by Unknown
“I am listening, smith,” the warper replied, without rancour. “It’s but right 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 you canna deny it. Nor will you deny that I shamed you and every other mother’s son that night. You try to hod it out o’ pity, smith, but even as 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 right that it should be so. A man may thieve or debauch or murder, and yet no be so very different frae his fellow-men, but there’s one thing he shall not do without their wanting to spit him out o’ their mouths, and that is, violate the feelings of sex.”
The strange words in which the warper described his fall had always an uncomfortable effect on those who heard him use them, and Auchterlonie could 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 to think it out. I blame none but mysel’.”
“Then you’ll have pity on Jean in her sair need,” said the smith. He read slowly the first part of the letter, but Aaron made no comment, and the 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 cushie doos?’”
Only the monotonous whirr of the mill replied.
“She says, ‘Aaron Latta, do you mind that Jean Myles was ower heavy for you 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, “make your feet your friend.”
“I’ll do so,” Auchterlonie answered, laying the letter on the webs, “but
I 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 the whirr 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 which Monypenny may be regarded as a broken piece, left behind, like the dot of quicksilver in the tube, to show how high the town once rose. Some could only rejoice at first in the down-come of Jean Myles, but most blamed the smith (and himself among them) for not taking note of her address, so that Thrums Street could be informed of it and sent to her relief. For Blinder alone believed that Aaron would be softened.
“It was twa threads the smith saw him break,” the blind man said, “and
Aaron’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 steps frae 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 at
Aaron’s end window and report.
At seven in the evening Aaron had not left his box, and the blind man’s reputation for seeing farther than those with eyes was fallen low.
“It’s a good sign,” he insisted, nevertheless. “It shows his mind’s troubled, for he usually louses at six.”
By eight the news was that Aaron had left his mill and was sitting staring 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 Latta was 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 the Auchterlonie children, each pulling the others back that he might arrive first, announced that Aaron had put on his corduroys again, and was back at the mill.
“That settles it,” was everyone’s goodnight to Blinder, but he only answered thoughtfully, “There’s a fierce fight going on, my billies.”
Next morning when his niece was shaving the blind man, the razor had to travel over a triumphant smirk which would not explain itself to womankind, Blinder being a man who could bide his time. The time came when the smith looked in to say, “Should I gang yont to Aaron’s and see if he’ll give me the puir woman’s address?”
“No, I wouldna advise that,” answered Blinder, cleverly concealing his elation, “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 at recognizing friends by their tread being proved. Sometimes he may have carried his pretensions too far. Many granted that he could tell when a doctor went by, when a lawyer, when a thatcher, when a herd, and this is conceivable, for all callings have their walk. But he was regarded as uncanny when he claimed not only to know ministers in this way, but to be able to distinguish between the steps of the different denominations.
He had made no mistake about the warper, however. Aaron was gone, and ten days elapsed before he was again seen in Thrums.
CHAPTER XII
A CHILD’S TRAGEDY
No one in Thrums ever got a word from Aaron Latta about how he spent those ten days, and Tommy and Elspeth, whom he brought back with him, also tried to be reticent, but some of the women were too clever for them. Jean and Aaron did not meet again. Her first intimation that he had come she got from Shovel, who said that a little high-shouldered man in black had been inquiring if she was dead, and was now walking up and down the street, like one waiting. She sent her children out to him, but he would not come up. He had answered Tommy roughly, but when Elspeth slipped her hand into his, he let it stay there, and he instructed her to tell Jean Myles that he would bury her in the Thrums cemetery and bring up her bairns. Jean managed once to go to the window and look down at him, and by and by he looked up and saw her. They looked long at each other, and then he turned away his head and began to walk up and down again.
At Tilliedrum the coffin was put into a hearse and thus conveyed to Monypenny, Aaron and the two children sitting on the box-seat. Someone said, “Jean Myles boasted that when she came back to Thrums it would be in her carriage and pair, and she has kept her word,” and the saying is still preserved in that Bible for weekdays of which all little places have their unwritten copy, one of the wisest of books, but nearly every text in it has cost a life.
About a score of men put on their blacks and followed the hearse from the warper’s house to the grave. Elspeth wanted to accompany Tommy, but Aaron held her back, saying, quietly, “In this part, it’s only men that go to burials, so you and me maun bide at name,” and then she cried, no one understood why, except Tommy. It was because he would see Thrums first; but he whispered to her, “I promise to keep my eyes shut and no look once,” and so faithfully did he keep his promise on the whole that the smith held him by the hand most of the way, under the impression that he was blind.
