"And I will come again, my love,
Though 'twere ten thousand mile."
A year and a day Mr Rainy had given to Allison Bain, in which to
reconsider her decision as to her refusal to be benefited by the
provisions of Brownrig's will, and now the year was drawing to a close.
"The next of kin" had signified his intention of returning to Scotland
immediately, and as he was an officer in the army, who might be sent on
short notice to any part of the empire, it was desirable that he should
know as soon as might be, what chance there was of his inheriting the
property which his uncle had left.
Mr Rainy had written cautiously to this man at first. He had had
little doubt that Brownrig's widow, as he always called Allison in his
thoughts, would be brought to her senses and hear reason, before the
year was out. So he had not given the next of kin much encouragement to
believe that more than his five hundred pounds would fall to his share.
It was a matter of conscience with Mr Rainy. Whatever any one else
might think or say, or whatever his own private opinion might be, it was
clearly his duty to use all diligence in carrying out the expressed
wishes of the testator. In the meantime he left Allison to herself,
believing that frequent discussion would only make her--womanlike--hold
the more firmly to her first determination.
But after all was said and done, this "troublesome business," which had
caused care and anxiety to several people besides Allison, was brought
to a happy end. Mr Rainy's house was the place appointed for the
meeting of all those who had anything to do with the matter, either
officially or otherwise; and on the day named, shy and anxious, but
quite determined as to what she was to say and do, Allison took her way
thither. She told herself that she would have at least one friend
there. Doctor Fleming had promised not to fail her, and though he had
never spoken many words to her about the will, she knew that he would
stand by her in the decision to which she had come. She had confidence
in his kindness and consideration. No word to deride her foolishness
would fall from his lips, and even Mr Rainy's half-contemptuous
expostulations would be restrained by the good doctor's presence.
She reached the house at the appointed hour, and found all who had a
right to be present on the occasion, already there. It was her friend
Doctor Fleming who came forward to the door, and led her into the room.
"Mrs Esselmont!" said Allison, as the lady advanced to meet her.
"Yes, Allison, I am here," said she gravely.
There were a number of gentlemen present, and voices were heard also, in
the room beyond. Mrs Esselmont's presence and support were just what
Allison needed to help her self-possession, as Mr Rainy brought one
after another to greet her; and she went through the ceremony of
introduction with a gentle dignity which surprised only those to whom
she was a stranger. The last hand that was held out to her was that of
"the next of kin," as Mr Rainy announced gravely.
He was a tall man, with a brown face and smiling eyes, and the grasp of
his hand was firm and kindly. They looked at each other for a moment,
and then Allison turned a triumphant glance on Mr Rainy.
"Mistress Allison," said the new-comer, "I have been hearing strange
things about you."
"But only things of which you are glad to hear," said Allison eagerly.
"I have heard of you too, though I do not remember ever to have heard
your name."
"I am Allan Douglas, the son of Mr Brownrig's eldest sister."
He had not time to say more. Allison put her other hand on the hand
which held hers.
"Not Captain Douglas from Canada? Not Miss Mary's husband?" said
Allison, speaking very softly.
She saw the answer in his smiling eyes, even before he spoke, "Yes, the
husband of Mary Esselmont,--the daughter of your friend."
Allison turned with a radiant face to those who were looking on.
"And is not this the best way? Is not this as right as right can be?"
said she, still speaking low.
Not one of them had a word to answer her. But they said to one another
that she was a strange creature, a grand creature, a woman among a
thousand. Allison might well laugh at all this when it was told her
afterward. For what had she done? She had held to her first
determination, and had taken her own will against the advice and even
the entreaty of those who were supposed to be wiser than she. She had
only refused to take up a burden which she could not have borne. What
was there that was grand in all that?
"As right as right can be," she repeated, as she went over to the sofa
where Mrs Esselmont was sitting. "And now you will have your Mary home
again," said she.
Her Mary was there already. A fair, slender woman with a delicate face,
was holding out her hand to Allison.
"I am glad to see the Allison of whom my mother has so often told me,"
said she.
"And I am glad you are come home for her sake," said Allison.
There was no long discussion of the matter needed after this. Mr Rainy
might be trusted to complete all arrangements as speedily as might be,
and it was with a lightened heart that Allison saw one after another of
those concerned take their departure.
Captain Douglas had still something to say to Allison, and he came and
sat down by the side of his wife.
"Have you heard from your brother lately? Do you know that I went to
see him before I left America?"
