_ CHAPTER NINETEEN.
"Unless you can swear for life or for death
Oh! fear to call it loving."
Business made it necessary for Mrs Esselmont to remain one day in Aberdeen. She stayed with a friend, but Allison and Marjorie found a place prepared for them in the house where Robin, now a student in the university, had taken up his abode.
It was a dark and rainy day, and Robin was greatly disappointed that he could not take them out to see all that was to be seen in the town, and Marjorie was disappointed also. But in her heart Allison was glad of the rain and the grey mist which came when the rain was over. For how could she be sure of those whom she might see in the streets, or of those who might see her? Every hour that passed helped to lighten the dull weight on her heart, and gave her courage to look forward with hope.
Dr Fleming came to see Marjorie in the afternoon, as her father had asked him to do. He looked at Allison with astonished eyes.
"You owe me thanks for sending you out yonder," said he.
"And so do we," said Robin.
"It was a good day for me," said Allison, and her eyes said more than that.
"Yes, better than you know," said the doctor. "And for you, too, my wee pale lily, if all I hear be true. And so Allison Bain is going to carry you away and to bring you home again a bonny, blooming rose, is she? May God grant it," added the doctor reverently.
"I will try to take good care of her," said Allison.
"I am sure of that."
When the visit was over, Allison followed the doctor to the door.
"I would be glad if I were sure that my name would not be named over yonder," said she, casting down her eyes.
"Be glad then, for your name shall not be spoken. Yes, one man has come to inquire about you, and more than once. When I saw his face and heard his voice, I understood how you might well wish to keep out of his sight. Stay in the house while you remain here. There may be others who would speak, though I keep silence. God bless you." And then he went away.
"I may be doing the man a wrong, since he says she is his lawfully wedded wife, but I cannot--I have not the heart to betray her into his hands."
In the evening John Beaton came in. Marjorie was already in her bed, but she was not asleep; and they wrapped her in a plaid, and brought her into the parlour again to see her friend. She had the same story to tell. She was glad, and she was sorry; but she was not afraid, since Allison was with her.
"I will have her all to myself," said Marjorie.
John stooped to touch with his lips the little hand that lay on his arm.
"Happy little Marjorie," he whispered in her ear.
She soon fell asleep, and was carried away to bed again. While Allison lingered beside her, John said to his friend:
"Robin, my lad, go up to your books for a while. I must have a word with Allison."
Robin nodded his head, but he did not move till Allison returned. Then he started up in great haste.
"I must see Guthrie for a minute. Don't go till I come back, John," said he. "Can I do anything for you, Allison?"
"Nothing more," said Allison; and Robin disappeared.
There was nothing said for a while. Allison took up her work. She was taking a few necessary stitches for the student, she said. They spoke about the child, and about those at home who would miss her greatly, and about other things.
"Did you see my mother before you came away?" said John.
"Yes, I went to bid her good-bye on the last night."
And then she added that she thought his mother was "wearying" to see him, and that he should go home soon.
"Yes, I have been busy of late, and I have been away. Allison, I have been in the parish of Kilgower."
Allison laid down her work and fixed her eyes on his face, growing very pale.
"It was a business journey. A letter came asking that some one should be sent to make an estimate as to the cost of repairing a farmhouse. It was asked that John Beaton might be the man sent, and when I turned the leaf, and saw the name of Brownrig, I guessed the reason why."
Allison asked no question, but sat regarding him with troubled eyes. All the story was not told to her, and John spoke very quietly. But it had been an unpleasant visit to him, and had moved him greatly.
He found Brownrig waiting for him at the inn of the town, but John refused his invitation to go to his house, saying to himself:
"If I have any lies to tell him, they would be none the easier to tell after I had eaten his bread."
Brownrig did not take offence at the refusal, as at first he had seemed inclined to do. He came in the morning, and was quite civil, even friendly, as they went away together to attend to their business. He told John about the country folk, and about the various farms which they passed; and at last they came round by Grassie.
"'It is a good farm, but it has fallen back of late, and will likely soon be in the market. John Bain was a good farmer and a good man, much respected in the countryside. He died lately. His son William Bain had gone wrong before that. An idle lad he was, and hastened his father's death.'
