When Dr Grierson sat down at my bedside this morning and took my wrist between his sensitive finger and thumb, I felt magnetically drawn to him, and the desire to confide in him became irresistible. I had been wondering in my mind for hours how best I could introduce the subject; and, not hitting readily on a fitting opening, I had left it to chance and circumstance. Strangely enough, it was he who paved the way for me. After we had talked briefly on general subjects, he referred to my 'temporary breakdown,' as he termed it, and told me he was quite sure I had undergone a sudden mental strain which had adversely affected me physically; but that, once my mind and body were sufficiently rested, I should be quite all right again.
'You're quite right, doctor, in your diagnosis of my case,' I said. 'I have had rather a queer experience lately, and, if you care to hear about it I shall gladly tell you. Would you share a little secret with me, doctor?'
'Most gladly,' he said.
'Well, will you please light your pipe? Take that easy-chair by the fire, and you may sit with your back to me, and I sha'n't feel slighted.'
He laughed softly, and, extracting a short clay pipe from his waistcoat pocket, took the chair I indicated. Seated thus, and smoking steadily, he listened in silence till my story was finished. I gave him the whole history, kept nothing back; and in telling all the details I never hesitated, for the incidents were fresh in my mind, and I had everything well thought out.
'Ay, Mr Russell,' he said, after a long pause, 'you tell a story very well, and what you have told is most interesting and wonderful. I have read of such occurrences, but I haven't till now come across one at first hand, as it were. Shakespeare says there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy, and your experience certainly goes to prove it. It is usual, especially during a man's romantic years, to dream of a fair lady's face—very usual indeed; but I consider it most remarkable that everything came to a head so shortly after you had told Betty of your dream, and also when, for the first time, you had entertained doubts as to your vision being realised. I suppose you are very much in love with this lady?' and he looked over his shoulder at me.
'Well, yes, doctor, I am.'
'What is your age, again, Mr Russell?'
'Thirty in January.'
'And—and, you've never been in love before?'
'I think I've been in love ever since I dreamed my dream, now nearly ten years ago; but since that interview in Nithbank Wood I'm more hopelessly in love than ever;' and, somehow, I began to blush, and I was glad his back was turned toward me.
'Imphm! Ay, the old story is ever new,' he said, more to himself than to me; and he rose slowly from his chair, knocked the ashes out of his pipe on the top rib of the grate, and came over to my bedside. 'Have you told Betty of this strange meeting?'
'No.'
'Why?'
'Well, doctor, I can hardly explain why I haven't told her, as the dear old soul is "nearer" to me than any one else in the world; but I felt, somehow, that I wanted to confide in you first.'
'Thank you, Mr Russell; and it will be a joyful day when you and I and Betty can talk it all over among us. Meanwhile we'll keep it to ourselves, you and I, and I don't think you should allow this—thisaffaire de cœurto monopolise your mind too much. To worry and distract your thoughts over it would be as harmful as it would be futile. So far, the stars have fought in their courses for you, and, without much exertion on your part, your fondest dreams seem in a fair way to be fulfilled. William—no "Mr Russell" after a crack like this!—I am more than double your age, and for many years I have lived a queer, prosaic, loveless life—a full life if hard work and gain and recognition be reckoned everything, but empty—oh God, how empty!—if love counts for all. I am old, but not so old that I cannot understand you and sympathise with you, for I well remember days which were brightened to me by the sunshine of a woman's loving smile; times when all this earth was heaven to me, the singing of the birds an angel song, all its people upright and just; sermons I read in stones, and good I saw in everything. But that was long ago. When love was taken away from me the whole world seemed changed. My life since then has been selfish and self-centred. I have long ceased to take any interest in the social doings of others; and were it not for my work, my books, and my daily communings with nature, I should be a lonely, miserable old man. I don't mind telling you, however, that you have touched a chord in my heart and awakened memories which have slumbered long. I am very much interested in you, partly on account of your own personality, but mainly because it was a very near relative of yours who brought to me the only true joy and gladness that my heart has ever known.'
He sat down on the basket chair at the foot of my bed, facing me, and with his back to the light.
'You will doubtless remember,' he continued, 'that, during my first visit to you here, Betty in course of conversation, casually or otherwise, mentioned the name of your aunt Margaret.'
'Yes, doctor, I remember that distinctly, and also that you were visibly affected; but'——
'I must confess I was, William,' he quickly interposed. 'Well, confidence for confidence. You have told me your love experience, so far as it has gone, and it may be that, by doing so, you have relieved your mind and hastened your recovery; and perhaps, if I recount mine to one who can understand, it will bring a balm and a solace to my old heart, of which, in these my years of sear and yellow leaves, I often stand sorely in need. You—you don't mind my smoking?'
'Certainly not, doctor; and, to be sociable, I'll join you in a pipe.'
'That's right—that's right! Nothing like tobacco for promoting good-fellowship.'
We filled our pipes in silence. Though it was only late noon, the light seemed to be darkening in my little room. I looked toward the window, and down from a dull leaden sky the first of winter's snowflakes were quietly falling—falling, as it appeared to me, into the eager upstretched arms of the leafless lime. The doctor's gaze followed mine; and slowly, with his pipe filled but not lit, he rose from his chair and looked long and thoughtfully toward the quiet, obscured Dry Gill.
'I have always loved to see snow falling,' he said, after a pause. 'It has a strange fascination for me; and to see it in its fleecy flakes, whirling and dancing and drifting and playing, is a sight which always soothes and inspires me. I pray God that my eyesight may long be spared to me, because it is an avenue through which many of His richly stored treasures are conveyed. I have no ear for music—instrumental music I mean particularly; but, strangely enough, a wimplin' burn can speak to me in its flow, a mavis can call me from my study into my garden, and the eerie yammer of the whaup in the moorland solitude is always to me, as it is to Robert Wanlock, "a wanderin' word frae hame." The human voice raised in song conveys nothing to me, but the crooning lullaby of a loving mother over her suffering child tirls the strings of my heart and makes me humble. To be unable tofeelthe pleading of the violin, the rich soprano, and the resonant bass is something I deplore. But Providence has ordained that if one sense is minus one, another sense will be plus one. Well, my sense of sight is plus one, both in strength and appreciation; and in the midst of these beautiful surroundings in which, for the last forty years, my lines have been cast, I have revelled, William—positively revelled. The opportunity has always been mine of noting the changing of the seasons—the virgin green and promise of spring, the glory and fullness of summer, the russet and gold of autumn, the sleep and decay of winter—and each, to him who can see aright, has a beauty and significance of its own. Ay, and this is winter—winter heralded by a shimmering veil of pirling snowflakes, through whose dancing meshes I can trace phantom forms I saw in youth, and whose madcap antics still, thank God! bring me solace as of yore. Oh, how grateful and thankful I ought to be!'
