Allison Bain; Or, By a Way She Knew Not

by Margaret M. Robertson

John wrote the name and address, and gave it to him.

“Have you been at the shipping office for news?” said he.

Yes, Brownrig had been there, and had been told that the ship was refitting in the American port, and would soon be home, but that, was all he had heard. Whenever it was possible to do so, John kept out of the man’s way. He had spoken to him nothing but the truth, yet he could not help feeling like a deceiver. And though he told himself that he was ready to lie to Brownrig, rather than say anything that might give him a clue by which the hiding-place of Allison Bain might be discovered, still lying could not be easy work to unaccustomed lips, and he said to himself, “the less of it the better.” So he did not encourage Brownrig when they met, and he kept out of his way whenever it was possible for him to do so. But he pitied the man. He was sorry for the misery for which there could be no help, since Allison Bain feared him, even if she did not hate him. He pitied him, but he could not help him to gain his end. Whether it were right or whether it were wrong, it was all the same to John. He could not betray to her enemy the woman who had trusted her cause in his hands.

But while he pitied him, Brownrig’s persistence in seeking him irritated him almost beyond his power to endure. And the worst of it to John was, that he could not put it all out of his thoughts when Brownrig had turned his back upon the town, and had gone to his own place.

He grew restless and irritable. He could not forget himself in his work as he had been able to do at first, nor fix his attention upon it at all, at times. He read the same page over and over again, and knew not what he read; or he sat for many minutes together, without turning a leaf, as his mother sometimes saw, with much misgiving as to how it was all to end. And when it came to this with him, it was time for her to speak.

“John, my lad,” she said suddenly one night, and in her voice was the mother’s sharpness which is so delightful to hear and so effectual when it is heard only at long intervals; “John, my lad, shut your book and put on your coat, and take Robin with you for a run on the sands, and then go to your bed.”

John’s dazed eyes met hers for a moment. Then he laughed and rose, yawning and stretching his arms above his head.

“You are right, mother, as you always are. We’ll away to the links;” and his cheerful voice calling up-stairs for Robin to come down at once, was music to the ears of his mother.

“There’s not much wrong with him,” she said to herself hopefully. “He’ll win through, and begin again, when once he is fairly free.”

She meant that when “those weary examinations” were all over, he would have time to rest and come to himself, and be ready for his work, whatever it was to be. And—hopeful old mother that she was—she meant more than that. She meant, that before this son of hers, who was wiser and stronger and better than the sons of most mothers, lay a fair future. “The world was all before him where to choose.” He would only be the stronger for the weight of the burden which had fallen so early on his young shoulders. In time he would forget his dream, outlive his disappointment, and be not the worse, but the better for the discipline. He would go his way and serve his Master, and win honour among good men. “And I’ll bide at home and hear of him whiles, and be content,” said the anxious, happy mother, with tears in her loving eyes.