"Oh! Blessed vision! happy Child."
"Are you sure you are glad to come home, Allie dear?" said Marjorie
Hume, looking up rather doubtfully into her friend's face, for Allison
had said not a word in answer to her exclamations for some time.
They were walking together through a wide street in Aberdeen, and
Marjorie had been amusing herself looking at the people whom they met,
and at the pretty things in the shop windows, and had been enjoying it
all so much that, for a while, she had never doubted that Allison was
enjoying it also. But Allison was looking away to the sea, and her face
was very grave, and there was a look in her eyes that Marjorie had not
seen in them for a long time now. The look changed as the child
repeated the question:
"Allie, you are surely glad to be going home?"
"I am very glad to be bringing my darling home strong and well to her
father and mother and them all. They will be more than glad to see us
again."
"And, Allie dear, it is your home too, till Mrs Esselmont wants you
again. And you will try to be happy there? And you will not be ay
wishing to win away to your brother in America--at least for a while?"
"No, not for a while. But I must go when he sends word that he needs
me. That may be sooner than we ken. When he gets his own land, and has
his house built, then I will go. But I am in no hurry," said Allison,
after a pause. "And now let us go and take a look at the sea. It is
too early yet to see Dr Fleming."
"But it is not the same sea that we have been looking at so long--the
sea that has helped to make me strong and well."
"It is a grand sea, however, and it is our own. And to-day it is as
bonny, and smooth, and blue, as ever the Southern Sea was, and the same
sun is shining upon it. And we must make haste, for we have no time to
lose."
They did not go at once, however. As they turned into the next street,
a hand was laid on Allison's arm, and looking up she met the eyes of one
whom she had not seen for many a day. She had last seen him looking
sorrowfully down on the face of her dying father.
"Mr Rainy!" cried she, faintly, thinking of that day.
"Eh! woman, but I am glad to see you after all this time. Where have
you been since that sorrowful day? I was just thinking about you as I
came down the street. I must believe in a special Providence after
this. I was just saying to myself that I would give a five-pound note,
and maybe twa, if I could but put my hand on Allison Bain. And lo! here
ye are. And, Allison, my woman, if your father could speak to you, he
would say, `Put yourself into my old friend's hand, and be advised and
guided by him, and ye'll never have cause to repent it.' And now I say
it for him."
Allison shook her head.
"I cannot do that--blindly. I need neither the help nor the guidance
that you would be likely to give me. I must go my way with the child."
"The child! Ah! yes, I see, and a bonny little creature she is," said
Mr Rainy, offering his hand to Marjorie. "And whose child may she be?"
"She is the child of my master and mistress. I have been in service all
this time, and I need help from no one."
"In service! Yes, and among decent folk, I'll be bound! Well! well!
And doubtless you will be able to account for every day and hour that
has gone by since you--were lost sight of. That is well."
"It might be well if there were any one who had a right to call me to
account," said Allison, coldly.
Mr Rainy had turned with them, and they were walking down the street
together.
"A right? The less said about rights the better. But this I will say,
you have a right to look upon me as a friend, as your father did before
you. And I have a right to expect it from you. Your father trusted me,
and it will be for your good to trust me likewise."
"Yes, he trusted you. And if I needed help that you could give, I might
come to you for it. But I have only to ask that you forget that you
have seen me. Not that it matters much now; I have got over my first
fear. I must bid you good-day. We are on our way to see Doctor
Fleming. But first we are going down to the sands."
And then Allison made him a courtesy which minded Marjorie of Mrs
Esselmont. Then they went down another street together, and left him
standing there.
Mr Rainy had been for many years the friend and legal adviser of the
laird of Blackhills, and more than once, in his visits to the great
house on the laird's business, he had given counsel to Allison's father
with regard to his affairs. He had been with him when he was drawing
near his end, and had done, what, at that late day, could be done, to
set his affairs in order, and to secure, that which he possessed, for
the benefit of those he left behind. He had known all the circumstances
of Allison's unfortunate marriage. He had not spared Brownrig when the
matter was discussed between them, but in no measured terms had declared
his conduct to have been cowardly, selfish, base.
