Allison Bain Part 41

"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 G.o.d!" 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 friends.h.i.+p, 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 un.o.btrusive 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 a.s.sured 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 G.o.d'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. G.o.d bless her-- Amen."

And so the letter ends, without even his name.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

"Oh! Blessed vision! happy Child."

"Are you sure you are glad to come home, Allie dear?" said Marjorie Hume, looking up rather doubtfully into her friend's face, for Allison had said not a word in answer to her exclamations for some time.

They were walking together through a wide street in Aberdeen, and Marjorie had been amusing herself looking at the people whom they met, and at the pretty things in the shop windows, and had been enjoying it all so much that, for a while, she had never doubted that Allison was enjoying it also. But Allison was looking away to the sea, and her face was very grave, and there was a look in her eyes that Marjorie had not seen in them for a long time now. The look changed as the child repeated the question:

"Allie, you are surely glad to be going home?"

"I am very glad to be bringing my darling home strong and well to her father and mother and them all. They will be more than glad to see us again."

"And, Allie dear, it is your home too, till Mrs Esselmont wants you again. And you will try to be happy there? And you will not be ay wis.h.i.+ng to win away to your brother in America--at least for a while?"

"No, not for a while. But I must go when he sends word that he needs me. That may be sooner than we ken. When he gets his own land, and has his house built, then I will go. But I am in no hurry," said Allison, after a pause. "And now let us go and take a look at the sea. It is too early yet to see Dr Fleming."

"But it is not the same sea that we have been looking at so long--the sea that has helped to make me strong and well."

"It is a grand sea, however, and it is our own. And to-day it is as bonny, and smooth, and blue, as ever the Southern Sea was, and the same sun is s.h.i.+ning upon it. And we must make haste, for we have no time to lose."

They did not go at once, however. As they turned into the next street, a hand was laid on Allison's arm, and looking up she met the eyes of one whom she had not seen for many a day. She had last seen him looking sorrowfully down on the face of her dying father.

"Mr Rainy!" cried she, faintly, thinking of that day.

"Eh! woman, but I am glad to see you after all this time. Where have you been since that sorrowful day? I was just thinking about you as I came down the street. I must believe in a special Providence after this. I was just saying to myself that I would give a five-pound note, and maybe twa, if I could but put my hand on Allison Bain. And lo! here ye are. And, Allison, my woman, if your father could speak to you, he would say, 'Put yourself into my old friend's hand, and be advised and guided by him, and ye'll never have cause to repent it.' And now I say it for him."

Allison shook her head.

"I cannot do that--blindly. I need neither the help nor the guidance that you would be likely to give me. I must go my way with the child."