by Unknown
“I don’t want to get round you.”
“Then what makes you say such things? I question if I’ll get an hour’s sleep tonight for thinking of you!”
“I don’t want you to think of me!”
He groaned. “What could an untidy, hardened old single man like me do with you in his house?” he said. “Oh, you little limmer, to put such a thought into my head.”
“I never did!” she exclaimed, indignantly.
“It began, I do believe it began,” he sighed, “the first time I saw you easying Ballingall’s pillows.”
“What began?”
“You brat, you wilful brat, don’t pretend ignorance. You set a trap to catch me, and—”
“Oh!” cried Grizel, and she opened the door quickly. “Go away, you horrid man,” she said.
He liked her the more for this regal action, and therefore it enraged him. Sheer anxiety lest he should succumb to her on the spot was what made him bluster as he strode off, and “That brat of a Grizel,” or “The Painted Lady’s most unbearable lassie,” or “The dour little besom” was his way of referring to her in company for days, but if any one agreed with him he roared “Don’t be a fool, man, she’s a wonder, she’s a delight,” or “You have a dozen yourself, Janet, but I wouldna neifer Grizel for the lot of them.” And it was he, still denouncing her so long as he was contradicted, who persuaded the Auld Licht Minister to officiate at the funeral. Then he said to himself, “And now I wash my hands of her, I have done all that can be expected of me.” He told himself this a great many times as if it were a medicine that must be taken frequently, and Grizel heard from Tommy, with whom she had some strange conversations, that he was going about denouncing her “up hill and down dale.” But she did not care, she was so — so happy. For a hole was dug for the Painted Lady in the cemetery, just as if she had been a good woman, and Mr. Dishart conducted the service in Double Dykes before the removal of the body, nor did he say one word that could hurt Grizel, perhaps because his wife had drawn a promise from him. A large gathering of men followed the coffin, three of them because, as yon may remember, Grizel had dared them to stay away, but all the others out of sympathy with a motherless child who, as the procession started, rocked her arms in delight because her mamma was being buried respectably.
Being a woman, she could not attend the funeral, and so the chief mourner was Tommy, as you could see by the position he took at the grave, and by the white bands Grizel had sewn on his sleeves. He was looking very important, as if he had something remarkable in prospect, but little attention was given him until the cords were dropped into the grave, and a prayer offered up, when he pulled Mr. Dishart’s coat and muttered something about a paper. Those who had been making ready to depart swung round again, and the minister told him if he had anything to say to speak out.
“It’s a paper,” Tommy said, nervous yet elated, and addressing all, “that Grizel put in the coffin. She told me to tell you about it when the cords fell on the lid.”
“What sort of a paper?” asked Mr. Dishart, frowning.
“It’s — it’s a letter to God,” Tommy gasped.
Nothing was to be heard except the shovelling of earth into the grave. “Hold your spade, John,” the minister said to the gravedigger, and then even that sound stopped. “Go on,” Mr. Dishart signed to the boy.
“Grizel doesna believe her mother has much chance of getting to heaven,” Tommy said, “and she wrote the letter to God, so that when he opens the coffins on the last day he will find it and read about them.”
“About whom?” asked the stern minister.
“About Grizel’s father, for one. She doesna know his name, but the Painted Lady wore a locket wi’ a picture of him on her breast, and it’s buried wi’ her, and Grizel told God to look at it so as to know him. She thinks her mother will be damned for having her, and that it winna be fair unless God damns her father too.”
“Go on,” said Mr. Dishart.
“There was three Thrums men — I think they were gentlemen—” Tommy continued, almost blithely, “that used to visit the Painted Lady in the night time afore she took ill. They wanted Grizel to promise no to tell about their going to Double Dykes, and she promised because she was ower innocent to know what they went for — but their names are in the letter.”
A movement in the crowd was checked by the minister’s uplifted arm. “Go on,” he cried.
