CHAPTER XII
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.
CHAPTER XIII
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's Marmion, Aird's Devil's Dream, and Hogg's Kilmeny; 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 ye canna believe; ye don't say ye will not believe. 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.'