One day, for some reason or other, she was detained longer than usual among her "auld wives," and it was late when she came into Brownrig's room.

"What has keepit you?" said he impatiently.

It was the first time he had ever directly addressed her.

"I have been detained," said Allison quietly. "Can I do anything for you, now that I am here?"

"Detained? Among your auld wives, I suppose. What claim have they upon ye, I should like to ken?"

"The claim they have on any other of the nurses. I am paid to attend them. And besides, I am sorry for them. It is a pleasure to be able to help them--or any one in distress--my best pleasure."

To this there was no reply, and Allison, who of late had brought her work with her to pa.s.s the time, went on knitting her little stocking, and there was silence, as on other days.

"What do you mean by saying that you are paid like the other nurses?"

said Brownrig after a little.

"I mean just what I said. Doctor Fleming offered me the place of nurse here. I held it once before, and I like it in a way."

No more was said to Allison about it then or afterward. But Brownrig spoke to Doctor Fleming about the matter, on the first opportunity, declaring emphatically that all that must come to an end. He grew more like his old self than he had been yet, as he scoffed at the work and at the wages.

"It must end," said he angrily.

"Mr Brownrig," said the doctor gravely, "you may not care to take a word of advice from me. But as you are lying there not able to run away, I'll venture to give it. And what I say is this. Let weel alane.

Be thankfu' for sma' mercies, which when ye come to consider them are not so very sma'. Yes, I offered her the place of nurse, and she is paid nurse's wages, and you have the good luck to be one of her patients. But ca' canny! (Be moderate). You have no claim on Mistress Allison, that, were the whole story known, any man in Scotland would help you to uphold. She came here of her own free will. Of her own free will she shall stay--and--if such a time comes,--of her own free will she shall go. In the meantime, take you all the benefit of her care and kindness that you can."

"Her ain free will! And what is the story about Rainy's meeting her on the street and threatening her with the law, unless she did her duty? I doubt that was the best reason for her coming."

"You are mistaken. Rainy did not threaten her. He lost sight of her within the hour, and would have had as little chance to find her, even if he had tried, as he had last time. No, she came of her own free will. She heard from some auld fule or other, that you had near put an end to yourself at last, and he told her that it was her duty to let bygones be bygones, and to go and see what might be done to save the soul of her enemy."

"Ay, ay! her enemy, who wasna likely to live lang, and who had something to leave behind him," said Brownrig, with a scowl.

"As you say,--who has something to leave behind him, and who is as little likely to leave it to her, as she would be likely to accept it, if he did. But that's neither here nor there to me, nor to you either, just now. What I have to say is this. Take ye the good of her care and her company, while ye have them. Take what she is free to give you, and claim no more. If she seeks my advice, and takes it, she'll go her own way, as she has done before. In the meantime, while she is here, let her do what she can to care for you when the auld wives and the bairns can spare her."

And with that the doctor bade him 'good-day,' and took his departure.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

"G.o.d liveth ever, Wherefore, soul, despair thou never."

Brownrig was better in mind and in body than when Allison first came, but he was far from strong. His mind was not quite clear, and it was not easy for him "to put this and that together," in a way to satisfy himself, when the doctor went away. He was already "muddled," as he called it, and he did the best thing he could have done in the circ.u.mstances, he shut his eyes and fell asleep.

Before he woke Allison came in, and when he looked up, he saw her sitting with her work on her lap, and yesterday's newspaper in her hand, reading: and smiling to herself as she read.

"Weel, what's the news the day?" said he.

Allison did not start or show the surprise she fell at being thus addressed.

"Will I read it to you?" she asked.

She read about the markets and the news of the day; but whether he were getting the good of it all or not, she could not say. When she thought she had read enough, she laid down the paper and took up her work as usual.

That was the beginning. All the days pa.s.sed like this day for a while, except that a book took the place of a newspaper sometimes. And by and by, the best of books had a minute or two given to it--rarely more than a minute or two. Brownrig listened to that as he listened to the rest, willingly, and sometimes with interest, when she chanced to light on a part which had not been quite forgotten in the long careless years which had pa.s.sed since the time his dead mother used to read it with him and his little sisters, when they were children at home. When he looked interested, or made a remark on any part of what she read, Allison went over it again, and now and then took courage to speak a word or two of Him who "bore our griefs and carried our sorrows," and who died that we might live. He listened always in silence. Whether he was ever moved by the words could not be told, for he gave no sign.

While all this went on, summer was pa.s.sing, and the dull November days were drawing near. Allison had her own thoughts, and some of them were troubled thoughts enough. But she waited, always patiently, if not always hopefully; and even at the worst, when she had little to cheer her, and when she dared not look forward to what the future might hold for her, she still strove to live day by day, and hour by hour, waiting to learn G.o.d's will, whatever it might be.

