"She wakened heavy-hearted
To hear the driving rain,
By noon the clouds had parted,
And the sun shone out again.
`I'd take it for a sign,' she said,
`That I have not prayed in vain.'"
That night while Mrs Beaton and her son sat by the fireside, exchanging
a word now and then, but for the most part in silence, a knock came to
the door. Allison had given herself no time to reconsider the
determination to which she had come when she met John's eyes in the
kirk, being bent on abiding by it whatever might befall.
It had not come into her mind that her courage might fail her at the
last moment. It was not that her courage was failing, she told herself,
as she stood waiting. It was because she had run down the lane so
quickly that her heart was beating hard. It was like the thud of a
great hammer against her side; it frightened her, and she was tempted to
turn and run away. But she did not.
"I would be sorry when it was too late," thought she, and knocked again.
There was a pause of a minute or two, and then the door opened, and John
Beaton appeared, carrying a light.
"I was wishing to say a word to Mrs Beaton, if she will let me," said
Allison, making a great effort to speak as usual.
"Surely," said John. "Come in."
"Come away in, Allison," said Mrs Beaton's kind voice out of the
darkness.
When John had shut the door and come into the parlour with the light, he
was surprised to see that the two women had clasped hands, and that on
his mother's face was the look which he had hitherto believed it had
worn for him alone. He moved a chair forward from the wall.
"Sit down, Allison," said he.
"No," said she; "I will say first what I came to say."
John set down the candle and turned to go. But Allison put out her hand
to detain him.
"'Bide still," said she. "I have to ask your mother to ask her son to
do something for me--something which I cannot do for myself, but which
must be done, or I think my heart will break."
"'Bide still, John," said his mother.
John moved the light again, so that it fell on Allison's face, and then
went and stood in the shadow, leaning on the back of his mother's chair.
Allison stood for a moment silent, and both mother and son regarded her
with interest and with surprise as well.
This was quite a different Allison, Mrs Beaton thought, from the one
who went up and down the street, heeding no one, seeing nothing unless
the child Marjorie was in her arms to call her attention to whatever
there might be to see. She seemed eager and anxious, full of
determination and energy. She had not at all the air of one who had
been accustomed to go and come at the bidding of other folk.
"It is the true Allison at last," said John to himself.
"Her gown has something to do with it," thought Mrs Beaton, and perhaps
it had. Her gown was black, and hung in straight folds about her. A
soft, white kerchief showed above the edge of it around her throat, and
her Sunday cap, less voluminous and of lighter material than those which
she wore about her work, let her shining hair be seen.
"A strong and beautiful woman," John said to himself. His mother was
saying it also; but with a better knowledge of a woman's nature, and a
misgiving that some great trouble had brought her there, she added:
"May God help her, whatever it may be. Allison, sit down," she said
after waiting a minute for her to speak.
"It is that my heart is beating so fast that I seem to be in a tremble,"
said Allison, clasping her hands on her side.
"Sit down, my dear," said Mrs Beaton kindly. "Not yet. It is only a
few words that I must say, I have had great trouble in my life. I have
trouble yet--that must be met. And it came into my mind when I was
sitting in the kirk that you might maybe help me, and--keep my heart
from breaking altogether," said she; then lifting her eyes to John's
face she asked, "Have ye ever been in the tollbooth at Aberdeen? It is
there my Willie is, whom I would fain save."
John's mother felt the start her son gave at the words. Even she
uttered a word of dismay.
"I must tell you more," said Allison eagerly. "Yes, he did wrong. But
he had great provocation. He struck a man down. At first they thought
the man might die. But he didna die. My mother died, and my father,
but this man lived. Willie was tried for what he had done, and though
all in the countryside were ready to declare that Brownrig had gotten
only what he well deserved, they sentenced the lad to a long year and a
half in the tollbooth, and there he has been all this time. A long time
it has been to me, and it has been longer to him. It is near over now,
thank God."
"And have you never seen him nor heard from him since then?" asked Mrs
Beaton.
"I wrote one letter to him and he wrote one to me. That was at the
first. I wrote to him to tell him what I was going to do, and to warn
him what he must do when his time was over. I dared not write again,
for fear that--and even now I dare not go to him. When we meet it must
be on the other side of the sea. But I _must_ hear from him before
then. He wasna an ill lad, though ye might think it from what I have
told you. He was only foolish and ill advised.
