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BETTY GRIER
BY JOSEPH LAING WAUGH
Author of 'Robbie Doo,' 'Cracks wi' Robbie Doo,' &c.
WITH FRONTISPIECE BY
Henry W. Kerr, R.S.A.
LONDON: 38 Soho Square, W.
W. & R. CHAMBERS, LIMITED
EDINBURGH: 339 High Street
Edinburgh:
Printed by W. & R. Chambers, Limited.
First printed, Nov. 1915.
Reprinted, Dec. 1915.
[Illustration]
BETTY GRIER.
CHAPTER I.
When I look round my little bedroom and note the various familiar items
that make up its furnishings, when my eye lights on much that I
associate with the days o' Auld Langsyne, I am conscious of a feeling of
homeliness, a sense of chumship with my surroundings, and I can scarcely
realise that fourteen years have come and gone since last I laid my head
on the pillow of this small truckle-bed.
So far as I can recall the arrangement of its old-fashioned,
ordinary-looking plenishings, everything remains exactly as I left it.
My trout and salmon rods, all tied together--each cased in its own
particular-coloured canvas--stand there in the corner beside an old
out-of-date gaff and a capacious landing-net which that king of fishers,
Clogger Eskdale, gifted to me when the 'rheumatics' prevented his ever
again participating in his favourite sport. My worn leather school-bag,
filled with the last batch of books I used, is still suspended from a
four-inch nail driven into a 'dook' at the cheek of the mantelpiece. It
is a long time ago, but it seems only yesterday since I stood in the
middle of this room, unstrapping that bag from my shoulders for the last
time. My schooldays were over; with eager, anxious feet I was standing
on the threshold of a new life, and to satchel and lesson-book I was
bidding farewell.
I well remember Deacon Webster, at my mother's request, inserting that
dook and driving home that nail; and he laughed unfeelingly when she
explained to him the purpose it was to serve. The deacon could not
understand the sentiment which prompted her to assign the bag a place
upon the wall; and when, after the nail was secure, he made to hang my
'boy's burden' upon it in much the same callous spirit in which he would
screw the last nail in a coffin-lid, my mother stepped forward.
'One moment, Webster,' she said. 'Allow me.' With her own hands she
placed the bag where it hangs now. My old nurse, Betty Grier,
straightened it and wiped it with her duster; and the deacon took a
pinch of snuff, blew his nose in a big spotted handkerchief, and
muttered _sotto voce_, as his nostrils quivered, 'Well, I'm d----!'
Against the back wall, in the centre, between the door and the corner,
stands the old black oak chest of drawers which for sixteen years held
the whole outfit of my boyhood's days; while the mahogany looking-glass,
with the grooved square standards and the swivel mirror, monopolises
still, as it always has done, the whole top shelf thereof.
To the left is a framed photograph of my father and mother, and to the
right a rosewood-framed sampler, worked long ago by my grandmother, on
which, in faded green, against a dull drab background, are still
decipherable the words of Our Lord's Prayer. And there, between the
fireplace and the window, is my book-rack, and from its shelves old
friends look down upon me. The gilt titles are tarnished and worn, but I
know each book by the place it occupies, and I feel that, even after the
long, long years that have separated us, _Tom Brown_, _Robinson Crusoe_,
and _David Copperfield_ will speak to me again, laugh with me, cry with
me, as they did in days of yore.
Often has Betty, I know, swept and tidied this little room. Every
article has been lifted, dusted, and carefully returned to its place. I
know with what feelings of reverence the dear old soul has fingered
every ornament. I am conscious of the loving care she has exercised on
all my old belongings, and somehow I feel consoled and comforted, my
physical weakness depresses me less, my mother's presence seems nearer
me, and unbidden tears of thankfulness come to my eyes and trickle from
my cheek to my pillow.
