CHRISTINE MISTRESS OF RULESON COTTAGE
Now, therefore, keep thy sorrow to thyself and bear with a good
courage that which hath befallen thee.--Esdras ii, ch. 10, v. 15.
Be not afraid, neither doubt, for God is your guide.--Esdras i,
ch. 16, v. 75.
It was a cold winter day at the end of January, and a streak of white
rain was flying across the black sea. Christine stood at the window,
gazing at her brother's old boat edging away to windward, under very
small canvas. There was a wild carry overhead, out of the northeast,
and she was hoping that Norman had noticed the tokens of the sky.
Margot saw her look of anxiety, and said: "You needna worry yoursel',
Christine. Norman's boat is an auld-warld Buckie skiff. They're the
auldest model on a' our coasts, and they can fend in a sea that would
founder a whole fishing fleet."
"I noticed Norman had lowered his mainsail and hoisted the mizzen in
its place, and that he was edging away to windward."
"Ay, Norman kens what he must do, and he does it. That's his way. Ye
needna fash anent Norman, he'll tak' his old Buckie skiff into a gale
that yachts wi' their lockers fu' o' prizes wouldna daur to venture."
"But, Mither dear, there's a wind from the north blowing in savage
gusts, and the black seas tumble wild and high, and send clouds of
spindrift to smother the auld boat."
"Weel, weel! She'll give to the squalls, and it's vera near the turn
o' the tide, then the wind will gae down, as the sea rises. The bit
storm will tak' itsel' off in a heavy mist and a thick smur, nae doubt
o' it."
"And Norman will know all this."
"Ay, will he! Norman is a wonderfu' man, for a' perteening to his
duty."
Then the door opened, and one of the Brodie boys gave Christine two
letters. "I thought ye wad be glad o' them this gloomy day," he said
to Christine.
"Thank you, Alick! You went a bit out o' your road to pleasure us."
"That's naething. Gude morning! I am in a wee hurry, there's a big
game in the playground this afternoon." With these words the boy was
gone, and Christine stood with the letters in her hand. One was from
Cluny, and she put it in her breast, the other was from Roberta, and
she read it aloud to her mother. It was dated New Orleans, and the
first pages of the letter consisted entirely of a description of the
place and her perfect delight in its climate and social life.
Margot listened impatiently. "I'm no carin' for that information,
Christine," she said. "Why is Roberta in New Orleans? What is she
doing in a foreign land, and nae word o' Neil in the circumstance."
"I am just coming to that, Mither." Then Christine read carefully
Roberta's long accusation of her husband's methods. Margot listened
silently, and when Christine ceased reading, did not express any
opinion.
"What do ye think, Mither?"
"I'll hae to hear Neil's side, before I can judge. When she was here,
she said naething against Neil."
"She did not name him at all. I noticed that."
"Put her letter awa' till we get Neil's story. I'll ne'er blame my lad
before I hae heard his side o' the wrang. I'm disappointed in Roberta.
Wives shouldna speak ill o' their husbands. It isna lawfu', and it's
vera unwise."
"The faults she names are quite in the line o' Neil's faults."
"Then it's a gude thing he was keepit out o' the ministry. The
Maraschal was gude enough. I'm thinking all the lad's faults are quite
in the line o' the law. Put the letter awa'. I'm not going to tak' it
into my consideration, till Neil has had his say-so. Let us hae a good
day wi' a book, Christine."
"So we will, Mither. I'll red up the house, and read my letter, and be
wi' you."
"Some wee, short love stories and poems, and the like. That verse you
read me a week syne, anent the Lord being our shepherd, is singing in
my heart and brain, even the now. It was like as if the Lord had but
one sheep, and I mysel' was that one. Gie me my crochet wark, and I
will listen to it, until you are through wi' your little jobs."
The day grew more and more stormy, but these two women made their own
sunshine, for Margot was now easy and pleasant to live with. Nothing
was more remarkable than the change that had taken place in her. Once
the most masterful, passionate, plain-spoken woman in the village, she
had become, in the school of affliction and loss, as a little child,
and the relations between herself and Christine had been in many cases
almost reversed. She now accepted the sweet authority of Christine
with pleasure, and while she held tenaciously to her own likings and
opinions, she no longer bluffed away the opinions of others with that
verbal contempt few were able to reply to. Her whole nature had
sweetened, and risen into a mental and spiritual region too high for
angry or scornful personalities.
