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
naive 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.