by J. M. Barrie
CHAPTER XI
AARON LATTA
The Airlie post had dropped the letters for outlying farms at theMonypenny smithy and trudged on. The smith having wiped his hand on hishair, made a row of them, without looking at the addresses, on hiswindow-sill, where, happening to be seven in number, they were almost amodel of Monypenny, which is within hail of Thrums, but round the cornerfrom it, and so has ways of its own. With the next clang on the anvilthe middle letter fell flat, and now the likeness to Monypenny wasabsolute.
Again all the sound in the land was the melancholy sweet kink, kink,kink of the smith's hammer.
Across the road sat Dite Deuchars, the mole-catcher, a solitary figure,taking his pleasure on the dyke. Behind him was the flour-miller'sfield, and beyond it the Den, of which only some tree-tops were visible.He looked wearily east the road, but no one emerged from Thrums; helooked wearily west the road, which doubled out of sight at AaronLatta's cottage, little more than a stone's throw distant. On the insideof Aaron's window an endless procession seemed to be passing, but itwas only the warping mill going round. It was an empty day, but Dite,the accursed, was used to them; nothing ever happened where he was, butmany things as soon as he had gone.
He yawned and looked at the houses opposite. They were all of one story;the smith's had a rusty plough stowed away on its roof; under a windowstood a pew and bookboard, bought at the roup of an old church, and thustransformed into a garden-seat. There were many of them in Thrums thatyear. All the doors, except that of the smithy, were shut, until one ofthem blew ajar, when Dite knew at once, from the smell which crossed theroad, that Blinder was in the bunk pulling the teeth of his potatoes.May Ann Irons, the blind man's niece, came out at this door to beat thecistern with a bass, and she gave Dite a wag of her head. He was to bemarried to her if she could get nothing better.
By and by the Painted Lady came along the road. She was a little woman,brightly dressed, so fragile that a collie might have knocked her overwith his tail, and she had a beautiful white-and-pink face, the whiteending of a sudden in the middle of her neck, where it met skin of aduller color. As she tripped along with mincing gait, she was speakingconfidentially to herself, but when she saw Dite grinning, she seemed,first, afraid, and then sorry for herself, and then she tried to carryit off with a giggle, cocking her head impudently at him. Even then shelooked childish, and a faded guilelessness, with many pretty airs andgraces, still lingered about her, like innocent birds loath to be gonefrom the spot where their nest has been. When she had passed monotonyagain reigned, and Dite crossed to the smithy window, though none of theletters could be for him. He could read the addresses on six of them,but the seventh lay on its back, and every time he rose on his tip-toesto squint down at it, the spout pushed his bonnet over his eyes.
"Smith," he cried in at the door, "to gang hame afore I ken wha thatletter's to is more than I can do."
The smith good-naturedly brought the letter to him, and then glancing atthe address was dumfounded. "God behears," he exclaimed, with a suddenlook at the distant cemetery, "it's to Double Dykes!"
Dite also shot a look at the cemetery. "He'll never get it," he said,with mighty conviction.
The two men gazed at the cemetery for some time, and at last Ditemuttered, "Ay, ay, Double Dykes, you was aye fond o' your joke!"
"What has that to do wi' 't?" rapped out the smith, uncomfortably.
Dite shuddered. "Man," he said, "does that letter no bring Double Dykesback terrible vive again! If we was to see him climbing the cemeterydyke the now, and coming stepping down the fields in his moleskinwaistcoat wi' the pearl buttons--"
Auchterlonie stopped him with a nervous gesture.
"But it couldna be the pearl buttons," Dite added thoughtfully, "forBetty Finlayson has been wearing them to the kirk this four year. Ay,ay, Double Dykes, that puts you farther awa' again."
The smith took the letter to a neighbor's house to ask the advice of oldIrons, the blind tailor, who when he lost his sight had given himselfthe name of Blinder for bairns to play with.
"Make your mind easy, smith," was Blinder's counsel. "The letter ismeant for the Painted Lady. What's Double Dykes? It's but the name of afarm, and we gave it to Sanders because he was the farmer. He's dead,and them that's in the house now become Double Dykes in his place."
