Tom Jardine the grocer—Betty's next-door neighbour—will be thirty-four years old on the 23rd of January next. He is to a day exactly four years my senior. I remember it was when his mother and Betty were putting out clothes together in the back-green that I, a boy of five, heard for the first time that we had a birthday in common.
To me the fact vested Tom with a special interest. I looked upon him in more than a mere neighbourly spirit. Though we were rarely associated in our boys' games, we often casually met about the doors or had disjointed conversations through the garden hedge; and on these occasions the desire was always strong within me to talk of our birthday, and to ask if he wasn't wearying for the 23rd to come round. And when that auspicious date was ushered in, and my birthday-cake, in all its white-iced glory, was ceremoniously placed before me at table, I used to wonder if Tom had one also, and if he, like me, had the honour of cutting and distributing it.
On looking back, I cannot remember when the Jardines were not our neighbours. Long ago Robert Jardine, Tom's father, was a tenant of ours, and twice a year, at the Martinmas and Whitsunday terms, he called upon us; and when the rent had been paid and sundry repairs and alterations agreed upon, he and my father drank a glass of wine together. It had, however, long been the height of Robert's ambition to be the owner of his own roof-tree. Times then being good, he soon saved the amount necessary to effect a purchase; and after many calls and conferences, terms were ultimately arranged to the satisfaction of both vender and buyer.
Tom was the youngest of a large family, the other members of which had all emigrated; and when Robert Jardine died—his wife had predeceased him by a few years—there was no one else to look after affairs. Tom at once gave up a responsible position in a wholesale grocery establishment in Glasgow, came south with a wife and three young children, and took over what I now understand every Thornhill villager believed to be a dying, if not an altogether dead, concern.
All these changes had taken place in my absence during these past fourteen years; but it was nevertheless pleasing to me to know from Betty, shortly after my return, that as neighbours the family was still represented, the more so as the representative in question was none other than my old friend Tom.
In describing my attic room I omitted to say that it has a little, round, gable window through which, from my fireside chair, I can look down upon the Jardines' back-yard. Long ago I used to sit here and watch old Robert grooming his horse, cleaning his harness, and packing his long-bodied spring-cart with bags of flour or meal, and grocery parcels of tea and sugar, for distribution on his long cadger rounds.
During the past few weeks my interest has often been centred on his son similarly employed. Tom sings and whistles cheery tunes as he works, and his iron-shod clogs make a merry clatter on the stone-paved court. His wife and the two eldest children—blue-eyed, curly-haired bairns they are—give him willing help, and, standing in his cart or on a chair placed beside the wheel, he cheerily receives and checks off in a weather-beaten note-book the various articles for his country clients.
Like Nathan, Tom is no lie-abed in the morning. Of necessity he must be up betimes, for his journeys are often long and his days are always too short. When Betty is preparing the early breakfast I hear Tom's ringing footstep outside, the taming of the key in the stable-door lock, and the anticipating whinny of the gray mare. Then a horse-pail is filled from the tap at the stable-door; a minute later it is returned empty and deposited outside; the lid of the corn-bin, which has been poised on its creaky hinges, descends with a bang, and I know that his faithful dappled friend has her nose buried in countless piles of sweet-smelling corn.
Betty is not an inquisitive woman, nor does she interest herself in a meddling way in her neighbours' concerns; yet her big, kindly heart and her never-failing sympathetic nature invite many confidences, and she is therefore more fully versed in what I might call the inward life of those around her than many of a more zealously prying and newsvending disposition.
We were talking one day about the Jardines of a past generation, and our conversation naturally turned to Tom. I commended him for his industry, for his sobriety, and for the undivided attention he gave to his business, and finished up by asking if he was a successful man. Betty made no reply; but she shook her head doubtfully, from which I argued that it was not all sunshine and whistling and singing with our young grocer neighbour; and as she showed no desire to continue the conversation, I allowed the matter to drop.
After tea, however, she reverted to the subject, and reopened our chat by asking if it was usual in business for a son to take over his dead father's debts.
In my short professional career I remembered one such case, in which I was interested, but only one, and I told her of it. I didn't go into details, but gave her the bald outstanding points; and after I had finished she said, 'Ay, and that's the only case ye ever heard o'?'
'Yes, that is so, Betty,' I replied.
She was standing at the round gable window, vacantly looking down into our neighbour's back-yard. Then I saw her eyebrows begin to pucker, and I knew there was something on her mind.
'Maister Weelum,' she said at length, 'I've nae concern in the ongauns o' the folks aboot me, an' I never talk aboot them. But ye asked me regairdin' Tom Jardine, an' I'm no' betrayin' ony confidences when I tell ye that young Tom took ower his dead faither's debts, so that will be twae cases ye ken o'.'
'Tom Jardine!' I said with surprise. 'Surely Robert Jardine wasn't in debt when he died?'
'That he was, Maister Weelum—the mair's the pity. Ye see, for a lang time—I micht say for at least five years afore he died—he wasna able to gang his roons; in fact, he was barely able to stand ahint the coonter. Younger an' mair active competitors took up the same gr'und; an' what wi' failin' trade, increasin' competition, an' cuttin' prices, there wasna a livin' in it. Then his wife had a lang, lingerin' illness, an' when she slippit away he kind o' lost he'rt. I was often wae for him, puir man, an' I did a' I could for him in my ain sma' wey. Except to yin or twae he keepit a smilin' face, though, aye wrote cheerily to Tom, an' gaed to kirk an' market as lang as he was able wi' his heid in the air; but, losh me! when his time cam' it was nae surprise to me an' yin or twae mair that the whole affair—shop, hoose, an' business—didna show much mair than ten shillin's in the pound. Tom—him that's doon there noo—was in a guid wey o' doin' in Glesca, an' nothing wad ser' him but he bood come hame an' tak' things in haun. He was strongly advised to have nothing to do wi' it, an' to let the creditors handle what was left as best it was likely to pay them. But Tom said, "No." All he asked frae the creditors was time an' secrecy as far as was possible as to how things stood, an' frae the Almighty health an' strength, an', given these, he promised to clear his dead faither's name an' see every yin get his ain. That's three years ago past the May term, an', honour an' praise to the puir laddie, he's nearly succeeded. But it has been a terrible struggle for him; an' had it no' been for his determination, his sobriety, his pride in his faither's guid name, an' abune a' the help o' a lovin' wife wha's a perfect mother in Israel, he wad ha'e gi'en it up lang or noo as an impossible, thankless job. Nathan and me lent his faither sixty pounds. We had nae writin' to speak o', only his signed name. I showed the paper to Tom shortly efter he had settled doon here, an' instead o' questionin' it he thanked us for our kindness an promised to pay it back in the same proportion as the ithers. Up to noo we've got back thirty pounds. I was in his shop the ither day, an' he said he thocht he wad be able to gi'e's anither ten pounds at the November term. What think ye o' that noo, Maister Weelum?'
'I think your neighbour is a splendid fellow, Betty, and I would like to shake hands with him. Have you the paper beside you on which his father's name appears for sixty pounds?'
'Ay, that I have,' said Betty. She went downstairs, and returned a minute later with a sheet of notepaper.
I glanced at the unstamped promise, and smiled. 'Betty,' I said seriously, 'are you aware this is not worth the paper it is written on?'
'Ay, perfectly,' she said with unconcern.
'How did you find that out?' I inquired.
'Oh, when I showed it to Tom Jardine he used exactly the same words as you did; but, said he, "My faither signed that. I have every confidence in you an' Nathan. My faither an' mither thought the world o' ye, an' wi' my assurance that ye'll be paid back, I tender you my best thanks for your kindness in time o' need."'
Betty folded up her worthless document and put it in the breast of her gown. 'An honest man like Tom Jardine makes up for a lot o' worthless yins, Maister Weelum,' she said as she lifted her tea-tray; and I looked through the wee round window to Tom's back-yard with an increased appreciation of the coatless and hatless grocer, who was sitting down on an empty soap-box with a long needle and a roset-end, mending his old gray mare's collar.
