Betty Grier

'That's an honest admission, an' it wadna come frae Dr Grierson if it wasna. An' what's your objection, doctor?'

'Oh, well, Betty, your question opens up a big, debatable subject on which I have great reluctance to enter. I have neither the time nor the inclination, Betty; but this much I will say, we are all heirs to a heritage of different distresses in this life, and as we are not all constituted alike we require different treatment. Now there is one great panacea, one great balm, for all our wounds. Some find that panacea in their church, though many go to church who are not aware they require a panacea. Others, of whom I am one, find a balm for their afflictions in communing with the nature of God's creation we see around us. With such it isn't necessary to go to church in order to feel God's presence or to experience His beneficent power. If it were, we could only commune with Him once a week, when the churches are open. As it is, I can praise Him at all times, and glorify His name under the canopy of His heavens, and among the trees and flowers and fields and woods, which evidence His fostering care and proclaim His loving-kindness.'

'Then, doctor, ye do believe in God?'

A pained look crept into the doctor's eyes. 'Betty,' he said, 'you surely have never doubted that?'

'Weel, wi' you no' gaun to the kirk, an''–

'Ah, Betty, it is possible for a man to go to church and remain in doubt; but no one can stand, as I often do, under the starry firmament, alone in the midst of slumbering nature, or facing the glowing east when the shafts of the sun's morning beams are piercing the shadowy sky, and not feel within himself that God reigneth, and the earth in consequence rejoices.'

'Grand! Man, doctor, I'm glad to hear ye say that! I'm—I'm rale glad.'

There was a wee bit catch in Betty's voice, and a tear trickled down her cheek, which she tried to wipe away unnoticed with a corner of her apron. But the doctor saw, and his face twitched and softened.

'Then, doctor,' she continued, 'of course ye'll believe in the Bible?'

'Yes—with reservations.'

'Which means, doctor?'

'Well, Betty, it means that–Wait now, I want to make it easy for you to understand; but unfortunately, by doing so, it makes it all the more difficult for me to explain. Well, in a word, Betty, it means there are parts of it I believe, and there are others I cannot.'

'Ay, pairts ye believe an' pairts ye canna believe. I notice ye say ye canna believe; ye don't say ye will not believe. There's a difference, doctor, ye ken. Why do ye say ye canna?'

'Because I have thought out things very carefully, very anxiously, and I cannot entertain what does not appeal to my reason. I must discard what I think is wrong.'

'But, doctor, man, ye maunna exercise your ain judgment. It's human; consequently it's weak. What ye want is faith—the faith which can remove mountains, the faith which sustains. Doctor, ye must put aside your ain vain imaginin's an' thochts, an' become as a little child. Ay, juist as a little child.'

'Yes, Betty, I thought you would say that. But you know I am not a little child. I am a man, a responsible, thinking being, endowed by God with a reasoning faculty which is calculated to guide me, and which, Betty, I am expected to exercise. I cannot accept anything temporal which is diametrically opposed or contrary to my judgment, nor would I in the discharge of my professional duties follow a course or accept a condition which my intellect and discernment told me was wrong. Why, then, should I, in this the greatest of all questions, be expected to lay reason aside and acquiesce in blind belief? No, Betty, I cannot do that. If I did I shouldn't be true to myself.'

'But, doctor, wi' due respect, let me tell ye that cleverer men than you have thocht these things oot for themselves an' have been satisfied wi' the Word as it is delivered. Think o' the Reformers an' a' oor professors, men who have studied theology a' their days, an''–

'And after all their study, what do they know, what have they gleaned from all their books? I cannot be guided even by professors. They know as much or as little of God's workings as the man who sweeps our village street. Now, Betty, further than this I cannot and will not go with you. As I have said, it is a big, debatable subject, and we might talk till doomsday and not agree even then. Besides, it is a very dangerous thing to tamper with any one's belief, especially if that belief affords a solace in trials and constitutes an anchor in the storm. You have got something within you which calms your fears, and gives you a peace which nothing else can. Stick to it, Betty, and guard it against assault. And I—well, Betty, I also have something within me which gives me peace, such peace as would remain with me even if to-night I was called upon to turn my face to the wall. Ah, Betty, each and every one has a faith. The world has never been without one, and it will have one to the end. But my conviction is we haven't often enough taken stock of our faith, and the consequence is it has become detached from and out of sympathy with our workaday lives. What a different world it would be if we were living our religion instead of professing it! Some say this is impossible. Well, it ought to be made possible, and the best way of going about it would be to strip religion of all that binds it to impossible, out-of-date dogmas, clear it of all that confounds and mystifies, and nail as a motto to its mast-head these glorious words of the great Master, "Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself." Betty, the time is at hand when the Church will be forced to consider this text—ay, and to act upon it; and when that day dawns it will herald the Millennium.'

A strange hush had fallen upon the room while the doctor was speaking, and when he ceased it lingered with us like a benediction. Then Betty walked quietly over to the window. 'Doctor,' she said, after a pause, 'd'ye think, at the last, everybody will be—eh—a' richt?'

'Well, Betty, the question often occurs to me. When the boundlessness of God's love comes home to me I think it is possible. There is a verse, the thirteenth of the twenty-first chapter of the Revelation, which'–

At that moment a knock came to the door, and Betty slipped out. In her absence the doctor smoked in silence, and I watched the fire glowing in the grate.

'Doctor,' she said, as she re-entered, 'that's the grocer's boy. Somebody telt him ye were here, and he wants to ken if the bottle o' port wine ye ordered is for Mrs Lawson o' Gillhead or auld Widow Lawson?'

'Oh, it is for Widow Lawson,' he replied, and the semblance of a blush spread over his face. He rose hurriedly, adjusted his plaid, and picked up his hat.

I put my hand on his arm as he passed me. 'Doctor,' I said, 'your good deeds are finding you out;' and he shook his head, and smiled as if he didn't understand me, but he made no reply.

Betty came into my room later with her Bible in her hand. 'I've been lookin' up that verse in the Revelation,' she said, 'an' it reads: "On the east three gates, on the north three gates, on the south three gates, and on the west three gates." Ay—imphm! I never saw the maitter in that licht before.—Weel, I trust there may be a gate for me, Maister Weelum; an'—an' somewey I'm sure noo there's yin for the doctor.'

CHAPTER XIV

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-à-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 Désirée 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.