Her physical failure and decay had been very slow, and at first
exceedingly painful, but as her strength left her, and her power to
resist and struggle was taken away with it, she had traveled through
the Valley of the Shadow of Death almost cheerfully, for the Lord was
with her, and her own dear daughter was the rod that protected, and
the staff that comforted her.
They had a day of wonderful peace and pleasure, and after they had had
their tea, and Margot had been prepared for the night, Christine had a
long sweet session with her regarding her own affairs. She told her
mother that Cluny was coming to see her anent their marriage. "He
really thinks, Mither, he can be a great help and comfort to us
baith," she said, "and it is but three or four days in a month he
could be awa' from the ship."
"Do you want him here, dearie?"
"It would be a great pleasure to me, Mither. I spend many anxious
hours about Cluny, when the weather is bad." And Margot remembered how
rarely she spoke of this anxiety, or indeed of Cluny at all. For the
first time she seemed to realize the girl's unselfish love, and she
looked at Christine with eyes full of tears, and said:
"Write and tell Cluny to come hame. He is welcome, and I'll gie ye
baith my blessing!" And Christine kissed and twice kissed her mother,
and in that hour there was a great peace in the cottage.
This concession regarding Cluny was the breaking down of Margot's last
individual bulwark. Not by assault, or even by prudence, was it taken.
A long service of love and patience made the first breach, and then
Christine's sweet, uncomplaining reticence about her lover and her own
hopes threw wide the gates, and the enemy was told to "come hame and
welcome." It was a great moral triumph, it brought a great
satisfaction, and after her surrender, Margot fell into a deep,
restful sleep, and Christine wrote a joyful letter to Cluny, and began
to calculate the number of days that must wear away before Cluny would
receive the happy news.
A few days after this event Christine began to read to her mother
"Lady Audley's Secret," and she was much astonished to find her sleepy
and indifferent. She continued in this mood for some days, and when
she finally threw off this drowsy attitude, Christine noticed a very
marked change. What had taken place during that somnolent pause in
life? Had the silver cord been loosed, or the golden bowl broken, or
the pitcher broken at the fountain? Something had happened beyond
human ken, and though Margot made no complaint, and related no unusual
experience, Christine knew that her spirit was ready to return unto
God who gave it. And she said to herself:
"As I work, my heart must watch,
For the door is on the latch,
In her room;
And it may be in the morning,
He will come."
In the afternoon little Jamie came in, and Christine told him to go
very quietly to his grandmother, and speak to her. She smiled when he
did so, and slowly opened her eyes. "Good-by, Jamie," she said. "Be a
good boy, be a good man, till I see ye again."
"I will, Grandmother. I will! I promise you."
"What do you think o' her, Jamie?" asked Christine.
"I think she is dying, Auntie."
"Go hame as quick as you can, and tell your feyther to come, and not
to lose a minute. Tell him he must bring the Cup wi' him, or I'm
feared he'll be too late."
The Domine's voice roused Margot a little. She put out her trembling
hand, and the likeness of a smile was on her face. "Is He come?" she
asked.
"Only a few more shadows, Margot, and He will come. I have brought the
Cup with me, Margot. Will you drink the Wine of Remembrance now?"
"Ay, will I--gladly!"
The Domine and Christine ate and drank the sacred meal with her, and
after it she seemed clearer and better, and the Domine said to her,
"Margot, you will see my dear old friend, James Ruleson, very soon
now. Will you tell him I send him my love? Will you tell him little
Jamie is my son now, and that he is going to make the name of James
Ruleson stand high in the favor of God and man?"
"I'll tell him a' anent Jamie--and anent Christine, too."
"The dead wait and long for news of the living they love. Someway,
sooner or later, good news will find them out, and make even heaven
happier. Farewell, Margot!"
Later in the evening there came that decided lightening which so often
precedes death. Margot asked for Norman, and while he knelt beside
her, she gave him some instructions about her burial, and charged him
to stand by his sister Christine. "She'll be her lane," she said,
"'til my year is gane by, and the warld hates a lone woman who fends
for hersel'. Stay wi' Christine tonight. Tell Christine to come to
me."
When Christine was at her side, she asked, "Do you remember the verses
in the wee, green book?"
"Called 'Coming'?"