It has rained continuously for three days, and according to Nathan something has gone very far wrong, as St Swithin's Day from early morn to dewy eve was cloudless and fair, and accordingly we had every right to anticipate forty days of dry, fine weather.
Harvest is early with us this year. The corn, which was waving green when Betty and I drove south from Elvanfoot, is already studding the fields in regular rows of yellow stooks, and but for this break in the weather it would even now be on its way to the stackyard in groaning, creaking carts. The Newton pippins on the apple-tree at the foot of the garden are showing a bright red cheek, and the phloxes and gladioli in the plot at the kitchen window are crowned with a mass of bloom so rich and luxuriant that every one of Betty's cooking utensils reflects their colourings and appears to be blushing rosy-red. During these past three days I have missed Tom's cheery song, and I am beginning to wonder if the gloomy weather has chilled his lightsome heart and silenced the chords of his tuneful throat.
Time was when I loved to be abroad on a rainy day, whether as an unprotected boy fishing away up Capel Linn and Cample Cleugh, with the rain dribbling down the neckband of my shirt and oozing through the lace-holes of my boots, or as a man with waterproof and hazel staff, breasting the scarred side of Caerketton or the grassy slopes of Allermuir, with the pelting, pitiless raindrops blinding my eyes and stinging my cheek, and the vivid fire of heaven lighting up Halkerside and momentarily showing the short zigzag course of that 'nameless trickle' whose rippling music the Wizard of Swanston loved.
How I enjoyed these Pentland rambles, alone in the rain and the soughing winds! Underfoot, the dank, sodden grass and the broken fern; overhead, the sombre sky, the scurrying clouds, and the drifting mist; on every side the grassy mounds of the Dunty Knowes, with their shivering birks tossing to windward, and a rain-soaked hogg beneath every sheltering crag. Alone, yet not alone; for a Presence was with me, guiding me on, showing me through the gathering gloom the sun-bathed crown of Allermuir, bringing to my ear from out the rage of the storm the wail of the curlew, and summoning to my side the plaided shepherd 'Honest John' and his gray, rough-coated collie Swag.
Ah, these are memories only! memories only! for Cample Cleugh and Capel Linn are lost to me with my boyhood. No more am I the strong, able-bodied lover of the open, moving with firm, sure step among scenes which a master's touch has made immortal; but a poor, crippled, pain-racked invalid, as parochial in feeling as in outlook, sitting in an easy-chair by an attic fire, watching through a rain-washed window-pane a scene which fills me with forebodings and touches my heart to the very quick.
Down there in the courtyard, where the water in the imperfect pavement is lying in muddy pools, Tom Jardine, hatless, coatless, and regardless of the splashing rain, is walking to and fro like a lion in his cage. His face is set and white, his finger-tips clenched in the palm of his hand, and there is an anxious, troubled expression in his eye which recalls memories of unfortunate, harassed clients. For a moment he stands with feet apart and eyes dolefully fixed on the wet, sloppy flagstones. A door quietly opens, a tiny, smiling-faced figure darts through the rain, and in an instant two round, bare, chubby arms are encircling his knee, and a fair, curly head is nestling against his thigh. But there is no fatherly response to the loving embrace, no reply to the childish prattle. With a jerky wrench Tom frees himself from the wee, cuddling arms, and two wide-opened, surprised blue eyes follow him as again, in thoughtful measured tread, he walks up and down and up and down. Then red dimpled knuckles are pressed into these blue eyes, a sob breaks from a wounded little heart, and Tom comes to a sudden halt. In an instant his clouded face is wreathed in smiles and beams with loving solicitude. Bending down, he lifts the sobbing morsel; and as he disappears through the kitchen doorway with the precious burden in his strong arms and his hungry lips pressed against a soft red cheek, I say to myself, with a heavy, welling heart, 'Tom, you surely have your troubles, but as surely you have the antidote.'
Of late I have noticed that Betty, in the course of our frequent cracks, has with considerable tact and adroitness turned the topic of our conversation into channels matrimonial and domestic. I know full well that my state of celibacy is to her a subject of wonderment and speculation; but, though other cases similar to my own have been commented upon—threshed to chaff, I may say—she has never, until to-day, come to close quarters, and vested the matter with any direct personal application. How she manœuvred and worked her way round was distinctly characteristic, but not worth detailing; and I shall not readily forget the surprise, and, I might say, incredulity, with which she received my assertion that I had never married for the very simple reason that I had never been in love.
With her head thoughtfully to one side, she plied her needles assiduously. 'Ye're—let me see noo, ye'll be'——
'Thirty next birthday, Betty,' I promptly answered.
'Ay, imphm! Ye're quite richt; ye're juist exactly that, an' nae mair. Lovan me, imphm!' and she laughed and looked toward me. 'And, eh! d'ye mean to tell me—seriously noo—that ye're here at this time o' day withoot havin' met ony young leddy ye could mak' your wife?'
She was probing very near the quick, and I puffed vigorously at my pipe. 'Seriously and truthfully, Betty, I haven't yet met the woman I could marry.'
'Gosh me! thatismaist extraordinar', Maister Weelum, an' you within a cat's jump o' thirty. It's almost inconceivable! It strikes me ye havena been lookin' aboot ye very eidently, for it's no' as if there was a scarcity o' womenfolk. There's aye routh to pick an' choose frae; at least, if there's no' in Edinbro, there's plenty in Thornhill. It may happen, though, that ye're ower parteecular, or it may be ye're lookin' oot for yin wi' a towsy tocher. Ministers an' lawyers, they tell me, ha'e a wonderfu' penetration in sniffin' oot siller, an' the faculty o' placin' their he'rt where the handy lies.'
'That may be, Betty; but I must be an exception to this rule among lawyers, for I can assure you monetary considerations would never influence me. More than that, Betty, I don't consider my case altogether hopeless, although I am nearly thirty. There's luck in leisure, and you mustn't forget that you can't command love. It has to come of its own free-will—unasked, as it were; and when it comes, rest assured it won't be a case of pounds, shillings, and pence with me. The fact is, Betty, I'm waiting.'
'Faith, ye're richt there; an' let me tell ye this, Maister Weelum, if ye wait much langer ye'll be gray-heided.'
'Yes, yes, Betty; but I mean I'm waiting for a particular young lady.'
'Oh, I see! Then ye ken o' yin?'
'Well, yes'——
'An' ye're waitin' on her growin' up, watchin' her as ye wad watch a Newton pippin ripenin'?'
'No, no! Betty, you misunderstand me. I know of a young lady; but—well, the truth is, I haven't met her yet—at least not in the flesh. Now, now, Betty, don't laugh at me till I explain.'
'Oh, Maister Weelum! I'll no' laugh. It strikes me it's mair a matter o' greetin'. But never mind; ca' your gird.'
'Well, Betty, to make a long story short, a few years ago I had a dream, and in that dream I saw a face and heard a voice—a woman's face and a woman's voice. I was very much impressed at the time, and that face has haunted me ever since. Among my friends I am not considered, in the generally accepted sense of the term, a woman's man. Strenuous work, facing hard matter-of-fact events, glimpses into the matrimonial tragedies of not a few lives, and the toll in time and thought which a growing business exacts have to an extent blighted the growth of the sentimentality which usually creeps into a man's heart between twenty and thirty. Somehow I have allowed matters to drift—to shape their own ends, or, as you would say, to work out their own salvation—in the full assurance, however, and with the hope strong within me, that some day the lady of my dream will come into my life, that I will again see that face and hear that voice. So far I have waited in vain; but I am not discouraged, for I feel my fate lies in my dream, and, as I say, I am waiting still.'
Betty resumed her knitting, for her needles had been idle while I was speaking.
