Allison herself wondered a little at their perfect faith in her. The night before, when worship was over, she had stayed behind the others to hear a few last words which were yet to be spoken. When the father and mother had said all they had to say and Allison was at the door to go away, she paused a minute or two, then coming back again she said gravely:

"I think if you had known me all my days,--if you had seen all my life till now,--I think you would still be willing to trust me with your Marjorie. But I cannot tell you. There is a reason--it is better to say nothing. Some day, I hope, I may be able to tell you all."

"We can wait till then," said the minister heartily. The child's mother said the same.

They had trusted her from the first, and any doubts which might have arisen as to the wisdom of committing their child to the care of one of whom they really knew very little, were put aside at the remembrance of all that she had already done for her. The few words which Mrs Esselmont said to them as to her interview with Allison encouraged them also, and they, too, agreed with her in thinking that it was as well not to seek to know more than Allison was willing to reveal.

Allison was glad, and more than glad, to get away. But still when the travellers reached the last point where a glimpse could be caught of the valley in which the little town lay, she told herself that thankful as she was to leave it for a while, she was more thankful still that in her time of need she had been guided to find a refuge there.

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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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. G.o.d 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 st.i.tches 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 pa.s.sed; and at last they came round by Gra.s.sie.

"'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 pa.s.s to a new tenant. Something would need to be done, and the matter might as well be considered at once.