Upon a certain stormy day in the great northern city, preparing for
what he regarded as his career, James sat in the same large, shabbily
furnished room where his mother had once visited him—half-way up the
hideously long spiral stair of an ancient house, whose entrance was in a
narrow close. The great clock of a church in the neighbouring street had
just begun to strike five of a wintry afternoon, dark with snow, falling
and yet to fall: how often in after years was he not to hear the ghostly
call of that clock, and see that falling snow!—when a gentle tap came
to his door, and the girl I have already mentioned came in with a tray
and the materials for his most welcomed meal, coffee with bread and
butter. She set it down in a silence which was plainly that of deepest
respect, gave him one glance of devotion, and was turning to leave the
room, when he looked up from the paper he was writing, and said—
“Don’t be in such a hurry, Isy. Haven’t you time to pour out my coffee
for me?”
Isy was a small, dark, neat little thing, with finely formed features,
and a look of child-like simplicity, not altogether removed from
childishness. She answered him first with her very blue eyes full of
love and trust, then said—
“Plenty o’ time, sir. What other have I to do than see that you be at
your ease?”
He shoved aside his work, and looking up with some concentration in his
regard, pushed his chair back a little from the table, and rejoined—
“What’s the matter with you this last day or two, Isy? You’re not
altogether like yourself!”
She hesitated a moment, then answered—
“It can be naething, I suppose, sir, but just that I’m growin older and
beginnin to think aboot things.”
She stood near him. He put his arm round her little waist, and would
have drawn her down upon his knees, but she resisted.
“I don’t see what difference that can make in you all at once, Isy!
We’ve known each other so long that there can be no misunderstanding of
any sort between us. You have always behaved like the good and modest
girl you are; and I’m sure you have been most attentive to me all the
time I have been in your aunt’s house.”
He spoke in a tone of superior approval.
“It was my bare duty, and ye hae aye been kinder to me than I could hae
had ony richt to expec’. But it’s nearhan’ ower noo!” she concluded with
a sigh that indicated approaching tears, as she yielded a little to the
increased pressure of his arm.
“What makes you say that?” he returned, giving her a warm kiss, plainly
neither unwelcome nor the first.
“Dinna ye think it would be better to drop that kin’ o’ thing the noo,
sir?” she said, and would have stood erect, but he held her fast.
“Why now, more than any time—I don’t know for how long? Where does a
difference come in? What puts the notion in your pretty little head?”
“It maun come some day, and the langer the harder it’ll be!”
“But tell me what has set you thinking about it all at once?”
She burst into tears. He tried to soothe and comfort her, but in
struggling not to cry she only sobbed the worse. At last, however, she
succeeded in faltering out an explanation.
“Auntie’s been tellin me that I maun luik to my hert, so as no to tyne’t
to ye a’thegither! But it’s awa a’ready,” she went on, with a fresh
outburst, “and it’s no manner o’ use cryin til’t to come back to me. I
micht as weel cry upo’ the win’ as it blaws by me! I canna understan’
’t! I ken weel ye’ll soon be a great man, and a’ the toon crushin to
hear ye; and I ken jist as weel that I’ll hae to sit still in my seat
and luik up to ye whaur ye stan’, no daurin to say a word—no daurin
even to think a thoucht lest somebody sittin aside me should hear’t ohn
me spoken. For what would it be but clean impidence o’ me to think ’at
there was a time when I was sittin whaur I’m sittin the noo—and thinkin
’t i’ the vera kirk! I would be nearhan’ deein for shame!”
“Didn’t you ever think, Isy, that maybe I might marry you some day?”
said James jokingly, confident in the gulf between them.
“Na, no ance. I kenned better nor that! I never even wusst it, for that
would be nae freen’s wuss: ye would never get ony farther gien ye did!
I’m nane fit for a minister’s wife—nor worthy o’ bein ane! I micht
do no that ill, and pass middlin weel, in a sma’ clachan wi’ a wee bit
kirkie—but amang gran’ fowk, in a muckle toon—for that’s whaur ye’re
sure to be! Eh me, me! A’ the last week or twa I hae seen ye driftin
awa frae me, oot and oot to the great sea, whaur never a thoucht o’ Isy
would come nigh ye again;—and what for should there? Ye camna into the
warl’ to think aboot me or the likes o’ me, but to be a great preacher,
and lea’ me ahin ye, like a sheaf o’ corn ye had jist cuttit and left
unbun’!”
