CHRISTINE AND ANGUS
They did not separate, as if nothing had happened.
A sorrow we have looked in the face, can harm us no more.
Perhaps Christine was not so brave as her father thought, but she had
considered the likelihood of such a situation, and had decided that
there was no dealing with it, except in a spirit of practical life.
She knew, also, that in the long run sentiment would have to give way
to common sense, and the more intimate she became with the character
of Angus Ballister, the more certain she felt that his love for her
would have to measure itself against the pride and will of his uncle,
and the tyranny of social estimates and customs.
She was therefore not astonished that Angus had left both himself and
her untrammeled by promises. He was a young man who never went to meet
finalities, especially if there was anything unpleasant or serious in
them; and marriage was a finality full of serious consequences, even
if all its circumstances were socially proper. And what would Society
say, if Angus Ballister made a fisher-girl his wife!
"I wasna wise to hae this, or that, to do wi' the lad," she
whispered, and then after a few moments' reflection, she added, "nor
was I altogether selfish i' the matter. Neil relied on me making a
friend o' him, and Mither told me she knew my guid sense wad keep the
lad in his proper place. Weel, I hae done what was expected o' me, and
what's the end o' the matter, Christine? Ye hae a sair heart, lass,
an' if ye arena in love wi' a lad that can ne'er mak' you his wife, ye
are precariously near to it." Then she was silent, while lacing her
shoes, but when this duty was well finished, she continued, "The lad
has gien me many happy hours, and Christine will never be the one to
say, or even think, wrang o' him; we were baith in the fault--if it be
a fault--as equally in the fault, as the fiddle and the fiddlestick
are in the music. Weel, then what's to do? Duty stands high above
pleasure, an' I must gie my heart to duty, an' my hands to duty, even
if I tread pleasure underfoot in the highway in the doin' o' it."
As she made these resolutions, some strong instinctive feeling induced
her to dress herself in clean clothing from head to feet, and then add
bright touches of color, and the glint of golden ornaments to her
attire. "I hae taken a new mistress this morning," she said, as she
clasped her gold beads around her white throat--"and I'll show folk
that I'm not fretting mysel' anent the auld one." And in some
unreasoning, occult way, this fresh, bright clothing strengthened
her.
Indeed, Margot was a little astonished when she saw her daughter. Her
husband had told her in a few words just how matters now lay between
Ballister and Christine, and she was fully prepared with sympathy and
counsels for the distracted, or angry, girl she expected to meet. So
Christine's beaming face, cheerful voice, and exceptional dress
astonished her. "Lassie!" she exclaimed. "Whatna for hae you dressed
yoursel' sae early in the day?"
"I thought o' going into the toun, Mither. I require some worsted for
my knitting. I'm clean out o' all sizes."
"I was wanting you to go to the manse this morning. I am feared for
the pain in my breast, dearie, and the powders the Domine gies me for
it are gane. I dinna like to be without them."
"I'll go for them, Mither, this morning, as soon as I think the Domine
is out o' his study."
"Then I'll be contented. How are you feeling yoursel', Christine?"
"Fine, Mither!"
"'Twas a grand ploy last night. That lad, Angus Ballister, danced with
a' and sundry, and sang, and ate wi' the best, and the worst o' us. I
was hearing he was going awa' for a year or mair."
"Ay, to foreign parts. Rich young men think they arena educated unless
they get a touch o' France or Italy, and even America isna out o'
their way. You wad think a Scotch university wad be the complement o'
a Scotch gentleman!"
"Did he bid you good-by? Or is he coming here today?"
"He isna likely to ever come here again."
"What for no? He's been fain and glad to come up here. What's changed
him?"
"He isna changed. He has to go wi' his uncle."
"What did he say about marrying you? He ought to hae asked your
feyther for ye?"
"For me?"
"Ay, for you."
"Don't say such words, Mither. There was no talk of marriage between
us. What would Angus do with a girl like me for a wife?"
"You are gude enou' for any man."
"We are friends. We arena lovers. The lad has been friendly with the
hale village. You mustna think wrang o' him."
"I do think vera wrang o' him. He is just one kind o' a scoundrel."
"You hurt me, Mither. Angus is my friend. I'll think nae wrang o' him.
