So far as I can recall the arrangement of its old-fashioned, ordinary-looking plenishings, everything remains3 exactly as I left it. My trout4 and salmon5 rods, all tied together—each cased in its own particular-coloured canvas—stand there in the corner beside an old out-of-date gaff and a capacious landing-net which that king of fishers, Clogger Eskdale, gifted to me when the 'rheumatics' prevented his ever again participating in his favourite sport. My worn leather school-bag, filled with the last batch6 of books I used, is still suspended from a four-inch nail driven into a 'dook' at the cheek of the mantelpiece. It is a long time ago, but it seems only yesterday since I stood in the middle of this room, unstrapping that bag from my shoulders for the last time. My schooldays were over; with eager, anxious feet I was standing7 on the threshold of a new life, and to satchel8 and lesson-book I was bidding farewell.
I well remember Deacon Webster, at my mother's request, inserting that dook and driving home that nail; and he laughed unfeelingly when she explained to him the purpose it was to serve. The deacon could not understand the sentiment which prompted her to assign the bag a place upon the wall; and when, after the nail was secure, he made to hang my 'boy's burden' upon it in much the same callous9 spirit in which he would screw the last nail in a coffin-lid, my mother stepped forward.
'One moment, Webster,' she said. 'Allow me.' With her own hands she placed the bag where it hangs now. My old nurse, Betty Grier, straightened it and wiped it with her duster; and the deacon took a pinch of snuff, blew his nose in a big spotted10 handkerchief, and muttered sotto voce, as his nostrils11 quivered, 'Well, I'm d——!'
Against the back wall, in the centre, between the door and the corner, stands the old black oak chest of drawers which for sixteen years held the whole outfit12 of my boyhood's days; while the mahogany looking-glass, with the grooved13 square standards and the swivel mirror, monopolises still, as it always has done, the whole top shelf thereof.
To the left is a framed photograph of my father and mother, and to the right a rosewood-framed sampler, worked long ago by my grandmother, on which, in faded green, against a dull drab background, are still decipherable the words of Our Lord's Prayer. And there, between the fireplace and the window, is my book-rack, and from its shelves old friends look down upon me. The gilt14 titles are tarnished15 and worn, but I know each book by the place it occupies, and I feel that, even after the long, long years that have separated us, Tom Brown, Robinson Crusoe, and David Copperfield will speak to me again, laugh with me, cry with me, as they did in days of yore.
Often has Betty, I know, swept and tidied this little room. Every article has been lifted, dusted, and carefully returned to its place. I know with what feelings of reverence16 the dear old soul has fingered every ornament17. I am conscious of the loving care she has exercised on all my old belongings18, and somehow I feel consoled and comforted, my physical weakness depresses me less, my mother's presence seems nearer me, and unbidden tears of thankfulness come to my eyes and trickle19 from my cheek to my pillow.
This has been to me a day of great events. I have travelled by rail from Edinburgh to Elvanfoot, thence by horse-carriage to Thornhill—during the last stage driven by Charlie Walker, the 'bus Jehu I envied in my schoolboy years, and tended by my fail-me-never Betty. To her also this has been a memorable20 day, for when we were driving down the Dalveen Pass she told me that never before had she seen a Caledonian train, and that her last memory of Traloss dated back to a Sabbath-school trip about the year 1868. Such a long ride in a well-sprung, well-upholstered carriage was also a novelty to her, a new experience which only with great difficulty I could persuade her to enjoy to the full. She insisted on sitting forward on the extreme edge of the seat, and it was only after I had told her that her uncomfortable-looking position made me uneasy and unhappy that she sat well back, till her shoulders rested on the cushion behind.
Contrary to my expectations, I am suffering neither pain nor inconvenience from my long journey; and as I lie here in my little bed, looking through the curtained window to the long, low range of the Lowther Hills, and listening to the familiar sounds in the village street below, a blissful peace which I cannot express in words possesses me, my physical and my mental organisation21 seem to have undergone a change, my experience of city life is blotted22 out and forgotten, and, strangely enough, I feel myself, as of old, a unit of the village community. Queerer still, this placid23 acceptance of altered circumstances, this dovetailing into a different condition of life and living, seems to me so natural as to be hardly worth noting; and without a pang24 of regret I leave behind me urban pleasures and duties, and contemplate25 with equanimity26 retirement27 to this rural retreat, a twelvemonth's sojourn28 midst scenes to me for ever dear.
Nor does the fact that this rustication29 is compulsory30 distress31 or annoy me. My physical weakness has reduced me to a state of indifference32 towards former pursuits. A long illness, following a deplorable accident, has impaired33 my appetite for social joys; so much so, indeed, that when my doctors—rather apologetically, I thought—informed me that if ever I wished to be well again I must give up my profession and town residence for twelve months at least, and live quietly somewhere in the country, I hailed their verdict with delight, and my yearning34 heart at once went out to my native village and the home of my old nurse, Betty Grier.
