A CHILD, TWO LOVERS, AND A WEDDING
Because I am,
Thy clay that weeps, thy dust that cares,
Contract my hour that I may climb and find relief.
Love, thou knowest, is full of jealousy.
Love's reasons are without reason.
The summer had been full of interest and excitement, but it was over.
There was the infallible sense of ended summer, even at noonday; and
the dahlias and hollyhocks, dripping in the morning mist, seemed to be
weeping for it. If it had been clear cold weather, the fishers would
have been busy and happy, but it was gloomy, with black skies over the
black sea, and bitter north winds that lashed the waves into fury. The
open boats hardly dared to venture out, and the fish lay low, and were
shy of bait.
James Ruleson, generally accompanied by Cluny Macpherson, was out
every day that a boat could live on the sea, and Margot and Christine
often stood together at their door or window, and watched them with
anxious hearts, casting their lines in the lonely, leaden-colored sea.
The boat would be one minute on the ridge of the billow, the next
minute in the trough of the sea, with a wall of water on either hand
of them. And through all, and over all, the plaintive pipe of the
gulls and snipe, the creaking of the boat's cordage, the boom of the
breakers on the shore, the sense and the presence of danger.
And Christine knew that Cluny was in that danger for her sake. He had
told her on the day after the storm, as she sat sympathetically by his
side, that he was only waiting for her "yes or no." He said when she
gave him either one or the other, he would go to the Henderson
steamboats, in one case to work for their future happiness and home,
in the other to get beyond the power of her beauty, so that he might
forget her.
Forget her! Those two words kept Christine uncertain and unhappy. She
could not bear to think of Cluny's forgetting her. Cluny had been part
of all her nineteen years of life. Why must men be so one or the
other? she asked fretfully. Why force her to an uncertain decision?
Why was she so uncertain? Then she boldly faced the question and asked
herself--"Is Angus Ballister the reason?" Perhaps so, though she was
equally uncertain about Angus. She feared the almost insurmountable
difficulties between them. Caste, family, social usage and tradition,
physical deficiencies in education and in all the incidentals of
polite life, not to speak of what many would consider the greatest of
all shortcomings, her poverty. How could two lives so dissimilar as
Angus Ballister's and Christine Ruleson's become one?
She asked her mother this question one day, and Margot stopped beating
her oat cakes and answered, "Weel, there's a' kinds o' men, Christine,
and I'll no say it is a thing impossible; but I hae come to the
conclusion that in the case o' Angus and yoursel' you wouldna
compluter if you lived together a' the rest o' this life."
"Why, Mither?"
"Because you are--the baity o' you--so weel satisfied wi' your present
mak' up. That's a'. And it is a' that is needfu' to keep you baith
from going forwarder. There's a lump a' rank cowardice in it, too."
"Mother, do you think I am a coward?"
"All women are frightened by what is said o' them, or even likely to
be said o' them. And nae wonder. Women are far harder judged than men
are. You would think the Ten Commands were not made for men. Yet if a
woman breaks one o' them, God's sake! what a sinner she is!"
"I don't see what you are meaning, Mither."
"It's plain enou'. Men are not set down below notice, if they break
the twa first a' their lives lang, if so be they pay their deficit to
God in gold to the kirk. How many men do you know, Christine, who
never break the third command? How many men honor the fourth? As to
the fifth, Scots are maistly ready to tak' care o' their ain folk.
The sixth, seventh and eighth belong to the criminal class, and ye'll
allow its maistly made up o' bad men. Concerning the ninth command,
men are warse than women, but men call their ill-natured talk
politics, or het'rodoxy, or some ither grand name; and I'll allow that
as soon as they begin to covet their neighbor's house and wife and
horses and cattle, they set to wark, and mak' money and build a bigger
house than he hes, and get a bonnier wife, and finer-blooded horses
and cattle--and I'm not saying whether they do well or ill--there is
sae much depending on the outcome o' prosperity o' that kind. But tak'
men as a whole, they leave the Ten Commands on the shoulders o' their
wives."
"And do the women obey them, Mither?"
"Middling well. They do love God, and they do go to kirk. They don't
swear, and as a general thing they honor their fathers and mothers.
They don't, as a rule, murder or steal or tak' some ither woman's
husband awa' from her. I'm no clear about women and the ninth and
tenth command. They are apt to long for whatever is good and
beautiful--and I don't blame them."
"I wish I was better educated, Mother. I would be able to decide
between Angus and Cluny."
"Not you. The key of your life is in your heart, not in your brain."
"It is a pity."
"That is, as may be. In the long run, your feelings will decide, and
they are likely to be mair sensible than your reasons. And where love
is the because o' your inquiry, I'll warrant a bit o' good sense is
best o' all advisers."
"What is gude sense? How can a girl get it?"
"Gude sense is the outcome o' all our senses. As regards Ballister,
ca' to your decision a bit o' wholesome pride. Ye ken what I mean."
"Weel, weel, Angus is far awa', and Cluny is only waiting the word I
canna say, and what will I do when I hae nae lover at a', at a'?"
"When you haven't what you love, you must love what you hae. And I
fear there is a heart fu' o' cares ready for us to sort. Geordie
Sinclair was telling your father that Neil is flinging a big net i'
Aberdeen--dining wi' rich folk o' all kinds, and rinning as close
friend wi' a lad ca'ed Rath. He was saying, also, that Rath has lying
siller, plenty, o' it, and that he is studying law in the same classes
as Neil, at the Maraschal."