If he was wrang, I was wrang, and you should hae told me I was
wrang."
"I was feared o' hurting Neil's chances wi' him."
"Sae we baith had a second motive."
"Ay, few folk are moved by a single one."
"Angus came, and he went, he liked me, and I liked him, but neither o'
us will fret o'er the parting. It had to be, or it wouldn't hae been.
Them above order such things. They sort affairs better than we
could."
"I don't understand what you're up to, but I think you are acting vera
unwomanly."
"Na, na, Mither! I'll not play 'maiden all forlorn' for anyone. If
Angus can live without me, there isna a woman i' the world that can
live without Angus as weel as Christine Ruleson can. Tuts! I hae you,
Mither, and my dear feyther, and my six big brothers, and surely their
love is enough for any soul through this life; forbye, there is the
love beyond all, and higher than all, and truer than all--the love of
the Father and the Son."
"I see ye hae made up your mind to stand by Ballister. Vera weel! Do
sae! As long as he keeps himsel' in foreign pairts, he'll ne'er fret
me; but if he comes hame, he'll hae to keep a few hundred miles atween
us."
"Nonsense! We'll a' be glad to see him hame."
"Your way be it. Get your eating done wi', and then awa' to the manse,
and get me thae powders. I'm restless and feared if I have none i' the
house."
"I'll be awa' in ten minutes now. Ye ken the Domine doesna care for
seeing folk till after ten o'clock. He says he hes ither company i'
the first hours o' daybreak."
"Like enou', but he'll be fain to hear about the doings last night,
and he'll be pleased concerning Faith getting a sweetheart. I doubt if
she deserves the same."
"Mither! Dinna say that. The puir lassie!"
"Puir lassie indeed! Her feyther left her forty pounds a year, till
she married, and then the principal to do as she willed wi'. I dinna
approve o' women fretting and fearing anent naething."
"But if they hae the fret and fear, what are they to do wi' it,
Mither?"
"Fight it. Fighting is better than fearing. Weel, tak' care o'
yoursel' and mind every word that you say."
"I'm going by the cliffs on the sea road."
"That will keep you langer."
"Ay, but I'll no require to mind my words. I'll meet naebody on that
road to talk wi'."
"I would not say that much."
A suspicion at once had entered Margot's heart. "I wonder," she mused,
as she watched Christine out of sight--"I wonder if she is trysted wi'
Angus Ballister on the cliff road. Na, na, she would hae told me,
whether or no, she would hae told me."
The solitude of the sea, and of the lonely road, was good for
Christine. She was not weeping, but she had a bitter aching sense of
something lost. She thought of her love lying dead outside her heart's
shut door, and she could not help pitying both love and herself. "He
was like sunshine on my life," she sighed. "It is dark night now. All
is over. Good-by forever, Angus! Oh, Love, Love!" she cried aloud to
the sea. "Oh, you dear old troubler o' the warld! I shall never feel
young again. Weel, weel, Christine, I'll not hae ye going to meet
trouble, it isna worth the compliment. Angus may forget me, and find
some ither lass to love--weel, then, if it be so, let it be so. I'll
find the right kind o' strength for every hour o' need, and the
outcome is sure to be right. God is love. Surely that is a' I need.
I'll just leave my heartache here, the sea can carry it awa', and the
winds blow it far off"--and she began forthwith a tender little song,
that died down every few bars, but was always lifted again, until it
swelled out clear and strong, as she came in sight of the small, white
manse, standing bravely near the edge of a cliff rising sheerly seven
hundred feet above the ocean. The little old, old kirk, with its
lonely acres full of sailors' graves, was close to it, and Christine
saw that the door stood wide open, though it was yet early morning.
"It'll be a wedding, a stranger wedding," she thought. "Hame folk
wouldna be sae thoughtless, as to get wed in the morning--na, na, it
will be some stranger."
These speculations were interrupted by the Domine's calling her, and
as soon as she heard his voice, she saw him standing at the open door.
"Christine!" he cried. "Come in! Come in! I want you, lassie, very
much. I was just wishing for you."
"I am glad that I answered your wish, Sir. I would aye like to do
that, if it be His will."
"Come straight to my study, dear. You are a very godsend this
morning."