"And think of him all these long days and months alone with his anger
and his shame--him that had ay had a free life in the fields and on the
hills. And there is no one to speak a kind word to him when he comes
out of that weary place--"
"And you would like my John to go and see him?" said Mrs Beaton.
"Oh! if he only would! Think of him alone, without a friend! And he is
easily led either for good or ill."
"Is it likely that he would listen to anything that an utter stranger
would say to him?" said John.
He spoke coldly, as his mother noticed with pain. Allison did not
notice it.
"But you would not seem like a stranger to him if you came from me. And
anyway, ye wouldna be strangers long. You would like Willie, or you
would be the first one who didna, all his life. And oh! he needs one
wise, and strong, and good like you. The very touch of your hand would
give him hope, and would keep him from losing heart--and, it might be,
from losing himself--"
She stood, bending slightly toward him, her eyes, which in spite of his
will and his reason had all these months haunted him by night and by
day, looking into his. She stood in utter unconsciousness of herself or
of him, save as one whose strength might help the weakness of another
who was in sore need. No spoken words could have made clearer to him
that he--John Beaton--was not in all her thoughts, save as a possible
friend to the unknown criminal, who, doubtless, had well deserved his
fate.
And to think of the life which lay before this woman, with this weak
fool to share it--a woman among ten thousand!
"She will need strength for two, and her love will give it to her,"
thought John, a dull pain at his heart with which some self-contempt was
mingled. But it was no time to consider himself with Allison's eyes on
his face.
"I could trust him to you," said Allison, trying to smile, "because ye
have a kind heart, though folk say ye're a wee hard whiles. But I ken
what you have been to the lads at the manse to win them, and to warn
them, and to keep them out of _mischief_. It would be the saving o' my
Willie if you would but take him in hand."
"I would gladly help him, or any one in trouble," said John, "but how
could I do it in secret?"
"But you needna do it in secret. It's not Willie that needs to hide.
When the prison-door opens to him he will be free to go where he likes--
to his own house, and his own land, to bide there at his pleasure. But
he will have a sore heart in going to a desolate house. And the thought
of going alone to a far-off land will dismay him. The help of such a
friend as you is what he needs, though it may seem a strange thing in me
to ask it from you."
"You have a right to all the help that I can give you, as has any one in
trouble. But why should you not go to him yourself?"
"But that is what I cannot tell you. I would never be suffered to go
with him if I were to be found. I have been asking you to help my
Willie, but indeed it is myself that you will help most. I cannot go
with him for both our sakes, but I will follow him. He will be watched
through every step of the Way, and I would be brought back again from
the ends of the earth. And then," added Allison her face falling into
the gloom of which John had seen but little, but which his mother had
seen often during the first days of their acquaintance, "then I should
just lie down and die."
John made a sudden, impatient movement, and then he said:
"And what am I to say to this man from you?"
"Willie his name is--Willie Bain," said Allison, smiling faintly. "Oh!
ye'll ken what to say to him when ye see him. And ye are not to let him
know that ye are sent from me till ye are sure of him. He is a lad who
is moved by the first thought that comes, and his first thought when he
hears of me will be to try to see me. And he must not try," repeated
she, "for he will be watched, and then we will be parted forever."
There was a pause, and then John said:
"I will go to him, at any rate, and do what I can. I will faithfully
help him, if he will let me--so help me God."
"I'm not feared for him now. You're strong and wise, and you can do
what you like with Willie."
John did not seem to see the hand she held out to him. Allison went on:
"When he speaks of me, as he'll be sure to do, just hear him and say
nothing till you are sure that he'll listen to reason--till he promises
not to try to see me, but to have patience and wait. I can trust him to
you, John Beaton, and I must go now."
He could not this time refuse to see the hand she held out to him. He
took it in his and held it fast, while she looked at him with eyes full
of light and longing. "John," said she softly, "ye'll mind what is said
in the Book: `I was in prison and ye came unto me.'" And then she
turned to go.
