_ CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.
"Choosing to walk in the shadow,
Patient and not afraid."
Allison had need of rest, greater need than she knew. The first days after her long watch and service came to an end were passed in utter quiet. No one came to disturb her, either with question or counsel. Mr Rainy, of course, took the management of affairs into his hands; and if he could have had his own way, everything which was to be done, and the manner of doing it, would have been submitted to her for direction or approval. It would, to him, have seemed right that she should go at once to Blackhills, to await in the forsaken house the coming home of its dead master.
But Doctor Fleming had something to say about the matter. He would not allow a word to be spoken to her concerning any arrangement which was to be made.
"You know that you have full power to do as you think fit with regard to the burial, and all else that may require your oversight. Any reference which you would be likely to make to Mistress Allison, would be a mere matter of form, and I will not have her disturbed. Man! ye little ken how ill able she is to bear what ye would lay upon her. As to her even hearing a word about going up yonder, it is out of the question. Leave her in peace for a while, and you will have the better chance of getting your own way with her later."
"As you say, doctor, it is a mere matter of form. But forms and ceremonies cannot ay be dispensed with. She might like to have her ain say, as is the way with women. However, I can wait till later on, as you advise."
So Allison was left in quiet. Brownrig was carried to his own house, and for a few days his coffin stood there in the unbroken silence of the place.
Then his neighbours gathered to his burial, and "gentle and simple" followed him to his grave. As the long procession moved slowly on, many a low-spoken word was exchanged between friends concerning the dead man and his doings during the years he had been in the countryside. His strong will, his uncertain temper, his faithful service to an easy and improvident employer, all were discussed and commented upon freely enough, yet with a certain reticence and forbearance also, since "he had gone to his account."
It was a pity that he had become so careless about himself of late, they said. That was the mild way in which they put it, when they alluded to "the drink" which had been "the death of him." And who was to come after him? Who was to get the good of what he had left?
Allison Bain's name was spoken also. Had she been wrong to go away? Had she been right? If she had accepted her lot, might she have saved him, and lived to be a happy woman in spite of all? Who could say? But if all was true that his man Dickson was saying, she had helped to save him at last.
In silence they laid him down within sight of the grave where Allison had knelt one sorrowful day, and there they left him to his rest.
Allison was worn and spent, but she was a strong woman and she would soon be herself again, she said, and her friends said so also. They did not know that Doctor Fleming had, at this time, some anxiety about her. He remembered the first days of his acquaintance with her, and the dull despair into which she had fallen, before he sent her to Nethermuir, and he would not have been surprised if, after the long strain upon mind and body through which she had passed, the same suffering had fallen upon her again. Therefore it was that he used both his authority as a physician and his influence as a friend, to prevent any allusion to business matters; and though he was guarded in all that he said to Mr Rainy on the subject, he yet said enough to show him the propriety of letting all things remain as they were, for a time.
So Allison was left at peace,--in the quiet little house which she was beginning to call her home. She had been asked, and even entreated by Mrs Hume, to come to the manse for a while. Mrs Beaton had written to say how glad it would make her if Allison would come to her for a week or two. But remembering the misery of her first months in Nethermuir, Allison hesitated at first, and then refused them both. She was better where she was, she said, and in a few days she would be ready for her work again.
She did not say it to them, and she hardly confessed it to herself, but she shrank from the thought of the eyes that would be looking at her, and the tongues that would be discussing her, now that her secret was known. For of course it could not be kept. All her small world would know how who she was, and why she had come to take refuge in the manse. They would think well of her, or ill of her, according to their natures, but that would not trouble her if she were not there to hear and see. So she stayed where she was, and as she could not do what she would have liked best, she made up her mind to go back to the infirmary again.