He lit his pipe with a paper spill, and stood for a minute blowing clouds of smoke round the old china dog on my mantelpiece. Then he resumed his seat at the foot of my bed; and, inclining his head sideways toward the window, he said, 'The last good-bye I said to your aunt Margaret was spoken amidst falling snow, and it is strange that I should be speaking of her to you for the first time with these flimsy flakes dimming your window-pane. There's not much to tell you, William; and, to be candid with you, when I was standing smoking at your fireplace there the thought came to me that, as your mother had never deemed it expedient or necessary to mention my name to you, it would be more in agreement with her will that I should be silent. However, as I have started, I may as well proceed; but I shall be brief, as I haven't the heart to go into what must ever be sacred details. I first met your aunt Margaret in Edinburgh, when I was at the University. Her father—your grandfather, Colonel Kennedy—had returned from India, where he had served with distinction, and had, with his wife and two daughters, taken up residence in the suburb of Murrayfield. Being of a Dumfriesshire family, and well known to my father, who was a merchant in Dumfries and Provost of that town, Colonel Kennedy, on the strength of my father's letter of introduction, gave me a hearty welcome to his domestic circle, a welcome of which I may say I took ample advantage. Your father and mother got married shortly after I became acquainted with the family; and as your aunt Margaret was thus deprived of a sister and companion to whom she was ardently attached, I gladly embraced every opportunity of showing her little kindly attentions, acting the part of a thoughtful brother, and generally doing my utmost to minimise the loss which I was sure she had sustained. Well, William, this ended in the usual way. Sympathy begets love, and I fell hopelessly in love with Margaret Kennedy. How I found out that my love was returned is a secret which is a joy to me, too holy to share even with you, William. Ah me! the happiness of those halcyon days—the quiet afternoons in that old drawing-room facing southward to the distant Pentlands, the evening walks on Corstorphine Hill when the sunset rays still lingered above Ben Lomond, the talks we had of the future we had planned! Tennyson says that "sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things." That may be poetic, but I don't think it is true, for it is a crown of joy to me to call these times to mind, and I feel that to have had this experience, and to have garnered such memories, I have surely not lived in vain. Our love, as is the case with all young people, was unreasoning. We gave no thought to ways and means, and position or status we never for a moment considered. But your grandfather brought us to earth and faced us with realities. In response to a written request, I waited on him one evening, and in a very few words he gave me to understand that I must on no account pay further attention to his daughter, and that my visits to his house must cease. He reproached me with lack of honour in taking advantage of his hospitality to further my own interests and clandestinely win the affection of your aunt Margaret. I repudiated this charge, perhaps somewhat warmly, informed him that if I had broken any of the accepted social laws in the matter, I had done so in ignorance, and assured him I loved his daughter, and that nothing short of her renunciation would deter me from some day making her my wife. He lost his temper, and bluntly asked me if, for a moment, I, a prospectless student and son of a provincial merchant, considered myself worthy of a Kennedy of Knockshaw; whereupon I told him that there were Griersons in Lag, as wardens of the Border Marches, when the Kennedys were sitting in farmyard barns making spoons out of ram-horns. The old reiver blood coursed warmly through my veins, and I faced him without fear. This was the last straw. He raised his cane to strike me; but, noting my air of defiance, he immediately lowered it, and pointed to the door. I bowed in silence, then walked slowly out, and I never entered the house again.
'The days which followed that interview were perhaps the most miserable I ever spent. I had had no opportunity of seeing your aunt; and though I knew she loved me, and that no mercenary considerations would sway her, still there was the uncertainty of it all, under altered circumstances, and the possibility of her being dominated by her father's masterful will. At last, after weary weeks of waiting, of alternate spells of hope and despair, I received a letter from her, written from a lonely island in the Pentland Firth, and letting me know that she had been sent thither by her father on a visit to her uncle, who at that time was proprietor of the island of Stroma. She assured me of her unfaltering love, told me that nothing on earth would shake her resolve, and that, notwithstanding her father's threats, she would join me sooner or later in a haven of rest. She would take my love for granted, and asked me not to write, as my letters would be intercepted. With this ray of hope I had to be content. She wrote to me at intervals; but, as letter followed letter, each became more despondent and despairing, and at last she informed me that it was evident she would not be allowed to return until she promised not to see or correspond with me again. Then came a little, short note pleading for an interview. "It is a long journey, I know," she wrote; "but I dearly—oh, so dearly!—wish to see you again. Your presence will cheer me and strengthen me to bear whatever the future may hold. On Wednesday next my uncle goes to Kirkwall, and on that afternoon I will walk down to a little sheltered creek called Corravoe. It is the nearest point to the mainland, and only a mile or two from Huna. Matthew Howat has a good boat. When you reach Huna ask for Matthew. He knows everything, and will help us...." Never a day passes but that weird, solitary scene comes before my eyes—no trees, no hills, no signs of human habitation; only a short, gray-green stretch of low-lying, patchy landscape, bordered by a narrow strip of rocky beach, lapped by the crested tide of the Pentland Flow. One short hour we spent together, for the tide was turning, but the smile of hope shone in her wan face ere we said good-bye. I was the bearer of joyful news, comforting words, and assurance of release. I told her I was specialising in Edinburgh; that an unexpected legacy of three thousand pounds had paved the way to our happiness; and that, when I had arranged with my mother for her reception, she would sail across to Huna, and find me waiting her there.... The roar of the far-off skerries is in my ear, the echoing homeward cry of the seabird, the humming and hissing of the waves among the shells on the shingle! The shortening day is drawing to a close, mist is clinging to the scarred face of Dunnet Head, from the darkening sky the snow is falling, and through the whirling flakes she fades from my sight.
'A day came when again I was in Huna, looking across the angry, wind-tossed Pentland Firth, waiting for a boat which, alas! never reached its haven. What happened no one ever knew. The sullen waters guard their secrets well; but a broken oar bearing Matthew Howat's initials, picked up in Scrabster Bay, told a story which robbed my life of the only light which ever shone in my soul.'
The doctor sat for a minute, after he had finished his story, with his eyes closed and his chin resting on the knot of his stock. Then he wearily rose from his chair and went quietly downstairs without saying good-bye. He has a keen sense of the fitness of things, and I feel he knew that no word of mine, no pressure of my hand, was needed to prove to him that my heart was with him.
The painters have come and gone, and on the dining-room walls and woodwork they have left evidence of tasty, careful workmanship. John Boyes, to whom the question of wall-paper was referred, was of the opinion that the decorative scheme adopted by Mrs Black for her parlour was not exactly applicable or advisable in our case; so Betty at once deferred to his better judgment, but warned us, all the same, that if the work didn't turn out a success we were not to blame her. There was, however, no occasion for what she calls 'castin' up,' as the room looks exceedingly well, and we—that is, Betty and I—have complimented John Boyes, who likewise looks exceedingly well, not so much perhaps by reason of our commendation, but because his account was asked for and paid the day after the work was completed. I understand the general rule in the locality is to pay tradesmen's accounts once a year, and when I offered such prompt payment John was both surprised and perplexed.
'I thocht, Mr Russell,' he said, 'that you were satisfied wi' the job;' and he placed his hat on Betty's kitchen dresser, fastened a button in his coat, and stood on the defensive.
'And Iampleased with the job, Boyes,' I replied. 'You and your men have worked well, and—and whistled well,' I added, with a laugh; 'and in attending to this work just now you have suited my convenience.'
'Well—but—does it no' look as if ye werena pleased when ye're payin' me so soon?'
'No, no, Boyes, you mustn't think that. I happen just now to have the money beside me, and now that the work is completed it is yours, not mine.'
'Oh, that puts a different complexion on the face o't, as the monkey said when he pented the cat green;' and he gave a cough of relief, and surreptitiously bit off a chew of brown twist. 'It's no' often that money's put doon on my pastin'-table, as it were, an' it's braw an' welcome, I assure you. I'll no' forget ye wi' leebral discoont, let me tell ye.' When he came back to receipt the account he borrowed a penny stamp from Betty, and with great deliberation and no little ceremony drew his pen several times through the pence column, completely obliterating the 8-1/2d. 'Ye see, sir, when a gentleman treats me weel, I'm no' feart. We'll let the eichtpence ha'penny go to the deevil, an' that'll be five pounds six shillin's—nate, as it were.' He stowed the notes away down in his trousers-pocket, unbuttoned and rebuttoned his coat, and jocosely informed me that the price of liquid drier was on the rise, and he would now lay in a stock before the market was too high. An hour afterwards I saw him emerge from the side-door of the inn, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the term 'liquid drier' was to me stripped of any technical vagueness it had previously possessed.
I have rearranged all the old dining-room pictures so that, without discarding any of them, I shall have sufficient space for the painting of Nith Bridge which the Laurieston minister looked upon as a valuable asset to his bazaar. One day, when I was confined to bed upstairs, I pencilled a note to my confidential clerk in Edinburgh, asking him to find out in which of the five Lauriestons, noted in the Post-Office Directory, a bazaar was to be held, and to make sure of purchasing thereat a certain oil-painting of which I gave full particulars. Ormskirk is a cute, long-headed chap; and, knowing the man well, I was really not surprised when, yesterday morning, I received a letter from him advising me that, without any difficulty, he had 'struck' the right Laurieston, and that through our corresponding agent in Falkirk the picture in question had been secured. Following out my instructions, he is getting it suitably framed; so I trust shortly to see the space filled which I am reserving for it.
