"What we win and hold, is through some strife."
Allison waited patiently through one day, and a little anxiously through
the second. On the third day there came a note from Doctor Fleming,
formal and brief, offering her the place of nurse in the infirmary,
which she had held for a short time three years before. Allison was a
little startled as she read it, but she did not hesitate a moment in
deciding to accept it, and in the evening she went to see him, as he had
requested her to do.
"Yes," said the doctor as she entered, "I was sure you would come; you
are wise to come. It will be better for you to have something to take
up your time and your thoughts for a while at least, and you will be at
hand. You must keep strong and well, and you must take up your abode
with Mistress Robb. And, my dear," added the doctor gravely, "I would
advise you when you come to wear a mutch, and if it is big and plain it
will answer the purpose none the worse for that. You'll be better
pleased with as little notice as may be for the present."
Allison smiled and assented. She came to the place the next day in her
straight black gown and holland apron, a cap of thick muslin covering
all her pretty hair.
And then a new life began for her. The former time of her stay there
came back very vividly, but the memory of it did not make her unhappy.
On the contrary, she was glad and thankful that strength and courage had
come to her since then.
"I will trust and not be afraid," she said to herself as she came in at
the door, and she said it many times as she went from one bed to
another. Before the day was over, she had for the time forgotten her
own care, in caring for the poor suffering creatures about her.
There were no "bad cases" in the room in which she had been placed.
There were some whose chief complaint was the aches and pains of age,
brought on before their time by hard labour and exposure; poor folk who
were taking a rest after a season of sharper suffering, and making ready
for another turn or two of hard work before the end should come.
"It is no' that I'm sae ill. I hae done mony a day's work with more
suffering on me than I have now. But oh! I'm weary, weary, I hae lost
heart, and it's time I was awa'," said one old woman who held Allison's
hand, and gazed at her with wistful eyes.
"What brings the like o' you here?" said another, "to such a place as
this. Ay, ay, ye look pitifu' and ye can lift a head and shake up a
pillow without gieing a body's neck a thraw. But I doubt it's just that
ye're new to it yet. Ye'll soon grow hardened to it like the lave (the
rest)."
"Whisht, woman," said her neighbour, "be thankful for sma' mercies. Ye
would be but ill off at hame."
"And be _ye_ thankfu' that ye are an auld wife and near done wi't," said
the neighbour on the other side. "As for mysel', I'm bowed with
rheumatics, and me no' fifty yet. I may live many years, says the
doctor, and what's to 'come o' me, the Lord alone kens."
"But," said Allison, speaking very softly, "_He does_ ken. Dinna you
mind, `Even to your old age I am He, and even to hoar hairs will I carry
you.'"
"Ay, but ye see, I'm no' sae sure that He's with me now, or that He has
ever been with me. That mak's an awfu' differ."
"But He is willing to come,--waiting to be asked."
"It may be; I dinna ken," said the woman gravely.
They looked at Allison with a little surprise. She was surprised
herself. She had no thought of speaking until the words were uttered.
She was only conscious of being very sorry for them, and of longing to
help them. But she had spoken many a word of comfort among them before
her work there was done.
A little child with a face like a snowdrop came and looked up at her,
touching her hand. Allison took her up in her arms, and carried her
with her as she went on.
"Dinna be troublesome, Nannie," said a voice from a distant bed.
"Come and see my mother," said the child.
Her mother was a woman who had been badly burned by her clothes taking
fire, while she was in a drunken sleep. She was recovering now, and her
little girl was allowed to come and see her now and then.
"Ye can do naething for me," she said as Allison set down the child
beside her.
"No, I fear not, except that I might ease you a little, by shaking up
your pillow and putting the blankets straight. Are ye in pain?"
"Ill enough. But it's no' the pain that troubles me. It's the fear
that I mayna get the use o' my hand again."
"Oh! I hope it mayna be so bad as that," said Allison, shaking up the
pillows and smoothing the woman's rough hair, and tying her crumpled
cap-strings under her chin. "What does the doctor say about it?"
"Ye'll need to speir at himsel' to find that out. He says naething to
me."
"We will hope better things for you," said Allison.
She took the child in her arms again. A fair, fragile little creature
she was, with soft rings of golden hair, and great, wistful blue eyes.
She was not in the least shy or frightened, but nestled in Allison's
arms in perfect content.
"Come and see Charlie," said she.
Charlie was a little lad whose right place was in another room; but
being restless and troublesome, he had been brought here for a change.
