_ CHAPTER TWELVE.
"A man may choose to begin love, but not to end it."
The spring passed quickly and summer came on, and then something happened which made a little stir of pleasure in the manse, and in the pleasure Allison shared, because of little Marjorie. Mrs Esselmont came home.
Mrs Esselmont had been, in former days, one of the great ladies of the shire, and, with a difference, she was one of its great ladies still. Marjorie had been "kirstened after her," as they used to call it in that country. The child was "Marjorie Esselmont Hume," and she was right proud of her name.
But Mrs Esselmont did not come back this time to Esselmont House, which had been the home of the Esselmonts for many a year and day. Her husband was dead and her sons also, and the great house, and the wide lands which lay about it, had passed to another Esselmont, a stranger, though of the same blood. She came back, as indeed she had gone away, a sorrowful woman, for she had just parted from her youngest and dearest daughter, who was going, as was her duty, to Canada with her soldier husband.
The acquaintance of Mrs Esselmont and the minister had commenced soon after the coming of Mr Hume--then little more than a lad--a "missioner" to Nethermuir. At the bedside of one whom the lady had long befriended, they met by chance--if one may so speak of a meeting which was the beginning of so much to them both. The poor woman in whom both were interested was drawing nigh to the end of all trouble, and these two did not meet again for years.
The next meeting was in no sense by chance. In a time of great sorrow Mrs Esselmont came to the minister for help, because she remembered how his words, spoken in God's name, had brought peace to one who had sinned and suffered, and who was sore afraid as the end drew near. And that was the beginning of a lasting friendship between them.
They had not met often during the last few years. Mrs Esselmont had lived much in England with her daughters, and had only once returned to her own house during the summer. Now she said she must look upon Firhill as her permanent home, and she did not speak very cheerfully when she said it.
For though she was a good woman, she was not of a cheerful nature, and she had had many a trouble in the course of her life. Some of them had been troubles to which, at the time, it seemed wrong for her to submit, but which it was in vain, and worse than in vain, to resent. They were troubles which could only be ignored as far as the world was concerned, but which, she told herself, could never be forgotten or forgiven. They were all over now, buried in graves, forgiven and forgotten. But the scars were there still of wounds which had hurt sorely and healed slowly, and now she was looking sadly forward to a solitary old age.
She had been long away, but Marjorie had not been allowed to forget her. Gifts and kind wishes had come often to the child from her friend, and her name had often been named in the household. But her coming was a shock to Marjorie. What she had imagined of the writer of the letters which she had heard read, and of the giver of the gifts which she had received, no one could say. But the first glimpse which she got of the tall form, shrouded in trailing, black garments, and of the pale face, encircled by the border of the widow's cap, and shaded by the heavy widow's veil, struck her with something like terror, which must have ended in tears and sobs and painful excitement, if her mother had not seen the danger in time and carried her away.
"Poor darling! I fear she is no stronger as time goes on," said the lady gently.
"Yes, we think her a little stronger. Indeed we think there is a decided change for the better since spring opened. She is able to stand now, and even to walk a little in the garden. But she is very frail still, our poor little girl," said the mother with a sigh.
"What has helped her, do you think?"
"Nature, it must be, and Allison Bain. The doctor has done nothing for her for more than a year, but even he acknowledges that there is a change for the better, though he does not give us much reason to hope that she will ever be very strong."
"It is God's will," said Mrs Esselmont with a sigh.
"We can only wait and see what God will send her. As it is, she is a blessing in the house."
"Yes. Still with your large family and your many cares, she must be a constant anxiety to you both night and day."
"Well, we get used with even care and anxiety. And she is a happy little creature naturally. Allison has helped us greatly with her. She is very kind and sensible in all her ways of doing for her."
"And who is Allison?"
It was on Mrs Hume's lips to say, "We do not know who she is," but she did not say it.
"She came to fill Kirstin's place. Poor Kirstin was called home to nurse her mother, who is lingering still, though she was supposed to be dying when her daughter was sent for."
And then Mrs Hume went on to speak of something else.
