"Let us be content to work--
To do the thing we can, and not presume
To fret because 'tis little."
And it was managed very much to John's satisfaction, and very easily
managed. One morning John hailed an early market-man, returning home
with his empty waggon, and asked him if he would take passengers for a
little way into the country. The man hesitated only for a minute.
"Well, yes, I guess so--just as well as not. Glad of your company,"
said he, after a second glance at John's face, and away they went
together. It paid to have their company their new friend told them, as
he took his leave of them.
"If you think of walking back to town to-night, I guess you've come far
enough," said he, when they came to the top of the hill.
He left them on a little knoll, sheltered by a few great maple-trees,
and having a sloping, stony pasture between it and the lake, and here
they spent the morning. John had a book, and he enjoyed it, while his
patient slept. But he could not quite put away all anxious thoughts,
and he laid it down at last to face them.
What was to be done with this silent lad, who had fallen into his hands?
Since the night of their meeting, he had spoken no word about himself,
except as he had muttered or cried out unconsciously while the fever was
upon him. He had not asked a question or hesitated a moment in letting
John do with him as he would, accepting all help and tendance as quietly
and naturally as they were cheerfully given.
And John liked all this, in a way. But it could not continue. For the
lad's sake something must be said, something must be done.
"He must be made stronger, and put in the way of doing for himself,
before I leave," said John, thinking rather of the lightness of his
purse than of any desire he had to see the country or even to get home
again.
"Yes, we must lose no time," he repeated, and looked up to meet the
lad's eyes fixed on him.
"You have never told me your name," said he gravely.
John laughed.
"Have I not? Well, it is John Beaton. Did you ever hear it before?"
"No, I have never heard it."
"And you have not told me yours. It is rather queer, too. The name is
usually the first exchange made between men meeting as strangers, when
they wish to become friends."
There was no answer to this. "Well?" said John, after a little.
"I have been thinking--I mean I call myself William Leslie."
"And is that your name?" asked John gravely.
"Yes, it is my name. It is not all of my name. But what does it matter
in this new country? My name is nothing to any one."
"But it is something to yourself. I havena a fine name, but it was my
father's before me, and my grandfather's, and I wouldna change it to be
called a lord," said John gravely. "My lad, I hope you have done
nothing to make you afraid or ashamed to own your name?"
"I have done nothing that I wouldna do again, ten times over, if it
would give me my revenge!" he cried, raising himself up, while his eyes
flashed angrily. "It is not for shame, but for safety that I wish to
have my name forgotten, and--for Allie's sake."
He lay down again, and after the anger, the tears came. Then John did
an extraordinary thing. When he stooped to arrange the plaid over his
friend, he kissed him on his lips and on his closed eyelids. Then he
rose and turned his back upon him.
While he stood thus the rain began to fall, the first drops of a summer
shower, which promised to be a heavy one. What was to be done now?
Where were they to find shelter? John ran up the hill to the other side
of the grove and looked northward toward the threatening clouds, and
down over a wide landscape, which even the glooming clouds could not
make otherwise than fair. There were fields of grass and grain
stretching as far as the eye could reach. There were men at work among
the hay, piling high the long wagons, in haste to get it to shelter
before the rain came on. A white farmhouse, half hidden by trees, stood
near, and great barns with doors wide open, waiting for the coming of
the wagons. It did not need a minute for John to take all this in, and
in another he was speeding down the hill and over the meadow with his
friend in his arms, nor did he pause till he had laid him in one of the
barns on a bed of fragrant hay.
"I must go back for the plaid and the basket," said he; and stooping
down, he added gently: "My lad, if any one should ask your name, mind
that you are Willie Bain."
He came back as a great load of hay drew up at the barn door.
"Drive right in under cover, Sam," said the farmer, who followed. "I
expect we'll have to leave it here. We can't unload in time to do much
more. Hurry up and cock up as much of the rest as you can. If it had
only held up another hour!"
The man slid down from the load and made for the field.
"Well how, it begins to look as though it might hold up," soliloquised
the farmer. "I 'most wish I had let him stay. Halloo, Sam!"
But Sam was out of hearing by this time, though he was not making the
greatest possible haste to the field.
"Perhaps I might help you to unload," said John from the dimness of the
barn floor. The farmer did not hesitate a second.
"I don't know who you be, but I expect you are to be trusted to pitch
the hay back as fast as I pitch it down. Go ahead."
John could be trusted, it seemed. The farmer did not succeed in
embarrassing him with the abundance of the great forkfuls which he threw
down into the mow, and the team was backed out into the yard in what the
farmer called "pretty considerable quick time." And then he saw William
Bain sitting with John's plaid about him, on a bundle of hay in the
corner.