This has been to me a day of great events. I have travelled by rail from
Edinburgh to Elvanfoot, thence by horse-carriage to Thornhill--during
the last stage driven by Charlie Walker, the 'bus Jehu I envied in my
schoolboy years, and tended by my fail-me-never Betty. To her also this
has been a memorable day, for when we were driving down the Dalveen Pass
she told me that never before had she seen a Caledonian train, and that
her last memory of Traloss dated back to a Sabbath-school trip about the
year 1868. Such a long ride in a well-sprung, well-upholstered carriage
was also a novelty to her, a new experience which only with great
difficulty I could persuade her to enjoy to the full. She insisted on
sitting forward on the extreme edge of the seat, and it was only after I
had told her that her uncomfortable-looking position made me uneasy and
unhappy that she sat well back, till her shoulders rested on the
cushion behind.
Contrary to my expectations, I am suffering neither pain nor
inconvenience from my long journey; and as I lie here in my little bed,
looking through the curtained window to the long, low range of the
Lowther Hills, and listening to the familiar sounds in the village
street below, a blissful peace which I cannot express in words possesses
me, my physical and my mental organisation seem to have undergone a
change, my experience of city life is blotted out and forgotten, and,
strangely enough, I feel myself, as of old, a unit of the village
community. Queerer still, this placid acceptance of altered
circumstances, this dovetailing into a different condition of life and
living, seems to me so natural as to be hardly worth noting; and without
a pang of regret I leave behind me urban pleasures and duties, and
contemplate with equanimity retirement to this rural retreat, a
twelvemonth's sojourn midst scenes to me for ever dear.
Nor does the fact that this rustication is compulsory distress or annoy
me. My physical weakness has reduced me to a state of indifference
towards former pursuits. A long illness, following a deplorable
accident, has impaired my appetite for social joys; so much so, indeed,
that when my doctors--rather apologetically, I thought--informed me that
if ever I wished to be well again I must give up my profession and town
residence for twelve months at least, and live quietly somewhere in the
country, I hailed their verdict with delight, and my yearning heart at
once went out to my native village and the home of my old nurse, Betty
Grier.
Dear old Betty! To whom else could I turn? She is all--of the human
element at least--I have left to me of my home life of long ago. My
memories of my father are vague and hazy. I was only five when he died;
and, through the misty veil of long-gone years, two pictures only of him
are impressed upon my mind. In one I see him standing in the narrow
whitewashed pantry, his head 'screeving' the ceiling, and his broad
shoulders almost excluding the waning western light that glimmered
through the small four-paned window. Betty, white-capped and
white-aproned, is there also, with a large ashet in her hands, on which
lies a long, thick silver fish--a salmon, as I afterwards learned--one
of the many he lured from the depths of Mattha's Pool. My mother's arm
is lovingly linked in his, and there is a pleased and happy expression
on her face, which somehow is transmitted to me, because, with her, I
feel proud of the great big man I call my daddy, who has battled so
successfully with the strong-looking monster now lying so quiet, with
gaping mouth, on Betty's ashet.
Then there is a long, dark blank before the next picture appears, and I
see him sitting in a big arm-chair at the dining-room fire. His back is
cushioned, and a shepherd-tartan plaid is round his shoulders, the ends
folded across his knees. My mother is writing letters to his dictation
on a small bureau, which has been placed near his chair. I am playing
with a Noah's Ark, marshalling the animals in pairs on the rug; and when
my mother goes out of the room to the little office adjoining, I leave
my toys and stand at his knee, looking up to a face which to me seems
very white and pinched. A long, thin hand is placed on my curly head,
and with difficulty he bends down and kisses me. I wonder who has been
unkind to him, for I see a tear trickling down his cheek, and it falls
unheeded on his plaid.
I cannot focus him in my mind's eye in any subsequent event, though I
remember perfectly the old doctor with the foxskin cap and the
clattering clogs, and the smell of 'Kendal brown' he always left behind.