"I dinna see why we should fret oursel's anent Neil dining wi' rich
folk. He was aye talkin' o' his intention to do the same. The mair
rich friends he has, the better; it isna puir folk that go to law.
Neil is casting his net vera prudently, nae doubt. I'll warrant it
will be takin' for him even while he sleeps. Worry is just wasted on
Neil."
"I'm thinking that way mysel', but feyther is feared he will be
spending money he shouldna spend."
"He is lawyer enou' to ken the outcome o' that way. Neil will be on
the safe side--every day, and always! There's nae need to fash
oursel's anent Neil!"
"Weel then, your feyther is sairly heart-hurt anent Allan's youngest
laddie. Last New Year when he went to Glasgow to see Allan, he thought
things were far wrang, and he has worried himsel' on the matter ever
since. It is a dreadful thing to say, but the bairn is vera delicate,
and his mother isna kind to him. She is a big strong woman, ne'er sick
hersel', and without feeling for a bairn that is never well, and often
vera sick. Feyther said his heart was sair for the little fellow,
lyin' wakefu' lang nights wi' pain and fear, and naebody in the house
carin'. Yesterday feyther hed a letter frae your brither Allan, and he
was fu' o' grief, and begging feyther to go and see the bairn, and if
possible tak' him to Culraine, and try if we could do anything to help
him to health and happiness."
"Will she let feyther hae him?"
"She's as uncertain as the wind, but the lad is named James after his
grandfeyther, and he'll ask for him, on that plea."
"O Mither, get feyther to go at once! I'll tak' a' the trouble o' the
child! Only to think o' it! Only to think o' it! A mither no carin'
for her suffering child!"
"She doesna ken what suffering is, hersel'. She ne'er tak's cold and
she doesna see why ither folks should. She is never fearsome, or
nervous, she never feels the dark to be full o' what terrifies her
vera soul, and she canna understand her bairn's terror. She treats him
vera much as she treats his brithers, but they are big, rugged lads,
that naething hurts or frights. All right for them, but she is slowly
killin' little James, and you couldna mak' her see it."
"Feyther ought not to lose an hour."
"He'll hae to be vera cautious i' the matter. Allan's wife isna easily
managed. Proud and strong in her health and youth, she is fairly
scounfu' o' the weak and sick, but I think your feyther can manage
her. I'll get him awa' tomorrow, if so be it's possible."
Then there was such pressure of the two women brought to bear upon the
grandfather's heart, that he was eager for the morning to come, and
before it was yet light he was away to the town, to catch the earliest
train to Edinburgh, from which place he could get quick transit to
Glasgow.
"Now, Mither, we hae done a' we can, at the present, for Allan's
little lad," said Christine. "Do you think feyther will write to us?"
"I'm sure he will not. He wad rayther do a hard day's work than write
a letter. What are you going to do wi' your day, dearie?"
"I am going to write to Neil."
"Do. You might remind him that his feyther and mither are yet living
in Culraine."
"That news isna worth while. If he wants to write, he'll write. If he
doesna want to write, we arena begging letters. I'm thinking mair o'
little James than I am o' Neil. You dinna like his mither, I'm
thinking?"
"You're thinking right. Allan picked her up in some unkent place, and
when a man lives between sailing and docking, he hasna time to ken
what he's doing. Forbye, Christine, new relations dinna get into their
place easy. They mind me o' that new dress my sister sent me frae
Liverpool. It wanted a lot o' taking-in, and o' letting-out. It's just
that way wi' new relations. Allan's wife required plentiful taking-in,
and the mair letting-out there was, the mair unfittable she became."
Then Margot rubbed the end of her nose with an air of scorn, and said
decidedly, "She wasna a comprehensible woman. I couldna be fashed wi'
her. It isna the bringing o' bairns to the birth, that hurts the heart
and spoils the life o' a mither, it's the way lads and lasses marry
themsel's that mak's her wish she had neither lad nor lass to her
name."
"Mither, that isna like you."
"Allan was just twenty-three when he married the woman, without word
or wittens to any o' us. It was a bad day's wark, and he hes never
been able to mend it. For there's nae takin'-in or lettin'-out wi' his
wife. She is sure she is parfect, and what will you do, what can you
do, wi' a parfect woman? I hope and pray that I'll never fall into
that state; parfection isna suitable for this warld."
"It ought to be a grand virtue, Mither."
"It's the warst o' all the vices. We hae three or four specimens o' it
in the village o' Culraine, and they are the maist unenlightened
people we hae to tak' care o'. But when parfection is born o'
ignorance, it is unconquerable. The Domine said sae, and that only God
could manage a parfect man or woman."
"When little James comes, wouldn't it be well to hae the Domine look
him over? He can tell us what's the matter wi' the laddie, and what we
ought to do for him."
"That is a sensible observe, Christine. There will be nae harm in
doing what it calls for."
"Now I'll awa', and write to Neil. Hae ye ony special message for him,
Mither?"
"You might say I would like to ken something anent thae Raths. They
arena Fifemen, nor Shetlanders, Highland Scots, nor Lowland Scots; and
I'm thinking they may be Irish, and if sae, I'm hopin' they hae the
true faith."
"Mither dear, I wouldna fash wi' the Raths. They are simply naething
to us, and if we set Neil on 'praising and proving,' he'll write pages
anent them."
"Sae he will. You might name the ninety pound he's owing you."
"It wouldna be advisable. Neil will pay when it's fully convenient to
himsel'. I'm not expecting a farthing until it is sae."
"I can think o' nae ither thing. It seems vera superfluous to tell
Neil to be good, and to do good. He has the gift o' admiring himsel'.