Allison was "coming to herself," growing "like other folk," only bonnier and better than most. There was no need to call attention to her as in any way different from the rest. Allison had been good to Marjorie, and Marjorie was fond of Allison. That was all that need be said even to Mrs Esselmont. But the lady and Allison were good friends before all was done.
For many of Mrs Esselmont's lonely days were brightened by the visits of the child Marjorie. And though the pony carriage was sometimes sent for her, and though she enjoyed greatly the honour and glory of driving away from the door in the sight of all the bairns who gathered in the street to see, she owned that she felt safer and more at her ease in the arms of "her own Allie," and so when it was possible, it was in Allison's arms that she was brought home.
If there had been nothing else to commend her to the pleased notice of Mrs Esselmont, Allison's devotion to the child must have done so. And this stately young woman, with her soft voice, and her silence, and her beautiful, sorrowful eyes, was worth observing for her own sake. But Allison was as silent with her as with the rest of her little world, though her smile grew brighter and more responsive as the days went on.
Mrs Esselmont's house stood on the hillside, facing the west. Behind it rose the seven dark firs which had given to the place its name. The tall firs and the hilltop hid from the house the sunshine of the early morning, but they stood a welcome shelter between it and the bleak east wind which came from the sea when the dreary time of the year had come.
The house was built of dull grey stone, with no attempt at ornament of any kind visible upon it. All its beauty was due to the ivy, which grew close and thick over the two ends, covering the high gables, and even the chimneys, and creeping more loosely about the windows in the front. Without the ivy and the two laburnums, which were scattering their golden blossoms over the grass when Allison saw it first, the place would have looked gloomy and sad.
But when one had fairly passed up the avenue, or rather the lane, lying between a hedge of hawthorn on one side and the rough stone dike which marked the bounds of the nearest neighbour on the other, and entered at the gate which opened on the lawn, it was not the dull grey house which one noticed first, but the garden.
"The lovely,
lovely garden!" Marjorie always called it. She had not seen many gardens, nor had Allison, and the wealth of blossoms which covered every spot where the green grass was not growing, was wonderful in their eyes.
The place was kept in order by an old man, who had long been gardener at Esselmont House, and it was as well kept in the absence of the mistress as when she was there to see it. The garden was full of roses, and of the common sweet-smelling flowers, for which there seems little room in fine gardens nowadays, and it was tended by one who loved flowers for their own sake.
It was shut in and sheltered by a high stone wall on the east, and by a hawthorn hedge on the north, but the walls on the other sides were low; and sitting beneath the laburnums near the house, on the upper edge of the sloping lawn, one could see the fields, and the hills, and a farmhouse or two, and the windings of the burn which nearly made an island of the town. From the end of the west wall, where it touched the hawthorn hedge, one could see the town itself. The manse and the kirk could be distinguished, but not very clearly. Seen from the hill the place looked only an irregular group of little grey houses, for the green of the narrow gardens behind was mostly hidden, and even the trees along the lanes seemed small in the distance. But Marjorie liked to look down over it now and then, to make sure that all was safe there when she was away.
It was a strange experience for her to be for hours away from her own home, and even out of the town.
Poor little Marjorie had passed more time on her couch in her mother's parlour, during her life of eleven years, than in all other places put together. She was happy in the change, and enjoyed greatly the sight of something new, and there were many beautiful things for her to see in Mrs Esselmont's house. But she needed "to get used with it," and just at first a day at a time was quite enough for her strength. The day was not allowed to be very long, and the pleasure of getting home again was almost as great as the pleasure of getting away had been. But the best of all was, that the child was getting a little stronger.
There was much besides this to make it a good and happy summer at the manse. The younger lads were busy at school under a new master, who seemed to be in a fair way to make scholars of them all, Robin was full of delight at the thought that
at last he was to go to college, and he fully intended to distinguish himself there. He said "at last," though he was only a month or two past sixteen, and had all his life before him.
"Ay, ye hae a' ye're life afore ye, in which to serve the Lord or the Deevil," Saunners Crombie took the opportunity to say to him, one night after the evening meeting, when he first heard that the lad was to go away.
Robin looked at him with angry eyes, and turned his back on him without a word.
"Hoot, man Saunners! There is no fear o' the laddie," said his more hopeful crony, Peter Gilchrist.
