"Love sought is good, but love unsought is better."
John Beaton came slowly up the height which hid for the moment the spot
where the bairns had gathered, and Robin followed with his bag on his
shoulder. Confusion reigned triumphant. Some of the little ones had
become tired and fretful, and the elder girls were doing what they could
to comfort and encourage them. But by far the greater number were as
lively as when they set out in the morning, and by no means in haste to
end their day of pleasure. Up the shelving side of one of the great
grey stones they were clambering, and then, with shrill shrieks and
laughter, springing over the other side to the turf below. Not the
slightest heed was given to the voice of the mistress, heard amid the
din, expostulating, warning, threatening "broken banes and bluidy noses,
ere a' was dane." This was what Robin saw, and it was "a sight worth
seeing."
What John Beaton saw was Allison Bain standing apart, with Marjorie in
her arms, and he saw nothing else for a while. Even Robin, with his bag
on his shoulder, stopped a moment to gaze at "our lass," as he called
her in a whisper to his friend. She looked a very different lass from
"our Allie" in the manse kitchen, with her downcast eyes, and her
silence, and her utter engrossment with the work of the moment. Her big
mutch had fallen off, and a mass of bright hair lay over the arm which
the child had clasped about her neck. The air had brought a wonderful
soft colour to her cheeks, and her lips were smiling, and so were her
eyes, as she watched the wild play of the bairns, and her darling's
delight in it. There was not a sign of stooping or weariness.
"Though Davie says she carried Maysie every step of the way," said
Robert to his friend. "Man! John! It might be Diana herself!"
But John said nothing, and Robin had no time for more, for the bairns
had descried him and his bag, and were down on him, as he said, like a
pack of hungry wolves.
So John shook hands with the mistress, "in a dazed-like way," she said
afterward, and at the first moment had scarce a word for Marjorie, who
greeted him with delight.
"John, this is my Allie," said she, laying her hand on her friend's
glowing cheek, "and, Allie, this is Mrs Beaton's John, ye ken."
Allie glanced round at the new-comer, but she was too busy gathering
back the wisp of hair that the wind was blowing about her face to see
the hand which he held out to her, and the smile had gone quite out of
her eyes when she raised them to his face.
"They minded me o' Crummie's een," John told his mother long afterward.
The schoolmistress sat down upon a stone, thankful that her labours were
over, and that the guiding home of the bairns had fallen into stronger
hands than hers. And as she watched the struggle for the booty which
came tumbling out of the bag, she was saying to herself:
"I hae heard it said o' John Beaton that he never, a' his days, looket
twice in the face o' a bonny lass as gin there were onything to be seen
in it mair than ordinar. But I doot, after this day, _that_ can never
be said o' him again. His time is come or I'm mista'en," added she with
grim satisfaction. "Noo we'll see what's in him."
"And now, Maysie," said Robin, coming back when the "battle of the baps"
was over, "I'm to have the charge o' you all the way home, my mother
said. Allie has had enough o' ye by this time. And we have Peter
Gilchrist's cart, full o' clean straw, where ye can sit like a wee queen
among her courtiers. So come awa', my bonny May."
But Allison had something to say to that proposal.
"No, no! I'll not lippen her to you and your cairt; your mother could
never expect such a thing o' me," said she, clasping the child.
"Well, all I can say is, these were my orders, and ye maun take the
responsibility of disobedience. What say ye, Maysie?"
"Oh! Allie, it would be fine to go with the ither bairns in the cairt."
"But, my dearie, your mother never could have meant anything like that.
It would never, never do. Tired! No, I'm no' tired yet. And if I were
ever so tired--"
"Will ye lippen her to me? I have carried Marjorie many a time," said
John Beaton, coming forward and holding out his arms.
Allison raised her eyes to his for an instant, and then--not with a
smile, but with a sudden faint brightening of the whole face, better to
see than any smile, John thought--she put the child in his arms.