"What ails you, my laddie?" asked Allison, meeting his sharp, bright
eyes.
"Just a sair leg. It's better now. Oh! ay, it hurts whiles yet, but
no' so bad. Have you ony books?"
"No, I brought no book with me except my Bible."
"Weel, a Bible would be better than nae book at a'."
"Eh! laddie! Is that the way ye speak of the good Book?" said a voice
behind him. "And there's Bibles here--plenty o' them."
"Are ye comin' the morn?" asked the lad.
"Yes, I am," said Allison.
"And could ye no' get a book to bring with you--a book of ony kind--
except the catechis?"
"Heard ye ever the like o' that! Wha has had the up-bringin' o' you?"
"Mysel' maistly. What ails ye at my up-bringin'? Will ye hae a book
for me the morn?" said he to Allison.
"If I can, and if it's allowed."
"Oh! naebody will hinder ye. It's no' my head, but my leg that's sair.
Readin' winna do that ony ill, I'm thinkin'."
And then Allison went on to another bed, and backwards and forwards
among them, through the long day. There were not many of them, but oh!
the pain, and the weariness!--the murmurs of some, and the dull patience
of others, how sad it was to see! Would she ever "get used with it," as
the woman had said, so that she could help them without thinking about
them, as she had many a time kept her hands busy with her household work
while her thoughts were faraway? It did not seem possible. No, surely
it would never come to that with her.
Oh! no, because there was help for all these poor sufferers--help which
she might bring them, by telling them how she herself had been helped,
in her time of need. And would not that be a good work for her to do,
let her life be ever so long and empty of all other happiness? It might
be that all the troubles through which she had passed were meant to
prepare her for such a work.
For the peace which had come to her was no vain imagination. It had
filled her heart and given her rest, even before the long, quiet time
which had come to her, when she was with the child beside the faraway
sea. And through her means, might not this peace be sent to some of
these suffering poor women who had to bear their troubles alone?
She stood still, looking straight before her, forgetful, for the moment,
of all but her own thoughts. Her hopes, she called them, for she could
not but hope that some such work as this might be given her to do.
"Allison Bain," said a faint voice from a bed near which she stood.
Allison came out of her dream with a start, to meet the gaze of a pair
of great, blue eyes, which she knew she had somewhere seen before, but
not in a face so wan and weary as the one which lay there upon the
pillow. She stooped down to catch the words which came more faintly
still from the lips of the speaker.
"I saw you--and I couldna keep mysel' from speaking. But ye needna
fear. I will never tell that it is you--or that I have seen you. Oh!
I thought I would never see a kenned face again."
The girl burst into sudden weeping, holding fast the hand which Allison
had given her.
"Is it Mary Brand?" whispered Allison, after a little.
"No, it is Annie. Mary is dead and--safe," and she turned her face away
and lay quiet for a while.
Allison made a movement to withdraw her hand.
"Wait a minute. I must speak to some one--before I die--and I may die
this night," she murmured, holding her with appealing eyes. "I'm
Annie," she said. "You'll mind how my mother died, and my father
married again--ower-soon maybe--and we were all angry, and there was no
peace in the house. So the elder ones scattered,--one went here and
another there. We were ower young to take right heed,--and not very
strong. Mary took a cold, and she grew worse, and--went home to die at
last. As for me--I fell into trouble--and I dared na go home. Sometime
I may tell you--but I'm done out now. I'm near the end--and oh!
Allie--I'm feared to die. Even if I were sorry enough, and the Lord
were to forgive me--how could I ever look into my mother's face in
Heaven? There are some sins that cannot be blotted out, I'm sair
feared, Allie."
Allison had fallen on her knees by the low bed, and there were tears on
her cheeks.
"Annie," said she, "never, never think that. See, I am sorry for you.
I can kiss you and comfort you, and the Lord himself will forgive you.
You have His own word for that. And do you think your own mother could
hold back? Take hope, Annie. Ask the Lord himself. Do ye no' mind how
Doctor Hadden used to say in every prayer he prayed, `Oh! Thou who art
mighty to save'? _Mighty_ to _save_! Think of it, dear. `Neither
shall any man pluck them out of my hand.' Jesus said that Himself. Ah!
ye are weary and spent--but ye have strength to say, `Save me, I
perish.' And that is enough."
"Weary and spent!" Yes, almost to death. The parched lips said
faintly, "Come again," and the blue, beseeching eyes said more. Allison
promised surely that she would come, and she kissed her again, before
she went away.
She came often--every day, and many times a day, and she always had a
good word to say to the poor sorrowful soul, who needed it so much.
