"Allison Bain" (continued 8)

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.

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.

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.”

Chapter Thirty.

“Then fare ye weel, my ain true love, And fare ye weel a while.”

But Allison was in no such evil case as her friends were inclined to believe. She was growing strong again, and she had enough to do, and a will to do it, which to reasonable folk means content, if it does not quite mean happiness. She still lived in Mrs Robb’s house, and went to the infirmary every day, and took pleasure in her work, the best of pleasure,—knowing that she was doing something to soothe the pains of those whose portion in life seemed to be only suffering and sorrow.

In helping these, she helped herself also. She forgot her own sadness, when she saw the weary, pain-drawn faces brighten as she came near, and she felt her own courage revived, and her strength renewed, when any weak and hesitating word of hers had power to comfort the hearts of some whom care or poverty or ill-requited affection had made sick, or sour, or hopeless.

There were complaining and ingratitude to meet now and then, from some of them. But, poor souls! they needed help and comfort all the more, because of their unreasonable anger, or their querulous discontent. Her kindest words, and softest touches, and longest patience were for these. And when the cloud parted, and a light from Heaven shone in upon one sitting in darkness, or when, for a moment, the troubled and angry spirit was made to feel what the coming of God’s grace into the heart is like,—was not that enough to make her content?

Doctor Fleming, though he said little to her about herself or her health, still kept his eye upon her, and soon became quite satisfied about her. Mr Rainy, who sometimes saw her passing through the street, wondered when she would begin to tire of her self-imposed labour, and of getting her own will and be ready to listen to reason. But he acknowledged to himself, that, if one could judge by her look, she seemed well pleased with her work and her own ways thus far.

“She goes by, not seeming to see me or any other body, but her thoughts are good and pleasant thoughts, or I am mistaken. Still, I doubt, when she comes to stand face to face with ‘the next of kin,’ she may have a qualm of repentance for her foolishness. But a last will and testament is no’ to be lightly meddled with, and I will do my best for her.”

So he wrote to Mr Hume, asking him to use his influence with Allison. He wrote also to Mrs Esselmont, whom he had known long and well. He had known her best in her youth, when, as he said to himself, she had kept as firm a grip of the good things of this life as most folk. He assured her that there was no reason, either in law or in morals, why Allison Bain should not have and hold, and make a good use of all that her husband had left to her, and he believed that no one would be so well able to set all this before her as Mrs Esselmont, since, as he had heard, she had for some time taken an interest in the young woman; and then he added:

“She has both sense and discretion, except with regard to this one matter She has been living a repressed sort of life of late,—indeed from all that I can gather, she never has had any other kind of life, which goes far to account for her hesitation—I will not say refusal—to receive what is rightfully hers. I think that she is afraid of the responsibility, and that she is not sure of herself, or of doing well the duties of a higher station. But she would soon learn to have confidence in herself; and with the friendship and the countenance of Mrs Esselmont, she need care little for the favour or disfavour of any of the rest.”

Mrs Esselmont smiled as she read. If such a letter had come to her in the days when Mr Rainy knew her best—when she was young—when she had influence in her own circle, and liked well to exercise it, she might have been moved by it even more than it moved her now. For she was moved by it. She had seen and known enough of Allison Bain to cause her to assent willingly to Mr Rainy’s opinion, that under favourable circumstances she might hold her own in a position very different from that which she had hitherto occupied.

She had not known Allison during her first months at the manse, when, under the terrible strain of sorrow and fear, she had seemed to break down and lose herself. It was the sight of her beautiful, sad face as she sat in the kirk, that had first touched Mrs Esselmont, and afterward, her firm and gentle dealing with the child Marjorie. Later on she had learned to know well and to admire,—yes, and to love dearly, this reticent, self-respecting, young woman who was living under her roof, a child’s nurse—a servant,—yet who in all her words and ways showed herself to be a true lady.