It must be owned that was a sore moment to John Beaton. He neither
spoke nor moved while she stood thus, nor when she bent down, kissed his
mother's hand, and then without a word went away. For a time, which he
did not measure, but which seemed long to his mother, he stood leaning
on the back of her chair. His face was hidden in his hands, but happily
she did not know that, and she waited till the first word should be
spoken by him. In a little he "pulled himself together," and came
forward into the light, which was but dim at the best. He snuffed the
solitary candle, and then fell to stirring the fire, which, never very
large, was in danger of disappearing under his hand. He added a dry
peat, however, and it soon blazed up again.
"Yon's a strange story, mother," he said at last. "I hardly see the
good of my meddling in it. I suppose I must go and see the man,
anyway."
"Yes, ye canna do less than that," said his mother. "I'll do more.
I'll do my best to help one who seems much in need of help, but I cannot
say that I am very hopeful as to what may come of it."
"Ye'll see when ye go what can be done. Poor lassie. Her heart is in
it."
"Yes," said John, "her heart is in it." And then they sat silent till
another knock came at the door.
It was Robin Hume this time, who had been sent to ask for Mrs Beaton,
who had not been at the kirk, and no one had got a chance to speak to
John.
"My mother said I wasna to stay," said Robin. But he came forward into
the room, now bright with firelight, and he stayed a good while, and had
much to say about various matters, and the interest with which John
seemed to listen and respond comforted Mrs Beaton concerning her son.
Of course there was something to be said about the coming winter and its
work, and some other things came in as well. Then there was a little
sparring and laughter between them, which, with a lightened heart, Mrs
Beaton gently reproved, as not suitable for the Sabbath night. Then
Robin rose to go, and John went with him to the door. But he did not
linger there, or go out for a turn in the lane as he sometimes did, and
as his mother thought he would be sure to do. He came in and fell to
mending the fire again "for a last blaze," as he said.
"And, mother, is not it near time that we were beginning to think of the
flitting that is before us?"
"It's early days yet, John," said his mother.
"And you will be loth to leave your little home, mother dear?"
"It has been home to us both, John, and I like the place. But any place
will be home to me where you are, and if you think it wise to go I'll
soon be ready. And so ye have made up your mind to go to the college,
John?"
"I am not sure yet, but it is likely. Whether I do or not, I must be in
Aberdeen all the winter, and I will be happier and safer in my mother's
house than anywhere else. But I am sorry to disturb you, mother. Ye
have got used with the place and are happy here."
"I can be happy anywhere where it is wise and right for you to be. But
it is only August yet, and there is time enough to think about it."
"Yes, there is no hurry. But there are arrangements to be made. And
mother I have been thinking, how would it do for us to have Robin with
us for the winter? It would be a satisfaction to his father and mother,
and a safeguard to him."
"Surely, if you wish it. It will make a difference, but only a cheerful
difference. And it is a small thing to do for them who have been ay so
friendly."
"Well, that is settled then, and I will look out for rooms, or for a wee
house--that will be better wouldna it, mother dear?"
He did not need to ask. Anything that would please him would please his
mother also. But she was not so cheerful and eager about this as she
generally was about new plans and arrangements, John thought, and after
a little they fell into silence.
John woke his mother out of her morning sleep when he came to bid her
good-bye. She had only a single word to say to him:
"Dinna be long in coming home again, John," said she. And he promised
that he would not be long.
He kept his promise, coming even sooner than he was expected, and when
his mother saw his face she was glad. For there was on it no sign of
either gloom or grieving. It was John, "at his best and bonniest," she
said to herself with a glad heart, as he sat for a little while beside
her bed, for his coming was late, as usual. She asked no questions. It
was well with him, that was enough for her. As he rose to go, she said:
"I hope you have good news for Allison Bain." Then John sat down again.
There was not much to tell. John had not seen the man himself. He had
been set at liberty before his time was out. As to what sort of a man
he was, John had been told that after a month or two, when he had been
first wild with anger and shame, and then sullen and indifferent, a
change had come over him. A friend had come to visit him more than
once, and had encouraged him to bear his trouble patiently, and had
given him hope. But he had never spoken about himself or his affairs to
any one else. The chances were he had gone home to his own place; but
nothing, which his informant could repeat, had been heard from him since
he went away.
"Poor Allison Bain!" said Mrs Beaton with a sigh.
"Surely it will be good news to her that he has been free all the summer
days, and in his own house," said John.
"Yes, but of her he can ken nothing. And he must go to America, if he
should go, with only a vague hope of some time seeing her on the other
side of the sea. And she kens his weak will, and must fear for him.