Annie lingered longed than had seemed possible at first, and there came
a day when every moment that Allison could spare was given to her, and
then a long night of watching, till at the dawning she passed away--
sinful, but forgiven; trembling, yet not afraid. Allison kissed the
dead mouth, and clipped from the forehead one ring of bright hair,
saying to herself: "To mind me, if ever I should grow faithless and
forget."
But many things had happened before this came to pass. For at the end
of the first week of Dickson's stay among the sick and sorrowful folk,
there came to her the message for which she had through all the days
been waiting. It was Doctor Fleming who brought it, saying only,
"Come."
"Is he dying?" she found voice to say, as they passed into the room
together.
"No. Oh! no. But he has come to himself, in a measure, and needs to be
roused. Your coming may startle him. That is what I wish. It cannot
really harm him."
And so with little outward token of the inward trembling which seized
her when she saw his face, Allison stood beside her husband. Yes, her
husband! For the first time, scarcely knowing what she did, she said to
herself, "My husband."
The doctors had something to do for him, and something to say to one
another, and she stood looking on in silence, pale, but calm and firm,
at least as far as they could see. They spoke to him and he answered
sensibly enough, and muttered, and complained, and begged to be let
alone, as sick folk will, and told them at last that little good had all
their physic done him yet.
They let in the light, and his eye followed Allison and rested on her
face for a moment; then he sighed and turned away. No one moved, and in
a little he turned his head again, and his colour changed. Then they
let down the curtain, and the room was in shadow.
"A dream--the old dream, ay coming--coming--only a dream," they heard
him say with a sigh.
Doctor Fleming beckoned to Allison, and she followed him from the room.
"He will sleep now for a while, and when he wakens he will be more
himself. You are not afraid to be left with him? He may know you when
he wakens again."
"I am not afraid," said Allison, speaking faintly, and then she added
with a firmer voice, "No, I am not afraid."
"You have but to open the door and call, and his man Dickson will be
with you in a minute. Do not speak to him unless he speaks to you.
Even if he should speak, it may be better to call Dickson, and come
away."
Doctor Fleming spoke gravely and briefly, letting no look or tone of
sympathy escape from him. "I'll see you again before I leave the
place," said he.
So she sat down a little withdrawn from the bed and waited, wondering
how this strange and doubtful experiment was to end. He neither spoke
nor moved, but seemed to slumber quietly enough till Doctor Fleming
returned. He did not come in, but beckoned Allison to the door.
"That is long enough for to-day. Are you going to your poor folk again?
If it should suit you better to go home, you can do so. Old Flora has
returned, and I will speak to her."
"I will go out for a little, but I will come back. They will expect me.
Yes, I would like better to come back again."
And so she went out for a while, and when she returned she brought an
odd volume of the History of Scotland to restless Charlie, and a late
rose or two tied up with a bit of sweet-briar and thyme, to poor Annie
Brand.
The next day passed like the first. Allison went when she was called,
and sat beside the sick man's bed for an hour or two. He followed her
with his eyes and seemed to know her, but he did not utter a word. He
was restless and uneasy, and muttered and sighed, but he had no power to
move himself upon the bed, and he did not fall asleep, as Allison hoped
he might do after a while. For the look in his troubled eyes hurt her
sorely. There was recognition in them, she thought, and doubt, and a
gleam of anger.
"If I could do something for him," thought she. "But to sit here
useless! And I must not even speak to him until he speaks to me."
She rose and walked about the room, knowing that the dull eyes _were_
following her as she moved. When she sat down again she took a small
New Testament from her pocket, and as she opened it he turned his face
away, and did not move again till a step was heard at the door. Then as
some one entered, he cried out with a stronger voice than had been heard
from him yet:
"Is that you, Dickson? Send yon woman away--if she be a woman and not a
wraith (spirit)," he added, as he turned his face from the light.
It was not Dickson. It was the doctor who met Allison's startled look
as he came in at the door.
"You have had enough for this time. Has he spoken to you?" said he.
"He has spoken, but not to me. I think he knew me, and--not with
good-will."
"You could hardly expect that, considering all things. He has made a
step in advance, for all that. And now go away and do not show your
face in this place again to-day. Wrap yourself up well, and go for a
long walk. Go out of the town, or down to the sands. Yes, you must do
as I bid you. Never heed the auld wives and the bairns to-day. I ken
they keep your thoughts on their troubles and away from your own. But
you may have a good while of this work yet,--weeks it may be, or
months," and in his heart he said, "God grant it may not be for years."