But the Painted Lady only had the house, objected Dite; Nether Drumgleywas farming the land, and so he was the real Double Dykes. True, shemight have pretended to her friends that she had the land also.
She had no friends, the smith said, and since she came to Double Dykesfrom no one could find out where, though they knew her furniture wasbought in Tilliedrum, she had never got a letter. Often, though, as shepassed his window she had keeked sideways at the letters, as bairnsmight look at parlys. If he made a tinkle with his hammer at such timesoff she went at once, for she was as easily flichtered as a field ofcrows, that take wing if you tap your pipe on the loof of your hand. Itwas true she had spoken to him once; when he suddenly saw her standingat his smiddy door, the surprise near made him fall over his brot. Shelooked so neat and ladylike that he gave his hair a respectful pullbefore he remembered the kind of woman she was.
And what was it she said to him? Dite asked eagerly.
She had pointed to the letters on the window-sill, and said she, "Oh,the dear loves!" It was a queer say, but she had a bonny English word.The English word was no doubt prideful, but it melted in the mouth likea lick of sirup. She offered him sixpence for a letter, any letter heliked, but of course he refused it. Then she prigged with him just tolet her hold one in her hands, for said she, bairnlike, "I used to getone every day." It so happened that one of the letters was to MysyBobbie; and Mysy was of so little importance that he thought there wouldbe no harm in letting the Painted Lady hold her letter, so he gave it toher, and you should have seen her dawting it with her hand and holdingit to her breast like a lassie with a pigeon. "Isn't it sweet?" shesaid, and before he could stop her she kissed it. She forgot it was noletter of hers, and made to open it, and then she fell a-trembling andsaying she durst not read it, for you never knew whether the first wordsmight not break your heart. The envelope was red where her lips hadtouched it, and yet she had an innocent look beneath the paint. When hetook the letter from her, though, she called him a low, vulgar fellowfor presuming to address a lady. She worked herself into a fury, andsaid far worse than that; a perfect guller of clarty language camepouring out of her. He had heard women curse many a time without turninga hair, but he felt wae when she did it, for she just spoke it like abairn that had been in ill company.
The smith's wife, Suphy, who had joined the company, thought that menwere easily taken in, especially smiths. She offered, however, to conveythe letter to Double Dykes. She was anxious to see the inside of thePainted Lady's house, and this would be a good opportunity. She admittedthat she had crawled to the east window of it before now, but that dourbairn of the Painted Lady's had seen her head and whipped down theblind.
Unfortunate Suphy! she could not try the window this time, as it wasbroad daylight, and the Painted Lady took the letter from her at thedoor. She returned crestfallen, and for an hour nothing happened. Themole-catcher went off to the square, saying, despondently, that nothingwould happen until he was round the corner. No sooner had he rounded thecorner than something did happen.
A girl who had left Double Dykes with a letter was walking quicklytoward Monypenny. She wore a white pinafore over a magenta frock, and noone could tell her whether she was seven or eight, for she was only thePainted Lady's child. Some boys, her natural enemies, were behind; theyhad just emerged from the Den, and she heard them before they saw her,and at once her little heart jumped and ran off with her. But the halloothat told her she was discovered checked her running. Her teeth wentinto her underlip; now her head was erect. After her came the rabblewith a rush, flinging stones that had no mark and epithets that hit.Grizel disdained to look over her shoulder. Little hunted child, wherewas succor to come from
if she could not fight for herself?
Though under the torture she would not cry out. "What's a father?" wastheir favorite jeer, because she had once innocently asked this questionof a false friend. One tried to snatch the letter from her, but sheflashed him a look that sent him to the other side of the dyke, where,he said, did she think he was afraid of her? Another strutted by herside, mimicking her in such diverting manner that presently the othershad to pick him out of the ditch. Thus Grizel moved onward defiantlyuntil she reached Monypenny, where she tossed the letter in at thesmithy door and immediately returned home. It was the letter that hadbeen sent to her mother, now sent back, because it was meant for thedead farmer after all.
