not heard from her son, though she +might have guessed some of them. He had told her of his growing success +in his business, and he had said enough about Willie Bain to make it +clear that they were good friends, who cared for one another, and who +had helped one another through the time when they were making the first +doubtful experiment of living as strangers in a strange land. But +Willie had told his sister of his friend's success in other directions, +and he gave the Americans credit for "kenning a good man when they saw +him." + +"For," said Willie, "it is not just an imagination, or a way of +speaking, to say, that in this land `all men are free and equal.' Of +course, there are all kinds of men--rich and poor, good, bad, and +indifferent--here as in other lands. All are not equal in that sense, +and all are not equally successful. But every man has a chance here, +whether he works with his head or his hands. And no man can claim a +right to be better than his neighbour, or to have a higher place than +another because of his family, or his father's wealth. It is character, +and intelligence, and success in what one has undertaken to do, that +bring honour to a man here. At least that is the way with my friend. +If he cared for all that, he might have pleasure enough, and friends +enough. He is very quiet and keeps close at his work. + +"He has been a good friend to me--better than I could ever tell you, and +nothing shall come between us to separate us, _that_ I say, and swear. +Sometimes I think I would like to go back to Grassie again, that I might +give myself a chance to redeem my character there. But still, I do not +think I will ever go. And so, Allie, the sooner you come the better. +There is surely no danger now after nearly three years." + +All this Allison read to John's mother, and there was something more +which, for a moment, she thought she would like to read that might give +pleasure to her kind old friend. For Willie in his next letter had +betrayed, that the "something" which was never to be permitted to come +between the friends to separate them, was the good-will of pretty and +wayward Elsie Strong, who since she had come home from the school, where +she had been for a year or more, "has been as changeable as the wind +with me," wrote poor Willie, and greatly taken up, and more than +friendly with Mr Beaton whenever he came out to the farm. And then he +went on to say, that he thought of going to look about him farther West +before he settled down on land of his own. And he had almost made up +his mind to go at once, and not wait till the spring, as he had at first +intended to do. + +The letter went on to say that John Beaton had bought land, and was +going to build a house upon it. + +"It is the bonny knowe with the maples on it, looking down on the lake, +where John brought me that first day to breathe the fresh air. John +saved my life that time, and I will never forget it, nor all his +goodness to me since then. Of course, Mr Strong would not have sold a +rod of it to any one else. But Elsie is an only child, and it would be +hard for him to part from her. + +"The more I think of it, the more I wish to go farther West before I +take up land of my own--and you must come when I have got it--" + +All this Allison glanced over in silence, but she could not bring +herself to read it to Mrs Beaton. + +"He has told her himself, doubtless, though she has no call to tell it +to me. I am glad--or I would be glad but for the sake of Willie, poor +lad." + +And then, as she rose to go, the door opened, and Saunners Crombie came +stumbling in. + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. + + "Show me what I have to do, + Every hour my strength renew." + +"Mistress Beaton," said the old man, "it is a liberty I am taking to +trouble you at this late hour. But I hae been at the manse to get +speech o' Allison Bain, and if I dinna see her the nicht I kenna when I +may see her, and it is of importance." + +Allison came forward, and offered her hand with a smile. + +"I am sorry that you have had the trouble of seeking for me," said she. + +"That's neither here nor there. I am glad to see you safe hame again. +Ye hae been doin' your duty down yonder they tell me. May ye ay hae the +grace to do it. I hae some words to say to ye. Will ye go with me, or +will I say them here? I am just come hame from Aberdeen." + +"And you are done out. Sit you down and rest yourself," said Mrs +Beaton, as she rose. Allison put out her hand to stay her as she was +about to leave the room. + +"Bide still with me. Mr Crombie can have nothing to say to me, that +you may not hear." + +The old man was leaning forward with his hands on his knees, looking +tired and ready to fall asleep where he sat. He roused himself as +Allison spoke. + +"That is as ye shall think yoursel'. This is what I hae to say to you. +I hae heard o' yon man again. I hae seen him. And I hae come to say to +you, that it is your duty to go to him where he lies on his dying bed. +Ay woman! ye'll need to go. It's no' atween you and him now, but atween +you and your Maker." + +"It has come at last," said Allison, growing pale. + +Mrs Beaton sat down beside her, and taking her hand, held it firmly in +both hers. + +"It was an accident," went on Crombie. "He had been drinking too +freely, they say. He was in the town, and he set off late to go home, +and was thrown from his horse. How it happened canna be said, but they +found him in the morning lying by the dike-side, dead--it was supposed +at first. But they carried him to the infirmary, and he is living yet. +He is coming to himself, and kens folk, and he _may_ live to leave the +place, but it's less than likely." + +"And who bade you come to Allison Bain with all this?" asked Mrs +Beaton, gravely. "And are you quite sure it is true?" + +"Oh! ay, it's true. I didna come to her with hearsays. I gaed mysel' +to the infirmary and I saw him with my ain een. And who bade me come +here to her, say ye? It was the Lord himself, I'm thinking. The man's +name wasna named to me, nor by me. I kenned him because I had seen him +before. And it was borne in upon me that I should tell Allison Bain o' +his condition. Or wherefore should the knowledge of it have come to me +who am the only one here beside yoursel' who kens how these twa stand to +ane anither?" + +But Mrs Beaton's heart sickened at the thought of what might be before +Allison. + +"What could she do for him if she were to go there? He is in good hands +doubtless, and is well cared for. Has he been asking for her?" + +"That I canna say. But ye may ken without my telling you, that there is +no saying `wherefore?' to a message from the Lord. And it is between +the Lord and this woman that the matter is to be settled now." + +But Mrs Beaton shook her head. + +"I canna see it so. If he really needed her--if it were a matter of +life and death--" + +"A matter of life and death! Do ye no' see, woman, that it is for more +than that? It is the matter of the saving of a soul! Do ye not +understand, that a' the evil deeds o' a' his evil life will be coming +back now on this man, and setting themselves in array against him, and +no' among the least o' them the evil he brought on her and hers? And +what kens he o' the Lord and His mercy? And what has he ever heard of +salvation from death through faith in the Son of God?" + +Mrs Beaton had no words with which to answer him, and they all were +silent for a while. Then Crombie began again, more gently: + +"And if he were to come out of his fever, with all the dreads and doubts +upon him that hae been filling his nights and days, and if he were to +see her face with a look of forgiveness on it, and the peace of God, it +might encourage him to hope in God's mercy, and to lippen himsel'-- +sinner as he kens himsel' to be--in the hands of Him who is gracious, +and full of compassion and tender mercy. Think of the honour of being +the means, in the Lord's hand, of saving a sinner like that!" + +The old man had risen, and with his eyes on Allison's face, spoke +earnestly, almost with passion. But as he ended, he sank back into his +chair again silent and exhausted. At a word now from Mrs Beaton, +Allison rose and went out into the kitchen. + +"Mr Crombie," said Mrs Beaton, softly, "it is a great thing that you +are asking of Allison Bain. I know not what to say. I can speak no +word to bid her go. I pray that she may be guided aright." + +The old man answered nothing. He seemed utterly spent and helpless. + +"You have had a long journey. You are quite worn out," said Mrs +Beaton. + +"Ay, have I. And it's no' just done yet, and there is a dark house and +a silent at the end o't. But I'll win through it." + +In a few minutes Allison came in quietly. + +"Mr Crombie, you are to come with me to the fire. I have made some tea +for you, and you must eat and drink before you try to go home." + +He looked at her without a word. She took his hand, and he rose and +went with her to the kitchen, where a table was spread and a small fire +burned on the hearth. She put food before him, and though at first he +refused it, after a little he ate, and was refreshed. Then he leaned +back and seemed ready to fall asleep again. + +"Mr Crombie," said Allison, stooping and speaking low, "I will think of +what you have said. I wish to do right, and I pray that God may guide +me. Wait here till I come back again." + +She had seen one of Peter Gilchrist's men on his way to the mill with +his cart, at a late hour, and she hoped to find him still lingering +about the place. Crombie must be committed to his care, for in his +present state he could not be allowed to take his way home alone. +Before she could begin to think of what he had said, he must be safely +sent on his way. Fortunately, she met the man coming down the street, +and Crombie went with him. Then the two women sat down and looked at +one another in silence. For the moment, Mrs Beaton was more troubled +and anxious than Allison herself. + +"My dear," said she, "it looks as if all these years that you have been +kept safe from his hands, had been in vain." + +"No," said Allison, "much good has come to me in those years. They have +not been in vain. Mrs Beaton, I wish to do what is right. Tell me +what I ought to do." + +"My dear, I cannot tell you. It is you yourself who must decide. +Allison, are you strong enough, or patient enough, to think of what may +be before you? Think of living your life--ten--twenty years with a man +like that! Yes, it is said that he is dying, but that is what no one +can really know. And if you go to him now, it must be till death comes +to part you. May God guide you. It is not for me to say what it is +right for you to do." Allison sat silent. + +"It is not as though all the blame had been his. I should have stood +firm against him. And his life has been ruined as well as mine--far +more than mine. God has been very good to me. If I were sure of His +will in this thing, I wouldna be afraid." + +"But, Allison! Think of your brother." + +"Yes, it was of him I thought before, and I did a great wrong." + +"Allison, it would be to sacrifice yourself a second time. My dear, at +least take time to think, and to seek counsel. You have been taken by +surprise. In your great pity for this man, you must not let yourself do +what can never be undone." + +"No, I have not been taken by surprise. I have been expecting something +to happen ever since I came back again." And then Allison told of her +meeting with Mr Rainy on the street in Aberdeen, and how he had spoken +to her of Brownrig. + +"He said nothing of his being hurt or in danger. But what he did say, +has never been out of my thoughts since then. I seem to have been +preparing myself for some great change, all this time. It would be far +easier for me to lose myself out of the sight and knowledge of all who +know me, than it was when I left my home. I was hardly myself then. My +only thought was, how I was to get away. I knew not where I was going. +Yet I believe I was guided here." + +Allison spoke with perfect quietness. Mrs Beaton could only look and +listen, astonished, as she went on. + +"Yes, I was guided here, and much good has come to me since then. And I +think--I believe, that I wish to follow God's wul in this, whatever it +may be. And I have only you to help me with your counsel." + +"You have the minister--and Mrs Hume." + +"Yes, I might speak to them--I must speak to them," said Allison, with a +sigh. "I _must_ say something to them. They know nothing of me, except +what they have seen with their own eyes. But I do not think they will +blame me much, when they know all." + +Mrs Beaton said nothing. Little had ever been said to her, either by +the minister or his wife, concerning Allison or her affairs. But in +seeking to comfort the mother in her first loneliness, when her son went +away, the minister had almost unconsciously shown her that he knew even +more of John's disappointment and remorse than she herself knew. She +had made no response, for she believed that for all concerned, silence +was best. + +As for Brownrig, whether he were dying or not, how could he be helped or +comforted by the sight of the woman against whom he had so deeply and +deliberately sinned? As to the saving of his soul, God was gracious, +and full of compassion. He had many ways of dealing with men, whether +in mercy or in judgment. Could it be God's will that Allison's life +should be still one of sacrifice, and pain, and loss, because of him? +Surely, surely not. + +Meanwhile Allison was repeating to herself Crombie's words: + +"Life and death! It is the matter of a soul's salvation! It is not +between you and that bad man any more. It is between you and the Lord +himself, who is ever merciful, and ready to forgive. Forgive and it +shall be forgiven unto you--" + +Over and over again, the words repeated themselves to her as she sat in +silence, till Mrs Beaton said gently: + +"Allison, you have been greatly moved and startled by that which you +have heard. You are in no state to decide anything now. Sleep upon it, +my dear. Take time to look upon this matter in all lights, before you +suffer yourself to be entangled in a net from which there may be no +escape for many a year and day--from which you may never, all your life, +escape. Allison, do you think the Lord has kept you safe these years, +to let you lose yourself now? No, I will say nothing to influence you +against your conscience. Do nothing hastily, that is all I ask. Seek +counsel, as I shall seek it for you." + +But when the old woman had kissed her, and blessed her, and bidden her +good-night, she held her fast and could not let her go, till Allison +gently withdrew herself from her clasp. + +"Pray to God to guide me in the right way," she whispered, and then she +went away. + +Mrs Beaton slept little that night--less than Allison did, though she +had much to do before she laid herself down beside little Marjorie. +"Seek counsel," Mrs Beaton had said. And this in the silence of the +night, she herself tried to do. And gradually and clearly it came to +her that better counsel was needed than that which she would fain have +given to her friend. + +Was it of Allison she had been thinking in all that she had said? Not +of Allison alone. Her first thought had been of her son, and how it +might still be God's will that he should have the desire of his heart. +And oh! if Allison could but go to him as she was, without having looked +again on that man's face, or touched his hand, or answered to his name. +Surely, for this woman who had suffered much, and long, and in silence, +to whom had come the blessed "afterward" and "the peaceable fruits of +righteousness," surely, for her it could not be God's will that the +worst was yet to come. Who could say? + +"And yet, ah me! our _worst_ is whiles His _best_ for us and ours! I +doubt I have been seeking to take the guidance of their affairs into my +ain hand. No, no, Lord! I would not have it for them nor for myself. +She is in Thy hand. Keep her there safe. And a soul's salvation--that +is a great thing--" + +That was the way in which it ended with Mrs Beaton. But the day was +dawning before it came to that. And as the day dawned, Allison was once +more standing on the hilltop to take a last look of her place of refuge, +and then she turned her face toward Aberdeen. + +When she left Mrs Beaton and went round by the green, and the lanes, +where she had gone so many times, and in so many moods, she was saying +to herself: + +"I will speak now, and I will take what they shall say to me for a +sign." + +It was later than she had thought. Worship was over, and all the house +was quiet, as she knocked at the parlour-door with a trembling hand. +The minister sat in his usual seat with an open letter before him, and +Mrs Hume's face was very grave as she bade her sit down. But Allison +was in haste to say what must be said, and she remained standing with +her hands firmly clasped. + +"I have something to tell you, and it must be told to-night. You will +try to think as little ill of me as you can. I did wrong maybe, but I +could see no other way. But now I am not sure. I think I wish to do +God's will, and you will tell me what it is." + +She spoke low, with a pause at the close of every sentence, and she was +very white and trembling as she ceased. Mrs Hume rose, and leading her +to a chair made her fit down, and sat beside her, still holding her +hand. + +"We shall be glad to help you if we can," said the minister. + +Then Allison told her story briefly, so briefly that it is doubtful +whether her listeners would have understood it, if they had heard it +then for the first time. They had not heard it all, only bits here and +there of it, but enough to enable them to understand something of the +morbid fear and the sense of utter desolation from which she had +suffered, when she first came among them. Her voice grew firm as she +went on, and she spoke clearly and strongly, so that many words were not +needed. She hesitated a little, when she came to the time when she had +asked John Beaton to befriend her brother, but she went on gravely: + +"He did not see my brother. He had gone. I had been months away with +the child, before I heard that Willie was in America safe and well. It +was a friend who wrote to me--Mr Hadden, our minister's son. Willie is +doing well, and some time I am to go out to him--if I can." + +She paused, withdrew her hand from Mrs Hume's clasp, and rose, saying: + +"Now, I must tell you. All this time I have been afraid that--the man +who married me would find me and take me to his house in spite of me. +But it is I who have found him. It was Mr Crombie who told me about +him. He said he had seen him--on his dying bed, and in God's name he +bade me go to him, and tell him that I forgave him for the ill he did +me. He said it was not between me and the man who had sinned against +me, but it was between me and the Lord himself, and that I must forgive +if I would be forgiven. And if you shall say the same--" + +Allison sat down and bent her head upon her hands. Mrs Hume laid her +hand upon the bowed head, but she did not speak. Mr Hume said: + +"I do not see how Crombie has had to do with this matter." + +Allison looked up. + +"I should have told you that it was in our parish that Mr Crombie +buried his wife. He saw the names of my father and mother on their +headstone, and some one there--meaning me no ill--told him about me. +And when he came home again, he thought it his duty to point out to me +that I might be in the wrong. But I think it must have gone out of his +mind, for he never spoke to me again till to-night." + +"And to-night he spoke?" + +"Yes. To-night he came to me in Mrs Beaton's house, and warned me that +it was my duty to go to a dying man. And if you tell me the same, I +must go." + +She let her face fall again upon her hands. + +Mr Hume did not answer her at once. He opened again the letter which +he held and read it from beginning to end. It was a letter from Doctor +Fleming, of Aberdeen, telling him of the state in which Brownrig was +lying, and of his relations with Allison. He left it to Mr Hume to +decide whether or not Allison should be told of Brownrig's condition, +and to advise her what she ought to do. He said that Mr Rainy, who had +long been a friend of the Bain family, strongly advised that she should +come at once to Aberdeen, and added, at Mr Rainy's request, that as Mr +Brownrig had kept up no close intercourse with any one belonging to him, +it might be much for Allison's interest to respond in a friendly spirit +to this call. Dr Fleming, for himself, said that it might be for +Allison's future peace of mind, if she could tell this man that she had +forgiven his sin against her. The disclosure of Crombie rendered it +unnecessary to discuss this letter with her. + +"Allison," said Mr Hume, after some time of silence, "no one can decide +this matter for you. You need not fear him any more, and it is well +that he should know that you have forgiven him. And it would be well +also for you." + +"Have I forgiven him? I do not know. I wish him no ill. I never +wished him any ill, even at the worst, and if he is dying--" + +Allison paused, and a look of something like terror passed over her +face, but she did not utter her thought. + +"Allison," said Mrs Hume, "I think there is much in what Crombie said. +If you are able truly to forgive his sin against you, it might help him +to believe--it might open his eyes to see that the Lord also is willing +to forgive and receive him." + +"You must trust in God, and do not try to look beyond the doing of +present duty. The way is dark before you. But one who loves you sees +it all, and He will lead you to the end, whatever it may be. I cannot +see the end, but, Allison, I dare not bid you not to go," said Mr Hume, +solemnly. + +Allison looked from one to the other, and over her face for a moment +came the lost look--the look helpless and hopeless, which they had +wondered at and grieved over, in the first days of her coming among +them. But it passed away, and she rose, Saying: + +"Then the sooner I go the better, and I need my time." + +"And, Allison, remember, whatever