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CHAPTER XXIII
The next day, Isy, although very weak, was greatly better. She was,
however, too ill to get up; and Marion seemed now in her element, with two
invalids, both dear to her, to look after. She hardly knew for which to be
more grateful--her son, given helpless into her hands, unable to repel the
love she lavished upon him; or the girl whom God had taken from the very
throat of the swallowing grave. But her heart, at first bubbling over with
gladness, soon grew calmer, when she came to perceive how very ill James
was. And before long she began to fear she must part with her child, whose
lack of love hitherto made the threatened separation the more frightful to
her. She turned even from the thought of Isy's restoration, as if that were
itself an added wrong. From the occasional involuntary association of the
two in her thought, she would turn away with a sort of meek loathing. To
hold her James for one moment in the same thought with any girl less
spotless than he, was to disgrace herself!
James was indeed not only very ill, but growing slowly worse; for he lay
struggling at last in the Backbite of Conscience, who had him in her
unrelaxing jaws, and was worrying him well. Whence the holy dog came we
know, but how he got a hold of him to begin his saving torment, who shall
understand but the maker of men and of their secret, inexorable friend!
Every beginning is infinitesimal, and wrapt in the mystery of creation.
Its results only, not its modes of operation or their stages, I may venture
attempting to convey. It was the wind blowing where it listed, doing
everything and explaining nothing. That wind from the timeless and
spaceless and formless region of God's feeling and God's thought, blew open
the eyes of this man's mind so that he saw, and became aware that he saw.
It blew away the long-gathered vapours of his self-satisfaction and
conceit; it blew wide the windows of his soul, that the sweet odour of his
father's and mother's thoughts concerning him might enter; and when it
entered, he knew it for what it was; it blew back to him his own judgments
of them and their doings, and he saw those judgments side by side with his
new insights into their real thoughts and feelings; it blew away the desert
sands of his own moral dulness, indifference, and selfishness, that had so
long hidden beneath them the watersprings of his own heart, existent by
and for love and its gladness; it cleared all his conscious being, made
him understand that he had never hitherto loved his mother or his father,
or any neighbour; that he had never loved God one genuine atom, never
loved the Lord Christ, his Master, or cared in the least that he had died
for him; had never at any moment loved Isy--least of all when to himself
he pleaded in his own excuse that he had loved her. That blowing wind,
which he could not see, neither knew whence it came, and yet less whither
it was going, began to blow together his soul and those of his parents;
the love in his father and in his mother drew him; the memories of his
childhood drew him; for the heart of God himself was drawing him, as it
had been from the first, only now first he began to feel its drawing; and
as he yielded to that drawing and went nearer, God drew ever more and more
strongly; until at last--I know not, I say, how God did it, or whereby he
made the soul of James Blatherwick different from what it had been--but at
last it grew capable of loving, and did love: first, he yielded to love
because he could not help it; then he willed to love because he could
love; then, become conscious of the power, he loved the more, and so went
on to love more and more. And thus did James become what he had to become
--or perish.
But for this liberty, he had to pass through wild regions of torment and
horror; he had to become all but mad, and know it; his body, and his soul
as well, had to be parched with fever, thirst, and fear; he had to sleep
and dream lovely dreams of coolness and peace and courage; then wake and
know that all his life he had been dead, and now first was alive; that
love, new-born, was driving out the gibbering phantoms; that now indeed
it was good to be, and know others alive about him; that now life was
possible, because life was to love, and love was to live. What love was,
or how it was, he could not tell; he knew only that it was the will and
the joy of the Father and the Son.
Long ere he arrived at this, however, the falsehood and utter meanness of
his behaviour to Isy had become plain to him, bringing with it such an
overpowering self-contempt and self-loathing, that he was tempted even to
self-destruction to escape the knowledge that he was himself the very man
who had been such, and had done such things. "To know my deed, 'twere best
not know myself!" he might have said with Macbeth. But he must live on, for
how otherwise could he make any atonement? And with the thought of
reparation, and possible forgiveness and reconcilement, his old love for
Isy rushed in like a flood, grown infinitely nobler, and was uplifted at
last into a genuine self-abandoning devotion. But until this final change
arrived, his occasional paroxysms of remorse touched almost on madness, and
for some time it seemed doubtful whether his mind must not retain a
permanent tinge of insanity. He conceived a huge disgust of his office and
all its requirements; and sometimes bitterly blamed his parents for not
interfering with his choice of a profession that was certain to be his
ruin.
