Betty Grier. Joseph Laing Waugh
often think it is strange how indelibly imprinted on some childish minds are little incidents of long ago—little glimpses of landscape, snatches of songs, details here and there of passing events. Not that I consider the foregoing a little incident. To me it was at the time of outstanding moment, and even yet in my retrospect of life it looms large and prominent; but, though I have often endeavoured to recall Betty's ministrations on this occasion, all I can remember is that when she came to the verse, 'I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you,' she spoke the words without referring to her Bible, and she repeated them, the while looking with big, hopeful eyes up to my mother's face. And my mother smiled through her tears; and, stroking Betty's strong brown hair, she called her 'Betty the Comforter.'
A time came in the short after years when she was, by the same dear lips, again called 'Betty the Comforter.' It was when my saintly mother was passing into the spiritland, and, without fear or trepidation, lay calmly awaiting her call. But of this I cannot speak; it is a subject sacred to Betty and to me.
To-night, when I had undressed and was settling myself down for the night, Betty came upstairs, carrying that self-same Bible in her hand. She stood on the threshold for a minute, wiping its covers with the corners of her apron, though well she knew that from frequent use the Book required no dusting.
'Maister Weelum,' she began, 'eh!—I'–
'"William," Betty, please, without the "Mister,"' I said smilingly.
'Yes! yes! so be it—imphm! Eh, this type is clear and big; and I was thinking that maybe ye micht want to read a verse or twae. I'll lay it doon here;' and she reverently placed the precious volume on the top of the chest of drawers.
'Are ye a' richt noo? Ye said ye wanted to speak to me when ye got settled doon. Is there ocht else I can do for ye?'
'I'm feeling fine, Betty,' I said cheerily, 'and not a bit the worse for my long journey, not too tired to have a quiet chat with you. So sit down, please, in the basket chair there, and give me ten minutes of your valuable time.'
'Ten meenits! Certie, hear him noo! Ten meenits, an' the soo's no suppered yet, an' I've the morn's broth to prepare, an' wi' me bein' oot o' the hoose a' day there's a hunner an' ten things starin' me in the face to be dune. But what want ye to speak aboot? I daur say the soo, puir thing, will ha'e to wait, noo that you're here. Daylight, too, is haudin' lang, an' I'll sune mak' up the ten meenits. What want ye noo?' And she sat down, with a query in her eye, into the basket chair.
'Well, Betty,' I began, 'you and I have gone over all the old times pretty thoroughly since we met to-day, and we've taken a peep into the future as well; but there's one subject We haven't touched upon, and before I go to sleep to-night I wish to come to some understanding with you regarding my board and lodgings.'
'Board an' lodgings?' Betty queried. 'Board an'–What d'ye mean, Maister Weelum?' and her lip trembled.
'Well, Betty, by board and lodgings I mean the price of my food and the rent of my room here, and whatever sum you'–
'Weelum, stop at once noo; I'll no' ha'e that mentioned;' and she rose excitedly to her feet. 'I'll no' hear o't! The very idea o' speakin' to me—to me, abune a' fouk—o' board an' lodgings! A bonny-like subject that to discuss atween us! Dod, man, yin wad think that ye were a Moniaive mason workin' journeyman in Thornhill. Megstie me! Lovanenty! heard ye ever the like?—imphm! Mair than that, whae's the owner o' this hoose? Whae has refused rent for it a' these years, eh?'
'Betty, Betty,' I feebly protested, 'that's not fair, and you know it. Did you and I not settle that matter long, long ago, and agree that it would never be referred to again?'
