Betty Grier Part 6

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 c.o.c.kney 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 d.a.m.ned, 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 gra.s.s-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 nave 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 expect.i.t.'

'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 e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, 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.

CHAPTER VII.

Nathan noted my movements. 'Can I help ye, Maister Weelum, or is there ocht I can do to mak' ye comfortable? Betty'll no' be lang till she's wi' ye. She's busy the noo, an' she sent me up to keep ye cheery till her wark was dune.'

I looked at him and saw he was quite serious, so I concluded that, decent, well-meaning man though he was, he was no humorist.

'Ay, Nathan,' I said, after I had thought over the situation, 'I have no doubt your intentions are all right. Invalids ought to be kept cheery, as you call it; but'----

'Ye admit, then, that ye _are_ an invalid, Maister Weelum?'

'Well, Nathan, I'm afraid I must admit that.'

'Ay, man--imphm! so far, so guid. Ye ken, sir, there _are_ some fouk that'll no' gi'e in when ocht ails them. There was Cairneyheid, for instance. Did ye ken him? No--imphm! it doesna maitter. Weel, Cairnie, as we ca'd him for short, had farmed on the Alton rig a' his days. The rig lies high, an there's aye plenty o' guid fresh air up yonder, and Cairnie never in his life had had even a sair heid. But, dod, sir, ae day, after his denner, he quately slippit to the flaer, an' couldna get up again. Weel, he sat there till aboot hauf six withoot sayin' a single d.a.m.n, an' if ye kenned Cairnie an' his weys ye could understaun that that gied his women-fouk a glauff. Weel, suddenly he lookit up an' asked for a gless o' whisky, an' they thocht frae that that he was better. He did kind o' revive after his dram, an' wi' nae sma' trauchle they got him to his bed. Next mornin' he was dreich o' risin', an' when he got to his breakfast he couldna eat, an' still he didna sweer, so they sent awa' doon for the doctor. Weel, whenever the doctor cam' an' saw him he ordered him at aince to be put in his bed. "Bed!" said Cairnie. "Bed in the guid daylicht! I think I see mysel'! I never in a' my life gaed to my bed except at nicht an' to sleep, an' I'm no' gaun the noo;" an' he got up oot o' his chair in spite o' them. "I'm awa' up to the high field to see hoo they're gettin' on wi' the turnip-shawin'," he said; an'

withoot dug or stick he oot o' the hoose. Hooever he got the length o'

the field guidness only kens, but there he got. "Hurry on, men," he said; "dinna be feart to bend your backs in guid shawin' weather like this. The pits'll a' be ready afore ye're ready for them;" an' he lifted a knife to gi'e them a haun. He pu'd a turnip, an' was juist gaun to whang off the shaw, when doon he drappit in the middle o' the drill as deid as Abel.'

Nathan relit his pipe, which had gone out during the narrative. 'Ay,' he continued, as he puffed audibly, 'it was a very big funeral, was Cairnie's. He was buried in Dalgarnock--a damp, douth place to lie in, in my estimation. No' that it maitters muckle, I daur say; but still'----

'Whae's this ye're on, Nathan?' said Betty, who had entered the room un.o.bserved.

'Oh, naebody parteeklar, Betty. I'm juist ca'in' the crack as ye telt me, an' keepin' Maister Weelum here cheery till ye come up;' and he rose, with a sigh of relief, from his chair, sidled toward the door, and went cautiously downstairs.

When I heard him safely round the 'sherp' turn on the staircase I looked at the sonsie, kindly face of my old nurse. 'Oh my dear Betty, I am glad to see you!' I said with fervour.

'Hoo's that, noo, Maister Weelum?' and she gave a wee bit pleased laugh.

'Ha'e ye been missin' me? Has Nathan no' been ca'in' the crack?'

'Yes, Betty, I have been missing you, and Nathan _has_ been ca'in' the crack; but, Betty'--and I lowered my voice--'he's been in kirk-yards all the time.'