NEIL AND A LITTLE CHILD
Fearful commenting
Is leaden servitor to dull delay.
How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is
To have a thankless child.
Neil did not find it convenient on his return northward, to call again
at the home in Culraine. His mother was disappointed, and fretted to
Christine about the neglect. His father was silent, but James
Ruleson's silence often said far more than words. When all hope of a
call was over, Christine wrote to her brother, telling him in plain
words what desire and hope and disappointment had filled the two days
previous to the re-commencement of the Maraschal classes.
Neil, dear lad, you must know that Mither was watching the road up
the hill, for the past two or three days, and for the same time
feyther didna go near the boats. He was watching the road
likewise, for he didna want to miss you again. They were, both o'
them, sairly disappointed, when you neither came, nor sent word as
to what was keeping you from sae evident a duty. Ye be to remember
that Mither isna as well as she should be; and you must not
neglect her now, Neil. You might ne'er be able to make it up to
her in the future, if you do. I'm telling you, dear lad, for your
ain heart's ease. Yesterday morning, she put on a clean cap and
apron and sat down by the fireside to knit, and watch and listen.
By and by, the cat began to wash her face, and Mither was weel
pleased wi' the circumstance, for she said it was a sure sign
company was coming. So she went often to the door, and watched and
listened, but no company came, till sun down, when the Domine
called. Mither was so disappointed she couldna steady her voice,
her eyes were full o' angry tears, and she drove poor old Sandy
off the hearth, and into the cold, calling him a "lying prophet,"
and ither hard names, to which Sandy is not accustomed. Forbye,
she hasna gi'en him a drop o' milk since. Do write Mither a long
letter, full o' love and hope o' better days, and make some good
excuses to her, for your neglect. Christine can make them out o'
her ain loving heart.
CHRISTINE.
Indeed, Christine in this letter did small justice to Margot's
indignant disappointment, and now that hope was over, she made no
pretense of hiding her wrong and her sorrow. The Domine saw as soon as
he entered the cottage, that Margot was in great trouble, and he more
than guessed the reason, for he had been called to the town very early
in the day, to meet an old friend on his way to the Maraschal College,
where he filled a Professor's Chair in the medical department. Passing
with this friend down the High Street, he had seen Neil with Roberta
Rath on his arm, examining leisurely the attractive shop windows,
while Reginald trailed at speaking distance behind them.
He kept still further behind. He had no desire to interfere. Neil had
never sought his confidence, and he did not know--except through
Christine's partial remarks--what the young man's private hopes and
plans might be. So he listened to Margot's passionate complaints a
little coldly, and she was quick to perceive it.
"You canna understand, Domine, what I suffer. Ye hae never had an
ungratefu' bairn. And I'm feeling for his feyther too--the dear auld
man, he'll be clean heart-broken!"
"No, no, Margot! A good heart that trusts in God, never breaks. It has
no cause to break."
"It is eleven years, Domine, we hae all o' us been keepin' oursel's
poor, for Neil's sake."
"The last eleven years, Margot, you have missed no good thing. God has
been good to you, and to yours. I have seen! I have not forgotten!"
"Just a few kind words would hae paid for a' we hae pinched and
wanted."
"There has been neither pinch nor want in your home, Margot."
"Ye don't ken a' things, Sir. My man has worked harder than he ought
to hae worked."
"I think you may be mistaken, Margot. James Ruleson trusts in God. Why
should he overwork himself?"
"To keep the roof o'er our heads, and find food for the bairns."
"Nay, nay, Margot! Prayer, and lawful work, keep the door safe, and
the table spread."
"Oh Domine! If you feel that your love is slighted--that the bairn you
love mair than yoursel' lightlies ye; if you feel that he's 'shamed o'
you!" And Margot covered her face, and her words were lost in
heart-breaking sobs.
"Margot, you must cease weeping. Will it do you any good to kill
yourself? What will you say to your Maker in such case?"
"I willna be feared to say all that is in my heart to Him. He knows a
mither's heart, and the griefs it tholes and carries. I canna expect
you to know how love feels when it is scorned, and made little o'."
"I know something of that same sorrow, Margot. I gave the love of my
life to one who scorned it. Only God knew my sorrow, but He was
sufficient for my comfort. There is only one way of conquering wrongs
against love, Margot."
Margot did not speak, and after a moment's pause, he asked, "Do you
want to know that way?"
"No, Sir. If it is your way, I'm no able to follow it."
"Suppose you try. You think your youngest son has treated you badly?"
"Ay, I'm sure o' it, and he's treated his feyther and his brothers
badly, and his one sister worse than a'. How can folk forget injuries
that tread love under feet? They canna do it."
