And thus the early weeks of winter passed, doing for Allison some of the good which work well done is sure to do for the heavy-hearted. But the good which the busy days wrought, the nights, for a time, seemed to destroy.
In the long evenings, when Marjorie and the younger brothers were asleep, and the elder lads were at their books, there came a time of quiet to all the house, when Allison had the kitchen to herself and she could sit in silence, undisturbed, but not at rest. Then her trouble came back upon her, and night after night she sat gazing into the fire till it fell into red embers, and then into grey ashes, thinking of the painful days of the year now drawing to a close. And, poor soul! the anguish of pain and shame which, months ago, had touched her and hers, was as sharp and “ill to bide” as when the blow had fallen. Nay, in a sense it was worse. For in the first amazement of a sudden shock, the coming anguish seems impossible, and the natural resistance of the soul against it gives a sort of courage for the time.
But with Allison, the fear had changed to certainty. Trouble had fallen on her and hers, and had darkened for her all the past and all the future, she believed, for as yet time had not lightened the darkness.
It was not that she was thinking about all this. She was living it all over. She saw again the home she had left forever—the low house, with the sunshine on it, or the dull mist and the rain. A vision of a beautiful, beloved face, drawn with terror, or fierce with anger, was ever before her. Or a grey head moving restlessly on its last pillow—a face with the shadow of death upon it, and of an anguish worse than death. In her ears was a voice uttering last words, with long, sobbing sighs between.
“O! Willie, Willie!” the broken voice says. “Where are ye, Willie? Mind, Allison, ye hae promised—to watch for his soul as ane that maun gie account. And the Lord deal—wi’ you, as—ye shall deal wi’ Him.”
And in her heart she answers:
“Father, be at peace about him. I’ll be more mindfu’ o’ him than the Lord himself has been.”
She sees the anguish in the dying eyes give place to darkness, and sitting there by the grey ashes on the hearth, cries out in her despair. Thus it has been with her since her father was laid in the grave, and the prison-doors shut upon her only brother. Their faces are ever before her, their voices in her ears.
She cares for nothing in the wide world at such times. She does not even care for herself, or her own life, though a shadow dark and dread lies on it. If her life could come to an end, that Would be best, she thinks. But it must not come to an end yet. Oh! if she and Willie could die together, or get away anywhere and be forgotten. If they could only pass out of all men’s minds, as though they had never been! But all such thoughts are foolish, she tells herself. Nothing in their lives can be changed, nor mended, nor forgotten.
And having got thus far, it all begins again, and she lives over the happy days when, bairns together, they played among the heather, or followed the sheep on the hills; when their father was like God to them, ay loving them, and being kind to them; but not ay seeming just so mindful of them as their mother was. Their mother was ill whiles, and took less heed of things, and needed much done for her, but they loved their mother best. At least they never feared her, as they sometimes feared their father, who yet loved them both—Willie best, as did all who ever saw his face.