“She wouldna tell me who they were, because it would have been breaking her promise,” said Tommy, “but” — he looked around him inquisitively—”but they’re here at the funeral.”
The mourners were looking sideways at each other, some breathing hard, but none dared to speak before the minister. He stood for a long time in doubt, but at last he signed to John to proceed with the filling in of the grave. Contrary to custom all remained. Not until the grave was again level with the sward did Mr. Dishart speak, and then it was with a gesture that appalled his hearers. “This grave,” he said, raising his arm, “is locked till the day of judgment.”
Leaving him standing there, a threatening figure, they broke into groups and dispersed, walking slowly at first, and then fast, to tell their wives.
CHAPTER XXXII
AN ELOPEMENT
The solitary child remained at Double Dykes, awaiting the arrival of her father, for the Painted Lady’s manner of leaving the world had made such a stir that the neighbors said he must have heard of it, even though he were in London, and if he had the heart of a stone he could not desert his bairn. They argued thus among themselves, less as people who were sure of it than to escape the perplexing question, what to do with Grizel if the man never claimed her? and before her they spoke of his coming as a certainty, because it would be so obviously the best thing for her. In the meantime they overwhelmed her with offers of everything she could need, which was kindly but not essential, for after the funeral expenses had been paid (Grizel insisted on paying them herself) she had still several gold pieces, found in her mamma’s beautiful tortoise-shell purse, and there were nearly twenty pounds in the bank.
But day after day passed, and the man had not come. Perhaps he resented the Painted Lady’s ostentatious death; which, if he was nicely strung, must have jarred upon his nerves. He could hardly have acknowledged Grizel now without publicity being given to his private concerns. Or he may never have heard of the Painted Lady’s death, or if he read of it, he may not have known which painted lady in particular she was. Or he may have married, and told his wife all and she had forgiven him, which somehow, according to the plays and the novels, cuts the past adrift from a man and enables him to begin again at yesterday. Whatever the reason, Grizel’s father was in no hurry to reveal himself, and though not to her, among themselves the people talked of the probability of his not coming at all. She could not remain alone at Double Dykes, they all admitted, but where, then, should she go? No fine lady in need of a handmaid seemed to think a painted lady’s child would suit; indeed, Grizel at first sight had not the manner that attracts philanthropists. Once only did the problem approach solution; a woman in the Denhead was willing to take the child because (she expressed it) as she had seven she might as well have eight, but her man said no, he would not have his bairns fil’t. Others would have taken her cordially for a few weeks or months, had they not known that at the end of this time they would be blamed, even by themselves, if they let her go. All, in short, were eager to show her kindness if one would give her a home, but where was that one to be found?
Much of this talk came to Grizel through Tommy, and she told him in the house of Double Dykes that people need not trouble themselves about her, for she had no wish to stay with them. It was only charity they brought her; no one wanted her for herself. “It is because I am a child of shame,” she told him, dry-eyed.
He fidgeted on his chair, and asked, “What’s that?” not very honestly.
“I don’t know,” she said, “no one will tell me, but it is something you can’t love.”
/> “You have a terrible wish to be loved,” he said in wonder, and she nodded her head wistfully. “That is not what I wish for most of all, though,” she told him, and when he asked what she wished for most of all, she said, “To love somebody; oh, it would be sweet!”
To Tommy, most sympathetic of mortals, she seemed a very pathetic little figure, and tears came to his eyes as he surveyed her; he could always cry very easily.
“If it wasna for Elspeth,” he began, stammering, “I could love you, but you winna let a body do onything on the sly.”
It was a vague offer, but she understood, and became the old Grizel at once. “I don’t want you to love me,” she said indignantly; “I don’t think you know how to love.”
“Neither can you know, then,” retorted Tommy, huffily, “for there’s nobody for you to love.”
“Yes, there is,” she said, “and I do love her and she loves me.”
“But wha is she?”