"Well! it seems to me that we're goin' to have company," said he.
"We have been enjoying the fresh air up among your trees yonder. But I
was afraid of the rain for the lad, who has been ill of late, so we
ventured to take possession of your barn."
"All right. It's nothing catching he's had, is it? He'd better go
right into the house, hadn't he?"
But Bain preferred to stay where he was, among the hay. John took his
place on the hay-cart, and set out with the farmer to the field.
"Well, I shouldn't wonder if we saved most of it now. It's just
possible--with your help," added he, nodding in a friendly way to John.
As they passed the door of the farmhouse he called out:
"See here, Myra; there's company out there in the south barn. You tell
grandma she'd better have him in, and see to him. There's nothing
catching, you say? Well, the old lady will fix him up, and make him
comfortable; and she'll like nothing better."
The rain "held up" for a while, and the farmer and his two men, with the
help of John, wrought wonders. When, at last, the rain came down in
torrents, the fragrant hay was all safe under cover, and the farmer was
triumphant.
Of course John came to the house with him, and there he found Willie
Bain sitting in a rocking-chair, content and smiling, under the
guardianship of a lovely old woman, whose face told that her pleasure
all her life had been found in pleasing and helping others. It was a
good sight for John to see.
"He'll do now," said he to himself. "He has fallen into good hands. I
only wish I might leave him here for a day or two. It would set him up
again."
"Be you brothers?" said the farmer, as he caught the satisfied look with
which John regarded the lad sitting at his ease among them.
"We are fellow-countrymen," said John, "and that makes brothers of us
here in a strange land."
The evening was one to be remembered by these brothers, who had been
strangers less than a month ago. A good many times in the course of his
life has John told the story of that first evening in Jacob Strong's
house. He has forgotten many things, and times, and places better worth
remembering, perhaps, but he will never forget his first coming into
that long, low room, through whose open windows shone in the afterglow
from the west, when the first heavy shower was over.
There was a wide fireplace, and on high, brass andirons a bright wood
fire was burning. Over it was a mantel-shelf on which were arranged
candlesticks of brass and snuffer-trays, and various other things quaint
and pretty. There was a tall clock in the corner, and a tall
looking-glass between the windows. There was a secretary in another
corner, with a book-case above it, and some pictures on the walls. The
table was laid for tea, and the room and all that was in it was perfect
in neatness. Grandma Strong was there waiting for them, and the
farmer's wife and his "little daughter," as Jacob Strong called a
slender girl of sixteen, who was leaning shyly on her grand mother's
chair. He might well remember it, and his friend also, for it was a
good day for them both which brought them there, and Jacob Strong and
his household proved true friends to them.
Jacob Strong! John told his mother long afterward, that if the Bible
had been searched from end to end to find a good name for a good man,
none better than that could have been found for their new friend. Not
that either of the patriarch's names fitted him exactly. He was not a
"supplanter," and though he was on the right side, as no one who knew
him well would deny or even doubt, yet if one had wished to tell his
character in two words, it would not have been as "a soldier of God"
that one would have described him. But he was in many ways very like
the patriarch, as we see him in the Bible story. He was wise, he was
wily, he was patient. He could bide his time and secure his chance, and
when it came to that, that he had to yield, of to humble himself, to
meet loss, or to dispense beyond what was pleasing to a man who took
reasonable satisfaction in getting and in holding, he could yet do it
without wincing visibly. He was fortunate in being in the hands of two
good women, his mother and his wife, who knew him well, and loved him
well, and who were jealous for his honour before men, and for his
singleness of heart before God.
Of course John's knowledge of his character came later, and by slow
degrees. But even on this first night he was greatly interested in his
talk, which was at once "worldly wise and heavenly simple," as he
afterward heard one of his neighbours say. And Jacob was strong in
nature as in name. He could "hold on." He had paid every dollar which
his farm had originally cost him, by the work of his own hands on other
men's farms. And with the help of his mother first, and then of his
wife, "who each carried a good head on her shoulders," as he told John,
he had made it pay. By and by he added another hundred acres to the
first hundred, and later, when "the Western fever" set in, and people
began to talk about prairie lands, and great wheat farms to be made out
there in the Far West, one of his neighbours sold out to him, and
Jacob's two hundred acres became four.
"And that is about as much as I want to have on my hands, till labour
comes to cost less, which won't be for a spell, as things look now,"
said he.
All this he told to John while a second heavy shower kept him waiting.