'Imphm!' she said at length; 'an' that's hoo the land lies! Fancy that noo, a great, big, wiselike man like you hankerin' after the face o' a woman ye had seen when ye were sleepin', an' a' the time withoot a doot lettin' chances slip by ye o' catchin' what ye micht ha'e gruppit. Hoots! hoots! Maister Weelum, that's surely a senseless ploy. Mair than that, I've nae brew o' dreams, although I confess that there's much in Scripture hinges on them. They were the makin' o' Joseph, a loupin'-on-stane to Daniel, an' a godsend to the prophets on mair than ae occasion. There's nae gettin' away frae it; but for a' that, as I say, I've nae brew o' them. I mind aince o' dreamin' that I was sittin' doon to my tea, an' that I was eatin' the best bit o' boiled ham that ever I tasted in a' my life; an' the next mornin'—the very next mornin', Maister Weelum—my soo dee'd. Anither time—it was on a Setterday nicht, I mind—I dreamed that the kitchen lum was on fire; an' on the Sunday mornin', when I keekit up to see that it was a' richt, a young doo tummelt doon an' nearly frichtened the life oot o' me. An' there was Peggy Rae—Mrs Wallace, ye ken—a real nice, God-fearin' woman she is, an' a regular attender o' the prayer meetin's—weel, three times in ae nicht she dreamed that an auld auntie o' hers had come hame frae Ameriky an' gi'en her the present o' three hunner pounds; an' what think ye, Maister Weelum, she wasna weel through wi' her breakfast when her mither-in-law—an auld, Godless, totterin' heathen she was—was brocht to her door in a cairt, took to her bed in Peggy's wee back-room, an' was the plague o' her life for weel on for a dizzen years. Na, na, Maister Weelum; dreams are queer, contrary, unchancy things to sweer by. Tak' my advice, forget a' aboot your dream-leddy, as ye ca' her; cast your e'e aboot on what ye can see an' grup, an', losh me! a faceable-lookin' man like you needna grapple lang. But I'm daft, sittin' clatterin' here an' the tatties at the sypein'. Tak' tent o' what I say, though, Maister Weelum, for ye're nearin' that time o' life when an unmarried man stammers into a rut that he's no' easy got oot o'.'
Betty's warning gave me food for reflection for long after she left me—so much so, indeed, that as I quietly strolled along the Cundy road an hour or two afterwards, in the early afternoon, every chaffinch sang nottome butatme, and the burden of his song seemed to be, 'Tak' tent, tak' tent, and mind, do mind, the rut, rut, rut.'
In the sunshine too, amid nature in all its reality and activity, dreams and visions seemed strangely far away and unimportant. In my little room, with all its haunting associations, the story of my dream-lady had a becoming setting and an uncommonly substantial foundation. But here, with the breeze playing among the shimmering leaves of the gnarled poplars, the merry song of the birds in the plantation, and the sunshine lying on the white parallel-tracked road, it seemed more of an illusion, something very unreal and fanciful, and I actually blushed that I, a solid, stolid man of thirty, should have narrated such a story with so much gravity, and pinned to it a significance so personal and material.
Absorbed in thought, I ambled along, heedless alike of time or distance, until at length, with surprise at my strength and staying-power, I noted that I had walked almost to the Nithbank Wood. I felt neither tired nor inconvenienced; and when I considered that I had been only a month or two under Dr Grierson's care, I felt I had accomplished a very wonderful feat indeed. True, I had rested all the forenoon, and even now I was heavily supporting myself on two stout hazel staffs; yet never since my accident had I walked so far without fatigue, and I felt relieved and elated beyond words.
I halted for a little in the grateful shade of a spreading lime, feasting my eyes on scenery dear and familiar to me since boyhood—the little round wood at the Cundy foot, every tree in which I had climbed in quest of young squirrels; the clump of geans at Holmhill, whose wild purple-brown fruit was sweeter far than any coddled garden cherries; the sweep of the Nith at the Ellers, where I had so often 'dooked' and fished; and the mossy, wild-thyme carpeted 'howmes'—our playground of long ago. The murmuring Nith recalled to me the Auld Gillfit, with its gray-blue pebbled beach and its banks of upstanding raspberry-bushes and twisting, prickly brambles, and with extraordinary intensity the desire sprang up within me to view its charms once more.
Buoyed up by pleasurable anticipations, forgetful of my weakness and the uneven, rutted slope, I opened the little wicket, and, without misgiving, entered the wood.
Through the green, quivering foliage I caught glimpses here and there of rippling, dancing wavelets, nodding brown-headed segg grasses, and patches of shimmering, sunlit sands. With eyes strained to catch each well-known feature, I stumblingly descended the rugged bank, and very soon, more by luck than careful guidance, I reached my goal. A hedge of waving willows screened from me the Cundy stream; but its joyous rhythmic ripple, as it washed its sandy, pebbled bed, sounded in my ear like the crooning song my mother used to sing when I lay on her knee as a child.
This was the dear old spot, the bank where we lay after our 'dook,' baking our naked bodies in the sun's warm rays; here the little sandy isle where we played at pirates and castaways, cooking a guddled yellow trout over a 'smeeky' green-wood fire, and washing it down with lukewarm water from the stream; there, through the arches' span, the Doctor's Tarn, where the grayling used to lie; and, away beyond, the quiet grassy uplands of the Keir and the gray-green hills of Glencairn fading into the horizon.
Seating myself on the sun-browned turf, I lit my pipe. How long I sat I cannot say, for I was lost in reverie, and, truth to tell, just a little fatigued by my unusual exertions. Suddenly, however, it came to me that I wasn't alone. This fact was first proclaimed by a curling wreath of smoke on the other side of the willows. Then the aroma of a well-seasoned havana greeted my nostrils, and I rose to my feet to reconnoitre.
Walking a little upstream, I came to an opening in the willow-hedge, and there, on a sand-knoll at the foot of the bank, sat a man—a clergyman, judging by his dress; while a little in front of him, and almost on the water's edge, was a tall young lady standing before an easel. I saw the man in profile—elderly and gray-bearded he was; but the lady's back was turned to me, and she was much engrossed with her canvas.
I must have walked very noiselessly, as neither of them seemed aware of my presence; and this I counted strange, since I had made no attempt at stealthiness, and they were so near me that I could almost have touched them. I stood for a minute silent and undecided whether or not to make my presence known.
Before I could make up my mind, the artist ceased work, and, stepping a few feet to her right, studied the effect from the altered standpoint. This gave me the much-desired opportunity of seeing the picture, and I noted with peculiar pleasure that it was part of the view in which I had just been revelling. And the subject, difficult and ideal though it was, had been touched by no unworthy, amateurish hand. The old red-sandstone bridge, mellowed in a soft western light, was a centre round which much broad, skilful, loving work was evidenced. Oil was her medium—rather an unusual one, I thought, for a lady; and in the brief glance I got I noticed she had imparted to her canvas the true atmosphere, and that it contained in colour, drawing, and composition the essentials of really good work.
Her clergyman companion closed his book, relit his cigar, and consulted his watch. 'Much as I expect of this picture as a big draw at my bazaar, and anxious as I am to take it back with me to-morrow to Laurieston, I'm afraid I must call you to a halt. It's almost five o'clock.'
'Just one wee, wee minute,' the artist pleaded in a singularly sweet voice, which seemed to me far away, yet strangely familiar.
A few deft, bold touches, the while her small head critically swayed from one side to the other.
'Finis! finis!' she called at length; 'and I'm sorry to part with it, as I love this subject.'
With a face flushed with success, she turned to her companion. Then her eyes met mine, and I stood breathless and transfixed, for I had heard the voice, and was looking into the face, of my dream-lady!
The fact that I was in the presence of one who had mysteriously influenced me for the last ten years, one whom I had seen in my dreams but never met, thrilled me through and through, and I felt bewildered and benumbed. Had I been in normal health, doubtless I should have boldly faced a situation so psychologically strange and alluring; but in my present enfeebled condition I had no craving for the occult and romantic, and when I was freed from the spell of my dream-lady's eyes my first impulse was to retrace my steps and immediately regain the highroad.
I turned at once, in my haste struck my heel against one of my staffs, and fell heavily on the sloping pathway. My tweed hat fell from my head and rolled away down the bank, but I made no effort to recover it. With extreme difficulty I rose to my feet, and, gripping my two staffs in a strong grasp, started again to reach the crest of the wooded brow.