He went hurriedly into the house, and turned towards his study, and
Christine followed him. And before she crossed the threshold of the
room, she saw Angus and his Uncle Ballister, sitting at a table on
which there were books and papers.
Angus rose to meet her at once. He did it as an involuntary act. He
did not take a moment's counsel or consideration, but sprang to his
feet with the joyful cry of a delighted boy. And Christine's face
reflected the cry in a wonderful, wonderful smile. Then Angus was at
her side, he clasped her hands, he called her by her name in a tone of
love and music, he drew her closer to his side. And the elder man
smiled and looked at the Domine, who remembered then the little
ceremony he had forgotten.
So he took Christine by the hand, and led her to the stranger, and
in that moment a great change came into the countenance and manner
of the girl, while a peculiar light of satisfaction--almost of
amusement--gleamed in her splendid eyes.
"Colonel Ballister," said the Domine, "I present to you Miss Christine
Ruleson, the friend of your nephew, the beloved of the whole village
of Culraine."
"I am happy to make Miss Ruleson's acquaintance," he replied and
Christine said,
"It is a great pleasure to meet you, Sir. When you know Angus, you
wish to know the man who made Angus well worth the love he wins."
The Domine and Angus looked at the beautiful girl in utter amazement.
She spoke perfect English, in the neat, precise, pleasant manner and
intonation of the Aberdeen educated class. But something in
Christine's manner compelled their silence. She willed it, and they
obeyed her will.
"Sit down at the table with us, Christine," said the Domine. "We want
your advice;" and she had the good manners to sit down, without
affectations or apologies.
"Colonel, will you tell your own tale? There's none can do it like
you."
"It is thus, and so, Miss Ruleson. Two nights ago as I sat thinking of
Angus in Culraine, I remembered my own boyhood days in the village. I
thought of the boats, and the sailors, and the happy hours out at sea
with the nets, or the lines. I remembered how the sailors' wives
petted me, and as I grew older teased me, and sang to me. And I said
to my soul, 'We have been ungratefully neglectful, Soul, and we will
go at once, and see if any of the old playfellows are still alive.' So
here I am, and though I find by the Domine's kirk list that only three
of my day are now in Culraine, I want to do some good thing for the
place. The question is, what. Angus thinks, as my memories are all of
playtime, I might buy land for a football field, or links for a golf
club. What do you say to this idea, Miss Ruleson?"
"I can say naething in its favor, Sir. Fishers are hard-worked men;
they do not require to play hard, and call it amusement. I have heard
my father say that ball games quickly turn to gambling games. A game
of any sort would leave all the women out. Their men are little at
home, and it would be a heartache to them, if they took to spending
that little in a ball field, or on the golf links."
"Their wives might go with them, Christine," said Angus.
"They would require to leave many home duties, if they did so. It
would not be right--our women would not do it. Once I was at St.
Andrews, and I wanted to go to the golf links with my father, but the
good woman with whom we were visiting said: 'James Ruleson, go to the
links if so be you want to go, but you'll no daur to tak' this young
lassie there. The language on the links is just awfu'. It isna fit for
a decent lass to hear. No, Sir, golf links would be of no use to the
women, and their value is very uncertain to men.'"
"Women's presence would doubtless make men more careful in their
language," said Angus.
"Weel, Angus, it would be doing what my Mither ca's 'letting the price
o'er-gang the profit.'"
"Miss Ruleson's objections are good and valid, and we admit them,"
said the Colonel; "perhaps she will now give us some idea we can
work out"--and when he looked at her for response, he caught his
breath at the beauty and sweetness of the face before him. "What are
you thinking of?" he asked, almost with an air of humility, for the
visible presence of goodness and beauty could hardly have affected
him more. And Christine answered softly: "I was thinking of the
little children." And the three men felt ashamed, and were silent.
"I was thinking of the little children," she continued, "how they
have neither schoolhouse, nor playhouse. They must go to the town,
if they go to school; and there is the bad weather, and sickness,
and busy mothers, and want of clothing and books, and shoes, and
slates, and the like. Our boys and girls get at the Sunday School
all the learning they have. The poor children. They have hard times
in a fishing-village."