"Ay"--and she added very slowly the first few words she wished to
hear--"It may be when the midnight----"
"Is heavy upon the land,
And the black waves lying dumbly
Along the sand,
When the moonless night draws close,
And the lights are out in the house,
When the fires burn low and red,
And the watch is ticking loudly,
Beside the bed.
Though you sleep tired out, on your couch
Still your heart must wake and watch,
In the dark room.
For it may be that at midnight,
I will come."
And then Norman said solemnly, "In such an hour as you think not, He
will come."
About ten o'clock Christine caught an anxious look in her eyes, and
she asked, "What is it, Mither, dear Mither?"
"Neil!" she answered. "Did ye send for the lad?"
"Three days ago."
"When he does come, gie him the words I send him. You ken what they
are."
"I will say and do all you told me."
"But dinna be cross wi' the laddie. Gie him a fair hearing."
"If he is sorry for a' he has done----"
"He willna be sorry. Ye must e'en forgie him, sorry or not--Ye ken
what the Domine said to me--when I spoke--o' forgiving Neil--when
he--was sorry?"
"The Domine said you were to remember, that while we were yet sinners
God loved us, and Christ died for us."
"Ay, while we--were--yet--sinners! that leaves room for Neil--and
everybody else, Christine--Christine--I am weary, bairns--I will go to
sleep now--gude night!"
Death had now become a matter of consent to Margot. She surrendered
herself to her Maker, and bade her children "goodnight!"
Her life had many a hope and aim,
Duties enough and little cares,
And now was quiet and now astir,
until God's hand beckoned her into His school of affliction. Now in
the House not made with Hands she understands the meaning of it all.
The next week was a particularly hard one to Christine. In the long
seclusion of her mother's illness, and in the fascination which study
now had for her, the primitive burial rites of Culraine were an almost
unbearable trial. Every woman who had ever known Margot came to bid
her a last earthly farewell. Some cried, some volubly praised her,
some were sadly silent, but all were alike startled by the mighty
change that affliction and death had made in the once powerful,
handsome, tremendously vitalized woman, who had ruled them all by the
sheer force of her powerful will and her wonderful vitality. Pale and
cold, her raven hair white as snow, her large strong hands, shrunk to
skin and bone, clasped on her breast, and at rest forever--they could
hardly believe that this image of absolute helplessness was all that
was left of Margot Ruleson.
For three days the house was always full, and Christine was troubled
and questioned on every hand. But for three days long a little brown
bird sat on a holly tree by her window, and sang something that
comforted her. And the sweet, strong song was for her alone. Nobody
else noticed it. She wondered if they even saw the little messenger.
On the afternoon of the third day, the Domine, standing at the head of
the coffin, spoke to the men and women who filled the house. His eyes
were dim with tears, but his voice had the strong, resonant ring of a
Faith that knew it was well with the dead that die in the Lord. It was
mainly to the living he spoke, asking them solemnly, "What does the
Lord require of you? Only this service--that you do justly, and love
mercy, and walk humbly with your God."
Then Margot's sons, Norman and Eneas, lifted the light coffin. The
Domine walked in front of it, and all the men present followed them to
the open grave, in the old kirk yard. In Scotland women do not go to
the grave. Christine locked herself in her room, and the women
mourners gradually returned to their homes.
That night she was quite alone, and she could give free outlet to her
love, and grief, and hope. She felt her mother in every room. She
could not believe she had gone far away. At times, walking about the
desolate house, she called her mother with passionate weeping again,
in the soft low voice that she had used when soothing her pain and
weariness. At length even her superb vitality gave way, and she fell
upon her bed in a comforting, restorative sleep.
Morning found her ready and able to face the new life. She rose with
the dawn, ate her breakfast, and then lifted the hardest duty before
her. This was to brush and carefully fold away Margot's last simple
clothing. Margot herself had cared for her one silk dress, her bits
of lace, and the beads and rings and combs of the days of her health
and vanity. Christine had seen her face wet with tears as she locked
them in the trunk, and had kissed those tears away with promises of
renewed life. But there was no one with her to kiss away the tears she
shed over the simple gowns of Margot's last hard days. As she was
doing this loving duty, she thought of the angels folding up neatly
the simple linen garments in which Christ had been buried. With such
thoughts in her heart, oh how lovingly she stroked the plain cotton
gowns, and the one black merino skirt, that had made up Margot's last
wardrobe. Her tears dropped over them, and she turned the key with a
little cry so heart-broken that no doubt her angel wept with her.