happens, we are not to lose sight of +one another. There is no need for many words between us. This is your +home. Come back again as soon as you are able." + +Mr Hume said the same as he shook her hand, Mrs Hume went with her to +the room where little Marjorie was sweetly sleeping. The two women had +something to say to each other. They spoke very quietly, and when she +said good-night, the minister's wife kissed and blessed her with a full +heart. + +Strangely enough, Allison fell asleep as soon as her head touched the +pillow. The dawn found her up, and ready for the long walk to the point +where she was to take the mail-coach to Aberdeen. It cannot be said +that she had no misgivings, no faintness of heart, as she turned on the +hilltop, and looked back on the house which had been first her refuge, +and then her home for so long. For even when she was faraway from +Nethermuir, and from Scotland, it was to the manse her thoughts turned +as home. + +"Shall I ever see it again?" she asked herself, sadly. "And how will it +be with me then?" + +But her courage did not fail her. She remembered distinctly, or rather, +she saw clearly the forlorn creature, who on that drear November day, +nearly three years ago, stood looking down on the little town. + +"Poor soul!" said she pitifully, as if it had been some one else who +stood helpless and fearful there. "Ay! poor soul! But was she not well +welcomed, and mercifully dealt with there, till she came to herself +again? And has not goodness and mercy followed her all her days since +then? Why should I be so sore afraid?" + +And so on the strength of that she went peacefully, till she came to the +place where she was to take the coach, for which she had to wait a +while. When she was seated in it she was sorry that she had not sent on +her bundle with it, and walked the rest of the way. For the ceaseless +droning talk of two old men, who sat beside her, wearied her, and the +oaths and bluster of two younger men, who came in later, made her angry +and afraid. And altogether she was very tired, and not so courageous as +she had been in the morning, when she was set down at the door of the +house where Robert lived when his classes were going on. It was better +to go there where she was known, than to seek to hide herself among +strangers. And why should she hide herself? She had nothing to fear +now. + +Ah! had she nothing to fear? What might be waiting her in the future? +A life which she might loathe perhaps-- + +"But I must not look beyond this night, or how can I go on? I am trying +to do God's will. I am not seeking my own. And surely, His will is +best." + +But she did not say it joyfully, or even hopefully now, and she had a +bad half-hour before the darkness fell, and she could go out unseen. +She had another while she waited to see Dr Fleming, and if his coming +had been delayed much longer, her courage might have failed her +altogether. + +He came at last. He had been expecting her, he said, which surprised +her, for Mr Hume had said nothing of Dr Fleming's letter to him. He +had, however, sent a note by her to the doctor. + +"Well?" said she, when he had read it. "Does he tell you what I am to +do? I must have come to you even if he had not sent me. I must tell +you--only you may not have time. But if you understood all, I think you +would wish to help me,--and--my courage is like to fail." + +"Mistress Allison, you need tell me nothing that it will trouble you to +tell. I ken enough of your story to make me wish to help you to do what +you believe to be right. And what I can do, I will do with all my +heart." + +Allison's answer was a sudden burst of weeping such as no one had ever +seen from her before. While it lasted, the doctor turned away and +occupied himself at his desk. + +"I hope you will excuse me, sir," said Allison in a little; "I am tired, +for one thing, and--you are so kind. And I am not sure--though I +thought I was sure--that I am doing right in coming here--" + +"I think I know what you would say. And--I think you are right in what +you desire to do. Mistress Allison, it is a blessed thing to be able to +forgive. And the greater the sin against us, the greater the +blessedness. And to attain to this, our sacrifice must be entire. +Nothing can be kept back." + +"But I cannot but keep something back. I dare not look beyond--I think +I desire to do God's will, but--" + +"Ah! do not say `but.' Be patient, if you cannot be joyful. You will +be brought through. And then--you may help to save a sinful soul. Can +you seek to look beyond that?" + +Allison shook her head. + +"If I were wise and good. But it is only a little since--since I came +to trust Him, and whiles I doubt whether I do trust Him right, so +fearful and fainthearted am I. I have ay been willing to forgive if I +could be kept safe from him. Oh! yes. It was my fault too. I should +have trusted God and stood firm," said Allison, as she had said so many +times before. "And besides, it was his own life he ruined, as well as +mine. Nay, he did not ruin mine. I have had much to make me content +with my life since then. If there had only been the child Marjorie, who +loves me dearly, and whom I love. And my brother is doing well. Oh! +no, my life has not been spoiled. And the best of all I cannot speak +of. Forgiveness! Yes, it is easy to forgive--if that were all." + +"Well, having got thus far, be content for the present. And now, +Mistress Allison, let me take the guiding of your works and ways, for a +time. I am older than you, and in some things, wiser. You shall be +drawn into no net, and you shall make no vain sacrifice at the bidding +of any one, if I can prevent it. I believe you are striving to do +right. Now, go away to Mrs Robb's, and try to sleep well, and wait +till you hear from me. It may be in the morning, but it may not be for +several days. Have you any woman's work to keep you busy till then?" + +"I can find some, I daresay. I give you many thanks for your kind +words. My heart is lighter since I have seen your face. Yes, I will be +patient and wait." + +"That is the right way. Be sure and keep yourself busy about some kind +of work till you hear from me again." + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY SIX. + + "What we win and hold, is through some strife." + +Allison waited patiently through one day, and a little anxiously through +the second. On the third day there came a note from Doctor Fleming, +formal and brief, offering her the place of nurse in the infirmary, +which she had held for a short time three years before. Allison was a +little startled as she read it, but she did not hesitate a moment in +deciding to accept it, and in the evening she went to see him, as he had +requested her to do. + +"Yes," said the doctor as she entered, "I was sure you would come; you +are wise to come. It will be better for you to have something to take +up your time and your thoughts for a while at least, and you will be at +hand. You must keep strong and well, and you must take up your abode +with Mistress Robb. And, my dear," added the doctor gravely, "I would +advise you when you come to wear a mutch, and if it is big and plain it +will answer the purpose none the worse for that. You'll be better +pleased with as little notice as may be for the present." + +Allison smiled and assented. She came to the place the next day in her +straight black gown and holland apron, a cap of thick muslin covering +all her pretty hair. + +And then a new life began for her. The former time of her stay there +came back very vividly, but the memory of it did not make her unhappy. +On the contrary, she was glad and thankful that strength and courage had +come to her since then. + +"I will trust and not be afraid," she said to herself as she came in at +the door, and she said it many times as she went from one bed to +another. Before the day was over, she had for the time forgotten her +own care, in caring for the poor suffering creatures about her. + +There were no "bad cases" in the room in which she had been placed. +There were some whose chief complaint was the aches and pains of age, +brought on before their time by hard labour and exposure; poor folk who +were taking a rest after a season of sharper suffering, and making ready +for another turn or two of hard work before the end should come. + +"It is no' that I'm sae ill. I hae done mony a day's work with more +suffering on me than I have now. But oh! I'm weary, weary, I hae lost +heart, and it's time I was awa'," said one old woman who held Allison's +hand, and gazed at her with wistful eyes. + +"What brings the like o' you here?" said another, "to such a place as +this. Ay, ay, ye look pitifu' and ye can lift a head and shake up a +pillow without gieing a body's neck a thraw. But I doubt it's just that +ye're new to it yet. Ye'll soon grow hardened to it like the lave (the +rest)." + +"Whisht, woman," said her neighbour, "be thankful for sma' mercies. Ye +would be but ill off at hame." + +"And be _ye_ thankfu' that ye are an auld wife and near done wi't," said +the neighbour on the other side. "As for mysel', I'm bowed with +rheumatics, and me no' fifty yet. I may live many years, says the +doctor, and what's to 'come o' me, the Lord alone kens." + +"But," said Allison, speaking very softly, "_He does_ ken. Dinna you +mind, `Even to your old age I am He, and even to hoar hairs will I carry +you.'" + +"Ay, but ye see, I'm no' sae sure that He's with me now, or that He has +ever been with me. That mak's an awfu' differ." + +"But He is willing to come,--waiting to be asked." + +"It may be; I dinna ken," said the woman gravely. + +They looked at Allison with a little surprise. She was surprised +herself. She had no thought of speaking until the words were uttered. +She was only conscious of being very sorry for them, and of longing to +help them. But she had spoken many a word of comfort among them before +her work there was done. + +A little child with a face like a snowdrop came and looked up at her, +touching her hand. Allison took her up in her arms, and carried her +with her as she went on. + +"Dinna be troublesome, Nannie," said a voice from a distant bed. + +"Come and see my mother," said the child. + +Her mother was a woman who had been badly burned by her clothes taking +fire, while she was in a drunken sleep. She was recovering now, and her +little girl was allowed to come and see her now and then. + +"Ye can do naething for me," she said as Allison set down the child +beside her. + +"No, I fear not, except that I might ease you a little, by shaking up +your pillow and putting the blankets straight. Are ye in pain?" + +"Ill enough. But it's no' the pain that troubles me. It's the fear +that I mayna get the use o' my hand again." + +"Oh! I hope it mayna be so bad as that," said Allison, shaking up the +pillows and smoothing the woman's rough hair, and tying her crumpled +cap-strings under her chin. "What does the doctor say about it?" + +"Ye'll need to speir at himsel' to find that out. He says naething to +me." + +"We will hope better things for you," said Allison. + +She took the child in her arms again. A fair, fragile little creature +she was, with soft rings of golden hair, and great, wistful blue eyes. +She was not in the least shy or frightened, but nestled in Allison's +arms in perfect content. + +"Come and see Charlie," said she. + +Charlie was a little lad whose right place was in another room; but +being restless and troublesome, he had been brought here for a change. + +"What ails you, my laddie?" asked Allison, meeting his sharp, bright +eyes. + +"Just a sair leg. It's better now. Oh! ay, it hurts whiles yet, but +no' so bad. Have you ony books?" + +"No, I brought no book with me except my Bible." + +"Weel, a Bible would be better than nae book at a'." + +"Eh! laddie! Is that the way ye speak of the good Book?" said a voice +behind him. "And there's Bibles here--plenty o' them." + +"Are ye comin' the morn?" asked the lad. + +"Yes, I am," said Allison. + +"And could ye no' get a book to bring with you--a book of ony kind-- +except the catechis?" + +"Heard ye ever the like o' that! Wha has had the up-bringin' o' you?" + +"Mysel' maistly. What ails ye at my up-bringin'? Will ye hae a book +for me the morn?" said he to Allison. + +"If I can, and if it's allowed." + +"Oh! naebody will hinder ye. It's no' my head, but my leg that's sair. +Readin' winna do that ony ill, I'm thinkin'." + +And then Allison went on to another bed, and backwards and forwards +among them, through the long day. There were not many of them, but oh! +the pain, and the weariness!--the murmurs of some, and the dull patience +of others, how sad it was to see! Would she ever "get used with it," as +the woman had said, so that she could help them without thinking about +them, as she had many a time kept her hands busy with her household work +while her thoughts were faraway? It did not seem possible. No, surely +it would never come to that with her. + +Oh! no, because there was help for all these poor sufferers--help which +she might bring them, by telling them how she herself had been helped, +in her time of need. And would not that be a good work for her to do, +let her life be ever so long and empty of all other happiness? It might +be that all the troubles through which she had passed were meant to +prepare her for such a work. + +For the peace which had come to her was no vain imagination. It had +filled her heart and given her rest, even before the long, quiet time +which had come to her, when she was with the child beside the faraway +sea. And through her means, might not this peace be sent to some of +these suffering poor women who had to bear their troubles alone? + +She stood still, looking straight before her, forgetful, for the moment, +of all but her own thoughts. Her hopes, she called them, for she could +not but hope that some such work as this might be given her to do. + +"Allison Bain," said a faint voice from a bed near which she stood. +Allison came out of her dream with a start, to meet the gaze of a pair +of great, blue eyes, which she knew she had somewhere seen before, but +not in a face so wan and weary as the one which lay there upon the +pillow. She stooped down to catch the words which came more faintly +still from the lips of the speaker. + +"I saw you--and I couldna keep mysel' from speaking. But ye needna +fear. I will never tell that it is you--or that I have seen you. Oh! +I thought I would never see a kenned face again." + +The girl burst into sudden weeping, holding fast the hand which Allison +had given her. + +"Is it Mary Brand?" whispered Allison, after a little. + +"No, it is Annie. Mary is dead and--safe," and she turned her face away +and lay quiet for a while. + +Allison made a movement to withdraw her hand. + +"Wait a minute. I must speak to some one--before I die--and I may die +this night," she murmured, holding her with appealing eyes. "I'm +Annie," she said. "You'll mind how my mother died, and my father +married again--ower-soon maybe--and we were all angry, and there was no +peace in the house. So the elder ones scattered,--one went here and +another there. We were ower young to take right heed,--and not very +strong. Mary took a cold, and she grew worse, and--went home to die at +last. As for me--I fell into trouble--and I dared na go home. Sometime +I may tell you--but I'm done out now. I'm near the end--and oh! +Allie--I'm feared to die. Even if I were sorry enough, and the Lord +were to forgive me--how could I ever look into my mother's face in +Heaven? There are some sins that cannot be blotted out, I'm sair +feared, Allie." + +Allison had fallen on her knees by the low bed, and there were tears on +her cheeks. + +"Annie," said she, "never, never think that. See, I am sorry for you. +I can kiss you and comfort you, and the Lord himself will forgive you. +You have His own word for that. And do you think your own mother could +hold back? Take hope, Annie. Ask the Lord himself. Do ye no' mind how +Doctor Hadden used to say in every prayer he prayed, `Oh! Thou who art +mighty to save'? _Mighty_ to _save_! Think of it, dear. `Neither +shall any man pluck them out of my hand.' Jesus said that Himself. Ah! +ye are weary and spent--but ye have strength to say, `Save me, I +perish.' And that is enough." + +"Weary and spent!" Yes, almost to death. The parched lips said +faintly, "Come again," and the blue, beseeching eyes said more. Allison +promised surely that she would come, and she kissed her again, before +she went away. + +She came often--every day, and many times a day, and she always had a +good word to say to the poor sorrowful soul, who needed it so much. +Annie lingered longed than had seemed possible at first, and there came +a day when every moment that Allison could spare was given to her, and +then a long night of watching, till at the dawning she passed away-- +sinful, but forgiven; trembling, yet not afraid. Allison kissed the +dead mouth, and clipped from the forehead one ring of bright hair, +saying to herself: "To mind me, if ever I should grow faithless and +forget." + +But many things had happened before this came to pass. For at the end +of the first week of Dickson's stay among the sick and sorrowful folk, +there came to her the message for which she had through all the days +been waiting. It was Doctor Fleming who brought it, saying only, +"Come." + +"Is he dying?" she found voice to say, as they passed into the room +together. + +"No. Oh! no. But he has come to himself, in a measure, and needs to be +roused. Your coming may startle him. That is what I wish. It cannot +really harm him." + +And so with little outward token of the inward trembling which seized +her when she saw his face, Allison stood beside her husband. Yes, her +husband! For the first time, scarcely knowing what she did, she said to +herself, "My husband." + +The doctors had something to do for him, and something to say to one +another, and she stood looking on in silence, pale, but calm and firm, +at least as far as they could see. They spoke to him and he answered +sensibly enough, and muttered, and complained, and begged to be let +alone, as sick folk will, and told them at last that little good had all +their physic done him yet. + +They let in the light, and his eye followed Allison and rested on her +face for a moment; then he sighed and turned away. No one moved, and in +a little he turned his head again, and his colour changed. Then they +let down the curtain, and the room was in shadow. + +"A dream--the old dream, ay coming--coming--only a dream," they heard +him say with a sigh. + +Doctor Fleming beckoned to Allison, and she followed him from the room. + +"He will sleep now for a while, and when he wakens he will be more +himself. You are not afraid to be left with him? He may know you when +he wakens again." + +"I am not afraid," said Allison, speaking faintly, and then she added +with a firmer voice, "No, I am not afraid." + +"You have but to open the door and call, and his man Dickson will be +with you in a minute. Do not speak to him unless he speaks to you. +Even if he should speak, it may be better to call Dickson, and come +away." + +Doctor Fleming spoke gravely and briefly, letting no look or tone of +sympathy escape from him. "I'll see you again before I leave the +place," said he. + +So she sat down a little withdrawn from the bed and waited, wondering +how this strange and doubtful experiment was to end. He neither spoke +nor moved, but seemed to slumber quietly enough till Doctor Fleming +returned. He did not come in, but beckoned Allison to the door. + +"That is long enough for to-day. Are you going to your poor folk again? +If it should suit you better to go home, you can do so. Old Flora has +returned, and I will speak to her." + +"I will go out for a little, but I will come back. They will expect me. +Yes, I would like better to come back again." + +And so she went out for a while, and when she returned she brought an +odd volume of the History of Scotland to restless Charlie, and a late +rose or two tied up with a bit of sweet-briar and thyme, to poor Annie +Brand. + +The next day passed like the first. Allison went when she was called, +and sat beside the sick man's bed for an hour or two. He followed her +with his eyes and seemed to know her, but he did not utter a word. He +was restless and uneasy, and muttered and sighed, but he had no power to +move himself upon the bed, and he did not fall asleep, as Allison hoped +he might do after a while. For the look in his troubled eyes hurt her +sorely. There was recognition in them, she thought, and doubt, and a +gleam of anger. + +"If I could do something for him," thought she. "But to sit here +useless! And I must not even speak to him until he speaks to me." + +She rose and walked about the room, knowing that the dull eyes _were_ +following her as she moved. When she sat down again she took a small +New Testament from her pocket, and as she opened it he turned his face +away, and did not move again till a step was heard at the door. Then as +some one entered, he cried out with a stronger voice than had been heard +from him yet: + +"Is that you, Dickson? Send yon woman away--if she be a woman and not a +wraith (spirit)," he added, as he turned his face from the light. + +It was not Dickson. It was the doctor who met Allison's startled look +as he came in at the door. + +"You have had enough for this time. Has he spoken to you?" said he. + +"He has spoken, but not to me. I think he knew me, and--not with +good-will." + +"You could hardly expect that, considering all things. He has made a +step in advance, for all that. And now go away and do not show your +face in this place again to-day. Wrap yourself up well, and go for a +long walk. Go out of the town, or down to the sands. Yes, you must do +as I bid you. Never heed the auld wives and the bairns to-day. I ken +they keep your thoughts on their troubles and away from your own. But +you may have a good while of this work yet,--weeks it may be, or +months," and in his heart he said, "God grant it may not be for years." + +"Yes, I will go," said Allison faintly. + +"And you must take good care of yourself. Mistress Allison, you