"Yes, I will go," said Allison faintly.
"And you must take good care of yourself. Mistress Allison, you have
set out on a road in which there is no turning back now, if you would
help to save this man's soul."
"I have no thought of turning back," said Allison.
"That is well. And to go on you will need faith and patience, and ye'll
also need to have a' your wits about you. You'll need perfect health
and your natural strength, and ye'll just do my bidding in all things,
that you may be fit to meet all that is before you--since it seems to be
God's will that this work is to fall to you."
Allison went at the doctor's bidding. She wrapped herself up and went
down to the sands, to catch the breeze from the sea. It was more than a
breeze which met her. It was almost a gale. The waves were coming
grandly in, dashing themselves over the level sands. Allison stood and
watched them for a while musing.
"And each one of them falls by the will of the Lord. A word from Him
could quiet them now, as His `Peace, be still,' quieted the waves on the
Sea of Galilee so long ago. `Oh! ye of little faith!' said He,
`wherefore do ye doubt?' As He might well say to me this day, for oh!
I am fainthearted. Was I wrong from the beginning? And is my sin
finding me out? Have I undertaken what I can never go through with?
God help me, is all that I can say, and though I must doubt myself, let
me never, never doubt Him."
And then she set herself to meet the strong wind, and held her way
against it till she came to a sheltered spot, and there she sat down to
rest. When she turned homeward again, there was no strong wind to
struggle against. It helped her on as she went before it, and it seemed
to her as if she had come but a little way when she reached the place
where she had stood watching the coming in of the waves. The weight was
lifted a little from her heart.
"It is only a day at a time, however long it may be," she told herself.
"It is daily strength that is promised, and God sees the end, though I
do not."
Yes, daily strength is promised, and the next day, and for many days, as
she went into the dim room where the sick man lay, Allison felt the need
of its renewal. It was not the silence which was so hard to bear. It
was the constant expectation, which was almost dread, that the silent
lips might open to speak the recognition which she sometimes saw in the
eyes, following her as she moved. There were times when she said to
herself that she could not long bear it.
"In one way he is better," said the doctor. "He is coming to himself,
and his memory--his power of recalling the past--is improving. He is
stronger too, though not much, as yet. With his loss of memory his
accident has had less to do, than the life he had been living before it.
He has had a hard tussle, but he is a strong man naturally, and he may
escape this time. From the worst effects of his accident he can never
recover. As far as I can judge from present symptoms, he will never
walk a step again--never. But he may live for years. He may even
recover so as to be able to attend to business again--in a way."
Allison had not a word with which to answer him. The doctor went on.
"I might have kept this from you for a while, but I have this reason for
speaking now. I do not ask if you have `counted the cost.' I know you
have not. You cannot do it. You have nothing to go upon which might
enable you to do so. Nothing which you have ever seen or experienced in
life, could make you know, or help you to imagine, what your life would
be--and might be for years,--spent with this man as his nurse, or his
servant--for it would come to that. Not a woman in a thousand could
bear it,--unless she loved him. And even so, it would be a slow
martyrdom."
Allison sat silent, with her face turned away.
"What I have to say to you is this," went on the doctor. "Since it is
impossible--if it is impossible, that such a sacrifice should be
required at your hands, it will not be wise for you to bide here longer,
or to let him get used to you, and depend upon you, so that he would
greatly miss you. If you are to go, then the sooner the better."
Allison said nothing, but by her changing colour, and by the look in her
eyes, the doctor knew that she was considering her answer, and he waited
patiently.
"No," said Allison, "I do not love him, but I have great pity for him--
and--I am not afraid of him any more. I think I wish to do God's will.
If you do not say otherwise, I would wish to bide a while yet,--till--it
is made plain to me what I ought to do. For I was to blame as well as
he. I should have stood fast against him. I hope--I believe, that I
wish to do right now, and the right way is seldom the easy way."
"That is true. But many a sacrifice which good women make for men who
are not worthy of it, is made in vain. I do not like to think of what
you may have to suffer, or that such a man should have, as it were, your
life at his disposal. As for you, you might leave all this care and
trouble behind you, and begin a new life in a new land."
"That was what I meant to do. But if the Lord had meant that for me,
why should He have let me be brought here, knowing not what might be
before me?"
"I doubt I am not quite free from responsibility in the matter, but I
thought the man was going to die."