Here came another burst of bitter weeping, followed by words whose very
articulation was a succession of sobs.
“Eh, me, me! I doobt I hae clean disgraced mysel!” she cried at last,
and ended, wiping her eyes—in vain, for the tears would keep flowing.
As to young Blatherwick, I venture to assert that nothing vulgar or
low, still less of evil intent, was passing through his mind during this
confession; and yet what but evil was his unpitying, selfish exultation
in the fact that this simple-hearted and very pretty girl should love
him unsought, and had told him so unasked? A true-hearted man would
at once have perceived and shrunk from what he was bringing upon her:
James’s vanity only made him think it very natural, and more than
excusable in her; and while his ambition made him imagine himself so
much her superior as to exclude the least thought of marrying her, it
did not prevent him from yielding to the delight her confession caused
him, or from persuading her that there was no harm in loving one to whom
she must always be dear, whatever his future might bring with it. Isy
left the room not a little consoled, and with a new hope in possession
of her innocent imagination; leaving James exultant over his conquest,
and indulging a more definite pleasure than hitherto in the person and
devotion of the girl. As to any consciousness in him of danger to either
of them, it was no more than, on the shore, the uneasy stir of a storm
far out at sea. Had the least thought of wronging her invaded his mind,
he would have turned from it with abhorrence; yet was he endangering all
her peace without giving it one reasonable thought. He was acting with a
selfishness too much ingrained to manifest its own unlovely shape; while
in his mind lay all the time a half-conscious care to avoid making the
girl any promise.
As to her fitness for a minister’s wife, he had never asked himself a
question concerning it; but in truth she might very soon have grown far
fitter for the position than he was for that of a minister. In character
she was much beyond him; and in breeding and consciousness far more of
a lady than he of a gentleman—fine gentleman as he would fain know
himself. Her manners were immeasurably better than his, because they
were simple and aimed at nothing. Instinctively she avoided whatever,
had she done it, she would at once have recognized as uncomely. She did
not know that simplicity was the purest breeding, yet from mere truth of
nature practised it unknowing. If her words were older-fashioned, that
is, more provincial than his, at least her tone was less so, and her
utterance was prettier than if, like him, she had aped an Anglicized
mode of speech. James would, I am sure, have admired her more if she
had been dressed on Sundays in something more showy than a simple cotton
gown; and I fear that her poverty had its influence in the freedoms he
allowed himself with her.
Her aunt was a weak as well as unsuspicious woman, who had known better
days, and pitied herself because they were past and gone. She gave
herself no anxiety as to her niece’s prudence, but continued well
assured of it even while her very goodness was conspiring against her
safety. It would have required a man, not merely of greater goodness
than James, but of greater insight into the realities of life as well,
to perceive the worth and superiority of the girl who waited upon him
with a devotion far more angelic than servile; for whatever might
have seemed to savour of the latter, had love, hopeless of personal
advantage, at the root of it.
Thus things went on for a while, with a continuous strengthening of the
pleasant yet not altogether easy bonds in which Isobel walked, and
a constant increase of the attraction that drew the student to the
self-yielding girl; until the appearance of another lodger in the house
was the means of opening Blatherwick’s eyes to the state of his own
feelings, by occasioning the birth and recognition of a not unnatural
jealousy, which “gave him pause.” On Isy’s side there was not the least
occasion for this jealousy, and he knew it; but not the less he saw
that, if he did not mean to go further, here he must stop—the immediate
result of which was that he began to change a little in his behaviour
toward her, when at any time she had to enter his room in ministration
to his wants.
Of this change the poor girl was at once aware, but she attributed it
to a temporary absorption in his studies. Soon, however, she could not
doubt that not merely was his voice or his countenance changed toward
her, but that his heart had grown cold, and that he was no longer
“friends with her.” For there was another and viler element than mere
jealousy concerned in his alteration: he had become aware of a more
real danger into which he was rapidly drifting—that of irrecoverably
blasting the very dawn of his prospects by an imprudent marriage. “To
saddle himself with a wife,” as he vulgarly expressed it, before he had
gained his license—before even he had had the poorest opportunity of
distinguishing himself in that wherein lay his every hope and
ambition of proving his excellence, was a thing not for a moment to
be contemplated! And now, when Isobel asked him in sorrowful mood some
indifferent question, the uneasy knowledge that he was about to increase
her sadness made him answer her roughly—a form not unnatural to
incipient compunction: white as a ghost she stood a moment silently
staring at him, then sank on the floor senseless.
