"Look not at thine own peace, but look beyond,
And take the Cross for glory and for guide."
It was Allison's way when the doctor came, to answer such questions as
he had to ask, and then to call Dickson, and betake herself to the long
ward beyond. But to-day Brownrig's first words were:
"I have something to say to you, doctor, and I wish my wife to hear it.
Bide ye still, Allison."
"My wife!" Neither the doctor nor Allison had ever heard him utter the
word before. Allison took her usual seat by the window, and the doctor
placed himself beside the bed. It was the same story over again which
Brownrig had to tell. He was going home to his own house. It might be
to die, and it might not. But whether he were to live or die, home he
must go. He had something to do which could only be done there. The
doctors had owned that their skill could do nothing more for him. His
cure, if he were to be cured, must be left to time. He would never
improve in the dreary dullness of the place, and there were many reasons
why he should be determined to go--reasons which would affect other folk
as well as himself; go he must, and the sooner the better. He said it
all quietly enough, speaking reasonably, but with decision. Doctor
Fleming listened in silence, and did not answer immediately. To himself
he was saying, that it might be well to let the man have his way. He
did not think it would make much difference in the end. There was a
chance for him--not for health, but for a few years of such a life as no
man could envy, as few men could endure. Staying here, or going there,
it would be all the same in the end.
Doctor Fleming had in his thoughts at the moment a life long sufferer,
who was happy in the midst of his suffering, and who made the chief
happiness of more than one who loved him--one strong in weakness,
patient to endure, a scholar, a gentleman; a simple, wise soul, to whom
the least of God's works was a wonder and delight; a strong and faithful
soul, who, in the darkness of God's mysterious dealings, was content to
wait His time--willing to stay, yet longing to go--full of pain, yet
full of peace.
"Yes," said the doctor, unconsciously uttering his thought aloud, "full
of pain, yet full of peace."
And here was this man, so eager to live--this drunkard and liar and
coward! What could life hold for him that he should so desire to
prolong it? And what would life with such a man be to such a woman as
Allison Bain?
"Yes, I know God can change the heart. He is wise to guide and mighty
to save, and they are both in His good hands. May His mercy be
vouchsafed to them both."
"Well," said the sick man, as the doctor suddenly rose to his feet.
"Well--it would be a risk, but it would not be impossible for you to be
taken home, as you seem to desire it--if only the summer were here."
"Yes, I have been waiting to hear you say that--like the rest," said
Brownrig, with the first touch of impatience in his voice; "but the
summer days are faraway, and winna be here for a while. And ye ken
yourself what chance I have of ever seeing the summer days, whether I
bide or whether I go, and go I must."
Then he went on to say how the laird would be sure to send the
Blackhills carriage for him--the easy one, which had been made in London
for the auld leddy, his mother, and how the journey might be taken
slowly and safely.
"And if I were only once there!" he said, looking up with anxious eyes.
Then he lay still.
"If you were once there, you think you would be yourself again?"
A sudden spasm passed over the eager face.
"No--not that. I ken, though you have never said it in my hearing, that
it is your belief that, be my life long or short, I can never hope to
bear my own weight again. My life's over an' done with--in a sense, but
then--there is--Allison Bain."
His voice sank to a whisper as he uttered her name.
"Yes," said the doctor to himself, "there is Allison Bain!"
Then he rose and moved about the room. He, too, had something to say of
Allison Bain--something which it would be a pain for the sick man to
hear, but which must be said, and there might come no better time for
saying it than this. And yet he shrunk from the task. He paused by the
window and took out his watch.
"Mistress Allison," said he, speaking, as was his way when addressing
her, with the utmost gentleness and respect, "I have half an hour at my
disposal to-day. Go your ways down to the sands, and breathe the fresh
air while I am here. The days are too short to put it off later, and
you need the change."
"Yes, I will go," said Allison.
"And do not return to-night, neither here nor to the long ward. Mind, I
say you must not."
As her hand was on the latch Brownrig called her name. When she came
and stood beside the bed he looked at her, but did not speak.
"Were you needing anything?" she asked, gently.
"No. Oh! no, only just to see your face. You'll come early in the
morning?"
"Yes, I will come early."