One of the peculiar effects of my accident is that I cannot raise my body on my toes. When going upstairs I have to turn sideways, and in an awkward, laboured fashion lift one foot over the other; and in negotiating this ascent, in which the same muscles were called into action, I had to take a zigzag course which demanded great caution and care, as there was no pathway, and the surface was treacherous and uneven.
I stood for a moment before I entered on my arduous undertaking, irresolute and hesitating, swayed by two conflicting impulses. Here was the fulfilment of my dream. Down there, a little beyond the hedge of willows, stood one the memory of whose sweet, pensive face had haunted me for years; whose living presence I had prayed for, yearned for; and whose influence, unconsciously exerted, had dominated my being and kept me unscathed in the midst of many temptations. It was the culmination of ten years' expectancy and waiting. A series of remarkable coincidences and strange providential workings had matured, and here was I spurning a friendly interposition of the Fates, and fleeing away as if I were a cowardly, shamefaced culprit. Why should I act so? Why should I not face the situation and await this flow in the tide of my affairs?
Then in thought I traversed the long, dreary road which during the past years I had walked alone. Hastily I reviewed the picture I had often conjured up of what our meeting would be, the contemplation of which had yielded me so much sacred, secret pleasure. Strange, I had always painted her as I had seen her a minute ago, even to the detail of pose and attitude. She—well, she was just my dream-lady, faithful in every respect to my imaginings; and in this picture, in response to her inviting smile of recognition, I was by her side, strong in body, resolute of will, sure of having at last met my affinity.
Strong in body! Resolute of will! Was I? Ah, the humiliation of the truth! Why, as I stood there, I was tottering on my feet like an octogenarian, convulsively clutching two hazel staffs for support, and so irresolute that I could scarce form an idea of what my next move would be. What a metamorphosis! what a pitiful spectacle!—an object surely for sympathy, but not likely to inspire love or admiration. No, no, she must not see me thus; and, quickly disposing of all other considerations, I turned my back upon fate and commenced the ascent.
Painfully I dragged myself along. Never once did I look backward, for I soon found that I had essayed a task requiring all my concentrated attention. Urged on by a consuming desire to get away, I at first made wonderful progress. But as the minutes passed, and the ascent became steeper, I felt my will-power diminishing, my strength gradually growing less, and my knack of happily negotiating ruts and obstacles deserting me at every step. Once I lost my balance and slipped down the slope; but I clutched the dried tufted grass with a frenzied hand, and crawled up on my knees to where my hazel had dropped. Again I started, and again I fell, this time losing grip of both my staffs and also any confidence in myself that was left. Flushed and breathless, I rose to my knees, and with feverish energy began to crawl uphill.
But my haste was my undoing, for with it my caution disappeared. Twice the wisps of grass by which I hauled myself broke in my hand, and I slipped down, each time losing any little headway I had made. Again I slipped. Then despair took hold of me, and, with limbs exhausted and relaxed, and eyes moistened by thoughts of weakness and acknowledged defeat, I sank to the ground.
For a few minutes I lay oblivious to everything around me. Then the sound of approaching footsteps and snatches of faintly audible conversation recalled me; and wearily and painfully I raised myself to a half-reclining, half-sitting position, with my back turned to the direction whence the sounds proceeded.
'Yes, it's a very decent hat,' said a voice which I recognised as that of the clergyman; 'a very decent, serviceable hat indeed; and I dare say it may as well be restored to its owner, though the drunken scamp deserves little consideration.'
'Oh, surely he's not drunk, Mr Edmondstone?'
'Most assuredly he is,' replied the cleric. 'While you were busy on your canvas he was doubtless lying somewhere hereabouts, sleeping off the effects. Believe me, no man would stagger about a braeface as he did unless he were under the influence of drink.'
'Dearie me, Mr Edmondstone! dearie me! are you not forgetting? Faith, Hope, Charity; and the greatest of these is Charity. Charity of judgment is beautiful, Mr Edmondstone. You are—or at least you should be—preaching that every Sunday. But in this case, whateveryoupresume, I, at all events, will maintain it was no drunken look he gave me. I admit his movements were suspicious; but—well, we'll soon find out. Please hand me his hat.'
'What! You surely don't mean to tell me you are going to speak to him?'
'Certainly. Why shouldn't I? Either you or I shall have to give him his hat; and——Sh! sh! I'm afraid he's hearing all we are saying.'
My dream-lady was quite right. I hadn't missed a single word that had passed; and—passive, but with the hot blood mounting my neck and cheek—I had without protest allowed the charge of drunkenness to be made against me. I felt too weak and humiliated to make any defence. What mattered it to me, after all, what they thought, so long as they kept at a distance from me and left me to my own resources? They might have passed me, and I would have made no sign that I was aware of their presence; but when I heard my dream-lady's decision to be the bearer of my old tweed hat I started violently and looked keenly toward her. With my chin resting on my tired, lacerated hands, I watched her carefully picking her steps along the tangled incline. The fact that there was no escaping an interview was borne home to me so forcibly that it led to speedy resignation, which not only relieved my pent-up feelings, but also enabled me to observe her dispassionately, and study, without bias, her face and form. What my estimate was I cannot tell, or, rather, I will not tell; but when she reached me, with a flushed face, a half-frightened, half-defiant look in her eye, and my old tweed hat in her hand, I felt she had been aware of my critical scrutiny and resented it, although my opinion, favourable or otherwise, was to her of no consequence whatever.
'Thank you very much for bringing my hat to me,' I said awkwardly; 'and thank you still more for your belief in my sobriety.'
She looked at me for a minute, the while all evidence of fear or distrust vanished from her face. Then she smiled—smiled a true smile, with parted lips that disclosed two rows of pearly teeth, and soft fringed eyes that showed in their depths trust in humanity and joy of life.
'Oh, please don't thank me for either,' she said, in a low, sweet-toned voice. 'Your hat is too good to lose. It is no trouble to return it; and as for the other—eh—matter—well'—and she looked round about her on the russet woods, the peaceful fields, and away to the west where the faint sunset glow was suffused along the Glencairn hills—'I could not bring my mind to associate such glories as these with any state so mean and degrading; and I'm glad—yes, I'm glad—that I was right.'
I bowed in silent gratitude.
'I don't want to appear inquisitive,' she continued; 'but would you mind telling me why you acted so peculiarly in zigzagging up this incline instead of taking the path by the boundary beech-hedge? And, oh dear, dear! your hands are bleeding! Have you no handkerchief? See, here is one;' and she pleadingly held out a dainty piece of lace cambric which I could easily have put inside my watch-case.
Refusing her kind offer with thanks, I produced a sonsy specimen of Betty's laundry-work, which I rolled round my right-hand thumb. 'It is more than kind of you to interest yourself in a stranger,' I said without looking up. 'The fact is, I haven't been feeling very fit lately. The effects of a nasty accident have kept me too much indoors; but to-day, feeling a little stronger than usual, I extended my walk, and very foolishly determined to visit a particular spot here which, through boyish associations, is very dear to me. As it happened, I found you occupying it; and not wishing to disturb you in your work, and eager to regain the highway, I over-exerted myself, lost my footing, my patience, courage, and my two sticks, and—and here I am! But I've got my second wind now. I'll rest here just a little longer, and everything will be all right.'
'Dearie me,' she said, and she caught a straying tress of dark hair and tucked it securely underneath her tam-o'-shanter, 'how very easily one may be deceived by appearances! Mr Edmondstone thought you were—well, you know; and I thought you had seen a ghost. I'm very sorry to know of your illness, and it is lucky, after all, that we were about. If you feel sufficiently rested, my friend and I will assist you up to the wicket.'
She offered her good services with such an ingratiating, confident air, anticipating neither denial nor protest, that I was downright sorry to say her nay.
'No, no,' I said nervously, and I am afraid ungraciously; 'I shall manage all right by myself. Thank you all the same. But there is one kind action you might do on my behalf. Down there, below that little knoll, and somewhere in the long grass, are my two hazels. I—I lost grip of them somehow. They rolled down, and I couldn't very well reach them again. Once I have them in my hands I'll feel myself again. Would you mind getting them for me?'
