JEAN GEMMELL’S BARGAIN WITH GOD.
Yet more grimly bitter than the day of December the thirtieth fell the
night. I wandered by the bank of the river, where the sedges rustled
lonely and dry by the marge, whispering and chuckling to each other that
a forlorn, broken man was passing by. A “smurr” of rain had begun to
fall at the hour of dusk, and the slight ice of the morning had long
since broken up. The water lisped and sobbed as the wind of winter
lapped at the ripples, and the peat-brew of the hills took its sluggish
way to the sea.
Over against me, set on its hill, I saw the lighted windows of the kirk
of Crossmichael. Well I knew what that meant. Mine enemies were sitting
there in conclave. They would not rise till I was no more minister of
the Kirk of Scotland. They would thrust me out, and whither should I go?
To what folk could I minister--an it were not, like Alexander-Jonita,
to the wild beasts of the hills? A day before I should have been elated
at the thought. But now, for the first time, I saw myself unworthy.
Who was I, that thought so highly of myself, that I should appoint me
Standard Bearer of the noble banner of the Covenants. A man weak as
other men! Nay, infinitely weaker and worse. The meanest hind who worked
in the fields to bring home four silver shillings a week to his wife and
bairns was better than I.
A Standard Bearer! I laughed now at the thought, and the rushes by the
water’s edges chuckled and sneered in answering derision.
A Standard Bearer, God wot! Renegade and traitor, rather; a man who
could not keep his plain vows, whose erring and wandering heart went
after vanities; one that had broken a maiden’s heart--unwitting and
unintending, did he pretend? Faugh! that was what every Lovelace alleged
as his excuse.
I had thought myself worthy to do battle for the purity of the Kirk of
my fathers. I had pretended that her independence, her position and her
power were dearer than life to me. I saw it all now. It was mine own
place and position I had been warring for.
Also had I not set myself above my brethren? Had I not said, “Get far
from me, for am I not holier than thou?”
And God, who does not pay His wages on Saturday night, had waited. So
now He came to me and said, “Who art thou, Quintin MacClellan, that thou
shouldst dare to touch the ark of God?”
And as I looked across the dark waters I saw the light burn clearer and
clearer in the kirk of Crossmichael. They were lighting more candles
that they might see the better to make an end.
“God speed them,” cried I, in the darkness; “they are doing God’s work.
For they could do nothing except it were permitted of Him. Shall I step
into the boat that rocks and clatters with the little wavelets leaping
against its side? Shall I call John the ferryman and go over and make my
submission before them all?”
I could tell them what an unworthy, forsworn, ill-hearted man I am.
Thus I stood by the riverside. Almost I had lifted up my voice to cry
aloud that I would make this acknowledgment and reparation, when through
the darkness I saw a shape approach.
A voice said in my ear, “Come--Jean Gemmell is taken suddenly ill. She
would see you at once.”
Then I was aware that this 30th of December was to be my great day of
judgment and wrath, when the six vials were to be loosed upon me. I knew
that the Lord whose name I had taken in vain was that day to smite me
with a great smiting, because, being unworthy, I had put out my hand to
stay the ark of the covenant of God.
“Hob,” said I, for it was my brother who had come to summon me, “is she
yet alive?”
“Alive!” said he, abruptly. “Why, bless the man, she wants you to marry
her.”
“Marry----” said I, “I am a minister of the kirk. I have ever spoken
against irregular marriages. How can I marry without another minister?”
Hob laughed a short laugh. He never thought much of my love-making.
“Better marry than burn!” quoth he, abruptly. “Mr. Hepburn, of Buittle
Kirk, is here. He came over to hearten you in the day of your
adversity.”
Then I recognised the hand of God in the thing and bowed my head.
So in an aching expectant silence, hearing only a poor divided heart
pulse within me, I followed Hob over the moor, and up by the sides of
the frozen mosses to the house of Drumglass. He knew the way blindfold,
which shows what a wonderful gift he had among the hills. For I myself
had gone that way ten times for his once. Yet that night, save for my
brother, I had stumbled to my hurt among the crags.
Presently we came to the entering in of the farmyard. Lights were
gleaming here and there, and I saw some of the servant men clustered at
the stable door.
There was a hush of expectation about the place, as if they were waiting
for some notable thing which was about to happen.
Nathan Gemmell met me in the outer hall, and shook me by the hand
silently, like a chief mourner at a funeral. Then he led the way into
the inner room. Hepburn came forward also, and took my hand. He was a
man of dark and determined countenance, yet with singularly lovable eyes
which now and then unexpectedly beaconed kindliness.
Jean sat on a great chair, and beside her stood Alexander-Jonita.
When I came in Jean rose firmly to her feet. She looked about her with a
proud look like one that would say, “See, all ye people, this is he!”
“Quintin!” she said, and laying her thin fingers on my shoulders, she
looked deep into my eyes.
Never did I meet such a look. It seemed to be compound of life and
death, of the love earthly and the love eternal.
“Good friends,” she said, calmly turning to them as though she had been
the minister and accustomed to speak in the hearing of men, “I have
summoned my love hastily. I have somewhat to say to him. Will you leave
us alone for ten minutes? I have a word to say in his ear alone. It is
not strange, is it, at such a time?”