One day, having had no delirium for some hours, he suddenly called out as
they stood by his bed--
"Oh, mother! oh, father! why did you tempt me to such hypocrisy? Why
did you not bring me up to walk at the plough-tail? Then I should never
have had to encounter the damnable snares of the pulpit! It was that which
ruined me--the notion that I must take the minister for my pattern, and
live up to my idea of him, before even I had begun to cherish anything
real in me! It was the road royal to hypocrisy! Without that rootless,
worthless, devilish fancy, I might have been no worse than other people!
Now I am lost! Now I shall never get back to bare honesty, not to say
innocence! They are both gone for ever!"
The poor mother could only imagine it his humility that made him accuse
himself of hypocrisy, and that because he had not fulfilled to the
uttermost the smallest duty of his great office.
"Jamie, dear," she cried, laying her cheek to his, "ye maun cast yer care
upo' Him that careth for ye! He kens ye hae dene yer best--or if no yer
vera best--for wha daur say that?--ye hae at least dene what ye could!"
"Na, na!" he answered, resuming the speech of his boyhood--a far better
sign of him than his mother understood, "I ken ower muckle, and that muckle
ower weel, to lay sic a flattering unction to my sowl! It's jist as black
as the fell mirk! 'Ah, limed soul, that, struggling to be free, art more
engaged!'"
"Hoots, ye're dreamin, laddie! Ye never was engaged to onybody--at least
that ever I h'ard tell o'! But, ony gait, fash na ye aboot that! Gien it be
onything o' sic a natur that's troublin ye, yer father and me we s' get ye
clear o' 't!"
"Ay, there ye're at it again! It was you 'at laid the bird-lime! Ye aye
tuik pairt, mither, wi' the muckle deil that wad na rist till he had my
sowl in his deepest pit!"
"The Lord kens his ain: he'll see that they come throuw unscaumit!"
"The Lord disna mak ony hypocreet o' purpose doobtless; but gien a man sin
efter he has ance come to the knowledge o' the trowth, there remaineth for
him--ye ken the lave o' 't as weel as I dee mysel, mother! My only houp
lies in a doobt--a doobt, that is, whether I had ever come til a
knowledge o' the trowth--or hae yet!--Maybe no!"
"Laddie, ye're no i' yer richt min'. It's fearsome to hearken til ye!"
"It'll be waur to hear me roarin wi' the rich man i' the lowes o' hell!"
"Peter! Peter!" cried Marion, driven almost to distraction, "here's yer ain
son, puir fallow, blasphemin like ane o' the condemned! He jist gars me
creep!"
Receiving no answer, for her husband was nowhere near at the moment, she
called aloud in her desperation--
"Isy! Isy! come and see gien ye can dee onything to quaiet this ill bairn."
Isy heard, and sprang from her bed.
"Comin, mistress!" she answered; "comin this moment."
They had not met since her resurrection, as Peter always called it.
"Isy! Isy!" cried James, the moment he heard her approaching, "come and
hand the deil aff o' me!"
He had risen to his elbow, and was looking eagerly toward the door.
She entered. James threw wide his arms, and with glowing eyes clasped her
to his bosom. She made no resistance: his mother would lay it all to the
fever! He broke into wild words of love, repentance, and devotion.
"Never heed him a hair, mem; he's clean aff o' his heid!" she said in a low
voice, making no attempt to free herself from his embrace, but treating him
like a delirious child. "There maun be something aboot me, mem, that
quaiets him a bit! It's the brain, ye ken, mem! it's the het brain! We
maunna contre him! he maun hae his ain w'y for a wee!"
But such was James's behaviour to Isy that it was impossible for the mother
not to perceive that, incredible as it might seem, this must be far from
the first time they had met; and presently she fell to examining her memory
whether she herself might not have seen Isy before ever she came to
Stonecross; but she could find no answer to her inquiry, press the question
as she might. By and by, her husband came in to have his dinner, and
finding herself compelled, much against her will, to leave the two
together, she sent up Eppie to take Isy's place, with the message that she
was to go down at once. Isy obeyed, and went to the kitchen; but, perturbed
and trembling, dropped on the first chair she came to. The farmer, already
seated at the table, looked up, and anxiously regarding her, said--
"Bairn, ye're no fit to be aboot! Ye maun caw canny, or ye'll be ower the
burn yet or ever ye're safe upo' this side o' 't! Preserve's a'! ir we to
lowse ye twise in ae month?"