Dear old Betty! To whom else could I turn? She is all—of the human element at least—I have left to me of my home life of long ago. My memories of my father are vague and hazy35. I was only five when he died; and, through the misty36 veil of long-gone years, two pictures only of him are impressed upon my mind. In one I see him standing in the narrow whitewashed37 pantry, his head 'screeving' the ceiling, and his broad shoulders almost excluding the waning38 western light that glimmered39 through the small four-paned window. Betty, white-capped and white-aproned, is there also, with a large ashet in her hands, on which lies a long, thick silver fish—a salmon, as I afterwards learned—one of the many he lured41 from the depths of Mattha's Pool. My mother's arm is lovingly linked in his, and there is a pleased and happy expression on her face, which somehow is transmitted to me, because, with her, I feel proud of the great big man I call my daddy, who has battled so successfully with the strong-looking monster now lying so quiet, with gaping42 mouth, on Betty's ashet.
Then there is a long, dark blank before the next picture appears, and I see him sitting in a big arm-chair at the dining-room fire. His back is cushioned, and a shepherd-tartan plaid is round his shoulders, the ends folded across his knees. My mother is writing letters to his dictation on a small bureau, which has been placed near his chair. I am playing with a Noah's Ark, marshalling the animals in pairs on the rug; and when my mother goes out of the room to the little office adjoining, I leave my toys and stand at his knee, looking up to a face which to me seems very white and pinched. A long, thin hand is placed on my curly head, and with difficulty he bends down and kisses me. I wonder who has been unkind to him, for I see a tear trickling43 down his cheek, and it falls unheeded on his plaid.
I cannot focus him in my mind's eye in any subsequent event, though I remember perfectly44 the old doctor with the foxskin cap and the clattering45 clogs46, and the smell of 'Kendal brown' he always left behind. Then a day came when the window-blinds were pulled down and all the rooms were darkened; when Betty's voice was, even to my childish ears, low and husky; when my mother cuddled me in a tight embrace, and a wet, wet cheek was laid against mine. Oh, how she trembled and sobbed48! I felt bewildered and unhappy, and I remember putting my wee, helpless arms round her neck and asking her why she was crying. She told me that daddy had gone away—away to heaven; and when I asked if he wouldn't come back to us again, she said, 'No, no,' and her embrace tightened49, and she wept afresh. In a short time the door was hesitatingly opened, and Betty came noiselessly in with a book in her hand which I had often seen her read. She stood behind my mother's chair with her tear-stained face turned away, and her red hand on my mother's shoulder; but she didn't speak. Then she came round, and, 'hunkering' down beside us, opened her book and in a low voice began to read.
I often think it is strange how indelibly imprinted50 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 retrospect51 of life it looms52 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 spoke53 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 trepidation54, 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 apron40, 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 reverently55 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 broth56 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 dune57. 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 query58 in her eye, into the basket chair.
'Well, Betty,' I began, 'you and I have gone over all the old times pretty thoroughly59 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 lodgings60.'
'Board an' lodgings?' Betty queried61. '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 defensive62 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 ken47 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 promptly63. '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 mutual64 satisfaction. When this rest-cure was prescribed—when I was told that it was absolutely necessary I should take up my abode65 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 astonishment66. 'Bless my life, is that possible? I hope ye made it honestly, my boy?'
'Imphm, an' you a lawyer!' said she dryly. She smiled, and after some reflection began to laugh heartily68.
'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, Dauvid has been a' his days a conceited69, fussy70, arguin' man, aye desperate honest and well-meanin', but terr'ble unreasonable71 and heidstrong, and he's never dune takin' to the law or consultin' his agent, as he ca's it. Weel, he was at the prayer-meetin' last Wednesday nicht, and, as it happened, it was his turn to officiate. After we had sung a psalm72 and engaged in a word o' prayer, he began to read the last pairt o' the fifth chapter o' Mattha, and when he cam' to the fortieth verse: "And if any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also," Dauvid hovered73 a blink. Then he re-read it very slowly, and says he, "Freens, I've aye prided mysel' in my knowledge o' the Bible; but I'm forced to admit that this is the first time I ever noticed that there was evidence in Scripture74 o' oor Saviour75 havin' been ployin' wi' litigations and in the lawyers' hauns. I dinna ken hoo far He carrit His case, but if my experience was His, He need not have said let him have thy cloak, for the hungry deevils wad ha'e ta'en it whether or no'."'
I wonder, did Betty imagine that the recital76 of that story would divert my mind from the subject of our conversation and the purpose I had in view? Somehow I think, as an inspiration, the means to this end had suddenly occurred to her; but, if such was her aim, the hastily conceived plot failed.