Poor Betty has put herself to no end of trouble over the modernising of this room. She has planned and worked unceasingly; and as she couldn't be in two places or do two things at once, Nathan and I these last few days have been in a manner neglected. I was sorry to know of her toiling on late and early, and I told her to get a woman in to help her; but all she said, and that with a sniff, too, was, 'It may happen;' and for the first time I saw Betty's nose in the air. And now that everything is done that she recommended, she is regretting all the expense I have been put to, and bewailing the fact that 'efter a' it was hardly worth while.' 'It's a braw, braw room, Maister Weelum,' she said, as she surveyed it for the twentieth time from the doorway—'a braw room indeed, and I trust ye'll lang be spared to enjoy it. Ay, I do that;' and she sighed.
I looked keenly and quickly at her.
'No, no, Maister Weelum, I dinna mean that. I'm no' a dabbler amang leaf-mould;' and she laughed cheerily. 'A' the same, an' jokin' apairt, I trust ye'll live to get the guid o' a' your ootlay. At ony rate, ye'll be gey bien here ower the winter. An' when ye're weel again, an' away back to yer wark in Embro', ye'll no' forget that ye have sic a place here. Somewey, I think ye'll get marrit sune—hoo I think sae I canna tell, but the look's comin' to your e'e—an' whaever the lucky leddy may be, ye needna be feart to bring her here, for it's a room fit for a duchess.'
The early fall of snow, which I shall ever associate with the doctor's love-story, was, after all, very slight, and except in the uplands, where it lies in the crevices gleaming white in the wintry sun, it has almost entirely disappeared. I have been allowed outside again, and, but for a little stiffness, due, the doctor says, to inaction, I am feeling wonderfully strong and even vigorous.
John Kellock the butcher is the nominal owner of an old bobtailed collie which rejoices in the name of Bang. Bang carries with him into old age many mementos of his pugilistic days, not the least obvious of which are a tattered and limp ear and a short, deformed foreleg. He is long past active service, and only barks now from the shop-door when sheep pass along the village street; but he dearly loves a quiet saunter down the pavement and along the country road with any one who has a mind to chum with him and can keep step with his. John Sterling the shoemaker is also the nominal owner of a dog, a Dandie Dinmont named Jip, which was long a doughty antagonist of Bang, but he is now on the pension list too, and glad of congenial company of limited locomotive capabilities. So the three of us—all more or less 'crocks,' and mutually sympathetic—take a constitutional together almost every day. I have mentioned Jip last, but really it was he who made friends with me first. His master made no demur to Jip's frequent strolls with me, as the shoemaker himself leads a sedentary life, and no man knows better than he that a dog should get exercise; but since Jip has on more than one occasion taken French leave and remained overnight with me, I am afraid jealousy is springing up in the shoemaker's breast. Bang noted the ripening acquaintanceship, and girned disapproval as we passed the butcher's shop; but I never neglected an opportunity of scratching his shaggy underjaw and talking coaxingly in a 'doggie' way to him, and so it came to pass that after following us bit by bit, day by day, he agreed with Jip to bury the hatchet, and we are now a happy trio and the very best of friends.
As companions in a country walk I prefer Bang and Jip to any man I know. I can be silent and meditative, and they don't feel neglected or out of it; and when I am minded to talk, they, in the wag of the tail and the intelligent look of the eye, respond and approve. But they never trespass upon my attention or disturb my vein of thought.
At first, after our walk, when I reached Betty's door, I asked them to come inside, but they stood with a dubious look in their eyes and with heads turned sideways. Then Jip evidently remembered that John Sterling had paid his license, and that he was in duty bound to make some show of recognition, so he walked sedately and with fixed purpose across the street; while Bang, with recurrent memories of truant acts associated with ash-plants, limped his way to Kellock's door. Now, however, they have both flung discretion and fears to the winds, and accompany me to my fireside with an 'at home' sort of air, and just as if Betty's abode were their own.
Betty has a cat, a very nice, comfortable-looking cat, with a glossy, well-cared-for fur, and a strong masculine face; and she often wonders why I take no notice of Jessie, as she, in her simplicity, misnames him. The truth is, God's creatures, great and small, interest and appeal to me, but I cannot love cats. I admire their graceful movements, their agility, their cleanliness so far as their fur is concerned; but their eyes cannot draw me lovingly to them as a dog's can, and I have the feeling that they are capable of loving only those who minister to their wants, and that they are putting up with domesticity because it assures them of food and shelter without putting them to the trouble and inconvenience of seeking it for themselves. I am sorry I cannot love Jessie, but it can't be helped. Jessie, I know, never loved me; and since Bang and Jip have got entry to the house I know 'she' positively hates me.
This afternoon Bang and Jip accompanied me as usual in my stroll, and after I had leisurely surveyed all the countryside around, and the two dogs had to their hearts' content explored every rat-run in the roots of the bordering hedgerows, we turned for home. For a little while I halted at Hastie's gate, and watched with interest the northward rush of the afternoon express. I remembered how, when a boy, I used to stand at this coign of vantage, with my eyes riveted on the speeding trains, following them in imagination and desire through distant fields and woods, past towns I knew of only through my geography, on and away to the busy, bustling terminus on the Clyde, with its big houses, its long streets, and attractive shops. How I envied the driver on the footplate, and how I longed to be a passenger with himen routeto the city which was then to me unknown and unexplored!Experientia docet; the express in its flight was as interesting to me as it was then, but the desire and longing to be in it were lacking. 'No, no,' I said to myself; 'no bustling city for me at present. Here around me is life without veneer; here is the peace I crave; here, I feel, is the goal.' The sound of approaching footsteps cut short my reverie. I turned my head, and for the second time I looked into the eyes of my dream-lady.
Had I had time to gather my wits and consider the situation, I should probably have recognised her presence by merely raising my hat, but this was denied me; and, acting on a sudden impulse, I went forward to meet her with my hand outstretched. With a look of surprise and, I imagined, annoyance, she stopped and regarded me earnestly for a moment. In a flash it came to me that we had never been introduced, and I blushed awkwardly and retreated a step, muttering an incoherent apology. Then ensued a long pause, an awkward silence. It was Bang who came to the rescue, and saved the situation. Wagging his scraggy apology for a tail, he sidled up to her, and in an ingratiating, wheedling way which only a dog possesses, he claimed her attention. She spoke to him, and stroked his shaggy head. Then Jip ventured forward, demanding his share of her favours, and she bent down and asked him his name. I remained tongue-tied and ill at ease, and was wishing myself a hundred miles away, when she suddenly looked toward me and smiled.
'I consider a collie and a Dandie Dinmont ideal companions,' she said. 'They are evidently very much attached to you, and old friends are the best friends.'
'Friends, yes; but they don't belong to me,' I replied. 'Bang here is an old pensioner of the village butcher, and wee Jip is the apple of our local shoemaker's eye. We've been good chums since I came down here, and I seldom go for a walk without them.'
'They weren't with you that day in Nithbank Wood?'
'No.'
'By the way,' she hastily interposed, as if glad of an opening, 'I am pleased to have met you again, and to see you are none the worse of your indiscretion in venturing so far when you weren't feeling fit. You have only one walking-stick now, instead of two; so I argue you are making good progress. Do you know,' she continued, and she gave me a look which set my heart thumping, 'I have, time and again, reproached myself for leaving you as I did. You acknowledged you had attempted too much, and you looked so helpless, so—so'——and she hesitated. 'Whatisthat very expressive Scots word, now? So'——
'Forfaughten,' I hazarded.
'That's it—forfaughten; and you must have felt forfaughten, otherwise the word wouldn't have appealed to you as suitable.'
'Well, I admit now, I was, but at the time I didn't wish you, a lady and a stranger, to know it. Besides, you had already done a good deal for me, which, allow me to repeat, I shall not readily forget.'
