"God liveth ever,
Wherefore, soul, despair thou never."
Brownrig was better in mind and in body than when Allison first came,
but he was far from strong. His mind was not quite clear, and it was
not easy for him "to put this and that together," in a way to satisfy
himself, when the doctor went away. He was already "muddled," as he
called it, and he did the best thing he could have done in the
circumstances, he shut his eyes and fell asleep.
Before he woke Allison came in, and when he looked up, he saw her
sitting with her work on her lap, and yesterday's newspaper in her hand,
reading: and smiling to herself as she read.
"Weel, what's the news the day?" said he.
Allison did not start or show the surprise she fell at being thus
addressed.
"Will I read it to you?" she asked.
She read about the markets and the news of the day; but whether he were
getting the good of it all or not, she could not say. When she thought
she had read enough, she laid down the paper and took up her work as
usual.
That was the beginning. All the days passed like this day for a while,
except that a book took the place of a newspaper sometimes. And by and
by, the best of books had a minute or two given to it--rarely more than
a minute or two. Brownrig listened to that as he listened to the rest,
willingly, and sometimes with interest, when she chanced to light on a
part which had not been quite forgotten in the long careless years which
had passed since the time his dead mother used to read it with him and
his little sisters, when they were children at home. When he looked
interested, or made a remark on any part of what she read, Allison went
over it again, and now and then took courage to speak a word or two of
Him who "bore our griefs and carried our sorrows," and who died that we
might live. He listened always in silence. Whether he was ever moved
by the words could not be told, for he gave no sign.
While all this went on, summer was passing, and the dull November days
were drawing near. Allison had her own thoughts, and some of them were
troubled thoughts enough. But she waited, always patiently, if not
always hopefully; and even at the worst, when she had little to cheer
her, and when she dared not look forward to what the future might hold
for her, she still strove to live day by day, and hour by hour, waiting
to learn God's will, whatever it might be.
Little change came to the sick man as far as Allison could judge, or any
one else. Was he getting better? If so, his progress toward health was
more slowly made than had been hoped. At times he was restless and
irritable, and spared neither nurse, nor doctor, which was taken as a
good sign by some who were looking on. But for the most part he was
quiet enough, taking little heed of the passing hours.
When Mr Rainy came to speak to him on any matter of business, he seemed
to rouse himself, and gave tokens of a clear mind and a good memory with
regard to those matters which were put before him, whether they
pertained to his own private business, or to that of the estate of
Blackhills. But of his own accord he rarely alluded to business of any
kind, and seemed, for the most part, forgetful of all that had hitherto
filled his life. His friends came to see him now and then, and while
any one was with him, he seemed moved to a certain interest in what they
had to tell, in the news of the town, or in the events which were taking
place in the world beyond it, but his interest ceased when his visitor
left him.
Except from weariness, and restlessness, and inability to move, he
suffered little, and he had been so often told that the best hope for
him, the only chance for restoration to a measure of health in the
future, lay in implicit obedience to all that doctor and nurse required
of him, that he learned the lesson at last, and was obedient and patient
to a degree that might well surprise those who knew him best.
It did not always come easy to him, this patience and obedience. There
ere times when he broke bounds, and complained, and threatened, and even
swore at his man Dickson; nor did Allison herself escape from the
hearing of bitter words. But Dickson took it calmly, and bore it as
part of his duty and his day's work.
"I'm weel used with it," said he. "His hard words maybe ease him, poor
man, and they do me nae ill."
And they did Allison "no ill," in one way. She was too sorry for him to
be angry on her own account, and listened in silence. Or, if he forgot
himself altogether and gave her many of them, she rose quietly and went
out of the room. She expected no apology when she returned, and none
was ever offered, and his ill words made her none the less patient with
him, and none the less ready at all times to do faithfully the duties
which she had undertaken of her own free will.
But they made her unhappy many a time. For what evidence had she that
her sacrifice was accepted? Had she been presumptuous in her desires
and hopes that she might be permitted to do some good to this man, who
had done her so much evil? Had she taken up this work too lightly--in
her own strength which was weakness--in her own wisdom which was folly?