By a good deal of argument and a modicum77 of cajolery, I gained my point. What the terms are which we have arranged is Betty's concern and mine only. All I may say here is that the weekly amount has to be paid to Nathan, of whom more anon, and that the subject of pounds, shillings, and pence has never to be broached78 in her hearing again.
She said 'Good-night' to me an hour ago. The impatient sounds of remonstrance79 from the soo-cruive at the head of the garden subsided80 shortly after she left me, from which I argued that the inner wants of the occupant had been attended to. The chop-chopping of vegetables on the kitchen table below ceased half-an-hour ago, and I know that a little at least of to-morrow's dinner has ceased to trouble Betty's anxious mind.
The shades of night are gathering81 round me. A soft breeze stirs the branches of the lime-trees, and through my open window it fans my face where I lie. Somewhere away Rashbrigward, I hear the quivering yammer of a startled whaup, and the crooning lullaby of the whispering Nith falls like music on my ear. In the ryegrass field at the top of the Gallowsflat a wandering landrail, elusive82 and challenging, craiks his homeward way; while from Cample Strath or Closeburn Heights is fitfully wafted83 to me the warning bark of a farmer's dog. The clamp-clamp of a cadger's tired-out horse and the rattle84 of an empty cart sound loud and long in the deserted85 street. Hurrying footsteps echo and re-echo, and gradually die away into silence. Then evening's wings are folded o'er me, a blissful peace and a quiet contentment fill my heart, and under the glamour86 and spell of nature's benediction87 I turn my head on my grateful pillow.
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1
auld
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| adj.老的，旧的 | |
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homeliness
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| n.简朴，朴实；相貌平平 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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trout
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| n.鳟鱼；鲑鱼(属) | |
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salmon
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| n.鲑，大马哈鱼，橙红色的 | |
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batch
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| n.一批(组，群)；一批生产量 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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satchel
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| n.(皮或帆布的)书包 | |
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callous
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| adj.无情的，冷淡的，硬结的，起老茧的 | |
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spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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grooved
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| v.沟( groove的过去式和过去分词 )；槽；老一套；（某种）音乐节奏 | |
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gilt
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| adj.镀金的；n.金边证券 | |
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tarnished
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| （通常指金属）（使）失去光泽，（使）变灰暗( tarnish的过去式和过去分词 )； 玷污，败坏 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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belongings
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| n.私人物品，私人财物 | |
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trickle
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| vi.淌，滴，流出，慢慢移动，逐渐消散 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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organisation
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| n.组织，安排，团体，有机休 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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pang
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| n.剧痛，悲痛，苦闷 | |
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contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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equanimity
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| n.沉着，镇定 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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rustication
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| n.被罚休学，定居农村；乡村生活 | |
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compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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impaired
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| adj.受损的；出毛病的；有（身体或智力）缺陷的v.损害，削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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misty
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| adj.雾蒙蒙的，有雾的 | |
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whitewashed
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| 粉饰，美化，掩饰( whitewash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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waning
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| adj.（月亮）渐亏的，逐渐减弱或变小的n.月亏v.衰落( wane的现在分词 )；（月）亏；变小；变暗淡 | |
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glimmered
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| v.发闪光，发微光( glimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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gaping
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| adj.口的；张口的；敞口的；多洞穴的v.目瞪口呆地凝视( gape的现在分词 )；张开，张大 | |
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trickling
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| n.油画底色含油太多而成泡沫状突起v.滴( trickle的现在分词 )；淌；使)慢慢走；缓慢移动 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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clogs
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| 木屐； 木底鞋，木屐( clog的名词复数 ) | |
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ken
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| n.视野，知识领域 | |
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48
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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49
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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imprinted
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| v.盖印（imprint的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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looms
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| n.织布机( loom的名词复数 )v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的第三人称单数 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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53
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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54
trepidation
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| n.惊恐，惶恐 | |
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reverently
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| adv.虔诚地 | |
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broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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dune
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| n.(由风吹积而成的)沙丘 | |
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58
query
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| n.疑问，问号，质问；vt.询问，表示怀疑 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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60
lodgings
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| n. 出租的房舍, 寄宿舍 | |
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queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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defensive
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| adj.防御的；防卫的；防守的 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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glibly
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| adv.流利地，流畅地；满口 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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psalm
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| n.赞美诗，圣诗 | |
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hovered
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| 鸟( hover的过去式和过去分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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scripture
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| n.经文，圣书，手稿；Scripture:(常用复数)《圣经》，《圣经》中的一段 | |
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saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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modicum
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| n.少量，一小份 | |
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broached
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| v.谈起( broach的过去式和过去分词 )；打开并开始用；用凿子扩大（或修光）；（在桶上）钻孔取液体 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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elusive
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| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
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wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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84
rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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85
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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86
glamour
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| n.魔力，魅力；vt.迷住 | |
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87
benediction
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| n.祝福；恩赐 | |
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