"I kenned by this time what he was to be at," said John to Allison, when he had got thus far. "And I thought it wiser to take the matter into my own hands. So I said that I thought I had heard the name of William Bain before. Where could it have been?
"'In the tollbooth, likely,' said Brownrig, losing hold of himself for a minute, for his eyes gleamed with eagerness or with anger, I could not say which. 'Yes, it might. I have been there,' I said. 'I had a friend who went there now and then on Sunday afternoons, and once or twice I went with him. But I never saw Bain. He must have been out before ever I went there.'
"I saw the change in the man's face when I said this.
"'He was here in June,' he said. 'He's off to America now, and I would give much to ken who went with him. There are few men that one can trust. Truth may be so told as to make one believe a lie; but I'll win to the end o' the clue yet,' he said. He had an evil look when he said it.
"I made haste over my work after that," went on John, "for I could not trust myself to listen. If he had named your name--"
John rose and went to the window, and stood there long, looking out into the darkness.
The unhappy story did not end here, but Allison heard no more. Brownrig appeared again in the early morning, and John was asked to go with him to see what repairs might be required on the outbuildings of a farm that was soon to pass to a new tenant. Something would need to be done, and the matter might as well be considered at once.
On their way they passed by the manse, and Dr Hadden's name was mentioned.
"He has a son in America who has done well there. There are two or three lads from this parish who have gone out to him, Willie Bain among the rest"; and then Brownrig muttered to himself words which John could not hear, but he answered:
"I have heard of several who have done well out there. Land is cheap and good, and skilled labour is well paid," and so on.
But Brownrig came back again to Bain.
"That will not be the way with him. An idle lad and an ill-doing was he. Folk said I was hard on him. He thought it himself. I would have been glad to help him, and to be friends with him before he went away, but he didna give me the opportunity. I respected his father and would gladly have helped him for his sake. If you should hear word of him, ye might let me know."
"I might possibly hear of him," said John; "but it is hardly likely."
He was glad to get away from the man. If by any chance he had uttered the name of Allison, John could not have answered for himself. But he was not done with him yet. Late at night Brownrig came again to the inn and asked for him. John had gone to his room, but he came down when the message was brought to him. The man had been drinking, but he could still "take care of himself," or he thought so. He made some pretence of having something more to say about business, but he forgot it in a little, and went off to other matters, speaking with angry vehemence about men and things of which John knew nothing. It was a painful sight to see, and when two or three men came into the room John rose and wished him good-night. Brownrig protested violently against his "desertion," as he called it, but John was firm in his refusal to stay.
He was afraid, not of Brownrig, but of himself. He was growing wild at the thought that this man should have any hold over Allison Bain--that the time might come when, with the help of the law, he might have her in his power. But he restrained himself, and was outwardly calm to the last.
"Ye're wise to go your ways," said the innkeeper, as John went into the open air. "Yon man's no easy to do wi', when he gets past a certain point. He'll give these two lads all the story of his wrongs, as he calls it, before he's done. He's like a madman, drinking himself to death."
John would not trust himself to speak, but he stood still and listened while the man went on to tell of Brownrig's marriage and all that followed it, and of the madness that seemed to have come upon the disappointed man.
"She has never been heard of since, at least he has never heard of her; and it's my belief he would never hear of her, though half the parish kenned her hiding-place. It is likely that she's safe in America by this time. That is what he seems to think himself. I shouldna wonder if he were to set out there in search of her some day."
John listened in silence, catching every now and then the sound of Brownrig's angry voice, growing louder and angrier as time went on.
It was of all this that John was thinking now, as he stood looking out long into the darkness. Then he came and sat down again, shading his eyes with his hand.
"I am glad to be going away," said Allison, after a little; "and I thank you for--all your kindness."
"Kindness!" repeated John. "I would like to be kind to you, Allison, if you would let me. Allison I think I could make you a happy woman."
He rose and stood before her. Allison shook her head sadly.
"I cannot think of myself as being a happy woman any more;" and then she added: "But when I am fairly away, and not afraid, I can be content. I have my Marjorie now, and when she does not need me any more, I can go to Willie. Oh! if I were only safe away."
John went to the window again. When he came back his face was very pale, but his eyes were gleaming. He sat down on the sofa beside her.