Before the rain was over, Willie Bain was at rest for the night, in Mrs
Strong's south chamber. Then John told all that was necessary for them
to know about the lad,--how, though he had known friends of his at home,
he had never seen the lad himself until he had met him by chance on the
lake shore. Finding him alone and ill, he had taken him home and cared
for him. Bain was better now, and would soon be well. Yes, he meant to
stay in the country. As to himself, John could not say whether he would
stay long or not; the chances were he would remain for a time.
Then when the rain seemed over, John rose to go. The folk where they
lived might be troubled about them. He had something to do in the
morning, but in the course of the day he would come back for his friend.
And with many thanks for their kindness to the lad, he took his
departure.
Since William Bain had acknowledged his name, John thought it right that
Mr Hadden should be informed of his arrival in the town, and next
morning he went again to see him, at his place of business. He was a
good deal surprised at the manner in which Mr Hadden received him. It
was not at all as one receives a stranger, he thought, but the reason
was soon made clear to him.
John Beaton was not altogether a stranger to Mr Hadden. His name had
been mentioned in both letters which Allison had written, as one who had
been willing to befriend her brother while he was in prison, and who
wished still to befriend him since he was set free. John told of his
meeting with the lad, of his illness, and his good fortune in falling
into the hands of the kind people out at the farm.
"It must be the Strongs you are speaking of. Certainly he could be in
no better hands, if he still needs to be taken care of. And the longer
he is there, the better it will be for him."
"I would like well to leave him there for a while, if they were willing
to keep him. I will see how things look when I go out for him
to-night."
Of his own affairs or intentions John said nothing. He spent the rest
of the morning in looking about him, in order to ascertain what sort of
work there was to be done in the town, to which he might put his hand
with a hope of success. There was building going on, and he came at
last to a wide yard, where stone-cutting was done, and he said to
himself, that if they would but give him a chance, he would fall to, and
do his best for a while at least.
But he did not go to inquire at once. He stood thinking of the day when
he first tried his hand on the granite of Aberdeen, and earned his
shilling before he laid the hammer down again.
"I might have done better, but then I might have done worse," he
admitted with not unreasonable satisfaction. "And if I take it up
again, it need not be `for a continuance,' as auld Crombie would say. I
must see the lad fairly set to honest work, and then I may go my way."
He offered himself at the place, and was taken on at once. His wages
were to be decided upon when his first day's work should be done, and it
need not be said that his wages were of the best.
When he went to the Strong farm that night, he found that Mr Hadden had
been there before him. Willie Bain's first word to him was:
"Why did you never tell me that ye had seen our Allie?"
"Do ye no' mind that, till last night you never told me your name? How
was I to ken?" added John, as Willie hung his head. "I did ken you as
soon as ever I saw your face. Yes, I have seen your sister. She is
safe where she is. No evil hand can touch her, and in a while she is
coming out here to you."
Poor Willie Bain was but weak yet, and the tears were running down his
cheeks, while John told him in few words what his sister had been doing,
how she had won the respect of all who had known her, and how she had
now gone away from Scotland with a good friend, but was looking forward
to the time when she might join her brother, so that they might have
again a home together.
"And, Willie, my lad," added John, gravely, "if I had a sister like
yours, I would make a man of myself for her sake."
"You are a man already," said Willie, with a sound which might have been
either a laugh or a sob. "As for me--yes, I ken I havena been taking
right care of myself for a while. I fell into ill hands down yonder.
But now I have you, and I _will_ be a man for Allie's sake."
There had been tokens visible of the fact that the young man had not
been "taking care of himself," but John had spoken no word which
betrayed his knowledge.
They were in the garden at this time, sitting in a wide, green walk,
between high rows of currant-bushes, a great apple-tree making a
grateful shade around them. By and by they rose and walked up and down,
John lending his strength to help his friend's weakness; and he asked:
"Would you not like to stay here a little while?"
"Till I get my strength back again? Yes, I would like it well. I mean
sometime to have land of my own, and could begin to learn here the new
ways that are needed in a new country. Yes, I would like well to bide
here for a while."
He spoke eagerly and hopefully.
"I wish Allie were here. There would be no fear then," said Willie,
looking up at John with Allie's wistful eyes.
"She cannot come for a time. It is likely that she might be sought for
here--in Mr Hadden's neighbourhood, I mean. But, Willie man, I think
it is as well that she should not come just now, even for your sake. It
_is you who_ would be _looking_ up to her, because she is wiser than
you, and maybe stronger. She would lead, and you would follow. That
might be well, in a way. But it would be better, it would be far more
manly for you to learn to stand by your own strength--to walk by your
own wisdom. Of course, I mean by the help of God, in all things," said
John, gravely.
