in a foreign land; Aaron Latta, Jean Myles is lying dying all alone in a foreign land; Aaron Latta, Jean Myles is lying dying all alone in a foreign land.' And if he's sweer to come, just say, 'Oh, Aaron, man, you micht; oh, Aaron, oh, Aaron, are you coming?'"
The smith had often denounced this woman, but he never said a word against her again. He stood long reflecting, and then took the letter to Blinder and read it to him.
"She doesna say, 'Oh, Aaron Latta, do you mind the Cuttle Well?'" was the blind man's first comment.
"She was thinking about it," said Auchterlonie.
"Ay, and he's thinking about it," said Blinder, "night and day, night and 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'll never 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 of hot air that was glad to be gone from the warper's restless home. The usual hallan, or passage, divided the but from the ben, and in the ben a great revolving thing, the warping-mill, half filled the room. Between it and a pile of webs that obscured the light a little silent man was sitting on a box turning a handle. His shoulders were almost as high as his ears, as if he had been caught forever in a storm, and though he was barely five and thirty, he had the tattered, dishonored beard of black and 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 with pirns 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 warper returned 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 shall listen to me, I tell you."
"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.