I was gradually regaining the confidence I had lost, and felt inclined to say more, and to tell her of my dream and what her presence meant to me; but I restrained myself; and, pointing to the paint-box she carried, I changed the subject by asking her if she was finding much inspiration in our beautiful surroundings.
'Yes—oh yes!' she replied; 'it is a beautiful countryside, and the longer I live in it the more I see in it to admire. A wooded locality, such as this, looks at its best—at least from an artist's standpoint—in the late autumn, when sufficient foliage is shed to allow the gray-purple of the branches to mingle with the yellow and russet of the leaves. I am fortunate in being here at this particular time, and I have made quite a number of sketches, which I may work up later. But I am not really an artist. I am only a humble amateur, though I may to an extent have the eye of an artist—to appreciate all the beautiful sights, you know, and that, after all, is something. But I must be going. Good-afternoon; and I'm glad that you are getting on so nicely.—Good-bye, Bang.—Good-bye, Jip;' and she gave them a parting pat, and with a smile on her face which I long remembered, she walked slowly away.
It is a very slender hair to make a tether with, but somehow the fact of her remembering the dogs by name is a consoling thought, and a source of peculiar satisfaction to me.
When I got home, and was comfortably seated in my arm-chair by the fire, Betty came in to set my tea, and I wasn't long in noticing that, from her abstracted air and the listless way she was moving about, she had something on her mind. She looked for a moment or two at Bang and Jip lying comfortably curled up on the hearthrug. 'Thae dugs are braw an' snug lyin' there,' she said; 'an' my puir Jessie's sittin' in the cauld stick-hoose in the huff. No' that I grudge them their warm bed, for I'm gled—he'rt gled—to see them peaceable at last wi' yin anither. It's nae time since they were girnin' an' fechtin' an' tumblin' ower each ither frae the Cross to the Gill, an' noo, haith, they canna get ower cheek-for-chowie. Ye maun ha'e a wonderfu' wey wi' dugs, Maister Weelum. It's a peety ye couldna exert it in ither weys.'
I know Betty too well to venture assistance, and I had the feeling that she would soon work her way round to her subject without my aiding and abetting.
'The kettle will soon be through the boil, an' ye'll get your tea in a jiffy,' she said. 'Imphm! it's a gey comfortable-lookin' chair, that yin opposite ye, Maister Weelum; an', d'ye ken, I met a leddy the day that I wad like to see sittin' in it.'
'Indeed, Betty!'
'Ay. I dinna ken when I was sae much impressed wi' onybody at first sicht as I was this day; an' when I was sittin' lookin' at her, an' listenin' to her voice, something whispered in my ear, "That's the wife for my boy."'
'My goodness, Betty, you're forcing the pace!' I laughingly said. 'First you wish to see this lady sitting in my chair, and in your next breath you say you wish to see her my wife! Where did you meet this paragon?'
'Weel, this efternoon, when you an' the dugs were away yer walk, I slippit in next door juist for a meenit to see hoo they were a' gettin' on, an', as I usually do, I opened the door withoot knockin' an' walked strecht ben to the kitchen, an' there, Maister Weelum, sittin' on the wee laich nursin'-chair at the fireside, was the leddy I speak o'. I gaed to gang back into the lobby; but Mrs Jardine wadna hear o't, an' she made me step in, an' she introduced me, quite the thing, mind you. Ye see, Tom's wife was toon bred, an' she kens a' the weys o't, an' she mentioned me by name an' the leddy by name; an' if she had been staunin' in a drawin'-room on a Turkey carpet, an' cled in brocade, she couldna ha'e dune it better. I juist didna catch the leddy's name, for, what wi' the suddenness, her bonny face, an' ae thing an' anither, I was sairly flabbergasted an' putten aboot. It seems, hooever, that she's in the picter-pentin' line, an' she's ta'en a great fancy to wee Isobel, an' she's makin' a portrait o' her. A week or twae bygane she saw the wee lass staunin' at the door as she was passin', an' she was so struck wi' her bonny wee face an' her lang fair hair that she spoke to her an' asked to see her mither. Weel, the upshot o' this was that, as I've said, she is pentin' her, an' a capital picter she's makin'. It's hardly finished yet. I ken fules an' bairns should never see hauf-dune wark, an' I'm no' a judge, into the bargain; but I'll say this, photographin' micht be quicker an' mair o' a deid likeness, but it's no' in it wi' yon for naturalness and bonny life-like colour. But that's by the wey, as it were. Her work is guid, withoot a doot, but she hersel's a perfect picter.'
I felt my heart beginning to thump and throb, and my breath getting catchy. 'Pity you missed her name, Betty,' I said with forced unconcern.
'Ay, as I telt ye, I was putten aboot, an' missed it; but I'll speir at Mrs Jardine again, 'at will I.'
'And—and what is the lady like?' I asked, with as much indifference as I could command.
'Weel, Maister Weelum, I juist canna exactly tell ye. She's yin o' the few folks ye meet in a lifetime that ye canna judge o' or scrutinise bit by bit. It's impossible to do that wi' her; you've to tak' her in a' at aince, as it were; ye ken what I mean—eh?'
I did, and I didn't; but I nodded as if I understood.
'What struck me mair than ocht else,' she continued, 'was her couthie, affable mainner. To look at her ye wad think that she's a' drawn thegether—prood-like, ye ken, wi' an almichty set apairt kind o' an air; but whenever she speaks an' looks at ye, ye've the feelin' that she's a' roon aboot ye, an' that there's only her an' you in the whole world. An' she was so composed an' calm, so weel-bred withoot bein' uppish! Oh, I tell ye she juist talked away to Mrs Jardine an' me as if we were o' her ain kind. An' when she rose up to gang away, an' was staunin' her full heicht lookin' doon on us, do you know, Maister Weelum, she seemed to me to be kind o' glorified, an' the kitchen an' a' its plenishin's faded frae my sicht, an' a' I was conscious o' was the kindly glent o' twae big dark een an' the feelin' that I was in the presence o' some yin by-ordinar'—imphm! An' efter she had gane I couldna carry on a wiselike conversation wi' Mrs Jardine for listenin' to the whispered words in my ear, "That's the yin! That's the wife for Maister Weelum."'
Since the forenights began to lengthen the doctor has got into the way of dropping in and smoking a quiet, meditative pipe with me over the chess-board. When he called to-night I drew out the little table with the squared top, and we settled down to our game. But my mind was not concerned with bishops, pawns, and knights, and my thoughts kept careering between Hastie's gate and Mrs Jardine's kitchen. I made an effort to centre my interest, and to look the part of the keen, zealous player; but, unfortunately, I cannot dissemble. I lost two pawns very stupidly, and the doctor looked keenly at me, but said nothing. I blundered on, and at last I made a move which caused the doctor to smile. He got up, relit his pipe, and sank into an easy-chair. 'Ah, William,' he said, 'Love is a tyrant! Heart claimed, thoughts claimed, all dancing attendance on the enslaver.'
I blushed, and made a show of riping my pipe into the coal-scuttle to hide my confusion. Then I told him of the meeting on the Carronbrig road, and of Betty's experience in Mrs Jardine's kitchen.
'The plot thickens, William,' he said as he rose to go; 'and if I were you I would tell her of your dream next time you meet her. It will interest her in you; and, you know, once interest is aroused—well, love will follow. Good-night.'
My picture has arrived, and I have got it hung in a favourable light, in a place of honour above the mantelpiece. I became quite excited when it was delivered, and, like a child with a new toy, was impatient to see it, and to gloat over it. But the lid of the wooden case was tightly screwed down; and, as a hammer and a saw were the only joinery tools which Betty possessed, I had to call in Deacon Webster's aid, and Betty, poor body, got no peace till he arrived with his screwdriver. When at length the picture was taken out of its packing I noticed there was no signature in the corner, and this at the time was a keen disappointment to me; but it has ceased to trouble me now, because I have the feeling that it will shortly bear the artist's name, and till that time comes, when I am not admiring her handiwork, I shall just entertain myself filling the corner space with names which appeal to my mind as fitting and appropriate.
