Chapter 30

"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?"