have +set out on a road in which there is no turning back now, if you would +help to save this man's soul." + +"I have no thought of turning back," said Allison. + +"That is well. And to go on you will need faith and patience, and ye'll +also need to have a' your wits about you. You'll need perfect health +and your natural strength, and ye'll just do my bidding in all things, +that you may be fit to meet all that is before you--since it seems to be +God's will that this work is to fall to you." + +Allison went at the doctor's bidding. She wrapped herself up and went +down to the sands, to catch the breeze from the sea. It was more than a +breeze which met her. It was almost a gale. The waves were coming +grandly in, dashing themselves over the level sands. Allison stood and +watched them for a while musing. + +"And each one of them falls by the will of the Lord. A word from Him +could quiet them now, as His `Peace, be still,' quieted the waves on the +Sea of Galilee so long ago. `Oh! ye of little faith!' said He, +`wherefore do ye doubt?' As He might well say to me this day, for oh! +I am fainthearted. Was I wrong from the beginning? And is my sin +finding me out? Have I undertaken what I can never go through with? +God help me, is all that I can say, and though I must doubt myself, let +me never, never doubt Him." + +And then she set herself to meet the strong wind, and held her way +against it till she came to a sheltered spot, and there she sat down to +rest. When she turned homeward again, there was no strong wind to +struggle against. It helped her on as she went before it, and it seemed +to her as if she had come but a little way when she reached the place +where she had stood watching the coming in of the waves. The weight was +lifted a little from her heart. + +"It is only a day at a time, however long it may be," she told herself. +"It is daily strength that is promised, and God sees the end, though I +do not." + +Yes, daily strength is promised, and the next day, and for many days, as +she went into the dim room where the sick man lay, Allison felt the need +of its renewal. It was not the silence which was so hard to bear. It +was the constant expectation, which was almost dread, that the silent +lips might open to speak the recognition which she sometimes saw in the +eyes, following her as she moved. There were times when she said to +herself that she could not long bear it. + +"In one way he is better," said the doctor. "He is coming to himself, +and his memory--his power of recalling the past--is improving. He is +stronger too, though not much, as yet. With his loss of memory his +accident has had less to do, than the life he had been living before it. +He has had a hard tussle, but he is a strong man naturally, and he may +escape this time. From the worst effects of his accident he can never +recover. As far as I can judge from present symptoms, he will never +walk a step again--never. But he may live for years. He may even +recover so as to be able to attend to business again--in a way." + +Allison had not a word with which to answer him. The doctor went on. + +"I might have kept this from you for a while, but I have this reason for +speaking now. I do not ask if you have `counted the cost.' I know you +have not. You cannot do it. You have nothing to go upon which might +enable you to do so. Nothing which you have ever seen or experienced in +life, could make you know, or help you to imagine, what your life would +be--and might be for years,--spent with this man as his nurse, or his +servant--for it would come to that. Not a woman in a thousand could +bear it,--unless she loved him. And even so, it would be a slow +martyrdom." + +Allison sat silent, with her face turned away. + +"What I have to say to you is this," went on the doctor. "Since it is +impossible--if it is impossible, that such a sacrifice should be +required at your hands, it will not be wise for you to bide here longer, +or to let him get used to you, and depend upon you, so that he would +greatly miss you. If you are to go, then the sooner the better." + +Allison said nothing, but by her changing colour, and by the look in her +eyes, the doctor knew that she was considering her answer, and he waited +patiently. + +"No," said Allison, "I do not love him, but I have great pity for him-- +and--I am not afraid of him any more. I think I wish to do God's will. +If you do not say otherwise, I would wish to bide a while yet,--till--it +is made plain to me what I ought to do. For I was to blame as well as +he. I should have stood fast against him. I hope--I believe, that I +wish to do right now, and the right way is seldom the easy way." + +"That is true. But many a sacrifice which good women make for men who +are not worthy of it, is made in vain. I do not like to think of what +you may have to suffer, or that such a man should have, as it were, your +life at his disposal. As for you, you might leave all this care and +trouble behind you, and begin a new life in a new land." + +"That was what I meant to do. But if the Lord had meant that for me, +why should He have let me be brought here, knowing not what might be +before me?" + +"I doubt I am not quite free from responsibility in the matter, but I +thought the man was going to die." + +"No, you are not to blame. When Mr Rainy touched my arm that day in +the street, I seemed to know what was coming, and I would not wait to +hear him. And when Saunners Crombie spoke his first word to me that +night, I kenned well what I must do. But like you, I thought he was +going to die. And so I came, though I was sore afraid. But I am not +afraid now, and you might let me bide a little longer, till I see my way +clearer, whether I should go or stay." + +"Let you stay! How could I hinder you if I were to try? And I am not +sure that I wish to hinder you. I suppose there may be a woman in a +thousand who could do as you desire to do, and come through unscathed, +and you may be that woman. My only fear is--no, I will not say it. I +do believe that you are seeking to do God's will in this matter. Let us +hope that during the next few days His will may be made clear to you, +and to me also." + +But Mr Rainy had also a word to say with regard to this. + +"If I had thought it possible that the man was going to live, I would +never have spoken to you, or let my eyes rest upon you that day. Yes, I +was sure that he was going to die. And I thought that you might do him +some good maybe--pray for him, and all that, and that his conscience +might be eased. Then I thought he might make some amends at last. But +well ken I, that all the gear he has to leave will ill pay you for the +loss of the best years of your youth, living the life you would have to +live with him. I canna take upon myself to advise you, since you havena +asked my advice; but really, if ye were just to slip away quietly to +your brother in America, I, for one, would hold my tongue about it. And +if ever the time should come when you needed to be defended from him, I +would help you against him, and all the world, with right good will." + +Allison thanked him gently and gravely, but he saw that she was not to +be moved. A few more days, at least, the doctor was to give her, and +then she must decide. Before those days were over something had +happened. + +One day, for some reason or other, she was detained longer than usual +among her "auld wives," and it was late when she came into Brownrig's +room. + +"What has keepit you?" said he impatiently. + +It was the first time he had ever directly addressed her. + +"I have been detained," said Allison quietly. "Can I do anything for +you, now that I am here?" + +"Detained? Among your auld wives, I suppose. What claim have they upon +ye, I should like to ken?" + +"The claim they have on any other of the nurses. I am paid to attend +them. And besides, I am sorry for them. It is a pleasure to be able to +help them--or any one in distress--my best pleasure." + +To this there was no reply, and Allison, who of late had brought her +work with her to pass the time, went on knitting her little stocking, +and there was silence, as on other days. + +"What do you mean by saying that you are paid like the other nurses?" +said Brownrig after a little. + +"I mean just what I said. Doctor Fleming offered me the place of nurse +here. I held it once before, and I like it in a way." + +No more was said to Allison about it then or afterward. But Brownrig +spoke to Doctor Fleming about the matter, on the first opportunity, +declaring emphatically that all that must come to an end. He grew more +like his old self than he had been yet, as he scoffed at the work and at +the wages. + +"It must end," said he angrily. + +"Mr Brownrig," said the doctor gravely, "you may not care to take a +word of advice from me. But as you are lying there not able to run +away, I'll venture to give it. And what I say is this. Let weel alane. +Be thankfu' for sma' mercies, which when ye come to consider them are +not so very sma'. Yes, I offered her the place of nurse, and she is +paid nurse's wages, and you have the good luck to be one of her +patients. But ca' canny! (Be moderate). You have no claim on Mistress +Allison, that, were the whole story known, any man in Scotland would +help you to uphold. She came here of her own free will. Of her own +free will she shall stay--and--if such a time comes,--of her own free +will she shall go. In the meantime, take you all the benefit of her +care and kindness that you can." + +"Her ain free will! And what is the story about Rainy's meeting her on +the street and threatening her with the law, unless she did her duty? I +doubt that was the best reason for her coming." + +"You are mistaken. Rainy did not threaten her. He lost sight of her +within the hour, and would have had as little chance to find her, even +if he had tried, as he had last time. No, she came of her own free +will. She heard from some auld fule or other, that you had near put an +end to yourself at last, and he told her that it was her duty to let +bygones be bygones, and to go and see what might be done to save the +soul of her enemy." + +"Ay, ay! her enemy, who wasna likely to live lang, and who had something +to leave behind him," said Brownrig, with a scowl. + +"As you say,--who has something to leave behind him, and who is as +little likely to leave it to her, as she would be likely to accept it, +if he did. But that's neither here nor there to me, nor to you either, +just now. What I have to say is this. Take ye the good of her care and +her company, while ye have them. Take what she is free to give you, and +claim no more. If she seeks my advice, and takes it, she'll go her own +way, as she has done before. In the meantime, while she is here, let +her do what she can to care for you when the auld wives and the bairns +can spare her." + +And with that the doctor bade him `good-day,' and took his departure. + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN. + + "God liveth ever, + Wherefore, soul, despair thou never." + +Brownrig was better in mind and in body than when Allison first came, +but he was far from strong. His mind was not quite clear, and it was +not easy for him "to put this and that together," in a way to satisfy +himself, when the doctor went away. He was already "muddled," as he +called it, and he did the best thing he could have done in the +circumstances, he shut his eyes and fell asleep. + +Before he woke Allison came in, and when he looked up, he saw her +sitting with her work on her lap, and yesterday's newspaper in her hand, +reading: and smiling to herself as she read. + +"Weel, what's the news the day?" said he. + +Allison did not start or show the surprise she fell at being thus +addressed. + +"Will I read it to you?" she asked. + +She read about the markets and the news of the day; but whether he were +getting the good of it all or not, she could not say. When she thought +she had read enough, she laid down the paper and took up her work as +usual. + +That was the beginning. All the days passed like this day for a while, +except that a book took the place of a newspaper sometimes. And by and +by, the best of books had a minute or two given to it--rarely more than +a minute or two. Brownrig listened to that as he listened to the rest, +willingly, and sometimes with interest, when she chanced to light on a +part which had not been quite forgotten in the long careless years which +had passed since the time his dead mother used to read it with him and +his little sisters, when they were children at home. When he looked +interested, or made a remark on any part of what she read, Allison went +over it again, and now and then took courage to speak a word or two of +Him who "bore our griefs and carried our sorrows," and who died that we +might live. He listened always in silence. Whether he was ever moved +by the words could not be told, for he gave no sign. + +While all this went on, summer was passing, and the dull November days +were drawing near. Allison had her own thoughts, and some of them were +troubled thoughts enough. But she waited, always patiently, if not +always hopefully; and even at the worst, when she had little to cheer +her, and when she dared not look forward to what the future might hold +for her, she still strove to live day by day, and hour by hour, waiting +to learn God's will, whatever it might be. + +Little change came to the sick man as far as Allison could judge, or any +one else. Was he getting better? If so, his progress toward health was +more slowly made than had been hoped. At times he was restless and +irritable, and spared neither nurse, nor doctor, which was taken as a +good sign by some who were looking on. But for the most part he was +quiet enough, taking little heed of the passing hours. + +When Mr Rainy came to speak to him on any matter of business, he seemed +to rouse himself, and gave tokens of a clear mind and a good memory with +regard to those matters which were put before him, whether they +pertained to his own private business, or to that of the estate of +Blackhills. But of his own accord he rarely alluded to business of any +kind, and seemed, for the most part, forgetful of all that had hitherto +filled his life. His friends came to see him now and then, and while +any one was with him, he seemed moved to a certain interest in what they +had to tell, in the news of the town, or in the events which were taking +place in the world beyond it, but his interest ceased when his visitor +left him. + +Except from weariness, and restlessness, and inability to move, he +suffered little, and he had been so often told that the best hope for +him, the only chance for restoration to a measure of health in the +future, lay in implicit obedience to all that doctor and nurse required +of him, that he learned the lesson at last, and was obedient and patient +to a degree that might well surprise those who knew him best. + +It did not always come easy to him, this patience and obedience. There +ere times when he broke bounds, and complained, and threatened, and even +swore at his man Dickson; nor did Allison herself escape from the +hearing of bitter words. But Dickson took it calmly, and bore it as +part of his duty and his day's work. + +"I'm weel used with it," said he. "His hard words maybe ease him, poor +man, and they do me nae ill." + +And they did Allison "no ill," in one way. She was too sorry for him to +be angry on her own account, and listened in silence. Or, if he forgot +himself altogether and gave her many of them, she rose quietly and went +out of the room. She expected no apology when she returned, and none +was ever offered, and his ill words made her none the less patient with +him, and none the less ready at all times to do faithfully the duties +which she had undertaken of her own free will. + +But they made her unhappy many a time. For what evidence had she that +her sacrifice was accepted? Had she been presumptuous in her desires +and hopes that she might be permitted to do some good to this man, who +had done her so much evil? Had she taken up this work too lightly--in +her own strength which was weakness--in her own wisdom which was folly? +Had she been unwise in coming, or wilful in staying? Or was it that she +was not fit to be used as an instrument in God's hand to help this man, +because she also had done wrong? She wearied herself with these +thoughts, telling herself that her sacrifice had been in vain, and her +efforts and her prayers--all alike in vain. + +For she saw no token that this man's heart had been touched by the +discipline through which he had passed, or that any word or effort of +hers had availed to move him, or to make him see his need of higher help +than hers. So she grew discouraged now and then, and shrunk from his +anger and his "ill words" as from a blow. Still she said to herself: + +"There is no turning back now. I must have patience and wait." + +She had less cause for discouragement than she supposed. For Brownrig +did, now and then, take to heart a gently spoken word of hers; and the +words of the Book which his mother had loved, and which brought back to +him the sound of her voice and the smile in her kind eyes, were not +heard altogether in vain. He had his own thoughts about them, and about +Allison herself; and at last his thoughts took this turn, and clung to +him persistently. + +"Either she is willing to forgive me the wrong which she believes I did +her, or else she thinks that I am going to die." + +Dickson did not have an easy time on the morning when this thought came +first to his master. When Allison came in she had utter silence for a +while. Brownrig took no notice of the newspaper in her hand, and looked +away when she took up the Book and slowly turned the leaves. But that +had happened before, and Allison read on a few verses about the ruler +who came to Jesus by night, and who, wondering, said, "How can a man be +born when he is old?" + +"Ay! how indeed?" muttered Brownrig. "Born again. Ah! if that might +be! If a man could have a second chance!" + +And then his thoughts went back to the days of his youth, and he asked +himself when and where he had taken the first step aside from the right +way, and how it came about that, having had his mother for the first +thirteen years of his life, he should have forgotten her. No, he had +not forgotten her, but he had forgotten her teachings and her prayers, +and his own promises made to her, that he would ever "hate that which is +evil, and cleave to that which is good," and that he would strive so to +live and serve God that he might come at last to meet her where she +hoped to go. Was it too late now? He sighed, and turned his head +uneasily on the pillow. The angry look had gone out of his eyes, and +they met Allison's with a question in them. But he did not speak till +she said very gently: + +"What is it? Can I do anything for you?" + +"Has the doctor been saying anything to you of late?" he asked. "Does +he think that my time is come, and that I am going to die?" + +Allison's face showed only her surprise at the question. + +"The doctor has said nothing to me. Are you not so well? Will I send +for the doctor?" and she laid her cool fingers on his hand. But he +moved it away impatiently. + +"What I canna understand is, that you should have come at all. You must +have thought that I was going to die, or you wouldna have come." + +"Yes, I thought you might be going to die. I dinna think I would have +come but for that. I was sorry for you, and I had done wrong too, in +that I hadna withstood you. But I wished to be at peace with you, and I +thought that you might be glad that we should forgive one another at the +last." + +"Forgive--at the last! There's sma' comfort in _that_, I'm thinking," +and not another word was spoken between them that day. And not many +were spoken for a good many days after that. + +But one morning, when Allison had been detained among her "auld wives" a +little longer than usual, she came softly into the room, to find, not +Dickson, but an old man with clear, keen eyes and soft white hair +sitting beside the bed. His hands were clasped together on the top of +his staff, and his face, benign and grave, was turned toward the sick +man. + +"He seems to be asleep," said Allison softly, as she drew near. + +"Yes, he seems to be asleep," said the old man; "but I have a message to +him from the Master, and I can wait till he wakens. And who may you be? +One who comes on an errand of mercy, or I am greatly mistaken." + +"I am a nurse here. And--I am--this man's wife." + +She said it in a whisper, having had no thought a moment before of ever +uttering the words. + +"Ay! ay!" said the old man, in tones which expressed many things-- +surprise, interest, awakened remembrance. And then Allison turned and +met the eyes of her husband. + +"It is the minister come to see you," said she, drawing back from his +outstretched hand. + +"Stay where you are," said he, taking hold of her gown. "Bide still +where you are." + +"Yes, I will bide. It is Doctor Kirke who has come to see you." + +"You have had a long and sore time of trouble and pain," said the +minister, gravely. + +"Yes, but the worst is over now," said Brownrig, his eyes still fixed on +Allison's half-averted face. + +"Let us hope so," said the old man, solemnly. "If the Lord's dealing +has been taken to heart and His lesson learned, the worst is over." + +But he had more to say than this. He was by no means sure that in his +sense, or in any sense, the worst was over for this man, who had all his +life sinned with a high hand, in the sight of his fellow-men, as well as +in the sight of his Maker. His heart was full of pity, but he was one +of those whose pity inclines them to be faithful rather than tender. + +"Man, you have been a great sinner all your days," he said, slowly and +solemnly. Many changes passed over the face of Brownrig as the minister +went on, but he never removed his eyes from the face of Allison, nor +loosened his firm clasp of her hand. + +Faithful! Yes, but yet tender. How full of pity and of entreaty was +the old man's voice when he spoke of One who, hating sin, yet loves the +sinner; One who is