I believe I went into hysterics; for the first thing I mind o’ after his saying so, was a dozen people standing round about me—some slapping at the palms o’ my hands, and others laving water on my breast and temples, until they had me as wet as if they had douked me in Pollock’s Well.
I canna tell how I stood up against this clap o’ misery. It was near getting the better o’ me. For a time I really hated the very name and the sight o’ man, and I said, as the song says, that
‘Men are a’ deceivers.’
But this was not the worst o’ it—I had lost my all, and I was now forced into the acquaintanceship of poverty and dependence. I first went to live under the roof o’ my youngest sister, who had always been my favourite; but, before six months went round, I found that she began to treat me just as though I had been a servant, ordering me to do this and do the other; and sometimes my dinner was sent ben to me into the kitchen; and the servant lassies, seeing how their mistress treated me, considered that they should be justified in doing the same—and they did the same. Many a weary time have I lain down upon my bed and wished never to rise again, for my spirit was weary o’ this world. But I put up wi’ insult after insult, until flesh and blood could endure it no longer. Then did I go to my other sister, and she hardly opened her mouth to me as I entered her house. I saw that I might gang where I liked—I wasna welcome there. Before I had been a week under her roof, I found that the herd’s dog led a lady’s life to mine. I was forced to leave her too.
And, as a sort o’ last alternative, just to keep me in existence, I began a bit shop in a neighbouring town, and took in sewing and washing; and, after I had tried them awhile, and found that they would hardly do, I commenced a bit school, at the advice of the minister’s wife, and learned bairns their letters and the catechism, and knitting and sewing. I also taught them (for they were a’ girls) how to work their samplers, and to write, and to cast accounts. But what vexed and humbled me more than all I had suffered, was, that one night, just after I had let my scholars away, an auld hedger and ditcher body, almost sixty years o’ age, came into the house, and ‘How’s a’ wi’ ye the nicht?’ says he, though I had never spoken to the man before. But he took off his bonnet, and, pulling in a chair, drew a seat to the fire. I was thunderstruck! But I was yet mair astonished and ashamed, when the auld body, sleeking down his hair and his chin, had the assurance to make love to me!
‘There is the door, sir!’ cried I. And when he didna seem willing to understand me, I gripped him by the shouthers, and showed him what I meant.
Yet quite composedly he turned round to me and said, ‘I dinna see what is the use o’ the like o’ this—it is true I am aulder than you, but you are at a time o’ life now that ye canna expect ony young man to look at ye. Therefore, ye had better think twice before ye turn me to the door. Ye will find it just as easy a life being the wife o’ a hedger as keeping a school—rather mair sae I apprehend, and mair profitable too.’ I had nae patience wi’ the man. I thought my sisters had insulted me; but this offer o’ the hedger’s wounded me mair than a’ that they had done.
‘O James Laidlaw!’ cried I, when I was left to mysel, ‘what hae ye brought me to! My sisters dinna look after me. My parting wi’ them has gien them an excuse to forget that I exist. My brother is far frae me, and he is ruled by a wife; and I hae been robbed by another o’ the little that I had. I am like a withered tree in a wilderness, standing its lane—I will fa’ and naebody will miss me. I am sick, and there are none to haud my head. My throat is parched and my lips dry, and there are none to bring me a cup o’ water. There is nae living thing that I can ca’ mine. And some day I shall be found a stiffened corpse in my bed, with no one near me to close my eyes in death or perform the last office of humanity! For I am alone—I am by myself—I am forgotten in the world; and my latter years, if I have a long life, will be a burden to strangers.’”
But Diana Darling did not so die. Her gentleness, her kindness, caused her to be beloved by many who knew not her history; and, when the last stern messenger came to call her hence, many watched with tears around her bed of death, and many more in sorrow followed her to the grave. So ran the few leaves in the diary of a spinster—and the reader will forgive our interpolations.