"Maybe no, and maybe ay. It'll be nae haflin course that yon lad will tak'. He'll do verra well or verra ill, and I see no signs o' grace in him so far."
"Dinna bode ill o' the lad. The Lord'll hae the son o' his father and mother in His good keeping. And there's John Beaton, forby (besides), to hae an e'e upon him. No' but that there will be mony temptations in the toon for a lad like him," added Peter, desirous to avoid any discussion with his friend.
"John Beaton, say ye? I doubt he'll need himsel' all the help the Lord is like to give to ane that's neither cauld nor het. It's wi' stumblin' steps he'll gang himsel', if I'm no mista'en."
But to this Peter had nothing to say. They had been over the ground before, and more than once, and each had failed to convince the other. Crombie went on:
"He carries his head ower-heich (over-high), yon lad. He's nae likely to see the stanes at his ain feet, to say naething o' being a help to the like o' Robert Hume."
"Hae ye had ony words wi' him of late?" asked Peter gravely.
"Nae me! He's been here often eneuch. But except in the kirk, where he sits glowerin' straecht afore him, as gin there was naebody worthy o' a glance within the four walls, I havena set my een upon him. It's inborn pride that ails him, or else he has gotten something no' canny upon his mind."
"His mother's no' just so strong. It's that which brings him hame sae often. His heart is just set on his mother."
"It's no' like to do his mother muckle gude to be forced to leave her ain house, and take lodgin's in a toon. But gin
he be pleased, that'll please her," said Saunners sourly.
"Hae ye ony special reason for thinkin' and sayin' that the lad has onything on his mind? He's dull-like whiles, but--"
"I'm no' in the way o' sayin' things for which I hae nae reason," said Saunners shortly. "As to special--it's nae mair special to me than to yoursel'. Has he been the same lad this while that he ance was, think ye? Gude-nicht to ye."
"Gude-nicht," said Peter meekly. "Eh! but he's dour whiles, is Saunners! He is a gude man. Oh! ay, he's a gude man. But he's hard on folk whiles. As for John Beaton--I maun hae a crack (a little talk) with himsel'."
But Peter did not get his crack with John at this time, and if he had had, it is doubtful whether he would have got much satisfaction out of it.
John was not altogether at ease with regard to the state of his mother's health, but it cannot be said that he was especially anxious. For though the last winter had tried her, the summer "was setting her up again," she always told him cheerfully when he came. And she was always at her best when her son was with her.
Her little maid, Annie Thorn, to whom she had become much attached, and whom she had trained to do the work of the house in a neat and orderly manner, was permitted to do many things which had until now been done by the careful hands of her mistress. She was "little Annie" no longer, but a well-grown, sensible lass of sixteen, who thought: herself a woman, able to do all that any woman might do. She was willing even to put on the thick muslin cap of her class if her mistress would have consented that she should so disguise herself and cover her pretty hair.
No, John was not anxious about his mother. He was more at ease about her than he had been since he had been obliged to leave her so much at home alone. But he came home more frequently to see her. He had more time, and he could bear the expense better. Besides, the office work which he had to do now kept him closer, and made change and exercise more necessary for him, and so he came, knowing that he could not come too often for his mother's pleasure.
This was what he said to her and to himself, but he knew in his heart that there was another reason for his coming; he called himself a fool for his pains, but still he came.
He knew now that it was the thought of Allison Bain which would not let him rest, which drew him ever to return. For the thought of her was with him night and day. Her "bonny een" looked up at him from his papers, and his books, and from the waves of the sea, when his restlessness urged him forth to his nightly wanderings on the shore.
But even when he turned his face toward Nethermuir, he scorned himself for his weakness. It was a kind of madness that was on him, he thought--a madness that would surely come to an end soon.
"Few men escape it, at one time or another of their lives, as I have heard said. The sooner it comes, the sooner it is over. It has gone ill with many a one. But I am a strong man, and it will pass. Yes! It shall pass."
This was what he said to himself, and he said also that Allison's indifference, which he could not but see, her utter unconsciousness of him and his comings and goings, his words and his ways, was something for which he might be glad, for all that would help him through with it and hasten his cure.