Such help as she could give, she would gladly give to Allison, should she of her own free will choose wealth and a higher position in life. But to seek to influence her choice,—that was quite another matter. No one but Allison herself could take the responsibility of deciding what her future was to be. None knew better than Mrs Esselmont, how little, wealth and the esteem of the world had to do with peace of mind or enduring happiness. She therefore answered Mr Rainy’s letter without committing herself. But she told him, that a journey to Aberdeen which she was intending to make, should be hastened, in order that she might the sooner see Allison.

As for the minister, he did with Mr Rainy’s letter, what he was in the way of doing with all important matters on which he was called to decide. He considered it well for a night and a day, and then he laid it before his wife. She did not wait long to consider it. She said as she laid it down:

“John Beaton!”

“Well,” said the minister, “what of him?”

“He would never wish it. At least I hope he would never wish it.”

“And has that anything to do with her refusal, think you?”

Mrs Hume was silent a moment. Then she said:

“No. I do not think so. I am sure it has not. There is no use searching for reasons as far as Allison is concerned. She simply cannot do the thing they are wishing her to do. It is not a matter for reason with her, but a matter of feeling. And I quite understand it, though I could not hope to make this clear to Mr Rainy, perhaps not even to you.”

There was more said about John Beaton and his hopes and wishes, but the advice which was to be given to Allison was not to be influenced by any thought of him, or what he might desire. What would be best for Allison herself?

Knowing her well, the minister could not but believe that she would be “a faithful and wise steward” of whatever was committed to her hand. And he could not but have a thought also, as to the direction which her liberality might take under judicious guidance. But for Allison herself, was the possession of so much money desirable? Would she be a happier woman because she lived in a fine house, and had fine folk about her? And would these fine folk ever fully accept her as one of themselves, and give her what was her due,—not as a rich woman, but as a good woman,—one possessing rare qualities of heart and mind, one in herself worthy of high regard and honour? All this was, in Mr Hume’s opinion, more than doubtful.

There was this to be said. A measure of happiness cannot but be theirs to whom is given the heart as well as the power to dispense wisely and liberally, and surely Allison would be one of these. Still, the conclusion to which Mr Hume came, was that Allison must be left to decide for herself.

So Mr Hume’s reply to Mr Rainy’s letter was not very satisfactory to that gentleman, and he could only hope, that as the months went on, something might occur which would suggest more reasonable views to them all.

Mrs Esselmont went to Aberdeen, and it so happened that she had an interview with Mr Rainy before she saw Allison. She owned herself impressed by what he had to say. Therefore when she met Allison, her first words to her were not those which she had intended to use. She spoke very gently and kindly, but it was with the desire to convince Allison that though it might not be for her pleasure, it might still be her duty to yield to wise guidance, and accept the lot which she had not chosen for herself, but which seemed to be the lot appointed for her. She dwelt on the advantages which would naturally follow such an acceptance,—the good which in so many ways Allison might do, the position which she would have, and which she would hold with credit and honour.

There was more said than this, and Allison listened in silence, with a look in her eyes which brought Mrs Esselmont to a pause at last.

“Were these your first thoughts about me when you heard what had befallen me? And do you think that I would be a happier woman or a better, for being a richer woman?” asked Allison quietly.

“Not happier or better, perhaps, but you might be more useful. No, I must own that my first thought was, that you did well to refuse to receive anything from him from whom you had fled, and from whom you had hidden yourself so long. But you owe something to his memory. Do you not see how it would quiet the evil tongues which are raised against him, if you were to take your rightful place and do there the duties which he, I fear, neglected sometimes to do?”

“I could not go there,” said Allison.

That was all she had to say. She had no reasons to give, and she had nothing to answer to all the good reasons which Mrs Esselmont had heard from Mr Rainy, and which she tried to set before her.

Mrs Esselmont kept her best argument till the last. It was not one which had been suggested to her by Mr Rainy.

