Chapter 19: Of the Change in Thomas

To find ways of making David propose to Elspeth, of making Elspeth willing to exchange her brother for David—they were heavy tasks, but Tommy yoked himself to them gallantly and tugged like an Arab steed in the plough. It should be almost as pleasant to us as to him to think that love was what made him do it, for he was sure he loved Grizel at last, and that the one longing of his heart was to marry her; the one marvel to him was that he had ever longed ardently for anything else. Well, as you know, she longed for it also, but she was firm in her resolve that until Elspeth was engaged Tommy should be a single man. She even made him promise not to kiss her again so long as their love had to be kept secret. “It will be so sweet to wait,” she said bravely. As we shall see presently, his efforts to put Elspeth into the hands of David were apparently of no avail, but though this would have embittered many men, it drew only to the surface some of Tommy’s noblest attributes; as he suffered in silence he became gentler, more considerate, and acquired a new command over himself. To conquer self for her sake (this is in the “Letters to a Young Man”) is the highest tribute a man can pay to a woman; it is the only real greatness, and Tommy had done it now. I could give you a score of proofs. Let us take his treatment of Aaron Latta.

One day about this time Tommy found himself alone in the house with Aaron, and had he been the old Tommy he would have waited but a moment to let Aaron decide which of them should go elsewhere. It was thus that these two, ever so uncomfortable in each other’s presence, contrived to keep the peace. Now note the change.

“Aaron,” said Tommy, in the hush that had fallen on that house since quiet Elspeth left it, “I have never thanked you in words for all that you have done for me and Elspeth.”

“Dinna do it now, then,” replied the warper, fidgeting.

“I must,” Tommy said cheerily, “I must”; and he did, while Aaron scowled.

“It was never done for you,” Aaron informed him, “nor for the father you are the marrows o’.”

“It was done for my mother,” said Tommy, reverently.

“I’m none so sure o’t,” Aaron rapped out. “I think I brocht you twa here as bairns, that the reminder of my shame should ever stand before me.”

But Tommy shook his head, and sat down sympathetically beside the warper. “You loved her, Aaron,” he said simply. “It was an undying love that made you adopt her orphan children.” A charming thought came to him. “When you brought us here,” he said, with some elation, “Elspeth used to cry at nights because our mother’s spirit did not come to us to comfort us, and I invented boyish explanations to appease her. But I have learned since why we did not see that spirit; for though it hovered round this house, its first thought was not for us, but for him who succoured us.”

He could have made it much better had he been able to revise it, but surely it was touching, and Aaron need not have said “Damn,” which was what he did say.

One knows how most men would have received so harsh an answer to such gentle words, and we can conceive how a very holy man, say a monk, would have bowed to it. Even as the monk did Tommy submit, or say rather with the meekness of a nun.

“I wish I could help you in any way, Aaron,” he said, with a sigh.

“You can,” replied Aaron, promptly, “by taking yourself off to London, and leaving Elspeth here wi’ me. I never made pretence that I wanted you, except because she wouldna come without you. Laddie and man, as weel you ken, you were aye a scunner to me.”

“And yet,” said Tommy, looking at him admiringly, “you fed and housed and educated us. Ah, Aaron, do you not see that your dislike gives me the more reason only to esteem you?” Carried away by desire to help the old man, he put his hand kindly on his shoulder. “You have never respected yourself,” he said, “since the night you and my mother parted at the Cuttle Well, and my heart bleeds to think of it. Many a year ago, by your kindness to two forlorn children, you expiated that sin, and it is blotted out from your account. Forget it, Aaron, as every other person has forgotten it, and let the spirit of Jean Myles see you tranquil once again.”

He patted Aaron affectionately; he seemed to be the older of the two.

“Tak’ your hand off my shuther,” Aaron cried fiercely.

Tommy removed his hand, but he continued to look yearningly at the warper. Another beautiful thought came to him.

“What are you looking so holy about?” asked Aaron, with misgivings.

“Aaron,” cried Tommy, suddenly inspired, “you are not always the gloomy man you pass for being. You have glorious moments still. You wake in the morning, and for a second of time you are in the heyday of your youth, and you and Jean Myles are to walk out to-night. As you sit by this fire you think you hear her hand on the latch of the door; as you pass down the street you seem to see her coming towards you. It is for a moment only, and then you are a gray-haired man again, and she has been in her grave for many a year; but you have that moment.”

Aaron rose, amazed and wrathful. “The de’il tak’ you,” he cried, “how did you find out that?”

Perhaps Tommy’s nose turned up rapturously in reply, for the best of us cannot command ourselves altogether at great moments, but when he spoke he was modest again.

“It was sympathy that told me,” he explained; “and, Aaron, if you will only believe me, it tells me also that a little of the man you were still clings to you. Come out of the moroseness in which you have enveloped yourself so long. Think what a joy it would be to Elspeth.”