'Certainly,' she said with alacrity; and, slip-sliding down the few yards of irregular turf, she soon returned with my hazels. 'Are you quite sure now that I can be of no further service to you?' she asked, as she handed them to me.
God knows there was much she could do for me, and I yearned to tell her so; but I felt her presence beginning to dominate me; and as I was strangely out of humour with myself, and utterly incapable of acting the part I had in my day-dreams anticipated, I made haste to call up what remnant of will-power I had left.
'You have been exceedingly kind to me, a stranger,' I stammered. 'Believe me, I appreciate what you have done, and—good-afternoon.' And in confusion I raised my hat.
She looked inquiringly at me for a moment, and I saw speech trembling on her lip; but with a little effort she checked it. Then, with a smile and a slight inclination of her head, she walked slowly, and I imagined thoughtfully, toward her companion. I heard the wicket opening on its creaking hinges, and clicking as it closed in its iron fastening. Voices in animated conversation became fainter and fainter, rhythmic sounds of footsteps died away into silence, and I lay back on the bank among the brown wispy grass and the red autumn leaves with a joy and thankfulness in my heart I had never experienced before. And my joy was not born of the knowledge that my dream lady was a reality. Somehow, I had never doubted that. Rather was it that I had convinced myself that she possessed all the virtues and qualities with which I had vested her; and that, short as our interview had been, and commonplace as our conversation had proved, there was pervading it all the feeling, peculiar and indefinable, that what had taken place was merely a prelude to something more satisfying, a foretaste of greater happiness in store. What mattered it that I didn't know her name or where she had gone? Sufficient to me to know I was being guided aright, that the Fates were with me, and that by degrees the curtain would be drawn aside and my way made clear.
The birds trilled sweetly the last lingering notes of their lullaby, the Cundy stream crooned lovingly a song I had never heard before, and the glamour of the gloaming took possession of my soul.
For the past three days I have been confined to my bedroom, indeed I may say to my bed; for, with the exception of a short half-hour to-day—when Betty exchanged blankets for sheets—I have been reluctantly compelled to restrict my range of vision to the interior of my room, with my head on my pillow. The doctor has been to see me morning and night, and Betty has been in and out and out and in, and her anxiety regarding me has been too evident to be ignored.
This morning, when she had accompanied the doctor downstairs, I heard her ask what he thought of me. I didn't hear what he said in reply, because his voice is very low-pitched and his articulation not distinct; but Betty's rejoinder was, 'Imphm! I juist expected something o' the kind. Dod, doctor, was it no' a stupid ploy—sic thochtless stravaigin'—five oors oot o' the hoose in snell weather like this, an' him as shaky on his legs as a footrule? A wean o' ten years auld wad ha'e haen mair sense.'
No reproaches have been made to my face, however, and of this I am glad, as I am sure I should be sorely exercised in mind to find a suitable excuse for my truancy.
I am not very clear about the details of my journey homeward from the Nithbank Wood. Betty and Nathan were both out when I returned, doubtless making search for me; and as I was too fatigued to walk upstairs, I sat down in Nathan's easy-chair in the kitchen and fell asleep. I have no recollection of what followed; and, considering the state of Betty's pent-up feelings, it would, I feel, be rather imprudent of me to ask.
I have been feeling rather low in spirits these last two days. I cannot blame the weather, for the October sun, though waning in strength, is showing his face for long-continued spells, the air is brisk and invigorating, and the sparrows are chirping and sporting in the eaves above my little window as if it were the merry month of May. I am loath to attribute this depression to physical weakness; yet were I to make such acknowledgment to Dr Grierson, I know he would frankly and at once confirm it. That I have received a set-back is evident, and when I call to mind my exertions in the plantation I need not be surprised. Still, everything considered, if I had that afternoon to live over again I should do just exactly as I did then. I am truly sorry if what Betty calls my 'thochtless stravaigin'' has undone the doctor's work, sorry if Betty's loving care has been lavished in vain. But Time, with healing in his wings, will surely make everything right again. And then I must not forget that but for this 'thochtless stravaigin'' I should not have met my dream-lady face to face. Ah! this is the one consoling fact, a rich reward, though the penalty I pay may be great. It is the only bright spot in a drab, dreary outlook, and I shall nurse this secret joy in my heart, and count myself favoured indeed.
Betty, who has a jealous eye where I am concerned, has noticed my depression. Yesterday and to-day she has given me much of her company, and in our cracks she has done her utmost to divert my mind into agreeable channels. She talked much of a younger brother of Nathan's—Joe, a member of the Hebron family I had not heard of before. Joe, it turns out, is an old soldier, and on a slender pension, eked out by the proceeds of odd jobbing, he keeps up a modest one-roomed establishment somewhere in the purlieus of the Cuddy Lane. On the expiry of his army service he came to Thornhill—accompanied by a Cockney wife of whom Betty and Nathan had no previous knowledge—with a view to settling down among the scenes of his boyhood, which had haunted his dreams in far-away lands. But the quiet village life had no charms for Mrs Joseph, and after a month of protesting in which rural life was damned, and pleading in which London's charms were extravagantly extolled, she went away south on a holiday, from which she never returned. Thanks to his army training, which had perfected him in the art of looking after number one, Joe took to housekeeping on his own as a duck takes to water, and settled down to a state of grass-widowerhood with astonishing equanimity. Regularly, however, during July, August, September, and part of October, he disappears from the village; and Betty thinks, but is not quite sure—as Joe, like Nathan, is very reticent—that Mrs Joe runs a small boarding-house down south somewhere, and that Joe goes to give her a hand during the busy months. Betty is expecting his return any day now, and I shall be glad to meet him, as his history has interested me. With such gossipy news, interspersed with naïve by-remarks, Betty has done her level best to drive dull care away.
This afternoon, when she left me to make ready Nathan's supper, she promised to come back again with her knitting after the meal was over; but, finding her duties didn't permit of her immediately fulfilling her promise, she deputed Nathan to act the cheery host.
By very slow degrees Nathan is ridding himself of his reticence. When we meet he has more to say than formerly, and his long-drawn sighs instead of words are less frequent; but he has not yet ventured upstairs of his own free-will or without a message or excuse.
'There noo, Nathan,' I heard Betty say, after he had 'hoasted' satisfaction with his meal and scrieved his chair away from the table—'there noo, Nathan, gang away up like a man. Juist walk strecht into the room as if the hoose was your ain, an' for ony sake dinna gant an' sit quiet. The laddie's dull an' wearyin', so keep the crack cheery.'
Nathan's appearance is not calculated to inspire gaiety. He is too long and 'boss-looking,' his whiskers are too straight and wispy, and his blue eyes too vacant and far-away. But, as I have admitted, there is a 'composure' about him which is satisfying; and as he pushed my door ajar and came in, as it were bit by bit, I gladly laid aside my book and turned down my lamp.
I presumed he would be dying for his after-supper smoke, so I persuaded him to sit down in the basket chair at the foot of my bed, and 'fire his pipe,' as he terms it.
For a time he smoked in silence; then, suddenly remembering Betty's injunction, and looking through the uncurtained window and taking a long survey of the scudding clouds, he said, 'Imphm! the wind's changin', Maister Weelum, to the nor'-east. That means a bla' doon your lum, I'm thinkin', an' it's a maist by-ordinar' dirty, choky thing, is back reek.' Then breaking away at a tangent, and fixing his blue eyes on me, he said, 'Ay, man, an' ye're no' lookin' sae weel the nicht as I've seen ye.'
'Maybe not, Nathan,' I said. 'I haven't been up to the mark yesterday and to-day.'
'So Betty was tellin' me; but—eh—ye're lookin' waur than I expectit.'
'I'm sorry, Nathan,' and I laughed uneasily; 'but, you know, I cannot help my appearance.'