"They can. Do you want to know how? Do you want to know how I did
it?"
"I couldna walk in your shoon, Sir. They're o'er big for me."
"Tell Mither, Sir. Tell her, she'll maybe find it easier than she
thinks; and maybe I could help her;" and Christine went and stood by
her mother's chair, and drew her mother's head close to her breast,
and kissed her softly, as she whispered, "Ask the Domine what to do
wi' wrangs ye canna bear, and canna pay back?"
"That's the sair part, Sir. Christine has touched the raw. If any man
or woman in the village scorns or wrangs me, I can gie them as gude as
they send--words or blows--and I wad do it! Yes, I would!"
"Have you given up your kirk membership, Margot?"
"No, Sir, I hae done naething yet, requiring me to do sae; but it's
hard saying what I might be driven to, if somebody doesna mak' Jess
Morrison quit meddling wi' my family affairs--the lying hizzy!"
"Margot! Margot! My friend Margot! You astonish me, you trouble me!"
"Weel, Domine, I'm very sorry to trouble you. I wad rather trouble the
hale village than you. What do you want me to do?"
"Just to try for one month, my plan of treating any injustice, or
injury, I receive."
"Weel then, what is your plan? I'm no promising to do what I'm vera
sure is far oot o' my way, but if you had been injured on every side
o' your heart, as I hae been, what would you do?"
"When I receive an injury, Margot, I think it calmly over, and I am
sure to find some excuse for part of it--the rest I forgive."
"There's nae excuse in Neil's case, Sir."
"Yes, there are several. These Rath's promise much for his future. He
may even be in love with Miss Rath, and a man in love isna a
responsible creature. You hae told me, in the course of years, how
much Norman's wife troubled you, and Norman could not prevent her. I
have heard the same kind of story about Robert's and Allan's, and
Alexander's wives. Men do not seem to be responsible, when they are
seeking some woman for a wife. Take this into your thoughts, anent
Neil. There were also unhappy money considerations. Evidently Neil is
not ready to pay Christine's ninety pounds back, and he does not like
to be questioned about it. He would rather keep out of the way. In
both these cases, it is not Neil. It is first the girl, then the
money. He does not despise you, he is only too considerate about Miss
Rath. In the case of the money, he is perhaps counting on its use for
his advancement in life, and he would rather not talk about it. He
does not hate or scorn his own people, he is only looking out for his
future love, and his future living. That is such a common and natural
feeling, we need not wonder and weep over it. There must be other
excuses to make, if I knew all about Neil's life and hopes, and for
the rest of the faults against him--forgive them, as God forgives your
faults against His long suffering love and patience."
"Mebbe that is the right way, but----"
"Right! Say that word to yourself, Margot. Say it till it rings like a
shout in your soul, till you feel it in your hand like a drawn sword.
It is a conquering word. Say it till your weak heart grows strong."
"Mither will feel better in a few days, Sir."
"To be sure she will. Neither joy nor sorrow leaves us where it found
us. Poor Neil!"
"Why 'poor Neil,' Sir?"
"Because he cannot see beyond his limit, and his limit is self, and
selfishness is utter loss. They conquer who endure. Live it down.
Deserting our own is a cruel, silent treason even if they deserve it.
It is a sin that our souls are ashamed of. Margot, your weakness
tonight came o'er you in a moment when you were slack in Faith. You
are naturally and spiritually a brave woman, Margot. What have you to
fear?"
"I dinna want the lad I hae nursed at my breast to be ashamed o'
me--that is my fear, Domine. I dinna want to lose his love."
"Does a man ever forget the mother who bore him? I can't believe it.
When all other loves fade, that is green. It is nearly fifty years
since I bid my mother 'good-by' for ever in this life. She is the
dearest and sweetest mother to me yet. I remember her eyes, the touch
of her lips, the soft caress of her hands, as if I had seen her
yesterday. A man, however wicked, is not beyond hope, who yet loves
his mother. Neil is not a bad boy. He will love you to the end."
"I fear, I fear, Domine, that----"
"No! You do not fear. You have nothing to fear. There was a noted
preacher and poet, who shall tell you what your fear is. His name was
Crashaw, and he was an Englishman, who died just about two hundred
years ago and he says to a fearful soul:
"There is no storm but this
Of your own cowardice,
That braves you out.
You are the storm that mocks
Yourself, you are the rocks
Of your own doubt.
Besides this fear of danger, there's
No danger here,
And they that here fear danger,
Do deserve their fear."
"Ay, that's what you ca' poetry. I dinna understand a word o' it, but
I can mind that David said, he didna fear, even in the dead-mirk-dale;
but it's a far-back thought to King David, and when a mither is angry
at her bairn, she feels as if the Lord, too, was like to lose sight o'
her, and that earth and heaven are baith a' wrang."
