_ CHAPTER TWENTY.
"Will I like a fule, quo' he,
For a haughty hizzie dee?"
There was work enough waiting him, if he were to carry out the plans he had pleased himself with making, before ever he had seen the face of Allison Bain. In one year more he had hoped to get to the end of his university course. If not in one year, then in two. After that, the world was before him and hard work.
"It has happened well," he was saying to himself, as he still stood looking at the corner of the street. "Yes, it has happened well. I am glad she is gone away. If she had been staying on in Nethermuir, it might not have been so easy for me to put her out of my thoughts. It has happened well."
And then he turned and went down the street "with his nose in the air," as was said by a humble friend of his who saw him, but whom he did not see.
"I must have my turn of folly like the lave (the rest), as auld Crombie would say. And 'it's weel over,' as he would also say, if he kenned all. I must to my work again."
Then he turned the corner and came face to face with the husband of Allison Bain. John's impulse during the space of one long-drawn breath was to knock the man down and trample him under his feet. Instead of this, in answer to Brownrig's astonished question, "Have you forgotten me?" John met his extended hand and stammered:
"I did not expect to see you. And for the moment--certainly--"
"I have been at Mr Swinton's office to see him or you. You are late this morning."
"I am on my way there now. Have you time to go back again? That is, if I can do anything for you!"
"I'll go back with you. It is business I came down about. I am sorry to hear from Mr Swinton that you are thinking of leaving his employment. I was hoping that ye might have the overseeing of a job that the laird has nearly made up his mind to."
"Oh! as to that, the matter is by no means settled yet, though I have been thinking about it. I may stay on."
"A place in the employ of a man like Swinton, and I may add, after what I have heard him say,--a place in his confidence also, must make good stepping-stones to fortune for a young man. Where were you thinking of going, if one may ask? To America, I suppose, like so many other folk in these days."
"To America! Oh! no; I have no thought of leaving Scotland at present, or even of leaving Aberdeen. I intend taking a while at the college. I began it when I was a lad. But my plans may fall through yet."
"It would take time and it would take money," said Brownrig.
"That's true, but I have plenty of time before me."
"Well, ye may be up our way after all. The laird has ta'en it intil his head to have a new wing put to the house. It has as muckle need of a new wing as a Collie dog has o' twa tails," said Brownrig--falling into Scotch, as some folk have a way of doing when they wish to be contemptuous or jocose, or indeed are moved in any way. "But if it is to be done, it is to be done well, and Swinton is the man, with you to oversee."
"There could be little done this year," said John.
"Plans and preparations could be made. The work must be done in the summer."
Brownrig seemed to be thinking of something else, for when they came to the corner of the street, he stood still, looking out toward the sea. John paused also for a moment, but he grew impatient and moved on. All this time he had been saying to himself:
"In some way I must keep this man in sight through the day and through the night as well, as long as he shall stay in the town. If he were to see her now! If he were to follow her!"
John drew his breath hard at the thought.
There was a long stair to go up before Mr Swinton's rooms could be reached, and when they came to the foot of it Brownrig paused.
"I am not quite myself this morning," he said. "I'll wait till later in the day before I try to see Mr Swinton again. There's no special hurry."
"You are not looking very well," said John gravely. "It would be as wise for you to wait a while and refresh yourself. I'll go with you a bit of the way."
They went back together till they came to the door of the inn. John refused Brownrig's invitation to enter, and left him there. Then he took his way to Robert's lodgings. Robert had not returned.
"Can they be lingering yet?" said John to himself. "I must see that they are fairly away."
In the street opposite the house where Mrs Esselmont had stayed, no carriage was standing. John slowly passed the house and turned again, waiting for a while. Then he went toward the office. Looking in at the inn parlour on his way thither, he saw Brownrig sitting with a friend. There were a bottle and glasses between them, and judging that he was "safe enough for the present," John went to his work. Brownrig paid another visit to Mr Swinton the next day, but nothing was definitely arranged between them as to the work which was to be done, and in a day or two he went away.
It must be owned that it went ill with John Beaton about this time. He had been in the way of saying to himself, and of saying to others also, whom he wished to influence, that the thing which a man desired with all his heart to do, that he could do. Of course he meant only such things as were not in their nature impossible to be done. But after a while he was not so sure of himself.