"Ay, I think I may lippen her to you, since ye have carried her before."
So the child was wrapped warmly, and was well content.
"And as ye have the cairt, and I'm not needed with the bairns, I'll awa'
hame, where my work is waiting me," said Allison to Robin, and she lost
no time.
They saw her appearing and disappearing, as she kept her way among the
heather for a while; and then John Beaton said, with a long breath, that
they would need to go. So the mistress was made comfortable in the cart
with as many of the little ones as could be packed into it, and Robin
took the reins. The rest of them went down the hill in a body, and all
got safely home at last. And the happiest of them all was Marjorie when
John laid her tired, but smiling and content, upon her little couch.
"Oh, mother! it's fine to be like the other bairns. I have had such a
happy day. And, mother," she whispered, as her mother bent over her,
undoing her wraps, "you'll need to ask John to stay to tea."
But John would not stay. He must take tea with his mother this first
night, he said, which Marjorie owned was but right. So he went away.
He came back again to worship, however, after Marjorie was in bed.
Peter Gilchrist was there too, and Saunners Crombie. It was a way the
folk o' the little kirk had, to time their business at the smithy or the
mill, so as to be able to drop in at the usual hour for family worship
at the manse. At such times there was rather apt to be "lang worship,"
not always so welcome to the tired lads as to the visitors, and to-night
Jack and Davie murmured audibly to their mother when the chapter was
given out.
For the chapter was about Jacob seeking for his father's blessing, and
the lads felt that Peter and Saunners might keep on to any length about
him. And so it proved. Decided opinions were expressed and maintained
as eagerly as though each one present had a personal interest in the
matter. Peter Gilchrist had his misgivings about Jacob. He was "a
pawkie lad" in Peter's estimation--"nae just fair forth the gait in his
dealings with his brother, and even waur (worse) with his old blind
father, to whom he should have thought shame to tell lees in that
graceless way."
Saunners, on the other hand, was inclined to take Jacob's part, and to
make excuses for him as being the one who was to inherit the promise,
and the blame was by him laid at the door "of the deceiving auld wife,
Rebekah, by whom he had evidently been ill brocht up"; and so they
"summered and wintered" the matter, as Jack said they would be sure to
do, and for a while there seemed little prospect of coming to the end of
it. But it mattered less to Jack or to Davie either, as they soon were
fast asleep.
The minister put in a word now and then, and kept them to the point when
they were inclined to wander, but the two had the weight of the
discussion to themselves. As for John Beaton, he never opened his lips
till it was time to raise the psalm; and whether he had got the good of
the discussion, or whether he had heard a word of it, might well be
doubted, judging by the look of his face when Mrs Hume put the
psalm-book into his hand.
It was time to draw to an end, for there were several sleepers among
them before the chapter was done. Allison had made a place for Davie's
sleepy head upon her lap, and then after a little her Bible slipped from
her hand, and she was asleep herself. It had been a long day to her,
and her walk and the keen air of the hills had tired her, and she slept
on amid the murmur of voices--not the uneasy slumber of one who sleeps
against her will; there was no struggle against the power that held her,
no bowing or nodding, or sudden waking up to a sense of the situation,
so amusing to those who are looking on. Sitting erect, with the back of
her mutch just touching the angle made by the wall and the half-open
door, she slumbered on peacefully, no one taking heed of her, or rather
no one giving token of the same.
After a time her mistress noticed her, and thought, "Allison has
over-wearied herself and ought to be in her bed," and she wished
heartily that the interest of the two friends in Jacob and his misdeeds
might speedily come to an end, at least for the present. And then,
struck by the change which slumber had made on the beautiful face of the
girl, she forgot the talk that was going on, and thought only of
Allison. The gloom which so often shadowed her face was no longer
there, nor the startled look, half fear and half defiance, to which the
gloom sometimes gave place when she perceived herself to be observed.