Seized with an overmastering repentance that brought back with a rush
all his tenderness, James sprang to her, lifted her in his arms, laid
her on the sofa, and lavished caresses upon her, until at length she
recovered sufficiently to know where she lay—in the false paradise of
his arms, with him kneeling over her in a passion of regret, the first
passion he had ever felt or manifested toward her, pouring into her ear
words of incoherent dismay—which, taking shape as she revived, soon
became promises and vows. Thereupon the knowledge that he had committed
himself, and the conviction that he was henceforth bound to one course
in regard to her, wherein he seemed to himself incapable of falsehood,
unhappily freed him from the self-restraint then most imperative upon
him, and his trust in his own honour became the last loop of the snare
about to entangle his and her very life. At the moment when a genuine
love would have hastened to surround the woman with bulwarks of safety,
he ceased to regard himself as his sister’s keeper. Even thus did Cain
cease to be his brother’s keeper, and so slew him.
But the vengeance on his unpremeditated treachery, for treachery,
although unpremeditated, it was none the less, came close upon its
heels. The moment that Isy left the room, weeping and pallid, conscious
that a miserable shame but waited the entrance of a reflection even now
importunate, he threw himself on the floor, writhing as in the claws of
a hundred demons. The next day but one he was to preach his first sermon
before his class, in the presence of his professor of divinity! His
immediate impulse was to rush from the house, and home hot-foot to his
mother; and it would have been well for him to have done so indeed,
confessed all, and turned his back on the church and his paltry ambition
together! But he had never been open with his mother, and he feared his
father, not knowing the tender righteousness of that father’s heart,
or the springs of love which would at once have burst open to meet the
sorrowful tale of his wretched son; and instead of fleeing at once
to his one city of refuge, he fell but to pacing the room in hopeless
bewilderment; and before long he was searching every corner of his
reviving consciousness, not indeed as yet for any justification, but
for what palliation of his “fault” might there be found; for it was the
first necessity of this self-lover to think well, or at least endurably,
of himself. Nor was it long before a multitude of sneaking arguments,
imps of Satan, began to assemble at the agonized cry of his
self-dissatisfaction—for it was nothing more.
For, in that agony of his, there was no detestation of himself because
of his humiliation of the trusting Isobel; he did not loathe his abuse
of her confidence, or his having wrapt her in the foul fire-damp of his
miserable weakness: the hour of a true and good repentance was for him
not yet come; shame only as yet possessed him, because of the failure
of his own fancied strength. If it should ever come to be known, what
contempt would not clothe him, instead of the garments of praise of
which he had dreamed all these years! The pulpit, that goal of his
ambition, that field of his imagined triumphs—the very thought of
it now for a time made him feel sick. Still, there at least lay yet a
possibility of recovery—not indeed by repentance, of which he did not
seek to lay hold, but in the chance that no one might hear a word of
what had happened! Sure he felt, that Isy would never reveal it, and
least of all to her aunt! His promise to marry Isy he would of course
keep! Neither would that be any great hardship, if only it had no
consequences. As an immediate thing, however, it was not to be thought
of! there could be at the moment no necessity for such an extreme
measure! He would wait and see! he would be guided by events! As to
the sin of the thing—how many had not fallen like him, and no one the
wiser! Never would he so offend again! and in the meantime he would let
it go, and try to forget it—in the hope that providence now, and at
length time, would bury it from all men’s sight! He would go on the same
as if the untoward thing had not so cruelly happened, had cast no such
cloud over the fair future before him! Nor were his selfish regrets
unmingled with annoyance that Isy should have yielded so easily: why had
she not aided him to resist the weakness that had wrought his undoing?
She was as much to blame as he; and for her unworthiness was he to be
left to suffer? Within an hour he had returned to the sermon under his
hand, and was revising it for the twentieth time, to perfect it before
finally committing it to memory; for so should the lie of his life
be crowned with success, and seem the thing it was not—an outcome of
extemporaneous feeling! During what remained of the two days following
he spared no labour, and at last delivered it with considerable unction,
and the feeling that he had achieved his end.
Neither of those days did Isy make her appearance in his room, her aunt
excusing her apparent neglect with the information that she was in bed
with a bad headache, while herself she supplied her place.
The next day Isy went about her work as usual, but never once looked up.
