"The very rod,
If we but kiss it as the stroke descendeth,
Distilleth oil to allay the inflicted smart."
And so their new life began, and long before the first month was over,
Mrs Beaton was apparently as content with the state of affairs as could
well be desired. She had no trouble as to household matters, and sat
with her book or her needle at one side of the table, while her son sat
with his books and his papers at the other side, very much as they had
done during those evenings which John had spent at home in Nethermuir.
Robert Hume lived in the same house, and their meals were served
together. But Robert pursued his college work in his own room, and only
came as a visitor to Mrs Beaton's parlour when his books were put
aside. John still spent several hours daily in Mr Swinton's office,
and all the rest of the time he was busy also with his college work. To
see her son content, was enough for Mrs Beaton.
To give the history of one day would be giving the history of nearly all
the days of the winter, except as the Sabbath made a break among them,
Robin was reasonably industrious, but he could not be expected to
satisfy himself with the unbroken routine into which John readily fell.
He had his own companions and his amusements, and their meals were
enlivened by his cheerful accounts of all that was happening in the
world around them. At his books Robert did fairly well, but he was not
likely to overwork himself.
They heard often from Marjorie by the way of the manse, and several
times during the winter a little letter came to Robin or to John,
written with great care and pains by her own hand. She was very happy,
she said, and she had not forgotten them; and by and by she hoped to be
able to tell them that she was growing strong and well.
Twice or thrice during the winter Brownrig made his appearance at the
office of Mr Swinton. He had, each time, something to say about
business, but apparently the laird had changed his mind about the
building of the new wing, for nothing more was to be done for the
present.
John could not help thinking that his chief reason for coming there was
to see him, in the hope that he might hear something about William Bain.
More than once he brought his name into their talk, asking if Mr
Beaton had heard anything of him, and hoping that he was doing well. On
his second visit, meeting John in the street, he turned and walked with
him, and told him that one of the lads who had sailed with Bain had been
heard from by his friends. The ship had been disabled in a storm before
they were half-way over, and had gone far out of her course, but had got
safely into a southern port at last.
The passengers had gone their several ways probably, and lost sight of
one another, for this lad could tell nothing of Bain, though he had
himself safely reached the town where Mr Hadden, the minister's son,
lived, and to which Bain had also intended to go. "I thought perhaps
you or your friend might have had some word from him, as you had taken
some trouble to help him," said Brownrig.
"No, that is not at all likely," said John, "at least as far as I am
concerned. Neither likely nor possible. He never saw me, nor I him.
He never, to my knowledge, heard my name, and it was only by chance that
I ever heard his. But I will give you the name of the man who used to
go to the tollbooth on Sunday afternoons. It is just possible, though
not very likely, that he may have heard from him."
John wrote the name and address, and gave it to him.
"Have you been at the shipping office for news?" said he.
Yes, Brownrig had been there, and had been told that the ship was
refitting in the American port, and would soon be home, but that, was
all he had heard. Whenever it was possible to do so, John kept out of
the man's way. He had spoken to him nothing but the truth, yet he could
not help feeling like a deceiver. And though he told himself that he
was ready to lie to Brownrig, rather than say anything that might give
him a clue by which the hiding-place of Allison Bain might be
discovered, still lying could not be easy work to unaccustomed lips, and
he said to himself, "the less of it the better." So he did not
encourage Brownrig when they met, and he kept out of his way whenever it
was possible for him to do so. But he pitied the man. He was sorry for
the misery for which there could be no help, since Allison Bain feared
him, even if she did not hate him. He pitied him, but he could not help
him to gain his end. Whether it were right or whether it were wrong, it
was all the same to John. He could not betray to her enemy the woman
who had trusted her cause in his hands.
But while he pitied him, Brownrig's persistence in seeking him irritated
him almost beyond his power to endure. And the worst of it to John was,
that he could not put it all out of his thoughts when Brownrig had
turned his back upon the town, and had gone to his own place.
He grew restless and irritable. He could not forget himself in his work
as he had been able to do at first, nor fix his attention upon it at
all, at times. He read the same page over and over again, and knew not
what he read; or he sat for many minutes together, without turning a
leaf, as his mother sometimes saw, with much misgiving as to how it was
all to end. And when it came to this with him, it was time for her to
speak.
"John, my lad," she said suddenly one night, and in her voice was the
mother's sharpness which is so delightful to hear and so effectual when
it is heard only at long intervals; "John, my lad, shut your book and
put on your coat, and take Robin with you for a run on the sands, and
then go to your bed."
John's dazed eyes met hers for a moment. Then he laughed and rose,
yawning and stretching his arms above his head.
"You are right, mother, as you always are. We'll away to the links;"
and his cheerful voice calling up-stairs for Robin to come down at once,
was music to the ears of his mother.
"There's not much wrong with him," she said to herself hopefully.
"He'll win through, and begin again, when once he is fairly free."
