On their way they pa.s.sed by the manse, and Dr Hadden's name was mentioned.

"He has a son in America who has done well there. There are two or three lads from this parish who have gone out to him, Willie Bain among the rest"; and then Brownrig muttered to himself words which John could not hear, but he answered:

"I have heard of several who have done well out there. Land is cheap and good, and skilled labour is well paid," and so on.

But Brownrig came back again to Bain.

"That will not be the way with him. An idle lad and an ill-doing was he. Folk said I was hard on him. He thought it himself. I would have been glad to help him, and to be friends with him before he went away, but he didna give me the opportunity. I respected his father and would gladly have helped him for his sake. If you should hear word of him, ye might let me know."

"I might possibly hear of him," said John; "but it is hardly likely."

He was glad to get away from the man. If by any chance he had uttered the name of Allison, John could not have answered for himself. But he was not done with him yet. Late at night Brownrig came again to the inn and asked for him. John had gone to his room, but he came down when the message was brought to him. The man had been drinking, but he could still "take care of himself," or he thought so. He made some pretence of having something more to say about business, but he forgot it in a little, and went off to other matters, speaking with angry vehemence about men and things of which John knew nothing. It was a painful sight to see, and when two or three men came into the room John rose and wished him good-night. Brownrig protested violently against his "desertion," as he called it, but John was firm in his refusal to stay.

He was afraid, not of Brownrig, but of himself. He was growing wild at the thought that this man should have any hold over Allison Bain--that the time might come when, with the help of the law, he might have her in his power. But he restrained himself, and was outwardly calm to the last.

"Ye're wise to go your ways," said the innkeeper, as John went into the open air. "Yon man's no easy to do wi', when he gets past a certain point. He'll give these two lads all the story of his wrongs, as he calls it, before he's done. He's like a madman, drinking himself to death."

John would not trust himself to speak, but he stood still and listened while the man went on to tell of Brownrig's marriage and all that followed it, and of the madness that seemed to have come upon the disappointed man.

"She has never been heard of since, at least he has never heard of her; and it's my belief he would never hear of her, though half the parish kenned her hiding-place. It is likely that she's safe in America by this time. That is what he seems to think himself. I shouldna wonder if he were to set out there in search of her some day."

John listened in silence, catching every now and then the sound of Brownrig's angry voice, growing louder and angrier as time went on.

It was of all this that John was thinking now, as he stood looking out long into the darkness. Then he came and sat down again, shading his eyes with his hand.

"I am glad to be going away," said Allison, after a little; "and I thank you for--all your kindness."

"Kindness!" repeated John. "I would like to be kind to you, Allison, if you would let me. Allison I think I could make you a happy woman."

He rose and stood before her. Allison shook her head sadly.

"I cannot think of myself as being a happy woman any more;" and then she added: "But when I am fairly away, and not afraid, I can be content. I have my Marjorie now, and when she does not need me any more, I can go to Willie. Oh! if I were only safe away."

John went to the window again. When he came back his face was very pale, but his eyes were gleaming. He sat down on the sofa beside her.

"I am glad--yes, I am glad you are going away. That will be best for a time. And I am glad you have Marjorie. But, Allison, what is to come after? You have your brother? Yes, but he may have some one else then, and may not need you. Oh! Allison, will you let me speak?"

Allison looked up. She grew red, and then pale, but she did not withdraw her eyes from his.

"Speak wisely, John," said she.

"Allison! You cannot think that you owe duty to that man--that brute, I should rather say? Is there anything in the laws of man or of G.o.d to bind you to him? Would it be right to let him claim you as his wife?

Would it be right for you to go to him?"

"Even if it were right, I could not go to him," said she.

"And will you let him spoil your life? Will you let him make you a servant in another woman's house--a wanderer on the face of the earth?"

"He cannot spoil my life if I can only get safe away."

"And do you not hate and loathe him for his sin against you?"

"I do not hate him. I would loathe to live with him. I think--that I pity him. He has spoiled his own life, though he cannot spoil mine--if I only _get_ safe away. It was my fault as well as his. I should have trusted in G.o.d to help Willie and me. Then I would have been strong to resist him."

John bent toward her and took her hand.

"Will you use your strength against me, Allison?"

"No, John. If I have any strength, I will use it in your behalf."

"Allison, I love you dearly. Let me speak, dear," he entreated, as she put up her hand to stop him, "Yes, let me tell you all. From the first moment that my eyes lighted on you I loved you. Do you mind the day?

Wait, dear; let me confess all. I did not wish to love you. I was in love with myself, only seeking to satisfy my own pride and vain ambition by striving to win a high place in the world. The way had opened before me, and some day I was to be wise and learned, and a great man among men. I fought against my love. Are you angry with me. Do you despise me? But love conquered. Love is strong and true."

Allison's colour changed; and, for a moment, her eyes fell before his; but she raised them again, and said, gravely and firmly:

"John, when a good man loves a woman whom he believes to be good, what is due from him to her?"

"Ah! Allison. Let me have a chance to show you! It will take a long life to do it."

"John, let me speak. Does he not honour her in his heart? And does he not uphold her honour before the world?"

"We would go away together across the sea."

"Hush! Do not say it. Do not make me sorry that you love me. Do not make me doubt it."

"Ah! but you cannot doubt it. You will never be able to doubt that I love you. Allison, do you love me, ever so little? I could teach you, dear, to love me."

He sought to take her hand, but she would not yield it to him.

"And your mother, John?"

"She would forgive us, if it were once done."

"And my mother, up in heaven? What would she think if she were to know?

No, John, it cannot be."

"You do not love me. You would not hesitate if you loved me."

"Do I not love you? I am not sure. I think I might learn to love you; but I could not go with you. No, I could not."

"Allison, I could make you a happy woman," said John, ending where he had begun.

"And would you be a happy man? Not if you are the good man that I have ay believed you to be. You would be wretched, John; and seeing it, could I be happy, even if my conscience slumbered?"

"Allison, do you love me, ever so little? Whatever else is to be said, look once into my face and say, 'John, I love you.'"

She looked into his face as he bade her, and her own changed, as she met his eyes. But she did meet them bravely.