James imagined reproach in her silence, and did not venture to address
her, having, indeed, no wish to speak to her, for what was there to be
said? A cloud was between them; a great gulf seemed to divide them! He
wondered at himself, no longer conscious of her attraction, or of his
former delight in her proximity. His resolve to marry her was not yet
wavering; he fully intended to keep his promise; but he must wait the
proper time, the right opportunity for revealing to his parents the fact
of his engagement! After a few days, however, during which there had
been no return to their former familiarity, it was with a fearful kind
of relief that he learned she was gone to pay a visit to a relation in
the country. He did not care that she had gone without taking leave of
him, only wondered if she could have said anything to incriminate him.
The session came to an end while she was still absent; he took a formal
leave of her aunt, and went home to Stonecross.
His father at once felt a wider division between them than before, and
his mother was now compelled, much against her will, to acknowledge to
herself its existence. At the same time he carried himself with less
arrogance, and seemed humbled rather than uplifted by his success.
During the year that followed, he made several visits to Edinburgh, and
before long received the presentation to a living in the gift of his
father’s landlord, a certain duke who had always been friendly to the
well-to-do and unassuming tenant of one of his largest farms in the
north. But during none of these visits did he inquire or hear anything
about Isy; neither now, when, without blame he might have taken steps
toward the fulfilment of the promise which he had never ceased to regard
as binding, could he persuade himself that the right time had come for
revealing it to his parents: he knew it would be a great blow to his
mother to learn that he had so handicapped his future, and he feared the
silent face of his father at the announcement of it.
It is hardly necessary to say that he had made no attempt to establish
any correspondence with the poor girl. Indeed by this time he found
himself not unwilling to forget her, and cherished a hope that she had,
if not forgotten, at least dismissed from her mind all that had taken
place between them. Now and then in the night he would wake to a few
tender thoughts of her, but before the morning they would vanish,
and during the day he would drown any chance reminiscence of her in a
careful polishing and repolishing of his sentences, aping the style
of Chalmers or of Robert Hall, and occasionally inserting some
fine-sounding quotation; for apparent richness of composition was his
principal aim, not truth of meaning, or lucidity of utterance.
I can hardly be presumptuous in adding that, although growing in a
certain popularity with men, he was not thus growing in favour with
God. And as he continued to hear nothing about Isy, the hope at length,
bringing with it a keen shoot of pleasure, awoke in him that he was
never to hear of her more. For the praise of men, and the love of that
praise, having now restored him to his own good graces, he regarded
himself with more interest and approbation than ever; and his continued
omission of inquiry after Isy, heedless of the predicament in which
he might have placed her, was a far worse sin against her, because
deliberate, than his primary wrong to her, and it now recoiled upon him
in increased hardness of heart and self-satisfaction.
Thus in love with himself, and thereby shut out from the salvation of
love to another, he was specially in danger of falling in love with the
admiration of any woman; and thence now occurred a little episode in his
history not insignificant in its results.
He had not been more than a month or two in his parish when he was
attracted by a certain young woman in his congregation of some inborn
refinement and distinction of position, to whom he speedily became
anxious to recommend himself: he must have her approval, and, if
possible, her admiration! Therefore in his preaching, if the word
used for the lofty, simple utterance of divine messengers, may without
offence be misapplied to his paltry memorizations, his main thought was
always whether the said lady was justly appreciating the eloquence and
wisdom with which he meant to impress her—while in fact he remained
incapable of understanding how deep her natural insight penetrated both
him and his pretensions. Her probing attention, however, he so entirely
misunderstood that it gave him no small encouragement; and thus becoming
only the more eager after her good opinion, he came at length to imagine
himself heartily in love with her—a thing impossible to him with
any woman—and at last, emboldened by the fancied importance of his
position, and his own fancied distinction in it, he ventured an offer
of his feeble hand and feebler heart;—but only to have them, to his
surprise, definitely and absolutely refused. He turned from the lady’s
door a good deal disappointed, but severely mortified; and, judging it
impossible for any woman to keep silence concerning such a refusal, and
unable to endure the thought of the gossip to ensue, he began at once
to look about him for a refuge, and frankly told his patron the whole
story. It happened to suit his grace’s plans, and he came speedily to
his assistance with the offer of his native parish—whence the soutar’s
argumentative antagonist had just been removed to a place, probably not
a very distinguished one, in the kingdom of heaven; and it seemed to all
but a natural piety when James Blatherwick exchanged his parish for that
where he was born, and where his father and mother continued to occupy
the old farm.