Tell him he can be thankful, for it isna every man that has the same
capability."
"I'll read you my letter, Mither, when I hae written it."
"You'd better not. You'll say lots I wouldna say, and naething I would
say, and the amends and contradictions would require another letter o'
explanations. I'm going to look through my ain lads' outgrown breeks
and jackets. I'll warrant wee James will come to us next door to
naked."
"I didna know that you had saved the lads' auld claes."
"Did you think I wad throw them awa'? All our lads grew quick, they
ne'er wore out a suit, and I put their wee breeks and coaties awa'. I
thought they might come in for their ain bairns, and lo and behold!
Allan's little lad is, like as not, to come into his feyther's Sunday
raiment."
"Did you save their shirts and such like?"
"Why wouldn't I? But vera few linen things are left. They were too
easy to wear and tear, to be long-lived, but I fancy I can find a
sleeping gown for the bairn, and maybe a shirt or twa. But stockings
are beyond mention. They got them into unmendable holes, and left them
in the boats, or the fish sheds, and I fairly wore my knitting
needles awa' knitting for lads wha wouldna use their feet ony way but
skin-bare."
So the grandmother went to find what clothes she could for a little
lad of eight years old, and Christine sat down to answer Neil's last
letter. To herself she called it an "overflowing screed." Indeed it
was full of the great Reginald Rath, his fine family, his comfortable
wealth, his sister, Roberta, and her highly respectable house in the
Monteith Row o'erby the Green of Glasgow City. Christine told him in
reply that she was glad he had found a friend so conformable to all
his wishes. She asked him if he had heard lately from Angus Ballister,
and casually mentioned that the Domine had received ten days ago a
letter from the Colonel about the school building, and that Angus had
sent her some bonnie pictures of the city of Rome. She also informed
him that his nephew was coming to Culraine, and that she herself was
going to take the charge of him, and so might not have time to write
as often as she had done.
In the afternoon Faith came from the village to help with the nets
a-mending, and she brought the village gossip with her, and among the
news of all kinds, the date of her own marriage. She was going to wed
the Largo man on Christmas Day, and she had forgotten her loneliness
and melancholy, and laughed and joked pleasantly, as she went over her
plans with Christine. Margot watched her, and listened to her with
great interest, and when at sunset the lassie went down the hill, she
said to Christine: "Wonders never cease. Faith Balcarry was moping
melancholy, she is now as merry as a cricket. She was sick and going
to die, she's now well and going to marry. She had nane to love her,
and nane she loved. Her whole talk now is o' the Largo man, and the
wonderfu' love he has for her, and the untelling love she has for him.
Weel! Weel! I hae learned ane thing this afternoon."
"What hae you learned, Mither?"
"I hae learned, that when a lass is dying wi' a sair affliction, that
there is parfect salvation in a lad."
It was the evening of the third day ere James Ruleson returned home.
He had met no difficulties with Mrs. Allan Ruleson that were not
easily removed by the gift of a sovereign. And he found the little
lad quietly but anxiously waiting for him. "My feyther whispered
to me that you would come," he said softly, as he snuggled into
James' capacious breast. "I was watching for you, I thought I could
hear your footsteps, after twelve o'clock today they were coming
nearer, and nearer--when you chappit at the door, I knew it was
you--Grandfeyther!" And James held the child tighter and closer in
his arms, and softly stroked the white, thin face that was pressed
against his heart.
"I'm going to tak' you hame to your grandmither, and your aunt
Christine," James whispered to the boy. "You are going to get well
and strong, and big, and learn how to read and write and play,
yoursel', like ither bairns."
"How soon? How soon?"
"Tomorrow."
"I thought God didna know about me. Such long, long days and nights."
"You puir little lad! God knew all the time. It is o'er by now."
"Will it come again?"
"Never! Never again!"
The next day they left Glasgow about the noon hour. The child had no
clothing but an old suit of his elder brother, and it was cold winter
weather. But James made no remark, until he had the boy in the train
for Edinburgh. Then he comforted him with all the kind words he could
say, and after a good supper, they both went early to bed in a small
Edinburgh hostelry.
In the morning, soon after nine o'clock, James took his grandson to a
ready-made tailor's shop, and there he clothed him from head to feet
in a blue cloth suit. From the little white shirt to the little blue
cloth cap on his long fair hair, everything was fit and good, and the
child looked as if he had been touched by a miracle. He was now a
beautiful boy, spiritually frail and fair, almost angelic. Ruleson
looked at him, then he looked at the pile of ragged clothes that had
fallen from his little shrunken form, and he kicked them with his big
feet to the other end of the shop. A thick, warm overcoat, and new
shoes and stockings, were added to the outfit, and then they were
ready for their home train.
As they walked slowly down Prina's Street, they met a regiment of
Highland soldiers, accompanied by a fine military band. The boy was
enthralled, he could not speak his delight, but he looked into his
grandfather's face with eyes painfully eloquent. It was evident that
he had life to learn, not gradually, as the usual infant learns it;
but that its good and evil would assail him through all his senses in
their full force. And Ruleson understood, partially, how abnormally
large and important very trivial events might appear to him.
Soon after four o'clock they arrived at their destination, and found a
train omnibus about to go their way. Ruleson lifted his grandson into
it, and the vehicle set them down at the foot of his own hill; then he
carried the boy up to the cottage in his arms. The door was closed,
but there was the shining of fire and candlelight through the windows.