'No, Maister Weelum, that's true—thatistrue;' and he deliberately, and with unerring aim, spat in the fire. 'Nae man can—phew!—eh, losh, d'ye see that?' he hastily ejaculated, as a cloud of smoke spued from the fireplace, swirled up the wall, and spread along the ceiling. 'I telt ye the wind was shiftin' its airt, an' that ye wad ha'e a bla' doon. If there's onything in this world I hate, it's back smoke. Man, it seeps doon through your thrapple into your lungs, an' there's nae hoastin' o' it up. Phew!—dash it! I wonder when that lum was last soopit. Talkin' o' lums, did ye ken that auld Brushie the sweep was buried the day?'
Not having had the pleasure of Brushie's acquaintance, I replied in the negative with unconcern.
'Ay,' continued Nathan, determined to obey Betty and keep the crack going—'ay, there's a lot o' folk slippin' away the noo; changeable weather gethers them in. It's a kittle time o' the year for them that are no' very strong—imphm!'
I was, unfortunately, in a more than usually susceptible state of mind, and the morbid strain of Nathan's conversation was affecting me in spite of myself. 'Yes, Nathan,' I said, expecting to bring a smile to his long, serious face, 'people are dying just now who never died before.'
'True, Maister Weelum; ye're richt there. Imphm! ye're perfectly richt,' he solemnly said without relaxing a muscle. He crossed his long legs very deliberately and stroked his beard as he looked round my little room. 'Man, Maister Weelum, dootless ye think ye're as snug up here as a flea in a blanket, but wad ye no' be better doon the stairs in the big bedroom to the sooth, an'—an'——
'And what, Nathan?'
'Oh, weel, it's no' for the likes o' me to dictate to you. Ye ken your ain ken best, but wad ye no' be mair comfortable-like sleepin' in the sooth room an' sittin' your odd time in the dinin'-room? Betty or me never put a foot in it except to air or fire it, an' it wad save ye the trouble an' inconvenience o' comin' up an' doon the stairs.'
I thought for a moment before replying to this unexpected and most sensible suggestion.
'Is this idea off your own bat, Nathan?' I asked.
'Off my ain what, Maister Weelum?'
'I mean, did you think out this arrangement yourself, or is it Betty's idea and yours?'
'Oh, I see. Weel—imphm-m!—we were talkin' it ower atween us last nicht, an' Betty thinks ye wad be better doon the stairs; but she doesna like to say that to ye for fear ye micht think that ye were a bother to her, or that she considered hersel' ill hauden takin' your meat up to ye, an'—an' things like that—ye see.'
'I understand,' I said thoughtfully; 'and do you know, Nathan, the idea is worth considering, and'——
'No' to interrupt ye, Maister Weelum,' he interposed, 'ye ken as weel as I do ye're far frae bein' strong—at least, as strong as ye should be. Ye're nocht the better o' that lang walk ye had the ither day, an' the doctor's no' sae pleased wi' ye as he was.'
'Oh, indeed, Nathan! I'm sorry to know that; but, with care and a few days' rest, I trust to be all right very soon.'
'Oh, dod, sir, we a' hope that—imphm!—but, a' the same, if I were you I wad shift my quarters. Ye'll ha'e mair convenience, a sooth exposure, langer sunshine, nae back smoke, an' then, man, ye'll be nearer Betty should ye need her service. I've aye considered this a wee, poky place onyway; an' as for the stair up to 't, it's the warst-planned yin I ever saw. It's far ower narra, the turn's ower sherp, an' it wad be a perfect deevil o' a job to get a kist doon there.'
'A what, Nathan?' I asked.
'A kist—a coffin, I mean.'
'But, goodness me, my good man, who wants to take a coffin down there?'
'Oh Lord! naebody that I ken o', Maister Weelum—no, no, naebody I ken o'. But yin's never sure. As Betty often says, "oor days are as gress"—imphm! We drap awa' like the leaves in the back-end, Maister Weelum—ay, juist like leaves nippit wi' the frost. An', speakin' o' leaves, I was workin' amang leaf-mould the day; an', dod, sir, it's a queer thing, but, d'ye ken, whenever I handle that stuff I begin to think aboot kirkyairds. Isn't that a queer thing noo, Maister Weelum?' and he puffed at his pipe without drawing smoke.
My lamp was burning low. Rain was pattering on the darkened window-panes, and the soughing wind at irregular intervals drove clouds of smoke down my chimney. Shadows from the lime-tree danced on the whitewashed walls, taking to themselves grotesque fantastic shapes; and Nathan—gaunt, wispy-bearded, spectral Nathan—puffed, and sighed, and spat in the semi-darkness. From the kitchen downstairs came to me at times sounds of a conversation carried on in a dull monotone, and interspersed with half-suppressed distressing sobs. A queer, creepy sensation began to take hold of me. I drew my blankets tighter round me and settled my pillow a little higher.
Nathan noted my movements. 'Can I help ye, Maister Weelum, or is there ocht I can do to mak' ye comfortable? Betty'll no' be lang till she's wi' ye. She's busy the noo, an' she sent me up to keep ye cheery till her wark was dune.'
I looked at him and saw he was quite serious, so I concluded that, decent, well-meaning man though he was, he was no humorist.
'Ay, Nathan,' I said, after I had thought over the situation, 'I have no doubt your intentions are all right. Invalids ought to be kept cheery, as you call it; but'——
'Ye admit, then, that yearean invalid, Maister Weelum?'
'Well, Nathan, I'm afraid I must admit that.'
'Ay, man—imphm! so far, so guid. Ye ken, sir, therearesome fouk that'll no' gi'e in when ocht ails them. There was Cairneyheid, for instance. Did ye ken him? No—imphm! it doesna maitter. Weel, Cairnie, as we ca'd him for short, had farmed on the Alton rig a' his days. The rig lies high, an there's aye plenty o' guid fresh air up yonder, and Cairnie never in his life had had even a sair heid. But, dod, sir, ae day, after his denner, he quately slippit to the flaer, an' couldna get up again. Weel, he sat there till aboot hauf six withoot sayin' a single damn, an' if ye kenned Cairnie an' his weys ye could understaun that that gied his women-fouk a glauff. Weel, suddenly he lookit up an' asked for a gless o' whisky, an' they thocht frae that that he was better. He did kind o' revive after his dram, an' wi' nae sma' trauchle they got him to his bed. Next mornin' he was dreich o' risin', an' when he got to his breakfast he couldna eat, an' still he didna sweer, so they sent awa' doon for the doctor. Weel, whenever the doctor cam' an' saw him he ordered him at aince to be put in his bed. "Bed!" said Cairnie. "Bed in the guid daylicht! I think I see mysel'! I never in a' my life gaed to my bed except at nicht an' to sleep, an' I'm no' gaun the noo;" an' he got up oot o' his chair in spite o' them. "I'm awa' up to the high field to see hoo they're gettin' on wi' the turnip-shawin'," he said; an' withoot dug or stick he oot o' the hoose. Hooever he got the length o' the field guidness only kens, but there he got. "Hurry on, men," he said; "dinna be feart to bend your backs in guid shawin' weather like this. The pits'll a' be ready afore ye're ready for them;" an' he lifted a knife to gi'e them a haun. He pu'd a turnip, an' was juist gaun to whang off the shaw, when doon he drappit in the middle o' the drill as deid as Abel.'
Nathan relit his pipe, which had gone out during the narrative. 'Ay,' he continued, as he puffed audibly, 'it was a very big funeral, was Cairnie's. He was buried in Dalgarnock—a damp, douth place to lie in, in my estimation. No' that it maitters muckle, I daur say; but still'——
'Whae's this ye're on, Nathan?' said Betty, who had entered the room unobserved.
'Oh, naebody parteeklar, Betty. I'm juist ca'in' the crack as ye telt me, an' keepin' Maister Weelum here cheery till ye come up;' and he rose, with a sigh of relief, from his chair, sidled toward the door, and went cautiously downstairs.
When I heard him safely round the 'sherp' turn on the staircase I looked at the sonsie, kindly face of my old nurse. 'Oh my dear Betty, I am glad to see you!' I said with fervour.
'Hoo's that, noo, Maister Weelum?' and she gave a wee bit pleased laugh. 'Ha'e ye been missin' me? Has Nathan no' been ca'in' the crack?'
