|
|
|
Prev
| Next
| Contents
WHO HE WAS AND WHERE HE WAS.
When he had been at school for about three weeks, the boys called him
Six-fingered Jack; but his real name was Willie, for his father and
mother gave it him--not William, but Willie, after a brother of his
father, who died young, and had always been called Willie. His name in
full was Willie Macmichael. It was generally pronounced Macmickle, which
was, by a learned anthropologist, for certain reasons about to appear
in this history, supposed to have been the original form of the name,
dignified in the course of time into Macmichael. It was his own father,
however, who gave him the name of Gutta-Percha Willie, the reason of
which will also show itself by and by.
Mr Macmichael was a country doctor, living in a small village in a
thinly-peopled country; the first result of which was that he had very
hard work, for he had often to ride many miles to see a patient, and
that not unfrequently in the middle of the night; and the second that,
for this hard work, he had very little pay, for a thinly-peopled country
is generally a poor country, and those who live in it are poor also,
and cannot spend much even upon their health. But the doctor not only
preferred a country life, although he would have been glad to have
richer patients, and within less distances of each other, but he would
say to any one who expressed surprise that, with his reputation, he
should remain where he was--"What's to become of my little flock if I
go away, for there are very few doctors of my experience who would feel
inclined to come and undertake my work. I know every man, woman, and
child in the whole country-side, and that makes all the difference." You
see, therefore, that he was a good kind-hearted man, and loved his work,
for the sake of those whom he helped by it, better than the money he
received for it.
Their home was necessarily a very humble one--a neat little cottage in
the village of Priory Leas--almost the one pretty spot thereabout. It
lay in a valley in the midst of hills, which did not look high,
because they rose with a gentle slope, and had no bold elevations or
grand-shaped peaks. But they rose to a good height notwithstanding, and
the weather on the top of them in the wintertime was often bitter and
fierce--bitter with keen frost, and fierce with as wild winds as ever
blew. Of both frost and wind the village at their feet had its share
too, but of course they were not so bad down below, for the hills were a
shelter from the wind, and it is always colder the farther you go up and
away from the heart of this warm ball of rock and earth upon which we
live. When Willie's father was riding across the great moorland of those
desolate hills, and the people in the village would be saying to each
other how bitterly cold it was, he would be thinking how snug and warm
it was down there, and how nice it would be to turn a certain corner on
the road back, and slip at once out of the freezing wind that had it all
its own way up among the withered gorse and heather of the wide expanse
where he pursued his dreary journey.
For his part, Willie cared very little what the weather was, but took it
as it came. In the hot summer, he would lie in the long grass and get
cool; in the cold winter, he would scamper about and get warm. When his
hands were as cold as icicles, his cheeks would be red as apples. When
his mother took his hands in hers, and chafed them, full of pity for
their suffering, as she thought it, Willie first knew that they were
cold by the sweet warmth of the kind hands that chafed them: he had
not thought of it before. Climbing amongst the ruins of the Priory, or
playing with Farmer Thomson's boys and girls about the ricks in his
yard, in the thin clear saffron twilight which came so early after noon,
when, to some people, every breath seemed full of needle-points, so
sharp was the cold, he was as comfortable and happy as if he had been a
creature of the winter only, and found himself quite at home in it.
For there were ruins, and pretty large ruins too, which they called the
Priory. It was not often that monks chose such a poor country to settle
in, but I suppose they had their reasons. And I dare say they were not
monks at all, but begging friars, who founded it when they wanted to
reprove the luxury and greed of the monks; and perhaps by the time they
had grown as bad themselves, the place was nearly finished, and they
could not well move it. They had, however, as I have indicated, chosen
the one pretty spot, around which, for a short distance on every side,
the land was tolerably good, and grew excellent oats if poor wheat,
while the gardens were equal to apples and a few pears, besides
abundance of gooseberries, currants, and strawberries.
The ruins of the Priory lay behind Mr Macmichael's cottage--indeed, in
the very garden--of which, along with the house, he had purchased the
fen--that is, the place was his own, so long as he paid a small sum--not
more than fifteen shillings a year, I think--to his superior. How
long it was since the Priory had come to be looked upon as the mere
encumbrance of a cottage garden, nobody thereabouts knew; and although
by this time I presume archaeologists have ferreted out everything
concerning it, nobody except its owner had then taken the trouble to
make the least inquiry into its history. To Willie it was just the
Priory, as naturally in his father's garden as if every garden had
similar ruins to adorn or encumber it, according as the owner might
choose to regard its presence.
The ruins were of considerable extent, with remains of Gothic arches,
and carvings about the doors--all open to the sky except a few places on
the ground-level which were vaulted. These being still perfectly solid,
were used by the family as outhouses to store wood and peats, to keep
the garden tools in, and for such like purposes. In summer, golden
flowers grew on the broken walls; in winter, grey frosts edged them
against the sky.
I fancy the whole garden was but the space once occupied by the huge
building, for its surface was the most irregular I ever saw in a garden.
It was up and down, up and down, in whatever direction you went, mounded
with heaps of ruins, over which the mould had gathered. For many years
bushes and flowers had grown upon them, and you might dig a good way
without coming to the stones, though come to them you must at last. The
walks wound about between the heaps, and through the thick walls of the
ruin, overgrown with lichens and mosses, now and then passing through an
arched door or window of the ancient building. It was a generous garden
in old-fashioned flowers and vegetables. There were a few apple and pear
trees also on a wall that faced the south, which were regarded by Willie
with mingled respect and desire, for he was not allowed to touch them,
while of the gooseberries he was allowed to eat as many as he pleased
when they were ripe, and of the currants too, after his mother had had
as many as she wanted for preserves.
Some spots were much too shady to allow either fruit or flowers to grow
in them, so high and close were the walls. But I need not say more about
the garden now, for I shall have occasion to refer to it again and
again, and I must not tell all I know at once, else how should I make a
story of it?
Prev
| Next
| Contents
|
|
|