"Oh Mither, Mither!" she cried, "how little had ye for a' the days o'
your hard, sorrowfu', painfu', fifty-five years--for a' your loveless
girlhood--for a' your wifely watchings and fearings for feyther on the
stormy seas--for a' your mitherhood's pains and cares--for the lang,
cruel years you were walking i' the Valley o' the Shadow o' Death--for
a' the years o' your hard, daily wark, loving and tending your six
sons and mysel', feeding, dressing, and makin' us learn our catechism
and our Bible verses--curing fish, and selling fish, makin' nets, and
mending nets, cooking and knitting and sewing. Surely the good Master
saw it all, and will gie you His 'well done,' and the wage ye hae
earned."
The bits of crochet work that her mother's trembling fingers had
made--her last work one little table mat unfinished--had a strange
sacredness, and a far more touching claim. She took these to her own
room. "They hold Mither's last thoughts. They seem a part o' her. I'll
never lose sight o' them while I draw breath o' life. Never!" And she
kissed and folded them up, with the dried rose leaves from Margot's
garden.
Then she stayed her tears, and looked round the disordered house.
Everything was out of its proper place. That circumstance alone made
her miserable, for Christine was what her neighbors called a
"pernickity" housekeeper. She must have a place for everything, and
everything in its place. Until she had her home in this precise
condition, she resolved to take no other trouble into consideration.
And simple and even derogatory as it appears to be, nothing is more
certainly efficacious in soothing grief, than hard physical labor. It
took her two days to put the cottage in its usual spotless condition,
and during those two days, she gave herself no moment in which to
think of any trouble before her.
She knew well that there must be trouble. Her mother's burial money,
put away twenty-nine years previously, had proved quite insufficient
for modern ideals and modern prices. She was nearly out of money and
there would be debts to meet, and every debt would be to her like a
wolf baying round the house. That was one trouble. Cluny was another.
She knew he would now urge an immediate marriage, and that his plea
would have an appearance of extreme justice. She also knew that he
would be supported by Norman, whose wife had long set her heart on
occupying the Ruleson cottage. That was a second trouble. The third
was Neil. He had been immediately notified of his mother's death, and
he had taken no notice of the event. The other boys not present, were
all at sea, but where was Neil?
These things she would not yet permit her mind to consider.--In fact,
the tossed-up, uncleanly house, dulled her faculties. She could not
think clearly, until all was spotless and orderly. Then she could meet
trouble clear-headed and free-handed. However, on the third evening
after her mother's burial, every corner of the house satisfied her.
Even her dusters and cleaning-cloths had been washed and gone to their
special corner of the kitchen drawer; and she had felt, that
afternoon, that she could comfortably arrange her paper and pencils on
the table of her own room.
She was eager to write. Her heart and brain burned with the thoughts
and feelings she longed to express. "Tomorrow," she said to
herself--"Tomorrow, I shall go on with my book." Three months
previously she had begun a story to be called "A Daughter of the Sea,"
but lately she had been obliged to lay it aside. She found "the bits
o' poetry," were all she could manage in the short intervals of time
that were her own.
My readers may reflect here, on the truth that there is no special
education for a writer. The man or woman who has anything to say to
the world, brings the ability to declare it with him. Then all the
accidents and events of life stimulate the power which dwells in the
heart and brain, and the happy gift speaks for itself. Christine had
been making up poetry ever since she could remember, and while yet a
child had been the favorite story-teller in all the social gatherings
at Culraine. And it is not unlikely that a good story-teller may turn
out to be a good story-writer.
About one-third of her first novel, "A Daughter of the Sea," was
completed, and now, with a happy resolution, she sat down to finish
it. She did not have the material to seek, she had only to recollect
and write down. The day passed with incredible swiftness, and early in
the evening Norman opened the door, and saw her sitting by the fire.
Her hands were clasped above her head, and there was the shadow of a
smile on her still face.
"O Norman!" she cried, "how glad I am to see you! Nobody has been here
since----"
"I know, dear. Folks hae thought it was the kinder thing to stop away,
and let you get the house in order."
"Maybe it was. Come in, and see it, now that everything is in its
place."
So Norman went through all the large, pleasant rooms with her, and
he could not help a sigh, as he contrasted them with his own untidy
and not over-cleanly house. Then they returned to the ordinary
living-room, and when they were seated, Norman lit his pipe, and
they talked lovingly of the mother who had gone away, and left her
earthly home full of sweet memories. They spoke in soft, tender
voices. Christine wept a little, and smiled a little, as she told
of her mother's last days, and Norman's mouth twitched, and his big
brown eyes were heavy with unshed tears.
