"God be with thee,
Else alone thou goest forth,
Thy face unto the north."
Before he went away on the morning after they had heard the story which
Crombie had to tell, John Beaton had said to his mother:
"If Allison Bain seems anxious or restless, you must find some way of
letting her know that she has nothing to fear from the old man. He will
say nothing to harm her."
But he did not tell her that he had already heard the story of Allison's
marriage from her own lips. And not knowing this, after considering the
matter, his mother decided to say nothing, believing that it would not
be well for Allison's peace of mind to know that the sad story of her
life had been told to them.
And even if she had wished to do so, it would not have been easy to find
a chance to speak. For Allison was shy of Mrs Beaton at this time, and
went no more to see her in the gloaming, as she had sometimes done of
late, and was not at ease with her when they met.
For she said to herself, that Mrs Beaton might know, or might suspect
that her son had of late been giving too many of his thoughts to one of
whom they knew nothing; and though she was not to blame, Mrs Beaton
might still blame her for her son's folly.
Allison was indeed troubled. Since the night on which Crombie had so
startled her, she had never been quite at rest. She had striven to be
reasonable and to put away her fears; but there never came a step to the
door, that she did not pause from her work to listen for the words that
might be spoken. She looked on every unfamiliar face that came into the
kirk, or that she passed on the street or in the lanes, with a momentary
terror, lest she should meet the eyes of one whom her enemy had sent in
search of her.
She had said to herself many times, "I will wait quietly. I will stay
where I am, and I will not yield to my fears."
But when Mrs Esselmont spoke to her, and a way of escape appeared, she
knew that she had been sore afraid, and that she could not long have
borne the strain which had been upon her.
"Six days!" she said to herself, as she came down from Firhill that
night, in the darkness. "Only six days and nights, and I shall be away,
and safe for a year at least; and then!--but I will not look beyond the
year. I will care for the child, and be at peace."
As for John, he had written to his mother that he was to be sent north
on business that might keep him there some days. He did not tell where
he was going, and she did not hear again for a good while after that.
When he did write he said nothing about his journey or its results, as
he was usually in the way of doing, and he said nothing about coming
home. His mother's heart was sore for her son. No word concerning
Allison Bain had passed between them, but she knew that his heart had
gone from him and that he must suffer for a time.
"But he'll win through," she said, hopefully, to herself, "as other men
have won through the same trouble in all the generations of men, since
ever the world began; and may he be the wiser and the better for the
pain! He will be sorry not to see her again," added she, with a sigh.
So she wrote a letter telling him, among other things, that wee Marjorie
was to be sent away with Mrs Esselmont for the good of her health; that
she was likely to be away a year at least. She said some hopeful words
as to the benefit the child might receive, and then she added: "It is
Allison Bain who is to have the care of her." Of Allison herself she
only said that she was one to be trusted, and that the child would be
happy in her care. But to this there came no word in reply.
On the last day at home Marjorie was carried down the street by Jack,
that she might say good-bye to Mrs Beaton and the schoolmistress, and
the neighbours generally. Jack had been warned by his mother that if
there should be any signs of weariness or excitement, there must be no
lingering. The child must be brought home at once. But Marjorie took
it all very quietly.
"Yes, I'm going away. Yes, I'm sorry, and I'm glad, but I'm not afraid,
because our Allison is going with me. Oh! yes, I'm glad. I'm going to
see new things and places--me that was never ten miles away from home in
all my life! And I'm going to come home strong and well, like the other
bairns to help my mother and them all. And my mother has my sister now
to take my place. It's my father that I'm sorriest for. But I'll come
home strong and well, and then he'll be glad that he let me go."
She said the same to the bairns who lingered on their way home from the
school to speak to her as they passed. She was coming home again well
and strong, and she would be happy, having Allison all to herself; and
though she was sorry to leave them, she was not afraid.
Allison had no formal leave-takings. She had been very busy all day,
and came down-stairs after seeing Marjorie quietly asleep, doubtful
whether she should go to say good-bye to Mrs Beaton and the
schoolmistress or not. The question was decided for her.
"Allison," said Mrs Hume, as she passed the parlour-door, "I think it
would be but kind to ask Mrs Beaton if she has any message to send to
her son. You could leave it with Robin if you should not chance to see
him yourself in the town. Are you very tired?"