She would have liked best to go away at once to her brother in America, and some of her friends were inclined to wonder that she did not do so. But Allison had her reasons, some of which she was not prepared to discuss with any one,--which indeed she did not like to dwell upon herself. She had been asked to come to the home of the Haddens to stay there till her brother was ready for her. When she was stronger and surer of herself, she would accept their kind invitation, and then she would go to Willie--it did not matter where. East or West, far or near, would be all the same to her in that strange land, so that she and Willie might be able to help one another.
"And, oh! I wish the time were only come," said she.
Since this must be waited for, she would have liked well to ask kind Doctor Thorne, who had called her "a born nurse," to let her come to him, that she might be at his bidding, and live her life, and do some good in the world. The first time that Doctor Fleming had come to see her, after her long labour and care were over, it had been on her lips to ask him to speak to the good London doctor for her. But that was at the very first, and the fear that Doctor Fleming might wonder at her for thinking of new plans, before the dead man was laid in his grave, had kept her silent. After that she hesitated for other reasons. London was faraway, and the journey was expensive, and it would only be for a year at most, and possibly for less, as whenever her brother said he was ready for her she must go. So there was nothing better for her to do than just to return to her work in the infirmary, and wait with patience.
"And surely that ought to be enough for me, after all I have come through, just to stay there quietly and wait. I ought to ken by this time--and I do ken--that no real ill can come upon me.
"Pain? Yes, and sorrow, and disappointment. But neither doubt, nor fear, nor any real ill can harm me. I may be well content, since I am sure of that. And I
am content, only--whiles, I am foolish and forget."
She was not deceiving herself when she said she was content. But she must have forgotten--being foolish--one night on which Doctor Fleming came in to see her. For her cheeks were flushed, and there were traces of tears upon them, as he could see clearly when the light was brought in. She might have causes for anxiety or sorrow, of which he knew nothing. But he would have liked to know what had brought the tears to-night, because he, or rather Mr Rainy, had something to say to her, and he at least was doubtful how she might receive it.
Was he doubtful? Hardly that. But he was quite sure that what was to be said, and all which might follow, would be a trouble to Allison, and the saying of it might be put off, if she had any other trouble to bear.
"Are you rested?" said he. "Are you quite strong and well again?"
"Yes, I am quite well and strong."
"And cheerful? And hopeful?"
"Surely," said Allison, looking at him in surprise.
"Oh! I see what you are thinking. But it is only that I had a letter to-night. No, it brought no ill news. It is from--my Marjorie. I don't know--I canna tell why it should--"
"Why it should have made the tears come, you would say. Well, never mind. I am not going to ask. You are much better and stronger than you were, I am glad to say."
"Yes, I am quite well and cheerful,--only--"
But a knock came to the door, and Allison rose to open it.
"It is Mr Rainy. He has come to speak about--business. But he will not keep you long to-night."
Mr Rainy had never come much into contact with Allison Bain. She was to him "just a woman, like the lave." He had no wife, and no near kin among women, and it is possible that he knew less of the sex than he thought he did. He did not pretend to know much about Allison, but he knew that several people, whose sense and judgment he respected, thought well of her. She was tall and strong, and had a face at which it was a pleasure to look, and, judging from all that he had heard about her, she might be freer than most, from the little vanities and weaknesses usual to her kind. She was a reasonable woman, he had heard, and that he should have anything to do to-night, except to explain how matters stood, and to suggest the time and the manner of certain necessary arrangements, he had not imagined.
He came prepared to be well received, and he did not for a moment doubt that he should make good his claim to be heard and heeded in all that concerned the affairs which Brownrig had left in his hands. So he greeted Allison with gravity suited to the occasion, yet with a cheerfulness which seemed to imply that he had pleasant news to tell. Allison received him with a quietness which, he told himself, it cost her something to maintain. But he thought none the less of her for that.
"No woman could stand in
her shoes this night, and not be moved, and that greatly. And not one in ten could keep a grip of herself as she is doing--no, nor one in fifty," said he to himself. Aloud he said: "I ought, perhaps, to have given you longer time to consider when you could receive me. But the doctor informed me that you had been at the infirmary to-day, and as he was at liberty he suggested that you would doubtless be willing to see us to-night. There are certain matters that must be attended to at once."