After this delay, Norman put away his pipe, and bending forward with
his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hands, he said,
"Christine, I hae brought you a message. I hated to bring it, but
thought it would come more kindly from my lips, than in any ither
way."
"Weel, Norman, what is it? Who sent you wi' it?"
"My wife sent me. She says she will be obligated to you, if you'll
move out o' the Ruleson cottage, as soon as possible. She is wanting
to get moved and settled ere the spring fishing begins. These words
are hers, not mine, Christine. I think however it is right you should
know exactly what you hae to meet. What answer do you send her?"
"You may tell her, Norman, that I will ne'er move out o' the Ruleson
cottage. It is mine as long as I live, and I intend to hold, and to
live in it."
"Jessy has persuaded hersel' and a good many o' the women in the
village, that you ought to marry Cluny as soon as he comes back to
Glasgow, and go and live in that city, so as to make a kind o' a home
there, for the lad. There was a crowd o' them talking that way, when I
came up frae the boat this afternoon, and old Judith was just
scattering them wi' her fearsome words."
"Norman, I shall not marry until a year is full o'er from Mither's
death. Mither had the same fear in her heart, and I promised her on
the Sacred Word, which was lying between us at the time, that I
wouldna curtail her full year o' remembrance, no, not one minute! That
is a promise made to the dead. I would not break it, for a' the living
men in Scotland."
"They were talking of Cluny's rights, and----"
"Cluny hes no rights but those my love gives him. I will not marry for
a year, at least. I will not live in Glasgow. I will bide in my ain
hame. It suits me fine. I can do a' the writing I want to do in its
white, still rooms. I can see wee Jamie here every day. I am out o'
clash and claver o' the village folk. I can watch the sea and the
ships, and feel the winds, and the sunshine, and do my wark, and eat
my morsel in parfect peace. Na, na, the auld hame suits me fine! Tell
your wife Christine Ruleson will live and die in it."
Norman did not move or speak, and Christine asked anxiously, "Do you
wish me to leave Culraine, and go to Glasgow, Norman?"
"No, I do not! Your wish is mine, and if Mither were here today, I
know she would scorn any proposal that brought Jessy here. She never
liked Jessy."
"Her liking or disliking did not influence her will about the house.
She loved every stone in this cottage, and above all she loved her
garden, and her flowers. Tell me, Norman, if Jessy came here, how long
would the house be in decent order? And where would Mither's bonnie
flower-garden be, by the end o' the spring weather? For Mither's sake
I'll tak' care o' the things she loved. They werna many, and they
werna worth much, but they were all she had, for her hard working
life, and her sair suffering. And she relied on you, Norman. She said
in her last hours, 'If things are contrary, Christine, and you can't
manage them, ca' on Norman, and nane else. Norman will stand by his
sister, if a' the warld was against her.'"
"Ay, will he! Blood is thicker than water. We had the same Feyther and
Mither. Nane better ever lived," and he stretched out his hand, and
Christine clasped it, and then he kissed her, and went away.
Jessy was waiting for him. "Ye hae been a mortal lang time, Norman,"
she said. "I hae been that narvous and unsettled i' my mind, I
couldna even get a bite ready for ye."
"Weel ye be to settle yoursel' now, Jessy; for my sister has her mind
fixed on the way she has set hersel', and naebody will be able to move
her. Naebody!"
"Is she getting her wedding things ready?"
"She is going to wear blacks for the full year."
"There's nae occasion for her to cast them. She can put on a white
gown for the ceremony. I suppose they will hae the Domine come to the
house and marry them."
"You are going ayont a' probabilities, Jessy. Christine willna marry
for a full year. I am not sure she will ever marry."
"She be to marry! Of course she'll marry! She canna mak' a leeving oot
a' a few bits o' poetry! She be to marry! All women hae to marry.
Where is she going to bide?"
"Just where she is."
"I'll not hear tell o' that. The house is yours. After the widow's
death, the home comes to the auldest son. That's the law o' Scotland,
and I'm vera sure it's the law o' England likewise. It's the right
law. When folks break it, the break is for sorrow. There was Robert
Toddie, who left his house and land to his daughter Jean, and she
married her lad, and took him to live there--never heeding her
brother's right--and baith her bairn and hersel' died within a
twelvemonth, and sae Robert cam' to his ain, and he's living in the
Toddie house this day. Why dinna ye speak to me?"