“That girl.” To his amazement she pointed to her own reflection in the famous mirror the size of which had scandalized Thrums. Tommy thought this affection for herself barely respectable, but he dared not say so lest he should be put to the door. “I love her ever so much,” Grizel went on, “and she is so fond of me, she hates to see me unhappy. Don’t look so sad, dearest, darlingest,” she cried vehemently; “I love you, you know, oh, you sweet!” and with each epithet she kissed her reflection and looked defiantly at the boy.
“But you canna put your arms round her and hug her,” he pointed out triumphantly, and so he had the last word after all. Unfortunately Grizel kept this side of her, new even to Tommy, hidden from all others, and her unresponsiveness lost her many possible friends. Even Miss Ailie, who now had a dressmaker in the blue-and-white room, sitting on a bedroom chair and sewing for her life (oh, the agony — or is it the rapture? — of having to decide whether to marry in gray with beads or brown plain to the throat), even sympathetic Miss Ailie, having met with several rebuffs, said that Grizel had a most unaffectionate nature, and, “Ay, she’s hardy,” agreed the town, “but it’s better, maybe, for hersel’.” There are none so unpopular as the silent ones.
If only Miss Ailie, or others like her, could have slipped noiselessly into Double Dykes at night, they would have found Grizel’s pillow wet. But she would have heard them long before they reached the door, and jumped to the floor in terror, thinking it was her father’s step at last. For, unknown to anyone, his coming, which the town so anxiously desired, was her one dread. She had told Tommy what she should say to him if he came, and Tommy had been awed and delighted, they were such scathing things; probably, had the necessity arisen, she would have found courage to say them, but they were made up in the daytime, and at night they brought less comfort. Then she listened fearfully and longed for the morning, wild ideas coursing through her head of flying before he could seize her; but when morning came it brought other thoughts, as of the strange remarks she had heard about her mamma and herself during the past few days. To brood over these was the most unhealthy occupation she could find, but it was her only birthright. Many of the remarks came unguardedly from lips that had no desire to pain her, others fell in a rage because she would not tell what were the names in her letter to God. The words that troubled her most, perhaps, were the doctor’s, “She is a brave lass, but it must be in her blood.” They were not intended for her ears, but she heard. “What did he mean?” she asked Miss Ailie, Mrs. Dishart, and others who came to see her, and they replied awkwardly, that it had only been a doctor’s remark, of no importance to people who were well. “Then why are you crying?” she demanded, looking them full in the face with eyes there was no deceiving.
“Oh, why is everyone afraid to tell me the truth!” she would cry, beating her palms in anguish.
She walked into McQueen’s surgery and said, “Could you not cut it out?” so abruptly that he wondered what she was speaking about.
“The bad thing that is in my blood,” she explained. “Do cut it out, I sha’n’t scream. I promise not to scream.”
He sighed and answered, “If it could be cut out, lassie, I would try to do it, though it was the most dangerous of operations.”
She looked in anguish at him. “There are cleverer doctors than you, aren’t there?” she asked, and he was not offended.
“Ay, a hantle cleverer,” he told her, “but none so clever as that. God help you, bairn, if you have to do it yourself some day.”
“Can I do it myself?” she cried, brightening. “I shall do it now. Is it done with a knife?”
“With a sharper knife than a surgeon’s,” he answered, and then, regretting he had said so much, he tried to cheer her. But that he could not do. “You are afraid to tell me the truth too,” she said, and when she went away he was very sorry for her, but not so sorry as she was for herself. “When I am grown up,” she announced dolefully, to Tommy, “I shall be a bad woman, just like mamma.”
“Not if you try to be good,” he said.
“Yes, I shall. There is something in my blood that will make me bad, and
I so wanted to be good. Oh! oh! oh!”