'Yes, Betty, I have been missing you, and Nathanhasbeen ca'in' the crack; but, Betty'—and I lowered my voice—'he's been in kirk-yards all the time.'
'Ah, is that so?' she sympathetically asked. 'I'm sorry, noo, to ken that. He must ha'e been workin' among leaf-mould the day.'
'He was, Betty; he told me so.'
'That accoonts for it, Maister Weelum. Nathan's awfu' queer that wey; but, puir falla, he canna help it; an' then ye ken he means sae terribly weel. I'm awfu' sorry, though, if his crack has depressed ye. Ye're juist a wee bittie doon i' the mooth the noo, an' ye'll be easily putten aboot; but keep your pecker up, like a guid laddie, an' ye'll soon be better in health an' better in spirits. Efter a', an' when a''s considered, ye've a lot to be thankfu' for. Mony a yin wad gladly change places wi' ye. It's a gey hard, step-motherly kind o' world this for some folk; but you—weel, I wad say ye've your fu' share o' blessin's.'
I looked keenly toward her while she was speaking. 'You are perfectly right, my dear Betty,' I said. 'I have my full share of blessings, and every reason to be thankful and grateful. Why, Betty, when I think of it, it is a downright sin in me to allow myself to become depressed. It would be much more to the purpose were I to bestir myself and do all I can to help others, whose share of the good things is less, and whose burdens are greater. By the way, Betty, were you crying downstairs about half-an-hour ago?'
'No, Maister Weelum, I was not cryin'.'
'Strange,' I said; 'I was sure I heard some one sobbing.'
Betty stooped down and poked the smoking coals into glowing flame. Then she pulled down my window-blind and drew the curtains together. 'Oh, you're quite richt; you dootless did hear greetin', but it wasna me;' and she sat down again and unrolled her knitting, but she didn't ply her needles.
'D'ye mind,' she continued after a long pause,' you an' me speakin' aboot Tom Jardine the grocer, oor next-door neebor, ye ken?'
'Perfectly, Betty,' I replied; and at mention of his name I saw in my mind's eye a rain-swept courtyard, a haggard, worried face, and a golden-haired bairn. Intuitively I saw more—troubles, big mental troubles which crush the heart and soul out of a man. Oh! I hadn't forgotten.
'Weel,' she continued, a tremor in her voice, 'it was Tom Jardine's wife that was greetin' in the kitchen, an' I'm juist dyin' to speak to you, for what she has telt me is lyin' at my he'rt like a stane. Are ye weel enough, think ye, to be bothered listenin'?'
'My dear Betty, where two old friends like you and Tom Jardine are concerned, nothing is, or can be, a bother; so proceed, if you please.'
She began to knit, then stopped and counted her stitches, while I filled and lit my pipe.
'Little mair than a week bygane,' she began, 'I was in Tom's shop for some odds and ends, and when he was servin' me, says he, "Mrs Hebron, I fully expected to be able to clear off ten pounds of that auld balance this back-end term; but I'm beginning to be feart that'll no' be possible." The balance he referred to, Maister Weelum, was thirty pounds—half o' the sixty Nathan an' me loaned his faither. Ye mind I telt ye aboot that?'
I nodded.
'"Weel, Tom," says I,' she continued, '"that's a' richt. Don't fash your mind aboot that." "But, Mrs Hebron," says he, "I canna help worryin' aboot it. I'm very sorry indeed, an' I trust my no' payin' ye the noo will no' put ye aboot?" "Not in the slichtest, Tom," says I; "mak' your time my time. I ken what ye've set your face to do, an' I couldna wish ye better luck in your endeavour if ye were my ain bairn." His he'rt filled, puir laddie, an' he thanked me, an' he began to tell me what a bother he had in gettin' in his money. He showed me twae accoonts, yin for fifty pounds an' anither for sixty-five, that have been lyin' oot for mair than a year. It seems that when he was in that big warehoose in Glesca he had some experience in the seed line, an', havin' a guid connection wi' groceries among the farmers roond aboot here, it struck him he could, wi' little mair expense, work the twae very profitably thegither. Weel, he started to do this, an' in the last twal'months he has selled an awfu' lot. But it appears that seed rins to money quickly, an' the twae accoonts ootlyin', an' aboot which he was so anxious, are, as it were, in this department. The want o' this money has keepit him very ticht, an' he's been aff baith his meat an' his sleep ower the heid o't. Weel, to mak' a lang story short, the farmers ha'e baith failed. Tom got word yesterday, an', as it's thocht they're gey bad failures, an' very little ootcome expected, he's nearly demented. He has gane ower his books, an' he sees he can pey twenty shillin's in the pound; but, to do that, it means handin' ower his stock, furniture, an' hoose, an' he'll come oot o't wi' nocht but the claes on his back. His wife, puir lassie, was in the nicht tellin' me a' aboot it. It was her ye heard greetin'. She has keepit a stoot he'rt an' a smilin' face to Tom; but whenever I put my haun kindly an' mitherly-like on her shooder she broke doon an' grat as if her he'rt was breakin', so I juist took the wee bundle o' spunk an' dejection in my airms, an' she had it a' oot there. Tom's gaun up to the lawyer the morn to hand everything ower to him, an' Mrs Jardine and the bairns are leavin' Thornhill on Friday to stay wi' her mither till Tom gets wark somewhere. Noo, Maister Weelum, I want your advice, an' if ye chairge me sax an' eightpence for it I'll—I'll juist no' pey't;' and a tear-drop broke from her eye as she smiled. She rose from her chair, laid aside her knitting, and coming over to my bedside, she put her hand on my arm. 'I've still got the hunder pounds in the bank which your mother left to me, Maister Weelum,' she said. 'Nathan an' me ha'e saved fifty mair. I never had a bairn o' my ain, an' thae three wee curly-heided angels o' Tom's ha'e worked their wey into my he'rt, an' I juist canna let them away. D'ye think the mistress—your mother, I mean—wad ha'e me gi'in' the money in this way?'
I thought for a moment, and Betty watched me keenly. 'Am I to understand, Betty, that you are willing to step into the breach and give Tom Jardine one hundred and fifty pounds—your all?'
'Yes—if ye think it wad be your mother's will.'
'Betty, if Nathan won't object, will you please put your arms round my neck and give me a kiss?' I said, and I raised my head from my pillow.
The wind has died down, and through the lown midnight air I heard the Auld Kirk clock strike the hour of twelve. Tom Jardine has just left my room. He has been with me for almost three hours, and we have had a long smoke together and a grand talk over the times and folks of auld langsyne. Betty, as an interested party, favoured us with her company part of the time, for Nathan was sleeping the sleep of the just and the tired, and the kitchen fire had long gone out. She was surprised to know that Tom's difficulties could be overcome and his affairs straightened out without her little legacy and her hard-earned savings being requisitioned. Only Tom and I know how this was arranged, and as it is a little matter of personal interest to us, and us alone, the details of the transaction will remain untold.
I am having a run of strange coincidences just now. When Betty was locking the door after Tom's departure I lifted my book to mark the page where I had left off on Nathan's coming into my room, and the paragraph opposite my thumb is as follows: 'I will pass through this world but once. If, therefore, there be any good thing I can do, or any kindness I can show, let me do it now. Let me not neglect it or defer it, for I shall never pass this way again.'
I shall read this to Betty to-morrow morning, and tell her that, though she may not have the faculty of thus beautifully and poetically expressing a sentiment, she lives it to the letter every day of her life.
To-day, when Betty was tidying my room, I took the opportunity of referring to Nathan's conversation of the previous evening, particularly that portion of it in which he advised me to take up my quarters downstairs. From the insinuating way in which he had introduced the subject, and the allusions he had made to my 'no weel' look, I naturally concluded that his advice might be interpreted as a hint to me that I was not so well as I fondly imagined; and that, for my own good, and for the convenience of my faithful old nurse—not to speak of obviating the necessity of taking a six-foot coffin down a narrow staircase with a sharp turn—I ought to agree to his proposal at once and without demur.
