by Unknown
The train by which he was to follow her did not leave until evening, and through those long hours he was picturing, with horrible vividness and pain, the progress of Grizel up and down that terrible pass. Often his shoulders shook in agony over what he saw, and he shuddered to the teeth. He would have walked round the world on his knees to save her this long anguish! And then again it was less something he saw than something he was writing, and he altered it to make it more dramatic. “I woke up.” How awful that was! but in this new scene she uttered no words. Lady Pippinworth was in his arms when they heard a little cry, so faint that a violin string makes as much moan when it snaps. In a dread silence he lit a match, and as it flared the figure of a girl was seen upon the floor. She was dead; and even as he knew that she was dead he recognized her. “Grizel!” he cried. The other woman who had lured him from his true love uttered a piercing scream and ran towards the hotel. When she returned with men and lanterns there was no one in the arbour, but there were what had been a man and a girl. They lay side by side. The startled onlookers unbared their heads. A solemn voice said, “In death not divided.”
He was not the only occupant of the hotel reading-room as he saw all this, and when his head fell forward and he groaned, the others looked up from their papers. A lady asked if he was unwell.
“I have had a great shock,” he replied in a daze, pulling his hand across his forehead.
“Something you have seen in your paper?” inquired a clergyman who had been complaining that there was no news.
“People I knew,” said Tommy, not yet certain which world he was in.
“Dead?” the lady asked sympathetically.
“I knew them well,” he said, and staggered into the fresh air.
Poor dog of a Tommy! He had been a total abstainer from sentiment, as one may say, for sixty hours, and this was his only glass. It was the nobler Tommy, sternly facing facts, who by and by stepped into the train. He even knew why he was going to Thrums. He was going to say certain things to her; and he said them to himself again and again in the train, and heard her answer. The words might vary, but they were always to the same effect.
“Grizel, I have come back!”
He saw himself say these words, as he opened her door in Gavinia’s little house. And when he had said them he bowed his head.
At his sudden appearance she started up; then she stood pale and firm.
“Why have you come back?”
“Not to ask your forgiveness,” he replied hoarsely; “not to attempt to excuse myself; not with any hope that there remains one drop of the love you once gave me so abundantly. I want only, Grizel, to put my life into your hands. I have made a sorry mess of it myself. Will you take charge of what may be left of it? You always said you were ready to help me. I have come back, Grizel, for your help. What you were once willing to do for love, will you do for pity now?”
She turned away her head, and he went nearer her. “There was always something of the mother in your love, Grizel; but for that you would never have borne with me so long. A mother, they say, can never quite forget her boy — oh, Grizel, is it true? I am the prodigal come back. Grizel, beloved, I have sinned and I am unworthy, but I am still your boy, and I have come back. Am I to be sent away?”
At the word “beloved” her arms rocked impulsively. “You must not call me that,” she said.
“Then I am to go,” he answered with a shudder, “for I must always call you that; whether I am with you or away, you shall always be beloved to me.”
“You don’t love me!” she cried. “Oh, do you love me at last!” And at that he fell upon his knees.
“Grizel, my love, my love!”
“But you don’t want to be married,” she said.
“Beloved, I have come back to ask you on my knees to be my wife.”
“That woman—”
“She was a married woman, Grizel.”
“Oh, oh, oh!”
“And now you know the worst of me. It is the whole truth at last. I don’t know why you took that terrible journey, dear Grizel, but I do know that you were sent there to save me. Oh, my love, you have done so much, will you do no more?”
And so on, till there came a time when his head was on her lap and her hand caressing it, and she was whispering to her boy to look up and see her crooked smile again.
He passed on to the wedding. All the time between seemed to be spent in his fond entreaties to hasten the longed-for day. How radiant she looked in her bridal gown! “Oh, beautiful one, are you really mine? Oh, world, pause for a moment and look at the woman who has given herself to me!”
“My wife — this is my wife!” They were in London now; he was showing her to London. How he swaggered! There was a perpetual apology on her face; it begged people to excuse him for looking so proudly at her. It was a crooked apology, and he hurried her into dark places and kissed it.
Do you see that Tommy was doing all this for Grizel and pretending to her that it was for himself? He was passionately desirous of making amends, and he was to do it in the most generous way. Perhaps he believed when he seemed to enter her room saying, “Grizel, I have come back,” that she loved him still; perhaps he knew that he did not love in the way he said; perhaps he saw a remorseful man making splendid atonement: but never should she know these things; tenderly as he had begun he would go on to the end. Here at last is a Tommy worth looking at, and he looked.
Yet as he drew near Thrums, after almost exactly two days of continuous travel, many a shiver went down his back, for he could not be sure that he should find Grizel here; he sometimes seemed to see her lying ill at some wayside station in Switzerland, in France; everything that could have happened to her he conceived, and he moved restlessly in the carriage. His mouth went dry.
“Has she come back?”
The train had stopped for the taking of tickets, and his tremulous question checked the joy of Corp at sight of him.