“Allison, I can understand why you may shrink from the responsibility which the acceptance of your husband’s will would bring upon you. But in a way, the responsibility would remain, even were you to refuse. You do not know into whose hands this money may fall. Think of the evil influence which a bad rich man might exert through all the countryside. What is known of this stranger who is putting in his claim as next of kin?”

“Mr Rainy knows that he is the man that he declares himself to be. He has long known about him, and has always kept him in view. Doctor Fleming told me that. Yes, I have thought of what you say. But if Mr Rainy is satisfied, I think I am free to do as I desire to do—as I must do.”

“Is it your brother who is seeking to influence you in this matter, Allison?”

“No. I have thought of what might be his wish. But I have had no word from him since—I do not even know whether he has heard of—what has happened. No one has influenced me. I am sure I am right in refusing; but right or wrong, I must refuse. Oh! say no more, for I cannot bear it.”

She was doing her best to keep herself quiet, but the constant dwelling on this matter had vexed and wearied her, and Mrs Esselmont was startled by the look which came to her face, as she rose and took a step toward the door.

“Allison, my dear,” said she, “you are worn out and need to be taken care of and comforted. Leave it all for the present, and come home with me.”

The ready tears came to Allison’s eyes.

“You are very kind, but I think I am better here. Mrs Hume has asked me to come to the manse, and Mrs Beaton would like me to go to her. You are all very kind, but I think it is better for me just to bide where I am, and keep myself busy for the present.”

Mrs Esselmont sat thinking earnestly for several minutes. Then she said gravely:

“Allison, listen to me for a moment, and put out of your thoughts all that I hose been saying. You have been long enough under my roof to know something of me. You know that I am growing an old woman now, and that I am much alone, having no one very near to me who could be with me always. I am often very lonely. One daughter is taken up with the care of her large family, and has other claims upon her besides, and my Mary is over the sea. Will you come to me, Allison? Not as a servant,—as a companion and friend. I like you greatly, my dear. I may say I love you dearly. Will you come to me?”

She held out her hand. Allison took it in both hers, and stooping, she kissed it, and her tears fell upon it.

“If my brother did not need me I would come with good will. But I must go to him when he is ready for me.”

“Will you come to me till he sends for you? If he were to marry he would not need you. You would be happy with me, I am sure, my dear.”

“That you should even wish me to come, makes me very glad, but I can say nothing now.”

“Well, think about it. We would suit one another, my dear. And we might have our Marjorie with us now and then.”

Mrs Esselmont went back to Firhill, and Allison went daily to the infirmary again. She kept herself busy, as was best for her, and no one came to trouble her any more with counsel or expostulation. She did her work and thought her own thoughts in peace.

“I will wait patiently till this troublesome business is settled, and then I will know what I may do. I am not losing my time and I can wait.”

Having quite made up her mind as to her duty with regard to “this troublesome business,” she put it out of her thoughts and grew cheerful and content, and able to take the good of such solace or pleasure as came in her way.

Robert Hume was a help to her at this time. He looked in upon her often, and gave her such items of news as came to him from the manse or from Nethermuir. He brought her books now and then, to improve her mind and pass the time, he told her, and Allison began, to her own surprise, to take pleasure in them, such as she had taken in books in the days of her youth, before all things went wrong with them, and all the world was changed.

A letter came from her brother at last. It was dated at a strange place in the West, and it was not a cheerful letter.

“It is a long time since I wrote to you,” he said. “I had no heart to write. I was grieved and angry, and I would only have hurt you with my words. But I have not made so much of my own life that I should venture to find fault with what you are doing with yours. As to my plans that you asked about, I have none now. I may wait a while before I think of getting a home of my own, since I am not like to have any one to share it with me. Oh! Allie, how is it that all our fine hopes and plans have come to nothing? It was your duty, you thought, to take the step you have taken. I cannot see it so. Having once gone to him, you can never leave him till death comes to part you. You might as well have gone at the first as at the last, and you would have saved yourself the trouble of years. But it is useless to say more—”

Then he went on to tell her that he had come West to see the country—and a fine country it was, grand for growing grain. He had not made up his mind to stay in it. “It is a fine country, but it has a dreary look to me. There is not a hill to be seen far or near, and in some parts, not a tree for scores of miles. I hardly think I will stay here long.”