Yet their arrival was unnoticed, until Ruleson entered and stood the
little child in the middle of the room. With a cry of welcome Margot
and Christine rose. Ruleson pointed to the child standing in their
midst. The next moment Christine was removing his coat and cap, and
when Margot turned to him, his beauty and the pathos of his thin,
white face went straight to her heart. She took him in her arms and
said, "Bonnie wee laddie, do ye ken that I am your grandmither?"
"Ay, grandmither," he answered, "I ken. And I hae a grandfeyther too.
I am vera happy. Dinna send me awa', for ony sake."
Then the women set him in a big chair, and admired and loved him from
head to feet--his fair hair, his wonderful eyes, his little hands so
white and thin--his wee feet in their neat, well-fitting shoes--his
dress so good and so becoming--this new bairn of theirs was altogether
an unusual one in Culraine.
Ruleson quickly made himself comfortable in his usual house dress.
Christine began to set the table for their evening meal, and Margot
buttered the hot scones and infused the tea. This meal had a certain
air of festivity about it, and the guest of honor was the little child
sitting at Ruleson's right hand.
They had scarcely begun the meal, when there was a knock at the door,
and to Margot's cheerful "Come in, friend," Dr. Trenabie entered.
"Blessing on this house!" he said reverently, and then he walked
straight to the child, and looked earnestly into his face. The boy
looked steadily back at him, and as he did so he smiled, and held up
his arms. Then the Domine stooped and kissed him, and the thin, weak
arms clasped him round the neck.
It was a tender, silent moment. The man's eyes were misty with tears,
and his voice had a new tone in it as he said, "Ruleson, this little
lad is mine, as well as yours. I have been spoken to. Through him we
shall all be greatly blessed, and we shall yet see a grand preacher
come out of the boats and the fisherman's cottage."
There was a few moments' silence, and then Margot said, "Take your
sitting, Sir, and a cup o' tea will do you mair gude than doing
without it."
"I'll sit down gladly." Then they talked of the child's extreme
weakness and nervousness, and the Domine said that with plenty of
fresh milk, and fresh fish, and with all the fresh air he could
breathe, and all the sleep he could shut his eyes for, the little one
would soon be well. "Then Christine," he said, "must give him his
first lessons. After they have been learned, it will be joy of Magnus
Trenabie to see him safe through school and college. Give me so much
interest in the boy, Ruleson, for he is called and chosen, and we have
in our hands the making of a Man of God."
Later in the evening, when the school affairs had been discussed and
the boy and Christine had disappeared, the Domine was told the few sad
incidents which made up the whole life of little James Ruleson. There
was a strong tendency on his grandfather's part to make excuses for
the mother of the neglected boy. "You see, Domine," he said, "she has
never been sick, and her ither children are as rugged as hersel'. She
couldna understand James. She didna ken what to do wi' him, or for
him."
"I know, Ruleson, but physical pride is as real a sin as spiritual
pride, and is the cause of much suffering and unhappiness. My own
father was one of those bronze men, who thought weakness to be
cowardice, and sickness to be mostly imagination. His children were
all weak and sensitive, but he insisted on our roughing it. Fagging
and hazing were good for us, he enjoyed them. Bodily strain and mental
cram were healthy hardening processes. I had a little sister, she was
weak and fearful, he insisted on her taking the cold water cure.
Nerves were all nonsense! 'Look at me!' he would say proudly, 'I get
up early, I work all day, I know nothing about headaches, or
neuralgia, or nerves'--In the world he passed for a genial, hearty
man."
"We hae plenty o' such unfeeling fellows," said Ruleson. "I dinna
fret, when they hae a hard spell o' rheumatism. Not I!"
"It is not mere flesh and blood, Ruleson, that moves the earth on its
axis. It is men whose intelligent brows wear the constant plait of
tension, whose manner reveals a debility beneath which we know that
suffering lurks, and who have an unconscious plaintiveness about them.
Such men have fits of languor, but let the occasion come and they
command their intellect and their hands just as easily as a workman
commands his tools. The mother of this boy of ours was a physical
tyrant in her home, and she never suspected that she had under her
control and keeping a spirit touched and prepared for the finest
issues of life. Oh, Ruleson,
"Sad it is to be weak,
And sadder to be wrong,
But if the strong God's statutes break,
'Tis saddest to be strong."
The child became rapidly an integral part of the household. No one
thought of him as a transient guest, no one wanted him in that light,
and he unconsciously made many changes. Margot often spoke to
Christine of them: "Were you noticing your feyther this afternoon,
Christine?" she asked one day, when little James had been two weeks
with them. "Were you noticing him?"
"How, Mither, or whatna for?"
"Weel, as soon as he was inside the house, the laddie had his hand,
and when he sat down he was on his knee, and showing him the book, and
saying his letters to him--without missing ane o' them, and granddad
listening, and praising him, and telling him it was wonderfu', an' the
like o' that."
"Weel, then, it is wonderfu'! He learns as if he was supping new milk.
He'll be ready for the school when the school is ready for him. And
he's nae trouble in ony way. The house would be gey dull wanting
him."
"That's truth itsel'. I like to hear his soft footsteps, and I would
miss his crooning voice going o'er his lessons. You mustna gie him too
lang, or too many lessons. I hae heard learning tasks were bad for
sickly weans."
"Perhaps that was the cause o' his mither neglecting him anent his
books, and such things?"
"Not it! His mither is a lazy, unfeeling hizzy! I'd like to hae the
sorting o' her--fine!"
"Maybe he was too sick to be bothered wi' books and lessons."