But as she moved away there came into her eyes a look as of some
frightened woodland creature, hemmed in and eager to escape. There was
silence for a moment, and just as the doctor was about to speak,
Brownrig said:
"Yes, it was well to send her away to get the air, and what I have to
say may as well be said now, for it must not be said in her hearing.
And it may be better to say it to you than to Rainy, who is but a--no
matter what he is. But to you I must say this. Think of Allison Bain!
Think of my wife,--for she _is_ my wife, for all that's come and gone.
It is for her sake that I would fain win home to Blackhills. It is to
help to make it all easy for her afterward. If I were to die here, do
you not see that it would be a hard thing for her to go and lay me down
yonder, in the sight of them who canna but mind the time, when she
seemed to think that the touch of my hand on his coffin would do
dishonour to her father's memory among them? It would hurt her to go
from my grave to take possession of her own house, with the thought of
all that in her mind, and with all their een upon her. But if they were
to see us there together, and to ken all that she has done and been to
me for the last months, they would see that we had forgiven one another,
and they would understand. Then she would take her right place easily
and naturally, and none would dare to say that she came home for the
sake of taking what was left."
He paused exhausted, but Doctor Fleming said nothing in reply, and he
went on.
"It would be better and easier for her to be left in her ain house. And
even though my days were shortened by the journey, what is a week or two
more or less of life to me? You'll just need to let me go."
In a little he spoke again, saying a few words at a time.
"No, my day is done--but she may have a long life before her. Yes, she
has forgiven me--and so I can believe--that God will also forgive. And
I am not so very sorry--that my end is near,--because, though I would
have tried, I might have failed to make her happy. But no one can ever
love her as I have done. Or maybe it was myself I loved--and my own
will and pleasure."
There was a long pause, and then he went on speaking rather to himself
than to him who sat silent beside him.
"Oh! if a man could but have a second chance! If my mother had but
lived--I might have been different. But it's too late now--too late!
too late! I am done out. I'll try to sleep."
He closed his eyes and turned away his face. Greatly moved, Doctor
Fleming sat thinking about it all. He had spoken no word of all he
meant to say, and he would never speak now. No word of his was needed.
He sat rebuked in this man's presence--this man whom, within the hour,
he had called boaster and braggart, liar and coward.
"Truly," he mused, "there _is_ such a thing as getting `a new heart.'
Truly, there _is_ a God who is `mighty to save!' I will neither make
nor meddle in this matter. No, I cannot encourage this woman to forsake
him now--at the last--if the end is drawing near--as I cannot but
believe. He may live for years, but even so, I dare not say she would
be right to leave him. God guide and strengthen her for what may be
before her. It will be a sore thing for her to go home and find only
graves."
"Doctor," said Brownrig suddenly, "you'll no' set yourself against it
longer--for the sake of Allison Bain!"
"My friend," said the doctor, bending forward and taking his hand, "I
see what your thought is, and I honour you for it. Wait a day or two
more before you make your plans to go, and then, if it is possible for
you to have your wish, you shall have it, and all shall be made as easy
and safe for you as it can possibly be made. You are right in thinking
that you will never--be a strong man again. And after all, it can only
be a little sooner or later with you now."
"Av, I ken that well. It is vain to struggle with death."
"And you are not afraid?"
"Whiles--I am afraid. I deserve nothing at His hand, whom I have ay
neglected and often set at naught. But, you see, I have His own word
for it. Ready to forgive--waiting to be gracious--I am sorry for my
sins--for my lost life--and all the ill I have done in it. Do you think
I am over-bold just to take Him at His word? Well--I just do that.
What else can I do?"
What indeed! There was nothing else to be done--and nothing else was
needed.
"He will not fail you," said the doctor gently.
"And you'll speak to--my wife? for I am not sure--that she will wish to
go--home." And then he closed his eyes and lay still.
In the meantime Allison had taken her way to the sands, and as she went
she was saying to herself:
"I can but go as I am led. God guide me, for the way is dark."
It was a mild November day, still and grey on land and sea. The grey
sea had a gleam on it here and there, and the tide was creeping softly
in over the sands. Allison walked slowly and wearily, for her heart was
heavy. She was saying to herself that at last, that which she feared
was come upon her, and there was truly no escape.
"For how can I forsake him now? And yet--how can I go with him--to meet
all that may wait me there? Have I been wrong all the way through, from
the very first, and is this the way in which my punishment is to come?