"No," said Allison in surprise. "I have had no letter for a month and
more. Was it by chance that you met in that great country?"
"Oh! no. When Mr Rainy told me of your decision, he also told me that
you had a brother in America, and gave me his address. The place was
not very faraway from the town where we were stationed, and I made up my
mind to see him before I returned home. Mr Rainy could not tell me
whether you had consulted with your brother or not, and I thought it was
right for your sake as well as for my own, that I should see him and
learn _his_ opinion of the matter."
"Well?" said Allison anxiously.
"Well, he answered me scornfully enough, at first, and told me I was
welcome to take possession of a bad man's ill-gotten gains, and more
angry words he added. But that was only at first. He had a friend with
him who sent me away, and bade me come again in the morning. From him I
heard something of the cause of your brother's anger against my uncle.
We were on better terms, your brother and I, before I left."
"And was he angry with me? I mean, was he angry that I was with your
uncle at the end?"
"He did not speak of that. You must let me thank you for all you did
for my uncle in his last days."
"Oh! no. You must not thank me. It was only my duty; I could not have
done otherwise," said Allison. "And did Willie not speak of me at all?"
"Yes. He said that there was not in all Scotland another woman like his
sister Allie, nor in America either."
Allison, smiled at that.
"And did he send no letter to me?"
"Yes, he sent a letter. I have it with me. No, I gave it to a friend,
who said he would put it into your own hand."
"It was to your brother's friend that he gave the letter," said Mrs
Esselmont in a whisper.
So when Allison came home to see a light in the parlour window, and a
tall shadow moving back and forth upon the blind, she knew who was
waiting for her there.
An hour later Robert Hume came to the house.
"Mistress Allison must have gone to the inn with Mrs Esselmont and her
friends," said Mrs Robb, "and here has the poor lad been waiting for
her in the parlour an hour and more. What can be keepin' her, think
you? And I dinna just like to open the door."
Robert laughed. "Poor fellow, indeed!" said he. "I suppose we may at
least knock and ask leave to open it."
They had seen each other already, but the hands of the two young men met
in a clasp which said some things which neither would have cared to put
into words for the other's hearing. Then Robert turned to Allison, who
was sitting there "just as usual," he thought at first. But there was a
look on her face, which neither he nor any one else had seen there till
now.
"No. I am not going to sit down," said Robert. "But I promised my
mother that I would write to-night, to tell her how it all ended, and I
need my time."
"Ended! It is only beginning," said John.
"Robert," said Allison gravely, "does John ken?"
Robert laughed.
"There are few things that John doesna ken, I'm thinking. What I mean
is this. How did old Rainy and you agree at last?"
"Yes, Allison, I ken," said John, as she turned to him, "and I say as
you said: The end is as right as right can be."
"Were you there, John?" said Allison wondering.
"Surely, I was there as Captain Douglas' friend. He had a right to ask
me, you see."
"You know him, John, and Miss Mary?"
"We sailed together, and I had seen Captain Douglas before that time."
"Yes, when he went to see my brother. A friend helped him, he told me,
a friend of Willie's, and I knew it must be you."
John told something of the interview between them, and when a pause
came, Robert, who had been standing all this time, said:
"There is just one thing more which I must tell my mother. When are you
coming home to the manse? and--when is it to be?"
"You are a bold lad, Robin. _I_ have not dared to ask that yet," said
John.
But when Robert was gone he asked it, and Allison was kind and let him
"name the day."
"A week hence! But is not that very soon, considering all you have to
do?"
"Oh, no! All that I have to do can be done after," said John. "Will it
be too soon for you?"
Allison's modest "providing" had been growing under her own busy hands,
during the brief leisure which her daily duties left her. It was all of
the plainest and simplest, but it was sufficient in her esteem.
"Yes," said she after a moment's hesitation, "I can be ready, and--
whatever more you think I need--you will have to give me, John."
John laughed and kissed her hand. Then he said gravely:
"And, dear, I made a promise once, for you and for myself. I said, if
this happy day should ever come, I would take my wife, first of all, to
the manse of Kilgower--to get an old man's blessing."
Kilgower! At the name, a shadow of the old trouble fell on Allison's
face--for the last time.
"I will go anywhere with you, John," said she.
The next day Allison went home to the manse--another "happy homecoming,"
as Marjorie called it,--though she was to be there only a little while.