"Well, then, Margot, when you feel as if the Lord was like to lose
sight o' you, then you canna lose sight o' the Lord. Then, in the
words of your Covenanters' Psalms, you be to cry out: 'How lang, O
Lord! Will ye mind me nae mair? How long will ye hap yer face frae
me?' And then, Margot, you mind how the few verses of doubt and fear,
end--'the Lord he's wrought a' things neiborlie for me'. Now, Margot,
I am not going to preach to you. Your own leal heart can do that. I
will just say goodnight with one verse from that same dear old book o'
psalms--'Let the words o' my mouth, an' the thought o' my heart, be
for pleasure in yer sight, O Lord, my strength, and my hame bringer.'
I leave blessing with you."
"You werna as kind as you should hae been to the Domine, Mither. He
tried to comfort you," said Christine.
"That was in the way o' his duty. What does he know, puir fellow!
anent a mither's love or sorrow?"
"I'm glad feyther hes wee Jamie for his comfort."
"Ay, but Jamie doesna comfort me, in the place o' Neil."
"You hae me, Mither. Dinna forget Christine."
"Would I do that? Never! Christine is worth a' the lads in Scotland.
They marry--and forget."
"The Domine says he loves his mother today, better than ever, and her
dead near fifty years."
"The Domine is a wonder, and he ne'er put a wife in her place. I hope
your feyther didna go to the toun today. Where has Jamie been?"
"He went out with feyther, this morning. I think they went to the
boats, but I canna weel say. They ought to be hame by this hour. I
wonder what is keeping them sae late?"
"Weel, Christine, the trouble hes gone by, this time, and we willna
ca' it back. If your feyther didna come across the lad i' the town, it
will mebbe be best to let him get back to the Maraschal without remark
or recollection."
"To be sure, Mither."
"I wonder what's keeping your feyther? It is too late, and too cold,
for Jamie to be out."
"I hear their voices, Mither. They're coming up the hill. Stir the
fire into a blaze o' welcome. Just listen to the laddie laughing--and
feyther laughing too. Whatever has happened to them?"
James Ruleson and the lad at his side came into the cottage the next
moment. The light of the laugh was yet on their faces, and oh, what a
happy stir their advent made in the cozy, firelit room! Margot forgot
she had been crying and complaining, she was helping her man take off
his heavy coat, and Christine was helping the child, who was in a
state of great excitement:
"I hae been to the circus!" he cried. "Christine! Gran'mither! I hae
been to the circus! It was wonderful! I did not want to leave it. I
wanted to stay always there. I want to go tomorrow. Gran'feyther! Will
you take me tomorrow? Say yes! Do say yes!"
"Why, James!" cried Margot, "I never heard tell o' the like! Hae ye
lost your senses, gudeman?"
"No, I think I hae just found them. I am sair-hearted, because I didna
send all the lads there. Let us hae a cup o' tea, and we will tell you
how we spent the day."
Then there was a ten minutes hurry, and at the end a well spread
table, and four happy faces round it; and as Margot handed Ruleson his
big tea cup, she said, "Now, James Ruleson, tell us what you and the
lad hae been after today, that took you into such a sinfu' place as a
circus. You'll hae to face the Domine on the matter. You, a ruling
elder, in a circus! I'm mair than astonished! I'm fairly shocked at
ye! And I'm feared it was a premeditated sin. And ye ken what the
Domine thinks o' premeditated sins."
"It was far from a sin o' any kind, gudewife. Jamie and I were on our
way to the boat, for a few hours' fishing, when we met a lad wi' a
note from Finlay, saying he wanted a few words o' advice from me, and
I took a sudden thought o' a day's rest, and a bit o' pleasure wi'
little Jamie. Sae, to the town we went, and first o' all to Finlay's,
and I had a long talk wi' him, about some railway shares he owns, on
my advice; and they hae turned out sae weel, he wanted me to tak' part
o' the profit. I wouldna do that, but I let him gie twenty pounds
towards the school fund."
"You might hae put that twenty in your ain pouch, gudeman, and nae
fault in the same. You are too liberal anent the school. Our ain lads
get naething from it."
"Jamie will hae the gude o' it, and lots o' Culraine lads and lasses
until they get a better one. Weel, so be it! After Finlay and I had
finished our crack, I took Jamie to Molly Stark's, and we had a
holiday dinner."
"Chicken pie! Custard pudding! Strawberry tarts! Nuts and raisins! And
a big orange! Grandmither! Oh, it was beautiful! Beautiful!"