“She’s back,” Corp answered in an excited whisper; and oh, the relief to Tommy! “She came back by the afternoon train; but I had scarce a word wi’ her, she was so awid to be hame. ‘I am going home,’ she cried, and hurried away up the brae. Ay, and there’s one queer thing.”
“What?”
“Her luggage wasna in the van.”
Tommy could smile at that. “But what sent her,” he asked eagerly, “on that journey?”
Corp told him the little he knew. “But nobody kens except me and Gavinia,” he said. We pretend she gaed to London to see her father. We said he had wrote to her, wanting her to go to him. Gavinia said it would never do to let folk ken she had gaen to see you, and even Elspeth doesna ken.”
“Is Elspeth back?”
“They came back yesterday.”
Did David know the truth from Grizel? was what Tommy was asking himself now as he strode up the brae. But again he was in luck, for when he had explained away his abrupt return to Elspeth, and been joyfully welcomed by her, she told him that her husband had been in one of the glens all day. “He does not know that Grizel has come back,” she said. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “but you don’t even know that she has been away! Grizel has been in London.”
“Corp told me,” said Tommy.
“And did he tell you why she had gone?”
“Yes.”
“She came back an hour or two ago. Maggy Ann saw her go past. Fancy her seeing her father at last! It must have been an ordeal for her. I wonder what took place.”
“I think I had better go and ask her,” Tommy said. He was mightily relieved for Grizel’s sake. No one need ever know now what had called her away except Corp and Gavinia, and even they thought she had merely been to London. How well the little gods were managing the whole affair! As he walked to Grizel’s lodgings to say what he had been saying in the train, the thought came to him for a moment that as no one need ever know where she had been there was less reason why he should do this generous thing. But he put it from him with lofty disdain. Any effect it had was to
make him walk more firmly to his sacrifice, as if to show all ignoble impulses that they could find no home in that swelling breast He was pleased with himself, was Tommy.
“Grizel, I have come back.” He said it to the night, and bowed his head. He said it with head accompaniment to Grizel’s lighted window. He said it to himself as he reached the door. He never said it again.
For Gavinia’s first words were: “It’s you, Mr. Sandys! Wherever is she? For mercy’s sake, dinna say you’ve come without her!” And when he blinked at this, she took him roughly by the arm and cried, “Wherever’s Grizel?”
“She is here, Gavinia.”
“She’s no here.”
“I saw her light.”
“You saw my light.”
“Gavinia, you are torturing me. She came back to-day.”
“What makes you say that? You’re dreaming. She hasna come back.”
“Corp saw her come in by the afternoon train. He spoke to her.”
Gavinia shook her head incredulously. “You’re just imagining that,” she said.
“He told me. Gavinia, I must see for myself,” She stared after him as he went up the stairs. “You are very cruel, Gavinia,” he said, when he came down. “Tell me where she is.”
“May I be struck, Mr. Sandys, if I’ve seen or heard o’ her since she left this house eight days syne.” He knew she was speaking the truth. He had to lean against the door for support. “It canna be so bad as you think,” she cried in pity. “If you’re sure Corp said he saw her, she maun hae gone to the doctor’s house.”
“She is not there. But Elspeth knew she had come back. Others have seen her besides Corp. My God, Gavinia! what can have happened?”
In little more than an hour he knew what had happened. Many besides himself, David among them towards the end, were engaged in the search. And strange stories began to fly about like night-birds; you will not search for a missing woman without rousing them. Why had she gone off to London without telling anyone? Had Corp concocted that story about her father to blind them? Had she really been as far as London? Have you seen Sandys? — he’s back. It’s said Corp telegraphed to him to Switzerland that she had disappeared. It’s weel kent Corp telegraphed. Sandys came at once. He is in a terrible state. Look how white he is aneath that lamp. What garred them telegraph for him? How is it he is in sic a state? Fond o’ her, was he? Yea, yea, even after she gave him the go-by. Then it’s a weary Sabbath for him, if half they say be true. What do they say? They say she was queer when she came back. Corp doesna say that. Maybe no; but Francie Crabb does. He says he met her on the station brae and spoke to her, and she said never a word, but put up her hands like as if she feared he was to strike her. The Dundas lassies saw her frae their window, and her hands were at her ears as if she was trying to drown the sound o’ something. Do you mind o’ her mother? They say she was looking terrible like her mother.
It was only between the station and Gavinia’s house that she had been seen, but they searched far afield. Tommy, accompanied by Corp, even sought for her in the Den. Do you remember the long, lonely path between two ragged little dykes that led from the Den to the house of the Painted Lady? It was there that Grizel had lived with her mamma. The two men went down that path, which is oppressed with trees. Elsewhere the night was not dark, but, as they had known so well when they were boys, it is always dark after evenfall in the Double Dykes. That is the legacy of the Painted Lady. Presently they saw the house — scarcely the house, but a lighted window. Tommy remembered the night when as a boy, Elspeth crouching beside him, he had peered in fearfully at that corner window on Grizel and her mamma, and the shuddersome things he had seen. He shuddered at them again.
“Who lives there now?” he asked.