"I hae heard ye tell the Toddie story till it's worn awa'."
"How was the house looking?"
"Clean and bright as a new-made pin."
"That's right! I'll just tak' the bairns and go up there! One room is
a' she's needing, and I canna spare her that vera lang."
"You'll not daur to tak' a step up there. Ye hae no mair right there,
than you hae in the schoolmaster's house."
"I hae every right there. I hae got the best o' advice on the subject.
I'm thinkin' the law stands aboon your opinion."
"Not even the law and the fifteen lords o' Edinburgh could gie you the
right to put your foot on that place, in the way of the right.
Christine is mistress o' Ruleson's, mistress and owner. That, and
naething less!"
Norman was very unhappy. He could not get the idea of his right to
Ruleson cottage out of his wife's mind, and he had understood from the
laying of its first stone that the building was to be for a home for
Margot and Christine as long as either of them lived. He had some
sentimental feelings also about the place, for Norman was a dumb poet,
and both in his brain and heart the elements of humanity were finely
mixed. But he was reticent and self-denying, and the work of his hands
being needed by the rapidly increasing family, he had put forth no
personal claims. Longing for knowledge and the wisdom of the schools,
he had gone silently and cheerfully to the boats and lifted the oars
at his father's side.
But the house he had helped to build was dear to him. The image of his
grave, kind father still sat in the big chair by the fireside, and his
mother's quick step, and cheerful voice, and busy household ways, were
yet the spirit of the building. He loved its order and cleanliness,
and its atmosphere of home and hospitality. Sitting by his fireside
that night, he constantly contrasted it with his own disorderly, noisy
dwelling, with his slip-shod wife, and her uncertain and generally
belated meals. And his purpose was immovable.
During this silent session with himself, his wife never ceased
talking. Norman was oblivious both to her entreaties and her threats.
But as he rose and laid down his pipe, she laid her hand on his arm,
and said, "Gudeman, ye hae heard what I hae said, and----"
"I hae heard naething since I told you that Christine was owner and
mistress o' Ruleson cottage. Let be, Jessy, I'm weary and ready for
sleep."
"You'll hear this word, and then ye may sleep awa' what little sense
you hae left. I'll go the morn into the town, and see Lawyer Forbes,
and you'll mebbe believe him when he serves Christine wi' a notice to
quit, and tak' her belongings--poems and a'--wi' her."
"If such a thing could happen, I should at once hae it deeded back to
her, as a gift. Listen, woman, to my last word on this matter--if you
could by any means get possession o' the house, ye would hae it from
foundation to roof-bigging, all to yoursel'! Neither I, nor any o' my
children, would cross its doorstane. That's a fact, as sure as
death!"
"You couldna tak' my childer from me!"
"I could, and I would. Tak' your will, you foolish woman! I shall bide
by every word I hae said."
"But Norman----"
"Let go! You hae never yet seen me in a blaze! Dinna try it tonight!
If I lift my hand it will be your ain fault. Get out o' my sight, and
hearing! Quick, woman! Quick! I'm no' able to stand you langer--O God!
O God, help me!"
Jessy, cowed and shocked at this unexpected passion of a patient man,
disappeared; but the next moment she was heard in the children's room,
crying and scolding, and the sharp slapping of her hand followed.
Norman jumped to his feet, his heart throbbed and burned, he clenched
his hands, and took a step forward. The next moment he had sat down,
his eyes were closed, his hands were clasped, he had hid himself in
that secret sanctuary which his hard life and early disappointments
had revealed to him, when he was only a lad of seventeen. Jessy's
railing, the children's crying, his own angry voice, he heard them
not! He was hiding in His pavilion, in the secret of His tabernacle.
He had cast his burden upon the Lord. He was in perfect peace.
Christine spent a restless, unhappy night. Norman had put before her a
future that frightened her. She had seen the misery made by little
wicked innuendoes half a dozen words long. Truly words could not kill
her, but they could make life bitter and friendless, and there were
women in the village she could neither conciliate, nor cope with, for
the weapons they used were not in her armory. "Mither had a sharp
tongue," she said softly, "but even she couldna cope wi' a lying
tongue. Weel, there's words anent it, in the Good Book, and I'll seek
them out, and they'll be helping me."
