“It’s no’ like to do his mother muckle gude to be forced to leave her ain house, and take lodgin’s in a toon. But gin he be pleased, that’ll please her,” said Saunners sourly.
“Hae ye ony special reason for thinkin’ and sayin’ that the lad has onything on his mind? He’s dull-like whiles, but—”
“I’m no’ in the way o’ sayin’ things for which I hae nae reason,” said Saunners shortly. “As to special—it’s nae mair special to me than to yoursel’. Has he been the same lad this while that he ance was, think ye? Gude-nicht to ye.”
“Gude-nicht,” said Peter meekly. “Eh! but he’s dour whiles, is Saunners! He is a gude man. Oh! ay, he’s a gude man. But he’s hard on folk whiles. As for John Beaton—I maun hae a crack (a little talk) with himsel’.”
But Peter did not get his crack with John at this time, and if he had had, it is doubtful whether he would have got much satisfaction out of it.
John was not altogether at ease with regard to the state of his mother’s health, but it cannot be said that he was especially anxious. For though the last winter had tried her, the summer “was setting her up again,” she always told him cheerfully when he came. And she was always at her best when her son was with her.
Her little maid, Annie Thorn, to whom she had become much attached, and whom she had trained to do the work of the house in a neat and orderly manner, was permitted to do many things which had until now been done by the careful hands of her mistress. She was “little Annie” no longer, but a well-grown, sensible lass of sixteen, who thought: herself a woman, able to do all that any woman might do. She was willing even to put on the thick muslin cap of her class if her mistress would have consented that she should so disguise herself and cover her pretty hair.
No, John was not anxious about his mother. He was more at ease about her than he had been since he had been obliged to leave her so much at home alone. But he came home more frequently to see her. He had more time, and he could bear the expense better. Besides, the office work which he had to do now kept him closer, and made change and exercise more necessary for him, and so he came, knowing that he could not come too often for his mother’s pleasure.
This was what he said to her and to himself, but he knew in his heart that there was another reason for his coming; he called himself a fool for his pains, but still he came.
He knew now that it was the thought of Allison Bain which would not let him rest, which drew him ever to return. For the thought of her was with him night and day. Her “bonny een” looked up at him from his papers, and his books, and from the waves of the sea, when his restlessness urged him forth to his nightly wanderings on the shore.