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.