In accordance with the doctor's orders, Nathan has not been to work
these past few days; and though, beyond admitting a 'wakeness aboot the
knees' and a proneness to 'shiverin',' he makes no specific complaint, I
have noticed that daily he becomes more beholden to Betty, and that he
very willingly goes off to bed a good two hours earlier than his usual
retiring-time.
There are some who, by their very backwardness and reticence, attract
attention and excite curiosity. I have met many such, both
professionally and socially, and the breaking down of their reserve has
always been interesting; but, than the case of Nathan Hebron, none has
more substantially repaid the time and trouble which the process of
thawing involved. To outsiders I presume Nathan is an enigma. Not so to
us who live with him. I needn't attempt to explain the feeling of
confidence which he inspires, or the peculiar power which he
unconsciously exerts in our little household circle. Words cannot convey
it--it must be experienced to be understood; and though Betty is always
to the fore, always taking the initiative, I know she feels that
somewhere in the background, almost without her immediate knowledge, but
ever in her reckoning, is the force, the power, the quiet, unobtrusive,
dependable Nathan. And yet, strange to say, could I probe to the quick
of his feelings, I know I should find that, in his 'stablished
estimation, Betty, and Betty alone, stands for everything that the term
'bulwark and tower of strength' conveys.
Of late I have been wondering how best I can advance Nathan's worldly
interests and lighten his burden without taking him away altogether from
the calling of his choice. Somehow I don't think he would be happy
without a spade in his hand and denied access to leaf-mould. He is too
old to fit into a new groove, and I must remember that were I, even with
the best intentions, carefully to uproot an old tree from amongst the
shadows and replant it in the sunshine it would surely die. Still, I
should like to do something to make his gloaming life easier. I have
often felt sorry for him, leaving his comfortable house on inclement
mornings, working his day's darg, and returning when darkness had long
settled down. Outdoor work under favourable weather conditions is
agreeable enough; but when it is carried on under a cold, leaden sky,
amidst frost and snow, and in biting winds, it is stripped of much of
its pleasure and poetry. Thinking in this strain, the idea came to me
that I might erect glass-houses in our garden here, and encourage Nathan
to devote the whole of his time to the cultivation of tomatoes. I have
already mentioned my scheme to the doctor, and he approves of it; but I
have said nothing to Betty or Nathan. I must see to it one of these
days.
I had a long, pleasant ramble this afternoon. The air was clear and
invigorating; I was feeling braced up and buoyant; and as for Jip and
Bang, I never saw them in a more sportive, energetic mood. We walked
through Rashbrigs Moss, past Dabton Loch, and round by Longmire, where I
called and spent an hour with Farmer Russell. Bang killed a rat in the
steading just before we left, and he wagged his stumpy tail and tried to
raise his tattered ear all the way home. The dogs preceded me into the
house, and I stumbled after them through the darkened lobby and into the
darker dining-room.
'Hallo, Betty,' I said as I entered; 'not lit up yet?'
Betty was over at the window in the act of pulling down the blind,
which, strangely enough, she always does before she lights the gas.
'Oh, it's you, Maister Weelum,' she said. 'It's that dark I can scarcely
see ye;' but she continued standing inactive, looking round at me with
the window-blind cord hanging loose in her hand. The firelight was low,
and the light which came through the window from the village lamp across
the street made the darkness only more visible. I could make Betty out,
silhouetted as she was against the window; but, though all around was in
black shadow which my eyes could not penetrate, I had the feeling that
some one else was present. As I peered around, a tall visionary figure
moved to my right, and Betty came toward me from the window.
'This is Miss Stuart,' she said, 'the lady that's pentin' wee Isobel
Jardine's picter. She's been workin' at it a' efternoon. I was tellin'
her aboot your new yin, an' I asked her in to see it.--An', Miss Stuart,
this is my boy--my wean I used to ca' him--Maister Weelum, or raither,
as I should say, Maister Russell. Mrs Jardine an' me were tellin' ye
aboot him. Imphm!' And as Betty breathlessly finished her introduction,
and, without further ado, turned to break the fire into a glow, Miss
Stuart and I gravely bowed.