"You have given us the best of advice, Miss Ruleson, and we will
gladly follow it," said the Colonel. "I am sure you are right. I will
build a good schoolhouse in Culraine. I will begin it at once. It
shall be well supplied with books and maps, and I will pay a good
teacher."
"Not a man teacher, Sir. They have small patience with little
children. They will use the taws on baby hands, that cannot make a 'k'
or a 'z' at first sight. Give them a woman teacher, who will not be
afraid of the bairnies snuggling into her arms, and telling her all
their little troubles."
"Domine," said the Colonel, "we have received our orders. What say
you?"
"I say a school, by all means, Sir. To the children of Culraine it
will be a dispensation."
"First, we must have land for it."
"I was thinking, as you spoke, of James Ruleson's land. It lies at
the foot of his hill, and would be the very best location for a
schoolhouse."
"Then we will see James Ruleson."
"Father is line-fishing now. He will not be home until five o'clock,"
said Christine.
"If possible, we will see him after five. Come, Domine, let us have a
look through the old kirk."
"I saw it standing open," said Christine, "and I was thinking there
might be a strange wedding there today."
"No, no, Christine. It was opened for the Colonel, though there are no
Ballister effigies in it. If it was an old English kirk, there would
be knights and crusaders, and soldiers lying there, in stone state. We
do not like images in our kirks. The second command stands clean
against it. Come with us, Christine, and when we return I will give
you the medicine your mother requires."
So the Domine and the Colonel led the way, and Angus and Christine
followed. And when they reached the kirkyard, Angus said, "Stand here
a moment, you dear, dear girl, and tell me how you could talk to my
uncle in the high English of Aberdeen. It was beautiful! How did you
acquire it?"
"Through long years of practice, Angus. I heard all Neil's lessons,
and I always spoke the English, when I was with Neil. He didna like me
to speak Scotch, because he was feared of spoiling his English. It was
our home secret, for it would have been a great offense, if I had
used English in the village. You can see that."
"Yes, of course."
"They dinna mind the Domine speaking English, yet if he particularly
wants them to do anything, he is maist sure to drop into the most
familiar Scotch."
"Neil must have had great influence over you, Christine," and Angus
said the words disagreeably. He was feeling jealous of any influences
but his own controlling Christine.
"Ay, I always did what he told me to do. Step softly, Angus. The
Domine is talking."
When they reached the Domine's side, they found him turning the leaves
of a very old Bible. "You see, Colonel," he said, "my father gave me
The Book when I first came here. My ancestors have preached from it
since A.D. 1616. It came to me through a long succession of good men.
It has been my close, personal friend ever since. The finest Bible in
Scotland could not take its place. There are pages in it that have
been luminous to me. I have seen the glory shining out of the black
letters. There are pages in it so sensitive to me that I feel a
special spiritual emanation from them. I will be glad of a new cushion
for The Book, for the one on which it now lies is worn and shabby, and
that ought not to be."
"Then I cannot give you a new Bible, even for the church."
"Impossible! I could not preach from a new Bible. Colonel, it is not
a book, it is a friend. We have secrets together. I have promises from
it, that are yet owing me. It holds our confidences for thirty years.
Sometimes I think it really speaks to me. Sometimes a glory seems to
shine over the page I am reading, and my soul is so happy, that my
tongue speaks aloud joyfully the shining words that have been given
me."
"I would not separate you from such a Bible, Sir."
"I shall be grateful if you give me a new cushion for it. Nothing is
too good for The Book."
Then they stood looking thoughtfully over the bare place. It had an
old, past look. It was plain and moldy, and needed repairing in every
way. The Colonel made a note of what was required in the nave of the
kirk, and then glanced upward. The gallery appeared to be in still
worse condition, but in front of it there was a wonderfully beautiful
model of a full-rigged ship.
"Ah!" exclaimed the Colonel, "a ship instead of a clock! Is that
right, Sir?"
"Quite. I put it there. It was made by a sailor lad born in Culraine,
who came here to die. Long, painful, hopeless days were soothed by the
fashioning of that miniature ship. All the village watched its
progress, all felt an interest in the dying lad. He finished it on the
eve of his death. Young and old came to bid him good-by, and to see
his white, trembling hands dress the topmost spar, and fly the blue
Peter. 'I am just about to sail,' he said, 'sae I'll up wi' the blue
Peter. That means I'm ready to go. Let her carry it till I'm safely
hame.' I put a new Peter on the top-mast last year," said the Domine,
and his eyes filled with tears, as he looked steadfastly at the
emblem.