"For the present I come home early," said Allison. "The evening is the only time I have to myself."
"Yes. For the present, as you say. Ahem! You are aware, perhaps, that for years I was employed by--by Mr Brownrig in the transaction of so much of his business as was in my line. And you know that during his last illness I was often with him, and was consulted by him. In short, the arrangement of his affairs was left to me."
This was but the introduction to much more. Allison listened in silence, and when he came to a pause she said quietly:
"And what can I have to do with all this?"
Mr Rainy looked a little startled.
"You are not, I should suppose, altogether unaware of the manner in which--I mean of the provisions of your husband's will?"
"I know nothing about it," said Allison.
"Then let me have the pleasure of telling you that by this will, you are, on certain conditions, to be put in possession of all of which Mr Brownrig died possessed. There are a few unimportant legacies to friends." He mentioned the names of several persons, and then went on with his explanations.
Allison understood some things which he said, and some things she neither understood nor heeded. When he came to an end at last, she did not, as he expected, ask what was the condition to which he had referred, but said:
"And what will happen if I say that I can take nothing?"
Mr Rainy looked at her in astonishment.
"That is easily told," said he, with a queer contortion of his face. "The property of the deceased would go to the next of kin."
Then Mr Rainy waited to hear more,--waited "to see what it was that she would be at," he said to himself.
"And it is your place to settle it all, to see that all is put right as it should be?"
"Yes, that is my place, with the help of one or two others. Your friend Doctor Fleming has something to do with your affairs, under the will."
"What you have to do will be to put the will aside, as if it had never been made. I hope it will not add to the trouble you must have to settle everything without it."
"Are you in earnest?" asked Mr Rainy gravely.
"Surely, I am in earnest."
"Do you mean to say that you refuse to receive the property which your husband left to you? Is it because of the condition? No, it cannot be that, for I named no condition. And indeed it is hardly a condition. It is rather a request."
Allison asked no question, though he paused expectant.
"The condition--if it can be called a condition--is easy enough to fulfil. It is to take possession of a fine house, and live in it--a while every year, anyway, and to call yourself by your husband's name. Is that a hard thing to do?"
Allison grew red and then pale.
"I have nothing to say about any condition. With no condition my decision would have been the same. What you have to do must be done with no thought of me."
"But what is your reason? What would you have? You were friends with him. You were good to him all those long months. You had forgiven him before he died."
"I think I had forgiven him long before that time. I came to him because I was sorry for him, and he, too, had something to forgive. I wished to be at peace with him before he died, for his sake and for my own."
"What more need be said? You had forgiven one another, and he wished to make amends. Give me a reason for this most astonishing resolution."
"I can give you no reason, except that I cannot take what you say he has left to me. I have no right to it. It should go to those of his own blood."
There was more said, but not much, and not another word was spoken by Allison. Doctor Fleming, who had been silent hitherto, said something about taking longer time to consider the matter--that there was no need for haste. She should take time, and consult her friends. But he did not seem surprised at her decision, and indeed "spoke in a half-hearted kind of a way, which was likely to do little ill, little good in this strange matter," Mr Rainy declared, with an echo of reproach in his voice, as they left the house together.
"Is she a' there, think ye? It canna surely be that she refuses to be beholden to him, because of the ill turn he did her when he married her? She forgave him, and that should end all ill thoughts. Yes, she had forgiven him; no one could doubt that who saw her as you saw her. And no one would think of casting up to her that she served him with any thought of what he had to leave behind him. But she might think so, and I daresay she has her ain pride, for all her gentle ways. You must have a word with her, doctor. It is easy seen that your word would go far with her. As for me, I canna follow her, nor understand her, unless it is that she has a want or a weakness about her somewhere."
"No," said the doctor, "it cannot be explained in that way."