Had she been unwise in coming, or wilful in staying? Or was it that she
was not fit to be used as an instrument in God's hand to help this man,
because she also had done wrong? She wearied herself with these
thoughts, telling herself that her sacrifice had been in vain, and her
efforts and her prayers--all alike in vain.
For she saw no token that this man's heart had been touched by the
discipline through which he had passed, or that any word or effort of
hers had availed to move him, or to make him see his need of higher help
than hers. So she grew discouraged now and then, and shrunk from his
anger and his "ill words" as from a blow. Still she said to herself:
"There is no turning back now. I must have patience and wait."
She had less cause for discouragement than she supposed. For Brownrig
did, now and then, take to heart a gently spoken word of hers; and the
words of the Book which his mother had loved, and which brought back to
him the sound of her voice and the smile in her kind eyes, were not
heard altogether in vain. He had his own thoughts about them, and about
Allison herself; and at last his thoughts took this turn, and clung to
him persistently.
"Either she is willing to forgive me the wrong which she believes I did
her, or else she thinks that I am going to die."
Dickson did not have an easy time on the morning when this thought came
first to his master. When Allison came in she had utter silence for a
while. Brownrig took no notice of the newspaper in her hand, and looked
away when she took up the Book and slowly turned the leaves. But that
had happened before, and Allison read on a few verses about the ruler
who came to Jesus by night, and who, wondering, said, "How can a man be
born when he is old?"
"Ay! how indeed?" muttered Brownrig. "Born again. Ah! if that might
be! If a man could have a second chance!"
And then his thoughts went back to the days of his youth, and he asked
himself when and where he had taken the first step aside from the right
way, and how it came about that, having had his mother for the first
thirteen years of his life, he should have forgotten her. No, he had
not forgotten her, but he had forgotten her teachings and her prayers,
and his own promises made to her, that he would ever "hate that which is
evil, and cleave to that which is good," and that he would strive so to
live and serve God that he might come at last to meet her where she
hoped to go. Was it too late now? He sighed, and turned his head
uneasily on the pillow. The angry look had gone out of his eyes, and
they met Allison's with a question in them. But he did not speak till
she said very gently:
"What is it? Can I do anything for you?"
"Has the doctor been saying anything to you of late?" he asked. "Does
he think that my time is come, and that I am going to die?"
Allison's face showed only her surprise at the question.
"The doctor has said nothing to me. Are you not so well? Will I send
for the doctor?" and she laid her cool fingers on his hand. But he
moved it away impatiently.
"What I canna understand is, that you should have come at all. You must
have thought that I was going to die, or you wouldna have come."
"Yes, I thought you might be going to die. I dinna think I would have
come but for that. I was sorry for you, and I had done wrong too, in
that I hadna withstood you. But I wished to be at peace with you, and I
thought that you might be glad that we should forgive one another at the
last."
"Forgive--at the last! There's sma' comfort in _that_, I'm thinking,"
and not another word was spoken between them that day. And not many
were spoken for a good many days after that.
But one morning, when Allison had been detained among her "auld wives" a
little longer than usual, she came softly into the room, to find, not
Dickson, but an old man with clear, keen eyes and soft white hair
sitting beside the bed. His hands were clasped together on the top of
his staff, and his face, benign and grave, was turned toward the sick
man.
"He seems to be asleep," said Allison softly, as she drew near.
"Yes, he seems to be asleep," said the old man; "but I have a message to
him from the Master, and I can wait till he wakens. And who may you be?
One who comes on an errand of mercy, or I am greatly mistaken."
"I am a nurse here. And--I am--this man's wife."
She said it in a whisper, having had no thought a moment before of ever
uttering the words.
"Ay! ay!" said the old man, in tones which expressed many things--
surprise, interest, awakened remembrance. And then Allison turned and
met the eyes of her husband.
"It is the minister come to see you," said she, drawing back from his
outstretched hand.
"Stay where you are," said he, taking hold of her gown. "Bide still
where you are."
"Yes, I will bide. It is Doctor Kirke who has come to see you."