When I asked Nathan's opinion of my purchase, he looked several times very deliberately from me to the picture; then, after a pause, informed me he had 'never till noo seen purple gress.' I explained to him that this was the purple sunset glow; but he shook his head sceptically, spat in my fire, and walked slowly ben into the kitchen. Betty, who spent her early girlhood in the Keir, is delighted that a picture in which her native parish hills are depicted should be hanging on her walls, and she was very anxious to know who the painter was, and how it came into my possession. I just said I was very much interested in the artist, and that the picture had been sent from Edinburgh. She pointed out to me, what I hadn't noticed before, that the bright richness of the gold frame made the others shabby and tarnished-looking, and she warmly advocated the application of a liquid gold paint which John Boyes retails at sixpence a bottle, and which, she assures me, 'is liker pure gold than a sovereign.' Betty dearly loves to dabble in paint. It was Nathan who acquainted me with this predilection, and he instanced a case of her blue-enamelling the long hazel crook, the representative staff of the Ancient Order of Shepherds, which on gala-days he carries in the procession; and another, when she varnished, with a strange concoction, a workbox which she has never been able to open since. Knowing this, I purposely belittled Boyes's liquid, and assured her that in a week or two our eyes would become so accustomed to the conditions that we shouldn't distinguish any difference between the frames. It grieves me very much to thwart Betty; though, truth to tell, I seldom have occasion to do so, as our opinions on the big things of life, the essentials, are rarely in conflict, and the smaller we think not worth wrangling over; so I talked her into a gracious, amenable humour, and ultimately took leave of the subject in what I considered mutual agreement.
This morning, however, when she brought up my ante-breakfast cup of tea, she reverted to the subject without any preliminaries. 'Man, Maister Weelum,' she began, 'I've juist been takin' anither look roon' the dinin'-room. Noo, since we've got it done up it's the first thing I do in the mornin' an' the last at nicht; an', do ye know, I feel quite prood an' important when I'm puttin' a nice white cover on the big table, an' the silver candelabra in the centre o't. But, oh man, since yesterday I'm positively he'rt-sorry for thae auld frames. In a mainner it's my pleesure spoiled; to me it's a case o' deid flies in the ointment, ye understaun? Imphm! an' I'm gettin' fair angry at the new yin hangin' oot so prominently an' skinklin' as if to chaw the ithers. Dod, I imagine it's laughin' an' jeerin' at them. Noo, Maister Weelum, twae sixpenny bottles o' John Boyes's gold spread oot thin would amaist do the whole lot, an'—an' I'll put it on mysel'. I'm rale knacky wi' a brush. It'll no' come to much—imphm! the cost'll be very little. What think ye?'
'I don't know, Betty, I'm sure. I'm sorry to know the old frames annoy your eye. Personally I like the old ones better than the new one; but I'll tell you what, Betty,' I said gleefully, as a happy thought struck me; 'we'll get the new frame coated over with some sort of stuff to dull it down a bit. They'll be all alike then. How would that do?'
'It'll no' do at a', Maister Weelum,' she said emphatically. 'That picter maunna be touched. No! no! It has some history, or I'm cheated. Time will prove'——
A sudden loud knocking echoed through the house and cut short her sentence. 'Mercy me, what a bang!' she said. 'That's Milligan the postman, an' as sure as my name's Betty Grier he'll bash through that door some day;' and, to my relief—for she was stumbling into 'kittle' ground—she hurried downstairs.
Since I came here my correspondence has become almost a negligible quantity. I rarely write to any one, and the few letters I receive are of a more or less private business character. I had two this morning—one from the treasurer of my club reminding me my subscription is due at the end of this month, and the other from my partner, Murray Monteith, who, after alluding to minor matters, writes as follows:
'Now for the real reason of my troubling you at this time. The Hon. Mrs Stuart wrote to me yesterday from Nithbank House, near Thornhill, saying she was desirous of consulting me on a very important subject; but owing to indisposition she couldn't travel to Edinburgh, and she would be much obliged if I could make it convenient to call on her at that address any day next week. I wrote to her by return saying I would travel south on Wednesday first, and would be with her during the early afternoon of that day. As you know, I am a stranger to your native county; but I presume Nithbank House is within driving distance of Thornhill, and as I am due at the station of that name at 11.30A.M., I shall thus have ample time to call on you prior to my visit, and talk over matters with you.
'The important subject she refers to is, without doubt, in connection with the affairs of her brother-in-law, the late General Stuart, which, I regret to say, are still in a most unsatisfactory state, owing to our inability to unearth a will or to procure any information regarding his marriage. We have made exhaustive inquiry in every conceivable direction, but without result; and his daughter, Miss Stuart, must now be acquainted with the facts as they at present stand. She called here on the 17th ult., and asked to see you. Ormskirk informed her that you were at present invalided in the country, and showed her into my room. We talked over matters in a general way, and I think I managed to satisfy her on the main points, without giving her any reason to suspect we were faced with such serious difficulties. But, as I have said, she must be told now, and I approach this part of the business with misgivings, as it is a very delicate matter indeed; and, from the little I have seen of her, I argue she will take it very keenly to heart. For us to inform her, in our cold, unfeeling legal phraseology, that she is, in the eyes of the law, illegitimate would be nothing short of brutal, and I trust we may prevail on her aunt to discharge this unenviable obligation. I assure you I have no desire to trouble you unnecessarily at this time with business concerns; but, as you are in the immediate locality, and are not only acquainted with the parties, but conversant with all the details of this case, I hope you will see your way to accompany me to Nithbank. Miss Stuart informed me that she had transacted business by correspondence only, and that she had not yet met you. Would this not be a good opportunity for us all to meet and decide what ought to be done?'
Needless to say, I shall be delighted to receive Murray Monteith here. We must arrange to have him remain overnight with us, and I shall take peculiar pleasure in introducing him to Betty and Nathan and Dr Grierson, types, I feel sure, which he has never met before, but which I am equally sure he will appreciate. I shall certainly accompany him to Nithbank House; and I must be prepared to have the vials of the Hon. Mrs Stuart's wrath poured out upon me when she learns that for almost six months I have resided within two miles of her, and have not considered it my duty and privilege to call on her. I am very, very sorry to learn from Monteith that things have turned out so unfortunately; but somehow I have dreaded such an outcome all along. And my heart goes out to that poor girl who is likely to lose her patrimony under the inexorable law of succession. But, wait now, let me think. Yes, these four thousand Banku oil shares which her father transferred to her, on her coming of age, are hers, and cannot be contested; so that, after all, if our worst fears regarding the property are realised, she will not be penniless. I wonder if she is a level-headed business girl, and if she knows to what extent she will benefit from this. Banku oils are worth looking after. This will be one cheering subject, at least, which we may broach to her. But, after all, the stigma of illegitimacy remains, and money cannot make up for that. Poor girl!
Pondering these thoughts, I slowly dressed and went downstairs to breakfast; but so wrapped up was I in reflection, and engrossed in legal procedure and probable eventualities, that when Betty appeared with my bacon and egg I could scarcely reconcile myself to my surroundings or at once realise my whereabouts. Fortunately she didn't notice my preoccupied air, otherwise my firm's long, blue, tax-looking letter would again have been blamed and execrated; nor did she make any attempt to pick up the thread-ends of our conversation regarding the regilding of the old frames. I wondered at this, as the conditions were propitious; and Betty, as a rule, follows up the trail of a crack as surely and consistently as a weasel follows a hare.
'Joe's in the back-kitchen brushin' your boots,' she said, as she handed me the morning papers; and I sighed with relief in the knowledge that Boyes's liquid was likely, for the time being at least, to remain on his shop shelf. 'Puir sowl, he's quite pleased when I ask him to do ocht for you,' she continued. 'Yesterday, withoot bein' bid, he got oot yin o' your suits o' claes an' pressed it wi' my big smoothin' ern on the kitchen table, an' he's made sic a job o't as wud be a credit to ony whip-the-cat. He has learned mair than drillin' in the airmy, I tell ye.'
'I believe that, Betty,' I said. 'The service is often a capital schoolmaster. But it was very good of him to look to my clothes. I'll not forget him for that.'