Then a day came when the window-blinds were pulled down and all the
rooms were darkened; when Betty's voice was, even to my childish ears,
low and husky; when my mother cuddled me in a tight embrace, and a wet,
wet cheek was laid against mine. Oh, how she trembled and sobbed! I felt
bewildered and unhappy, and I remember putting my wee, helpless arms
round her neck and asking her why she was crying. She told me that daddy
had gone away--away to heaven; and when I asked if he wouldn't come back
to us again, she said, 'No, no,' and her embrace tightened, and she wept
afresh. In a short time the door was hesitatingly opened, and Betty came
noiselessly in with a book in her hand which I had often seen her read.
She stood behind my mother's chair with her tear-stained face turned
away, and her red hand on my mother's shoulder; but she didn't speak.
Then she came round, and, 'hunkering' down beside us, opened her book
and in a low voice began to read.
I often think it is strange how indelibly imprinted on some childish
minds are little incidents of long ago--little glimpses of landscape,
snatches of songs, details here and there of passing events. Not that I
consider the foregoing a little incident. To me it was at the time of
outstanding moment, and even yet in my retrospect of life it looms
large and prominent; but, though I have often endeavoured to recall
Betty's ministrations on this occasion, all I can remember is that when
she came to the verse, 'I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to
you,' she spoke the words without referring to her Bible, and she
repeated them, the while looking with big, hopeful eyes up to my
mother's face. And my mother smiled through her tears; and, stroking
Betty's strong brown hair, she called her 'Betty the Comforter.'
A time came in the short after years when she was, by the same dear
lips, again called 'Betty the Comforter.' It was when my saintly mother
was passing into the spiritland, and, without fear or trepidation, lay
calmly awaiting her call. But of this I cannot speak; it is a subject
sacred to Betty and to me.
To-night, when I had undressed and was settling myself down for the
night, Betty came upstairs, carrying that self-same Bible in her hand.
She stood on the threshold for a minute, wiping its covers with the
corners of her apron, though well she knew that from frequent use the
Book required no dusting.
'Maister Weelum,' she began, 'eh!--I'----
'"William," Betty, please, without the "Mister,"' I said smilingly.
'Yes! yes! so be it--imphm! Eh, this type is clear and big; and I was
thinking that maybe ye micht want to read a verse or twae. I'll lay it
doon here;' and she reverently placed the precious volume on the top of
the chest of drawers.
'Are ye a' richt noo? Ye said ye wanted to speak to me when ye got
settled doon. Is there ocht else I can do for ye?'
'I'm feeling fine, Betty,' I said cheerily, 'and not a bit the worse for
my long journey, not too tired to have a quiet chat with you. So sit
down, please, in the basket chair there, and give me ten minutes of your
valuable time.'
'Ten meenits! Certie, hear him noo! Ten meenits, an' the soo's no
suppered yet, an' I've the morn's broth to prepare, an' wi' me bein' oot
o' the hoose a' day there's a hunner an' ten things starin' me in the
face to be dune. But what want ye to speak aboot? I daur say the soo,
puir thing, will ha'e to wait, noo that you're here. Daylight, too, is
haudin' lang, an' I'll sune mak' up the ten meenits. What want ye noo?'
And she sat down, with a query in her eye, into the basket chair.
'Well, Betty,' I began, 'you and I have gone over all the old times
pretty thoroughly since we met to-day, and we've taken a peep into the
future as well; but there's one subject We haven't touched upon, and
before I go to sleep to-night I wish to come to some understanding with
you regarding my board and lodgings.'
'Board an' lodgings?' Betty queried. 'Board an'----What d'ye mean,
Maister Weelum?' and her lip trembled.
'Well, Betty, by board and lodgings I mean the price of my food and the
rent of my room here, and whatever sum you'----
'Weelum, stop at once noo; I'll no' ha'e that mentioned;' and she rose
excitedly to her feet. 'I'll no' hear o't! The very idea o' speakin' to
me--to me, abune a' fouk--o' board an' lodgings! A bonny-like subject
that to discuss atween us! Dod, man, yin wad think that ye were a
Moniaive mason workin' journeyman in Thornhill. Megstie me! Lovanenty!
heard ye ever the like?--imphm! Mair than that, whae's the owner o' this
hoose? Whae has refused rent for it a' these years, eh?'