The smith read Jean Myles's last letter, with a face of growing gravity."Dear Double Dykes," it said, "I send you these few scrapes to say I amdying, and you and Aaron Latta was seldom sindry, so I charge you to goto him and say to him 'Aaron Latta, it's all lies Jean Myles wrote toThrums about her grandeur, and her man died mony year back, and it wasthe only kindness he ever did her, and if she doesna die quick, her andher starving bairns will be flung out into the streets.' If that doesnamove him, say, 'Aaron Latta, do you mind yon day at Inverquharity andthe cushie doos?' likewise, 'Aaron Latta, do you mind yon day at theKaims of Airlie?' likewise, 'Aaron Latta, do you mind that Jean Myleswas ower heavy for you to lift? Oh, Aaron, you could lift me so pitifuleasy now.' And syne says you solemnly three times, 'Aaron Latta, JeanMyles is lying dying all alone in a foreign land; Aaron Latta, JeanMyles is lying dying all alone in a foreign land; Aaron Latta, JeanMyles is lying dying all alone in a foreign land.' And if he's sweer tocome, just say, 'Oh, Aaron, man, you micht; oh, Aaron, oh, Aaron, areyou coming?'"
The smith had often denounced this woman, but he never said a wordagainst her again. He stood long reflecting, and then took the letter toBlinder and read it to him.
"She doesna say, 'Oh, Aaron Latta, do you mind the Cuttle Well?'" wasthe blind man's first comment.
"She was thinking about it," said Auchterlonie.
"Ay, and he's thinking about it," said Blinder, "night and day, nightand day. What a town there'll be about that letter, smith!"
"There will. But I'm to take it to Aaron afore the news spreads. He'llnever gang to London though."
"I think he will, smith."
"I ken him well."
"Maybe I ken him better."
"You canna see the ugly mark it left on his brow."
"I can see the uglier marks it has left in his breast."
"Well, I'll take the letter; I can do no more."
When the smith opened the door of Aaron's house he let out a draught ofhot air that was glad to be gone from the warper's restless home. Theusual hallan, or passage, divided the but from the ben, and in the ben agreat revolving thing, the warping-mill, half filled the room. Betweenit and a pile of webs that obscured the light a little silent man wassitting on a box turning a handle. His shoulders were almost as high ashis ears, as if he had been caught forever in a storm, and though he wasbarely five and thirty, he had the tattered, dishonored beard of blackand white that comes to none till the glory of life has gone.
Suddenly the smith appeared round the webs. "Aaron," he said, awkwardly,"do you mind Jean Myles?"
The warper did not for a moment take his eyes off a contrivance withpirns in it that was climbing up and down the whirring mill.
"She's dead," he answered.
"She's dying," said the smith.
A thread broke, and Aaron had to rise to mend it.
"Stop the mill and listen," Auchterlonie begged him, but the warperreturned to his seat and the mill again revolved.
"This is her dying words to you," continued the smith. "Did you speak?"
"I didna, but I wish you would take your arm off the haik."
"She's loath to die without seeing you. Do you hear, man? You shalllisten to me, I tell you."
"I am listening, smith," the warper replied, without rancour. "It's butright that you should come here to take your pleasure on a shamed man."His calmness gave him a kind of dignity.
"Did I ever say you was a shamed man, Aaron?"
"Am I not?" the warper asked quietly; and Auchterlonie hung his head.
Aaron continued, still turning the handle, "You're truthful, and youcanna deny it. Nor will you deny that I shamed you and every othermother's son that night. You try to hod it out o' pity, smith, but evenas you look at me now, does the man in you no rise up against me?"
"If so," the smith answered reluctantly, "if so, it's against my will."
"It is so," said Aaron, in the same measured voice, "and it's rightthat it should be so. A man may thieve or debauch or murder, and yet nobe so very different frae his fellow-men, but there's one thing he shallnot do without their wanting to spit him out o' their mouths, and thatis, violate the feelings of sex."