She meant that when "those weary examinations" were all over, he would
have time to rest and come to himself, and be ready for his work,
whatever it was to be. And--hopeful old mother that she was--she meant
more than that. She meant, that before this son of hers, who was wiser
and stronger and better than the sons of most mothers, lay a fair
future. "The world was all before him where to choose." He would only
be the stronger for the weight of the burden which had fallen so early
on his young shoulders. In time he would forget his dream, outlive his
disappointment, and be not the worse, but the better for the discipline.
He would go his way and serve his Master, and win honour among good
men. "And I'll bide at home and hear of him whiles, and be content,"
said the anxious, happy mother, with tears in her loving eyes.
In the meantime John was on the sands, facing the wind, which drowned
his voice as he sang:
"Will I like a fule, quo' he,
For a haughty hizzie dee?"
But it was not the wind which silenced his song, for Allison Bain was no
"haughty hizzie" of the sort, "Who frown to lead a lover on," but a sad
and solitary woman, who might have a sorrowful life before her.
"To whom may the Lord be kind!" said John, with a softened heart. "I
love her, and it is no sin to love her, since I may never see her face
again."
And many more thoughts he had which might not so well bear the telling;
and all the time Robin was bawling into his inattentive ears an account
of a battle of words which had taken place between two of his friends,
who had agreed, since neither would acknowledge defeat, to make him
umpire to decide between them.
When they, turned their backs to the wind and their faces homeward,
hearing and answering became possible. They had the matter decided to
their own satisfaction before they reached the house, and their merry
sparring and laughter, and the evidence they gave of an excellent
appetite when supper-time came, might have been reassuring to Mrs
Beaton, even had she been more anxious than she was about her son.
After that John was more careful of his looks and words and ways, when
in his mother's presence. All tokens of weariness or preoccupation or
depression were kept out of her sight; and, indeed, at all times he felt
the necessity of struggling against the dullness and the indifference to
most things, even to his work, which were growing upon him.
He did his best against it, or he thought he did so. He forced himself
to read as usual, and when he "could make nothing of it," he took long
walks in all weathers, so as to keep his "helplessness" out of his
mother's sight, believing that when the necessity for exertion should be
over--when he could get out of the groove into which it would have
perhaps been better that he had never put himself, all would be as it
had been before. And said he grimly:
"If the worse comes to the worst, I can but fall to breaking stones
again."
It ended, as it generally does end, when a man sets himself to do the
work of two men, or to do in six months the work of twelve, in order to
gratify a vain ambition, or to lighten a heavy heart. It took no more
than a slight cold, so it was thought to be at first, to bring the
struggle to an end, and the work of the winter.
There was a night or two of feverish restlessness, of "tossing to and
fro until the dawning of the day," a day or two of effort to seem well,
and to do his work as usual, and then Doctor Fleming was sent for. It
cannot be said that there ever came a day when the doctor could not,
with a good conscience, say to John's mother, that he did not think her
son was going to die; but he was very ill, and he was long ill. The
college halls were closed, and all the college lads had gone to their
homes before John was able, leaning on Robert's arm, to walk to the
corner of the street; and it may be truly said, that the worst time of
all came to him after that.
He had no strength for exertion of any kind; and worse than that, he had
no motive, and in his weakness he was most miserable. It was a change
he needed, they all knew, and when the days began to grow long and warm,
something was said about returning to Nethermuir for a while.
"To Nethermuir, and the lanes where Allison used to go up and down with
little Marjorie in her arms, to the kirk where she used to sit; to the
hills which hid the spot where his eyes first lighted on her!"
No, John could not go there. He had got to the very depths of weakness
when it came to that with him--and of self-contempt.
"There is no haste about it, mother," said he. "The garden? Yes, but I
could do nothing in it yet. Let us bide where we are for a little."
Robert, who had refused to leave while John needed him, went home now,
and Mr Hume came in for a day. Robert had "had his own thoughts" for a
good while, indeed ever since the day when John had gone to his morning
walk without him; but Robert had been discreet, and had kept his
thoughts to himself for the most part. During John's illness the lad
had been about his bed by night and by day, and he had now and then
heard words which moved him greatly--broken words unconsciously
uttered--by turns angry, entreating, despairing. Foolish words they
often were, but they brought tears to Robin's "unaccustomed eyes," and
they turned his thoughts where, indeed, all true and deep feeling turned
them, toward his mother.
Not that he had the slightest intention of betraying his friend's
weakness to her. How it came about he did not know--it had already
happened more than once in his experience--before he was aware the words
were uttered.
They were going together, by special invitation from Delvie, to see the
tulips in the Firhill garden. They went slowly and rested on the way,
not that they were tired, but because the day was warm and the air
sweet, and the whole land rejoicing in the joy of the coming summer; and
as they sat in the pleasant gloom which the young firs made, looking out
on the shadows of the clouds on the fields beyond, it came into Robin's
mind that there could be no better time than this to tell his mother
some things which "by rights" ought never to have happened, but which,
since they had happened, his mother ought to know. They should never
happen again, he said to himself, and he swore it in his heart, when he
saw her kind eyes sadden and her dear face grow grave as he went on.
Then when she had "said her say," and all was clear between them again,
he began to speak about John Beaton; and before he was aware, he was
telling her what he knew, and what he guessed of the trouble through
which his friend was passing; then he hung his head.
