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.
“Will I like a fule, quo’ he,For a haughty hizzie dee?”
“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 bygreat 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.
“The very rod,If we but kiss it as the stroke descendeth,Distilleth oil to allay the inflicted smart.”
“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?”
“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 bygreat 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 sailedWestward, 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 theGriffin, 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 theGriffin. 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?”Johnthoughthe “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.”
“And so, taking heart, he sailedWestward, not knowing the end.”
“And so, taking heart, he sailedWestward, 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 theGriffin, 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 theGriffin. 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?”
Johnthoughthe “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.”