"I am not so very tired. Yes, I will go now," said Allison.
So she turned down the lane and went round by the green, as she had gone
so many times before, not without some troubled thoughts of her own.
She found Mrs Beaton sitting alone in the firelight.
"Come away in, Allison. I have been expecting you," said she.
Allison sat down at her bidding, and gave Mrs Hume's message.
"I hope you may see him. But I have nothing to say or to send. He will
be home soon. And you are glad to be going, Allison, for the sake of
the child?"
"Yes, I am glad to be going."
"But you are not sorry that you came here? You have been content?"
"No. I had to go away from home. I am not sorry I came here.
Everybody at the manse has been kind."
"And you have been good to them and to me. I am glad to have kenned
you, Allison Bain," but Mrs Beaton sighed as she said it.
What could Allison answer? Indeed, what was to be said between these
two? Nothing, unless all might be said. A word might have broken the
spell of silence between them, but the word was not spoken.
"It would make her unhappy to know that her secret had been told to us,"
thought Mrs Beaton. And Allison thought: "His mother would be grieved,
if she knew all; and she never need know. He will forget me when I am
gone away."
And so, after a few quiet words about other matters, they said
"good-bye" to one another. Allison lingered a moment, looking down with
wistful eyes on the gentle old face of her friend.
"Have you anything to say to me, Allison Bain?"
But Allison shook her head. "Nothing that it would please you to hear;
and it is all over now, and I am going away."
"Yes, you are going away. I may not be here when you come back again,
and I must say one thing to you. I trust you, Allison Bain. I believe
you to be good and true, whatever trouble may have come into your life
by the ill-doing of others. May the Lord have you in His keeping, and
bring you safe through all trouble `into a large place.' Kiss me, my
dear."
Allison stooped and kissed her, and went away without a word. As she
turned from the door a hand was laid upon her arm, and a voice said:
"Is it you, Allison Bain? I would like a word wi' ye. I'll no' keep ye
lang."
Allison was tired and sad at heart, and she longed to be alone. She
could not but yield, however, to the entreating voice of the mistress,
and she crossed the street to her door. The lamp was lighted, and a
small, bright fire burned on the hearth, and one of the chairs had been
taken down from the high dresser for the expected visitor.
"Sit ye doon, Allison," said the schoolmistress. "I saw ye when ye gaed
into Mistress Beaton's, and I waited for you, but I winna keep ye lang.
And ye're going farawa'? Are ye glad to go? And are ye ever comin'
back again?"
"I must come back with Marjorie. Whatever happens, I must bring home
the child to her father and her mother," said Allison, gravely.
"Ay, ye must do that, as ye say, whatever should happen. And may
naething but gude befall ye. I'll miss ye sairly; ye hae been a great
divert to me, you and the minister's bairn thegither--especially since
the cloud lifted, and ither things happened, and ye began to tak' heart
again. Do ye mind the `Stanin Stanes' yon day, and a' the bairns, and
John Beaton wi his baps? Oh! ay. I'll miss ye mair than ye ken."
The old woman sat for a time looking in silence at Allison, then she
said:
"Eh! woman! It's weel to be the like o' you! Ye're young, and ye're
strong, and ye're bonny; and ye hae sense and discretion, and folk like
ye. It's nae ance in a thousand times that a' these things come to a
woman thegither. Ye mind me o' mysel' when I was young. I had a' that
ye hae, except the sense and discretion. But that's neither here nor
there, at this late day," added she, rising.
Allison sat watching her as she took a key from its hiding-place and
opening the big chest in the corner, searched in it for a while. When
the old woman raised herself up and turned toward Allison again, there
lay on the palm of her hand a gold ring. It was large and massive, and
had evidently been rubbed and polished lately, for it shone bright in
the light as she held it up to the lamp.
"Look ye at it," said the mistress. "Until this day I have never, for
forty years and mair, set e'en upon it. I hae been twice marriet--
though folk here ken naething about that--and this was my first marriage
ring. It was my mother's before me, and her mother's before her. It
held a charm, they said, to bring happy days, but it brought none to
me--he died within the year. The charm was broken, maybe, because I was
a wilfu' lassie--an undutifu' daughter. But it may work again wi' you.