'Oh, mercy me, Maister Weelum, dinna you gi'e him ocht! He wad be black affronted an' terribly displeased if ye offered him money. No, no, it's neither wisdom nor charity to gi'e to Joe, for he's made mair siller lately than he kens hoo to tak' care o'. I can tell ye he cam' hame this time wi' a weel-filled pouch, an' for the first week o' six workin' days he did mak' it spin!'
'Spin, Betty? How in the world did he contrive to make money spin in Thornhill?' I asked.
'Haith, if ye had only seen him ye wadna need to ask. Ahem, spin! Ay, Joe can not only mak' the money spin, but he spins himsel', an' he mak's every yin spin that'll sit wi' him. But mebbe I'm gaun ower quick. Did ye no' ken that Joe tak's a dram?'
'No, Betty, I did not; and, as he's a brother of Nathan's, I'm surprised to know it.'
'Oh, weel, but it's juist possible that I'm wrangin' Joe noo. He's what I wad ca' a regular drammer—tak's his gless o' beer every day—ye ken; but aince a year, an' for a while efter he comes back, he gangs fairly ower the soore baith wi' drinkin' himsel' an' treatin' ithers. Ye ken he then has siller galore among his fingers, an' wi' Joe, as wi' the rest o' folk, "the fu' cup's no' easy carried." Last year he had a gey time o't; spent a lot, an' grudged it terribly when it was a' gane. Nathan canna be bothered wi' 'im in his thochtlessness. A' he says is "Benjy's a fule." He ca's him Benjy because he's the youngest o' the family. Ay, that's a' he says. But somewey I'm sorry for Joe, an' I'm aye ceevil an' nice to him. An', what think ye, Maister Weelum? He has signed the pledge to please me, 'at has he, an' he hasna touched a drap for nearly three weeks. It's wonderfu' what a bit word will do, if it's spoken in season.'
'Yes, Betty, that is so,' I said meditatively; 'that is so. It is very good of you to interest yourself in Joe. I'm sure he'll bless your name every day.'
'Imphm! I've nae doot he does; in fact, I'm sure he does;' and a queer smile broke over Betty's face. 'Ay, he blesses my name, sure enough; he's a Hebron, ye ken. The Hebrons never say much, but they look a tremendous lot, an' Joe's been lookin' at me lately as if he was blessin' me. The fact is, he's sairly off his usual. He has a queer cowed look I never saw before. Oh, the man's no' weel, an' I'm sure he blames me for it. This mornin', when he cam' doon, he was lookin' fair meeserable, an' I asked him, in a kindly, sympathetic wey, how he was feelin', an' said he, "Middlin', Betty; very middlin'. It's a very stiff job this I've tackled. I've been teetotal for twenty days, an' I've saved as much as'll buy me an oak coffin; an', Betty, if I'm teetotal for other twenty days, by the Lord Harry I'll need it!" An', d'ye ken, Maister Weelum, he was sae fa'en-away-lookin' that, though I kenned it was plantin' wi' ae haun an' pu'in up wi' the ither, I gaed away an' poured him oot a wee drap, juist a jimp gless, an' then I gi'ed him your buits to brush, an' he started to whussle like a mavis.'
Betty's face was quite serious when she was telling me this, and when I looked into her kindly, concerned eyes, and thought of Joe's patient misery, I began to laugh, and I laughed till the breakfast crockery rattled. She looked at me in wonderment, and, lifting the teapot, she made for the door.
'Excuse me, Betty, and pardon my levity,' I said; 'but just one moment'——
'Oh, I'll excuse ye,' she said, as she halted. 'There's nocht I like better mysel' than a guid laugh, but it maun be at something funny; an' if it's Joe you're laughin' at, he was far frae funny this mornin', I tell ye.'
'I can well understand that, Betty; but I was going to say'——
'Maister Weelum, excuse me interruptin' ye, but do ye believe in ghosts?'
'Do I believe in ghosts? Certainly not. Why do ye ask?'
'Weel, I'm gled to hear ye dinna believe in them. I say wi' you; but Joe's juist been tellin' me that he met a leddy this mornin' on the public street that he could sweer died twenty-fower years bygane. So what mak' ye o' that?'
'Oh Betty, Joe's most surely talking nonsense. Where did you say he met the lady?'
'Haith, Joe'll no' alloo it's nonsense. He's very positive aboot it. His story to me was that he cam' suddenly on her gaun roon Harper's corner, an' he was so frichtened an' surprised that a' gumption left him, an' he couldna look efter her either to mak' sure o' her or to see where she was gaun. He was as white as a sheet when he cam' in to me, an' between the fricht an' the lang want o' his dram, he was in sic a state that I'm sure the Lord will coont me justified in gi'en him a mouthfu'. What I telt ye before was only half the truth, an' noo ye ken a'.'
I don't know Joe very well. Since he came home I have had few opportunities of meeting him and analysing him; but when Betty was talking he was very vividly flung on the screen, so to speak, and a possible trait in his character occurred to me.
'Betty,' I said, 'don't you think that Joe has just worked up his ghost story and feigned excitement and agitation, knowing you had spirits in the house, and that in the peculiar circumstances you would produce the bottle?'
'No, no, I dinna think that. Joe's a Hebron, as I've said, an' the Hebrons ha'e neither the cleverness to think a thing like that oot nor the guile to carry it through. No, no, Maister Weelum; Joe met the leddy, whaever she may be, richt enough. I'm quite sure aboot that pairt o't; but of coorse he's wrang aboot the burial. It's been some yin very like her, an' Joe's juist mistaken. Had this happened when he was as I ha'e seen him I wad never ha'e gi'en it a thocht; but this mornin'—weel, the man was—was ower sober to be healthy.'
'As you say, he's just made a mistake, Betty. At best, Joe's a mysterious individual; these annual disappearances are remarkable. Have you yet learned exactly where he goes?'
Her alert ear detected a cessation of brushing and whistling, and she walked quietly to the door, keeked past it, and then gently turned the handle. 'He has finished your buits,' she said, 'an' he's gettin' Nathan's Sabbath-day yins doon frae the shelf to gi'e them a rub. Do I ken where he gangs? Ay, I do. For a lang time I jaloused; but last nicht he telt me a' aboot it, an', as it turns oot, I havena been very far frae the mark. His wife has a wee temperance hotel—a temperance yin—she kens Joe!—in a toon ca'd Brighton. She can manage a' richt hersel' in the dull pairt o' the year, but she's forced to get Joe in the busy time to gi'e her a haun wi' the fires an' the luggage an' siclike. She was only aince here, an' we didna see much o' her; but frae the little I did see I wad tak' her to be a fell purposefu' woman, mair cut oot for fechtin' in a toon than settlin' doon to the quiet, humdrum life o' Thornhill. Joe in the airmy wad dootless be a' richt, but oot o't an' hangin' aboot here wi' a decent pension he wad juist be an impossibility. I was kind o' sorry for her when she was here. She had never been in this pairt before, an' she didna tak' very kindly to it. She couldna understaun what we said, an' we were in the same fix when she spoke. The first nicht she was in this hoose Nathan, for Joe's sake, tried to ca' the crack wi' her; but it gied him a sair heid, so he juist smiled an' noddit to her efter that. She put twae months in here, an' then she went away on her ain. First she kept lodgers; then she took this wee hotel, an' by a' accoonts she's doin' weel. But it's a queer, queer life for baith o' them. Never a letter passes between them, an' Joe seldom mentions her name. When he cam' back this time I asked him if his wife wasna vexed to pairt wi' him when the time cam' for him to leave, an' he said he didna ken, for he didna see her. "Ye didna see her!" said I. "Hoo was that?" "Oh," said he, "she was busy at her wark up the stairs, so I cried to her that I was away, an' she cried back, 'Right you are, Joe; so long till next July,' and that was a'." Imphm! isn't that a queer state o' maitters, Maister Weelum? Mind you, I dinna a'thegither blame her. I ken the Hebrons. They're a queer, quate family. Ye never can tell what they're thinkin'. I've the best o' them—ay, the best—an' I often shut my een an' thank God for Nathan; but if he had marrit ony ither woman—I mean a woman wha didna ken him as I do, or mak' allowances as I can, an' though she had been an angel frae heaven—she wad ha'e been as meeserable as I am happy. Ay, it was lang, lang before I understood Nathan, an' the kennin' o' him was a dreich job, but it was worth it a'. Ye see, the Hebrons havena got the faculty o' expressin' their feelin's. They may be pleased or angry—it's a' yin—they never let on in their speech, but they show it in their actions; at least my Nathan does, an' my impression is that Joe's wife—Sally her name is—doesna ken Joe yet. He'll no' ha'e met her half-road, as it were, an' gi'en her a chance o' gettin' to the bedrock, an' she tak's his quateness for indifference; an' the upshot is, as ye see, that for the best pairt o' a year she's as happy in Brighton as he is in Thornhill, an' for the rest they put up wi' yin anither for the sake o' the siller their united efforts bring in. Ay, it's a queer world for some folk. But I'm deavin' ye. Joe'll be oot o' a job, too, an' to keep him richt I maun keep him workin' the day;' and she bustled off to encourage Joe in well-doing.
