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 pass 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 passed as Sabbath-days at home usually passed. 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.