Betty now assures me, however, that if I am contented and comfortable in my own little room, she is quite satisfied. I am not for a moment to imagine that she advocates the change for the sake of saving her any trouble in attending on me. 'There's nae trouble where ye are concerned, Maister Weelum,' she said. 'I look on ye amaist as my very ain bairn, an' I coont it a privilege to get waitin' hand an' foot on ye. It's a nice, easy stair to climb, it's handy for the kitchen, an' mair an' forby, it's no' as if ye'll aye be lyin' here. In a day or twae, or a week at maist, ye'll be up an' aboot again. A' the same, Maister Weelum, believe me when I say that ever sin' ye cam' to bide here I've thocht it a pity that ye didna use the dinin'-room. I understaun your likin' for this wee room. It was aye your very ain, an' mebbe a' richt to sleep in, though the sooth bedroom is bigger an' airier; but it's juist no'—it's juist no' like a room that ye should ha'e your meat in, ye ken. When you're up an' aboot again ye'll mebbe think it ower.'
'Is the dining-room in good order, Betty?' I asked.
'It's juist as the mistress left it, Maister Weelum,' she said, with a catch in her voice. 'I've things covered to keep oot the dust, an' I've lifted an' cleaned, but juist aye replaced again. Nathan an' me are never in it, except to lift the winda on guid days to air it, or to pit a fire on noo an' again when the weather's damp. The kitchen an' oor back-room are guid enough for us, and we've juist, as it were, keepit the rest o' the hoose on trust. The picters in your mother's wee drawin'-room are a' juist as they were, the piano-lid has never been lifted since she shut it, an' her auld china and other knick-knacks are as clean an' weel cared for as they were when she handled them hersel'. I've often gane up the stairs, ta'en a bit look in, an' come doon again a prood, prood woman that she considered me worthy to live amang it a', an' to tak' care o't.'
Betty and I have a community of interests in the long ago, a joint possession of memories which will ever be our dearest treasure. The links which bind us together were forged away back in the misty past; but time corrodes them not, and they are stronger to-day than ever they were before. To do her will was my sure pleasure, and so I began gracefully to waive, one by one, objections I had entertained, and to acquiesce with her and back up her arguments by referring to the coming wintry months, the comforts of the dining-room, its large, roomy fireplace, and the cheery, heartsome outlook the window commanded of the Cross and the Dry Gill.
'But, Betty,' I said, 'we'll have to do something to give it a more modern look. If I remember aright, the ceiling and cornice are very dark, and the wall-paper is a dismal green, patched with a gold fleur-de-lis, and it has been on too long to be healthy.'
'Ay, weel, mebbe ye're richt; an' ye mentionin' wall-paper reminds me that the damp frae the gable has discoloured the end wa'. But the whitewashin' and paperin' o' ae room will no' be a big job, an' aince we gi'e the painter the order we'll no' ha'e lang to wait for him. His back-en' slackness is on noo. I saw him paintin' his ain doors and windas; an', as there's little chance o' him gettin' fat on that wark, he'll no' swither aboot gi'in' it up for what is likely to pey better. Imphm! Mebbe I should ha'e seen to this afore noo. The fact is, Maister Weelum, except for a few shillin's for paintin' the outside woodwark, I've spent no' a penny on paint or paper for the hoose since Nathan an' me were marrit. I should ha' had things in better order for ye; but, believe me, it was juist want o' thocht.'
'Nonsense, Betty; the whole house is in apple-pie order. There was no call for you to spend money on painting and papering, and I won't allow you to do that now. This is my little affair, Betty, and all I ask you to do is to see the painter and arrange for the work to be done as soon as possible.'
'Do you mean, Maister Weelum, that ye're to pey the whole thing?'
'Most certainly. So, my dear Betty, please say no more on that point, as my mind is made up and unalterable.'
'Weel, weel, sae be it. "Them that will to Cupar maun to Cupar." What kind o' a paper wad ye think o' puttin' on?'
Within my own mind I had decided on a nice warm buff canvas, but I refrained from giving my opinion. 'What do you think would be nice, Betty?'
Of old I remembered the garish colouring of the paper on her bedroom walls. Her taste in this was always a law unto the paper-hanger, and my mother used to shiver when she peeped in, and wondered how Betty could sleep peacefully in such a profusion of colour.
Betty pondered over my question for a moment. 'Mrs Black, the clogger's wife, got her parlour done up last spring, an' it looks juist beautifu'. The paper has a kind o' mauve gr'und wi' a gold stripe runnin' up, an' roon the stripe there's a winkle-wankle o' nice big blue roses, an' a wee bit o' forget-me-not tied wi' a pink ribbon keeks oot here and there, juist as if it was hangin' in the air.'
'Blue roses are not natural, Betty.'
'No, so Nathan says; but they're most by-ordinar' bonny, an' they're hangin' roon this gold stripe for a' the world as if they were newly blawn; an'—an' the leaves are a brisk green, an' the buds standin' oot abune the bloom as like as life, an' a' this beautifu' colourin' for a shillin' a piece! It was John Boyes the painter that put it on, an' he telt Mrs Black that there was only anither room like hers, an' it was in the Crystal Palace at London.'
'A shilling a piece, Betty!' I said, in astonishment, just for something to say. 'Oh, but I would give more than that!'
'Oh, then, ye'll juist get a' the mair gold an' roses for the extra money, Maister Weelum.'
'I am just wondering, Betty,' I said meditatively, 'if a wall-paper with roses—blue or otherwise—is the correct decoration for a dining-room.'
'Oh, there's nae rule, Maister Weelum—at least, no' in Thornhill. No, no; as lang as ye pey for the job, ye can put ony kind ye like on.' And she added, 'Wad ye no' leave the paper to the womenfolk, Maister Weelum? If ye do ye'll no' gang far wrang.'
'Yes, Betty, that's all right; but I don't know that I could eat my meals comfortably in a room among blue roses. How would a nice, warm-coloured imitation of canvas look, without any pattern at all?'
'A warm-coloured imitation o' canvas? Imphm! I—I juist canna tak' that in; but if it's what I think it is, wad that no' look awfu' mealie-bag lookin'?'
'I'm sure it won't, Betty, and—and—well, I know it is the correct thing. Besides'——
'Ye will hark on "the correct thing," Maister Weelum. I've telt ye that whatever ye want, and pey for, is the correct thing in Thornhill. I've great faith in Mrs Black's taste. I aye tak' my cue, as it were, frae her, though I dinna tell her that; an', where colour is concerned, whether in papers or bonnets, I never think she's far wrang. She comes honestly by it. She aince telt me that it was bred in the bane, for her faither was a colourin'-man in a waxcloth factory aboot Kirkcaldy.'
Mrs Black's hereditary claim did not appeal to me, and in a most agreeable and ingratiating way I was advocating my own scheme, when the outer door opened.
'That'll be the doctor, I'm thinkin',' said Betty, and she hurried off downstairs to receive him.
As my acquaintance with Dr Grierson ripens my admiration for him increases, and my regret becomes all the keener that I had no knowledge of him in my boyhood. An early impression of any one, the outcome of youthful intimacy, is ever a sure basis on which to found true friendship, and I somehow imagine that, to a thoughtful, observant boy, such as Betty assures me I was, he would have been not only a willing, sympathetic preceptor, but also a great power for good in many ways. I have known him now for only a few months; but during these quiet, uneventful days of convalescence I have had opportunities of studying him well, and have noted with peculiar pleasure his love of nature in all its phases, his reverence for everything uplifting and elevating, and his sympathy, deep and profound, for all in suffering and distress.
Yesterday, when I was in the dumps, seeing everything as through a glass darkly, and feeling isolated and bereft of sympathetic, intelligent companionship, those lovable traits of his stood out vividly, and the thought came to me that I should tell him of the lady of my dream, and of our strange meeting in the Nithbank Wood. Betty, I know, ought to be my confidante; but I have the feeling that her experience is too limited and her outlook on life generally too parochial to admit of a well-reasoned, dispassionate view of my case; and, though yesterday and to-day I have had ample opportunities of opening my heart to her, I have felt restrained and dissuaded. Some day I shall tell her everything, and I know she will rejoice with me. But the time is not yet.