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
