Chapter Sixteen.
“Love will venture in where it daurna weel be seen.”
But John had been taken by surprise before Crombie’s turn came to speak. Some one else had spoken.
It was Saturday night. The work of the week was over Marjorie was safe asleep, and restless with the thoughts which always came with leisure, Allison threw a shawl over her head and went out into the lane. It was dark there, where the hedge was high, and the branches hung low from the trees in the manse garden; but beyond the lane, the fields and the faraway hills lay clear in the moonlight. With lingering steps she turned toward the green, along the path which skirted the cottage gardens. When she came to the last of them she heard her name called softly.
It was John Beaton’s voice. She could not see him where he stood, but he saw her clearly. He saw on her face, as she drew near, the shadow which told of the old sadness and gloom; and he saw it pass, like the mist before the sunshine, as she stood still to listen. In a moment he had leaped the dike, and stood by her side.
“Allison!” said he eagerly, as he took her hand.
John was young, and he had had but small experience of woman and her ways, or he never would have mistaken the look on Allison’s face for the look of love which he longed to see. He never would have clasped and kissed her without a word.
In the extremity of her surprise and dismay, Allison lay for a moment in his embrace. Then she struggled to get free.
“Allison, forgive me—because I love you. Allison, say that you will be my wife.”