But he was not so sure after a while--sure, that is, that Allison's indifference and unconsciousness of him and his feelings made it easier for him to put her out of his thoughts. There were times when with a sort of anger he longed to make her look at him, or speak to him, even though her words might hurt him. He was angry with her, and with himself, and with all the world; and there was truth in old Crombie's accusation that he carried his head high and neglected his friends.
It was all that he could do sometimes to endure patiently the company of Robert Hume or his brothers. Even Davie, who was not exacting in the matter of response to his talk, missed something in his chief
friend, and had serious misgivings about it.
And Davie's mother had her own thoughts also, and she was not well pleased with John. That "his time was come" she knew by many a token, and she knew also, or guessed, the nature of the struggle that was going on in him. She acknowledged that his prudence was praiseworthy, and that it might not be the best wisdom for him to yield to impulse in a matter so important; but she also told herself scornfully that if his love were "true love," he would never have waited for prudence or for ambition to put in a word, but would have gladly taken his chance whatever might befall.
"Though indeed he might have cause to repent afterward," she acknowledged with a sigh.
And since Allison was not thinking at all about him, little ill would be done. The lad would get his discipline and go his way, and might never know what a chance of happiness he had let slip out of his hands.
"For he could make her learn to love if he were to try," said Mrs Hume to herself. "But he must not try unless--And if he should say or do anything likely to bring watchful eyes or gossiping tongues upon Allison, I shall have something to say to the lad myself."
Some one else was having her own thoughts about these two. Mistress Jamieson had seen the lad when "his een first lichted on the lass," and she had guessed what had happened to him. Now she waited and watched with interest expecting more. She had not counted on the blindness or long-continued indifference of Allison.
Was it indifference on her part? Or was it prudence, or a proper pride? And the conclusion the mistress came to was this:
"She's no' heedin' him. Ay, ye're a braw lad, John Beaton, and a clever; but it'll do ye nae ill to be neglecit for a wee while, or even set at naucht. Ye thocht to tak' her captive wi' a smile and a few saft words! And ye'll do it yet, I daursay, since it's the nature o' woman to be sae beguiled," added the mistress with a sigh.
But her interest was a silent interest. She never named their names together in a neighbour's hearing.
It was of her brother that Allison was thinking all this time--of poor Willie, who, as she believed, had never seen the sunshine, or even the light of all these summer days. Every night and every morning she counted the days that must pass before he should be set free to go to his own house; and she rejoiced and suffered beforehand, as he must rejoice and suffer when that time came.
It would be November then. She knew just how Grassie would look to him under the grey sky, or the slanting rain, with the mist lying low in the hollows, and the wind sighing among the fir-trees on the height. She could see the dull patches of stubble, and the bare hedges, and the garden where only a touch of green lingered among the withered rose-bushes and berry-bushes, and the bare stalks of the flowers which they used to care for together.
She saw the wet ricks in the corn-yard, and the little pools left in the footmarks of the beasts about the door. She heard the lowing of the cows in the byre, and the bleating of the sheep in the fold, and she knew how all familiar sights and sounds would hurt the lad, who would never more see the face or hear the voice of kith or kin in the house where he was born. How could he ever bear it?
"Oh! God, be good to him when that day comes!" was her cry.
And since they had agreed that they must not meet on this side of the sea, was there no other way in which she might reach him for his good? She had thought of many impossible ways before she thought of John Beaton. It was in the kirk, one Sabbath-day, that the thought of him came.
The day was wet and windy, and Marjorie was not there to fill her thoughts, and they wandered away to Willie in the prison, and she fell to counting the days again, saying to herself: "How could he ever bear it?"
She was afraid for him. She strove against her fears, but she was afraid--of the evil ways into which, being left to himself, or to the guidance of evil men, he might be tempted to fall. Oh! if she might go to him! Or if she had a friend whom she might trust to go in her stead!
And then she lifted her eyes and met those of John Beaton. She did not start, nor grow red, nor turn away. But her whole face changed. There came over it a look which cannot be described, but which made it for the moment truly beautiful--a look hopeful, trustful, joyful.
Allison was saying to herself:
"Oh, Willie! if I might only dare to speak and bid him go to you." _