And is it my own will I have been seeking all this time, while I have
been asking to be led?"
There was no wind to battle against to-day, but when she came to the
place where she had been once before at a time like this, she sat down
at the foot of the great rock, and went over it all again. To what
purpose!
There was only one way in which the struggle could end,--just as it had
often ended before.
"I will make no plan. I will live just _day_ by _day_. And if I am led
by Him--as the blind are led--what does it matter where?"
So she rose and went slowly home, and was "just as usual," as far as
Mrs Robb, or even the clearer-eyed Robert, could see. Robert was back
to his classes and his books again, and he took a great but silent
interest in Allison's comings and goings, gathering from chance words of
hers more than ever she dreamed of disclosing. And from her silence he
gathered something too.
A few more days passed, and though little difference could be seen in
Brownrig's state from day-to-day, when the week came to an end, even
Allison could see that a change of some kind had come, or was drawing
near. The sick man spoke, now and then, about getting home, and about
the carriage which was to be sent for him, and when the doctor came, he
asked, "Will it be to-morrow?" But he hardly heeded the answer when it
was given, and seemed to have no knowledge of night or day, or of how
the time was passing.
He slumbered and wakened, and looked up to utter a word or two, and then
slumbered again. Once or twice he started, as if he were afraid, crying
out for help, for he was "slipping away." And hour after hour--how long
the hours seemed--Allison sat holding his hand, speaking a word now and
then, to soothe or to encourage him, as his eager, anxious eyes sought
hers. And as she sat there in the utter quiet of the time, she _did_
get a glimpse of the "wherefore" which had brought her there.
For she _did_ help him. When there came back upon him, like the voice
of an accusing enemy, the sudden remembrance of some cruel or
questionable deed of his, which he could not put from him as he had done
in the days of his strength, he could not shut his eyes and refuse to
see his shame, nor his lips, and refuse to utter his fears. He moaned
and muttered a name, now and then, which startled Allison as she
listened, and brought back to her memory stories which had been
whispered through the countryside, of hard measure meted out by the
laird's factor, to some who had had no helper--of acts of oppression,
even of injustice, against some who had tried to maintain their rights,
and against others who yielded in silence, knowing that to strive would
be in vain.
Another might not have understood, for he had only strength for a word
or two, and he did not always know what he was saying. But Allison
understood well, and she could not wonder at the remorse and fear which
his words betrayed. Oh! how she pitied him, and soothed and comforted
him during these days.
And what could she say to him, but the same words, over and over again?
"Mighty to save!--To the very utmost--even the _chief_ of sinners,--for
His name's sake."
Yes, she helped him, and gave him hope. And in helping him, she herself
was helped.
"I will let it all go," she said to herself, at last. "Was I right?
Was I wrong? Would it have been better? Would it have been worse? God
knows, who, though I knew it not, has had His hand about me through it
all. I am content. As for what may be before me--that is in His hand
as well."
Would she have had it otherwise? No, she would not--even if it should
come true that the life she had fled from, might still be hers. But
that could never be. Brownrig helpless, repentant, was no longer the
man whom she had loathed and feared.
Since the Lord himself had interposed to save him, might not she--for
His dear name's sake--be willing to serve him in his suffering and
weakness, till the end should come? And what did it matter whether the
service were done here or there, or whether the time were longer or
shorter? And why should she heed what might be said of it all? Even
the thought of her brother, who would be angry, and perhaps unreasonable
in his anger, must not come between her and her duty to this man, to
whom she had been brought as a friend and helper at last.
And so she let all go--her doubts, and fears, and cares, willing to wait
God's will. Her face grew white and thin in these days, but very
peaceful. At the utterance of some chance word, there came no more a
sudden look of doubt or fear into her beautiful, sad eyes. Face, and
eyes, and every word and movement told of peace. Whatever struggle she
had been passing through, during all these months, it was over now. She
was waiting neither for one thing nor another,--to be bound, or to be
set free. She was "waiting on God's will, content."
They all saw it--Mistress Robb, in whose house she lived, and Robert
Hume, and Doctor Fleming, who had been mindful of her health and comfort
all through her stay. Even Mr Rainy, who had little time to spare from
his own affairs, took notice of her peaceful face, and her untroubled
movements as she went about the sickroom.
