I rose from my chair, and I stroked the gray hair back from his forehead. 'Yes, Nathan, I'm listening; but you must not give up hope; you're really not an old man, and'——
'No' an auld man! Imphm! I've—I've been an auld man a' my days. I canna mind o' ever bein' young. I was ten—only ten—when my faither was ta'en awa', an' I had to mak' the handle o' his spade fit my wee bit haun. Ay, I had to, for the weans had to be brocht up, an'—an', thank God, I managed it! But it killed the youth that was in me. Ay, an', as I was gaun to say, I'm seein' things differently lyin' here. Coontin' the times ye've been at the kirk'll no' quieten your fears. Thinkin' o' the guid ye've dune or tried to do micht, an' my crap o' that's a very sma' yin. Still, I maun ha'e pleased the Almichty in some wey, or He wadna ha'e been sae kind to me; He wadna ha'e gi'en me Betty. Oh, man, Maister Weelum, I wish I could tell ye a' that Betty's been to me! I'm vexed I canna. I'm a Hebron, an' I needna try; but ye ken yoursel' in a sma' wey. She nursed ye—ay, an'—an' noo this is what I want to ask ye—when I'm away, Maister Weelum, will ye see that my—that Betty's a' richt—eh? Is that askin' an awfu' lot?'
'Oh, Nathan,' I said, and I knelt down at his bedside and took his softened hand in mine, 'Betty is to me a sacred trust, and if it be God's will that you must leave her, I will be with her till she goes out to meet you again.'
He pressed my hand. 'Thank ye, Maister Weelum. I—I thocht ye would; but I juist wanted to mak' sure. That's a', I think—a' at least as far as this world's concerned. There's a lot—an awfu' lot I should do, but I canna. I doot I've been careless. I've left the want to come at the wab's en', an' I ha'e nae time to mak' it guid noo. I maun juist leave it to Him. Guid-nicht, Maister Weelum, an' ye'll tell her—ye ken whae I mean—that I was gled a Hebron was o' service to her. Guid-nicht. God bless ye, man! Guid-bye.'
'Guid-nicht—God bless ye!—Guid-bye.' These words kept ringing in my ears as I sat by my fire, and during the quiet hours my sorrowing thoughts strayed again and again into that wee back-room where Betty sat watching, and where Nathan lay dying.
Long after the village folks had gone to bed I heard the street door open quietly, and the doctor's shuffling footsteps in the lobby. He went through the kitchen into Nathan's room; then he came in and sat down in the big chair opposite me. 'I told Betty I would be here if I were needed, William,' he said, and he took out his old clay pipe and smoked in silence.
Just when the night was on the turn he opened the door and went quietly across to his patient. I followed him into the kitchen, and there, by a cheerless fire, sat Mrs Jardine in Betty's chair, and, poor, hard-working soul, she was asleep, with her head resting on Tom's encircling arm. I put my hand on his shoulder and thanked him for his presence. Then I went back into my room, and, sitting down in my chair, closed my eyes, for their lids felt heavy and weary.
'William, Betty wants you.' The voice seemed far away. I rose hurriedly and rubbed my eyes. The sparrows were twittering in the lime-tree, and the gray light of a March morning was lying cold in the room. The doctor was standing with his hand on the handle of the half-open door. 'Betty wants you, William,' he said in a whisper; and I passed him without a word, and with a heavy, apprehensive heart.