Her lips, slightly apart, had lost the set look which seemed to tell of
silence that must be kept, whatever befell. The whole expression of the
face was changed and softened. It looked very youthful, almost
childlike, in its repose.
"That is the way she must have looked before her trouble came upon her,
whatever it may have been," thought Mrs Hume with a sigh. And then she
said softly to the minister: "I doubt it is growing late, and the bairns
are very weary."
"Yes, it is time to draw to a close." So he ended the discussion with a
few judicious words, and then read the remaining verses of the chapter
and gave out the psalm.
Sometimes, on receiving such a hint from the mother, it was his way to
"omit the singing for a night." But this was John Beaton's first night
among them, and the lads and their mother would, he thought, like the
singing. And so he read the psalm and waited in silence for John to
begin, and then Mrs Hume turned toward him.
A little withdrawn from the rest, John sat with his head upon his hand,
and his eyes fixed on the face of Allison Bain. His own face was pale,
with a strange look upon it, as though he had forgotten where he was,
and had lost himself in a dream. Mrs Hume was startled.
"John," said she softly, putting the book into his hand.
And then, instead of the strong, full tones which were naturally to be
expected when John Beaton opened his lips, his voice rose, full, but
soft and clear, and instinctively the tones of Robin and his mother were
modulated to his. As for the others, they did not sing at all. For
John was not singing the psalm which the minister had read, nor was he
even looking at the book. But softly, as a mother might sing to her
child, the words came:
"Jehovah hear thee in the day
When trouble He doth send,
And let the name of Jacob's God
Thee from all ill defend.
"Oh! let Him help send from above
Out of His sanctuary,
From Sion His own holy hill,
Let Him give strength to thee."
Allison's eyes were open by this time. She seemed to be seeing
something which no one else saw, and a look of peace was on her face,
which Mrs Hume had never seen on it before. "She must have been
dreaming." Then the singing went on:
"Let Him remember all thy gifts,
Accept thy sacrifice,
Grant thee thy heart's wish, and fulfil
Thy thoughts and counsels wise."
And then John's voice rose full and clear, and so did the voices of the
others, each carrying a part, in a way which made even the minister
wonder:
"In thy salvation we will joy,
In our God's name we will
Lift up our banner, and the Lord
Thy prayers all fulfil."
Then the books were closed, and the minister prayed, and without a word
or a look to any one, except only sleepy Davie, Allison rose and went
away. But in her heart she was repeating:
"Grant thee thy heart's wish and fulfil
Thy thoughts and counsels wise.
In thy salvation we will joy--"
"Maybe the Lord has minded on me, and sent me this word. I will take it
for a sign."
The two friends went out into the dark, as Saunners said, "strengthened
by the occasion," but it was not of Jacob, nor his blessing nor his
banishment that they "discoorsed" together as they jogged along, sitting
among the straw in Peter's cart. Peter was inclined to be sleepy after
the long day, and had he been alone he would have committed himself to
the sense and judgment of his mare Tibbie, and slept all the way home.
But his friend "wasna ane o' the sleepy kind," as he said, and he had
something to say.
"What ailed John Beaton the nicht, think ye? He's ready eneuch to put
in his word for ordinar, but he never opened his mouth through a' the
exerceese, and was awa' like a shot ere ever we were off our knees, with
not a word to onybody, though he's but just hame."
"Ay, that was just it. He would be thinkin' o' his mither, puir bodie,
at hame her lane."
"Ay, that micht account for his haste, and it micht weel hae keepit him
at hame a'thegither, to my thinkin'. But that needna hae keepit his
mouth shut since he was there. It's no' his way to hide his licht
aneath a bushel as a general thing."
"It wad be a peety gin he did that. Licht is needed among us," said
Peter, who admired in his friend the gift of easy speaking, which he did
not possess himself.
"Oh! ay, that's what I'm sayin'. And what for had he naething to say
the nicht? I doot it's nae just as it should be with him, or he wad hae
been readier with his word."
