CHAPTER XIII.
One of my city friends who is interested in the study of phrenology once told me that my bump of adaptability is very strongly developed. He told me more, of which I was sceptical; but the natural ease with which I have taken to and conformed with my present surroundings is proof to me that his interpretation of this particular bump was fairly correct. Words fail me to express adequately the pleasure I have derived from my reintroduction to Nature's home and mine. Everything seems fresh from the hand of the Creator; there is no veneer, no make-believe, and over all there is solace and repose. Happy hours in the domestic atmosphere of the old house, mellowed and sweetened by the presence of Betty and Nathan; the quiet interval spent in the barber's back sanctum, with its window facing the gray-blue Lowthers; the afternoon visit to John Sterling's shop, with its homely smell of roset and bend-leather, and our usual discussion on the Dandie breed and the beauties of Scott's Marmion, Aird's Devil's Dream, and Hogg's Kilmeny; a stroll with Bang and Jip round the Gillfoot or down the 'Coo Road;' and solitary meditation on the doctor's 'mound,' surrounded by a medley of vegetation, planted indiscriminately and flourishing under what the dear old man calls his natural style of gardening—such is my daily programme. A homely life this amidst homely folks: the barber in his reminiscent moods; John Sterling with his love of dogs, his charitableness and honesty, and his enthusiasm for what I may call the true poetry of life; Dr Grierson, walking alone, hugging to his heart a sweet secret memory, dreein' his weird, doing good in his own quiet way, and keeping from his left hand what his right hand is doing; Nathan, silent, serious, and preoccupied, deferring ever to Betty, and proud and content to shelter in her shadow; and Betty, my dear, kind, thoughtful Betty, who always carves with the blunt knife and the big heart, whose Bible is her bolster, and whose solicitude extends to all God's creatures great and small—homely folks of a surety; yes, commonplace, if you will, but dear to my heart. It may be—in fact, I may take it for granted—that characters like these would make no appeal to my city acquaintances; to them association with such would be boredom, and my mode of living the essence of dreariness; and yet to me, and I say it with all reverence, it comes as near as anything on earth can come to that peace which passeth all understanding.
Mention of Betty and her Bible in the same breath reminds me that lately she has talked to me almost solely on secular matters. This is not as it used to be. When first I came to her, by a process of manœuvring and meandering peculiar to herself she always managed to steer her conversation into religious channels, and the direct way she had of pointing the moral was always original and characteristic. It is not because I have discouraged her or shown any indifference that she has lapsed in this matter; and it would appear that, as our intimacy has ripened, and as our topics of conversation have become more personal, she has meantime allowed the mundane to prevail, with a view to taking up the more serious and essential at a more convenient season.
I wasn't surprised, therefore, when, to-day, after Dr Grierson had visited Nathan in the back-room, she asked him in an off-hand, matter-of-fact way what he thought of yesterday's sermon.
The doctor was fumbling in his pocket for his old clay, and in an absent, abstracted tone of voice he informed her that, as he hadn't been to church, he wasn't in a position to pass any judgment.
'Ay, ye werena at the kirk? I micht ha'e kenned that,' she said. 'Imphm! I'm no' a deid auld woman, doctor,' she continued; 'but I mind o' your faither efter he left Dumfries an' cam' to bide wi' ye here, an' he was a regular attender at the kirk. It's a great pity when folks break off kin'. Ay, that it is! Imphm! An', doctor, you'll excuse me, it's mebbe nae business o' mine; but I canna help tellin' ye that I often think aboot ye, an' that ye lie heavy on my mind. We've seen a great deal o' ye lately, mair than we ever saw before, and I've proved to mysel' what ithers said o' ye, an' what I had aye ta'en for granted. It's a' in your favour, an' what ye've dune for the puir God will no' forget when ye're bein' weighed in the balance.'
'Thank you, Betty,' the doctor said, as he struck a light.
'Ay, but haud on; I havena dune wi' ye. I havena come to the point. As I've said, ye've come a great deal in an' oot among us lately, an' in a temporal sense ye've been a great comfort and help to Maister Weelum here. Oh that ye had been able to influence him spiritually, for since he cam' he's never darkened a kirk door. I've held my tongue, as sae far there's been an excuse for him; but noo that he's gettin' better an' able to gang aboot, I juist think that oot o' respect for you, if ye had been kirk-minded, he could easily ha'e been guided Zionward.'
I had the feeling that Betty was rushing in where angels fear to tread; and, not knowing how the doctor was likely to take this, I became very uncomfortable. He puffed spasmodically at his pipe and moved uneasily in his chair. 'It is very kind of you, Betty, to think of me,' he said—'very kind indeed; and you must not count it none of your business to bring such matters before me. In a way we are all each other's keepers, and it would be churlish of me to resent such interest as you show. For my own part, I live my life according to my light, such as it is. It may be a poor, flickering light to other eyes, but it is sufficient to show me the road. As for William here, he has long ago reached man's estate, and he can judge of these matters for himself. If I mistake not, he has a standard of his own, and I feel sure my influence, even though I were kirk-minded, as you call it, would not direct his steps in the direction you indicate.'
'Oh doctor, dinna say that! We can a' be made humble instruments. Example is a great thing, though ye dinna follow your faither's, an' I ken what a power for guid ye wad be if the grace o' God was in ye. Oh doctor, I've been he'rt sorry for ye mony a time, for I ken the grief ye've carried, an' I've wondered hoo ye could thole it sae lang a' by yoursel', an' that ye never accepted the consolation which He alone can gi'e ye. But ye've spurned it, doctor. I don't think that ye're a joined member o' the kirk or that ye gang to the Communion—you that's sic a man i' the toon—everybody's body as you are, an' born wi' a sma'er dose o' original sin than ony yin I ken o'. I juist canna understan' it.'