I couldn't see our visitor's face, but her figure was strangely familiar
to me, and my pulse quickened.
'Miss Stuart,' said Betty, 'will ye please sit here till I licht the
gas?' and she wheeled the easy-chair, which usually stands opposite
mine, within the radius of the glow from the fire.
'Oh, thank you very much, Mrs Hebron,' said a voice I knew well; 'but
I'm afraid I must be going. I'll--I'll not sit down, thank you. Mr
Russell will be'----
'Delighted to see you seated, Miss Stuart,' I interposed. 'I have very
few lady visitors these days, and I do assure you you are welcome.'
'Eh! that's weel said, Maister Weelum,' Betty chimed in; 'and it's true
too.--Ye canna but sit doon, if it's only to please him, no' to speak o'
me;' and, as Miss Stuart graciously complied, she bustled out to the
kitchen for a match.
In her absence I struck a light and lit the gas, and as Miss Stuart's
eyes met mine we both smiled. Nathan on one occasion winked to me, and
in doing so he established a paction between us. In the same way, but
more emphatically, this smile awakened a feeling of camaraderie, a
consciousness that the Fates were playing with us, and that we
recognised the success of their manipulations.
'Betty has been talking to me a good deal about you lately, Miss
Stuart,' I said as I drew in my chair. 'Somehow, from the first I
associated you, the subject of her talk and the painter of Isobel's
portrait, with my good Samaritan of Nithbank Wood; and I am not
surprised to find that I was right.'
'Indeed, Mr Russell!' she said, and again she smiled. 'Well, I have been
hearing about you also of late from both Mrs Hebron and Mrs Jardine;
and, like you, I am'----But before she could finish her sentence Betty
re-entered with a lighted taper, and in its warm yellow glow her face
shone like a radiant moon.
'Ah, Maister Weelum,' she said, 'for aince ye've managed that
"perverted" licht. Thae newfangled things are fashious, an' it's a
cauld-lookin' licht; but there's economy in it, Miss Stuart--imphm! An',
my me! excuse me, miss, but it does my he'rt guid to see ye sittin' in
that chair.' And in a flash my mind went back to our crack, and I
remembered her words, 'It's a gey comfortable-lookin' chair, that yin
opposite ye, Maister Weelum; an', d'ye ken, I met a leddy the day that I
wad like to see sittin' in it.'
'Betty,' I said, 'Miss Stuart and I are not altogether strangers; we
have met once or twice in an informal way; but, now that we have been
brought together to-night, under your auspices, don't you think--just to
signalise the event--you might offer her a cup of tea?'
'Eh, Maister Weelum! you read me like a book. I was juist gaun to
suggest that. The kettle's at the boil, an' it'll no' tak' me a meenit.
Will--will I bring doon the tea-set frae the drawin'-room--your
mother's, ye ken?'
'Yes, yes, Betty, if you please; and Miss Stuart will honour us in
handseling it. It hasn't been used since I came here;' and before my
guest could say 'Yea' or 'Nay,' Betty had disappeared.
I drew the chair nearer the fire, and, pipe in hand, was about to ask my
_vis-a-vis_ if I might smoke, when I saw her gaze wander round the walls
of my room and ultimately rest on my picture.
'Oh, Mr Russell,' she exclaimed, as she rose to her feet--'why, that is
surely the picture I painted?'
'It is, Miss Stuart,' I quietly said. 'It's the picture you had just
finished the first time I saw you in the flesh, and I assure you I am
very proud to be the possessor of it.'
She stood looking up at it, beating a tattoo with her fingers on the
table, and I saw the warm blood mounting her neck and cheek.
'I hope you don't mind my having it?' I asked.
'Oh no; but--well, you must have put yourself to some trouble to get
it--more than it's worth, I'm afraid, for it was presented to a bazaar
many miles away; and, you'll pardon me, but I cannot understand your
putting so much value on it. It is really not a good bit of work, though
the subject appealed to me so much.'