"Maybe he wad niver hae been sick at a', if he had been gi'en a few
books and lessons. Griselda Ruleson had better keep out o' my
presence. If she ventures into it, the words arena to seek, that I'll
gie her."
One cold afternoon Christine was hearing the boy's lessons when Cluny
Macpherson called. He looked annoyed at the child's presence and said,
"I saw your mither in the village, sae I thought I wad hae a chance to
speak a few words to you, wi' nane by, but oursel's."
"You needna mind wee James."
"Send him awa'. I want you, and nane but you."
James was sent away, and then Christine said, "You hae got your will,
Cluny. Now what hae you to say to me, that the little one couldna
listen to?"
"I want to know, Christine, when you will marry me. I hae been waiting
months for that word, and I can wait nae langer. I'm goin' awa'
tomorrow."
"Your waiting isna over, Cluny. Indeed no! I'm not thinking o'
marriage, nor o' anything like it. I canna think o' it. Mither isna
fit for any hard wark, even the making o' a bed is mair than she ought
to do. I'm not thinking o' marriage. Not I!"
"It is time you were. Maist o' our girls marry when they are nineteen
years auld."
"I'm not nineteen yet. I don't want to marry. I hae my wark and my
duty right here, i' this house--wark that God has set me, and I'll not
desert it for wark I set mysel', to please mysel'."
"That's the way wi' women. They bring up God and their duty to screen
their neglect o' duty. Hae ye nae duty towards me?"
"Not that I know of."
"Will you let a lad gie ye his life-lang love, and feel nae duty anent
it?"
"I dinna ask you for your love. I hae told you, mair than once, that I
dinna want any man's love."
"Tuts! That is out o' all nature and custom. Ye be to marry some
man."
"I havna seen the man yet."
"I'm thinking it will be Angus Ballister. I'll mak' him black and blue
from head to foot, if he comes near Culraine again."
"You talk foolishness. The Ballisters own twenty houses or mair, in
Culraine."
"Houses! Twa rooms, a but and a ben, and a heather roof. What are they
bothering us the now for? They hae let Culraine well alane for
years--it is only sin' you and your beauty cam' to the forefront,
that they hae remembered us. The factor, to gather their rents, was a'
we saw o' them, till your brither brought that dandified lad here, and
then the auld man had to come--on the report o' your beauty, nae
doubt."
There was a fishing net which required mending, hanging against the
wall, and Christine, standing in front of it, went on weaving the
broken meshes together. She did not answer the jealous, impetuous
young man, and all at once he became conscious of her silence.
"Why don't you speak to me, Christine? Oh lassie, canna you pity a lad
sae miserable as I am, and a' for the love I hae for you. I'm sorry!
I'm sorry! I'm broken-hearted, if I hae angered you! My dear! My dear
love! Will ye na speak ane word to me?"
Then she turned to him a face full of pity and anger, yet strangely
beautiful. "Cluny," she said, "I'll talk to you, if you'll speak o'
yoursel' and let be a' ither folk."
"How can I? I'm sick wi' the fear that you love, that you intend to
marry Ballister. Tell me straight, and be done wi' it, if that is what
you intend to do."
"You havna any right to ask me such a question. I never gave you any
right to do sae."
"You hae let me love ye wi' a' my heart and soul for fifteen years. Is
that naething?"
"Ithers hae loved me, as weel as you."
"They hev not. Nane on this earth lo'es you as I lo'e you. Nane!"
The man was beyond himself in uttering these words. It was a Cluny
transfigured by a great love. The loftier Inner Man spoke for his
mortal brother, and Christine looked at him and was astonished. He
appeared to be taller, he was wonderfully handsome, his attitude of
entreaty in some way ennobled him, and his voice had a strange tone of
winning command in it, as he stretched out his arms and said:
"Come to me, Christine. I love you so! I love you so! You cannot say
me 'nay' this afternoon. It is perhaps the last time. My dearie, I am
going away tomorrow--it might be forever."
"Cluny! Cluny! You distress me! What do you wish me to say, or do?"
"Tell me the truth about Ballister. Are you going to marry him?"
"I am not."
"Perhaps not this year--but next year?"
"I am never going to marry him in any year."
"Will you marry Cluny Macpherson?"
"It is not unlikely."
"When? Be merciful, dearie."
"There are several things in the way o' my marrying anyone just yet."
"Ay, there's that new bairn i' the house. Whatna for is he here?"
"He is my brither Allan's son. He is sick, we are going to mak' him
weel."
"Ay, and you'll wear a' your love on the little brat, and send a man
that lo'es you to death awa' hungry."
"Cluny, I love no man better than I love you. Will not that satisfy
you?"
"Na. It's a mouthfu', that's a'. And it leaves me hungrier than ever;"
and he smiled and clasped her hands so fondly, that she sat down
beside him, and let him draw her close to his heart.
"Dearest woman on earth," he whispered, "when will you be my ain? My
very ain! My wife!"
"When the right time comes, laddie. I love none better than you. I'm
not likely to love anyone better. When the right time comes----"
"What do you ca' the right time?"
"When I can marry without neglecting any duty that God has left in my
hands to perform, or look after. I canna say mair. There are many
things to consider. Mither could not be left yet, and I am not going
to leave her for any man--and I hae promised to tak' a' the care and
charge o' Allan's little lad, but it's Mither I am thinking mainly
on."
"How soon will she be well?"
"In God's good time."
"Christine, surely I hae trysted you this very hour. Give me ane, just
ane kiss, dearie. I'll get through years, if need be, wi' a kiss and a
promise, and work will be easy to do, and siller be easy to save, if
Christine be at the end o' them."
