"Show me what I have to do,
Every hour my strength renew."
"Mistress Beaton," said the old man, "it is a liberty I am taking to
trouble you at this late hour. But I hae been at the manse to get
speech o' Allison Bain, and if I dinna see her the nicht I kenna when I
may see her, and it is of importance."
Allison came forward, and offered her hand with a smile.
"I am sorry that you have had the trouble of seeking for me," said she.
"That's neither here nor there. I am glad to see you safe hame again.
Ye hae been doin' your duty down yonder they tell me. May ye ay hae the
grace to do it. I hae some words to say to ye. Will ye go with me, or
will I say them here? I am just come hame from Aberdeen."
"And you are done out. Sit you down and rest yourself," said Mrs
Beaton, as she rose. Allison put out her hand to stay her as she was
about to leave the room.
"Bide still with me. Mr Crombie can have nothing to say to me, that
you may not hear."
The old man was leaning forward with his hands on his knees, looking
tired and ready to fall asleep where he sat. He roused himself as
Allison spoke.
"That is as ye shall think yoursel'. This is what I hae to say to you.
I hae heard o' yon man again. I hae seen him. And I hae come to say to
you, that it is your duty to go to him where he lies on his dying bed.
Ay woman! ye'll need to go. It's no' atween you and him now, but atween
you and your Maker."
"It has come at last," said Allison, growing pale.
Mrs Beaton sat down beside her, and taking her hand, held it firmly in
both hers.
"It was an accident," went on Crombie. "He had been drinking too
freely, they say. He was in the town, and he set off late to go home,
and was thrown from his horse. How it happened canna be said, but they
found him in the morning lying by the dike-side, dead--it was supposed
at first. But they carried him to the infirmary, and he is living yet.
He is coming to himself, and kens folk, and he _may_ live to leave the
place, but it's less than likely."
"And who bade you come to Allison Bain with all this?" asked Mrs
Beaton, gravely. "And are you quite sure it is true?"
"Oh! ay, it's true. I didna come to her with hearsays. I gaed mysel'
to the infirmary and I saw him with my ain een. And who bade me come
here to her, say ye? It was the Lord himself, I'm thinking. The man's
name wasna named to me, nor by me. I kenned him because I had seen him
before. And it was borne in upon me that I should tell Allison Bain o'
his condition. Or wherefore should the knowledge of it have come to me
who am the only one here beside yoursel' who kens how these twa stand to
ane anither?"
But Mrs Beaton's heart sickened at the thought of what might be before
Allison.
"What could she do for him if she were to go there? He is in good hands
doubtless, and is well cared for. Has he been asking for her?"
"That I canna say. But ye may ken without my telling you, that there is
no saying `wherefore?' to a message from the Lord. And it is between
the Lord and this woman that the matter is to be settled now."
But Mrs Beaton shook her head.
"I canna see it so. If he really needed her--if it were a matter of
life and death--"
"A matter of life and death! Do ye no' see, woman, that it is for more
than that? It is the matter of the saving of a soul! Do ye not
understand, that a' the evil deeds o' a' his evil life will be coming
back now on this man, and setting themselves in array against him, and
no' among the least o' them the evil he brought on her and hers? And
what kens he o' the Lord and His mercy? And what has he ever heard of
salvation from death through faith in the Son of God?"
Mrs Beaton had no words with which to answer him, and they all were
silent for a while. Then Crombie began again, more gently:
"And if he were to come out of his fever, with all the dreads and doubts
upon him that hae been filling his nights and days, and if he were to
see her face with a look of forgiveness on it, and the peace of God, it
might encourage him to hope in God's mercy, and to lippen himsel'--
sinner as he kens himsel' to be--in the hands of Him who is gracious,
and full of compassion and tender mercy. Think of the honour of being
the means, in the Lord's hand, of saving a sinner like that!"
The old man had risen, and with his eyes on Allison's face, spoke
earnestly, almost with passion. But as he ended, he sank back into his
chair again silent and exhausted. At a word now from Mrs Beaton,
Allison rose and went out into the kitchen.
"Mr Crombie," said Mrs Beaton, softly, "it is a great thing that you
are asking of Allison Bain. I know not what to say. I can speak no
word to bid her go. I pray that she may be guided aright."
