Allison Bain Part 27

They moved on till they came to the lane that led thither, and pa.s.sed out of the moonlight into the shadow.

"Allison," said John, pausing, "you cannot surely mean to cut me off from all hope? You might come to--care for me in time."

"Care for you? Oh, yes! I care for you. You are my friend, and Willie's. But I have done you a wrong, and with no will to do it."

Instead of going into the house they turned aside at the end of the hedge, and entered the garden. On the summer-seat, under the tall fir-trees, they sat down in silence. After a time Allison rose, and stood before her friend.

"John," said she, "when I heard your voice to-night I was glad. My heart has been heavy with a great dread all the week; and when I heard your voice I said to myself, here is a friend who will help me. John,"

she said after a moment's silence, "it is my secret I am going to tell you--my secret that I have kept all these long months. I trust you, John. You will tell me what I must do."

"Well," said John, as she paused again.

"John--I am a wife already. It is from--from the man who married me against my will that I have been hiding all this time. You must not think ill of me, for I was like a lost creature when my father died, and I knew not what to do. I came away hoping that G.o.d would let me die, or keep me hidden till my brother should get away to the other side of the sea. And G.o.d has kept me safe till now. John, will you forgive me and help me?"

The hands she held out to him trembled. She was shaking with excitement and the chill of the night. He rose and wrapped her shawl close about her.

"Allison, sit down. Or shall we go into the house? I will do all that I can to help you--so help me G.o.d!" said John with a groan, fearing that he was past help.

"No, I will not sit down. Sometime I will tell you all my story, but not to-night. This is what I must tell you. It was in our parish of Kilgower where Mr Crombie laid down his wife. There he heard something of Allison Bain. He saw the man who married me against my will--who has sworn to find me and to take me home to his house, alive or dead. It was in my hearing that he took that oath. But whether Mr Crombie really knows about me, or whether he was only speaking for the sake of saying something, or whether it was to find me out, or to warn me, I cannot say. And oh! I have been so safe here, and I have come to myself among these kind people."

"What do you wish me to do?" said John, as she paused.

"If Crombie should know who I am, and should speak of me to any one, you would hear of it. He may even speak to you. You are his friend. Then will you warn me, and give me time to go away? I should be sorry, oh!

so sorry, to leave the kind folk here and go away again among strangers.

But I will never go with that man, never."

"I will help you if I can. I hope you may be mistaken in thinking that Crombie knows your story. I think, at the worst, it is only a guess he has made."

Allison shook her head.

"He saw the names of my father and mother on the headstone that their son has set up over their grave. Willie may be at home still, but I hope he has gone away to America. Oh! if I were only sure that he were I would go to him at once. I could hardly be brought back so far. And I might hide myself in that great country so that I could never be found."

"Allison," said John gently. "Think of me as a friend, who will help you whatever may happen."

"I thank you kindly, and I trust you. I will bide still where I am while I may, for oh! I dread the thought of these first dark days coming on me again."

"I do not think you need to be afraid of Crombie. He would not willingly injure you. He is a good man, though his sense of duty makes him sometimes say or do what looks hard."

"Yes. He might think it right to betray me--not that it would be betrayal, since I have not trusted him or any one else."

She made a great effort to quiet herself and to speak calmly. But she was anxious and afraid, and she grew sick at heart at the thought that all the dreariness and misery of the first days of her stay in Nethermuir might come back upon her again, of that she might have to go away among strangers.

"But I will not go to yon man's house whatever befall," she said in her heart.

The cloud which had hidden the moon for a while pa.s.sed and showed the trouble in her face, and John's heart smote him as he saw it. To whom might this poor soul turn in her distress? And why should she tell her story to any one? Since she had kept it so long to herself, it could not be an easy one to tell. Why should she tell it? Whether she had been right or wrong in her flight and her silence, it could not be helped now, and if she could be saved from her present fear and pain, it would be right to help her.

"Allison," he said in a little, "you say you trust me. I also trust you. You do not need to tell your story to me. Some day, perhaps, you may tell it to my mother. No one can give you wiser counsel or warmer sympathy than she will. And I think you need not fear Saunners Crombie.

At any rate, he would speak first to yourself, or to one whom he knows to be your friend. He would never betray you to your--enemy."

"Well, I will wait. I will not go away--for a while at least. And you will be my friend?"

"I will try to help you," said John.

But all the thoughts which were pa.s.sing through John Beaton's mind would not have made a pleasant hearing for his mother. A sudden, strong temptation a.s.sailed him, at which he hardly dared to look, and he strove to put it from him.

"As to Crombie," said he, "he is an old man, and growing forgetful. It may all pa.s.s out of his mind again. That would be best."

"Yes," said Allison, "that would be best."

They walked down to the gate together.

"And you will forgive me, Allison, and--trust me?"

"I will ay trust you. And it is you who need to forgive me," said she, holding out her hand. "But it never came into my mind--"

John held her hand firmly for a moment.

"Allison!" said he, and then he turned and went away.

It was his mother who should befriend Allison Bain. But how to tell her story? If it had to be told, Allison must tell it herself. As to speaking with Saunners Crombie about Allison Bain and her troubles--

John uttered an angry word, and hurried down the lane and past the gardens and the green, and over the fields and over the hills, till he came to himself standing in the moonlight within sight of the "Stanin'

Stanes." And being there he could only turn and go home again, carrying his troubled thoughts with him.

He had many of them, and the thought which pressed upon him most painfully for the moment was one which need not have troubled him at all. How was he to meet his mother and speak to her about Allison Bain with all this angry turmoil in his heart? He was angry with himself, with Crombie, even with Allison.

"How could I have thought--" she had said, looking at him with entreaty in her lovely eyes. While she had been in his thoughts by day and in his dreams by night, he "had never come into her mind!"

"But I could have made her think of me if I had not been a fool, with my fine plans about rising in the world! I could make her care for me yet," said John to himself, quite unconscious that from the window of her room his mother's kind, anxious eyes were watching him.

"Something has happened to vex him," said she to herself. "I will not seem to spy upon him. He will tell me, if he needs my help, in his own time."

But she waited and listened long before his footstep came to the door, and he went to his room without coming to say good-night as he pa.s.sed.

"He is thinking I am asleep," said she with a sigh.

There was nothing to be said. That was the conclusion to which John came that night. What could he say to his mother about Allison Bain?

If he were to speak a word, then nothing could be kept back. His mother had a way of knowing his thoughts even before he uttered them, and why should she be vexed at seeing the trouble which, if he spoke at all, could not be concealed from her?

If the story must be told to his mother, Allison herself must tell it.

But why need it be told? If only that meddling old fool, Crombie, had had the sense to hold his tongue. What good could come of speaking?

Why should not the poor soul be left to forget her troubles and to grow content? Even his mother could only warn her and help her to get away if it ever came to that with her. But until then silence was best.

He would have a word with Saunners to find out what he knew and what he only suspected, and he would do what might be done to keep him silent.

John had his word with Crombie, but it did not come about in the way which he had desired and planned. While he was the next day lingering about the kirk in the hope of getting a word with him, Crombie was asking for John at his mother's door.

"Come away in, Mr Crombie," said Mrs Beaton when she heard his voice.

"I have been wishing to see you this while."