"Jist answer me ae queston, Isy, and I'll speir nae mair," said Marion.
"Na, na, never a queston!" interposed Peter;--"no ane afore even the
shaidow o' deith has left the hoose!--Draw ye up to the table, my bonny
bairn: this isna a time for ceremony, and there's sma' room for that ony
day!"
Finding, however, that she sat motionless, and looked far more death-like
than while in her trance, he got up, and insisted on her swallowing a
little whisky; when she revived, and glad to put herself under his nearer
protection, took the chair he had placed for her beside him, and made a
futile attempt at eating. "It's sma' won'er the puir thing hasna muckle
eppiteet," remarked Mrs. Blatherwick, "considerin the w'y yon ravin laddie
up the stair has been cairryin on til her!"
"What! Hoo's that?" questioned her husband with a start.
"But ye're no to mak onything o' that, Isy!" added her mistress.
"Never a particle, mem!" returned Isy. "I ken weel it stan's for naething
but the heat o' the burnin brain! I'm richt glaid though, that the sicht o'
me did seem to comfort him a wee!"
"Weel, I'm no sae sure!" answered Marion. "But we'll say nae mair anent
that the noo! The guidman says no; and his word's law i' this hoose."
Isy resumed her pretence of breakfast. Presently Eppie came down, and going
to her master, said--
"Here's An'ra, sir, come to speir efter the yoong minister and Isy: am I to
gar him come in?"
"Ay, and gie him his brakfast," shouted the farmer.
The old woman set a chair for her son by the door, and proceeded to attend
to him. James was left alone.
Silence again fell, and the appearance of eating was resumed, Peter being
the only one that made a reality of it. Marion was occupied with many
thinkings, specially a growing doubt and soreness about Isy. The hussy had
a secret! She had known something all the time, and had been taking
advantage of her unsuspiciousness! It would be a fine thing for her,
indeed, to get hold of the minister! but she would see him dead first! It
was too bad of the Robertsons, whom she had known so long and trusted so
much! They knew what they were doing when they passed their trash upon her!
She began to distrust ministers! What right had they to pluck brands from
the burning at the expense o' dacent fowk! It was to do evil that good
might come! She would say that to their faces! Thus she sat thinking and
glooming.
A cry of misery came from the room above. Isy started to her feet. But
Marion was up before her.
"Sit doon this minute," she commanded.
Isy hesitated.
"Sit doon this moment, I tell ye!" repeated Marion imperiously. "Ye hae no
business there! I'm gaein til 'im mysel!" And with the word she left the
room.
Peter laid down his spoon, then half rose, staring bewildered, and followed
his wife from the room.
"Oh my baby! my baby!" cried Isy, finding herself alone. "If only I had you
to take my part! It was God gave you to me, or how could I love you so? And
the mistress winna believe that even I had a bairnie! Noo she'll be sayin I
killt my bonny wee man! And yet, even for his sake, I never ance wisht ye
hadna been born! And noo, whan the father o' 'im's ill, and cryin oot for
me, they winna lat me near 'im!"
The last words left her lips in a wailing shriek.
Then first she saw that her master had reentered. Wiping her eyes
hurriedly, she turned to him with a pitiful, apologetic smile.
"Dinna be sair vext wi' me, sir: I canna help bein glaid that I had him,
and to tyne him has gien me an unco sair hert!"
She stopped, terrified: how much had he heard? she could not tell what she
might not have said! But the farmer had resumed his breakfast, and went on
eating as if she had not spoken. He had heard nearly all she said, and now
sat brooding on her words.
Isy was silent, saying in her heart--"If only he loved me, I should be
content, and desire no more! I would never even want him to say it! I would
be so good to him, and so silent, that he could not help loving me a
little!"
I wonder whether she would have been as hopeful had she known how his
mother had loved him, and how vainly she had looked for any love in return!
And when Isy vowed in her heart never to let James know that she had borne
him a son, she did not perceive that thus she would withhold the most
potent of influences for his repentance and restoration to God and his
parents. She did not see James again that night; and before she fell
asleep at last in the small hours of the morning, she had made up her mind
that, ere the same morning grew clear upon the moor, she would, as the only
thing left her to do for him, be far away from Stonecross. She would go
back to Deemouth, and again seek work at the paper-mills!
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