"Do ye ken Allie well?" asked Willie, looking up into his friend's face.
John hesitated a moment.
"I cannot say that I have known her long, or seen her often. But I know
that she has borne much trouble well and bravely, and that she must be
strong. And I know that she has walked warily and done wisely in
difficult places, so that all those who _do_ know her well, respect her,
and some few people love her dearly--my mother among the rest."
"You must tell me all about her some time," said Willie, with glistening
eyes.
"Yes," said John. Then he paused before he added:
"I think, Willie, in speaking of your sister to any one here, you should
say nothing about her marriage, since it has not been a happy one."
Willie withdrew his hand from John's arm, and turned upon him with a
face white with anger.
"Married! Happy! I'll swear that he has never touched her hand, nor
looked in her face, since that cursed day. Call you that marriage?"
"Thank God!" said John; "and may he never touch her hand, nor look upon
her face. Gently, my friend, she is safe from him now."
Then he led him back to the shadow of the apple-tree, and told him more
about his sister. He told how she had lived at the manse, and how they
had valued her there. He told of little Marjorie, whom her father and
mother had intrusted to Allison's care, and of the child's love for her,
and how Allison had been helped and comforted through her love for the
child. She was quite safe now, so faraway in the South, and no one
would harm her while she was in Mrs Esselmont's care. John talked on
till the lad had grown quiet again, and then they were called to tea.
The first words that Grandma Strong said when they came in together
were:
"You don't think of taking that boy back to that hot place to-night, do
you? I don't think you had better--for a day or two, at least."
It was all very easily settled after that. John was glad to agree with
the dear old woman. Willie was to stay at the farm till he was a little
stronger.
"We're glad to have him stay. Don't you say a word about it," was the
younger Mrs Strong's answer, when John tried to thank her for all their
kindness to his friend, for whom he felt responsible, he said, until he
should be strong and well.
"You had better stay and help us through with haying and harvesting.
You could pay your way and his too, and have something over," said Mr
Strong.
But John had his own work laid out before him, and intended to make long
hours, so that he could hardly hope to come out to see his friend for a
while.
"Come Saturday night and spend Sunday. You can go to meeting here as
well as there."
And John answered:
"Yes, I will be glad to come."
Does this sudden friendship, this acceptance of utter strangers,
without a word spoken in their behalf, except what they spoke for
themselves, seem strange, unlikely, impossible? It did not seem strange
to John, till he came to think of it afterward as he walked home. Face
to face with these kind people, their mutual interest seemed natural
enough. In thinking about it, as he went swiftly on in the moonlight,
he did wonder a little. And yet why should he wonder? he asked himself.
"Honest folk ken one another, with few words about it. It has happened
well, and--not by chance," added he, reverently, recalling many a one at
home who would have him often in their thoughts at the best place--and
thinking especially of two, who, in all quiet moments, would be
"remembering" both him and his friend there.
It must not be forgotten that all this happened many years ago, before
all the nations of the earth had turned their faces toward the West, in
search of a refuge from poverty or tyranny, disgrace or despair. There
was room enough, and land enough for all who were willing to work and to
live honestly. Every strong and honest man who came, while he bettered
himself and those who belonged to him, did good also to his neighbours,
and to the country at large. And so in those days, as a rule, new
comers were well received. But beyond this, John and his friend were
liked for their own sakes, and might well rejoice at the welcome which
they got at the farmhouse, for a great many good things and happy days
came to them through the friends they found there, before all was done.
It is possible that if John had not met in with William Bain in those
circumstances, he might have travelled about for a while till he was
strong again, and then he might have turned his face homeward. If he
had found the lad well, and doing well, he might have contented himself
with leaving him to the kindly care, or the unobtrusive supervision of
Mr Hadden, who had known his family, and who had promised to befriend
him. But John could not quite free himself from a sense of
responsibility with regard to Willie Bain. He must keep sight of him
for a while. He liked the lad from the first and soon he loved him. He
would not be losing time by remaining for a few weeks. He meant to
travel by and by, and see the country, and in the meantime he might do
something toward helping Willie to make a man of himself for Allison's
sake.
So he went to the stone-yard, and did his day's work with the rest. It
was hard work for a while. He had got out of the way of it somewhat,
and he had not got back his strength altogether. The day was long, and
he was glad when night came. After the first week, however, he was
himself again, and then he grew strong and brown, and was as fit for his
work as ever he had been, he told his mother in the second letter which
he sent her, after he began.