Allison read all this with painful misgivings. Willie alone and discouraged, and alas! open to temptation, perhaps, as he had been before—how would it end? Her heart sank within her, and she said to herself, that there was no need for her to wait for a settlement of that troublesome business. There were those who could settle it without her help, and she would away to her brother.

His name was signed at the end of the page, but she turned the leaf over and read a few lines more.

“I have gotten a letter from John Beaton, and I have made up my mind to go back to Barstow. John says he is going home to bring out his mother, and he will give you all the news—so no more at present.”

Allison’s heart was lightened as she read.

“There cannot be much wrong with him since he is going back again,” she thought, “and I can wait patiently till his friend comes, to hear more.”

She had not long to wait. One night, when she came home in the early gloaming, she found Mrs Robb standing at the door.

“Mr Robert is in the room,” said she, “and a friend with him. He asked for you, and I thought ye might maybe like to take off your cap and change your gown before you went in to them.”

“I may as well,” said Allison. “It is some one from Nethermuir, I suppose,” she thought as she went up the stair.

So she came down quite unprepared to find John Beaton standing in the middle of the room, with his eyes fixed on the door. They stood for a moment looking at one another, and then their hands met, but not a word of greeting passed between them. Then Allison sat down, and John took a turn up and down the room.

“I heard from my brother that you were coming home for your mother, but I did not think it was to be so soon,” said Allison.

“It is the best time for me to leave my work. It is rather early in the season for my mother, I am afraid. But the voyage is shorter than it used to be, and she can have every comfort.”

“She will be glad to go,” said Allison.

“Yes, for some reasons. But at her age, changes are neither easy nor welcome. Still, I am sure she will be glad to go.”

“You have something to tell me about my brother,” said Allison.

“Yes, I have much to tell you—and nothing but good.”

“I was thankful when I heard that he was to go back again to Mr Strong’s house. It has been like home to him a long time. Did he send a letter to me?”

“Yes—but it is a very little one. I am to tell you all the news,” said John, taking from his pocketbook a tiny, folded paper. Allison opened it and read:

“Dear Allie, it was all a mistake; it was me she cared for all the time. Oh! Allie, you must love her dearly for my sake.”

It seemed to take Allison a good while to read it, short as it was. When at last she looked up and met John’s eyes, a sudden rush of colour made her hide her face in her hands.

“Don’t be sorry, Allie; you would not if you knew all,” said John.

“Oh! no. It is not that I am sorry. But—he will not need me now. Oh! I am not sorry. I am glad for him.” But her voice trembled as she said it.

“Will he not need his sister? You would not say so if you knew what the thought of you has been to him all these years. You have not seen your brother for a long time, but it is you who have made a man of him, for all that.”

“Have I made a man of him? It has been with your good help then.”

“Yes, I think I may have helped him. We have been friends, and more, ever since we met that night by the lake shore.”

“Ah! he needed a friend then. I seemed to forget my fears for him, after I heard that you had found him. I do not know how to thank you for all you have been to him.”

“I will tell you how,” said John. But he did not. He rose and walked up and down again. After a little he sat down beside her, and had more to say. He spoke of his first meeting with her brother, of Willie’s illness, and of the good fortune that came to them both on the day when they took shelter from the rain in Mr Strong’s barn. He told her much more than that. Some things she had heard before, and some things she heard now for the first time. She listened to all with a lightened heart, and more than once the happy tears came to her eyes. And when John ended thus, “You will be proud of your brother yet, Allison,” she put out her hand, and John took it, and, for a moment, held it closely.

Before Allison came in John had said to Robert:

“You are not to go away; I have nothing to say to Allison Bain to-night that all Nethermuir might not hear.”