And she smiled brightly upon them, while I stood dumb and astonished.
For I knew not whence the lass, ordinarily so still and fond, had gotten
her language. She spoke as one who has long made up his mind, and to
whom fit and prepared words come without effort.
When they were gone she sat down on the chair again, and, taking my
hand, motioned me to kneel down beside her.
Then she laid her hand to my hair and touched it lightly.
“Quintin,” she said, “you and I have not long to sit sweethearting
together. I must say quickly that which I have to say. I am, you will
peradventure think, a bold, immodest lass. You remember it was I who
courted you, compelled you, followed you, spied on you. _But then, you
see, I loved you._ Now I want to ask you to marry me!”
“Nay,” she said, interrupting my words more with her hand than her
voice, “misjudge me not. I am to die--to die soon. It has been revealed
to me that I have bartered the life eternal for this. And, since so it
is, I desire to drink the sweetness of it to the cup’s bottom. I have
made a bargain with God. I have prayed, and I have promised that if He
will put it in your heart to wed with me for an hour, I will take with
gratitude and thankfulness all that lies waiting over there, beyond the
Black River.”
She waved her hand down toward the Dee water.
I smiled and nodded hopefully and comfortingly to her. At that moment I
felt that nothing was too great for me to do. And it mattered little
when I married her. I had ever meant to be true to her--save in that
which I could not help, the love of my heart of hearts, which, having
been another’s from the beginning was not mine to give.
Jean Gemmell smiled.
“I thank you, Quintin,” she said, “this is like you, and better than I
deserve. Had it been a matter of days or weeks I would never have
troubled you. But ’tis only the matter of an hour or two!”
She paused a little, stroking my head fondly.
“And afterwards you will say, remembering me, ‘Poor young thing, she
loved me, loved me truly!’ Ah, Quintin, I think I should have made you a
good wife. Love helps all things, they say. Put your hand below my head,
Quintin. Tell me again that you love me. Sweetheart” (now she was
whispering), “do you know I have to tell you all that you should say to
me? Is that fair--that I should make love to you and to myself too?”
I groaned aloud.
“God help us, Jean,” I said, “we shall yet be happy together.” And at
the moment I meant it. I felt that a lifetime of sacrifice would not
make up for such love.
She patted me on the head pacifyingly as if I had been a fractious bairn
that needed humouring.
“Yes, yes, then,” she said, soothingly, “we shall be happy, you and I.
What was it you said the other Sabbath day? I knew not what it meant
then. But methinks I begin to understand now--‘passing the love of
woman!’”
The cough shook her, but she strove to hide it, going on quickly with
her words like one who has no time to lose.
“That is the way I love you, Quintin, ‘passing the love of women,’ Why,
I do not even grudge you to her.”
She smiled again, and said cheerfully, “Now we will call them in.”
I was going to the door to do it according to her word, for that night
we all obeyed her as though she had been the Queen. I was almost at the
door when she rose all trembling to her feet and held out her arms
entreatingly.
“Quintin, Quintin, kiss me once,” she said, “once before they come.”
I ran to her and kissed her on the brow. “Oh, not there! On the mouth.
It is my right. I have paid for it!” she cried. And so I did.
Then she drew down my head and set her lips to my ear. “I lied to you,
laddie--yes, I lied. I _do_ grudge you to her. Oh, I _do_, I _do_!”
And for the first time one mighty sob caught her by the throat and rent
her.
Nevertheless she straightened herself with her hand to her breast, like
a wounded soldier who salutes his general ere he dies, and commanded her
emotion. “Yes,” she said, looking upwards and speaking as if to one
unseen, “I will play the game fairly; I have promised and I will not
repine, nor go back on my word!”
She turned to me, “It is not a time for bairn’s greeting. We are to be
married, you and I, are we not? Call them in.”
And she laughed a little bashfully and fitly as the folk came in and
smiled to one and the other as they entered.
Then to me she beckoned.
“Come and hold my hand all the time. Clasp my fingers firmly. Do not let
them go lest I slip away too soon, Quintin. I need your hand in
mine--for to-night, Quintin, just only for this one night!”
Even thus Jean Gemmell and I were married.
* * * * *
And after all was done I laid her on her bed, and she rested there till
near the dawning with my hand firmly held in hers. Mostly her eyes were
shut, but every now and then she would smile up at me like one that
encourages another in a weary wait.
Once she said, “Isn’t it sweet?”
And then again, and near to the gloaming of the morn, she whispered, “It
will not be long now, laddie mine?”
Nor was it, for within an hour the soul of Jean Gemmell went out in one
long loving look, and with the faintest murmur of her lips which only my
ear could catch--“Passing the love of women,” she said, and
again--“passing the love of women!”
And it was my hand alone that spread the fair white cloth over her dead
face which still had the smile upon it, and over the pale lips that she
had asked me to kiss.
Then, as I stumbled blindly down the hill, I looked beyond the dark and
sluggish river rolling beneath over to the Kirk of Crossmichael. And
even as I stood looking, the lights in the windows went out. It was
done. I was a man in one day widowed, forsaken, outcast.
But more than kirk or ministry or even Christ’s own covenant, I thought
upon Jean Gemmell.