There were few changes in the manse since the old days. There was a
gleam of silver on the dark hair of the minister, and the face of the
minister's wife showed a touch of care, now and then, when she fell into
silence. But in the home there were cheerfulness and content, and a
hopeful outlook as there had always been, and the peace which comes as
the fulfilment of a promise which cannot be broken.
The boys had grown bigger and stronger, and they had three sisters now.
Jack was not at home. Jack was in the South learning to make steam
engines, and when he had learned, he was going to America to make his
fortune, like John Beaton. And so was Davie. Only Davie was to have
land--a farm of a thousand acres. To America the thoughts and hopes of
all the young people of the manse were turning, it seemed, and the
thoughts of a good many in the town, as well.
John Beaton's success in the new country to which he had gone, was the
theme of admiring discussion among the townsfolk, and when John came to
Nethermuir, before the week was over, he found that all arrangements had
been made for a lecture about America, which was to be delivered in the
kirk. John saw at once that he could not refuse to speak. But it would
be no _lecture_ that he could give, he declared. If any one had any
questions to ask, he would answer them as well as he could. And this he
did, to the general satisfaction.
As to his own success--yes, he had been successful in so far, that he
had made a beginning. That was all he had done as yet. It was a
beginning indeed, which gave him good reason for thankfulness and for
hope.
"Oh! yes. America is a fine country. But after all, the chief thing
is, that there is room for folk out there. When one comes to speak
about success, courage and patience and strength and hard work are as
necessary to ensure it there as they are here in Scotland. But there is
this to be said. When a man's land is his own, and he kens that every
stroke of his axe and every furrow of his plough is to tell to his own
advantage, it makes a wonderful difference." And so on, to the pleasure
and profit of all who heard it.
Allison did not hear the lecture, nor Marjorie. They were at Mrs
Esselmont's. Marjorie enjoyed the visit and had much to say of it, when
she came home. Allison did not enjoy it so well. She was a little
doubtful as to how John would be pleased when he came to hear all. That
was what troubled Allison,--that, and the fear that Mrs Esselmont and
Mrs Douglas might see her trouble.
For it seemed that it was not to be left to John to supply all the rest
that was needed in the way of Allison's "providing." For a glimpse was
given her of a great many beautiful things,--"naiprie," and bed linen,
and gowns and shawls, and other things which a bride is supposed to
require. And something was said of china and silver, that were waiting
to be sent away to the ship when the time for sailing came. And Allison
was not sure how John might like all this. But she need not have been
afraid.
Mrs Esselmont had a word with John that night, when he came after his
"lecture" to take Allison home. On their way thither, he said to her:
"What did Mrs Esselmont mean when she said to me, that she had at one
time hoped that you would come home to her, to be to her a daughter in
her old age?"
"Did she say that? It was friend and companion that she said to me. It
was at the worst time of all, when Willie had written to me that he was
going away to the far West. I was longing to get away, but I couldna
go, not knowing that Willie wanted me, and because--until--Oh! yes, I
was sad and lonely, and not very strong, and Mrs Esselmont asked me.
But it was not daughter she said to me, but companion and friend."
"And what answer did you give her?"
"I thanked her, but I couldna promise, since I _must_ go to my brother
sooner or later."
"And was it only of your brother that you thought, Allison?"
"I had no right to think of any one else then, and besides--"
"Well, besides?" said John after a pause.
"It was you that Elsie liked best, Willie thought--and that her father
liked best, as well--"
"Did the foolish fellow tell you that?"
"He said that Elsie was ay friendly with you, and that she had hardly a
word or a look for him, and he was afraid that it might break friendship
between you if he stayed on, and he said he was going away."
"And he did go, the foolish lad. Friendly! Yes, Elsie and I were
friendly, but it was Willie who had her heart. But his going away did
no harm in the end."
Allison sighed.
"It was ay Willie's way to yield to impulse, and ill came of it whiles."
"It is his way still--whiles. But it is _good_ that mostly comes of it
now. And in Elsie's hands, a thread will guide him. You will love
Elsie dearly, Allison."
"I love her dearly already."
They had reached the manse by this time, and as they lingered a moment
in the close, John said:
"And were you pleased with all the bonny things that Mrs Esselmont has
been speaking to me about?"
Allison started, and laid her hand on his arm.
"Are you pleased, John? I was afraid--"
"Yes, I am pleased. She is very kind."
John kept her hand in his, and led her on till they came to the
garden-gate.
