‘Isabel! I must go back to your old name,’ said the Dominie; ‘I cannot call you by that lad’s name. Are you another man’s wife, or are ye no?’
And then the self-sustained creature, who had resisted so many attempts to penetrate her secret, fell into a passion of sudden tears.
‘I am his wife,’ she cried, ‘but I will never see him again. Call me Isabel, or call me by my good man’s name; and ask me no more.’
Strong as the Dominie’s curiosity was, he could not persist in face of this appeal and of the tears which accompanied it; but he carried the news to Miss Catherine, who day by day became more perplexed and more anxious to know the real state of affairs. His partial success inspired the old lady. Next day she went up to the Glebe, determined to show no mercy.
‘Isabel,’ she said, solemnly, ‘it’s time, for your own sake, that your friends should know. I am not speaking of the world. You may keep silence as you please for them that’s outside, but your friends should know. I saw ye married with my own eyes; there could be nothing wrong about that?’
‘There was nothing wrong,’ said Isabel.
‘Then, my dear, tell us—tell me—what is wrong? Has he gone to America, as they all say?’
‘So far as I know,’ was the answer, spoken so low that the inquisitor could scarcely hear.
‘And do you mean to go after him, Isabel?’
A shudder ran through her frame. ‘Oh no, no—never more!’ she cried, hiding her face in her hands. If it was longing or loathing, Miss Catherine could not tell, but she thought it was the former. Whatever it is, she is fond of him still, was what she said in her heart.