"Well, what would she have? Man! think ye what many a woman would give for her chance! A house of her own, and wealth, no responsibilities, no incumbrances, and not a true word to be spoken against her. Why! it would be the beginning of a new life to her. With her good looks, and the grip she has of herself (her self-possession), she would hold her own--no fear of that. And no one has a right to meddle with her. There is her brother, but it is hardly likely he will trouble her. And she is the stronger of the two, and she has had experience since the old days. I canna fathom it--unless there be somebody else," said Mr Rainy, standing still in the street. "Doctor, can you tell me that? I think I would have heard of him, surely. And he would be a queer lad that would object to her coming to him with her hands full. And there is not a word said about her not marrying again. No, it must just be that she is a woman of weak judgment."
They had walked a long way by this time, and now they turned into another street, and soon came to Mr Rainy's door.
"Come in, doctor, come in. You surely must have something to say about this strange freak, though I own I have not given you much chance to say it. Come in if you can spare the time. It's early yet."
The doctor went in with him, but he had not much to say except that he was not altogether surprised at Mistress Allison's decision. Indeed he owned that he would have been surprised had she decided otherwise.
"But what, I ask, in the name of common sense, is the reason? You must know, for you seem to have foreseen her refusal."
"I do not believe she herself could find a reason, except that she cannot do this thing. The reason lies in her nature. She came to him, as she says, because she was sorry for him, and because she wished that they might forgive one another before he died. And I daresay she thought she might do him some good. And so she did. May God bless her! But as to what he had, or what he might do with it, I doubt if the thought of it ever came into her mind, till you spoke the word to-night."
Mr Rainy shook his head.
"I don't say that it is altogether beyond possibility. She seems to be a simple-minded creature in some ways, but she's a woman. And just think of it! A free life before her, and all that money can give--I mean of the things dear to women--even to good and sensible women--gowns and bonnets and--things. It couldna but have come into her mind."
"But even if she has thought of all these things, she refuses them now."
"Yes, she does that, but why? It may be that she hasna confidence in herself. But that would come. There is no fear of a fine, stately woman like her. It is a pity that the poor man didna get to his own house to die."
"Yes, it was Brownrig's sole reason for wishing to go, that all might be made easier for her. He was eager to see her in the possession of all he had to give. It was too late, however. He failed rapidly, after he told me his wish. Still, I do not think that her being there would have made any difference in the end."
"Do you mean that she would have said the same in those circumstances, and that she will hold out now? That she will go her own ways, and earn her bread, and call herself Allison Bain to the end of her days? No, no! she will come round. We'll give her time, and she'll come round, and ken her ain mind better. A year and a day I'll give her, and by that time she will be wiser and less--less, what shall I call it? Less scrupulous."
"There are, doubtless, folk ready to put in a claim for a share of what is left, should she refuse."
"There is one man, and he has a family. I have had my eye on him for a while. He knows his connection with Brownrig. I don't think he is proud of it. But he will have no scruples about taking all that he can get, I daresay. The will, as it stands, is not to be meddled with. I hope he may have to content himself with his five hundred pounds."
Doctor Fleming smiled.
"I should say that he stands a fair chance of taking that and all else besides. Time will show."
"I think, doctor," said Mr Rainy gravely, "if you were to give your mind to it, you could make her see her interest, and her duty as well."
"I am not so sure of that. Nor would I like to say, that to take
your way, would be either her interest or her duty."
"Nonsense, man! Consider the good a woman like that might do. I think I'll send a letter to her friend Mr Hume. He can set her duty before her, as to the spending of the money. They are good at that, these ministers. And there is Mrs Esselmont! If she were to take up Allison Bain, it would be the making of her. And she might well do it. For John Bain came of as good a stock as any Esselmont of them all. Only of late they let slip their chances--set them at naught, I daresay, as Mistress Allison is like to do. Yes, I'll write to Mrs Esselmont. She has taken to serious things of late, I hear, but she kens as weel as anither the value of a competence to a young woman like Allison Bain."
"Does Mistress Allison know anything of this nephew of Brownrig's?"
