“Jean!” he said in a low voice, holding out both hands.
Jean did not scream or faint. Her position in life, as well as her rough experiences, forbade such weakness, but it did not forbid—well, it is not our province to betray confidences! All we can say is, that when Andrew Black returned to the cellar, after a prolonged and no doubt scientific inspection of the weather, he found that the results of the interview had been quite satisfactory—eminently so!
Need we say that there were rejoicing and thankful hearts in Candlemaker Row that night? We think not. If any of the wraiths of the Covenanters were hanging about the old churchyard, and had peeped in at the well-known back window about the small hours of the morning, they would have seen our hero, clasping his mother with his right arm and Jean with his left. He was encircled by an eager group—composed of Mrs Black and Andrew, Jock Bruce, Ramblin’ Peter, and Aggie Wilson—who listened to the stirring tale of his adventures, or detailed to him the not less stirring and terrible history of the long period that had elapsed since he was torn from them, as they had believed, for ever.
Next morning Jean accompanied her lover to the workshop of her uncle, who had preceded them, as he usually went to work about daybreak.
“Are ye no feared,” asked Jean, with an anxious look in her companion’s face, “that some of your auld enemies may recognise you? You’re so big and—and—” (she thought of the word handsome, but substituted) “odd-looking.”
“There is little fear, Jean. I’ve been so long away that most of the people—the enemies at least—who knew me must have left; besides, my bronzed face and bushy beard form a sufficient disguise, I should think.”
“I’m no sure o’ that,” returned the girl, shaking her head doubtfully; “an’ it seems to me that the best thing ye can do will be to gang to the workshop every mornin’ before it’s daylight. Have ye fairly settled to tak’ to Uncle Andrew’s trade?”
“Yes. Last night he and I arranged it while you were asleep. I must work, you know, to earn my living, and there is no situation so likely to afford such effectual concealment. Bruce offered to take me on again, but the smiddy is too public, and too much frequented by soldiers. Ah, Jean! I fear that our wedding-day is a long way off yet, for, although I could easily make enough to support you in comfort if there were no difficulties to hamper me, there is not much chance of my making a fortune, as Andrew Black says, by turning parritch-sticks and peeries!”
Wallace tried to speak lightly, but could not disguise a tone of despondency.
“Your new King,” he continued, “seems as bad as the old one, if not worse. From all I hear he seems to have set his heart on bringing the country back again to Popery, and black will be the look-out if he succeeds in doing that. He has quarrelled, they say, with his bishops, and in his anger is carrying matters against them with a high hand. I fear that there is woe in store for poor Scotland yet.”