slow to anger, full of compassion and of great mercy, +not willing that any should perish, but that all, even the worst, should +come unto Him and live. + +"And, O man! ye need Him no less, that you may be going back to your +life again. The Lord could do wonderful things for the like of you, if +ye would but let Him have His will o' ye. Able! ay, is He, and willing +as able, and surely He has given you a sign. Look at this woman against +whom, it is said, ye woefully sinned! If she, who is but a weak and +sinful mortal, has forgiven you, and is caring for you, and would save +you, how can there be doubt of Him who gave His life a ransom for you?" + +A glance at Allison's face stayed his words. Then he knelt down and +prayed--not in many words--not as if entreating One offended or angry, +but One waiting, looking, listening, loving; One "mighty to save." And +then he rose and touched the hand of each, and went silently away. + +Had Brownrig fallen asleep? Allison slowly turned her face toward him. +He lay with closed eyes, motionless, and there were tears on his cheeks. +As Allison tried gently to withdraw her hand from his clasp his eyes +opened. + +"Is it true, Allie? Have you forgiven me?" + +"I--was sorry for you long since, even before you were hurt. I never +wished ill to you. I came when I heard that you were like to die, so +that we might forgive one another--" + +Allison had gone almost beyond her power of speech by this time, but he +held her fast. + +"Oh! Allie, ye micht hae made a good man o' me, if ye had but had the +patience and the will to try." + +But Allison said: + +"No, that could never have been. I wasna good myself, and I was dazed +with trouble." + +"Ay, poor lassie, ye hae much to forgive. But I will make amends, I +will make amends. Yes, in the sight of God and man, I will make full +amends." + +Allison could bear no more. Where was it all to end? Surely she was in +the net now, and it was drawing close upon her, and she could not bear +it. For a moment it came into her mind to flee. But the temptation did +not linger long, nor did it return. + +In his accustomed place Dickson was waiting. + +"Your master requires you," said Allison, and then she passed on to her +refuge among the auld wives, and puir bodies in the wide ward beyond. +But it was not a refuge to-day. + +"And how is your patient the day, puir man?" said she who was bowed with +rheumatism being `no' fifty yet. + +"We heard that the minister had been sent for to see him," said another. +"It is to be hoped that he will do him some good." + +Allison answered them both quietly: "He is just as usual. Yes, the +minister has been there," and moved on to some one else. + +It was the hour which she usually spent among them, and she went from +one bed to another, saying and doing what was needed for the suffering +or fretful poor souls among them, answering kindly and firmly, with +never-failing patience, the grateful looks of some, and the dull +complaining of others, till the time came which set her free to go her +own way again. + +She was the better for the hour which she had dreaded when she first +came in. She no longer felt the touch of that hot hand on hers, or the +gaze of the eager eyes, which she had met with such sinking of heart. +She was herself again. + +"To think that I should grow fainthearted this day of all days, when for +the first time he seemed to be touched by a good man's words. I should +be rejoicing and thankful. And whatever else is true, it is true that +He who brought me here, kens the end, though I do not." + +And so she went home to her rest, and the next day was like all the +days, except that the sick man, as Dickson put it, "wasna sae ill to do +wi'." It became evident to both doctor and nurse, that Brownrig had at +last taken in the thought that he might be going to die. He said +nothing for a while, but he marked their words and watched their ways, +and when Dr Kirke came, which he did every few days, he listened with +patience which grew to pleasure as time went on. When at last he +repeated to Doctor Fleming himself, the question which he had put to +Allison, the doctor's rather ambiguous answer did not satisfy him. + +"I see you have your own thoughts about it," said Brownrig. "I think +you are mistaken. I do not mean to die if I can help it. I wish to +live, and I mean to live--if such is God's will," he added, after a +pause. "I'm no' going to let myself slip out o' life without a struggle +for it. I have a strong will, which hasna ay been guided to good ends, +ye'll say, and I acknowledge it. But `all that a man hath will he give +for his life,' the Book says, And I will do my best to live." + +The doctor said nothing. + +"It is not that I'm feared to die. If all is true that Doctor Kirke has +been saying to me, why should I fear? `More willing to forgive, than ye +are to be forgiven,' says he. And I can believe it. I _do_ believe it. +If Allison Bain can forgive, surely He will not refuse, who is +`merciful and full of compassion'. And I hope--I believe--that I am +forgiven." + +Looking up, Doctor Fleming saw the tears on the sick man's cheek. That +was all he was permitted to say for the time, for his strength was not +great though his will was strong. The rest of the day was passed +between sleeping and waking, while Allison sat working in silence by the +window. But he returned to his declaration in the morning. + +"Yes, I mean to live, but for a' that I may as well be prepared for +death. And you'll send Mr Rainy to me this very day. He must just +come while I need him--and when I'm at my best and able for him. I'll +die none the sooner for setting all things in order to my mind." + +So the next day Mr Rainy came, and for a good many days, and went +through with him many matters of business, which must be attended to +whether he lived or died. He was quite fit for it--a little at a time-- +Mr Rainy declared. But the doctor wondered that his strength held out +through it all. There was no evidence of failure in sense or judgment +in all he said or planned, though his memory sometimes was at fault. + +There was much to do, and some of it was not of a nature to give either +peace or pleasure to the sick man. But it came to an end at last, and +there were a few days of quiet till he was rested. Then he began again. + +"I may be going to die, or I may be going to live. Who can say? It +must be as God wills. But I have settled with myself one thing. +Whether I am to live or to die, it is to be in my own house." + +This was said to Dickson, who was ready with an answer to please him. + +"And the sooner the better, sir, say I. The fine fresh air o' the hills +would set you up sooner than a' their doctor's bottles is like to do. +If it were only May instead of November, I would say the sooner the +better." + +"And I say the sooner the better at this time. Yes, it's late, and it's +a lang road, and I have little strength to come and go upon. But there +are ways o' doing most things--when the siller (money) needna be +considered, and where there is a good will to do them." + +"Ay, sir, that's true. And I daresay the laird micht send his ain +carriage, and ye micht tak' twa days to it, or even three." + +"No, no. The sooner the journey could be gotten over the better. But +that's a good thought o' yours about the laird's carriage. He'll send +it fast enough, if I but ask it. But I'm done out now, and I'll need to +lie still a while, to be ready and at my best, when the doctor comes." + +But when the doctor came, Brownrig had forgotten his intention to speak, +or he did not feel equal to the effort needed for the assertion of his +own will in a matter which was of such importance to him. So it was +Allison to whom he first spoke of his wish to go home. He said how +weary he had grown of the dull room, and the din of the town, and even +of the sight of the doctors' faces, and he said how sure he was that he +would never gather strength lying there. It would give him new life, he +declared, to get home to his own house, and to the free air of the +hills. + +Allison listened in silence, and when he would be answered, she murmured +something about the coming of the summer days making such a move +possible, and said that the doctors would have to decide what would be +the wisest thing to do. + +"They will be the wisest to decide _how_ it is to be done, but it is +decided already that the change is to be made. You speak of the summer +days! Count ye the months till then, and ask if I could have the +patience to wait for them? Yes, there is a risk, I ken that weel, but I +may as well die there as here. And to that I have made up my mind." + +Allison did not answer him, and he said no more. He had grown wary +about wasting his strength, or exciting himself to his own injury, and +so he lay quiet. + +"You might take the Book," said he in a little. + +Yes, there was always "The Book." Allison took the Bible, and as it +fell open in her hand, she read: "I will lead the blind by a way they +know not," and her head was bowed, and the tears, which were sometimes +very near her eyes, fell fast for a single moment. But they fell +silently. No sound of voice or movement of hand betrayed her, and there +was no bitterness in her tears. + +"Yes, it is for me--this word. For surely I am blind. I canna see my +way through it all. But if I am to be led by the hand like a little +child, and upheld by One who is strong, and who cares for me, who `has +loved me,' shall I be afraid?" + +And if her voice trembled now and then as she read, so that at last +Brownrig turned uneasily to get a glimpse of her face, he saw no shadow +of doubt of fear upon it, nor even the quiet to which he had become +accustomed, but a look of rest and peace which it was not given to him +to understand. Allison took her work and sat as usual by the window. + +"I may have my ups and downs as I have ay had them," she was saying to +herself, "but I dinna think I can ever forget--I pray God that I may +never forget--that I am `led.'" + +Brownrig lay quiet, but he was not at his ease, Allison could see. He +spoke at last. + +"Are you sure that you have forgiven me--quite sure--in the way that God +forgives? Come and stand where I can see your face." + +Allison in her surprise at his words neither answered nor moved. + +"For ye see, if ye were to fail me, I doubt I could hardly keep hold of +the Lord himself. If there is one thing that the minister has said +oftener than another, it is this, that when God forgives He also +receives. You believe this surely? Come and stand where I can see your +face." + +Allison laid down her work, and came and stood not very near him, but +where the light fell full upon her. + +"I cannot but be sorry for--what happened, but I bear no anger against +you for it now. Yes, I have forgiven. I wish you no ill. I wish you +every good. I am far sorrier for you than I am for myself. God sees my +heart." + +She did not need to prove her words. He knew that they were true. If +she had not been sorry for him, if she had not forgiven him, and had +pity upon him, why should she have come to him at all? But God's way +went beyond that. He not only pitied and pardoned, He received, loved, +saved. But he was afraid to say all this to her. + +"In sickness and trouble she has been willing to stand by me, as she +stands by all suffering creatures. That is all. And she is not one of +those women who long for ease and prosperous days, or for anything that +I could offer her to tempt her. I must just content myself with what +she freely gives, nor ask for more." + +Then he turned away his face, and Allison did not move till he spoke +again. + +"You could help me greatly with the doctor, if ye were to try." + +Allison made a gesture of dissent. + +"That is little likely," said she. + +"He thinks much of you, and ye ken it well." + +"Does he? It must be because he thinks I am kind to all the poor folk +yonder--not because he thinks me wise," added she with a smile. + +"As to wisdom,--that's neither here nor there in this matter. I am +going hame to my ain house. That's decided, whatever may be said by any +doctor o' them a'. As for life and death--they are no' in the doctors' +hands, though they whiles seem to think it. I'm going hame, whether it +be to live or to die. But I want no vexation about it; I'm no' able to +wrangle with them. But if you were to speak to Doctor Fleming--if you +were to tell him that you are willing to go with me--to do your best for +me, he would make no words about it, but just let me go." + +Allison's colour changed, but she stood still and said quietly: + +"Do you think Doctor Fleming is a man like that? And don't you think he +will be only too glad to send you home when you are able for the +journey? Your wisest way will be to trust it all to him." + +"At least you will say nothing against it?" + +"I shall have nothing to say about it--nothing." She spoke calmly and +was quite unmoved, as far as he could see. But she was afraid. She was +saying in her heart that her time was coming. Beyond the day! Surely +she must look beyond the day. But not now. Not this moment. Even in +her dismay she thought of him, and "pitied" him, as he had said. + +"You are wearing yourself out," said she gently. "The doctor will not +think well of what you have to say, if you are tired and feverish. Lie +quiet, and rest till he come." + +He did not answer her except with his eager appealing eyes, which she +would not meet. She sat by the window sewing steadily on, till the +doctor's step came to the door. + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT. + + "Look not at thine own peace, but look beyond, + And take the Cross for glory and for guide." + +It was Allison's way when the doctor came, to answer such questions as +he had to ask, and then to call Dickson, and betake herself to the long +ward beyond. But to-day Brownrig's first words were: + +"I have something to say to you, doctor, and I wish my wife to hear it. +Bide ye still, Allison." + +"My wife!" Neither the doctor nor Allison had ever heard him utter the +word before. Allison took her usual seat by the window, and the doctor +placed himself beside the bed. It was the same story over again which +Brownrig had to tell. He was going home to his own house. It might be +to die, and it might not. But whether he were to live or die, home he +must go. He had something to do which could only be done there. The +doctors had owned that their skill could do nothing more for him. His +cure, if he were to be cured, must be left to time. He would never +improve in the dreary dullness of the place, and there were many reasons +why he should be determined to go--reasons which would affect other folk +as well as himself; go he must, and the sooner the better. He said it +all quietly enough, speaking reasonably, but with decision. Doctor +Fleming listened in silence, and did not answer immediately. To himself +he was saying, that it might be well to let the man have his way. He +did not think it would make much difference in the end. There was a +chance for him--not for health, but for a few years of such a life as no +man could envy, as few men could endure. Staying here, or going there, +it would be all the same in the end. + +Doctor Fleming had in his thoughts at the moment a life long sufferer, +who was happy in the midst of his suffering, and who made the chief +happiness of more than one who loved him--one strong in weakness, +patient to endure, a scholar, a gentleman; a simple, wise soul, to whom +the least of God's works was a wonder and delight; a strong and faithful +soul, who, in the darkness of God's mysterious dealings, was content to +wait His time--willing to stay, yet longing to go--full of pain, yet +full of peace. + +"Yes," said the doctor, unconsciously uttering his thought aloud, "full +of pain, yet full of peace." + +And here was this man, so eager to live--this drunkard and liar and +coward! What could life hold for him that he should so desire to +prolong it? And what would life with such a man be to such a woman as +Allison Bain? + +"Yes, I know God can change the heart. He is wise to guide and mighty +to save, and they are both in His good hands. May His mercy be +vouchsafed to them both." + +"Well," said the sick man, as the doctor suddenly rose to his feet. + +"Well--it would be a risk, but it would not be impossible for you to be +taken home, as you seem to desire it--if only the summer were here." + +"Yes, I have been waiting to hear you say that--like the rest," said +Brownrig, with the first touch of impatience in his voice; "but the +summer days are faraway, and winna be here for a while. And ye ken +yourself what chance I have of ever seeing the summer days, whether I +bide or whether I go, and go I must." + +Then he went on to say how the laird would be sure to send the +Blackhills carriage for him--the easy one, which had been made in London +for the auld leddy, his mother, and how the journey might be taken +slowly and safely. + +"And if I were only once there!" he said, looking up with anxious eyes. +Then he lay still. + +"If you were once there, you think you would be yourself again?" + +A sudden spasm passed over the eager face. + +"No--not that. I ken, though you have never said it in my hearing, that +it is your belief that, be my life long or short, I can never hope to +bear my own weight again. My life's over an' done with--in a sense, but +then--there is--Allison Bain." + +His voice sank to a whisper as he uttered her name. + +"Yes," said the doctor to himself, "there is Allison Bain!" + +Then he rose and moved about the room. He, too, had something to say of +Allison Bain--something which it would be a pain for the sick man to +hear, but which must be said, and there might come no better time for +saying it than this. And yet he shrunk from the task. He paused by the +window and took out his watch. + +"Mistress Allison," said he, speaking, as was his way when addressing +her, with the utmost gentleness and respect, "I have half an hour at my +disposal to-day. Go your ways down to the sands, and breathe the fresh +air while I am here. The days are too short to put it off later, and +you need the change." + +"Yes, I will go," said Allison. + +"And do not return to-night, neither here nor to the long ward. Mind, I +say you must not." + +As her hand was on the latch Brownrig called her name. When she came +and stood beside the bed he looked at her, but did not speak. + +"Were you needing anything?" she asked, gently. + +"No. Oh! no, only just to see your face. You'll come early in the +morning?" + +"Yes, I will come early." + +But as she moved away there came into her eyes a look as of some +frightened woodland creature, hemmed in and eager to escape. There was +silence for a moment, and just as the doctor was about to speak, +Brownrig said: + +"Yes, it was well to send her away to get the air, and what I have to +say may as well be said now, for it must not be said in her hearing. +And it may be better to say it to you than to Rainy, who is but a--no +matter what he is. But to you I must say this. Think of Allison Bain! +Think of my wife,--for she _is_ my wife, for all that's come and gone. +It is for her sake that I would fain win home to Blackhills. It is to +help to make it all easy for her afterward. If I were to die here, do +you not see that it would be a hard thing for her to go and lay me down +yonder, in the sight of them who canna but mind the time, when she +seemed to think that the touch of my hand on his coffin would do +dishonour to her father's memory among them? It would hurt her to go +from my grave to take possession of her own house, with the thought of +all that in her mind, and with all their een upon her. But if they were +to see us there together, and to ken all that she has done and been to +me for the last months, they would see that we had forgiven one another, +and they would understand. Then she would take her right place easily +and naturally, and none would dare to say that she came home for the +sake of taking what was left." + +He paused exhausted, but Doctor Fleming said nothing in reply, and he +went on. + +"It would be better and easier for her to be left in her ain house. And +even though my days were shortened by the journey, what is a week or two +more or less of life to me? You'll just need to let me go." + +In a little he spoke again, saying a few words at a time. + +"No, my day is done--but she may have a long life before her. Yes, she +has forgiven me--and so I can believe--that God will also forgive. And +I am not so very sorry--that my end is near,--because, though I would +have tried, I might have failed to make her happy. But no one can ever +love her as I have done. Or maybe it was myself I loved--and my own +will and pleasure." + +There was a long pause, and then he went on speaking rather to himself +than to him who sat silent beside him. + +"Oh! if a man could but have a second chance! If my mother had but +lived--I might have been different. But it's too late now--too late! +too late! I am done out. I'll try to sleep." + +He closed his eyes and turned away his face. Greatly moved, Doctor +Fleming sat thinking about it all. He had spoken no word of all he +meant to say, and he would never speak now. No word of his was needed. +He sat rebuked in this man's presence--this man whom, within the hour, +he had called boaster and braggart, liar and coward. + +"Truly," he mused, "there _is_ such a thing as getting `a new heart.' +Truly, there _is_ a God who is `mighty to save!' I will neither make +nor meddle in this matter. No, I cannot encourage this woman to forsake +him now--at the last--if the end is drawing near--as I cannot but +believe. He may live for years, but even so, I dare not say she would +be right to leave him. God guide and strengthen her for what may be +before her. It will be a sore thing for her to go home and find only +graves." + +"Doctor," said Brownrig suddenly, "you'll no' set yourself against it +longer--for the sake of Allison Bain!" + +"My friend," said the doctor, bending forward and taking his hand, "I +see what your thought is, and I honour you for it. Wait a day or two +more before you make your plans to go, and