'Betty, Betty,' I feebly protested, 'that's not fair, and you know it.
Did you and I not settle that matter long, long ago, and agree that it
would never be referred to again?'
Betty had suddenly assumed both the defensive and the aggressive. She
had pulled her black-beaded muffettees up over her wrists, and flung
her mutch-strings over her shoulders. I knew of old what these actions
meant. She came up to my bedside, and in the fading light I saw a tear
coursing down her cheek. 'Maister Weelum,' she said earnestly, 'I'm safe
in sayin' that ye canna look back on a single phase o' your early life
in which I didna tak' a pairt. Lang before this world was ony reality to
ye, I nursed ye, fed ye, an' dressed ye. In thae early days the greatest
pleasure to me on earth was to cuddle an' care for ye. But I needna tell
ye o' that, ye ken yoursel'. Ye mind hoo much my presence meant to you;
that I'm sure o'. As for your mother--weel, I never had ony ither
mistress. She took me, a young lass, oot o' a most unhappy hame. It was
a pleasure--ay, a privilege--to serve her. Weel, on that day that she
was ta'en frae you an' me, she said in your hearin' an' mine, "Betty,
this has been the only home you ever knew--never leave it. Promise me
you'll accept it.--Willie, my son, you agree?" An' we baith knelt doon
at her bedside, an' she went hame happy, kennin' I was provided for. I
didna forget that on the nicht o' the funeral day you an' me talked it
ower, that I promised to stay here, that it was arranged between us that
rent wad never be spoken o', an' that my occupancy wad never be referred
to. An', Maister Weelum, it wadna ha'e been noo, had you yoursel' no'
talked to me aboot board an' lodgings. My he'rt will break, that will
it, if ye persist'----
For a time we were both silent, both busy with many sacred thoughts and
memories. Then Betty, without looking into my face, 'stapped' the sheets
round my shoulders and well round my sides. 'There noo,' she said at
length, 'you're weel happit an' comfortable-lookin', an' sairly, I'm
thinkin', in need o' the sleep an' rest which I trust this nicht will be
yours. Guid-nicht noo;' and she patted me on the shoulder, as she used
to do in the old days when she had put me to bed and was taking my
candle away.
'One moment, Betty,' I said promptly. 'Sit down here on the bed beside
me, like the good soul you are, and listen to me.--Yes, you may raise my
pillow a little. There now, that's better. Are you listening now?'
She nodded and reseated herself, as I had requested.
'I admit all you say, Betty, about your tenancy of the house, and I am
sorry if what I have said has reopened a question which was settled so
long ago to our mutual satisfaction. When this rest-cure was
prescribed--when I was told that it was absolutely necessary I should
take up my abode in the country--it was to you and to this room that my
thoughts were at once directed. I wrote you I was coming--didn't even
say by your leave--and planted myself, as it were, down on you, without
inquiring whether or not it was agreeable and convenient to you. Now,
believe me, Betty, I acted thus without a thought of your free tenancy
of this my old home.'
'I ken that fine, Weelum,' she quickly said, and she looked thoughtfully
towards me.
'Well, you see, Betty, if you won't allow me to contribute to my living
here, you give me reason to assume that you consider you are in your own
way working off an obligation; else why should I live on your--forgive
the word, Betty--on your charity?'
'But then, Maister Weelum, you forget that I'm sittin' here rent free.'
'Now, Betty, there you go again. Was not that my mother's request?'
'Yes.'
'Well, she imposed no obligation on you?'
'No.'