"But oh! I'm wae for the puir lassie," said he, falling like the rest
into Scotch when much moved. "She kens little what's before her. He is
like a lamb now; but when his strength comes back, if it ever comes
back,--she will hae her ain adoes with him. Still--she's a sensible
woman, and she canna but hae her ain thochts about him, and--and about--
ahem--the gear he must soon--in the course o' nature--leave behind him.
Weel! it will fall into good hands; it could hardly fall into better,
unless indeed, the Brownrig, that young Douglas of Fourden married
against the will o' his friends some forty years ago, should turn out to
be the factor's eldest sister, and a soldier lad I ken o', should be her
son. It is to a man's own flesh and blood, that his siller (money)
should go by rights. But yet a man can do what he likes with what he
has won for himsel'--"
All this or something like it, Mr Rainy had said to himself a good many
times of late, and one day he said it to Doctor Fleming, with whom,
since they both had so much to do with Brownrig, he had fallen into a
sort of intimacy.
"Yes, she is a sensible woman, and may make a good use of it. But it is
to a man's ain flesh and blood that his gear should go. I have been
taking some trouble in the looking up of a nephew of his, to whom he has
left five hundred pounds, and I doubt the lad will not be well pleased,
that all the rest should go as it's going."
The doctor had not much to say about the matter. But he answered:
"As to Mistress Allison's being ready to take up the guiding of
Brownrig's fine house when he is done with it, I cannot make myself
believe it beforehand. She has no such thought as that, or I am greatly
mistaken. By all means, do you what may be done to find this nephew of
her husband's."
"Is it that you are thinking she will refuse to go with Brownrig to
Blackhills?"
"I cannot say. I am to speak to her to-morrow. If he is to go, it must
be soon."
"She'll go," said Mr Rainy.
"Yes, I think she may go," said the doctor; but though they agreed, or
seemed to agree, their thoughts about the matter were as different as
could well be.
The next day Doctor Fleming stood long by the bed, looking on the face
of the sleeper. It had changed greatly since the sick man lay down
there. He had grown thin and pale, and all traces of the
self-indulgence which had so injured him, had passed away. He looked
haggard and wan--the face was the face of an old man. But even so, it
was a better face, and pleasanter to look on, than it had ever been in
his time of health.
"A spoiled life!" the doctor was saying to himself. "With a face and a
head like that, he ought to have been a wiser and better man. I need
not disturb him to-day," said he to Allison, as he turned to go.
He beckoned to her when he reached the door.
"Mistress Allison, answer truly the question I am going to put to you.
Will it be more than you are able to bear, to go with him to his home,
and wait there for the end?"
"Surely, I am able. I never meant to go till lately. But I could never
forsake him now. Oh! yes, I will be ready to go, when you shall say the
time is come."
She spoke very quietly, not at all as if it cost her anything to say it.
Indeed, in a sense, it did not. She was willing now to go.
The doctor looked at her gravely.
"Are you able--quite able? I do not think he will need you for a very
long time. I am glad you are willing to go, though I never would have
urged you to do so, or have blamed you if you had refused."
In his heart he doubted whether the journey could ever be taken. Days
passed and little change appeared. The sick man was conscious when he
was spoken to, and answered clearly enough the questions that were put
to him by the doctors; but he had either given up, or had forgotten his
determination to get home to die. Allison stayed in the place by night
as well as by day, and while she rested close at hand, Robert Hume or
the faithful Dickson took the watch. She would not leave him. He might
rouse himself and ask for her, and she would not fail him at the last.
She did not fail him. For one morning as she stood looking down upon
him, when the others had gone away, he opened his eyes and spoke her
name. She stooped to catch his words.
"Is it all forgiven?" he said faintly.
"All forgiven!" she answered, and yielding to a sudden impulse, she bent
her head and touched her lips to his.
A strange brightness passed over the dying face.
"Forgiven!" he breathed. It was his last word.
He lingered still a few days more. Long, silent days, in which there
was little to be done but to wait for the end. Through them all,
Allison sat beside the bed, slumbering now and then, when some one came
to share her watch, but ready at the faintest moan or movement of the
dying man, with voice or touch, to soothe or satisfy him. Her strength
and courage held out till her hand was laid on the closed eyes, and then
she went home to rest.