But when Allison disappeared so suddenly, he had done his utmost to find
her. That a woman might begin by hating a man, and yet come to love him
when he was her husband, he believed to be possible. At the least
Allison might come to tolerate her husband if she did not love him. She
might come, in time, to take the good of her fine house and of the fine
things, of which there was like to be no stint in it, and live her life
like the rest, when her first anger at his treacherous dealing was over.
For her own sake, for the sake of her good name, and the respect he
owed to the memory of her father, Mr Rainy left no means untried, that
might avail to discover her. He never imagined it possible that she
would remain within a short day's journey of the place where all her
life had been spent.
Of late he had come to believe that she was dead. And he said to
himself, that if she could have been laid to her rest beside her father
and her mother, no one need have grieved for her death. For her
marriage could hardly have been a happy one. All her life long she had
forgotten herself, and lived only for her father and mother, because she
loved them, and because they needed her. For the same reason she would
have laid herself down in the dust, to make a way for her young scamp of
a brother to pass over to get his own will. But for the man who had
married her she had professed no love, and even in his fine house it
might have gone ill with them both.
"But it is different now," he said to himself, as he went down the
street. "Brownrig is a dying man, or I am much mistaken, and he has
known little of any one belonging to him for many a year and day. And
his heart is softening--yes, I think his heart must be softening. He
might be brought to make amends for the ill turn he did her when he
married her. As for her, she will hear reason. Yes, she must be
brought to hear reason. She seemed to ken Dr Fleming. I will see him.
A word from a man like him might have weight with her. I will see him
at once."
Mr Rainy lost no time. He needed to say his say quickly, for the
doctor had much before him in his day's work. The patience with which
he listened, soon changed to eager interest. "It is about Brownrig--the
man whose horse fell with him in the street--that I want to ask. He was
brought to the infirmary lately. You must have seen him."
Then in the fewest possible words that he could use, Mr Rainy told the
story of Allison Bain.
"I met her in the street, and the sight of me hurt her sorely, though
she did not mean that I should see it. I came to you because she named
your name, and I thought you might help in the matter."
Dr Fleming listened in silence. He had never forgotten Allison Bain.
He had never been told her story before; but through some words spoken
by Mr Hadden, and later by Mr Hume, he knew that she _had_ a story,
and that it was a sad one. It was not necessary for him to say all this
to Mr Rainy, who ended by saying:
"What I want you to tell me is, whether the man is likely to live or to
die." And then he added, with an oath, "If I thought he might live, I
would not lift my finger to bring a woman like her, into the power of a
man like him. Certainly I would not do so against her will. But if he
is to die--that is another thing."
Doctor Fleming was not the kind of man to be taken altogether into his
confidence as to the motive he had in desiring to bring these two
together, and he said no more.
"I will see the man to-day," said the doctor, gravely.
As one door opened to let Mr Rainy out, another opened to admit Allison
and Marjorie. It was Marjorie who spoke first.
"My father said I was to come and see you, doctor. I am little Marjorie
Hume. You'll mind on me, I think."
Doctor Fleming laughed, and lifting the little creature in his arms,
kissed her, "cheek and chin."
"My little darling! And are you quite well and strong?"
"Oh! yes. I'm quite well and strong now--just like other bairns. I'm
not very big yet," added she, as he set her down again. "But I am well.
Allie will tell you."
Allison, who had remained near the door, came forward smiling.
"She is much better indeed," said she.
"You should say quite well, Allie dear," urged Marjorie, in a whisper.
"Yes, I may say quite well. Her father wished us to come and see you
before going home. Or rather, he wished you to see the child. But your
time is precious."
"Where are you staying? At the old place with Mrs Robb? Well, I will
come round and see you this evening. I have a good many questions to
ask. You were not thinking of leaving to-day?"
No, they were to remain a day to rest, and some one was to meet them
when they left the mail-coach to take them home. The doctor asked a
question or two and let them go, but his eyes followed them with
interest till they passed round the corner out of sight.
