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 a.s.sertion 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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. G.o.d 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 G.o.d'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 d.i.c.kson, 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 G.o.d's works was a wonder and delight; a strong and faithful soul, who, in the darkness of G.o.d'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 G.o.d 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.