After all, the central trouble of her heart was neither her house, nor
her neighbors, nor even her lover. Someway or other, they could and
would be managed. But how was she to refill her empty purse? There was
only one half-crown in it, and she had already found out the cruel
uncertainty of literary work. It depended on too many people. Her
novel was three-fourths done, but she reasoned that if men were so
long on finding out whether they liked half a dozen verses, it would
be all of a year, ere they got her novel well-examined. After
realizing this condition, she said firmly, and with no evidence of
unusual trial, "I can tak' to the fish, in the meantime. I havna
outgrown my fisher dress, nor forgot my fisher-calls, and Culraine
folk will help me sell, if I look to the boats for my bread. They
dinna understand the writing business--nae wonder! There's few do! The
Domine was saying it belongs to the mysteries o' this life. Weel, I'll
get my pleasure out o' it, and the fish are ay sure to come, and sure
to be caught, and if I set mysel' to the business, I can beat the
auldest and youngest o' the fisherwomen in the selling o' them."
When she came to this decision, the clock struck twelve, and she
looked up at its face for a moment, and shook her head. "I canna sleep
yet," she said, "and you needna be calling me. There's Cluny and Neil
to think o', and dear me, wha' can Neil be hiding himsel'? He canna
hae heard o' Mither's death, he would hae come here, and if he couldna
come, he would hae written. There has been nae word, either, from that
lass he married. She wrote seven lang pages o' faults and accusations
again her lawful husband, and then let the matter drop, as if it was
of no further consequence. I didn't answer her letter, and I am glad I
didn't. And I canna write now, for I know no more anent her
whereabouts, than I do anent Neil's. I wouldn't wonder if they are
together in some heathen country, where men fight duels, and kill each
other for an ugly word. In a case like that, it would be fair murder
for poor Neil. I wish I knew where the misguided lad is! Norman and
Neil had no marriage luck, and wha kens what my luck may be, in the
way o' a husband!"
This intensely personal reflection claimed her whole attention. It was
long since she had seen Cluny. Shortly before her mother's death, he
had gone as supercargo on a large merchant steamer, bound for New
Zealand. It was a most important post, and he had been promised, if
successful, the first captaincy in the fleet of passenger steamers
carrying between England and the United States, that was vacant.
Before leaving on this long trip to New Zealand, he had only managed
to see Christine for three hours. He had reached Culraine at eight
o'clock. He had run like a deer the mile and quarter which lay between
the railway station and the Ruleson cottage, reaching his goal just as
Christine finished reading a goodnight psalm to her mother. She had
heard his steps afar off, it had seemed as if the comforting words
were read to them--then she was at the open door, and they met in each
other's arms.
Three hours of pure, perfect happiness had followed. Cluny went first
to Margot's side. He knew it was the last time he could ever stand
there. In this world they would see each other no more, and he was
sorrowfully shocked and touched by the change in the handsome woman,
once so vibrant and full of life. Sometimes they had not been very
good friends, but this white, frail image, stretching out hands full
of pleasure and goodwill to him--this gentle mother of the beloved
Christine, won in a moment all his best sympathies. He promised her
everything she asked, and then she sent him away with her blessing.
So it had been three hours of marvelous happiness. They had been
content to forget all things but the joy of each other's presence. To
the last possible minute he had remained with her, and their hopeful
farewell had not been dimmed by a single tear. Since that night, she
had sent no anxious worrying thoughts after him. From every port at
which his ship touched, he had written her long, loving letters, and
now she was beginning to expect his return. Any day she might have a
letter from him, dated Liverpool or Glasgow.
"Lat them talk," she said with a little defiant laugh. "Lat their
tongues tak' their ain ill-way, I'm not feared. There's Norman at my
side, and the Domine not far off, and God aboon us all. I'll speak to
Norman anent the fishing, and if needs be, I can kipper the herring as
weel as Mither did." Then in a moment a wonderful change came over
her, the angry scorn of her attitude, and the proud smile on her
handsome face vanished. She clasped her hands, and with the light of
unconquerable love on her face, she said with tender eagerness--"What
does she do now? Oh dear God, what is Mither doing now? I canna tell.
I canna tell, but it is Thy will, I'm sure o' that." Then the loving
tears that followed this attitude washed away all traces of her scorn
and anger, and she lay down with prayer on her lips, and fell sweetly
asleep.