"I never meant to speak about it," said he. "It is only to your mother,
Robin. And I have had my own thoughts, too. Oh! yes, many of them. I
am sorry for John, but he needed the discipline, or it would not have
been sent, and he'll be all the wiser for the lesson."
But there was no comfort in that for Robin. "It is like betraying him,
mother," said he. And when it was one night made known in the house
that his father was going to Aberdeen, and that his chief reason for
going was to see how it was with John Beaton, Robin's eyes sought those
of his mother in doubtful appeal. His mother only smiled. "Cannot you
trust your father, Robin?" said she. "I canna trust myself, it seems,"
said Robin. "There's no harm done yet, my lad. You need not fear that
ill will come from speaking your secret thoughts to your mother."
"But other folk's secret thoughts?" said Robin.
No ill came of it this time. Of course Mrs Hume had told her husband
of Robert's words, and of some thoughts of her own, which she had kept
to herself hitherto. Her husband's first idea was that it was a pity
that she should not have a chance of a few words with John. But that
was not her idea; and, besides, it was not possible, for various
reasons.
"He needs a kind word from some one, but not from me. I am not well
pleased with John at present. And it would hardly be wise to give him
`a piece of my mind,' now that he is down-hearted. It is you who must
go."
It must be remembered that at this time Mrs Hume did not know all that
was to be known of John and his troubles. As for the minister, he was
scarcely as much moved as his wife thought he ought to have been by the
tale she had told.
"There is no fear of him, if that is all that ails him," said he.
Still he loved John and longed to help him, and a visit might do both
him and his mother good. So he made up his mind to go and see them
without loss of time.
It all happened well, though it happened without forethought or planning
on his part or on theirs. They rejoiced at his coming. "You have done
him good already," Mrs Beaton's eyes said to the minister, when she
came in and found them together. John sat erect and cheerful, taking
his part in the conversation, and though after a little he grew weary
and bent his head on his hand as the talk went on, he was more like
himself than he had been yet, his mother told the minister, when she
went to the door with him, as he was going away. Though he had already
said good-night to John, he turned back to say it once more.
"I am afraid I have wearied you, lad," said he; "and you were weary
enough before I came--weary of time and place, and of the words and ways
of other folk, and of your own thoughts. I would like well to have the
guiding of you for the next month, and I have but a day. Will you put
yourself into my hands, John, for one day?"
"Ay, that I will, and for as many as you like."
"We'll take one day of it first, if to-morrow be fair."
The day was all that could be desired; clear, but with clouds now and
then, moving before the breeze, to make shadows for their delight, upon
land and sea.
They took a boat at the wharf and sailed away toward the north, having a
mutual friend--"auld Boatie Tamson"--for captain and pilot and crew.
There was health in the smell of the sea, strength in every breath of
the salt air, and rest and peace alike in their talk and in their
silence, and all went well.
After a time, when they had left the town far behind them, they turned
landward to a place which Mr Hume had known in the days of his youth,
and which he had sought with pleasure, more than once since then. Auld
Boatie knew it also, and took them safely into the little cove which was
floored with shining sands, and sheltered on three sides by great rocks,
on which the sea birds came to rest; on the other side it was open to
the sea. Here he left them for the day.
They had not many appliances for the comfort of the invalid, but they
had all that were needed. A pillow and a plaid spread on the sand made
his bed, and another plaid covered him when the wind came fresh. In the
unexplored basket which Mrs Beaton had provided they had perfect faith
for future needs, and so they rested and looked out upon the sea.
They had not much to say to one another at first. Mr Hume had brought
a book in his pocket, from which he read a page now and then, sometimes
to himself and sometimes to his friend; and as John lay and listened,
looking away to the place where the sky and ocean met, he fell asleep,
and had an hour and more of perfect repose.
How it came about, I cannot tell, but when he opened his eyes to meet
the grave, kind eyes of the minister, looking down upon him, there came
to him an utter softening of the heart--a longing unspeakable for the
rest and peace which comes with the sympathy, be it voiced or silent, of
one who is pitiful and who understands.
The minister put forth his hand and touched the hand of his friend.
"You have been at hard and weary work of late, John, or shall I say, you
have been fighting a battle with a strong foe? and it has gone ill with
you."
John had no words with which to answer him. His lips trembled and the
tears rose to his eyes.
That was the beginning. They had enough to say to one another after a
little time; but not a word of it all is to be written down. Of some
things that passed between them neither ever spoke to the other again.
Before all was said, John "had made a clean breast of it" to the
minister, and had proved in his experience, that "faithful are the
wounds of a friend," and that "a brother is born for adversity." They
had been friends before that day. Thenceforth they were brothers by a
stronger tie than that of blood.
When John was brought home to his mother that night, she could not but
be doubtful of the good which their day had done him. But he was rested
and cheerful in the morning, and she was not doubtful long. As time
passed, she could not but see that he was less impatient of his weakness
and his enforced idleness; that he was at peace with himself, as he had
not been for many a day, and that he was looking forward to renewed
strength with a firmer purpose and a more hopeful heart.