"Then we walked about the town a bit, and I saw a big tent, and men
playing music before it, and when we got close pictures of animals and
of horses, and men riding. And Jamie saw many little lads going in,
especially one big school, and he said, 'Grandfeyther, tak' me in
too!' And I took counsel wi' my ain heart for a minute, and it said to
me, 'Tak' the lad in,' and so I did."
"And now you're blaming yoursel'?"
"I am not. I think I did right. There was neither sound nor sight o'
wrang, and the little laddie went wild wi' pleasure; and to tell the
vera truth, I was pleased mysel' beyond a' my thoughts and
expectations. I would like to tak' you, Margot, and Christine too. I
would like it weel. Let us a' go the morn's night."
"I hae not lost my senses yet, James. Me go to a circus! Culraine wad
ne'er get o'er the fact. It wad be a standing libel against Margot
Ruleson. As for Christine!"
"I wad like weel to go wi' Feyther."
"I'm fairly astonished at you, Christine! Lassie, the women here would
ne'er see you again, they wad feel sae far above ye. I'm not the
keeper o' your feyther's gude name, but I hae a charge o'er yours, and
it is clear and clean impossible, for you to go to a circus."
"If Feyther goes----"
"Your feyther hasna heard the last o' his spree yet. To think o' him
leaving the narrow road. Him, near saxty years old! The kirk session
on the matter will be a notable one. Elders through the length and
breadth o' Scotland will be takin' sides. Dear me, James Ruleson, that
you, in your auld age, should come to this!" and then Margot laughed
merrily and her husband and Christine understood she was only joking.
"And you'll maybe go wi' us all some afternoon, Margot?"
"Na, na, James! I'll not gie Jess Morrison, and the like o' her, any
occasion for their ill tongues. They'd just glory in Margot Ruleson,
Elder Ruleson's wife, going to the circus. I wouldn't be against
going mysel' I'd like to go, but I wouldn't gie them the pleasure o'
tossing my gude name on their ill-natured tongues."
"I saw Peter Brodie there, and his three lads, and his daughter
Bella."
"Weel, James, tak' the little laddie again, if so you wish. Peter will
stand wi' you, and he's the real ruling elder. But Christine is
different. It lets a woman down to be talked about, whether she is
right, or wrang."
Then Jamie was allowed to give his version of the wonder and the joy
of a circus, and the last cups of tea were turned into some glorious
kind of a drink, by the laughter and delight his descriptions evoked.
Then and there it was resolved that his grandfather must take him
again on the following day, and with this joyous expectation in his
heart, the child at last fell asleep.
When Ruleson and his wife were alone, Margot noticed that her man's
face became very somber and thoughtful. He was taking his bed-time
smoke by the fireside, and she waited beside him, with her knitting in
her hands, though she frequently dropped it. She was sure he had
something on his mind, and she waited patiently for its revealing. At
length he shook the ashes from his pipe, and stood it in its proper
corner of the hob, then going to the window, he looked out and said,
"It's fair and calm, thank God! Margot, I saw Neil today." As he
spoke, he sat down, and looked at her, almost sorrowfully.
"What did he say for himsel'?"
"I didna speak to him. I was in Finlay's store, at the back o' it,
whar Finlay hes his office. A young man came into the store, and
Finlay got up and went to speak to him. It was Rath, and when he went
awa', Finlay called me, and showed me a little group on the sidewalk.
They were Rath and his sister, our Neil and Provost Blackie's son."
"Our Provost Blackie's son?"
"Just sae. And Neil and him were as well met and friendly as if they
had been brought up in the same cottage. The four o' them stood
talking a few minutes, and then Neil offered his arm to Miss Rath, and
led the young lady to a carriage waiting for them. She smiled and said
something, and Neil turned and bowed to Rath and young Blackie, and
then stepped into the carriage and took his seat beside the lady, and
they drove off together."
"Gudeman, you arena leeing to me?"
"I am telling you the plain evendown truth, Margot."
"Did he see you?"
"No. I keepit oot o' his way."
"Whatna for?"
"I needna say the words."
"I'll say them for you--you thought he would be ashamed o' you."
"Ay, he might hae been. Dinna cry, woman. Dear, dear woman, dinna cry!
It's our ain fault--our ain fault. If we had stood firm for the
pulpit, if we had said, 'you must be either a preacher or a
schoolmaster,' this wouldna hae been. We were bent on makin' a
gentleman o' him, and now he prefers gentlemen to fishermen--we ought
to hae expectit it."
"It is cruel, shamefu', ungratefu' as it can be!"
"Ay, but the lad is only seeking his ain good. If he still foregathered
wi' our rough fisher-lads, we wouldn't like it. And we would tell him
sae."
"He might hae found time to rin down, and see us for an hour or twa,
and gie us the reasons for this, and that."