Then he kissed her, and Christine did not deny him, but when he took
from his vest pocket a pretty gold ring holding an emerald stone, she
shook her head.
"It's your birthstone, dearie," he said, "and it will guard you, and
bring you luck, and, mind you o' me beside. Tak' it, frae Cluny, do!"
"Na, na, Cluny! I hae often heard my mither say, 'I hae plenty now,
but the first thing I owned was my wedding ring.'"
"I thought it would mind you o' Cluny, and the promise ye hae just
made him."
"If I mak' a promise, Cluny, I'll be requiring no reminder o' the
same."
"Will you gie me a lock o' your bonnie brown hair, to wear next my
heart?"
"I'll hae no charms made out o' my hair. Tak' my word, just as I gave
it. As far as I know, I'll stand by my word, when the right time
comes."
"If you would just say a word anent the time. I mean as to the
probabilities."
"I won't. I can't, Cluny. I havna the ordering o' events. You'll be
back and forth doubtless. Where are you going?"
"To the Mediterranean service, on ane o' the Henderson boats. I'll be
making siller on thae boats."
"Dinna mak' it for me. It is you, your ain sel' I'll marry, and I
wouldna mind if we started wi' the wedding ring, as Mither did. Folks
may happen live on love, but they canna live without it."
"I would hae chosen you, Christine, from out o' a warld fu' o' women,
but I like to think o' you as mine by predestination, as well as
choice."
"I didna think your Calvinism went that far, Cluny. They'll be haeing
a kirk session on your views, if you publicly say the like. Ye be to
ta' care o' the elders, laddie."
They could talk now cheerfully and hopefully, and Cluny went away from
Christine that night like a new man, for
There is no pleasure like the pain
Of being loved, and loving.
Then every day seemed to be happier than the last. The child was
sunshine in the house, whatever the weather might be. His thin, soft
voice, his light step, above all, his shy little laugh, went to their
hearts like music. He had only learned to laugh since he came to
Culraine. Margot remembered the first time she had heard him laugh.
She said he had been almost afraid, and that he had looked inquiringly
into her face, as if he had done something he should not have done.
So the weeks and the months wore away, and the winter came, but the
weather was sunny and not very cold, and in early December Ruleson
wrapped his grandson up in one of his own pilot coats, and took him to
the boat, and carried him to the fishing ground, and showed him how to
cast and draw the line. And Jamie took naturally to the sea, and loved
it, and won Ruleson's heart over again, whenever he begged to go with
him.
Then Christmas and New Year were approaching, and there were many
other pleasures and interests. Faith's marriage was drawing near, and
she was frequently at Ruleson's, for the girl relied on Christine's
help and advice in all matters concerning the new life to which she
was going. This year also, Christmas was made memorable by a box full
of gifts which came all the way from Rome, with the compliments and
good will of the Ballisters and which contained many remembrances for
the villagers. For Ruleson himself there was a fine barometer, to
Margot a brooch and earrings of white cameo, and to Christine some
lovely lace, and a set of scarlet coral combs, beads, and earrings. To
Christine's care there was also intrusted a box full of Roman ribbons,
scarves, and neckties, their wonderful hues making them specially
welcome gifts to people so fond of brilliant colors.
From these gay treasures a scarf and sash were selected for the bride,
and the rest were sent on Christmas Eve to the young girls of the
village. Many other pretty trifles were among the gifts--fans and sets
of Roman pearls, and laces for the neck and head, and pretty veils,
and fancy handkerchiefs, and in a long letter Angus directed
Christine to do her will with all he sent. He only wished to repay to
the village the happy hours he had spent in it the past summer.
This letter was not lover-like, but it was friendly, and sad. He said
so much might have been, and yet nothing he longed for had happened.
He recalled tender little episodes, and declared they were the only
memories he valued. The whole tone of the letter was the tone of a
disappointed and hopeless man, to whom life had lost all its salt and
savor. Christine read it carefully. She was determined not to deceive
herself, and in a wakeful watch of the night, she went over it, and
understood.
"There isna ony truth in it," she said to herself, "and I needna gie a
thought to the lad's fine words. He is writing anent a made-up sorrow.
I'll warrant he is the gayest o' the gay, and that the memory o'
Christine is a little bit o' weariness to him. Weel, he has gi'en what
he could buy--that's his way, and he will mak' in his way a deal o'
pleasure among the young lasses." And the next day the bits of
brilliant silk were sorted and assigned, and then sent to the parties
chosen, with the Ballister compliments. The affair made quite a stir
in the cottages, and Angus would have been quite satisfied, if he
could have heard the many complimentary things that the prettiest
girls in Culraine said of him.
Two days before Christmas Day, Neil made his family a short visit. He
was looking very well, was handsomely dressed, and had all the
appearance and air of a man thoroughly satisfied with himself and his
prospects. He only stayed a short afternoon, for his friend Reginald
was waiting for him at the hotel, and he made a great deal of his
friend Reginald.
"You should hae brought him along wi' you," said Margot, and Neil
looked at Christine and answered--"I lost one friend, with bringing
him here, and I am not a man who requires two lessons on any
subject."
"Your friend had naething but kindness here, Neil," answered
Christine, "and he isna o' your opinion." And then she told him of the
Christmas presents sent from Rome.
"Exactly so! That is what I complain of. All these gifts to you and
the villagers, were really taken from me. I have not been remembered.
Last Christmas I was first of all. A woman between two men always
makes loss and trouble. I ought to have known that."