Little change came to the sick man as far as Allison could judge, or any one else. Was he getting better? If so, his progress toward health was more slowly made than had been hoped. At times he was restless and irritable, and spared neither nurse, nor doctor, which was taken as a good sign by some who were looking on. But for the most part he was quiet enough, taking little heed of the pa.s.sing hours.

When Mr Rainy came to speak to him on any matter of business, he seemed to rouse himself, and gave tokens of a clear mind and a good memory with regard to those matters which were put before him, whether they pertained to his own private business, or to that of the estate of Blackhills. But of his own accord he rarely alluded to business of any kind, and seemed, for the most part, forgetful of all that had hitherto filled his life. His friends came to see him now and then, and while any one was with him, he seemed moved to a certain interest in what they had to tell, in the news of the town, or in the events which were taking place in the world beyond it, but his interest ceased when his visitor left him.

Except from weariness, and restlessness, and inability to move, he suffered little, and he had been so often told that the best hope for him, the only chance for restoration to a measure of health in the future, lay in implicit obedience to all that doctor and nurse required of him, that he learned the lesson at last, and was obedient and patient to a degree that might well surprise those who knew him best.

It did not always come easy to him, this patience and obedience. There ere times when he broke bounds, and complained, and threatened, and even swore at his man d.i.c.kson; nor did Allison herself escape from the hearing of bitter words. But d.i.c.kson took it calmly, and bore it as part of his duty and his day's work.

"I'm weel used with it," said he. "His hard words maybe ease him, poor man, and they do me nae ill."

And they did Allison "no ill," in one way. She was too sorry for him to be angry on her own account, and listened in silence. Or, if he forgot himself altogether and gave her many of them, she rose quietly and went out of the room. She expected no apology when she returned, and none was ever offered, and his ill words made her none the less patient with him, and none the less ready at all times to do faithfully the duties which she had undertaken of her own free will.

But they made her unhappy many a time. For what evidence had she that her sacrifice was accepted? Had she been presumptuous in her desires and hopes that she might be permitted to do some good to this man, who had done her so much evil? Had she taken up this work too lightly--in her own strength which was weakness--in her own wisdom which was folly?

Had she been unwise in coming, or wilful in staying? Or was it that she was not fit to be used as an instrument in G.o.d's hand to help this man, because she also had done wrong? She wearied herself with these thoughts, telling herself that her sacrifice had been in vain, and her efforts and her prayers--all alike in vain.

For she saw no token that this man's heart had been touched by the discipline through which he had pa.s.sed, or that any word or effort of hers had availed to move him, or to make him see his need of higher help than hers. So she grew discouraged now and then, and shrunk from his anger and his "ill words" as from a blow. Still she said to herself:

"There is no turning back now. I must have patience and wait."

She had less cause for discouragement than she supposed. For Brownrig did, now and then, take to heart a gently spoken word of hers; and the words of the Book which his mother had loved, and which brought back to him the sound of her voice and the smile in her kind eyes, were not heard altogether in vain. He had his own thoughts about them, and about Allison herself; and at last his thoughts took this turn, and clung to him persistently.

"Either she is willing to forgive me the wrong which she believes I did her, or else she thinks that I am going to die."

d.i.c.kson did not have an easy time on the morning when this thought came first to his master. When Allison came in she had utter silence for a while. Brownrig took no notice of the newspaper in her hand, and looked away when she took up the Book and slowly turned the leaves. But that had happened before, and Allison read on a few verses about the ruler who came to Jesus by night, and who, wondering, said, "How can a man be born when he is old?"

"Ay! how indeed?" muttered Brownrig. "Born again. Ah! if that might be! If a man could have a second chance!"

And then his thoughts went back to the days of his youth, and he asked himself when and where he had taken the first step aside from the right way, and how it came about that, having had his mother for the first thirteen years of his life, he should have forgotten her. No, he had not forgotten her, but he had forgotten her teachings and her prayers, and his own promises made to her, that he would ever "hate that which is evil, and cleave to that which is good," and that he would strive so to live and serve G.o.d that he might come at last to meet her where she hoped to go. Was it too late now? He sighed, and turned his head uneasily on the pillow. The angry look had gone out of his eyes, and they met Allison's with a question in them. But he did not speak till she said very gently:

"What is it? Can I do anything for you?"

"Has the doctor been saying anything to you of late?" he asked. "Does he think that my time is come, and that I am going to die?"

Allison's face showed only her surprise at the question.

"The doctor has said nothing to me. Are you not so well? Will I send for the doctor?" and she laid her cool fingers on his hand. But he moved it away impatiently.

"What I canna understand is, that you should have come at all. You must have thought that I was going to die, or you wouldna have come."

"Yes, I thought you might be going to die. I dinna think I would have come but for that. I was sorry for you, and I had done wrong too, in that I hadna withstood you. But I wished to be at peace with you, and I thought that you might be glad that we should forgive one another at the last."