then, if it is possible for +you to have your wish, you shall have it, and all shall be made as easy +and safe for you as it can possibly be made. You are right in thinking +that you will never--be a strong man again. And after all, it can only +be a little sooner or later with you now." + +"Av, I ken that well. It is vain to struggle with death." + +"And you are not afraid?" + +"Whiles--I am afraid. I deserve nothing at His hand, whom I have ay +neglected and often set at naught. But, you see, I have His own word +for it. Ready to forgive--waiting to be gracious--I am sorry for my +sins--for my lost life--and all the ill I have done in it. Do you think +I am over-bold just to take Him at His word? Well--I just do that. +What else can I do?" + +What indeed! There was nothing else to be done--and nothing else was +needed. + +"He will not fail you," said the doctor gently. + +"And you'll speak to--my wife? for I am not sure--that she will wish to +go--home." And then he closed his eyes and lay still. + +In the meantime Allison had taken her way to the sands, and as she went +she was saying to herself: + +"I can but go as I am led. God guide me, for the way is dark." + +It was a mild November day, still and grey on land and sea. The grey +sea had a gleam on it here and there, and the tide was creeping softly +in over the sands. Allison walked slowly and wearily, for her heart was +heavy. She was saying to herself that at last, that which she feared +was come upon her, and there was truly no escape. + +"For how can I forsake him now? And yet--how can I go with him--to meet +all that may wait me there? Have I been wrong all the way through, from +the very first, and is this the way in which my punishment is to come? +And is it my own will I have been seeking all this time, while I have +been asking to be led?" + +There was no wind to battle against to-day, but when she came to the +place where she had been once before at a time like this, she sat down +at the foot of the great rock, and went over it all again. To what +purpose! + +There was only one way in which the struggle could end,--just as it had +often ended before. + +"I will make no plan. I will live just _day_ by _day_. And if I am led +by Him--as the blind are led--what does it matter where?" + +So she rose and went slowly home, and was "just as usual," as far as +Mrs Robb, or even the clearer-eyed Robert, could see. Robert was back +to his classes and his books again, and he took a great but silent +interest in Allison's comings and goings, gathering from chance words of +hers more than ever she dreamed of disclosing. And from her silence he +gathered something too. + +A few more days passed, and though little difference could be seen in +Brownrig's state from day-to-day, when the week came to an end, even +Allison could see that a change of some kind had come, or was drawing +near. The sick man spoke, now and then, about getting home, and about +the carriage which was to be sent for him, and when the doctor came, he +asked, "Will it be to-morrow?" But he hardly heeded the answer when it +was given, and seemed to have no knowledge of night or day, or of how +the time was passing. + +He slumbered and wakened, and looked up to utter a word or two, and then +slumbered again. Once or twice he started, as if he were afraid, crying +out for help, for he was "slipping away." And hour after hour--how long +the hours seemed--Allison sat holding his hand, speaking a word now and +then, to soothe or to encourage him, as his eager, anxious eyes sought +hers. And as she sat there in the utter quiet of the time, she _did_ +get a glimpse of the "wherefore" which had brought her there. + +For she _did_ help him. When there came back upon him, like the voice +of an accusing enemy, the sudden remembrance of some cruel or +questionable deed of his, which he could not put from him as he had done +in the days of his strength, he could not shut his eyes and refuse to +see his shame, nor his lips, and refuse to utter his fears. He moaned +and muttered a name, now and then, which startled Allison as she +listened, and brought back to her memory stories which had been +whispered through the countryside, of hard measure meted out by the +laird's factor, to some who had had no helper--of acts of oppression, +even of injustice, against some who had tried to maintain their rights, +and against others who yielded in silence, knowing that to strive would +be in vain. + +Another might not have understood, for he had only strength for a word +or two, and he did not always know what he was saying. But Allison +understood well, and she could not wonder at the remorse and fear which +his words betrayed. Oh! how she pitied him, and soothed and comforted +him during these days. + +And what could she say to him, but the same words, over and over again? +"Mighty to save!--To the very utmost--even the _chief_ of sinners,--for +His name's sake." + +Yes, she helped him, and gave him hope. And in helping him, she herself +was helped. + +"I will let it all go," she said to herself, at last. "Was I right? +Was I wrong? Would it have been better? Would it have been worse? God +knows, who, though I knew it not, has had His hand about me through it +all. I am content. As for what may be before me--that is in His hand +as well." + +Would she have had it otherwise? No, she would not--even if it should +come true that the life she had fled from, might still be hers. But +that could never be. Brownrig helpless, repentant, was no longer the +man whom she had loathed and feared. + +Since the Lord himself had interposed to save him, might not she--for +His dear name's sake--be willing to serve him in his suffering and +weakness, till the end should come? And what did it matter whether the +service were done here or there, or whether the time were longer or +shorter? And why should she heed what might be said of it all? Even +the thought of her brother, who would be angry, and perhaps unreasonable +in his anger, must not come between her and her duty to this man, to +whom she had been brought as a friend and helper at last. + +And so she let all go--her doubts, and fears, and cares, willing to wait +God's will. Her face grew white and thin in these days, but very +peaceful. At the utterance of some chance word, there came no more a +sudden look of doubt or fear into her beautiful, sad eyes. Face, and +eyes, and every word and movement told of peace. Whatever struggle she +had been passing through, during all these months, it was over now. She +was waiting neither for one thing nor another,--to be bound, or to be +set free. She was "waiting on God's will, content." + +They all saw it--Mistress Robb, in whose house she lived, and Robert +Hume, and Doctor Fleming, who had been mindful of her health and comfort +all through her stay. Even Mr Rainy, who had little time to spare from +his own affairs, took notice of her peaceful face, and her untroubled +movements as she went about the sickroom. + +"But oh! I'm wae for the puir lassie," said he, falling like the rest +into Scotch when much moved. "She kens little what's before her. He is +like a lamb now; but when his strength comes back, if it ever comes +back,--she will hae her ain adoes with him. Still--she's a sensible +woman, and she canna but hae her ain thochts about him, and--and about-- +ahem--the gear he must soon--in the course o' nature--leave behind him. +Weel! it will fall into good hands; it could hardly fall into better, +unless indeed, the Brownrig, that young Douglas of Fourden married +against the will o' his friends some forty years ago, should turn out to +be the factor's eldest sister, and a soldier lad I ken o', should be her +son. It is to a man's own flesh and blood, that his siller (money) +should go by rights. But yet a man can do what he likes with what he +has won for himsel'--" + +All this or something like it, Mr Rainy had said to himself a good many +times of late, and one day he said it to Doctor Fleming, with whom, +since they both had so much to do with Brownrig, he had fallen into a +sort of intimacy. + +"Yes, she is a sensible woman, and may make a good use of it. But it is +to a man's ain flesh and blood that his gear should go. I have been +taking some trouble in the looking up of a nephew of his, to whom he has +left five hundred pounds, and I doubt the lad will not be well pleased, +that all the rest should go as it's going." + +The doctor had not much to say about the matter. But he answered: + +"As to Mistress Allison's being ready to take up the guiding of +Brownrig's fine house when he is done with it, I cannot make myself +believe it beforehand. She has no such thought as that, or I am greatly +mistaken. By all means, do you what may be done to find this nephew of +her husband's." + +"Is it that you are thinking she will refuse to go with Brownrig to +Blackhills?" + +"I cannot say. I am to speak to her to-morrow. If he is to go, it must +be soon." + +"She'll go," said Mr Rainy. + +"Yes, I think she may go," said the doctor; but though they agreed, or +seemed to agree, their thoughts about the matter were as different as +could well be. + +The next day Doctor Fleming stood long by the bed, looking on the face +of the sleeper. It had changed greatly since the sick man lay down +there. He had grown thin and pale, and all traces of the +self-indulgence which had so injured him, had passed away. He looked +haggard and wan--the face was the face of an old man. But even so, it +was a better face, and pleasanter to look on, than it had ever been in +his time of health. + +"A spoiled life!" the doctor was saying to himself. "With a face and a +head like that, he ought to have been a wiser and better man. I need +not disturb him to-day," said he to Allison, as he turned to go. + +He beckoned to her when he reached the door. + +"Mistress Allison, answer truly the question I am going to put to you. +Will it be more than you are able to bear, to go with him to his home, +and wait there for the end?" + +"Surely, I am able. I never meant to go till lately. But I could never +forsake him now. Oh! yes, I will be ready to go, when you shall say the +time is come." + +She spoke very quietly, not at all as if it cost her anything to say it. +Indeed, in a sense, it did not. She was willing now to go. + +The doctor looked at her gravely. + +"Are you able--quite able? I do not think he will need you for a very +long time. I am glad you are willing to go, though I never would have +urged you to do so, or have blamed you if you had refused." + +In his heart he doubted whether the journey could ever be taken. Days +passed and little change appeared. The sick man was conscious when he +was spoken to, and answered clearly enough the questions that were put +to him by the doctors; but he had either given up, or had forgotten his +determination to get home to die. Allison stayed in the place by night +as well as by day, and while she rested close at hand, Robert Hume or +the faithful Dickson took the watch. She would not leave him. He might +rouse himself and ask for her, and she would not fail him at the last. +She did not fail him. For one morning as she stood looking down upon +him, when the others had gone away, he opened his eyes and spoke her +name. She stooped to catch his words. + +"Is it all forgiven?" he said faintly. + +"All forgiven!" she answered, and yielding to a sudden impulse, she bent +her head and touched her lips to his. + +A strange brightness passed over the dying face. + +"Forgiven!" he breathed. It was his last word. + +He lingered still a few days more. Long, silent days, in which there +was little to be done but to wait for the end. Through them all, +Allison sat beside the bed, slumbering now and then, when some one came +to share her watch, but ready at the faintest moan or movement of the +dying man, with voice or touch, to soothe or satisfy him. Her strength +and courage held out till her hand was laid on the closed eyes, and then +she went home to rest. + + + +CHAPTER TWENTY NINE. + + "Choosing to walk in the shadow, + Patient and not afraid." + +Allison had need of rest, greater need than she knew. The first days +after her long watch and service came to an end were passed in utter +quiet. No one came to disturb her, either with question or counsel. +Mr Rainy, of course, took the management of affairs into his hands; and +if he could have had his own way, everything which was to be done, and +the manner of doing it, would have been submitted to her for direction +or approval. It would, to him, have seemed right that she should go at +once to Blackhills, to await in the forsaken house the coming home of +its dead master. + +But Doctor Fleming had something to say about the matter. He would not +allow a word to be spoken to her concerning any arrangement which was to +be made. + +"You know that you have full power to do as you think fit with regard to +the burial, and all else that may require your oversight. Any reference +which you would be likely to make to Mistress Allison, would be a mere +matter of form, and I will not have her disturbed. Man! ye little ken +how ill able she is to bear what ye would lay upon her. As to her even +hearing a word about going up yonder, it is out of the question. Leave +her in peace for a while, and you will have the better chance of getting +your own way with her later." + +"As you say, doctor, it is a mere matter of form. But forms and +ceremonies cannot ay be dispensed with. She might like to have her ain +say, as is the way with women. However, I can wait till later on, as +you advise." + +So Allison was left in quiet. Brownrig was carried to his own house, +and for a few days his coffin stood there in the unbroken silence of the +place. + +Then his neighbours gathered to his burial, and "gentle and simple" +followed him to his grave. As the long procession moved slowly on, many +a low-spoken word was exchanged between friends concerning the dead man +and his doings during the years he had been in the countryside. His +strong will, his uncertain temper, his faithful service to an easy and +improvident employer, all were discussed and commented upon freely +enough, yet with a certain reticence and forbearance also, since "he had +gone to his account." + +It was a pity that he had become so careless about himself of late, they +said. That was the mild way in which they put it, when they alluded to +"the drink" which had been "the death of him." And who was to come +after him? Who was to get the good of what he had left? + +Allison Bain's name was spoken also. Had she been wrong to go away? +Had she been right? If she had accepted her lot, might she have saved +him, and lived to be a happy woman in spite of all? Who could say? But +if all was true that his man Dickson was saying, she had helped to save +him at last. + +In silence they laid him down within sight of the grave where Allison +had knelt one sorrowful day, and there they left him to his rest. + +Allison was worn and spent, but she was a strong woman and she would +soon be herself again, she said, and her friends said so also. They did +not know that Doctor Fleming had, at this time, some anxiety about her. +He remembered the first days of his acquaintance with her, and the dull +despair into which she had fallen, before he sent her to Nethermuir, and +he would not have been surprised if, after the long strain upon mind and +body through which she had passed, the same suffering had fallen upon +her again. Therefore it was that he used both his authority as a +physician and his influence as a friend, to prevent any allusion to +business matters; and though he was guarded in all that he said to Mr +Rainy on the subject, he yet said enough to show him the propriety of +letting all things remain as they were, for a time. + +So Allison was left at peace,--in the quiet little house which she was +beginning to call her home. She had been asked, and even entreated by +Mrs Hume, to come to the manse for a while. Mrs Beaton had written to +say how glad it would make her if Allison would come to her for a week +or two. But remembering the misery of her first months in Nethermuir, +Allison hesitated at first, and then refused them both. She was better +where she was, she said, and in a few days she would be ready for her +work again. + +She did not say it to them, and she hardly confessed it to herself, but +she shrank from the thought of the eyes that would be looking at her, +and the tongues that would be discussing her, now that her secret was +known. For of course it could not be kept. All her small world would +know how who she was, and why she had come to take refuge in the manse. +They would think well of her, or ill of her, according to their natures, +but that would not trouble her if she were not there to hear and see. +So she stayed where she was, and as she could not do what she would have +liked best, she made up her mind to go back to the infirmary again. + +She would have liked best to go away at once to her brother in America, +and some of her friends were inclined to wonder that she did not do so. +But Allison had her reasons, some of which she was not prepared to +discuss with any one,--which indeed she did not like to dwell upon +herself. She had been asked to come to the home of the Haddens to stay +there till her brother was ready for her. When she was stronger and +surer of herself, she would accept their kind invitation, and then she +would go to Willie--it did not matter where. East or West, far or near, +would be all the same to her in that strange land, so that she and +Willie might be able to help one another. + +"And, oh! I wish the time were only come," said she. + +Since this must be waited for, she would have liked well to ask kind +Doctor Thorne, who had called her "a born nurse," to let her come to +him, that she might be at his bidding, and live her life, and do some +good in the world. The first time that Doctor Fleming had come to see +her, after her long labour and care were over, it had been on her lips +to ask him to speak to the good London doctor for her. But that was at +the very first, and the fear that Doctor Fleming might wonder at her for +thinking of new plans, before the dead man was laid in his grave, had +kept her silent. After that she hesitated for other reasons. London +was faraway, and the journey was expensive, and it would only be for a +year at most, and possibly for less, as whenever her brother said he was +ready for her she must go. So there was nothing better for her to do +than just to return to her work in the infirmary, and wait with +patience. + +"And surely that ought to be enough for me, after all I have come +through, just to stay there quietly and wait. I ought to ken by this +time--and I do ken--that no real ill can come upon me. + +"Pain? Yes, and sorrow, and disappointment. But neither doubt, nor +fear, nor any real ill can harm me. I may be well content, since I am +sure of that. And I _am_ content, only--whiles, I am foolish and +forget." + +She was not deceiving herself when she said she was content. But she +must have forgotten--being foolish--one night on which Doctor Fleming +came in to see her. For her cheeks were flushed, and there were traces +of tears upon them, as he could see clearly when the light was brought +in. She might have causes for anxiety or sorrow, of which he knew +nothing. But he would have liked to know what had brought the tears +to-night, because he, or rather Mr Rainy, had something to say to her, +and he at least was doubtful how she might receive it. + +_Was_ he doubtful? Hardly that. But he was quite sure that what was to +be said, and all which might follow, would be a trouble to Allison, and +the saying of it might be put off, if she had any other trouble to bear. + +"Are you rested?" said he. "Are you quite strong and well again?" + +"Yes, I am quite well and strong." + +"And cheerful? And hopeful?" + +"Surely," said Allison, looking at him in surprise. + +"Oh! I see what you are thinking. But it is only that I had a letter +to-night. No, it brought no ill news. It is from--my Marjorie. I +don't know--I canna tell why it should--" + +"Why it should have made the tears come, you would say. Well, never +mind. I am not going to ask. You are much better and stronger than you +were, I am glad to say." + +"Yes, I am quite well and cheerful,--only--" + +But a knock came to the door, and Allison rose to open it. + +"It is Mr Rainy. He has come to speak about--business. But he will +not keep you long to-night." + +Mr Rainy had never come much into contact with Allison Bain. She was +to him "just a woman, like the lave." He had no wife, and no near kin +among women, and it is possible that he knew less of the sex than he +thought he did. He did not pretend to know much about Allison, but he +knew that several people, whose sense and judgment he respected, thought +well of her. She was tall and strong, and had a face at which it was a +pleasure to look, and, judging from all that he had heard about her, she +might be freer than most, from the little vanities and weaknesses usual +to her kind. She was a reasonable woman, he had heard, and that he +should have anything to do to-night, except to explain how matters +stood, and to suggest the time and the manner of certain necessary +arrangements, he had not imagined. + +He came prepared to be well received, and he did not for a moment doubt +that he should make good his claim to be heard and heeded in all that +concerned the affairs which Brownrig had left in his hands. So he +greeted Allison with gravity suited to the occasion, yet with a +cheerfulness which seemed to imply that he had pleasant news to tell. +Allison received him with a quietness which, he told himself, it cost +her something to maintain. But he thought none the less of her for +that. + +"No woman could stand in _her_ shoes this night, and not be moved, and +that greatly. And not one in ten could keep a grip of herself as she is +doing--no, nor one in fifty," said he to himself. Aloud he said: "I +ought, perhaps, to have given you longer time to consider when you could +receive me. But the doctor informed me that you had been at the +infirmary to-day, and as he