"We seem to expect a clock in the front of the gallery, Sir. Can a
ship take its place?"
"Nothing, nothing, could be more appropriate. The favorite image of
the church in all ages has been a ship, or a boat. The first preaching
was connected with a ship, for while Noah builded the ark, he preached
repentance. The holiest object of the Jewish tabernacle was the ark,
made like a boat. All Christ's known life is associated with boats.
The favorite image of the early persecuted church was a boat beaten by
the winds and waves, and our own churches preserve everywhere this
world-wide idea, by calling the body of the church the nave, from
navis, a ship."
"That is very interesting information, Sir," said Angus.
"You are going to Venice, Ballister; you will find many of the oldest
churches in Venice built in the shape of a ship; and near Lisbon there
is a chapel of marble, with pillars like masts, and its sails and
cordage carved on the walls. Is not this life a voyage to the eternal
shores, and what could typify our safety better than a ship with
Christ for the captain of our salvation? You see, I will still be
preaching. I make no excuse."
"None is necessary. We are glad to listen."
"Come now, Christine, and I will give you medicine for your mother.
Gentlemen, in a few minutes I will return here."
When they were alone the Domine said: "Christine, you did wisely, and
your speech was correct and beautiful, but I would advise you to keep
your English for special occasions."
"Sir, not even my father and mother know I can drop the Scotch. When
the time comes to tell them, I----"
"Yes, yes. And the villagers? It might be an offense."
"You are right, Sir."
"You speak as if you had learned to speak at the Maraschal."
"Yes, sir. I learned it from Neil. We always talked it together, for
Neil hated the dialect, and I made a bargain wi' him. I promised to
talk as he taught me, if he would keep the circumstance from everyone.
He said he would, and he has stood by his promise. Sae have I, but I
hae been talking English nearly five years now."
"You wonderful woman! Then this morning you gave yourself away."
"I wanted to do it--I couldna resist the want. And it was only to you,
and the twa Ballisters. Nane o' you three will go blabbing. Anyway,
when Neil leaves the Maraschal, he will care little how I talk. He'll
hae finer folk than Christine, to crack and claver wi'."
"He will not find finer folk easily. Now run home as quickly as you
can, and prepare your father and mother for the Ballister visit. I
will come with him, and ask your mother to have a cup of tea by the
fire for us."
"Will Angus be wi' ye, Sir?"
"No, he will not."
"Why?"
"Because I am going to send him to the factor's, and also to Lawyer
Semple's. You need not be looking for him. Try and leave well alone.
It is hard to make well better, and it is very easy to make it worse.
If you hurry a little, I think you may be home by twelve o'clock."
So Christine hurried a little, and reached home by the noon hour. Her
dinner was ready, and her father very unexpectedly was sitting by the
fireside.
"Feyther," she said, "I hope you arena sick," and then she smiled at
the inquiry, for his broad, rosy face was the very picture of robust
health.
"Sick! Na, na, lassie! I'm weel enou', but Norman was feeling badly.
His arm hurts him sairly, and I was noticing that the fish had gane to
deep waters. We'll hae a storm before long."
Then Christine served the dinner waiting for her, and while they were
eating, she told the great news of a school for Culraine. Ruleson was
quickly enthusiastic. Margot, out of pure contradiction, deplored the
innovation.
The walk to the toun, she said, was gude for the childer. If they were
too tired to learn after it, it showed that learning was beyond their
capabilities, and that they would be better making themsel's usefu' at
hame. And what were women with large families to do without their big
lads to bring water to wash wi', and their half-grown lasses to tak'
care o' the babies, and help wi' the cooking and cleaning?
"But, Margot," said Ruleson, "think o' the outcome for the
childer----Think o'----"
"Ye dinna require to tell me the outcome. As soon as the childer get
what they ca' an education, they hurry awa' to some big city, or
foreign country, and that's the end o' them. Settle a school here, and
I'll tell you the plain result--in a few years we'll hae neither lads
nor boats, and the lasses now growing up will hae to go to Largo, or
to some unkent place for husbands. Gie our lads books, and you'll
ne'er get them into the boats. That's a fact! I'm tellin' you!"