"You have had a long and sore time of trouble and pain," said the
minister, gravely.
"Yes, but the worst is over now," said Brownrig, his eyes still fixed on
Allison's half-averted face.
"Let us hope so," said the old man, solemnly. "If the Lord's dealing
has been taken to heart and His lesson learned, the worst is over."
But he had more to say than this. He was by no means sure that in his
sense, or in any sense, the worst was over for this man, who had all his
life sinned with a high hand, in the sight of his fellow-men, as well as
in the sight of his Maker. His heart was full of pity, but he was one
of those whose pity inclines them to be faithful rather than tender.
"Man, you have been a great sinner all your days," he said, slowly and
solemnly. Many changes passed over the face of Brownrig as the minister
went on, but he never removed his eyes from the face of Allison, nor
loosened his firm clasp of her hand.
Faithful! Yes, but yet tender. How full of pity and of entreaty was
the old man's voice when he spoke of One who, hating sin, yet loves the
sinner; One who is slow to anger, full of compassion and of great mercy,
not willing that any should perish, but that all, even the worst, should
come unto Him and live.
"And, O man! ye need Him no less, that you may be going back to your
life again. The Lord could do wonderful things for the like of you, if
ye would but let Him have His will o' ye. Able! ay, is He, and willing
as able, and surely He has given you a sign. Look at this woman against
whom, it is said, ye woefully sinned! If she, who is but a weak and
sinful mortal, has forgiven you, and is caring for you, and would save
you, how can there be doubt of Him who gave His life a ransom for you?"
A glance at Allison's face stayed his words. Then he knelt down and
prayed--not in many words--not as if entreating One offended or angry,
but One waiting, looking, listening, loving; One "mighty to save." And
then he rose and touched the hand of each, and went silently away.
Had Brownrig fallen asleep? Allison slowly turned her face toward him.
He lay with closed eyes, motionless, and there were tears on his cheeks.
As Allison tried gently to withdraw her hand from his clasp his eyes
opened.
"Is it true, Allie? Have you forgiven me?"
"I--was sorry for you long since, even before you were hurt. I never
wished ill to you. I came when I heard that you were like to die, so
that we might forgive one another--"
Allison had gone almost beyond her power of speech by this time, but he
held her fast.
"Oh! Allie, ye micht hae made a good man o' me, if ye had but had the
patience and the will to try."
But Allison said:
"No, that could never have been. I wasna good myself, and I was dazed
with trouble."
"Ay, poor lassie, ye hae much to forgive. But I will make amends, I
will make amends. Yes, in the sight of God and man, I will make full
amends."
Allison could bear no more. Where was it all to end? Surely she was in
the net now, and it was drawing close upon her, and she could not bear
it. For a moment it came into her mind to flee. But the temptation did
not linger long, nor did it return.
In his accustomed place Dickson was waiting.
"Your master requires you," said Allison, and then she passed on to her
refuge among the auld wives, and puir bodies in the wide ward beyond.
But it was not a refuge to-day.
"And how is your patient the day, puir man?" said she who was bowed with
rheumatism being `no' fifty yet.
"We heard that the minister had been sent for to see him," said another.
"It is to be hoped that he will do him some good."
Allison answered them both quietly: "He is just as usual. Yes, the
minister has been there," and moved on to some one else.
It was the hour which she usually spent among them, and she went from
one bed to another, saying and doing what was needed for the suffering
or fretful poor souls among them, answering kindly and firmly, with
never-failing patience, the grateful looks of some, and the dull
complaining of others, till the time came which set her free to go her
own way again.
She was the better for the hour which she had dreaded when she first
came in. She no longer felt the touch of that hot hand on hers, or the
gaze of the eager eyes, which she had met with such sinking of heart.
She was herself again.
"To think that I should grow fainthearted this day of all days, when for
the first time he seemed to be touched by a good man's words. I should
be rejoicing and thankful. And whatever else is true, it is true that
He who brought me here, kens the end, though I do not."