She will likely be here in the Sabbath gloaming to hear what ye have to
tell."
But it was otherwise ordered. John rose early, as was his custom,
intent on getting all the good from the country air which could be got
in a single day. It was a fair morning, clear and still. Only a
pleasant sound of birds and breeze was to be heard. There was no one
visible in the street. Most of the tired workers of the place were wont
to honour the day of rest by "a lang lie in the mornin'," and the doors
and windows of the houses were still closed. While he stood hesitating
as to the direction he should take, out of the manse close sedately and
slowly walked Fleckie and her companions, each dragging the long chain
by which she was to be tethered; and after them limped cripple Sandy,
whose Sunday duty at all times it was to see them safely afield.
John did not quicken his steps to overtake him, as he had now and then
done at such times, for the sake of getting the news of all that had
happened while he was away. He turned and went down the green, and
round by the lane and the high hedge which sheltered the manse garden,
and giving himself no time to hesitate as to the wisdom of his
intention, stopped at last at one of the doors of the long, low
outbuildings of the manse. He had been in the place before with the
lads, and knew it well. There was no one there; but the foaming
milk-buckets indicated that some one would be there soon, and he waited.
He did not wait long. A light step came quickly over the round stones
of the causey, and Allison entered, carrying the great earthen
milk-dishes in her arms. It was a dark little place, and she had set
them safely down before she saw the intruder. Then she did not utter a
word, but stood looking at him with all her heart in her eyes. John
held out his hand and took hers in a firm clasp, and "like a fool," as
he told himself afterward, said that which it had never come into his
mind to say until he saw her face.
"Allison," said he, with his eyes on hers, "why did you not tell me that
it was your brother for whom your heart was sore?"
Her look changed to one of wonder.
"Surely I told you it was my brother. Who else could it be but my
Willie?"
She grew pale, and would have withdrawn her hand, but he held it fast.
"I did not see him, but I have good news for you. Your brother has been
a free man for two months and more. It must have been that they
repented of their hard sentence, and when the summer came again he
wearied, and was like to fall sick, and they let him go home. The man I
saw had only good words to say of him. After the first he was patient
and quiet. It was hard on him at first."
"My poor Willie!" said Allison.
"It seems that a friend went to see him in the early summer, a year ago,
and he took heart after that and waited patiently."
"That must have been Mr Hadden," said Allison. "It was kind of him,
and Willie would take hear when he heard that I had gotten safe away."
"You have not heard from your brother since?"
"Oh! no. How could I hear? He does not even know where I am."
"But you will write to him now?"
Allison's face fell.
"I darena do it. No letter can reach him but may first pass through our
enemy's hand. He will be on the watch more than ever now. No, it will
be ill waiting, but we can only wait."
"Do you mean that you must wait till you see him in America?" said John
wondering.
"Yes, that must be the way. He will go to Alexander Hadden, and I will
find him there. Yes, it may be a long time," and Allison's eyes filled
with tears. "But now that I have heard that he is free, and that it is
well with him, I can wait. Oh! yes, I can wait."
Allison held out her hand, and John knew it was time to go.
"I havena thanked you yet, but--"
"You have nothing to thank me for yet. If I only could do something for
you!"
"You have done this. You have told me he is free and at his own home.
I have all the summer days grudged myself the sweetness of the light and
the air, because I thought of him sitting in the darkness. And he has
had it all, and now he may be on the sea! It has happened well, and I
take it for a sign that the Lord is on our side."
"And you will not be troubled and anxious any more?"
"I will have hope now. And I thank you in my heart though I havena the
words ready."
And then John went away.
Allison sat in the kirk that day a happy woman. Every one there must
have noticed the change in her looks, only she sat in the end of the
seat near the door, and the little porch hid her from a good many of the
folk, and the side of her big bonnet was mostly turned toward the rest.
Little Marjorie saw her happy look, and raised herself up to ask her
what she was thinking about that made her look so glad. Allison was
thinking that her Willie might be sitting in the kirk at home listening
to Dr Hadden's kind, familiar voice, and that in the afternoon he might
be walking over his own land with Uncle Sandy, to see the sheep and get
the air of the hills. She bowed her head and whispered softly, "Whisht,
my lammie"; but she "smiled with her een," as Marjorie told her mother
afterward, and the child was content.