Betty Grier Part 18

'I'm astonished that Betty never told you I was a lawyer, Nathan.'

'Mebbe she wadna like, man. Betty's very discreet.' Then he added by way of sympathetic encouragement, 'Dinna think ocht aboot it; there maun be fouk for a' kinds o' jobs, ye ken, Maister Weelum.'

Nathan is capable of unconsciously starting many different emotions. I was touched by his kindness and unselfishness, and amused at his reflection on my profession. But I couldn't find words to thank him for the former, and I dared not laugh at his serious remarks on the latter.

Then I bethought me of my plan to relieve him of his long, weary walks, and to find something to take up his attention nearer home. I asked him if he wouldn't give up his present work and take to the cultivation of tomatoes, and I outlined my little scheme as clearly as I could.

Somehow, I didn't succeed in making it plain to him, for after I had finished, and when I asked him what he thought of it, all he said was, 'It has nae attraction for me, Maister Weelum, for I never could eat a tomato a' my life.'

'But, Nathan,' I said, 'you needn't eat them unless you like. You've to grow them, and then you sell them. There might be money in it for you, and for your goodness of heart in offering me all these envelopes I want to pay for the putting up of the gla.s.s-houses and stoves and piping; that will be a small return for all your kindness to me. You know all about the growing of tomatoes?'

'Ay, brawly.'

'And what do you think about it, then, Nathan?'

'What would Betty say, think ye?'

'I don't know,' I said, 'but we'll soon hear.'

Betty was baking soda-scones, and when she was free to leave her girdle she came in, and I told her all I had told Nathan. She looked from me to Nathan, and then, answering a sign, she went up and leaned over his bedside. I heard a throttled sob and a whispered word or two. Thinking they wished to talk it over by themselves, I slipped into the kitchen.

In a minute Betty was with me. 'Maister Weelum,' she said, and her lip trembled, 'Nathan, puir falla, broke doon there. He didna want you to see. He says he's obleeged to ye, but--but--but--it's no' worth while.'

I laid my hand on her shoulder in silent sympathy. Without a word she turned to her bakeboard, and I went into my room and quietly closed the door.

Last night, just after I had lit the gas and settled myself down for an hour's perusal of M'Crie's _Vindication_, Betty opened my door and came quietly in. 'Maister Weelum,' she said with a trembling lip, 'Nathan's a wee mair relieved. Him an' me ha'e had a closer he'rt-to-he'rt crack than ever we had in a' oor lives. I'm gled, in a wey; but--but I canna help thinkin' it'll be oor last.' She wiped her cheek with her ap.r.o.n.

'Hoots! hoots!' she said as the tears continued to flow; 'it's--it's no'

like me to be a' begrutten like this; I'm gettin' awfu' soft-he'rted; but, oh, Maister Weelum, I'm awfu', awfu' sair-he'rted!'

I was at her side in a moment. 'There noo,' she said, 'I've dune;' and she choked down a sob. 'What I wanted to tell ye was that Nathan's very anxious to see ye; he wants to speak to ye aboot something. It's the first time he's speirt for onybody, an' I'm gled it's you. I ha'ena to gang in wi' ye, for he wants to see ye your lane.'

I pulled in my big chair nearer to the fire, put my mother's kirk ha.s.sock in front of it, and after I had seated Betty comfortably I went ben to Nathan's back-room.

A week or two ago, at his request, we had turned the bed round so that from where he lay he could see into the garden. I was present when Joe and Deacon Webster made the alteration; and when Nathan and I were alone and he had looked his 'e'efill' on the scene of his lifelong labour of love, he said, 'I'll no' weary noo, Maister Weelum. The flo'ers and the yirth ha'e aye a hamely look to me.'

And to-night, when I approached his bed, his eyes were fixed on the darkened shadowy plots outside. I didn't speak for a minute, and neither did he. Then, thinking he was unaware of my presence, I said, 'Nathan, I am here, beside you.'

'Ay, I ken.'

'Shall I bring in your lamp? It's getting dark now.'

'No, no, if ye please, dinna licht the lamp. I want to see--to see oot as lang as I can.'