While Brownrig had lingered in the town, John had been more or less occupied with thoughts of him. He had kept sight of him at most times. He had known where he was and what he was doing, and in what company. He had done this for the sake of Allison Bain, declaring to himself that whatever might be done to prevent her falling into the hands of the man who called her his wife, it was right for him to do.
But Brownrig showed no sign of knowing that Allison had been in the town, and in a few days he turned his face homeward again.
Then John had time to attend to his own affairs, and it went ill with him for a while. He faced his trouble like a man, and "had it out with himself," as he might have "had it out" with friend or foe, with whom a battle was to be fought for the sake of assured peace to come after.
Yes, he loved Allison Bain--loved her so well that he had been willing to sacrifice a hopeful future at home, and begin a life of labour in a strange land, so that she might share it with him. He had not tried to shut his eyes as to the right and wrong of the matter. He had seen that which he had desired to do as other men would see it, and he had still spoken.
But Allison Bain did not love him. At least she did not love him well enough to be willing to do what was wrong for his sake. And now it was all past and gone forever.
What, then, was his duty and interest in the circumstances?
To forget her; to put her out of his thoughts and out of his heart; to begin at the work which he had planned for himself before ever he had seen her face; to hold to this work with might and main, so as to leave himself no time and no room for the cherishing of hope or the rebelling against despair, and he strengthened himself by recalling the many good reasons he had seen for not yielding when the temptation first assailed him.
He ought to be glad that she had refused to listen to him. She had been wise for them both, and it was well. Yes, it was well. This momentary madness would pass away, and he had his work before him.
And so to his work he determined to set himself. So many hours were to be given to Mr Swinton and so many to his books. In these circumstances there would be no leisure for dreams or for regrets, and he would soon be master of himself again.
And he must lose no time. First he must go and see his mother. He hung his head as he owned to himself how few of his thoughts had been given to her of late.
All this while she had had many thoughts concerning him; and when, one night, he came at last, wet and weary, through the darkness of a November night, she welcomed him lovingly, and uttered no word of reproach or even of surprise at his long silence, or at his seeming forgetfulness of the plan which he had himself proposed. She was just as usual, more glad to see him than she had words to tell, and full of interest in all that he had to say.
And John flattered himself that he was "just as usual" also. He had plenty to say at first, and was cheerful over it. Of his own accord he told her about the travellers, as he called them; how he had seen them at Robin's lodgings at night, and when they went away in the morning; and of how content little Marjorie seemed to be in Allison Bain's care, and how sure she was that she was coming home strong and well.
"You'll need to go and tell her mother about it to-morrow," said Mrs Beaton. "She will be glad to hear about her, though I daresay they have had a letter by this time."
"Surely, I'll go to tell them," said John.
But he grew silent after that. He said a few words about how busy he had been of late, and then he owned that he was very tired, and bade his mother good-night cheerfully enough.
"For," said he, "why should my mother be vexed by any trouble of mine, that is so sure soon to pass away?"
And his mother was saying, as she had said before:
"If he needs me, he will tell me, and if I cannot help him, silence is best between us. For oh! I fear if all were told, there might be some things said that his mother would grieve to hear."
The next day passed as Sabbath-days at home usually passed. They went to the kirk together in the morning, and John went alone in the afternoon. He led the singing, and shook hands with a good many people, and was perhaps more friendly with some of them than was usual with him.
He went to the manse in the gloaming to tell them how he had seen the last of Marjorie, how she had been happy and bright, and how she had promised to write a letter to him and to many more; but he never mentioned Allison's name, Mrs Hume noticed, nor did she.
He found his mother sitting by the light of the fire. She gave him her usual greeting.
"Well, John?" said she, cheerfully.
"Well, mother?" said he cheerfully also.
There was not much more said for a while. John's thoughts were faraway, his mother saw, and she sat waiting with patience till they should come back again--with a patience which might have failed at last.
"He maybe needs a sharp word," she thought.
It could wait, however; and in a little she said gently:
"You are looking tired, John; you have been overworking yourself, I doubt."
John laughed.
"Oh! no, mother; far from that. I have plenty of work before me, however, and must buckle to it with a will. You are thinking of coming with me, mother? I hope your heart is not failing you at the thought of the change?"
"Failing me! by no means. Surely, I have been thinking of it and preparing for it, and it is full time the change were made, for the winter is drawing on."
"Yes, the winter is drawing on."
"But, John, I have been taking a second thought about the house. I must go to the town with you for the winter, and that for various reasons. Chiefly because you cannot come here often without losing your time, and I weary for you whiles, sorely. I did that last year, and this year it would be worse. But I would like to be here in the summer. If I have to part from you I would rather be here than among strangers."
