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CHAPTER VII
Isy had contrived to postpone her return to her aunt until James was gone;
for she dreaded being in the house with him lest anything should lead to
the discovery of the relation between them. Soon after his departure,
however, she had to encounter the appalling fact that the dread moment was
on its way when she would no longer be able to conceal the change in her
condition. Her first and last thought was then, how to protect the good
name of her lover, and avoid involving him in the approaching ruin of her
reputation. With this in view she vowed to God and to her own soul
absolute silence with regard to the past: James's name even should never
pass her lips! Nor did she find the vow hard to keep, even when her aunt
took measures to draw her secret from her; but the dread lest in her pains
she should cry out for the comfort which James alone could give her,
almost drove her to poison, from which only the thought of his coming child
restrained her. Enabled at length only by the pure inexorability of her
hour, she passed through her sorrow and found herself still alive, with her
lips locked tight on her secret. The poor girl who was weak enough to
imperil her good name for love of a worthless man, was by that love made
strong to shield him from the consequences of her weakness. Whether in this
she did well for the world, for the truth, or for her own soul, she never
wasted a thought. In vain did her aunt ply her with questions; she felt
that to answer one of them would be to wrong him, and lose her last
righteous hold upon the man who had at least once loved her a little.
Without a gleam, without even a shadow of hope for herself, she clung,
through shame and blame, to his scathlessness as the only joy left her. He
had most likely, she thought, all but forgotten her very existence, for he
had never written to her, or made any effort to discover what had become of
her. She clung to the conviction that he could never have heard of what
had befallen her.
By and by she grew able to reflect that to remain where she was would be
the ruin of her aunt; for who would lodge in the same house with her? She
must go at once! and her longing to go, with the impossibility of even
thinking where she could go, brought her to the very verge of despair, and
it was only the thought of her child that still gave her strength enough
to live on. And to add immeasurably to her misery, she was now suddenly
possessed by the idea, which for a long time remained immovably fixed,
that, agonizing as had been her effort after silence, she had failed in
her resolve, and broken the promise she imagined she had given to James;
that she had been false to him, brought him to shame, and for ever ruined
his prospects; that she had betrayed him into the power of her aunt, and
through her to the authorities of the church! That was why she had never
heard a word from him, she thought, and she was never to see him any more!
The conviction, the seeming consciousness of all this, so grew upon her
that, one morning, when her infant was not yet a month old, she crept from
the house, and wandered out into the world, with just one shilling in a
purse forgotten in the pocket of her dress. After that, for a time, her
memory lost hold of her consciousness, and what befel her remained a
blank, refusing to be recalled.
When she began to come to herself she had no knowledge of where she had
been, or for how long her mind had been astray; all was irretrievable
confusion, crossed with cloud-like trails of blotted dreams, and vague
survivals of gratitude for bread and pieces of money. Everything she became
aware of surprised her, except the child in her arms. Her story had been
plain to every one she met, and she had received thousands of kindnesses
which her memory could not hold. At length, intentionally or not, she found
herself in a neighbourhood to which she had heard James Blatherwick refer.
Here again a dead blank stopped her backward gaze--till suddenly once more
she grew aware, and knew that she was aware, of being alone on a wide moor
in a dim night, with her hungry child, to whom she had given the last drop
of nourishment he could draw from her, wailing in her arms. Then fell upon
her a hideous despair, and unable to carry him a step farther, she dropped
him from her helpless hands into a bush, and there left him, to find, as
she thought, some milk for him. She could sometimes even remember that she
went staggering about, looking under the great stones, and into the clumps
of heather, in the hope of finding something for him to drink. At last, I
presume, she sank on the ground, and lay for a time insensible; anyhow,
when she came to herself, she searched in vain for the child, or even the
place where she had left him.
The same evening it was that Maggie came along with Andrew, and found the
baby as I have already told. All that night, and a great part of the next
day, Isy went searching about in vain, doubtless with intervals of repose
compelled by utter exhaustion. Imagining at length that she had discovered
the very spot where she left him, and not finding him, she came to the
conclusion that some wild beast had come upon the helpless thing and
carried him off. Then a gleam of water coming to her eye, she rushed to the
peat-hag whence it was reflected, and would there have drowned herself.
But she was intercepted and turned aside by a man who threw down his
flauchter-spade, and ran between her and the frightful hole. He thought
she was out of her mind, and tried to console her with the assurance that
no child left on that moor could be in other than luck's way. He gave her a
few half-pence, and directed her to the next town, with a threat of
hanging if she made a second attempt of the sort. A long time of wandering
followed, with ceaseless inquiry, and alternating disappointment and fresh
expectation; but every day something occurred that served just to keep the
life in her, and at last she reached the county-town, where she was taken
to a place of shelter.
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