But there was no comfort in that for Robin. “It is like betraying him, mother,” said he. And when it was one night made known in the house that his father was going to Aberdeen, and that his chief reason for going was to see how it was with John Beaton, Robin’s eyes sought those of his mother in doubtful appeal. His mother only smiled. “Cannot you trust your father, Robin?” said she. “I canna trust myself, it seems,” said Robin. “There’s no harm done yet, my lad. You need not fear that ill will come from speaking your secret thoughts to your mother.”
“But other folk’s secret thoughts?” said Robin.
No ill came of it this time. Of course Mrs Hume had told her husband of Robert’s words, and of some thoughts of her own, which she had kept to herself hitherto. Her husband’s first idea was that it was a pity that she should not have a chance of a few words with John. But that was not her idea; and, besides, it was not possible, for various reasons.
“He needs a kind word from some one, but not from me. I am not well pleased with John at present. And it would hardly be wise to give him ‘a piece of my mind,’ now that he is down-hearted. It is you who must go.”
It must be remembered that at this time Mrs Hume did not know all that was to be known of John and his troubles. As for the minister, he was scarcely as much moved as his wife thought he ought to have been by the tale she had told.
“There is no fear of him, if that is all that ails him,” said he.
Still he loved John and longed to help him, and a visit might do both him and his mother good. So he made up his mind to go and see them without loss of time.
It all happened well, though it happened without forethought or planning on his part or on theirs. They rejoiced at his coming. “You have done him good already,” Mrs Beaton’s eyes said to the minister, when she came in and found them together. John sat erect and cheerful, taking his part in the conversation, and though after a little he grew weary and bent his head on his hand as the talk went on, he was more like himself than he had been yet, his mother told the minister, when she went to the door with him, as he was going away. Though he had already said good-night to John, he turned back to say it once more.
“I am afraid I have wearied you, lad,” said he; “and you were weary enough before I came—weary of time and place, and of the words and ways of other folk, and of your own thoughts. I would like well to have the guiding of you for the next month, and I have but a day. Will you put yourself into my hands, John, for one day?”
“Ay, that I will, and for as many as you like.”