Betty had suddenly assumed both the defensive and the aggressive. She had pulled her black-beaded muffettees up over her wrists, and flung her mutch-strings over her shoulders. I knew of old what these actions meant. She came up to my bedside, and in the fading light I saw a tear coursing down her cheek. 'Maister Weelum,' she said earnestly, 'I'm safe in sayin' that ye canna look back on a single phase o' your early life in which I didna tak' a pairt. Lang before this world was ony reality to ye, I nursed ye, fed ye, an' dressed ye. In thae early days the greatest pleasure to me on earth was to cuddle an' care for ye. But I needna tell ye o' that, ye ken yoursel'. Ye mind hoo much my presence meant to you; that I'm sure o'. As for your mother—weel, I never had ony ither mistress. She took me, a young lass, oot o' a most unhappy hame. It was a pleasure—ay, a privilege—to serve her. Weel, on that day that she was ta'en frae you an' me, she said in your hearin' an' mine, "Betty, this has been the only home you ever knew—never leave it. Promise me you'll accept it.—Willie, my son, you agree?" An' we baith knelt doon at her bedside, an' she went hame happy, kennin' I was provided for. I didna forget that on the nicht o' the funeral day you an' me talked it ower, that I promised to stay here, that it was arranged between us that rent wad never be spoken o', an' that my occupancy wad never be referred to. An', Maister Weelum, it wadna ha'e been noo, had you yoursel' no' talked to me aboot board an' lodgings. My he'rt will break, that will it, if ye persist'–
For a time we were both silent, both busy with many sacred thoughts and memories. Then Betty, without looking into my face, 'stapped' the sheets round my shoulders and well round my sides. 'There noo,' she said at length, 'you're weel happit an' comfortable-lookin', an' sairly, I'm thinkin', in need o' the sleep an' rest which I trust this nicht will be yours. Guid-nicht noo;' and she patted me on the shoulder, as she used to do in the old days when she had put me to bed and was taking my candle away.
'One moment, Betty,' I said promptly. 'Sit down here on the bed beside me, like the good soul you are, and listen to me.—Yes, you may raise my pillow a little. There now, that's better. Are you listening now?'
She nodded and reseated herself, as I had requested.
'I admit all you say, Betty, about your tenancy of the house, and I am sorry if what I have said has reopened a question which was settled so long ago to our mutual satisfaction. When this rest-cure was prescribed—when I was told that it was absolutely necessary I should take up my abode in the country—it was to you and to this room that my thoughts were at once directed. I wrote you I was coming—didn't even say by your leave—and planted myself, as it were, down on you, without inquiring whether or not it was agreeable and convenient to you. Now, believe me, Betty, I acted thus without a thought of your free tenancy of this my old home.'
'I ken that fine, Weelum,' she quickly said, and she looked thoughtfully towards me.
'Well, you see, Betty, if you won't allow me to contribute to my living here, you give me reason to assume that you consider you are in your own way working off an obligation; else why should I live on your—forgive the word, Betty—on your charity?'
'But then, Maister Weelum, you forget that I'm sittin' here rent free.'
'Now, Betty, there you go again. Was not that my mother's request?'
'Yes.'
'Well, she imposed no obligation on you?'
'No.'
'Then, Betty, none exists between us; and, in that case, if I remain here I must be allowed to contribute to the family expenses. Besides, Betty, it is not as if I were a poor man. Thank goodness! I can well afford it; for, between you and me and that bedpost against which you are leaning, I've made over a thousand pounds a year for these last four years.'
'Lovanenty, Weelum, a—a thoosan' pounds!' and she held up her hands in astonishment. 'Bless my life, is that possible? I hope ye made it honestly, my boy?'
'I certainly did,' I said glibly. 'I assure you, Betty, I made it honestly.'
'Imphm, an' you a lawyer!' said she dryly. She smiled, and after some reflection began to laugh heartily.
'Oh, come now, Betty, don't round on an old friend like that.' But Betty heard me not, for she was holding her sides and hotching with convulsive laughter.
'Oh, Weelum! oh, my boy!' she said, between her kinks, 'it's no' you—it's no' you I'm lauchin' at. It's something that happened at the weekly prayer-meetin' in Mrs Shankland's last Wednesday nicht. D' ye mind o' Dauvid Tamson the draper?'
I nodded in the affirmative.
'Weel, as ye dootless ken,