"Weel, Neil," said Margot, "there's other kindnesses you can think
o'er."
"I have not had a single New Year's gift this year--yet. I suppose
Reginald will not forget me. I have my little offering to him ready;"
and he took a small box from his pocket, and showed them a rather
pretty pair of sleeve buttons. "Yes, they are pretty," he commented,
"rather more than I could afford, but Reginald will return the
compliment. I dare say it will be the only one I shall receive."
"You ought not to forget, Neil," said Margot, in a not very amiable
tone, "you ought to remember, that you had your New Year's gifts at
Midsummer."
"Oh, I never forget that! I could not, if I would," he answered with
an air of injury, and Christine to avert open disagreement, asked,
"Where will you stay in Glasgow, Neil?"
"I shall stay with Reginald, at his sister's house. She lives in
highly respectable style, at number twelve, Monteith Row. The row is a
fine row o' stone houses, facing the famous Glasgow Green, and the
Clyde river. She is a great beauty, and I expect to be the honored
guest of the occasion."
"Will you hae time to hunt up your brithers in Glasgow? Some o' them
will nae doubt be in port, and you might call at Allan's house, and
tell them that little Jamie is doing fine."
"I do not expect I shall have a moment to spare. If I have, I will
make inquiries. I think, however, Miss Rath is going to make rather a
gay time in my honor, and I shall feel obligated to observe all its
occasions."
"How old is Miss Rath?" asked Christine.
"I have never asked her age. I suppose she is over twenty, as she
controls her own property."
"Happen you may lose your heart to her."
"O! I am not a man to lose anything so important."
"Weel, weel, you're nae wiser than the lave o' men, Neil."
"I think I am, Christine. At least, I have that reputation."
"Will you hae a cup o' tea, Neil?"
It was Christine who asked him, and he answered, "No. I had just
finished a good lunch, when I came here, and Reginald said he should
wait dinner for me. He orders very liberally, I must say," and he took
out a new gold watch, and looked at the time.
His mother saw it at once, and glanced at Christine, who instantly
followed an exclamation of wonder, by asking, "Whoever gave ye the
bonnie timepiece, Neil?"
"I gave it to myself, Christine. I have been coaching Reginald, and
two or three other students, and it's rather a paying business. I
shall do a great deal in that way after the New Year. Well, I think I
must be going."
"Your feyther will be hame within an hour. He'll hae our wonderfu'
bairn wi' him. You will surely stay and see them."
"You mean Allan's son?"
"Ay," answered Christine, "he's a beauty, and he is sae clever, we'll
be needing a school, and the set o' teachers in it, to keep the lad
within the proper scope o' knowledge. He's a maist remarkable boy!"
"I used to fill that position," said Neil.
"Not you," said Margot. "You were a puir weakling, every way. It took
everyone's love and labor to bring you through. I'm not sure now, if
you were worth it. It was scrimp and toil through long years for a'
the Rulesons."
"I am not ungrateful, Mother, and I shall no doubt win a high
degree."
"We hae nae doubt you will, Neil. Dinna go as soon as you come.
Feyther will be here anon."
"I cannot keep Reginald waiting. I will try and see father as I
return."
So he went, and mother and sister looked at each other, and were
silent. Margot opened and shut a drawer in the dresser, pushed the
chair in which Neil had sat violently into its place, and then lifted
a broom and flung it down with a force that is best explained by the
word 'temper.' She felt unable to speak, and finally burst into
passionate weeping, mingled with angry words.
"Oh, Mither! Mither! dinna tak' on that way. It's nae new thing. It's
just what we expectit. You hae looked it in the face many a time. Oh,
I'm sae glad his feyther wasna here!"
"His feyther ought to hae been here."
"Na! na! We dinna want feyther to think a' his love and labor was
thrown awa'. It wad fairly break his heart. We must just keep the
mistake to oursel's. We can forgie, and still lo'e the puir lad, but
feyther wad go to extremes, both wi' Neil and himsel'. We can thole
his selfishness. We aye knew it was there. We hae held our tongues
sae far. We must gae on being silent. I wouldna hae feyther know for
onything. Let him hae his dream, Mither!"
"My heart feels like to break, lassie."
"Mine too, Mither. But we needna gie feyther a heart-break. We'll just
keep the visit quiet."
"Your way be it, Christine."
_Women do such things!_
At this moment Ruleson's voice was heard. He was coming up the hill
with Jamie's hand in his own. "They'll be inside in a minute,
Mither--a smile frae you is worth gold now," and she stooped and
kissed her mother. This unusual token of love and care went to
Margot's heart with a bound.
"You dear lassie," she said. "I'll do as you say," and that moment
she was called upon to make good her words. Ruleson was at the
hearthstone, and Jamie was at her knees, telling her what a splendid
time they had had, and how many big fish they had caught.
"Did you bring ane o' the haddocks hame with you, James?" she asked,
and Ruleson answered, "I found Tamsen's boy at the pier, waiting to
buy all my catch, and I thought ye wad hae something better for us."
"There's naething better than a fresh haddock. You canna cook them
wrang, if you try; but I'll find something good for good fishermen
like you and Jamie." And she spread the table with good things, and
Ruleson said softly, as if to himself--"Thou satisfieth my mouth with
good things, my cup runneth over." And Christine and her mother had
come very close to each other and Margot had forgotten her heart-break
in Christine's kiss, and almost forgotten Neil's visit. At any rate
she was quite happy to hide it from her husband. "He's like a' men,"
she reflected, "he doesna spit oot his anger like I do, and be rid o'
it. He buries it in his heart, and he buries it alive, and it doesna
gie him a moment's peace. Christine is right, and I'm glad I held my
tongue, even frae good words."
