But Allison Bain did not love him. At least she did not love him well enough to be willing to do what was wrong for his sake. And now it was all past and gone forever.

What, then, was his duty and interest in the circ.u.mstances?

To forget her; to put her out of his thoughts and out of his heart; to begin at the work which he had planned for himself before ever he had seen her face; to hold to this work with might and main, so as to leave himself no time and no room for the cherishing of hope or the rebelling against despair, and he strengthened himself by recalling the many good reasons he had seen for not yielding when the temptation first a.s.sailed him.

He ought to be glad that she had refused to listen to him. She had been wise for them both, and it was well. Yes, it was well. This momentary madness would pa.s.s away, and he had his work before him.

And so to his work he determined to set himself. So many hours were to be given to Mr Swinton and so many to his books. In these circ.u.mstances there would be no leisure for dreams or for regrets, and he would soon be master of himself again.

And he must lose no time. First he must go and see his mother. He hung his head as he owned to himself how few of his thoughts had been given to her of late.

All this while she had had many thoughts concerning him; and when, one night, he came at last, wet and weary, through the darkness of a November night, she welcomed him lovingly, and uttered no word of reproach or even of surprise at his long silence, or at his seeming forgetfulness of the plan which he had himself proposed. She was just as usual, more glad to see him than she had words to tell, and full of interest in all that he had to say.

And John flattered himself that he was "just as usual" also. He had plenty to say at first, and was cheerful over it. Of his own accord he told her about the travellers, as he called them; how he had seen them at Robin's lodgings at night, and when they went away in the morning; and of how content little Marjorie seemed to be in Allison Bain's care, and how sure she was that she was coming home strong and well.

"You'll need to go and tell her mother about it to-morrow," said Mrs Beaton. "She will be glad to hear about her, though I daresay they have had a letter by this time."

"Surely, I'll go to tell them," said John.

But he grew silent after that. He said a few words about how busy he had been of late, and then he owned that he was very tired, and bade his mother good-night cheerfully enough.

"For," said he, "why should my mother be vexed by any trouble of mine, that is so sure soon to pa.s.s away?"

And his mother was saying, as she had said before:

"If he needs me, he will tell me, and if I cannot help him, silence is best between us. For oh! I fear if all were told, there might be some things said that his mother would grieve to hear."

The next day pa.s.sed as Sabbath-days at home usually pa.s.sed. They went to the kirk together in the morning, and John went alone in the afternoon. He led the singing, and shook hands with a good many people, and was perhaps more friendly with some of them than was usual with him.

He went to the manse in the gloaming to tell them how he had seen the last of Marjorie, how she had been happy and bright, and how she had promised to write a letter to him and to many more; but he never mentioned Allison's name, Mrs Hume noticed, nor did she.

He found his mother sitting by the light of the fire. She gave him her usual greeting.

"Well, John?" said she, cheerfully.

"Well, mother?" said he cheerfully also.

There was not much more said for a while. John's thoughts were faraway, his mother saw, and she sat waiting with patience till they should come back again--with a patience which might have failed at last.

"He maybe needs a sharp word," she thought.

It could wait, however; and in a little she said gently:

"You are looking tired, John; you have been overworking yourself, I doubt."

John laughed.

"Oh! no, mother; far from that. I have plenty of work before me, however, and must buckle to it with a will. You are thinking of coming with me, mother? I hope your heart is not failing you at the thought of the change?"

"Failing me! by no means. Surely, I have been thinking of it and preparing for it, and it is full time the change were made, for the winter is drawing on."

"Yes, the winter is drawing on."

"But, John, I have been taking a second thought about the house. I must go to the town with you for the winter, and that for various reasons.

Chiefly because you cannot come here often without losing your time, and I weary for you whiles, sorely. I did that last year, and this year it would be worse. But I would like to be here in the summer. If I have to part from you I would rather be here than among strangers."

"But, mother, what has put that in your head? It is late in the day to speak of a parting between you and me."

"Parting! Oh, no. Only it is the lot of woman, be she mother or wife, to bide at home while a man goes his way. You may have to seek your work when you are ready for it; and I am too old and frail now to go here and there as you may need to do, and you could ay come home to me here."

John's conscience smote him as he listened. He had been full of his own plans and troubles; he had been neglecting his mother, who, since the day he was born, had thought only of him.

"You are not satisfied with the decision I have come to--the change of work which I have been planning."

His mother did not answer for a minute.

"I would have been well pleased if the thought of change had never come into your mind. But since it has come, it is for you to do as you think right. No, I would have had you content to do as your father did before you; but I can understand how you may have hopes and ambitions beyond that, and it is for you to decide for yourself. You have your life before you, and mine is nearly over; it is right that you should choose your way."

John rose and moved restlessly about the room. His mother was hard on him, he said to himself. His hopes and ambitions! He could have laughed at her words, for he had been telling himself that such dreams were over forever. It mattered little whether he were to work with his head or his hands, except as one kind of work might answer a better purpose than the other in curing him of his folly and bringing him to his senses again.

"Sit down, John," said his mother; "I like to see your face."

John laughed.

"Shall I light the candle, mother?"

"There is no haste about it. I have more to say. It is this. You may be quite right in the decision to which you have come. You are young yet, and the time which you may think you have lost, may be in your favour. You have a stronger body than you might have had if you had been at your books all these years; and you have got experience, and I hope some wisdom, that your books could not have given you. I am quite content that you should have your will."

"Thank you, mother. That is a glad hearing for me. I could have had little pleasure in my work, going against your wish and will."

"Well, take pleasure in it now. If I held back for a while, it was only that I thought I saw a chance of a better kind of happiness for you.

The sort of work matters less than we think. If it is done well, that is the chief thing. And you have been a good son to your mother."

"Thank you, mother. I hope you will never have to say less of me than that. And now is it settled?"

"Now it's settled--as far as words can settle it, and may G.o.d bless you and--keep you all your days."

She had almost said, "comfort you!" but she kept it back, and said it only in her heart.

Though Mrs Beaton's preparations were well advanced, there was still something to do. It could be done without John's help, however, and he left as usual, early in the morning. It was a good while before he saw Nethermuir again.

In a few days his mother was ready to follow him. The door was shut and locked, and the key put into the responsible hand of cripple Sandy for safe keeping. It must be owned that John's mother turned away from the little house where her son had made a home for her, with a troubled heart. Would it ever be her home again? she could not but ask herself.

It might be hers, and then it would also be his in a way--to come back to for a day or a week now and then for his mother's sake. But it could never more be as it had been.

It was nothing to grieve for, she told herself. The young must go forth to their work in the world, and the old must stay at home to take their rest, and to wait for the end. Such was G.o.d's will, and it should be enough.

It was, in a sense, enough for this poor mother, who was happier in her submission than many a mother who has seen her son go from her; but she could not forget that--for a time at least--her son must carry a sad heart with him wherever he went. And he was young, and open to the temptations of youth, from which his love and care for his mother, and the hard work which had fallen to his lot, had hitherto saved him. How would it be with him now?