But for the moment he wished the words unsaid. A wild desire “to put all to the touch” and know his fate assailed him. He spoke quietly enough, however, when he went on to tell, in answer to Allison’s questions, why Willie had gone away so suddenly to the West.

He had always intended to go out there some time, but with the suddenness of his going Mr Strong had something to do. It never seemed to have come into the father’s mind that his little Elsie was not a child any longer, and when he began to notice the look that came into Willie’s eyes when they lighted on her, he was startled first, and then he was angry, and he let his anger be seen, which was foolish. I am afraid he spoke to Elsie herself, which was more foolish still. For she became conscious, and shy, and ill at ease, and these two, who up to that time had been like brother and sister, had little to say to one another. When Elsie was sent away to visit an aunt, Willie grew restless and angry, and, in a moment when something had vexed him, he told Mr Strong that he had made up his mind to go West.

“Mr Strong said ‘all right’ a little too readily perhaps, and gave the lad no time to reconsider his decision, and so Willie went away. It happened when I was in another town, where I had building going on. I heard of the matter first from a letter which Willie sent me, and hurried back as soon as possible, hoping to induce him to wait for a while, that I might go with him, as I had always meant to do. I was too late. But it has all ended well. Willie was glad to get home again, and they were all glad to have him home. Mr Strong had missed the lad more than he had been willing to confess, even to himself.”

“And is that what you call ending well? Is that to be the end?” said Robert, speaking for the first time.

John laughed. “That is as far as it has gone yet, and it as well as well can be. We must wait for the rest.”

“Tell me about Elsie,” said Allison.

John had a good deal to tell about Elsie, and about other people. He had much to say about Mr Hadden and his family, and about their great kindness to both Willie and himself. He had something also to say of his own business and of his success in it, and Robin drew him out to describe the house he had built for himself among the maples, by the lake. A pleasant place he said it was, but it would have to wait a while yet before it could be called a home.

Then Robin challenged him to say truly, whether, after all, he was quite contented with his life in the new world, and whether he had not had times of being homesick, repentant, miserable?

No, John had never repented. He had succeeded in every way, far better than he had had any reason to expect or hope. Miserable? No. No one need be miserable anywhere, who had enough to do, and a measure of success in doing it.

“As to homesickness—it depends on what you call homesickness. My heart was ay turning homewards, but not with any thought that I had been wrong or foolish to leave Scotland. No, I am not sorry I went to America when I did.”

And then, turning to Allison he added:

“And yet I had no intention of staying there when I went. If it hadna been the thought of finding Willie, I would never have turned my face to Barstow. Indeed, I think your Willie and his trust in me, and perhaps also my care for him, has had more to do with my contentment, yes, and with my success, than all else together.”

“I am glad,” said Allison, and her impulse was to put out her hand again. But she did not. She only said:

“How long do you think of staying in Scotland?”

“Only as long as my mother needs to make ready for the journey.”

“And when you go will you pass this way? I should like well to see your mother, and say good-bye before she goes away.”

“You must go borne for a while to the manse, Allie. That is what you must do,” said Robert.

“No,” said Allison, “I would like a quiet day with her here far better.”

“And you shall have it,” said John heartily. “That will be far better than to be there in the confusion of leaving.”

Then John rose, saying it was time to go, and Robert, who was to see him a few miles on his journey, remembered that there was still something to be done, and hurried away.

He might as well have stayed where he was, for the parting between these two was as undemonstrative as their meeting had been. But when the young men had gone a few steps down the pavement, John turned back again to the door where Allison was still standing.

“Allie,” said he, “say a kind word to me before I go. Tell me you have forgiven the presumption of that night.”

“I have had none but kind thoughts of you since then, John,” said she, giving him her hand.

He stooped and kissed it.

“I am not going to ask anything from you just now, because— But I must tell you—that I love you dearly,—so dearly, that I can wait patiently till you shall bid me come again.”

Laying her hand upon his shoulder, Allison whispered softly:

“Will you wait till the year is over, John?”

Chapter Thirty One.

“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.