"He looked like he was courting the young lady--and we know of auld
times, wife, that when our lads began courting, we hed to come after.
I was wrang to gie in to his studying the law. Studying the gospels,
he wad hae learned that there are neither rich nor poor, in God's
sight. We gave the lad to God, and then we took him awa' frae God, and
would mak' a lawyer and a gentleman o' him. Weel, as far as I can see,
he is going to be a' we intended. We are getting what we hae worked
for. There's nane to blame but oursel's."
This reasoning quite silenced Margot. She considered it constantly,
and finally came to her husband's opinion. Then she would not talk
about Neil, either one way, or the other, and it soon fell out that
the lad's name was never mentioned in the home where he had once ruled
almost despotically. Only Christine kept her faith in Neil. She wrote
him long letters constantly. She told him all that was going on in the
village, all about his father and mother, the Domine and the school
house. She recalled pleasant little incidents of the past, and
prefigured a future when she would see him every day. And she seldom
named little Jamie. She divined that Neil was jealous of the position
the child had gained in the household. And Christine was no
trouble-maker. Her letters were all messages of peace and good will,
and without any advice from her father she had personally come to very
much the same conclusion that he had arrived at. "There has been a
great mistake," she said softly to herself, "and we be to mak' the
best o' it. It isna beyond God's power to sort it right yet."
So Neil was seldom named unless a letter came from him, which was not
a frequent occurrence. The boxes filled with home delicacies were no
longer sent, nor was their absence noted, nor their presence
requested. Neil was making money as a coach to younger and wealthier
students. He now dined at the best hotel, and had a very good
breakfast in his comfortable rooms. But Christine felt that the
breaking of this tie of "something good to eat" was a serious thing.
Home was a long way further off to Neil, when the motherly baskets of
homemade dainties ceased coming to him, and all Christine's
apologies--whether they touched his mother's ill health, or his own
prosperity's making them unnecessary, did not mend the matter. They
were just common bread and meat, mere physical things, but their want
was heart-hunger, and doubt and suspicion, in place of the love and
pleasure they had always caused.
Generally, however, as one interest in life dies out, another springs
up, and the school building, and the little laddie kept the Ruleson
family happily busy. Ruleson had been asked to superintend the
building and he did the work with a completeness which was natural to
him. He looked over every load of stone, and saw that the blocks of
granite were well fitting, and perfect in color. He examined all the
mortar made, lest the builders follow modern habits and put too much
sand among the lime. He returned as unworthy many pounds of nails,
which were either too short, or too slight, for the purposes for which
they were intended; and the slating for the roof was a thing he did
not trust to anyone but James Ruleson. So the school house and his
fishing kept him busy and happy, and Margot and Christine looked at
him with wonder and pleasure. He was always smiling, and always
listening to Jamie, who was chattering at his side, whenever he was on
land.
So life at Culraine pursued the even tenor of its way, until the
middle of March, when the school was opened for a short quarter until
the herring should come on in July. The building was by no means
finished, but the walls were up, the windows in, the slate roof on,
and the desks and forms in place. The master's room, the painting,
plastering, and decoration were untouched. Ruleson thought they could
be attended to during the herring fishing, and the school formally
opened in September.
To a man quite unaccustomed to business, these were tremendous, yet
delightful responsibilities; and Ruleson lived between his boat and
the school. When he was on land, Jamie was always at his side.
Hitherto Ruleson had been noted for his reticence. Even among such a
silent race as the Fife fishers his silence was remarkable. He had
held his peace even from good, but the child always chattering at his
side had taught him to talk. Jamie's thirst for knowledge was
insatiable, he was always wanting to know something or other, and the
inquisitive "why" was constantly on his lips. Few people could
remember James Ruleson's laughing, now his big guffaw constantly
carried on its echo the little lad's shrill treble laugh. Ruleson had
many amiable qualities unused and undeveloped that the boy brought out
in many different ways. In his little grandson's company he was born
again, and became as a little child. This was an actual and visible
conversion. The whole village testified to this wonderful new birth.
On the fourteenth of March the dream of his heart came true. He saw
the little children come running through the sand hills, and over the
heather, to the school. From far and near, they came, wearing their
best clothes, and happy as if it was a holiday. He listened to them
reciting, after their teachers, a morning prayer. He heard them
learning in class together the alphabet, and the first lessons in
numbers and addition, a lesson which all acquired rapidly by some
secret natural process. For if the teacher asked how many two and two
made, he had not to wait a moment for a correct answer from every baby
mouth. It amazed Ruleson, until he remembered that no one had ever
taught him to count. Through generations of clever bargaining mothers,
had this ability become a natural instinct. The Domine thought it
might have done so.