was at liberty he suggested that you would +doubtless be willing to see us to-night. There are certain matters that +must be attended to at once." + +"For the present I come home early," said Allison. "The evening is the +only time I have to myself." + +"Yes. For the present, as you say. Ahem! You are aware, perhaps, that +for years I was employed by--by Mr Brownrig in the transaction of so +much of his business as was in my line. And you know that during his +last illness I was often with him, and was consulted by him. In short, +the arrangement of his affairs was left to me." + +This was but the introduction to much more. Allison listened in +silence, and when he came to a pause she said quietly: + +"And what can I have to do with all this?" + +Mr Rainy looked a little startled. + +"You are not, I should suppose, altogether unaware of the manner in +which--I mean of the provisions of your husband's will?" + +"I know nothing about it," said Allison. + +"Then let me have the pleasure of telling you that by this will, you +are, on certain conditions, to be put in possession of all of which Mr +Brownrig died possessed. There are a few unimportant legacies to +friends." He mentioned the names of several persons, and then went on +with his explanations. + +Allison understood some things which he said, and some things she +neither understood nor heeded. When he came to an end at last, she did +not, as he expected, ask what was the condition to which he had +referred, but said: + +"And what will happen if I say that I can take nothing?" + +Mr Rainy looked at her in astonishment. + +"That is easily told," said he, with a queer contortion of his face. +"The property of the deceased would go to the next of kin." + +Then Mr Rainy waited to hear more,--waited "to see what it was that she +would be at," he said to himself. + +"And it is your place to settle it all, to see that all is put right as +it should be?" + +"Yes, that is my place, with the help of one or two others. Your friend +Doctor Fleming has something to do with your affairs, under the will." + +"What you have to do will be to put the will aside, as if it had never +been made. I hope it will not add to the trouble you must have to +settle everything without it." + +"Are you in earnest?" asked Mr Rainy gravely. + +"Surely, I am in earnest." + +"Do you mean to say that you refuse to receive the property which your +husband left to you? Is it because of the condition? No, it cannot be +that, for I named no condition. And indeed it is hardly a condition. +It is rather a request." + +Allison asked no question, though he paused expectant. + +"The condition--if it can be called a condition--is easy enough to +fulfil. It is to take possession of a fine house, and live in it--a +while every year, anyway, and to call yourself by your husband's name. +Is that a hard thing to do?" + +Allison grew red and then pale. + +"I have nothing to say about any condition. With no condition my +decision would have been the same. What you have to do must be done +with no thought of me." + +"But what is your reason? What would you have? You were friends with +him. You were good to him all those long months. You had forgiven him +before he died." + +"I think I had forgiven him long before that time. I came to him +because I was sorry for him, and he, too, had something to forgive. I +wished to be at peace with him before he died, for his sake and for my +own." + +"What more need be said? You had forgiven one another, and he wished to +make amends. Give me a reason for this most astonishing resolution." + +"I can give you no reason, except that I cannot take what you say he has +left to me. I have no right to it. It should go to those of his own +blood." + +There was more said, but not much, and not another word was spoken by +Allison. Doctor Fleming, who had been silent hitherto, said something +about taking longer time to consider the matter--that there was no need +for haste. She should take time, and consult her friends. But he did +not seem surprised at her decision, and indeed "spoke in a half-hearted +kind of a way, which was likely to do little ill, little good in this +strange matter," Mr Rainy declared, with an echo of reproach in his +voice, as they left the house together. + +"Is she a' there, think ye? It canna surely be that she refuses to be +beholden to him, because of the ill turn he did her when he married her? +She forgave him, and that should end all ill thoughts. Yes, she had +forgiven him; no one could doubt that who saw her as you saw her. And +no one would think of casting up to her that she served him with any +thought of what he had to leave behind him. But she might think so, and +I daresay she has her ain pride, for all her gentle ways. You must have +a word with her, doctor. It is easy seen that your word would go far +with her. As for me, I canna follow her, nor understand her, unless it +is that she has a want or a weakness about her somewhere." + +"No," said the doctor, "it cannot be explained in that way." + +"Well, what would she have? Man! think ye what many a woman would give +for her chance! A house of her own, and wealth, no responsibilities, no +incumbrances, and not a true word to be spoken against her. Why! it +would be the beginning of a new life to her. With her good looks, and +the grip she has of herself (her self-possession), she would hold her +own--no fear of that. And no one has a right to meddle with her. There +is her brother, but it is hardly likely he will trouble her. And she is +the stronger of the two, and she has had experience since the old days. +I canna fathom it--unless there be somebody else," said Mr Rainy, +standing still in the street. "Doctor, can you tell me that? I think I +would have heard of him, surely. And he would be a queer lad that would +object to her coming to him with her hands full. And there is not a +word said about her not marrying again. No, it must just be that she is +a woman of weak judgment." + +They had walked a long way by this time, and now they turned into +another street, and soon came to Mr Rainy's door. + +"Come in, doctor, come in. You surely must have something to say about +this strange freak, though I own I have not given you much chance to say +it. Come in if you can spare the time. It's early yet." + +The doctor went in with him, but he had not much to say except that he +was not altogether surprised at Mistress Allison's decision. Indeed he +owned that he would have been surprised had she decided otherwise. + +"But what, I ask, in the name of common sense, is the reason? You must +know, for you seem to have foreseen her refusal." + +"I do not believe she herself could find a reason, except that she +cannot do this thing. The reason lies in her nature. She came to him, +as she says, because she was sorry for him, and because she wished that +they might forgive one another before he died. And I daresay she +thought she might do him some good. And so she did. May God bless her! +But as to what he had, or what he might do with it, I doubt if the +thought of it ever came into her mind, till you spoke the word +to-night." + +Mr Rainy shook his head. + +"I don't say that it is altogether beyond possibility. She seems to be +a simple-minded creature in some ways, but she's a woman. And just +think of it! A free life before her, and all that money can give--I +mean of the things dear to women--even to good and sensible women--gowns +and bonnets and--things. It couldna but have come into her mind." + +"But even if she has thought of all these things, she refuses them now." + +"Yes, she does that, but why? It may be that she hasna confidence in +herself. But that would come. There is no fear of a fine, stately +woman like her. It is a pity that the poor man didna get to his own +house to die." + +"Yes, it was Brownrig's sole reason for wishing to go, that all might be +made easier for her. He was eager to see her in the possession of all +he had to give. It was too late, however. He failed rapidly, after he +told me his wish. Still, I do not think that her being there would have +made any difference in the end." + +"Do you mean that she would have said the same in those circumstances, +and that she will hold out now? That she will go her own ways, and earn +her bread, and call herself Allison Bain to the end of her days? No, +no! she will come round. We'll give her time, and she'll come round, +and ken her ain mind better. A year and a day I'll give her, and by +that time she will be wiser and less--less, what shall I call it? Less +scrupulous." + +"There are, doubtless, folk ready to put in a claim for a share of what +is left, should she refuse." + +"There is one man, and he has a family. I have had my eye on him for a +while. He knows his connection with Brownrig. I don't think he is +proud of it. But he will have no scruples about taking all that he can +get, I daresay. The will, as it stands, is not to be meddled with. I +hope he may have to content himself with his five hundred pounds." + +Doctor Fleming smiled. + +"I should say that he stands a fair chance of taking that and all else +besides. Time will show." + +"I think, doctor," said Mr Rainy gravely, "if you were to give your +mind to it, you could make her see her interest, and her duty as well." + +"I am not so sure of that. Nor would I like to say, that to take _your_ +way, would be either her interest or her duty." + +"Nonsense, man! Consider the good a woman like that might do. I think +I'll send a letter to her friend Mr Hume. He can set her duty before +her, as to the spending of the money. They are good at that, these +ministers. And there is Mrs Esselmont! If she were to take up Allison +Bain, it would be the making of her. And she might well do it. For +John Bain came of as good a stock as any Esselmont of them all. Only of +late they let slip their chances--set them at naught, I daresay, as +Mistress Allison is like to do. Yes, I'll write to Mrs Esselmont. She +has taken to serious things of late, I hear, but she kens as weel as +anither the value of a competence to a young woman like Allison Bain." + +"Does Mistress Allison know anything of this nephew of Brownrig's?" + +"All that she knows is that there are folk who can claim kinship with +her husband." + +"Well, I hope he is a good man if this money is to go to him, as I +cannot but think it may." + +Mr Rainy said nothing for a moment, but looked doubtfully at the +doctor. + +"He is an unworldly kind of a man," said he to himself, "and though he +has not said as much, I daresay he is thinking in his heart that it is a +fine thing in Allison Bain to be firm in refusing to take the benefit of +what was left to her. And if I were to tell who the next of kin is, it +might confirm her in her foolishness. But I'll say nothing to him, nor +to Mrs Esselmont." + +Then he added aloud: + +"Speak you a word to her. She will hear you if she will hear any one. +Make her see that it is her _duty_ to give up her own will, and take +what is hers, and help other folk with it. She is one of the kind that +thinks much of doing her duty, I should say." + +Doctor Fleming smiled. + +"Yes, that is quite true; if I were only sure as to what is her duty, I +would set it before her clearly. I will speak to her, however, since +you wish it, but I will let a few days pass first." + +That night Robert Hume looked in upon Allison, as was his custom now and +then. Marjorie's letter lay on the table. + +"There is no bad news, I hope?" said he as he met Allison's glance. + +"No. Marjorie would like me to come `home,' as she calls it. Or, if +that canna be, she would like to come here." + +"She could hardly come here, but you should go to the manse. You _must_ +go when spring comes." + +"I would like to go for some reasons. But--I would like to see my +Marjorie, and the sight of your mother would do me good, and yet I canna +think of going with any pleasure. But I may feel differently when the +spring comes." + +"You went back to your auld wives too soon," said Robin. + +"No, it is not that. If I am not fit to go to them, what am I fit for?" +And, to Robert's consternation, the tears came into her eyes. + +"Allie," said he, "come away home to my mother." + +But when Allison found her voice again, she said "no" to that. + +"I havena the heart to go anywhere. My auld wives are my best friends +now. I must just have patience and wait." + +"Allison," said Robert gravely, "would you not like to come with me to +America?" + +Allison looked at him in astonishment. + +"With you! To America!" + +"Yes, with me. Why not? They have fine colleges. I could learn to be +a doctor as well there as here, at least I could learn well enough. And +then there is your brother, and--John Beaton. The change is what you +need. You wouldna, maybe, like to go by yourself, and I could take care +of you as well as another." + +This hold and wise proposal had the effect of staying Allison's tears, +which was something. + +"And what would your father and mother say to that, think ye?" said +Allison with a smile. + +"I dinna--just ken. But I ken one thing. They would listen to reason. +They ay do that. And a little sooner or later, what difference would it +make? For it is there I am going some time, and that soon." + +"And so am I, I hope--but not just yet. I couldna go to a strange land, +to bide among strange folk, until--I am fitter for it. If my brother +had a house of his own, I might go." + +"But when your brother gets a house of his own, he'll be taking a wife," +said Robert gravely. + +"Surely! I would like that well." + +"Oh! it will come whether you like it or no. If he canna get one, he'll +get another--there's no fear." + +"Ah! but if he canna get the right one, he should take none. And he +would ay have me." + +Robin might have had his own thoughts about that matter. He said +nothing, however, but that night he wrote a letter to his mother. He +wrote about various matters, as once every week it was his duty and +pleasure to do. And when he had said all else that was to be said, he +added, that Allison Bain whiles looked as she used to look in her first +days in Nethermuir--as though she had lost all her friends, and as +though she might lose herself next. + +"I told her to-night that her best wisdom would be to come away with me +to America. I meant, of course, that I would go with her if she was +afraid to go by herself. For they say there are fine colleges in +America, and I could keep on with my work there. Allison is getting no +good here, among her auld wives." + +Mrs Hume smiled at Robert's proposal, and so did the minister, but they +both looked grave at his account of Allison. + +"It is a pity that she refuses to come here for a few weeks," said Mr +Hume. + +"Yes, it might do her good. Still it would not be as it was at first. +It was because her hands were busy and her days full, that she was +helped then. It would be different now. And more than that, she seems +quite to shrink from the thought of it. We will wait a while, and all +that may pass away." + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY. + + "Then fare ye weel, my ain true love, + And fare ye weel a while." + +But Allison was in no such evil case as her friends were inclined to +believe. She was growing strong again, and she had enough to do, and a +will to do it, which to reasonable folk means content, if it does not +quite mean happiness. She still lived in Mrs Robb's house, and went to +the infirmary every day, and took pleasure in her work, the best of +pleasure,--knowing that she was doing something to soothe the pains of +those whose portion in life seemed to be only suffering and sorrow. + +In helping these, she helped herself also. She forgot her own sadness, +when she saw the weary, pain-drawn faces brighten as she came near, and +she felt her own courage revived, and her strength renewed, when any +weak and hesitating word of hers had power to comfort the hearts of some +whom care or poverty or ill-requited affection had made sick, or sour, +or hopeless. + +There were complaining and ingratitude to meet now and then, from some +of them. But, poor souls! they needed help and comfort all the more, +because of their unreasonable anger, or their querulous discontent. Her +kindest words, and softest touches, and longest patience were for these. +And when the cloud parted, and a light from Heaven shone in upon one +sitting in darkness, or when, for a moment, the troubled and angry +spirit was made to feel what the coming of God's grace into the heart is +like,--was not that enough to make her content? + +Doctor Fleming, though he said little to her about herself or her +health, still kept his eye upon her, and soon became quite satisfied +about her. Mr Rainy, who sometimes saw her passing through the street, +wondered when she would begin to tire of her self-imposed labour, and of +getting her own will and be ready to listen to reason. But he +acknowledged to himself, that, if one could judge by her look, she +seemed well pleased with her work and her own ways thus far. + +"She goes by, not seeming to see me or any other body, but her thoughts +are good and pleasant thoughts, or I am mistaken. Still, I doubt, when +she comes to stand face to face with `the next of kin,' she may have a +qualm of repentance for her foolishness. But a last will and testament +is no' to be lightly meddled with, and I will do my best for her." + +So he wrote to Mr Hume, asking him to use his influence with Allison. +He wrote also to Mrs Esselmont, whom he had known long and well. He +had known her best in her youth, when, as he said to himself, she had +kept as firm a grip of the good things of this life as most folk. He +assured her that there was no reason, either in law or in morals, why +Allison Bain should not have and hold, and make a good use of all that +her husband had left to her, and he believed that no one would be so +well able to set all this before her as Mrs Esselmont, since, as he had +heard, she had for some time taken an interest in the young woman; and +then he added: + +"She has both sense and discretion, except with regard to this one +matter She has been living a repressed sort of life of late,--indeed +from all that I can gather, she never has had any other kind of life, +which goes far to account for her hesitation--I will not say refusal--to +receive what is rightfully hers. I think that she is afraid of the +responsibility, and that she is not sure of herself, or of doing well +the duties of a higher station. But she would soon learn to have +confidence in herself; and with the friendship and the countenance of +Mrs Esselmont, she need care little for the favour or disfavour of any +of the rest." + +Mrs Esselmont smiled as she read. If such a letter had come to her in +the days when Mr Rainy knew her best--when she was young--when she had +influence in her own circle, and liked well to exercise it, she might +have been moved by it even more than it moved her now. For she _was_ +moved by it. She had seen and known enough of Allison Bain to cause her +to assent willingly to Mr Rainy's opinion, that under favourable +circumstances she might hold her own in a position very different from +that which she had hitherto occupied. + +She had not known Allison during her first months at the manse, when, +under the terrible strain of sorrow and fear, she had seemed to break +down and lose herself. It was the sight of her beautiful, sad face as +she sat in the kirk, that had first touched Mrs Esselmont, and +afterward, her firm and gentle dealing with the child Marjorie. Later +on she had learned to know well and to admire,--yes, and to love dearly, +this reticent, self-respecting, young woman who was living under her +roof, a child's nurse--a servant,--yet who in all her words and ways +showed herself to be a true lady. + +Such help as she could give, she would gladly give to Allison, should +she of her own free will choose wealth and a higher position in life. +But to seek to influence her choice,--that was quite another matter. No +one but Allison herself could take the responsibility of deciding what +her future was to be. None knew better than Mrs Esselmont, how little, +wealth and the esteem of the world had to do with peace of mind or +enduring happiness. She therefore answered Mr Rainy's letter without +committing herself. But she told him, that a journey to Aberdeen which +she was intending to make, should be hastened, in order that she might +the sooner see Allison. + +As for the minister, he did with Mr Rainy's letter, what he was in the +way of doing with all important matters on which he was called to +decide. He considered it well for a night and a day, and then he laid +it before his wife. She did not wait long to consider it. She said as +she laid it down: + +"John Beaton!" + +"Well," said the minister, "what of him?" + +"He would never wish it. At least I hope he would never wish it." + +"And has that anything to do with her refusal, think you?" + +Mrs Hume was silent a moment. Then she said: + +"No. I do not think so. I am sure it has not. There is no use +searching for reasons as far as Allison is concerned. She simply cannot +do the thing they are wishing her to do. It is not a matter for reason +with her, but a matter of feeling. And I quite understand it, though I +could not hope to make this clear to Mr Rainy, perhaps not even to +you." + +There was more said about John Beaton and his hopes and wishes, but the +advice which was to be given to Allison was not to be influenced by any +thought of him, or what he might desire. What would be best for Allison +herself? + +Knowing her well, the minister could not but believe that she would be +"a faithful and wise steward" of whatever was committed to her hand. +And he could not but have a thought also, as to the direction which her +liberality might take under judicious guidance. But for Allison +herself, was the possession of so much money desirable? Would she be a +happier woman because she lived in a fine house, and had fine folk about +her? And would these fine folk ever fully accept her as one of +themselves, and give her what was her due,--not as a rich woman, but as +a good woman,--one possessing rare qualities of