Allison Bain Part 51

"If you were once there, you think you would be yourself again?"

A sudden spasm pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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. G.o.d 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. G.o.d 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 cla.s.ses 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 pa.s.sed, 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 pa.s.sing.

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.