"Now tell me of what you are afraid, Allie," said he.
"Oh! not afraid. But I was glad to come to you with little, because I
knew you would be glad to give me all. And I thought that--perhaps--
you--But Mrs Esselmont is very kind."
"My dear, I would be ill to please indeed, if I were not both pleased
and proud to hear the words which Mrs Esselmont said of you to-night.
Yes, she is more than kind, and she has a right to give you what she
pleases, because she loves you dearly."
Allison gave a sigh of pleasure.
"Oh! it was not that I was afraid. But I was, for so long a time,
troubled and anxious,--that--whiles I think I am not just like other
women--and that you might--"
John uttered a little note of triumph.
"Like other women? You are very little like the most of them, I should
say."
"It is not of you--it is of myself I am afraid. You think too well of
me, John. I am not so good and wise as you believe, but I love you,
John."
That ought to have been enough, and there were only a few words more,
and this was one of them:
"Allie," said John gravely, "I doubt that I am neither so wise nor so
good as you think me to be. You will need to have patience with me.
There are some who say I am hard, and ower-full of myself, and whiles I
have thought it of myself. But, Allie, if I am ever hard with you, or
forgetful, or if I ever hurt you by word or deed, it will not be because
I do not love you dearly. And you will ay have patience with me, dear,
and trust me?"
"I am not afraid, John."
The happy day came, and the marriage in the manse parlour was a very
quiet affair, as those who were most concerned desired it to be. But in
the opinion of Nethermuir generally, a great mistake had been made. The
marriage should have been in the kirk, it was said, so that all the town
might have seen it.
Robert was best-man, and Marjorie was best-maid. Mrs Esselmont and her
daughter and son-in-law were there, and one other guest.
"Think of it!" folk said. "Only one asked to the marriage out of the
whole town, and that one auld Saunners Crombie!"
There was a good reason for that in John's esteem, and in Allison's.
Saunners appreciated the honour which was done him. He also did honour
to the occasion--pronouncing with unction over the bride and bridegroom
the blessings so long ago spoken at the gate of Bethlehem.
It was not quite springtime yet, but the day was like a spring day, with
a grey sky, and a west wind blowing softly, when John and Allison came
in sight of the kirk of Kilgower. Only the voice of the brown burn
broke the stillness, murmuring its way past the manse garden, and the
kirkyard wall, and over the stepping-stones on which Allison had not
dared to rest her tired feet, on the morning when she saw it last, and
she said in her heart:
"Oh! can it be that I am the same woman who would fain have died on that
day?"
They went into the kirkyard first. The tears which fell on the white
headstone were not all tears of sorrow. They told of full submission,
of glad acceptance of God's will in all the past, and of gratitude for
all that the future promised.
"John," said she softly. But her voice failed her to say more.
"We will come again, dear," said he gently, and he led her away.
And so they went on to the manse, and Allison bowed her head while the
good old man blessed her, and was glad, though the tears were very near
her eyes. John had much to tell the minister about his son and his
happy family, and of their way of life, and the good which they did in
the town; and after a little Allison smiled as she met her husband's
kind eyes, and was ready with her answers when Dr Hadden turned to her.
They were to stay over the Sabbath. Surely they must stay over the
Sabbath, the minister said, and the reason which he gave for their
staying was the one which John would have given for wishing to go away.
"There will be so many at the kirk who will like to see Allison Bain's
face again," said he.
But when he added reverently, "And doubtless it is in her heart to thank
God in His own house, for all the way by which He has led her since that
sorrowful day," what could they do but promise to remain?
In the gloaming they went down by the burn side, and past the
stepping-stones, and round the hill to the cottage of Janet Mair. It
was a dark little place. The tiny peat fire on the hearth cast only a
faint light, and it was some moments before they caught a glimpse of the
wee bowed wifie, who had befriended Allison in her time of need.
"Come ye awa ben," said she. "Is it Betty, or is it the minister's
Barbara? Bide still till I licht my bit lampie."
But when the lamp was lighted, she "wasna just sae sure," even then, who
it was that had come in.
"Dinna ye mind Allie Bain, and how good ye were to her, the day she gaed
awa?"
"Ay do I. Weel that. Eh, woman! Are ye Allie Bain?"
The lamp did not cast a very bright light, but it fell full on Allison's
face.
"Eh! but ye're grown a bonny woman! Sit ye doon and rest yersel'. And
wha is this? Is it witless Willie, as I've heard folk ca' him?"