The old man answered nothing. He seemed utterly spent and helpless.
"You have had a long journey. You are quite worn out," said Mrs
Beaton.
"Ay, have I. And it's no' just done yet, and there is a dark house and
a silent at the end o't. But I'll win through it."
In a few minutes Allison came in quietly.
"Mr Crombie, you are to come with me to the fire. I have made some tea
for you, and you must eat and drink before you try to go home."
He looked at her without a word. She took his hand, and he rose and
went with her to the kitchen, where a table was spread and a small fire
burned on the hearth. She put food before him, and though at first he
refused it, after a little he ate, and was refreshed. Then he leaned
back and seemed ready to fall asleep again.
"Mr Crombie," said Allison, stooping and speaking low, "I will think of
what you have said. I wish to do right, and I pray that God may guide
me. Wait here till I come back again."
She had seen one of Peter Gilchrist's men on his way to the mill with
his cart, at a late hour, and she hoped to find him still lingering
about the place. Crombie must be committed to his care, for in his
present state he could not be allowed to take his way home alone.
Before she could begin to think of what he had said, he must be safely
sent on his way. Fortunately, she met the man coming down the street,
and Crombie went with him. Then the two women sat down and looked at
one another in silence. For the moment, Mrs Beaton was more troubled
and anxious than Allison herself.
"My dear," said she, "it looks as if all these years that you have been
kept safe from his hands, had been in vain."
"No," said Allison, "much good has come to me in those years. They have
not been in vain. Mrs Beaton, I wish to do what is right. Tell me
what I ought to do."
"My dear, I cannot tell you. It is you yourself who must decide.
Allison, are you strong enough, or patient enough, to think of what may
be before you? Think of living your life--ten--twenty years with a man
like that! Yes, it is said that he is dying, but that is what no one
can really know. And if you go to him now, it must be till death comes
to part you. May God guide you. It is not for me to say what it is
right for you to do." Allison sat silent.
"It is not as though all the blame had been his. I should have stood
firm against him. And his life has been ruined as well as mine--far
more than mine. God has been very good to me. If I were sure of His
will in this thing, I wouldna be afraid."
"But, Allison! Think of your brother."
"Yes, it was of him I thought before, and I did a great wrong."
"Allison, it would be to sacrifice yourself a second time. My dear, at
least take time to think, and to seek counsel. You have been taken by
surprise. In your great pity for this man, you must not let yourself do
what can never be undone."
"No, I have not been taken by surprise. I have been expecting something
to happen ever since I came back again." And then Allison told of her
meeting with Mr Rainy on the street in Aberdeen, and how he had spoken
to her of Brownrig.
"He said nothing of his being hurt or in danger. But what he did say,
has never been out of my thoughts since then. I seem to have been
preparing myself for some great change, all this time. It would be far
easier for me to lose myself out of the sight and knowledge of all who
know me, than it was when I left my home. I was hardly myself then. My
only thought was, how I was to get away. I knew not where I was going.
Yet I believe I was guided here."
Allison spoke with perfect quietness. Mrs Beaton could only look and
listen, astonished, as she went on.
"Yes, I was guided here, and much good has come to me since then. And I
think--I believe, that I wish to follow God's wul in this, whatever it
may be. And I have only you to help me with your counsel."
"You have the minister--and Mrs Hume."
"Yes, I might speak to them--I must speak to them," said Allison, with a
sigh. "I _must_ say something to them. They know nothing of me, except
what they have seen with their own eyes. But I do not think they will
blame me much, when they know all."
Mrs Beaton said nothing. Little had ever been said to her, either by
the minister or his wife, concerning Allison or her affairs. But in
seeking to comfort the mother in her first loneliness, when her son went
away, the minister had almost unconsciously shown her that he knew even
more of John's disappointment and remorse than she herself knew. She
had made no response, for she believed that for all concerned, silence
was best.
As for Brownrig, whether he were dying or not, how could he be helped or
comforted by the sight of the woman against whom he had so deeply and
deliberately sinned? As to the saving of his soul, God was gracious,
and full of compassion. He had many ways of dealing with men, whether
in mercy or in judgment. Could it be God's will that Allison's life
should be still one of sacrifice, and pain, and loss, because of him?