Later I consulted with Betty about Murray Monteith's visit, and we arranged to get the south bedroom prepared for his reception. So I wrote him to-day at some length, extending Betty's invitation, and expressing my willingness to accompany him to Nithbank House. After I had finished my letter I perambulated the dining-room round and round, for the day was wet and boisterous, and I could not go out of doors. Bang and Jip, evidently conscious of the fact that a walk was out of the question, were making themselves at home on the hearthrug, and I was just finishing half a mile of carpet-walking when the street door opened, and Nathan's step sounded in the lobby. Betty had gone out on an errand, so I went in to the kitchen.
'Hallo, Nathan!' I said; 'have you got a holiday to-day?'
Nathan looked up at me as he sat down in his arm-chair near the fire. 'I've ta'en yin, Maister Weelum,' he said. 'I've ta'en yin—very much against the grain, though. I'm—I'm no' feelin' very weel, so I thocht I wad juist come hame.'
'You did well to come home, Nathan, and I'm sorry to know you are not up to the mark. You're cold-looking. Do you feel cold?'
'Weel, shivery weys, Maister Weelum; shivery weys. Imphm!—Where's Betty?'
I told him she had gone out on an errand, but would be back presently; and, going into the dining-room, I poured out a glass of brandy and brought it to him. 'Here, Nathan. I know your mind on the liquor question; but put aside your objections and drink this. It will do you good.'
He smiled feebly. 'What would Betty say? Will ye tak' the blame?' he asked.
'Certainly I'll take the blame, or, rather, I should say the credit. Drink it up now, Nathan.'
Joe, who had been splitting firewood in the stick-house, had recognised his brother's voice, and came into the kitchen. 'It is you, Nathan!' he said, in surprise. 'It's no' often we see you wi' a dram-gless in your hand, an' at this time o' day, too. My word, but you're lucky!'
'Ay, Benjy, it is me, an' I am lucky. I daur say ye wad like to chum wi' me the noo. Are—are ye still keepin' the teetotal?'
For a moment Joe looked shamefacedly at Nathan; then truth and honour—outstanding traits of the Hebrons—shone in his eye. 'No,' he said; 'I broke it this mornin'.'
'Ay—imphm! And hoo did you come to do that?' asked Nathan, without looking round.
'Betty tempted me, and I fell.'
'Oh, imphm! Betty gied ye a dram, did she? Weel, Benjy, whatever Betty did was richt. She didna tempt ye, man; she treated ye, that's what she did. Ye'll no' gang far wrang if ye're guided by Betty.—Eh, Maister Weelum?'
He was sitting very near the fire, with his long gnarled fingers spread out for warmth, and he looked up sideways to me when he said this with a look in his blue eyes which told me, more pointedly than words, of his absolute confidence in her good judgment, and the pride he had in the possession of her love.
One of my city friends who is interested in the study of phrenology once told me that my bump of adaptability is very strongly developed. He told me more, of which I was sceptical; but the natural ease with which I have taken to and conformed with my present surroundings is proof to me that his interpretation of this particular bump was fairly correct. Words fail me to express adequately the pleasure I have derived from my reintroduction to Nature's home and mine. Everything seems fresh from the hand of the Creator; there is no veneer, no make-believe, and over all there is solace and repose. Happy hours in the domestic atmosphere of the old house, mellowed and sweetened by the presence of Betty and Nathan; the quiet interval spent in the barber's back sanctum, with its window facing the gray-blue Lowthers; the afternoon visit to John Sterling's shop, with its homely smell of roset and bend-leather, and our usual discussion on the Dandie breed and the beauties of Scott'sMarmion, Aird'sDevil's Dream, and Hogg'sKilmeny; a stroll with Bang and Jip round the Gillfoot or down the 'Coo Road;' and solitary meditation on the doctor's 'mound,' surrounded by a medley of vegetation, planted indiscriminately and flourishing under what the dear old man calls his natural style of gardening—such is my daily programme. A homely life this amidst homely folks: the barber in his reminiscent moods; John Sterling with his love of dogs, his charitableness and honesty, and his enthusiasm for what I may call the true poetry of life; Dr Grierson, walking alone, hugging to his heart a sweet secret memory, dreein' his weird, doing good in his own quiet way, and keeping from his left hand what his right hand is doing; Nathan, silent, serious, and preoccupied, deferring ever to Betty, and proud and content to shelter in her shadow; and Betty, my dear, kind, thoughtful Betty, who always carves with the blunt knife and the big heart, whose Bible is her bolster, and whose solicitude extends to all God's creatures great and small—homely folks of a surety; yes, commonplace, if you will, but dear to my heart. It may be—in fact, I may take it for granted—that characters like these would make no appeal to my city acquaintances; to them association with such would be boredom, and my mode of living the essence of dreariness; and yet to me, and I say it with all reverence, it comes as near as anything on earth can come to that peace which passeth all understanding.
Mention of Betty and her Bible in the same breath reminds me that lately she has talked to me almost solely on secular matters. This is not as it used to be. When first I came to her, by a process of manœuvring and meandering peculiar to herself she always managed to steer her conversation into religious channels, and the direct way she had of pointing the moral was always original and characteristic. It is not because I have discouraged her or shown any indifference that she has lapsed in this matter; and it would appear that, as our intimacy has ripened, and as our topics of conversation have become more personal, she has meantime allowed the mundane to prevail, with a view to taking up the more serious and essential at a more convenient season.
I wasn't surprised, therefore, when, to-day, after Dr Grierson had visited Nathan in the back-room, she asked him in an off-hand, matter-of-fact way what he thought of yesterday's sermon.
The doctor was fumbling in his pocket for his old clay, and in an absent, abstracted tone of voice he informed her that, as he hadn't been to church, he wasn't in a position to pass any judgment.
'Ay, ye werena at the kirk? I micht ha'e kenned that,' she said. 'Imphm! I'm no' a deid auld woman, doctor,' she continued; 'but I mind o' your faither efter he left Dumfries an' cam' to bide wi' ye here, an' he was a regular attender at the kirk. It's a great pity when folks break off kin'. Ay, that it is! Imphm! An', doctor, you'll excuse me, it's mebbe nae business o' mine; but I canna help tellin' ye that I often think aboot ye, an' that ye lie heavy on my mind. We've seen a great deal o' ye lately, mair than we ever saw before, and I've proved to mysel' what ithers said o' ye, an' what I had aye ta'en for granted. It's a' in your favour, an' what ye've dune for the puir God will no' forget when ye're bein' weighed in the balance.'
'Thank you, Betty,' the doctor said, as he struck a light.
'Ay, but haud on; I havena dune wi' ye. I havena come to the point. As I've said, ye've come a great deal in an' oot among us lately, an' in a temporal sense ye've been a great comfort and help to Maister Weelum here. Oh that ye had been able to influence him spiritually, for since he cam' he's never darkened a kirk door. I've held my tongue, as sae far there's been an excuse for him; but noo that he's gettin' better an' able to gang aboot, I juist think that oot o' respect for you, if ye had been kirk-minded, he could easily ha'e been guided Zionward.'