heart and mind, one in +herself worthy of high regard and honour? All this was, in Mr Hume's +opinion, more than doubtful. + +There was this to be said. A measure of happiness cannot but be theirs +to whom is given the heart as well as the power to dispense wisely and +liberally, and surely Allison would be one of these. Still, the +conclusion to which Mr Hume came, was that Allison must be left to +decide for herself. + +So Mr Hume's reply to Mr Rainy's letter was not very satisfactory to +that gentleman, and he could only hope, that as the months went on, +something might occur which would suggest more reasonable views to them +all. + +Mrs Esselmont went to Aberdeen, and it so happened that she had an +interview with Mr Rainy before she saw Allison. She owned herself +impressed by what he had to say. Therefore when she met Allison, her +first words to her were not those which she had intended to use. She +spoke very gently and kindly, but it was with the desire to convince +Allison that though it might not be for her pleasure, it might still be +her duty to yield to wise guidance, and accept the lot which she had not +chosen for herself, but which seemed to be the lot appointed for her. +She dwelt on the advantages which would naturally follow such an +acceptance,--the good which in so many ways Allison might do, the +position which she would have, and which she would hold with credit and +honour. + +There was more said than this, and Allison listened in silence, with a +look in her eyes which brought Mrs Esselmont to a pause at last. + +"Were these your first thoughts about me when you heard what had +befallen me? And do you think that I would be a happier woman or a +better, for being a richer woman?" asked Allison quietly. + +"Not happier or better, perhaps, but you might be more useful. No, I +must own that my first thought was, that you did well to refuse to +receive anything from him from whom you had fled, and from whom you had +hidden yourself so long. But you owe something to his memory. Do you +not see how it would quiet the evil tongues which are raised against +him, if you were to take your rightful place and do there the duties +which he, I fear, neglected sometimes to do?" + +"I could not go there," said Allison. + +That was all she had to say. She had no reasons to give, and she had +nothing to answer to all the good reasons which Mrs Esselmont had heard +from Mr Rainy, and which she tried to set before her. + +Mrs Esselmont kept her best argument till the last. It was not one +which had been suggested to her by Mr Rainy. + +"Allison, I can understand why you may shrink from the responsibility +which the acceptance of your husband's will would bring upon you. But +in a way, the responsibility would remain, even were you to refuse. You +do not know into whose hands this money may fall. Think of the evil +influence which a bad rich man might exert through all the countryside. +What is known of this stranger who is putting in his claim as next of +kin?" + +"Mr Rainy knows that he is the man that he declares himself to be. He +has long known about him, and has always kept him in view. Doctor +Fleming told me that. Yes, I have thought of what you say. But if Mr +Rainy is satisfied, I think I am free to do as I desire to do--as I must +do." + +"Is it your brother who is seeking to influence you in this matter, +Allison?" + +"No. I have thought of what might be his wish. But I have had no word +from him since--I do not even know whether he has heard of--what has +happened. No one has influenced me. I am sure I am right in refusing; +but right or wrong, I must refuse. Oh! say no more, for I cannot bear +it." + +She was doing her best to keep herself quiet, but the constant dwelling +on this matter had vexed and wearied her, and Mrs Esselmont was +startled by the look which came to her face, as she rose and took a step +toward the door. + +"Allison, my dear," said she, "you are worn out and need to be taken +care of and comforted. Leave it all for the present, and come home with +me." + +The ready tears came to Allison's eyes. + +"You are very kind, but I think I am better here. Mrs Hume has asked +me to come to the manse, and Mrs Beaton would like me to go to her. +You are all very kind, but I think it is better for me just to bide +where I am, and keep myself busy for the present." + +Mrs Esselmont sat thinking earnestly for several minutes. Then she +said gravely: + +"Allison, listen to me for a moment, and put out of your thoughts all +that I hose been saying. You have been long enough under my roof to +know something of me. You know that I am growing an old woman now, and +that I am much alone, having no one very near to me who could be with me +always. I am often very lonely. One daughter is taken up with the care +of her large family, and has other claims upon her besides, and my Mary +is over the sea. Will you come to me, Allison? Not as a servant,--as a +companion and friend. I like you greatly, my dear. I may say I love +you dearly. Will you come to me?" + +She held out her hand. Allison took it in both hers, and stooping, she +kissed it, and her tears fell upon it. + +"If my brother did not need me I would come with good will. But I must +go to him when he is ready for me." + +"Will you come to me till he sends for you? If he were to marry he +would not need you. You would be happy with me, I am sure, my dear." + +"That you should even wish me to come, makes me very glad, but I can say +nothing now." + +"Well, think about it. We would suit one another, my dear. And we +might have our Marjorie with us now and then." + +Mrs Esselmont went back to Firhill, and Allison went daily to the +infirmary again. She kept herself busy, as was best for her, and no one +came to trouble her any more with counsel or expostulation. She did her +work and thought her own thoughts in peace. + +"I will wait patiently till this troublesome business is settled, and +then I will know what I may do. I am not losing my time and I can +wait." + +Having quite made up her mind as to her duty with regard to "this +troublesome business," she put it out of her thoughts and grew cheerful +and content, and able to take the good of such solace or pleasure as +came in her way. + +Robert Hume was a help to her at this time. He looked in upon her +often, and gave her such items of news as came to him from the manse or +from Nethermuir. He brought her books now and then, to improve her mind +and pass the time, he told her, and Allison began, to her own surprise, +to take pleasure in them, such as she had taken in books in the days of +her youth, before all things went wrong with them, and all the world was +changed. + +A letter came from her brother at last. It was dated at a strange place +in the West, and it was not a cheerful letter. + +"It is a long time since I wrote to you," he said. "I had no heart to +write. I was grieved and angry, and I would only have hurt you with my +words. But I have not made so much of my own life that I should venture +to find fault with what you are doing with yours. As to my plans that +you asked about, I have none now. I may wait a while before I think of +getting a home of my own, since I am not like to have any one to share +it with me. Oh! Allie, how is it that all our fine hopes and plans +have come to nothing? It was your duty, you thought, to take the step +you have taken. I cannot see it so. Having once gone to him, you can +never leave him till death comes to part you. You might as well have +gone at the first as at the last, and you would have saved yourself the +trouble of years. But it is useless to say more--" + +Then he went on to tell her that he had come West to see the country-- +and a fine country it was, grand for growing grain. He had not made up +his mind to stay in it. "It is a fine country, but it has a dreary look +to me. There is not a hill to be seen far or near, and in some parts, +not a tree for scores of miles. I hardly think I will stay here long." + +Allison read all this with painful misgivings. Willie alone and +discouraged, and alas! open to temptation, perhaps, as he had been +before--how would it end? Her heart sank within her, and she said to +herself, that there was no need for her to wait for a settlement of that +troublesome business. There were those who could settle it without her +help, and she would away to her brother. + +His name was signed at the end of the page, but she turned the leaf over +and read a few lines more. + +"I have gotten a letter from John Beaton, and I have made up my mind to +go back to Barstow. John says he is going home to bring out his mother, +and he will give you all the news--so no more at present." + +Allison's heart was lightened as she read. + +"There cannot be much wrong with him since he is going back again," she +thought, "and I can wait patiently till his friend comes, to hear more." + +She had not long to wait. One night, when she came home in the early +gloaming, she found Mrs Robb standing at the door. + +"Mr Robert is in the room," said she, "and a friend with him. He asked +for you, and I thought ye might maybe like to take off your cap and +change your gown before you went in to them." + +"I may as well," said Allison. "It is some one from Nethermuir, I +suppose," she thought as she went up the stair. + +So she came down quite unprepared to find John Beaton standing in the +middle of the room, with his eyes fixed on the door. They stood for a +moment looking at one another, and then their hands met, but not a word +of greeting passed between them. Then Allison sat down, and John took a +turn up and down the room. + +"I heard from my brother that you were coming home for your mother, but +I did not think it was to be so soon," said Allison. + +"It is the best time for me to leave my work. It is rather early in the +season for my mother, I am afraid. But the voyage is shorter than it +used to be, and she can have every comfort." + +"She will be glad to go," said Allison. + +"Yes, for some reasons. But at her age, changes are neither easy nor +welcome. Still, I am sure she will be glad to go." + +"You have something to tell me about my brother," said Allison. + +"Yes, I have much to tell you--and nothing but good." + +"I was thankful when I heard that he was to go back again to Mr +Strong's house. It has been like home to him a long time. Did he send +a letter to me?" + +"Yes--but it is a very little one. I am to tell you all the news," said +John, taking from his pocketbook a tiny, folded paper. Allison opened +it and read: + +"Dear Allie, it was all a mistake; it was me she cared for all the time. +Oh! Allie, you must love her dearly for my sake." + +It seemed to take Allison a good while to read it, short as it was. +When at last she looked up and met John's eyes, a sudden rush of colour +made her hide her face in her hands. + +"Don't be sorry, Allie; you would not if you knew all," said John. + +"Oh! no. It is not that I am sorry. But--he will not need me now. Oh! +I am not sorry. I am glad for him." But her voice trembled as she +said it. + +"Will he not need his sister? You would not say so if you knew what the +thought of you has been to him all these years. You have not seen your +brother for a long time, but it is you who have made a man of him, for +all that." + +"Have I made a man of him? It has been with your good help then." + +"Yes, I think I may have helped him. We have been friends, and more, +ever since we met that night by the lake shore." + +"Ah! he needed a friend then. I seemed to forget my fears for him, +after I heard that you had found him. I do not know how to thank you +for all you have been to him." + +"I will tell you how," said John. But he did not. He rose and walked +up and down again. After a little he sat down beside her, and had more +to say. He spoke of his first meeting with her brother, of Willie's +illness, and of the good fortune that came to them both on the day when +they took shelter from the rain in Mr Strong's barn. He told her much +more than that. Some things she had heard before, and some things she +heard now for the first time. She listened to all with a lightened +heart, and more than once the happy tears came to her eyes. And when +John ended thus, "You will be proud of your brother yet, Allison," she +put out her hand, and John took it, and, for a moment, held it closely. + +Before Allison came in John had said to Robert: + +"You are not to go away; I have nothing to say to Allison Bain to-night +that all Nethermuir might not hear." + +But for the moment he wished the words unsaid. A wild desire "to put +all to the touch" and know his fate assailed him. He spoke quietly +enough, however, when he went on to tell, in answer to Allison's +questions, why Willie had gone away so suddenly to the West. + +He had always intended to go out there some time, but with the +suddenness of his going Mr Strong had something to do. It never seemed +to have come into the father's mind that his little Elsie was not a +child any longer, and when he began to notice the look that came into +Willie's eyes when they lighted on her, he was startled first, and then +he was angry, and he let his anger be seen, which was foolish. I am +afraid he spoke to Elsie herself, which was more foolish still. For she +became conscious, and shy, and ill at ease, and these two, who up to +that time had been like brother and sister, had little to say to one +another. When Elsie was sent away to visit an aunt, Willie grew +restless and angry, and, in a moment when something had vexed him, he +told Mr Strong that he had made up his mind to go West. + +"Mr Strong said `all right' a little too readily perhaps, and gave the +lad no time to reconsider his decision, and so Willie went away. It +happened when I was in another town, where I had building going on. I +heard of the matter first from a letter which Willie sent me, and +hurried back as soon as possible, hoping to induce him to wait for a +while, that I might go with him, as I had always meant to do. I was too +late. But it has all ended well. Willie was glad to get home again, +and they were all glad to have him home. Mr Strong had missed the lad +more than he had been willing to confess, even to himself." + +"And is that what you call ending well? Is that to be the end?" said +Robert, speaking for the first time. + +John laughed. "That is as far as it has gone yet, and it as well as +well can be. We must wait for the rest." + +"Tell me about Elsie," said Allison. + +John had a good deal to tell about Elsie, and about other people. He +had much to say about Mr Hadden and his family, and about their great +kindness to both Willie and himself. He had something also to say of +his own business and of his success in it, and Robin drew him out to +describe the house he had built for himself among the maples, by the +lake. A pleasant place he said it was, but it would have to wait a +while yet before it could be called a home. + +Then Robin challenged him to say truly, whether, after all, he was quite +contented with his life in the new world, and whether he had not had +times of being homesick, repentant, miserable? + +No, John had never repented. He had succeeded in every way, far better +than he had had any reason to expect or hope. Miserable? No. No one +need be miserable anywhere, who had enough to do, and a measure of +success in doing it. + +"As to homesickness--it depends on what you call homesickness. My heart +was ay turning homewards, but not with any thought that I had been wrong +or foolish to leave Scotland. No, I am not sorry I went to America when +I did." + +And then, turning to Allison he added: + +"And yet I had no intention of staying there when I went. If it hadna +been the thought of finding Willie, I would never have turned my face to +Barstow. Indeed, I think your Willie and his trust in me, and perhaps +also my care for him, has had more to do with my contentment, yes, and +with my success, than all else together." + +"I am glad," said Allison, and her impulse was to put out her hand +again. But she did not. She only said: + +"How long do you think of staying in Scotland?" + +"Only as long as my mother needs to make ready for the journey." + +"And when you go will you pass this way? I should like well to see your +mother, and say good-bye before she goes away." + +"You must go borne for a while to the manse, Allie. That is what you +must do," said Robert. + +"No," said Allison, "I would like a quiet day with her here far better." + +"And you shall have it," said John heartily. "That will be far better +than to be there in the confusion of leaving." + +Then John rose, saying it was time to go, and Robert, who was to see him +a few miles on his journey, remembered that there was still something to +be done, and hurried away. + +He might as well have stayed where he was, for the parting between these +two was as undemonstrative as their meeting had been. But when the +young men had gone a few steps down the pavement, John turned back again +to the door where Allison was still standing. + +"Allie," said he, "say a kind word to me before I go. Tell me you have +forgiven the presumption of that night." + +"I have had none but kind thoughts of you since then, John," said she, +giving him her hand. + +He stooped and kissed it. + +"I am not going to ask anything from you just now, because--But I must +tell you--that I love you dearly,--so dearly, that I can wait patiently +till you shall bid me come again." + +Laying her hand upon his shoulder, Allison whispered softly: + +"Will you wait till the year is over, John?" + + + +CHAPTER THIRTY ONE. + + "And I will come again, my love, + Though 'twere ten thousand mile." + +A year and a day Mr Rainy had given to Allison Bain, in which to +reconsider her decision as to her refusal to be benefited by the +provisions of Brownrig's will, and now the year was drawing to a close. +"The next of kin" had signified his intention of returning to Scotland +immediately, and as he was an officer in the army, who might be sent on +short notice to any part of the empire, it was desirable that he should +know as soon as might be, what chance there was of his inheriting the +property which his uncle had left. + +Mr Rainy had written cautiously to this man at first. He had had +little doubt that Brownrig's widow, as he always called Allison in his +thoughts, would be brought to her senses and hear reason, before the +year was out. So he had not given the next of kin much encouragement to +believe that more than his five hundred pounds would fall to his share. + +It was a matter of conscience with Mr Rainy. Whatever any one else +might think or say, or whatever his own private opinion might be, it was +clearly his duty to use all diligence in carrying out the expressed +wishes of the testator. In the meantime he left Allison to herself, +believing that frequent discussion would only make her--womanlike--hold +the more firmly to her first determination. + +But after all was said and done, this "troublesome business," which had +caused care and anxiety to several people besides Allison, was brought +to a happy end. Mr Rainy's house was the place appointed for the +meeting of all those who had anything to do with the matter, either +officially or otherwise; and on the day named, shy and anxious, but +quite determined as to what she was to say and do, Allison took her way +thither. She told herself that she would have at least one friend +there. Doctor Fleming had promised not to fail her, and though he had +never spoken many words to her about the will, she knew that he would +stand by her in the decision to which she had come. She had confidence +in his kindness and consideration. No word to deride her foolishness +would fall from his lips, and even Mr Rainy's half-contemptuous +expostulations would be restrained by the good doctor's presence. + +She reached the house at the appointed hour, and found all who had a +right to be present on the occasion, already there. It was her friend +Doctor Fleming who came forward to the door, and led her into the room. + +"Mrs Esselmont!" said Allison, as the lady advanced to meet her. + +"Yes, Allison, I am here," said she gravely. + +There were a number of gentlemen present, and voices were heard also, in +the room beyond. Mrs Esselmont's presence and support were just what +Allison needed to help her self-possession, as Mr Rainy brought one +after another to greet her; and she went through the ceremony of +introduction with a gentle dignity which surprised only those to whom +she was a stranger. The last hand that was held out to her was that of +"the next of kin," as Mr Rainy announced gravely. + +He was a tall man, with a brown face and smiling eyes, and the grasp of +his hand was firm and kindly. They looked at each other for a moment, +and then Allison turned a triumphant glance on Mr Rainy. + +"Mistress Allison," said the new-comer, "I have been hearing strange +things about you." + +"But only things of which you are glad to hear," said Allison eagerly. +"I have heard of you too, though I do not remember ever to have heard +your name." + +"I am Allan Douglas, the son of Mr Brownrig's eldest sister." + +He had not time to say more. Allison put her other hand on the hand +which held hers. + +"Not Captain Douglas from Canada? Not Miss Mary's husband?" said +Allison, speaking very softly. + +She saw the answer in his smiling eyes, even before he spoke, "Yes, the +husband of Mary Esselmont,--the daughter of your friend." + +Allison turned with a radiant face to those who were looking on. + +"And is not this the best way? Is not this as right as right can be?" +said she, still speaking low. + +Not one of them had a word to answer her. But they said to one another +that she was a strange creature, a grand creature, a woman among a +thousand. Allison might well laugh at all this when it was told her +afterward. For what had she done? She had held to her first +determination, and had taken her own will against the advice and even +the entreaty of those who were supposed to be wiser than she. She had +only refused to take up a burden which she could not have borne. What +was there that was grand in all that? + +"As right