Between Margot and Christine the argument continued all afternoon, but
Ruleson went to the foot of the hill, and looked at the land proposed
for the site of the future school. He was glad that it was his land,
and he was so much of a natural poet that he could see the white
building, and the boys and girls trooping in and out of its wide
doors. And the vision of the children playing together there was so
clear to his imagination, that he carefully stepped off the acres he
supposed would give them sufficient room for their games; and then
shutting his eyes that he might see better, he decided that it was too
small, and so stepped off another acre.
"I'll ne'er scrimp the childer, God bless them!" he thought, "for it
will be a happy day to James Ruleson, when he sees them runnin' to
these acres wi' books and balls in their hands."
Then he went home, and Margot said something about his Sunday claes,
but James did not heed her. He put on a clean shirt, and a suit of
blue flannel. His shirt was open at the throat, his feet were in boots
that reached nearly to his knees. But he had a grandly satisfied look,
and the beautiful courtesy of men who as a rule think only good of
their neighbors, and do only good to them.
Margot, like Christine, was in her fisher-costume, with little
accentuations in Christine's case; but Margot was the very mate for
the splendid man she called "her man." Scotch, from head to feet,
douce and domestic, yet cleverer than James, though obedient to him--a
good woman, fit for the work of this world, and not forgetful
concerning a better one.
Keeping in mind the Domine's directions about a cup of tea, Christine
laid the table with their best linen and china, and though no
difference was made in the food provided, Christine saw that it was
well cooked. After all, it was quite an event for James Ruleson, and
in the outcome of it he expected to realize one of the greatest
pleasures that could come to him.
About five o'clock the Domine and Ballister arrived. They entered a
room full of the feeling of home. It was clean, and white as a snow
drift, and there was a bright fire blazing on the hearth. The covered
table with its knives and forks and spoons, and its gilt rimmed
teacups, was in itself a symbol of hospitality. The Domine looked at
it, and then said, "Margot, you are baking sea trout. I told you never
to do that again, when I was coming, unless you intended asking me to
help in the eating of it."
"Today, they were cooked special for you, Sir, and I hope you will hae
the good will to pleasure me in the eating o' them."
"Certainly, Margot, certainly! I could not resist your invitation."
Hearing these words, Ruleson rose, and said, "Colonel, if you will
join the Domine at the meal God has gi'en us, James Ruleson will
gladly break bread with you."
After these preliminaries, Christine served the meal, and then waited
on her parents and their guests. They ate the fish with great
enjoyment. It was to the Colonel a gastronomical discovery. No
anchovy, no sauces of any kind, just the delicate fish, baked with a
few slices of Ayrshire ham, and served with potatoes boiled in their
jackets so skillfully that the jackets dropped from them when
touched. It was a dish pure and simple, and captivated every palate.
Nothing more was needed that Christine's quiet service and the
animated conversation did not supply. As to Margot, she was kept busy
filling small cups with that superexcellent tea we get in Scotland,
and find it next to impossible to get anywhere else.
After the fish was fully eaten, Christine--almost without notice--cleared
the table, and brought on a rice pudding, and a large pitcher of
cream. The men ate the whole of it. Perhaps they did so unconsciously,
for they were talking about the school in an enthusiastic manner, while
it was disappearing. Then James Ruleson lit his pipe, and the Colonel
his cigar, and they sat down at the fireside. The Domine, with a smile
of perfect happiness, sat between them, and every remnant of dinner
silently disappeared.
During the hour following the Domine drafted the principal items to be
discussed and provided for, and it was further resolved to call a
village meeting in the Fishers' Hall, for the next evening. Then the
Colonel's carriage was waiting, and he rose, but really with some
reluctance. He cast his eyes over the comfortable room, and looked
with admiration on the good man who called it home, on the bright,
cheery woman, whose love made it worth the name, and on the girl who
filled it with her beauty; and he said to Margot, "Mrs. Ruleson, I
have eaten today the very best of dinners. I enjoyed every mouthful
of it."