"But, mother, what has put that in your head? It is late in the day to speak of a parting between you and me."
"Parting! Oh, no. Only it is the lot of woman, be she mother or wife, to bide at home while a man goes his way. You may have to seek your work when you are ready for it; and I am too old and frail now to go here and there as you may need to do, and you could ay come home to me here."
John's conscience smote him as he listened. He had been full of his own plans and troubles; he had been neglecting his mother, who, since the day he was born, had thought only of him.
"You are not satisfied with the decision I have come to--the change of work which I have been planning."
His mother did not answer for a minute.
"I would have been well pleased if the thought of change had never come into your mind. But since it has come, it is for you to do as you think right. No, I would have had you content to do as your father did before you; but I can understand how you may have hopes and ambitions beyond that, and it is for you to decide for yourself. You have your life before you, and mine is nearly over; it is right that you should choose your way."
John rose and moved restlessly about the room. His mother was hard on him, he said to himself. His hopes and ambitions! He could have laughed at her words, for he had been telling himself that such dreams were over forever. It mattered little whether he were to work with his head or his hands, except as one kind of work might answer a better purpose than the other in curing him of his folly and bringing him to his senses again.
"Sit down, John," said his mother; "I like to see your face."
John laughed.
"Shall I light the candle, mother?"
"There is no haste about it. I have more to say. It is this. You may be quite right in the decision to which you have come. You are young yet, and the time which you may think you have lost, may be in your favour. You have a stronger body than you might have had if you had been at your books all these years; and you have got experience, and I hope some wisdom, that your books could not have given you. I am quite content that you should have your will."
"Thank you, mother. That is a glad hearing for me. I could have had little pleasure in my work, going against your wish and will."
"Well, take pleasure in it now. If I held back for a while, it was only that I thought I saw a chance of a better kind of happiness for you. The sort of work matters less than we think. If it is done well, that is the chief thing. And you have been a good son to your mother."
"Thank you, mother. I hope you will never have to say less of me than that. And now is it settled?"
"Now it's settled--as far as words can settle it, and may God bless you and--keep you all your days."
She had almost said, "comfort you!" but she kept it back, and said it only in her heart.
Though Mrs Beaton's preparations were well advanced, there was still something to do. It could be done without John's help, however, and he left as usual, early in the morning. It was a good while before he saw Nethermuir again.
In a few days his mother was ready to follow him. The door was shut and locked, and the key put into the responsible hand of cripple Sandy for safe keeping. It must be owned that John's mother turned away from the little house where her son had made a home for her, with a troubled heart. Would it ever be her home again? she could not but ask herself. It might be hers, and then it would also be his in a way--to come back to for a day or a week now and then for his mother's sake. But it could never more be as it had been.
It was nothing to grieve for, she told herself. The young must go forth to their work in the world, and the old must stay at home to take their rest, and to wait for the end. Such was God's will, and it should be enough.
It was, in a sense, enough for this poor mother, who was happier in her submission than many a mother who has seen her son go from her; but she could not forget that--for a time at least--her son must carry a sad heart with him wherever he went. And he was young, and open to the temptations of youth, from which his love and care for his mother, and the hard work which had fallen to his lot, had hitherto saved him. How would it be with him now?
"God guide him! God keep him safe from sin," she prayed, as she went down the street.
Mrs Hume stood at the door of the manse, waiting to welcome her, and the sight of her kind face woke within the mother's heart a momentary desire for the easement which comes with the telling of one's anxious or troubled thoughts to a true friend. Loyalty to her son stayed the utterance of that which was in her heart. But perhaps Mrs Hume did not need to be told in words, for she gave silently the sympathy which was needed, all the same, and her friend was comforted and strengthened by it.
"Yes," said she, "I am coming back again in the spring. It is more like home here among you all than any other place is likely to be now; and John will ay be coming and going, whatever he may at last decide to do."
Perhaps the silence of the minister as to John's new intentions and plans implied a doubt in his mind as to their wisdom. Mrs Beaton was silent also with regard to them, refusing to admit to herself or to him, that her son needed to have his sense and wisdom defended.
But they loved John dearly in the manse, and trusted him entirely, as his mother saw with a glad heart. So her visit ended happily, and no trace of anxiety or regret was visible in her face when John met her at her journey's end. _