But he had opened his eyes at the grave, when a cord was put into his hand, and then he wept passionately, and on his way back to Monypenny, whether his eyes were open or shut, what he saw was his mother being shut up in a
black hole and trying for ever and ever to get out. He ran to Elspeth for comfort, but in the meantime she had learned from Blinder’s niece that graves are dark and cold, and so he found her sobbing even like himself. Tommy could never bear to see Elspeth crying, and he revealed his true self in his way of drying her tears.
“It will be so cold in that hole,” she sobbed.
“No,” he said, “it’s warm.”
“It will be dark.”
“No, it’s clear.”
“She would like to get out.”
“No, she was terrible pleased to get in.”
It was characteristic of him that he soon had Elspeth happy by arguments not one of which he believed himself; characteristic also that his own grief was soothed by the sound of them. Aaron, who was in the garret preparing their bed, had told the children that they must remain indoors to-day out of respect to their mother’s memory (tomorrow morning they could explore Thrums); but there were many things in that kitchen for them to look at and exult over. It had no commonplace ceiling, the couples, or rafters, being covered with the loose flooring of a romantic garret, and in the rafters were several great hooks, from one of which hung a ham, and Tommy remembered, with a thrill which he communicated to Elspeth, that it is the right of Thrums children to snip off the ham as much as they can remove with their finger-nails and roast it on the ribs of the fire. The chief pieces of furniture were a dresser, a corner cupboard with diamond panes, two tables, one of which stood beneath the other, but would have to come out if Aaron tried to bake, and a bed with a door. These two did not know it, but the room was full of memories of Jean Myles. The corner cupboard had been bought by Aaron at a roup because she said she would like to have one; it was she who had chosen the six cups and saucers with the blue spots on them. A razor-strop, now hard as iron, hung on a nail on the wall; it had not been used since the last time Aaron strutted through the Den with his sweetheart. One day later he had opened the door of the bird-cage, which still stood in the window, and let the yellow yite go. Many things were where no woman would have left them: clothes on the floor with the nail they had torn from the wall; on a chair a tin basin, soapy water and a flannel rag in it; horn spoons with whistles at the end of them were anywhere — on the mantelpiece, beneath the bed; there were drawers that could not be opened because their handles were inside. Perhaps the windows were closed hopelessly also, but this must be left doubtful; no one had ever tried to open them.
The garret where Tommy and Elspeth were to sleep was reached by a ladder from the hallan; when you were near the top of the ladder your head hit a trapdoor and pushed it open. At one end of the garret was the bed, and at the other end were piled sticks for firewood and curious dark-colored slabs whose smell the children disliked until Tommy said, excitedly, “Peat!” and then they sniffed reverently.
It was Tommy, too, who discovered the tree-tops of the Den, and Elspeth seeing him gazing in a transport out at the window cried, “What is it, Tommy? Quick!”
“Promise no to scream,” he replied, warningly. “Well, then, Elspeth
Sandys, that’s where the Den is!”
Elspeth blinked with awe, and anon said, wistfully, “Tommy, do you see that there? That’s where the Den is!”
“It were me what told you,” cried Tommy, jealously.
“But let me tell you, Tommy!”
“Well, then, you can tell me.”
“That there is the Den, Tommy!”
“Dagont!”
Oh, that tomorrow were here! Oh, that Shovel could see these two tomorrow!
Here is another splendid game, T. Sandys, inventor. The girl goes into the bed, the boy shuts the door on her, and imitates the sound of a train in motion. He opens the door and cries, “Tickets, please.” The girl says, “What is the name of this place?” The boy replies, “It’s Thrums!” There is more to follow, but the only two who have played the game always roared so joyously at this point that they could get no farther.
“Oh, tomorrow, come quick, quick!”
“Oh, poor Shovel!”
Tomorrow came, and with it two eager little figures rose and gulped their porridge, and set off to see Thrums. They were dressed in the black clothes Aaron Latta had bought for them in London, and they had agreed just to walk, but when they reached the door and saw the tree-tops of the Den they — they ran. Would you not like to hold them back? It is a child’s tragedy.
They went first into the Den, and the rocks were dripping wet, all the trees, save the firs, were bare, and the mud round a tiny spring pulled off one of Elspeth’s boots.
“Tommy,” she cried, quaking, “that narsty puddle can’t not be the Cuttle
Well, can it?”
“No, it ain’t,” said Tommy, quickly, but he feared it was.
“It’s c-c-colder here than London,” Elspeth said, shivering, and Tommy was shivering too, but he answered, “I’m — I’m — I’m warm.”
