nothing could have been less expected. in the beginning of may its leaves had lost something of their greenness. the plant seemed to be hesitating, but she coaxed it over the hill, and since then it had scarcely needed her hand; almost light-headedly it hurried into its summer clothes, and new buds broke out on it, like smiles, at the fascinating thought that there was to be a to-morrow. grizel's plant had never been so brave in its little life when suddenly it turned back.
that was the day on which elspeth and david were leaving for a fortnight's holiday with his relatives by the sea; for elspeth needed and was getting special devotion just now, and grizel knew why. she was glad they were going; it was well that they should not be there to ask questions if she also must set forth on a journey.
for more than a week she waited, and everything she could do for her plant she did. she watched it so carefully that she might have deceived herself into believing that it was standing still only, had there been no night-time. she thought she had not perhaps been sufficiently good, and she tried to be more ostentatiously satisfied with her lot. never had she forced herself to work quite so hard for others as in those few days, and then when she came home it had drooped a little more.
when she was quite sure that it was dying, she told corp she was going to london by that night's train. "he is ill, corp, and i must go to him."
ill! but how had he let her know?
"he has found a way," she said, with a tremulous smile. he wanted her to telegraph; but no, she would place no faith in telegrams.
at least she could telegraph to elspeth and the doctor. one of them would go.
"it is i who am going," she said quietly. "i can't wait any longer. it was a promise, corp. he loves me." they were the only words she said which suggest that there was anything strange about grizel at this time.
corp saw how determined she was when she revealed, incidentally, that she had drawn a sum of money out of the bank a week ago, "to be ready."
"what will folk say!" he cried.
"you can tell gavinia the truth when i am gone," she told him. "she will know better than you what to say to other people." and that was some comfort to him, for it put the burden of invention upon his wife. so it was corp who saw grizel off. he was in great distress himself about tommy, but he kept a courageous face for her, and his last words flung in at the carriage window were, "now dinna be down-hearted; i'm nain down-hearted mysel', for we're very sure he'll find a wy." and grizel smiled and nodded, and the train turned the bend that shuts out the little town of thrums. the town vanishes quickly, but the quarry we howked it out of stands grim and red, watching the train for many a mile.
of grizel's journey to london there are no particulars to tell. she was wearing her brown jacket and fur cap because tommy had liked them, and she sat straight and stiff all the way. she had never been in a train since she was a baby, except two or three times to tilliedrum, and she thought this was the right way to sit. always, when the train stopped, which was at long intervals, she put her head out at the window and asked if this was the train to london. every station a train stops at in the middle of the night is the infernal regions, and she shuddered to hear lost souls clanking their chains, which is what a milk-can becomes on its way to the van; but still she asked if this was the train to london. when fellow-passengers addressed her, she was very modest and cautious in her replies. sometimes a look of extraordinary happiness, of radiance, passed over her face, and may have puzzled them. it was part of the thought that, however ill he might be, she was to see him now.
she did not see him as soon as she expected, for at the door of tommy's lodgings they told her that he had departed suddenly for the continent about a week ago. he was to send an address by and by to which letters could be forwarded. was he quite well when he went away? grizel asked, shaking.
the landlady and her daughter thought he was rather peakish, but he had not complained.
he went away for his health, grizel informed them, and he was very ill now. oh, could they not tell her where he was? all she knew was that he was very ill. "i am engaged to be married to him," she said with dignity. without this strange certainty that tommy loved her at last, she could not have trod the road which faced her now. even when she had left the house, where at their suggestion she was to call to-morrow, she found herself wondering at once what he would like her to do now, and she went straight to a hotel, and had her box sent to it from the station, and she remained there all day because she thought that this was what he would like her to do. she sat bolt upright on a cane chair in her bedroom, praying to god with her eyes open; she was begging him to let tommy tell her where he was, and promising to return home at once if he did not need her.
next morning they showed her, at his lodgings, two lines in a newspaper, which said that he was ill with bronchitis at the hotel krone, bad-platten, in switzerland.
it may have been an answer to her prayer, as she thought, but we know now how the paragraph got into print. on the previous evening the landlady had met mr. pym on the ladder of an omnibus, and told him, before they could be plucked apart, of the lady who knew that mr. sandys was ill. it must be bronchitis again. pym was much troubled; he knew that the krone at bad-platten had been tommy's destination. he talked that day, and one of the company was a reporter, which accounts for the paragraph.
grizel found out how she could get to bad-platten. she left her box behind her at the cloakroom of the railway station, where i suppose it was sold years afterwards. from dover she sent a telegram to tommy, saying: "i am coming. grizel."
on entering the train at calais she had a railway journey of some thirty hours, broken by two changes only. she could speak a little french, but all the use she made of it was to ask repeatedly if she was in the right train. an english lady who travelled with her for many hours woke up now and again to notice that this quiet, prim-looking girl was always sitting erect, with her hand on her umbrella, as if ready to leave the train at any moment. the lady pointed out some of the beauties of the scenery to her, and grizel tried to listen. "i am afraid you are unhappy," her companion said at last.
"that is not why i am crying," grizel said; "i think i am crying because i am so hungry."
the stranger gave her sandwiches and claret as cold as the rivers that raced the train; and grizel told her, quite frankly, why she was going to bad-platten. she did not tell his name, only that he was ill, and that she was engaged to him, and he had sent for her. she believed it all. the lady was very sympathetic, and gave her information about the diligence by which the last part of grizel's journey must be made, and also said: "you must not neglect your meals, if only for his sake; for how can you nurse him back to health if you arrive at bad-platten ill yourself? consider his distress if he were to be told that you were in the inn, but not able to go to him."