She told him of the things she had heard people say, but though they perplexed him almost as much as her, he was not so hopeless of learning their meaning, for here was just the kind of difficulty he liked to overcome. “I’ll get it out o’ Blinder,” he said, with confidence in his ingenuity, “and then I’ll tell you what he says.” But however much he might strive to do so, Tommy could never repeat anything without giving it frills and other adornment of his own making, and Grizel knew this. “I must hear what he says myself,” she insisted.
“But he winna speak plain afore you.”
“Yes, he will, if he does not know I am there.”
The plot succeeded, though only partially, for so quick was the blind man’s sense of hearing that in the middle of the conversation he said, sharply, “Somebody’s ahint the dyke!” and he caught Grizel by the shoulder. “It’s the Painted Lady’s lassie,” he said when she screamed, and he stormed against Tommy for taking such advantage of his blindness. But to her he said, gently, “I daresay you egged him on to this, meaning well, but you maun forget most of what I’ve said, especially about being in the blood. I spoke in haste, it doesna apply to the like of you.”
“Yes, it does,” replied Grizel, and all that had been revealed to her she carried hot to the surgery, Tommy stopping at the door in as great perturbation as herself. “I know what being in the blood is now,” she said, tragically, to McQueen, “there is something about it in the Bible. I am the child of evil passions, and that means that I was born with wickedness in my blood. It is lying sleeping in me just now because I am only thirteen, and if I can prevent its waking when I am grown up I shall always be good, but a very little thing will waken it; it wants so much to be wakened, and if it is once wakened it will run all through me, and soon I shall be like mamma.”
It was all horribly clear to her, and she would not wait for words of comfort that could only obscure the truth. Accompanied by Tommy, who said nothing, but often glanced at her fascinated yet alarmed, as if expecting to see the ghastly change come over her at any moment — for he was as convinced as she, and had the livelier imagination — she returned to Monypenny to beg of Blinder to tell her one thing more. And he told her, not speaking lightly, but because his words contained a solemn warning to a girl who, he thought, might need it.
“What sort of thing would be likeliest to waken the wickedness?” she asked, holding her breath for the answer.
“Keeping company wi’ ill men,” said Blinder, gravely.
“Like the man who made mamma wicked, like my father?”
“Ay,” Blinder replied, “fly from the like of him, my lass, though it should be to the other end of the world.”
She stood quite still, with a most sorrowful face, and then ran away, ran so swiftly that when Tommy, who had lingered for a moment, came to the door she was already out of sight. Scarcely less e
xcited than she, he set off for Double Dykes, his imagination in such a blaze that he looked fearfully in the pools of the burn for a black frock. But Grizel had not drowned herself; she was standing erect in her home, like one at bay, her arms rigid, her hands clenched, and when he pushed open the door she screamed.
“Grizel,” said the distressed boy, “did you think I was him come for you?”
“Yes!”
“Maybe he’ll no come. The folk think he winna come.”
“But if he does, if he does!”
“Maybe you needna go wi’ him unless you’re willing?”
“I must, he can compel me, because he is my father. Oh! oh! oh!” She lay down on the bed, and on her eyes there slowly formed the little wells of water Tommy was to know so well in time. He stood by her side in anguish; for though his own tears came at the first call, he could never face them in others.
“Grizel,” he said impulsively, “there’s just one thing for you to do.
You have money, and you maun run away afore he comes!”
She jumped up at that. “I have thought of it,” she answered “I am always thinking about it, but how can I, oh, now can I? It would not be respectable.”
“To run away?”
“To go by myself,” said the poor girl, “and I do want to be respectable, it would be sweet.”
In some ways Tommy was as innocent as she, and her reasoning seemed to him to be sound. She was looking at him woefully, and entreaty was on her face; all at once he felt what a lonely little crittur she was, and, in a burst of manhood, —
“But, dinna prig wi’ me to go with you,” he said, struggling.
“I have not!” she answered, panting, and she had not in words, but the mute appeal was still on her face.
“Grizel,” he cried, “I’ll come!”
Then she seized his hand and pressed it to her breast, saying, “Oh,