In some way or other, the school made Christine's life very busy. She
was helping weary mothers make little dresses, and little breeches, or
doing a bit of cleaning for them, or perhaps cooking a meal, or
nursing the baby for an hour. She was mending or weaving nets, she was
redding up her own home. She was busy with the washing or ironing, or
hearing Jamie's lessons, or helping her mother with the cooking. Her
hands were never idle, and there was generally a smile on her face, a
song on her lips, or a pleasant word for everyone within the sound of
her cheerful voice.
She had also her own peculiar duties. There were long and frequent
letters from Cluny to answer, and occasionally one from Angus
Ballister, the latter always enclosing a pretty piece of lace, or a
trifle of some kind, special to the city he was in. Ballister's
letters troubled her, for they were written still in that tone of "it
might have been," with a certain faint sense of reproach, as if it was
her fault, that it had not been. This was so cleverly insinuated, that
there was nothing for her to deny, or to complain of. She wished he
would not write, she wished he would cease sending her any reminders
of "days forever gone." His sentimental letters were so evidently the
outcome of a cultivated heart-breaking disappointment, that they
deeply offended her sense of truth and sincerity.
One day she received from him a letter dated Madrid, and it contained
a handsome lace collar, which she was asked to wear for his sake, and
thus remember his love "so sorrowfully passionate, and alas, so early
doomed to disappointment and despair!"
"The leeing lad!" she angrily exclaimed. "I'll just tell him the
truth, and be done wi' him. I'll send him the collar back, and tell
him I'm no carin' to be reminded o' him, in ony shape or fashion. I'll
tell him he kens naething about love, and is parfectly ignorant o' any
honest way o' makin' love. I'll tell him that he never loved me, and
that I never loved him worth talking about, and that I'll be obligated
to him if he'll drop the makin' believe, and write to me anent village
matters, or not write at a'."
Days so full and so happy went quickly away, and though there had been
so much to do, never had the village been ready for the herring visit,
as early, and so completely, as it was this summer. When Margot's
roses began to bloom, the nets were all leaded, and ready for the
boats, and the boats themselves had all been overhauled and their
cordage and sails put in perfect condition. There would be a few
halcyon days of waiting and watching, but the men were gathering
strength for the gigantic labor before them, as they lounged on the
pier, and talked sleepily of their hopes and plans.
It was in this restful interval that James and Margot Ruleson received
a letter from their son Neil, inviting them to the great Commencement
of his college. He said he was chosen to make the valedictory speech
for his class, that he had passed his examination with honor, and
would receive his commission as one of Her Majesty's attorneys at law.
"If you would honor and please me by your presence, dear father and
mother," he wrote, "I shall be made very happy, and I will secure a
room for you in the house where I am living, and we can have our meals
together."
It is needless to say this letter canceled all faults. Margot was
delighted at the prospect of a railway journey, and a visit to
Aberdeen. She was going to see for hersel' what a university was
like--to see the hundreds o' lads studying for the law and the gospel
there--to hae a change in the weary sameness of her hard fisher life.
For a few days she was going to be happy and play, hersel', and see
her lad made a gentleman, by the gracious permission o' Her Majesty,
Queen Victoria.
The invitation being gladly accepted, Margot had anxious consultations
with Christine about her dress. She knew that she was the handsomest
woman in Culraine, when she wore her best fishing costume; "but I
canna wear the like o' it," she said in a lingering, rather longing
tone.
"Na, na, Mither, ye be to dress yoursel' like a' ither ladies. Your
gray silk is fine and fitting, but you must hae a new bonnet, and
white gloves, and a pair o' patent leather shoon--a low shoe, wi' bows
o' black ribbon on the instep. There's few women hae a neater foot
than you hae, and we'll gae the morn and get a' things needfu' for
your appearance. Feyther hes his kirk suit, and he is requiring
naething, if it be not a pair o' gloves."
"He never puts a glove on his hand, Christine."
"Ay, weel, he can carry them in his hand. They are as respectable in
his hands, as on them. It is just to show folk that he can afford to
glove his hands, if he wants to do it. That is maistly what people
wear fine claes of all kinds for. They would be happier i' their ivery
day loose and easy suits, I'm thinking," said Christine.
"I wonder why Neil didna ask you, Christine. You helped him many a
weary hour to the place he is now standing on. If he had not asked
anyone else, he ought to hae bidden you to his finishing and
honoring. Why didn't he do that proper thing? Hae ye ony quarrel wi'
him?"
"Not a word oot o' place between us. I wrote him a four-page letter
three days syne."
"What's the matter, then?"
"He's feared for me, Mither. He's feared his friend Reginald will do
as Angus did, fa' in love wi' me, and then get oot o' love wi' him.
