Chapter Twenty One.
“The very rod,
If we but kiss it as the stroke descendeth,
Distilleth oil to allay the inflicted smart.”
And so their new life began, and long before the first month was over, Mrs Beaton was apparently as content with the state of affairs as could well be desired. She had no trouble as to household matters, and sat with her book or her needle at one side of the table, while her son sat with his books and his papers at the other side, very much as they had done during those evenings which John had spent at home in Nethermuir.
Robert Hume lived in the same house, and their meals were served together. But Robert pursued his college work in his own room, and only came as a visitor to Mrs Beaton’s parlour when his books were put aside. John still spent several hours daily in Mr Swinton’s office, and all the rest of the time he was busy also with his college work. To see her son content, was enough for Mrs Beaton.
To give the history of one day would be giving the history of nearly all the days of the winter, except as the Sabbath made a break among them, Robin was reasonably industrious, but he could not be expected to satisfy himself with the unbroken routine into which John readily fell. He had his own companions and his amusements, and their meals were enlivened by his cheerful accounts of all that was happening in the world around them. At his books Robert did fairly well, but he was not likely to overwork himself.
They heard often from Marjorie by the way of the manse, and several times during the winter a little letter came to Robin or to John, written with great care and pains by her own hand. She was very happy, she said, and she had not forgotten them; and by and by she hoped to be able to tell them that she was growing strong and well.
Twice or thrice during the winter Brownrig made his appearance at the office of Mr Swinton. He had, each time, something to say about business, but apparently the laird had changed his mind about the building of the new wing, for nothing more was to be done for the present.
John could not help thinking that his chief reason for coming there was to see him, in the hope that he might hear something about William Bain. More than once he brought his name into their talk, asking if Mr Beaton had heard anything of him, and hoping that he was doing well. On his second visit, meeting John in the street, he turned and walked with him, and told him that one of the lads who had sailed with Bain had been heard from by his friends. The ship had been disabled in a storm before they were half-way over, and had gone far out of her course, but had got safely into a southern port at last.
The passengers had gone their several ways probably, and lost sight of one another, for this lad could tell nothing of Bain, though he had himself safely reached the town where Mr Hadden, the minister’s son, lived, and to which Bain had also intended to go. “I thought perhaps you or your friend might have had some word from him, as you had taken some trouble to help him,” said Brownrig.
“No, that is not at all likely,” said John, “at least as far as I am concerned. Neither likely nor possible. He never saw me, nor I him. He never, to my knowledge, heard my name, and it was only by chance that I ever heard his. But I will give you the name of the man who used to go to the tollbooth on Sunday afternoons. It is just possible, though not very likely, that he may have heard from him.”