"And so, taking heart, he sailed
Westward, 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 the _Griffin_, 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 the
_Griffin_. 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?"
John _thought_ he "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."