"I am glad--yes, I am glad you are going away. That will be best for a time. And I am glad you have Marjorie. But, Allison, what is to come after? You have your brother? Yes, but he may have some one else then, and may not need you. Oh! Allison, will you let me speak?"
Allison looked up. She grew red, and then pale, but she did not withdraw her eyes from his.
"Speak wisely, John," said she.
"Allison! You cannot think that you owe duty to that man--that brute, I should rather say? Is there anything in the laws of man or of God to bind you to him? Would it be right to let him claim you as his wife? Would it be right for you to go to him?"
"Even if it were right, I could not go to him," said she.
"And will you let him spoil your life? Will you let him make you a servant in another woman's house--a wanderer on the face of the earth?"
"He cannot spoil my life if I can only get safe away."
"And do you not hate and loathe him for his sin against you?"
"I do not hate him. I would loathe to live with him. I think--that I pity him. He has spoiled his own life, though he cannot spoil mine--if I only
get safe away. It was my fault as well as his. I should have trusted in God to help Willie and me. Then I would have been strong to resist him."
John bent toward her and took her hand.
"Will you use your strength against me, Allison?"
"No, John. If I have any strength, I will use it in your behalf."
"Allison, I love you dearly. Let me speak, dear," he entreated, as she put up her hand to stop him, "Yes, let me tell you all. From the first moment that my eyes lighted on you I loved you. Do you mind the day? Wait, dear; let me confess all. I did not wish to love you. I was in love with myself, only seeking to satisfy my own pride and vain ambition by striving to win a high place in the world. The way had opened before me, and some day I was to be wise and learned, and a great man among men. I fought against my love. Are you angry with me. Do you despise me? But love conquered. Love is strong and true."
Allison's colour changed; and, for a moment, her eyes fell before his; but she raised them again, and said, gravely and firmly:
"John, when a good man loves a woman whom he believes to be good, what is due from him to her?"
"Ah! Allison. Let me have a chance to show you! It will take a long life to do it."
"John, let me speak. Does he not honour her in his heart? And does he not uphold her honour before the world?"
"We would go away together across the sea."
"Hush! Do not say it. Do not make me sorry that you love me. Do not make me doubt it."
"Ah! but you cannot doubt it. You will never be able to doubt that I love you. Allison, do you love me, ever so little? I could teach you, dear, to love me."
He sought to take her hand, but she would not yield it to him.
"And your mother, John?"
"She would forgive us, if it were once done."
"And my mother, up in heaven? What would she think if she were to know? No, John, it cannot be."
"You do not love me. You would not hesitate if you loved me."
"Do I not love you? I am not sure. I think I might learn to love you; but I could not go with you. No, I could not."
"Allison, I could make you a happy woman," said John, ending where he had begun.
"And would you be a happy man? Not if you are the good man that I have ay believed you to be. You would be wretched, John; and seeing it, could I be happy, even if my conscience slumbered?"
"Allison, do you love me, ever so little? Whatever else is to be said, look once into my face and say, 'John, I love you.'"
She looked into his face as he bade her, and her own changed, as she met his eyes. But she did meet them bravely.
"I think I might have learned to love you--as you said--but I will not do you that wrong. You may suffer for a while, but your life will not be lost. God be with you, and fare ye well."
She rose as she spoke. John rose also, pained and angry. He did not take the hand which she held out to him.
"Is that all you have to say to me?"
"We shall be friends always, I hope."
"Friends! No. We have got past that. It must be all or nothing between us. You must see that."
She looked at him with wet, appealing eyes.
"It cannot be all," said she, speaking low.
John turned and went away without a word.
That was not the very last between them. John came in the morning in time to carry Marjorie to the carriage, and to place her in Allison's arms. Something was said about letters, and Marjorie exclaimed:
"Oh! Allison, will it not be fine to get letters from Robin and John?"
John looked up to see the tears in Allison's sad eyes, and his own softened as he looked.
"Good-bye, my friend," said she. "Good-bye."
Even if he had wished he could not have refused to take her hand this time, with Marjorie and Robin looking on. But he did not utter a word, and in a moment they were gone.
John stood on the pavement looking after the carriage till it disappeared around a corner of the street, "And now," said he, "I must to my work again." _