The strange words in which the warper described his fall had always anuncomfortable effect on those who heard him use them, and Auchterloniecould only answer in distress, "Maybe that's what it is."
"That's what it is. I have had twal lang years sitting on this box tothink it out. I blame none but mysel'."
"Then you'll have pity on Jean in her sair need," said the smith. Heread slowly the first part of the letter, but Aaron made no comment, andthe mill had not stopped for a moment.
"She says," the smith proceeded, doggedly--"she says to say to you,'Aaron Latta, do you mind yon day at Inverquharity and the cushiedoos?'"
Only the monotonous whirr of the mill replied.
"She says, 'Aaron Latta, do you mind that Jean Myles was ower heavy foryou to lift? Oh, Aaron, you could lift me so pitiful easy now.'"
Another thread broke and the warper rose with sudden fury.
"Now that you've eased your conscience, smith," he said, fiercely, "makeyour feet your friend."
"I'll do so," Auchterlonie answered, laying the letter on the webs, "butI leave this ahint me."
"Wap it in the fire."
"If that's to be done, you do it yoursel'. Aaron, she treated you ill,but--"
"There's the door, smith."
The smith walked away, and had only gone a few steps when he heard thewhirr of the mill again. He went back to the door.
"She's dying, man!" he cried.
"Let her die!" answered Aaron.
In an hour the sensational news was through half of Thrums, of whichMonypenny may be regarded as a broken piece, left behind, like the dotof quicksilver in the tube, to show how high the town once rose. Somecould only rejoice at first in the down-come of Jean Myles, but mostblamed the smith (and himself among them) for not taking note of heraddress, so that Thrums Street could be informed of it and sent to herrelief. For Blinder alone believed that Aaron would be softened.
"It was twa threads the smith saw him break," the blind man said, "andAaron's good at his work. He'll go to London, I tell you."
"You forget, Blinders, that he was warping afore I was a dozen stepsfrae the door."
"Ay, and that just proves he hadna burned the letter, for he hadna time.If he didna do it at the first impulse, he'll no do it now."
Every little while the boys were sent along the road to look in atAaron's end window and report.
At seven in the evening Aaron had not left his box, and the blind man'sreputation for seeing farther than those with eyes was fallen low.
"It's a good sign," he insisted, nevertheless. "It shows his mind'stroubled, for he usually louses at six."
By eight the news was that Aaron had left his mill and was sittingstaring at his kitchen fire.
"He's thinking o' Inverquharity and the cushie doos," said Blinder.
"More likely," said Dite Deuchars, "he's thinking o' the Cuttle Well."
Corp Shiach clattered along the road about nine to say that Aaron Lattawas putting on his blacks as if for a journey.
At once the blind man's reputation rose on stilts. It fell flat,however, before the ten-o'clock bell rang, when three of theAuchterlonie childre
n, each pulling the others back that he might arrivefirst, announced that Aaron had put on his corduroys again, and was backat the mill.
"That settles it," was everyone's good-night to Blinder, but he onlyanswered thoughtfully, "There's a fierce fight going on, my billies."
Next morning when his niece was shaving the blind man, the razor had totravel over a triumphant smirk which would not explain itself towomankind, Blinder being a man who could bide his time. The time camewhen the smith looked in to say, "Should I gang yont to Aaron's and seeif he'll give me the puir woman's address?"
"No, I wouldna advise that," answered Blinder, cleverly concealing hiselation, "for Aaron Latta's awa' to London."
"What! How can you ken?"
"I heard him go by in the night."
"It's no possible!"
"I kent his foot."
"You're sure it was Aaron?"
Blinder did not consider the question worth answering, his sharpness atrecognizing friends by their tread being proved. Sometimes he may havecarried his pretensions too far. Many granted that he could tell when adoctor went by, when a lawyer, when a thatcher, when a herd, and this isconceivable, for all callings have their walk. But he was regarded asuncanny when he claimed not only to know ministers in this way, but tobe able to distinguish between the steps of the different denominations.
He had made no mistake about the warper, however. Aaron was gone, andten days elapsed before he was again seen in Thrums.