Take it, and put it on your finger."
But Allison refused it, and put her hands behind her.
"And what for no'? It's my ain to give or to keep as I like. Ye needna
be feared," said Mistress Jamieson, with offence. "But why should ye
wish to give it to me?"
"Because I hae naebody else to gi'e it to. There's not, to my
knowledge, one living that ever belonged to me. I may be dead before ye
come back again. And I like ye, Allison Bain. And the ring may keep
evil from ye, if ye wear it on your hand."
Allison looked anxiously into the old woman's eager face. What did she
mean? Why did she offer to her a marriage ring? Did she know more than
others knew about her? Was a new danger coming upon her? She must not
anger her, at any rate. So when the old woman took her hand again she
did not resist.
"There is the charm written on the inside of it, `Let love abyde till
death devyde.' Ye'll see it by the daylicht."
But the ring was far too large for Allison's finger. It slipped from it
and fell to the ground.
"Eh! me! is that an ill sign, think ye?" said the mistress.
"It is a sign that your grandmother was a bigger woman than me," said
Allison with an uncertain smile. "It is very kind of you, Mistress
Jamieson, to think of giving it to me, but--"
"It's a pity. But it's yours. On your hand it would hae keepit awa'
evil. Ye must put it on a ribbon and hang it roun' ye're neck, and it
may do the same. It will keep ye in mind yoursel', if it minds naebody
else."
Allison gazed at her with eyes full of trouble. But in the face so
deeply marked with the cares and sorrows and discontents of many years,
she saw nothing to awaken distrust or fear. There were tears in the
pale, sunken eyes, and the tremulous movement of the lips told only of
kindly interest. Whatever she knew or suspected, Allison felt that the
old woman did not mean her harm.
"Why should you be so kind to me--a stranger?" said she gently.
"I hardly ken mysel', except that I wish ye weel. And then ye mind me
o' my ain youth, partly that ye're sae like what I once was, and partly
that ye are sae different. I can see _now_ where I gaed wrang. And ye
hae your life afore ye. Hae patience, and make the best of it that ye
may."
"I'll try," said Allison humbly. And so they parted.
Allison got a glimpse of the grim old face among those who were standing
about the door to see them set off in the morning. And she never saw it
more. Before Allison came back to Nethermuir again the schoolmistress
was done with her toils, and troubles, and discontents, and was at rest.
And Allison never knew what the old woman might have known or guessed
of her life before she came to the manse.
There were a good many others there to see the travellers away.
Marjorie was in the "gig" with her father and mother, who were to take
her to join Mrs Esselmont at Firhill, so her time for tears was not
come, nor was theirs. The child looked round on the faces of her
friends and smiled and nodded, and was sorry, and glad, at the same
time, but she was not, as she had told them, in the least afraid of what
might be before her.
The same might be said of her father and mother--with a difference.
They were glad, and they were sorry, and the mother was a little
fainthearted for them both at the thought of the long days, that lay
before them. But they were not afraid. They trusted their child in the
Good Hand which had "led them all their life long until now," and they
had confidence in Allison Bain.
Allison herself wondered a little at their perfect faith in her. The
night before, when worship was over, she had stayed behind the others to
hear a few last words which were yet to be spoken. When the father and
mother had said all they had to say and Allison was at the door to go
away, she paused a minute or two, then coming back again she said
gravely:
"I think if you had known me all my days,--if you had seen all my life
till now,--I think you would still be willing to trust me with your
Marjorie. But I cannot tell you. There is a reason--it is better to
say nothing. Some day, I hope, I may be able to tell you all."
"We can wait till then," said the minister heartily. The child's mother
said the same.
They had trusted her from the first, and any doubts which might have
arisen as to the wisdom of committing their child to the care of one of
whom they really knew very little, were put aside at the remembrance of
all that she had already done for her. The few words which Mrs
Esselmont said to them as to her interview with Allison encouraged them
also, and they, too, agreed with her in thinking that it was as well not
to seek to know more than Allison was willing to reveal.
Allison was glad, and more than glad, to get away. But still when the
travellers reached the last point where a glimpse could be caught of the
valley in which the little town lay, she told herself that thankful as
she was to leave it for a while, she was more thankful still that in her
time of need she had been guided to find a refuge there.