He told her about William Bain. But that was for herself alone. As no
one else in Nethermuir had ever heard of the lad, it was not necessary
to speak of him there, lest his name might be mentioned in the hearing
of some who might not wish him or his sister well. He did not write to
Allison about her brother. Mr Hadden did that, and the story of John's
kindness to the lad lost nothing in being told by him.
Before the summer was over, John had begun to consider the question,
whether, after all, it might not be as well for him to stay where he
was, and take up a new life in a new land. His mother had more than
once in her letters assured him of her willingness to come out to him
should he decide to remain in America. But there was to be no haste
about it. He must be quite certain of himself and his wishes, and he
must have won such a measure of success, as to prove that he was not
making a mistake, before she joined him. It might be better for him to
be alone for a while, that he might be free to come and go, and do the
very best for himself. The best for himself, would be best for his
mother. And in the meantime she was well and strong, in the midst of
kind friends, and content to wait. And she would be more than content
to join him when the right time came.
And so John followed his mother's counsel. He kept his eyes open and
"worked away," and by the end of the first year, he began to see his way
clear to "the measure of success" which his mother desired for him. He
had proved himself, as a workman, worthy of the confidence of those who
had employed him, and as a man, he had won the esteem of many a one
besides. That he worked with his hands, did not in that country, at
that time, necessarily exclude him from such society as the town of
Barstow offered. But it made him shy of responding to the advances of
some of the people who lived in the big white houses among the trees
along the street, and who went to the same church in which, after a few
weeks of wandering, here and there, John settled down.
The only people whom he came to know very well during his first year,
were the Strongs at the farm, and the Haddens. Mr Hadden was friendly
with him from the first, because he was a fellow-countryman, and because
he was a friend of William Bain's. Afterward, they were more than
friendly, for better reasons. Mr Hadden had no cause to feel surprise
in finding in a skilled workman from his native land, a man of wide
reading and intelligence. He had found many such among his countrymen
who had come to seek a home in his own adopted country. But John Beaton
was different from most of those with whom he had come in contact, in
that it was not necessary in his case, that allowance should be made for
unconscious roughness of manner or speech, or for ignorance of certain
ways and usages of society, which are trifles in themselves, but of
which it is desirable that one should be aware.
But at this time John did not care much for society of any kind. He
never had cared much for it. In Nethermuir he had "kept himself to
himself," as far as most of the townsfolk were concerned, and it must be
owned, that beyond his own small circle of friends in the manse, and in
one or two other houses, he had not been a very popular person. He had
no time to give to anything of that sort, he had always said, but he
might have found the time, if he had had the inclination. He had not
much leisure in Barstow. Still, in the course of the first two years,
he came to know a good many people in the way of business; and in
connection with the work undertaken by the church to which he belonged,
he also made friends whom he valued, but his first friends were his best
friends.
All that need be told of the first three years of his residence in
Barstow, may be gathered from a letter which he wrote to his mother
about that time.
"You ought to be a happy woman, mother, for you have gotten the desire
of your heart. Do you not mind once saying to me, that you desired for
me nothing better in this life, than that I should do as my father had
done, and make my own way in the world? Well, that is just what I am
doing. There is this difference between us--that I have got `a measure
of success' on easier terms than my father did. I am not a rich man,
and I have no desire to be one--though even that may come in time. But
I stand clear of debt, and I see a fair way to success before me. I
have `got on' well even for this country, where all things move more
rapidly than with us at home.
"I have had two friends who have stood by me all these years. They have
helped me with their money, with their names, and with their influence.
I might, in the course of time, have gotten on without their help, but
they have taken pleasure in standing by me, like true friends.
"Yes, I have liked my work, and my way of life, though to you I will own
that I have sometimes wearied of them--and of everything else. But
one's life must go on till God's will brings it to an end, and I know of
no other way that would suit me better now. And between whiles, as I
have told you before, I find higher work which I am able to help along.
"And now, dear mother--when are you coming home?--For this is to be your
home, is it not? You say you are able to come alone. But if you can
wait a few months longer I will go for you. I have building going on in
different parts of the city, and the foundation of your own house is
laid, on the knowe (knoll), which I have told you of, beneath the
maple-trees, and full in sight, the great lake into which the sun sinks
every night of the year. In six months it will be ready for you, and I
shall be ready to cross the sea to bring you home.
"I long with all my heart to have my mother here. I think I shall be
quite content when that time comes.
"William Bain had told me about his sister before your letter came. He
was wild with anger, and said, some things which he has taken back since
then. I heard from Mr Hume and from Mrs Hume, as well. I cannot
blame them for their advice--or rather, for their silence. And I cannot
blame Allison Bain for what she has seen right to do. God bless her--
Amen."
And so the letter ends, without even his name.