I sat down beside him, and together we watched in silence the shadow of the night's wing creeping around bush and tree. And when everything was shrouded, and nothing was visible through the blue-black window-panes, Nathan's head turned on the pillow toward me. 'Man, Maister Weelum,' he said, 'it's quiet, quiet wark that. I'll never see it again--no, never again. Ye dinna mind sittin' in the dark?'

'No, Nathan.'

'Ay, the licht hurts my een; an'--an' I've never said muckle a' my life, but I've often thocht oot lang screeds in the darkness, an' mebbe it'll help me oot wi' what I've to say to ye the noo. Ay, the Hebrons dinna speak muckle, Maister Weelum; but this is a forby time wi' me, an' I've something to ask o' ye. I hardly expec'it the ca' at this time o' the year. The back-en's the time o' liftin'. I aye thocht, somewey, that when my time cam' it wad be when the growth was a' by, the aipples pu'd, and the tatties pitted; and it seems awfu' queer that I should ha'e to gang when the buds are burstin', an'--an' the gairden delvin'

on--imphm!--but it's His wull. "The young may, the auld must."--Imphm!--Ay, are ye listenin', Maister Weelum?'

I rose from my chair, and I stroked the gray hair back from his forehead. 'Yes, Nathan, I'm listening; but you must not give up hope; you're really not an old man, and'----

'No' an auld man! Imphm! I've--I've been an auld man a' my days. I canna mind o' ever bein' young. I was ten--only ten--when my faither was ta'en awa', an' I had to mak' the handle o' his spade fit my wee bit haun.

Ay, I had to, for the weans had to be brocht up, an'--an', thank G.o.d, I managed it! But it killed the youth that was in me. Ay, an', as I was gaun to say, I'm seein' things differently lyin' here. c.o.o.ntin' the times ye've been at the kirk'll no' quieten your fears. Thinkin' o' the guid ye've dune or tried to do micht, an' my c.r.a.p o' that's a very sma'

yin. Still, I maun ha'e pleased the Almichty in some wey, or He wadna ha'e been sae kind to me; He wadna ha'e gi'en me Betty. Oh, man, Maister Weelum, I wish I could tell ye a' that Betty's been to me! I'm vexed I canna. I'm a Hebron, an' I needna try; but ye ken yoursel' in a sma'

wey. She nursed ye--ay, an'--an' noo this is what I want to ask ye--when I'm away, Maister Weelum, will ye see that my--that Betty's a'

richt--eh? Is that askin' an awfu' lot?'

'Oh, Nathan,' I said, and I knelt down at his bedside and took his softened hand in mine, 'Betty is to me a sacred trust, and if it be G.o.d's will that you must leave her, I will be with her till she goes out to meet you again.'

He pressed my hand. 'Thank ye, Maister Weelum. I--I thocht ye would; but I juist wanted to mak' sure. That's a', I think--a' at least as far as this world's concerned. There's a lot--an awfu' lot I should do, but I canna. I doot I've been careless. I've left the want to come at the wab's en', an' I ha'e nae time to mak' it guid noo. I maun juist leave it to Him. Guid-nicht, Maister Weelum, an' ye'll tell her--ye ken whae I mean--that I was gled a Hebron was o' service to her. Guid-nicht. G.o.d bless ye, man! Guid-bye.'

'Guid-nicht--G.o.d bless ye!--Guid-bye.' These words kept ringing in my ears as I sat by my fire, and during the quiet hours my sorrowing thoughts strayed again and again into that wee back-room where Betty sat watching, and where Nathan lay dying.

Long after the village folks had gone to bed I heard the street door open quietly, and the doctor's shuffling footsteps in the lobby. He went through the kitchen into Nathan's room; then he came in and sat down in the big chair opposite me. 'I told Betty I would be here if I were needed, William,' he said, and he took out his old clay pipe and smoked in silence.

Just when the night was on the turn he opened the door and went quietly across to his patient. I followed him into the kitchen, and there, by a cheerless fire, sat Mrs Jardine in Betty's chair, and, poor, hard-working soul, she was asleep, with her head resting on Tom's encircling arm. I put my hand on his shoulder and thanked him for his presence. Then I went back into my room, and, sitting down in my chair, closed my eyes, for their lids felt heavy and weary.