"oh!" grizel cried, rocking her arms for the first time since she knew her plant was drooping. she promised to be very practical henceforth, so as to have strength to take her place by his side at once. it was strange that she who was so good a nurse had forgotten these things, so strange that it alarmed her, as if she feared that, without being able to check herself, she was turning into some other person.
the station where she alighted was in a hubbub of life; everyone seemed to leave the train here, and to resent the presence of all the others. they were mostly english. the men hung back, as if, now that there was business to be done in some foolish tongue, they had better leave the ladies to do it. many of them seemed prepared, if there was dissension, to disown their womankind and run for it. they looked haughty and nervous. such of them as had tried to shave in the train were boasting of it and holding handkerchiefs to their chins. the ladies were moving about in a masterful way, carrying bunches of keys. when they had done everything, the men went and stood by their sides again.
outside the station buses and carriages were innumerable, and everybody was shouting; but grizel saw that nearly all her fellow-passengers were hurrying by foot or conveyance to one spot, all desirous of being there first, and she thought it must be the place where the diligence started from, and pressed on with them. it proved to be a hotel where they all wanted the best bedroom, and many of them had telegraphed for it, and they gathered round a man in uniform and demanded that room of him; but he treated them as if they were little dogs and he was not the platter, and soon they were begging for a room on the fourth floor at the back, and swelling with triumph if they got it. the scrimmage was still going on when grizel slipped out of the hotel, having learned that the diligence would not start until the following morning. it was still early in the afternoon. how could she wait until to-morrow?
bad-platten was forty miles away. the road was pointed out to her. it began to climb at once. she was to discover that for more than thirty miles it never ceased to climb. she sat down, hesitating, on a little bridge that spanned a horrible rushing white stream. poets have sung the glories of that stream, but it sent a shiver through her. on all sides she was caged in by a ring of splendid mountains, but she did not give them one admiring glance (there is a special spot where the guide-books advise you to stop for a moment to do it); her one passionate desire was to fling out her arms and knock them over.
she had often walked twenty miles in a day, in a hill country too, without feeling tired, and there seemed no reason why she should not set off now. there were many inns on the way, she was told, where she could pass the night. there she could get the diligence next day. this would not bring her any sooner to him than if she waited here until to-morrow; but how could she sit still till to-morrow? she must be moving; she seemed to have been sitting still for an eternity. "i must not do anything rash," she told herself, carefully. "i must arrive at bad-platten able to sit down beside him the moment i have taken off my jacket—oh, without waiting to take off my jacket." she went into the hotel and ate some food, just to show herself how careful she had become. about three o'clock she set off. she had a fierce desire to get away from that heartless white stream and the crack of whips and the doleful pine woods, and at first she walked very quickly; but she never got away from them, for they marched with her. it was not that day, but the next, that grizel thought anything was marching with her. that day her head was quite clear, and she kept her promise to herself, and as soon as she felt tired she stopped for the night at a village inn. but when she awoke very early next morning she seemed to have forgotten that she was to travel the rest of the way by diligence; for, after a slight meal, she started off again on foot, and she was walking all day.
she passed through many villages so like each other that in time she thought they might be the same. there was always a monster inn whence one carriage was departing as another drove up, and there was a great stone water-tank in which women drew their washing back and forward, and there was always a big yellow dog that barked fiercely and then giggled, and at the doors of painted houses children stood. you knew they were children by their size only. the one person she spoke to that day was a child who offered her a bunch of wild flowers. no one was looking, and grizel kissed her and then hurried on.
the carriage passed and repassed her. there must have been a hundred of them, but in time they became one. no sooner had it disappeared in dust in front of her than she heard the crack of its whip behind.
it was a glorious day of sweltering sun; but she was bewildered now, and did not open the umbrella with which she had shielded her head yesterday. in the foreground was always the same white road, on both sides the same pine wood laughing with wild flowers, the same roaring white stream. from somewhere near came the tinkle of cow-bells. far away on heights, if she looked up, were villages made of match-boxes. she saw what were surely the same villages if she looked down; or the one was the reflection of the other, in the sky above or in the valley below. they stood out so vividly that they might have been within arm's reach. they were so small that she felt she could extinguish them with her umbrella. near them was the detestably picturesque castle perched upon a bracket. everywhere was that loathly waterfall. here and there were squares of cultivated land that looked like door-mats flung out upon the hillsides. the huge mountains raised their jagged heads through the snow, and were so sharp-edged that they might have been clipped out of cardboard. the sky was blue, without a flaw; but lost clouds crawled like snakes between heaven and earth. all day the sun scorched her, but the night was nipping cold.
from early morn till evening she climbed to get away from them, but they all marched with her. they waited while she slept. she woke up in an inn, and could have cried with delight because she saw nothing but bare walls. but as soon as she reached the door, there they all were, ready for her. an hour after she set off, she again reached that door; and she stopped at it to ask if this was the inn where she had passed the night. everything had turned with her. two squalls of sudden rain drenched her that day, and she forced her way through the first, but sought a covering from the second.
it was then afternoon, and she was passing through a village by a lake. since grizel's time monster hotels have trampled the village to death, and the shuddering lake reflects all day the most hideous of caravansaries flung together as with a giant shovel in one of the loveliest spots on earth. even then some of the hotels had found it out. grizel drew near to two of them, and saw wet halls full of open umbrellas which covered the floor and looked like great beetles. these buildings were too formidable, and she dragged herself past them. she came to a garden of hops and evergreens. wet chairs were standing in the deserted walks, and here and there was a little arbour. she went into one of these arbours and sat down, and soon slid to the floor.
the place was st. gian, some miles from bad-platten; but one of the umbrellas she had seen was tommy's. others belonged to mrs. jerry and lady pippinworth.
