CHAPTER VI
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—that is true;' 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.
CHAPTER VII
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 ye are an invalid, Maister Weelum?'
'Well, Nathan, I'm afraid I must admit that.'
'Ay, man—imphm! so far, so guid. Ye ken, sir, there are some 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 Nathan has been 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.