Surely, surely not.
Meanwhile Allison was repeating to herself Crombie's words:
"Life and death! It is the matter of a soul's salvation! It is not
between you and that bad man any more. It is between you and the Lord
himself, who is ever merciful, and ready to forgive. Forgive and it
shall be forgiven unto you--"
Over and over again, the words repeated themselves to her as she sat in
silence, till Mrs Beaton said gently:
"Allison, you have been greatly moved and startled by that which you
have heard. You are in no state to decide anything now. Sleep upon it,
my dear. Take time to look upon this matter in all lights, before you
suffer yourself to be entangled in a net from which there may be no
escape for many a year and day--from which you may never, all your life,
escape. Allison, do you think the Lord has kept you safe these years,
to let you lose yourself now? No, I will say nothing to influence you
against your conscience. Do nothing hastily, that is all I ask. Seek
counsel, as I shall seek it for you."
But when the old woman had kissed her, and blessed her, and bidden her
good-night, she held her fast and could not let her go, till Allison
gently withdrew herself from her clasp.
"Pray to God to guide me in the right way," she whispered, and then she
went away.
Mrs Beaton slept little that night--less than Allison did, though she
had much to do before she laid herself down beside little Marjorie.
"Seek counsel," Mrs Beaton had said. And this in the silence of the
night, she herself tried to do. And gradually and clearly it came to
her that better counsel was needed than that which she would fain have
given to her friend.
Was it of Allison she had been thinking in all that she had said? Not
of Allison alone. Her first thought had been of her son, and how it
might still be God's will that he should have the desire of his heart.
And oh! if Allison could but go to him as she was, without having looked
again on that man's face, or touched his hand, or answered to his name.
Surely, for this woman who had suffered much, and long, and in silence,
to whom had come the blessed "afterward" and "the peaceable fruits of
righteousness," surely, for her it could not be God's will that the
worst was yet to come. Who could say?
"And yet, ah me! our _worst_ is whiles His _best_ for us and ours! I
doubt I have been seeking to take the guidance of their affairs into my
ain hand. No, no, Lord! I would not have it for them nor for myself.
She is in Thy hand. Keep her there safe. And a soul's salvation--that
is a great thing--"
That was the way in which it ended with Mrs Beaton. But the day was
dawning before it came to that. And as the day dawned, Allison was once
more standing on the hilltop to take a last look of her place of refuge,
and then she turned her face toward Aberdeen.
When she left Mrs Beaton and went round by the green, and the lanes,
where she had gone so many times, and in so many moods, she was saying
to herself:
"I will speak now, and I will take what they shall say to me for a
sign."
It was later than she had thought. Worship was over, and all the house
was quiet, as she knocked at the parlour-door with a trembling hand.
The minister sat in his usual seat with an open letter before him, and
Mrs Hume's face was very grave as she bade her sit down. But Allison
was in haste to say what must be said, and she remained standing with
her hands firmly clasped.
"I have something to tell you, and it must be told to-night. You will
try to think as little ill of me as you can. I did wrong maybe, but I
could see no other way. But now I am not sure. I think I wish to do
God's will, and you will tell me what it is."
She spoke low, with a pause at the close of every sentence, and she was
very white and trembling as she ceased. Mrs Hume rose, and leading her
to a chair made her fit down, and sat beside her, still holding her
hand.
"We shall be glad to help you if we can," said the minister.
Then Allison told her story briefly, so briefly that it is doubtful
whether her listeners would have understood it, if they had heard it
then for the first time. They had not heard it all, only bits here and
there of it, but enough to enable them to understand something of the
morbid fear and the sense of utter desolation from which she had
suffered, when she first came among them. Her voice grew firm as she
went on, and she spoke clearly and strongly, so that many words were not
needed. She hesitated a little, when she came to the time when she had
asked John Beaton to befriend her brother, but she went on gravely:
"He did not see my brother. He had gone. I had been months away with
the child, before I heard that Willie was in America safe and well. It
was a friend who wrote to me--Mr Hadden, our minister's son. Willie is
doing well, and some time I am to go out to him--if I can."