“Nobody. It’s toom.”
“There is a light.”
“Some going-about body. They often tak’ bilbie in toom houses, and that door is without a lock; it’s keepit close wi’ slipping a stick aneath it. Do you mind how feared we used to be at that house?”
“She was never afraid of it.”
“It was her hame.”
He meant no more than he said, but suddenly they both stopped dead.
“It’s no possible,” Corp said, as if in answer to a question. “It’s no possible,” he repeated beseechingly.
“Wait for me here, Corp.”
“I would rather come wi’ you.”
“Wait here!” Tommy said almost fiercely, and he went on alone to that little window. It had needed an effort to make him look in when he was here before, and it needed a bigger effort now. But he looked.
What light there was came from the fire, and whether she had gathered the logs or found them in the room no one ever knew. A vagrant stated afterwards that he had been in the house some days before and left his matchbox in it.
By this fire Grizel was crouching. She was comparatively tidy and neat again; the dust was gone from her boots, even. How she had managed to do it no one knows, but you remember how she loved to be neat. Her hands were extended to the blaze, and she was busy talking to herself.
His hand struck the window heavily, and she looked up and saw him. She nodded, and put her finger to her lips as a sign that he must be cautious. She had often, in the long ago, seen her mother signing thus to an imaginary face at the window — the face of the man who never came.
Tommy went into the house, and she was so pleased to see him that she quite simpered. He put his arms round her, and she lay there with a little giggle of contentment. She was in a plot of heat.
“Grizel! Oh, my God!” he said, “why do you look at me in that way?”
She passed her hand across her eyes, like one trying to think.
“I woke up,” she said at last. Corp appeared at the window now, and she pointed to him in terror. Thus had she seen her mother point, in the long ago, at faces that came there to frighten her.
“Grizel,” Tommy entreated her, “you know who I am, don’t you?”
She said his name at once, but her eyes were on the window. “They want to take me away,” she whispered.
“But you must come away, Grizel. You must come home.”
“This is home,” she said. “It is sweet.”
After much coaxing, he prevailed upon her to leave. With his arm round her, and a terrible woe on his face, he took her to the doctor’s house. She had her hands over her ears all the way. She thought the white river and the mountains and the villages and the crack of whips were marching with her still.
* * *
CHAPTER XXXI
“THE MAN WITH THE GREETIN’ EYES”
For many days she lay in a fever at the doctor’s house, seeming sometimes to know where she was, but more often not, and night after night a man with a drawn face sat watching her. They entreated, they forced him to let them take his place; but from his room he heard her moan or speak, or he thought he heard her, or he heard a terrible stillness, and he stole back to listen; they might send him away, but when they opened the door he was there, with his drawn face. And often they were glad to see him, for there were times when he alone could interpret her wild demands and soothe those staring eyes.
Once a scream startled the house. Someone had struck a match in the darkened chamber, and she thought she was in an arbour in St. Gian. They had to hold her in her bed by force at times; she had such a long way to walk before night, she said.
She would struggle into a sitting posture and put her hands over her ears.
Her great desire was not to sleep. “I should wake up,” she explained fearfully.
She took a dislike to Elspeth, and called her “Alice.”
These ravings, they said to each other, must have reference to what happened to her when she was away, and as they thought he knew no more of her wanderings than they, everyone marvelled at the intuition with which he read her thoughts. It was he who guessed that the striking of matches somehow terrified her; he who discovered that it was a horrid roaring river she thought she h
eard, and he pretended he heard it too, and persuaded her that if she lay very still it would run past. Nothing she said or did puzzled him. He read the raving of her mind, they declared admiringly, as if he held the cipher to it.
“And the cipher is his love,” Mrs. McLean said, with wet eyes. In the excitement of those days Elspeth talked much to her of Tommy’s love for Grizel, and how she had refused him, and it went round the town with embellishments. It was generally believed now that she really had gone to London to see her father, and that his heartless behaviour had unhinged her mind.
By David’s advice, Corp and Gavinia did not contradict this story. It was as good as another, he told them, and better than the truth.
But what was the truth? they asked greedily.
“Oh, that he is a noble fellow,” David replied grimly.
They knew that, but —
He would tell them no more, however, though he knew all. Tommy had made full confession to the doctor, even made himself out worse than he was, as had to be his way when he was not making himself out better.
“And I am willing to proclaim it all from the marketplace,” he said hoarsely, “if that is your wish.”
“I daresay you would almost enjoy doing that,” said David, rather cruelly.
“I daresay I should,” Tommy said, with a gulp, and went back to Grizel’s side. It was not, you may be sure, to screen him that David kept the secret; it was because he knew what many would say of Grizel if the nature of her journey were revealed. He dared not tell Elspeth, even; for think of the woe to her if she learned that it was her wonderful brother who had brought Grizel to this pass! The Elspeths of this world always have some man to devote himself to them. If the Tommies pass away, the Davids spring up. For my own part, I think Elspeth would have found some excuse for Tommy. He said so himself to the doctor, for he wanted her to be told.