And so she went home to her rest, and the next day was like all the
days, except that the sick man, as Dickson put it, "wasna sae ill to do
wi'." It became evident to both doctor and nurse, that Brownrig had at
last taken in the thought that he might be going to die. He said
nothing for a while, but he marked their words and watched their ways,
and when Dr Kirke came, which he did every few days, he listened with
patience which grew to pleasure as time went on. When at last he
repeated to Doctor Fleming himself, the question which he had put to
Allison, the doctor's rather ambiguous answer did not satisfy him.
"I see you have your own thoughts about it," said Brownrig. "I think
you are mistaken. I do not mean to die if I can help it. I wish to
live, and I mean to live--if such is God's will," he added, after a
pause. "I'm no' going to let myself slip out o' life without a struggle
for it. I have a strong will, which hasna ay been guided to good ends,
ye'll say, and I acknowledge it. But `all that a man hath will he give
for his life,' the Book says, And I will do my best to live."
The doctor said nothing.
"It is not that I'm feared to die. If all is true that Doctor Kirke has
been saying to me, why should I fear? `More willing to forgive, than ye
are to be forgiven,' says he. And I can believe it. I _do_ believe it.
If Allison Bain can forgive, surely He will not refuse, who is
`merciful and full of compassion'. And I hope--I believe--that I am
forgiven."
Looking up, Doctor Fleming saw the tears on the sick man's cheek. That
was all he was permitted to say for the time, for his strength was not
great though his will was strong. The rest of the day was passed
between sleeping and waking, while Allison sat working in silence by the
window. But he returned to his declaration in the morning.
"Yes, I mean to live, but for a' that I may as well be prepared for
death. And you'll send Mr Rainy to me this very day. He must just
come while I need him--and when I'm at my best and able for him. I'll
die none the sooner for setting all things in order to my mind."
So the next day Mr Rainy came, and for a good many days, and went
through with him many matters of business, which must be attended to
whether he lived or died. He was quite fit for it--a little at a time--
Mr Rainy declared. But the doctor wondered that his strength held out
through it all. There was no evidence of failure in sense or judgment
in all he said or planned, though his memory sometimes was at fault.
There was much to do, and some of it was not of a nature to give either
peace or pleasure to the sick man. But it came to an end at last, and
there were a few days of quiet till he was rested. Then he began again.
"I may be going to die, or I may be going to live. Who can say? It
must be as God wills. But I have settled with myself one thing.
Whether I am to live or to die, it is to be in my own house."
This was said to Dickson, who was ready with an answer to please him.
"And the sooner the better, sir, say I. The fine fresh air o' the hills
would set you up sooner than a' their doctor's bottles is like to do.
If it were only May instead of November, I would say the sooner the
better."
"And I say the sooner the better at this time. Yes, it's late, and it's
a lang road, and I have little strength to come and go upon. But there
are ways o' doing most things--when the siller (money) needna be
considered, and where there is a good will to do them."
"Ay, sir, that's true. And I daresay the laird micht send his ain
carriage, and ye micht tak' twa days to it, or even three."
"No, no. The sooner the journey could be gotten over the better. But
that's a good thought o' yours about the laird's carriage. He'll send
it fast enough, if I but ask it. But I'm done out now, and I'll need to
lie still a while, to be ready and at my best, when the doctor comes."
But when the doctor came, Brownrig had forgotten his intention to speak,
or he did not feel equal to the effort needed for the assertion of his
own will in a matter which was of such importance to him. So it was
Allison to whom he first spoke of his wish to go home. He said how
weary he had grown of the dull room, and the din of the town, and even
of the sight of the doctors' faces, and he said how sure he was that he
would never gather strength lying there. It would give him new life, he
declared, to get home to his own house, and to the free air of the
hills.
Allison listened in silence, and when he would be answered, she murmured
something about the coming of the summer days making such a move
possible, and said that the doctors would have to decide what would be
the wisest thing to do.
"They will be the wisest to decide _how_ it is to be done, but it is
decided already that the change is to be made. You speak of the summer
days! Count ye the months till then, and ask if I could have the
patience to wait for them? Yes, there is a risk, I ken that weel, but I
may as well die there as here. And to that I have made up my mind."