She paused, withdrew her hand from Mrs Hume's clasp, and rose, saying:
"Now, I must tell you. All this time I have been afraid that--the man
who married me would find me and take me to his house in spite of me.
But it is I who have found him. It was Mr Crombie who told me about
him. He said he had seen him--on his dying bed, and in God's name he
bade me go to him, and tell him that I forgave him for the ill he did
me. He said it was not between me and the man who had sinned against
me, but it was between me and the Lord himself, and that I must forgive
if I would be forgiven. And if you shall say the same--"
Allison sat down and bent her head upon her hands. Mrs Hume laid her
hand upon the bowed head, but she did not speak. Mr Hume said:
"I do not see how Crombie has had to do with this matter."
Allison looked up.
"I should have told you that it was in our parish that Mr Crombie
buried his wife. He saw the names of my father and mother on their
headstone, and some one there--meaning me no ill--told him about me.
And when he came home again, he thought it his duty to point out to me
that I might be in the wrong. But I think it must have gone out of his
mind, for he never spoke to me again till to-night."
"And to-night he spoke?"
"Yes. To-night he came to me in Mrs Beaton's house, and warned me that
it was my duty to go to a dying man. And if you tell me the same, I
must go."
She let her face fall again upon her hands.
Mr Hume did not answer her at once. He opened again the letter which
he held and read it from beginning to end. It was a letter from Doctor
Fleming, of Aberdeen, telling him of the state in which Brownrig was
lying, and of his relations with Allison. He left it to Mr Hume to
decide whether or not Allison should be told of Brownrig's condition,
and to advise her what she ought to do. He said that Mr Rainy, who had
long been a friend of the Bain family, strongly advised that she should
come at once to Aberdeen, and added, at Mr Rainy's request, that as Mr
Brownrig had kept up no close intercourse with any one belonging to him,
it might be much for Allison's interest to respond in a friendly spirit
to this call. Dr Fleming, for himself, said that it might be for
Allison's future peace of mind, if she could tell this man that she had
forgiven his sin against her. The disclosure of Crombie rendered it
unnecessary to discuss this letter with her.
"Allison," said Mr Hume, after some time of silence, "no one can decide
this matter for you. You need not fear him any more, and it is well
that he should know that you have forgiven him. And it would be well
also for you."
"Have I forgiven him? I do not know. I wish him no ill. I never
wished him any ill, even at the worst, and if he is dying--"
Allison paused, and a look of something like terror passed over her
face, but she did not utter her thought.
"Allison," said Mrs Hume, "I think there is much in what Crombie said.
If you are able truly to forgive his sin against you, it might help him
to believe--it might open his eyes to see that the Lord also is willing
to forgive and receive him."
"You must trust in God, and do not try to look beyond the doing of
present duty. The way is dark before you. But one who loves you sees
it all, and He will lead you to the end, whatever it may be. I cannot
see the end, but, Allison, I dare not bid you not to go," said Mr Hume,
solemnly.
Allison looked from one to the other, and over her face for a moment
came the lost look--the look helpless and hopeless, which they had
wondered at and grieved over, in the first days of her coming among
them. But it passed away, and she rose, Saying:
"Then the sooner I go the better, and I need my time."
"And, Allison, remember, whatever happens, we are not to lose sight of
one another. There is no need for many words between us. This is your
home. Come back again as soon as you are able."
Mr Hume said the same as he shook her hand, Mrs Hume went with her to
the room where little Marjorie was sweetly sleeping. The two women had
something to say to each other. They spoke very quietly, and when she
said good-night, the minister's wife kissed and blessed her with a full
heart.
Strangely enough, Allison fell asleep as soon as her head touched the
pillow. The dawn found her up, and ready for the long walk to the point
where she was to take the mail-coach to Aberdeen. It cannot be said
that she had no misgivings, no faintness of heart, as she turned on the
hilltop, and looked back on the house which had been first her refuge,
and then her home for so long. For even when she was faraway from
Nethermuir, and from Scotland, it was to the manse her thoughts turned
as home.
"Shall I ever see it again?" she asked herself, sadly. "And how will it
be with me then?"
But her courage did not fail her. She remembered distinctly, or rather,
she saw clearly the forlorn creature, who on that drear November day,
nearly three years ago, stood looking down on the little town.