'Now, Miss Stuart, please do not belittle my purchase--your labour of
love, I may call it. I know a little about art; in fact, though I don't
paint now, it has always been, and still is, my hobby, and in my
judgment you have no reason to be ashamed of this example of your
handiwork. As to my motive in buying it--well, I am a native of this
village, as Betty has perhaps already told you, and to me it and its
environs will ever be my earthly paradise. I know every step of the
countryside around. As a boy I hunted in its fields, explored its woods,
and fished its streams. During the years I have been settled in
Edinburgh, never a day has passed but my thoughts have strayed homeward,
and the identical spot on which you sketched this picture is the one,
above all others, around which my most hallowed memories are centred.
Whenever I thought of my quiet village home my mind meandered down the
Gillfoot road, and the view which inspired you to this effort has always
been with me, for it is, as it were, photographed on my brain.'
'Oh, I quite understand you,' she said slowly--'quite. But how did you
find out where it was for sale?'
'Well, I had very little difficulty in that,' I laughingly replied.
'Talking of sales, though--pardon my introducing the commercial element
into our conversation, Miss Stuart--but I would like very much to have a
companion picture to this one, something local of course. I'll leave the
price to yourself. There's no hurry, you know; only I should be sorry to
miss the opportunity of procuring another, treated with the same loving
skill.'
'How much did you pay for this one?' she asked, with a twinkle in her
eye.
'Well--I--I really cannot tell you exactly. You see, I didn't buy it
myself. I happened to hear your clerical friend say something about the
Laurieston bazaar; so I wrote to Ormskirk, my confidential clerk, giving
him the few particulars I possessed, and he managed everything to my
satisfaction. The price he paid for it will be noted down: he stated it
in his letter, but as it was of minor importance I don't remember the
exact figure.'
I had risen from my chair when she stood up to examine the picture; and,
thinking she might be tired standing, I asked her to sit down. She made
no response, however; and, lost in thought, looked long into the glowing
fire.
'Ormskirk! Mr Ormskirk, your confidential clerk!' she repeated slowly.
'The name seems familiar to me. Oh yes, now I remember;' and she laughed
cheerily, and gave me a blithe look. 'It is a coincidence, Mr Russell;
but I was received once by a Mr Ormskirk of an Edinburgh legal firm. The
name struck me as being unusual.'
'Well, Miss Stuart, so far as I know there is only one Ormskirk in our
profession in Edinburgh, and he is with us--my firm, I mean--Monteith &
Russell.'
'Monteith & Russell!' she repeated. 'And you are'----
'Well, I'm Mr Monteith's partner.'
She looked at me with surprise in her big dark eyes, and then slowly
every vestige of colour left her face. 'You--you are Mr Russell! Oh, I
am so glad to meet you! I have corresponded with you, and my father very
often spoke of you. I am Desiree Stuart. My affairs are in your firm's
hands. I am the daughter of General Stuart of Abereran. This is very
bewildering!' and she smiled feebly through moist, lustrous eyes.
I was too astonished to speak. No suitable words could I utter in
acknowledgment of this unexpected information. Never for a moment had I
associated Miss Stuart the artist with Miss Stuart of Abereran. Somehow,
I cannot say exactly what followed; but I have a dim recollection of
hearing her apologising for sobbing, on the plea that I was the first
person she had met since her father's death of whom, in his last
illness, he had spoken with kindliness and affectionate regard. And I
welcomed this with avidity as another link which bound me to her.
'Your father and I didn't meet often, Miss Stuart,' I said, after a
pause, during which we had both been busy in thought; 'but we
corresponded very frequently. I am glad to know he spoke of me with
appreciation. Unfortunately I was confined to bed at the time of his
death, otherwise I should have been with you; but my partner, Mr Murray
Monteith, attended to everything, and has been giving your affairs every
consideration.'
'Yes, Mr Monteith has been very attentive. I called at your office and
asked to see you. It was on this occasion I met your Mr Ormskirk. Well,
Mr Monteith received me, and reassured me on one or two points about
which I was anxious. After all, I didn't tell him the real reason of my
visit.'