Men are silly as bairns anent some things. I'm not carin', Mither.
Someone must bide at hame, and look after wee Jamie, and you yoursel'
will be mair contented if you ken I am here to tak' tent o' the house
and bairn, and the lave o' things."
"Ay, it's better. You canna leave a house its lane, any mair than a
bairn. The ane will get into dole and mischief, as quick as the ither.
You'll be minding Polly Cromarty's bit cottage, taking fire and
burning to the ground, and not a man, woman, or bairn near it. And
Bella Simpson the same, and Kate Dalrymple losing a' her savings, and
the house locked and barr'd and naebody in it, or near it. I'll go to
Aberdeen real happy if you are watching the house, while I'm awa'
playing, mysel'."
So there was a week of happy preparation, and then on a fine Monday
morning Mr. and Mrs. Ruleson went to Aberdeen. Margot was satisfied to
leave her house in Christine's care, but at the last hour, she had
discovered another likelihood of trouble. It was the herring.
"They are maistly twa weeks earlier, or later than looked for,
Christine," she said, "and, of course, they'll be earlier this year. I
wouldn't wonder that when we reach Aberdeen, we'll find them there, if
they arena at Culraine itsel'. And if feyther's boat isna leading, it
will be that meddlesome Peter Brodie's boat--and that would rile me a'
the year through."
"Mither, it is too soon for the herrin'. You needna fret yoursel'
anent the herrin'. If there are any signs o' the feesh, I'll gie young
Donald Grant a smile, and he'll watch for them night and day to
pleasure me. I'll not let Peter hae a chance to find them."
"That's a' right."
And when they were fairly gone and out o' sight, Christine sat down
to consider, and to draw her personality together. She felt as if
there were half-a-dozen Christines, and she was equally conscious of
an unusual house. Its atmosphere was intense and restless, and
slightly dissatisfied. Christine considered it for a few moments,
and then said, "Nae wonder! Everything in it is tapsalterie, and
I'll just go through it, and make it tidy and clean, and proper
for the hame-coming."
At Aberdeen railway station they found Neil waiting for them. He took
them to the house he called "home." It was a very respectable house,
in a very respectable quarter of the city, kept by Mrs. Todd, a
sea-captain's widow, a woman with "relatives weel kent, and o' the
better class o' folk." She took to Margot, and Margot, with some
reservations, took to her. Ruleson was anxious to see the city. From
the small window in his railway carriage his eyes had rested upon its
granite towers and spires, and he went with Neil to walk down
Maraschal and Union Streets, the latter being a most splendid roadway,
with houses and pavements of gray granite. For a full mile's length,
the street looked as if it had been cut and fashioned out of the solid
rock, for the mortar used could not be seen. There were splendid shops
on these streets, but there was no sign of a circus, nor of any other
place of amusement.
Sitting at tea with the captain's widow, he named this fact. "I saw
naething o' a circus," he said, "and a man with whom I talked a few
minutes said there were no theaters or concert halls, or the like o'
such places, in Aberdeen."
"Just sae," answered the widow, "we hae nae amusements here, but
preaching, preaching!"
"Gudeman, why were you seeking information anent amusements? They
arena in your way."
"I was just makin' a few interrogatories, Margot. I wanted to ken how
the people passed their days. I didna see any sign o' manufactories.
What do they mak' then in Aberdeen?"
Ruleson looked pointedly at the widow as he spoke, and she answered
with an air of quiet superiority. "Aberdeen mak's men--men out o' the
raw material, for a' the marts and markets o' the warld. We hae lads
to be made men o' frae every part o' Scotland; for poor lads can get
here the best o' learning for sma' cost. They can hae board for five
shilling a week, and the professors' fees are only seven or eight
pounds a session. A twenty-five-pound bursary will pay all expenses.
Many of the poor students board themselves, and a great deal can be
done on porridge and milk, and fish, and meal. And we hae the gentry,
too, Sir! plenty of rich lads, as well as poor ones, and the one kind
helps the ither."
Ruleson saw both kinds the next day--hundreds of braw young lads,
running over with the joyous spirit of youth. Hard to control, yet
thoroughly under control, they filled the large university hall with
an almost intoxicating influence of life. You could not feel old while
breathing it. Yet it all seemed very much like a church meeting to
Margot, until Neil stepped to the front of the crowded platform. That
sight brought her heart and soul home, and she laid her hand on her
husband's hand, and sat still to listen.