"Poor soul!" said she pitifully, as if it had been some one else who
stood helpless and fearful there. "Ay! poor soul! But was she not well
welcomed, and mercifully dealt with there, till she came to herself
again? And has not goodness and mercy followed her all her days since
then? Why should I be so sore afraid?"
And so on the strength of that she went peacefully, till she came to the
place where she was to take the coach, for which she had to wait a
while. When she was seated in it she was sorry that she had not sent on
her bundle with it, and walked the rest of the way. For the ceaseless
droning talk of two old men, who sat beside her, wearied her, and the
oaths and bluster of two younger men, who came in later, made her angry
and afraid. And altogether she was very tired, and not so courageous as
she had been in the morning, when she was set down at the door of the
house where Robert lived when his classes were going on. It was better
to go there where she was known, than to seek to hide herself among
strangers. And why should she hide herself? She had nothing to fear
now.
Ah! had she nothing to fear? What might be waiting her in the future?
A life which she might loathe perhaps--
"But I must not look beyond this night, or how can I go on? I am trying
to do God's will. I am not seeking my own. And surely, His will is
best."
But she did not say it joyfully, or even hopefully now, and she had a
bad half-hour before the darkness fell, and she could go out unseen.
She had another while she waited to see Dr Fleming, and if his coming
had been delayed much longer, her courage might have failed her
altogether.
He came at last. He had been expecting her, he said, which surprised
her, for Mr Hume had said nothing of Dr Fleming's letter to him. He
had, however, sent a note by her to the doctor.
"Well?" said she, when he had read it. "Does he tell you what I am to
do? I must have come to you even if he had not sent me. I must tell
you--only you may not have time. But if you understood all, I think you
would wish to help me,--and--my courage is like to fail."
"Mistress Allison, you need tell me nothing that it will trouble you to
tell. I ken enough of your story to make me wish to help you to do what
you believe to be right. And what I can do, I will do with all my
heart."
Allison's answer was a sudden burst of weeping such as no one had ever
seen from her before. While it lasted, the doctor turned away and
occupied himself at his desk.
"I hope you will excuse me, sir," said Allison in a little; "I am tired,
for one thing, and--you are so kind. And I am not sure--though I
thought I was sure--that I am doing right in coming here--"
"I think I know what you would say. And--I think you are right in what
you desire to do. Mistress Allison, it is a blessed thing to be able to
forgive. And the greater the sin against us, the greater the
blessedness. And to attain to this, our sacrifice must be entire.
Nothing can be kept back."
"But I cannot but keep something back. I dare not look beyond--I think
I desire to do God's will, but--"
"Ah! do not say `but.' Be patient, if you cannot be joyful. You will
be brought through. And then--you may help to save a sinful soul. Can
you seek to look beyond that?"
Allison shook her head.
"If I were wise and good. But it is only a little since--since I came
to trust Him, and whiles I doubt whether I do trust Him right, so
fearful and fainthearted am I. I have ay been willing to forgive if I
could be kept safe from him. Oh! yes. It was my fault too. I should
have trusted God and stood firm," said Allison, as she had said so many
times before. "And besides, it was his own life he ruined, as well as
mine. Nay, he did not ruin mine. I have had much to make me content
with my life since then. If there had only been the child Marjorie, who
loves me dearly, and whom I love. And my brother is doing well. Oh!
no, my life has not been spoiled. And the best of all I cannot speak
of. Forgiveness! Yes, it is easy to forgive--if that were all."
"Well, having got thus far, be content for the present. And now,
Mistress Allison, let me take the guiding of your works and ways, for a
time. I am older than you, and in some things, wiser. You shall be
drawn into no net, and you shall make no vain sacrifice at the bidding
of any one, if I can prevent it. I believe you are striving to do
right. Now, go away to Mrs Robb's, and try to sleep well, and wait
till you hear from me. It may be in the morning, but it may not be for
several days. Have you any woman's work to keep you busy till then?"
"I can find some, I daresay. I give you many thanks for your kind
words. My heart is lighter since I have seen your face. Yes, I will be
patient and wait."
"That is the right way. Be sure and keep yourself busy about some kind
of work till you hear from me again."