She did not wait for an answer, but wandered away to other matters. She
seemed quite to have forgotten the events of the last years. But she
told them about her mother, and about the man she should have married,
who were both lying in the kirkyard doon by, and about her father and
her brothers who were lost at sea.
"I'm sair failed," said she. "It has been an unco hard winter, and I
hae had to keep the hoose. But I'll be mysel' again, when the bonny
spring days come, and I can win out to the kirkyard. It's a bonny
place, and wholesome."
And so on she wandered. They did not try to bring her thoughts back to
later days. "It was as well not," Allison said sadly.
Yes, she was sore failed, but she brightened wonderfully at the touch of
a golden piece which John put into her hand.
"I'll tak' it to the manse and get it changed for the bawbees and
pennies that are gaithered in the kirk. It'll tak' twa or three
Sabbaths o' them, I daursay, to mak' it out. Eh! but ye're a braw lad,
and a weelfaured," added she, holding up the lamp and peering into his
face. "And muckle gude be wi' ye a' ye're days," she added as they went
away.
"You have never told me of all the help she gave you," said John as they
went down the burn side together.
"Sometime I will tell you; I would fain forget it all just now."
The next day they went to Grassie, to see the two or three with whom
Allison could claim kindred in the countryside. She had seen them last
on her father's burial-day. Then they went to many a spot where in
their happy childhood Allison and her brother used to play together.
John had heard of some of these before, he said. He knew the spot at
the edge of the moor, where young Alex. Hadden had rescued Willie from
the jaws of death, and he recognised the clump of dark old firs, where
the hoodie-crows used to take counsel together, and the lithe nook where
the two bairns were wont to shelter from the east wind or the rain. And
he reminded Allison of things which she had herself forgotten. At some
of them she wept, and at others she laughed, joyful to think that her
brother should remember them so well. And she too had some things to
tell, and some sweet words to say, in the gladness of her heart, which
John might never have heard but for their walk over the hills that day.
They went to the kirk on the Sabbath, and sat, not in the minister's
pew, but in the very seat where Allison used to sit with her father and
her mother and Willie before trouble came. And when the silence was
broken by the minister's voice saying: "Oh! Thou who art mighty to
save!" did not her heart respond joyfully to the words? The tears rose
as she bowed her head, but her heart was glad as she listened to the
good words spoken. When they came out into the kirkyard, where, one by
one, at first, and afterward by twos and threes, the folk who had known
her all her life came up to greet her, there were neither tears nor
smiles on her face, but a look at once gentle, and firm, and grave--the
look of a strong, patient, self-respecting woman, who had passed through
the darkness of suffering and sorrow into the light at last.
John stood a little apart, watching and waiting for her, and in his
heart he was saying, "May I grow worthy of her and of her love." When
there had been "quite enough of it," as he thought, and he was about to
put an end to it, there drew near, doubtful, yet eager, an old bowed
man, to take her hand, and then John saw his wife's face, "as if it had
been the face of an angel."
She had waited for all the rest to come to her, but she went forward to
meet this man with both hands held out to him, and they went aside
together. Then, Allison stooped toward him, speaking softly, and while
he listened, the tears were running down his withered cheeks, but he
smiled and prayed God bless her, at the end.
"Who was your last friend?" said John when they had left the kirkyard,
and were drawing near the manse.
"It was--the father of Annie Brand. She died--over yonder--"
She could not say more, and she did not need to. John had heard the
story of Annie Brand and of others, also, from her friend Doctor
Fleming, and in his heart he said again:
"O God! make me worthy of her love."
They did not linger long after the Sabbath, though their old friend
asked for all the time which they could freely give. They were not
specially pressed for time, John acknowledged, but there were several
places to which they meant to go--to some of them for business, to all
of them for pleasure. He had left all his affairs "on the other side"
in good hands, so that they need not be in haste to return, and they
were free to go about at their leisure.
"And it is quite right you are," said Doctor Hadden. "It is wonderful
what a bonny world it is that happy eyes look out upon. And you will
have the sight of many a fair picture, that you will recall together in
the years that are to come. And with all this, and the voyage that lies
before you, you will have time to get acquaint with one another, before
the warstle of common life begins."
And so they went away. And their "happy eyes" saw many a fair picture,
and day by day they "got acquaint" with one another, as their dear old
friend had said.
And in due time they sailed away in to the West, to begin together a new
life in a new land.