_ CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.
"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. _