'Then, Betty, none exists between us; and, in that case, if I remain
here I must be allowed to contribute to the family expenses. Besides,
Betty, it is not as if I were a poor man. Thank goodness! I can well
afford it; for, between you and me and that bedpost against which you
are leaning, I've made over a thousand pounds a year for these last four
years.'
'Lovanenty, Weelum, a--a thoosan' pounds!' and she held up her hands in
astonishment. 'Bless my life, is that possible? I hope ye made it
honestly, my boy?'
'I certainly did,' I said glibly. 'I assure you, Betty, I made it
honestly.'
'Imphm, an' you a lawyer!' said she dryly. She smiled, and after some
reflection began to laugh heartily.
'Oh, come now, Betty, don't round on an old friend like that.' But Betty
heard me not, for she was holding her sides and hotching with convulsive
laughter.
'Oh, Weelum! oh, my boy!' she said, between her kinks, 'it's no'
you--it's no' you I'm lauchin' at. It's something that happened at the
weekly prayer-meetin' in Mrs Shankland's last Wednesday nicht. D' ye
mind o' Dauvid Tamson the draper?'
I nodded in the affirmative.
'Weel, as ye dootless ken, Dauvid has been a' his days a conceited,
fussy, arguin' man, aye desperate honest and well-meanin', but terr'ble
unreasonable and heidstrong, and he's never dune takin' to the law or
consultin' his agent, as he ca's it. Weel, he was at the prayer-meetin'
last Wednesday nicht, and, as it happened, it was his turn to officiate.
After we had sung a psalm and engaged in a word o' prayer, he began to
read the last pairt o' the fifth chapter o' Mattha, and when he cam' to
the fortieth verse: "And if any man will sue thee at the law, and take
away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also," Dauvid hovered a blink.
Then he re-read it very slowly, and says he, "Freens, I've aye prided
mysel' in my knowledge o' the Bible; but I'm forced to admit that this
is the first time I ever noticed that there was evidence in Scripture o'
oor Saviour havin' been ployin' wi' litigations and in the lawyers'
hauns. I dinna ken hoo far He carrit His case, but if my experience was
His, He need not have said _let_ him have thy cloak, for the hungry
deevils wad ha'e ta'en it whether or no'."'
I wonder, did Betty imagine that the recital of that story would divert
my mind from the subject of our conversation and the purpose I had in
view? Somehow I think, as an inspiration, the means to this end had
suddenly occurred to her; but, if such was her aim, the hastily
conceived plot failed.
By a good deal of argument and a modicum of cajolery, I gained my point.
What the terms are which we have arranged is Betty's concern and mine
only. All I may say here is that the weekly amount has to be paid to
Nathan, of whom more anon, and that the subject of pounds, shillings,
and pence has never to be broached in her hearing again.
She said 'Good-night' to me an hour ago. The impatient sounds of
remonstrance from the soo-cruive at the head of the garden subsided
shortly after she left me, from which I argued that the inner wants of
the occupant had been attended to. The chop-chopping of vegetables on
the kitchen table below ceased half-an-hour ago, and I know that a
little at least of to-morrow's dinner has ceased to trouble Betty's
anxious mind.
The shades of night are gathering round me. A soft breeze stirs the
branches of the lime-trees, and through my open window it fans my face
where I lie. Somewhere away Rashbrigward, I hear the quivering yammer of
a startled whaup, and the crooning lullaby of the whispering Nith falls
like music on my ear. In the ryegrass field at the top of the
Gallowsflat a wandering landrail, elusive and challenging, craiks his
homeward way; while from Cample Strath or Closeburn Heights is fitfully
wafted to me the warning bark of a farmer's dog. The clamp-clamp of a
cadger's tired-out horse and the rattle of an empty cart sound loud and
long in the deserted street. Hurrying footsteps echo and re-echo, and
gradually die away into silence. Then evening's wings are folded o'er
me, a blissful peace and a quiet contentment fill my heart, and under
the glamour and spell of nature's benediction I turn my head on my
grateful pillow.