She made a great effort to quiet herself and to speak calmly. But she was anxious and afraid, and she grew sick at heart at the thought that all the dreariness and misery of the first days of her stay in Nethermuir might come back upon her again, of that she might have to go away among strangers.
“But I will not go to yon man’s house whatever befall,” she said in her heart.
The cloud which had hidden the moon for a while passed and showed the trouble in her face, and John’s heart smote him as he saw it. To whom might this poor soul turn in her distress? And why should she tell her story to any one? Since she had kept it so long to herself, it could not be an easy one to tell. Why should she tell it? Whether she had been right or wrong in her flight and her silence, it could not be helped now, and if she could be saved from her present fear and pain, it would be right to help her.
“Allison,” he said in a little, “you say you trust me. I also trust you. You do not need to tell your story to me. Some day, perhaps, you may tell it to my mother. No one can give you wiser counsel or warmer sympathy than she will. And I think you need not fear Saunners Crombie. At any rate, he would speak first to yourself, or to one whom he knows to be your friend. He would never betray you to your—enemy.”
“Well, I will wait. I will not go away—for a while at least. And you will be my friend?”
“I will try to help you,” said John.
But all the thoughts which were passing through John Beaton’s mind would not have made a pleasant hearing for his mother. A sudden, strong temptation assailed him, at which he hardly dared to look, and he strove to put it from him.
“As to Crombie,” said he, “he is an old man, and growing forgetful. It may all pass out of his mind again. That would be best.”
“Yes,” said Allison, “that would be best.”
They walked down to the gate together.