as right can be," she repeated, as she went over to the sofa +where Mrs Esselmont was sitting. "And now you will have your Mary home +again," said she. + +Her Mary was there already. A fair, slender woman with a delicate face, +was holding out her hand to Allison. + +"I am glad to see the Allison of whom my mother has so often told me," +said she. + +"And I am glad you are come home for her sake," said Allison. + +There was no long discussion of the matter needed after this. Mr Rainy +might be trusted to complete all arrangements as speedily as might be, +and it was with a lightened heart that Allison saw one after another of +those concerned take their departure. + +Captain Douglas had still something to say to Allison, and he came and +sat down by the side of his wife. + +"Have you heard from your brother lately? Do you know that I went to +see him before I left America?" + +"No," said Allison in surprise. "I have had no letter for a month and +more. Was it by chance that you met in that great country?" + +"Oh! no. When Mr Rainy told me of your decision, he also told me that +you had a brother in America, and gave me his address. The place was +not very faraway from the town where we were stationed, and I made up my +mind to see him before I returned home. Mr Rainy could not tell me +whether you had consulted with your brother or not, and I thought it was +right for your sake as well as for my own, that I should see him and +learn _his_ opinion of the matter." + +"Well?" said Allison anxiously. + +"Well, he answered me scornfully enough, at first, and told me I was +welcome to take possession of a bad man's ill-gotten gains, and more +angry words he added. But that was only at first. He had a friend with +him who sent me away, and bade me come again in the morning. From him I +heard something of the cause of your brother's anger against my uncle. +We were on better terms, your brother and I, before I left." + +"And was he angry with me? I mean, was he angry that I was with your +uncle at the end?" + +"He did not speak of that. You must let me thank you for all you did +for my uncle in his last days." + +"Oh! no. You must not thank me. It was only my duty; I could not have +done otherwise," said Allison. "And did Willie not speak of me at all?" + +"Yes. He said that there was not in all Scotland another woman like his +sister Allie, nor in America either." + +Allison, smiled at that. + +"And did he send no letter to me?" + +"Yes, he sent a letter. I have it with me. No, I gave it to a friend, +who said he would put it into your own hand." + +"It was to your brother's friend that he gave the letter," said Mrs +Esselmont in a whisper. + +So when Allison came home to see a light in the parlour window, and a +tall shadow moving back and forth upon the blind, she knew who was +waiting for her there. + +An hour later Robert Hume came to the house. + +"Mistress Allison must have gone to the inn with Mrs Esselmont and her +friends," said Mrs Robb, "and here has the poor lad been waiting for +her in the parlour an hour and more. What can be keepin' her, think +you? And I dinna just like to open the door." + +Robert laughed. "Poor fellow, indeed!" said he. "I suppose we may at +least knock and ask leave to open it." + +They had seen each other already, but the hands of the two young men met +in a clasp which said some things which neither would have cared to put +into words for the other's hearing. Then Robert turned to Allison, who +was sitting there "just as usual," he thought at first. But there was a +look on her face, which neither he nor any one else had seen there till +now. + +"No. I am not going to sit down," said Robert. "But I promised my +mother that I would write to-night, to tell her how it all ended, and I +need my time." + +"Ended! It is only beginning," said John. + +"Robert," said Allison gravely, "does John ken?" + +Robert laughed. + +"There are few things that John doesna ken, I'm thinking. What I mean +is this. How did old Rainy and you agree at last?" + +"Yes, Allison, I ken," said John, as she turned to him, "and I say as +you said: The end is as right as right can be." + +"Were you there, John?" said Allison wondering. + +"Surely, I was there as Captain Douglas' friend. He had a right to ask +me, you see." + +"You know him, John, and Miss Mary?" + +"We sailed together, and I had seen Captain Douglas before that time." + +"Yes, when he went to see my brother. A friend helped him, he told me, +a friend of Willie's, and I knew it must be you." + +John told something of the interview between them, and when a pause +came, Robert, who had been standing all this time, said: + +"There is just one thing more which I must tell my mother. When are you +coming home to the manse? and--when is it to be?" + +"You are a bold lad, Robin. _I_ have not dared to ask that yet," said +John. + +But when Robert was gone he asked it, and Allison was kind and let him +"name the day." + +"A week hence! But is not that very soon, considering all you have to +do?" + +"Oh, no! All that I have to do can be done after," said John. "Will it +be too soon for you?" + +Allison's modest "providing" had been growing under her own busy hands, +during the brief leisure which her daily duties left her. It was all of +the plainest and simplest, but it was sufficient in her esteem. + +"Yes," said she after a moment's hesitation, "I can be ready, and-- +whatever more you think I need--you will have to give me, John." + +John laughed and kissed her hand. Then he said gravely: + +"And, dear, I made a promise once, for you and for myself. I said, if +this happy day should ever come, I would take my wife, first of all, to +the manse of Kilgower--to get an old man's blessing." + +Kilgower! At the name, a shadow of the old trouble fell on Allison's +face--for the last time. + +"I will go anywhere with you, John," said she. + +The next day Allison went home to the manse--another "happy homecoming," +as Marjorie called it,--though she was to be there only a little while. +There were few changes in the manse since the old days. There was a +gleam of silver on the dark hair of the minister, and the face of the +minister's wife showed a touch of care, now and then, when she fell into +silence. But in the home there were cheerfulness and content, and a +hopeful outlook as there had always been, and the peace which comes as +the fulfilment of a promise which cannot be broken. + +The boys had grown bigger and stronger, and they had three sisters now. +Jack was not at home. Jack was in the South learning to make steam +engines, and when he had learned, he was going to America to make his +fortune, like John Beaton. And so was Davie. Only Davie was to have +land--a farm of a thousand acres. To America the thoughts and hopes of +all the young people of the manse were turning, it seemed, and the +thoughts of a good many in the town, as well. + +John Beaton's success in the new country to which he had gone, was the +theme of admiring discussion among the townsfolk, and when John came to +Nethermuir, before the week was over, he found that all arrangements had +been made for a lecture about America, which was to be delivered in the +kirk. John saw at once that he could not refuse to speak. But it would +be no _lecture_ that he could give, he declared. If any one had any +questions to ask, he would answer them as well as he could. And this he +did, to the general satisfaction. + +As to his own success--yes, he had been successful in so far, that he +had made a beginning. That was all he had done as yet. It was a +beginning indeed, which gave him good reason for thankfulness and for +hope. + +"Oh! yes. America is a fine country. But after all, the chief thing +is, that there is room for folk out there. When one comes to speak +about success, courage and patience and strength and hard work are as +necessary to ensure it there as they are here in Scotland. But there is +this to be said. When a man's land is his own, and he kens that every +stroke of his axe and every furrow of his plough is to tell to his own +advantage, it makes a wonderful difference." And so on, to the pleasure +and profit of all who heard it. + +Allison did not hear the lecture, nor Marjorie. They were at Mrs +Esselmont's. Marjorie enjoyed the visit and had much to say of it, when +she came home. Allison did not enjoy it so well. She was a little +doubtful as to how John would be pleased when he came to hear all. That +was what troubled Allison,--that, and the fear that Mrs Esselmont and +Mrs Douglas might see her trouble. + +For it seemed that it was not to be left to John to supply all the rest +that was needed in the way of Allison's "providing." For a glimpse was +given her of a great many beautiful things,--"naiprie," and bed linen, +and gowns and shawls, and other things which a bride is supposed to +require. And something was said of china and silver, that were waiting +to be sent away to the ship when the time for sailing came. And Allison +was not sure how John might like all this. But she need not have been +afraid. + +Mrs Esselmont had a word with John that night, when he came after his +"lecture" to take Allison home. On their way thither, he said to her: + +"What did Mrs Esselmont mean when she said to me, that she had at one +time hoped that you would come home to her, to be to her a daughter in +her old age?" + +"Did she say that? It was friend and companion that she said to me. It +was at the worst time of all, when Willie had written to me that he was +going away to the far West. I was longing to get away, but I couldna +go, not knowing that Willie wanted me, and because--until--Oh! yes, I +was sad and lonely, and not very strong, and Mrs Esselmont asked me. +But it was not daughter she said to me, but companion and friend." + +"And what answer did you give her?" + +"I thanked her, but I couldna promise, since I _must_ go to my brother +sooner or later." + +"And was it only of your brother that you thought, Allison?" + +"I had no right to think of any one else then, and besides--" + +"Well, besides?" said John after a pause. + +"It was you that Elsie liked best, Willie thought--and that her father +liked best, as well--" + +"Did the foolish fellow tell you that?" + +"He said that Elsie was ay friendly with you, and that she had hardly a +word or a look for him, and he was afraid that it might break friendship +between you if he stayed on, and he said he was going away." + +"And he did go, the foolish lad. Friendly! Yes, Elsie and I were +friendly, but it was Willie who had her heart. But his going away did +no harm in the end." + +Allison sighed. + +"It was ay Willie's way to yield to impulse, and ill came of it whiles." + +"It is his way still--whiles. But it is _good_ that mostly comes of it +now. And in Elsie's hands, a thread will guide him. You will love +Elsie dearly, Allison." + +"I love her dearly already." + +They had reached the manse by this time, and as they lingered a moment +in the close, John said: + +"And were you pleased with all the bonny things that Mrs Esselmont has +been speaking to me about?" + +Allison started, and laid her hand on his arm. + +"Are you pleased, John? I was afraid--" + +"Yes, I am pleased. She is very kind." + +John kept her hand in his, and led her on till they came to the +garden-gate. + +"Now tell me of what you are afraid, Allie," said he. + +"Oh! not afraid. But I was glad to come to you with little, because I +knew you would be glad to give me all. And I thought that--perhaps-- +you--But Mrs Esselmont is very kind." + +"My dear, I would be ill to please indeed, if I were not both pleased +and proud to hear the words which Mrs Esselmont said of you to-night. +Yes, she is more than kind, and she has a right to give you what she +pleases, because she loves you dearly." + +Allison gave a sigh of pleasure. + +"Oh! it was not that I was afraid. But I was, for so long a time, +troubled and anxious,--that--whiles I think I am not just like other +women--and that you might--" + +John uttered a little note of triumph. + +"Like other women? You are very little like the most of them, I should +say." + +"It is not of you--it is of myself I am afraid. You think too well of +me, John. I am not so good and wise as you believe, but I love you, +John." + +That ought to have been enough, and there were only a few words more, +and this was one of them: + +"Allie," said John gravely, "I doubt that I am neither so wise nor so +good as you think me to be. You will need to have patience with me. +There are some who say I am hard, and ower-full of myself, and whiles I +have thought it of myself. But, Allie, if I am ever hard with you, or +forgetful, or if I ever hurt you by word or deed, it will not be because +I do not love you dearly. And you will ay have patience with me, dear, +and trust me?" + +"I am not afraid, John." + +The happy day came, and the marriage in the manse parlour was a very +quiet affair, as those who were most concerned desired it to be. But in +the opinion of Nethermuir generally, a great mistake had been made. The +marriage should have been in the kirk, it was said, so that all the town +might have seen it. + +Robert was best-man, and Marjorie was best-maid. Mrs Esselmont and her +daughter and son-in-law were there, and one other guest. + +"Think of it!" folk said. "Only one asked to the marriage out of the +whole town, and that one auld Saunners Crombie!" + +There was a good reason for that in John's esteem, and in Allison's. +Saunners appreciated the honour which was done him. He also did honour +to the occasion--pronouncing with unction over the bride and bridegroom +the blessings so long ago spoken at the gate of Bethlehem. + +It was not quite springtime yet, but the day was like a spring day, with +a grey sky, and a west wind blowing softly, when John and Allison came +in sight of the kirk of Kilgower. Only the voice of the brown burn +broke the stillness, murmuring its way past the manse garden, and the +kirkyard wall, and over the stepping-stones on which Allison had not +dared to rest her tired feet, on the morning when she saw it last, and +she said in her heart: + +"Oh! can it be that I am the same woman who would fain have died on that +day?" + +They went into the kirkyard first. The tears which fell on the white +headstone were not all tears of sorrow. They told of full submission, +of glad acceptance of God's will in all the past, and of gratitude for +all that the future promised. + +"John," said she softly. But her voice failed her to say more. + +"We will come again, dear," said he gently, and he led her away. + +And so they went on to the manse, and Allison bowed her head while the +good old man blessed her, and was glad, though the tears were very near +her eyes. John had much to tell the minister about his son and his +happy family, and of their way of life, and the good which they did in +the town; and after a little Allison smiled as she met her husband's +kind eyes, and was ready with her answers when Dr Hadden turned to her. + +They were to stay over the Sabbath. Surely they must stay over the +Sabbath, the minister said, and the reason which he gave for their +staying was the one which John would have given for wishing to go away. + +"There will be so many at the kirk who will like to see Allison Bain's +face again," said he. + +But when he added reverently, "And doubtless it is in her heart to thank +God in His own house, for all the way by which He has led her since that +sorrowful day," what could they do but promise to remain? + +In the gloaming they went down by the burn side, and past the +stepping-stones, and round the hill to the cottage of Janet Mair. It +was a dark little place. The tiny peat fire on the hearth cast only a +faint light, and it was some moments before they caught a glimpse of the +wee bowed wifie, who had befriended Allison in her time of need. + +"Come ye awa ben," said she. "Is it Betty, or is it the minister's +Barbara? Bide still till I licht my bit lampie." + +But when the lamp was lighted, she "wasna just sae sure," even then, who +it was that had come in. + +"Dinna ye mind Allie Bain, and how good ye were to her, the day she gaed +awa?" + +"Ay do I. Weel that. Eh, woman! Are ye Allie Bain?" + +The lamp did not cast a very bright light, but it fell full on Allison's +face. + +"Eh! but ye're grown a bonny woman! Sit ye doon and rest yersel'. And +wha is this? Is it witless Willie, as I've heard folk ca' him?" + +She did not wait for an answer, but wandered away to other matters. She +seemed quite to have forgotten the events of the last years. But she +told them about her mother, and about the man she should have married, +who were both lying in the kirkyard doon by, and about her father and +her brothers who were lost at sea. + +"I'm sair failed," said she. "It has been an unco hard winter, and I +hae had to keep the hoose. But I'll be mysel' again, when the bonny +spring days come, and I can win out to the kirkyard. It's a bonny +place, and wholesome." + +And so on she wandered. They did not try to bring her thoughts back to +later days. "It was as well not," Allison said sadly. + +Yes, she was sore failed, but she brightened wonderfully at the touch of +a golden piece which John put into her hand. + +"I'll tak' it to the manse and get it changed for the bawbees and +pennies that are gaithered in the kirk. It'll tak' twa or three +Sabbaths o' them, I daursay, to mak' it out. Eh! but ye're a braw lad, +and a weelfaured," added she, holding up the lamp and peering into his +face. "And muckle gude be wi' ye a' ye're days," she added as they went +away. + +"You have never told me of all the help she gave you," said John as they +went down the burn side together. + +"Sometime I will tell you; I would fain forget it all just now." + +The next day they went to Grassie, to see the two or three with whom +Allison could claim kindred in the countryside. She had seen them last +on her father's burial-day. Then they went to many a spot where in +their happy childhood Allison and her brother used to play together. +John had heard of some of these before, he said. He knew the spot at +the edge of the moor, where young Alex. Hadden had rescued Willie from +the jaws of death, and he recognised the clump of dark old firs, where +the hoodie-crows used to take counsel together, and the lithe nook where +the two bairns were wont to shelter from the east wind or the rain. And +he reminded Allison of things which she had herself forgotten. At some +of them she wept, and at others she laughed, joyful to think that her +brother should remember them so well. And she too had some things to +tell, and some sweet words to say, in the gladness of her heart, which +John might never have heard but for their walk over the hills that day. + +They went to the kirk on the Sabbath, and sat, not in the minister's +pew, but in the very seat where Allison used to sit with her father and +her mother and Willie before trouble came. And when the silence was +broken by the minister's voice saying: "Oh! Thou who art mighty to +save!" did not her heart respond joyfully to the words? The tears rose +as she bowed her head, but her heart was glad as she listened to the +good words spoken. When they came out into the kirkyard, where, one by +one, at first, and afterward by twos and threes, the folk who had known +her all her life came up to greet her, there were neither tears nor +smiles on her face, but a look at once gentle, and firm, and grave--the +look of a strong, patient, self-respecting woman, who had passed through +the darkness of suffering and sorrow into the light at last. + +John stood a little apart, watching and waiting for her, and in his +heart he was saying, "May I grow worthy of her and of her love." When +there had been "quite enough of it," as he thought, and he was about to +put an end to it, there drew near, doubtful, yet eager, an old bowed +man, to take her hand, and then John saw his wife's face, "as if it had +been the face of an angel." + +She had waited for all the rest to come to her, but she went forward to +meet this man with both hands held out to him, and they went aside +together. Then, Allison stooped toward him, speaking softly, and while +he listened, the tears were running down his withered cheeks, but he +smiled and prayed God bless her, at the end. + +"Who was your last friend?" said John when they had left the kirkyard, +and were drawing near the manse. + +"It was--the father of Annie Brand. She died--over yonder--" + +She could not say more, and she did not need to. John had heard the +story of Annie Brand and of others, also, from her friend Doctor +Fleming, and in his heart he said again: + +"O God! make me worthy of her love." + +They did not linger long after the Sabbath, though their old friend +asked for all the time which they could freely give. They were not +specially pressed for time, John acknowledged, but there were several +places to which they meant to go--to some of them for business, to all +of them for pleasure. He had left all his affairs "on the other side" +in good hands, so that they need not be in haste to return, and they +were free to go about at their leisure. + +"And it is quite right you are," said Doctor Hadden. "It is wonderful +what a bonny world it is that happy eyes look out upon. And you will +have the sight of many a fair picture, that you will recall together in +the years that are to come. And with all this, and the voyage that lies +before you, you will have time to get acquaint with one another, before +the warstle of common life begins." + +And so they went away. And their "happy eyes" saw many a fair picture, +and day by day they "got acquaint" with one another, as their dear old +friend had said. + +And in due time they sailed away in to the West, to begin together a new +life in a new land. + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Allison Bain, by Margaret Murray Robertson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALLISON BAIN *** + +***** This file should be named 24963.txt or 24963.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/4/9/6/24963/ + +Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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