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?