"There's sic a thing as being ower-ready wi' ane's word. There's a time
to keep silence an' a time to speak, according to Solomon. But word or
no word I'm no' feart for John Beaton."
"Weel, I canna just say that I'm feart for him mysel'; and as ye say,
he's maybe whiles ower-ready to put in his word wi' aulder folk. But
gaein' here and there among a kind o' folk, he has need to be watchfu'
and to use his privileges when he has the opportunity."
"We a' need to be watchful."
"Ay, do we, as ye say. But there are folk for whom ower-muckle
prosperity's nae benefit."
"There's few o' us been tried wi' ower-muckle prosperity of late, I'm
thinkin'. And as for John, if a' tales be true, he has had his share o'
the ither thing in his day."
"Weel, I hae been hearin' that John Beaton has had a measure o'
prosperity since he was here afore, and if it's good for him it will
bide wi' him. He kens Him that sent it, and who has His e'e on him."
"Ay, ay; it's as ye say. But prosperity or no prosperity, I'm no' feart
for John."
"Weel, I canna just say that I'm feart for him mysel'. Gin he is ane o'
His ain, the Lord will keep a grip o' him, dootless. It's no' that I'm
feart, but he has never taken the richt stand among us, as ye ken. And
ye ken also wha says, `Come oot from among them and be ye separate.' He
ay comes to the kirk when he's here. But we've nae richt hold on him.
And where he gaes, or what he does at ither places, wha kens? I hae ay
fear o' folk that are `neither cauld nor het.'"
Fortunately the friends had reached the spot where their ways parted,
and Peter, being slow of speech, had not his answer ready, so Saunners
went home content at having said his say, and more content still at
having had the last word.
All this time John Beaton was striding about the lanes in the darkness,
as much at a loss as his friend, Saunners Crombie, as to what had
happened to him. He had not got the length of thinking about it yet.
He was just "dazed-like," as the schoolmistress would have said--
confused, perplexed, bewildered, getting only a glimpse of what might be
the cause of it all, and the consequences.
If he had known--if it had come into his mind, that the sorrowful eyes
which were looking at him out of the darkness--the soft, brown eyes,
like Crummie's, which had met his first on the hilltop, might have power
over him to make or to undo, as other eyes had wrought good or evil in
the lives of other men, he would have laughed at the thought and scorned
it.
He had had a long day of it. Since three in the morning he had walked
the thirty miles that lay between Nethermuir and Aberdeen, to say
nothing of the rumble in Peter Gilchrist's cart to the Stanin' Stanes,
and the walk home again with little Marjorie in his arms. No wonder
that he was a little upset, he told himself. He was tired, and it was
time he was in his bed. So with a glance at the moon which was showing
her face from behind a cloud--she had a queer look, he thought--he
turned homeward.
He stepped lightly, and opened the door softly, lest his mother should
be disturbed so late. A foolish thought of his, since he knew that "his
very step had music in't" to her ears.
"Well, John?" said she, as he paused a moment at her door. And when he
did not answer at once, she asked, "Is it well with you, John?"
"Surely, mother. Why should you ask?"
"And they were glad to see you at the manse?"
"Oh! yes, mother. They're ay kind, as ye ken."
"Ay, they're ay kind. And did you see--Allison Bain?"
"Allison Bain!" repeated John, dazed-like still. "Ay, I saw her--at the
Stanin' Stanes, as I told you."
"Yes, you told me. And all's well with you, John?"
"Surely, mother," repeated John, a little impatiently. "What should ail
me?" And then he added, "I'm tired with my long tramp, and I'll away to
my bed. Good-night, mother."
He touched with his strong, young fingers the wrinkled hand that lay on
the coverlid, and the touch said more to her than a kiss or a caress
would have said to some mothers.
"Sleep sound!" said she.
But the charm did not work, for when daylight came he had not closed his
eyes.