I had the feeling that Betty was rushing in where angels fear to tread; and, not knowing how the doctor was likely to take this, I became very uncomfortable. He puffed spasmodically at his pipe and moved uneasily in his chair. 'It is very kind of you, Betty, to think of me,' he said—'very kind indeed; and you must not count it none of your business to bring such matters before me. In a way we are all each other's keepers, and it would be churlish of me to resent such interest as you show. For my own part, I live my life according to my light, such as it is. It may be a poor, flickering light to other eyes, but it is sufficient to show me the road. As for William here, he has long ago reached man's estate, and he can judge of these matters for himself. If I mistake not, he has a standard of his own, and I feel sure my influence, even though I were kirk-minded, as you call it, would not direct his steps in the direction you indicate.'
'Oh doctor, dinna say that! We can a' be made humble instruments. Example is a great thing, though ye dinna follow your faither's, an' I ken what a power for guid ye wad be if the grace o' God was in ye. Oh doctor, I've been he'rt sorry for ye mony a time, for I ken the grief ye've carried, an' I've wondered hoo ye could thole it sae lang a' by yoursel', an' that ye never accepted the consolation which He alone can gi'e ye. But ye've spurned it, doctor. I don't think that ye're a joined member o' the kirk or that ye gang to the Communion—you that's sic a man i' the toon—everybody's body as you are, an' born wi' a sma'er dose o' original sin than ony yin I ken o'. I juist canna understan' it.'
The doctor laughed good-humouredly. 'I've my work to attend to, you know, Betty. My patients cannot be neglected for the sake of'——
'If your work permitted, wad ye gang to the kirk, doctor?'
'I—I question if I would.'
'That's an honest admission, an' it wadna come frae Dr Grierson if it wasna. An' what's your objection, doctor?'
'Oh, well, Betty, your question opens up a big, debatable subject on which I have great reluctance to enter. I have neither the time nor the inclination, Betty; but this much I will say, we are all heirs to a heritage of different distresses in this life, and as we are not all constituted alike we require different treatment. Now there is one great panacea, one great balm, for all our wounds. Some find that panacea in their church, though many go to church who are not aware they require a panacea. Others, of whom I am one, find a balm for their afflictions in communing with the nature of God's creation we see around us. With such it isn't necessary to go to church in order to feel God's presence or to experience His beneficent power. If it were, we could only commune with Him once a week, when the churches are open. As it is, I can praise Him at all times, and glorify His name under the canopy of His heavens, and among the trees and flowers and fields and woods, which evidence His fostering care and proclaim His loving-kindness.'
'Then, doctor, ye do believe in God?'
A pained look crept into the doctor's eyes. 'Betty,' he said, 'you surely have never doubted that?'
'Weel, wi' you no' gaun to the kirk, an''——
'Ah, Betty, it is possible for a man to go to church and remain in doubt; but no one can stand, as I often do, under the starry firmament, alone in the midst of slumbering nature, or facing the glowing east when the shafts of the sun's morning beams are piercing the shadowy sky, and not feel within himself that God reigneth, and the earth in consequence rejoices.'
'Grand! Man, doctor, I'm glad to hear ye say that! I'm—I'm rale glad.'
There was a wee bit catch in Betty's voice, and a tear trickled down her cheek, which she tried to wipe away unnoticed with a corner of her apron. But the doctor saw, and his face twitched and softened.
'Then, doctor,' she continued, 'of course ye'll believe in the Bible?'
'Yes—with reservations.'
'Which means, doctor?'
'Well, Betty, it means that——Wait now, I want to make it easy for you to understand; but unfortunately, by doing so, it makes it all the more difficult for me to explain. Well, in a word, Betty, it means there are parts of it I believe, and there are others I cannot.'
'Ay, pairts ye believe an' pairts ye canna believe. I notice ye say yecannabelieve; ye don't say yewill notbelieve. There's a difference, doctor, ye ken. Why do ye say ye canna?'
'Because I have thought out things very carefully, very anxiously, and I cannot entertain what does not appeal to my reason. I must discard what I think is wrong.'
'But, doctor, man, ye maunna exercise your ain judgment. It's human; consequently it's weak. What ye want is faith—the faith which can remove mountains, the faith which sustains. Doctor, ye must put aside your ain vain imaginin's an' thochts, an' become as a little child. Ay, juist as a little child.'
'Yes, Betty, I thought you would say that. But you know I am not a little child. I am a man, a responsible, thinking being, endowed by God with a reasoning faculty which is calculated to guide me, and which, Betty, I am expected to exercise. I cannot accept anything temporal which is diametrically opposed or contrary to my judgment, nor would I in the discharge of my professional duties follow a course or accept a condition which my intellect and discernment told me was wrong. Why, then, should I, in this the greatest of all questions, be expected to lay reason aside and acquiesce in blind belief? No, Betty, I cannot do that. If I did I shouldn't be true to myself.'
'But, doctor, wi' due respect, let me tell ye that cleverer men than you have thocht these things oot for themselves an' have been satisfied wi' the Word as it is delivered. Think o' the Reformers an' a' oor professors, men who have studied theology a' their days, an''——
'And after all their study, what do they know, what have they gleaned from all their books? I cannot be guided even by professors. They know as much or as little of God's workings as the man who sweeps our village street. Now, Betty, further than this I cannot and will not go with you. As I have said, it is a big, debatable subject, and we might talk till doomsday and not agree even then. Besides, it is a very dangerous thing to tamper with any one's belief, especially if that belief affords a solace in trials and constitutes an anchor in the storm. You have got something within you which calms your fears, and gives you a peace which nothing else can. Stick to it, Betty, and guard it against assault. And I—well, Betty, I also have something within me which gives me peace, such peace as would remain with me even if to-night I was called upon to turn my face to the wall. Ah, Betty, each and every one has a faith. The world has never been without one, and it will have one to the end. But my conviction is we haven't often enough taken stock of our faith, and the consequence is it has become detached from and out of sympathy with our workaday lives. What a different world it would be if we were living our religion instead of professing it! Some say this is impossible. Well, it ought to be made possible, and the best way of going about it would be to strip religion of all that binds it to impossible, out-of-date dogmas, clear it of all that confounds and mystifies, and nail as a motto to its mast-head these glorious words of the great Master, "Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself." Betty, the time is at hand when the Church will be forced to consider this text—ay, and to act upon it; and when that day dawns it will herald the Millennium.'
A strange hush had fallen upon the room while the doctor was speaking, and when he ceased it lingered with us like a benediction. Then Betty walked quietly over to the window. 'Doctor,' she said, after a pause, 'd'ye think, at the last, everybody will be—eh—a' richt?'
'Well, Betty, the question often occurs to me. When the boundlessness of God's love comes home to me I think it is possible. There is a verse, the thirteenth of the twenty-first chapter of the Revelation, which'——
At that moment a knock came to the door, and Betty slipped out. In her absence the doctor smoked in silence, and I watched the fire glowing in the grate.
'Doctor,' she said, as she re-entered, 'that's the grocer's boy. Somebody telt him ye were here, and he wants to ken if the bottle o' port wine ye ordered is for Mrs Lawson o' Gillhead or auld Widow Lawson?'
'Oh, it is for Widow Lawson,' he replied, and the semblance of a blush spread over his face. He rose hurriedly, adjusted his plaid, and picked up his hat.
I put my hand on his arm as he passed me. 'Doctor,' I said, 'your good deeds are finding you out;' and he shook his head, and smiled as if he didn't understand me, but he made no reply.
Betty came into my room later with her Bible in her hand. 'I've been lookin' up that verse in the Revelation,' she said, 'an' it reads: "On the east three gates, on the north three gates, on the south three gates, and on the west three gates." Ay—imphm! I never saw the maitter in that licht before.—Weel, I trust there may be a gate for me, Maister Weelum; an'—an' somewey I'm sure noo there's yin for the doctor.'