'Indeed! And--and why didn't you?'
'Well, I somehow didn't like. I know it was very silly; but I just
couldn't speak of it--at least to him.'
'Oh, I'm sorry to know that!' I said. 'Mr Monteith would have been only
too pleased to help you with his advice. Is the matter you wished to
bring before me still of consequence?'
'Yes. But it can wait. You know this is neither the time nor the place
to talk business. Besides, I oughtn't to bother you about my affairs
just now. You are still on the sick list, though I must say you look
less the invalid to-day than you did the first time I saw you.'
'Thank you, Miss Stuart. I am glad to know I look better; certainly I
feel much stronger, and I trust to be back to business soon. But do tell
me now what you wanted to consult me about in Edinburgh.'
For a time she remained silent, and I watched with interest the run and
play of her thoughts, as expressed in her mobile face.
'Don't you think,' she said at length, 'that all this is very queer--I
mean our previous accidental meetings, the personal and business
connection between us, and the fact of our sitting together in this room
in this quiet little village? I feel we are known to each other, yet we
are not acquainted. Oh, it does seem so strange and unusual!'
'Yes. The whole circumstances are rather remarkable, and I could tell
you something--a little story in which you and I figure, which is even
more mystifying; but we are wandering from the subject we had on hand.
You haven't yet told me what I wish to know.'
'I cannot mention it to-night, Mr Russell,' she said. 'More than ever I
feel I ought not to have broached it. Later I trust we shall have an
opportunity of discussing everything. You don't mind my deferring it?'
'Just as you wish; but before we dismiss business, may I ask you a
question?'
'Certainly.'
'Well, I had a letter from Mr Monteith the other day in which he
referred to your affairs. By the same token, he is coming down to see
your aunt, so we'll all meet and go into everything thoroughly. Well,
what he mentioned in his letter with reference to you set me a-thinking,
and I have been wondering since if you are aware of the fact that you
hold four thousand Banku oil shares. Have you received any dividends
lately?'
'I know,' she answered thoughtfully, 'that father, some time ago--when I
came of age it was--transferred some shares to me, and from time to time
he gave me what must have been dividends. I didn't trouble him for
particulars; he always hated business chats, but more so after his last
visit to India. I am sure he got a touch of sun, although the doctor
would never admit it, and I purposely refrained from referring to
business affairs, as it only annoyed and irritated him. Since he died I
have received no money at all. As a matter of fact'--and she blushed
painfully--'that's what I wanted to see you about. Aunt is awfully
decent, and grudges me nothing; but surely I ought to have received
something. It isn't very nice to be depending on her for every shilling,
and--you understand, Mr Russell?--I'm perhaps too independent, and'----
'Oh, Miss Stuart, I am so sorry! This is a most unfortunate oversight. I
must rectify it at once, and see that money is sent to you to-morrow.
You have quite a large sum to your credit with us.'
'I am glad to know that;' and she smiled. 'But please don't put yourself
to any immediate trouble on my account. I--I am all right for money at
present. Unknown to my aunt, I sent two of my pictures to Glasgow last
week. Yesterday I received--what do you think?--four guineas each for
them;' and again the blood mounted to her cheek.
'Miss Stuart,' I said, in consternation, 'have you through our
thoughtlessness been obliged to'----I didn't finish my sentence, for at
that moment the door opened, and Betty entered with the tea-tray. Maybe
it was a fortunate, certain I am it was a timely, interruption, as I was
strongly tempted to act unprofessionally, and take a client to my arms.
We had tea brewed in my mother's old Worcester teapot and served in
dainty cups of the same ware. The modern gas was extinguished, and the
candles in the candelabra were lit. Nobody in Thornhill, or out of it,
can bake soda-scones to compare with Betty's; no one can approach her in
the lightness and pan-flavour of her toothsome pancakes, the 'gou' of
her butter, and the aroma of her home-blended tea. As for her homely,
kindly presence--well, only one other possessed its match, and she was
sitting at Betty's right hand, admiring my mother's old china, praising
Betty's scones, filling my heart with a gladness it had never known
before. Ah, Betty Grier--my dear old Betty--I owe much to you! Before
life was a reality to me, you cared for me and ministered to my wants.