"Indeed, the dinner was good, Colonel; and we were proud and glad o'
your company."
"And you will meet us in the Hall tomorrow night, and bring all the
women you can with you?"
"I'll do my best, Sir, but our women are a dour lot. They lay out
their ain way, and then mak' the taking o' it a point o' duty."
And all the way to Ballister House the Colonel wondered about his
dinner--no flowers on the table, no napkins, no finger bowls, no
courses, no condiments or pickles, no wine, not even a thimbleful of
whiskey, nothing but excellently cooked fresh fish and potatoes, a
good cup of tea with it, and then a rice pudding and plenty of cream.
"Wonderful!" he ejaculated. "Upon my word, things are more evenly
balanced than we think. I know noblemen and millionaires that are far
from being as happy, or as well fed, as Ruleson's family."
The next morning the bellman went through the village calling men and
women together at half-past seven, in the Fishers' Hall; and there was
great excitement about the matter. Even the boys and girls here took a
noisy part in the discussion, for and against, the argument in this
class being overwhelmingly in favor of the school.
Among the adults, opinion was also divided. There were lazy mothers
who could not do without their girls' help, and greedy fathers who
expected their little lads to make, or at least save them a few
shillings a week; and Christine feared the gift would be ungraciously
taken. Ruleson had a long talk with big Peter Brodie, and Peter told
him not to fash himsel' anent a lot o' ignorant women and men folk. If
they were such fools, as not to ken a blessing when it was put into
their vera hands, they ought to be made to understand the fact; and
with a peculiar smile he intimated that he would take great
satisfaction in gieing them as many lessons as they required.
The meeting was, however, crowded, and when the Colonel and the Domine
stepped on the platform, the audience were just in the mood to give
them a rousing cheer. It opened the Domine's mouth, and he said:
"Friends, I have great and good news for you. Colonel Ballister is
going to build us a school of our own. We shall want some of you as
Trustees, and others will have to form an executive board. We are
going to have a women's board as well. The men's board will look after
the management of the school. The women's board will look after the
bairns, and see that they get fair play in every respect. A women's
board will be a new thing, but Culraine is not afraid of new ways, if
they be better ways." Then he went into particulars, which we need not
do, and concluded by telling them that James Ruleson had given land
both for the school and the playground, and that it was hoped James'
approval would stand for many, and much. "We will now take the vote
of both men and women for, or against, the school."
Then a man in the center of the crowded hall stood up. It was Peter
Brodie.
"Gentlemen," he said, "a vote is outside necessity. We dinna vote as
to whether we want sunshine, or fish, or bread. We are sure o' the
matter. The school is mental bread and meat and sunshine to our lads
and lasses. We thank God for it. There would be a deal o' trouble i'
getting and counting names, and the like o' that. Let us vote,
gentlemen, as our forefathers voted for the Solemn League and
Covenant, by just lifting their right hands above their heads. The
Domine could gie us the word, and if after it there is man or woman
with baith hands down, Peter Brodie will be asking the reason why."
This speech was received with acclamation, and when the tumult had
subsided, the Domine called for the silent vote of approval, that had
ratified their immortal compact with their kirk. He described in
picturesque words that wonderful scene in the Greyfriars' kirkyard,
when sixty thousand right hands rose as promptly as one hand for the
True Religion, and he told them that after the kirk, their first duty
was the school. Then he stood still a moment, and there was a profound
silence. After it came the word:
"Stand!"
Men and women rose as by one impulse.
"Those who are in favor of a school in Culraine, and grateful to God
and man for it, let them lift up their right hands above their
heads."
Every right hand was lifted. There was not a protesting hand, and
Peter Brodie observed that if there had been one, it ought to be cut
off, and cast into the fire, with a' the lave o' useless members.
The meeting was then practically over, but many remained. The room was
warm and lighted, and it seemed unreasonable not to have a song and
story, and dance out of it. Christine was entreated to remain, but she
said her mither wasna feeling well, and she be to gae hame wi' her. In
truth she was much depressed because Angus had not come with his
uncle. She did not like to ask why, and her heart was full of unhappy
surmises. But she put the trouble aside while with her mother, and
gave herself willingly to the discussion of Peter Brodie's ill-bred
and forwardsome behavior.
