"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 la.s.s," 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 pa.s.s 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 Gra.s.sie 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! G.o.d, 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."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

"She wakened heavy-hearted To hear the driving rain, By noon the clouds had parted, And the sun shone out again.

'I'd take it for a sign,' she said, 'That I have not prayed in vain.'"

That night while Mrs Beaton and her son sat by the fireside, exchanging a word now and then, but for the most part in silence, a knock came to the door. Allison had given herself no time to reconsider the determination to which she had come when she met John's eyes in the kirk, being bent on abiding by it whatever might befall.

It had not come into her mind that her courage might fail her at the last moment. It was not that her courage was failing, she told herself, as she stood waiting. It was because she had run down the lane so quickly that her heart was beating hard. It was like the thud of a great hammer against her side; it frightened her, and she was tempted to turn and run away. But she did not.

"I would be sorry when it was too late," thought she, and knocked again.

There was a pause of a minute or two, and then the door opened, and John Beaton appeared, carrying a light.

"I was wishing to say a word to Mrs Beaton, if she will let me," said Allison, making a great effort to speak as usual.

"Surely," said John. "Come in."

"Come away in, Allison," said Mrs Beaton's kind voice out of the darkness.

When John had shut the door and come into the parlour with the light, he was surprised to see that the two women had clasped hands, and that on his mother's face was the look which he had hitherto believed it had worn for him alone. He moved a chair forward from the wall.

"Sit down, Allison," said he.

"No," said she; "I will say first what I came to say."

John set down the candle and turned to go. But Allison put out her hand to detain him.

"'Bide still," said she. "I have to ask your mother to ask her son to do something for me--something which I cannot do for myself, but which must be done, or I think my heart will break."

"'Bide still, John," said his mother.

John moved the light again, so that it fell on Allison's face, and then went and stood in the shadow, leaning on the back of his mother's chair.

Allison stood for a moment silent, and both mother and son regarded her with interest and with surprise as well.

This was quite a different Allison, Mrs Beaton thought, from the one who went up and down the street, heeding no one, seeing nothing unless the child Marjorie was in her arms to call her attention to whatever there might be to see. She seemed eager and anxious, full of determination and energy. She had not at all the air of one who had been accustomed to go and come at the bidding of other folk.

"It is the true Allison at last," said John to himself.

"Her gown has something to do with it," thought Mrs Beaton, and perhaps it had. Her gown was black, and hung in straight folds about her. A soft, white kerchief showed above the edge of it around her throat, and her Sunday cap, less voluminous and of lighter material than those which she wore about her work, let her shining hair be seen.

"A strong and beautiful woman," John said to himself. His mother was saying it also; but with a better knowledge of a woman's nature, and a misgiving that some great trouble had brought her there, she added:

"May G.o.d help her, whatever it may be. Allison, sit down," she said after waiting a minute for her to speak.

"It is that my heart is beating so fast that I seem to be in a tremble,"

said Allison, clasping her hands on her side.

"Sit down, my dear," said Mrs Beaton kindly. "Not yet. It is only a few words that I must say, I have had great trouble in my life. I have trouble yet--that must be met. And it came into my mind when I was sitting in the kirk that you might maybe help me, and--keep my heart from breaking altogether," said she; then lifting her eyes to John's face she asked, "Have ye ever been in the tollbooth at Aberdeen? It is there my Willie is, whom I would fain save."

John's mother felt the start her son gave at the words. Even she uttered a word of dismay.

"I must tell you more," said Allison eagerly. "Yes, he did wrong. But he had great provocation. He struck a man down. At first they thought the man might die. But he didna die. My mother died, and my father, but this man lived. Willie was tried for what he had done, and though all in the countryside were ready to declare that Brownrig had gotten only what he well deserved, they sentenced the lad to a long year and a half in the tollbooth, and there he has been all this time. A long time it has been to me, and it has been longer to him. It is near over now, thank G.o.d."

"And have you never seen him nor heard from him since then?" asked Mrs Beaton.

"I wrote one letter to him and he wrote one to me. That was at the first. I wrote to him to tell him what I was going to do, and to warn him what he must do when his time was over. I dared not write again, for fear that--and even now I dare not go to him. When we meet it must be on the other side of the sea. But I _must_ hear from him before then. He wasna an ill lad, though ye might think it from what I have told you. He was only foolish and ill advised.

"And think of him all these long days and months alone with his anger and his shame--him that had ay had a free life in the fields and on the hills. And there is no one to speak a kind word to him when he comes out of that weary place--"

"And you would like my John to go and see him?" said Mrs Beaton.

"Oh! if he only would! Think of him alone, without a friend! And he is easily led either for good or ill."