When I was cast adrift from moorings of my own making you took me in,
nursed me, and tended me. For all this I thank you; but for bringing
this little tea-party about I'll bless your name for ever and ever.
Amen.
So far I have not been out of doors after nightfall. The village streets
are not too well lit; the pavements are too uneven for my uncertain
steps; but Miss Stuart couldn't go home unattended. Betty was very
emphatic on this point, and of course I heartily concurred. Bang and Jip
certainly came into the house with me after our walk; but they must have
recognised in Miss Stuart a counter-attraction, and slipped away to
their respective homes unobserved. Standing in the lobby with my coat
and hat on, and thinking they might be keeping Nathan company in his
back-room, I called to them several times, but all in vain; so Miss
Stuart and I went out alone.
It was a clear, quiet, moonlight night, with that sharp touch of frost
in the air which makes walking a pleasure. No winter night winds sighed
in the bare, leafless limes as we passed down the street; no discordant
sounds broke the stillness of the Gillfoot as we wended our way by its
shadowy wood.
I had, of course, perforce to walk slowly, and in some unaccountable way
my thoughts and speech seemed to keep in rhythm with my steps. This at
first disturbed and annoyed me, as I was anxious to be vivacious and
animated; but I soon found out that in certain circumstances
conversation is not essential to good-fellowship.
When we reached the top of the Gillfoot Brae, and were almost opposite
the little wicket to Nithbank Wood, we halted for a minute, and in
silence looked down upon the scene, the natural features of which my
companion had with such loving skill transferred to her canvas.
There are times when Nature asserts herself--thrusts herself, as it
were, upon us, and emphatically proclaims her glory and power. It is
good for us to come under her dominance then, for if we have within us a
soul worthy of the name we cannot but feel our true position and
standing in the great Creator's plan.
As I stood, with the woman I loved beside me, on that glamour-haunted
spot, amidst scenes grand in their solemnity and hallowed by
associations, myriads of twinkling worlds above us, at our feet peaceful
howmes all bathed in moonlight, a fuller realisation of the true import
of life was borne in upon me. And there, in a consciously chastened
spirit, with Nature's sermon in my heart and her inspirations all around
me, I turned to my companion, and falteringly told the story of my
dream.
In silence and with wonderment in her eyes, she listened to all my heart
bade me say, and when I had finished she slightly turned away from me,
and her head was bowed. Then in a flash my mind reverted to her recent
bereavement; and when I thought of her loneliness and isolation, the
uncertainty of her prospects, and the shame and mental trials she would
in all probability be called upon to bear, reproach came to me, and I
felt selfish and mean in adding to her burden of mind.
'Miss Stuart,' I said, 'please pardon me if I have said anything amiss,
or if what I have spoken is unwelcome or ill-timed, and a cause of
unhappiness to you. If it is so, I am deeply sorry, but I cannot take
back anything I have told you. God knows it is true, and my whole life
will be devoted to prove to you that it is so. But for the
present--well, doubtless you have plenty to think about, so please
dismiss from your mind what I have said. If I may, I shall some day
speak to you again. Meanwhile let me be your friend. Somehow, I think
you need one.'
She looked gratefully at me with moistened eyes. 'Thank you very much.
What you have told me is all so strange, so unexpected, and--and I feel
it is all true. You are very kind. I do need a friend, and I can trust
you.'
* * * * *
I am lying in my old truckle-bed. It is far into the morning, and sleep
has not yet closed my eyes. Nathan has not been so well to-night, and
his restlessness has kept Betty astir, but it hasn't disturbed me. And,
somehow, I am not lonely. 'I do need a friend, and I can trust you;'
these words, during the quiet hours, are often being whispered in my
ear, and I would rather remain awake and hear them than slip into
slumberland and lose them.