“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 God 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 God 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. God 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!”