'William, Betty wants you.' The voice seemed far away. I rose hurriedly and rubbed my eyes. The sparrows were twittering in the lime-tree, and the gray light of a March morning was lying cold in the room. The doctor was standing with his hand on the handle of the half-open door. 'Betty wants you, William,' he said in a whisper; and I pa.s.sed him without a word, and with a heavy, apprehensive heart.

On the little round table was an open Bible which I knew well, and a pair of spectacles lay across the flattened-out leaves. Betty was standing at the bedside, her dimmed eyes fixed on Nathan's long, wan face. She didn't turn her head when I came in, but she held out her hand to me, and together we watched. Suddenly he raised his head from the pillow and his sunken, sightless eyes turned toward the window. 'Ay, imphm!--weel, Betty la.s.s, it's aboot time I was daunerin'. It--it's a nice mornin' for the road; the birds'll be whusslin' bonny in the Gillfit wood, an'--an' the suns.h.i.+ne will be on the hawthorn. No, I'll no' mak' a noise. I'll open the door canny, and I'll no' wauken Maister Weelum. I'll--I'll juist slip oot quietly. Ay'----

And Betty and I watched Nathan slipping out quietly--oh, how quietly!--into the suns.h.i.+ne of G.o.d's own everlasting morning.

CHAPTER XX.

Harvest-time in Midlothian. Golden corn in golden stooks dotting the stubble-fields, yellow leaves on the ash and russet nuts on the beech, a beautiful panorama of multi-coloured landscape stretching hazily away southward and cuddling tranquilly between the Moorfoots and the Pentlands; bird song in the woods and laughter in the fields, mingling with the jolting of iron wheels and the cheery rhythmic _craik_ of the levelling reaper. Little wonder Old Sol lingers long this afternoon above Castlelaw. Gladly, I ween, would he stay; but his times of rising and going down are set, and slowly but surely the shadows deepen at the base of Caerketton, and steal upward to its sheltered crown behind Allermuir.

My wife and I drove round by Roslin to-day, called at The Moat, and after having tea with my old friend Mrs Pendriegh, whose soda-scones are almost as good as Betty's, we returned 'in the hush of the corn' to Blackford Hall, _vi_ Woodfield and Fairmilehead.

This is all strange, unfamiliar country to Dsire. To-day she saw it for the first time and under the most favourable auspices, and already I know, from her looks and words of appreciation, that it has made its appeal. She thinks, with me, that it very much resembles my own homeland scenery, from its undulating fields and bosky woods to its velvety gra.s.s-grown hills, so sleek and rounded, she said, that she wanted to clap them. As we drove homeward, quiet thoughts of Thornhill came to us, and we wondered what Betty would be doing, and how she was getting on.

For a month she had been with us, our first guest, and the most honoured and most welcome we shall ever have under our roof. Two days ago she returned to what she calls her 'ain auld hoose,' and when Dsire and I saw her off at the station she told us in a shaky voice that 'mebbe she wad be back in the spring, when she had the hoose seen to an' the gairden delved.'

We miss her cheery, motherly presence in the house; and, though it was looking far ahead, we planned a future for Betty as we drove along.

When we reached Blackford Hall I found more than a kenspeckle countryside to remind me of homeland. In the hall was a carpet-bag which I recognised as a Hebron heirloom I had often seen in Nathan's back-room. Two large pictures, indifferently packed and tied round with rope-line, were placed against the hat-rack. One, from the corner of the frame which was uncovered, I knew to be the oil-painting of my father and mother; and the other, from the new brilliancy of the gold, I recognised as Dsire's painting of Nith Bridge. Nathan's old hazel walking-stick, which daily he carried to his work, was lying along the top of the carpet-bag, tied securely to the leather handles.

'Dsire, my dear,' I said, with a happy flutter in my heart, 'I do believe Betty's come back.'

She looked at me with a wondering smile on her face, as much as to say, 'Too good to be true;' and, acting on a common impulse, we rushed upstairs like expectant bairns.