He looked handsome and gentlemanly, and held a folded paper in his
hand. Bowing to the professors, the provost, and the other dignitaries
surrounding him, he then turned a smiling face to the audience, and
commenced his speech. It was a very learned discussion on a point of
law then causing international argument, and as his various points
reached their climax, he was warmly applauded. At its close many
stood up in their enthusiasm to honor him, and in the midst of this
excitement, the president of the Maraschal handed him, with the set
formula, the credentials which made Neil Ruleson one of Her Majesty's
gentlemen and councilors-at-law.
Neil's father sat motionless, but his grave face changed like the
pages of a book which are being turned. Margot was almost hysterical.
She covered her face and wept, and all eyes were turned on her, and
every heart said to itself, "She will be the lad's mother." And coming
out of the hall, many nodded to her and smiled. They wanted her to
feel that they rejoiced with her. Outside the university, Neil joined
his father and mother, and as he passed through the crowd, with his
mother on his arm, he was hailed with the congratulations both of
those who knew him, and those who did not know him.
It was a wonderful hour to the Ruleson party, and perhaps only James
Ruleson had any shadow of regret in it. He did not once voice this
regret, but it was present to his thoughts and imagination. Neil as a
gentleman of Scotland and a member of the Scottish bar was a great
honor, but Oh, if he had seen him in the minister's gown and bands,
and heard his first sermon, how much greater his joy! How much prouder
of his son's success he would have been!
But he said nothing to Margot which could dim her satisfaction.
Mrs. Todd did that quite sufficiently. She spoke with contempt o'
the fool-like way Aberdeen folk went on, every time a lad happened
to get a degree, or a bit o' school honor; and the thing happening a'
the time, as it were. She made Margot feel by her short, cool
remarks, that Neil's triumph might, after all, be an ordinary affair,
and for a little season took all the glory out of Neil's achievement,
though in doing so, she was careful of the reputation of her native
city, and candidly admitted that in spite of a' their well-kent
scholarship, Aberdeeners were kindly folk, aye ready to gie a shout
o' encouragement to a new beginner.
Margot, however, quickly readjusted the dampened and discouraged
feeling Mrs. Todd's opinions induced. "She's just jealous, because
Neil is a Fife lad. That's a' there is to her say-so! I hae heard
often that Aberdeeners were a jealous folk. I'm saying naething
against their kindliness. They hae treated Neil weel, and nae doubt
they understood weel enou' what they were doing."
Neil spent most of the day with his parents, but about six in the
evening he came to them in full evening dress, and said he was going
to the Rath's hotel. "They have a dinner in my honor," he continued,
"and the Provost's son, and several important people will be there;
and I am to be introduced to the Hepburn of Hepburn Braes, a great
nobleman in these parts. There will be ladies, too, of course, and I,
am expecting a profitable and pleasant evening." And though Margot
was quite elated over her son's great friends, Ruleson would have been
far prouder had he known Neil was going to take the chair at a session
of elders connected with some kirk of which Neil was the Domine.
The next morning they returned to Culraine with hearts full of
memories for which they could thank God, and they found their son
Allan sitting at their fireside. As soon as Allan saw them enter, he
rose and went to them, and took their hands in his hands, and said in
a voice trembling with emotion, "Father! Mother! Your kindness to my
little lad has made you father and mother twice over to me." Then what
a happy hour followed! For as they were sitting down to their evening
meal, the Domine entered. He had heard of Allan's visit and had become
anxious about the child, lest he might be taken from them. And it was
during these troubled hours he bethought him of the necessity for a
legal adoption of little Jamie by his grandfather and himself, a plan
taken into consideration that very night, and within the next three
months made binding as book and bond could fix it.
The Domine was a welcome addition to the family party. He slipped with
a smile into Christine's place, and she rose and served them with
grace and sweetness. And as she went softly around the table,
replenishing emptied plates, and refilling teacups, saying nothing,
but seeing to everyone's comfort, her beauty took on an extraordinary
charm. Woman, or rather ministering angel, she seemed, and it was
strange that all present took her beautiful service, as things of
spiritual beauty are usually taken, without much notice. Yet she was
that night the golden band around the table, that kept the sweet
influences of the meal peaceful and unbroken from the beginning to the
end of it. A few happy hours followed, and then the Domine took Allan
back to the manse with him. "They are a' tired here," he said, "but
you and I, Allan, can talk the night awa'."
This they did, but there were only two or three sentences in their
long conversation which concern this story. They referred to the happy
family life of the Rulesons. "I never go to your father's house,
Allan," said the Domine, "without regretting that I did not marry. I
have come to the conclusion that marriage is Nature's way of coaxing
the best out of us. A man puts his back into the uplift for wife and
children, for to make them happy is better than riches or fame."
"Still you might have made a mistake, Sir."
"Earth would be heaven, Allan, if we never made mistakes. But in spite
of mistakes, men live contented with the world, and happy with each
other."