Allison did not answer him, and he said no more. He had grown wary
about wasting his strength, or exciting himself to his own injury, and
so he lay quiet.
"You might take the Book," said he in a little.
Yes, there was always "The Book." Allison took the Bible, and as it
fell open in her hand, she read: "I will lead the blind by a way they
know not," and her head was bowed, and the tears, which were sometimes
very near her eyes, fell fast for a single moment. But they fell
silently. No sound of voice or movement of hand betrayed her, and there
was no bitterness in her tears.
"Yes, it is for me--this word. For surely I am blind. I canna see my
way through it all. But if I am to be led by the hand like a little
child, and upheld by One who is strong, and who cares for me, who `has
loved me,' shall I be afraid?"
And if her voice trembled now and then as she read, so that at last
Brownrig turned uneasily to get a glimpse of her face, he saw no shadow
of doubt of fear upon it, nor even the quiet to which he had become
accustomed, but a look of rest and peace which it was not given to him
to understand. Allison took her work and sat as usual by the window.
"I may have my ups and downs as I have ay had them," she was saying to
herself, "but I dinna think I can ever forget--I pray God that I may
never forget--that I am `led.'"
Brownrig lay quiet, but he was not at his ease, Allison could see. He
spoke at last.
"Are you sure that you have forgiven me--quite sure--in the way that God
forgives? Come and stand where I can see your face."
Allison in her surprise at his words neither answered nor moved.
"For ye see, if ye were to fail me, I doubt I could hardly keep hold of
the Lord himself. If there is one thing that the minister has said
oftener than another, it is this, that when God forgives He also
receives. You believe this surely? Come and stand where I can see your
face."
Allison laid down her work, and came and stood not very near him, but
where the light fell full upon her.
"I cannot but be sorry for--what happened, but I bear no anger against
you for it now. Yes, I have forgiven. I wish you no ill. I wish you
every good. I am far sorrier for you than I am for myself. God sees my
heart."
She did not need to prove her words. He knew that they were true. If
she had not been sorry for him, if she had not forgiven him, and had
pity upon him, why should she have come to him at all? But God's way
went beyond that. He not only pitied and pardoned, He received, loved,
saved. But he was afraid to say all this to her.
"In sickness and trouble she has been willing to stand by me, as she
stands by all suffering creatures. That is all. And she is not one of
those women who long for ease and prosperous days, or for anything that
I could offer her to tempt her. I must just content myself with what
she freely gives, nor ask for more."
Then he turned away his face, and Allison did not move till he spoke
again.
"You could help me greatly with the doctor, if ye were to try."
Allison made a gesture of dissent.
"That is little likely," said she.
"He thinks much of you, and ye ken it well."
"Does he? It must be because he thinks I am kind to all the poor folk
yonder--not because he thinks me wise," added she with a smile.
"As to wisdom,--that's neither here nor there in this matter. I am
going hame to my ain house. That's decided, whatever may be said by any
doctor o' them a'. As for life and death--they are no' in the doctors'
hands, though they whiles seem to think it. I'm going hame, whether it
be to live or to die. But I want no vexation about it; I'm no' able to
wrangle with them. But if you were to speak to Doctor Fleming--if you
were to tell him that you are willing to go with me--to do your best for
me, he would make no words about it, but just let me go."
Allison's colour changed, but she stood still and said quietly:
"Do you think Doctor Fleming is a man like that? And don't you think he
will be only too glad to send you home when you are able for the
journey? Your wisest way will be to trust it all to him."
"At least you will say nothing against it?"
"I shall have nothing to say about it--nothing." She spoke calmly and
was quite unmoved, as far as he could see. But she was afraid. She was
saying in her heart that her time was coming. Beyond the day! Surely
she must look beyond the day. But not now. Not this moment. Even in
her dismay she thought of him, and "pitied" him, as he had said.
"You are wearing yourself out," said she gently. "The doctor will not
think well of what you have to say, if you are tired and feverish. Lie
quiet, and rest till he come."
He did not answer her except with his eager appealing eyes, which she
would not meet. She sat by the window sewing steadily on, till the
doctor's step came to the door.