The Den was strangely small, and soon they were on a shabby brae where women in short gowns came to their doors and men in nightcaps sat down on the shafts of their barrows to look at Jean Myles’s bairns.
“What does yer think?” Elspeth whispered, very doubtfully.
“They’re beauties,” Tommy answered, determinedly.
Presently Elspeth cried, “Oh, Tommy, what a ugly stair! Where is the beauty stairs as is wore outside for show?”
This was one of them and Tommy knew it. “Wait till you see the west town end,” he said bravely; “it’s grand.” But when they were in the west town end, and he had to admit it, “Wait till you see the square,” he said, and when they were in the square, “Wait,” he said, huskily, “till you see the townhouse.” Alas, this was the townhouse facing them, and when they knew it, he said hurriedly, “Wait till you see the Auld Licht Kirk.”
They stood long in front of the Auld Licht Kirk, which he had sworn was bigger and lovelier than St. Paul’s, but — well, it is a different style of architecture, and had Elspeth not been there with tears in waiting, Tommy would have blubbered. “It’s — it’s littler than I thought,” he said desperately, “but — the minister, oh, what a wonderful big man he is!”
“Are you sure?” Elspeth squeaked.
“I swear he is.”
The church door opened and a gentleman came out, a little man, boyish in the back, with the eager face of those who live too quickly. But it was not at him that Tommy pointed reassuringly; it was at the monster church key, half of which protruded from his tail pocket and waggled like the hilt of a sword.
Speaking like an old residenter, Tommy explained that he had brought his sister to see the church, “She’s ta’en aback,” he said, picking out Scotch words carefully, “because it’s littler than the London kirks, but I telled her — I telled her that the preaching is better.”
This seemed to please the stranger, for he patted Tommy on the head while inquiring, “How do you know that the preaching is better?”
“Tell him, Elspeth,” replied Tommy modestly.
“There ain’t nuthin’ as Tommy don’t know,” Elspeth explained. “He knows what the minister is like too.”
“He’s a noble sight,” said Tommy.
“He can get anything from God he likes,” said Elspeth.
“He’s a terrible big man,” said Tommy.
This seemed to please the little gentleman less. “Big!” he exclaimed, irritably; “why should he be big?”
“He is big,” Elspeth almost screamed, for the minister was her last hope.
“Nonsense!” said the little gentleman. “He is — well, I am the minister.”
“You!” roared Tommy, wrathfully.
“Oh, oh, oh!” sobbed Elspeth.
For a moment the Rev. Mr. Dishart looked as if he would like to knock two little heads together, but he walked away without doing it.
“Never mind,” Tommy whispered hoarsely to Elspeth. “Never mind, Elspeth, you have me yet.”
This consolation seldom failed to gladd
en her, but her disappointment was so sharp to-day that she would not even look up.
“Come away to the cemetery, it’s grand,” he said; but still she would not be comforted.
“And I’ll let you hold my hand — as soon as we’re past the houses,” he added.
“I’ll let you hold it now,” he said eventually; but even then Elspeth cried dismally, and her sobs were hurting him more than her.
He knew all the ways of getting round Elspeth, and when next he spoke it was with a sorrowful dignity. “I didna think,” he said, “as yer wanted me never to be able to speak again; no, I didna think it, Elspeth.”
She took her hands from her face and looked at him inquiringly.
“One of the stories mamma telled me and Reddy,” he said, “were about a man what saw such a beauty thing that he was struck dumb with admiration. Struck dumb is never to be able to speak again, and I wish I had been struck dumb when you wanted it.”
“But I didn’t want it!” Elspeth cried.
“If Thrums had been one little bit beautier than it is,” he went on solemnly, “it would have struck me dumb. It would have hurt me sore, but what about that, if it pleased you!”
Then did Elspeth see what a wicked girl she had been, and when next the two were observed by the curious (it was on the cemetery road), they were once more looking cheerful. At the smallest provocation they exchanged notes of admiration, such as, “Oh, Tommy, what a bonny barrel!” or “Oh, Elspeth, I tell yer that’s a dyke, and there’s just walls in London,” but sometimes Elspeth would stoop hastily, pretending that she wanted to tie her bootlace, but really to brush away a tear, and there were moments when Tommy hung very limp. Each was trying to deceive the other for the other’s sake, and one of them was never good at deception. They saw through each other, yet kept up the chilly game, because they could think of nothing better, and perhaps the game was worth playing, for love invented it.
They sat down on their mother’s grave. No stone was ever erected to the memory of Jean Myles, but it is enough for her that she lies at home. That comfort will last her to the Judgment Day.