When he came to see them in the evening, he found Marjorie sleeping on
the sofa, while Allison sat by her side with her work in her hand. It
happened well, for the doctor had some questions to ask which could be
answered all the more clearly and exactly, that the child need not be
considered in the matter. They spoke softly, not to disturb her, and in
answer to the doctor's questions Allison told briefly and directly all
that he wished to know. Indeed, he could not but be surprised at the
fulness and the clearness of the account which she gave, of all that the
doctor had done. The minutest details of treatment were given; and
sometimes the reason, and the result, almost as fully and effectively as
they were written down, in a letter which had been sent him by Dr
Thorne. To this letter he referred for a moment, and as he folded it
up, he said:
"The child fell into good hands. Dr Thorne is a skilful doctor and a
wise man. That is well seen in his works and his words."
"Yes," said Allison. "You are right there."
She had spoken very quietly and gravely up to this time. Now the colour
came into her cheeks, and her eyes shone as she went on.
"I could never tell you all his goodness. At first he seemed just to
wish to please his friend, Mrs Esselmont. I doubt whether he had much
hope of helping the child at first. And then he took up the case in
full earnest, for the sake of science, or just for the pleasure of
seeing what wonderful things skill and patience could do for help and
healing. But in a while, it was not just a _case_ with him. He soon
came to love her dearly. And no wonder he loved the gentle little
creature, ay patient and cheerful and making the best of everything,
even when they hurt her, or wearied her, with this thing or that, as
whiles they had to do. Not a child in a thousand would have borne all
she has come through, to have health and strength at last. And not a
doctor in a thousand could have brought her through, I hope, sir, you
will excuse my saying so much," said Allison, pausing suddenly, as she
caught the look with which Doctor Fleming was regarding her.
"Oh! yes. I understand well." And then he opened his letter and read a
line or two.
"`It is a remarkable case altogether. The pleasure I have taken in it
has paid me ten times over for my trouble.'"
"I am sure of it," said Allison, speaking low and eagerly. "I could
never tell you all his kindness. You see it was not just saving a life.
It was a far greater thing to do than that. It would not have been so
very sad a thing for a child like her to have died, to have been spared
the trouble that comes into the life of even the happiest, though many
would have missed her sorely. But she might have lived long, and
suffered much, and grown weary of her life. It is from that that she
has been saved, to happy days, and useful. It will be something to see
her father's face when his eyes light upon her. And the doctor speaks
in earnest, when he says he took pleasure in helping the child."
Doctor Fleming looked up from his letter and smiled, and then read a few
words more from it.
"`You will understand and believe me when I say, that her firm and
gentle nurse has done more for the child than I have done. Without her
constant, wise and loving care, all else could have availed little. She
is a woman among a thousand--a born nurse--'"
Allison laughed softly though the tears came to her eyes.
"Did he say that? He is kind. And I am glad, because--if a time should
come when--"
And then she paused as she met Marjorie's wondering eyes. The doctor
had something to say to the child, but he did not linger long. He had
come with the intention, also, of saying something to Allison of
Brownrig's condition. But he could not bring himself to do it.
"I will wait for a day or two, to see how it is like to be with him. He
is not in a fit state to be moved, as the sight of her would be likely
to move him. And even if I knew he were able to bear it, I could not by
any words about him, spoil her happy homecoming."
"A happy homecoming!" It was that truly. When they came to the mill,
where the houses on that side of the town begin, Marjorie would have
liked to leave the gig, with which Robert had gone to meet them, at the
point where they left the mail-coach, that all the folk might see that
she could walk, and even run, "like the other bairns." And then
everybody would see how wise her father and mother had been in sending
her away to a good man's care. But Robert laughed at her, and said
there would be time enough for all that in the days that were coming,
and Allison bade her wait till her father and mother might see her very
first steps at home.
The time of their homecoming was known, and there were plenty of people
to see them as they passed down the street. Every window and door
showed a face which smiled a welcome to the child. As for Marjorie she
smiled on them all, and nodded and called out many a familiar name; and
there were happy tears in her eyes, and running down her cheeks, before
she made the turn which brought the manse in sight.
And then, when they stopped at the door, her father took her in his
arms, and carried her into the parlour where her mother was waiting for
her, and set her on her own little couch which had never been removed
all this time, and then the door was shut. But not for very long.