When all the Ballister Christmas presents had been distributed the New
Year's festival was at hand, and the village was all agog about
Faith's marriage. The arrangements had been slightly changed, and
after all she was to be married from Ruleson's house. Early in the
morning she came up there with her simple bride garments in a leather
trap, which she carried in her hand. She wanted Christine to dress
her. She said, Christine had brought her all her good fortune, and she
be to send her away, and then good would go with her.
So Christine dressed the timid little woman, and really made her look
lovely, and at ten o'clock her Largo lover, called Willie Anderson,
came there also. He had a couple of friends with him, and Ruleson
himself took the place of Faith's father, and gave her his arm, as
they all walked together, very doucely and religiously, to the
Domine's house.
The Domine had been advised of the visit, and the large Bible lay open
on the table. Standing before it the young couple received the
Domine's charge, and then in the presence of their witnesses, pledged
themselves to life-long love and devotion. The Domine entered the
contract in his Kirk Book, and the witnesses signed it. Then the
simple ceremony was over. The Domine blessed the bride, and she turned
with a blushing, happy face to her husband.
"My ain! My wife!" he said, and gave her his arm, and Christine with
her father and Anderson's two friends followed. All were very silent.
The bride and bridegroom were too happy to talk, and their friends
understood and sympathized with the feeling.
The day was fine and clear, and the walk back to Ruleson's was still
and sweet, and in spite of its silence, very pleasant; and they had no
sooner opened Ruleson's door, than their senses were refreshed by the
sight of the festal table, and the odor of delicious foods. For Margot
had made a wedding dinner after her own heart. One of her precious
turkeys had been sacrificed, and there was that wealth of pudding and
cakes and pastry which no man loves and appreciates more than the
fisherman. It was an excellent dinner, well cooked, and well enjoyed,
and happily prolonged with pleasant conversation, until Christine
reminded them they were probably keeping the crowd asked to the
Fishers' Hall waiting.
In a pleasant haste they left all in James' care, and went in a body
to the hall. There was quite a large company there, very well employed
in practicing the steps of a new strathspey, and others in exhibiting
their special bits of splendor. The whole room was flashing with Roman
colors, and Judith Macpherson's Protestantism was angered by it. She
said with her usual striking eloquence, that, in her opinion, they
were nothing but emblems of popery. They came frae Rome. Why not? If
we had elders in the kirk, worth the name o' elders, they wad ca' a
session anent such a shamefu' exhibition o' the pope's vera signs and
symbols. Indeed, she told Ruleson that she would stand up in the kirk
on the next Sabbath day, if he, or someone, didna tak' the proper
steps in the matter, and "I'll tell you, James Ruleson, I'm minded to
go my ways to the manse right now, and bring the Domine himsel' here,
to see the wicked testimonies."
Then the bridal dance began, and Ruleson drew Judith aside, and told
her he would himself speak anent the colors, if she thought they were
sinfu'.
"Sinfu'!" she screamed. "Why Ruleson, man, they come frae the pope,
and thae men they ca' socialists. I hae heard tell o' the tricolor,
and of a' the misery and sin that cam' frae it in France. Isna France
i' the pope's dominions?"
"Oh no, Judith, they arena the same countries."
"James Ruleson, they may be different countries, but that tricolor sin
is the same everywhere, even if it get into a godly place like
Culraine. You must put a stop to our lasses wearing the pope's colors,
James Ruleson. That's a fact!"
James promised to do so. In reality he would have promised anything
she asked, rather than have her go to the manse and disturb the
Domine. He was only too grateful to observe that the wearers of the
sinful colors were not disturbed by Judith's suspicions, and that the
sailormen and fishermen were apparently most in love with the girls
who wore the greatest quantity of the offensive emblems.
At three o'clock the dance was over, the greetings were all said and
Willie Anderson anxious to carry off his bride on the tide top. "The
waters are fu' at four o'clock," he said to Ruleson, "and I want to
lift anchor and spread sails at the same moment. Then we'll hae wind
and tide wi' us, and we'll win hame on the tide top. That would be a
lucky thing, you ken, Ruleson."
"The ways o' a good man are a' lucky, Anderson, for they are ordered
of the Lord, but a man must hae his way on his wedding day--maybe
he'll ne'er get it again!"
So Ruleson said a few words to the chattering groups, and they
instantly formed into line. The violins went first, then the bride and
bridegroom. Then Ruleson and Margot, Christine and her brother
Norman, and the rest as fancy led them in the selection of partners.
Willie Anderson's brand-new boat lay at the pier, and he had rigged up
a little gangway trimmed with ivy between it and the shore. Every boat
in harbor was flying its flag, except Anderson's boat--she was waiting
for the bride, but as soon as the crowd had settled itself, Anderson
went to the gangway, and a little lad waiting there for that purpose
handed him a parcel. It contained the new flag for the new boat, and
it was blue as the sea, and had three white words in its center, "Mine
and Thine."
And while cheering filled the air, Willie wrapped it round his bride's
slim form, and then lifting her in his strong arms, he leaped into
the boat with her. In a few minutes the flag was flying at the
masthead, the anchor lifted, and the _Mine and Thine_ began her home
journeying.
And as they watched her, the tide turned, the sails filled, and she
danced out of harbor, for the tide ran with her, and she was timed to
reach home on the tide top.