"All that she knows is that there are folk who can claim kinship with her husband."
"Well, I hope he is a good man if this money is to go to him, as I cannot but think it may."
Mr Rainy said nothing for a moment, but looked doubtfully at the doctor.
"He is an unworldly kind of a man," said he to himself, "and though he has not said as much, I daresay he is thinking in his heart that it is a fine thing in Allison Bain to be firm in refusing to take the benefit of what was left to her. And if I were to tell who the next of kin is, it might confirm her in her foolishness. But I'll say nothing to him, nor to Mrs Esselmont."
Then he added aloud:
"Speak you a word to her. She will hear you if she will hear any one. Make her see that it is her
duty to give up her own will, and take what is hers, and help other folk with it. She is one of the kind that thinks much of doing her duty, I should say."
Doctor Fleming smiled.
"Yes, that is quite true; if I were only sure as to what is her duty, I would set it before her clearly. I will speak to her, however, since you wish it, but I will let a few days pass first."
That night Robert Hume looked in upon Allison, as was his custom now and then. Marjorie's letter lay on the table.
"There is no bad news, I hope?" said he as he met Allison's glance.
"No. Marjorie would like me to come 'home,' as she calls it. Or, if that canna be, she would like to come here."
"She could hardly come here, but you should go to the manse. You
must go when spring comes."
"I would like to go for some reasons. But--I would like to see my Marjorie, and the sight of your mother would do me good, and yet I canna think of going with any pleasure. But I may feel differently when the spring comes."
"You went back to your auld wives too soon," said Robin.
"No, it is not that. If I am not fit to go to them, what am I fit for?" And, to Robert's consternation, the tears came into her eyes.
"Allie," said he, "come away home to my mother."
But when Allison found her voice again, she said "no" to that.
"I havena the heart to go anywhere. My auld wives are my best friends now. I must just have patience and wait."
"Allison," said Robert gravely, "would you not like to come with me to America?"
Allison looked at him in astonishment.
"With you! To America!"
"Yes, with me. Why not? They have fine colleges. I could learn to be a doctor as well there as here, at least I could learn well enough. And then there is your brother, and--John Beaton. The change is what you need. You wouldna, maybe, like to go by yourself, and I could take care of you as well as another."
This hold and wise proposal had the effect of staying Allison's tears, which was something.
"And what would your father and mother say to that, think ye?" said Allison with a smile.
"I dinna--just ken. But I ken one thing. They would listen to reason. They ay do that. And a little sooner or later, what difference would it make? For it is there I am going some time, and that soon."
"And so am I, I hope--but not just yet. I couldna go to a strange land, to bide among strange folk, until--I am fitter for it. If my brother had a house of his own, I might go."
"But when your brother gets a house of his own, he'll be taking a wife," said Robert gravely.
"Surely! I would like that well."
"Oh! it will come whether you like it or no. If he canna get one, he'll get another--there's no fear."
"Ah! but if he canna get the right one, he should take none. And he would ay have me."
Robin might have had his own thoughts about that matter. He said nothing, however, but that night he wrote a letter to his mother. He wrote about various matters, as once every week it was his duty and pleasure to do. And when he had said all else that was to be said, he added, that Allison Bain whiles looked as she used to look in her first days in Nethermuir--as though she had lost all her friends, and as though she might lose herself next.
"I told her to-night that her best wisdom would be to come away with me to America. I meant, of course, that I would go with her if she was afraid to go by herself. For they say there are fine colleges in America, and I could keep on with my work there. Allison is getting no good here, among her auld wives."
Mrs Hume smiled at Robert's proposal, and so did the minister, but they both looked grave at his account of Allison.
"It is a pity that she refuses to come here for a few weeks," said Mr Hume.
"Yes, it might do her good. Still it would not be as it was at first. It was because her hands were busy and her days full, that she was helped then. It would be different now. And more than that, she seems quite to shrink from the thought of it. We will wait a while, and all that may pass away." _