For there were all the brothers waiting to see her, and there was the
little sister, who, when she went away, had been a tiny creature in a
long white frock, whom Marjorie longed to see. She was a little lass of
two years now, rosy and strong as any brother of them all. She was in
Allison's arms when the door was opened to admit them, and the pleasant
confusion that followed maybe imagined, for it cannot be described.
That was but the beginning. During the next few days, many a one came
to the manse to see the little maiden who had suffered so patiently,
though she longed so eagerly to be strong and well like the rest. And
now she was "strong and well," she told them all, and the eager, smiling
face was "bonnier and sweeter than ever," her admiring friends agreed.
And those who could not come to see her, she went to see--auld Maggie
and the rest. The schoolmistress was come to the end of all her
troubles, before this time, and was lying at peace in the kirkyard. So
were some others, that Marjorie missed from the kirk and from the
streets, but there was room only for brief sorrow in the heart of the
child.
In the course of a few days Marjorie and Allison were invited to drink
tea at Mrs Beaton's, which was a pleasure to them both. Mrs Beaton
read to them bits out of her John's last letters, which told a good many
interesting things about America, and about John himself, and about a
friend of his, who was well and happy there. Marjorie listened eagerly
and asked many questions. Allison listened in silence, gazing into her
old friend's kindly face with wistful eyes.
That night, when the child was sleeping quietly, Allison came back again
to hear more. There was not much to hear which Allison had not heard
before, for her brother wrote to her regularly now. She had some things
to tell John's mother, which she had not heard from her son, though she
might have guessed some of them. He had told her of his growing success
in his business, and he had said enough about Willie Bain to make it
clear that they were good friends, who cared for one another, and who
had helped one another through the time when they were making the first
doubtful experiment of living as strangers in a strange land. But
Willie had told his sister of his friend's success in other directions,
and he gave the Americans credit for "kenning a good man when they saw
him."
"For," said Willie, "it is not just an imagination, or a way of
speaking, to say, that in this land `all men are free and equal.' Of
course, there are all kinds of men--rich and poor, good, bad, and
indifferent--here as in other lands. All are not equal in that sense,
and all are not equally successful. But every man has a chance here,
whether he works with his head or his hands. And no man can claim a
right to be better than his neighbour, or to have a higher place than
another because of his family, or his father's wealth. It is character,
and intelligence, and success in what one has undertaken to do, that
bring honour to a man here. At least that is the way with my friend.
If he cared for all that, he might have pleasure enough, and friends
enough. He is very quiet and keeps close at his work.
"He has been a good friend to me--better than I could ever tell you, and
nothing shall come between us to separate us, _that_ I say, and swear.
Sometimes I think I would like to go back to Grassie again, that I might
give myself a chance to redeem my character there. But still, I do not
think I will ever go. And so, Allie, the sooner you come the better.
There is surely no danger now after nearly three years."
All this Allison read to John's mother, and there was something more
which, for a moment, she thought she would like to read that might give
pleasure to her kind old friend. For Willie in his next letter had
betrayed, that the "something" which was never to be permitted to come
between the friends to separate them, was the good-will of pretty and
wayward Elsie Strong, who since she had come home from the school, where
she had been for a year or more, "has been as changeable as the wind
with me," wrote poor Willie, and greatly taken up, and more than
friendly with Mr Beaton whenever he came out to the farm. And then he
went on to say, that he thought of going to look about him farther West
before he settled down on land of his own. And he had almost made up
his mind to go at once, and not wait till the spring, as he had at first
intended to do.
The letter went on to say that John Beaton had bought land, and was
going to build a house upon it.
"It is the bonny knowe with the maples on it, looking down on the lake,
where John brought me that first day to breathe the fresh air. John
saved my life that time, and I will never forget it, nor all his
goodness to me since then. Of course, Mr Strong would not have sold a
rod of it to any one else. But Elsie is an only child, and it would be
hard for him to part from her.
"The more I think of it, the more I wish to go farther West before I
take up land of my own--and you must come when I have got it--"
All this Allison glanced over in silence, but she could not bring
herself to read it to Mrs Beaton.
"He has told her himself, doubtless, though she has no call to tell it
to me. I am glad--or I would be glad but for the sake of Willie, poor
lad."
And then, as she rose to go, the door opened, and Saunners Crombie came
stumbling in.