"I perfectly thought shame of his interference," said Margot.
"Mercifully he spoke some kind o' Scotch, for I hae heard him--special
when he was angry--rave in his native Gaelic, and then he got his ain
way, for nae decent man or woman could answer his unpronounceable
words. They were just a vain babblement."
"Jean Pollok was a' for the school tonight; this morning she was
raving against it."
"That was to be looked for. There is as much two-facedness in some
women, as there's meat in an egg."
"But for all disputing, Mither, everyone seemed to think the school
would be a good thing."
"It is this, and that, and what not, and how it will end nobody knows.
Some folks are ill to please, even when they get their ain way."
"You could hardly make Mary Leslie keep her sitting. She wanted to
stand up, and ask the Domine how she was to cook and wash and clean
and sew and nurse her baby, without the help o' her girls, Jess and
Flora. She said there was eleven in her family, and she wanted to know
how it was to be managed. It was hard to keep her still."
"It was vera barefaced o' her. But she put up her hand wi' the rest."
"Ay, Mither. She was feared for Peter Brodie quarreling with her man.
That's Peter's way o' managing women; he mak's their husbands
responsible for a' they say, and do; he says, 'the husbands ought to
hae brought up their wives better.' He has done it, you know, Mither,
several times."
Margot laughed. "Ay," she said, "for Tamson's wife. Naebody blamed
him. Anne Tamson has a parfectly unruly tongue, and her husband,
Watty, got the licking for what she said anent Frazer and his wife. I
wouldna fear the man mysel', and the maist o' our women could gie him
as much--and mair--than he sends."
So they talked until the cottage was reached, and the day was over.
Christine went gladly to her room. A crusie was burning on the table,
and she removed her gown and uncoiled her long, brown hair. Then all
was still, and she let herself think, and her decision was, "if Angus
had wanted to come, he would have done so.
"It isna my place," she continued, "to tak' care on the subject. I'll
no mak' mysel' and ithers miserable anent him, forbye Angus Ballister
is clear outside me, and my life."
Then she rose and took a large copy book from a drawer, and sitting
down at the table, took pen and ink and wrote:
November second. I was a little troubled all day about Angus. He
didna come, and he didna send, and there was neither sign nor
sight o' him. Weel, my warld went on wanting the lad, and the
school talk filled the day, and at night I went wi' Mither to the
meeting about it. From this hour I begin to forget Angus. I will
ask God to keep my heart from all love's care and sorrow.
Then she put the book away, turned out the light and lay down. But the
old mysterious, hungering sound of the sea had an angry sough in it;
and she went to sleep fearing it, and thinking of it as a deep
starless darkness, hanging over the dreamlike figures of dead sailors
and fishers. At midnight she awoke, the storm her father had predicted
was roaring over the great waters. She went to her little window and
looked out--darkness, wildness, desolation--and she hasted and put
plenty of peats on the fire, and carried her mother an extra quilt.
"I hae made up the fire, Mither dear," she said, "and if ye want to
get up, you'll be warm, and I'll come and sit by you."
"Will I waken your feyther?"
"Whatna for? There's naething to fear. Norman and Eneas are doubtless
at hame. Most o' our men are. Few would start after the dance. They
would see the storm coming."
"Will it be a bad storm?"
"I think it will. But the sea is His, and He made it. If there is a
storm He is guiding it. Ye ken how often we sing 'He plants His
footsteps on the sea, and rides upon the storm.'" And so, sweet-eyed
and fearless, she went away, but left peace and blessing behind her.
In the living room, she laid more peats on the fire. Then she went to
her own room. Some words had been singing in her heart as she moved
about, and she took the big copy book out of the drawer, and stooping
to the crusie burning on the table, she wrote them down:
The night is black, the winds are wild,
The waves are taking their own will,
Dear Jesus, sleeping like a child,
Awake! and bid the storm be still.
She read the words over with a smile. "They might be worse," she
thought, "but Christine! You hae been writing poetry. You'll hae to
stop that nonsense! Weel, it wasna my fault. It came o' itsel', and I
dinna feel as if I had done anything much out o' the way--and I was
maist asleep, if that is ony kind o' an excuse. I----"