Part 44 (1/2)

His curiosity again got the better of the doctor. ”What can you have to do at such a time?” he demanded, and her reply surprised him:

”I am to make a dress.”

”You!”

”I have made them before now,” she said indignantly.

”But at such a time!”

”It is a black dress,” she cried, ”I don't have one, I am to make it out of mamma's.”

He said nothing for some time, then ”When did you think of this?”

”I thought of it weeks ago, I bought c.r.a.pe at the corner shop to be ready, and--”

She thought he was looking at her in horror, and stopped abruptly. ”I don't care what you think,” she said.

”What I do think,” he retorted, taking up his hat, ”is, that you are a most exasperating la.s.sie. If I bide here another minute I believe you'll get round me.”

”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 to-night 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 succ.u.mb to her on the spot was what made him bl.u.s.ter as he strode off, and ”That brat of a Grizel,” or ”The Painted Lady's most unbearable la.s.sie,” 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 d.y.k.es 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 G.o.d,” Tommy gasped.

Nothing was to be heard except the shovelling of earth into the grave.