"No, you are not to blame. When Mr Rainy touched my arm that day in
the street, I seemed to know what was coming, and I would not wait to
hear him. And when Saunners Crombie spoke his first word to me that
night, I kenned well what I must do. But like you, I thought he was
going to die. And so I came, though I was sore afraid. But I am not
afraid now, and you might let me bide a little longer, till I see my way
clearer, whether I should go or stay."
"Let you stay! How could I hinder you if I were to try? And I am not
sure that I wish to hinder you. I suppose there may be a woman in a
thousand who could do as you desire to do, and come through unscathed,
and you may be that woman. My only fear is--no, I will not say it. I
do believe that you are seeking to do God's will in this matter. Let us
hope that during the next few days His will may be made clear to you,
and to me also."
But Mr Rainy had also a word to say with regard to this.
"If I had thought it possible that the man was going to live, I would
never have spoken to you, or let my eyes rest upon you that day. Yes, I
was sure that he was going to die. And I thought that you might do him
some good maybe--pray for him, and all that, and that his conscience
might be eased. Then I thought he might make some amends at last. But
well ken I, that all the gear he has to leave will ill pay you for the
loss of the best years of your youth, living the life you would have to
live with him. I canna take upon myself to advise you, since you havena
asked my advice; but really, if ye were just to slip away quietly to
your brother in America, I, for one, would hold my tongue about it. And
if ever the time should come when you needed to be defended from him, I
would help you against him, and all the world, with right good will."
Allison thanked him gently and gravely, but he saw that she was not to
be moved. A few more days, at least, the doctor was to give her, and
then she must decide. Before those days were over something had
happened.
One day, for some reason or other, she was detained longer than usual
among her "auld wives," and it was late when she came into Brownrig's
room.
"What has keepit you?" said he impatiently.
It was the first time he had ever directly addressed her.
"I have been detained," said Allison quietly. "Can I do anything for
you, now that I am here?"
"Detained? Among your auld wives, I suppose. What claim have they upon
ye, I should like to ken?"
"The claim they have on any other of the nurses. I am paid to attend
them. And besides, I am sorry for them. It is a pleasure to be able to
help them--or any one in distress--my best pleasure."
To this there was no reply, and Allison, who of late had brought her
work with her to pass the time, went on knitting her little stocking,
and there was silence, as on other days.
"What do you mean by saying that you are paid like the other nurses?"
said Brownrig after a little.
"I mean just what I said. Doctor Fleming offered me the place of nurse
here. I held it once before, and I like it in a way."
No more was said to Allison about it then or afterward. But Brownrig
spoke to Doctor Fleming about the matter, on the first opportunity,
declaring emphatically that all that must come to an end. He grew more
like his old self than he had been yet, as he scoffed at the work and at
the wages.
"It must end," said he angrily.
"Mr Brownrig," said the doctor gravely, "you may not care to take a
word of advice from me. But as you are lying there not able to run
away, I'll venture to give it. And what I say is this. Let weel alane.
Be thankfu' for sma' mercies, which when ye come to consider them are
not so very sma'. Yes, I offered her the place of nurse, and she is
paid nurse's wages, and you have the good luck to be one of her
patients. But ca' canny! (Be moderate). You have no claim on Mistress
Allison, that, were the whole story known, any man in Scotland would
help you to uphold. She came here of her own free will. Of her own
free will she shall stay--and--if such a time comes,--of her own free
will she shall go. In the meantime, take you all the benefit of her
care and kindness that you can."
"Her ain free will! And what is the story about Rainy's meeting her on
the street and threatening her with the law, unless she did her duty? I
doubt that was the best reason for her coming."
"You are mistaken. Rainy did not threaten her. He lost sight of her
within the hour, and would have had as little chance to find her, even
if he had tried, as he had last time. No, she came of her own free
will. She heard from some auld fule or other, that you had near put an
end to yourself at last, and he told her that it was her duty to let
bygones be bygones, and to go and see what might be done to save the
soul of her enemy."
"Ay, ay! her enemy, who wasna likely to live lang, and who had something
to leave behind him," said Brownrig, with a scowl.
"As you say,--who has something to leave behind him, and who is as
little likely to leave it to her, as she would be likely to accept it,
if he did. But that's neither here nor there to me, nor to you either,
just now. What I have to say is this. Take ye the good of her care and
her company, while ye have them. Take what she is free to give you, and
claim no more. If she seeks my advice, and takes it, she'll go her own
way, as she has done before. In the meantime, while she is here, let
her do what she can to care for you when the auld wives and the bairns
can spare her."
And with that the doctor bade him `good-day,' and took his departure.